#I like the contrast of that with what happens to him

[ixxivvv]

small in your coat.

zayne, sylus, caleb.

(written by me in 15+hr makeup and contacts crouching on the station floor as i wait for the last train after a shitty night club shift, yearning for a dream to make me feel protected, in their coat.)

-⛄️ zayne ❄️-

made from well tailored houses, all his jackets had structure to them. shoulders wide and thick fabrics.

"Heading home." he sent to you, in mind you are waiting in his home. your night together, sleeping in his place for tonight for no particular reason was going to begin after a while of being busy with each others work: and you couldn't wait.

you explore his apartment in curiosity, a place you are familiar with now. his room still felt like you were entering his world. no dust, everything was in order and tidy. it still felt so wide and neat, in contrast to your casual attire now.

you opened his cabinets and drawers, observing the entire thing. you find bits and pieces of your favorite memories together- the shirt he wore to your first date together, the sweater you gifted him, and all of his coats on the hanger. reaching for one, the classic burberry trench coat and resting it on your shoulders. it just felt like a back hug- he may be cold but only you know how warm and kind he was. it nest heavy on you, nearly dragging the ends to the floor, the sleeves too long too. in his pocket, something crinkles- a piece of bonbon chocolate and a candy. it made you smile, as you look into the mirror.

as you felt him, the entrance door opens. "darling? im home..." you scurry over, "forgetting" to take your new cape on. "welcome home! :)"

he expresses that micro expression he often does- his pupils widening and looking to the side, almost processing his next move. but this time, he couldn't find words. was it too much? you tilt your head, peeping into him. ".. zayne?"

he managed to look at you, then suddenly grips your shoulders tight. he gasps and flushes,

"... did you miss me that much?"

- 🐦‍⬛sylus 🚗-

his biker jacket, thick leather with a thrashing pattern in his signature colors. the one you hold on tight to from his back when you two are on a joyride. in fancy outings with a dress he order made, he subtly pushes you forward: to show his beautiful girl, to lead the way and only when you seem lost he stands by your side.

he rarely showed his back, which is why you enjoyed joyrides. sylus hasn't taken you out for a dinner or party or anything for a while due to discourse and in fighting between groups. arrests, leadership changes, moving positions and disagreements. it was hectic and n109 zone was not safe now- less people in the streets. he kept you inside which is fine, but even without luke and kieran in the home, only mephisto kept you company for now.

eye rolling media coverage that would never have enough air time of what truely happened, social media discourse of what happened...

"mephisto-h... where is sylus?" and the high tech shows a display of his current location. still out there in some meeting with some people you wouldn't want to know. its all so hectic just looking at it. the cons of being a "mafia boss boyfriend's girlfriend" trope is going to your day job and watching people at work come and go, no idea of anything and the kind of people youve come to known and their struggles. its all just outsiders. you loved sylus, you really did, and more than the thrilling adrenaline. a kind of world which youve come to know that he is there in because he can't live anywhere else. the kind of loneliness and disconnect from people that "don't watch the news" or it's "too dark".

your heavy legs dragged you into his closet. opening the doors, it smelled of his cologne and dry cleaners. but you reached out for the only jacket that dosen't particularly smell of anything- his biker jacket. its made with protective plates and leather. it faintly smelled of his cologne and petrol. maybe you did miss the thrill of when you first got together. or the wind.

"kitten?" sylus walks in, surprising you.

"sylus? you were home?" "why, unhappy to see me? well, i can clearly see you wanted to see me." he chuckles and looks into you lovingly, like a kitten caught in a ball of yarn. caught redhanded, so small in his jacket all curled up like a blanket. he lifts you up, bridal style- so adorable, pretending to not miss him with your words but so clearly did.

sylus decided in that moment, that the discourse needs to end- to bring a sense of "peace" back.

- ✈️ caleb 🍎-

(soo theres a canon audio that you steal his jacket aand... well this will be based off that 😭)

caleb called you to eat dinner from downstairs- "y/n! dinners ready~!" he said so happily, he enjoyed cooking but he loves "playing" house with you.

but you weren't coming down, so he placed the pan in the middle of the table and headed upstairs? where were you now? werent you just taking a shower? still in the shower prohaps? however his instincts, senses you were in his room. his big footsteps, open to a sight he didn't expect.

you were already changed with no makeup, but you had your hands behind your back, staring into his closet like an art piece.

"did you, find my clothes interesting?" you took back by surprise, eyes widening. he informs you that dinners ready and guides you downstairs around your shoulder. you seemed to be in thought still, "i wonder whats in her head again." caleb ponders.

as you sit across him from the dinner table, chewing - still in thought. he couldn't leave it.

"pipsqueak, whats on your mind?" ".. nothing. pass the soy sauce?" his eyes lose its spark.

as he showered that night, washing his hair down in his own thoughts. he could feel himself getting anxious, triggering his own core and attempting to coax himself out of it. hes practicing not to doubt you so much.

he sighs as he steps out the shower in a single towel wrapped around his waist, just to see you sitting in the corner of his bed again, dangling your legs. you just stared into him, only with one thing. his colonel jacket hauled on your tiny shoulders. you were sitting on the long tail of the trench, the back stitching that resembles mechanical wings rests on your back. your soft features contrasted with the black color that faintly smelled of iron.

"...", he had no words, whether in disbelief or just how small you were in his build. if you stood up, the coat might drag across the floor. you fury your brows, sensing that he didn't enjoy the gesture. it was childish, but the details on his coat was impressive- no fraying or loose thread, some signs of wear. it sat heavy on you, emotionally and physically.

but caleb also adored it- his brute power and fear in the jacket suddenly seemed softer in your touch. how he'd just let you.

".. you like the colonel that much? or the owner of this uniform?" you touch the gold stitching, teasing him a bit more.

".. then, i must bow down to the colonel." he gets on his knee, softly taking your foot. he was still in his towel, but you knew what was going to happen-

and you loved it. crossing your arms, roleplaying your power. caleb smirks and places a kiss on your ankle.

".. you have the full authority to command me. i shall serve you, my entire body.." as he kisses up your foot and thigh- only you can do this to the actual colonel himself.

[foreverisntenough]

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Please read:  Little note from me about him and one more about our community In summary: This is a swan song fic. The fic was never really about "him" as much as it was a fictional story and character I got to create and share with you all. I hope you still love reading it as much as I still love writing it. xx

Chapter 19- 'Still' | 'Aperture'

word count - 14.2k

[Hold - Vera Blue]

The room was too quiet. Not yours. Not his. Just borrowed space in a borrowed house, a guest room draped in dim lamplight and the smell of someone else’s perfume clinging to the air. A suitcase in the corner, a gold hoop earring abandoned on the dresser, bedsheets that felt too crisp—untouched. It felt like being in someone else’s dream. Like this version of you, of him, only existed in this room, in this hour, with the door pulled shut behind you.

The room smelled like linen and a candle that had long been blown out. The curtains hung still, but everything else felt like it was swaying, off-kilter, like the axis had shifted just slightly. A room not yours. A bed not meant for either of you. And yet here you were, standing at the edge like a ghost, trying to fill the space between love and fear with something physical. You stood in the middle of it all, wrapped in the soft hum of silence and the weight of what hadn’t been said. Your arms crossed gently, holding yourself. You could feel his eyes on you, carving you open in places you’d worked so hard to stitch shut. And even though his hands weren’t on you, the memory of them lingered; along your spine, at your jaw, in the dip of your back where his palms used to rest like he was born to hold you.

You were both dressed in lies and hesitation. The space between you was vast, brimming. Trent’s eyes were on you like a storm held behind glass—raging, contained, waiting for the crack and you knew he was fighting himself. You knew he wanted to ask, wanted to beg; Do you love me? Say it. Please say it. But he didn’t. Because pride was sharp, and he didn’t want to bleed over you anymore but he already was, the first cut happened long ago and he never once tried to sew it closed. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his thighs, his hands limp between his knees, watching you like he didn’t trust himself to speak first. He looked up at you like he was preparing for impact, as if your silence was a wave building in the distance he could already feel the saltwater in his mouth. His throat bobbed when he swallowed.  You’d built it up too much. The words. They lived behind your ribs now, boxed in by your fear. You wanted to say them like a whisper, like a promise. But the silence was too loud, and the consequences too cruel. He waited anyway. He watched you with that look—the one that begged. The one that hurt. Trent’s eyes searched your face, hungry, hollowed out, hoping. Every inhale he took seemed to brace for your mouth to shape the words, the ones he’d been waiting for since LA. But your lips stayed shut, painted with want but no courage, parted only on silence. Every breath felt like a loaded moment. And his heart cracked a little more. You took a small step forward. His eyes followed your every move like you were a spell he was desperate to stay under. He didn’t reach for you. Not yet.You moved slowly, feet bare on the carpet, soft steps betraying the storm in your chest. He should’ve stopped you then. Should’ve stood up and walked out and saved himself from the softness he couldn’t stop giving. But you were already in front of him. One breath between you. Maybe less. You could feel it rising in your throat again—that treacherous want to confess, to say the thing that would make the world spin differently. But you were trembling, and when he looked up at you like that, like he knew—like he was already bracing for it—you panicked. You didn’t want to break him any more than you had. What had you done to this person? You felt at fault; you’d taken this golden boy, cheeky and bold and dulled him down to be weak and gentle. You’d ruined him already and you’d hadn’t said a word yet. You didn’t want to hurt. Not with words. So you touched him instead. You knew that was where he was the strongest and yet the weakest to you. Your hands slid up his neck, your nails scraping against his skin, your manicure dragging upwards before your fingers gripped into his hair, tugging gently. He closed his eyes like he was praying. His breath hitched, and when he opened them again, they were darker. Blurred with something raw. 

“Come here,” you whispered, so faint it cracked on the end. He stood. Moved into you with aching restraint. Your lips—fuck, your lips— They moved like magnets. Not just drawn, bound. And he was the metal, trembling on the verge of bending. The kiss wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow—painfully so. A study in need. A choreography of heartbreak. You kissed him like a lifeline, like you could say everything you were too afraid to voice. And he let you. Because of course he did. He’d give you anything. He shouldn’t though. But in letting you, he got to have you too. He knew you loved him. He could feel it in the way your body curved into his like muscle memory. But it hurt. God, it fucking hurt to let you have him when you couldn’t say it. Your hands flattened over his chest, his heart thundering beneath your palms. You let your fingers trail downward, over the ridges of his abdomen, the hem of his shirt. He whispered your name like a warning. You kissed the corner of his mouth instead. He was already hard when your hand brushed him through his trousers—proof of how much he still wanted you, even when you hurt him. He cursed under his breath, forehead falling against yours. 

“Baby… we don’t have to—” He offered you the door but it was already too late. You were inside.

“I want to.” And it was true. But it wasn’t whole. It wasn’t all of it. He searched your face for the thing he needed, but your mouth found his again, tasting like secrets and desperation and denial. He gripped your waist. Strong. Abnormally unsteady. His hands trembled as he lifted your knit top, mouth grazing the curve of your shoulder. His lips were reverent. His body betrayed him. He wanted to resist, but he couldn’t. He wanted to ask you not to do this if you didn’t mean it. If you didn’t love him. But he didn’t. He was only a man. Weak to the girl letting him peel her clothes off. And even worse than that he was only a man in love. A man starving for something you wouldn’t say. You felt his fingertips press into your hips, heard the low, broken groan he swallowed when you rocked into him. He couldn’t stop himself from lifting you, laying you onto the bed that wasn’t yours. The sheets were too cold, the pillows too firm, the room too quiet to disguise the ache in the air. He hovered above you, chest heaving. You swallowed feeling emotion rush behind your eyes. You could feel it all now, circling like vultures around you two.

“Don’t,” he whispered, voice hoarse, desperate. “Don’t just touch me to keep from saying it.” Your hand cupped his jaw.  You kissed him again. A soft silencer. And God help him, he kissed you back.

“Just… stay,” you whispered. “Please.” You begged and he nodded. But his heart was screaming. No, tell me you love me. Please. Just once. He pushed your hair back from your forehead, kissed your eyelids shut, and let himself fall into the only version of love you’d let him have. And when his mouth trailed over your skin, worshipping each part of you like a psalm, neither of you spoke. Not yet. Not out loud. But the room held the secret. So did your body. So did his hands. So close. So close it ached. His jaw clenched beneath your fingers as you pulled him back. Your thumb traced over the stubble there, your breath so close, it left a dewy sheen on his skin. His eyes squeezed shut like he could block out the truth of what was happening. Like he could pretend your kiss didn’t undo every thread he’d tried to pull taut. He wanted to resist. He should have. But you tasted like a beginning and an ending all at once. Your mouth moved over his like an apology. A surrender. An ache. He responded instinctively, greedily, hands finding your waist like they always did, rolling you over to be on top of him, tugging you to straddle his lap. His touch was bruising, desperate. Like he needed to ground himself in you or risk falling apart completely. You shouldn’t have kissed him. You knew it would hurt. It was hurting you too. But you couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop. Like some ancient thing in your chest recognized him, his breath, his body, his breaking and your mouth just… moved. A reflex. A calling. And he was answering it with every part of himself.

“You know this isn’t fair,” he rasped against your jaw, his voice a gutted thing. Raw. Wrecked. Still wanting. You didn’t say anything. You just pressed closer, your mouth at his throat now, your nose buried in that familiar place where his skin was softest. Your lips trembled but didn’t stop. He groaned, low and broken, when your hips shifted, grinding against him like you needed him to give in. And he did. He wanted to because even if his heart was breaking, he still was the one underneath you, he still was the one your lips wanted to be pressed against. You felt the strain of him through his trousers, hard against you, caught between resistance and want, head tilted back in defeat. Your lips brushed his again, helpless, magnetic. And that was the thing. That was always the thing. Your bodies knew no caution. No pride. Only pull. He was drowning in you and he knew it. And still, his hands found the button of your jeans undoing them, greedy, trembling. Needing to feel something that would explain all this silence. All this waiting. You kissed him again. Softer this time. Sadder. Like you were in pain knowing exactly what you were doing to him. But he continued to kiss you back. Because your mouth on his was better than nothing. Better than goodbye. Better than the hollow ache of pretending he didn’t want every single inch of you, body, heart, and the words still shackled behind your teeth. You were trembling now too. And still, you undressed for him. Piece by piece. And still, he let you. And still, he helped. Because no matter how much it hurt to keep wanting you like this, no matter how cracked his pride had become, no matter how many times he swore he wouldn’t let it hurt him—You were his gravity. 

—

Your lips crashed together, too hard, too soft, too everything. There was no gentleness in the collision, just heat and desperation and history that wouldn’t quit. His hands found your face, then your hips, then your back. He tugged you in like he needed to feel you pressed against every inch of him or he’d collapse. You pulled at his shirt. Peeled it off him, slow and sinful. Your fingertips brushed down his chest, tracing the line of his abs, the edge of old scars and new tension. He hissed under his breath. His hands weren’t still either. They slid up your ribs, rough palms reverent as they gripped up your thighs. Fingers trembling slightly, even though he tried to keep control. You had slipped out of your clothes like they were lies you could shed. His eyes drinking in every inch of you, chest rising, pupils blown. And still… he looked heartbroken. Because something was different now. You didn’t feel the way you used to in his arms. There was distance even in the closeness. The tension wasn’t the good kind. It felt like a goodbye was threading through your fingertips even as they clutched his skin. Love didn’t feel like safety, it felt like a weapon. A loaded gun on the nightstand neither of you wanted to reach for first. Still, he kissed you again. Still, he couldn’t stop. Because you were his favorite ache. A man who had memorized the rhythm of your moans, the way your back arched when he touched the back of your knee, the exact pitch of your breath when he bit your collarbone. A man who knew what it meant when your eyes fluttered shut before your lips even touched his. He knew you. Every part. Every tremor.

His mouth traced a trail down your neck but he didn’t want to be under you anymore. He couldn’t be. He felt too weak that way. So he rolled you back over, his body crowding overtop of yours. But in the new position he still felt weak to you even as he kissed your shoulders, your sternum, the place just beneath your ribs where he said your soul lived. And he hated himself for how good it felt to be like this, even if it was breaking him. Your hands were in his hair. His lips at your navel. You were a symphony of want and guilt, and still you pulled him in. The sheets were cold. His body was hot. And his hands continued, sliding up your sides like worship. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, the faintest touch enough to make you gasp softly. Your grip on him tightened more as a rush of heat pooled in your stomach. He teased them, pinching and rolling them between his fingers, sending waves of pleasure through your body.  Fingers ghosting over soft skin, tracing the outline of a love story unfinished. Long strokes up your thighs. Palms mapping skin he knew too well but felt foreign now. His touch was slow, lyrical, thick with ache. Worship and war at once. And you—your breath hitched, spine arching, helpless to your own need. Your bodies colliding was the only thing that still made sense. But it didn’t feel like it used to. Not safe. Not warm. The air was charged, sharpened. He pressed his mouth to your neck. You whimpered, nails in his shoulders. He groaned against your collarbone, but there was hesitation in the way he kissed you, like he was trying to remember how it felt before this ache lived in every inch of him. Before love became a wound.

—

He was everywhere, his hands were everywhere—possessive, learned, merciless in the way only someone who knew you could be. Dragging over your ribs, down your hips, dipping lower, his touch coaxed your body into unraveling thread by thread, faster than your mind could catch. You clung to him, nails biting into his shoulders, thighs trembling, a whimper bottling up under your tongue. The room was quiet besides gasps, kisses, and the filthiest of moans the moment you felt his fingers slipping between your bodies, before smoothly parting your wet folds. You were practically dripping for him before his fingers even made it to your heart. Your eyes flittered down as he slid two fingers in with ease, his thumb seamless and torturously on your sensitive clit, watching his wrist move with intent, precision, knowledge of you with your jaw slacked and lidded eyes. He unraveled you with each movement. Moment after moment. You were so close, so close it hurt, and he knew it because he knew you. He felt it in the way you shook, the way your breath hitched, the way your hips tried to chase his hand greedily, desperate for more, desperate for him. He hummed against your skin, cruel and tender all at once, his fingers sliding in deeper, dragging you right to the edge of yourself. And maybe for this moment he wasn’t hurt, this was heaven to him. But to you, right now he felt a little like god. He worked you expertly, wrecking you slowly, his mouth at your ear, breathing you in like he wanted to consume you whole.

“That's it, baby,” he murmured, voice low, thick, strained from the effort of holding himself back. “Just like tha’. Right there, hmm?” His lips moved against your burning skin. The pressure inside you built until it was unbearable, electric, a livewire threatening to snap. You writhed, gasping, your body betraying you, desperate for something, no, someone, that your mind was still too scared to name. His fingers were deep, slow, curling just right. Not just to take your breath, but to keep it, to pull it from your lungs and hold it between his hands like something sacred. The room was hush, but thick with heat, the kind of silence that hums at the edges, like even the walls were tense, waiting. He moved with a kind of devotion, the kind that made your skin feel like an altar, each stroke deliberate, searching, reverent. But tonight, it was different. Everything was. You were already too raw, too undone, the pain still thrumming beneath your skin, the ache of hurting him still tucked into the corners of your breath. And now his mouth was on your neck, his fingers inside you like he was trying to build you back together from the inside out. He was wounded, maybe angry, but he loved you too much not to touch you. And you loved him too much to ask him to stop.  And then, in the heat of it, when your body tipped into that perfect whiteout, pleasure blinding you, you gasped. And control was lost like a car on a rain slick motorway at night, you tumbling, barrelling, fatally. You hadn’t even known it was coming. But it was there, coiled behind your ribs, pressed tight into the back of your throat, aching beneath your tongue. When his fingers curved up just right, when he growled  “This what you needed, baby? This what you fuckin’ needed from me?” He taunted you. He was on another planet. Making you feel good made him feel euphoric but you didn’t just feel good you were crashing. And then… it broke. You didn’t scream it. You couldn’t even fit it. It fell from your mouth like a sobbing breath you’d been choking on all night. A sound so soft it could’ve been a breath, a whisper caught in time. A sound from the very bottom of you.

"I—I love– love you—" It broke out of you helplessly, breathy, ruined, a sound barely there, like it had been dragged up from the very center of you, ripped from the heart you thought you could protect. You sobbed with the force of it, thighs quaking around him, your hands clutching at his neck like you could anchor yourself there, like you had to. He froze. You hadn’t meant to say it. Not now. Every muscle in him turned to stone. Because he heard it. No matter how quiet, no matter the circumstance. Every syllable. Every breath. Every beat of your frantic, naked heart. It slammed into his chest like a freight train. And in that moment, every piece of you collapsed inward, the pleasure, the panic, the unbearable ache of wanting to rewind time. You squeezed your eyes shut, stunned, breath catching like you could swallow the words back down if you just didn’t move. But you couldn’t still. Your chest heaved. Your stomach turned. You felt exposed and carved open, like your body had betrayed your heart and your heart had betrayed your mind. You hadn’t meant for him to find out this way. Not with your back arched and your fingers curled tight into his biceps. Not with his hand between your thighs and your body falling apart around him. But it was too late. The words were out. The air had changed. And you couldn’t pretend anymore. “I—” you tried, voice cracking, but the rest didn’t come. Your lip trembled. Tears began to slip down your cheek. Trent blinked slow feeling the love, the pain, the disbelief tenfold as shame and vulnerability crashed through your veins like fire. You hide your face against his chest as your lungs emptied, your heart stopped pumping, your ears ringing, tears wetting his collarbone, realising you’d done the thing you feared most. You’d told him the truth.

And for a second, he didn’t move, still deep between your thighs, his other hand gripping you hard enough to bruise, holding you, making you wait—pausing like he didn’t know whether to worship you or destroy you because he was hurting even after you said it. He swore his heart had completely stopped, but then kicked back up in a panic, trying to outrun the moment. And then, he moved with a hunger that shook. His hand snaked fast from its place buried between your bodies. Hand retreating like he couldn’t bear to hurt you even if you already had hurt him. It wasn’t rejection. It was grief. The movement was too fast for you to catch up though. His big hand gripped your cheeks, squeezing them together, hard, aggressive, firm. He hovered above you, his eyes wild and shining and furious with hope. One hand holding your face, rough and desperate, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his. The other hand on your thigh, pinning you from leaving. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged against your mouth. He looked like a man drowning in a single word.

“Say it again.”  His voice was ragged. Low, lethal, and broken. His voice vibrating against your skin. You whimpered, shaking your head no, overwhelmed, terrified because it felt too big, too real, too irreversible, too wrong. But Trent wasn’t letting you go now. “Say it to my face.” He harshly commanded an octave louder. He gripped your cheeks tighter in his big hand. His voice cracked. You stared up at him, eyes wide, chest heaving. Your lip trembled. You could feel him trembling too. The room was unbearably still, except for the sound of your breath and the thudding of your hearts, trying to sync. Your silence was too loud though. It filled the room like smoke, thick, suffocating, inescapable. And he stayed there, just above you, motionless. Just breathing. Barely. 

And then, you watched in real time, a fear much bigger than loving him materialize. You’d broken the boy above you. He blinked once. A tear—just one—tipped from the corner of his lash line, in slow motion, it landed on your cheek. Hot. Unexpected. It burned more than anything he could’ve said to you. Neither of you moved to wipe it. He waited in pain. You watched him wait. The silence stretched. And still, the words tangled in your throat. He looked at you like this moment might kill him. Like if you didn’t say it, you’d ruin him for good. The kind of love that doesn’t knock. It just breaks the door down. You could feel his breath on your lips.  His hands on your face. His heart in his throat. “Say it,” he whispered again, this time softer. Like he was asking the universe, not just you. But you couldn’t. You didn’t know why. You wanted to. You really did. But the words sat there, just behind your teeth, like a tide that couldn’t crest. Like they’d been held hostage too long and didn’t know how to be free without ruining everything. Your silence answered for you. And that was the cruelest thing of all. Trent blinked once. Then again. You watched something inside him break with the quietest kind of violence. Not a shatter—a slip. Like the floor beneath his feet had tilted and he was no longer sure if he could trust the gravity that held him here. And then, his hand dropped. His grip on your cheeks loosened, letting go. Letting you go. And the hurt painted itself across his face with all the precision of a wound reopening. He pulled away from you slowly, almost carefully. But his hands weren’t gentle anymore—no, they weren’t on you to be gentle any longer. They were like a ghost vanishing. His whole body trembled. Like he couldn’t believe what he’d just let happen. He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t. Because he knew if he did, he’d fall again. And he wouldn’t survive it this time. Your fingers lifted instinctively, reaching for his forearm, hesitating in the space between you. 

“T…” you whimpered, a ghost of breath, shattered on your tongue.

“No.” he said, breath hitching. His voice was hollow. Unrecognizable. He jerked his arm back like your touch scalded him. 

“Please…” Your voice cracked, catching on the jagged edge of grief, “Please don’t—”

“No.” Harsher, louder now. He stood abruptly, stepping back from the bed, and you felt the absence of him like a wound. Like something sacred had just been ripped from your skin. You sat up, sheets pooling around your waist, arms clutching your own body in vain. The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, loud, gutting, not pretty. The kind that came from deep. From hollow. From heartbreak that had no name yet. He turned his back to you, jaw clenched, one hand balling into a fist making his knuckles go whiter, the other dragging over his hair roughly. And then, a long, trembling exhale. He unclenched his fist and swiped the back of his hand over his eyes. Not another tear. Not one. Not from him. The air was thick with the sound of you falling apart. And for the first time, Trent was the one not saying anything. A taste of your own medicine and that silence was the loudest thing you had ever heard. A moment stretched. Suspended. A breath that didn’t quite end.

"Please…"  A soft, gasping wreckage of a word. You weren’t able to cope with it the way he could. You felt pathetic.  "I love you so much. Please don't leave me." It wasn't loud. It wasn't elegant. It was real. It was broken, your chest heaving, tears coursing down your face. And it gutted him like a blade between the ribs. That was it. That was the shot to the chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there. Falling apart in real time. He turned back to you, slow, like the weight of it all had anchored his limbs. You were curled into yourself on the bed, small, wrecked, shaking, eyes shut tight from heartbreak, reaching out aimlessly into the abyss of the comforter like you could physically haul him back with your hands alone. Sobbing so hard your chest barely caught air between cries. He hated you. God, he hated you for making him feel this much. He loved you more.  

Two strides, and he was there. Dragging you into him, cradling your sob-wracked body against his chest, kissing the top of your head so fiercely it was almost brutal. 

"Why did—” he rasped, voice shredded, lips brushing your temple. "Why did you wait?" He asked desperately but there was no answer. He wasn’t expecting one. You clung to him, sobbing, nails digging into his skin, and he swore he felt his heart physically break and stitch itself back together under your touch. He inhaled you like you were the only air he needed before he kissed you—mouth on your forehead, your cheeks, your trembling jaw, desperate and hungry and so, so broken. Peeling the sheets away from your body like they offended him, like he couldn’t bear even one more barrier between you. The way he touched you wasn’t patient, it was worship. It was punishment. It was homecoming. Because those words ‘I love you’ came too late. You said them now, in panic. In fear. Not when it mattered. Not when he needed them. His heart, his whole fucking heart, shattered quietly in his chest, like glass breaking in velvet. A beautiful, bloody ruin no one could hear but him. Still, he wanted you. Both of you broken. A bed littered with shards of yourselves. And when he laid you back against the mattress, the guest bed that didn’t belong to either of you, you looked up at him; eyes wide, pained, face damp, breathing so hard your ribs shuddered. He hovered, trembling, his chest cracked wide open.

"This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be," he whispered against your lips, voice wrecked, mouth tasting your salty tears. You shook your head slowly in silent agreement that love was never supposed to hurt this much. But you didn't care. You needed him. He needed you. You needed to fix this the only way you two knew how— wrapped around each other, him lost in you, you anchored to him.

—

[Belong to You -Sabrina Claudio ft. 6lack]

It was quiet. A silent understanding. He entered you slowly, painfully slowly, sinking in inch by inch as if memorizing the way you clutched at him, gasped for him. The stretch, the heat, the burn of being so full of him again, it made your head tip back against the pillows, your mouth parting helplessly. And he could feel it. Feel your heart beating against his. Feel the way your body held him, welcomed him, wept for him. You were panting, falling apart already, clinging so tight he could barely move and it was his name falling from your lips, half-sobbed, half-moaned. His hands found your wrists, pinning them to the bed above you. Not rough. Not cruel.  But claiming. Possessive. His eyes searched yours again, desperate, God, he was desperate, for one last trace of the girl who used to look at him like he was everything. Like he was safe. Like he was hers. But something had shifted. Something sacred had twisted into something terrifying. And yet, even now, when it hurt the most, when every instinct in him screamed to pull away, he kissed you again. Slow this time. Not lustful. Not hungry. Just… aching. His lips were warm. Gentle. Like he was saying goodbye with them. You whimpered kissing him like you could erase everything if you just kept going. If you just made him feel it again. He deepened the kiss, tongue sliding over yours, mouth parting wider. And for a moment, it felt like love. Like maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t slipped entirely out of reach. Your bare chest pressed against his as he moved over you, skin on skin, hearts between ribs colliding like lightning. He touched you like he couldn’t decide whether this was the last time or the first. Like every stroke was a memory in the making. 

"Not leaving you, baby." His mouth pressed to your ear, voice ragged and hoarse. A fresh scorching tear slipped down your cheek. Still, even in ache, it built and built between you; a pressure, a heat, a breaking point you could no longer outrun. And as his hips rocked into you, as his thumb traced circles against your wrist, as he murmured your name like a prayer against your skin the words slipped out on purpose this time, quiet and timid. 

"I love you—T, love you—I love you—" A sob, a confession, a prayer and a curse all at once. Barely air. Barely sound. But he heard every fractured syllable all over again like it was the first time and it hurt just the same. Was it too late? Why was it not enough when you said either? He choked on a gasp, forehead pressing to yours. He felt you, the desperate way your walls fluttered around him, the way your soul trembled against his. For one long second, he slowed. Fighting it. Feeling everything. Bleeding. Why was love not enough? Then he moved faster, urgent now, claiming you, burying himself so deep you sobbed his name, the bed creaking under the frantic, breaking pace of it. His breathing uneven. You could feel the war raging inside him with every roll of his hips. He didn’t want to lose himself in you again or maybe he did. He didn’t know anymore. But your body was a poem he’d memorized too well. And you—you clung to him like he was your penance. Like if he gave you this, he wouldn’t ask for more. Like if you kept your body moving, he wouldn’t remember the silence where the rest of the sentence should have been. But he would. 

"I fucking love you," he growled against your jaw, again and again, hips stuttering. "I love you, baby" You cried openly, hands squeezing his above your head, mouth dragging over his neck, pressing sloppy kisses between sobs. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You pressed your mouth to his jaw, to his throat, to his chest. Anything to keep the moment alive. Anything to stop the truth from settling that even when you both said it, it wasn’t enough. You loved him. And maybe that was the cruelest thing you’d ever done. Because you loved him…and still, you weren’t ready. And Trent? Trent was ready. He'd been ready. And now everything had become more complicated than before. He thrust again, harder now, like he was trying to chase the sound of those words into the marrow of his bones. You cried out, held tighter, kissed harder, until neither of you knew where pain ended and pleasure began. The silence screamed above you. The truth lay somewhere in the dark, naked and shivering at your feet.

"Please, don't stop—" you gasped when he faltered, momentarily scared by the sheer volume of tears leaking down your cheeks. And he broke. He loved you too much. He’d do this again and again, break his own heart if it meant he got you like this. He drove into you like a man who’d lived a thousand lifetimes searching for you, fucking you through the heartbreak, through the forgiveness, through the love that had poisoned and saved you both. Your hands slipped free from his, needing to hold him like you could pull him inside your ribs. You told him you loved him over and over as your bodies locked and trembled and shattered together. Trent shutting his eyes every time until you broke. And as the high arrived, it wasn’t just your body that broke. It was your whole soul, crumbling into his hands. Your heart, unguarded and wide open, weeping into his. The world narrowed to the wet heat between you, the desperate press of skin on skin, the frantic gasps and sobs that tangled like vines between your mouths. His body stuttered against yours, hips jerking through his release as yours clamped around him, a messy, broken rush of pleasure that didn’t feel like triumph. It felt like grief. Like surrender. You clung to him through it, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips, mouth pressing frantic, broken ‘I love yous’ to his neck, his jaw, his gasping lips. And he whispered it back, over and over, a prayer, a plea ‘I love you’ like he thought if he said it enough, it would glue the shattered pieces of you both back together. 

—

For a moment, there was only the high. That hazy, buzzing numbness that left you boneless under him, breathing him in like oxygen, your bodies sticky and slick and still trembling from the force of it. But even as your heart raced, even as your pulse sang in your ears…It crept in. The sinking. The slow, heavy awareness that seeped into your veins, replacing the afterglow with something colder, harder, inevitable. You blinked up at him, vision blurred by tears you hadn’t even realized were continuing to fall. And there it was. That look in his eyes. Not just love. But devastation. Hurt so raw it made your chest cave inward. Because no matter how tightly he was still buried inside you. No matter how many times you'd said it. It wasn’t enough to erase the hours, the days, you'd spent not saying it. Not enough to fix what you broke. Not enough to promise he wouldn’t have to wonder again. You felt it sink between you. The terrible knowing.  The weight of everything that sex couldn't heal. Your body twitched beneath him, sensitive and spent, and his arms shook where he held himself above you, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. You turned your head slightly, pressing your nose into the damp skin of his neck, inhaling him like a dying thing.

"I'm sorry," you choked, voice wrecked. His hand cupped your jaw, gentle now, thumb tracing the salt tracks down your cheekbone.

"I know," he whispered back, so soft it almost wasn’t there. "I know you are." But he didn’t pull out. Didn’t run. He just rolled to the side off you, keeping you against him, chests heaving together, skin slick, hearts hammering out ragged, mismatched rhythms. And slowly, his arms folded tighter around you, like if he just held you hard enough, close enough, you couldn't slip through his fingers again. You buried your face in his throat and cried, hot and shaking and helpless. He kissed your hairline. One, two, three times. Silent, desperate, tender. "I love you," he whispered again, voice raw and breaking, words falling into your hair, your skin, your bones. "I love you, I love you, I love you." You nodded against him, tiny and broken. And in that bed that wasn’t yours, under sheets that smelled like someone else's laundry detergent, with love like a loaded gun still cocked between your ribs—You realized: Maybe love wasn't always enough to save you. But it was enough to stay. And so you stayed. Clinging to the moment like castaways clinging to wreckage. Shivering against the cold tide pulling at your ankles. Praying to survive it together.

—

You both lay there afterward, not moving, not speaking, but separated. Your bodies finally apart. The air between you felt strange, thick and clumsy, like something unspooling slowly but surely. The ache of it, the quietness, settled into your bones heavier than the physical aftermath ever could. Still trembling slightly, you listened to the sound of your own heartbeat stuttering, lost, as it tried to find his. The space between you should have been nothing. It should have been nothing. But it was everything, a wide, gaping chasm stretched too far for either of you to cross. The sheets twisted between your bodies like a barricade you hadn't meant to build. You stared up at the ceiling, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes, and somewhere next to you, he did the same. Both of you trapped in the thick silence. Breathing. Breaking. Then, like some magnetic pull you’d never been able to fight, you turned your heads at the same time. Your eyes met. And for a moment, the world stopped. Trent’s mouth parted like he might say something. Something reckless. Something real. Instead, he just swallowed thickly, his voice a rough scrape across the dark as he murmured, almost too soft to catch.

"C'mere. Give me a cuddle." A lifeline because he felt it too but he loved you too much to let you drown right next to him. The rustle of sheets sounded deafening as you shifted toward him. Your bodies collided, awkward at first, knees bumping, arms hesitant, but then you found each other like muscle memory, like breath. You pressed your forehead to his. Your nose nudged against his. The closeness of it, his bare skin against yours, the slow rise and fall of his chest, made everything ache sharper. Existing like this, next to him, was too loud. Too much. Too raw. You felt him curl his arm around you tighter, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. A low exhale ghosted across your cheek, shaky and uneven. No one said anything. There was nothing left to say and yet entirely too much. 

—

Your fingers fisted into the nothing between you before finally, helplessly, sliding up to rest against his chest, right over his heart. The seconds dragged by. The weight of him, the feel of his breathing, the scent of him, salt and sex and regret, wrapped around you until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. Your lips brushed his throat, a kiss so soft it could've been a tremor, and you felt him flinch against it, almost imperceptible. Then, into the heavy hush, his voice broke again, shredded and aching:

"I love you, baby" He whispered it into your hair not the way people whispered promises or seductions, but the way someone confessed to a wound that wouldn’t heal.

Painful. Audible. Final.

And you. You couldn’t speak. Not really. Guilt had stolen your voice. You just pressed your lips to the steady thud of his pulse, mouthing the words back, ‘I love you,’ but no sound came out. No voice. No breath. Only the ghost of the thing he needed most. And that, that silence, was the most painful thing Trent had ever felt, even after all of the pain tonight, it was that. He could feel the shape of it against his skin. He could feel your love, desperate and silent. But he couldn’t hear it. And it hurt in a way that sex or arguments or heartbreak never had. He squeezed his eyes shut, arms tightening around you as if he could pull the sound out of you by force, as if holding you close enough could fill the hollow space inside him. You tucked your face tighter into his neck, the faint tremble of your body betraying you. Still, he didn’t let go. He couldn't. He wouldn't. The dark stretched long and slow around you, and the two of you breathed together, ragged, raw, wrecked, until sleep finally took you both. Not out of peace. Not out of comfort. But because heartbreak was exhausting. And because even broken, even hurting you still found your way back into his arms, and he wanted you there. Always.

—

[Chewing Cotton Wool - The Japanese House]

The morning was cruel in its brightness, gold and soft and undeserved. Light spilled through the gaps in the curtains like it knew what it was interrupting, like it was prying open something sacred just to watch it fall apart. You sat up slowly, bare skin against rumpled sheets, the ache between your legs echoing the ache in your chest. Trent was already half-dressed, his back to you as he tugged a shirt over his head. The muscles of his shoulders flexed with the motion, familiar, beautiful, and suddenly foreign.

"T..." Your voice barely held. It cracked under the weight of too much left unsaid. He glanced at you, hope flickering in his eyes like a flame he thought you might finally cup in your hands instead of blow out. “Last night…” He froze, just for a second, like your words brushed against the bruise he’d been trying not to show. There was a part of him, naive, sweet, so achingly in love, that thought maybe you’d finally give in. Maybe you’d reach for him like he always reached for you. Maybe you’d want something more. It’d simmered in your chest all morning. Last night was a mistake. And you could hear the ache in your voice as you betrayed even yourself. Soft. Fractured. "Maybe this isn't a good idea." The words foreign and feigned. And just like that, you watched it, the hope dim, the little light in his eyes flicker out. He blinked slowly. Once. Twice. His lips parted, but no sound came. Just a shallow exhale through his nose, like he’d just been punched. His jaw flexed. The silence grew teeth.

“What? What are you saying?” he finally asked, his voice brittle and low. You didn’t answer right away. You remembered Paris. You remembered hearing him, casual, careless, tell Marcel that maybe you were too big of a risk. Not enough of a reward. He’d corrected himself later but that didn’t matter. The words hadn't just stung; they’d settled in your bones. Because it wasn’t just the man you overheard in Paris. It was the man you met on holiday, the one that barely wanted you in London, the one that didn’t show up in Manchester, the one that spoke with other girls at parties in Hale and in Hollywood. So now, here you were. Calling him the risk. Giving him the out before you ruined what he was for his life after you. Telling yourself the lie before he could.

“I’m sorry.” It was weak but it was all you could manage, barely audible, pitiful in its vagueness. He stepped back like the words physically hit him. He laughed, humourless, jaw flexing, teeth clenched. He turned then. Really turned. His eyes pinned you in place, dark and devastated. 

“Y/N, come on…” he said, more plea than protest. “Don’t do this. I care about you. You care about me.” Your heart shattered. Because he was right. He was always right. But being right didn’t mean you could survive it.

“We said no feelings, T,” you whispered a counter. An echo of a protective measure you’d taken ages ago. A flimsy shield, a paper wall you threw up between you because the truth was blistering, and you were afraid of being burned.

“No. You said no feelings,” he snapped, pointing at you, the edge in his voice razor-sharp. The distinction between your fear and his hope sliced cleanly open. He knew you said that but you didn’t act like it. And right now he was pissed off he was dumb enough to agree with it because it led you both here. You blinked at him, chest heaving

“I…” You faltered. No script. No plan. Just the gut instinct to retreat. But there was no follow-up. No reason that would make this hurt less. Because there wasn’t one. And suddenly, the frustration in his eyes turned molten. 

“You have no feelings!?” he asked again, voice rising, thick with disbelief. “You’re telling me you have no feelings for me at all?” You wanted to say no. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to say everything, but the silence was easier. His voice cracked as he pushed forward, the words trembling with something dangerous and wounded. “You just stay with me? You just hold my hand? You just call me to fall asleep when I’m away, and that’s what—nothing? Not having feelings to you?” But it wasn’t just those things. Trent could’ve written volumes of the things you did with him that proved you had feelings for him. He taunted you. His face was wrecked. Eyes rimmed red. He looked like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or scream. 

“No,” you said again. But this time, it was quieter. A little girl’s voice trying to escape a grown woman’s war. A whisper. A lie. A blatant lie that felt like it killed something between you as it passed your lips. You shook your head with a quiet sob. He stared at you like you were breaking him in real time. 

“Don’t,” he said, stepping forward like he could stop this before it spun any further out of control. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me just because you’re scared. I see you.” You couldn’t breathe. Your hands trembled, digging crescents into your arms. Your heart was screaming yes but your mouth stayed stubborn. Silent. His eyes bored into yours. “Don’t lie to me, Y/N. Don’t you fucking lie to me.” And still, you did. Not with your words now but with your silence. Where did your words go? Why did they always vanish when you needed them most with him? Maybe because admitting it now would mean exposing the wound fully. It would mean surrendering. And your love had never been brave, it had only ever been frightened and quiet and slow. So you just sat there, trembling and shrinking, wishing you had the courage to scream what you already knew. That he was everything. That he was so obviously going to be the love of your life. That you were terrified. And that maybe, just maybe, you felt like hurting him now would save him the hurt later because you knew you’d already ruined this.  

—

But Trent would fight. He was braver. He was more sure even if he didn’t sound it. He wasn’t ruined by defeat, he was hurt by you but he had years of getting back up after he fell and you had the habit of running away or avoiding the opportunity to stumble at all.  

“You act like I’m the only one who wants this,” he murmured, voice low, shaking. “But if that were true, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t crawl into my bed every time you’re scared. You wouldn’t let me touch you like that. You wouldn’t cry when I almost walk away.” The shame hit like a wave, pulling you under before you could breathe. You shrank into yourself, into the sheets, into the mattress. You curled inwards, but there was no place to hide from the way his words gutted you. Because he was right. And still, you couldn’t say it. Not again. Not out loud. Not in the daylight. So you watched his chest rise and fall like something was breaking in slow motion. You watched him blink hard to keep from letting that stupid tear that fell last night from happening again. And you swallowed the truth like it would kill you if you let it out. You didn’t want to hurt him. But you were hurting him anyway. And you loved him enough to think maybe it’d be better to hurt now than later. That he could escape if he didn’t have to live with your love after he left. But Trent did want to leave. He wanted to love. “Were there no feelings…” He paused, shaking his head in disbelief. “No feelings all the times when you were already looking at me, when I looked at you?” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was soft, quiet in a way that gutted you more than if he’d shouted. A plea disguised as a question, and it landed in your chest like impact trauma. You blinked. Something inside you twisted, low and sharp, like a sickness. Shame and fear. He knew. And a part of you ached for hurting him, but another part felt sick that it made you love him more for trying to fight. 

“T…” you whispered, but no words came after. Just the sound of your breath catching as his eyes flickered between yours. And then, you saw it—barely a flicker of movement across his brow, but you watched it in real time: the thought arrive, heavy and devastating.

“Do you love me,” he asked. “Like you said. Was that true?” The room went still. Everything slowed. The world held its breath. That question didn’t land, it sliced. A scalpel right through you, clean and merciless. It bled truth into the space between you, and suddenly the mattress beneath your body felt miles away. Your breath hitched. Tears traced warm lines down your cheeks, slow and stubborn. Your bottom lip rolled inward, trembling against the weight of what you couldn’t say. And Trent… Trent looked at you like it was all hanging there. Like every version of himself—boy, best friend, man, lover—stood behind his eyes, waiting for your answer. And when you couldn’t speak, not properly, not yet, when all you could do was nod, slow and fragile, your chin tilting like surrender, he shut his eyes. Just for a second. His throat worked around a silent breath. Because he wanted to hear you say it, but he also loved you enough to take what he could get. The nodded confirmation. Small but something. 

“Alright…” he said finally. Just that. Just a word. Stilted. Awkward. Spoken like it hurt his teeth. Like he’d taken your silence and folded it into his chest like he could carry it. Why wouldn’t you say it? He wasn’t sure but he’d try again to be patient, he promised he would be. He blinked at the floor, lost for a moment. His hands curled slightly, restless and searching. “Well, just…” he started, but the words dissolved. His voice caught in his throat before it could shape another sentence. He tried again, a quiet sigh dragging from his lungs. “You let me know if you ever wanna tell me that, yeah?” It was more than a request. Less than a demand. A rope thrown toward you in a storm, and he didn’t know if you’d ever grab it. His lips pressed together in a hard line, like he wasn’t even sure if that was the right thing to say. But you understood. God, you did. And in that moment, you loved him more for it than you’d ever been able to say out loud. Because this was hard for you. But it was destroying him. And still, he left the door open. He always had.

—

After everything, after the explosion and the tears and the truth that almost split you in two, he walked over to you—and your heart slowed. The whole room did. Like time, for just a moment, understood it needed to be gentler with you both.

“Happy birthday again, baby,” he murmured, voice quiet against the crown of your head as his hand curved around the back of it. You closed your eyes as he kissed your hair, and you felt how long he lingered there. But you felt the falter too. The way his eyes shut tighter, like he caught the word baby too late. Like it had betrayed him, fallen out of his mouth with too much ease, like it had remembered the version of you from last night, not the one who couldn’t say it back this morning. You sniffled. Quiet and soft. And your fingers reached for his hand where it rested near yours on the comforter, like muscle memory, like ache. And when you found it, when you touched his skin, he didn’t pull away. He turned his hand and took yours properly, let your fingers thread together like nothing had broken. Because things had shattered, but not completely. Not yet. And in that moment, silent, still, soft, Trent knew he could be patient. He could wait. He would. He wanted to. You did love him. You just didn’t know how to love without hurting yet. You just had to find the courage to say it aloud. But for now, he could feel it. So he kissed your hair again. Firmer this time. A little longer. A kind of promise. Your eyes flickered up to meet his, swollen and wet, guarded but open in the way someone is when they’ve been cracked wide, trying to piece themselves back together.

“You know I’m in love with you?” he asked. It wasn’t a question meant to corner you. There was no accusation in it, no weight designed to scare you further. Just a truth, offered freely. Something raw and steady to hold on to. You nodded. Barely. A tiny tilt of your chin, like your neck couldn’t quite carry anything more than that. Another tear slipped down, slow and unforgiving. He smiled, barely. Small. Weak. But it was real. And when you raised your hand to wipe at your face, he replaced it with his own. Callused fingers swiping gentle across your cheekbone, like maybe if he was soft enough, the guilt wouldn’t bruise. “Alright, good,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Cause I do. And you should know that.” You inhaled sharply, the sound splintering in the quiet. Your hand squeezed his once—thank you. You didn’t say it, but it lived between your palms. He looked at you for another beat, eyes like slow light, then stood up fully. “You know where I am,” he said. And he meant it. Wherever you decided to go, toward him, away from him, whatever middle ground you had to crawl through, he wasn’t going anywhere. He’d be there. He grabbed his wallet off the dresser. Tucked his phone into his pocket. Moved like it hurt to move. And then he turned back, just before the door. You looked sad. He hated that. He hated that his love couldn’t fix it. That it wasn’t enough to make you believe it was safe. But he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t him who made you sad. And he was right to know so. It was everything you’d told yourself in the quiet. The fear, the armor, something entirely your own, wounds maybe still stitching themselves up from before he ever touched you. It was hurting him that made you sad.

“T…” You said it so quietly he didn’t hear it. Or maybe he did, but it was too late. He was already halfway through the door. And when it closed fully behind him, when the soft click echoed off the walls and left you alone with your heart hammering too hard, “I love you,” You said it. Just like that. To the empty room. And it echoed. Not in sound, but in feeling. In the hollow of your chest, in the sting behind your ribs, in the silence that pressed against your skin like it knew. You loved him. And you were too late.

—

The door clicked shut like the softest break in something sacred. And in that silence, the kind that only lingers after too many words had been said or worse, left unsaid. Trent stood still. The hallway light cast him in a muted gold, his back pressed flat against the wall opposite the bedroom door. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loudly. Just stared at the painted wood like he might see through it. Like maybe if he stood still enough, quiet enough, he’d hear your heart call his name. He ran a hand over his hair, slow and disoriented, like the weight of what he’d left behind in that room was settling into the bones of him. This wasn’t anger. This wasn’t even frustration. It was something heavier. The ache of loving someone so much you’d wait. You’d walk away even if it cracked something inside of you because you understood— she’s not ready. He wanted to scream. He wanted to knock the door back open and hold you until the fear leaked out of your skin. But instead, he stayed there, quietly loving you from just inches away. Because this love didn’t do boundaries, it transcended through things. A victim of his own patience. Of believing that time could mend what neither of you could name.

Inside, the world felt much too quiet. The duvet bunched around your skin but everything else was heavy. The air. Your breath. Your heartbeat. You stared at the wall till it blurred, unmoving, as though if you stayed still long enough, the morning might forget to rise. The door was shut, but you could feel him out there. The same way you always could. He hadn’t left yet. Not really. He was still orbiting. Still aching just like you. Your fingers curled gently into the sheet, and for a moment you hated yourself for how safe his goodbye had felt. How kind. Like a man walking barefoot over glass to not disturb the fragile thing you’d both created. You should’ve said it. The words that lived like a prayer at the base of your throat. But they stuck, just like always, tangled up in fear and memory of it all, all the bumps along the way; the miscommunications, the other girls, the silences, the distances, the hurt, the nonchalance, the tears, the disappointments, the nothings and everythings, they all blurred but burned. But you knew in your soul none of those moments were what you and he were, you were everything else. But the singe of it all was hard to forget. And yet strangely you wondered if his love, burning and bright was enough to cauterize the past. The tear slipped out before you even felt it forming. Hot. Heavy. It hit the soft skin of your thigh. You watched it streak down, blurry-eyed, didn’t wipe it away, waiting for it to disappear into the sheet below the way you wished you could.

Out in the hall, Trent shut his eyes, still facing your door. A strange sound pressed at his chest–not quite a sob, not quite breath. Just hurt. Just love. Just everything you couldn’t say yet. His hand rested on the wall beside him like he might lose balance if he didn’t anchor himself to something. He exhaled. Long. Steady. And tried to believe in the promise between you, even if it was quiet. He turned to leave. And inside, curled in that stillness you wished he’d come back into.

—-

You weren’t sure what compelled you more, the fact that you loved him, or the fact that you just couldn’t bear to disappoint a group of six-year-olds who wanted a photo with their hero. Trent had said you’d know where he was when you were ready to tell him you loved him again. You weren’t ready, not quite. But maybe love didn’t wait for readiness. Maybe it just needed motion. And today, that looked like slipping your camera into your bag with hands that trembled too much for something so small. Like pulling your coat tighter across your chest as you walked out the door, the air sharp with late spring wind. Like driving west on the M62, through the grey hum of Liverpool traffic, following muscle memory and something gentler—hope, maybe. You didn’t know what you were walking into. Not exactly. It was something soft though, something sweet you’d agreed to ages ago. But now it was hard and close to bitter. 

Really it stemmed from Trent having loose lips and now here you were: 10:47 AM, parked across the street from the Tiber Football Centre, staring down the last few minutes of your pride. The whole thing had bloomed from a dinner table conversation months ago, an indirect taunt from Marcel to their mum about the photographer Trent thinks is so talented. Trent’s eyes darted down at his plate like the tablecloth might swallow him whole. Dianne barely batted an eye at their banter, only smiled softly and told him then he should ask you to photograph the under 6 Saturday Football League Trent started and was paying a surprise visit to. She said it would be nice to get the kids proper photos. Trent tried to tell you his mum didn’t really understand what you did and that you didn’t have to do it but none of that was the accurate truth. He didn’t tell his mum that he was seeing you. Could you call it that? That he loved you. That what you did for work was more international rather than local. But what he also didn’t tell you was that she didn’t know what you meant to him. What he meant to you. She hadn’t asked. And Trent hadn’t offered. Even so, you didn’t care about any of that when he told you about the event. Not really. You just thought it was sweet. A league he sponsored. A pitch full of tiny boots and big dreams. Kids who looked up at him like he made the sun rise. You could see it already, mud-splattered kits, flushed cheeks, frozen slices of joy in your lens. Honest. Pure. It was supposed to be simple. But nothing ever was with the two of you. Not anymore.

[Think About You - Leon]

You parked, turned the engine off, and sat still for a moment. Your hands rested on the steering wheel, your breath fogging slightly in the cool spring air. Across the lot, the field was already filling. Little figures in oversized jerseys chased each other like their hearts had never been broken. And then you saw him and you remembered that hearts could fracture and shatter just with a simple glance as an adult.  Trent stood at the edge of the pitch, joggers tucked into socks, his Nike tech halfway unzipped as he crouched beside a little girl with braids and grass-stained knees. He tied her shoelaces like it was the most important thing he’d ever done. Like he wasn’t a man who’d been gutted just days ago by the woman now watching him from across the car park. You swallowed the lump in your throat. He didn’t know you were here yet. But somehow, you were certain he could feel it. You stepped out of the car, camera in hand, coat pulled close, nerves sparking beneath your skin like rain clouds too proud to cry. And for the first time since the morning after your birthday, your heart beat in something close to peace.

-

He felt you before he saw you. He always could. It was something about the shift in the wind, how it moved gentler suddenly, like the world was making room. Or maybe it was the way his chest pulled tight, like the air around him thickened with the weight of everything left unsaid. Trent had been crouched by the corner flag now, one knee on the grass, balancing a size three ball in front of a boy no taller than his thigh. The kid's cheeks were flushed, eyes wide with the kind of reverence only children and people in love know how to give. He was babbling about his goal celebration presumptuously already, limbs jittery with excitement, but Trent only half heard him. Because then he saw you. There you were, standing just beyond the black fencing, camera slung over your shoulder, your posture slightly tense like you hadn’t figured out how to carry the moment yet. Like you were trying to be invisible, but the light didn’t quite let you. Not with the way it softened around your features, kissed your hair like it knew it had missed you. And when you smiled, just barely, all gentle corners and unsure softness, every wall he’d built since that morning you didn’t say it came crashing down like they were made of matchsticks and hope. He blinked. You were here. You came. 

The breath he didn’t know he’d been holding burned in his lungs. You hadn’t spoken since that morning. That brutal, beautifully painful morning. But somehow, despite everything, you still showed up. For this. For something that wasn’t about you and him, not really—but about a hundred little reasons why he mattered in ways that had nothing to do with being loved back. And that ruined him a bit. He couldn’t look at you too long. Not without unraveling. So he turned back to the boy, nodding at his tiny, excited instructions, grounding himself in the simple rhythm of being needed.

“Alright, go on, lad.” Trent murmured, voice tender as he tapped the ball into position. “Hit it right there, yeah?” Trent leaned closer to him pointing to a place that seemed feasible for the little boy to reach with the ball but still clever, like Trent. “Nice and clean, mate. Like me.” He smiled.  But you weren’t watching the kid. You were watching him. And your knees went weak. You had to grip the fence beside you, the cool metal biting into your palm as your fingers curled tight. Because it wasn’t just that he looked good—tech fleece rolled up to his elbows, smile breaking across his face like the clouds had finally parted. It was the way he glowed. Not in the way you’d seen him glow in magazines or under club lights or in the back of a car at 3AM when your lipstick was still smudged on his jaw. This was different. He wasn’t glowing because he wanted to be seen. He was glowing because he was doing something he loved and everyone at this pitch adored him for it and you were no exception. 

You’d never really seen him on a field up close like this before. Not really. This hardly was Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. This wasn’t 60,000 chanting his name. This was sixty children squealing, obsessed with their dream standing right in front of them. This was parents crowding the sideline, eyes wide as they watched him move with the grace of someone who belonged to the game, glued to the ease at which he kicked a ball in real life as opposed to on the telly. And somewhere in the blur, Dianne stood with a clipboard, eyes proud, her expression unreadable, but content. Like her son had grown into something she always hoped he’d be. You watched Trent crouch again, adjusting the boy’s foot gently with a soft pat to his back.

“Perfect,” he grinned, dimples cutting into sun-warmed cheeks. “Go for it, bro.” The boy lit up like he’d been handed the key to the world. And you—God—you almost cried right then. Because you’d seen those dimples before, in the dark, pressed against your collarbone, softened by morning light. You’d heard that voice in its quietest form, whispering your name like it was scared to be too loud in a moment that felt sacred. You knew that version of him. Maybe this was more Trent than the man you met in Ibiza. Maybe this was who he’d always been. Maybe you hadn’t broken him at all. Because that laugh, still low and breathy, a little quieter now, but still full of warmth, you’d heard it before. When it was just the two of you. Wrapped up in sheets, love, in truths too fragile to speak out loud. Maybe you didn’t take him away from himself. Maybe, just maybe, you gave him back.

—

You moved like you didn’t want to be seen. Not fully, anyway. Quiet steps across the gravel, hand catching the fence just long enough to ease it shut behind a pair of parents. You didn’t smile at anyone, just nodded, polite, withdrawn, but your gaze flicked to him once, a glance so brief Trent nearly missed it. Nearly. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Because even from the middle of the pitch, surrounded by scattered six-year-olds and the scent of damp grass and orange peels, he felt that tiny pull, like a string between ribs tugged taut. He blinked hard, grounding himself in the present, in the small sea of children cross-legged in front of him, jerseys half-tucked and  knees muddy. They giggled while Coach Craig, the actual league organizer, gave them their talk and next instructions. Craig had a whistle around his neck and a paper schedule flapping in his hand, speaking about team spirit and passing technique. Trent wasn’t hearing a word of it. His eyes kept drifting, subtle, careful, but not subtle enough. Because then he saw where you were going.

The table.

His stomach dropped. He didn’t even know how you knew to go there, maybe you'd just deduced, clocked the fold-out sign with the laminated schedule or the rows of water bottles, but your path curved toward it, slow and deliberate, and Trent’s heart stuttered in his chest. Because next to that table, halfway through organizing something into neat little rows, was his mum. Dianne. Trent suddenly, viscerally, remembered that moment Marcel opened his big mouth at dinner a few weeks ago. How he’d casually mentioned the photographer Trent liked. In a teasing way, not cruelly. Just… stupidly. His mum hadn’t batted an eye. Hadn’t asked for proof or photos or stories. She’d just told him to invite you, gentle as ever. She didn’t know, though. Not really. Not who you were to him. Not what you were. Not what you’d done to him. What you’d been through together. And he hadn’t told her, he couldn’t. Because he hadn’t had the words. Because saying it out loud meant defining something he was still so desperately scared to lose. But now you were walking toward her. And he knew the second you opened your mouth, it’d be over.

Because Dianne knew her son like the lines in her palms. Knew what his eyes looked like when they held back too much. Knew how he said the word ‘yeah’ when he meant ‘please.’ Knew the difference between someone he dated and someone who left an imprint. You were about to blow the whole thing wide open. He watched you slowly approach the table, mouth about to tilt into a soft smile and he could already imagine it. Her watching you. Listening. And knowing. Not because you were nervous, you didn’t really get nervous, but because you were trying too hard to be something you weren’t. Detached. Professional. Unmoved. And you weren’t. Not when it came to him. He could feel it. Even from here.  Craig was still talking, but Trent’s focus had long since frayed. The laughter of the children in front of him felt warped, distant, like sound traveling underwater. He rubbed a hand down his jaw, blinking against the sunlight as if that would stop his heart from hammering against his ribs.  You were going to speak to his mum. And it was the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen. Not because he thought she wouldn’t like you. But because he knew—knew—that the moment she looked into your eyes, she’d realize you were more than a girl with a camera. That you’d never just been that. That you, in the way you paused when you talked, in the way you gestured with your fingers, in the way you glanced over your shoulder even now, like maybe, just maybe, he was watching, you were the kind of girl who haunted the quietest parts of her son’s mind. You hadn’t said it. Not again. But you were here. And that alone was starting to feel a lot like love.

—-

Trent followed you with his eyes, the way a compass leans toward north. You were crossing the pitch edge now, weaving between fold-out chairs and half-sipped coffees, the warmth of the sun hitting your cheekbones as you moved toward the table. Toward her. He couldn’t even pretend to focus anymore. His jaw tensed as he watched your hand come to rest on his mum’s forearm, soft, barely there, a feather-light tap of polite interruption, and he swore for a second he blacked out. Just fully greyed at the edges. Except he didn’t. Because sixty little Scouse kids had just started chanting his name—his song—the one that usually echoed through Anfield like gospel. Their voices rang out like high-pitched sirens, a chorus of youth and chaos and misplaced rhythm.

“The scouser in our team! The scouser in our team!”

He was supposed to be speaking. Coaching. Laughing. But all he could hear was the blood in his ears and the way you said, 

“Hi, I think you’re Dianne? I’m—” And he didn’t catch the rest. Didn’t need to. Because that was the moment it became real. Not the hundreds of mornings you'd curled into his side. Not the night you held his face after a loss, forehead pressed to his, whispering nothing but breath. Not even his slow-burning confessional on your birthday, the heartbreak glimmering between your words. This was it. You. His mum. Talking. You weren’t some idea anymore. You weren’t theoretical. You weren’t just a secret text thread or the warmth in his bed or the ache in his chest when he missed you. You were a person with your hand on his mum’s arm, smiling politely, trying not to let your voice shake as you said your name out loud for the first time. And it hit him.

How much you knew. The reality of it, the weight of it, undeniable now. You didn’t just know his laugh or the way he liked his eggs or how he always fell asleep after movies, not during. You knew what toothpaste he used. Probably the same one she had bought him for years without thinking. And even worse, you knew his bed; you’d been tangled up in it for over a year. And it felt like the dirtiest secret suddenly. You weren’t just in his sheets, you cried in them, you giggled, you spilled red wine on them once, you clung to him tired, you held him enraptured. You knew how his breath changed when he was lying. You knew how his eyes pulled slightly to the left when he tried not to cry. And you were looking at her eyes now. Trying to see where they lined up. Trying to find him in her. Trent could’ve vomited. Could’ve sprinted. Could’ve walked straight over and thrown his body between you like that might protect some fragile layer that was already long shattered. Because God, if only she didn’t see it. If only she didn’t see the truth in your mouth. The way you hesitated not from nerves but recognition. The way you tilted your head when you spoke, like you already loved her by proxy. Like you knew what she meant to him, and had quietly thanked her in a thousand ways without saying so. And she—Dianne—looked at you with that gentle steeliness only a mother could hold. The kind that saw right through people while smiling kindly. And her lips, they started to curve. Just a little. A curl of amusement, recognition, maybe even tenderness. Because you were blatant. Not in what you said. Not even in what you wore, the camera slung over you like armour, top clinging to your skin, barely a hint of the girl in his bedsheets. But in your eyes. You loved him. Plain as day. And Dianne saw it. Not with shock. Not with suspicion. But with this quiet, dawning understanding that Trent could feel from across the pitch like the earth shifting underfoot. You were not just some girl who showed up to take photos. You were his girl. And he had never been more terrified in his life.

—-

You weren’t exactly what people pictured when they heard the word photographer. Dianne didn’t pretend to know what that even meant anymore—everyone had a camera, everyone had a portfolio—but you didn’t look like you’d just rolled out of bed chasing natural light. No, there was a certain care about you. A precise kind of softness that didn’t scream for attention but settled into the space like a hum only the right people would hear. She noticed it instantly.

While most of the parents clustered on the sidelines were wrapped up in puffer jackets and woolly hats, half-distracted by the cold and the chaos of sixty six-year-olds chasing dreams, you looked like you’d tried. Not in a vain or performative way, but in a way that said you thought this mattered. Lips glossed, catching in the faint Liverpool light. A thin shimmer of mascara framing your eyes, like you hadn’t slept but still wanted to look awake. There was jewelry; small hoops that kissed your cheek when you turned, delicate chains that shifted with every step. Your perfume wasn’t strong, but Dianne caught it in the air. Something earthy, expensive, and clean. Sandalwood. Maybe fig. And the outfit—oh, the outfit [ref index.] The jeans were dark and structured, the kind people wore when they wanted to look casual without actually being casual. Your coat, cropped and a whisper of luxury, revealed the sliver of a stomach showing under your top, no one else around here would’ve dared expose in April. There was something in you that spoke to fashion, real fashion. The kind you learned, lived in. A coat worn by someone who knew the name Miuccia without needing to Google it. You didn’t just arrive. You entered. And Dianne wasn’t dumb. You looked like someone who wanted to be seen. Not by the crowd. Not by the kids. Not even by her. By him.

It wasn’t lost on her, the effort you’d made. She could read it a mile away, the deliberate kind. The kind that cost something. If you’d just shown up by chance, maybe she’d have chalked it up to coincidence. And maybe, in another life, she would’ve said: Oh, they’d suit. Because you would. On paper, you were everything she could imagine her son loving, knew he’d be drawn to. Someone stylish but grounded. Beautiful in a way that stopped people the way he did and yet not ostentatiously. Quiet but certain. A little sad around the edges. Like you’d lived enough to love deeply and lose quietly. But you hadn’t just shown up. Trent had invited you. And what struck her harder than anything was that you were outing yourself with every breath. You hadn’t even realized it, but the moment you began speaking, you fell into your own mess. A polite hello that betrayed your nerves. The way your voice wobbled just enough, the way your hands clutched your camera like it might save you from your own transparency. And those eyes, oh, those traitorous eyes, wide and warm and too familiar with the shape of the man Dianne had raised. You knew too much. That was the giveaway. You weren’t just someone who’d met him. You were someone who knew him. And Dianne, quietly, felt the ground shift beneath her feet. She didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t embarrass you with questions or assumptions or knowing glances. She just offered you a slow, thoughtful smile. The kind a mother gives when she’s watching a moment that’s already become a memory. Because in that instant, Dianne realized: You weren’t meeting her son. You already had.

And whatever had happened between you and him—it mattered. Not just to you. To him, too. Because he wouldn’t have asked you here otherwise. Not this close. Not this honestly. And the only thing more obvious than your affection… was your fear. You loved him. And you were terrified that everyone might see it. Unfortunately for you, Dianne already had.

—

Dianne’s smile lingered, but it wasn’t empty politeness. It was reading you. Soft, yes, but tuned, like a frequency only mothers hear. She nodded at your introduction, offered her name though you already knew it, and then laid a gentle hand on your arm. Her eyes didn’t waver, not even when yours did.

“Do you photograph football often, hun?” She asked, almost teasing, but not unkind. You nodded, voice thinner than you'd like. 

“Uh, yeah… sometimes. Mostly just the players but yeah… sometimes.” You stumbled. Maybe you were nervous. No, you hadn’t photographed anyone on a pitch mid sprint and giggle at eleven in the morning before. But you knew the sport. You knew it at its highest level. You knew inside it’s upper echelon where the players left the pitch and moved to be in front of cameras like yours. Her laugh was low and knowing, more breath than sound. 

“I figured. He loves his footie so he follows it all. My other son said Trent would love for you to shoot him alone one time. Sounded like you do a lovely job with whatever you do. We’re excited you’re here. Trent seemed happy to include you.” She smiled softly. You swallowed. Hard. Because there it was. A moment. She didn’t say you know my son. She didn’t need to. It hung in the space between you like something sacred and slightly dangerous. You were not a stranger. No, Trent wanted you to be here. And it was coming to light that you were someone who had seen Trent in ways only Dianne thought she could. And now, God help you, she knew. She glanced past your shoulder then, toward the field. Toward him. And when your eyes followed, everything inside you twisted.Trent was still in the middle of the pitch, sitting on the edge of a crate, one trainer half-undone, relacing it to occupy himself, surrounded by kids so loud it almost looked like joy. But his body was somewhere else. Stiff. Fidgeting. His eyes hadn’t left you since you crossed the fence. And now they were locked, between you and his mum. He looked wrecked. Not in a disastrous way. Just… deeply affected. His chest rose like he’d been holding his breath for minutes and finally let it go. You saw his hand rub down his jaw, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to ground himself. Like the weight of what was happening off the pitch had suddenly eclipsed everything on it. The kids didn’t notice. Not really. One boy was braiding blades of grass, another kicking a ball at no one in particular. But Trent—he was unraveling. Because there you were: standing in front of his mother like a confession. The girl he’d loved in half-shadowed bedrooms and on rooftops and in the backseat of Ubers. The girl who once said we don’t have to talk about it but always did anyway. The girl who smelled like santal and clean sheets and the ghost of everything he’d held in for too long till it wounded him when you couldn’t say it back.  And now you were meeting her. Dianne. The only woman in the world who knew him before the world ever did. And he couldn’t breathe. Not because he was scared she’d disapprove. But because he knew she would see you. All of you. And he’d have no more hiding left to do.

•

Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

PLEASE PLEASE Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 20 Coming Soon!

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

[otsalezu]

Dr. Pinington One Shot 2: Lobotomy Boogaloo

Credit to the amazing @babyblankyerror for the AU and the amazing @coniferouspines for the AU of the AU! I took some liberties with it but I hope you guys enjoy! Writing below the cut, as usual.

The living room was completely silent, save for the constant tapping of Stan’s finger on any nearby surface. The man’s fidgeting didn’t seem nervous, being almost subconscious if anything. In contrast, Ford sat uncomfortably still. He cursed himself for letting Fiddleford go out for groceries on his own. He’d simply been too awkward to join the man, and his research partner took no extra time escaping the strange faux doctor in the room. 

The awkward silence gave Ford some extra time to examine just how much his brother had changed. The clothes, for one, were definitely out of place. Slightly tattered and stained, draped in a long lab coat. The silliness of the name tag and various cartoony designs stitched across the lab coat reminded him more of something his brother would have done when they were little. His hair was long and matted, as if it hadn’t been brushed in a long time. The signature curls it had once sported were completely gone. Even more worrying were the long stitches that seemed to cover his hands. They seemed expertly done, but Ford had no doubt he had done them himself. Various smaller scars littered his visible skin, barely standing out unless he squinted. 

Most concerning was the eye. Pale blue, the pupil much too small. It stared ahead, as if looking past him. He tried not to say anything, but the gaze seemed to draw the question out of him. Before he could even think about what he was saying, he had blurted it out.

“What happened to your eye?” He quickly slapped a hand over his mouth, but the man didn’t seem offended. If anything, his grin widened.

“Oh, that’s right! You wouldn’t know! Hmm…where do I start? Oh! Okay, let’s start with my old boss!”

“Your old boss removed your…?”

“No, nothing as crude as that! Let me finish, okay? So! I was a good worker, very good if I say so myself! But! I had a problem. You know me, Six. Always rebellious! Stubborn as a mule, that’s what ma always said! So my boss did a little research.”

Stan laughed, a disjointed and wheezy sound. Then, after a few coughs, his face twisted into a thoughtful expression.

“Say, brainiac, you know what a topectomy is?”

“Ah, I can’t say I do.”

“Hmm, that’s what I thought. Okay, do you know what a transorbital lobotomy is?”

The world seemed to screech to a halt. Nothing about his brother’s demeanor had changed, still the same eerie cheeriness as before. To Ford, however, he felt like throwing up. As if not noticing his brother’s change in demeanor, the doctor continued.

“Well, they needed to do it through the eye.”

He tapped the blue iris, grinning as if he;d just told a great joke.

“Isn’t it wonderful? It was all very experimental, of course. I wish they’d filmed it! Of course, I made it a bit difficult. For some stupid reason, I went down kicking and screaming. Weird, isn’t it? Well! They tried their best, but sadly I woke up in the middle. The doctor they hired wasn't a professional, not like me! So he startled easily, and…squish!”

Ford jumped at the onomatopoeia, cringing. His vision blurred slightly, as he processed what had just been told to him.

“Stan…”

“Of course, I thanked them all after. They all got free procedures!”

“Stan, you…”

“I got to take over that old doctor’s office. Very unprofessional, he barely even sterilized his station! But I was so much better than him, really. It was no big loss! But I’m not ungrateful. As thanks for him fixing me with his procedure, I modeled my new eye after his! Pretty, isn’t it? Wanna see it closer?”

“Stanley!”

The doctor startled, confusion flashing on his usually jovial face. Ford took in a ragged breath, swallowing the bile in his throat.

“Are you telling me someone tried to lobotomize you?”

“Well, yes! That’s what I just told you about. Always so silly, Sixer. But don’t look so sad! My hands have been so much steadier ever since! I’m twice the surgeon I was before!”

“Before?”

Stan opened up his lab coat, fishing out a photograph from one of the many mismatched pockets inside.

“Here! Take a look!”

The photo of Stan had two brown eyes, and significantly less stitches. He was standing near a few unfamiliar men, in what seemed to be a dingey excuse for a doctor’s office. He had the same wobbly smile on his face, though every part of his face seemed laced with fear. His hands were slightly blurry, as if they had been shaking when the photo was taken. Stan quickly stuffed the picture back in the pocket.

“What a wreck, right? I was horrible at my job! Just horrible! But now, I don’t get all anxious and shaky. You can trust me to perform any operation!”

“I’m so sorry. Stanley, I’m so—”

“Don’t apologize! It’s a bad picture, I understand!”

“That’s not—”

“Hey, why are we talking about my dumb old past! I’m much better now, that’s all that matters!”

Ford stared at his twin’s expression. It seemed just as happy as ever, but something about it was different. It was as if looking at the old photograph made him uneasy, uncomfortable. Ford didn’t understand it, but he didn’t want Stanley to be upset. Not after all he’d talked about. A pang of guilt rang out through him as he thought about how terrified he’d been just moments ago.

“Alright, Lee. We can talk about something else.”

The old childhood nickname made Stan’s face split into that unsettling grin, though it didn’t disturb Ford half as much anymore. He smiled a faint smile in return, sitting back down.

“Well, let me tell you about my first day in Gravity Falls…”

[taevescence]

She's All I Wanna Be | Kim Seokjin x Reader

Summary: You've loved Jin in silence for years. You’ve been his best friend, his safe place, the one constant in his life. You waited patiently, reading between the lines, believing that one day he’d finally see you as something more. And just when you thought that moment had come, he introduced you to his girlfriend—the first one since you’ve known him. Now, with your heart wavering between habit and longing, you don’t know whether to give up… or fight for him. Author’s note: PLEASE READ BEFORE STARTING! This is the first chapter of the BOTN series (where all 7 members have their own story). Now, if you happened to read the old version—let me tell you, it has nothing to do with this one. I deleted it. It no longer exists. I wanted to make some changes (especially to the narration), so I started from scratch. That’s something I’m planning to do with most of the things I’ve published (except for the ones in the old masterlist). With that said, I really hope you enjoy the fic! I’d love to know what you think 💕 Pairing: Bassist!Jin x Fem!Reader AUs: Band!AU Word count: 6.3k Warnings/tags: Childhood best friends. It’s actually very angsty (not sorry). The reader is a seamstress. There’s subtle, implicit workplace sexism. Jin sends very mixed signals. Oh, and there's a love triangle.  Status: Ongoing. Permanent Taglist: @thunderg @minjianhyung @queenv1997 @yoongtism @lizzymizzy-blogg @superbbananananana @drpepperobsessed @themwordsblog @taekritimin123 @bluecloudss @yooglefics @tan-veee@angellekookie @madussthougths @meadowsweetskoo You can join the taglist here! Dividers by @sisterlucifergraphics

You looked at your reflection through the stained-glass window of the small café where Jin had asked to meet you a few hours earlier. It was tucked behind several large corporate buildings, hidden away by their modern and excessive architecture—a stark contrast that was almost laughable. The café walls mimicked the look of wood, and hundreds of fake vines adorned the interior, giving it a rustic, wild touch. The tables, which you were sure were made of mahogany, were just big enough to seat two people, and the chairs were spacious and comfortable enough to sit in for hours.

It was the perfect place to read on a sunny afternoon—or to sip a warm cup of hot chocolate on a rainy evening. The perfect place for quiet confessions between people who had known each other all their lives.

The thought made your cheeks warm, and your heart skip a few beats in joy.

It was Saturday—the only day you allowed yourself to wake up a bit later than usual. Sleeping in until 9 a.m. was “late” by your standards, especially since you normally got up at 5 on weekdays. Just an hour after your alarm went off, Yellow by Coldplay began to play. You immediately knew it was Jin. He was the only person in your contacts with a personalized ringtone.

You thought he’d say something silly, maybe make a joke, or even call to complain about one of the guys in the band. But he didn’t. His voice was soft, broken up by small, nervous laughs as he mumbled something about meeting in two hours at your usual café—the one you always went to when you needed to catch up or just be with each other.

And you said yes.

Your voice was calm and steady, just as certain as the hundreds of other times you’d said “yes” to Jin over the course of your life. But inside, you were a mess of nerves. Sure, it was normal for Jin to call you on weekends. Yes, it was normal for you two to meet at that old but cozy café. But he’d never sounded like that before. Never that nervous about asking you to hang out.

That made your mind race with possibilities—each one ending with the two of you walking out of that café no longer just childhood friends… but something more.

So, you got dressed up—more than usual. You used the most expensive makeup in your kit, careful to keep the look subtle enough for a coffee shop, but still soft and captivating. You wore a simple yet elegant dress—one that Jin himself had bought for your birthday (and nearly gave you a heart attack when you found out how much it cost). You wore brand-new shoes that you'd originally planned to debut at your sister’s wedding, and you straightened your hair with care, adding a special lotion to make it shinier and softer.

You looked beautiful. You felt beautiful.

You’d arrived about ten minutes ago—almost eleven now—and all you could do was stare at your reflection in the glass, fidgeting with your hair over and over again, trying to fix invisible flaws, trying to calm the rising anxiety with each passing second.

And then Jin arrived.

Your entire body responded to his presence instantly. Your back straightened, your lips parted slightly, and your eyes lit up in a way they hadn’t before.

He wore a simple cream-colored suit that only made his delicate features stand out more. His hair, as always, was perfect—now a rich, dark brown that framed his face beautifully. He spotted you immediately and made his way over with that quiet confidence he always had.

“Before you scold me for being late—it wasn’t my fault,” he said quickly, sitting across from you with that effortlessly elegant air that was so uniquely his. “I had to take a few detours to shake off some reporters who… You know what? Doesn’t matter. What matters is we’re both here—and there’s a killer deal on Saturdays.”

You laughed at the sight of his annoyed expression as he rummaged through his bag—because Jin couldn’t care less if the media called him feminine for carrying a bag—in search of what you assumed was his wallet. You could hear him mumbling under his breath. You couldn’t quite make out the words, but you were sure they were complaints and insults aimed at those ‘lifeless’ people obsessed with him and the other members.

You simply nodded, resting your chin on your hand as you watched every little detail of his face, every small change in expression. You knew the way he’d jerk his head back when something startled or annoyed him. You knew he covered his face when he was embarrassed. You knew his voice got higher and faster when he was upset. You guessed that was the result of a friendship that had lasted over twenty years, born from the affection your mothers had for each other.

“Have you ordered yet? This one’s on me,” he said once he’d finally found his wallet and placed it gently on the table. It had a cute sticker of a little plant with a face. You gave it to him five years ago when you joined a botany club. He stuck it on right away, and it was still there.

“Ah, no, not yet,” you said, clearing your throat as a blush crept up your cheeks. “I wanted to wait for you,” you added quietly. You weren’t sure if he heard you or not. But it didn’t matter—not when you were so sure that today, everything would change.

“Great! Then I’ll get the usual,” he said, turning his head in search of the waitress who usually served you both. She always wore a bright smile, her hair decorated with colorful clips shaped like cats and bunnies that stood out almost as much as her vibrant red hair.

You didn’t catch most of the small talk. You knew both of you had greeted her politely, and that she said something about how lovely you two looked today. Then things got blurry.

You blamed Jin—for looking that good while talking.

There was something about the way he smiled and laughed at his own nonsense that you found utterly endearing. Everything about him was enchanting to you, if we’re being honest—but his smile? Seeing him happy? That’s what you loved the most.

“Let me guess—one slice of cheesecake, one lemon pie, and two cups of coffee?” Saeyoung asked, glancing between the two of you with a knowing look, waiting for confirmation so she could head to the counter.

“You read my mind,” Jin replied with a soft laugh as he pulled out his card. “That, and a tiramisu.”

Saeyoung blinked, confused. You straightened in your seat. The two of you exchanged a silent look, one that said exactly the same thing. Confusion.

In all the years you’d been coming here, Jin had never invited anyone else. Not even the guys from the band. You’d both agreed—this place was your little escape from the world, a hidden corner just for the two of you.

So who was he inviting?

Right then, the soft bell above the door chimed, followed by a gentle click and quick footsteps heading straight toward your table.

Only then did you actually notice the person who had just arrived—now walking toward you both with a bright smile and a hand raised in greeting.

You’d seen hundreds of beautiful women in your life. You went to a school full of wealthy people, the kind who could afford a level of self-care others couldn’t. You’d seen models, actresses, and singers at the events hosted by BOTN. You’d even designed clothes for emerging models—each one stunning.

But her?

She was on a whole different level.

She was much shorter than both you and Jin. With those pink heels, she was probably just barely 5'3". Her skin looked soft and flawless, with a hint of blush on her cheeks. Her nose was small and upturned, and her lips were full and a gorgeous rosy pink that perfectly matched her pale rose suit—which you swore was from Celine. But the most beautiful thing about her? Her eyes. Large, dark, with long lashes that fluttered like butterflies every time she blinked.

In short, she looked like an angel.

“Yeji! You made it,” Jin said, standing up the second he saw her approaching. He stepped aside and pulled a chair over from another table, placing it in the empty spot between you both. He held it open until she sat down, then finally sat again himself.

“Yeah, I got a bit lost getting here. All the streets looked the same,” She adjusted herself in the chair with a clumsy gesture, fixing a strand of blonde hair—which obviously wasn't natural, but suited her so well she could have been born with that color—pushing it behind her ear. You noticed how her cheeks turned even redder when she mentioned getting lost. Oh, and of course, you noticed that her voice was one of the softest and warmest you had heard in at least the last two years.

Was everything about her really this… sweet and beautiful?

“Y/N, this is Yeji.” He was looking at you. But his hand was resting on Yeji’s on the table, his thumb gently stroking her hand. All of this while his gaze remained fixed on you. Warm. Soft. In love. But not with you. “My girlfriend.”

Everything stopped for a second. The air in your lungs seemed to vanish, your heart seemed to stop beating, and your head went completely blank. You were sure your whole body was tense, your hands, which were now clasped together on the table, were gripping way too tightly, and your eyes were fixed on ‘Yeji’ with tears threatening to spill at any moment.

But it was only for a second.

You took a breath. It was a little shaky, probably too close to a sob, but no tears came. You wouldn’t let yourself cry—not now, not with both of them here. Not after hearing that.

You cleared your throat, counted to three, and put on the same smile you always gave Jin. And to Yeji.

“Your girlfriend? You never told me about her. How long have you been together?” You subtly lowered your hands, afraid Jin would see them trembling, afraid he would notice that crack the news had just made. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t know how you felt about him.

Why had you thought today would change things?

Why did you believe it was mutual?

“We’ve been together for three months!” Yeji answered, her eyes quickly moving to Jin, sparkling in a way you knew all too well. Your eyes sparkled that way when you looked at him. “Jin has told me so much about you over these past few months that I couldn’t help but beg him to introduce us.”

Now all her attention was on you. She took your hands from under the table, holding them between hers, smiling at you with so much emotion that you almost felt guilty. Why did you feel guilty?

“Jin always mentioned how beautiful you were, but seeing you in person is really something else.”

You tried to smile. You tried to be as polite as possible. But it was hard. There were so many questions running through your head, so many things you couldn’t understand. Why had he told her about you? Because you were his best friend, of course—his parents knew you too—but why had he told her he thought you were beautiful?

Did it matter? The answer was simple. No. Because even if he spoke about you, even if he told her you were beautiful, it was her who was by his side.

And you’d have to watch from afar. Again.

Jin wasn’t a womanizer, at least not the type you saw in movies. During his teenage years, he never had a girlfriend. You knew this because you were inseparable, nobody could separate you, and you spent most of your time together, hardly talking to anyone else.

Things changed when he started his band project, specifically when they released their first album. It was a huge success, playing on every local radio station, and all the young people seemed to love the songs. And the members.

It was after a month of releasing the first album that this “womanizer phase” began. He went out with several girls, not for just one night, but for short periods—one month, maybe three. It had never been serious. He had never introduced you to any of them. You knew from rumors, from women’s clothes in his apartment, from the loving calls and messages you sometimes saw by accident on his phone.

Jin had never given any hints about his love life with you, and for some reason, that gave you hope.

Because despite being able to be with any of those beautiful and talented women, he always came back to you. You were always by his side.

But it wasn’t until this moment that you realized; you were always there because he considered you his best friend, not because he was in love with you.

And Yeji was the perfect example of that realization.

“Thank you, Yeji. Can I call you that?” You kept your eyes locked on hers, afraid to face Jin right now, afraid he would notice your fear, your shame, your sadness. You wanted to run. You wanted to disappear completely.

But you wouldn’t. Because Jin’s happiness came before your selfish desires. Because before being in love with him, you were his friend.

“Oh, of course! We’re the same age anyway.” She nodded quickly before relaxing her smile a little. No, it wasn’t relaxed. It was a shy smile, embarrassed, fearful. “Ah, sorry, am I being too forward? We’ve just met, and I already took your hands like this, how rude of me!” She let go of your hands, leaving them gently on your lap. You noticed how hers were shaking, how, despite her cheerful expression, there seemed to be a hint of fear hidden beneath.

“Don’t worry, I have a friend who’s much, um, more expressive with her affection.” You said softly, as if trying to calm her. You were trying to, weren’t you? “You can call me Y/N if you want,” you leaned in a little closer to her, lowering your voice just enough to make it seem like a secret between you two, though you were sure Jin would hear it perfectly. “Between us, I’m not a big fan of honorifics.”

You smiled faintly when you heard her laugh at your comment. It hurt. It hurt seeing her be so beautiful and speaking harmoniously, it hurt that even her personality at first glance seemed kind. It hurt because you couldn’t hate her.

When you looked at Jin again, his eyes were fixed on yours. The warmth from before was still there, you could feel it, from his smile, from his relaxed posture. Why did he have to look at you with that gaze that seemed to want to give everything, if he’d never give it all to you?

Maybe that was what hurt the most.

“And he told you she was his girlfriend? Seriously?” Chaeyoung, who was barely managing to stuff more food into her mouth, frowned at you. She was wearing a T-shirt you were pretty sure belonged to Yoongi, and a pair of shorts way too short for how cold it was at this hour. “That’s so weird. Who sets up a breakfast meeting to introduce their girlfriend? Like, couldn’t he have just called you at, I don’t know, four or something?”

“You’re totally missing the point of this conversation, Chaeyoung,” Sooah mumbled. Her lilac iPad —the one she took everywhere— sat on her side of the table, screen filled with rows of meetings and deadlines. Her phone displayed a bunch of agency contacts she was quickly scribbling down on one of the napkins they’d gotten with their order. “Though, she’s not wrong. It is weird. He didn’t even tell us he was seeing someone. Maybe I should talk to him tomorrow.” The last part was more to herself than to either of you.

Sooah had been the boys’ manager not long after they debuted. She was organized, level-headed, and ridiculously smart. She was, in short, the perfect woman to put opportunistic companies in their place and demand proper pay and treatment for the boys. She’d been one of the group’s biggest pillars, and everyone —from the members to the fans— knew that a good part of their success came from her relentless work and effort to get people to see them.

“So this is the first time he’s ever introduced one of his girlfriends to you?” She grabbed one of the soju bottles on the table, opened it effortlessly, and took a sip. Her eyes stayed on you the entire time, like she was waiting for an answer you couldn’t give her. At least not right now. You were still way too shocked to even process the news. “She must be someone really special if he did that.” She paused, registering what she’d just said. Realizing she’d just hit a nerve.

Sooah gave her a raised eyebrow. You covered your face with both hands. She looked between the two of you and let out a short, awkward laugh.

“But he told you first! That makes you special too!” Chaeyoung turned to Sooah with pleading eyes, silently begging her to help smooth things over, to say something that would lighten the mood.

She didn’t.

“He took her to our special place,” you mumbled, still hiding your face in your hands. You could hear your voice —how it sounded like a child throwing a tantrum because someone else had just played in the sandbox you’d guarded your whole life. You remembered reading somewhere that when sadness and heartbreak overwhelm you, you tend to regress a little. Act younger than you are. And now you got it. You got it so well it made you feel embarrassed.

You were better than this.

But here you were, one second away from crying because a sweet, beautiful girl had stolen the heart of the man you thought was the love of your life.

Both Chaeyoung and Sooah exchanged a look. They’d spent years around you; by this point, they were almost your best friends —though Sooah would never admit that out loud. You and Sooah had known each other since 2013, the year BOTN debuted. Chaeyoung joined the circle three years later, and the three of you had been practically inseparable ever since. How could you not be? You saw each other more than anyone else in your lives.

Sooah was always wherever the group was —constantly keeping things in check, making sure everything ran smoothly. Chaeyoung… well, she was wherever Yoongi was. Every concert, every shoot —always there to support him. Perks of being your own boss. And you, you’d always been there for Jin. To remind him he was doing amazing work when he felt down, to be in the crowd at every show just so he wouldn’t feel alone.

Now you weren’t even sure if you had the right to do that anymore. Was it even okay, when he had a girlfriend who was probably ready to do all of that for him?

“Y/N,” Sooah started, letting out a soft sigh before turning off her iPad and giving you her full attention, “have you thought that maybe… it’s time to let him go?”

“Wait, what?” Chaeyoung shook her head like she’d just heard the dumbest thing ever. “No way. Absolutely not. She’s been in love with him for years! You can’t just let go after spending over a decade trying to win him over —that would be such a waste of time!”

“Exactly. She’s already wasted enough time chasing someone who never loved her back. She’s 25 now. It’s time to move on. There are hundreds of men out there who could replace him,” she crossed her arms, eyes locked on you even though her words were aimed at Chaeyoung.

You were pretty sure their argument went on for a while, but you were too focused on your untouched plate to care about what they were saying.

Everything around you started to blur, fade out —the noise, the smell of grilled meat and smoke, the faint music playing from an old radio, the soft rustling of the tent’s plastic flaps.

All you could hear now was Jin’s voice introducing you to his girlfriend. Yeji’s voice, greeting you like she genuinely liked you. Like she expected the two of you to be friends. And all you could see was the way Jin’s eyes sparkled. The way he sparkled.

You frowned. Closed your eyes. Counted to ten.

You weren’t going to cry.

“I’m not going to do anything,” you whispered. But you knew they both heard it, because their voices fell silent instantly. You didn’t look at them. You couldn’t. “I don’t want to replace him, because I know no one could ever take Jin’s place.” You took a breath, straightened your posture, and looked at your two friends —hoping that just doing that might make it easier to carry the weight on your chest. “But I’m not going to get in the middle of his relationship either. That girl… Yeji… she doesn’t deserve that. And Jin doesn’t either.”

Sooah sighed. Chaeyoung looked at you with sympathy. And you… you just tried your best to finish the food on your plate despite the lump in your throat.

A week.

It had been a week since Jin's confession, and the world kept turning.

People still walked from work to their homes, the sun still rose in the morning, time kept moving forward—but not in the same way it used to.

You got up at five, did your workout routine, took a shower, had breakfast. By eight, you were on your way to work; you arrived, worked on your designs, followed your boss’s orders, ate lunch, went back to work. At seven, you went home, had dinner, changed into your pajamas, watered your plants, went to bed. By eleven thirty, you were fast asleep.

Life went on. But you felt more stuck than ever.

You tried to distract yourself with work, tried to take extra hours, avoid Jin’s calls, reply to his messages as dryly as possible. You tried to set a boundary—for your own good, and for the sake of Jin’s relationship.

But it wasn’t easy to ignore your best friend.

“Ugh, that meeting was so boring. I don’t know why Mr. Lee can’t just give us a summary,” said Soojin, a young intern who’d been hired a few months ago. She had a wild fashion sense and wasn’t what you’d call “subtle” when it came to complaining about work. But she was good company.

You weren’t really listening to the rest of her rant. You were too focused on your phone’s inbox.

25 messages. You had 25 messages from Jin. Most of them were him telling you about his day—he always did that, you always talked about your days at work. Your shared chat was like a diary, one filled with references only the two of you understood, full of thoughts and feelings neither of you could share with anyone else because they belonged to just the two of you.

You turned off your phone.

“You can leave early if you want, I’ve got something to discuss with Mr. Lee before heading out,” you said suddenly, cutting off Soojin’s verbal vomit. She just blinked and shrugged before kissing you on the cheek and wishing you “good luck.”

You slipped your phone into one of your coat pockets and walked to your desk to grab a lime green folder. Your name was written on it in delicate, elegant handwriting. You’d made it when you graduated college, determined to use it one day to show your designs to your future boss. Determined to chase your dream.

You hadn’t dared to use it until now. Maybe because, in a way, you felt like you couldn’t possibly feel worse than you already did.

Your heart had been broken less than a week ago. If it broke again now, while the wound was still fresh, maybe it would save you from suffering later. Did that logic make sense? Probably not.

You walked toward Mr. Lee’s office, clutching the folder to your chest, head held high. Confidence is everything. If you believe in what you do—even if it’s stupid—you’ll convince anyone. Or at least that’s what your mom always said.

You knocked on the glass door with your knuckles—two soft taps—and Mr. Lee, already in his 60s, looked up from the stack of papers on his desk to give you a cold, sharp stare. Your whole body froze, and the only thing left inside you was regret and the urge to run away.

But you didn’t. It was too late now.

You walked in quietly, deliberately looking around the office to avoid his gaze. The shelves sparkled, the floor looked like a mirror, and his desk was so clean that if it weren’t for the metal supports, you wouldn’t even see it.

“Miss Y/N, care to explain why you’re in my office at this hour?” His raspy voice and condescending tone made you shrink where you stood. He had always seemed like a serious, intimidating man; no one ever dared speak up in meetings, no one ever looked him in the eye, and you didn’t think you’d ever heard anyone say they’d had a friendly chat with him after work.

The last time you saw someone come out of his office, the guy had tears all over his face.

“I’m sorry for bothering you so late, Mr. Lee,” you murmured, head down, eyes on your nails—painted the same color as your folder. You took a breath. Tried to think of something that would calm you. Plants. You loved plants. How about a field? A field full of exotic flowers and the smell of wet soil. You, sitting on a hill in the middle of it. Jin beside you. The weight in your chest eased just a bit. “I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll be brief.”

You reached out and handed him your folder. This time, you ignored his disapproving look.

“I’d like you to take a look at my designs,” you said in the firmest tone you could muster. You were surprised you didn’t stutter at all.

Mr. Lee’s eyes fell on the folder. Your heart nearly stopped when he took it from your hands, opened it, and flipped through the pages in silence. You had spent years working on those designs. He took less than a minute to glance through them and toss them into the corner of his desk.

“The next time you waste my time, I hope it’s for something actually worth it, Miss Y/N.”

He didn’t even look at them. Not really.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” you whispered, gathering your things, bowing at a perfect ninety degrees, and walking out of his office.

You didn’t start crying until you got back to your desk. But it wasn’t the loud, sobbing, throat-burning kind of crying. It was the silent kind. The kind of crying that comes when you’re resigned. When you just accept what happened because you weren’t expecting anything better.

Because deep down, you knew he was going to reject you.

And you weren’t sure if you were crying over your boss’s rejection, or Jin’s.

You didn’t bother wiping your tears away—there was no point. They’d keep falling until you found at least a little bit of relief. You packed up your things, much slower than usual. Not like you had anything else to do afterward.

You don’t remember exactly how you got to the company’s entrance, but you knew you’d looked down when you passed Mr. Lee’s office again. You remembered getting into the elevator and seeing your reflection—broken, sad, empty. That only made you cry harder.

But no one said anything. Because people are like that. They can see someone crying their eyes out in the middle of the street and still do nothing to help.

And you were really, really grateful for that right now.

The walk from the elevator to the exit was a bit clearer. You remembered saying goodbye to the security guards, hearing the sound of your heels echoing with every step, watching your tears hit the floor, and the tightness in your chest making it hard to breathe properly.

And then you heard his voice. That’s the part you remember the clearest.

“Y/N?”

You looked up, biting the inside of your lip when you saw Jin standing at the entrance, wearing a wool hat you’d given him back when you finished school and a black face mask barely covering his chin. His phone was in his hands. You felt your pocket vibrate.

He was calling you.

“Are you crying?” He already knew the answer. Of course he did—that’s why he didn’t wait for a reply. He rushed over to you, cupping your face in his hands, checking you carefully, with that worried look that made your heart skip because it meant he cared. “What happened? Did you get hurt? Did some jerk try to touch you? Because if someone—swear to God I’ll—”

You didn’t let him finish. You couldn’t. You wrapped your arms around his waist and let everything you’d been holding in that week pour out. The guilt was still there, eating you up inside, but the pain—and the need to feel him close, to get even the tiniest bit of comfort—was stronger.

You felt his body relax in your arms, and almost instantly, his arms wrapped around you. He buried his face in your shoulder, held you like he was the one who needed the hug, like he was the one who had missed you the way you missed him.

“I want to go home,” you whispered against his chest, gripping his jacket like your life depended on it. Maybe because, in that moment, it kind of did.

“I brought my car.” He didn’t move. If anything, he held you tighter. One of his hands slid into your hair, gently stroking it—just like he always did when you cried. “I’ll take you.”

"I can’t believe he did that. What’s his problem?" Jin said, his voice slightly higher and more irritated than usual. His brows were furrowed and his lips formed an almost imperceptible pout. He was angry. He was angry because your boss had dismissed your effort. You’d be lying if you said that didn’t feel good. "Your work is seriously amazing. Our fans always go crazy when you design our outfits."

You let out a soft laugh. Faint. Jin wasn’t wrong—his fans had always appreciated the style you gave the boys because you cared about their comfort and essence. You weren’t just looking for something that looked cool—you wanted their outfits to scream their personalities. You wanted them to be iconic, memorable, something that felt like part of who they were.

So far, you’d done a great job.

"I need that party pooper’s approval, not your fans’, you know?" you muttered, looking at the coffee mug resting on the glass coffee table. You really liked glass tables, and you loved decorating them with small plants in pastel-colored pots. There was something about those things—clean, natural, fragrant—that calmed you, even just a little.

They gave you peace. The kind of peace you could only find at home.

"My fans are way more important than that bald guy," he shook his head, as if he was genuinely confused about how you could even compare them to his sweet little Stars. You’d never fully liked the name they gave their fandom. But you never said anything.

"I wish it felt that way," you pulled your legs up, hugging them tightly enough to rest your chin on your knees. The coffee was still on the table. The steam had nearly stopped rising.

You both shared a silence. Long. Peaceful. Without the same tension that had lingered between you ever since Jin introduced you to Yeji. For the first time in these seven days, you finally stopped feeling that weight in your chest that seemed to freeze time.

For once, it was just you and him.

"Jokes aside," Jin set his own mug next to yours. His was a lovely pastel pink. Yours was cream-colored. "You’re incredible, Y/N. Seriously. And the only one losing here is him." He placed a hand on your back. His fingers tangled in your hair again, his eyes lost somewhere in the blank space on your back. "He has no idea what an amazing woman he’s letting go of."

Your heart skipped a beat. Your breath caught. And you couldn’t resist lifting your gaze to meet his face.

It didn’t feel like he was talking about your boss. It felt far too personal. You felt it too personally.

You didn’t know when it had happened exactly, but his face was much closer to yours now. Barely a breath separated you. You both stared in silence, and the tension you thought had been left behind wrapped around you again, suffocating. And this time, you were sure you weren’t the only one feeling it.

His eyes looked darker, his lips were pressed together, and you could see his Adam’s apple move nervously every few seconds.

Before you could think, before you could even question what was happening between the two of you, you opened your mouth, the doubt planted in you since meeting Yeji finally breaking free.

"Why didn’t you ever mention her?" you whispered, afraid that speaking louder would shatter the atmosphere and lead you both to make a mistake you’d regret the next day.

"Why have you been ignoring me?" he replied, his eyes scanning every inch of your face, studying it carefully. You were sure they lingered a little longer on your lips.

"I didn’t want to overstep."

"I didn’t want you to meet her."

You swallowed hard. Bit the inside of your cheek. Spoke again.

"Why?"

"Because that makes it real."

You wanted to look away, to hold on to your principles, to remind yourself that this was all in your head—that he wasn’t really looking at you with that intense gleam in his eyes, that he wasn’t actually glancing at your lips every five seconds.

You wanted to remind yourself that none of those gestures belonged to you.

But it was too hard.

"Then why did you introduce me to her in the first place?" Why are you with her? That was the real question you wanted to ask—the one that gnawed at you so much it made your heart ache. But you couldn’t say it out loud.

That question seemed to shatter the moment entirely. Jin looked away and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes blinked fast, his head tilted back, and he looked so confused and hurt—like he wasn’t even sure of the answer himself, like saying it out loud would sting.

"She wanted to meet you," he murmured, his voice a little hoarser, his eyes avoiding yours completely. "She really liked you."

You let your legs fall, stretching them across the floor. You looked back at the coffee; this time, there wasn’t a single trace of steam left.

"Why were you talking to her about me?"

"Because you’re the most important person to me."

The words came out too easily, too fast, like they’d been dancing on his tongue for a long time before he finally said them. You wished it were just as easy not to react to them.

"It’s late," you stood up carefully, wincing as a tingling sensation rushed through your legs. They felt shaky and numb, but you had to force them to move. You had to get out of here. "I’m going to bed—you know where everything is."

You both said goodnight. You both lay down in separate rooms. But neither of you managed to fall asleep—not when you were both too aware of the other’s presence. Not after nearly ruining everything.

That night, you found yourself remembering your conversation with Chaeyoung and Sooah again—wondering, just for a moment, if you could really let him go after tonight.

Masterlist.

[aliorsboxostuff]

Hey, you said requests were open for Robert Reynolds from Thunderbolts.

Could you write an x male reader, with reader being a friend of Bucky (that has powers maybe) and Bucky calls him for the Sentry mission and reader unexpectedly bonds with Bob ? Maybe reader has anger issues and so he understands self-control issues ?

Please and thank you 🙏

HELLLOOOOO thank you for the request!!!! Please mind me and my very rough writing, this is my first fic after closing requests in a WHILE regardless, I hope you enjoy this fanfic tho!!! I tried to work with the idea you gave me so i hope it suffices!  Also please note I've seen the movie ONCE and I've forgotten a lot of the actual lines they said! My apologies if I've made those mistakes! 

Control amidst Chaos

Tags: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x Mutant!Male!Reader, No use of YN, The Thunderbolts* spoilers, Yelena Belova, John Walker, James Bucky Barnes, Red Guardian, Ava Starr, Childhood trauma, void area, Unstable Backgrounds, Blooming relationship, Hurt Comfort, Fluff, BOB SUPPORT GROUP!

The last thing you've heard from Bucky was that he's running for Congress. What you didn't expect was that being a congress member also includes fighting against an unstable man with unstable powers in the job description. 

—

The last thing you've heard from Bucky was that he's running for Congress. What you didn't expect was that being a congress member also includes fighting against an unstable man with unstable powers in the job description. 

“Where? The old Avengers tower?” Yoi shouted across the room, phone on speaker. The knives slide easily into their pockets as you pull on your gloves.

“Yeah, I'm bringing my own group with me-” 

“Group? Since when did you get so friendly, huh Barnes?” The phone speaker crackles, which indicates a scoff from Bucky, no doubt. 

“Look, just get there quick, alright? and bring your gear, you'll need it.” A beep ends the call just as you adjusted the final strap on your armour. While you haven't fought a real danger in a while now, it doesn't mean you haven't forgotten just how powerful you can be. 

Bucky doesn't usually contact you, especially about a mission. You've been keeping tabs on him, and he mostly checks in just to hear how you are, asking about your health. Now that Bucky has asked for your help, in such an urgent matter as well, a bile of anxiety rises inside you.

You sped off in your truck down the highway, hoping to make it to the tower in time before anything goes awry.

—

A bitter chill wraps down your spine. You force your eyes to snap open, breathing in lungfuls as you take in your surroundings. There, you stand, inside a room, a familiar place, though it doesn't bring back fond memories. The bright blue wallpaper and children's toys strewn about, the image depicts of childlike wonder and happiness, though it contrasts with what’s happening just across the room. 

Your heart drops as you glance down, a younger, much younger you, sitting in the middle of the room, a toy train in hand. It’s blocky, mostly made out of wood, if you could recall. He’s oblivious to the noise outside of his safety bubble. Your brow furrows, trying to process the situation, before the voice outside the room becomes clearer. The shouting, heightened tone, and quick replies. It was your parents fighting. 

The realization hits you like a freight train. It was the day your mutation manifested. It was a sunny afternoon at the park, if you recall. You were in the sandbox, just meters away from your father, when another child came over to where you sat. The kid took the shovel you were using to build a castle, before knocking the structure down, sending blocks of sand to break apart. There was a snap inside you, something broke loose and washed over your young mind. It wasn't like you could've controlled it, the surge of power crashes down amidst a wave and before you could process anything, the same kid was sent flying, particles of sand cover his torso and legs, as if he was pulled.

The next memory was just you sitting in your room, toy train in hand, blissfully unaware of the argument happening outside. So it seems. 

The truth is, you were aware of the fight. Aware of the damage you did to that kid. Even when you were such a young child, you knew that what you did was wrong, was bad enough to cause your parents to fight. But you also knew, you somehow had to keep a mask up, to make them feel like you were still their innocent angel.

You blink repeatedly, looking around the now suffocating room, looking for a door, a latch, anything as a way out. You turn to see a full-length mirror across the room, tilting your head. Within it, sits a silver-haired woman, Yelena, comforting what must be Bob, who caused this whole nightmare. You take steps to approach the mirror, the tips of your fingers touch the cold glass, before it ripples like water in a pond. 

Reassessing the image within the mirror, you take a staggering breath, once, twice, before running shoulder-first into the glass. It shatters, the glass breaking shrieks into your ears, before you slowly open your eyes to two concerned voices calling your name.

“Hey wha- are you okay?” Yelena’s voice brings you to a clearer vision. You open your eyes to her and Bob’s concern above you.

“Ugh…” You bring yourself to sit up, rubbing your shoulder. “Never been better,” You sigh, rolling your arm a bit to ease the pain. You turn your head to face Bob, his brows furrowed as he checks your body. His gaze slowly meets yours, eyes wide in a slight surprise, before he clears his throat.

“Did you hurt yourself?” 

“Been through worse. Bob, right? Sentry?” Your voice softens when Bob turns his head away at the mention of Sentry. From his body language, there must be a rift between Bob and his Sentry identity. Judging from the damage he caused throughout New York, you can connect the two dots to make a cohesive line. 

“Right sorry- I should be asking if you’re okay,” 

“Out there, that… Version of you, that's not you, is it?” He takes a staggering inhale at your question, before his grip on his thigh tightens. He blinks before slowly nodding, his head turns to a foggy window on the other side of the loft, or so it seems.

“It um… it always comes out, whenever Sentry is present.” Bob inhales as he shakes his head. “It’s- it’s not something I can control. Before I went to Val and her program, before this, i’d-” 

“I’d have good days, and bad day. Like- bad bad days. Where I wouldn't remember anything. Next thing know I'm just… I don't know. I don't- I can't control him,” He blinks, his blue eyes shaking as he takes a sharp inhale. You shift closer to him, a cautious hand on his arm, rubbing slightly. 

“It's okay, hey, I get it,” Your eyes meet his, a meek smile to try and comfort him. “I do. It.. sucks, when you cant control these things. When you lose control,” 

“I’m… My mutation- powers, they come from my emotions, they come from my depression, my happiness. But dangerously, it comes from my rage, too. It took me years to control mine, to keep myself in line, Bob, I get it,” You take a breath, rubbing at his arm softly, he blinks, eyes wide. 

“And you can control yours, you know you can. We can all control the demons inside of us, or compromise, at least,”

“You think I… You really think so?” He blinked, a wavering smile making its way to his lips. 

“We can do this together, Bob. You and us,” Yelena nods, her hands engulfing his. The man looks between the two of you, a slow build of trust before he nods, reassured with a steady confidence within him. You smile, before the room quivers from a strong tremor, the furniture flying in every direction.

You and Yelena instinctively try to cover Bob’s frame, though it's apparent he can hold his own when a chair flies his way and he only ducks to cover his head. The pieces break apart, the chair bursts into splinters. 

“You okay?!” You grip Bob’s upper arm, steadying the man. He nods, Yelena immediately holding his other hand. 

“You got this Bob! I know you can do it!”

—

The smoke clears, darkness receding quickly as the midday sun takes over. Debris and flipped cars litter the street as you cough, slowly pulling yourself up. You quickly look for the team, for Yelena or Bucky or B- Bob!

You hurried to haul the man by his arm, brushing off the dust from his clothes. He shakes his head, his curls swinging from the rough movement.

“Hey! We did it, Bob, we’re okay!” 

“We what? What did we do?” He blinks, slowly looking around at the mess. “Whoah.. What a day huh,” 

You squint slightly at Bob's lopsided smile before scoffing and wrapping an arm around his shoulder, pulling you to the side. “Yeah bud, what a day,”

The others slowly gather themselves, pulling each other up. Bucky stands beside Yelena as she assesses the street. You spot Ghost, Walker and Alexei gathering their weapons from the debris, brushing clouds of dust off of them. You all gather together, relief washes over each other as the head count comes out complete. You want to let out a laugh before you spot the familiar, annoying blonde-brunette woman just in the distance, seemingly shouting into her phone. The group turns to the source of the voice, Yelena stalks her, leading the group.

She frantically retreats behind a car, then under a bus, before the group sets off into a run, you sticking close to Bob. Bucky runs in front of you and when he pulls past the bus, you are caught off guard with flashing lights and the loud commotion of reporters and their questions. 

Val stands behind a podium with mics pointed at her, you and the group now stand in a line, bewildered at the situation. She suddenly announces that you all are a group, the New Avengers, and she cheers. The crowd erupts, claps and shouts questions, a barrage of camera flashes in front of them. Yelena takes a step towards the woman and whispers something you can't pick out, though judging from her look, it's most likely a threat.

You glance towards Bob, standing idly beside you, a cloud of anxiety over him as he looks at the crowd. You sigh, wrapping a hand around his wrist. He widens his eyes, glancing at the contact, before meeting your eyes. 

“Whatever she has in store, we’ll do it together, okay?” You grin, tilting your head.

Bob sighs, the cloud of worry melting from his eyes. He sighs, then nods softly. 

To be invited into The New Avengers was the last thing you expected as a graduate of Xavier's Institute, as a nobody mutant, no less. But if it means gaining a new family, and a new friend, then it might just be worth it.

You have to thank Bucky after all of this mess is sorted.  

Requests for Bob are open! Reblogs appreciated <3

[bullet-prooflove]

Later: Donnie Donahue x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty @sjlovestory @storiesaplenty @imawhoreforu

Companion piece to:

The Worst Kinda Day (NSFW) - Donnie can't explain the relief he feels when he gets home to find you in the shower.

Queen of Soul - You consider your current career choices as you undressin the bathroom.

Gold (NSFW) - Donnie reminds you who you belong to when he sees another man hitting on you.

You’re in your underwear when Donnie gets home from work. He lingers in the doorway of the bedroom watching as you sit at your dressing table in that pretty lace bra and panties set, adding the setting powder to your features over your make up.

His cock stirs his trousers because your skin contrasting against the cream hue of that fabric, it does a little something for him.

“Is it wrong that I wanna get to my knees and worship you like the goddess you are?” He asks you, pushing off the door frame.

Your lips curve up into a smile as you tilt your head up towards him. His mouth covers yours, a searing kiss that makes a rush of heat erupt through every single one of your nerve endings as his palm cradles your neck.

“Later.” You whisper as you pull away, you attention shifting back to the mirror. “I have a session at the studio tonight.”

“I thought you were off.” He frowns as he sits down on the edge of the bed to unlace his kicks. “I was gonna cook, we were gonna do something special…”

“I was but then Leon called, he can only do tonight so…”

“Alicia.” He says softly, dragging his palms down his weary features. “This guys gonna try and get into your pants… on our wedding anniversary.”

“Donnie.” You say firmly, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “That’s not gonna happen. I promise I’ll make this up to you but you know how important this track is to my career.”

“Hm.” He says retying his laces.

“Hm?” You question, turning to face him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means go do your thing.” He shrugs as he raises to his feet. “I’m gonna head out and do mine.”

“Donnie…” You call after him but he’s already out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

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[sootnoshenie]

can u pls talk abt ur au plspslpsls i need to know NOW NOW NOWNOW 👹👹👹👹👹 i need sunstreaker content i need to see ur rendition and analysis of him NOWW /lh /pos

OHHHHHHHH I CAN TELL A LOT BE READY FOR SOOT TO BE A YAPPER

I'm ashamed to post something like this on the internet but I'll try. I do not consider Sunstreaker a whole good guy I must say so.....

I must warn you my english SUCKS and I don't use translator because it makes communication for me even more confusing so I'm sorry for any errors you might see in my text post 😭😭😭

also I do not claim my interpretation of twins being idw canonically right okay that's just my brain makes me feel funny when I think about this

sadly I can't draw rn because I'm currently not in a state and hard working so there won't be any pictures :(

or I might show you something old..... yeah I think yeah

so

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe come in pair so I'll be talking about BOTH.

so I should start from their pre-war relationship I think? they had a lot of trouble because of their different love language and their contrasting personalities

and also they had a lot of trouble because of Sunstreaker being basically the upbringer and morally the older brother to Sideswipe which mainly made his personality shape the way it is

while Sunstreaker being self-centered sociopathic and met with high expectations from him he cannot express his affection and care properly often making wrong decisions (example: joining the gladiators to protect his brother with earning money and joining the side of power that in Sunstreaker's perception was the safest at this time)

Sideswipe was more about morale and family (like. a normal one. where you support each other and shit y'know A NORMAL ONE) on the opposite hand: words of affirmation, sparing time for sharing activities, trying to be alike his brother just to understand him more. Sunstreaker's arrogance made one blind and Sunstreaker pathetically thought all of those gestures were gestures of pity. one did not listen and another wanted to be heard so bad — this is what made them to be torn apart during the war eventually leading to Sunstreaker and Sideswipe avoiding each other to the point that one of them leaves to Earth leaving another on Cybertron on some bullshit task

they hated each other. one was hurt of ignorance, other was no less hurt by his own delusions. and then guess what? headmasters

once again — Sideswipe tries to talk and Sunstreaker tries to keep shattered pieces of his personality paranoia PTSD and moreover his PRIDE together. unsuccessfully. he commits unspeakable and Sideswipe is fucking broken

the whole au is about Sunstreaker not just magically being cured of his trauma but of bearing it and accepting it just like he and Sideswipe were accepting each other back into their lives. they tried to understand each other and what's more important HEAR each other's needs

and yeah there Sideswipe lives. and yeah he's the same irritating bastard that even jokes about his possibility to be offlined right on brother's hands. Sunstreaker doesn't mind anymore. he just doesn't wanna lose him again because it happens that it hurts even more than being disassembled alive

caption: "I'm still here"

[ohwellp]

Hello everyone! This is my first time writing a story, be warned that it is NOT FINISHED. This is just what i have right now of what is going to be a very long story and maybe eventually a book. I was hoping to get some feedback from those in the fandom, those who write and those who read. Constructive criticism is encouraged and simply saying something is bad will be ignored. I appreciate actual advice. This is the introduction to the story, very rough draft, will end up heavily edited. THANK YOU FOR READING! <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silence. Right on cue, like clockwork, ever since I’ve moved here, as soon as it strikes midnight. The town falls quiet, save for the chirps of crickets and occasional dog bark. Everyone in town falls asleep simultaneously. Except me.

For some unknown reason, I'm not affected. Maybe it's related to my bouts of insomnia I've had only once I entered town. Sleep has never found me easily, but here even less so. This is why I'm up right now instead of peacefully snuggled into the warm duvets of my queen sized bed. I watch as the clock ticks by the seconds, the minutes.

12:01.

12:02.

12:03.

12:04.

12:05.

Just like the odd silence, a void purple fog rolls into town from the outskirts. I’m not sure where it comes from or why it appears, the same as everyone falling asleep. It’s confusing and yet intriguing at the same time. I’ve always been curious by nature. Not much happened in the city that I hadn’t seen before. This, however? Definitely new.

Always at 5 past midnight. Night after night, it hasn’t changed since I moved here. Without fail, not a second too late or a second too soon. I’ve seen it happen time and time again yet it remains a mystery to me.

Always followed by him. A tall brooding figure. At first I wasn’t sure what he was. Human? A creature? A monster? Or something entirely different? I haven’t got a clue. But what I do know is that “he” isn’t normal. I’ve taken the liberty to assume it’s a male. His figure is masculine even if I can’t see his face. If I’m wrong I’d apologize, but it’s not like I’ll ever speak to him anyway.

I’ve nicknamed him Ghost. It seems to fit him. Always emerging from the fog in the silence, not a noise from him, as if a vacuum sucked up all sound from the small town. He always leaves around 3 a.m. No sooner, no later.

Always. I’m not sure what it is with time and punctuation, but he’s always spot on. Maybe it’s some weird instinct he has. Hopefully I’ll find out by studying him.

Over the short month that I've lived here, I've grown used to his arrival. He never enters any houses, just roams the barren streets, looking at seemingly nothing, his purpose unknown. Efforts to converse with neighbors are quickly thwarted by confused and judging looks. They’re clueless to his presence or the way sleep takes them at the same time, that or they choose to be ignorant.

I, however, cannot.

I moved here from my life in the city, hoping to find some peace in a more solitude lifestyle. The night here, despite the silence, has become my home,but the gnawing urge to find more about this mysterious figure claws at the back of my mind. My cat, Nub, named for her amputated front right leg, spends her time at night either curled in my lap while I work on my laptop, or when the time comes, staring at Ghost. Often, I'll be up late either from my insomnia or from projects I have to finish, typing away on my screen to adjust the designs I've meticulously created for my clients.

Occasionally, I’ll glance up from my spot in the nook on the window sill of my room and I'll see him, wandering the streets, stoic. He’s always dressed the same: Deep brown bomber jacket over top a black hoodie that hides his muscles under the layers,Navy blue jeans worn from use and muddy tan Merrel Moabs. His face is covered by a black fleece balaclava with the upper portion of a human skull connected to it. The faded ivory color contrasts the darkness that surrounds him. He’s tall too. Hard to tell from afar, but I'd guess about 6'- 6'5.

From my knowledge, he seems to be dressed in military type clothing, possibly special ops. I remember seeing similar getups on soldiers who fought this crazy russian guy, can’t remember his name much, Morkov? No, maybe Makav?

Whatever, he was, he disappeared. But the tv showed the soldiers who fought him; although there wasn’t much screen time since they clearly didn’t want to be recorded for obvious reasons, one of their comrades had been KIA. Though the disgusting rat reporters didn’t seem to care much, they managed to catch a glimpse of the soldier's tag on his vest. Mactavish.

I couldn’t resist searching it up, I was bored. Couldn’t find a full name but I did find out the poor lad had been from Scotland. He had given his life to his team and to the safety of everyone.

I’m snapped from my thoughts when I hear Nub squeak at me, turning my eyes to the clock. Time went by quickly, I started work at about 9:00. I’d only been sitting here for what felt like an hour at most, engrossed in my designs. Yet the hour and minute hand stood vertical.

12:00.

I sigh and shake my head with a small smile as I get up from my spot. She has a habit of wanting to eat a late night snack right before he appears. I think she’s taken a liking to the mysterious man, always watching him from the comfort of her cat tree by the window. He’s never acknowledged our presence either; then again, neither of us have gone outside.

I hoist myself to my feet and pad to the kitchen, grey sweats hang from my hips and my lilac hoodie blankets me as I open a cupboard. Spotting the can of catfood, I grab and pop it open, dumping it into a small blue dish before setting it down, Nub immediately digs in, as if worried she’d miss her favorite show. I make myself a cup of coffee, the whirr of the Keurig fills the silence and then the familiar smell of roasted coffee grounds, caramel, my favorite. I plop a few ice cubes in and follow Nub to the window, her orange tabby coat vibrant in the dim lighting. I have to admit, it’s cool watching him appear.

I glance at the clock, seeing the minute hand tick.

12:05.

I sip my coffee, the warm liquid providing comfort as we watch the fog roll in, then Him. I chuckle to myself.

“Right on time, big boy.” Nub lets out a happy chirp, pleased her favorite entertainment has arrived once more. We sit there for a few moments, watching his usual routine, and then it happens. Nub jumps down from her cat tree and paws at the front door. I cock my head to the side at her.

“There’s no way you actually have the audacity to want outside NOW,” a hint of exasperation in my tone. I look back to the figure wandering the streets, my own curiosity growing. I know I moved here for a more peaceful life but…. My gaze moves back to Nub.

“You’re a bad influence.” I move toward the door; my mug in my left hand, warming my palm, my right hand hovering over the brass handle.

“I can’t believe I'm doing this. We better not get killed.”

‘Click.’

The handle turns and I crack the door, peering my head out. My gaze lands on Ghost, a few houses down, staring at some flowering shrubs. He hasn’t seemed to notice us yet which is good I suppose.

‘Meow.’ Nub pushes past the door, making a cringe worthy loud meow as she prances out toward the sidewalk, her own beady eyes fixated on him.

“No! Nub! You dumb little shit, get back here!” I yell in a hushed voice, eyes locking onto her as I set my mug down on my side table, rushing out the door, forgetting shoes as I hone in on my fuzzball. I dart after her, scooping her up in my arms as she reaches the neighbors yard, cradling her as I scold her.

“You dumbass! Have I taught you nothing?”

My lips curled into a frown at her, seeing her innocent furry face and letting out a sigh.

“Never mind, you’re lucky you’re cute-” My voice halts, feeling my arm hair stand on end. My hindbrain firing off danger signals as I feel the gaze. My eyes dart to the figure standing 20 feet away from me, locking onto the deep brown irises that gaze right back. I feel my heart starting to race. Shit. I forgot about him.

Ghost stares right back, silent as ever, the balaclava giving away not a hint of emotion. His eyes seem to be studying me. It feels as if time stops until Nub squirms out of my arms, jumping across the distance and to his feet. Rubbing against his legs and purring as she finally makes contact with the man she’s been watching for a month, her tail curling behind her, letting out a high pitched and girly squeak.

My heart drops in fear, expecting him to react negatively; my mind flashing with images of her getting stepped on, thrown, strangled by this entity. I’m snapped out of my thoughts by a deep rumble, a chuckle, smooth like whiskey. The emotions behind it are masked, but Nub seems to preen at the noise, continuing to purr and rub against his legs as she puts on her cutest act. The realization hits me. This little shit is tryna woo him.

I turn my attention to him, he’s no longer looking at me. This man–? entity? Creature–i? Is focused on Nub; he reaches down and I tense, preparing for the worst. Instead of harming her, he scratches the top of her head with a gloved hand and a gentleness I wasn’t expecting from such an intimidating being.

Nub continues to rub against him–seemingly ecstatic from his attention until he gives in and picks her up, cradling her in his arms; she immediately takes advantage of her new height and gently headbuts his masked chin.

I’m stunned. I wasn’t expecting him to pet her, more or less treat her with such care; my tension eases a bit as I witness the tenderness in his actions, though I stay wary. He may be nice to her for the moment, but he’s still a stranger that's intertwined with this strange town and I haven’t seen his reaction toward a human yet.

As if sensing my thoughts, he finally looks back at me, his emotions still hidden. I feel my breath hitch, caught in my throat, my muscles preparing for an attack. His shoes thud on the ground with each slow step he takes as he starts his approach. My mind races with ways to distract him to reach my home; Nub is clearly fine on her own.

He stops just two feet away from me, his form towers over mine, dwarfing me in comparison, my eyes widen now that I see him up close. He emanates danger; his presence suffocating. The voice that comes from him is rough, heavy, filled with pre-warning by default.

“I believe this belongs to you.”

His thick British accent shocks me, catching me off guard as he holds Nub in his muscular arms. I’m at a loss for words, trying to process how he can sound so….Normal. His unique appearance and the situation in which he appears are so bizarre, but he seems so human.

I finally manage to find my voice, though my brain hasn’t quite caught up as I stumble over my words.

“I- you’re- she-” I suck air in and shake my head slightly, snapping out of my daze. Pull yourself together,you’re embarrassing yourself.

“Yes. She’s mine….she’s very curious.” My gaze holds his, feeling like I’m being scrutinized.

“Quite the dangerous quality. Especially when out late at night.” His tone laced with amusement and implied questions as his stare bores into my soul, searching.

I scramble for an answer. Why was I out here with Nub. The reasoning seems stupid now in hindsight.

“Ah- well uhm, we’re usually up late and she likes to watch you and wanted out this time.” I hurry through an explanation, feeling my cheeks heat up in embarrassment; Nub mewls in agreement.

His eyes narrow through the holes in his mask, judging. There's a flicker of curiosity in his chocolate orbs as he speaks.

“How…are you awake?” His question is blunt and reminds me that I'm the only person who doesn’t fall asleep at 12:00.

“Oh- I- uh-” My mind blanks as I fight for some semblance of competence. How am I awake? I had never thought about it too much before. Yeah it crossed my mind but I didn’t dwell on it because it never seemed too important.

“...I suppose…I’m not all that sure,” I cringe at how hesitant I sound. God, I’m pathetic. “I never really questioned it….not like it changed anything for me.” My eyes focus back on him, trying to gauge his reaction. He lets out a small grunt in return before speaking.

“My fog tends to knock everyone out, not you though. You’re the first to resist it.” He steps closer, leaning in as he examines me. His voice gruff, almost annoyed at his own confusion. I suddenly feel like an amoeba underneath a microscope, my every move being accounted for. I can smell him now, he’s so close. Sandalwood and gunpowder.

[izzyezalea]

The Last Goodbye

Price x Freader - Angst/Fluff

The night air in the barracks was cold, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the fire in the corner. It crackled and popped, but the sound did little to ease the tension that had been building between you and John Price for the past few days. Tomorrow, he was leaving. No, he was going to war, and the odds were thin he’d return in one piece, much less unscathed.

The mission he and the rest of the team were about to undertake was classified—just a few of the details were known to you, but even those were concerning. Something about this particular mission felt different.

The quiet between you two had been thick for days, neither of you willing to speak the words that hovered between you. You’d always been close—too close, maybe, for a team leader and a subordinate. Price had always been more than just a commanding officer to you; he was a friend, a protector, and if you were being honest with yourself, there was always something more. But tonight, you both felt the weight of it all in a way that neither of you had before.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual. The minutes dragged on.

You were packing his kit, silently moving from one bag to the next, but your mind wasn’t on the task. Every so often, you’d glance at him—his brow furrowed, his hands gripping the edge of the table, his posture tense, but there was something else in his eyes tonight. Something deeper than the usual stoic concentration.

He caught you looking at him, and for the briefest moment, the air between you seemed to hum with the weight of the unspoken words. Then, with a slow, measured breath, he stood up, his boots hitting the floor with the familiar thud.

“Let’s go for a walk, yeah?” he said quietly, his voice gruff but not unkind.

You nodded, swallowing down the lump that had formed in your throat. Without a word, you followed him out of the barracks into the dark, quiet night.

The gravel crunched underfoot as you walked side by side, the only light coming from the dim glow of the moon overhead. There were no words between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not yet.

He stopped after a while, turning to face you, his silhouette outlined by the pale light.

“Listen, dove,” he started, his voice unusually soft, almost hesitant. “There’s somethin’ I need to say before I leave. I—” He paused, swallowing as if he were battling with the words. “I don’t want to go without you knowin’ how I feel.

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden change in tone. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked slightly, betraying the nerves you hadn’t realised you had.

“John, you don’t have to say anything. I know the risks. We all know the risks.

He shook his head, stepping closer, his eyes locking with yours. “It’s not about the mission, love. It’s about you.” He let out a breath, his hands clasping behind his back. “I’ve never been good at this, you know that. But there’s no easy way to say this... I’ve always cared about you. More than I should. More than I’ve allowed myself to, probably. But I need you to know—no matter what happens tomorrow, you mean everything to me.”

Your heart skipped, the words taking a moment to sink in. You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I just… I don’t know what tomorrow brings,” he continued, his voice softer now, a quiet vulnerability in his usually commanding tone. “But I didn’t want to leave without telling you that.”

The moment stretched on, hanging between you like a fragile thread.

“I…” You started, your voice wavering. You didn’t know what to say either. The truth was, you’d always known. You’d always felt it, but hearing him admit it, in the rawest way possible, made your heart ache. “I care about you too, John. I always have.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The distance between you, though small, felt like an ocean. You both had always kept your feelings buried beneath layers of duty and professionalism, but now, as he prepared to walk into what could be his last mission, there was no room for anything but honesty.

Before you could say anything more, he stepped back, shaking his head, giving you a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’d better get some sleep,” he said, trying to regain his usual composure. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You nodded, though the lump in your throat felt like a weight.

The next day, he was gone.

Days turned into a blur of uncertainty and worry. Every sound, every whisper in the halls made your heart skip. You hadn’t heard from him. No calls, no messages, no sign of life.

You couldn’t shake the gnawing fear. Every time the team gathered for briefings or mission updates, the silence was suffocating. Price wasn’t there. And the longer the silence stretched, the more hopeless it became. You knew deep down something had gone wrong. But you didn’t know what, and the unknown was eating at you.

A week passed without a word.

During that time, you barely slept, barely ate. Every waking moment was filled with images of Price—his smile, his steady presence, the way he’d look at you when you didn’t expect it. But those were just memories now, floating in the emptiness where he once stood.

You didn’t allow yourself to break down. Not yet. You focused on the mission, on keeping your head above water, on surviving. But the gnawing worry was relentless. You found yourself standing at the window of your quarters at all hours, staring out into the dark, wondering if Price was out there, or if he was...

The thought haunted you.

Then, one night, after a long day of tactical reviews and planning, you heard a knock on your door. Your pulse quickened, your heart in your throat.

When you opened it, you almost didn’t believe it.

There, standing in the doorway, his face tired and drawn, was John Price.

You stood frozen for a moment, heart thudding in your chest. His expression was grim, his usual confidence stripped away, replaced by a raw exhaustion that seemed to have aged him years in the span of a week.

He didn’t speak at first, just stood there, the weight of the moment too heavy for words.

“You’re alive,” you finally managed, your voice barely a whisper.

He nodded slowly, his eyes softening for the first time in what felt like forever. “Just barely.”

You didn’t know what to say. The relief that surged through you made your legs feel weak. You took a step forward, then another, your arms aching to pull him into a hug, to hold him close and never let go. But there was a wall between you now—one you didn’t know how to break.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice rough. “I should’ve—”

You shook your head, cutting him off. “Don’t. Don’t apologise. You’re here, and that’s all that matters.”

He didn’t respond, but his eyes flickered over to you, filled with an unspoken understanding. But there was something else too—something new. A distance. Not physical, but emotional. You could feel it, the crack in the foundation of what you once shared.

“You’ve changed,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Price’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering away. “I know. I…” He sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. “It’s not easy, love. What we do… it’s not easy. And I don’t know what’s gonna happen next.”

You nodded, the pain of it all settling in. You wanted to go back to how things were, to the simplicity of those late-night talks, the teasing, the warmth of his presence. But you couldn’t. Not now.

“I don’t know how to move forward from this,” you said, voice trembling slightly.

Price didn’t answer right away. He just stepped into your room, closing the door behind him, and for a long moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the lights.

“I don’t either,” he murmured. “But I’ll figure it out. I’ll figure us out. If you’ll let me.”

The uncertainty lingered in the air, thick and suffocating, but there was something else, too. A thread, fragile but strong.

Maybe this wasn’t the end. Maybe it was just the beginning of something new—something neither of you fully understood yet.

But you were both here. And that had to be enough.

[dent-de-leon]

Some things that still really get me about Caleb and Molly--when Mollymauk dies, Caleb expresses that a part of him very much wants to stay. To at least wait a few days, clinging to this desperate hope for a miracle--to fairytales--aching for some way for Molly to still walk away from all this alive.

"The man dug his way out of a grave once, if he is to be believed...He's done it once, maybe he will do it again. Do we stay here, do we try to find...? I don't, I--I have read of miracles..."

He even leaves a letter behind for Molly, asking him to come find them if he wakes--Caleb, who wrote constant letters to his own deceased parents, who kept holding onto them because he told himself this wasn't goodbye, that one day he'd change fate and turn back time. Caleb who refuses to gives up on his loved ones, who only went all that way to Cognouza because he intended to bring Molly back. "Why did we come all this way, if not for this...?"

And in the wrap up, Matt says Lucien's resurrection essentially happened because the Nein just buried Molly and then never went back to check on the body...The way the Tombtakers were handed the perfect opportunity, went so long working towards Cognouza because...everything just fell into place, and it just happened that the Nein never followed up--

Matt: "I wanted Lucien to be this spirit that jumped from person to person, trying to find a way to kill Molly and take the body back...and then Molly died, and I was like, fuck...and it took a long time for you to go back to the body...”

Just. The way Caleb's instincts not to leave Molly behind were so very right. How it could have made all the difference if they stayed close to his body longer--or if they'd gone back to visit him so much sooner. Even if Molly wasn't going to get up and walk away on his own again, like that first time--we do know that at one point, it was possible. And even when Lucien is the one resurrected, we know from his novel that that shard of Molly's soul came back with him. That his "shattered fragment" of a soul still endured.

It's also so important to me that--while Caleb is the one who first tries to tell Gustav about Molly, he also adamantly refuses to say anything to Cree. Caleb thinking about what Mollymauk would have wanted, trying to honor his wishes. He thinks Gustav deserves the truth, because that's what Molly would want. And he doesn't even give Cree the satisfaction of knowing, because he realizes just how much Molly would hate that--

The stark contrast between Caleb trying to find the words, letting himself be more vulnerable for a moment, self-consciously apologizing for not being "good at this." Just. The world of difference between, "It's maybe a little bit for you, but also for--I'm not good at this, does someone want to...We were fond of him, and he was fond of you, so..." and the cold way he tells Cree, "That is correct. He had his own business to attend to. We parted ways...It didn't end well. It seems doubtful, but ja, if we see him again, rest assured..."

It's only afterwards, when Cree corners Fjord for answers, that she finally learns the truth. And I think it says a lot, that Fjord is moved by Cree's feelings, wants to give her some closure. But as much as she cares, as much as she loves Lucien--even still, Caleb doesn't give her anything.

Because whoever she is, whoever Lucien was...Mollymauk makes it clear that this is no friend of his. And it's his feelings only that Caleb is moved by here; he looks at Cree's genuine concern, and still wholly believes that she doesn't deserve to know Molly's fate. That she hasn't earned it the way Gustav and the Nein and everyone Molly would consider family did.

Just...the way Caleb following his instincts and his feelings for Molly could have prevented Lucien's revival. And how much he really did care about Mollymauk--

[litnerdwrites]

Not sure if this is a hot take or not, but there should've been a larger time skip between ACOTAR and ACOMAF.

It would've given Feyre more time to mature, to learn the Spring Court, and Prythian. During that time, the overt ways in which Spring is framed as not being meant for Feyre (the traditions, rules, lack of support, Ianthe, and relationship issues) could begin to deepen and fester. Become something more understated, that appears to be a functioning relationship on the outside, but through Feyre's POV, we'd see what a fragile foundation it's standing on.

I don't hate Tamlin, and honestly, I think what Feyre did was worse anyway, because she dragged innocent people into it, who didn't do anything to hurt anyone. But I think it would've been interesting to see their relationship become more mutually toxic, and show that they're bad for one another. After all, their relationship seemed very rushed. If you remember, Tamlin needed to make a human fall in love with him to break a curse. It wouldn't matter if he loves her, just that she loved him.

Given how desperate he probably got, it would make sense that Tamlin would do anything to make Feyre fall in love with him. In which case, being stricter about things like tradition and governing would be a reasonable change to see in him. It would also be more compelling to see these parts of him clash with Feyre's free spirit. I think it would be easier to see a clear contrast between the way Feyre lived in Spring, and the way she lives in Velaris.

That's why her fears in ACOMAF, about moving on too fast, and how it would look, then her getting over it the second she realised she and Rhys were mates, would feel less forced than having Feyre need to worry about Spring because she's spent time growing to love it, and becoming responsible for its people.

The plot where he allied with Hybern to save her could still be there, but maybe add in details and context, like hearing rumours about Feyre stealing from Summer, or running through the Middle to give him a sense of urgency, as well as providing more reasons to believe Feyre is being controlled. It would also give Ianthe more information to manipulate to begin convincing Tamlin that every fear and paranoia she planted in his mind were true.

I also think it could play into how naive Feyre is compared to these fae, reminding her of her human instincs when she thinks they're gone. Feyre's destruction of the Spring Court could've been done in a way where she didn't intend to allow civilians to get hurt, but either through naiveté, the machinations of others, and just plain carelessness, people did get hurt, and she helped it happen. Give her some consequences, let her learn just how smart and cunning and otherworldly those ancient fae are, after we spent ACOMTAR and ACOMAF slowly separating ourselves from the human lands, their beliefs while growing accustomed to Prythian and the fae. I want to There could be more subtle reminders of this humanity through Feyre's sisters too, that she may initially turn her nose up at. I want to see juxtapositions between humans and fae throughout the books, leading to a moment of realizatdion and fear, that has her feeling human again, but in the most vulnerable way.

I think that seeing Feyre slowly become the Feyre from ACOTAR, to something more similar to Feyre from about ACOWAR onwards would've been a lot less jarring if she had more time to transition. Feyre feared what she might become if things in Spring didn't change, if she was stuck there for too long, she might turn into something as spiteful and vicious as Amarantha, and I think that should've been played into more. It would've been much more interesting to see. Feyre having to struggle between her morals and what she needed to do, not just regarding her relationship with Tamlin, but adjusting to life in Night.

Perhaps have Feyre push to request the book of breathings in a more diplomatic, and honest way, but only steal it when that fails. Let her snap and snarl at members of the IC, or random citizens, for remaining untouched under Amarantha's reign, and let her have some crueler impulses from time to time, to show how she's changed, rather than justifying the cruelty she committed.

I think much more time should've passed between Feyre returning to Spring from UTM, and Feyre leaving for Night. One that allows for comparisons, contrast, context, and and a far more emotionally complex and layered story that feels like more of a natural progression, than what we got. One that ends with her embracing the roll of villain. One where more comparisons can be made between her and Amarantha. One where the NC aren't just hypocrites and assholes, but intriguing, morally complex characters, that are able to learn some kindness and humanity from Feyre. They can learn to ditch the mask, and be more honest about the good intentions behind their actions, and willingness to repent for it.

[danadiadea]

Every time someone uses "Snape was Neville's worst fear!!!!!" to prove that he was somehow especially out of the ordinary, the angel loses it's wing. The boggart scene exists to show the contrast between Harry's classmates silly, childich fears, and Harry's serious one. I won't write why is reading that comic relief as a proof of Snape abusing Neville is not based on the text, but I'll put some links with the posts on the matter here: 1, 2, 3, 4.

And yes, traumatised people are going to have unadaptive emotional reactions. Snape is mean. He is also hurt. That's not an exuse, that's an explanation. "If he cares so much about getting bullied than he shouldn't do that himself" is a rather naïve, utopian view on human psyche. People who don't have space, resourses and mechanisms to heal their traumas; people who aren't even able to move physically from triggering spaces and people; people whose traumatic expieriences were never acknowledged; people who don't have room to express their resentment towards the abuser whom everyone glorifies; people who were never taught emotional management and grew up without adult guidance; people who are under extreme stress; people who never worked with a mental health professional or at least received support from loved ones, aren't going to heal. They are going to be dysfunctional and inconvenient for those around them. And that's important to acknowledge, because we can't expect that kind of magic from irl victims too, and therefore it's our duty as a society to provide them with means for reintegration and with systematic suppost. Basically: this and this and this. That is "finding Snape realistic".

Not to say that Snape never undressed someone without their consent, or tried to feed them to the werewolf, and that's "a bit" a different kind of bullying, no? Snape bullied people in a way Trelawney or Hagrid did. That's not good, of course it would be better if he didn't, but that not anything standing out in the social context Snape existed within. Voldemort classified the similar act to James' one as a "muggle torture".

But also, everything you've said in the reblog isn't very connected to the OP?... I reacted to what you wrote, which was not canon compliant despite complaining about lack of canon compliancy among Snape fans; suggested that Snape fans can't hate on marauders fandom unless they mistake movie Snape for book Snape and find him "hot"; stated that movie Snape was nicer, which is a very interesting definition of "nice" indeed; and dismissed the experiences the charachter went through as "got rejected by a girl and died", with the 1st never happening in the books, and the 2nd not influencing his behavior in any way. I understand people sometimes write not exactly what they want to convey, that happens, but my reblog was not about you liking or disliking Snape, it was about you getting some things factually wrong.

Saw the marauders fandom getting hates again by non other than Snape supporters on TikTok sigh

Tbh I feel like people mix up movie and book Snape a lot, while the movie Snape was nicer and not a total bitch, the book one is a man whore, a bully, a bitch and a dick.

And I hateeee that people can't see it just bc they find the actor of Snape "hot" or feel bad for him cuz he got rejected by Lily and died like sybau people get rejected everyday and you don't bully the child of the women you love nor any other children as their TEACHER.

I'm glad lily rejected him, my girl saw a red flag that cannot be fixed and ran.

Anyway ty for reading my pep talk I'm PISSED

[hinamie]

sidelong

[medicalunprofessional]

never change, man !

[isles-of-man]

Erik's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as he felt Emily's warm, wet mouth envelop him beneath the table. He clenched his jaw, fighting to maintain his composure as her tongue swirled expertly around his throbbing head. The restaurant continued its ambient chatter around them, completely unaware of what was happening just inches below the pristine white tablecloth.

"Jesus," he whispered. he shifted slightly in his seat, spreading his legs wider to give her better access while his other hand remained visible above the table, casually holding his wine glass. The contrast between his calm exterior and the electric pleasure coursing through his veins was intoxicating.

"When I get you home," he murmured, just loud enough for only her to hear, "I'm going to fulfill every single one of those fantasies. I'll bend you over and film every second of it, just like you want."

Erik felt her moan vibrate against his cock, sending shockwaves of pleasure up his spine. He took a sip of wine to mask his reaction, his eyes darting around to ensure they weren't drawing attention.

"I'll make you my little maid, alright," he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "

The restaurant's ambient noise faded to a dull hum in his ears. He maintained his composure with herculean effort, his face a careful mask of normalcy while pleasure surged through his body.

"Everything alright, sir?" The waiter approached, notepad in hand.

"Just fine," Erik managed, his voice strained but controlled. "We'll take the check when you have a moment." He could feel Emily's hand fondling around his balls as she played with him, her skilled fingers nearly causing him to groan aloud.

As the waiter walked away, Erik leaned forward slightly, whispering down toward the tablecloth. “I’m going to reward you for this later, baby. 

"I'll tie your hands behind your back," he continued in a hushed tone. "Make you watch yourself in the mirror while I breed you. I’ll tie you to the headboard and fuck you so hard you’ll feel me for days. We’ll record all of it. Make all the bloody videos you want.” 

emily smiled at erik, a warm and sensual smile. she knew that this was a dangerous situation, one where they could be possibly caught. but loved it, she loved this instant danger and feeling him enjoying this foot rub under the table.

feeling now his pants opening, her foot pressing on his boxers, emily bit her lip as she fought the urge of going under the table. she truly wanted to be already home, already lying in his bed and being at his mercy. already being filled by him over and over again.

"oh, baby. i want you." she whispered under her breath, finding him so sexy. she loved how he adjusted under the table so no one would witness his hard cock. emily never thought that by waking up on this morning, her whole life would've changed. she would've simply thought that her daily life, working at the library and going home alone would've happened.

"don't say those things, you are tempting me." emily whispered, wishing he could take her already. she was now sure that she was completely soaked. her dress was soaked and the chair under her was also.

feeling his hand now reaching her leg, making circular motion, the woman bit her lip as she just knew that if he went further, he would feel how wet she was. how much she wanted him.

at the mention of the stories, the woman bit her lip. "yeah? would you let me be your maid, caught in this whole situation and being at your service? being bred every single night over and over again?" she smirked before adding. "one of my other biggest kinks is filming all of this. making my own little movie so i can watch later... i wish we could've filmed this morning.." she now provoked him her green hues showing lust.

unable to contain herself anymore, hearing his words, emily sighed. "i love this babe. i love it so much." she pushed her fork and made it fall on the floor. "oops..." she slowly moved her leg and looked around herself before sliding under the table to pick her fork up. however, as the tablecloth covered the whole surface, emily approached erik's crotch.

she could see his boxers being so tight, the tip of his cock screaming for air. gently pulling it lower, emily let his cock and balls out, her tongue instantly licking the tip of his cock. her hand was already playing with his balls while she wrapped her lips around his shaft and pushed her head to give him a blow job. all of this while trying to stay discreet.

[hyakunana]

BREAKING NEWS: The most miserable man that ever stepped in DPG is winning and about to make everyone as miserable while looking good at it