#I will not be silenced the world must know how much I love this man's forging and induction

[gingermintpepper]

I've been thinking about Matsui's introduction in Utaawase all week so y'know what fuck it, I'll post about it later today just because I think it's in the top ten funniest things that have ever happened in Toumyu history.

[reignpage]

“Y’r a real clumsy pain in the ass, ya know that?” Toji’s making tsk sounds every time he finds a new scrape to clean up. It’s funny to see him look so concentrated – his brows are furrowed, he’s gripping your limbs firmly but gently, careful of his finger placements, and prodding here and there, determining if you need to go to the hospital. “Why’dya even think it was a good idea to go skateboarding? Fuck do you know about that?”

Ah, man. He’s really pissed. He rarely ever gets worked up like this. Sure, he gets annoyed or irritated – the man has the patience of a child, after all – but there’s a frantic quality to his movements, a hesitation before he applies the alcohol on your wounds, and a telltale dart of his eyes at your face after, searching for a wince or a flinch. 

Your thumb flies up, smoothing that wrinkle between his eyebrows. “If you get any more tense, you’ll blow a fuse, Toji.”

He grabs your wrist tight, scoffs, and then lays a frustrated kiss on the inside. 

“Whose goddamn fault is that? Fucking losing my mind here ‘cause you can’t be trusted to act like an adult. Turn my back for one shitty second and then y'r all crumpled up on the concrete, crying like a baby. Was worried you’d lose all your blood.”

The kitchen counter is cold beneath your legs and he must notice because a heavy hand of his rubs some warmth on one of your thighs, squeezing for comfort. 

Sheepish, you mumble an apology. 

“Sorry?” He’s flabbergasted in a way you've never seen him be. You almost want to laugh. “Don’t make that face. None of this is funny, ya damn brat.”

"It looked easy online! Everyone's doing it."

He makes an unamused sound. "If they tell you to jump, would ya?"

"Yeah, probably."

Not finding that funny in the slightest, he shoots you a glare. "Y'r a comedian now, are ya? And what? Y’r body's the punch line, that it? You just gonna throw it around everywhere without a single care in the world?"

Still feeling defensive, you pout. "Yeah, if I want. It's my body."

"No." His fist slams on the counter. The vibrations rattle your bones. "It's my body. It's the body of the woman I love. The body I feed, I hold at night, the body I need with me. My woman, my body. So, dammit, take care of it, will ya?"

Your eyes are rolling before you can help yourself. "You're being dramatic."

“Look at me.” He pinches your chin. There’s a silencing sincerity in his eyes. It’s serious, frenzied, pleading. It steals your breath, forcing you to the present and washing away that veil of courage you blanketed yourself under. The sting of all your wounds come to you like a wave, sweeping you under. Your injuries must have been worse than you first realised. “You can make light of this all you want, but you didn’t see what I saw. Didn’t hear what I heard – fuck, baby. You were crying. I ain’t never hear you sound like that before. And I don’t want to again. It broke my fucking heart.”

Jaw clenching, he eyes you all over, shaking his head. He still can’t believe this happened — scrapes like these aren’t meant for women, especially not his brilliant girl, who smiles too often and loves too much. His precious girl.

Every day, he worries over how hard he squeezes you in a hug, how much weight he’s putting on you when you cuddle, and how fast he moves when you’re around. This is the body he worships day in and day out and just like that, he’s reminded once again of how easily he could lose it all. How easily he could lose you.

Toji’s head falls onto your lap. His arms wrap around your hips. From your view, he looks somewhat like a child. He kisses your thigh, inhales deeply, and burrows his face tighter against you as if reminding himself you’re here and you’re okay and he’s not letting this happen again. 

“I’m sorry, Toji. Really.”

He scoffs again. God, he needs to stop doing that. “Yeah, you will be. ‘Cause I’m tying y’r uncoordinated ass to me. So if you wanna go down, y’r taking me with ya.”

“Deal.”

[multific]

For Every Word You Give Me

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: You’ve always struggled with your stutter, speaking only when you must, trusting only your husband with your voice.

The table stretched long through the hall, glittering with silver and candlelight. 

The meat was passed, wine spilt freely, and laughter echoed off stone walls, too loud, too sharp. 

You felt small in it all. Always had.

You sat beside Aemond, his hand lightly resting atop yours under the tablecloth. 

Your thumb moved slowly across his knuckles, grounding yourself in his calm presence, his heat.

His voice beside you was low and steady, “You look lovely tonight.”

Your lips curled shyly. You whispered back, “Th-thank you.” The words were soft, hesitant. 

But he heard you. He always heard you.

Aemond turned his head slightly, a rare softness in his pale eye. “Only I get to hear your voice like that,” he murmured. “I think I’m the luckiest man in all of Westeros.”

You blushed, squeezing his hand beneath the table. 

You never spoke much, the stutter made it hard, made you ashamed. You had grown used to silence, to ducking your head. 

But with him… you tried. He never looked at you with pity. Only devotion.

Then came Aegon’s voice.

Slurred. Loud. Drunk.

“You know, brother,” he called across the table, “I often wonder if your wife is mute or just terribly slow. The poor girl can barely choke out a sentence without sounding like she’s drowning in her own words.”

Your blood turned to ice.

The table fell quiet. The silence stretched long.

You looked down instantly, cheeks burning, eyes stinging. Your throat ached with humiliation, with all the words you couldn’t say to defend yourself.

Aemond stood up, abruptly. His chair scraped the floor.

“Aegon,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “if you ever speak of her that way again, I will remove your tongue and feed it to Vhagar.”

Aegon scoffed, raising his goblet. “Oh come now, I mean-”

“She is worth a thousand of you,” Aemond snapped. “You are unfit to speak her name.”

You were already moving, tears falling fast as you rushed out of the hall, heart thudding in your ears. 

You didn’t want to be seen. Not like this. You hated how weak it made you feel. How small.

You made it to your chambers and closed the door behind you, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. You pressed your back against the wood and covered your mouth to muffle your sobs.

Why did it always hurt like this? Why couldn't you just speak normally?

Minutes passed.

Then the door creaked open.

“Aemond,” you gasped, quickly wiping your face. “Y-you shouldn’t-”

“Stop,” he said gently, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Don’t hide from me.”

You turned your back to him anyway. “I d-don’t… w-want you to see m-me like this.”

His arms wrapped around you from behind, firm and warm. He pressed his lips to your shoulder, his voice low against your skin. “You never have to hide from me.”

You shook your head. “I’m… I’m b-broken.”

“No,” he whispered. “You’re brave. Do you know how much strength it takes to speak when the world gives you reason not to?”

Your voice trembled. “You d-deserve someone b-b-better-”

“I deserve you,” he said, turning you in his arms. His eye searched your face with a mix of fury and reverence. “You, who give me your voice when no one else hears it. You, who I would kill for without hesitation. You are mine. And I am yours.”

Your lip quivered. “You r-really mean that?”

“I swear it on Vhagar’s fire, on my blood, on my love for you,” he whispered, cupping your face. “Speak only to me, if that is what makes you feel safe. I’ll carry your silence for the world, and treasure every word you give me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks again, not from shame this time, but from relief. 

You nodded and leaned into him.

“I l-l-love you,” you whispered, voice fragile as lace.

His breath caught. Then he kissed you, deeply, as if that was the only answer he could ever give.

He pulled you to bed that night and held you until you stopped shaking. You fell asleep in his arms, his hand tangled in yours.

And for the first time in a long time, you dreamed without fear.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[a-hermit-pining]

Making Up with LaDS Men

AN: So soft. Ugh, I love them so much.

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Ingredients: 95% fluff, 5% angst.

My Fav: Rafayel's was the one that made me write this but Caleb is pretty nice too, if I must say so myself.

Rafayel:

He stares out his window and finds you perched on the pavement. In the rain. Right beneath his window, waiting for him to look.

And when he does, he nearly trips in his rush to get to you. He’s exasperated. Worried. And irrevocably touched.

By the tides, love made idiots of you both.

It had started as an argument about dishes. But it spiraled, into fights about living together, into complaints about time, into accusations about waiting too long, loving too little.

Until you finally stormed out, leaving behind one very outraged, very wounded fish. “Truth is, you’ll never choose me. Not even at the cost of my soul.”

He had yelled it at your retreating back. And he hated how hard he had to dig for words that would hurt. Hated how good he was at choosing the cruel ones. How stupid it was, wanting to wound you before you could wound him.

And when the tempers cooled and silence set in, you returned. But the door was locked.

So you sat outside, holding a bunch of slightly wilted flowers. And you waited. You waited until the sun disappeared. Until the clouds rolled in. Until the rain began to fall.

You stayed there, below his window. Because you knew how much your beloved fish loved the smell of petrichor. The scent of the world right after it breaks.

You wait, not as long as him, never that much but enough to make his heart melt.

Xavier:

He doesn’t stay mad for long. You know that. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t slam doors. Doesn’t lash out. But when the fight ends, if it can even be called a fight, he just... gets quiet. And that silence feels heavier than anger ever could.

He still makes your tea the next morning. Still leaves your charger on your pillow. Still kisses the top of your head before leaving for work. But he doesn’t hold your gaze. Not the way he usually does. Not for long.

So you show up that night with his favorite takeout. The kind that makes his shoulders drop the second he smells it. You light a candle, put on that playlist you both pretend not to love, and pull him gently into your lap when he walks in.

He lets you.

You wrap your arms around him. You kiss his cheek. His temple. The corner of his mouth. Soft, lingering things.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

His voice is muffled, face tucked into your shoulder. “I know you are.”

You press your forehead to his. “But are we okay?”

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Then nods. “We’re okay,” he says. “I just, sometimes I wish you’d come back sooner. I miss you too fast.”

You close your eyes and squeeze him a little tighter. “You’re allowed to be upset, you know. You don’t always have to hold it in.”

He gives a quiet laugh, “Yeah,” he murmurs. “But if I hold onto it, I lose time. Time I’d rather spend like this.”

Zayne:

BAKE. HIM. SWEETS.

He’s not the one to start arguments, he rarely even realizes they’ve become arguments until they’re over. Too real, too blunt, too logical for his own good. So most fights leave him confused at first... and horrified once he understands he’s the reason you walked away upset.

And if you’re the one feeling bad? Baking is the way.

This man is powerless against soft banana bread and sincere apologies. Bring him a tray of kiss-me brownies, what-are-we cinnamon rolls, or a marry-me pie, and suddenly he’s the most forgiving man alive.

Drop by hospital with a wrapped container, and you’ve won.

The moment he sees you standing outside his office, holding Tupperware and fidgeting like you might flee, he’s already smiling.

He’s a big fan of how you tailor everything for him. How you swap sugar for dates. Add protein. Use almond flour because “it’s good for your brain.”

He won’t even bring up the fight. He’ll sit beside you, still in scrubs, tucking into banana bread like it’s a love letter. And listen as you explain how you got the texture just right.

“I’m sorry I snapped,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, brushing crumbs from your wrist. “But this banana bread earns you forgiveness. ”

Sylus:

He has not learned to share his pain. It is sharp and biting, searing both you and him. Sometimes, it lashes out hard enough to damage the fragile thing between you.

And he knows it.

He pushes you away, offering you the trigger, daring you to run the bullet through his heart. Because that would be easier than being vulnerable.

So lost is he in his ancient ache that he can’t see clearly anymore. He hides his hurt beneath a cold, cruel mask, like a wounded animal, snapping before it can be touched.

But it’s your gentleness that undoes him.

It’s when you give him nothing but love in return for his lashing, when you reach for him instead of leaving, that he breaks.

Be there for him. Stay. Hold him. Let him fall apart in your arms. Kiss the pain away, slowly, quietly.

He doesn’t need fixing. He needs time. And love that stays soft, even when he can’t.

Caleb:

A grand gesture.

This man is all about belonging. Wanting to be yours. For you to be his. And for the entirety of existence to know it.

The fight had been devastating.

You’d blamed him. Walked out, left him waiting for weeks. No contact. No updates. He couldn’t find you. Didn’t know if you were safe. Didn’t know if you still wanted him.

And when he finally found you again, Caleb had been quiet. Distant.

He didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go. Didn’t know if you needed him… or needed to be free of him.

So imagine his surprise when he sees you, at the Fleet’s Christmas party. On stage. At the grand piano. In front of everyone.

You don’t speak. You play.

A soft song. Gentle. Hesitant. An apology spun into musical notes. A lullaby between lovers. A plea for forgiveness.

And then, as the music shifts, it becomes the song of Penelope, the woman who waited for Odysseus, year after year, unwavering.

It’s not subtle. It’s not meant to be.

You are declaring yourself his. You are saying it in front of everyone.

And that is what wins him.

Not just the music. Not just the apology. But the audacity of loving him loud, after hurting him quiet.

He watches you under the stage lights, blinking like he’s afraid to breathe. And when the song ends, he doesn’t wait.

He crosses the room, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you like he never wants to stop.

[postracehair]

a small request

max verstappen x reader | 2k

even world champions deserve love letters. after missing the mexico gp, you're determined to see max have a good weekend in brazil. maybe all it takes is a handwritten note.

cw: fem!reader, being in love, softness, a track-side kiss, love letters. and google translate, sorry to any dutch speakers.

a/n: was this inspired by that video from austin? yeah, it was! sue me! also, written/posted before the gp, so. no race details <3 xx

__

You miss race weekend in Mexico. It happens. You can't be there every weekend, much as you'd like to be. You're even more peeved about it after, considering you quite like Carlos and wish you had seen him earn what very well might be his last win with Ferrari. But you're mostly upset because Max, though he won't say so, could probably have used your support.

Years of experience have him calm, cool, and collected despite the team troubles. Flippant, some headlines say. Mad Max, others. But you know he's probably just tired. Tired of the media, of the FIA, of the churning conflict between him and Lando -- something you all knew was coming someday, but maybe not so suddenly. The longest season ever continues to drag and drag and drag.

"Twenty seconds was...Christ, Max," you say. You know what happened, of course. You watched what you could, saw the sharp moves around the corner and heard the radios. It never gets easier, watching him take risks like that. Usually, everyone else backs off, but McLaren can see victory on the horizon and won't let it go. You can't blame them, either of them, you just wish it was all a bit less tense.

"I know," he says, voice raspy over the connection. "I -- well, you know how I feel about it. Don't want to say anything in case the FIA is tapping my phone."

You laugh into your hand so you don't disturb the other people in the airline lounge, not entirely used to places like this, still. Max has told you over and over that it's absurd for you to spend your own money when you're coming to see him all over the world. When you told him you moved things around so you could come to Brazil, he booked you the nicest ticket, per usual.

"Oh, ha, ha," you say. "Don't give them any ideas, Mr. Community Service." You sigh. "Do you need anything? Be honest."

"Aren't you at the airport already? Your flight should be leaving in --" A pause, like he's checking his watch -- "forty minutes."

You glance up at the departures screen. He's right, but you don't give it to him so easily. "Know my schedule, do you?"

"Well, I booked your ticket, so I should think so."

"Your assistant booked it, you mean."

He hums and you picture him in his hotel room, maybe at the window, looking over the city. "I know your flight information. Don't be silly."

"I mean it, Max," you say again. "Is there anything I can do to make the weekend better?" It's a bit of a useless question and you expect him to answer with a snarky get me a new car or apply for the position of steward.

But he doesn't. He clears his throat.

"I'm just glad you're coming," he says, softly. "I've missed you."

You never doubt how Max feels about you, but he must be pretty tired to admit it like this. He's all about actions, this man. Making sure you have what you need when you're at the track, arranging your travel, remembering your schedule. He shows you how much you matter, and that's more than enough. He never wants to make you feel bad for having a life beyond being his girlfriend. And this doesn't, not really. It just makes you ache, fills your chest with the hopeless affection you've felt for him for so long.

"I've missed you, too," you reply. "But I'd like to be useful."

"Oh, I can think of a few things, then," Max says, all of a sudden all cheek. Such a boy, sometimes. A boy in love.

You can't help but laugh, face hot. "Hush, you!"

He huffs. A few beats of silence, the comfortable, well-worn kind. Sometimes, when he's halfway across the world and up late on the sim, he'll call you just to hear you breathe.

"Max?"

"I -- do you remember what you did for my birthday?"

He'd wanted something small, quiet. There was a lot of work to be done with the team but three weekends off meant you had a little time to yourselves. A few days hardly leaving his place, a dinner with some of the guys, a cake you made yourself, hand-delivered in bed. Gifts for a very wealthy man are difficult, especially since Max doesn't seem to want much.

"Oh, the pillow with my face on it?"

Max laughs. The lounge loudspeaker announces that your flight is going to board soon, so you gather your things but keep your phone wedged next to your ear.

"No, the other thing," he says. He clears his throat and summons some of that World Champion courage. "The letter."

You'd written him a fairly long love letter, thinking it would be a nice thing to carry to the races you couldn't be at this fall. It was tempting to be embarrassed about it when you gave it to him the morning of his birthday, but his cheeks had gone pink and he'd buried his face in your neck.

"Oh, that," you say. The airport is busier outside the lounge and you push your case in the direction of your gate weaving between. people.

"You could write me another, maybe."

Max is direct. He is honest, at work and at home, but this surprises you a little.

"You do know I'm about to get on a plane to see you, right?"

He huffs, and you imagine his cheeks pink, eyes bright. "You asked!"

"I'll write you another love letter, Max Verstappen," you assure him. "I'll write you a hundred."

"One is a fine start," he says firmly. "You should be boarding soon, and I've got to go to the press conference. Text me when you've landed?"

"Of course," you reply, eyes rolling though he can't see. "I'll see you soon, okay? Love you."

"Love you, liefje."

On the plane, you tear out some pages from your journal. You'd prefer to have some nice stationery like what you wrote on for his birthday, but maybe this is more romantic, more real. Making do with that you've got because he asked.

In the last one, you told him your memories of when you first met. How your stomach swooped when you made him laugh, how his blue eyes wouldn't leave your dreams. In this one you tell him about when you first realized you loved him. How absurdly early you were sure, how badly you wanted to tell him for weeks. The way you remember every second of when you blurted it out -- his face, his smile. His voice in your ear, telling you over and over, geliefde, ik houd van je, zo veel. I love you, so much.

"You're working hard on that," someone says. You look up at your seatmate, a woman a few decades older than you with a heavy accent.

You feel a little like you've been caught doing something illicit, but you just smile at her. "For my boyfriend," you tell her. "A love letter."

She flattens her palm over heart and sighs. "How lovely," she coos. "I hope he takes care of you, too."

We take care of each other, you want to say. You could tell her about how he sends you postcards from every country he goes to after you told him you like to put them on your fridge. You could tell her how sometimes you text him during his streams to make him laugh on camera. How he remembers your favorites, how he saves you his special team gear, how he sends you flowers all the time. How he likes to sit on the couch, your toes under his thigh, fingers around your ankle. How you've been learning Dutch and how he patiently corrects your pronunciation. You could go on and on and on.

"He does," you say instead.

__

The plane lands safely in Brazil, but the pilot tells you that there is no open gate and that you'll be sitting for a while. You text Max.

stuck on tarmac, will be later than expected! :(

He must be in media responsibilities still because he doesn't reply until you finally get off the plane.

go relax at the hotel. i'll see you for dinner!

You find your ride easy enough and take a deep breath. The letter you wrote on the plane feels heavy in your pocket, and you just want to see Max. To be near him again. To give him this small thing he asked for.

"Excuse me," you say to the driver. "Do you think we could go to the track, instead?"

You text Max's assistant to say you're headed there, hoping it's not too much of an inconvenience. You're told he's almost done, maybe an hour left, and when you arrive you're led to his driver rooms. His shit is everywhere, per usual. Max is quite neat except in here -- Carmen once told you that George is the same. Clothes strewn about, his race boots unlaced and left in the way, warm-up equipment in a pile. On the table are a few of his things -- his wallet, a notebook, some papers.

Wait a second. One of those papers looks...familiar. It's been folded in three, the envelope it came in nowhere to be seen. His name is scrawled on the blank side in your hand and when you tug it from the pile you can see that it's creased, the edges a little more worn than when you gave it to him a few months ago. Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion, actually carries around the love letter you wrote him. Brings it to the track. It's darling. You love him so much. You pull the new one from your pocket and set them side-by-side on the table where he'll find them.

You ask to be taken to the pit wall, please, so you can see whatever the drivers are doing on track. Some dedication, you're told. The timing ends up being perfect and you get there just as they're finishing. You lean on a gap in the barrier where, on Sunday, crew members will be holding timing signs as the drivers zip around the hot pavement. The crowd in the stands is loud, as always, and maybe you imagine it but it seems to get a little louder when you look out.

The guys are talking amongst themselves and a few of them wave at you. You spot Max as he turns away from Charles and you can't help but grin. His eyes meet yours under his cap and his entire face chances, softens, and he breaks into a jog. You lean out over the concrete ledge and meet him in a kiss that's more two smiles pressed together than anything else.

"This is a surprise," he says when he pulls away. Eyes sparkling, he shows no signs of rejoining the other drivers as they head to whatever their next thing is. Photos, probably.

"I missed you," you tell him. "I've left you something in your room."

"Oh?" He straightens the lanyard of your credentials with careful fingers.

You reach for him, palm on his cheek. His stubble tickles and he leans into it ever so slightly. It doesn't feel like there are thousands of eyes on you, not even a little.

"Yeah," you say. "As promised." Someone calls his name. "Go on, then. I'll be waiting."

He kisses you again, a quick brush of his lips on the corner of your mouth.

Later, you'll wake from your nap in the hotel room to those same kisses on your cheeks, your forehead. Max will gather you in his arms and tell you all the moments he almost told you he loved you, how he could hardly believe when you said it first. You'll tease him for how many times he's read that first letter and he'll cheekily say that's why he needs more. And you will write him more, you'll write him as many as he wants. As many as you can, for the rest of your lives.

But now, in front of thousands of screaming fans, he smiles at only you, boyish and pleased.

[spideyyygotmotionn]

PETER PARKER - the mask stays on.

Synopsis 🕸️ you always dreamed of doing it with spider man, this was like a birthday wish come true.

Contains 🕸️ nsfw!, 18+, spiderman fan!reader, smut, piv, mask stays on, afab, bday sex, a lot of plot sorry, established relationship, secret relationship, horrible roleplay, pet names, praise, oral sex (m!receiving), no protection (wrap it before u tap it irl), reader doesn’t know spider-man’s identity, oblivious!reader, parker is a people pleaser for you only

word count 🕷️: 4K

you had a secret.

a secret that you’ve managed to keep all to yourself for as long as you could remember. you had a tiny crush on spiderman. “tiny” is a understatement. okay a big crush whatever you want to say. you couldn’t help it, he just looked so good? sure you weren’t sure of the face card situation but the energy? no one understands it like you do. he’s so mysterious yet kind and cocky all at once but not too much to the point where it’s a turn off. he’s so cute. imagine how horrified you were when word got out that you liked spider-man.

you wanted to kill Laura. she teased you about it a little too loudly during homeroom and word got out fast. “really? spiderman? sure he’s cool, but you got all this in front of you babe.” flash laughs while gesturing to himself as if he was somehow magically a choice in your eyes. Peter rolled his eyes at flash’s weak attempts to flirt with you. you couldn’t even bring yourself to reply as you scoffed at him and turned to Laura. ‘see what you did.’ your face read while she mouthed a ‘sorry!’ in silence. all of you somehow missed a blushing peter parker as ned jolted out of his seat to slap him.

“anyway, this is so not the 18th birthday i wanted to experience. my senior year, freshly 18, and my celebrity crush is the biggest topic of conversation. yayyy.” you sarcastically cheered clearly bothered by everyone knowing.

“well it’s not so bad. it’s just a celebrity crush. at least your real crush isn’t taking it to heart.” Laura smiled sympathetically. you didn’t miss her head gesture towards Parker who was actually your boyfriend. it was a bit of a complicated situation you felt guilty yourself for keeping another huge secret from your best friend. Peter Parker was your boyfriend but no one knew.

“so.. spiderman?” parker questioned with a shit eating grin on his face. you groaned in desperation as you plopped yourself face first down on your bed. “oh c’mon it’s not the worst thing in the world. it’s kinda cute.” peter laughed as he caressed your hair, an attempt to comfort you. “not cute. it’s embarrassing.” you sighed rolling over to face him. peter couldn’t help but feel the tiniest amount of guilt for knowing why he found it cute.

you kept staring into your handsome boyfriends innocent eyes and your biggest dream crossed your mind. would it be shameful to ask? you would assume yes but it is your birthday after all…

“Happy birthday sweetheart.” Peter kissed you gently on the lips. a small innocent kiss which lasted around 3 seconds max.

“it is my birthday…”

“it is.”

“can i ask you something?” your cheeks were burning. you didn’t even want to imagine how foolish you must look in Peter’s eyes. face blushing furiously as your curious eyes scanned his face looking for any type of expression.

“go ahead love, you can ask me anything.” he smiled unsure of where you were going with this but still curious nonetheless.

“can we have sex—withyoudressedupasspiderman?” you rambled so quickly trying your best to not melt away. you’ve never felt your body so hot before you felt as if this was nearly the end.

“okay.” without a second thought peter responded. honestly ever since he’s heard that you liked spiderman it’s all he’s been thinking of. he felt like a pervert but i guess that can be applied to both you. okay wasn’t the answer you were expecting but you never felt such joy.

“REALLY? you’re not messing with me right?? because if you are-“ your defensive words quickly got cut off by a kiss. one that wasn’t as soft as the first one, this one was more harsh with a hint of desperation behind it.

“no. not messing with you at all. i’ll be right back.” your boyfriend hurried off leaving you confused. you sat on your bed all alone with a small pout on your face due to the lack of explanation that came from him.

—★

after nearly an hour you finally heard your doorbell ring. you jumped outta bed and went to go open the door. before fully opening it you looked through the peep hole as you usually did. there stood your slightly less handsome boyfriend. yes, less handsome because he left you alone for almost an entire hour on your birthday. you opened the door to give him a piece of your mind only to stay silent.

all your anger washed away as he stood at your door with a spider-man suit in his hands. you were not expecting that… you pulled him by his shirt inside and slammed the door shut not wanting to waste anymore time. you rushed into your bedroom holding his hand not slowing down your pace for anything.

“where’d you get that?!” you asked shocked by how realistic the suit looked. your boyfriend smiled sheepishly as he tried to come up with some sort of explanation but none were good enough and luckily fell on deaf ears. you were so excited his words didn’t register inside your head. it’s like everything was going in one ear and out the other.

Peter wasn’t an idiot (most of the time), he knew this was risky. the suit he brought was an old one that he had from awhile back. it wasn’t his most recent suit but you being the fangirl you are still recognized it as one of spider-man’s iconic suits. your personal favorite as well. you stared in awe at the material as you ran your hands over it admiring every stitch. it was how you perfectly envisioned it to look and feel. buttery smooth and vibrant.

Peters shaky hands took the suit from your grasp before you can get any ideas. you glanced up at him almost confused as to why he took it away. “I should put it on right?” he asks examining your face. he wasn’t sure what exactly you were thinking about at the moment but the silver lining of excitement crossing your eyes told him everything he needed to know.

“yes!” you nodded frantically. a bit too excited for your own liking. you were so excited you couldn’t even remind yourself to play it cool. this was everything you ever dreamed of. you couldn’t take your eyes off of him as you took in everything. from his hair, brown nervous eyes, his shaky breathing, toned body, built arms, and abs. your eyes crossing over every inch of skin he was exposing to you.

you felt your body shiver as he put on the mask. you could feel every single small hair on your arms rise up as your heart beat got louder. goosebumps. a rush of butterflies in your stomach. it felt so real. more real than you could even imagine. your heart itself could’ve froze if it wasn’t for how rapidly it was pounding in your chest.

—★

“are.. are you okay?” spiderman called to you as he laid you gently on your bed. it was his idea to role play a scenario of him rescuing you and you ‘returning the favor’ in your own way.

you almost forgot your own line as you got lost staring into the white eyes of the mask. your stare was so strong it was as if you were trying to look for his brown eyes under the mask.

“no. i think i need some more help.” you pleaded forcing yourself to sit up on your knees, snapping out of your previous thoughts. you raised your hand to lay on his neck pulling him down closer to you. you could hear his breath hitch under the mask.

“are you hurt?” he asks shyly. he never would’ve imagined finding himself in this situation fake or not. he was thankful for the mask that was hiding his blush due to the perfect view he had of your breasts. he could see the dark blue lace of your bra peeking out of your black tank top.

“yes. i feel a lot of pain… here.” you looked at him with innocent eyes as you used your free hand to guide his hand to your right breasts. he had to bite down a groan of his own.

“well-well that’s just not good is it?” he asked breathlessly grabbing your breast harshly as he rested his head in the crook of your neck. “m-mm” you shook your head in agreement.

you felt yourself growing shy by the second when he pushed down both your bra and top exposing your breast to the suddenly cold air. you weren’t sure if the air was actually cold or if it was because your body was so hot. even his suit felt cold against your body, highlighting every inch of heat your body had to offer. despite his fingers being fully covered he can feel the heat radiating from your body through the material. he’s never felt you this warm before it flattered him.

“don’t worry angel, i’ll make you feel better.” he mumbled in your ear. he only lifted his mask halfway up to expose his mouth. you opened your mouth to say something but your thoughts were shut down as he took your breast into his mouth. you couldn’t hold back your moan as he flicked his tongue around your nipple while he used his other hand to massage the other. this felt like too much teasing for your own liking at the moment.

you reached back to unclip your bra and slip off your shirt completely. he stared in awe, sure it wasn’t the first time he saw them but it was the first time Spiderman had the luxury of seeing them firsthand. you scrambled out of your soft cotton gray sweatpants exposing your lace red thong. Peter almost had the wind knocked out of him by the sight. he knew you liked Spiderman but the fact that you wore both his colors as well? it was like a wet dream come true for him.

“y’know it is my birthday… but i don’t mind treating you.” you playfully giggled as you planted yourself on your knees in front of him. Peter was thankful you were still somewhat away from him so you couldn’t hear him gulp. ‘i am not worthy’ he silently thought to himself before pulling his mask back down and pulling down the zipper of his suit. (we’re imagining okay. EVERYTHING STAYS ON IDC)

you’ve seen his member before but it felt so different this time. you kept having to remind yourself this wasn’t Spiderman but nothing ever felt so real before. it’s like your own boyfriend perfectly captured him in this suit. his build was always amazing and you admired it all the time but damn.. this suit works wonders for him doesn’t it? maybe he should be spiderman.

Peter couldn’t help but shrink a little, despite towering over you he felt like you were the one looking down on him. your eyes were so intimidating, it turned him on especially when he couldn’t read your emotions. “oh fuck—feels so good.” he groans when your warm mouth consumes him full. he’ll never get used to that, the way your mouth is perfectly shaped for his dick. you take him in with ease as you bob your head up and down. “your boyfriend’s real lucky. lucky to have this mouth all to himself.” he says somewhat jokingly. he knows how lucky he is to have you.

man he was so cute. you could almost feel your lips curve up into a smile at his praise. he might be dressed as spiderman but that was still your peter parker under there. your sweet loving peter parker. peter always had to fight back the urge not to buck his hips into your throat rapidly. he was well trained, keeping his hands to himself, arms behind his back, groaning sweetly as he throws his head up in bliss. “fuck, so good for spiderman huh?” he didn’t miss the way your moan caused a vibration around the base of his cock.

he swears he could’ve came right there and then when he looked down and saw your pretty mouth make a ‘pop’ sound with giving his head one last suck. the almost invisible string of saliva connecting your lips to the the tip of his pink head. you knew exactly what he was looking at, it’s what he always stares in awe at after you give his reward. you smiled sweetly at him, placing a soft kiss on his tip teasingly.

“you’ll kill me.” he groans. you didn’t even get a chance to stand up on your own as he pulled you up as if you weighed nothing. he planted you on the bed right where he wanted you with your legs spread wide for him, knees bent, feet on the edge of the bed as you laid on your back.

you propped yourself up on your elbows before trying to rise up your hips. “wait- what are you doing?” peter questioned pushing your hips back down with his hands. shit. he was strong. he didn’t even realize how much accidental strength he used when securing your hips back in place. you didn’t dare complain, you found it hot. “don’t you want them off?” you asked with genuine curiosity. was he really planning on not taking them off?

“no… red’s my favorite color.” liar. he lied, it’s not. hell he doesn’t even have a favorite color but after seeing you in red he’s convinced it is. he’s always liked the colors red and blue but now? he loves it. he has more reason to love those colors even more now. he let go of the pressure on your hips and rubbed the spots with his thumbs. it was almost as if he was saying sorry with the gesture, he sure does hope that doesn’t bruise in the morning.

his dick was still left wet and sloppy from the wetness of your mouth. it was coated in a mix of liquids that involved your saliva and his pre-cum. god he loved using your fluids as lube. he pulled your panties to the side, taking a moment to admire the view of you like this. some hair slightly in your face, your pleading eyes filled with anticipation, breasts perky and exposed. normally he’d kiss your entire body starting at your neck going down to the entrance of your cunt. that wasn’t really possible with the mask on so he settled for taking in the view for now.

he teasingly slapped his cock against your pussy making your hips jump at the sudden action. he took this as a sign to keep on hand on your hip in order to make sure you don’t move without permission. he loves to tease. man you thought it was bad when he was just peter parker, it was way worse as spiderman. he would slide himself up and down against your folds. teasingly pushing in the tip of his cock just to take it back out and rub it against your folds once against. you’d whimper at the lost of contact each time.

“peter-“ your voice was cut off by a harsh thrust that left your jaw dropped.

“name’s spiderman.” he reminded you as he filled you up to the brim, only staying there for a second before pulling all the way out and slamming himself back in without warning. he loved the way it brought tears to your eyes.

“oh- fuck!” you screamed as you arched your back involuntarily. he started out with a slow pace but harsh thrusts that made you throw your head back. you wanted to raise your hips but couldn’t as he held them down for you.

“mmmph- feels so good spiderman.” you moaned as he picked up the slack. he loved how your slick covered his cock completely. it left a white creamy ring around the base of his cock that he took the opportunity of admiring it every time he pulled out. he could feel your walls clench around him each time he pulled out as if your pussy was begging him not to leave you.

“so fucking wet for spiderman aren’t you?” he roughly spoke slamming your hips down to meet his cock half way. “yesyes mhm just for spidey.” you absently sobbed as you begin to feel loss in the bliss. your tear filled eyes desperately tried to cling onto the face of the mask. you wanted to remember this moment forever. the one of the friendly neighborhood spider-man pummeling into you as he praised you for being so good to him.

“pussy’s so good for me. taking me so well princess. almost as if you were made to take care of this cock for the rest of your life.” he mumbled under his mask but you still understood every word he said. peter only ever spoke this filthy to you in bed. it was hard to imagine this was the sweet boy you met at school who would stutter over his own words around you at times.

“mhmm. sososogood.” you couldn’t even form an opinion or respond in coherent sentences as you felt every inch of him burry itself into you. you felt your tummy twist on the inside as your climax started to catch up to you. Peter knew you were getting close as your walls suffocated him. closing down on him as your pussy clenched around him. your slick was covered all over him and it began to leak out of you.

he only wondered how you would react if he admitted that he was still holding back. holding back was so painful for him, he questioned if he should allow himself to finally let go. would it be selfish or would you enjoy it as much as him?

“need more please.” you cried, wrapping your legs around his waist. you needed help reaching your high. this sign couldn’t get anymore clear, he finally let go of the deathly grasp he had on your hips. he exchanged it with wrapping one arm underneath your waist holding you up with his pure strength. the other hand of his held your head up to meet his. you loved the mask but you missed his lips. you weakly went to lift up half the mask to expose his pink lips. the ones you familiarized yourself with well enough.

you wasted no time capturing his lips with your own as you held onto his suit with your hands. your kiss was interrupted with your scream as he pummeled himself up into you with no mercy. “oh fuck!fuck-ohmy-feels so gooddd.” you swear you lost all feeling in your body you were amazed at how he was able to keep you up with his strength alone. you threw your head back in pure ecstasy as his lips wrapped around your neck. you felt an incredible amount of sensation that was unmatched. it was like nothing you ever felt before.

you could feel his wet kisses all over you neck, the harsh grasp he had on your waist, one hand still holding tightly to the back of your hair, his hips clashing with your skin, every inch of him being pummeled straight into you, you could feel the tip of his cock slamming itself against your cervix at the end of every thrust. that sweet spot that made your head dizzy and your eyes blur. you never looked more beautiful to Peter as he took note of your facial expression. lips parted as you moaned, eyes closed, tear stained cheeks, and a blush that was spread from your cheeks to your nose.

you felt your body tremble as your orgasm hit. you also felt his cum shoot into your pussy as the amount of liquid in your body began to slip out. you felt the liquid trail down on your inner thighs. your whole body gave out on you as you collapsed against his body. you couldn’t even remember what happened next. the last thing you saw was black as your eyes finally closed one last time. the last thing you felt were the soft cushions of your bed as your body was gently placed down.

after cleaning you up Peter finally took off the mask and suit while you rested sound asleep. he hopes you didn’t put two and two together and he kept you distracted enough. he wanted to do nothing else but lay in bed with you and enjoy the comfort of your body heat a little longer. of course before he could get the chance his phone alerted him a message. it was that time again, to go off and be spiderman for the world once more. he sat next to your bed watching you sleep for a bit longer. you were cuddled up in your blankets and you seemed at peace. he wondered what you were dreaming about.

“happy birthday.” he kissed your forehead and left, feeling bad he couldn’t stay any longer.

—★

the next day at school your legs were as sore as a motherfucker hell. you settled with wearing some low rise sweats and a white t shirt that ended right below your belly button. you decided to sit next to your boyfriend for once at homeroom. the two of you were early so you planted a kiss on his lips before anyone else can get there.

“hey babe, i missed you last night.” you pouted, taking advantage of the empty classroom and sitting on his lap at his desk.

“i’m really sorry i had to go. i missed you too.” he was genuine with his apology. he always was, he hated having to leave you at night especially after intimate moments. he never wanted you to get the impression that he was just sticking around for sex.

you didn’t bother responding. you were still so sleepy from last night you just wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your head into his chest.

“you still tired?” he asks rubbing your back. “mhm” you whined not wanting to get up but knowing you should because anyone can walk in at any moment. you soon jumped out of his lap at the sound of the door creaking open. ugh, it was just flash. you rolled your eyes at the sight of the geek.

“wassup pretty lady. ew- what are you doing next to that thing?” he emphasizes his disgust by making gagging noises at peter.

“certainly not sitting next to you. that’s what.” you replied while putting your hands on your hips. your hips were within eye level of Peter which is when he noticed the light purple bruises sitting right above the hem of your sweatpants.

“whatever your loss babe lemme just tell you-“ flash continued his rambling as he sat down and didn’t bother to look at the two of you any longer.

the sight of your bruises made peter sit up straight as he grabbed your waist to pull you in closer. you felt your cheeks heat up when he pulled the band of your sweatpants down to look at the bruise. he couldn’t really give two shits about what flash was rambling about. his thumb rubbed the bruise as he continued to examine them on both sides. you felt yourself blush furiously at his lack of attention to anything else around the two of you.

“peter.” you scolded quietly, pushing his hands away from your hips. he looked at you with genuine confusion before looking around to notice people were starting to come in. you took back your seat next to him, the blush never leaving your face. you knew he felt bad but you loved the bruises.

“stop worrying, i think you should actually leave more.” you whispered in his ear, now it was his turn to blush.

[shooting-love-arrows]

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐘

PAIRING: 𝐘��𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 x reader (gender not mentioned/implied/specified); SYNOPSIS: Your first meeting with him was anthing but charming. Especially when he cornered you to the point, where you know you'll have no choice but to submit. TW. implied age gap, manipulation, threatening (?), red flag, power imbalance;

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

"How can I help you, sir?"

"Be my sugar baby."

You blinked owlishly, trying to process what this customer said and if it was on the menu. When in fact it turned out that it isn't and you connected the words and their meaning, you were ready to burst out laughing.

He can't be serious.

Just by looking at him, you can tell he occupies a high position in some fancy corporation. You were even ready to bet that he was a CEO! It was a mystery itself why he was here, in a food chain restaurant in the first place. An enigma why he even said something like that to you, a plain worker who is pretty much opposite in every aspect one could think of.

He is handsome, you give him that. Probably older than you, since his face was more defined and mature. His suit, which you imagned to be tailor-made, colonge that was so strong you could smell it from behind the counter and all the expensive accesories (I mean look at his watch! Worth univesity tuition installment or two!) he had on were probably worth more than what you owned now.

But no, you aren't stupid. Sleep deprived, yes. Hungry, yes. Broke, also unfortunately, yes. But not stupid.

This man must be high then. No other sane and sober and filthy rich man would propose something like that to the (broke) food chain worker during the first meeting.

You took a deep breath, reminding yourself to be calm. He is still your client and you are fighting to be this employee of the month. You can already envision your photo hanging by the cashier and feel the additional money in your bank account. You won't lose your cool now.

Instead, you plastered your best fake smile.

"I'm afraid that's not on our menu sir. Do you fancy something else?"

The man chuckled, as if you told the best and poshest joke known to mankind. Your eyebrow twitched, yet your smile didn't budget.

Calm down...he is high...let him laugh...employee of the month...additional money...!

"You're more amusing than I thought." 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 wiped a stray tear from his eye. "Trust me sweetie, I love how you call me 'sir' but that doesn't change the fact that my request still stays. I want you to be my sugar baby."

"I'm afraid that's not possible, sir."

"Ho ho, everything is possible." 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 hid his hands in the pocket of his pants. He was staring down at you, like you were the most interesting thing he saw in a long while. You began to feel uneasy and slightly curled into yourself. You didn't like how mischievous his smirk looked.

A beat of tense silence passed, before he spoke again.

"I won't back down, sweetie. You know, I've learned that when you really want something, you should fight for it till you'll achieve it. This situation is no different than a business. I provide you safety and money, while you agree to be mine and fulfill my (every) requests." He finished his speech with a smile worth a million dollars, showing off his pearly white and straight teeth.

"Sir -- "

"After all, you wouldn't want your current life to crumble, hm?" You froze when his expression became sinister and his voice lowered to the point of mocking. In your gut you began to feel dread. You knew this feeling bery well. It appears whenever you sense danger. Currently, this man in front of you was a person who you should be afraid of. One thing for sure, he wasn't lying when he said he can destroy you in a matter of one call.

Money rules the world.

"Your measly, little thing, who believes something will change. That it is just a stepping stone. But what if I make it your prison? Force you to be stuck here until you break under pressure? In the end, you'll still agree to be mine, sweetie. It depends on you if you want to suffer or not."

And destroy those who are too weak and gets crushed under its ruthless rule.

"This choice is yours." 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 straightened his back and only now you realized he was holding a sheet of paper. "All you have to do is to sign this..."

You knew you have no choice.

"So pick carefully, sweetie."

All of the published posts on this account/blog belongs to @shooting-love-arrows. I do not consent to my works being: translated, stolen, published or reposted on this and other sites. Likes, reblogs, comments are highly appreaciated. Thank you.

[anantaru]

— does he like it when you're being clingy?

including wriothesley, neuvillette, kaveh, scaramouche x gn! reader

꒰ genre ꒱ — fluff & crack, lots of physical touch, established relationship, kissies, love sick genshin men

— wriothesley

as much as wriothesley shows off his strong demeanor for the outside world to see, he cannot lie to himself when it comes to you— because the duke likes seeing you be clingy with him and search for his vehemence.

to him, there was nothing better than having your arms all padded up around him while you kiss his little worries away— so for all he cares, let the outside world call him bewitched if they must, or caught in an angelic spell for that matter. to wriothesley it didn't sound bad nor did he really give a damn about what a so called nobody would say about his life, alongside the fact that he found it quite amusing whenever they did talk about him.

the duke was exceptionally gentle with you, but sometimes he just wants to be able to see you love him in a whole differing modus other than you simply uttering out the three delicate words— in fact, wriothesley too, cares about you so much that he's trying to keep you around all the time, having you enveloped in his arms like he always daydreams of whenever you were apart from each other— hoping that you'd visit him so he could listen to whatever story you might tell him about.

now, was this a new feeling? well, yes. simply put, it was one he had never experienced before. the man had always been faithful, protective and nurturing in his life, so when love solidified the senses of his body, wriothesley was able to finally share his love with somebody.

what you did not know was that wriothesley was slightly frightened in the early stages of your relationship, to someone like the duke it wasn't particularly a breezy walk in the park to open up to another individual and realize that for the first time in his life, he was able to trust someone undoubtedly without fearing a possible mistreat.

now, he admits his love to you when he felt ready to do so, and when he does spell out the three words that bonded a relationship anew, your lips curl deeper into a passionate smile as he kisses the sides of your mouth.

your company alone was an important determination factor of his mood, and although he doesn't want to trouble you with his work, nor was he really allowed to share important and confidential details, wriothesley was certain that you would always be there to listen to him no matter what crossed his mind.

interesting how his heart has not once melted in his entire life prior to finding his soulmate. that's why in his eyes, there is no truer language than the language of love.

a cruel world that has been so cold go him surely wouldn't give him such wonderful gift?

alas, it did— wriothesley could feel it in his bones whenever you held him close to your chest late at night, his ear shell quietly pressed right above your heart. the silent vibrations place a pure tepidness of passion on his soul when he finds himself gradually softening to it, on all occasions smiling as he falls asleep in your arms.

— neuvillette

in the early stages of your relationship, when you had first placed your lips on neuvillette's, the three letter announcement evaporates from his tongue as fluid as when sunlight enters the raindrops and emerges as rainbows from afar.

and yes, much to his surprise he didn't die because of it, who would've saw that coming? although the iudex wholeheartedly believed that he would suffer from a cardiac arrest due to the vast bursts of anxiety gradually chugging away his confidence.

"can i sit on your lap?" you smile gently, unsure whether his silence is that of enthusiasm or distaste.

neuvillette can hardly register it at first before he presses out a pathetic little yes when his excitement reaches the roof of his head and violently breaks through it, showing you those open and loving eyes that were the golden entry to his soul.

you hear a deep, breathless pant when you sit on him, witnessing how a hefty amount of redness catches up to his face until battering his ears, ultimately coaxing out a shiver from his spine.

don't misunderstand his unusual reactions— but neuvillette couldn't quite fathom that you belonged to him and sought out his body like that, it's always special when you nonchalantly rounded your hands on his face and replenished his energy anew, as if his frame was reborn in its most perfect form solely when he felt your trace.

and so, he cannot get enough of your warmth— no wonder when you remind yourself of the pure emotions that he harbored deeply for you.

instinctively, you rest your body against his chest, a soft glow rounding up your facial features, "ah, can't wait until you're done with this," you huff and point at his office desk being crowded by a bunch of papers as you press a small peck against the tip of his nose, ruffling his hair a little.

"it is rather late, you mustn't stay here," he insists, a barely distinctive curve of his lips turning all the difference in the choice of his tone.

"oh? does that mean you want to get rid of me?" how terribly skilled you were when you soaked your words in viscous sarcasm— so skillful in fact that neuvillette would always fall for it head first, or that's what you thought.

he raises a brow before curving one arm around your waist, leaning you against his chest so you wouldn't be able to move an inch, even if you tried.

"now," he playfully scolds, "you, my love, couldn't be farer from the truth."

"and here i thought you must know me by now?"

"i'm joking with you!" you panic, battering his cheek with little kisses as if he didn't know— but neuvillette sees how happy you were whenever you believed you fooled him.

he cocks an eyebrow at you, his mannerism in a questioning stance.

"apologies, aren't jokes supposed to be humorous?"

you scoff, "hmpf, now you're just mean!"

— kaveh

from an outer perspective, one couldn't possibly figure out who was clingier towards the other person— and even with someone being a close friends of the both of you, it's beyond the bounds of possibility to crown a winner.

you or kaveh? who yearned for the attention of the other more? to answer such difficult question, you should first know of the moniker a certain scribe has given you, in fact, within your friend-group kaveh and you had instantly claimed the title of most insufferable couple.

you might wonder, was that a bad thing? oh well, not at all!

and kaveh doesn't even attempt to conceal the priceless smirk on his face whenever he heard his roommate address the both of you as that— it turned him deeply fulfilled that everyone was able to see how crazy he was about you.

your heart feels full by his comforting arms that each throb rattles across your limbs and muscles, feeling weightless at the welcoming cradle— your love being whole, one touch and a gentle kiss on the lips and you feel on a bed of roses, tucked up in velvet.

"what is it?" kaveh leans at you, raising a brow at the way you peak behind his shoulder. during closer inspection, you catch up on a sneaky little smirk that frames his lips the more you focused on what's behind him, "c'mon baby, tell me," kaveh kisses your cheek.

"i think they're calling us insufferable again." you point behind his shoulder, specifically at a table with three people— one wholly focused on the cards in his hands and remaining unbothered while the others sneakily glanced over to you every now and then, whispering incoherent mumbles into each others ears with their palms covering their lips.

and your words don't achieve anything besides making him all the more amused when he wraps his arms around your waist, it's evident, very much so but kaveh was fond of the situation— perhaps he even prided himself on it, he has the audacity to act surprised though.

he laughs, nudging the tip of his nose against your jaw, "they're probably just talking about a way to beat cyno in tcg."

he continues, "we should leave early," and states firmly, "but i think alhaitham took my keys again."

"how does this always happen?" you note tiresomely before dropping your head onto his shoulder— a little too dramatically so that the scribe picked up on it immediately, revealing a triumphant smirk.

perhaps that is why they say love is such magic, this gift from the universe that was unable to be compared, this sweet addiction that no matter what situation you were in, big or small, if it's the two of you facing it together, it was nothing.

— scaramouche

even if scaramouche doesn't straight out admit it to you, he likes it whenever you were clingy with him— and after a good while of you two being in a relationship, he will more and more show his genuine love of it until he’s practically playing with the thought of begging for more.

in the beginning it starts by how fast his cheeks flame red and his focus dwindling as you hug him. after that particular encounter scaramouche memorizes what you did and decides that this must be a proper way to greet you as well— maybe even give you a little kiss on the cheek if he's feeling like it.

scratch that, what he lacks was the courage to go that far.

but no matter how often you would greet him this way, the action alone send him spiraling, shyly snuggling closer to you, inch by inch, although not risking it to hold eye contact and instead averting his gaze as he attempts to indulge in it nervously— stiff as concrete with both arms frozen on each side of his body when you wrapped your limbs around him.

he leans into your touch and closes his eyes— how warm, it's as if the sun itself would shine down on him and prickle on his skin, you feel so whole, like a home.

your touch, it's difficult to explain besides the fact that it carries such passion, and before scaramouche could register it— what was once scarred long ago expresses gentleness all of a sudden. 

although not everything from his past could be forgotten, yet your presence made it bearable.

what was also a crucial task to scaramouche was his recent curiosity in understanding the concept of love and how he fell for it— while he ultimately came to the conclusion that the only way to understand love is to feel it, attempt to embody it, or embrace it in its complete form. 

next time, you greet him with a blank look on your face as he applies your method on you first, slightly catching you off guard as he welcomes you home almost wordlessly, taking your hand in his cold one when he pulls you into a hug— it is a silent engage and the way he practically dragged you into him made your forehead smack his shoulder.

thankfully scaramouche doesn't have to speak in order for you to understand what he was trying to signalize here.

what's following next would be considered even sillier than him blatantly copying you, but when the two of you walk alongside each other through the hustling streets of sumeru city, you flinch a little at a strong grab on your hand ambushing you, "hey, nope— hold on, stop walking and give me your hand dammit," scaramouche scoffs as he chases after it, when with a quick motion, he traps it finally and tangles his digits around your own.

"there's no fun if i make it easy," you wink, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his jaw, "i like the faces you make when you're mad, you know? your expressions are so cute."

"don't you realize you're wasting time like that?" scaramouche clicks his tongue before squeezing your hand in his grasp, letting out an audible hmph before turning his head towards the street.

"honestly? that's fine by me," you coo softly, smothering him with the attention he craves as more of your fingers dig into the soft flesh of his palm.

"as long as you still love me, of course."

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[ladyrosemone]

Open arms

This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms

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LADS x No-Mc

Tw!: Thoughts about attempting to take one's life (superficial but there), reference to depression, reference to therapy.

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The time after a breakup shouldn't hurt this much, but you have the right to feel this way after going through five in a row in the space of half a year.

Eros must hate you, what did you do to him? Did you offend him in some way? Is it because you said Valentine's Day was a day dedicated to compulsive, capitalist buying and selling without any real love? You was kidding! You were younger and wanted to be cool, not because he should curse you like Apollo after mocking your archery skills!

Maybe if you hadn't done that, you wouldn't be in your apartment right now, eating chips and drinking sugary Coke, watching a romantic comedy that's not funny at all, suddenly crying as if your brain wanted to remind you in every scene between the protagonists that you're not experiencing that, that you're the filler character who helped the male lead realize he actually loved the female lead and leave her at the altar on their wedding day. Yes, that specific.

So what now? What's next for the poor extra in her own movie? The one who didn't ask to be the woman in the trial? What's left for her?

You don't believe in destiny, or in happily ever afters that come out of nowhere, or in all that Valentine's Day nonsense (Yes, now it's against you, Eros), but maybe, just maybe…you need a divine sign, something to push you out of the hole you've been hiding in since your last breakup.

…

Of course, nothing would happen, why would it? The universe is just a collection of molecules about to collide and cause another Big Bang at any second—

Ring Ring! Ring Ring!

- Hello? -

- Hey! - Ryan, your dear paramedic friend, whom you've unfairly been avoiding since Zayne admitted to loving someone else - How are you? I heard it didn't work out with that colonel -

There was no need to reply; your silence was the only response you'd been using lately - Look, I have this pass for a hike to Mount Huangshan, all expenses paid, the girls are going too! -

- I don't know, Ryan, I don't feel ready -

- I understand - He sighs - But it's not fair that you rot in your house while the others go off in some kind of…polyamorous relationship, It's not fair! -

- …What about them? - In the background, his friends could be heard scolding him for being so direct, for saying that over a phone call, for saying it in the first place, while the man tries to defend himself, even he sounds remorseful.

- We didn't want you to find out like this - admits a female voice, her friend Minji, the most sentimental of the five, a creative soul who, indirectly, was the one who encouraged her to go out with the artist.

- Come on! It's time to leave your cave! - Yinou's voice chimes in, strong and demanding, a leader who doesn't leave any of her people behind.

- Come on! Please come with us! - chimes in a smaller but no less strong voice. Daiki was the most protective of the five, also the most vocal in his thoughts and a guiding light on their craziest adventures, just like the one you can experience if you decide to go out.

But can you? Leave your nest, your dark but comfortable home, safe from the pain other people can cause you…

- Sorry guys, I…- The television flashes with a colorful commercial, the happy music and vibrant images catching their attention. She's a presenter, a smiling woman who talks about support groups, techniques for leaning on someone when you can't do it alone.

"And remember, if you have to lie to yourself to be happy, you have to get out of there"

Even if it was a generic phrase, a self-help brand slogan, a product being sold with a yellow phone number, those words echoed in your head.

What are you doing? Why are you letting yourself get so down? Why do you give so much weight to the pain? There's a whole world out there! But what if…

No, you shouldn't think like that even if it's the easiest thing to do, you shouldn't believe that even if it's the most comfortable thing to do, you shouldn't give up - Come pick me up first thing in the morning -

The echo of the celebration had never made you feel so happy before.

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Trust the process, you always tell yourself, trust the process.

Accepting that outing was the best decision at the time, the fresh air felt like a respite for your cramped limbs, walking made your muscles remember how to move, you'd even say you enjoyed catching up with your friends, each busy with their own lives and careers who still made room in their schedules to hang out with you.

But when the euphoria wore off, when the trip ended and everyone went their separate ways, you felt that loneliness again, suffocating you until you were breathless, with the thoughts that were once your allies now the most powerful enemies that have tormented you. You don't want the solitude of your apartment, suffocating and tense, like a horror movie playing every minute and every second. The saddest thing is to think that once this place was your sanctuary, your safe place, and now it's nothing more than a memory of things that were.

It shouldn't feel like this. You don't want to feel like this anymore, but you don't know what else to do or where to look…

Unless…no…you won't sink that low, you can do it on your own; but the way it's gone with this, taking it on yourself only makes you sink deeper into a grave you don't want to reach yet. A broken heart really shouldn't feel like this, but it feels like the world is ending, like nothing makes sense anymore and the only way out is the unthinkable.

No! Stop thinking like that! Why do you suddenly think like that?! You're not like that! You're brilliant! Smart and charismatic! You're interesting and feisty! Loyal and caring! Kind and honest! You're so much more than they thought you were worth…! Why do they keep showing up?!

You're tired of feeling like this; helpless, exhausted, and tearful, as if any breeze would knock you down, you hate how it feels, the weakness in your bones and the weight of the world on your shoulders. Seriously, of all the things that could have brought you down, was a bad love the reason? Pathetic.

- You're not pathetic - you find yourself whispering, your subconscious (or maybe conscious) trying one last time to put up a fight -Just tired…-

You should seek help.

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Years ago, you believed in fairy tales.

Obviously for your age, a child who imagined himself flying on dragons and ruling castles that were actually playgrounds. But at the end of the day, you believed in happy endings and in love that triumphs in the end.

But you had to grow up, and when you grow up, you must forget that.

You don't have a tragic story, you weren't a laboratory experiment, or an enchanted princess thief, your parents didn't die in a dramatic accident or anything like that, just one day…you decided to open your eyes, to understand that not everything is like in fairy tales where the righteous always win and the wicked are punished. Life isn't black or white, it's a blurred gray that swings like a coin about to fall, these are lessons you learned like anyone throughout their life. Perhaps what's different about you is that you hide the emotional aftereffects that come with the lesson, good or bad, you repress it inside like someone who keeps jewels in a safe.

It wasn't fair, but it was the cards you were dealt that made those relationships not work out; but if there's one thing you should be clear about now and always, it's that it wasn't your fault they ended this way; no, repeat it in your head, you did enough.

You loved enough, listened enough, cared enough, and now you've suffered enough. Look in the mirror one last time and begin your own relationship with yourself; heal yourself little by little, but return to being that person who shines on their own.

It will take time, a lot of time, but you have the patience and companionship to achieve it. You don't need a partner or a spouse, not right now.

And that's okay; now is the time to heal.

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[little-diable]

Cocky Tornado Wrangler – Tyler Owens (smut)

Finally watching Twisters tonight. My poor aunt who has to listen to me gush about our husband. Thank you so much for the love on my other Tyler fic, I hope y'all will love this just as much. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: There are many things (y/n) would prefer to having to share a room with the man she hates. But does she really hate him? Or will the bed they share be enough to push them closer together?

Warnings: 18+, smut, oral (f), piv, enemies to lovers, lots of teasing

Pairing: Tyler Owens x fem!reader (3.8k words)

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Her voice dripped with exhaustion, eyes tired and ready to flutter shut any moment now. But fuck, she couldn’t give in just yet, had to fight yet another battle with the self proclaimed tornado wrangler who was staring down at her with his signature smirk glued to his lips.

The smirk he wore in every video of his. Videos she watched whenever they were uploaded to his channel. Not that she’d ever tell Tyler that. And god forbid he’d ever stumble upon the saved favourites she watched in moments where she needed distraction from everything but him. 

“Well, seems like your prayers were answered, pretty. An EF4 and now we get to share a room, certainly feels like we’re even closer to heaven now, doesn’t it?” Tyler’s hand found her waist to give it a soft squeeze before he gently pushed her further into the motel room. It had been an exhausting day, filled with adrenaline highs as they chased tornadoes until the late evening. Even though they had been mesmerised by the beautiful disaster, they were now forced to stay in one of the close towns, cut off from the highway heading home. 

“I can take the couch.” She had her eyes set on the rather worn out couch which had been pushed against one of the walls that were painted in a faded out pink colour. The whole room made her feel like she was back at her grandparents home, letting an almost melancholic feeling settle in the pit of her stomach. 

“You sure you don’t wanna share? The bed’s big enough, or I could take the couch.” Tyler hung up his still wet hat before placing his bag down on the bed. (Y/n) watched him take in the room, giving her a few seconds to curse him for wearing a white shirt that now clung to his muscular upper body. His back muscles were shining through the wet fabric, letting her get lost in the thoughts of how it must feel to brush her nails along his soft skin. Thoughts that shot heat straight down to her core, knowing that she’d have to take care of that cursed longing in the shower. 

“In your dreams, Owens, and we both know you won’t fit on that couch.” His raspy laugh left her grinning, unable to stop her tired face from reacting to the man (y/n) claimed she hated and yet needed to feel close at any given chance. 

“Trust me, baby, my dreams are all about sharing a bed with you and so much more.” With a wink thrown her way, Tyler plopped down on the bed. He studied her for a moment, taking in her wet frame while his tongue kissed his teeth and his muscular arms were locked behind his head. She needed to get out of here, needed to find shelter in the warm shower before her body would do something she couldn’t stop it from doing. 

“I’ll grab a quick shower.” (Y/n) didn’t wait for his reply, darting for the bathroom that was just big enough for her to let go of a deep breath. 

She hated that she had dreamt of moments like these, wondering how it may play out with Tyler by her side, having to share a bed while the world outside was ending. And all they’d have eyes for would be one another, no matter how many tornadoes called for them. 

Within seconds, (y/n) had shuffled out of her wet clothes only to step into the small shower. She couldn’t stop her soft moan from leaving her as the warm water cascaded down her back as if it were hugging her. The silence she was now offered forced her thoughts back to the longing she couldn’t shake, the need to take care of the pulsing between her thighs that grew stronger with every passing moment. 

Her fingers moved quickly, knowing that she didn’t have much time before Tyler would disturb her peace, desperate for a shower himself. With her teeth buried in her lower lip, (y/n) let her fingers circle her pulsing bundle, imaging Tyler’s fingers instead of her own. 

Would he touch her with the same kind of urgency? Would he draw the same moans from her she oh so desperately wanted to give in to? No, he wouldn’t. He’d make her feel things she had never felt before, clashing through her like a tornado stronger than she had ever been fortunate enough to study. Tyler Owens was her own personal disaster and she was close to letting him rip her off her feet, close to allowing him to have his way with her without being able to protest. 

“Fuck,” the word rolled off her tongue all too quickly, knowing that she was already close to giving in to her high. (Y/n) didn’t pay the ache in her forearm any mind, didn’t worry about the way her fingers begged her to move slower, all she was focused on were her thoughts that painted a picture of Tyler and the way he’d touch her.

And with her head rolled back and her lips tightly pressed together, she came. (Y/n) let her orgasm wash through her, rubbing her pulsing bundle a few more times before her tired body found its way out of the shower.

It took her a second to realise that she hadn’t taken any clean clothes with her, drawing yet another exhausted groan from her. Carefully, she opened the door, hiding behind her towel while her eyes found Tyler’s frame. No longer was he wearing his shirt, exposing his muscular upper body to her eyes which tried to burn every inch of his naked skin into her mind. 

“Tyler,” her soft voice drew his eyes from his phone. “Do you have a shirt I can borrow?”

She expected a snarky comment, anything to tease her and rile her up some more, but Tyler stayed quiet, eyes focused on the parts of her body that weren’t covered by the door or her towel. (Y/n) could have sworn that he had swallowed heavily first before rising to his feet to reach for his bag. His eyes stayed glued to her while he reached a shirt out for her to take, letting his fingers brush against hers for a moment. 

It was cheesy almost, the buzz of lighting striking her at the small contact. A touch so small and yet so significant, her mind would probably think of it for days and nights to come.

With a small “thank you” rolling off her tongue, (y/n) stepped back into the bathroom to put on the shirt, grateful that it was long enough to cover her panties. Trembling legs carried her back into the room, not daring to look at Tyler, whose eyes she felt on her frame. No words were spoken between them as he pushed past her into the bathroom, allowing (y/n) to deeply exhale the second she was left alone once again. 

……

The moments after Tyler had returned from the shower, wearing nothing but boxers that clung to his body just as tightly as his wet shirt had, had been filled with a tight atmosphere. Barely any words had been shared between them, not as she had made herself comfortable on the couch, not as he had turned off the light while stretching out on the bed.

She had turned her back to him to stop her eyes from wandering, knowing that no matter how tired she was, her mind wouldn’t let her rest. Not when he was so close to her. Not when she heard his uneven breaths that told her he was still awake. Not when she could easily move closer to feel him pressed against her. 

What was he thinking of? Was he still riled up by today’s chase? Or was he also thinking of those moments where he had passed his shirt to her? 

Even though she begged her body to stay calm, to not move back towards him, she lost the fight within seconds. Her front was turned towards him, letting her eyes rest on the parts of his body that weren’t hidden by the blanket, making her awfully aware of how close he was to her. 

This was unusual for them, quiet moments where neither spoke, where no teasing or bickering could be heard. Nothing but the breaths both let go of while he kept his eyes focused on the ceiling and she wasn't strong enough to look away from him just yet.

“I can feel you staring, pretty.” Tyler rolled his head towards her, eyes meeting (y/n)’s like lightning striking a tree, buzzing straight through it to set it ablaze. “What’s going on in that confusing mind of yours?”

“Just because you’re not smart enough to understand my thoughts it doesn’t mean my mind’s confusing.” The words had left her all too quickly, drawing a gritty laugh from Tyler. A sound she loved hearing, no matter how hard she tried to deny it. A sound that left her smiling the second her ears were fortunate enough to hear it. 

“You wound me. I’d say we’re a pretty good team when it comes to understanding your plans.” Heat spread through every part of her body, a heat she was all too used to by now but still didn’t know how to work with. She rolled her eyes at Tyler before refocusing on his handsome features, taking in every part of the face she knew like the back of her hand. 

Her breath hitched in her chest as he lifted the blanket, patting the spot next to him, “Come up here, I don’t need you complaining about back pain tomorrow.”

(Y/n)’s body moved without holding back, crawling to the spot next to him as if she had done this numerous times before. It felt awfully right to lay next to him, to feel Tyler’s arm slowly wrap around her middle to cage her against his chest. 

“Do you remember the first time we chased together?” She tried to stop her hand from moving as he spoke, she really did. But yet (y/n) miserably failed, unable to keep away from his soft skin any longer, needing to feel it beneath her wandering fingers as she traced slow patterns on the skin of his warm chest. 

“I wanted to break your nose that day, god, you were even cockier back then. Do you still think people instantly recognise you when you meet them?” He shook his head with a smirk playing on his lips, tightening his grip on (y/n) as she shuffled even closer. That day was replaying in her mind every now and then, remembering how he had misjudged her for a fangirl, expecting her to almost faint when shaking his hand. And yet she hadn’t known much about him, had never watched any of his videos before that day. Something Tyler hadn’t taken as lightly as he should have, turning into the cocky asshole she had cursed for the past months.

“I no longer care about that, only worry about impressing you, pretty.” He pressed a kiss to her hairline before he let his eyes flicker back to the ceiling. His sharp jawline was exposed to her wandering eyes, making (y/n) awfully aware of how easily she could kiss him right now. It took everything in her not to move, to hold still as her heart picked up its beat. Whatever it was that had urged her on to fight against him these past months, it was now gone, leaving her unable to fight back and in need of something more. 

“We both know that’s a lie, Owens. All you worry about is tornadoes and busty women who ask you to sign their cleavages.” Her laugh was mixed with his as he let his gaze find hers again while squeezing her side. She fought against his grip, hating that he had found her most ticklish spot that made her toss and turn against him. Tyler seemed to enjoy the sight, letting his fingers find the spot again while shifting her around to hover over (y/n). With one hand pressed to the pillow and his knees caging in her right thigh, he left her no room to move away from him. 

“Do I hear jealousy?” His eyes wandered over her face, focusing on her lips as she fought against the need to look away. “You know there’s no need to be jealous, pretty. All you gotta do is give in and stop fighting our bond.” 

A sharp reply was burning on her tongue, and yet her body managed to win the fight, letting her fingers find the back of Tyler’s neck to pull him in for a soft kiss. He instantly replied to the touch, adding more pressure to the kiss with his body shuffling closer. It felt as if they were burning, tied together like two matches setting a petrol station ablaze, ready to alight the darkening night. 

With every swipe of his tongue, with every moan rumbling through them, it set in further that this was finally happening, that they were finally crossing that last bridge. No longer was she set on fighting it, purely focused on Tyler’s touch and the need to feel him as close as humanly possible. 

“Talk to me, baby, what do you want?” Her mind was torn between the kisses they kept sharing and the feeling of him growing against her thigh, telling (y/n) that he needed and wanted this as much as she did. Her fingers combed through his hair, letting her nails scratch his skin with just enough pressure to leave him tingling in excitement. 

“Everything, I want all of you, Tyler.” Hours ago she would have cursed herself for giving in so easily, for admitting that insatiable hunger she had felt for months now. But she no longer found it in herself to care, could no longer shy away from having whatever Tyler was about to offer her. Her words drew a groan from the tall tornado wrangler who kissed his way down her throat while shifting his weight onto his knees. They held eye contact as his hands disappeared beneath the shirt of his she was wearing, finding their way straight to her chest. 

“Fuck, feels like you were made for me, every part of you.” His praises sank in like a ship hitting the ocean ground, sinking lower with every passing second, forever resting on the ground like the praises he spoke to her. Forever etched into her mind. Forever remembering the way they made her feel lightheaded and giddy. 

Urgently he pulled the shirt over her head, set on exposing her body to his hungry eyes. Tyler let go of another groan as he looked down at her, making a silent promise that he’d have to take a picture of her in that position one of these days. He dipped his head down to  suck on her nipples, making her moan for him while she spread her thighs for him. His core met hers, leaving both breathless as his clothed cock rubbed against her clothed heat – a feeling so intense, it only urged Tyler on to move further down her body. 

“Will you let me taste you, pretty?” Only a breathless “Please” left (y/n), drawing a smirk to his lips. She watched his eyes light up as he pushed her panties down her legs, looking like he was marvelling at art – art so mesmerising he couldn’t stop staring. 

“Let me make you feel good, baby.” Those were the last words Tyler spoke before his tongue brushed her folds, drawing a moan from the both of them. His arms wove their way around her thighs, keeping her pressed to him as he ate her out like a starving man, high on her taste and the sounds she made for him. 

Nothing but moans managed to leave (y/n), getting lost in the feeling of Tyler sucking on her pulsing bundle, while he pushed two fingers into her – doing just what she had imagined him doing in the shower a while ago. He instantly managed to find that spot that made her see stars as he pressed down on it with his fingers, forcing (y/n) to choke on her sounds.

“Oh god, Tyler,” he chuckled against her skin, letting the sound vibrate through every part of her. From the corner of his eyes he could see her fist the covers with her free hand, the one that wasn’t buried in his hair, telling him that she was already close. And yet Tyler knew that he’d pull away soon, wanting to feel her cum around his cock like he had imagined her doing the past months. 

Tyler had worked hard for her attention, knowing that he had fucked it up the first time they had met. She had instantly managed to push him off his high horse, bruising his ego with her sharp words he could still recite today. And yet it had only made him desperate for more, set on pulling her closer like no other woman before her. 

“I could die a happy death between your thighs, pretty, but I need to fuck you now.” The dazy look she shot him made him feel proud, knowing that she had been about to cum on his tongue. She didn’t reply, at least not with words, with nothing but a whine did she pull him towards her for another kiss. He shuffled out of his boxers, freeing his twitching cock with a few movements. 

“Let me grab a condom.” He left her side for a moment, allowing (y/n) to sort through her thoughts which were all over the place. And yet she couldn’t carry about anything but the need to feel him buried inside of her, knowing that once she knew what it feels like to have him so close, she’d never be able to let him go again. A thought that left her torn between excitement and anxiety, unsure what was awaiting them. 

“Do you still want this? We don’t have to do this if you’re unsure, (y/n).” Tyler’s whispers ripped her out of her spiralling thoughts. She shook her head at him before pulling back in, focused on his handsome face, mustering every spot she could blindly find. 

“I want this, want you.” That’s all he needed to hear before aligning himself with her heat and slowly pushing into her. With his forehead pressed against hers, both needed a moment to adjust, not expecting to feel this, unable to put the sensation into any words that would make sense to their minds. It felt like they had been made for one another, made solemnly for this moment that felt as if the world had spinning, thrown off its path. 

“Move, please, Ty’.” He instantly gave in, pulling out of her only to push in with more strength. Their bodies met with every ferocious thrust, sending bolts of electricity down her spine. She arched her back off the mattress, needing to be even closer to him while he kept burying himself inside of her. 

Blood rushed in her ears, drowning everything out but the sounds Tyler made, sounds so raspy and deep she feared it was another tornado growing in the distance, guttural sounds which left her walls fluttering around his cock. Her fingernails scratched at his shoulder, set on leaving red marks that wouldn’t fade for days, claiming him in the most primal way she could come up with at that moment. 

“God, I can’t wait to fuck you like that for the rest of my life.” The words roll off his tongue just like that. There was no way he could stop them from leaving him. And for the first time in minutes she finds herself ripped out of her state, staring up at him with wide eyes. But Tyler doesn’t say another word, all he does is study her while fucking her closer to the edge. 

“Do you mean that?” She struggled to speak, needing to ground herself before choking on her words. Their eyes kept holding contact, even as he nodded his head while watching a smile grow on her slightly swollen lips. “Good, I don’t want you to let me go again, Owens.”

He took the words as a challenge, adding even more pressure to his thrusts to throw (y/n) back into her dazed state. With his fingers circling her pulsing bundle, he knew that it was only a matter of moments before she’d cum around his cock, allowing him to take in the most beautiful sight he’d ever be fortunate enough to see. 

His name left (y/n) one last time before falling off the edge. His hips kept meeting hers, fucking her through her high while feeling his own crawling closer. She clung to him, murmuring his name like her own personal mantra as he followed her, letting go with a groan she’d forever remember.

It took both a moment to move again, for him to pull out of her and to get rid of the condom and for her to slightly shift around on the mattress, watching his every move with her weight balanced on her forearms. Tyler found his way back to her within seconds, hovering over her to press another kiss to the lips he’d never get tired of kissing. 

“Are you okay?” His whispers left (y/n) grinning, nodding against his lips while another wave of euphoria swapped through her. 

“More than.” Unspoken feelings were hanging heavily in the air, knowing that both would have to address them rather soon, but all they did was look at one another, marvelling at the person they never wanted to let go of again. “Thank you for this.”

“Nothing to thank me for, pretty. And hell, I’m not even close to being finished with you tonight.”

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 17

˗ˏˋ reconnecting ˎˊ˗

"Fridays are not always the best day of the week, you can vouch for this one at least. It's Emma's birthday party and you're not sure you two still vibe together or not after all this time. And coming home... you don't expect Jungkook to be awake, especially not with your cold war going on. But he is."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9,6k

content: begrudgingly gift-shopping, hidden treasures, old vs new friendships, reconnecting, pretty girls and the inability to discern whether it's flirting or polite talk, AM talks, actually listening (thank god, progress!), and vanilla kink striking again because jungkook in this fic has free will and i cannot control him

✧ author's note ✧

WASSSSSUPPPP my peoplessss!!

Okay so here’s Chapter 17—aka the chapter where all of you start collectively projecting your unresolved issues with your high school best friend, your fuckboy roommate, and your local pastel/goth lesbian duo. I say that with love.

Now LISTEN. I keep raising the bar for this story like but honestly?? That’s on YOU. You absolute feral gremlins with your “when’s the next update” comments like I’m a vending machine that dispenses emotional damage. (It’s fine. I thrive under fear and pressure. You’re welcome.)

About this chapter!! So my initial plan was for Nix to buy Jungkook an actual vinyl player… until I did the research and realized those bitches go for 150-300 bucks even secondhand. Be fr. They are NOT in a relationship. This man is her hot emotional disaster roommate who’s been beefing with her for three days and literally slammed a door at her. I would not spend a single euro on that man beyond what is legally required. Fifteen dollars for a John Mayer record? That’s the sweet spot. It says “I hate you but I know what music you like and I think about you when you’re not around and that makes me want to bite drywall.”

Also: if you know that Inside Wants Out is an early acoustic EP that’s kinda slept on but has a few gut-wrenching tracks about vulnerability and romantic ambivalence… well. Have fun.

Now shut up because I love writing female friendships and this chapter is my offering to the goddesses of sapphic chaos. Yeji and Irya being absolute queens??? We love. But also EMMA. Emma and that awkward tension of do we still fit? Did we ever really know each other or was it just proximity and hormones and being stuck in the same suburban hellscape? That shit is SO REAL. Reuniting with old friends is like a spiritual liminal space and I needed to capture that gnawing weirdness.

AND JIMIN. The eyeliner scene??? I almost CRIED writing it. I had to pause. That man is so soft it makes me want to shove him into a pillow fort and protect him from the world. He’s so good. He sees her, without wanting anything in return. You better analyze it or I’ll strangle every single one of you.

Now. Regarding the very tense bathroom cologne scene. I was actually going to drag the cold war out longer, truly. I had plans. But Jungkook opened his slutty little mouth and said, “No, actually, I’m feral and I’ve been suffering in silence and she smells like sex and nostalgia and I must act.” And what was I supposed to do? Argue? Please. I have 0 narrative agency here. That much is clear.

Also his birthday is coming. So like. I didn’t want to enter that subplot with them still fake-ignoring each other like divorced parents. You’re welcome.

ANYWAY. The next few chapters are slower paced but VERY important. It’s all those little moments where the characters start changing without realizing it. The kind of growth you only see in hindsight. The slow part of the slow burn. But I swear to god I’m obsessed with how it’s turning out and I just want to share it with you and roll around in the angst like a dog in grass.

Okay that’s all. I love you. Go scream in the comments or eat drywall. Or both! <3 Mwah.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Fridays aren't supposed to sneak up on you like a debt collector with something to prove.

Usually, you spend the whole week crawling toward Friday like it's an oasis in the desert of your existence. Monday is hell. Tuesday is hell's waiting room. Wednesday offers a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, the week won't actually kill you. Thursday is its own special brand of torture—so close to freedom you can taste it, but still trapped in the purgatory of obligation.

And then: Friday. 

Glorious, beautiful Friday.

Except this one. This one materialized out of nowhere, ambushing you with its presence and the sudden, horrifying realization that you have exactly zero hours to prepare for what's coming.

So here you are, somehow already standing in a flea market that smells like mothballs and questionable life choices, watching Yeji hold up a fishnet... something against her body while Irya coos over crystals that probably came from the dollar store.

"What do you think?" Yeji asks, draping the fishnet monstrosity over her shoulders. "Is it giving 'fashion-forward' or 'I found this in a dumpster'?"

"Definitely dumpster," you mutter, eyes scanning the crowded stalls without really seeing them. 

Because your mind? Your mind is elsewhere—specifically on the fact that you still need to find a birthday gift for your insufferable roommate.

Jungkook. 

Just thinking his name makes your jaw clench. 

It's been three days since your argument, and the apartment has been a cold war zone of pointed silences and aggressive door closing. 

He wants to be petty? Fine. You can be petty right back. Twice as petty, even. So you’re not talking to him either.

"Hello?” Yeji waves a hand in front of your face. "You've been staring at that old guy selling taxidermy squirrels for like, two minutes straight. Should I be concerned?"

You blink, refocusing. "What? No. I'm just... looking."

"For what exactly?" Irya appears at your side, a small purple crystal clutched in her palm. "You said you already got Emma's birthday present."

"Just browsing," you lie smoothly. "Flea markets are full of... treasures."

Yeji snorts. "Since when do you care about 'treasures'? Last time I dragged you to a vintage store, you said it smelled like 'dead people's closets.'"

“No I didn’t.”

"Right." Yeji doesn't look convinced, but she's already distracted by a display of chunky silver rings. "I'm gonna check these out. Meet you at the food trucks in twenty?"

You nod, grateful for the chance to browse alone. Not that you have any fucking clue what to get Jungkook. What do you buy for someone whose entire personality seems to be "brooding film student with inexplicably good taste in coffee"?

It is like an abandoned warehouse, this flea market—stalls crammed together in haphazard rows, hipsters and bargain hunters elbowing past each other, haggling over everything from antique doorknobs to hand-knitted beanies that look like they were made by someone's cat…

You wander aimlessly, passing stalls selling vintage cameras (too expensive), artisanal coffee beans (too obvious), and leather-bound journals (too pretentious, even for him). 

Nothing feels right. 

Not that it matters—it's just a stupid obligation gift. You shouldn't care this much.

But you do. And that's annoying as fuck.

Then, a rickety table stacked with milk crates catches your eye—or rather, the handwritten sign that reads "RECORDS $5-20" in faded Sharpie. 

The elderly man behind the table looks like he's been selling vinyl since before your parents were born, his weathered hands carefully flipping through a box as a customer asks about some obscure band.

You wait until they leave, then approach, trying to look like someone who actually knows something about records. The crates are dusty, disorganized, with no apparent system. Just hundreds of albums crammed together like sardines.

"Looking for anything specific?" the old man asks, voice gravelly from what you assume are decades of cigarettes.

"Just browsing," you say, already flipping through the nearest crate.

Most of the covers are faded, corners bent, some with water damage or mysterious stains you'd rather not identify. You recognize maybe one in ten artists—a lot of jazz, classic rock, some folk singers your dad probably listened to in college.

This is stupid. You don't know what you're looking for. Jungkook collects vinyl but doesn't even own a record player. What kind of pretentious bullshit is that? It's like buying books just to display them on a shelf without reading them.

You're about to give up when your fingers pause on a familiar name.

John Mayer.

The album cover is slightly worn at the edges, but otherwise in decent condition. 

"Inside Wants Out," it says in simple white letters against the picture of a dude (you guess it’s John) in the background. 

You don’t recognize it at all.

But Jungkook listens to him. His vynil collection is basically a shrine to him. 

So you ask "how much?", holding up the record.

The old man squints. "Fifteen."

Fifteen bucks. Okay, that’s... actually reasonable. Not so expensive that it seems like you care, but not so cheap that it looks like an afterthought. 

Just a casual, "hey, saw this and thought of your weird vinyl collection" kind of gift.

Perfect.

"I'll take it," you say, already digging in your bag for your wallet.

The man slides the record into a paper sleeve, takes your money, and hands you your change with a nod. 

Transaction complete. Gift acquired. Problem solved.

You tuck the record under your arm, feeling oddly satisfied despite yourself. It's just a record. Just a stupid birthday gift for your annoying roommate who thinks he knows everything about everyone, including your taste in men.

But as you weave through the crowd toward the food trucks, you can't help but wonder if he'll like it. If his face will do that thing—that brief, unguarded thing where his eyes light up before he remembers he's supposed to be all cool and detached.

Not that you care. You're just fulfilling a social obligation. That's all.

That's absolutely all.

"Did you actually buy something?" Yeji asks when you reach her, eyeing the record under your arm. "Since when are you into vinyl?"

"Just decoration. For the vinyl wall.”

Irya peers at it. "John Mayer? Isn't he like, your dad's music?"

"He's not that old," you find yourself saying, then immediately wonder why you're defending John fucking Mayer of all people. "And anyway, it was cheap."

"Whatever you say." Yeji shrugs, then holds up a small paper bag. "I got those earrings we saw last week. The ones that look like little daggers."

"Nice," you nod, grateful for the subject change. "I'm starving. Can we get food now?"

As you follow them toward the food trucks, you resist the urge to check the record again, to make sure it's not too scratched or damaged. It doesn't matter. It's just a record. Just a gift.

Just something to cross off your to-do list before Emma's birthday tonight and Jungkook's surprise dinner tomorrow.

Nearing the trucks, suddenly everything smells good. Too good. The kind of good that makes decision-making a fucking nightmare.

You slow your steps, scanning the options.

One truck’s got sizzling skewers of grilled meat, charred at the edges, dripping onto soft pita. Another is doing fresh arepas, the scent of melted cheese thick and indulgent in the air. A few feet away, some guy with tattooed knuckles and an unreasonably aggressive beanie is ladling out steaming bowls of Vietnamese pho.

And then there’s the birria taco stand—because of course there is—and the line is criminally long, people clutching Styrofoam trays of consommé like their lives depend on it.

Your stomach rumbles.

By the time you settle on something—one of those ridiculous but beautiful smash burgers, glossy brioche bun soaking up all that greasy, caramelized goodness—you barely get your wallet out before Yeji hip-checks you out of the way.

“I pay, I pay, I pay,” she announces, tapping her phone against the card reader with swift finality.

You blink. “Okay, what?”

Yeji grins, entirely too pleased with herself. “Well, I’m obviously paying for my beautiful girlfriend, and I kinda figured I’d put you in the package deal.”

You snort, giving her a shove. “Fine. But beers later on me.”

“Deal,” she says easily, tossing the receipt onto the counter like a Wall Street exec closing a million-dollar deal.

Irya latches onto your arm, steering you out of the way so Yeji can continue flirting with the guy behind the counter—some blue-haired, too-many-rings kind of guy who’s already leaning into it, smirking as Yeji compliments his “artistry” with the grill.

“She’s ridiculous,” you mutter.

Irya hums, but there’s amusement in her eyes as she grabs your food, balancing her own order on top of yours. “Just my type of ridiculous.”

You shake your head, leading the way toward a set of old picnic tables at the edge of the food truck lot. The wood is worn, graffiti-scratched and dented from years of use, but it’s clean enough. You drop into a seat, setting your tray down, and Irya follows, sliding in across from you.

She sets her elbow on the table, chin resting lightly in her palm, and smiles. A lock of blonde hair falls loose, catching the light, and she tucks it back behind her ear absently.

“So, Emma’s birthday tonight?”

You unwrap your burger, glancing up at her. “Yeah.”

She studies you for a second, eyes warm. “Excited?”

You hesitate. 

“Yeah,” you say again, but it comes out different this time. Not untrue, exactly, but not as sure as it should be.

Irya notices. Tilts her head slightly, patient, the corners of her mouth tugging into something knowing. 

“You don’t have to be.”

A breath of something close to laughter slips out of you.

 “I mean, I am excited,” you say, because you are. “It’s just—it’s been a while. We used to be really close in high school, but then, you know… life.”

Irya nods, thumb idly tracing the grain of the table. “She’s in Columbia, right?”

“Yeah. I stayed in-state for a bit before moving here. Different cities, different schools, different everything.” You shrug, picking at the edge of the wax paper lining your tray. “We tried to keep in touch, but it’s not the same when you’re not living through the same things anymore. And then you just… don’t talk as much. And then that becomes normal.”

“And now?”

“Now she’s in the city, and I guess we’re both trying to reconnect.”

“That’s good,” Irya says, and she means it. “It’s nice when people want to find their way back to each other.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, glancing down at your food, pushing a fry through the puddle of ketchup on your tray. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Irya watches you, quiet for a second. Then—

“She’s inviting a lot of people, right?”

You nod, grateful for the slight shift in direction. “Yeah. Told me to bring people, too, so I figured you and Yeji. Maybe Jimin.”

“Jimin would love that.” Irya grins. “He’s been in study-group hell all week. He deserves some fun.”

“You think?” You manage to say whilst chewing on the potato. “I thought I wouldn’t be doing him any favors. Like, he’s the type of person to say yes just out of obligation. And I didn’t want to pressure him into anything.”

Irya makes a soft sound of amusement, propping her chin in her palm. “Nah. If Jimin really didn’t want to go, he’d find a way to say no without actually saying no.”

You pause mid-chew. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’d do that thing where he apologizes like, three different ways in the same sentence, but somehow, you still walk away not totally sure if he said yes or no.”

You snort, swallowing. “Okay, yeah. That sounds about right.”

Irya grins, poking at her fries. “And anyway, he actually likes going out. He just overthinks it first.”

“You say that like you’re sure.”

“I am sure,” she says breezily. “I have classes with him. I watch it happen in real time.”

“Real time?”

“Oh, yeah. Like, someone invites him somewhere, and you can see him start to spiral. Like, ‘Okay, but what if I go and I regret it? But what if I don’t go and I regret that instead? But what if I go, but it’s not fun? But what if I don’t go, and it was fun, and now I’m missing out?’” She mimics his voice, exaggerated and tragic, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but that is a valid crisis.”

“It is,” Irya agrees, laughing too. “But the point is, once he actually gets there, he has a good time.” She levels you with a look, half teasing, half expectant. “So invite him.”

You sigh, reaching for another fry. “Fine.”

And then—

“I got us free dumplings.”

Yeji appears out of nowhere, sliding into the seat next to Irya and dropping a white takeout box onto the table like she’s just secured a goddamn business deal.

You blink. “How?”

She shrugs, already reaching for a dumpling. “Wouldn’t take my money.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Irya hums, all faux-innocent. “Didn’t happen to have anything to do with that very long, very intimate conversation you were having with the guy behind the counter, did it?”

Yeji smirks around a bite of dumpling. “I dunno. Did it?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Men and their non-existent gaydars.”

“Right? Kinda sucks when she grabs all their attention,” Irya smiles, reaching for a dumpling of her own.

“Not my fault he was easy to entertain,” Yeji says, looking entirely unbothered. “Anyway, eat. They’re fresh.”

You don’t argue. The dumplings are good—warm, crisp at the edges, the filling rich with just the right balance of spice.

Yeji watches you for a second, chewing thoughtfully. “So what were we talking about?”

“Jimin,” Irya supplies.

Yeji groans. “Ugh. Tragic little academic. Is he still alive?”

Irya nods, popping a dumpling into her mouth. “Barely. But we’re dragging him to Emma’s party tonight, so he might actually remember what fun feels like.”

Yeji quirks an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “Emma?” She flicks a glance at you. “Your other friend? Birthday girl?”

You take a sip of your drink. “Mmhm.”

Yeji hums, tapping her chopsticks against the takeout box. “Bestie competition, then.”

You nearly choke. “Oh my god.”

Irya grins, delighted. “It is kind of serious. High school bestie versus new college besties.”

Yeji tilts her head, considering. “I don’t know, man. Legacy friends have an unfair advantage. History. Nostalgia.”

“Yeah,” Irya sighs, fake mournful. “How can we ever compete with the memories?”

You level them both with a flat look. “You’ve known me for a month.”

Yeji leans back. “It’s been a whole month already? Woah.”

“We’re joking. I’m sure we’ll get along.” Irya adds.

You snort, shaking your head.

Yeji watches you for a second, still smirking, but then the expression shifts—just a little. 

“Are you excited?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s unexpected, but because it’s… genuine.

You pause, setting down your cup. 

“Yeah,” you say, slower this time. “I mean, I haven’t seen her in a while, so it’ll be—nice. A little weird, maybe. But nice.”

Yeji nods. “You gonna introduce us?”

You blink. “Uh. Yeah?”

Irya arches her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

You groan. “Oh my god, what is that supposed to mean?”

Yeji shrugs, reaching for another dumpling. “I mean, if she’s bestie material, we gotta vet her.”

“Shouldn’t she be the one vetting you two? She’s known me since I had braces and a regrettable side bang phase. Feels like she’s got seniority here.”

Yeji gasps. “Wow. So you’re saying we have no authority in this situation?”

“We really don’t.” Irya muses, almost singsonging.

“I don’t know,” Yeji muses, tapping a finger against her chin. “I feel like we bring some very important qualifications to the table. For example, we met Y/N when she was already in her fully realized, evolved form. We didn’t just settle for her because we grew up in the same town.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus.”

Yeji nods, completely serious. “Yeah, we got to make an informed choice. Handpicked, if you will.”

“Wow, lucky me.”

Irya grins. “So lucky.”

You shake your head, reaching for another fry. “Just… behave.”

“I always behave,” Yeji says, smirking. “You’re just afraid we’ll be better besties than Emma.”

You scoff. “That’s not even remotely the issue.”

“Then what is the issue?” Irya prompts, head tilting to the side.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud feels like giving it weight. Giving it power.

You exhale. “It’s just—there’s a difference between keeping in touch and actually knowing someone after years apart. And I guess I don’t know if we still… fit the way we used to.”

That quiets them for a beat.

Yeji tilts her head, watching you with something unreadable in her gaze. Irya rests her chin in her palm again, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.

“That’s fair,” Irya says, voice softer this time. “It’s weird when people grow in different directions. Sometimes you come back together. Sometimes you don’t.”

You nod, not entirely trusting yourself to speak.

“But hey,” Yeji cuts in, voice as casual as ever, “if she sucks, at least you’ll have us.”

You huff a laugh. “So generous of you.”

She winks. “I know.”

And just like that, the weight on your chest feels a little lighter.

You stare at your reflection, one eye perfectly winged, the other a smudged disaster—like your life, really: half put together, half absolute chaos.

You lean closer to the mirror, squinting at your uneven eyeliner with the kind of intense focus that FBI agents would reserve for defusing bombs or something. You've been at this for twenty minutes now, and your right eye is starting to look like it's been drawn by a five-year-old with a crayon during an earthquake.

"Fuck," you mutter, reaching for a cotton swab. 

Third time's the charm, right? 

Or maybe fifth. 

You've lost count.

From the living room, Griffin's thunderous purr competes with Yeji's animated voice. She's been trying to convince Yoongi to produce some track for her for the past fifteen minutes, her persistence almost admirable if it weren't so clearly futile. Yoongi's monotone responses barely register over the distance, but you can picture his expression—bored, unbothered, probably wanting to kill himself before engaging.

"Orange cats are literally the basic bitches of the cat world," Yeji declares loudly enough for you to hear. "Black cats have personality. They have depth. They're mysterious."

"Tell that to Griffin," Irya responds, her voice warm and amused. "He seems pretty content being basic on your lap right now."

"That's cats for you," Yeji sighs dramatically. "The least person who wants them is the one who gets them."

You smile despite your eyeliner frustration. Because it’s ironic—Yeji, who swears black cats are superior, is now trapped under Griffin's substantial orange weight. 

That's karma, feline edition.

You’re wearing a dress to the gathering—the same one from that night in January. You've worn it exactly once since buying it, and now it's making its second appearance. 

It's not like you planned it this way. It just happened to be the perfect outfit for Emma's birthday dinner. 

(At least that's what you tell yourself as you deliberately avoid examining your motives too closely.)

Emma. Your high school friend. Your only real connection to your life before college. 

Before this apartment. 

Before Jungkook. 

You haven't seen her in months (since that night in January), and there's a strange anxiety bubbling in your stomach that has nothing to do with your makeup struggles. 

You did vibe back then. But… was it a ‘we vibe because we are going out’ situation; or was it because you two actually connected?

People change. You've changed. The question hanging in the air is whether you've changed in compatible ways.

At least you won't be alone tonight. Emma said you could bring friends, so naturally, you are bringing them along.

You dab at your eyeliner again, smudging it further. Great. Now you look like you've been punched. Or crying. Or both.

A soft knock on the door interrupts your silent self-criticism.

"Come in," you call, not bothering to hide your frustration. It's not like anyone in this apartment hasn't seen you in various states of disaster before.

The door creaks open, and Jimin's face appears in the gap, his expression shifting from curious to sympathetic as he takes in your makeup situation.

"Having trouble?" he asks, stepping into the small bathroom. 

The space immediately feels warmer with him in it. Jimin has that effect—like a human comfort blanket.

"What gave it away?" you deadpan, gesturing to your face. "The fact that I look like I let a toddler do my makeup, or the fact that I've been in here for half an hour?"

He laughs softly, the sound gentle and reassuring. "It's not that bad."

"Liar."

"Okay, it's a little uneven," he admits, moving closer to examine your handiwork. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies your face with unexpected intensity. "Let me."

Before you can respond, he's taking the eyeliner from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours in a brief moment of warmth.

"You know how to do this?" you ask, surprised.

"I have sisters," he says simply, which doesn't really answer your question, but you don't push it. "Close your eye," he instructs, his voice soft but confident.

You comply, feeling the gentle pressure of his hand steadying your face. His touch is light, precise—and you can’t help but feel this is some sort of significant moment. 

"Stay still," he murmurs, and you can sense the smile forming on his lips.

The eyeliner glides across your lid with surprising smoothness. One stroke, then another. No hesitation in his movement. You're impressed and a little confused by his skill, but mostly grateful.

"Where did you learn to—"

"Shh," he interrupts. "No talking or I'll mess up."

You fall silent, letting him work. There's something about Jimin that's always made you curious. He's like a book with half the pages glued together—what you can read is beautiful, but you sense there's more to the story.

"Done," he announces after a moment, stepping back to admire his work. "Take a look."

You turn to the mirror and blink in surprise. The wing is perfect—sharp enough to kill a man, as Yeji herself would say. It matches the other eye exactly, creating a symmetry you couldn't achieve on your own.

"Jimin, this is..." you trail off, turning to face him. "How are you so good at this?"

He shrugs, a small, almost shy grin playing at his lips. "I just have a steady hand, I guess."

There's more to it than that—you can tell by the way he avoids your eyes, the slight flush creeping up his neck. But something tells you not to press further. 

Everyone has their secrets.

Private pieces they're not ready to share. 

You, of all people, know that.

"Well, whatever the reason, thank you," you say sincerely. "You just saved me from looking like a hot mess at Emma's birthday."

"Happy to help," he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "You look beautiful."

The compliment is simple, genuine, without the weight of expectation or desire that usually accompanies such words from men. 

It's refreshing. Because you feel like Jimin sees you—really sees you—without wanting anything in return.

"We should probably get going soon," he says, glancing at his watch. "Yeji's been threatening to leave without us for the past ten minutes."

"As if she would," you scoff, reaching for your lipstick. "She's too excited about meeting Emma and judging her worthiness."

Jimin laughs. "True. Though I think she's more excited about the free food."

"Priorities," you agree with a smile.

You apply your lipstick—a muted berry shade that complements your eyeshadow without being too dramatic. The final touch to your appearance. Not too casual, not too glamorous. Perfect for a birthday dinner.

You've always loved makeup, the ritual of it, the transformation. 

Not because you're trying to hide or become someone else, but because it's an extension of yourself—another form of expression. 

You're so tired of those cliché "not like other girls" characters in movies and books who supposedly wear nothing but mascara yet somehow have flawless skin and perfect brows. 

As if enjoying makeup somehow makes you shallow or less authentic.

The truth is, most girls you know love makeup to some degree. Some for the artistry, some for the confidence boost, some just because it's fun. And you're no different. 

That doesn't make you basic or vain—it makes you human. 

A human who happens to enjoy the satisfying swipe of a good lipstick.

"Ready?" Jimin asks, holding the door open for you.

You take one last look at your reflection. The girl staring back looks put together, confident. 

Whether she actually feels that way is another story entirely, but hey—fake it till you make it, right?

"Ready," you confirm.

You're halfway out the door when you pause. 

Something's missing. The final touch.

"Oh, wait. Cologne."

Jimin nods understandingly, already retreating toward the living room. "Don't take too long or Yeji might actually follow through on her threats this time."

You turn back to the bathroom counter, sliding open the narrow drawer where your collection lives. Four different bottles stare back at you, each with its own personality, its own statement. Your fingers hover over them, indecisive, until they land on one particular bottle.

Amber, its color.

The golden liquid catches the bathroom light, glowing like trapped sunlight inside the crystal bottle. 

You haven't used it since... well, since that night in January. You've been saving it for special occasions, though what constitutes "special" has remained conveniently undefined.

You lift the bottle, turning it in your hand. You apply it to your wrists, your neck, your ears. And before you can overthink it, you bring it to your nose, inhaling lightly.

Memories unfurl instantly, blooming in your mind like clouds puffing up in a winter sky. They tumble through your consciousness, overwhelming and vivid, making it hard to breathe—though you're not entirely sure you want to.

His hands on your hips, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough pressure to leave phantom marks that lingered for days afterward. 

His slicked chin when he smiled up at you from between your thighs, all smug and proud for making you cum with his tongue. 

His infuriating, satisfied smirk that somehow annoyed you, but also turned you on.

Rosy cheeks and disheveled hair, soft eyes in the aftermath. 

You distinctly remember that was the first time you had thought Jungkook looked cute. Not just hot or sexy, but genuinely cute in a way that had caught you off guard.

And you didn't even know his name then.

The door swings open without warning.

You nearly drop the bottle, fumbling to catch it before it shatters against the tile floor. Your heart leaps into your throat as you look up, startled.

Jungkook peers inside, and you both freeze, staring at each other like you don’t know which one of you should stay and which one of you should leave. His eyes flick from your face to the bottle in your hand, recognition dawning in his expression.

A long pause.

Your eyes drift down his torso, inevitably.

He's wearing a black t-shirt that hugs his frame in all the right places, hair rumpled and messy. His rainy-like scent envelops the cramped space, mingling with the lingering notes of vanilla on your wrist like they’ve always belonged together. 

His eyes drift too. Drop lower, taking in the dress hugging your curves, fingers tightening on the doorframe, knuckles whitening with the pressure. 

You watch the subtle movement, the physical manifestation of restraint, and feel an answering tightness in your chest.

You haven't spoken since Tuesday. Since the fight about Jason. Since he suddenly starting talking about vibes like he’s the type of guy to trust his gut.

And maybe he is. 

And maybe you aren’t.

"Sorry," he says finally, breaking the silence. "Didn't know you were in here."

He avoids your gaze.

You don’t know if that makes you angry or anxious. It’s hard to determine what’s crippling your chest.

"It's fine. I was just leaving."

Neither of you moves.

His eyes drift to the cologne bottle again. Recognition, desire, frustration. 

Then, he masks it. 

But you caught it. 

He remembers the fragrance.

And how could he not? When he constantly praised it that night, how it rested on your skin, how good it made you smell, how fucking good you tasted.

"Going somewhere?" he asks then, interrupting your conflicting thoughts.

"Emma's birthday dinner," you reply, voice tight.

He nods slowly, gaze returning to the dress. The dress from that night. The dress he peeled off you with those same hands now gripping the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him anchored.

You should move. You should cap the cologne, put it away, walk past him and join your friends who are waiting. You should maintain the cold war you've established since your fight.

Instead, you find yourself asking, "Did you need something?"

He purses his lips. "Just needed to pee.”

"Right," you say. "I'll get out of your way."

You cap the cologne, and you just know his eyes are tracking your every motion. Because that’s Jungkook for you—when he’s focused on something, it’s obvious.

You move toward the door—toward him—and it’s like suddenly, the small bathroom feels impossibly smaller. Like there’s not enough space for both of you and all the unspoken words crowding the air.

You'll have to squeeze past him. There's no way to avoid it.

His grip on the doorframe tightens further, as if he's holding himself back. From what, you're not entirely sure. Touching you? Yelling at you? Both seem equally possible.

"Excuse me," you murmur.

He steps back marginally, not enough to clear the path completely. 

Like he’s hesitating. 

Like he doesn’t know whether he wants to move for real, or stay rooted in place.

“Jungkook,” you say, and his name feels strange on your tongue after days of not speaking it. “Move.”

“You smell like that night,” he settles for staying instead of moving, voice dropping lower, annoyed. “You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.”

Your breath catches. Heat blooms across your chest, up your neck.

“That’s not—” you start, but the lie dies on your lips. 

Because it is. Of course it is. You knew exactly what you were doing when you reached for that bottle.

You see his jaw work. His tongue peek against the inside of his cheek. His eyes lock into yours like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t. 

“Have fun at your dinner,” is all he comes up with, stepping aside. 

The movement feels like it costs him something.

You move past him. Take a deep breath, pushing thoughts of Jungkook aside. 

Tonight isn’t about him. It’s about Emma, about reconnecting with a part of your life that existed before this apartment, before him.

But as you step into the living room, you can still feel the weight of his gaze on your back, can still smell the amber scent on your skin, can still hear his voice in your ear.

You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.

And the worst part is, you don’t know why or how—but maybe that’s exactly what you wanted.

The restaurant is too loud, too crowded, too New York—but Emma’s hug is warm, and that makes up for it.

“Finally.” She squeezes you tight, like she’s trying to merge your atoms together. “You took forever.”

Yeji, behind you, snorts. “Blame her eyeliner existential crisis.”

Emma pulls back, eyebrows raised. “Oh? We still doing that?”

“We are always doing that,” you deadpan.

She laughs—her laugh. It’s the same as it was in high school, loud and full, like she actually enjoys things instead of just tolerating them. That hasn’t changed. Neither has the way she looks at you, eyes scanning your face, taking you in like she’s checking if you’re still the same person too.

The answer? You don’t know.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you guys,” she says, looping an arm through yours.

You let yourself be pulled in—into the restaurant, into her world, into the crowd of fifteen fucking people all squeezed around a too-small table in the back corner. She moves through the chaos easily, hand on your wrist, steering you like she used to when you were seventeen and invincible.

“This is Yeji, Irya, and Jimin,” you say as you go, pointing them out like exhibits in a museum.

Emma grins at them, all effortless charm. “Your uni friends. I’ve heard so much.”

Jimin, ever polite, smiles back. “All good things, I hope.”

Emma does not confirm or deny, which says enough.

There’s a blur of names you won’t remember—Emma’s friends, classmates, people who probably have their lives together in a way you do not. Someone pulls her into another conversation, and you hover awkwardly at the edge of the group, watching her slip back into a world that isn’t yours.

It’s strange.

You used to know everything about her. Every inside joke, every dream, every late-night insecurity whispered over FaceTime. 

But now—now you’re an observer. 

A guest.

Still, when she sits, she grabs your wrist again and tugs you down next to her.

“So,” she starts, picking up her glass—red wine, something deep and rich. “Are you finally admitting that I was right, or are we still in the denial phase?”

You blink, thrown. “About what?”

She gives you a look. “Do I have to spell it out?”

Your stomach knots.

Jungkook. She means Jungkook.

You exhale through your nose, reaching for your water instead. “We are so not doing this here.”

Emma grins, but she lets it go—for now.

Instead, she leans back. “God, I forgot how exhausting socializing is. I swear, law school is turning me into one of those people who can only function in coffee shops and libraries.”

You snort. “You were already that person in high school.”

“True,” she concedes, tilting her glass toward you. “But now it’s worse. Now I actually enjoy tax law. Like, genuinely. It’s fascinating.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I refuse to believe that.”

“Swear on my life,” she says, amused. “You should see me in my internship. I get excited about deductions. I have a favorite tax loophole.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Emma just grins. “Give it time. One day, you’ll come to me, desperate for tax advice, and I’ll be your only hope. And I will lord it over you.”

“You wish.”

“Oh, I know.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the way your lips twitch. It’s easy, falling into conversation with Emma. Easier than you thought it would be, considering how much has changed since high school.

“So, what’s the plan then?” you ask, nudging your knee against hers under the table. “You still set on Seattle after graduation?”

Emma hesitates. Not in a bad way—more like she’s holding onto something, waiting for the right moment.

“Actually,” she says, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers. “I’ve been thinking about Europe.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Europe?”

“Yeah.” She leans forward slightly, eyes lighting up. “I did a summer program there—France, Italy, Greece, Spain. It was insane. I loved it. I don’t know, I just—” She exhales, shaking her head like she can’t quite put it into words. “Seattle was always the safe plan, you know? The practical one. But now? I keep thinking about the Mediterranean coast. The markets, the people. It feels like people there work to live, not live to work like they do here in America.”

You watch her carefully. Emma has always been a planner, a strategist. She doesn’t make decisions lightly.

And yet—she looks alive talking about this.

“So, what?” you ask. “You’re gonna become a tax attorney in Greece? Help rich expats avoid paying their fair share?”

Emma snorts. “God, no. If I go, I’d probably work with international firms, corporate law, maybe even consulting. It’s different over there, you know? Taxes, policies, loopholes—everything shifts depending on the country, the treaties in place.”

“You realize you sound even worse now, right?”

“Shut up,” she laughs. “At least I’m passionate about something.”

You hum, thoughtful. “So, Europe.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Nothing’s set in stone yet.”

But you can tell, just from the way she says it, that it’s more than a maybe.

It’s funny. The last time you saw her, she was talking about Seattle like it was inevitable. Now she’s talking about the Mediterranean coast with the kind of quiet certainty that makes you think she’s already half there.

People change.

You’ve changed.

And yet, it feels like nothing between you two has changed at all. 

Emma eyes you for a long moment, then smirks. 

“Your turn.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve barely told me anything about your life,” she says. “How’s English? Still planning on breaking the hearts of young, impressionable students as a professor?”

“First of all, no. That is not the plan. And second—”

“You can’t tell me you don’t look the part,” she teases. “The eyeliner? The whole vibe? You’d have students falling in love with you instantly.”

“I hate you.”

She grins. “I missed you too.”

You feel it, then—the warmth of familiarity, of friendship. It settles in your chest, light and unburdened, and for the first time in a while, you think:

This is nice.

Even with the changes, even with the time apart, even with the half-truths lingering at the back of your throat—this is still Emma.

“Come on,” Emma nudges your arm, eyes gleaming. “Let me introduce you to my favorite tax nerds.”

You groan, but let her pull you toward the other end of the table. “If I die of boredom, I’m haunting you.”

“They’re fun,” she insists, dodging between chairs and half-full wine glasses. “For tax people, anyway.”

The group is mid-conversation when you arrive—something about offshore accounts, corporate loopholes, and why the ultra-wealthy pay less in taxes than you probably spend on coffee each year. (Fascinating.) Chris and Max, two guys who both look like they were born wearing pressed button-ups, are deep in debate, hands gesturing, voices overlapping.

But the girl sitting across from you—Nina—just listens, quiet, observant.

She clocks you the moment you sit down. And you clock her right back.

Dark brown skin, black curls tucked behind one ear, a delicate gold necklace resting just above the collar of an oversized sweater. The sleeves are pushed up to reveal slender wrists, and she has the kind of presence that doesn’t need to fill space to be felt. 

There’s something measured about her. Something thoughtful. Like she only speaks when there’s something worth saying.

She’s pretty.

Really pretty.

But it’s more than that. She’s composed in a way that makes you hyperaware of yourself—your posture, the way you’re holding your drink, the way she looks at you with a quiet, unreadable expression.

“Hi,” she says, voice smooth, accent lilting ever so slightly.

It’s just that—simple. Friendly. Maybe.

You clear your throat. “Hey.”

Emma gestures between you. “Nina, this is my friend from high school—the one I told you about?”

Nina hums like she remembers, tilting her head. “The one who thinks tax law is boring?”

You blink. “Emma told you that?”

“She warned me in advance,” Nina says, lips twitching. “Said you might try to stage an intervention.”

You shoot Emma a look, but she’s already sipping her wine, unbothered. 

“Well,” you say, turning back to Nina, “I was going to be polite about it, but now I feel like I have a responsibility.”

That gets a small smile out of her. Just a slight curve of the lips, like she’s amused but won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing just how much.

You don’t know why that makes you want to push, just a little.

“So,” you continue, tilting your head, “what is it, then? The thing about tax law that actually doesn’t put you to sleep?”

Nina considers this. Takes a slow sip of her drink. And when she speaks, it’s not rushed—it’s careful.

“It’s not about the numbers,” she says, setting her glass down. “Not really. It’s about human nature. About how people behave when they think no one is watching. Governments set up incentives, and people react accordingly. It’s a game of strategy. A reflection of what a society actually values, not just what it claims to.”

You weren’t expecting that answer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. “So, what—you think taxes are, like, a moral compass?”

Nina shrugs. “Not a moral compass. But they show you what people are willing to bend the rules for. What they think is worth cheating for. And that’s… interesting, I think.”

You watch her, trying to get a read on her. She’s got this almost effortless kind of intrigue—the kind of person who could make anything sound poetic if she wanted to.

Emma groans. “Oh god, don’t encourage her. She’ll start talking about capital gains tax next.”

Nina lifts a brow. “It’s actually fascinating, if you—”

“Absolutely not,” Emma interrupts. “Nope. I refuse.”

You smirk. “I don’t know, Em. I kind of want to hear her out.”

Emma glares at you. “Do not encourage the tax philosophy.”

But Nina is looking at you again. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that screams I’m interested. But in a way that’s… present. Attentive. Like she actually finds this conversation worth having.

And maybe that means nothing.

Or maybe it does.

You’re not sure.

Which—God, why is this always harder with girls?

With guys, it’s obvious. But with girls—well. You think she’s enjoying this. But is she just enjoying it, or is there something else there? Is this just conversation, or is it something that, in hindsight, will feel like a moment?

You have no fucking idea.

The conversation shifts after that—Emma talks about her summer in Europe, Chris and Max start debating New York’s best pizza, someone brings up an upcoming bar crawl.

And then, at some point, Nina glances at her phone before looking at you again.

“You mind if I get your number?” she asks.

Casual. Easy. Nothing in her tone suggests it’s anything more than that.

“Emma talks about you a lot,” she adds, mouth twitching slightly. “I feel like I should probably fact-check at least half of it.”

Emma swats at her, but you barely register it, already pulling your phone out.

You’re not reading into it. You’re not.

But also—

You kind of are.

Still, you hand your phone over, watch as Nina types in her number, then passes it back. Just a name in your contacts now. Simple. Unassuming.

You have no idea if you just made a new friend or if this is something else.

And honestly?

You kind of like not knowing.

“Well, well, well,” Yeji drawls, sliding into the conversation without invitation. “Are we allowed to sit, or is this a tax-exclusive gathering?”

You exhale. “Jesus, Yeji.”

“What? We were getting bored.” She drops into the seat beside you, tossing an arm over Irya’s chair. “Jimin’s been overanalyzing the condensation on his glass for the past fifteen minutes, and Irya’s just been smiling at people like a lost pageant contestant.”

“I was being friendly,” Irya corrects, unfazed.

“You were being too friendly.”

“Networking,” Irya insists, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I love people.”

“You do,” Emma says, delighted. “It’s terrifying.”

Irya beams, pleased. Yeji just sighs like she’s accepted her fate.

Nina watches all of this unfold with quiet amusement, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “You two are together?”

Yeji tilts her head. “That a problem?”

Nina meets her gaze evenly. “No. It’s nice.”

It’s a simple statement, but it rings genuine, like she’s not just saying it to be polite. Yeji studies her for a second longer before nodding, satisfied, and pulling Irya in to kiss her temple.

Emma turns to you, grinning. “Your friends are so much more fun than my law ones.”

You smirk. “That’s because they have souls.”

Chris, still lingering in the tax-law-heavy end of the table, lifts a hand in protest. “Hey.”

Yeji ignores him completely, waving to Nina instead. “So, you’re a tax philosopher?”

Nina looks faintly amused but nods. “That’s what they tell me.”

“Cool, cool,” Yeji muses, reaching for Irya’s wine and taking a sip before Irya can protest. “And do you also believe that money isn’t real?”

Nina tilts her head slightly, considering. “I think it’s real in the sense that it determines the way the world functions. But I also think it’s one of the biggest shared delusions humanity has ever committed to.”

Yeji brightens. “See? This is the tax conversation I want to be having.”

You roll your eyes, but Nina takes it in stride. She’s good at this, you notice—letting conversations unfold naturally, never forcing her presence but never fading into the background either.

Across from you, Jimin has settled into his usual quiet observation, sipping his drink slowly. He’s not uncomfortable, just taking it all in. He catches your eye at one point, a small look that says ‘you good?’

You nod, barely perceptible.

He doesn’t push. Just gives a small nod back and turns his attention back to the conversation. Just listening in.

Emma leans in slightly, nudging your arm. “I like them,” she murmurs.

You glance at her, raising a brow. “Yeah?”

She hums. “They make you lighter.”

It’s such an Emma thing to say—blunt in a way that doesn’t feel invasive, just observant. 

You don’t respond right away, but you don’t need to. 

She’s already grinning like she knows the answer.

The apartment is quiet when you finally get home, the only light coming from the TV screen where some game is paused. 

Jungkook is sprawled on the couch, controller resting loosely in his hands, looking like he's been there for hours. He glances up when the door closes behind you, expression neutral.

"It's late," he says, not quite a question.

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door. "Yeah."

"Had fun?" He unpauses the game, thumbs moving lazily over the controller buttons. His character on screen walks aimlessly into a wall.

"Yeah," you say, kicking off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Emma's friends are cool. We ended up at this bar in Brooklyn after dinner."

He makes a noncommittal sound, still not looking at you.

"Jason wasn't there, though, so don't worry," you add, unable to help yourself.

That gets his attention. His thumbs still, and he scoffs, a short, sharp sound in the quiet apartment. 

“You know I don't give a fuck about that guy, right?"

"Really?" You raise an eyebrow, heading to the kitchen for water. "Because you seemed to have very strong opinions about him on Tuesday."

The controller drops onto the couch as he turns to face you fully. 

“Look," he says, voice tight with frustration. "I don't give a fuck who you fuck or who you date. Seriously. Not my business."

"Yup. Three rules," you start, unscrewing the cap on your water bottle.

"One, no one knows," he recites, cutting you off.

"Two, if somebody asks, we're just roommates," you continue.

"And three," he interrupts again, more forcefully, "no feelings. I know the fucking rules, Phoenix. I helped make them."

You take a long drink of water, studying him over the bottle. His hair is messy in a stupid endearing way, and there are shadows under his eyes. 

"So what was Tuesday about, then?" you ask finally.

He exhales slowly, jaw working. "I told you. The guy gives me bad vibes."

"Bad vibes," you repeat flatly.

"Yeah. Bad fucking vibes." He rubs a hand over his face. "Look, I know how it sounded, okay? But it's not—" He stops, frustrated. "It's not about you. Or us. Or whatever the fuck we're doing."

You consider him for a moment, then set your water bottle down and cross to the couch, sitting on the opposite end. 

"Explain."

"What?"

"Explain these 'bad vibes.' Because from where I was sitting, it sounded irrational."

"It's not—" He stops again, shaking his head. "You know what? Forget it. Not my problem."

"Jungkook."

He looks at you, surprised by the use of his actual name.

"I'm trying to understand," you say, softer than you intended. "So explain it to me."

He studies you for a long moment, like he's trying to decide if you're serious. 

Finally, he sighs. "He's fake."

"Fake how?"

"The way he talks. The way he looks at you when you're not watching. The way he touched your arm in the car." His words come faster now. "The way he asked about your schedule, your classes. The way he positioned himself between us. It's all... calculated."

You frown. "That's a lot to read into a few interactions."

"I know what I saw," he insists. "Guys like that... they start small. Compliments. Attention. Making you feel special. Then it's suggestions about what you should wear. Who you should hang out with. What classes you should take."

His tone is raw, really raw, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard him talk like this. 

Like it’s personal.

“You're saying he's controlling."

"I'm saying he could be." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "Look, I've seen it before, okay? People who seem perfect on the surface but underneath they're just... manipulative. They make you think everything's your idea when really they're pulling all the strings."

You're quiet for a moment, processing. 

"This isn't just about Jason, is it?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. 

"I told you. It's not about you or us."

"But it is about someone."

He doesn't answer, but his silence is confirmation enough.

"Mia?" you ask softly.

"I don't want to talk about her."

"Okay," you say, respecting the boundary even as curiosity burns through you. "But that's why you're worried about Jason? Because he reminds you of her?"

"Not of her specifically," he says after a pause. "Just... the type. The signs."

You pull your legs up onto the couch, turning to face him fully. "What signs?"

He looks at you for a long moment, like he's deciding how much to share. 

"The perfect act," he says finally. "The way everything seems rehearsed. The charm that never quite reaches their eyes." His voice drops lower. "The way they make you feel like you're the only person in the room, but it's not because they care about you. It's because they want something from you."

"And you think that's Jason?"

"I don't know," he admits. "Maybe I'm seeing things that aren't there. But my gut says something's off with him."

You consider this. "Your gut's been wrong before."

A bitter smile twists his lips. "Yeah. More than once."

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not the uncomfortable kind. It’s like you’re both still processing the words exchanged.

"I'm still going on the date," you say finally.

He nods, looking away. "I know."

"But I'll... keep what you said in mind. Watch for the signs."

He glances back at you, surprise flickering across his face. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You shrug, trying to keep it casual. "Contrary to what you might think, I don't actually enjoy being manipulated."

"Could've fooled me," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it.

You kick his thigh lightly with your foot. "Asshole."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Brat."

Silence again. His forearms are resting on his knees, hands crossed together as his gaze remains unfocused.

"So," he says eventually, "how was the birthday girl?"

You're surprised by the question, by his apparent interest in your life outside this apartment. 

"Good," you say. "Different, but good. She's in Economics. Has a serious boyfriend. Wears a lot of beige."

"Sounds thrilling."

You laugh despite yourself. "It was actually nice. Weird, but nice. Like visiting a place you used to live but don't anymore."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Did your new friends play nice with your old friend?"

"Yeji, Irya and Jimin?" You smile at the memory. "They were on their best behavior. Well, Yeji's version of best behavior, which means she only made three inappropriate jokes and only drank half the table's wine."

He snorts. "Sounds about right."

"Emma liked them, though. I think." You pause, considering. "It's strange, bringing different parts of your life together."

"I bet it is," he agrees quietly.

You look at him, really look at him, sitting there in the dim light of the TV. For once, there's no smirk on his face, no challenge in his eyes. Just Jungkook, tired and rumpled and unexpectedly honest.

"Why were you still up?" you ask suddenly.

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

"It's 3 AM. Why are you still awake?"

He shrugs, defensive again. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd play for a bit."

You glance at the TV screen where his character has been standing in the same spot for the past ten minutes. 

"Right."

"What?" he demands.

"Nothing," you say, but you can't help the small smile that forms. "Just... nothing."

He narrows his eyes at you, but doesn't press.

"I should get to bed," you say, standing up. "It's late."

He nods, picking up the controller again. "Yeah."

You're halfway to your room when his voice stops you.

"Phoenix?"

You turn back. "Yeah?"

He’s staring at you, but it’s not the usual smirk. No. 

His eyes flick downward. To the floor, like he’s seriously considering his next words—or rather, if he should vocalize them at all. 

But then he looks up at you again, seemingly decided.

"You..." he starts, licking his lips like he’s trying to pull himself together. But he’s failing. "You know you smell fucking delicious, right? Like, it’s so fucking unfair."

Your pulse stutters. "Excuse me?"

"The cologne," he says, standing up. "You’ve been driving me insane the whole night. The whole apartment smells like you.”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and something hotter, heavier. "I didn’t wear it for you."

"No?” His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite—like he knows exactly how full of shit you are. "The cologne from that night. The dress from that night. And I’m supposed to believe that’s just a coincidence?"

"It is," you snap back, defensive even as your pulse betrays you by speeding up.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing—or maybe just like he can’t believe you.

“Fuck, Phoenix," he mutters, voice dropping into something rougher, more dangerous. "Do you have any idea how good you smell? How much I’ve been thinking about getting my mouth on you again?"

Your breath catches somewhere in your throat—an audible hitch that makes his eyes darken further.

"We’re fighting," you remind him weakly.

"Are we?" He steps closer, until there’s barely a whisper of space between you. "Because right now all I can think about is how wet you were for me the first time I smelled that shit on your skin."

You retreat physically; even though mentally you’re honestly already naked for him.

"Four days," he muses, tone dripping with frustration, almost needy. "Four days of smelling your shampoo in the bathroom, that stupid body lotion, and now—now you pull this shit. That’s fucking cruel, Nix.”

"You could’ve apologized," you point out dryly.

"For what?" He scoffs like the idea itself is offensive. "For telling the truth? For saying Jason gives me bad vibes?"

"There it is again," you say, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll protect you from whatever energy he’s radiating right now. 

It doesn’t.

He exhales softly, eyes flicking to your lips before moving back up. 

“I’m being for real, Phoenix. Your vanilla shit drives me nuts,” he confesses bluntly.

Then llicks his lips, considering what he’s about to say 

But says it anyways. 

“I jerked off after you left.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air.

"Couldn’t help it," he continues. “The smell of your cologne... seeing you in that dress again... I couldn’t get the image out of my head."

"What image?"

"The first time," he says slowly, like he wants every word to sink into your skin and stay there forever. "In that room. The way you tasted... the sounds you made when I had my tongue inside you."

Your legs threaten mutiny.

"And now?" You force yourself to ask because silence feels dangerous—like it might give him permission to keep going without restraint.

"Now?" He repeats, almost hushed. "Now, I’m… really craving vanilla.”

You should walk away—should turn around and retreat into your room where things are safe and quiet and not vibrating with tension so thick it feels alive—but instead?

Instead, your feet betray you by staying planted firmly in place: "Eat some cookies.”

“I want to eat something else.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

He purses his lips. Tongue drops to lick the lower one. Gaze flickers to your mouth again before they come back to your pupils.

“You don’t?”

And the way he exhales it, like the mere idea of you saying no pains him—it melts through you. 

Especially when his hand finally finds its way to your waist (warm and solid and grounding despite everything else about this moment feeling anything but grounded).

All thoughts of resistance evaporate faster than they came.

"I do," you hear yourself reply. 

And when his lips brush against the sensitive skin just below your jawline?

You realize two things simultaneously:

One: You were never going to walk away from this moment no matter how much logic tried to intervene earlier.

Two: Logic doesn’t stand a chance against lust when Jungkook looks at you like this.

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[thewulf]

Return to You || Aragorn

Summary: Request - he reader and aragorn are in an established relationship before he leaves with the fellowship, and shortly after he's gone she finds out that she's pregnant. obviously she can't tell aragorn since she doesn't know where he is to send a letter or otherwise a message of some kind... Read Rest Here

A/N: Wow, I really love this one. It took me a while but I think it turned out really well. Let me know what you think :)

Pairing: Aragorn x Female Reader

Word Count: 6.1k +

TW: War, talks of war, pregnancy, general LOTR

The fire crackled low in the hearth casting long, flickering shadows across the small space you and Strider had called home. It wasn’t much. Just a small cottage nestled in the rolling hills not too far from the village of Bree. The warmth of the fire did little to chase away the chill creeping into your bones. It wasn’t from the cold, no, but instead from the unspoken truth that lingers between you.

He’s leaving.

You knew the time was coming. You felt it in your bones. The way Middle Earth got darker through every day. And Strider was important in warding off whatever the hell was taking over your home. You knew that much by how often Gandalf had visited. You never asked how bad. He never told you the details other than you knew he’d be called to the front lines soon enough. And apparently that day was today.

Strider sat beside you. His rough, calloused fingers trailing along the back of your hand as if memorizing every ridge and line. He does that often, touching you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go. Tonight, though there’s something different in his touch. A quiet desperation, a silent plea. Neither of you had spoken in a while. There’s nothing left to say that hasn’t already been whispered in the dark, murmured against skin, carved into the sacred spaces between your heartbeats.

Gandalf’s call had finally come. The war is no longer a distant shadow on the horizon. It’s here, looming over the world, threatening to tear everything apart. And Strider, the man you love, the man whose name is laced with destiny, cannot turn away.

“I would stay if I could,” he murmured at last breaking the heavy silence. His thumb brushes against your knuckles, lingering, like he’s afraid to let go. Because he is. “You know that, don’t you?” His eyes were pleading.

You swallow the ache rising in your throat and nod. “Of course, I know.”

His breath shuddered as he shifted closer, resting his forehead against yours. “Gandalf needs me.” His voice is low, rough with regret. “The world needs me.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “I know. Trust me… I know. But what of me? What am I to do?” The words slip out before you can stop them, raw and aching. You hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to let the fear show.

Strider exhales sharply, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. There’s something in his expression that steals the air from your lungs, something tender and fierce all at once. “You must stay hidden. You are my world,” he says softly. “And I will return to you no matter what it takes.”

Tears prick at your eyes, but you force yourself to smile. “You’re lucky I’m good at hiding. And that I’m patient.”

A low, breathless chuckle escapes him before he cups your face in his hands. His thumb brushing along your cheek as if to chase away the sorrow settling there. His lips find yours in a kiss that is both a promise and a plea, slow and lingering, desperate, and aching. You pour every unspoken word into it, every prayer, every ounce of love you have for him. When he finally pulled away his forehead rests against yours once more. “I will come back to you,” he vows. “I will always come back to you. No matter how long it takes.”

And in the morning as you stand at the edge of the village watching him disappear into the rising sun you clung to those words like a lifeline. Because no matter how far he goes, no matter how long you have to wait, you know one thing with absolute certainty. He will always find his way back to you.

The days stretch long and quiet in his absence. The mornings are the hardest, waking to an empty bed and reaching for the warmth of him only to find cold sheets and silence. You find yourself lingering in doorways staring out toward the horizon as if you might catch a glimpse of him in the distance riding home to you. But he is gone so far beyond your reach swallowed by the road that calls him ever forward.

At first you distract yourself with routine. Chores, errands, tending to the home you built together. You keep busy because you must. Because if you stop the ache in your chest becomes unbearable. But not long after he leaves something feels different. At first it was subtle. A wave of dizziness when you stood too quickly. A lingering nausea in the mornings that you chalk up to restless sleep. You tried brushing it off but not long after the fatigue creeps in. An exhaustion that weighs heavier than heartache alone. You press on though, pushing through until the realization becomes impossible to ignore.

The healer didn’t t need long to confirm what you already suspected. Her hands are gentle as they press against your abdomen with a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You are with child.” She said softly with a saddened smile. She knew, the whole village knew, that the baby’s father was long off fighting for the preservation of Middle Earth. The words crash over you like a wave, sweeping your breath away. For a long moment you can only stare trying to process what she’s just said. A child. Strider’s child.

Your hands tremble as they settle over your stomach as if expecting to feel something different beneath your fingertips. A life, small and fragile, growing within you. A piece of him left behind. Joy, fear, and uncertainty twist together in your chest, tangling into something impossible to untangle. You should be happy, shouldn’t you? And you are, in some quiet, awestruck way. But beneath that joy, fear lingers. A fear of what the future holds. Of what may come. Because Strider is not here. And there is no way to tell him.

You think of sending a letter, of finding a messenger, but you have no idea where he is. He could be anywhere beyond the mountains, lost in the wilds, deep in the heart of danger. You could write a thousand letters and never know if one would reach him. So, you had to wait.

The weeks pass and the weight of your secret grows heavier. Your body begins to change. The once loose fabric of your dresses stretching tighter over your stomach. You stand before the mirror some mornings pressing your hands against your belly whispering words only the child can hear. Your love. Your father will return to us. He will.

But as time drags on the world darkens. Rumors trickle in from travelers, whispers of war and death and an enemy who grows stronger by the day. Villages burned, men slaughtered, hope slipping through the cracks like sand in an hourglass. And with every passing day, your fear deepens. What if he does not return? What if he never knows? What if this child, his baby, enters the world without ever knowing the sound of his father’s voice?

You press your hands against your stomach, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill. “I will wait for you,” you whisper into the quiet. Even if the waiting breaks you.

The world feels too quiet without him. Without the steady warmth of his presence. Without the way he would murmur soft words in the dark when he thought you were asleep. Without the way his fingers would brush over yours in quiet moment promising things he never said aloud.

Now, there is only the crackle of the dying fire and the steady whisper of wind against the wooden walls. You lay awake most nights staring at the ceiling one hand resting over the growing curve of your stomach. The weight of the secret you carry grows heavier with each passing day. With each reminder that you are alone.

Fear lurks in the corners of your mind. Not just for yourself, but for him. Where is he? Is he safe? Does he think of you as often as you think of him? You don’t know. And it’s the not knowing that threatens to break you.

Then, one morning, the nausea hits harder than before. You barely make it outside in time, bracing yourself against the railing as your body trembles with the force of it. When the sickness passes you lean back against the post, breathless and exhausted. The sun is barely cresting over the horizon casting a golden glow across the fields and for a moment you let yourself pretend that Strider is still here. That he will step through the doorway and press a hand to your back, murmuring reassurances in that steady, quiet voice of his.

But he is not here. And he will not be, not for a long time. You press a hand to your stomach, feeling the faintest flutter beneath your palm. A life. His life. A part of him, still here, still with you. The thought steels your resolve. You cannot continue waiting in silence hoping for answers that may never come. Strider once spoke of Rivendell, of Lord Elrond’s wisdom, of the sanctuary it provided. If anyone knew where he was it would be him. If anyone could offer guidance it would be him.

And so, before doubt can creep in you pull yourself upright and move inside settling at the worn wooden desk in the corner of the room. The parchment feels fragile beneath your fingertips as you dip the quill into ink, hesitating only for a breath before pressing the tip to the page. You do not know how to begin. But you begin anyway.

To Lord Elrond of Rivendell,

My name is Y/N, and I write to you not as a stranger, but as the one Strider left behind. Or as you know him, Aragorn.

I do not send this letter lightly, nor do I wish to burden you with matters that may seem small in the face of the darkness that looms over Middle Earth. But I have nowhere else to turn.

Aragorn spoke of you often, with the deepest respect. He once told me that if I were ever in need I might look to Rivendell for guidance. Now, I find myself in need of both guidance and news of him.

I do not know where he is. I do not know if he is safe, or if he will return. And I do not know if this letter will reach you in time. But I pray that it does because I am carrying his child.

I had no way of telling him before he left. I do not even know if I will ever have the chance. But I had to try. If there is any way to get word to him. If there is any hope that you might know where he is… please, I beg of you, let me know.

If nothing else, I ask for your wisdom. The world is changing, growing darker with each passing day and I fear for the safety of this child.

I will wait for your word.

You let the ink dry then fold the letter carefully sealing it before pressing it into the hands of a trusted traveler. “Take this to Rivendell,” you whisper. “Please.”

The waiting is unbearable. Days turn into weeks. Each one stretching longer than the last. Your body changes with the passing time. A growing reminder of the life that will arrive whether Strider returns or not. You knew of his true lineage as Aragorn. He told you a long time ago but insisted on Strider. So, you’d always called him by what he wished.

Then, at last, a rider arrives at your doorstep, clad in elven robes. He does not speak at first but only presses a letter into your trembling hands. His expression solemn. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you break the seal, fingers tightening around the parchment as your eyes scan the elegant script.

Your letter reached me, but alas, not in time.

Aragorn has already departed from Rivendell. He travels now with the Fellowship, and I cannot say when or if he will return. He walks a path of great peril. His fate, like that of all free peoples, hangs in the balance.

I grieve that you must bear this burden alone. No lady should have to face such uncertainty without the comfort of her beloved by her side. And so, I offer you this: Come to Rivendell. You and the child will find sanctuary here. You will not be alone.

If you wish it come to Rivendell with the messenger who handed you this letter.

Elrond of Rivendell

Your vision blurred as you lower the letter, emotions warring within you. Relief that your words had not gone unheard, sorrow that your Strider is still lost to you, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the kindness offered in Elrond’s reply.

You press a hand to your stomach, exhaling a slow, steady breath. Strider may be gone. He may never know of the child you carry. But you will do whatever it takes to protect this life. To ensure that your child is safe even if it means leaving everything behind.

When the messenger asks what you will do, you lift your chin, heart heavy but resolute. “I will travel to Rivendell with you.”

The journey to Rivendell is long, stretching over days or weeks that bleed together in exhaustion and quiet reflection. You leave behind the familiar comforts of home. The place where Strider last stood before you and trade them for the uncertainty of the road ahead. The elves who guide you are patient, their presence a steady reassurance, but the solitude you carry remains unshaken. The nights now had become the hardest when the world is still and there is nothing but your own thoughts to keep you company. You wonder where he is, if he is safe, if he is looking at the same stars you are.

By the time you reach Rivendell you are nearly at the end of this pregnancy. But you did have time to admire the elven lands. Rivendell is as beautiful as Strider had described. Untouched by war and time. A sanctuary wrapped in cascading waterfalls and golden trees. The very air feels different here, lighter, ancient, like a whisper of something beyond mortal comprehension. But for all its beauty it is not home. The ache in your chest does not fade nor does the silence in the space beside you. The absence of the man you love stretching wider with each passing day. The elves welcome you graciously, offering kindness without expectation, but their presence only reminds you that you are alone in a place meant for those with elven blood. You do not belong here.

At first you keep to yourself uncertain of what role you hold in this sanctuary. You spend the days walking through the stone corridors, the terraces that overlook the valley, your hands always finding their place over the growing curve of your stomach. The life inside you is the only tether you have to Strider now. The last piece of him you can hold onto when everything else is uncertain. You whisper to your baby, pressing soft words against your skin, hoping that somehow they can feel the love you already bear for them.

Elrond watches over you though you do not understand why at first. You know of his history with Strider. Of the weight he placed upon him for years, the expectations of a lineage long denied but never forgotten. There is an unspoken wariness when you first meet him. A quiet hesitation as you wonder if he sees you as a complication in Striders grand destiny. But Elrond never speaks of such things, nor does he treat you with anything less than patience and wisdom. He does not pry, does not press when he sees the lingering sorrow in your eyes. Instead, he offers quiet companionship. A presence steady enough to remind you that you do not have to bear this alone.

He is there on the mornings when the sickness leaves you pale and shaking, offering herbal remedies to ease the discomfort. He places books in your hands when the nights stretch too long knowing that distraction is sometimes the only way to keep the mind from spiraling. When you struggle beneath the weight of uncertainty he does not speak empty reassurances but instead reminds you of your own strength, of the resilience that has carried you this far.

"You are strong," he tells you one evening. His voice calm but firm. "Even when you do not feel it you are strong. And you will endure." You nod though you do not entirely believe it. Strength feels fleeting these days. A thing that wavers beneath the weight of the unknown. Some nights, you dream of Strider. Of his hands on yours, of the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth fighting for. You wake with tears on your cheeks more often than not, and though Elrond never mentions it you know he sees. He does not press but his presence lingers just long enough to remind you that you are not truly alone.

Time moves forward even as you feel frozen in place. Your body changes wholly. Your baby growing stronger with each passing day. You begin to feel the child’s movements, soft at first, then stronger. Small kicks, reminders that you are not just waiting for Strider but for the baby who will need you no matter what happens in the world beyond Rivendell. You let yourself imagine what it would be like if Strider were here. If his hand could rest over your stomach the way yours does. If he could see the life you created together. The thought brings equal parts joy and sorrow because you do not know if he will ever return to see it.

And then, on a night bathed in silver moonlight, the first sharp pain lances through you.

It begins slowly. A dull ache that you try to dismiss as exhaustion but as the hours stretch on the pain intensifies. You clutch the edge of the bed, breathing through it, but when the next wave comes, you know. It is time.

The next hours pass in a blur of whispered voices and steady hands. Of soft reassurances in Elvish and the warmth of a hand pressed against yours when the pain becomes unbearable. The room swims in and out of focus, exhaustion threatening to pull you under, but you fight against it, gripping onto the knowledge that soon, so soon, you will meet you baby.

And then after what feels like an eternity, the weight of it all breaks. A sharp cry fills the room, piercing through the exhaustion, the haze of pain and uncertainty. The sound crashes over you, and everything else fades into nothing. “A boy.” You hear in your haze.

Your son.

Elrond lifts him carefully. His expression unreadable for a moment before he steps closer, placing the small, wriggling body into your waiting arms. The moment his weight settles against you, the world stills.

He is perfect.

Your breath hitches as you take him in. Your hands shaking as you press your fingers against his impossibly soft skin. Dark hair, still damp from birth, clings to his forehead. And when his eyes flutter open, they are deep and grey, piercing in a way that makes your heart stop.

Strider.

It’s almost too much, the ache in your chest swelling until it feels unbearable. He is not here. He should be here. He should be the one holding his son. The one whispering reassurances. The one tracing the tiny fingers curled against your chest.

Tears spill over before you can stop them, dropping onto your son’s forehead as you press a trembling kiss there, inhaling the scent of him, of new life, of something so fragile yet so incredibly strong. You hold him closer, whispering words against his skin, words meant for him but also for Strider. For the man who does not yet know the love waiting for him here.

"You are loved," you whisper. Your voice thick with emotion. "You are so, so loved."

Even if Strider never returns. Even if the world takes him from you before he can ever know, this child will never have to doubt the depth of the love he was born into. Because Strider is here. Not in body, not yet, but in this life, in this perfect, tiny boy who carries his strength.

And so, you hold your son close, rocking him gently as his cries soften into small breaths against your chest. You do not know what the future holds but in this moment you do not need to.

Because no matter what happens next you will keep your promise. You will wait for Strider. And when he returns, if he returns, you will place his son in his arms, and he will know. He will know that even through all the darkness something bright and beautiful was waiting for him to come home.

The days in Rivendell are quiet, your son growing stronger with each passing week. He is your anchor. The only thing tethering you to the present when your thoughts so often drift to the past. To Strider, to the uncertainty of his fate. You wake in the night sometimes clutching your child close wondering if somewhere across the world Strider is still fighting if he is still alive. You have no idea how long it had been since he left your home. A year maybe? Elrond confirms it had been nearly that amount of time.

Then, one morning, the world shifts. The halls of Rivendell buzz with murmurs. Excitement threading through voices that have remained steady and somber for so long. The news arrives that Sauron was defeated. The war is over.

You clutch your son tighter as the words sink in. Middle Earth is free. The darkness that once threatened to consume everything has been vanquished. Hope fills the valley, but you are afraid to let it settle in your heart. You do not ask the one question burning inside you, not yet, not until you hear Elrond’s voice, quiet but certain, as he delivers the final truth.

Aragorn lives. Your Strider is alive. Alive.

The breath left your lungs in a sharp, shuddering gasp, your knees nearly giving out beneath you. Relief washed over you so violently that it leaves you dizzy. The weight of months of fear, of not knowing, crashing down all at once. He is alive. He is alive. He is coming back. Coming home!

But Elrond’s next words halt your thoughts in their tracks.

“He is to be crowned King of Gondor.”

The statement rings in your ears, sending a different kind of tremor through you. The war is over. Strider is not just alive. He is victorious. He is stepping into the destiny he was always meant for, the one that has lingered over him like a shadow for as long as you have known him. He is no longer just the man who held you close and promised to return. He is to be king. King of Gondor.

Your heart clenches with a different fear taking root in your chest. What if everything has changed? What if he has changed? You had always known that this day would come. That Strider was never meant to remain in the wilds forever. But now, standing here with your son in your arms, the reality of it is suffocating.

Would he still want you? Would he still want this life that was built in his absence, a child he did not know existed? Or would his new station, his new responsibilities, demand something else entirely?

You press a trembling kiss to your son’s forehead, inhaling the scent of him, grounding yourself. You should be celebrating, rejoicing in the knowledge that the man you love is alive. And yet, all you can do is stare down at the small boy in your arms, the one who carries Striders features so clearly, and wonder. Will he still choose us?

The journey to Minas Tirith stretches endlessly before you. Every step closer filling you with both anticipation and fear. You clutch your son tightly pressing a soft kiss to his dark hair, inhaling the sweet, warm scent of him as if it will steady the rapid beating of your heart. You had spent so many nights fearing this moment would never come. That Strider would never return. Now, the truth is almost too much to bear. He is alive, he has won, and he is waiting for you. Or so you hope. But what if he is no longer your Strider? What if he is now Aragorn alone?

The towering gates of Minas Tirith rise ahead after a month of travel. The banners of Gondor snapping in the wind. The city is alive with the hum of celebration. The people reveling in their freedom, in their new king. But you are blind to it all. Your world has shrunk to the only thing that matters. The man waiting at the top of those white stone steps.

And then you see him.

Strider stands at the entrance of the citadel clothed in the robes of a king, a silver circlet resting upon his brow. But none of it matters. Not the title. Not the crown. He could be standing in rags, and he would still be him. His grey eyes find yours and everything stops.

For a moment he does not move. Does not breathe as if the sight of you has struck him so deeply he cannot comprehend it. His gaze flickers from your face to the child in your arms and then back to you, something breaking, something raw and unguarded slipping through the carefully placed armor he has worn for so long.

And then he moves. Not with the controlled grace of a king. Not with the measured composure of a man who has carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. No, he runs. He runs to you. To your son. To his home.

His legs nearly buckle as he reaches you. His breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as if he has forgotten how to breathe altogether. He stops just short. His entire body trembling. His hands reaching out but not quite touching as if he is afraid that if he does you might vanish like a cruel dream.

His voice when it comes is hoarse, cracked with emotion. “You…” His breath shudders. “You’re real?”

Tears blur your vision as you nod, your arms tightening around your son. “I’m here.”

Strider, Aragorn, exhales sharply and before you can take another breath he drops to his knees before you. A strangled sound escapes him as he presses his hands to your skirts. His forehead resting against your legs in a gesture so utterly broken that it sends a fresh wave of tears spilling down your cheeks. His fingers grip the fabric of your cloak as if anchoring himself to you, his shoulders shaking under the weight of emotions too strong to contain.

“You waited for me,” he whispers, the words a prayer, a reverence, a confession. His lips press against the fabric covering your knee, then your thigh, then lower, worshiping the very ground you stand on. “I thought—I feared—” His breath is ragged as he shakes his head, pressing another kiss against your legs before tilting his head back to look up at you, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Then, his gaze drops widens as he sees him. The baby in your arms. Not so much a newborn anymore but not a toddler yet. The small, sleeping boy nestled in your arms, so peaceful, so unaware of the storm his father is weathering before him. Striders entire body goes still. His hands slowly releasing their grip on your skirts. His breath catches, his fingers trembling as he hesitantly reaches forward, stopping just short of touching the child.

He looks up at you. His expression unraveling into something utterly undone. “Is he…” His voice fails him, cracking beneath the weight of the question.

You nod, your own voice barely a whisper. “He is yours, Strider.”

Something inside him broke. A choked, breathless sob escapes him as he lifts shaking hands. His fingers barely grazing the soft blanket wrapped around his son before he pulls back afraid that he is unworthy of touching something so pure. “I didn’t know…” His voice fractures again and he looks back up at you with desperation in his eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” you whisper before shifting closer, pressing the bundle into his waiting arms. “But you do now.” The moment his son was in his arms Strider let out a sound so raw, so full of everything that he has held back for so long that it steals the air right from your lungs.

His hands, scarred and calloused from war, cradle the small boy with infinite tenderness. His thumb brushes along his son’s cheek memorizing every inch of him. The curve of his tiny nose, the soft wisps of dark hair, the way his fingers twitch in sleep.

Strider swallowed hard, tears slipping down his face as he presses his forehead against his son’s. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers. His voice trembling. “You are…” His breath shudders. “You are mine. The Prince of Gondor”

The boy stirs then, blinking up at him with eyes that mirror his own. Grey and stormy, deep as the rivers that run through the land. The first glimpse of recognition dawns in those tiny features, and Strider let out a soft, broken laugh. His grip tightening ever so slightly knowing will never let go. Your heart feels like it might truly shatter as you witness your son and his father meeting for the first time.

He looks back up at you then with the tears now spilling freely down his face. “What is his name?”

You hesitate. “I never truly named him,” you admit. Your voice thick with emotion. “I only ever called him Aragorn.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face. Then, suddenly, he laughs. A soft, breathless sound, full of wonder, full of disbelief. He looks down at his son with a teary smile tugging at his lips. “Then he has a name worthy of him.” He presses a reverent kiss to his son’s forehead before shifting his gaze back to you. And then before you can say anything else he reached for you, wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace.

“I love you,” he murmurs as his lips pressed against your temple, your cheek, your lips. “I have always loved you.” His grip tightens as if he cannot bear to let go. “No war, no kingdom, nothing could ever change that.”

Tears rolled down your face as you clutch at him, pressing your forehead against his. “I was so afraid,” you whisper. “That you wouldn’t want us. That…”

Strider silences you with another kiss, deep and lingering, full of every promise he has ever made, full of everything he cannot put into words. When he pulls away his voice is fierce, unshaken. “Never,” he vows. “Never doubt that you are my heart. That he is my greatest joy.” He looks down at his son again, his fingers tracing gentle patterns over the boy’s tiny hands. “You waited for me,” he murmurs before pressing another kiss to his son’s head. “And now, I swear to you both, I will never leave again.” A quiet sob escapes you and you lean into him. Letting him hold both of you as if he can shield you from every sorrow you have ever known. You had waited. And now, finally you were home.

The White City gleams beneath the golden afternoon sun. Its towers stretching high into the heavens, banners of Gondor rippling in the wind. The throne room, once a place of war councils and endless worries, now holds something far greater. It holds peace, love, and a king who rules not just with wisdom but with a heart full of devotion.

And at the center of it all, Aragorn sits upon his throne, not just as the ruler of Gondor, but as a father, a husband, a man who has found his way back to the life he never dared to dream for himself.

His son sits in his lap with tiny fingers clutching at the silver detailing of his robes, wide grey eyes staring up at his father in open adoration. The boy is a mirror of him, with dark curls and a regal air that already hints at the leader he will one day become. Though for now he is simply his father’s son, wrapped in the safety of arms that would never let him go.

The court watches with quiet amusement as the toddler shifts in Aragorn’s hold whispering something in that sweet, curious voice of his. Without hesitation, the King of Gondor leans down, his expression softening completely as he murmurs a response, pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead before turning back to the matters of the realm.

And standing at his side, watching the scene unfold, is you. You rest a hand over the gentle swell of your stomach, your heart full with the life growing inside you. Your second child, a symbol of everything that had once felt so uncertain, now made real in the warmth of your husband’s love. Your fingers trace over the fabric of your gown feeling the faintest flutter of movement beneath your touch. A quiet reminder that soon, your family would grow even more.

Aragorn’s eyes find yours, his gaze lingering, full of a love that still leaves you breathless, even now. His lips curve into a soft, knowing smile, and without a word, he shifts, adjusting his son in his arms before extending a hand toward you. You step forward, placing your hand in his, feeling the familiar warmth of his touch, the strength in his fingers as he intertwines them with yours. He lifts your joined hands pressing a kiss to the back of yours, reverence in every movement.

“My Queen,” he murmurs. His voice thick with affection. The title spoken not as a formality, but as something sacred.

Your breath falters for a moment, and though you have been by his side for months now, the weight of it still fills you with awe. He does not say it as if it is an obligation. He does not say it as if it is a role you were forced to accept. He says it like a man who has chosen you in every lifetime, in every battle, in every moment since the first time he laid eyes on you.

The small boy in his arms reaches for you then, his chubby fingers patting against your growing belly, a bright, innocent giggle spilling from his lips as if he already knows that soon he will have a sibling to protect. Aragorn chuckles, shifting the child slightly so you can press a kiss to his soft curls. Your fingers brushing against Aragorn’s in the process. His hand tightens over yours, his thumb sweeping gently across your knuckles, grounding you in the warmth of him.

There had been so much fear once. So much uncertainty. But now, there is only this. Him, your son, your growing family, the home you have built together within the walls of a kingdom that now thrives under his reign.

“You are happy?” he asks softly. His voice a quiet caress against your skin.

You smile, leaning in until your lips brush against his ear. Your voice warm with all the love you have ever held for him. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Aragorn exhales. His forehead pressing lightly against yours, the soft weight of your son nestled between you both. “Then I have fulfilled my greatest duty,” he murmurs, a quiet promise only for you to hear.

You close your eyes, letting the moment settle around you, letting yourself breathe in the scent of him, the warmth of your son, the peace that now fills your life. You had waited. You had hoped. You had loved him even when the world tried to tear you apart. And now, standing at his side, with his hand in yours and his child in your arms, you know.

He had always, always, been coming home to you. He would always return to you.

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[gdinthehouseee]

A Moment in Marble: CHOI SEUNG-HYUN x READER

summary: after he disappeared from your life, you run into Seung-hyun at an art gallery where he asks for once more chance.

word count: 3201

tags: angst with a happy ending; reminiscing, second chances, reader is a little passive aggressive

ao3 link

The soft hum of ambient music filled the air as you wandered through the art gallery, your fingers grazing the edges of the exhibits. You’d always loved visiting galleries like this, the quiet and the beauty of it all, but today, there was something different in the air. A stillness that felt more like tension than tranquility.

You passed by abstract paintings, sleek sculptures, and vivid photographs, but your mind kept drifting. It wasn't the art that had your attention, but the memory of another time, another place—another person.

You and Seung-hyun had done this so many times together: strolling through galleries, talking about the pieces, teasing each other about which ones were “overrated” or “too deep to understand.” You could almost hear his voice in your head, lighthearted and teasing, pulling you closer to look at something you wouldn’t have noticed on your own. Unfortunately, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about what he would be doing if he was here with you right now, which exhibits would pique his interests the most, which pieces he thinks you would like the most, which significant artist he’d like to teach you about next. He’s probably too busy for this now. He’s always busy. For years, he’s been too busy.

But even with that thought, there was a lingering ache in your chest, a longing for the simple moments. The togetherness you once had; the seemingly unbreakable bond, like that red string of fate you used to read so much about.

You paused in front of a minimalist sculpture—a man and woman, locked in an eternal dance. The curves of their forms swirled together, capturing a fluid, timeless connection. The sight of it pulled you in, and you found yourself lost in thought, memories stirring quietly at the back of your mind.

“Are you serious?” You had asked, laughing as Seung-hyun pulled you into the middle of the empty street.

He flashed you a grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Come on,” he said, his voice teasing. “We don’t need a crowd to dance. Just trust me.”

You had rolled your eyes but let him guide you, your hands settling naturally against his chest. “We must look ridiculous, you know,” you teased, the laugh escaping before you could stop it.

His grin widened, his hand sliding down to rest lightly on your back. “I don’t care if we do. I’m with you.”

You smiled, a warmth blooming in your chest, and then, as if on cue, the two of you began to move together. The rhythm wasn’t anything complicated—no perfect steps or rehearsed moves—just the natural sway of the moment.

“Just like that,” he said softly, his voice gentle, guiding you effortlessly. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

The two of you moved slowly, the world around you completely silent except for the sound of your feet against the pavement. You spun, and he caught you in his arms, both of you laughing under the streetlight.

“You sure you don’t want music?” you had asked, a playful tone in your voice.

Seung-hyun chuckled, the sound deep and full of warmth. “We don’t need music. We’ve got everything we need right here.”

And for that one moment, he was right. There was no one else, no distractions, no pressures. Just you and him, the simplest of moments that felt so perfect.

It was only when he pulled you close, his smile softening as he looked down at you, that you realized how much you’d cherished that dance, how it had felt like a moment suspended in time.

“Don’t ever forget this,” he had whispered, his forehead resting against yours.

Oh how you wished you could forget. Among many other now bittersweet memories, they replayed in the back of your head every single night, reminding you of the deafening silence that engulfed you every time you were alone. It reminded you of how cold your bed was, it even made you feel like this vibrant gallery was simply dull and colourless. You weren’t even sure why you came here in the first place. 

Still stood by the sculpture of the couple, deep in thought, you let your eyes wander around the room. You couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Something’s different. Your eyes continued to drift, but then you suddenly stopped. Across from you, stood at the same statue, was a figure you knew a little too well for your liking. Seung-hyun. You didn’t even need a second glance to recognise him: the taller frame, hands shoved in his pockets as he never knew what to do with them, his dark eyes that you knew you could get lost in forever—

He was already staring at you. For how long, you didn’t know. But there was no debating it. It was definitely him. He remained on the other side of the statue, staying just as still as the work of art in front of you.

The gallery around you had grown quieter, the weight of the moment hanging between you and him. You both remained on opposite sides of the sculpture, each lost in thought. The simple, intertwined figures of the man and woman still seemed to reflect everything you once shared—something that felt so natural, yet so distant now.

Seung-hyun’s voice broke the silence first, soft but filled with the same easy tone you remembered.

“You know,” he began, glancing briefly at the statue, “it’s funny. I always thought we were like that.” His words hung in the air, light but filled with meaning. “Just… floating through everything, like we had no real care in the world.”

You found yourself nodding, your gaze lingering on the sculpture. “Yeah,” you replied, your voice quiet, almost to yourself. “It felt like that sometimes, didn’t it? Like we were in our own little world.”

There was a pause, and you could feel his eyes back on you now, though you couldn’t bring yourself to lock eyes again with him just yet. Instead, you focused on the smooth curves of the intertwined figures. Despite the way you tried to desperately ignore the reminder of how he would hold you so delicately, as if you were a fragile flower with petals made of glass, you couldn’t stop yourself from commenting on the gentle shape. “I think it’s the way they’re holding each other,” you said, your voice softer. “It reminds me of how you used to pull me close like that. Always made me feel like nothing could touch us.”

His smile, though small, was visible in his tone. “Yeah, well, you never did like being too far away. You were always right there.”

“I still don’t, actually. Some things never change.”

The quiet settled back in again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. There was something oddly comforting in the shared understanding, even if you didn’t say much. Even if your heart pounded against your ribs, threatening to bleed out right there and then. Even if you had to keep taking deep breaths to make sure your shaking legs didn’t give out from underneath you.

Finally, Seung-hyun spoke again, his words lingering in the air like a soft confession. “I don’t think I ever really stopped thinking about that. About... us.”

You let the weight of his words sink in for a moment, still unable to meet his gaze, but feeling the sincerity behind them.

“Us?” You repeated, your voice barely a whisper.

He gave a small, thoughtful hum in response. “I don’t know if I’ve ever really let it go. Even now, seeing this… it brings back everything.”

He exhaled softly, shifting his gaze slightly but never fully looking away from the sculpture. “I used to think time would make it fade. That I’d get too busy, too distracted… but some things don’t fade, do they?” His voice was lower now, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than to you.

You didn’t answer right away, letting his words settle.

“I keep wondering,” he continued, “if things had been different, if I had made more time, if I had…” He stopped, as if catching himself before he could say something irreversible. Instead, he let out a quiet chuckle, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

You finally turned your head, just slightly, enough to glance at him. “Doesn’t it?”

Seung-hyun’s lips pressed together in thought, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. Then, finally, he met your gaze—really met it, his eyes holding the same depth they always had. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe it does.”

You scoffed softly, looking away as you shook your head. “You say that like you weren’t the one who disappeared,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He inhaled sharply, as if your words had struck him in a place he wasn’t prepared for. He didn’t look away, though. “It wasn’t—” He hesitated, then exhaled. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah… you just got busy, right? Just kept moving forward until one day, I wasn’t there anymore?” The bitterness in your tone wasn’t sharp, but it was there, woven into the quiet hurt you hadn’t realized still lingered.

He didn’t rush to defend himself. Instead, he let the weight of your words settle between you, like an unavoidable truth. “…I should have tried harder,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I should have—” He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I should’ve done. But I know I should have done more.”

You swallowed. The honesty in his words made it harder to hold onto your irritation. It wasn’t an excuse, but it was an admission—one that came too late, yet still settled deep within you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sculpture remained between you, silent and unmoving, yet holding so much of what had been left unsaid. The weight of it pressed into the space between you, heavy but not unbearable. Your eyes traced the smooth lines of the entwined figures, the way they leaned into each other, effortlessly close. It reminded you of how easy it had been back then—how laughter had come without hesitation, how he had always been within reach. Now, that closeness was just a memory, and standing here, with him on the other side of the sculpture, only made the distance feel wider.

You had waited for him to reach out. At first, with patience. Then, with frustration. And finally, with quiet acceptance. You told yourself you had moved on, that you had stopped expecting anything from him, but the dull ache beneath the surface told a different story. It wasn’t anger you felt anymore—it was something softer, something more fragile. A lingering question of what could have been, if only things had been different. Would he have told the world—his fans—about your existence? Would he have proposed by now? Or would you already be married? Perhaps, just starting your own little family?

On the other side of the sculpture, Seung-hyun studied the way your gaze lingered on the intertwined figures. He could see the thoughts in your expression, the emotions you didn’t say out loud. It struck him then, the depth of what had been lost—not just time, but moments that should have been shared, words that should have been spoken before silence took their place.

He had told himself it was for the best. That life moved forward, and so had you. He had convinced himself that if he reached out too late, it would only be selfish. But standing here now, with the weight of the past pressing between you, he realized that distance hadn’t erased anything. It had only left things unfinished.

And maybe, despite all of it, a part of him had always known he would see you again. Or maybe that had always been wishful thinking. Up until now, at least.

You exhaled softly, glancing around the room as if the paintings and sculptures could somehow ground you, but your gaze kept drifting back. To the sculpture. To him.

Seung-hyun’s hands were tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as if bracing against something unseen. His expression was unreadable, but you knew him well enough to recognize the tension in his stance—the quiet war within him, between the need to say something and the fear that it wouldn’t be enough.

The weight of the moment settled deep in your chest. Maybe there was nothing left to say. Maybe the years apart had turned the past into something untouchable, something best left as a memory.

And yet, when he finally shifted, his voice broke the silence—not hesitant, not forceful, just... there.

“You still like coming to these places.”

It wasn’t a question, just an observation. A simple acknowledgment of who you were, of what had remained unchanged.

“Yeah…”

Seung-hyun hummed in response, glancing at the intertwined figures once more. “I remember the last gallery we went to,” he said, almost absently. “You got lost in front of that massive abstract piece, and I—” He stopped, exhaling a small laugh at the memory. “I ended up waiting an hour before you even realized I was still there.”

“You always had a habit of wandering off first.” You couldn’t help but mutter quietly. 

His gaze flickered to you then, something unreadable in his expression. “Not always.”

The words lingered, heavier than they should have been.

You swallowed, looking away. “I should probably keep going,” you murmured, shifting slightly as if to move, unsure of how you truly feel in this awkward situation. You weren’t sure whether to say goodbye or—

“Wait.”

His voice was firm this time, with none of the quiet hesitance from before. You turned back, startled by the urgency in it. He took a step closer, his hands still in his coat pockets as if he was afraid of what they’d do otherwise. His next words tumbled out, unpolished, almost desperate.

“Have dinner with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“A real date,” he clarified, his voice steadier now but no less intense. “Not running into each other like this. Not pretending we don’t care.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I let you slip away once. I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

For a moment, you could only stare at him. Seung-hyun was many things, but reckless with his words was never one of them. He always measured what he said, held back when things felt too vulnerable. But now, there was no careful restraint—just the raw honesty of a man who wasn’t willing to leave things unfinished again.

You should say no. You should walk away: abandon him, just as he did to you all those years ago. But as you looked at him, standing there with an openness you hadn’t seen in years and the kicked puppy look in his eyes you unfortunately still find adorable, you found yourself hesitating.

“You sound desperate,” you murmured, more out of instinct than anything else.

A small, self-deprecating chuckle left him. “I am.”

And somehow, that was what made you believe him the most.

You stared at him, the words lingering in the space between you, heavy and unshakable. A real date. It shouldn’t have been this complicated. It shouldn’t have made your chest tighten the way it did. But after everything—after years of silence, after watching him slip further and further into a world you were never meant to belong to—it felt like standing at the edge of something dangerous. Something you weren’t sure you were ready to fall into again.

He had never begged for anything. He didn’t have to. But now, standing here, eyes searching yours with something close to desperation, he might as well have been.

You swallowed, looking away. “Seung-hyun…”

“I know,” he interrupted, his voice softer now, but no less resolute. “I know I don’t deserve to ask this of you. I know I don’t get to just show up and expect things to be the same.” He let out a slow breath, his fingers curling at his sides. “But I meant what I said. I don’t want to let you slip away again.”

Your gaze drifted to the sculpture once more—the figures frozen in their dance, bound together in a moment that neither time nor distance could erase.

A bitter smile ghosted over your lips. “Funny,” you murmured. “That’s what I wanted back then, too.”

His breath hitched, just barely.

You turned to face him fully now, finally meeting his gaze. “I waited, Seung-hyun. I tried to hold on to something that always felt just out of reach. And when you finally let go, I had to learn how to do the same.”

The truth hung between you, undeniable. You had spent so long convincing yourself that he had moved on without a second thought—that it had been easy for him to let you go. But the way he was looking at you now, like he was terrified this was the last time he’d ever get the chance to, told a different story.

“Then let me hold on now.”

The words sent something sharp through you. A plea wrapped in quiet certainty. For the first time, you didn’t know what to say. You thought that whenever you’d run into him you would lay into him, for all the heartbreak and sleepless nights that his disappearance from your life had caused. You thought you would get the chance to publicly shame him for the way he toyed with your feelings. Yet, deep down, you knew you couldn’t do that to the man you’ve always loved. Whether or not you even realised you still love him.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, the weight of a decision pressing into you from all angles. You could walk away. You could tell him it was too late, that the past was better left untouched. But the thing about Seung-hyun was that he had always been impossible to forget. No matter how much time had passed, no matter how much you had tried to convince yourself otherwise—he had always been there, just beneath the surface. And maybe… maybe you weren’t ready to let go just yet.

Your lips parted, and this time, when you spoke, your voice was quieter. “One dinner.”

He stilled, as if he hadn’t let himself believe you’d actually say yes. But then his expression softened, something unreadable flickering through his eyes.

“One dinner,” he echoed, almost like a promise.

Neither of you moved, the weight of the moment stretching between you.

And then, finally—finally—he smiled. A real one. Small, tentative, but real. Even after all this time, his smile was still contagious. It crept up slowly, hesitant at first, but once it settled, it was the same one you remembered—the kind that softened the sharp edges of his face, that made you forget, just for a moment, how much had changed. You hated how easily it pulled at something deep inside you, how effortlessly it threatened to undo the walls you had spent so long building. Because no matter how much you wanted to convince yourself otherwise, Seung-hyun’s smile had always been your weakness.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself return it.

taglist: @thanosscrossmain @maskedcrawford @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t @onyxmango

[rafedarling]

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝

pairing: husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader

summary: rafe cameron was your everything, your husband, the man who once promised to love and cherish you unconditionally. despite your inability to speak, rafe always treated you as though the world revolved around you. but your perfect life comes crashing down on an ordinary monday when you…

warning(s): reader in this fic are mute, so if you felt uncomfortable please click back, will see you on jan 9. infidelity, emotional distress, angst.

must read: italic mean sign language.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. i don’t know but this idea came up after i went to the toilet 🫠 i’m tagging no one since i’m writing this for fun and might deleted if i felt it’s needs to be remove and hope you enjoy!! 🌟 . taglist | ask

Just like any other Monday. You were sitting on the edge of your bed you reached for your phone to check the time. That’s when you saw it… a text message from an unknown number.

You hesitated, your thumb hovering over the notification. You weren’t one to invade someone’s privacy, even Rafe’s, but something about this felt… off. When you finally opened it, your entire world shattered.

The message began with ‘Hi, I’m Sofia. I didn’t want to do this, but I think you deserve to know.’

You froze, dread pooling in your stomach as you continued reading. Sofia laid everything out; dates, times, even explicit details. She wasn’t apologetic; her tone carried the confidence of someone who knew she had already won.

Sofia wasn’t just anyone.

She was the friend Rafe had introduced you to months ago, the one he’d reassured you was “just a friend.” She was gorgeous, effortlessly confident, and everything you weren’t.

Most painfully, she could speak.

The betrayal hit you like a tidal wave. You stared at your phone, your breath hitching your so tight you couldn’t even breath.

You wanted to scream, cry, or yell so badly but you couldn’t. That had always been your curse your inability to voice your pain.

Instead, you stormed downstairs, gripping your phone tightly. Rafe sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone while sipping coffee, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside you.

When he saw you, his face lit up.

“Morning, babe,” he said casually, his tone warm and easy.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you slammed your phone onto the table, the screen still displaying Sofia’s message. His eyes flicked to the text, and the color drained from his face.

“What”

He reached for the phone, but you yanked it away, glaring at him as your hands began to move.

“Who is Sofia? And don’t you dare lie to me.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “Babe, it’s not”

“Don’t!” you signed sharply, your movements quick and angry.

“Do not call me that right now. Answer the question. Who is Sofia?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, his hand raking through his hair.

“She’s… She’s no one. She doesn’t mean anything.”

So you admit it happened.

“I—” He faltered, his eyes pleading.

“It was a mistake, okay? A stupid mistake. It didn’t mean anything.”

You stepped back, shaking your head as tears burned your eyes.

“How could you?” you signed, your movements slower now, weighed down by heartbreak.

“I trusted you. I loved you. Was that a mistake too?”

“No!”

Rafe’s voice cracked, and he took a step toward you, his hands reaching out as if to ground you.

“It wasn’t a mistake. You weren’t a mistake. I swear. You’re my everything.”

“Clearly not,” you signed, bitterness dripping from your fingers. If I was, you wouldn’t have done this.

He pressed his palms against his temples, exhaling shakily.

“I don’t know why I did it,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was stupid, I was feeling… I don’t know, lonely?”

“Lonely?” Your hands froze mid-motion, your eyes wide with disbelief.

“You think I don’t feel lonely? I live in silence, Rafe. Every day. And yet I stayed. I fought for us. But you…” You stopped, your chest heaving as fresh tears slid down your cheeks.

“I know,” he said, his voice breaking.

“I know, and I hate myself for it. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of it.”

“Then why wasn’t I enough?” you signed, your movements trembling.

“What does she have that I don’t?”

Rafe looked devastated, his hands dropping to his sides.

“Nothing,” he said firmly.

“She doesn’t have anything you don’t. You’re everything to me.”

“Clearly not enough for you to keep your promises.”

He stepped closer, his voice urgent. “Please, don’t leave.”

You stared at him, your heart breaking into a million pieces. The Rafe standing before you now was a shadow of the man you thought you knew, and yet, his desperation was tangible. Part of you wanted to believe him, to cling to the love you’d shared for so long. But the pain was too raw, the betrayal too fresh.

You wiped your tears, turning toward the door.

“Wait,” Rafe called, his voice shaking as he followed you.

“Where are you going?”

You paused, turning to meet his tear-filled eyes. Your hands moved slowly, deliberately, as you signed one final word

“Away.”

“Don’t,” he begged, his voice breaking.

“Please, give me one last chance, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you how sorry I am.”

You didn’t respond. Instead, you opened the door and stepped out of the door, leaving Rafe behind.

But this time, love wasn’t enough.

And for the first time in years, the silence between you felt unbearable.

[luceleste]

Where Flowers Bow

Chapter 2

pairing – Satoru Gojo x f!reader summary – Invited to Duke Satoru Gojo’s palace as a potential bride, you arrive with nothing but a ruined name and perfect manners. Among jewels and judgment, you’re just another candidate in a parade of perfect girls — until a stranger in the garden, who isn’t what he seems, speaks to you like you’re real. In a palace of masks, someone has already chosen you. You just don’t know why.

warnings – renaissance!AU, female reader, eventual SMUT, strangers to lovers, angst with comfort, political drama, emotional tension, power imbalance, mentions of social hierarchy/class pressure, slow burn, manipulation, masks and appearances, gojo’s mother is named midora. reader’s mother is important in the story. the language leans slightly formal and poetic in tone to match the setting. more to be added.

word count – 7k

notes – I was so excited to post Chapter 2! Thank you all so much for the love you’ve shown to our Duke, it honestly means the world to me♡ I really hope you enjoy this chapter! Also I don’t think I can hold back the slow burn much longerrr omg

divider by @thecutestgrotto

previous chapter / next chapter

You hadn’t touched your food since he arrived.

You had tried — once, twice — but your throat had closed too tightly to swallow. Even the wine felt like glass. The silver spoon had trembled slightly in your grip, and you set it down before anyone could notice. Before the illusion of poise cracked.

His presence had changed the room.

It was subtle, but unmistakable — the shift in posture, the sudden hush in conversation, the way even the candle flames seemed to flicker with caution. Everyone felt it. The other girls, their mothers — all of them straightening their backs, softening their expressions, arranging themselves like portraits hoping to be admired.

But none of them knew what it was like to have been seen already.

You weren’t just holding your breath.

You were holding back the scream that had been clawing at your chest since the moment he walked through the door. Since the moment you realized that the man in the garden — the warm, impossible stranger — was no stranger at all.

You had shattered the best — the only — chance of your life in the span of a few unguarded minutes in a garden.

What good was a shared moment if it left you exposed? If, by letting your guard down, you gave him reason to doubt whether you were fit to stand beside him?

And even if that moment had meant something to him — even if it had stirred something — he didn’t show it now. And a single conversation, no matter how tender, was never going to be enough.

Because in the end, the decision wasn’t his alone. The Duke could have his preferences, but it was the Duchess who would make the final choice. And she wasn’t looking for quiet memories or hidden smiles. She wanted an alliance — a future built on legacy and bloodlines, not on sunlight and sentiment.

Yes, you weren’t meant to be there. But you never imagined it would end like this — in silence.

The matriarchs had taken over the conversation now, their voices steeped in honeyed civility. They traded compliments like currency, each word polished and precise. Across from you, the girls smiled on cue, tilted their heads just so, lifted their glasses with rehearsed elegance. Every gesture was calculated to be remembered.

You tried to do the same.

You nodded. You agreed. You smiled when you must.

But every motion felt hollow — as if your limbs remembered the choreography, but your spirit had slipped somewhere beneath the surface. As if the girl they saw was just an echo stitched from etiquette and your mother’s last hopes.

Duchess Gojo tapped her mouth with a white napkin and set her wine glass down with grace.

“Lady Vale.” Her tone smooth and precise, turning her gaze to the blonde girl who had just finished eating. “I understand your family oversees the western estates. I’ve heard the vineyards, in particular, have flourished under your father’s care.”

Lady Vale straightened at once. Her smile bloomed on command — poised, delicate, perfectly measured. She had been waiting for this.

“Indeed, Your Grace. We’ve had an excellent harvest this year. The grapes took well to the early frost.”

The Duchess gave a small nod — not warm, but unmistakably deliberate. Approval, of a kind.

Vale seized the moment.

“We brought a few bottles of our private reserve as a gift.” She added, shifting slightly toward the Duke. “I do hope His Grace has the chance to try it. It is our pride.”

Her mother leaned in before the words had even finished leaving her daughter’s lips, slipping into the conversation like it had been rehearsed — extolling the quality of the vines, the particular soil of their land, the generations of winemaking tradition. It was clear as water: any opening to draw the Duke into conversation would be fully used.

“I will try it soon. We appreciate the gift.” The Duke replied simply, his voice even, offering no room for further exchange.

You saw it — the brief falter in Lady Vale’s eyes, the way she blinked twice as if surprised by how quickly the moment passed. But she recovered smoothly, folding back into her poise as if the silence had never touched her.

“My daughter and I brought white figs from our estate, Your Grace.” Came the voice of Lady Tara’s mother next. Tara launched into a description of the desserts made from them, casually mentioning her own preferences.

Duke Gojo offered no reply.

“Thank you for the consideration.” The Duchess said instead, her voice a shade warmer — perhaps to compensate for her son’s silence. “Our cooks will be pleased to receive such a delicacy.”

A moment passed, and you heard it — the subtle shift of silk as Countess Shinto adjusted in her seat.

She hadn’t spoken all evening. Like you.

But unlike you, her silence wasn’t hesitation — it was control. She didn’t need to chase attention. She drew it effortlessly, like gravity.

She moved with the composure of someone long accustomed to being watched. Waited until conversation lulled just enough — then spoke.

“Your Grace.” She said, voice smooth and measured. “We brought silk and velvet from our most recent journey.”

Her mother inclined her head, the gesture fluid, perfectly timed. “She chose the fabrics herself. My daughter has a discerning eye for tone and texture — the court tailor in the capital said as much.”

“We hoped they might suit the house’s taste” Shinto added. Not proud. Not false. Just certain.

The Duchess offered a small nod — her smile subtle, but approving. “Thoughtful. Our household always appreciates refinement.’”

A pause followed. Not abrupt — but noticeable. A space where Lord Gojo might have spoken.

He didn’t.

Not a word. Not a glance.

But the silence didn’t seem to touch her.

Shinto merely folded her hands in her lap, posture serene, gaze steady. As if she hadn’t expected anything more. As if silence itself had bowed to her long ago.

And once again, you were certain the man you had met in the garden had never truly existed.

The one who had nearly knelt in the grass beside you, plucked a flower like it meant something, and told you — with that laugh, that dazzling, reckless laugh — how he once cut his own hair as a child and nearly gave his mother a heart attack. The one who smiled like you were a mystery worth solving. Like he wasn’t in a rush to solve it.

That man felt like a dream.

No — worse. A trick your mind had played on you.

But the man sitting before you now?

He was too cold. Too distant. Too untouchable to laugh over childhood mischief or pass you petals like a secret.

Your heart raced. You’d spoken too freely, wandered where you shouldn’t have, laughed too hard at his silly stories. How could you have been so—

A sudden, firm pressure closed around your wrist beneath the table — your mother’s hand. A warning.

You looked at her.

And then you realized: everyone at the table was looking at you.

Everyone but him.

You lifted your chin before you had time to think.

What were they talking about again? Ah — the gifts.

“I’ve heard you enjoy painting as much as I do, Your Grace.” you said quickly, your voice carefully composed. “We brought some rare paints and pigments for your collection.”

Your mother’s eyes remained hard, but she smiled nonetheless — all polite pretense.

“They’re her favorites.” She added smoothly. “We hope they’ll suit your taste.”

The Duchess arched an eyebrow. Whether it was approval or disdain, you couldn’t tell. She was almost impossible to read.

“Oh, I do enjoy painting.” She said at last, a strange glint in her eye — too brief to name. “Though I rarely find the time for it. What is it you prefer to paint, young lady?”

“Flowers, Your Grace. I love painting them.”

And it was true — at home, in stolen hours away from your mother’s fury, you would paint blooms in every shape and color, letting them speak in ways you could not.

“They are a beauty worth capturing.” Lady Gojo said, lifting her glass as a servant refilled it. Her tone was gentler this time, almost… reflective.

You thought the conversation had run its course. The Duchess shifted slightly, preparing to stand. Her hands touched the table.

And then —

“You should visit our garden, then.”

His voice.

Soft. Measured. But somehow, it struck like lightning.

His eyes were on you.

And for just a second, you saw how a flicker of something passed across his face. And though his posture didn’t change, and his mouth gave nothing away, there was a softness there. As if he did see you — not fully, not openly, but enough to make your heart catch.

You hadn’t expected him to speak. Not to you. And certainly not of that place. The memory of sunlight on stone, of quiet laughter you shouldn’t have shared, surfaced too quickly.

Still, you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t afford to.

You felt your spine pull taut, your breath a little too fast. Your hands were still clenched beneath the table, pressed against your skirts to keep from shaking. The fabric was warm where your palms had stayed for too long.

You had already ruined everything once.

But maybe — just maybe — this could be a thread to hold on to.

So you did the only thing left to do.

You smiled — gently, carefully — despite the way it tugged painfully at your cheeks. Despite the burning shame nestled just beneath your ribs. You shaped the words as if they belonged to someone steadier, calmer, better trained than you.

“I’d love to, Your Grace.” Your voice as firm as you could manage.

And in that moment, something in his eyes almost — almost — eased.

A pause bloomed across the table.

Not long — only a breath —

but long enough for everyone to feel it.

And in a room like this, nothing went unnoticed.

Not when so much was at stake.

Lady Vale’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around the stem of her wine glass — the gesture invisible unless you were watching for it. Lady Tara’s chin angled a fraction higher, as if she’d tasted something bitter but refused to spit it out. Even Countess Shinto — unflinching, composed, so practiced in indifference — turned her head minutely toward you, her gaze cool and unreadable.

No one spoke.

But they all saw.

The Duchess lifted her glass and took a slow sip of wine, her eyes never leaving you. Her gaze wasn’t sharp like it had been with the others — it was quieter, more deliberate. Like she was measuring something only she could see.

Like someone assessing something they didn’t expect to find valuable — but just might.

Her eyes moved from your face, over your posture, and paused briefly at your mouth. Your smile, however carefully stitched, did not escape her notice.

“Good.” She said. A single syllable, soft as velvet, sharp as a blade. “Perhaps you young ladies should walk in the garden tomorrow morning. It thrives in spring. It would be a shame to waste it.”

There was no room for refusal.

Lady Tara was the first to respond, her voice light, too quick. “It would be an honor, Duchess.”

The others followed — each in their own cadence. Agreement rippled across the table like a wave, soft and synchronized.

You echoed them a second too late, but no one called attention to it.

“Then it’s settled.” Lady Gojo continued, rising to her feet. “You’ll walk the gardens before the day’s arrangements. But for now — rest. Your personal maids are waiting just outside.”

Chairs shifted. Napkins were folded. The ritual began to dissolve.

The Duke stood when his mother did, offering her his arm. He hadn’t spoken since his quiet invitation — no glances, no words. But as he turned to escort the Duchess out, his gaze passed over the table one final time.

And perhaps it lingered.

“Good night, Ladies.” His voice smooth, distant.

And with that, he was gone.

The sound of his footsteps faded before anyone dared to speak again.

The air didn’t exactly relax — it was still too heavy for that, too full of expectation — but it shifted. A tension drawn tight across the room loosened by a single knot. Shoulders lowered. A few glasses were quietly lifted again. Breaths were taken — the kind people didn’t realize they’d been holding.

Relief wasn’t spoken, but it moved through the space like a breeze.

The silence didn’t last long.

Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Silks rustled. One by one, everyone began to rise, smoothing skirts, adjusting posture, offering farewells laced with courtesy. Compliments were exchanged again between the matriarchs — all so gracious, so performative. You and the other girls followed the script without thinking. Smiles. Nods. Curtsies. Nothing too much. Nothing too real.

As you passed through the doors, you spotted Ysera waiting just outside, ever composed, her hands folding over the dark blue apron she wore.

She did not speak. She merely inclined her head and turned, her quiet footsteps already guiding the way back toward the guest wing.

Your arm remained locked with your mother’s, her grip neither gentle nor cruel — just firm.

For a while, only the hush of shoes on stone filled the silence. The corridors felt longer than before, more echoing.

“You did not do as terribly as I thought you would.” Your mother said. Her tone was slightly softer than it had been before the banquet — but only slightly. The words held no warmth. No praise. Just an observation.

You looked at her, unable to help yourself. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Her eyes snapped to yours. Cold. Disapproving. That look she gave when your spine was a hair too relaxed or your voice too alive. You felt the reprimand before she even spoke.

You exhaled quickly. “I’m sorry, Mother. Thank you.”

“Yes, you should be sorry.” She said at once, voice returning to its sharper edge. “You will deserve a compliment if you marry. Not before.”

She wasn’t lying.

And she wasn’t trying to wound — not exactly. This was just the truth, as she saw it. As she’d always seen it.

“I should be fuming at you.” Your mother went on, each word crisp and low enough that Ysera couldn’t hear. “Your mind was not in that room. I saw it. They saw it. And I don’t care where it wandered — it had no business leaving that table.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Because she was right.

Your mind hadn’t been in that room. It had been caught somewhere between flowers, fountains, and a man who made you feel both seen and forgotten — all in the same day. You’d been trying not to shake. Trying not to let the memory of sunlight and laughter undo you. Trying not to wonder if he remembered it too.

But none of that would matter to her. To your mother, what mattered was that you had slipped — and someone might have noticed.

“It won’t happen again, mother.” Whether that was a promise or a lie, you didn’t know yet.

—

Three soft knocks at your door jolted you awake.

You blinked into the dark, disoriented. It was still night — pitch black outside. The only light in the room was the silver wash of the moon through your window.

“My Lady?” a woman’s voice called gently. “Are you awake?”

Three more knocks.

“Yes, I am.” Your voice was rough with sleep as your hands moved to rub the tiredness from your eyes.

Truthfully, you hadn’t been sleeping well. Your thoughts had refused to settle. Your body ached from the posture you’d held all night — still, perfect, composed. It had taken you two full hours, at least, before exhaustion finally won.

“My apologies.” The voice continued. “I know it’s late. But Lord Gojo sent me.”

The sleep vanished instantly.

Your breath caught. The haze cleared all at once. Your eyes opened wider, and your heart — traitorous, reckless thing — leapt to attention. A familiar heat rose in your chest, sharp and immediate.

Before you could think, your feet found the cold floor on their own.

Your legs moved without permission.

Your hands opened the door too fast. Too eager.

You hated this.

How everything about him took your control. Your voice. Your posture. Your body.

He commanded without even trying — and you obeyed, without meaning to.

Standing in the hallway was an older woman — short, aged, but steady. Her gray hair still held hints of black, and her dark brown eyes were clear and kind. The lines on her face spoke of long years, but her smile — soft and certain — was the warmest you had seen in years.

She held a folded piece of paper delicately between her hands.

“I probably woke you up, my lady. I am really sorry for that.” She bowed with grace. “But he asked that you receive this tonight.”

You took the paper slowly. Your fingers brushed hers, and she didn’t flinch.

“Oh.” Your words didn’t come out for a second. Surprised. “Thank you… ma’am.”

“No need to thank me, my lady.” She replied with a small shake of her head. “I’ll let you rest now.”

There was something about her. The way she looked at you, without judgment or expectation, reminded you of things you hadn’t felt in a long time. Comfort. Safety. Ease.

“I’m sorry for the trouble.” your voice a little steadier now.

“No trouble at all.” She said with that same soft smile.

You looked down at the folded note in your hands, your fingertips brushing the edges like you might read it through touch alone.

And then — just as she passed the first shadow — she stopped.

Her voice returned, quieter now. Just above a whisper. But meant to be heard.

“You’re as beautiful as he said.”

Your breath caught. You looked up, startled — but the woman was already walking away, her figure shrinking into the dark corridor with slow, steady steps. Her presence lingered even as she disappeared, like the scent of something warm left behind in a cold room.

You stood frozen in the doorway. You opened your mouth, thinking to call out — to ask, to thank, to hold onto something — but no sound came. You didn’t even know her name.

Did you hear it right? Or had your tired mind twisted the silence again, made it gentler than it really was?

You shut the door behind you softly, your back pressing against it like you needed something to hold you up.

Your thumb traced the fold. It wasn’t sealed with wax, as if it hadn’t needed ceremony.

The woman’s words echoed faintly in your head.

You weren’t sure how you felt about them — only that they had landed somewhere deep in your chest.

You stepped toward the window, where the moonlight spilled silver across the stone floor. That’s where you opened it.

His handwriting looked rushed in places, like he hadn’t meant to write it. Or hadn’t planned to send it.

You’re not the only one pretending not to remember. But for both our sakes, we must forget it. It was never supposed to happen, after all. Still — the garden is quieter without your voice.

You stared.

You read the message again.

Then again.

The words didn’t change. They didn’t soften, didn’t twist into something kinder. They were exactly what he meant — and somehow still not enough.

He remembered. That should have meant something.

But he wanted to forget. And that meant everything.

something sharp settled behind your ribs — not quite sorrow, not quite fury, but some cracked place in between. You couldn’t tell what stung more: that he’d reached out… or that he had only done so to push you away.

Why had he written at all, if this was what he meant to say?

Why remind you of what he refused to let you keep?

Your hand tightened around the letter. Not enough to tear it — just enough to feel the paper bite your skin. As if pressure alone could draw something else out of the ink. Something better.

You pressed the edge of the message to your lips, then lowered it slowly.

He made you laugh, he made you feel seen — only to look right through you the next moment. And now this: a few lines that tasted like closeness and distance all at once.

Was it a joke to him? A game?

Maybe he was amused by how easily you cracked. Maybe he was entertained by your trembling at the banquet. Maybe you were nothing more than a plaything

You closed your eyes, drawing in a breath through your nose. It burned, just a little.

The garden was quieter without you.

But let it stay quiet.

Your eyes drifted to the blue flower beside your bed — beautiful and intact, like it wasn’t already dying since the moment he plucked it from the bush and handed it to you like it meant nothing at all.

You reached out and touched the edge of the petal, just to make sure it was real.

Were you supposed to stay intact too?

As if he hadn’t pulled you loose from your roots?

You folded the note again. Carefully. Precisely. As if care might mask the ache settling in your chest.

He got to walk away untouched. You were the one left to wither in silence.

—

The morning breeze brushed against your skin.

The garden breathed in a quiet mist, each leaf touched by the faint glow of the early sun. Flowers stood still in the hush of dawn, their vivid colors painting the paths in soft pinks and creams. The air smelled of jasmine and fresh earth.

In the distance, birds sang in soft, chiming harmony.

It was just as beautiful as you remembered — but this time, the sense of belonging was gone. No ease, no peace. Only a delicate tension, blooming as carefully as the roses.

The flowers had opened with the same precision expected of the women now walking among them — graceful, composed, blooming under scrutiny.

Laughter came in delicate bursts. Nothing too loud, nothing real. Lady Vale hadn’t stopped speaking since she arrived. Every few steps she gasped or murmured in delight, lavishing praise on the roses, the hedges, the stone benches.

“This is lovelier than the court’s own gardens.” She sighed, trailing her fingers across a low hedge. “The Duchess has such impeccable taste.”

Her voice was melodic, polished from years of flattery. Her compliments were not really about the garden.

Perhaps not being in the presence of the matriarchs eased the pressure slightly — but only slightly. It still lingered, heavy and watchful

Countess Shinto walked a step behind the rest, as she always did. She hadn’t said a word, but you could feel her attention sweeping over everything. Everyone.

You kept your steps steady. Your chin high. Your smile easy. Every movement carefully measured, as if by instinct.

But your chest still ached from the night before.

Your makeup had done its best, but the shadows beneath your eyes were stubborn. You hoped no one would notice. You knew they already had. Tara’s eyes had lingered a second too long. Vale’s smile had been just a touch too amused.

Your thoughts had outpaced your sleep by miles.

And yet, here you were — laced into silk, hair pinned, posture perfect. There had never been another option.

“I heard the Duchess imported these roses from overseas.” Lady Tara’s voice was clearer than usual, as though she wanted to remind the garden that she belonged in it.

Her golden hair was swept into an elegant twist today. She wore green — a precise match for the vines climbing the trellises. Intentional.

“Beauty tends to be worth the distance.” Vale answered, her tone breezy but pointed. “For those who can carry it.” The hem of her soft pink gown skimmed the gravel like mist. A pearl comb glinted in her dark hair.

“Well.” Tara said, too sweet. “We all know Her Grace carries beauty like she carries a weightless feather.”

The pause that followed was just long enough to make the intent behind her words obvious. She wanted it to be heard.

“It’s not beauty that matters.” Countess Shinto’s voice was unmistakable. “It’s who notices it.”

The comment floated into the air like perfume — and settled between all of you like smoke.

You felt her gaze land on your side, steady and unblinking. You didn’t dare look back.

Countess Shinto’s eyes lingered a moment longer before she turned back to the garden, as though satisfied she’d seen enough.

After a time spent wandering the winding paths — careful not to stray from the ones intended for display — a pair of maids approached, their presence signaled only by the faintest rustle of skirts and the scent of rose water.

“My ladies.” One of them said, bowing slightly. “The Duchess has asked that you rest for a while. The sun is rising quickly, and you mustn’t overtire before the midday activities.”

Rest. Of course. You were being handled like porcelain.

The gazebo stood just ahead, its white columns wrapped in flowering vines, wisteria trailing like threads of silk from its wooden beams. A breeze caught the petals, scattering a few across the stone steps like confetti.

Lady Vale stepped forward first, lifting her skirts in a perfect gesture of practiced grace.

“This spot is lovely.”

“Lovely,” Tara echoed, taking her seat with the poised ease of someone who had never rushed in her life. “And merciful. I was beginning to feel the sun already.”

Countess Shinto entered last, her silence as deliberate as her posture. She didn’t sit. Instead, she stood just inside the gazebo, eyes fixed outward.

You followed them in, hands folded before you, every movement careful and rehearsed.

“This garden must require constant tending.” Vale murmured as she plucked a loose petal from her sleeve. “Everything so… curated. As it should be.”

“Perfection rarely grows wild.” Tara said, idly tracing the carved edge of the wooden railing.

“Some things bloom best under pressure.” Countess Shinto added. Her voice, like everything about her, was elegant and impossible to dismiss.

She was unnatural in her composure — a woman born for this life, or perhaps carved into it. Even her words sounded like the closing line of a well-written romance.

A pause followed, filled only by birdsong and breeze. The maids returned with a silver tray of delicate pastries. You accepted a small tart without truly tasting it.

The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t as suffocating as the night before.

Lady Vale leaned forward, her eyes catching something past the trailing vines.

“Are those… blue flowers?” she asked, already standing. She stepped toward the edge of the gazebo, skirts brushing the wooden floor.

You had already noticed them.

Clustered among the hedges just beyond the gazebo, the blue flowers stood open — bright, resilient, impossibly alive. You thought of the one by your bedside, and how it refused to wilt.

“Indeed.” You said softly. “Striking, aren’t they?”

“Delicate without being pale.” Shinto’s gaze lingered. “I can see why someone might favor them.”

Tara tilted her head. “Too much so, perhaps. Blue is rare in flowers. It makes them seem… unnatural.”

“Not unnatural.” You said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Memorable.”

The blond girl turned her eyes toward you, not with open challenge — but with the flicker of one forming. She didn’t respond. She simply took another bite of her pastry, chewing slowly.

The moment lingered with the quiet buzz of veiled meanings — the kind only women trained in poise could keep alive.

But before you could shape your next word, footsteps stirred the gravel behind the gazebo — too deliberate to belong to a maid.

Your body tensed before your mind caught up, recognizing the rhythm, the weight, the presence. The silence that fell among the other girls confirmed it.

The air shifted — not colder, not warmer, just heavier.

Then you saw him.

The Duke looked as if sleep had never dared disturb him. His white coat shimmered faintly in the light, tailored so precisely it caught the sun like it belonged to it. His posture was elegance made flesh, hands clasped behind him, every step controlled. Only his eyes betrayed anything — because they found you, and they didn’t leave right away.

Beside him walked another man, darker-haired and quieter in demeanor. His clothing, though simpler than Gojo’s, spoke of power in restraint. A portion of his long hair was tied neatly back, the rest falling against his shoulders. He walked like someone who’d been listened to all his life — and never needed to raise his voice.

All of you rose as gracefully as etiquette allowed, heads bowing in unison.

“Your Grace.” You chorused.

Lady Vale smoothed her skirts without making a show of it. Lady Tara brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. Countess Shinto tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a movement too fluid to be accidental.

And you tried not to come undone.

“Ladies.” The Duke greeted, voice steady and light. “Forgive the interruption. My mother asked me to see if everything was to your satisfaction.”

“Everything is to our liking, Your Grace.” Shinto replied, her hands resting neatly at the small of her back, gaze poised.

“The garden is more beautiful than I expected.” Tara added, stepping forward half a pace.

“I’m sure the day will be blessed by every color it blooms.” Vale murmured, her smile as delicate as porcelain.

You opened your mouth to speak — but nothing came.

Not again. You couldn’t let this happen again.

He’d asked you to forget. To let it go. Still, his eyes found you again, and this time they stayed.

“Lady…” he said your name, low and clear.

You felt every gaze tilt toward you. The spotlight was soft, but blinding.

You drew in a breath and smiled. You’d done it before — a hundred times, a thousand. Smiling when you wanted to crumble.

“As they said, my Lord.” You replied, voice steady. “Everything is fine.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. He knew it wasn’t true.

But he nodded, accepting the lie.

“Perfect.” He said, and finally turned his eyes away.

The man beside him made a small, polite sound — the kind meant to prompt something without ever appearing to.

“Ah. Of course.” The Duke turned slightly. “May I introduce Count Suguru Geto, one of the court’s most trusted advisors — and a personal friend to our family.”

Count Geto bowed with perfect form. “A pleasure.”

“A Count.” Lady Tara purred, curtsying with practiced grace. “A surprise visit. We’re flattered.”

“I came earlier for the seasonal briefing.” He replied, his tone warm and calm — like a lullaby. “To assist the Duke with a few of his duties.”

“I assume my uncle will be joining you in some weeks, then.” Countess Shinto added, her words smooth as polished stone. She spoke of one of the men from the high council — an expected name in these circles.

“Indeed he will.” Geto gave a nod, his expression courteous but unreadable.

The conversation thinned, leaving behind a quiet too polished to be casual. A moment stretched.

As though remembering a thread left hanging, Vale gestured lightly with a gloved hand.

“We were just talking about those blue flowers.” her tone brightening. “Aren’t they rare? I don’t think I’ve seen that shade anywhere else in the grounds.”

Count Geto followed the motion of her hands but offered no opinion, his expression serene. Countess Shinto remained silent, her eyes fixed on the Duke instead.

Gojo turned to follow their gaze — slowly. His eyes settled on the patch of blue in the hedges. You saw the faint pause in him, the way his shoulders shifted slightly, his breath caught just a fraction too long.

“They weren’t meant to bloom this season.” Gojo said, voice smooth but low. “Strange things — they appeared when they shouldn’t. No gardener knew why”

His words slipped into the garden air like something too heavy to belong there.

You felt them land.

A quiet bloom appearing out of season — wasn’t that what you were? Something unexpected. Unwanted. A disturbance in the order.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your chest felt tight, like the corset had been pulled too close.

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it, but he didn’t have to. The pause in his voice, the glance at the flowers — it was for you. Or because of you. Which hurt in its own way.

You turned your gaze away from the blooms before anyone could see too much in your eyes.

“I believe the ladies were due at the Winter Room shortly.” Count Geto said, ever the diplomat. “Shall we escort them, Duke?”

Gojo didn’t answer right away.

His gaze lingered on the blue flowers, still untouched by wind or footfall.

“Of course.” His voice was lighter than his expression.

You and the other women straightened almost in unison, backs held tall with the elegance drilled into you since girlhood. The gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes as you fell into step behind them, the Duke and the Count leading the way back toward the palace.

You’d been warned that today’s activity would be a calligraphy display — a favored pastime among noble courts, where the steadiness of one’s hand was taken as evidence of one’s refinement.

You weren’t surprised by the choice.

But you were worried.

Your calligraphy wasn’t poor, but set beside the polished flourishes of the others — especially someone like Lady Vale, who likely had tutors from the capital — it might seem almost plain.

The group slowed as they neared the entrance to the east wing, where sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows in long, golden slants.

The conversation, what little of it remained, breathed only through Count Geto’s soft diplomacy — smooth words offered like oil to keep the silence from grinding.

A maid waited ahead, already holding open the heavy door to the Winter Room, her eyes lowered in the quiet discipline of someone trained never to observe too much.

One by one, the others stepped forward.

Vale glided with the confidence of someone born to be seen. Tara muttered something inaudible to herself. And Shinto glanced once toward the vaulted ceiling, then passed through the door like a shadow into light.

You moved to follow.

But fingers brushed your wrist.

Not a tug. Not a demand. Just the right kind of pressure to stop you cold.

You turned.

He hadn’t said your name because he didn’t have to. He stood just inside the boundary of what was proper — a breath too intimate, a moment too long — and yet not enough to make you retreat.

He filled the space between you, his presence pressing in like gravity. You could see the fine threadwork at the collar of his coat. And the storm behind his eyes.

“Stay a moment.”

It wasn’t loud enough to be overheard. It wasn’t gentle enough to be dismissed.

Behind the door, the polite hum of voices continued, rising and falling in elegant waves. No one had noticed you were no longer behind them. Not yet.

He glanced at the young maid holding the door. She bowed quickly — and disappeared down the corridor without a word.

Then he pulled you gently aside, just enough to move you out of view from the Winter Room. You were alone in a sliver of hallway framed by columns and dappled with quiet morning light.

His hand was still on your wrist.

He hadn’t let go.

You didn’t know what to say. Or if you should speak first. You didn’t even know what expression your face was wearing.

Your pulse thudded beneath his fingers, betraying you entirely.

“Did you receive—”

“Yes.” The word escaped you too quickly, too sharp.

He paused. A flicker passed over his features. The kind of shift you wouldn’t notice unless you were already looking too closely. Which you were.

“Good.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was thick. Waiting.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, not out of defiance — but confusion. Disappointment, maybe.

“Is that what you wanted to ask, Your Grace?”

His gaze didn’t move from yours.

“No.”

Another breath. Another beat of that awful, beautiful silence.

“Then what?” You asked.

He looked down — not out of shame, but restraint — and when he met your eyes again, there was a softness that hadn’t been there since the garden. Something worn and vulnerable.

“I keep thinking of something absurd.” His voice low, almost tender. “That maybe the flowers bloomed out of season for you.”

His lips curved — not quite a smile. More like a betrayal of composure.

“You do these things, don’t you?”

A pause. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“Bloom when you shouldn’t. Stay where you’re not supposed to.”

The words settled between you like something delicate — and dangerous.

For a moment, you forgot the Winter Room. The other girls. The weight of watching eyes. You forgot what you were supposed to be.

“Please, don’t say things like this, my lord.” The words left you quieter than you intended. They weren’t sharp, but they weren’t soft either — suspended in the air like something unfinished. Not quite a plea. Not quite a warning. Something aching in between. “You don’t know me that well.”

His fingers tightened gently around your wrist, grounding you. Not enough to hurt — never that — but enough to keep you from drifting away. Enough to remind you how close he was. How close he still was.

“You’re right.” He said, and his voice was calm — too calm. “But I know your true self better than anyone in that room.”

There was something raw under those words. Like he needed so say it.

“I met her in the gardens.”

Your breath caught. The way he said it — like it hadn’t been a fleeting moment. Like it hadn’t been a mistake. You felt your throat tighten, and you swallowed it down, trying to hold onto whatever composure still clung to your spine.

You stepped back just slightly, enough to make space. Enough to breathe.

“Yet you were the one who asked me to forget it.”

You didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation. But maybe it was.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes then — regret, or something near it — and for once, he didn’t have an answer ready.

“I didn’t mean the latter to sound cruel.”

He let go of your wrist — slowly, as if the decision cost him something — but his gaze didn’t falter.

“I only meant…” He paused, brow tightening, eyes searching yours. “I thought it would make things easier. For you. For both of us.”

The echo of your own breath filled the narrow space between you. The golden light from the windows washed over his cheek, softening his profile into something almost gentle.

“I don’t think it worked, Your Grace.” Your voice nearly stumbling over the words.

“No.” He murmured. “It didn’t.”

A moment passed — both of you quiet, not brave enough to break it.

You tried not to look at him now. It was hard enough. The nearness. The things unsaid. The fact that, just for a second, he hadn’t been the Duke — just him, just you.

Then, gently, his hand moved again — not toward your wrist this time, but up. Fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that didn’t belong in this palace corridors.

Your breath caught.

And just as quickly, his hand dropped, the warmth in his face replaced by something more familiar — that practiced distance, that cool poise he wore like a second skin.

“We should go in.” The softness in his voice retreating behind duty.

He turned slightly, as if to lead the way.

“Be mindful of Lady Midora.” He added quietly. “My mother enjoys seeing how well her guests know the rules—and how they pretend not to.”

His gaze lingered on yours, steady and unreadable. Then he turned and stepped into the room, leaving you behind with the echo of his warning.

Once again, he had drawn you in, only to retreat just as quickly. He must have found some thrill in the game.

You inhaled slowly, smoothing your skirts as if that could settle your thoughts. Whatever had passed between you — in gardens, in glances, in words never meant to be spoken — didn’t belong in that room.

So you did what was expected.

You fixed your smile and stepped through the door. And you carried the ghost of his touch like a secret — hidden beneath silk and silence.

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[luveline]

omg jade i heard you asking for hotch reqs and i RAN to your inbox

what about hotch taking care of r after they have a lil baby?? i think if i saw that man hold a new baby id die!!!! he could hole their whole head in the palm of his hand 😭😭😭

Every time you move, your hips and more intimate regions hurt like a hot poker. You probably won’t cry, but you require some tylenol and some sympathy to carry on. “Hotch?” you ask. 

Silence. You tip your head back over the armrest to find him. Even upside down, he looks handsome, sitting in the two seater with your little bundle of agony in his arms. Or, arm. The baby rests neatly in the curve of his forearm, his free hand dedicated to the baby’s small back. 

“Hotch?” 

“Who is she talking to?” Hotch asks your baby gently. You know what he’s doing immediately. 

“You get so hung up on the Hotch thing, if you didn’t want to be called Hotch, you shouldn’t have introduced yourself as Hotch.”  

You’ve been calling him Hotch for years, you aren’t going to suddenly kick the habit now. 

“She was my subordinate,” Hotch tells the baby. “She couldn’t have special treatment, even if she is the prettiest subordinate I ever had. It wouldn’t have been fair.” 

“I wouldn’t mind some more tylenol.” 

He raises his gaze. You twist into a painful but better suited position to watch him move the baby closer to his collar, his hand covering the entirety of the baby’s small head. Hotch said Jack was a little baby too, but you’d been terrified regardless, and no matter the size, it was too big for you to come out of the ordeal unscathed. Tylenol isn’t so much wanted as required. 

“I’ll get it for you,” he promises. 

“Thank you, Aaron.” 

“Oh, you’re welcome, honey.” 

He stands and shifts your tiny baby further into his chest, little snores pressed to his collar. “You okay to take him? I’ll make you some lunch at the same time.”

“I can’t eat.” 

“Just chips and a sandwich, honey. You can manage that.”  

You open your arms, letting Hotch lower your baby down into your arms and the surrounding nest of blankets. “You need to go see where Jack is,” you say. 

“I know,” Hotch says, kissing your cheek quickly. “I’m gonna make his lunch too. I’ll be right back.” 

You cuddle your baby to your chest and lean back. Your baby Hotchner is, as previously stated, so tiny, but he’s a nice weight against you, and he sleeps like a champ. You thought easy babies were a myth until now. So far he’s done nothing but sleep and stare at you whenever you talk. You think it’s love, or the surprise of seeing the voices that talked to him nonstop while he was in your belly now out in the open. He does the same to Hotch whenever he’s awake. 

You haven’t named him yet. You asked Jack for help, but he’d recommended you name your new baby Mister Awesome, so you’re at a loss for now. It doesn’t matter, though. He’ll have a name eventually. Until then, he’s the baby. And he’s very well loved. 

You wish he hadn’t hurt so badly to bring into the world, is all. 

Somewhere deeper in the house, Jack tumbles down the stairs, to Hotch's audible horror. “Are you alright? What are you doing, buddy?” 

“I’m being quick!” 

“Please be careful!” There’s the sound of a kiss. “You sure you’re okay? Yeah? Gonna go and keep Y/N company?” 

“Yeah, dad.” 

“Okay, thank you. I’m gonna make your lunch now, any requests?” 

“Peanut butter. And chips. And pretzels. And orange slices? And–”

“How about I bring you lots of everything, bud?” 

“Yes. Please. Hug?” 

They must hug, though you can’t see or hear it, as Jack walks into the living room with wildly tousled hair and a smile. He climbs over the back of the couch even though he shouldn’t, dropping onto your feet, a tangle of arms and legs. “Hi, Y/N.” 

“Hi baby. You hungry?” 

“Dad’s gonna make me a sandwich.” 

You reach over to collect his hand in yours, squeezing his fingers gently. You’d thought for sure that having a baby in the house would upset him, if only because his usual routine was disrupted —he’d had to make room for you first, and now suddenly there’s a new baby taking all the attention? it’s not what only kids usually want— but Jack’s an easy kid too. He squeezes your hand back, shimmying up the couch to lean on your leg. It aches, every touch to your lower half a reminder of the pain further inward, but he’s not rough. He climbs further onto your leg and rests his cheek on your shoulder. 

“Is this a cuddle?” you murmur. 

“Pretty please.” 

“No please required.” You frown to yourself, trying to juggle the baby into the opposite arm so you can wrap the one closest to Jack around his shoulders. You manage it poorly. “Dad makes this look so easy.” 

“He has longer arms,” Jack says with a shrug. His nose jabs the skin just above your chest. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“I won’t. Thank you, babe.” 

Jack touches the baby’s back. “He’s sleeping?” 

“Yeah. Must be weird getting to sleep all the time and then suddenly being born. At least he’s not crying.” 

You and Jack lay with each other for a while, watching the baby snore as you whisper about what Hotch is making for lunch. You wish he’d brought you the tylenol before he started, but he’s got a lot going on. You’re glad he’s the one making lunch (though you can’t be expected to right now, considering). The idea of having to stand there and butter a sub roll sounds like a low level of torture. 

“Don’t let me fall asleep holding the baby,” you tell Jack, your eyes drifting closed as Jack snuggles closer to your face.

“I can go get dad.” 

“I’m here,” Hotch says swiftly. You drag your face to the side to see him in the doorway, two dinner trays balanced with ease in his hands despite their obvious weight and full glasses on either side. “Don’t fall asleep, I’m coming. Sorry about the wait.” 

Hotch puts your trays on the coffee table and scoops the baby from your chest, leaving behind an awfully warm patch of skin. 

“Tylenols on the tray,” he says, smiling at you lovingly. “You okay?” 

“Fine. Jack’s gonna feed me.” 

To his credit, your lovely stepson offers to really feed you, but you’re not so tired now there’s food in front of you. Your stomach groans in want. 

Hotch stands looking down at you, baby somehow even smaller looking in his arms. “Need anything else?” 

You hold half of your sandwich up to him. “Eat that.” 

“I’m fine. My hands are full.” 

“I’m not asking, Aaron. Take it.” You force the sandwich on him. “We both know you only need one hand.” 

He’s cautious not to rain crumbs down on the baby. You make no such fuss, bread and lettuce falling down into your lap as you eat. Jack can’t stop giggling, “You’re not s’posed to eat like that!”

“Sorry!” you say, “I’m just so hungry!” 

“It’s okay,” he says. “Dad will vacuum you.” 

Hotch’s mouth is full to bursting, but his nod is vehement. He swallows hard. “I’ll mop you, too.”