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marvelstoriesepic · 27 days ago

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Wear My Heart

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Bucky x Reader (Soulmate Au)

Summary: Bucky discovers his long-lost match in a client. But is he even meant to have you with the mark erased from his own body?

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: angst; loss of limb (non-graphic); prosthesis; PTSD; lots of self-worth issues; insecurities; mild reference to past violence (non-graphic); mentions of self-isolation; chronic loneliness; Bucky is going through some feels

Author’s Note: We had him as a tattoo artist yesterday and we have him as one today haha. This sweet request comes from my beloved tumblr husband! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

He sees you before you walk in.

A blur of reflection in the glass door, sunlight making your hair beam, fingers adjusting the strap of your bag.

The door opens.

He doesn’t look up right away.

Steve has booked this appointment under your name, and Sam had dropped too many hints over the past few weeks that you’d be coming in soon. Nat had rolled her eyes and told him flatly, that either he’d speak to you or they’d all die of secondhand tension.

So now you are here.

And he’s pretending not to care. Pretending to hear the buzz of the needle. The only thing that grounds him anymore. Pain turned into art. Wounds etched into skin like a creation. And he’s great at this because he’s better at translating pain than he is at speaking.

He prefers ink to people. Needles to names. He prefers silence.

“Bucky?” You’re saying his name as if it’s a question, like maybe you’re still not sure you’re in the right place.

He looks up.

And the moment your eyes meet, there is something inside him that flickers. Like a lightbulb that hasn’t been touched in years. Dusty. Forgotten. Still warm.

He nods. Just once.

You smile. Small. Polite. Nervous.

He doesn’t return it. Can’t.

Because your smile, although timid, is the kind of thing that stays with you - like smoke in his lungs. It fills the spaces where oxygen used to be.

He’s never properly spoken to you, but he’s seen you before - at Steve’s apartment, at Sam’s cookouts, in Nat’s too-casual Instagram stories where he already acknowledged how beautiful your smile is. How beautiful you are.

He remembers thinking you got a laugh like a sunrise, making darkness irrelevant.

He remembers thinking you’d never look at someone like him.

He remembers looking away.

He never said more than a word to you. Never trusted himself to.

You’re too good. Too light. And he’s not.

He knows you are out of his league. And maybe you didn’t even notice him. Maybe all the times he saw you - laughing in Steve’s kitchen, sitting cross-legged on Sam’s couch, reading some ancient paperback by the window - he was just a background blur in your story.

So he kept his distance.

It’s easier that way.

“Uhm, hey,” you start a little nervously, and he could kick himself. “I have a design I've been working on for a while. Steve said you might be the right artist for it.”

You hand him a sketch. He barely glances at it. His fingers don’t fumble but something in his chest does.

And then you move. Rolling your sleeve up. Exposing skin.

And Bucky stops breathing.

It takes a second for his mind to catch up. Another second to realize what he’s looking at.

But when it hits him - it hits.

Like an avalanche in his throat.

There, inked into the soft skin of your upper arm, is a mark he hasn’t seen in over a decade.

His mark.

The same symbol. The same twisted loops of black that curved into his skin when he was six years old. The same mark he stared at for years like it might offer answers. As though it could explain why he always felt like a half-finished sentence. As though it might lead him to someone whole.

It used to be on his left arm. Right over the muscle. He remembers tracing it absently during lectures, during subway rides, during troubled nights when he couldn’t sleep.

It disappeared the day he lost his arm. Gone. Stolen. Scrubbed clean as if he never had a soulmate at all.

He remembers crying - not for the pain, nor for the loss, but because the one thing that tethered him to hope, to someone, was just gone.

He decided then that he was meant to be alone. That fate had made a mistake. That maybe his soulmate was already dead. Or that she had moved on. Married someone else. Tattooed over the mark. Or worse, that the person meant for him would never find him, spending her life thinking she was alone. Marked for no one.

He wonders if you ever felt that way.

He wonders if you still do.

He keeps his face neutral. Professional. He’s good at this. But inside he is crumbling like never before. Collapsing. Splintering into a thousand broken pieces of before and after.

You are talking. He hears the cadence, the warmth, but the words are fog. All he can focus on is the mark. The one thing he never thought he’d see again.

And now you are standing in front of him. And you are real. And the mark is right there on your arm, the exact shape and size of the one that used to be his.

You don’t know.

You can’t know.

You’re here. You’re real. You’re his.

And he says nothing.

He stares at it as if it’s a hallucination. But it’s not.

His lungs are tight, cold, hollow. He feels his prosthesis twitch, the phantom ghost of muscle memory in the one he lost.

“This is where I was thinking it would go,” you say, pointing gently to the space around the mark - your mark, his mark, both your marks - “I think it’s one of those soulmate mark things. I got it when I was six. My mom said she always believed in them, that one day I’d meet someone with the same mark. You know, something about being made to match.” You laugh a little awkwardly, tugging your hair behind your ear, probably wondering why you told him this.

He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps staring.

You let out another awkward, breathless laugh. “I’ve never actually seen it on anyone else, though. Guess it’s just one of those things.”

Your words bruise him deeply.

He wants to scream. Wants to tell you everything. That you’re walking around unknowingly wearing his heart. That once, when he was a different man, that mark was the only beautiful thing left of him.

But his mouth doesn’t move. It’s dry.

Because how do you tell someone you lost the piece of yourself that was meant to find them?

What do you say to someone who doesn’t know they’ve been saving your life just by existing?

So he nods. Again. Always nodding. Always hiding.

He’s just the weird guy with the metal arm and the bad temper. The broody dude with a shop sitting behind a laundromat and too many shadows in his eyes. You don’t know that he’s been dreaming of you since he was a kid - before he lost everything but the pieces he could still carry in his chest.

You don’t know that he’s already met you in a hundred quiet ways.

Every time you laughed from another room. Every time he caught you humming while helping Steve cook. Every time Sam made a joke and you leaned in toward the warmth of it instead of away.

He almost speaks. Almost. But the words stick.

You don’t push. You sit. You trust.

And he works.

He sets up the station. Puts his gloves on, machine humming. He doesn’t make eye contact again for the rest of the session.

His fingers don’t shake but his soul does. He lets you sit close, lets you talk about what the design means to you and how long you’ve waited.

And all he wants to do is scream.

What do you say to someone who might run, if you told them the truth?

He tattoos the design carefully.

You wince once and his heart jumps like it wants to protect you from everything. He places his metal hand lightly on your shoulder. Usually, he avoids touch, but you don’t flinch.

That alone nearly destroys him.

You’re so close. Your heartbeat. Your breath. And he keeps thinking about the mark, about the fact that it once lived on his body. About how it had to be removed, torn away, for you to finally appear.

Maybe that’s what fate is.

Maybe it’s not a gentle thing.

Maybe it breaks you before it brings you what you need.

He is memorizing you.

Every breath. Every glance. Every shift.

It feels like something long buried is waking up inside of him. Something ancient. Something inevitable.

When it’s over, you thank him. You say it’s perfect. You pay and leave and smile and wave and tell him that you hope to see him at Steve’s soon and he stands there like a ghost.

He can’t tell you.

Maybe he isn’t even meant to tell you. Maybe fate’s hands were clumsy with him. Maybe it’s not that he lost the arm, or the mark, but that he was always meant to. Maybe that’s part of the story.

Maybe the universe never meant for him to find you. Only to know you exist. Only to touch what he could never keep.

Because what if he tells you?

You might look at him with those lovely wide eyes and smile, say finally, say yes.

But you might also tell him no, look at him with disgust, with disbelief, with disappointment that he is the one you get when you could have gotten someone so much better.

He can’t survive that. He knows it. The heart he stitched back together with flayed rope is easily able to snap when pulled too tight. He’s been holding it together with black thread and stubborn silence and ink. Ink. Always ink. The only thing that doesn’t lie.

He breathes as if he’s drowning. He thinks of your hand on his. The way you smiled. The way you trusted him without knowing why.

He didn’t see the way your eyes softened when he touched your arm. As though his hands were made of something other than metal and self-hatred.

He didn’t see how you leaned in a little closer when he spoke, how you tilted your head as if memorizing the sound of his voice.

He doesn’t see your hesitation at the door. The way you linger. The way you open your mouth to say more but then close it again.

He doesn’t see any of it because his mind is too loud. Too cruel. Too consuming.

It’s whispering to him, claiming that he’s not the man you were meant for. He lost his mark. He lost his right. This isn’t his story anymore.

Maybe the universe gave you the mark and took his, on purpose. Maybe it’s symbolic. Maybe it’s a warning.

Maybe you’re supposed to move on.

Maybe he is supposed to stay behind.

So he watches you go.

Only after the door clicks shut does he exhale.

He peels off his gloves with trembling hands. Walks to the back room. Opens the drawer he hasn’t touched in years.

There, under a stack of unused stencils and crumpled paper towels, is a single sheet. A sketch. Faded. Old. Drawn by hand.

The mark.

He lays it flat on the counter.

His chest feels like it’s holding a thunderstorm. Not lightning. No, that would be beautiful. There only are clouds that never break. Rain that never comes.

His eyes close.

And for the first time in years, Bucky lets himself feel it. Everything. Hope. Fear. Longing. Grief. Wonder.

He presses his palm over the place where his mark used to be. Where his flesh used to be.

He found you. It’s you.

And you don’t know.

But he does.

He brushes his thumb over the lines of his sketch and thinks that he could love you.

That he already does.

And then he thinks, that maybe he was never supposed to.

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livinghostly · 1 year ago

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i will hold on to you for as long as you let me — megumi fushiguro x mom!reader, satoru gojo x reader

a/n: sorryyy the fushiguro-gojo family dynamic was rotting my brain and i needed this out of my system. LOTS of projection of my fear of growing up in this one soz. this was fully meant to be a drabble and it just kept going idk wc: 3.1k angst/fluff. mom!reader has a lot of bittersweet thoughts about megumi growing up and satoru is there to comfort <3 lots of parentheses and lots of repetition

you put on a brave face all day. all week, even. despite the burn in your chest that engulfed your lungs and squeezed unrelentingly. despite the tears that burned the corners of your eyes delicately balancing on the your waterline, one blink away from breaking the surface density and opening the floodgates to pour down your cheeks. despite the non-stop ache of your stomach, churning what you ate every day but still holding the same emptiness as anxiety consumed you.

megumi didn’t pack much, he never held on to many things to begin with. (you always prayed for that to change, for his comfort your home. you prayed he would see it as his own, as well). he neatly folded his clothes into his suitcases and stacked his hangers on top. he purchased a new sheet set for his bed in the dormitory because the one he was used to was much bigger, much softer.

he packed most of his books, carefully picking out the ones that tugged at the nostalgic parts of him, frayed along the edges after many years of re-reading, as well the ones that still had vibrant covers and stiff spines he hoped to finish. you noticed the leather journal he kept tied together– the ink-blotted pages bursting at the seams –sitting on the shelf before he tucked it into his box of personal belongings. it was his third one since living with you, all filled to every last page and used beyond ruin. the rest were hidden between his headboard and the wall. you pretended not to know, after stumbling upon them while changing his sheets.

closing the door to your home felt eerily empty. it looked the same as every day. the couch was cleaned and the floors swept. dishes rinsed and promptly put away. but with your lingering gaze your mind fixated on the dining table set for four, two adult pairs of shoes at the door, one pink backpack slumped on the hook of the closet door with an empty space below. your chest twisted at the lack of clutter, though it’d been like that for some time, with tsumiki and megumi growing older and cleaning up after themselves properly like you taught them. like you wanted. the pride you initially felt with those memories of parenting were becoming eclipsed with resentment and despair.

the ride to school was quick and familiar, megumi knew well what he was getting into after visiting there to train. satoru liked to call them little getaways from megumi’s civilian life, claiming he wasted too much time around non-sorcerers when he could be on missions with his ever-loving benefactor instead.

satoru, who was whining while he laid himself across the three seats in the back of your car. you’d banished him there for such a special occasion, and he threatened to transport himself to the school alone. an empty threat, at best. he didn’t want to miss this.

megumi had sparred with the older students and found himself thrown around the field many times already. he knew his way to the infirmary by heart, he knew where gojo tucked away his most powerful curse-imbued weapons (that were supposed to be under the surveillance of higher ups), and knew what letter-number combination granted him the ginger chips nobody else seemed to like.

you were glad he was comfortable. you were glad he would fall into routine easily after the repeated trips to jujutsu high and developing a rapport with his upperclassmen. you’d waited for the day that he’d truly be part of the jujutsu world and welcomed into a better suited environment for people like him. and you knew he would be great, he already possessed an incredible technique and wielded it like he’d been fine-tuning it since birth. far ahead from most kids his age, you were proud.

still, your gut was sinking, sinking, sinking into the floor with each passing second.

megumi picked his room in one of the far-away corners of the boys dormitory, leaving inumaki and panda heartbroken (panda said he would find a way to organize sleepover. megumi said he would drop out before that happened. inumaki cried– no, wailed at the rejection). yuuta fell into step with you, slipping one of the boxes out of your hands and insisting on helping instead. it was sweet, if it didn’t feel like he was ripping precious time away from you.

but you smiled, and granted his wish. megumi wasn’t complaining, he liked yuuta more than the others. it was a good chance for them to talk more. all of this, a chance, a new chapter, the rest of his life. the thoughts weighed on your shoulders with a disgusting strain traveling to your fingertips.

you were painfully aware you were in your own head, doing this all to yourself. he wasn’t going away, you would still be seeing him, more than you used to when he went to his other schools. he would always be here.

satoru found you in your classroom, while you were organizing the stationary with an unnaturally stiff composure. your arms were tense, he could see the muscles constantly flexing with each of your movements.

your jaw was clenching and unclenching again. you made a point not to look outside, where the second-years were training brashly after successfully moving their things back into their dorms. you made a point not to meet satoru’s dangerous stare as he shut the door to your classroom, as if it granted any privacy with the seven large windows running along the wall that showcased the hallway.

“what are you doing all by yourself, beautiful?” his tone was soft and inviting, begging you to open up and let yourself fall against the cushion of his words.

“um,” you exhaled, voice shaky. you scrunched your face to break apart the tension that had hardened your expression. “i figured i would get a few things ready for tomorrow.”

it took satoru’s long legs two-and-a-half strides to meet you at your desk, where you gently shut the drawer. there were a handful of dated photographs in there, signed with his name and the chicken scratch of two children.

“it’s all ready, baby. we did that last week.”

(correction: you did it. he tagged along for the shopping trip).

“there’s just… a few things...” you mumbled, not finding the strength to finish your own sentence.

satoru gently placed his hand on your shoulder, emitting inhuman warmth that spread across your skin. you leaned into him as he dragged his hand down your arm and intertwined your fingers with the care of handling fine china. his presence brought you solace, effortlessly bringing the walls down that you desperately wanted to wait until you got home to break.

he kissed the back of your hand and rubbed the skin. “you know you’re going to see him every day, right?”

it was embarrassing how well satoru knew you, knew your thought process like it was an extension of his own. he knew your doubts and insecurities, your fears and desires. he could predict the words before they came from your mouth, more in tune with the way you spoke than his mother tongue.

“mhm.”

“you know we’re going to be the ones chaperoning his missions, right?”

you closed your eyes and looked away. “i know.”

“do you remember when he said he’d like to go home some weekends, and have dinner?”

“he said that to be nice.”

“when has he ever been nice?”

you opened your eyes to glare at him, though he was right. megumi was not nice. he was polite. he was too self-aware for his own good, too perceptive of others and their emotions. in all the time that you’d known him, raised him, he made himself smaller for the convenience of others. he walked on his tiptoes for a year and a half so no one else would wake up because of him. he made his own breakfast and bit back his tears when he burned himself. he didn’t ask for things or food and didn’t offer his input unless asked directly. for some time, he was a ghost in his own home.

it seemed as soon as the bits of his shell started to break off, he was being swept away from you by the jujutsu world, leaving you with looming fears that consumed your mind and disrupted your sleep for weeks.

satoru smiled, though it was weighed down with your sadness. “hey, he’s not going anywhere, you know that. just because you’re not driving him home everyday doesn’t mean he’s gone.”

it’s funny, it’s nearly the same speech he gave you when tsumiki started middle school. and when megumi followed those same steps.

tsumiki didn’t make it this far, though.

the thought makes your lip wobble again, and you bite it back pathetically.

“i know. i know that. it’s just that…” your voice cracked, and you shoved your head in your hands. your palms squeezed your eyes in a desperate attempt to stop the already-flowing tears. “he’s not my little boy anymore.”

satoru’s soothing hands pull you into a tight hug, and you don’t have it in you yet to move your hands from your face. his embrace makes you sob harder, louder as all your emotions from the last week begin to pour out at once. his chest rumbled with your cries, and he tucked you further under his arms as if to shield you from what was making you hurt so much. it was all you.

“baby…” he chuckled, without a hint mirth or mockery. he squeezed you with compassion and adoration. “you know that’s not true. he’s still pretty short, he’s got another growth spurt coming.”

a small laugh slipped through, but was quickly drowned out by your cries.

“he’ll be okay. he’s still here.”

he was so, so warm. he gently began to rock back and forth with you, the heels of your shoes gently clicking on the tile floor. a small hiccup erupted from you as you found the strength to wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his chest. the familiar thrum of his heartbeat welcomed you.

“i know, i’m sorry. i know he’s not leaving, or anything… i just… i thought i was ready.” you blubbered into his button-up. surely, there’d be two wet spots where your eyes were when you pulled away.

he swayed side to side with you, staring at the blackboard ahead of him. he nestled his chin on the top of your head, wondering if you could hear the cracks tearing through his heart. “it’s okay if you’re not ready. but you’re treating this like it's goodbye.”

“but what if we don’t get a goodbye?”

“okay, you really are overthinking this,” he pulled away from your embrace, your fingers still digging into the material of his shirt. he brushed away the hair covering your eyes, stuck to your skin by the wetness of your cheeks. streaks ran through your foundation and the corners of your eyes were smudged. “there you are. so pretty.”

it was silly how he believed he could make things better like that. it was silly that he was a little bit right.

“don’t think for a second i’ll let megumi be sent on a mission he can’t handle. he’s going to be fine.”

satoru’s love ran deep. for you, for megumi, for all his students. he fought curses everyday for you, rotted himself with his technique and stitched himself back up in a moment’s notice to fight for you. to come home to you. all of humanity be damned, those closest to him were the ones he fought for, and he would do everything in his power to preserve their lives.

he already towed the line with the higher-ups and their conservative rules and regulations, but he would tear them down if you asked. for megumi, he’d fight tooth and nail to see that he wasn’t being sent off on a mission ill-prepared. under his watch, things would be different for his students.

you nodded meekly, wiping away your tears with one hand. “i hate when you’re right, toru. it’s really annoying.”

he smoothed down your hair and grinned. “i know, just let me have this one, though.”

his sweet murmurs filled your ears, along with the gentle shuffling of your clothes as you made yourself presentable again. you balled up your sleeves and patted the corners of your eyes gently, and he straightened out the hem of your shirt. it was wrinkled, a reminder of how harshly you clung to him.

you smiled at the water stains on his shirt now, and he claimed it was in need of dry cleaning anyway.

neither of you noticed the eyes of megumi and yuuta, both stuck in place at the very corner of the windows leading to the hallway. they had training staffs with them, megumi’s grip becoming tighter as he watched you wipe your eyes and knock your head into satoru’s chest lazily. your shoulders low, clearly drained from the amount you cried.

yuuta was frozen, eyes flickering from you to megumi repeatedly. he found his courage in placing a hand on his shoulder, a feather-light grip. “hey, let’s go through the east wing. i’m pretty sure it’s faster that way.”

it wasn’t. but megumi nodded anyway, begrudgingly tearing his gaze from you and turning around with yuuta.

you stared down the red light of the intersection with a blank face, blank mind. letting it all out of your system had successfully flushed out your emotions, taking the rest of your energy along with it. the car was painfully quiet, but no part of you wanted to listen to anything.

satoru was whisked away by yaga, being delivered another mission he swore would take less than a day. ‘less than twelve hours’, he promised to be back for megumi’s first day. he would make it.

it was dark, and you milked all the time you could on school grounds. speaking with yaga and shoko, running through the still-developing information of missions to be sent on. cleaning the classrooms. the lockers. stocking the teachers lounge. dusting the armory. before you knew it the curfew ushered the students into their dorms.

a ringtone broke through your thoughts, making you jump. though the tune was soft, the sudden intrusion made it much more shrill. you fumbled with your phone in the passenger seat, seeing megumi’s contact on the screen.

“hello?”

“hey, mom?”

it took everything you had left not to gawk. he said it before, sparingly in desperation for comfort. his voice was quiet, a near-whisper despite the fact he was alone in his dorm. like he was nervous.

“yes, megumi?”

“um… are you home?”

you wondered if he forgot something. “no, i’m still driving. are you okay?”

“i’m fine, i just… can’t sleep, i guess…” he trailed off, hoping for you to fill in the gap.

“oh. okay. did you take–“

“do you think you could pick me up?” he interrupted. “and i just stay home tonight? you could drive me in the morning.”

you were quick to dissolve into a smile, pointed at the streetlamp on the sidewalk. sadness struck your eyes but you were too occupied by the warmth of his question to feel it.

“yeah. i can be back there in a few minutes, just let me turn around.”

“thanks.”

he didn’t hang up. neither did you. the silence lived on for a few seconds.

“mom?”

“yeah?”

“… gojo’s on a mission, right?”

you laughed, your hand sliding across the steering wheel as you reouted back to the school. “yeah, megs, he’ll be gone tonight.”

“he’s back tomorrow?”

“yeah, we can leave before he gets home.”

“thanks.”

bonus:

satoru tiptoed through the entrance of your home, brushing his blindfold over his hair and peeling it off his head. he hung it up with his keys, lax arms nearly missing the hook on the closet door meant for him. it was beyond late, and he was tired, but he was home like he said he would be.

he bent down to tie his shoes, buffering momentarily as he caught a glance of well-worn sneakers at the front door. they were as clean as they could be, though scuffed rubber turning gray and the laces becoming frayed where they were tightened most.

satoru made a grunt in acknowledgement to no one but himself, as he tossed his shoes down. he glanced around the living space, cautiously bringing himself to each room with a curious itch to scratch. a third pair of shoes. both backpacks on the door. dishes for two placed on the drying rack.

he was expertly quiet by nature, but found himself avoiding the squeaky floorboards on the stairs and all the way to the hallway. he was greeted with a blue sign, corners covered with dog stickers. the frilly handwriting of tsumiki warding off unwanted visitors with the phrase: “megumi’s room. keep out!!”

the door opened quietly, satoru pushing it open to the limit and stopping before it would let out an ungodly squeak. he insisted on never getting it fixed, knowing it bothered megumi.

megumi had his face shoved in his pillow, a desperate attempt to block out any light creeping through the crack of his bedroom door or the streetlamp just outside the window. he was always a light sleeper, always on edge, sleeping with his back to the wall so if something barged in the night he was ready. it was horrible he thought that way, you always said.

his duvet covers were black and white plaid, per his request three years ago when he begged to be free of the puppy sheets. still, he seemed small, curled up in a ball. his face was released of the usual tension and his light breathing filled the room. for a moment, he was little again.

satoru smiled, taking a step back and closing the door gently.

#spleen writes #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jjk angst #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #jjk satoru gojo #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo fluff #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro x mom!reader #jjk gojo #jjk megumi #jjk megumi fushiguro #megumi fluff #mom!reader #satoru gojo fic #fushiguro x reader #megumi x reader

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wherethefireliliesgrow · 4 months ago

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Already Yours (Part 1)

Yoo Jimin (Karina) x Reader

GENRE: angst, fluff, arranged marriage

TYPE: Two Shot

Inspired by: urs-NIKI

A/N: i received several arranged marriage request for the past two years, but it felt too different to what i usually wrote. since it's the start of a new year and the best time to try something new...here you gooooo! a special thank you to @neoplatinum! i re-read several of her works to gain some inspiration for this one. highly recommend everyone checking out her posts :)

The heavy doors swung open, slamming against the wall with a resounding crash that echoed through the room. A tall, willowy figure dressed in a professional tan suit strode toward you, the sharp click of her heels punctuating the silence as she crossed the pristine marble floors. Behind her, two broad-shouldered bodyguards trailed in silence, their faces impassive. In contrast, her long black hair flowed behind her, each step full of purpose and anger. Scratch that. Lady Jimin was seething, her usually soft features now hard with barely contained anger.

“What is this, father?” Jimin addressed the old duke beside you, completely ignoring your presence.

Duke Yoo coughed, a nervous, helpless sound that filled the room. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fidgeted, clearly at a loss for words.

Before he could find his voice, his son stepped forward, his demeanor calm and predatory.

“Pleasant surprise seeing you here, Jimin.” Heesung’s smile was too smooth, his voice disgustingly sweet.

“Not much of a surprise, since this is the signing of my marriage certificate.” Jimin snapped, her eyes burning with a fire so intense it felt like she could burn the entire Y/LN enterprise building to the ground.

Your father, ever the one to involve himself in drama, couldn’t resist. “Ah, Lady Jimin. It's nice to finally meet my my future daughter-in-law.”

He moved toward her, arms wide, offering a false sense of warmth.

“There’s no way I’m getting tangled in your slimy business ventures, Y/LN.” Jimin spat, laced with pure contempt.

The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The Duke shot a quick, nervous glance at your father’s impassive expression, sweat dripping down his chin now.

“I’m so sorry, Y/LN-nim.” The Duke hurriedly walked over to your father’s side.

“We didn’t have time to explain the agreement to Jimin. Let us talk to her first.”

“It seems she’s lacking in manners.” your father’s voice dropped several octaves, low and dangerous. “Perhaps we should address this before we finalize anything.”

Jimin’s anger flared, but it was quickly replaced by something darker—fear. As she caught sight of the cruel smile spreading across your father’s face, a cold shiver ran down her spine. The man was notorious for his ruthlessness, a cold, calculating figure who had controlled the country’s economy for decades. His power wasn’t just in his wealth, it was in his ability to make people tremble.

Even her bodyguards hesitated, inching closer to her but unsure whether to act.

That’s when you stepped forward, your silence broken at last.

You moved in front of your father, your hand gripping his arm and pulling him toward the desk. The weight of the room seemed to shift as your presence took control.

“Enough, father.” Your voice was soft, but unwavering, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Let’s just finish this.”

Without another word, you reached for the inkstand, pressing your thumb into the dark ink and leaving a red fingerprint on the flimsy paper.

You lifted your gaze, locking eyes with Jimin, expressionless.

Jimin let out a frustrated sigh, her fingers threading through her hair as she surrendered herself to the inevitable. She walked over and pressed her own delicate fingers to the paper, leaving a red mark beside yours. The blood-red ink seemed to mock her, a symbol of fate she could neither escape nor control.

“Good.” Heesung’s voice sliced through the silence, “Let’s let the lovebirds go and we can start talking business.”

The banquet buzzed with noise, of laughter, chatter, and clinking glasses. Friends, business partners, and classmates gathered, their faces painted with polite smiles and hidden agendas. Even the royal family was here to watch you and Jimin repeat the fake vows, marking as the wedding of the year.

The media waited outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the wedding, to catch a glimpse of you and Jimin. After all, neither of you came from unknown backgrounds. Both of you were heirs to two of the most powerful families in the country. The cameras, the whispers...it was impossible to escape the spotlight, even if the marriage was nothing more than a strategic alliance disguised as a union.

Jimin, the eldest daughter from House Yoo of Luthraine, stood at the center of it all. Her family ruled the country’s banking, their influence far-reaching. The duke, her father, was weak and easily swayed. His wife, however, had made up for it with her sharp mind—until her untimely death left House Yoo in shambles, and its future in the hands of Heesung, her son. A reckless choice that led to disaster. Jimin had stepped up to manage the family’s failing finances as soon as she turned 18. Clever, soft-hearted, and breathtakingly beautiful, Yoo Jimin was someone everyone admired.

Then there was you.

The sole heir to Y/LN Enterprise, the largest multinational conglomerate in investment banking and real estate. You were known for your reserved demeanor, your sharp mind, and your ability to observe everything with calculating precision. Unlike your father, who was feared for his temper and ruthless business tactics, you operated quietly, out of the spotlight. Most people found you distant, cold even, but you never played the villain. You simply didn't care for the politics of the game.

Despite growing up in the same world, you and Jimin had never really connected.

You’d gone to the same prestigious, ridiculously overpriced private schools, but Jimin had always been surrounded by a crowd, adored by everyone. You, however, had preferred to keep to yourself, always in the background, never truly seen, yet always watching.

“What’s the bride doing here drinking alone?” A warm voice interrupted your thoughts, bringing a grin to your face.

“You should be celebrating with your wife for a happy marriage.”

“If that’s what you expect from an arranged marriage,” you laughed, sloshing the champagne in your glass, “then you’ve got it all wrong, Hwang.”

Yeji, your best friend and business partner, flopped down beside you. She smoothed out her lavender dress and white wool jacket with practiced grace. It was strange to see her in a dress, usually preferring professional suits for work.

“You look hot. Very lady-like,” you teased, earning a middle finger from her.

“Shut up, Y/LN.” She sniffed, then waved over a server to order a beer, an odd contrast to how she was dressed. “Besides, you’re the one who chose these stupid lavender dresses for the bridesmaids.”

“Jimin, not me.” You shrugged, your head spinning from the alcohol. “I didn’t attend any of the marriage meetings.”

Your gaze drifted across the room, landing on the raven-haired girl as she danced with her friends, smiling effortlessly, her usual scowl replaced with something more relaxed.

“Seriously?” Yeji’s voice was laced with disappointment.

“I didn’t expect you to let your partner do all the work. What happened to chivalry?”

“Honestly, Jimin looks like she’ll bite my head off every time I try to talk to her. So I thought I’d just let her decide.” You drained your glass, the words slipping out.

“I kind of ruined her chance for love, so the least I can do is let her have this.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” Yeji’s tone softened. “You were trying to help her. I think you should just give this marriage a chance.”

You shook your head stubbornly, ordering another drink. Yeji’s concerned gaze bore into you, but you ignored it. This was your pity party, and you were the guest of honor.

“I’m planning on keeping my distance,” you said, wobbling off the stool and grabbing your fresh glass.

“And finding a way to get her out of this mess.”

Yeji rushed to steady you, wrapping her arms around you in a warm embrace. Her heart ached for you, but this was beyond anyone’s control.

“Just try, Y/N,” she said gently, before muttering, “Jesus, you’re drunk.”

She managed to straighten you up, her hands resting on your shoulders as she faced you.

“Besides, didn’t you have a crush on her in high school?” Yeji added, her voice thoughtful as she stood before you.

“Shut up, Yeji,” you hissed, suddenly sober, your eyes flicking to something—or rather, someone—behind her.

“I mean, you liked her for, like, three years? Four?” Yeji rambled on, oblivious to the fear flashing in your eyes.

“Yeji. Yeji. Yeji.”

“What?” Yeji followed your gaze, then stumbled back in shock.

Jimin stood with another girl, her face twisted in something you couldn’t quite comprehend, while the girl beside her shot Yeji a playful grin.

“Ah… Lady Jimin,” Yeji quickly bowed, her face burning with embarrassment. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Yeji. Hwang Yeji.”

Jimin gave a curt nod, waving her off dismissively. “Just Jimin is fine. This is Ryujin, from the House of Shin.”

Jimin’s voice softened as she turned to you. “Y/N? Can I talk to you?”

You barely had time to compose yourself before you answered, “Yes.”

Without another word, Jimin walked off, expecting you to follow.

As you passed, you heard Ryujin's voice, teasing, “So… beer for the pretty lady? That’s special. I like special.”

The back door of the banquet hall creaked open as Jimin led you down a deserted hallway, pulling you into an empty room. You glanced over her, taking in the sight of her ivory lace wedding gown—still pristine, despite everything.

Yoo Jimin was undeniably beautiful, with soft brown eyes full of emotion, a delicate nose, and full pink lips. A cute mole on the corner of her mouth that would lift whenever she smiled. But ever since that fateful event two months ago, her face was set in a permanent frown, her brows furrowed in frustration. You wanted to reach out, smooth away the crease between them, but you stopped yourself.

“You’re drunk.” Jimin said, her voice a little softer as she surveyed your ruffled state.

“A bit.” you admitted, running a hand down your dress to smooth the creases.

She sighed, her expression softening. Then, she moved closer, adjusting the straps of your dress. The touch of her fingers against your skin sent a jolt of electricity through you. Your heart hammered in your chest.

You froze, then pulled away, putting more distance between you. Hurt flickered in her eyes, but she quickly masked it with annoyance.

“What did you want to talk about, Jimin?” you asked, trying to sound composed.

Jimin’s frown deepened as she met your gaze.

“I wanted to clarify a few things.” she said, her voice more subdued than before.

“I’ve been thinking about this marriage.”

You remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

“I never wanted this,” she continued, her words slow and deliberate. “I never wanted to marry you. I had no choice. I loathe your family—I know what your father’s been doing all these years—but my hands are tied. I just wanted you to know that before you get any wrong ideas.”

Her words hit harder than you expected, each one a jagged knife twisting in your chest. You knew how she felt, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

You forced a calm expression, masking the ache inside. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t choose this either,” you said, your voice cool.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to end this marriage soon.”

Jimin nodded, her expression softening for a second. “Good. Now let’s play the part of a happy newlywed.”

She grabbed your arm, pulling you back toward the banquet hall, both of you walking side by side, smiles on your faces. Neither one of them reached your eyes.

Living with you was unexpectedly easy.

You were quiet, meticulous to the point of being a neat freak, and even more of a workaholic than she was, rarely coming home before midnight. In the three months since your marriage, you hadn’t spent much time together. Yet, Jimin found herself looking forward to mornings. Brief moments where you prepared breakfast for both of you and shared a table. Most of the conversation came from her, while you listened quietly. You made it clear her words mattered, even if you rarely offered anything in return.

But she couldn’t shake the sense that she was speaking into a void. You were polite and attentive, yet you remained distant, never letting her glimpse beyond the surface.

She often snuck in a few glances at you while you drove her to work, admiring your side profile. She liked the sharpness of your cat-like eyes, always attentive to what she was saying, and the slight curve of your full lips whenever she said something funny. You were beautiful in an understated way, the kind of beauty that lingered in her mind.

Maybe marriage with you wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. But that didn’t stop her from craving something more.

Work had been unusually slow lately. Ever since her marriage to you, the problems plaguing the bank branches under House Yoo of Luthraine had mysteriously disappeared. Gone were the endless debt, trade misconduct, and countless scandals she’d spent months trying to resolve. Her brother was off doing God knows what, leaving her to manage everything else on her own. She could only hope he wasn’t causing more trouble...the kind that had landed her in this marriage in the first place.

Sighing, Jimin took off her thin-framed silver glasses and rubbed her eyes, signaling the rest of the board that the morning meeting was over. The meeting room gradually emptied, leaving the young royalty in solitude, save for Ryujin, casually leaning in the leather chair next to her with a sly grin.

“Yoo Jimin, tired of work? I can’t believe it.” The young duchess teased, “Did you and Y/N stay up too late doing the dirty?”

Jimin choked on her coffee, nearly spilling the dark liquid on her crisp blouse.

“What? No,” she sputtered, her face reddening at the thought. “I’ve just been having trouble sleeping.”

Ryujin raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Still hate her?”

“I don’t hate her,” Jimin muttered, her voice quieter now. “I never hated her. Just her family.”

“Well, you’re stuck with her now. Might as well make it work. Maybe you should try acutally talking to her.”

“We do talk,” Jimin countered defensively. “It’s just... one-sided. I’m the one doing all the sharing. She never talks about herself. It’s like trying to have a conversation with an AI.”

Ryujin held back a laugh, “well to be fair, you do talk a lot, Jimin.”

Jimin shot her a sharp glare. “I do not.”

Ryujin’s grin only widened. “Sure. And she’s always working late because she just loves the office, right? Has nothing to do with cleaning up your brother’s mess?”

“What mess?”

“Wait, she didn’t tell you?” Ryujin frowned. “Yeji mentioned they’ve been working overtime to cover up some of the debt Heesung left from one of your family branches. That was part of the marriage deal.”

Jimin slumped back in her seat, stunned. She knew her brother had contributed to the downfall of her family-led banks, but he’d kept the full scope of it hidden. She had assumed the marriage proposal was purely for your family’s access to her network and land holdings, not their debt.

You were the reason why her family debts were gone.

Ryujin’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “C’mon, let’s visit Y/LN Enterprise after work. I’ll drive.”

Jimin frowned, confused. “Why?”

“The way to the heart is through the stomach,” Ryujin said with a grin. “And I also want to see my girl.”

“Your girl?”

“Well, not yet. But I’m getting there,” Ryujin laughed, her confidence unwavering.

“What kind of food does she like?” Ryujin asked, backing her car out of the parking lot.

“I have no idea,” Jimin admitted reluctantly.

“Seriously?” Ryujin shot her an exasperated look, sighing in defeat. “Let me ask Yeji.”

This marriage was proving to be a tough case to crack.

Twenty minutes later, Jimin found herself standing in front of your office door, a box of jjajangmyeon in her hands. Ryujin had dropped her off with a giggle before driving away, Yeji seated beside her, cheeks dusted pink.

Jimin’s heart twisted with a pang of envy as she watched her friend. She wanted that kind of love, as much as she hated admitting it to herself.

Before she could muster the courage to knock, the door swung open, and you nearly bumped into her, face-first.

“What the f—” You stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening in surprise. “Jimin?”

“Hi.” Her voice was timid, suddenly laced with awkwardness.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, your concern obvious in your tone. “Did something happen?”

“No!” She cleared her throat hastily, then raised the box in her hands.

“I brought you dinner. Thought you might be hungry.”

“Oh, I—” Her gesture caught you off guard, your carefully constructed walls crumbling. You were already finding it hard to maintain your distance, and now this small act of care threatened to shatter your resolve completely.

“Thank you,” you said, regaining some composure. “Please, come in.”

You stepped aside, and she walked in, her gaze sweeping across the room.

Jimin took her time studying your office while you dug into the noodles, only now realizing just how hungry you were.

She paused at a photo on your desk, one of you and Yeji at senior prom. In it, Yeji was having the time of her life, while you looked like a drenched cat reluctantly dancing with your friend.

“You look so miserable,” Jimin giggled, her voice teasing as she turned to you.

Your mouth was full of noodles, and you hastily swallowed in an attempt to respond.

“Dancing isn’t exactly my forte,” you admitted, your tone calm, though the tips of your ears betrayed your embarrassment. “But you’re good at that, right? I remember you won prom queen that year.”

Her heart fluttered at your words. So you had been paying attention, even back then—even when Yeji had mentioned you had a crush on someone else in high school.

As she continued her inspection of your office, Jimin noted how bare it was. Aside from the photo with Yeji and a few scattered pens on your desk, there wasn’t much personality in the room. She made a mental note to change that.

When you finally finished eating, an awkward silence settled between the two of you.

“Thank you for the food,” you said again, your voice soft. “It was really good.”

Jimin hummed in acknowledgment, her honey-brown eyes piercing into yours. The intensity of her gaze made you fidget slightly, but you held it nonetheless.

“I know about the debt,” she said finally.

Your eyes widened briefly, but you masked your reaction quickly, choosing your words carefully.

“Sorry for not telling you,” you said, your tone steady, though your fingers twitched nervously against the desk. "I didn't know how."

She shook her head and reached over, her warm, soft hands covering yours. The simple touch sent your heart racing.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice gentle. Her lips curved into a smile, one that you weren’t used to seeing on her usually stoic face.

Your cheeks flushed scarlet, and you cleared your throat in embarrassment. “It’s nothing.”

At your feigned nonchalance, Jimin couldn’t resist teasing you. Maybe you weren’t as robotic as she’d initially thought.

With a mischievous grin, she intertwined her fingers with yours, her thumb drawing slow circles on your palm.

“Can you drive me home?” she asked innocently. “Ryujin drove me here.”

You quickly composed yourself, pulling your hand away and shaking your head as if to dispel the spell she had cast. Something about Yoo Jimin made resisting her nearly impossible, and maintaining your distance was proving to be an uphill battle.

“I can, but I have one more meeting tonight. Can you wait?”

She nodded, her soft smile making it hard to focus.

Just then, the speaker on your desk crackled to life.

“Ms. Y/LN, Ms. Kim is here.”

You pressed the button to respond. “Let her up.”

“There’s a meeting room next to my office,” you told Jimin. “You can wait for me there.”

She nodded again, her smile lingering as she moved toward the door. You couldn’t help but mirror the expression, the corners of your mouth lifting involuntarily.

“I’ll see you in a bit. Good luck with your meeting,” she said warmly, opening the door.

What she didn’t expect, however, was to come face-to-face with one of her flings from the past: Kim Minjeong of Legacy Capital Enterprise.

Jimin froze in the doorway, her breath hitching as recognition struck. Minjeong’s sharp gaze softened, her lips curling into a slow, confident smirk that Jimin had once thought charming but now found unbearably loaded with unspoken memories.

“Jimin.” Minjeong drawled, her voice dripping with smug familiarity. “It’s been a while.”

“Minjeong.” Jimin replied stiffly, her voice strained. Her fingers gripped the doorframe tightly, grounding herself as the weight of the past surged back, enveloping her in the awkwardness of their shared history.

Minjeong’s eyes flicked to the now-empty box of jjajangmyeon in Jimin’s hands, then trailed back up, her smirk deepening. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Late-night visits? How... intimate.”

Jimin’s heart skipped a beat. The insinuation in Minjeong’s tone made her skin crawl, her shoulders stiffening.

“I could say the same about you,” she retorted, her voice sharp but betraying a hint of nervousness.

Minjeong opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, you appeared behind Jimin, your steady presence immediately commanding the room.

“Ms. Kim,” you greeted coolly, your professional demeanor slipping into place. “Shall we?”

Minjeong’s gaze flicked to you briefly, her expression unreadable, before sliding back to Jimin. The smirk didn’t falter, but her eyes sparkled with something almost predatory.

“Of course.” she said smoothly, stepping into the office.

Jimin stepped aside hastily, her shoulders tight, feeling the weight of Minjeong’s gaze lingering on her as she passed. She silently prayed that Minjeong wouldn’t say anything more, wouldn’t twist the knife any further.

“I’ll see you after the meeting,” you said softly to Jimin, your voice warm despite the neutral expression on your face.

Jimin gave a quick nod, her stomach twisting as you closed the door behind you, sealing her alone with her thoughts.

Inside your office, Minjeong wasted no time in testing your patience.

“You have a lovely wife.” Minjeong remarked, leaning back in her chair as if she owned the room. “You must be very... proud.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, though your tone remained calm. “Jimin’s her own person. I don’t take pride in people like they’re possessions.”

Minjeong’s smirk didn’t waver. “Interesting choice of words.”

The meeting dragged on, but your focus remained sharp, despite the growing frustration bubbling beneath the surface. You didn’t have the luxury of cutting ties with Minjeong, not when your efforts to rebuild Jimin’s family’s branches relied on securing this partnership.

But with Minjeong’s intentions becoming increasingly transparent. She found opportunities to steer the conversation back to Jimin, her admiration thinly veiled beneath casual comments.

“She’s matured a lot.” Minjeong said at one point, her voice almost wistful. “There’s something about her...strong, yet so beautifully delicate.”

Your jaw tightened, but you forced yourself to respond evenly. “She’s always been remarkable.”

Minjeong’s smirk widened, as if she took your words as a challenge.

When the meeting ended, you walked Minjeong out, your tone polite but measured.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Kim.”

She gave you a sly smile before glancing once more at the closed door to the meeting room where Jimin was waiting.

“I’ll be seeing you both soon, I’m sure.”

Her words hung in the air like a warning before she turned on her heel and left.

You found Jimin in the meeting room, perched on the couch with her phone in hand. She glanced up as you entered, her expression betraying unease, embarrassment, and something else, something she couldn’t quite mask.

“Is she gone?” she asked, her tone wavering, as if she was hiding something.

“She is,” you replied, sitting down across from her. “Who is she?”

Jimin hesitated, her fingers toying with the hem of her sleeve. “Someone I used to... see.” she admitted reluctantly.

Your brow raised slightly. “See, as in date?”

The young royalty nodded, her gaze dropping to her lap. “If you can call it that. It wasn’t serious, and it didn’t end well.”

You hummed thoughtfully, leaning back in your seat. “Well, for what it’s worth, she made it pretty clear she’s still interested in you.”

Jimin’s head shot up, her eyes wide. “She—what?”

You chuckled dryly, trying to cover your jealousy.

“She practically spent the whole meeting weaving you into the conversation. Subtlety isn’t her strong suit.”

Jimin groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I can’t believe her.”

A silence settled between you before you spoke again, your tone softer this time. “You know, about the whole marriage thing...”

Jimin lowered her hands slowly, looking at you with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

“It’s just for appearances,” you said, your voice calm but firm. “If you want to see someone else—Minjeong or anyone else—I’m not going to stop you.”

Her lips parted in surprise, and you continued.

“This arrangement isn’t about controlling you or your choices. You’re free to live your life however you want.”

Jimin stared at you for a moment, her honey-brown eyes searching yours. Then, a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite place

She hesitated before adding, “The same goes for you, you know. You didn’t exactly choose this either.”

Your chest tightened, but you quickly masked it with a nonchalant shrug. “Something like that,” you said, lying through your teeth.

You stood, offering her a hand. “Ready to head home?”

Jimin slipped her hand into yours, and as you led her out of the office, the warmth of her touch lingered far longer than it should have.

Your relationship with Jimin had changed in ways that felt both comforting and unsettling. The walls between you gradually fell, replaced by the kind of easy flow you hadn’t expected. She’d drop by your office for coffee, and linger during breaks, and suddenly it wasn’t just about the arranged situation anymore. It was about two people learning to be around each other, to talk, to laugh, to share moments that made you forget about the circumstances.

She’d visit you at work often, showing up unannounced just to grab coffee or chat. At first, it seemed like a random visit, but the more it happened, the more it became clear that she enjoyed spending time with you. You’d even look forward to her visits, finding comfort in the quiet moments you shared away from the chaos of your daily lives.

Social events became less of a hassle, too. Instead of sitting off to the side or making small talk with people you didn’t care about, Jimin would be there, and the two of you would engage in casual conversations, the kind that made you forget about everything else happening around you.

You were friends, you thought. Genuine friends.

But even in those easy moments, there were signs, small, subtle things that made you pause. You noticed Jimin staring at her phone more often, her thumb flicking over the screen in a way that was hard to miss.

You had a good idea of who it was. Minjeong. It wasn’t like you hadn’t expected this. After all, you’d given Jimin the freedom to see other people. You had told her—no, insisted—that this arrangement wasn’t about control, that she could live her life however she saw fit.

And yet, watching her respond to Minjeong’s texts, the way her face lit up when she’d see a new message, it grated on you in ways you didn’t want to admit.

You weren’t supposed to care.

But you did.

On your birthday, you could feel the familiar mix of emotions swirling inside you as Jimin walked into the office, dressed in a beautiful flowy dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. The soft fabric of the dress seemed to move with her effortlessly, its delicate hue catching the light in a way that made her seem almost ethereal. The way it draped around her waist and flared out just enough to hint at her figure was both graceful and captivating. Her hair, styled in loose waves, framed her face perfectly, soft strands falling gently over her shoulders and glowing under the office lights.

She had this quiet elegance about her, something so effortlessly beautiful that it made your heart ache just by looking at her.

Her eyes, always warm, had this soft, shimmering glow when they met yours, like everything around her faded a little, just so she stood out more. You couldn’t really explain it, but in that moment, it felt like she was the only thing in focus. She wasn’t trying to look perfect—she never had to—but the way she moved, how that dress just clung to her in the right places, it made your head spin.

You couldn’t take your eyes off her. It wasn’t like you wanted to stare, but she made it impossible to do anything else. She wasn’t trying, yet there she was, making everything else blur and all you could think about was how damn beautiful she was.

And in that moment, you thought she came to surprise you for your birthday.

But how silly it was to think that when you never told her your birthday.

Your eyes caught hers, but her smile was different. It was more forced, as though she was conflicted. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but it felt like she was already pulling away.

You tried to brush it off, but the question tumbled out before you could stop it.

“You look beautfiul,” you said, your voice casual but your stomach knotting with a strange feeling.

“Going somewhere?”

Jimin hesitated for a split second, a flicker of something passing across her face before she answered. “Yeah, I’m meeting Minjeong for dinner.”

The words hit you like a cold splash of water. You had known it was coming. You had prepared yourself for it. But hearing it out loud, so casually, felt different.

“Oh, Minjeong...” you said, trying hard to keep on the mask of calmness that seemed to be slipping the longer you were married to Jimin.

“Have fun.” You couldn’t keep the edge out of your tone, even though you tried to mask it with a smile. “I’ll be out drinking with Yeji later. Should be good.”

Jimin nodded, a slight unease in her expression, but she didn’t press the issue. She just smiled, a little too tightly, and turned to leave.

“I’ll see you later,” she said softly. “I just wanted to check on you first.”

As she walked away, the weight of your own words hit you like a slap. You had told her she could see whoever she wanted. You had given her the space to do so. Yet, the jealousy that twisted in your chest, like you were the one breaking the rules you had set.

Maybe you didn’t have the right to feel this way. Maybe you didn’t even have the right to feel hurt. You had told Jimin she was free to make her own choices, to be with whomever she wanted. And yet, the jealousy remained, simmering under the surface. You wanted to ignore it, to push it away, but it lingered, sharp and insistent.

You had given her the freedom to choose. But you had never thought about how hard it would be to watch her choose someone else.

It was well past midnight, and you were still at the pub with Yeji, both of you tipsy and getting progressively more sloppy. The karaoke was horrendous, your voices completely out of tune, but neither of you seemed to care. Shots kept coming, and you were taking them like it was a contest, each one making your thoughts blur a little more.

“I don’t get why you don’t just tell her you like her,” Yeji slurred, her voice thick with alcohol as she tried to keep herself upright.

“Tell her you like her, and you wouldn’t be here like this.”

You hiccupped, eyes half-lidded, and tried to focus on her. “You—” you muttered, “you know it’s not that simple.”

“How is it not?” Yeji pointed a finger at you, wobbly, but firm in her opinion.

“You’re married to her. Married. What’s the problem?”

You took another drink, feeling the burn in your throat, and shrugged. “I promised her… promised I’d work on getting a divorce. Promised her on our wedding day.”

Yeji made a face, clearly too drunk to hide her disbelief. “That’s fucking stupid,” she mumbled, staring at you like you were an idiot. “Your father would kill you.”

You sighed, glancing away, the alcohol making it easier to pretend it didn’t bother you. “Yeah, I know. But I’m worried about what happens to her after the divorce.”

“Is that why you’ve been making me do all this overtime with you?” Yeji waved her hand dismissively, clearly trying to piece things together. “Doing global stocks and all that shit?”

“I just want her to be okay,” you muttered, the words slurring slightly. “I want her to have someone who can protect her. Make sure her family ties stay strong.”

“And that person is Minjeong?” Yeji gasped, eyes widening with realization. You didn’t even look up, staring into your glass as you mumbled a response.

“She could be,” you said, taking another shot.

Yeji shook her head, still processing everything through her alcohol fog.

“Have you even asked Jimin if she still wants the damn divorce?”

You shook your head, a little too slowly. “No. She doesn’t know what happens if it does either.”

Yeji slapped you on the head, the impact startling you more than it should’ve.

“Ow,” you groaned, rubbing your forehead and glaring at her.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Yeji muttered, slurring even more now. “Just tell her you like her and don’t get divorced.”

You sighed heavily, shaking your head. “I told you. She doesn’t like me like that.”

Giving up, Yeji signaled for another tray of shots, her face set in determination.

“Fine, fine. You’ll get it someday, I guess.”

You downed the next shot, feeling the warmth spread through you, and tried to shake off the uncomfortable tension. At this point, the only thing you could focus on was the next drink, the blur of the night, and the gnawing feeling in your chest that no amount of alcohol would fix.

Jimin was worried.

You hadn’t picked up your phone ever since she left your office that night, and it was nearly four in the morning. The unease in her chest only deepened as the minutes passed without a word from you.

Her date with Minjeong had ended up being a disaster. The evening had been an attempt to forget you, a futile one at that. Minjeong had asked Jimin out, and despite her hesitation, Jimin agreed, thinking it might help push her feelings for you out of her mind. But it didn’t work.

Every moment of the date was filled with thoughts of you, how you looked when she mentioned Minjeong’s name, that small flicker of hurt Jimin had seen in your eyes, and how much she wished you had been the one to ask her out instead.

Jimin had gone to dinner with Minjeong in a forlorn attempt to move past her emotions, but all it did was make her feel further from you. As the night went on, she couldn't shake the feeling of regret. She realized, with each passing second, that she didn’t want to be with Minjeong.

She wanted you.

She wanted you to be the one asking her out, to be the one sharing the moment with her. Instead, there she was, pretending to enjoy a night she didn’t want, with someone she didn’t feel for.

And then there was your birthday.

Jimin hadn’t even realized it until she saw Ryujin’s message. Your birthday. How could she have not known? She had been so wrapped up in her own conflicted feelings, and now she had missed it. She hadn’t even called you to wish you well. Instead, she had gone on a date with Minjeong, leaving you alone when you should have been her priority. The guilt gnawed at her. She should have been celebrating with you, but instead, she abandoned you for an old fling.

Jimin couldn’t stop thinking about how she must have hurt you, how selfish she had been.

Finally, the sound of the door opening broke her thoughts. One of your drivers had you slung over his back, and Ryujin was close behind, carrying Yeji in her arms.

You groaned as the driver gently set you down on the couch, before grimly walking out of the door.

Ryujin’s eyes met Jimin’s, and she simply shook her head in disappointment before carrying her half-asleep girlfriend away.

The young royalty stood there for a moment, feeling lost. You lay on the couch, flat on your back, murmuring incoherently, your arms covering your face. She couldn't stand seeing you like this—vulnerable and clearly intoxicated. It made her feel even worse for not being there for you earlier.

Jimin walked to your room and picked out your night clothes, the weight of her guilt growing heavier with each step. As she returned to you, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her emotions tangled. She knew she should have been there with you. She should have been the one to care for you on your birthday, not someone else. She couldn’t keep running from how she felt about you anymore.

She gently walked over to you and sat down next to you, her hands shaking as she reached for your arm. She didn’t know what to say or how even to start, but she had to do something.

“Y/N?” she gently shook your arm. “Let’s get you changed.”

When she reached over to remove your blazer, your eyes immediately flew open. The intensity of your gaze caught her off guard, and she froze for a moment, her breath catching.

Your hazy brown eyes met hers, and you frowned, your voice slow and slurred.

“You are a very pretty lady, but I am married.”You tried to pull your blazer closer to your chest. “My wife is very beautiful, and she won’t like it if you touch me.”

Jimin’s heart fluttered despite herself.

She couldn’t help but smile at how cute you were, drunk and a little delirious. Despite the alcohol, there was a vulnerability to you, a sincerity that made her chest tighten. You were a different version of yourself, and she couldn’t help but feel drawn to this side of you.

Exasperated but finding you incredibly endearing, Jimin giggled softly, her worries momentarily fading.

“I am your wife, pabo,” she said with a teasing smile, her fingers brushing your cheek as she gently cupped your face.

“Really?” Your eyes widened, your voice full of wonder.

“Yes,” she said, finally managing to remove your blazer and start pulling off your dress shirt.

You whistled, “Damn I got lucky.”

Jimin rolled her eyes, her face flushing pink as she avoided looking at your body, quickly pulling the nightshirt over your frame. It wasn’t easy, seeing you like this, vulnerable, messy, and it felt like everything that was left unsaid between you both was now laid bare in the silence.

After a while of wheedling and convincing, she managed to drag you into her bathroom. She gently lowered you onto the edge of the tub, sitting down behind you as she reached for the makeup remover.

You were a mess, leaning heavily into her as she wiped your face, the gentle motion soothing in the quiet. As she cleaned your face, her thoughts turned inward again, the guilt over the earlier part of the night resurfacing. She needed to say something, but she didn’t know how to start. She wanted to take it all back, to be honest with you about how she felt, about how much she wished you’d been the one there with her instead of Minjeong.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Mhmm.” You slurred, still dazed, her mind a bit foggy. “For what?”

“For going on the date with Minjeong… and for not spending your birthday with you,” Jimin admitted, her words tinged with regret.

“S'not your fault.” Your voice was slow but comforting, the warmth in her tone meant to ease the guilt. “It’s okay.”

“But I hurt you,” Jimin pressed, her eyes searching for any sign of forgiveness.

“Maybe, but I had a crush on you since high school, so you get a free card.” your voice wavered with a small giggle, still distant, as though you words were floating in and out of consciousness.

What?

Jimin’s heart skipped a beat, a warmth spreading through her chest as the truth washed over her. The crush Yeji had mentioned on their wedding night...was Jimin all along?

Her heart fluttered at the thought, and in an unexpected twist, a wave of embarrassment rolled over her. She realized, with a soft flush, that she was jealous of the past version of herself.

She finished drying your face with a clean towel, but her mind was elsewhere. She needed to tell you. She couldn’t keep holding it back, even if she was scared, even if everything felt so uncertain.

“During the date, I kept thinking how much I wished it was you who asked me to go on a date,” she admitted, her words barely above a whisper.

You paused, looking at her with slow, heavy eyes, as if processing her words.

Jimin’s heart thudded in her chest as she waited for a response.

Was she too late? Had she ruined everything?

But then you looked at her, your eyes suddenly sharp and focused, and her heart stuttered in her chest.

“Do you still want a divorce?” you asked, your voice soft but carrying an emotion she couldn’t place.

Jimin hesitated.

Her emotions were swirling, you were the one she wanted, and had always wanted. But the doubt lingered, and she needed to hear you say it, needed to know if there was something real between you both.

“I…” She shook her head slowly, her voice almost trembling. “I don’t think so.”

Your face broke into a grin, that rare, beautiful smile that Jimin had longed to see, and her heart melted in response.

“Then would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow, Lady Jimin?”

She laughed, the nervous tension breaking. “Will you still remember this tomorrow?”

You quickly nodded, your voice steady, “Yes.”

“Then yes,” she replied, her heart soaring. “I would love to go on a date with you.”

You punched the air in excitement, nearly toppling over. Jimin couldn't help but laugh at your dorkiness. She had liked this side of you, so carefree, so you.

She couldn’t hide her adoration for you any longer. She leaned closer and whispered, “Close your eyes.”

You did without hesitation, trusting her with a vulnerability that mirrored her own.

And before you could even process it, her soft, full lips were pressed against yours. The kiss was gentle, lingering just a little longer than you expected. The touch of her lips, soft and sweet, sent a shiver down your spine, your heart pounding as the world around you seemed to stop.

It was more than just a kiss. It was everything that had been left unsaid, everything you both had been too scared to express. And as Jimin pulled back, your eyes still closed, a smile spread across your face.

It has always been her.

lots of angst in the next chapter! giving you guys a warning here first 😬 be prepared

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rassicas · 1 month ago

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The Art of Splatoon 3, pages 300 and 301, translated and typeset. The page features the map of the world of Splatoon 3, which had already been translated officially...mostly. There were a few landmarks present in the JP version that aren't in the english version. I went and added those missing landmarks and included the map as a separate higher res image. You can compare it to the official english version here. The names of the locations are pretty direct translations. Yokosuka peninsula and Chi-Ba (minus the dash) are real places in Japan. Kara Highway comes from how Bankara and Haikara both end in "kara"...if I were to localize it, I'd call it the InkSplat Highway... Atsugi oasis I assume is a play on atsugiri, a thick slice of food, and atsui, hot (???uncertain) I also took the liberty of changing "border zone" to "prefectural border". This implies Inkadia and the Splatlands are part of the same country, and is info present on the JP map, but not on the official english translation.

transcript of text under the cut...

Worldly Investigations We investigated a variety of places, and we discovered many fascinating things, such as traces of humanity, interesting structures, and more on the lives of marine creatures living in the present day. The following is a supplemental report of our investigation, with a map included.

The Splatlands A region located to the west of Inkadia. It consists of the Outer Splatlands Desert and its surrounding area, and has the second largest urban and economic area after Inkadia. The region is famous as a world-class tourist destination, with Scorch Gorge and the Splatlands Desert National Park still existing in their nature-rich prehistoric state. Numerous settlements have been scattered around rivers and the Crater since ancient times, and a unique and diverse culture has developed in the region.

Rocket Launch Pad The rocket was aimed for a new world separate from Earth, but an unfortunate accident occurred in the final stage of development, and the human race perished without the rocket taking off. The launch pad is in near perfect condition, and could be reactivated anytime, so as long as there is enough energy.

Undertow Spillway A huge underground flood bypass that was destroyed during the last great war. It had been abandoned for many years and garnered a negative legacy due to the enormous cost of dismantling it. However, when an area with relatively few collapses underwent maintenance and opened up as a battle stage, its popularity exploded. The longtime fans of the spillway loudly protested against the changes, but this opposition has subsided.

Trizooka A modified version of a special weapon once used in Inkopolis. A huge compressor fills the bottle with a huge amount of ink, and with compressed air, shoots the ink forward in a spiral. It's considered good manners to pick up the fallen bottles after battle.

Red Hammertreads Anakki has caught on to the latest trends, and has presented a collection of "looting"-themed footwear. The message of "Take what you want by force!" resonated with the boom of rough and rugged Splatlandian fashion, creating some die-hard fans. The motif of the collection is a gangster octopus, which has turned blood red with rage. This deep crimson color is symbolic of the collection.

#splatoon translations #splatoon lore #splatoon #splatoon 3 #splatoon world

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

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Just Like Dad (1 of 4)

Content & Warnings: referenced military career, domestic fluff, some humor, brief mention of pregnancy, canon-typical swearing, Simon is a girl dad

Word Count: 890

A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series

Filling out a parent questionnaire leads to Simon having to answer a hard question.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // just like dad

“Daddy.”

A small fist curls around the bottom of Simon’s shirt, tugging. He glances down, finding his daughter there holding out a piece of paper.

“What’s this?” Simon takes it from her, his gaze shifting to the black ink.

“It’s for school.”

It’s a questionnaire. Simons scans over the questions quickly before returning his gaze to his daughter. “Give me a second, love.”

Simon packs up the files he brought home from work. Grabbing a pencil, he strolls out to the living room, his daughter on his heels. Simon takes a seat in the middle of the sofa, placing the paper and pencil on the coffee table. His daughter snags a pillow off the couch, dropping it on the floor next to his legs. Sitting, she stares at him expectantly.

Simon nods toward the paper. “You need to practice your letters.”

She groans. “But it’s about you!”

Simon slowly slides the paper and pencil over to her. She pouts but takes up the pencil, the graphite tip poised above the first line.

“Name,” she says, glancing up at him.

“You know my name.”

She squints at him and looks back at the paper, taking her time to write each letter. She holds it up and Simon smiles. It’s stilted and a bit sideways, but it’s there. She asks several more questions like favorite food and color. Simon doesn’t understand the point to it but they’re likely doing a project on a parent.

“Job,” she says, expectant.

Job. His occupation. That’s a fucking complicated question.

“Military,” he answers.

She frowns. “How do you spell that?”

“Sound it out.”

She does so slowly, elongating each letter as she writes.

Simon glances over her shoulder and chuckles. “That’s an ‘i,’ darling.” He points and she aggressively erases her mistake.

When she finishes, she looks up at him. “Explain.”

Explain. Explain.

Explain…what?

That he kills people? That he negotiates the release of hostages? That he faces violence every day he’s on the job? That he sees some of the worst in people?

How the bloody hell does he explain all that to a six-year-old girl? How does he summarize the violence into a watered-down version that’s digestible enough for her, her teacher, the other students, and her school.

Simon swallows. “I stop bad people from doing bad things.”

She blinks. “Do I have to write all that?”

Simon barks a laugh. “It’s one sentence.”

She silently mimics him, shaking her little body in annoyance as she begins to write. Simon has no idea where the attitude comes from, but it’s likely from Johnny.

“Next question,” prompts Simon once the sentence is written down.

She hesitates and then turns in his direction. “Can I be like you when I grow up?”

Could she? Yes. But the very idea of her in the line of danger frightens him. It twists his stomach, knowing all the things that could befall her if she were to follow in his footsteps. Simon’s gut-instinct is to tell her “No.”

“Why do you want to be like me?” he asks.

She shrugs. “You’re strong. I want to be strong like you.”

“You don’t need to do what I do to be strong.”

“Uh, no,” she says, matter-of-fact, peering at the next question.

Fucking hell, she’s going to be an absolute hellion when she hits puberty. Sighing, Simon rubs at his temple. For some reason, he glances away from his daughter, his gaze landing on you in the hallway. With your hand cradling your slightly swollen belly, you watch on with an amused expression.

Number two. Will this one be like her? Wanting to do what he does?

“Daddy.”

Simon turns back to his daughter. She points at the paper with the tip of her pencil, head tilted slightly to the side.

He leans forward. “What’s the next question?”

“What does your day look like?” She grins up at him, ready for his answer.

Simon hears your soft laugh from the hall, and then your footsteps across the carpet. Your hand reaches out to cradle the back of Simon’s neck. On instinct, he lifts his arm, resting his hand on the small of your back.

“Go on, Simon. Tell her,” you tease, knowing that he’s struggling to form an answer.

“Do you put your mask on first?” The question is innocent but Simon laughs anyway.

“No,” he chuckles, gently taking the paper and pencil from her. “I kiss your mother first.”

Simon drags you in for a kiss.

“Ugh. Gross.” She makes a face, tiny nose scrunching up in disgust.

“Still want my job?” Simon presents the paper and she snatches up in her little fist.

“No thanks,” she sing-songs, stuffing the paper in her backpack, crinkling it up.

You hide your grin in Simon’s shoulder, and Simon tugs you closer. “Good save,” you murmur.

Simon presses his lips to the top of your head. “She has one of my masks.”

“I know,” you giggle. “Found it under her pillow this morning. I put it in your bag.”

“Was it covered in your makeup this time?”

“Had to wash it.”

Simon shakes his head in exasperation. He’s not annoyed. Just perplexed. He doesn’t understand why his daughter wants to be just like him.

It’s because she doesn’t know.

No. She doesn’t know. But one day she will. She might even change her mind.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado @wren5650 @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @pearljamislife @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @cinnabeanz @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @xxkay15xx @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605 @contractedcriteria @lovely-ateez @gingergirl06 @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @blackhawkfanatic @suhmie

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godricgryffinsnore · 9 days ago

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Dellaaaa hi my loveeeeee! Hope you are well and hope you've been having a great day so far!! Just wanna drop an idea here, up to you to write it out - but I've been thinking a lot about professional Quidditch player James and reader is interviewing him. He's all friendly and flirty with his answers and I just - swoooon at the thought of him giving out flirty answers to interviews.

Sending you lots of love, angel! mwaaa~

Bludgers and Butterflies ♡ : A James Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : James Potter x fem!reader

summary : When a charming Quidditch star meets a shy but witty journalist during an interview, playful banter turns into something far more magical—proving that sometimes, all it takes is one conversation to change everything.

warnings : Extreme fluff, Mild suggestive flirting, Excessive charm from James Potter, Heart-melting romantic declarations, Potential swooning, (Proceed with caution—side effects may include giggling, blushing, and uncontrollable smiling.) Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : I am utterly delighted to write about Professional Quidditch Player James Potter—because honestly, who wouldn’t be?! The man’s got that messy hair, golden-boy charm, and enough flirt energy to power the entire Hogwarts castle. Writing this felt like sipping hot cocoa while being serenaded by a broomstick-riding flirt with a heart of gold. Huge thanks to Miko for requesting this—you’ve sparked a very fluffy daydream and filled it with smirks, blushes, and a whole lot of James Potter magic. 💫💛 Hope you enjoy, my love <3 and THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING!!!

word count : 1k

main master list <3

banners : @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune

The lights of the press room glared down like a thousand eyes—unblinking, expectant, and annoyingly hot. James Potter leaned back in his chair with the practiced ease of someone who’d spent a lifetime being watched, admired, and occasionally tackled mid-air by Bulgarian Beaters.

And then she walked in.

Not the league president, not the publicist, not even the press coordinator with his eternal clipboard. Her. The interviewer.

She wasn’t wearing anything extraordinary—just a smart set of robes, ink-stained fingers, and the softest little smile. But Merlin, did she shine. Like a Snitch in sunlight. Like a poem whispered at midnight. Like the exact kind of trouble James would gladly fall headfirst into without a helmet.

He straightened up at once.

“Mr. Potter,” she greeted, offering her hand, her voice a melody dipped in honey and ink.

“Call me James,” he said, shaking it and wondering if she could hear the way his heart was currently conducting a Quidditch match in his chest. “Or future love of your life, if you prefer.”

She blinked. Laughed. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you always this forward with journalists?”

“Only the ones who look like they walked out of my daydreams.”

Merlin’s pants, was that too much? He cursed internally. But she just gave him that shy little smile again—the one that felt like a bludger to the ribs.

They sat, and she brought out her quill. “Let’s begin. How does it feel to be the youngest Chaser to ever win the British-Irish League?”

James pretended to ponder. “Honestly? It feels like the world is conspiring to impress you.”

She let out a snort, quickly masked by a cough. “Stick to the sport, Mr. Potter.”

“Fine,” he said, grinning. “It feels good. Like scoring the winning goal while your mum’s in the stands and your dad’s pretending not to cry.”

She scribbled something down, cheeks tinged pink. “And what motivates you during high-pressure matches?”

“You.”

She looked up.

“Alright,” he amended with a smirk, “you and the sheer fear of getting smacked in the face by a rogue Quaffle. But mostly you.”

“I’m going to write that down, you know,” she warned, though the blush on her cheeks betrayed the storm he was starting in her heart.

“Please do. I want future generations to know that I fell for the girl who asked me about high-pressure matches and accidentally stole my soul.”

The interview continued, filled with professional questions answered with entirely unprofessional charm. She tried to remain composed, she really did. But James watched her fidget with the edge of her parchment, bite the tip of her quill, smile without meaning to.

By the end, she was flustered, flattered, and more than a little amused.

“Well,” she said, packing her things. “That’s all for today.”

James stood with her, his hand grazing hers by accident—or fate.

“Wait,” he said. “Before you go. Can I ask you something completely un-sport-related?”

She tilted her head. “Go on.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice dropping just a little. “Can I have your number?”

She laughed—really laughed this time. And then, with a sigh that sounded like it carried every secret wish she’d ever had, she handed him a tiny piece of parchment with her name and contact information. A soft, shy smile bloomed on her lips.

James stared at it, then at her, as if he’d just been handed the map to every dream he didn’t know he had.

“This is it,” he said softly, to no one and everyone. “This is the woman I’m going to spend my entire waking life with.”

Her eyes widened. “You just met me.”

“I know,” he said, already breathless with devotion. “But I’ve caught Snitches in storms and played with broken fingers. And nothing has ever felt more right than you standing in front of me with ink on your hands and that smile on your lips.”

She smiled wider, a little dazed, a little delighted, and before she could reply, he stepped back like he’d fall even deeper if he stayed a moment longer.

── .✦

Later that night, James flopped onto his bed and pressed his enchanted mirror to his lips.

“Sirius.”

It took three seconds before Sirius Black’s face appeared, his hair a mess and his expression suspicious.

“Did you get hexed again?”

“No,” James said, a smile creeping onto his face, softer than clouds and warmer than Butterbeer. “I met someone.”

Sirius blinked. “What, like a fan?”

“No. Her.” James stared at the ceiling, dreamy and dazed. “She interviewed me today. And I swear, Pads, it was like flying without a broom. I’ve never felt something like this.”

“You’ve known her for five minutes,” Sirius deadpanned.

“I know, but—her smile, mate. It could unseat gravity. I made her laugh. She blushed. She gave me her number. And the second she did, I just knew. I want to be by her side. I want to see that smile every day. I want to be the one she talks to when she’s tired and when she’s happy and when her tea’s gone cold.”

Sirius stared at him like he’d been confunded.

“You’re not joking.”

James shook his head. “I never believed in love at first sight, but just one glance at her, and I felt like—like I’m home.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Sirius grinned. “You’re completely gone.”

James sighed, lovestruck. “Completely.”

And for once, Sirius didn’t tease. He just nodded.

“Then go get her, mate. Go find your home.”

#della 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 #della loves miko 💛#james potter x reader #james potter #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #james potter fanfiction #james potter fic #james potter imagine #quidditch #james fleamont potter #della answered ⋆˚✿˖°#della’s mutuals ᡣ𐭩.ᐟ #della’s inbox 𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡

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kooffeecup · 3 months ago

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POCKETS OF STARLIGHT

valentine special!

Your soft boyfriend bakes amazing fortune cookies with love notes inside.

genre : fluff fluffff

Pairing : soft baby boy jk! x reader.

Very short and cute

banner by me @kooffeecup

—

The scent of rosemary and burnt crust greeted You as you stepped into the apartment, your keys jingling softly in the quiet. The lights were dimmed, replaced by the flicker of tea candles scattered across the kitchen counter and there, in the center of it all, stood Jungkook.

He was wearing the apron you’d bought him as a joke last Christmas bright pink with “Kiss the Chef” embroidered in looping cursive his sleeves rolled up to reveal faint flour smudges along his forearms. A lasagna sat half-sliced on the stove, its edges charred but the center oozing cheese.

“You… cooked?” You breathed, unable to hide your grin.

Jungkook’s ears reddened. “Tried to,” he mumbled, twisting a dishcloth between his hands. “The recipe said it was ‘foolproof,’ but I think I—oh.”

You crossed the room before he could finish, cupping his face and pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. He stilled, then leaned into your touch, his shoulders relaxing.

“It’s perfect,” you said, thumbing away a smudge of tomato sauce on his cheek.

“Liar,” he whispered, but his eyes crinkled, pleased.

Dinner was eaten cross-legged on the living room floor, where Jungkook had built a makeshift fortress of blankets and fairy lights. The lasagna was, objectively, a disaster undercooked in some layers, volcanic in others but You devoured every bite, laughing as Jungkook sheepishly picked blackened noodles off his plate.

“I have dessert,” he announced suddenly, scrambling to his feet. He returned with a lumpy mason jar clutched in his hands, filled with what looked like…

“Fortunes?” You tilted her head.

“Fortunate cookies,” he corrected, cheeks puffing. “I wrote notes inside. For you.” His voice softened. “Just… things I’ve wanted to say but… couldn’t figure out how.”

Your chest tightened. Carefully, you cracked open a cookie. The slip inside read: “Your laugh on rainy days > all my playlists.”

Another, “I stole your shampoo last week. Smells like home.”

Another, “Wish I could paint the way you look when you sleep. But I’d need more colors.”

By the fifth note, your vision blurred. Jungkook watched you, knees drawn to his chest, gnawing his thumbnail until you reached for his hand.

“Baby,” youbwhispered, “this is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever....”

“There’s more,” he interjected, suddenly urgent. From beneath the couch, he pulled a small wooden box, its surface sanded smooth and stained the deep blue of twilight. Inside lay a cluster of folded paper stars.

“Open one,” he urged, voice shaky.

You unfolded a star to find a date scribbled inside: 10/22. First time we danced in the kitchen. You were barefoot. I stepped on your toes twice. You said it didn’t hurt. It did. I saw you limp.

Another, 3/14. You cried during that dog documentary. I wanted to hug you but didn’t. Regret it every day.

The last star, Today. I love you. I love you. I love you.

When you looked up, Jungkook’s eyes were glistening, his lips pressed into a wobbly line. Without a word, you tugged him into your lap, his back against your chest, and wrapped your arms around him. He shuddered, melting into your embrace, his fingers interlacing with yours.

“Why the stars?” you asked, nose buried in his hair.

“So you’d always have constellations,” he murmured. “Even on nights the sky’s too dark to see them.”

You stayed like that for hours, trading stories mapped by paper and ink, until the candles burned low. When You finally fetched your gift a hand-bound book of poems she’d written, each one a vignette of their quietest moments Jungkook traced the words with reverent fingers, pausing at the entry titled “Him, in the Half-Light.”

“You see me,” he said quietly.

“Always,” you replied.

Later, as they lay tangled in blankets, Jungkook’s head resting over your heartbeat, You realized he’d slipped something into your palm a final fortune, unfurled to reveal a single request:

“Let me be yours forever?”

Your answer was a kiss, slow and syrup-sweet, and the way his shy hands finally, finally learned the shape of your without trembling.

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writingpandagoth · 1 month ago

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Can I request a fic? Picture this it's the Yule Ball, Sirius (or one other the of marauders up to you) asks the reader to be their date to the ball in all their cocky suaveness just for the reader to say they already have a date. Cut scene to the ball reader waltzes in with young Severus and the marauders blow a gasket. Up to you if it's fluff or angst I'll eat up anything you write with pleasure lol

You ask, and shall receive.

I hope it fills your expectations.❤️

Silver Strings

The library had always been his refuge—but tonight, Severus Snape was pacing between the rows of books like a man on the edge of a cliff.

He’d held the little box in his hand for nearly an hour, palm sweating through the velvet. It had taken him weeks to perfect—weeks of stolen hours in the Potions classroom, of tiny spells and hours of carving by hand, of enchanting and re-enchanting until it felt right. And still, as he stood near your favorite reading spot—hidden behind the ancient Arithmancy section—he was convinced it wasn’t enough.

Because you weren’t like anyone else.

You weren’t cruel, or oblivious, or the type to chase Marauder drama like it was air. You were thoughtful and clever, always with ink-stained fingertips and soft expressions, like you saw things others didn’t—and never used it to wound.

And you smiled at him.

You talked to him. Sat beside him in the library sometimes, asked his opinion like it mattered.

It had undone him.

Now he stood frozen, watching you sit cross-legged at the table, your head bowed over a Runes essay, one hand absentmindedly tucking your hair behind your ear. Your lips moved as you read, mouthing the words.

He his thoughts drifted off slightly on how he wanted to kiss those words off your mouth.

He shook his head holding himself to get a grip before cleared his throat softly.

You looked up and smiled—instantly, warmly.

“Severus. Hey.”

The way you said his name. He’d give up magic to hear it over and over again.

“I, uh…” he approached slowly, swallowing hard. “I wanted to… I mean, I was hoping to speak with you. If… if you’re not busy.”

“Of course. I always have time for you.”

You slid your books aside, and he dropped into the seat across from you, fidgeting with the velvet box in his hand.

“I…” He stared at the table, then you, then back again. “I wanted to ask you something. And—I realize it’s absurd, and probably not something you’ve been waiting on, or anything, but—”

Your curiosity piqued instantly—you had never seen him like this. He looked like he’d rehearsed this in front of a mirror a hundred times and still felt unprepared.

You spoke gentle. “Sev.”

He stopped rambling and looked up.

You smiled. “Breathe.”

He did. Barely.

Then he pushed a small box toward you and stood abruptly, pacing like he’d combust if he didn’t move.

“I made you something. It’s probably stupid. I know you’re more—more graceful than this. More elegant. But I’ve been working on it for weeks and I thought maybe you’d like it, or at least not hate it, and if you do hate it, please don’t tell me because I may never recover.”

You blinked and opened the box.

Inside was a pendant—moonstone and silver, shaped like a quill, its tip glinting faint gold. Around it, in the tiniest script imaginable, your favorite quote in Runes: “The stars are always watching, even when we feel alone.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

Severus kept pacing, clearly spiraling. “It’s charmed to glow when you’re happy. And turn warm when I’m near. Not because I’m stalking you or anything—it’s just—I thought it might be nice. Comforting.”

You stood.

Walked around the table.

He froze as you stopped in front of him.

“You made this yourself?” you whispered.

He nodded. “I wanted to ask if maybe you—if you would want to go to the Yule Ball with me? You don’t have to, obviously, I just thought—because you’re brilliant and—.”

The silence stretched.

He stared at the floor. “Forget it. It’s ridiculous. You probably won’t wa—”

“Yes.”

His head snapped up.

“Y-Yes?”

You were holding the pendent in your hand smiling softly at him. “I’d love to go with you.”

And when you stepped closer and rose to place a soft kiss to his cheek before whispering “I was hoping you would ask me” Severus Snape forgot how to breathe.

You stayed in the library for hours after that—books forgotten, knees brushing beneath the table, his hand eventually slipping into yours, and your head resting on his shoulder while you two whispered soft confessions to each other.

The days leading up to the Ball were a whirlwind of speculation—and, unfortunately, unwanted attention.

It was supposed to be a normal afternoon in the library. You were back in the library, rereading your Transfiguration notes, when the scent of overconfidence rolled in like cologne.

The entire Marauders pack showed up— James and Sirius in the lead, strutting like they were being followed by cameras. James was smirking, Peter buzzing with anticipation, and Remus—bless him—looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.

“Afternoon, gorgeous,” Sirius said, pulling out the chair beside you like it was choreographed.

You glanced up from your book. “Yes Black?”

He flashed you a wink. “The Ball’s almost here. I know, I know—you’ve been waiting for me to ask. And lucky for you, here I am fulfilling your dreams.”

James leaned in. “It was my idea, actually. Told him to quit wasting time.”

“Oh, lucky me.” You looked at him bored.

He laughed like it was charming. “I’m serious—well, Sirius, technically. But seriously—why settle for some dull date when you could go with me? I’m devastatingly handsome, I can actually dance, and I have excellent taste in drinks and conversation.”

You raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Come on, love, think about it—Black and (L/N)? We'd be the talk of the century. You’d look stunning next to me. Me in Burgundy robes. You in whatever you want, draped on my arm. Everyone would be jealous.“

Remus opened his mouth, then closed it again. Awkward silence.

You blinked. “Are you done?”

Sirius grinned. “Only if you say yes.”

You smiled sweetly. “I already have a date. A Date I actually liked for a long time now.”

The confidence shattered on impact.

Sirius sat back. “Who?”

You shut your book. "None of your business.”

James looked scandalized. Peter whispered something about it being a bluff.

You stood and adjusted your bag. “Here’s a thought: instead of assuming I’m desperate for attention, maybe realize that not everyone thinks you are good looking or their dream man”

Then you turned and walked away without looking back.

The music drifted in soft golden waves across the transformed Great Hall. Floating candles dipped low, casting pools of warm light across the polished floor. The ceiling above shimmered like a winter sky—midnight blue streaked with starlight. Snowflakes fell slow and silent, vanishing before they touched skin.

Severus stood near the far side of the hall, back straight, hands clasped tight behind him.

Waiting.

You had told him that it would take a little longer for you to get ready so he came early.

He only checked the knot in his hair four times, adjusted his robes until the seams sat just right. The silver embroidery was subtle. Understated. He didn’t want to look flashy.

But he wanted to look worthy.

He shifted slightly, trying to breathe through the nerves knotted in his chest. His fingers kept brushing the charm of his mother’s ring tucked into his inner pocket like a talisman.

His eyes flicked to the doors.

Nothing yet.

Behind him, the Marauders were lingering near the refreshments table.

Sirius nudged James and nodded toward Severus with a smug grin. “Would you look at that. All dressed up and no one would want to be his date.”

James laughed into his drink. “Poor Snivellus probably thinks he has a shot at getting a date.”

“Five galleons says he got rejected by every one he asked” Peter added, snickering.

Remus didn’t laugh. “Technically we all don’t have dates either…”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Watch (Y/N) walk in and start begging for me once she sees me.”

Severus, who had been hearing their harsh words swallowed hard, his thoughts starting to spiraling.

What if they were right? What if she rather want to be with Sirius? What if she—

The doors opened.

Gasps swept through the room like wind.

There you stood.

Framed by gold light, a vision in soft silver. Your gown shimmered with every breath you took, like it had been spun from frost and moonlight. Your hair was gathered just enough to show off your collarbone, the moonstone pendant Severus gave you glowing gently at your throat.

Every head turned.

Every eye watched.

Sirius, in deep burgundy robes, let out a low whistle. “Would you look at that.”

“She’s all alone,” James said a grin spreading on his face.

You stepped in, slow and composed—but your heart pounded. The music faded under the rush in your ears as you scanned the room, searching, searching—

And then you found him.

Standing at the back, half-shadowed behind the Marauders, looking like the Night itself had decided to wait for you.

Your heart settled.

Your smile grew.

You began to walk.

James elbowed Sirius. “She’s looking this way.”

Peter clapped him on the back. “Now’s your chance, mate!”

Sirius fixed his hair and straightened his robes with a roguish grin, already stepping forward.

“Told you. She was just making me work for it. Time to give the girl what she’s been waiting for.”

He met you halfway across the floor.

You didn’t even pause.

You walked straight past him.

Straight to Severus.

The stunned silence in the Great Hall could’ve rivaled a mass stunning charm.

Sirius turned in place, blinking in disbelief as your skirts brushed past him.

“Wait—what?”

Peter actually gawked. “Is she going to Snape?”

James choked on his drink. “You’ve got to be kidding. Snivellus? Really?”

Remus shrugged and took a sip of punch. “She told you she had a date.”

You stopped in front of Severus, eyes only for him.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said softly, brushing invisible stardust from your skirt.

Severus swallowed. His voice caught on the way up his throat. “You’re—bloody hell, you’re—”

“Beautiful?” you teased gently.

“I was going to say celestial,” he murmured.

You smiled.

Severus’s fingers gently traced the chain at your neck.

“You wore it,” he said.

“Of course I did,” you whispered. “You made it with your heart.”

He looked like he might fall apart.

And then he did something unexpected. He stepped forward, bowed slightly—not a caricature, not exaggerated, just enough to show the world you mattered—and offered his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

You slid your hand into his.

“You may.”

The music swelled as he led you to the center of the floor.

And you danced.

Softly. Slowly. Close.

His hand rested gently at your waist, yours curled against his shoulder. Your eyes stayed locked like no one else existed. His movements weren’t perfect—but he’d practiced. For you. And he held you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked.

Across the hall, Sirius stood frozen, drink forgotten in his hand.

“Are you kidding me? Out of all of them she goes with HIM?”

James clapped him on the shoulder. “Maybe you’re not everyone’s fantasy?”

Peter just stared.

Remus mumbled into his punch smiling. “Honestly? Good for her. They look good together.”

The song shifted—something deeper, slower, drenched in gold.

Severus gently spun you, your gown catching the candlelight like a whisper of magic. When you came back into his arms, his hands lingered. One at your waist, the other slipping around your back, cradling you like something fragile and sacred.

He dipped you.

The entire hall gasped.

And then—still holding you just above the floor, his face inches from yours—he kissed you.

Not hurried. Not shy. Not panicked.

Soft. Certain. Full of everything he’d never had the words to say.

When he pulled back, you didn’t open your eyes for a moment. You stayed there, breathing the same air.

“You are all I have ever wanted.” you whispered.

He smiled like seeing sunlight for the first time.

And around you, the whispers spread like wildfire.

But you? You only saw him.

#fanfic #severus snape x reader #severus snape #harry potter

159 notes · View notes

tsukumomei · 3 months ago

Note

OKOKOK in my mind in the “puppy love” fic, reader is moving to spain

and then three years later sae comes to spain cause he gets scouted by re al you know the story

and so they meet again ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 (they have cute “dates” if you will, where she shows him around spain and what not 🤭)

now idk if you’re taking requests at the moment, or even want to write a part two for this, but i (and many others i feel like) would LOVE to see this!

no force though, if you do wish to write it take your time, and if you don’t it’s all fine too!

much love, xoxo 💋

a/n: This is actually insane because this is EXACTLY what I had in mind for a bonus part! I was originally going to end it when they saw each other again, but I took your request and wrote about their dates too. Enjoy! Mwah! I wouldn’t consider this a part 2, though—if I ever write one, it’ll still be from Rin’s POV. But I’m open to writing more bonus parts for this fic, so feel free to send me an ask! ^^

—RIGHT WHERE WE LEFT OFF

ft. Sae Itoshi

a bonus chapter for Puppy Love

synposis: Sae moves to Madrid after getting scouted by Real, but he has two problems. One—he hates it. The city feels unfamiliar, foreign, nothing like home. Two—he’s determined to forget about you. But the harder he tries, the more his own mind betrays him—because no matter what he does, everything leads him right back to you. wc: 3.1 k

The shuffling in Sae’s carry-on grows more frantic as he impatiently searches for that notebook from you.

It was the first thing he stuffed into his bag.

Flipping through the worn pages, his eyes finally land on the last one—covered in messy scribbles, but the only thing that stands out is a single line written in red ink at the bottom:

"Wait for me. ❤️ Y/N"

Sae presses his thumb against the words, as if touching them could somehow bring back the past. Could somehow make you feel real again.

He leans back into his seat, staring out at the endless stretch of sky beyond the plane window, but it’s not Madrid he’s thinking about. It’s you.

This morning, back at the house, he’d been kicking a soccer ball around the backyard, the steady thud of leather against concrete filling the quiet air. Rin was there too, watching him with a knowing look before finally speaking up.

"Nii-chan, it was just puppy love."

Maybe it was. Maybe Rin was right.

But if it was just puppy love, why is it still lingering?

Why did he still worry—that if you ever came back, that you’d be mad at him for not being there?

It’s been three years.

The chances of seeing you again were close to impossible.

—

Sae steps into his new apartment in Madrid, rolling his suitcase inside as his manager gestures around the space.

“This is your living room,” his manager begins, flipping on the lights. The apartment is modern, minimalistic—exactly what Sae expected. “Kitchen’s over there. Fridge is stocked for now, but you’ll need to do your own groceries after this week.”

Sae nods, setting his bag neatly by the couch.

“The bedroom’s down the hall,” the manager continues, walking ahead. “Bathroom’s connected. There’s a desk if you need to study or review game footage. Wi-Fi’s already set up.”

Sae peeks into the bedroom—plain, clean, nothing extravagant. Just a bed, a nightstand, and a small window overlooking the street below.

“You’re across the hall?” Sae asks as they return to the main area.

“Yeah,” his manager confirms, crossing. “If you need anything, just knock.”

Sae scoffs lightly. “I’ll be fine.”

His manager gives him a once-over, then exhales. “Good. Then I’ll leave you to settle in.”

With that, the manager steps out, leaving Sae alone.

The moment the door clicks shut, Sae gets to work. He unzips his luggage, methodically putting his clothes away, setting his toiletries in the bathroom, and neatly stacking his training gear by the closet. He takes mental notes of what he needs—more food, basic supplies, maybe an extra pillow.

Once everything is in place, he pulls out his phone and dials home.

His mother picks up almost immediately. “Sae?”

“I just landed and got to the apartment,” he informs her, his voice steady. “Everything’s fine.”

“That’s good,” she says warmly. “Have you eaten?”

“I will soon.”

“Don’t just eat whatever’s fastest. Make sure you’re getting proper meals.”

Sae hums in acknowledgment before adding, “Tell Dad I made it safely. And Rin, too.”

“Of course,” his mother says. There’s a brief pause, then a softer, knowing tone in her voice. “It feels real now, doesn’t it?”

Sae leans against the counter, staring at the empty space around him. His new home. His new life.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

After a few more exchanges, he hangs up, setting his phone aside.

His eyes drift to his carry-on, to the one thing he hadn’t put away yet.

The notebook.

The worn cover, the slightly frayed edges—he traces them with his fingers before flipping it open once again. The pages are filled with your handwriting, messy yet familiar, scrawled with thoughts and doodles from years ago.

It’s ridiculous, really. He hasn’t seen you in three years. He has no idea where you are, if you’re still in the same country, if you even remember him the way he remembers you.

But memories flood in anyway. The afternoons spent at the park, your determined expression when you first crashed his soccer game, the way you always talked too much but somehow, he never minded. The way you scribbled on his arm once with the same red ink you used to write—

"Wait for me. ❤️ y/n"

Sae exhales sharply and shuts the notebook.

Maybe it really was just puppy love.

He stands, grabs his wallet, and heads for the door.

He needs to get out, get familiar with the city. He’s going to live here now, after all.

—

The city is foreign, unfamiliar—Sae hates it.

He was never one for traveling. The only reason he’s here is to play soccer at an international level, but outside of that, it feels suffocating in a way he never expected.

The streets are too loud yet too quiet at the same time. He doesn’t understand the conversations happening around him, the unfamiliar syllables blending into meaningless noise. The people pass by in a blur, all strangers, none of them acknowledging him beyond quick glances.

It’s not like he’s stupid enough to get scammed—he’s careful, always aware of his surroundings. But that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t change how frustrating it is to have all this free time and nowhere to go, no one to turn to.

The city is alive, buzzing with movement, but it only makes the loneliness feel sharper.

—

Today marks his second week in Madrid.

Sae realizes just how useless he is when it comes to directions.

The sun is already beginning to set, casting a golden glow over Madrid, and he has no idea where he is.

The street signs might as well be in a foreign language—which, technically, they are. He squints at them, but the unfamiliar words blur together, useless in helping him find his way. And as for Spanish? Well, he knows about as much as a toddler forming his first sentence.

Great.

Of course, it’s at a time like this that he remembers you.

Because you were always the human GPS between the two of you, navigating streets like you had a built-in map inside your head. You always knew the right turns to take, the fastest shortcuts.

And right now? Right now, he is the one most in need of that skill.

Rin thinks Sae is perfect, so he probably doesn’t even know about this little flaw of his.

Sae scoffs to himself, shaking his head. It’s ridiculous that, even now, when he’s supposed to be moving on, he still finds himself thinking about you.

He exhales sharply, pushing the thoughts away.

Enough.

With renewed determination, Sae steps onto the crosswalk, telling himself—again—that it’s time to leave his childhood love in the past.

But by the time he reaches the middle, doubt creeps in—just enough for him to hesitate, just enough for him to misstep.

And just enough for him to accidentally bump into someone walking from the opposite direction.

"Perdón," the girl mutters, barely sparing him a glance—until she does.

She stops short, eyes widening in surprise.

"Oh."

Sae blinks.

"It’s you."

For a moment, the city fades into the background. The people rushing past, the hum of conversation, the faint honking of impatient drivers—it all disappears.

You look different now. Your hair is dyed, a little wavier than before. A stylish bag hangs off your shoulder, outfit effortlessly put together in a way that makes you stand out even in the middle of Madrid.

But to him, you’re still the same stubborn girl who once barged into his soccer game with Rin, the one who never asked for permission—just demanded a pass like you belonged there. The one who never looked at him like everyone else did.

Your eyes are the same. That’s what catches him the most. Time has changed a lot of things, but not that. They still hold the same warmth, the same quiet confidence.

Sae wonders if he looks different to you, too. If you notice the way his shoulders have grown broader, the way the exhaustion lingers under his eyes. If you can tell that beneath all the fame and titles, there’s still a part of him that never stopped waiting for you.

Neither of you speak. Just stood there, caught in something neither of you were prepared for.

Sae exhales, then—without thinking—extends his hand toward you

But before you can take it, a sharp whistle cuts through the air.

"¡Oye! Move it!"

The traffic officer’s whistle cuts through the air, snapping both of you out of your daze.

Startled, you both turn at the same time, realizing the light has already turned green—and you’re still standing in the middle of the crosswalk.

Reality has always had a way of interrupting you two, hasn’t it?

Sae clenches his jaw, frustration flickering across his face. Meanwhile, you weren’t handling it any better—because instead of just walking away like a normal person, you were flipping off the traffic officer and hurling a wooden spoon at him.

Where did you even get that? Sae has no idea. And honestly, he’s not sure he wants to.

But then he feels you grab his arm, yanking him across the street as you break into a run—both of you fleeing from the traffic officer, who Sae can only assume is cursing you out in rapid Spanish.

And just like that, his expression softens.

—

“Whew, that was close,” you say between heavy breaths, still catching your breath from all that running.

Sae glances at you, unimpressed. “Maybe if you didn’t throw a spoon at him, we wouldn’t have to run.”

You roll your eyes, waving him off. “Oh, please. That guy already hates me. This isn’t even the first time, you know.”

Sae raises a brow. “Not surprised.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Hey! Rude.”

He exhales sharply, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “What did you do to piss him off before?”

You smirk, tilting your head playfully. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Sae gives you a look—unamused but intrigued nonetheless. “I would, actually.”

You grin, pretending to think. “Let’s just say… it involved a churro cart, an old lady, and a very, very unfortunate slip on my part.”

Sae stares at you for a moment before shaking his head. “You’re a menace.”

You flash him a cheeky smile. “And yet, here you are, running away from traffic officers with me.”

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Because, somehow, you’re right—because he’s relieved that he can finally talk to someone other than his manager, and just as relieved to see that you haven’t changed at all.

Isn’t it ironic? The very day he decides to finally let go of your memory, fate throws you right back into his life.

But something nags at him. You haven’t asked about Madrid, about why he’s here. It’s like you’re not surprised at all, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to bump into him on the street.

Sae narrows his eyes slightly before speaking. “Hey, you’re not gonna ask?”

“Ask what?” you blink at him, confused. Then, as if remembering something, your face lights up. “Oh! Where are my manners?”

Before he can react, you throw yourself at him, wrapping him in a warm embrace.

Sae stiffens, caught completely off guard. But before he can say anything, you sigh dramatically against his shoulder. “I missed you so much! I can’t believe you followed me all the way to Spain. Oh, you really do love me.”

He clicks his tongue, exasperated. You’re being an idiot again—definitely pushing it.

But he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t deny it.

Instead, after a brief hesitation, he exhales and wraps a single arm around you, listening as you ramble on like no time has passed at all.

—

“Maybe I should put a tracker on you.” you tease, walking a step ahead of Sae as you lead him through the narrow streets of Madrid.

He exhales sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I would’ve figured it out eventually.”

You throw him a look over your shoulder. “Yeah, sure. After getting lost for another three hours.”

Sae doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, he follows as you turn into an alleyway, stopping in front of a small, unassuming café tucked between two buildings.

“This place has the best tostada con tomate in the city,” you say, nodding toward the café.

“The old man inside—Rafa—he always yells at me for ordering too much, but then he sneaks me an extra pastry for free.”

As if on cue, the door swings open, and an elderly man steps out. His eyes land on you, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “¡Ah, mira quién es! La niña que me arruina el negocio.” (Ah, look who it is! The girl who’s ruining my business.)

You laugh, stepping forward to greet him. “Don’t lie, Rafa. You love me.”

Rafa scoffs but affectionately ruffles your hair before turning to Sae, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “¿Y este quién es?” (And who’s this?)

“My amigo,” you reply smoothly, though there’s a glint of mischief in your eyes. “He just moved here, so I’m showing him around.”

Rafa studies Sae for a moment before nodding in approval. “Bien. Come inside. I’ll make sure he eats something decent.”

Sae barely has time to protest before you’re dragging him through the door, the scent of warm spices and grilled meat immediately filling the air. The restaurant is small, a little tucked away from the busier streets, but it’s lively, filled with laughter and the soft hum of conversation.

When the food arrives, you dig in without hesitation, taking a bite and immediately letting out a dramatic sigh. “Oh my god,” you moan, clutching your chest like you’ve just ascended to heaven. “This is it. This is what happiness tastes like.”

Sae raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You sound ridiculous.”

“You sound jealous,” you retort, shoveling another bite into your mouth. “You haven’t even touched your food.”

Sae watches you for a moment. The way you eat so shamelessly, without a care for how you look, is something he vaguely remembers from when you were kids. Some things never change.

“I’m just letting you be the poison tester,” he mutters, finally picking up his fork.

You roll your eyes. “Please. If Rafa wanted to kill me, he would’ve done it years ago.”

Rafa, passing by, snorts. “She’s not wrong.”

Sae sighs, finally taking a bite. He won’t admit it, but it’s good. Really good.

Just as you’re finishing your plate, you glance at your phone and stand abruptly. “Be right back. Don’t go running off without me.”

Sae only scoffs in response, watching as you disappear towards the bathroom. The moment you’re gone, Rafa leans against the counter, wiping his hands on a towel before turning to Sae with a knowing smirk.

“She talked about you before, you know,” Rafa says casually.

Sae tenses slightly. “Did she?”

Rafa nods, chuckling. “Not by name. Just 'some guy I used to know who’s hopeless with anything besides soccer and even worse with emotions.'”

Sae huffs. “Sounds like something she'd say.”

Rafa shrugs. “Well, if you’re sticking around, you better get used to her dragging you everywhere. She’s got a habit of making lost people feel at home.”

Sae doesn’t respond, just looks at him, expression unreadable. Rafa only chuckles, shaking his head as he wipes down the counter.

A moment later, you return, eyes narrowing the second you spot them. “What’s this?” you ask suspiciously, sliding back into your seat. “What were you two talking about?”

Rafa smirks, tilting his head towards Sae. “Oh, nothing much. Just sharing stories.”

You gasp dramatically, pointing a finger at Sae. “You weren’t talking bad about me, were you?”

Sae finally speaks, deadpan. “Wouldn’t need to. You embarrass yourself enough.”

You scoff, reaching over to steal a piece of food from his plate. “Unbelievable. I leave for one second, and you two become best friends conspiring against me.”

Rafa laughs. “Don’t worry, querida. He’s not that easy to befriend.”

You nod sagely. “That’s true. I had to force him to like me.”

Sae rolls his eyes. That was true for most people, but definitely not for you.

He liked you from the get-go, like there was a gravitational pull towards you that he just couldn't escape from.

The day continues like that.

You don’t take him to the usual tourist spots—the grand plazas or famous museums. Instead, you show him the Madrid you love.

A tucked-away bookstore where the owner lets you sit and read for hours without buying anything. A tiny family-run tapas bar where the food is cheap but incredible, and the owners greet you like family. A rooftop spot where you swear the sunset looks better than anywhere else in the city.

Everywhere you go, you introduce him like he belongs there.

By the time the sky turns golden, Sae realizes something.

This isn’t just a city to you. It’s a home.

And for the first time since moving here, Madrid doesn’t feel so unfamiliar to him anymore.

Maybe it’s because he’s finally seeing it through your eyes.

And maybe that so-called puppy love Rin kept telling him about is beginning to grow into something more.

a/n: "Puppy Love" is the one and only beloved Sae Itoshi fanfic franchise that will remain untouched by despair. I wholeheartedly believe that at some point during his four years in Spain, Sae had his dreams crushed and utterly heartbroken. But in this au? nah. no angst, no career-crushing disappointments, Just endless, tooth-rotting fluff and relationship bliss. The kind of soft, sweet moments Sae would never admit he enjoys. Because for once, he deserves to have something go perfectly right.

#(っ´ཀ`)っcienefics #blue lock sae #bluelock #sae itoshi x reader #sae itoshi #itoshi sae #itoshi sae fluff #sae itoshi fluff #itoshi sae x y/n #sae bllk #bllk sae #itoshi sae x reader #sae x reader #blue lock itoshi sae #itoshi sae x you #sae x you #blue lock

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glamourscat · 5 months ago

Text

Where Wild Hearts Find Home | SHIDOU RYUSEI

There's something fascinating about how perfectly SHIDOU would match with a foreigner. Think about it: he's everything Japanese society tells you not to be. He's loud, bold, and aggressive. A force of nature who never dims his light or filters his thoughts. From his striking style to his unapologetic presence he stands apart from the crowd refusing to blend into the background.

Even in Blue Lock he's an anomaly. The other players can't quite sync with his wild intensity, his untamed spirit. In a society that worships conformity and avoids individualism, how could someone like him ever truly belong? Every day is a reminder that he's different, that he's the odd one out.

Now imagine a foreigner in Japan, maybe they moved for work, maybe for something else entirely. They know what it means to be different, to feel like an outsider even in familiar spaces. Carrying that same feeling of being the black sheep, of never quite fitting in.

Then fate steps in and the two perhaps meet in a music store, their hands reaching for the same vinyl. Or maybe their eyes lock across a crowded train platform. Or it could be something as simple as both of them snatching, or trying to, the last bottle of black nail polish in a makeup store.

Of course Shidou would start a conversation, what's the worst that could happen? If they says no, they'd be just two more strangers in a city of millions. But something pulls him toward them, an invisible thread of connection he can't ignore. So he takes that chance. And somehow, that awkward first conversation with this strange turns into a coffee date. Then dinner. Then another date and another. Before they know it, they're wearing matching yukata at a summer festival.

And seasons change; suddenly he's everywhere. Like ink bleeding through paper. His name sits at the top of their contact list, the first to appear in the call log. His laughing face lights up their phone's lock screen. His presence makes every holiday brighter, his booming laughter filling rooms with a warmth that feels like home. His kisses, shared in the sanctuary of their bed—yes, theirs now—tell stories of belonging that words never could.

In the end, it turns out that the boy who never fit in anywhere found his perfect match in someone who understood exactly what it meant to be different. Like two pieces of a puzzle that seemed wrong until you realized they were meant for a different picture entirely. One they created together, wild and beautiful and perfectly their own.

──────── ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ────────

#blue lock #bllk x reader #shidou ryusei #blue lock headcanons #bllk shidou #bllk x you #shidou ryusei fluff #shidou headcanons #shidou ryusei imagine #shidou ryusei x reader #shidou ryuusei x reader #blue lock shidou #shidou x reader

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akuma-coffee · 8 months ago

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may i request for !tattooartist geto :333 love your writingggg !!!

suguru geto x reader tattoo au!!

sfw, reader gets tattooed, totally a cute comfort scenario! geto and reader totally end up dating at some point after this >.<

geto suguru, an artist you've followed for a little while; a respected figure within tokyo's tattoo scene. after contacting him regarding a flash piece, he'd responded quickly to say his books were full, but as you're a friend of satoru's, he would fit you in after hours.

the date preoccupied you all week, a churning within the pits of your stomach when you envisioned the needle puncturing your skin. this isn't your first tattoo but it's your first with geto - someone you had only admired, never spoken to. satoru was usually the one to push ink under your skin, a friendship blossoming somewhere along the way when he'd invited you out for drinks. "not, like a date - other people will be there..." the machine stops and he withdraws, and you laugh. "yeah, alright."

some years later and you're still reaping the perks of befriending the gojo satoru; discounted tattoos, and now, you're able to get inked by someone you've admired for a long while. you've been in the shop after hours once or twice (day sessions running a little over schedule), though never with anyone other than satoru.

it's odd seeing the shop from the outside while it's lingering into evening, streetlights brighter than the ebbing sun, the shop's florescent white peering through slats in the blinds. your fist rasps over the glass door, eyes lingering momentarily over the closed sign before geto's pushing keys under the handle and your lips are forced upward into a friendly smile.

"hi, it's me..." you're a little awkward, but geto's already been briefed on your personality through satoru; he knew what to expect. he returns the smile and steps to one side, allowing you to pass through the doorway before it's closed behind you, locked again.

there's the usual dividers in the shop, though at this time they're no longer housing artists and clients, instead darkened by the lack of headlamps or ring lights, the framed ink of each person's flash or prided art less vibrant by the missing luminosity. one station is still well lit, though.

"mind just filling this one out?" geto picks up a clipboard from a seat in the waiting area, a pen latched between the metal teeth. you take it from his hands, pulling the biro out and glossing over the sheet of paper - nothing you haven't done before. "i'll just set up over here, take a seat."

you do as he says, the small wooden bench by the door groaning as you allow yourself to perch upon it, legs bouncing a little from nerves. your handwriting scrawls over the white page, name, date of birth, allergies... a form you've filled out tens of times. there's the tearing of kitchen roll and you're pulled from your entrancement from the health declaration form and instead gazing at geto. the bed is out of your sight but you can see his height, occasionally dipping down as he leans, setting up clingfilm, pouring ink into the small pots. lastly, he removes his gloves and tugs at the loosened bun that'd been hanging at his neck, placing that little black elastic between his teeth and re-tying the bun much tighter than before.

"all done?" he asks as he glances over his shoulder, and you nod, taking your lips silently between your teeth. hopefully he hadn't noticed you staring. "i'll do the stencil now." he comes to the front desk's computer, and you hear the printer stutter. he takes the clipboard from you, glancing over your answers. "perfect. come on over."

the placement is over your left shoulder, a large spider lily beginning on the shoulder and ending over the collarbone. geto's gloves are on once more, black latex clinging to the skin, and he grabs a small bottle of gel, pouring it over his own fingertips to run over your shoulder. you sit in silence as he draws a small line in sharpie to figure out the central point, occasionally moving your arm. eventually, the stencil is on, and you're glancing in the mirror to check. it's beautiful, perfect.

laying down, you're forced to look at the ceiling tiles. you feel your throat tighten with anxiety, even with experience, getting a tattoo is nerve-wracking. there's that familiar hum of the machine, and your eyes glance to your side as geto's dipping the needle in the pot of ink, allowing black to collect in the tip. "ready?" he asks, flickering from his focus on the machine to you. you're a little lost in his eyes before you're responding, the deep brown hues mesmerising. they're mellow and friendly, relaxing to your anxious state. you nod.

the needle finally penetrates the skin, but despite your discomfort you remain still and loose, focusing on your breathing. in, out. the pain is only a stinging, a prickling that you've grown used to over the years. nothing that you can't handle.

"all okay?" geto asks, and you appreciate the check-in. "yeah, good thanks." he stretches your skin with his left hand, steadying his right to control the needle. his touch is delicate, gentle as if to ease your nerves, hard focused on the artwork over your skin with a stoic but pointed expression; a furrowed brow. there was something about being tattooed by geto that was so different to satoru, he was so much calmer, almost timid. by now satoru would have to stop from laughing too hard, or offering you candies for the hundredth time. geto was mellow, and it was nice. not to mention the face of concentration he held was cute, his pretty features a match to the art he drew.

"how did you meet satoru?" geto's voice hangs in the air a few minutes after you'd been sat in silence, though his gaze is still transfixed on his work. you smile at the memory, a puff of air from your lips. "he was a regular at the cafe i used to work at, i started in winter and by spring he had buddied up with me. the first time i didn't wear a jumper to work he this god-awful tattoo i got on my 18th birthday, it was my star sign, but looked more like a blob. offered to cover it up at a discounted cost - or if i gave him free chocolates for the week." geto smiles and you don't miss it, peering through your peripheral. "what did you do?" he questions, and you raise your free arm. "i got tattooed."

the hum stops, silence enveloping your ears as geto's attention is diverted to your inner arm, covered in ink he'd recognised to be his close friend's. he squinted as he tried to spot the cover up, and when looking closely he could see the older, blown out ink hiding under more controlled lines. "wow, it looks great. looks like you came back, too."

you nod, relaxing your arm. the buzzing doesn't start straight away, and you peer back to him. "what about you?" you questioned - it felt like he'd been waiting for you to ask. he smiles now, shaking his head. "there's no fun story, we just went to school together. one day i didn't know satoru, the next he was my brother." he raises the machine a little, left hand meeting your skin once again. the thrumming returned, and he glances over your expression before the needle meets your flesh.

"he was a pain in the ass, but he was the reason i went to school every day." a small piece of hair has escaped from the bun, hanging over his forehead. "i almost dropped out, but he kept me in check." you picture satoru in your head, trying to place them together as highschool buddies. they're so different, you wouldn't believe they were so close if satoru hadn't already chewed your ear off over his best friend, and their history together. they've gone through a lot, though you're sure there's so much more you don't know.

"was he as high maintenance in school?" you ask, in attempts to continue the conversation. geto laughs, his teeth peeking through his lips. "worse, somehow. he mellowed out in his twenties." the machine is pulled away and placed on the table beside him, his gloved hand wrapping over a sheet of kitchen roll, a small squeezy bottle in the other. the paper is placed over your shoulder, the liquid poured over alleviating the hot stinging of your skin.

"gonna start on the shading now." geto's eyes bore into your own, and there's a fluttering in your chest.

"are you still working there?" the needle is different now, as is his technique, the machine dragging in faster sweeping motions as he uses a stippling effect. "at the cafe? no, after giving satoru his free chocolates i got fired." geto's expression widens. "it's fine, i work from home most of the time now, no more annoying customers." you inhale sharply as he works on a sensitive area, swallowing back any discontent and putting on a brave face.

"you're doing really well." he comments on your easily discernible unease, and those words of affirmation go straight to your head. geto flickers up at you, then back down to his work. there's silence for a little while more, the hum of the machine growing to hypnotize you as your vision hangs over the white ceiling.

"want anything? water, or some music?" his voice almost makes you jump as you realise how heavy your eyes had been. they're torn from the tiles above you to meet his face, and the white noise stops. "music would be nice." you reply, and he peels back a glove, using the free skin to unlock his phone. a soft guitar tone meets the air, you vaguely recognise the melody and listen as the chugging continues. it's accompanied by buzzing only moments later.

"it's deftones." he explains, weight shifting on the pedal to gain the momentum the machine had previously held. "how long have you been tattooing?" you try and further converse. "coming onto ten years, got an apprenticeship at twenty. tried art school and dropped out - showed up to some shithole with my portfolio and worked for free until i got good enough. opened this place about six years ago with satoru."

"do you enjoy it?" "of course, i get to do what i love as a job... that's everyone's dream, isn't it?" he pauses for a moment, wiping over the skin with a scrunched piece of kitchen roll before the needle is brought back. "yeah." you're quieter as you picture your own dream job. admin certainly wasn't it, but it pays the bills and isn't too taxing.

"okay, i think we're done." suguru speaks, and repeats the same steps as before, washing the ink with solution before wiping it over. the coolness causes goosebumps to prickle over your skin, a balm applied with gloved hand as you know this will be the last time his fingers linger over this part of your shoulder. you're glad the session has finished, though as you make your way over to the mirror to peer over geto's art, you feel a little heartbroken this is coming to an end.

"oh, it's perfect." the words leave your mouth as you stand in awe, admiring the new ink embedded in your skin. it's breath taking, and exactly what you'd needed to fill in that area. you flicker up to meet his gaze through the reflection, eyes jolting downward when they meet his to instead linger over his arms - you hadn't paid all too much attention to the black lines covering his skin until now. his sweater sleeves are rolled back to his elbows, allowing you to peek at his forearms. it looks like satoru tattoos geto too, his style clear in his work.

"will i see you around?" geto asks, his demeanour shifting back into shyness. you allow yourself to meet his eye, butterflies coming to swarm within your belly as he awaits your answer. "definitely." you smile - you're definitely going to be asking satoru more about geto once you're home, you can picture him sussing out your crush instantaneously, though.

pleeease let me know if you want more from this au cause i loved writing this omg!!

#geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #jjk x reader #suguru geto tattoo artist #jjk tattoo au #geto tattoo au #jjk suguru x reader #jjk suguru scenarios #geto scenarios #geto comfort #suguru geto x you #jujutsu kaisen suguru #suguru geto x y/n

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1800titz · 8 months ago

Text

COME TOUCH ME TOO | Best friend’s dad

age gap. 11.2K on patreon

second part to LIQUID SMOOTH

You’d catch him over the sink sometimes. Or the stove. At the dinette, shirtless. Big bear, you thought, still only half-awake (starving), staring at his skin, swathed in ink that traversed limb, to torso, to limb. You’d catch the smattering of dark hair pooling over his sternum, and the hair beneath his navel, darker, more wiry, seeping into the band of his pajama pants. And later, you’d wonder if it was the substructure— torn out from you— that you were chasing (the surfeited rift between your ages, the sage wisdom you lacked), or if it was just the shape of him, the way he fit into your life, the subtle domesticity of a morning. The pantomime of a distant daydream. (Pretending this was your life you were living, and not taking a page from someone else’s.)

preview

The bar you’re at feels congested. Sticky, shoulders brushing shoulders, feet bumping feet, and the music is loud enough that you feel it droning along the skin of your bones. Past max-capacity; something you anticipated. Accepted on a Friday night— no sort of discomfort that couldn’t be waterlogged into an unconcerned bliss with enough alcohol.

And that’s what it started as.

One shot to ease the restless hypervigilance (when you shuffled in, sliding between clusters of bodies), that burned at the back of your throat, heat flaring across your crinkling sinuses. Then, a second, that radiated warmth along your chest, under your skin, that settled as a weightless feeling beneath the soles of your feet. Loosened the arc of your shoulders.

(You never buy your own drinks.)

A third, cupped from a stranger’s fingers, with bright, powder blue eyes that lingered on your throat, the line of your jaw when you tipped your head back. Inkpools stuck to your tongue when you smeared it out across your lips, the bridge of your nose rucking. He gave you a wolfish, glimmering grin and told you what a pretty thing you are.

(And you think, staring up at him through the misting crest of intoxicant smog, he’s too young. Feels like a boy— one you can’t re-mold even in the haze of alcohol— in the absence of crows’ feet and shallow smile lines, the glinting, tawdry rhinestone stuck to his incisor. Skin speckled with ink that resembles zealous impulse rather than an aged, carefully-crafted tapestry. You doubt there’s any worthwhile story behind the dice in the nook of his elbow; RICH across the front, C and H tipped perfectly on their southern edges to show the S and K that could fill the word out, instead.)

(You can’t even pretend.)

You seldom find regret in the sea of a familiar gyre (the world spinning, and you, finally, spinning with it), but the spindrift crashes across in a misty fog of discomfort. The riptide lures you out to swallow you whole. You’re not sure when the euphoria mutates into anxiety— maybe somewhere along the fourth and the fifth— but it coagulates in your esophagus, in your stomach. Cakes in the warm, soft spot under your ribcage, until your bones feel like they’re wobbling with the pulse of your heart. Vibrating.

You showed up with a coworker. Admittedly, one you didn’t know too well, to a bar you haven’t been to before. But going out is going out, and a bar is a bar. You don’t need a babysitter, you don’t need to know her well, and you don’t need to scope the the pub, but—

Last you saw her, she was propped against the corner of the bar, and now, as you sweep your bleary gaze over the mass, she’s nowhere in sight. You’re alone. You’re alone, and the world is spinning, screaming, chattering over the pulsing base, and you feel like you can’t keep up.

When you swallow, it lodges in your throat. You feel like you can’t breathe, nearly tripping over your own feet, brushing between tangled musculature, limbs like gnarled, warm roots for you stumble over. And you feel like you’re trying to part the sea to make room for your clumsy steps. Like you’re trying to move mountains.

By the time you make it outside, your lungs are aching, and your shoulders are quaking. You don’t know where it’s coming from— what it is— but it feels like a flame licking its way up under your dermis, and you want to shed your skin off the bone. The gulp of air you take is welcome. Cold. Wet.

It’s raining.

Pouring. The gust drenches your bare legs in spittle off the sky, even under the awning. Helplessly, you pat around for your phone.

And you don’t know what possesses you. You don’t know if it’s a clumsy swipe of your thumb across the glowing screen, or a cruel form of divine intervention, when you scroll and stutter along his contact. It’s a number you should’ve deleted. Haven’t pressed in months.

You flung yourself out of orbit, and seeing his name feels like you’re a piece of star-shed that’s slipped too close— a hair from homecoming. It feels like the inevitable, crushing weight of gravity snagging you into the miserable ouroboros you’ve spent every evening running from. A tidal wave, reborn, swallowing you whole.

And you know the repercussions— the potential there. The consequences of sticking wet fingers into electrical sockets, but you tell yourself, he won’t pick up. It’s too late. You’re too late. Too—

Your finger lingers.

You don’t know what would be worse. Abandonment in another shape, or hearing his voice on the other end of the line.

You call him.

You regret it a split-second too late, staring down at the screen dialing. When you press the phone to your ear, with the rain spitting, the thrum of the bass behind the door— your heart rattling in your ears, your head spinning—

You barely hear the three rings before the line clicks. It’s quiet.

And then—

“Hello?”

You suck in a gust of air. You expected his voice to hurt. To ache— you anticipated, maybe, a lot of things, with variegated hypotheticals spelled out in misty shapes through hours spent staring at your ceiling.

But every chimera crumbles when the words stick to the back of your throat. Part of it is the slurry in your veins, the hard liquor, the way it’s all kicked in, all at once. And part of it is the realization that, despite the biramous conjectures you’ve crafted— the what if’s— it’s the heavy thought that all roads lead to this.

He sounds hoarse. Mean with sleep.

“Um. Hi.” The words sound garbled, like you’re underwater. Tinny, wet, strained.

Eager in the shape of unrequited pining; a mangled fruition of all the nights you’d spent, thumb hovering over the call button, wondering if he’d pick up on the other end of the line, stockpiling the heap of broken wishes. The ones you cradled in your hands like jagged fractures of your rib bones, cracked from how hard your heart was pounding.

(If only he could see the lovelorn tar in your marrow, leaking out in a rotting treacle and pooling in the crevice of your love-line; tragic, broken down a long gap right under the wedge between your pinky and ring finger.)

The awning does a poor job of covering your toes, and they soak in the torrent that spumes from the midnight aether, shimmering against the wet asphalt. Silly, little girl— woman, nowadays— one ear corked with your forefinger to stifle the downpour spitting from the same sky you’d crane your neck and spill orisons at, the other fisting at your phone like a lifeline. Dangling onto the thread off this unspooled hope.

You sound ditzy. Soporific. Lost. You wonder if he picks up on it on the other end of the line. “Are you, um. Are you busy?”

The speaker crackles.

Finally, he rasps from the other end of the line— a thunderclap, like a gunshot, “You’re not callin’ me at one in the morning to ask me if I’m busy.”

“I—“ the words stick to the back of your throat.

Something seals up in your lungs with the breath you try to take.

Bitter recrudesce, a reminder when it wakes back up in the slotted teeth of your heart— an ache, alleviated in his absence after time, that throbs at the sound of his voice. Your jaw quakes on what you want to confess, snarled in your throat. I love you— Please— I’ve loved you since—

Your lip wobbles. Teeth clack, staring at the wet asphalt. “Uh. Sorry.”

You settle for a middle ground— some compromise in the clouded welter of your docket— something you’ve been meaning to say for months.

(Sorry for being a silly, little girl that fell in love with you.)

You’re met with a beat of silence that eats into your marrow. Has your guts twisting, chest tight. Then, (solace) a sigh— surly— oozes across the crackling speaker.

“Where are you?”

The question reminds you why you called in the first place. That you’re sopping up dirty rainwater with your boots on the outskirts of town, outside some seedy bar you came to, to drown your demons (him) in burnt amber. A thunderbolt ripples across the pitch aether, zagging electric chalky across the swollen plumes. All at once, you…

Crumble.

“I’m, um. Ah…” your chin quivers. You nod, “I’m here. At a, um. At a bar. Outside a bar.”

“Which bar? Who are you with?”

The slew of questions nearly makes you laugh.

The concern, there, throttles you and the tension in your shoulders like you expected anything less. You did. And you would laugh if hearing his voice, for the first time in months, wasn’t a sobering maelstrom on your psyche. Despite the way your tongue feels sticky, and useless, like it's caught on the roof of your mouth, you clear your throat.

“Um. It’s called, ah— Southbound,” your eyes slip shut. The wobble at your feet clicks in your knees. “I came with a— with a coworker. But I can’t find her. And I just— sorry. Fuck. Sorry. I got, um. I’m… sorry.”

You set your teeth and stare down at the rainwater speckling the toes of your boots. Gusting against your bare legs, and you don’t realize you’ve been hanging onto the phone with both hands cupped, like a lifeline, until his voice comes through.

“Y’alright?”

He sounds a little more awake. No doubt at the quiver in your tone. The way you can’t cohesively suture the words together. You roll forward on your toes. It’s a miscalculated motion on your part, because you nearly topple forward.

“No. Yeah. M’really— um. I’m a little, um. Drunk. I think. So—“ you slur. Take a breath. “No. I don’t—“

The words come out small. Tired. There’s a crack in your voice, like you’re on the edge of keeling over the precipice. You feel it in the burn at the back of your eyes, raw in your sinuses, when you admit, softly, “…I wanna go home.”

He doesn’t say anything. You take another breath, and feel it against the enamel of your teeth. Expect the sear of ice. Your fingers feel strained on your phone. Crushing. Taut. You think about his next words before he says them. Before the surly crackle from the other end of the line hits you, imagine it— call an uber.

I’ll call you an uber, at best. At worst…

You swallow. The line crackles again.

“Send me your location. I’m coming to get you.”

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