#I will say part of this comes from the fact that living alone when you have adhd fucking sucks
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vxsellie · 2 days ago
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‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗
a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔦𝔦
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summary. to give a final goodbye to someone you love is generally the last thing anyone would ever wish to do. though, when being shipped off to your death, it's the equivalent to being given a final meal whilst on death row.
content warnings. abuse, mentions of death, implications of murder, and (the worst of all) a lesbian breakup
total wc. 5,225
notes!! here she is! i wrote this in one sitting on the night before christmas, literally up until two am bc my thoughts wouldn't stop flowing (ive had writers block for the past few months so you couldn't pry my keyboard from my cold dead hands). anyway here she is! once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!
𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚
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14:45.
DISTRICT SEVEN.
“What were you thinking?” 
Despite how loud Marlene’s voice is, it sounds rather muffled. Ellie’s thoughts all jumble together into a plethora of unintelligible abstraction. This results in outside noises becoming equally as cryptic.
After the Reaping, both tributes were escorted into the Justice Building and forced into separate rooms. Having grown up amid the Games, Ellie’s aware that this is the part where she’s supposed to say her final goodbyes to her loved ones — an hour of time allotted to these farewells. And, despite knowing that all twenty-three other tributes are going through the same thing, Ellie couldn’t feel more alone. There’s a sickening sense of finality to this. Like she’s cattle bred and born to await death. Like there’s nothing more to her life aside from this — being Reaped to never return.
And, with the time given, Marlene has opted to use the entirety of her visit reprimanding Ellie for how she’d acted on stage. Not that she doesn’t deserve to be chastised, she knows she does, but it’s still fucked up.
See, after her name had been drawn, Ellie’s entire world fell out from under her feet. She knew there was a possibility of her name being drawn, she’d be a fool not to at least acknowledge that fact. But to look that fate in the eye and have no way of revoking it? That’s an entirely different pill to swallow. As she stood atop that stage, the escort’s piping voice ringing through her ears, Ellie simply could not seem to comprehend it. But then she felt a weight in her hand, a warmth. She turned to see Riley, her jaw set and her eyes darkened. She grabbed Ellie’s hand and hoisted it into the air.
To Ellie, it was a rather odd thing to do. But, as Marlene is pointing out presently, it was an act of defiance against the Capitol itself. Ellie had no idea. Not that she doubts it, what with Riley’s outward distaste for the government, but it just hadn’t dawned on her that the mere act of holding a friend’s hand would piss off the Capitol. It’s kinda funny.
“What could you possibly be laughing at?” Marlene groans, her pacing coming to a halt as she whips around to face Ellie. Her expression isn’t one of rage, as initially expected. Instead, it’s one of genuine panic. Well shit, apparently holding hands really is treason.
Ellie doesn’t respond, her face dropping instantly. She pins her gaze to the floor, staring at the same rusted nail she’s been looking at for the past ten minutes. In fact, she’d been so zoned out that she hadn’t picked up a single thing that Marlene was trying to say. Usually, this would amuse her. But now, with her impending doom so leering, she can’t help but feel ashamed. She may never see Marlene again. And then what? Her last memory of the girl she’d raised from infantry would be of her zoned out whilst curled into a ball on a dilapidated sofa. That’s rather pathetic, is it not?
She shudders, pulling her knees even closer to her chest at the thought. She doesn’t yet know who was Reaped from the other Districts, but she’s sure they aren’t all pouting on their couches like children. Still, she can’t seem to remove herself from this position — one of self comfort. 
Something touches her knee and she flinches, tearing her gaze from the floor. She looks up to see Marlene sitting beside her on the couch, her gaze softened. Ellie hadn’t even noticed her approach. Fuck. See, this is the exact thing she’s worried about. If she were to zone out like this in the arena, she'd be dead within minutes.
“You didn’t hear anything I just said, did you?” Marlene asks with a sigh. A wave of guilt washes over Ellie’s body before she nods, admittedly having heard nothing. “I was saying I’m sorry. I don’t mean to shout at you like this, especially considering the situation. I’m only lecturing you because I’m worried. I’ve seen the Capitol kill people for less than holding hands.”
Ellie shakes her head, though the act is faraway. “The Capitol can’t kill us now that we’re tributes. To do so would only result in more defiance from the viewers. They’re anticipating a show, to kill off the characters would be antiprogressive.”
“No, but they can surely make your time in the arena worse.” Marlene points out. 
Ellie thins her lips at this, but ultimately says nothing. This is not what she wants to hear right before being sent to her death. She wants consolation and comfort, not reminders of how little control she has in her own life. But that’s just how Marlene is — she gets stressed and rambles. Most of the time, it's a harmless habit. Right now, though, it’s proving to be rather taxing.
“Look,” She sighs, “I’m not good at this whole thing, talking. Everyone knows that. It’s– Well, it’s the entire reason I never had any kids of my own.” She sighs again trying desperately to make sense of her thoughts and word them in a way that doesn’t sound like an insult. “I never wanted children, but raising you was the best thing that ever could have happened to me. Losing you would thereby be the worst thing to ever happen to me. I only shouted at you because your safety means everything. But— you’re strong, Ellie, and so very brave. If you put your mind to it, you can make it out of that arena. I believe in you. All you have to do is believe in yourself.”
Ellie is certain that’s the most Marlene has ever spoken in one go without shouting or giving up halfway through. And for that, she’s grateful. Ellie swallows harshly, her throat suddenly feeling too big for her neck. She leans forward.
She doesn’t hug Marlene, not necessarily. She simply flops into her, thumping her forehead onto her shoulder. Her body is stiff and her jaw is clenched tight, but the act of the touch still carries a sense of sentimentality to it. Especially considering she and Marlene never hug. In fact, she thinks she only ever hugged her once in her whole life. Again, it’s not anything to pity her for, it’s just their relationship. A fact of life. Some people are touchy, others aren't. And Marlene is definitely among those who are not.
She rubs a hand up and down Ellie’s back, though it’s more so to do something with her hands rather than to comfort her. 
They remain like that for a long time, sitting in silence because neither of them are skilled at voicing their emotions. Ellie’s mind continues to move at a million thoughts per second, though it slows a little in the absence of Marlene’s shouting.
Roughly twenty minutes go by before Marlene pulls away. She has a hand on each of Ellie’s shoulders, a foot between their faces. She stares at her, brown eyes flicking across each one of her features, as though to memorize her before departure. Ellie mimics her, taking in the sight of the woman who raised her — from the slope of her nose to the arc of her brows. Afterall, this might be her last time to do so. No matter how hard she believes in herself.
“I ought to go visit Riley.” Marlene says with an awkward cough, standing from the couch. “She doesn’t have any family aside from you and I.”
It’s true. Riley’s family is rather complicated seeing as she doesn’t have any. It took seven years of being Riley’s friend before she confided in Ellie about her past. And, after hearing it, she couldn’t blame her for her hesitance. 
Her father was a rebel. He hated the Capitol and everything related to it. He wasn’t married to Riley’s mother when she got pregnant, hadn’t even been dating. They simply had a fling and moved on — hence his oblivion to the fact that she’d been a Peacekeeper. Riley’s dad lived a life of tranquil solitude, aside from frequent whippings as punishment for opposing the Capitol so vocally. Truly, he’d been lucky to not be assassinated on the spot for his insubordination. The entirety of Seven knew him for his rebellious nature.
So, when Riley’s mother came forth with an infant in her arms, he was shocked. He couldn’t believe that she’d gotten pregnant. Though, more importantly, he couldn’t believe she was a fucking Peacekeeper. He tried to keep his calm, civilly agreeing to partial custody over their daughter. 
But, when Riley was about four years old, their refined consensus came to an abrupt end. They got into an argument. And a bad one, at that. Nobody knows the exact details to its origin or entailments, but it’s widely known how it ended — Riley’s mother dead and her father as an Avox for the Capitol. His punishment for her murder.
Riley subsequently grew up in an orphanage, though she inherited her father’s rebellious nature and oftentimes escaped over the fence. She’d spent more time in the woods than she had in the decelit building — chopping wood and climbing trees and visiting the Hob. She’d grown rather skilled at it, the illegality of escaping. She met Ellie in elementary. She’d been scaling the fence, intending to flee the school. Ellie had caught her and insisted she teach her how to do it. Begrudgingly, Riley agreed. From there, with many details gone unmentioned, they became friends. Now look at them Reaped for the Hunger Games together. Ugly ending to a beautiful story.
“Yeah.” Ellie agrees curtly to Marlene’s suggestion. “Yeah, she’d appreciate that, I think.”
Marlene nods in agreement prior to turning on her heel and exiting the room.
Ellie sits alone for a few minutes, returning to her humiliating fetal position. She hugs her legs to her chest, dirty shoes on the cushion of the couch. Though the sofa isn’t in the best shape considering the prodding springs and frayed stuffing. She rests her chin on her knee, staring at the rusty nail she’s grown so fond of.
She’s not sure how long she sits like that before a knock is heard at the door. She groggily tells them to enter, causing the door to creak on its hinges. A face pokes inside prior to the body attached. Cat.
Her black hair is done up, pinned into a purposefully messy bun, bangs cut shorter than usual. It looks put together, but in that I-woke-up-like-this way. Her eyelids are colored in a shiny crimson, her lips in the same glossy tint. Her skin looks inhumanly smooth, her eyebrows impossibly thin. She’s wearing a strapless baby pink dress that’s uncomfortably close to the shade of her skin, coming to her midthigh. Her shoes are the same red as her eyes and lips, clicking against the wooden floor as she walks. She looks like a Capitolite in the way her features are accentuated, though human enough for Ellie to still find her attractive
She instantly straightens, confused. “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be on a train to the Capitol?”
“Well,” Cat begins, shutting the door softly behind her as she walks over to the couch Ellie is curled atop. She sits down beside her, the cushion dipping under her weight, which instinctively pulls Ellie toward her. “I caused a bit of a scene, insisting I had to see you. And, considering it’s a hassle to find another stylist so late into the Games, I simply dared them to fire me. They didn’t, of course, and instead opted to just give me time to see you, albeit minimal.”
Ellie laughs, though the sound is hollow. This draws a tight expression from Cat as she takes in the sight of the girl before her. Ellie suddenly feels self conscious, wearing a wrinkled linen shirt while Cat looks like a literal fucking deity. Not to mention the pathetic way she’s presenting herself — small and weak. She sits upright, swallowing as she runs her hands down her shirt in a futile attempt at flattening it.
Cat stops her, placing a hand on her wrist. Ellie looks at the place where she touches her, taking in the sight of her perfectly done nails. Baby pink with crimson colored accents. God, every single detail of her is altered for the Capitol’s preference.
“I got you something.” Cat whispers, removing her hand from her wrist to reach into the purse Ellie hadn’t even noticed she carried with her. She holds out her hand, a small piece of metal resting in the center of her palm. A ring, in the shape of a moth. The body is the centerpiece, the wings made to wrap around the finger. “Here,” Cat grabs Ellie’s hand, pulling it forward before slipping the ring onto her index. 
“I love it,” Ellie breathes, holding her hand out in front of her to admire the ring.
“I made it myself.” Cat says. Ellie should have guessed. She knew Cat enjoyed making jewelry, using spoons and other random hunks of metal to concoct something ugly into something pretty. She’s spoken of the hobby before, though she’s never revealed any of the end products. This is Ellie’s first time seeing one of them.
She suddenly recalls the rule that tributes are permitted to bring one token into the arena from home. One thing to remind them of their identities — which are sure to be lost in the Games. Ellie had completely forgotten about the rule, it never having crossed her mind. But looking at this ring now, she’s certain this is the perfect thing to bring. A reminder of home. Not of a place, but of a person. Of Cat.
“I love it.” Ellie repeats more furtively, turning to kiss her.
However, before their mouths are able to touch, Cat lifts her hand to Ellie’s chest. She pushes her away. And, though the act is as gentle as possible, Ellie still feels as though she’d been shoved. She leans back. Cat’s expression is pained, not at all matching the cheerful makeup she wears.
She shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut. “I love you, Ellie. Truly. A part of me likely forever will. But– to be in love with you would only end in causing us both an insurmountable quantity of pain. I can’t consciously do that to you. Even our current relationship is deteriorating your mental health. You’re too dependent on what we have, too afraid to lose it. To allow you to continue down this road would be wrong of me. To even have begun it was wrong. And now that you’re going into the arena, I just– adding yet another burden to your shoulder would be wholly immoral.”
Ellie doesn’t know when, but amid that confession, she’d begun crying. Not just due to the breakup, though, if she could even consider it that. But due to everything. Riley distancing herself recently, the Reaping, Marlene’s shouting, Marlene’s halfhearted farewell, and now this? On top of it all?
“So you’re breaking up with me to ease your own fucking conscience?” Ellie snaps. She doesn't mean to say it. She doesn’t. It’s just all become so much for her to carry. And it’s so easy to drop it on Cat after what she’d just done.
“No.” She insists, nigh pleading in her denial. “Ellie, no, you know that’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then why even give me this?” She asks, holding out her hand with the ring on it. “For me to bring a reminder of your absence into the arena?”
“No, no.” Cat continues to deny Ellie’s accusations. “Not to remind you that I left, but to remind you why I left.”
Ellie scoffs, “Now you’re just saying shit. You’re not even trying to make sense.”
“Moths, Ellie.” She says, grabbing her hand in desperation for her to just fucking listen. “They’re attracted to the light. No matter where they go or– or what environment they’re placed in, they find a light. Something to always keep them going. Something to fight for. Something to reach. I’m holding you back, don’t you see? I don’t want you to fight to get home. I want you to fight because you know you’re worth it. You’re worth living for, even without me or Riley or Marlene. For you. Be your own moth, your own light.”
Ellie wipes roughly at her face, fists scrubbing at her eyes painfully. She wishes she had something clever to say. Something smart that would make Cat rethink everything. But all she can muster is a mumbled, “Moths are fucking ugly.”
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14:45.
DISTRICT FOUR.
Your ears are ringing, a loud chiming sound that makes your head swim. Despite this, you keep your chin high as your mother shouts orders at you. You’ve long since tuned her out, which is something you’d never had dared to do prior to the Reaping. But you’re being sent to the arena — you’ll either die in there and never see her again, or you’ll come back a victor and thereby be of higher status than her. Whatever you do now matters naught.
She’s rambling on about something regarding orders to return home. Not because she cares for your wellbeing, but because it’d shame the entire family if you were to die on live television. 
She’s standing across the room from you, her pale blue dress somehow perfectly cleaned despite the journey she made across the grassy courtyard to the Justice Building. Her wrinkled face is contorted into an unreadable expression, the illegibility irritating you. Her golden cane is perched under her clasped hands. God, the woman is the embodiment of power despite having earned none. 
“I get it.” You cut her off, tone just as sharpened as hers, almost as though you’d spent years honing it into a blade serrated enough to challenge her. “I’ll come back. If not, you’ll be embarrassed. Poor you, right?”
The expression of shock on her face is almost worth the punishment — which ends up being hit by the end of her cane. Had it been the usual wood, the pain would be tolerable. But it’s pure gold, causing your mouth to fill with blood. You spit onto the floor and she begins to reprimand you for doing that, deeming it to be improper. You ignore her, massaging your newly bruised face.
The punishment for your statement would likely have been far more severe if you weren’t destined to be put on camera for the country to gawk at. A wound on your face would be shameful. A bruise, though? Your prep team can surely cover that up with a bit of makeup.
She finishes her castigation, seeming to have worn herself out. She then turns and storms out of the room. You almost didn’t notice her swift exit, as she’d made no effort to say goodbye or wish you luck. Just ten minutes of shouting prior to causing a splitting headache and a bruise to the jaw, uncaring to hear you utter a single syllable. Best mom ever.
See, most people deem this event as emotional — an hour allotted to parting ways with your loved ones. But your mother doesn't see this as a parting. She expects to irrefutably see you again. And very shortly, at that.
You’re alone in the room for only a few seconds before a shy knock is heard at the door. You’re confused by this, unsure of who else could be here to see you. “Come in.” You call out, moving to stand over the stain of blood you’d left on the shiny hardwood floor. Thankfully, your dress is long enough that the skirts cover up the space beneath you.
The door opens and a wrinkly old man pops inside. Your lips part at the sight of mister Alden entering the room. You rush forward, offering your aid in his walking. He takes it, looping his arm around the crease of yours.
There’s a small couch with two cushions in the corner of the room. You walk him over to it, easing him onto the sofa before sitting next to him. You cross your legs, “What are you doing here? I know it’s a far journey from where you live.”
He sighs, “You’re like a daughter to me, Y/n. And, though neither of us are willing to address that aloud, we’re both well aware of it. I’ve known you since you were three years old and just learning how to walk. In fact, I can vividly recall the very day I’d met you — you were asleep on your brother’s back, clinging to him like a sloth as he made the trek down to the docks. You were such a small thing, then. Chubby little face and a diaper that didn’t fit.” He smiles fondly, looking at you as though he still views you that way, a baby. “The point is, to not visit you would be cruel. And I’m not a cruel man.”
Your eyes burn as you listen to him. He’s right. You both know it. You and Ruben are like children to him. And he is definitely not a cruel man. You wonder if he’d visited Ruben when he was Reaped. Probably. But you don’t dare ask, not wanting to speak of your brother any more than necessary.
“Oh!” He jolts as though he’d just remembered something vitally important. 
You watch as mister Alden reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a dainty necklace. A white pearl resides in the center, acting as a pendant to the thin silver chain. Your gaze softens as you look at it hanging between his shaky fingers.
“It’s beautiful.” You tell him.
“I want you to have it, to take it into the arena.” He says. “You remember my granddaughter, the one who was facing her first Reaping today? She made it for herself, and planned to wear it into the arena had her name been drawn. She spent weeks searching for the perfect pearl, then another few weeks saving up money to buy the chain.”
Your chest twists at hearing this. You could easily buy something like this from a small shop down by the beaches. It wouldn’t even cost you a day’s allowance. You shake your head. “I can’t take this from her. It’s too special.”
“I insist.” Says he. “When she heard your name called, she instantly turned to me, slipped the necklace into my pocket, and demanded that I bring it to you.” He lets out a light chuckle. “Her ferocity reminds me of you, actually. I don’t even remember telling her about my visits to your house. No shock she found out, though, she’s so bright for her age.”
With a grunt, he pushes to his feet. You rush to do the same, standing beside him in case he needs assistance. Instead of asking for aid, he tells you to turn around. Without hesitation, you oblige. You then feel something cold wrap around your neck. You look down to see the thin necklace now placed across your collarbones. It’s absolutely stunning. Mister Alden fumbles with the clasp, his shaky hands struggling to work the tiny thing.
When he finally gets it on, you turn around to see that he has tears in his eyes. He takes in the sight of the pearl necklace paired with the navy dress, the silver chain matching the silver diamonds adorning it. He nods, wiping roughly at his eyes. “You’ve grown into such a lovely young woman.”
You swallow the lump in your throat before pulling him into a hug, having to hunch over a bit due to his lack of height. He hugs you back, sniffling. It’s rather telling that the random stranger that you buy your seafood from is more caring than anyone in your family. But he’s not a stranger, is he?
After a few minutes of sentimental embrace, he finally parts from you and leaves. On the way out, you catch a glimpse of a tear rolling down his cheek, the droplet catching the light for a split second.
Alone in the room with about ten minutes remaining, you walk over to the window. You look at your reflection in the shined glass, taking in the sight of the necklace. Knowing how long it’d taken to create only adds to its beauty. The dresses your mother has fitted for you are paltry; replaceable. But this? Nobody could recreate the months spent making it, nor could they recreate the small hands that did so.
The sound of footsteps entering the room draws you from your thoughts. You catch his reflection in the window before he’s even fully through the door. Your entire body tenses, something shifting in the air at his presence. Something deep, deep inside you. Like the atoms that make up your very being have been furtively yearning for this moment. For his proximity.
You turn to face him fully.
Ruben.
You’ve seen him around, of course. You’d seen him less than an hour ago. Everyone has seen him, what with the Capitol flashing him around nigh as much as the country’s flag. He’s their brightest diamond and their largest star — the abnormal mixture of UY Scuti with Sirius, creating something impossible to tear one's eyes away from.
You two have spoken as well, albeit in short increments and only when mandatory. So, truly, you’re not sure if it counts in terms of conversation.
He shuts the door slowly, facing you with an unreadable expression. No– that can’t be right. You could always read him, you could always understand him. But right now, not a single word comes to mind as you look at him. He’s a closed book that you’d once memorized every page of.
He stares at you for a moment, gaze lingering on the bruise forming on your cheek. You wonder if you should hide it or not. But he likely knows exactly how it was induced — knowing the feel of your mother’s cane all too well, as he’d grown up taking hits for you daily. It takes a few minutes, but he eventually tears his eyes from your face and looks around the room, looking at the intricate ceiling or the swaying chandelier.
“Been a while, huh?” He huffs a laugh, though it’s dry and lacking any scrap of genuine humor.
You think about this, about what he said. It’s been a while. The world’s biggest understatement, that is. You’re suddenly filled with an immeasurable amount of rage. It’s been eleven fucking years. And he has the nerve to say it’s been a while?
Eleven years since he was Reaped. Eleven years since he was the one in this room. Eleven years since you came to visit him, sobbing and begging him not to go to the arena. Eleven years since Ruben returned from the arena. Eleven years since your brother never returned. Eleven years since the boy who raised you, who protected you, who taught you to walk and talk and eat, vanished.
You say nothing to him, not trusting yourself to speak without either screaming or crying. Or, most likely, both. So, insead, you remain silent.
Ruben sighs, leaning back against the wall with crossed arms. Something about that action makes you visibly wince. He’s so confident. The Ruben you knew was an awkward young boy, made complete with lanky limbs and oversized eyes. Strange little habits — like the way he didn’t ever know what to do with his arms, or the way he always tapped his left foot when he was nervous — made him human. But not anymore. He now knows exactly what to do with his arms and he wouldn’t dare show when he’s nervous. His humanity is just another thing the Capitol stripped him of.
“You don’t have to say anything, just listen.” Says Ruben. He then inhales deeply, his jaw set and eyes piercing; a Capitolite in all but name. “This is the last time we won’t be monitored. After leaving this room, everything will be tracked and recorded and analyzed — the train, the center, the arena. From here, you’re never alone. Even in the bathrooms, privacy doesn’t exist.”
You narrow your eyes at him, “So you’re saying you need to tell me something the Capitol can’t hear?”
“Yeah,” He breathes, “Exactly.”
“Okay, so what is?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. Of course that’s what he’s here for. Not to wish you well or say goodbye — though he likely also expects you to win; he was raised by the same monsters, after all — but, instead, to warn you. To make sure you survive the arena so as to not penetrate the family name.  
“Something is wrong with this year’s Reapings.” He explains. “Districts Two and Three both had a pair of siblings Reaped – Lev and Yara from Two, Sam and Henry from Three. Then, if that weren’t enough proof as is, Districts Five and Seven both Reaped a set of best friends — Selene Jones and Ariande Evans from Five, Riley Abel and Ellie Williams from Seven. Not to mention the pair of lovers that were Reaped from Six — Roland Jennings and Archie Bardot.”
You take in what Ruben is saying, thinking hard about it. You were Reaped alongside a small child, a little boy who you’d never seen before in your life. That doesn't seem rigged, but there ought to be some kind of intentional malice behind it.
“How do you know all of this?” You ask, though you know the answer. “The Reapings haven’t aired yet.”
“I know people.” He says rather ashamedly, as though he’s already aware of the kind of reaction this will draw from you. 
Anger sparks up once more at the mention of his ties to the Capitol. Not only is he using the Capitol to help you in the games — a perk no other tribute has — but he’s managed to fucking memorize every name name of importance. You don’t want to be treated as some sort of celebrity. You were Reaped with equally poor luck as Lev, Henry, or Ellie; or whatever their names were. You should therefore be held to the same expectations, not given hints into the Games. Which, by the way, is highly illegal. Not like Ruben would be punished. He could probably murder a Peacekeeper on stage and manage to get away with it. 
It makes you sick.
“Okay, great.” You bite. “You told me what you needed, you can leave now.” “No, Y/n, you’re not understanding.” He insists, taking a step forward. You take one backward, almost on instinct. A pained expression crosses his face, though it vanishes just as quick as it’d appeared. He sighs, running a hand down his face. “These tributes won’t be killing for the sake of winning, they’ll be killing to save themselves alongside their loved ones. Had you and I been in the arena together, our strength would have doubled. Just imagine that. For at least five other Districts, their wills to live are multiplied. And the—”
His words are cut off as the door slams open and Peacekeepers come filing into the room to rudely announce that your time is up. It’s time to board the train to the Capitol. To the Games.
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[post] notes!! don't really have any (for once), i'm just so so so so excited for u guys to read this bc i write things way prior to posting bc i like to proofread like 50 time before releasing it. anyway yeah, u guys barely know abt this bad boy while im typing this
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luv-beam · 2 days ago
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SURPRISEEE!!! i finished some things early and realized i had a lot of time tonight, so here i am!!! really, just a treat for me heh:
• dropping us immediately into everything-has-gone-to-shit oh ur praying on our downfall TT like the distance is palpable... and hao 😭 oh sweet, protective big brother hao 😭
• THE TULIPS??!?@!( STRETCHING TOWARD THE SKY??? my chest hurts .. the way yn looks at the garden now. like ik how it feels when something/someplace u once considered ur safe haven or safety net becomes corrupt,, twists the heart
• YOU WOULD NOT COME HERE AGAIN 😭😭😭😭😭😭 UGLY CRYING its the way "at least not alone" comes right after and i wonder if seokmin feels the same bc he also walked by, but only w minghao (granted, this isnt his house but...) and bc u write that they were BOTH affected (im not delulu am i...)
• vapid fop... what if i chuckled hahah
• also HELLO YOON JEONGHAN (u couldn't resist, could u, tara ;))) "a balm to the bruised parts" oh. im honestly living for jeonghans character and that in some other life, he and yn might actually make the perfect match (also mama xu doing mama matchmaker things w said thinly veiled glee is everything)
• its interesting that seok and hannie have kind of switched tropes? idk if that makes sense, but jeonghan as the warm, comforting presence and seokmin as the teasing, haunting ex-relation. its interesting seeing them both in these contexts and i like the subtle way u point to seokmin still having feelings for her or, yk, CARING ABT HER
• oh so nooow u try to play nice ..... jkjk im sorry i have assumed yns soul at this moment LMFAOOO (we're at the return of hao)
• i have sm pettiness in my bones that i emoathize w yn too well in this section LOL like yn was holding back, she could have snubbed him even more thoroughly imo !!! the dettached politeness and careful dismissal of his attempts at conversing w her makes me cackle lol (sorry dk) loved the dialogue/interactions!!!
• "weaving an intoxicating tapestry of distraction" oooooo welcome back tapestry metaphor 😌 i love imagining all of this like one massive tapestry being weaved in of those big ass looms that u think of from ancient greece
• speaking of intoxicating, the way u described jeonghan previously reminded me of champagne teehee
• the fact that every time seokyn make eye contact w one another the world seems to pause makes me ILL. like u cannot make me think of that slow motion, light fading-esque scene every time like my heart cannot take it
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• i feel sick 😭😭😭😭 like damn that hurts... like u hate to see them doing so much better than u and u capture that bittersweet heartache/break so well :')))
• like sure seok's reputation might have been scuffed a little when she ran away, but all of that negative social consequence is given to yn, not seokmin. and the domino effect of all her "mistakes" and all this isolation is so... accurate? truly, her isolation and helplessness/defeat can be felt thru the screen
• i can kind of imagine the scene where yns escaped back home and is just sitting in the dark,, like the muffled sounds of partygoers and then the door closes and it's so quiet... man im so sad for her
• "ah i see my sister's charming everyone tonight" PLS I LOVE U HAO 😭😭😭 he's such a sweet older brother bye skfndjfj the way he's so protective im so
• i am kind of curious if yn has realized/forgiven seokmin in some way? like ik she's bitter and also heartbroken cuz she felt stupid for believing he could love her back, but at this point, she seems to have forgiven hao in some capacity for trying to help her "save her prospects" last chapter. so would it be safe to say that she's forgiven seok for going along w it too? or ig,, its a little more complicated than that huh
• damn someone who can make even jeonghan nervous/uncertain? crazy lol
• all this time passing MAKES. ME. SO. SAD. FOR. HER. 😭😭😭
• i agree w yn, the tulips bring an unwelcoke reminder of seokmin 😌 sorry seokmin
• the gaping hole and taut tension during the brief scene of spring age 22 is so JSNFKDJFJ RAAAAAAAAH ik im on yns side but like i need to strap this girl to an armchair so they can talk shit out 😭 i love longing so much but i also wanna tear my hair out
• i looove that u describe each and every ball/society event in its own way, like they have their own unique personalities!! :'))) like this one as a kaleidoscope... so beautiful, its a pleasure to my mind. on a similar note, the way u described sohee's dress and appearance was MWAH!! like i can picture exactly what she looks like, she's such a vibrant and living character in my mind. though the irony is not lost on me how her appearance/dress is described in such similar detail as when yn was a debutante 💔 like she's now been cast aside and it no longer matters how well she dresses; no one expects her to steal the spotlight
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• oh but this one hurts 😭 ^ like it was established in chapter one that she must exhibit restraint and hope often slips through ones fingers like water, and it's heartbreaking and utterly depressing that she kind of lives thru these younger girls' experiences bc she never got her happily ever after. ur not only sidelined, but ur forced to watch someone live the life u were supposed to have (its so cruel 😭)
• "i suspect that there's still magic left in ur own waltz" OH I HAAAATE UUUUUUU YOON JEONGHAN WHY DID U HAVE TO END UP SO GOOD 😭 why r u making me like him tara 😭😭😭😭 not the second male lead 😭 now i want him and yn to end up together
• a reminder of what ive lost... the ache... ugh its so good...
• ONCE AGAIN. the imagery is perfection. like ur painting of the gardens at night in my mind is SUBLIME
• SHE WAS MINE FIRST OH JEONGHAN (´Д⊂ヽ OHHHHH I SO WANT U RN ive always sensed this kindred heartache btwn us, bestie. also just both of them coveting a hand that isnt theirs... goddamn, it's always the pining and forbidden that gets me
• but also totally digging the offer for a loveless marriage. like they can totally just make the best of it :')) its clear that they get along, and who knows.. it could turn into some semblance of love :')) i like to think that he's a little desperate himself while trying to convince yn to take up his offer. although a man won't get as much blow back for being unmarried, he's still a viscount. mutual desperation, mutual heartache... just drawing connections heh
• A GARDEN PARTY IN THE QUEEN'S GARDEN AND YET ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL PANEL TO ADD TO OUR GROWING TAPESTRY WEEEE
• "punctuated by the delicate notes" oo i just had to say that i love that word choice, it scratches an itch in my brain
• oh. thats quite the uh scandalous position their seokie... also just the way that time seemed to slow down again, but this time, yns trying so desperately to put on a strong face that seems so ready to slip off at a moment's notice. like i can feel her trying to pull herself up by her bootstraps and not fall apart
• never mind my question was just answered 😭😭😭 yn baby pls i know ur terribly depressed but U NEED TO HEAR HIM OUT . PLEASE.
• I LOOOOVE THE ENDING, LIKE I LOVE THAT WE'VE ENDED UP HERE OF ALL PLACES LIKE OOOOOOO PETTINESS HAHAHAHAH
if u couldn't discern it, i loved this chapter so much!!!! :'))) like the superstar was definitely the tension and the push and pull of emotions as yn experiences her young life flash before eyes skcnkdnf i love that you've ghrown a wrench into the plot of seokyn via one very handsome and persuasive and lovelorn yoon jeonghan 🫂🫂 i cant WAIT to read seok's reaction, and EVERYONE'S reactions for that matter LMFAO i am so enjoying this series so far tara, tysm for ur hard work !!! 💖
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The Somerset Affair Chapter 3: Promises Bathed in Moonlight
pairing: lsk x fem!reader genre: Bridgerton AU, friends to (?????) to eventual lovers, brother’s best friend, SLOWWWW BURNNN chapter wc: 8.8k warnings: alcohol consumption, societal expectations, crying, mentions of a panic attack (not being able to breathe), eventual smut, more to be added a/n: sorry sorry i know ch 3 took forever too lol // as always, ENORMOUS thanks to indi @wongyuseokie for this GORGEOUSSSS banner // and to my lovely betas shu @welcometomyoasis lou @tusswrites haneul @chanranghaeys
summary: maybe you really are well and truly alone.
comment to be tagged when chapters are posted, or join the fic taglist here! series masterlist
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The First Year: Summer Age 19
The first season after that fateful night was like a hazy dream. When you returned to the social scene, the whispers followed: why had Lord Lee disappeared from your side, so abruptly and publicly, leaving you to stand alone in the wake of his departure?
You endured it with a forced smile, accepting dances from any man who offered. Seokmin, when you saw him, was always nearby yet achingly out of reach, just beyond the edge of the crowd, his gaze never straying to you. Minghao, perhaps sensing the fraught silence between you, would draw you into conversation whenever he could, his manner protective, his eyes wary.
The estate gardens were nothing short of stunning in the late spring. Bursts of red and yellow tulips stretched toward the sky, their vibrant hues softened only by the ivy draping from the nearby trellis. The whole scene was picturesque, brimming with life and warmth. Yet, to you, it held only shadows, echoes of laughter from a time that now felt far away.
You’d meant to pass by quickly, perhaps even avoid the gardens altogether, but the pull was magnetic, the memories nestled there too insistent to ignore. This had been your sanctuary, your haven of whispered secrets and boundless dreams. You had spent countless summer afternoons here with Seokmin, lying on the grass, watching clouds drift lazily by as he teased you with nonsense riddles and ridiculous tales. He’d always made you laugh—those moments had seemed to stretch endlessly, filled with the certainty that nothing would ever change.
But change it had.
Now, as you stood among the tulips, their bright faces tilted toward the sun, you felt as if you were the only one left in shadow. Each flower seemed to mock you, as if asking why you had come back when he was no longer here to share it with you. You could almost hear his laughter in the rustling leaves, a phantom sound that made your heart ache.
You allowed yourself one indulgent moment of memory, one small surrender to the warmth of the past. In that instant, you could almost feel his presence beside you, could almost hear him sigh as he lay back against the grass and urged you to do the same. Tulip, he’d called you once, likening you to the flowers here—delicate, bright, full of life. His voice drifted through your mind like a warm breeze, and you closed your eyes, feeling the bittersweet pang of loss settle deeper into your chest.
Then, a sudden sound cut through the quiet, and you froze. It was the low murmur of a familiar voice—Seokmin’s voice—wafting toward you from the entrance of the garden. You barely made out the words, some easy greeting exchanged with Minghao as the two approached. The cadence of his voice was softer now, more mature perhaps, but unmistakably his. In an instant, the fragile calm you’d managed to summon evaporated, replaced by a panicked urgency to flee.
You turned on your heel, lifting your skirts as you hurried toward a narrow, shaded path, heart pounding as if you were a trespasser in your own sanctuary. You slipped behind the thick ivy-covered trellis, your fingers clutching the delicate lace of your gloves as you pressed your back against the rough wood. There, hidden from sight, you held your breath, willing your heart to quiet, afraid he might hear it even from a distance.
He paused at the garden’s entrance, his voice carrying lightly on the breeze, mingling with the chirping of birds and the gentle rustle of leaves. It was a voice you had known too well, one that had once woven a thousand dreams in these very gardens. But now, standing there alone and concealed, all you could feel was the sharp edge of those dreams turned to dust.
You dared not look, dared not even breathe until his voice faded and the crunch of gravel beneath his feet grew distant. Only then did you step out from your hiding place, the scene around you as unchanged and pristine as ever. But it felt different, achingly empty. He was gone, and so, you realized, was something inside you.
Your shoulders slumped as you turned away from the gardens, swallowing against the emotion lodged in your throat. You would not come here again—at least, not alone.
That first year passed slowly, the memory of him shadowing you at every event, every garden, every dance, leaving you both haunted and empty.
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The Second Year: Autumn Age 20
As autumn arrived, the weight of that lost season faded slightly, turning to something colder, something sharper. You found yourself no longer seeking him out at every ball. Instead, you steeled yourself, donning an unapproachable mask that suited you better with each passing day. Your brother had chosen to spend the season traveling, claiming that the sea salt of Grecian air was calling him. The absence of his protection meant that you had to sail the rough shores of that season alone – Minghao’s letters were frequent and welcomed, always ready to provide words of assurance from thousands of miles away. 
Your second season was to be markedly different—by your design and no one else’s. The naive enthusiasm of your first season had faded, replaced by a wariness that had hardened around you like a shell. Suitors still called upon you, though they were fewer and far between, and the gentlemen of impeccable standing, those your mother deemed suitable, grew distant with each passing event. They would approach with polite intentions, murmuring some pleasantry or another, only to bow and make haste to another part of the room where more receptive young ladies waited. 
Yet, for all the polite avoidance and empty conversation, there was Lord Yoon Jeonghan, the Viscount of Hastings. He was different—not at all the cold and detached nobleman that society often produced, nor the vapid fop more concerned with his cufflinks than his conversation. He was witty, charming even, and his remarks would often spark a laugh that you could scarcely suppress. A flicker of intrigue would alight in his eyes every time you spoke, as if you were unraveling a particularly delightful mystery, and for those brief moments, he made you almost forget.
Almost.
You felt his gaze often, lingering in the spaces between words, and sometimes, if you were honest with yourself, it was almost enough to ease the ache that had taken root in your chest. There was a certain warmth to his presence, a lightheartedness that let you slip free from the burdensome weight of the past. Your mother, ever vigilant, noticed his interest immediately. She seized upon his attentions with thinly veiled glee, her gaze often flickering between the two of you at gatherings, assessing, calculating. She would arrange you beside him at dinners, leave you in his company at the slightest opportunity, her encouragement subtle yet unmistakable.
Jeonghan would lean in close, his words laced with humor, often turning some mundane observation into something absurdly funny. And for a fleeting second, the laughter would come easily, a balm to the bruised and hidden parts of yourself. You allowed yourself to think, Maybe this could work.
But the quiet, hollow ache lingered, a constant reminder of the ghost you could not quite shake. And that ghost was Seokmin.
Seokmin, who watched from across the room, his gaze burning, perceptive as ever. He was polite, distant even, but his presence was always there, like the flicker of candlelight that neither dimmed nor died. You could feel it most keenly when you danced with other men, swirling across the floor to the strains of violins and cellos. Once, as you stepped onto the ballroom floor with Jeonghan, you felt Seokmin’s gaze settle on you from across the room. The intensity of it was enough to make your skin prickle, and suddenly you were painfully aware of every step, every turn.
The first misstep was subtle—a slight stumble over the Viscount’s foot. But as you met Seokmin’s eyes, his brow lifted ever so slightly, a smirk hovering just on the edge of his mouth. That subtle, amused expression set your pulse racing in a way you would never confess. And in your distracted state, you stumbled again, this time nearly losing your balance. Jeonghan chuckled, mistaking your lapse for some charming display of nervousness, too oblivious to realize the true reason for your faltering steps.
Seokmin��s gaze, however, saw straight through you. His smirk was knowing, almost taunting, as though he could see past every mask, every effort you’d put into your newfound resolve. It was maddening—the way he could still get under your skin, the way he seemed to enjoy watching you unravel, even if only for a second. The lingering effects of that look stayed with you long after the music ended, clinging to you like perfume.
And so, you spent the season caught between two worlds. Lord Yoon, with his charm and his lightheartedness, who could ease the bitterness that lay thick upon your heart if only for a while. And Seokmin, a relentless presence, haunting you from across every ballroom and garden, his gaze a tether you could never quite sever. It was a delicate dance, one you performed night after night, hoping, in vain, that one day you would not feel his eyes on you at all.
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The afternoon sun angled low over the estate, bathing the drawing room in a cool October light that poured through the high windows, softening the sharp edges of the day. Minghao had just returned from his travels and had brought back a novel he thought you would enjoy—Jane Eyre, by a Miss Brontë. The air was thick with the quiet thrill of this gift, the promise of evenings spent lost in its pages, and you had just begun to express your excitement when Minghao, with his usual calm, announced that Seokmin had accompanied him.
You schooled your face to remain pleasant, though your pulse quickened at the mention of his name. And indeed, there he stood by the door, his posture polite yet tense, hands clasped behind his back, and eyes dark with some unreadable emotion. He offered a slight bow, his gaze fixed on you even as you looked firmly at your brother.
"Did you know," Minghao began, oblivious to the tension in the room as he handed you the book, "that the author published it under a man’s name? Some say it’s because she thought her work would be dismissed otherwise."
You managed a small smile, allowing yourself the momentary reprieve of this topic. “Thank you, Minghao,” you replied, fingers grazing the embossed cover. “I’ll cherish it. It sounds wonderful.”
Across the room, Seokmin shifted, clearing his throat. "Do you find time to read often these days?" His voice was tentative, a hint of hope or maybe familiarity clinging to the question, as if reaching for a bridge long burned.
Your reply was smooth and immediate, though you kept your gaze firmly on Minghao, as if Seokmin had merely been a ghost in the room. "I make time, yes. It’s quite necessary, given the, ah… limited options for conversation."
A faint hint of color rose to Seokmin’s cheeks, but he quickly smothered whatever response he had been about to make. Minghao glanced between you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he pieced together the simmering tension, the edges of a puzzle he hadn’t been around to see formed.
There was a brief pause, heavy as stones, before Seokmin tried again. "Do you still ride out to the southern fields? I remember…" He hesitated, his words trailing off before he finished. “The views from the hilltops there were always lovely in the fall.”
It was a simple question, a nod to a pastime you had once enjoyed, but the memories it evoked—the two of you racing across the meadows, laughing breathlessly under the open sky, sharing quiet moments on that hilltop he spoke of—all felt too sharp, too close. You tightened your grip on the book, the rough binding grounding you in the present.
"Occasionally," you murmured, as if speaking to no one in particular. Your tone was clipped, devoid of warmth, and you let the silence stretch, long enough for the weight of his words to fade. After a beat, you forced yourself to stand, smoothing the fabric of your dress as you prepared to excuse yourself. “Please, if you’ll excuse me.”
Seokmin’s face barely shifted, yet the flicker of disappointment that crossed his features was unmistakable. "Wait, please—" he began, his hand reaching out as if to stop you. “I… wanted to know if you might—”
You looked over at Minghao, not giving Seokmin the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. “Thank you for the book, brother,” you said softly. “I’ll look forward to discussing it with you when I’ve read it.” And with that, you turned, leaving the drawing room before Seokmin could finish his thought.
You could feel his eyes on your back, a silent, unyielding weight as you retreated, but you pushed down the churning emotions in your chest.
Later, your mother found you in the library, a faintly exasperated look in her eye. "What has possessed you to act so sharply towards Lord Lee? He is a friend of your brother’s, and a gentleman. I hardly think it was necessary to snub him quite so… thoroughly."
"I simply wasn’t inclined to entertain him," you replied, not lifting your gaze from the book you had barely managed to focus on since leaving the drawing room. “It was not my intention to be rude, Mother.”
She pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. “He asked after you very kindly. And if you cannot manage the simple courtesy of conversation, well…” Her sigh was laden with disappointment, tinged with the faintest trace of resignation. “It does make things rather difficult for you, don’t you think?”
You didn’t respond, clamping your lips shut and focusing on the words of Jane Eyre as if they might hold an escape. What could you say? That politeness was a currency you could not afford to spend on him? That every pleasantry only made the knife in your back twist a little deeper?
There was nothing to be done, and so you said nothing at all. The book lay heavy in your lap, unread, as your mother’s gaze lingered a moment longer, her silence more cutting than words.
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The Third Year: Winter Age 21
The winter air nipped at every inch of bare skin as you stepped out of the carriage and into the towering, grand hall where that night’s ball was being held. Snow blanketed the world outside, a thick layer that muffled everything it touched, leaving only the crunch of footsteps and the soft murmur of the wind. The frost bit through your gloves, but it was nothing compared to the cold lodged deep within your chest. You drew yourself up and stepped into the hall, a practiced smile on your face as you greeted the hosts and exchanged pleasantries.
Inside, the ball was already in full swing. Laughter and music filled the air, weaving an intoxicating tapestry of distraction. You navigated through clusters of guests with practiced ease, inclining your head and making idle conversation that barely skimmed the surface. You had come to know the routines well, slipping into this role as though it were armor: a mask of charm, a shield of grace. It kept you safe, even as it kept others at arm’s length.
But then, just as you were making your way toward a friend by the window, you spotted him—Seokmin, across the room. He was surrounded by a small group of gentlemen, his laughter carrying over the din as he shared some amusing story. His cheeks were flushed from the warmth, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way you’d once adored. For a moment, a whisper of memory drifted to you unbidden—those nights by the garden, his laughter mingling with the soft hum of summer crickets, a harmony you’d taken for granted. The sight of him now, seemingly unaffected by the hollow ache that had lodged itself so firmly within you, twisted something in your chest.
As though he could feel your gaze, his eyes turned toward you, catching you unprepared. His laughter faded, and for a moment, the room seemed to still. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of recognition, regret, perhaps. Or something more resigned, an acceptance of the chasm that had grown between you. He made no move toward you; there was only a slight nod, a silent acknowledgement of… something. You couldn’t name it, and you didn’t want to try.
It was his easy return to conversation that undid you. The way he turned back to his companions, laughing once more, as if nothing had changed, as if the years you’d spent trying to bury the echoes of that ball could be erased so simply. The laughter that once filled you with warmth now rang hollow in your ears, a reminder of all that was lost and all that could never be reclaimed.
The walls of the ballroom began to feel oppressive, the cloying warmth of bodies and perfume suffocating. You pressed a gloved hand to your temple, feigning discomfort as you turned to your nearest acquaintance. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well,” you murmured, a faint tremor in your voice that you hoped was undetectable.
“Oh, my dear, are you all right? You do look rather pale,” she said with concern, her eyes scanning your face. “Perhaps some fresh air?”
“Yes,” you managed, barely holding together the thin fabric of your composure. “Yes, that may be best.”
With a polite smile and promises to catch up at the next event, you drifted toward the doorway, slipping through the crowd as unobtrusively as you could. The cold air in the entry hall was a shock, but you welcomed it, letting it bite into your cheeks and ground you.
Soon enough, you found yourself in your room, finally alone. The silent darkness enveloped you, and for the first time that night, you let yourself drop the mask. You sank into the nearest armchair, clutching the armrests as if they could anchor you. Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily past the window, catching the moonlight like shards of glass. There was no warmth, no comfort in the scene, only the lingering shadows of a memory that refused to fade.
You had no energy to reach for a book, nor did you bother lighting the fireplace. Instead, you sat, letting the silence swell around you, filling the empty spaces that had been left in Seokmin’s wake. Your gaze lingered on the frost etching delicate patterns across the glass, and for a moment, you wondered if he was still at the ball, still laughing, still untouched by the winter that had settled so deep within you.
It felt almost foolish to mourn something you had lost so long ago, but as the hours slipped by, you couldn’t bring yourself to shake the feeling.
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The bitterness reached new heights that year. Your relationship with Minghao, however, began to shift. He sensed your resolve, noticed the way you shrank from any mention of Seokmin, and quietly took up the role of your champion. He became your shield at social gatherings, a polite, steadfast presence whenever your mother hinted at your dwindling prospects or a suitor left you standing alone. Your mother’s eyes, ever watchful, lingered upon you with a barely hidden concern, her gaze darting to the eligible gentlemen nearby and then to you with that familiar, expectant look.
“You know,” she began in a low voice, “if you were only a touch more… approachable, it might encourage the young men here to consider you more seriously.”
You forced a small smile, the words heavy and stale from years of repetition. “I’ll do my best, Mama.”
But before she could respond, a familiar voice joined the conversation.
“Ah, I see my sister is charming everyone tonight,” Minghao remarked smoothly as he appeared beside you, offering a short bow to your mother. “May I borrow her for a moment?”
Your mother’s gaze softened—she had never worried over Minghao as she did with you, and his title afforded him some measure of leniency that you could never claim. She nodded, though her expression remained faintly expectant as she watched you both step away.
Minghao led you toward the edge of the ballroom, his arm steady around yours as you wove through the crowd. Once there, he turned to you with a look that spoke of both amusement and concern.
“You looked ready to flee,” he observed, a trace of a smile in his eyes. “Would you like a few minutes’ reprieve?”
You sighed, grateful for his intervention. “I was beginning to feel like a prized cow at market,” you replied, tone dry. “Thank you for sparing me.”
He chuckled softly, but his expression grew more serious as he studied you. “I noticed Mother watching you rather closely. And I know her remarks can be… persistent.”
“Persistent is a kind way of putting it,” you replied, your voice just above a whisper. “She insists that my chances dwindle each season, that—” You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together to hold back the frustration that threatened to spill over.
Minghao’s gaze softened, and he sighed, reaching out to adjust the lace of your cuff in a gentle, brotherly gesture. “You’ve nothing to prove to her or to anyone else here,” he said quietly. “If you feel uncomfortable, I’ll be here to see you through the night.”
Despite the stifling heat of the ballroom, his presence felt like a breath of fresh air—a lifeline against the unrelenting pressure of society and its expectations.
“And if any gentleman dares to turn his back on you tonight,” he added, his voice adopting a playful lilt, “I shall personally see to it that he regrets it.”
The corners of your mouth lifted into a small, appreciative smile. Minghao’s protectiveness was a comfort you rarely admitted to needing, but tonight, you couldn’t help feeling grateful that he saw past your composed exterior to the worry lingering beneath.
The music shifted to a slower waltz, and he extended his hand with a knowing smile. “Shall we dance, sister? A waltz is far more agreeable than enduring Mother’s lectures, I assure you.”
You accepted his hand, letting him lead you to the center of the room. As you twirled together, the swirling silks and laughter around you faded into the background, leaving only the familiar warmth of his presence.
After a moment, he leaned in, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “And for what it’s worth,” he murmured, “you have no need of any of these foppish gentlemen. They should consider themselves lucky if they could win even a passing glance from you.”
The sincerity in his words soothed you, and for a brief moment, the ballroom was no longer a daunting place, nor its occupants a source of anxiety. Minghao’s quiet strength steadied you, his steadfast support as dependable as the rhythm of the waltz beneath your feet.
Yet, even with Minghao’s silent support, Seokmin’s laughter ringing through the ballroom haunted you, echoing a reminder of what you once had and what you had lost.
Across the room, your gaze flickered to a familiar figure, the Lord Viscount Yoon, the lightness of his presence breaking through your somber thoughts. He had been different—his clever banter had a way of making even the most mundane topics feel lively and engaging. When he spoke, it was as if he was inviting you into an exclusive circle of shared secrets and laughter, making you momentarily forget the weight of expectations pressing down on you. 
Even now, he stood amidst a group of gentlemen, engaging in light banter that sent ripples of laughter through the crowd. A flicker of intrigue would alight in his eyes every time he caught your gaze, but he looked away just as quickly, as if your newfound prickly attitude was enough to scare him away. 
Over time, your disinterest had made him less willing to approach you. Though he had shown interest the previous year, the glow in his eyes now held a tinge of uncertainty, as if he had begun to doubt whether your heart remained open to him. Your mother, ever vigilant, noticed his hesitance, her gaze flickering between the two of you at gatherings, assessing, calculating.
“Perhaps if I were a bit more approachable,” you murmured to Minghao, who nodded thoughtfully, his gaze drifting toward Jeonghan.
“Sometimes, it takes more than just approachability,” he replied quietly. “He is a good man, but the more you withdraw, the more he may think he should step back.”
You let the thought linger in your mind, but it was soon drowned out by the sight of Seokmin across the room, leaning in to laugh politely with another woman, a vision of laughter and ease that made your heart twist painfully. The vibrant atmosphere of the ball blurred around you, filled with the laughter of others while your own heart sank, caught between the past and the possibility of a future—one you feared might never be yours again.
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The Fourth Year: Spring Age 22
Spring came late that year, but the blossoms in the garden were the most vibrant you had ever seen. Tulips, bright and full of life, lined the path outside your drawing room window. Their sight brought an unwelcome reminder of Seokmin, as if they were mocking the pain that had dulled over the years but never truly healed.
One fateful morning, Seokmin arrived at the estate again, waiting for Minghao in the drawing room. You entered the room unaware of his presence, intending to retrieve a letter you had left on the table. The shock of finding him there, standing alone, was enough to root you to the spot.
He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret and longing. “How have you been?” he asked, breaking the silence, his tone formal but softened by something more vulnerable.
“I try to stay busy,” you replied, refusing to meet his gaze, your own fixed on the tulips outside the window, as if they alone could fortify your resolve. The way they leaned toward the glass, reaching out, seemed a cruel reminder of what you could never reach. You clung to your indifference, fearing that one look at him would undo you.
“Ah,” he replied, his voice barely a murmur. “I see.”
The silence was unbearable, stretching long and wide between you, filled with all the words you had left unsaid. For the first time, you could sense his unease, as though he, too, felt the weight of everything that had come between you. You imagined he might say more, but instead, he fell silent, unwilling or unable to breach the chasm.
When Minghao finally entered the room, his gaze shifted from Seokmin to you, sensing the tension immediately. He offered a warm, lighthearted greeting that brought some relief, yet you felt exposed, as though Seokmin could still see every last flicker of pain beneath your carefully controlled exterior. Minghao’s easy conversation filled the room, and you seized on it as a lifeline, grateful that the moment had passed.
But as you left the drawing room, something inside you felt irrevocably changed. The wound you thought had healed now ached anew, as raw and fresh as ever.
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Age 22
The season has turned again, and as you step into the grand ballroom, you are met with a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds that fill the air with an electric energy. The chandelier overhead sparkles like a constellation of stars, its crystal droplets refracting the warm glow of candlelight that dances across the room. The polished wooden floors gleam underfoot, reflecting the vivid hues of the gowns that swirl around you like petals caught in a gentle breeze.
After five seasons on the market, the whispers of society have cast you in the role of a spinster. No longer the young debutante brimming with promise, you now find yourself almost a chaperone to the eager, wide-eyed debutantes navigating their first seasons. Your newest charge, Sohee, is a whirlwind of youthful exuberance, her bright pink dress adorned with intricate floral appliqués that seem to bloom against her pale skin. The bodice sparkles with tiny beads, catching the light as she twirls, her laughter ringing like bells. You can see the nervous energy in her movements, the way her hands flutter as she points out various gentlemen across the ballroom.
“Oh, look at Lord Lee—what a fine dancer!” she exclaims, her voice bubbling with excitement as she gazes at Seokmin. His deep navy jacket contrasts sharply with the pristine white of his shirt, and the cravat around his neck is tied with an effortless elegance that only enhances his charm. The way he carries himself, relaxed and confident, seems to draw the attention of everyone around him.
You try to mask the bitterness rising within you as you observe him. Seokmin entertains Sohee’s infatuated chatter with polite smiles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. For a fleeting moment, you are grateful that she has captured his attention, but then the weight of your own feelings crashes over you like a cold wave. The ache in your chest deepens as memories flood your mind—long summers spent chasing fireflies, laughter echoing through the fields as he playfully pursued you with a worm on a stick, or the way he would reward your sharp tongue with that unguarded, carefree laughter.
As if drawn by some invisible thread, Seokmin’s gaze suddenly shifts, catching yours from across the room. Your heart leaps into your throat, a jolt of surprise and embarrassment coursing through you. Mortified that he has noticed your lingering stare, you quickly avert your eyes, but the warmth of your cheeks betrays you. You want to disappear into the vibrant crowd, to escape the intensity of your emotions that seem to swell with every passing second. Yet, even as you force yourself to engage with Sohee’s exuberant chatter, you can feel the weight of Seokmin’s gaze resting on you, a silent reminder of everything you’ve lost and the connection you once shared.
It is a cruel twist of fate, standing on the sidelines while young girls like Sohee chase the dreams you once held so dear. You find yourself in this role, a guide for the naive and hopeful, all the while wishing that you could feel that same thrill of possibility. The grand ballroom, alive with laughter and music, feels both enchanting and suffocating, each dance a reminder of the joys that have slipped through your fingers.
As the music swells and couples begin to sway across the polished floor, you catch glimpses of Sohee and Seokmin amidst the swirling gowns and dapper jackets. They move with an innocent delight that contrasts starkly with the weight of your unspoken feelings. Sohee beams up at him, her laughter bright and infectious, and for a moment, the sight softens the edges of your heartache.
Just then, you feel a presence beside you, and when you turn, you find Viscount Yoon Jeonghan standing there, a knowing smile dancing on his lips. His appearance is as striking as ever; his tailored coat hugs his frame perfectly, and the delicate embroidery along the cuffs catches the light, giving him an almost ethereal glow. His hair falls elegantly around his face, framing those sharp features that always seem to hold a hint of mischief.
“They make quite a pair, do they not?” he murmurs, his voice smooth and warm as he gestures subtly toward the young couple. His eyes sparkle with a mix of humor and curiosity, and for a moment, you’re reminded of the lighthearted conversations you once shared, the way he could lift your spirits without even trying.
You glance back at Sohee and Seokmin, your heart twisting at the sight of them. “It seems so,” you reply, your tone nonchalant, though the bitterness seeps through. “She is quite taken with him.”
Jeonghan’s gaze lingers on the two, but then shifts back to you, an amused glimmer in his eyes. “And yet, I believe it’s Seokmin’s charm that keeps her so enchanted. He has a way of making everyone feel special, does he not?” His words are light, but there’s an underlying sincerity that pulls you in.
“Especially the younger ones,” you add, your voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm. You cross your arms, an instinctive barrier against the swell of emotions threatening to break free. Jeonghan tilts his head, studying you with an intensity that makes you self-conscious.
“Ah, but don’t let that dampen your spirits,” he says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “I suspect that there’s still magic left in your own waltz.”
You scoff softly, trying to hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. “I’ve had my dance, my Lord. It’s only right that I help guide the next generation.”
He nods, as if he understands more than you’ve revealed. “But it doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a little bit of the spotlight yourself, does it?” His gaze holds yours for a moment longer, an invitation hanging in the air between you.
Taking a deep breath, you accept his invitation with a gentle nod. Jeonghan extends his hand, and with a sense of determination, you place yours in his. The moment you step onto the dance floor, a familiar spark ignites between you. As you move, you find the rhythm of the waltz is an intoxicating escape from the weight of the evening.
His touch is confident yet gentle, guiding you with an ease that sends warmth through your veins. You laugh softly at his playful quips, the way he effortlessly spins you and twirls you beneath the glimmering chandelier. The surrounding laughter and chatter fade into a soft background hum as the two of you lose yourselves in the moment.
But just as you begin to forget the lingering ache in your heart, a commotion draws your attention away. You glance over to find Sohee in an animated conversation with Seokmin, her eyes wide with excitement. She appears to be swooning—her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink as she clutches her fan, fluttering it in the air as if to cool herself.
And then it happens. As the waltz concludes and the music reaches its crescendo, Seokmin leans down to retrieve Sohee's fan, which had slipped from her grasp in her flurry of emotion. The way he effortlessly picks it up and hands it back to her is undeniably charming. She gazes up at him with unrestrained adoration, and in that moment, it’s as if the entire ballroom falls silent, the air thick with their connection.
Your heart sinks, the joyous moment turning into a bitter reminder of your own unfulfilled longing. You feel the weight of your own feelings crashing down, suffocating the lightness of the dance you just shared with Jeonghan. The innocence of Sohee’s crush, her delight at Seokmin’s attention, stabs at something deep within you, twisting the knife of your heartache just a little deeper.
“Lord Lee is such a gentleman,” Sohee breathes, her eyes sparkling with admiration. You try to smile, but the corners of your mouth feel heavy, the happiness you should feel for her overshadowed by the ache in your chest.
“Quite the pair, indeed,” Jeonghan murmurs beside you, his tone shifting slightly. You glance up at him, but the amusement in his eyes has dimmed, replaced with a knowing sympathy that only intensifies your discomfort.
“I should—” you start, desperate to escape the scene unfolding before you, but Jeonghan catches your gaze, his expression serious yet gentle.
“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, concern lacing his voice.
You swallow hard, nodding even though you can feel the tears threatening to brim. “Yes, of course. It’s just… a reminder of what I’ve lost.”
Jeonghan’s eyes soften, understanding radiating from him. “Then let’s step outside for a moment, shall we? A breath of fresh air might do you good.”
You nod again, grateful for his presence, and together you slip away from the dancing couples, leaving behind the laughter and music, hoping the cool night air will ease the weight on your heart. As you step outside, the crisp night air envelops you like a silken shawl, drawing you away from the swirling gaiety of the ballroom. The coolness is a welcome reprieve from the warmth of bodies and laughter, and you relish the soft caress of the breeze against your skin, bringing with it a gentle rustling of leaves that whispers secrets from the garden. The scent of blooming jasmine and sweet honeysuckle mingles in the air, heady and intoxicating, wrapping around you like a lover’s embrace.
You move to the stone balcony, where the moon hangs low in the sky, its silvery glow spilling over the manicured gardens below, illuminating the delicate petals of the flowers that sway gently in the evening light. The grass is cool beneath your feet, a delightful contrast to the warmth of your silk gown, and you can feel the slight dampness of dew beginning to settle on the earth, a reminder of the approaching night.
Fidgeting with the lace hem of your gown, you feel the fabric whisper against your ankles, the soft silk cool to the touch. Your heart races as you catch sight of Jeonghan stepping out to join you, his tall frame silhouetted against the glow of the moonlight. He regards you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.
“You love him,” he states matter-of-factly, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.
“I beg your pardon?” You turn to him, surprise etched across your features. Your fingers tighten around the delicate lace, twisting it nervously as if it could shield you from his piercing gaze.
“It is nothing to shy away from,” he continues, his tone surprisingly earnest. “I have observed the two of you for years, engaging in this delightful dance around each other. You love him. That is a fact. Do not shy away from it—love is a beautiful thing, even if it is tinged with loss.”
You force a laugh, the sound almost bitter. “You sound as though you speak from experience.”
“And if I am?” Jeonghan counters, his brow arching slightly, inviting you to delve deeper into the conversation.
“Why, then,” you reply, your heart racing with a mixture of intrigue and dread, “it cannot be that only my secrets are shared tonight.”
“Lady Choi,” he says, the shift in his tone unmistakable, as though he is unearthing a long-buried truth.
“The general’s wife?” you ask, the name escaping your lips with an air of disbelief.
His eyes darken, and for a moment, the lightness of the evening is overshadowed by the weight of his admission. “She was mine first,” he admits, his voice heavy with unspoken emotion. “But her father—he was a cruel man—wished to marry her off before I ever had the chance to court her properly, as adults.”
You draw a sharp breath, the air suddenly feeling thick and heavy around you. “Lord Yoon, it is a sin to desire another man’s wife,” you say softly, your fingers trembling slightly as they continue to play with the delicate fabric of your gown.
“And it is a sin to pine after what cannot be yours,” he replies, a note of melancholy creeping into his voice. “It seems we are both trapped in a most unfortunate dilemma, Miss Xu.”
You hesitate, the truth of his words resonating within you like the toll of a distant bell. You find yourself gazing at the garden below, the moonlight casting long shadows across the path. “I… suppose.”
His expression softens, the tension between you easing slightly as he steps closer, the distance shrinking as if the night conspires to bring you together. “I have an idea, if you are amenable to it,” he proposes, his voice low and conspiratorial.
You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piquing despite the tumult of your thoughts. “I suppose I have no choice but to hear it.”
“Let us… have an arrangement of sorts.”
Your mind races, the absurdity of the suggestion both ludicrous and strangely enticing. “An… arrangement?” you repeat, incredulous, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“A loveless marriage is better than none at all,” he declares, his eyes glinting with a mixture of seriousness and mischief.
You laugh, unable to contain yourself. “You jest. Have you indulged in more champagne than you can manage?”
“I assure you, I am as clear-headed as the sky on a summer’s day,” he insists, maintaining eye contact with a steady gaze that makes your heart flutter. “We are friends, are we not?”
“Friends? My lord, we have danced a few times, to my mother’s delight,” you reply, a teasing lilt in your voice, though your heart feels heavier with the weight of his words.
He feigns a look of mock hurt, placing a hand theatrically over his heart. “You wound me! We have enjoyed such spirited conversations! I do consider you a friend. And a marriage with a friend—a viscount at that—is nothing to scoff at. Have you given no thought to your future? What happens when your dear brother finds a wife and you are no longer his primary concern?”
The reality of his words settles over you, sending a shiver down your spine. You search the moonlit path, pondering the path that lies ahead. “Just… think about it,” he presses, his voice earnest, the night seemingly holding its breath.
The silence stretches between you, the world around you fading as you consider the proposal. You raise your gaze to his, a flurry of emotions swirling in your heart.
But as the moment hangs in the air, he steps back, creating a chasm of space between you once more. The hope in his eyes flickers like the stars above, illuminating the path of unspoken possibilities.
With a lingering glance, Jeonghan turns to leave, the quiet night reclaiming its stillness. Alone now, you stand beneath the watchful gaze of the moon, a companion that seems to mock your predicament, its light dancing across your skin like a playful breeze. The weight of the evening settles around you, the possibilities of what could have been lingering like a sweet perfume in the air. The garden around you, fragrant and alive, seems to echo your turmoil, the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft chirping of crickets a reminder that you are not as alone as you feel—but still, the loneliness wraps around you like a heavy cloak, suffocating and inescapable.
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The Queen’s Garden is even more stunning at twilight, an exquisite tapestry of flora bathed in the soft, golden light of the setting sun. Lanterns hang from the branches of ancient trees, casting a warm glow that mingles with the fading daylight, creating a magical ambiance that enchants every guest present. Lush greenery and blooming flowers adorn the paths, their fragrant scents—jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle—drifting through the air like a sweet serenade.
As you weave your way through the throngs of elegantly dressed nobles, the cool evening breeze brushes against your skin, a refreshing contrast to the warmth radiating from the lively crowd. The sounds of laughter and spirited conversation wrap around you, punctuated by the delicate notes of a string quartet nestled among the trees, their melodies intertwining with the soft rustle of leaves overhead.
Amidst the gaiety, you scan the faces around you, searching for Sohee. Her absence hangs like a whisper, pulling at your awareness.
Just then, your gaze lands on Lord Yoon Jeonghan, standing across the garden. His tall frame commands attention, and as you meet his eyes, he offers you a teasing wink, a smirk dancing on his lips. He raises his glass in a casual salute, a playful reminder of the “arrangement” he proposed only weeks prior.
But as you turn to continue your search, you hear a soft rustle behind the curtains of the powder room. A frown creases your brow, and with a sense of trepidation, you pull the curtains aside.
What you find steals the breath from your lungs: Sohee, her dress slightly askew, caught in an intimate embrace with Seokmin, hidden from view. Time seems to freeze as you process the scene before you, the vibrant colors of the garden fading into a blur.
They don’t notice your entrance, the warmth of their laughter drifting toward you, blissfully unaware of the precariousness of their moment. A wave of urgency washes over you; you step back, the laughter and music of the ball dimming behind you, overwhelmed by the tension in the air.
The cool mask of indifference you wear feels like a fragile façade, barely holding up against the storm of emotions roiling within you. Every heartbeat thunders in your ears, a rhythmic reminder of the tension crackling in the air. You force yourself to breathe slowly, deliberately, the sweet scent of blooming flowers mingling with the sharp tang of night air filling your lungs.
You clear your throat, breaking the stillness that envelops the hidden corner where Sohee and Seokmin stand. Your posture is straight, your chin lifted, but your palms feel clammy against the lace of your gown.
“Sohee,” you say, your voice steady and cool, as though dipped in ice, “you should return to your Mama. If anyone else had seen you like this, it would ruin you.” The words hang in the air, each syllable heavy with consequence. You hold her gaze, your eyes fierce, willing her to understand the gravity of the situation.
Sohee’s eyes widen, vulnerability flickering across her face like candlelight. The flush staining her cheeks deepens as she processes your words, a mixture of mortification and gratitude washing over her. She nods, biting her lip, and you watch as she slips past you, shoulders squared despite the embarrassment, grateful for your discretion.
Once she disappears back into the sea of guests, the atmosphere shifts. It’s just you and Seokmin now, the weight of the moment pressing down like a thick fog, the sounds of the ballroom fading into a dull roar. For the first time in years, you stand alone with him, the years of silence and distance palpable between you.
You turn to leave, the flutter of your gown trailing behind you, but his voice stops you, soft and tentative, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Please, don’t go.”
You whirl around, disbelief etched across your features. “Why on earth? What are you doing here?” Your heart pounds, and your fists clench at your sides, the intensity of the moment clawing at your composure.
He takes a step closer, the distance between you shrinking, but the space feels charged with electricity. The use of that name—“tulip”—falls from his lips like a spark igniting a fire inside you. Anger bubbles to the surface, your fingers curling into fists. “You have no right to call me that anymore.”
His expression shifts, desperation creeping into his tone as he opens his palms, a gesture of vulnerability. “It’s been four years, and you still won’t give me the chance to explain myself.”
Your chest tightens at the memories, sharp and unyielding, a storm of emotions swirling within you. “So was it because Minghao told you to?”
His gaze darkens, the flicker of regret visible in his eyes. “Yes, but you need to—”
“Good evening, Seokmin.” The words slip from your mouth like ice, cold and final. You turn to leave, your back straight but your heart racing, and he reaches for you, fingers brushing against your arm like a whisper.
You jerk away, anger and hurt surging through you, the fabric of your dress catching in the air as you turn. “Please, stay,” he begs, his voice thick with emotion, almost desperate. “Stay and let me explain—”
You shake your head slowly, each word heavy with the weight of unspoken history. “You lost the right to that four years ago.” Your voice softens, but the resolve behind it remains, a quiet storm ready to break. In a flurry of lace and silk, you turn on your heel, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the thick grass as you leave him standing there, a distant silhouette against the vibrant backdrop of the garden.
The night air feels cooler as you weave through the crowd, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. You seek solace in the bustling ballroom, where laughter and music swirl around you, a cacophony that drowns out the echo of your heartache. The warmth of the candles flickers against your skin, the soft glow momentarily comforting amidst the chaos.
The crowd shifts around you, a blur of color and laughter, but everything feels muted—distant—as you navigate back toward the main hall. Your heart still pounds, each beat a reminder of the encounter that lingers, bitter as smoke. And then, across the room, a familiar pair of eyes finds yours: Jeonghan. His gaze is intent, assessing, and as he raises his glass to you with an amused smirk, his words from weeks before echo in your mind: “It is a sin to pine after what cannot be yours.”
The decision is instant, unbidden, like the snap of a thread pulled too tight. Steeling yourself, you weave through the crowd toward him, your mind clearing with each step. Jeonghan turns slightly as you approach, his attention shifting from the men he’d been conversing with. You stop just a breath away, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you, even as laughter and chatter fill the air.
“My lord,” you say, voice steady as a blade.
He raises an eyebrow, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, Miss Xu?” His eyes gleam in the low light, the gold of the candle flames reflecting in them. “I must say, you look rather lovely in this garden.”
“Yes.” The word is simple, yet it feels like a vow, a quiet certainty.
His smile falters for just a second, replaced by a glimmer of surprise in his eyes before he quickly recovers. He leans in slightly, his voice softened but no less intent.
“Yes?”
“Yes,” you reply, your voice calm but resolute. “I shall marry you.”
Jeonghan’s expression settles into something unreadable, a flicker of surprise replaced by the slightest tilt of a smile. He inclines his head, the elegant motion drawing him closer, as though sealing the moment between you.
“A wise decision, Miss Xu,” he murmurs, his gaze never leaving yours. The sounds of the garden around you blur into silence, the perfume of roses and night-blooming jasmine heavy on the air, and though the world presses on with its merriment, this quiet promise, made in the hush of the queen’s garden, feels irrevocable.
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Tagging: @kibs-and-bits@moondustmemories@shinwonderful@ivehypnosis@gwend0lyne@thestoryofana13@mellowamour@blissedjoon@begentlewithme-please @xabsolutelynothingx @reiofsuns2001 @mngyulvrs @mooniewrld @archivistworld @lexyraeworld @ateez-atiny380 @walkinganxiety01 @lovecleastrange @uriguyeok @nenojaems @carefully325 @meowmeowminnie @ts19009 @flickhurstyles
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a-murmur-of-a-prayer · 2 months ago
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All day long I have been oscillating wildly between two feelings: one, feeling like I'm actually pretty okay without a boyfriend/partner for now and even the rest of my life, I'm pretty chill living alone, I'm independent, I'm enjoying myself, not super depressed...and two, feeling desperately alone, that I wish someone could wake up next to me and dote on me, remind me to do the things I need to do and just be there for me in case I needed them to be, without being asked and is it that crazy to want that?
I can do both of those independently. I have in fact experienced them independently. But can my brain just PICK ONE?
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mareestoermers · 9 months ago
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i think we are all forgetting something when we talk about how toxic patrick, tashi, and art are — or when we decide one is “worse” than the other. they all have moments of seeing right through it, seeing each other’s toxic behavior for what it is, and STILL want and need each other in this possessive, envious, visceral way.
1. in the way beginning, tashi is clearly flirting more with art than patrick, and patrick is visibly annoyed. art sees right through it and even challenges him like “okay, let’s leave”, and has this little smirk on his face because he knows patrick won’t give up on tashi.
2. tashi immediately sees the visible tension and love between art and patrick, and literally orchestrates their first kiss. she sees right through their repression, and even calls herself a “home-wrecker” but still entangles herself with them, especially patrick because he’s clearly the better tennis player at that point and that is tash’s ONLY true love. tennis. that’s what she desires most in him, and patrick knows that. he even calls her out on it in the dorm room scene. but they have this mirroring fire in each other that neither of them can give up, not until patrick breaks the balance and bails — tashi’s injury is literally a metaphor for the balance shattering between all three of them when patrick leaves her.
3. before this, patrick sees right through art trying to break them up, and even admires that quality — maybe even feels smug and flattered because art is jealous and feels left out from both tashi and patrick. patrick has known this all along, we saw it in the “tick-serve” scene, where he even swears to tashi he won’t tell anyone but he still tells art, who is desperate to feel a part of them and patrick wants that, too — even keeps that close intimacy with art that we see in the churro scene (swoon swoon swoon).
4. haven’t you noticed that arts desire to be great is only ever tied up in patrick and tashi? how he needs to beat patrick to win tashis affection, how he needs to win in tennis so that tashi can live through him, how he lives up to his potential in the ending only because tashi and patrick push him to it, in their little fucked up ways? he knows this — he even admits that he’s playing for tashi, that he knows she’s living through him. he even admits he’s playing a fucked up little game with patrick when they’re in the sauna. yet he still does it. again, he knows what’s happening, sees right through them — still does it, still loves them.
5. when tashi calls patrick to come pick her up he knows it’s not just to tell him to throw the match — and despite how she battles him about it, they still have sex in the car, because he already knows. he’s so fully aware of her and her game and he’s so willing to be caught up in it, the same as art.
just some examples of how they all have moments of clarity and agency and yet they still choose to be entangled in one another because they’re all fucked up in their own, individual ways, and they’re all living through each other for their own specific needs. arts is to be seen as worthy, as great, but only through their gaze. tashis is to have the career that was stolen from her. patricks is truly to be in love and in lust with both of them, because we even see that from the beginning that tashis love alone will never satiate him; it has to be arts love, too. that scene in the sauna when he thinks he’s lost it from art is the most sad and fucked up we ever even see patrick. on top of tashi asking him to throw the game — he’s so defensive of arts feelings.
in short this is an actual love triangle (and i would go as far as to see it as a polyship). you can’t erase one without the whole thing unraveling, and you can’t say one character was the “worst” without picking apart the motivations and pointing to the fact that their bad behavior was never a secret or left unchecked.
even at the end, patrick signals to art that he slept with tashi — art knows and they still have that intimate completion at the end, all three of them. art living up to his potential and embracing patrick fully (id argue this could even be a metaphor for embracing his bisexuality), patrick having both tashi and arts affection again, and tashi playing a phenomenal tennis match through her little white boys — in such a visceral, emotional way that she cries out like she did in the beginning and the last frame is her smiling.
in a fucked up way, they all get what they wanted out of each other.
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mostly-imagines · 9 months ago
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Banished
jason todd x fem!reader
aka jason misses his girlfriend
warnings: extremely mild angst, he’s just mopey (he’s fine)
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Jason sits slumped over the kitchen island, head lying in his crossed arms. His now soggy cereal disregarded after barely a few bites.
Dick’s been rummaging through the cabinets for the better part of twenty minutes while Tim has sat atop of the nook table shoving donuts in his mouth for the better part of thirty.
Damian trudges into the room, past them and onto the nook bench, taking out a knife and beginning to whittle away at a block of wood.
He glances at Jason with a scowl. “If you’re going to be so miserable, can’t you do it in your own home?”
Jason just grunts.
He wishes. You and Bruce had conspired to trap him at the mansion for the week so he could heal from injuries sustained during the last mission without risk of him suiting up and sneaking away from you in the middle of the night.
But it’s not even the fact that he’s basically being babysat that’s got him so disgruntled. He secretly wouldn’t really mind it at all if you were here too. But you were dead set that the manor was too far out of your way for work, so you’d stayed behind. A lose-lose for Jason.
“He’s just mad his girlfriend kicked him out,” Dick teases, swiping through the fridge.
Tim snorts from the doorway, “Me too. He’s a lot more depressing on his own.”
Jason keeps his head down as he blindly reaches for the spoon in his cereal and chucks it at Tim’s head.
Tim catches it without thought, continuing, “A lot more irritable, at least. Why isn’t she here?”
“She’s gotta work,” Dick says, scanning through the pantry.
Damian peeps his head up from his project. “But Todd has a rather large supply of less than legally obtained money, does he not?”
“Yeah, but she said she wants to pay her own rent, I think,” Dicks hums, finally giving up on his quest for a snack.
Damian pauses.
“So she wants to live in a tiny apartment?” He asks, a mixture of confused and horrified.
“Watch your mouth,” Jason mumbles.
“It was a genuine question!” Damian protests, face screwed up.
Jason finally lifts his head up, turning to his little brother with a raised brows. “And I’m genuinely going to break your nose.”
It’s an empty threat, maybe. But it was enough to shut Damian up anyways. Jason turns back to his cereal and swishes the bowl around.
Dick rests his arms on the counter across from Jason and speaks lowly. “You know, it is just a few days. She’s coming back.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Jason was never one for showing his feelings—let alone talking about them.
He misses you, plain and simple. Dick could see that much clearly, though the longing looked unfamiliar on Jason.
Bruce lingers in the hallway, just past the island, listening.
He’ll admit (to himself) that he’s worried about Jason. It’s been three days and Jason has yet to show a crack in this demeanor. And while it’s not uncommon for him to stow himself away, there is something quite wrong with the way he hasn’t countered his brother’s jabs at him or teased them.
And while he could do without the blatant threats, he’s proud to hear his son defending his girlfriend, even over trivial things. It’s one of the few moments where he feels like he did right by him as a father.
And now here’s his son, caring about someone else more than he cares about himself. Someone who’s a good person, no less. It had been your idea to trick Jason into staying at the manor, you were scared that he would push his body past its limit when you couldn’t do anything to help.
Bruce knew you didn’t feel great about basically banishing him for the week but he could see that you just wanted what was best for Jason. He could see it so clearly. Maybe Bruce could never have been a perfect father, could never have given his son everything he needed despite having more money than he could ever use. Maybe he couldn’t help him, even now.
But you could.
Bruce peers around the corner, leaning up against the doorframe.
He watches Damian give up on carving at his block and start into the leg of the table.
He watches the bickering that broke out after Tim grab the last glazed donut, which was apparently the only thing Dick could possibly fathom eating.
And he watches Jason.
As Jason’s phone lights up on the counter next to him. He glances down at it with a frown before his face absolutely lights up.
He scrambles to pick the phone up and starts typing away. A quiet action that catches the attention of all of his brothers.
He types and types, waits for ten seconds for a response and types and types again—smile on his face.
The Waynes didn’t need to be the greatest detectives in the world to know who he was texting.
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✨ reblog fics or face the block button ✨
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sticky-sugar · 5 months ago
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try it. (matsukawa issei x reader)
tags/cw: roommates to lovers, somnophilia, fingering, mattsun sends porn as a coping mechanism, size kink if you really squint
word count: 3.1k
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“i’ve always wanted to try that.” 
issei chokes on his beer when you speak. you point at the tv in explanation, as though he needs one. the scene playing has just started out with a couple in bed, spooning while they fuck. everything’s covered, but it’s easy to tell through the blanket that the woman’s leg is lifted, her back arching against the man’s chest while she cries out lewdly. 
“never been fucked in the morning?” he jokes, keeping his eyes trained on the screen so he doesn’t have to look at you. his laugh sounds awkward even to him. 
“mm-mm.” you shake your head, draining your wine glass, and he can’t tell if that’s a confirmation or a rejection of his guess. but he can tell that that wine bottle on the coffee table is empty, because you would never say these things to him sober. 
“not that part,” you explain. frowning when you realize there’s no wine left, you rise from the couch, disappearing from the room and padding down the hall. issei sighs in relief at the moment alone, running his fingers through his hair and tugging hard.
“she’s drunk,” he whispers to himself, a reminder. “she’s drunk, and she’s your friend. and you can’t afford rent anywhere else, you stupid fuck.” that’ll do it. he’s broke as shit, and you’re a good friend. he can steel his nerves with those facts. 
“she was asleep when he started,” you call from the kitchen. 
fuck. 
issei drops his head back, hitting it on the wall a few times with purpose. fuck, fuck, fuck. 
you come back in, and he straightens, yanking the throw blanket over his lap. you’re too drunk to notice. 
you’re too drunk to notice much of anything, really — including your own running mouth. 
“she was asleep,” you say again. “and he fucked her anyway—“ you rush to explain yourself, holding a hand out when his eyes find yours, wide and uncertain. “consensually, obviously.” 
that doesn’t help. he’d been assuming that, but you confirming it makes it worse.
somnophilia, his mind whispers, the word latching itself to you. 
“i dunno,” you shrug, your refilled wine glass brought to your lips. “i think it’s hot, i guess. i’d try it.” 
he really can’t afford rent anywhere else. 
you’re scouring roommate ads in a hungover daze the next morning. 
what is your problem?, you think, rolling over to groan into your pillow. you open your bank app, staring at the number in your checking account and wondering uselessly if it’s enough to afford a place on your own. one where you’ll never have to look mattsun in the face again. 
why did you tell him that?
your brain flashes through two bottles of wine and drunk admissions, and you switch over to uber eats, deciding that cooking is simply not an option today. standing in that kitchen for more then four seconds and risking running into him is not an option. 
you know why you told him that. you know exactly why you told him.
you told him because, despite every coping mechanism you’ve tried over the years of living with him, matsukawa issei persists in being the most attractive man you’ve ever met. 
you told him because you wanted to test the waters. why you would ever test the waters with somnophilia, of all things, and not something standard and vanilla like ‘making out with a friend just happens sometimes’ or ‘drunk hookups aren’t so bad’, you will never know. 
but you’d told him because you think about it. you think about him, doing things like that. things that aren’t standard or vanilla or easily explained or plausibly deniable. 
you think about matsukawa issei fucking you while you sleep. and maybe it’s happened one too many times. maybe now it’s all you think about, enough that it comes up in your stupid, drunk admissions. 
maybe — just maybe — you hope he might take you up on it, now that it’s out there in the open like that. 
but that’s just a maybe. so you’re looking for another apartment, on the very real chance that he’s going to call you a freak and never speak to you again. 
your phone buzzes in your hand. 
it’s a text from him.
[10:17 AM]
mattsun: [link attached]
your face crumples into a frown. “what?” you murmur, jabbing a thumb on the link and hoping it’s not a virus. 
your phone starts moaning at max volume.
you scream, slamming down on the side button to lower the volume as the video intro plays through. your eyes fly to the title.
milf fucked by son’s friend while she’s sleeping
there’s no fucking way he just did that. 
[10:19 AM]
mattsun: smth like that? 
“matsukawa!” you scream, rolling out of bed and storming out into the hall. he’s laughing loudly from his room, and you all but kick his door down. “what the fuck is your problem?!” 
he’s in bed, cackling gleefully and covering his face with his blanket — but his eyes are anything but shy when he looks at you. 
“just trying to ease the tension-“
“by sending me porn?!”
he shrugs and gestures to his phone. “im just saying, you’re not alone! at least—“ he glances down at the screen “—3.8 million other people are into it, too-“ 
you scream in frustration, turning and stomping back to your room. his laughter follows, echoing through your door even when you slam it. 
he does it for two weeks straight. every few days, you wake up to a new link, each video titled something more obnoxious than the last. 
guy takes step-sister while she takes a nap
mom wakes step-son up with a special surprise on his birthday
repairman finds sleeping beauty home alone
each one draws an irritated screech of his name and the echoing giggles of satisfaction from his room. 
you could stop it. in fact, he’s asked you more than once if you want him to. 
‘if you really want me to stop, i’ll stop, he’d said in your kitchen last week.
‘just say the word,’ he’d reminded you on his way out one morning.
‘i think you and i both know how important consent is,’ he’d murmured just two nights ago, leaning on your doorframe, his eyes hot on yours. 
you’d shivered under his gaze and pretended to be engrossed in something on your phone. you’d hoped he couldn’t see the way you’d pressed your thighs together, but when you looked up, he was already staring down at them. 
he’d met your eyes again and just hummed, flicking his dark eyebrows up at you before turning away. your phone had buzzed with a new link only seconds after his bedroom door had clicked shut.
you’re certain he knows why you haven’t told him to stop. that the truth is that you don’t want him to stop. you’re certain he’s testing the waters now, too.
because each video he sends you gets closer and closer to being about roommates. 
your phone buzzes in your hands. you wonder if he knows that you watch each one, waiting for him to pull the trigger on the one that sits unspoken in the space between you. 
he does, a week later.
— 
you’ve caught him, issei realizes belatedly. 
maybe he should have noticed after you started sitting closer to him on the couch. or maybe after you’d refused to tell him to stop sending you porn. or maybe even after he’d sent you something titled ‘roommate can’t help himself while she sleeps’ at 4 in the morning and you hadn’t called the cops on him. 
maybe he should have realized you’d caught him after any one of those. but he doesn’t. he doesn’t realize it, not until this very moment, as you’re standing from the couch and bending over to clean the table of empty beer bottles before bed. 
he doesn’t realize it until he realizes you’re not wearing any underwear. 
he glances at you shamefully when you bend at the waist, hoping you don’t look back and catch him. and then he coughs violently, choking on his own spit and drawing your attention. 
he waves you off, blushing furiously and not even bothering to stop his eyes from flying to your ass when you just shrug and bend over again. your pajama shorts have ridden up, but there’s no lacy edge on pink panties where there should be. 
yes, he’d noticed years ago that these shorts tend to ride up and not mentioned it. yes, he knows what kind of panties you wear. yes, he has a favorite pair. 
what are you gonna do if you find out, call him a pervert? he’d sent you roommate somnophilia porn and you’d made him coffee in the morning.
“‘kay, goodnight,” you mumble, and issei wonders if you’re shy about it or if he’s just hoping you are.
“g’night,” he breathes, eyes finding yours. you keep eye contact all the way out of the living room. your eyes drop to his lap at the last second, and he watches a grin stretch across your face just before you disappear from the room. 
he looks down at his lap, and then he swears under his breath. he’s visibly hard in his sweatpants. 
he feels like a pervert. he really feels like a pervert. 
he stands in the hall outside your bedroom, one hand on the knob, feeling like a pervert. it’s 2 in the morning, and he feels like a pervert.
he sighs to himself and turns the knob slowly — ever so slowly, because he knows how it creaks, and he doesn’t want to wake you. he pushes the door open carefully, and then he finds you in the dark, moonlight spilling over your body. 
you’re completely naked. 
you’re on your stomach, blankets draped over your lower half and one knee bent out toward the wall. issei can see the expanse of your bare skin and the swell of your breast, but you’ve got your back slightly to him, so he can’t see everything. 
but it’s enough. 
he breathes hard, stepping into the room and shutting the door silently behind him. he runs his fingers through his hair, tugging hard and giving a soft sigh as he pads over to you. 
when he lowers his knees to your mattress, it’s with his heart in his throat and his cock straining against his pants. you look so innocent, so sweet like this, even while he’s sliding the blankets off of your skin and exposing you in the moonlight. 
is he really allowed to want this as badly as he does? 
your breath is steady, only changing slightly when he braces himself behind you, propped up on one elbow. he scoots toward you, breath caught in his throat, and then slides his hand under the back of your knee. you shiver, probably because his fingers are ice cold, and he keeps his eyes locked on the side of your face. 
when you don’t give any other sign of waking, he lifts your leg and hooks it backward over his knee, opening your body up for him. 
he swears under his breath, staring down at you in the moonlight. 
you shift, adjusting to the new angle of your body with a sigh. your back presses to his chest, and issei has to press his lips together so he doesn’t moan at the sight of you. 
he keeps his eyes on your face when he slides his fingers along your inner thigh, watching you intensely as his icy fingertips dance close to the spot between your thighs that’s radiating heat. 
when he cups your bare cunt, your skin breaks out in goosebumps, but you don’t move otherwise. issei moans now, because your body knows what he’s doing, but you don’t. 
he’d had a feeling before — in the weeks between that moment on the couch and this moment right here — that he’d unlocked a new, previously untouched fantasy. that his reaction to your drunken admission might have been about more than just being attracted to you. 
he sees it now. now, as he’s sliding two fingers between your folds and watching as you remain completely unaware, he realizes that you’ve done something to him. that you’ve made him want to do this to you, tonight and every night after. 
it takes every ounce of his self-control not to shudder and moan in your ear when your pussy twitches under his fingers, reacting to him even when you don’t. 
he drops his head to your chest, eyes locked on your face as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth. your lips part, and he freezes, but the sigh that falls out is nowhere near conscious, so he keeps going, sucking and licking and grazing his teeth over the bud while he massages your cunt with his now-warm fingers. 
the first sign that you’re reacting is the growing ease with which he’s able to push his fingers against you. your entrance becomes slick, and he can’t help that he pushes his hips against your ass in response, seeking relief. he drops his touch lower and swipes the pads of his fingers through the mess there, spreading it all over your cunt. 
when he circles your clit, slippery and warm now, your breathing changes, harder and rougher. the rise and fall of your chest pushes at his mouth, and he latches on with fresh fervor, watching your brows furrow and your lips twitch at the onslaught of sensations. 
it shouldn’t be as easy as it is for him to push his middle finger past your entrance. 
“fuck”, he whispers despite himself, mouth slipping off of you with a gentle pop and eyes rolling back in his head. your walls pulse around his finger, warm and velvety and wet beyond belief. his cock twitches hard in his pants as he slides his finger in and out of you, searching for that spongy spot that’ll wake you up. 
he knows you might have wanted him to fuck you like this, but he can’t help himself anymore. he doesn’t have it in him to be careful anymore. 
when his ring finger joins his middle, it’s with intent. the push is rough, bullying your cunt open with the size of his fingers, no doubt longer and fuller than you can get on your own. 
you shift under him, a quiet noise of question leaving you, and he lifts his head, attaching his lips to the crook of your neck. 
“y/n,” he whispers, more a moan than anything else. “need you.” 
he sucks on the column of your throat while you come to, his fingers curling and spreading inside of you — his sloppy attempt to prepare you for him. 
“h-huh-“ your head lifts slightly, and then you’re slamming it back against the pillow, your back arching. “oh, my god, mattsun-“ 
he almost comes in his pants when you say his name like that. 
“couldn’t help myself,“ he starts, shaking his head and pushing his body against yours almost desperately. “you were so pretty.“ your cunt tightens around his fingers in response, and he files that away for later. keeps it in mind, the things that make you react like this. “need you so bad, y/n-“ 
“yes, god yes,” you breathe, a whine trapped in your throat. you turn your head, back still pressed against his chest, and drop your still-sleepy eyes to his lips.
the coil under issei’s navel tugs hard when he realizes how well he can read you. 
he pushes his mouth against yours eagerly, moan unrestrained when your tongue slides against his. he wonders if you know how often he’s thought of this moment, years of wanting you and craving the feeling of you coming undone under his fingers. 
“please,” you whisper against his lips, back arching when he pushes the pads of his fingers against that spongy spot that makes you whine. “more, mattsun.” 
he groans, shivering when you pull his bottom lip between your teeth. “not yet — it’ll hurt,” he murmurs, leaning on every molecule of self-control.
“i can take it,” you just say, pushing your ass back against his aching cock. “promise.” 
he never had that much self-control to begin with.
his moan comes out in a shuddered breath, overpowered by the sound of you whining when he slips his fingers out of you. he shoves his sweats down to his knees, meeting your eyes and seeing the urgency he feels reflected in your eyes. 
when he slides his cock between your folds, it’s with a choked groan and a heaving pant in your ear. 
“can i- are you sure-“ he stutters, already lining himself up at your entrance.
“please, please, please,” you babble, arching your back to make the angle easier on him. 
you come around his cock before he’s even halfway in. 
there are stars in his eyes by the time you’re done. 
you cry out for him, shaking and clenching down hard, and he can’t do anything except bury his face in your hair and keep your leg lifted high with a trembling hand. 
“fuck,” he breathes, voice tight. “fuck, y/n-“ 
“more, mattsun,” you sob. he thinks you might be the girl of his dreams. 
pushing the rest of the way in, he shoves down his own orgasm, fighting and kicking and forcing it away so he can last more than thirty seconds inside of you. 
he only manages a minute before he’s spilling into you with a stuttered moan of your name, face buried in your neck and head full of static.
you’re just slumped against him by the time he comes to his senses, breathing hard and synced with his.
“sorry,” he mumbles into your hair, ears burning with embarrassment. “i swear i usually last longer than that-“
you laugh, tired and still weak but bright all the same. “yeah — so do i.” 
he snorts, pulling out slowly and letting your leg drop closed, trying his best not to moan at the feeling. 
“are you sure that was okay?” he asks, a tiny inkling of doubt still seeded in his veins. you just giggle, whispering his name in fond exasperation.
“sorry, which part of me sleeping naked was a warning sign?” 
“shut up,” he mutters, curling himself around you and feeling the beginnings of exhaustion start to drain his energy. “i’m staying here tonight. i don’t do one-night stands.” 
you just turn in his arms and wrap your arms around his neck. “was i that good, mattsun? i was asleep for half of it.” 
you’re gonna be the thing that kills him, he just knows it. 
3K notes · View notes
joelsgoldrush · 3 months ago
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“you can use my skin to bury secrets in” | 6.8k
old man!logan x f!reader
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SUMMARY: Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his brain. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?” OR Logan had always known your generosity would get him in trouble. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. pining. mentions of alcohol. dirty talk. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). logan’s POV. angst/self-deprecation (he just needs a little loving). religious imagery. feelings. petnames. chauffeur!logan. oral sex (m receiving, tiny bit of f receiving). sort of dom!logan. doggy style. unprotected p in v. creampie. A/N: i could say i'm sorry for this, but i'm not. love love love this old man (#needthat). heavily inspired by the song "i know" by fiona apple. @lubdubology my partner in crime who keeps putting up with me, tysm!!! hope you all enjoy it <3
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The line between being a good and bad person is thin. So thin, in fact, that Logan finds himself stepping back and forth across it constantly.
Rescuing a kitten from a tree? Good.
Punching a guy at a bar because he didn’t feel like being acknowledged? Bad.
Saving countless lives from mass destruction? Good—heroic, even.
But killing others to do it? Bad—condemnable, scum of the earth.
Where does that leave him? Which side has laid claim to his soul? He’s long accepted he’ll never see the pearly gates.
When the day comes that his body can no longer take it, and he only grows wearier, he’s pretty sure there’s a special place in hell with his name on it, etched in some grave awaiting to be filled.
Maybe Satan’s already counting down the days until he shows up at his door, who knows?
Yet, the more time passes by, the less afraid he is of what lies beneath the surface. He’s learned to coexist with the darkness, with the kind of pain and loneliness that would crush most men.
He doesn’t know how, but he survives it—the agony, the memories, the solitude that hits him from time to time.
And still, he doesn't lose himself entirely. He’s tempted, of course, to linger in the past—it’s always easier to drown there.
If he could go back, he knows he wouldn’t be alone in choosing that path. Some days, it feels like the only option.
But there’s no you in his past.
Logan inhales sharply when your tongue teases his slit, lapping at the precum pooling there. You hum at the taste, your hand resting on his bare thigh, fingers pressing into his skin. Your other hand lazily strokes the length of him, working the inches your mouth can’t take.
It’s clear you’re enjoying this. He can tell from the way your lashes flutter each time he thrusts a little deeper into your slick warmth. A win-win situation.
Letting a girl like you do this to him? That’s bad. Very bad. Red flags all around.
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He meets you when he least expects it.
It’s a night like any other. He’s been driving for God knows how long. His joints ache from being in the same position for hours, and a part of his left knee he didn’t even know could hurt begins to throb.
It takes everything in him not to call it quits for the night, not to turn around and head home like a coward.
When exactly his life fell into this monotonous cycle, he’s not entirely sure, but it happened somewhere along the way. Now, it’s all the same: taking care of Charles during the day, catching an hour or two of sleep, then gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, driving through endless stretches of road, resisting any attempts at small talk from the passengers he chauffeurs around.
They all try—every single one of them. They think if they can crack his harsh and bitter exterior, he’ll open up, reveal something, anything to make their eyes go wide.
But why? Why do they insist on breaking through his shell? What do they hope to discover?
No one really cares what’s going on in his mind. They just want to feel good about themselves—like they’ve been kind, amiable, empaths intending to fill some empty and obscure corner of their own lives.
Logan refuses to be the person who grants them that satisfaction.
You slip into the backseat of his limo, closing the door with a soft click. The night clings to you, the scent of the bar still lingering on your clothes. The music is loud enough for him to hear from outside, and he sees the people lined up at the door, willing to cause a fight if it means securing a good time.
There's a slight frown tugging at your features, your lips pulled downward, though your voice is still polite when you blurt out your address.
Five minutes into the drive and you haven’t said a word. Internally, he’s savoring the silence, so happy he could jump on one foot.
This kind of peace is rare. He’d grown unaccustomed to it. The tension in his shoulders eases as the city lights blur past.
But, all good things come to an end, because—
“How’s your night going?” you ask, fiddling with the seatbelt to have something between your fingers. Logan glances at you through the mirror, his eyes catching yours just for a moment, long enough to see the faint, apologetic smile you offer him. He allows himself a heartbeat more to take you in before focusing back on the road.
You click your tongue, a soft sound of disapproval ringing in his ears. “Well, thank you.”
He lets out a quiet huff, grinding his teeth together. “I’d prefer if we stayed like we were before,” he mutters, his voice rough and gravelly. His attention flickers between the passing cars and the occasional glimpses of you that startle him every time he searches for the mirror. Cars. You. Cars. You. You. You. “Y’know, not talking.”
“But that’s no fun at all,” you retort, sliding more to your left, nearly positioning yourself in the middle of the backseat. It gives him a better view of you—whether intentional or not, he can’t say.
The lipstick on your lips is still flawless. A sparkly necklace glints just above the neckline of your dress, and matching earrings dangle from your ears. Wrapped in a leather jacket, you look effortlessly alluring.
This entire sequence is enough to confirm that by no means is he going to heaven. Straight to hell, he thinks, allowing his gaze to trace over each detail of your frame. Straight to hell.
You don’t give up. “Your aura is off.”
That prompts a crooked smirk from him, a shake of his head as he mumbles under his breath: “M’sorry, my what’s off?”
“Your aura,” you clarify, motioning toward him with a light jingle from the many bracelets adorning your wrist. “It’s the energy that surrounds you.”
Logan snorts, amused for a brief second. “Well, you weren’t exactly a beacon of life when you got in either.”
You chuckle softly, leaning back against the seat and looking out the window. “I’m much better now.” A pause before you continue, your tone shifting, losing strength. “My date stood me up. Last-minute cancellation.”
It’s not anger, nor is it disappointment, that laces your words. You seem more resigned than anything else. He’d have expected you to sound at least a bit more conflicted.
“I should’ve seen it coming. He’d been asking to move it forward for a while.”
Does he look like the type of driver who doubles as a therapist? He wishes he could understand why you're telling him all this.
“That sucks,” he still responds, because even though he hasn’t gone out with a woman in what feels like centuries, he understands that sensation all too well. “First time meeting him?”
Listen up, everyone—he’s genuinely engaging in conversation with another soul. This doesn’t happen often.
He hears you hum, eyes still trained on the outside world. You sigh, crossing your arms over your torso. “Would you mind rolling your window up? I’m kind of freezing here.”
“I’d mind that very much,” he says, his voice carrying its usual gruff edge. He fights the urge to grin, but then you unbuckle your seatbelt, leaning in closer to him. Your body is wedged between his seat and the passenger’s, and he perceives your stare boring into his side profile. “Put your seatbelt back on.” 
“You’re fucking with me.” Your finger taps his shoulder once, twice. “First, I get all dolled up for an idiot who bails on me, and now you have the nerve to make fun of me? Give me a break.”
Your eyes stay on him, a smile plastered on your face, anticipating any possible answer.
Crack, crack, crack—you intend to break through his shell, watching him from the front row, waiting for the moment it gives way.
Before you can say more, he cuts you off. “Seatbelt.”
It’s a command, an instruction, and you comply without hesitation.
Warmth pools and stirs low in his gut as he notes how quickly you obey him. 
Would you still look at him like that if you knew the blood he’s scrubbed off his hands? The flesh that his claws have shredded? The names of the lives he’s taken?
Would your warm gaze turn cold, filled with dread instead of curiosity?
Maybe this is hell. Are you the Devil in disguise, tempting him to cross a line he won’t be able to come back from?
A few minutes later, he pulls up to your building. A really nice one, he notes. You announce you live on the sixth floor. He doesn’t need to know that, does he? Why would you tell him that? Why give that piece of information to a complete stranger?
You linger in the backseat, as though you’re expecting him to turn and look at you. And he does, though not for the reason you might expect. “You got everything?”
Eager and full of life, you nod, clutching your purse to your chest. You avert your gaze to read his ID tag, the one that contains his personal details. “James?”
“Glad you can read,” he utters, pulling out a small bottle of liquor from under the seat. He drains it all in one go, savoring the fleeting burn as it slides down his throat, which is enough to keep him going. “C’mon, kid. I already charged you.”
“You drink while you drive?”
“Keeps me entertained,” he says dryly. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. Raising the empty bottle in your direction, he arches a brow. “Goodnight, darlin’. Leave me a good review on your way out.”
You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 
For a couple of days, you don’t bother him again. Bother—notice the implication of the verb in question.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you after that drive. Each time his phone buzzes, a small, restless part of him hopes it’s you, asking for his services, wanting him to be the one you seek out.
And it happens. The best things seem to occur when the moon hangs high and bright.
You: Hi.
He stares at the message, recognition washing over him. He knows it’s you; he can see the other texts you exchanged that night he took you home.
You: Are you working tonight?
You’ve got to be kidding him.
Logan: Why are you texting me?
He types the words with frustration, his thumb hovering over the screen longer than usual. 
You: Why are you answering me?
Oh, you’re smart. 
Logan: Take my advice. Talk to a guy your own age.
You: Damn. Already jumping to conclusions. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have a drink with me.
Logan: I’m busy.
You: Well, what time do you get off?
Logan: I work all night.
You: Can’t even make a quick stop? I swear it won’t take you more than twenty minutes.
An impulse to throw his phone out the window surges within him, but he manages to restrain himself.
Then, as if on cue, the device vibrates again—of course, it’s you.
You: The drinks are on me. Let me know if you change your mind.
Do you think he’s going to let you pay for him? Absolutely not. 
What surprises him more than the message is how easily he remembers your address. It appears to be ingrained in his mind.
He cancels his next trip, scheduled for ten minutes from now, his new destination being your building.
Once he pulls up, he does what feels most natural: he honks. Multiple times. Maybe he’s lucky and you’ll tell him to fuck off.
But you don’t. You’re laughing as you make your way over to the limo, sliding into the backseat in the same way you did a week ago. Your plan had succeeded—you had him exactly where you wanted.
Far from hiding it, you make it evident, obvious. Your heartbeat thrums in the air, and Logan can hear it loud and clear, like the bass in one of those funky songs he likes.
There’s no room for mistakes. He won’t deny it. Even if the feeling is mutual, he can’t shake the idea that he’s doing something wrong.
In his eyes, you’re the forbidden fruit—irresistible, the ultimate temptation known to humankind, camouflaged in the fur of a pretty woman.
You, his paradise on earth, could only lead to one thing: a longing for a chance with you, which he should never be granted in the first place.
He’s diving headfirst into disgrace, and the more he realizes it, the worse it feels. If he were to be scolded like a child, maybe he’d feel relieved, but he’s no kid. He’s a grown-ass man who should be able to resist.
Yet, self-restraint is like sand slipping through his fingers—never lasting long enough.
“You came.” Astonishment. Uncertainty. Amusement. Blinking your eyes at him, you sit very upright, and you don't even bother fastening your seatbelt. “Honestly? I thought you were going to block me.”
I can’t, he thinks. I wouldn’t be able to. I’m not that strong.
“What happened this time? Another failed date?” he inquires, still not starting the car. A look of perplexity appears on your features, puzzled about why he’s not moving. “Ain’t you forgetting something?” He tugs on his own seatbelt for emphasis, the fabric snapping back into place against his coat.
Once again, you follow his lead. “I don’t need to get stood up to want to see you,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance—or so he tells himself. It takes him all his willpower not to collapse right then and there. “Besides, I’m not bad company. I’ve been told I can be pretty funny.” 
“I see…” he trails off, catching your gaze through the rearview mirror, not shocked in the slightest to find you waiting for him to look back. “Where to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you should. You invited me.”
How easy it is to make your chest rumble with laughter, the genuine sound bubbling up, pure and unrestrained. He feels like some amateur comedian who has just realized his real passion is to cause this type of response in others.
Except, it’s not just anyone’s laughter he insists on provoking—it’s yours, and yours alone.
An unsettling sensation envelops him the second you retrieve your hand, not before squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner. “There’s a bar I go to with my friends sometimes,” you suggest after a beat, shoving your phone in the pocket of your jacket. “We could try that one.”
The moment he steps inside, regret washes over him. Why is everyone here under forty? He feels ancient, like fucking Fred Flintstone.
A fossil out of place, meant to dwell in the shadows, not in a scene like this.
When he freezes in the middle of the bar, your fingers intertwine with his, tugging him along, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. The only thing he’s missing is the leash.
You’re met with his quirked eyebrows as you peer into his eyes over your shoulder, a toothy grin threatening to shake the floor beneath his feet. “You know, people usually sit down before they start getting shit-faced.”
“I’m not getting drunk tonight.” Logan exhales a deep breath, trying to hide his discomfort, his eyes scanning the room. “And neither are you,” he practically yells in your ear trying to make himself heard above the pounding music and incessant chatter. He wonders if you even hear him at all.
The two of you eventually settle at the counter, drinking in silence. Logan half-expects one of your comments to pierce through the quiet, but you delight in proving him wrong.
Instead, your head sways gently to the rhythm of the song playing in the background, and you take a trial sip of your beer.
He’s acutely aware of the stares from the rest of the patrons. He can pretend to be oblivious, but the weight of several pairs of eyes burning holes into the back of his neck doesn’t go unnoticed.
Being watched has never been his favorite pastime, and somehow, it feels even more uncomfortable with you by his side.
He knows what those looks imply, can nearly taste the hidden implications behind each fleeting glance.
What’s a girl like you doing with a man like him? A question that makes no sense.
Does he have money? A well-endowed reputation? Did he recently inherit any properties?
Are you truly that desperate for human contact?
Is your bed so cold that you decide to go for the first guy who can string ten words together?
Logan doubts whether this whole experiment is part of the community service you must be doing. Maybe he should look up your name online to see if any criminal records come to the surface.
Now that he takes a moment to ponder it, you certainly fit the mold of the criminal type. The kind who gets what she wants when she wants it, leaving a trail of intrigue on her wake.
His fingers circle the glass so tightly he fears it might shatter into a million shards. You notice his tension, nudging his arm with yours, aiming to meet his eyes.
When you do (because, as he said, criminals have their own ways), you smile, and he internalizes that gesture as something familiar, something he feels he’s grown used to. Something rankled in his memory.
It’s as if he’s known you for a lifetime.
“Thank you for coming,” you say softly, and he may be going down the path of hallucinations,  but your attention remains a little too long on his lips. Then, just as quickly, it flickers back to the rest of his face, and you lean back to drink from your beer once more.
Straight to hell, he thinks, tasting the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, for ever daring to believe himself worthy of even a moment of your precious time.
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You’re probably the first person to have his full, undivided attention. And that’s… well, that’s saying something.
Most days, you’re pretty talkative, a steady stream of conversation, your words pouring out in an endless flow.
You tell him about your family, your career, that pet of yours that died when you were six years old. You mention a friend you no longer speak to, and the events that led to the downfall of your friendship.
There’s also that dish from your all-time favorite restaurant, the one you buy at least once a week because it never fails to comfort you.
Nonstop, you talk and talk, and Logan doesn’t mind one bit. Soon, he finds himself becoming an active listener—asking follow-up questions, chuckling at your jokes, even when they’re not funny at all.
He sincerely cares about what you have to say.
This whole situation with you is beyond his comprehension. Before he realizes it, you start wanting to spend more time with him.
Sometimes, you ride along in the passenger seat while he drives aimlessly through the city.
Sometimes, you invite him over, cook a meal, and he always takes the leftovers with him, as if a part of you goes with him when he leaves.
Sometimes, you come over to his place, and the roles reverse—you’re the one with the mic, asking the questions, fully aware that you’re treading on holy ground. 
Logan’s got a sign on his forehead that reads ‘Stop: do not enter.’ It’s rough around the edges, hardened by the years, all capital letters in stark blank ink. But in the end, you just take the sign and set it aside.
He never goes into too much detail. Not because he doesn’t trust you—it’s just that there’s too much to unpack, and you don’t need to know all of it. You’ll be better off not carrying the garbage he does.
Yet, you’ve got him by the throat, encouraging him to cough up disjoined pieces of his life, bits of his day, his thoughts, his feelings. It sounds stupid to him, but you make him feel alive. 
You never judge him, never flinch when he brings up stories from his past. As he sits at your table one afternoon, you look at his hands, his claws fully extended, and you don’t shy away. You rub the pad of your thumb across the rough skin of his knuckles, right where the adamantium tears through his flesh.
You don’t care that he’s a mutant, that he’s killed people. You don’t try to deny who he is or what he’s done. Oddly enough, you just wish to be by his side, staring off into the void with him. 
“But why?” he asks, partly flattered, partly frustrated. This could be compared to learning a new sport from scratch—he can’t figure you out, can’t understand why you haven’t run the other way yet.
He likes your company, though he’s always bracing himself for the inevitable day you find a better hobby and leave.
Your reasoning defies logic, and he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll grasp the gravity of your choices.
Almost as if you could feel the turmoil brewing in his mind, you simply say: “You’re nice to be around.”
Nice. Nice. Nice. He’d cackle if he were alone. That word reverberates through him. When was the last time someone called him nice?
Bad-tempered, sure.
A pain in the ass? Definitely.
But nice? Not a term people employed to describe him.
It’s a quality reserved for you, with your endless charisma and kind heart, but not for a man of his kind.
He���s nothing more than a chauffeur, a driver, someone who does and says what’s necessary to survive. Does that make him nice? 
When he tells you he’s probably going to hell, you don’t try to make him feel better. Anyone else in your position might try to soothe him, to offer some hollow reassurance.
Your intention isn’t to change him, for him to pretend to be something he’s not. “Then I’ll meet you there,” you mutter, your shiny eyes searing into his. Under the table, your hand finds his, tender fingers grazing over his knuckles, and for once, he doesn’t pull away.
Could it be that an afterlife catching fire doesn’t sound so bad after all?
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As much as he likes to admit how easily you can shift his mood, today is not one of those days.
He’s had a nightmare—nothing new, but this one had been… different. The empty bottle on the nightstand hadn’t been of any help; it never does when they visit him in his sleep.
The ghosts of those who used to be his friends, his family, tiptoe around his dreams in the form of shadows.
Blood. Screams. Shouts of his name. He can’t save them all. Walking through the wreckage, he dodges the bodies of those he couldn’t protect, the knot in his throat tightening with every step, not allowing him to breathe.
Wherever he turns, there’s death, destruction. Sadness. Did he save them all?
It’s always the same routine. He wakes up, screaming, chest aching from the effort. His lungs burn, and he has to remind himself that the limbs attached to him are his own and not the remnants of an immobile corpse.
Sweat clings to his skin, pooling at his temples and nape. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, rubbing at the soreness in his neck.
His phone rings somewhere in the distance, pulling him from his dizzy state. He scrambles to his feet, accepting the call just before it hits voicemail.
It's you. Despite it being late, he swears he feels the gentle kiss of the sun over his brow. Your sweet voice chases away the lingering shadows of his dreams, replacing the bitter taste in his mouth with something real—a reason to get up, to start moving.
He holds onto every second of the brief call, replaying those thirty seconds in his head as he steps into the shower. When the cold water shocks his system, it pulls him fully back to consciousness. He has to get ready.
Even though you insist on getting a taxi, he refuses. He doesn’t mind the drive. His gas tank does, his wallet maybe, but Logan? He just doesn’t.
At the end of the day, he’s protective by nature, and who knows what kind of men are roaming the streets at night?
God forbid they’re anything like him—eager to prompt a smile from you, trying too hard to impress you. He arrives at the conclusion that he’d rather lose fuel and money if it means orbiting around you for longer.
You make him feel better, and tonight, he needs it more than ever. He needs you.
(Now he’s driving. He honks five times when he pulls up to your building. You get on the limo, giggling as you say: “My neighbors must hate you.” He grins. You kiss him on the cheek. Subtle. Not the first time. Still, it doesn’t get old. He feels the faint residue of lip gloss on his skin. He doesn’t wipe it off.)
Not in the mood to cook, you declare as you step into his place. The mouth-watering aroma of the Chinese food you bought fills the air, but when he reaches for the bags, you insist that he sit and relax.
Sure, he can take a seat. But to expect him to relax with you around, playing this intricate game? That’s simply impossible. You’re asking for too much. He’s a player at heart, drawn to the thrill of the chase, and he will play along.
What seems inconceivable is the expectation that he can act as if nothing is happening between these four walls.
His attempts to focus on you are futile, as his mind betrays him tonight. All he hears spilling from your lips is pure and plain gibberish. Your very presence is no longer enough to anchor him.
Already immune to your charm, Logan eats his noodles, occasionally nodding when your voice rises at the end of a sentence, indicating a question.
But he nearly chokes on his drink the moment he registers your serious expression, having never witnessed you like this before.
“Are you even here?” you ask, shoving your food aside with a swift motion of your wrist.
What should he answer? What is it that you want to hear? Of course! I’m here, listening to you. It’s a delightful night. Should I start by telling you about my most recent nightmare? Quite the entertainment!
There’s a shake of his head as he lowers his gaze, escaping your concerned expression. “M’sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” You tug your chair forward, claiming a piece of his personal space. You know he doesn’t mind. “Want to talk about it? Did something happen?”
“My brain is just… off today.”
“Many thoughts at the same time.” Not a question. Have you completely figured him out?
“Yeah.”
He remains still, dragging his plastic fork across the now-cold steamed veggies, which have lost their appeal.
How amusing—your knees bump against his, drawing his attention. “Can I help you?” It’s new, the breathy tone you’re using, a whisper of agitation weaving through your calm demeanor. 
“Can you erase my memory?” he shoots back, attempting to smirk through the wave of memories that flash behind his eyelids. When he looks into your eyes, the siren in his head blares.
Your pupils are dilated, blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweaty palms that you wipe on your jeans. Tongue darting out to lick your lips. Your heartbeat accelerates, drumming wildly like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings.
He hasn’t been with a woman in ages, but he knows how they react when they see something they like—or, in this case, someone.
“Logan.” His name rolls off your tongue once more, tinged with an unmistakable need. The thought of checking his temperature dances through his mind, but the heaviness in his limbs roots him in place. He feels feverish. “I want to help you.”
Oh, no. No, no, no, no—
“What—what are you on, sweetheart?” Get up. Find your keys. Drive her home. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”
Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his head. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?”
He’s no longer in control of his actions. His right hand crawls up your knee, palming the fabric of your pants. It’s numbing: a lapful of you, your rich smell, your quickened pulse.
Tempting. So fucking tempted to take you right now, just like this, without the need for words. Your bodies can communicate in a language of their own, one that transcends spoken phrases. 
I want you, he lets you know through the way he gropes your breasts over your shirt, squeezing them together. He’s always been good with his hands. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a sweet thing like you?
His patience teeters on the edge of a precipice. “Tell me what you want.”
“I asked you first.”
“You’re gonna pretend you don’t know the answer?” He thrusts into the air, grinding against your clothed core, and you close your eyes. He’s rock hard beneath you, the bulge in his jeans shockingly obscene, bordering on grotesque. “We both know what I want, but I’m no telepath, baby. Need you to speak up.”
Twisting the locks of hair at his nape, you press your lips to his neck. “I want to make you forget, to focus on this moment. I want you to live in the present, Logan.” A bite on his earlobe sends shivers down his spine, and he grips your hips with a primal growl. “I can do whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me, and I’ll do it, please.”
Please? He’s spiraling. Please? That’s it—he’s doing it. He’ll grant you your plea, which aligns perfectly with his own desires.
Once his back meets the mattress in his room, you get to work. With delicate precision, you pull down his pants, sliding his boxers off until only his thick thighs and the crown of short curls adorning his cock remain in sight. Your fingers tremble slightly before you wrap them loosely around his length, and it springs to life in your grasp.
Your gaze pierces into his, mirroring the intensity of his own. But something holds you back, prompting you to reach for his hand.
At that moment, it all clicks into place. Logan urges your head down onto him, and he’s welcomed by the slick warmth you provide.
Indeed, he’s very much alive.
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“That’s it. That’s—fuck. There you go.” 
His fingers dig into the mattress, clutching the cotton sheets, stopping himself from thrusting into your mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—God, he does—but tonight, he’s on his best behavior.
He wipes the trail of drool from your chin, smearing it gently across your cheek, his thumb lingering as he watches your nostrils flare with a strained, muffled gasp.
Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he tastes the wetness on it the same way you’re sucking him: greedily, without any trace of mercy.
This proves I’m going to hell, he thinks, enraptured by the sight of his cock disappearing between your parted lips. Straight to hell.
You draw him back to the present, nuzzling your face against his thigh, your humid breath teasing his thick shaft, pulling him from a deep reverie. Your glossy eyes roam, exploring until they find his, and you gift him an authentic smile. Wrecked and blissed out, it’s as if the lights are on, but no one’s truly home.
He would’ve never guessed how much you reveled in sucking cock, radiating enthusiasm with each of your movements.
“Am I doing it okay?” you wonder aloud, hovering over the tip, swirling your tongue around the velvety head. He’s no fool, and neither are you; deep down, you know you’re doing more than just okay. Actually, you’re giving him the best blowjob of his long, long life.
Each panting, airy praise he huffs fuels your eagerness, making you even more receptive to his desires as the words slip past his lips.
“Fuckin’ amazing, honey. Got me so hard, y’see?” His tone is heavily charged with carnality, gripping himself and smacking the tip against your mouth, the wet sound echoing like music to his ears.
He pulses against your tongue, and you seize the opportunity to trace the thin veins scattered along his length. Gulping, with his gaze fixed on you, Logan notices how you’re still wearing your clothes, wiggling your hips against the mattress, rubbing your thighs together to get something in return. “Are you wet?”
Humming against him, you suck in shaky breath. 
“Words.”
“I’m—I’m wet,” you rasp, voice hoarse. You try to guide him into your mouth and fail miserably, because his grip only tightens, stroking himself instead. “Logan,” you keen, stretching your neck in a silent plea, “don’t be mean.”
“Not mean. Just enjoyin’ myself,” he replies, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head, arching his eyebrows. His fingers curl around your chin, drawing your face nearer to his girth, fascinated by how your eyes flutter shut the more you surrender to the pleasure. “C’mon. Be polite.”
Blame him for it—he believes he’ll never get tired of this game.
“Please.” You whisper, returning to your begging while tenderly rolling his balls, staring at him through your lashes. And then you say it again: “Please.”
Your gaze burns a hole through his crumpled heart. He lets you have it, eager to give whatever you may ask him for. You dive back into it, engulfing his length and bobbing your head up and down with fervor. Hushed whines escape your lips, savoring another bead of his precum.
Logan almost loses it as you hollow your cheeks, instinctively cradling the back of your head. “Easy, baby. M’not going anywhere. Take your time.”
Whenever he feels himself approaching that long-awaited release, he forces his mind to conjure thoughts that will stall his impending orgasm.
The water stains from flooding on the walls.
The supermarket list.
The rising price of gas.
The—
“Fuck. Slow down,” he groans, utterly captivated by the way you point your tongue to draw imaginary patterns along his cock, seemingly memorizing every detail. “Don’t go too hard on me, remember?”
You mumble something under your breath, and at first, he can’t quite make it out. “What is it?”
“I said I want you to fuck me.”
Under no circumstances is he surviving this night.
“Really, doll?” Logan seeks the reassurance he desperately needs, fearing that this is all a dream from which he’ll awaken the moment he properly touches you. “You sure you want this old man to fuck you?”
You’re a rambling mess, murmuring Yes, Logan, please, until he maneuvers you to lie on his chest, his glistening cock sliding against your clothes, leaving a trail of dark spots. A whimper dies on your tongue as you brush your lips together, your hot breath enveloping him. “Give me a kiss at least.”
Tilting your head up, he connects his mouth to yours, growling as he detects the dull, sour tang of what must be him. He sucks your bottom lip, hardly aware of what his hands are doing until he shifts your positions, pinning you down.
Logan tugs at your clothes, peeling them away with urgency, his fingers dancing over your nipples until you’re grinding against his thigh, quivering beneath him. With a nip at your damp skin, his eyes flutter open as he studies your expression, casting you a glance that seeks your permission.
A ripple of desire courses through him when you dutifully turn over beneath him, pressing your face further into the pillow. He runs his knuckles along the curve of your ass, his throat going dry as you follow after his touch, arching your body in response.
Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he licks a long, slow stripe up your wet folds, keeping his tongue flat against your clit for a brief moment. Your arms give out and you stumble forward, stuttering as you mewl his name, fully consumed by the feeling.
So he does it again, and again, and again, flicking the sensitive bud, even though you’re already beyond soaked. It’s a pleasure he indulges in simply because he can.
Straight to hell, he thinks, coating his length with your arousal, teasing your entrance while pushing in only the tip. That motion alone is enough to make him draw a trembling breath before he continues, gradually feeding you his cock, inch by inch.
Straight to hell, the voice in his head utters as he buries himself to the hilt deep within your body, his heavy balls resting against your ass.
Like an intruder in your territory, he’s free to do as he pleases, and you let him have his way with you.
If only this moment could stretch into infinity—he longs for time to relent and never draw to a close. 
What will happen after? Will you spend the night? Does he—
“L-Logan,” you mumble, having adjusted to his size. You rock back into him, impaling yourself even more on his cock. “Please, move.”
The pace he establishes is brutal. Your warm, inner walls exquisitely massage him, and the earth as he knows it stops spinning. Fire pools low in his abdomen, his hands holding you by the flesh of your hips to keep you anchored, each thrust driving you closer to the headboard with an intoxicating urgency. 
“You wanted it from the very start, didn’t you?” He doesn’t know if a response will ever come, but these kinds of thoughts are impossible to contain. He’s just a simple man, powerless against the allure of a tight cunt. “Just got in my car and knew it would end like this?”
You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 
His next thrust punches a whine out of your lungs. Even as you clench around him, stuffed and filled to the brim, you beg for him to fuck you harder. He would’ve laughed at you were he able to catch his breath.
With a more deliberate rhythm, he rolls his hips, jackhammering your most sensitive spot, pulling you closer as he wraps an arm around you. When his fingers find your clit, drawing slippery circles, a cry escapes you, and your body merges with the mattress under you.
Your release takes him by surprise, urging him to continue as you reach back, encouraging him to chase his own climax. He knows all too well the struggle of bringing you to this point without succumbing to his pleasure too soon. Your nails graze along his thigh, leaving delicate marks in their wake, and somehow, the passion and bliss he’s been nurturing ignites into a fiery crescendo.
Shortly after, he goes completely rigid inside you, pressing his forehead against your back as he bites down on your shoulder to muffle his groans. His hand squeezes your breast tightly, riding out his high, blood buzzing in his ears, continuing to spill into you. You spam around him, milking him until the last drop of his seed, his release painting your insides with his warmth.
Logan tucks you under his chin as his vision returns to clarity. You nose his jaw, your fingers softly tracing the contours of his beard. He pulls you closer into his chest, gliding his hands up and down your back.
Half a minute of dreadful silence, then: “Can I stay?”
Oh, yes—pillow talk. He’s not great at this either. Despite that, his eyes soften, snapping to your face.
Logan pauses for a moment. “Sure,” he retorts, dragging his fingers along your shoulder blades. He’s a one-word kind of guy. Just perfect.
Tell her you like her. Tell her you don’t want this to be a casual fling. Tell her it’s more than just sex for you.
Or maybe don’t. Get ahold of yourself, will you?
“Logan?” you ask, resting your palm against his heart.
“What is it?”
“I know.”
You do?
Try as he might, he can’t deny it. He might care about you more than he ever realized.
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dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3
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pomefioredove · 9 months ago
Text
only one bed room
summary: it's the sdc and everyone's staying over at ramshackle but, oh no! you're one room and one bed short. being the generous (or gullible) soul that you are, you agree to share characters: all sdc competitors, separate additional info: fair warning I have no replayed book 5 in a while, reader is yuu, reader is gender neutral, rook is rook, most scenarios end in cuddles. can be interpreted as romantic or platonic (nix vil and rook's part)
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Deuce Spade
"I don't mind sleeping on the floor!"
it's a big fat no from Vil. waking up sore and tired is unacceptable, and will affect his performance during practice. he will use the bed, end of story.
you offer to take the floor or one of the many stiff and uncomfortable couches in Ramshackle, but he refuses
what kind of aspiring honor student would he be if he kicked you out of your own room?
so, yes, you end up sharing the bed
he's a perfect gentleman about it
he insists on sleeping on the complete opposite end of the bed
to give you your space, of course
not because he's nervous
obviously it doesn't pan out- he's kind of a messy sleeper, and on the first night you wake up with him sprawled on top of you
you decide not to wake him up
you'd been thinking about saving for a weighted blanket, anyway
Ace Trappola
"you better not hog the blankets,"
takes it like a champ, though he might be screaming internally
he already sleeps in a dorm with three other guys- this can't be any different, right?
it totally is
sharing a bed with someone? someone he likes, who he isn't just forced to live with for convenience?
he's not sure how to tease you about this one without coming off as nervous himself
so he just shuts his trap about it (for once) and accepts his fate
in the end, it's no big deal for a player like him
he ends up hogging the blankets, though. hypocrite.
Kalim al-Asim
"YAYYY SLEEPOVER!"
he means exactly what he says
not a care in the world
all he's thinking about is how fun this is going to be! just him and his favorite Ramshackle prefect (Grim heard the news and will be staying in deuce's room to avoid any cracker mishaps)
Kalim, admittedly, is not a creature of great thought. he tends to be dictated by his feelings, and he can be a little selfish sometimes
so when Jamil pulled him aside and asked him to just buy another bed for ramshackle, he ignored him entirely
why would he do that? the situation is resolved, and everyone's happy!
well... not everyone, but Kalim's happy!
he stocks up on Vil-approved snacks, insists you two braid each other's hair and stay up late into the night talking with no one to remind you to go to sleep
(he tried to invite Jamil and got the door slammed in his face)
this arrangement lasts approximately one night
when Vil sees the dark circles under your eyes, it's over
you are confined to the couch, and Kalim is forced to sleep alone
Jamil Viper
"okay,"
really. he's totally fine with it.
besides the fact that he doesn't want to cause any more trouble, he's shared beds with his siblings before. no big deal
he just wasn't expecting to wake up with you snuggled against him
but this is fine
totally fine
he's barely conscious and it's early morning, still dark, the time he's used to getting up at
Vil has things covered, right? he can stay here for a little while longer. it would be awkward trying to get up without waking you
it feels nice having something all to himself for once
he smirks, imagining how jealous everyone else would be:
the beautiful, kind, intelligent ramshackle prefect in his arms? oh, the looks on their faces would almost make this whole thing worth it!
but in the end, he decides to say nothing
he wants to keep you all to himself, after all
for just a little while longer
Epel Felmier
"ain't no way I'm sharing!"
that's what he says in his head, anyway. but it's late and he's worn out from practice (and being shouted at) so he just sighs and accepts his fate
of course Vil would make him do it. it's probably because he's the smallest, isn't it?
you can tell he's unhappy with the arrangement (not that he's making much of a secret of it- he's grumbling under his breath all evening)
he starts coming around to the idea when he wakes up holding something warm
his heart jumpstarts and he nearly panics before remembering where he is
and then he realizes the thing he's holding is... you. somehow the two of you had ended up spooning during the night
but, more importantly... he's the big spoon!
he's almost tempted to wake you to announce that he, in all his manly glory, had naturally assumed the most masculine cuddling position!
(yes he sounds ridiculous. just let him have this one)
he lets you sleep, though. just a little more won't hurt anyone, right?
he's okay with the arrangement after that
Rook Hunt
"I will do it!"
Vil isn't even able to finish his sentence before the vice housewarden is practically jumping up and down
pretty much everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief; a volunteer! thank the sevens. otherwise, this could get awkward...
of course, he quite intentionally ends up with you in his arms
but not for any nefarious purpose, he insists!
he's a light sleeper, and can be stirred by any sudden noise or movement
you appeared to be having some kind of nightmare
it reminds him of a small animal caught in a trap, struggling for its life. he can't bear to see it- it's cruel to let a poor creature go on suffering before you can make the kill
of course, instead of killing you (thank the sevens), he decides to comfort you
he presses your head against his chest so you can hear his heartbeat, and he runs his fingers through your hair until you calm down.
then he keeps you there, just to be sure you don't have another bad dream
if you gave him permission, he would gladly be all over you in seconds. kissing up and down your shoulders, caressing every perfect inch of your body, whispering words of admiration
but he's perfectly content just cradling you for now
hopefully, you will continue to have these nightmares and give him excuses to do this again
Vil Schoenheit
"don't argue with me,"
initially, you just gave him the bed
maybe you were afraid of him; maybe you like him; maybe you just wanted to avoid a conflict altogether
either way, you spent the first night on the terribly uncomfortable floor, and trudged through Ramshackle like a zombie the next morning
Vil was feeling guilty watching you
what? he's not a monster
and he's a leader, which means he has a responsibility. and you had so graciously invited them all into your home...
fine! he'll share. he insists, even
when you try to argue, he shuts you down, repeating all that stuff about responsibility and hospitality, blah blah
and he doesn't want the team manager dead on their feet
arguing with him is pointless, so you just agree
he wakes up with you against him, sleeping peacefully
now, if it were you clinging to him- he might have had a good chuckle. can't keep your hands to yourself, prefect? I'm just that irresistible?
but the way he's holding you, the way his arms are so tightly wrapped around your waist, the way he's so clearly pressing you against him...
he hates to admit it, but you're an elegant sleeper. it's almost cute
the tension is relieved from your face, your breathing graceful and steady, and your perfect lips open just a sliver...
he is a perfect gentleman, and would never dream of doing anything without your explicit permission, but for one shameful second he thinks about how easy it would be to kiss you
... and then he quickly puts those thoughts aside and tries to get back to sleep
he doesn't want any dark circles, after all
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marcyvamp1re-blog · 4 months ago
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SILLY LITTLE BAT
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pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.
sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.
One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.
warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation
Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4
A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((
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Nobody is coming to save you
Get up.
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Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.
She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.
You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.
You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."
But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.
And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.
The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.
Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.
From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.
You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.
Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.
Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.
Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.
Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.
The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.
You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.
You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.
The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.
But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.
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Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.
The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.
On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.
"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."
Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.
"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.
"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."
Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.
"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."
"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."
The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."
Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."
The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.
"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.
"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.
Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."
The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.
She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."
For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."
Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."
The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."
"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.
And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.
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Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.
You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.
Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.
That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.
"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.
If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."
Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.
The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.
7 minutes.
You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.
6 minutes.
The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."
5 minutes.
"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.
4 minutes.
He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"
3 minutes.
His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."
2 minutes.
The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.
1 minute.
The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.
Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.
That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.
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The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.
The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.
Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.
He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.
You.
His daughter.
His little daughter.
How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?
Damn.
It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.
Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?
Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.
None showed a trace of you.
None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?
“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.
Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.
How could he have forgotten so much?
He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.
Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.
Had you ever really been there?
Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.
Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.
Your name.
Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.
Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?
He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.
"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"
The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."
Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?
"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."
Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.
You were never a burden.
...or were you?
No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!
But when you needed him, where was Batman?
Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?
"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.
Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...
And honestly... I'm starting to think...
that she might be lost to us forever..."
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A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD
Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.
Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.
take a bath!
inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!
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hoshigray · 11 months ago
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𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 | satoru gojō
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𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Is it possible to wish to be in the embrace of someone who makes you want to throw them off a cliff? You seem to think so, and the same goes for Gojo. But alas, good things always come to an end, even when not meant to be...
𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Gojo x fem/afab! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern + college AU - frenemies to lovers + mutual pining - Gojo and reader are at least age 20 - implied fwb relationship - catching/awakening feelings - oral (m! receiving) - ball massaging + sucking - sex in a shared room; college dorms (alone) - cowgirl position on a chair - breast fondling + sucking + nipple play - protected sex (psa: wrap it up, or get tf up) - pet names (baby, cutie, pretty, princess) - heavy depiction of a blowjob - cameos: Haibara and Ijichi - fluff + angst; misunderstandings - humor bc i'm [not] funny.
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.6k
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: second part, let's goooo!! i loved ur support and comments from the first story, so hope y'all are excited for this part :DDD and ty so so so MUCH for 5.5k like??? i kiss you on cheek, every single on of you, hehehe~
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“If you’re not gonna help, then leave my dorm!”
“Ehhhh, hell no! It’s cold as fuck outside; you want me to freeze to death?”
“They’re…still going at it.”
“Yeah…give it a minute, and we’ll just go to the library without them?”
It’s coming down to the last week of January; university students are finally settling in with their new schedules and getting used to the groove of the spring semester. Or some run around trying to keep up with the new semesters and the change of weather already getting on people’s nerves, wanting nothing more than spring to come quickly.
Three weeks in, and you already have stuff to do, one of them being an argumentative presentation assigned by Professor Yaga in your Contemporary Issues class. You and three other people are tasked to find sources for a topic issue you find interesting and then present a discussion-based presentation on two sides of the topic (two people in favor and two people against).
Unfortunately, the groups were to be randomly assigned. Luckily, two friends you knew in the class, Haibara and Ijichi, were picked to work alongside you! However, the bad part was that another person you knew was assigned to work with you, and he happens to be the guy getting on your last nerves right now, sitting on your couch while clicking through the television channels with the remote. 
Your roommates weren’t home today. The club fair was occurring at the quad, so Mei Mei and Utahime had to go out and represent their clubs for the afternoon. Shoko is having an intense study session with Geto for an exam on the first of February, so they’re at the library now. 
That leaves you alone at your dorm, using this as a perfect opportunity to invite your group over to work on the project. 
“You can freeze your nuts off and become the next Jack Frost for all I care; if you’re not going to do your part of the work, get out!”
Well, minus you yelling at your partner, who clicks his teeth before turning to you. His round sunglasses shone from the light reflected from the living room windows.
Satoru Gojo was your number one nemesis within these campus grounds; this was a known fact to everyone, especially the other group members who nervously examined you two bicker. Being in the same space as him is enough to make you wish you could pull your hair out or put him in the nastiest headlock you could do. Worse, being assigned to the same group as him for your project almost made you want to rip your ears off. 
But you had to suck it up; at least you were the first group to start a presentation. Better now than worry about it later, right? 
“Pssh, fine, I’ll get up and—Oh! Wait, you guys have Digimon on Hulu? Ahhh, sick!” 
Nevertheless, you can’t say that when your supposed partner acts like a child glued to your TV screen instead of doing the work he promised to do. You grit your teeth with a twitching brow, “Why you…”
Across from the common area was the kitchen, where Haibara and Ijichi sat at the dining table. The two sophomores could do nothing but feel the tension between you and Gojo grow with every passing second, suffocating the younger duo. Haibara eyes Ijichi from across the table and whispers, “Wanna make a run for it now?”
The black-haired second-year didn’t reply, only a hurried nod before the two grabbed their coats and stuffed their laptops back into their backpacks. The sound of their zippers alerts your ears, turning to them to question, “Huh? Where are you two going?” 
Haibara takes it upon himself to deliver a half-lie as he zips up his jacket. “On second thought, Ijichi and I are thinking of taking the shuttle to the library to work instead.”
Huh? The library? Were they leaving because of the belligerence between you and Gojo? God, you hoped not. “Wait, you guys don’t have to do that. I already made you guys walk all this way here; it’d be rough to have you leave for somewhere else…”
Ijichi comes with the assist after putting the sling of his messenger bag around his shoulder. “It’s okay, Y/n. We found material from the library we could use as sources, so we’re heading up there to take some notes while they’re there.” 
“Yup!” Haibara exclaims in agreement, and the two walk past you to put on their shoes by the front door. “Maybe you guys can find sources of your own while we’re gone, and then we can converse and share what we found when we come back. Sounds good?” 
“I suppose so…” you couldn’t shake the feeling that they were leaving to avoid being in the same room as you and Gojo. The guilt is hard to endure since you didn’t mean to make the younger boys uncomfortable. “See you guys, then.”
“Cya!” And with that, the door closes on their way out, leaving you and Gojo alone in your apartment. 
Well, this is just great; you’ve driven your group members and friends away and are now stuck with the nuisance of a partner who still keeps his attention on the television. It takes everything in your power not to pop a vein. But with one calm breath, you steady yourself and stand tall. 
You walk in front of the TV, blocking it from Gojo’s view. The white-haired boy throws his hands up in exasperation, but you couldn’t care less. “What’s the big idea?” He questions you as if he has a right to at this moment. 
You cross your arms across your chest with narrow eyes. “Haibara and Ijichi just left.”
“Uhh, yeah, I heard the door,” he maneuvers his body to try and see the children’s show blocked by your figure. “Doesn’t have to do with me—“
“It does have to do with you.” You interrupt him, taking two steps and bending to stare him down. Your face is a foot away from his. “You’re supposed to be here to work with Haibara on the ’no’ part of the argument while me and Ijichi do our part. You’ve only been here for thirty minutes, and the only thing you’ve done successfully is take off your shoes at the door and read your manga books on the couch. 
Gojo chuckles – oh, how you hated his laugh – as he puts his hands behind his head, spreading his long legs from their crossed form. “You heard them, no? They’re going to research on their own and then come back. Besides, you know I’m not one to start stuff right away. I’m a procrastinator, remember?”
“You’re annoying; that’s what you are.” You straighten up with a heavy sigh.  God, I wish Utahime and Shoko were here. They’d help me out with this white garbage…
“Ahhh, lighten up, Y/n. It’s not like the presentation is on Monday; we got until Friday to come up with everything.”
“Yeah, I’m aware of that, smartass. And you’re right: I do know you. And I know you tend to do things at the last fucking minute. But not this time!” You watch him try to put his feet up on the coffee table, and you quickly intervene by kicking them off. 
“Tch. Look, you knew what you were getting into being partnered with me. And relax; those two said they’ll be back to discuss the material later. They already left – nothing I can do about it.”
Your hands rest at your hips, tapping your foot with visible frustration. “Oh? And I wonder why they left in the first place, Gojo. Mind telling me how?”
He quirks up a brow with a smug grin — a telling sign that you’d get ticked off with whatever he’s about to say. “I don’t know, Y/n. Why not ask the nagging control freak talking to me right now, huh? Maybe their short height and angry temper are affecting the mood of those around them to be miserable like them.” 
You almost did it — your hands nearly gave into your intrusive thoughts and were about to lunge at the snow-haired guy’s neck to wring around like a rag doll. But you played it off with a clap, rubbing the palms together to distract your temporary violent thoughts.
You sucked your teeth and turned on your heel. “Forget it. I’m gonna go take a nap.”
He scoffs, “Good, maybe your tiny brain needs it to calm down.”
“Choke and die, Gojo!” You say down the hall, already at the door of your shared bedroom. Before slamming the door shut, Gojo’s patronizing laughter can be heard to your dismay. With gritted teeth, you march to your bed to throw yourself on the mattress. 
“Ughhh. That Satoru Gojo,” you curse his name under your breath as if he’d hear you through the walls. “So unserious…”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
To be quite honest with himself, Gojo doesn’t necessarily hate you.
The white-haired boy lies on his side on Utahime’s bed, watching you nap. He did knock on the door – believe him, he did. He even gave you the good old ten-second rule, waiting for your response. But then you didn’t, which gave him the initiative to waltz in and see you in your slumber.
You slept so peacefully; your face at peace, and your faint snores were the only things his ears picked up on. It was as if your little nagging show from earlier was hard to comprehend when seeing your tranquil state in front of him. It used to be rare to see you like this. Keywords: used to be.
For the past two to three weeks, your relationship with Gojo has become more…intimate. Ever since he took your first kiss and drew your virgin curtains, the two of you have gotten a little closer than before — both platonically and physically. Something that Gojo never thought he’d experience with you, his tiny, cute frenemy. 
Gojo has known you since freshman year; you were two in the same enrichment group to prepare you to transition into college life. Personally, he wasn’t much for the program; he found it a waste of time, a mandatory prerequisite that he felt he didn’t need. He’s all about experience, wanting nothing more than to get on with his day, go to classes, hang with friends, and repeat. 
“Hello, my name is Y/n. It’s nice to meet you all!”
And then came you, the person sitting across from him at the round table your group would always meet at. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enamored by you the second he saw you. Gojo rarely finds someone who could easily pull his eyes to them — not saying the girls who’d usually crowd and admire him weren’t pretty. There was something about you that kept him wanting to know more – to engage more – about you. 
One thing he knew from you was that you carried your character with pride. Your achievements, your personality, your kindness, and your mannerisms — all of which were displayed elegantly and were a breath of fresh air to look at. You stood out to him more than all the other kids in the group, his eyes always finding a way to steer from the professor’s advice to your alluring, listening face. 
Another thing Gojo liked about you was that you weren’t afraid to stand your ground, especially when discussing with your peers or him. Sure, you were always respectful and would respect other people’s arguments. But, God, the way you said things so constructed and nuanced, it had the tall other glued to you whenever you spoke.
He’s not going to lie; he’ll admit that he’d try to tick you off and get you to get a little angry with him when it came to arguing. He couldn’t help it. He just liked the thought of you layering out of your poised appearance to the point you’d glare at him whenever you saw him in the halls. And it had him giddy knowing he’s the one that made you angry because you looked cute. 
And that was the other thing he really liked about you. The more you two interacted, argued, hung out with his friends, or attended classes together, the more Gojo’s fascination for you turned into that of a school-boy crush. He wouldn’t admit to anyone of this (minus Geto and Shoko if his life depended on it) because it certainly wasn’t something to be known. He was okay with what you two had right now, being the friend who loves to push your buttons to see you nag at him. 
That was until you two started sleeping together. Because holy fuck, the past weeks you two have been sneaking time to have each other’s bodies close made Gojo’s mind go crazy. So fucking crazy like the feeling of you on him is borderline addicting. Your whiny cries calling out to him when he scrapes your sweet spots, your nails scrape on his chest, your half-lidded eyes when you look at him, or how you whisper his name only for him to hear.
This was the kind of relationship you two brewed, a secret thing only between you two. And Gojo was satisfied keeping it like this because it was what you wanted. No need to flaunt it around; it was no one’s business. Besides, he likes having you to himself, seeing a side of you that only he could imagine and experience.
The sensations of your body under his touch, the various tunes of your voice, and the beauty exhibited in your gaze. It was all addicting. You were addicting.
“Who told you to lie on my roommate’s bed? You know she’ll kill you if she ever saw you.” 
It was so addicting that he didn’t even notice you awake until you spoke to him, the erotic memories of you clouding his brain dissipating at the indication of your voice. He smirks, “Oh, I’ll be fine; not like she can hurt me with her tiny self.”
You’re too groggy to roll your eyes, sighing as you turn to your side to face him from across the room. “How long was I out for?”
“Almost an hour,” he replies, switching to sit criss-cross on Utahime’s bed. “I got bored watching TV and knocked.”
“How long have you been in here?”
“Maybe twenty minutes?”
“Just watching me sleep?”
“Yeah.”
You let out a scoff, shaking your head. “Weirdo.”
He snickers at you for recognizing his silliness. “Whaaat? There’s not much to do aside from looking at you. I got bored of the TV.”
“What about your manga?”
“Got bored of that, too.”
“Anyone on your socials that you’d wanna talk to? Girls? Friends? Your teammates?”
“Mmm, nah, none I’d wanna talk to right now.”
Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you mean ‘right now’? You make it seem like I’m keeping you from interacting with your outside life. If you’re bored, talk with whoever you want. Maybe bother Geto…No, nevermind, he’d probably be annoyed since he’s studying.”
Gojo examines you, silently removing himself from your roommate’s bed and treading towards yours. He takes off his sunglasses and places them on top of your dresser before sitting on his knees on the floor. He rests his hands and chin on the edge of your bed, his sky-blue eyes locked in with yours. God, you were so beautiful to look at. 
“I meant that I don’t want to talk to anybody.” Now that he’s closer to you, his voice dials to a whisper. “Not when I got you here to myself.”
He notices your brows drawing upward at the sentence. “To yourself?”
“Mhmm,” he hums, bringing a forefinger to trace your brow. A sensual touch not to startle you. “Just you and me.”
You give him a look as if you think he’s trying to pull something. “Don’t tell me you were making me mad at you earlier just so Haibara and Ijichi could leave, and I’d be stuck with you.”
His smile broadens with every word, his dimples out to see. “No, although I hate that I didn’t think of that myself.” His hand goes to your cheek for his thumb to stroke gently. “Would it have been a bad thing if I did?”
You don’t reply, only placing your hand on his. Your eyes are still on his blue orbs, and – you don’t know this because Gojo has the perfect view of you – the light from the window made them shine charmingly as it highlighted your face. 
“No…I don’t think so,” you murmur, gaze gradually venturing down to his lips. “I like being around you…Satoru.”
He heard his name leave your lips, an invitation to what he wants to do, his eyes fixated on your lips before closing them and drawing in closer. “Me too…”
The kiss was soft and gentle like he always starts with, waiting for you to give him the okay to kiss you again. And when you meekly lick his bottom lip, he gives in to your request and claims your lips again. 
Your moans were so sweet to his ears — his favorite thing to hear — especially when he becomes a little devilish and sucks on your tongue to make you whimper a little louder, turning him on even more. It serves as the perfect distraction for him to snake a hand into your shirt, his hand already making itself home and cupping your breast in your bra. 
You break the kiss with a gasp, and massages to your mound make your breath shaky. “Mmmah…you sneaky pervert,” you name-call him sweetly. 
“Can’t blame me; I just know that you like to have your tits played with.” Gojo sneers, tweaking your nipple to hear you gasp again. “Hey, remember you said you’d suck me off next time?”
“Huh?” The question threw you off before you could fall deeper into a euphoric haze. 
“Don’t ‘huh’ me, you promised!” He whines to you like a hurt puppy. “After I ate you out for twenty minutes straight last time, can I just have your mouth on my dick once?”
“I never told you to eat me out for twenty minutes!”
“You crying and telling me not to stop said otherwise!” He stands his argument, even if you warn him with a glare. “Just suck it, please. I haven’t felt your mouth in a while.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. You didn’t expect to deal with his childish tendencies, but it is Gojo we’re talking about. You sigh, “…Fine, Satoru.” And then the white-headed boy beamed at the confirmation, immediately standing up and heading to your desk. It was an abrupt change of pace for a second until he brought your desk chair out. 
With glee, Gojo flings his jeans and boxers with ease, his half-hard cock out for you to see. He sits on your chair with spread legs, “I’m ready~.”
You roll your eyes, yet the smile on your face sneaks without you knowing while leaving your bed and crouching between his legs. “You’re such a big baby sometimes…”
Your hand finds its way to the body of his dick, gliding it up and down to feel the veins under your palm and fingertips. Gojo hums to your cold fingers, hitching his breath when you tease him with a blow of air. 
Your free hand comes to his balls, massaging his testicles in a way that has his leg jerk. He tries to fight it, but the squirm on his legs says otherwise. “Hahhh, fuck…quit it…”
“Hmm? What, you don’t like it when I tease you?” You peer up at him with a smug grin before using your tongue to lick on the glans slowly, and he covers his mouth before a gasp comes out after lapping on his frenulum. “But when you do it to me, it’s not a problem, huh?”
“Mmmph, shiit, Y/n—Ohhh…!” Another jolt of the hips after you lick and kiss one of his balls, teasing the skin with a kiss and tiny chews that would have him choke on his breath. “Jesus, fuck! Y/n, baby, you’re driving me crazy….Aishhh!!
“Oh, really?” God, you were such a fucking tease. But he fucking loved that so much. “What should I do?” You ask him before sucking on his balls again, and a hand comes to your shoulder to grip. 
“Mmmm…Blow me off, princess,” shivers crawl up his spine as you place kisses from the base of his cock towards the tip. “Please, I wanna feel you…” 
You giggle at his reply, finally taking in his cockhead to your pretty lips and sighing through your nose as you hollow your cheeks to take in more of him. 
Gojo sighs at your licks and sucks on his girth, his erection becoming accommodated to your oral cavity wonderfully. You unhurriedly prompt yourself to take in more of him until your lips reach his pubes, your throat now full of him, and the warmness of your gummy walls makes him squirm more. 
Bobbing your head at a moderate pace, you suck him off to that of a pleasurable cadence. You still use your hands to stroke him, Gojo melting to your touch even more. He throws his head back when you attack his tip again with the onslaught of licks and laps, the hand on his balls roughly kneading them jerks him to moan aloud. 
Fuck, it feels so fucking good having you suck him off like this. How your tongue moved up and down on him was so dangerous, prompting him to place a hand on your head for support. As if that would help, you don’t show him mercy when you suck him harder and faster. The noises coming from your mouth sounded so erotic and pornographic, the heat on his face brewing out more. 
“—Khhmm, fuck, man, I can’t…Ahhh! Y/n, I’m gonna cum if you keep licking it like that. Stop, st—Ahhaaa!!” 
But like he said before – you’re a tease (if not worse than him). You remove Gojo’s dick from your mouth and throat at once, the groan he exerts fueling the fire in your body. You stand to withdraw your shirt, bra, and panties to the ground, knowing Gojo’s watching every move. “Don’t get mad at me; I know how much you wanna cum inside.” 
You pull out the condom from the pocket of your skirt, placing the rubber on his cock after removing it from the wrapper. He couldn’t help but laugh, “Seems like you’re more of a pervert than me if you had that ready while those two were here earlier.” 
“Shut up,” you playfully kiss him with a sneaky bite to his bottom lip. Then, you mount and align your cunt on his dick, the glans kissing your wet labia. “Hmmm, fuck…”
“Relax, cutie,” he kisses you on the cheek while his hands fondle your breasts. 
You slowly descend your slit onto him, the tip of his cock pushing into the entrance of your vagina. A couple of exhales and inhales keep you steady when inserting him into you, not letting the pain distract you from the task at hand. And the both of you moan in unison when it makes it in, your hips leisurely coming down on him until your ass rests on his thighs. 
You grind on him with the roll of your hips, evoking choked intakes of air from him as a hand goes to your ass with vigor. His face to your chest while the other hand plays with one mound. His lips found a nipple to pop into his mouth to suck on. 
With a slow pace, you rock your hips onto him. Your legs bent for your feet to be on his knees, the chair solid enough to withstand you bouncing on Gojo’s dick with repetition.  
“Hoohhh, ohhhh, mmmm,” your hums are expressed in tunes. The curve of his cock is so fucking good, scraping your insides with precision. You couldn’t help but increase the speed just a little bit. 
Gojo keeps sucking on your nipple; the grazes of his teeth and pushing the bud up to the roof of his mouth only fuels more quivers to travel down your bouncing figure. Both of his hands now under your skirt to feel the flesh of your ass under his hungry grasp. He kneads your asscheeks with every thrust to your chasm, and your shrieks get louder by the second. 
“—Mmmph! Shit, shit, you feel so good, pretty,” he finally lets go of your hardened nipple, burying his face to your chest. “So fucking good for me…fuhuuuucck!
You could feel your cunt contract around him; every graze to your sensitive spots prompted your walls to grip around him. He hisses, looking up to see your expression as you ride him out. Fuck, you looked so good on top of him like this. He’ll add this position to the list of things to do again with you.
You peer down to see that Gojo is staring at you, and you quickly bring a hand to cover his eyes. “—Ahhahhn, d-don’t look at me like that! Yer soo embarrassing…!” 
He only chuckles at your shy demeanor, especially during this. But he humors you, not fighting your makeshift blind for him to see you wholly. He’s seen it all already — felt it all, too. And he could never get enough. 
“Ooooh, Satoruuu—Nnaaahh!” He loves how you say his name, your hand traveling to his hair to grab in tuffs. “Oh, fuck, ‘toruuu, I’m gonna cummm…!”
“—Hnngh! Yeah, baby?” Oh, he knows. The way you’re grinding to and fro on his pelvis tells him so. “Go ahead, princess. Clench on me and ride it out.”
And with that, your hips go to an erratic pace that has the both of you holding for dear life. The squeeze of your inner walls clenching on him almost makes him choke on his spit, the nails of his fingertips forming crescents on your skin. And you scream at it, slamming your ass onto him as you both climb up to orgasm. 
Within seconds, it hits the both of you like a train. This had to be Gojo’s favorite part of the entire thing, experiencing having your folds clamp and flutter around him as you cry for him. It took everything in his power not to come with you because he wants to have you on him a little longer. You just felt too good to let go — too addicted to your body to be done with one round.
When the contractions subside while your slurred howls get quieter, Gojo gives you a few minutes to let your body be free from the aftershocks. He knows your body is extra sensitive now, rubbing circles on your back and placing chaste kisses on your clavicle. You hum under his lips, letting the wave of your crescendo exude out from you quietly. 
However, since you wanted to be such a tease, why not be a tease back? At least, that’s what Gojo thought before he threw your cunt another snap of the hips, his cock jabbing into your delicate walls that haven’t recovered yet. A sharp cry comes from your puffy lips, the hand covering Gojo’s eyes finally freeing him to see you. 
He grins with hooded azure eyes, “Sorry, cutie, but I didn’t get to finish. Wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t get to have fun of my own, right?” 
You chew on your lip with trenched brows before bringing your face to his. “Don’t you get carried away like last time, Satoru.”
“No promises, princess~” he sings to your ear before humming into your lips. 
As mentioned before, Gojo doesn’t hate you — he just hates that he can’t fully express liking you. 
But having you on top of him like this, in his embrace, is a nice change of pace he’ll happily get used to.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
“Okay, everyone, class dismissed! Thank you for your time, and see you all on Friday.”
Professor Naga closes up the last class for today, and the students all get up from the seats of their elevated rows to pack up and leave. The clock is ten minutes before seven o’clock, the winter darkness already claiming the sky with a sheet of night. Students are either famished and heading to the dining hall for food, going straight to their dorms or homes, or staying behind for last-minute conversations.
Gojo was one of the latter, deciding to stay behind to chat with the group for a bit. After packing his backpack and putting on his coat, he slings from the table to jump to the row below him, where you were talking with Haibara and Ijichi. 
You watch his stunt, ready to lecture, “Jesus, Gojo, what’s all that for? You could’ve just walked around.”
“Ehhhh, why would I do that? That’s so lame.” He comes and bends close to you enough to slang his arm around your shoulders. 
But you click your teeth and try to maneuver away from his tall figure. “You’re lame,” you mutter under your breath.
However, Gojo’s ears perked with furrowed brows. “What did you say?”
“You heard me, you lame white furby!” You repeat yourself with a huff and the snow-haired student gawks at your brazenness. 
The two of you argue again; students passing by silently exit the class, others stand and watch, and Professor Yaga can only sigh at yet another altercation between you two. 
However, it quickly dissipates when Haibara laughs from his seat. “You two, there’s never a dull moment.”
You and Gojo blink at the dark brunette before removing Gojo’s hand from your shoulders. “Hmph, it’s not like it’s my fault; he’s the one who starts it.”
“Oh, what could I possibly do to make Y/n so upset with me this time?” He pushes up his sunglasses, snickering at the scowl you send him. 
Ichiji, being the passive second-year he is, meekly changes the topic from the row below you three. “On some brighter news, at least we did well on the presentation.” 
“That’s right!” Haibara happily agrees with the statement, leaning against the chair with his hands behind his head. “Professor Yaga seemed really pleased with our arguments; I don’t think he intervened even once. Plus, he said many good things about how we handled the topic. Nice one, team!” 
The raven-haired one hums at the other’s exclamation. “I think most of it goes to how Y/n and Gojo bounced off each other’s arguments. How you two pulled up examples from the articles yet remained dignified with your viewpoints was cool to witness. I even saw some students be engaged with the conversation, many amazed with how Y/n refuted Gojo’s arguments elegantly and respectfully.”
But most of all, what the two sophomores wanted to mention was that there was no yelling. To them, the professor, and all the students of this class, you and Gojo presented your presentation without a single tone of malice, no pointless teasing, no name-calling, nothing! It was a civil conversation between two opposing sides. To everyone’s surprise — and thankful stars — today was a success.
You chuckle nervously at the praise. “Oh, come on, you two, don’t let me and Gojo take all the credit. You guys did your part. Especially you, Ichiji; you were an exceptional help for my side and finding sources I could build off from.”
Gojo, on the other hand, rolls his eyes. “Psssh, don’t butter them up like that; without us, they would’ve failed this presentation big time. No offense.” He was forced to say that when you called him by his last name and hit him with your elbow.
None taken, the two younger friends say to themselves unbeknownst to each other. 
The tall one continues, “Besides, you were the one who did most of the work. I slacked off until the last minute when you whipped me into shape.” Gojo brings his hand on top of your head for a pat. The action surprised you enough to flinch a bit. “Nice work like always, Y/n.”
Were the stars aligned differently, or did Gojo just compliment you? It certainly took you aback, especially the two others who silently kept their observation to themselves. 
You could only look at his complacent look for a few seconds before you realized the warmth of your cheeks became stronger. Averting your eyes, you remove his hand from your head. “Thanks, Gojo…” you express gratitude. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”
A cheeky smile, his dimples prominent to blind you. “Awww, would you two look at that? They’re complimenting me, too~” Another bump to the chest has him cackling like a child, and you shake your head with rolled eyes.
The two younger students observe the scene before Haibara forcibly stretches and yawns to catch the two’s attention. “Man, I’m so hungry; I skipped lunch to prepare for this presentation. Me and Ijichi are gonna meet up with Nanami at the dining hall. You guys wanna come?”
You instantly beam at the proposal; who are you to refuse a dinner with your friends? “Sure! I’d love to…Oh! Wait, let me use the restroom and fill my water bottle.”
You rummage through your backpack for your water bottle before exiting the classroom. The boys watch you descend from row after row, and Gojo says, “Don’t take too long; I’ll convince them to leave without you.”
“Hmph, go ahead and try! They invited me; I don’t know who told you to invite yourself.” You stick your tongue out at him before opening and closing the door behind you. 
Gojo watches you with a smile still plastered on his face for a few seconds before Ijichi makes a tiny cough to catch his attention, the sunglasses-wearing junior turning to look back down to the other two. He notes the albeit cheesy-smiling faces they harbor, and he lifts a brow. “The hell are you two smiling for?”
The raven-haired sophomore squeaks at the sudden firm tone, “N–Nothing!”
“Pfft, oh come on, Kiyo; let’s not act like we didn’t see what we just saw.”
Gojo catches the nuance of Haibara’s comment. “Saw what?”
“You’re over here talking about our faces, but you’re the one who’s smiling at Y/n as they leave the door?” The brunette sophomore sends a wink to his junior, whose face doesn’t change at the comment.
“And your point is?”
“Well, it seems — to me, at least —  there might be something going on with you and Y/n?” 
Gojo was prepared for that, opening his mouth to interject quickly. However, the dark-haired other beat him to the punch. “Now that you mention it, Gojo and Y/n have been kind of…stable? There's still the usual arguments, but those haven't happened as much since last week…”
“Right!?” Haibara points at Ijichi with exclamation, making the other second-year flinch. “For some reason, things seem to be a little quieter with the two of them now, not to mention them hanging out way more often. Everyone’s been talking about it; even Geto and Shoko asked if Gojo had done anything that made Y/n passive?”
“I asked Nanami about it on Monday; he thinks maybe Y/n finally knocked some sense into Gojo’s childish brain to have him be so civil to engage without yelling their head off.”
“Pffthaha, I wouldn’t go that far. Y/n did just kick him in the shin yesterday for scaring them from behind.”
“Ahh, yes, well, that was deserved.”
“You two realize I’m still standing right the fuck here, right?” No, they hadn’t because the two discerned the twitch of Gojo’s brow after conversing about the tall, white-haired boy. 
“But it’s true!”
Another voice enters the set, making Gojo raise his head, and the other two turn to their left. It was some girl and her friend. Gojo knew of her; she sat next to him during class. Again, he knew of her, meaning she had no significance to his knowledge.
And yet, she speaks to the three boys. “You and Y/n have gotten a lot more close these past weeks compared to previous semesters—“
“Real close, too!” Their friend adds on from behind. “It’s as if you two are like a couple.”
“So…Are you two….a thing?”
Gojo could tell from a mile away what this was. Obviously, the first girl has a thing for him — he can see the anxiousness from the twiddle of her thumbs and avoidant eye contact. Although he wasn’t interested, he couldn’t even answer the question the way he wanted. What the hell could he say: that you two are in a secret relationship? He knows you’d have his grave ready before he could finish that confession.
And he can’t say the two of you are in any relationship either; it’s not what you would’ve told them. To everyone else, you and Gojo are friends who would preferably be caught dead rather than lying in bed together. So, might as well keep that facade up.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” he starts with the push of his sunglasses. “Y/n is a pretty good friend, and I’d like to keep it at that.”
Haibara and Ijichi turn from Gojo to look at each other and shrug. Before turning back, something caught their eye that caused the two sophomores’ skin to turn white.
Ijichi tries to prevent Gojo from speaking further. “G-Gojo—“
However, the tall one doesn’t listen. “I mean, sure, they got a nice personality and are independent…Kinda pretty, too, not gonna lie. But they’re not really my type. I mean, have you seen them? Just a little person who likes to find trivial stuff to yell at me over. Angry at the world around them, I’d say.“
“Go. Jo.” Haibara says the junior’s name through gritted teeth, bringing his hand up by his neck and drawing an imaginary horizontal line back and forth — a gesture for Gojo to not say anymore. But unfortunately, the sign wasn’t seen, and the words kept pouring out.  
“And to be honest, can you imagine? Me and Y/n, a couple? Jesus Christ, that would be fucking exhausting to deal with, especially with someone so boring and too uncute like them. I’ve seen prettier, been with better. I feel sorry for the poor bastard who does end up with them—“
“SATORU GOJO!”
Now — that sudden burst of yell from a loud, masculine voice — that was what got Gojo’s attention. It’s what got the attention of everyone else in the room. The snow-haired student jerks to look at the professor standing at the front, the older man with a deep frown. “What?
The professor doesn’t answer him. Instead, he points to the left of him with his chin with a huff. With common sense, Gojo turns behind him to see where the older man points. And at that moment, he felt his very being drop to the soles of his feet. Haibara and Ijichi took a slow breath in unison at the immediate tension.
Behind him stood you, a lone figure holding their water bottle within three arm’s length away from the group. But that was sufficient enough for you to have heard everything said. 
Breathing suddenly felt impossible for Gojo; his entire body was stiff under your gaze. His shades could hide his eyes, but he wasn’t sure it could shield the instant shame that slapped him across the face from you. 
And that was another thing: the look you harbored was indecipherable — the true definition of disengagement. There were no widened eyes, quivering lips, or shaky hands. You stood plainly and looked as though you were detached from the entire situation. And that was what scared him the most.
This was strike one.
He dared not move when you began walking up, and your eyes then shifted to ignore his presence. “Hey, Yu,” the brunette straightened his posture at the use of the first name. “I think I’ll have to decline on that dinner offer. I’m a little tired and have a paper I need to work on…Maybe next time?”
“Uhh, yeah, sure, no problem.” He answers with a sweat.
Wait a second. Gojo tries to call for you, “Y/n—“
“Ijichi,” but you immediately shut him down and directed your attention to the other sophomore friend as you put on your coat and stuffed your water bottle back into your bag. “Be sure to submit the presentation template and sources to the course site before the end of the day, please.”
“U–Uhh, already done, Y/n.” He squeaks while reassuring.
Wait, please. The tall one tries again, “Wait, Y/n—“
“Good.” You sling your backpack on, refusing to look at the person trying to talk to you. “Well, I’ll be seeing you, then.” And with that, you turn on your heel and head down the row to leave.
No, wait, stop— “Y/n, wait!” This was strike two. 
Gojo doesn’t hesitate to call out to you. At that moment, he follows you to the class steps where you were a row down left from the door. He grabs your hand without thinking, the size of your palm captured by his slender fingers. He knew it was a risky move, but he had to — he had to get you to talk with him right now, if not ever. Because the latter is something he isn’t ready for, something he didn’t think would be a possibility.
And yet, he will learn this lesson of being prepared for the impossible when you rapidly turn to him. Strike three.
SLAP!
Have you ever seen someone get smacked in the face so hard that their sunglasses come off? The remaining two girls who witnessed it know for sure now. Haibara and Ijichi won’t admit to it as they immediately turn to the other side of the room when they saw your hand move. But please believe they winced at the sound of the impact. The same goes for Professor Yaga, who was too stunned to speak, yet it was a valid outcome. 
Gojo didn’t move a single limb, allowing the stinging feeling on his cheek to course through his facial muscles. His eyes were glued to the carpeted ground; he knew that’s where they were supposed to be. And you snatched your hand away from his grasp, leaving his fingers to suffer in forced loneliness.
“You…you think it’s all fun and games to say stuff like that when I turn my back for a few minutes, huh?” He can see your hand palpitate from his peripheral; the anger depicted alone was enough to interpret. And the tremble in your voice? It felt like an arrow to his being. “…Look at me.”
He’d be a fool to have you repeat yourself; he has lost that right to toy with you now. With a slow inhale, Gojo rotates his head at you, azure eyes tracking up your figure to your face. And when it lands at that destination, his heart is shot down.
Tears stream down vexed, watery eyes. Your brows furrowed, and your bottom lip chewed in a terrible attempt to stop it from quivering. The rise and fall of your shoulders as you moderate your breathing, trying so hard not to let your temper dwell into a deeper phase of ugly. It was bad enough you’re crying in public, in front of your peers, your teacher — and it was because of him. 
“From this day forward,” you fight your sniffles to say your statement as clearly as possible. “Don’t you ever talk to me, Satoru Gojo. Enjoy your life without something as boring as me.”
And with that, you dismiss yourself from him and the class altogether, the room silent even after the slam of the door closed. No one says anything, too shocked from the event to utter a letter. 
The silence aids the ringing in Gojo’s ears, his breathing still having trouble maintaining a balanced front. The cheek you slapped burned with pain; he’s sure the skin is as red as a cherry. 
Oh, fuck.
He brings a hand to his face, his body fighting the trembling. The ringing in his ears worsens, along with the pounding in his head that beats like a drum. His eyes stuck to the ground below him, choosing to focus on something inanimate and not living. 
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
All he could think of in this time and place was you. Memories flashing right before him, of you and only you. He can hear the way you say his name, both in vexation and in sweet tunes. Your smiles, your frowns, your huffs, your whispers. When your eyebrows scrunch whenever you express worry for him, how you’re never afraid to stand up against him when making a point, the smile that’s been blinding him for many days and nights — the smile he wouldn’t mind seeing for eternity.
All those memories were one stab to his heart after another. And every time a recollection ended, a flash of your crying face would return to haunt him. Tears that weren’t meant to be there but were, and warm feelings you expressed with him were gone the moment he saw your eyes void of feelings for him. At least, that’s what he saw.
He hurt you. That was the only revelation that haunted him where he stood, making his voice falter from confidence. It was a revelation he never meant to bring about. And now that it exists and he sees the damage, nothing would be better for him now than the ground beneath him swallowing him whole.
“What…the fuck…”
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© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 ❤︎ reblogs + comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ☆ dividers by @/cafekitsune & @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more.
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deebris · 4 months ago
Text
The Misteryous Visitor 6
Batfamily x batsis (platonic!)
Synopsis: Being alone with Damian after so many years didn't lead to the ideal conversation you two should have had, but every little word seemed to have helped you two get closer at least a little bit. However, the chaotic turbulence of the night returned when your mother decided to leave.
Warnings: Family discussion; mention of kidnapping; maternal possessiveness;
Word count: 4k
Note: I wanted to post this and part 7 together, because they are the last two, but it didn't turn out as planned. I hope you like it.
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6
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Damian walked to the end of the hallway and turned right, heading toward the living room. His only goal at the moment was to find you and try to prepare you for the catastrophic revelation he knew would come at some point. He was already tired of seeing you so unaware of everything; you weren’t an idiot and didn’t deserve to be treated like one.
But it seemed he didn’t have to try too hard because as soon as he turned the corner and walked a few meters, he abruptly stopped upon seeing that you hadn’t disappeared. In fact, you were there, sitting on the floor next to an old portrait of Martha, your grandmother, curled up as if just waiting for someone to come and get you. Someone who wasn’t your brother, apparently.
“There you are.” He took a few steps back and made no effort to crouch to your level; instead, he stood staring at you with a reproachful look that made you pull your legs even tighter to your chest. “Get up, quickly. The floor is for rats.”
He was trying to ignore the tension, but you were giving him the silent treatment, which made him uncomfortable, though he would never admit it to himself. You had done this to him many times before, but it was always over silly reasons, so he never minded.
You also could never hold a grudge for long, and when you were younger, within an hour, you would have forgotten any disagreement between the two of you and would then come to annoy him again. But now you were older, it wasn’t a tantrum anymore, and the reason was much more complex than any other. You weren’t ignoring him because you were simply irritated, and he feared it was different now.
Damian couldn’t ignore the irritation he felt seeing how ashamed of yourself you seemed since he first saw you. He hated that trait of your personality, always very aware of everything and everyone around you, though it was contradictory to your incredible ability to do unthinkable nonsense.
From where you both were, he still had a view of the bedroom door. The boy couldn’t help but glance over there, curious about what kind of discussion your parents were having. At the same time, he was contemplating various ways to say something or maybe try to fix the awkwardness between you two now, but your guilty voice caught him off guard:
“I didn’t mean to cause harm.” You sounded hoarse, and you two stared at each other, and unlike his sharp eyes, yours were wavering. He gave you a hard expression, but not because of the aversion you thought he had for you, but out of confusion.
It was a pity that Damian’s feelings weren’t easy to read, so you thought he was angry because that night you found out Bruce was someone very important to your brother now. “I didn’t mean to hurt Mr. Wayne. I really don’t know what I did to make him like this. I’m sorry.”
So you thought you had done something wrong to make your father that way, Damian concluded. He hadn’t reflected on how you might feel that way, and fighting against his own callous nature, he made an effort to relax his posture and crouched down in front of you. Damian didn’t dare sit the same way you were, balancing on his toes and leaning his torso forward.
“It wasn’t anything you did.” You’re not sure, but you risk saying this was the first time you heard your brother so soft in your entire life. Damian had always been very loud and was almost always yelling or offending someone, but now, combined with the gravity his voice had gained with puberty, it was tender.
He was going to say something else, but suddenly a strange noise sounded. It was muffled, but it seemed like something had fallen, and you both could feel the ground vibrate. It came from the bedroom, which made you become alert. You started to get up, worried, but your brother’s firm hand on your shoulder stopped you.
“It must have been nothing. Don’t worry about them.” The tenderness had been replaced by harshness, but it wasn’t directed at you.
Sliding your back against the wall again, you rested your chin on your knees while admiring your own shoes, and just like always, you couldn’t maintain your silent treatment with Damian for long:
“I think I bothered Mr. Wayne by coming here. Mom will be mad at me for this later, I know she will.” You were obviously nervous, seeking refuge in Damian as you always did when you had to face her. Your mother didn’t have a good relationship with Batman, and now having to deal with you for disturbing his evening would make her furious. The little relief you felt earlier had vanished, suspecting she had only been affectionate before not to show Bruce.
“Mom is mad all the time.” He tried to calm you down. It would be unbelievable for someone who knows Talia only through her assassin image to hear such a thing. She was a cold and calculating woman, but you both knew when she was upset. She didn’t express it in a conventional way, and Damian had already gotten used to it. Your mother’s mood didn’t concern him much, but it was still scary for you.
“You were mad…” Your statement made him sigh because it was true. A few minutes ago, he had reacted that way, but there was context he couldn’t immediately explain to you. “Maybe I can apologize to him? If he forgives me, I promise I won’t do it again, and then mom-”
“Y/n.” Your brother cut off your frantic speech sharply; you were almost hyperventilating. “No one is mad at you.” He said it as a statement, leaving no room for you to contest him.
“He was calm.” you started to ramble, picking at the fabric of your clothes with your nail. “He read something he took out of his pocket and started feeling sick, I was trying to help…”
Damian frowned. He had seen Dick give a small piece of paper to his father downstairs. That idiot wouldn’t have been stupid enough to write on it that you were his daughter, right? What a wonderful way to tell something like that.
“Idiot.” Your brother muttered aloud without meaning to, feeling immense anger at the thought that Dick had done that. And only after he blurted out the word did he realize you were still beside him, listening. “Not you.” He tried to explain hastily, still with a furious expression on his face.
It was strange for him to talk to you that way. He had called you an idiot many times during childhood, and you used to call each other much worse things, as siblings do. But your relationship now was delicate, like a strand of cotton candy, since that intimacy you once had was lost.
“By the way, Bruce is just stressed about Strange.” Damian analyzed your reaction at the mention of the name. To you, Strange was just another enemy of Batman, never suspecting that the man who appeared at your house years ago could somehow be him.
The League of Assassins had many enemies scattered across the globe; at that time, you thought it was just another one of them. You also never asked or wanted to talk about it, which was unusual for how chatty you could be sometimes. For you, Hugo Strange and the person who kidnapped you back then had no connection.
“There must have been something about our investigation there. I’m sure it was Dick who gave him that card. You didn’t do anything.” He said.
Your heart returned to its normal rhythm, but it grew heavy again as you understood the facts. Damian was blaming Dick for that thing Bruce was holding onto, but it was you who had given it to him in the first place. Bruce became distressed when you mentioned the gift and quickly pulled it out of his pocket. That must have been the object Strange gave you.
“Dami.” He heard the nickname leave your lips, and a flicker of hope hit him. There was still a certain closeness between you there. “I was the one who brought the card here; it’s not Dick’s fault. Strange gave it to me to give to Mr. Wayne.”
Damian abruptly stood up, returning to an upright posture. “Strange did what?” Neither Tim, Dick, nor Jason had mentioned this. They said they were telling the whole story, but none of them mentioned any kind of message. Was that why Tim had been acting so strange when he arrived? He remembers seeing him throw a box in the trash and getting all nervous when Damian got irritated and asked what it was. “Was it a small gift box, by any chance?”
“Yes, the same size as the card.” You made a square with your thumbs and index fingers, trying to show the shape of the object. “Just like this. But Mr. Wayne didn’t let me read it; I acted badly by trying to see what was in there too. I shouldn’t have been nosy.”
So Bruce didn’t let you know on purpose? Maybe he just didn’t want you to find out this way. He should have told you. Damian was about to open his lips to take the initiative, but the sound of someone approaching stopped him.
Alfred paused for a moment, finding it odd to see the two of you here. He had returned to make sure you were okay once more and then leave you alone until later in the day. “Master Damian,” He said the boy’s name as a form of acknowledgment, “I thought you were asleep.” The butler added, addressing both of you.
“Alfred!” You got up and walked over to him, who rested a hand on your head expectantly. He saw the way you looked hesitantly at your brother, seeking some kind of approval before returning your attention to him once more. “Something bad happened to Mr. Wayne; he wasn’t well.”
Alfred's eyes widened, looking at Damian for an explanation or just confirmation that it was true. He was obviously tense and speechless for a moment but quickly composed himself.
“What happened, dear?” He asked, and once again you sought your brother’s approval, who took the initiative to explain in your place.
“He…” Damian began, trying to find a way to say it. “Bruce discovered something about Strange.” He said with a suspicious tone and the butler quickly understood the underlying implications.
“Where is he?” Alfred asked, worried.
Damian wasn’t planning to answer, knowing Alfred’s aversion to Talia, but you jumped in: “He and my Mom are talking.”
The butler was obviously displeased and furrowed his brow. He had planned to tell Bruce privately about his supposed daughter, but apparently, things had moved ahead of him. But Alfred knew Bruce well and understood that despite his instability, he would handle things as rationally as possible. Or at least he hoped so.
It was unsettling how a simple night so suddenly turned into yet another Wayne family drama.
“Well,” he sighed, “It seems it’s too early for breakfast, but also too late to go back to sleep.” He gave your hair a gentle tousle with the hand that still rested there, and you appreciated it. Indeed, the sky was already beginning to lighten. “How about some tea to start the day, miss? Or maybe coffee?”
“That’s fine.” You said, accepting that he would guide you through the mansion once more, but stopped when you realized your brother wasn’t making an effort to follow. “Damian, aren’t you coming?”
Your hopeful tone made him huff and approach to follow you. “Let’s go then.” He joined you, heading downstairs.
Damian was deeply irritated by how easily you let your emotions come and go. To him, it was inconceivable that you weren’t resentful, even hating him, as he had presumed you would be just moments ago. The way you let your emotions dissipate so easily bothered him, and he couldn’t understand how you could forgive so simply.
This behavior had always been the target of Damian’s criticism, as he didn’t have the same ease with forgiveness. What ate him up inside, however, was the certainty that even if you found out everything he and Talia had done, you would still be able to forgive them.
Damian suspected that this readiness to forgive came from a lack of options. Throughout your life, you had only him and your mother, and breaking away from either of them would be devastating. Perhaps that was Talia’s greatest fear; even if she tried to convince herself that she kept you hidden for your own good, away from the League and Batman, Damian knew that deep down, she wanted to ensure a safe harbor, someone who would always be emotionally supportive.
Although you might appear to be an very naive girl, your morals were unwavering. And incredibly, Talia managed to keep you loyal to her. Both of them knew that you secretly hated criminals and dreamed of a perfect justice that would never exist, at least not in Gotham City.
Damian knew that his mother’s real fear was that you would find someone else beyond her, people with whom you could connect, not out of obligation or lack of other options, but because you genuinely wanted to. This emotional dependency, nurtured by Talia, made you more spoiled than Damian, who in turn always confronted Talia with stubbornness and resistance.
“Do you like any fruit?” Pennyworth asked you, who were with your arms crossed on the counter, while your brother sat at the end of the table, just keeping watch over your figure.
“All of them.” You replied, and Alfred laughed contentedly. It was nice to hear something like that, especially as he opened the kitchen cupboard and saw the colorful cereals inside, all from Tim’s never-ending stash of treats.
“Master Damian?” The butler asked the boy.
“No, thank you.” He declined with a grimace.
You watched with curiosity as Alfred grabbed a bunch of colorful fruits and began cutting them. There was some kind of dough resting in a container nearby, which you noticed when he moved a cloth to check, and it smelled so good. It was comforting to see him there in the kitchen, even doing something as simple as cutting fruits.
Talia was a very busy woman, and cooking definitely didn’t suit her elegant demeanor. Housework was not part of her routine, so you often ended up eating at expensive restaurants. That’s why every move Alfred made captured your attention, and he noticed.
“Do you want to help me, miss?” He asked, intrigued.
“Can I?” You asked back, already moving to stand next to him with excitement. The butler nodded and instructed you to wash your hands in the sink on the other side of the kitchen.
You were distractedly scrubbing soap on your hands and far enough not to hear Damian whisper: “Bruce isn’t going to let Mom take her home.”
Alfred looked up, not at all surprised by the news. “Does your sister know, Master Damian?” He kept his voice at the same low tone as the boy’s.
“No, Pennyworth. That’s why I’m telling you.” Damian checked to see if you were still far, seeing you drying your hands and hurrying: “When they both come out of that room and Mom leaves, she’s going to make a fuss.”
“What should I do?” You came back, interrupting their conversation and asking for instructions.
Alfred set you the task of removing the stems from the strawberries until a noise from upstairs alerted all three of you. It sounded like glass, and it didn’t take long to hear Talia’s voice calling for the butler, who moved to go to her.
“I’m leaving,” Talia said with a firmness that disguised well the inner turmoil she was facing behind her attitude.
You were stunned, and a rising panic took hold of you. Alfred hadn’t noticed you had followed him until you heard: “I’m going to get my shoes and coat.” You declared. Your mind was spinning with the idea that your mother was angry with you, seeing how she was acting.
Talia turned slightly to you, but the look she gave was impassive. “You’re not coming,” she said. The coldness in her voice wasn’t unfamiliar but struck deep in your chest. “You’re going to stay here with your brother.”
“But…” You tried to process what was happening, needing to look at Damian next to you for a moment until reality hit you back. “Why?” You asked with a trembling breath, already approaching her and grabbing your mother’s hand in desperation.
“For heaven’s sake, Y/n. Isn’t this what you wanted?” She rolled her eyes and looked at you with impatience. “You and Damian will get to spend time together again.”
“But what about you, Mom? Why can’t we all be together?” You clung to her hand even tighter, trying to keep her there forever, but all you received in return was the look she gave when you upset her.
“I’ll send your things with someone. Be obedient.” She said, but her real desire was for you to be rebellious, especially towards Bruce. Your mother crouched to your height and pinched your cheeks with her hands while whispering so the other two wouldn’t hear: “But remember, you’re mine daughter, understand? Your mother will always be here for you. I’ll get in touch.” She gave you a strong kiss, leaving a perfect lipstick mark, and grabbed the coat that was already in Alfred’s hands with haste.
“I want to go with you!” Talia felt your arms around her waist and sighed.
“You're old enough to be acting like this, Y/n. Let go.” She tried to wriggle free on her own, but your grip was so strong that her fingers barely moved. “Y/n, enough!” She shouted genuinely furious, and you jumped back in fear. The sight made her wilt, but she still suppressed it and opened the door.
You were in shock, never imagining that your actions could have led to this. It was as if she hated you for it, and you felt a pressure on your forehead, unsure if it was from the anger you felt at how your mother treated you or from the desperation.
“Don’t go after her,” Damian ordered, knowing you would do it anyway, which is why he held you in place.
You couldn’t accept it. The idea of being left behind, the feeling of being rejected by the only family you knew, was overwhelming. “Mom!” You shouted, struggling to free yourself from Damian’s grip in fury, the sadness totaly replaced by a burning rage. “Don’t leave! I’m sorry for disobeying! I didn’t mean to do anything wrong!” you screamed. “Why are you like this with me?!” You shouted louder, not caring about making a scene.
Talia’s feet were already buried in the snow, trying to hide the pain she felt, but your muffled voice didn’t help. The sound of the door closing was like a final blow, and her heart sank even further. She didn’t care whether Bruce was right or not; she hated him like hell now.
You were sobbing and gasping, the pain of rejection still present in your chest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disobey. I didn’t want you to leave…” You murmured lower, feeling your throat ache.
As she took more steps towards her own car, her thoughts raced. She knew that sooner or later you would need to know the truth, and deep down, she wished the news had come from her.
She tried to keep her mind clear during the brief walk to the car, passing by a snow-covered tree where ravens had gathered to rest. She was so distracted for a few seconds that when she felt an arm pull her back, she instinctively threw the stranger away, who hit the trunk and caused the birds to start flying erratically while cawing discordantly.
“What the hell is this!” She shouted furiously, shocking the boy who immediately began to apologize while getting up, feeling pain.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Scare me?!” She was outraged by his assumption. As if she would be scared by a kid like him. “And which of Bruce’s little pests are you?”
“My name is Tim.” The boy assumed a serious tone now, abandoning the polite courtesy he had before.
“And are you going to stand there like an idiot, or are you going to tell me what you want?”
Despite her hurry, Tim stared at her and looked back, checking if there was anyone outside the mansion and taking a few seconds to do so. Talia’s arrogant look didn’t intimidate him, and he spoke firmly:
“A few years ago, in that alley…” The phrase made her eyes widen, but she still took a deep breath to compose herself. “It was you.”
Talia never thought she would have the opportunity to face that boy again after that day. When Strange fled, she followed him and caught up with him. She remembers how she grabbed the man by the collar when she didn’t see you there. After wringing the truth out of that pathetic man, Talia had to let him go as she rushed desperately to where you were, but not before leaving a beaten face as a gift. But that night, that boy... Tim, had heard your call for help.
“So, you were the Robin.” She let out a curious laugh, looking Tim up and down. “And so what if it was me?”
“You tricked me. Pretended to be a helpless person.” He frowned while narrowing his eyes at her. “I remember the little girl I saved; it was her.” Tim turned his face towards the mansion again, as if to point at you.
“You just had the luck of arriving before me. And what did you expect me to do? Tell you who I was?” She took her gloves out of her pocket and began putting them on. “Do you think you could have caught me, kid?” She laughed sarcastically this time, belittling him.
“You could have told me the truth. You had the opportunity to tell Bruce about Hugo Strange all this time. We could have protected her.” Tim’s eyes moved around, trying to process. “After I left there, Bruce and I continued on patrol and found him passed out. If we had known who he really was, he might be in jail now.”
“Spare me your laments, kid. She’s going to stay here, isn’t she? So what else do you want?” Talia said, and Tim wasn’t surprised by the information. He had already assessed the scene while waiting to approach her outside. He had jumped through the bedroom window, having not been able to sleep after recognizing your face.
Tim remained silent. It seemed that Talia had a very concrete idea about everything, and it made no sense to try to circle her with assumptions about how things could have been. He couldn’t help but feel foolish, realizing that you had been so close to him at some point, and he couldn’t do anything for Bruce since he didn’t know.
“Listen.” Talia’s surprisingly soft voice caught him off guard. “Thank you for helping, even though I didn’t exactly need it.” Despite trying to be understanding, she couldn’t help but emphasize. “She means everything to me, you understand? Put some sense into your father, or I’ll find a way to take her back, and I promise you’ll never see her again.”
Tim swallowed hard at the mention of Bruce but snorted indifferently soon after. “He’s not as bad as he seems.”
“I noticed.” She murmured with irony and turned to walk away, with Tim not interrupting her this time. The boy watched her go to the car, but suddenly she stopped at the gate. She ran her fingers over the electronic lock, and suddenly some loose wires became visible. Tim found it strange, and Talia looked at him with a smile, which even from a distance, he could see.
“I think you’re going to need someone to fix this.” She shouted for him to hear, and for a moment, Tim thought if she had done it, but only now did he wonder how you had gotten past the front gate. It seems that your innocent face hid some skills. “Don’t pamper her, and tell your father and Pennyworth not to let her eat too much sugar.” She let the wires go while grumbling, slamming the car door, and driving away.
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lavandulawrites · 6 months ago
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Hello! I found your writings about yan!Dottore & I am a brand new fan!! You are such an awesome writer 😁
Since requests are open, I was wondering if you could write some headcanons/drabbles about how the Genshin men (including Dottore my fave) would react if their darling, who was pregnant with their child, tried to run away? Saying "I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!"
Yandere Genshin Men With a Pregnant Runaway Darling
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Yandere Ayato, Dottore, Lyney, Neuvillette, Wriothesley x female reader (separate)
Thank you!<3 I only wrote for five of them, but I’m thinking of writing for more of them in some other parts:) (Let me know if anyone wanna be apart of my taglist).
Masterlist
Warnings: imprisonment, manipulation
Word count: 2819
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Ayato
You ran and ran as fast as your feet could carry you. You needed to get to safety. Both for yourself and for your unborn child. Your bare feet were drumming over the wooden floors.
The Kamisato estate was like maze. The long hallways seemed never ending.
When you finally reached the door that led out to one of the gardens, you were filled with relief. You slid the door open and was welcomed by the heavenly sea breeze. Your joy, was however short lived.
Standing in the garden admiring the purple sunset was Ayato. He turned around and smiled gently. He motioned for you to join him and before you knew it, your feet had brought you by his side.
“The sky is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” his eyes turned upward towards the endless sky.
You followed his gaze. The sky was in fact extremely beautiful. The purple colour the same shade as Ayato’s eyes.
The man besides you was cunning and as cruel as a snake, but he was undoubtedly the most beautiful man you had ever laid your eyes on. His dark lashes fluttered as his gaze shifted to you. He remained silent for a while, just taking in the sight of you. He often did just that and it made you nervous, since you could never be completely sure as to what exactly ran through his brilliant mind.
“I’m glad you fell for my little trap. If you hadn’t, I would have to enjoy this sunset all alone. Sunsets are best enjoyed by the side of someone you love, wouldn’t you agree?” his melodic voice coiled around your mind. Enveloping you in a sense of serenity.
You quickly snapped out of it. “I want to leave” your voice low, but your words clear as day.
Ayato hummed at your words “Why is that?”
“Because I’m more like a prisoner than your wife” you snapped.
“A prisoner? What gave you that idea?” he raised a brow.
“Don’t play stupid Ayato” you sneered. “You’re not letting me leave no matter what. Doesn’t that sound awfully a lot like a prison to you?”
“I’m protecting you and at the same time I’m keeping what’s mine far away from prying eyes. I’m doing you a favour” his smirk completely gone and replaced by a cold glare.
“I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!” you screamed, not caring about who could hear you.
“Don’t think I’ll ever let you leave me. When you said yes to my proposal, you sealed your faith. It’s not my fault you were unable to think about what the future involved” he smirked at your scared expression. “Don’t cry, I mean you no harm. That much should be obvious.”
Dottore
The dining room was decorated in an attempt at making it cozy. The grand chandelier that hung over the dining table casted a warm light over the table, almost making it homely. The plate in front of you was barely touched. You were hungry, but you didn’t have the time to finish your meal.
You glanced up at the butler who was standing by the door. His eyes was glued to a spot on the far wall and his posture was rigid.
Your cleaned your mouth with the napkin before your rose from your seat. “I’m finished with my meal. Please tell Dottore when he returns to come to my chambers” you told the maid as she silently cleaned up the dishes.
She bowed “Yes madam.”
Your heels clicked against the polished wooden floors. You had to quickly change into different shows and more practical clothing.
You quickly opened the bedroom door and hurried to your huge closet that was the size of a small room. You changed into some thick trousers and warm boots with white fox fur.
You quickly pulled in your coat and a scarf. You opened the large windows and you peered down. You pulled on your hood and your mittens before you ventured down the ladder you had found in an abandoned closet in a part of the house that was rarely ever used.
The ladder creaked underneath your weight and you prayed that it would mange to hold you. Both of you.
You landed into the soft snow and you quickly ran down towards the gates.
The tall wrought iron gates were impossible to climb, especially if one was pregnant, but you had luckily borrowed the key from one of the butlers.
You twisted the key and the gates opens with a load groan. You could smell your freedom.
You locked the gate behind you before you walked down the hill that the house stood tall and proud on top.
The snow glittered in the moonlight and green-purple aurora danced over your head. The sight was so beautiful you almost wept.
As you wandered down the hill you got completely lost in the beauty of the winter landscape. You knew it was foolish, but you hadn’t been outside in so long.
The sound of hoofs snapped you out of your daydreaming. As you raised your gaze you were met with the sight of your husband’s beloved steel grey stallion. The stallion snorted hot air towards you. It looked like a beast at it stood tall in the moonlight.
On top of the proud animal was Dottore. His gaze sharp and would cause anyone who was on the receiving end of it to tremble. You were no different.
“What are you doing out here in the cold?” his voice colder than the cold winter wind that ruffled your hair.
At your silence he only sighed. “You are truly a lost cause. Are you seriously going to cause your unborn child harm in order to escape? You are even more foolish than what I thought” he scoffed as he made the horse circle you.
You spun around in order to keep an eye on his movements. “What makes you think I want to stay with you? Your arrogance disgusts me!” you sneered. “I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!” your voice echoed through the treetops that surrounded the hill.
“Watch your tongue” he spat.
Your escape attempt had been a complete failure.
Dottore had reprimanded you for hours when you had been brought back inside.
You fiddled with your hands in your lap, not wanting to meet his eyes.
“If I ever catch you trying to escape ever again, there’s going to be dire consequences. You’re not going to accidentally harm my child. Our child. Do I make myself clear?” his tone stern.
Your eyes fixated on his neatly polished shoes. You nodded and muttered a low “yes”.
He gripped your jaw and forced your head up. “If you disobey me I will have to chain you to the bed and I really want to avoid that. So be a good girl.”
Lyney
The purple cat-like eyes of the magician was narrowed in anger and hurt. He had just caught you as you had sneaked out of the house with bag packed with your clothes and necessities.
The living room was empty except from the two of you. His younger brother and sister were out on business.
The record player in the corner by the fireplace was playing the soft tune of a ballet he had taken you to when you first started dating.
Lyney was sitting in front of you on a red arm chair. He was resting his head on his arms. His gaze faced down as he thought on what to say to you.
The only thing that separated the two of you was the coffee table. Normally you would have taken you your time to clean it, but not today. Multiple cards were littered across it accompanied with some face flowers. The mess was surprisingly beautiful.
“I don’t understand how you could do something like that to me” his voice low. “I had it all sorted out. I have talked to Father and she has nothing against your pregnancy and our relationship. In fact she supports it. She knows how important family is after all.”
“But you had to try and ruin it. I really don’t understand” his violet eyes met yours. They were filled with more emotions than what you could possibly make out.
“Lynette and Freminet even said they can take care of the baby if the two of us have plans or need some time for ourselves. Yes, Freminet is still a teenager, but he’s still fit to look after a child. He often take care of the younger children in The House. And Lynette has always had a soft spot for baby’s” his voice was getting louder.
“You don’t get it do you, Lyney?”
“Get what exactly?” his eyes scanned your features for something.
“You’re a cruel man. You have locked my away just because you think it’s for the best. You haven’t even bothered to even ask me what I want!” your voice was getting louder and louder by each word that left your lips. “I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!” you stood up form the couch. Your finger pointed at him. “You disgust me.”
His mouth fell open in disbelief. Crystal tears welled up in his eyes and he furiously tried to blink them away. “What?” his voice was weak by hurt. “I’m trying to protect you! Why don’t you understand?” tears were now falling from his eyes as he had fallen to his knees in front of you.
It was a pity full sight, but he couldn’t care less. “Family is what matter the most to me! And you! You are a part of my family now and so is our unborn child!”
You tried to step back, but his hand was tightly gripping your thigh.
A broken laughter escaped from his lips and a rose to his feet slowly. His eyes crazed as they met yours. “You’re clearly unfit for making your own decisions, but worry not. I will help you. And together we’re going to raise the sweetest little child one could ever dream of.”
His unhinged voice and manner sent chives down your spine and you could feel the imaginary cage that wrapped itself around you. You were trapped between the claws of the beast-like cat, with no escape.
Neuvillette
The entire nation of Fontaine were searching for you. You would be lying if you said you were surprised. The judge could be awfully convincing when he wanted to.
Since your escape it had been raining non stop. Heavy rain poured down from the sky undisturbed. The rocks on the forgotten path you had chosen were slippery, and you had to be careful.
In the distance, from the town you had a pasted hours prior, you could hear the loud voices of the search party they had organised. Hounds barked as they made their way up the mountain. You quickly picked up your pace.
After an hour or so walking through the rain you finally found a small abandoned cottage. You were filled with relief when you noticed that the door was unlocked.
It smelled of mould and you felt bad for your unborn, but you had no other choice. The windows were dirty, but intact. You slumped down on the old couch. Your body was aching and you were so tired.
You did not know how much time had passed when you awoke to the sound of a fist pounding the creaky old front door. You rose to your feet with such fast motion that you knocked your elbow against the wooden armrest of the couch. You hissed in pain and clutched it as you made your way to the hallway.
You hid behind the door to the bathroom as you peered out the window by the door. You couldn’t see anyone.
The pounding continued and you were afraid whoever it was would break down the door if this continued.
“Who is it?” you meekly asked.
The pounding came to an halt and a gruff voice answered you. “I am from the neighbouring village. We are looking for the Iudex’s wife.”
You were about to answer when the door broke down. A tall and sturdy man with a bear that reached below his collarbones entered. “I apologise miss, but I need to search the cotta-” his voice trailed off when his eyes fell upon you. His eyes widened to a state you were afraid they would roll out. He backed away slightly and shouted over his shoulder “I found her!”
You were about to silence him but it was too late.
The man who found you brought you out to the little courtyard. Your eyes widened in fear when a pair of pale lavender eyes stared back at you.
“Wha-what are you doing here?” your voice was shaky with fear. You tried to back away from the tall dragon, but the search party blocked your path of escape.
“How could I not personally participate in the search of my own wife?” Neuvillette’s voice soft. He turned to the villagers “Please give us some space.”
The villagers nodded and quickly left.
As you stood all alone with your capture on the overgrown courtyard you couldn’t help, but think about all the choices you had made that had lead you to this.
“Why did you leave our home?” his deep voice had normally brought you comfort, but now it only brought you fear.
“Why? Any sane person would escape a madman such as yourself. You have taken everything from me and you still ask for more” you spoke with sudden braveness.
“I am not taking anything from you. You’re clearly not completely aware at the moment. But worry not, I’ll take care of everything. Just like I always have” his lips twisted up into a gentle smile.
“Oh really? I don’t believe you. I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you! Why don’t you understand?!” you were suddenly in front of him. Your finger jammed against his broad chest.
“Your words hold little meaning, my love. It’s my child too, do not forget. I have every right to be apart of its life just as you do. And besides in a matter of time you will have forgotten your… conflicted feelings” his big hand gently wrapped itself around your much smaller one. “I will make you happy. Just you wait” he gently kissed the top of your head. His kiss similar to the gavel he used to seal the fate of the poor souls in the Opera Epiclese.
Wriothesley
The Fortress of Meropide never got any more welcoming, no matter how much time you had been there.
You had tried to climb the stairs up to the surface, but Wriothesley had been quick to drag you back down again.
He had been eerily silent as he led you to his private quarters.
“This is your fourth escape attempt this two weeks. Are you not getting tired?” he sighed. He was leaning against the kitchen table, his arms folded over his muscular chest.
“I understand the Fortress is not the best place to raise a kid, but I have bought a house close to the entrance on the surface. I have made the arrangements so that we can rotate where we both stay. I will of course always stay with you in the house. I know it’s not optimal, but it’s the best I can do.”
“It’s not enough” you muttered.
“We will have to make it work.”
“Why? I didn’t ask to be sent here. I don’t care about you and the Iudex agreement. I didn’t agree to any of this” you raised your voice.
“There’s many thing in life that I haven’t asked for. You will manage” Wriothesley’s voice was laced with uncharacteristic anger.
“I will not! I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!” your loud voice echoed inside the kitchen.
At your words something in Wriothesley snapped. “A monster you say?” he barked out a laughter. “I have been nothing but kind to you. But if you think that makes me a monster, I wonder what you’ll think of me now” his eyes colder than his vision.
Wriothesley dragged you inside your bedroom. “You’re not going to leave this room before I say you can. I will use the spare bedroom” he pointed to the bathroom. “If you’re thirsty between meals, you know where to find water.” With that he slammed the door closed. The sound of his key twisting sent a pang through your chest.
Escape had never seemed so far out of reach as it was now. You found yourself longing for the outside and the smell of the wildflowers that littered the green meadows of Fontaine. Maybe the house Wriothesley had promised you on the surface didn’t sound so bad after all.
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chososlilprincess · 1 year ago
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pt. 2 of Virgin Choso!! if you havent read the first part read it here and part 3
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Virgin Choso who looks at your abandoned bag in the corner of his small living room. Standing in the little apartment he moved into recently, chewing on his lip anxiously. Should he text you? you’d realize it was gone eventually, and when you give him a call to tell him, he could pretend he hadn’t seen it. It’s not because he doesn’t want to talk to you, the opposite really, but hes scared. He’d probably be weird and act awkward if you two were ever alone, if you came to retrieve your bag from his home.
You and Yuji had been at his apartment earlier that day to help him move his furniture around. He’d heard the doorbell ring and when you had finally ascended to the top floor were he resided, Yuji had given him a brotherly hug, patting his back. And you,
You.
it’s the second time he sees you after he realised what he felt for you, and it’s getting increasingly hard to be around you. Especially when you keep putting on those adorable little outfits. He can’t focus, he can hardly breathe. Yuji, that idiot, knows that fact better than even Choso himself, seeing right through his brother. Which is why the boy had invited you today to help him. To torture Choso, to make him crack.
But Choso wasn’t weak. He could hold his composure. Even when Yuji walks past him and whispers, trying to hold his laugh, “maybe cut back on the staring a little today, she might actually notice this time,”
And now he’s here, all his furniture in the right places, but your bag in the wrong. You’d went to the gym he remembers, which is why you had it with you.
When his phone rings a minute later, his heart starts beating faster, already? he calms down a little when he sees it’s Yuji who’s calling, but his ease is cut short when he answers.
“hello?”
“hi Choso, it’s me,” its you. He can hear people talking and laughing in the background, probably you and Yuji’s new friends from your Jujutsu College. “my phone went out so i borrowed Yuji’s to call you,” you say sweetly, and before you can continue, a voice way louder than yours comes through the line, “she forgot her bag on purpose!!” Yuji shouts from next to you, before someone in the group can shut him up,
“not true…” you say awkwardly and laugh “but uh, is it okay if i come and get it tomorrow after my shift? it’s gonna be a little late though, sorry for the trouble,” he can feel that tugging in his heart, he’s excited to see you again, even if it’s only because of your forgetfulness. “it uh…it is no trouble,” he says quickly,
“thank you Choso…ill see you tomorrow,” and with that you hang up, and Choso is left with the silence of his apartment and the bustle outside of tokyo city.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
He’s sitting on the couch with your bag propped up next to him, did you really leave your bag here on purpose? why would you have done that? did you want to see him too? he sighs, wishful thinking.
He stands up from the couch and the movement makes your unzipped bag fall to the floor with a thud.
He looks to the floor, bends down to put the bag back when-
oh. fuck.
Laying on the ground is your used gym clothes, a big hoodie, some shorts, a top and also…
a pair of your used panties.
he freezes, his dick jumping at the sight alone. Theyre baby blue, with a little white bow on the waistband. fuck. no. don’t.
he picks them up.
He’s only just learned about sex, about relationships and about…pleasuring himself. And he’s already a massive pervert.
what would you think of him if you knew? if you could see him right now? desperately jerking himself off on the couch, whines and groans spilling from his lips, drool sliding down his mouth. your perfect little panties wrapped around his hard cock.
He watches as his pre cum makes a mess in them. he wants to make a mess with you. He wants to see you wearing nothing else than those same panties around him,
he takes them away from his dick and brings them to his nose. And when he breathes in the scent of your pussy, He cums so hard his mind turns blank.
And it hits him when he comes down, that hes disgusting. And your panties are ruined.
how can you make him feel like this. Without any cursed energy. without beating him into the ground. youre just existing, And that fact alone makes him feel so…weak? why does he feel weak?
He decides then that he needs to tell you, Its been building up in his chest for months. He needs to tell you that hes in love with you and that he would do anything for you.
he needs to tell you he wants to bury his face in your little cunt.
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thx to everyone whos been leaving notes<33 part 3 coming!!
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sugarcoated-lame · 7 months ago
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Sometimes A Bride | Jake Seresin x Reader
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18+ only, minors DNI
Jake Seresin x female Bradshaw!reader
part two of Always A Bridesmaid
Synopsis: You’re having some pre-wedding jitters and there’s only one person you know can help calm you down.
or
You and Jake sneak off for a quickie before the two of you say ‘I do.’
WC: 11.5k (another long one oops)
warnings: a smidgen of angst?, anxiety, mentions of alcohol, smut, fingering, unprotected piv, slight overstimulation, i think jake calling reader a good girl deserves a warning, unspecified age gap (reader is in around mid-late 20s, jake is in early-mid 30s), once again jake being too damn charming for his own good, tonssss of disgustingly sweet tooth-rotting fluff, really sweet fluffy moments with big bro bradley, natasha being the best sister-in-law and maid of honor, jake still being an absolute menace, i'm literally the worst at coming up with titles for my fics, moodboard is not any indication of reader’s appearance
a/n: The very long-awaited (I’m sorry 🤍) sequel to Always a Bridesmaid. Thank you so much to everyone who’s stuck around and shown the first part so much love and support, and waited so patiently for this story! I love y’all 
beautiful dividers by @saradika-graphics 🤍
〰・♡・〰 reblogs, comments, and feedback are greatly appreciated! 〰・♡・〰
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You love weddings. 
It's a fact you try to remind yourself of as you take a deep breath, taking in your reflection in the vast vanity mirror.
Hair styled to pristine perfection, professionally done makeup better than anything you’d ever be capable of doing yourself, in a gorgeous white dress that fits just right and makes you feel more beautiful than ever.  
You love weddings. You love the fancy clothes, all the chatter and the sweet scent of champagne flowing through the air at the reception, the contagious laughter and dancing.
But, most of all, you love getting to watch two people profess their love for each other and promise themselves to one another for the rest of their lives through beaming smiles and tears of joy. 
It’s been a little over three years since Bradley and Natasha said ‘I do’, and after meeting the love of your life at your big brother’s wedding, how could you not love them? 
Three years since that fateful night that you met Jake and both of your lives were changed forever, and the two of you have been pretty much inseparable ever since. Well, nearly ever since.
Initially, both you and Jake were scared by just how much you liked one another. 
After spending the night together at your brother’s wedding — and the morning after — you had feared that it was just that rose-colored haze of love in the air that comes along with weddings, and you wondered if that magical pixie dust was going to wear off eventually — and take your feelings with it. 
But it never did. 
Even at the beginning, back when Jake had tried to push down his feelings for you and said he couldn’t offer much more than no strings attached fun, ‘because I’m going to be away on deployments and dangerous missions all the time, and because you’re Bradshaw’s little sister.’ 
Because he ‘didn’t have time for anything serious’ – but really, because he was afraid of just how strongly he felt for you – even then, you were so drawn to him and Jake couldn’t deny how much he enjoyed spending time with you.
How he thought about you and that amazing night you’d spent together nearly every second of every day. 
From the moment he’d wake up in his boring, lonely apartment, to the hours spent in briefings or flying dangerous maneuvers in his F18, to the moment he’d go to sleep alone every night in his bed that all of a sudden seemed too big. 
And, what scared Jake the most was that it wasn’t just the sex – though, that was definitely a great part of it – that he yearned for. It was just you. 
You, with your bright eyes and your radiant smile, your melodic laugh and effervescent personality. You had quickly wormed your way into his heart and lit him up from the inside out. 
He no longer found himself wanting the mundane and meaningless hook-ups or one night stands that places like the Hard Deck had to offer, which had become routine for him since his time as a young pilot at Top Gun. 
You brought Jake’s world from dull grayscale to vibrant technicolor and he found that he just always wanted you around. 
He’d never felt that way about anyone before, and it terrified him.
You’d never wanted anyone so bad, and you were fearful that it wasn’t going to last. 
But, try as you might, the two of you just couldn’t seem to stay away from each other for long. 
Once Jake got his head out of his ass and he took you out on a few proper dates – which, naturally, ended in you fucking each other’s brains out a few more times – you both agreed to try to take things slow, because your feelings for each other were real and neither one of you wanted to mess things up. 
However, you quickly learned that there was no such thing as slow when it comes to you and Jake. Before you knew it, things between the two of you had become pretty serious, and you realized – much to your brother Bradley’s dismay, that the two of you share a very real connection. 
Through all of the ups and downs — triumphs and hardships, happy times and tears, the silly fights and even sillier make-ups that these past three years have brought the two of you. 
From going mad missing each other when Jake is away on deployments, up until his recent request for a more permanent position at Top Gun so he can be closer to home – closer to you –  you and Jake have stuck together through it all like super glue.
Three years of unconditional love and support, of growing and becoming better together, loving and living life with your best friend.
You’ve never been quite sure if you believe in the concept of soulmates, but if they do exist, you’re positive that Jake is yours.
And, you love weddings… so why are you currently freaking the fuck out, today of all days? Oh, right… because it’s your wedding day. 
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You’re pretty sure that your vision is beginning to blur, your body growing a little dizzy as you watch the constant stream of people flitting all around you through the glass of the large vanity mirror.
Your bridesmaids chatter excitedly as they too work to finish getting ready, sipping from mimosas as they make their way into their dresses while Natasha – the best sister-in-law and best maid of honor you could ever ask for – helps to keep everyone focused and on schedule. 
She paces the room with her phone in hand, probably texting Bradley to make sure things are running smoothly in the groomsmens’ suite as well. 
There are at least three people at any given moment hovering around you like bees, fussing over your hair, doing last minute touch-ups on your makeup, and making sure there’s not a wrinkle in sight on the beautiful wedding gown of your dreams that you’re oh-so nervous for Jake to finally see. 
Not nervous because you’re worried he won’t like it – he’s told you plenty of times that he’d be more than happy to marry you if you were wearing a trash bag – but because this is your big day, the beginning of the rest of your lives together and you just want it to be perfect. 
After all the months of painstaking planning – from centerpieces to seating charts, the choosing the color of the napkins to the dinner menu and countless trials of cake flavors. From finding the perfect venue, to the best floral arrangements, and of course the dream wedding dress. 
After being so hyper-focused on this day for months, now that that day is actually here, you just need everything to be perfect.
Not even the two and a half mimosa’s you’ve had this morning have been enough to quell the stress currently coursing through your veins, and the buzz of the busy bridal suite is beginning to make your head spin. 
Between all of the running around you’ve done since waking up — way too early — this morning, the little bit of alcohol and all the commotion going on around you now, your face feels too hot, a tiny sheen of sweat beginning to shine through your makeup.
You can’t help but wonder if Jake is feeling this flustered right now too. Probably not, the man is cool and calm about just about everything; it’s one of the things you love about him.
As the makeup artist powders your nose for the fifth time in ten minutes in an attempt to tamper down the shine, you feel your resolve beginning to crack. You try to take in a deep breath to shake the nerves, but feel as though there’s not enough air in the room to fill your lungs and you find yourself feeling like you need to escape. 
As if she can sense your distress from all the way across the room, Natasha — ever the dutiful maid of honor — materializes behind you with a comforting hand on your shoulder, politely excusing the makeup artist and everyone else that’s currently milling around you, before meeting your gaze through the mirror with a gentle smile. 
Though, you know your sister-in-law too well and you can see the concern in her brown eyes.
“You okay?” When Natasha gives your shoulder a comforting squeeze, you close your eyes and heave out a deep sigh, grateful for a moment of calm. 
It’s in the same moment that you open your eyes and give her a nod and an unconvincing smile that there’s a knock on the bridal suite door just behind you, and you turn your head to find Bradley opening it a crack and peeking his head in. 
“Everyone decent?” Your older brother asks, meeting your eyes with a soft look and you swear you could cry.
Through all her running around to help make sure that your day is perfect, you’d seen Natasha on her phone and you figure that, always knowing just what you need, she must have texted Bradley – and that’s exactly what she did. 
Natasha had let her husband know that his sister was feeling some pre-wedding jitters and could use some reassurance that she knew you could only get from your big brother, and he immediately made his way from the groomsmens’ suite to come to your aid.
“Yeah, come on in!” Natasha calls out with one last squeeze to your shoulder before meeting Bradley at the door and greeting him with a quick kiss on his cheek.
She gently pushes him towards where you stand in front of the large mirror smoothing your hands over an invisible wrinkle on the flowy white skirt of your dress, before ushering the rest of your bridesmaids and everyone else to the other side of the large suite to put their finishing touches on their looks and give the two of you some privacy. 
You turn around to face Bradley, standing there in a classic black suit with a bow tie, and you could swear your brother gets a little misty-eyed as he takes in the sight of you in your lavish white dress, a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mustached lips when he asks, “You okay, sis?”
You think about lying for a second and telling him that you’re just fine, but this is Bradley -– your big brother and self-appointed protector for all your life, even when you don’t always want or need him to be, and you know that he’d be able to see right through you.
Blowing out a small sigh, you carefully take a seat on the plush couch that sits in the nearest corner, making sure to arrange all the layers of fabric that surround your lower half in a way that they won’t become too wrinkled.
“Honestly… I’m kind of freaking out.” You tell your brother as he joins you on the sofa. Your voice is barely above a whisper, just loud enough that he’s able to hear due to his close proximity.
You’re looking down at where you nervously wring your hands in your lap when Bradley speaks. 
“Why? You’ve got nothing to worry about.” His words are matter-of-fact, but his voice is soft in that comforting, brotherly tone that’s only reserved for you.
“I- I don’t know.” You tell him with a light shake of your head. “I guess I’m just nervous?” 
The words come out as a question and your gaze lifts to meet Bradley’s before you continue on.
“You know, it’s such a big, important day that I’ve spent so long dreaming of and planning for and– that I’m going to remember for the rest of my life and I just…” your voice trails off as you realize you’re rambling, stopping to take a breath before you continue. 
 “I just love Jake so much and I… I just want everything to be perfect.”
Bradley takes in your frazzled expression, nodding in understanding. “You’re right, it is a big deal, and it’s totally normal to have some nerves.” 
The pensive look on his face shifts to one of what looks like amusement as he glances across the room to where his wife is chatting away with the rest of your bridesmaids, before leaning closer to whisper conspiratorially. 
“I was scared shitless when I married Nat.” 
Your eyes widen at Bradley’s confession, a small puff of laughter escaping your lips as you question him, “What? Really?”
“Yeah,” Your brother’s smile grows at the sight of your own, a quiet chuckle leaving him. “But, then I remembered that I was marrying my best friend and all of those nerves just sort of melted away.”
“Which is why you should believe me when I tell you–” Bradley reaches over to take your hands in his, his brown gaze warm as he speaks earnestly.
“It’s going to be perfect no matter what happens, because you and Jake will be together.”
Your lips can’t help but quirk up a bit at your older brother’s reassurance. “You really think so?”
“Yeah,” Bradley gives your hands a gentle squeeze. “In fact, I know so.”
“Because, I have never seen you happier than you have been these past few years since you’ve been with Jake.” That small smile never leaves his lips as he continues talking and your heart nearly melts in your chest at the sincerity of your big brother’s words. 
“It’s clear that the two of you love each other very much.”
You have to admit it’s a bit of a shock to hear those words from Bradley of all people – sure, things have gotten a lot better between your brother and your fiance over the years, but you’d still consider them frenemies at the best of times. 
You realize that you haven’t said anything in response, being too stunned to speak, when Bradley continues on with a knowing smirk on his face as he takes in your dumbfounded expression.
“Trust me, I wasn’t the biggest fan of the idea of you dating Jake in the beginning, but I see how much he cares about you. Above anything else.” 
You nod your head in agreement, but not without a laugh and a playful roll of your eyes. With your brother’s reassurance that everything would be okay so long as you and Jake are together, and the reminder of just how much your husband-to-be loves you, now you couldn’t wipe the grin off your face if you tried. “Yeah, he does.” 
Bradley takes in the lovesick smile on your face and tilts his head, raising a brow in question. “We feeling better now?”
“Yeah,” Feeling much more calm now, it’s your turn to squeeze Bradley’s hands, nodding happily at him before releasing them. “A lot better. Thank you.”
“Good.” Bradley stands, offering his hands to pull you up off the sofa as well, before pulling you into a hug. 
With a quiet instruction to ‘call me if you need me’, your brother releases you from his arms, venturing over to Natasha to place a small peck to his wife’s lips before making his way out the door and back to the groomsmens’ suite.
You really do feel a whole lot better, but all this talk about your fiancé and his love for you, and how truly, utterly happy he makes you, has you missing him. Yearning to be with him in this very moment, and you realize that the only thing that would really put your mind at ease is right now Jake himself. 
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Jake’s head perks up as the door to the groomsmen’s suite opens for the second time in about fifteen minutes to reveal Bradley, adorning a tux matching that of all the other groomsmen. 
It’s still crazy for him to think about the fact that your brother, who was so adamant about you not seeing Jake all those years ago, would be one of the groomsmen at his and your wedding. 
“Where’d you disappear to, Rooster?” A relaxed smirk lifts up the corner of Jake’s lips as he fixes his tie in the mirror.  
“Just went to check on the bride-to-be.” Jake’s smile softens just a bit at the mention of you.
“You know, I never thought the two of you would last this long, so I had to check and see if my sister was ready to back out yet.” 
Bradley drops down onto the sofa next to Bob and Coyote, who are quietly snickering at his teasing of the groom. 
“Oh, ha-ha.” Jake’s smirk grows devilish at the joke, turning his sights on the mustached man ready to tease him right back. “Face it, Bradshaw. We’re gonna be brothers real soon.” 
Bradley only rolls his eyes goodnaturedly at his soon to be brother-in-law, a fact that Jake has made a point to remind him of, all the time, since the two of you got engaged a little over a year ago. 
“How is she, though?” Jake asks, and Bradley can hear the sincerity creeping into the blonde’s tone. 
“She’s good. Was just dealing with the usual pre-wedding nerves, but it’s all good now.” Bradley tells him honestly. 
Jake only nods in response, already retreating into his head, into his worry for you, causing your brother to speak up again.
“Jake, I promise, everything’s good.” Bradley reassures him with a small smile.
“Yeah… good.” Jake nods once more, making an attempt to paint the best smile he possibly can on his lips.
He’s not worried because he thinks that you might not want this, or him – he knows without a shadow of doubt just how vast your love for him is – but, because he knows how you get when you put your heart into something and that you’ll drive yourself crazy trying to get everything perfect.
Jake’s seen firsthand just how painstakingly you’ve worked to plan this wedding, all the months spent making sure that every little detail is just right. 
He knows that all of that time and stress, culminating to this one day, is likely weighing on your mind now that the day has finally come. 
And in this moment, Jake wants nothing more than to just be able to see you – to hold you and comfort you and let you know that everything is going to be just fine.
He knows the old superstition that the groom isn’t supposed to see the bride before the ceremony, but…
“Fuck it.”
The two words escape under Jake’s breath just before he’s shrugging on the jacket to his tux and quickly making his way to the door. 
“Where are you going, man?” Javy questions his best friend, drawing the attention of the rest of the Daggers — sans Phoenix who’s with you getting ready in the bridal suite — toward where Jake stands in the now open doorway, one hand on the knob and one foot already out in the hall. 
“Just gotta check something with the wedding planner. Be right back.” 
It’s not a total lie. Sure, you had forgone hiring a wedding planner and chose to do everything yourself — with the help of Natasha and Penny of course -— but that technically made you the wedding planner. The guys don’t have to know that.
Jake traverses the winding halls of the venue, the anticipation of seeing you building up as he walks briskly in his dress shoes until he finds a door with a paper sign that reads, ‘Bridal Suite’ in loopy, cursive lettering.
Taking a breath, he knocks on the door, and he’s lucky to find that a moment later, it’s you who answers.
“What-” Your eyes widen in surprise and you’re hardly able to get a word out as one of Jake’s hands grasps yours, swiftly pulling you out of the door and into the hallway with him. 
You don’t get a chance to finish your question, because within seconds your fiancé is practically sprinting down the long hallway, pulling you along with him with his large hand wrapped around your smaller one. 
You can't help but giggle at Jake’s antics as the two of you run through the halls, watching his free hand reach for a few knobs along the way only to find them locked, finally stopping when he finds a door that seems to be open. 
He quickly peers into the room just to make sure that it’s empty before gently pulling you into the dark space, lit only by the natural light that shines in through the windows, and closing the door. 
You're still laughing breathlessly when you find your words again, Jake’s own breathy chuckle mixing with yours in the quiet of the room.
“Wha— Jake? What are you doing, you’re not supposed to see me in my dress before the ceremony!”
“Screw that, my girl needed me.” His warm hand is still in yours, his free hand moving to clasp your other one. That emerald gaze that you’ve come to know so well bores into you as he smiles down at you lovingly.
Your eyes lift to meet Jake’s and it’s like any and all nerves just melt away.
You always feel safe when Jake is near and just the sight of him now, being in his presence, has a toothy grin making its way onto your face.
Another giggle escapes you, trailing off into a content sigh as you look up at the gorgeous man in front of you.
The two of you just gaze into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and with a light shake of your head, your grin becomes coy. 
“Hi.” You find yourself whispering into the quiet of the room.
Jake lets out a chuckle, the outer corners of his eyes crinkling up in the way that you love when smiles at you. “Hi.”
Without letting go of your hands, Jake takes a step back to really take you in for the first time since breaking you out of the bridal suite just a few minutes ago. 
Finally getting a good look at you in your wedding dress that beautifully accentuates the shape of your body, your makeup done to perfection — though Jake doesn’t think you ever need it — and hair styled prettily but still flowing and free just the way he likes, renders your soon-to-be husband practically speechless. 
All he can say is, “Wow…”
You can hear the pure awe in that one word and can’t help but smile bashfully, heat rising in your cheeks. Jake’s compliments still manage to make you flustered, even after all this time. 
“Wow, yourself.” Your gaze sweeps up and down the length of his body, taking in the crisp black tuxedo and matching bow tie, and the white dress shirt underneath. Appreciating the way it fits him just right, how you’re still able to tell just how toned his body is even under the layers of clothing.
Jake’s hands tenderly squeeze your own, pulling you a little bit closer once again as his eyes search out your own. “You doing okay, honey?”
And though you were definitely feeling anxious before, you couldn’t be more content than you are now when it’s just the two of you, standing here holding hands with the love of your life.
“Yes,” You nod gently. “I’m just a little nervous.”
You look down at your joined hands before quietly continuing. “I just want this day to be perfect.”
“Hey,” Jake lightly swings your joined hands to get you to look up at him again, and when you do, you see that he’s still wearing that confident smile. “It’s going to be perfect because it’s all coming from you. And everything you do is perfect in my eyes.”
You have to bite back your giggle at his sentiment, in disbelief that this sweet man is soon going to be your husband.
“It’s going to be perfect because it’s us. Together.” You correct him with a playful grin. 
“Yeah, you’re right.” Jake’s hands leave yours, wrapping warmly around your shoulders to pull you in for a hug. Nestled in his embrace, your own arms wrap around his middle, your head moving to lean on his chest, taking in the familiar scent of his cologne as he leans his head on top of yours. “Together.”
The two of you stand like that for a few moments, wrapped snugly in each other’s warmth, Jake beginning to sway you just lightly as you breathe each other in.
It’s with your cheek pressed against his pec that you finally take a look around the room the two of you are standing in, realizing that it’s another suite similar to the one you had been getting ready in earlier.
“You know,” You lift your head from Jake’s chest to look up at him as you speak, a playful tone filling your words. “This feels oddly familiar to the night we met.”
“Sneaking off to a dark, empty room,” You continue with a growing smirk, arms unlatching from around Jake’s waist and pulling back just a touch, his own arms falling from around your shoulders. “Just the two of us.”
Your hands slide gently up Jake’s torso over the fabric of his suit jacket, up past his broad shoulders to rest at the back of his neck. 
Jake’s gaze leaves you for just a moment to glance at the space around you. An airy laugh leaving his lips as his hands reach for your hips over the soft fabric of your dress to pull you a little bit closer, his green eyes falling back onto you. 
Faces just inches away from one another, the two of you share matching silly grins as you think back to the night of your brother’s wedding. A look of pure love and adoration passing between your eyes and his as you both absorb the fact that you’re here, three years later, at your own wedding. 
“Yeah, we’re just missing the champagne.” 
Jake softly brushes his nose against yours, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans in to connect his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. 
Tasting the remnants of the sweet mimosa on your lips, he hums against them before pulling back just slightly. “But it seems like you’ve already got that covered, Sweets.” 
The familiar nickname paints his favorite smile on your lips that has Jake diving back in for another kiss, this one deeper as his tongue dips into your mouth to taste the lingering sweetness of champagne and orange juice on your tongue.
His large hands pull you in closer by the waist as your fingers find the short blonde hairs at the nape of his neck, a groan falling from Jake’s mouth and into yours as your fingernails gently scrape along his scalp.
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly your body still responds to his touch after all this time; your knees going weak, and you’re practically melting into him as you feel wetness begin to pool in the skimpy, lacy white panties of your bridal lingerie that you’ve been dying to show Jake since you picked it all out a few months earlier.
The kiss quickly becomes more heated, lips slotting feverishly together as though one can only find much-needed oxygen within the other’s mouth, tongues swirling in a well-known dance and relishing in the familiar taste of one another. 
Jake’s hands are all over you, pulling your body flush against his as he sucks your bottom lip between the both of his. Your skin feels hot from his touch even through the fabric of your dress, and the realization of his quickly hardening length pressing against your hip has you mewling against him.
Jake pulls back from the kiss, his gaze still hungry, but you also catch the mirth in his eyes as he chuckles at his bride-to-be.
“Always so needy for me.” He slowly shakes his head with that classic, cocky Jake Seresin smirk that still makes you weak in the knees. 
“Me?!” You scoff, eyes wide as you look up at him incredulously, though you’re fighting back a smile because you know he’s right. 
“Well, I’d say someone is also pretty needy.” 
Your hand leaves the back of his neck to travel between your bodies to prove your point, reaching down to palm at his hard length through the fabric of his dress pants. Your brows raise in a playfully vindicated look that screams ‘I told you so’, as Jake lets out a groan at your touch. 
“Yeah, o-okay.” Jake’s chuckle is breathless this time as you cup your hand around him a little more firmly, grinning up at him and batting your lashes. “Always needy for you too, Sweets.” 
His hand wraps around your own to remove it from his bulge, already missing the friction as he brings your knuckles up to his lips in a sweet kiss before letting it go.
Before you even know what’s happening, both of Jake’s hands are reaching down to grip your thighs through all the layers of lace and tulle, a squeak emitting from your throat as he sweeps you off your feet and carries you over the nearest wall. 
“Jake! What are you-” Your arms circle around his shoulders, legs parting of their own volition to make room for him between them. Bracketing his hips as your back lightly hits the wall, the fabric of your dress all bunched between the two of you exposing your calves as he holds you in his strong grasp.
Large palms wrapped around the underside of your thighs, his weight pressed against your front and the wall at your back keep you upright as you giggle in your soon-to-be husband’s arms. 
Jake is beaming back at you, the adoration in his green eyes clear as they crinkle up due to his grin. 
“I love you, so much.” He lifts a hand up to your face, the backs of his fingers caressing along the soft skin of your cheek and Jake shakes his head as if he can’t believe that this is real, that you’re real. 
He leans in to press a soft, but dizzying kiss to your lips before murmuring against them, “I wanna show you how much.”
A part of you feels like you could cry at the sincerity in his voice, at just how well Jake loves you and how he’s never shy to make it known. 
But mostly, you just feel the white-hot pooling of arousal growing in your belly, your eyes glazing over with a look of both love and lust as you gaze back at him.
“Yeah?” You nod up at him in a daze, biting back a grin as you take in the hunger in those pretty green eyes. 
“Yeah.” He places a feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth that makes you whimper and you can feel his smile against your skin. “Let me show you.” 
You nod your head again, mind in a haze of want at the feel of his warm breath on your skin, your hands squeezing at Jake’s broad shoulders. 
Feeling the velvety-soft fabric of his black suit jacket beneath your fingers, it’s only then that you’re shaken out of your stupor and you remember where you are – what today is.  
“Wait-wait, Jake, we can’t!” Your fingers continue to absentmindedly play with the fabric covering his shoulder. We’re supposed to be getting married like… now.” 
You can’t help but giggle at the predicament you’ve found yourselves in, though it’s very unsurprising for you and Jake. 
Jake’s laugh mingles with your own as you begin to lightly shake your head, and you feel his strong shoulders shrug beneath your grasp as you watch his lips quirk up into a mischievous grin. 
“All our guests–” Jake interrupts your words with another quick peck on your lips, laughing at your stunned expression. 
“The guests…can wait.” He states matter-of-factly. “Can’t exactly have a wedding without the bride and groom, now can they, Sweets?” 
Jake’s smile is smug and you can’t fight the one materializing on your own lips as you continue to shake your head. 
“Besides, would we really be us if we didn’t sneak off to have sex at a wedding?” He finishes off the question with a kiss to your jaw before trailing his lips down the column of your throat, lightly nipping at the skin of your neck – careful not to leave a mark – before soothing it with his tongue.
Jake was right. It had happened the night you first met at Bradley and Natasha’s wedding, and had become a tradition of sorts for the two of you at every wedding you’d been to in the three years since – and there have been quite a few.
You can feel your resolve quickly beginning to crumble as Jake presses his hips more firmly against yours, his hard length pressing up against where you need him most, the friction not nearly enough through all the layers of fancy clothing. You’re already soaking through your panties for him and you know you’re a goner.
You drop your head onto Jake’s shoulder with a sigh, before looking back up at him through your lashes. 
“Fine, but we have to be quick.” Narrowing your eyes at him, you give in, but with the most stern tone you can muster and it only makes Jake laugh. 
“Ain’t nothing slow about me, sweetheart.” You can’t stop the snort that escapes you, or the playful roll of your eyes at his words, leaning up to kiss that stupid grin off of Jake’s face. 
“Please, just– just shut up and fuck me already, Seresin.” you manage to get out through your giggles.
“With pleasure.” Jake’s lips claim yours in a hungry kiss and you feel one of his big hands venture underneath the skirt of your dress, traveling up your thigh and past the frilly fabric of your white garter in search of your core.
When his fingers brush against the damp lace of your panties, you choke out a gasp against his lips and Jake pulls back to take in your expression — your brows furrowed in pleasure and eyes heavily hooded with need. His kiss-swollen lips lift up into a smug smirk as he feels how wet you are for him. 
Jake’s deft fingers press more firmly against that wet spot, rubbing along your seam through the damp fabric. You can’t hold back your whine, already writhing against him as his thumb finds your clit, expertly circling it through the lace. 
“So wet and I’ve barely even touched you.” He breathes out a laugh and there’s a hint of smugness to his words — because of course there, it’s Jake — but you can also hear the awe present in his voice, see it in his emerald gaze that burns into you lovingly and it makes heat creep up your cheeks.
His hand dips beneath the waistband of your panties and you and Jake groan in unison as his fingers make a few quick circles around your wet, swollen clit. 
Your head falls back against the wall behind you and Jake takes the opportunity to kiss at your neck again as his hand dips down further to collect more of your wetness. 
“Already all ready for me, Sweets?” Jake’s words are whispered next to your ear as his fingers graze your entrance, your hips bucking toward them of their own volition.
“For you, ahh–” Your words are cut off by a shaky moan as Jake slides two long fingers inside of you, up to the knuckle in one swift motion. Your breath hitches and you’re practically melting against him, your voice already sounding wrecked as you whimper for him, “Always.”
Jake groans at how easily your slick walls envelop his fingers, gushing with new arousal as he fucks them in and out of your tight hole to get you ready for his cock -– not that you really need much prep with the way you’re already soaking his hand.  
“Such a good girl for me.”
Your walls clench tight around his digits, from both the praise and the way he curls them inside of you, that coil in your belly quickly winding up. 
“Fuck- Jake!” He can hear the desperation in your plea of his name, can feel it in the way your hips chase his fingers each time he pulls them almost all the way out. You’re already feeling so close, but you’re needy for more. Need to be full of him. 
Your perfectly manicured nails dig into Jake’s bicep, the heel of your foot pressing into his backside in an attempt to pull him closer as you gaze up at him through your lashes. “Please, baby– need you.”
“I got you, honey.” 
Your chin falls against your chest and you cry out as Jake scissors his fingers inside of you a few more times before they retreat completely, leaving you clenching around nothing and keening at the sudden feeling of emptiness.
The hand that was in your panties begins to trail slowly back down your thigh, and though you can’t see it through all the fabric of your skirt, you can feel the trail of slick it leaves along your skin in its wake. 
As Jake clutches your thigh in his firm grasp to hold you more securely against the wall, his other hand moves to the tent in his tight trousers where his throbbing length has been neglected.
How he’s able to hold you up with one arm while the other hand unfastens his dress pants is beyond you, but it’s moments like this that you’re grateful to have a big, strong naval aviator for a husband-to-be. 
Jake pushes his suit pants and underwear down just far enough to finally release his cock and you can’t help but moan at the sight of it. Long and looking almost painfully hard, the tip red and angry and weeping with precum. 
Jake lets out a groan as he wraps a fist around his length, relishing in the friction as his hand moves along the shaft and works to spread the pearls of his arousal from his tip down to the base. 
His hand then leaves his cock to push up the skirt of your dress as far as it can go. 
Deft fingers pry the seat of your panties from where they stick to your slick-soaked core, and gingerly move the fabric to the side so he can access your dripping cunt before he grabs ahold of himself again.
Jake lines his tip up to your entrance and pushes in slowly, his lips claiming yours in a kiss that pushes the air out of your lungs, stealing your breath and leaving you dizzy with it as his tongue tangles with yours. 
Your hands glide up the soft, expensive fabric on Jake’s arms, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders as you gasp and writhe against him. Relishing in the feeling of him all over you. 
His lips covering your own, short breaths mixing with yours as you both pant and moan into the frantic kiss. His strong body, solid as the wall behind you as his front presses taut against you to hold you up, his long cock pushing deep inside of you with every single thrust and leaving you feeling so unbelievably full of him.
Jake pulls back from the kiss and looks down to where the two of you are connected. His length glistening with your arousal as it moves in and out of your tight walls, your beautiful, intricate wedding gown all bunched around your hips as he fucks you, and he can’t help the chuckle that escapes him when he thinks about how crazy this is.
“Wha-what’s so funny?” You ask breathlessly through kiss-swollen lips, your eyes that had previously been shut tight in bliss now opening to search out his green ones. 
“Just— this,” Jake’s gaze lifts to meet your eye as he continues to laugh, unsure if his brain is going fuzzy with pleasure, or if that’s just the intoxication of being with you. 
“My beautiful, perfect bride,” his hips slow just a touch, pressing forward in a particularly hard thrust that has you gasping and clutching onto his shoulders tighter, you and Jake moaning in unison before he continues, panting through his words.
“All a mess for me — fuck– right before we’re supposed to say ‘I do’ in front of all our family and friends– and pretty much everyone we know.”
Your eyes widen, lips tugging up into a bashful smile and you can’t help but giggle along with him, burying your head in his shoulder and speaking into the soft fabric of his jacket as he continues to fuck you.
“Oh god… well, I’m sure there’ll be some time to steam the dress again before I have to walk down the aisle.” 
You can feel Jake’s laughter reverberate against your cheek just before he cups your chin, lifting your face back up to be level with his and beaming at you with that megawatt smile. “There's my wife!” 
You’re both still grinning when he pulls you in for another kiss. Teeth gnashing against one another’s, mingled laughter and moans coming out in breathy puffs against each other’s lips as his cock works inside of you, his hips still moving against yours at an even pace.
“This is crazy.” You can barely get the words out, still giggling between messy kisses. 
“Yeah,” Jake punctuates with another press of his lips on yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lip and drawing out a quiet whimper as he pulls it back towards him and releases it before continuing. 
“It is crazy,” – Another kiss – “You make crazy, Sweets.”
With one more firm peck to your lips, you feel both of Jake’s hands wrap tighter under your thighs, rough fingers squeezing your ass as he hikes you up a bit higher against the wall, pressing impossibly closer to keep you firmly in place. 
The change of the angle combined with his thrusts accelerating in speed has you crying out loud as he ruts up into you, Jake’s lips moving to cover yours once again and muffle the sounds of your moans. 
You shudder against him as his tip prods against that spongy spot inside you that makes stars appear behind your closed lids with each and every thrust, and you feel that coil beginning to tighten again, the familiar heat rapidly licking at the base of your spine.
Jake knows you’re close when your nails begin to dig into his shoulders through the jacket of his tux as you gasp for air, your lips parting from his with a string of saliva still connecting them for a moment that makes him growl as your head lulls back to lean against the wall. Eyes squeezed shut in pleasure as you quietly, breathlessly, cry out his name like a mantra.
Your body is sandwiched tightly between Jake’s and the wall as his length fills you, hips pinned to yours and barely able to pull out on each thrust for how tightly your walls are clamping around him, the coarse but neatly trimmed hairs at the base of his cock deliciously grazing your clit and setting your whole body alight.
He's the only thing keeping you upright when your orgasm hits you. His mouth swallows your cries as your whole body goes taut, holding Jake in a vice grip as you fall apart on his cock. 
Jake can feel it as all of the tension leaves your body. He continues in slow, shallow thrusts, the quiet of the room only accentuating the salacious sounds of your release flooding around him as he works you through your high. 
He pulls back from the kiss as your moans begin to subside to get a look at your fucked out, blissful expression. 
Your eyes are still closed, lips parted and now devoid of any of the nude-pink lipstick shade you’d been wearing before, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat. 
Your chest rapidly rises and falls beneath the fitted white bodice of your wedding gown, accentuating your cleavage with each little pant as you try to catch your breath.
“So fucking pretty, honey,” Jake begins a light trail of kisses from the corner of your mouth to your warm cheek, and up to your hairline where he whispers against the slightly damp skin. “My beautiful bride.”
Your hands scramble for purchase on his back, whimpering as you attempt to pull him in closer. 
“Jake- '' Your legs tighten around his hips, heels pressing against his backside where they’re crossed at the ankles, your desperate mewl mixing with Jake’s deeper grunt as the movement pushes him even deeper inside of you.  
“‘M so lucky to- to get to call you my husband,” Jake swears that his cocks swells just that little bit more at your loving words. “Cum for me. Wanna feel you.”
“Fuck.” The sweet praise whispered from your pretty lips sends him into a tailspin. 
You’ve barely come down from your high when Jake’s hips quicken their pace as he begins to chase his own release, the beginnings of overstimulation making you cry out a string of broken moans, incoherent whimpers of curses and his name. 
The fullness and the delightful drag of his cock through your tight walls making you clench around him harder, and the assault of his tip against your g-spot leaving you feeling boneless, your grip on his shoulders tightens like you’ll float away at any moment.
The way your velvety walls are squeezing him, your release soaking his length and the obscene sound it creates as he continues to fuck into you, have Jake right on the edge of his own high. 
His head falls to your shoulder where he grunts deeply into the crook of your neck. 
“So good, baby. So good for me.” He praises, peppering sweet kisses to your hot skin, a stark contrast to the harsh force of his hips pounding against yours as they begin to lose their rhythm. 
After a few more sloppy thrusts, Jake finishes inside you with a strangled groan. The familiar sensation of his cum filling your still-spasming walls pulls a contented sigh from your lips. 
Jake’s lips dot a trail of soft kisses along the heated skin of your shoulder and neck, then under your jaw before he lifts his face to be level with yours. Pressing his forehead against your own, the two of you stay there just breathing each other in as you catch your breath.
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When the groomsmen realize just how much time has passed with still no sign of Jake, and with only minutes until the supposed start of the ceremony, Bradley is seeing red. 
For a moment, jumping to the worst conclusion — that Jake may be standing his little sister up on her wedding day — and he’s just about ready to murder the groom.
It’s only when Natasha knocks on the door to the groomsmens’ suite, looking frazzled as she asks him and the other Daggers if any of them have seen the bride, letting them know that you’ve gone missing as well, that Bradley and his wife both quickly come to the realization that the two of you must be together. 
So, Natasha and Bradley begin the hunt to find the soon-to-be newlyweds, the latter rolling his eyes before grumbling, “They’d better not be off somewhere fucking.”
Natasha only responds with a snicker because she knows that’s probably exactly what the two of you were doing. She offers her grumpy husband a sympathetic look and gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze before they split up to search through the maze that is the halls of your wedding venue. 
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In no rush to move just yet, you and Jake just rest for a moment, foreheads pressed together, your body still sandwiched between his broad frame and the wall. His softening cock still inside of you, puffs of air warming each other’s lips as shallow pants become more steady breaths.
You know that you and Jake’s little er —detour— has almost definitely put things behind schedule for your big day, but in this moment you honestly couldn’t care less. 
When it’s just you and the love of your life, bodies intertwined and relishing in each other’s warmth, shared breaths becoming one, you can’t help but think that this day already couldn’t be more perfect.
You feel a flurry of excitement, your heart bursting at the thought that it’s always going to be like this. Solace in the fact that you’re Jake’s and he’s yours, that this is only the beginning of the rest of your lives together. 
He seems to share in the sentiment, pulling back to admire you for a moment before you feel his smile against your skin when he lightly presses his lips to your forehead. 
One of his hands reaches up to cradle your cheek, those green eyes are boring down into your own with that look of pure adoration once again as Jake moves to speak.
“God, I can’t wait to marry you,” His voice is breathy and full of awe–almost a laugh, eyes crinkling up at the corners in that way that you love as his smile begins to take up more of his face. “I’m so happy that you’re gonna be my wife.”
“Jake…” If you thought your heart was bursting before, you think it’s about ready to break free from your chest now, your eyes glistening with emotion as you lovingly look up at him through your lashes.
“You’re gonna make me cry and I don’t want to mess up my makeup any more than I probably already have,”
The two of you share a quiet laugh, smitten as ever as your hand makes its way up to cover his where it still rests on the side of your face. “But, to have you as my husband… I couldn’t be happier.”
Jake leans down to press a chaste kiss to your lips before whispering against them. “Love you, Sweets.”
It’s only after you return his kiss and those three little words that have become as easy to you as breathing, that Jake finally pulls out of you and the two of you let out a simultaneous sigh. 
He reaches down to where the mix of his and your release begins to dribble out of your spent hole, a shattered moan falling from your parted lips as your head lulls back against the wall once more. 
Your legs begin to shake from the overstimulation as two of Jake’s long fingers push his cum back into you, expertly thrusting them in and out a few times before pulling them out again, and you find yourself grateful for the sturdy wall behind you when he purposefully brushes them against your oversensitive clit, leaving you breathless as he shifts your panties back into place to keep his cum inside. 
Your mind is cloudy of all things but Jake — his scent and his warmth and the feeling of his hands all over your skin, his pretty green eyes and his voice and his gorgeously cocky smirk — each one of your senses being invaded by him and you couldn’t be more content. 
And, you love knowing that underneath all the layers of fancy lace and tulle, right before the biggest moments of your lives, that you have his cum inside you.
Just as you part from one another, a knock on the door causes you to jump. 
You can hear Natasha out in the hall calling out your names and you and Jake share a look, wearing matching guilty smiles. 
However, it’s not long before his smile shifts into a more of a smirk, and you have to bite back a giggle as he rolls his green eyes playfully before leaning in to peck your cheek, pulling back to mouth the words ‘you good?’. 
With your grin and nod of confirmation, Jake leaves you with one more kiss, fastening the button on his pants and straightening out his dress shirt as he makes his way over to the door.
He pulls it open, still wearing that signature smirk on his face and Natasha glances up at him before she cautiously peeks her head in to see you too, hair smoothed out as much as you could manage on such short notice, the skirt of your wedding dress now back in place and hiding the fact that Jake’s cum is soaking through your underwear and beginning to drip down your thighs. 
“Thank god you’re clothed. I wasn’t looking to get scarred for life today.” Natasha breathes a sigh of relief and steps fully into the room. 
“You’re lucky you didn’t find us five minutes earlier.” Jake chuckles as you lightly smack his chest, that ever-cocky smile on his handsome face that you’ve come to love so very much over these last three years. 
You can’t help but snicker along with him when you catch sight of Natasha’s nose wrinkling in disgust. 
“Ok, ew… And you’re lucky I found you and not Bradley.” Natasha gives Jake a glare before clapping her hands in front of both of your faces. “Now come on, hurry the fuck up. The ceremony — your wedding ceremony — is about to start soon.”
You nod your head frantically, as if only just remembering where, and when, you are.
“Right, yeah! I just gotta go… clean up a bit.” you squeak out to your sister-in-law with a bashful grin before scurrying off the bathroom of the suite you’d snuck into. 
Natasha just gives Jake a deadpan look that conveys her slight disgust before leaving the room, making her way out into the hall to call Bradley and let the him know that she’s located the happy couple. 
After taking care of the mess between your legs and wiping off the smudged remnants of your lipstick in the bathroom mirror, you return to find Jake, who’s leaning up against the wall opposite the door, looking cool and calm and handsome as ever in his tux. 
Making your way over to him, you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, letting out a little snort as your hands reach up to delicately fix his hair where it sticks out in a few places—no doubt from your tugging on it during your recent activities. 
Once Jake’s golden locks are back in a more presentable state, you smooth a hand down the nape of his neck, leaning up to attach your lips firmly to his. 
Jake groans into it as his mouth moves against yours with just as much fervor, his hands reaching blindly for your waist to pull you in closer, and the two of you share one last passionate kiss that you hope conveys both your love for him and your excitement to be marrying him — though Jake already knows. 
“Alright, Natasha’s going to kill me if I don’t get back in the next two minutes.” You pull away from his lush lips, reluctantly and breathlessly, wanting to live in this moment with him forever. 
Your arms unwrap themselves from behind Jake’s neck, but you don’t get very far when he reaches out to take one of your hands in his own, and you can tell he’s just as reluctant to end the moment too when he brings it up to his lips to kiss a trail from your knuckles to the tips of your fingers.
“Yeah, I’m not really looking forward to dealing with your brother either.” 
His words make you laugh in that sweet, boisterous way that he’s so ready to hear for the rest of his life and with that, Jake chuckles and lets you go, his hand still holding onto yours until you’re too far out of reach. 
Jake calls out your name just as you reach the door and you stop short, turning around to face him just as you pull it open. You stand in the threshold, brows raised, and look at him expectantly. 
“See ya out there, my beautiful bride.”
You’re surprised your cheeks don’t perpetually hurt from how much this man makes you smile.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, my dashing groom.” You leave him with a playful wink and that intoxicating smile, in a flash of flowing white fabric as you quickly retreat into the hallway. 
Jake chuckles to himself, moving over to the mirror to make sure he looks presentable, smoothing a hand over his hair and giving himself one last once-over before he makes his way back to his groomsmen. 
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Trailing behind Natasha, you quickly make your way through the halls back to the bridal suite, giving her your most innocent smile when she peers back at you over her shoulder with a pointed look.
Your sister-in-law sends you a half-hearted scoff and a playful roll of her brown eyes, but you can see the smirk just beginning to grow at the corner of her lips before she turns and reaches out to open the door. 
“Come on.” Natasha half laughs, half groans, ushering you into the room.
Before you know it, you’ve got a plethora of people surrounding you once again — one giving your dress a very last minute steam to get rid of any wrinkles your activities with Jake a few minutes earlier had caused, others rushing around to touch up your hair and makeup and to finally pin up your veil. Although, this time around, you find that you’re unbothered. Feeling a lot more at ease, and you’re back in tip-top shape in record time. 
You’re practically vibrating in excitement and anticipation as Natasha and the rest of your bridal party shower you with hugs and their own squeals of excitement and encouragement before they make their way outside to the beautifully set up venue to get into their places for the ceremony. 
You give yourself one final once-over in the mirror, unable to curb the smile that grows at how beautiful you feel. 
It's only a few moments later when Bradley pokes his head in the door once more to ask if you’re ready. He takes in the giddy — and much more self-assured than earlier  —  smile on your face when you turn to him and nod your head excitedly. 
“Ya know, you can still back out of this if you wanted.” Your brother jokes, his tone teasing as his mustached lips form into a sly grin.
With a punch to your older brother’s shoulder, you pin Bradley with a pointed look and a sarcastic ‘ha ha’.
“Come on, I’m sure the Bronco would make a great getaway car!” He chuckles as your eyes widen in surprise.
“Bradley!” You move to punch his arm again, but he quickly ducks out of the way this time, and though your eyes are now narrowed at him in a feigned scowl, Bradley can tell that you’re not really angry with him by the way your lips are fighting back pulling up into a smile. 
“Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to hold my peace when that part comes up.” He raises his hands up in surrender and you can’t help but laugh along with Bradley’s joke, though not without a playful shake of your head and roll of your eyes. 
“You better!” Your big brother flinches as you lurch at him again, but this time, instead of hitting him, your fingers reach up to pinch his ear and it’s like the two of you are kids again; you giggling maniacally while Bradley — now a big, tough 6’1 fighter pilot — yelps in pain, arms flailing as he tries to get out of your grip.
He’d probably pull your hair like he did when you were kids too, if it wasn’t all styled to perfection with your beautiful sheer veil pinned to the crown of it, all ready for your big day. 
“I will, I will!” Bradley hisses through his teeth, chuckling as you release your hold on him to grab your bouquet that’s a beautiful mix of both yours and Jake’s favorite flowers, and then move to link your arm with his to begin the path down the hall. The path to the rest of your life and you couldn’t be more excited. 
As your brother guides you through the venue’s winding halls towards the doors to where the outdoor ceremony is being held, a gentle grin befalls your lips as you think about how you got here — and your big brother’s part in all of it. 
“You know… I know you told all the guys at your wedding to steer clear of me.” 
Bradley stops in his tracks at your divulgence, pulling you to a quick stop as well and nearly tripping you over your heels and the fabric of your long wedding gown.
“You wha- huh? You know?!” 
Admittedly, Bradley thought he was taking that secret to his grave.
“Yeah, I know.” You can’t help but giggle at your brother’s flustered expression. “Jake told me, a few months after we started dating.”
You’ve known for almost three years and you never said anything. Huh. 
Bradley stands there with his lips parted, but no words are coming out. He’s still in shock at the fact that you’re laughing about this. 
“So… you’re not mad?” He asks the question apprehensively, a grimace on his face as he awaits your answer. 
“No, I’m not mad.” You shake your head, still smiling as an airy laugh escapes you. 
“Well, maybe I was for like a second back then. But, I appreciate how much you want to protect me, Bradley. Even if it does make you an idiot sometimes.” 
You playfully roll your eyes and Bradley finally relaxes, shoulders dropping as he laughs along with you. 
“For what it’s worth, you and Jake actually aren’t a half-bad couple.” You playfully smack his chest in response to the — albeit sweet — jest. 
“Thank you.” You beam up at your brother, content knowing that that’s his way of letting you know he truly is happy for you and Jake. 
Bradley links his arm with yours again and continues leading you towards the doors. “I wish Mom and Dad could see how beautiful you look today. They’d be so proud.” 
“Oh, come on, Bradley! You’re gonna make me cry off my makeup!” You whisper-yell at him half jokingly as you finally reach the doors that will lead you out to the ceremony — to where you’ll very soon be married to the love of your life. 
“Me too.” Giving Bradley’s arm a gentle squeeze, the two of you share a smile, knowing that your parents will be there in spirit. And grateful for the fact that your uncle Mav who’s always been like a third parent to you will be there too. “Now, come on. Let’s go get me married!”
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The wedding ceremony goes off without a hitch — albeit a little bit later than planned. 
When the music starts and Bradley walks you down the aisle, you’re surrounded by the smiling faces of friends and family. 
Although, your eyes are only on Jake — looking so unbelievably handsome in his tux and his wide smile and you can’t believe just how lucky you got — and his mossy green eyes are focused on only you. 
Both of your eyes shine with tears and it’s as if only the two of you exist in that moment when you meet him at the altar, the two of you happily joining hands with matching lovesick grins adorning your faces.
Though he’ll never admit it — and Natasha will never let him live it down — Bradley definitely shed a few tears himself as he listened to you and Jake exchange your vows. 
It’s been a long day of running around getting ready for the ceremony — and sneaking off for a quickie, of course — before marrying your soulmate in front of practically everyone you know, then taking countless family photos and enjoying a cocktail hour with your friends and family showering you and Jake in congratulations and well wishes. 
But, it’s all worth it because you’re finally able to call Jake your husband and you couldn’t be happier.
You’re both more than ready for the reception, ready to let loose and enjoy your time together as a newlyweded couple. 
After a nice dinner comes the best man and maid of honor speeches from Javy and Natasha, and a speech from Uncle Mav that includes a few embarrassing anecdotes about your childhood that have you giggling as you hide your face in Jake’s shoulder. 
Then it’s time for the newlyweds to make a toast before sharing your first dance to Fleetwood Mac’s Everywhere, the first song you and Jake danced to on the night when you met three years ago at your brother’s wedding. 
The two of you hold each other close and sway along to the music without a care in the world, Jake dipping you towards the end of the song and claiming your lips in a long kiss that has the entire room cheering — although again, it’s as if you and Jake are the only two who exist in that moment.
When Jake pulls back from the kiss, one of his large palms is still cupping your cheek, fingers gently grazing your skin as his green eyes gaze down at you in adoration. 
“I can’t believe you’re my wife.” He lightly shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m never gonna stop saying that — my wife.”
You’re smiling against one another’s lips as you pull Jake down for another kiss, giggling when you mouth parts from his. 
“I love you so much, my husband.”
You can see that familiar look of both adoration and hunger beginning to overtake Jake’s features in response to your words as your first dance comes to an end.
After sharing what would traditionally be a father-daughter dance with Mav, he returns you into your husband’s loving arms as others begin to join in on the fun, the dance floor now filling up with your guests. 
Jake sees his opportunity to whisk you away from the dancefloor, using the commotion to make a sneaky getaway — again. 
You should be used to it by now — his large hand warmly encompassing yours and pulling you along with him — but you still can’t help the giggles that break free as you quicken your pace to match his as best as you can in your heels, sprinting until the two of you have disappeared from dancefloor, and soon from your wedding reception entirely.   
Out of the ballroom doors and into the empty hallway, the loud music and sounds of your guests having fun now a muffled to barely-there background noise, you find yourself alone with Jake. Your husband.
You pull on Jake’s hand to bring him to a stop in front of you, turning him around and pulling him in closer to you as you lean your back against the closed door, gazing up at him with a lip-bitten smile. 
“What are we doing?” You question through a breathless laugh, although you’re pretty sure you already know the answer. 
Jake’s broad frame crowds you in closer to the door and you find your breaths coming in quicker as he presses the front of his body up against yours.
Your eyes flutter shut as he leans down even closer, his nose gently brushing yours, lips just shy of touching your own. His breath fans against them and it sends a shiver down your spine, a jolt going straight to your core when he speaks.
“Well, we’ve gotta consummate our marriage, Sweets.” Jake whispers against you, his mouth just barely grazing your own. “And I’d like to consummate it as soon as possible.”
The evident hunger in his voice has you frantically nodding against him, eyes still squeezed shut when you feel his front press impossibly closer to you — and the growing bulge there. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, honey. Gonna consummate the shit out of you.” 
Jake’s whispered words, and their mirthy tone, have you bursting into a fit of giggles, your head falling back against the door behind you. His own laugh joins in with yours as you shake your head at his silliness. You love this man so much.
Your hands reach up to the sides of his neck to pull your husband down for a kiss, lips and teeth clashing as neither of you can break the smiles from your faces. 
“You’re such a dork, Seresin.” You whisper sweetly against Jake’s lips.
“Yeah, but you love it… Mrs. Seresin.” His large hands squeeze your hips, both the heat you feel on your skin through the lacy fabric of your dress and the name making you giddy.
“Well… lead the way, Mr. Seresin!” 
You’re unable to contain the massive smile that breaks out on your face as Jake presses one last kiss to your lips, before grabbing your hand and beginning to pull you along with him once more, and you don’t care where takes you as long as your hand gets to be intertwined with his for the rest of your lives. 
Thank you for reading! x
taglist: @sebsxphia @chaoticassidy @dempy @ohgodnotagainn @shanimallina87 @mavrellover91 @memoriesat30 @that-bitch-bri @classyunknownlover @hisredheadedgoddess28 @foreverrandomwritings @lt-spork @princess76179 @gigisimsonmars @kidd3ath @averyhotchner @sammyrenae68 @tv-fanatic18 @one-sweet-gubler @kmc1989 @onethirstyunicorn @avengersfan25 @fictionalmenloversblog @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby @praline357 @girlsclub2004 @imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog @marvelogic @djs8891 @diorrfairy (pls let me know if you'd like to be removed 🤍)
tagging some others who might be interested: @hangmanssunnies @blue-aconite @sunlightmurdock @rhettabbotts @doreenwnsng @watchtowerindistress @dingochef @floydsglasses @lynnestra44 @ryebecca (i'm going to reblog and also tag all the rest of the people who reblogged part one! 🤍)
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nicksolemnlyswears · 7 months ago
Text
COMFORT ME, STAY WITH ME
(HAELENA’S TURN)
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STAY WITH US
pairing: helaena targaryen x targaryen! reader, aegon targaryen x targaryen! reader
word count: ~3k
warnings: spoilers for s2e2 of HoTD, mentions of murder and death of a child, light cursing, angsty helaena, one single mention of sex. dont @ me if you find a haelena instead of a helaena. targaryen names are much too complicated for my brain
a/n: thank you guys for all the love on aegon's oneshot. i was bouncing on the walls when i saw how much love it received and that some people agree with me in terms of alicent being a shit mom. that being said you dont really have to read the first part to read this. it works as a stand alone although it is a continuation.
although the inspiration to write these oneshots was the death of a child i love how soft and comforting they've come out. it's about sympathizing and giving these characters the love they deserve.
helaena deserves so much love even more than aegon. she's an innocent in all of this trapped in the midst of war. hell even rhaenyra agrees and scolded daemon for his misdoings.
im thinking of writing one last part where it is all three of them together: reader, aegon and helaena. i'm leaning towards smut but i never know what my brain will come up with. if you’d rather have some more domestic fluffy stuff let me know and that can be arranged!
enjoy!
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Your fingers close around your skirts as you fly up the stairs to Helaena's bed chambers. One of her maids leads the way. The young girl sought you out as you readied for bed, rambling about how Queen Helaena was in distress. Without further question, you slipped on your robe and followed her.
The Queen has not been well since the night her child was brutally taken from her. She continues to live day by day in constant suffering as her mind has a difficult time coming to terms with that night's events.
As it happens, saying Helaena is 'not well' is an understatement.
She might've been 'not well' after the fact, but the funeral proceedings broke the last thread of sense she was holding onto. If anyone is to blame, it is the Dowager Queen who forced her to attend and Otto Hightower who was the 'mastermind' behind it all.
It was torture to hear the people of Kings Landing shouting for her, screaming vile words about Rhaenyra, and offering condolences about a subject they barely knew a thing about.
Most had never seen the young Prince; his cold body and the gold thread around his neck were their first glimpses of him. They gasped and awed at her child as if he were a spectacle while she had no choice but to sit and watch with composure.
It is only natural she would fall apart under the pressure of such ill-conceived plans. Her overthinking mind couldn't handle it any longer when the carriage got stuck. Her thoughts coming up with the most of wicked scenarios. She had to run.
Then, there is Jaehaera, who continues to ask for her twin brother. The poor girl has never spent a day apart from him since they were conceived. It is difficult for Helaena to hear Jaehaera constantly ask where he is and when he will return. It's a never ending reminder of her loss.
Besides, how is she to explain death to a child when Helaena herself has not accepted it.
The newly assigned guard sworn to protect the Queen opens the door for you as soon as you round the corner. His anticipation worries you to no end, and you fear what lies past those doors.
Maids surround Helaena, attempting to comfort her. She screams at them to let her be, but they persist. The maids mean well. Helaena is clearly distressed, yet they don't seem to realize it's because of their overbearing presence.
The young Queen swats them away. Her fingers thread through her messy hair as she seeks an escape, and sobs rake through her slender body until she collapses on her knees. Her lips move in unreadable murmurs in between each yell.
Helaena barely appears like herself. Dark purple circles line her under eyes, and her hair is unbrushed and knotted. Her signature plump cheeks have hollowed out, indicating that she has lost weight.
"Please," Helaena cries to no one in particular, recoiling from their touch.
You barrel through the maids and kneel on the floor at an arms length from Helaena. "'Laena?" you softly call to get her to look at you, knowing that if you even attempt to touch her, she will shy away.
At the recognition of your voice, Helaena's face whips up. She falls into your arms, hiding from the other females in the room. The tears that stain her face wet your robe as you hold her close. She tucks her face into your neck, hiccuping from emotion.
"Leave us," you command with a stern gaze that borders on anger.
The maids move to leave the room, but only after notifying you that the Queen has barely eaten or bathed in days. Once the door closes shut, you coax Helaena from your arms.
"What is wrong, 'Laena?" You ask softly, cradling her face to brush away her tears. The sight of her red and blotchy face breaks your heart. She must've been like this for a long time.
"It is my fault," she hiccups as new tears follow the path of the others. Helaena hangs her head in despair. She should've fought harder to keep her son alive. There must've been something else she could've done.
"Look at me," you say sternly, forcing her to look at you. It is when her eyes meet yours that you continue, "This is not your fault."
"I was the one to point my finger," she argues while her fists clench and unclench around the fabric of her dress when a new wave of emotion takes over.
Helaena is an overly emotional person. She feels things deep in her chest. She wishes she could control it, but the more she holds it in, the nastier it gets when it gets out of her control. Her body freezes and pleads for her to run and hide.
"Helaena, this was going to happen whether you pointed your finger or not. If you hadn't done what you did, you and Jaehaera would be dead as well."
It's blunt and a bit cruel, but Helaena must understand that she had no other choice. The only way this could've been stopped was if she had been assigned a sworn protector, but the council underestimated their enemy and Ser Criston Cole was too busy getting his cock wet to do anything about it.
"I told them to spare him and kill me instead," Helaena confesses with a weep.
She lets herself go on your shoulder as you wrap your arms around her shaking shoulders. You kiss the top of her head to console her guilty conscience. Helaena did not deserve to be a victim of Daemon's terrible idea. She might just be the most innocent of Targaryens.
"I know, Helaena, you were so brave. You're a wonderful mother. This is not your fault, and nobody blames you. You did what you had to do. Jaehaera is alive and well because of you."
It's hard for Helaena to stop thinking in such a way once she starts. The thoughts cause her to imagine things that aren't really there and doubt her reality. She feels like the staff's glances are not of worry but of resentment for letting those men kill her boy. Aegon's absence makes it all the worse.
"Aegon will not look at me, much less speak to me," she whimpers, wrapping her arms around your waist.
A tear slides down your cheek. You will never compare your sadness to theirs, but seeing them hurt in such a way pains you. Their marriage was arranged, yes, but Aegon and Helaena hold deep affection for each other. They simply have a difficult time showing it.
In this instance, there is no one who understands them better than each other. It is tragic but this should bring them closer together not tear them apart.
"Aegon is grieving. He can barely stand to look at himself because he feels like he failed his family, 'Laena. I promise you he will come around."
Helaena nods with her head on your shoulder. She is not convinced, but your words soothe her for the time being. Tears continuously slide down her face, and there is nothing you can do about it. You much prefer she cries it all out than hold it in.
"Come," you tell her, holding her hand and guiding her to the bath the maids had prepared before they left. "Let's get you ready for bed.”
You keep her close to you, reassuring Helaena you're there to stay as long as she needs. You help her untie the strings of her dress, and as you hang it over the back of a chair, she slips out of her smallclothes.
She accepts your hand to step into the bath. The water has now cooled, but she doesn't complain. It is the least of her worries. Helaena sits in the tub with her arms around her knees and silently cries.
Your goal tonight is to get her to rest. You can tell she hasn't slept in a long time, which will make her feel better.
Settling on the wooden stool next to the bath, you lather soap into the sponge and ask for her arm. Helaena complies, and you gently swipe the sponge across her skin. The maids were thorough as the smell of a calming oils invades your senses. They sincerely wanted to help their Queen.
Scrubbing down her arm, you note her nailbeds, which are red and raw. You're gentle with the soap when you reach her hand to prevent it from burning. Once you rinse it out, you bring her hand up to your lips, kissing her fingertips much like your mother would do when you got hurt.
Her crying calms when she catches onto your gesture, watching you in awe.
It is easy to note how she's thinned out as you continue to bathe her. Her skin presses against her ribs, showcasing each indent, and the bony prominences of her shoulders are much more palpable. It worries you to no end. Everyone has different coping mechanisms, but this is by far the unhealthiest one.
In the morrow, you will make it your goal to get her to eat. For a start, you will ask the kitchens to bake her favorite dessert. There has never been a moment where Helaena has refused a berry tart.
"Tilt your head back for me, love," you whisper, grabbing the pitcher of clean water from the table. Brushing Helaena's hair back, you pour the water, being careful not to get it in her eyes.
As she tilts her head back, she keeps her watchful eyes on you. She is in one of the most intimate positions, yet her lilac eyes reveal the most vulnerable parts of herself. You offer Helaena a comforting smile. Moving on from this tragic accident will be difficult, but we have to start somewhere.
When you lather her hair with soap and massage her scalp, she closes her eyes with a shudder. In turn, her shoulders relax, and goosebumps appear across her skin. A quiet moan slipping past her bitten lips.
Moving on to her face, Helaena watches you closely as you grab a rag to wash her face. You're so careful and tender with her. She has not made mention of it, but your touch feels pleasant against her skin.
You dab her neck next, looking over the wound that was cast upon her. You wish for it not to scar. Helaena needs no more reminders of that night.
After finishing the bath, you help her stand and dry off. Then, you follow her to the bed, where her nightgown lies discarded. With your assistance, she quickly slips it on. Helaena is quiet as she dresses; no more tears well up in her eyes.
"Let's brush your hair," you whisper soothingly.
Delicately, you glide the brush through her silver strands. You tackle the knots methodically to prevent pulling on her hair. A couple of drops of rose oil help greatly with the task as the bristles move smoothly across the long length of her hair.
Helaena sighs softly, and, through the mirror, you can see her eyes are closed. The poor thing must be exhausted.
"How are you feeling?" You ask her, tying the plait you weaved and wrapping your arms around her shoulders. You prop your head upon hers, cuddling her into you.
"Better, I suppose," she nods gratefully, grasping your hand hanging loosely across her chest. "I am tired," she admits.
"Let's get you to bed then."
Before you can slip away, Helaena protests and holds your wrist. "No, please." You're taken aback by the desperation in her voice. Why is she refusing to rest when her body begs for it?
"Helaena, when was the last time you slept?"
Helaena appears guilty. She swallows the knot on her throat, preparing to answer. "Not since that night. The nightmares do not allow me respite."
You sit beside her on the bench, keeping a firm grasp on her hand. "Do you wish to speak about them? It might help."
Her voice is barely above a whisper. "It's always the same. They return when the nights darkest and take Jaehaera."
Helaena is terrified. Many of her dreams have become reality, and this is one she would not be able to bear witness to. The things they do in her dreams are unforgivable. She cannot lose her daughter to those monsters.
Silence takes upon the room. Helaena cannot survive in a sleep deprived state, there must be something you can do. "What if we bring her here? She can sleep with you. That way, you will know she's safe."
Helaena ponders your suggestion, her eyes drifting away. "Will you stay?" Although a question the way Helaena's voice cracks, it's more of a plead.
"Is that what you wish, my Queen?" You ask, caressing her cheek so she returns to you from that faraway place in her mind.
She's quick to nod and squeeze your hand in gratitude. "Please," she whispers, leaning into your touch.
"Anything for you."
Helaena accompanies you to Jaehaera's new chambers. The King saw it fit Jaehaera did not reside in the room where her twin brother was murdered. A wise choice.
If your memory serves you well, Jace used to inhabit the space once upon a time.
Helaena almost runs to her daughter's cot, ensuring she's alive and well. You sympathize with her, it's natural to worry about your child if another was stolen from your life.
"Mama," Jaehaera yawns when Helaena picks her up.
"You're sleeping with mummy tonight, yeah?" Helaena whispers, cradling the back of her head and kissing the crown of her head.
Jaehaera, too tired to reason or even question it, nods and nestles into the crook of Haelena's neck. The sight is eerily similar to that fateful night.
The guard posted to protect Jaehaera escorts you to the Queen's chambers, standing on the opposite side of Helaena's white cloak guard.
Once inside, you slip off your robe and join her and Jaehaera on the bed. The girl is safely nestled between you both, pale lashes fluttering shut.
Helaena reaches for your hand to ensure you do not leave, and you lace your fingers with hers. "Sleep, 'Laena. I'll keep you safe," you promise her.
All it takes for Helaena to sleep is a lullaby your mother used to sing to you. It was of great tales of the people of Old Valyria. It was your favorite growing up, and now it is Helaena's.
By the song's end, Helaena's breaths even out and she succumbs to slumber. Although her face reflects her tiredness, the resemblance between Helaena and Jaehaera is stark.
When your eyes begin to close, eager to follow Helaena and Jaehaera to the land of dreams, the door creaks open. Startled, you sit up on the bed to search for an intruder, ready to scream if need be.
Aegon stands by the door, his chest heaving and his face pale. His hair is in disarray, and his eyes are wild with worry. "Where is Jaehaera?" he asks.
"She's right here," you respond, lowering the sheets and moving your body to reveal her resting upon Helaena's chest.
Aegon sighs in relief, and after a moment of hesitation, he timidly steps closer to the bed, observing the scene in front of him. He has taken to visiting his daughter's chambers throughout the night. He doesn't trust the guards, even if he is the one who assigned them. Aegon needs to see with his own eyes that his remaining child is alive and not endangered.
He had been frightened when the guard who was supposed to be posted by her door was gone, and worse, so was his daughter. Before he could scream, a maid walked in and, upon questioning, told him Jaehaera was in the Queen's chambers with her mother and the Princess.
You lay back against the headboard and observe him. He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching over you to brush a strand of hair away from his wife's face. Then, his hand lowers as his fingertip traces the slope of his daughter's nose.
"You should talk to her."
Helaena's words are clear as day in your mind. After witnessing Aegon in the same position, you reckon it would be good if they spoke to one another.
"I wouldn't know what to say," Aegon responds with a shake of his head.
"Yes, you do," you insist, resting your hand upon his, which lays on the bed. He glances questioningly at you, silently asking you to explain.
Your voice is light and soft. The last thing you want is to wake Helaena, although your instincts tell you it is doubtful. "Nobody understands what you're going through better than Helaena. She lost a child as well and feels just as hopeless as you do. Talk to her and tell her the words you would've liked to hear."
"It is that easy?" He asks in disbelief with a scoff. He looks at you for guidance. You've helped him more than anyone in the council or his own mother.
"Yes," you chuckle, and he joins you, if only for a moment. "Would you like me to go so you can stay?" You wouldn't want to intrude in a moment that can unite a family yet again.
Aegon shakes his head and urges you to stay abed. "It is alright. I will soon talk with 'Laena."
For a brief moment, Aegon presses his forehead against yours to show his appreciation. He stands with a press of his lips to your forehead and one more glance at his family. "Thank you for everything. I hope one day I can repay you for all your kindness."
"There's no need."
He does not speak but shares a glance that says a thousand words. Aegon closes the door behind him and turns to the guards standing by it.
Their backs visibly straighten when he addresses them. "Under no circumstance are you to leave your post. Your goal is to protect the Queen and the Princesses."
After all, his heart and soul are in that room.
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STAY WITH US
came out a little longer than aegon but there was much to do with lovely helaena. queen helaena is a big reason as to why i hate alicent so much. alicent has let her down time and time again. how can she fucking ask helaena not to say anything about her and cole? fuck, alicent, she's not even thinking about that.
did you enjoy this one shot? please don’t forget to like or comment (i accept keyboard smashes, emojis, words of encouragement, praise, virtual hugs and alicent and cole slander) and if you want more of it feel free to let me know!
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thedensworld · 1 month ago
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Complexity of Us | J.Ww
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Genre: Street Racer au, Friends to Lovers, angst (18+ only!)
Summary: Being a friend to Wonwoo is hard. After Wonwoo saw you coming to race with another guy, it added to the complexity.
All your friends knew Wonwoo. In fact, almost all of your friends were also his. That’s just how close the two of you were. At first, they might ask a few questions,
“Are you two dating?”
“You’re only friends?”
“You lived together?”
“How could you never like each other?”
But then they would realize that Wonwoo was like a brother to you, and you, a sister to him. That was your relationship—a family.
You were five years old when your mother brought Wonwoo home for the first time. He stood silently in the doorway, his wide eyes roaming over your home as he clutched the small bag in his hands. You didn’t ask any questions, though you were curious. Your mother seemed busy preparing a meal for him, so you just stayed quiet, glancing at him now and then as you chewed your food.
"Eat, Wonwoo," your mother said gently, setting a bowl of rice and soup in front of the little boy. You watched as he looked from the food to your mother, then let out a tired sigh. It was the kind of sigh you made when you didn’t get your way—like when your mom refused to buy you the candy you wanted.
"Did my mother abandon me?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
At the time, you didn’t understand, but later, you learned the truth. Wonwoo wasn’t just some random boy your mother decided to help—he was the son of her best friend, a woman who had tried to take her own life after her husband remarried, leaving Wonwoo alone. Your mother took him in without hesitation, offering him the care and love he needed. From that day forward, he became a part of your family, though you never needed to question it. He was simply always there, like the brother you never had.
Now, watching him race, with every twist and turn of his bike seeming like it might be his last, you felt a knot tighten in your stomach. You couldn’t help but feel both pride and worry. For the first time, you truly understood why your mother used to nag him about his racing.
"He’s an adult, Mom. Stop worrying so much," you’d say, trying to ease her concerns every time she brought up his dangerous hobby.
"It’s reckless! I don’t want anything to happen to my son," she would reply, her tone sharp with anxiety. "If he needs money, he could just ask me or his father."
You’d always dismiss her concerns, but deep down, you knew your mom’s worries weren’t unfounded. Wonwoo’s relationship with his father had always been strained, at best. His father, a cold, distant man, had barely acknowledged Wonwoo’s existence after his mother’s death. With his father remarried and distant, Wonwoo had only his older half-brother, Jisoo, who helped him get his first bike and gave him the encouragement their father never would. Racing had become Wonwoo’s escape—a way to make money and prove himself on his own terms, far from the shadow of the man who refused to claim him as his own.
"I heard from Seungcheol that you’re here. What are you doing?"
Wonwoo’s voice cut through the noise of the dispersing crowd as he approached you, helmet in hand. His hair was damp with sweat from the race, and his eyes held a mix of confusion and irritation. He never expected to see you at one of his races. You never cared about his racing—so why now?
"She’s with me."
Lee Jiseok, another racer, appeared out of nowhere, draping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer to him. It was an unmistakable statement, a silent challenge to Wonwoo. His smirk was as irritating as the gleam in his eye, like he was enjoying this little game.
Wonwoo scoffed, barely able to hide his disdain. He knew Jiseok’s type—a classic playboy who treated girls like trophies. And he knew you better than anyone. You wouldn’t settle for someone like Jiseok, not with your values, your standards.
Yet, you said nothing.
Your silence hit him harder than he expected, as if it confirmed Jiseok’s words. You really came with him?
Wonwoo clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep his composure. You’re my best friend, he thought bitterly. I’ve invited you to my races so many times, but you never came. And now you’re here—with him?
The next morning, Wonwoo stood outside the front door—his next door. He knocked twice before your mother opened the door, already dressed for work. She greeted him warmly, as always, her smile a comfort that momentarily softened his mood.
"I’m sorry I had to call you so early," she said apologetically, slipping on her shoes. "She has class at eight, but if I leave now, I’m sure she’ll skip it. Please wake her up for me, Wonwoo?"
Wonwoo nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Sure, Mom. Don’t worry—I’ll flip her room upside down if she oversleeps."
When the clock struck the time you were supposed to wake, Wonwoo rose from the couch with a determined sigh and headed to your room. There was no need to knock—he knew you well enough to predict you’d still be buried under your blanket, arm flung over your head in your usual deep slumber.
But when he opened the door, his eyes widened in shock.
"Shit! What are you doing?!"
You stood there, fresh out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but your underwear. Your hair was still damp, and you were fumbling with a towel. Wonwoo froze, completely caught off guard, his brain short-circuiting for a few milliseconds before he slammed the door shut.
What the hell? He just saw you almost naked!
His mind flashed back to the last time he saw you with so little on. Right—when you were both six, taking a bath together at your mom’s insistence because “it saved water.” But that memory was far from comforting now.
Clearing his throat, he spoke through the door, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. "Breakfast is ready. Hurry up!"
The table was quieter than usual as you sat across from each other, eating in awkward silence. You didn’t seem fazed by the earlier incident, casually scrolling through your phone between bites, but Wonwoo couldn’t relax. His mind replayed the scene from your room like a broken record.
"Accompany me to get a new broadcasting supply," you said out of the blue, eyes still glued to your phone.
Wonwoo frowned, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "Don’t you have a boyfriend for that?"
You looked up, startled by his tone. His words were sharp, laced with pettiness. He still couldn’t let go of last night—the sight of you at the race, with Jiseok.
You sighed, already tired of explaining. "He’s just a friend. It was an impromptu invitation. What was I supposed to do? Say no?"
Wonwoo scoffed, crossing his arms. "You said no to me plenty of times. I guess I’m just your personal driver, huh? Always at your service when it’s convenient for you. Have I ever missed your events?"
You groaned, setting your phone down as frustration flared between the two of you. At moments like this, it felt like neither of you had matured past five years old.
"You have!" you shot back. "You missed my interview with Woo Do Hwan, remember?"
Wonwoo groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "I told you I was stuck at the supermarket with Mom! She made me wait an hour just to get free soy sauce!"
Slamming your hand on the table, you leaned forward, glaring. "Exactly! So don’t act like you have the right to be mad at me just because I went to the race last night!"
The tension fizzled as quickly as it had flared, both of you slumping back in your seats. That was just how you and Wonwoo were—bickering like siblings one moment, laughing at your ridiculousness the next.
Moments like this were why you didn’t understand why so many people mistook the two of you for a couple. How could they? This was far from romance—it was chaos.
*
Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, phone buzzing on the desk beside him. He glanced at the screen—another message from Hansol.
"Bro, I think I gave you the wrong flash drive," Hansol had texted, followed by a facepalm emoji.
Wonwoo frowned, grabbing the drive from his desk and plugging it in. Moments later, he sent Hansol a picture of the folders inside.
"Yeah, that’s mine," Hansol confirmed. "But, uh, I think I handed you the one with… semi-movies."
Wonwoo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Hansol was one of his newer college friends, part of the crowd he’d reluctantly fallen in with after starting school late. Unlike Wonwoo, who entered college later, most of his classmates were still wide-eyed and full of energy—whether it was for studying, partying, or chasing girls. Wonwoo had been there before, though, so he understood their eagerness to experience everything.
Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, the room dim except for the soft glow of his computer monitor. "It happens," Wonwoo muttered to himself, shaking his head.
Hansol sent another text: "Mingyu says number 12 is the best. Just saying."
Wonwoo rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress his curiosity. He sighed, grabbed his headphones, and positioned himself comfortably in his chair. He clicked on the folder labeled “12,” his finger hesitating for a moment before opening it.
The video started, and Wonwoo settled in, one part reluctant and another part intrigued. Hansol and Mingyu had hyped it up, after all.
But just as things were getting, well, intense, a notification popped up in the corner of his screen.
He groaned, annoyed by the interruption, until he saw it was a text from you.
"Where are you?!" the message read, followed quickly by another: "You said you were coming with me!"
Wonwoo’s eyes widened in realization.
Days before, you’d asked him to help you pick out new broadcasting supplies, and like the idiot he sometimes was, he’d completely forgotten. Now you were probably standing somewhere, annoyed, waiting for him.
Why would Wonwoo care about anything else when he had his cock in his hand?
His other hand hovered near his mouse, desperately trying to click away the endless notifications cluttering his screen. Yet the scene unfolding before him commanded every ounce of his focus. The moans echoing in his ears and the rhythmic slap of flesh through his headphones sent jolts of heat coursing through his body. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen, couldn’t slow the frantic pace of his hand as he worked himself closer to release.
The tension tightened in his stomach, pleasure building with every stroke. His grip grew firmer, movements more urgent, as he chased that blinding high. His jaw clenched; his breath hitched. It was so close. So, so close—
Another notification popped up, your name and profile picture covering the screen. Goddammit. Wonwoo groaned in frustration, his free hand fumbling to get it away, but in his haste, he tapped your profile picture instead.
Your face expanded across the screen, your bright smile abruptly replacing the explicit video. The sudden shift broke his focus, and his cock twitched impatiently in his grip. He growled under his breath, fumbling to switch back to the other tab.
But just as he was about to, a noise froze him in place. A sharp intake of breath.
Wonwoo’s head snapped up, his stomach plummeting like a stone.
There you were, standing in his doorway, eyes wide as saucers, mouth slightly agape. And you weren’t just looking at him masturbating—you were looking at him masturbating with your profile picture plastered across the screen.
His heart stopped.
For a moment, the world seemed to fall silent. No moans. No rhythmic slap. Just his ragged breathing and the deafening beat of shame pounding in his ears.
“Oh… fuck,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. He scrambled to cover himself, his hands awkwardly darting between the computer and his lap as if any amount of damage control could salvage the situation.
But it was too late.
The damage was done.
And God had officially crowned him the biggest loser in the universe.
*
You sat in front of your computer, staring at the words you typed into the search engine box.
"Why would a friend masturbate with our picture?"
Your fingers hovered above the keyboard, unsure whether you were about to dive into an existential crisis or just make a bad decision in the name of curiosity. You glanced around the room as if someone might pop up and say, “Don’t do it, this is a terrible idea,” but no one did. It was just you, your increasingly weird search history, and the growing suspicion that you might be losing your mind.
You clicked on the first link. A vague, clickbaity headline stared back at you: “The Psychology Behind Bizarre Friend Behavior: Why Did They Do That?”
Oh, great. You were now entering the realm of psychology and potentially ruining your future Google search recommendations for life.
You closed the tab and slumped back in your chair, rubbing your temples.
Your phone buzzed, breaking the awkward silence. You glanced at it, half-expecting it to be some random spam message or a notification you could ignore. But no, it was from Lee Jiseok.
You hesitated before opening it. The message read: “Hey, you look pretty in your new profile picture.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Pretty?” you muttered under your breath. Seriously? You sighed. Yeah, right. You needed to delete that profile picture, now. That image had clearly caused more trouble than it was worth.
Trying to move past it, you quickly typed a reply: “Jiseok, want to help me grab some broadcasting supplies?” Hopefully, that would steer the conversation away from your now-infamous photo.
And here you were now, roaming around the store, hunting for a new microphone.
“Do you find it?” Jiseok asked, looking at you expectantly. You shook your head and sighed. “They don’t have it until next week. We have a podcast this Thursday, though.” You added, your voice tinged with frustration.
Jiseok nodded, an idea forming. “Let’s try another store. We’ll find it.” He was always the optimist.
The two of you stepped out of the store, but as you walked, a familiar figure almost collided with you. You looked up—of course, it was Mingyu, the engineering student you were doing the podcast with, and, to your absolute delight, Wonwoo.
Your eyes widened, and a chill ran down your spine when you locked eyes with him. Two days after that... incident, you couldn’t look at him the same way again. He masturbated to your picture, for god's sake! And now it felt like the words were written on his forehead—only you could see them, though.
“Y/N, how are you? Nice to see you here!” Mingyu’s friendly voice pulled you back into the moment. You forced a smile, saying the usual pleasantries, before introducing Jiseok.
“Wonwoo’s a racer too. You know him?” Mingyu pointed to Wonwoo, who, to your amusement, now seemed to be avoiding eye contact with everyone.
You internally scoffed. He acted like he didn’t like the attention, but deep down, you knew he secretly loved it when people talked about him. What an idiot.
Jiseok, ever the social butterfly, grinned. “Sure. Who doesn’t know him? He’s the best.”
Mingyu turned his gaze to you, a puzzled look on his face. “Then why did you want to do the podcast with me, rather than Wonwoo? He’s got more achievements.” He said it so casually, completely oblivious to the tension hanging in the air.
Oh, Mingyu, you thought, rolling your eyes inside your head. Now you understood why Wonwoo always complained about Mingyu’s lack of awareness when it came to reading a room.
You forced a smile. “We’ll have the podcast later, but right now, we have to go. We’re in a hurry. Bye, Mingyu!” You grabbed Jiseok’s hand and pulled him in the opposite direction, away from Mingyu and Wonwoo’s destination.
“Why did she only say bye to me? Do you guys fight or something?” Mingyu called out, turning his head as he asked Wonwoo, confusion written all over his face.
Wonwoo sighed deeply, shaking his head. He looked at Mingyu for a long moment, then made his way into the store by himself. “You really don’t know how to read a room, Mingyu.”
Mingyu blinked, still not quite understanding, and then shrugged. “Well, whatever.”
*
Wonwoo heard a knock at his door while he was unpacking the late-night snack he’d ordered to accompany the game he was streaming. He immediately ran to the door, expecting it to be your mother, perhaps returning something she’d forgotten or maybe just dropping by to see him. But when he opened the door, there you were.
"What's wrong?" Wonwoo asked, his voice sounding oddly stiff. It had been a week since you last spoke, and though you’d fought plenty before, never had there been such a long stretch of silence. And definitely never because he had—well, you knew what had happened.
"The electricity went out next door," you said, your voice a little shaky as you stepped inside. "I called the owner, but they said they won't fix it until tomorrow morning. I’m... I’m kind of scared."
Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. Your mother had gone to Busan for a trip with friends, leaving you alone for the night. She had asked Wonwoo to look out for you while she was gone and had even handed him a bottle of whiskey her colleague had given her. Wonwoo had shrugged it off at the time—it was just another night—but now here you were, knocking at his door for the first time in ages, even though you knew the passcode. Something had clearly changed after what happened last week.
"Oh my god!" you gasped suddenly, snapping Wonwoo out of his thoughts. He assumed it was because of the food, but then he turned and saw what you were holding—the whiskey.
"Mom gave this to you? I've been wanting to drink it, but she gave it to you? So unfair!" you exclaimed, looking at the bottle as if it were a treasure you had just discovered.
Wonwoo smirked. "Now you know who the favorite is."
You immediately pouted, ignoring the playful tone in his voice. "Let's drink it!" you insisted, eyes sparkling with excitement as you held the bottle up like it was the holy grail.
"No," Wonwoo replied, shaking his head and taking the bottle from your hands. "She just gave it to me. Plus, you haven’t had dinner yet. You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach."
You stared at him with big, watery puppy eyes, your lower lip sticking out in a dramatic pout. You were sending a signal that clearly said, “Please?”
Wonwoo sighed in defeat, his resolve weakening. He looked at the food he’d ordered and then back at you, who was now practically bouncing on your toes in excitement.
"Alright," he relented, “Eat first.”
You let out a delighted squeal and grabbed the plate, skipping over to the coffee table in front of the TV, already too excited to even think about the conversation that had just unfolded.
Wonwoo watched you go, shaking his head with a bemused smile. It wasn’t often he had to deal with this kind of energy from you, and the contrast to last week’s... incident was striking. But still, it was good to have you here again—even if things were a little weird—and he wasn’t about to let you get away with skipping dinner.
He was already mentally preparing himself for whatever chaos might come next.
23:00.
00:00.
01:00.
You poured another glass of whiskey, the bottle now more than halfway empty. Beside it sat a bottle of Soju and a few cans of beer—clear evidence of the drinking escapade you and Wonwoo had been on.
Wonwoo slapped your hand lightly, his fingers brushing against yours as you reached for the whiskey bottle again. You winced, offended, before giving him a pointed look and downing the shot in one go.
"Who drinks whiskey in one shot, idiot?" Wonwoo scoffed, his words slightly slurred.
The two of you were definitely drunk, but if the scale of your inebriation had a measure, yours was definitely tipping the higher end. Wonwoo, ever the stoic, had become quieter as the alcohol hit him. On the other hand, you turned into a full-on talkative monster—something Wonwoo had often referenced before, claiming alcohol was your “serum truth.” You never could hold back when tipsy.
"Now, tell me," Wonwoo began, eyes narrowing, "Are you dating Lee Jiseok?"
You didn’t answer, not even giving him a glance. You just kept swirling the last of your whiskey, pretending to focus on the glass in your hand.
Wonwoo chuckled lightly. "Who could guess you'd date a playboy like him?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
You kicked his arm, hard enough to make him flinch. "You're not in the place to call anyone a playboy, Playboy!"
Wonwoo frowned, giving you an incredulous look. "I'm not a playboy," he retorted, his words slow and careful, "Haven’t dated in a while. And I’m loyal too."
You gestured with your hands, mocking his serious tone. "Blah blah blah, whatever, Mr. Jeon Playboy," you teased, clearly having fun with this back-and-forth. "I saw you with that pretty junior, walking to the café next to my campus."
Wonwoo’s expression hardened. "It was for a project," he said quickly, his tone defensive, "She's too young for me, not even twenty."
You suppressed a laugh, trying to hold back the drunken grin that was threatening to spill out. "Shut up, Wonwoo. I know you dated a high schooler before. Did you teach her how to kiss?"
Wonwoo’s eyes widened in shock, and he gasped, flustered. "When was I? You think I’m a criminal? You think that low of me?"
Did you mention that Wonwoo also got angry a lot when he was drunk? His tone had shifted from playful to defensive, the edge in his voice sharper than usual.
You smirked, your mind racing with more teasing remarks. "Lost your virginity at 18?"
"Who told you?!" Wonwoo shot back, his face flushing with a mix of indignation and embarrassment.
You couldn't resist. "Your first kiss was with the aunty neighbor, from ten years ago!"
"Y/n, you better shut your mouth!" Wonwoo growled, eyes narrowing, clearly irritated now.
But you weren't done. "You masturbated over my picture."
The room went completely silent, like a cold wave crashing over both of you. For a moment, everything stopped. The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. You felt your heart skip a beat, realizing, in horror, what you had just blurted out.
The weight of your words hit you like a punch to the gut. It felt as though time froze for a brief second, the drunken haze clearing just enough for you to realize the enormity of what you had just said.
Wonwoo’s face went pale, his expression unreadable. The playful banter had evaporated, replaced by an uncomfortable, pregnant silence.
And then, the awkward tension settled in, wrapping around both of you like a heavy, unspoken confession.
"It was a misunderstanding!" Wonwoo blurted out, his voice rising defensively. "You think I’d ever make you an object? That’s completely the opposite!"
You stood abruptly, the alcohol fueling your indignation. "Yeah? What do you mean by that? Are you saying I’m not good enough? For your information, I do have decent boobs!"
Before he could respond, you grabbed your chest dramatically, emphasizing your point.
Wonwoo's mouth opened, then closed. He blinked at you in disbelief. "Not big enough for me," he mumbled under his breath, as though he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
Your jaw dropped, and you hissed at him, “Oh, really?” fueled by liquid courage and your mounting irritation. Without thinking, you plopped down onto his lap, challenging him with your eyes. "Let’s see if that’s true.”
You grabbed the hem of your T-shirt and, in one swift motion, pulled it over your head.
There you were, sitting on Wonwoo’s lap, your black lace bra on full display. He froze, his brain short-circuiting as his eyes instinctively dropped.
Sure, he’d accidentally caught a glimpse of you changing once before—an awkward, fleeting moment that had plagued his thoughts for weeks. But this? This was something else entirely.
"Eyes up here, Jeon Wonwoo," you snapped, reaching out to tilt his chin up so his gaze locked onto yours.
His breath hitched as he met your intense stare.
"Are you good at kissing, Wonwoo?" you asked, your voice lower now, almost a whisper.
"Why?" he managed, his voice cracking slightly.
You shrugged, leaning in just enough to close some of the space between you. "I don’t know. I’ve never kissed anyone before. I’m curious... Can you kiss me?"
Wonwoo’s eyebrows shot up, the shock breaking through his haze. "Are you serious?"
You nodded, your determination unwavering.
And just like that, his lips met yours.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid you’d change your mind. But as you leaned in closer, your fingers brushing against his jaw, he deepened it, his confidence growing with each passing second.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Wonwoo told him to stop—he was sober since an hour ago when you sang that trot song. But right now, with you in his lap, your lips on his, and your scent flooding his senses, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
*
The kiss, once soft and tentative, quickly turned into something deeper, more passionate. Wonwoo’s hands slid beneath you, lifting you effortlessly as he laid you down on the couch. He was painfully aware that you were half-naked beneath him, but he held himself back, his hands hovering, unsure where to land.
Your eyes fluttered open, locking onto his. "Why aren’t you touching me? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do during a kiss?"
Wonwoo froze, his breath hitching. "You... want me to touch you?"
You tilted your head slightly, your tone teasing but curious. "I don’t know. I told you—I’ve never kissed anyone before."
His lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, a mix of amusement and disbelief flickering across his face. "Right... You did say that."
Without another word, Wonwoo leaned back in, his lips crashing against yours with newfound determination. This time, his hands began to move, sliding across your body as though committing every curve to memory. His touch was hesitant at first, then more assured, igniting every nerve he brushed against.
"Is this what you call making out?" you asked, your voice breathless as his lips trailed down your jaw to your neck.
Wonwoo hummed in response, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. He licked a slow, deliberate line along it before gently biting down, just enough to leave a faint mark.
Your body jolted slightly at the sensation, and you exhaled shakily, your voice wry as you added, "Isn’t making out supposed to lead to... you know, sex? Are we going there?"
Wonwoo froze mid-movement, pulling back to look at you. His dark eyes searched yours, conflicted yet filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. "Wait. You’ve never had sex before?"
You scoffed, the tiniest smirk tugging at your lips. "I’ve never even kissed anyone before tonight. What do you think?"
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. "You’re serious?"
"I’m inexperienced," you admitted bluntly, meeting his gaze head-on. Then, with the same boldness that had started this whole mess, you tilted your head, challenging him. "Why? Does it matter?"
His face softened, but hesitation lingered in his voice. "It doesn’t matter," he said finally, low and steady. "I just don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for."
He laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair as he looked down at you, his cheeks slightly flushed.
Then you whispered the words that made his breath catch: "Teach me."
Wonwoo froze for a moment, his mind racing, but the determination in your gaze erased his doubt. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned back in, his lips brushing yours. This time, his touch was more confident, more intentional.
"I’ll go slow," he murmured against your lips.
And you, already captivated, whispered back, "I trust you."
Wonwoo’s lips moved with an intoxicating rhythm, each kiss deepening the connection between you. His hands roamed freely now, exploring the curves of your body with an addicting reverence. You gasped softly as his fingers danced over your skin, igniting a fire within you that demanded more.
"Wonwoo," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation, "don’t stop."
His response was a low hum against your lips, his hands now tracing the delicate straps of your bra. He slipped them down your shoulders, his lips never breaking contact with your skin as they trailed along your collarbone.
The tension in the room was palpable, every touch and kiss feeding into the desire building between you. You tugged at his shirt, frustrated by the fabric that separated you. He obliged, pulling it over his head and revealing his toned chest. Your hands instinctively moved to explore him, marveling at the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers.
His lips found yours again, hungrier this time. His hands slid to your hips, and he pressed his body against yours, every inch of him screaming with want. The air around you was charged, and it felt like nothing could stop the moment from escalating further.
But then Wonwoo froze.
You blinked up at him, confused by the sudden halt. "What’s wrong?" you asked, your voice breathless.
Wonwoo sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair as he sat back slightly. "I… don’t have a condom," he admitted, his voice laced with frustration.
Your cheeks flushed as his words sank in, the realization hitting you like a tidal wave. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The charged tension hung in the air, thick and undeniable, but now it was accompanied by an awkward hesitance that neither of you knew how to navigate.
"Well…" you finally broke the silence, your voice softer than you intended. "Maybe we should stop here. I don’t want to… you know… end up pregnant."
Your words hung in the air, blunt yet honest, making you cringe inwardly. Wonwoo’s lips quirked into a small, sheepish smile as he leaned back slightly, giving you space.
"Fair point," he replied, his voice tinged with amusement but also relief. "Guess we got a little carried away."
You nodded, smoothing down your hair and trying to regain some semblance of composure. "A little?" you teased, trying to ease the lingering tension.
Wonwoo chuckled, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, maybe more than a little," he admitted.
Silence settled between you again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. It was filled with an unspoken understanding, a mutual acknowledgment that what just happened meant something—something worth protecting.
He shifted, reaching for his discarded shirt and slipping it back on. "You know," he began, glancing at you, "I’m not just here for… that. You can trust me."
You looked at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. A small smile crept onto your lips. "I know, Wonwoo," you said softly. "And I trust you."
The tension melted away as the conversation turned lighthearted again. You grabbed a throw blanket from the couch and wrapped it around yourself, feeling the heat in your cheeks finally subsiding.
"Guess that’s enough excitement for one night," you joked, earning a laugh from Wonwoo.
"Yeah," he agreed, standing up and stretching. "Next time, we’ll be more prepared. Or… not let it get that far."
Wonwoo turned his head to you and found you fell asleep.
*
After that night, you and Wonwoo returned to your usual dynamic as if nothing had happened. Conversations flowed naturally, and you still found yourself knocking on his door whenever you had a fight with your mother. The kiss and everything that followed seemed to have been swept under the rug, left unspoken and untouched. Perhaps it was better that way—a mutual, unspoken agreement to let it stay buried.
One afternoon, Wonwoo received a call from his half-brother, Jisoo, inviting him to lunch. Despite sharing the same father, Jisoo was the only person from that side of the family Wonwoo didn’t dislike. Their relationship had started in his high school years when Jisoo visited him for the first time. Reflecting on it now, Wonwoo thought it was better that they met when he was mature enough to understand Jisoo’s intentions were genuine. He wasn’t there to mock or judge but to offer familial support.
The two met at a renowned high-class restaurant, a place Jisoo often frequented. As Wonwoo took a seat across from his older brother, he observed how composed Jisoo was—every bit the polished executive who worked as a director in their father’s automotive company.
Despite his disdain for anything related to their father, Wonwoo had to admit the bikes the company produced were unrivaled. He even used them for racing, albeit grudgingly.
"How's Y/N and her mother?" Jisoo asked, his tone genuinely curious. He knew how much your mother had done for Wonwoo, essentially raising him as one of her own.
"They're great," Wonwoo replied, leaning back in his chair. "Mom’s still working, though. She doesn’t want to stop."
Jisoo frowned slightly, setting down his glass of water. "I send them an allowance every month. Why is she still working?"
Wonwoo shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I give her money every month too, but I don’t think she ever uses it. She says she prefers to stay busy."
Jisoo smiled knowingly, shaking his head. "She’s a remarkable woman. Your mom must be incredibly grateful to her for raising you so well."
Wonwoo’s gaze softened, a rare warmth in his usually stoic expression. "She is," he said simply.
Their food arrived, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics as they ate. They caught up on life updates, with Jisoo regaling Wonwoo with stories of his complicated love life, which seemed to amuse the younger man.
But as the meal neared its end, Jisoo’s tone grew more serious. "By the way, as I mentioned earlier, Father wants to talk to you."
Wonwoo paused mid-sip of his drink, his brow furrowing. "What’s that about?"
Jisoo tilted his head, clearly unsure. "I’m not entirely certain. But I think he wants you to join the family company."
Wonwoo let out a dry laugh, leaning back in his chair. "It’s funny that he suddenly considers me family."
Jisoo didn’t respond immediately, his expression neutral but thoughtful. "He knows you’re passionate about automotive engineering," he finally said. "And he knows you studied it for a reason."
Wonwoo’s smile faded as he stared at his brother, trying to decipher the real meaning behind their father’s intentions. "It’s not about passion, hyung. It’s about control. That’s all it’s ever been with him."
Jisoo sighed but didn’t push further. He knew better than to try to bridge the gap between Wonwoo and their father. Instead, he finished his drink, offering his brother a small, reassuring smile. "Whatever you decide, just remember—you’re not alone in this."
Wonwoo nodded, appreciating the sentiment even if he didn’t fully believe it. As they parted ways, his mind lingered on the conversation, the idea of stepping into his father’s world stirring a mix of emotions he wasn’t ready to comfort.
"You're daydreaming, man," Mingyu teased, nudging Wonwoo with his elbow. His words snapped Wonwoo out of his thoughts, dragging him back to the present moment in the workshop.
Hansol returned from the restroom, joining the duo as they worked on the hybrid and electric vehicle management system. Their lecturer had invited a professional from the field to guide the session, someone who, to Wonwoo’s dismay, worked for N-Jeen, a subsidiary of his father’s company, Jeon Dynamics Automotive (JDA).
"If any of you are interested in joining us through an internship, please let us know," the professional announced. "We’re currently running a program tailored to your major."
As the workshop concluded and the trio transitioned into their cleaning shift, Mingyu brought up the internship opportunity. "So, what do you guys think?" he asked, his mop sliding across the floor with ease.
Hansol paused, leaning on his mop handle. "I think it’s a great opportunity, but it’s not for everyone," he said thoughtfully. His tone hinted at his own limitations, given his part-time job at his parents’ café.
Mingyu nodded, understanding. "Yeah, makes sense," he said before turning to Wonwoo. "How about you?"
Wonwoo’s response was blunt, his tone laced with disdain. "I hate JDA."
Mingyu froze, taken aback. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Chill, dude! It’s just N-Jeen. I know you hate JDA—you’ve mentioned it a thousand times. But you still race with their bikes!" he exclaimed, his voice rising in mock disbelief as he gestured dramatically.
Wonwoo chuckled, walking to the other side of the room to tidy up the supplies. "I race with them because I know what their products lack," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I won’t waste my time learning from a company that's lacking."
Mingyu groaned, dramatically throwing his head back. "So, I’m the only one signing up for this internship? Just me? As always! No one cares about poor Mingyu," he whined, flopping onto a nearby stool with exaggerated defeat.
Hansol smiled, shaking his head as he resumed mopping. "You’ll survive, drama king. Think of it as your time to shine."
Mingyu pouted for a moment before perking up. "You’re right! I’ll be the star intern they can’t live without!" He grinned, clearly imagining a heroic montage in his head.
Wonwoo smirked as he glanced at his friends. "Have fun with that, Mingyu. Let us know if you discover anything groundbreaking."
*
You decided to put everything in the fridge as it became clear Wonwoo wasn’t coming home tonight. You had tried calling and texting him. You even reached out to his college and racing friends, including Seungcheol, but none of them knew his whereabouts.
Settling into the quiet of his house, you decided to make the most of it by binging entertainment shows on his Netflix account. Hours passed, and just as you started to feel drowsy, the sound of the door opening startled you. Wonwoo was finally home.
But something was different. He wasn’t wearing his usual racing suit. Instead, he was dressed in formal attire, his tie loosened, and his suit jacket slung over his arm. His expression was stormy, his brows furrowed, and he looked straight past you as he made his way to his closet.
You stayed silent, sensing his mood. After knowing him for almost 20 years, you had learned that asking him questions when he was upset would only make things worse. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a growing curiosity—and concern—about what had happened.
"Turn off the TV when you leave," Wonwoo said curtly, his voice clipped and final. Without another word, he stepped into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. Something had definitely happened.
You must’ve fallen asleep on the couch at some point, because the next thing you knew, sunlight streamed through the windows. Groggily, you checked the clock: 11 a.m. Thankfully, you didn’t have class today.
Where was Wonwoo? Was he still home? You stretched and got up, heading to the kitchen. The food you had prepared last night was untouched, exactly where you’d left it in the fridge. You sighed, noting the little sticky note you’d left him, reminding him to heat it up before eating.
Curious, you made your way to his bedroom and knocked softly on the door. A muffled hum confirmed he was awake. Turning the doorknob, you peeked inside and saw him lying in bed under the covers.
"You didn’t go to campus?" he asked, his voice groggy.
You shook your head as you walked in, heading straight for his bed. "Nope. Scoot over—my back’s killing me from sleeping on the couch."
Wonwoo immediately shifted, making space for you without a word. You climbed into the bed, settling beside him. For a while, the two of you lay in silence, the room filled only with the soft sounds of breathing.
Then, out of nowhere, Wonwoo dropped a bomb. "I met my father last night," he said calmly.
The words jolted you awake. You sat up, staring at him in disbelief. His eyes remained closed, his tone too nonchalant for the weight of what he’d just revealed.
"You what? Why didn’t you tell me?" you asked, your voice tinged with both surprise and frustration.
Wonwoo shrugged lazily, turning his back to you. "Too lazy," he muttered.
You smacked his arm, earning a groan of protest. "You should’ve brought me along! I definitely would’ve punched him in the face."
That made him chuckle, a rare sound given his current mood. "That would’ve been funny," he admitted.
You pouted, watching him. His brief moment of amusement faded quickly, and the weight of whatever had happened during that meeting returned. Now it all made sense—why he’d been so distant and angry last night.
"Wonwoo," you said softly, the concern evident in your voice.
He didn’t respond, but the way his shoulders tensed told you he was listening. Something about the meeting had clearly upset him, and though you knew better than to push, you couldn’t help but worry.
"If you ever feel like talking about it, I’m here," you offered, your tone gentle.
For now, you’d let him take his time, but deep down, you resolved to stick around—because no matter how much he tried to hide it, Wonwoo wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be.
Jiseok had asked you to accompany him to the races tonight. It was only your second time attending one, and you still had no idea what to do while he raced. That was one of the reasons you always turned Wonwoo down whenever he invited you. Watching the chaotic speed and adrenaline-fueled madness wasn’t your thing—you could barely stand to be there.
Yet here you were, holding tightly to Jiseok as he rode his bike to the arena. The roar of engines filled the air, and the energy was electric as racers stood by their bikes, preparing for the event. Your gaze scanned the crowd, and a familiar face caught your eye.
Seungcheol, one of Wonwoo’s closest friends, waved at you enthusiastically. But his expression quickly shifted to one of surprise when he saw who you were with—Lee Jiseok. You didn’t know much about Jiseok beyond the fact that he’d been trying to get closer to you these past few weeks.
Before you could dwell on Seungcheol’s reaction, you felt a tug on your arm. Looking up, you met Jiseok’s intense gaze.
“I’m racing tonight,” he said, his voice low but confident. “Let’s bet on something.”
You tilted your head, curious. “Alright… What’s the bet?” You’d heard that races often came with bets, though you’d never been involved in one yourself.
Jiseok smirked, his confidence practically radiating off him. “If I win, be my girlfriend.”
It took you a moment to process his words. He wanted to date you? A flush crept up your cheeks, and you found yourself studying his face. He seemed dead serious.
“And if you lose?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.
He shrugged nonchalantly, throwing his hands in the air. “That’s up to you. But I hope we can still be friends.”
You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Did you even like him? He was charming, sure, but your feelings were still unclear.
After a brief pause, you nodded, deciding to go along with it for now. “Alright. Deal.” You shook his hand, sealing the bet.
As you continued walking, the excitement in the air grew palpable. Your thoughts, however, were distracted when you spotted another familiar figure—Wonwoo. He was leaning against his bike, looking as calm and collected as ever.
Your lips curled into a small smile at the sight of him. Despite the chaos around him, Wonwoo always had this steady presence that put you at ease.
By the end of tonight, it wasn’t just about the race anymore. Whether Jiseok won or lost, you found yourself wondering whose victory you’d truly be rooting for—Jiseok, the confident charmer, or Wonwoo, the friend who had always been there.
*
Wonwoo was adjusting his helmet when the murmured conversation of two nearby racers caught his attention. He wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but the mention of your name made his ears perk up.
“So Jiseok won? That’s why she’s with him?” one of them said, loud enough for Wonwoo to catch.
The other racer chuckled in agreement. “I guess so. They were talking about her—the prettiest broadcast student. I can’t believe she fell for him.”
“I know, right? She doesn’t even look like the type. I bet she’s a wild one then.”
The first racer snickered. “She slept with him. Of course. That’s why he’s so smug.”
Wonwoo froze, his jaw tightening as their words settled in his mind. Without hesitation, he turned to face them, his piercing glare cutting through their laughter.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice low but menacing.
The two racers immediately looked intimidated, their smug expressions faltering under his stare. One of them stammered, “I-I’m just saying… I heard from Jiseok’s crew. They’ve been betting on her.”
“Betting on her?” Wonwoo’s tone turned ice-cold.
The second racer swallowed hard. “Yeah, uh… whoever sleeps with her first gets the newest JDA bike. It’s just… a stupid bet, man. Jiseok’s been bragging that he’s already won.”
Wonwoo’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white as he suppressed the urge to lash out. His mind raced, but one thing was clear—he wasn’t going to let this slide.
Without another word, he stormed off to where Seungcheol was sitting, scrolling through the lineup for tonight’s races on his phone.
“Who’s in the lineup today?” Wonwoo asked, his voice sharp.
Seungcheol glanced up, sensing his friend’s tension. “A lot, man. You’re always the last one, though. Why? Thinking of changing it up?”
Wonwoo patted Seungcheol’s shoulder, his expression unreadable. “Tell a guy named Lee Jiseok I want to race him tonight.”
Seungcheol’s eyebrows shot up. “Jiseok? What’s this about?”
Wonwoo didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the arena ahead. “Just make it happen.”
Seungcheol shrugged, sensing that this wasn’t the time to ask questions. “Alright. I’ll let him know.”
As Seungcheol walked off to relay the message, Wonwoo took a deep breath, his mind replaying the racers’ disgusting words. This wasn’t about the race anymore. It was about protecting you—from Jiseok, and his crew’s vile games.
The engines roared, and the air was electric with tension as racers lined up at the starting line. Wonwoo tightened his grip on the handlebars, his eyes fixed straight ahead, but his mind was anything but focused. The words he overheard earlier echoed relentlessly in his head.
Jiseok's been bragging that he’s already won.
Wonwoo’s jaw clenched as he thought of you.
So you kissed me while you were dating someone else?
The memory of your lips on his played like a cruel taunt. He had thought that kiss meant something—that it was real. But had you been with Jiseok all along? The idea of you lying about being inexperienced, only to give yourself to someone like Jiseok, made his stomach churn.
You were always so shy... was it all an act?
The flag waved, signaling the start, and the racers took off. Wonwoo accelerated, but his focus wavered. Every turn, every gear shift felt slower, heavier.
“Get it together,” he muttered under his breath, trying to shake off the whirlwind of emotions.
But it didn’t help. With every lap, his thoughts consumed him.
Jiseok is a player, a nasty piece of work who uses girls and brags about it. Why would you be with someone like him?
He remembered asking you outright if you were dating Jiseok. You had avoided the question, brushing it off with a nervous laugh. That laugh haunted him now.
Why am I doing this?
Lap after lap, the internal conflict raged. Wonwoo kept telling himself he was racing for your safety, to put Jiseok in his place. But the more he thought about it, the more the hope drained from him.
What’s the point of protecting someone who doesn’t want to be saved?
The finish line was in sight, and Wonwoo pushed the bike harder, trying to catch up, but his distracted mind had already cost him too much time. Jiseok crossed first, throwing his hands in the air in victory.
The crowd erupted, but Wonwoo barely registered it. He pulled off his helmet, his breathing labored—not from exertion, but from the weight in his chest.
And then he saw you.
Jiseok ran straight to you, grinning like a king. Before Wonwoo could process what was happening, Jiseok pulled you into a kiss, right there in front of everyone.
Wonwoo’s stomach dropped. The sight knocked the air out of his lungs.
So it’s true…
He watched as you smiled at Jiseok, your cheeks red, the kind of look he had only dreamed of seeing directed at him.
The crowd blurred, and the noise faded. Wonwoo turned away, swallowing the lump in his throat. He had lost—not just the race, but you.
And for the first time in years, he felt completely powerless.
*
Wonwoo leaned back in his seat on the flight from China to South Korea, staring out the window as the city lights below blurred into streaks of gold. He exhaled deeply, a weight he had carried for years pressing heavier as the plane descended. After nearly six years, he was finally going home.
His mind drifted back to the night it all changed—the night he confronted his father for the first time in years. It had been an uncomfortable meeting, one where his father barely looked at him, keeping his tone clipped and professional.
“You have two options,” his father had said, sitting across from him with a glass of whiskey in hand. “Study business overseas or join the internship at N-Jeen.”
Wonwoo’s stomach had churned. He didn’t want either option. All he wanted was to keep racing, the one thing that gave him freedom, an escape from the heavy shadow of his family name. But his father had made it clear that freedom wasn’t on the table.
“Choose between those two,” his father continued, his gaze piercing, “or stop racing altogether.”
It wasn’t a choice—it was an ultimatum. Wonwoo felt trapped, suffocated by the invisible leash his father had placed on him.
Wonwoo still remembered the moment he let his guard down and told Mingyu the truth about who he was. They had been in the middle of a grueling project late one night when Wonwoo casually mentioned, “My father owns JDA.”
Mingyu had frozen, tools in hand, his jaw dropping. “Wait. What?! You’re… you’re a conglomerate’s son?!”
It took him a while to process. Mingyu had always wondered why Wonwoo had such a strong disdain for JDA, but after hearing how distant and controlling Wonwoo’s father was, everything clicked.
“Man, your dad sounds awful,” Mingyu had said bluntly, his loyalty to his friend overriding any hesitation. Despite Mingyu eventually landing a marketing manager position at N-Jeen—a position Wonwoo applauded him for—his opinion of Wonwoo’s father never softened.
Wonwoo smiled faintly at the memory. Mingyu deserved every bit of success he’d earned. He had worked tirelessly, and when Wonwoo had given him a standing ovation at his promotion, it had been one of the few moments of genuine joy amidst the chaos of his life.
Meanwhile, Wonwoo had chosen a different path, one that took him far from South Korea and deeper into the family business he had always resented. Studying engineering overseas was his way of carving out a space in the empire without fully submitting to his father’s control. For the past three years, he had managed JDA’s branches in China, putting his skills to use while keeping a measured distance from his father’s world.
Now, as the plane touched down, Wonwoo couldn’t shake the mix of dread and anticipation swirling in his chest. South Korea wasn’t just home—it was where everything had started. It was where the scars of his childhood lingered and where unresolved pieces of his life waited.
As Wonwoo stepped into the arrivals hall, a man in a tailored suit approached him, offering a polite bow. "Mr. Jeon, the car is ready to take you home," the man said with practiced precision, gesturing toward a sleek black sedan parked outside.
Wonwoo paused, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag. Before he could respond, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a message from Mingyu:
"Hansol and I are on our way to pick you up. Don’t let your father’s people drag you off—we have better plans."
A small smile crept onto his face. Without hesitation, he turned to the driver. “I’ll pass. Tell my father I’ll find my own way.”
The man blinked, momentarily stunned, but nodded curtly. Wonwoo didn’t look back as he walked toward the pickup area, where Mingyu’s car soon pulled up.
The familiar beat-up car, with Hansol’s booming laugh spilling out before the door even opened, was a stark contrast to the polished image of his father’s world. Wonwoo slid into the back seat, greeted by Mingyu’s playful smirk and Hansol’s cheerful wave from the passenger seat.
“Look who’s back from the dead!” Hansol exclaimed, twisting around to face him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Wonwoo said with a chuckle. “Missed me that much, huh?”
“More like missed having someone else to make fun of,” Mingyu quipped as he pulled the car onto the main road.
They fell into their usual banter, the kind that felt effortless and warm. Mingyu and Hansol weren’t just friends—they were family, the kind he had found later in life. Wonwoo thought about how rare it was to meet people like them as an adult. Before Mingyu and Hansol, there had only been you.
How were you, by the way?
The thought hit him unexpectedly, his gaze drifting out the window. He had caught glimpses of you on TV over the years, presenting news on a Korean broadcasting channel with the same poise and determination he remembered. But beyond the polished facade, he had no idea how you were really doing.
He still regretted leaving without a word six years ago. Not explaining. Not saying goodbye. He wondered if you hated him for that.
His chest tightened as his thoughts turned to your mother. She had always treated him like her own, welcoming him into your home with warmth he rarely felt elsewhere. Mingyu had told him about the car accident that took her life. Wonwoo couldn’t imagine how devastating it must have been for you.
He was ashamed to admit that while everyone else had been there for you, he hadn’t been. He had been thousands of miles away, too wrapped up in his father’s plans and his own resentment to return when you needed him most.
“You okay back there?” Mingyu’s voice broke through his thoughts.
Wonwoo blinked, realizing he had been silent for too long. “Yeah, just... thinking.”
Mingyu glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his expression softening. “Well, stop overthinking. You’re home now. That’s what matters.”
Home.
The word felt heavy. Because for Wonwoo, home wasn’t just a place—it was the people he had left behind. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, part of him hoped that somehow, some way, he could find his way back to you.
*
You stood in front of Wonwoo, your best friend—or at least, he used to be—that you hadn’t seen in six years. His expression was calm, his handshake professional as though he were meeting a stranger. You mirrored his demeanor, shaking his hand briefly before stepping aside to let your team brief him on the details of the interview.
You knew you were going to interview him today. You’d read the script and his profile yesterday, preparing for this as if he were just another guest. As if you hadn’t spent over 20 years knowing him better than anyone else. But with each passing moment, anger churned inside you. What are you even doing here, Wonwoo?
Wonwoo had just returned from China, now representing N-Jeen, a subsidiary of JDA. Your role in the interview was clear: help him gain recognition among students for a new program designed for engineering majors.
“No personal questions,” the producer reminded you. “Everything should focus on his professional journey and the program.”
Wonwoo smiled softly, his demeanor composed as he took a seat beside you. You cleared your throat, trying to ignore how much he had changed—or how much you hated that he had.
“I’ll go over the list of questions once more,” you said, scanning your notes.
“I already read them on the way here,” he replied, his tone casual but polite.
You blinked at his unexpected thoroughness and nodded, apologizing. “Do you have anything you’d like to add, Mr. Jeon?”
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at his watch. “Let’s converse for a bit,” he suggested, his voice dropping to the familiar, easy tone you used to know. “How are you, Y/N?”
The question was kind, friendly—even gentle—but it threw you off balance. You could hear Mingyu’s voice in your head, telling you how much Wonwoo had grown as a person. Yet, it didn’t make his sudden reappearance in your life any easier to accept.
“I’m great,” you replied, your voice steady but clipped. “Thank you for asking. I see you’re doing well, Mr. Jeon.”
Wonwoo chuckled softly, the sound painfully familiar. “Mr. Jeon,” he repeated, amused. “It’s the first time I’ve heard you call me that. You used to hate that name…” His reference to your shared disdain for his father stung more than you wanted to admit.
You sighed deeply, reaching for your water as the producer motioned that the interview was about to begin. Thank God. Bowing to the crew, you quickly excused yourself and left the set the moment the interview wrapped up.
Wonwoo stayed behind, chatting amiably with everyone like the polished professional he had become. You, on the other hand, grabbed your bag and practically bolted from the room.
The sound of footsteps followed you to the elevator, and you knew without looking that it was him. When the elevator doors slid open, you stepped inside, hoping the ride down would be short and silent.
“Are you free after this?” Wonwoo asked suddenly, his voice carrying the warmth of the boy you once knew. “Let’s grab some lunch.”
You stared ahead, your grip tightening on your bag. He still looked at you as though nothing had changed, as though the six years of silence between you hadn’t happened.
“I have things to do,” you replied curtly.
The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival at the lobby. You stepped out quickly, eager to escape, but Wonwoo’s long strides easily caught up to you. His hand on your arm stopped you in your tracks.
“At least give me your number,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket.
You hesitated, glancing at him briefly before snatching the phone and typing in a number. Handing it back without another word, you walked away, your heart pounding in your chest.
Sliding into your car, you let out a shaky breath, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Your phone buzzed in your bag, breaking your brief moment of reprieve. It was your boss.
“What now?” you muttered before answering, your voice polite despite your irritation.
“What’s your agenda tonight?” your boss asked without preamble. “Join me for dinner with the chief of SKB.”
You sighed, closing your eyes as frustration bubbled to the surface. Since when had you accepted being treated like this? But you knew the answer. It was the same reason you had agreed to this interview in the first place. Because you always put duty first, even at the expense of your own peace.
“Understood,” you replied quietly, ending the call.
Staring out of the windshield, you couldn’t help but wonder how much longer you could keep this up. And if you’d ever find the courage to tell Wonwoo exactly how much he had hurt you by leaving.
*
It was unexpected. Wonwoo had just stepped out of the restroom when he caught a glimpse of you through the slightly open door of the private dining room beside his. He froze for a moment, certain it was you—your attire was the same as it had been this morning, leaving no doubt in his mind.
Curiosity pulled him in. As he returned to his own dinner with a board member, his thoughts lingered on the sight of you sitting among what appeared to be senior executives. So, this is what your life looks like now? He found himself wondering. Entertaining superiors... Is this normal for a presenter?
When his meeting ended, Wonwoo stepped out and waited near the entrance of your room, watching as you graciously bid farewell to the older men you had been dining with. You looked tired, but your professionalism didn’t falter until the last of them left. As you turned to head out, his sudden presence caught you off guard.
“Wonwoo?” you said, surprise flickering across your face.
He gave you a small smile and gestured to the room behind you. “I was in the one next door. I saw you.”
“Oh…” You hesitated before nodding. “It’s part of the job.”
“Wanna grab a drink together?” Wonwoo asked, his voice soft but hopeful.
You glanced at your watch, shaking your head. “I have a morning show tomorrow.”
“Fair enough,” he said with a nod. A small, awkward silence fell between you before he spoke again. “You did great, by the way. I’ve seen you on TV a few times.”
“In China?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
He nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, sometimes.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence between you was heavy, filled with unspoken words. Finally, Wonwoo broke it, his voice quieter than before. “I’m sorry… about your mom.”
Your expression faltered for a split second, but you recovered quickly.
“I wish I’d been there for you,” he continued, the regret in his tone unmistakable.
You didn’t respond immediately, your face unreadable. It was only after a moment that you quietly said, “Thanks,” before shifting your weight, glancing at the time again. “But I have to go.”
You bowed slightly before walking away, your steps hurried, as though putting distance between you and him was your priority. Wonwoo stood rooted in place, watching as you got into your car and drove off.
His chest felt tight as he glanced at the watch on his wrist. 10 PM. Too early to call it a night, especially with the emotions swirling in his chest.
Pulling out his phone, he dialed a number. “Hansol,” he said when the call connected. “You free?”
Because tonight, more than ever, he needed a drink—and perhaps someone to help him figure out the mess of feelings he didn’t know how to untangle.
Hansol slammed his hand on the table, the sound reverberating through the quiet cafe. He was definitely more drunk than Wonwoo at this point, his frustration spilling over with every word. They were seated in the dimly lit interior of Hansol’s closed café and bakery, Vernon’s. The place was a stark contrast to its usual bustling charm, now filled with an air of tension between old friends.
Wonwoo glanced around, his mind drifting briefly to the thought of how much Hansol had changed. Once the rebellious kid who scoffed at the idea of business studies, Hansol had chosen engineering instead. Yet here he was now, managing a family-owned café—a surprising turn of events. Wonwoo recalled Mingyu mentioning it had taken Hansol three months just to start his first day of part-time work. But people did change, didn’t they?
“You left, man!” Hansol exclaimed, his voice louder than necessary in the quiet space. His hands waved animatedly as he leaned across the table. “What the hell did you expect? You didn’t even send a text when her mom died. You just… poofed!” He mimicked an explosion with his hands, his indignation almost comical if not for the weight of his words.
Wonwoo grimaced, holding the can of beer in his hand like it was his lifeline.
“I met Y/N,” Wonwoo murmured earlier.
Hansol snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, and I bet she wasn’t exactly thrilled to see you.” He took another sip of his beer before pointing at Wonwoo. “But here’s the real question, Wonwoo: why is she mad at you? What did you do to make her this angry?”
Wonwoo’s gaze dropped to the table, his fingers tightening around the cold can.
“If nothing happened, she wouldn’t be this mad,” Hansol continued, his tone sharp and unforgiving. “And let’s face it—you wouldn’t be this much of an asshole, leaving her without a single word, text, or call.”
Hansol wasn’t wrong, and that was what made it sting. Wonwoo knew there was something more, something unspoken, that had driven you both to this point. And he hated that Hansol could see through him so easily.
Two weeks after that fateful night when Jiseok beat him in a race, Wonwoo disappeared from the arena. It wasn’t like him to skip races, especially after being undefeated for years. Rumors spread like wildfire—was he too embarrassed to show his face? Beaten by someone with only two years of experience?
But the real reason wasn’t embarrassment. It was you.
Wonwoo hadn’t wanted to see Jiseok, and by extension, he hadn’t wanted to see you. That night, when he saw you and Jiseok kissing after the race, something inside him shattered. He couldn’t bring himself to face either of you. Instead, he texted Seungcheol.
“Can you keep an eye on Y/N for me?”
Seungcheol had questioned him, but Wonwoo offered no further explanation.
That same week, Jisoo approached him to discuss his career. “So, what’s next? Another championship?”
For the first time, Wonwoo hesitated. “I think I’m done with racing, hyung.”
Jisoo’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’ve been racing for almost ten years. You’re at the top of your game.”
But Wonwoo had already made up his mind. He’d had enough. Between the weight of seeing you with someone else and his father’s relentless pressure to “grow up,” he decided it was time to walk away. Following his father’s advice, he chose to pursue business—while still holding on to his passion for automotive engineering.
Under Jisoo’s guidance, Wonwoo applied for a program in China that combined engineering and business studies. What was supposed to be a two-week observation trip and a visit to JDA turned into something more.
He stayed.
Wonwoo let everyone know he was leaving—everyone except you. After the argument you’d had before he left, he assumed you wouldn’t care. But your mother... he couldn’t bring himself to leave without telling her. He called her, explaining his plans and promising to visit soon.
That promise, like so many others, remained unfulfilled.
Months later, on the very day of his final test, Wonwoo received the news: your mother had passed away in a car accident.
The guilt was suffocating. He’d failed you.
He’d called Mingyu immediately. “Can you watch Y/N for me? I can’t leave the test.”
Mingyu hadn’t hidden his anger. “You should be here, not me.”
Wonwoo sighed, his grip tightening on the phone. “I know. Just... please."
Now, years later, Hansol’s words echoed in his mind, each one a painful reminder of his mistakes. Wonwoo stared at the beer can in his hand, his reflection faintly visible on its surface.
“Maybe you’re right,” he muttered, barely audible.
Hansol raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Of course I’m right. Now, the real question is: what are you going to do about it?”
*
You stared at the clock, watching the seconds tick by. Midnight was minutes away, and with it, your 32nd birthday. The thought filled you with a strange hollowness. Taking a sip of the wine in your hand, you let its warmth spread through you, but it did little to soothe the ache.
The buzz of your phone jolted you from your thoughts. The screen lit up with a name you recognized instantly—Mr. Park, the Chief of Broadcasting at EBS. You exhaled deeply, setting your glass down before answering.
"Good evening, Mr. Park," you greeted with a carefully polished tone, a professional smile forming on your lips despite the late hour.
"Good evening, darling. What are you up to?" His voice was warm, rich with the kind of charisma that made him magnetic in meetings.
You forced a small laugh, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "I’ve got a morning show tomorrow, so I came home early tonight."
His laughter echoed on the other end, deep and indulgent. "Always the hard worker," he teased lightly. The conversation flowed effortlessly, the two of you exchanging pleasantries and updates until he decided to call it a night.
"Rest well, darling. I’ll send you a little something to thank you for listening to my day."
You hung up and sank back into the couch, the smile vanishing from your face as the weight of his words lingered. You rubbed your temples, feeling the heaviness settle in your chest.
What was all of this for? The spacious apartment, the expensive wine, the silk robe that felt like a second skin—none of it brought you happiness.
Six years had passed since your mother’s death, and you’d worked tirelessly to claw your way to the top. You had fought for everything, even compromising pieces of yourself you once held sacred. But now, as you sat in the quiet of your curated life, you couldn’t help but wonder: What had all this hard work been for?
You had powerful men offering you money for a few minutes of conversation. You entertained your superiors, earning their favor and securing promotions. But at what cost? When had you become this person?
Each passing day seemed to erode the parts of you that once sparkled. The vibrant, hopeful version of yourself was long gone, replaced by someone you barely recognized. A stranger. The weight of that realization was suffocating, the feeling of being submerged in endless blue—a deep, inescapable sadness that had consumed you entirely.
As you sat there lost in thought, your phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text message.
Happy birthday.
—Wonwoo
Your heart stopped for a moment. Wonwoo.
After a month of silence, he had finally reached out.
You had told yourself not to expect anything from him, but deep down, you had waited. You had hoped. And yet, his simple message brought more pain than comfort. Six years ago, he had disappeared without a word, leaving you to pick up the pieces.
You sighed and set your phone down, determined not to let the message haunt you. But as the hours dragged on, exhaustion eventually overtook you, and you drifted into an uneasy sleep.
You woke with a start, your body trembling, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The image was still vivid in your mind—a shadowy figure looming over you, their weight pressing you down. It felt so real that your skin prickled, and your heart raced as if you had just escaped something dangerous.
Your hands fumbled for the lamp, flooding the room with light. You scanned every corner, your eyes darting to the shadows, but there was no one there. Just your empty room.
Another nightmare.
Your hands shook as you reached for the pills on your nightstand, swallowing one without hesitation. These dreams had been haunting you for years, each one more vivid and terrifying than the last. Sometimes it was a man chasing you, other times a car accident, or the suffocating sensation of being trapped. They felt so real, like memories etched into your subconscious, leaving you trembling long after you woke.
When was the last time you slept peacefully, without pills to dull the edges of your fear? You couldn’t remember.
You wrapped up your morning show with a warm smile, thanking the crew and bowing deeply to the staff before heading backstage to gather your belongings. The long hours and early mornings had become second nature, but today felt slightly different, like something was lingering in the air.
As you walked down the hallway toward your office, your name was called. You turned to see your superior waving you over. "Y/N, come to my office, please."
Without hesitation, you changed direction, your heels clicking against the tiled floor as you made your way to the 6th floor. As you stepped into his office, your eyes immediately landed on a familiar figure sitting comfortably in a sleek suit—Wonwoo.
Beside him sat one of his staff, equally polished and professional. Your superior greeted you warmly, gesturing toward the two men.
"Y/n, this is Mr. Jeon Wonwoo," he said, though you both already knew each other. "He wanted to personally thank you for the interview you conducted. Thanks to your efforts, the student selection process has run smoothly."
Wonwoo's lips curved into a polite smile, and you mirrored it with a carefully practiced business smile of your own.
Your superior, Mr Won, continued, oblivious to the tension. "The program will be broadcast nationally, and Mr. Jeon has specifically requested you to be the presenter."
"Me?" You raised your brows in surprise, masking the irritation bubbling beneath your surface. Of course, Wonwoo would pull something like this—using his influence to drag you into his orbit, all under the guise of professionalism.
You forced a polite response, your tone steady and composed. "If that's your decision, Mr. Won, I’ll follow your instructions. You know what’s best for the me."
Once the meeting concluded, you exited the office, determined to shake off the encounter. But as you walked down the hallway, Wonwoo caught up to you, his voice low and teasing.
"Impressive communication skills," he remarked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
You stopped abruptly, turning to face him with narrowed eyes. His staff, preoccupied with a phone call, trailed behind before you motioned for him to go ahead. Wonwoo nodded subtly, dismissing his staff to give you two privacy.
"You’ve really changed, haven’t you?" he said, his tone laced with a familiarity that made your skin crawl. "Who would’ve thought the rebel Ji Y/N would be tamed by work? Following orders, smiling for the cameras—so unlike the opinionated girl I knew."
You froze mid-step, his words hitting a nerve. Slowly, you turned back to him, your voice cool but firm. "What do you mean by that?"
Wonwoo raised his hands slightly, feigning innocence. "I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just… the Y/N I remember wouldn’t have played the corporate game so well. She had a mind of her own."
You glared at him, your patience wearing thin. What did he know about you now? Six years had passed since he left, and he thought he could waltz back into your life with snide comments about who you had become?
"And what about you?" you shot back. "Have you learned this condescending attitude from running family businesses or by charming people at dinner meetings?"
His smirk faltered, but you didn’t care. This wasn’t the time for his petty observations or thinly veiled jabs.
"I do what I need to do to survive," you said, your voice steady but heavy with meaning. "You can think whatever you want, but you don’t have the right to judge me."
You turned to leave, the conversation clearly over in your mind. But just as you walked away, you stopped abruptly and looked back over your shoulder.
"I’ve worked harder than anyone these past six years because I didn’t have the luxury of a family supporting me. I didn’t have someone handing me opportunities or funding my dreams. Everything I have, I earned. So don’t act like you know me, Wonwoo. You don’t."
*
Back in high school, you and Wonwoo often spent time talking about your dreams, painting pictures of futures that felt so distant yet so vivid in your minds.
"I want to be a successful racer," Wonwoo had declared one afternoon, the confidence in his voice unwavering.
You grinned, leaning back on your elbows. "And I want to be like my mom. You know, get married to someone nice, have a family, maybe work part-time at a cute shop or something. It sounds simple, but it feels fun."
Wonwoo snorted, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "With your attitude and behavior? Good luck with that."
Your eyes widened as you playfully swung your hand at him, but he dodged, laughing as he hopped out of reach.
"I'm serious, though," you said, letting your hand drop. Then, after a pause, you asked quietly, "Do you still hate your dad a lot, Wonwoo?"
He shrugged, the laughter fading as he glanced at the sky. "I don’t even know what I feel about him anymore. He’s been out of sight for so long that… he’s kind of out of mind."
You nodded thoughtfully. "That’s probably for the best, right? It’s less tiring that way. You don’t have to waste energy hating him." Then, with a teasing grin, you added, "But if you ever need someone to hate him more on your behalf, call me, okay?"
Wonwoo chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re such a weirdo."
"Sometimes I hate my mom, though," you admitted, your voice softening. "Every time she dotes on you like you’re her real son and I’m just… there. But I don’t hate her all the time. I guess that’s just how emotions work, right? They come and go, like waves."
He laughed at that, nudging you with his shoulder. "Of course, I’m her favorite. Who wouldn’t love me?"
"Shut up!" you shot back, rolling your eyes. "If I hadn’t been so nice to you when we were kids, you and your Pokémon bag would’ve been stranded with nowhere to go. You better thank me for being such a kind-hearted kid back then."
Wonwoo sat at the dining table with Jisoo and his father, the atmosphere heavy with an unspoken irony. At the end of the day, it was just the three of them—Wonwoo and Jisoo, the two sons his father had once abandoned, now seated by his side.
The clinking of cutlery was the only sound for a moment until his father broke the silence. "How’s the production plan for N-Jeen coming along? I heard you’ve decreased the credit allocation." Even outside office hours, his father’s mind never strayed far from work.
Wonwoo leaned back slightly, meeting his father’s gaze. "The reduced allocation is intentional. Most of our budget is spent compensating for inefficiencies caused by a lack of skilled personnel. I’m planning to recruit professionals—people who genuinely know what they’re doing."
Jisoo nodded in agreement, his voice calm but encouraging. "That sounds like a solid plan. Do you have specific candidates in mind?"
"I’ve already extended offers to a few people I know who have proven expertise in their respective fields," Wonwoo replied, his tone confident but measured. "I’ve also been looking into recruiting experienced racers. They’ve used our products firsthand and understand our shortcomings better than anyone else."
His father paused mid-bite, considering the proposal. "It’s good that you’re involving people who understand the industry from the ground up. Make sure the contracts are watertight. We can’t afford any liabilities."
Wonwoo’s lips quirked slightly. Even a compliment from his father was veiled with caution. "Of course, I’ve consulted with the legal team about that already."
Jisoo interjected, his voice lighter, diffusing some of the tension. "It’s interesting how you’re integrating practical experience into production strategies. Maybe we’ll finally see N-Jeen at its full potential."
Wonwoo glanced at Jisoo, appreciating the support. Despite everything, Jisoo had always been the steady bridge between him and his father. It felt strange—almost bittersweet—sitting here now, discussing plans for a company that had been both a family legacy and a source of familial discord.
His father set his fork down and studied Wonwoo for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You’ve come a long way from being the reckless kid who only cared about racing."
Wonwoo didn’t flinch, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. "I'm not the only one who was reckless."
In the quiet ambiance of the restaurant, Wonwoo sat across from Seungcheol, who casually sipped his coffee. As their lunch ended, Wonwoo handed over a proposal, his tone calm but professional.
“This is for the new product launch next year,” Wonwoo explained. “I’d like you to join the production team as part of the assessment division. With your expertise, you’d oversee racer recruitment and have them test our samples.”
Seungcheol glanced at the document and nodded. “Interesting. I’ll need some time to think it over. Is the end of the week okay?”
“Perfect,” Wonwoo replied.
The conversation shifted, and Wonwoo leaned forward slightly. “Do you have any recommendations for racers? Someone with the experience we’re looking for?”
Seungcheol thought for a moment, then nodded. “There are a few people I could suggest. It’s hard to find real talent these days, but I’ll introduce you to some promising names. Drop by when you have time.”
“Sounds good,” Wonwoo said with a faint smile. “By the way, what about Lee Jiseok? He used to be quite skilled.”
At the mention of Jiseok, Seungcheol froze, his brows furrowing. He placed his coffee down carefully, his expression growing serious. “Lee Jiseok?”
“Yeah,” Wonwoo said, sensing the shift in Seungcheol’s demeanor. “What about him?”
Seungcheol let out a deep breath, leaning closer. “You don’t know, do you? He was jailed a few years ago.”
Wonwoo’s brow furrowed. “Jailed? For what?”
“For a sex crime,” Seungcheol said bluntly, his tone laced with unease.
Wonwoo’s eyes widened in shock. “What? That doesn’t make sense. Jiseok was dating Y/n at the time.”
Seungcheol shook his head, his voice heavy with seriousness. “No, Wonwoo. They weren’t dating. Jiseok made a bet with his crew to sleep with her. When she refused, he forced himself on her.”
Wonwoo’s heart sank, and his fists tightened on the table. “Y/n?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Yes,” Seungcheol confirmed grimly. “It happened not long after her mother passed away. She was vulnerable, and he took advantage of that. I assumed you knew. You and Y/n were close. I can’t believe no one told you.”
Wonwoo sat back, stunned. He hadn’t heard from you in years, and now this revelation was unraveling everything he thought he knew.
“No one told me,” Wonwoo said, his voice trembling with anger and regret.
Seungcheol studied him carefully, his expression softening slightly. “I thought you knew. That’s why I was surprised when you brought up his name.”
Wonwoo stared at the table, a storm of emotions raging within him—anger at Jiseok, guilt for not being there for you and regret for how distant you had become.
“Shit…” he muttered, the word slipping out as the weight of the truth bore down on him. You, his once-close friend, had endured unimaginable pain, and he hadn't been there to support you.
Wonwoo loosened his tie as he sank into the passenger seat of his car, his mind racing. His secretary, seated behind the wheel, glanced at him with concern.
“Sir, are you alright?” the secretary ventured, but Wonwoo waved him off, his jaw clenched.
The ride back to the company felt agonizingly slow. The moment the car stopped in front of the building, Wonwoo threw the door open and strode in with determined steps. His heart pounded, not from exertion, but from the tumult of emotions threatening to spill over.
He stormed into Mingyu’s office without knocking, startling his friend, who was seated behind his desk.
“Whoa, what’s going on?” Mingyu asked, his eyes widening at Wonwoo’s flushed face and labored breathing. “Bro, are you okay? You look... upset.”
Wonwoo ignored the question and closed the door firmly behind him. He turned to Mingyu, his voice low but sharp. “Tell me the truth. Was Y/n a victim of sexual violence?”
Mingyu froze, his mouth opening as though to deny it. But he hesitated, his expression faltering. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair.
“Wonwoo, listen—”
“Answer me!” Wonwoo bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. His hand clenched into a fist, trembling at his side.
Mingyu swallowed hard, then nodded reluctantly. “Yes... it’s true. But let me explain—”
“Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me?” Wonwoo shouted, his voice cracking with anguish. In a fit of frustration, he kicked the sofa beside him, sending a loud thud through the room. He turned away from Mingyu, his back heaving as he tried to control the whirlwind of anger and betrayal consuming him.
“Wonwoo, we didn’t mean to keep it from you,” Mingyu began, his tone pleading. “It wasn’t our decision to hide it from you. You didn’t want you to know. She didn’t want anyone to know.”
Wonwoo spun around, his eyes blazing. “I was her friend! I should’ve been there for her. You all knew, and I was left in the dark like some outsider.”
Mingyu stood, his own frustration bubbling to the surface. “And what would you have done, huh? You were in China, handling your own life. She didn’t want to drag you into her pain!”
“That wasn’t your choice to make!” Wonwoo roared, slamming his fist against the wall. His chest heaved as he struggled to process it all—the betrayal he felt, the pain You must have endured, and the guilt clawing at him for not being there.
Mingyu softened, his voice quieter now. “Wonwoo... she didn’t want you to carry this burden. But if you’re this upset, imagine how she felt, going through it alone.”
The words hit Wonwoo like a punch to the gut. He sank onto the sofa he had kicked moments earlier, his head in his hands.
“She didn’t deserve that,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
“No, she didn’t,” Mingyu agreed, sitting across from him. “But she survived. She’s still here, Wonwoo.”
Wonwoo looked up, his eyes filled with a mix of regret and determination. “I need to see her.”
Mingyu gave a small nod. “Then do it. But don’t come at her with guilt or anger. Just... be her friend.”
Wonwoo clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. He would find you. And this time, he wouldn’t fail you.
Wonwoo drove his own car to your broadcasting company, the hum of the engine a constant reminder of the tension that had been building between the two of you. You were in the middle of your last schedule when he arrived, but as soon as he caught sight of you, he immediately rose from the sofa, his eyes searching yours.
You were caught off guard by his sudden appearance. For a moment, you froze, unsure of how to react. But you quickly regained your composure, as you always did. The years of learning to keep your emotions hidden were not wasted.
"Follow me," Wonwoo said, his tone firm but pleading. You hesitated, instinctively preparing to decline.
"I'm busy," you replied, though the words felt hollow in your mouth.
He didn’t give up. "I know it’s your last schedule. Come with me."
His grip on your arm tightened just enough to remind you that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. The heat of his hand on your skin made it hard to pull away. Reluctantly, you gathered your things and followed him.
As he drove, you tried to break the silence. "Where are we going?"
But he said nothing, his gaze focused on the road ahead. The world outside the window seemed to blur as your thoughts spiraled. You knew he wasn’t the type to drag you around without a reason. Something was clearly bothering him, but you couldn’t make sense of it.
Eventually, the car slowed, and you recognized the familiar stretch of road. The sound of the waves in the distance grew louder.
You were at the beach.
A sense of unease filled you as memories flooded back. This was the same beach where he had brought you years ago, after your father's funeral, when you felt like your world had crumbled around you. You could feel the weight of time, the shifting of your past and present, all converging in this one place.
The car came to a stop, and he stepped out, his movements purposeful, as though he already knew what he needed to do. You sat frozen for a moment before instinct kicked in. You quickly took off your heels and followed him, your steps leaving imprints in the sand.
"Wonwoo!" you called, your voice rising above the sound of the crashing waves. "What’s going on? What are you doing?"
But he didn’t answer, walking farther away, his back turned to you. You couldn’t make sense of it. Why was he acting like this? Why now, after all this time?
You quickened your pace, calling his name again. "Jeon Wonwoo, what’s wrong with you?"
As you reached him, you tried to grab his arm, desperate to get his attention, to force him to explain himself. But before you could, he suddenly turned to face you. His expression was soft but strained, and before you could process what was happening, he pulled you into his embrace.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair, his voice breaking the silence between you like a cracked dam.
The words were simple, but they carried so much weight. You stood still for a moment, the shock of the gesture leaving you breathless. His arms felt like a refuge, but you couldn’t shake the confusion swirling in your mind.
You stiffened in his arms, the warmth of his embrace both comforting and overwhelming. For a moment, you simply stood there, unsure how to react, your body frozen in his grasp. The familiar scent of him—the cologne you remembered from years ago, the scent that somehow always felt like home—filled your senses. But there was also something else: regret, a deep, aching remorse in the way he held you.
"I'm sorry..." Wonwoo repeated, his voice softer now, as though the weight of his apology had finally found its place in his heart.
You both stood there in the silence, the crashing waves behind you and the setting sun painting the sky with colors of hope.
*
You saw Wonwoo running through the school corridors toward you during lunch break. You were taken aback when he suddenly pulled you into an embrace, his grip tight on your shoulders, his breath uneven, and his eyes brimming with tears.
"Promise me you'll remain calm," he whispered through his breathless words, his hands trembling as they held you tighter. You were stunned, your heart racing as you looked up at him, confusion flooding your mind. What was happening?
"Father..." His voice cracked, and his gaze flickered with a mix of fear and anguish.
"He had a heart attack," he continued, his voice strained, "and now he's being rushed to the hospital."
The words hung in the air like a heavy cloud, and despite your shock, you immediately nodded, swallowing your panic. You couldn't let yourself crumble in the school cafeteria.
Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs as Wonwoo took your hand and led you into a run. His steps were hurried, his determination pulling you along with him as he rushed toward the parking lot. The sound of your shoes pounding against the floor seemed to mirror the racing of your thoughts.
In a blur of motion, you both arrived at his bike, and without wasting a second, he revved the engine and sped toward the hospital.
But it was too late. By the time you arrived, the hospital doors felt like an insurmountable distance between you and the unbearable reality. The news hit like a thunderclap. Both you and Wonwoo had lost your fathers that day.
Wonwoo, in the midst of his own grief, stepped into a role you never thought you’d need him to. He became your rock, your father in ways you never imagined. He stayed by your side through the funeral, comforting you and your mother while silently bearing his own pain. He served everyone, trying to keep a stoic face, but you saw the cracks, the weight of the loss bearing down on him. He had seen your father as his own, a mentor, a second father.
And just like him, you buried your grief deep inside, unable to break down in front of your mother. You had lost your father, but she had lost everything. You couldn't bear to add more sorrow to her heart.
Wonwoo, ever the steadfast presence in your life, took you away from the heavy emotions of the funeral. He brought you to a beach near Incheon, one that your father had taken both of you to when you were just six years old. It was the first time either of you had ever seen the sea, a small, secret escape when your parents had fought. You hadn’t been there in years, but the memories flooded back instantly—the sound of the waves, the salty air, and the way your father had held your hand, guiding you along the shore. It was a place you hadn’t even realized you missed.
Standing behind Wonwoo as he faced the sea, the sound of the waves crashing in the distance, you felt the weight of everything—your father's absence, your mother’s pain, and your own silent grief.
"Just cry. Mom isn’t here," Wonwoo said softly, his voice low and soothing, his broad shoulders unmoving as he looked toward the horizon.
The permission to break, to let go, was what you needed. Your tears came suddenly, unbidden, falling down your cheeks like a river, each one a memory, a piece of the pain you had held back. You sobbed quietly at first, but soon the floodgates opened. The grief you had kept hidden for so long poured out, carried away by the wind and the sea.
As your sobs became harder, more uncontrollable, you leaned your head against Wonwoo's back. His presence, so solid and unshakable, gave you the comfort you desperately needed. You felt his hand on your shoulder, a silent support, as you cried for everything you had lost—and for everything you were still holding on to.
You woke up to the sound of your own sobs, the remnants of tears still streaking down your cheeks. Blinking, you wiped your face with the back of your hand as you sat up on the edge of your bed. The room was dim, and the weight of the night pressed heavily around you. You hadn’t even realized you had fallen asleep—everything felt hazy, as if the moments between waking and dreaming blurred into one.
Wonwoo's words from earlier that afternoon echoed in your mind. "I'm sorry for leaving you..."
The words felt like a haunting whisper, lingering long after he had said them. Despite the years that had passed without any communication between you two, despite the distance that time and silence had created, his apology still had the power to stir something deep within you. The ache that you had buried for so long resurfaced, raw and tender, as if it had never left.
You let out a soft sigh, running a hand through your hair. After all these years, it was strange how much of an effect he still had on you. Even after everything, even after all the distance, he still found a way to worm his way into your heart.
"I like you," you confessed to Wonwoo, just weeks before he disappeared without a trace.
The memory of that night felt sharp—too sharp. You could still remember the heat of the argument, the first time you had seen Wonwoo lose control, shouting at you after days of silence. Whatever sparked the fight, you couldn’t recall. But you did know one thing for sure: he was jealous.
Jealous of Lee Jiseok, who had won the race that day.
At first, you had thought it was childish—until you realized that the jealousy ran deeper. It wasn’t just the race that had sparked his anger. It was the kiss. Jiseok had kissed you in front of everyone, and that’s what really set him off.
The argument escalated, and before you could even process it, you found yourself grabbing his collar, pulling him toward you, and kissing him. For a moment, he froze, but then his lips moved against yours, answering you in the only way he knew how. He pushed you back against the wall of his apartment, lifting you so that your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.
"You kissed Jiseok, and now you’re kissing me?" His voice was low, almost dangerous, but there was something else behind it—desire, frustration, longing.
The kiss deepened, and before long, you found yourselves shedding clothes, your breaths coming in quick, heated gasps. But in the midst of it, you stopped.
"I like you, Wonwoo," you said, your voice trembling but steady.
He paused, his lips lingering against yours, searching your eyes. "Yeah?" he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.
"I like you," you repeated, your heart racing. The truth had finally spilled from you, the words you had been holding in for months, or maybe years.
For a moment, you both just stared at each other. And then, without speaking, he closed the distance between you again, pulling you back into the storm of kisses and touches.
But in the middle of it all, as you looked into his eyes with burning desire, your thoughts spoke louder than anything else. "Fuck me," you thought.
Wonwoo pulled back suddenly, his expression unreadable. He grabbed your shirt, hastily putting it back on you, his movements sharp and cold. Before you could even understand what was happening, he was pushing you out of the door. The finality of it hit you hard as he slammed the door in your face without a word.
That night, you waited. But there were no apologies, no explanations, nothing. He didn’t show up the next day—or the day after that. Weeks passed, then months. You started to wonder if something had happened to him. If he had vanished entirely from your life.
Then Jisoo informed you—he had gone to his father's house.
Three months later, you discovered the truth. Everyone knew he had gone abroad, except for you.
The silence, the absence, it stung more than you could have ever imagined. And now, here you were—left with only the memories of a night that had changed everything, wondering if he had ever felt the same.
*
"What?!" Both Mingyu and Hansol shot up from their seats in surprise as Wonwoo casually dropped the bombshell.
He had invited Mingyu and Hansol over for a warm housewarming gathering—he had just moved into a new apartment. It was spacious, well-lit, and definitely something Wonwoo could afford with all his success. The minimalist decor, the clean lines, the neutral tones—it was a perfect reflection of Jeon Wonwoo himself, according to Hansol’s personal opinion.
Mingyu and Hansol had brought a variety of food and drinks: fried chicken, spicy tteokbokki, beer, soju, and even a bottle of expensive whiskey Mingyu had been saving for a moment like this.
"Should we invite Y/N? She's next door," Wonwoo said, causing Mingyu and Hansol to freeze mid-bite. The words hung in the air like a shockwave.
"You moved next door to her?!" Hansol blurted out, disbelief written all over his face.
"You're crazy, man!" Mingyu groaned, slapping his palm to his face in frustration.
Wonwoo shrugged nonchalantly, refilling his drink with ice from the fridge before taking a seat beside them. "You weren't this surprised when I told you I lived with her until I was 20."
Hansol, still processing the information, shook his head in disbelief. "But you saw her as a sister. What about now, dude?"
Wonwoo nodded, his expression calm, his eyes steady as he sipped his beer. "She's still a sister."
Mingyu snorted, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Sister my ass."
Wonwoo shot Mingyu a knowing glance, his gaze sharp. He knew Mingyu was onto something, but it seemed Hansol, the one who usually got tipsy first, was completely oblivious to the crucial piece of the puzzle—something he had been wondering about for a while now.
The tension hung in the air, and Hansol, now furrowing his brow, leaned back in his chair. He didn’t quite understand what was going on, but whatever it was, it felt like there was more to this story than they were letting on.
"You two are something else," Hansol muttered, still trying to wrap his head around it all. "I thought I knew everything."
The weight of those words lingered in the room, and for a brief moment, all three of them were lost in their own thoughts.
A day before his flight to China for "observation," they had drunk heavily. Hansol passed out first on the couch, leaving Wonwoo, who had definitely overdone it with the soju, still awake. Mingyu, ever the drinker, kept refilling his glass as if there were no alcohol limit for him.
"I kissed Y/N," Wonwoo mumbled, his voice slurred.
Mingyu froze mid-motion, his hand half-raised with the soju glass still hovering in the air. "What?" he asked, disbelief in his tone.
"I kissed Y/N. Twice," Wonwoo continued, his words tumbling out in a rush. "We made out. We almost... We almost... I don’t know! I messed up everything!"
Frustration laced Wonwoo’s voice as he threw the squid snack in his hand across the room. Mingyu blinked, processing the words before his lips curved into a smirk.
"You what?" Mingyu laughed in disbelief. "You made out with Y/N? Almost...?" His voice trailed off, then he put his glass down and fully turned to face Wonwoo, his interest piqued. "But you told me she was like a sister to you?"
Wonwoo sighed deeply, slumping back into the chair, clearly lost in his own confusion. Mingyu, on the other hand, was looking at him like a curious child—amused and expecting to hear it all.
Mingyu had never bought into the idea that Y/N was just a sister to Wonwoo. Hansol? He believed whatever he heard, but Mingyu always knew there was something more beneath the surface.
"She was," Wonwoo muttered, his voice barely audible. Mingyu suppressed a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.
"But then—" Wonwoo’s words grew heavier, full of bitterness. "She slept with Jiseok... They kissed that night I lost the race... Fuck, I don’t care about her anymore."
Wonwoo grabbed Mingyu’s glass and downed it in one swift motion, the burn of the alcohol momentarily distracting him from the tangled mess of emotions inside him.
Mingyu’s face fell, no longer amused. The atmosphere shifted, and for the first time that night, the weight of the situation truly sank in. He watched as Wonwoo’s facade of indifference faltered, the frustration and hurt clear in his eyes. Mingyu knew then that this was more than just a drunken confession—it was a broken heart, disguised by anger and too much soju.
*
Your eyes widened at the sight of Wonwoo and Mingyu struggling to support a completely drunken Hansol as you stepped out of your apartment door. The three of them looked like a chaotic trio, Hansol barely conscious, his head lolling from side to side, while Wonwoo and Mingyu worked together to keep him upright. They must have been drinking together.
Mingyu, ever friendly and cheerful, greeted you with a grin as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “Hey, Y/N,” he said casually, as though hauling around a passed-out Hansol was just another day for him. Wonwoo, on the other hand, gave you a nod, his expression calm but tinged with slight annoyance as Hansol slumped more heavily against him.
Your finger instinctively pressed the elevator button, and you stepped aside, allowing the three of them to enter first. Hansol let out a groggy mumble, which made Mingyu chuckle as they maneuvered him inside. Once they were settled, you followed, glancing at Hansol with concern.
“Is he always like this?” you asked, your voice laced with curiosity and a hint of worry.
Mingyu nodded, giving you a reassuring smile. “Yeah, he’s kind of a lightweight compared to us. This happens a lot, don’t worry. He’ll be fine once he sleeps it off.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused but still skeptical, as you watched Hansol mumble something incoherent before his head drooped onto Wonwoo’s shoulder. Wonwoo sighed, adjusting his grip to keep him from sliding to the floor. Despite his slightly irritated demeanor, you could tell Wonwoo was used to this.
When the elevator doors opened, you followed them outside to the street, where they carefully loaded Hansol into a waiting cab. Mingyu climbed in after him, ensuring he was seated properly. Before the door closed, Mingyu leaned out and waved at you and Wonwoo.
“Goodnight, Y/N! Take care of this grumpy guy,” he teased, jerking a thumb in Wonwoo’s direction.
You chuckled softly, waving back. “Goodnight, Mingyu. Drive safe.”
As the cab pulled away, you turned to Wonwoo, who stood beside you with his hands stuffed into his pockets, watching the car disappear into the night. The streetlights cast a soft glow over his face, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.
Wonwoo let out a sigh before turning to you, his gaze steady. “Where are you going this late?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and concern.
Where were you going? Nowhere, really. You had stepped out because of all the commotion outside your door, curiosity getting the better of you. But you couldn’t exactly say that, could you?
“Convenience store,” you replied with a casual nod, trying to sound convincing. “To grab some ramyeon. Or beer.”
Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting as he studied you. “You don’t eat ramyeon,” he pointed out, raising an eyebrow as if calling your bluff.
Well, that was true. You didn’t. But you weren’t about to explain yourself. “I eat it now,” you retorted, crossing your arms and raising your chin slightly.
Wonwoo stared at you for a beat longer before nodding in quiet acknowledgment. “Fine. I have some at my place. Come on, I’ll cook it for you.”
You stepped into Wonwoo's apartment for the first time in years. It felt oddly familiar—still carrying the same understated charm that mirrored Jeon Wonwoo himself. However, the living room was a bit of a mess, likely remnants of their drinking session earlier. Empty bottles and snack wrappers lay scattered across the coffee table.
"Don’t mind that," Wonwoo said casually, gesturing toward the clutter before leading you toward the kitchen. You followed him, settling on one of the bar stools by his kitchen island.
“It’s past midnight. Don’t you sleep?” he asked, his voice low as he filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove.
You sighed softly. Sleep wasn’t something you got much of these days. “I was awake already.”
Wonwoo glanced over his shoulder at you. “Was it because of us? Sorry if we were too noisy,” he said with a faint look of guilt.
You shook your head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I woke up about an hour ago.”
“And you’re suddenly craving ramyeon?” His eyebrow quirked slightly, and his tone was teasing.
You nodded with a small, embarrassed smile. “Yes. Craving ramyeon.”
Wonwoo chuckled softly as he opened a cabinet, pulling out a packet of ramyeon. He began preparing it with an easy confidence, adding a few extra ingredients here and there. As the water boiled, he glanced at you. “You never liked ramyeon before. What changed?”
You hesitated, unsure how to respond. You stayed quiet, watching him cook.
A few minutes later, he placed a steaming bowl of ramyeon in front of you, along with a small plate of kimchi from his fridge. Then he settled beside you on a stool, leaning back slightly.
Tentatively, you picked up your chopsticks and spoon, giving the food a cautious taste. You never liked ramyeon because it was always too salty or heavy for your taste. But the moment the soup touched your lips, you froze, surprised.
“It’s not salty,” you said, looking at him in shock.
Wonwoo smiled knowingly. “I figured. You never liked ramyeon because it’s salty and ruins your diet. So, I adjusted it a bit.”
Your eyes widened further. He remembered. He always remembered the little things about you, even things you had forgotten.
“It’s really good,” you admitted softly before taking another spoonful.
Wonwoo stood up, his hand brushing lightly over the top of your head in a familiar, comforting gesture. “Finish it and go get some sleep,” he said gently. “I’ll clean up the living room.”
You watched him walk away, your chest tightening slightly. For someone so stoic, Wonwoo had always had a way of making you feel seen, even in the smallest moments.
You woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed the next morning. However, the moment you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, a groan escaped your lips. Your face looked a little puffier than usual—a direct result of finishing that bowl of ramyeon last night. You made a mental note to stick to your usual late-night snacks moving forward.
Shaking off your regret, you took your time getting ready, thankful you didn’t have a morning show to rush to. After slipping into a work attire, you grabbed an apple from the kitchen and bit into it as you headed out the door.
The timing couldn’t have been more perfect—or awkward—as you stepped into the hallway and found yourself face-to-face with Wonwoo. He was already dressed sharply in his work attire, his tie perfectly knotted and his expression calm yet focused.
“Morning,” he greeted you with a warm smile.
You nodded in acknowledgment, the apple still held between your teeth, muffling any verbal response.
Wonwoo glanced at the time on his watch, then back at you. “Running late?” he asked casually as the two of you stepped into the elevator together.
You shook your head, taking another bite of your apple as the elevator descended.
“Good. Let me drive you,” he offered, leaning against the wall of the elevator. “We can grab some proper breakfast on the way.”
You blinked at him, startled by the suggestion. “This is my breakfast,” you replied, holding up the half-eaten apple.
Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of amusement and disapproval. “That’s not breakfast. Come on, I know a good place nearby. My treat.”
Before you could protest, the elevator doors opened, and he stepped out confidently, already heading toward his car. You followed reluctantly, wondering how he managed to convince you so effortlessly.
As Wonwoo navigated the early morning traffic, the soft hum of the car engine filled the silence between the two of you. You sat quietly, gazing out the window, your hands resting on your lap. The city streets blurred past, but your thoughts were elsewhere.
“I never really told you what I was doing in China, did I?” Wonwoo suddenly broke the silence, his voice steady but laced with an undertone of vulnerability.
You blinked, startled by his openness, and turned to glance at him. He kept his eyes on the road, but you could see the tension in his jaw.
“I spent the first six months there working on a project my father insisted I take over. It was… exhausting. But it wasn’t just work that kept me there,” he began. “I wanted to find a way to clear my head. To figure out what I really wanted in life.”
You didn’t respond, unsure of what to say, so you simply listened.
“I went back to school,” he continued, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Enrolled in a business program. It was something my father had always pushed for, but I never really considered it until… well, until I left.”
Your brow furrowed slightly, but you stayed silent, letting him continue.
“I wanted to prove I could handle myself. That I wasn’t just running away. So, I worked during the day at my father’s company, managing operations and learning the ins and outs of the business. And at night, I studied.” He let out a dry laugh. “It was brutal at first, balancing everything. But I needed to do it.”
Wonwoo glanced at you briefly before continuing. “I kept thinking about all the things I left behind—what I left unresolved. And when I said I wanted to fix things, I meant it.” His tone was firm now, as though he wanted to leave no room for doubt.
You shifted slightly in your seat, still unsure how to respond. The weight of his words hung in the air, and you could feel your chest tighten. It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about him during his absence, but hearing him say it out loud made it all too real.
“I know it might sound selfish,” Wonwoo added after a moment, his grip tightening on the steering wheel, “but I needed that time to sort myself out. To come back and face you—not as the guy who walked away, but someone who could try to make things right.”
You turned back to the window, your reflection staring back at you. The raw sincerity in his voice was undeniable, but the wound he left behind was still there, faint but persistent.
The light turned green, and the car moved forward, but the heaviness of his words stayed between you.
“I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me for leaving the way I did,” he added, his voice hesitant. “But I’m serious about fixing things. And I’m starting with myself.”
You didn’t know how to respond. His confession felt like a wave, crashing against the wall you had built over time. So, instead of speaking, you nodded faintly, letting the silence settle.
“I just want you to know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I’m not asking for anything from you. I’m just… trying to do better this time.”
As he pulled into the parking lot of a café, Wonwoo turned to you with a small, hopeful smile. “Breakfast on me,” he said lightly, trying to shift the mood.
You managed a weak smile in return, unsure what to make of everything he had just shared.
*
Once you stepped out of his car, Wonwoo sat motionless in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The faint sound of the car door shutting echoed in his ears, and an overwhelming sense of failure washed over him. He had messed up everything. Again.
Wonwoo replayed the conversation in his mind, cringing at how he had rambled, explaining and justifying himself like a desperate man trying to prove he wasn’t in the wrong. The realization hit him like a freight train—he had become exactly what he swore he’d never be.
Just like his father.
Your parting question lingered in the air like smoke.
"Do you still hate your dad?"
He had frozen at the sound of it, his mind scrambling for an answer he couldn’t give. Did he still hate his father? No, not anymore. But that realization didn’t bring him peace. If anything, it made him uneasy.
He didn’t hate his father. He disliked him. He resented the ways his father had molded him, the expectations, the cold lectures disguised as wisdom. But the anger that used to burn so fiercely had faded, replaced by something he couldn’t name.
And now, here he was, mimicking the very behaviors he had once despised. He had told himself for years that he would never turn out like his father. That he would live on his own terms, follow his own passions. Yet here he was, no longer a racer, no longer the man you had known. He had left you.
He became the kind of person he hated the most—explaining his mistakes, trying to rationalize them, as if that would make them disappear. He hated it.
But what he hated more was the possibility that you could see it too. That you could see how much he’d changed, and not necessarily for the better.
Wonwoo leaned back in his seat, staring blankly at the dashboard. He was different now, there was no denying that. He had done the opposite of everything he had once vowed to do. The boy who had once been so sure of his dreams, of you, was long gone.
He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. What was he now? And was this change something he could ever come back from?
As you disappeared into the distance, Wonwoo sat there, feeling like a stranger in his own skin.
*
Wonwoo leaned casually against the railing, observing the bustling set of the N-Jeen program shoot. It had been over a month since the icy tension between you two began to thaw. You had started talking to him again, and on occasion, when his schedule allowed, he would drive you to work. It was a small gesture, but it felt like progress—a step toward mending the fractured relationship.
He had arranged a lunch meeting nearby that day and decided to drop by the shoot when he heard it was close. As you stood a few meters away, chatting with one of the students involved in the program, Wonwoo motioned for his assistant to distribute the energy drinks he had brought for the crew. His gaze softened when it landed on you. Though he quickly redirected his attention, the fleeting smile didn’t go unnoticed.
"Mr. Jeon," the producer spoke up cautiously, pulling Wonwoo out of his thoughts. "May I ask you something? I hope you won’t take it the wrong way."
Wonwoo turned to face him, his expression calm and polite. "Of course. Go ahead."
The producer hesitated briefly, glancing at you before continuing. "Are you and our presenter, Ji Y/N, in a relationship? Forgive me if I’m overstepping."
A faint smile tugged at Wonwoo’s lips. "Why do you ask?" he replied, his tone measured, though the question amused him.
The producer scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Well... some of the crew have noticed you driving her to work pretty often. And, well, you seem... a bit affectionate toward her."
Wonwoo hummed thoughtfully, letting his gaze wander back to you for a moment. You were laughing at something the student said, your eyes sparkling under the afternoon sun. He looked away, his expression unreadable.
"I’ve known her for a long time," he finally said, a small, almost imperceptible smile lingering. "Maybe that explains it."
The producer nodded, though he still seemed curious. Wonwoo, however, didn’t elaborate. Instead, he shifted the conversation back to the shoot logistics, steering it away from personal matters.
"PD, there's something I need to show you," the assistant producer said urgently, stepping closer with an iPad in hand. His face was pale, and his tone carried a weight of concern.
Wonwoo watched as the producer took the device and stared at the screen. At the same moment, Wonwoo's secretary approached, holding out her own phone with a grim expression. "Mr. Jeon, you should see this."
Wonwoo frowned and glanced down at the article. His jaw tightened as he scanned the bold headline splashed across the screen:
"KBC's Presenter, Ji Y/N, Rumored to Be a Call Girl."
His eyes flicked over the details—a damning accusation from the wife of a high-profile broadcasting executive. The article claimed that you had been involved with her husband for years, presenting call logs, text history, and alleged money transfer records as evidence. Though the photo of you was clear, the man in question was conveniently blurred.
The producer let out a heavy sigh as he finished reading. "This is serious. I'll need to speak to the chief about this immediately," he said, his voice laced with urgency.
Wonwoo’s secretary leaned in closer. "What should we do, sir?"
For a moment, Wonwoo said nothing, his eyes fixed on you. You were completely unaware of the storm brewing around you, laughing and chatting with the students during the break. That carefree smile made his stomach twist.
"We’re facing an internal issue," the producer announced suddenly, his voice carrying across the set. "Let’s call it a day. We’ll reschedule once this matter is resolved."
The cast and crew exchanged confused glances, murmurs rippling through the set. You turned to look, your brow furrowing at the sudden decision. But one by one, everyone began to pack up their equipment and bid each other goodbye, leaving the scene scattered with uncertainty.
Wonwoo’s jaw clenched as he stalked toward the exit, his secretary trailing behind him. Anger simmered beneath his composed exterior, and his usually calm demeanor was replaced with an edge of frustration.
"Cancel the rest of my day," he barked at his secretary without looking back.
"Sir—" he began hesitantly, unsure how to proceed.
"Just cancel it," he snapped, his tone sharper than usual.
As he stepped into the car, Wonwoo slammed the door shut, his fists clenching on his lap. The driver cast a wary glance in the rearview mirror before silently starting the engine.
Wonwoo stared straight ahead, his mind swirling with questions and accusations. He didn’t know who to blame—was it you for not telling him about this mess? Was it himself for thinking things between you could finally settle? Or was it the faceless person behind this rumour?
The image of you laughing with the students earlier flashed in his mind, your carefree expression so out of place in the chaos now unfolding. He felt a pang of guilt for walking away without saying anything, but his anger was louder than his regret.
"She didn’t even know," he thought bitterly. "And I still left without a word."
The silence in the car was heavy, broken only by the sound of the tires on the road. Wonwoo refused to look at his phone or even acknowledge the world outside the vehicle. For now, he let the anger consume him, unsure of where it would take him next.
*
You spent the day trapped in a whirlwind of complicated emotions. The producer and his assistant had immediately pulled you aside, sliding the damning article across the table. The moment your eyes skimmed the headline, your heart sank.
So, this is how it ends?
“Is it true, Y/n?” the producer asked, his voice tense but steady.
Your breath hitched as you forced yourself to read the article again—every word, every comment, every accusation. It all stared back at you, cruel and unrelenting. The headline screamed louder in your mind than any voice in the room.
“We can’t continue the show, Y/n. You know how critical this project is for us and for N-Jeen. Having your name associated with this... it’s the last thing we need,” the producer said, his tone tinged with regret but firm.
You nodded slowly, the weight of his words crashing down on you. Of course, you understood. How could you not?
“It’s true,” you murmured, barely audible.
Both men froze, exchanging uneasy glances before focusing on you again.
“It’s true that I received money from him,” you clarified, your voice trembling as you gestured toward the executive mentioned in the article.
The producer let out a weary sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, that’s all we need for now. We’ll discuss this with the production team and let you know how we’re proceeding.”
You nodded again, too numb to respond.
Later, the call from KBC News came, pulling you into yet another interrogation. They asked the same questions—relentless, prying, cold. But no matter how many ways they asked, you couldn’t bring yourself to say more.
They didn’t want the truth. They didn’t care about your side of the story. At the end of the day, they only wanted to see you fall.
By the time they summoned you to the office that afternoon, the thought of stepping inside filled you with dread. Would this meeting be about finding answers, or would it be the final nail in the coffin of everything you had worked so hard to build?
You struggled after everything fell apart. Life had been cruel to you, but the hardest blow came when your mother passed away in a tragic car accident. She was simply passing by when a speeding car lost control and crashed into her. Grieving alone, you felt the crushing weight of loss, with no one to lean on.
In the midst of your sorrow, Jiseok and his crew appeared, trying to make you smile, to pull you out of your misery. For a fleeting moment, you thought maybe they cared. But their kindness came with a hidden motive.
You didn’t realize the truth until that fateful night. You found out they had been betting on who would sleep with you first. The revelation hit you like a punch to the gut, and it didn’t stop there. That night, Jiseok tried to take things further—he got you drunk and pushed you to the edge of your limits.
You tried to escape, head pounding, your senses clouded by the alcohol. You don’t remember how it all unfolded, but you woke up in a hospital bed days later, disoriented and broken. The doctors said you’d been there for a week. The psychological scars, however, would last much longer. They sent you to a psychologist, and for months, you worked to piece yourself back together.
Life took an unexpected turn when you met Mr. Park, a director at EBS. He had noticed you at a university campus event and approached you with an offer. At first, you were skeptical, but when he said he wanted to meet with you, you knew this could be the break you had been praying for—a chance to pursue your dream of becoming a presenter, a dream you had long buried under the weight of your circumstances.
At dinner, Mr. Park offered to pay for your tuition and even helped you secure a spot at KBC. The only condition? Talking. Just talking.
Conversations with him were nothing like what people would imagine. There were no ulterior motives, no inappropriate behavior—just the words of a man who missed his late wife and longed for the daughter he never had. He said you resembled his wife in her youth, and he found comfort in your presence.
But you understood why the rumors spiraled. Who would believe your story? Who would believe that Mr. Park’s intentions were purely paternal? That all he wanted was someone to fill the void of a lost family?
In a world as harsh and unforgiving as the one you lived in, desperation was a language not everyone could understand. You and Mr. Park were kindred souls in your own way—two people who found solace in the simplest connection. Yet, the world would never see it that way.
There were moments when you couldn’t help but feel disgusted with yourself—disgusted with everything you had done to get to this point. No matter how much you tried to justify it, the weight of those choices hung heavy on you. You told yourself it was just you working harder than anyone else, sacrificing more, pushing further. But deep down, you knew the truth: you were desperate.
Not everyone understood what it meant to be this desperate—to fight tooth and nail just to survive, just to carve out a place for yourself in a world that never gave you a chance.
You thought your hard work, your sacrifices, would pay off. That they would see you as a Presenter—a voice, a face, someone who had earned her place. But now?
Now, they called you a Call Girl. Not a Presenter. Not a professional. Just a scandal waiting to be torn apart.
And no matter how much you had fought to rise above, that label felt like it would bury you alive.
*
Wonwoo realized he shouldn’t have been like this—caught up in legalities and anger. He should have been by your side, supporting you through everything. That thought brought him to your door, hand hovering over the doorbell. He pressed it once and waited, feeling the seconds stretch into an eternity. When no one came, he pressed it again, this time hearing your voice call out, “Wait!”
You opened the door moments later, wrapped in a towel with damp hair and wearing pajamas.
“Come in,” you said hurriedly, disappearing into the kitchen. The warm, aromatic scent of cooking greeted him as he stepped inside.
“You’re cooking? It’s almost midnight,” Wonwoo said, following the smell into the kitchen. He stopped to see a pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove, the rich aroma filling the air. It reminded him of the comfort food your mother used to make when times got tough. The thought tightened something in his chest.
“Go dry your hair,” Wonwoo said softly, stepping closer to tap your arm. “I’ll take care of this.”
You hesitated but eventually nodded, leaving the kitchen. Wonwoo turned off the stove and carefully moved the pot to the dining table, preparing the side dishes and scooping out two bowls of rice. Once everything was set, he sat down and texted his lawyer, his phone in hand when you returned to the room.
“I’m fine, if that’s what you’re wondering,” you said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Wonwoo looked up as you sat down, a faint smile crossing your face as you opened the pot. The fragrant steam curled up into the air, and you let out a small sound of delight.
“It smells amazing,” you said, scooping some soup into your bowl.
Wonwoo watched as you took a bite, savoring the taste. For a moment, it felt like everything was normal.
“I’ll help you sue them,” Wonwoo said quietly, placing his arms on the table. “You don’t need to act fine with me.”
You glanced at him but shook your head. “No need. Mr. Park said he’ll handle it.”
Wonwoo frowned, his brows knitting together. “You mean it’s true? The rumors?”
You paused, setting your utensils down. “Yes. I took money from him. This apartment? He paid the down payment.”
Wonwoo stared at you, his mind racing. What could have pushed you to this? You never used to take money from anyone—not even from him. Back then, he had to secretly give money to your mother just to help you. Were you really that desperate?
“What happened to mom?” Wonwoo asked suddenly, his voice quieter now.
You froze, your hand hovering over your bowl. “I thought you were going to ask why I did it.”
“I’m not curious about that,” Wonwoo said firmly. “I know you have your reasons.”
There was a heavy silence before you finally spoke, your voice breaking the stillness. “It was a hit-and-run. I was in the middle of work when I got the call. By the time I reached the hospital… she was gone.”
Wonwoo exhaled slowly, the weight of your words sinking in. “And after that?” he asked gently.
“I moved,” you said, your tone detached, as if recalling a distant memory. “But Jiseok found me. He was there, but not really there. A lot happened after that—I ended up in the hospital, had regular visits to a psychiatrist, and went through court proceedings. Jiseok was sentenced to ten years.”
You bit your lip, pausing before continuing. “I told Mr. Park everything. He promised to make sure Jiseok wouldn’t bother me again, even after his release. Mr. Park… he cares for me like I’m his daughter.”
Wonwoo sighed, leaning back slightly. “So the rumors aren’t true.”
You chuckled humorlessly. “I told you—I did take the money.”
“But it wasn’t anything like what the media is claiming,” Wonwoo said, his voice tightening with anger.
You shrugged, your tone calm but tinged with bitterness. “It took me years to heal from what Jiseok did. I would never sell my body for money.”
Wonwoo clenched his fists under the table, anger surging through him—not at you, but at the world that had twisted your story into something it wasn’t. He wished he could have been there for you sooner, to stop this from ever happening.
“You have me now,” Wonwoo said softly, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of emotion.
You glanced at him briefly before turning your eyes back to your food. “But you’ll go,” you murmured. “You’ll have your own family one day.”
Wonwoo frowned, leaning closer. “You’re my family.”
You shook your head with a faint, sad smile. “We’re not kids anymore, Wonwoo. My mom was the one who took care of you, not me.”
“Then I’ll take care of you,” he said, his tone firm, almost defiant.
You chuckled bitterly, a sound devoid of joy. “It’s not as easy as that.”
Wonwoo leaned back slightly, studying you, the flicker of doubt and vulnerability in your eyes. “But you said you liked me,” he said quietly, almost as if testing the waters. “Do you… not like me anymore?”
You froze for a moment, the question hanging heavily in the air. Then, with a deep breath, you looked up at him. “I do,” you admitted, your voice soft but steady.
His heart leapt, but the words that followed stopped him in his tracks.
“Because of that… it’s not as easy as it used to be,” you continued, your eyes dropping to your hands. “Because I still like you. And I don’t know if it’s mutual or not.”
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with unspoken emotions. Wonwoo’s gaze softened as he processed your words, a mix of relief and guilt flashing across his face.
“It is,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s mutual.”
You looked at him, your breath hitching as his words sank in. But the weight of reality kept you grounded.
“Then you know it’s not simple,” you said. “Not after everything. Not with everything that’s happened.”
Wonwoo’s eyes didn’t waver, determination replacing the uncertainty. “It’s not simple,” he agreed. “But nothing worth it ever is.”
The two of you sat there in silence, the air between you heavy with the past and the possibilities of what could come next. For the first time in a long while, the tiniest glimmer of hope began to break through the storm clouds surrounding you.
*
Two years later, the air was filled with the gentle hum of a string quartet playing a soft melody as guests gathered in the garden of a picturesque villa nestled on a hillside. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the ceremony, making everything feel surreal.
Wonwoo adjusted his cufflinks nervously, standing at the altar. He looked every bit the dashing groom in his tailored navy suit, but his usually calm demeanor was tinged with impatience. Hansol, his best man, nudged him with a grin.
“She’s coming, relax,” Hansol teased. “You’ve waited for years; you can handle a few more minutes.”
Wonwoo glanced at him, rolling his eyes. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one getting married.”
Hansol chuckled but didn’t push further. Wonwoo’s gaze returned to the aisle, where the chatter of the guests softened into a hush as the first notes of the wedding march played.
And then, you appeared.
The world seemed to stop for Wonwoo. You walked down the aisle in a simple yet elegant gown, its soft fabric flowing effortlessly with each step. Your veil framed your face, but it was your smile—radiant and genuine—that captivated him most.
You caught his gaze, and for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you. Memories of the past flashed in your mind: the struggles, the heartbreak, the nights spent wondering if happiness was meant for you. But now, here you were, walking toward the man who had stood by you through it all.
Jisoo, Wonwoo's half brother, walked you down the aisle, his arm steady as he whispered, “You’ll be happy.” You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.
When you reached the altar, Wonwoo stepped forward, his eyes never leaving yours. He extended a hand, and when you placed yours in his, it felt like everything in the world had fallen into place.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
“And you look nervous,” you teased softly, earning a quiet laugh from him.
The officiant began, but neither of you could focus on the words. Your eyes were locked on each other, the vows exchanged feeling like an extension of the promises you’d made to each other in the quiet moments of the past two years.
“I promise to love you, protect you, and stand by your side no matter what,” Wonwoo said, his voice steady despite the tears glistening in his eyes.
“And I promise to trust you, support you, and never let the past define our future,” you replied, your voice trembling but firm.
When the officiant declared you husband and wife, the cheers from the guests were drowned out by the sound of your heart pounding as Wonwoo leaned in to kiss you. It was a kiss filled with relief, joy, and the promise of a new beginning.
As you walked back down the aisle hand in hand, laughter and petals filling the air, Wonwoo whispered, “See? Not simple, but worth it.”
You smiled, squeezing his hand. “Worth it.”
The reception that followed was a lively celebration of your love, with speeches that had everyone laughing and crying in equal measure. Wonwoo danced with you under the stars, the twinkling lights above mirroring the warmth in his eyes as he held you close.
“Here’s to the rest of our lives,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.
You smiled, tears of happiness brimming in your eyes. “And to never giving up.”
The past may have shaped you, but together, you were ready to create a future filled with love, trust, and endless possibilities.
*
The soft evening light filtered through the living room windows as you sat cross-legged on the carpet, your small hands fiddling with one of Wonwoo's toy cars. Your mother was seated nearby, knitting a scarf while humming a soft tune. The atmosphere was warm, though a certain sadness lingered as you asked, “Why did Wonwoo’s parents leave him?”
Your mother paused for a moment, her knitting needles coming to a gentle halt. She looked at you with a thoughtful expression, carefully choosing her words. “It’s because adults sometimes have problems they don’t know how to fix. They get overwhelmed, and instead of solving things together, they make decisions that affect everyone. That’s why they left Wonwoo with us.”
You furrowed your brows, your small mind trying to understand something so complex. “But don’t you and Dad have problems too?”
Your mother smiled softly, nodding. “We do, Sweetheart. Every family has challenges. But having you helps us solve them in a better way. You remind us of what’s most important.”
You huffed in frustration, your tiny fists gripping the toy. “Wonwoo is a good kid, though! He even lets me borrow his toys. Why are his parents so mean to him?”
Your mother reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s why you should always be kind to Wonwoo. What do you think about him? Don’t you think he’d make a good brother?”
At that, your face lit up with excitement. “I like him! He’s like Dad! I want to marry him when I grow up!”
Your mother laughed, the sound light and melodic. “That’s sweet, my love, but marrying him will take a very long time. You have plenty of time to decide.”
Before you could protest, the front door swung open, and your father’s voice called out cheerfully, “We’re home!”
Wonwoo’s small voice chimed in, excitement evident in his tone. “Y/N! I got your strawberry milk!” He dashed into the room, his little legs carrying him swiftly as he held the carton out to you, his grin wide and proud.
You gasped in delight, jumping to your feet to accept it. “Thank you, Wonwoo! You’re the best!”
Your mother watched the two of you, her heart swelling at the sight. As she exchanged a warm glance with your father, who had followed Wonwoo into the room carrying grocery bags, she whispered to herself, “Maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong.”
Wonwoo beamed at you as you took a sip of the milk, your happiness evident. “See? I told Dad to get this one for you.”
“Wonwoo, you’re my favorite person ever!” you declared, earning a bashful smile from him.
Your mother chuckled, resuming her knitting. She couldn’t help but wonder if, years from now, you’d look back on this moment and smile, the seeds of a bond already deeply rooted.
The end.
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