#I love that song and it makes me think of them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pitchsidestories · 3 days ago

Text

What do you fancy love ? II (Alexia Putellas x Jenni Hermoso x Reader)

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | word count: 1495

summary: Reader is just a girl who is sometimes insecure, but her girlfriends remind her how important she is to them. requested

author's note: Hi everyone, thank you anon for the request, and hopefully you and the other readers will like this little fanfic.🩷🩷

disclaimer: Everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality. Slightly smutty ending.

You studied the photo on your phone closely. Tilting the device back and forth to avoid the glare on the screen and to find evidence of what you had told yourself over and over again in the past few days. It was Alexias’s post and naturally she looked stunning on it, smiling into the camera. Jenni was captured in side profile as she was turning towards you. She looked as cool as she always did. You were sandwiched between those two gorgeous women and the longer you stared at the photo, the less you felt like you fit in.

You couldn’t resist, your thumb instinctively clicked at the little speech bubble and the comment section opened. You already knew what was about to come.

Y/n just posted .. (let's pretend reader is Teresa in this picture)

User69: Are all three of them a thing?!

userloveswoso: no way. I mean Alexia and Jenni make sense but…

xXUserXx: yeah, they’re hot together but y/n kinda ruins it. Not sure what they want with her

You felt your stomach drop and your throat tighten immediately. While you continued to scroll through the comments, Alexias’s voice echoed through your shared flat: “Amor, where are you?”

The playful sing-song in felt completely out of place.

You cleared your throat and called: “In the bedroom!”

Instead of Alexia, Jenni shouted from the hallway: “Oh, I’m coming.”

You usually would have smiled about her eagerness to get into bed but right now, your eyes were still glued to that small screen in front of you.

Alexia groaned and scolded your girlfriend: “Jennifer, you can’t possibly always think of that one thing when you hear someone say the word bedroom.”

“What can I say? I was conditioned like a Pavlovian dog.”, Jenni laughed.

You felt their presence before you actually saw them standing in the doorway.

“Hi, did you get everything at the supermarket?”, you asked, forcing your voice to sound as casual as possible without looking up at them.

From the corner of your eye, you caught your girlfriends exchanging a glance.

“So, we’re not doing it?”, Jenni asked jokingly.

“Doing what?” You finally looked up at them and upon seeing Jennis’s smirk, you added: “Oh, you’re sure you don’t want to do it without me?”

Alexia frowned at you, her eyebrows knotting together in concern: “Okay, something is wrong. Tell us what’s going through your pretty head.”

“Pretty? Me?”, you repeated as she sat down on the bed next to you.

“Of course, you, you idiot.”, Jenni grinned from where she was leaning against the wall.

In contrast to hers, Alexias’s face was serious: “You act like we never say that to you.”

“The people seem to disagree.”, you said plainly and handed her your phone with a heavy heart. Jenni came over, leaning over Alexias’s shoulder as they both read through the comments.

The midfielder shook her head in disbelief. She was hurting for you as she saw what random people, complete strangers had to say about you and your relationship with them.:” Why would they say that?”

“Maybe they’re right.”, you whispered.

With a fierce passion Jenni disagreed:” No, those hiding behind their screens are wrong.”

Alexia said your name softly.

You almost couldn’t bring yourself to look in her beautiful hazel eyes. “Hm?”

“Don’t listen to them.”, she gently replied.

In your mind's eye, the hateful comments from the internet jumped out at you, and you quietly admitted: “It’s not that easy.”

“You can’t possibly believe that shit.”, the striker waved her hands in outrage.

In a tone that did not tolerate any protest, Alexia commanded: “Put the phone away for the night.”

“But..”, you started.

The blonde was quick to interrupt you:” You heard me.”

“Yes, relax, babe.”, Jenni tried to calm you down.

However, your thoughts left you no peace: “I don’t want to relax.” You could feel the panic rising in you as you spoke.

“You should though.”, Alexia responded.

Despite the worried look on your girlfriend’s faces, you observed:” No one says those things about any of you.”

“That’s not true, but besides who cares what they think?”, the raven-haired woman countered.

“I care, Jenni!”, you cried out.

It was in this moment that your lovers realized that you were in your early twenties, your career was on the rise, you still needed to learn how to deal with all of that outside pressure which came with being a public person.

The midfielder hated to see you so sad: “Calm down.”

To her great surprise, you got out of bed and announced: ”I’ll go for a walk.”

“Do you want us to join you or..?”, Alexia asked, sounding cautious.

Purposefully, you put on your shoes. You didn't have to think long about your answer to her question: ”No.”

As soon as you were on your way out, the door was just closing, the blonde let herself fall onto the bed with a tired sigh.

“Jenni, what do we do with her?”, her eyes wandered expectantly to her girlfriend who lay next to her.

Without giving it much thought, the older of the two suggested: “We have to show her that we know better than the stupid comments.”

“How?”

A dirty smile appeared on Jennis lips: “Well.”

“What if she’s not in the mood?”, Alexia objected.

The dark-haired woman began to stare at the ceiling, confessing with a wry smile: “Then I’m out of ideas.”

“Okay, we’ll try that.”, the midfielder decided.

A surprised laugh escaped Jenni's mouth: “Really?”

“Yes.”, she confirmed in a matter-of-factly tone.

It was early evening and there was a light breeze coming in from the sea that ran through your hair. The sunset was reflected in the water, which you could see from afar.

At the beginning of your walk, the anxiety weighed heavily on your young shoulders, but now that you were almost home again, you felt the weight lighten. The peace and beauty of the moment outweighed and calmed your inner turmoil.

“I’m back.”, you told your girlfriends once you stepped inside your shared appartement.

Again, it was Alexias voice floating over to you: “Come into the bedroom.”

“Uhm, okay.“, you said before you slipped out of your shoes and took a deep breath. You really didn’t feel like talking to your girlfriends again.

“Don’t let us wait.”, Jenni called too when you took too long to follow Alexias instruction.

You reluctantly did as you were told.

The bedroom looked a little different since you left it. There were candles burning everywhere and rose petals on bed. You had no idea from where they had appeared from. But most importantly, both of your girlfriends stood there in matching lingerie.

They looked incredibly hot but the sight of them like that was so surprising that it almost made you giggle: “Oh my god.”

Alexia reached out to you, gesturing to come closer: “Come here…”

“Seriously?”, you asked with a smile, still unsure if your eyes didn’t betray you.

Alexia nodded: “Yes, you know that I’m a serious person.”

“Hard to tell when you’re standing there in your underwear.”, you laughed.

Jenni, seemingly getting more and more impatient, walked over you with that typical mischievous smirk on her lips.

“Yes, and you, pretty girl, are still wearing way too many clothes.”, she grinned, her face close to yours. Skilfully, she slid her fingers under your sweater and started to lift fabric up.

“Excuse me? I didn’t say take them off.”, you protested jokingly.

Shrugging, Jenni pulled the shirt over your head: “No but I did.”

She immediately moved farther down, opening the button of your jeans.

Laughing, you pushed her away: “Stop.”

Alexia took Jennis spot right in front of you. Her thumb grazed over your cheek while she tenderly kissed your lips.

“Baby girl, do you still want us to stop?”

You blinked at her, your brain incapable of cooperating: “Uhm…”

None of your girlfriends moved until you gave them permission to keep going.

But you couldn’t resist, the desire was too strong.

You shook your head: “No.”

The smile Alexia and Jenni shared almost washed away the memory of these nasty comments again. They seemed genuinely happy that they were allowed to take care of you. You only realised that now. It wasn’t just about what you or anyone else thought. It was about what your girlfriends wanted. And they clearly wanted you.

Before you knew it, you laid on the bed in nothing but your underwear. Jennis fingers and Alexias lips were everywhere on your body. You loved it when they did that. It was almost like their playing styles on the pitch, complimenting and enhancing each other’s skills. There was no room for your own thoughts anymore. You were so absorbed in the action that you didn’t notice your phone sliding off the nightstand and landing under the bed. And if you had, you wouldn’t have cared. Their opinions were theirs, but your girlfriends made pretty clear that you belonged to them. That you were loved and desirable.

327 notes · View notes

hcneymooners · 18 hours ago

Text

⋆ i was young and sweet, and then something happened.

truck driver!sevika x female!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you're back home after burning out your new york dreams. mississippi has been waiting for you and comes with the old and new—including the delivery driver that frequents your mother's boutique.

cw: truck driver!sevika, female!reader, age gap, older woman/younger woman, reader is in her twenties, modern!au, unresolved sexual tension, slow burn, strangers to lovers, returning to the hometown you worked to escape from, complex mother daughter relationships, non-sexual intimacy, mentions of grief and loss of a loved one, open (but very positive) ending.

notes: i hate this, just a bit. but please, please tell me what you think. send long asks, even. i love them. i love you.

It's the rat that skitters over your foot that sends you home.

You'd just climbed out of the endless well that is the New York subway, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with the man rocking back and forth right outside the stairwell. You feel a sense of shame as you refuse to look at him, a horrible aching feeling that speaks to you losing sight of your roots and where you came from.

Your most recently created playlist was blasting—aptly titled "songs that are what's wrong with me"—when you'd felt it. A heavy brush against your ankle and across the top of your foot. You looked down, almost in slow motion, and watched as the plump body of a well-fed city rat finished its travel across the top of your square-toe black flats.

You resist the urge to scream, cautious of seeming just as crazy as the man you keep refusing to look at. You hear him laugh and it makes you press your lips together until there are only two thin lines on your face. You contemplate dragging your heels out of your bag but you still have at least three blocks to go and you're tired and so sick of it all.

A billboard flashes across from you as you turn the corner: a woman's bright face with bleach-white teeth advertising a new aesthetic clinic that just opened approximately two streets away from where you live. You feel insane.

You open your phone and buy the plane ticket.

On the plane ride home, you dream of Talladega County.

You haven’t been in years. The last time was when your mother took you on a “girls’ trip” where she told you that she didn’t love your father anymore, that she was leaving him. You had started crying, begging to go home because you could feel somewhere deep in your gut that he’d be gone by the time you came home. She told you he wouldn’t, promised you.

You stared into her face, her features shadowed by the halo of the sun behind her head. She was tanned and beautiful—and everything you believed in. You’d calmed down, called him to tell him you loved him. He had said it back, his voice weary.

He was gone when you got home, somewhere out in the thickets of Alabama where you had been only moments ago.

In the dream, you stand in the fold in a tiny triangle bikini. It’s blue, but sometimes pink, and you have long black wet hair streaking all over you. Behind you, there's a field and dilapidated shacks—or maybe they’re houses only broken down by shame and time.

In front of you hovers a buck with tall antlers. He's come and found you, pushes forward until his face is against your stomach and your upper body is in between his antlers like a sun. It's only this close that you can see the other antlers trapped on top of his, dripping blood off the bone.

He's killed something. One of his own, maybe he’s gutted you. You begin to twirl in a circle as he herds you, Ethel Cain's throaty vocals invading you spiritually through your wired headphones until you settle your chin on a shotgun (when did that appear?) and look back at the buck.

But beyond him now. Someone is looking at you. Come to me. You don’t know which of you is asking, including the animal.

When you land, you text your mother about your dream. She tells you to go see her psychic, that you can drive there straight after she picks you up. You’re not here yet? You text her. She doesn’t respond. You don’t check her location. You were never one for seeking answers.

Welcome to Mississippi, the flight attendant tells you as you step out of the door. Her voice is chipper and bright, someone who clearly doesn’t see anything past the palm trees and pale Marlboro Lights. Thank you, you respond, for getting me here. You wonder if it's a little too intense to say thank you in this manner to someone who hasn’t talked to you for the entire flight.

But her eyes soften and maybe she sees something, maybe she knows that in your blood runs the waters of the Gulf Coast. Her mouth parts and out comes, welcome home.

🪽♱

Your mother is waiting outside baggage claim, leaning against her faded blue Cadillac—the one your grandmother always said would be the death of her. Her hair is different now, lighter where it used to be the same shade as yours, cut in a bob that frames her face and makes her look younger than her fifty-three years. You feel a sense of irritation at the change in color as if she’s taken something away from you. As much as she could annoy you, you loved that the resemblance between you used to be uncanny.

When she sees you, she straightens, takes one last puff of her bubblegum pink vape before tucking it into her denim shorts’ pocket, and bounces on the tips of her white sandals. You can see slight redness along her brow this close to her, and needle marks from where she’s gotten her “preventative” Botox. It’s only a matter of time before she starts suggesting you join the club.

"Look what the Gulf dragged in," she says, arms outstretched.

You let her sweep you into a hug, her perfume a perplexing mix of caramel and cinnamon. Maybe it’s the tightness of her hug, the silent admission that she missed you (because you never spoke about your feelings to one another) that causes your face to crumple and your body to shake. Your mother coos, the sound throaty from years of smoking, and rocks you back and forth. You’re blubbering about that fucking rat in New York, but she just knows you need this.

Somehow, she gets you into the car and stuffs a stick of celery into your mouth, depositing a tiny tub of ranch and breaded chili wings into your lap. The drive from Gulfport to Bay St. Louis takes you along the coast, windows down despite the July heat. Salt air whips your hair around your face as you stare out at the water. It's different here—softer somehow than the aggressive Atlantic you'd grown accustomed to. The Gulf looks like it's breathing, with gentle rises and falls that match the rhythm of your chest.

"Angels is doing well," your mother says, referring to the boutique as if it's a third person in the car. You nod to show your listening, your front teeth break apart the body of another piece of celery. "Tourist season's good this year. The snowbirds are spending money."

You nod, watching pastel-colored houses roll by, their wrought iron balconies and weathered shutters telling stories of hurricanes survived and summer loves forgotten. Spanish moss hangs from live oaks like old women's hair, swaying in the breeze off the water.

"Shit, we need to stop for gas. I knew I should’ve filled her up before leaving," your mother announces, turning into a station that looks like it hasn't changed since 1975. The sign—Silver Cove Gas & Grocery—flickers in the late afternoon sun, neon just beginning to glow against the darkening sky. "Get me a Diet Coke, would you? And whatever you want." Yeah, you think, on my card.

As you step out of the car, the humidity wraps around you like a blanket, familiar in its weight. The feeling makes you think of your childhood best friend Ella, a broad-shouldered girl who used to come up behind you and hug you with a quarter of her true strength. Last time you checked (you’re always checking) she was a professional athlete, free from this town.

The concrete beneath your feet is warm, and for a moment, you stand still, feeling the heat rise through the soles of your worn down ballet flats. It's nothing like New York pavement, which always feels cold somehow, even in summer. Maybe this is what makes you unlock your phone, find Ella’s Instagram, and send her a message. She probably won’t even see it, given she’s verified and has over two million followers.

The bell above the door chimes as you enter, and the cashier—a teenager with braces and freckles—nods in recognition. "You're Nina’s girl," she says. Not a question. It doesn’t need to be. You have her face.

You're picking up your mother's Diet Coke from the cooler, and grabbing a Cola Lacaye for yourself, when you hear it—the deep rumble of a diesel engine pulling into the lot. Through the window plastered with faded beer advertisements and fishing tournament flyers, you see it: a massive black truck, clean despite the dusty roads, commanding the space around it like it owns the whole town. Maybe it does. It’s been a long time since you were back anyway.

The driver's door opens, and a pair of heavy boots hit the ground first. Then legs in well-loved jeans, and finally, her—tall, with arms corded with muscle and dark hair pulled back in a short, practical braid. A scar runs down one side of her face, but it doesn't diminish her beauty; instead, it feels like a warning. This woman has survived things you can't imagine.

She walks steadily toward the store, and as she reaches for the door, your eyes meet through the glass. For a second, neither of you moves. Something passes between you—recognition, maybe, though you've never seen her before. Or perhaps it's just that you both seem out of place here, returned to a world that's both familiar and foreign.

The bell chimes again, and she's inside, the small space suddenly feeling smaller. She nods to the cashier—"Evening, Annie"—and heads straight for the cooler where you're still standing, Diet Coke clutched forgotten in your hand.

"Excuse me," she says, her voice lower than you expected, rougher. When you don't move immediately, one corner of her mouth quirks up. "Unless you're planning to buy all of those."

You step aside and say, “I was thinking about it.”

She smiles fully as you continue watching as she reaches for a Diet Coke of her own and a package of cream-filled cookies in a blue wrapper. As she moves past you toward the counter, you catch a whiff of diesel and something sweeter—maybe vanilla, maybe just the sea.

"You're new," she says over her shoulder.

"I'm home," you correct her, surprising yourself with how right it feels to say it.

She smiles again, and this time you smile back. You stand in line behind her, your mind following the thick lines of her back as she reaches for her wallet and counts out some bills. Soon enough, she’s finished, and you pay for your own things before slipping out the door. Your mother waves giddily from the driver’s seat and you laugh a little, slightly touched at how glad she is to see you over and over again.

“You’re Nina’s daughter?” that gravelly voice asks and you turn your head to look over your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you say, an eyebrow raised in confusion.

“Your mom’s shop just got added to my delivery route. I see her every Thursday evening,” the woman says. “Guess I’ll be seeing you too.”

“Um, guess so,” you push out, your chest warming at the way she’s gazing down at you. She’s taller by a few inches, but the inches matter. You’re used to being the tallest around.

She eyes you for a minute longer before making her way back to her truck. You watch until she’s back in the cab, then walk quickly to the Cadillac. As you slide in, your mother presses a kiss to your temple in thanks for her Diet Coke.

“I see you’ve met Sevika,” she comments. “Strange little woman.”

“Little is not the word I would use to describe her.”

Your phone vibrates with a notification and you check it. It’s a rather sweet response to your Instagram DM. Hey, wow! This was a pleasant surprise. I’m doing great, how are you? You still look the same.

Sorry? You type back without thinking.

Lolll, don’t apologize. It’s not a bad thing. You always had a timeless face.

Maybe you aren’t forgettable. At the same time you receive the message, your mother laughs.

🪽♱

"Absolutely not," your mother says, setting down her wine glass firmly on the kitchen counter. "You're supposed to be resting, [Name]."

You tilt your head, watching the condensation gather on her glass. The kitchen is the same as you remember—blue and white tiles with little anchors, ceiling fan that clicks when it spins too fast, the refrigerator covered in magnets from places neither of you have actually been.

"I need something to do, Mom. I didn't come back to sit around and count the ceiling tiles."

"What you need is to recover. Work is what made you break down and come back in the first place."

You sigh, picking at the label on your beer bottle. "That was different. That was sixty-hour weeks with a boss who thought weekends were a suggestion." You look up at her. "I’m afraid despite my best attempts, I’ve been corporate-pilled. I will collapse without any work. Just let me take the opening shift. You know you hate mornings anyway."

She narrows her eyes, looking so much like you it's unsettling. "Only mornings?"

"Only mornings," you agree. "I'll have the place ready when you come in at noon. Or one."

Her eyes narrow at the extra hour you’ve added on, but she looks away as she considers.

"Fine," she relents. "But if I see those little crease lines between your eyebrows coming back, I'm firing you."

“Harsh,” you quip, but you squeeze her shoulder as you get up to begin washing the dishes.

Angels by the Sea sits at the corner of Harbor Drive and Magnolia Street, a converted Victorian house painted the palest shade of pink, like the inside of a seashell. The sign—written in your great-aunt’s handwriting and preserved all these years—hangs from wrought iron brackets above the porch. Two white rocking chairs flank the entrance, inviting passersby to sit and watch the Gulf waters in the distance. You think they shouldn’t sit down. People tend to get stuck here.

You unlock the front door at 8:15, earlier than necessary, but there's something about the morning light filtering through the stained glass transoms that feels sacred. Inside, the boutique is a carefully curated treasure trove: whitewashed wooden floors, antique display cases salvaged from a New Orleans department store, and clothes hanging from driftwood racks your grandfather made decades ago.

Nothing has really changed and the way the store seems to be waiting for you lances through your chest like a harpoon.

The inventory is eclectic—sundresses in gauzy fabrics, handmade jewelry from local artisans, vintage-inspired swimwear, and the salt scrubs your mother makes in her kitchen. Everything smells faintly of spice and sea salt.

You feel the urge to break down again, but you refrain. Instead, you slide off your converse and socks, let your bare feet rake in the unswept gravel from travelers’ boots as you flip the sign to "Open" and turn on the small record player behind the counter. You sort through the stack of vinyl until you find it—A dusty handmade pink vinyl, titled “Unreleased.” As the needle drops and "Dust Bowl (Demo)" fills the space, you can't help but sway, your hips finding the rhythm naturally.

Ethel’s rich voice singing about blood-stained blondes feels right for this moment—this return to something that feels like yourself. You let your arms drift above your head, spin once in the empty shop, bare feet sliding across the whitewashed floors. No one's watching, and there's a freedom in dancing without worrying about looking graceful or composed.

You twirl and twirl until you stop with a hand clutching over your stomach, dashing madly to the small employee restroom in the back to vomit into the rusted sink. You scrub it for the next twenty minutes with bleach, humming along as the record still spins. For the first time since stepping off the plane, you feel your shoulders drop.

Your outfit today—a simple white spaghetti-strap tank and low-rise jeans you found in your old closet—feels like a revelation after years of pencil skirts and blazers. You'd forgotten what it feels like to have your collarbones exposed to the air, to feel fabric that moves with you rather than constrains.

When the song ends, you're slightly breathless and barely smiling. You can't remember the last time you danced in New York—maybe at some corporate happy hour where movement was performative rather than joyful. You try not to think about it for too long, lest the sadness finds you again.

The morning passes quietly—a few early tourists browse without buying, a regular picks up a special order perfume, and you rearrange a display of sea glass earrings, picking a few out in between to try on. It's mindless work, but it's yours, and there's something satisfying about the way your hands remember how to tie the perfect bow on the pale green gift boxes.

The bell above the door chimes just before eleven, and you look up from the sales ledger you've been updating.

"We don't usually get deliveries until—" The words die in your throat when you see who's standing in the doorway.

Sevika fills the frame, a clipboard in one hand and a small package tucked under her arm. Today, her hair is loose around her shoulders, dark waves that catch the sunlight streaming through the windows. She's wearing a faded black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing more of those arms that seem designed for gripping steering wheels and lifting heavy things. You notice one of them is a prosthetic, and your gaze caresses it, tracking the graffiti-like doodles alongside it. It’s as if she’s allowed a child to paint all over it.

"Usually Thursdays, I know," she says, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Had to reroute today. Accident on the causeway." Her eyes move from your face to take in the rest of you, lingering for a moment on the strip of skin visible between your tank top and jeans. "Nina usually signs for these."

"Mom’s still in bed," you reply, moving toward the counter. "I'm covering mornings while I’m around."

She nods, crossing to you and laying the clipboard down. "Signature on the bottom line." As you sign, she glances around the shop. "Nice place. Never been inside before."

"Seriously? You deliver here every week."

"To the loading dock in back," she clarifies. "Never through the front door."

You hand back the clipboard and accept the package, your fingers brushing hers in the exchange. Her skin is warm and slightly rough.

“God, that’s awful. When I was younger, we used to give the drivers something sweet for the road, sometimes savory.”

“Yeah, well,” Sevika sighs. “People got creepier, meaner. Women got wiser. I’m fine without a treat if that means my customers feel safer.”

Your eyes soften minutely at that, and she notes the way you look down, your lashes brushing your cheek gently as if not to spook yourself.

"You settling back in okay?" she asks, and there's something in her tone that suggests genuine interest rather than small talk.

"It's... an adjustment," you admit. "But this helps." You gesture around the boutique. "It's quiet here."

"Too quiet for some," she says. "That why you left in the first place?"

The question is direct, almost intrusive, but she asks it without judgment. Just curiosity.

"Partly," you say, surprised at your own honesty. "I wanted to see what else was out there. Had dreams for a big life."

"And did you? See what else was out there?"

You think about the rat, the subway, the billboard with the too-white teeth. "I saw enough. Then life got…too big."

She nods as if this makes perfect sense to her. "Well." She taps her clipboard against her thigh. "Guess I'll be seeing you mornings now instead of your mother."

"Guess so."

She turns to leave but pauses at the door. "You know, there’s nothing wrong with trying something and it no longer being what you want."

"I wish someone told me that before now," you say quietly.

"I’m saying it now." Her eyes flick down to your outfit and back up. "Have a good day…"

“[Name],” you supply.

“[Name],” she repeats. “You seem like a sweet girl. Those big places? They tend to lure you in, then swallow you up. From the looks of it, you gave it all you got. And in some ways, you won the fight. You made it back home.”

Before you can respond, she's gone, the bell announcing her departure as clearly as it did her arrival. Through the window, you watch her walk back to her truck, the confident stride of someone who knows exactly who she is and where she's going. Maybe she could keep you on the path.

You look down at yourself—at the simple clothes that feel more like you than anything you've worn in years—and breathe in. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you didn’t fail. Maybe this was the true mission.

Or maybe, you think as you watch Sevika's truck pull away, there was no mission. Only the decisions you made.

🪽♱

It continues the same way for a while.

You see her in the mornings, and when you do, you talk more. Spend less time inside of yourself. The days bleed into one another like watercolors on damp paper—pink sunrises giving way to white-hot afternoons, then purple dusks that settle over the Gulf like a bruise. Through it all, Sevika arrives with the steadiness of tides, her presence an anchor in your drifting days.You feel more alive, less like a child with their face toward the wall.

You start collecting moments like shards of glass: the way morning light catches in the joints of her prosthetic. How she smells like motor oil and salt air and something sweeter underneath. The low rumble of her laugh when you say something unexpectedly sharp. You hoard them, these fragments, turning them over in your mind at night while ceiling fans spin shadows across your childhood bedroom. Sometimes you start crying, not understanding why its so difficult to allow yourself to want this.

There's something almost holy in the ritual of her arrival—the bell above the door, the heavy tread of her boots, the weight of her gaze finding yours across the shop. You're twenty-something and already tired of a world that promised more than it gave. She's forty-something—maybe you should ask—and somehow both weathered and unwavering, like the cypress trees that survive hurricane after hurricane.

You learn she lives out past the old lighthouse in a boathouse painted midnight blue. You ask her if she’s lonely. She takes a long sip of her Diet Coke, looks at you for a second too long, then says no. That the prosthetic came after an accident offshore—something with machinery and poor timing and the sort of pain that changes a person forever. That she keeps a three-legged cat named Commander who sleeps on her chest at night. That she has nightmares about drowning despite knowing how to swim since before she could walk.

You learn about her makeshift family, about Jinx and the way she and Sevika sort of fell together after some job they’d done in the military had blown out. We were mercenaries, she lets slip and you raise a brow in surprise. Are you supposed to be telling me that? You ask. Nope, she says, popping the ‘p’. You laugh.

She talks about Isha, the little runaway they found rooting around in their shed. Isha, who they adopted. Isha who got sick. Isha’s who’s gone.

“Jinx didn’t take it well,” Sevika says and you hold her hand. “She left, went somewhere. Called me to tell me she couldn’t come back. Told me—told me loved me. Took on some job and…”

You know what she’s about to say next, and you brace for it. You still flinch.

“Blew up. That’s what they said. I think she gave herself a way out.”

You tear up but manage to tell her about your dad. She strokes your back as you cry about the way he left, about how he’s well and alive and newly married. How the two of you are Facebook friends but never speak.

She learns about your failed escape, about the way New York chewed you up and left you hollow. About how sometimes you wake with your heart racing, convinced you're back in that cramped apartment with the subway rattling your windows. About the recurring dream of the buck with blood-soaked antlers, how he's started appearing with Sevika's face, her dark eyes watching you from between points of bone.

It's a Thursday in late July when something breaks open between you. The air hangs heavy with coming rain, pressing against windows like something desperate to get in. You've spent the day rearranging displays, moving in slow circles to music that feels like church—Ethel's voice coating the empty shop in honey and ash.

The day has stretched too long, customers sparse in the gathering storm. You're supposed to be closing, but instead you're dancing alone, barefoot on whitewashed floors, arms raised toward the ceiling fan as if in supplication. "American Teenager" fills the space, and you're spinning with your eyes closed when the bell chimes.

You stop mid-turn, eyes flying open to find Sevika standing in the doorway, rain-damp and beautiful in her severity. Water clings to her eyelashes and the sharp line of her jaw. Behind her, lightning splits the sky, illuminating her silhouette in electric blue.

"You're late," you say, breathless from dancing or from the sight of her, you can't tell which.

"Roads are flooding." Her eyes track over you—bare feet, tiny jean shorts, hair wild from spinning. Something in her gaze feels like hands on skin. "Should've been closed an hour ago."

"I got lost in it," you admit, gesturing vaguely to the record player, to yourself, to the empty shop that feels suddenly too full with her in it.

She crosses to you, boots leaving wet prints on the floor. Places a small package on the counter, but doesn't pull away. "You’re always lost in it, honey" she says, voice lower than usual.

"Yeah. I think it’s my way of staying alive." The words slip out, heavy with meaning you didn't intend but don't regret. Her eyebrows furrow, but she doesn’t respond.

Thunder crashes outside, close enough to rattle the windows. The lights flicker once, twice, then go out completely. In the sudden darkness, all you can hear is the rain, the needle skipping on the record, and Sevika's breathing, closer than you expected.

"You can say," you whisper, the words a prayer in the dark. "The streets will be underwater."

Her silence stretches long enough that you think she'll refuse. Then her hand finds yours in the darkness, flesh against flesh, warm and rough with calluses. Foolishly, you think of asking her to go swimming.

"I'll stay," she says, and the words feel like a covenant.

You find candles in the storage room, arrange them in a circle on the floor. In their glow, Sevika looks carved from shadow and stone, all sharp angles and dark depth. You bring out the emergency bottle of bourbon your mother keeps behind the counter, two little shot glasses because there are no proper glasses. Your dad got them from when he’d served back in Vietnam.

"To all the light going out," you toast, and she echoes it, eyes never leaving yours as you both drink.

The bourbon burns sweet down your throat. Outside, the world drowns, but in here, you're closer to floating.

"Tell me," she says after a while, voice rough with liquor and something else, "what are you running from? Really?"

You stare into your cup, watching amber liquid catch candlelight. "I’m not sure. I guess mainly the feeling that I've already used up all my chances," you admit. "That I'm in my twenties and already failed at the only thing I tried to be."

"And what's that?"

"Someone who matters. Someone who left a mark." You look up at her, finding her closer than before, drawn into your orbit through some gravity you don't understand. "I thought New York would make me real. Instead, it made me into a ghost. Everyone could see right through me."

She reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek, tucking hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. Her prosthetic catches the candlelight, metal warmed to gold.

"I think a lot of New York is faking it. You’re real, and it’s hard to recognize the disingenuous when you only ever are real," she says, and the words feel like truth.

You feel something fall away inside of you, and you put down your glass before leaning forward. When her lips find yours, it's like breaking the surface after too long underneath a lake. You gasp against her mouth, hands reaching to hold yourself in the solid reality of her—fingers digging into her shoulders, sliding into her rain-damp hair.

She kisses like she does everything else: with absolute certainty, with a focus that makes the world still. Her prosthetic arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you're nearly in her lap, the heat of her body burning through your thin tee.

"I've been watching you," she confesses against your throat, words pressed into skin like secrets. "Since that first day."

“Me too,” you murmur. “I watched you get in your car.”

It’s an intimate confession, and the candles gutter around you, wax pooling on the floor like offerings. Outside, the storm rages, but it's nothing compared to what’s been building inside of you. Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, so you shift until you lie beside her on the floor, your head on her chest, listening to the steady drum of her heart.

"Are you ever going to stop driving?" you ask, voice small in the vastness of night.

Her fingers trace constellations on your bare shoulder, connecting beauty marks like stops on a roadmap. “I don’t know if I could.”

You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of her—rain and metal and skin. “Would you take me with you?”

She says nothing, and then,

“I’m not sure, baby. Will you ever be happy right where you are?”

🪽♱

Eventually, your mother asks you about her. Well, she more so asks you what’s wrong.

You weren’t aware something was wrong with you, and tell her as much. She gives you a look as she sucks a cloud of apple from her pen.

"I'm not stupid," she says, exhaling sweet vapor that curls around her face like morning mist over the bayou. "You've been floating around this house like someone cut your anchor. One minute you're singing in the shower, the next you're staring at the wall like it's showing you visions."

“Maybe they are.” She lets out a dry laugh, and you was more time picking at a loose thread on the couch—the same floral pattern that's been there since you were fifteen, though faded now where the sun hits it through the blinds. "It's nothing."

"It's that Sevika lady." Not a question. Your mother has always seen through you like water, clear enough to count the stones at the bottom.

"I don't know what we are," you admit finally, the words tumbling out like shells from a broken net. "I don’t know what I’m doing. I always know what I’m doing, Mama.”

Your mother shifts and brings you to lay your head against her chest. You close your eyes and sink inside of her skin to the best of your ability.

“She's rooted here but always moving. I came back home because I couldn't survive out there, but I don't know if I can stay forever either."

Your mother sets her vape down, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you had night terrors. "Baby, there's a difference between running away and moving forward. One's about fear, the other's about growth."

The ceiling fan clicks above you, marking seconds with metallic persistence. Outside, cicadas scream their summer chorus.

"When your daddy left," she continues, eyes fixed on something beyond the window, something maybe years away, "I thought I'd never breathe right again. But then I realized I'd been holding my breath our whole goddamn marriage."

Her accent slurs around the admission, and you think about Sevika's truck disappearing down lightly flooded roads, about her callused hands on your skin in candlelight. About her question: Will you ever be happy right where you are?—that's been haunting you like a malevolent spirit.

"I think I could be happy with her," you whisper, more to yourself than to your mother. "Maybe even without her. But I don't know if it's fair to either of us that I’m unsure."

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. Sevika's name appears—no contact photo, just her name in plain text. Delivery tonight. Meet me at Silver after your shift?

Your mother watches your face change as you read it, catches the slight upturn of your lips you can't control. "Go," she says with a sigh that's half exasperation, half fondness. "Figure it out. But remember, staying isn't the same as giving up."

You stand, watching the smoke haze around her face as she blinks up at you. It forms a murky halo around her head, so you bend and kiss her cheek. You stay there for a minute, tilting your head so that your cheeks press together and share their warmth. This close, you swear you can hear her pulse. You hope she never dies.

“I love you, Mama,” you whisper, like its some great secret. In a way it is.

She says nothing, only kisses your temple and cradles your head. You know what she’s thinking.

🪽♱

Silver Cove glows neon against the twilight sky when you pull in, your mother's Cadillac purring beneath you. The same teenager mans the register, barely looking up from her phone as the bell announces your arrival. You still tell her hello and call her by name to let her know that you see her. You grab a Diet Coke from the cooler and add a package of the cream-filled cookies you've seen Sevika buy before and a Mountain Dew.

When you step outside, her truck is there, massive and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. She leans against the hood, arms crossed, waiting. In the harsh overhead light, the scar on her face looks deeper, the lines around her eyes more pronounced. Sometimes you forget she carries a whole life before you in her bones—years of things you'll never touch or understand.

"Thought maybe you wouldn't come," she says as you approach, voice graveled with something that might be hope.

You hand her a Diet Coke, fingers brushing hers in the exchange. "Why would you think that?”

She smiles for some reason. You continue.

“I've been thinking about what you asked me. During the storm."

She takes a long sip, eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the bottle. "And?"

"I don't know if I'll ever be completely happy anywhere," you admit. "New York was crushing me, but sometimes I still wake up missing the noise. The possibility. I don’t think this could be my life forever. It couldn’t sustain me."

The night air wraps around you both, thick with moisture and the scent of gasoline. A moth batters itself against the nearest light, desperate for something that could destroy it.

"I'm not asking you to stay forever, honey," Sevika says finally. "Just asking if you can be present while you're here."

You step closer, until you can see the flex of muscle in her jaw, the pulse at her throat. "What if here doesn't have to mean one place? What if it just means wherever we both are?"

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition. She sets her drink on the hood of the truck and reaches for you, prosthetic arm cool against your skin as she draws you between her legs.

"I have routes that go to Mobile, to New Orleans. Sometimes farther," she says, her breath warm against your temple. "Doesn't mean I don't come back."

"I could go with you sometimes," you suggest, fingers tracing the tattoos that wind up her flesh arm. "See places without having to leave for good. Or you could find me halfway. Like a long-term scavenger hunt."

She laughs, the sound vibrating through your shared space. "Never thought about it like that. Being alone for so long…staying or going were the only options I saw."

“Me too,” you tell her.

Above you, stars punch through the darkening sky, more visible here than they ever were in New York. You think about constellations—how stars can be millions of miles apart but still form a picture when viewed from the right angle. You think about how scientists have heard black holes sing. Sometimes, your heart feels like a black hole. Sometimes, you sing.

"I'm scared," you confess, forehead pressed to her collarbone. "Of getting it wrong again."

Her hand—her real one—tangles in your hair, holds the back of your head like something sacred. "Getting what wrong?"

"Life. Love. Whatever this is. My daddy was a carpenter. I don’t do well without a plan, a blueprint."

Sevika tilts your face up with gentle pressure, studies you with eyes that have seen oceans rise and machinery fall. "There's no wrong way to build a life that lets you breathe, baby."

When she kisses you this time, it feels different from the thunder-charged intensity of the boutique floor. It feels like an option, a detour, rather than an escape. Like coming home to a place you're still building.

"So what now?" you ask against her lips, tasting hints of her soda and what feels like mint.

"Now…we could get in my truck and drive somewhere. It could be down the coast, could be to my place. Could be just around the block until we figure out the next step." Her prosthetic arm traces your spine, sending shivers despite the summer heat. "I'm not promising forever. Just promising to keep showing up as long as you want me to."

You think about what your mother said—about staying versus giving up. About the difference between running away and moving forward. About how sometimes growth means finding new ways to be rooted.

"I can work with that," you say, and it feels like the truest thing you've said since coming home. “But I don’t want to leave my mom just yet. We need each other right now.”

Sevika lifts you easily, sets you in the passenger seat of her truck with a gentleness that belies her strength. As she rounds the hood to the driver's side, you watch her move through the gauzy light of Silver Cove—solid and certain and somehow yours, at least for now.

The engine rumbles to life beneath you, vibrating up through your bones like a second pulse. Through the windshield, the Gulf Coast stretches dark and infinite, full of places you might go, places you might return to.

"Ready?" Sevika asks, hand on the gearshift, waiting for your answer before putting the truck in drive.

You reach across the console, lace your fingers through hers—flesh against flesh, blood against blood.

"Yeah," you say, and as the truck pulls away from Silver Cove, you feel something inside you flatline—not with the finality of death, but with the quiet understanding of choice. “Take me home, please.”

⚚ wife tag: @s-4pphics

#mine ; 🐎.#arcane.#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #sevika x female reader #female!reader #fem!reader #arcane x female reader #arcane x y/n #arcane x you #arcane x reader #lesbian #wlw #sapphic #arcane fanfic #sevika fanfic #sevika x oc

222 notes · View notes

iamthatonefangirl · 2 days ago

Text

eavesdropping - fatws bucky barnes

guys forgive me for my absolute shitty taste in music! a lot of songs are mentioned in this one, i list them out at the end

not explicit but a lot of nsfw/sex jokes and references made

this is so fucking self indulgent wtf...

~~~

bucky never meant to eavesdrop, no. it wasn't in his nature; but with the enhanced hearing, he couldn't really help but hear you singing along to the music you played in your room. even if he was two stories below.

he couldn't make out any intelligible words, and he knew you were probably just relaxing, having a good time to yourself. it made him happy to see you happy.

he wanted to make you happy.

no, barnes, she's not yours.

he shoves down his feelings as he slowly walks up the two stories to your floor, your voice slowly getting louder as he approached.

god, you were a horrible singer. it make him crack just the tiniest smile, because of course he would never smile--

he knew he shouldn't be creeping up to your room like a fucking stalker, but he just wanted to listen in. just a little. he couldn't possibly have prepared himself for the lyrics you were singing, though.

"I wanna fuck you slow with the lights on..."

his eyes widen. what the fuck were you listening to?

he stands there dumbfounded for a minute. the song continues.

"she can ride on top your face, while I fuck you straight..."

he bolts before he can hear any more. he's got enough nasty thoughts of you in his head, and knowing that you're listening to this kind of shit, singing the lyrics like you've heard it a hundred times before?

well, if it makes him insanely just a little turned on, he would never admit it.

~~~

he has a hard time looking you in the eye for the next two weeks as he thinks about those dirty words every time he sees you. you don't pay it any mind, continuing to flash him your gorgeous, blinding smile every time you see him.

one day as he walks past you down the hallway, you give him that quintessential smile he loves to see. he manages to make out the lyrics to the music playing in your earbuds.

"rip off my shirt if you love me. spit in my face when you fuck me..."

he stops in his tracks, turning around to look at you casually walking down the hall as if you're not listening to the nastiest shit ever??

you're not even fazed by it. you're acting completely normal about it too. it makes him wonder... is it just your music? or do you have your own thoughts like these, nobody suspecting a thing?

he has to run to his room before anyone can see the bulge in his pants.

~~~

next time he hears you listening to music, it's in your room again. you're singing along, again. he knows it's wrong of him to keep listening in, but he can't help himself at this point.

he stands outside your shut bedroom door, listening for what he only plans to be a minute.

"do you like the way I flick my tongue or nah? you can ride my face until you're drippin cum."

he listens to another few minutes of this nasty, disgusting song that makes him so hard confused before he knocks, unable to stop himself.

he hears the music pause from inside the room when you open the door to him, looking as innocent as ever.

"hi bucky, what's up?" you ask him. are you really just that oblivious to the words you were just singing? he feels like his face is on fire.

"what on earth are you listening to?" he blurts out, unable to come up with better words.

"the weeknd." you tell him.

"what's that?" he asks, confused. he listens when you tell him it's your favorite artist. holy shit, your favorite artist? this egregious song? what on earth...

"the lyrics are quite..." he begins.

"misogynistic? i know. but it's hot."

your words hit him like a fucking truck. the way you say it so casually, as though they have no meaning. you think this is hot? fuck, he has to run before he busts in his pants--

"right. sorry for eavesdropping," he says and bolts.

you laugh a little to yourself, knowing that the blatancy of the lyrics are probably shocking to him given the modest era he's from. you know you probably just scared the absolute shit out of him with how calm you are about it.

you shut the door and turn the music on quieter this time.

~~~

every time he sees you, all he can imagine is you and that goddamn lyric playing out in his head like a fucking porno, imagining you riding his face until you pass out from how good he would make it for you--

it was wrong of him to imagine you like that. he needed to get his shit together and keep it in his pants.

you, on the other hand? you debate back and forth between messing with him some more or turning the music down in case it makes him uncomfortable.

you know the right thing to do is to turn the music down and listen to it on low in your headphones.

but god, the way he was so fucking nervous about it when he knocked on your door... you craved to see the ruthless former winter soldier all tongue-tied over it. his calm and collected demeanor? you wanted it to crack.

maybe that was selfish of you, to want to break him. but something about it made you so turned on.

so you keep playing your music, knowing he'll hear it one way or another.

~~~

you're blaring your music as loud as possible in your room when you decide to go grab a bottle of water from downstairs. you open the door and turn into the hallway when you see him.

he's standing there, deer in headlights as you make eye contact with him. you hold back your smirk as he knows he's been caught.

from behind you, door wide open and music on blast to hear clear as day, the lyrics play out:

"fuck me all night, show me who you are, pornsta-a-a-a-ar"

he pushes himself off the wall and stands up straight as he tries to come up with a good explanation.

"you know, if you wanted to know what i was listening to, all you had to do was ask." you tease at him.

"yeah, sorry, i just-" he cuts himself off, knowing he has nothing to say.

suddenly, a song begins playing that you forgot you had in your queue. you could stand to let him hear anything, but something about this one makes you feel flustered. you run back into your room to grab your phone, trying to pause it.

he catches the scared look in your eye when the song begins, and he follows you into the room. he grabs the phone out of your hand before you can pause it, and he looks down at the screen, displaying the lyrics as they play aloud.

"this heat is gettin' to me, I want you all over me, baby you get me so... so soaked,"

you try to grab the phone away from him but he just chuckles and pulls back, reading the lyrics and listening carefully.

"what is it about this song that you don't want me to hear, doll? hmm? all the other ones were okay, but not this one?"

doll?

you roll your eyes at him and try to play it off.

"it's just a song." you tell him.

he knows he's pushing his luck, but suddenly, the roles here are reversed. he's finally not the one flustered over your music, this time, it's you.

he can't let such an opportunity go to waste.

"just a song? quite a reaction you had to it," he pushes.

you shrug.

he presses something on the screen and the song starts over again. you breathe out in frustration.

"alright, you've had your fun. now give me my phone back," you say, extending your hand in his direction for him to return it.

instead, he sits on the edge of your bed and begins to scroll through the lyrics, reading them more closely.

"bucky," you say loudly. "phone!"

"the lyrics on this one hit a little too close to home, doll?"

that sends you into a fucking spiral. he cannot know how fucking soaked you get just looking at his stupid, pretty, fuckable face--

you go for the phone, climbing onto his lap without thinking, trying to grab it back from him. he laughs all the while, holding it out of your reach.

you both end up falling backwards, you now on top of him as you finally retrieve your phone from him. you sit back on your haunches, inspecting your precious phone as though it's your baby.

it's only after you've paused the music and look up from your screen that you realize the position you're in.

you're fucking straddling him, as he currently lays in your bed. his hands somehow made their way to your hips when you weren't paying attention.

you try to move when you feel his hands dig into your hips deeper, holding you in place.

"bucky, what are you..."

"tell me to stop and i will." he says, his voice sounding so uninhibited compared to his usual self.

you stare at him, not saying anything, not moving.

he repeats his words once more.

"don't." you whisper. "don't stop."

he almost looks surprised, as though he didn't expect you to say that. he sits up, hands holding you tight as he brings himself closer to you. his chest gently collides with yours, his nose bumping against your own.

"you want me, doll?" he says ever so quietly.

"yeah," you breathe out, feeling like everything you've ever dreamt of is about to come true. your thoughts collect themselves for a minute, enough to bring your rational thoughts to mind.

"i don't... i don't just want sex, bucky," you tell him quietly. "if that's all you're looking for."

you feel more vulnerable than ever, laying out your feelings for him, everything on the line.

"yeah, doll? you like me?" he smirks.

your face heats. "maybe a little."

he loses the smug look on his face to genuinely smile at you, still right up close to your face.

"those goddamn songs of yours have been driving me crazy, you know that?" he chuckles.

you laugh a little in response.

"i know. the look on your face every time... priceless."

you feel so good just sitting in his lap, being up close, getting to laugh with him.

after a moment, he leans in and kisses you for the first time. he truly is everything you've ever dreamed of.

"got a lot of ideas to try out from those wretched songs of yours..."

~~~

here are the songs in order:

lost in the fire

slut me out

or nah

p*rnstar

soaked

honorable mentions that i wanted to include in here but didn't:

acquainted

often

~~~

masterlist

#fem reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #fluff #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier #winter soldier

188 notes · View notes

quokkicidal · 3 days ago

Text

How you match with skz…

Genre: Fluff, Imagine

Warnings: Reader is implied afab in Jisungs

Summary: Your matching things w/ skz!

Requests open

Masterlist

.•♫•♬• . •♬•♫•. .•♫•♬• . •♬•♫•. .•♫•♬• . •♬•♫•. .

Chan:

Matching hoodies. Chan and his hoodies, but wait, what if you had one. No need to imagine because he already bought you a matching one. if he shows you one he likes, he asks if you want one, and of course you say yes. He gets so giddy when you say yes and buys them right away. When they arrive, he washes them and stands by the dryer so they’re still nice and warm when he takes them out. Literally is so sweet and hugs you after you put it on.

Minho:

Matching cat beanies. This man loves his cats the way fish love water, so of course you’re getting matching cat beanies. Before he buys them he sends you a picture. “Do you want to be the orange cat or the black cat?” Which ever you choose, he’ll get the opposite, so you’re more of a pair than fully matching. Although, his cats don’t seem to like it that much. He sends you a video of Dori being scared of him while he has it on.

Changbin:

Matching gym bags. We all know that he loves the gym, and he loves you. So, that concluded in him buying matching gym bags for you guys. Even if you dont go to the gym, he still wants to match. If you don’t go to the gym, of course you’re still gonna use it. You’ll use it when you go on trips for your cloths. But if you don’t go to the gym. He’ll make sure that everyone sees that you have matching bags. “Oh you like my bag, me and my partner have matching ones.” He’s so proud of it. He also makes you do the heart flexing pose, iykyk.

Hyunjin:

Matching necklaces. I believe that Hyunjin is definitely a jewelry giver. Like he will buy you a necklace with a heart on it. Oh and on the back of that heart are his initials because he thinks it’s sweet that wherever you go, he’s with you in some way. Of course your initials are on the back of his for the same reason. Every time he sees you he touches the necklace and turns it around to see his name. When he’s away on tour, he’ll turn his around and kiss where your initials are, subtly hoping that you’ll start thinking of him.

Felix:

Matching socks. This man loves subtle romance, if you can even call matching socks that. He doesn’t buy not one, not two, but probably twelve packs of matching socks. You always tell each other when you’re wearing them so it makes it even more fun. Sometimes he will literally take his shoes off just to show you. On days he wears them, he’ll text you, “Wear the chickens today,” or “the dogs have dogs on them.” When he gets back from tour, you WILL be getting more socks from the places he’s been.

Jisung:

Matching phone cases. It would probably be a clear case, but you guys have matching stickers and Polaroids in them. If he’s ever overseas and needs a little pick me up, he can just look at the picture of you in the back of his phone. Sometimes he’ll even be dramatic to the other members saying, “I MISS MY WIFE!” He acts like you’re away at war or something. The other guys are so used to it by now.

Seungmin:

Matching nothing cuz he doesn’t want to (you guys have matching note books that he picked up in japan). He usually uses his for journaling/song writing, but whenever you have yours out, he’s doodling in it. Sometimes you wonder how some of the drawings got in there cuz you didn’t see him do it. Little do you know, sometimes he takes your journal and draws and leaves little messages so you can see them on a random Tuesday.

Jeongin:

You guys actually have a lot of matching stuff believe it or not. Whenever he buys something he thinks, “Oh Y/N would like this too.” Like that man picks up matching perfumes/colognes, hats, jackets, shoes, you name it. Whenever he posts his ootd on intsa, he makes sure he takes some pictures with you too, that’s why he has a new lock screen almost every week.

154 notes · View notes

imagine-it-was-us · 2 days ago

Text

where we land || Lando Norris

Inspiration: Ed Sheeran where we land

Author's note: These are getting out of hand. Started as the creative outlet and ended as sleepless nights where you can't go to bed until you let our mind bleed out on the keyboard. Ed Sheeran and his music will always have a special place in my heart. And this particular song makes me miss the relationship I never had. So enjoy, I am really proud of this one. Hopefully you will find it bearable.

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Warnings: none, just angst.

Summary: do I love you? do I hate you? || I can't make up my mind || so let's free fall (and part ways for the year I guess??) and see where we land.

Word count: 6.8k+

“Lando, this isn’t working”, she sighed. It was obvious that this short sentence took every last bit of energy she had. After this, there was nothing left – no emotions, no desire to fight, just nothing. A blank expression followed.

He looked up from his computer, unphased.

“What’s not working?”

“Us.”

The mood slightly shifted, yet nothing too shocking. It felt like this conversation was overdone way too many times. They have been here before. That's why he didn’t even take a second to think about what sparked this conversation. It felt like it was a casual chat between an old married couple.

“Yeah,” Lando muttered, exhaling sharply. “Let’s take a break. We’ll make up anyway.”

That was it. No argument, no hesitation. Like it was routine. Like she had just told him she was stepping out for a moment, and he expected her to come back.

When you think about it, it was devastating. The level of indifference was what hurt the most.

They had known each other their whole lives – friends by proximity before choice. Their families lived in the same neighborhood, close enough that their bond felt inevitable. Even as kids, they were opposites. He was the reckless daredevil, climbing trees and riding his bike at full speed down the steepest roads, while she was the quiet dreamer, lying on the grass for hours, lost in her thoughts. But somehow, they worked. They always had.

As they grew up, their lives took different directions, but they never drifted too far. When Lando got into karting, and later, into the high-stakes world of racing, she wasn’t his biggest supporter in the traditional sense. She didn’t attend every event or cheer the loudest. But she cared. She always asked how he was feeling, if he was okay. She avoided getting too involved, not because she didn’t believe in him or was not interested, but because she couldn’t shake the fear of what could happen. The crashes, the risks, the reality of what came with high-speed racing. Maybe that fear had even shaped her, pushed her toward a career where she could save the ones who weren’t as lucky. And yet, no matter how different their paths became, they had always made time for each other.

Then came that one Christmas. The night everything changed. He was on the brink of signing with McLaren, and she had just over a year of school left, set on studying medicine, becoming a paramedic. They spent the whole evening talking – about dreams, about the future, about everything. And the one constant in all their scenarios? Each other. They didn’t officially get together until months later, when the butterflies finally settled in. What started as something gentle and fragile grew into something more. Something that should have been unbreakable.

But it wasn’t.

Between her relentless studying and his deep dive into the world of Formula 1, the distance between them grew. The small sacrifices they used to make for each other became harder. At first, they convinced themselves it was just a rough patch. They had fallen in love as teenagers, blindly, without knowing what love truly required. Clashes were inevitable, but they always told themselves it was just temporary. That love would always outweigh the tension.

Until it didn’t.

The fights became more than just stress-fueled bickering. Trust started to crack. The rumors, the online hate she received for simply existing in his world, the missed races, the missed plans, the days of unanswered calls. The moments of doubt that neither of them wanted to admit were growing stronger.

They had tried. God, they had tried.

The guilt would always swing between them like a pendulum – one of them messing up, the other one forgiving too easily, hoping that this time would be different. And when it wasn’t, they’d take a step back, hoping the distance would fix what being together couldn’t. Then, like clockwork, one of them would cave. One apology, one touch, one whispered „I miss you“ would pull them back in.

The boat had been rocking for years. But at least before, there had still been waves. Now, sitting in their Monaco home, she wasn’t sure if they had finally reached the calm, or if they had simply drifted so far apart that the water didn’t even touch them anymore.

And that was worse than all the fights combined.

“That’s it?”

He lifted a shoulder in an infuriating half-shrug. “What do you want me to say? We take a break, we come back. It’s what we do.”

“That’s exactly the problem, Lando. I don’t want to pause on this empty shell we still call the relationship. I just don’t think I can.”

Deep down, words coming out of her hurt her. Yet she was just so tired of this game, then at the end there was no happy ending.

Lando exhaled, closing his laptop and putting it away, jaw clenched. Maybe he thought she was being dramatic. Maybe he was just waiting for the inevitable moment when she’d take it back.

But she wouldn’t, not this time. She just stood up from her end of the couch and exhaled.

“It will take me a couple of days to gather everything I own from this apartment. I will do it once you leave for Las Vegas, so I won’t disturb your calm before the GP. I will just grab my essentials for now,” she said like she was reciting a groceries list.

Lando didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, eyes fixed on the coffee table like it held all the answers he couldn’t find in her face. Maybe he was searching for something to say – some magic combination of words that would break the cycle, that would make this easier. But there was nothing left to say.

Finally, he nodded. “Okay.”

She felt her stomach twist. Part of her had wanted him to fight – really fight – for this, for them. But wasn’t that the whole point? They were tired. Exhausted. Running on empty, pretending they had more to give when they didn’t.

She swallowed, shifting on her feet. “I think we should do it properly this time.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, guarded. “What do you mean?”

“No breaks. No texts, no calls, no checking in. Not even a happy birthday or Merry Christmas.” The words came out steady, even though her heart was hammering against her ribs. “We give it at least a year. If we’re happier – truly happier – then we’ll know. We’ll let it go for good.”

Lando stood up, facing her. “And if we’re not?”

She exhaled, forcing a small, tired smile. “Then we’ll see where we land.”

He let out a breath, running a hand down his face. For a moment, he just studied her, like he was trying to commit every detail to memory. Like maybe, deep down, some part of him was realizing that this was the last time he’d get to see her like this. Here. His.

Finally, he gave a slow nod. “Alright,” he murmured. “One year.”

One year to figure out if this was really love, or just a bad habit neither of them knew how to break. One year to see if they could be whole without each other. Or if, after everything, they still made sense together.

She was about to turn toward the bedroom, ready to start packing, but he moved first. His arms wound around her, and she didn’t hesitate before wrapping hers around him just as tightly.

And that was what made it hurt the most. Because after six years give or take, after all the fights and make-ups and everything in between, this was still the safest place each of them had ever known. His heartbeat against her ear. Her scent wrapping around him like home. The way neither of them wanted to be the first to let go.

But they had to. So, after one long, lingering moment, she forced herself to step back.

Lando’s arms fell away slowly, reluctantly, like he was holding onto the very last seconds of whatever this was.

And just like that, they let go. Not with a bang, not with a fight. Just a quiet understanding that, for the first time in years, it was time to stop holding on.

______

Remember the “No Merry Christmas” part? Well, that was their first slip up.

At first, no one questioned it.

When they said their goodbyes, when she packed up the last of her things, when they let go without a fight – no one questioned it. Not their friends. Not their families. Not the people who had known them as a unit for years.

Because this was just how they were. Messy. Cyclical. A little dramatic but never final. Everyone assumed that, in a few weeks, they’d find their way back – like they always did.

Yet red flags were being waved when she showed up on your parents doorstep and asked them to let you crash at theirs for the time being.

And when the world around you was lighting up, getting ready for the most wonderful time of the year, she was really feeling dead inside. That was when the questions started.

As she had to find a new job outside Monaco, she landed in the local hospital, in her parents' area. Her new coworkers, who knew her family, would try the small talk, asking how he was doing as the season went to the end. Sometimes even her patients would recognize her and ask her about F1 and her used-to-be boyfriend. A friend, who you haven’t talked to for weeks, would bring an article and ask for you to comment on it. It was even from her own aunt – the one she only ever saw at Christmas– who asked, completely oblivious, “What size are Lando’s feet again? I want to knit him those socks I promised last year.”

And just like that, he was everywhere. Like an echo of a life she wasn’t living anymore. Like a mistake she wasn’t sure she had actually made.

Because wasn’t that what everyone kept implying? That they had been stupid for doing this? That this break – this “proper” break, this one-year promise – was just a long, drawn-out way of making them both miserable?

And if so—was Lando feeling it, too?

Was he being ambushed with casual mentions of her in conversations that had nothing to do with her? Did he hear her name in places he wasn’t expecting it? Did it catch him off guard, did it sting, did it make him wonder if they had just ruined something they were always meant to fix?

She stopped herself from wondering. After all, she could dwell in these thoughts forever and never move forward. She knew she had to. This break was not only about figuring them out. It was also about figuring who you are outside the relationship you grew up in.

So for now, she did the thing she knew the best – threw herself into work. That’s why when Christmas Eve rolled around, she had her life line to escape hushed voices and petty looks, asking about her life. Also, Norris' family would always eventually roll around for a quick cup of tea – it was a tradition started by their parents even before the both of them were around so she for sure believed that them being on break would not stop their parents from interacting. Never did on any other break.

She did what she always did when the walls started closing in. She grabbed her coat, threw a scarf over her scrubs, and braced herself for the short, freezing walk to her car. A twelve-hour shift awaited her, filled with last-minute holiday accidents and bad luck, and she was oddly grateful for it. A perfect excuse to be anywhere but here.

She said her goodbyes, wished everyone a Merry Christmas, and stepped outside.

And nearly crashed straight into Adam Norris. Her hand shot out to steady herself, boots skidding slightly against the icy porch. “Oh – I’m so sorry,” she blurted, barely catching her breath before –

Her stomach dropped.

Because it wasn’t just Adam. It was all of them.

His entire family stood there, wrapped in warm coats and holiday cheer. And Lando – of course, Lando – was in the middle of it all, hands stuffed into his pockets, gaze locked onto her like he hadn’t been expecting this either.

She barely let her eyes flick to his before looking away, heart hammering.

“You’re always in such a rush, aren’t you?” Cisca asked, her voice as warm as ever.

“Yes, I’m working tonight, unfortunately,” she added, making them hear what she wanted rather than expressing her feelings.

“Oh, your mother told me about the shifts you’re taking and they still make you work during the day like this? That’s so sad,” she said, empathetically. His mother was always the angel and they had a great connection before this break.

She gave a light shrug, desperate to keep the conversation surface-level. “What can I say? Gotta work if I ever want to give my parents a break.”

It was the lie she’d been telling everyone. That she was saving for a down payment. That the extra shifts were a means to an end. A practical excuse for why she spent more time at the hospital than at home, drowning herself in work instead of drowning in the what-ifs of a relationship that no longer existed.

But it didn’t matter. Not when she could feel Lando’s eyes on her. Not when it took every ounce of strength to keep her own from slipping back to his.

“Well,” Cisca sighed, stepping aside to give her space to pass. “Stay safe, darling.”

She hesitated. A half-second, barely noticeable. And then, before she could stop herself, the words slipped out.

“Merry Christmas, fam.”

The moment she said it, she regretted it. The slip. The weakness. The betrayal of her own rules.

And then there was Lando.

For the first time since she stepped outside, she met his gaze. A brief, fleeting glance. A quiet acknowledgment of everything that still lingered between them.

She barely made a sound when she whispered, “Merry Christmas, Lando.”

Then, before she could give herself time to second-guess it, she turned on her heel and walked away, pulling her coat tighter around herself.

She didn’t wait for an answer. She couldn’t. Because she knew if she did – if she heard his voice, his words – her carefully built defenses would crumble.

But as she made it to her car, something soft, something broken, floated through the cold December air.

“Merry Christmas, love.”

And somehow this moment stung Lando more than anything else ever had.

______

Spring was warming up the air, shaking winter from the trees and stretching daylight just a little longer each evening. She had always hated this time of year – hated the way it pressed against her chest, thick with stress and expectations. First, it was the exams, the all-nighters, the anxious flipping of textbooks. Then, later, it became Lando’s schedule. The season kicking off, his world spinning faster while she tried to hold onto the edges.

This year, though, spring was something different. Unusually dull. Unnaturally calm. But it was for her to figure out if it was the kind of calm that comes before or after the storm.

By all accounts, she was doing well. She was thriving at work, getting used to the rhythm of long shifts and fast decisions. She had found herself a new apartment – small, but cozy, a space that was hers and hers alone. She even picked up jogging and pilates, things she used to roll her eyes at but now clung to as some kind of personal victory.

Some days were perfect. She would wake up, stretch in the morning light, sip her coffee in silence, and almost – almost – forget why her life looked the way it did now.

Emphasis on ‘almost.’

Because when you spend six years wrapped around someone else’s life, untangling yourself doesn’t happen overnight. Their friend groups overlapped too much, their histories bled into too many places, and avoiding him completely was impossible.

They had been careful, though. Calculated. She planned around GP weekends, making sure to show up to gatherings when he was halfway across the world, and skipping the ones when she knew he’d be visiting the home town. It worked. Until, inevitably, it didn’t.

That night, she hadn’t planned to see him. It was supposed to be a quiet evening. Just a handful of friends, drinks, some music humming in the background. Nothing major. Nothing painful. But then, sometime between her second glass of wine and the last lazy notes of an old song drifting through the air, she felt it.

That awareness. The way her skin prickled before she even turned her head. He was there.

Just across the room, laughing at something, his head thrown back, the sound of it familiar enough to sink straight into her bones. He looked... good. Relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time. And for a second she let herself wonder if she looked that way too. If he saw her and thought, ‘She’s okay. She’s moved on. She doesn’t miss me the way I miss her’.

It was unbearable. The way it made her stomach twist, the way it pulled something raw inside of her. It wasn’t just the sight of him, it wasn't just the proof that he still existed outside of her world – it was the realization that she still felt it. That she still felt everything.

So she left. Quietly. Without goodbyes. Without looking back.

By the time she got home, she was already peeling off her jacket, kicking off her shoes, slipping beneath the covers in the dark. Sleep would fix it. Sleep would dull the sharp edges, smooth over the crack in her chest.

Morning light bled through the thin curtains, painting soft streaks across the room. She stretched, rubbing at her puffy eyes, the lingering ache of last night still pressing heavy against her ribs.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he got to be fine. That he got to laugh and exist so easily in a world without her while she sat here, caught in the ghost of something that refused to fade.

Yet there was a surprise waiting for her when she picked up the phone.

A missed call at 3:48 am. And a voice note from him on her Instagram DMs followed.

Then, for just a second, something fluttered in her chest. A spark of something she didn’t want to name. Because maybe he had seen her last night. Maybe he had felt it too.

But reality was quick to sink its claws in, dragging her back down. No. This wasn’t that. This was probably drunk Lando. This was ‘bad decisions wrapped in nostalgia and gin’ Lando.

She should ignore it. But her thumb was already moving before her brain could stop her.

Click. Play.

“Heeeeeeeyyyy pretty girl.”

She sucked in a sharp breath.

He was drunk. The kind of drunk where words ran together, loose and careless.

“I’m so sorry for the call, I realized that you are probably working or worse – asleep – and just canceled it. Like I know that you would stab anyone who would dare to wake you up if it’s not important, and since I guess I no longer am, I—”

A hiccup. A pause.

Her stomach twisted. She should stop listening. But she didn’t.

“I just don’t know… Whenever I see you, you seem so fine, so moved on… And then there’s me, stuck between fake and being down. And you know what I do when I feel down? I go to the bar, the club. You name it. I scan a crowd looking for you. I never find you, because duh, why should I? You only went to these places for me.”

Her chest tightened. She had hated clubs with all her heart. The noise, the people, the way she never really fit into that world. She only went because he loved it. Because Lando loved the music, the energy, the thrill of it. And yet… after all this time, he was still looking for her in places she never truly belonged.

“So, I get the random girl and imagine it is you. I imagine you still care, laugh at my pick-up lines, take me home with you. I even moaned your name one time and the lady was pissed off, I got smacked, lol. Could you imagine…”

A sharp exhale left her lips.

God, he was an idiot. Saying things he had no business saying. Telling her things she shouldn’t know. She wanted to be mad. To roll her eyes, to call him out for being reckless, for dragging her back into the mess they were supposed to be untangling.

But she wasn’t mad. She was something else entirely. Because there, tangled between the words and the drunken confessions, was something she wasn’t ready to face. Regret. And worse – feelings that she thought was lost during all this. The kind that made the edges of her world blur for a moment, tilting just enough to make her wonder…

What if?

And then –

“I should have fought for you, you know? When you asked for this break. I was an idiot for letting you walk out the door so easily. Screw the ‘let’s see where we land’ thing. I already know where I’m landing. Now the ball is in your corner or whatever. So yeah, good chat. See you around.”

Silence.

Her heart was pounding.

She stared at the screen, her mind racing.

This wasn’t just some drunk butt dial. This wasn’t some half-hearted message he would brush off in the morning.

This was a line drawn in the sand. This was him saying, ‘I know what I want. Do you?’

She swallowed, her hands shaking as she locked her phone and pressed it to her chest.

She needed to breathe. She needed to think.

But later that day, when she opened the chat to replay the message and dissect every word it was gone.

Not even a trace of it ever existing.

And just like that, she was left with nothing but the weight of what could have been.

__________

She didn’t want to be here.

That much had been clear from the second she stepped onto Silverstone’s pavement, a familiar hum in the air, the smell of petrol and rubber hitting her in a way that made her stomach twist.

It wasn’t just the track – it was everything it represented. The years spent here, the routines, the nerves. The way she used to pace behind the pit wall, hands shoved into the pockets of a McLaren hoodie that wasn’t even hers, chewing on her bottom lip as she watched Lando push the car to its limits.

It was muscle memory to be here, and yet, it had never felt more foreign.

She had almost backed out, too, with the kind of last-minute excuse that wouldn’t fool her mother but might have been enough to let her go on with her weekend and avoid the inevitable. But the tickets had been a Christmas gift – from the Norris family, as per usual – and her parents had been so excited.

“It’s been too long since we all did something like this together. You used to go with him all the time while we were watching from the sidelines. Now we can switch places, you will be fine” her dad had said. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Fun. Right.

So she had caved. And when it was time to leave for Sunday GP, she still wanted to blend in the crowd. She knew there would be plenty of McLaren fans, so if you can’t beat them – join them. She took out a random t-shirt that was probably used way too many times. It was only after pulling it over her head that she realized which one it was.

His.

One he had left in her drawer ages ago, one she had slept in more nights than she could count.

It smelled like fabric softener instead of him now. That should have been a relief. It wasn’t. For a split second, she had almost taken it off. Almost buried it back in the drawer like it was some kind of cursed relic. But then she exhaled. It’s just a shirt. No one will even notice.

And at first she was perfectly flying over the radar. Her parents visited the paddock, while she stayed behind, blending in the crowds. She had perfected the art of blending in – cheering when appropriate, clapping at the right moments, never once letting her gaze wander too long in the direction of the papaya garage. And it was working wonders.

But then she ran into Emma. The fellow paramedic, who she had known both from the medical, and sports field, as she was a couple years older and worked with Papaya for a few years. One second, she was keeping her head down, avoiding anything orange, and the next, she was being pulled into McLaren hospitality because “It’s dead quiet before the race, and you have a paddock pass, so why not?”

She should have said no. Instead, she sat with Emma, catching up over bad coffee, pretending she wasn’t hyperaware of exactly where she was. Yet every time footsteps neared, her body tensed, anticipation coiling in her stomach like a reflex she hadn’t quite unlearned. It wasn’t that she couldn’t see him – it had happened before, and they had managed to be civil, distant in a way that felt almost rehearsed. But being here, surrounded by everything that made Lando Lando, made her feel too exposed.

Don’t get it wrong – she would always be a fan. Even if life took them further apart, even if one day they became nothing more than a distant memory, she would still admire him. The raw talent, the skill, the way he could take a car and make it his – that would never change.

But it had been eight months, and for the first time, she was starting to find a rhythm outside of them. A clarity she hadn’t thought possible. And yet. Eight months, and still, his drunken voice note rattled in her head like an echo trapped between her ribs. Eight months, and the thought of seeing him in his element – seeing him – made her stomach twist in ways she couldn’t quite decipher. Would it set her back? Or would it confirm that she was finally past it?

Five minutes into chatting, laughing like she wasn’t standing in the center of everything she had left behind, Oscar Piastri appeared, cradling his arm like it was more of an annoyance than an injury. It was impossible for her not to know or like Oscar – they would always lightly catch up and laugh whenever she visited a paddock. And she sure as hell knew that he was aware what was the reason behind her being absent recently.

“Hey, do me a favor,” he said, surprised to see her in the paddock, but not making a big deal out of it. “Tell me I’m being dramatic.”

She raised a brow. “You’re being dramatic.”

Oscar grinned. “That’s what I needed.”

They fell into easy conversation – nothing deep, just lighthearted jabs about how McLaren clearly needed her back on call, and how she had ditched them for something far less entertaining.

And then, as she was mid-sentence, Oscar’s eyes flicked to her shirt.

Her stomach dropped. She glanced down, realizing how obvious it was now, when she dropped her jacket off. The faded Lando Norris on the back. The small details only a real fan – or someone owning a similar t-shirt – would notice, proved this shirt wasn’t just merch, but his.

“That is not just any McLaren shirt.”

Her face went hot. “Oscar –”

“You’re both so full of shit,” he cut in, laughing.

Before she could protest, before she could even think, he was pulling out his phone.

“Oscar,” she warned.

“Relax,” he said, snapping the picture. “I’ll make it tasteful.”

So when later that day, after the GP was done and gone, her phone buzzed, she wasn’t surprised to see that Oscar had tagged her in a story, meant for a close friend's circle. At least he had decency not to post it publicly, sparing her from the speculation of people online.

A casual shot – Oscar grinning, arm still wrapped in tape, her beside him, mid-laugh. The caption?

“I’m here catching up with a friend, being all nice and all, and she’s still in his corner.”

She rolled her eyes and locked her phone, pretending she saw nothing. Lando rarely if ever checked other driver’s stories, so she thought that maybe she was safe.

What she didn’t know, that Lando was also tagged in it.

It was late by the time the high of his first home win finally started to wear off. It should have lasted longer. It should have been everything. And for a while, it was. The roar of the British crowd, the Union Jack wrapped around his shoulders, the feeling of standing on the top step at Silverstone – his Silverstone. It was a dream he’d had since he was a kid, a moment that was meant to feel like an ending and a beginning all at once.

But the thing about dreams is that you never picture them alone. And she wasn’t there. Not where she should have been, anyway.

He’d looked for her. Not consciously, not obviously, but when he turned toward the grandstands where his family sat – where she used to sit – his eyes found nothing but an empty space. And it was stupid to expect anything different. They weren’t that anymore. They weren’t anything, really.

But for the first time since she walked out, he let himself admit it. It still felt wrong doing this without her.

Later, exhausted but unwilling to sleep, he opened his phone, torn between drowning in nostalgia or holding onto the adrenaline of the win. He chose the latter. Scrolled through the tags, looking for a story to share. When he saw the notification from Oscar, he barely thought twice. Probably some congratulatory post, maybe something teasing him for taking so long to win here.

But when he clicked it, the world narrowed to a pinpoint.

Because there she was.

Not in the stands. Not in his family's section. But she had been there. And she was wearing his shirt. An old one, something he barely even remembered giving her, but she still had it. Still wore it.

His stomach tightened. She hadn’t wanted to see him. Hadn’t let him see her. But maybe he wasn’t the only one still looking for pieces of the past.

And maybe she wasn’t quite ready to let them go either.

______

There were still three days left until their one-year mark. Not that she was counting.

362 days had passed. 362 days of learning how to be her own person again. And, honestly? She wasn’t half bad at it.

She had figured out how to be alone without feeling lonely. She’d chased things she never made time for before, threw herself into work, into new routines, into a version of herself that wasn’t just an extension of him. And she liked who she was becoming – someone stronger, more driven, more sure of herself.

But did she still feel a pit in her stomach every time she thought about the fact that he wasn’t there to see it? Absolutely.

And maybe that was why she had convinced herself she just had to make it to a year. A clean number. One final milestone to tell her that they had really done it – walked away, stayed away and allowed them both to breath.

But then came the invitation. Max, persistently begging her to come. It’s his birthday, he’d want you there. And also, it was hard to lie to herself that three days would make her change her mind.

Before she knew it, she was standing in the middle of the chaos, clutching a drink she didn’t want, in a room that felt too damn small. The music was loud, the air thick with laughter and voices overlapping in that familiar, comfortable way. She had spent years in rooms like this, at parties just like this, orbiting the same people, the same circles. But tonight, she felt like a stranger.

And then she saw him. Across the room, back turned, laughing at something Max had said. Easy. Effortless. Like nothing had changed.

The last time she saw him, Lando was leaving Silverstone with his name echoing through the crowd. A winner. A hero. And she had watched from the screen of her phone, watching him have everything he ever wanted.

That realization made her stop in her tracks.

Because here he was, months later, standing in the center of a world that kept spinning without her. With only three GPs left, he was still a contender for the whole damn championship. He had managed to dodge all major drama, kept his head down, thrived. And now, surrounded by friends, by people who cared for him, cherished him, celebrated him – he looked free.

Happy.

And just like that, the thought hit her like a punch to the ribs. Maybe this should be it. Maybe this night should be her closure. Because if this past year had proven anything, it was that he didn’t need her. And as much as it twisted something deep inside her, maybe she was okay with that.

Maybe she could give up the what if in exchange for the freedom she had convinced herself he deserved. Even if her heart didn’t waver. Even if she was still his in ways she wished she wasn’t.

She turned on her heel, ready to leave this place. She knew that he was aware that she was here. So the checkmark ticked for their friends – she was here, she had cheered for him. Now it was time to leave all this behind them. Just as she was about to put the empty glass on the table by the door, she heard a familiar voice:

“Leaving so soon?”

His voice cut through the noise like a blade. She could barely hear it, but somehow, it still sent a shiver down her spine.

She didn’t turn back, not right away. She let out a breath, eyes shutting for half a second, before finally facing him.

“I was just –” She cleared her throat, finding it suddenly dry. “I was just stepping out.”

Something flickered in his eyes. He didn’t call her bullshit. Didn’t need to. Instead, he simply gestured toward the door.

“Me too.”

As they stepped outside, the air outside was crisp, a quiet relief from the overwhelming heat of the party. She crossed her arms over her chest, less for warmth, more for something to do. Lando stuffed his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he exhaled, long and slow.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

And then–

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

She let out something between a laugh and a scoff. “I wasn’t going to.”

His lips twitched. “Max?”

“Max.”

Silence again. But this one wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t unfamiliar. It was them. The kind of quiet that only came after knowing someone for years. The kind that held more weight than words.

Lando rocked back on his heels. “You didn’t have to come.”

She let out a breath, steadying herself. “I know.”

“Then why did you?”

She shifted on her feet, gaze flickering toward the door, toward the party she could easily slip back into. Away from this. But she didn’t move.

Instead, she sighed, voice softer now. “Because it’s your birthday.”

Lando exhaled through his nose, looking away for a moment. “I thought maybe you were done.”

“I thought so too,” she admitted. “I was trying to be.”

His gaze snapped back to her, something sharp behind his eyes. “Trying?”

Her stomach twisted. This was exactly what she had been afraid of – this conversation, the one she wasn’t sure she was ready to have. The one where she had to admit that all the time, all the space, all the growing hadn’t undone a damn thing.

“I didn’t want us to slip back,” she confessed. “Back into something that wasn’t healthy. Back into us, but wrong.”

Lando nodded, slow. “And do you think we would?”

She looked at him. At the way he was standing now, steadier, stronger, more him. At the way his face, older in ways that had nothing to do with time, still softened at the sight of her. At the way she still felt it. That pull. That certainty.

She swallowed hard. “No.”

He stepped forward. Not much. Just enough. And this time, he was the one to break the silence.

“You know what I realized?” His voice was quiet, careful. “That I could have the best day of my life, and it still wouldn’t be quite right.”

She stiffened.

“Because it’s not about someone seeing it,” he continued. “It’s about someone being there. It’s about looking over and knowing –” he broke off, shaking his head, then tried again. “I didn’t need you to see me win at Silverstone. Hell I didn't need you to witness any of this. I just –” his voice dropped even lower – “needed you. And then I saw you in that damn picture with my t-shirt on. It took everything in me not to drive to Bristol, looking for you.”

Her throat tightened. “Lando.”

“I know we did the right thing,” he said, brushing it off. “I know we needed time. I know we needed to fix things.” A pause. Then he looked dead into her eyes. “But tell me. Right now. That if we part ways now that you will be the happiest version of yourself.”

Now, she was standing in front of the person who had been both her greatest love and her hardest lesson. Now, she was staring at him, the weight of their history pressing in from all sides, and she still couldn’t imagine a life where she didn’t look for him in every crowd. Now, she was tired of pretending.

“I don’t regret what we did,” she whispered. Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t pull back. “I think we needed it,” she admitted. “I think we needed the space. The time. I think we needed to figure out who we were without each other.”

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue. “And I did. I figured it out.”

Lando didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. “And?”

She hesitated, because saying it out loud made it real. Made it true. But after all the turmoil she owed him that much.

“I had good days,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Really good days. Days where I laughed so hard my ribs ached. Where I felt strong. Where I was proud of who I was becoming.”

Lando’s jaw tensed. She inhaled sharply.

“And then there were the other days. The ones where something amazingly good or amazingly bad happened, something I wanted to share, but I’d reach for my phone and realize – ” Her voice cracked. “Realize you weren’t there.”

Lando shut his eyes for a second, like he needed a moment to steady himself. “Yeah.”

Her chest tightened. “And you?”

His lips parted, but for the first time all night, words didn’t come so easily. So he exhaled, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and met her gaze with the kind of raw honesty that left no room for doubt.

“I had the best day of my life, and it still felt wrong because you weren’t there to see it.”

She blinked, chest tightening, but he wasn’t done.

“I had the worst day of my life too. And every instinct told me to go to you. And I couldn’t.”

Her throat burned.

“I used to think what we had was everything,” he murmured. “And then we broke apart, and I thought – maybe I was wrong. Maybe we were just young and caught up in something that was never meant to last.”

She held her breath.

“But then I lived without you. I learned how to be on my own. I grew. And I still came to the same conclusion.”

His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he was holding himself back.

“You are the only thing in my life that I’ve ever been sure of.”

Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she forced a watery laugh. “That’s funny,” she whispered. “Because I was just about to say the same thing.”

Lando’s shoulders fell, something breaking apart and putting itself back together all at once. And then he stepped forward. And so did she.

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t about picking up where they left off.

It was about choosing each other again. And they landed exactly where they needed to.

150 notes · View notes

hockeyluvrr · 2 days ago

Text

BLENDER || lh43

MAIN MASTERLIST

summary: Love was never the problem-but distance, doubt, and heartbreak were. You tried to hold on. So did he. But when love stops being enough, what's left?

based on the song BLENDER by 5SOS

warnings: arguments, emotional tension, swearing, miscommunication, jealousy, confrontation, desperation, uncertainty, breaking up, heartbreak, emotional limbo, unresolved feelings, basically all the basic angst stuff lol

notes: holy shit, this came out of nowhere ngl... this is my longest fic yet and I love it so much. shoutout to my 5sos girlies, this is for you (mostly me though 🤭)

word count: 6,410

The fight had been over for an hour, but your phone was still buzzing.

LUKE: can you just pick up?

LUKE: i don’t want to end the night like this.

LUKE: please.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the notification. Your body still felt tight, wound up from everything you’d just screamed at each other. The distance was getting to both of you. Maybe it had been from the start.

This was supposed to be easy. A summer fling that accidentally turned into more.

You met Luke last July, when the air was thick with humidity and the nights bled into each other without much consequence. You didn’t think twice when it started—just a guy and a girl caught up in something fun, something fleeting.

But then August came, and instead of ending things, you found yourself tangled in his sheets, whispering promises neither of you had planned to make.

So now, months later, you were here—staring at his name on your phone, wondering if loving someone like this was supposed to feel like free-falling with no parachute.

Another buzz.

LUKE: i’m calling.

The screen lit up with his name, and you swore under your breath before finally answering.

“What?”

A beat of silence. Then, his voice—tired, frustrated, but still laced with something soft. “You actually picked up.”

“I figured you weren’t gonna stop until I did,” you muttered, shifting in bed. Your voice came out flat, but you weren’t sure how else to talk to him when your heart was still beating too fast from the argument.

Luke exhaled sharply. “I don’t get why you’re acting like I don’t care.”

“You don’t get it because you’re never here.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and aching.

His silence was louder than the words themselves.

“Y/N…” He sounded exhausted. “You know I can’t just—”

“I know, Luke,” you cut in. “I know you have a career. I know you can’t just drop everything for me. But I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one trying.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You sat up, gripping your blanket. “I call. I text. I make time. But when was the last time you put in the effort? When was the last time you planned something instead of just squeezing me in when it was convenient?”

His breath hitched, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the words.

The silence stretched.

You should’ve let it sit. Let him stew in it. But instead, your voice broke when you whispered, “Do you even miss me, Luke?”

The question must’ve hit him harder than anything else, because when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “Are you serious?”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure you could.

“Of course I fucking miss you,” he snapped. “Every damn day. But I can’t just—” He cut himself off, cursing under his breath. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Y/N. I can’t fix the distance. I can’t fix my schedule. I can’t—”

“I don’t want you to fix it,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I just want to matter enough for you to try.”

The silence came back, heavier than before.

You closed your eyes. “I can’t do this right now.”

“Wait—”

“I need space, Luke.” Your throat tightened. “Just… goodnight.”

Then, before he could say anything else, you hung up.

You threw your phone onto the nightstand and curled up into yourself, letting the weight of it all crash down.

Outside, the city lights flickered through your window, but they didn’t feel warm. Not tonight.

Not when you weren’t sure if this was just another fight—

Or the beginning of the end.

———

You didn’t sleep.

Not really, anyway. You drifted in and out, your mind replaying every second of last night’s fight, twisting his words in a way that left a hollow ache in your chest.

By the time morning rolled around, your phone was still dark. No texts. No missed calls.

Luke had listened when you said you needed space.

You weren’t sure if that made you feel better or worse.

With a deep sigh, you pushed the blankets off and sat up, rubbing your hands over your face. The apartment was quiet, save for the occasional hum of traffic outside. It felt unnatural, like the silence had taken up permanent residence in your head, stretching far beyond last night.

You hated how much you missed him.

Even now, your body was wired to check your phone first thing in the morning, waiting for one of his lazy, half-awake messages. Morning, pretty girl. Wish you were here. Call me when you wake up.

But today, there was nothing.

It shouldn’t have surprised you. You were the one who ended the call. You were the one who asked for space.

So why did it feel like he was the one pulling away?

With a groan, you flopped back onto the pillows and stared at the ceiling, replaying the fight in your head. Maybe you’d overreacted. Maybe you should’ve let him explain instead of throwing accusations like knives. You knew his schedule was hell. You knew long distance wasn’t easy.

But at the same time… when was the last time he really made you feel like a priority?

Before you could spiral any further, your phone buzzed.

Your heart jumped.

But when you grabbed it, the screen didn’t show Luke’s name.

It was your best friend, Riley.

RILEY: u up? brunch. now. no excuses.

You hesitated. Normally, you’d decline, opting to stay curled up in your thoughts. But today, with the weight of last night still pressing on your chest, you needed the distraction.

YOU: be there in 20.

—

The café was small and familiar, the kind of place you and Riley had claimed as your own years ago. The smell of coffee and syrup hung thick in the air, and the morning crowd buzzed around you.

Riley spotted you before you even reached the table. “Oh, yeah. You look rough.”

You rolled your eyes as you dropped into the seat across from her. “Thanks.”

She pushed a mimosa toward you. “Drink. Then talk.”

You didn’t argue. One sip turned into two, and before you knew it, you were spilling everything—how Luke had called, how you fought, how you hung up first. How he hadn’t texted since.

Riley frowned. “So you told him you needed space, and now you’re mad that he’s giving it to you?”

You groaned, slumping in your seat. “Not when you say it like that.”

“Well, how else am I supposed to say it?” She arched a brow. “Did you expect him to blow up your phone? Show up at your door?”

You hated that you didn’t have a good answer.

Riley sighed, softer this time. “I get it, babe. I do. Long distance sucks. And I know you’re tired of feeling like you’re the only one putting in the effort. But you guys love each other, right?”

Your stomach twisted. Love.

Neither of you had said it yet.

Riley noticed your silence and leaned forward. “Wait. Have you guys even talked about—?”

“No,” you cut in quickly, suddenly regretting this conversation. “It’s not like that.”

She gave you a knowing look but didn’t push. “Okay. So what is it like?”

You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. “It’s…” You struggled for the right words. “It’s messy. It’s intense. It’s too much but never enough at the same time.”

Riley nodded like she understood, even though you weren’t sure you did.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, she reached for her phone.

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, with a pointed look, she turned the screen toward you.

Luke’s latest Instagram post stared back at you.

Your chest tightened.

It was a photo of him at practice, mid-laugh, sweaty and effortless in a way that made your heart ache. The caption was simple. Back at it.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing emotional.

But all the comments blurred together in your head. Can’t wait to watch you this season! Missed you on the ice! Looking good, Hughesy!

It was a reminder that, while you were sitting here overthinking everything, Luke was out there living.

Like last night never happened.

Like you didn’t happen.

You swallowed hard. “So what? He’s just… moving on?”

Riley gave you a sympathetic look. “Or maybe he’s just waiting. For you to reach out first.”

You stared at the screen, your stomach twisting into knots.

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should text him.

Or maybe the cracks were already too deep to fix.

———

It had been three days.

Three days since the fight. Three days since you hung up on Luke. Three days of absolute silence.

You told yourself you wouldn’t be the one to break first. If he cared, he’d reach out. If he wanted this to work, he’d try.

But every hour that passed without his name lighting up your phone chipped away at your resolve.

You were starting to wonder if maybe this was how it ended—not with a dramatic goodbye, but with a slow, suffocating silence that swallowed you whole.

And yet, even with the weight of it pressing down on your chest, you still couldn’t bring yourself to text him first.

Instead, you did the worst possible thing.

You checked social media.

Luke wasn’t the type to post often, but his teammates were. And there he was—in a video on Jack’s story, laughing in the background, surrounded by friends, a drink in hand like the last three days hadn’t meant anything to him.

You stared at the screen, your grip tightening on your phone.

Maybe this was stupid. Maybe you were reading too much into it.

But the longer you watched, the worse it got.

Because then she appeared.

A girl you didn’t recognise—blonde, wearing a Devils jersey far too oversized to be her own—sidling up next to Luke, whispering something in his ear. He didn’t move away. Didn’t look uncomfortable. Just smirked, shaking his head at whatever she said before taking another sip of his drink.

Your stomach twisted.

The worst part wasn’t the fact that she was there. It wasn’t even the fact that Luke didn’t seem to mind.

It was the fact that, for the first time since you met him, you had no idea where you stood.

You weren’t his girlfriend, not officially.

Not really.

Because when the summer ended, neither of you had wanted to put a label on it. You told yourselves it was easier that way—no pressure, no expectations, just whatever this was.

But now, as you watched him on that screen, looking so effortlessly unbothered, it hit you like a fucking freight train.

Maybe you’d been wrong.

Maybe you weren’t something worth holding on to.

The buzzing in your head was so loud that you almost didn’t hear Riley calling your name.

You blinked, barely processing that she was standing in the doorway of your apartment. “Are you even listening?”

You swallowed hard, locking your phone before she could see the screen. “What?”

She sighed, stepping inside and dropping onto your couch. “I said we’re going out tonight. You need a distraction.”

“I don’t need a distraction,” you muttered, even as you stared blankly at the wall.

Riley rolled her eyes. “Okay, so what? You’re just gonna sit here all night, refreshing Instagram like a psycho?”

Your silence must have been answer enough.

She groaned. “Y/N. Come on. I love you, but this? This isn’t healthy. You don’t even know what’s going on.”

You clenched your jaw. “I know enough.”

She gave you a long look, then sighed. “Fine. If you’re not gonna let it go, then at least don’t let him be the only one having fun tonight.”

You hesitated.

Riley saw the crack in your resolve and jumped on it. “Just a couple drinks. That’s all I’m asking.”

You weren’t sure why you agreed. Maybe it was the fact that you’d barely left your apartment in days. Maybe it was the need to feel something—anything—other than this ache in your chest.

Or maybe, deep down, it was the smallest, most pathetic part of you that wanted Luke to see you moving on, too.

———

The bar was packed. Music pulsed through the speakers, and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and too many bodies crammed into one space.

It should’ve felt suffocating.

But instead, with a drink in your hand and Riley’s laughter ringing in your ears, you almost managed to forget.

Almost.

At least, until your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You knew who it was before you even checked.

LUKE: are you out?

Your heart nearly stopped. After three days of nothing, this was how he chose to reach out? Not an apology. Not an explanation. Just that.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and typed back before you could think better of it.

YOU: why do you care?

His response was instant.

LUKE: where are you?

You stared at the message, pulse pounding in your ears.

He had no right to be asking that. Not after ignoring you. Not after letting you sit with the weight of this fight while he went out, acting like he didn’t care.

So instead of answering, you did the stupidest thing possible.

You let some guy buy you another drink.

You didn’t know his name. Didn’t care. He was tall, attractive, and most importantly—he wasn’t Luke.

And if you felt the burn of guilt in your chest when he leaned in closer, when his fingers brushed against yours. You shouldn’t even feel guilty, right? Luke’s been doing the same thing.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Until your phone buzzed again.

LUKE: Y/N.

One words. Your name. That’s all it took to make your breath hitch.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a fight. It wasn’t just a rough patch.

This was a game.

———

The tension had been simmering all night.

It started with Luke’s text. One simple word that crawled under your skin, wrapping around your ribs like a vice. But what pissed you off the most wasn’t the message itself.

It was the fact that he suddenly cared.

After three days of silence. After her in his Instagram story. After making you feel like you were the only one suffering through this distance.

And now, here he was, acting like he had a say in what you did.

So you ignored the text.

And maybe you let that guy keep flirting with you a little longer than you should have. Maybe you let his hand linger at the small of your back when he leaned in to talk. Maybe you even laughed a little louder, tilted your chin just enough that if Luke somehow saw—if he was watching—he’d know exactly what you were doing.

It was petty. It was reckless.

But so was loving someone who could make you feel this small.

The tension cracked the second you stepped outside the bar.

Luke was waiting.

You nearly tripped when you saw him, heart slamming against your ribs. He was standing near the curb, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like he was trying to grind his teeth into dust.

Your stomach flipped. He was here. He actually came.

But you weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.

His eyes locked onto you immediately, flickering down to the guy who had followed you out. And in that moment, the simmering tension didn’t just build. It exploded.

“The fuck is this?” Luke’s voice was low, controlled—but you knew him well enough to hear the storm brewing beneath it.

You blinked, still caught off guard by the fact that he was here. “What?”

Luke’s jaw tightened. “Who the hell is he?”

The guy next to you—God, you didn’t even remember his name—shifted awkwardly. “Uh—”

“Not your business, Hughes,” you cut in before he could finish.

Luke’s eyes snapped back to you. “Not my business?”

“You heard me.” Your pulse was pounding, but you forced yourself to hold your ground. “You don’t get to disappear for three days and then show up acting like you have any right to be pissed.”

Luke let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “That’s funny, because I could say the same thing. You tell me you need space, ignore me for days, and then I see you all over some guy?”

“I ignored you?” You scoffed, anger bubbling to the surface. “That’s rich, Luke. Where the hell were you? Oh, right—too busy playing NHL golden boy, letting some random girl hang off you—”

“What girl?”

The fact that he had the audacity to act confused made your blood boil. “Don’t play dumb.” You crossed your arms, nails digging into your skin. “The blonde. The one in your jersey.”

Luke stared at you for a moment, then let out another disbelieving laugh. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“She’s Jack’s friend. She was at the game. I barely talked to her.” He shook his head, eyes dark with frustration. “Jesus, Y/N. You saw a story and what—just assumed the worst?”

You hated the way your stomach twisted at that.

Because maybe—just maybe—he was right. Maybe you had let jealousy cloud your judgment. Maybe you had let the silence between you turn into something uglier than it was ever meant to be.

But that didn’t change the fact that this wasn’t just about her.

It was about everything.

The late-night calls that were always cut short. The weeks without seeing each other. The way it felt like you were constantly reaching for him while he was always a step too far away.

“You let me assume the worst,” you muttered, voice shaking despite yourself. “Because you never do anything to prove me wrong.”

Luke’s expression flickered—just for a second. And in that second, you saw it. The guilt.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“What do you want me to say, Y/N?” His voice was quieter now, raw around the edges. “That I wish I could be around more? That I fucking hate the distance just as much as you do?” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You act like this is easy for me. Like I don’t miss you every goddamn day.”

Your throat tightened. “Then why don’t you act like it?”

He stared at you, breathing hard, like he was trying to find the right words—but they never came.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

There was always so much left unsaid.

Neither of you spoke. The tension that had been simmering all night was now crackling in the air between you, but this time, there was nowhere left for it to go.

The guy you had walked out with cleared his throat. “Uh—”

Luke’s head snapped toward him. “Leave.”

“Luke—”

“No, it’s fine.” The guy held up his hands, clearly deciding that whatever this was, it wasn’t worth the drama. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You didn’t watch him leave. You didn’t even care.

Because all of your attention was on Luke.

On the way his shoulders were tense, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes locked onto yours like this was some kind of battle neither of you knew how to win.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you exhaled. “So what now?”

Luke hesitated.

And that hesitation—that tiny moment of uncertainty—made something inside you crack.

Because if he didn’t know, then maybe you already did.

Maybe you’d known for a while.

Maybe you just hadn’t wanted to say it out loud.

You swallowed hard. “I can’t keep doing this, Luke.”

His face fell.

You regretted the words the second they left your mouth.

I can’t keep doing this, Luke.

Because now they were out there, hanging heavy in the space between you, and you couldn’t take them back.

Luke’s face twisted, like the weight of them had hit him straight in the chest. He shifted slightly, like he wanted to move closer but didn’t know if he was still allowed to. “You don’t mean that.”

Your throat tightened. Didn’t you?

“I don’t know,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the city around you. “I don’t know what I mean anymore.”

That seemed to snap something in him. His jaw clenched, frustration bleeding into his voice. “So what? You just want to walk away?”

Your stomach twisted. That wasn’t what you wanted—not really. But maybe it would be easier. Maybe it would hurt less than this constant, suffocating ache in your chest.

“I don’t want to,” you admitted, voice cracking. “But, Luke… I don’t know how to keep this from falling apart.”

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Then we figure it out.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “And how do we do that? Because I’m fucking exhausted. I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one fighting for this.”

That made something flicker in his expression—something wounded. “That’s not fair.”

You scoffed. “Isn’t it?”

His eyes darkened. “You think I don’t fight for this? You think I don’t want to be with you?”

“I think you want me when it’s convenient.” The words came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. “When you have time. When it doesn’t get in the way of your schedule.”

Luke took a step closer, shaking his head. “That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” You could feel your control slipping, the frustration bubbling over. “Because I spend every day waiting for you to call, waiting for you to show up—and half the time, I’m left wondering if you even remember I exist.”

Luke’s brows furrowed, his expression torn between anger and something softer, something that looked like guilt.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, voice tight. “You have no fucking clue how hard this is for me too.”

“Then tell me.” Your voice cracked, raw and desperate. “Because all I know is that I feel like I’m constantly reaching for you, and you’re never there.”

Luke let out a frustrated breath, his hands flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I don’t know how to do this, okay? I don’t know how to give you everything you deserve while I’m a thousand miles away.”

Your chest ached at the confession, at the vulnerability underneath the frustration. But it didn’t change anything.

“I’m not asking for everything, Luke.” Your voice softened just slightly. “I’m just asking for something.”

Luke shook his head, exhaling sharply. “I—fuck.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to pull himself together. “I don’t know how to fix this, but I can’t lose you.”

Your heart clenched.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Neither of you knew how to fix it. But neither of you could bear the thought of letting go.

Luke’s gaze searched yours, desperate and pleading. “Tell me what to do.”

Your throat felt tight. “I don’t have the answer.”

For a second, neither of you spoke. The tension was suffocating, your emotions teetering on a knife’s edge.

Then, suddenly, Luke moved.

He reached for you like it was instinct, his hands cupping your face, his forehead pressing against yours. His breath was shaky, his grip almost too tight—like he was afraid you’d slip right through his fingers.

“I love you.” The words were barely above a whisper, but they hit you like a punch to the chest.

Your breath hitched.

Because he’d never said it before. Neither of you had.

You felt your resolve cracking, splintering under the weight of those three words.

But love wasn’t always enough.

And as much as you wanted to believe this was the turning point—the moment everything changed—you weren’t sure if this was a beginning or just the messiest part of the end.

Because Luke had never said those words before.

And you’d spent so long wondering if he ever would—if he ever could.

Now, here they were, hanging in the air between you like a lifeline you weren’t sure you could reach for.

I love you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling the way his hands trembled against your skin. He was holding you so tightly, like he thought you might slip through his fingers if he let go.

And maybe he was right.

Because as much as you wanted to say it back—as much as you felt it—you weren’t sure love was enough to fix this.

Your throat felt tight. “Luke…”

He shook his head quickly, like he already knew what you were going to say. “Don’t. Just—don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

Your heart twisted. “I do mean it.”

Luke’s breath hitched, but before he could say anything, you continued.

“I love you, Luke.” The words tasted like the truth, and you hated how much it hurt to say them. “But I don’t know if that changes anything.”

Luke exhaled sharply, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were desperate, searching. “Of course it changes things.”

You swallowed hard. “Does it?”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to ask that. “It has to.”

Your chest ached. Because you wanted to believe that. You wanted to believe that loving each other was enough to make the distance bearable, to make the jealousy fade, to make the ache in your chest disappear every time he left.

But love wasn’t a bandage. It didn’t erase the late nights spent staring at your phone, wondering if he’d call. It didn’t undo the fights, the silences, the way you felt like you were constantly fighting a battle you didn’t know how to win.

Luke must have seen the hesitation on your face because his grip tightened. “Y/N, I need you to tell me what to do here.” His voice was quiet, but it was raw, edged with frustration and fear. “Because I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know how to make this work.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know either.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Neither of you had the answers.

You loved him, and he loved you. But love alone wasn’t fixing anything.

Luke clenched his jaw. “So what? We just give up?”

You inhaled sharply. “I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t,” he pleaded. “Stay.”

Your heart cracked straight down the middle.

Because God, you wanted to stay. You wanted to hold onto him and pretend like love was enough. You wanted to ignore the distance, the fights, the uncertainty.

But how much longer could you keep pretending that love was enough to stop this from falling apart?

Tears burned at the back of your eyes. “Luke, I don’t know how to keep doing this.”

His expression twisted, something breaking in his gaze.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

The silence felt heavier than ever before. Stretching between you, thick and suffocating.

Luke’s hands were still on you, but his grip had loosened—like he knew, deep down, that he couldn’t hold on forever.

But neither of you were ready to say it out loud.

Not yet.

“I can do better,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse. “I’ll—fuck, I’ll make more time. I’ll fly out every chance I get. I’ll call more. Whatever you need.”

Your chest ached at the desperation in his voice.

Because he meant it. You knew he did.

But the problem was never him meaning it.

The problem was reality—the way life always seemed to get in the way, no matter how much either of you wanted to pretend otherwise.

You swallowed hard. “Luke…”

“Just give me a chance,” he pleaded. “One more chance to make this work.”

You hated how badly you wanted to say yes.

Because you did. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that one more try would be enough. That if you just held on a little longer, fought a little harder, things would get easier.

But history had already proven otherwise.

Still, when you looked at him—at the raw emotion in his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were slipping through his fingers—you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

Not yet.

You exhaled shakily. “Okay.”

Luke’s shoulders sagged with relief, and before you could second-guess it, he was pulling you against him. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his face buried in your hair, like he was trying to memorise the feel of you against him.

“I love you,” he murmured again, like saying it enough times would make everything okay.

You squeezed your eyes shut, gripping the back of his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

And you did.

But deep down, you had a sinking feeling that love wouldn’t be enough to save you.

Not this time.

———

You should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

For a little while, it almost felt like things were okay. Luke called more, sent you stupid texts throughout the day, made an effort to remind you that he wanted this, that he wanted you.

And maybe that should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Because even when he was trying—when he was doing everything he promised he would—the ache in your chest never really went away.

It wasn’t just the distance. It was the exhaustion. The weight of trying so hard, only to feel like you were running in circles.

Like you were holding onto something that was already slipping through the cracks.

And now, standing in his apartment, you felt the final thread start to snap.

Luke was frustrated. You could see it in the way he raked a hand through his hair, in the way his jaw kept clenching like he was trying to hold something back.

“Jesus, Y/N, what else do you want me to do?” His voice wasn’t raised, but it was edged with something sharp, something tired. “I’m trying. I’m here. What more do you want?”

You exhaled shakily, heart pounding against your ribs. “I don’t know.”

Luke let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You have to know. Because I can’t keep guessing what’s going to make you happy.”

Your stomach twisted. “This isn’t just about me.”

“No? Because it sure as hell feels like I’m the only one bending over backward to make this work.”

That stung.

Because you had been trying. You had been fighting for this.

But maybe that was the difference.

Luke thought fixing this was about doing things—calling more, texting more, showing up when he could. And sure, those things mattered. But that wasn’t what was breaking you.

It was everything in between.

The distance that couldn’t be closed by a few extra phone calls. The silence that still felt heavy, even when you were together. The way you still felt alone, even in the moments he was right in front of you.

It wasn’t about effort anymore. It was about the fact that maybe—just maybe—you weren’t supposed to keep fighting for something that hurt this much.

Your throat felt tight. “I don’t think we can fix this.”

Luke froze.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then, his expression hardened. “So that’s it?”

Your chest ached. “Luke—”

“No, seriously. That’s it?” He let out a sharp breath, stepping back like he couldn’t stand being this close to you anymore. “We hit a rough patch, and you just decide it’s not worth it?”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “This isn’t just a rough patch.” Your voice wavered. “We’ve been fighting for months. We keep trying, and it’s not working.”

Luke shook his head, eyes dark with frustration. “No. You keep doubting us. You keep looking for an excuse to leave.”

That felt like a slap.

“Do you think this is easy for me?” Your voice cracked. “Do you think I want to feel like this? To feel like I’m constantly begging for something that’s never enough?”

Luke’s expression flickered—like maybe, just maybe, he finally saw how much this had been hurting you.

But the worst part?

You knew it was hurting him too.

That was what made this so fucking unbearable.

Because this wasn’t about not loving each other.

It was about the fact that love had stopped being enough.

Luke’s hands flexed at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, but it still felt like a punch to the gut.

“You really want to do this?”

No.

God, no.

But what choice did you have?

Your chest felt like it was caving in, but you forced yourself to nod. “Yeah.”

Luke inhaled sharply, like he’d been punched.

And just like that, it was over.

The fight drained out of him all at once. His shoulders slumped, his eyes flickering toward the floor. “Okay.”

You weren’t sure which hurt more—the frustration, the fighting, or this.

The emptiness.

The realisation that there was nothing left to say.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “I should go.”

Luke didn’t stop you.

And somehow, that was the worst part of all.

———

The apartment felt too quiet.

Your suitcase sat half-open by the door, clothes spilling out of it. You hadn’t unpacked since you got back a week ago, pathetically trying to cling onto something you weren’t ready to let go of.

But what was left to stay for?

Your hands shook as you opened it further, starting to finally unpack. Your chest felt hollow, like the fight had carved out a part of you that you weren’t sure would ever feel whole again.

You had been the one to walk away.

So why did it feel like you had just lost everything?

You had told yourself that this was the right decision. That love—no matter how deep, no matter how real—wasn’t always enough. That some things just didn’t work, no matter how badly you wanted them to.

But God, it hurt.

Your phone sat on the bedside table, untouched since you got back to your apartment.

Luke hadn’t called.

And you weren’t sure what hurt more—the idea that he was too angry to reach out, or the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he had already accepted this.

That he was ready to let you go.

You weren’t sure you were ready to let go of him.

But you had already done the hardest part. You had walked out of his apartment, out of his life.

Now, you just had to figure out how to live with it.

———

The silence in the apartment was unbearable.

Luke had never noticed how loud it was when you were here—the hum of your voice on the phone, the sound of your laugh echoing from the other room, the way you always seemed to fill the space in a way he never had.

Now, it was just quiet.

And he fucking hated it.

His hands flexed at his sides as he paced the living room, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

You were gone.

And it wasn’t a stupid fight. It wasn’t a rough patch.

This time, you weren’t coming back.

Luke had thought about calling you. Had stared at his phone for so long that his vision blurred, the screen taunting him with your name.

But what would he even say?

That he was sorry? That he still loved you? That he wanted to take it all back, but he knew deep down that nothing had changed?

That no matter how much he wanted to fix this, some things just weren’t meant to be fixed?

Luke sat down heavily on the couch, staring at the door like he half expected you to walk back in.

But you wouldn’t.

And he wasn’t sure how to live with that.

———

Time was supposed to make this easier.

That’s what everyone told you. That eventually, the ache in your chest would dull, and one day you’d wake up without the weight of him pressing against your ribs.

But weeks had passed. Then months.

And Luke still felt like a ghost in your life.

He was everywhere and nowhere all at once. In the song that played in the coffee shop, in the hoodie still shoved in the back of your closet because you couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. In the fleeting moments when you reached for your phone before remembering that he wasn’t yours to call anymore.

You had moved on, technically. You did all the things you were supposed to do—went out with friends, filled your days with distractions, pretended like the hole in your chest wasn’t still there.

But every time you saw his name in a headline, every time you heard his voice in an interview, it hit you like a punch to the gut.

Because you still missed him.

And no matter how much time passed, you weren’t sure you’d ever stop.

———

He didn’t talk about you.

Not to his teammates, not to his family, not even when Jack asked in that quiet, careful way that made Luke’s jaw tighten.

Because if he didn’t talk about you, maybe he could pretend like he wasn’t still thinking about you.

Like he didn’t check his phone some nights, scrolling mindlessly, hoping to see your name somewhere even though he knew he wouldn’t.

Like he didn’t still hear your voice in the back of his head sometimes, teasing him, laughing, telling him you loved him.

It was pathetic, probably. Holding onto something that was already gone.

But Luke had never been good at letting go.

He threw himself into hockey. Into practices, games, anything that kept him too exhausted to think about the way his apartment still felt empty without you.

But some nights, when the adrenaline faded and the silence crept in, he wondered.

If you still thought about him. If you still missed him the way he missed you.

If this was really over.

Or if maybe, just maybe, it never really would be.

#luke hughes angst #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fic #luke hughes fanfic #luke hughes #lhughes #lh43 #new jersey devils #nj devils #devils hockey #hockeyluvrr

144 notes · View notes

uuchii · 2 days ago

Text

"In a world filled with men, he's a gentleman." ♡ - headcannons

Pairings: bf! Choi seung-hyun x reader

Warnings: none just fluff, hehe

︴note: hi <3, this is my first fic on this acc! I'm excited to post here on tumblr, I got inspired by so many writers out there! My writting might be a bit off, so please bear with me 😓 ,, anyway I hope you enjoy ♡.

Choi seung-hyun never was interested on dating or be in a relationship, he felt like it wasn't the right time to be one, considering his heavy schedules. But all that changes once he met you.

He instantly fell inlove once you two made eye contact. And after that he just couldn't help but think about you.

And of course you two ended up together.

- he probably did the first move! He might've asked you out but gosh he was nervous. He made sure on your first date he was being a gentleman. Like holding your hands, opening the door for you, paying everything, he made sure if your enjoying it so far. He would constantly check up on you, making sure your okay or feel comfortable. He wants to see you smile throughout the day. He would pull small jokes here and there, asking how's your day, he would talk about how passionate he was for music and art, and he would listen to your chat. He wouldn't get tire of listening to your voice at all. honestly he just wanted it to be perfect for you.

- your his passenger princess! Whenever your on a car with him, he would always put a hand on your thigh, would constantly rub his thumb against your skin in circles, caressing your thigh gently, as he talks to you AUGHH. He would glance at you every now and then, soft music fills the silence on the car as he drives.

- every night is always a cuddle session with him. Bed? Yes. couch? Absolutely! He likes being close to you, his hands wrapping around your waist, as he peppers your neck small pecks and kisses while he whispers sweet nothings to your ear. "I missed you today, jagi. Can we stay like this?" Honestly he would pull you back whenever you try to stand up.

- you always cook for him, breakfast, lunch and dinner. And he would always appreciate every bite because you made it. Every mornings, he would walk up behind you will you cook, wrapping his hand around your waist, as he watches you cook. "It smells good, can I help you with anything?" You would tell him to set up the table and he would. He would also make coffee for the both of you.

Everytime he has to go away for practice, recording, photoshoots, filming or whatnot. You would always pack him lunch, and he loves it when you do. He felt appreciated whenever you do, and it always makes his day, especially when you leave small notes. He always knows that how much you spend time making this just for him, and he is grateful about it.

On dinner, after you two eat, he would help you clean the table off and clean the dishes, it's a way of showing appreciation for the food your making hehe. Knowing he can't cook, he'd help you out instead.

- If you ask him to teach you how to paint, he would definitely, he feels giddy knowing you want to know about his intrests. Brings you to his studio, shows you how and tell you tips and tricks, like how to blend the colors, how to mix them and etc. He's always there. And whenever you show your paintings and your works to him, he couldn't help but feel proud. Even though if it looks bad or good, he would praise you about it. "Aein, this looks amazing, you learned so fast."

- this man brings you to his studio and would make you listen to his unreleased songs. He would ask if they sound okay, he just wants to know your opinions... that's all.. "Hey, jagi. Listen to this for me." "What do you think?" "It sounds okay." "Just okay? Are you sure?" "Yes baby, why?" "Alright I'm gonna do some changes wait-"

- whenever you feel down, he's always right there with you. He would ask if your doing alright, following you around the house like a puppy, he just wanted to make sure. "Hey baby, is everything okay? You look upset.." he would try his best to cheer you up, giving you cuddles, hugs, small kisses here and there.

#choi seunghyun x reader #bigbang x reader #t.o.p x reader #t.o.p bigbang #t.o.p #bigbang ot4 #headcannons #choi seunghyun #choi su bong #thanos #bigbang #thanos x reader #bigbang fanfic #t.o.p fanfic

135 notes · View notes

l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 13 hours ago

Text

"TASTE SWEET AND LAST SO LONG~"

SYNOPSIS: it’s been a while since you and Kon had some alone time. His missions seem to be happening every day, and he's gone for two to three business days. But at least you finally have him alone for now.

Young Justice has been holding her boyfriend captive for far too long; this weekend, he's going to spend time with you and you alone. They already have a bunch of heroes at your disposal no need for him to go off to Nicaragua to do who knows what. Finally, you're both alone on his bed, his hands on your waist, pulling you closer even though you are already pressed flush against his body. You're giggling like a schoolgirl against his lips, noticing the small pink blush on his face that reaches up to his ears. God, you're in love.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" You say, giggling, as you gaze into his ocean-blue eyes, which seem to glow brighter the more you look at him. He laughs softly against your lips. "Can't I look at you?"

"No, you can't," you respond, with the smallest snicker in the back of your throat."Supposed to be enamored with me,"

"But I am," he answered cheekily, causing you both to start giggling. God, this is so cheesy and cringey, but when you're doing this, Conner, it feels romantic, even if you're in your messy room. as vulgar music plays in the background. You can barely hear the song that was playing; heartbeats and chuckles drown out the music. You both press small kisses against each other's lips. Conner pulls you himless into nipping and sucking on your bottom lip.

"You're such a perv!" You try to act disgusted, but there's a big grin on your face, and you have the cutest dark blush on your cheeks.

"I'm not a perv!" He protest, pulling back from him.

"If anyone's a perv, you're the one who’s the perv here, little freak," he smirked, going in for another kiss.

"Really? So I'm the freak ? I don't think you deserve another kiss," you teased, pulling yourself to the edge of his bed, making him get closer.

"Oh, come on, babe, that's not fair," he whined, pouting.

"It's fair to me," you reply, sticking your tongue out at him.

"No way, that's not fair!" He moved closer.

"Yes, way!" You pulled back even further.

"Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh."

Connor huffed. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and his hand went right back to your hips, where they belonged.

"You're mean," Connor's pout grows as he presses his forehead against yours.

"I'm not mean," you say, as your hand drops to his back, stroking his spine.

"You're so mean, pulling away and teasing me. Can I at least have a kiss? That's borderline torture."

That makes you laugh? "You're telling me a superhero clown can't handle a little teasing?"

"You're getting too soft," you said with a snarky grin.

"Yeah, so what?" he answered. "It's only for you; it's all for you."

"Yeah?" you asked.

"Yeah," he answered.

"I'm just like that." He was on top of you, lips pressed against yours in a heated kiss.

"Konnie, what are you doing?" You immediately jumped away from Conner, your eyes widening; your whole body was shocked and surprised as he fell onto his bed. Just then, you saw Jon standing right in front of you both with a Wii remote in his hand; he looked absolutely confused. Thank God.

He's looking down at Connor with a raised eyebrow, seeing his older brother upside down on the floor. He looks up to see you and frowns. "You had a [Name] here, and you didn't even tell me!" he says, with the biggest pout on his lips. "That's not fair; you're hogging them all to yourself!"

You know your boyfriend is still in shock, breathing hard. You don't know if it's from anger or if he was just scared to death by John. He gets onto Connor's bed, wrapping his arms around you.

"It's not fair! This is the second time [Name] comes over, and you don't even tell me!" He's upset, and you're completely embarrassed, covering your face with your locs.

Connor said, "Get out!" Now you can see the rage in his eyes. "What are you doing in here? The door was locked," he shouted at the top of his lungs.

Jon just stuck his tongue out. "Ma said there's no such thing as locked doors," he answered snarkily.

John snuggles into your chest, and Connor's rage intensifies. His face is red, whether from embarrassment or anger. "Jon, get out!" he shouts.

"No way!"

Now you have two superhumans over who gets to spend the Saturday with you! At least you got a kiss out of it!

128 notes · View notes

maskedcrawford · 3 days ago

Text

Second Chances

G-Dragon x Reader

Summary: Years after breaking up and seeing each other at events you and Ji-yong reconnect and decide if you really want to be with him or if you're done with him for good.

Warnings: Angst with fluff at the end.

A/N: I had two extremely similar requests so I paired them together. I hope this is what you two Anon's were looking for in your requests. If not, let me know. Not proof read so please excuse mistakes! Also I plan to work on part 3 of Hidden Secrets tonight. Check out my masterlist to get caught up on the series <3

Requests are OPEN

Being apart of 2ne1 was a dream come true. Your group was at the top of the charts and so was your name along with a very famous rapper professionally named G Dragon, aka Kwon Jiyong. The two of you were Korea’s most infamous couple, everyone, including your own band members, swore you were endgame. They came up with ship names, there were constant edits of you guys, life was great.

Or at least until it wasn’t. Life does what it does and gets in the way, conflicting schedules meant not seeing each other nearly enough and personal affairs became a hindrance. Then there were rumors about both of you cheating on each other, which wasn’t true, but YG wasn’t a fan of the negative controversy so then they weighed in putting pressure on both of you and it all just became too much.

The day it happened you knew it was coming, but you still didn’t want to accept it. You and Ji had been sitting at the kitchen table, having the same old conversation. But that night it was different.

“I just don’t think we can do it anymore, y/n,” his voice was quiet. It was breaking both of you.

“With the pressure of the label, never seeing you,” he trails off as he feels the tears in his eyes.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” you stand up off your chair and walk over to him looking down and moving his face to where he has to look at yours.

“You know I can’t say that,” He says like he’s begging you to stop.

“Then we can do it, we have to. I don’t,” your voice cracks with tears blurring your vision.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you shut your eyes tight.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” he stands up and gives you a long warm hug as you soak his t shirt with your tears.

“This isn’t easy for me,” he sighs as he lets you go. It feels way too soon as he doesn’t spare you another glance as he walks out the door.

And now, every time you see him, it’s a reminder of that painful night. You see him around, both of you being idols and having performances in the same places will cause that. The first place you seen him was a runway show for Chanel, and that was only 3 days after your break up. You were sat on the opposite side of the runway with a direct line of sight to him as he sat in the front row. There were many stolen glances between you two but neither of you spoke. Then there were the Mama awards, where you both were supposed to perform. Again the same song and dance. Both of you glancing at the other, wanting to talk, to make up and yet neither of you did.

After a while you could see Jiyong and not feel the same kind of pull, the one that wanted closure. You had accepted what had been and gotten to a place where you could fully support him, quietly, but still.

It’s the opening night of your tour, having been part of 2ne1 meant you were also able to do solo projects. Of course, your girls were there with you to support you.

“This is going to be so amazing!” Sandra says as she claps her hands excitedly.

“You ready for this?” CL asks.

“As I’ll ever be.” You say feeling the nerves kick in, you excuse yourself to the bathroom and while you’re gone, CL brings the girls together.

“You’re never going to guess who’s here tonight,” she whispers.

“Who,” Minzy asks.

“Ji-yong,” she smiles big and the girls go silent for a moment.

“Does she know?” Bom asks nervously. CL just shakes her head. You back in the room seeing them huddled and you raise a brow.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” they say in unison; the way you know they’re hiding something from you but you can’t prove it.

“Mhm, well I go on in 2 minutes so,” you motion them to leave so you can grab your mic and race off to the side of the stage. The lights go down and you get into place hearing the roar of the crowd as your silhouette is shown behind a screen.

During the last song before the small break your band gets, you see him. There in the 3rd row from the stage. His hair brightly colored and hard to miss. He’s giving you a proud, satisfied smile. You freeze for a moment before getting back into the groove of the dance moves. You flit your glance to him throughout the rest of the song. When your band leaves the stage you address the audience.

“You guys having a good time?” they all cheer and you smile.

“Awesome, Awesome!” You begin to walk around.

“Can you sing, You’re the One?” You look in the direction of the voice you hear.

“What was that?”

“You’re the One, can you sing it? The song with G Dragon,” she smiles wide. Your eyes go wide for a half second before you compose yourself.

“Uh,” you half laugh, “Yeah I don’t, I don’t see why not,” your eye go to where he was sitting but he’s gone. You feel relief crash over you, until a stage hand comes over to pull you off stage for a second.

“Whats up,” you say as your eyes land on the familiar man from the crowd. You both stare at each other for a moment, really taking it in.

“You want to do it, together? Like old times?” he ask shyly. Your heart starts beat faster.

“If you’re up for it,” you give him a warm and inviting smile despite the current anxiety you’re in. You notice behind him that CL is standing there watching you and you realize that this was what they were hiding. You slightly frown at her and she gives you two thumbs up.

You walk out on stage, “Ok, well I have a surprise guest for everyone, including myself,” you laugh into the mic.

“Everyone, please help me welcome, the one, the only, infamous G-Dragon!” you shout into the mic as the crowd goes crazy. He steps out confident as ever and stands beside you.

“Let’s do it,” he says cooly. The song begins and you both move to the beat, you raise the mic to your lips to sing the lyrics and he’s staring at you intensely. That familiar pull he once had on you, the one you swore was gone, is back. You want to feel his hands around your waist, his lips back on yours and the way he smells, you never want the smell to leave you again. He beings singing his part and his mind is going crazy along with his heart.

He stares at you, the way the lights shine off your sparkly outfit, the way you move your hips to the beat of the song, how you walk with utter and complete confidence on stage. He missed you more than he ever wanted to admit, even after all this time. For the last chorus of the song you two come together, he holds you close to him as he sings looking directly into your eyes and you blush due to the proximity.

You both sing the last line and stare into each other’s eyes for a moment when the crowd erupts. Its all background noise, though, as you see what looks like longing and regret in his eyes. He lets you go, hesitantly staring at you for a beat more before raising the mic to his lips.

“Goodnight, Seoul,” he says, “and Goodnight, y/n,” he says before winking at you and walking off stage with nothing but confidence.

You watch him walk off and feel that familiar pit in your stomach. The concert goes on as usual and eventually comes to end, your girls crowding around you to hug you and celebrate. You give them an annoyed look though once you’re in the dressing room.

“I can not believe you kept that from me!” You say astonished.

“I didn’t know he was planning on getting on stage!” CL defends.

“But you knew he would be here, and you knew I hadn’t told him about the concert,” she interrupts you.

“Y/n, jagi, I’m sorry, I know I should’ve told you. But if you’re really over him, why are you so upset?” she gives you a knowing look. The girls knew you weren’t over him; you had convinced yourself but not them.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Minzy suggests as she walks up.

“Nope, I’m not going to reopen that wound,” you say defiantly.

“Sounds like it’s all ready opened,” CL mumbles and you shoot daggers at her.

“Can we just celebrate please? I’d like to remember this as a good night,”

“Oh it’s definitely one you’ll remember,” Bom speaks up with a chuckle and another look is thrown her way now.

The next morning you wake up to your social media flooded as well as texts from CL.

“Dude, have you seen this?” She sends you a link to a tiktok that has a video from last night with you and Jiyong singing before more music starts playing with old photos and a short video of you two goofing off comes up. Fan edits were being made and you were being tagged in a ton of them.

“Holy crap,” you whisper.

“Are they actually back together?”

“It was just for the show.”

“So does this mean my parents are endgame again?”

More and more comments questioning you and Jiyong’s relationship flooded video after video, picture after picture and post after post across the web. As you get dressed for the day you get a call from an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Seem’s we’re popular,” you hear his deep voice say as he chuckles.

“Ji,” you say, a little desperate than you meant for it to sound.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing today, but if I remember correctly, you never did two shows back-to-back,” you listen intently.

“So, if you’re free tonight, come over. I want to talk to you.” His voice is hopeful. It’s not like you could lie to him, your schedule was posted all over social media by now so telling him you had a show was easily disproven. You sigh into the phone rubbing your forehead.

“What time?”

“7, and come in something comfortable, I’m making dinner.”

“Since when did you cook?” you tease.

“Since you taught me to make your favorite meal,” he teases back and you blush with a small smile creeping up on your lips.

“I’ll see you tonight,”

“See you then, jagiya.”

Your heart skips a beat at the pet name. Sure, others called you that as a term of endearment but from him, it meant something different. You stand in front of his door in sweatpants and a loose-fitting shirt. The man said casual wear so you went comfy, after all with all the discomfort that could come from tonight, you wanted to be as comfortable as possible. He opens the door, the smell of your favorite dish hitting your nostrils.

He smiles, he’s got his hair ruffled a bit and his glasses on, he steps aside to let you in and the memories from you years long relationship floods back to you. Most things were the same. A few new art pieces, a new sculpture even.

“Nice to see not much has changed,” you say as he walks a past you into the kitchen. You follow him and sit down at the bar. Princess Zoa hops onto the counter and greets you with soft purs and rubbing her head against your hand.

“And of course the princess herself,” you baby talk the cat and out the corner of your eye you can see Ji staring at you, a content smile on his face as he watches you with his cat-child.

He plates the food and you both eat, neither of you sure what to say.

“You really did do great, last night,” he comments after a moment of silence.

“Thank you, I’ll be honest I was surprised to see you.” You look up from your plate to find him all ready looking at you.

“CL invited me,” he admits.

“I wasn’t going to go at first, I wasn’t sure if you’d want me there.” You just look at your plate and he’s hoping you’ll say something.

“Ok, maybe you didn’t,” he mumbles pushing food around on his plate.

“What do you want me to say, Ji-yong?” Your fork clanks against the plate as you turn your whole body to look pointedly at him. He looks at you, shrinking a bit. He wasn’t sure how to do this, not really.

“Do you want me to say that I never moved on? That I still think about you, especially when I’m out and I see clothing I know you’d love. That I miss you being in bed next to me? That I miss sleeping over here and waking up to your cats gently making biscuits or laying loafed up on one of us? That I miss how you would always give me kiss on the forehead first thing when you woke up?” your eyes are frantic and he can see the panic and fear in them after you unload everything that needed to be said.

“Or how about that I miss the way your lips felt, the smell of your cologne, or the way you would always have a slight skip in your step when you had a really good day.” He looks at you stunned.

“What about how I miss the way you used to look at me, or how you could make me feel like I was the only girl in the world you’d ever look at. Or how,” he cuts you off with a passionate, deep slow kiss. You freeze for a moment before giving to the desire you’ve had since the day he left.

You both pull apart and he takes your hand leading you to the couch in the living room. He sits down and pulls you down beside him.

“Jagiya,” he whispers as he puts your foreheads together, “I’ve missed you so much.” You can feel tears pricking your eyes and you blink them back. His lips attach to yours again in another slow kiss, he cups your face with his hands and you hold onto his wrist.

“Ji-yong, you left me. I don’t understand,” you croak, emotion welling up in your throat.

“I know, and I’m sorry y/n,” he sighs as he pulls away from you to look at the ground.

“I let the label and what everyone else said get to me and I thought that letting you go was best for both of us, that we could find other people and be happy, but I’m not,” he looks deep into your eyes.

“I’m not happy at all, without you this means nothing to me. If you’re not in the crowd cheering me on I’m not the same G-Dragon. Without you here, without you home I’m not the same Ji-yong. I need you like I need air to breathe.” You feel a stray tear fall onto your cheek and he wipes it away with thumb.

“I’d like another chance, a chance to love you properly, to spoil you and show you just how much you mean to me,” he pleads.

“Oh, Ji,” you pull his face to you and kiss him again and you feel him smile against your lips.

“Is that a yes?” he quirks his brow and you smile.

If you enjoyed and would like to support me, buy me a coffee

“Yes,” you give him a hug and he pulls you into him, cuddling you on the couch.

94 notes · View notes

munsonsmixtapes · 13 hours ago

Text

That's My Man

rockstar!eddie x popstar!reader

Eddie defends you in an interview and you repay him in the most generous way

cw: MDNI (18+) oral (m receiving) handjob, the interviewer makes some inappropriate comments about reader

This is a request made my the always lovely @the-witty-pen-name who also came up with the title!

Eddie puts on the pair of headphones that were pervaded for him as the “on air” sign glows the bright red, signaling that the show has started. He doesn’t even know why he even agreed to this interview. The guy’s an ass and Eddie just knows that he’s inevitably going to say something inappropriate.

He’s really only doing this because his team begged him to. Why, he doesn’t know since the majority of the band’s fanbase hates the kind of guy that Rick is. He’s everything in the book that Eddie can’t stand and now he’s gotta sit here for an hour for his segment. It can’t be too bad, can it?

“Eddie, welcome,” Rick greets and Eddie puts on a smile even though all he really wants is to kick Rick’s ass. He’s unfortunately caught clips of the show here and there and all he does is sexualize women and talk badly about people of color and members of the LGBTQ+ community.

“Hey, thanks,” Eddie replies, trying his best to not say something he really shouldn’t. He just sits there and waits for Rick to start the conversation.

“So you’ve got a new album out which is “From the Upside Down.” What was the process like for creating the record?” Eddie’s genuinely caught off guard by the question considering that Rick never seems to care about that kind of thing. Maybe this won’t be as bad as he initially thought.

“It was actually so different from what we’ve done for past albums. We actually did everything ourselves this time and that was really fun. We took some time off and wrote a bunch of songs and Gareth actually produced them so that was a really cool process to see.”

Eddie loves talking about his music. It’s like a parent talking about their child. He’s always so proud of himself and his bandmates for what they do and he doesn’t think that’s ever going to change. They worked so hard to get where they are now and he’s nothing but grateful that this is his job.

“That’s very interesting,” Rick nods and there’s just something about the look on his face that makes it obvious that he’s about to say some dumb shit. “So I know you’re seeing y/n l/n and can I just say, well done, man.” Yep, definitely some dumb shit.

Eddie can’t help but roll his eyes. Normally, Eddie would love to talk about you. It’s actually his favorite thing to do. But not like this, not in the way that Rick and a lot of other men like to. Where they just sexualize you and reduce you to an object. Eddie won’t stand for that for anyone, but especially not you.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I’m “seeing” her,” Eddie laughs nervously. You’ve been trying to keep your relationship under wraps for the past six months but it’s so hard to do when the two of you are under a microscope.

“Oh, so you wouldn’t categorize this as seeing her?” Rick asks as he pulls up a photo of you and Eddie kissing outside a bar. He didn’t even know that anyone had taken photos of that and now he feels gross.

“Well-” he tries to explain himself but Rick quickly cuts him off.

“Is she a good kisser? Better yet, is she good in bed?” All of this makes Eddie want to throw up and he can’t believe that men like Rick actually have the audacity to ask questions like that.

“I don’t feel comfortable answering that,” he answers politely even though he’s seconds away from a crash out.

“C’mon, you can tell me. It’s just us.” It’s actually not considering it’s a live radio show and even if it wasn’t, that’s something just between you and Eddie and no one else. Especially not pigs like Rick.

“No, I’m not sharing anything about our relationship. That’s the only thing we have that’s ours.”

“Is she flexible? I bet she’s flexible.” He shows Eddie a photo of you doing a split on stage and his lunch is about to come up. “Oh yeah, definitely-”

Rick doesn’t even have time to finish his sentence before Eddie snatches the tablet and slams it down on the table. He would never let any woman be talked about this way. Especially not his girlfriend.

The anger is festering and he’s having a real hard time trying to keep his cool. Fuck that. He’s not going to be so nice anymore, not wanting anymore disgusting things to be said about you. He can’t let anything else be said about you or he’s going to do something he regrets.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he points at Rick, glaring at the man and the man actually looks afraid of him. Good. “I know you tend to objectify women and that shit stood today. If I ever hear you talk about anyone else this way or in a derogatory manner, you’ll have me to answer to. Now keep my wife’s name out of your mouth or we’re going to have a problem.”

With that, out of the room. Nothing is worth sitting there and letting that man sexualize you. It makes him feel disgusting and now he feels like he needs a long shower. He’s wiping his jacket with his hands to try to literally get rid of that feeling, but he knows the only thing that will help is seeing you. He just needs someone to talk to about the whole thing.

He’s driving to the venue where you’re performing tonight before he can stop himself. He just wants to hold you in his arms and tell you how much he loves you, hoping that you haven’t been listening to the radio even though he’s sure that you are because you always listen to his interviews.

Eddie’s so angry about the whole thing, still letting it eat at him even though he already took care of it. He just needs to calm down and he will as soon as he sees you. That always makes him feel better. Just thinking about you is doing the trick and when he pulls up to the venue, the weight on his shoulders is lifting.

You’re sitting in your dressing room, doing your makeup when he walks in, your face lighting up when you see him in the mirror. The anger on his face seems to melt away when he sees you, his smile matching yours as he makes a beeline for you. He saw you just this morning but the time you’ve spent away was far too long.

You get up from your chair and he’s quick to pull you into a hug, a tight one as he buries his face into your neck. This is all he’s wanted all day, especially since he stormed out of the interview. You always seem to calm the screaming that’s constantly going on in his head. Your hand moves up into his hair, scratching at his scalp as he kisses your neck, moving your hair away from it as he does so.

You pull away far too soon for his liking before pulling him in for a kiss. He’s needy and desperate and he just wants to show you how much he loves you. Your hands are in his hair as you lick into his mouth, moaning loudly which is only making him harder. He needs your cunt so bad and is so close to taking you right there until you begin to grind against him.

“I heard what you said on the radio,” you tell him as you kiss down his neck, unbuttoning his jeans. “Defending me like that, it was so…hot,” you whisper the last part into his ear before biting down on the lobe before kissing his neck again, giving it a rough suck, making him squirm.

You’re backing him up against the vanity, pinning him there as you continue to suck, his hands falling from you to grip the table behind him, white knuckling it as he lets out a whine, his cock hardening even more to the point where you can now fully feel him against you.

“Now I feel like I owe you.” He defended you and you know it’s because you’re his wife, but you know that he would do that for anyone and that’s how you know you got one of the good ones.

“You-you don’t owe me anything, sweetheart,” he breathes. He really wants whatever you’re willing to give but only if you really want to not because you think he deserves in return for defending you.

“How about I suck you off, is that payment enough?” His eyes widen at both your question and the way you’re biting down on him.

“Please,” he whines, needing to get some sort of relief. You give his neck one more kiss before pulling down his jeans, his underwear following as you get down onto your knees. You’re looking up at him with lustful eyes and he watches you, wondering what you’re going to do next.

You start by spitting into your hand then grab hold of the base, slow strokes to warm him up but they progressively get more intense. He’s already leaking with precum, letting out stuttered breaths as he watches, white knuckling as a moan escapes his lips.

You keep up the pace, moving as fast as you can as Eddie lets out moan after moan. He’s coming undone already so you know he won’t last long. And you only have a few more minutes before you have to be on stage, so you’ve gotta make it worthwhile. You’ve really gotta make this count.

You bring your tongue to the slit, licking up the cum that’s already come out, not wanting to waste a drop then bring your lips to the base, kissing it which catches Eddie off guard. You’re now peppering it with kisses and he somehow gets even more hard as he watches you leave lipstick prints behind. It’s hot. You’re hot and he thinks this is where he likes you most, on your knees.

You then bring your mouth back to the slit, licking it again before bringing it into your mouth, sucking lightly as Eddie’s hands wind into your hair, letting out yet another whine as you bring him in deeper, sucking harder as your tongue swirls around the head. You’re taking him inch by inch and he’s so close, on the edge of an orgasm as you finally get the last bit of him inside.

Cum leaks into your mouth as he screams your name, your eyes watering as the head hits the back of your throat, gagging as you suck him off for just a bit longer. Tears are streaming down your cheeks as you pull him out of your mouth with a loud pop, making sure to swallow as he helps you to your feet.

Eddie pats your tears dry with a tissue so as to not smudge your makeup before you press a lingering kiss to his lips. You clean him up before pulling up his pants and touching up your lipstick.

“How’s that for repaying you?” You ask and he smiles, still dizzy from receiving the best head of his life as he follows you to the side of the stage, wondering how he can get you to do that again once your show is over. He’s sure that you won’t need much convincing.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #rockstar!eddie x popstar!reader #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie x fem!reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie smut

117 notes · View notes

spencerfuckngreid · 3 days ago

Text

Burning Up || Spencer Reid + 18

· Pairing: Spencer Reid/Reader · Category: Angst, Smut · Warning: Soft sex, happy ending. · Words: 3082 · Summary : A tension exists between you and Spencer. He actively resists and maintains distance every time you come near. He has an internal conflict between what is right and what is wrong. · Inspiration: Song: "Burning Up" Madonna

· Spanish on Wattpad. English isn't my first language, be kind! · Masterlist · TikTok

The room was charged with a subtle electricity that always seemed to build between you two. The rest of the team had already left to rest or go over leads in other areas, leaving you alone with Spencer.

You had tried to focus on the files in front of you—the photographs, the scattered notes on the table—but your eyes kept drifting toward him. Seated across from you, hunched over his notebook, Spencer scribbled something with the intensity of someone trying to find a logical way through chaos.

It was that intensity that drew you in—it always had. Spencer had an aura that made him seem untouchable, as if his mind operated on a level no one else could reach. And yet, the more time you spent near him, the clearer it became that there was something beneath the surface. Something vulnerable. Something passionate. Something he worked hard to bury under layers of professionalism.

"Don't put me off, 'cause I'm on fire."

The lyric echoed in your mind, and you bit the inside of your cheek to suppress a smile. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

"Y/N, are you listening?" His voice pulled you from your thoughts.

You blinked, realizing you'd been staring in his direction—though not directly at him. "Yeah, yeah… of course. What were you saying?"

Spencer frowned slightly, adjusting his glasses with a quick motion before pointing at the map spread out on the table. "I said that the profile suggests the suspect will likely return to where it all started. It’s a pattern that—"

"Uh-huh, I get that," you interrupted gently, leaning forward to get a better look at the map. "But what if that’s exactly what he wants us to think? What if he's breaking the pattern on purpose? I know it’s not typical… not a common choice�� but at this point, we should at least consider it."

Spencer studied you, his brown eyes scanning you with curiosity. He always appreciated a fresh perspective, but this time, his gaze lingered a little longer than necessary before shifting back to the map.

"Do you wanna see me down on my knees?"

The lyric hit you harder this time, making you press your lips together. There was something about the way he always pulled back whenever you got too close that only made you want to push his limits even more.

"It’s a possibility..." he finally said, breaking the silence. "But the pattern is the only solid lead we have right now."

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms as you looked at him, frustrated. "Always so logical, Doctor."

"It’s my job," he replied without looking up, his attention still on the papers.

"And it’s also what keeps you safe, isn’t it?" The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Spencer’s head snapped up. "What do you mean by that?"

"You hide behind logic, Spencer," you said, leaning forward. "It’s your shield. But some things aren’t logical—you can’t just avoid them because they scare you."

He blinked, caught off guard by your bluntness, but before he could respond, you pushed yourself up from your chair. "I’m getting coffee. Do you want anything?"

He shook his head but didn’t say anything else. As you walked out of the room, you could feel his eyes on your back, and it only made you want to turn around and challenge him again.

"I'm burning up, burning up for your love," you thought, clenching your fists as you made your way to the coffee machine.

The words you had thrown at Spencer still echoed in your mind as you waited for the coffee to finish brewing. You had crossed a line, and while you didn’t regret it, you knew he wouldn’t just let it slide.

Back in the conference room, Spencer was exactly where you had left him—except his posture had changed. His back was stiff against the chair, and his pen, usually in constant motion, lay motionless on his notebook. When you closed the door behind you, he looked up, his expression more guarded than usual.

"What was that all about?" His tone was colder than you expected.

"What was what?" you asked, trying to keep your tone light as you walked closer.

"That whole thing about me hiding behind logic." Spencer stood up to face you, adjusting his glasses. "I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but if this has anything to do with—"

"—you and me," you interrupted, setting your coffee down on the table with more force than necessary. "That’s exactly what it has to do with."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like he was going to argue. But instead, he looked away, his gaze dropping back to the papers. "There is no 'you and me,' Y/N. This is work, and the only thing that matters is solving this case."

The way he said it—so sharp, so final—should have made you back off. But instead, it only fueled something inside you, a need to break through that carefully crafted façade of perfection.

"Are you really going to keep pretending you don’t feel anything, Reid?" you asked, stepping closer. "That you don’t notice how the air changes when we’re in the same room?"

"What I notice," he started, pushing himself up from his chair, "is that you’re crossing lines you shouldn’t be crossing."

"That you want to want me, but you can't let go," you thought as you watched him. You could see the way his self-control tightened, as if every word was a struggle to hold his ground.

"Maybe those lines shouldn’t be there," you said softly, taking another step forward. You were close enough now to catch the light, clean scent of his cologne.

"Y/N, stop..." His voice was low, as if he were speaking more to himself than to you.

"I can’t stop." You moved even closer, forcing him to step back until his back met the wall. "And neither can you, so stop trying."

He lifted his hands slightly, as if to create some invisible barrier between you, but his eyes betrayed the war raging inside him. "This isn’t right," he said, his voice laced with an intensity that almost made you hesitate. "We can’t do this. I can’t do this."

But he didn’t move away. His hands remained raised—but he didn’t touch you, didn’t push you back. His eyes stayed locked on yours, and the tension in his body was almost tangible.

"Then say it," you challenged, your voice barely above a whisper. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel anything. Tell me you don’t want—"

His lips parted, like he was about to say the words. But nothing came out. Instead, his breathing quickened, and his hands slowly dropped to his sides.

"That’s what I thought," you said, your tone victorious but laced with quiet softness.

Spencer closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering every ounce of willpower. "This is a mistake," he murmured finally.

"Maybe." You leaned in just enough so that your face was inches from his. "But some mistakes are worth making."

Spencer took a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself, but it wasn’t working. "This can’t happen," he said more firmly, stepping to the side to put space between you. "Not just because it would be inappropriate, but because… because it wouldn’t work."

You followed him, moving back into his path, challenging every barrier he tried to put up. "It wouldn’t work? Or you don’t want it to work because it would complicate your perfect, structured life?"

"It’s not that!" The words came out too fast, too forceful. He immediately glanced toward the door, as if worried someone else might have heard. Then, in a lower voice, he added, "This isn’t about avoiding complications. It’s about doing the right thing."

"And what if the right thing doesn’t feel right?" you challenged, tilting your head.

"Then we ignore it," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest as if that could shield him from the weight of your words.

"Do you wanna see me down on my knees?"

The lyric echoed in your mind, giving you the push to take this one step further.

"You’re not as good at lying to yourself as you think, Spencer," you said, stepping closer again. "Not with me."

"Y/N," he murmured, and this time, there was something almost pleading in his tone. "Please, don’t make this harder."

"Harder for who? You?" You held his gaze, unwavering. "Because for me, this is simple. I know what I want. And what I want is standing right in front of me."

The color in his cheeks deepened, but his posture remained rigid. "It's not that simple," he said, though his voice no longer carried the same conviction.

"Why not? Why are you afraid of feeling something you can’t control? Why won’t you admit that you’re already feeling it?"

The silence that followed was deafening, and for a moment, you thought he might give in. But then, Spencer stepped back, putting the smallest but most significant distance between you.

"I can’t do this," he said, his voice low, as if each word drained his energy. "Not with you. Not now. I’m sorry."

Disappointment tangled with frustration, but you knew he wasn’t running because he felt nothing. He was running because he felt too much.

"Fine. Have it your way," you finally said, stepping back. "I won’t push you anymore. I just... I can’t pretend this isn’t happening. If you’re ever ready… tell me. But I won’t wait forever."

Spencer looked at you, his eyes reflecting the war within him, the battle he couldn’t put into words. He didn’t stop you as you gathered your things and walked out of the room.

Out in the hallway, you leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly. "I'm burning up, burning up for your love," you murmured to yourself, letting the song finish the sentence you couldn’t say out loud.

—

The hotel room was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the small bedside lamp. You had tried to distract yourself with case reports, but the words on the screen blurred into meaninglessness. Every time you closed your eyes, the confrontation replayed in your mind: the conflict in Spencer’s gaze, the way he said no… but also how he hadn’t been able to step away until the very last second.

"Unlike the others, I'd do anything."

The lyrics echoed in your head like a taunt, mocking your attempts to stay calm.

You got up from the bed, unable to stay still. There was something suffocating in the air, a mixture of regret and longing that kept you moving, as if pacing back and forth could silence the thoughts running wild in your head.

Across the hall, Spencer sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His hair was a mess, his glasses sitting on the table beside the phone. He hadn’t even tried to sleep—how could he, after what had happened?

He had gone over every word, every look, searching for a logical angle, a way to make sense of what had transpired. But there was no logic that could save him from what he felt: guilt, yes, but also an unrelenting desire burning beneath his skin.

"This can’t happen," he whispered to himself, as if saying it aloud could make it true. But even as he spoke, his eyes drifted toward the door, as if something—someone—on the other side was pulling him in.

At some point during the night, your paths crossed again. Maybe it was chance, or maybe it was inevitable. When you opened your door to step out for some air, you found him in the hallway, his face pale, his eyes dark.

"Spencer," you whispered.

"I needed… to walk," he said, though it was obvious he was looking for something more than that.

Silence stretched between you, thick with everything neither of you dared to say.

Until finally, he shook his head. "I shouldn’t be here."

"But you are." You took a step closer.

His gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, both of you stood frozen, caught in a place with no turning back.

"It’s too much," he admitted in a breath, his voice cracking slightly. "I don’t know how to handle it."

"You don’t have to handle it," you murmured, stepping close enough that he could feel your warmth. "Just… go with it."

Spencer didn’t move, as if fighting every instinct in his body. But when he finally looked up at you, there were no more defenses in his eyes—only raw, consuming desire.

"I can't keep pretending," he murmured, stepping toward you.

"Then don’t," you whispered.

The space between you disappeared in an instant. His mouth found yours with a desperation that stole your breath, his hands gripping your face as if afraid you’d vanish. Spencer had always been methodical, in control—but in that moment, there was none of that. He was pure fire, everything he had suppressed finally unleashed.

Your hands clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer as you stumbled backward into the room. The door slammed shut behind you, but you barely noticed. All that mattered was the weight of his body pressing against yours, the way his breath mingled with yours, the low, ragged sounds escaping his throat.

"This is insane," he muttered against your skin, though his lips kept moving along your neck.

"I think you need a little insanity," you teased, breathless, fingers tangling in his hair as his hands roamed your back with a frantic kind of urgency.

For Spencer, this moment felt like crossing a line he had never thought he would. But in the end, he realized he had been standing on the edge of that line since the moment he met you.

The air was thick, heavy with heat. His breath mingled with yours, uneven, as his lips traced your neck, alternating between kisses and gentle bites that made your head spin.

"This isn’t—" he started, his voice a whisper against your skin. But there was something desperate in the way he touched you, as if he needed to feel you, to confirm that this wasn’t just a dream.

There was no time for more words. Spencer’s logic, his self-control, his professionalism—everything unraveled. With a near-violent impulse, you pushed him toward the bed. Clothes—an obstacle neither of you could ignore—began to fall away between kisses and gasps. Every movement was a battle, a push and pull between his deeply ingrained restraint and the undeniable force of desire. But now, in this space, nothing was holding him back.

Your body burned under his touch, and though he tried to keep his distance, his hands betrayed him, exploring every inch of you, his palm gliding over your torso, down to your waist, as if he was finally allowing himself to have you. This wasn’t the distant, controlled Spencer you had known. This was a man on the edge—of need, of madness—consumed by what he felt for you.

"Y/N," he whispered between kisses, his voice raw, as if clinging to your name was the only thing grounding him. "This... I can't..."

You didn’t let him finish. You silenced him with a kiss, deep and hungry, and he laughed into your mouth. There was no case to solve, no walls left to break down. Just the need to be together, no more excuses.

With a determined move, you pushed him back, taking control, feeling the way he yielded under your touch. Spencer was completely in your hands, and for the first time, he didn’t seem to want to fight it. His grip on your back tightened, pulling you against him as if he needed the physical connection, the proof that this was real.

"I don’t know if I can handle what I feel," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. But when his hands found your face and he kissed you with a raw, burning intensity, it no longer mattered what he thought.

You moved with him, and the world blurred away. The softness of the bed beneath you, the heat of his body against yours, the way his lips trailed lower, leaving a path of fire across your skin... The rhythm between you was frantic, yet tender, as if both of you were trying to prove that this wasn’t a mistake, not like Spencer had tried to convince himself before.

Spencer paused for a moment, breathless, exhausted, looking down at you. "Y/N..." Everything was clear in that instant.

"Yes," you whispered, cupping his face, pulling him closer. And in that kiss, nothing else mattered. No words were needed. Everything between you finally made sense.

When the morning light filtered into the room, the silence between you had shifted. Spencer lay beside you, staring at the ceiling as if searching for patterns, lost in thought. Reality had changed—you had changed—and you both knew it. His mind was running a thousand miles per hour.

"I can’t... I can’t promise this won’t get complicated," Spencer murmured, his voice quiet but filled with the resistance that defined him.

"You don’t have to promise anything," you said, turning to face him, resting a hand on his chest, gentle. "What, you expect this to be easy? That sounds boring." You teased.

He gave a subtle, lopsided smile, and somehow it put him at ease, helping him come to terms with the situation.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Neither of you knew what would come next, but for now, all you could do was accept it. The tension that had defined your relationship until now had transformed into something else entirely.

"You know you got me burning up, baby."

· Requests via DM ·

122 notes · View notes

silvergyus · 3 days ago

Text

paper hearts- c.sb

pairing: kindergarten teachers! soobin x reader

summary: you and soobin teach kindergarten classes across the hall from each other. when the day to hand out cards finally arrives, you notice one card in your mailbox that’s not like the others

warnings: this fic is all-ages!/ a kindergartener falls at recess/ odi is still alive because I think teacher soobin with a pet hedgehog is adorable

word count: 2,400+

author’s note: part of my valentine's day event!

song rec: valentine- laufey

Paper hearts lined the hallway bulletin boards, shades of pink, red and white signaling to all who passed through what holiday was soon approaching. Holidays, spirit days, and any big event of the like were your not-so-secret favorite part of your job. You loved cutting construction paper into new shapes, stapling themed borders to your announcement boards and finding new crafts for your students to create. You’d been a kindergarten teacher for years now, and viewed each group of students as a new opportunity to create lasting memories for them to look back on as they continued through school. You taught because you loved your students, loved helping them discover a love of reading, loved seeing their eyes grow wide as they watched a caterpillar burst from its chrysalis transformed into a butterfly. You loved their curious eyes and silly takes on arts and crafts. In short, you loved the kids. But the holiday decorating, that was an extra bonus that made you love the job even more. And this year, there was an extra special bonus.

Across the hall from you taught Mr. Choi, or Soobin, as you called him in the teachers’ lounge. Tall and handsome, he had a way with the kids that most didn’t. He had a natural softness that made the kids feel safe, a charm that made them laugh, and a way of explaining things that made them understand the world in a whole new light. There weren’t many male teachers in your elementary school, and as embarrassing as it was, you couldn’t help but crush on Soobin.

He didn’t make it any easier for you either, standing by you during recess when you went outside to watch the kids play, sitting by you at lunch, asking you about your students, what books you’d been reading, even showing you pictures of his pet hedgehog. His careful attention made your heart flutter, and you desperately wished you could see him outside of work.

With Valentine’s approaching, you couldn’t help the hopeless romantic in you from daydreaming about having him as your Valentine.

—

Monday, February 10th

You slid into your usual chair in the teachers’ lounge, reheated leftovers from the weekend on the table in front of you. Pulling out your current read from your bag, you dug in, relaxing into the quiet. The brief moment of solace was soon interrupted as Soobin sat down across from you, his long legs bumping into yours beneath the table. He quietly apologized for the unintentional invasion of personal space but you didn't mind, not when it was him.

You asked how his day’s been so far, tell him your kids have also been bouncing off the walls, excited for the holiday. Taking a sip of his drink, he replied that he’s sure your kids are more excited than his, your classroom being decorated so much more than his. You could feel your cheeks heat at the compliment, appreciating the recognition of your secret passion.

“So um,” he cleared his throat between words, “do you have plans for Valentine’s?”

“You mean besides my hot date with twenty five-year-olds?” You laughed, stirring your leftovers. “Nah, I'm gonna read the cards they give me and eat leftover candy on my couch probably.” You took a bite and looked at Soobin, “it's all I ever do for Valentine's.”

He smiled empathetically, the left side of his mouth quirking up first to show his dimple. “Yeah, that's probably all I'll be doing.”

Part of you wanted to seize the moment, suggest the two of you hang out, go out, or eat half-melted chocolates together. But before you could speak, Miss B- who taught second grade- sat down next to you and very excitedly began to tell you about her newest sewing project. The moment was over, but when you looked back at Soobin, his eyes were still on you.

—

Tuesday, February 11th

Twenty students napped on their vinyl pull-out mats. The lights in your classroom were dimmed, blinds turned shut to keep out the afternoon light, the tip-tap of your fingers on your keyboard the only sound heard over the quiet rise and fall of tired breaths. A soft knock at your door pierced the quiet, drawing the attention of the few kids not sleeping. You slowly stood, smiling to calm the little ones that have stirred before peeking through the glass to see who the visitor is.

Soobin stood on the other side of the door, smiling sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his neck. You cracked the door open slightly, stepping into the hall so as to not further disturb your students with your conversation.

“Soobin!” you whispered excitedly, still trying to keep your voice down during naptime. “What’s up? Do you need something?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was here for naptime?” He smiled at his own joke and you couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered when his dimples pressed into his cheeks. He shook his head before whispering back, “I actually need to borrow your glue sticks.”

“My glue sticks?”

“We have arts and crafts next and I had to throw half mine away last week after one of my students took a bite out of them.” He grimaced at the memory and you stifled a laugh, hand coming up to cover the sound. “Purple glue was everywhere! It was a disaster; I had to call his parents!” His whispers were desperate, only making you laugh more.

When you recovered from your threatening giggle fit you took a breath, smoothing down your shirt. “Yes, you can borrow my glue sticks. But, I expect to get them back without bite marks.”

A smile brightened his face and butterflies filled your stomach again. “Lemme go get them.”

“Thank you! I owe you!”

—

Wednesday, February 12th

You waited with your students as their parents arrived to pick them up, occasionally bending to tie a shoe or zip up a backpack, reminding everyone to stay away from the curb until their grown ups were ready for them. You looked down the line of approaching vehicles and locked eyes with Soobin. He quickly looked away, turning his attention back to his students, but you couldn’t help the heat that rose in your chest. How long had he been looking at you?

You waited a little longer that day, holding hands with one of your students as she waited for her dad, running late from work. Once she was finally on her way home, you made your way back inside the building, eager to grab your things and go home.

Across from your classroom the lights were still on in Soobin’s room. You couldn’t help but peek inside, still buzzing from catching him staring. His door was shut, and when you peered through the glass, you could see him at his desk, mouth twisted in focus as he held a glue stick and sheet of dark red paper.

—

Thursday, February 13th

Recess was dusted with a flurry of fresh snowflakes. The kids were eager to get out onto the playground, and you were on edge as you kept an eye on everyone, making sure no one slipped on hidden ice or threw snowballs at someone else’s head. Your students loved when it snowed, but you wished today had been an inside recess. Fresh snow always meant someone got hurt.

It was no later than you thought it then you heard the sound of crying. Every teachers’ head whipped in the direction of the cries, and you watched as Soobin ran towards his student sitting on the blacktop, cradling her arm. You approached him, concern washing over you. Other students tugged on your coat, asking what happened. You comforted them, telling them to give the girl some space while Mr. Choi figured out what was wrong.

Soobin’s voice was gentle as he spoke to the girl, asking her what happened and where it hurt. Through tears she said she slipped and now her elbow hurt. He picked up her hat from where it fell during her fall and placed it gently on her head. “Only your elbow, right? Your legs feel okay?”

The girl nodded, slowly calming under Soobin’s careful attention. “Do you think you can stand up for me? I’ll go with you to the nurse’s office and we’ll make sure that you feel better.” The girl nodded again, wiping away tears with her tiny pink mitten. Soobin took her non-injured hand in his and began slowly walking inside, careful to lead the girl away from the patch of ice that had caused her fall.

“Can you watch my students while I take her inside?”

“Of course.”

You spent the rest of the day replaying the moment in your head. Soobin’s quick reaction, his careful attention, the way he calmed her almost instantly. It made you feel a warm, almost domestic affection towards him. You had to keep your mind from wandering, from imagining if he would be the same as a father.

After school that day you asked Soobin about the girl.

“She’ll be alright. Nurse thinks it’s just a bruise, but the parents are taking her to the doctor to make sure she didn’t break anything. She wasn’t even crying anymore when her mom picked her up.”

You sat down in the tiny kids’ chair in his classroom, knees coming up to your chest. “That’s good. I was worried about her.”

“Yeah, it was scary.”

“You’re really good with the kids you know.” Your voice was heavy with sincerity. “They adore you.” You picked at a stray fabric on your pants as you spoke next. “We all do.”

He looked into your eyes after you spoke, holding your gaze, starting a fire in your chest. “Thank you. That’s nice to hear.”

You stood, wanting to diffuse the intensity of the moment. “If I ever slip on the ice, I hope that you’re there to pick me up.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll make sure I catch you before you fall.”

It might be too late for that, you thought.

—

Friday, February 14th

The kids all chattered over one another as they opened the Valentines they shared with one another, a nostalgic Charlie Brown special playing in the background. They couldn’t possibly sit still and watch the movie after snacking on frosted cookies and heart-shaped chocolates all afternoon. Their crafted mailboxes from earlier in the week were now stuffed with treats from their classmates and teacher. Your mailbox was also stuffed with cards, lollipops and gifts from thankful parents. You weren’t going to open them until after school, as per your tradition.

The school day ended on a high note, lots of giggles and excited little ones running to show their cards to their parents at pickup. You waved goodbye to all of them with a full heart before retreating from the cold back to the warmth of your classroom.

Slumping into the oversized bean bag chair in the reading corner, you began to rifle through your mailbox of Valentines, looking for something sweet as a pick-me-up before you tidied up and went home. At the bottom of the box sat one Valentine that stood out from the rest. Instead of store-bought cards with cartoons, or handmade cards still sticky with purple glue, this one was expertly put together, dark red cardstock folded into a perfect heart with white lace decorating the edges. “Be my Valentine?” it read in the neat script of an adult across the front. If this was from a parent, it was awfully personal. You opened the card with apprehension, not sure what you would find inside. In the same white pen it read “from your secret admirer in 2B.”

2B? That was the classroom across from yours, Soobin’s classroom. Your heart raced. This card was from him? A Valentine? This must have been what you saw him working on the other day. A Valentine for you?

Did this mean he liked you back? Maybe it was something he did for all the other teachers. But if it was just a friendly Valentine between coworkers, then why did he sign it “from your secret admirer”? You had to ask him about it.

You stuffed the other cards back into the box, shuffling to get up out of the beanbag. At that moment, Soobin walked past your open door, heading towards his classroom. You called his name, still struggling to stand. He turned, eyes wide, towards you. You walked towards him, card in hand. His ears flushed as you held the Valentine up. “Is this from you?”

“I was hoping that you’d open those at home.”

“I wanted a snack before I drove home.”

You took in the way he shifted his weight between his feet, hands itching towards his pockets, ears growing redder by the second. “Did you make anyone else a card?”

He shook his head, lips twisting into a small pout. “Just you.”

“I should’ve made you one.” Your voice was quiet, hoping he read into what you really meant.

His eyes shot up from where they had been focused on the floor tiles, finding your gaze and holding it. “So you don’t think I’m overstepping?”

“Oh my gosh no! I actually thought it was from a parent at first, and that would’ve been weird and overstepping, but I um,” you paused, scared to admit the secret you’d been harboring since the fall. “I actually really hoped you’d ask me to be your Valentine.”

His eyes lit up like a puppy’s, a smile breaking over his face, dimples pressing deep into his cheeks. “Me too.”

You laughed, he was just too cute not to. “Well I really should’ve made you a card then.”

He shook his head, stepping closer. He reached for your hands, holding them in his much larger ones. His skin was soft against yours, and you could barely focus on his face when every cell that touched his felt like a tiny firework. “It is still Valentine’s Day, you know. We could always celebrate without twenty kids hyped up on sugar.”

“You’re saying that like the twenty kids aren’t what makes it fun.” You smiled at him, heart swelling at the thought of finally getting to spend time with Soobin outside of work. “But I would like that very much.”

“Let’s go, right now. Let’s go somewhere.”

“Right now? Won’t we need a reservation though? It’s Valentine’s day, and a Friday night.”

He paused, enthusiasm faltering. “Well, true, but we’ll find something.”

“Even if we don’t,” you smiled, squeezing his hand in yours, “this is already my favorite Valentine’s Day.”

Just like that, you finally had a Valentine.

author’s note: this is a work of fiction not meant to accurately represent the idol. please do not repost.

taglist: @lunesdesire @notyourjaem @https-yeonjun @mapofthemazeinthemirror @ohhdet

send a message to be added or removed from my taglist!

#txt fluff #txt soft hours #txt soft thoughts #soobin fluff #soobin soft thoughts #soobin soft hours #ari writes #txt: soobin

81 notes · View notes

illubean · 1 day ago

Text

JJK Men with a S/o in Musical Theatre

Characters: Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Ino Takuma, Aoi Todo

Type: Headcanons, Gn!Reader

self indulgent af (im not even in theater anymore)

Warnings: it’s mentioned that reader plays female characters but other than that relatively gn

Satoru Gojo

he INSISTS that you practice in front of him (he just wants to hear you sing any chance he gets)

his favorite musical after you introduce him to it is Legally Blonde no I will not be taking criticism

sometimes walking past you in the hall he’ll sing the little musical theater song lyrics he knows very bad and very loudly

“Hi Toru-“ “A TOAST TO THE GROOM”

he comes to every single one of your shows and every show date

your production is being put on for a week? he’s got tickets to go all 7 days

and since he’s already watched it so many times he likes to snicker and gossip with you about your cast mates and how he noticed them mess up one night

without fail Satoru is always front row with his camera pointed directly at you (terrible theater etiquette I know)

if theres ever a point where you get to interact with the audience he eats it up every time

hes you’re #1 supporter and he gets you the biggest bouquet he can find every time

your cast mates are always gossiping about him, telling you how lucky you are and how they wished they got flowers every show night

very supportive but if you get in the car to go home with your stage makeup on he WILL laugh at you..

“Help me, why are your eyebrows so dark!?” “The stage lighting washes me out!”

Suguru Geto

HE’S SO JD HEATHERS CODED IM MFFHGHGNGGJGNJG

he appreciates performing arts but has never spent much time thinking about it or seeking it out if that makes sense?

he’s reluctant but he will sing parts of songs when you need to practice and can’t meet with whoever the part originally belongs to

MAKE HIM DUET SUDDENLY SEYMOUR WITH YOU. HE CAN SING EITHER PART.

if you beg and cry hard enough he might just audition for a show with you

but if he get’s casted as anyone else but your character’s love interest or worse, the love interest of SOMEONE ELSE he’s rejecting the role

he doesn’t think he’d actually ever get casted, he just auditioned because you kept bugging him about it

but if he does? god damn it now he’s stuck

you’re directors love him, and since you guys have good stage chemistry they are almost always going to cast you together if he auditions again

Kento Nanami

out of all of them I think he’s the only one who was interested in the arts before meeting you

he probably likes Les Miserables and The Phantom of the Opera

he never asks you to sing for him but if you offer or ask him to watch you practice he will gladly do so

he’s impressed by how well you perform

it amazes him how you’re able to move around, dance, and sing all while in character

he attracts the attention of your cast mates, always being so respectful

especially when he waits for you to finish getting out of costume with a bouquet and his jacket to offer you if it’s cold

he’s always invited to your open rehearsals even if its not by you 😭 your directors love him too

Toji Fushiguro

doesn’t care much for the arts but he’d be damned if he missed seeing his baby perform

no matter if you’re a lead or ensemble he WILL be there

he tends to keep to the back as to not block people’s view with his broad shoulders..

he likes watching you play characters that are so far from your usual personality

especially if you’re usually quiet, like wow he didn’t know you could project like that

he teases you after the show if you have a love interest in the show, especially if you complain about the person casted as them (no because why did I get casted as love interests with my mortal enemies 3 times)

if the show is suitable enough, he’ll bring little Megumi along to see you perform

I don’t think he’d be one to buy bouquets for you but he’d buy a single rose and let Megumi give it to you

he’d watch fondly as you pick up his son and bring him to meet the other cast members

GAH I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

Ino Takuma

he does the “raise your ya ya ya” thing around you 😭

he gets jealous if you have a love interest especially if theres a scene where you get freakay

this makes him consider auditioning for the next show you’re going to be in….

he’d watch you take photos with them and pout until you walk up to him

his favorite roles to see you in are the ones like Heather Chandler or Regina George

he may or may not be joking when he says you should be mean to him after seeing you perform…

if the show is sad he will cry then try to deny it when you point out the tear stains on his face

and if YOU’RE crying on stage? he cries even harder

he makes you karaoke with him, even though he’s getting absolutely mogged but he doesn’t mind

he just likes hearing your voice

he brags about you to anyone willing to listen

Aoi Todo

the audience hates him.

he always insists on sitting as close to the stage as possible and his large body blocks the view of the people behind him (luckily the stage is raised…)

and he’s so loud… you can always hear his shouts and applause over everyone else’s

your cast mates don’t like him either…

“Wow, your boyfriend is so…supportive”

even after the show is over and it’s time to meet you people give the two of you side eyes

“YOU DID SO GOOD MY LOVE!” “Shhh! But thank you…”

he’s so bad at being quiet 😭

another one who likes watching you play mean characters…

he has so many photos of you on his phone of you in costume and on stage

and they’re ALL in his wallpaper rotation

70 notes · View notes

jiraen · 3 days ago

Text

My Very Own Cupid

Summary: Valerie Valentine, known as “Hogwarts’ Cupid” for her matchmaking prowess, finds herself heartbroken upon finding out George Weasley, her crush since 4th year, likes Angelina Johnson. This leads her to abandon her romantic endeavors, only to later discover something unexpected.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.5k+

A/N: This is my first ever story on tumblr, I really hope you guys enjoy! 🫰

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Valerie Valentine lived for Valentine's Day. It was in her name, after all.

Ever since she was little, Valentine’s Day had been her favorite holiday—the chocolates, the roses, the handwritten love letters. She adored how, just for a day, everything seemed sweeter, softer, filled with endless possibilities. When she arrived at Hogwarts, she quickly made it her mission to bring that magic to the castle.

It started in her second year when her best friend, Hannah Abbott, had fallen hopelessly in love with Roger Davies.

“I can’t tell him,” Hannah had groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’ll probably trip over my own feet and embarrass myself for life.”

Valerie, ever the romantic, had taken that as a challenge. With a carefully written anonymous love letter, a bit of strategic maneuvering, and the right nudge at the right time, Roger had ended up asking Hannah to Hogsmeade. By Valentine’s Day, they were sitting at the Hufflepuff table, sharing a box of Honeydukes chocolates.

“You’re amazing at this, Val,” Hannah had gushed. “You should be Hogwarts’ Cupid!”

And just like that, Valerie Valentine became a legend.

---

Valerie took on the title of Hogwarts’ Cupid with pride, dedicating herself to helping students find love. Over the years, she orchestrated dozens of successful love stories, each one becoming a fond memory.

One of her most ambitious plans involved a nervous third-year Hufflepuff, Andrew Macmillan, who had a crush on a Ravenclaw named Helena Clearwater. Andrew was a wreck whenever Helena was around, stammering through his words and turning bright red.

“She’s so smart, Val,” he had sighed. “She probably thinks I’m a complete idiot.”

Valerie had an idea.

“Girls love grand gestures,” she told him, handing him a crumpled parchment. “And you know what’s grand? A love song performed by the Hogwarts suits of armor.”

Andrew had stared at her in horror. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am serious.” She smirked. “I also may or may not have bribed the suits of armor to serenade her during lunch.”

Sure enough, the next day, as Helena was walking to the Great Hall, one of the enchanted suits of armor clanked forward, raised its sword like a conductor’s baton, and began to sing.

“O fair Helena, with eyes so bright,

You make my heart take glorious flight!

Oh, would you fancy a date with me?

For Butterbeer and cakes of treacle sweet?”

Andrew looked like he was about to pass out from sheer embarrassment.

But then—Helena laughed. A real, delighted laugh. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, turning to Andrew. “Did you do this?”

He stammered for a moment before nodding.

She smiled. “It’s cute. I’d love to go to Hogsmeade with you.”

Valerie cheered from the sidelines. Another successful match.

---

By her third year, Valerie had students seeking her out for help. One of them was a shy Gryffindor named Ethan Wood, who had a major crush on Katie Bell.

“She’s so cool,” he groaned. “She’s an amazing Chaser, and she’s funny, and—and she probably doesn’t even know I exist.”

“Well, let’s change that,” Valerie had said.

Knowing Katie loved Chocolate Frogs, Valerie devised a plan. Ethan would send her a Chocolate Frog every morning for a week, each one accompanied by a tiny, anonymous note with a compliment.

The first note: You play Quidditch like a star.

The second: Your laugh is the best sound in the world.

By the time the seventh note arrived, Katie was determined to find out who her secret admirer was. She cornered Valerie at the common room, eyes shining with curiosity.

“You know, don’t you?” she asked.

Valerie grinned. “What would you do if I did?”

“I’d probably want to talk to him.”

So, later that evening, Valerie orchestrated the grand reveal. Ethan, nervous as ever, stood by the fireplace, hands fidgeting at his sides. When Katie walked up to him, Chocolate Frog in hand, she smirked.

“So,” she said, tossing the frog at him playfully. “You’ve been feeding me an unhealthy amount of sugar.”

Ethan stammered. “Uh—uh—sorry?”

Katie laughed. “Don’t be. Want to go to Hogsmeade with me?”

Ethan nearly fainted. Valerie patted herself on the back. Another victory.

---

For three years, Valerie had been Hogwarts’ Cupid. She loved it. She lived for it.

"Hogwarts' Cupid" had always been surrounded by love—not just romantic love, but the kind of warmth that came from friendships, from laughter, from the little things that made life feel magical. And yet, nothing had prepared her for the moment she realized she was in love with George Weasley.

She never meant to. It just happened—the way his laughter echoed through the common room, the way he always had a joke up his sleeve, the way his mischievous grin made her stomach flip.

---

It happened one evening in her fourth year, during the first snowfall of the winter. The Gryffindor common room was cozy, the fire crackling in the hearth, but Valerie had always been drawn to the magic of fresh snow. So when she saw the first flakes drifting past the castle windows, she slipped outside.

She didn’t expect anyone else to be out there, but of course—George Weasley never did the expected.

“Oi, Valentine,” he called from behind her as she stood in the courtyard, snowflakes catching in her hair. “Fancy meeting you out here. What’s a Cupid like you doing standing alone in the cold?”

She turned to find him grinning, his red hair dusted with snow, his cheeks pink from the chill.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she shot back. “Shouldn’t you be inside, plotting your next great prank?”

George put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “I do have other interests, you know.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like this,” he said, before suddenly scooping up a handful of snow and launching it at her.

Valerie shrieked as the snow hit her shoulder. “George!”

“What? Cupid needs to learn how to dodge!” he teased, already gathering more snow.

She didn’t hesitate. She bent down, packed a snowball, and threw it at him with all her might—only for him to duck at the last second. It sailed past him and hit none other than Professor McGonagall’s window.

Both of them froze.

George turned to her, his eyes wide, and then—he grinned. “Run.”

Valerie didn’t need to be told twice. She bolted, George right beside her, the two of them slipping and sliding across the snowy courtyard as laughter bubbled out of them. They only stopped when they reached the covered bridge, breathless and shivering but giddy.

“That was all your fault,” Valerie panted, leaning against the railing.

George smirked. “Oh, definitely yours. I was just an innocent bystander.”

She rolled her eyes, but before she could retort, he reached out, brushing a bit of snow from her hair. It was such a small gesture, but it sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

Their eyes met. And for the first time, standing there in the soft glow of moonlight reflecting off the snow, Valerie saw him differently.

Not just as the prankster. Not just as her friend.

But as someone who made her heart race.

Someone she wanted.

The realization hit her so suddenly that she barely managed to breathe.

George tilted his head, a slow, teasing smile forming on his lips. “You alright there, Val?”

She swallowed, forcing herself to laugh. “Y-Yeah. Just cold.”

“Then we’d better get inside before you freeze,” he said, throwing an arm around her shoulders and steering her back toward the castle.

She barely heard him over the sound of her own heartbeat.

Because that was the moment she knew—

She had fallen for George Weasley.

---

By her sixth year, Valentine’s Day at Hogwarts was practically synonymous with Valerie Valentine.

The weeks leading up to the holiday were always the busiest. Students whispered in hallways, love letters passed hands, and Valerie’s name floated through conversations like a spell. As usual, she was in high demand—helping a lovestruck Ravenclaw compose a heartfelt poem, advising a nervous Hufflepuff on how to casually bump into his crush, and sneaking sweets into the Gryffindor common room for a surprise confession plan.

She should have been thrilled.

And yet, for the first time, Valerie felt tired. Something about it felt off this year. Maybe it was because, despite all the magic she created for others, she had never been on the receiving end of it.

Then, just a few days before Valentine’s Day, George Weasley walked up to her.

“Hey, Val,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, looking almost shy. “Got a minute?”

Her heart gave a traitorous little flutter—an automatic reaction at this point.

“Of course,” she said, forcing herself to act normal. “Need help with a prank?"

“Not exactly.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you know if Angelina’s dating anyone?”

The world seemed to tilt.

The words were a Bludger to the stomach, knocking the breath right out of her.

Angelina. Of course.

She was smart, confident, talented—his best friend. They were already close, always sitting together at meals, always joking and laughing in that effortless way that made Valerie’s heart ache.

And why wouldn’t he like her?

Valerie swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to smile. “I—I don’t think so. Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” George said with a shrug, a slight smile plastered on his face. “Just wondering.”

That was all the confirmation she needed.

She barely remembered the rest of the conversation. Somehow, she managed to act normal—laughing at all the right moments, nodding along as if her heart wasn’t shattering into pieces. The moment George walked away, she turned on her heel and fled to her dormitory.

She barely noticed the way her hands trembled as she grabbed the stack of love letters from her desk—the ones she had spent years helping craft, the delicate parchment filled with confessions she had helped others deliver.

With a shaking breath, she threw them into the fireplace.

The flames swallowed them up, turning love into ashes.

Hogwarts’ Cupid was officially retired.

---

For the first time in three years, Valerie refused to help anyone with their Valentine’s Day plans.

When a nervous fourth-year approached her in the library with a love letter, she shoved it back at them without a word. When Hannah Abbott asked for advice on which chocolates to get Roger, Valerie snapped, “Does it really matter?”

Hannah folded her arms. “Okay, what is going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Valerie muttered, burying herself deeper into her Potions textbook.

Hannah wasn’t convinced. “You love this holiday. It’s your thing.”

“Not anymore.”

Hannah stared at her, then realization dawned on her face. “This is about him, isn’t it?”

Valerie stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hannah sighed. “Val, if you’re upset about something, talk to him. You never just give up.”

But Valerie shook her head. What was the point? George had already made his choice.

So, on Valentine’s Day, while the Great Hall buzzed with excitement, while couples exchanged gifts and friends laughed over ridiculous love notes, Valerie sat in the Gryffindor common room, alone.

She refused to look at the door. She would not let herself wonder if George had asked Angelina out.

Then, just as she was debating whether to go hide in her dormitory for the rest of the night, George plopped down beside her.

“Alright, Valentine,” he said, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. “What’s going on?”

Valerie scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re usually running around playing matchmaker, making sure everyone has a perfect day,” George said, eyeing her closely. “And yet, here you are, sulking like someone just told you Chocolate Frogs were being discontinued.”

She crossed her arms. “Maybe I’m just sick of love stories.”

George blinked, clearly taken aback. “Alright, who are you and what have you done with Valerie Valentine?”

She huffed. “Why do you even care? Shouldn’t you be off with Angelina?”

George frowned. “Angelina?”

Valerie glared at him. “You asked about her.”

George tilted his head. “Yeah…? So?”

“So,” she snapped, “if you’re going to ask her out, just do it already.”

For a moment, George just stared at her. Then, suddenly—

He laughed.

A real, full-bodied laugh.

Valerie gaped. “What’s so funny?!”

George grinned at her like she was the biggest idiot in the world. “Oh, Merlin, you’re thick.”

She scowled. “Excuse me?!”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Val, I asked about Angelina because Fred fancies her. I was helping him.”

The world came to a screeching halt.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. “Wait—you don’t like her?”

George smirked. “Of course not. She’s great, but she’s not the one I wanted to spend Valentine’s Day with.”

Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest. “Then… who do you want to spend it with?”

George raised an eyebrow. “Who do you think?”

She froze.

Everything—the endless matchmaking, the stolen glances, the little moments between them—it all suddenly clicked into place.

“You,” he said simply.

Her breath hitched.

For the first time in her life, Valerie Valentine was speechless.

George smirked, tilting his head. “Now, if our former Hogwarts’ Cupid is done sulking, can I take her on a proper date?”

Valerie stared at him, her heart pounding, before a slow, hesitant smile tugged at her lips. “I suppose…” She tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to consider it. “I could make an exception.”

George laughed, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “That’s my girl.”

And just like that, Hogwarts’ Cupid finally found herself caught in the love story she never saw coming.

---

79 notes · View notes

ofbatsandballads · 17 hours ago

Text

“like real people do” by hozier is so jason todd coded it has me writing purple prose at 1pm on a friday. i was listening to that masterpiece of a song and couldn’t stop thinking of jay’s childhood first love being there the night he came back. so out came this sort of au based on the ‘superboy punches reality’ version of his resurrection.

tw for depictions of jason’s torture and murder, his being resurrected and escaping his grave, reader’s severe depression and suicidal ideation surrounding her grief, heavy codependency implied between jason and reader, and general resurrection angst.

It was a dark and stormy night. Isn’t that how these things always go? Horrid cliches find unexpected ways of coming back to life. Much like the life that sparks suddenly within the boy in the casket. Black, dark nothingness becomes humid, suffocating air. He tries to sit up and meets silk-covered mahogany that traps him. The boy in the casket does not know where he is. He does not know who he is.

He remembers feelings. Something loud, bright, and hot that made everything go dark. Resignation, the urge to protect, forgiveness. The feeling of his skull cracking, his collarbone shattering under the blunt force of metal. The laughter the laughter the laughter it is driving him mad. The white hot pain of his legs snapping under the weight of the man that laughs. The guttural feeling of betrayal and fear. The smell of cigarettes. He is the sweet boy that wants his mother.

Hope, bright and incandescent. Rebellion and longing. Anger, angst, the horrible need to be understood by the people you love most. Ambition, pride, joy, encouragement; the warmth of family. He is no longer a fatherless son. Hope, wary but resilient. Fear, then relief, at the sight of the Dark Knight.

The boy in the casket remembers. He still does not know who he is. But he knows he has a father. He knows it because he is screaming for his father as he tears through the silk and scrapes the skin from his fingers against the hard mahogany. He screams for his father as he kicks through the wood, as the damp earth fills the enclosed space and steals the little air that remains for him to breathe. He is thinking of his father as he pulls his body through the hole he made. The jagged wood is digging into his side and he feels blood drip hot down his torso. It’s different from the wet cold that surrounds him and he focuses on that to stay cognizant. But the earth presses in and he is tired. He is so very tired.

He remembers something else. He remembers being tired once before, but he was warm then. He remembers being cozy under blankets. Innocent laughter and innocent kisses. The prettiest eyes he’s ever seen and the love that gleamed just for him shining within them. Then a voice. Melodic and beautiful and sweet as honey.

“C’mon, Jay, don’t fall asleep yet.”

You would not want him to fade back into the eternal sleep he just woke from. No. He cannot go back just yet. He tries to dig upward, but his body aches. The earth grows thicker, turns to sludge that drowns him. He shoves one hand over his face to claim a bit of air and is given a mouthful of mud instead. He chokes out one final scream. His head is getting fuzzy, lack of air making his skull feel cotton-filled and staticky. Still he digs up and up and up. But there’s no light. Just more earth. Maybe he does belong here. Maybe someone made a mistake and gave him a few moments that were meant for someone else. He makes one last push, that familiar resignation washing over him again as he closes his eyes. Then a hand wraps tight around his wrist and he’s showered in the cold midnight rain.

You have a secret. It’s personal and it’s abnormal and it’s yours. You’ve been sleeping on Jason Todd’s grave for the past week. No one knows. Well, Bruce Wayne knows. He must. His son’s grave is on his estate, after all, and the Bat’s security measures are the best you’ve ever seen. You don’t know why he’s letting his dead son’s girlfriend sleep on his grave, but you’re thankful he hasn’t kicked you out yet.

It’s been four years since Jason died. Four years and you still can’t accept it. You visit him every day. You bring him flowers and read him books and tell him about your life. You try to pretty it up a bit for him. You tell him about the new sundress you bought; it’s red, his favorite color. You tell him about the amazing bakery that opened up in the Heights and how you think he’d adore their chocolate chip cookies.

You don’t tell him that you’re so depressed over his absence that there are times when you go weeks existing only in your bed with sparse trips to the bathroom. You don’t tell him that you dropped out of college after your first year, that you failed in your joint promise to go to Gotham City University together. You just couldn’t handle it. The weight of your grief is already an iron chain around your throat, hooked to an eternal anchor. You didn’t need the pressure of perfect grades—an unshakeable requirement of your scholarship as you couldn’t afford to go to school any other way. You certainly don’t tell him that you’ve considered joining him, that sometimes that seems like the only thing you want anymore.

But it’s been getting worse. You miss him. Not in any way that’s healthy. At least that’s what you were told by the grief counselor your mother made you see. You miss him so badly that you’re sleeping on his grave come hell or high water. Tonight it’s high water. The cold rain soaks through your hoodie and sweats, but you don’t care. You’ve stabbed an umbrella into the ground and you’ve got an old blanket under you, so you’re all set. The bone-chilling cold of the water doesn’t matter. The way that it lures you to sleep doesn’t matter. Your body temperature is probably dropping and sleep to the freezing is deadly, but that doesn’t matter either. What matters is that you’re here with the boy you love.

You have another secret. This one’s worse, so terrible that you even scare yourself. You’ve been considering digging up Jason’s grave for the past thirty minutes. It started subconsciously. You didn’t even realize you were clawing into the ground until the grass was uprooted. You’ve made a good dent now, maybe six inches or so. It’s insane. You’re insane. But you ache to be close to him. Jason Todd took half of your soul with him when he was lowered into the ground. The better half; the half of you that was light and joyous and filled with love. You want it back. You want him back. You don’t know what you would do if you dug up his grave, but you know that you’d be closer to him than six feet.

You lie in the rain and contemplate why you’re here. You’ve missed him this fiercely every day for the last four years. It’s just this past week that you’ve been drawn to sleep on the earth above him. Like a moth to flame, like Ariadne’s golden thread leading out of the darkness of the labyrinth. Or maybe you’ve finally lost what’s left of your mind. You think you have when you hear noises from beneath the earth.

“Finally talking to me, Jay?” you ask.

Melancholy sarcasm is made weak by the way your teeth chatter and how your shivering leaks into your tone. But then you hear it again. It’s faint, deep below and muffled but it’s there. Then a thudding noise. Over and over and over. Your heart kicks to life. Adrenaline shoots through you and the cold seeped into your body melts with the heat of it. Jason is dead. He’s been dead for four years. But something is alive in his grave. Your hands sink into the small hole you’ve already made and you shovel the earth out in a manic rush. You dig and dig and dig. Your arms are elbow deep when you feel fingers brush against your own. You should be afraid. You should run. Instead you reach further, grasp hard around the wrist and pull. The ground gives way and your reality shatters in an instant. You’ve just pulled Jason Todd from his grave.

He’s bigger than you remember. His body weight is crushing as he collapses on top of you. (You’re smaller than he remembers. He has a crystal clear image of looking up into those pretty eyes and now he can barely feel you squished underneath him.)

He’s covered in sodden earth from head to toe. There’s blood seeping warmly from his torso into your red hoodie. (Your arms are caked in mud. Why? What were you digging for?)

Even with his difference in size—he must be well over a foot taller and at least one hundred pounds heavier—there is nothing that compares to the pure shock of looking into his eyes. Piercing gunmetal blue that you see every time you close your eyes is now a deep seafoam green. And yet looking into them you still feel like you’re home again. (Those pretty eyes are still the same. They still have that gleam of love when they land on him. But they’re also red and bloodshot like you’ve been crying. Please don’t cry. He doesn’t want you to be sad. He loves you. He doesn’t know your name but he knows that he loves you.)

You’re both as still as the memorial statues of Martha and Thomas that loom protectively beside Jason’s grave. Shock settles in.

“Jason. Oh my God. Jason, you’re—“ your voice breaks before you can say the words you thought would only come in dreams.

“Alive,” he croaks, voice dry and grating from lack of use.

He is alive. He is alive and breathing and with you again. You don’t know what caused this, why a dead boy crawled from his grave in the body of a man, but you’re not going to ask questions. The only answer you need is lying in your arms. Tears stream down your face, only differentiated from the rain by their warmth.

“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here,” you murmur into his mud-soaked hair as you cradle his head in the crook of your neck.

“Here,” he echoes. “Real?”

It doesn’t feel like it. His head is hazy and clouded but he’s starting to recall things. Like a steady trickle of water coalescing into a stream, into a river, into a flood. He remembers your name. He remembers stolen tires and bat ears. He remembers chamomile tea with a butler and stories of old theatre productions. He remembers how all the classic romance novels in his freshman English class looked just like the pretty girl sitting at the desk to his right. He remembers sweet giggles and shaky hands and soft kisses. He remembers. But he can’t speak it. He can’t find the words or the comprehension. He sees these things in flashes, feels them in his bones but he can’t make his mind and body catch up. So he lurches forward, stiff and clumsy, and tries to replicate the warmth of your kisses that have survived death itself.

You kiss Jason Todd for the first time in four years. You taste your tears, the damp earth, and the blood from where he’s bitten his own tongue. You have never tasted anything better because for right now it tastes like him.

“Real. We’re real.”

A sweet surprise and a gentle reminder. The other halves of your souls have been returned, and you are both allowed to exist again.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #remy writes 🖋️#not tagging red hood tags bc he’s really not quite there yet in this fic #this is so dark and melodramatic but i also feel like that’s very fitting for jason #idk how i feel after proofreading it but it’s still put together enough to post. I think.

62 notes · View notes