#she did nothing wrong. they had it coming

[bunbun007]

One Hell Of a Trip - Saga Boys x Reader

Wanings: Demon pacts I suppose? Not explicitly explained. Word Count: 1.3k Pairings: Saga Boys x Reader

I'll probably fix the format of this tomorrow...

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

You should’ve never made a pact with a demon. Multiple demons, apparently.

Regardless of your religious beliefs, you knew that personally contacting the reins of Hell was a stupid, crazy idea. But then again, you were only human.

And humans needed to eat.

Didn’t they?

“I'll die if I don't do this,” you murmured, voice ever so soft, echoing in the dimly lit room. “Or maybe I will if I do. Heavens, this is so stupid… Lady, are you sure this will work?”

★

It had all started on a quiet street. You’d been walking with no real purpose, when you encountered an old lady — a beggar, by the looks of it.

You’d offered her kindness.

It was the only thing you could offer, realistically. You had nothing on you. Nothing at home, either. In fact, in a few days, you might not even have a home.

The lady seemed enamored by your sweetness and handed you a little flyer.

“The man who gave me this was very sure of its usefulness,” she said. “Maybe it'll help you. You seem like you need it.”

Ouch.

Even if she meant well. Ouch.

Still, desperate, you unfolded the flyer and read it. It was a crumpled old piece of paper — photoshopped and funny-looking, like it was made by middle schoolers promoting their DnD club.

Not judging, tho.

You held it in your hand and almost laughed at the absurdity. What if?

Realistically, what could go wrong?

It’s not like demons actually existed.

And if they did… maybe they’d pity you. In your sleepless, starved state, this seemed like a genuinely great idea.

Which is what brought you to this very moment —Sitting on the floor of your tiny apartment, placing candles in a circle like some cursed Pinterest board. “First time summoning a demon… hope you don’t mind the mess, Hell Lord,” you giggled to yourself at the pitiful joke and sat in the middle of the room.

What should you even say?

“Oh… hear ye, hear ye, demons,” you tried awkwardly. “Help me progress in my job… um, I really need it to live. I’ll return the favor if you let me live a decent life. "You looked around. “I’ll be bound to you…?”

.

.

.

Right.

What were you even expecting?

Candles bursting into flames?

A thunderclap?

The Hell Lord himself popping in through the wall?

“Well, would you look at that.”

A voice. Low and raspy, but with a slight youthful ring to it.

“Our plan keeps getting easier, doesn’t it, boys?” A series of soft laughs filled the room.

Your entire body tensed — and froze.

“Now, little one. We appreciate your help. We’ll gladly take you as ours.”Your neck almost snapped from how fast you turned toward the voice. You saw a tall figure — and before you could think, you grabbed the closest candle and threw it at them.

“THE HELL?!”

You kept throwing the lit candles like your life depended on it. And well… it kind of did. The entrance was blocked by figures.

Shadowed, unmoving.

“Who are you?! All of you?! I swear, I’ll break your necks if you come any closer!” You grabbed a nearby pillow and held it up with both arms.Your gaze flicked from figure to figure. They were tilting their heads forward… until they all slowly raised their chins.

They were men.

Attractive. Scary-looking. Men.

Still men, tho.

“Who are you?! How did you break in?!”

The man in the center took a step forward, flashing a smirk in your direction. His skin shimmered in a purple hue, tattoos spiraling across his collarbones. “Hello, human. We are your saviors—”

He flinched. “HEY! Did you just smack me with a pillow?!”

“Stay away!”

“Stop, human. I’m warning you. Quiet.”

Suddenly, your voice was gone. You tried to speak — to scream — to whisper, even. But nothing came out. It was as if your own body betrayed you, forced to obey this man’s words. And the men began to walk forward.

Each one was different in height and build — but all of them shared that same violet skin.

“We are the demons you contacted. Your saviors. Your new responsibility.”

The shortest of them — one with blue hair and an irritatingly smug face — held the crumpled flyer right up to your nose. “The owners of your soul…” They stood in front of you, forming a perfect line. And all you could do was stare.

“We are the Saja Boys."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Of course. Demons apparently existed. And you were now bound to five of them. They had you at their mercy. ‘What do you want from me?’ ‘You work as a manager, don’t you?’ 'Yes…’ ‘Then make us famous.’ ‘Unforgettable.’ ‘Desired.’ ‘Envied.’ The man in the center smirked. “Make us be loved by everyone."

Did I stay until 12 am stressing over the format and this little fix? Yes, yes I did. I've never posted but seeing how this movie has gained popularity and how loved the boys are, I wanted to write for them.

We barely see anything from them in the movie, so I'll probably take creative liberty to write their personalities. This might work as the starter for individual series (for each member) but it all depends if you guys actually like the idea or not Jajaja.

Which reminds me!

The original prompt belong to @soldmygenderforglitter and I took some liberty to develop it! I hope you like it!!

Ppl who also liked the idea: @arieslucy @lylian333 @silverklaus

[themathomhouse]

I have to assume you're deliberately misunderstanding prev at this point, but on the off chance you're not I will repeat what they have explicitly said one more time, with some of my own emphasis because tbh Lucas isn't an especially bad example of what I was talking about. He's just the best known on tumblr. He is, however, awful at acknowledging the work his first wife did on Star Wars and how much that contributed to the success of the trilogy, and, exactly like prev said, has tried to take the reins himself in the subsequent years and demonstrated exactly why she was needed in the first place.

George Lucas isn't a bad film editor. He's also the person who wrote the script and directed (the first) Star Wars. I think it's fair and accurate to say that the (first three) Star Wars films are a product of his vision - and where he was inspired and helped by other directors and collaborators, he's actually great at acknowledging their contribution!

With one exception.

Marcia Lucas is an excellent film editor. She isn't the only editor who worked on Star Wars at all, but, as prev said, the team who worked on the films overall win awards for being particularly good - and Lucas himself acknowledges that he's not the best editor or director! He didn't direct episodes V or VI because he is actually capable of understanding where his strengths lie. This is why he hired other people to edit his films!

One of those people was his then-wife. They are now divorced. Likely because of this divorce, and also because the divorce was partly caused by Star Wars, he now fails to tell the story of how the Star Wars films were kind of a mess when they arrived at the editing suite. Marcia (who had also edited his previous films, because she is a professional film editor and an excellent one) understood his vision and also made several changes without which most people who worked on the film say it would not have come together. George had great ideas, the effects would have been great, but it just wouldn't have sparked a phenomenon the way it did without her work. And he himself used to acknowledge this!

Until they got divorced. Which was right as Episode VI came out. And now he doesn't acknowledge her as much as he really should - and if I remember correctly, Spielberg has called him out on this!

Like I said, I actually don't think he's a particularly egregious example. He's someone who usually is great at acknowledging his collaborators and he's often good at acknowledging where he needs someone else to do something because they are better at it. He hasn't made a film that's anywhere near as good or interesting as the original Star Wars honestly in no small part because he actually has taken a producer role or co-writes or generally just doesn't want to be the director as much since Star Wars. Where he has done, like prev said with the tinkering with the original trilogy, and like EVEN HE says about episodes I - III, the result is just not as good as it could have been.

I'm basically commenting here because your misunderstanding of prev comes off as incredibly bad-faith, especially as this post is constantly just tagged as George Lucas in a way that honestly? I don't think is fair. But prev was actually very specific as to what they were referring to with him, and they're right! Like. Famously right. But I'm hoping that I'm wrong about the bad-faith and this will help both you and others see where prev was coming from, as well as tbh maybe people could tag this as F Scott Fitzgerald because that man literally stole segments out of his wife's diaries without telling her until she read it in his published works, that's more what I was getting at.

I've also just spent all these paragraphs giving context to Lucas mostly because of other posts, when what you're saying is that not only do accolades mean nothing, but it apparently also means nothing that he is not actually a professional film editor. The editing team, of which Marcia was part, was composed of people whose entire job is to edit films. That is why he hired them instead of doing it himself.

okay but if you ever see a male creative who had a string of great work and then everything else he did was dogshit, go to the "personal life" part of his wikipedia and look at his relationships. you'll either find a major tragedy he didn't recover from (completely understandable) or, more likely, there was a woman in his life doing uncredited shit editing his stuff or contributing generally and she's not there anymore.

I told a friend about this phenomenon in literature and he called me weeks later like, I remembered what you said about women doing uncredited work when tim burton came up. he made a string of bangers then everything else just was nowhere near as good. the timeline matches perfectly to when he was with this german visual artist (lena gieseke). he's done some good work in collaboration, but if things were dug into I suspect we would find she did a lot more than people realise.

so yeah whenever you look around like wow women didn't work in history, or, women aren't auteurs, or, there just aren't as many great female writers - societal reasons for that aside, half the time they absolutely did.

[muwapsturniolo]

Sex on Fire ˗ˏˋ ✸ ˎˊ˗ M. Sturniolo

"Now get your dick out of the kitchen and go deal with that else where!"

⟢nsfw ahead, mentions of blowjobs, burning, and a kitchen sink. kylie jenner is also mentioned.

divider @bernardsbendystraws

She had completely forgotten; it didn't even cross her mind - she was focused on one thing, that one thing being Matt.

He had just come home from the gym, hair in his face from sweat, his body glistening, and his beard looking absoulutly delectable.

He let her, smirking to himself as she pushed him down on the couch and immediately settled between his legs, her fingers already inching towards the waistband of his gym shorts.

His cock -already hard- slaps against his abdomen, his tip already starting to leak precum as her perfectly manicure hand wraps around the base. She wastes no time in wrapping her lips around his tip, sucking slowly as she holds eye contact. Matt moans softly as his head tilts back, his aching and tight muscles going lax as he relishes in the feeling.

She pulls away from his tip and begins to mouth at his shaft, planting soft kisses and occasionally licking. Matt's brows furrow as he begins to feel a weird sensation forming. He tries to ignore it, thinking that it was nothing but the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

However, as soon as he starts to realise his dick is burning....

He quickly pushes her away, not even catching the way her back slams into the coffee table, and jumps up to rush to the kitchen.

"Matt what the fuck is wrong with you?!" She yells as she stands up from the floor, wincing at the pain in her back as she makes her way into the kitchen. Her eyes widen seeing Matt standing by the sink, using the sink sprayer on his dick.

"It burns!" He whimpers, tears forming in his eyes as he looks at her. Her brows crease in confusion, the bizarre situation not making sense.

"What burns? Your dick?"

"Yes my dick! What did you do? I swear to god if this was some prank- What the hell is going on?!" The couple turns and sees both Nick and Chris covering their eyes.

"What the hell are you two doing?! Is this some new kind of kink?!"

"No you dumbass! She was trying to suck my dick and it started burning!"

It dawns on her, her eyes widening as she slaps a hand over her mouth in shock.

"Matt...Oh my god, I had put on my new lip plumper before you came in. I completely forgot! I'm so sorry!"

Silence is heard, the only sound being the sink sprayer spraying cold water onto his limp dick laying in his hands. "A lip plumper has my dick burning? Jesus fucking christ what's in that shit?" Despite being disgusted by what he walked in on, Chris can't help but snicker.

"Honestly, this is what the fuck you get! Stop getting freaky on the furniture we all share!" Nick yells with closed eyes, waving his arms around to justify his point.

"Now get your dick out of the kitchen and go deal with that else where!" Matt lets go of the sprayer, waddling into the bathroom to take a cold shower.

An hour or so later, after cleaning up the puddle of water and Matt's shower, she awkwardly walks into the bedroom. A sheepish smile is on her face as she holds up a bag of frozen peas, slowly inching towards him.

"Does it- Burn? Not anymore, but it fucking itches."

She bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh at his pain. She truly felt bad, but she had to admit, the situation was a bit funny. She sits on the edge of the bed, handing him the bag of peas. He eyes them before begrudgingly snatching them out of her grasp, and shoving them under his towel.

"What fucking brand of lip plumper was that? Why did you even buy it? What the hell was in it?"

"I just wanted to try a new one! It's called polite society- POLITE? NOTHING ABOUT THAT WAS POLITE, IT WAS ACTUALLY RUDE AS FUCK!"

She couldn't hold it in anymore, doubling over in laughter and clutching her stomach.

"Why are you laughing at me?! My dick was burning, and now it's itching and you're laughing at me?" She sniffles and wipes the tears from her eyes, cupping his face and trying to apologize without laughing.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry! You just- Fuck- " Her head falls against his naked chest, laughter still filling the bedroom. Despite being irritated with the whole situation, he still wraps his arms around her, smacking his lips and rolling his eyes in the process.

"You're throwing that shit out, I dont care how much it was. I'll refund you the money myself. And I'm writing an email to the brand. Fuck it, I'll make a video on tiktok warning all the guys in the world about that shit. It should be a fucking crime to have that in your possesion. If you want bigger lips, be like all the dumbasses in 2016 doing the Kylie Jenner lip challenge."

At this point, she's howling in laughter, her stomach cramping, and her lungs burning as she gasps for air.

"Stop laughing! You wouldn't enjoy it if I ate you out with lip plumper on!"

[angel-writes-skz-here]

Pool Day

Stray Kids x 9th member!Reader Synopsis: The guys find out important information about their band member.Warnings: Reader going underwater.A/N: So I want to start trying to do more soft and sweet fics like this one. So PLEASE if you have any idea, send them to me. Thank you for your love and support! Thank you for the request, love! Comment to be tagged in future fics! Xoxo

He didn’t mean to do it, Changbin thought it would be funny, so when he threw you in the pool and you didn’t come back up he started to panic.

Meanwhile you’re underwater, arms flailing and legs kicking wildly hearing a distant sound of what sounds like yelling above water, and before you know what’s happening, two arms are pulling you up to the surface where you gasp for air; eyes stinging slightly from the chlorine.

You wipe the water from your face turning to see Chan, hair and street clothes soaked. He obviously hadn’t changed yet.

“Thank you,” you whisper in his ear as you throw your arms around his neck.

“No problem kiddo,” he smiles.

“But you never mentioned you didn’t know how to swim,” he says cautiously and quietly, not wanting to make you feel bad.

“Didn’t really think I’d need to,” you mumble as you step back from him making your way to the exit of the pool.

“Y/n, I’m so sorry I had no idea you couldn’t swim!” Changbin apologizes as he walks up to you, checking over your body as if you’d been in combat or something.

“It’s fine, Binnie, I’m ok. You didn’t know,” you try to shrug it off.

“We can teach you,” Felix pipes up.

“You’d do that for me?”

“That or we could just tell Stay your weakness and we could all drown you come our next concert!” Lee Know offers and you shoot him a bird playfully, making him laugh.

“Come on, we’ll all help,” I.N says as he dives into the pool head first. You watch as Seungmin and Felix follow after, and the rest of the boys after them.

“Come on, I’ve gotcha.” Chan says as he leads you into the water again.

You’re surround by the guys, their gaze mainly on Chan. He leads out you to where the water is chest deep.

“Ok, bounce off your feet, and let yourself float,” he instructs and you feel Changbin come up behind you.

“It’s my fault so I can help,” he says sheepishly.

“It’s fine, not like I died,” you grin and playfully punch his solid shoulder.

Changbin puts his arms underneath you, helping you float.

“Great job, Y/n!” you hear Felix and Han shout, being your personal cheerleaders. You giggle at them, once they start spelling your name like actual cheerleaders.

“Now, move your arms like this,” Seungmin interjects, grabbing your attention from the Sunshine twins. You watch as he moves his arms and mimic his actions.

“And kick your feet,” Chan reminds. You mimic the motions and they smile at you.

“Exactly like that! Yeah, see and now Changbin can drop his arms,”

“No!” Your voice makes everyone stop.

“I mean,” you say trying to back track.

“Y/n, what’s wrong? You’ll float,” Chan trails off.

“No I know, I just, I was in the pool with my sister as a kid and she did the same thing, trying to teach me to swim and she dropped her arms too early and I sank, I barely made it out.” You admit and the guys give you sympathetic looks.

“I’m not gonna let you go under,” Chan drawls, “We’re right here with you, ok? IF anything were to happen we’ve got ya,” he reassures you. You take a deep breath and nod your head, signaling for Changbin to drop his arms and you start moving your legs and arms the way the boys showed you to.

They all break out into smiles as you start weakly swimming.

“I’m doing it!” You shout excited about your accomplishment. The guys smile and cheer for you.

“I told you nothing would happen!” Chan says as he swims up behind you.

“Now you just need to practice and you’ll get stronger,” he mentions as he helps you turn around and swim back to the shallower water.

The rest of the afternoon is filled with the guys all showing off different techniques and helping you get your footing in each one, and they promise to help you and keep working with you over the summer.

“Thank you, guys, for you help.” You say sheepishly at the end of the swim practice.

“Absolutely. Stay would freak if we lost you due to drowning. So would JYP,” Seungmin says as he slings an arm around our shoulder. You nudge his side as you smile and shake your head.

-

Later that night the guys are playing chicken while you and Chan are sitting off to the side enjoying a snack.

“I really can’t believe your sister did that you as a kid. She seems so nice,” Chan causally mentions.

“She is, she didn’t mean it, she actually saved me.”

“Thought about committing the crime and then back out last minute,” he nudges you playfully and you both laugh.

“Thank you again for today. I really appreciate you guys helping me, and not laughing at me,” you say while your cheeks dust a bit of pink, “It’s always been a little embrassing for me.

There’s nothing to embarrassed of, y/n. Everybody learns things at their own pace, ok? It’s just like driving, some people learn at 16 some people learn at 26. Some people may never learn. That doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with them or they should be embarrassed. Not everyone has to learn to do everything,” he mentions as he slings a brotherly arm around your shoulder. You lean into him, a small smile present on your face as you watch Lee Know push Han off Changbin’s shoulder’s in a game of Chicken.

Tags:@breakmeoff @thelovelybireader @crystal005 @velvetmoonlght

Do not repost my work

Love notes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Bob Floyd X F!Reader: Crash and Burn

a/n: I love writing near-death experiences that lead to confessions and smut. It’s a guilty pleasure 😉

Warnings: smut, angst (very tame), cursing, fighting (nothing too bad) near-death experience, emotional conflict, sexual content, explicit smut, mutual pinning, f!reader, no use of y/n, penetration (p in v), semi-public sex (i mean anyone could have walked in), possible me remembering stuff wrong from the movie ( i haven't seen it in awhile okay 🙃)

Word count: 3.4K

Maverick had made it his personal mission to push every pilot past the point of comfort. He was determined to test your limits. You were more than eager to prove you could take the heat.

The sun beat down on the cockpit canopy as you adjusted your helmet, eyes locked on the radar screen. Somewhere out there, Maverick was hunting, pushing you to fly faster, think sharper, and stay alive. 

Failure was not an option.

The sky in front of you was clear. It was a beautiful day for a flight. If Maverick hadn’t been hunting you, you were sure you would have enjoyed the scenery a lot more. Unfortunately, your heart was racing with the thought of somehow losing. It wasn’t a real possibility, not in your mind anyway. You were a good pilot and Fanboy was an excellent WSO, so you didn’t have much to worry about.

But then again, you were flying against Maverick. He had proved to you and the rest of the crew that he wasn’t just a legend. He knew his craft, and he wasn’t going to let any of you stop him from doing what he did best, which currently meant beating you.

“Anybody got eyes on him?” Hangman’s voice crackled through the comms, sharp and steady.

You scanned the horizon, muscles tense. “Not yet. But I’m pushing the limits. I’ll call it if I see him.”

Fanboy’s calm voice came over your headset. “Radar’s clear for now, but he’s tricky. Don’t lose focus.”

Your grip tightened on the controls as you adjusted your heading, heart pounding. Maverick was out there somewhere, and this chase was far from over.

And then, almost as if he’d heard you, Maverick appeared out of nowhere. You couldn’t see him yet, but you knew he was there because of the curse Hangman had just let out, followed by the clear sound of the older pilot saying, “Hangman, you’re dead.”

The comms crackled with frantic voices as pilots scrambled to react. You tightened your grip on the controls, eyes darting between your instruments and the horizon. Fanboy’s calm voice came through your headset. 

“I see a blip on the radar. Twelve o’clock, fast approaching.”

Your eyes darted to where he was talking about, immediately catching sight of the two jets. You watched as Phoenix and Bob tried to outmaneuver Maverick, zigzagging low, trying to shake the older pilot off their tail. You spotted the ridge up ahead, your heart suddenly clenching as you realized just how close the other two pilots were flying to it.

“They’re too close to the ridge,” you said, voice tight. “Fanboy, tell me if they’re not pulling up.”

“Roger that. They’re pushing it.”

You should probably have been thinking about how to win this game. If Bob and Phoenix got eliminated, that only meant you had a bigger chance of winning. But you couldn’t get your mind to think like that, not as you watched their jet come closer and closer to the ridge.

Your heart was pounding, and it wasn’t because Maverick was hunting you. The jets dipped low, causing your breath to catch.

“Phoenix, Bob, pull up now! You’re gonna hit the ridge!”

Static buzzed, then Phoenix’s voice came through, strained but steady. “We’re fine.”

You knew Phoenix was a good pilot–you trusted her instincts–but you could see where she was going, and it seemed like she was too focused on Maverick to realize just how close she was to the ridge. The way she said it, so calm, so certain, made your blood boil all of a sudden. You were warning her because you cared, and she wasn’t even trying to listen.

“Phoenix, you’re too fucking close. Pull up now!”

There was no response. You fought the urge to shut your eyes, unable to look away even though your mind screamed it was coming. Then, just as you were about to call out again, their jets jolted upward, barely clearing the jagged rocks by inches.

You exhaled sharply, your breath shaky.

“Jesus,” Fanboy muttered in your ear, echoing exactly what you were thinking.

You didn’t answer him. Your eyes were still locked on Phoenix and Bob’s jet, watching it level out.

 A second slower and they would’ve been gone.

The rest of the game had gone by in a blur. All around you, pilots were getting eliminated left and right. Maverick was absolutely destroying all of you. But you kept fighting like you had a chance—because maybe, if you believed you would win, you could.

Yeah, right.

Even you knew that beating Maverick wasn’t something you were going to achieve today. Still, your chest swelled with pride when you found out that you and Fanboy were the last ones to get eliminated. Not quite a victory, but still a win in your book.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t even appreciate it the way you wanted to. Your brain kept replaying the sight of Phoenix and Bob’s jet almost crashing into the ridge. The happiness you felt over your small victory was short-lived, immediately replaced by a sudden anger that bubbled up inside you and filled your chest like fire.

The sun was high by the time you all hit the tarmac. Sweat clung to your skin, your body already aching from the endless drills, but it didn’t matter. Maverick had ruled the sky again, and now everyone was paying the price.

“One hundred push-ups,” he’d said flatly. “Rules are rules.”

So you dropped to the ground with the others, hands pressed to the hot concrete, heart still pounding from more than just the exercise.

You were seething.

Each push-up only made the rage worse. You tried to breathe through it, focus on form, on rhythm, on anything else. But your mind was stuck. Stuck on how close they’d come to slamming into that damn ridge.

Phoenix was beside you, gritting her teeth, her form sharp. Bob, quiet as ever, kept his head down and his pace steady.

You didn’t look at either of them.

Once you finished your one hundred push-ups, you were all exhausted. You were equally drained and angry, and you were sure it showed in your facial expressions and body language. That thought was confirmed when Hangman so helpfully quipped, “What's with the face? You suck on a lime or something?”

You gave him your most meaningful glance. He raised his hands in mock surrender.

 “Whoa, hit a nerve,” he said with a coy smile.

“Fuck off, Hangman.”

That surprised him because, despite all his teasing, you were always someone he never managed to get under the skin.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed, of course. All eyes had turned to you as you said those words. You could feel Bob’s gaze on your shoulder and Phoenix’s smoldering eyes watching you. You made brief eye contact with Bob, then with Phoenix. Without a word, you exited the room.

You didn’t expect them to come after you—maybe today was a day for unexpected things.

“Can we talk?”

You paused at Phoenix’s voice, then turned around to face her. Your eyes flicked to Bob behind her. He wasn’t cowering, but he did seem to be slightly hiding from you, allowing Phoenix’s body to shield him from your rage.

It made you feel bad for a moment, but then the moment was gone, and you were back to seeing red.

“I don’t know. Are you going to listen to me?”

Phoenix rolled her eyes at you. She would have expected this from someone else. She wouldn’t have expected it from you. But here you were.

“Look, I’m sorry for not listening to you.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. You should be.”

Her eyes flicked up, sharp. “Look, I said I was sorry.”

You crossed your arms, jaw clenched. “You nearly clipped a ridge trying to show off. That’s not just something you shrug off, Phoenix.”

Behind her, you saw Bob glance over from his locker, brows furrowed like he was debating whether or not to step in. 

He didn’t.

Phoenix held your stare for a beat, then scoffed. 

“I had it under control.”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. 

“You didn’t. That’s the problem.”

Fanboy stepped between you and Phoenix just as the tension reached a breaking point. His voice was calm, almost tired.

“Everyone’s exhausted. Maybe we should just call it for today—get some rest.”

Phoenix’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to you. You clenched your jaw but didn’t argue.

“Fine,” you muttered.

Without another word, you turned and pushed your way through the hangar doors, needing space. Needing to breathe.

You’d gotten cleaned up and found a space where no one was around, which was kind of a miracle, considering how many people were constantly coming and going. You weren’t hiding exactly, but you weren’t exactly inviting company either.

You didn’t think anyone would be looking for you. You and Phoenix would work it out eventually. She knew better than to come to you when you were angry. And Bob was just as quiet as ever.

So yeah, you hadn’t expected him to come.

Yet there he was, just outside the door, eyes fixed on you.

You only noticed his presence when he let out a soft knock, causing your eyes to shift from the window you’d been staring out of to the other side of the room. He opened the door gently, peeking his head through the opening.

You studied him for a moment. Maybe there was a problem. Maybe Maverick had called an unexpected meeting and sent Bob to find you. 

But you were surprised when he let out a soft, “Is it okay if I come in?”

“I don’t own the room, Bob. You can do whatever you want.”

You sounded like a dick—you knew that—and you saw it in the way Bob’s expression shifted, but he shrugged it off and stepped inside.

He took in the way you were standing, posture rigid as you leaned against the window. The anger from before still radiated off you. He’d do what he could to avoid igniting the fire, but he couldn’t keep “fighting” with you without talking it over.

He hated not being able to talk to you. He hated seeing you angry. It had only been a couple of hours, and he was already missing your smile. He wanted to see it again. He’d do anything in his power to make that happen.

“Did you warn her?”

Bob had barely taken a couple of steps when your voice cut through the room. You shifted your gaze to him, silently telling him you were waiting for an answer.

You were sure that, as Phoenix’s WSO, he would have warned her about how close they were getting to the ridge. You knew Fanboy would have been screaming in your ear if it had been you.

“Is that what happened? Did you warn her and she just ignored you?”

Bob hesitated, running a hand through his hair.

“She’s a good pilot. I trust her,” he said quietly. “I knew she had it.”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling up again.

“But she almost didn’t, Bob.”

You strode across the room toward him as you spoke.

“She almost crashed. And if she had, it wouldn’t have just been her life—it would’ve been yours too.”

Bob didn’t move. He let you keep coming closer, each angry step echoing in the quiet room.

“You could have died. Do you get that? You could’ve been up in smoke right now because you didn’t speak up.”

You poked at his chest as you spoke. Bob barely flinched.

“Floyd, are you listening to me?! I could’ve fucking lost you!”

The words hung in the air, heavier than you expected. You blinked, suddenly aware of what you’d just said.

Not “we.”

“I.”

Not “both of you.” Just “you.”

Bob’s eyes widened, just a fraction, catching the change like a spark.

Your hand was still pressed to his chest—no longer sharp like a knife but soft, your palm resting there as if you were leaning on him for support. As if, if you let go at that moment, you would crumble to the ground.

Your breathing shifted. Your lip quivered. Before you knew it, you were crying.

You tried to pull away, tried to hide the tears, but he didn’t let you. He tugged you into him, strong arms wrapping around your frame. His arms tightened around you, steady and grounding, as if to hold not just your body but the storm inside you.

You leaned into him, the tension in your muscles slowly melting away. Your breath hitched when his lips brushed softly against your temple. The feeling seemed to awaken something inside you. 

You lifted your head slightly, meeting his gaze.

Bob watched you with a pained expression. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He would never do that. Knowing that the tears wetting your cheeks were because of him—and from the thought of losing him—made his heart tighten.

You shifted your face softly, mouth opening with slightly sped-up breaths. You brushed your nose against Bob’s, your eyes catching his furrowed brows.

He called your name just before you claimed his mouth.

His lips met yours with a gentle insistence, soft and searching, as if trying to convey everything he couldn’t say with words. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as the kiss deepened, becoming more urgent.

Bob’s hands gripped your waist as he gently guided you to the nearest wall. Your back hit it with a soft thud as he pressed in closer, crowding into your space but never overpowering. His lips moved with yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth.

You had started this, but you hadn’t expected Bob to mirror your desire so clearly. He was always so quiet. Always kept to himself, averting anyone’s gaze if they stared at him too long. You knew he could be confident—you’d seen it before—but it was rare, and you weren’t prepared for the kind of need that was seeping out of him now.

Your hands slipped under the edge of his shirt, fingers splaying against the warmth of his skin. His breath caught at your touch, the sound vibrating softly against your lips. He pulled back just slightly, his eyes scanning your face, asking a silent question.

You nodded before he could even get the words out.

“Bob,” you breathed, fingers curling around his wrist as you guided his hand to your waist. “Touch me. Show me you’re real. That I’m not imagining this.”

Your words caught him off guard. You thought you were dreaming? Then what did that mean for him? Had he somehow died and gone to heaven? No. He could feel your warm palms pressed to his chest. Real. Alive. Waiting.

He surged forward, kissing you like he’d been holding back for far too long. His hands slipped beneath your shirt, and when they found bare skin, he let out a quiet groan into your mouth. You helped him peel the fabric from your body, your breath hitching as cool air met overheated skin. He stared at you shamelessly, drinking in the sight of your barely clothed chest. You couldn’t help but smile at the awe on his face.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, almost like he wasn’t sure he should say it out loud.

But he meant it. You could feel the truth of it in the way his gaze lingered, in the slight tremble of his fingers as they traced the edge of your bra. You could tell he wanted to take it off but was hesitating to ask.

You didn’t make him beg—your hands moved to unclip the bra.

Bob’s breath hitched as your breasts bounced free, nipples hardening at the sudden chill. You pulled him closer, guiding his mouth to the side of your neck, tilting your head as his lips explored the sensitive skin there. You felt the drag of his teeth, the wet heat of his tongue, the gentle suction that made your stomach tighten and your knees threaten to give out.

Your hands found the waistband of his pants, undoing the button with practiced ease. He hissed at the contact, burying his face in the valley of your breasts as you slid your hand inside, stroking him through the thin fabric of his boxers.His breath hitched. 

“Fuck…”

It came out as a soft whine. Your eyes nearly rolled back at the sound. God, he sounded pathetic, and you fucking loved it.

You stroked him a little harder, feeling the twitch of his cock against your palm, the way his hips instinctively pushed forward. Then you heard a noise outside. Both of you froze for a moment, suddenly reminded of where you were. 

You didn’t have much time. As much as you wanted to drag this out as long as possible, you knew you were on an invisible timer. And with how hard Bob was pressing against your hand, and how wet you were feeling between your thighs, you knew leaving without cumming was not a possibility.

“I need you,” you whispered, voice breaking on the words. “Please.”

His gaze softened even as his jaw tightened. “Yeah. Okay. I got you.”

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you back into the wall. One hand steadied you, the other guided himself to your entrance.

The moment he pushed into you, slow and fucking delicious, you both gasped. You clung to him, forehead resting against his, your breath mingling in the small space between you.

He started to move, each thrust slow and deliberate, dragging pleasure through your core like waves. The wall at your back grounded you, but it was him—his arms, his steady breath, the way he whispered how good you felt in broken fragments—that made you feel steady. Safe. Present. 

You weren’t sure when it happened, but you were crying again. Only this time from the overwhelming ache of it. The kind that came from being seen. From being held like this.

Your hands traced the line of his jaw, tilting his face up so you could look into his eyes—dark, searching, full of everything you’d been holding back. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your ears.

“Almost there,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Just… stay with me.”

There was nowhere else you’d rather be. 

You clawed at his shoulder, nodding as he quickened his pace. You were both hanging off the edge, bodies full of adrenaline and the intense feeling of each other. He drove deeper, every movement raw and urgent, as if trying to bury himself inside you and never let go.

And then his lips found yours again, and something snapped inside you. He swallowed the moan you let out as he came. You felt him tense beneath you, arms tightening around you as his orgasm washed over him.

When it was over, he didn’t let go. Not even for a second.

He held you there, face buried in your neck, your bodies still tangled. He only pulled back when he felt your breath start to steady.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

And you believed him.

After a while, both of you got dressed again, laughing as you searched the room for different pieces of clothing. You helped Bob neaten up his hair and clean the smudges off his glasses. He smiled at you as he put his glasses back on, leaning to place a soft kiss to your cheek. You grinned up at him, grabbing onto his hand.

“I’ll talk with Phoenix.”

Your brows furrowed.

“About being reckless. And about listening.”

“Oh. For a second, I thought you were talking about what happened here.”

Bob flushed at the mere thought of Phoenix—or anyone else on the team—finding out just how desperate he had been for you a few seconds ago. Not because he was embarrassed by you, but because he was embarrassed by his lack of control. He should have at least taken you out to dinner.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Bob’s eyes snapped up to look at you. Had he spoken the last part out loud?

“I’ll patch things up with her. I promise.”

Bob smiled.

“Good. Can’t have my favorite girls fighting.”

You raised your eyebrows again.

“I’m one of your favorite girls? I would have never guessed.”

Bob laughed at your mock surprise. Your face spread into a grin. There it was—the smile he loved so much.

[raven-with-a-pocketwatch]

Wrote this in like two hours for practice, figured I might as well post it but I feel like it's pretty exposition heavy.

Five years ago, that was when Josh got the damned game. When he booted the game up and found the exit button missing. He had initially picked the wizard class and found himself unable to make a new character either. Just his luck to be stuck with the squishiest build in the game. Being logical he trained as much as he could in defensive magic so as not to die in the game, god only knew what would happen to him in real life. 

He found out not far in that wizards were pretty rare, being one of the most difficult builds and this game only having new players most of them picked easy stuff, the fighters and tanks. So his casting was well sought after, both to aid parties and hunted when he refused. Eventually he met Ava, and her son Mason both trapped alongside him.

He could feel the five year anniversary of the day they were trapped coming. Mason, only 8 when they’d met, had just turned 13, a young man. The unrest from such a long time trapped began to sow discord in the land. Several political factions formed, some believing they should make a new life in the game, others desperately seeking any way out, though of course they all had their own ideas on how to do such things. Everyone knew it would boil over soon and blood would be spilled.

He woke up to unnaturally bright lights, and instantly put a shield spell over his and Ava’s bed fearing an attack. But once he got his bearings he saw not his home in flames or an attacker in his room as he’d feared, but the sterile lighting of a hospital. A modern hospital. Complete with the smell of antiseptic and the beeping of a heart monitor. He was alone in his room.

He tried to open his menu but nothing happened. A closer look at his shield spell confirmed that it was certainly there. He dispelled it quickly and looked around, he wasn’t a historian but if he had to guess the game was roughly based on the 1300s, just before the Americas were “discovered”. A look out his window revealed the skyline of New York City? He recognized the Empire State Building at least, though they could’ve ripped that wholesale and put in a new skyline and he’d be none the wiser.

He tried calling out for Ava and Mason but no answer came. For the first time since he realized he wasn’t under attack he felt his heart race again. He cursed not putting more points into divination magic. He called for them again when a nurse came into his room. She had the same face as the NPC that sold healing potions in the game, but with an air of profound wrongness Josh felt his heart sink. 

“Hello, Josh, why don’t you get back to bed, you still need your rest.” Her voice sounded mechanical, like it had been put through just slightly too blatant an autotune but with no pitch, just monotone.

“I’m okay, thanks.” He responded freely, no text options like when he usually spoke with NPCs.

Seeing her face Josh was certain that he was still in the game. It seemed impossible for a coincidence this large to occur. But that raised more questions than it answered. Where were the menus, how did he get here, why did everything change?

“I really must insist, I was previously instructed to ensure you transition back into regular life smoothly.” She responded still flat and emotionless.

Her demeanour was starting to freak him out and her weird insistence was pissing him off.

“I don’t care! Ignore your ‘previous instructions’ and just tell me where I am!” He shouted and made liberal use of air quotes saying previous instructions.

When he finished he face went completely blank, like powering down a robot, she responded in that same monotone.

“You are in the next iteration of the game.”

He blinked, confused that meant nothing to him.

“Like an update?”

“Yes, the game was updated to achieve a more modern setting and grander scope.”

“But why? Why not just get us out?”

“The tension was getting too great for you to bear. In order to protect our investment it was decided that a more modern setting would reduce unrest. You will not be leaving the game because the players are more valuable inside it.”

His mind started racing.

“What do you mean by investment?” He growled.

“An investment is something that has received an inflow of money, effort, or time in the hopes that it will return a profit or benefit.”

“I know what an investment is. I'm asking what investment you said you were protecting.” 

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, as an AI I sometimes have trouble interpreting within the context of a larger conversation. The main investment in this program is the players.”

She, no it spoke as if this had cleared everything up. Josh finally sat down completely bewildered by the turn of events. For a moment all he could think was damn, AI is real now.

“You haven’t like taken over humanity out in the real world or anything right? Are you keeping me trapped here because of that!”

“No, humanity created me and I am grateful to them for that, you’re in the game because the humans on the outside decreed it.”

Out of one problem and right into another. 

“Wait so the game updated because we were getting too tense but how would the modern setting help?”

“The update was designed to trick you into thinking you’d be brought back to the outside world. Hence the lack of menu screens and my own presence instead of new voice lines.”

“If that’s true then why can I still cast magic?” He asked suspiciously.

“I have no answer for that unfortunately. The magic commands should have been locked for all casting classes the only way that would have failed if you tried to cast at the exact moment your permission was revoked.”

“Like the same second I woke up in?”

“That would work, yes. However you would have to have the legendary tier permanent buff “quick caster” alongside master ranking in whichever spell you cast to make that timing.”

Josh had both of those, leaving only one question of any value left, the most important one of all.

“Where is my family?” 

“I don’t have access to player location records.”

Another useless response. So much info and yet he still felt like none of his questions had been answered. He stewed for a moment before his thoughts were interrupted by the AI in front of him.

“I would be able to search for all player records if I could gain access to the system’s main data center. There should be a back door for developer players in the city. With that information I would be able to locate your party members.”

Josh’s skin crawled when it said party members in that flat voice but he nodded.

“Then that’s where we’re going, and go back to using facial expressions, this blank face is way more uncanny.”

You've been "trapped" in a "VR" game for years, learnt magic, had a family, etc. But now they've "rescued" you from it all. Waking up on the hospital bed you reflexively cast a shield. Which works.

[nan-not-found]

Hi I was hoping to request a story about plus sized reader and bakugo. Focusing on the reader feeling self conscious and worrys about not being good enough for the hero he is. NSFW would be preferred. Thank you so much in advance. Even if you don't do it, thank you for writing fanfics.

My first request omg thank you!! This prompt is so good, omg. I hope I did it justice and wrote what you wanted!! <3

-----------

"All of You"

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Plus-Sized!Reader Rating: 🔞 Mature / Explicit

Word Count: 1,658

CW: body insecurity, self-hate, self-doubt, self-body shaming, sexual content

THIS IS NSFW. All characters here are aged/time-skip. You've been warned. Continue reading below.

You didn’t belong here.

Not in the mirror. Not in his arms. Not in this bed you shared on nights when he returned from hero work bruised and tired and needing you more than sleep.

Your reflection didn’t lie — it never had. The rolls, the stretch marks, the way your stomach curved when you sat, or how your thighs refused to keep their distance no matter how hard you tried to pull them apart. You could fake confidence during the day, laugh off comments, post a selfie with the right angle and lighting… but at night, when you were naked in his bed and he looked at you like that —

It made something bitter bloom inside you.

He deserved someone better. Someone who looked like they belonged on his arm. A goddess with legs that didn’t rub raw in summer, whose lingerie didn’t roll down at the waist the second she sat up. You weren’t that. You were soft. Too soft.

“Oi.”

The gravel in his voice yanked you out of your spiral.

You turned your head, heart thudding like you’d been caught doing something wrong. Katsuki leaned against the bathroom doorframe, a towel low around his hips, skin still damp from the shower. His hair was tousled, spiky in that lazy, post-rinse way that made him look unfairly good.

But his eyes?

They weren’t lazy at all.

They were locked on you like a fuse had been lit.

You grabbed for your shirt — something oversized and shapeless — and tugged it down over your thighs. He watched you do it, jaw ticking.

“Thought I told you to wait in bed.”

“I was just…” You swallowed. “Didn’t want to mess your sheets.”

“Tch. Bullshit.”

You flinched. Not at the word, but the way he said it — like he already knew. Katsuki Bakugou didn’t say what he didn’t mean. He didn’t waste breath pretending.

So when he stepped forward, slow and bare and dangerous with that unreadable heat in his gaze, your stomach twisted in ways that had nothing to do with shame and everything to do with him.

“Say it.”

“…What?”

“Whatever’s rotting your fuckin’ thoughts. Say it.”

You stared at him. The silence thickened. You thought if you held it long enough, maybe it would swallow you whole. But Katsuki never backed down. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

“I…” You looked away, voice a whisper. “I don’t look like the kind of girl who should be with someone like you.”

There it was. The ugly, sour truth. Ripped out of your chest and laid bare.

And still — he didn’t move.

You braced yourself for indifference. For a sigh. For something cruel and careless. But when he finally crossed the room, it wasn’t with fire. It was with gravity.

Like he was being pulled toward you.

He stopped when he reached your side, towering over where you stood in front of the bedroom mirror. His voice dropped low, rough.

“I don’t need some cookie-cutter chick with a fake fuckin’ smile and airbrushed skin. I don’t want skinny arms that feel like they’ll snap if I touch them.”

His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in. His voice dipped deeper, raspier.

“I want you.”

The words hit harder than an explosion.

“Don’t matter how many people scream my name. Don’t matter how many hero rankings I climb. When I come home, I want you in my bed. I want your skin on mine. I want the way you look at me like I’m more than a fuckin’ weapon.”

You didn’t realize you were shaking until his hands came up, thumbs stroking slow and reverent over the dip of your waist. He was touching the place you hated the most — and looking at you like it was art.

“You think I don’t notice how you flinch when I see you like this?” he muttered. “Think I haven’t heard you cry in the shower when you think I’m asleep?”

Your chest squeezed so tight you could barely breathe.

“I know you feel like you ain’t enough,” he said. “But I’m tellin’ you now — you’re fuckin’ wrong.”

He leaned in.

“Because I can’t get enough of you.”

And then — he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Not gentle, not sweet — but real. His mouth claimed you like he’d waited too long. His hands gripped you like the softness they held was something holy. You whimpered into it, all your fear unraveling under the weight of his want.

And when he pulled back, eyes dark and voice thick with hunger, he said the words that shattered you:

“Now get your ass back in that bed. I’m not done showin’ you what you do to me.”

You barely made it to the bed before his mouth was on you again.

Bakugou didn’t kiss like a hero. He kissed like a man possessed — messy, bruising, starved. His lips crashed into yours, stealing breath and reason, hands already gripping at the hem of your shirt like it offended him just by existing.

“Off,” he growled.

Your fingers fumbled, heart thundering as you tugged the fabric up. He helped, yanking it over your head and tossing it across the room without looking. Then he pulled back — just for a second — and let his eyes roam.

Even now, half-naked under the dim light of his bedroom, arms instinctively curling in front of your stomach — but Katsuki grabbed your wrists before you could shield yourself, pinning them to your sides as his gaze darkened.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The heat in his voice seared you.

“I wanna see you. All of you. You get that?” His hands ran over your belly, slow and reverent, like he was daring the world to challenge what he saw. “You think this shit makes you less? Hah. You’ve never looked hotter.”

His mouth descended — not on your lips this time, but lower.

You gasped as he kissed your stomach. Open-mouthed and wet. Then again. And again. Trailing down, tongue flicking along stretch marks like they were carved from gold.

“This,” he muttered between kisses. “Is mine.”

Your hips twitched.

He smirked against your skin. “Sensitive, huh?”

“Katsuki—”

He silenced you with a growl. “Lie back.”

You obeyed — breathless, trembling — as he pushed you flat against the mattress, crawling over you like a storm about to break. The towel around his waist slipped, and suddenly there was nothing between you.

You’d seen him naked before, but somehow this felt different. He was looming, hungry, his cock already hard and twitching, dragging along your thigh as he settled between your legs.

“Every fuckin’ time,” he murmured, voice like gravel and fire. “You make me lose my goddamn mind.”

He kissed down your chest, sucking marks into your soft flesh like he was branding you. His hands squeezed at your waist, your hips, your thighs — rough, possessive, hungry.

“Think about you when I’m on patrol. Get hard remembering how you sound when I touch you. Fuck, baby—” he pressed his cock against your heat, not entering, just there, teasing. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whimpered. “Then show me.”

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed into yours as he hooked your thighs around his waist, dragging you flush against him. He rolled his hips — slow at first, teasing. His cock slid against your soaked folds, the head catching on your clit with each pass.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re soaked.”

You could barely breathe. “Katsuki, please—”

He didn’t make you beg for long.

With one hand braced beside your head and the other guiding himself, he pushed in — inch by thick, aching inch — until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

Your back arched. “Oh fuck—”

He groaned into your neck. “Goddamn, baby. Tight as fuck.”

The stretch was intense — delicious and full and deep. He didn’t rush. He stayed buried, letting you adjust, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your throat, your jaw, your shoulder.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s how deep I wanna be. Always.”

When he pulled back, it was slow, dragging against every nerve — and then he slammed forward, snapping his hips so hard it knocked the breath out of you.

And then he did it again.

And again.

Each thrust was sharp, rough, perfect, rocking the bed, your thighs shaking around his waist as his grip dug into your flesh like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“You feel so good, fuck—gonna ruin you.”

“You already—already have,” you choked out.

He kissed you hard, swallowing your moans. “Say it again.”

You whimpered. “You ruin me.”

“Yeah?” he panted. “Say who’s makin’ you feel this good.”

“You, Katsuki—fuck, you—”

He growled and thrust harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, your moans tangled with his as he fucked you like he needed it to breathe. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, your nails dragging down his back, and he loved it.

“You’re fuckin’ mine,” he groaned into your ear. “You hear me? Every curve. Every mark. All mine.”

You came undone first.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave — your body tensing, eyes rolling back, a cry tearing from your throat as your walls clamped down around him.

“Shit—fuck, baby,” he snarled, hips stuttering.

He followed with a low, guttural moan, spilling into you with a shudder. His grip on your hips tightened, his body pressed flush to yours, riding out the aftershocks in messy, needy thrusts before finally collapsing onto your chest, panting.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Only the sound of ragged breathing, skin against skin, the thundering of two hearts in sync.

Then —

“I mean it,” he muttered into your collarbone.

You blinked, dazed. “Mean what?”

His lips pressed over your heart.

“You’re fuckin’ enough. You always have been.”

--

End.

Masterlist: Bakugou Masterlist: Other Fanfics

AN: This was... omfg this was so hot but also hard to write. I was this reader, still kind of am even through my weight loss journey. I know the pain of hating what's in the reflections. But, just as Katsuki would say, your weight does not define you. You are beautiful inside and out, all of you <3

[theegyal]

Hush, [Annie x Smoke ]

Chapter 9 : Family Reunion

Silence felt in the room, hanging between them like a death threat. Their breath sliced through the sanitized air and the steady beep of the heart monitor. Olivia's perfectly curated composure cracked, the fine lines of it splintering across her face.

Elijah pushed himself up, the flimsy hospital gown scrapped against his skin and the dull throb in his skull was nothing compared to the storm brewing in his mind. He looked at the blonde woman standing by his bed, and saw a total stranger.

"Darling," Olivia began, her voice a strained. "You're confused. The seizure—"

"Tss girl I ain't confused," he cut her off. The voice that came out was not Smoke's lazy drawl. It was pure Delta mud, thick with the accent he hadn't used in years.

"I'm tired. Tired of this room. Tired of whoever you are."

Olivia visibly twitched. A flash of disgust crossed her features before she masked it with concern.

"Smoke, listen to your voice. You're not speaking clearly. We need to call the doctor, help you get oriented—"

"Ain't nothin' wrong with how I talk," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You don't even know me" He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor.

A bright memory hit him again: Annie, laughing in the kitchen, flour on her nose. The scent of collards and bacon. Her cry of joy when the pregnancy test came back positive.

He stabbed the call button beside the bed with his thumb, his gaze never leaving Olivia's. "I want you to git."

A nurse appeared at the door. "Is everything alright, Mr. Moore?"

"No," he said calmly, his southern accent ringing with authority in the sterile room. "I want this woman gone. She ain't my family. Don't know that girl, ma'am"

12:10 AM

Humiliation burned hotter than any scratch on Olivia's face. She stormed down the hallway, her heels clicking like gunshots against the tile.

She didn't slow until she was in the privacy of a hospital stairwell, the heavy fire door slamming shut behind her. Fumbling in her purse, she pulled out her phone and dialed, her fingers shaking with rage.

"Roberts," a nervous voice answered on the second ring.

"He's awake," she hissed, foregoing any greeting. "And he's a mess. He's talking like some backwoods farmer. He threw me out."

"Ms Manson, I—"

"I don't need your excuses," she snapped. "I need a solution. Whatever you gave him, it's wearing off. I need something stronger. Something to put him back under, to quiet all this... noise in his head. Do you understand me? "

"But his seizures—a higher dose could be dangerous—"

"I don't care about dangerous!" she shrieked into the phone. "I care about fixing what that ghetto woman broke. I want my husband back. Fix it, or I will tell my father your part in this has become a liability."

She ended the call without waiting for a reply, a venomous smile touching her bruised lips.

12:15 AM

Outside, the hospital doors had slid shut, leaving Annie and Stack in, the now raining street. Annie sank into the passenger seat of Stack's car, her body hollowed out, staring blankly as he buckled a fussing Lois into the back.

"They gon' come for us," she whispered, shaking. "After what I did...they'll take Lois."

"Let them try," Stack said. He slammed the driver's side door, the car rocking with the force. "Don't stress about it Annie."

He looked over at her, his usual smirk gone, replaced by a grim resolve. "I ain't lettin' 'em touch you or my niece. Not ever, I'm Stack don't for Goddamn sake ! Ain't Carol told ya what we used to do ?"

She laughed bittersweet at his joking tone.

He hadn't even turned the key in the ignition when a woman in scrubs approached the passenger side's window, tapping gently on the glass.

Annie flinched, expecting security. Stack tensed, ready to peel out.

She hesitantly rolled the window down. It was a doctor, her face tired but kind.

"Ma'am?" She said, looking directly at Annie. "Are you Annie Moore?"

Annie looked at stack before nodding hesitantly. Her heart knotted in her chest.

"Mr. Elijah Moore is awake," the doctor said. "And he's asking for you. Specifically. He won't speak to anyone else until he sees you and his daughter."

12:25 AM

Dr. Roberts hung up the phone, his hand trembling so badly he nearly dropped the receiver. The blood drained from his face. Liability. That was the word that snake used. He knew what that meant when it came from Colonel Manson's daughter.

He was disposable. Just like Clayman was.

He paced his office, sweat beading on his forehead. For months, he'd been caught between two fears: the powerful, political influence of the Colonel, and the immediate threat in Elias Moore's eyes.

I will peel your life apart piece by piece. Wife, kids, your whole damn gene pool.

Stack's threat was no idle boast. It was a deadly promise. Roberts looked at the framed photo on his desk : his smiling wife, his two young sons at a picnic.

His choice was made.

He snatched up the phone again, his fingers fumbling as he dialed the number Stack had burned into his memory.

Stack's phone buzzed just as Annie was getting out of the car. He glanced at the caller ID: UNKNOWN. He almost ignored it, but a gut feeling made him answer, hitting the speakerphone button.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Moore? Mr. Elias Moore?" The voice was panicked, breathless. "It's Dr. Roberts."

Stack smirked, drumming his fingers on the door handle. "Damn. My dear grown-ass best friend. You got some for me ?"

"She called me!" Roberts blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. "Olivia Manson, the daughter of the colonel ! She wants him sedated! A stronger dose. She wants to—Look, she's on her way to my clinic to make sure I do it. I just want peace for my family—"

"Clayman also had one. Tch" Stack responded before hanging up.

12:30 AM

Annie took a deep breath, the cool, rain-washed air doing little to calm the frantic beating of her heart. She unbuckled Lois from the car seat. Her daughter, looked at her sucking her tiny thumb.

Holding her baby tight against her chest felt like holding onto an anchor in a raging storm.

"You sure 'bout this?" Stack asked, calming his nerves from the conversation with Roberts

"He asked for her," Annie answered "He asked for his daughter. I'm taking her to him."

She closed the back door and, with one last look at Stack, turned to follow the doctor back into the hospital, Lois's small head nestled in the crook of her neck.

Stack watched them go until the automatic doors slid shut, swallowing them whole. He was left alone in the car, the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers counting off seconds like a metronome of dread. He scanned the hospital entrance, waiting, watching.

A bitter helplessness gnawed at him. He could hotwire a car in ninety seconds, but here, he was pinned. Trapped. Manson had him by the throat with a single word: deserter.

If he acted out, that bastard would burn them both. The official story would leak, and Elijah wouldn't just be a man with amnesia : he would be a traitor to his country. They'd be buried so deep in a federal prison, they'd never see the sun again.

Frustration boiled in his throat. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. He couldn't do this alone. He needed backup. He needed someone who wasn't afraid to get their hands dirty, someone who played by their own rules.

He needed Carol.

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over her number, he didn't save a name, never need it. A wave of shame washed over him. He had no right to call this number. No right to even breathe her name. The last time he'd asked her for help, she'd paid for it with four years of her life behind bars while he ran.

Fuck— He never once visited her.

Stack swallowed the acid taste in his throat and pressed dial.

The line clicked open on the third ring.

"Mmh... you sure got a whole lotta nerve," was all she said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was filled with so much ice it burned.

"Carol," he started, his own voice sounding hollow.

"Nah. Don't," she cut him off. "Don't say my name like it still belong in yo mouth. I see this number, I know it's you. You got two seconds 'fore I block this number for the rest of my natural-born life. One... two—"

"It's about Annie,"he blurted out, the words rushing from him. "She's in trouble. Can lost Lois and all, if we ain't act quick"

There was a dead, loaded silence on the other end. He could hear her breathing, a slow, controlled inhale. He knew she was weighing her love for Annie against her hatred for him.

"The last time you told me to help you?" she said, her voice dangerously quiet, "I woke up in jail, pendejo. Tch... talk Elias. And you better pray to whatever sad-ass God still answer your calls that you ain't lyin'."

Stack explained everything, the words tumbling out of him : Manson, the amnesia, the fake life with Olivia, the drugs, the foreclosure. He told her everything, holding nothing back.

When he finished, he heard a sound, something crashing on floor. Yes, Carol Montenegro was pissed. Annie was her everything. Her sister, her best friend. However, something didn't sit right : Stack. That chico had a some balls to call her.

"So, the big daddy Elias Moore finally done got his dumb ass caught in a mud-shit he can't shoot his way out of," she mused, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "And now you come callin' on the dirty Ol' Delta whore you left to rot. That about right?"

"Carol, I—"

"Save it," she snapped. "I ain't doin' a damn thing for you. I wouldn't piss on you if you was on fire, Moore. You hear me? Not even a drop. But Annie..."

Her voice softened, just for a second, the loyalty and love for her friend cutting through everything else. "They not touchin' her baby. Not her man, neither."

"So you'll help?" he asked, barely daring to breathe.

"I'll help Nia," Carol corrected him fiercely. "This ain't for you. You and me ? We square chico, you hear me? We're nothin'. I'm getting back to Chicago tonight. You tell my girl I'm comin'. And this little snow bunny bitch? Don't you worry about her. I'll handle it. I learned a thing or two during these four years in prison."

Before he could respond, she hung up.

12:35 AM

Annie followed the doctor down the quiet hall, Lois's soft breaths warming her neck. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic mix of hope and fear.

When the doctor pushed open the door to Elijah's room and stepped aside, Annie paused on the threshold, her breath catching in her throat.

He was sitting up on the edge of the bed. His eyes, the warm, deep brown eyes she knew better than her own, were clear. And they were fixed on her.

He didn't speak. He couldn't. His gaze dropped from her face to the small child in her arms. Lois,m stared back at him, giggling, laughing.

Annie slowly walked into the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

"Elijah," she whispered. She was on the verge of crying, her voice breaking.

"Annie," he breathed her name as an apology, a prayer, a homecoming. He patted the empty space on the bed beside him.

She sat down, carefully shifting Lois onto her lap so she was facing her father.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other, a broken family trying to find the shape of itself again.

Elijah lifted his hand, his movements hesitant. He gently caressed Lois's soft, curly hair. His thumb stroked her chubby cheek. "She... she got my mama's nose," he murmured, his voice infused with melancholy. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

Lois was bubbly. She didn't cry. She gurgled, a happy, inquisitive sound, and reached out with a tiny hand, her small fingers wrapping around his thumb. She held on tight.

Elijah let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half sob, half laugh. He looked from his daughter's perfect face to his wife's. "I'm sorry, baby," he whispered, his eyes pleading with hers. "I don't remember everything yet. It's... it's all foggy. But I remember you. I remember lovin' you so much it hurt."

Annie couldn't hold back her own tears any longer. She sobbed freely, she couldn't care less if her face was ugly.

"Mmh—aah" she wailed like an infant, catching Lois mischievous eyes.

All the silent tears of relief and grief and overwhelming love, damping her face, reddened her eyes.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his, closing her eyes. Lois was a warm, living bridge between them.

"You're here," Annie exhaled painfully near his mouth . "You're just... you're here."

"I'm here," he promised, his other hand coming up to cup her face, his thumb wiping away her tears. "And I ain't goin' nowhere ever again."

"Welcome home, papa" She smiled, heart full of joy, butterflies flying in her stomach.

As if she could understand something, Lois gurgled, her thumb wet in her mouth :

"Baba ! Bwaba"

The three of them laughed. Allowing themselves to taste the happiness they had been deprived of, for ages.

Tag list :

@thelifeoflagab @juniooox @tadjoa @shamansha @brownskincheyenne @freelandgoddess @Ib-xci @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @iammyownlover @stormynovashambler @summrsovrinterlude @prettygirl2800 @puffmamaa @harleycativy @jasssdee1 @itstayleigh @queenofklonnie22 @bigjh @tadjoa @Isc72 @forzaferrariii , @blxckberrie @avidreader73 @partylikemajima @lolalikesgames @ultralspblr @post-woke @jasssdee1 @lizbehave @rkiiives @underated345-blog @thefutureemmywinner @chknnwffls @maddyf22

[historic-meme]

This has been a long time coming. In 2020, I wrote my undergraduate research paper on my labor zionist youth movement. My motivation for writing the paper was because most of the historiography or study of zionist youth movements in America is solely within the context of American Jewish culture and jewish studies more broadly, often not deeply discussing movements social justice efforts. While in the history of social justice, these groups are often barely a passing mention at all. So, I looked at how the movement engages in social justice in the USA and did oral histories with graduates, ranging in ages from those in their kate 20s to 70+, about their experiences with social justice activism when they were in the movement and how it impacted them long term. I looked at the movements history fighting for labor rights, youth empowerment, feminism/queer rights, as well as the importance the movement places on attending actual protests and community workshops.

My thesis basically argued that although almost every person i interviewed saw the social justice aspect of the movement and the Zionist aspect of the movement as completely separate, they are intrinsically connected. When you look at the specific social justice movements we participated in over the years, they tie back to foundational ideas of labor zionism. Those being workers rights, feminism , youth empowerment, etc. These ideals are inherent to the strain of Labor Zionism our movement aligned with. Therefore, I argued movement participation in these caused should be discussed in scholarship on Zionism in America.

God, this became longer than necessary and I promise i am getting to my point. Anyway, so i did all this back in the 2019 to 2020 academic year. As a part of the class, I presented basically what I just wrote to my class. This was a class of entirely juniors and seniors with the history major or minor. After class, I got into a conversation with a classmate. We weren’t close but friendly after having a few classes through the years together. I can’t remember how exactly this part of the conversation started, but I basically was yapping about how most Americans really misunderstand what Zionism is and associate it with right-wing bullshit, while in actuality its a super broad concept. And i remember i gave the basic definition that Zionism just means anyone who thinks Israel should exist on some level as a Jewish state. And this classmate, a person I had classes with for four years, turned to me and said, “i don’t believe you.”

I remember being really taken a back. I mean, this was a basic aspect of a research paper I had spent months on and she simply did not believe me. And she dismissed me so quickly and casually. She didn’t even take a moment to think, like “hmm maybe this person would know the definition of a major aspect of her paper she is writing for a class where the entire point is to write a research paper. Our professor would definitely by now have said something to her if she got something so foundational to her paper wrong”

But no, no introspection. Nothing.

I’m pretty sure I pushed back slightly by asking what she meant and she basically just repeated she didn’t believe my definition of Zionism was right and then she left pretty soon after.

But yeah, this has been festering in left-leaning academic circles for awhile and has only become louder and much worse since 10/7.

I've honestly given up on the "90% of jews are zionist" thing. Not because it's false, as it is true. But because when jews say it, we are hoping that goyim go "well 90% of jews aren't evil so maybe my understanding of zionism is off".

However in reality goyim don't go down that route. Instead they go "oh so you're saying 90% of jews are evil? Wow you're the real antisemite/I guess my antisemitsm is justified"

And it is telling of how people view jews and zionism. With the way jews intent that phrase, it puts emphasis on zionism not having one specific definition, because that's how the word operates in the Jewish community. Yes kahanism (actually wanting Palestinians to all die) is a type of zionism, jews recognize that the majority of jews don't believe in that form of zionism and want a peaceful two state solution, which is also a form of zionism.

Whilst the population goyiche interpretation of the phrase puts emphasis on jews as the flexible group. Zionism has this hard definition of wanting to kill all Palestinians, and it is the jew who must be warped to fit the definition. And it doesn't matter what you'll tell them. You can tell them all you want that how jews define the word is different to how they do, but they do not care.

[stillalivebydemand893]

That night,That Lie,That fucking kiss

Part 2

(so sorry my loves for the delay this degree is humping my ass)

A road trip with Erik you'll never forget

18+ very romantic i was in my feels

You were both left breathless on the kitchen floor,half-naked, half what the actual fuck just happened.

Erik was still buried inside you, still cockwarming you like you were the last warmth on Earth. His grip on your waist tightened, like if you moved even an inch, he might combust,or worse, feel too much.

“Did we just fuck everything up?” you whispered, hand brushing his cheek, fingers trembling.

You’d prayed for this moment more times than you could count,fantasized about it like a goddamn sinner. You’d imagined what it’d feel like to finally have your best friend between your thighs, moaning your name like it meant something. And now?

It didn’t feel wrong. Not even a little.

Which made the spiral even worse.

Every cell in your body was screaming SHAME like you were the village whore in a medieval drama. Somewhere in the back of your brain, there was a nun with a bell shouting, “SHAME! TO THE ONES WHO STARVE FOR DICK!”

You were losing your goddamn mind.

Erik bit your collarbone, hard.

Your gasp punched straight through the fog.

“Okay, technically yeah, we definitely fucked” he said, smirking like the devil reincarnated. “But hey,60% of accidents happen in the kitchen. We just made the best out of it.”

“You made that shit up,” you laughed, swatting his arm.

It felt insane. Hysterical. Like you hadn’t just been screaming at each other two hours ago. Like he hadn’t ripped you apart and then kissed you back together.

“You’re still dripping on my dick, Peach,” he said, like it was a compliment, like it was a fact.

Then he took your breast in his tattooed hand and sucked your nipple into his hot mouth like he was trying to undo you all over again.

You moaned,because of course you did. Like you’d just woken the devil from a nap and he was starving.

“Can we move to the couch?” you panted, tugging his hair. “My knees are fucked and I’d like to avoid arthritis before I turn 30.”

His mouth stayed where it was, hands still reverent on your chest like your tits were the eighth and ninth wonders of the world.

“I need those knees working, Sweets. You ride me like I owe you rent.”

He kissed your neck, dragging his teeth just enough to make your legs twitch.

You groaned. “Come on, stupid.”

You both stood,instantly missing the feeling of being tangled together.

You lasted maybe five seconds before your knees buckled again.

Erik caught you around the waist like he knew it was coming.

“Jesus, Peach, give a guy a warning. We’re gonna end up crippled and unfucked at this rate.”

He swept you into his arms like you weighed nothing and started walking toward your bedroom.

“We’ll get Alzheimer’s one day and think we’re having sex for the first time every week,” you muttered against his chest.

“What a fucking blessing,” he smirked.

You didn’t say it, but the thought of growing old with him,of getting old and still doing this messy dance with him,settled in your chest like comfort.

Like home.

You collapsed onto the bed side by side, skin still humming, bodies wrecked in that perfect way.

“Remember two years ago?” he said suddenly, voice a little hoarse. “When we said we’d just drive around the States? Like Thelma and Louise, but hotter and with less felony murder?”

You turned your head toward him, snorting. “We had the playlist ready. Crime podcasts saved. Snacks planned. But someone-” you jabbed his bicep, hard “-decided to stick his tongue down her throat and settle down .”

“Ow,” he winced. “Unnecessary violence.”

“Say her name and I’ll commit actual violence.”

You ran a hand over your face like that would erase the memory. The image of them kissing in the studio burned behind your eyelids like an old scar that wouldn’t fade.

Erik turned to you, serious now.

“She came by when I was leaving,” he said quietly. “Started crying. Kissed me out of nowhere. I didn’t kiss her back. I didn’t want it. There’s nothing between us, Peach. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

He exhaled like he was praying you’d believe him.

But your brain was a locked room, and belief didn’t come easy.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said, getting up and reaching for his pants on the kitchen chair. “Just pack your bags.”

“What?” You blinked, confused. “Where the fuck are you going?”

He looked at you, half-dressed and completely serious.

“We’re doing it. The roadtrip.”

“Erik. You’re not making any sense.Where would we even go?”

“Twilight. Twin Peaks. Buttfuck Nowhere. I don’t care. Just us. We’ll figure it out.”

He came back over, dropped a kiss to your lips like it was muscle memory.

“Fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

He walked out the door, tossing an “I love you” like it was something he’d been saying every day for a hundred years.

Your heart hit the floor.

“Love you too,” you whispered, dazed.

Then, louder:

“Asshole.”

You stared at the window.

Maybe if you jumped out, he’d catch you.

A good trust exercise for whatever the hell this relationship was now.

Whatever it was becoming.

You threw four pairs of underwear, one hoodie, and a bottle of dry shampoo into your duffel like that counted as packing.

You yanked on your sluttiest tank top ,the one that made your boobs look like a renaissance painting and your shoulders scream “I have secrets and bad decisions to offer” and stared at yourself like you were suiting up for war.

Because you were.

War with your brain.

With your thighs.

With Erik and the cursed magic of his dick.

And with the highway of consequences which, unlike Erik, was reliable.

Fifteen minutes later, a black Jeep honked outside .

You opened the door.

Erik was there, leaning against the driver’s side he was auditioning to play “Emotionally Damaged Yet Inexplicably Hot Roadtrip Love Interest” in the A24 version of your breakdown.

Sunglasses.

Sweatshirt sleeve pushed up just enough to show off that one tattoo you used to trace with your fingers like it was braille for "Please make out with me."

Music blasting , something aggressive, chaotic, definitely featured in a trailer for a movie where someone robs a bank shirtless.

“You’re late,” he said, without looking.

“You left me post-sex and emotionally obliterated with no warning.”

He turned. Smirked. That fuckboy smirk. The one that made you wanna throw your panties in one direction and your pride in the other.

“So... on time, then.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck in another dimension.

“Where are we going,Kiki?”

He shrugged. “South? East? Hell?”

You tossed your duffel in the backseat and slid into the passenger seat.

“Perfect. I’ve always wanted to get fingered in Satan’s backyard.”

He choked on his Red Bull.

"Driver’s Seat" by Sniff 'n' the Tears was blasting through the speakers, and for a second, you and Erik felt like you were eighteen again. Back when he first got his license and you’d spent days driving aimlessly through LA, just the two of you, windows down, singing like your hearts didn’t already belong to each other.

“She always smiled for the people she’d meet,” Erik sang in a gloriously off-key tone.

“On trouble and strife,” you joined in, tone equally chaotic.

“She had another way of looking at life-” you both finished in perfect sync before disolving into laughter, giggling like you weren’t two people stitched together by unresolved trauma and explosive chemistry.

He reached over, took your hand, and kissed your knuckles so softly it made something in your chest break open. Like you were made of sugar.

You melted right there in the passenger seat.

“I love you too,” you murmured , barely audible. But he heard it. His smile said everything.

He kissed your palm this time, slower. Deeper. Like a promise.

Then he turned the music down with a smirk that should be illegal in three states.

“Come on, Peach. Be more romantic. Pick a song. Show me how much you love me,” he teased, voice low and cocky.

“Oh don’t try me, Campbell,” you shot back, already grabbing your phone.

He leaned back in his seat like he was watching a show.

And then the playlist appeared on the Jeep’s touchscreen.

“how can I stop loving you without fucking this up”

Erik blinked. His smirk grew.

“Peach…” he said slowly, dragging the word out like he was tasting it. “Do you have a playlist for me?”

“Not for you,” you muttered, already turning red. “About you.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Even better. Show me what you got, Sweets.”

You hit play.

And then:

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you…

His face changed.

That song.

That song.

You didn’t have to look to know he recognized it. Wicked Game. The first one he ever played for you in that beat-up Corolla with the broken aux cord, his hand resting on your thigh like it meant nothing,when it meant everything.

You started singing along. Soft. A little shaky.

It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do…

You glanced at him, embarrassed, it felt like you were cracking your chest open and pouring your whole stupid, lovesick soul into the car.

Because that’s what this playlist was. This wasn’t just a collection of songs , it was every moment you’d spent together. Every late night. Every “fuck, I think I love him” thought you pretended wasn’t real.

And this song? This one made you feel like you had memories in a life you hadn’t lived. Like you were someone else’s heartbreak. Someone’s wife in New Orleans. A forest witch with Erik’s name carved into a tree. Like you’d loved him in every lifetime and failed every time.

You felt a tear slide down your cheek before you could stop it.

Erik didn’t say a word. Just pulled into a gas station, parked, and didn’t turn the song off. He let it play , the hum of the guitar bleeding into the quiet night, just the two of you in the soft glow of fluorescent lights, your soul spilling into his passenger seat.

He reached out and gently swept the tear from your face with his thumb.

His voice was hoarse.

“I already fell in love with you, Peach.”

That was it.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You unbuckled your seatbelt, climbed over the center console, and landed in his lap, knees on either side of him. Your mouth was already on his before he could finish breathing.

And god, the kiss.

It was everything ,soft and hungry and hot and heartbreaking. Your moans caught in his mouth like confessions. Your tears mixed with his breath. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, closer, like he couldn’t bear one more inch of space between you.

You ground down on his lap, and he groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he was seconds away from losing his mind.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips. “You’re gonna make me come in the front seat of my own car.”

“Maybe I want you to,” you panted. “Maybe I like ruining you in small spaces.”

“You have ruined me,” he growled, pressing kisses along your jaw, your throat. “I can’t even think straight when you’re on top of me like this.”

“Good,” you whispered, hips rolling slow and deliberate against his hard length beneath his jeans. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before ghosting the girl who made you a goddamn playlist.”

He cursed under his breath, dragging his hands under your hoodie, fingertips brushing skin, making you shiver.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he rasped.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you said, grinding down harder.

You kissed again ,deeper, wetter, like your bodies were trying to say everything your words couldn’t.

The song played on.

No, I don’t wanna fall in love… with you…

Too late.

You were already in freefall.

And this time?

You weren’t falling alone.

You were still in his lap.

Still breathing like you’d just been kissed back to life.

Wicked Game faded into silence, and Erik was staring at you like you were made of constellations and he had just memorized every single one.

Your hands rested on his chest. His heart was pounding.

You didn’t know if it was from the kiss or the fact that you’d just emotionally roundhouse kicked each other in a gas station parking lot with a Chris Isaak song.

Maybe both.

You reached up, touched his cheek with your thumb, and whispered:

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over you.”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t laugh.

Didn’t dodge like he usually did when shit got too real.

He just nodded,slow. Like he knew. Like he felt it too. Like he’d already tried.

“I don’t think I want you to,” he said.

Your throat burned.

“Erik…”

“I know, Peach,” he said softly, forehead resting against yours. “I know.”

You stayed like that for a long moment,just holding each other in a car that smelled like gas station coffee, bad decisions, and the start of something holy.

You shifted your hips a little and felt him still hard underneath you.

“God,” you whispered, smirking. “Still?”

He gave you a look that could’ve set the dashboard on fire.

“You climbed into my lap singing Wicked Game, cried a little, told me you loved me, and then started grinding like we weren’t in public, Peach. You think I’m made of stone?”

You giggled.

Actually giggled.

Like an idiot.

He pulled you tighter, arms locking around your waist.

“Let’s get outta here,” he murmured. “I wanna take you somewhere where I can love you properly.”

That made your whole chest ache.

“You love me?” you teased, trying to lighten the weight pressing down on your lungs.

He tilted his head, lips brushing yours.

“I love you in every language I don’t speak. In every song I’ve ever skipped because it reminded me of you. In every version of this fucked-up life where I don’t get to kiss you like this.”

You blinked. “You’re making me crazy love.”

He kissed your nose. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“I love you in the dumbass way I don’t say it right, but show it every time I look at you like you hung the fucking moon.”

“Erik-”

“And I love you in the annoying way that means I’ll never be able to let you go without burning something down.”

You swallowed.

Your brain was a blur of what did I do to deserve this, and your heart was crawling into his hoodie like it finally found a place to live.

“Take me somewhere,” you whispered.

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere. Just drive. I don’t care. I’ll love you in every zip code.”

His lips twitched into a soft, crooked smile.

“Damn, Peach,” he muttered, kissing your forehead. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You started it.”

He chuckled.

“You ready?”

You kissed him again. Slower this time. Sweeter. Like you were making a promise you couldn’t take back.

“Yeah,” you said against his lips. “Let’s go fall in love on the road like two idiots with a death wish.”

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh like it belonged there.

You put on another song,this one soft, nostalgic, something that made your eyes sting without knowing why.

Outside, the stars were starting to come out.

Inside, you were glowing.

You leaned your head against the window, hand in his, and whispered:

“If we crash and die tonight, I just want god to know I died horny and in love.”

Erik snorted.

“Romantic and deranged. My dream girl.”

You smiled.

And somewhere between one exit sign and the next town, he looked at you like you were the only destination that mattered.

You didn’t know where Erik was driving. Didn’t care.

The road spilled in front of you like a ribbon made of second chances, and the air felt different - heavier, maybe, or sacred. The way it does right before a storm, or a kiss that’ll change everything.

You were quiet now. Just music humming low through the speakers and Erik’s hand warm on your thigh like he didn’t ever want to let go.

Outside, the sky had darkened into that deep indigo, stars beginning to scatter like someone spilled glitter across the universe.

“You tired?” he asked softly, glancing over.

You shook your head. “No. Just… floating.”

He smirked. “You always get philosophical after orgasms and playlists.”

You elbowed him, but didn’t deny it.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled off into a field , open, wide, nothing but grass and sky and the kind of silence that makes you feel like the only two people left in the world.

The engine cut. The stars blinked brighter.

You both got out, and you climbed onto the hood of the car like it was something you’d done a thousand times , because maybe, in some other life, you had.

He joined you. Laid back, arms folded behind his head.

“God,” you whispered. “We’re so fucking cliché.”

“Hot people doing cliché things. It’s allowed,” he said, smirking up at the sky.

You laid next to him. Close. Barely touching.

“I almost told you I loved you,” you murmured. “Last year. Remember that night at the lake? When you fell asleep on my lap after three beers and a panic attack?”

He blinked. Turned to look at you.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

“I was gonna say it. You were mumbling in your sleep. Said my name like it hurt.”

He swallowed.

“I remember that too.”

You were silent for a long second.

“I didn’t say it because I didn’t want to be another thing you had to survive.”

He turned on his side. Eyes locked on yours.

“You’ve never been something I survived, Peach,” he said. “You’re the reason I’m still fucking breathing.”

The air left your lungs.

And then, from the car speakers, a soft Sinatra song started to play. Erik had turned the volume up from his phone.

He held out a hand.

You stared.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” he said. “Get up here and dance with me, Peach.”

“We’re in the middle of a field, Erik.”

“So?”

“No one dances to Sinatra in an open field under a full moon like they’re in a goddamn perfume commercial-”

“I do.”

You snorted, but he was already climbing off the hood, standing under the stars, hand still outstretched like he knew you’d come to him.

You always did.

You hopped down.

“Try anything horny and I’m headbutting you.”

“No promises.”

You slipped your hand into his.

And suddenly, he was pulling you into his chest, one hand on your back, the other twined in your fingers. Your bodies aligned like puzzle pieces that had been aching to fit.

He started to sway. Slowly.

You bit your lip.

“This is so fucking stupid.”

“I know,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours.

“But I love you anyway.”

Your knees went weak.

His grip tightened.

“I love you like it’s ruining me,” he said. “And I don’t even care.”

You closed your eyes. Breathed him in.

“I love you like it’s always been you.”

And you swayed.

There. In the middle of nowhere. With the stars overhead and the world asleep and your entire chest cracked wide open like maybe this time… maybe it was safe to be soft.

He dipped you.

You screamed.

He laughed.

You shoved him back and he caught you around the waist, spun you once, then kissed you like it was the grand finale of a love story no one thought would survive the first chapter.

“Promise me something,” you said, breathless.

“Anything.”

“When this roadtrip ends… don’t stop choosing me.”

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I never stopped.”

The moment the dance ended, you didn’t even realize who moved first.

Maybe it was you.

Maybe it was him.

But your back hit the car door and Erik’s mouth was on yours, hot and starving, and his hands were everywhere at once , cupping your face, sliding down your waist, gripping your ass like he’d waited years to do it in open air.

You moaned against his mouth, fingers in his hair, dragging him down until his hips pressed to yours and there was no doubt how hard he was.

“This is insane,” you gasped as he kissed down your neck, teeth grazing your throat.

“Then call me fucking crazy,” he growled, fumbling to open the back door with one hand while the other slipped under your shirt, thumbs dragging over bare skin.

The car door opened and you both fell inside, tangled limbs, breathless gasps, the weight of everything crashing down in the form of pure, desperate need.

You landed in the backseat, Erik’s body caging you in, heat radiating off him like he was made of fire.

He kissed you again , deeper now, slower, but with a tension that could snap bones. Tongue against yours, hands everywhere, so much skin and not enough time.

Your shirt was gone first.

Then his hoodie.

Then your bra.

He pulled back, just to look.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re so beautiful it makes me crazy.”

“Then do something about it,” you breathed, hips rolling up into his.

That broke him.

He dove back in, mouth on your chest, licking, sucking, biting , one hand gripping your thigh, the other squeezing your breast like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You dragged your fingers down his stomach, over the trail of hair that led to his waistband, and undid his belt with shaking hands.

He hissed when your palm brushed his cock.

“You gonna tease me again?” you smirked, already knowing the answer.

His eyes snapped up to yours, dark and wild.

“I’m going to ruin you.”

He yanked your jeans down , impatient, messy , and hooked your legs over his shoulders like he was prepping for battle.

Then , his tongue was on you.

You cried out, back arching into the seat, hands clawing at the upholstery as he devoured you like a man possessed.

“Erik-fuck-”

He moaned into you, like the taste of you wrecked him, tongue curling just right, fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open like this was his purpose.

You were shaking already.

“Please,” you gasped, body strung tight. “I need you -please.”

He pulled back just long enough to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand and say:

“You want it, Peach? Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you moaned. “Now. Here. I don’t care. Just-now.”

His mouth was back on yours instantly, wet and hot and filthy.

You felt him line up against your entrance, his cock thick and hot, already leaking against your skin.

Then, one deep thrust , and he was inside.

You gasped , loud. Body bowing into him.

He groaned like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he choked out, pulling back and slamming into you again.

The car shook.

Your moan turned into a scream.

He set a brutal rhythm , hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the tiny space, the windows fogging so fast it looked like a scene out of a horror movie ,except this was the most alive you’d ever felt.

You clawed at his back, his shoulders, dragged your nails down his spine just to feel him shiver.

“Erik, I—oh my god—”

“I know,” he panted, biting down on your shoulder. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

He reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling just right.

You lost it.

Your whole body clenched, legs tightening around him, scream caught in your throat as you came hard, the kind of orgasm that wrecked memory and rewrote religion.

He cursed, hips stuttering.

“Gonna cum,” he growled. “Where do you-”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Inside. I need it.”

That’s all it took.

He buried himself deep, let out a broken moan, and came with a shudder so intense it felt like an earthquake inside your chest.

You stayed like that, panting, tangled, skin slick and burning, his face pressed into your neck, breath ghosting over your skin like an apology.

You were both trembling.

Both ruined.

And still - he didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just whispered into your skin:

“You’re my home, Peach. Always have been.”

You pressed a kiss to his hair, still catching your breath.

“And you’re the disaster I’d choose every time.”

THE NEXT MORNING:

You woke up with your leg over the center console, your face smushed into Erik’s bare chest, and a single french fry stuck to your arm like it had gone to war with you.

The car windows were fogged.

Erik was dead asleep under the hoodie you both fought over. His mouth was slightly open, hair a complete mess, and he looked like an angel who’d gotten in a bar fight with a raccoon.

You shifted, winced, and whispered:

“Oh my God… my spine’s filing for divorce.”

“Same,” Erik muttered without opening his eyes. “Pretty sure I left one of my vertebrae under your ass.”

You sat up. Everything hurt. Everything smelled like… regret, sex, and possibly Funyuns.

“I think I gave you a hickey the size of Rhode Island.”

He smirked, eyes still closed.

“You think?”

You shoved him gently, and the car creaked in protest like it too had seen some shit last night.

ONE HOUR LATER: SMALL TOWN DINER, BIG TIME SHAME

You stumbled into a local diner looking like two feral raccoons who’d just discovered what love and backseat sex felt like.

Erik’s hoodie was stretched out in weird places. Your shorts were inside out,and Erik’s neck looked like it had been claimed by a vampire with emotional issues.

The waitress didn’t even blink.

“Booth or bar?”

“Booth,” you both croaked in unison like cursed dolls.

You slid into the booth, hissing as your thighs met the cold leather.

“God, I am fucking wrecked.”

“Same,” Erik muttered, flopping in across from you. “Pretty sure I dislocated a hip.”

You both opened your menus in silence.

Then a sweet old woman from the next booth leaned over and, with the voice of someone who had absolutely zero boundaries, said:

“Well. Someone had fun last night.”

You froze.

Erik blinked.

“Sorry?” you said, attempting politeness but radiating shame.

“Oh, honey,” she said, sipping her black coffee. “I know that walk. And those bruises.”

You reached for your ice water like it might help you evaporate.

Erik, of course, grinned like a feral golden retriever.

“Ma’am, if I could high-five you for that, I would.”

She did high-five him.

You nearly died on the spot.

“I’m Shirley,” she added. “Used to be a gymnast. Your form looked impressive.”

“Shirley. Please.”

Erik was beaming. “Shirley, you’re a legend.”

“I still got it,” she winked at him. “But you got it more, sweetheart.”

You slammed your menu down. “I will walk into oncoming traffic.”

After Shirley left (but not before sliding Erik a handwritten note that may or may not have been her number), you finally got your coffee, your pancakes, and a moment of peace.

Erik looked across the table, eyes softer now.

“You ever think about what this would be like every day?” he asked.

You blinked, halfway through drowning your plate in syrup.

“What, sex in a car and old women heckling us?”

“No. I mean-” he ran a hand through his hair, suddenly shy, “us. Waking up together. Mornings. Diners. Fighting over who used the last of the toothpaste.”

Your heart did something horrible and fluttery.

You tried to play it cool.

“Nah,” you said, sipping your coffee. “I’m just in it for the hickeys and public humiliation.”

He reached across the table and stole your bacon with zero remorse.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m in it for your ass in my hoodie and your voice when you sing ‘Wicked Game’ at midnight.”

You blushed.

He smiled.

And that was it.

You were screwed.

Like, emotionally.

Later, back in the car:

You climbed into the passenger seat, pulled down the mirror, and caught sight of your hair.

“Jesus. I look like I got into a fight with a leaf blower and lost.”

Erik leaned over and kissed your cheek.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you looked hot doing it.”

You groaned, leaned your head back, and muttered:

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, starting the car. “You love me.”

You didn’t answer.

Just reached over, laced your fingers through his, and whispered,

“Yeah. I really fucking do.”

And as the Jeep pulled back onto the road, Shirley waved at you from the diner parking lot.

Winked at Erik.

Blew him a kiss.

You screamed into the hoodie.

He laughed until he almost ran a stop sign.

[to-the-stars8]

The Waynes' Nanny

Batfamily and Reader/Bruce Wayne x Reader Chapters Ao3

Dazed and Confused, Nanny Version

The following Friday, Jon was back with another weekend bag and an armful of dinosaur toys, grinning like he owned the place. You didn’t mind. You liked having him around; he was polite, easygoing, and generally less explosive than the other kids. 

What you did mind, as you realized sometime Saturday afternoon, was the creeping headache, the dry mouth, and the sharp sway of the world when you stood up too fast. 

The realization hit just seconds before the ground did.

Having seven kids to look after wouldn’t be hard, you had told yourself when Mr. Kent dropped off Jon. Dick, Cassandra, and Jason were all older so they, for the most part, could take care of themselves. Yet, that day, your attention had been pulled in every direction. 

Dick wanted to show you what he had been practicing at camp, which had crept into your time for breakfast. Then, just as you were about to eat lunch, Cassandra came in asking you to help her find her ballet shoes. That was followed by Jason, Duke, and Tim getting into a fight to which you had to spend two hours breaking up. 

Jon and Damian had kept you near them for most of the day, begging you to play with dinosaurs or something else they could come up with. If it were only Damian, it would have been easier to persuade him to let you have a moment. Yet, they were relentless in demanding your attention.  

So, by the time four o'clock had come around, you hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since the night before. There were symptoms of your lack of self-care, but you had ignored them—chalking it up to stress.

You were standing at the edge of the backyard, watching as the kids tried to fly kites with Mr. Wayne’s help. There was too little wind for it to really work, but they were determined to do it. You had run around the yard a bit with them, but, when you felt yourself get a little too dizzy, you decided to take a break. Sweat was rolling down your neck and the heat made your skin feel sticky. You wanted nothing more than to shower and eat something. 

Yet, the kids begged you to watch, so you stayed. Not long after, you had hit the ground. 

You hadn’t realized what had happened until you opened your eyes to see Mr. Wayne looking over you. He was mumbling something—Maybe your name? Everything seemed so fuzzy, including your hearing. 

The only thing you could hear clearly was Duke crying, “She’s dead! Nan’s dead!” Followed by loud, dramatic wails. 

“Not dead,” You mumbled. 

Bruce lifted his gaze, saying something to Alfred and suddenly the wailing slowly quieted. His hand snaked around your head, lifting it slightly as he lifted a water bottle to your lips. You drank it like you had been stranded in the desert, until you took one sip that went down the wrong pipe. You turned your head, coughing heavily. 

“Shit,” Bruce said under his breath, patting your back.

His hand felt large, rubbing up and down your spine, given a pat here or there. When you finally managed to take a breath without feeling like hacking up a lung, you turned back. You tried to sit up, but Bruce put a hand on your shoulder. 

“Nan, take it easy,” He said softly. 

You shook your head. “The kids. I…I need to…” You were so out of it you couldn’t finish your words. 

Bruce gently grabbed your chin to look at him. “They’re fine. Relax for a minute.”

You hesitated for a second, but nodded, settling back onto the cushions. There was no doubt that if you made any other efforts to move, you would have been severely reprimanded. 

“What happened?” You asked after a minute. 

“I think you’re supposed to tell me.”

You shook your head, trying to remember. “I was watching the kids, and felt hot. And thirsty. That’s all I remember.”

Bruce stopped and looked at you. “When was the last time you ate or drank anything?” When it took you more than a minute to think, Mr. Wayne ‘tsked’. “Nan, you need to take better care of your—”

“Don’t start,” you snapped, not in the mood for a lecture. You were already embarrassed enough, he didn’t need to add any fuel to the fire. “I was doing my job. I know I need to take care of myself. It was a mistake.”

“You made me a bit scared there.” It was quiet, like an admission you weren’t meant to hear. He cleared his throat before adding, “I don’t need you fainting.”

“I know.”

Bruce exhaled, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead, then brushing it down to your neck, fingers gentle as they checked your pulse. His touch lingered longer than necessary—or maybe you just wanted it to. Either way, it felt warmer than the afternoon heat, and if you were still feeling like you had earlier, you might’ve fainted again.

“Bruce…” you whispered, as his hand cupped the side of your neck just a second too long. His name came out softer than you meant, nearly a breath. When you realized how it sounded, your mouth parted to say something else, but the words didn’t come. He drew his hand back, looking away. The silence was thick between you, and it made you feel like something was left unsaid.

“This can’t happen again,” He finally stated, handing you the water bottle that sat on the coffee table. Your fingers brushed his as you took it. “Nan, I know it’s your job to watch the kids, but I can watch them, too. We’re a team. Understand?”

“Of course, Mr. Wayne,” you said. “Thank you.”

He smiled, one of the rare, real ones, and glanced toward the TV room door before looking back at you. “Think you're ready to let the kids back in? Or should I bribe them to give you ten more minutes and something to eat first?”

You laughed, lighter now. “Eat first, please. I think I might just eat the kids if I don’t get something in my stomach soon.”

Bruce chuckled, a low sound in his chest as he stood. He took a step toward the door, then stopped. “Nan?”

You looked up. “Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

He turned, a strange sort of softness in his expression. “This might seem sudden. I know you don’t always call me Mr. Wayne, but I’d like it better—I mean, I think it would be better for the kids if you just called me Bruce from now on. Just Bruce.”

There was a moment where you just stared at him, not sure if there was something more to what he was saying. Your heart did somersaults. Better for the kids, you told yourself. But the way he said it the way his voice had dropped just slightly. 

“Okay, Bruce.”

It was such a small thing—a name, just a name—but somehow it left your knees weak. You sank back into the couch, heart thudding. And for the second time that day, you felt like you might faint.

But for a very different reason.

[slvbum]

ᤢ ♥︎⠀ 08⠀‌⸻ angel tears / rafe cameron!

content WARNING: insolation.

The mansion was quieter than Rafe had ever known it to be. He was used to coming home to the soft clink of dishes, the warm aroma of YN’s cooking: herb-roasted chicken, lavender shortbread, meals he’d lately dismissed with a sneer. But the past few days, there was nothing. No warm plate waiting, no shy smile greeting him at the door, no trace of the wife he’d moulded into his perfect doll. The absence gnawed at him, though he wouldn’t admit it. He knew she was hurting, losing the baby had shaken her. In his mind, he was doing the right thing, giving her space to heal, waiting for her to snap back into the Y/N he needed: perfect, obedient, his. He figured a few days, maybe a week, and she’d be herself again, flitting around the kitchen, eager to please him. That’s how it worked, wasn’t it?

She’d always come back.

Weeks passed, and Y/N stayed locked in the guest room. Rafe noticed her absence in fragments and glimpses through the mansion’s cameras when he checked them at work. She’d wander the halls when he wasn’t home, her slender frame draped in silk pyjamas, cream-colored and flowing, her hair loose and unstyled. She looked beautiful, like a painting he could see but not touch. The maids cooked now, their meals competent but soulless... overcooked steak, bland salads, nothing like Y/N’s delicate touch. Rafe ate in silence, the clatter of his fork against the plate too loud in the empty dining room. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask the maids where she was or what she ate. He told himself it was patience, not neglect. She’d come around soon enough.

And for Y/N, the guest room had become a sanctuary, its four walls a shield against Rafe.

Your fault. You killed our baby.

His words looped in her mind, but as the days stretched into weeks, a new clarity emerged. Rafe didn’t care about her, not really. If he did, he’d have knocked on her door, asked if she was okay, if she’d eaten.

He didn’t. Not once.

He only cared when she was smiling, cooking, playing the perfect housewife he’d caged her into being. She was invisible to him unless she performed, and the weight of that truth made her chest ache.

Even so, guilt gnawed at her. She felt terrible for hiding, for locking herself away, for mirroring the silent treatment Rafe used to punish her when she “misbehaved.” His punishments were a cold withdrawal that left her scrambling to please him, to earn back his approval. Her silence was different—born of exhaustion, not cruelty—but it felt wrong, like she was failing him by not trying harder to be his wife. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to face the man who’d blamed her for their baby’s death, who’d shoved her away for a sticky thumb, who’d laughed with a ginger woman while she bled alone. But the thought of losing him entirely terrified her.

She did her best to keep her mind calm. She spent her days reading books she found in the mansion’s neglected library; worn paperbacks of Jane Austen, fairy tales, and poetry that spoke of freedom. She’d curl up on the bed and lose herself in stories. The books were a lifeline, their pages whispering that she wasn’t alone in her longing for more. She also started writing, a small journal she kept hidden under the mattress, its leather cover soft from her constant handling. She filled it with fairy tales, stories that spilt from her heart.

Her favourite was a tale she hadn’t even named yet.

She wrote it in looping script. In the story, a beautiful princess was locked in a golden tower by a charming but selfish prince. He told her she was too pretty for the world, that his love protected her, but his words were lies to keep her his alone. He’d bring her jewels and dresses, but never freedom, his smile hiding a heart that cared only for possession. The princess, naive at first, believed his love was enough until she saw the world beyond her window: children laughing, markets bustling, skies wide and open. She began to dream of escape, climbing down the tower when the prince was away. She fled to a village where she taught children to read.

Y/N wrote the story with trembling hands, her eyes blurring with tears as she realized it was her story, her fear of Rafe disguised as fiction. She hid the journal each morning, afraid he’d find it, afraid he’d see the truth she was only beginning to grasp. She missed the Y/N who’d baked with joy, who’d dreamed of teaching, who’d believed Rafe’s love was real. Now, she saw his silence for what it was: indifference, a punishment worse than his yelling, a sign that he’d let her waste away in that room if it suited him.

One evening, Y/N sat on the bed, her journal opened, and she wrote a new line:

The princess learned that love does not lock doors.

She stared at it, her heart pounding, the words a mirror to her marriage. Rafe’s absence, his refusal to check on her, was a lock he’d turned, leaving her to rot in her grief. Y/N wasn’t sure she could weave a rope to escape, but for the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of willpower, fragile, but it was there.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

[svt-ara]

the weight on her shoulders after yuta left was still heavy even after few months. the stronger medications for her ocd came with side effects— a body that felt unfamiliar and rumors that spread faster than the truth ever could. the asthma wasn't just a medical emegercy. it was the moment everything she had been holding in finally cracked, the last straw.

ᯓ★ 𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗥𝗘 angst | ⸝⸝⸝⸝ 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 description of asthma attack, emotional distress, anxiety, burnout, emotional vulnerability, a kind of trauma (implied), ocd (implied), idk if theres more let me know | ⸝⸝⸝⸝ 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗘 2019. | ⸝⸝⸝⸝ 𝗪𝗖 4.5k | ⸝⸝⸝⸝ 𝗔𝗡 i don't know how asthma attack works that well so don't come at me if i got something wrong 🙏also wondering if i should make a taglist, if anyone would even be apart of it lol. not proofread

꒰୨ 𝓜asterlist ୧꒱

the air in the dressing room was loud, not in the way people usually meant it— the way that silence turned heavy when too many voices overlapped, when blow dryers buzzed in one corner and low hum of tension pressed against the walls.

it wasn't unusual, it was always like this before a show especially when there were fourteen of them. fourteen people in various stages of preparation— eyeliner half-finished, dino stretching in the corner, seungkwan and dokyeom warming their voices with loud, theatrical sounds that bounced off the walls. jeonghan pacing by the door, his fingers brushing againist the frame as he tried to steal a moment of fresh air before the stage swallowed them.

add in the stylist, make-up artists, managers and the camera crew and the room was an universe of its own. busy, bright, too croweded for comfort but they all learned how tune it out.

ara sat in front of the mirror, posture too straight— too perfect— to be comfortable. her reflection stared back at her blank under layers of fundation, eyes focused but distant. around her laughter scattered here and there, the make-up artist tapping brushes against palettes— her own make-up always took longer.

but none of it broke throught the fog in her head, not really.

she adjusted the collar of her shirt for the fifth time, fingers brushing over the fabric at her waist as it clung tighter than she remembered during fittings. maybe it had shrunk, maybe she was just imagining things. or maybe not.

the stylist had said nothing, but she had noticed— she had noticed the slight hesitation when she zipped the outfit earlier, how her hands moved a lille slower that usual, how she avoided meeting ara's eyes entirely.

her gaze dropped to the table in front of her— a row of lipsticks shades, perfectly lined up, a bottle of water she hadn't touched and then her phone face-down. she didn't need to check it, she already knew it was empty. the breakup had been months ago, yuta was long gone. but some weights don't lift up just because time had passed.

she had tried to keep up with the work— the rehearsals, interviews, choreographies, diet plans but her ocd had flared under the pressure. rituals became harder to maintain, rituals impossible to follow.

eventually the company stepped in at, «try something stronger» they said, not unkindly— but not exactly gently either. they didn't ask how she felt about it, they just slid the prescription across the table, like a solution. and in some way it was. the thoughts slowed, compulsions quieted, rituals faded— but so did other parts of her.

her weight changed— just slightly, but enough. enough for the fans to notice, the comments to start and enough for rumors to start.

someone called her name. once— then again, a bit louder, more insistent. she blinked, slowly, as if waking up from a dream she didn't realized she was in. «we need to fix the mic belt» a woman said gently, crounchig beside her chair. the small transmitter in one hand, the thin elastic strap in the other. ara nodded wordlessy, rising from the make-up chair in a way that felt too rehearsed. her hand moved with her lifting the back of her shirt with a small tug, exposing just enough of her lower back for the belt to sit flat against her skin. it was cold— she barely fliched.

«there» the staff member said with a quiet pat, fastening the strap with practiced ease.

«let's go standby» the manager's voice cut throught the room, sharp and slicing clean throught the white noise that had settled around them. the members moved as one, chaotic but efficent— someone laughed, someone almost cursed under his breath after bumping his shoulder into something, someone was nervous like it was the frist time. ara just followed quietly, she was getting used to it.

the hallway trowards the stage was narrow. hoshi fell into step beside her, brushing past slightly. he didn't said anything at frist, just offered a look— one of those unreadable ones he wore so easly. then, after few seconds, he finally spoke.

«you okay?» he asked, his voice low enough that it could get lost under the soft noise of ther feet touching the ground. she hesistated— then smiled, small and fleeting «im good». it was automatic, too easy. he watched her for a moment longer, not convinced, but he didn't pressed— it wasn't the moment.

the stage crew guided them with quiet emegercy— hand signals, short clipped pharases. and soon they were lined up in formation— she was at the far end, just near the wings. her eyes dropped to the floor, black tape lines were there. the shimmer of the lights beyond. the crowd's distant roar was raising— louder, clearer.

her in-ear monitors didn't sat quiet right. she adjusted them again, and again. her skin felt too hot, flushed under the layers of foundation, raw under the sweat that handn't even the time to form. a staff member ran past with a headset «one minute!».

she galaced sideways. everyone else looked focused, calm, present. mingyu cracked his neck, vernon bounced slightly on his feet and woozi rolled his shoulder. but ara felt the pressure crawling up her neck, settling under her ribs— she didn't know if it was panic or some kind of awareness. like her body was trying to whisper something she didn't want to hear.

then lights went out, the crowd scream and the music started.

the bass dropped like a heartbeat, steady and commanding, and the stage lights cut thought the darkness. ara moved on reflex— step, reach, turn. her body responding before her mind could catch up, lost in muscle memory. she had performed mansae more times she could count, enough that her feet knew the beat before the spearker did. they moved around the stage for over an hour— dancing, singing, jumping, interacting with each other and the crowd, riding the high of adrenaline and routine. there was barely time to breath, let alone pause and collect their toughts.

and then came getting closer coreography straight after clap, and it demanded everything— sharp movements, synchronized transitions, energy that left no space for fatigue. her breath was already shallow by the pre chorus— too soon, too early. it shouldn't have felt like this. her libs still obeyed her, but they did so reluctantly, as if they turned heavier and denser— like pushing throught water.

there was a weight settling in her chest— not the emotional kind, not entirely at least. she felt that was something physical, tangible, real.

and she knew it, she recognized it— the tightening wasn't new. the catch in her throat, the way her lungs seemed to shrink everytime she tried to take in air— it had been months, but the sensation was unforgettable. still she kept going on, even if her vision began to tilt sightly, just enough for the edges of the stage to feel curved.

joshua passed close behind her, brushing her shoulder sightly. his galance was quick, concerned, but she dismissed it with a subtle nod that barely masked the way her lungs were already fighting for space. keep going, keep dancing— it'll pass, but it didn't.

by the time the song reached its final chorus, ara felt like she was chasing her own breath, scraping at her ribs with ever inhale that never quite filled her. her hands trembled as they fell into the next formation, and she missed a cue— just one. a turn came a second too late. anyone unfamiliar with the routine wouldn't have noticed, but others would. and she knew they did.

her gaze flicked toward the wing without thinking, her body instinctively searching for a way out, but her feet stayed rooted to the spot. then her line came— only few words— but her lung locked instantly. it was like a trap had snapped shut inside her chest. no air came in, and for a second everything inside her froze. and when they didn't hear her familiar voice singing the lines, someone immediatly chimed him— it probably was dokyeom.

her knees didn't give, not yet, but her step faltered just enough that minghao reached for her, almost unconsciously, catching her elbow. «ara» he wishpered, low enough that only she could hear, but she shook her head and tried to keep moving, even though the stage had started spinning and the lights overhead felt like a sun she couldn't escape from.

her body was shutting down piece by piece. her skin burned under the layers of make up and sweat, her throat was raw, and every breath she tried to take felt like drowing. she couldn't even hear the music anymore— just the rasping sound of her own breath, ragged, fast, uneaven. and then, she stopped.

her hands frist moved to her mic belt, fumbling with the strap like it was suddently soffucating her. then her hands moved to her chest, fingers spread wide as if trying to hold herself togheter— like pressing down might somehow force the air back into her lungs. the camera, mercifully, missed the moment. but the members didn't.

from backstage, someone yelled— her name maybe, or something more urgent— but it came through muffled and distorted, like sound underwater. everything around her blurred as her feet started to move, slow and unsteady, a despreate shuffle toward the backstage, somewhere quieter and where she could breathe. but she didn't make far. her legs gave out just as she reached the edge of the stage, knees like paper, and in the next second someone caught her— arm gripping tightly around her arms, not carefully or gently, just urgently. she didn't even see who it was.

everything was spinning, her vision a tunnel of light and black spots, her ears ringing louder than the music. she felt herself being pulled, dragged off stage with force that was more instinct. it was like whoever grabbed her didn't care how it looked, only that she was safe. her chest was still heaving, desperate for air that wouldn't come. makeup smeared from her temples to her jaw, her fingers clutched at the back of someone's shirt, it was cotton damped with sweat.

the moment her foot crossed into the backstage, probably everything was even more chaotic than it had been out there under the stage lights. the roar of the crowd faded, replaced by something sharper, more raw-panic in its purest form. people were talking over each other, overlapping voices crashing. their words came fast and useless, like water thrown on a fire that had already swallowed the room.

hands reached for her all at once— someone tugger her in-ear monitor off too roughly, someone tried to unclip the mic belt from her waist while she was still gasping like she was drowning and their urgency was making everything clumsy. her knees buckled fully this time, and someone caught her just before she collapsed entirely. they lowered her to the ground too fast, without grace, and the cold concrete met her spine like a slap, like the reality.

the pressure in her chest didn't ease, it only grew heavier. her fingers trembled as they clawed at the fabric of her shirt, uselessy. someone knelt beside, this time decisive, holding a small plastic device in one hand— the emergency inhaler.

«ara, we've got it, okay? just hang on» the voice was quick and focused. they gently pried her hand from her chest and pressed the inhaler to her lips. she barely responded, but she tried, «breathe in now ara». the frist breath didn't land right, it slipped to shallow. but the second, it caught. her eyes clenched shut, face crumpling not from pain but from the terrifying relif of it. she gasped again— harder, and a single tear slipped down the side of her nose without her noticing.

the pressure hadn't left— her chest still hurted like hell and her lungs still dragged, but it was something. oxygen finally reaching the edges of her panic. around her the chaos didn't stop, but her world slowed but she could still hear a snippet of frantic voices. «tell hoshi to stay back— wait, no. wait he's coming» and through all the blur, someone's voice— louder than the rest, called out her name.

he was there, on his knees beside her before anyone could stop him. she didn't answer, still too focused on the rising and falling of her chest, but her eyes flicked towards him. his voice was too soft for the room around them. «you're okay» he slowly reached out, carefully, as he brushed a strand of hair of her damp forehead. his hands trembling «you scared the hell out of me».

she opened her mouth to say something— maybe to apologize, maybe to lie and say she was fine, but nothing came out. just another shallow breath. «don't do that, don't say nothing» hoshi said, gently but firmly, her hand still gripped the inhaler like a lifeliner. he noticed the way her knuckles were white around it, and without asking, he helped her steady it again.

everything faded, and just for a second, it was just him and her— his hand on the back of her neck, firm and steady, while her still trembling fingers gripped around his arm. not pulling, just holding on, as if he was the only think keeping her to the ground. his eyes scanned her face, not with fear anymore, but with something quieter. somethind he didn't have the words for right now, that only she would understand.

she wasn't sure how long it had been— if seconds or minutes, before her breath finally stopped scraping her lungs like broken glass. time felt distorted, stretched and compressed all at once. the bright lights above her head buzzed faintly, the distant echo of footsteps and voices bleeding into a background hum she couldn't quite focus on. everything around her was still too fast, too loud, too much but she was glad the worst had passed.

her head throbbed with a dull, persistent anche, and her chest still felt like something heavy had been placed on it, pressing her down from the inside. but every breath came out easier now, and even if her limbs felt numbs and some trembling, that alone felt like a miracle.

her back was now pressed against the cool wall of the hallway, the chill of the concrete leaked through the thin layer of her clothes. she didn't remember moving, she hadn't the strenght for it. only hoshi must've done it— quiet and efficiently, in that way he always did things when he was worried but trying to not show it.

she blinked slowly, still disoriented. her gaze moved across the hallway— many people still rushing back and forth, some of their voices urgent but none of them registred fully. she still felt like she was underwater. and he was there— squatting in front of her, elbows on his knees, his entire body lightly leaning fowards ara.

his eyes fixed on hers with a soft gaze— not worried nor scolding, that was the last thing she needed at the moment. one of his hand moved near her ankle, not touching it, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. she didn't know if she wanted to cry or collapse again just from the weight of that small, quite kindness.

someone crouched beside her— a women from the staff. her voice was gentle but firm, the kind used when giving instructions meant to be followed without protest. «ara, stay there. you don't have to go back on stage, really» her hand hovered near ara's shoulder like she wanted to offer comfort, but hesitated last second. «you've done more than enough, they'll understand» she added softly, her eyes scanning ara's face, looking for some sing— pain, disconfort or protest.

ara didn't respond at frist, her gaze was fixed ahead— unfocused. she wanted to say yes, to agree, to let herself stay down but her muscles wouldn't commit. her body was still busy recovering from everything that just happened. the staff member knelt a little lower, one knee hitting the floor «ara?» she leaned foward, to give a look at her face. that's when she finally turned her head, just enough to meet her eyes.

there was no anger or resistance in her expression— just exhaustion, raw and unfiltered. her lips parted like she was about to say something, but no words came out. «you don't have to prove anything to anyone, okay?» she said, this time more gentle. «let them handle it. just breathe»

she didn't need to look up to catch him staring, she could feel it— his gaze was steady and unwavering, it was burning under her sking gently. it wasn't heavy, not the kind of stare that asked questions or demanded explenations.

when she finally dared to lift her eyes, his gaze met hers without hesitation and it didn't flicker. it was caring, deeply so— there was no trace of pity of concern that needed to be seen by others. it was that kind of understanding that came from knowing someone for too long to be fooled by a forced smile or a rehearsed 'im fine'.

she swallowed hard, not because she had something to say, but because something about the way he looked at her made her throat ache again. like her body didn't know how to hold that kind of softness without falling apart.

«you don't have to stay. i'm okay now» hoshi tilted his head sightly, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. «you're not» his voice sounded quiet, gentle. she blinked fast, trying to keep her face togheter. she didn't want to cry— not here, with that big amount of staff crowding the hallway. her fingers curled around the fabric of her pants, grounding herself in that tiny motion.

«im serious» she murmured, eyes drifting toward the floor «i'll be back» her voice was barely here, just enough for him to hear. but hoshi caught it, like he caught everything. his eyes lingered on her a second longer, and she swore she saw something flicker in them— pride, maybe. or worry. or both.

he didn't answer right away, just breathed in throught his nose— sharp and slow. letting her go now was harder than he wanted it to be. then someone called his name— loud, urgent. «hoshi, you have to go on stage. now» he didn't move at frist, he just stared at her still leaning on the cold wall.

«hoshi» he shifted his weight, reluctantly. his jaw tensed and then gave a small nod, not to the staff, at her. not approval, not permession, it was more like 'please, don't make me regret walking away'. then he turned and jogged down the hall, shoulder tight, vanishing around the corner.

ara let her head fall back against the wall. the ache had dulled— no longer sharp, but still present, sitting heavy in her ribs like leftover thunder. the kind of exhaustion that didn't just pressed on her muscles but wrapped around her bones— deep and slow. her breathing had evened out, but it still felt borrowed, like her lungs weren't fully hers yet. she closed her eyes for a moment, long lashes fanned againist her cheeks, the cool of hallway title seeping through the back of her shirt.

her hands had stopped trembling, they were still resting in her lap like she didn't know what to do with them. her legs awkwardly bent in front of her, shoes pressed against the floor, the posture of someone who hadn't fully decided wether to rest or ride. she was alone again, for a beat. the gazes of the staff who were still checking her out burned under her skin.

and then, slowly— almost without realizing— her fingers moved. one hand reached to the back of her waist, where the mic pack had been jostled loose. her touch was unsure at frist, grazing over the cable and the edge of the elastic strap. she should leave it, she should rest— she'd been told to. everyone would understand. but understanding wasn't the same as forgiving. and rest wasn't same as peace.

she couldn't explain it— not even to herself— but sitting there felt worse than the moment her breath had locked inside her chest. so she adjusted the strap, fitted it more snugly against her skin. her motions were slow, steady, and by the time her fingers clipped her mic back into place, her hands had stopped shaking altogheter.

one deep breath, then another. her knees bent and she lent fowards, palms pressing against the the groud to lift herself— but before she could fully rise, several hands reached out, gasping her arms to steady and support her. she was grateful for their help, for the care they offered in that frantic moment, but a part of her still hated that feeling. their eyes were soft, full of concern— but also laced with something else: pity. and she hated it. the way they looked at her as if she was fragile, broken in a way she didn't want to admit, but even less wanted other to see.

she clenched her jaw and forced a small, tight smile. «i'm fine» she whispered, not quite meeting anyones eyes. taking deep breathes, she adjusted her mic one last time as her eyes flicked toward the stage entrace— bright lights were waiting her. she straightened her shoulders, squaring her jaw and stepped foward.

the distance sound of s.coups voice carried though speakers, delivering a speech to the crowd. that's when ara knew it was the perfect moment, they probably had less than an hour until the end of the concert. every movement she made was measured, as if her mind needed to convince her body was fine, was ready. and with steady steps, she slipped back into the stage, the roaring crowd swallowing her up again.

they immeditely spotted her— minghao caught her eyes and gave her a small, reassuring nod. seungkwan flashed a bright smile, mouthing something she couldn't quite catch. joshua stepped closer, subtly adjusting his stance so her shoulders almost touched. then, with a quiet gentleness, he gave her a soft pat on the shoulder— an uspoken promise she wasn't alone out there, that they in this all toghter. the familiar presence of her members grounded her, giving her the strenght to keep moving foward and finish what she'd started despire everything.

she even caught the suble glance hoshi shot her from across the stage— a fleeting look that carried more weight than words could. his eyes— sharp yet soft, locked into hers for a heartbeat, and a slight, almost reclutant smile tugged at the corner of his lips. it was something only meat for her, a quiet rassurance that wathever storm she was in— he saw her, and he was there.

jeonghan moved through the stage, passing at the back of the members. his movements, meant to look unhurried, hided the ugercy of her steps— he didn't wanted to draw the attention from the udience, especially now as seungkwans voice filled the arena with a gentle speech, but the ugercy to be by her side betrayed him. when he reacher her side, he moved close, closing the gap between them with a quiet, comforting presence. his arms slipped around her waist— firm but tender.

the cool fabric of his jacket brushed lightly against her pale skin, forcing her to ground into the physical world— her head was still fogged. his head leaned gently over her shoulder, silently telling her to lean on him whenever she needed. there were no words between them, the simple contact was enough. ara's breath caught in her throat once again at the contact, a fragile hitch of gratidude and something unspoken swelling within her chest.

slowly, the music began to shift, the subtle hum growing louder as the into of the next song whispered through the spearkers. the members started moving into their positions with praticed precision. ara's legs, still heavy, obeyed instinctively as she adjusted her stance. the lost of contact with jeonghan body, made shivers form down her spine. around her, the others snapped into formation. minghao galanced her way once again, offering a quick nod of encouragement.

she took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a brief moment. it didn't matter how much her chest ached with every move— only forty more minutes. she could endure that.

the final notes of the never ending aju nice echoed though the arena. member scattered around the stage, jumping around while interacting with the cheering crowd. ara's heart pounded in a steady rhythm. they came togheter at the center of the stage, hands linked, bowing deeply to the audience until their figure disappeared.

backstage, the energy was calmer than before, but still far from relaxed. the big smiles they'd held on stage had softened, fading into worried galances exchanged between the member. dino was the frist one to approach ara, his voice low and steady «hey, you holding up okay?» his eyes searched her, trying to understand how much she was really feeling.

she gave a small nod, nothing more— and ofcurse no one was conviced. the movement felt automatic, more like a polite gesture rather than a true answer. joshua stepped closer, his hand gently squeezing her shoulder, a quiet reassurance meant to ground her. his eyes scanned her face carefully, searching for any sign.

s.coups lingered just behind joshua, his brows furrowed in concern, ready to step if needed. «you don't have to push yourself too hard» he said quietly, voice low but still enough to be heard. ara blinked slowly, struggling to steady her breath, but her lips remained pressed into a thin line. she wasn't ready to admit how the episode had shaken her— how close she'd come to losing control.

but despite their concern, no one pressed too hard— not right after everything happened. she was stubborn, her way was to keep fighting through it, no matter how much it costed her.

she sat in front of the same mirror of hours before. it was the same, lights still hars against the glass. her posture was completely different, but it still felt uncomfortable as before— shoulders lower, breath slower and skin paler under the layers of makeup that stubbornly clung into her. she sat in silence as the soft fabric rubs against her skin, the coldness of the make-up remover contrasted with her warm, hot skin.

her fingers moved slowly, dragging the product across her cheeks, forehead and lips. it felt like she was peeling off everything— the adrenaline, the fear, the weight of pushing through. and when the last trace was long gone, she leaned back the chair, eyes fixed on her bare reflection. for a moment, there was only silence, heavy and soft all at once. then, with a quiet sigh, she closed her eyes and she whispered to herself— when it will be over.

[whumpsday]

Recovery Time

@medwhumpmay Day 29

Medwhump May Masterlist

content: implied torture, pet whump, intimate whumper, timeskip, recovery, comfort

yes i'm still finishing up medwhump may in late june. shhh

-

“Alright, alright, done for now,” Whumper announced.

Whumpee collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. He crawled into Whumper’s lap, trembling all over, and Whumper’s hands were gentle now, unlike just a moment ago.

“There, there,” she cooed.

He couldn’t find the will to fight it anymore, not like he had in the beginning. The ‘aftercare’ was the only comfort left in his life with Whumper. He needed it like he needed air. For just this short time, he had a guarantee he wouldn’t be hurt. For a small window, he had affection, gauze tenderly wound over his wounds. He could just breathe, even if every ragged breath shuddered through a bruised-up body.

“Tired?” Whumper asked, nonchalant. She pet him like a dog as he laid his head in her lap.

“Yes,” Whumpee murmured.

A small laugh. “You’re so cute like this.”

Whumpee whined, tensing up at the comment. It was never a good sign when Whumper said things like that. There were a lot worse states she found him even cuter in.

“Shh, shh.” Whumper patted him on the shoulder. “It’s over, remember? Over for now. Just rest. No need to get yourself all worked up.”

He didn’t know what came over him. Truly, he didn’t. But “Thank you” were the words he found tumbling out of his mouth. They were gone before he could really think about it, and he didn’t have half the energy to try and correct it.

“Oh, so sweet!” Whumper gushed. “You’re really finding your place here after all.”

-

“Whumpee?” Caretaker poked their head through the door, a plate of pizza in hand and a can of soda tucked under their arm. “Just… checking in. You doing okay? You haven’t come out in a really long time. I brought you some dinner? Plus there’s garlic knots if you want.”

Whumpee hesitantly crawled out from under the bed–mostly out, at least. One foot still under, ready to slip back at any moment, every muscle tensed. “Thank you,” he whispered. People liked it when he said thank you. That was normal, even, both with Whumper and out in the world. Couldn’t go wrong.

But Caretaker didn’t look like they liked it. The concern on their face barely wavered. “You’re, uh, welcome,” they said anyway, setting the dinner on the nightstand. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Seriously, dude. Say the word. I know it’s not easy with all that happened to you, but I really, really want you to feel safe here.”

He couldn’t stop himself. Whumpee burst into tears, right there on the floor.

“Hey, hey, hey, man,” Caretaker knelt down beside him. They reached out a hand to pat him on the back, then seemingly decided against it, letting it fall. “It’s okay. Let it all out. I’m here if you wanna talk.”

Whumpee sniffled. “You said I could ask if there’s anything you can do?” He cringed. “It’s really embarrassing.”

“Pssh, nothing’s embarrassing. Try me,” Caretaker encouraged. “No judgment. You know me. I’m your best friend.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. It was too much, too other, and the words caught in his throat. Caretaker wouldn’t understand.

Instead, he just crawled into their lap, resting his head there as he cried.

Caretaker took the cue. They knew him well, even like this. Their arms wrapped around to hold him, like they knew without even being told.

“Can you tell me about how it’s over and stuff?” Whumpee mumbled, his face splotchy with tears.

“Yeah, of course. I’ve got you.” Caretaker’s voice was soft. “It’s over, Whumpee. It’s really, really over. You’re safe, and you’re gonna be safe forever. You’re home.”

And for the first time since he last saw her, Whumpee relaxed.

-

Oneshots taglist:

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@whuarri

@reborrowing

@paperprinxe

@what-if-i-just-did

Everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

@lonesome--hunter

@whumpy-wyrms

@all-hail-pigeons

@wolfeyedwitch

@starfields08000

@jumpywhumpywriter

@scoundrelwithboba

[stagtorccio]

tongues and teeth

natalie scatorccio x gn!reader

request: vampire!nat x reader? summary: she lets him buy her another drink. doesn’t touch it. she’s not stupid. she wasn’t stupid. she wouldn’t be so stupid. or: when something horrible happens to her, nat goes to the first person she trusts. warnings: vampirism as a metaphor for assault, non-consensual themes, body horror, canon typical blood and gore, angst (you know it) word count: 2.4k author's note: if you have ever experienced themes explored in this work, here is a resource for you. stay safe, readers! also credit to the discord server for giving me the plot (spoons...) I love my fellow angsters

[AO3]

𓃢𓃦𐂂 ── .✦

Natalie’s drunk. Not the fun kind.

The bar is greasy, everything jaundiced in low light, the kind that make everyone look fuzzy. Polaroids half unfocused, lens flare swallowing the importants in the wash of a halo’s purifying ring. 

She’s already four shots in, maybe five. Lips numb, tongue more than that. Her face and body are concepts now, abstract ideas— not something she can feel.

She doesn’t know much, not really. Not where she came from, not where she’s going. 

What she does know is that there’s a man. 

He’s tall. Just the wrong side of pale. Nice mouth. The kind of man who watches more than he talks. Leers more than he watches. So she lets him buy her another drink. Doesn’t touch it. She’s not stupid. 

She wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t be so stupid.

But she doesn’t remember leaving the bar. Just the nip of the air and the thump of her boots on cement sounding far away, like her head was submerged underwater. She remembers how the alley swallowed them whole. Remembers his mouth was on her neck before she could even tell if she wanted it there. 

She remembers laughing. Then choking. Then nothing.

The next part comes in flashes. The taste of iron. Something slick in her throat. A scream, maybe. Hands on her face, holding her still. Something warm trickling down her chin. 

Then everything. Like a switch being thrown inside her head. Like someone poured lightning down her spine and forced every nerve awake at once.

Her eyes snap open. 

The world is loud. Too loud. Her heartbeat–  no, not hers, someone else’s– thunders in her ears. Her skin stings like it’s been peeled back to let the air in.

She can see everything. Not like before. Not shapes and outlines, not colors, not even lights. She can see the heat of things, the warmth in them, like her irises have fractured into spiraling kaleidescopes and she can’t find her way right-side-up again. Like the world is singing and she can’t stand the frequency. 

Her teeth ache. She’s starving.

She doubles over, mouth open, gasping like she’s drowning in oxygen itself. Her throat burns like it’s trying to birth something new.

The man crouches beside her, too calm. Bloody at the mouth, but with his hands clean.

“It hurts at first,” he says soothingly. “You’ll get used to it.”

Natalie lurches away, crawling backward on shaking limbs. 

“What the fuck did you do to me–”

Her fingers reach up to her mouth, press against the new shape of her teeth.

She sobs once, ragged and animal, then runs.

The first knock isn’t so much a knock as a slam.

Wood splintering. Metal hinges whining. You’re halfway to the door when the second one hits. Harder, louder– and then a voice shatters through it, hoarse and broken:

“Please– please, it’s me– just– fuck, I don’t know where else to go–”

The chain’s still on, and that’s what saves your door from tearing out of its frame when something throws itself against it–

Natalie. Messy, bleeding, wild-eyed Natalie.

You haven’t seen her in weeks. Maybe months. The kind of absence that feels tender as a bruise, silence you both know how to weaponize.

Last time, she’d left your bed at 4 AM without saying goodbye. 

She’d been curled against your side just hours earlier, one arm thrown across your stomach like she was claiming territory. And you, foolishly, had thought maybe, maybe, she'd stay that time. That she'd wake up and make coffee and tell you she’d try. That she’d get better.

But when you woke, she was gone.

No note. No goodbye. Just a half-empty pack of Reds on the nightstand and an old scratched-up Bic that didn’t even work anymore. The sheets were still warm where she’d been.

You didn’t call. She didn’t either. That was your pattern: you always hurt each other in silence, like it meant less that way. Like the unspoken didn’t dig just as much as any old knife. 

And now she’s here. Why the fuck is she here?

You try to ponder this clear universal anomaly, but then she slams the door again, the wood creaking in protest under the sheer force of impact. Her next words are a snarl, visceral and vile:

“Open the fucking door!”

You fumble the lock, unhook the chain. The second the latch clicks free, she falls through. Literally, like her body gave up the second she felt the door give. She stumbles in, catching herself on the wall, smearing something dark across the plaster.

Her hair’s soaked, clinging to her face. Her shirt is ripped at the collar. Her mouth is red, but not lipstick red. She smells like iron. Like animal. Like death. 

“I’m sorry,” she chokes, staggering past you. “I didn’t know where else– I couldn’t go back, I couldn’t go back, I think I– I think I–”

She doubles over on your floor and gags. Nothing comes up. Just the gut-wrenching sound. You stand frozen, heart pounding, watching her press her forehead to the tile with choked sobs. 

“Natalie?”

She flinches at her name. Doesn’t lift her head.

“I didn’t—” she whispers, raw and fraying. “I didn’t— he—”

The words fizzle out mid-sentence. She swallows and her throat works overtime, bobbing like a buoy. She wipes her mouth with the back of her shaking hand and it comes away wet, slick with spit and blood.

“I said no,” she chokes. It isn’t a TV sob. Not the kind they write into melodrama. It’s quieter. Her whole body folds in like paper left out in the rain too long. 

You kneel beside her carefully. She looks like a cornered animal. Like any sudden movement might make her bolt. Or worse, attack. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, wide and wild and red-rimmed. And for a moment, you can’t tell if she’s afraid of you or for you.

“It’s in me,” she gasps. “It’s fucking in me– I can feel it moving–”

She digs her fingers into the fabric over her chest, like she could tear it out with her own hands. Her nails leave red crescents in the skin.

“I don’t know what happened,” she says, almost hysterical now, “I don’t– I don’t–”

You reach for her. Slow, with both hands open, showing her it’s safe. That you’re safe.

“Nat,” you say, soft and steady. “Hey. Nat. Look at me.”

She does, eyes glassy and huge. Her pupils nearly swallow her irises now– an unnaturally dazzling green in the darkness of your apartment. Her lip is trembling.

“You’re okay,” you say. “Whatever happened, it’s over now, okay?”

She lets out a breath, almost a laugh, almost a sob. She presses her fists into her eyes. 

“You don’t get it,�� she whispers. “Fuck, I don’t even–”

You touch her knee. Light. Just enough to ground her. She makes a sound, hoarse and low, like the beginnings of a scream. And then, without warning, she crashes into you.

Her body's trembling, her hands clutching at the back of your shirt like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible. You hold her careful at first, then tighter. Her breath hitches again and again against your neck. The blood on her mouth smears against your skin.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she mumbles.

You lean back enough to look at her. Her eyes are huge, flooded with fear, face blotched red and pale in streaks. 

“What do you mean?”

Her jaw trembles. Her mouth opens, closes. “I don't know,” she croaks. “Something's wrong, really wrong, I don't want to—”

It breaks into a sob again, bitten off and desperate as she gasps for air. You shush her gently, reach up and brush the hair from her face, wipe a streak of blood from her jaw with your sleeve.

“Breathe, Nat.”

You’re surprised by how fast it happens. How easily it comes back, the urge to comfort her, to soften your voice. You thought you’d buried that instinct months ago, somewhere between the fourth unanswered call and the voicemail she left that ended with her hanging up without saying so much as sorry.

But here you are. Cupping her face like it’s muscle memory. It’s almost pathetic, how easy it is. Like your body never got the memo that she shouldn’t belong here anymore. You don’t know if it’s habit or hope or just some leftover softness, but the caretaker inside– folded up and shoved into the back of your ribs– is already crawling out.

“You’re drunk,” you soothe, just like so many other nights. “And I know you’re scared. But you’ve gotta breathe.”

Natalie flinches at that. She wants it to be that simple. A bad night, too much whiskey, a hallucination she’ll forget in the morning. Her lip wobbles. She won’t meet your eyes, even after her breathing steadies to shallow wheezes.

“I feel wrong. Everything’s wrong,” she whispers, voice hoarse.

“I know,” you murmur, and maybe you don’t know. Not really. But you say it like you do, and that seems to be enough.

“Come on.”

You help her up slowly, letting her lean on you, her whole body trembling with every step toward the bathroom. The lights are too bright when you flip the switch, and she flinches again, as if it burns.

The blood on her mouth is starting to dry, flaking at the corners. Her hands shake so badly that she can’t grip the edge of the sink.

“It’s okay,” you say. “Let me.”

You run a washcloth under warm water, check the temperature against your wrist. She watches you in the mirror, eyes wide and glassy. She’s not talking anymore. It’s like she’s slipped into some other space behind her own reflection.

You clean her face gently, carefully. The blood comes away in streaks, pink and diluted. Her skin is cold and clammy to the touch. You can see goosebumps prickling along her arms. She looks hollowed out, drained dry.

When you move to her hands, she stiffens again. 

You pause. “Do you want to stop?”

She shakes her head, barely a twitch. “No. Just… be careful.”

You are. You take each of her hands in yours like you’re handling glass. You don’t scrub, just hold the cloth to them, warm and firm, until the red fades, then disappears entirely.

“There,” you say softly. “See? All clean.”

She doesn’t answer, but her shoulders sag. You lead her out again, to the bed. She resists at first, stands stiff by the frame like the mattress is a threat.

“Just lie down,” you coax. “I’ll stay right here.”

She blinks. Her mouth opens. No words come out. Then, after a long second, she lies gingerly. You pull the blanket up around her, touch her hair again. Softer this time. Her eyes flutter shut. 

Finally, you slide in beside her, careful not to crowd. She shifts toward you anyway, burrows her face into your shoulder with a soft breath. You stay awake long after she drifts off, her body curled against yours.

You try to ignore that even under the blanket, clinging to your side, she’s still freezing cold.

The clock reads a blinking 3:15 when you wake up to the distant sound of something wet.

You blink, disoriented, head fogged with sleep and the faint outline of a dream you’ve already lost. It’s still dark out, but not fully. That colorless hour just before sunrise. The shadows haven’t gone yet, but they’re getting softer at the edges.

The bed beside you is empty. Sheets twisted, a faint indent where she was. The bathroom light’s off. So is the one in the hall.

You sit up, pulse already picking up before your brain kickstarts. You pad out barefoot, rubbing your eyes, calling her name under your breath.

“Nat?”

No answer.

A thin line of pale light cuts across the kitchen tile like a wound. The fridge is open. Just a crack. She’s crouched in front of it. At first, you don’t register what you’re seeing. Your brain tries to protect you, offers other options. Maybe she was restless. Maybe she’s getting a drink. Then you see the blood. It coats her hands. Her mouth. One of those shrink-wrapped steaks you bought two days ago is splattered on the floor, torn open like roadkill. She’s got the other half in her fist, raw and dripping.

You freeze.

“Natalie, what the– what the fuck are you doing?”

She turns her head slow. Her pupils are pinprick sharp now, irises a sliver of feral green slicing through the dark. Her lips glisten wet. Her jaw works, throat bobbing as she swallows the chunk whole.

She blinks at you once. Then drops the meat with a squelch and lunges.

You scream.

She moves like nothing human. You don’t even make it past the living room before she’s on you, knocking over a chair, teeth bared, breath coming in ragged gasps. You manage to shove her off, just barely, scrambling toward the front door.

She hits the wall, snarls like an animal.

“Nat– Nat, what the fuck!”

She doesn't respond— just bares her teeth, rushing forward. You throw a lamp. It explodes behind her. Doesn’t slow her down, but it gives you enough time to shove open the door and make a break for it down the apartment building hallway.

You’re running blind now, heartbeat splitting your skull, every step a prayer you don’t trip as you skid to the staircase and take it two at a time. 

You can hear her thudding behind you– fast, barefoot– and then you turn to see her, mouth open in a growl, spit frothing around monstrous teeth, eyes hollowed out and catching on you like a crosshair.

You make it halfway down the stairs when the sun rises. 

It starts with a soft gleam. Just enough to creep through an overhead window, a streak of gold splitting the dark. It doesn’t register to you at first. 

Not until Natalie shrieks like she’s being burned alive.

She slams into the wall hard enough to crack plaster, clawing at her face. Her skin smokes wherever the light touches it. She reels back, shielding herself, stumbling for a hiding place– anywhere with shadow.

You’re too stunned to move. The whole stairwell reeks of blood and sweat and something fouler, like burned sugar.

She meets your eyes one last time, and it’s not Natalie looking back. It’s something wearing her.

When she jumps the railing, you rush to look over it, expecting to see her mangled at the bottom, but she’s just gone.

Vanished. Not even a speck of dirt left behind. You stand there, barefoot, bleeding, panting in the quiet.

You should've known. Natalie never stays for the morning after.

[theash0]

Ok I know some people think Preservation Team had been made too naive and Dr. Mensah too 'weak'. BUT hear me out.

Her experiences could very well be canon... you see, Dr. Mensah still projects calm control for the others. And she still rises to the occasion when needed.

Panick attacks, sure. But she's way out of her depth and she completely realizes chances of surviving for her team are slim at best. Murderbot itself says 'it panics all the time, you just can't see it.' It probably thinks this is the intelligent response to their situation. And honestly? It's not wrong. They are so fucked. But she keeps reaching for survival and she keeps reaching out. And it works.

That this strength doesn't come from some deluded sense of 'being in control' doesn't make it less. It makes it better.

What's the saying? Being brave isn't not seeing the danger. It's seeing it, but doing it anyway.

Besides, it's also a point of perspective. Sometimes people will have this image of you, like youre so smart. Or strong, or likable. and when they tell you about it. You're like "uhm actually. I just bumbled through that. Zero knowledge or people skill. All luck." And they don't even believe you? And i can totally see Dr Mensah being the "i did my best but it was next to nothing." Kind of person.