#to sit in the dark and see it for what it is. painful and beautiful. tender and hard. its deeply relieving. its good | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

barnesonly · 7 hours ago

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˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 7709

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter 1

The hallway reeks of metal and blood scrubbed too clean.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses down on you, thick and heavy, until even your own breathing feels like a violation. Overhead lights flicker with a dull hum, casting a sterile white glow that drains every shadow of warmth. You walk barefoot. The concrete floor bites at your skin with every step.

You don’t remember much anymore.

Not your name. Not where you came from. Just scattered pieces — the way sunlight used to feel on your skin. A voice calling you something soft. A memory of warmth. It all slips away when you try to grab it. Hydra made sure of that.

Now, you’re just a number. A subject. A tool. A thing.

Two guards flank you, their boots echoing alongside yours. You can feel them watching you, not with interest, but suspicion — like you’re a bomb that hasn’t gone off yet. Their fear is sour, thick like rot in the air. You feel it pressing against your skin. Your abilities hum at the edges of your nerves, always waiting, always restrained. You’ve learned to keep them quiet. Hidden.

At the end of the hall waits a door. Heavy steel. No window.

They key in the code. The lock hisses open.

And then — they push you inside.

The cell is dim and cold. Shadows stretch long across the floor. You don’t see him at first, not clearly. But you feel him — that looming, quiet pressure of someone who doesn’t just take up space… someone who dominates it.

The Winter Soldier sits in the corner, chained, silent. His hands rest on his knees. One flesh, one metal. The restraints attached to the floor look thick enough to hold a monster, not a man. He doesn’t look up when you enter.

Your breath catches. He’s still. Too still. Like a statue. Like death itself, waiting.

The door seals behind you with a mechanical clang. You don’t bother trying it. You know better.

You’re locked in. Alone. With him.

They didn’t give you a name. Not for him. They just said: “Calm him. Please him. Be useful.”

You inch forward. Not because you want to — your body screams to run — but because that’s what they trained you to do. That’s what keeps you alive.

When your eyes finally adjust, you see his face.

He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t make sense. All sharp edges and silence. Cheekbones like carved stone, a scar cutting across his jaw. His lips are parted slightly, like he’s caught mid-breath. But it’s his eyes that stop you — dark, distant, unreadable.

You meet them.

And for a moment, nothing else exists.

There’s no heat in his stare. No hunger. Just… observation. He watches you like you’re something foreign. Not a woman. Not a threat. Not prey. Just something strange and quiet.

Your heart pounds.

Your powers shift inside you, stirring without permission. You feel it — the heaviness radiating off him like gravity. Pain. Loneliness. A dull, aching emptiness buried beneath cold steel and tighter programming.

Your chest tightens.

Is that… him?

Is that what he feels?

A voice crackles over the speaker embedded in the wall.

“Subject 09. Proceed with Contact Protocol One.”

You don’t move.

“Proceed.”

You swallow hard.

Every part of you wants to scream. To lash out. But you kneel instead — slowly, careful not to appear like a threat. You lower yourself in front of him, your knees hitting the cold floor.

You’re wearing only the white shift they gave you. Thin. Useless. It barely covers your thighs. You hate it. You hate that they make you wear it. You hate how small it makes you feel.

But he doesn’t look at you like the guards do.

He doesn’t leer. He doesn’t reach for you. He just… watches.

You reach out slowly, your hand hovering over his — not the metal one, the human one. The skin there is rough. Calloused. Real. You hesitate, breath trembling.

He tenses.

Not a lot. Just the smallest shift in his posture. But you feel it. Like a ripple through still water. He’s waiting. Watching.

And then, he speaks — voice rough, low, like it hasn’t been used in days.

“…Don’t.”

It’s not a threat. It sounds almost… tired.

Your hand falls back to your lap. You don’t speak. You don’t ask questions. You don’t touch him again.

But you stay. You sit there on the cold floor, knees burning, pulse thudding in your ears.

And he doesn’t look away. He just… watches you. Like he’s trying to remember something.

You don’t know why you speak. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you — not like an enemy, not like a target, but like something foreign. A strange shape in his world of chains and blood. Whatever the reason, your voice leaves you before you can stop it. Barely a whisper. Scraping at the edges of your throat like it forgot how to be used.

“They think I can calm you.”

He doesn’t move. The words feel too loud in the stillness, like they don’t belong here. You drop your gaze, ashamed, fingers tightening in the folds of your shift like they might anchor you to something real.

“They didn’t tell me much. Just… that I’m different. That I feel things I shouldn’t.”

You pause, trying to find the right words. They never come out right. Hydra never gave you language for what you are, what your powers are — there were only orders, injections, silence.

“It’s not just emotions. It’s deeper than that. When someone’s near, I feel everything. Fear. Pain. Anger. It crawls under my skin like static. Loud. Constant. Sometimes I can push back. Soothe it. Dull the sharp edges.” You hesitate. “It makes people easier to control.”

He’s still watching you. But his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s parsing your words. Measuring them.

You shift on the floor, your knees sore against the concrete. It’s freezing. But the cold is nothing compared to the way his presence settles around you. Heavy. Unmovable. Like gravity itself has chosen him as its anchor.

“They said if you ever lost control again… I could stop it. That I could make you come back.” Your voice falters. “That if your memories returned, and you remembered things you weren’t supposed to, you’d still come back. For me.”

You don’t say what they really meant. You don’t need to. You’re not here to comfort him. You’re not here to heal. You’re here to bind him. To become his chain.

A new silence falls. It’s different now — heavier, coiled. Not quite threatening. Not safe either. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. But the shift is undeniable. Like a breath held too long. Like a storm poised on the edge of the horizon.

And then his jaw tightens. Barely. A flicker of tension across his face, so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t looking right at him.

You feel it before you see it. The emotion that pulses beneath the surface. Fury.

Not at you. At them.

And buried deeper still — like something lost in a cave of ice — is a quieter, colder thought. One that brushes against your mind with the gentlest ache:

I don’t want to hurt her.

The realization settles over you like a shiver. You hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected anything beyond blankness. You’d been told he was a machine in a man’s body. Programmed to kill. Nothing else.

But machines don’t feel lonely.

And they don’t try to protect things.

You meet his eyes again, slower this time.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say quietly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. But they think… I’m the key to you.”

That lands.

Not visibly. He doesn’t lurch forward or speak or flinch. But something changes. A thread of something unspoken, strung tight between the two of you. Not trust. Not yet.

But not nothing.

There’s a shift in the air — slight, barely perceptible. Not warmth. Not invitation. Just the barest flicker of something that isn’t rejection.

You exhale, slow.

For the first time since they locked the door, your limbs start to unclench. Not because you feel safe. Just… less cornered. The danger is still here, still heavy in the room — but it’s no longer aimed at you.

You watch him. Not like the scientists do. Not like the guards. You’re not measuring him. You’re listening.

His head is tilted slightly, his eyes lowered now, the long shadows from the overhead light cutting across his face like prison bars. The metal of his arm reflects just enough to catch your attention — stark against his skin, against the concrete, against you.

He hasn’t said anything else. But his silence isn’t empty.

There’s thought behind it. Tension.

You wonder what they took from him. What they left behind.

And without meaning to, you open your mind to the weight of him — that fractured storm you felt earlier, still coiled tight in the pit of his chest. There’s no invitation. No trust. But emotions bleed even through walls when they’re strong enough.

And his are screaming.

Pain. Rage. Regret. A low, smoldering grief that hasn’t gone out in years. It lingers at the edge of your senses like smoke in your lungs.

Your mouth goes dry.

You don’t know what they’ve done to him. But whatever he used to be… it’s still in there. Deep. Buried. Gasping for air.

He doesn’t meet your eyes again, but his jaw tenses.

He knows you felt it. For a flicker of a second, you’re afraid he’ll shut down. Close himself off. But he doesn’t. He just… breathes.

And you realize this is the only thing you’ve both been allowed to do without permission.

Breathe.

You shift slightly on the cold floor. Your knees ache. The concrete has started to burn into your skin, but you don’t move far. Just enough that your shoulder touches the wall, spine curling, chin dropping to your chest.

A whisper escapes you before you can stop it. “I don’t think they know what they’ve locked in here with me.”

Still no response.

But the quiet deepens. Less hollow now. Almost like he’s listening.

You don’t need him to speak. You just need him not to leave you alone in this silence.

And he doesn’t.

You sit together in that strange, fragile stillness — not allies, not enemies. Just two ruined things in a room built for ghosts.

It isn’t peace.

But it’s something.

———

The door hisses open again.

Same hallway. Same guards. Same cold bite of the floor under your bare feet… But this time, your hands are trembling. You hate that.

You hate how they shake, how the silence between the guards feels sharper than it did before, how one of them keeps glancing at you like he’s hoping you won’t come back out. Like he already knows the Winter Soldier might snap your neck this time. Or worse.

You try not to think about it. Instead, you focus on your breathing. One inhale. One exhale. Keep your heart steady. Keep your power quiet. You know what they want from you. You know the routine. Be soft. Be calm. Be useful.

Be what he needs. Not what you are.

The steel door seals behind you before you can change your mind.

He’s already watching you.

You feel it before you see him — that cold, oppressive weight in the air, like the temperature has dropped just because he’s breathing it. He’s seated in the same corner. Shackled. Still. But his eyes are locked on you this time.

Last time, he didn’t move until you were in front of him.

This time, he was waiting.

Your stomach tightens. You take one step. Then another. The light above flickers, humming quietly.

He’s expressionless, unreadable — the same carved face, the same ghostlike silence. But his gaze doesn’t slide off you. It lingers. Follows.

There’s something new in his eyes. Barely there. A flicker. Recognition.

It hits you in a strange way. Not comfort. Not hope. Something sharper. Something heavier. Because if he remembers you — even just your presence — then it means something stayed. Something got through.

And if something got through… they’ll notice. They always notice.

You stop a few feet away.

He’s still watching.

You lower yourself again, carefully. Knees to concrete. Hands in your lap. Not too fast. Not too slow. Everything you do has to be measured in here — every movement choreographed like a dance you weren’t taught properly but still expected to survive.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The silence stretches long between you. Not hostile, but not easy either. Just… thick.

You press your palms into your thighs to stop the shaking. It’s colder this time. Or maybe you’re just colder. More hollow.

He shifts. It’s so small, so subtle — a tilt of the head, a change in the rhythm of his breathing — but you catch it.

You don’t look at his metal hand, not yet. You don’t reach for him. But your powers stretch — gently, invisibly — reaching without permission toward that emotional gravity he carries like a second skin.

And this time, it’s different. There’s still pain. Still loneliness. But buried beneath the weight of programming and silence… is hesitation. Curiosity. Like he’s trying to understand what you are. Why you’re here. Why you’re not afraid of him.

You exhale slowly.

“Do… do you remember me from yesterday?” you ask quietly. “I told you how I feel… things. How they sent me here, do you remember that?”

His eyes don’t change. But he blinks. Once. A long silence follows. You don’t expect an answer. You don’t even know if he’s allowed to speak without orders. You’ve never seen him talk to anyone else. Just you, just once, just one word.

You shift slightly on your knees, the concrete unforgiving beneath you.

“They don’t know everything though,” you whisper. “They don’t know I can feel when you’re not angry. When you’re just… tired.”

His jaw clenches — almost imperceptibly. And for a second, you swear his gaze softens. Not much. Not warmth. Just… less frost.

But not nothing.

It’s enough to make your breath catch. Enough to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not invisible to him anymore.

You don’t reach for him. You don’t touch him. You just sit there, eyes on his, breathing the same still air, and wait.

Your knees start to ache.

The cold from the floor seeps into your bones, and still, you don’t move. You don’t dare. Movement feels like it might shatter whatever fragile thread is holding this moment together.

His gaze doesn’t leave you.

There’s no warmth in it — not yet. But there’s no command, either. No dismissal. Just that same silent pressure, like he’s trying to figure you out molecule by molecule. And beneath that, something raw. Ancient. Exhausted.

The kind of tired that lives in the marrow.

You lower your head, just slightly — not in submission, not entirely. More like… reverence. Or maybe you’re just trying not to cry. It’s hard to tell the difference these days.

You try explaining once more, “They think I can fix you,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “That I can get inside your head. Soften you. Make you easier to control.”

You don’t say again. But it hangs there. Between you. They’ve tried this before. You’re just the newest tool.

You lift your eyes, searching his face. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Mercy? Recognition? Maybe just proof that he’s still human under all that steel.

“But you don’t feel broken,” you add. “You feel… caged.”

His brow twitches — so small it could be imagined. But you don’t think it is.

The chains at his wrists groan as he moves, just barely, shifting his weight. He leans forward — not much, not enough to be threatening. But enough to remind you what he is.

Powerful.

Lethal.

Close.

Your heart skitters in your chest, too fast. He must hear it — you’re sure he can. But he doesn’t react.

Instead, he breathes in — deep and slow, like he’s pulling you into his lungs, dissecting you with every breath. His eyes scan your face, not with hunger, not even with hostility. Just a kind of quiet, deliberate observation.

Finally, he speaks. “…They sent others.” The words are gravel, unused and dry.

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. That his voice — low and rough and scarred — is meant for you.

“They didn’t last.”

Your mouth goes dry. You swallow, hard. You nod, slowly. “I know.”

He looks at you a beat longer, then glances away. Just slightly. As if even that costs something.

You follow his gaze. It doesn’t land on anything in particular — just the far wall, the flicker of the light above, the slow drip of a pipe you hadn’t noticed before. But the shift in focus speaks volumes.

He doesn’t want to remember them. And maybe he doesn’t want to remember you, either.

But he does.

Something stirs in your chest. It’s not hope. Hope is too dangerous. Too delicate. You don’t let yourself have it anymore.

But it’s something close.

You fold your legs beneath you, careful, quiet. Not because you’re relaxing — you’re not. You never are in here. But because the kneeling was starting to feel too much like worship.

And he doesn’t want that.

“Do you want me to go?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches so long, you start to think he won’t.

Then, finally — softly, without looking:

“…No.”

One word. Small. But not nothing.

Your breath catches at his answer. You don’t know what you expected — silence, maybe. Indifference. But not that. Not no.

You sit with it for a moment, staring at the floor between you, watching how the shadows stretch and shift with the flickering light.

“…Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself. It’s not defiance. Just… curiosity. Raw and unfiltered.

His eyes snap back to you. Not harsh, but sharp — a warning in their depth. Like you’ve stepped somewhere you shouldn’t.

But you don’t flinch. You hold his gaze, even though your pulse is skittering against your ribs.

“I mean,” you continue quietly, “you don’t need me here. You didn’t ask for this. And they’re not giving you a choice. So why no?”

Still, he doesn’t speak.

But he watches.

And that says something.

You shift forward slightly, hands on your knees, voice barely above a whisper. “Is it because I didn’t try to touch you today? Because I didn’t follow protocol?”

He doesn’t answer. His expression doesn’t change.

But something… cracks.

Barely.

His jaw flexes again, and he glances away — not toward the door, but toward the floor this time, like the concrete might give him better answers than you.

Your fingers twitch in your lap. You could reach for him. You could touch his hand, risk the consequence. But you don’t. Not yet. Not until it means something. Not until he chooses it.

Instead, you lean in — just enough that your voice lowers to something secret.

“I don’t care what they want me to do to you,” you murmur. “I care what you want.”

A silence follows — thicker than the rest. It hangs in the air like a held breath.

You think he won’t answer. You think you pushed too far. Then—

“I don’t know,” he says quietly.

Three words. Bare. Cracked.

And somehow heavier than anything he could have shouted.

Your chest aches. It’s not a confession. Not really. But it’s more than silence. And you can feel the weight behind it — the emptiness of someone who’s spent too long in someone else’s control. Who hasn’t had a choice in so long, he’s forgotten how to make one.

You nod, softly. “That’s okay,” you whisper. “You don’t have to know yet.”

He looks at you again. This time, slower. More deliberate.

You think — just for a second — that he might say something else.

But the speaker crackles above, sharp and sudden. “Subject 09. Session complete. Return to holding.”

You don’t move. You glance back at the door, then to him again.

“I’ll come back,” you say, standing carefully. Your knees sting, your body protests. But you force steadiness into your voice. “If they let me. I’ll come back.”

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t answer… But his eyes follow you to the door.

And just before it seals shut behind you, you see it.

A flicker.

Not warmth.

But not frost, either.

Not indifference.

But not control.

Just… him.

Still buried. Still cold.

But not gone.

———

The room is colder than his cell.

Not physically — but it feels colder. Like something was scraped clean too many times. Like warmth doesn’t belong here.

You sit on a metal chair. No restraints this time — that’s supposed to be a kindness, you think — but the table between you and the door is bolted to the floor. There’s a camera in the corner. Watching. Recording. Always.

Across from you sits Agent Kern.

Late thirties. Clean-cut. Buttoned-up. The kind of man who smells like antiseptic and control. He’s not one of the guards who escorted you. He’s not muscle. He’s something worse.

A voice with authority.

He glances at a tablet. Then at you.

You keep your face blank.

“I’ve reviewed the footage,” he says, voice crisp. Clinical. “The Soldier did not become aggressive.”

You say nothing.

“He spoke to you.”

Still nothing.

He tilts his head, watching you with a kind of sterile curiosity. “Do you know how many personnel have attempted verbal contact with him over the last year?”

You do.

Because they told you.

And you saw the aftermaths.

Kern continues anyway. “Twenty-three. Nineteen are dead. Two were crippled. One remains comatose. The last… was transferred. Quietly.”

You swallow.

He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “So you can understand our interest.”

You nod slightly. “Yes.”

“Good.” He taps something on the tablet. “Describe the interaction. From the moment you entered.”

You hesitate. Not long. But enough.

He notices.

“I sat,” you say quietly. “Same as before. He was watching me already.”

Kern doesn’t interrupt. He waits, stylus poised like he’s sketching your words into the tablet with each movement.

“I didn’t touch him. I didn’t speak right away. I just… waited.”

“And then?”

“I asked if he remembered me. From the day before.”

Kern taps the stylus once. “A violation of Contact Protocol One.”

You don’t flinch. “Yes.”

“But he didn’t react violently.”

“No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

You hesitate again. But this time, you answer.

“Because I didn’t treat him like a weapon.”

Kern blinks, expression unreadable. “Interesting.”

He writes that down. You shift in your seat, the metal groaning softly beneath you.

“I told him I could feel when he wasn’t angry. When he was tired,” you add. Quiet. Careful.

“And how did he respond?”

“He didn’t deny it.”

Kern leans back slightly. “He told you to leave.”

“No,” you say, voice firmer than you meant. “He said he didn’t know what he wanted.”

Kern’s eyes narrow. Not cruel. Just… focused. Like he’s trying to pin your soul under a microscope.

“You believe you’re making emotional progress.”

You say nothing.

He continues. “He remembers you. He hasn’t lashed out. He hasn’t shut down. That’s more than we’ve gotten in years. You’re aware of what that makes you.”

A tool.

A trigger.

A leash.

You meet his gaze. “It makes me useful.”

He smiles again. You hate that smile.

“Exactly.”

He taps the tablet again. “You’ll be sent back in tomorrow. Earlier this time. No medication. We want to see if the absence of suppressants alters your dynamic.”

You don’t move.

“Is that understood, Subject 09?”

You nod once. “Yes.”

“Good girl,” he says, already standing.

You clench your jaw. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

The door hisses open. Two guards step in.

Interview over.

———

You returned to your cell.

Your door slides open with its usual hiss — but tonight, it sounds sharper. Like a blade.

You step inside and don’t bother pretending. Not this time.

The moment it shuts behind you, your back hits the cold metal wall and you sink to the floor. The breath you’ve been holding since the interview comes out in one ragged exhale. Your knees draw up to your chest. Arms wrap tight around them. And for a second — just one — you let yourself feel everything.

Because there’s no one watching now.

Probably.

The cameras hum in the corners, but they don’t care if you break. They don’t care if you fall apart, as long as you’re whole enough to be put back together before morning.

Your fingers shake again. Not from fear. Not entirely.

It’s the feeling. The weight. The constant, crushing hum of emotions that don’t belong to you, pressing under your skin like trapped lightning.

You feel too much.

You always have.

It’s what made you a target. What made you a test subject. What made you useful.

Useful.

You choke on the word.

They don’t see you. Not really. You’re not a girl. Not a person. You’re a pressure valve. A chemical bond. An emotional sedative wrapped in skin. All they want is to know if you can keep him calm — if you can hold the leash without being bitten.

But you’re not a leash.

You’re not.

…Are you?

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes until your vision sparks white. You want to scream. To claw at the walls. To tear the shift from your body and burn it. But you don’t.

Because if you scream, someone might come.

And you’re not sure what would be worse — the punishment, or the fact that no one might come at all.

So instead… you whisper to the walls.

Your voice is hoarse. Quiet. But not empty.

“I don’t want to be useful.”

The words taste strange in your mouth. Unpracticed. Dangerous. Like you’re admitting something that was supposed to stay buried.

“I just want to be me again. Whoever that was.”

Silence answers you.

But your eyes drift to the wall behind you. Cold steel. Same as always. But you let your fingers rest on it — just for a second — as if you could feel through it. As if, somewhere on the other side, he’s there. Sitting in his corner. Watching the dark. Remembering you.

You wonder if he’s thinking.

If he’s feeling.

You wonder if he wants to.

A shiver runs through you, not from cold — from the sheer wrongness of this place, the things it turns you into just to survive. You press your forehead against the wall.

“Please don’t forget me,” you whisper.

Not because you’re afraid to disappear.

But because the more he remembers you…

…the more you remember you, too.

———

The guards don’t speak this time.

You almost prefer it that way. Silence is easier than pretending.

But there’s something off today. You feel it the moment you step into the hallway — the air heavier, tighter. Like the walls are listening harder. Like the building itself is holding its breath.

They didn’t give you the suppressant injection.

You noticed right away.

Your nerves are louder. Your power hums closer to the surface, like it’s tasting everything around you — the quiet fear from the new guard on your left, the sharp tension from the veteran on your right. You try to tamp it down, but it flickers regardless. Restless. Alive.

The door hisses open.

And he’s already watching you.

Same corner. Same chains. Same silence. But this time, the moment you step into the room, your skin prickles.

He feels… closer.

No one moves. No one speaks. The door seals shut behind you.

And then — slowly — you walk.

Every step is deliberate. You can feel his eyes on you, not just looking, but registering. Studying you like a puzzle someone threw against a wall and told him to rebuild with bloody hands.

You stop in front of him.

His shoulders are tense. Posture tight. But he isn’t recoiling. He’s not resisting either.

You kneel again, the concrete familiar under your knees now.

“I didn’t get the shot,” you whisper.

His brow barely twitches — the subtlest sign he’s listening. But you feel the flicker of something through him. Uncertainty. Caution.

“And now everything’s louder.”

You don’t mean your voice. He knows that.

“I can feel more of you,” you add, quiet. “Not the programming. Not the violence. Just… you.”

It feels like telling a secret. One you’re not supposed to know.

And still — he doesn’t speak.

But something shifts. You feel it before you see it. The weight inside him — that tangle of pain and silence — it stretches. Brushes up against your power like two ghosts testing the same room.

Your breath catches.

Because for the first time, he feels you back.

Not just your presence. Not just your voice.

You.

Your grief. Your loneliness. Your ache to be seen. It leaks through in threads — not enough to overwhelm, just enough to whisper. You don’t mean to let it out. But you’re raw. Wide open. And the moment your energy brushes against his mind, something inside him slows.

Not calm. Not peace. But stillness. Real stillness.

His head tilts slightly.

Like he doesn’t understand what he’s feeling. Like it doesn’t belong to him. And maybe it doesn’t. Not entirely. But you sit with it anyway. Breathing slow. Letting him adjust to the noise of another soul in the room.

Minutes pass.

Then — his voice. Rough. Like gravel scraping through silence. “You’re… different.”

You blink. Stare at him. Your throat tightens. “So are you,” you whisper.

Something flickers in his expression. Not emotion — not quite. But awareness. Like he knows what he just did. Like he knows it matters.

Your fingers twitch in your lap. You want to reach out. But you don’t.

Instead, you say the one thing you’ve never had the chance to say out loud — not to anyone in this place, not even yourself.

“I don’t want to be their weapon.”

His jaw tightens. You don’t expect an answer. But after a long moment, you hear him exhale.

Slow. Heavy. Almost human.

You sit with the echo of his words.

You’re different.

They’re not some words he’s spoken — they’re intentional. They’re not a reaction. Not a command. They’re his. Chosen. Given.

It feels like a fragile thing, sitting in the space between you. Not quite trust. Not yet. But maybe something like recognition. Like the first bloom of something trying to grow in soil that’s only ever known blood and control.

You lower your gaze to your hands, folding them in your lap. They’re still trembling slightly, but not from fear this time.

“You said ‘don’t’ the first time I tried to touch you,” you say softly, voice barely above a breath. “Not because you were angry. Not because I scared you.”

You look up at him again.

“You said it like someone who didn’t want to be felt.”

His eyes darken, but not cruelly. Not coldly. Just… deeper. More guarded.

“I get it,” you say, quieter now. “I wouldn’t want someone inside my head either.”

He doesn’t respond, but you feel it again — that shift. That pause. Like your words are brushing up against something sharp inside him, and he doesn’t know if he wants to pull away or lean into the pain.

“I try not to,” you add. “Feel too much. It’s hard, though. Sometimes it’s like standing in a storm with no shelter. Everyone else gets umbrellas, and I’m just there — skin to the sky.”

You don’t know why you’re telling him this. Maybe because no one’s ever let you. Maybe because he’s the only one in this place who looks at you like you’re not some experiment in a dress.

Or maybe it’s because he hasn’t looked away once.

You take a shaky breath.

“I don’t know if you feel anything. Not really. I know they rewired things in your head. I can feel the static where your thoughts should be. But there’s still… something there.”

Your power hums again, subtle, just beneath the surface. You’re not reaching for him — not directly. But your emotions leak regardless, and you know he can feel it too now. The raw edge of your hope. The dull throb of loneliness that never really leaves you. The exhausted ache of wanting something real in a place that’s never allowed it.

“I’m not trying to break you,” you whisper. “I just want to know if there’s still a person under all of it.”

His metal fingers twitch. It’s small — barely more than a flicker of movement — but you see it. You feel it. And when you lift your gaze again, his expression has changed.

It’s not soft. Nothing about him is soft.

But it’s not empty anymore either.

There’s something there. Flickering. Tense. Alive.

“You don’t talk to anyone else, do you?” you ask, quieter now. “Just me.”

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t speak.

But his silence says enough.

Your throat tightens.

“I think that’s why they keep sending me back.”

He looks away for the first time. Not because he’s retreating — it doesn’t feel like that. It feels more like… shame. Like he doesn’t want to be seen in this moment. Not even by you.

And still — you stay.

You don’t try to move closer. You don’t beg him to meet your eyes again. You just sit there, grounded in your own stillness, and offer him the only thing you have left.

Time.

The silence lingers.

It’s not heavy, not hostile. It’s a watching kind of quiet. Like something is beginning to shift in the spaces between breath and heartbeat, like the air has thickened with something unspoken and uncertain.

He turns back toward you.

His head tilts, just slightly. You can feel his gaze press into you, not cold or clinical — just curious. Quietly human.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

His voice is rough but it’s gentle, too, in a way that surprises you. Not a demand. Not a test. Just a question. A real one.

Your breath catches. No one’s asked you that in… you don’t know how long. Not since they took it from you. Scrubbed it out of your mind like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

“I… I don’t remember,” you say, and the words sting more than you expect. “They— I think I had one… But now it’s just… gone.”

You don’t realize your fingers are curling into the fabric of your shift until you feel your nails pressing into your palms. Your voice lowers.

“I forget everything, sometimes. Not just my name. Whole days. Faces. Sounds. Like I blink and pieces of me disappear.”

A beat of silence.

And then — he nods.

He doesn’t offer false comfort. Doesn’t pretend it’s okay. But he listens. He hears you. His eyes linger a second longer than they did before.

And something subtle shifts in his expression — just enough for you to catch it. The faintest crease of thought. A flicker of something almost… protective. Like he’s already started turning the idea of you over in his mind. Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. But as a person. As someone who needs a name now. Someone he needs to remember.

A soft one.

Small.

Fragile.

Like a dove. Little dove.

He’s thinking it.

He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the way you move — careful, quiet, a ghost in bare feet. Maybe it’s the way you look at him without fear. Maybe it’s because in all this silence and blood and concrete, you’re the only living thing that doesn’t flinch when he breathes.

He doesn’t say it out loud.

But it’s there now. A name. His name for you.

And you don’t even know it yet.

—

Behind reinforced glass, above the cell like a god in a cage — one of the guards — Agent Voss watches the live cameras footage in silence.

He doesn’t blink.

The screen before him flickers with muted color — cold concrete, dull light, two figures seated on the floor like ghosts caught in a snowfall. The Winter Soldier is motionless, as always. But his eyes tell a different story.

They linger.

They watch.

Not with disinterest. Not with mindless submission.

With intent.

Voss leans back in his chair, arms crossed, a fresh page of notes untouched on the desk beside him. His sharp eyes flick between monitors, cataloging every shift in posture, every microscopic glance. He zooms in. Watches your lips move. No audio in this room — only the feed. Hydra didn’t want unnecessary noise interfering with judgment.

But Voss doesn’t need sound to understand what’s changing.

You’re close again. Closer this time. His body is still, but engaged. No tension in the shoulders. No signs of impending violence. And when you lower your head slightly — defeated, perhaps — he doesn’t look away.

That’s new.

“Unscheduled bonding,” he murmurs.

He picks up a pen, jots it down:

Soldier maintains eye contact. No evident resistance. Psychological tether forming.

He taps the screen with the back of the pen, right where your face is frozen.

Always the same posture. Always kneeling.

But he notices something else this time.

Interesting.

“She’s adapting faster than projected,” he says aloud, mostly to himself. “Emotionally reactive. Possibly empathic imprinting.” Another pause. “Still obedient, though. Still compliant. Kern will be pleased.”

He doesn’t say it, but it’s there between the lines:

Useful.

One of the guards near the back shifts uncomfortably. “You think it’s working?”

Voss doesn’t turn around.

“I think he’s starting to recognize her as other. Not target. Not threat. That’s the first fracture. From there… he might begin to protect.”

The guard frowns. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Of course it’s dangerous.” Voss finally looks away from the screen, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “But everything worthwhile is.”

He clicks the comms unit off.

“Schedule another session,” he says, already walking toward the door. “Give them twelve hours to reset.”

“And the girl?”

Voss pauses, glancing back at the monitor one last time. “She won’t break,” he says simply. “Not yet.”

He leaves without waiting for an answer.

—

Session ends. They drag you out. Back to your cell. The door hisses shut behind you with a mechanical sigh.

Same concrete. Same flickering light. Same walls that know more about you than you do.

But something’s different now.

You stand in the middle of your cell, barely breathing. Every inch of your body aches — not from injury, not from any visible wound — but from the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones. The kind that crawls under your skin and wraps around your heart like a vice.

You feel everything.

Too much.

You should be used to it by now. The cold. The silence. The forced calm you’ve taught yourself to wear like armor. But tonight, it’s heavy. Suffocating.

You sink to the floor slowly, knees folding beneath you, your arms wrapping tight around your ribs like they might keep you from falling apart.

Your fingers twitch.

There’s a residual hum in your veins — leftover emotion that doesn’t belong to you. It clings to your skin like smoke: the Soldier’s weight, his silence, his eyes on you.

You felt him today.

Not just his pain. Not just his loneliness. But the way he looked at you. Not like a stranger. Not like an object. But like something familiar.

And it rattled you.

It still does.

You press your forehead to your knees and squeeze your eyes shut, willing the feeling away. You’re not supposed to care. You’re not supposed to let him reach you like this. That’s not what Hydra trained you for.

You were meant to calm him. Soften him. Be useful.

Not… curious.

Not afraid.

Not seen.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The worst part is — you’re not even sure if it’s you anymore. These feelings, this softness… is it yours? Or is it something you’re absorbing from him? Did Hydra put this in you when they put you in his room?

Did they make you feel this way on purpose?

Your fists curl in the fabric of your shift. It’s thin. You’re always cold. And no matter how long you sit here, how still you stay, it never feels like you belong to yourself.

You remember what he asked. The way his voice sounded—rough, uncertain.

“Your name.”

But you didn’t have one.

You still don’t.

And now, as the silence wraps around you again, you realize how badly you want one. Something to hold onto. Something that’s yours. Not a number. Not a protocol.

Just… something real.

You lean back against the wall, tilting your head to stare at the flickering light overhead. Your throat feels tight.

You wonder if he’s thinking about you.

You wonder if Hydra saw it. If they noticed the way he looked at you like a question he didn’t know how to ask.

You wonder what they’ll do if they did.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, you don’t try to forget him.

You try to remember him. Even if it hurts.

———

The door seals shut behind you with the same brutal finality.

But this time, you don’t freeze.

You walk.

Slower than before. More careful. But not afraid.

You don’t know what’s changed. You’re still in the same white shift. Still barefoot. Still a numbered tool in Hydra’s eyes. But something is different. Something in the air. In the way he’s already watching you from his corner like he’s been waiting.

Not out of duty. Not out of protocol.

Out of something else.

You don’t speak. You just lower yourself onto the cold floor again, knees screaming from too many hours on concrete, but you don’t let it show. You fold your hands in your lap and meet his gaze.

His eyes stay on you. Calm. Dark. Almost… alert.

You breathe in, slow. Let your nerves settle. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” you whisper.

It’s a stupid thing to say. Of course he’s here. Of course he hasn’t moved. The shackles wouldn’t let him if he tried.

But you say it anyway.

He blinks. One slow movement.

“Where else would I be?” His voice is low — like a drum buried deep in the earth. It rumbles more than it speaks.

You shrug, just a little.

“I don’t know. Thought maybe they’d… move you. Or maybe they’d decide to end our sessions.”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean back slightly, shifting your weight off your knees. The chill of the floor soaks through your skin, but you don’t care. You’re tired. You’re always tired.

You watch his face. Still unreadable. Still stone. But there’s something just beneath it now — a flicker, a twitch of thought behind the eyes. He’s listening.

“They’re watching,” you murmur. “They’re probably expecting me to reach for your hand again. Or… say something sweet. Something useful.”

His jaw tightens.

“They want to see if I can control you.”

Silence. A beat. Then his voice again — quieter this time.

“Can you?”

Your lips twitch — not a smile, exactly. Just a break in the stillness.

“No,” you say simply. “I think they’re hoping you think I can.”

You glance down, fingers ghosting over the floor between you.

“I don’t know what they’re doing to you,” you say softly. “But whatever it is… it isn’t who you are. I can feel that much.”

His breath hitches. It’s small. Barely there. But you feel it. That same emotional current humming underneath his silence — low and bruised and buried under years of reprogramming.

Pain. Loneliness.

But this time — confusion, too.

Like he doesn’t know why he wants to believe you.

You don’t reach for him. You don’t touch him. You just sit there with him, sharing the cold. The silence.

And then — his voice again. Low. Almost a breath. Like it wasn’t meant to be said aloud.

“You can’t know that, little dove.”

Your head lifts slowly.

“What?” you ask, not quite sure you heard him right.

But he doesn’t repeat it. Doesn’t clarify. He just looks at you with that same unreadable gaze, as if surprised by himself. As if he hadn’t meant to speak at all.

A flicker passes behind his eyes. Regret? Confusion? You can’t tell.

You blink, throat tightening.

He doesn’t call you anything else.

Doesn’t say another word.

But the silence that follows feels different now. Heavier. Like something new has entered the room — not just a nickname, not really. More like a thought given shape. An instinct he didn’t fully understand. A name he gave without knowing he was naming anything at all.

Your heart beats faster. You don’t ask again. You don’t break the moment.

You just let it settle there between you — the weight of it, the meaning of it, the why of it. You don’t know what it means to him yet.

But you know what it means to you. You’re not a ghost to him anymore.

You’re something else now.

Something he sees.

And you have a name.

—

Chapter two soon 🕊️

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johnwickb1tsch · 2 days ago

Text

A John Wick x Shy!Reader shorty vaguely based on this FRIENDS imagine…

A little something for my beloved @sweetwolfcupcake . P.S. there’s bonus torture at the end 🤭❤❤ No xtra warnings really. Voyeurism? 😅 If you can handle the movies, you can handle this.

At first you don't mean to spy on the man across the street in his apartment…you just happen to notice him. A lot of him, in fact, because he was roaming around his two bedroom flat without a shirt.

That is not why you find yourself looking for him the next night, and the night after that… (Ok, maybe a little.)

He's ridiculously handsome.

So sue you, ok? What's the harm in peeking?

But peeking turns into looking, and looking turns into watching. It’s possible you acquire a little pair of binoculars from a second hand store. Perfect for the casual birdwatcher, or…creeping on your unfairly good-looking neighbor.

You know it's wrong…but there’s just something about him, and you cannot look away.

He seems lonely, and maybe that's something you relate to all too well in this city of 8 million people.

He likes to read.

He drinks amber colored spirits from a cut crystal glass.

Tattoos span the breadth of his wide shoulders; his towels are the slate gray of storm clouds.

Sometimes when he comes home late he moves stiffly, as though he's in pain.

He's so beautiful that a part of you wishes you could keep him like this forever, like a butterfly behind glass.

The first time he waves at you, you are so startled you nearly drop your tea.

You’re smart enough to do your serious creeping with your lights off. But tonight you are just sitting by the window with a book after a long day, taking it all in.

You don't know where you get the courage after a long pause, to lift your hand in return.

Longing weighs upon your chest like a cold stone.

Nothing will ever come of this.

That's what you think, anyway, until two nights later when there is a knock on your door.

II.

You are innately shy, and a certain sense of premonition makes you cross to the door even slower than usual.

When you open it to find him on the other side, tall and handsome as your darkest dreams, with a bottle of wine in his [obscenely] large hands, you shut the door right in his face.

With your heart in your throat, you open it again five seconds later to find him standing exactly as he was, only with a bit of a smirk pulling the corner of his full mouth.

“Hi.”

His voice is a deep, smooth baritone that short circuits something crucial in your brain.

Is it actually possible, for one’s eyes to truly bug out of their head?

“I know this might seem kinda strange…” he plows through the thick silence between you. “But I see you all the time, and I thought…”

As though he's having trouble articulating that thought exactly, he holds up the wine as his visual aid.

You will never know what possessed you, when you step back on shaking legs to invite a perfect stranger into your apartment at midnight in the East Village.

Lucky you, that he doesn't turn out to be a serial killer. (As far as you can tell).

You're cautious about drinking the wine at first, so you stick to your tea while you sit on the couch together and stumble through the initial social introductions.

His name is John. He works in security at a club called the Red Circle. He likes bookbinding, old cars, and the classic works of the Russian literary greats.

By the time he leaves hours later, you’re afraid you’re half in love.

III.

These midnight talks become a thing.

He is on a nocturnal schedule, because of his work, and you get by with less sleep than you need, because you are young, and you’ve come to suspect, somewhat addicted.

Since that first night he insists on turning the conversation to you. How was your day? What is your favorite book? What did you think about that art house film? It is as though hearing it all brings him some indefinable solace to him.

There is an air of tragedy about this man that you sense but fear you cannot touch. The dark shine of his soulful eyes speaks volumes, and though he never complains, you think he has not had an easy life.

Though you have noticed that the two of you sit closer and closer upon the couch as time goes on, he does not try to touch you. He knows you are skittish, perhaps, and your trust is precious to him. The first time his fingers accidentally brush yours you think your soul just might evacuate from your skin.

You begin to think that it’s for the best that nothing seems like it is going to happen, when he asks if you would like to take a daytrip upstate with him.

“Do you have a car?”

His answer is the uptick of one dark sculpted eyebrow that makes you feel simultaneously foolish and cherished. He wants to spend one of his precious days off with you.

It’s not a car though. It’s a beast. The look on your face as the two of you roar off into traffic makes John Wick laugh, a surprised huff of mirth, and you realize that somehow this is the first time you’ve heard it. This man says so much with his eyes, rather than his mouth.

On this trip while speeding down the straightaways and hugging the curves of the wilderness roads, you learn the rhythm of the Mustang’s transmission by holding and letting go of his long-fingered hand.

He takes you to lunch at a lovely Michelin starred restaurant by a lake. You eat and talk and get tangled with his endless legs under the table. The fleeting glitter of happiness in his eyes is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, and you will take the triumph of that accomplishment to your grave.

He clocks a milestone too, when he drops you off at your door that evening. When he presses his soft mouth to yours with a hand on your waist, you are so enchanted you do not even flinch.

IV.

In fact, your toes curl in your shoes, and your fingers in the lapels of his smart sports jacket. It is as though you simultaneously want to pull him to you, and hold him at bay.

You are not the only one who has been holding on by a thread. You are so cute and sweet and soft and the way your eyes sparkle while you gently roast his ego on a slowly turning spit…it’s been exquisite torture, keeping his hands off you, but now that he’s got you in his grasp he can't bring himself to let go.

Maybe you're both surprised, when he backs you into your door, the delicious solid line of his body pressed against yours. And does it shock you, when you throw your arms around his neck, finally running your fingers through that luxuriously soft cloud of raven hair?

“I could…open the door?” you suggest breathlessly as his increasingly wicked lips trail down the curve of your neck.

“Good idea,” he grinds out. “It’s illegal to do what I intend to do to you here in the hall.”

This is the thing that gives you pause, and for the first time he is slow to pick up on your cues, love-drunk as he is on the taste of you.

“John…?”

“If…you want me to,” he quickly amends, looking down at you with his hair in his eyes like a man who is drowning just below the surface, this close to a lifesaving breath of air.

Do you want him to?

Usually you are so cautious, so reserved. You've had your heart broken before, and you never intended to give anyone that power again. But for the first time in a long time, you actually trust a man. John Wick has you in his hands, and you know he could break you like a twig, but he’s so careful with you that your skin aches.

“I…want you to,” you answer slowly, and the wonder in his eyes is as precious as it is heartbreaking.

“My sweet, sweet girl,” he sighs between kissing you, drinking you down, tasting your mouth like you are the delicate French wine you had with lunch. “You are so precious to me.”

You’re embarrassed to admit that your legs sort of melt out from under you after that. It doesn’t matter though. He is strong, and he holds you with such ardor that he half carries you as he clutches your soft body to his. Looking back, you'll remember that halting walk in flashes. There are pauses for kisses, and pushing jackets from shoulders to forget them on the floor. There is hushed laughter, and joyful fumbling, and his lips pressed to every inch of bared skin you offer him.

You feel like a goddess, in John Wick’s arms.

Worshipped. Adored.

In the temple of your bedroom, you are both deity and acolyte, and for the first time in your life you are eager to get on your knees for a man, just to give him a taste of the ecstasy he drives you to.

John Wick likes kisses.

It’s endearing, maddening, how eager he is to give and receive them. Upon your lips and your shoulders, the soft curves of your breasts and down your belly and between your thighs. It is a whirlwind of sensual delights, and you are naught but an aching vessel hungry to receive it all.

How complete he makes you feel, with his manhood buried inside you. As though this is the only proper place to be, tangled up with him in your soft bed. What were you so afraid of? For the moment, you cannot remember. You can't think much at all, really, just feel, and it feels glorious to be in his arms.

Afterwards you doze. When later you wake and he's not there you’re sad but resigned.

Of course he's gone.

But when you pad out to get a glass of water in your robe you find him at the window, eyeing those little binoculars of yours with an amused smile.

“I…can explain…” you stammer, mortified, the rush of guilt like poisoned lightning in your veins.

“It’s ok, sweetheart,” he says with a gentleness in his eyes that floors you. “I like to watch you too.”

You wonder how long he’s known? All the times he seemingly paraded around with that mouth watering chest on display…was he showing off for you? Was he baiting you??

You don't have time to ask him, because seconds later his arm is around your waist and his mouth is on yours, and he is sweeping you into his arms– destination: Round 2.

Later while he's holding you in the quiet, savoring this rare sense of peace with your precious head tucked upon his shoulder, his arms wrapped snugly around you, does he begin to wonder…

Just how unattainable, really, would Viggo make the Impossible Task?

He has everything he’s ever truly wanted in his arms, and he’s ready to tell the rest of the world to go to hell.

VI.

The next few months go by like a golden-edged dream. Dinners at fine restaurants. Long walks in Central Park. Sunday brunches and afternoons spent browsing antique stores and bookshops, looking for treasures. You go to shows and art exhibits and sometimes you just meet in the middle of the day for fifteen minutes because you need to see each other.

Magical as it is, your innate skepticism makes you wonder if it’s too good to be true.

As time goes on you start to form a rough sketch of John’s professional duties, but out of willful blindness or your own naivete with such things, never a perfect picture.

You ask if you can come see him at the Red Circle sometime, and he outright forbids it. “Nothing good happens there. It’s no place for a sweet girl like you.”

“Then why do you work there?”

“Because I have to.”

But one day when you are engaging in your playful routine of pantomiming at each other from across the street you see a shadow creeping up behind him. In a panic you wave and point. He regards you with a tilted head, not understanding.

You scream as the intruder makes his move.

Maybe you vaguely knew that John should be able to handle himself, but the scene that unfolds makes your jaw hit the floor. Frozen in shock, you watch as your sweet boyfriend John dodges blows and throws his assailant over his shoulder, twisting his suited opponent’s arm backwards, surely breaking it.

Then you realize there are two more people in John’s apartment, and you find yourself running for the door.

Why don’t you call 911?

Your lungs are burning by the time you soar down your stairwell, cross the street absolutely improperly, winning shouts and honks and the close brush of a side mirror at your back, and scale the steps to the third floor.

As you rush down the hall you realize you have no weapons. And so before you enter John’s apartment you take off your shoe, holding it threateningly at the ready. If you’d allowed yourself to think before any of this you might have been too terrified to open the door, but you are running on supercharged adrenaline and fear for the life of the man you love.

The man you love.

You haven’t actually said that aloud yet, but you realize with an unequivocal certainty in that moment that it’s true.

You expect to walk into the cacophony of a battle in full tilt.

What awaits you is the silence of a graveyard.

John sits on his couch, catching his breath, his hand pressed over a wound on his arm.

Three bodies lay at his feet in various angles.

You don’t need to check pulses to know that they're dead.

You have no words. You just stand and stare dumbly, though you must make some small sound that alerts him of your presence. He leaps to his feet, crossing the room like a panther, gathering you in his arms and ushering you into his bedroom.

Madder yet, you let him.

“Sweetheart…I never wanted you to see this.”

He says it like this is something that happens regularly.

You sink to sit at the foot of his bed, eyes wide as saucers as you look up at him. “Should we…call the police?”

It’s the most sensible thing you can think to say.

“No, baby. No police.”

Something must cross your expression. He sinks to his knees before you, clasping your hands in his. Yet he does not beg or threaten or make excuses. He tries twice before finding his voice, with the glitter of moisture in his eyes he grates out: “I understand, if you never want to see me again.”

The surge of anger inside you wakes you from your stupor more than anything. “Don’t be stupid, John! They tried to hurt you! It was self defense!”

He just looks up at you, and now somehow you know the weight of his silent dark gaze is made up of an unquantifiable amount of dark deeds just like this.

You think back on what he told you earlier about his job with a greater understanding. Because I have to.

Your sweet, wonderful John, is a killer.

What does it say about you, that your feelings for him do not change with this new knowledge?

You reach up to stroke his beard, and he leans into your touch like a lifeline, that obsidian-sharp gaze closed for a moment from the world.

“You shouldn’t be with a monster like me, sweet girl.”

If he’s trying to break up with you…you have no intention of letting him.

“You are not a monster, John.” You kiss him sweetly upon the forehead, and he folds for you, his head falling to rest upon your lap. You stroke his hair like that for you don’t know how long.

He bleeds on you–you do not care.

You stay like that until someone named Charlie comes to clean up the mess. You hear them talking through the door–you stay out of sight in the bedroom. You hear something exchange hands, like the clinking of coins.

“I’m getting out,” he tells you later, when you are wrapped up in his arms in the blue twilight of early morning.

“Is that even possible?” You cannot hide the tremulous note of hope in your tone.

“Nothing’s impossible.”

You can tell by now that there’s something he’s not telling you, but you cling to this small modicum of hope as you finally drift off to sleep.

As you lay tangled together beneath the high-thread count sheets, John Wick holds you tightly and decides then that he will be free…or he will be dead.

It’s the least you deserve, and maybe…he does too.

#torture chamber 😈#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x shy reader #keanu reeves #keanuverse #john wick friends au

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thedeadstoryteller1 · 7 hours ago

Text

𝐿𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐿𝑒𝑡𝘩𝑒 | 𝑉𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑏 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊

Summary: Twelve years ago, you were saved in a meadow by something not quite human—a boy with glowing eyes and blood on his lips who promised to protect you. You never stopped waiting for him. Now twenty and alone on your family farm, strange things stir in your quiet town. And when danger comes knocking, he returns—older, darker, still yours. What follows is a slow-burning reunion of fangs, fever, and forever. This is a story about coming home—to your protector, your monster, your love.

Warnings: NSFW, Blood and mild gore (vampire) minor horror elements/ stalking/ implied past trauma, soft angst, blood play (consensual), emotionally intense intimacy

Pairings: Vampire Caleb x Fem! Reader

Artist: @ raonnni on X

Word Count: ~ 15K +

Deep in a meadow, a gentle breeze sways the tall pine trees.Bees hum lazily between blooming wildflowers. Tiny animals burrow beneath the earth, safe and unseen. It is peaceful. It is calm.

Laughter rings out—a soft, carefree sound—as a little girl runs barefoot through the grass, chasing a rabbit. Wildflowers crown her hair, golden sunlight catching in her smile. She laughs again, basking in the warmth of the fading light as it gently wraps around her like a hug.

But something watches her from the shadows.

A predator. Hidden in the tall, dark wall of trees.

It is hungry. Endlessly, insatiably hungry.

It waits— Patient. Silent. Deadly.

The girl sits, unaware, and begins picking lavender.

And that’s when it strikes.

The silence snaps. Thundering paws tear across the ground. She hears the panting breath, sees the massive shape break from the tree line. A wolf—huge, snarling, its eyes fixed on her.

They lock eyes.

Her heart drums wildly in her chest. Just down the hill, her house—safety—beckons. She could scream. She could run. But she knows it won’t save her.

So she closes her eyes, trembling, and prepares to die.

No pain comes. No claws. No fangs. No death.

Only silence.

When she dares to open her eyes, the wolf is lying still—its body torn and lifeless. Standing over it is something else.

Someone else.

A boy. Tall. Barefoot. His shaggy brown hair falls just over his eyes—eyes that glow with an otherworldly mix of purple and red. Blood stains his chin, his hands, the front of his plain clothes.

And she is afraid again.

He smells it. Feels her fear like a vibration in the air. Hears the frantic thrum of her heart. Smells the sweet pulse of her blood beneath her skin.

But he doesn’t move toward her.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says softly, crouching low. He extends a hand. Smiles. Fangs gleam.

She hesitates… then takes it.

Her tiny hand slips into his. She looks over the slain wolf once more, then back into his strange, beautiful eyes.

“Thank you,” she says, voice gentle, gaze steady. “Thank you for saving me.”

His world shifts.

In over a thousand years, no human has ever looked at him without fear.

“I’m (Y/N),” she adds, her fingers still curled in his.

And something cold and dead in his chest stirs.

It starts to beat again.

“I’m Caleb.”

From that day on, he vowed to be her protector. No harm would ever touch her again. Not while he still breathed.

Your eyes flutter open to the gentle kiss of sunlight on your cheek.You smile softly, the memory already blooming behind your eyes. Caleb. The boy—no, the being—who saved your life twelve years ago.

You never forgot.

After that day, you returned to the meadow again and again. At first, it was every day. Then once a week. Then once a month. Eventually, you stopped going altogether.

But you never stopped looking. Never stopped hoping.

Now, you're twenty. And hope is harder to hold on to.

You swing your legs out of bed, stretch with a quiet yawn, and start your morning the same way you always do. Feeding the chickens. Checking the fence line. Pulling weeds from the edges of the garden. A small slice of land with big sky above it—and nothing but quiet in between.

When your parents passed, the farm passed to you. You were barely eighteen. Still grieving, still learning how to run a house and carry the weight of two legacies on your shoulders. The town helped, at first. But people fade. Grief makes others uncomfortable. And now it’s just you. And this land.

The days bleed together. Chores, meals, tending to animals. The kind of life people call “peaceful.”

But peace is a quiet kind of sorrow when your heart is still waiting for something.

For someone.

You pass the old path that leads to the meadow. You never quite stopped walking by it. You just stopped going in. The wildflowers are probably overgrown now. The lavender patch you used to love has likely been swallowed by weeds.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then keep walking.

There’s always tomorrow.

Nothing ever happens in this town. Not anymore. And definitely not to you.

The day drifts by, sun arcing high over the fields, golden and lazy. You work until your muscles ache in that familiar, numbing way. There’s comfort in the repetition, even if it leaves your soul starving.

The town hasn’t changed much—dusty roads, fading storefronts, and folks who still wave when they pass. But lately… something’s shifted. It’s subtle. A glance that lingers too long. A stranger at the market you’ve never seen before.

You noticed him last week. And again yesterday. Tall. Too well-dressed for this town. Eyes like wet stone and a smile that doesn't touch them.

He didn’t speak to you. But he didn’t have to.

You felt it. That prickle on your neck when he turned in your direction. The way your breath caught—not because you recognized him, but because your body recoiled before your mind could understand why.

Today, when you head into town for feed, he’s there again. Leaning against a truck that doesn’t belong to anyone here. Watching. Like he’s waiting.

You duck into the store quickly, try to ignore the way his presence coils in your chest like smoke. The clerk chats with you like normal, oblivious.

But as you leave, arms full, he steps forward. Just enough to make your path narrow.

“Need help with that?” he asks, voice smooth. Too smooth.

You force a polite smile and shake your head. “No, I’ve got it. Thanks.”

“You sure?” he asks again, but there's no concern in his voice—only curiosity, like he’s studying a specimen in a glass jar. His eyes dip into your hands. Your neck. Your house key hanging on the twine around your wrist.

“Positive.” You keep walking.

You don’t look back. But you feel it. Him. Still watching.

By the time you get home, the wind has picked up. Clouds bruise the sky. A storm is coming.

You bolt the door, even though you’ve never had to before. Feed the animals with one ear trained on the stillness behind you. Double-check the windows. Your phone has no service.

It’s nothing, you tell yourself. Just a traveler. Just a coincidence. Just nerves.

But you don’t sleep that night.

And when you finally do… You dream of the meadow. Of blood in the grass. And eyes— Not Caleb’s, but someone else’s. Someone is wrong.

That night, the wind howls through the trees like a warning. The shutters rattle. The sky splits with thunder, but no rain falls—just the electric tension of something waiting to break.

You sit at your kitchen table, trying to read, but you haven’t turned the page in fifteen minutes. The lamps cast long shadows. Every creak of the floorboards sounds louder than it should. Every gust against the windows makes your skin tighten.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That you’re just paranoid. That nothing happens in this town.

But something is happening. You can feel it. You’re being watched.

The power flickers. Once. Twice. Then steadies again. You set your book down. Stand. Walk to the front door to check the lock again—even though you know you already did.

And that’s when you hear it.

The crunch of gravel.

Footsteps on your driveway.

Slow. Unhurried. Like he knows you’re alone. Like he knows you have nowhere else to go.

Your breath freezes in your lungs. You peek through the side curtain, heart hammering.

He’s standing there.

The stranger.

Right in front of your porch steps. Hands in his pockets. Head tilted, like he's amused.

And then—he moves.

He climbs the steps and tries the door.

It’s locked.

Click. He tries again.

Still locked.

And then he knocks. One. Two. Three sharp raps that echo through your bones.

“You forgot to say goodnight,” he calls softly, like it’s a joke.Like you owe him something.

You back away from the door. Stumble toward your phone—no signal. Still. Your stomach drops.

Another knock. Harder.

“Come on,” he says. “You don’t have to play hard to get. It’s just us.”

Something shifts outside—barely audible—but you hear it.

A presence. Low. Still. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

You look toward the window… And you see him.

Caleb.

Standing at the edge of your property.

Barefoot. Soaked from the mist. Eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

His expression is tight with fury—but he doesn’t move forward. His feet are planted like he’s fighting something invisible. His lips are parted, fangs just barely visible. He’s whispering something. You can’t hear it.

And then—

The front door bursts open.

The stranger steps inside like he owns the place. Eyes bright with something wrong.You scream and fall back.

And Caleb?

Caleb roars.He slams his palm against the invisible barrier—your threshold—claws digging into nothing, body trembling with the effort not to tear through it.

“Invite me in!” he yells. Voice hoarse. Unfamiliar. “Say it! Now!”

But you’re frozen.

The stranger smiles down at you, tilting his head like he's deciding how quickly to ruin you.

“I knew someone would come for you,” he sneers. “Didn’t think it’d be a monster.”

Your voice trembles. You turn toward the window, toward Caleb. The man from the meadow.

Your protector.

The words leave your lips like a prayer.

“Come in.”

And the moment they do, the air cracks—like lightning tearing through glass.

The barrier shatters.

Caleb moves.

He doesn’t step inside. He erupts.

A blur of motion, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as he launches forward with all the force of a beast denied too long. The stranger barely has time to turn before Caleb slams into him, knocking him into the wall so hard the plaster cracks.

The man groans—just once—before Caleb grabs him by the throat and drives him through the entryway, teeth bared, eyes glowing like coals soaked in wine. The air fills with the scent of blood and rage.

“You touched her house,” Caleb growls. “You crossed her door.”

His voice is nothing like the boy you remember. It’s older. Deeper. It carries centuries.

The stranger gasps, clawing at Caleb’s arm. His smug composure is gone now, replaced by fear—true, primal fear.

“She’s mine!” he spits, struggling.

Caleb slams him into the floorboards hard enough to rattle the windows.

“Not anymore.”

And then he bites.

Not delicate. Not hesitant.

Fangs sink deep into the stranger’s neck, and the man screams—a high, wet sound that cuts short as Caleb drinks. You stand frozen, back against the kitchen counter, watching the boy who saved you become something terrifying.

But he’s not just a monster. He’s yours. And no longer a boy, but a man. He was always a man—ancient, bound in silence and blood, hidden behind the softness of memory. You just didn’t see it then.

You see it now.

The stranger writhes, then goes still. Limp. Broken.

Caleb tosses the body aside like it’s made of straw. Blood glistens down his chin, staining his chest, dripping onto the floor. His shoulders rise and fall with rapid breath. He sways slightly, gaze unfocused.

You take a shaky step forward.

“Caleb…”

At the sound of your voice, he flinches. Turns. And his expression crumbles.

Not anger. Not bloodlust. But shame.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. His voice trembles now. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

He kneels in front of you. A monster on his knees.

“I told myself I’d only watch. That I’d stay away if it meant keeping you safe. But I smelled him near your door. I heard your heartbeat change. I—”

He looks up at you.

“I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

You fall to your knees in front of him. And reach out.

His cheek is warm. Too warm. His eyes flutter shut at your touch, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

“You came back,” you whisper. “You came back for me.”

“Always,” he breathes. “I never stopped.”

Outside, the storm breaks. Rain slams against the roof like the world itself is catching its breath.

Inside, you’re shaking. Caleb is soaked in blood. And there’s a dead man in your living room.

But for the first time in years…

You’re not alone.

The house is quiet again.

Too quiet.

Only the storm outside dares to make a sound, and even that feels distant. Muted. Like it knows better than to interrupt what just happened inside these walls.

You stare at the body. At the blood smeared on your floorboards. At the shattered pieces of a night that will never be normal again.

Caleb doesn’t move.

He’s crouched beside you, silent, still trembling. The crimson has dried against his skin—hands, jaw, throat—and it’s not just the stranger’s blood. There’s a cut across his shoulder where he took a hit before you could speak the words that freed him.

His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

You stand. Your knees shake, but you stand.

“I’ll get the bleach,” you say softly.

His eyes widen slightly. “You’re not… scared?”

You pause.

“Of you?” you ask, glancing at him. “Never.”

He bows his head.

You work in silence for the next hour. Gloves on. Windows cracked. You don’t speak about the body—Caleb promises to take care of it when you’re asleep, and you don’t ask how. The blood takes longer. It soaks through the seams in the floor, refusing to leave the corners.

But Caleb scrubs harder than you do. Like he’s trying to erase every trace of what he is. Of what you saw.

When it’s done, you peel off your stained clothes and toss them in a bag to burn later. You grab a towel and turn to him.

“Come on,” you say gently. “You need a bath.”

He looks down at himself, like he just remembered the blood. Like he just remembered he’s a man beneath all that power.

The water runs hot, steam curling like fingers up the bathroom mirror.

You sit on the closed toilet seat, waiting as Caleb stands awkwardly in the doorway. He hasn’t moved. Not since you told him it was okay.

“You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before,” you tease, voice soft.

“It’s not that,” he mutters, looking down. His hair hangs wet over his eyes. “It’s just… it’s been a long time since someone looked at me like I’m not a monster.”

Your heart aches.

You rise, step forward. His shirt is torn, sticky with blood. You press your hands to his chest.

“Then let me remind you.”

You help him undress—slowly. Carefully. Not because he’s fragile, but because this moment is.Each layer peels away like shedding a second skin. The shirt, the undershirt. The pants.

His body is lean, but strong. Covered in old scars. Marks from centuries you’ll never understand. But he doesn’t hide from you.

He lets you look.

When he finally steps into the tub, the water clouds pink. He hisses softly as it stings the wounds on his skin, muscles tensing as he lowers himself.

You kneel beside the tub, dipping a cloth into the water.

“Close your eyes,” you whisper.

And he does.

You run the warm cloth down his chest, over his shoulders, across his neck. Each motion slow, deliberate. His breathing deepens. His hands clutch the edges of the tub. Not because he’s in pain—because he’s trying not to fall apart.

The silence between you hums with something unspoken.

You reach his jaw, gently wiping the blood from his face. When your thumb brushes his lower lip, he opens his eyes.

They’re glowing faintly. Not with hunger. But with something deeper.

Need. Longing. Restraint.

“You’re real,” he whispers.

“So are you.”

You don’t kiss him. Not yet. But your hand lingers on his cheek. And when he leans into it—just slightly—it’s enough.

The bathwater cools, but you don’t move. Neither does he.

Your hand is still on his cheek, his skin now warm beneath your touch—warmer than it should be. Like he’s been holding in heat for centuries, waiting for someone to pull it to the surface.

But even now, he’s tense. Not from pain. From fear.

You finally break the quiet.

“You’re a vampire.”

It’s not a question. Just truth, spoken aloud for the first time.

His jaw flexes. His gaze drops, shame creeping into the corners of his expression.

“Yes.”

You nod slowly. Not in fear. Not in disbelief. But understanding.

“How long?”

A beat passes.

“Too long,” he says. Then softer, like it hurts to speak: “I’ve forgotten the sound of my own heartbeat.”

You swallow. The ache in your throat is tight and unfamiliar.

“It came back when you saw me, didn’t it?”

His eyes flick to yours, startled. And then he nods.

“The moment you said your name.”

You kneel there beside the tub, your knees sore, but your heart louder. The storm has passed, but the house still smells faintly of rain and blood and old earth. You reach for a towel and hand it to him.

“Come on. You’ll catch a cold.”

He chuckles quietly, the sound hoarse and unused.

“That’s not how it works for me.”

“Humor me.”

Later, you find yourself in your room, the sheets fresh, your body finally still. But sleep won’t come.

You feel him before you see him. Leaning against the frame of your door. Barefoot, hair still damp, wearing a simple shirt and a pair of drawstring pants you forgot you even owned. They hang loose on his hips.

“You can come in,” you whisper. A soft echo of earlier words. But this time… it's a welcome.

He steps inside. Sits on the edge of your bed. Looks at your window like he’s expecting dawn to break him apart.

You sit up, blanket draped across your lap.

“Will you disappear again?” you ask quietly. “When morning comes?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he studies his hands—elegant, calloused, blood-stained in ways you can't see. When he finally looks at you, the glow in his eyes has faded, but the weight in them hasn't.

“I should,” he says.

And that hurts. More than you expected. But before the ache can settle in your chest, he adds:

“But I don’t want to.”

The silence swells again.

You reach out—fingers brushing his. You feel the cold there. The hesitation. But then he laces his hand with yours.

“Then don’t,” you whisper. “Stay. Just this once.”

He exhales, as if the very idea is painful. As if choosing to stay means breaking a rule older than time. But then, slowly, he nods.

“I’ll stay.”

He lies down beside you—not touching, but close enough that you feel the cool hum of him, like moonlight on skin.

And somewhere between heartbeat and stillness… You fall asleep. Not with fear.

The storm has passed, but the wind still sighs against the windows.

You thought you’d fallen asleep, but your body never truly relaxed—not with him lying so close. Not with the past twelve years between you, thick and unspoken.

The clock ticks past midnight.

And then you hear it—his voice, barely above a whisper:

“I used to dream about this.”

You open your eyes. He’s staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his chest like he’s afraid to move.

“About what?” you whisper back.

“This.” His gaze doesn’t shift. “A quiet night. A warm bed. You beside me. The sound of your breath. It was always your breath.”

You shift slightly toward him, your fingers curling loosely between the sheets. “Then why did you leave?”

The question has teeth, even in your softest voice. But he doesn’t flinch.

“Because I didn’t trust myself.”His voice cracks. “Because you were just a child. And I was… something else. I am something else.”

You watch him swallow hard. He finally turns his head to look at you.

“You don’t understand what I’ve done. What I’ve become. How easy it would’ve been to stay—to take comfort in your light and let myself pretend. But I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk you.”

“But I waited.”Your voice is stronger now. “I waited every day in that meadow. I looked for you. I thought I made you up.”

His eyes shimmer in the dark.

“You didn’t.”He says it like a promise. Like a vow etched in bone.

He sits up then, bare feet on your wooden floor, spine curled with regret.

“I’ve taken lives, (Y/N). Some because I had to. Some because I wanted to.”

The admission hangs in the dark.

“I’ve been a hunter. A guardian. A monster. I’ve been all those things. And every time I was about to disappear for good, I thought of you. And I couldn’t.”

You sit up too, reaching out slowly, your fingers brushing down his spine.

“Why now?”

He breathes in like he hasn’t in years.

“Because when I smelled him near your house… when I heard your heartbeat shift from calm to afraid—I knew I’d waited long enough. I’d rather be damned again than let anyone touch you.”

You don’t answer right away. You just rest your forehead against his back, your arms wrapping around him from behind.

And he shudders—like your touch is holy water poured over a haunted soul.

“Then stay,” you whisper. “Stay until you forget how to be anything but mine.”

His breath catches when you whisper those words

Your forehead is pressed against his back, your arms wrapped around his waist. He holds your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world. And then, slowly, he turns.

He kneels in front of you on the bed, eyes searching yours in the low light. There's so much pain there. So much restraint. But it’s cracking.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he whispers. His fingers trace your jaw. “I’m not human. I haven’t been for a long time. I don’t know if I remember how to be gentle.”

You lean into his hand. “Then let me remind you.”

You kiss him.

Soft at first. Testing. But the moment your lips meet, his control shatters. His hands cradle your face, pulling you in deeper, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. His kiss is hungry—but reverent. Like worship. Like he’s waited a lifetime for permission to feel again.

His tongue parts your lips and you open for him, letting him taste you, explore you. The groan that rumbles from his chest is low and raw—it vibrates through your ribs. His hands slide down your back, pulling you flush against him, and you feel the hardness pressed against your thigh.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growls softly against your mouth. “I’ve dreamed of this—I’ve ached for this.”

You pull your shirt over your head, baring yourself to him. His breath catches.

“Beautiful…” he murmurs, voice thick.

His hands move with restraint, with reverence, brushing over your breasts, your stomach, until he’s laying you back onto the bed. His mouth follows—pressing kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, lingering on your chest.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, voice rough, lips inches from your skin.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He kisses the curve of your breast, then the peak, flicking his tongue over your nipple before sucking gently. You gasp, arching into him. His other hand trails lower, teasing the waistband of your shorts, but he waits—always giving you the choice.

You nod, whispering, “Please…”

He peels them down slowly, and his eyes darken when he sees how wet you already are.

“Fuck…” His voice is pure need now. “Look at you… you’re trembling.”

He spreads your legs, settling between them. His hands hold your thighs open, but his touch is worshipful, not forceful. And then—

He dips his head.

His fangs graze your inner thigh, and then his mouth follows—kissing, nibbling, sucking marks into the soft skin there. You cry out softly, hips twitching.

“I’ve waited so long to taste you,” he growls.

And then his tongue is on you.

He licks slow and deep, savoring you. His mouth works you open, tongue circling your clit before sliding down to tease your entrance. He moans into you, the vibrations shooting pleasure through your spine.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your thighs close around his head, but he doesn’t stop. He devours you. And when you gasp his name, shaking—

He pulls away, licking his lips like sin.

“You’re close,” he whispers. “But I want you to fall apart around me.”

He crawls back up your body, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

“Are you sure?” he asks, hovering above you. His voice is low, aching.

You reach down, guiding him to your entrance, your voice trembling but certain.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He slides in slowly. Inch by inch.

Stretching you. Filling you. Claiming you.

Your back arches as your body adjusts, a moan escaping your lips. He groans above you, forehead dropping to yours.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “So warm. So tight. Fuck, I’m not going to last if you keep looking at me like that…”

But he does. Because he wants you to feel every stroke, every thrust, every promise.

He moves slowly at first, letting you feel the weight of him, the way your bodies lock together like a secret. But when your nails rake down his back and you whisper, “Harder,” something in him snaps.

He buries himself deeper. Harder. His hips slam into yours, and you cry out—pleasure blooming sharp and sweet. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit as he fucks you into the mattress.

“Say it,” he groans. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Caleb. God, I’m yours.”

Your orgasm hits like a flood, your body clenching around him as you moan his name. He growls, thrusts once—twice—then follows with a shudder, his release buried deep inside you.

He collapses beside you, arms instantly pulling you to his chest. You feel the hammer of his heart against your cheek—new and real.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing hair from your face.

“Better than okay.”

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, your lips again.

“I’ll never leave your bed again,” he murmurs.

And for the first time in your life, you believe it.

The morning is soft.

The sun filters in through the curtains, muted and golden. Birds sing somewhere far away. But none of that reaches you.

You wake to him.

Caleb is already watching you—propped on one elbow, hair tousled, shirtless, the sheet barely clinging to his hips. His skin is smooth and pale, his eyes darker now, rimmed in red like he hasn’t slept. But there's something new in them.

Peace. And hunger.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers so gentle, it almost makes you ache.

“You didn’t run,” he says softly.

You smile sleepily, voice rough with morning.

“Neither did you.”

He leans in and kisses you—slow, deep. His tongue slides against yours and the kiss turns molten in seconds. You feel him harden against your thigh, and your body wakes with a familiar heat.

He groans into your mouth.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispers. “But I’m going to take it. Every fucking second you’ll give me.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him on top of you. “Then take it.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth moves to your throat, lips brushing your pulse. But he doesn’t bite. Not yet. He trails down instead, kissing your collarbone, your chest, sucking gently at your nipple until you gasp and arch into him.

His hand slides between your thighs—finding you already wet, already ready.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs. “I’ve barely touched you and you’re soaked for me.”

“I want you,” you breathe. “I want all of you.”

He growls low in his throat and pushes inside—deeper, faster than the first time. There’s no hesitation now. Only raw, carnal need.

You gasp as he stretches you, hips slamming into yours. He sets a rhythm that leaves you breathless—deep and punishing, but full of control. His hands hold your wrists above your head, his teeth grazing your throat again.

The heat between you builds quickly. Every thrust drives you closer, every whisper from his lips making your stomach tighten.

“Tell me,” he growls, “tell me if I hurt you—”

“You won’t,” you pant. “I trust you.”

He falters.

Just for a second.

Then his voice lowers—dark, reverent.

“Then let me have you.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, your nails dig into his back, and when you whisper, “Bite me,” everything stops.

He lifts his head, eyes glowing.

“You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“I do.”

You guide his face back to your neck.

“Take it. Take me.”

He moans—shattered—and then sinks his fangs into your throat.

The pain is sharp—but it flares into something else. Something addictive. Pleasure blooms from the wound, flooding you, binding you.

You cry out, clinging to him as he drinks. His hips never stop moving, thrusting deeper, faster. Your blood on his tongue—your name on his lips. You’ve never felt more claimed. More alive.

He pulls back only when your pulse stutters. His mouth is red, his eyes wild, and you swear the marks on your neck throb with desire.

“Mine,” he growls, his voice breaking. “You’re mine now. I can feel you in me.”

You come with a cry—your body clenching around him, shaking from the inside out. He follows, hips jerking as he releases inside you again, your blood still warm on his lips.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms, his mouth pressing over the bite like a vow.

“Are you okay?”

“Better,” you breathe. “I feel… full. Yours.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then the corner of your mouth.

“You’ll never have to feel empty again.”

The room is still wrapped in the warmth of what just happened. The sheets are tangled. The air smells like skin and sweat and something older—something sacred.

Caleb lies beside you, half-propped on one elbow, fingers tracing idle shapes across your stomach. His other hand rests lightly over the mark he left on your neck, thumb brushing the swollen skin like he can’t believe you let him do it.

You tilt your head toward him.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

He swallows, eyes flicking to your lips, then away.

“I’m… trying to find the right words.”

You smile, heart already fluttering at his tone.

“About the biting?”

He nods. Then hesitates.

“It’s more than just… feeding,” he says finally, voice soft. “Especially not like that.”

You reach up, tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear. He still won’t look at you fully.

“What does it mean?”

He breathes in slowly, thumb still caressing your skin.

“When vampires feed out of hunger, it’s survival. It’s sharp. Quick. Detached. It doesn’t mean anything.” He pauses.“But when it’s… tied to closeness. To—” He falters. “To when we’re… together like that.”

“You mean sex?”

He visibly flinches. “I mean—yes. That.”You laugh softly, and his smile breaks through, sheepish and boyish.

“When it happens during… that,” he says, more careful now, “and it’s with someone we… love, it becomes a kind of bond. It’s intimate. Permanent. It’s the closest thing to a soul-mark we have. It’s not just taking. It’s giving too.”

You blink, lips parting slightly. Your pulse flutters under his fingers.

“So now you have a part of me?”

He nods. “And you have a part of me. My blood was in my mouth when I kissed you. It’s… done.”

The weight of that settles over you like something holy.

“Have you ever done that with anyone else?”

His gaze finally meets yours—steady, unwavering.

“No.”A soft exhale. “I’ve fed before, when I had to. Never like that. Never with someone I wanted to keep. Never with love.”

You feel heat rise in your cheeks. Your chest aches in the best way.

He leans closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. Gentle, claiming.

“You’re part of me now,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice raw.“I’ll never leave unless you command me to do so.”

You pull him into your arms, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

And he holds you like the vow he made isn't just for this morning—but for forever.

The sun is higher now—casting golden light through your windows, warming the floors and chasing away the last of the night.

You’re still wrapped in the same blanket you dragged out of bed with you, legs bare, hair messy. The vampire who made you come apart more than once last night?

He's standing at your stove barefoot, holding a spatula like it might attack him at any moment.

“What are you doing?” you ask, amused, as you walk in and lean against the doorway.

Caleb turns around, eyes wide like you caught him trying to steal something.

“Attempting breakfast,” he mutters. “Possibly creating a fire hazard.”

You stifle a laugh as you catch sight of slightly charred eggs in the pan.

“Wow,” you tease. “Centuries of existence and you still haven’t mastered scrambled eggs?”

He glares playfully. “In my defense, I don’t usually eat human food. Or cook it.”

“You don’t say.”

He narrows his eyes and smirks. “Careful. I did bite you last night.”

You grin and walk over, slipping behind him to wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his bare back.

“Speaking of which…” you pause, voice sweet and innocent. “Am I a vampire now?”

He snorts so hard he nearly drops the pan.

“What?” He turns, grinning, incredulous. “No. That’s not how it works.”

“Well how does it work?” you challenge, poking his chest. “You bit me, you drank my blood, and then—boom—soul-bond sex. Feels pretty vampire-y to me.”

He laughs—an honest, warm sound—and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Turning someone is… different.” His voice softens. “It has to be mutual. Intentional. It’s a painful, drawn-out process. And it has to happen during death. It’s not romantic. It’s… violent.”

You blink. “Okay, yeah. Not exactly what I signed up for.”

“Exactly,” he says, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. “You're alive, (Y/N). Gloriously, stubbornly, sun-kissed alive.” He grins. “And I wouldn’t change that for anything.”

You kiss him—just a soft brush of lips—and then turn back to the eggs.

“You might want to take those off the heat.”

After breakfast—mostly edible thanks to your intervention—you both head out to the farm. The grass is damp beneath your boots, the scent of wet earth clinging to the breeze.

The chickens scatter as you step into the coop, feathers flying in a chaotic burst. Caleb watches from a distance, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“They hate me,” he deadpans.

“They hate everyone at first,” you reply, tossing feed with a practiced flick of your wrist. “They just sense your... undead aura or whatever.”

“Charming.”

You turn and grin at him. “Want to try collecting the eggs?”

He eyes the hens. They eye him back, like a showdown at high noon.

“They’re tiny dinosaurs, (Y/N).”

“You’re a vampire. What could they possibly do to you?”

“Peck my pride.”

You chuckle, wiping your hands on your jeans before glancing at him again. The sunlight catches on his face—and that’s when you really notice it.

“How can you walk in the sun?” you ask, brow furrowed.

He steps closer, the golden light wrapping around him like a halo. “That whole ‘bound to the shadows’ thing? Just a myth. Designed to scare kids. We’ve always been able to walk in the sun.”Then he gestures to his skin, tilting his head. “But if you look closely… I kind of glow. Brighter than you.”

You do look. And he’s right.

There’s a faint shimmer to him—subtle, but undeniably there. A golden sheen across pale, cool skin. It’s ethereal. Almost otherworldly.

“It reminds me of honey,” you murmur, awe in your voice. “The way it glows in the sun.”

He lets out a warm laugh—rich and unguarded.

But it’s cut short by the sudden flap of wings and a charging hen.

Caleb stumbles back with a startled noise.

“She’s feral!” he shouts.

You double over laughing, barely able to breathe as he backs away, hands raised like he’s facing a wild beast.

You finish the morning chores with giggles and bickering and a few startled yelps from Caleb when one particularly bold hen does try to assert dominance.

Back in the kitchen, sweaty and dirty, you lean against the counter as Caleb hands you a glass of water, his expression a little more serious now.

“You were happy today,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Because you were here.”

He reaches for your hand, threads your fingers together.

“Then I’ll keep being here. Until the chickens learn to love me. Or you get tired of me… whichever comes first.”

You smirk.

“Might be waiting centuries for either.”

You wash up together, this time without the fire of lust—just soft touches, shared smiles, and fingers tracing soap bubbles along skin. Caleb stands behind you at the sink, helping rinse the dirt from your arms after chores, and he murmurs things like:

“You have hay in your hair.”

And—

“You smell like sunshine and chicken feed. It’s weirdly perfect.”

You flick water at him. He bares his fangs in mock offense. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this kind of lightness before—not with anyone.

Later, you throw on your favorite sundress—simple, soft, something that flutters when you walk. Caleb watches you with a quiet intensity as you fasten the last button.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head, smiling.

“You make it hard to remember I don’t have a heartbeat.”

You walk the path through the woods, the trees parting slowly as the sun dips low. The air smells like wildflowers and pine, and the silence between you is comfortable now—no longer filled with longing, but contentment.

When the meadow comes into view, your breath catches.

The lavender has grown wild again, and golden light spills across the clearing like honey. You walk out ahead of him, your fingers brushing over petals, heart full.

“This is where you saved me,” you say quietly.

Caleb steps beside you, his eyes softer now. “No,” he murmurs. “This is where you saved me.”

You turn to him, and he reaches for your hand—lifting it to press a kiss to your knuckles. The sun paints him in gold, highlighting the quiet reverence in his features.

“I spent centuries numb,” he says, voice low, vulnerable. “But that day… you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. I’ve carried that look with me ever since.”

You squeeze his hand, your throat tight.

“I never stopped hoping you’d come back.”

He leans forward, his forehead resting gently against yours.

“And I never stopped watching. You never had to be alone, even when you thought you were.”

The wind dances through the flowers, and you stand there, pressed heart-to-heart, surrounded by the place where past and present collide.

“Do you still think this place is safe?” you ask quietly.

He looks around—at the trees, the sky, the wild lavender.

“No,” he says. “It’s sacred now. Not safe. It holds too much of you in it.”

You lie back in the grass, the wild lavender curling softly around you. The sunlight is fading, casting everything in hues of amber and rose. The breeze smells like earth and dusk and memory.

Caleb hovers above you, eyes glowing faintly in the golden light. One hand cradles your face. The other presses gently into the grass beside your head.

He doesn’t rush.

He studies you—soaking in every detail. The curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, the way your chest rises and falls like you’re waiting for him to breathe first.

“You’re sure?” he whispers, even now.

You smile, reaching up to brush his cheek.

“This is where you first touched my life,” you murmur. “It only feels right to let you touch all of me here.”

That’s all he needs.

He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that starts soft, but quickly deepens. His mouth parts yours, tongue slow and reverent as he kisses you like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

His hands roam—one sliding down your side, gripping your thigh as he nestles himself between your legs. You can feel him, hard and warm even through his clothes, pressing against you with restrained need.

You reach for the hem of his shirt. He pulls back just enough to let you tug it over his head, baring his chest—pale, scarred, perfect. You trace the faint marks with your fingers, each one a story you haven’t heard yet.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He chuckles softly, eyes dark with want. “No one’s ever said that to me and meant it.”

“Then let me be the first of many.”

Your dress is next—his hands work the buttons slowly, eyes on yours the entire time. When the fabric falls away, he pauses, just looking at you. His gaze drinks you in like he’s seeing sunlight for the first time in centuries.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he breathes. “How much I’ve imagined this—you—but nothing ever compared to this.”

He leans down, kissing between your breasts, trailing his mouth lower, lower still until his lips find your stomach. Your breath catches as he kisses just above your pelvis, then gently nudges your thighs apart with reverent fingers.

And then—

His mouth is on you again.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

His tongue traces every inch, curling against your clit, sliding deep to taste the wetness he drew from you so easily. His hands pin your thighs open like he never wants to let go. You cry out, your hips rising to meet his mouth, his name tumbling from your lips in broken pleas.

“You’re everything,” he murmurs against your heat. “I’ll never have enough of you.”

When he finally pulls away, your body is trembling—needing more.

He kisses his way back up your body, lips tasting skin and sweat and lavender.

“I need you inside me,” you whisper, pulling him closer.

He groans softly, voice almost reverent.

“I want to make love to you in this field until the stars come out.”

You reach between you, guiding him in—your bodies finding each other again, but this time surrounded by nature, sky, and all the years you waited for this moment.

He pushes in slowly, stretching you, filling you until you gasp, until your hands claw into the grass for something to hold onto.

“You fit me,” he growls, lips brushing your ear. “Like you were made for me.”

He moves with a rhythm that’s both deep and unhurried. He wants you to feel this—every inch, every breath, every trembling second. The grass cradles your back, his body cradles your soul, and you rock together under the falling sky.

His hands tangle in yours above your head. His mouth finds yours again—wet, open, gasping between thrusts. His forehead presses to yours.

“Say it,” he whispers.

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you, Caleb.”

And he falls apart inside you, just as you break beneath him—your bodies trembling, slick with sweat and starlight as the world goes silent but for the sounds of your pleasure.

When it’s over, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays buried deep, one hand stroking your hair, the other tracing circles on your bare thigh.

You lie there, tangled in each other, watching the stars begin to bloom in the sky.

“I’d live a thousand more lifetimes,” he says softly, “if it meant coming back to this moment with you.”

Ferrymen !

How we doing loves ? Who should be the next vampire ? Vote down below !

I’m cooking up Pt. 2 for my Death and Rebirth how it should have ended. Its called One More Goodbye. For Pt1 click here -> ❄

♥️ click the heart for my master list

~ The DeadStory Teller ~

@cordidy @fire-lizard-ro @carnallydepravedsanctum @laenafireheart

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lads smut #lads caleb #caleb x reader #caleb smut #vampire smut #love and deepspace smut

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mosstrades · 4 months ago

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im someone who stuggles not to let his curiosity and drive sometimes (often) cross over into an overwhelming and maladaptive need for answers, for explanation, for certainty. someone who, historically, sees making art as a primarily intellectual exercise. this is not inherently a bad thing, we all have our temperaments and this kind of attention can be a strength. but, you know that artist who makes a painting, and then only wants to show it while explaining it to you? thats me, sometimes, more often than i like. every story i used to write had another hundred page document behind it, explicating every single choice -- often i would simply read that, instead of ever actually write the story itself. the explanation precedes everything. the answers alone are the experience.

david lynch's work and philosphy has been and is a vital foothold in my efforts to learn to love the questions as our breath. learn to appreciate intuition and dreams, trust them instead of fear them. learn to see that the world has so much confusing, uncertain, strange beauty, that can be terrifying but turns sublime when you cease rejecting it from fear. when you embrace the unknown and dont try to immediately & anxiously explicate it all away, a whole new world opens up to you. that you need the darkness in order to dream, and you need dreams in order to live fully immersed in what the world has to offer. a foothold in learning to be okay with abstraction, with imperfect subjectivity, with uncertainty. to know it is not anthitetical to truth and meaning. know that to skillfully make ideas come alive into a work *is* to rationally pin them down, but that you cannot lose sight of the intuition they were born as.

his artistic intuition reminds me of what i need to have -- the trust and humility for experiencing the inexplicable and understanding that to be enough. a devotion to ideas and their realisation. a balancing force, for my endless inquiry -- to not forget to live the question in my the search for an answer. to allow some thing to go without clear or universal explanation, allow for some things to remain unresolved, allow for others to have that be their resolution. it's why his work equal parts captivates me and disturbs me -- i am very bad at this. but feel in my heart a need to get better at it. to be a better artist, a better thinker, a better searcher, a better person. you need to feel it, intuitively, quiet your endless noisy need for an answer and simply let it fill you up, let it resonate intuitively, and find in that how life makes sense to you and you alone. mediation, mindfulness, humility to sit with abstraction without trying to pin it down. more and more i try to understand this. some things don't need to make perfect sense. some things dont need answers, or their answers are not the point. some things dont need anything but to be experienced as they enter you -- like dreams do. that can lead you to the answer, and that can also be enough in itself. that can be just an intrinsic value in being alive to experience it. and so often, it is all in conversation with the search for joy. it's why he feels so captivating, so unique, so tremendously alive. why people use the word "visionary" when talking about him. because he knew how to use his medium in all the potential he could see, so that it let you live in the strangeness and questions. he understood them as sublime, he understood them as enough, he understood them as a joy. he understood them as beautiful. and his memory will remind me to do the same; always to seek the space to dream.

#(in dreams / oh in dreams / the snake will find its tail)#i am! a guy! who likes! answers!!#someone who resolves his fear of monsters in the closet by picking up a flashlight and brazenly throwing open the door!!#but at my worst i am also extremely anxious and thus avoidant!!#so i will resolve my fear of monsters in the closet by opening the doors wide and then simply pretending to see whats inside #searching for answers without the bravery to sit with questions #this makes me worse!! it makes me worse!!!!#thank you david lynch for reminding me over and over again that the way to stop being afraid of the dark #is to not stop at all #but instead embrace that disquiet. open the closet door wide as it will get. turn off the flashlight #and simply sit in front of it #observing -- simply observing -- whatever shapes emerge #letting them fill you up #and then doing something with them #also... man #lynch is one of the few things my mom and i almost completely agree on and could connect through #despite everything i feel like she gets this necessity for humility and curiosity and quieting down your need for answers #and not to get overshary on the tumblrs but it is a source of friction at times #because of my me and like. the abuse. i dont want someone whose failure of self knowledge gave me cptsd to tell me i should *think less*#but idk it's precious that through lynch we find a common ground in which to agree about it #i think i get what she was trying to tell me a little better now. or maybe what she would've liked to be trying to tell me #idk tldr i had a violent childhood where nothing made sense and everything was scary so now i struggle not to be desperate for #certainty and knowledge as protection. and the way i always found that was through art and philosophy so. yeah.#lynchs work helps me like... calm down a bit about that and do it better #to learn to love the strange and the confusing and the disquieting not see it always as a threat #to sit in the dark and see it for what it is. painful and beautiful. tender and hard. its deeply relieving. its good #hole in the world dude im gonna miss him really bad all i can feel rn is sadness gratitude and joy #forever in dreams #david lynch #mine

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agoraphxnics · 17 days ago

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siren!john price x gn!reader; siren!141 x gn!reader

tw: suícǐdë attempt, depressed reader, price lowkey (high key) takes advantage of reader’s mental state, drowning, heavy angst w happy ending, yandere john price

dark content ahead! read at your own risk!

divider by @strangergraphics

when siren!john finds you, you’re sitting on a rock, a pathetic shell of a human being. there’s a knife in your hands, blade glinting in the pale moonlight as you tremble. he calls out to you with an intoxicating croon. you look so shaken, such a poor little thing. just gaze into his piercing blue eyes. come on, pretty one. put down the knife for him. there you go. sweet things like you shouldn’t carry dangerous objects.

he asks you what you were planning to do with it, and you tell him through a fit of tears how every thing is horrible. how lonely you are, how empty you feel, how nothing in this world is with living for.

he agrees; your world is cruel, too mean for a sensitive and good-natured creature like yourself. but under the sea, there’s so much waiting to love you. hold you, caress you, and never let you go. in the depths lies his pod full of sirens just as big and strong and loving as he, all eager to prove it to you. it can be yours, sweetling, just come into the water. john will make it all better. john will make the pain go away.

just come to the water.

that’s it. let him hold you, envelope you in his scaly embrace. isn’t this nice?

now, you’ll have to be a good human and trust him. if you want to join him under the surface, he’ll have to take away your humanity. you do trust him, right?

it’ll all be over soon. just let the water fill your lungs as he sings you to sleep, a soft lullaby to celebrate the end of one life and the birth of a new one. yes, sweet thing. that’s it. succumb to the ocean. to him.

he’s all you’ll ever need.

no more pain of the human world.

and when you wake up, you’ll be like him, a beautiful creature of the water with a gorgeous tail. you’ll see life through his eyes, and you’ll never hurt again.

his pretty little mer~

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riboism · 6 months ago

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tear you apart

》 mob boss! p.sh x fem. ballerina! reader

》 wc: 3.3k

》 plot: a powerful mob boss becomes dangerously distracted by a captivating ballerina, leading him to abandon an important business deal because of his new obsession. Determined to regain his focus, he confronts her one night after a show, only to find himself even deeper entangled in his desire—and a conflict that could jeopardize everything.

》 content: swan lake ballet, ballerina!reader, mob boss! seonghwa, dom! seonghwa, gloved finger-fucking?? eventual smut

🎧 tear you apart- she wants revenge, sour switchblade- elita, into the woods- bragolin

It was now the final act of the show. Rothbart was defeated, his dark powers broken, and the swan maidens were free at last. In the soft glow of the stage, you and Siegfried danced together, your movements light and delicate, like drifting feathers. Each step felt weightless as you floated through the scene, surrounded by the gentle swell of the orchestra and the dreamy, pearlescent backdrop that bathed everything in a soft, otherworldly light. This was the most serene moment of the entire performance—yet your heart raced wildly in your chest.

Throughout the entire show, a sense of unease gripped you, following your every movement on stage. No matter where you turned or what role you played, you felt his eyes on you, that same piercing, unrelenting gaze that had been following you all season.

Park Seonghwa always sat in the same seat, just a little off-center in the orchestra, ensuring he had the best view of you. Like clockwork, he was here every Saturday night, with his hair slicked back with precision, dressed in a long, black coat that skimmed the floor, and his leather-gloved hands resting motionless on his knees. His eyes followed you all over the stage, studying your every move, every tweak of your brow, his plump lips parted in fascination. His unblinking, stone-cold expression sent shivers down your spine, and yet, you couldn’t deny the intrigue it sparked in you. His observance of you, so focused and ceaseless, made you feel powerful—seen. As if, in his eyes, you were the only ballerina on that stage, the rest of the world fading into irrelevance. You almost looked forward to seeing him in the audience every night, that is, until some whisperings from the other ballerinas during dress rehearsal rattled you.

"A mobster? Really? I thought those only existed in Scorsese movies," one ballerina laughed softly, her eyes darting nervously to the corner where he sometimes lingered after performances.

"It's true!" another whispered eagerly. "He's part of the Park crime family. Remember when they started cracking down on drug trafficking? Then they suddenly dropped all charges. I heard he paid off half the force. And now—well, I hear he’s eyeing the theater as a front for money laundering."

There was more truth to their rumors than they realized. After his father’s sudden departure, Seonghwa had inherited the mantle, becoming the head of the Park family business—a role he’d taken on with cold, unerring resolve. He was trusted to be the new, pragmatic decision-maker, one who wold keep the family business running smoothly. Everything had been going according to plan, right down to choosing an old, run-down theater on the outskirts of town as his next investment.

It was a simple acquisition, one that should have been handled quickly. But one evening, he found himself sitting in the darkened theater, watching intently as you stepped onto the stage in your pearly white tutu, your sculpted legs covered in thick stockings, twirling on your experienced tippy toes, forcing him to wonder how you can move so gracefully while doing something that seemed so painful.

Seonghwa never thought much of performance art; it simply wasn’t his world. His world was dark, brutal, and unforgiving. But from the first graceful movement, and the beautiful melody from the live orchestra, he was captivated with the world of the Swan Lake. You moved with such elegance and emotion that he couldn’t look away, each gesture leaving him more entranced than the last. From that night on, he returned every evening you performed, ignoring his obligations just to see you dance. He became infatuated with the beauty and artistry he hadn’t known could exist.

The original plan was simple: aquire the theater, reshape it into something profitable, and then use the profits to conceal earnings. But now, the thought of disrupting your world was unbearable. Reluctantly, he abandoned the deal, his priorities now twisted by an enchantment he resented.

From that very first performance, you unknowingly unraveled the careful fabric of his plans. Seonghwa found himself slipping away from his duties week after week, drawn back to that same old theater. His associates began to worry, questioning his judgement, but he couldn’t help it. He told himself it was just a curiosity or distraction—anything but the truth. You had enchanted him, woven yourself into his thoughts so deeply that he couldn’t bring himself to go through with the acquisition. Every time he saw you, he was reminded of what he stood to lose.

His associates were quick to notice his shift, whispering about his lack of judgment and uncharacteristic indecision. They urged him to reconsider, to stay grounded—but he felt himself slipping. Trouble was on the horizon; he could sense it. Part of him loathed you for the hold you had over him, for making him slack off from his responsibilities. Yet, night after night, he was drawn back, helpless against the spell you’d cast, unable to break free, and unwilling to let go.

Seonghwa knew he couldn’t keep living like this. His soul was burning hopelessly, and he needed to put out this fire fast.

—

It was quiet now, the theater emptying as the final notes of the orchestra still seemed to hang faintly in the air. You slipped into your dressing room, exhausted yet exhilarated, the glow of the performance still warming you as you changed out of your costume. Carefully, you removed your stage makeup, wiping away the traces of the Swan Queen. The transformation always felt strange, trading feathers and grace for the ordinary routine of going home.

You packed your things slowly, placing each item into your bag with a practiced rhythm, already looking forward to the calm of your apartment. But as you reached for your coat, a prickle of unease returned. It was that lingering feeling, the sensation of being watched, that had haunted you all night.

The silence shattered with a sudden, firm knock on the door, catching you off guard. Your heart raced, and before you could even gather yourself to respond, the door creaked open, slow and deliberate. His face appeared in the dim light, and you caught your breath. It was him.

Seonghwa stepped in just enough for his figure to fill the doorway, his familiar dark coat draping around him like a shadow. His expression was unreadable, the same cold, composed look he always wore, yet his eyes held a strange intensity that made you feel hot.

Your heart pounded as he stood there, with his gaze fixed intently on you. You felt a flicker of fear—a quiet, instinctive warning. Everything about him radiated power, a kind of quiet danger that you couldn’t ignore. Yet, having him so close to you now felt exhilarating, almost like you were waiting for him to knock on your door.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” He apologized, his sharp features now softening in your presence, hoping to disarm you.

“I’m sorry, c-can I help you with something?”

He paced around your small dressing room, his eyes lingering on the little details—your stage makeup scattered across the vanity, the photo frames of other ballerinas lining the walls. Anxiety twisted in your stomach as you watched him, still unsure of why he was here. Then, he turned to you with an unreadable expression, extending his gloved hand. "I just wanted to introduce myself properly," he said, his voice smooth but distant, “Park Seonghwa. I’m from a private equity firm. I know the owner, Hongjoong.” Shakily, you reached out your hand, the leather of his glove feeling cold and unnatural against your skin. You suppressed a shiver as his grip lingered just a second longer than you expected.

“I’m Y/N.”

"Y/N...Congratulations on being this season’s Swan Queen," he continued, his voice low and deliberate. "You’ve done very well. You must be very pleased with yourself."

You managed a quiet thank you, though the words felt strange on your lips, your usual confidence faltering under his watchful gaze. His praise should have flattered you, but instead, it left you feeling oddly exposed, like he saw more than you intended to show.

He released your hand, but the strange, lingering sensation stayed with you, leaving you both captivated and nervous.

Feeling faint, you sat down on your vanity chair. "So, you know Hongjoong?" you asked, searching for some logic behind his sudden presence.

"I do," he replied smoothly, though there was a slight glint in his eye that betrayed him. "We’ve been discussing a potential business venture together."

The truth, however, was a little more complicated. Seonghwa had met Hongjoong only once, barely enough to call him an acquaintance. From the start, Hongjoong hadn’t seemed eager to hand over his only asset to a man of Seonghwa’s reputation, especially not when rumors swirled about his intention to repurpose the theater into something as mundane as a car wash to serve as a front for his family’s business. But Seonghwa knew how to persuade, and when he named his price, Hongjoong’s reluctance began to waver.

That first night, they’d arranged to negotiate the deal, and Seonghwa had come prepared to secure the theater with his usual finesse. But Hongjoong was running late. Growing tired from standing in the lobby all evening, Seonghwa decided to sit in an empty seat during the show only to rest his feet, but your elegant movements captivated him, and made him forget who he was and why he was there.

He stepped closer, closing the distance between you in a way that made the small room feel even smaller. Your breath hitched as his intense gaze softened slightly, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The air between you felt charged, the warmth of his presence mingling with the lingering cold from his leather gloves.

“But I’m not here to talk about that,” He said, towering over you, “I could actually use your help in something.”

There was something odd yet inticing about his request. What could he, a possible mob boss, want from someone like you?

“And what might that be?” You asked, your throat suddenly feeling dry.

He was so close to you now that you could pick up the warming notes of his cologne— spices, sandalwood, and a hint of citrus. You’d seen his face a thousand times before, always shrouded in the dim lighting of the audience, his expression always stoic and muted. But now, with the light catching the sharp angles of his cheekbones and his plush and perfect lips just inches away from you, he was utterly captivating. You couldn’t look away.

"You see, I have this problem," he said, pacing slowly around you, his voice steady but laced with something unspoken. The air shifted each time he moved, the chill of his absence replaced by an intoxicating warmth as he drew near again.

"A problem?" you echoed, your voice a little breathless, trying to focus as his reflection loomed behind you in the mirror.

"Mm." He stopped directly behind you, lowering his head closer to the nape of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. "It’s you," he admitted, his tone dropping into something dangerously intimate.

Your heart skipped a beat. "Me?"

Seonghwa straightened himself, meeting your wide-eyed gaze in the mirror, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smirk. "You’re making it very hard for me to focus on my job," he said. His words were as smooth as they were direct. "And when a man like me gets distracted… it causes complications."

He moved again, standing to your side now, his hand resting lightly on the back of your chair. The closeness was almost unbearable, every nerve in your body hyper-aware of his presence.

"So," he continued, his eyes locking onto yours, "I thought perhaps you could help me resolve this little… issue of mine."

Your mind raced to comprehend the suggestion wrapped in his words. The way he looked at you left no room for misinterpretation, his meaning clear without being crass. You felt a sudden pulse between your legs, forcing you to squeeze your thighs tighter.

"And how exactly would I… help?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Seonghwa tilted his head, a slow smile tugging at his lips. "You’re a clever woman," he said, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your shoulder with deliberate care. "I think you already know."

—

You sat perched on your dressing table, forced to see yourself reflected in the mirror. There was a nervous flutter in your stomach as Seonghwa loomed behind you, his broad shoulders and low eyes making your breath hitch. You watched as he parted your thighs before eagerly ripping at the center seam of your stocking, revealing your glistening cunt to you both. Before you could react, he brought down his gloved hand, tapping on your pulsing clit a few times before pressing down in slow and small circles.

The coldness of the leather made you gasp, your heartbeat spiraling in excitement. You could see your slick coating his fingers, bringing a faint shine to his black gloves.

“Such a fat little pussy,” he breathed into your neck, the sudden warmth making a few hairs stand at your nape. He lightly slapped your cunt again, his mouth watering at your chubby, wet folds. “Didn’t think such a sweet little ballerina had something like this between her legs.”

You couldn’t help but feel vulnerable as you took in your reflection, hardly recognizing the scantily clad woman before you. You pressed your eyes shut as he continued pulling a string of shaky, breathless moans from your lips.

“Let’s see how well this little pussy can take me, hm?” He challenged, refusing to wait for your response before inserting a leathered digit into your wet walls. You gasped at the sudden intrusion, struggling to wrap around the thickness of his glove. Seonghwa chuckled at your tightness.

“Please,” You begged, tightly holding onto his working arm. But the desperation in your voice only egged him on. He thrust in a merciless rhythm, the squelching sounds from your arousal sending blood down to his groin.

“Please what dear? You want more?” Seonghwa grinned devilishly before stuffing in another finger, the sudden stretch sending a mix of pain and pleasure to your core. He worked you open at a brutal pace, soaking in your sweet moans as you gripped onto him tighter.

You were slowly coming undone, your knees quivering and threatening to cave in. You felt his hand grip onto your inner thigh, holding you open as much as possible for him. It was then that you fluttered your eyes open, only to find his gaze already locked onto yours in the mirror. You felt a twist in your stomach like he’d caught you doing something you shouldn’t be doing. You quickly realized that Seonghwa had been watching you in the mirror, his gaze unwavering as he took in every tear tracing your scorned red cheek, the delicate furrow of your brow, and the way your plush, pouty lips let out the softest, most beautiful whines he’d ever heard. Just as enchanting as your expressions were on stage, they were even more alluring here as he ravished you at his will.

His fingers were so much deeper now, hitting you in all the right places, until the tension inside of you snapped and you finally let go all over his gloved fingers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You sputtered, watching your wetness drip down his gloves. Exhaustion suddenly took over you, forcing your head to fall against his chest.

“I hope you don’t think we’re finished here,” He whispered, his soft, full lips feathering over your ear lobe, “There’s still a lot of things I need you to do.”

—

You were sprawled out over the table now, your top completely discarded, leaving you in just your ripped stockings. Seonghwa liked the stockings you wore on stage. They were so pearly and smooth, and he almost felt bad for ruining them this way. He leaned down and peppered a trail of kisses under your ear, down to your collarbone, lingering over your hardened peaks briefly, before continuing down to your pelvis.

You felt a wave of heat spread over you as he kissed around the outside of your cunt before spreading your lips with his fingers, reuniting you with the coldness of the leather. He dragged his long, warm tongue over your hot slit, groaning once your essence reached his tastebuds.

“You taste just as sweet as you look,” He praised, before wrapping his lips over your swollen clit. He sucked and pulled, swallowing every bit of juice you offered him hungrily.

Your back arched in bliss, your hips rolling as he gleefully lapped away at your cunt. He pressed his strong hands down your inner thighs to keep you still, your puffy pussy now spread completely open for him to devour. He savored every drop of you, like a predator that spent weeks catching its prey.

Seonghwa told himself he’d finally be rid of this infatuation after tonight and return to his duties with no more distractions, but how could he now after seeing you like this? With your body so willing, the sheer afterglow hitting your face and collarbones, the uneasy rise of your chest, and those lustful, messy moans? It all enticed him even further, and he worried he’d never be able to stay away.

Seonghwa was at his peak now, and he couldn’t hold out any longer. He quickly sprang up at his feet, the sounds of his belt unbuckling making your core throb with anticipation. His angry, red tip pressed against your slit, making you gasp at how hot and hard he felt.

Seonghwa pushed himself in slowly, inch by inch until his shaft was completely sucked in by you. He cursed at your tightness and moved his hips slowly, allowing you to adjust to his girth.

“Fuck!” You cried out, curling your toes as he plunged deeper into you. He fucked you hard and rough, determined to take all his anger and frustrations out on you so that he could return to his stoic self. He hated you for throwing him off his game, and he still held onto that hope that he’d finally let go of all his pent up emotions once he finishes fucking your brains out. He just needed to get it out of his system.

You winced at his tight grasp on your hips. His pace was brutal, the sounds of your dressing table rocking against the wall overpowering your desperate screams, yet you refused to open your eyes. You didn’t want to see his face while he thrusted into you with an unspoken vendetta. His gaze alone made you feel even more hot and frazzled.

Suddenly, you felt his hand creep to the back of your head, pulling your head up by a fistful of strands. You took in a sharp breath, the pain of your pulled hair forcing you to open your eyes at last.

“Look at how good you fucking take me,” He grunted, pushing your head down farther to help you get a good look at his cock stretching out your swollen cunt. “ ‘Take me just like a good girl.”

Your face grew hot as you watched yourself take him in, eyes bulging at his thick cock that was decorated with pulsing veins and twitched inside of you so deliciously. So drunk off his cock, you found yourself rambling nonsense as he fucked you into oblivion. “Yes, yes, yes, fuck me, fuck me so good!”

You felt you both were melting into each other, your breathing growing erratic and unsteady until you finally lost your composure.

Seonghwa pulled out of you, spilling himself over your wet cunt as he sucked in a breath, making sure to milk out every last drop of his seed. You couldn’t help but watch as he spread his thick, white cum over your swollen pussy lips, your body twitching from the sensitivity.

When you looked up at him, you found his face flushed as red as yours, his mouth slightly agape, with an expression that caught you off guard. The moody, confident alpha male who had entered your room now seemed unsteady, his composure cracked, leaving him looking utterly broken and confused.

He leaned down, his breath mingling with yours for a fleeting moment before his lips finally pressed against yours. The kiss was seamless, as though the two of you had been meant to move together in this way all along. The warmth of his touch ignited something between you, a spark that quickly became a flame, and a flame that would soon become a raging fire that could never be put out.

Seonghwa's desire for you only intensified in that moment. Whatever his plans had been before tonight, they now felt irrelevant, tangled up in the web of feelings he could no longer suppress. He didn’t know what this meant for his current predicament—how this would complicate everything—but one thing was certain: he wouldn’t be letting you go anytime soon. He’s marked his destiny by letting himself be engulfed in the flames.

#ateez smut #ateez fanfic #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa smut #seonghwa scenarios #park seonghwa smut #park seonghwa #park seonghwa x reader

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lilianne-tarot · 3 months ago

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PICK A CARD: What Makes You Most Attractiveִ?

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I. II. III.

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How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images above. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you, go ahead and read both!

If you enjoyed this reading, get your own personalized paid reading here! 😊🦋

For personalized 18+ readings, click here!

My KO-FI🫶🏻

MY MASTERLIST 🫶🏻

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⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖PILE I

Cards pulled: page of pentacles, 5 of cups, 10 of swords, ace of pentacles, 7 of cups.

Okay, so Pile 1 is all about the ENERGY yall bring into a room. Like, yall are that "I can't look away from them" type. your most attractive trait is definitely the vibe and presence, that natural charisma that's not forced, that "I don't even try to be hot, I just am" energy. You know those people who just feel powerful but aren’t loud about it? That’s MY PILE 1. Also, there’s a bit of a "dark feminine" or "mysterious masculine" vibe, it doesn't depend on gender, it's the energy I ma talking about. like "I have secrets you’ll never know," It's more about aura than looks or sweetness. Think boss energy, a little intimidating but insanely hot.

You’re that person people underestimate at first, like, they think you're just cute, shy, or chill (Page of Pentacles vibes), but once they get closer, BAM, you hit them with that "I've been through hell and back, and now I sparkle" kinda energy (yes, that beautiful 5 of Cups + 10 of Swords combo, I see you). Honestly, your personality is your biggest magnet, but here’s the twist, it's not the loud, in-your-face kind of personality. It's that "quiet energy, like people can feel there’s something deep under the surface, and it makes them so curious about you. You're the type where someone meets you and they can't stop thinking about you later, wondering like "Why do I feel so drawn to them? What are they hiding?" (7 of Cups, hellooo, daydreamer magnet energy).

Okay, let’s not lie, you’re definitely good-looking, but it’s not necessarily about being the "loudest" in the room. You’re the type people glance at once, and then they can't stop glancing again. Like, the more people look at you, the more they notice all these little things, your eyes, your smile, the way you fidget with your hands when nervous (I see a lot of yall doing that haha), or how your expressions shift when you're thinking deep thoughts. Also, with Ace of Pentacles sitting right here like a lil' glowing gem, there’s something about you that looks fresh, earthy, grounded but precious. Like, you give "first love in a coming-of-age film" kinda attractiveness, pure but profound, y’know? OH YEAH, maybe like those wife shown in the beginning of the movie who dies😭. I’m seeing something about your eyes, like soft but intense, eyes that look like they’ve seen things but still hold kindness. Also, your voice might be something people find themselves hooked on, like calm, soothing, maybe a little shy at first but super comforting when you open up.

YOUR PERSONALITY HONEY, this is where you SHINE, babe. You don’t give everyone access to who you are, and THAT is what makes you so magnetic. Like, people can sense you’ve been hurt before but you’ve rebuilt yourself quietly. You give off that vibe of someone who knows pain but still chooses kindness, and wow… if that isn’t HOT, I don’t know what is. Also, can we talk about how real you are? You’re not here for fake friendships or superficial vibes. People can feel that you crave something deeper, real convos, real bonds. That makes people feel safe with you but also nervous because they're like

Let me tell you something, you don’t even realize how dreamy you are, huh? Like, 7 of Cups is telling me you’re the muse energy. People fantasize about you, imagine convos, scenarios, "what if we dated?" like BABE, get ready because you’re someone’s daydream playlist person. Also, lowkey, you give hopeless romantic vibes, but you hide it under "I’m chill" energy, and that's what’s cute, because once people get a glimpse of that soft side, they MELT. Like, "Wait, they’re thoughtful AND romantic?!" Dead. People are gone.😏

In one sentence? You are that quiet, deep soul who’s soft but strong, mysterious but warm, lowkey stunning in a way that grows on people and makes them obsessed. You're the safe space mixed with a little danger of falling too hard, and that combo is what makes people wanna stick around and peel back your layers.

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⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖PILE II

Cards pulled: ace of cups, wheel of fortune, strength, queen of cups and 5 of cups.

Before I dive into the reading, I just have to say, THE SPIRITS WERE SO CHATTY FOR THIS PILE! 😭 They really made me exceed my word limit! MESSAGES KEPT POPPING UP FOR THIS PILE!!!

let me just start by saying, PILE 2, y’all are the heartthrobs without even trying. Babe, this pile is literally the "physical attraction" pile, 100%. Like, this pile gives main character looks without even trying, someone who doesn’t realize how stunning they are and that makes them even hotter. People are drawn to their natural beauty, body language, voice, facial expressions, literally how they move and exist in space. EVERYTHING.

As soon as I saw three Cups cards staring at me, I was like "Oh okay, so y’all are that person who makes people feel things huh?" You’re out here unintentionally pulling on people like it’s your part-time job. Let’s get into this because BABY… your emotional energy is your ultimate attraction factor ( including the physical attraction) .

So first off, if we’re asking "What makes you attractive?" It's giving emotional depth, softness, but with a twist, you’re way stronger than people think. Like people probably see you and are like, “Aww, what a sweet soul,” but then when they get to know you, they realize you have this insane inner resilience. That Strength card sitting pretty in the middle? Yeah, that tells me you’re emotionally powerful, like you’ve been through some stuff, but you didn’t let it harden you. Instead, you’re like, “I’ll just love harder, but smarter.” And whew, people FEEL that. whenever I look at the strength card it always makes I feel like the energy where the person have the POWER to tame even a lion with their sweetness (according to the illustration on the card), that's what y'all are pile 2.

You give off the vibe of someone who sees people, like really sees them, in a way that makes them feel safe and understood. You know when you meet someone and just feel like you can exhale around them? That’s YOU. People are magnetized to your energy that feels like home, So it’s a mix of “Wow, they’re so emotionally available” but also “Wait, do I even deserve to be in their world?” And girl, that mystery is part of the charm. You’re like an emotional ocean, people can sense the depth, but they also know if they swim out too far and don’t respect your boundaries, they’ll drown.

Also, Ace of Cups + Queen of Cups?! I mean, HELLO. You radiate love, kindness, softness, but not in a naive way, and I would related it directly to my interpretation of the stegth card. It’s like, “I’ll love you, but I’ll never lose myself again for someone.” And that combo makes people OBSESSED. Like, “How are they so soft and so strong?!” vibes. Now, let me spill some tea on the 5 of Cups because this is so key to your vibe. You’ve been hurt. I feel like a lot of people don’t realize that about you right away, but your softness comes with a story, and honestly, people pick up on that in a subtle way. THAT is so rare, and I think it’s a massive reason why people feel drawn to you. You don’t flaunt your pain, but it lives in your aura in a way that makes people want to protect you… even though you don’t need protecting (you’re stronger than most, let's be real).

Also, I think you attract people who want to be saved or healed, and you probably get tired of that, huh? Like, “Why do all the broken birds fly to me?” kind of thing? Because your nurturing vibe is THAT strong. But low-key, you’re the one who wants someone to show up for you for once, and not just take from your emotional well. And you should. Period. Another layer to what makes you attractive is how you shift people's lives just by being in them. Like people meet you and suddenly they’re questioning everything. You walk into someone's life and suddenly they’re feeling things they’ve avoided, seeing life in a deeper way, realizing what they want in relationships. And I’m hearing this loud, you’re a karmic force in people’s lives, like a wake-up call with a soft voice. Like… iconic, honestly.

Ok, even though this reading is screaming "your heart and soul are your glow," I’m picking up on physical softness that mirrors your emotional energy. Like, there’s something about your eyes, your gaze is watery but deep, like people feel like they’re drowning in your eyes (in a good way, lol). And I’m hearing “smile that hides a thousand stories”, like you could smile, and people are like, “Oh that’s cute,” but also like “What are they thinking? What have they been through?” Also, I’m seeing hair, something about your hair being soft or flowy, even if it’s short, it moves with you in a way that’s very ethereal. And there’s definitely something about your hands or the way you move them when you talk that people watch. You probably don’t notice it, but it’s hypnotizing.

i know it is super out of context but I feel like Someone definitely has had a CRUSH on you for ages but is scared to approach you because of how “above them” you seem emotionally, like they think they can’t match your depth. Also… you’ve been through a big emotional chapter recently, haven’t you? I feel like a new love, romantic or self-love, is around the corner.

So now I HAVE to ask you, do you realize you give off this "emotional heartbreaker but soft angel" vibe? Like, are you aware of this, or is this a news to you? LOL Because I feel like people fall HARD for you and you’re like, “Wait, what? I was just existing.” 😂

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⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖PILE III

cards pulled: 6 of swords, ace of cups, queen of cups, judgement and the sun.

Omg okay, first of all, can we just pause and appreciate this lineup for a sec?? Like, babe, THE SUN and Judgement pulling up together is already giving "I walk in and the whole room turns to stare" vibes. And then all that emotional depth with the Ace of Cups, Queen of Cups, and even the 6 of Swords? This pile is basically the human embodiment of healing hot. You know, the kind of person who's been through it but still shines like a literal beam of light?? Like "I’ve been through storms, but I’m here glowing and unbothered."

Okay, so if we’re asking "What makes you SO attractive?", the loudest message coming through (and I’m talking like a siren blasting in my ear) is your emotional depth, softness, and healing presence. This pile is ALL about your personality vibes and hidden charms. So if you were hoping I’d talk about something super specific like "your eyes" or "your smile," honey, I’m gonna be real, this goes so much deeper than surface level. You’re that person who people think about deep in their thoughts, wondering, "How do they make me feel so safe? Why do I feel like I can tell them everything?" Like straight up, you are emotionally magnetic.

You radiate safety and warmth, and people are drawn to you because you just "get it." Like, you don’t even have to say anything, and people already feel like you understand what they’ve been through. The Queen of Cups and Ace of Cups combo is screaming: "I have a heart big enough to hold space for everyone’s pain and joy." And honestly? Not many people have that capacity, so when folks meet you, it feels rare. It feels special.🫡

I’m also picking up that you’re the kind of person who makes healing look sexy. (IDK why I'm saying this but plss that's the message😭) Like, you’re not here being all broken and messy (though hey, no shame if you are sometimes, we all are!). People are fascinated by how you’ve turned your pain into beauty.

Also, can we talk about how the Sun is showing up here like, You’re not just soft and deep, you also have this bright, warm, hopeful energy that shines through even when you’ve been through dark times. And that combo? Whew. Like mysterious but also sunshine when people get to know you? Iconic. People think they’re getting this deep, poetic soul (which you are), but then boom, you make them laugh or show them light when they least expect it. Literally the "serotonin boost" friend.

Let me just say this: You’re the kind of person people fall in love with slowly, but hard. trust me when I say this cuz when you fall for this type of person it's the hardest to move on from, like IMPOSSIBLE (UHM....speaking from experience🫠)

At first, they might be like, "Oh, they’re sweet, cool." But then after spending time with you? They realize you’re the calm in the storm. You probably don’t even know the grip you have on people because you're just out here being kind, someone's developing a full-blown crush just watching you exist (again, speaking from experience....). Like, someone could see you gently checking on a friend and think, "Oh no, why do I suddenly want to marry them?" Also, with Judgement here, you give major transformative vibes, like people meet you and start questioning their whole life. "Why am I settling? I deserve better, like them." You inspire people to become better versions of themselves. And babe, THAT is wildly attractive. That "wake-up call" energy that makes people go, "I didn’t know I could feel this way until I met you." Now let me circle back to the 6 of Swords because, oh my god, this is so interesting, this card is giving me "I've moved on from the chaos" energy. So you don’t chase, you attract. You’re the person who’s been through rough waters, but instead of becoming bitter or closed off, you’re like, "I’m at peace now. If you want to join me in that peace, cool. If not, keep it moving."

And THAT, my love, is part of what makes you irresistible, you’re not out here thirsty for anyone’s attention. You’re calm, secure, and moving forward in life, and nothing’s hotter than someone who knows their worth. I’m also getting this random but strong vibe that you have a “look” when people cross boundaries, like a quiet but firm stare, and people literally fear disappointing you because you’re so kind but also so real. Like, "Omg, did I just ruin my chance with them?" kind of vibe. 💀 Also, random but I’m hearing "your laugh is addictive" and "your eyes give away your soul", like people can feel things just by looking into your eyes or hearing you laugh. So don’t underestimate those, okay?

Now babe, let me ask, because I’m nosy like that, do people randomly trauma-dump on you in like, grocery stores and public places? 'Cause I’m getting serious "strangers tell me their life story" vibes from this. Also, do people fall for you but don’t know how to handle the feelings because you awaken something real in them? Like "oh no, I thought this was a casual crush but now I wanna write them poetry". Also… you may not realize this but people low-key compete to be close to you. Like, your presence is that precious. 👀

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Thank you so much for reading all the way through! I hope my reading resonated with you and that you had a lovely time going through it. If you enjoyed it, please like and reblog, it really means a lot! Let me know which pile you chose; I absolutely love hearing your thoughts and feedback on my readings! ♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not predict the future in a fixed way. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

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chrattho1 · 4 months ago

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bsf!chris x reader

“what took you so long?”

summary: chris is in love with you more or less,he never made a move on you though, always scared that might ruin your friendship. but now that you’re taken—he wants you even more. in your grey set that he loves so much, you come around for a movie night and he is painfully hard the moment he sees you walk in.

warnings: male masturbation, pet names(?) idk what else to put in, not proofread

a/n: this is a blurb for my bsf! chris au,find more of it here

“we’re not watching cars for the third movie night in a row chris!” you snatch the remote from his hands and settle down next to him on the bed.

too close for his liking.

dont get him wrong, being close to you only makes him happy, the way you smell, the way your hair smells and sometimes tickles his face when you move. but right now he is focused on covering the lower half of his body with the covers, to say that he has a raging boner is an understatement.

“do whatever kid, and can you move i feel nauseated by your perfume” he puts his head on the headboard, trying to act like he is not in excruciating pain.

“woah there, whats got you all riled up?” you ask, tilting your face so its closer to his.

chris’s breath hitches the moment he feels your pretty features come close to his flushed ones. your long lashes fluttering as you blink at him in question, your plump lips sitting ideally waiting for an answer, a small strand of hair falling in between your eyes—right above your nose. god you’re beautiful.

“nothing im just snacky, mind getting me some snacks from downstairs?” he asks with a sincere smile.

you nod thinking nothing suspicious of it, he does get hangry alot so this was nothing new.

you walk out the room telling him to pick a movie before you come back.

chris watches you walk out, your ass swaying in perfect sync in that soft material that sticks to you, his thoughts not helping him one bit. he quickly puts a hand under the covers,reaching his hand down to adjust himself just a little bit before you come in again. that slight friction from his hands making him bite his lips.

“okay..i got you skittles and pepsi, thank you for restocking redbull before i come, you’re the best” the comment earning you a wink from chris to which you smile, his cheeky behaviour is not-not normal to you, thats how he has always been.

you both settle on watching “how to lose a guy in 10 days” , because , well chris lost the rock-paper-scissors game.

not even halfway through the movie, you notice chris moving every few moments, shifting and stirring next to you.

“motherfucker, could you stay still for a moment im trying watch the movie!” you yell lowly at him clearly not aware of the agony he is in right now.

“my allergies are making me itchy” chris whines and speaks softly knowing you’re too focused on the movie currently to actually pay attention or listen to him.

and then he realised it. you are too distracted.

“im going to go to the bathroom” he finally decides he’s going to do something about it or else he might come in his pants just by looking at you for so long (he has been staring this entire time, ofcourse).

you nod in response watching him go up to the bathroom attached to his room.

“turn the volume up will you? i wanna hear whats happening in the movie” he says standing by the doorframe of the bathroom, his oversized hoodie kind of covering the tent in his sweats.

“i can just pause it until you come back weirdo” you shrug at him with a mouth full of skittles.

“nah, i might take a little while” he smiles at your disgusted face, watching as you turn the volume up.

he closes the bathroom door behind him and lets out a huge sigh,he looks at himself in the mirror not believing what he is about to do with you sitting right outside.

he pulls his sweats down, looking down at his boxers which have a dark patch growing on them.

he cups his dick through them, biting his lips to prevent letting out any sounds.

he strokes himself a couple of times over his boxers before pulling them down,his cock springing up—desperate for touch more than ever, his tip swollen and leaking.

his thumb spreads the bead of pre-cum leaking from the tip, making him groan softly, his hand drags from there to the base of his dick, slowly starting to pump his slick cock in his hand.

“fuck” he curses softly, thinking about you— who is in his room right now, sitting on his bed, the bed that he has imagined doing the most unimaginable things to you on.

“oh—shiiit” his strokes get faster,the contact of his hand with his dick making wet sounds, but the movie playing outside is still louder.

“chris!” he hears you call him, but he doesn’t respond, scared his voice might betray him and let out a moan.

hearing your voice only made him feel closer, closer to cumming, cumming on your face, cumming in you, cumming in your mouth, these are all the things he thinks about, that grey set stained with his release.

“fuck-f-fuck-oh—-fuck ma- im-gon” his voice breaks apart with whimpers.

“ah—shit” with that, hot, white ropes of cum spray all over his hoodie.

his legs quiver when he looks down at the mess he’s made.

he quickly gets rid of the hoodie, balls it up and throws it into the laundry basket that he started keeping in the bathroom after nick told him too, thanks nick-he thinks.

he was still wearing a black tee under so he wasn’t walking out shirtless, its not like you’ve never seen him shirtless but he wanted to be decent (?)

he cleans himself up and walks out of the bathroom in a record of 6 mins. yes .

he sat down next to you,now comfortably snuggling close.

“what took you so long? and wheres your hoodie?” you ask him,noticing that his hoodie is not on him anymore

“had some bad food for dinner last night, and the hoodie was making me hot and itchy” he smiles at you when you reply with an “ew” not questioning his response.

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hameesstuff · 29 days ago

Text

"Ink And Ice"

Pairing: Arranged husband ceo! Jaehyun (single dad) x Wife Artist! Reader

Themes: Arranged marriage, slow burn, lots of angsttttt, fluffy end, smut.

Word Count: ~6.2k

Preview: After losing his first wife, Jaehyun swore he'd never open his heart again. After her death, Jaehyun gave all his love to his daughter, guarding his heart from anyone else. Cold and distant, he kept you at arm’s length—until your quiet warmth and love slowly brought him back to life. One argument and night changes everything.

___________________________________________

The Vows You Didn’t Write

The courthouse is silent, cold in its marble expanse. A place where deals are made in signatures, not sentiments. And that’s exactly what today is—a deal. A transaction masked as a wedding.

You're wearing a cream-colored dress, nothing extravagant, but still too soft for the man standing beside you.

Jung Jaehyun.

CEO of Jung Group. A man you’d seen on the news years ago, at charity galas with his late wife. The perfect family. Until she passed away in a tragic accident two years ago, leaving him with their daughter. Since then, he’s worn grief like armor—tailored suits, expensive watches, and a gaze colder than any winter sky.

And now, he’s your husband.

His hand brushes yours when he signs the marriage certificate. No ring. No vows. Just ink.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” he says, voice low, businesslike. “I’ll handle everything.”

You glance up. “Except your daughter.”

That earns the faintest flicker of something behind his eyes. Annoyance? Pain? You can’t tell. He doesn’t answer.

Soa. Five years old. A dimpled smile and big brown eyes that don’t yet understand what losing a mother means. She clung to you the first time you met like she’d known your soul in a past life. You don’t know what you did to earn it, but she loves you already.

And it terrifies you more than marrying a man who doesn’t.

The Guest Room Wife

The mansion is everything you'd expect from Jung Jaehyun—coldly beautiful. Not warm. Not welcoming. White walls, minimalist furniture, the soft hum of silence stretching through every corridor.

You’re shown to a guest room. Not the bedroom. Not his.

“This is where you’ll stay,” Jaehyun says, setting your suitcase down like he’s done it for employees at business trips. “It has a private bath. Soa’s room is just down the hall.”

You nod. “I’m not here to make things complicated.”

He pauses at the door. “Good.”

That night, you unpack in silence. You take out your paints even though he never asked what you do, what you love. You work with your hands—canvas, color, emotion. He works with numbers, walls, and contracts.

You barely see him.

But Soa? She starts appearing everywhere.

At breakfast, climbing onto your lap.

At night, asking for one more story, her tiny fingers curling around yours.

In the mornings, waiting outside your door like you’re the sun rising just for her.

And with every laugh, every question she throws your way, your heart sinks deeper. You weren’t supposed to care this much.

One night, she holds your hand and whispers, “You smell like Mommy used to.”

You don’t cry. Not then. But you do later, alone, in the dark room Jaehyun gave you.

Dinner for Three

The first time you all sit down together is a week after the wedding.

A silent dinner table. Glass and granite. A bottle of wine unopened between you. Jaehyun scrolls through something on his phone while Soa chatters about a butterfly drawing she made in school.

“I told my teacher my new mommy paints better than anyone,” she says proudly.

Jaehyun’s hand stills on the screen.

You glance at him, unsure if he’ll correct her.

He doesn’t.

“That’s sweet, Soa,” you reply softly, your voice barely breaking through the weight of the silence.

Later, as you help clean up, you ask Jaehyun quietly, “You’re uncomfortable when she calls me that, aren’t you?”

His jaw tenses. “She barely remembers her real mother. I don’t want her attaching too quickly to—”

“To me,” you finish, sharper than you intended.

He turns then. His gaze pins you to the spot. Cold. Controlled. “To anyone she could lose.”

You understand, but it still hurts.

Because no matter how kind you are, how careful, he’s already decided you’re temporary.

Ink on His Desk

You never meant to leave the painting there.

It was just a sketch—quick, raw, done late one night after Soa fell asleep on your lap. Her curled body in a blanket, one hand clinging to your shirt. You drew her in seconds, as if your hands remembered a pose from another lifetime.

You left it on the kitchen counter.

But in the morning, it’s gone.

And that afternoon, you see it on Jaehyun’s desk—framed.

He doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t look at you. Just signs documents with precise strokes as if nothing in the world has shifted.

But it has.

Because for the first time, your art is in his world. In the center of it. And that means something.

The Argument

It starts with something stupid.

You ask if he’ll be late again—Soa’s been asking for him every night, falling asleep near the front door.

He says, “My daughter is not your responsibility.”

You stare at him. “She is now. Whether you like it or not.”

Jaehyun looks up, cold. “I didn’t ask for this marriage. And neither did she.”

You step forward, voice low and shaking. “Then why marry me at all? Just to have someone warm your guest room and pretend you’re still functioning?”

That cracks something.

His voice rises—not loud, but furious. “Because my mother wouldn't stop. Because Soa needed someone. Because I needed a body beside mine to make everyone think I was still alive. Is that what you want to hear?”

You breathe in through your teeth. “You’re a coward, Jaehyun.”

“And you—” he steps closer, eyes burning, “—you’re a dreamer who walked into hell thinking you could paint over the fire.”

You whisper, “I wasn’t trying to fix you. I just wanted to be seen.”

The silence after is louder than anything.

Then, finally, he whispers back, hoarse: “I see you.”

And he walks out.

But something has changed.

Because this time, he doesn’t slam the door.

The Shift

The next week is different.

Jaehyun comes home earlier. Watches Soa paint beside you on the balcony. Asks questions about your gallery work. Not often. Just a few. But they land heavily.

One night, he stands in the doorway while you read to Soa. Doesn’t say anything. Just… stays.

When Soa is asleep, you pass him in the hall. Neither of you speak. But your hands brush.

Dinner Scene – The Breaking Point

The long dining table was filled with idle chatter, wine glasses clinking, and laughter that felt too forced to be real. You sat quietly beside Jaehyun, his expression unreadable as he scrolled through his phone between half-hearted bites.

Across the table, Minho—Jaehyun’s cousin—hadn’t stopped running his mouth since you’d arrived. His comments were laced with mockery, each one digging deeper beneath your skin.

"So," Minho began again, swirling the red wine in his glass, his eyes fixed shamelessly on you, "how’s the art world treating you? Still painting... flowers and naked women, or just your own reflection these days?”

You froze, your hand gripping the fork a little tighter.

Minho leaned forward, voice dropping to something too smooth, too smug. “Can’t lie, though. The idea of you covered in paint, messy and bare… now that’s a portrait I wouldn’t mind seeing up close.”

The table fell silent. Even the air seemed to still.

Jaehyun looked up slowly, and for a moment, no one moved. Then, without a word, he stood. The chair screeched back violently, and in two long strides, he was across the table.

“Jaehyun—” someone gasped.

He grabbed Minho by the collar and shoved him hard against the wall with a thud. Dishes clattered. Soa flinched where she sat. Shock rippled through the room.

Jaehyun’s voice was deadly low, face inches from his cousin’s. “You ever speak to her like that again, I swear to God—”

“Jae,” you said softly, standing now, your voice breaking through the haze of his fury. “Let him go. Please.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly, jaw tight, hand still fisted in Minho’s shirt. You reached him slowly, gently placing your hand on his arm. “You don’t need to do this. I’m okay. Come back.”

His eyes finally flicked to you—stormy, tormented, and wide with something unspoken. His grip loosened, and Minho slid down the wall, coughing.

Jaehyun didn’t say a word. He just turned, hand brushing against yours for a fleeting second, and walked out of the room.

The house had finally gone quiet. Soa had fallen asleep curled into her blanket, clutching the stuffed bunny you painted flowers on months ago. Jaehyun had kissed her forehead gently, lingering longer than usual, as if needing her peace to steady the storm still curling in his chest.

When he stepped into the bedroom, he found you sitting on the edge of the bed, your robe loose around you, eyes tired and pained.

“I scared you,” he said, voice hoarse. “And I scared her. I—I lost control.”

You didn’t speak, only looked up at him, your silence a gentle kind of patience that made his throat tighten.

He walked over, dropped to his knees in front of you, and pressed his forehead to your stomach.

“I hated myself tonight,” he whispered. “For letting that bastard talk about you like you were nothing. For pretending like I didn’t care, when the truth is—I can’t stand the idea of anyone looking at you the way he did. I’ve been running from this… from you. But you’re the only thing that’s felt real since her. Since everything broke.”

Your fingers slipped into his hair as his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

“I see you,” you whispered. “Even when you hide. Even when you push me away.”

He looked up at you, eyes shining with something vulnerable and raw. “Do you still want me? After how I’ve been?”

You leaned down, kissed him softly—an answer he didn’t deserve but one you gave anyway.

He rose, cupped your cheeks with shaking hands, and kissed you again, slower this time. With trembling reverence. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was quiet, gentle… like worship.

“Let me love you tonight,” he said, voice breaking. “As my wife. Not a contract. Not a convenience. Just… mine.”

Clothes were discarded in silence, not in heat but in need—skin to skin, breath to breath. He held you like you were fragile and fierce all at once. His lips brushed your shoulder, your chest, your belly, lingering over every inch of you as though memorizing the story you carried beneath your skin.

When he slid inside you, it wasn’t hurried. It was a sigh, a homecoming. You gasped his name softly, hands clutching his back as he moved with you—slow, steady, grounding.

“I see you,” he whispered into your neck. “I want all of you. The stubbornness, the paint-stained fingers, the warmth you gave Soa when I was too afraid to feel. You are my family now.”

Your eyes filled with tears, and he kissed them away as he moved deeper inside you, every thrust heavy with emotion, with gratitude, with aching love he no longer knew how to contain.

When you fell apart beneath him, trembling, your eyes locked with his—and he followed with a gasp, like a man letting go of grief in the arms of someone who brought him back to life.

Later, curled against him beneath the blankets, your head on his chest, he played with your fingers in silence. Then he whispered, “You were never just someone who walked into my life.”

You looked up.

“You’re the reason it started again.”

And when you fell asleep in his arms, you felt it for the first time—not just desire. Not even just love.

You felt chosen.

Morning After

The morning sun spilled quietly through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the room. You stirred slowly, sore in the most tender way, muscles aching with the memory of how Jaehyun had held you—how he’d loved you like he was finally ready to feel again.

Your hand reached across the sheets instinctively and found him still there.

Jaehyun lay on his side, facing you, eyes already open, watching you like he still couldn’t believe you were real. His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Didn’t sleep,” he murmured. “Just… didn’t want to miss it. Waking up like this. With you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You look tired.”

“I feel…” he searched for the word. “Clean. Like something broke open and I can breathe again.”

Your fingers traced the edge of his jaw, thumb brushing the faint shadows beneath his eyes. “You’re allowed to rest now, Jaehyun.”

His hand slid beneath the blanket, settling on your belly. “Soa has been calling you ‘Mom’ more lately,” he whispered. “She’s never done that with anyone else.”

You blinked, your throat tightening. “She’s… she’s everything to me.”

“I know.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—soft, slow, sacred. “That’s why I love you.”

The bedroom door creaked open just then, and Soa peeked in, her bunny clutched to her chest.

“Daddy?” she whispered.

Jaehyun sat up slightly. “Come here, baby.”

She scrambled in, crawling up between you, curling into your side like she’d always belonged there. Her small hand reached for yours—and then rested gently on your belly.

“Morning, Mommy,” she said sleepily.

You didn’t correct her.

Jaehyun wrapped his arm around both of you, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head and then yours.

And in that still, sacred silence, with your family wrapped around you, nothing else in the world mattered.

Epilogue:

You watched Jaehyun play with Soa in the living room. The little girl, now six years old, was laughing as Jaehyun lifted her high into the air, her giggles filling the room and making your heart swell. Soa had grown so much in the years since she’d come into your life, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for how seamlessly she had accepted you as her mother.

Jaehyun glanced over at you, his eyes soft with affection, before he made his way toward you. He knelt beside the couch, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before resting his hand on your belly. "How’s our little one doing?" he asked, his voice filled with tenderness.

You smiled up at him, feeling the baby kick softly beneath your skin. "I think they’re just as excited to meet you as you are," you said with a laugh.

Soa sat beside you on the couch, her small hand gently pressed against your belly. “Hi, baby!” she whispered, her eyes wide with excitement. “I can feel you moving!”

Jaehyun chuckled from across the room, watching the heartwarming scene. “She’s already got her big sister skills down,” he said, sitting beside you.

With a laugh, you leaned against Jaehyun, watching Soa talk to the baby with all the love in her heart. It felt like the beginning of something beautiful—a new chapter, full of laughter and family. A new beginning.

The End.

Feedback is welcome ;)

___________________________________________

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majestyeverlasting · 3 months ago

Note

Hello beautiful ☺️ can I request a Joel miller x reader where like the reader is on her period and gets all snappy with Joel and he just kinda takes it and then she gets all emotional about it later after he gets home from work and is just a big mess but he only cares about her wellbeing?? 😭

Love u btw <3

𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

pairing joel miller x female reader summary when it comes to grace, Joel’s got a well that never runs dry [fluff, 1.8k] a/n love u too anon ♡

.・゜゜・・゜゜・．

A slender band of gold sunlight graces Joel’s cheek as he stands across the counter. Even more slivers paint the kitchen in similar sleepy streaks. It’s a beautiful day, all things considered. The morning is still young with the promise of what could lie ahead. Yet all you can focus on are the words that have disturbed this beautiful little bubble in time.

Appointment, oil change, fluid check.

“I’ve already handled everything on the back end,” he says as he sets his coffee mug down. “All you gotta do is drop the truck off, and you’re good to—”

“Okay,” you say with more force than intended.

Joel remains quiet, and you take it as permission to voice your frustration further, “We could’ve gotten it serviced this past weekend when both of us were free. That would've made more sense.”

His shoulders square as you direct a piercing, matter-of-fact glance his way. “They were completely booked,” he explains.

“Of course they were,” you say. “And now it’s my problem.”

Joel’s gaze flicks into his coffee, black with a dash of creamer. Only a couple of sips left. You’d already finished yours.

“Made the appointment ‘cause you said you didn’t have anything to do this morning, honey.” His dark eyes are sincere as they meet yours, but you don’t offer any softness in return.

You mutter something under your breath about your schedule not being the problem.

Even with all the time in the world, you wouldn’t opt to spend an hour sitting in a service shop—breathing stale air, sinking into peeling leather seats, watching a revolving door of strangers. Especially when staying tucked away at home was a more promising alternative for a day like this, when your body seems to be conspiring against you.

Your cycle had started on the least convenient morning and shortened everything from your fuse to your patience to your desire to interact with other people.

You watch him finish the remainder of his coffee and lick his lips afterward.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

With a frustrated huff, you slip off the island barstool and walk his mug to the sink. It provides an excuse not to look at him, more than anything. A dull, crampy ache has settled low in your stomach, but you feel his watchful gaze tracking you even more than the pain. He watches you rinse the colorful ceramic and move to place it in the dishwasher, tapping his fingers as he pieces together a new line of action.

“We can try to reschedule,” he offers. “I’ll take off early and handle it sometime before we leave on Friday.”

Come the end of the week, you’ll be heading to Boulder, Colorado, to see the girls. So much has changed since Ellie and Sarah moved away for college, but visiting them made the family unit feel whole again.

Neither of you expected to miss them as much as you did, never mind in all the small ways you did. Once upon a time, you affectionately joked that it’d be quieter and cheaper with them not around. But you missed their shoes at the door, hearing music flowing from their bedrooms, cackling and teaming up against Joel with them on game nights. You even missed the little disagreements fueled by the notion that they were growing up and you simply wanted the best for them.

“Can’t make the drive ‘til everything’s in good shape,” he says.

The reminder is more of an encouragement than something he’s trying to hang over your head. Unfortunately, it strikes just the right nerve and leaves you looking for a hole to prod.

“Then why would we cancel today’s appointment if it’s already guaranteed?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him. “No point in switching things around and making it worse.”

Joel remains quiet as he gathers his words. “So you’ll—”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” you say as you sit back down.

The need to take the truck in is no more his fault than an inevitable necessity, but a large part of your frustration feels good—justified.

“You gonna let me finish any of my sentences?” He asks lightly, placing a hand on his hip. The fabric of his shirt stretches over his bicep.

When you motion for him to finish, he walks to stand alongside you. The warmth of his proximity coaxes you to swivel the stool towards him even as you refuse to meet his gaze. You succeed until he places a thick hand on your thigh and delivers a gentle squeeze. It’s even worse for your resolve that his touch rests against your bare skin. Your sleep shorts rest too far up your leg to shield you from the calloused warmth of his palm.

“You always have a choice.” He tilts his head to look into your eyes. “We can work something else out.”

“I already said I’d handle it.”

“Well, alright then,” he concedes as you stare down at his hand.

A brief silence passes before he speaks up again, “Hey. Thanks for packing my lunch.”

You shake your head in dismissal.

“Gonna think of you when I eat it today like always.” A small smile curls at his lips as he speaks. “Do I get my goodbye kiss, or has that privilege been revoked?” The tenderness of his thumb as it strokes your thigh yields a guilt that weaves through your ribcage like the bones constitute a sewing loom.

When you don’t respond, Joel leans in to peck your forehead, his lips plush and warm.

Two quick horn honks sound from outside.

“I gotta run.” He withdraws his touch, letting his fingertips brush down your thigh until they fall away at the bend of your knee. “Thanks for getting the truck taken care of.”

He lingers for a moment before stepping back. “I’ll see you later this evening.”

When Joel heads towards the front door, you don’t trail after him like you usually would. You watch his steady stride and broad shoulders as he crosses into the foyer. Before reaching for the knob, he pauses to look over his shoulder.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t leave until you murmur it back.

You watch the door for a few extra seconds after he’s gone.

•••

When five o'clock rolls around, you find yourself curled on the couch with a book. Sunlight lights the pages. As beautiful and immersive as the prose is, all that lingers in your mind is this morning. How difficult you’d been with Joel, how he hadn’t taken your bait. Sometimes, you wondered if the well of his grace would ever run dry since all you seemed to do was draw from it. He should’ve stopped you one too many moons ago, but the thought never once crossed his mind.

When you got to McBride’s Auto Shop earlier, your cramps had begun to subside. Waiting wasn’t nearly as bad as you’d built it up to be in your head, even with the grainy TV and the older woman chewing gum as she flipped through an outdated magazine. The fact you hadn’t kissed Joel goodbye was far worse.

Soon, you hear Tommy pull up alongside the curb to drop Joel off. In seconds, you place the bookmark between the pages and toss the book onto the coffee table.

When Joel saunters through the front door, you’re there to wrap your arms around his neck. Your earnestness is reminiscent of when the girls were little and ambushed him when he got home from work, no matter how tired he was or how many bags he happened to be holding.

A surprised chuckle rumbles out of him as he clumsily kicks the door shut behind himself. You relish the sound of his laughter as if somebody tuned the sound just for you. Joel wraps his arms around your waist as best he can with his backpack still on his shoulders and lunchbox in his grip.

You nuzzle your nose into his shirt gently, almost felinely. He smells like fresh air, underscored by a muskier, fragranced scent.

“Honey,” he coaxes, attempting to pull away. “Lemme put my stuff down.”

You ease up long enough for him to pace further inside and set his bags on the floor. Then, your arms secure right back around him like they never left. The attention feels as lovely as it always does coming from you. Joel’s smile eventually settles into something small as he rubs your back in soothing passes. His large frame nearly swallows you, but he’s never come close to crushing you.

“It’s good to see you too,” he finally says.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur into him, words almost too muffled to comprehend. “I was mean to you this morning and shouldn’t have been.”

Joel has to laugh again. Not at you, but because he’d let himself believe this particularly warm welcome was completely uninspired.

“I didn’t mean to make it such a big deal,” you say. “It’s that time of the month, and I took it out on you.”

“Is that what it was?” he asks lightly, kissing your head.

When he pulls away to get a better look at you, the warmth in his gaze strikes deeper than you expect. Either that or your hormones have begun to tug on your heart more insistently than they should. Before you can look away, tears well in your eyes, and Joel feels a slight pang of guilt as you try to blink them back.

His thumb catches the one that slips down your cheek. “No harm done,” he assures.

You nod as you lean into his touch. It still amazes you how one person can be so kind and attuned.

“Gonna take a lot more than a bad mood to get rid of me,” he jokes, smiling when a low chuckle escapes you.

“I’ll never wanna get rid of you.”

“Give it a few more years,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.

You swat his chest gently.

A future without Joel sounds so far off that it comes across as no more than a joke. It’s so unforeseeable that you can’t imagine it teetering into reality. Maybe it was bold of you to feel that way—for both of you to feel that way, especially when there’s no road map detailing the days of your lives to come.

All you know is that you’re cultivating your love for one another moment by moment, second by second. Surely, that was enough to endure whatever storms sprung up along the way.

Joel squeezes you tighter as if he’s somehow thinking the same thing.

You’re grateful for his grace, the trip to Boulder you’ll share, and everything to come with him.

“How about carryout from Lorenzo’s?” he asks.

That beats leftovers any day.

You finally capture his lips in a sweet kiss.

Thank you so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all.

JOEL MASTERLIST

ALL MASTERLISTS

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #the last of us #tlou hbo #pedro pascal

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pomefioredove · 10 months ago

Text

a private meeting

summary: yuu makes a list of the top five cutest third years. the following conversation type of post: short fic characters: cater, trey, leona, rook, vil, idia mentioned, lilia, malleus additional info: romantic?? platonic?? idk, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, this is more for character interactions. and fun

"I'm sure you're all well aware of why we're here,"

The eight gentleman standing around the dark, candlelit room look between each other.

Leona yawns.

"How long is this gonna take, exactly? I was dragged outta bed for this,"

Vil glares. "Hush. I wanted to deal with this matter in the quietest manner possible, without disturbing the prefect. Sevens know what happens when your egos go unchecked,"

"Look who's talking,"

Another glare, but Vil chooses not to waste any more time.

"Two nights ago, the prefect hosted a slumber party for Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, Jack Howl, and our own Epel Felmier,"

"I remember that," Lilia says, rubbing his chin. "Sebek was invited, but refused in case someone attacked Malleus whilst he was away."

Malleus shakes his head.

"During this event, the prefect created a list of the top five "cutest third years", as we all know. And, to avoid any childish squabbling, I've gathered you all here to open it as an ensemble. Rook?"

A slim, folded sheet of notebook paper appears from the dark of Rook Hunt's pocket. He holds it up, as if presenting it to the heavens.

"Where did you even find that?" Trey asks, adjusting his glasses.

"Facile! It was buried under a stack of homework assignments in our dearest Trickster's bedroom," the blond says merrily.

"Logistically speaking, that's almost too easy. Are we sure it isn't a fake?" Ortho pipes up.

"Ortho?" Vil asks. "What are you doing here?"

The boy giggles in an electronic chime. "Idia is hiding under his covers and won't come out, so I'm here in his place!"

"...Alright,"

"I don't know what he's so nervous for," Vil goes on. "When I am already guaranteed to be in the first place slot."

Leona scoffs, kicking back with his feet on the table. Vil glares again.

"How rude,"

"He's not wrong. You are the most beautiful here..." a smile creeps up Lilia's face. "But, as I recall, you said cutest third years, not most beautiful. And if anyone is the cutest, it's me."

"Oh, spare me," Leona sighs. "Let's just get this over with. Open the damn thing."

"You're not the least bit curious, Leona?" the fae asks, batting his large eyes.

"Don't patronize me. And no, I'm not. I couldn't care less,"

Lilia smirks, but says nothing more on the matter.

He turns to his tablemate. "And what say you, Malleus?"

Every person in the room falls silent, and then turn to the prince sitting at the furthest corner of the table with his hands folded in front of him.

He hasn't shared a single thought all evening.

"...The contents of this list make no difference to me," he finally speaks. "My feelings towards the prefect will be unaffected."

Rook sets a hand over his heart. "Quelle beauté! I am moved! Not even the strongest of winds could make your friendship bow,"

Leona groans as if he's in agonizing pain.

"Open it!"

"Okay, hold on. Isn't this like, a major privacy violation?" Cater says. He doesn't sound eager to see the results, either.

"I would hate for someone to read my private thoughts to a room full of people."

"He may have a point. This was a list made between friends at a slumber party. Taking it out of that context could be disastrous," Trey agrees.

"There's a 96% chance this will end in conflict!" Ortho chimes in, merry as ever. Leona sighs.

"Can I just leave?"

"No," Vil snaps. "Rook, open it."

"Rook, don't,"

"Rook!"

The poor man observes the conflict slowly unraveling before him, and he sets the folded sheet of paper on the table.

"Now, now, do not squabble! Let this be a chance to celebrate our bonds with the lovely prefect!"

"I agree with Rook," Lilia smiles big. "We should all agree that no matter what is on that list, we'll leave it after tonight and move on."

Vil sighs. "Yes, yes. You're all right. We can't let what they wrote at a private slumber party affect our relationships with them,"

"No matter what, we leave them out of this. Agreed?"

Everyone in the room nods.

"Alright. Rook, read it,"

Rook reaches behind him, the anticipation building, and... is met with a cool wooden surface.

The note seems to have disappeared into thin air.

Before anyone can express their obvious confusion, an evil cackling pulls their attention to the doorway.

Vil gasps.

"Grim! Put that down!"

The small direbeast, now holding a crumpled piece of paper in his paw, smiles wickedly.

And then, to everyone's horror, he eats it whole.

Leona is the first to react, storming over and lifting Grim by the scruff of his neck. "Seriously?!"

"Fufufu. Looks like someone cared, after all," Lilia chuckles. Vil rolls his eyes.

"Hey! Not my fault you guys were so loud! You woke me up from my nap over a stupid list!" Grim says, crossing his arms.

A brief silence follows, and then a sigh. Leona drops him and he lands on his feet.

"Perhaps Grim is right," Ortho says. "Instead of worrying about the numerical grade the prefect assigns you, you should focus on the unique and special aspects of your individual relationships!"

"How eloquent!" Rook coos. "Oui, you are right! Sometimes it is best to let secrets remain secrets."

"Something about the way he says that tells me he already knows what it said," Leona grumbles.

"Ohoho. A fascinating mystery, non? Did I sneak a peek before tonight, or am I just as clueless as you?"

The prince rolls his eyes.

Vil sighs. "Ortho is right. Now I feel ridiculous for getting so worked up over what amounts to a joke at a slumber party,"

Everyone grows quiet, seemingly reflecting on themselves for the duration of the brief silence.

Lilia's giggles change the melancholic mood of the room.

"Perhaps Malleus had the right idea all along. It doesn't matter who the prefect thinks is more attractive; they're still a wonderful friend. How wise- I'm very proud,"

Malleus beams.

"Yeah yeah," Grim grumbles, turning to the door. "I didja a favor, anyway. None of you weirdos were number one."

He leaves, and he takes the peace and reflection with him.

Slowly, everyone turns to each other.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #cater diamond x reader #trey clover x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #rook hunt x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader #malleus draconia x reader #queued

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bcksbarnes · 2 months ago

Text

hearts on fire

pairing: au!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

summary: in an alternate universe, bucky never falls to his death and instead is with steve rogers when the plane crashes to destroy hydra's base. decades later they are found and bucky is an original member of the avengers. his only problem besides adjusting to the new century? he can't help but mercilessly flirt with his teammate.

word count: 2.7K

a/n: based on this request!

Living in close quarters with your co-workers everyday would be most people’s idea of hell. For you? It was a part of the job, a requirement really. Luckily, the compound was spacious enough where most days you could get some peace and quiet, but on mission days … it was usually quite the shit show.

You were sitting in the lounge, it was your hideaway. There was something about it that made you feel at ease. Maybe it was the way your body sunk into the dark brown leather couch after a long night or the way the fireplace was always on, illuminating the dark grey walls. Regardless, it was your haven.

“You’re needed,” a voice calls out to you, interrupting your peace and quiet.

Your head looks up from the book you’re reading to catch the eye of Bucky Barnes, your teammate and the permanent pain in your ass.

He’s leaning against the entrance to the room, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a smirk on his features as he watches you. There always seemed to be a fire in his eyes that only ignited when he looked at you.

“By who?” you ask, placing the bookmark in the page before letting the cover fall close.

“By me,” he responds back, sending you a wink.

You can’t help but roll your eyes in response, that was his usual move with you, flirting relentlessly to see you get all flustered. He may have missed decades of his life frozen in ice, but it was actually quite remarkable how good he still was at it.

Standing from the couch, you take a few steps forward towards him, Bucky’s eyes never straying from you as you do. Actually, it only makes him stand straighter, flexing his arm muscles hoping to impress you. The veins popping on either arm, his shirt sleeves rising a bit from the tension. Bucky loved the attention.

“For what, Barnes?”

He hummed in response, licking his bottom lip as his mind filled with all the ways that he really could use your help. You playfully shove his shoulder when you realize that’s what he’s thinking about.

“I didn’t even say anything,” he protests.

“You didn’t have to. I know what goes on in that big head of yours,” you tease.

Bucky’s laugh fills the air, his eyes crinkling at the edges that make you melt a bit on the inside. As much as you hated to admit it, you did have a bit of a crush on Bucky, though you tried to keep your work separate from your personal life. Even if living in the tower tended to muddle that line.

“Jerk,” he mutters. “Okay, seriously … Steve’s calling a meeting in the briefing room. Asked me if I’d come get you.”

“Let me guess, you couldn’t say no, could you?”

“And miss out on such a beautiful sight?” His eyes wander over you again before settling on your gaze. “Absolutely not.”

You do everything you can to stop the blush from sinking into your cheeks, your face suddenly hot. When you can't, you dip your head down and brush past Bucky, your shoulder accidentally colliding with his as you make your swift exit.

There’s a haze around you as you make your way down the hallway, the grey walls blurred, trying to ignore the way your body feels after that conversation. Both full of want and completely confused; that seemed to be normal when talking to him. Bucky had a way of getting under your skin that was hard to ignore, especially with that stupid smile of his.

It takes a moment but he follows after you, the sound of his footsteps against the tile floor as he keeps his eyes trained on your back. You were too good of a sight to let go of.

The briefing room is mostly full by the time you arrive. The team had picked a random office to hold as the formal briefing space, boxes still scattered around as the team tried to make it feel less like a boardroom and more of a place where important world-saving-issues were discussed.

Bruce is sitting in the corner, his glasses low on his nose as he types on his computer, Tony and Steve arguing at the front of the room, Clint muttering something to Natasha - whose arms are crossed over her chest and her eyebrows seem to raise as you and Bucky enter the room only seconds apart.

“Shut up,” you mumble to her as you take a seat next to her.

“I didn’t say anything.” Her voice is quiet and oozing with sarcasm, the smirk on her lips enough to make you want to roll your eyes, but you control yourself.

“He just came to find me. That’s all.”

Natasha hums in response, turning to watch the man that followed you.

Bucky sits away from you, which is a blessing in disguise because the last thing you needed was a distraction. These missions were important and you didn’t need Bucky making googly eyes at you the entire time to undermine your need to understand the assignment.

“He’s staring, you know,” Nat says, her head now looking straight ahead at Tony and Steve who were getting more and more into it.

“I don’t care.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Nat calls you out before continuing. “Besides, what’s the harm? He’s cute.”

You swallow at her words, obviously he was cute, but you didn’t have time for that right now. Not when the Avengers initiative was still so new, not when there were so many threats in the world.

“He follows me around like a lost dog, like he’s waiting for me to look in his direction,” you reply, though you’re not entirely convinced that’s the reason you won’t give him the time of day.

“Oh poor you. Handsome super soldier who would do anything for you, it must be super hard.”

Before you can respond, Tony claps his hands together to start the meeting.

You kept your attention ahead, although you did find yourself sneaking a few glances at Bucky a few times. When he was paying close attention his jaw would flex and his fingers would drum on the table. You never realized how long his fingers were –

Focus.

The briefing was quick but thorough. There’s a small group of ex-SHIELD members who have been robbing high level tech out of ammunition depots around the country, they strike late into the night and leave no traces behind. The whole team, minus Bruce and Thor, would be stationed at what is assumed to be the next, and final, depot waiting to ambush the group.

Sounded easy enough.

The artillery room was always the last place the team stopped at before making their way to the quinjet, it was where all the gear needed for the mission was stored; behind locked cabinets and drawers with combinations.

Not everyone was Tony Stark and had their suit in the palm of their hands.

Zipping up your vest, you make a mental note of everything you had on you and what you still needed to grab, mumbling under your breath as you try to remember.

“Gun, knife, ammo …” you repeat to yourself, nodding your head along with your words.

“Wanna make a bet?”

Bucky’s voice breaks through your checklist causing you to look over at him, watching as tightens his utility belt around his waist. You can’t say you’re not intrigued at both the sight and his offer.

“Depends,” you grab the gun in front of you, inspecting it. “What’s the bet?”

“If we can neutralize this group in less than an hour, you’ll finally let me take you out.”

The words come out of him so easily that you’re taken aback. Your hand freezes on the gun for a half second but you try to quickly recover, not wanting to show him how his words affect you. Your eyes stay locked ahead, though you can see him smirking down at you in the corner of your eye.

“And if we don’t?”

He considers your words as he loads his utility belt, grabbing his signature switchblade and opening and closing it absentmindedly as he tries to think of a good enough counter to his side of the bet.

“If we don’t … then I’ll let you pick my training out for the next month.”

“Two months.”

“Deal.”

You load your gun into your own utility belt before turning towards Bucky, your hand shutting the locker door in one swift movement. He towers over you in a way that makes your head dizzy and your pulse race. You hate how that shit eating grin on his face is purposeful.

“Hope your super soldier stamina can keep up for when I win.”

Bucky chuckles as he flips the knife in his hand, the metal blade twinkling in the dim light in the room as it closes shut mid-air so he can safely catch it and place it in his utility belt. Leaning down, his lips right next to your ear.

“Make sure you’re ready at six, I have somewhere special in mind for us,” he whispers.

He bumps past you the same way you did on the way to the briefing and it leaves you stunned into silence. You’re almost positive there’s a spark of electricity that goes through your body.

Sure, he was a flirt and always had been when it came to you, as if it was just in his nature - but it seemed like he had picked up more steam recently. Like he couldn’t help himself.

You take a deep breath. You needed to focus. You couldn’t be this flustered.

Turning on your heels you follow Bucky and the rest of the crew onto the jet. It would take just under two hours to get to the location. Enough time to get you into the zone and focused on the mission at hand.

Not on Bucky.

Not on the way that he kept talking to Clint but making eyes over at you.

Not on how you were almost positive you heard him say your name.

Absolutely not. It was time to get shit done.

The depot was a giant warehouse in the middle of nowhere, hidden by a deep forest, which meant that most people wouldn’t stumble upon it unless they were looking for it.

Inside were crates of weapons, tech, plans - basically anything you could think of that would help build an empire - stacked as high as the eye could see. It was slightly cold and damp, but temperature never affected the way the Avengers worked. And for you? It helped cool you down since all you could think about was Bucky’s lips next to your ears

Steve was stationed with his shield in the front of the building, Tony surrounded the perimeter from above which left Nat, Clint, Bucky and yourself all patrolling some area of the warehouse. Sprawled out to cover more area.

You kept your hand on your belt as you waited to hear any clearance from the team. When you looked to your right you could see Bucky at the other end of the room, his finger tapping his watch.

The timer had started.

And judging from the disgruntled sounds of Steve and Tony ringing in your earpiece.

So had the fight.

Truthfully, when the brief was read you didn’t think it would take longer than an hour, but you were shocked by how fast the team was able to dismantle the group. Thirty seven minutes and twenty five seconds according to Bucky’s timer, which he made sure to promptly show you the moment the team stepped back onto the jet.

He was breathing heavily, covered in a thin layer of sweat as he beelined his way over to you, his chest rapidly rising and falling. It was distracting how good he looked as if the world seemed to zero in on him for a moment.

Bucky ran his fingers through his hair, it was short but somehow still tidy despite the mess everyone was caught in. His face was clean shaven and a bead ran down the side of his face, almost as if to mock you.

“Told you,” he muttered, elbowing you playfully.

“Damn, I was really looking forward to torturing you too.”

There’s that twinkle in his eye again when he looks at you, one that makes you feel like maybe the galaxy was created there.

“I know the idea of staring at me shirtless and sweaty is tempting, but I won.”

“Remember what I said earlier today about you having a big head?” you tease.

“I remember everything you say,” he replies, as if it’s the most normal statement he could make.

You decide to ignore him and take a seat, grabbing a water bottle for the both of you as you do. Handing it over, your fingers brush lightly but enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Quickly, you uncap the bottle and down the contents inside, trying not to pay close attention to how close the two of you were when seated; the way your thighs are touching, or how, you could hear him gulping down the water.

The rest of the flight was quiet, it was early in the morning. The windows showed the beginnings of a light blue sky, sprinkled in with some dark purples from the fading night.

All you could think about was sleep. And this date that Bucky had won fair and square, but sleep first.

The exhaustion was seeping into your bones, your eyes could barely stay open as the adrenaline started to fade. Bucky was absentmindedly playing with a strand on his vest, his mind working in overdrive as if he was nervous - which he rarely, if ever, was.

“Cat got your tongue, Barnes?”

“You’ve got my heart, is that the same thing?”

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” you mutter, shaking your head. “Do you happen to flirt as often as you breathe?”

“I can’t help it,” he holds his hands up in defense, though it’s clear he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong … which he really hasn’t. “You intrigue me.”

Your eyes are still heavy as you look up at him, drooping slightly as you let out a yawn, but you won’t deny that it feels good to be wanted, even if it was a game of cat and mouse most of the time. Though now you’d have to admit to Nat that you accepted this date and that she was, ultimately, correct.

“How so?”

Bucky searches your features for a moment, biting down on his bottom lip as if he was deep in thought. And he was, about you. About all the ways he wanted to get to know you. About all the ways you make him feel like he’s floating on air.

He had a new profound look on life since being found in the ice, he wasn’t going to let time slip past him again.

“I don’t know …” his voice is delicate as he speaks. “Something about those eyes.”

The blush that you so desperately tried to resist all day creeps its way back onto your features. There’s a need in the air to say something - anything , but the jet is lowering and you know you’re almost back at the tower.

Sleep is finally within reach.

“Mmm,” you half moan, half hum as you stand, stretching your back out. “These eyes have to go to sleep.”

The jet docks and the ramp opens allowing you to finally allow the crew to disembark. Bucky watches you carefully, making sure you’re okay as you begin to follow the crowd.

“Sweet dreams,” he calls out, still sitting in the seat you left him in. “Maybe you’ll see me there.”

You don’t look back, but your heart beats a bit faster with each passing second as you make your way back to your room. A quick shower and change is over in a blink of an eye, settling down into the bed to sleep soundly.

You do, in fact, dream of Bucky.

You thought about him before your eyes were even closed.

You would think about him again when you woke later that afternoon; waiting patiently for six o’clock to come.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #might turn this into a series?? pending how everyone likes it #a little late friday night fic #enjoy!#100 #200 #500

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bratbby333 · 1 year ago

Text

i will possess your heart – satoru gojo

-this story contains very heavy nsfw content! please read at your own discretion!-

𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 content warnings dead dove fic- heavy stalking, violent obsession, manipulation, forced voyeurism, forced exhibition, drugging, mentions of blood, knives, use of restraints, plot twist, extreme dub-con 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 synopsis for as cocky as Satoru is, it’s oddly fitting. in his mind, everything belongs to him, including you. 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 word count 8k

Satoru fumbled with a tripod as he positioned his camera onto the stand and proceeded to hit record. He was thorough, making sure his chair was perfectly centered before he sat down, staring at himself in the viewfinder while he fussed with his hair, inhaling deeply. A wide grin cut across his face before dropping back into lackluster neutrality. He looked down at his lap, his fingers ran up and down his denim-clad thighs. He snapped back onto the camera blank-faced before a deranged smile pulled at his cheeks.

Click

January 16th, 4:06 AM

I woke up drenched in the feeling of lethargy again—another night of only an hour’s worth of sleep. Nothing feels real when you hit a certain point. I’m plagued by the shadows, my entire life enshrouded in darkness. I don’t remember what things were like before. Day by day, it’s all the same. I cannot escape it—this anchoring feeling of despair. The emptiness eats away at me. I’m in search of release…of some sort of freedom from this pain. I need to fill my life with meaning, to find purpose in this accursed world…I think I’ll go out for coffee today. People watching brings me so much joy. They seem to live much happier lives than me.

Click

January 16th, 6:38 PM

My daydreams must’ve blended into reality because there was no way I created someone as beautiful as she was outside my imagination. I’m certain of it. She was sitting at the bar of the cafe down the street from my apartment, dressed in business casual—she probably works nearby. How kismet. The coffee was bland, as were most things in my life, but she awoke something in me. I hope I see her again. She somehow managed to clear the cobwebs around my heart. I think my life has finally found purpose. She is my driving force. I wonder what her name is.

Click

January 19th, 6:11 AM

Feeling well-rested today. Four hours of sleep is my new record. I plan to go to the coffee shop again. Back to the place where my eyes were first blessed with the mirage of her…where I first fell in love. I hope she’s there. People are so fun to observe when they don’t think they’re being watched…it’s simple psychology. The Hawthorne Effect. When humans notice they are under observation, they change. So inauthentic. But her? She never notices. She sits so obliviously, allowing me to take her in with ease. So good to me. She’s a breath of fresh air. I hope to work up the courage to speak to her soon. My heart soars at the mere thought of being in her presence once again. It’s so refreshing to feel something after all this time. I’ve been numb for so long, but she has set my heart on fire. She is everything to me, my sole purpose for existence.

Click

January 19th, 8:27 PM

I saw her again today. She didn’t see me. Just how I like it. She typed away on her computer like normal…she’s a hard worker, it seems. Driven and strong. And here I was thinking such beauty was a thing of legend. It's refreshing to have been proved wrong–that rarely happens. Oh, how I crave her. I know she’d make me feel whole again. She can save me from all this, I can feel it.

Click

January 23rd, 5:13 AM

Only two hours of sleep tonight. But, for some reason, I feel better than ever… I normally do when I find a reason for living, again. It’s her…it must be because of her. She keeps me going; my muse, my inspiration. She’s worked wonders on me already and she doesn’t even know it, yet. I’m going to the cafe again today, I cannot wait to see her. Maybe today I will finally speak to her.

Click

January 23rd, 9:53 PM

She never showed up today…I wonder what’s going on. Maybe she had other things to do. It’s fine, really. I’m annoyed, honestly. I waited around all day. I’ll keep checking until I see her again.

Click

January 28th, 7:06 PM

My sweet girl has gone missing. I haven’t seen her in quite some time now. This is just ridiculous. The woman I love…is she avoiding me? No, no that cannot be.

Click

February 2nd, 8:31 AM

I haven’t slept well in days. I’ve been awake for twenty six hours now…my mind feels like it’s filled with static and yet, I feel sharper than ever. I’ve gone to the cafe every day. Still no sign of her. I’m slipping back into my old ways, the darkness is going to return any moment. I’ve begun to hear the laughter in the shadows again. They’re making fun of me, I just know it. I need her…oh, I need her so bad. How could she do this to me? Does she not know how much I suffer when she’s not around? If I don’t see her again soon, I will never recover.

Click

February 5th, 6:21 PM

I finally saw her again today. My heartrate spiked and I nearly leaped from my seat to kiss her, to hold her, sway her side to side in a deep hug. Instead, I slipped a tracker into her purse as I walked by her chair. I must know where she works, where she lives, and what she enjoys in her free time. She slipped away from me so easily…can’t let that happen again. I need to know every little thing about her. She is my one and only after all. It would be ridiculous to love someone so deeply and know nothing about them. She is too beautiful, I cannot let her wander around unsupervised. There are some crazy people out there—you never know what could happen. I can’t lose her. I must keep her safe. I will possess her heart. No one else can have her but me.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Satoru observed her for months, shadowing her all around town. He knew the woman’s routine like the back of his hand, before he ever learned her name. Sunday’s she went grocery shopping, Monday after work was her pilates class, every couple of Thursday’s she was at the nail salon, and Friday’s were seemingly payday–he picked up on her pattern of going out to nice restaurants every other week. Satoru eventually got an upper-level management position at a company that shared the office building with her job–he is incredibly intelligent and overqualified, after all; they would be foolish to not hire him. Now he could really keep an eye on her.

That was when he finally learned her name–the two of them taking the same elevator. She didn’t recognize him as the man who seemingly had the same routine as her–it’s one of the many reasons why Satoru loved her so much: her naivety. She looked into his eyes for the first time that day, her voice was soft and angelic, and the name that fell from her lips sent waves through Satoru’s body, the same name that would now be coupled with his gasping moans every evening as he stroked himself to the thought of her.

With Satoru’s new job that brought him one step closer to her, he knew he could no longer watch her in the way he used to. His movements had to be more calculated, putting more distance between them than he normally would or hiding behind the deep tint of his car windows. If she saw his face too frequently, she surely would have caught on. Satoru smiled at the possibility of her never catching on…how she’d greet him with a smile and a friendly hug each time they “coincidentally” bumped into one another, giggling about their lives' odd synchronicities. Such a sweet girl. If only she knew.

He stopped into her job, a small gift bag hanging off his slender fingers, desperate to watch her eyes light up with the sweet gesture of an unexpected gift. He asked to see her, only to be informed by the receptionist that she had the day off.

It was no worry, he didn’t let that dull his excitement. “I’m a friend of hers, brought this in to surprise her. Do you mind showing me to her desk, I’ll just leave it there for her when she returns to work,” he said kindly. The lady working the front desk blushed under his piercing gaze and handsome features, nodding shyly and walking him to his lover’s designated area.

Satoru thanked her, stepping into the cubicle to place his gift by her computer. His eyes glazed over her workspace. It was decorated with trinkets and family photos. He picked one up, his thumb tracing over her face. His pretty girl. That smile could bring about world peace; it definitely quieted the angered voices in his head. He scanned her desk, a moment of envy shooting through him at the thought of her dainty fingers dancing over the keyboard rather than tangling in his hair. He groaned internally, looking over his shoulder to ensure no one was around, before ducking down, rummaging through his beloved’s drawers. Stowed away in the bottom of the unit was a fuzzy, white cardigan. He brought the fabric to his nose, inhaling deeply, stifling the filthy moan that nearly echoed through the cubicle. He quickly tucked it into his jacket, took one last look around, and headed toward the exit.

In the safety of his vehicle, Satoru whipped the clothing out from under his wing, bringing it to his face once more. He undid his belt buckle with haste, shoving his dress slacks halfway down his thighs before his large fist swaddled his cock with the fuzzy white cardigan. He nearly sobbed at the contact, the smell of his car filling with her beautifully floral perfume. He brought the free edge up to his nose, taking another whiff as his hand worked furiously against his shaft. He had never finished so quickly in his life, staggered whimpers and choked moans fell from his parted lips as fat ropes shot up onto his abs and chest. His cheeks were flustered a violent red as he wiped his sticky shame away with her top. After he came, then did his clarity, and Satoru’s body ached with the thought of how good it would feel to finally be sheathed within her sticky walls, rather than her soft clothing. I’ll be with you soon. Soon, my love.

These feelings were getting unbearable. His overactive brain had him teetering on the edge of insanity. He needed more. His imagination was no longer enough to satiate the hunger that gnawed so deeply in his core, the distanced watching and hopeless longing for the love of his life created jagged rifts in his already damaged psyche. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. A few deep breaths and the promise he made to himself to take action soon quelled his burning desire. But for how much longer could Satoru repress the demon that clawed through his body?

Satoru surveyed her while she ran to the bank, walked her dog, or took her car to the wash. But his most favorite place to watch her was from the bench just outside her bedroom window, engulfed in darkness. Pretty girl lived on the second floor, her silly little brain assumed she didn’t need curtains. She never saw him, but he always saw her. All of her. Drinking in the way her clothes were delicately removed from her pretty little frame, the way she turned and posed in the mirror–so good to him. How her skin glistened after she got out of the shower, the water droplets running along her body in the same way Satoru wanted to.

He fell into a state of bliss, feeling spoiled by the show he was getting tonight. The lotion that she worked into her body, the beautiful set of lingerie that she dawned. His eyes buzzed around his sockets, elation flooding through him. Gorgeous, gorgeous girl. But his body went rigid and his jaw locked tight at the appearance of another man behind the love of his life. He sat upright, shoulders stiff and heart pounding in his ears at the thought of his sweet being in danger, he cursed himself for not being more aware of her surroundings on her behalf. But when his darling girl turned to the unknown man with a smile, greeting him with a gentle kiss with the lips that were supposed to be just for Satoru, his heart shattered into a million pieces.

Oh, no. This just won’t do, my love. You are mine.

Jealousy coursed through his veins while he looked into her room, rage balled in his fists as he watched a random man have her in the one way Satoru couldn’t. Not yet, at least. He must’ve been new in her life, judging by the way his nervous hands explored every part of her skin. Satoru laughed at this–he knew he could please his woman so much better. But betrayal nipped at the back of his neck; how could she do this to him? Had his loyalty fallen on unappreciative shoulders? No, that couldn’t be. Satoru knew she was better than that, he picked her for a reason, after all. She was just playing hard to get.

You rejected my advances and desperate pleas, and now you throw your relationship in my face. It’s punishment enough that I can’t have you, but I won't let you let me down so easily.

Feeling at a loss, swallowed whole by his hungered desperation, he did what any rational person would. He moved in next door.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Satoru Gojo was your next-door neighbor. He moved in only a few months after you did. You were elated, chalking it up to a lucky roll of the dice that you had met by chance at your job; he had started working for the company that shared the office park with yours. It really seemed like things were on the come-up for you. He was kind, confidently intuitive, funny, and supportive. Mildly egotistical, but it worked for him. He always invited you over for dinner and movie nights and was a strong, dependable shoulder for you to cry on. You had just moved to the city, feeling utterly lost and absolutely gutted about being so far from your support systems now, and he was your first friend. You felt safe knowing he was just a wall away.

On a random Sunday, you opened your front door to see all the food you loved sitting at your doorstep–weird, you were just about to leave for the store. You turned your head, seeing Satoru peeking out from his cracked door, grinning at you.

“Was this you, Satoru? You didn’t have to…this is incredibly thoughtful,” you beamed, stepping over the grocery bags to give him a tight hug. “You’re the best, I don’t know how I could ever repay you.” But Satoru did, he knew exactly what you could do for him.

When you needed a ride to work, he jumped in to save you. The two of you worked in the same building after all. It was a crazy coincidence that your new neighbor turned best friend worked just a few floors above you. It’s such a small world, isn’t it? But it worked out perfectly for the two of you.

There was a month where you were short on rent, and there was Satoru, paying the rest on your behalf.

You weren’t catching on. Sweet, naive girl. Oh, how he loved you. I need to work harder to get her attention.

Satoru was not a patient man, but for you, he would do anything and everything to get you right where he wanted you, expertly playing the long game. It began with the fated sighting of you sitting in a cafe, and snowballed into something bigger. At first, he only ever observed you, maybe the minor occasion of overstepping, but as time went on, he couldn’t sit idly by. It was time to make his move.

His disruptions in your life started inconspicuously. Leaving for a date? You found your car tires slashed and windows shattered in the parking deck. Now there’s a police investigation. Bummer…gotta cancel the date. Had a guy over? Satoru’s apartment flooded. Weird… that was the second time this month.

“You gotta talk to the landlord about this, ‘Toru,” you sighed. He had to stay at yours that evening.

You cried on his shoulder, telling him that some guy stood you up on a date you had been anticipating for weeks. There was an electrical fire in that man’s apartment that night. Must’ve been faulty wiring...or something.

His apartment flooded again. He was back at your door. You welcomed him with open arms, of course. He’s so good to you, the least you could do is help him out, as well.

Satoru, you’re slipping. That’s too many times in one month. Ease up or she’ll catch on.

Friday night, in a wild happenstance, he bumped into you while you were out with another man, enjoying a nice dinner together. He smiled warmly at the two of you, before politely dismissing himself. His cheery smile dropped into a demented grin once he stepped out of the restaurant as he anonymously called in a bomb threat to the establishment. You were so shaken up at the entire ordeal you practically begged Satoru to stay with you that night. He’d be a fool to turn you down.

Satoru got everything he wanted. You were just a tough nut to crack, is all. No big deal. He loved a challenge. After all, how could you not love him by now?

But nothing was working. You couldn’t catch the hint, even with everything he threw at you. He was always the one there for you, even when you weren’t aware of it. What more could he do to prove that he was the only person you needed? I’m reliable, witty, and loving… how can she not see this? He finally snapped. The last straw? Hearing your pleasure-filled cries while getting fucked by another man, your “boyfriend”. The lewd sounds ricocheted around your room, shooting through the thin walls of your apartment and straight into his listening ears.

Tsk, tsk. Now you’ve done it. Always been such a tease.

For as cocky as he was, it’s oddly fitting. In his mind, everything belonged to him, including you. And with that, his demented plan was in full effect. He had hoped to spare you, prayed that you would fall in love with him before he lost his composure completely. But your sweet, naive nature had proved to be a difficult wall to break down.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Click

The sound of your front door’s lock disengaging echoed through the empty hallway. Satoru stepped in, inhaling deeply as he shoved your house key into his back pocket. It was far easier to gain access into your home than he had originally anticipated; he was fully prepared to break in, but all he had to do was tell your landlord you went out of town and you forgot to leave a key with him before you left. The manager of your apartment complex knew how close you and Satoru were, so it was an easy lie to tell. But it couldn’t have been further from the truth. You weren’t out of town, he wasn’t house sitting, and you had no intentions of having company this evening.

Seated at your desk, he opened your laptop and navigated his way to your iMessage settings, ensuring you could only send and receive texts from your laptop. Clicking on the messaging app, he stifled the gag that threatened to escape his throat as he clicked on the thread between you and your boyfriend, his contact name “my love” in your phone. He rolled his eyes, before drafting a quick text:

-Hey, baby. I have a half-day at work today…dinner and wine at my place tonight? ;)

He grinned at the quickness of your boyfriend’s response.

-I would love that. What time, my love?

Satoru scoffed at the pet name. He doesn’t deserve to call you that. Poor bastard needed to learn his place. Heat rose in his chest, jealousy emanating through his skin as he crafted his response.

-3pm…Can’t wait to see you.

Everything was going according to plan. Satoru glanced at the clock beside him: 11:17 AM. It was time to get set up, he had a big day planned for you, and his first guest would be arriving in a few short hours.

A knock rang through the apartment as Satoru finished lighting his final candle. He smiled wide, sauntering over to the door. He swung it open, grinning politely at your boyfriend. “...Hey, man…didn’t expect to see you here…” he said warily as Satoru stood to the side and gestured him in, a quizzical look painted on your partner’s face as he stepped through the doorway. The door shut and the lock was reengaged. “Where’s…” but before he could get his question out, his chin was met with Satoru’s right fist.

Satoru made quick work of dragging his body upstairs. He dug through the unconscious man’s pants, pulling out his cellphone. Satoru was disgusted to see that you were his lockscreen. This pitiful man wasn’t worthy enough to be with you. He rolled his eyes, unlocking the man’s phone and sending you a text:

-Hey, beautiful. Come straight home tonight. I’m making dinner for us. See you when you get off work.

You smiled at the familiar ding of your phone, the notification effectively distracting you from your tedious paperwork. Your heart soared at the message, sighing deeply and shifting your weight around in your office chair. Your hand rubbed at your face in an attempt to hide your blushing cheeks.

“What is it?” your coworker asked.

“Oh, nothing. I thought my boyfriend forgot our anniversary cause I hadn’t heard from him all day…but he just texted me saying he’s at my place and is making dinner for us tonight.” A giddy smile couldn’t help but drag across your face.

Satoru looked at the clock: 3:28 PM. You would be home in an hour or so. Just a few more things had to be done, everything had to be perfect.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Your heart rate spiked as you got closer to your apartment door, keys jingling against your palm as you fumbled with the lock, excitement making your movements a bit clumsier than usual. You entered and kicked off your heels, and as you turned to toss your keys onto the small table in your foyer, you noticed a small card that said “Read Me” placed perfectly in the center of the tray. You were perplexed as your eyes scanned over the note. “Go to the living room” was all it said.

You blushed, a nervous smile pulling at the edge of your lips as you crept to the other room. Your eyes went wide at the sight; deep red roses were placed in the center of the coffee table and every accessible surface around the couch was adorned with beautifully flickering candles. Another note was on the table, your fingers fumbled with the edge of the card as you opened it: “Have a seat, take a sip, and press play.” You settled on the couch, noticing a glass of alluring red wine to the right of the roses. You took a few deep, fulfilling swigs of your drink before grabbing the TV remote. Your face twisted a bit, examining the glass in your hand, the flavor of wine different than the one you were used to. It was a special night after all, your thoughtful boyfriend must have wanted you to branch out this evening. Where is he, anyway? As you pressed play, you called out for him, only to be cut off by your own confusion as Satoru’s face appeared on your TV screen. You watched with perplexity as Satoru recentered his chair, smiled, relaxed his face, and then smiled again.

No…no, no, no. What is this? You were locked in place, the melodious sounds of Satoru’s voice cascaded out of your surround sound system. He looked different though, his eyes were dull and low, his voice monotonous–his alarming difference in demeanor sent a chill down your spine. Your groggy mind inferred that this must’ve been an accident. Maybe it was casted to the wrong TV. I shouldn’t be seeing this…these are Satoru’s video diaries.

You so badly wanted to tear your eyes away from the screen, this seemed like such an invasion of privacy. But you were entranced, staring intently toward the TV, though you didn’t really have a choice, your body was completely numb now.

“January 16th, 4:06 AM

I woke up drenched in the feeling of lethargy again—another night of only an hour’s worth of sleep. Nothing feels real when you hit a certain point…” you fought to keep your eyes open, to piece together what the hell was happening, until your body eventually succumbed to sleep.

When you finally came to, you were laid out on your bed, fully nude. Soft grunts lingered in the air as you worked your hardest to refocus your eyes, your head pounding. You shifted your weight onto your forearms, your neck straining as it felt like your brain was filled with lead, eyes searching your bedroom for the culprit of the moans. One glance to the left, a quick look to the right, before you stared straight ahead at the wall directly across from the bed. Your body lurched in fear as your heart sank, the source of the sounds now looking you dead in the eyes: The man you had been seeing for the past couple of months, gagged and tied to a chair, his bloodied face twisted up in agony.

You tried to call out for him. Your feeble attempts to drag your heavy body closer in order to console him were interrupted as the room was suddenly illuminated with the streaming lights of a projector. Your movements halted as you shielded your eyes immediately, the bright interruption feeling like a flashbang to your sensitive head.

“We didn’t get to finish my show and tell,” a voice spoke up from the dark corner.

“Satoru?? Wha…what is going on?” you cried out, tears spilling from your eyes while your hands attempted to cover your modesty. You tried your hardest to sit upright, your head spinning, unsure if Satoru was the culprit or your savior. Your body felt like it was anchored to the floor, your head throbbing with every word that tore through your chest.

“There’s no need for all that yelling, sweetheart,” Satoru grinned, crouching down next to you. You winced as his hand cupped the side of your face, his thumb brushing away the tears that trickled down your cheeks.

Click

Metal cuffs clamped down on your wrists before you could even register what was happening. A million unanswered questions spun through the room as you frantically searched through his blue eyes, hoping to find any sort of insight into the torment he was inflicting upon the two of you.

“This is what’s gonna happen, okay? I need you to listen to me.” His voice was sickeningly sweet, each syllable that left his lips more damning than the last as he dragged your limp body up the bed, securing your wrists to the headboard and angling your body toward the projected video on your wall. A crazed grin lit up his dull face as he raised his hand, pointing the remote toward the projector. “You’re gonna sit here and look all pretty f’me while you watch these tapes, and if you move, if you stop paying attention for even a second…” Your stomach churned at how gently he was able to give such vile instructions. He turned his attention towards your partner, the blade of a knife twirling through the slender fingers of his free hand, “...He’s dead. Understand, angel?”

You nodded reluctantly, unable to do anything else but comply with his demands. Your head was spinning, trying to digest the fact that this was the same person who had paid your rent and entertained your rants after a hard day of work. You listened as his voice continued to drabble over the static of the projector, recalling how bland that day had been until he saw your face. How he must’ve dreamt of you because there was no way your beauty could exist outside of his imagination. To you, it had been a normal Tuesday afternoon. To him, it had been the start of the rest of his life.

The longer you watched, the more the realization set in that the sweet gestures he presented to you were not out of the goodness of his heart, but from the darkness of his spirit, driven by his wanton lust. Your face was slack, eyes wide in horror. Disappointment crawled through your chest at your own naivety. How could I be so oblivious? So trusting?

Satoru’s eyes bored into the side of your face as he sat beside you, his hands rubbing deep circles into your bare thighs, pure elation shooting through his veins at his sweet girl finally having a look into his mind. The look of terror that painted your beautiful face made his heart leap with joy. Satoru’s giddy demeanor dropped as pained grunts emerged from the tethered man against the wall. He stood, closing the distance between the two of them, his fist encircling your boyfriend’s throat. You began to protest, to plead with Satoru to leave him be, but the rage that filled his eyes made you shut your mouth. “Uh uh…eye’s on the screen, my love.” Your head snapped back toward the videos, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as the muffled wailing of your boyfriend filled the room.

As the final video played, Satoru returned to your side, kneeling on the edge of the bed as he stroked the back of your head and rubbed at your cheeks. “Can’t you see all that I’ve done for you?” He grabbed your face, digging his fingers deep into the space under your cheekbones, forcing your lips into a pucker. “You belong to me, my love.” A deep growl rumbled through his chest, “You look so fucking beautiful like this.” He leaned down and crashed his lips into yours, his hot tongue bullying its way through your tight lips. Small whines echoed through your mouth and into his, and Satoru greedily swallowed up your sounds with ease. Whimpers of protest came from the wall across from your bed, but they were quickly drowned out by the wet sounds of smacking lips and battling tongues.

He broke away, a thick trail of spit still connecting the two of you. Satoru released your cheeks with a gentle shove, throwing his leg over yours to straddle you. He dropped his head to your neck, his white hair brushing against your skin. You winced as he licked a thick line from your collarbone to your ear. “I finally get to have you,” he whispered, nipping at your flesh, “You ready to give yourself to me, princess?” Your eyes widened in horror, your gaze affixed towards your boyfriend, blood trickling from the fresh cuts on his cheeks. Your head shook side to side, tears brimming in your eyes once more as your thoughts raced through your mind, causing a traffic jam in your throat. “I…no, I can’t…he’s…” Satoru’s palm covered your mouth, a groan erupting from the back of his throat as his eyes rolled deep into his skull. He sat back, staring down at you, his free hand running its fingertips between your breasts. “This has nothing to do with him…It’s just me and you now, my love.” Your head snapped up to stare at your captor as the rough pads of his fingers brushed over your nipples. A stifled moan teased the back of your throat, an exasperated look of fear in your eyes as you stared up at Satoru.

Your cheeks flushed as you held his gaze. He grinned back down at you before rolling the hardened bud between his fingertips. Your chest arched toward him, a shameful hum dancing from your lips as he played with you. A deep laugh erupted from the blue-eyed man at your unintentional reaction, his head thrown back with pure joy as he continued to pull at your nipples. He leaned into your neck once more, his teeth grazing the outer shell of your ear. “I knew it,” he purred, “Knew you wanted me, too. You were just playing hard to get, isn’t that right?” You shook your head once more, your words constricted in your chest. “N-no…I never wanted you,” you retorted, head thrown to the side, attempting to distance yourself from him, but to no avail. The weight of him anchored your lower half to the mattress while your tethered wrists held you in place.

A deep chuckle rumbled through Satoru, “So if I feel your pussy, it won’t be absolutely soaked right now?” A pathetic whimper escaped your throat as you shook your head furiously. The rolling motion against your nipples halted and his hand trailed lower down your abdomen. “Hmm…let’s see then, shall we?” he taunted, tracing your skin before rubbing your folds and dipping into your core. “I knew it…you’re fucking drenched f’me, sweetheart.” He shoved two fingers in, shallowly teasing your hole before withdrawing, bringing his sopping digits between your faces, turning his wrist as the dim light of the room illuminated the wetness, making it glisten ever so slightly. He examined them before meeting your fearful gaze. “Why did you lie?” He sucked his middle digit into his mouth, his tongue lapping hungrily at your sweet juices as his eyes fluttered shut. A hum emanated from Satoru as his other soaked finger pushed past your lips, “Here, have a taste, pretty girl,” his long digit dancing around your tongue. “So fucking sweet. You have no idea how badly I’ve been craving this.”

“I’ll ask you again, princess…Why’d you lie to me? I thought you were better than that,” he teased, an insincere pout twitching at his lips as he cradled your chin. Your body thrashed as his hands pawed down your body, plunging two fingers deep inside you again. Your back arched toward him, his knee between your legs was the only thing keeping you open for him. “I…It wasn’t..ahh!– I wasn’t lying…I–”. Your words fell on deaf ears as a wicked smile crept across Satoru’s face.

“Shhh…shhh my sweet girl, just lay back and enjoy,” he smirked as he crawled down your body, laying himself flat on the bed with his head nestled between your legs. Satoru’s body no longer shielded you from your boyfriend, your teary eyes darted across his face, a silent apology being sent his way. Small gasps escaped your lips as Satoru continued to pump into you, the tips of his curled fingers toying with your sweet spot. When you stared down at him, the look of pure desire peered back at you, the dampness between your legs skyrocketing at the sight. A scarlet dusting of shame brushed across your cheeks at your clear enjoyment of all this, even though it betrayed every natural instinct you had. His tongue darted out from between his lips, the tip circling your swollen clit as his fingers dipped in and out of you, his movements spurred on by his own desperation.

He was delirious, suckling against your clit while his fingers worked into you with fervor, moans and growls echoing through the room as he drank you in. You so badly wanted to break away, to console your boyfriend who had an unintentional front row seat to you falling apart on someone else’s tongue, but you couldn't bring yourself to stop him, his digits hitting spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed. Pleasure ripped through your body as a tightening sensation crept its way into your stomach. The rattling of your cuffs echoed through your bedroom as you fought against your restraints, desperately wanting to tangle your fingers in Satoru’s hair.

Your hips bucked toward his mouth, your body aching for release as your pelvis thrusted against his flattened tongue. You didn’t dare look away from Satoru, for you knew there was another set of eyes affixed upon the damning scene that was unfolding. He continued to hum and suck and pump into your core as you tightened around him, his slender fingers quickly coaxing your orgasm from your writhing body. Your eyes screwed shut as your gushy walls spasmed around his fingers, your release painting Satoru’s overly-eager face. He lapped at you some more, working you through your orgasm as he cleaned you up with his wickedly talented tongue.

A deep growl broke through Satoru’s chest as he removed his head from between your legs, the back of his hand dragging across his chin, catching the last of your release before he licked you off of him. He sat upright, craning his neck to look over his shoulder, “Hope you were taking notes,” a smug grin on his face as he addressed your watching boyfriend. He redirected his attention to you. “Did so good f’me, angel. Dreamt of that for so long…” he grinned, his tongue darting out to trace along his lips, hoping there was still some of you coating his face “...I could do that all fuckin’ day.”

Your shaking chest heaved as clarity settled into your mind. Satoru untethered your wrists from the headboard, shifting your body so that you were on your hands and knees, head positioned toward the wall your partner was leaning against. Strangled sounds rang from your boyfriend’s chest as you finally met his gaze. Humiliation prickling under your skin at the realization of what you had just done. But you had no time to dwell on it as Satoru repositioned himself on the bed.

“He’s gonna watch me destroy you, my sweet girl,” Satoru was kneeled behind you, lining himself up with your embarrassingly soaked entrance. He grasped your hips roughly, sinking into you in one fluid motion. You choked out a sob as you dropped your head in shame.

“You’re so pretty when you cry. He can’t help you…can’t save you. Go ‘head, keep cryin’ for him,” he cooed, his thrusts deep and slow inside of you. Jagged moans escaped your throat as the thick head of his cock brushed into your sweet spot. “He can’t make you feel as good as I do.”

He leaned down, reaching around to cradle your throat in his hand, squeezing tightly as he turned your head to the side, his sharp eyes running up and down your contorted face. “Can’t you see that you belong to me, how my poor heart aches for you? How badly I’ve needed you?” His thrusts were agonizingly slow but incredibly deep, the pressure in your tummy betraying your desire for this to stop. “That’s it, my love. Feel you clenching down on me…you’re getting off on this, aren’t ya?” His hips rocked deeper into you, the new depth had your hands clawing at the sheets of your bed as pleasure worked its way through your trembling body.

“He doesn’t treat you the way I do. He never will. No one is better for you than me, princess,” he seethes, his hand cupping your chin, holding your head up, “Now look in his eyes while I use you.” His pace picked up, pulling you back on to him with his anchored hand around your neck. A broken sob cut through your constricted throat as he fucked into you, the visceral sound of flesh smacking against flesh and whines and cries spun through the otherwise stiff air of your room. He palmed at the fat of your ass, pulling your body to meet his rough thrusts. A choked cry left your lips as you maintained eye contact with your boyfriend, crimson droplets running down his face, mimicking the pattern of your tears. You mouthed a silent “I’m sorry” to him before your eyes shut tightly, waves of sinful bliss pulsed through your body with every mean thrust of Satoru’s hips.

“Gettin’ so tight around me–f-fuuuck–you’re close, huh?” Your face contorted in shameful pleasure as you nodded, your back arching even more to take him deeper. “That’s it…c’mon, my love. Need you to cum on my cock,” Satoru begged, his voice airy as he got lost in your tight, sopping walls. “Show me how good I make you feel.” His words ricocheted around your head as the building pressure in your stomach finally snapped, your legs shaking violently as your orgasm ripped through your body, splattering onto Satoru’s thighs and the mattress below you.

A few more strokes met your dripping center before Satoru bottomed out inside of you, thick ropes of his pearlescent seed painting your spasming walls. He finally released his tight grip around your throat, your head dropping immediately as indignity plagued your trembling frame. He pulled out, spreading your cheeks as he leaned down, an animalistic growl pulling from his chest as he watched his cum dribble out of your pussy.

Satoru rubbed soothing circles into your lower back as you worked to regain your breath. “You’re mine,” he whispered. He unlatched the restraints from around your wrists, a coy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the purple bruises that marked your skin. He locked eyes with your boyfriend, a deranged smile dancing across his face as he reached for the discarded projector remote.

Another familiar voice flooded through the speaker, but this time it wasn’t Satoru’s. “...We broke up a few weeks ago. No, no. Really, it’s okay. She was kind of a bitch anyway.” Your pupils widened as you stared back at the man you had just been feeling sorry for minutes ago, rage mixing into the vast sea of emotions you were already feeling while you watched a grainy video of him snaking his arm around another woman’s waist. The two of them were laughing outside of his house before she leaned in to kiss him.

“My poor sweet girl.” Satoru’s hand brushed lightly against your cheeks, catching tears that you didn’t even realize had begun spilling out. “I didn’t want you to have to find out this way, but I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

There were a million other ways he could have broken the news to you, but that somehow wasn’t the most pressing issue at hand.

“An eye for an eye, right?” The same haunting grin that you’d grown to know all too well spread across his face again, his blue eyes slicing into your ex-boyfriend’s. “I can’t believe that my entire world was in the hands of someone so undeserving…” he redirected his attention back to you and recaptured your cheeks in his hands. He leaned down to meet your gaze, unexpected softness replacing his usual sinister demeanor. “What do we do now, baby? It’s your call.”

Your pulse was ringing through your ears. “My call?” your voice was reduced to a whisper as you repeated it back to him.

“I’m going to kill him either way, but I want you to tell me how.”

You pondered for a moment, still coming to terms with the chain of events that lead you to this one vengeful moment.

Satoru stood, sauntering over to your boyfriend, stooping down to his level while his hands hovered over his gag. “When I take this off, I don’t want to hear anything other than remorse come from that pathetic fuckin’ mouth of yours.” Your boyfriend’s eyes shifted towards you, then back to Satoru, as he nodded pitifully. The tie was pulled from his mouth. His words were broken, barely audible. “I’m -” he choked out. “I’m sorry, I -”

Your stomach lurched as a sharp smack met his cheek, the painful sound resonating through the room. “You can do better than that. You got one more try,” Satoru spat, his eyes burning into your ex-lover’s bloodied face as he wrapped his fist around his throat, jostling his head around in a fit of rage.

“Satoru,” you hardly recognized your tone let alone the thoughts that were racing through your head. The last few hours of your life had been a blur. The words you heard earlier made perfect sense now, “Nothing feels real when you hit a certain point.” You were officially at that point. “Satoru, don’t. Let’s just end this.”

It was the first time you’d ever seen the silver-haired man look surprised. His eyebrow raised, a mix of curiosity and amusement glinting in his eye. “Tell me how,” he repeated. “I need to hear you say it.”

You were in a dream. Nothing more than a figment of Satoru’s imagination, just like he had said. It was the only thing that made sense to you because there was no way any of this was actually happening.

“Rip his heart out,” your voice emotionless as you gazed toward the blue-eyed man. Satoru groaned deeply, his dick twitching at the sound of your pretty voice speaking his dark language. The same depraved grin pulled at the edge of his lips as he looked back at your ex.

“Well,” he smirked, “looks like it’s decided then…” Adoration swam through his ocean eyes as he looked back at you, “I knew I picked the right one.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Click

The lock of your front door unbolted as your bodies pushed through the door frame, giggling as four glasses of wine danced through your systems. Satoru wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into a deep, passionate kiss. “Happy anniversary, my love,” he mumbled against your lips. His hands grasped yours as he led you toward the couch.

You nestled into the warmth of his chest, his arm secured around you while you gazed around the room. Your head spun from the wine-induced nostalgia that this day had inevitably brought on. You were still in the same apartment, only it belonged to both of you now. A blend of sentimental gifts decorated your bookshelf that the two of you had collected over the last year. A camcorder, pressed red roses, framed vacation photos, and the first set of diamond earrings he’d bought you stowed away in a heart-shaped jewelry box. But out of all of the memories that tied you together, there was one that stood out the most.

“Should we open it?” you whispered, drawing lazy circles into his shoulder.

You didn’t have to see his face to feel his smirk. He knew his girl and he knew her well. He stood wordlessly, retrieving a jar from the highest shelf. He presented it to you, a smug grin gracing his ethereal features, the same look that was permanently etched into your brain the night he got it for you.

“Be my guest, princess.” You unscrewed the lid, peering into the jar as the strong scent of formaldehyde tickled your nose. You smiled longingly into the container, the overwhelming feeling of love reverberating through your chest. There was something so beautifully poetic about Satoru’s limerence, the lengths at which he went to steal the heart of another in order to fully possess yours.

author note: im so sorry for not posting my sweets,, i had the worst case of writer's block and i was actively trying to work on six different WIPs...i was losing my mind.

this was quite the heavy fic to write...i hope i didn't scare anyone away with it lol

alsoooo!! sending out the biggest thank you to @remlionheart for forcing me to finish this...my editor, my co-writer, the love of my life ♡ ⋆｡˚

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hellishjoel · 6 months ago

Text

positions

2.4k / pairing: tattoo artist daddy dom!joel miller x sub f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist | notifications blog

chapter summary: You and Joel mutually pleasure each other while “researching” porn.

chapter warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak/TLOU, Joel is a tattoo artist with tattoos and piercings, Joel and reader are in the pre-phase of creating porn together, watching porn together, unspecified age gap, established relationship, reader is described to have hair and is able-bodied (but otherwise, unspecified), swearing, dirty talk, smut, lots of pet names (angel, bunny, etc.), dacryphilia (kink = getting aroused by tears), dom/sub dynamics, innocence kink, praise kink, degradation kink, pain kink, daddy kink, oral (m!receiving), size kink, fingering (f!receiving), squirting, hair pulling, one (1) pussy smack, pussy and cock pronouns

A/N: this was written as a mini chapter within the cherry thrill series but can be read as a standalone. a hugehugehuge shoutout to @devineconjuring because without her support, I wouldn’t have even thought about sitting down to write this when the creative burst finally hit! everyone thank annie for beta’ing this mini-chapter! divider is by @firefly-graphics!

Eyes glazed over in lust, lips parted, skin warm with desire — both of you.

You and Joel rest your backs against the headboard of his bed, gazes unbroken, staring at your laptop screen.

Porn.

Anal. Amateur. Bondage. Free Use. Hardcore. Softcore. You’re watching the A-Z catalog with your partner. Was this a kink? Because trying to sit next to Joel while watching porn, trying not to get worked up, felt like a twisted game.

Joel knows you’re turned on. You haven’t stopped squirming beside him for at least twenty minutes. It was agonizing at this point to be so wet, so aching for touch, a deep breath of air nowhere in sight. And it was your stupid idea.

If you were going to film porn, it was only logical that you see what’s out there and get a sense of what you’d be open to filming with Joel. What was your comfort level? Would you start out by appealing to the amateur audience with limited cuts and genuine passion? Or would you like it more if Joel had all the control, playing into his role of being your dom, and ordered you around like his little cock slut?

All these videos had you questioning which category you fit in. Even worse, these videos, which were meant to be for research, had turned you on to the point of no return.

You can feel him looking at you out of the corner of your eye. You’d have to be blind not to notice how hard he’s become in his sweatpants. It’s almost thrilling at this point to see who breaks first.

Your body shudders as Joel moves to change the video to the next one. Christ, help me. He chooses something from the exhibition category, and you can feel your stomach twisting with desire.

“You doin’ alright?” His gravelly voice rumbles from beside you, a weak mhmm leaving your lips in response. Your eyes trace over the dark swirls of ink that curve around his forearm and flourish into a larger design on his bicep. You remember the day you asked if it hurt—if the needle pressing into flesh left behind more than just beauty. He didn’t answer; he just shot you a sly smirk, the kind that left you wondering if the pain was part of the allure.

Joel reaches over, his firm hand squeezing your trembling thigh. It feels like a force of nature, the way you gush harder at the physical contact. You swallow the lump in your throat as you feel his hand move to the waistband of your sweats.

You don’t move, don’t breathe. Both of your gazes are fixed on the laptop screen, not shifting even when his fingers curl inside your wet panties. He parts your pussy lips, feeling her warmth and arousal soak his fingers. A shaky breath leaves you as one of his fingers slowly circles your swollen clit.

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly, your forehead resting against his tattooed bicep.

“I know,” is all he has to say.

His fingers dip lower, swirling the tips around your desperate hole before finally sinking in.

You stare at the video, but it’s like white noise at this point. Neither of you pays attention to the screen, but the blood rushing to your ears forces you to catch every moan and grunt from the partners in the video.

“Jesus,” you can’t help but pant out. “Please,” you weakly beg.

All Joel does is tut darkly. “Jesus ain’t here to save this wet pussy, angel, I am. So you better start beggin’ me.”

As Joel starts to slowly finger your pussy, you realize it’s less about needing to orgasm and more about the process of feeling satisfied together.

With your head resting on Joel’s arm, you press soft kisses against his tan skin as your hand reaches past the waistband of his grey sweatpants.

Your touch is electric. You watch as Joel sits up straight beside you once you start slowly stroking his already hard cock–he’s heavy in your hand, your gentle fingertips able to feel all the prominent veins of his shaft.

Joel’s low groan fills the room, and you know he’s struggling to keep himself from ripping your panties down your legs and getting his fill of you.

But that’s not the game you two are playing.

Your hot breath fans across his skin as he crooks his fingers to just the right spot within your cunt, the feeling unexpected as he stretches your sweet pussy. The sensation forces your hand to squeeze Joel a little harder, a distinct growl of both pain and pleasure fueling his ministrations. Once again, you’re reminded that pleasure protects you like a shield, and pain is the only thing that can penetrate it. Pain doesn’t just hurt Joel. It transforms him.

“I wanna bend you over like that,” he admits, his tongue playing with his lip piercing out of habit. Your hazy eyes slowly flick from Joel to your laptop. The video has changed again. The man in the video currently has a housemaid bent over the kitchen counter, doing whatever he pleases to her, while his wife sits in the dining room simply flipping through her newspaper and drinking her coffee.

You’re not as good at this as Joel is; you can barely speak as he pleasures you. “W-We’d get caught,” you breathe out, your hips grinding against his fingers as his thumb starts to work over your pearl.

Joel hums darkly, shifting a third finger into your entrance. It’s a burning stretch, one that forces out a low whine from deep in your throat. Your touch all but abandons Joel, his jaw tightening as you remove your hand from his swollen cock.

You stare deep into his dark eyes as you lick a slow stripe up your palm, excess saliva trailing down your hand before you return it to his aching member.

“Fuck,” he pants, his head falling back to rest on the headboard with a hard thud. He doesn’t fucking care. The pleasure outweighs the pain.

“Come here, baby,” Joel instructs as his fingers exit your warmth.

You whine like a brat but follow his instructions. He pulls you onto your knees, moving your upper half over his lap and shoving his sweatpants down so his cock is finally free.

“Use that pretty mouth of yours. Always so perfect for me,” he coos. “Now go slow.”

His words have you mewling in pleasure, resting your head on his lap as you suckle his tip into your warm mouth. It’s teasing, but you want to go slow, to do what he told you to. You want him to last.

He pulls your sweats and panties down, your warm pussy and the globes of your ass shocked by the cool air hitting your skin. You let out a needy whimper–he never fails to pleasure you, even while chasing his own release. Arching your back, you put yourself on display for him.

“Keep watchin’ the screen. Good girl,” Joel mutters as he slowly gathers your hair in one fist, lazily dragging your head up and down his cock. He fills your mouth, and for a moment, you forget to breathe. Your eyes grow teary, your body flinching as you choke down his length in a desperate attempt to taste his salty finish. Swallowing down as much of him as you can, you bury your nose against the coarse dark hair at the base of his shaft, gulping around his length. Desire ultimately outweighs Joel’s orders for you to go slow, and you begin to suck his cock at your own more eager pace. His grunts of pleasure fill your ears, the grip on your hair only tightening, whatever restraint he has left quickly deserting him.

Joel is a man whose sexual pleasure derives from control—a fragile dominance that feeds his pleasure. But that control is unraveling, slipping through his gasp faster than he can regain himself.

“Hey,” he grumbles, yanking you off his shaft by your hair. He slips out of your hungry mouth–you still try to get him back into the safety of your warmth as he reprimands you. A spank to your aching pussy with his heavy hand sends a shockwave of throbbing need across your body, jolting you to life as you let out a whine for him. “I said slow. It’ll feel better the longer you wait, I promise. For both of us.”

You have to trust him. You know he knows best.

Swallowing down thick spit, you nod against his grip. “Yes, daddy. I’m sorry, daddy.”

That goddamn name. It pulls something from deep inside of Joel, a monster in hibernation that’s hungry for something to cross its path and wake it up.

And you just did.

“Good girl.” The grip he has on your hair tightens, and you’re back to stuffing his cock down your tight throat.

You follow his instructions. The speed is slow, as promised, but every touch feels exhilarating. Your senses are on overdrive. The tingling in your scalp, the feeling of his two thick tattooed fingers plugging your cunt, his thumb circling your already charged clit–it was all so desperate to unfurl.

You can feel Joel pulsing inside your mouth, ready to gush like a volcano on the verge of eruption. You trace the vein on the underside of his cock with your tongue, his precum adding a layer of tanginess to your tastebuds.

You weakly moan against him, trying to force out as much excess saliva as you can. It drips down all his inches and coats the hair on his balls. Your arousal leaks down his fingers. The woman in the video lets out strangled moans from the kitchen counter, and finally, the man’s wife takes notice of the two fucking on the counter. She acts shocked, catching them both in the act.

Joel wins.

You cry out against his cock and tighten the suction you have on his shaft, slurping and letting out lewd sounds as you quicken the pace of your mouth. You ignore the pain in your jaw and neck, eager to taste his salty release. Joel must agree that the game is up because his hand no longer guides you–he simply pumps his fingers faster inside your desperate cunt. Your hips drive back against his hand, the heel of his palm adding extra friction to your clit.

“Goddam, you wanna choke on it that bad? Fill your mouth up, wishing it was your pussy? Listen to this good little pussy purr,” Joel moans out as he massages the spongy walls within your cunt, and you can already feel your stomach begin to spasm.

You gluck gluck gluck around his dick, mouth filled with so much of him that it makes you light-headed with lust. He rips you away from his cock, but only for a moment, a rush of air filling your lungs as he lays your head on top of his thigh. Your eyes are wild and lost, desperate for one thing and one thing only.

“Tell me,” Joel demands, the veins in his neck pulsing as the crease between his eyebrows deepens. “Tell me what you are, what you want.”

You whine something pathetic as Joel’s fingers only quicken inside your cunt. “Fuck!” you cry out, your entire body shuddering over his lap as you keep stroking his sticky cock with your hand.

He makes you admit your thoughts, your sexual desires, and everything you're thinking out in the open. It forces you to be vulnerable with your sexuality–something that doesn’t come easy for you, but Joel willingly helps you navigate.

If you want to finish, you need to spill your secrets and fantasies.

It surges like a headrush, electric along your spine and needy for him as you find your words.

“I-I’m such a fucking slut for your cum, Joel, please baby, I wanna taste you so bad,” you stutter and slur as Joel hums approvingly. His thumb wipes away a stray tear, something comforting and warm in the way he praises you for trying. You feel your orgasm working its way up through your bones, through the heat in your stomach, until it slips down your spine. “I-I wanna feel it down my throat, I want it to be my last meal, I- fuck, I feel so fucking dumb with your cock in my mouth. I worship him.”

Joel’s hanging onto every word, his chest pumping with the added fuel to his ego. His jaw clenches tighter and tighter, teeth gritting as he groans your name at the praise.

“Christ,” he mutters, enamored by your words and how pretty you look with his precum and your saliva glistening on your lips. “Such a good girl for me, so fuckin’ perfect.”

Something different pools at the base of your stomach, something you don’t fully understand, but it’s familiar. You whimper in embarrassment because it almost feels like you need to pee, but you don’t, your thighs getting splashed by something more than an orgasm, and Joel really fucking likes it.

“Oh god, d-did I-”

“Yeah, bunny, you fuckin’ squirted for me,” Joel growls as he drags you back over him.

You’re slurping at his cock, and it doesn’t take long for you to both reach the orgasm you’ve been holding out on while watching this damn porn.

Glistening tears flow down your cheeks, your brain dumb with pleasure as the euphoria finally floods the tight clench in your stomach. Your release pools down Joel’s fingers, his own more desperate and needy as he shoots white-hot spurts down your throat. You moan against his shaft and roll your head from side to side, nose buried in the thick hair of his happy trail as you swallow around his cock like he taught you.

Joel groans out in pleasure, your tongue still lazily lapping around his shaft. “So fuckin’ good, that was so hot, baby. Jesus Christ.”

He strokes your hair, and you both slow to nothing, feeling like you’ve run a marathon. His fingers stay buried inside your wasted cunt, your wet mouth weakly panting against his warm thigh. Joel reaches forward and closes the laptop.

“Did you… did you see any positions you liked?”

You don’t respond right away. You know he’s talking to you, but it takes a few moments for it to register.

“I think… I’ve got a few ideas for our debut.”

Joel chuckles tiredly, laying his head back against the headboard once more.

“We’re really doin’ this? We’re gonna make porn?”

You sigh weakly and find the strength to sit up, facing the weathered look Joel is sporting. You give him an innocent smile as you wipe your chin with your forearm. “That’s right, daddy.”

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fvsm4x · 2 years ago

Text

MAYBE IN ANOTHER LIFE? Gojo Satoru

SUMMARY: Your boyfriend, who you loved more than anything, who was your will to live, broke up with you.

— C.W: ex-boyfriend! Gojo satoru x depressed! female reader , dark themes , slightly geto suguru x female reader , no curses au.

— WORD COUNT: 5.3k+

„I think we should break up.“

Gojo’s words hung in the air, as he looked into your eyes.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you fought to keep the tears at bay. You desperately tried to maintain your composure, not wanting to show Gojo just how deeply his words had wounded you.

“Why? What happened?“ You managed to ask, your voice trembling.

Gojo’s gaze softened, but his eyes held a distant look, as if his mind was already elsewhere. “I’ve found someone else,” he admitted, his words like a dagger to your fragile heart.

A whirlwind of emotions engulfed your thoughts. Insecurity, confusion, and a deep sense of betrayal washed over you. You had always known Gojo was popular, surrounded by women who seemed to possess an otherworldly beauty that you could only dream of. But you had hoped that your connection would be strong enough to withstand any external temptations.

As tears welled up in your eyes, you couldn’t help but question your own worth. Gojo had been your beacon of light, the one who had brought joy and stability into your chaotic world. You had believed that your love was strong enough to overcome any obstacles.

But now, faced with the harsh reality of Gojo’s confession, your insecurities resurfaced with a vengeance.

How could Gojo have led you on, making you believe that your love was real, only to discard you so easily for someone else?

But despite the storm of emotions raging within you, you knew that you had to find the strength to let Gojo go. You couldn’t force someone to love you, no matter how much you wanted to.

And so, with a heavy heart and tears streaming down your face, you whispered, “If that’s what you truly want, then I won’t stand in your way.”

You wiped away your tears and caught Gojo’s gaze. His eyes were filled with regret and sadness, and you could see the pain he felt in his expression. It was as if he realized the gravity of his decision and the hurt he had caused you.

“I’m so sorry,” Gojo whispered, his voice filled with genuine remorse. “I never wanted to hurt you. It’s not about your worth or how you compare to anyone else. It’s about me and my own shortcomings.”

You looked at him, surprised by his words.

“I understand,” you replied softly, your voice filled with a mix of sadness and acceptance. “I know I can’t change your feelings or make you stay. I’ll start packing my things so you can have your apartment back.”

As you rose from the plush couch, your footsteps echoed through the spacious apartment, the sound muffled by the thick carpet beneath your feet. With a heavy heart, you made your way to the bedroom you had once shared with Gojo. The room seemed to hold its breath, as if aware of the impending change that would soon occur.

You opened the grand closet, its ornate doors revealing a collection of clothes and personal belongings. The air was filled with a bittersweet nostalgia as you carefully selected each item, their presence a testament to the love and happiness you had once shared. The room seemed to whisper your name, its walls bearing witness to the countless moments of joy and intimacy that had unfolded within its confines.

As you held each cherished possession in your hands, memories flooded your mind like a river. The soft touch of Gojo's hand, the warmth of his embrace, and the laughter that had once filled the room. Each item carried a weight of emotions, a reminder of the love you had believed to be unbreakable.

Gojo, sitting on the edge of the bed, watched you with a pained expression. The reality of the situation seemed to settle in, and he realized the depth of the connection he was severing. The room felt colder, emotions hanging thick in the air.

As you folded your clothes and placed them in a suitcase, Gojo finally spoke again, his voice carrying a tinge of regret. "I never wanted it to come to this, Y/n. You deserve happiness, and I hope you find it even if it's without me."

His words lingered, a bittersweet acknowledgment of the end. The room, once filled with shared laughter and intimate moments, now felt like a haunting memory. The pain was palpable, and you couldn't help but wonder if it would ever subside.

As you zipped up your suitcase, Gojo approached, his hand hesitating in the air as if unsure whether to touch you.

He gently brushed away a tear that rolled down your cheek.

"I'm truly sorry," he murmured,

With your suitcase in hand, you stood near the doorway, taking one last look at the place that had been your shared sanctuary. It was a goodbye to not only Gojo but also to the dreams you had woven together.

As you walked out, Gojo remained in the room, the emptiness echoing the void left by the shattered relationship. The door closed behind you, sealing the end of a chapter that had once promised forever.

In the days that followed, the task of finding a new place to call home became increasingly overwhelming. The once vibrant city, which had once been a source of shared dreams and promises, now seemed indifferent to your struggles. Each apartment viewing brought with it a fresh wave of emotions, serving as a painful reminder of the life you had envisioned with Gojo.

In the midst of this turmoil, old habits resurfaced. You found yourself reaching for cigarettes and turning to alcohol as a means of coping.

It was disheartening, as you had believed that these vices were behind you after Gojo entered your life and seemingly fixed all your problems. But now, they have reappeared, threatening to consume you once again.

What made matters worse was the lack of support you had. There were no parents to lean on, no friends to turn to for help. You were left to navigate this challenging situation all on your own, starting from scratch.

Before meeting Gojo, you had worked countless jobs to pay your bills and support your studies, scraping by with whatever little money you had.

The weight of it all was taking its toll on you. You felt yourself falling apart, the stress and uncertainty chipping away at your resolve.

But then, Gojo appeared, and your life took an unexpected turn. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring the two of you together. The first time you laid eyes on him was when you were working as a waitress at a cozy bakery. As he walked in, time seemed to stand still. Your heart skipped a beat as you took in his striking features.

His vibrant blue eyes, reminiscent of a clear summer sky, held a depth that drew you in. His snow-white hair and lashes added an ethereal touch to his already captivating appearance. And when he smiled, it was as if the whole room lit up with warmth and charm. You were instantly captivated by his presence, unable to tear your gaze away.

To your surprise, Gojo noticed your lingering glances and, with a confident stride, approached the counter where you were working. He invited you to join him, and you couldn’t resist the opportunity to spend more time with this enigmatic man. As you sat together, indulging in delectable desserts, the hours seemed to melt away in a blur of laughter and shared stories.

Days turned into weeks, and Gojo became a regular at the bakery, always seeking your company. The two of you would engage in deep conversations that spanned a wide range of topics, from the trivial to the profound. Each interaction only deepened your connection, and before you knew it, you found yourself falling for him.

However, amidst the blossoming romance, a nagging doubt lingered in the back of your mind. You couldn’t help but notice the parade of women that seemed to surround Gojo. He would visit the bakery at least twice a week, each time accompanied by a different woman. They would engage in affectionate displays, acting as if they were a couple.

As you observed these interactions, a wave of insecurity washed over you. Comparisons became inevitable, and you couldn’t help but feel inadequate in comparison to these stunning women. Their flawless skin, plump breasts, and alluring curves seemed to highlight your own perceived shortcomings. Their beauty was undeniable, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you would ever measure up.

But despite these doubts, Gojo continued to seek your company, showing genuine interest in your thoughts, dreams, and aspirations. His actions spoke louder than words, and you began to question your own self-doubt. Perhaps there was more to this connection than meets the eye.

Maybe, just maybe, Gojo saw something in you that went beyond physical appearances.

Motivated by this newfound hope, you made a conscious effort to break free from your bad habits. Weeks turned into months, and Gojo continued to visit the bakery every day just to see you.

However, one day, something special happened. Gojo waited patiently for you to finish your shift and then walked you back to the motel where you were staying. It was during this walk that he truly realized how difficult your life actually was.

Seeing you work tirelessly, with dark circles under your eyes and wearing the same clothes day after day, Gojo couldn’t bear to see you living in such difficult conditions. He noticed the presence of alcohol and cigarettes in your room and insisted that you stay with him instead. He wanted to provide you with a better life, free from the struggles you had been facing.

And so, you took up Gojo’s offer and moved in with him.

And that's when you became a couple.

But after two years of being in a relationship with Gojo, he found someone else. The person who used to hold you in his arms, whisper sweet words of love, and make you feel like the most important person in his life was now directing those affectionate gestures towards someone else.

You didn’t want to let him go. The thought of losing him was devastating. However, you also understood that you couldn’t force him to stay with you if his heart was no longer fully committed. Questions swirled in your mind. Did you do something wrong? Were you not exciting enough for him anymore? Was there something else that led him to find someone new?

Despite the heartache, one thing remained certain- your love for Gojo would never fade. The pain of knowing that he loved someone else, someone who wasn’t you, was excruciating. No one could ever replace the way Gojo had changed you, the way he had touched your heart and made you feel alive.

You sat alone in the dimly lit motel room, a bottle of liquor in hand, you sought solace in the numbing effects of alcohol. The pain in your heart seemed unbearable, and you hoped that drowning your sorrows would provide temporary relief.

The room felt suffocating. Each sip of the bitter liquid seemed to momentarily wash away the ache, but deep down, you knew it was only a temporary escape. The truth remained that Gojo had moved on, and you were left grappling with the shattered pieces of your heart.

With a heavy sigh, you placed the half-empty bottle on the grimy nightstand and slowly rose from the disheveled bed. Your footsteps carried you towards the suitcase, which stood dutifully beside a small table, as you rummaged through its contents in search of something comfortable to wear for the night. The weight of your emotions bore down on you, causing you to push up your hoodie, removing it with a forceful toss onto the nearby chair, as you attempted to regain control over your tears.

The question echoed in your mind once again, piercing through the haze of confusion and hurt. How could he do this to you? The betrayal felt like a knife twisting in your heart, leaving you gasping for air amidst the waves of anguish.

You made your way towards the mirror. Your reflection stared back at you, a vulnerable and exposed version of yourself. The longer you gazed upon your topless form, the deeper the sadness seeped into your being. Your hand instinctively reached out, fingers grazing the surface of your bare stomach, as if trying to grasp the weight.

Could it be that your weight gain was the reason behind his abandonment? Did he no longer desire to be with you because of the changes in your body? The thought gnawed at your self-esteem, fueling the belief that the girl he now chose to be with possessed a flat stomach, a flawless figure, and enviable curves. Qualities that you, in your own eyes, did not possess.

Feeling the ache in your stomach intensify, you released your grip and turned your attention back to the task at hand. Pulling out a set of comfortable pajamas from your suitcase, you quickly changed into them, hoping that the soft fabric would provide some comfort amidst the chaos of your emotions.

As you lay down on the bed, the worn-out mattress offering little respite, your mind raced with thoughts of the uncertain future that lay before you. The realization hit hard – you would have to find a job, and fast. The fear of being kicked out of the motel, with nowhere else to go, loomed over you like a dark cloud.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, your mind began to form a plan. You closed your eyes, the weight of exhaustion finally settling upon you.

Days turned into nights, and nights into days as you tirelessly searched for a job. The motel room became a temporary refuge, a place where you could rest your weary body and gather your thoughts before facing the world again. And then, finally, your efforts paid off.

You received a call from the bakery where you had once worked, offering you a position. Excitement and relief flooded through you as you accepted the job. It was a familiar place,

The first day back at the bakery was filled with a mix of nervousness and anticipation. As you stepped through the familiar doors, the scent of freshly baked bread enveloped you. The warm smiles and greetings from your former colleagues made you feel instantly welcome, as if you had never left.

You returned to your old position as a waitress and memories of Gojo lingered in the back of your mind. It had been a while since you had seen him, and you had made peace with the fact that he no longer wanted anything to do with you.

You let out a sigh as you walked over to the table where some guests were seated. Taking their orders, you jotted them down on a small notepad and headed towards the counter to place it.

As you turned around, the door opened, and there stood Gojo Satoru, looking as charming as ever. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, and a smile instantly spread across his face. He waved at you, and for a moment, your heart skipped a beat.

Beside Gojo stood a breathtakingly beautiful woman, exuding confidence and radiating charm. It was clear why Gojo was drawn to her, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy.

With a polite smile, you excused yourself and walked away, seeking solace in the different side of the bakery. Your heart raced as you tried to process the unexpected encounter. The memories of your past relationship flooded back, bringing with them a whirlwind of emotions.

In the safety of the different side, away from prying eyes, you took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

As you continued your work, serving customers and attending to their needs, you found solace in the routine. The hustle and bustle of the bakery provided a distraction, allowing you to momentarily forget the turmoil that Gojo’s presence had stirred within you.

But deep down, you knew that healing would take time. The wounds were still fresh, and seeing Gojo with someone new had reopened them. Yet, you refused to let it define you.

As you stood behind the counter, your eyes scanned the room, searching for any customer in need of your assistance. However, it seemed that everyone was content, engrossed in their conversations and meals. Your gaze involuntarily shifted towards the table where Gojo sat with his new girlfriend.

You couldn’t help but observe the way Gojo’s eyes sparkled with adoration as he looked at her. The way his face lit up with a blush whenever she smiled at him was a sight you had never witnessed before. It was as if he saw her as a goddess, someone worthy of his utmost devotion and affection.

A pang of jealousy washed over you as you compared Gojo’s current demeanor with how he had looked at you in the past. His eyes had never held that same lovesick gaze when he was with you. It was a bitter realization that he had never regarded you in the same way he now regarded this new woman.

You couldn’t help but wonder what it was about her that captivated Gojo so completely. Was it her radiant smile, her confident aura, or perhaps something deeper that you couldn’t comprehend? Whatever it was, it was clear that Gojo had found someone who made his heart race and his eyes shine with love.

As you continued to observe them from a distance, a mix of emotions swirled within you. Part of you longed for Gojo to look at you with the same intensity, to make you feel like the center of his universe. But another part of you knew that it was time to let go, to accept that Gojo had moved on and found happiness elsewhere.

With a heavy sigh, you turned your attention back to your duties, reminding yourself that your worth was not defined by Gojo’s affections.

You carefully balanced the two deserts and the cup of hot chocolate on your tray, making sure everything was secure. Lost in your thoughts, you absentmindedly glanced at the table number where this order was meant to be served. Without looking up, you started walking towards the designated table, unaware of the impending collision.

Just as you were about to lift your gaze, your body collided with someone, causing your grip on the tray to loosen. The board slipped from your hands, and the cup of hot chocolate tumbled through the air, its contents splattering onto the person you had unintentionally crashed into.

Your eyes widened in shock, and panic surged through your veins as you realized the gravity of the situation. You quickly raised your gaze, meeting the eyes of the person you had accidentally drenched with hot chocolate. And in that moment, your whole world seemed to crumble around you.

It was her. The woman for whom Gojo had left you. The same woman who had stolen his heart and shattered yours in the process. The sight of her standing before you, her face contorted in pain as tears streamed down her cheeks, was like a knife to your heart.

She hissed in pain as the scalding hot chocolate made contact with her skin, desperately trying to wipe away the sticky liquid that clung to her. Your hands trembled as you reached for tissues from a nearby table, desperately attempting to alleviate the discomfort you had caused.

But just as you were about to wipe away the hot chocolate, a forceful hand slapped yours away, taking over the task of cleaning the girl's skin. Startled, you looked up and saw Gojo, his face contorted with fury. His eyebrows knitted together as he witnessed the tears streaming down the girl's face, his protective instincts kicking in.

You stood there, next to Gojo, your voice barely audible as you muttered apologies, trying to explain that it was an accident. But Gojo's anger seemed to drown out your words. He finished wiping away the hot chocolate from the girl's skin and pulled her into his arms, shielding her from any further harm. His gaze shifted towards you, his eyes filled with a mix of disappointment and rage.

"Why would you do that?!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the air. His words pierced through your heart, intensifying the guilt that already weighed heavily upon you. You could see the hurt in his eyes, the pain of betrayal mingling with the anger. But you couldn't find the words to defend yourself, knowing deep down that there was no justification for your actions.

„It was an accident-“

He took a deep breath,"Save it, I know why you did it.“

„Just because I found someone else and that I’m happy with them doesn’t mean that you’ll get to hurt them out of jealousy!“ he spoke

„I thought you were better than that," he said. The girl, still in his arms, chimed in, her voice filled with anger. "Call your manager, you need to be fired!"

Gojo's gaze shifted back to you, his eyes searching for an explanation. The weight of his disappointment and the girl's demand for your termination bore down on you. Panic set in as you realized the implications of losing your job. You couldn't afford to be fired; you needed the money to support yourself.

Desperation filled your voice as you pleaded with Gojo, "Please, don't ask for my manager. It was just an accident. I need this job, I can't afford to lose it." Tears welled up in your eyes as you tried to convey the sincerity of your plea. You knew you had made a mistake, but it was one born out of carelessness, not malice.

You instinctively grabbed Gojos' hand,“Please-!“ you begged, but your hand only got slapped away by the woman in his arms.

„And now you go touching someone’s boyfriend? What‘s wrong with you!“ the girl shouted as she slapped you.

Your head turned to the side from the force of the slap, a surge of pain radiated through your cheek. The impact left your skin hot and flushed, a visible mark of the humiliation you felt. You fought back tears, determined not to let them see your vulnerability.

With trembling hands, you gently placed your palm against your reddened cheek, trying to soothe the pain. Your eyes flickered towards the girl, searching for any sign of remorse or understanding, but all you saw was a cold, dismissive gaze. Her arms crossed defiantly, she demanded that you call for the manager, her voice dripping with disdain.

„Call the manager.“

Desperation welled up within you, and you mustered the courage to speak, your voice quivering with a mix of fear and desperation. "Wait, please! I... I really need this job," you pleaded, hoping that she would see reason, that she would understand the dire circumstances that led you to this moment.

She cut you off, her words sharp and dismissive. "I don't care, call for your manager," she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for negotiation or empathy.

Your gaze shifted towards Gojo, silently pleading for his intervention, for him to vouch for you or at least offer some support. But as you looked into his eyes, you saw a furrowed brow and a hint of disappointment. His voice, barely above a whisper, carried a weight of disbelief and disapproval. "Can't believe you would pull something like that," he murmured, his words landing like a heavy blow to your already wounded heart.

Your hand, still trembling, fell from your cheek as you straighten your posture. With a deep breath, you mustered the strength to bow,

"I'll get t-the manager right away," you said,

With a heavy heart, you turned away from Gojo and the girl, making your way towards the counter to call for the manager.

Your hands trembled slightly as you picked up the phone, dialing the number with shaky fingers. Each ring felt like an eternity, amplifying the anxiety that coursed through your veins. Finally, a voice answered on the other end, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady your voice.

"Hello- this is Y/n L/n from [Bakery]. I... I need to speak with the manager, please," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. The person on the other end assured you that they would connect you, and you waited anxiously, your heart pounding in your chest.

As you waited, your mind raced with thoughts of the consequences that awaited you. Losing this job would mean losing your only source of income, and the financial strain it would bring was overwhelming. You couldn't bear the thought of disappointing your loved ones or struggling to make ends meet.

Finally, the manager's voice came through the line, and you mustered up the courage to explain the situation. You recounted the accident, your sincere apologies, and the girl's demand for your termination. The manager listened attentively, their voice calm and composed as they absorbed the details.

After a brief pause, the manager spoke, their tone firm yet compassionate. "I will come over to assess the situation and speak with all parties involved. Please remain calm and await my arrival."

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves as you hung up the phone.

As you turned around, you noticed Gojo and the girl engaged in a hushed conversation. Their expressions were still filled with anger and disappointment, but there was also a hint of uncertainty. You approached them cautiously, your eyes downcast.

"I've c-called the manager," you said softly,"They will be here soon to address the situation. I... I'm truly sorry for what happened. It was never my intention to cause any harm or distress."

„Sure“ the girl replied.

Months had passed since that fateful encounter at the café. You had lost your job, the incident with Gojo and the girl tarnishing your reputation and leading to your dismissal. Now, you found yourself standing by the reception desk of another run-down motel, desperately seeking a place to stay for the night because you got kicked out of the last one.

As you approached the receptionist, a tired-looking man with a permanent scowl on his face, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anxiety.

“Excuse me,” you began, your voice wavering slightly. “I was wondering if you have any available rooms for tonight?”

The receptionist glanced up from his paperwork, his eyes narrowing as he took in your disheveled appearance. His tone was curt as he replied, “We do have a few rooms left, but I’ll need payment upfront.”

Your heart sank. You had been scraping by, barely making ends meet, and the little money you had left was barely enough to cover your basic necessities.

“I… I’m sorry,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t have enough money to pay for a room.”

The receptionist’s scowl deepened, his impatience evident. “Look, we can’t just give away rooms for free. If you can’t pay, then I suggest you find somewhere else to go.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you realized the gravity of the situation. You were alone, with nowhere to turn and no one to rely on. The weight of your mistakes and the consequences they had brought upon you felt suffocating.

With a heavy heart, you turned away from the reception desk, feeling the eyes of the other guests in the lobby on you, judging and pitying your predicament. As you walked towards the exit, a mix of shame and desperation washed over you, threatening to consume your spirit.

Outside, the cold night air greeted you, a stark reminder of your current reality. You stood on the sidewalk, feeling lost and defeated. The world seemed to blur around you as you pondered your next move, wondering how you had ended up in this dire situation.

Suddenly, a voice chimed in from behind, jolting you out of your thoughts. Startled, you turned around to find yourself face to face with Geto, your ex's best friend. His black eyes bore into yours, his raised eyebrows conveying curiosity and surprise. His gaze drifted to the suitcase clutched tightly in your hand, a silent question hanging in the air.

"Geto?" you questioned, your voice tinged with confusion.

A puff of smoke escaped his lips as he exhaled the cigarette between his fingers,"How many times do I have to tell you, you can call me Suguru," he replied,

“Why are you here?” he asked, standing before you and peering into your eyes. But before you could answer, another question slipped from his lips, catching you off guard. “Where is Satoru?”

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut. He didn’t know. How could he not know? Wasn’t he Satoru’s best friend? Shouldn’t he have been informed about the breakup that had occurred just last month? Did Gojo, your ex, not bother to share the news with him?

“Didn’t Satoru tell you?” you asked, breaking eye contact with him, unable to bear his gaze any longer.

“Tell me what?” he questioned. He removed the cigarette from his lips and threw it to the ground, crushing it under his shoe.

“That we broke up,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. As you watched his reaction, you noticed a flicker of surprise in his eyes before he regained his composure.

“You two broke up..?” he questioned,“Since when did you-”

“Last month we broke up,” you interrupted,

“Is there any reason why you two broke up? Everything was good, wasn’t it?” As he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“He…” you hesitated, your gaze shifting to the side. “He found someone else,” you admitted, your lips trembling slightly.

“Oh,” he responded, his hand retracting from your shoulder as he crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes turned towards the night sky, lost in his own thoughts, before refocusing on you. “And why are you here in the middle of the night?” he asked, his gaze scanning you from head to toe, taking in your worn-out clothes. His eyes returned to your face.

“I got kicked out of the motel because I couldn’t pay for it anymore,” you replied,

His brows furrowed,"I'm so sorry to hear that," he said softly,"You shouldn't have to go through this alone."

Without hesitation, he reached out and gently placed a hand on your shoulder. "Listen, I have an idea," he said,"Why don't you come stay with me until you find a job and get back on your feet?"

Surprised by his offer, you looked at him,"I- I can‘t do that-!" you spoke.

A warm smile spread across his face. "Of course you can," he replied. "I have a spare room and it would be my pleasure to help you out. Sometimes, all we need is a little support to get back on track."

„But-!“

„No buts.“

"Thank you," you whispered, "I don't know what to say..."

He smiled warmly, his eyes sparkling,"No need to thank me," he insisted. "We all go through tough times, and sometimes we just need a helping hand. If there's anything else I can do, please don't hesitate to ask."

He took the suitcase from your hand and turned around, walking towards his house. "Let's go," he said, looking back at you.

You nodded and followed after him.

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