#me: is fragile in a public space

[vinnyvamppp]

She Threw Me—Then Kissed Me

NOTE: Have I been up for three hours writing this? Yes. Is this one of my longest expeditions about an alien mating with a man? Probably. Two lucky commenters requested this, so here I deliver.

@xecres1cloud @deleted-1-800 Warnings: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Public Sex, Cecil Catches Them, Alien Fucking, Tit Sucking, Porn w a Plot, Misuse of Powers, Cowgirl, Dom!Reader, Switch/Dom!Mark Grayson (battle for dominance), Infatuation, Rough Sex, Plot Changes for Convenience, Mutual Dirty Talk, Hair Pulling, etc. Synopsis: When the shadows of your heritage awaken for the first time in years—responding not to war, but to him—you’re left with one terrifying, exhilarating realization: You didn’t come here to be claimed. But Mark Grayson might just be the first man brave enough to try.

Mark Grayson x Alien!Fem Reader

Word Count: 2,908

You were never meant to leave Themyscira.

Your people—warriors, champions, god-forged in strength and purpose—do not abandon their home lightly. But you were given a mission, one that pulled you from the sacred shores of your birthplace and thrust you into a world that feels too fragile beneath your hands. The gods spoke of a coming war. A force beyond Earth, beyond even Olympus, stirring in the void between stars.

Not one brewing on earth, but amongst earth dwellers in space. The Amazons do not sit idly by when the balance is threatened. You do not sit idly by. So you were sent to watch. To learn. To prepare.

You were sent to this world to stop what’s coming. And then you met him.

Mark Grayson is not a god, but he wears his strength like one. And yet, for all his power, for all the might in his blood, there is something uncertain in the way he carries it. He does not fight like an Amazon—he hesitates, he questions, he cares in a way warriors are taught not to.

Never knowing a world this fragile. Being of Amazon and Talok IV descent, you were a new breed of soldier for your people, and one that could blend in if needed. Although, the power was bestowed due to your father's trickery. No matter. The man is dead.

The moment you landed on Earth, you sought out Cecil to initiate your infiltration. Earth people claimed to be resilient, yet so desperate for help once offered, it's pitiful.

You weren’t expecting to find something worth staying for. His influence prodding at you like an infectious disease. The time was approaching, the time to mate that is, yet you were unusually apprehensive–. THWACK!

Here, metal bends like softened wax beneath your hands. Brick crumbles as if it were pressed from sand. You’ve seen men build their homes, their towers, their weapons—each one designed to endure, yet none of them built to withstand you.

Mark learned that the hard way. “I swear I was ready for that,” he groans, flat on his back in the wreckage of a training arena that should have been reinforced better.

The dust hasn’t even settled from your last hit. A crack spiders through the concrete where he landed, but he’s already moving, rubbing the back of his head like a man more embarrassed than injured. You stand over him, arms crossed. “You weren’t.” Mark exhales sharply, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He’s strong—stronger than most things in this world. But not stronger than you, outside of his domain of expertise.

He knows it, too.

“You’re really not holding back, huh?” he says, half a grin forming. You tilt your head. “Should I?” Mark blinks, then laughs, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s just… you’re insane.” He gestures vaguely at the crater where the ground used to be. “I’m supposed to be the strong one, you know?” You raise an eyebrow. “Who told you that?” For a second, he just looks at you.

Then he grins, something sparking behind his eyes that wasn’t there before. “I’ve been wanting you to say that. I like you.” he says, and for the first time since this match started, it almost feels like a challenge. The slight rasp in his voice sends tingles through you. And finally, you think, someone worth fighting. Someone worth keeping.

Mark is still grinning at you, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you. I like you. A simple statement, but there’s something behind it—something testing the waters, something that sees you as more than just an opponent. You roll your shoulders, easing the tension from the fight. “You like losing?” Mark exhales a short laugh, pushing himself fully upright, closer now. "I like a challenge." His eyes flicker over you—not with fear, not with wariness, but something else. Something warmer.

You’re used to admiration. It comes naturally when you are carved from power itself, when your body is built to command. Men have looked at you in awe before, in fear, in respect. But Mark looks at you like— Like he isn’t afraid to lose to you.

That’s new.

You shift your stance, but you don’t step back. "Careful, Grayson," you say, your voice dipping lower. "Keep looking at me like that and I might think you're flirting." At your words you sway slightly.

You were tall and statuesque, and your skin was kissed by deep cerulean hues. Its very image carries the mystery of the void itself. Your hair, thick and dark flows past your shoulders, caught in satisfying curly tussles. Your eyes—piercing, luminous—glow softly in the dark, a warning and a lure. Just how could he not be reeled in? From the moment you two’s eyes met, he felt his heart stir. He couldn’t tell if it was just lust, perhaps, even so he wanted you.

Mark swallows, his grin flickering—still there, but a little uneven now. His eyes dart away for half a second, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re messing with him. “Uh,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “I mean, I was kind of flirting, but if that’s, like, weird, or—y’know, if you don’t—” He clears his throat, cutting himself off before he spirals any further.

“You’re really hard to read, by the way.” You arch a brow, unimpressed. “You’re nervous.” His shoulders tense slightly. “What? No. Pfft. Me? Nervous?” He gestures vaguely between you. “I just—uh—didn’t expect this to happen after you threw me through a wall.”

“You survived.”

“Barely!”

“You’re fine,” you counter, stepping closer. His breath hitches—just a little, but you catch it. He’s still sitting on the broken concrete, looking up at you, and for all his strength, all his power, there’s something hesitant in the way he meets your gaze. You tilt your head. “You’re not used to this, are you?” Mark blinks. “Used to what?” “Someone stronger.” His mouth opens, then closes. He hesitates, then exhales a short, nervous laugh.

“Wow. Okay. Just calling me out like that.” It’s not an insult, just an observation. The men here—especially the ones like him are used to being the strongest person in the room. It doesn’t matter that he’s still learning, still figuring out his limits. People look at him and see power. You wonder if anyone has ever made him feel small before. If he even knows what it’s like.

You kneel slightly, closing the height difference by roughly four inches. His breath stills. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Mark.” His lips part slightly, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze flickers over your face, lingering for just a second too long. “…I’m not.” Lie. Not fear, exactly but something close.

Its that nervous, unsure energy that coils in his muscles like he doesn’t know if he should lean in or back away. You’re used to confidence, used to men puffing their chests, trying to match your strength. Mark doesn’t do that. He just looks at you like he’s trying to figure you out, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how. You decide for him.

You lift a hand, slow enough that he can stop you if he wants to. He doesn’t. Your fingers graze his jaw, and he tenses. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and when you tilt his chin up, his breath catches. “I really don’t know what to do right now,” he admits, voice slightly higher than before. You smirk. “That’s new for you, isn’t it?” He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “That obvious?”

“Then let me teach you.” Mark swallows hard, his hands twitching slightly at his sides—like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he should. His pulse is quick under your fingertips, his face just inches from yours. “…Yeah,” he breathes after a moment, voice softer now. “Okay.”

his hands grip your waist, rough and sure, pulling you into him with a force that sends heat curling through your spine. His lips crash into yours—not careful, not questioning, but hungry, decisive. It takes you a moment to process it; to register the way his fingers tighten against your hips, the way his body pressed against yours, firm and demanding. Mark Grayson, who had been so nervous before, so uncertain, is kissing you like a man who finally stopped thinking and started wanting.

Mark moves, twisting, and before you can counter, the ground disappears beneath you. He takes you down with him, the two of you collapsing onto the rubble left in the wake of your fight. The impact sends up a small cloud of dust, but neither of you care.

He’s already back on you, already pushing up on his elbows to hover over you, breath warm against your lips. His voice is rough, a little unsteady. “You keep acting like you’re the only one who can take control.” You smirk, fingers trailing along his jaw. “Prove me wrong.”

Mark stares at you. Mid kiss, you’ve fumbled the bag and told him, in clear, matter-of-fact detail, that on Themyscira, men do not live after mating with an Amazon. And he is very much a man. His mouth opens. Closes. Then, finally: “Okay.” He lifts a finger, his voice rising slightly. “Uh. I—Okay. I really need you to explain how we got here.”

You fold your arms, unimpressed. “We were talking about your customs romantically. I shared mine.” You explained. “Right. Right.” He nods rapidly, pacing for a second before spinning back around to face you. “And—just so I’m understanding this correctly—your custom is that if we—uh—mate, you have to kill me afterward?”

“Yes.”

Mark makes a strangled sound, somewhere between a laugh and a panicked wheeze. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. And you—you don’t see a problem with that?” You tilt your head. “I see a problem for you.” Mark runs both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Okay. See, that is the part I’m stuck on. Why does that have to happen?” He inquires. “It is tradition,” you say simply.

“The Amazons have no need for men beyond what they offer.” Mark lets out a nervous laugh, rubbing his face. “Great. That’s very reassuring.” You watch him carefully. You expected resistance—expected him to balk at the idea of it, at you. Men tend to do that when faced with their own mortality.

And yet, he hasn’t left. He hasn’t even backed away. He’s nervous, sure, but he’s still here. Interesting. You take a slow step toward him, forcing his eyes back to yours. “Do you want to?” Mark swallows. Hard. “I—What?”

“You seem conflicted,” you observe, studying him. “If you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t still be here.” His lips part, but no words come out. His gaze flickers over your face, your stance, the way you’re looking at him. He does want you. He just doesn’t know what to do with that want when it comes with a potential death sentence. You smirk. “I wouldn’t kill you, Mark.” Mark visibly deflates with relief. “Wait. Hold on.” His brow furrows. “Then why would you even say that?”

You shrug. “I never said I had to. Only that it was tradition.” Mark stares at you again, looking so caught between exasperation and disbelief that you almost laugh. “So let me get this straight,” he says slowly, pointing at you. “You could have led with ��I don’t have to kill you,’ but instead you decided to give me a heart attack first?” You tilt your head, amused.

“You’re still alive.”

“Barely!” He sighs, pressing his fingers against his temples. “I think I just aged like ten years.” You close the space between you, reaching up to rest a hand on his chest. He tenses—but not in fear. His pulse thrums beneath your fingers, quick, strong. “You’re an interesting man, Mark Grayson,” you murmur, watching the way his breath catches.

His hands hover uncertainly at your sides, fingers flexing like he wants to touch you. “…Yeah?” You nod, smirking. “Most would have run by now.” Mark exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. I’m really bad at making good decisions.” You hum in amusement, then lean in, lips just a breath from his. “Now, where did we leave off?”

It didn’t take long for you both to be disheveled and distracted. Mark shudders beneath you, his hands gripping your hips as you hover above him. "I won't kill you, but I can't make any promises about how hard I'll fuck you." He shudders at your words, his resolve crumbling. "I'll take my chances." You can feel his hardness pressing against your core, begging for entrance.

Creamy pre-cum bubbling from his tip acted as a perfect lubricant. Succulent. The slip caught your clit, each time earning a sharpened moan from you. Without warning, you slam down onto him, taking him deep inside you. The size of him certainly shows his non-human relation.

He groans, his head falling back as you begin to ride him hard and fast. Your breasts bounce with every movement, drawing his gaze like a magnet. He reaches up, cupping them in his large hands, kneading the soft flesh. "F-fuck, you're soooo beautiful; I’ve seen this in my dreams." He pants, his thumbs circling your hardened nipples.

"I c-can't get enough of you." He admitted, a grin wearily etching across your lips. “W-Wouldn’t want you to, need you badly, Mark.” The simplicity yet raw need in your sentiment drives him wild.

His strong hands suddenly suction to your upper thigh, his mouth latching onto your nipple instead. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, his gaze fixed upon your pleasured expression as your combined moans vibrated the flesh. His tongue grew erratic as it sought to bring stimulation, his hips snapped forward to meet you.

The swollen tip of his cock threatens to bruise your walls with each drive. Small dust clouds from debris kicked up, the sex growing more aggressive as he realized you could handle his strength. No need to hold back, only needing to savor the feeling. A loud clap echoed within the domain; the slab of concrete shifted beneath you as his toes gripped the floor. It's taking everything within you two to hold on as your cunts arousal responds to him. Thank god you’re on earth, easier access to the best pussy he’s had so far. The only pussy he needs now. A strangled growl crawls from his throat—.

“Donald. Turn off the training facility cameras.” Cecil chimed, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “...Right away, sir.” Replied Donald as he hastily cut surveillance.

Your fingers left his chest, deep claw marks reddening his skin. You lean down, your hair cascading around you as you capture his lips in a searing kiss. Your tongues dance together, each of you fighting for dominance. His hands slide down to your ass, gripping it tight as he thrusts up into you, meeting you stroke for stroke.

You squeezed him with such vigor, pussy puffier with more pleasurable ridges. "Jesus, y-you're s-so tight," he grunts, his hands digging into your ass hard enough to leave bruises. "I'm going to make this pussy only crave me." His conviction made you laugh, a wicked sound. "Promises, promises," you taunt, rocking your hips to meet his thrusts. "But we'll see who's ruined by the end of the night."

The room fills with the sounds of your lovemaking—the slap of skin on skin, the cries of pleasure, the obscene squelch of your wetness. “Mmph…! Do you feel this, Mark Grayson?” You asked, your voice dropping to a husky whisper, and something in it—some unearthly vibration—rolled through his bones like a pulse, deep and intoxicating. “Mmm… yeah—yeah, fuck yeah, I do.” He rasps, as his teeth grit with determination. “This is how it feels to fuck someone who can handle you.” You grinned, almost sadistically, with a strong sense of pride.

Your expression grew into one of lust as your nose scrunched, glistening lips singing so beautifully for him. “I’ll give you that and more.” The comment was so resolute you almost didn't hear it before you both groaned in unison. One of his hands comes up to tug your locs, preventing your teases. Your head slinging back with a loud yelp as your vision blurred.

You can feel your orgasm building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. A series of pleasured whines leave your unfiltered lips. Mark must sense it too, because he flips you over onto your back, never breaking their rhythm. However, his previous efforts went for not, only spurring you on. Wisps of living shadow curled around his neck, his chest—soft and teasing, cold phantom touches caressing him in droves of trembles. They grew more intense with every stroke of gratification. “Ooh…! Mark! I— I—.” You stutter.

He pounds into you, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. "Oh god, I’m gonna cum. C’mon… please… for me,” he commands so sweetly that you couldn’t deny him, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come; I need to feel you." His words are all it takes to send you hurtling over the edge.

You scream his name like a mantra, your body going limp, and he convulses above you as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. He follows soon after, dick knotting inside you as he spills his seed deep within your walls. Harsh gasps leave you both as he nestles himself within you absentmindedly, not thinking of the consequences. Or so you thought.

Mark smiles— a small, lopsided thing. He leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your lips before whispering, “… Guess you’re stuck with me.”

…

Optional ending!

The Next Day

“No, Mark. After the shit you just pulled, you two are banned from the training facility indefinitely,” Cecil said, rubbing his temples like he was one bad decision away from an aneurysm.

Mark, sitting across from him with his arms crossed, groaned. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

Cecil shot him a look. “Mark, we had to evacuate three city blocks because someone thought an earthquake was happening. Do you have any idea how hard it is to explain to the public that the ‘seismic activity’ was just you and your Amazonian girlfriend going at it?”

Mark turned bright red. “Okay, in our defense—”

“There is no defense!” Cecil snapped. “You two leveled the place! I’m still waiting on a damage report for what’s left of the foundation!”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, entirely unbothered. “It’s not my fault your training grounds weren’t built to withstand real combat.”

Cecil’s eye twitched. “It was! It just wasn’t built for you two doing whatever the hell that was!”

Mark coughed into his fist, eyes darting to the side. “...We, uh, might’ve gotten a little carried away.”

Cecil exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mark. Son. You punched through a wall mid-mission briefing the next morning.”

Mark stiffened. You turned to him, amused. “You did?”

He muttered something under his breath, ears still burning.

Cecil waved a hand. “You’re lucky we need you, otherwise I’d have you both on clean-up duty for the next decade.” He sighed, rubbing his face. “Just—do me a favor. Next time, take it off-world.”

Mark perked up. “Wait, so you’re saying we can—”

“Out of my office, Mark.”

And with that, you grabbed your still-flustered boyfriend by the wrist and gracefully exited before Cecil had an aneurysm.

Again.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

NEXT PART!!

[hcneymooners]

⋆ our bodies, two wounds of love.

bodyguard!sevika x f!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: as the youngest daughter of a highly famous businessman, you're not at all what sevika is expecting upon receiving her assignment.

cw: modern setting, soft!sevika, reader is sugar sweet and slightly shy, reader has long hair, obsessive behavior, dubious consent, as in reader wakes sevi up properly like the eater she is but sevi consents when she wakes up, somnophilia, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, implied/referenced sex, via toys, implied strapping as god intended, overstimulation, impact play, it's pussy slapping, nipple play, squirting and vaginal ejaculation, praise kink, pet names, dom/sub undertones, minor violence, reader speaks german in this for no other reason than i've been watching the empress., soft dom!sevika, love confessions, near-death experiences, non-sexual intimacy, age difference, older woman/younger woman, mommy issues, implied lmfao, makeup sex, arguing, resolved sexual tension, masturbation in bathroom, accidental voyeurism notes: this is set to american by lana del rey. listen here. this is more emotionally heavy, but definitely my favorite. does this plot barely make sense? yes. but is the reward worth it? yes. this is a repost.

out of all her clients, you were the easiest.

sevika shouldn’t have been as surprised as she was, given the research she’d conducted. you were the youngest of four daughters, and the public fed off your penchant for privacy. finding someone like you in her line of work was a rarity: no scandals to cover up, no carefully curated drama for the tabloids. your reputation preceded you—sweet, quiet, and often tired. a homebody, mel had said with an almost indulgent smirk when sevika was handed the assignment.

“you’re lucky,” she added. “the others are a handful.”

sevika didn’t believe in luck.

the flat where she first met you was a monument to your family’s wealth. still it was tasteful—ornate without being garish, quiet grandeur woven into every polished surface. it was the kind of space that swallowed sound and softened the world's edges.

your apartment was beautiful in a way that felt intentional but not performative. soft cream and powder blue walls were traced with delicate vines and florals, the details long faded. it wasn’t pristine—scuffs on the wooden floor and fingerprints smudged onto the low, sculptural table in the center—but it was lived-in, loved in a way that gave the space its warmth.

the table itself was an anchor—organic and raw, its uneven edges smoothed by time, surrounded by cushions in muted grays and pale pinks that had lost some of their color to the steady heat of the sun. a shelf of books stretched to the ceiling, its rows crowded with novels and photography volumes, with stacks of loose papers and half-burnt cigarettes scattered between them. the window beside it was cracked open just enough to let in the sound of rustling leaves, the faint scent of rain-soaked greenery curling through the room like an invisible flatmate.

golden lamps shaped like oversized fans stood at either end of the space, their light pooling onto the woven rug beneath. it cast the room in a kind of half-glow—soft, forgiving—blurring the edges of things just enough to make them feel closer. there was something fragile about how it all fit together like it had been arranged for someone who might leave it behind at any moment.

and yet, it felt distinctly like you. the powdered jasmine in the air, the book splayed open on the armchair, the small dish of rings by the window—it was a home that asked nothing of you but to exist in it. sevika’s stormy gaze caught on an abandoned note on the window sill, the script delicate and curling.

cochem, it read. i miss you. i want to come back to you. i want to disappear inside of you and have you love me again. i want to get lost in the german morning. no one will ever know me, and i’ll be happy, less unfulfilled.

she fingered the edges of the paper, sun-bleached and flaking. then she began to walk again, navigating to what looked like the open door of your study.

you were waiting for her inside, perched in an armchair too big for your frame, as if the room had been designed to diminish you. at first glance, you looked as delicate as the furniture you sat on, barefaced and bathed in soft afternoon light that filtered through sheer curtains. it was the kind of light that made everything look fragile and translucent.

you wore an ivory blouse, thin and shimmering with embroidery that seemed to grow out of the fabric like frost patterns on glass. the neckline skimmed your collarbones, modest but deliberate, while the sleeves flared past your wrists, draping like petals. the cinched waist and pale drawstrings might have belonged to someone dressing for comfort, but on you, it was something else entirely—careless elegance.

the sweatpants should have broken the illusion. they didn’t. instead, they made you seem more unreachable, more unstudied. as if you’d wandered into this world from somewhere else—someplace softer—and were still too young to realize you didn’t belong.

sevika lingered in the doorway for a beat longer than she meant to, her presence large enough to make the room feel smaller. she expected you to bristle at the intrusion, to draw yourself up with the same cool hauteur that so often marked women of your standing. but you didn’t.

you looked up at her, eyes wide and unguarded, and smiled.

“hello,” you said. your voice was so soft, as though you feared disturbing her.

sevika’s eyes swept over you, cataloging every detail: the way your hair—long and heavy—spilled over your shoulders, catching the faint streaks of the incoming light; the way your blouse seemed to ripple as you moved, fabric clinging like a whisper to your skin.

“i’m sevika,” she said finally, voice low and steady. “your father hired my team's services to protect your family. i’ll be your bodyguard.”

you nodded and rose from the chair, the movement unhurried and deliberate. you smoothed your palms over the sides of your sweatpants—grey, nondescript, somehow lovely in the context of you—and stepped closer. you smelled faintly of something soft and fleeting: fresh linen, maybe, or soap.

“it’s nice to meet you,” you said, extending your hand, sincerity tucked neatly into every word.

sevika didn’t take it right away. there was something strange about you—something that tugged at her instincts and told her to look closer. your face was open, unguarded, but there was a sadness there, too, stitched into the curve of your mouth, in the way your lashes fell low. she watched the way you stood there, chin lifted just enough to suggest poise but not pride, eyes wide and unguarded as they searched hers for something she wasn’t used to giving.

trust.

and for the first time in a long while, sevika found herself unsure of what to do. you weren’t like the others, all obvious disdain and high expectations. nothing was demanding about you—nothing calculated or sharp. just the soft curve of your mouth, the quiet pull of your gaze, and a kindness she didn’t quite know how to meet.

she clasped your hand firmly but briefly, clearing her throat as she stepped back.

“we should go over security protocol,” she said gruffly, falling back into professionalism as a defense.

you only nodded, that same soft smile still lingering. “of course. whatever you need.”

whatever you need.

sevika didn’t believe in luck, but standing there, looking down at you—your long lashes fluttering as you turned your gaze away, the afternoon light casting faint shadows through the sheer sleeves of your blouse—she wondered, for just a second, if this was as close to it as she would ever get.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

it took three years for both of you to understand that your relationship had outgrown the typical bounds of client and employee. yes, intimacy was inevitable given the circumstances, but even a stranger would’ve seen something uncanny about how you and sevika were… connected, even for a bodyguard.

love affairs always look different to those inside them. you thought nothing of how deeply you needed her, how fondness for her had quietly rooted itself in you. sevika risked her body—her life—to keep you from harm, and it felt natural to bond, to grow into one another. time spent apart became more agonizing only relieved by the hours you were together, yet you ignored the weight of it.

your sisters often spoke of it, though only behind closed doors. you rarely engaged in their chatter. you had always been this way: dreamy, untethered, with a mind like mist and the heart of a prey animal. lame, your mother had called you, her voice sharp with disappointment. sickly, she added, as if naming your frailty might cure it. over time, it became easier to withdraw, to wrap yourself in silence, and let the world chatter on without you.

but with sevika, life required less effort. you rediscovered a tenderness for the act of living in her presence. she was patient, grounding. she found you tolerable even at your worst, and for that, you adored her. no one else had made you feel this way—not men, not women.

while you preferred women, you had dabbled with men, more out of curiosity than desire. it felt clinical, an attempt to decode them like puzzles, perhaps to better understand why you and your father clashed. women, on the other hand, unraveled you.

the realization of your love came in two parts. the first arrived in the languid quiet of a holiday evening at your family’s upstate estate.

you had overexerted yourself in a lagree class, and sevika, ever watchful, had drawn you a warm bath. you watched her through the crack of the bathroom door, your gaze catching on the soft swell of her hips, the worn strength in her movements as she stretched after finishing readying the bed for sleeping. you often shared when traveling. she sat on the edge of it, her familiar perch, closest to the door. she always did this.

it was the smallest things about her that undid you: the way her hair slipped loose from its strict ponytail, the gentle sway of the gold chain brushing against her collarbones. you’d bought her that chain during a weekend in stockholm. now, the sight of it filled you with a sudden, vicious envy. you wanted to be that close to her—always.

the need consumed you. your body buzzed with an unnamed energy, teetering on the edge of itself. you wanted to crawl out of your skin and into hers, to dissolve completely against her warmth. you wanted her blood to run through your veins, her marrow to fuse with yours. your desire was feral, deranged, trembling like a dying pathetic thing.

without thinking, your hand slipped between your thighs. the thought of her—the sharpness of her profile, the tender press of her hands on your waist at the farmer’s market earlier—burned in your mind. you focused on the ridge of her nose, her beautiful nose. everything about her pleased you.

your fingertips pressed harder into the rosy pearl of your clit, and with a wounded cry, you came undone, trembling, your gaze locked on her through the crack in the door.

as if summoned by your thoughts, sevika lifted her head and met your eyes. her stern gaze pinned you, and you sank beneath the water with sudden embarrassment, your skin flush with heat.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

the next morning, your pleasure still lingered via a morning glow on your skin. you woke to find sevika beside you, her strong shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm of her sleep. you lifted a hand and stroked her brow, cooing softly as she murmured from somewhere deep within her sleep.

she, you thought, is every woman i’ve ever wanted.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

the second realization came during an attempt to kill you.

you were the chosen target—a calculated decision. your public image, carefully nurtured by those who sought to use you, made your death a tragedy worth orchestrating. the explosive had been hidden cleverly in the heart of your favorite restaurant, the one you frequented for its thick slices of fresh bread and macadamia milk.

when it detonated, your world fractured. your vision blurred, your ears rang, and blood trickled warm and sticky down your face. the floor rose to meet you, the lacquered wood pressing cold against your cheek. the world went in and out like the weak signal of a radio. someone was screaming—it might have been your mother, though you doubted she cared enough to wail like that.

through the haze, a hand cupped your jaw, firm but careful, and your head was turned until your eyes locked on sevika’s. her gray gaze steadied you, cutting through the chaos. you raised a hand, your french manicured tips trailing lightly against her cheek. one of them, you noticed, was broken.

“[name]. [name], look at me. don’t take your eyes off me.”

“vika,” you whispered, the name slipping from your lips like a prayer. for the first time, you saw fear flicker across her face.

“it’s me,” she said softly. “you’re going to be fine, but i need to get you up. i need to get you out of here.”

you didn’t want to move. here, cradled in her hands, was where you wanted to stay.

“i can hold you, princess,” she murmured, her voice impossibly tender. “if that’s what you want. but i have to move you first. deep breath, okay? here we go.”

she lifted you as though you weighed nothing, her strength unyielding. you clung to her, your broken nails digging into her skin as she carried you through the wreckage. bodies lay strewn across the floor, and your heart broke when you recognized the familiar face of a favorite server.

“it’s okay,” sevika said, her voice a steady anchor. “look at me. just keep looking at me.”

and you did. your gaze drifted to the soft curve of her throat; your face tilted toward her as though she were the sun.

when she laid you on the stretcher, a terrible fear seized you. you reached for her, desperation clawing at your chest.

“stay with me. bitte. bitte, ich flehe dich an.”

sevika froze. if it had been anyone else, she might have refused and headed back to assess the security breach. but it wasn’t anyone else. it was you.

“i’m right behind you, sweetheart,” she promised, her hand pressing firmly to your stomach. “right behind you. just in that car.”

“danke, vika,” you murmured, your voice breaking. “du bist das, was ich brauche. nur du.”

even as the ambulance doors closed, your eyes never left her. you focused on the faint hum of her engine trailing behind you, the sound steady against the fevered rush of your heart.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

sevika was unforgiving after that, and you selfishly enjoyed the over-attention.

she stole you away, back to your flat, and hovered. always within reach, always watching, her presence as constant as the air you breathed. you hated it. you loved it.

she insisted on being in the room while you bathed, while you ate, while you tried to pretend your body wasn’t trembling from the aftershocks of the explosion. the weight of her gaze pressed into your skin like a second layer. she dressed your wounds with quiet efficiency, her fingers steady but firm, and even when you flinched, she refused to soften her touch.

“you should’ve told me this one was hurting,” she murmured one evening, crouched at your side with a damp cloth in hand. her voice was scolding, but there was an undercurrent of something wounded beneath it—something that hadn’t healed properly since the restaurant.

“it’s fine,” you said, looking anywhere but at her.

“it’s not fine,” she snapped, gripping your wrist a little too tightly before loosening her hold. “you don’t tell me when you’re in pain. you don’t—” she stopped herself, shaking her head as if to clear it.

her jaw worked, muscles tight, and you stared at the curve of her throat as she leaned over you, wiping dried blood away with the kind of precision that only made your chest ache.

“you’re smothering me,” you said softly, more to yourself than her, but her head snapped up like you’d struck her.

“you almost died,” she bit out, and the words made you flinch harder than her grip.

“but i didn’t,” you countered, hating the way your voice trembled.

you could be such a child. it crippled you, your desire to please her, to be less burdensome. she’d kill you if she knew what you were thinking. thank god it was your secret.

sevika’s lips parted, but no words came. just that unfaltering, infuriating look—one that said she knew better, that she always knew better, and that you knew this to be true. you raised a finger, traced the glistening edges of her teeth. she kept her mouth open; she never bit down.

and then one evening, you decided you’d had enough.

“i’m going out,” you said, pulling a thick coat of fur—vintage—over your shoulders.

sevika, seated in the chair by the window, didn’t look up from the blade she was sharpening. “no, you’re not.”

“yes, i am,” you replied, voice clipped.

her eyes flicked up to meet yours, the air thickening.

“why would i agree to that?” she asked, standing slowly, her full height suddenly overwhelming in the small space. “why would i let you walk out of here after i almost lost you last time?”

you laughed bitterly, shaking your head.

“let me? you’re not my keeper, vika.”

“really?” she said, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous octave. “should we do another read of my contact? i’m the person who pulled you out of the rubble. i’m the person who’s been keeping you alive, no thanks to your recklessness.”

“recklessness?” you snapped, whirling to face her fully. “if you’ve learned anything these past years, it is that i am rarely reckless. you promised me. you said you wouldn't be another dictator. you know what my life’s been like. i am allowed to have a life outside of this, outside of what has happened to me.”

her nostrils flared, and for a moment, she just stared at you, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“you think i’m doing this for me?” she asked, her voice rough, uneven. “you think i like this?”

“yes,” you spat, the frustration spilling out of you in an unstoppable wave. “this is the most excitement i’ve given you. you must think i’m so fucking boring all of the time. so, yes, i think you’re enjoying it. it makes you feel important. ”

something in her cracked. she closed the distance between you in two steps, her hand shooting out to grip your chin, tilting your face up to hers.

“i'm enjoying this?” she growled, her breath hot against your skin. “watching you get hurt? wondering if this time i’ll be too late? don’t mistake my care for control.”

her grip softened, her thumb brushing your jaw, and suddenly, the room felt unbearably small. you could see the pulse in her throat, the heat in her gaze as her eyes searched yours.

“sevika,” you said. your self-righteousness had passed, and you were so deeply ashamed. “vika, that was unfair. i’m sorry. forgive me.”

her hand dropped to your waist, pulling you closer until you could feel the solid warmth of her body against yours. her breath was shallow, her jaw tight, but her eyes—god, her eyes. they burned with something that made your knees weak.

“bitte,” you whispered.

“i’m trying,” she said, her voice trembling, “to keep you safe. to keep myself from—”

she cut herself off, her gaze flicking to your lips. and before you could say anything, before you could breathe, her mouth was on yours.

the kiss was searing, all teeth and desperation, her hand tightening on your waist as if she was afraid you might disappear. you gasped against her, your hands finding their way to her shoulders, her neck, her hair. but just as quickly as it began, it ended. she pulled back, her breathing ragged, her eyes dark and stormy.

“don’t push me like that again,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

and then she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her, leaving you alone with the echo of her touch.

you crumpled like a paper doll and began to sob. outside, sevika, having turned back, pressed her forehead against the wall. absent-mindedly, the fingers of her prosthetic twitched and aborted their motions, jerking against the door as if fighting to feel you there.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

you needed to repay her for your abhorrent behavior.

you tried through what you knew: lavish breakfasts, waking up early to purchase her favorite flowers and sweets. you’d even carefully cleaned and oiled her prosthetic. sevika said nothing, if only not to further provoke your guilt, but you could tell she felt it was unnecessary. she was always too easy on you.

the universe, however, seemed to agree with you, and the opportunity to protect sevika came faster than you ever expected.

it was another attempt, this time at a crowded gala in the heart of the city. you hadn’t wanted to go, but sevika had insisted—you wanted to go out. besides, you need to be seen. send a message. and she had been there, of course, always in the background, a silent shadow at your side.

you saw the glint of the blade before she did.

it was instinct. your body moved before your mind caught up, and suddenly, you were between sevika and the would-be assassin, your arm jerking upward to deflect the strike with the heavy bracelet you wore. the metal screeched against the blade, and a sharp pain radiated up your arm, but you didn’t falter.

with your other hand, you snatched a knife from the cocktail table behind you. it was small but sharp, and you used it without hesitation. you didn’t feel the burn of the blade as it nicked your palm on the thrust; you only felt the sickening resistance of flesh before the assailant crumpled at your feet.

“get down!” sevika’s voice was a thunderclap, her hand gripping your shoulder as she shoved you behind her. she moved with terrifying precision, her body a blur of strength and fury as she assessed the situation in seconds.

the room was instantly bursting with chaos. a flash of silver caught your eye as sevika swung her prosthetic arm, sending one of the other assailants sprawling. blood slicked the floor, and the copper tang of it hung heavy in the air. your ears rang with the cacophony of fists, steel, and slit flesh.

you shouldn’t have done that; you knew this. the headlines would be more than money could hide.

“fuck!” sevika’s voice cut through the din, sharp and furious, as she turned to find you standing there, breathing hard, your hands stained red. “what the hell did you do?”

“i—i had to,” you stammered, your chest heaving. “you didn’t see him—”

she grabbed your arm, dragging you toward the far side of the room where the air was clearer and less stifling. the fight was dwindling; the attackers were now being rounded up by security, but sevika’s fury was just beginning.

“what were you thinking?” she hissed, her voice trembling. “do you have a death wish?”

you ripped your arm from her grasp, your own anger bubbling to the surface.

“i was saving you! or would you rather i let him stab you in the back?”

“i don’t need you to save me!” she snapped, stepping closer, her broad shoulders towering over you.

“maybe i need to,” you shot back, tears pricking at your eyes. “i refuse to just sit here and watch you die for me. i won’t. you can’t ask that of me.”

her expression faltered, the rage in her eyes dimming, replaced by something heavier, something more understanding. she often forgot how young you were.

“princess, it's not—you don’t understand,” she said. “if anything happened to you—”

“you’d what?” you interrupted, your voice wavering as you stared up at her. “fall apart? i wouldn’t be any different, vika. you're far from inconsequential. i could not survive a world without you.”

the silence between you was deafening. her gaze dropped to your trembling hands, still clutching the bloodied knife, and she let out a low, shuddering breath. more security personnel arrived, breaking the stalemate. the room was secured, and sevika took that as her cue to remove you from the premises, dragging you through the back corridors, her hand iron-tight around your wrist.

the moment the door to your shared suite slammed shut, she spun on you. her eyes glistened as she glared at you, her body taut like a bowstring.

“you don’t get it, do you?” she said, stepping closer. “i can’t—” she broke off, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“you can’t what?” you asked, shifting toward her. “vika, tell me.”

her jaw worked, the muscles in her neck tightening as she tried to hold herself together.

“i feel like i’m so close to losing you,” she said finally, her voice low and broken.

the words hit you like a punch to the chest.

“you won’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “i can’t be without you in any way. i won’t allow it.”

her eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, neither of you moved. the space between you was so heavy. all you wanted was to smooth the worried line of her forehead, to share water with her, and wipe her clean.

“you can’t promise that,” she said finally.

you watched as she turned from you and slipped into the bathroom to begin getting ready for bed.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

she woke up with your head between her thighs.

sevika might’ve been more pleased about it if it wasn’t in the middle of the night. still, it wasn’t the worst way to come to.

the warmth spidered from her thighs to her hips before coiling tightly in her stomach. her eyes fluttered open, disoriented and struggling to focus. she heard you first: the wet suck of your mouth against her swollen, brown folds. you moaned somewhere deep and hidden in your chest, your hands tightening around the thickness of her thighs even though she was not yet bucking.

it took a while for her to place herself, and then it crashed into her all at once. she gasped and tucked a hand into your hair, which you removed so that you could intertwine your fingers, pressing them away from her head.

you unlatched from her and pressed a soft kiss into her stomach.

“stay still,” you commanded. “please.”

she allowed it.

you worked at her over and over, pushing the back the hood of her clit so you could roll it between your fingers like a rosy pearl. sevika let her pleasure crest until she shuddered into an unearthly orgasm, her legs snapping shut around your head just as a roll of thunder sounded through the early morning.

"couldn’t sleep?" she rasped.

you slowly unfastened her legs and raised your head from where you had been lapping at her, your full mouth glistening with her arousal. sevika sat up fully, legs shifting beneath the butter-yellow comforter, and stared down at you.

you looked back at her with wide eyes like she’d caught you sinning. you. you with your puppy eyes and open mouth. you, with your sweetness, with your eagerness when it came to her. you like a doe on the open road.

"no," you told her. "i couldn’t accept the idea that you hated me."

she sighed and cupped your cheek, thumbing across the plush skin.

"when you do or say something that displeases me, that doesn’t mean i hate you."

"if you’re displeased," you said, your voice thick across the last word, "then it feels the same to me."

with a huff of irritation, she yanked you up and into her lap, guiding you into a bruising kiss.

it wasn’t like the last time. this wasn’t desperation or fear—it was need. pure, unrelenting need. her hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against her, and you gasped into her mouth, your fingers tangling in her hair.

she shifted you easily, rolling over so that you fell beneath her. her eyes roamed over you, dark and hungry, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“you drive me insane,” she murmured, her voice rough as her hand trailed down your side.

“good,” you whispered, pulling her back to you.

soon, kissing wasn’t enough. you had hungered for her for so long, and she for you.

wetly, your lips broke apart, and she slid back to survey you. the soft, muted light of the room caught on the intricate lace of your undergarments. the set was exquisite; the bra cupped you perfectly. you saw sevika's jaw tighten, her hands flexing at her sides as though restraining herself from reaching for you.

“you look…” her voice faltered, her control waning. “fuck, princess.”

heat spread across your body, and you felt the lace press a little tighter against your skin as your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

sevika leaned in, her eyes never leaving yours. her hand rose, hesitant at first, before her fingertips brushed the embroidered lace at your shoulder. she traced the pattern down your arm, her touch light but burning, before resting her palm at your waist.

“you wore this for me?” she murmured, her voice low and dark, as her thumb swept over the sheer fabric, catching on a pebbled nipple.

“who else?” you answered, a tremor in your voice as her hand slipped to the small of your back, pulling you up into a soft arch.

she hummed in satisfaction and gently pulled your bra down so that it dipped beneath your tits as they spilled further into view. steadying you with a hand on your stomach, sevika leaned down and coaxed a hard bud into her mouth.

the wet heat of her mouth was akin to a strike of lightning. you moaned as she increased the pressure of her teeth, suckling eagerly at your chest as you pushed desperately into her touch. by instinct, your legs rose to cross behind her hips, forcing her to settle on top of you.

she let go of your nipple with a wet pop and switched to the other, beginning to work her way down your body with a pleased exhale. your panties didn’t even put up a worthy fight. they just slid right down, the fabric bunching around your thighs. the scrap of fabric had barely covered your cunt anyway, your thatch of hair poking through as if to tease her.

she watched your lips gleam and glisten, your pussy drooling with arousal and as deliciously plump as the rest of you. sevika pressed her mouth against it, practically a dog in heat, and relished the way you shivered up against her.

“vika,” you moaned and turned your face to the side in the way you did when you were overcome with embarrassment.

“baby,” she murmured, shifting so that she could force you to look at her. “baby, is this all for me?”

you whined, and sevika smirked, dipping her head down to lick a flat stripe up your dripping cunt.

“vika, fuck,” you cried, and she hummed, hooking a hand around one of your legs to pull it up so that you were further exposed. your clit was swollen and calling out for her.

pulling back, she used her free hand to part your lips so that she could watch the way you clenched around nothing. slick ran steadily down to the crack of your ass, a syrupy stream of desire. carefully, she stroked a metallic finger through your heat, holding you down as she began to rub your clit in tight circles.

“look at that pussy,” she murmured. “can’t believe it’s all mine, princess. thank you. thank you, baby.”

sevika couldn’t help herself and lifted her hand, bringing it down to slap against your cunt. you squealed, and she pressed a kiss to your thigh, delighting in your loss of composure. she considered you beneath her, your body slick and shining with sweat as you writhed. she rained two more strikes across your pussy in quick succession, dropping her head down and sliding her fingers in to let your buck into her open mouth and lolling tongue.

“taste so fucking good, princess,” she purred into you. “that’s it. ride my face, sweet girl. take what you want from me. take what you need.”

you gripped the bed, angling her hips so that you could drag her deeper into the cavern of your cunt. mewling, you trapped her between the link of your legs as you snapped upward and arched, cumming with a high sob.

“oh my god, vika.”

“just me,” she teased.

sevika waited for a couple of seconds before pushing up and rearranging you, sliding your back against her chest. carefully, she pushed your legs back apart and tucked three fingers up into your cunt, building a rhythm until she was thrusting hard enough that the overstimulation made you scream. you curled over yourself, your nails raking down her muscled thighs.

she milked you, patient and unrelenting, until you began to bounce on your own. you rode her hand. hard. slowly, your gummy walls tightened around her, whimpering through the flashes of pain and pleasure before you came again with a silent wail. sevika held you as you shook apart, whispering a stream of steady praises into your ear.

“good girl,” she cooed. “look at how good you are, princess. you needed this, huh? you’ve been begging for it, so desperate to cream all over me. such a good fucking girl.”

you slumped down, whimpering weakly as she pulled away from you. you felt her get up, slipping off the bed and walking somewhere into the darkness of the room. soon, she returned but not alone. you began to come back to yourself, and in doing so, you were able to focus on what she held in your hands.

“vika, that won’t fit.”

in her hand was a navy harness and matching dildo, girthy and ribbed. you tilted your head as she closed in, your hands finding her waist as if by instinct.

“sevika,” you whispered, your voice breaking as her lips trailed down your jaw, her teeth grazing your throat.

“quiet, baby,” she muttered against your skin, and you sighed softly, the sound catching in your throat as her hands slid lower, gripping your hips with a possessiveness that made you shiver. "you know you can take it."

you let out a pathetic, wet cry as she prodded at your puffy cunt, and her face softened. she pulled you closer, peppering your face with soft kisses. there was only her—her heat, her weight, her breath against your skin.

again she watched you, gripping you firmly from beneath your thighs as she nestled the tip of the dildo at the entrance of your pussy.

“princess,” she called to you, and you blinked blearily, clutching at her. “consider this forgiveness.”

it was all you ever wanted.

© hcneymooners.

translations.   bitte — please. bitte, ich flehe dich an — please i beg of you. danke — thank you. du bist das, was ich brauche. nur du. — you are what i need. only you.

[letters-to-lgbt-kids]

My dear lgbt+ kids, 

If you listened to transphobes, you might assume that the whole concept of “separate toilets for women” was designed with women’s safety in mind - and it was, but not in the way you might think. 

Gender-segregated bathrooms emerged in the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century (so around the time women were entering the workforce in greater numbers in the US and Europe). But the idea behind that wasn’t rooted in empowerment or feminism: 

Women were seen as fragile and weak. Public spaces (and especially higher education or the workforce) were considered unsuitable for women. So, it was believed women needed separate “restrooms”, assuming they might faint due to their naturally "delicate" health.

Separate bathrooms limited women’s access to education, work, and public life. This may seem counterintuitive at first glance, so let me explain: women’s restrooms were often located inconveniently… subtly discouraging women from staying in public spaces for extended periods. This was not about women’s safety, but about men wanting control over women. 

In Victorian ideals, women were supposed to be modest and “pure”, and this meant that they had to occupy distinctly different spaces than men . Separate bathrooms were a way of reinforcing their “proper” roles in society, emphasizing that their “real” place is in the home rather than in public or professional spaces.

The argument that we need “women only” bathrooms to protect women is not rooted in history or evidence. They were born out of sexism, not safety. 

With all my love, 

Your Tumblr Dad 

[pohyuck]

shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t —

⚡︎ .ᐟ boy-next-door!haechan x reader—where they weren't supposed to kiss. or call. or catch feelings. too bad they suck at rules.

⚡︎ .ᐟ inspired by NIKI's "shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't"—i love her so much plz give the song a listen if you haven't yet!!

⚡︎ .ᐟ suggestive content, and waayyy too many late-night feelings. (11.2k)

· · ─ ─ · · · · ─ ─ · ·

moving day was a disaster waiting to happen, and surprise—it happened. three hours of sleep, zero caffeine, and enough bad decisions packed into one tote bag to make a reality show jealous.

all you had to do was survive moving day without collapsing, crying, or accidentally making eye contact with a neighbor you'd have to avoid forever.

spoiler alert: you would fail at all three.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

shouldn’t

moving day was already the worst.

you were sleep deprived, under caffeinated, and sweating through your tote bag. you had just barely managed to drag a heavy suitcase to your apartment door before realizing the key was on the very bottom of your backpack. beneath a book, a half-eaten granola bar, and your crippling regret.

he was sitting across from your new apartment, cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by half a bag of cheetos and the loudest facetime call in the world. from what you could hear, his friend was yelling something about a suspicious rash.

he looked up just in time to catch you drop your bag, trip over it, and slam your forehead lightly into your own door.

there was a long pause.

then he muted his call and clapped.

“10 out of 10 entrance,” he said, still chewing.

you stared at him from the floor, holding your dignity in both hands like a fragile egg.

“thanks,” you deadpanned. “been rehearsing that fall for weeks.”

he grinned like this was the highlight of his day.

and to make things worse, he was stupid hot. like—should not be allowed to have a face like that—hot. tousled brown hair, warm skin, golden chain resting against his collarbone. and of course, the stupid frog socks.

“you moving in?” he asked, like that wasn’t obvious from the five boxes labeled ‘sad kitchen stuff’ next to you.

“no,” you said. “i just like loitering in random hallways. adds spice to my week.”

he tilted his head. “you’re funny.”

“you’re nosy.”

“you’re in my way.”

“you’re still staring.”

you blinked. looked away so fast your neck almost cracked. he was still grinning, smug, stupid, and gorgeous.

“i’m haechan,” he offered, finally. “i live across from you. that makes us... hallway buddies.”

“gross,” you muttered. “do not say that ever again.”

he only winked. “you’ll love me in three to five business days.”

later that night, after successfully unpacking approximately one spoon and a broken desk lamp, you found a note slid under your door.

“welcome to the building. hallway buddies 4ever <3 - h”

you told yourself you rolled your eyes. you told yourself it didn’t make you smile.

you shouldn’t.

but the butterflies in your stomach said, good fucking luck with that.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

your room is still half-boxes and unfamiliar shadows while you were on the phone with seol.

“oh, by the way, my cousin jaem invited me over to this pregame he’s having at his place. want to come with?”

you reply, “i think i’m just gonna stay in tonight, honestly.”

“too late! i’m already outside.”

you blink. then hear her knock.

jaemin’s apartment is loud. that’s the first thing you notice. not just music, but the sharp, overlapping noise of too many voices in a too-small space. you barely step inside when the second thing hits you.

and the thing was slouched on the couch in a leather jacket, head tilted back, laughing at something jeno just said. then he sees you.

his whole expression shifts, like a switch flipped.

“well, well, well,” he calls out with a lazy grin. “if it isn’t my hallway buddy.”

you groan. “don’t call me that in public.”

you slide into the empty seat next to him before your brain has the chance to vote. his knee brushes yours. neither of you mention it.

across the room, jaemin tosses you a drink without looking. “new apartment treating you okay?” he asks.

“yeah,” you say, then glance at haechan. “we actually live across from each other.”

seol’s head whips around. “wait—you two live across the hall?”

you nod slowly. haechan just shrugs, taking a sip like it’s nothing. “guess we’re neighbors and now party pals.”

jaemin points between the two of you. “and this never came up before?”

“didn’t exactly come up in the elevator,” you mutter.

the night spins faster after that. drinks. music. renjun attempting to dj in the kitchen using two phones and a bowl. someone breaks out a deck of cards. there’s a group effort to freestyle over a beat that no one can agree on. laughter bounces off the walls.

you lose track of time—until you somehow end up crammed into a corner during never have i ever. haechan’s shoulder presses into yours, his voice low near your ear.

“small world,” he says. “hallway, party, now, a fun little drink game territory”

you raise your cup. “should’ve stayed home.”

he clinks his drink lightly against yours. “you’d be bored without me.”

you don’t answer.

because he might be right.

“never have i ever hooked up with a neighbor,” jeno said, smirking.

haechan looked at you.

you glared at him.

“i haven’t!” you protested.

“yet,” he said under his breath.

you blinked.

your ears got hot.

you told yourself it was the tequila.

later, in the quiet chaos of 2 a.m., you were helping him find a spare charger in jaemin’s room. mostly because you didn’t trust him not to steal one if left unsupervised.

“you’re fun,” he said suddenly, watching you from the doorway.

“i’m also emotionally unavailable and extremely good at ghosting,” you replied, digging through drawers.

“perfect,” he said, grinning. “my type.”

you stood up. too close. his eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second too long.

i should step back, you thought.

but you didn’t.

he leaned in slightly. just enough to test a theory.

you stared at him.

then laughed—too loud, too fake, too “please don’t let this be real.”

you cleared your throat.

“we should go,” you said quickly.

he hesitated. then stepped back.

“yeah,” he said softly. “we should.”

once it was time to go home, he insisted on driving back to your place. the drive back home was quiet. and once you’ve arrived at the building, none of you chose to speak. you walked, in silence, with your shoulders brushing.

you didn’t say anything when he opened the door to your building for you. you didn’t say anything when he held the elevator.

“you ever think,” he said, not looking at you “that maybe we’re just avoiding something?”

you blinked. “like what?”

his lips twitched. “something we shouldn’t do.”

you didn’t answer.

you didn’t have to.

the silence said enough.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the texting started as a joke.

haechan had left a post-it on your door that said:

“you left your dignity in the hallway again. i’m holding it hostage. - h”

you: u have the worst handwriting in the world 😬

DNI!!: shut up >:( that’s not what u said when u saw my handwriting on ur heart

you had no response to that. not a good one anyway.

after that, the texts never really stopped.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

DNI!!: hey, u up?

you: if this is a booty call, i hope u step on a lego

DNI!!: 💔

DNI!!: u’re no fun

you: ?? i am SO much fun

DNI!!: prove it. come out

you: is this another hallway hang

DNI!!: unless u’re scared.. 😮

you opened your door exactly sixty seconds later.

he was already leaning against his, hoodie up, a box of ice cream sandwiches in one hand and the smirk. the one that said he knew he was your worst idea—and your favorite one.

“ice cream truce,” he said. “for your wounded ego.”

“from what?”

“from not kissing me that night at jaemin’s.”

you blinked. he was too close again.

“what makes you think i wanted to?”

he raised a brow. “didn’t you?”

you looked away. “just give me the ice cream.”

you sat in the hallway. backs against the wall. knees brushing again.

“so,” he said between bites, “what’s your tragic backstory?”

you laughed. “you first.”

he grinned, lazy and warm. “gemini. commitment issues. abandonment issues.”

“wow. the holy trinity.”

“and you?”

you shrugged. “recovering situationship survivor.”

he winced. “yikes.”

“you?”

“commitmentphobe with a god complex.”

you scoffed at him. “wow.. you’re actually self-aware?”

“only after 2 a.m.,” he said. “and only with you.”

you told yourself it was a joke. you told yourself the way he was looking at you didn’t make your heart do something stupid.

“haechan…” you started.

“yeah?”

“we’re not doing this.”

he paused.

“doing what?”

you glared. “this. flirting. late-night ice cream. emotional trauma swap. whatever this is.”

he nodded slowly. then smiled again. “yeah. no. definitely not. hallway buddies only.”

you both laughed.

but the silence after wasn’t light. it was heavy. like something was being buried beneath the joke.

when you got up to leave, he didn’t stop you.

because this—whatever it was—was exactly what you both knew you shouldn’t be starting.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

you had a face mask on, hair tied, brooklyn nine-nine playing, and had just settled into your comfort burrito blanket cocoon when your phone buzzed.

DNI!!: can’t sleep

DNI!!: door’s open

you stared at the screen. then stared at your reflection. you looked like someone who’d lost a bet.

you told yourself you wouldn’t don’t go.

then grabbed your hoodie and went anyway.

his lights were dimmed, just one lamp glowing in the corner. the tv was playing some terrible reality dating show—a girl was crying because her man of two days chose someone else during a “trust fall challenge.”

“wow,” you said, sitting on the edge of his couch. “art.”

“masterpiece,” he agreed. “shakespeare could never.”

you watched in silence for a bit. you felt him watching you.

“you didn’t knock,” he said softly.

“you said the door was open.”

he nodded, eyes still on you. “just saying. you used to knock.”

“you used to be less cryptic,” you muttered.

he smiled. “i’m still cryptic. you’re just getting better at reading me.”

you laughed nervously. then fell silent again.

on-screen, someone yelled, “he can’t even define the relationship!”

you scoffed. “DTR,” you said. “men fear it.”

“yeah,” haechan muttered. “i’ve always sucked at that part.”

you glanced at him. he was looking at the floor. “why?” you asked, before you could stop yourself.

he shrugged. “because... once you define it, you can’t pretend it’s not real.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. so you didn’t say anything.

the silence stretched. not awkward. just heavy.

he was sitting closer now. when had he moved?

your knees touched. neither of you pulled away.

you looked at him. he looked at you.

and in that one, too-long second—your whole body went still.

he leaned in. just enough. slowly. like he was giving you time to stop it. your heart felt like it was trying to escape your ribcage.

you knew this was the line.

you knew you shouldn’t.

and still—your hand moved on its own, resting lightly on his knee.

that’s when he froze.

“if we do this,” he said, voice low, “everything changes.”

you swallowed. “i know.”

another beat.

“so, are we—”

you exhaled sharply. stood up. paced toward the door.

“we’re not doing this. we can’t”

he stayed on the couch, silent.

you didn’t turn back.

you didn’t see the way his expression crumpled just slightly.

you didn’t see how he watched the door long after it closed.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

you were just on your way back from seol’s, high on caffeine and gossip, with a paper bag full of banana bread and a playlist queued for the walk upstairs. you didn’t expect to find him standing in front of your apartment door.

hoodie again. hands in pockets. that same boyish look that screamed, “i swear i’m trouble, but you’ll like it.”

“you forget your key?” you asked, unlocking your door.

“no,” he said. “just forgot what it felt like to be around you.”

“what?” you said, laughing awkwardly.

“that sounded better in my head,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

you tilted your head. “why are you here, haechan?”

he didn’t answer right away.

just looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face before doing something stupid.

“i think i’ve been trying to find excuses to see you,” he said.

you went quiet.

he stepped a little closer.

“i think i’ve been trying to forget you, too,” you whispered.

he stopped.

“and how’s that going?”

“terribly.”

he smiled—not the usual cocky, smug one. this was smaller. sadder. almost hopeful.

“can i come in?” he asked.

you didn’t trust yourself to answer with words.

so you opened the door.

and he followed.

you didn’t even turn the lights on—just tossed your bag on the counter and leaned against it, heart hammering like it knew what was coming.

haechan stood in your kitchen like he’d done it a thousand times.

“you want tea?” you asked, trying to buy yourself time. sanity.

“only if you’re making it shirtless.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you say that like it’s new information.”

you rolled your eyes. “you want tea or not?”

“nah,” he said softly, walking up behind you. “right now, i only want… you.”

your breath caught.

you turned around slowly. he was too close. too warm. too everything.

his hand lifted—not to grab or pull or take—just to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“if we do this,” you said, barely audible, “we can’t pretend anymore.”

he nodded. “i’m tired of pretending.”

“we said we shouldn’t.”

“we also said we wouldn’t.”

you paused. “but right now?”

“we couldn’t not.”

that was all it took.

your mouths met halfway. desperate. months of lingering glances and almost-kisses finally unraveling like thread. your hands tangled in his hoodie. his fingers dug into your waist like he’d die if he let go.

it wasn’t graceful. it wasn’t planned.

but it was real.

too real.

somewhere between the kisses and the way he whispered your name like it hurt, your brain screamed that this is a mistake.

but your body? your heart?

they didn’t care.

on your couch, beneath the dim kitchen light, you let him see the version of you you’d kept guarded. and in return, he gave you the one he never let anyone else hold.

when it was over—when your breathing slowed and the silence returned—he traced lazy circles on your bare shoulder and murmured,

“i don’t want to go back to pretending.”

you didn’t say anything.

you didn’t need to.

because you were already too far in.

and somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew.

this was the beginning of something you wouldn’t be able to walk away from.

couldn’t

“you couldn’t DTR, wouldn’t it be nice if we could stay friends?”

you woke up to the sound of the kettle whistling.

for a second, you thought you were dreaming. your place was never that quiet in the morning—usually it was just the hum of your phone alarm and the silent screaming of your soul.

but this time?

there was someone in your kitchen.

and he was humming.

you sat up slowly, hair a mess, shirt barely clinging to your shoulder. it smelled like him. which was unfair. because now you couldn’t even wear your own clothes without remembering last night.

you padded out to the kitchen, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, only to find haechan pouring hot water into two mugs.

he turned at the sound of your yawn, grinning.

“morning to you too,” he said, sliding one of the mugs across the counter. “tea. not made shirtless. sorry to disappoint.”

“wow, you made me tea?”

“i did,” he said. “don’t worry, i didn’t poison it. i only do that on the third hookup.”

you snorted, reluctantly smiling. “so this is a hookup?”

he paused.

the room felt too still.

“i mean,” he started, “unless you’d prefer we call it a… spiritual bonding ritual or something.”

you gave him a look.

“kidding,” he said quickly. “honestly? i don’t know. i just… i wanted to make you tea. that’s all.”

you sipped it. still warm. still slightly sweet.

“you’re weird,” you muttered.

he leaned against the counter, watching you.

“and you kissed me back.”

“well, you kissed me first.”

“you moaned.”

“you’re lucky i didn’t bite.”

“..you did bite.”

you choked on your tea.

he laughed.

god, why did he always laugh like that? like it came from somewhere deep in his chest. like he wasn’t scared of anything.

but you were.

scared of this. of him. of how this already felt like something you couldn’t name without ruining it.

“you’re still here,” you said quietly, setting your mug down.

he tilted his head.

“did you think i’d leave?”

you shrugged.

he didn’t say anything. just stepped forward, gently taking your hand in his.

“i meant it,” he said. “last night. i don’t wanna pretend anymore.”

you swallowed hard. “and what exactly are we doing?”

he didn’t answer right away.

instead, he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand.

then your wrist.

then your shoulder.

your breath hitched.

“i don’t know,” he whispered. “but i do know i’m not ready to stop.”

and neither were you.

so when he kissed you again—slow, soft, full of unspoken things—you kissed him back.

not because it was a good idea.

not because it would end well.

but because you couldn’t resist.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the second time it happened was thursday.

because, of course, it had to be thursday.

thursday was supposed to be uneventful. boring. uneventful-boring-thursday. but then he showed up at your door again, hoodie down, smile up, eyes bright like he knew you were going to let him in.

you didn’t even ask why. just stepped aside and said, “you know the drill. shoes off.”

he toed them off dramatically and flopped onto your couch like he paid rent.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” he said.

“you’re lucky i’m lonely.”

he clutched his chest. “ouch. right in the fragile male ego.”

“you have an ego?”

“only when you’re around.”

he had a way of saying things that sounded like jokes but felt like truths. you hated how easily you blushed. how fast your heartbeat got when he looked at you like that.

“i brought chips,” he said, pulling out a bag from his hoodie like it was contraband. “and the ramen you like.”

you narrowed your eyes. “are you trying to seduce me with carbs?”

“is it working?”

“...yes.”

and just like that, thursday was ruined.

or maybe, saved.

because the next thing you knew, he was in your kitchen again—badly boiling noodles and dramatically sneezing from the spice, and you were sitting on the counter, swinging your legs like a teenager with a crush.

you weren’t dating.

but you weren’t just friends.

you were something in-between, something unnamed, something filled with stupid inside jokes and unsaid feelings and late-night cravings that weren’t just about ramen.

after dinner, he sat a little too close. your knees touched. your pinkies brushed. he let his hand rest on your thigh and didn’t move it.

he kissed you again—slow, teasing, like he had all the time in the world.

you didn’t talk much that night.

you didn’t have to.

you both lay there in your bed, barely under the covers, silence pressing between you like a second body.

“do you want to sleep over?” you asked, almost too quietly.

he blinked. “i mean… yeah. if that’s okay?”

you nodded.

and he stayed.

after that, it just became a thing.

he’d show up.

sometimes with food. sometimes with excuses. sometimes with neither.

you stopped asking why.

he’d tease you when you wore his shirt around the apartment, and you’d throw a pillow at him when he called you “cutie with commitment issues.”

“takes one to know one,” you always shot back.

“i’m not one for titles, in other words, terrified. that p*ssy kept my words out the door”

you didn’t talk about what you were doing. you didn’t make rules. but there were rules.

1. no sleepovers unless it “just happened.”

2. no texting first (but replying fast enough so it didn’t look like you cared too much).

3. no kissing in public.

4. no getting caught.

and the most important one: no feelings. ever. not even a little.

but feelings were slippery.

feelings showed up when you watched him fall asleep on your couch, curled up like a cat.

feelings showed up when he brought you cough drops and orange juice the second you said, “i feel kinda off today.”

feelings showed up when he danced with you in your tiny living room to a dumb commercial jingle and said, “see? we’d win ‘so you think you can dance: emotionally unavailable edition.’”

you laughed, but your heart skipped.

because deep down, you knew:

you weren’t emotionally unavailable.

you were just emotionally terrified.

you told yourself this was fine.

you weren’t one for titles, anyway.

but one night—a random wednesday—you caught yourself staring at him for too long.

watching him fold your laundry like it was normal. like he belonged here.

and it hit you.

you’d memorized him.

his dumb jokes.

his bad habits.

the way he’d shut down when he needed you the most.

you knew him better than you were supposed to.

and worse?

you didn’t want anyone else to.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

one night, while he was getting dressed after—hoodie half on, hair messy, lips still swollen from kissing—he paused in your doorway.

“you ever think about what we’re doing?”

you blinked. “what do you mean?”

he shrugged. “i dunno. like… do you ever wish it was more?”

your chest tightened.

“haechan…”

“i’m not saying we should,” he said quickly, waving his hands. “i’m just saying… wouldn’t it be nice?”

your silence was the only answer he needed.

he left a few minutes later, same as always.

but something had shifted.

something you didn’t have the words for yet.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

you shouldn’t have gone.

you knew it the second you stepped into the apartment.

because there he was. already wearing that stupid smug smile. already making himself way too comfortable on jaemin’s beanbag like he wasn’t half the reason your knees were still sore.

“look who decided to show up,” haechan said, raising his brows.

you kept your expression neutral. “someone had to make this room attractive.”

“and that someone’s obviously me,” he shot back.

jeno raised a brow. “you two flirting or fighting?”

you both answered at the same time.

“fighting.”

“flirting.”

everyone groaned.

“we get it,” renjun muttered. “sexual tension. unresolved. like literally every drama. can we watch the movie now?”

you sat as far away from him as possible. on the floor. next to seol, who immediately gave you a look.

“you good?” she whispered.

you nodded. liar.

she leaned closer. “you sure you’re not sleeping with him?”

you blinked innocently. “who?”

“don’t ‘who’ me. that look he gave you just now? that was either i’ve seen you naked or i plan to very soon.”

“seol, shut up,” you whispered, face heating.

across the room, haechan was very obviously not watching the movie. his eyes kept flickering to you.

he stretched lazily, arm brushing jeno’s shoulder.

“this movie’s mid,” he announced.

“you were the one who suggested it,” jaemin said.

“yeah, and now i regret it.”

you were trying so hard to focus on the screen. but you could feel him watching you. every glance burned. your fingers twitched.

seol’s eyes narrowed. “girl, your ears are turning red.”

“i’m fine,” you hissed.

haechan got up a few minutes later. “bathroom,” he muttered. but the second he passed behind you, his hand ghosted over your back. quick. featherlight. like he just had to touch you.

your breath caught.

seol glanced between you two.

“…nope. they’re definitely f—”

“back in a sec!” you blurted, hopping up and heading toward the hallway like your life depended on it.

it kind of did.

he was waiting.

not in the bathroom.

but leaning against the wall in the hallway, arms crossed, like he knew you’d follow.

“you know,” he said, voice low. “we could’ve just stayed home.”

“we’re being normal,” you said, avoiding his gaze.

he stepped closer.

“this isn’t normal,” he murmured.

“we’re trying to be.”

“trying isn’t succeeding.”

you were breathing too fast.

he moved again, backing you up against the wall.

“they’re literally in the other room,” you whispered.

“you think i care?” he said, smiling like the devil himself. “you looked at me like you wanted me to care.”

your eyes fluttered shut. “this is a bad idea.”

“so was the first time. and the second. and the fifth. but you keep kissing me anyway.”

you swallowed hard.

“you said we wouldn’t do this again.”

“you said that,” he said, closing the gap between you. “i never agreed.”

and then he kissed you.

like the world didn’t exist outside that hallway.

like every “we shouldn’t” was just foreplay for “we will anyway.”

his hands were under your hoodie. your fingers were tangled in his hair. the sound of the movie barely reached you—the real noise was the one in your chest, that loud, crashing ache of god, i want you, but god, i shouldn’t

his hand brushed against your hip, a deliberate, teasing touch that sent a shiver down your spine. you bit your lip, pulse quickening as you fought the urge to press yourself against him.

the sound of laughter from the living room seemed to fade into the background, drowned out by the pounding of your heart. you knew you were playing with fire, but the risk only added to the allure. you tilted your head, meeting his gaze.

"you know," you said, voice barely above a whisper,

"we're not exactly being subtle."

he smirked, his confidence unwavering.

"who said we need to be?" his fingers traced the edge of your hoodie, his touch light but deliberate. "they’re too busy with their own drama to notice us." his words were a challenge, a dare you couldn't resist.

your resolve wavered as his hand slid up your side, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin just below your ribcage. you leaned into him, body responding to his touch with a mind of its own.

"and if they do?" you teased, voice trembling slightly.

"then they'll see what they've been missing," he replied, his tone daring.

before you could respond, he cupped your jaw, pulling you closer. his lips brushed against yours, a fleeting touch that left you breathless. the kiss was soft, almost tentative, but it ignited a fire within you that you couldn't ignore.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing yourself against him as the kiss deepened. his hands moved to your waist, pulling you tighter until there was no space between you.

the hallway seemed to shrink around you, the world narrowing to just the two of you and the heat of your desire. you moaned softly into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair as you surrendered to the moment.

his hands moved lower, sliding over your hips and down to your thighs. he lifted you effortlessly, pressing you against the wall as he kissed you with a hunger that left no doubt about his intentions.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, your heart racing as you felt the hardness of his body against yours. the thrill of being so close to getting caught only heightened the sensation, the risk adding an edge to your passion.

then jeno’s voice rang down the hallway. “bro, what’s taking you so long? are you pooping or—”

you broke the kiss, breathing like you’d just run a marathon.

“back in a sec!” he yelled, way too cheerful.

you pulled away from him, fixed your hoodie, hair a mess, face hot, and mouth swollen.

he winked at you. “so… movie?”

you glared. “i hate you.”

he grinned. “you couldn’t.”

and you didn’t deny it.

“i could take more shots or i could take you off your blouse”

the party was already a mistake.

not because it was boring—but because the second you walked in and locked eyes with him from across the room, everything else just turned into background noise.

haechan was already leaning against the kitchen counter, red cup in hand, loose black shirt and smug grin fully deployed.

you hated how he looked at you like he had a secret.

you hated it more because you were the secret.

you didn’t approach him.

you did what any self-respecting person would do.

you mingled, you laughed at renjun’s sarcastic commentary, you complimented someone’s fake fur jacket. and you ignored the way your skin buzzed under his stare.

seol noticed first.

“he hasn’t stopped staring at you,” she muttered over the music, sipping something suspiciously green.

“he’s looking at the chips behind me.”

“right. and i’m looking at the dip.”

you rolled your eyes, but when you turned around, he was gone.

haechan had disappeared.

and somehow, that made it worse.

because now you were aware of him—like heat at your back, like footsteps you couldn’t hear yet. like a ghost you definitely had unfinished business with.

you wandered down the hall, claiming you were looking for the bathroom.

you weren’t.

you knew exactly where you were going.

and there he was.

in one of the empty rooms, door cracked open just enough for you to catch a glimpse of him sitting on the desk, legs swinging, cup still in hand.

he didn’t look surprised.

he just tilted his head.

“looking for something?” he asked.

you stepped in and closed the door behind you. and locked it.

“you left without saying hi.”

“well, you seemed occupied.. pretending not to know me,” he said, voice amused.

you crossed your arms. “we said no hooking up at parties.”

“we also said no feelings,” he replied. “and yet here we are.”

“this is different.”

“is it?” he slid off the desk, walking slowly toward you. “or are we just really bad at rules?”

your breath caught when he reached you.

“don’t look at me like that,” you whispered.

“like what?”

“like you’re gonna do something reckless.”

he leaned in. “define reckless.”

you didn’t answer.

your lips already did.

the kiss was hot and desperate, all the tension from earlier spilling over. his hands were on your waist, yours fisting in his shirt like you needed to anchor yourself.

he lifted you onto the desk like you weighed nothing. like he needed you closer. like he didn’t care who walked in.

“someone could come in,” you mumbled against his mouth.

“door’s locked.”

“people are literally outside.”

he grinned. “guess we’ll be quiet, then.”

your laugh was breathless. “you are never quiet.”

“watch me,” he whispered, and kissed you again.

it was fast. messy. intense. the kind of kiss that made your knees weak and your heart angry with you. because you knew better.

but you didn’t want to do better.

you hadn’t even had a drink.

you didn’t need one.

he was already intoxicating.

“this is so bad,” you moaned,

“the worst,” he agreed. “we’re going to hell.”

“we said we’d stop.”

“we say a lot of things.”

“and what are we gonna say after this?”

he met your eyes.

and for once, he didn’t joke.

“nothing,” he said. “we don’t have to say anything. we never do.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

you were at his place.

again.

for “homework.”

because apparently, two people who have the self-control of soggy toast thought they could survive a full hour of proximity without pouncing on each other.

“seriously,” you said, dropping your bag on his bed. “we’re gonna study. like, for real. no distractions.”

haechan raised both hands in fake surrender. “no distractions. i swear.”

you narrowed your eyes.

“no weird comments. no staring. no—”

“sexually suggestive jokes? i would never.”

“haechan.”

he smiled, all teeth. “fine. serious face. hit me with the notes.”

ten minutes in, he was already failing.

you were mid-sentence, reading off your notes, when you noticed it.

he was staring at your lips.

you didn’t look up. “stop it.”

“stop what?” he said, all fake innocence.

“you’re doing that thing where you pretend to listen but you’re actually thinking about making out with me.”

“no i’m not,” he said. “i’m thinking about undressing you with my teeth.”

you dropped your pen. “jesus christ—“

“what?” he laughed, leaning back against the wall. “you said no weird comments, not no honest ones.”

“you’re impossible.”

“and yet, here you are.”

you glared. “this is why we can’t do normal things. like sit. and study. and exist without humping.”

“not my fault you look hot when you’re focused.”

you turned to him, exasperated. “you promised.”

“i promised nothing. you said, ‘let’s study,’ and i nodded while imagining you in nothing but a t-shirt.”

you stood. “i’m going home.”

“no, you’re not.”

“watch me.”

“you say that every time, but then—” he stood too, walking toward you like you were prey and he was seconds from pouncing—“you remember how good we are at not studying.”

“we said we wouldn’t do this again.”

he paused in front of you. close. too close.

you hated that you were already leaning in.

“we shouldn’t do this again,” you corrected.

“yet, we couldn’t not,” he whispered, brushing his fingers down your arm.

you stared at him.

this was supposed to be simple.

but now, he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense, and your heart was doing that thing again, that stupid, fluttery, traitorous thing—

you grabbed his face and kissed him.

and he laughed into it, breath hitching, like he’d known you’d give in.

like he’d always know.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

you woke up tangled in his sheets.

his arm slung over your waist. his face buried in your neck. your phone buzzing somewhere beneath your discarded jeans with three missed calls from seol

seolace: u said “just homework”

seolace: be so serious rn

seolace: r u . still . at his place .

you threw your phone under the pillow and turned to face him.

he was awake.

“hi, baby” he mumbled, voice scratchy.

“we’re not doing this again.” you said—ignoring the tiny somersault your stomach just did

he smirked, eyes still closed. “totally.”

“i’m serious.”

“mhmm.”

you sighed, brushing a strand of hair off his face.

you both knew you were lying.

but for now?

you didn’t care.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

you were up late, preparing for midterms, when your phone suddenly buzzed next to you.

DNI!!: hey, are u up?

DNI!!: not in a ‘come over’ way

DNI!!: okay. maybe in a ‘can i come over’ way

DNI!!: but also.. i brought food

you: if it’s just fries again i’m blocking u

DNI!!: c’monnn babee it’s fries AND ice cream

DNI!!: pleeaaasseee )): u know u love me

DNI!!: fries* 😊

you opened your door three minutes later in mismatched socks and a shirt that—may or may not—have been his.

he looked at you like you were ridiculous.

you rolled your eyes, tossing him a napkin. he didn’t sit on the floor this time—instead, he plopped onto your bed like he lived there. like it was normal. like this whole setup was normal.

“you look tired,” he said through a mouthful of fries.

“midterms,” you replied.

he frowned. “are you okay?”

you nodded. “just a little burnt out.”

he reached over, brushing his thumb across your cheek like it was nothing. like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“you should rest more,” he said, soft.

you blinked.

haechan wasn’t… sweet. not like this.

he was chaotic. loud. reckless. he made fun of you for having a notes app titled ‘reasons not to text him.’

he wasn't supposed to care.

you cleared your throat. “you’re being weird.. again.”

“no i’m not.” he looks at you confused.

“you’re being like… thoughtful.”

he rolled his eyes, shoving a donut in front of your mouth. “fine. next time i’ll throw fries at your face instead.”

you smiled, biting into the donut. “thank you.”

he shrugged. “don’t mention it.”

but he stayed. longer than he usually did.

you watched a dumb movie. you argued about which side of the blanket was yours. he dozed off halfway through with his head on your shoulder, arm slung across your stomach like it belonged there.

you didn’t move.

you just stared at the ceiling, heartbeat doing laps in your chest.

this wasn’t just casual anymore.

you both knew it.

and when he stirred in the early morning light, blinking up at you with sleep in his eyes and a softness in his voice that made your throat ache—

“do you want me to go?”

you almost said no.

but you smiled instead. like always.

“probably.”

he nodded.

but he didn’t move.

“it’s not anything you said, it’s everything you didn’t”

it was raining.

not the dramatic, movie-style kind—just a steady, quiet drizzle tapping against your window as the afternoon faded into blue.

you hadn’t planned to see him.

he hadn’t planned to show up.

but at some point in the day, you’d both ended up in your bed again, sharing your last bag of popcorn and making sarcastic commentary over a romcom neither of you were really watching.

you were lying on your stomach. he was on his back beside you, fingers lazily scrolling through his phone, feet nudging yours every few minutes like a bored child.

“how is it,” he said suddenly, “that you always smell like vanilla and bad decisions?”

you kicked his leg. “how is it that you always sound like a red flag wrapped in a hoodie?”

“it’s a gift.”

you laughed, eyes fluttering shut.

he was quiet for a moment.

“i like this.”

you peeked at him. “the movie?”

“no. this,” he said, waving vaguely at the space between you. “us. being here. it’s... nice.”

you tried to play it off. “don’t get sappy on me now. i will physically throw you out.”

he smiled, soft and slow. “i mean it.”

you looked away, heart thudding in your chest in a way that was not normal. definitely not casual. it was the kind of thud that reminded you that this whole thing—whatever it was—had gotten far out of hand.

“you’ve been acting unusual lately,” you said.

“you always say that when i’m not trying to get in your pants.”

“because… it freaks me out.”

“good. fear keeps things spicy.”

you scoffed.

then, silence.

not uncomfortable. just… full.

full of things neither of you were ready to say.

finally, you broke it.

“you ever think about how we shouldn’t have started this?”

he didn’t look at you.

but he nodded.

“yeah,” he said. “all the time.”

you turned to face him.

“do you regret it?”

he glanced at you then, eyes unreadable.

“no,” he said. “but sometimes i wish it didn’t feel like this.”

“like what?”

“like… if we keep going, one of us is gonna get hurt.”

you swallowed hard.

you knew he was right.

you also knew you weren’t ready to stop.

you reached over and touched his hand—just barely, just enough—and whispered, “stay. just for a bit.”

he did.

no touching. no kissing. no jokes.

just you, him, and the rain outside.

and all the things you still weren’t saying.

“you go and shut me out, figures, you gemini”

it had been one of those nights—the kind where the weight of the world seemed to settle on your shoulders, and the only remedy was to dull the edges with a bottle and a bad rom-com.

but just as you were about to surrender to sleep, the sharp buzz of the doorbell jolted you back to reality.

you groaned, setting the glass down with a thud. who the hell would be at your door at this hour? you weren’t expecting anyone, and the only person who ever showed up unannounced was him.

and the thought alone made your stomach twist. you hesitated, debating whether to ignore it, but curiosity—or maybe something more stubborn—got the better of you. you dragged yourself to the door, flipping on the hallway light as you went.

there he stood, leaning against the frame with that infuriating smirk plastered across his face. his hair was tousled, like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times, and his shirt was half-tucked, as if he’d thrown it on in a rush.

“forgot my charger,” he said, his voice low and casual, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

you crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes. “at midnight? really?”

he shrugged, that smirk widening. “figured you’d be up. you’re always up this late.”

you wanted to slam the door in his face. but instead, you stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in.

“it’s in the living room. take it and go.”

he didn’t move. just stood there, his gaze locking onto yours, and for a moment, the air between you crackled with something unspoken.

you knew you should’ve pushed him out, should’ve kept your distance, but before you could think, you were closing the gap between you, your lips crashing against his. it was reckless, impulsive, and entirely against your better judgment. but it was also familiar—too familiar.

he didn’t hesitate, his arms wrapping around you like he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

stumbling backward toward the bedroom, the world narrowing to just the two of you. clothes were discarded, excuses and self-control unraveling like cheap thread.

you didn’t want to think about why this was happening again, why you kept letting it happen. you just wanted to feel something—anything—other than the emptiness that had been gnawing at you all night.

“i hate you,” you whispered against his mouth, your breath hot and uneven.

he chuckled, his hands sliding under your shirt, tracing the curve of your waist. “you love me,” he murmured, his tone teasing but his touch anything but.

you didn’t correct him. you didn’t say anything. instead, you let yourself get lost in him again—in the way his lips moved against yours, in the way his hands seemed to know every inch of your body.

it was the kind of kiss that made your head spin, the kind of touch that felt like it was trying to memorize you. the kind of closeness that always made you forget how much this wasn’t supposed to matter.

but then—right in the middle of it, when your heart was pounding and your skin was flushed and your mind was a blur of want—he spoke.

his voice was low, almost a whisper, but it cut through the haze like a knife.

“god, i think i’m in love with you.”

you froze. just for a second. but it was enough.

he didn’t notice. or maybe he did. but he didn’t stop. his lips kept moving against yours, his hands kept roaming, like the words hadn’t just dropped between you like a grenade with the pin pulled.

you let him kiss you again. let him touch you like nothing had happened. like the words hadn’t changed everything.

but they had.

later, when it was quiet and you were lying there in the dark, your back to his chest and his arm around your waist, you whispered, "did you mean what you said?"

he was quiet.

too quiet.

"haechan?"

he let out a soft exhale.

"no," he said. too quickly. too carefully. "i didn’t mean it."

you nodded.

but you didn’t believe him.

he didn’t believe himself either.

but neither of you said anything else.

and in the silence that followed, you both realized something terrifying.

this thing you swore wasn’t real?

it was starting to feel like the only real thing either of you had.

“you wonder why suddenly i’m comin’ off indifferent. what you don’t seem to understand is..”

the next time you saw him, it was as if nothing had happened.

you opened the door, and he was standing there in his stupid hoodie, holding a bag of chips and some sour gummies like that could fix whatever this was.

“snack delivery,” he said, way too cheerful.

you raised an eyebrow. “you don’t even like sour gummies.”

he grinned. “you do, though.”

and just like that, the air shifted.

you stepped aside and let him in.

you sat beside each other on your bed—a little farther apart than usual. the movie played. the snacks sat between you. and the silence was louder than the speakers.

“so,” he said eventually, “you seen that tiktok where—”

“haechan,” you interrupted, voice quiet.

he looked at you.

you didn’t even know what you wanted to say. only that something was caught in your throat and it was killing you not to ask.

but instead of saying “you told me you loved me” or “did you mean it” or “what are we doing,” you just said, “why are you acting this way.”

he blinked. “you’re the one who’s acting.. strange.”

“no, you are.”

“i literally brought you snacks.”

“yeah, you’re being fake nice.”

he frowned, leaning back on his hands. “you’re being fake mean.”

“and you’re being fake fine.”

and there it was.

silence again. thick. awful.

you sighed, “can we not do this?”

“do what?”

“this thing where we pretend we’re mad at each other so we don’t have to talk about last time.”

he bit the inside of his cheek.

you were right.

and you were mad. just not at him. not really.

you were mad at yourself. for letting it get this far. for letting it matter.

but what were you supposed to say? that you heard him say he loved you, and then heard him take it back? that you wanted it to be real, even though it shouldn’t be?

he reached for the bag of gummies and started eating like it would fill the silence.

you let him.

but you didn’t move closer this time.

and he didn’t either.

“it’s not always peachy, look, love ain’t that easy”

you hadn’t seen him in a week.

not because he hadn’t tried.

he had—three calls, four texts, one passive-aggressive meme, and a “u left ur hoodie btw” that you knew was just an excuse.

you didn’t reply.

you couldn’t.

because it wasn’t just about the hookup anymore. it hadn’t been for a while.

you were catching feelings, and he was pretending not to. and the truth was—you couldn’t keep pretending too.

so when he showed up again—hands in his pockets, chewing gum like this wasn’t the first time he’d stood outside your door with something to say and no idea how to say it—you almost didn’t open.

almost.

you cracked the door open.

“i don’t want to do this anymore,” you said.

no hello. no smile. just the truth.

he blinked. “okay. wow.”

you nodded, bracing yourself.

he looked away, jaw tight. “you could’ve at least answered.”

“what was i supposed to say?” your voice was low. “we were hooking up, and then you said you were in love with me—and then you acted like it didn’t matter.”

“you asked if i meant it,” he said. “what was i supposed to do?”

“you could’ve told the truth.”

he was silent.

and that said everything.

you swallowed. “you know what hurt more than hearing you didn’t mean it?”

he looked at you, eyes suddenly soft. guarded.

“what?” he said, barely above a whisper.

“you didn’t even ask how i felt.”

he opened his mouth. closed it again.

and that pause—that silence—said more than anything he could’ve.

you stepped aside. you weren’t sure why. some part of you still hoping, still stupid.

he walked in slowly, looking around like the place had changed. like you had.

you followed him into the living room. it felt smaller with him in it. heavier.

he sat on the edge of the couch but didn’t speak. just looked at you.

you crossed your arms. “don’t say it again.”

his brows knit. “say what?”

“what you said last time.”

he leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped like he didn’t trust them. “why not?”

you shook your head, voice flat. “because it doesn’t change anything. because we both know this—” you gestured between the two of you, the tension, the mess. “this isn’t real.”

he was quiet for a moment. then, with more force than before, he said, “feels pretty real to me.”

you stared at him. hard. “you always make it feel real. you say things like that, and you look at me like this is everything. and i let it get to me. i let myself believe it means something.”

“maybe it does,” he said, standing. “maybe i mean it.”

you searched his face, hoping for something steady, something solid. but there was only more uncertainty. more wanting.

“then why does it still feel like i’m the only one who’ll get hurt?” you asked.

he didn’t answer.

not right away.

and maybe that was the answer.

“you couldn’t define the relationship,” you said, voice low and shaking now. “you couldn’t say what you wanted.”

he took a step forward.

you took one back.

“don’t,” you whispered.

“y/n—”

“we shouldn’t have started this,” you said. “and now i couldn’t stop even if i wanted to.”

his face softened. “then don’t stop.”

you almost laughed. almost.

but instead, you stepped back toward the door.

“you need to go,” you said, quiet but clear.

he didn’t fight you. just nodded slowly.

“fine,” he said. “but we’re not done talking about this.”

you didn’t reply. just opened the door and waited.

he paused for a second. then walked out.

you didn’t slam the door.

you just closed it gently.

finally.

then you leaned against it, your chest tight, your mind loud. you knew you’d made the right decision. you knew it was the only way to protect yourself.

but still, his words lingered in the silence like smoke.

and something in you knew that nothing would be quite the same again.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

renjun was telling some dumb story about how jaemin got kicked out of a 7/11 for trying to microwave his socks.

the group was cracking up. seol was doubled over. jeno had tears in his eyes. and haechan—haechan was laughing too, but his eyes kept flicking to you.

you didn’t laugh.

you smiled, sure. nodded. even chimed in once or twice. but your body was angled slightly away from him, arms crossed over your chest like a shield.

he noticed.

you noticed him noticing.

and seol definitely noticed both of you.

“what’s wrong with you two?” she asked suddenly, cutting through the noise like a knife.

you and haechan turned at the same time, startled. “what?”

“you’re acting weird,” she said, squinting. “like... not the funny, flirty weird. like actual weird.”

“we’re fine,” you said too quickly.

“yeah,” haechan added, forcing a laugh. “totally fine.”

the silence that followed was awkward enough to kill the entire room’s vibe.

jaemin blinked. “damn. now it’s weird for us, too.”

jeno cleared his throat. “anyone want more chips?”

you stood up. “i’ll help.”

haechan stood up too. “i got it.”

you both reached for the same bowl and your fingers brushed. it was nothing. a second. a spark. but it felt like being burned.

you flinched.

he did too.

and when your eyes met, it was like looking at a stranger wearing the face of someone you used to know too well.

“you good?” he asked quietly.

“mhm,” you lied.

he nodded like he believed you. like you were both pretending this didn’t hurt.

you took the chips and walked back to the others.

he stayed behind.

renjun watched him from the couch.

“not that deep, right?” renjun said casually, like a joke.

but it wasn’t.

and haechan didn’t answer.

because it was deep.

and it was drowning them.

“you don’t pick up when i call, unless i call you mine”

you don’t remember who called first.

it didn’t matter.

and then—quiet knocks. familiar eyes. the kind of silence that meant everything.

he stepped inside like he didn’t know what he was doing.

you let him in like you didn’t either.

no words. not at first.

you were both so tired of pretending. so tired of brushing shoulders in rooms full of people and pretending you didn’t notice how the distance hurt.

you kissed him.

and it wasn’t frantic this time.

it was careful.

like maybe, just maybe, if you kissed him gently enough, it wouldn’t break your heart.

his hands found your waist. yours tangled in his hair. the kind of kiss that tasted like forgiveness, or something dangerously close to it.

“you don’t have to say anything,” you whispered, breaking the kiss to breathe.

he shook his head slowly. “i want to.”

but he didn’t. not yet.

he touched you like it was the last time. like he wanted to remember everything. how your skin felt under his palms. how you sighed when he kissed down your jaw. how you looked at him when your guard finally dropped.

every movement was slow. like a secret unspoken. like you both knew this wasn’t just hooking up anymore, but neither of you wanted to say it out loud.

because saying it would make it real.

because if it was real, it could end.

he kissed every inch of you like he owed you an apology. like he wanted to say sorry for every moment you doubted him. for every night you stared at the ceiling, wondering what the hell you meant to him.

you looked up at him, breath catching. “haechan—”

“i meant it.”

your heart stopped.

“that night,” he said softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “when i said i was in love with you. i meant it.”

you blinked up at him, stunned. raw. silent.

“i just—” he exhaled. “i didn’t want it to be real. because if it was, then this... this thing we had? it couldn’t stay casual anymore.”

you swallowed. “and now?”

his voice cracked. “now it’s too real to ignore.”

you kissed him again. longer this time. deeper.

and when your bodies moved together, it was less about need and more about knowing.

knowing that this was never just lust.

that underneath the sneaking around, the laughs, the tension—there was always something more.

you both just tried so hard not to see it.

but now, in the dark, there was nothing to hide behind.

it wasn’t much, but it was enough. for now, it had to be.

the afternoon light spilled softly through the curtains, wrapping the room in a golden hush. you closed your eyes, breathing him in, letting the stillness wrap around you like a promise.

his heartbeat pulsed steady beneath your ear, a quiet rhythm that told you—he was here. this was real.

and yet, as the sun sank lower and shadows stretched long across the floor, a fragile ache bloomed in your chest. it felt too perfect, too fleeting.

his presence, his warmth, felt like something borrowed—something beautiful the world might decide you weren’t meant to keep. you wanted to ask him to stay. to whisper don’t go. but the words tangled behind your teeth.

so instead, you held him tighter. your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like they could root you to him, like you could stop time if you just loved him hard enough.

and he felt it—somehow, he always did. his hand found your cheek, tender and knowing, his thumb tracing soft, grounding circles on your skin.

“baby…” he said softly, the word brushing against your heart more than your ears. he tilted your chin up just enough for your eyes to meet his.

“it’s okay,” he whispered, voice thick with something unspoken. maybe he meant this moment. maybe he meant you. maybe he meant the both of you.

you didn’t know. but with his arms around you and the world held at bay, you wanted to believe it. even just for now.

it was quiet when it ended.

your head on his chest. his hand running slowly down your back. breaths slowly syncing. hearts still racing.

and for the first time, he didn’t leave.

and for the first time, you didn’t ask him to stay.

he just did.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the morning light came too fast.

you woke up before he did. you didn’t know what time it was. you didn’t care.

he was still beside you—breathing slow, chest rising and falling like nothing was wrong.

but something was.

something always had been.

you stared at the ceiling for a long time. longer than you meant to.

you wanted to stay like this—in the warmth of the sheets, in the comfort of his arm still lazily thrown across your waist, in the silence that hadn’t turned heavy yet.

but the second he blinked awake and looked at you… it hit you again.

this wasn’t yours.

not really.

he smiled, groggy and soft. “morning.”

you nodded. “hey.”

he leaned in to kiss you. and you let him.

but your hands didn’t reach for him the way they used to.

“you okay?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.

you hesitated. “yeah. just tired.”

you got up. slipped into your shirt. searched the floor for the rest of your clothes.

“you don’t have to rush out,” he said behind you. you paused. “i know.”

he sat up, rubbing his eyes. “did i.. say something wrong?”

you shook your head. “no. that’s the problem.” he frowned.

“you didn’t say anything,” you continued, still not facing him. “you didn’t say what this was. what we were. you didn’t ask what i wanted. or tell me what you wanted.”

“and i kept waiting,” you said softly. “for you to define it. for you to say something. anything. and you never did.”

“i didn’t know how,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

you finally turned around, arms crossed, heart exposed. “i know. and that’s okay. but i can’t keep doing this if we’re just gonna keep pretending it’s not something real.”

he looked at you, eyes searching. “but last night—”

“last night was real,” you said. “this morning... this is real too.”

“we’re not always peachy,” you said, echoing the words you both used to laugh at. “love isn’t that easy. but it also shouldn’t be this hard.”

he didn’t argue. instead, he nodded slowly. “i know.”

you slipped on your jacket. picked up your phone. opened the door.

you hesitated—one foot out the door, heart still inside.

and just like that—the door closed.

this time, for good.

“i drank too much tonight, to not try to call you up. i mean, that’s what our phones are for”

you didn’t mean to pour the second glass. or the third.

but it was quiet in the apartment—too quiet—and the clink of ice in the glass felt like the only sound that wouldn’t make you flinch.

you sat on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinet, knees pulled in, sipping something too strong just to feel something soft. it burned going down. not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you you were still here.

the playlist was still playing. his playlist.

you hadn’t touched it in months. maybe you thought deleting it would be too final, too much like deleting him. so it stayed, buried somewhere in your phone. and tonight, it just… started. autoplay, maybe. or fate.

you weren’t sure which hurt more. you laughed once, sharp and bitter, as the first tear slid down. you didn’t wipe it. what was the point?

because this wasn’t about missing him anymore. this was grief. not over him exactly, but over the version of you who once believed love—real, chaotic, aching love—could fix things.

you were wrong.

and he… was quiet now. no more late-night texts. no more inside jokes. no more “u up?” that really meant i miss you.

and he was wrong too.

haechan sat on the steps, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers, the night wind brushing over him like a ghost. he didn’t know what time it was. didn’t care.

he hadn’t called. hadn’t texted.

not because he didn’t think about it—he did. every night. especially tonight.

but because he knew you meant it this time. you were done.

and for once, he didn’t fight that. he let the silence stretch. he let it break him.

he tipped the bottle back and swallowed hard. it didn’t make the ache go away, just blurred it at the edges.

your name sat heavy on his tongue. your laugh echoed somewhere between his ears and his ribs.

he remembered the way you used to pull away after, like you were protecting yourself from wanting too much. but your eyes always lingered. you always looked back.

he closed his eyes. and quietly, like confessing something to the dark, he said, “i’m sorry.”

no one answered. but maybe somewhere, over the hum of that old playlist and the clink of your glass hitting the tile, you heard it anyway.

wouldn’t

“so,” seol said gently, handing you a mug of tea, “you wanna tell me what happened now, or do i have to sit here pretending i haven’t been waiting weeks for you to say something?”

you stared down at the steam. then, slowly, “we ended things.” she didn’t flinch. didn’t gasp. didn’t say finally like most people would’ve. just nodded.

“it wasn’t supposed to happen, you know? like… we weren’t even friends. we were just messing around. and i knew—god, i knew it wasn’t a good idea. i knew we shouldn’t.”

she hummed, sipping her tea. “but?” “but we did,” you whispered, bitterly. “because we couldn’t not.” seol reached over and squeezed your wrist gently.

“and he told me he loved me,” you said, voice barely audible now. “and he took it back. like it was something to be ashamed of.”

“i don’t think he meant to hurt me. i think he’s just scared. i think he’s used to everything being temporary. and i let that be enough for a while. i let it be enough that he stayed.” your laugh was dry. empty.

“but it wasn’t. because i kept waiting for something—anything—to make me feel like i was actually his. and he never gave me that. he never said it. and it’s not even the words i needed, it’s the fact that he didn’t try.”

she looked at you. “what would’ve made you stay?” you smiled, a little sad. “if i had his heart. that’s it. if i really had it, it wouldn’t have been this hard.” she set her tea down and pulled you into a hug. you let yourself fall into it, finally soft, finally tired, finally allowing yourself to feel the weight of it all.

“i loved him, seol,” you whispered into her shoulder. “i really did.”

“i know,” she whispered back. “and i’m proud of you for walking away anyway.” you nodded, blinking up at the ceiling like maybe it’d have answers. it didn’t. but she was right.

you walked away. and that had to count for something.

“you know i was never good at this,” haechan said, toeing the leg of the coffee table with his socked foot.

they were at jaemin’s place, eating stale pizza and drinking flat soda, because of course haechan only decided to talk about it at 1 a.m.

jaemin leaned back against the couch. “so, are you gonna tell me what happened with y/n or am i supposed to guess from your playlist getting weirdly depressing lately?”

haechan looked away, his jaw clenching. “we haven’t talked since… since that morning.” “the morning she walked out?” “yeah.”

jaemin didn’t say anything, letting the silence settle.

haechan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “i didn’t know how to tell her i loved her. i know that sounds stupid. i mean—i’ve said it before, to other people. but with her? it was different.”

“different how?”

haechan let out a low laugh. “like if i said it and she said it back, that meant i’d have to stop running from it. like it’d be real. and that scared the shit out of me.”

“but you did love her,” jaemin said. not a question. “yeah,” haechan said, eyes somewhere far. “like, all the little things. the way she acted like she didn’t care but would always bring an extra charger for me just in case. the way she’d make fun of me for being a gemini and still sleep in my shirt.”

jaemin snorted. “you are the most gemini person i’ve ever met.”

“don’t remind me.”

“so what happened?”

haechan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “i didn’t give her what she needed. i kept making her guess. kept dodging the questions. like, every time she asked what are we, i answered with a joke or a kiss or a let’s not ruin this.”

he shook his head, voice quieter now. “she deserved more than that. she deserved more than… more than someone who couldn’t DTR.”

jaemin’s brows furrowed. “DTR?” “define the relationship.” jaemin blinked. “oh god, you really couldn’t even say it.”

haechan laughed, almost bitterly. “i know. and now she’s gone.” he fell silent again. the tv played something neither of them were watching.

“do you miss her?” jaemin asked after a while. “every day,” haechan said without hesitation. “but it wouldn’t be fair to go back. not if i still don’t know how to be what she needs.”

“so that’s it?” “yeah.” he looked up at jaemin with a soft, crooked smile. jaemin didn’t say anything. just leaned forward and nudged him lightly with his shoulder.

“you know,” jaemin said eventually, “you might not have said the right things. but you felt them. and that counts for something.” haechan swallowed hard. “yeah. just not enough.”

and for once, he didn’t try to joke it off. he just sat with it. with the ache of losing someone who had all of him—even the parts he never figured out how to give.

“wouldn’t it be nice if we could stay friends? but we shouldn’t.”

you were out on a tuesday.

one of those forgettable ones—no rain, no heartbreak, just a coffee run like any other.

until it wasn’t.

he looked the same. maybe a little older. hair longer. hoodie too familiar.

standing in line like he hadn’t once memorized your order.

like he hadn’t once whispered stupid jokes into your neck at 3 a.m.

he didn’t see you at first. too busy scrolling. you could’ve left. you almost did.

but something in you—that soft, reckless part—waited.

and then he looked up.

three people between you. two quiet months apart. his eyes widened, just barely.

fingers froze mid-scroll. and for a second, the silence between you felt louder than it ever had when you were together.

he didn’t smile. didn’t say hi. didn’t step forward. and neither did you.

and now, he just looked at you like a memory that still stung.

you were first to look away.

and when the bell above the coffee shop door chimed behind you, you knew—

you shouldn’t. you couldn’t. and now, you wouldn’t.

──── ☀︎ ──── ☀︎ ──── ☀︎ ────

💌: if you made it all the way here, thank you sooo much for taking the time to read this fic!! 🥹 i seriously can’t believe how much love my little stories have gotten so far—i mostly just write when a random idea smacks me in the face, so seeing people actually enjoy them?? unreal 💞

i wasn’t expecting to finish this one so quickly, but.. i may or may not have been thinking a lot—maybe too much—about a past relationship lately, i guessss that’s why this poured out of me so fast 😬

this is also the longest fic i’ve written yet! honestly, shouldn’t and wouldn’t were meant to be even longer, but guess who didn’t know tumblr has a 1000 text box limit 🫠 had to chop them down a lot ): still, i really really hope you had fun reading!!

p.s. please—don’t you dare settle for someone who won’t define the relationship. you deserve so much better 😤🫶

thanks again for all the support, and feel free to come scream about fic stuff or just say hi anytime 🧸 ‘til next time !! xx

[lazysoulwriter]

mr. & mrs. pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: fluff, implied spice, celebrity couple, romantic chaos, social media explosion, humor, public thirsting, extremely cute married vibes.

---

The romcom was already a cultural reset.

But the photoshoot? That’s what broke the damn internet.

You and Pedro, golden couple of the year, had been everywhere lately — talk shows, red carpets, interviews. The chemistry on screen was enough to melt steel beams, but the real fun? That lived in the moments behind the camera. And the photoshoot to promote the movie? Yeah. That was the cherry on top of the frenzy.

A chaotic, horny, and unhinged cherry.

The second the studio released the official images plus the BTS video plus the outtakes (because your PR team is genius and a little evil), the internet collectively lost its mind. It was like someone pulled the fire alarm in the middle of a Pedro Pascal convention. Twitter crashed. TikTok flooded. Instagram became a shrine.

The photos were... a journey.

Some were so soft they made people cry — you in Pedro’s lap, both in cozy knits, smiling into each other’s mouths like no one else existed. His hand tangled in your hair. Your fingers tracing his jaw like you couldn’t help yourself. The caption read: “love, actually.”

Others were chaotic — both of you in matching suits, dancing like idiots mid-frame, tongues out, eyes crossed. Pedro lifting you bridal style and pretending to run away. You sitting on his shoulders while he did jazz hands.

And then there were those ones. The ones people could not handle. The ones that came with warnings.

Pedro shirtless, your legs over his thighs, your hands in his curls, both of you looking like you just finished something illegal. You biting your lip. Pedro with that look — heavy-lidded, sinful, like he knew exactly what he was doing to people. Spoiler: he did.

The behind-the-scenes video was even worse (better).

— Pedro tripping over a light cable and you yelling “he’s fragile, he’s fifty!!” — Him calling you “mi esposa” every five minutes like it was a game. — You smacking his ass between takes and him giggling like a schoolboy. — Both of you arguing over who kissed who first in the movie. — The makeup artist having to fix Pedro’s lipstick smudges after a steamy take. — “Don’t look at me like that,” you whispering, and Pedro going: “How am I looking at you?” and the photographer going “GOD, CAN YOU TWO STOP BEING PERFECT FOR ONE SECOND.”

And the comments?

Absolutely feral.

“WHY ARE THEY LOOKING AT EACH OTHER LIKE THAT. THEY’RE MARRIED BUT I’M STILL JEALOUS.” “the soft smiles, the matching rings, the giggles, THE HANDS. they are what love should be.” “these pics healed my childhood trauma and gave me new kinks.” “petition to let them do every romcom from now on. every. single. one.” “i don’t want a relationship unless it looks like pedro letting her sit on his lap in every frame like she belongs there.” “they look like they fuck and do sudoku together. i want that.”

Pedro reposted one of the more provocative pictures on his Instagram story, adding a casual “whoops 😇” and you replied with “you knew exactly what you were doing.”

And yes — the movie is breaking box office records. But you two? You’re breaking hearts, ovaries, and the space-time continuum.

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

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taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

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[nhmkhnh]

⋮ ⌗ ┆beneath the rain, they bloomed.

𓏵 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: caitlyn & vi x fem!reader 𓏵 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄: they were once helpless pups in the rain—now they’re full-grown hybrids in heat, and you’re the only thing they crave, worship, and refuse to share. 𓏵 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: hey babes, i'm back with the continuation of my hybrid!caitvi au, much longer scenarios (and i also have a chat bot on janitor ai, the link is in my navigation, andd maybe this post will be a small help about creating scenario and stuff.) 𓏵 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): lowercase, partly explicit content (minors & men dni) ⤷ 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: german shepherd-hybrid!vi ;; black panther-hybrid!caitlyn ;; public jealousy ;; hurt/comfort smut ;; soft overstim ;; worshipping ;; dom!caitvi ;; obsessed caitvi vibey (?) ;; praise kink. ⤷ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6.3k

previous part / navigation.

prologue.

it always rained in the city when things were about to change.

not just the soft kind of drizzle that kissed windows and made lovers huddle closer, no. tonight was the other kind—the kind that turned streets into ink and poured from the sky like grief. you hadn’t meant to walk this long in it, but buses were slow and taxis were ghosts after midnight. your shoes squelched every few steps, each footfall sending another ripple across the puddled sidewalk. the umbrella you brought had already given up the fight, bones snapped, fabric flapping in the wind like a wounded wing.

but none of that compared to the sound you heard next.

a cry.

faint. wet. fragile.

you stopped in your tracks. rain hammered the pavement, ran in rivulets down your jacket, soaked your hair. you tilted your head, listening.

there it was again. a sharp whimper, broken off halfway. not human, not quite. animal?

you turned toward the alley between two shuttered shops. cracked neon buzzed weakly above the doorway of a closed laundromat, casting the narrow alley in flickering purples and reds. the sound came again, softer this time. desperate.

you almost didn’t see them.

a collapsed cardboard box was tucked between an old dumpster and a stack of broken wooden crates. rain had turned it to mush, but somehow, it still held together—barely. you knelt beside it, heart already tightening.

and there they were.

two tiny, soaked creatures curled against each other. one had ears far too big for its head, trembling as it blinked at you with pale pink eyes that looked both alert and fading. the other was smaller but sleeker, dark fur clinging to a thin frame, one paw stretched protectively over the other’s back. their bodies rose and fell with the shuddered rhythm of survival.

they looked like pups—but not quite.

not normal, at least.

the one with the big ears let out a weak growl, a sound so pitiful it might’ve made you cry if you weren’t already drenched to the bone.

“hey,” you whispered, voice cracking, hands out in front of you. “it’s okay. i’m not gonna hurt you.”

the darker one bared tiny teeth. you didn’t flinch.

“i’m just gonna… take you somewhere warm, alright?” you murmured. “you can bite me later if you want.”

you peeled off your jacket and gently lifted them, wrapping them both in the fabric. they didn’t resist. maybe they knew they didn’t have many choices left.

they were light—far too light—and they didn’t stop trembling even when pressed against your chest. you didn’t care about the weight of the rain or the chill crawling into your bones anymore. you just held them tighter, kept walking.

your apartment wasn’t big. it was barely more than a studio with a heater that wheezed like it had bronchitis and a ceiling that leaked in one corner. but it was dry, it was warm, and it was safe.

you dried them off with the softest towel you had and laid them beside a space heater, then poured a saucer of milk—not knowing if they’d even drink it. the small one did first, tentative and twitchy. the bigger one followed, flopping over halfway through and burping loud enough to make you laugh.

you named them that night.

the pink-eyed one who huffed like she owned the place, with oversized paws and a stubborn growl? vi.

the sleek, quiet one who moved like a shadow and blinked with something far too intelligent in her gaze? caitlyn.

you had no idea what you were getting into.

weeks passed.

they grew fast. faster than any normal pups should’ve. vi’s ears finally matched her head. caitlyn started climbing onto shelves that were way too high for a creature her size. they learned how to open the fridge. they liked blankets. vi chewed through four of them. caitlyn stared at the ceiling like she was doing calculus.

they were weird. but you loved them.

you didn’t question the way their eyes sometimes seemed too human. or the way they made expressions that looked… knowing. you didn’t think too hard about how vi tried to mimic the way you opened doors with her paws. or how caitlyn watched you brush your hair, like she was memorizing every movement.

you didn’t question anything—until the day they weren’t pups anymore.

it started with the sound of something falling.

you rushed out of the bathroom, still drying your hair, only to stop dead in your tracks at the threshold of your bedroom.

the bed was a mess. so were the sheets.

and standing in the middle of the chaos were two girls.

naked. human-shaped. but not human.

vi had wild strawberry-pink hair that tumbled down in uneven waves, her ears still unmistakably pointed, fur-lined. a long, sleek tail swayed behind her as she bent forward on bare feet, panting like she’d just run a mile. her eyes were golden, animal-like.

caitlyn stood taller, wrapped in one of your hoodies—when had she learned to do that? her black hair spilled down her shoulders, eyes glowing midnight blue in the low light. her claws peeked out from one hand where she clutched the edge of the sleeve.

you said nothing.

they said nothing.

for a long, trembling second, all three of you just stared.

then vi grinned. sharp teeth. head tilt. same cocky little huff from when she was a pup.

“hey,” she said, voice raspy but smug. “told you we weren’t normal.”

you passed out.

when you woke up, it was to the sound of caitlyn’s voice.

“…she’s fine. her pulse is steady.”

“she’s gonna freak out,” vi muttered. “told you this was a bad idea.”

“i told you it was bound to happen eventually.”

“i liked being carried,” vi said flatly. “no stress, no pants.”

you opened your eyes.

they were sitting at your side—still hybrid, still unreal.

and they looked… worried.

caitlyn leaned in, brushing damp strands of hair from your face with clawed fingers. “you're okay,” she said softly. “we didn’t mean to scare you. we just… changed.”

vi snorted. “that’s one way to put it.”

you sat up slowly, eyes darting between the two of them.

“changed?” you whispered. “what are you?”

caitlyn hesitated.

vi leaned in, propping her chin on the bed. “yours,” she said, eyes gleaming. “if you want.”

it started with something so small.

so stupid.

you were sitting on the floor of the living room, cross-legged, hair tied up in a messy bun, sleeves rolled to your elbows, laughing.

caitlyn was beside you, elegant as always even when kneeling, showing you how to fix the broken old camera you found at a flea market. her claws were careful, precise. you’d been watching her hands—marveling at the way her long fingers moved with quiet confidence.

"you’re good at this," you said, eyes sparkling. "were you, like, a tech genius panther or something?"

caitlyn smiled—soft, rare. “something like that.”

you laughed again. “can i be your assistant?”

and that was when vi, perched on the edge of the couch with a ripped protein bar in hand, made a sound that could only be described as a growl.

you didn’t hear it, too busy giggling.

but caitlyn did. she stiffened. her tail flicked once behind her, slowly, like a warning.

vi stood up, the snack forgotten. her tail lashed behind her, heavy boots thudding on the hardwood floor.

“you always look at her like that?” vi asked, voice low, sharp.

you blinked, caught mid-laugh.

caitlyn looked up, cool and unreadable. “like what?”

“like she’s yours.”

“i don’t need to look like anything. i just am.” caitlyn’s voice sharpened. “you’re the one who sulks every time she hugs me first.”

“i don’t sulk,” vi snapped.

“yes, you do. you make that ridiculous sound with your throat and act like someone kicked your tail.”

“oh, i’m so sorry i don’t sound like a damn opera singer when i’m jealous—”

“jealous?” caitlyn’s eyes glinted. “i earned her affection. you just chase it like a puppy.”

vi’s ears pinned back. “say that again.”

“girls—” you started, heart lurching.

but it was too late.

vi took a step forward, shoulders hunched, hands curling into fists at her sides. “she brushed your cheek and you fucking purred. don’t think i didn’t hear it.”

caitlyn stood slowly. “and you whined all night when she kissed my forehead. are you really trying to argue dignity with me right now?”

“i’m trying to argue you back off—”

“enough!” your voice cracked like a whip, high and trembling.

both women froze.

you stood up so fast you nearly stumbled, eyes wide, chest tight. the tension in the room was like a stormfront, crackling, oppressive. vi’s claws were out. caitlyn’s pupils were slit.

you took a shaky step back.

“y-you’re fighting over me? like—really?”

vi’s expression faltered. caitlyn blinked.

“you’re both—beautiful, and cool and… claws and tails and i’m literally just trying to learn how to fix a camera—what the fuck just happened!?”

you looked genuinely panicked, your voice shaking, body stiff.

and then vi was moving forward, hands out, panic overtaking her pride. “wait—wait, cupcake, don’t freak out, i wasn’t gonna—like—we wouldn’t actually—shit, shit—”

caitlyn’s claws retracted instantly. “she’s frightened.”

“no, no,” you mumbled, flapping your hands. “i’m fine. this is fine. just—just maybe don’t growl at each other over me? you’re both hot. i get it. but i am so easily startled, okay? like, horribly. i once cried because a toaster popped unexpectedly. so please.”

vi blinked. “a toaster?”

you nodded, still wide-eyed.

caitlyn sighed. “…you do have a rather delicate nervous system.”

“thank you for noticing!”

silence.

and then—vi snorted.

caitlyn raised a brow. you stared between them.

and then all three of you burst out laughing.

vi stepped forward first, wrapping her arms around you from behind, pressing her face into the crook of your neck. “sorry for growling. i just hate how she talks to you.”

caitlyn, not to be outdone, slid in on your other side, draping her arms around both of you, chin resting on your shoulder. “and i hate how she looks at you like she wants to eat you alive.”

you whimpered.

“that’s not helping, cait.”

“she likes it,” caitlyn purred.

you smacked her thigh, cheeks burning.

and vi just grinned into your hair. “she really does.”

the storm outside was gentle this time—more of a lullaby than a warning. rain tapped rhythmically against your bedroom window, a calming beat that should’ve rocked you to sleep hours ago.

but you were wide awake.

sandwiched between two warm, very still bodies. and they were watching you.

vi was curled at your back, one arm thrown lazily over your waist, tail flicking every now and then against the sheets. her breath was hot against your neck, and you could feel her resisting the urge to bury her face in your skin.

caitlyn was in front of you, arm tucked under your pillow, her leg draped possessively over yours, sharp blue eyes watching your every blink. her fingers traced idle, featherlight lines along your hip like she was drawing a map only she understood.

you shifted.

both of them growled.

quietly. but still.

your eyes snapped wide open.

“i can’t move,” you whispered, panicked but not… entirely upset.

“you don’t need to move,” vi murmured against your nape. “you’re right where you belong.”

caitlyn hummed in agreement, her nose brushing your forehead. “she’s warm. don’t ruin it.”

“i’m overheating.”

“you’ll survive,” caitlyn said sweetly.

“barely,” you muttered, heart doing gymnastics.

vi’s hand slid just a little lower across your stomach. her nose brushed your shoulder. “you smell good when you’re flustered.”

“oh my god—”

“don’t take the lord’s name in vain, sweetheart,” caitlyn murmured, dipping down to kiss your collarbone. “you’re tempting fate enough.”

you stopped breathing.

that kiss burned through the thin fabric of your shirt like it was nothing.

vi’s grip on your waist tightened, and her voice went dangerously low. “that’s not fair, cait.”

caitlyn smiled. “you started it.”

“don’t care,” vi growled. “if you’re gonna touch her like that…”

she didn’t finish.

she didn’t have to.

because the next thing you knew, caitlyn’s lips were grazing your throat while vi’s palm slipped under the hem of your shirt, the heel of her hand pressing firmly against your stomach like she needed to feel you breathe.

you squirmed, a soft sound escaping before you could stop it.

and everything stopped.

both hybrids froze.

vi’s breathing turned ragged. caitlyn’s tail twitched once.

“say it,” vi murmured.

“say what?” you whispered.

caitlyn brushed your hair back with a reverence that made your skin tingle. “say you want this.”

your pulse thundered.

you turned your face, just barely, brushing your lips against caitlyn’s jaw as your hand reached behind to grab vi’s wrist. you didn’t push her away.

you pulled her closer.

“i want this,” you breathed. “i want you. both of you.”

and they fell on you like you were the only thing keeping them alive.

vi kissed the back of your neck, nipping lightly, growling low in her throat. caitlyn cupped your cheek and kissed you properly—deep, slow, possessive. like she’d waited months to taste you and wasn’t going to waste a second.

their hands moved together. soft. then firmer.

claws never hurt you. tails wrapped around your legs. teeth nipped at thighs. and mouths whispered sweet, sinful things as the rain kept falling outside, covering your cries.

you didn’t sleep at all that night.

and neither did they.

because now that they’d had you—really had you—they weren’t about to let you go.

you woke up to war.

or at least, the hybrid version of it.

the scent of coffee was thick in the air, but the growling—that wasn’t normal. neither was the sound of a plate shattering.

you stumbled out of bed wearing vi’s way-too-big shirt, padding barefoot into the kitchen with your hair an absolute crime scene. and then you stopped, blinking slowly.

caitlyn stood near the stove, graceful and completely composed, wrapped in your black silk robe like it was made for her. her lips were painted with that smug little smirk she wore whenever she was feeling competitive. her tail swayed behind her lazily, but her claws were out.

vi was shirtless in nothing but plaid boxers, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed and a vein in her jaw visibly throbbing.

“i said,” vi repeated, “i was going to cook her breakfast.”

“you were going to give her food poisoning,” caitlyn said coolly, flipping a pancake with the calm of a seasoned sniper. “she deserves actual nutrients. not mystery mush with hot sauce.”

“it’s eggs and beans,” vi snapped. “it’s got protein. it’s literally fine.”

caitlyn didn’t even look at her. “she nearly died the last time you tried to ‘fry something.’ you boiled oil, vi.”

“i boiled it with confidence.”

you rubbed your eyes. “what in the hybrid hell is going on—”

vi’s head whipped around. “cupcake!”

caitlyn’s ears perked. “darling. you’re awake.”

and like two wolves spotting the same piece of prey, they rushed you.

vi was faster. she got to you first, scooping you up with zero warning and pressing a kiss to your forehead that nearly knocked your soul loose. “you hungry, baby? i made—uh, okay, i tried to make pancakes.”

caitlyn slipped in behind you, hands sliding up your waist like they belonged there. “she means she burned the batter, shattered the spatula, and nearly set the toaster on fire.”

vi growled. “snitch.”

you blinked between them, still dazed from the heat of their bodies and the lingering ache between your thighs. “can i just… have cereal?”

silence.

caitlyn’s eye twitched. vi’s ears drooped.

“don’t you want my protein pancakes?” vi mumbled, crushed.

caitlyn pouted. actually pouted. “i was going to make a lavender honey latte for you…”

you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “you both literally destroyed the kitchen.”

as if on cue, something behind them sparked. a wire? a ghost? you didn’t want to know.

you sighed. “okay. one of you makes breakfast. the other one makes coffee. no fighting. no claws.”

they both looked at each other.

then at you.

then at each other again.

“…rock paper scissors?” vi offered.

caitlyn rolled her eyes. “fine.”

three seconds later, vi grinned in victory. “yeah. scrambled eggs, here we go—”

“you used rock again, didn’t you?” caitlyn asked, resigned.

vi shrugged. “rock is strong.”

you sat at the counter, still half-asleep, watching vi fumble with eggs and caitlyn prep a perfect cup of coffee with steamed milk and a cinnamon stick.

and despite the chaos, the tension, the hybrid-level pettiness… your heart felt so full.

because they were fighting over you.

your hunger. your comfort. your smile.

and somehow, that was the most intoxicating thing of all.

it started with a sneeze.

just one.

you didn’t even notice it. just sniffled, rubbed your nose, kept scrolling on your phone like normal. but vi froze. like full-on stopped mid-step, tail straightening.

“was that a sneeze?”

you blinked. “…yeah?”

she squinted. “again.”

you stared at her. “vi, i can’t sneeze on command—”

“again.”

then caitlyn poked her head out from the bedroom, eyebrows already furrowed in medical concern. “did she sneeze?”

“she sneezed,” vi confirmed darkly.

“shit.”

you raised both hands. “i am fine, oh my god.”

they didn’t believe you.

five hours later, you were in bed.

against your will.

caitlyn had taken your temperature three separate times—once manually, once with a digital thermometer, and once with a forehead scanner she swore was more accurate.

“101.2,” she muttered, pacing near the window with a tablet in hand. “slight fever. could be viral. need fluids. possibly tea. i’ll prep ginger lemon—”

vi was perched at your bedside, staring at you like you were glass. her ears were down. her tail was curled around her ankle. she hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

“breathe again,” she said quietly.

you cracked one eye open. “vi—”

“again.”

you sighed and inhaled loudly, theatrically.

vi nodded. “still alive. that’s good.”

“vi, it’s just a cold.”

she glared. “says you. your nose is red. your hands are cold. you made a noise like a dying squirrel twenty minutes ago.”

“that was a cough.”

caitlyn returned with tea and three different herbal syrups. “we’re monitoring your vitals every hour. i’ve written it down.”

“you what—”

“rest,” caitlyn interrupted, pressing a cool kiss to your forehead. “doctor’s orders.”

“you’re not a doctor!”

“she wears glasses,” vi said. “that counts.”

you groaned and rolled over, pulling the blanket over your face.

ten seconds later, two warm bodies slid in beside you—caitlyn behind, vi in front. sandwiched again. pinned.

“guys. i’m not dying.”

“you coughed in your sleep earlier,” vi murmured, curling her arm around your waist. “it broke my soul.”

“i nearly cried,” caitlyn added softly. “but i didn’t want to get emotional. you know. in case it shocked your immune system.”

you poked your face out of the blanket like a disgruntled burrito. “are you both insane?”

they kissed your cheeks at the same time.

“absolutely,” caitlyn whispered.

“for you?” vi grinned. “yeah.”

by the time you drifted off, warm and exhausted, caitlyn had her chin tucked above your head, purring lightly. vi was mumbling something about making soup tomorrow, even if she had to fight the stove again.

and despite the sore throat and fever dreams, you had never felt more safe.

it was one compliment.

one harmless, off-hand, "hey, that color looks great on you."

the cashier smiled, scanning your snack items. you smiled back because—you know—politeness. maybe you laughed a little. maybe you touched your hair.

maybe that was a mistake.

because vi had heard it.

and vi saw everything.

from the moment that cashier's eyes lingered too long on the curve of your neck, vi was locked in. her ears perked. her nostrils flared. her jaw clicked. a deep growl started building in her throat like thunder crawling over gravel.

she took one step forward.

and caitlyn stopped her.

with a single touch to vi’s forearm and a soft, “let me.”

vi bared her teeth. “he looked at her like he wanted to breed her.”

the couple behind you in line choked on their gum.

“let. me,” caitlyn repeated, calm as a loaded gun.

you tried to pay quickly.

“you’re beautiful,” the cashier said again, fumbling with the change. “sorry. that was—uh—forward.”

“it’s okay,” you said, smiling weakly. “i—uh—appreciate it.”

which was when caitlyn stepped forward.

and leaned across the counter.

her smile was razor-sharp. eyes glinting. her voice? soft. deadly. like poisoned silk.

“she’s spoken for,” she said smoothly, claws tapping the countertop. “but thank you for the compliment. it’s nice to know some humans still value their tongues—before losing them.”

the cashier visibly paled.

you froze. “cait—”

and then vi was there, slamming down the candy bar you'd forgotten to grab.

“she already has someone who tells her she’s beautiful daily,” vi growled. “and it ain’t a cashier with a bowl cut and a barcode scanner.”

“vi—”

“let’s go,” caitlyn cooed, taking your hand as if nothing happened. “before she commits a felony.”

outside, you dragged both of them toward the car.

“what the hell was that!?”

vi shoved her hands in her hoodie. “that was restraint.”

caitlyn adjusted her coat, tail flicking as she looked off toward the street. “i let him live. that’s growth.”

“he complimented my sweater. that’s not a crime!”

vi glared. “he wanted your sweater off.”

you groaned. “i can’t take you two anywhere.”

but neither let go of your hands.

you sighed, giving in. “you know i’m not interested in anyone else, right?”

“we know,” caitlyn said gently, tugging your hand to kiss your knuckles.

“doesn’t mean we like people testing the limits,” vi muttered. “you’re ours. not theirs.”

you opened your mouth to argue—

but then vi kissed your jaw.

and caitlyn kissed your temple.

and just like that, your brain short-circuited.

“…fine,” you whispered, cheeks burning. “next time someone flirts with me, i’ll just bark.”

vi’s eyes lit up. “do it. i’ll wag my tail.”

caitlyn purred. “or growl. let’s match.”

you dragged your hands down your face.

what had you gotten yourself into?

(…love. you got yourself into love. violent, overly dramatic, hybrid love.)

it had been a long day.

your muscles ached, your brain was fried, and the only thing you wanted was ten solid minutes alone in hot water without someone either growling over your attention or stealing your snacks.

so, you bribed them.

“i’ll take a bath. alone. for twenty minutes. if no one comes in—” you said sternly, pointing at vi, “—there will be cuddles.”

“and popcorn,” vi added hopefully.

“and a movie,” caitlyn said.

you sighed. “…sure. but alone, vi.”

vi grinned with a wink. “fine. i’ll guard the door.”

“i don’t need a—oh never mind—”

and into the bath you went.

twenty-five minutes later—because you allowed yourself a little more soak time—you emerged from the steam, towel wrapped around your body, hair dripping down your back, and blissfully relaxed.

until you stepped into the bedroom.

and stopped.

because there—curled up together in a tangled mess of limbs and fur and rumpled fabric—were vi and caitlyn.

sleeping.

on your clothes.

your freshly folded stack of laundry was no longer folded. your favorite hoodie? wrapped around vi’s shoulders like a security blanket. your pajama pants? clutched by caitlyn, pulled to her chest as she purred in her sleep. a pair of your socks dangled from vi’s ankle. your underwear was tucked beneath caitlyn’s cheek like it was a freaking pillow.

you stood there, dripping, baffled.

“…what the fuck,” you whispered.

vi twitched in her sleep, tail flicking lazily across the floor. “mmph. ‘s yours. smells good…”

caitlyn mumbled something unintelligible and buried her nose deeper into the hoodie sleeve.

you blinked. once. twice.

your heart was a puddle.

you knelt beside them carefully, brushing vi’s hair back from her flushed cheek. she nuzzled your hand like a puppy.

“i said no invading the bath,” you murmured. “not a word about clothing pile nesting.”

caitlyn cracked one eye open. “wasn’t the bath. we followed the scent.”

“what are you, bloodhounds?”

vi yawned. “she’s mine, i’m allowed to sniff her stuff.”

caitlyn huffed, voice sleepy and soft. “ours.”

they both tugged you down into the pile.

you yelped. “guys—i’m wet—”

“we don’t care,” vi mumbled, pulling the towel loose to wrap her arms around your waist.

“you’re warm,” caitlyn added, dragging her leg over yours. “stay.”

so you stayed.

wrapped in your own clothes, in the middle of your room, cuddled between a purring panther and a grumbling guard dog who refused to let go.

and for once… you didn’t even want to fight it.

you didn’t mean to cry.

you’d made it through the whole day pretending you were fine. the fake smiles, the half-laughs, the tightness in your chest you swore you’d deal with later. and then “later” came. and it was quiet.

and in that silence—alone in your room with only your thoughts—you broke.

you didn’t sob. you just leaked. tears fell like they were too used to it. you curled into yourself on the edge of the bed, fingers clenching the blanket like it was the only thing holding you together.

you thought you were being quiet.

but they heard you.

of course they did.

vi was the first in.

no knock. no sound. just a warm body sliding behind you, big arms wrapping around your stomach like she could physically shield you from whatever it was eating you alive.

she didn’t say anything.

she just held you.

then came caitlyn—silent steps, graceful as ever. she slipped in front of you, kneeling between your legs, thumb already brushing at the tears you hadn’t wiped away yet.

“what happened?” she asked gently, voice low, velvet-soft. “what hurt you?”

you shook your head. “i’m just… tired.”

vi kissed your neck, a quiet, grounding thing. “you’re not just anything.”

caitlyn leaned in, her lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “we’re here. you’re safe. you don’t have to hold it alone anymore.”

something broke in you.

and you kissed her. hard.

salt still on your lips. breath shaking. like a confession. like a scream.

caitlyn moaned softly and kissed you back, deeper this time. vi’s hand slid up under your shirt, resting just beneath your ribs. she didn’t move—just held.

“can we…?” caitlyn asked, her forehead pressed to yours. “touch you like you deserve?”

you nodded.

and the world turned liquid.

vi was behind you, mouth hot on your shoulder, her breath ragged, starving. caitlyn was in front, undressing you with reverence, like every layer was a wound she was unwrapping to heal.

“you cry like no one’s ever held you properly,” caitlyn whispered, thumb stroking your hipbone.

vi bit back a growl. “then let’s teach her what it feels like.”

hands everywhere. mouths trailing heat. your back arched, your whimpering breath caught between caitlyn’s lips as vi’s hands spread your thighs. everything they did was slow, intentional. meant to be felt, not rushed.

you were worshipped.

you were undone.

caitlyn’s tongue on your chest, vi’s fingers sinking into you like they belonged there, both of them whispering your name like a vow. you sobbed again—but it wasn’t from pain this time.

it was from being wanted.

from being touched like you were precious. like they’d fight death itself to keep you safe.

and when you came, they held you through it. let you shatter in their arms. let you cry and gasp and cling like they'd never let you fall again.

because they wouldn’t.

not ever.

afterward, caitlyn cleaned you with warm cloths and shaky hands. vi curled around your side, kissing your temple every few seconds like a timer. you were tucked between them, bare and breathless, skin still glowing from where they’d worshipped it.

"you’re never alone," caitlyn murmured into your hair.

vi’s voice, low and sleepy: “you’re ours, cupcake. let us take the weight next time.”

and for the first time in a long time—

you believed them.

you didn’t notice anything at first.

sure, caitlyn had been… quiet. like, real quiet. not the usual cool, calculating caitlyn silence. this was the kind of silence that came with clenched jaws and pupils blown wide like twin moons. she watched you like she was trying to memorize your temperature.

and vi?

she was jittery.

kept pacing. kept growling at nothing. wouldn’t sit on the couch, just hovered behind you like she was working security at a club called touch her and die.

you were oblivious.

so you did what anyone would do when their two very warm, very attractive hybrid girlfriends started acting weird and strange and unreasonably tense.

you got closer.

“are you two okay?” you asked sweetly, peeking into the kitchen where caitlyn had been standing perfectly still for the past ten minutes, staring at the fridge without opening it.

her head whipped toward you.

you blinked. “…hungry?”

“no,” caitlyn said quickly. too quickly. “you just—um—smell different.”

you sniffed yourself. “is that a bad thing—?”

“no,” she said again, eyes sharpening. “it’s… intoxicating.”

you giggled. “aw. thanks—”

she stepped back. physically. like you were dangerous.

which was hilarious. you were literally in pajamas with a little duck on the front.

meanwhile, vi had buried herself in the laundry pile.

not doing laundry. in the pile.

you found her gripping one of your hoodies like it had offended her ancestors, nose pressed so deep into the fabric she was practically vibrating.

“vi?” you called gently.

she groaned.

“are you okay?”

another groan. louder.

“…are you hurt?”

“yes,” she snarled, voice muffled. “in my fucking soul.”

you frowned and knelt beside her. “what’s wrong?”

vi finally looked at you.

and her eyes were glowing.

“i’m trying so hard not to mount you right now, cupcake,” she said through gritted teeth.

you short-circuited.

“i’m sorry???”

caitlyn swooped in like a shadow.

“she’s in heat,” she said, glaring at vi. “and so am i.”

you stared between them, baffled. “heat? like… animal instinct heat?”

vi groaned. “you say it like it’s not ruining my life right now.”

caitlyn pressed a hand over her mouth, breathing slow. “it’s temporary. we’ll stabilize.”

you, brain still buffering: “so… this is like a… no-sexy-time moment?”

vi growled.

caitlyn hissed.

ah.

“or… maybe it’s very sexy-time and i should shut up?”

vi was already standing. caitlyn was already locking the door.

your back hit the wall. hard.

“you’ve been crawling all over us all day,” caitlyn said, tone dangerously soft.

“you’ve worn our clothes. touched our hands. slept with your face in my chest,” vi added, eyes wild.

“…i didn’t know—”

caitlyn’s lips brushed your cheek. “you do now.”

vi’s breath hit your ear. “and you’re not getting out of this room until we’ve burned it out.”

you lost track of time somewhere between caitlyn’s third orgasm and vi’s fifth growl of "she can take more."

the air was thick—warm and sweet with sweat, skin, and something heady you couldn't name. the sheets were ruined. the blankets were long gone. the mattress dipped from bodies constantly shifting, pressing, pinning you down so gently it broke your heart.

it had been hours.

maybe days.

you were half-naked and wrecked, sprawled out like a feast between two starved predators who didn’t want to hurt you—just love you until you forgot your own name.

your thighs trembled from vi’s mouth, still slick and twitching from the last time she whispered “just one more, baby, give it to me, you’re doing so good.”

and caitlyn?

she was kissing down your spine like she was apologizing for how long she’d kept you full.

"you should've said stop," caitlyn murmured against your back, voice wrecked with restraint. “but you looked so pretty when you cried.”

you whimpered, barely able to speak, hips twitching weakly as vi lazily ran her fingers along your inner thigh.

“too much?” vi asked, teasing.

your breath hitched.

she grinned, tongue licking over her teeth. “didn’t think so.”

the first night, they were careful.

almost reverent.

caitlyn had spread you open slowly, fingers precise, patient, mapping your reactions like they were coordinates on a battlefield. she touched you like every moan was sacred, like every twitch was her reward. she didn’t stop until you were arching up, crying out her name like a mantra.

vi had waited.

staring. panting. pupils wide.

and then she’d taken you.

not roughly—no. but deeply. fully. like she needed to feel every heartbeat through your cunt. she moved with maddening control, whispering broken praise as you sobbed into her neck.

“you’re perfect,” she growled, hips grinding against yours. “so fucking perfect for us.”

you didn’t last long. they didn’t let you.

they pulled it out of you again and again.

you cried. they kissed the tears away.

by the next morning, you were floating.

you’d wake only to soft fingers between your legs, a mouth on your chest, warm bodies holding you down with love. there was no rush. just endless waves of touch—soothing and dizzying.

vi licked lazily at your swollen folds, arms looped under your thighs. “you’re still dripping, cupcake.”

“because you won’t stop touching me,” you gasped.

“exactly,” caitlyn whispered, kissing the inside of your wrist. “we’re not done.”

when they slid inside you—together, fingers first, then something more—you couldn’t speak. just sobbed their names and grabbed for anything you could hold: caitlyn’s shoulder, vi’s arm, the sheets, the headboard. your legs shook. your voice cracked.

they kissed every inch of you through the tears.

“please,” you whined one night, body twitching, soaked and flushed. “i can’t—can’t—”

vi kissed your temple, breath hot. “yes, you can. you’re taking it so well.”

“she’s breathtaking like this,” caitlyn said from behind, brushing hair off your sweaty back. “so pliant. so obedient.”

you cried again.

and they started over.

you didn't leave the bed for two whole days.

they kept you warm, wet, worshipped.

caitlyn whispered sweet nothings between kisses, coaxing more sounds out of you until you melted. vi nuzzled your throat like a dog in love, rutting slowly against your thigh until her breath stuttered and she choked out your name.

they didn’t stop until your voice was raw, your body was glowing, and you had nothing left to give but soft whimpers and the word "mine."

which they echoed.

over and over again.

the world was quiet again.

no more ragged breathing. no more growls. no more teeth dragging along skin in desperate instinct.

just warmth.

just them.

you were nestled in the middle—limp, bare, and utterly spent. vi was curled at your back, arms thrown around you like she never wanted to let go again. caitlyn lay in front of you, fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm, her nose occasionally brushing against yours as her eyes fluttered open and closed.

the sheets clung to your skin like a second layer. your body ached in ways that were tender, glowing. and for the first time in a long time, you felt… whole.

no tension. no performance. just you.

and them.

they hadn’t moved in hours.

not because they were tired (though they were), but because every time you so much as shifted, vi let out a soft, pleading noise in her sleep, and caitlyn instinctively tightened her hold like you were already slipping away.

you weren’t.

you never wanted to.

your voice came out a whisper. a shaky, soft thing. vulnerable in a way that terrified you more than teeth and claws ever could.

“…i love you.”

silence.

you felt vi’s breath hitch behind you. caitlyn froze—her thumb pausing mid-circle on your skin.

you didn’t move. couldn’t.

you weren’t sure if you’d just made a mistake.

then—

vi sat up suddenly, leaning over you, her bangs falling across her face. her eyes were wide, glowing softly in the dim light. “say it again.”

you blinked. “vi—”

“please,” she whispered, barely breathing. “just… say it one more time.”

your heart cracked open. “i love you.”

vi made a sound—something choked and beautiful—and pulled you up into her lap like you weighed nothing, arms wrapping around you so tightly you almost cried.

caitlyn sat up slower, reaching for your hand with shaking fingers. she kissed your palm once. twice. three times. “i didn’t know if we were allowed to hope for that.”

you looked at her, lips trembling. “why?”

“because you could’ve walked away the moment we changed. the moment we started growling and snarling and touching you like we’d die if we didn’t.” her voice broke. “but you stayed.”

“i stayed,” you said softly. “because i wanted to.”

vi buried her face in your neck. “say it again.”

you laughed through your tears. “i love you.”

caitlyn leaned in, forehead pressed to yours. “then let us love you forever.”

the bed was still a mess. your bodies were still sore. there was a faint bite mark on your shoulder and caitlyn had a scratch across her collarbone from where you’d clung too hard.

but none of that mattered.

you were safe.

you were wanted.

and you were theirs.

now and always.

[killiaia]

You, only You.

Winter x Male reader.

It was a quiet, almost peaceful evening in bustling Seoul. The noise of the crowd, the bright neon lights and the speeding cars seemed to belong to another world. You, on the other hand, were in a small, discreet café, a place you liked to frequent to escape the hustle and bustle of the city. That evening, you hadn't planned to meet anyone special, but the universe seemed to have decided otherwise.

She entered, dressed in a long coat, her glossy black hair cascading around her shoulders. It was Winter, from Aespa. Even if she wasn't performing, even if she wasn't in the middle of a photo shoot or concert, she exuded an aura that drew attention. But she seemed calm, almost fragile, as if she'd been looking for a place where she could finally relax.

You noticed her immediately. Not because she was a celebrity, but because something about her seemed... human. A stark contrast to the perfect image she was usually portrayed as. She sat at a table near the window, a book in her hand, but her eyes weren't really on the pages.

You found yourself a little lost in thought, watching this face you'd seen hundreds of times on TV, and this simple question crossed your mind: What would she do if someone spoke to her like an ordinary person?

It took you a few minutes to dare break the silence. When you got up to order a coffee, you met her gaze. A fleeting smile appeared on his lips, and something inside you gave you the impression that it was a silent invitation to go further.

You took a deep breath and, with hesitant steps, approached his table.

“Excuse me, I know this is a bit strange, but... you're Winter, right? From Aespa?” You felt immediately embarrassed, but her gaze was gentle, her eyes shining with benevolent curiosity.

She raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “Yes, that's me,” she replied, her tone light but warm. “I didn't think anyone would recognize me here. It's a quiet little spot, isn't it?”

You nodded, realizing that a celebrity like her probably deserved a little quiet now and then. “It's one of my favorite places to escape the noise. I can see why you love it.”

Winter laughed softly, closing her book. “It's rare, to be a little invisible, even in a city this big. But it feels good.”

A silence fell between the two of you, but it wasn't awkward. It was as if you were two strangers in the same space, slowly getting to know each other through gestures and smiles. She seemed different from her public image. More natural, more... human.

“So, what are you doing here in Seoul? Are you working in a cafe or is it just relaxing?”

“I'm here for work, actually,” you replied. “But there's something about this place that takes my mind off the daily grind. What about you, then? How do you feel offstage?”

She stretched slightly and smiled. “That's a good question. There's so much pressure sometimes. But here, I just feel... Winter. Not the celebrity. Just a girl with a book and a cup of coffee. How about you?”

The calm that followed was pleasant. You didn't feel like you were dealing with a superstar, but with someone genuinely human. A simple exchange of glances and words.

The conversation continued, and you realized that you had much more in common than you'd imagined. She was talking about her life, her concerns and her desires, and you were listening with sincere attention. The distance between the world of celebrities and that of ordinary people seemed to be gradually disappearing. She talked about her dreams, her moments of doubt, the challenges that fame brought.

With every word she said, you felt closer to her. Her eyes shone with a gentleness that fascinated you, and you noticed little details, subtle gestures she made, like playing with a lock of hair or fiddling with her coffee cup.

After a while, you realized that the atmosphere between you had changed. What had started out as a shy encounter was becoming something more. There was an undeniable connection, a bond that had been forged slowly but surely. She stood up, looking you straight in the eye.

“I have to go soon, but... I'm glad I talked with you. It was a real conversation. No pretenses, no expectations. Just us, here and now.”

You smile, a little nervous but sincere. “Me too. It's rare to be able to chat like this, with no intention of being anywhere else.”

She gave you one last look, before heading for the door, leaving behind a sweet scent of freedom and authenticity.

Days passed after that café encounter, and despite the discreetness of the conversation, you couldn't get Winter out of your mind. Every moment of silence, every break in your routine was marked by her smile, the gentleness of her words and the warmth of her eyes. It was as if, in one simple encounter, she had found a way to a part of you you weren't used to exploring.

One evening, as you were relaxing at home after a day's work, you received an unexpected message on your phone. It was Winter. She was offering to meet you again, in another café, this time a quieter one, a little away from the city center.

“Would you like to have a coffee? I enjoyed our conversation the other day, and I'd like us to talk more about it.”

You couldn't help but smile at the message. Winter, the world-famous idol, was inviting you to coffee. The thought confused you for a moment. It was hard to realize that she really liked you, not just as a fan, but as a person.

You answered immediately, a little nervous but excited at the idea of seeing her again.

“With pleasure! What time?”

The café she'd chosen was even more secluded than the previous one. It was almost hidden away in a quiet alley, with heavy curtains and a subdued ambience that made the atmosphere intimate and warm. When you arrived, you saw her already seated at a table, a book in front of her but her eyes fixed on you. She smiled at you as you entered, as if this meeting was something she was looking forward to.

“Hi,” she says, motioning for you to sit down, her voice soft but sincere. “I'm glad you came.”

You sat down opposite her, trying to mask your nervousness. It was strange to be so close to her, but at the same time, you felt reassured by her presence. There was something comforting in the simplicity of this moment.

“Me too,” you replied with a shy smile. “It's nice to be able to get together like this, without everyone watching us.”

Winter nodded, his eyes shining with silent understanding. “It's one of the rare occasions when I can just be myself, without the spotlight, without all that goes with it. I like this simple side of things.”

She talked about her life, her pressures, the way her celebrity sometimes isolated her, and with every word, you felt a deeper connection between the two of you. Winter wasn't just a star, she was a person with dreams, doubts, frailties, just like you. And in his words, you heard a sincerity that touched you deeply.

The conversation continued naturally. You talked about everything and nothing, but deep down, there was an emerging tension, an unspoken desire floating in the air. Every smile, every look you shared seemed to say more than words could. Sometimes, she'd delicately touch her coffee cup, and her fingers would brush yours by accident, provoking an instant electric shock, a shiver that ran through your whole body.

One day, after several meetings where the chemistry was growing stronger, Winter proposed an idea. “Why don't we get out of town this weekend? Just you and me, out of sight and out of mind. I've found a quiet little place in the mountains. I thought it might be nice.”

You hesitate for a moment. The idea of going away with her tempted you, but you knew it could also mean something more. A different stage, a change in your relationship. Still, you had this deep desire to spend time with her, to get to know her better, without pressure. So you agreed.

“Why not? It sounds like a great idea.”

The weekend arrived, and you found Winter at the station, ready to leave with you. She was wearing a casual outfit, a little wool jacket and sunglasses that gave her a simple, natural look. When she smiled at you, you already felt at ease, as if you'd left behind all the complexity of your respective worlds.

The journey to the mountains was calm, punctuated by laughter, sincere conversation and moments of pleasant silence. You found yourselves in a secluded chalet, surrounded by nature, a perfect place to escape the stresses of everyday life. The fresh mountain air and the sound of the wind in the trees added to the tranquil atmosphere.

In the evening, after a hearty meal prepared together, you would settle down by the fire, the subdued atmosphere of the flames warming the space. Winter, relaxed, leaned against you. Her light perfume invaded your senses, and you felt a gentle warmth settle between you.

Without even thinking about it, you took her hand, delicately, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Winter turned her gaze towards you, and in her eyes shone a glint of complicity. A silence fell between you, but it wasn't awkward, on the contrary. It was a comfortable silence, full of silent promise.

Finally, it was she who broke the silence. “You know, I feel really good with you. It's strange, but... I don't feel this need to play a role here. Just you and me.”

You looked into her eyes, your heart beating faster. “Me too, Winter. I didn't think this kind of moment would ever happen, but... I'm glad it's here.”

She smiled and slowly moved closer. Her lips brushed yours, shyly at first, before the sweetness of the kiss turned into something more. The moment was simple, but full of meaning. It was as if everything that had gone before, all the doubts and hesitations, had dissipated.

The moment was suspended in time, and for the first time, you felt completely at one with Winter. The complicity that had developed between the two of you only grew stronger.

The days that followed that weekend remained etched in your memory like a sweet daydream. Back in Seoul, routine tried to reclaim its rights, but something had changed. Between you and Winter, a connection had been created that was stronger than mere furtive conversations in discreet cafés.

You continued to write to each other, seeing each other whenever his schedule allowed. Sometimes it was a short evening stroll along the Han River, other times an impromptu dinner in a hidden restaurant where no one would recognize her. Every moment spent together reinforced the strange chemistry between you.

One evening, as you sat in a small noodle restaurant, Winter put down her chopsticks and looked at you, her expression more serious than usual.

“You know... sometimes I wonder if this is a good idea.”

Her tone wasn't cold, but it carried a shadow of concern. You frowned, feeling a weight settle in the air.

“What are you talking about?”

She looked down at her still-steaming bowl before resuming:

“You and me. What we're building... I don't know if I have the right to let myself go into that.”

You remained silent for a moment. You knew what she was referring to. Her life in the spotlight, the expectations of her agency, public opinion. All this formed an invisible wall between you, an obstacle she suddenly seemed to see more clearly.

You took a deep breath before answering, trying to weigh your words carefully.

“Winter... I don't want you to feel this is a burden. If one day you think it's all getting too complicated, let me know. But I also want you to know that, for me, every moment with you is worth it.”

She lifted her head, and in her gaze you thought you perceived a mixture of relief and restrained emotion.

“You're far too kind.” she said with a bitter laugh.

You took her hand gently, sensing her slight hesitation before she relaxed under your touch.

“I'm just being sincere.”

A silence fell, but this time it wasn't a silence laden with doubt. More like a pause, a suspended moment where she seemed to weigh her own feelings.

Finally, Winter sketched a smile, softer this time.

“All right, then. Then let's be sincere, you and I. No matter where this leads.”

And in that instant, you knew that it didn't matter what the obstacles were, didn't matter what the outside world was like. What mattered was this silent agreement between you, this promise made without words, but sealed in a simple look.

The days that followed this conversation were tinged with a new gentleness, but also with a certain tension. Winter hadn't mentioned her doubts again, but something about her seemed different. She was more attentive, more present, and every look she gave you seemed charged with an emotion she struggled to conceal.

She'd never admit it out loud, not yet, but she knew.

She knew she was gradually falling in love with you.

It was a strange sensation, both exciting and terrifying. She had spent so much time erecting barriers, keeping a cautious distance from the outside world, that the realization that she was opening a breach with you disturbed her deeply.

One evening, as the two of you strolled together through the quiet streets of Seoul, she suddenly stopped in front of an illuminated shop window. It was a small boutique selling handcrafted jewelry, and her gaze lingered on a delicately braided silver bracelet.

“It's pretty,” she murmured, almost to herself.

You watched her in silence, observing the way the light from the shop window reflected in her eyes. There was something intimate about that moment, a fragility she showed only to you.

“Do you want me to buy it for you?” you asked softly.

She flinched slightly, then shook her head with a little laugh.

“No, I can't...”

But you'd already pushed open the store door. A few moments later, you emerged with the bracelet in a small case, which you handed to her without a word.

Winter froze for a moment, caught between surprise and emotion. Then, slowly, she took the box and opened it, brushing the jewel with her fingertips.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked half-heartedly.

You shrugged, smiling slightly. “Because I felt like it. And because it gives me pleasure to see your eyes shine like that.”

She lowered her eyes, clutching the box between her fingers. Her heart beat faster than she would have liked, and a soft warmth crept into her. It wasn't just the bracelet. It was what it represented.

It was you.

This kind of little attention, this way you looked at her as if she were just a normal girl, not some unattainable idol... It disturbed her. It touched her.

That night, on her way home, she put the bracelet around her wrist and contemplated it for a long moment. She caught herself smiling for no reason, one hand resting on her heart, which was beating a little too fast.

Winter knew.

She knew she was falling in love with you.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn't afraid of it.

The days went by, and despite her busy schedule, Winter always found a moment for you. With each message, each appointment stolen between two rehearsals, she felt her attachment grow. It was no longer just a simple attraction, or even a simple friendship tinged with complicity. It was stronger than that.

One evening, as you were walking together under the dim lights of a quiet street, she suddenly stopped and stared at you with a serious, almost nervous expression.

“I've got something to ask you.”

You raised an eyebrow, puzzled. “Tell me.”

She bit her lip, as if hesitating to formulate her words. “You know... you mean a lot to me.” She looked away briefly before plunging her gaze into yours. “And I'd like... for you to meet my members. The girls of Aespa.”

You were speechless for a moment. You knew how much this group was her second family. The mere fact that she wanted to introduce you to them meant that she considered you someone really important.

You smiled, despite the slight nervousness rising inside you. “If it's important to you, then of course.”

She seemed relieved, and a radiant smile lit up her face. “They can be a bit intimidating sometimes, but I'm sure they'll like you.”

A few days later, Winter invited you to drop by after one of their rehearsals in their training room. The idea of coming face-to-face with the other members of the band had been stressing you out all day, but excitement was taking over.

When you walked through the door, Winter greeted you with a smile and gently took your hand, a discreet gesture that no one missed. In the room, Karina, NingNing and Giselle stopped immediately and turned their heads towards you.

Karina, the leader, crossed her arms and flashed a half-amused, half-surprised smile. “So, this is the famous boy Winter's always talking about?”

You felt Winter tense up slightly beside you. “Unnie!” she protested, blushing slightly.

NingNing, for her part, stared at you with a mischievous smile. “I was wondering when she was finally going to introduce him to us.”

Giselle gauged you with her eyes before smiling. “Well, let's see if you can live up to our Winter.”

You couldn't help laughing at their teasing welcome. Despite the pressure, the atmosphere was far from cold or hostile.

Winter gently tightened his grip on your hand and declared, in a more confident voice: “He's my boyfriend.”

A short silence followed. No shock, no opposition, just a moment when the girls seemed to realize that their Winter, usually reserved about her feelings, was really in love.

Karina finally smiled sincerely. “If she's happy, then that's all that matters.”

NingNing approached you and extended her hand. “Welcome to the family.”

You squeezed it with a smile, feeling a pleasant warmth wash over you.

Winter looked at you out of the corner of her eye, and you saw something new in her gaze. A certainty. A pride.

She was no longer hiding her feelings.

She loved you.

And she was ready to make you part of her world.

---

It had been a few weeks since you were officially introduced to the members of Aespa, and your relationship with Winter was blossoming by the day. She had become attached to you in a way she'd never thought possible, and the idea of finally having someone who understood her without idolizing her brought her a new serenity.

But that evening, something unexpected was about to upset her equilibrium.

Winter had arranged to meet you in a quiet café, as usual. She was sitting by the window, absent-mindedly playing with her bracelet - the one you'd given her - waiting for you to arrive.

When the door opened and you entered, she looked up... and immediately froze.

You were wearing a military uniform.

Not just any military uniform. A dark, sober uniform, marked with distinctive insignia she didn't know but which exudes an aura of authority and mystery. She didn't understand. Usually, you were always dressed simply, casually. But now...

She felt her heart quicken as she slowly stood up, a shocked expression on her face. "Is this... a joke?" she asked, almost laughing nervously.

You approached with a gentle smile, but Winter could see your gaze was 

serious.

"I wanted to tell you earlier... but I didn't know how."

She scanned you for a long time, searching your face for some sign that this was just a misunderstanding. But it wasn't. You were serious.

"You're..." She swallowed. "You're military?"

You nodded. "Yes. But not only that. I'm part of the Special Forces."

Winter blinked, totally bewildered. She'd expected anything but this.

"Special forces? Like... secret, dangerous missions?"

You let out a small laugh, understanding her confusion. "It's not exactly like in the movies, but yes... it kind of is."

Winter took a step back, trying to assimilate the information. She'd always thought she knew you, that she'd figured out the mystery surrounding you. And yet, here you were revealing a side of you she'd had no clue about until now.

"For how long...?" she asked in a low voice.

"For several years."

She inhaled deeply, trying to organize her thoughts. "You mean... all that time, you were in the Special Forces? That you were going on secret missions and I knew nothing about it?"

You nodded. "I wasn't allowed to talk about it. But now things are getting serious between us... I wanted you to know."

Winter dropped back in her chair, running a trembling hand through her hair. "This is so unreal..."

She raised her eyes to yours, and her gaze was filled with a thousand conflicting emotions. Part of her was impressed, almost fascinated. But the other...

"It's dangerous, isn't it?" Her voice had softened, but contained a hint of fear.

You sighed softly and took her hand between yours. "Yes, it is. But I know what I'm doing, Winter. And I want you to understand that even though it's my duty, it doesn't change the way I feel about you."

She stared at your entwined hands, her heart clenching. Part of her wanted to blame you for not telling her sooner. Another understood why you'd kept it a secret.

After a long silence, she finally raised her head and whispered:

"I don't know if I'm ready to accept that... but I do know one thing."

You looked at her, waiting for her answer.

"I care about you. And I don't want to lose you."

You squeezed her hand tighter, a sincere smile on your lips. "You won't lose me, Winter."

But deep inside her, a new fear had been born. Because she now knew that the man she was falling in love with risked his life on every mission.

And the idea of you disappearing one day seemed unbearable.

--

She remained silent for a moment, her gaze lost in her still-steaming coffee. Then, slowly, she inhaled deeply and raised her head. "What about now? Are you on leave?"

You hesitated a second before answering, your smile fading slightly. "Well, not exactly... I've just come back from a mission. And..."

Winter frowned, finally noticing what you were trying to hide. A slight grimace, a gesture a little stiffer than usual. Her gaze immediately landed on your arm, where a dark stain was beginning to show through the fabric of your sleeve.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice betraying a hint of anxiety.

You tried to play it down. "It's nothing, just a scratch."

But Winter wouldn't hear of it. She stood up abruptly, walked over to you and, without giving you time to protest, gently pulled up your sleeve. What she discovered made her pale. 

A long gash crossed your forearm, still marked by dried blood.

"A scratch?" she repeated, clearly angry and worried at the same time. "You call that a scratch?!"

You attempted a reassuring smile. "I've had worse."

But instead of laughing, Winter clenched her jaw and sat down next to you, grabbing a paper towel to press gently on the wound. "Did you go to a doctor?"

You looked away slightly. "Not yet..."

She let out an exasperated sigh. "You're unbelievable..."

Despite the tension in the air, you sensed she wasn't really mad at you. She was just afraid. Afraid for you. 

Afraid of what this meant for your relationship.

"Winter..." You gently grabbed her hand, forcing her to look at you. "I'm here. With you. I'm okay."

She scanned you for a long moment, then shook her head, her anger giving way to immense tenderness. 

"Promise me at least one thing..."

You nodded, ready to hear anything.

"When you go on a mission... don't disappear without warning. Even if it's just a message, a note. I want to know you're there, somewhere."

You gently squeeze her hand. "I promise."

She sighed again, then, to your surprise, leaned in to place a kiss on your cheek. "I'll take care of you tonight. No arguments."

You smiled, a little amused, but mostly deeply touched by her concern. "Okay, chief."

Winter rolled her eyes, but eventually a smile came to her lips. Despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, one thing was certain: she wasn't about to let you go.

-- 

Everything was perfect. Winter was taking care of you, just like she said she would. The evening was going very well, and Winter had prepared a very good meal. You finished clearing the table, Winter had fetched something from the bedroom so you took care of the dishes. 

"I'll take care of you tonight. "says Winter from behind. 

You laugh and turn around.

But your laugh dies in your throat when you look at how Winter is dressed. Or in the next case, not so much.

In front of you, Winter is dressed in a flamboyant red lingerie set. The bra lifts her breasts, giving her a bust to die for. 

Amused by your reaction, Winter spins around and gives you a view of her ass, perfectly molded in a thong. 

Winter's ass is absolutely magnificent. To die for. The thong between her buttocks just begs to be removed.

Winter faces you again and you want to say something but can't.   Winter strides forward and you don't dare move. It's as if you're in a dream, afraid she'll disappear. 

Winter clings to you and you stop breathing. She gently raises her head to you and sighs sensuously.

"Tonight... I'll take care of you. "

You nod vigorously, Winter could ask you anything, you'd agree. 

On tiptoe, Winter places a gentle kiss on your lips. You wish it could last longer, but Winter grabs you by the collar of your shirt. 

"Follow me, big boy. "

You let her. Tugging at your shirt collar, you follow Winter. Your eyes linger on her ass and her wiggle. God, you could fuck her right now, it's intoxicating this power she has over you. 

You enter the room and Winter tells you to sit down. You listen and sit down on the edge of the bed. 

Winter closes the door and, using a remote control, changes the color of the room. A reddish color appears around you, and you feel your heart racing with desire and excitement.

Winter stands in front of you and the young woman raises her hair and arches her body, giving you a magnificent picture. Winter is magnificent. 

Winter undulates her body and gives you a look. You've never seen this look before, it's a look just for you, a look that shows Winter wants you.

Winter strokes her curves with her hands. Gently, she runs her hands over her breasts, kneading one before pulling down the bra. Winter's breasts beg to be touched and licked. 

You grab Winter by the buttocks, earning a cry of surprise from the young woman, and settle her on your lap. 

You don't give her time to protest as you take one of her breasts in your mouth and with your hands you knead her ass. 

"Oh my god. Go on, eat my tits. "

With your tongue, you circle her nipple and Winter encourages you by stroking your hair.  Winter starts undulating on you, seeking friction between your sexes. With your hands, you put pressure on her buttocks and Winter lets out a moan. 

You attack the other breast, licking Winter's nipple. You remove one of your hands from her buttocks and come to knead the singer's other breast.

"I want to suck your cock. " Winter says. 

"Go ahead. Suck my cock. "

Winter kisses you before getting off your lap. She kisses your torso and slowly moves down. With her hands, she removes the belt from your pants and Winter takes off your pants.  

"Fuck. Your dick looks so big. " 

"You think you're going to be able to fit it all in your little mouth? " 

As if you'd challenged her, Winter removes your boxers and finally lets your cock out into the open.

Winter hasn't lied, your dick is big. Almost fascinated, Winter grabs your cock and his hand almost can't close around it. 

"Wow. " Winter says. 

"Still up for it? "

"You bet. " 

Winter starts by gently jerking you off. Her movements are slow, almost painful. It's as if she's playing with you, she knows she's in control. 

But in her eternal goodness, Winter releases you and you feel her mouth close over your cock. 

"Fuuuck Winter. " 

Satisfied, Winter pulls your cock out of her mouth with a "pop" and the young woman licks your cock from the base to your tip. 

Winter licks your cock as if it were a lollipop. Big licks just for you. 

With both hands Winter grabs the base of your cock and her mouth closes around it. 

"Wiiinter fuuuck." 

Winter jerks you off and sucks you off at the same time. All you hear is the sound of Winter sucking your cock. You can see she wants to put more in her mouth.

"Do you want me to fuck your mouth? "

"Please. " 

You stand up and Winter is still on her knees, open her mouth wide and stick out her tongue.  You grab your cock and pat her tongue with it. 

"What a good girl.

Every time you tap your cock against her tongue, Winter tries to lick it off. 

"Fuck my mouth. " 

You don't give Winter time to think, you enter your cock all at once deep in the singer's throat.

"It's so fucking good. " You say. 

Winter grabs your pelvis and rams your cock into her mouth, drawing a cry of pleasure from you. Winter removes your cock from her mouth and with a trickle of saliva on her chin looks at you. 

"Am I sucking Daddy's cock right?"

"You're perfect. Again? " 

Winter nods and opens her mouth wide. With both hands you grab the back of Winter's head and impale the young woman's mouth on your cock. You don't give her time and with your hands you guide Winter to suck you off. You notice the tears at the edges of Winter's eyes but you continue the oral assault on her mouth. After several back-and-forth strokes, you withdraw your cock from her mouth and Winter takes a deep breath, looking up at you. 

"Again! " Winter tells you. 

You start again and Winter gags on your cock.  

"I want you to cum in my mouth. "

You start jerking off and Winter sticks his mouth to your cock. It's as if Winter is intoxicated by your cock.

"Cum in my mouth. " Winter says, glued to your cock.

Winter moves her mouth down to your balls and takes a ball in her mouth. 

"Fuck Winter. " 

"Your balls look so full. Are they for me? Your filled balls are just for me. "

You're gripping your cock so hard. Winter licks your balls in turn.  

She pulls off your balls with a wet pop and looks at you.

She says nothing and just opens her mouth wide and sticks out her tongue. Just what you needed to make you come. 

You feel yourself coming and position your cock directly towards her mouth. 

Several jets of cum come straight into Winter's mouth. Your legs are shaking, the orgasm is so powerful. You look down at Winter, still on her knees, swallowing your cum. 

She opens her mouth to show that she's swallowed it all. You catch your breath and Winter winks at you. You follow her with your eyes and Winter slowly gets down on all fours on the bed and bends her back. 

"Is Daddy going to fuck me like the slut I am? "

You don't wait a second, pulling off her thong and spreading her ass. Her holes just beg to be licked and fucked.  

You put a lick on the singer's vagina which elicits a moan from her. 

"Fuck me. I want to feel your big cock. "

You stand up and align your cock with her pussy. In one movement, you take in almost everything Winter is so wet. 

"You're so fucking tight. "

"Just for you. My little pussy's tight just for your big cock. "

You grab her hips and start pilloning the singer's pussy. 

"Fucking so good. Is my pussy good? "

"Best pussy in the universe." 

You straighten up on the bed, offering a new angle of penetration and Winter cries out in pleasure. 

You lie on her back and whisper softly. 

"How did I ever live without your pussy?"

Winter wants to say something but she's intoxicated by your cock. 

You put your fingers in her mouth and Winter licks your fingers. 

"What a fucking good girl. I'm not going to be able to live without your pussy." 

With your other hand, you find her clit and Winter lets out a moan. 

You take your hand away from her mouth and go to knead one of her breasts.

"You're going to come. "

Winter nods vigorously and with your fingers, you lightly pinch her clit.

"You're mine. This pussy belongs to me. All your holes belong to me. "

"Yes..YES!" 

Winter spasms. It's her orgasm that has knocked her onto the bed. Completely tired and breathing hard Winter whispers.

"Daddy..." 

"Yes baby?"

"Can you breed me?" 

"Sure baby. " 

Lying on her stomach, Winter spreads her buttocks to help you extend the back and forth of your cock inside her. With a view of her asshole, you can't help but touch it.

"Next time, I'll fuck your ass."

Winter nods. 

"But today, let me breed you. "

You pick up the pace and see your cock covered. 

"You're fucking creaming. " 

Winter spreads her ass even wider and you can't hold on much longer. All you hear is the sound of flesh against flesh. Your pelvis slams against her ass and Winter screams with pleasure.

"I'm going to breed you so much. " 

"Fuck. Put a fucking baby in me."

That's what you needed to cum. You sink deep into Winter and let go of the cum.

You pull your cock out and admire your work. Your cum comes out of her pussy and Winter releases her ass. 

You lie on top of her and turn her head to kiss her. 

"You'd better keep my cum in your pussy."

Winter lets out a little laugh.

[kurokawaia]

DAY TWENTY FIVE - CORRUPTION 彡 Madara Uchiha

WARNINGS :: corruption, virginity taking, discrimination, breeding, size kink, madara is mean, degradation, x fem reader, restraining (using hands), prone bone, slight choking? afab, she/her terms, reader is timid / shy / scared / inferior / shorter than madara, CNC, Old ideologies regarding birth! + more

| WC :: 3.7k+ | MDNI | 18+ | kinkmas m.list

It was a reletively public wedding, so the entire village could see the bond growing further between the Senju and the Uchiha. All the villagers thought that it was a beautiful love story, one were the two of you fell for each other despite being from enemy clans. But how could they be so wrong, it was nothing of the sort.

It was an arranged marriage. 

This was the elder's decision, thinking that it would be a more secure way to confirm that the Uchiha would not fight back in the further future. The decision was made for the protection of Konoha and being Hashirama and Tobirama's timid, innocent little sister, you couldn't object.

It's your first night within the Uchiha estate, specifically Madara's. You stand in silence biting your bottom lip, in which the red lipstick that was previously there at been removed. Not only by the rigid kiss the two of you shared at the wedding but because of you nibbling on the flesh.

Your hands grip the primarily white kakeshita, you don't know what to do, Madara isn't in the room with you right now and you are too scared to do anything. You were a Senju, but now you are an Uchiha, bounded by those ridiculous ceremonies, paperwork and those vows.  Startled, you jump slightly at the creak the door makes as Madara slides it open, stepping into the room. His eyes trail up on to you, previously analysing every part of your body. YOu could feel it, it is so strong, the scrutiny in his gaze, the judgment.  "It would appear the Senju couldn't even grant me a worthy wife. Just a fragile little thing, aren't you?" Madara scrutinises and a shaky breath leaves your mouth.   Your stomach clenches at the words. Of course, he doesn't hide how much he hates your clan even now that you two have been wed. You feel small under his gaze, and his height. The way he looks at you makes you feel so inferior. 

To Madara, you aren't his wife, you are just a filthy Senju only here to bear his children. 

"I didn't ask for this," you whisper, your voice trembling.  He lets out a low chuckle and closes the space between you. "You think I asked for this? To be tied to the likes of you? A Senju, a weakling, a woman from the enemy's bloodline?" His words cut deep and the tears prick at the back of your eyes. You mean nothing to Madara but a means to an end, nothing more than a tool for him, to bear children, to give him strong children.

Madara moves around you, so now that he is behind you, his chest is almost inches away from your back. "What did your brothers think? That by sending you to me, it would make me forget the blood spilled between us? That I'd forget how your family has tried to crush mine for generations?" He adds. You flinch. Your blood running inside you was a brand of shame in itself, reminding you that no matter how hard you tried, you would never belong here, in his world, the Uchiha world, no matter how equal your clans really are. "You're nothing here," he sneers. "Nothing but a Senju in an Uchiha household. A reminder of everything I despise."

He steps closer, so his hot breath fans across your neck and your back tenses. His hand reaches up, catching your chin in an iron vice as he forces you to meet his gaze. "And now, you're here in— my bed, in my house. But don't let yourself think you'll ever be anything more than a Senju dog." Your heart races in your chest, but you grit your teeth, god, you're so scared. Madara gazes into your eyes. "I will never think of you as a Uchiha," he announces. "You shall never be of us. Our children? Yes. But you? Never." Your chest tightens. You feel yourself start to unravel, piece by piece, under his cold gaze and cruel words. You want to be able to fight back, scream at him, and make him see that you're more than the blood running through your veins. The hate weighing upon you from him crushes you, rendering you mute. The silence is then broken as Madara speaks once more, "Get into bed, it's time you played wife." Your heart sinks, and a wave of dread washes over you. There is no love in that command, no affection. His lips ghost on your neck, below your ear before pulling the sash that held your marriage kimono together before he slips the fabric down your shoulders. Instinctively, when the fabric slips to your elbows, a gasp slips past your lips and you pull your arms to your chest, covering your exposed body. 

"W-Wait," you managed to squeak out, your heart beating furiously, you swear that it was so loud that he could hear it.

You hear the click of his tongue and can feel the roll of his eyes. "What, woman?"

"I've... never... done anything... like this," you say quietly, your hands trembling, holding the fabric tighter to your chest.

"You'll do as I say, dear," he hums, emphasising the last word, almost to mock you. "I wouldn't want to... hurt you." Scared, you nod timidly, still clenching the fabric as you walk towards the futon, your body getting heavier with every step. You only just barely managed to sit on your knees, your weight on the insides of your feet. 

Your gaze was kept tight onto the sheets in front of you. Hearing a light thud hit the floor, you glance up through your mascara-tinted lashes, and you see that the sash holding Madara's wedding attire is on the floor. You can clearly see his abs through the opening of the kimono and his pants had been stripped too, you can clearly see the bulge in his underwear. 

Then, the last of his main attire was pulled off his body and tossed onto the floor, now he is only donned in his underwear, his body bare in front of you. And before you knew it, Madara was kneeling in front of you, tugging the fabric roughly out of your hold. 

Suddenly, the breath from your chest left with a sudden escape of breath as your body fell hard to the futon, Madara's bigger hands restraining your wrists beside your head. Your eyes widen while your lips tremble at the sight of Madara above you, his face so close to yours you could fall apart underneath his gaze. 

Madara closes in, his nose almost touching your own and your breath hitches. "I'm going to ruin you," he hums, moving his head to your shoulder, his lips skimming across your flesh slowly. 

God, you were trembling, you've never felt like this before, this sensation was making you loose your mind. He was being so mean to you, to one of the kindest people in Konoha, making you feel like nothing, and yet, how he made your body feel was something words couldn't explain. 

You were so focused on how he was so close to your neck, that you completely missed how Madara had already slipped down your underwear. His thick fingers pressed against the top of your pussy, so, so, so close to slipping in and hitting your clit.

Your back arches into the touch a breathy gasp falls from your lips and you want to scream in embarrassment. All you wanted to do was to cover your mouth and you couldn't even do that with how Madara was pinning your hands above your head. 

"Fuck, you're sensitive," Madara mumbles to himself, feeling and seeing how you react to such a simple touch, he smirks agasint your neck.

He's going to enjoy this.  

Opening his mouth slightly, he latches onto the dip from your neck and you squirm underneath his imposing touch. His legs spread apart your own, rendering you unable to move. Madara's stature is so big, that you didn't think you would be able to move anyway, considering how his weight was pressing down on you, how his warmth was seeping into you. 

Helpless whimpers leave your mouth as he sucks at your soft skin, leaving marks all over your chest while his fingers still lightly play with your folds, though, they never pushed past, teasing you. 

"Please...." you whimper quietly, pleading into Madara's ear so softly and as much as Madara wanted to hate your voice, it sent shivers down his spine.

"Please what?" he asks in a low tone, lips finally pulling away from your red collarbones. 

Your breathing is ragged, cheeks flushed a pinky-red hue from Madara's touches. "Please... could I have more...?" you question slowly, quietly and Madara smirks at the obvious nervousness in your voice. 

"More?" he teases, pressing his forehead against your own and you gaze into his obsidian eyes which sent electricity down your spine.

You nod small, "...Yes."

A hum comes from his mouth as he pushes his fingers past your folds, two thick fingers pressing against your clit and you moan shamelessly. You want to cover your mouth but can't, your hands are still bound above your head. 

His fingers venture further down, tracing a path along your slick slit. The touch is electrifying, causing you to tremble in his hold, your body responding to his every movement. A whimper escapes your lips, a testament to the overwhelming pleasure that courses through you.

"So wet," Madara hums as he presses his thumb against your clit and you moan, your back arched agasint the futon. Madara frowns to himself knowing that your eyes are screwed shut

At your reply, Madara's fingers experimentally push past your slick folds, his fingers pressing past your clit, and a surge of pleasure courses through you, leaving you breathless and desperate for more. A moan left your mouth as your back arched at his touch. your reaction caused Madara to press down slightly more and your legs squeezed around his waist, moans stringing out your mouth.

You felt his fingers slide down and he found your seeping hols, drenched with arousal. You felt a finger slowly slide inside your heat, a whimper leaving your mouth. As much as Madara hates the Senju's he couldn't help but feel a pang of worry for you, your face contorts into pain after a few seconds so he stops, head tilting.

"W-Wait," you whimper. "Gi- Give me a few seconds."

"Why should I wait for you?" Madara hums, eyes slitting at you.

"Hurts," you replied trying to regulate your breathing.

A tsk left his mouth, "It hurts because you're tense. Relax," he orders and you let your body relax under him, your breathing all controlled. "See? Doesn't hurt as much now doesn't it?"

You shook your head. "Exactly," he adds and he begins to pump his digits in and out your drenched cunt.

"So good," You whimpered as he slowly pumped in and out your soaked walls. 

The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and intensity that leaves you unable to contain your moans. You press your lips against his shoulder, muffling the sounds that escape from deep within you. His fingers explore the depths of your core, igniting a fire that consumes your every thought. Each movement, each curl, sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body.

You surrender to the intoxicating rhythm of his touch, the combination of his skilled fingers and the intensity of our connection pushes you closer to the edge, teetering on the precipice of release. It's a moment of pure bliss, where time stands still, and you are consumed by the overwhelming pleasure that courses through your veins.

As Madara's fingers continued their relentless rhythm, pumping in and out of your seeping hole, there was an unfamiliar tightness growing in your lower abdomen, pleasure tightened inside your stomach. you wrap your shaky legs around him, seeking to anchor yourself to him amidst the overwhelming pleasure. your body quivers with anticipation, responding to his every touch, every movement.

"Wait!" you sob, writhing under him. "Feels funny...."

"You're going to have an orgasm, just let it happen," he scoffs, beginning to scissor his fingers, respectively hitting your soft, gummy spot every single time. 

you chant his name into his neck as praises leave your mouth, your voice filled with desire and need. The tears welling in your eyes are not from pain but from the overwhelming pleasure that threatens to consume you entirely.

In response to your plea, sucks the skin around your neck once more, groaning against your neck, his voice laced with desire. He begins to press your clit with the pad of his thumb, adding another layer of pleasure to the already intense sensations. The touch is electrifying, causing you to arch your back in response.

"Feels weird," you sob. "Feels... good too... though."

"You'll take it," Madara asserts.

The pleasure builds, the tension mounting with each passing second until you are on the precipice of release. It's a moment of pure surrender, where pleasure reigns supreme, and you are consumed by the overwhelming ecstasy that engulfs you.

Waves of ecstasy wash over you, leaving your legs trembling and weak from the intensity of the sensations. He slips his fingers from your hole and you continue to tremble from the aftermath of the orgasm. you managed to release your from Madara's neck and move away from his hold.

Your legs are trembling around his waist, your cum and arousal soaked the sheets below you, dripping down your ass from your hole. As you open your squeezed-shut eyes, you see Madara take a taste of his fingers, licking a stip up his digits, swallowing your cum and your cheeks burn red. 

Madara almost groans at your taste, so sweet, he can't wait for you to break and split from his cock. Your whimpers and screams of overstimulation are going to be heaven for him. You pull your hands from his grasp as you feel the hold loosening and cover your face. It was an immediate reaction, Madara quickly pulled your hands back above your head. 

"You will not hide from me," Madara commands and your bottom lip trembles as you nod. 

God, your legs fall lip on either side of Madara on the futon and they tremble. Then you felt a big bulbous tip press against your entrance and you arch your back into the pleasuring sensation, a moan slipping past your innocent mouth. All you wanted to do was paw at his chest, and leave scratch marks everywhere, but you couldn't.

"Please... I... want to... touch you," you whispered through your whine.

A humoured chuckle leaves his throat. "As if I'd let a filthy Senju touch me."

You then got flipped around so suddenly, your breasts pushing against the futon, hands still pinned above you, face squished into the pillow. You then felt Madara's mass press down against your back and you let out a soft whimper at the sudden weight. His abs were flush against your back, hands gripping the backs of your own, pressing them into the bed. 

Madara's breath tickled your ear and you wiggled your head at the warm sensation, your core getting wetter, your body trying to squirm away from the imposing hold that he had on you. Madara's hands moved slowly, changing his grip so that one of his hands held both of you over your head, being cautious not to get your hair entangled within the movement. 

A content sigh leaves your mouth when Madara raises his body ever so slightly, trailing his free hand down the expanse of your smooth back before his fingers meet your slick entrance, dripping with your cum.

"You're going to take all of me," he mutters against your ear before taking a nibble at your ear, you let out a gasp at the sudden action.

Then you felt a heavy, throbbing tip press against your clit and you moaned from the small touch. You tried to squirm away from the pleasurable cause but couldn't, he knew you were gonna try to run from his body due to the pleasure. So, he pressed his weight against you once more.

You held your breath when Madara sank his throbbing cock into your spongey walls, his length getting squeezed by every ridge within your soaked cunt. A groan leaves Madara's mouth and a moan from your own as his length nudged the deepest spot within you.

Madara could've busted right there and then, your tight walls constricting him made him tense. You feel so good, and he couldn't wait to take you again and again, to fill you up to the brim with his cum every night. 

Madara moans, relishing in the way your walls clench him, how could he not want to cum inside, you feel so good. His free hand grips your hip and he admires how you have perfect hips to give birth for, for a Senju, you're a perfect wife to breed. 

Madara didn't move, he wanted to relish in on how you desired to cause friction, desired to move against his touch, but couldn't. Madara's cock, prodded so deep in your gummy walls that you whimpered in pleasure, but that didn't stop him from not moving. He was still snug inside.

Hot and heavy kisses trail down from your ear down to the dip of your neck to shoulder and a breathless sigh escaped your parted lips before Madara rolled his hips into yours. A moan slips out of your mouth, his thick length scraping all the sensitive parts of your warm insides.

Madara's knees spread your legs apart so that any advances from you ensured that they would be shut down, so that you remained situated below him, your pretty body that paled in comparison to his frame. As he expected, you couldn't move from his trapping embrace.

His movements became faster, his cock thrusting into the depths of you needy hole as strained moans and whines left your throat. Madara was panting in your ear and an occasional deep groan slipped past his lips, the sounds which made your cunt flutter tightly around his length.

Madara was filling you up to the hilt, his throbbing pink tip hitting that soft, gummy spot in your cunt that caused you to scream out in fulfilment. "Close?" He breathed in a humoured tone, causing you to let out a moan and sigh, body shaking with pleasure.

Your body tried to arch away from the pleasure, not being able to take the strong rolls of Madara's hips, but as you arched your back away, his thrusts only aimed deeper, harder into your G spot. You sobbed out, tears filling your lash line. "Too much, Madara.... S-Slow down.... too much."

"Oh?" he smirked, his hips moving now at a faster pace, loving how your cunt squeezed his cock even though you wanted him to slow down, "It's alright, you can hold out," he coos.

Repetitive moans left your mouth while he pounded into your tight heat. You suddenly had the instinctive urge to press yourself into his length, but you couldn't, his weight was too heavy for you to move against him, and you were utterly hopeless as his thrusts became faster.

"Please, I wanna come," you cry out mewling. 

Your body trembled beneath him and the hold he had on your hands loosened. Your hips were getting held, then, the strength he possessed lifted you onto your knees before a bicep wrapped around your throat, lifting your head. It wasn't a tight grip but the power lifted your head from the futon while you shakily rested your weight on your elbows.

Your back arched heavily, finally being able to sink more into him. "Madara...?" you asked in a hush tone but he didn't reply and you wanted to sob because you just wanted one last thing. "Madara... please... I wan' a kiss, please."

"A kiss, huh?" he groans out. Madara hunches over you, pulling you closer to him and connecting your mouth in a sloppy, wet kiss, forcing his tongue inside your mouth, grunting into you while he swallows your moans. 

"Good, taking me so deep," Madara groaned, pulling away from your mouth and pushing this arch into your back deeper.

He watched your ass ripping again his lower abdomen, watching your cunt with black iris'. Observing how your walks sucked him in, leaving a creamy white rind of your cum and arousal around the base of his cock.

"Making you feel so good, aren't I?" Madara groaned his head tilted forward, sweat beading on his forehead as we watched your fall apart and tremble from his dick, watching your innocence fade away, broken moans slipping past your plump lips.

"Gonna fill you up," Madara groans. "You're taking me so deep, deserve to have my cum."

"'Wanna come, please," you beg, wanting to feel the release, desperate as the tears stream down your flushed cheeks. "Want it so bad."

You clench around his length as he increases his pace, instantly accommodating to the speed but your moans escalate. "Such a filthy Senju," He leaned down and mumbled in your ear chased with a deep moan that stirred your insides clenching around his length.

"Want it so bad!" you whimper, unable to comprehend any thoughts that swelled into your head.

"C'mon darling," he growled and you spasmed around his length as your high washed over you, your legs shaking as his weight pressed down even more than it was. His thrusts didn't slow causing you to whimper in overstimulation, but Madara helped it, his hips continuing to rut into mine, helping you ride out your orgasm as he chased his own.

With a groan, his lips planted against mine once again as his hips slammed into mine, hard, his cum spilling inside you causing you to moan into his kiss. And you felt more of his cum spill into your fertile womb, painting your insides white, you could almost feel your stomach bulging from how much you had of your husband inside you.

Madara slipped his softening length out, and pulled away from the kiss as you slumped to the futon, his eyes chained to the white splotches of silky come that spilled from your gaping cunt, watching with a slight frown as the cum spilled from your cunt. 

You're going to look so good plump with his children. He's going to make sure you get pregnant even if that means having sex morning and night. 

Do not steal, copy, modify, translate or use for ai Reblogs only!

tag list :: @love-eien @enouche @dreaddful @kokomiperla @z8riah

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@clobiss @helenaxh @Tvbox_098 @fullwriterpoemp

[yurinaa-world]

 Even though there are public baths, Axana wouldn’t want to be in the public bath, or the hero’s bath—he would rather bathe with you. It’s far more enjoyable to have you lie in his lap, head lying against his chest, while he relaxes.

The water would ripple as he shifted slightly, drawing you closer, not that there was much space left between you to begin with. His arms would settle around you, holding you as if you were something fragile, something precious, even as he knew well the strength you carried.

There would be no hurry, no need to fill the silence with words. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint drum of his heartbeat beneath your ear—those would be enough. Outside, the world might demand his attention, his duty, his blade. 

The sight of you without clothes (or barely any clothes)  is the only sight he deserves to see.

if you liked this, consider tipping me on ko-fi! it'd mean a lot!

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

❝JEONG YUNHO❞

➾In Which: All of my hard thoughts about Yunho.

❥Jeong Yunho x fem reader

➯a/n: written as fem reader but applies to gn reader as well !didn't put the taglist cause i didn't want to spam people (one post for each member coming in quick ish succession). JESUUUUS YUNHO BIAS WRECKING ME SO HARD THAT THIS IS LONGER THAN JOONGS 😭 he's just such a freak i couldn't stooop ➯other members here <3

(>ᴗ•)genre: smut, headcanon / rant style

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: not grammatically correct i'm just yappin, OMG STAR CALM DOWN WHAT THE F-, piss kink: drankin it - both ways. cnc: yunho likes when reader fights + begs / mocks her for cumming / use of the word rape (which IT IS NOT). ddlg: reader dressing in cute clothes / calling him daddy / being taken care of by him (want that need that real bad thx💞). cunnilingus, sweat, size difference, sex toys, cunnilingus, big dick yun, fingering + almost (?) fisting, spanking, praise and slight degradation, exhibitionism: semi public spaces + getting caught, sharing is caring featuring song mingi, deep throating + throat bulge + throat pie, hardcore overstimulation, hardcore dacryphilia, hardcore sex — he's a hardcore person what can i say

♡masterlist + navigation !♡

18+.MINOR FREE BLOG.

➯ddlg / age play disclaimer: ddlg and age play is a popular kink and most people who are into it are NOT into it simply because it's acting cutesy or young. most people enjoy it because of the comfort of being taken care of / told what to do or the pride of taking care of someone else. it is DIFFERENT AND SEPARATE from age regression and ALWAYS should be, ALWAYS will be on my blog. ➯cnc disclaimer: CONSENT IS SEXY. all parties are and always will be consenting in my stories. cnc is a way to explore power dynamics and it's attractive to many people, it does not "promote s/a", the first c is CONSENSUAL. you should only ever do it with someone who you trust. be safe and stay freaky !!

❝JEONG YUNHO❞ is a rough teasing dom. like... rough, rough. not mean, but teasing. did ya read the warnings ? hope so —

➾pet names include: sweetie, doll, sweetheart, love, good girl, princess. the occasional 'slut'. he likes to be called daddy cause that's what he is !

➾yunho loves taking care of you, in and out of the bedroom. he takes pride in it and in you. he praises you, again — in and outside of sex, for every little thing you do right. we'll focus on the sex stuff kkkk he isn't satisfied unless he makes you beg to stop because you've had enough pleasure. calls you a good girl as you bite back your whines while he sinks his massive girth into you, lets you suck on his thumb to distract you from the stretch — even though he already made you cum over all four of his fingers while his thumb stroked your clit.

➾yunho doesn't do soft sex, so he treats you like a fragile doll before and after to show that he cares; even when he's about to (or just did) fuck you until you literally can't breathe through your tears. he'll only be soft with you when he's giving head — again, before or after; he doesn't mind eating some of his own cum if it means soothing your cunt with his soft, hot tongue. practically making out with your cunt and kissing all over it and sucking on your pussy lips gently while rubbing your shaky thighs.

➾he's especially rough when you're doing cnc. i wrote a whole fic about this, it's stress relief for him; giving him a sense of control as he overpowers you even when you try your hardest. he barely stretches you out, manhandles you like crazy, and fucks you until he says you're done. you can bite, kick, scratch, pull his hair — it makes him harder. it gives him a sick sense of accomplishment when he makes you cum while you're fighting against him (even though he knows you like it just as much as him). he likes mocking you, saying 'aww you like when daddy 'rapes' you' with the cockiest grin on his face.

➾yunho has a hardcore piss kink !! just like seonghwa, he likes when he fucks you so hard you lose control of your bladder but it's way more than that for yunho. he loves drinking your pee, and loves when you do the same for him. the taboo-ness of it makes his cock ache but also something about it being so undeniably personal — he gets to carry you in him and you get to carry him in you ♡

➾if he doesn't finish inside of your cunt, it's down your throat — like ... down, down. he pulls you so your head hangs off the edge of the bed and shoves his cock straight down your throat. it took a looooot of work to even be able to take him and he praises you for that while he chokes you on his dick. rubbing the bulge in your throat as he fucks it, feeling himself moving inside of you, he tells you how proud daddy is of his beautiful princess.

➾he will fuck you wherever and whenever as long as you don't say you're uncomfortable; which you rarely are so — anything is on the table. the bathroom at inkigayo needs to be saged after the things it's witnessed him do to you. the practice room, the recording booth, the fucking elevator even. the members have caught you more than a handful of times and:

➾yunho always makes sure he covers your entire body the second he hears someone approaching, but he never stops. he likes when people catch you. like — yuh-huh, that's right. i get to fuck this pretty girl whenever i please and she loves me enough to let me. talk about a fucking thrill. if any of the members don't turn away fast enough for his liking though; they get a death glare as he continues to pound into you and make you scream his name. well... everyone but his best friend.

➾song mingi is the only man yunho will ever trust enough to even fathom letting him touch you. and if you trust him just as much, your boyfriends best friend is always welcome to stay and join if he catches the both of you. you're starting to think that yunho texts him sometimes to get 'caught' because it's happened more times than you can count. he just loves showing off how good you are for him and how nice he treats you and how sweet you get when he's fucking you into a sobbing mess.

➾i mean it when i say yunho is nastyyy mother fucker (/affectionate, ofc). he licks up your sweat and tears as he fucks you into a blubbering wreck wearing nothing but an adorable little skirt or one of his giant shirts. fucks you on a mold of his cock until you beg for the real thing and then, when he gives it to you; almost makes you regret it as he fucks you to near unconsciousness. he overstimulates you with a vibrator until you piss yourself just so he can drink it. he calls you all kinds of sweet names and then lets 'my slut' slip when you least expect it just to see your eyes widen. he spanks your ass raw when you disobey; which could mean anything from you didn't ask permission before cumming or you didn't eat a full meal.

➾after care might as well be heaven !! all of the softest touches, his fingertips on your chin as he tilts your head back to help you drink, getting cleaned up so gentle it makes your stomach full of butterflies, drowning in your designated aftercare hoodie; one of his, spider-man themed <33

[sylusonychinus]

Its okay if you forget me

Pairings: Sylus x reader and Sylus x MC (from the game)

Warnings: Angst

Part 2

"Is it really okay if you are forgotten?" The question echoed in your mind, a constant, gnawing ache. Sylus' attention, once a steady beam focused on you, now danced erratically, drawn inexorably to her. Miss Huntress. The name tasted like ash on your tongue.

You were his right hand, his confidante. Not just one of the twins, but you. You were the Sheva to his Chris Redfield, always there, anticipating his needs, covering his blind spots, a silent force beside him. You’d weathered gang wars, navigated treacherous alliances, even patched him up after particularly brutal brawls. You were his rock, his anchor. Or so you thought.

Then she arrived. Miss Huntress. A whirlwind of vibrant chaos, she’d breached the walls you’d so meticulously helped build around him. Walls that only you had ever been allowed to breach. The only other person, aside from you, he let his guard down for. The realization stung more than any physical blow.

These days, his routine was dictated by her whims. A call, a text, and he’d be gone, rushing to her side, leaving you to shoulder the burden of his responsibilities. "Handle it," he'd say, his voice already distant, his mind clearly elsewhere. "It's just paperwork." Just paperwork. As if the intricate web of Onychinus's operations was "just paperwork."

You watched him, a silent observer, as he showered her with attention, with a tenderness he rarely displayed in public, a tenderness he’d once reserved for you. The stolen glances, the shared jokes, the way his eyes lit up when she entered a room – it was a constant, agonizing reminder of your diminishing importance. Are you always going to be the second choice? The question clawed at your insides, a relentless torment.

One particularly brutal week, it became too much. Sylus had been summoned to her side yet again, leaving you to deal with a volatile situation involving a rival gang encroaching on Onychinus territory. You’d worked tirelessly, negotiating, threatening, strategizing, until exhaustion gnawed at your bones. You’d finally managed to secure a fragile truce, a victory hard-won.

You found him later, at one of their usual haunts, a dimly lit bar in the neutral zone. He was laughing, his arm draped casually around her shoulders. She was regaling him with a story, her eyes sparkling, and he was completely engrossed. You stood there, unnoticed for a moment, the weight of your exhaustion and the crushing weight of your insignificance pressing down on you.

You turned and walked away.

No dramatic scene, no tearful confrontation. Just a quiet retreat. You went back to your apartment, packed a bag, and left. No note, no goodbye. Just an empty space, mirroring the emptiness inside you. After all, she was his kitten now. He wouldn’t even notice you were gone. You were just…forgotten. And maybe, just maybe, that was the only way to stop the pain.

@/cafekitsune for dividers

[literaila]

are you stupid?

gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: you come home injured and satoru isn't cool with it

warnings: literal hurt/comfort, descriptions of a wound bad enough to warrant stitches, little angst, fluff, slightly ooc satoru

last part | next part

*

year six.

“are you stupid?” 

your hands are frozen to the touch, barely able to grasp the doorknob when his voice comes from nowhere at all. 

you almost don't notice it when satoru opens the door. you have to blink to focus on him, but by the time you do, you're already falling against the empty space in front of you. 

satoru is quick to catch your arm, righting you before you break your nose on the hardwood.

“that’s my line,” you tell him, slightly coughing--it sends shocks down your spine and you shiver. you shake his hand off of you, trying to walk forward, but there's a wall of a man standing there. you blink at him. "hey, satoru. would you mind moving?” 

“i could smell the blood from down the block,” he says, his voice rougher than usual, completely still. “what did you do?” 

you roll your eyes, waving a hand (even though it makes you a bit woozy). “there’s no way you could smell that. it’s not even that bad.” 

“it’s dripping down your shirt.” 

you pout, looking down. "i just washed this, too.” 

it is a lot of blood, you realize suddenly. you would definitely get some looks if you were walking down the street in public. 

still, you don't feel all that banged up. it's not really your fault that you were slightly distracted when that curse snuck up on you... or at least, you're pretty sure it's not. 

satoru, shaking his head--maybe finally realizing that you're fine--moves out of the way, holding the door open for you. "what did you do?"

you step through, using the wall to keep you steady. “how do you know i did anything?” 

you finally look at satoru, even though he's fading from your eyeline, in and out of focus. he's not wearing his blindfold or his glasses, and he's got a frown that rivals one of megumi's at the moment. 

it makes you laugh, just a little, as you try to shake the shoes from your feet. 

he was probably sleeping, you think. usually, you'd probably feel... at least slightly bad. but right now? you don't even care. 

you're just happy to see him, right in front of you like your own personal greeting card. you've only been gone a day, but satoru feels much further away than that. 

especially with his frown and his furrowed eyebrows. he's in a mood, you remember, frowning. 

“why are you bleeding, y/n?” 

you cough again, tapping his chest as you move past him. “jeez, lighten up, satoru. i’m good,” you say this as you limp down the hallway, wincing with every step. 

you don't get to watch satoru's eye roll, but it takes less than a second for an arm to wrap under your shoulders, satoru forcing your weight onto him, and he practically carries you through the house until you reach the kitchen, where he sets you on the countertop. 

he's looking at you like you're a fragile baby bird. 

and he doesn't bother to ask--of course he doesn't--before he lifts your shirt from your abdomen, it slightly sticking (due to the blood) before it rolls up. 

satoru's eyes widen as he inspects you. "woah," he whispers, paling just a little bit. 

you don't look down with him--because that's a terrible idea--but you watch satoru. 

you can barely feel it, actually. it's basically just a minor cut, nothing too--

you try not to gasp when satoru presses a finger near your ribs, not directly touching the wound, but far too close to it. it would be embarrassing to double over in pain, wouldn't it?

“is it bad?” you wonder, breathlessly, feeling a bit light-headed. 

satoru’s head snaps up, “you didn’t look?” 

“i was a bit distracted. the curse wasn't gracious enough to give me the chance to grab a couple of bandaids, the bastard."

“how did you even manage to do this?” 

your eyes trail down unconsciously, but all you can see is your bunched-up shirt--drenched in blood. yeah, you'll probably have to burn it. 

satoru is looking up and down, his face entirely disgusted, nose scrunched up and eyes avoiding your own. 

it makes you laugh a little--because you're very familiar with satoru and his opposition to anything humanly--which then makes you wince with him. 

it doesn't hurt that bad, really. 

“can you get the first aid kit?” you ask him, pushing his hands away from you and your cut. but as soon as satoru isn't right there to lean on, you begin to tilt forward. 

satoru immediately resumes his position as your pillar. “are you kidding? i’m calling shoko.” 

“i know how to do stitches, satoru. it’s late.” 

“you need, like, a stomach replacement for that.” 

you roll your eyes, leaning even further into him. at least when you're pressed up against his chest, you don't have to breathe. “you’re so dramatic.” 

satoru is still frowning. “doesn’t that hurt?” 

“nope,” you lie, sitting up and pushing his hands away again. “i’m running on adrenaline. it’s not that deep, anyway.” 

he gives you a hard look. 

you sigh. “what’s wrong with you? you can drop the act.” 

“what act?” 

“the ‘i’m the caretaker’ act.” 

“what if i came home with a hole in my stomach?" satoru's jaw is clenched. "what would you do?” 

“i can't think about hypotheticals right now, satoru,” you whine. “please get the first aid kit?” 

“should i get megumi too? might as well teach him how to stitch you up, he's getting to that age, you know.” 

“funny,” you say, dryly. “do you want me to bleed out on our counter, or…?” 

satoru sighs, but he walks out of the kitchen a moment later. hopefully to save you from dying. 

you exhale, feeling your chest tighten. you can't feel much, for the most part. but then there's that feeling every couple of seconds, a memory of the whole thing playing out-- except your head is fuzzy, and everything looks sort of… colorful right now. 

you can’t even remember how you got here. or the last time a curse managed to actually injure you. 

it feels a bit juvenile, really. 

especially because you’re in no position to be taking care of yourself—but in no world would you wake up shoko in the middle of the night for this. in no world would you wake up anyone, except for satoru, to deal with you, with your blood and your stubbornness. 

god, you hate pain. you hate having to wash blood out of your clothes, and you hate sitting here by yourself. 

you slump down. only seconds have gone by, but it feels like so much more than that. the wound burns, you think, in an unnatural way. 

you probably got poisoned and you're probably going to die and satoru is going to stomp on your grave, and--

“do we even have enough gauze to cover that up?” satoru is asking you when he walks back in. he's wearing nothing but a t-shirt and shorts, you realize, watching him. 

his eyes are stern, focused, and the rest of him is morose. you should be able to gaze at him, to stare--but you can't because your vision has spots in it, and everything about satoru is too hard right now. 

he’s been like this for days. casual but stuck—like he can’t find it in him to laugh about anything. his face has been a field of lines, with no breaks in between, and his eyes have been greyer than they should be, a sort of dim color that you hate. 

satoru's eyes are wild, usually. they are blue fires and the vast expanse of the universe. 

but not right now, when he's looking at you like this. and not this week--because he's barely been looking at you at all. 

and it's unfortunate not just because you miss him, but because you're not as good at casting it all away as he is. you can't shove things aside and make light out of the darkest situations. 

you can't fill his role, and yet you keep trying to. 

it's an inevitable cycle of failing and never being enough. 

“i’ll just cut up your shirt if there’s not enough,” you tell him, putting on a smile so he can’t tell how badly you want to start crying.

is this real pain, you wonder, or a dream? 

“use your own shirts.”

you pout. “but yours are the best quality.” 

satoru rolls his eyes, again, and begins to wipe off all of the well-used tools you have. a needle you've had for years, stolen from jujutsu high, and thread you can't remember taking. 

“what are you doing?” you try to grab the instruments from his hands, clumsily, almost cutting yourself again in the process. 

satoru is quick to hold them away, keeping them up and out of your reach. not that you were going to try very hard anyway. 

“i’m going to stitch you up," he says, like he's scolding you. 

“you don’t know how.” 

“please,” satoru scoffs, shaking his head. he gets a cloth wet under the facet, and then holds it towards you. “i probably learned how to do this before you were even born."

“when you were nine months old?” 

“clean it.” 

you listen, holding the cloth to your wound and still not looking down. it feels sort of ticklish, and also like you're being tortured. 

“you don’t have to,” you tell satoru after a moment, breathing through the nausea that comes with the pain. “i know you’re squeamish around blood.” 

“i am not squeamish.” 

you grin at him. “sure.” 

satoru looks up, and finally, his face relaxes, just a little bit. you can even see the workings of a smile on his mouth—the first you’ve gotten in days. 

he shakes his head. “i’ll be fine. sit up.” 

“seriously,” you say, again, catching his hand just as he’s about to touch you. “i can do it.” 

“seriously, i’m not letting you. your hands are shaking.” 

you look down, releasing his wrist. “oh.” 

“yeah, oh.” 

satoru kneels so he can see your cut properly, his face narrowed in concentration. you focus on him as he touches the tender skin by the wound, featherlight fingertips trailing across your skin.

you shiver and apologize under your breath. 

he hasn't been this close in days. 

“does it hurt now?” he asks you, voice so quiet that it almost echoes through the house. 

“not really,” but you look up towards the ceiling. somehow you know it’s going to be worse if you watch. 

“i can call—“ 

“no, satoru. i already told you, if you don’t want to do it then i—“ 

“okay, i’m doing it. i’m doing it.” 

you close your eyes when he punctures your skin, waiting for the feeling to subside. it's just a prick, but you still have to think about getting the mail, going to the store, taking a shower after this, or maybe just crawling out from your own skin and becoming a spirit.

but satoru seems to recognize this, maybe from your face, and he asks, “what kind of curse was it?” 

“dunno?” you breathe out, mapping a picture on the ceiling in your mind. 

“what do you mean?” 

“i can't remember.” 

satoru looks up. “what?”

“it’s all a blur,” you say, wanting to shove his hands off of you. you've been trained to kick people away, so it's really not your fault. “i think i won though.” 

“i don’t think this is winning.” 

“keep going,” you tell him, instead of arguing. “i’m fine.” 

satoru tsks but does as you say, resuming the smooth movements of suturing. any normal day, you'd probably want to watch his hands work, want to inspect his job and make fun of him for the way he holds his breath while looking at an open wound.

“how were the kids?” you ask him, after a moment. 

satoru breathes out, nodding. his hair is messy, his face slightly wrinkled from sleeping still. “they missed you.” 

“it was only a day. did megumi get that book report back yet? he was worried about it before i left, but i told him—“ 

“i missed you.” 

you look down, forgetting about pain or blood. “what?” 

“i miss you,” he says, this time, like it’s any different. satoru keeps his eyes down, his hands moving. but there's a guilty look on his face--something that tells you he didn't mean to say anything. 

“satoru…” 

“are you still mad at me?” 

you tilt your head. “mad? why would i be mad at you?” 

“you haven’t been coming to bed,” satoru answers, obviously.

your eyes widen. “satoru—“ and there’s a sharp pain in your side. 

“sorry,” he murmurs, softly, at your flinch. 

“i’m not mad at you,” you tell him, trying not to double over. your voice is high-pitched and breathy. you feel like a child—ridiculous and foolish—but it doesn’t stop you from speaking. “i was never mad at you.” 

“you weren't?” 

“you asked me for space. i was just giving it to you.” 

satoru pauses, looking up at you. 

“i… i didn’t want to push you into talking to me. i thought—i don’t know, that maybe things had changed. i mean, we don’t have to…” you wince, and it’s not because of the pain this time. “to sleep together. or in the same room. if you don’t want that anymore—“ 

“no." 

"no what?" 

he shakes his head. "i want that."

“satoru, you’re not going to hurt my feelings—“ 

“i was wrong," he cuts in, voice rough. you don't think you've ever heard him say those words before. "i don’t want space, i never did.” 

you blink at him, brows furrowing. “then why did you…” 

“i—“ he stops. looks around. “does it hurt?” 

and you know, just as you know most things about satoru, that he can't continue. that the truth is going to cut just a little bit too deep--deeper than your injury--and he can't bring himself to say it. 

so you only take another deep breath, pushing away the feeling of your skin being patched back together, and nod. 

“a little,” you say softly. 

an unspoken understanding passes between the two of you, and breathing gets a little bit easier all of a sudden. 

maybe it wasn't the pain. maybe it was just the tension, the build-up of days apart. 

it makes sense, even to your slightly fogged-over mind. 

and then the two of you sit there while satoru patches you up, sharing a glance every couple of seconds—a glance with so many words, so tender and feeling that it succeeds in making you even dizzier. blood loss has nothing on the way satoru makes you feel. 

you can't see his hands--don't dare to--but you can feel the softness of them, the care he's taking in stitching you up. 

if it were any day, you would laugh at him for it. but right now, you just accept it. bask in it. 

“how’s that feel?” satoru whispers to you, after he’s tied it off and wiped the blood from your skin. 

you don't bother to look down. really, you don't want to see the freshly sutured line on your abdomen, but also, you just want to keep looking at him. 

it's much more gratifying, at least.

“good," you say, voice stronger, easier. "is it going to scar?” 

satoru scoffs. “if you wanted untouched skin then we should’ve called shoko—“ 

“shut up,” you interrupt. “i’m not listening to the medical advice of someone who’s never gotten a scratch in his life.” 

“i let you scratch me.” 

“well, obviously, i’m the exception,” you smile at him, exhausted and sweaty and still a little out of it—but home. with him. 

and this time satoru actually smiles back. 

it’s a bizarre thing, his smile. the first one you’ve gotten in days and it wakes you up immediately. almost like realizing you’ve been in the dark for weeks, just getting a glimpse of the light. 

he's a peek into something more--unearthly. if the closest thing you get to divinity is satoru, then you won't complain.

“you okay?” you ask him, but you’re only teasing. 

“that’s my line,” he says. 

“you sure?” 

satoru leans towards you, forehead against yours. “i’m sure.” 

you sit there for a moment. satoru is usually the one clinging to you, but tonight you feel like if he moves away you might never get him back. 

so you sit there, make sure to hold him to you, secure with your hands wrapped around his biceps, his arms grazing against yours as he leans against the counter. 

you're probably a mess right now--your skin stained with blood that shouldn't be outside your body, your face covered in dirt, your hair and clothes drenched in sweat and rain. but satoru doesn't seem to mind, so you don't think about it too hard. 

he deserves it, at least, for making ridiculous assumptions. you have to get him back somehow, after all. 

after a minute, or two, or maybe even three, you clear your throat. “great. i’m alive, you’re… less annoying than usual. let’s go to bed.” 

“‘less?’” satoru gapes at you, but his laughter is unmistakable. 

“yeah, i know," you say, feigning shock, "i was surprised too.” 

he flicks your forehead but you’re still smiling at him. 

“okay,” satoru whispers, leaning back. “bedtime.” 

you rub at the spot around your wound one more time, already feeling the days of sore skin and itchy muscles, and then you push satoru so you can hop off of the counter. 

“hey,” he says, suddenly, stopping you. his voice is quick, almost lost. but his hands wrap around your wrists, keeping them between the two of you so you can't escape. and satoru's eyes are on your face, flickering between the different points of your skin, looking like he's just realized that he's lost something.

you raise a brow, but don't push back against his chest or try to pry his hands away. “what?” 

satoru swallows, still watching you. 

his eyelashes are long enough to touch his skin, and his eyes are blue enough to take up the whole world. you want to grin at the saturation of him--so much brighter than you've seen him in days--but you refrain. you don't want to scare him away. 

but you're not so eager to move. it's easy to wait on satoru, really--to wait for his words, to let him collect his thoughts--because you've only spent nine years studying his face. you've only admired the slope of his nose and the tilt of his chin since you were sixteen, and there's much more to be discovered. 

so staring at him is simple. especially when there's so much to look at. 

you have plenty of unmarked territory you need to take over. 

you keep a slight smile on your face while you wait, and eventually, satoru groans, hanging his head back. 

“what?” you repeat, laughing just a little. 

“can you stop looking at me like that?” 

“like what?” you nudge your head against his chin, and satoru glares at you. 

“i’m trying to be serious.” 

“oh, okay,” you try to push away your smile, but you can't. it's glued where it is. “i’m serious.” 

“you’re not.” 

“what is it, satoru? i’m listening.” 

his eyes meet yours, again, and you almost flinch. 

everything about satoru is forceful, except for the way he looks at you. the way his eyes relax, his entire face falling when you're both eye to eye. it's a look you've only observed on one person, in only one particular moment. 

and, you think, all of a sudden, it might be your favorite look. 

but you're still fed up with waiting. you're tired of his consideration, his contemplative eyes. you want satoru back--with his ridiculous laughter and stupid jokes. you want him irritating the sanity out of you and simultaneously bringing you to life. 

you don't tell him that though, because in this moment you'll take what you can get. 

any version of satoru is better than none at all. you’ve learned that the hard way. 

“hey,” he says, one more time. his smile is unusual, a frightened little thing. “i love you.” 

you freeze. 

your face falls flat, thinking of the words in a million different ways. you might've misheard him--but you're so locked in on him that it seems impossible. 

at once, you consider exactly what he means, so many different variations of the same thing. 

does he love you like your parents did, always too much but never enough?

does he love you like you love megumi and tsumiki—like your life depends on it? like you’d be wrecked without them? 

or does satoru love you like you love him? does he love you like it’s breathing? like there’s never been a choice in the matter? 

but, it's simple. a beat passes, three seconds of contemplation--just enough for the words to ring true throughout your body. 

the way he’s looking at you is enough to answer any question you have. 

satoru loves you like a promise, and nothing less. 

“you idiot,” you say, a sudden, day-breaking smile on your face. “don’t you think i know that?"

*

"should we wake them up?" tsumiki asks, walking up behind megumi, staring down at you both. she's rubbing her eyes, her hair slightly messy.

megumi considers it for a moment.

neither of them have woken up like this in a while. you and gojo are getting better at falling asleep in bed instead of on the couch.

but, at this point, megumi thinks that it's probably a habit. or just to annoy him.

gojo's face is shoved into your chest and your hands are tangled in his hair. the both of you have silly smiles on your faces, and seriously. how do you both manage to fall asleep in such uncomfortable positions.

"no," megumi whispers, yawning. "i can make breakfast. mom probably got home pretty late."

"okay," tsumiki says, still staring.

megumi rolls his eyes and walks away. honestly, what did he do to deserve getting two idiots for parents?

*

next part | series masterlist

[moontabi]

YANDERE! SU BONG/THANOS ALPHABET

choi su bong/thanos x fem! reader

warnings: DARK themes including dubious consent, hard drug abuse, forced drugging, kidnapping (thanos keeps reader locked in his apartment), accidental physical assault, murder, talk of suicide and death, sexual content, angst, stockholm syndrome, mind breaking, misogyny, mention of baby trapping/breeding, some fluff if you’d call it that, etc. this can be triggering content proceed with caution. do not engage if you’re under the age of 18. takes place outside of the games

a/n: darkest thing i’ve written by far. took me a bit but i’m happy with its outcome. potentially could start an alphabet series (not just yandere) so if yall have any suggestions lmk!

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get? 

Affection with Su bong is sweaty and overwhelming. There’s nothing tender or soft about it—every action he takes is laced with urgency and possessives. His hands are always on you—he can’t resist touching you, not even for a second.

Su bong holds onto you tightly, as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world, whether his palms are gripping your ass, your waist, your throat, your hair, he’s always touching you in some way if he’s with you.

Even in public, he crowds your space, fingers splayed low on your hips, tugging you back into him whenever you try to step away. He talks close, voice a little slurred, teeth dragging against your ear when he calls you his.

Sometimes a warning more than a term of endearment.

“So goddamn beautiful, Señorita.”

“You’re my girl. All fuckin’ mine.”

Su bong marks you up without shame. Hickeys bloom like bruises across your throat, your collarbones, your stomach, the insides of your thighs—trails of ownership, reminders for you and anyone else watching. If someone stares too long, he’ll tighten his grip, jaw tense, nails biting into your skin like he’s daring you to entertain the idea of anyone else.

And when he’s high, spun out, or paranoid, it only intensifies—his affection multiplying by a thousand percent. He kisses you too fiercely, too often, speaking rapidly, his breath heavy between slurred declarations and possessive whispers. He craves to feel your desire for him. He needs evidence that you’re still his. Because if he senses you pulling away—even just a fraction—he’ll become manic.

He’ll weep into your neck after making love, demanding you promise repeatedly that you won’t leave. And if you hesitate—if you flinch—he’ll interpret it as betrayal.

“Say it again. Say you’re mine.”

“If I lose you, I’m nothing in this bullshit world. Don’t you get that?”

His love is a suffocating grip. And he thinks that’s romantic.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling? 

Su bong isn’t a fighter by nature—but when it’s about you, he snaps fast. One wrong look, one hand where it shouldn’t be, and he’s already swinging. Wild and twitchy, eyes red, knuckles already raw, lip split open, high as hell in the middle of the night. He’d absolutely kill for you—then crash hard after, vomiting from the rush, crouched in an alley with shaking hands and your name slurred into the phone.

“Fuck…I think I killed him.”

“Bastard thought he could touch what’s mine.”

“Did it for you, baby.”

If you react in a negative way, he’ll blame or threaten you.

“Don’t play innocent now. You should’ve stopped him from puttin’ his hands on you.”

“This? this is your fault too.”

“You want that on your conscience? Huh?”

You’d pause—stomach twisting with guilt.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You’ll stay with me right doll? you have to stay…if you know what’s good for you.”

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them? 

He mocks you, but it’s gentle—twisted affection coated in sugar. “Still tryna be tough?” he croons, crouched next to the bed, eyes wide, lips forming a lazy smile. He caresses your hair as if you’re something fragile, something that belongs to him.

“That’s cute, princess.”

It started the night he didn’t let you leave his apartment after a hook up.

Su bong gripped your jaw, fingers pressing just hard enough to sting. A sleeping pill sat on his tongue before he pushed it onto yours.

“Open up, my girl.”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

And when you tried to turn your head away, he just laughed and forced it in anyway, hand clamped over your mouth until you swallowed.

Su bong kisses your tears while you sob and beg to leave. He calls it love, unwavering, as if your pain is part of the promise.

“You just don’t get it yet, my flower.”

“Gonna take care of you. Gonna fix everything. Just gotta stop fightin’ me, baby.”

You recoil from his touch, and he just stares at you, wounded—like you’re the one being cruel.

“You’ll understand soon.” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with ring-heavy fingers.

“You need this, you need me.”

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will? 

You don’t get a say—not really. Everything’s on his terms, his timing, his rules. You cry, you beg, you fight, but it doesn’t change a thing. Su bong only pulls you closer, murmuring in that slurred, syrupy voice while your body stiffens under his.

“I know flower, I know.” he breathes against your face, his grin sleazy, high, fucked-up.

“You don’t think you need this yet, but you will.”

He calls you his little addiction. His favorite high. Says nothing hits like you do—not the pills, not the coke, not the girl’s he used to waste time on. Says they were just noise. You’re the fix. The one that sinks into his bloodstream and stays.

Says being wanted like this should turn you on.

That it’s love—pure and raw.

“You keep me fucking alive, girl. I couldn’t quit you even if I tried.”

At first, you cried. Fought. Told him no. But it didn’t matter. He wore you down with kisses, drugs, and slow-spoken promises, feeding you just enough comfort to confuse your fear. Then he started getting you high, too.

Whispering love into your skin while your body melted into his, needy and too dazed to run.

Now you don’t know where the dread ends and the craving begins.

“Told you baby. You need me. You feel it now, don’t you?”

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling? 

At first, he’ll act like he doesn’t give a shit. Shrug off the look in your eyes with a muttered, “Don’t get all soft now, girl. I just like the way you bounce on my dick.”

But it’s a lie, and not even a convincing one. Especially when he starts getting more possessive—goes tense when you pull away, grabs at you after sex, refusing to let you leave the bed.

Once things are official between you two, it only deepens. His touches grow heavier, his stares longer. Something in him shifts, making him more dangerous now that you’re his.

Su bong doesn’t talk much when he’s sober. Not about real things. But when he’s high, when the drugs are still hot in his chest and the world finally shuts up, that’s when it spills—messy, slurred, honest.

“You don’t even know what you do to me, baby.”

“My girl. My fuckin’ girl.”

He says it like a spell, over and over.

His. His. His.

“I’d be straight up lost without you, pretty girl.”

So no, he doesn’t hide it. Not really. His actions say everything you need to know.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back? 

At first, resistance doesn’t scare him—it thrills him.

You shove at his chest, spit curses through your teeth, and he just laughs—breathless, pupils blown, high as hell. “There she is,” he pants, catching your wrists and pinning you down.

“Knew you were a crazy bitch.”

He’s already grinding into you, hard and needy, his breath hot against your jaw.

“Keep yellin’ at me.”

“Shit just makes me wanna break you more.”

“Actin’ like you don’t love this. Like you don’t melt for me every time.”

But when you pull away one too many times, the switch flips. The high crashes down all at once and suddenly the adrenaline turns to ache.

His face twists, something raw flashing behind his eyes when you flinch. “What’s with that look, girl?” he mutters, quieter now.

His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. Just trails his hands down your arms, fingers shaky,

“Why are you crying, flower?”

Then softer, voice breaking right against your lips,

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape? 

To Su bong, it’s not a game, it’s a test.

A very fucked up one.

He wants you to try and run. Not because he’s letting you go, but because it gives him a reason to chase. A reason to drag you back and remind you who you belong to.

There’s a sick thrill in it for him watching you scramble, breathless and panicked, slamming your fists on the door he already locked.

He lets you hide and run just long enough to get your hopes up. Then he corners you, catches you like it’s all part of the dance. And when you cry, when you scream, when you claw at him with shaking hands, he just laughs, breathless—eyes glazed, almost high off of your fear.

“You’re cute when you’re desperate, doll.”

“But you’re not goin’ anywhere. Never were.”

The more you try and escape, the more it proves how badly he needs to keep you his.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them? 

It happens on one of his worst nights—when the drugs have him half-gone, eyes glassy, mouth hanging open. He’s twitchy, pacing, rambling under his breath like the walls are closing in. You try to calm him, but he’s already spiraling, too far from sober to recognize your voice.

“You’re lookin’ at me weird,” he says suddenly, heavily slurring his words.

“What—you scared now, baby? That it?”

You shake your head, but it doesn’t matter. Su bong isn’t really seeing you in this state.

“You think I don’t know what you’re planning?” he growls, stepping in closer, grabbing your wrist hard—too hard. His fingers dig into your skin, and when you cry out, he jerks you forward.

“You gonna leave me? That what this is? Gonna run off while I’m too drugged up to notice?”

You try to pull away. That only pisses him off more.

Then—he shoves you. Not across the room. Not dramatic. But hard enough to send you stumbling into the table. Your hip hits the corner. The pain shoots up your side. Your breath catches. You look at him, stunned.

And he stops in place.

The rage drains from his face all at once, replaced with wide-eyed horror.

“…Shit.”

He’s on the ground before you can even back away, on his knees, hands ghosting over where you’re hurt.

“I didn’t mean it, flower. Please. Please don’t look at me like that. I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I’m sick, I know I’m sick. You’re the only one that makes me feel real.”

“I’m trying so hard to love you right,” he whispers. “I’m sorry Im such a monster.”

He keeps apologizing, crying now, calling you his girl, his flower, his everything, holding you so tight it hurts. He tells you he’s nothing without you. That he’ll die if you leave. That this is love, even if it’s messy.

And the worst part? He believes it.

And maybe, in your lowest moments, part of you does too.

Because hell isn’t just the pain he causes. It’s the part of you that still reaches for him.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling? 

Su bong doesn’t just want to keep you—he wants to build a life with you. Twisted, drug-hazy, obsessive love, yeah, but real to him. A future where he doesn’t have to beg you anymore because you’ve finally stopped fighting it.

He talks about it when he’s high (which is always)—muttering about kids with your eyes, a world where you wear his last name and never even look at another man. Not like he’d let you now anyway.

He wants that picture perfect family with you so bad it rots him. And yeah, he knows deep down it’s a fantasy—kind of hard to raise kids through the haze of pills and powder.

But that doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t dull the way he clings to you, convinced you’re the only thing holding the dream together.

He says he’ll clean up. Says he’ll be better for you.

“Soon.”

His hand rests on your stomach like he’s already put something there.

“Gonna tie you to me for good. Dont you want my babies, flower?”

Baby-trapping isn’t a threat—it’s a plan. The fantasy he spirals into when he’s got you pinned beneath him, mumbling about love and forever. Breeding you is how he makes sure you stay. But honestly, he wouldn’t let you go either way—kid or no kid. If you’re his, you’re his completely.

He wants forever. Not just loyalty, but devotion. Not just control, but your heart. And if he has to get you addicted to him first, break you down and build you back up again—then so be it.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope? 

Jealousy for him is a blaze—intense, uncontrollable, and impossible to ignore. He doesn’t just get jealous; he wears it like a badge, showing it through many behaviours.

When he lashes out, it’s unfiltered—sometimes words, sometimes actions, always a warning that you’re his and no one else gets to have you.

When pushed, he won’t hesitate to do whatever it takes—crossing lines most wouldn’t even think to approach—to keep you tied to him. It’s not just rage; it’s a brutal, all-consuming need that drives him to destruction, pain, even death. In his mind, you’re his, and nothing else matters.

He’ll do anything to keep you close before someone else gets the chance. Even if that means beating a man bloody or bashing his skull open without a second thought.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling? 

We already know about Su bong’s clinginess—how he sticks to you like glue—but there’s a softer edge to it sometimes, too. When the drugs mellow him out or he’s had one of his rare moments of peace, he gets sweet. Almost boyish. Puppy like. Kisses all over your face, muttering half-coherent praises.

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen,” he’ll coo, mouth brushing your eyelids, your cheeks, your jaw. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

They’re sloppy, lingering kisses—his hands never still, always pawing at your waist or winding into your hair. He wants to feel you fall apart, wants you pliant under his mouth, some kind of proof he’s doing something right.

It’s dark, too—his love more dependence than anything else—but in those moments, it’s almost unbearably gentle. And maybe, just maybe, you genuinely believe he can love you soft.

Even if the next minute he’s gripping your throat and whispering loving threats into your skin, he still ends it with a sweet, tender kiss.

He even gets your name tattooed on him—permanent proof that you’re his girl.

And his shitty rap music? Every verse is soaked with you—his inspiration, his addiction.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling? 

Su bong doesn’t court you—at least, not in any sane or traditional way. But he tries, in that cracked, chaotic way only he can.

When you first started hooking up, it wasn’t just a good fuck for him—not really. Even though he couldn’t say it to you at first. He was already obsessed.

Already writing for you. Lyrics scribbled on receipts, club bathroom stalls, even across his forearm in Sharpie when he’s too high to care.

Filthy bars and bleeding verses, some so raw they sting to read. Every line circles back to you. He didn’t hide it either—rapping them at you in that teasing tone, smirking as you roll your eyes.

He brought you things, too. Offerings. A silver chain, lipstick he swore was your color, one of his rings still warm from his finger or even an earring pulled right out from his ear while you were lying in his bed.

“Here,” he said, pressing it into your hand with vape smoke curling from his lips.

“Suits my girl.”

After he has you, though—really has you, locked away from the world—Su Bong’s idea of romance only gets more warped.

He still thinks he’s wooing you. Still thinks he’s earning your love.

He still raps for you—sometimes plays your old favourite songs, even plays them loud through blown-out speakers, watching your face for a reaction.

“See?”

“Every word I spit, it’s always been you, girl.”

He still brings you gifts too, band tees he’s worn to death, a scratched-up mixtape he burned himself, even pieces of your old life he swiped long before he took you away from it all. Your perfume. A dress he liked on your curves. Something you left behind. Things he calls treasures.

The greatest treasure to him though is his devotion to you. He presses your hand to his chest, forcing you to feel the frantic rhythm beneath.

“Feel that? That’s yours. Always was yours.”

To Su bong, courting means proving no one else could ever love you like he does. No one would bleed, starve, or burn for you the way he already has.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else? 

Yes and no.

To everyone else, Su bong appears to be nothing more than a washed-up ex-rapper with a bad drug habit. He’s loud, brash, full of talk and tattoos—easy to underestimate, even easier to overlook. Just another washed up loser with too many rings and not enough hits.

But when the doors close and it’s just you two, he’s even more unstable. All the madness is channeled into you, into this distorted version of possession he believes is true love.

His true self is ready to tear through everything—himself included—just to keep you near. The world sees a mess, a punchline in silver chains.

But you see the man underneath and he doesn’t care who else sees it, so long as you’re his.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling? 

Punishment, to Su bong, isn’t just consequence, it’s intimacy. If you lie, disobey or try to leave him he takes it personal. He says he’s teaching you a lesson. Reminding you of your place.

Sometimes it’s emotional. The cold shoulder, days of silence, him pacing the room high out of his mind while you beg him to talk. He’ll ignore your tears until he breaks—until he’s dragging you into his lap, saying you made him act like this. That you need to stop scaring him.

“You think I like being like this?”

“You scared the fuck outta me. Had me thinking you were gonna run off with some weak motherfucker who doesn’t even know how to keep you.”

“Just be a good girl and stay put.”

But other times, it’s physical. A grip too tight, fingers around your throat, fucking you like he’s trying to erase the part of you that ever defied him. He’ll call it “reclaiming what’s his.” A reminder. He doesn’t stop when you’re begging him to, only slows down when he sees your fear.

Apologies slur like usual, kisses trembling against marked skin.

“You made me do it,”

“But I forgive you, flower. Don’t make me have to punish you again.”

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling? 

Su bong doesn’t chain you to a wall, but he does keep you cut off. No phone. No internet. No way to reach the outside world. He says it’s for your safety, but it’s really about control.

“You don’t need all that shit,”

“You’ve got me. What more you want?”

He’s not strict about everything—he lets you move around the house, pick what you wear, even blast music if he’s in a good mood. But the second you act like you miss the world he took you from, He’s immediately pissed off.

“What, you miss the people who didn’t give a fuck about you?”

“I took you away ‘cause I care. ‘Cause no one else ever did.”

“I saved you.”

Patience: How patient are they with their darling? 

Su bong’s patience is a ticking bomb.

At first, he tells himself he can take it—grinning through that hazy, too-high smile,

“S’alright, baby. You’ll get it soon enough.”

But his patience is also paper thin.

The second you push too far—pull away, snap back or even look at him with anything but surrender—it starts to crack a little bit more. You’ll hear it in the sudden stillness, in the way his voice drops into something colder

“I’ve been so fuckin’ patient, flower. Why are you making me beg for what’s already mine?”

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

If you leave or die, the pain would consume him entirely. The weight of losing you would crush him, twisting his mind into dark, desperate places. He wouldn’t find relief in drugs alone—he’d spiral faster, drowning in his own torment until the only escape he sees is a final, irreversible one.

In his broken state, he’d likely throw himself off a bridge—an act born not from courage, but from the unbearable ache of losing the one thing that tethered him to life. It wouldn’t be about giving up; it would be about ending the pain that no drug or time could ever heal.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go? 

Never. Su bong doesn’t feel guilt—he rewrites reality until he’s the hero. In his mind, he saved you. Isolating you wasn’t a crime, it was love.

“You don’t get it now, but you will one day and you’ll thank me.”

He counts on Stockholm syndrome—waits for the shift, that slow collapse from resistance to reliance. And it doesn’t take much. You give in so easy, let him crawl into your head and make a home there. He ruins you with such commitment it’s almost beautiful.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)? 

You guessed Su bong’s got some kind of mommy issues, with the way he talks about wanting to make her proud—like he was only ever worth something when he was making her look good.

Maybe that’s why he thinks love has to be earned. Or taken.

It’s like you aren’t just someone he wants—you’re proof. Proof he’s not useless. That someone can need him enough to stay.

To him, that’s not wrong. That’s how he was taught love works after all.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves? 

Every moment you shut down feels like a failure to him, like he’s losing control. He’ll snap at first, call you dramatic, tell you to stop acting like a brat.

But almost every time, it ends the same—with him holding you close, voice low and eyes glassy.

“Didn’t mean to make you sad, baby.”

“You know I just want you to love me back right?”

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere? 

Su bong doesn’t fit the mold of a traditional yandere—he’s not quiet, calculating, or sweet on the surface. He’s messy, loud, chaotic. His obsession isn’t hidden beneath charm; it’s smeared all over him in the form of impulsive gestures, erratic behaviour, and drug-fueled declarations of love.

He’s the kind of yandere who overshares instead of hides, who gets your name inked into his skin instead of whispering it in secret.

He talks too much, brags too much, posts unhinged things online about how you’re his girl and always will be. If he’s jealous, you’ll know—because the other guy’s probably bleeding or dead in a ditch.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape? 

Drugs are his weakness—but they’re also what make him scarier.

When he’s too high, too far gone, he slips. Forgets to lock a door, passes out with the key still in his pocket, leaves his phone unlocked. That’s when you think maybe, maybe you could get away.

But his highs are unpredictable. One second he’s all jokes and kisses, the next he’s got a fist around your wrists—or he’s breaking down in your arms.

He’s fragile like that. Breakable. But that fragility cuts both ways.

Because drugs are also when he’s most obsessive. Most raw. That’s when he clings to you hardest, begs, threatens, worships—all in one breath.

If you ever manage to escape, it’ll be when he’s strung out, unable to move. But surviving the consequences? That’s the real risk.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling? 

He wouldn’t hurt you on purpose—at least, that’s what he tells himself. But when his world spins out of control and the anger takes over, his hands can do damage before his mind catches up.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over? 

He puts you above everything. His obsession swallows up any sense or mercy. He worships you in his own twisted way, rough and desperate to own every inch of you.

Especially in the bedroom when he’s buried inside of you.

“My girl always takes my fat cock so good,”

“Your pussy was made for it.”

“I’m never pulling out.”

or when he’s got his head between your legs, tongue working like he’s starving.

“Could live here, baby. My girl’s got the sweetest little cunt in the world.”

“Keep your eyes on me while I’m on your clit like this, princess. Wanna see you lose it for me.”

“Don’t lie—this pussy’s been begging for me. For my mouth. For your man.”

“This is mine. You hear me? Thanos’ fuckin’ pussy. No one else touches it but me. No one else makes it cry like I do.”

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap? 

It was instant. The second you met, you were already in Su bong’s bed. It wasn’t long before you two started dating and he decided he didn’t want you leaving him alone ever again.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling? 

Su bong doesn’t just want your love—he wants all of you. Your thoughts, your fears, your soul twisted around his name. Breaking you is the goal if that’s what it takes to keep you.

He’ll do it Slowly, tenderly, violently. Until you forget who you were before him. Until your world starts and ends with him.

And when you finally surrender—eyes dazed, voice barely there, calling him yours with what’s left of you—he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and say,

“I’ve been saying it from the start, flower. You and me? We were always meant to be.”

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ tags: @mashtatosworld @loveesiren @szonyix6277 @seungttttop @xxtoptaexx @tabibabib @numeroun01 @heartubeatusalon @breakmeoff @gdinthehouseee contact me if you want to be added to or removed from my permanent taglist

[lazysoulwriter]

it's not silly. - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: angst with comfort, jealousy/insecurity, touchiness with others, emotional honesty, gentle reassurance, crying, established relationship, happy ending

---

you always knew how touchy he was.

he was warm. kind. affectionate. the kind of man who touched arms when he laughed, who wrapped people in bear hugs, who kissed cheeks like it was instinct.

you saw it on red carpets. in behind-the-scenes clips. in interviews where his hands would rest gently on a co-star’s back, or he’d lean in close to whisper something that made her laugh.

and the thing is… you knew it was innocent.

you knew pedro. he was all softness and good intentions. he made people feel safe. seen.

but knowing that didn’t make the jealousy sting any less.

and that’s what made it worse.

you never told him.

how sometimes your stomach dropped watching videos of him laughing with other actresses, his hand on their shoulder like he’d done with you in the early days.

how sometimes you scrolled through tagged photos on twitter and saw comments like “the chemistry???” or “she better be careful omg” and had to shut your phone off.

how sometimes you caught yourself wondering, am i just not built for this?

you weren’t proud of those thoughts. you hated feeling that way. it wasn’t who you were. and you never wanted to make him feel like he had to change — not for you. not for anyone.

so instead, you just… pulled away.

a little at a time.

he noticed. of course he did.

you stopped reaching for him when he got home. stopped sending good luck texts before press events. stopped sitting close to him on the couch. said you were tired. said you had work. said nothing at all.

and he tried to give you space. until he couldn’t anymore.

you didn’t hear him come in that night — the door opening quietly, his voice calling out soft and hopeful, “baby? i’m home.”

you were curled up on the edge of the bed, his hoodie pulled over your knees, chest tight. you weren’t sobbing. just crying in that quiet, exhausted way, where everything feels full and fragile.

“oh, baby—” his voice dropped when he saw you. “what happened?”

you shook your head. tried to wipe your face.

he crossed the room in seconds, kneeling beside you. “talk to me.”

“it’s stupid.”

“it’s not.”

a beat.

and then, finally, it cracked out of you.

“i just… i see how affectionate you are with them. your costars. and i know it’s innocent, pedro, i do. but it still hurts. and it makes me feel like i’m being crazy or insecure or not strong enough to handle dating someone like you. and i don’t want to be the jealous girlfriend, i hate that person, and—” your voice broke, “i don’t want you to change. i just… i don’t know if i can change either.”

his face fell.

not angry. not hurt. just heartbroken that you’d been carrying this alone.

“sweetheart,” he whispered, climbing onto the bed to hold you, “why didn’t you tell me?”

you shook your head against his chest. “because it’s not fair. you’re just being you. and i love who you are, i really do. i just don’t know if i’m enough for that kind of life.”

his arms tightened around you. “hey. hey—look at me.”

you did, reluctantly.

his voice was steady. low. honest.

“i love you. you. not the public version of me. not the charming guy everyone sees. i come home to you. i want to come home to you. you’re not weak for feeling this way. you’re not dramatic. and i never, never want you to feel like you have to shrink your feelings to keep me happy.”

you exhaled, shaky and still unsure. “but… you’re so used to giving people that warmth. what if i can’t keep up?”

“then we adjust,” he said simply. “we talk. we make space for both of us. i’ll be more aware, baby. i’ll check in more. i don’t want to accidentally make you feel like you’re not enough, because you are. you’re everything.”

you blinked back fresh tears. “so… you’re not mad?”

he smiled softly. “for what? you told me the truth. you trusted me. that’s the bravest thing you could’ve done.”

you melted into his chest, breathing in the scent of his cologne and warmth.

“and for the record,” he murmured into your hair, “none of them get this part of me. this.”

“the emotional mess?”

“the man who holds you this close when you cry.”

you laughed, watery and small. “you’re annoying.”

“you love me.”

“i do.”

“then let’s talk more. and love harder.”

---

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

---

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[potatipejr]

"So I have this cat"

Spencer Agnew x reader

Summary: You accidently give Spencer a hickey and your secret relationship may not be so secret anymore....

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: Guys it's summer, I'm unemployed and so so bored. Please send me requests. This is a first for me.

You and Spencer hadn’t meant to keep things a secret.

But when the first kiss happened after a long night of editing and tired laughter and his fingers curled gently around your wrist and your forehead leaned against his; it felt too fragile to announce, too precious to hand over to a group of colleagues who would absolutely turn it into a circus act. 

So you didn’t.

For four months, you let your relationship live in the quiet spaces: the gentlest of touches under the editing desk, the silent glances that said words across meeting rooms, the shared playlists and inside jokes and coffee orders memorized down to temperature. As the weeks went on, their comfort became evident to them both. They did what they could to avoid anything that even dwindled on the term public relationship, they liked the way things were. It was a secret. But it was theirs. Whatever you would call it.

You weren’t hiding. You were just… holding something close. And it worked well enough.

Until Spencer walked into work with a hickey.

It had been an interesting morning. He was already ten minutes late, but he didn’t care. How could he when he had woken up to the blissful expression dawning on your face? He watched you for a moment and then with a sigh, he leant forward and kissed you. His lips were soft and a little dry against your own, but it is a proper kiss: sweet and affectionate. You brushed your tongue across his lips, asking permission which he merrily obliged to. It was a deeper kiss now, still sweet and lazy in its exploration until you had to break awake, seeking oxygen.

He pulled back, forehead against yours. 

“That is the best way to wake up.” you decided, some finality in her tone. 

“There are worse ways to wake up.” He agreed with a hum. 

A few careful moments passed with you just staring into each other’s eyes. Your hand continued to move in the hair on the back of his head and one of his hands was trailing up and down your spine, causing goosebumps to erupt on your skin. He hated the idea of leaving this bubble of warmth that was created in his own home. The world outside the bed was colder and he already knew he had to resist the urge to immediately climb back into the bed and into your arms. 

Still groggy from your early-morning kisses, it certainly didn't help when you’d pulled him back into bed, whispering a smug “Five more minutes won’t kill you.”

Five turned into ten and ten turned into twenty. And a lot of those minutes had been spent with your lips on his neck.

Neither of you noticed what you’d left behind.

Now fully acknowledging the consequences of your morning endeavours, Spencer had barely thrown on his Legacy hoodie and bolted out the door. Thus, he wandered into the Smosh office bleary-eyed and gnawing on a half-eaten granola bar, expecting to coast under the radar.

He should’ve known better.

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

“Yo, Spence,” Angela called from the kitchen, her eyes narrowing. “Did you get attacked by a vampire this morning?”

Spencer blinked. “Huh?”

Courtney leaned over the couch with a grin. “You’ve got something on your neck there, bud.”

Confused, Spencer’s hand made his way to his neck. His fingers found the warm skin just beneath his ear; tender and unmistakably marked yours.

His heart dropped. “Uhm..”

Still half-asleep and caught off guard, his mind scrambled for something - anything - that might appease the office gossip hounds, at least for now.

“Cat,” he blurted. “It was my cat.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “Your cat… gave you a hickey?”

“No! No, no, nooooo,” he said too quickly. “She.. you know.. pounced. She’s got this weird habit of jumping on me when I’m asleep. Sharp claws. You know how cats are, right?”

“Sure,” Amanda said slowly, joining the scene with a knowing smile. “A surprise feline ambush. Classic.”

“Looks like a mouth, dude.” Angela said bluntly. “Not paws.”

“It’s just a bruise!” Spencer insisted, voice cracking a little. “A really mild bruise from, uh… enthusiastic cuddling. With a cat. My cat. You know my cat, Cleo.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the laughter erupted.

“Oh my god,” Courtney wheezed. “You are the worst liar.”

Oh God, Spencer was already dreading this day. 

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

You walked in an hour later, iced matcha latte in hand, humming absently under your breath and having no idea you were walking into an ambush.

Angela met you at the door with a smirk. “Hey! Quick question.”

“Uh oh,” you said. “That’s never a good start.”

Amanda cornered your other side, “Any idea who Spencer’s seeing?”

Your heart hiccupped.

“Wh-what?”

He’s got a mystery hickey,” Courtney added. “And he’s blaming it on his cat which, for everyone’s sake, I really hope isn’t true.”

You glanced toward the editing bay. Spencer hunched over his desk, red-faced and painfully still. Definitely not listening to Alex who was swinging around some board game and excitedly talking about it.

“I have,” you started, voice wobbling. “No idea.”

You practically ran to your desk, face flushed and pulse pounding. You slumped into your chair, hiding behind your monitor like it could somehow shield you from the smirks and raised eyebrows being traded across the office. Your fingers trembled slightly as you grabbed your phone, typing with furious urgency.

meet me in the hallway. now.

You hit send before you could second-guess it, watching the little "Delivered" bubble pop up like a lifeline. You didn’t know what you were going to say when you saw him. You just knew you needed to see him. You needed to talk.

“They saw it?” you hissed.

Spencer winced, his shoulders curling inward like he could physically shrink from the memory. “Immediately,” he admitted, voice low and apologetic. “Like, the second I walked through the door. I swear Angela didn’t even say hi, just launched right into, ‘Did you get attacked by a vampire?’" He mimed the air quotes helplessly. "She needs to learn some manners, by the way."

You groaned, glancing around as if someone might still be eavesdropping. “And your excuse was… your cat?”

“I panicked!” he whisper-shouted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “It was the first thing that came to mind!”

Your mouth dropped open in disbelief, hands flying to your hips. “Spencer. No one on this earth would believe that a house cat gave you a perfectly round, purple hickey right under your jaw.”

“I know!” he hissed. “I’m realizing that now, okay? It’s your lips that were right there, and I didn’t exactly think to double-check the damage before running out the door!”

You narrowed your eyes, heart still hammering from the sudden chaos. “This is so bad.”

“It’s not that bad,” he said hopefully.

You gave him a look.

He immediately backtracked. “Okay. It’s terrible. It’s really, really terrible. I am never going to hear the end of this.”

You both stood there for a moment, silent but brimming with mutual dread with the tiniest hint of amusement curling at the corners of your mouths, because of course it had to be this that outed you.

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

By noon, things had escalated.

Courtney had created a whiteboard titled “WHO GAVE SPENCER THE HICKEY?”

Angela was placing bets.

Amanda had compiled a list of “likely suspects” with categories like “Production Team,” “Art Department,” and “Unhinged Fans.”

You were barely surviving. Every question felt like a loaded trap, every sly glance like a spotlight burning straight through your barely maintained composure. It was like walking through a minefield of smirks and half-whispered theories, your nerves fraying with each passing moment. The air around you buzzed with speculation, and you could feel it pressing against your chest. You tried to focus on your work, fingers typing nonsense because your brain was too busy playing defense. The secondhand anxiety clung to you like static, building every time let their voice drop in mock secrecy. It wasn’t just teasing; it was scrutiny, and it made your skin itch with the unbearable need to either scream or sprint out the nearest exit.

You had to talk to Spencer.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he groaned, raking both hands through his hair like he was considering actually yanking it out. His eyes were wild, a little glassy with embarrassment. “I feel like I’m in a bad sitcom. Laugh track and everything. I’m just waiting for someone to trip me and land in a cake.”

You leaned back against the hallway wall, arms folded, lips pressed tightly together. “I mean… you kind of started it.”

Spencer turned to you, scandalized. “By liking you too much?” he whispered dramatically, eyes wide with mock-pleading.

You gave him a flat stare, but your lips twitched at the corners. “Stop,” you muttered, pushing lightly at his chest. “I’m already freaking out enough for the both of us. I’ve spent all morning dodging questions and pretending I don’t know what your neck looks like.”

He sighed, stepped forward and leaned in until his forehead pressed gently against yours. The contact was grounding, familiar, safe.

“Should we just tell them?” he murmured. His breath was warm against your cheek, and despite the absurdity of the day, it made your heart flutter in that annoying, traitorous way it always did around him.

You hesitated, the weight of the decision suddenly pressing heavy on your mind. You thought about the teasing, the questions, the jokes that would never stop. But then you looked at him, really looked at him. Red-cheeked, tired-eyed, and still willing to stand beside you through the chaos he helped create.

“Are we ready for that?” you whispered, barely audible.

He gave you the softest smile. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I want to be.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat tightening as you nodded slowly.

Right on cue, as if she knew what she would be stumbling upon, Amanda walked right into the two of you in the hallway.

A sly grin creeping across her face. “You two seem cozy.”

Spencer froze. You turned bright red.

Amanda dramatically gasped and pointed. “IT’S YOU!”

You opened your mouth, ready to deny, deflect, or just make a run for it, but Spencer beat you to it. “Alright! Fine! I made out with my - my partner! This morning! Before work! In bed! It wasn't my cat!"

The hallway went quiet. Dead quiet.

Then Angela popped out of the kitchen. “What?”

Spencer blinked. “Wait. Did I say that out loud?”

You groaned into your hands. “Oh my god.”

Amanda pointed between you both, wide-eyed. “Wait. That partner?”

Spencer muttered, “There’s only one.”

Amanda looked between the two of you. “Are you serious?”

You sighed, stepping forward. “Yeah. We’ve been dating.”

Courtney walked around the corner with perfect timing. “Since uh when?”

Spencer scratched the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing a little as he avoided eye contact. “Four months?” he offered uncertainly, like he was testing the truth of the statement as much as anyone else.

Amanda’s eyes went wide, and she gasped. “You absolute liars! All those late-night editing sessions?” Her tone was equal parts shock and amusement, like she was uncovering a juicy secret she’d been dying to know.

Angela snorted, folding her arms with a smirk. “Yeah, and the snack swaps? The weirdly intense trivia chemistry you two have going on? Actually, it doesn't surprise me now I'm thinking about it.” She glanced pointedly between the two of you, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Courtney held up the whiteboard with a triumphant grin. “This makes all my data meaningless,” she declared, tapping the title “WHO GAVE SPENCER THE HICKEY?” as if it were some grand conspiracy finally solved.

You couldn’t help but laugh despite yourself, the tension breaking a little with the ridiculousness of it all. “We just… didn’t want to deal with the circus,” you admitted, shrugging.

Spencer matched your shrug with his own, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Turns out,” he said, “the circus comes to you whether you want it or not.”

The room filled with chuckles and knowing glances, and for a moment, the secret didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Amanda smirked. “So. Was the cat real?”

Spencer deadpanned. “The cat has an alibi.”

Later that afternoon, when you were both back in the editing bay, Spencer leaned close and nudged your knee with his. “Feels kind of nice,” he murmured. “Not hiding.”

You smiled. “Even if everyone thinks your cat’s a kinky little gremlin?”

He laughed. “Especially then. In hindsight, there are better ways to confess you are in a relationship. Like literally any other way.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together beneath the desk.

“Next time, just let me check your neck before you leave.” She smiled up at him and his head tilted slightly, his attention fixed on her.

“Spencer.” You said. 

He responded, your name came out in a long, soft whisper. 

Spencer closed the gap between you. His lips landed softly against yours. It was sweet, soft, but very real.

And when Amanda walked past the door, she didn’t even blink.

She just called out, “Tell your cat to use protection next time.”

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Other Girl Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

next chapter | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Whenever your world has fallen, your neighbor has been there to save you, but maybe now it's your turn to do the same for him.

Words: 6k (I get crazier with each chapter).

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of murder, injuries, violence, alzheimer, daddy issues, death. hurt/comfort. angst. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I know it takes me a long time to publish the chapters but they all have a lot of emotional charge (in this one IS A LOT) and to get it 100% right I have to rewrite them little by little, it is complex because I am a perfectionist😞 BUT thank you all for the support, patience and love you have given me.

I'm also planning to upload an extra of this poor babies for Valentine's Day💕 It'll be a prequel to the series and is mostly fluff yum.

You still remembered the first time you climbed the stairs to your apartment.

At the time, it hadn’t been a choice but a necessity. The elevator had been out of order in the middle of moving week, and the building management had shrugged off your complaints with little more than an apologetic glance, a vague promise, and a string of excuses that never quite panned out. The idea of waiting for them to fix it seemed absurd, especially when you were already overwhelmed with boxes, tape, and the dull ache of exhaustion that settled in your bones after hours of unpacking. So, with your arms full of the fragile, mundane objects that made up your life—books, plates, electronics, and furniture—you had trudged up the stairs, one step at a time. Sweat slicked your back, dampening your clothes as each heavy step took its toll. The weight of your belongings had felt far less heavy than the weight of the exhaustion, the impatience, and the frustration that boiled just beneath the surface.

And yet, after all of that, you made a promise to yourself: as soon as the elevator was fixed, you would never do this again. You’d never climb these endless stairs in such a haphazard rush, sweat dripping down your face, your legs aching with every painful movement.

But as the days passed, the promise began to feel less like a statement of intent and more like a fleeting thought. The elevator was still out of order, and each time you ascended those stairs, something strange happened. The ache in your muscles, the deep, satisfied burn that had originally seemed like an unbearable weight, started to feel different. It wasn’t just the physical strain of moving boxes. It was something else, something subtle but undeniable. You were becoming accustomed to it. The repetitive rhythm of your steps, the quiet solitude of the stairwell, the knowing sense that this space, though public, was somehow yours. No one else was down there, nobody was watching, and nobody expected anything of you except that you climb. You weren’t running into awkward neighbors. No one was talking about the weather or the laundry room door that wouldn’t close properly. The stairwell became something more than just a space to get from one floor to the next; it became a moment of stillness, of pause, a small sanctuary from the chaos of the world outside.

Then your favorite neighbor noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first. Not until one evening, when you reached the bottom of the stairwell, your legs trembling from the exertion. You were trying to stretch your calves and soothe the burning in your thighs, cursing yourself for the lack of grace you were showing. You were already preparing yourself to leave when a voice, warm yet casual, interrupted your thoughts.

“You know, taking the stairs regularly can improve cardiovascular health, increase muscle endurance, and even help with cognitive function. There have been studies.”

You froze mid-stretch, eyes widening. Slowly, you turned to find him leaning against the wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, work bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like he had been standing there for a while, watching you struggle up the stairs far longer than you had realized.

“Spencer,” you panted, still catching your breath, “I just like avoiding awkward elevator conversations.”

A flicker of amusement passed across his face, the corner of his mouth twitching in a small, knowing smile. But he didn’t argue. Not that day. Not yet.

“Oh…that’s a good idea, I guess.”

But after that, it became a habit of his.

He started slipping little facts into conversation, always casually, always carefully, like he wasn’t trying to impose, just…offering something. He mentioned the importance of pacing yourself, of stretching, and of drinking water. He spoke of breath control, the way inhaling through your nose and exhaling with each push off the step could help regulate energy and heart rate. He never said it like a lecture, never demanded that you listen. He simply planted ideas, little seeds of knowledge, and let them take root on their own.

Then, he started timing his arrivals. You’d reach the bottom of the stairs, exhausted from your climb, only to find him standing there. He’d walk with you down the flights, his stride long and effortless, as though gravity didn’t pull on him the same way it did you. With each step you took, you found yourself straining to match his pace, to keep up.

One day, after you had finally reached the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing to catch your breath, he spoke again, voice low but insistent.

“You know,” he mused, watching you with that quiet, observant gaze of his, “you’d get even more benefits if you focused on your breathing pattern. Inhale through your nose as you step up, exhale when you push off. It helps with energy flow and helps regulate your heart rate.”

Another time, he raised an eyebrow as you finished stretching, his lips curling into a small frown. “Your posture could use some work. If you lean too far forward, you’ll strain your lower back.”

You had paused, mid-stretch, and shot him a look. “Are you coaching me?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Spencer, not even winded, just smiled that small, knowing smile of his. “I prefer to think of it as…guiding you toward better habits. So you live longer.”

There was something in the way he said it, something so utterly genuine, that you had no response. You just rolled your eyes, pretending his words didn’t settle somewhere deep in your chest.

Because he really did want you to live longer.

Preferably forever.

And hopefully, always next door.

Even if you didn’t realize it. Even if you just saw his words as a harmless nuisance, a quirk of his endlessly curious mind.

And somehow, the strangest thing? It worked.

You found yourself drinking more water throughout the day, stretching before and after walking, and adjusting the way you climbed to avoid unnecessary pressure on your joints. The things he told you weren’t drastic changes, just subtle shifts, quiet reminders. But somehow, they made a difference. And what had started as a mindless habit became something else. You noticed the difference, not just physically, but mentally. The clarity of thought after a climb, the way your body felt lighter, more in tune. And somewhere along the way, it became yours and his.

It wasn’t something you spoke about outright. There was no label for it, no need to analyze it. But it was there, woven into the fabric of your days. The quiet companionship. The unspoken rhythm of two people walking in sync. The way he filled the silences with facts, you pretended to roll your eyes at, even as you secretly liked how much he enjoyed your reactions.

It became normal.

Until, of course—

He disappeared.

No explanations. No warnings. No final conversation that you knew was final, no understanding of why. Just an empty, silent absence where he used to be. No more random nutrition facts, no more health tips disguised as casual conversation. Just gone.

Still, you did it anyway. Every day, without fail. Because habits don’t break just because people do.

And now, walking up those stairs alone felt heavier than it ever had before. The silence that had once been a comfort now suffocated you. And the idea of living a long, healthy life when no one seemed to care whether you did or not? Well. That was kind of a bummer.

But this morning, the stairs felt different. Lonelier. Less like a ritual, more like a weight dragging behind you, pulling you under. Your mind was stuck on last night. The chaotic blur of it looped in fragments, like a dream you couldn’t shake. A nightmare too sharp to be fiction, but too unreal to fully believe. And yet the bruise on your cheek wasn’t a dream. It greeted you in the mirror as soon as you woke, a dark, swollen reminder of everything you wanted to forget. Pain settled deep in your bones, not just from the stairs but from what had happened. What you saw. What you heard. What you couldn't avoid.

And now, as you reached the bottom step, everything felt wrong. Your chest was too tight. Your limbs were too heavy. The door to your apartment, just a few paces away, felt miles out of reach.

You stopped. Just stood there. The peeling paint on the wooden steps seemed to hold all the time that had passed, all the moments you wished you could undo. You stared at them, at the cracks, the faded edges, as if they might offer answers. As if they might take some of the weight away.

Then, you saw her.

At first, she was just a figure, an unfamiliar silhouette standing at the threshold of your door, her back turned toward you. She scanned the apartment numbers, her hand hovering uncertainly. Her movements were slow, tentative, almost fragile, and it wasn’t until you took a few cautious steps forward that something clicked in your mind. There was a faint spark in her eyes, something familiar.

Spencer’s mother. You were sure of it.

Although you had never seen her face-to-face, you had seen enough photos to recognize her without hesitation. He had told you about her often enough for you to know as much as you could. But it was her eyes that confirmed her identity to you; they mirrored those of her son in a way that made your heart ache. The same sharpness in her gaze, the same small, thoughtful movements, the same undercurrent of quiet intensity that seemed to follow every action.

But you can see something else in her, something that wasn’t him.

A weariness, a loss. You could feel it in the air, thick and heavy around her, almost like an invisible fog clouding her mind. She was lost in more ways than one, and her presence was a reminder of everything he had tried so hard to shield himself from.

Swallowing, you kept your voice gentle.

“Hi,” you said, careful not to startle her. “Are you looking for someone? Can I help you?”

At the sound of your voice, she finally turned.

For a fleeting moment, her gaze met yours, and you saw the confusion settle in, subtle but unmistakable. Her brows knitted together, her lips parting as if forming a question she couldn’t quite grasp.

“You…you’re…no. You’re not…No, I thought…” Diana’s voice trailed off, barely more than a breath, lost and small, as she sighed, a sound heavy with defeat.

Your heart clenched.

“I think I know who you’re looking for.” You softened your tone, offering her a small, steadying smile. “Spencer, right?”

Her eyes flickered at the name, the briefest flash of recognition breaking through the fog. A tether, however fragile. She nodded slowly, her hand falling to her side in a motion that seemed more instinct than intention. Her eyes then drifted back to the door, and for a long moment, she seemed lost again, looking at the numbers as if they held the answers she was searching for, her thoughts adrift somewhere far away.

“I just want to see him,” she murmured. “I can’t miss his birthday again.”

Oh no.

The words hit you like a physical blow. Spencer’s birthday wasn’t for another couple of months. You knew that with certainty, but hearing it from Diana, the way she said it, with such unwavering certainty, made your chest tighten. She wasn’t just lost in space. She was lost in time itself. And the realization, sharp and painful, settled in your stomach, a stone that refused to be dislodged.

You glanced at her again, her fingers twitching at her sides, lips pressed together as though trying to hold on to a thought, a memory, something that kept slipping away from her. The confusion was thick, almost palpable, and it filled the space between you, leaving you with the distinct sense that you were intruding, stepping into a moment too fragile, too fleeting to hold on to.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

You weren’t supposed to meet her yet.

Not like this. Not without him.

You exhaled slowly, steadying the tremor in your voice. “He’s not home right now, but I can call him for you. Maybe we can wait inside?”

Diana’s gaze darted back to the door once more. For a moment, she seemed suspended in two realities: the one in her mind and the one in front of her. The world she remembered and the one she now stood in.

“No…I—I should go.” Her fingers curled at her sides, her voice fragile, distant. “I just wanted to see him. I just…”

You felt a lump in your throat. Spencer had told you about those moments, but he never went into a lot of detail because he was afraid of scaring you. But he'd given you enough to understand how much they hurt and how much they terrified him. He never said it directly, but you could tell when he talked about her. You could hear the tension in his voice, the way his hands started to shake every time he got a call and thought it might be from the nursing home she was in, how he spent his time reading huge books and researching ways to help her with her illness, and most of all, in how he had delayed letting you meet her for fear that you would be frightened to see his possible future.

But now, here you were, standing before her anyway, facing the woman who had given the world someone as brilliant and kind as Spencer, yet who now stood stranded in fragments of a past that no longer fit.

“Diana,” you said, your voice firmer now, gentle but insistent. “It’s okay. Spencer would want to see you. Let me call him. He’ll come.”

She hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly. Searching.

“You know my son?” she asked softly.

“I do. He’s—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. What were you to him? A friend? A neighbor? Something else? The definition had never been clear, but it didn’t matter now. “He’s important to me.”

Something in her expression shifted, though the confusion never fully left her eyes.

“I have a key to his apartment,” you added carefully. “He gave it to me in case he wasn’t here.”

Diana’s gaze dropped to your hand, where the key glinted under the dim hallway light. She studied it for a long moment, her thoughts drifting somewhere you couldn’t follow.

Then, finally, she whispered, “Okay.”

You guided her inside, the familiar scent of his apartment wrapping around you both like something solid, something safe. She sank onto the couch with a weary sigh, looking small, fragile, as if the very act of being here took more effort than she could afford.

“I’ll make some tea,” you said softly, trying to fill the silence with something tangible, something grounding.

Moving toward the kitchen, you kept her in your sights, watching as her gaze flitted around the apartment. Her eyes were looking around, at the walls that had seen Spencer's life in all its quiet moments over the past few years. After watching her for a moment, you noticed that she seemed to be especially focused on the various pictures hanging on the walls. You had painted some of them, and he had bought the rest in his attempts to discreetly help you monetarily. Most of the paintings were landscapes, one or two inspired by the books he always told you about and how you imagined them, plus even a portrait of Mittens playing on the balcony.

Until that moment, you hadn’t realized just how much of yourself had become part of his home.

Something in your chest tightened, but you pushed the thought aside, stepping away to dial his number.

The line rang once.

Then twice.

Then—

“Hey, are you okay?” Spencer’s voice, quiet and concerned, almost as if he had been waiting for your call. “I wanted to talk, but—”

You exhaled, relief and uncertainty tangling together at the sound of his voice. “Hi. I’m fine. Um…your mom is here.”

Silence.

Then, the shift, something you had come to recognize when he was processing information at a speed faster than most people could follow. “She’s—wait, she’s where?” His voice was sharper now, alert.

“She’s safe,” you reassured him quickly. “We’re in your apartment. But…” Your voice softened. “She thinks it’s your birthday.”

Another pause. A breath.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost a whisper. “I’m coming. Please don’t let her be alone.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I won’t.”

“And…” His voice faltered, then steadied. “Thank you.”

The call ended.

You turned back to Diana, whose hands were wrapped around a cup of tea. The liquid swirled gently as she lifted the mug to her lips, the warm steam rising in a delicate plume. She looked at the tea, but her eyes weren’t focused. They were far away, somewhere beyond the moment, distant as though she had left this room a long time ago.

“Spencer’s coming,” you said softly, as if the quiet of the moment demanded it. You knew how much she hated noise. “He’ll be here soon.”

Her eyes flickered for a brief moment, a slight shift in the dullness that had clouded them. She blinked, and for a split second, it felt like she was with you again, her gaze a little clearer. But then, just as quickly, the fog returned, and she glanced up at you with a faint smile, one that was both familiar and distant, like a stranger trying to be someone you once knew. She took another sip, the sound of it like a small exhale in the room.

Carefully, you lowered yourself onto the couch across from her, keeping your movements slow, deliberate, as if any sudden shift might shatter the fragile tether that kept her here in this moment with you.

“You painted these,” she murmured, more statement than question after her eyes drifted back to the paintings on the walls, lingering for longer this time.

Your breath caught for a second. How did she know?

“Some of them,” you admitted, glancing at the familiar brushstrokes, at the colors you had chosen, the emotions you had poured into each piece. “Spencer liked them. He, uh…kept buying them even when I told him he didn’t have to.”

Diana’s lips twitched, just the faintest hint of a smile.

“He’s always been like that,” she said softly, her gaze distant but warm. “Always finding ways to help without saying it outright. As a boy, he would leave little notes in my books. Facts about things he thought I would like, little reminders of things I would forget. He never wanted me to feel like I was slipping away.”

For the first time since you had met her in the hallway, she didn’t seem frightened. She wasn’t lost, drifting between past and present. She was here. Grounded. Aware of the space around her.

It felt like magic.

But then, just as quickly as it came, something in her shifted again. Her brow knit together slightly, and her fingers smoothed absently over the fabric of her sleeve.

“But I still did, didn’t I?” Her voice was quiet, almost fragile. “I slipped away.”

There was no easy answer to that. No a good one.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. “He loves you,” you said simply.

Diana’s hands, which had been moving idly over the fabric of her sleeve, stilled. Slowly, she turned her head toward you. And for the first time, she really looked at you, not in passing, not through the haze of misplaced time, but deeply, as if seeing you for exactly who you were.

Something shivered through you under the weight of her gaze. You wondered what she saw. The faint smudges of paint still clinging to your sleeves? The way your makeup, carefully applied, hid the faint traces of a bruise in your cheek? The cup in your hands, her son favorite, still bearing the faded imprint of your lipstick, because Spencer always refused to wipe it completely away?

Something unreadable passed beneath the surface of her expression, something quiet but powerful. Then, after a moment, her features softened.

“He talks about you,” she murmured.

Your pulse jumped.

“He does?”

“Not in long speeches. Not in obvious ways. But I know my son.” She exhaled, her gaze flicking back to the paintings, the bookshelf, the little details scattered around the apartment. “I know the way he holds on to things that matter.”

Her eyes found yours again, gentle but knowing.

“And you…you’re in the details.”

The words settled in your chest, warm and heavy all at once.

Your breath caught as her gaze flickered around the apartment. Not just at the paintings now, but at the bookshelf, where your art books sat nestled beside his. At the little traces of you woven so seamlessly into this space. The familiar hoodie draped over the armrest, too big to be yours but still carrying your scent. The unopened package of your favorite tea sitting on the counter, bought without a second thought.

Everywhere.

You were everywhere.

The realization pressed against your ribs, something warm, something steady, something undeniable that made you nostalgic.

Before you could find the right words to respond, the sound of the front door opening cut through the stillness.

Spencer stepped inside in a rush, his eyes immediately locking onto his mother, scanning her with that same mix of relief and worry you had come to recognize. His bag hung off his shoulder, his coat still half-buttoned as if he hadn’t even stopped to fix it in his hurry to get here.

“You?” Diana asked suddenly, her voice small, uncertain. “What are you doing here? You are not invited to his birthday.”

He froze, and so did you.

His mother was looking at him, but she wasn't really seeing him. She was seeing someone else, someone from her past. Someone whose hair and eye color he had inherited. Someone he had accused of being a murderer years ago. Someone who was the first to leave him and say goodbye with a letter. Someone who forced him to be the one to take care of the rest since he was a kid. She was seeing his father.

You saw it in his face, the way something inside Spencer broke into a thousand pieces. And only then did you realize the pain he carried every day. Because just when you thought you had Diana anchored in the present, she slipped into the past and dragged an unwanted memory with her. That was the worst part, going from having everything to having nothing. To go from having your mother to having a stranger.

The silence hung heavy between you, and then Spencer did something you hadn’t expected. Slowly, carefully, he sank to his knees in front of her. It was a gesture of both humility and desperate tenderness. You could see it in his body language, the way he made himself small, as though trying to reach the part of his mother that still remembered him.

“It’s me, mom,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, breaking the stillness with the weight of everything unsaid.

Diana’s gaze flickered, her fingers tightening slightly around her sleeves.

“I’m here,” he said again, his voice soft but firm. “I’m Spencer…your son.”

You stayed quiet, watching as something in Diana’s expression shifted. She blinked once. Then twice. Her lips parted slightly, her brows furrowing.

And then, finally her gaze cleared just enough.

“Spencer,” she whispered.

The weight in his shoulders lifted, just barely, just enough for you to see the breath he had been holding.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

Her fingers twitched in his grasp before settling. A long, slow exhale left her lips, and she leaned forward, just slightly.

Your heart ached at the intimacy of it, at the sheer relief in his expression, at the way his mother finally saw him.

You didn’t move.

You just let them have this moment.

Your heart still carried the weight of everything you had witnessed earlier that day. The ache in your cheek from where you had pressed your hand to your face was almost unbearable, but it seemed so insignificant now. The pain felt almost like a distant echo compared to the one you could see in his eyes, the raw, and unspoken hurt that had been etched into his life for so long. Every time you thought about him, about what he’d endured, it was as if your chest tightened, the reality of his struggles pressing in on you from every side. What had you seen today? A broken cycle of love, loss, and confusion. And Spencer…he had lived it over and over again.

After his mother had finally recognized him, there hadn’t been many words exchanged. The silence between them felt like the weight of a thousand unsaid things, thick with all that had been left unspoken for years. He had explained gently that it wasn’t his birthday today, that it was still months away, but they’d celebrate together when the time came. The sadness in his eyes even as he reassured her, and the tenderness with which he helped her back into the present, spoke volumes. You had stood there, a silent observer, an outsider in their fragile moment. You had smiled at Diana, said your goodbyes softly to her, and watch they two left, knowing there was nothing more you could say.

And when the tossing and turning in your apartment began to make you and your cat dizzy, you retreated to the couch on the first floor, right in front of the front door, and watched every person who entered. Your mind was filled with a million thoughts, but none of them seemed to make sense. You waited for Spencer, not knowing how much longer you could sit there, but not wanting to be anywhere else.

The minutes stretched, thick and heavy, suffocating in their silence. What could you say to him when he came back? Was there anything you could say that would make even the smallest difference?

Then, at the seventh sound of the door opening, the cold air rushed in, followed by that unmistakable, familiar scent of him. Spencer. Your heart lurched in your chest at the sight of him, the weight of his exhaustion and sadness hanging from his shoulders like a heavy cloak. His face was drawn, his eyes tired in a way that made it feel as if he’d aged ten years in just a few hours. He looked so broken.

“You’re here,” he said, a flicker of surprise crossing his features when his eyes landed on you, as though he hadn’t expected to see you standing there, waiting.

You gave him a small, automatic smile, trying to make it light, but it felt flimsy, like a mask that wasn’t quite right. “I was…looking for my correspondence,” you said, the lie slipping out with the ease of a long-forgotten habit, but it tasted hollow in your mouth, as if the words themselves were trying to escape. It felt like a flimsy excuse, a weak justification for why you hadn’t been somewhere else, anywhere else, but here, with him.

As you walked beside him into the hallway, you did your best to keep the air light, to make your steps unhurried, as though everything were fine, even though the very air felt heavy, full with things unspoken. You glanced at him, trying to break the silence with something simple, something safe. “How’s your mom?”

The words hit him like a blow. His entire body seemed to stiffen, the tension rolling through him like an electric current. You immediately regretted asking, wishing you could take the question back.

“She’s better now,” he said, his voice tight with the weight of his unspoken thoughts. “I stayed until she fell asleep.”

You nodded quietly, taking in the weight of his words. His world, and his life, was full of unpredictable chaos, of moments like this, moments that no one should have to endure. You didn’t need to hear the details to know how much it hurt him. You stepped into the elevator as he held the door open, the tension between you thick and suffocating. The doors closed slowly, the sound of them closing almost felt like the world itself was pressing in, leaving you both suspended in a silence that was heavy, too full.

“I’m glad she’s okay,” you whispered after a long moment, the words tasting like something too small for the weight of the situation.

“Thanks to you,” he replied softly, and there was so much unspoken in those four words that it hit you like a punch to the chest. The sincerity in his voice, the gratitude mixed with something more, something raw, caught you off guard.

It was as if the Spencer who had come back a few weeks ago, the one who didn’t want you around, had disappeared. The man standing before you was something else entirely, and for a moment, you weren’t sure which version of him was the real one.

And then you noticed. He wasn’t wearing his coat. His shirt barely covered his arms, and despite the warmth of the building, his body was shaking from the cold, his lips a pale shade of purple. The tremors were unmistakable, the way his body quivered with each movement. It wasn’t just the chill of the air; it was something deeper, something that made your heart clench with an instinctual need to protect him.

“You’re shivering,” you said, the concern in your voice rising, louder than you’d intended, but you couldn’t help it.

He shrugged, his eyes quickly falling to the floor as though he were ashamed of his vulnerability, trying to hide it away. “Oh, I gave my jacket to my mom,” he muttered, the words barely escaping his lips, as though he didn’t want them to matter, but they did. They mattered more than anything.

Without thinking, you took off the cardigan he had lent you so long ago, the one that had quietly become a part of you because it carried his essence. You draped it over his shoulders with a tenderness that startled you, instinctively wanting to offer him something, anything, to ease the shivers and make him feel good. But when you saw the look in his eyes, you froze. He didn't seem to be used to being taken care of anymore, not like this, not after being on the defensive for so long.

It was strange to you that after only three months away, he seemed to have forgotten the way you were always willing to take care of him.

“Don’t,” he said softly, his voice apologetic, as though he were making a quiet plea for something you didn’t fully understand. He didn’t move to take the cardigan off, but his words had a weight, and for a moment, you felt a strange, painful distance between you. “It’s yours.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, an unspoken question in your expression, and he continued.

“Technically, it’s yours,” he added, his voice quieter now. “I haven’t worn any of this stuff in a while.”

And then you understood. The clothes in his closet had changed. Gone were the soft, earth-toned cardigans and slacks you used to love, replaced by sharp, black suits and ties, clothes that looked like they belonged to someone else, someone trying to appear more sophisticated, more put-together, more respectable. It was as though he was trying to transform himself into someone else, someone who had moved on from the things he used to love, the things that reminded him of you.

“I know,” you replied, your voice quiet, carrying more meaning than just those two words. A sad smile curled on your lips. “I miss it…I miss you in it.”

The words hung between you for a moment, heavier than the silence. He didn’t respond, his gaze flickering away, but you could see something shift in him, a softness, something vulnerable. Without thinking, you reached out, your hand brushing against his. His fingers were ice-cold, and you instinctively cupped them in yours, the warmth of your touch contrasting sharply with the coldness of his skin.

“I remember you once said something about the power of human warmth,” you said softly, your voice breaking the weight of the silence, a fragile smile on your lips. “Let’s try.”

The elevator was still, suspended in a moment that felt endless. Neither of you had pressed a button, and for a heartbeat, the world outside seemed to hold its breath. You were trapped between two floors, between the weight of the past and the uncertainty of what might come next. The world was still, but your hearts, your thoughts, they were swirling, caught in the same limbo.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice a little rough, a little uncertain. His breath caught as your warm fingertips brushed his, and for a second, the world felt smaller, softer.

“I don’t want you to freeze or get sick,” you whispered, the words soft but steady, even though your heart was pounding in your chest. “I want you to live longer.”

Because you really did want he to live longer.

Preferably forever.

And hopefully, always this close to you.

For a long moment, Spencer didn’t speak, the tension between you palpable, thick with everything unspoken. You almost apologized, the words tumbling from your lips, but before you could finish, his touch stopped you.

He grabbed your waist, pulling you close with a force that took you by surprise, pressing your bodies together in a way that was intimate, urgent. His arms wrapped around you tightly, and you didn’t pull away. Instead, you melted into him, your cheek resting against his chest, your hands sliding around his back. You could hear the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath your ear, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the world outside seemed to disappear. Everything else fell away, leaving only the two of you in that moment.

The silence grew between you, and then, without warning, the tears came.

Hot, silent, as though they had been held back for far too long, breaking free from the calm of his chest. They soaked into the fabric of your shirt, but you didn’t care. You held him tighter, your arms wrapped around him, offering him what little strength you had left. The weight of his sorrow pressed against you, and you could feel the deep, guttural pain that had been locked away inside him. It spilled out of him in waves, raw and unfiltered, and you didn’t say anything. You simply held him.

His body shook with the force of his grief, his fingers clutching at your shirt as the tears kept coming. “I’m here,” you whispered, your voice a steady murmur in the chaos of his pain. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You gently stroked his back, your touch slow and grounding, the rhythm of your movements steady and soft. As he clung to you, you could feel the tension slowly begin to ease, just a little. His sobs quieted, the sharpness in his breath softened, and the storm inside him started to calm, just a fraction. In your arms, he found the space to grieve, to release everything he had held in for so long.

Everything shifted. The elevator, once a place of uncomfortable silence, became a sanctuary. A place where Spencer could let down the walls he had built around himself. A place where, for the first time in what felt like forever, he was free to feel, free to cry, free to just be. And you were there, holding him, never letting go.

And for the first time in a long time, you both felt like you were exactly where you needed to be: he was yours, and you were his.

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