#Mixed Labels Dies

[craftystampin]

APPT - December 2024 Paper Pumpkin Blog Hop

December  2024 Paper Pumpkin Alternatives Welcome to the A Paper Pumpkin Thing “APPT”  Monthly Blog Hop! The PPX Crew has joined up with some additional Stampin’ Up! demonstrators to give you even more amazing alternatives with the Paper Pumpkin Kits. We blog alternate projects from the prior month’s Paper Pumpkin Kit using the only items from the Paper Pumpkin Kit and Stampin’ Up! Products. I’m…

[foldingfittedsheets]

I cannot possibly explain the love my FIL has for Whole Foods. He takes trips to Whole Foods three times a week. He delights in browsing the aisles and reading every label so he can find food with no sugars or fats or flavor. When he dies heaven will appear unto him as a Whole Foods.

For this trip he requested one day my beloved make dinner and they agreed. We both spent all day in the kitchen. I ran to the farmers market for fresh berries and even picked some from my mothers farm. I mixed up batter while my beloved boiled chickpeas.

My beloved marinated meat and roasted eggplant. They made a trip to the store for supplies. We traded the oven between us as the eggplant came out my shortcake went in. They blitzed up hummus and baba ghanoush with special servings free of spices for step-MIL. Special vinaigrette was produced for the salad. Later, kebabs of chicken and veggies went into the oven and then I whipped up my own cream.

We descended upon their hotel with three bags of food containers, laden like packmules from the fruits of our labors. Trays of kebabs and shortcake were carefully transported, bowls of dips and salads, pita bread and dressing the only premade stuff brought along, all the utensils, plates, bowls.

We laid out a feast of love that had taken all day to produce. They both praised the food to our relief but what made FIL pause was seeing the Whole Foods label on the dressing we’d brought. In a touched voice he said, “You went to Whole Foods for me? That’s so nice. I love it there.”

[bubblyi3]

Residuals PROLOGUE | JJK

pairing: jungkook x female reader

genre: childhood best friends, lovers to enemies to strangers, fratboy!jungkook, heartbreak, uni!au

word count: 1.6k

content warning: angst, mild smut, mild languages

summary: jungkook used to be your everything. your best friend, your first love. but you both grew up and grew apart. he’s now the campus heartbreaker, a cocky frat boy who runs with the worst crowd. when a cruel dare asks him to destroy you just for the fun of it. everything shatters. trust. hearts. and maybe the chance to ever put it back together.

author's note: hihihihi! i know i said i’d be working on cigarettes and clementines, but i might kick this one off first. because... why not? i feel like it lol

and yesss this is an overused concept but i thought it would be fun to write one myself:)

>> TAGLIST IS NOW CLOSED << this one’s set in south korea, but i’ll be mixing in stuff from other countries/states too. it’s fiction so i’m just gonna have fun with it and see where it goes :)

© disclaimer: please do not copy, translate or reproduce any part of this work without my permission. thank you!

playlist:

back to friends - sombr

do i wanna know - hozier (cover)

all too well - taylor swift

love goes - sam smith & labrinth

again - noah cyrus & xxxtentacion

on my mind - alex warren & rosé

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3

You were born just four weeks apart.

Your mothers were inseparable since high school. Raised you both more like siblings than friends. Jungkook was there for every birthday, every scraped knee, every first day of school. When you got your period for the first time, he brought you a whole ass cake because he thought that's what people did for "milestones". When his first dog died in the nineth grade, you snuck into his room through the window and lay beside him while he cried into your hoodie.

And when you turned sixteen and got dumped at prom, Jungkook kissed you for the first time. He tasted like lemon soda, which was your favorite. His lips were hesitant, soft and trembling.

"You okay?" he whispered.

"I am now."

That night, neither of you said anything more, but something shifted.

It stayed like that for a while . Late-night texts turned into staying on the phone until one of you passed out. Sleepovers turned into sharing the same bed, breathing the same air, talking about everything and nothing in the dark.

He said it once, at seventeen. "I like you. Like... more than friends."

You laughed. Not because you didn't feel the same (God, you did), but because it scared the hell out of you. So much of your world had him in it. If you lost him, you'd lose your home. He is home.

Still, you kissed him back. Again and again.

None of you put any labels on it. You just thought that being the best of friends with Jungkook was enough. You didn't define it. You didn't need to. It was just you and him. It always had been. But friends don't kiss friends and they sure as hell don't hold each other like that.

Until university.

It started slow. You both got into the same university, just different majors. Jungkook chose Film Production and Media Communications. No surprise there, given his passion for visual storytelling that had burned bright since he was five. You remembered how fascinated he was with cameras and everything behind the scenes. Vivid memories of him pestering you to be his muse when he got his first video camera for his fifteenth birthday still lingered. Of course, you were happy to help. After all, Jungkook was your best friend even if you pretended to be annoyed at first.

Through his studies, he met new people and made many friends. Friends of friends, mutual connections. That’s how you came to know the group. Seven guys, including Jungkook, who were practically inseparable.

First time meeting Jungkook's friends, he introduced you to them as a good friend. He was honest with them about you being like a little sister to him. They all thought it was cute. Until one of them, who smile looked like it was made of sunshine, and an unmatched stage presence. Asked Jungkook for permission if he got the green light to sleep with you. You stared at him in disbelief, and Jungkook simply nodded in your direction, his expression cold and indifferent.

“By all means,” he said, earning amused grins from the group.

All you could manage before storming off was something between “fuck off” and “you’re fucking disgusting.” You don’t even remember which. Maybe you said both.

By second year of uni, he decided to join a frat, along with the rest of the guys. You, on the other hand, had no interest in sororities. You were focused on your business assignments and staying close to the small circle of friends you've made along the way.

As time passed, Jungkook partied more and texted less. Still, every time your parents called to check in, they'd ask about him too. Sometimes, those calls turned into full-on video chats. You, Jungkook, his parents, and yours. Like one big, blended family that hadn't quite realized how much had changed.

One Sunday evening, the screen filled with familiar faces. Your mum in her kitchen apron, his dad already with a glass of wine in hand, and Jungkook, hoodie tossed on, hair messy from either sleep or editing. It was hard to tell.

"Jungkook!" his mum smiled, eyes bright.

"Have you been keeping up with classes? That film project you mentioned last time?"

He grinned, the picture of effortless charm. "Yeah! I just wrapped up my final project. A short docu on campus creatives. Got really good feedback from my lecturer."

You couldn’t help but be amused when you heard that. You knew Jungkook had been filming around campus for his project, but you never imagined he could handle both the filming and the editing. Especially with how often he partied. You had to admit, you underestimated him. Still, no matter what, to you, Jungkook was still a piece of shit of a friend.

"That's our son!" his dad added, proud.

"Directing the next big movie, huh?"

You smiled politely as your parents chimed in with compliments. But you already knew Jungkook was thriving. Film had always lit him up in a way few things could. Even if he no longer shared that part of himself with you the way he used to.

Then came the question that changed the air in the room.

"And you're looking after Y/n, right?" his mum asked gently.

"Walking her to her dorm, checking in, making sure she's not overworking again?"

Your dad chuckled, "She's buried in business case studies. Needs someone to pull her away from that laptop."

There was a pause. The kind you feel more than hear.

You looked at Jungkook on the screen and for a fleeting moment, it felt like he was looking right back at you.

Then came the lie.

"Yeah, of course. I've been helping her with that marketing presentation," he said smoothly, "we meet up at the library once a week. She's doing great."

"Yeah, Jungkook's a great help." You said. Your lips then tightened into a soft smile you didn't mean.

Because that wasn't true. You'd been working on your own. Pulling late nights with your friends in the study lounge, quietly wondering if he’d even noticed your absence. Meanwhile, he was off doing God knows what.

"That's so sweet," your mum replied. "You've always been good to her."

Jungkook nodded casually, brushing hair from his eyes. “She’s got my back too.”

The call moved on, laughter returning like nothing had happened. But in that quiet space inside you. The one he used to fill so easily. Something cracked just a little.

He wasn’t lying to them.

He was lying for them.

And maybe a little to himself too.

Then suddenly, it wasn't slow at all.

He stopped calling. Started passing each other on campus like strangers, not even a nod. Apparently, Jungkook was too cool for you now.

He even missed your twenty first birthday.

And the next time you saw him, he was laughing with his "brothers", arms slung around some girl you didn't recognize. Completely oblivious to the way your stomach dropped when you caught his eye, and he looked right through you.

Two weeks later, your close uni friend Hana showed you a photo that he was in. It was of him. A girl. His hand up her shirt. Tongue in her mouth.

You stared at the screen until your vision blurred, then dropped your phone like it burned.

The night you finally confronted him was supposed to give you closure.

Instead, it gave you scars.

You didn't expect him to be sober, he wasn't. You didn't expect him to smile at you, he didn't. But you hoped, deep down that he'd say something. That the boy who kissed your forehead and called you "star girl" hadn't completely disappeared.

He was leaning against the wall of some house party that went around campus. Drink in his hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to piss you off. A glint from his lip caught your eye. A fresh piercing, one you hadn’t seen before, and his sleeve was inked with new tattoos, still bold against his skin. You hate how irresistible he looked, given the heartache and confusion he's caused you.

"Jungkook."

He looked up, eyes hazy, jaw tense. "What are you doing here?"

Your throat tightened. "What the hell happened to you?"

He snorted. "What do you mean?"

"This." You motioned to everything. "This isn't you. You're not... this."

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with something bitter. "Maybe this is me. Maybe I just stopped pretending."

You swallowed hard. "No. You're running."

"From what?"

"From us," you shouted. But it came out barely louder than a whisper.

There was silence and for a moment, just a breath. Something flickered in his eyes. Maybe it was regret or pain. Something real.

But then it was gone.

"There is no us," he said flatly. "There never was."

You flinched. "What about everything you said? Every promise. You-"

"I was a fucking kid," he snapped. "We both were. That shit doesn't mean anything now."

And just like that, the air between you shattered.

You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

He turned away, disappearing into the crowd and the bass and the blur of alcohol and bad decisions. Leaving you behind like none of it ever mattered.

You couldn't sleep that night.

You wanted to hate him. You try to erase the way he held you when your parent fought for the first time, the way he used to trace both your initials on fogged-up windows, pretending he didn’t care if you noticed, even though he always did.

But hate doesn't come easy when love came first.

And no matter how many girls he sleeps with, no matter how many parties he drowns in, he'll always be the boy who painted stars on his ceiling with you.

The boy who swore you were his favorite constellation.

The boy who forgot how to look up.

[hungharrington]

hear me out:

loverboy stevie makes a sex playlist for when things get hot and heavy in his bmw only he fumbles with the cassette and instead of hearing sexy jazz as you straddle him and start unbuckling his belt and zipping down his jeans, dustin’s mixtape of the star wars soundtrack starts playing instead

i’m crying there are real tears in my eyes

cos you’re so right, he so would. he’d be like so chuffed with himself, he spent a lot of time making sure each song on the mixtape is perfectly selected, it’s a curated mix that starts off softer and descends into something more saucy, more sexy if he dares to say.

— and he does dare say, only after he’d remembers it in a flurry of wide eyes and a shouted “wait!” during a makeout sessions in the backseat of his car- he shoots forward between the seats to fumble open the glove box, (giving you a delicious but confused view of his ass) before he pulls back, wiggling a tape between his fingers that you can read is labelled love-making mix with a scrawled heart in sharpie beside it <3

and that’s exactly how he describes it you, between heated kisses, murmuring the words, “it’s sexy, baby, it’s like, saucy ‘n’ shit, you’re gonna love it,” before he breaks your kisses again, adoring how you pout to lean back through the seats and feed it into the tape player.

it clatters a bit, but steve’s got one of those fancy tape player types, which can hold up to 4 tapes at a single time, so it feeds in just fine. steve hits play and sits back, not wasting any time in cajoling you back into his lap

you can hear the tape running in the back, that silence before some pre-made mixtape whirring in the back.

but you also can only hear the heavy breaths from steve’s mouth attached to yours, can’t really hear anything above how his roaming hands make you feel, how the core of you begins to flicker hotly and how the hard shape of him beneath you is—

the blaring trumpets of the star wars theme blast through steve’s speakers, loud enough to make you both startle in shock. steve bites your lip in surprise and then rears back, smacking his head on seats— in all in a half second.

“ow!” you say, right as steve says, “oh, what the shit.”

the theme keeps playing loudly — bah BAH bah bah bah BUH bah — as you and steve both scramble at the same time to push between the seats, desperate to stop the loud noise. steve reaches it first, hitting the stop button and then song cuts off abruptly, leaving the car suddenly very, very quiet.

you slither back from between the front seats and so does steve, the two of you side by side in the backseat. you laugh before you realise you’re doing so.

steve groans, head tilting back. “i’m gonna kill henderson.”

“sexy and saucy, huh?” you tease lightheartedly.

steve snorts, rolling his head to look at you. “i think my boner died.”

[apoemaday]

What We Haven't Read

by Joseph Mills

We play the party game, admitting what we haven’t read. Jane Eyre, Madame Bovary, anything of Faulkner’s. Amid mock gasps, we name titles with a mix of embarrassment, swagger, and relief that we can finally reveal how we never made it more than twenty pages into Portrait of a Lady, Middlemarch, Moby Dick. We don’t bother pretending we’ll get to them eventually. We’re confessing, but unrepentant, and then we begin to get serious: the newspaper, warning labels, the mortgage, legal contracts, every Christmas card from her for the last twenty years, the letter he sent before he died, the lab’s blood results last month and this month and the next.

[rohvee]

I was going to do this anyway, but the sequel trailer dropped and I went apeshit, so here’s the boys in my favorite video game of all time

AU notes so far:

* Viktor suffers from a terminal illness that causes his lungs to gradually fill with tar. He dies choking on it; but as a repatriate, he revives, ejecting the tar from his body and resetting the progression of his illness. With every death, he returns with a slightly heightened level of DOOMS.

* Caitlyn is security, Vi is a porter.

* Mel becomes the president after her mother dies and wears a golden mask (Ambessa’s mask design mixed with Die-Hardman’s).

* Silco’s face was affected by Timefall. He runs his own faction with Jinx and Sevika. They are labeled as terrorists.

* Ekko’s Firelights based on MULES, steal packages but do it to support their small independent colony.

* When Jayce was young, he and his mother were traveling between colonies when they got stuck in the rain. Ximena’s glove ripped and her fingers got splashed by Timefall.

* Blitzcrank is a delivery bot

* Rio is an overgrown cryptobiote

* Jayce and Viktor name their BBs Amaranthine and Naph

[fairydustttx]

How Does it Feel?

Carmy Berzatto x reader

“How does it feel that it's me and you? Just us two?”

A/N: Just a lil something in honour of season 4 of The Bear !!

Warnings: Angst & Carmy being a dickhead (but what’s new?). I have some details mixed up but that’s on purpose to fit the narrative :)

Word count: 1595

Summary: You return to the Bear for its grand reopening, reigniting long-buried tension with Carmy after a painful falling out.

THE PAST

The Beef was always hot, frantic, unforgiving — but Carmy Berzatto was even worse.

Everyone had been on edge for weeks. The grief, the mess, the broken pipes, the broken people — it was all too much. The kitchen was falling apart. So was he.

And this particular day, so were you.

You and Carmy had never put a label on it. There were too many other things burning for either of you to stop and define what you were. But you knew what it felt like: quiet moments in the walk-in, fingertips brushing when handing off plates, the occasional crash at his place after a double where you'd fall asleep fully clothed, then wake up with his hand on your back like it had always belonged there.

It wasn’t dating. But it wasn’t not.

It wasn’t love. But it was close enough to hurt like hell when it started to fade.

The tension had been building for weeks — bitter undercurrents, comments half-said and always too late, everything you did scrutinized under the weight of his grief. And yours.

Today, it cracked.

"Where's the fucking veal?" Carmy snapped, voice like a whip.

"I told you it needed another two minutes—"

"You told me five things and none of them fucking matter because the veal isn't up," he spat.

You clenched your jaw. "It's two minutes, Carm. You won't survive that?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were on your clock now."

You turned, ladle still in your hand, shoulders stiff. "Don't start with me."

"Start?" He laughed bitterly, shoving past Richie to get to the pass. "I've been starting every day cleaning up your half-assed prep and pretending like I don't notice you clock out the second you get the chance."

Your blood went cold. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he snapped. "You're checked out. You've been fucking gone since the second Mikey died. You show up, go through the motions, and act like we're all beneath you now."

Richie glanced over from expo. "Hey—cool it, both of you."

Neither of you listened.

Not anymore.

You laughed — sharp, disbelieving. “That’s rich, coming from you. I’ve been here. Every night. Every service. Picking up after your explosions and putting out fires you light just to see who sticks around to burn.”

“Don’t act like you’re a martyr.”

“Don’t act like you’re the only one who lost him!” you shouted. “I loved him too! He was my friend—he was family—”

“He was my brother,” Carmy bit out, stepping closer now, eyes dark and unforgiving. “Mine. Not yours. And guess what? He’s not coming back. So if you wanna go cry in the alley and feel sorry for yourself, be my guest — just don’t do it on my fucking line.”

You stopped breathing.

"You think I'm pathetic."

It wasn't a question.

And in his silence — that hollow, rage-blind stare — was your answer.

You could see it in his face: he didn’t mean to say it like that. But he didn’t take it back either.

So you snapped.

The ladle in your hand hit the tile with a loud clang. You grabbed the edge of your apron and ripped it over your head, the knot catching, yanking your hair before it gave. You threw it down with so much force it nearly knocked over a pan.

Everyone froze.

"I broke my fucking back for this place," you seethed, chest heaving. "For you. When Mikey died, when you came back here a mess of skin and bones and nightmares, I stayed. I fought for you when you wouldn't fight for yourself."

Carmy didn’t move.

The tears came up hot and fast behind your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of Tina. Or Marcus. Or Sydney, who was watching you like she wasn’t sure if she should step in or not.

The shame wasn’t about the crying. It was about how small he had made you feel.

How loud you had to get just to be heard.

"And you think I'm less than because I can't stand here and die the way you want me to? You wanna drown? Go ahead. But don’t you fucking dare drag me under with you.”

He opened his mouth — maybe to stop you, maybe to say something that would make all of this rewind — but you were already walking.

“You wanna be alone?” you said over your shoulder, voice cracking. “Congratulations Carmen, now you are.”

You shoved the door open and didn’t look back.

No one followed.

And you didn’t cry until you were halfway home.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

THE PRESENT

The Beef, now ‘The Bear’ looked unrecognizable — polished, gleaming, and impossibly calm for a place that had once been the heart of every breakdown you’d ever lived through in real-time.

You stood just inside the front entrance, coat folded over your arm, taking it all in. It smelled like warm sourdough and lemon zest. Like ambition. Like grief turned into something functional.

“Hey,” came a voice from your left.

Richie.

Dressed like a groomsman, smile too wide, pride pouring off him like steam from the pass.

“You came,” he said pulling you in for a hug.

“Yeah,” you replied. “Can’t say no to you, I guess.”

“Damn right.” He nudged your arm. “Kitchen’s back there. Don’t freak, okay? Just thought you should see it. It’s his first night running it like this. Big deal.”

You gave him a look. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

Richie’s mouth twitched. “He doesn’t know you’re coming. Thought it’d be better if he didn’t have time to… you know. Emotionally spiral.”

You sighed, but you didn’t leave. You were already here, after all — already in the heart of something you once thought you’d build with him. You had your own restaurant now, your own rhythm. You plated dishes that won awards. But you hadn’t stopped wondering what it might’ve looked like if you’d been able to stay.

And then you saw him.

Carmy stepped out from expo in that crisp white chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair damp at the temples. His eyes swept the room. And then they landed on you.

He stopped mid-step.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Claire emerged behind him, smiling about something someone had said. She placed a hand gently on his back but he didn’t react.

You nodded, just once, your throat tight. Just to say I’m here. I lived.

He turned sharply, disappearing back into the kitchen. Claire’s smile faded as her gaze followed him. Then followed his gaze. Then landed on you.

She started to wave. Then stopped.

You cleared your throat. “I’m just here to eat,” you said quietly. To who you weren’t sure but the room already felt like it had tilted sideways.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You didn’t stay for dessert.

You slipped your coat back on in the quietest corner you could find, next to the hallway leading to the alley. It was cleaner now, stacked with fresh linens and humming with soft jazz from the dining room. And just as you reached for the door—

“Running again?”

You froze.

Carmy.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, apron loosened around his waist. Same voice, same edge, same ache just barely contained.

You turned slowly. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t want me gone the second you saw me.”

“I didn’t invite you.”

“I know. Richie did.”

His jaw flexed.

“Relax,” you said, voice tight. “Your perfect night is still intact.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it?”

He stepped closer. “Why’d you come?”

You stared him down. “Why do you care?”

“Because you’re here,” he said, something raw in his voice. “And you looked at me like—like everything we had meant nothing.”

“You ended it like it meant nothing.”

The silence sharpened.

“I came,” you said, “because despite everything, I wanted to see the place. I’m proud of them. Of you, too. Part of me wanted to believe you built something that wouldn’t destroy you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You want to talk about fair?”

He flinched.

“You think I don’t regret it?” he asked, quieter now. “What I said? What I did?”

“I don’t know what you regret, Carm. You never told me. You just shut down and left me there with nothing but your silence and my own self-doubt.”

“I was grieving.”

“I know you were. But so was I. And I still showed up for you, day after day, hoping you’d meet me halfway. You didn’t. You chose the kitchen. You chose the chaos. You didn’t choose me.”

His voice cracked. “I didn’t know how to hold on to you without hurting you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have held me at all.”

He didn’t speak.

“I wasn’t your girlfriend. I wasn’t just your sous. I was somewhere in the middle. Some blurry, unspoken thing that you could lean on until it was too real, and then you pulled away.”

You stepped back, just slightly. “I deserved better than a situationship built on scraps of attention and secondhand grief.”

He nodded slowly, eyes glassy.

“I’m sorry.”

You swallowed. “Too late.”

“I know.”

You lingered for just a second more. Looked at him like you might still recognize the version of him that once pulled you in like a current.

But all you saw now was the aftermath.

“I hope it works out with her,” you said.

His face twisted as you turned the handle.

And when you left he didn’t stop you.

He just let the door close quietly between you, the way he always did.

[fuckyeahchinesefashion]

During Qingming Festival (清明节Tomb-Sweeping Day) every year, Chinese netizens enthusiastically went to pay respects to Zhuge Liang诸葛亮（181—234）(People respectfully called him "Wuhou"武侯Marquis Wu, Wu stands for martial, ardent, courageous, valiant and dauntless etc, it's his official noble title, which later became an honorific celebrating his achievements and unwavering loyalty). His memorial temple is in Chengdu, Sichuan Province, where he's enshrined together with his best bromance Liu Bei刘备, the Emperor of Shuhan蜀汉(eastern han dynasty of ancient sichuan area)—it's the only 'ruler and minister shared temple' in Chinese history. So when people visit the Wuhou Shrine, they honor Liu Bei as well (Liu Bei once said "Having Kongming (literary name of Zhuge Liang) is to me like fish having water"). Meanwhile, Zhuge Liang's actual tomb is located at the foot of Dingjun Mountain in Mian County, Hanzhong 汉中勉县定军山(Shaanxi Province). Every Qingming Festival, it gets covered in flowers, along with many playful tributes left by young people, like three kingdoms-themed fandom merch, train tickets from Xi'an the capital city of shaanxi province to Chengdu, characters in a Three Kingdoms-themed mobile card battle game, BRPG cards and cartoon badges of three kingdoms (Wuhou Shrine's cultural-themed souvenirs), soil of central plains, memes and all kinds of handwritten letters.

Zhuge Liang is deeply loved by people for his wisdom and lifelong care for the common folk. He is seen as a symbol of intelligence, courage, and loyalty, a guardian deity of the people.

Many famous ancient Chinese poets admired him and wrote poems in his honor. For example:

Lu You陆游 (1125—1210) wrote: "His Memorial on Expedition has won him immortal fame;Who could ever stand with him shoulder to shoulder in name?(by xu yuanchong) "This campaign memorial alone ensures his name will never fade —Through a thousand years, who could match his grade? (by Burton Watson)出师一表真名世，千载谁堪伯仲间"

Du Fu杜甫 (712—770) penned: "Where is the famous premier’s temple to be found?/Outside the Town of Brocade with cypresses around./In vain before the steps spring grass grows green and long,/And amid the leaves golden orioles sing their song./Thrice the king visited him for the State’s gains and pains;/He served heart and soul the kingdom during two reigns./But he died before he accomplished his career./How could heroes not wet their sleeves with tear on tear (translated by xu yuanchong)丞相祠堂何处寻？锦官城外柏森森。 映阶碧草自春色，隔叶黄鹂空好音。 三顾频烦天下计，两朝开济老臣心。 出师未捷身先死，长使英雄泪满襟."

What moves people most is Zhuge Liang’s "Memorial on the Campaign" (Chu Shi Biao出师表).

It’s a heartfelt letter he wrote before leading the Northern Expeditions, expressing his devotion to his kingdom and ruler, despite knowing the odds were against him.

He vowed to give his all for his people, even as he grieved lost allies and faced his own aging and illness.

The mix of duty, sacrifice, and unshaken resolve makes it one of history’s most touching political texts—a testament to loyalty unto death.

In Chinese culture, it's believed that outstanding individuals who made remarkable contributions to people (like Zhuge Liang, Guan Yu, Mazu, etc, Mazu is worshipped as the guardian deity of sailors and fishermen) would be elevated to divine status after death. That's why these figures are deeply revered by the people.

Also at the tomb of Emperor Zhao Lie汉昭烈皇帝/ Emperor of Illustrious and Ardent (Liu Bei's posthumous title), you can see a fan tribute, a metal certification labeled 'Eastern Han Dynasty succubus东汉魅魔', for his ability to attract and inspire loyal generals to serve him, despite his humble beginnings. Fans even dropped a beagle plushie at the tomb as an offering—shoutout to Gan Ning甘宁, the original gangster ‘rebel pup’ of the Three Kingdoms. People love leaving inside-joke offerings for their favorite historical badasses. In Sichuan, Zhuge Liang is revered as one of the guardian spirits protecting the Land of Abundance天府之国 from evil spirits and misfortune. That’s why Chinese tourists visiting Sichuan always make a stop at the Wuhou Shrine to pay their respects—not just to Zhuge Liang (honored as "Marquis Wu"), but also to Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei housed within the shrine. People think that a trip to Sichuan isn’t complete without these things: Admiring the natural beauty of Western Sichuan’s landscapes; Spicy hot pot; Visiting the pandas; and making a pilgrimage to the Wuhou Shrine—where history, legend, and local faith intertwine. The main reasons for them to visit the Wuhou Shrine are to attend a docent-led interpretation session and explore the exhibits—immersing themselves in the stories of the Three Kingdoms. If they just rush through it, they’ll miss the depth of the experience. (Note: During peak seasons, advance booking is required.)

"Little Sweet Ginger" (小甜���xiaotianjiang) is a modern affectionate nickname for Jiang Wei (姜维), Zhuge Liang’s successor in the Shu Han kingdom. Jiang Wei took over after Zhuge Liang’s death, continuing the near-impossible mission of defending Shu Han against the stronger Wei kingdom. Despite his efforts, Shu Han fell in 263 CE, and Jiang Wei died fighting. Fans see Jiang Wei as a tragic figure—a loyal student burdened with his mentor’s unfinished legacy. To honor Zhuge Liang and his fellows, the standard seat fare for high-speed rail tickets from Chengdu to Xi'an is set at 263 yuan (Xi'an, anciently known as Chang'an, served as the historic capital of the Han Dynasty, and Zhuge Liang devoted his entire life to restoring the Han dynasty's glory—to return to the old capital and bring peace back to the Central Plains). Some believe it's just a coincidence, while others think it's an low-key tribute quietly endorsed by the authorities. Nearly two thousand years have passed. The Three Kingdoms are now but a distant dream, yet in their hearts, people still long to see him win.

[mechncheese]

What’s the worst an experiment has ever turned out for each of the scientists?

(And how explosive were they?)

Top worst experiments for the scientists </3

Wheeljack - The lab incident where he blew off a part of his face, his invention blew up while he was testing it. The entire lab was set ablaze. Explosive scale 5/5 everyone thought he died for sure.

Perceptor - Mixed the wrong chemicals together in a beaker because he misread the labels. The beaker overheated and exploded but nothing too wild, just glass and chemicals everywhere. Burned quite a bit. Explosive scale 1/5

Ratchet - Operated on a bot in a moving vehicle (Red Alert) and Red Alert got too anxious while driving and made Ratchet slip up. No one died but Ratchet was sure he lost a couple hundred years off his life from the stress. No explosion. 0/5

Jetfire - Got too impatient/frustrated while upgrading his new thrusters in his legs so he decided to just bullshit the rest of it and hope for the best. They blew up upon use while he was flying </3. Explosive scale 3/5, it was the fall that did the most damage. Got a stern scolding from Ratchet.

Brainstorm - He’s had many incidents occur but the one that caused the most damage was the time he made a huge crater in Cybertron showing off his more efficient upgraded dynamite mining technique (he severely miscalculated its strength, oops, he was being a little too careless). Explosion scale 10/5, that’s just a permanent part of the planet now.

[joemama-2]

men who get nearly, if not as emotional as you during sex.

okay so think about it, they wouldn’t usually label themselves as emotional or sensitive. they’re supposed to be strong with sometimes a mask of indifference. they’ve only ever shed tears a handful of times in their life. not many things can make them break down so easily. but you know what does?

your warm, slippery cunt.

if there was one drug they would be addicted to, it would be your soft walls that eagerly suck him right back in. the first time it happened, he actually thought he died and came back to life. but no, the hot tears that land in your cheek as your sprawled out beneath him bring him back to reality.

maybe it’s just because it’s the first time, he thinks.

again, no.

it happens every time. it’s almost annoying and maddening. it’s like a switch flips in his brain, his mind, and soul once he’s deep in you, pounding you like he needs to. over time, you caught onto the tears and wrecked expression on his face and god, it somehow gets you even more wet.

“shh, shh. please, please be more quiet.” he whispers pathetically against your lips, his own trembling ones having to kiss your moans down. his tears coat your skin as he works simultaneously at keeping your mouth shut, but also being the reason as to why you need it shut in the first place.

“please baby, god…y-you feel so good.”

his sobs and cries make you pull him closer by either his face, shoulders, or neck, whispering soft and sweet praises into his ear. you think you’re helping, but you’re really not. if anything, you’re making him cry more.

but he’s not the only one shedding tears. you’ve always been a crybaby and he used every chance he gets to tease you about it. that consists of him scaring you too much even when he wasn’t even trying to in the first place, stubbing your toe into a stubborn corner, watching a scene you know will make you cry, or when he raises his voice at you.

you always cry.

you think it’s karma for him chastising you for not being able to go five seconds without the waterworks when he can’t even go one pump without sobbing like a desperate man.

your guys’ tears mix together into a slobby mess and sex with him is never clean. it always ends with rags being used to clean whatever liquid was emitted or squirted during the entirety of it.

however at the same time, sex with him is different. it’s magical, as stupid as it sounds. it’s completely pure and it’s love in its most precious form.

his tears showcase the ever loving amount of affection he has for you.

“ ‘m gonna cum….” he breathlessly mutters. “cum with me, please baby. i need it.”

he begs like a man in heat.

but like the sweet girl you are, you always give in, always finishing with him.

————————————————

jjk: gojo, nanami, ijichi, choso, ino, getou, higuruma, maybe toji?

[thequeenofthedisneyverse]

How to NOT write like Vivziepop guide!

Writing tips:

1. Don't treat SA/Rape as a joke. Seriously, it shouldn't be that hard. EX: In Helluva Boss; Spring Broken, Moxxie goes to talk to Verosika and her crew in hopes to get them to move her car. He gets SA'd as a result and we're supposed to see that as a joke.

I don't specifically remember the episode name, but Sir pentious asks Cherri if she wants to have sex with him but he then gets scared/nervous and says "BECAUSE I WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH EVERYONE!!" or something like that. He then gets taken by a bunch of people into a room and he CLEARLY looks uncomfortable. Again, I suppose we're supposed to see that as a joke for some reason.

SA/Rape isn't funny, and you can offend tons of people writing it so carelessly. DON'T DO THAT!

2. If your characters come from a certain era, RESEARCH THAT ERA. Ex: Alastor was supposed to be a famous radio host in the 1920s (seeing as he died in 1933) when he was alive despite being a mixed (Black and white) man. Jim Crow laws existed in those times so Alastor couldn't have become a popular radio host unless he was white passing, which we don't know. Also, from what I got from @bump-inthe-night the first black radio personality in Louisiana was Vernon Winslow, known as Dr. Daddy-O, in 1949.

Also, from @bump-inthe-night - (her words were pasted here because I couldn't have said it better myself) Despite dying in 1947, Angel overdosed on PCP. This drug was discovered in 1926, and it started being utilized as a general anesthetic in the 1950s. PCP became a street drug in the 1960s and gained popularity in the 1970s. It's impossible for Angel to have overdosed on this drug when he was alive. RESEARCH. BEFORE. YOU. WRITE. THE. CHARACTER.

This is also from @/bump-inthe-night. Sir Pentious died in 1888, but he’s wearing a shoulder-padded suit. Shoulder pads, invented in 1877, were used in football uniforms. They didn’t cross over into fashion and become popular until the 1930s. Sir Pentious shouldn’t be wearing a shoulder-padded suit, and neither should Vox, who died in the 1950s, when this started falling out of style.

3. Don't victimize characters that obviously shouldn't be victimized. Example: Stolas.

I will tag the people who inspired this post and paste their stuff here because they say these things better than me.

@flower-boi16 says "So fucking what if Stolas was neglected as a child or had a mean wife? How does that relate to ANY of his actions he takes throughout the series??? It doesn’t excuse SHIT. Granted, the “this character’s trauma is not an excuse” argument is a kind of argument I’ve grown to be annoyed by due to how often it gets misused. Yes, a character’s backstory or trauma doesn’t excuse or justify their actions.

The issue arises though when the character’s bad actions are a direct response to that trauma and so it can make it look like your just ignoring major context for what lead to the character doing these actions just so you can label them as irredeemable. With Stolas, however, I have no hesitation in saying that whatever backstory and trauma he may have I genuinely don’t care because that trauma doesn’t matter to ANY of his actions.

The “his daughter doesn’t like him” defense doesn’t work because 1. Octavia is shown to still care for her father and is actually shown to be excited to spend time with him in Seeing Stars and 2. Octavia has a perfectly valid reason to dislike Stolas given how shitty of a father he is to her.

The “Stolas is well meaning/believes that Blitzo likes being treated like a sex toy” defense also doesn’t work when Stolas can very clearly see that Blitzo does NOT like being treated that way. Ffs Blitz was completely shocked and disgusted by Stolas’ sexual remarks on him on the phone in Loo Loo Land, Stolas can clearly see Blitz DOESN'T ENJOY THIS but continues flirting with him anyway. Anyone who is well-meaning can still see when they fucked up."

@floralcavern "Stolas is the epitome of writers thinking they wrote a deep character when they actually created the most shallowly written character of all time. Stolas receives no consequences, no call outs, no growth, because he gets the excuse of ‘he’s abused’ to not have to face anything bad happen to him. It’s infuriating how shielded he is by the writers."

4. Understand what your writing! This is also from @/floralcavern and I couldn't agree more. "And Helluva Boss didn’t need extremely deep characters. It started off as a comedy, where characters could do messed up, edgy shit because nothing is meant to be taken seriously. But then suddenly the show decides to become a super serious, soap opera drama?? It completely derails its original premise to be something completely different. The beginning of Helluva Boss and what we currently have are 2 completely different shows. And I’m not saying comedies can’t have depth. One of my favorite examples is Dan Da Dan! It’s literally a show about a guy whose dick was stolen by a ghost. And yet, the show writers know how to balance ridiculous comedy and storytelling with genuine, human moments. But Viv’s shows don’t have that balance. The show is hardly a comedy anymore and takes itself way too seriously, while also refusing to acknowledge actual things that need to be acknowledged."

5. This should be obvious but don't make male characters (or any characters for that matter) that are supposed to be gay call their sisters "hot" or "Sexy". Example: Andrelphus or whatever his name is. It comes off as extremely gross and really unnecessary. Vivziepop said he does that to make others think he's straight?????...Andrelphus was literally in the pride parade art. WTF VIV?!

So yeah, don't do that unless it's relevant to the plot. Like the characters have a secret incestual relationship or the incest is being pushed/forced onto the other sibling character or SOMETHING! And no, before you say it, Stella never looked comfortable being called attractive by her own brother.

5. Don't fetishize rape or have/hire people that work under you that do. It's as simple as that.

6. When writing serious topics such as SA, TREAT THE TOPIC SERIOUSLY!

7. Be mindful of stereotypes. I've learned (with the help of others pointing it out) that Angel Dust is a stereotype of gay men.

8. Call out your characters for their actions. Angel is shown to sexually harass other male characters with no call outs or apologies. Same can be said for Stolas.

I'm not sure of what else to add. If anyone else wants to add something, feel free to comment or reblog. Your words will help others a lot!

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ We'll Never Leave

Sam Winchester x half sister!reader

Dean Winchester x half sister!reader

Summary: After losing the final family members you've known at 17, you found out that you had two half brothers. Everything was going smoothly - or at least that's what Sam and Dean thought before they found out you're not sleeping.

Notes/warnings: this was a request from @apalanchen/abandonment anxiety, grief, brief mentions of last trauma, sleep deprivation

The lights of the gas station convenience store buzzed overhead as Dean grabbed another energy drink from the cooler, his green eyes scanning the label with practiced efficiency. Three weeks. Three weeks since he and Sam had gotten that call from Child Protective Services, three weeks since they'd learned about the existence of their seventeen-year-old half-sister, and three weeks since their world had been turned completely upside down.

"Dean, you're gonna give yourself a heart attack with all that caffeine," Sam's voice carried from the next aisle over, accompanied by the rustle of snack packages.

"Says the guy who drinks enough coffee to fuel a small aircraft," Dean shot back, but there was no real bite to his words. His mind was elsewhere, focused on you currently sitting in the Impala's backseat, staring out the window with those hauntingly familiar eyes—their father's eyes.

The memory of that first meeting still felt surreal. A sterile office, fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across the social worker's tired face as she explained the situation. Their father had apparently had a brief relationship seventeen years ago, and when both of your guardians—your mother and grandmother—had died in a car accident, a DNA test had revealed John Winchester as your biological father. With John dead and no other family to speak of, Sam and Dean were your closest living relatives.

Dean's jaw had clenched at the news, not out of anger toward you, but at their father. Another secret, another life John had touched and abandoned. But when they'd first seen you—small, guarded, clutching a worn duffel bag that contained everything you owned—Dean's protective instincts had kicked in immediately. You were family. That was all that mattered.

"You getting anything else?" Sam appeared at his elbow, arms full of granola bars and trail mix, his long hair falling into his eyes as he studied Dean's face with that analytical expression he'd perfected over the years.

"Just thinking," Dean muttered, grabbing a bag of your favorite chips—something he'd noticed during their first grocery run together when you'd lingered in front of them but hadn't asked for anything.

“About Y/n?"

Dean nodded, his throat tightening slightly. "She's been… different lately. Quieter. More tired."

Sam's expression grew concerned, his eyebrows drawing together in that way that made him look older than his years. “I've noticed it too. She barely touched dinner last night, and this morning she looked like she hadn't slept at all.”

They'd both noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the way you'd started jumping at sudden noises, how you'd begun hovering near them constantly as if afraid they might disappear. At first, they'd thought it was the adjustment period nerves—after all, your entire life had been uprooted. But it was getting worse, not better.

Dean paid for their items, his mind racing as they walked back to the Impala. You were exactly where they'd left you, curled up in the backseat with your earbuds in, but Dean could see you watching them in the reflection of the window. Always watching, always alert.

"Hey, kiddo," Dean said softly as he slid into the driver's seat, catching your eyes in the rearview mirror. "We got your chips."

A small smile flickered across your face, but it didnt reach your eyes. "Thanks."

The word was barely above a whisper, and Deans chest tightened. When they'd first brought you home to the bunker, you'd been shy but curious, asking careful questions about their lives, their work, the strange underground fortress they called home. Now you seemed to be withdrawing into yourself more each day.

Sam twisted in the passenger seat to face you, his expression gentle. "How are you feeling? You seemed pretty tired this morning."

You straightened slightly, and Dean caught the way your hands fidgeted with the sleeves of your oversized flannel—one of Sam's old shirts that had somehow migrated to your wardrobe. "I'm fine. Just… adjusting."

The lie was obvious, but neither brother pushed. They'd learned quickly that direct confrontation made you shut down completely. Instead, Dean started the engine, the familiar rumble of the Impala filling the silence.

"We're about an hour out from the bunker," he announced, pulling out of the parking lot. "You hungry? There's that diner you liked about twenty minutes down the road."

In the mirror, he saw you shake your head. "I'm not really hungry."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. You'd been eating less and less lately, picking at your food and claiming you weren't hungry. It was starting to become a real concern.

The drive passed in relative silence, broken only by the low hum of classic rock from the radio and the occasional comment about the passing scenery. Dean found himself checking the mirror more frequently than necessary, noting the way your eyelids kept drooping only to snap open again whenever you started to doze off.

When they finally pulled into the bunker's garage, you were fully awake again, that hypervigilant expression back on your face. Dean killed the engine and turned to face you properly.

"Y/n, you sure you're okay? You've seemed pretty wiped out lately."

For a moment, something vulnerable flickered across your features—fear, maybe, or longing—but it was gone so quickly Dean almost thought he’d imagined it.

"I'm fine," you repeated, already unbuckling your seatbelt. "Just tired."

You were out of the car before either brother could respond, grabbing your small backpack and heading for the entrance to the bunker. Dean watched you go, noting the slight tremble in your hands as you punched in the door code they’d taught you.

Yes. After you moved in they put a code on the door in addition of the old key.

"She's not fine," Sam said quietly once you were out of earshot.

"No kidding." Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "But every time we try to talk to her about it, she clams up."

"Maybe we're coming on too strong. She's been through a lot of trauma—losing her mom and grandmother, finding out about us, moving in with two strangers who happen to be her half-brothers. It's a lot to process."

Dean knew Sam was right, but the knowledge didn't make watching you struggle any easier. They made their way inside, finding you already in the kitchen attempting to make a sandwich with shaking hands.

"Here, let me help," Sam offered gently, moving to stand beside you.

You jerked away from him slightly, then seemed to catch yourself. "Sorry, I've got it."

But Dean could see the way you were swaying on your feet, exhaustion evident in every line of your body. Without thinking, he moved to your other side, steadying you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"When's the last time you got a full night’s sleep?" he asked directly.

Your whole body went rigid under his touch. "I sleep fine."

"Y/n." Sam's voice was patient but firm. "You look like you haven't slept in days. And don't say you're fine—we can see that you're not."

For a long moment, you stared down at the half-assembled sandwich in your hands, your breathing shallow and quick. Dean could practically see your internal struggle, the war between wanting to trust them and whatever fear was holding you back.

"I just…" you started, then stopped, biting your lower lip hard enough to leave marks. "It's stupid."

"Nothing you're feeling is stupid," Dean said firmly, his hand still resting on your shoulder. "Talk to us."

You were quiet for so long that Dean began to think you wouldn't answer. Then, in a voice so small he had to strain to hear it, you whispered, "What if you change your minds?"

"About what?" Sam asked gently.

"About me. About wanting me here." The words came out in a rush, like you needed to get them out before you lost your nerve. "What if you wake up one day and decide this was a mistake? What if you realize you don't want a kid sister messing up your lives? What if you just… leave?"

Dean felt his heart crack clean in half. The hand on your shoulder tightened protectively as he processed your words, understanding flooding through him like ice water.

"Is that why you haven't been sleeping?" Sam’s voice was thick with emotion. "Because you're afraid we'll leave while you're asleep?"

Your silence was answer enough. Dean could see the tears you were fighting to hold back, the way your whole body was trembling with exhaustion and fear.

"Oh, sweetheart," he breathed, the endearment slipping out before he could stop it. "Y/n, look at me."

Slowly, reluctantly, you raised your eyes to meet his in the reflection of the kitchen window. What he saw there nearly broke him—raw vulnerability, bone-deep fear, and underneath it all, a desperate hope that you were trying so hard to protect.

"We're not going anywhere," he said firmly, turning you gently so you were facing him properly. "Do you hear me? We're not leaving you. Not now, not ever."

"But what if—"

"No what-ifs," Sam interrupted, moving to your other side so you were bracketed between them. "Y/n, you're our family. You're our sister. That's not something that changes based on convenience or circumstances."

"But you didn't even know I existed a month ago," you whispered, fresh tears spilling over despite your efforts to contain them. "And your lives were fine without me. You had your routine, your work, each other. You don't need some random kid complicating everything."

Dean felt anger flash through him—not at you, but at every adult who had ever failed you, every situation that had taught you that love was conditional and family was temporary.

"Hey," he said firmly, waiting until you met his eyes again. "First of all, you're not some random kid. You're John Winchester's daughter, which makes you a Winchester. And Winchesters? We stick together. We take care of each other. That's what we do."

"Second," Sam added, his voice gentle but unwavering, "our lives weren't fine without you. They were just… incomplete. We didn't know what we were missing until we found you."

You stared at them both, disbelief and hope warring in your expression. "Really?"

"Really," Dean confirmed. "Y/n I know this is scary. I know you've lost people before, and I know trusting us feels like a huge risk. But I need you to understand something—Sam and I, we've been through hell and back together. Literally. And the one thing that's kept us going through all of it is family. And now you're part of that family."

"The most important part," Sam added softly. "Because you chose to trust us, to give us a chance to be your brothers. And that means everything to us."

The tears were flowing freely now, and Dean could see the exact moment your carefully constructed walls began to crumble. You swayed on your feet, the exhaustion finally overwhelming your adrenaline.

"I'm so tired," you whispered, the confession seeming to cost you everything.

"I know, sweetheart," Dean murmured, pulling you into a careful hug. You stiffened for just a moment before melting against him, your small frame shaking with exhaustion and relief. "When's the last time you actually slept? And I mean really slept, not just dozed off for an hour here and there."

"I don't remember," you admitted against his chest. "Maybe… maybe four days ago? For a couple hours?"

Sam made a pained sound behind you. "Y/n, that's not sustainable. You're going to make yourself sick."

"I tried," you said desperately, pulling back to look between them both. "I wanted to sleep, but every time I started to drift off, I'd panic. What if I woke up and you were gone? What if you left a note saying you’d changed your minds? What if I was alone again?"

Dean's throat felt tight with emotion. He'd been on his own plenty of times, knew the terror of abandonment intimately, but he'd never been seventeen and completely alone in the world. The idea of you lying awake night after night, paralyzed by fear, made him want to punch something.

"Okay," he said decisively. "Here's what we're going to do. You're going to get some sleep—real sleep—and Sam and I are going to stay right here with you until you wake up."

"You don't have to—"

"Yes, we do," Sam interrupted gently. "Y/n, you're exhausted. You can barely stand up. Your body needs rest, and your mind needs to know that we're not going anywhere."

You looked between them uncertainly. "But what about your work? Don't you have a case or something?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothing that can't wait. You're the priority right now."

"But—"

"No buts," Dean said firmly. "Come on, kiddo. Let's get you to bed."

He kept one arm around your shoulders as they made their way through the bunker to your room—a space they'd tried to make as comfortable and welcoming as possible with soft lighting, warm blankets, and a few personal items they'd helped you pick out during a shopping trip. You moved like you were walking through water, exhaustion weighing down every step.

Sam was already pulling back the covers when they reached your bed, his movements gentle and careful. "Do you need anything? Water? Something more to eat?"

You shook your head, settling on the edge of your bed with a shaky sigh. "Just… you're really going to stay?"

"We're really going to stay," Dean confirmed, pulling the chair from your desk over to sit beside the bed. "I'll be right here. Sam will be here too."

Sam nodded, settling into the small armchair in the corner of your room. "We're not going anywhere, Y/n. I promise."

You crawled under the covers slowly, like you were afraid the movement might break the spell. Once you were settled, you looked up at them both with those familiar green eyes, so much like Dean’s own.

"What if I have nightmares?" you asked quietly.

"Then we'll be here when you wake up," Dean said simply. "We'll remind you that you're safe, that you're not alone, and we'll stay until you can fall back asleep."

For the first time in weeks, you looked like you might actually believe them. Your eyelids were already growing heavy, the simple act of lying down enough to start pulling you under after days of fighting sleep.

"Dean?" you whispered just as he thought you'd drifted off.

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Thank you. For… for staying. For not thinking I'm crazy or needy or—"

"Hey," he interrupted gently. "You're not crazy. You're not needy. You're seventeen years old and you've been through more trauma than most adults could handle. Wanting reassurance that the people who are supposed to take care of you aren't going to abandon you? That’s not crazy. That's human."

You were quiet for a moment, processing his words. "I love you guys," you whispered finally, the admission barely audible. "I know it's probably too soon to say that, and I know we barely know each other, but—"

"We love you too," Sam said softly from his corner. "More than you know."

Dean felt his chest tighten with emotion. "Sam's right. You're stuck with us now, kiddo. Whether you like it or not."

A small smile flickered across your face, the first genuine one he’d seen from you in days. "I like it," you murmured, your eyes finally sliding closed. "I really like it."

Within minutes, your breathing had evened out into the deep, steady rhythm of actual sleep. Dean leaned back in his chair, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he watched you finally get the rest you so desperately needed.

"She really thought we were going to leave her," Sam said quietly, his voice heavy with disbelief and sadness.

Dean nodded, his eyes never leaving your sleeping form. "Can you blame her? Think about her life—everyone she's ever loved has either died or left. In her mind, we're just the next in line."

"We need to do better," Sam said firmly. "We need to find ways to show her that this is permanent. That she belongs here."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "We do."

They sat in comfortable silence as the hours passed, taking turns keeping watch over their sleeping sister. Every time you stirred or made a sound, one of them was there instantly, ready to offer comfort if needed. But you slept deeply, your body finally able to rest knowing you weren't alone.

It was nearly dawn when you finally began to stir, your eyes blinking open slowly as you oriented yourself. For just a moment, Dean saw panic flash across your features—the instinctive fear that you'd wake up alone—but then your gaze landed on him, and relief flooded your expression.

"You stayed," you whispered, voice thick with sleep and emotion.

"We stayed," Dean confirmed, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your face. "And we'll stay as long as you need us to."

Sam was awake instantly, moving from his chair to sit on the edge of your bed. "How do you feel?"

You considered the question seriously, taking inventory of your body and mind. "Better," you said finally. "Rested. Still scared, but… better."

"The scared part will get easier," Dean promised. "The more time that passes with us staying exactly where we are, the easier it'll get to believe that we're not going anywhere."

You nodded, sitting up slowly and rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "I'm sorry. For keeping you up all night, for being such a mess, for—"

"Stop," Sam interrupted gently. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing."

"We're your big brothers," Dean added. "Taking care of you, staying up all night when you need us to, dealing with whatever mess you think you are—that’s literally our job now. And it’s not a burden or an inconvenience. It’s a privilege."

Fresh tears sprang to your eyes, but these were different—tears of relief rather than fear. "I don't know how to do this," you admitted. "I don't know how to be part of a family."

"None of us do," Sam said with a rueful smile. "We're all kind of making it up as we go along. But we'll figure it out together."

Dean stood up, stretching muscles that were stiff from a night in the chair. "How about we start with breakfast? I make a mean pancake, and I think we could all use some comfort food."

Your stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, reminding them all that you'd barely eaten in the past few days. You blushed, but there was a hint of your earlier humor in your expression.

"Pancakes sound amazing," you admitted.

"Good," Dean said, offering you his hand to help you out of bed. "And while I'm cooking, you and Sam can figure out what movie we're watching today. Because we're having a lazy day. No hunting, no research, no leaving the bunker. Just family time."

You took his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet, and Dean was relieved to see that you seemed steadier than you had in days. The sleep had helped, but more than that, he could see that something fundamental had shifted in your understanding of their relationship.

"Are you sure?" you asked as they made their way to the kitchen. "You don't have people depending on you?"

"Right now, the only person depending on us is you," Sam said firmly. "And you're more important than any case."

You were quiet as Dean started pulling ingredients from the refrigerator, but he could see you processing Sam's words, trying to believe them. It would take time—he knew that. Years of abandonment and loss wouldn't be healed by one conversation and one good night’s sleep. But it was a start.

"Dean?" you said suddenly as he began mixing batter.

"Yeah?"

"Can I help? With the pancakes?"

The request was simple, but Dean heard the real question underneath it: Can I be part of this? Can I contribute? Do I belong here?

"Of course," he said, making room for you at the counter. "You can be my sous chef."

As you moved to stand beside him, carefully measuring ingredients under his guidance, Dean caught Sam's eye over your head. His younger brother was smiling, the kind of soft, genuine smile that Dean rarely saw anymore. They were all healing, he realized. Your presence wasn't just changing your life—it was changing theirs too.

"You know," Sam said conversationally as they worked, "I was thinking we could redecorate your room if you want. Make it more… permanent."

You looked up from the bowl you were stirring, hope and uncertainty warring in your expression. "Permanent?"

"Well, yeah,"!Dean said casually, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "This is your home now. Your room should reflect that."

"We could paint the walls," Sam added. "Get some new furniture, maybe some bookshelves. Make it really yours."

The smile that spread across your face was radiant, transforming your entire appearance. For the first time since they'd met you, you looked like the teenager you were supposed to be—hopeful and excited about the future instead of constantly braced for the next loss.

"I'd like that," you said softly. "I'd really like that."

Dean flipped the first pancake with a flourish, grinning at your delighted laugh. "Then it's settled. Today we eat pancakes and plan your room makeover. Tomorrow we go shopping."

"And tonight?" you asked, a hint of anxiety creeping back into your voice.

"Tonight we prove to you again that we're not going anywhere," Sam said simply. "And tomorrow night, and the night after that, and every night until you don't need the proof anymore."

"And even then," Dean added, "we'll still be here."

You nodded, tears threatening again but held back by sheer determination. "Thank you," you whispered. "For everything. For staying, for caring, for giving me a chance to be part of your family."

"Our family," Dean corrected gently. "You're not joining something we already had—you're helping us create something new. Something better."

As they finished making breakfast together, the kitchen filled with the warm smell of pancakes and the sound of your laughter as Sam told increasingly ridiculous stories about Dean's cooking mishaps over the years, Dean felt something settle in his chest that he hadn't even realized was unsettled.

They were a family now. Not just him and Sam anymore, but the three of them together. It would take time for you to fully believe in the permanence of it, and there would probably be more sleepless nights and difficult conversations ahead. But they had time. They had each other. And for the first time in his life, Dean Winchester felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

His family was complete.

[nuelles]

Scene Partners (in crime)

Prologue: Bagel Whisperer

Spencer Agnew x F!Reader

Summary: You thought working behind the scenes at Smosh would be all coffee runs and clipboard duties. You were wrong. Enter Spencer Agnew: part improv genius, part walking disaster, and full-time chaos magnet. Now, you’re stuck partnering with him on a sketch series that’s equal parts hilarious and hazardous to your sanity. Between fake mustaches, last-minute costume changes, and pranks that escalate way too fast, keeping your cool is not on the agenda. Will you survive Spencer’s chaos? Or just fall head over heels? Either way, expect a lot of laughs (and maybe some accidental flirting).

You were warned.

Not by HR, not by the job description, not even by the vaguely worded NDA. No but by Courtney, a cast member who had nicely enough toured you around after you had finished onboarding. They had cornered you at the coffee machine five minutes into your first official day and said, dead serious “If Spencer starts talking to a bagel, just go with it. It’s not your fault.”

You thought she was exaggerating.

Until you walked into the break room and saw Spencer Agnew sitting perfectly still at the table, staring at a bagel on a napkin like it had personally betrayed him.

He didn’t look up when you entered. Just muttered, “He was everything. Toasted… with potential.”

You blinked. “Uh… good morning?” Was he working on a bit? You hoped so or was talking to a bagel really a norm for him.

Spencer finally looked up, completely unfazed. “Mourning. The bagel. It died too soon.” He tilted his head like a curious bird. “You must be new. You’ve still got hope in your eyes. That won’t last.”

You slowly reached for the coffee pot. “Right. I’m y/n. New PA.”

He nodded solemnly. “I'm Spencer. Chaos consultant. Not officially, but spiritually.”

You gave him a look. “Do you… always start your day like this?” You hoped the answer was no, because the way the job was explained Spencer would be one of your direct bosses and nobody wanted a crazy boss.

He sipped from a coffee mug labeled ‘World’s Okayest Co-Worker’. “Only when the bagels speak to me first.”

A beat passed.

You really, really, hoped this was a bit or a first day prank on the newbie. Or was this really just...Spencer. Really, it could've been a mix of all three.

Either way, your first official thought as a Smosh employee was crystal clear:

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

(-.-)Zzz・・・・

Welp, here's the prologue and a little bit of what's to come, just fyi I am pretty new to the smosh fam so let me know if anything seems out of character or if you have any tips! Updates will be sporadic since I tend to procrastinate and my hyperfixations tend to lead the charge in my brain. Thankfully Spencer has both hands on the wheel rn.

See ya!

[jakesaverse]

QUIET LIKE US | 01

Genre: angst; fluff; college au; university au

Pairings Jake x reader; mentions of ex boyfriend; some other guys from school

Synopsis: After your ex-boyfriend dies, the blame nearly drowns you. So you run-to a new town, a new school, where no one knows your name or your past. You try to disappear, keep your head down, stay alone. But then you meet Jake Sim. He's quiet too, not by choice-just the kind of person everyone avoids. As the two of you grow closer, you realize he's hiding something, just like you. And no matter how far you run, some stories follow you.

warning: mentions of death; grief; insecurities; toxic relationship

Notes: Hey! Thanks so much for reading the first chapter. Just a heads-up—some parts might feel repetitive or oddly paced, but that’s all intentional. Also, it’s a made-up story, so don’t worry too much about the details like college or trains being 100% accurate. Hope you enjoy the first chapter 🤍

intro > HERE

——

You sit in front of his tombstone, the heavy weight of two weeks pressing down on you like a stone. The coolness of the morning air does little to ease the ache in your chest. In your hands, you clutch the obituary you were supposed to read at the funeral. It’s still folded, still crumpled in places, but you can’t bring yourself to open it. Not yet.

His mother’s words from that day echo in your mind. “It should have been you.” You want to scream at the memory, but instead, you swallow hard, fighting the rising flood of tears. It hurts. It all hurts. The raw emptiness that comes with this, the brutal fact that he’s really gone, that you’ll never feel his arms around you again, never hear him laugh or feel his touch.

You finally open the obituary, feeling a sharp ache in your chest. The first words hit you like a slap to the face, and you try to steady your breathing as you read.

“Chul-soon Kim. Beloved son, partner, and friend. Forever in our hearts.”

You blink rapidly, biting the inside of your cheek, trying to push the swelling anger down. This isn’t who he was. Beloved. He didn’t deserve that label, not after everything. Not after the promises he broke.

You take a breath, feeling the sting of your words as you keep reading, your hands shaking now.

“Chul-soon was a man with big dreams, with a heart full of passion and a will to make his mark on the world. He was loved by many, a true friend to those who knew him.”

The tears come now, stinging your eyes as you choke out a bitter laugh. A heart full of passion. The irony burns in your chest. He never had that for you, not in the way you needed. You wanted his love, his unwavering devotion. You wanted him to be there, to keep his promises. But he didn’t. He never did.

“Chul-soon lives through his family, friends, and me, YN, the girl who always believed in him, who loved him more than anyone else ever could.”

The paper slips from your fingers as you crumble under the weight of those words. Who loved him more than anyone else ever could. Did he ever truly love you back? Did he? You want to scream, want to throw the paper in the air and curse his name, curse the lies, the broken promises. But instead, all you do is sit there, broken.

“How could you leave me?” Your voice breaks, the words soft and raw. You clutch your hands together, eyes fixed on the cold stone beneath you. “How could you leave me with nothing? I gave you everything, Chul-soon. Everything. I loved you. I loved you so much. And you… you couldn’t even be here for me when it counted. You promised me that you would. You promised… and now, you’re gone.”

The anger inside you flares again, but it’s mixed with the grief, the overwhelming sadness that feels like a weight you can’t shake. You scream, the sound raw and unfiltered. “I needed you, and you left. You left me here with all of this. With nothing. I waited for you. I waited for you and you—”

Your words falter, and you choke on the pain. You slump forward, resting your forehead against the cold surface of his tombstone. The tears fall, thick and fast now. You clutch the paper again, the words on it feeling foreign, wrong.

“Chul-soon loved deeply, with a spirit that could light up a room, and left an indelible mark on the hearts of those who were lucky enough to know him.”

You laugh bitterly, your hands trembling. “He didn’t love me. Not the way I needed. Not the way I gave him all of myself. How can you say he loved me? He never gave me that. He never loved me enough.”

Your voice cracks on the last words, and you break down again, sobbing into the stone. The grief and anger blend together into a suffocating mess. You clutch at the stone with your hands, your heart warring against the love you still feel for him, even after everything.

“I still love you. I still love you so much,” you whisper, your voice small and broken. The words feel like a confession, like a surrender. Even after all the hurt, all the pain, you still love him. You always will. You would always love him, even though he didn’t love you the way you needed him to. You would always be the girl who gave him everything, no matter how little he ever gave back. You loved him, and that was something that would never change.

You sit there for a long time, the paper clenched in your hand, your tears soaking into the earth beneath you. Finally, you stand, legs weak, your body exhausted from the breakdown, but you know you can’t stay here forever. You wipe your eyes, sniffle, and glance at your watch.

You have 45 minutes to get to the train station.

You bend over and kiss the cold stone, a soft, lingering touch, as if saying goodbye to a part of yourself that’s been left behind.

“Goodbye for now,” you whisper. “I’ll always love you.”

A gust of wind rises suddenly, blowing your hair around your face, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like he’s there. Like he’s kissing you back. You hold your breath, letting the wind swirl around you, and you close your eyes for just a second, feeling the soft pressure of it against your skin, almost like an embrace.

And then, slowly, you pull away.

You walk away from his tombstone, feeling the weight of your heart in every step. But somehow, you feel stronger. Like he’s still with you, just a little bit. Just enough to keep going.

You take one last look over your shoulder, whispering one last goodbye to the man you loved, and then you turn, walking away, determined to live — for both of you.

—-

The station is loud. Overwhelming. Voices echo off tiled walls and shoes scuff against the floor like static that won’t stop. Your chest tightens with every passing second as you glance from one blinking screen to the next, your eyes chasing unfamiliar words, train numbers, platforms—none of it sinking in fast enough.

You don’t know where to go.

You spin in a slow, panicked circle, backpack slung over your shoulder, weighing you down like a living thing. Each strap bites into your skin—reminders of the guilt you packed with your essentials. Regret. Shame. The bruised ache of leaving behind a ghost you’ll never stop loving. The zipper barely closes, like it knows it’s holding more than just clothes. It holds pieces of you too.

Your breath hitches as a wave of helplessness rises. You want to scream. To cry. You already did. Your cheeks are still damp from the cemetery, from whispering goodbye and kissing cold stone. You swipe your sleeve across your face again, trying to erase the evidence. Trying to feel like someone who knows what they’re doing.

But you don’t.

You wander a few more steps, scanning signs, heads darting up to boards, luggage wheels clattering beside your feet. You’re in the wrong place. You know you’re in the wrong place, but you can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t—

“Excuse me,” you manage, voice too soft. The woman walking past doesn’t hear you.

You try again. “Excuse me—sorry—do you know where platform seven is?”

The man you ask glances at you like you’re an annoying flyer that brushed his arm, then shrugs. For a second, you want to sink into the floor, to disappear. But then, with one lazy motion, he lifts his hand and points across the station—to the far side, where a narrow stairwell dips out of view beneath a blinking Departures sign.

You blink. Nod. “Thank you,” you say, quiet, but genuine.

You offer him a soft, grateful smile—your first in days—and start walking.

It’s not a long distance, but your limbs feel like stone. Like they’re still half-stuck in the cemetery. In that moment of goodbye. You feel every ache, every step dragging with the weight of what you’re leaving. Not just the place, but the people. The memories. The lies you let grow roots inside your chest. The love that never fit you quite right, but you wore it anyway.

You make it to the platform and find a bench in the corner, tucking yourself beside a pillar as if hiding will make it easier.

Your backpack thumps to the ground.

You slide down beside it, arms wrapped around your knees, and exhale slowly. The platform’s quieter here. Like the silence found you again. You press your palm to your cheek, wiping the last damp streak, and tilt your head toward the tracks.

You’re not ready.

But you have to go.

Because staying would be worse. Staying would mean drowning in the silence, in the should-haves and what-ifs and “It should’ve been yous.”

You breathe in again.

And wait.

—-

The train doors hiss open, and you step inside, holding your breath like it might keep the world from noticing you. The platform air is hot and close, but in here it’s worse — muggy, silent, and too full of strangers avoiding each other’s eyes.

You grab the nearest open seat. It’s fake leather, cracked in the corner, still warm from someone else’s body. The fluorescent lights overhead hum softly. Your knees tap together.

You blink hard. The world tilts — not enough to fall, just enough to notice.The tilt isn’t from the motion of the train, not really. It’s the hollow ache of an empty stomach, the aftershock of tears that didn’t fully fall, the quiet exhaustion of a night spent sleeping in pieces.

You steady yourself with a hand on the window’s cold edge.

Across from you, a couple leans into each other — boy and girl, probably your age. Maybe younger. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell when someone is laughing like that. Their foreheads are almost touching, his thumb drawing idle circles along the seam of her jeans. The way she looks at him makes your chest ache in a place you thought you’d locked tight.

You look away. But your gaze drifts back, like a bad habit.

You shouldn’t stare.

But something in you wants to punish yourself. Wants to press the bruise of the memory, feel how deep it goes.

The train jerks forward, the sudden movement knocking your knee against the metal seat post. You don’t react. You’re not really here anyway.

The couple from before is still across the aisle. His head is lower now. Their fingers are linked between them, loose but sure. The girl has her cheek tilted toward his shoulder, like her body knows how to trust him without thinking.

The train is still moving.

You can hear it — the rhythmic pulse of wheels over tracks, like a heartbeat too tired to stop.

And still, you can’t look away.

Maybe it’s because of how still they are. Or how close. Or because that was you, once. Not on a train, not in Seoul. But with Chul-soon. Before everything went sideways.

The fight wasn’t even about something real. Just a text message. A misread expression. A joke that stung too deep. You were both tired, both too proud, both too sure the other would come back with an apology.

And then —

No time to fix it.

You shift in your seat, the press of your back against the vinyl jerking you back to the present. The pain in your throat builds tight and hot — but you force it down.

The photo in your pocket crinkles softly when you move, the edges worn from your thumb. You don’t pull it out. You just let it be there, warm against your leg like a silent pact not to forget.

The girl across from you laughs — barely audible, private. You turn your face away.

Outside, the city blurs by in streaks of grey and brown. Inside the train, someone’s service dog pants gently beside its handler, tail wagging once when a child reaches out and gives it a soft pat. You watch the tail sway once, twice — a blink of kindness in a world that keeps turning.

And still, somehow, so much of you feels stuck.

—

The train pulled away behind you hours ago, but you can still feel the tremble in your legs.

You didn’t expect it to be so pretty here.

Old brick buildings with ivy crawling up their sides. Tree-lined streets and wide sidewalks. Cafes with chalkboard menus. Cyclists coasting by like they’ve got time to waste. It looks like the kind of place people write poems about.

But none of it moves you.

You walk aimlessly, your backpack slung over one shoulder, the strap digging deeper with every step. A folded campus map from the train station is clenched in your hand, creased in strange angles, already damp from your grip.

You stop in front of a fountain in the middle of town. A couple sits on the edge, legs tangled, laughing over something neither of them will remember in a week. You look away.

This town is beautiful.

And you feel absolutely nothing.

Did I make a mistake?

The thought crawls slowly and steadily.

New school. New city. No one I know. Nothing I understand. What was I thinking?

Your fingers tighten on the map. It flutters a little in the breeze, like even the paper is ready to leave you behind.

A shout breaks the stillness.

You look up.

Across the street, a woman in a red apron stands in front of a store, yelling at someone.

“No dogs allowed! Can you read? I said—”

The guy she’s screaming at stands still, calm, his hand resting on the head of a golden retriever in a blue service vest.

The vest is unmistakable. So is the look on his face — exhausted. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just tired in a way that says this happens a lot.

You stop walking.

For a second, you almost move toward them. Almost say something.

Instead, you just stare.

Service dogs. That’s the second one you’ve seen today.

Maybe the town is full of people who are broken in ways you can’t see.

Maybe you belong here more than you thought.

Maybe you need one too — not for your body, but for your mind.

But you stay quiet.

You stay quiet because you always do. Because you’re afraid if you speak, you’ll say the wrong thing. You’ll make it worse. You’ll mess something up.

Like you always do.

A voice you thought you buried resurfaces, sharp and close:

“You ruin everything.”

Chul-soon’s voice.

“You think you help, but you don’t. I wish I never met you.”

You remember the way his face looked when he said it — cold, like it was easy.

Then, the switch. The fake smile. The way his arms pulled you in that same night like he hadn’t gutted you.

“I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t. You’re all I have.”

The worst part?

You believed him.

You shake your head hard, like the memory will fall out if you rattle your brain enough.

When your vision clears, the guy with the dog is looking at you.

You’d been staring.

Too long.

Too obvious.

His eyes are dark, unreadable. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. Just tilts his head a little — like he’s trying to figure out who you are. Or why you look so haunted.

You drop your gaze immediately.

Your feet start moving before you can think. Away from him. Away from the woman still yelling. Away from the version of yourself that almost got involved.

You keep walking.

Because if you stop again, you might fall apart in the middle of this storybook street.

And you’re tired of crying where strangers can see.

—

You walk until your feet ache.

Until the straps of your backpack have worn themselves into your shoulder, like bruises that belong there.

Until the weight in your chest stops choking you—not because it’s eased, but because it’s settled in the way grief does when it realizes you’re not fighting it anymore.

Eventually, you find a small café tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.

The windows are fogged. A row of mismatched plants lines the sill — some thriving, others shriveled at the edges like they gave up mid-bloom.

It smells like steeped leaves, lavender, and something faintly burnt.

The bell above the door jingles when you push it open.

No one looks up. That’s a relief.

There’s a hand-scrawled sign that says Order at the counter.

You stare at it longer than you should, as if it might tell you something deeper.

When the barista asks what you want, your mouth moves before your thoughts catch up.

“Just tea.”

“What kind?” she asks, not unkindly.

You blink. “Green tea please.”

You settle into the corner booth—furthest from the windows, closest to the radiator.

The mug she hands you is chipped on one side, but still holds heat.

You wrap both hands around it like it might anchor you. You don’t drink it.

Outside the glass, life keeps moving.

A kid rides past on a scooter.

A group of girls cross the street, laughing too loudly, lanyards swinging around their necks. Their hair is brushed, their voices easy. You wonder if you’ll ever laugh like that again.

You wonder if you ever really did.

You let the steam hit your face.

You close your eyes.

And then—

You open them again when movement catches in your peripheral.

He’s here.

The guy from earlier. The one with the service dog and the too-tight smile.

He’s sitting near the front, close enough to the door that it’s like he’s still waiting to be kicked out again.

The dog lies at his feet, head resting on its paws. Its vest is still on.

He’s not looking at anyone.

He’s got earbuds in.

His shoulders are hunched like he’s trying to disappear into the small wooden chair.

And you feel it—this sharp, sudden ache in your chest that has nothing to do with him, not really.

You just… relate. More than you want to admit.

The look on his face when that woman yelled. The way he didn’t fight back.

How he let it happen.

You’re not sure what would’ve come out of you if you’d spoken up then.

Something too loud, too messy.

You blink and realize you’ve been staring again.

The guy catches you again. Just a flick of his eyes in your direction.

You look away instantly, heart thudding.

You busy yourself with your tea even though it’s gone cold.

Pretend to check your phone.

Pretend you have somewhere to be.

You don’t. Not yet.

You think about walking over. Saying That woman was wrong, or I’m sorry, or You don’t deserve that.

But the words get caught somewhere deep in your throat.

So you do what you’ve learned to do:

You disappear quietly.

You toss the rest of the tea in the sink even though it’s not self-serve.

The barista says nothing. Neither do you.

Outside, the wind’s picked up.

You tighten your jacket around yourself—not because you’re cold, but because it gives your hands something to do.

You take out the campus map again.

The paper’s soft now from all your handling, your thumb smudging the ink where it folds.

There’s a star marking the residence halls. That’s where you’re supposed to be heading.

But all you feel is the distance between here and there.

The ache of not knowing where you belong yet—if anywhere.

You fold the map and tuck it away.

And you start walking again.

Not toward anything. Just… forward.

—

You glance down at your phone.

10%.

The number glows up at you, uncaring. A quiet nudge that time’s up. That you can’t linger out here anymore, pretending the sidewalk is a destination. Pretending you don’t have a place to be.

You tuck the device back into your pocket like it’s something precious, something that’s helped you survive the last few hours—which it has. You would’ve gotten lost three times over without it. Every turn, every wrong corner, every unfamiliar street, that little blue dot kept moving forward even when you weren’t sure you could.

And now, that dot’s destination is right in front of you.

The dorms.

Your new… home.

The word hits harder than expected.

You stop walking, frozen just short of the door. There’s a weird, involuntary chill running up your spine like your body’s catching up to the reality of everything. Home. That word feels too big. Too warm. Too much pressure for a place you’ve never even stepped foot in.

You’re not sure what you’re supposed to feel—excitement? Gratitude?

But all you feel is the heavy roll of your stomach and the rising buzz of anxiety in your chest. The kind that’s too slow to scream and too strong to ignore. Your throat feels tight, and you have to swallow twice just to breathe.

You shouldn’t be this scared.

And yet, your palms are clammy, your vision slightly hazy with nerves, and you wonder—really wonder—if anyone has ever thrown up before entering a dorm room.

You wipe your hands against your jeans, force a breath in, then out. You whisper a quick, shaky “Come on,” to yourself, and let your feet carry you across the threshold.

The building hums with low voices, footsteps echoing down the hall, distant laughter. Everything feels too loud and too far away all at once.

You pull out your phone again, screen dimmer now, its light weaker than before. You click open the email for the third—or fourth—time.

Room 303.

Third floor. You tap it like you’re trying to press the number into your memory, as if forgetting it would undo this whole thing.

The stairs are a blur. The hallway even more so. It all smells like new paint and floor polish, too clean to feel lived-in.

And then, finally, it’s there.

A plain door. A silver number plate: 303.

You stand in front of it and let out a slow breath.

But the email didn’t just tell you the room number.

It also told you there’d be no roommate.

You knew that. You read it earlier. A single room. Peace. Space. You needed it. You still do.

But now, standing here with your heart in your throat and your hand hovering over the door handle, it doesn’t feel like peace. It feels like punishment.

It feels like confirmation of what you’ve always feared—that you’re just… meant to be alone.

Like somehow the world is always making room for other people to find each other and choosing to leave you with echoing space.

Your fingers twitch at your side. The hallway around you is quiet. No one’s looking. No one’s here.

You close your eyes for a second and lean your forehead gently against the door. Just to breathe. Just to keep from unraveling.

Then, after a beat, you lift your head.

And you open the door.

—

The door clicks behind you.

Not a grand arrival. No applause. No air of celebration.

Just the quiet seal of a room swallowing you whole.

You stand there for a second—maybe two—looking at what’s supposed to be home now.

It’s almost too clean. The kind of clean that feels like no one’s ever lived here. Like nothing’s ever happened in this space. No laughter, no arguments, no memories.

Just blank walls and a fresh sheet of silence.

You take a step inside. The air is stale, like it’s been holding its breath.

Your backpack slides off your shoulder and lands beside your foot with a heavy thud. You exhale like it’s the first breath you’ve taken in hours.

The room is small. A desk against the wall, its wood chipped at the edges. A built-in dresser with stiff drawers. A twin bed with a mattress wrapped in plastic that crinkles when you brush against it. A single overhead light buzzes faintly above. The window near the ceiling lets in only a narrow slice of daylight—enough to remind you that the outside world still exists, but not enough to make you feel part of it.

You walk to the bed and sit slowly, testing it like you’re not sure it’ll hold you. The mattress doesn’t give much. It’s firm and unfamiliar, and it smells like cleaner and nothing else.

You blink hard. It’s a lot of nothing.

You start walking again to your backpack, pull the small zipper and look through your supplies. A toothbrush. A sweatshirt. Two pairs of jeans. Four very worn shirts. Two protein bars. Twowater bottles. And a single notebook.

And then, near the bottom, your fingers brush against the worn corner of the picture.

You pull it out gently.

It’s old—creased from being handled too many times.

You and Chul-soon, back when smiles came easier. You’re laughing in the photo, looking away from the camera. He’s squinting at you, mid-laugh himself, like whatever you said had just caught him off guard. The way he’s looking at you—like you were the only person in the world.

You run your thumb across the glossy paper. The corners have dulled from all the times you’ve folded it, kept it close, hidden it like a secret.

It’s the only piece of him you let yourself bring.

You walk across the room, hesitating only slightly before placing it on the edge of the desk—half-visible, tucked against the wall like maybe it won’t hurt so much that way.

But it does. It still does.

You look around again. At the bed that feels too wide for one person. The desk with nothing on it. The air too still.

Your chest tightens.

You reach for your phone. The screen lights up—8% battery left.

A quiet nudge that the day is still moving, even if you’re stuck.

You sigh.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you set the phone down next to the picture.

You sit back down on the bed, both feet on the ground, hands resting in your lap.

It should feel like a beginning.

But it doesn’t.

It feels like walking into a story where your name was never written into the plot.

Still, the faint light from the high window stretches across the floor now, catching a shimmer off the photo. It paints a slanted glow across your backpack and the floor beneath your feet.

And something about it makes you pause.

A flicker. Maybe not of hope. But maybe something quieter.

The smallest breath of okay, even if you’re not yet okay.

—

You barely closed your eyes before the nightmare took hold. The weight on your chest felt like it would crush you, the darkness swallowing you whole.

Chul-soon’s voice rang in your ears, sharp and accusing, each word a dagger to your heart.

“You ruined everything. You ruined me.”

His face twisted in anger, his eyes dark with blame.

“I wish I’d never met you.”

The words echoed over and over, his voice relentless. You stood frozen, incapable of speech, incapable of running. Just absorbing.

Then came the silence—empty and bitter.

“You’ll never be enough, will you?”

It was a whisper now, colder somehow.

“Not for anyone.”

You woke with a gasp, your body flinching like it was trying to outrun something. But there was nothing there. Just the unfamiliar stillness of your new room.

For a second, you didn’t move. You just stared at the ceiling, the shadows creeping long across the walls. The heaviness still sat on your chest, not quite as sharp, but just as unbearable. You blinked a few times, breathing slowly, trying to shake the dream from your skin. But the chill wouldn’t leave.

Eventually, you stood and shuffled to the bathroom, towel and toiletries in hand. The shower water was tepid, the kind that never gets warm no matter how long you let it run, but you stayed under it anyway. Letting it rinse away the sweat, the nightmare, the thoughts you didn’t want to name.

You did your night routine quickly—if you could even call it that. Just the basics: brush your teeth, wash your face with a travel-size cleanser, pull your damp hair into a low bun.

Back in your room, you reached for your bag and dug out a clean outfit to lay out for tomorrow: a pair of ripped jeans and a soft, worn-out t-shirt. It wasn’t much, but it would do. It had to.

Your stomach growled then, deep and hollow. You hesitated, then unzipped the front pocket of your backpack and pulled out your sad excuse for dinner—two protein bars. That was all you had left. That and thirty crumpled dollars.

You sighed and shoved the bars back inside, grabbing your water bottle instead. Maybe if you drank enough, the hunger would go away. You took slow sips, ignoring the way your stomach twisted.

The silence was thicker now, heavier. You glanced at your phone, which was now charging on the nightstand.

6:35 p.m.

You were supposed to meet your “assigned guide” tomorrow—someone to show you around campus. It felt a little juvenile, like something made for kids starting kindergarten. But who were you to judge? Maybe some people needed that. Maybe you did too.

Still, the idea of meeting someone new… having to talk, to pretend like you were fine, like you were excited to be here… it made your stomach twist again.

You flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, counting the marks in the paint. One. Two. Three.

Maybe if you stayed like this, time would pass faster.

Maybe by tomorrow, you’d feel like a person again.

But for now, you just laid there—full of water, empty of anything else.

Trying to settle in.

Failing.

—

It was morning. At least, that’s what the sliver of sun filtering through the blinds insisted.

But it didn’t feel like morning.

It felt like nothing had changed.

Your eyes fluttered open to the same ceiling, the same cold air, the same ache in your chest. You hadn’t slept—not really. Not when every time your eyes closed, he was waiting for you.

Chul-soon’s voice still clung to the inside of your skull like smoke. You’d woken up three, maybe four times throughout the night, each time breathless, each time a little more broken than the last. It was like your body refused to believe he was gone—so it summoned him back in the cruelest ways possible.

His words echoed even now:

“You ruined me.”

“You’ll never be enough.”

You turned your head against the pillow, wiping at your face. Again. The skin under your eyes was raw. Puffy. You didn’t bother checking the mirror—you knew what you’d see.

You laid there a little longer, the room too quiet around you. The silence made it worse somehow, like it gave your thoughts permission to get louder.

You weren’t sure when the sun had risen. Time had collapsed into itself. Last night bled into this morning like they were the same bruise.

It was supposed to be a fresh start. A new beginning.

But all it felt like was a continuation of grief, dressed up in unfamiliar walls and stiff sheets.

Eventually, you sat up slowly, your limbs heavy like they were moving through water. You reached for the water bottle from yesterday and took a few slow sips, your stomach curling at the emptiness it had gotten used to.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. A soft reminder.

“Meet your assigned guide at 9 a.m. - Main Quad.”

You stared at the message, blinking hard. Right. That was today. You had to go. Had to get up. Had to act like you belonged here.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood, shaky but determined. You moved like someone else was in control—on autopilot. Reached for the outfit you’d laid out last night: the ripped jeans, the faded t-shirt that smelled like home and hurt. You brushed your hair. Splashed water on your face.

Still, your reflection didn’t look like someone ready to meet anyone new. You looked like someone who had just survived a war.

And in a way, you had.

Only the battlefield was your memory.

And the enemy wore the face of someone you once loved.

You closed your eyes. Took a breath.

And told yourself you could make it through the morning.

Just one more hour.

One more smile.

One more lie that you were okay.

—

You were already sweating by the time you reached the meeting spot for your assigned campus tour. Your shirt clung uncomfortably to your back, and your chest rose with uneven breaths—not just from the walk, but the nerves, the anticipation, the heaviness that hadn’t left your body since you arrived.

You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the cracked screen.

Park Sunghoon.

That was the name in the email.

You didn’t know him, not even what he looked like, but just reading his name again made your stomach knot. Not because of him—because he was a guy. Because no matter how many times you told yourself it didn’t matter, you could already feel Chul-soon’s voice slithering in from the corners of your mind.

“So you’re really gonna let some guy show you around? That’s what you call respect now?”

You swallowed hard.

You shouldn’t still hear him. He wasn’t here.

But somehow, his anger never left you.

You were so lost in the spiral of your thoughts that the sudden tap on your shoulder nearly made you jump.

You turned around sharply.

There was a guy standing behind you—tall, dark hair still damp like he’d come straight from a shower, his expression uncertain. Not in a threatening way. More like someone trying not to scare you off.

“Uh—sorry,” he said quickly, pulling his hand back. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Jake.”

You blinked up at him, confused.

“I think there was a partner switch,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Were you supposed to be with someone named Park Sunghoon?”

You nodded, slow and cautious. “Yeah… I was.”

Jake gave a small shrug. “He started the tour with someone else by accident. So they reassigned you to me.”

His voice was soft, a little unsure—but not unkind. Still, your shoulders tensed. Something about this—about being alone with a guy you didn’t know, even if it was just a tour—made your pulse skitter.

You nodded again, feeling the words get caught somewhere in your chest. “Right… okay.”

He waited like he expected more, and when you didn’t say anything, he tilted his head slightly.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, trying to recover. “I just… I saw a different name earlier. Wasn’t expecting—”

You cut yourself off before you could ramble. Your mouth felt dry.

Jake offered a small, understanding smile. “No need to apologize.”

You looked down at your shoes.

No need to apologize.

It was such a simple phrase, but it echoed. Loud and low in your chest.

It felt… foreign.

Like something you weren’t used to hearing.

You nodded again, hoping that would be enough. You didn’t trust your voice right now.

Jake shifted his weight a little, looking around like he was trying to ease the silence. “If you’d like, I can show you the popular study rooms. Just to get familiar with the spots people hang out.”

You hesitated.

His voice was gentle. He didn’t seem to be pressuring you. Still, the longer he spoke, the more you found yourself shrinking. Not because of him—but because of yourself. The constant fear of saying the wrong thing, of making it weird, of seeming ungrateful or cold.

“I-I guess…” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake smiled softly and nodded, as if he’d heard you just fine. “No rush. We’ll go slow.”

He pulled out his phone and glanced at the time. “Actually… maybe it’s better if we start with your classes first. That way you won’t get lost tomorrow.”

You nodded. Again.

Jake looked over your schedule, eyes scanning until he stopped and said, “Oh—we have one class together, actually. Psychology.”

Your stomach dropped.

Psychology.

The one class you were most nervous about. The one that felt a little too close to home. The one you hadn’t even wanted to sign up for in the first place. You hadn’t wanted to talk about minds or trauma or healing or guilt.

You took a step back, your hands twisting at the strap of your backpack.

“Actually, I just remembered… I think I left something in my dorm,” you lied, already moving away. “Sorry—I’ll just… I need to go.”

Jake blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—okay…”

You didn’t wait for the rest of his sentence. You turned, walking quickly, the guilt pressing into your ribs.

Jake didn’t follow.

But he didn’t look surprised either.

Just stood there, quietly sighing. Like maybe… he was used to people running away.

—

You didn’t even realize you were crying until the wind started drying the tears against your cheeks. The moment your feet hit the pavement, you ran—head down, fists clenched around your straps, breaths shallow and sharp in your throat.

You couldn’t catch your breath.

It wasn’t just the embarrassment. It wasn’t just Jake’s kind voice or the way your chest tightened the second he said psychology.

It was everything.

The heat rising in your face. The memory of Chul-soon’s crooked grin as he explained theories with fire in his eyes. The sound of his voice when he yelled. The last conversation you had with him. The way your name sounded like a curse on his tongue.

You turned the corner and your dorm finally came into view. Your legs burned, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t dare. You fumbled your key three times before finally unlocking the door. And the second it clicked—

You were in.

And the sobs crashed over you like a tidal wave.

You slammed the door shut behind you and collapsed against it, sliding down until you were curled up on the cold floor. Your chest convulsed with every breath you couldn’t quite take. Hands shook as you clutched at your shirt, your stomach, your throat—anywhere that ached.

Your brain kept spinning, spinning.

Chul-soon was a psych major.

Of course that’s what triggered it. That stupid word. That one stupid class.

But it wasn’t just that.

It was guilt.

It was panic.

It was the way Jake had looked at you like he was trying to understand—and you ran.

“He was just trying to help,” you muttered to yourself, the words fractured between sobs. “He didn’t even do anything wrong.”

You pressed your palms to your eyes. Tried to rub away the sting. The tears. The memory.

You’re always doing this.

Running away.

Screwing things up.

Making everything awkward.

You hated how easily the spiral came. How loud your mind got when you felt like you’d messed up something small.

But it didn’t feel small.

It felt like proof.

Proof that you didn’t belong here. That you weren’t ready for this. That you were still stuck in a relationship that ended the moment Chul-soon died, and yet somehow hadn’t left you at all.

Eventually—somehow—the sobs dulled. The shaking slowed. You didn’t know how long you sat there, blinking up at the ceiling, chest still sore from crying.

You got up eventually. Splashed cold water on your face in the tiny bathroom. Did your night routine in slow, deliberate motions. Toothbrush. Face wash. Hair tied back.

You drank from the same bottle of water you’d been nursing all day, ignoring the ache in your stomach. There were still only two protein bars in your bag, and only thirty dollars to your name. So tonight, water would have to be enough again.

You looked over at your bed. The one you barely slept in. The one that never felt quite yours.

You didn’t want to check your phone. But you did.

And there it was.

A new email.

From: jsim23@eastvalley.edu

Subject: Checking in

Hi, this is Jake Sim—your assigned orientation partner (or at least, I think I still am after today).

I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay. I’m really sorry if I overwhelmed you earlier or said anything wrong.

If you’re still open to it, I can meet you tomorrow around 7 a.m. to help you find your classes before my own at 8. No pressure, of course—totally up to you.

Jake

You stared at the message, lips parted slightly.

He was apologizing?

But he hadn’t done anything wrong. You had.

And still, your eyes welled again.

You should’ve responded. Should’ve typed back something simple—an apology, at least. A thank you. But your fingers never moved. Because even though you knew he meant well, and even though a part of you genuinely felt sorry, another part of you still twisted everything into guilt. Into shame. Into something ugly and undeserving.

So, you did what you always did.

You blamed yourself. And then you shut down.

You closed the email. You didn’t reply. You told yourself you’d respond later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Ghosting him felt easier than facing the weight in your chest, the echo of Chul-soon’s voice asking how you could move on so quickly. How you could look at another guy—even platonically—and not feel like a traitor.

Maybe if you shut your eyes—and your whole world—you wouldn’t feel like you were betraying him.

Maybe then, you could pretend you were still his.

Still enough.

You curled into your bed, pulled the blanket over your head, and forced yourself not to care.

Not about the email.

Not about Chul-soon.

Not about the fact that you had no idea where your first class was tomorrow…

…or that your assigned orientation partner might very well be in it, too.

—-

taglist: @ikonsiconic @hvseunq143 @invsomnixa1 @wwwtxao @addictedtohobi i @kristynaaah @zyvlxqht

[prettyiwa]

(Previous) Relationship: Sakura Haruka x Florist!Reader Content Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Grief, Insecurity, Affirmation of friendship, Food as a love language, (kinda?) Napping together, Casual (+ Platonic) affection, Mentions of drinking together Summary: About twenty minutes before everyone was supposed to meet you at your house for lunch, Sakura texted saying he wouldn't be able to come. The moment Nirei told you it was because he had a loss in the family, you knew you wanted to be there for him. Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: This was a little tricky for me because I, being a canon-compliant bitch to the end, don't know the actual relationship between the people in Sakura's memories from ch. 172. Florist also doesn't know and it doesn't matter because Sakura's relationship with his grief would be complicated regardless and he likely wouldn't want to talk too much about it. As someone still dealing with grief (even years later) this was a little cathartic for me, and I hope it's that way for you, too. This chapter is sponsored by my wonderful ability to fuck up the omurice flip ✌ Very grateful to be able to tag @owoasis and @kweenkatsuki-fics 💜💜

Additionally, I think Sakura would still try to maintain his fighting skills for security (in addition to other skills he's picked up since joining Furin), so I gave him multiple, alternating jobs: day security/waiting with Roppo-Ichiza/Keisei Street and night security in the pub district.

Nerves eat at you as you raise your fist, tendrils of anxiety unfurling from your heart, twisting and clawing its way down your limbs as you rap against the door labeled 201, finding no response from the doorbell. There’s been this weight in your chest since you first received his text, twenty minutes before you were all supposed to meet at your house for lunch. You’d planned to check on him after entertaining the other two, but…

The door opens and Sakura greets you with wide eyes, brows pinched together in some mix of confusion and worry while his mouth opens, inhale shaky, dressed similarly to when he helped with the weddings. Did you interrupt him on his way out? Suo and Nirei both reassured you he’d be home today.

“Hey.” It doesn’t even sound like your voice, detached and foreign as you reassess whether you made the right move coming here. Was it too presumptuous? “Did you just come from the service?”

His brow furrows, leveling out the uneasy arches, and he shakes his head. “No. What’re you doin’ here?” Despite his expression, his voice lacks the bite you’ve come to expect from that question.

He sounds lost, not unlike how you feel.

Truth is, as soon as Nirei blurted out Sakura’s reason for canceling, you wanted to come. Them encouraging the impulse was all the okay you needed before you rescheduled lunch altogether. (They both assured you it was more than okay, but you still feel bad).

“I… don’t know.” His eyes drop to your hands, expression unchanging though you know he’s curious. “Ah, I brought… food. And sake, but mostly food. I can… I can leave it with you if you have somewhere to go or if you don’t want me—”

“No. And I’m not… I’m stayin’ here.” As he remains stock still in the doorway, unable to look up from your hands, you don’t know whether he wants you to stay or leave the food with him. He comes to a moment later, startling as his eyes jump to yours, looking more wet than before as he steps aside. “Uh… C’mon in.”

It’s not until you’re moving past him that he shuffles back in the small space, pressing him against the wall to make room for you like he can’t quite believe you’re in his apartment. Nudging the door shut with your elbow, you feel his attention on you, and you slip off your shoes, remembering the way nothing felt real after your grandfather died. Is it similar for him?

To the left is a kitchenette with its counters empty, save for the remnants of instant ramen packaging and empty water bottles. It reminds you of your first college dorm a little, but the simplicity suits him. Setting down the bags, you begin tidying, maneuvering through his space with ease.

Footsteps approach, and looking over your shoulder shows him nearing, hands halfway up in a partial attempt to get your attention. “You don’t have to—” His voice is distant and the lack of blush tells you more than you think he knows.

“No, but I want to.”

It freezes him where he stands and the way he looks at you—it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him and thought he looked small. He looks… vulnerable. If you two were better friends, you’d probably hug him right now, but you aren’t. You don’t know what kind of comfort he needs, what you could offer to help. So you focus on the tangible.

“Have you eaten?” To your right, you spot his chabudai through the open door, though there’s no sign of the ramen belonging to the empty packaging. When you receive no answer from him, you turn.

“Had some ramen earlier.”

“When was ‘earlier?’”

Suddenly unable to meet your eyes, he looks away. How much of his languor is grief and how much of it is not taking care of physical needs? It doesn’t matter. His silence tells you it’s been longer than it should’ve been.

“Well then. I think you’ll be happy with the spread.”

“Wait, what about lunch?” There’s a hint of urgency to his question, almost as if he’s remembering what you had planned for the day.

Turning back to the bags, you start unloading them, letting him see the different containers. He comes next to you and you glance over, watching as whatever protestations he had evaporate. “I brought it. Suo and Nirei both agreed to reschedule when we could all eat together. Go sit down. I’ll bring it over.”

He obliges, eyes lingering on the food before turning around. It must’ve been longer than he’s used to since he ate. As you open his cabinets in search of plates, you come across your vase, cleaned and tucked away on the shelf above. Smiling to yourself, you set everything up, a light fluttering behind your ribs (whether because of his interest in your food or the care he gave your gift, you aren’t sure). Even still, you hesitate in setting a space for you, something he invariably notices. Anxiety eats at you again, wondering whether you’re imposing, whether he’s comfortable sharing this grief with you.

“What’re you doing?”

“Sakura… I—” When you meet his stare, you’re surprised by its intensity. “I haven’t imposed on you at all, have I?” The question feels wrong as it comes out.

“The hell are you talkin’ about?”

“Would you like me to stay?” you try again, phrasing it differently.

His gaze softens before it seems like he’s seeing through you. After a beat, his eyes fall to the table and he says, “If you want. Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he remains unable to look at you. His stomach rumbles audibly and he ducks his head, that familiar bit of embarrassment poking through. Still, he doesn’t move to enjoy the food laid out before him and you read between the lines. Even with his propensity toward obliging requests, he wouldn’t have let you in if he truly felt you were unwelcome. He wouldn’t be sitting here, not eating, if he didn’t want you to join him.

When you start making your space beside him, he relaxes, shoulders no longer hunched, posture turning casual. Lowering yourself and tucking your legs beneath you, you grab your chopsticks, waiting for him to look at you.

“I’ll stay.”

The tips of his ears turn pink, but he doesn’t look away, allowing you to see the gratitude that pools in his eyes.

“Let’s eat.”

Satisfied you’re not going anywhere, he dives in, wasting no time in trying the dish closest to him. It isn’t until he gives an appreciative hum that you join him.

“So this is what you finally decided to make, huh?” he asks between bites, eyes flickering from the food to you. He seems more grounded now, closer to the Sakura you’ve come to know.

“Hm?”

“It’s… It’s good.”

The compliment sets off a wave of fluttering in your gut before you remember earlier in the week.

When you asked Nirei if he had a meal preference, he promised you he’d be happy with whatever you offered them. The same question to Suo resulted in his usual evasiveness until he told you he’d enjoy whatever Sakura requested. And Sakura gave you reluctance before supplying you with the same noncommittal answer as Nirei. He stopped answering your messages when you threatened to ask Kotoha, instead showing up to walk you home from work at the end of the day, wanting to talk in person. Omurice, he admitted, one of the dishes you’d have to practice before sharing with someone else, but his excitement at your promise to learn guaranteed that you’d serve omurice the next time you’d have them over.

All of that feels so long ago, even though it was only Monday.

“Yeah, I think I wanted to show off a bit after everything,” you say, chuckling to yourself.

Swallowing, he takes a moment to look at the spread before looking at you again. “You can make all this but you can’t make omurice?”

When you laugh, you catch the corner of his lips quirking. “I think you underestimate that flip.” He doesn’t need to know how many times you’ve had failed omurice for dinner over the last week.

“Where’d ya even learn how to do all this?”

“My great uncle has a restaurant in the next city. After my grandfather died, he came around to help and ended up teaching me and my brother a bit.”

“A bit?” he asks, raising a brow as he looks at the now half empty dishes.

“A bit. I mean, it’s not restaurant quality in the least.”

Shrugging, he grabs his water, twisting off the lid. “I think it tastes great.” He takes a swig from his water and you take a moment to appreciate his praise, feeling more than seeing when he grows somber once more. “The others. They didn’t… They were okay with putting lunch off?”

When you had opened the door earlier, concern weighed down the atmosphere for everyone. It was enough that even Suo’s mask was slipping. The moment you asked after Sakura, it came spilling from Nirei’s lips, and as soon as you expressed interest in seeing him, the address was already being sent to your phone.

“More than okay. I’m a little surprised they didn’t join me.”

His eyes shift to the right, not wanting to meet yours, and his shoulders lift slightly. “They… came ‘round yesterday.” As you nod, his shoulders lower on a sigh, relaxing when he reaches for more food. Before he plops it on his waiting tongue, he hesitates. “Did… Did they tell you to come?”

There’s something undecipherable in his question, a quiver you never thought you’d hear from him. “Not quite. I… I wanted to and Nirei encouraged me. He’s the one who gave me your address.”

As much as you want to check his reaction, you’re struck by the memory of when you and your brother tried taming the neighborhood cat. Each time you tried to pet it and called out to it, it’d run. It wasn’t until you stopped looking that it approached, nudging your hand on its own terms. So you keep your attention on what remains of the food, catching only a slight nod in your periphery before he begins chewing.

You want to ask him about it—how he’s doing, whether there’s anything you can do to ease his burden—but you get the sense that you’re doing it. He seems livelier than twenty minutes ago, seems better with some honest food in him. Perhaps all he needs is some semblance of normalcy.

“Did you know they got me an orange tree?”

Freezing beside you, his mouth falls open before processing your question. “Oh. They actually went through with that?”

“Did you all talk about it?” You figured the tree was Suo’s idea given its meaning (especially compared to other fruit trees and their potential blossoms), so it surprises you to know that Sakura was in on it, too.

When your eyes meet his, he looks away, though you notice a brief shimmer of gold, almost as though assessing whether you’re actually looking at him. “You were sayin’ that you didn’t have much time and you wanted to do more with your garden. Maybe a fruit tree or somethin’ and I thought you might… I dunno.”

“So it was you?” You’ve mentioned the garden to the group in passing, but you’ve only brought up the desire for a fruit tree with Sakura.

“It wasn’t,” he denies, leaning forward, the tiniest bit of pink appearing on his face. “Suo’s the one who said an orange tree would be best! If you wanna blame someone—”

“I don’t want to blame anyone,” you laugh, watching as he slumps forward. (If that’s the case, you’re glad Suo didn’t recommend a cherry tree). “I wanted to thank you. I look forward to planting it.”

Tilting his head, black hair falls over his white, and he peeks up at you through a tired, stormy blue eye, observing you as you get up to clear the table. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence that falls isn’t as oppressive, as suffocating as when you first arrived. No longer does he look like he’s caught in the limbo of his grief. As you clean off the table, he comes forward, leaning on it with exhaustion you’ve only seen a handful of times. Resting his hand in the palm of his hand, he watches as you clean the dishes and you’re glad he’s rooted in place. For him to not offer (not that you’d allow him to), he must be truly exhausted. Before joining him again, you open your second bag, revealing the plants of the day.

Setting the potted bamboo on the windowsill, you bring the chrysanthemum and China aster to the table. Sakura straightens when you do, eyeing the flowers with brief recognition. Typically a funeral flower, you only brought one, more in respect to his grief than anything. And the aster? More a promise to him, even if he doesn’t know its meaning.

When you sit, you keep your legs to the side, bringing you closer to Sakura than intended, though he doesn’t seem to mind, still focused on the flowers.

“How’ve you been sleeping?”

“W-What?” He turns to look at you, brows knitting together in confusion before he realizes your proximity.

“Have you been sleeping okay?” Leaning in slightly, you notice the circles beneath his eyes and the subtle red that you doubt is indicative of tears shed (though you can’t be certain).

“I-I’ve been fine! Don’t worry about it.”

“But I am worried about it. When my grandfather died, I… Sleep was hard to come by.”

He sniffs, looking away, though he shifts his position, getting more comfortable. “It’s been fine. M-Maybe I’ve been waking up more.”

“Yeah, that’s common.” When he shifts his weight to his left arm, he’s close enough that you can feel the heat from his body. “I could bring chamomile tea if that would help.” With how quickly he turns at the suggestion of you leaving (even if tucked inside the idea of returning), you feel the truth of his isolation right now. When you don’t move, don’t do anything but watch with patience, he calms, though that vulnerability is still present. “Do you want to try to take a nap?”

“What, together?!” He leans away from you, red shooting up from his neck, covering his entire face.

“Together. Not. Sometimes having someone next to you can help sleep.”

“I-It’s too bright out to sleep,” he says a little too quickly.

“You say that like we can’t close the curtains.”

If possible, his flush deepens, deep crimson, a shade you’ve never seen from him before. He sputters and pushes himself away until his knee knocks against the table. “Th-That’d—! P-P-People might get the wrong idea—!”

Raising both palms in surrender, you lean back, trying your damnedest not to laugh. “Do many people peep through your windows? It might be time to look into moving.” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “We don’t have to. I only wanted to suggest it as an option.”

Bringing his knee up, he drapes his arm over it, using it to bury his face until only his eyes are peeking over his elbow. Never looking away from you, it feels like he’s waiting to hear your next suggestion. He doesn’t want you to leave, but he’s horrified at the prospect of napping together or even laying beside you. Perhaps…

“Are you familiar with quiet wakefulness?”

“Huh? What’s that?” he mumbles, tracking the way you tilt your head until it’s almost resting on your right shoulder.

“Usually it’s done by simply laying down with our eyes closed with the intent to rest. It’s been found to help with stress and mood. I mean, it’s not as good as sleep, but it still helps keep us sharp, you know? Better than nothing and all.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to try that instead?”

Looking down, his right lashes contrast against his pale cheeks. “Dunno. I’ve… I haven’t really taken a nap since I was a kid. Don’t remember how.”

There’s a flash of gold as you sigh, his eyes trained on you once more as you anticipate similar pushback for your next suggestion. “Do you want… You can rest your head on my shoulder if that might help? It’s fine if you don’t want to. I just… I want you to feel comfortable.”

This is how you’ve been useful in the past. When your maternal grandmother died, when your best friend’s father died, when your paternal grandfather died. You brought food, made sure they were drinking water, and you helped them sleep. It’s how you know how to be useful, but it only works if they’re receptive to it. Food and water is enough.

His golden eye turns vibrant again as pink dominates his face once more, but his gaze never wavers. You hear him swallow before speaking, voice cracking when he does. “Are you sure?”

With the barest of nods, you relax again, getting comfortable before growing still. Slowly, with exceeding care, he loosens up, incrementally coming closer until he goes stiff, suddenly unable to meet your gaze.

“Could— D-D’you think… you could close your eyes?” Again, his voice is small, and you find it impossible to deny him.

“Of course.” You oblige, listening to the rustling of his clothes as he makes his way over. The air around you changes, tense, nervous, and you hear shaky, shallow breaths before feeling the heat of them on your shoulder. His hesitation is palpable, the distance between you two electric, but enough to know that he waits, afraid to come closer.

“We don’t have to do this—”

“Just— Sh-Shut up, will you?” The words come out like a plea, breathy and strained. A weight comes to rest on your shoulder, though it’s significantly lighter than you expected. “N-Now what?”

“Close your eyes and try resting.”

His exhale is shaky, uncertain, but you don’t want to ask or reassure again (you’re starting to worry that it’s only making his anxiety worse). Focusing inward, you notice the rapid beating of your heart for the first time. Regulating your breathing, you attempt to slow it, to ease your own nerves, feeling subtle movement next to you. Peeking open an eye, Sakura’s picking at his nails.

“That’s not very restful, is it?”

“Shit, sorry,” he mutters, breath heating up your shoulder as he ceases.

Chuckling, you barely turn to the right, his hair tickling your cheek, the warmth of his skin heating yours. “You don’t need to apologize.”

He grunts in response, the sound growing in comfort.

Again, you try centering yourself, letting yourself simply exist in the moment—the press of Sakura against your shoulder; the weight of his breaths against your back; the steady beating of your own heart; the feel of your hands held together, sitting in your lap. It works for another couple minutes before he sighs, the end of it weighed by mild exasperation.

“It’s not working.”

“Sakura,” you laugh, feeling him freeze behind you, “you haven’t really tried. Are you comfortable as you are?”

A beat, and then— “No.”

“Get comfortable.”

A sound rises in his chest, a grumble of sorts as his head rises, and you expect that he’ll pull away, too flustered to keep trying (the fact that he was willing to try at all makes you happier than he needs to know). Instead, he finally relaxes, closing whatever distance remained, fully pressing into your side. His arm comes to rest behind you, against you, and he places his head back where it was.

“N-Now what?” It’s gruff, probably a defense from the heat that radiates from him.

“Focus on the sound of my breathing.”

“Sounds easy ‘nuff.”

And for the third time, you relax, content with the trust he’s exhibiting. More than content. You don’t know who it is that he lost, but it’s obvious his relationship with grief is complicated. Him trusting you with this… perhaps you’re closer friends than you had originally thought.

It’s not much longer that he slumps against you, that his breaths turn shallow with sleep, that you’ve succeeded in your goal. The minutes carry on and you’re unable to focus on much beyond the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back. He shifts in his sleep, turning his head until he’s no longer stable on your shoulder, and in your attempt to put him back, you end up turning. Still drowsy, he remains pliable, allowing you to shift you both until he’s curled on his side with his head in your lap.

His breathing changes, deeper, indicative of wakefulness, so you stroke his hair, trying to lull him asleep once more. After a minute or two, his breathing returns to that same state as before, though you don’t stop. Honestly, you lose track of time as you two stay like this, and it’s only the buzzing of your phone in your jacket pocket some time later that distracts you.

It’s the group chat—Nirei asking if Sakura wants him to bring over dinner—and it’s the first time you realize Sakura’s phone is nowhere to be heard. Checking the time before you put your phone away, you see it’s been a little over an hour and a half since you arrived.

Sakura’s head turns in your lap and, given the way his breathing’s changed again, you realize he’s awake. As much as you’d like to brush the hair from his face, you’re worried it’d be akin to looking at the stray cat as it nudged your hand. You two sit in comfortable silence, your hand resting on his head while he remains in whatever state of rest he’s found himself in for a few minutes more.

“Why’d you bring sake?” he asks, voice groggy, moving only so far as to tighten his fists where they sit by your knees. It’s more curiosity than anything, like he’s trying to understand your thought process (you’d like to know yourself).

“I… don’t know. That’s just what we did when my grandfather died, and what we did when my friend’s father died. Came over with food and sake and… I dunno.”

“I don’t… drink.” He almost sounds bashful about that fact, and when you glance down, he’s pointedly avoiding your stare.

“Oh. Well, how was I supposed to know?” The sound of your laugh pulls at the corner of his lips.

“Sorry,” he says without force.

“If you don’t want it, I can take it back. It’s not a big deal.”

Without thinking, your fingers start stroking his hair again, gentle as they brush it. His fists clench, then release, and he holds his breath when you pause, seemingly releasing it when you tentatively start again.

“I… could have a drink with you.”

“You don’t have to, not if you don’t drink.”

His blush appears, turning the tips of his ears pink then splotching across his cheeks. “It’s not— I mean… I-I’ve never had a drink. It’s not like I have a reason n-not to.”

Surprise freezes you, your hand lifting from his hair, and he half-turns with a light glare that disappears when he meets your eyes.

“Really?” It comes out much more shocked than you mean it, and it’s enough that he pushes himself from your lap, a little dizzy as he does so quickly. “Even though you work in the pub district?”

His brows furrow in indignation. “I don’t just work for the pub district!”

“My apologies,” you say, your hands coming to cover your mouth (and to hide your involuntary smile). “Where else do you work?” This blush is unexpected, especially after his little outburst. It deepens when you tilt your head and lean in, silently requesting his attention. “Sakura?”

“I… I work with Roppo-Ichiza, too.” His eyes flick away from yours as soon as he finishes speaking.

“What’s that?”

It’s his turn to be surprised, head jerking back as his eyes narrow slightly. “They’re… It’s… Keisei Street. I’m there during the day, mostly.”

“Oh.” Keisei… Street? Oh. “Really?” How fascinating that he’s never had a drink despite working in both the pub district and the red-light district!

“Wh-What, ‘really?!’”

“Nothing.”

Turning away with your dismissal, you’re surprised when Sakura leans forward, just a bit. “No, if you have somethin’ to say, say it!”

“I guess it makes sense. You see all these people misbehaving because of alcohol, you’d probably be less likely to want to try it, right?”

He stumbles backward when you lean forward. “Uh, s-sure.”

“I’m curious: how’d you end up working for either?” When his attention turns downcast, you reign in your excitement. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

He looks up at you, softer than you’ve seen from him, the hint of a chuckle escaping on his exhale. “Maybe later.”

“Yeah?” Returning his smile in kind, you wish you could see it more often.

He tracks the curve of your lips before red tints his cheeks. “Y-Yeah.”

“So, would you like to share a drink with me now, or later?”

“Would you be safe walking home if you had a drink here?” he asks, looking at the window.

Given his line of work, you’re not surprised he worries about that (especially given how you two met).

“What, you don’t trust me?” you tease with a smile. If you had some water and waited a bit, you’d be fine.

“It ain’t about that! I mean, I’d walk you home and shit if you wanted…” His sentence trails, the offer similar to the one he made Monday night. You’d be similarly worried about him making it home safe, considering his alcohol tolerance is unknown.

“How about this,” you start, leaning forward again. Taking him in, you appreciate the returned color to his skin, the energy he has now compared to earlier.

“What?”

“You come by my place and we drink there. Can be whenever.”

The sliver of defensiveness that he held onto slips, and you’re met with someone borderline eager to try something new. “I-I guess that’d work.”

Between the two of you (and between his two jobs), he would know when your schedules would align. Since it’s also a new experience for him, he’d be allowed to choose the terms by which it happens. Whatever other hesitations he has for drinking (a teasing Suo comes to mind), this would be a safe option. You’ve come up with worse ideas.

“What about…” His voice pulls you from his reverie, though he’s still working on whatever he’d like to propose. “Is… tomorrow too soon?”

“Tomorrow?” So soon? At his hesitant query, you smile. “For you, I can make it work.”

His expression falls and he shakes his head. “You don’t gotta go out of your way or nothing! Not if it doesn’t already work.”

“I think you misunderstood me. For you, it’s not going out of my way. We can drink sake together tomorrow.”

Flower Glossary:

Orange Tree: Generosity Orange Blossom: Purity, Your purity equals your loveliness

Bamboo: Loyalty, Strength, Steadfastness

Chrysanthemum (White): Truth, Grief, Death, Respect

China Aster: Fidelity, I will think of you

(header credit)

Hanakotoba Masterlist | Wind Breaker Masterlist | Next ❧

[whereforarthur]

Said She Wanted Five Guys She Ain’t Talking About Burgers

Pairing: Reader x George, Arthur Hill, Chris, Isaac and ArthurTv

Summary: Y/n shares her sexual intentions with five YouTubers. She invites them to join her fantasy, setting no limits on their actions. The group eagerly agrees, indulging in a passionate sexual encounter as they explore Y/n's desires one by one.

Category: SMUT

Word Count: 6.7k

A/n: ArthurTv and Arthur Hill will be labeled as such to avoid confusion

*****

“In ‘friends with benefits,’ the boundaries are blurred, and the possibilities are endless.”

"Alright, guys," Arthur Hill grinned, his eyes sparkling as he wriggled to adjust the bow tie around his neck. "She asked for a surprise, so let's not disappoint her.".

The cool London evening was abuzz with the sound of laughter from a distance and passing cars humming their way along the road, in total contrast to the quietly expectant mood of the apartment in dim light. Five British YouTubers had gathered together for what they thought was an innocent prank on one of their fans. Little did they know, the girl they'd invited had something entirely different in mind.

This had been the moment Y/N had been waiting for, and she, being the young lady who loved drama, had planned this meeting very carefully. She took a deep breath as the door creaked, at that sudden surge of excitement rushing in her body. She'd chosen Arthur, Isaac, ArthurTV, Chris, and George for their online personas specifically; each one part of a puzzle she knew would fit into her twisted game.

The five men filed in; the laughter died down as they took in the scene before them. Y/N was sprawled out on the bed, her needy curves barely contained in a see-through lingerie set. She'd gone all out, setting up candles and a sultry playlist of tunes to set the mood; it definitely set the ambiance for the events to take place tonight. The air was heady with the scent of jasmine and vanilla, much like a perfume.

Isaac's eyes nearly popped out of his head as he drank in the scene. "Bloody hell," he whispered under his breath, his cheeks flushing red. ArthurTV, ever the charmer, strode forward with a smirk. "Well, well, well—what do we have here? Our lovely Y/N, all dolled up to kill. Occasion?"

On cue, Y/n's eyes scanned the men gathered before her, locking eyes with each for a second or two before she spoke in that low, sultry voice, "Gentlemen, I've been a very, very naughty girl, and I need all five of you to help me make it right."

The tension in the room was palpable as the men exchanged glances; a mix of shock and excitement was written across the faces of the men. Normally much more contained, Chris stepped backward and widened his eyes. "I think we might have misconstrued the invite," he stammered.

But Y/N's gaze stuck to them, her expression no doubt filled with hungry longing. "Oh, I think you've understood perfectly," she purred, beckoning them closer with a crook of her finger. "You see, I've had the most delicious fantasy about all of you, and I've decided it's high time I make it real."

The four looked at one another, not knowing exactly what the next course of action should be. George took the lead, his curiosity running deep. "Alright, lass, what's the plan?" he asked, the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk.

Y/N slid off the bed, the sway of her hips hypnotic as she made her way toward them. She reached out and put a hand on George's chest, tracing her fingers over the lines of his muscles. "The plan," she breathed, "is simple. You each get to do whatever you want with me. No holds barred."

The room hushed, except for the soft crackling of the candles. Arthur Hill, in his group of friends, the seasoned veteran when it came to wild nights out, stepped forward. "Alright, love," he started in a deep, gruff voice, "but let's make sure we're on the same page here."

Y/N nodded, the predatory glint in her eye. "Agreed," she purred lowly as her hand slid down to George's belt. "But remember, this is all for fun, and we all get what we want." She leaned in closer, her hot breath against his ear. "But you'll have to work for it."

Isaaс, who was standing by the door, swаllоwed hard, trying to wrap his head around all the implications of all this. He had never gotten himself into such a situation, but his desires forbade him to bаck away. He stepped forward very slоwly while his eyes brutally raked Y/N's bоdy. "Cоunt me in," he said, the thick desire hoarse in his voice.

The other three men looked at each other wordless, their eyes a dead give-away of disbelief, excitement, and perhaps a tinge of fear. They knew it could get out of hand, but the temptation was far too great to resist. These men had all watched her videos and heard her flirty comments, and she now stood before them, offering herself up like a prize to be shared.

Chris broke the silence first. "Alright, if we're all in, then let's get this party started," he said, attempting to sound cool, but in reality, his heart was racing wildly. The tension in that room increased, with them all stepping closer to her, their eyes devouring every inch of exposed skin.

Y/N eyed them each in turn, a smirk dancing on her lips. "Strip," she commanded, firmness laced in her voice. There was an infinitesimal hesitation before the men began to strip off their clothes, fumbling with buttons and zippers. The room started to heat up as clothing hit the floor, and their eager arousal became evident.

Chris was the oldest in the circle and went ahead first. He stared into Y/N's eyes, clasped her around the waist, yanking her into a desperate kiss, drawing out the air from her. His hands roamed over her body, cupping and squeezing her breasts and ass as she melted into him. The rest watched, their desires building as they took in the view of their friend claiming her first.

ArthurTV was quick of wit, silver of tongue-next. He leaned in with a smirk, hands sliding up her thighs. "I got a surprise for you," he murmured, his fingers finding the wetness collected between her legs. He slipped a finger inside her, and she moaned into Chris's mouth. Isaac and George, the remaining two, sat down and watched as excitement took them; their cocks stiffened in anticipation.

Y/N pushed Chris away, panting, before turning to ArthurTV. "That all you got?" she teased, beckoning him on. He gave a dark chuckle and leaned in to kiss her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Oh, I got lots more," he assured her, guiding her towards the bed.

The others didn't waste any more time; each was out to have his piece of her. Isaac was by no means shy anymore, stepped up, and claimed her mouth. His tongue danced with hers in a passionate duel as George and Arthur Hill looked at her, starving, hands mapping every curve, every dip, with possessive strokes.

Chris stepped back, eyes dark with the desire to have watched his friends touch her. He knew sooner or later he would have to regain control, but for now, he enjoyed the show, his cock pulsing with every gasp and moan escaping Y/N's lips.

Isaac leaned forward, and his hands moved to her breasts, gently kneading them before pinching her nipples. She arched her back, pushing into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed in the upsurge of pleasure that filled the room with the symphony of heavy breathing and whispered words of lust.

Arthur Hill forward, his eyes dark with hunger as he reached for her hips to spin her around, pressing against the edge of the bed. He exhaled, "Your turn," as he pried her legs apart. The tongue traced a path from her ankle down into her inner thigh, skin goosebumping from the heat of his breath.

Y/N's legs quaked, her body shuddering, as Arthur's lips reached her sex, his tongue doing a delicious dance around her clitoral area. A moan escaped her lips, her body already betraying her as it reacted to the onslaught of sensations. ArthurTV looked on with a smug smile on his face, stroking his cock while he waited for his turn. "Looks like she's enjoying herself," he said with a quip—he got a glare for it from Arthur Hill.

Chris couldn't wait any longer and moved in behind Arthur Hill, his cock pressed up against her backside. He leaned in close, his hot breath against her ear. "Ready for more?" he breathed as she nodded, her breathing shallow gasps. He reached around, one hand playing with her clitoral area while Arthur Hill's tongue continued its relentless assault. It was almost too much to handle, and an orgasm began building low in her belly.

George and Isaac watched, their cocks bobbing gently in the candlelight as they took in the erotic scene unfolding in front of them. He stepped up, his hand reaching out to cup one of her breasts, his thumb brushing against the hardened nipple. "I want a taste," he murmured, and she leaned back, granting him access. His mouth closed over her breast, sucking and teasing as she writhed under the combined efforts of the two men.

Isaac's face was red, his eyes covered with a hood of desire as he kneeled beside Arthur Hill. He watched intently as Arthur's tongue delved into her wetness, her legs trembling with every stroke that danced across. "Please," she whimpered, and with a wicked grin, Isaac leaned in, his mouth joining Arthur's in a duel of tongues and lips.

The feeling of having two mouths on her was almost too much for Y/N to bear. She bucked her hips, her moans rising louder as they worked in tandem, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she grasped at fistfuls of the bedsheets, trying desperately to anchor herself against reality. The room spun with pleasure; the heat of their bodies wrapped her up in a cocoon of lust.

ArthurTV, not content to just stand and watch any longer, stepped forward, his cock at full attention. Standing over her, he stroked it slowly, his eyes watching the contraction of her face. "Open up, love," he said, and she took him immediately in her mouth, her tongue swirling around his shaft as the taste of him was intoxicating; she wanted more.

Chris and Arthur Hill didn't miss a single beat, their hands and mouths working in harmony to drive her closer to the edge. Y/N's eyes rolled back as the pressure began to build, her body tightening around Arthur's tongue as he continued to lick her. She felt the heat of George's breath as he leaned into the side of her neck, his teeth nibbling gently at her earlobe.

Isaac and ArthurTV watched their own desires come to a boiling point at the sight of their friend sans restraint in their passion. They exchanged a look, both keen to take their turn. Y/N felt a hand at her waist, gently lifting her onto the bed. She looked up to see George smiling down at her, his eyes filled with lust. "My turn," he whispered, and she parted her thighs in all eagerness and invited him inside.

He positioned himself between her thighs, his cock throbbing in anticipation. He leaned in to kiss her, his tongue plunging deep as he plunged into her with a single, powerful stroke. She moaned into his mouth, her body already primed and ready for more. He began to move, hips pumping in a steady rhythm that had her death-gripping the sheets.

Chris dove in to take Arthur Hill's place, his cock immediately being sucked into her mouth as she greedily sucked him, never taking her eyes off George fucking her. The room was a cacophony of passion: moans and groans, skin slapping skin. The air was heavy with the smell of sex and sweat; the flickering candlelight cast an intimate, warm glow over it all.

Isaac watched, his hand going to stroke his own cock as he took in the sight of his friend claiming her. Desire was bright in George's eyes, raw need etched into every line of his face. He knew it was only a matter of time before he had to take his place, but for now, he enjoyed watching the woman he had fantasized about being taken by his best mates.

Y/N's eyes fluttered closed as George thrust harder. Her body was a symphony of pleasure, each touch and kiss sending shockwaves through her. She could feel the beginnings of another orgasm building, pressure coiling in her core. "Fuck me harder," she begged, her voice hoarse with need.

George obeyed, becoming more and more erratic as his climax neared. Arthur Hill and Isaac watched as they stroked their own cocks, their stroking in time with George's thrusts as the room spun into a blur of flesh and desire, their attention only for the woman writhing on the bed in front of them.

Chris pulled from her mouth, panting, and took his place next to ArthurTV. They watched together as George brought Y/N to the edge, her back arched and her nails digging into the mattress. With a final, guttural groan, George emptied himself inside her, shuddering with the force of his release. He collapsed beside her, pure satisfaction etched on his face.

Y/N panted and blushed, gazing up at the remaining two. "Who's next?" she purred, full of seduction. ArthurTV stepped forward, cock in hand. Wasting no time, he filled her, his movements fast and sure as he claimed her mouth once more. She moaned around his shaft, her tongue swirling around him as he started to fuck her with the same fervor as the rest.

Isaac kneeled beside her, his cock rigid, the youngest and most anxious. Without reservation or hesitation, she took him all in, her hand clasping his base as she took him deep into her throat. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he groaned loudly, purely in pleasure. "So good," he muttered, his hand burying in her hair, guiding her motions.

The room became a tornado of lust and desire, each man taking their turn to claim her, their movements becoming frenzied with every successive moment. The bed creaked in protest—the headboard slammed against the wall with every thrust. Y/N moaned even louder, her body a canvas of pleasure painted by the hands and cocks of the men she lured into her web.

Isaac's eyes didn't leave hers as he face-fucked her, his hand clenching in her hair at every gagging noise she made. She could feel the veins in his cock twitching, his orgasm imminent. The feel of his impending release spiraled her own climax closer, her body tensing in anticipation. ArthurTV's hips snapped against her own, his cock plunging deep to hit that spot that made her toes curl.

Her eyes watered, fighting for breath around Isaac's cock, but she didn't pull away; instead, she took him deeper, and her throat muscles worked around him. The feeling of being used, being taken by all five of them, was more intoxicating than any drink she'd ever had—it felt as if she'd been waiting for this moment her whole life.

Chris stroked his cock as he watched, his own desire reaching a peak added to by the sight of their pleasure. He climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside her, and slid into her from behind. The feel of being filled so completely was almost too much to bear as she gasped. The men had become a well-oiled machine, synchronized in their movements as they brought her closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.

Her gaze never wavered from ArthurTV's as the tension between them became palpable, the rising heat of Chris's orgasm evident to her. ArthurTV stroked faster, his breathing shallow, until with a final grunt, he was spurting into her, his cum mingling with George's and coating her insides.

Isaac's eyes rolled back as he came, his semen spurting onto her face and chest. Greedily, she lapped at the taste of him. Arthur Hill, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, took this for his cue, sliding in as the others pulled out. He moved with a rhythm all his own, and she was aware of the bedbouncing her body beneath his powerful thrusts.

She lay with her legs wide, her body open to them like a feast, and they took full advantage. ArthurTV leaned in, kissing her neck and whispering dirty things in her ear as his hands roamed her body and Arthur Hill pounded into her. A moan escaped her throat, which was muffled by Arthur's cock, as her hips arced toward each thrust.

"You like that, don't you, Slut?" Arthur Hill growled in his low voice gruffly. "You like being filled by all of us?" Y/N could only nod, the look in her eyes crazed with lust. "Say it," he demanded, his grip on her hips tightening. "Say you're our little slut."

She complied, her voice a breathy whisper. "I'm your slut," she moaned, the words sending a shiver down her spine. The dirty talk only seemed to heighten her arousal, wetting her further and making her more eager for their attention. ArthurTV leaned in, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "You're such a good girl, taking all of us," he murmured, his voice sweet in contrast to Arthur Hill's harshness.

"Fuck me, fill me," she begged, her voice little more than a whisper above the slapping of their hips. The men became more aggressive with each word, their own dirty remarks egging her on further. "You're so tight," Arthur Hill grunted, his strokes becoming more erratic. "So fucking tight."

"Yeah, take it all," ArthurTV whispered, his fingers digging into her hips. "You're made for this, aren't you? Made to be used by us." The raw words sent another wave of heat through her, pussycats clenching around Arthur Hill's cock as another orgasm threatened to break free. Tension pulled tight inside her body, higher and tighter with each thrust.

"Tell us how much you love it," Chris said, eyes dark with lust, as he watched Arthur Hill fuck her. "Tell us how much you love having all five of us inside you." Y/N whimpered, words choking from her in a moan. "I love it," she gasped, her voice raw with passion. "I love being your slutty."

Grunts and curses from the men rose in volume, their movements wilder still at the words. Arthur Hill's thrusts became more powerful yet, his cock slamming into her with enough force to make her eyes water. "That's it," he groaned, strained. "Tell us how much you want us to fill you up."

Y/N's cheeks were flushed, hair a wild mess around her face as she moaned and begged for more. "I want it," she panted. "I want all of your cum inside me." The filthy talk spurred Arthur Hill on, his hips working harder and faster, driving her closer to the edge. She could feel the tension rise, her body clenching around him.

"That's right," ArthurTV muttered hotly in her ear. "You're going to take it all, aren't you?" He reached down to play with her clitoral area, his thumb circling the sensitive nub while Arthur Hill's cock pummeled her pussycat. The combination was exquisite, taking her spiraling toward the abyss of pleasure.

"Oh, fuck," she moaned, the words barely intelligible. "I want it, I need it." She arched her back, her body begging for more. The men took her words as a challenge, their movements becoming savage as each of them worked to be the one to tip her over the edge.

"You're ours," Arthur Hill grunted, his teeth clamping with effort. "Our little fuck toy." Y/N's eyes rolled into the back of her head, the degradations adding to her excitement. "Yes," she whimpered, the word tumbling from her lips in a needy plea. "I'm yours; do whatever you want with me."

The words seemed to unleash something feral in the men. Their movements became more primal, and they talked dirty to her, voices hazing into a symphony of lust and dominance. "You're going to scream for us," ArthurTV muttered, his thumb rubbing harder against her clitter. "Scream our names as we make you come."

Y/N's eyes snapped open and locked with Arthur Hill's searing gaze. "You're going to come for us," he said, the timbre low, a command. "You're going to come so hard, you won't be able to walk straight tomorrow." The heat rose higher and higher, her pussycat clenching around his cock with each word.

"You're so fucking hot," ArthurTV breathed, his thumb still working her clitter in circles. "The way you're taking all of us, like the little slut you are." The insult only seemed to turn her on more, and her body responded to their every demand. She could feel Arthur Hill's cock swelling inside her, his orgasm approaching.

"Please," she begged, her voice barely above a whisper. "Make me come." It hung in the air, a desperate plea for release. The men laughed, enjoying the power they held over her. "Not yet," Arthur Hill said, his voice low. "First, you're going to make me come."

He grabbed her hips, slamming her onto her back as his cock never left her body. Hunched over, he nipped at her neck, fucking harder. Y/N's legs wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his back as she tried to get closer, feel him deeper. The pleasure was so strong it was almost painful—a delicious agony she never wanted to end.

"You like it rough, don't you, Slut?" Arthur Hill's voice was a snarl in her ear as his teeth nipped at her lobe. "You like it when we treat you like the whore you are." She moaned, the words only serving to fuel her desire. "Yes," she breathed, her voice a mix of pleasure and submission. "I love it."

"That's right," ArthurTV added, his hand still buried in her hair. "You're a dirty little slut, and we're going to use you until you can't take anymore." Y/N's eyes rolled back as the pleasure built inside her with each thrust. "Use me," she begged, her hips rising to meet Arthur Hill's. "I'm here for you."

Chris, unable to wait a moment longer, slid back into her mouth, his cock slick with her saliva. She sucked him in hungrily, her eyes never leaving Arthur Hill's as he fucked her hard, his intensity bordering on violence. The other two men watched, their strokes growing quicker as they watched their friend claim her.

"You're doing so well," Arthur Hill praised her, his voice strained with effort. "Such a good little slut, taking all of us." Y/N moaned around Chris's cock, the dirty talk sending her closer to the edge. She could feel Arthur Hill's cock swelling inside her, his orgasm approaching like a freight train.

ArthurTV whispered into her ear, "You're going to take it all," his hand playing with her clitter, "every drop of our cum." His words sent a shiver down her spine; the anticipation of their collective release was almost too much to handle. She nodded, looking at them pleadingly for them to give her what she needed.

"Yes," she breathed, her voice husky with longing. "I want it all." Arthur Hill clutched her hips harder as his thrusts grew wilder, closer to orgasm. "You're going to make me cum so hard," he growled, boring his eyes into hers.

"That's it," ArthurTV encouraged, his voice a seductive purr. "Tell us how much you love being our little slutty." Y/N's body was a maelstrom of sensation, her pussycle clenching around Arthur Hill's cock as she felt the beginnings of her own orgasm. "I love it," she moaned, her voice raw. "I love being your slutty."

The words sounded like the last straw that broke Arthur Hill's patience. Roaring, he emptied into her, his cock pulsating with the force of his release. Y/N's eyes would widen as she felt the warmth of his cum fill her up, the sensation making her tip over the edge. Her body began spasm after spasm; her orgasm ripped through her like lightening, convulsing her entire body.

Chris watched her, his own climax imminent. He pulled out of her mouth and painted her face with his seed, his hot cum mixing with the sweat that already coated her skin. She moaned, the feeling of his hot semen on her face sending her into another wave of pleasure. The other two men watched, their own climaxes close behind.

Arthur Hill withdrew, puffing heavily, and rolled off the bed onto his back, his chest heaving rapidly up and down. George was into his place in one smooth action without missing a beat, his cock slipping into her still-shuddering pussy. Much softer than the others, his thrusts were smooth and sweet, as if savoring the moment. "You're so beautiful," he whispered, his eyes for hers alone. "So perfect."

The feeling that hit Y/n was a weird mix of satisfaction, awe, and a hint of fear. These men took her to heights she had never known were out there, but it was still not enough. Her body had been a playground to them, and she couldn't help but let them do whatever they wanted with it.

George began to stroke, his actions slow and deliberative. He leaned further forward now, pressing his lips against hers in a deep, passionate kiss as he buried himself to the hilt inside her. She felt the warmth of Arthur Hill's cum leaking from her, mingling with her own juices. It was a deliciously wicked sensation, a reminder of the depraved act they'd all just enjoyed.

Isaac and ArthurTV watched with hungry eyes, the cocks still rock-hard as they waited their turn. They stroked themselves all the time, their eyes never leaving this erotic dance playing in front of them. The room was a symphony of passion—the wet slap of skin and the ragged breathing of participants were the only sounds.

Every time he thrust, Y/N would feel George's cock reach that spot, and shivers of pleasure would run down her spine. Her legs wrapped around his waist, tugging him closer and deeper. She could feel another orgasm building, her pussycat clenching down on him like a fist. "Don't stop," she begged, her voice a desperate whine. "Don't ever stop."

Isaac and ArthurTV watched, their own arousal boiling over. Neither could stand to wait anymore. "Let me have a taste," Isaac whispered, his voice thick with want. George chuckled, pulled out, and flipped her over onto her stomach. "Be my guest," he said, slapping her ass as she moaned into the pillow.

Isaac positioned himself behind her and at the sight of his cock so slick with pre-cum. He slid into her tight, used pussy with ease, the wetness of the previous men's cum easing his way. Y/N's moans grew louder as he began to move, his hips slapping against her ass. "So good," he groaned, his hand tightening in her hair. "You're so fucking tight."

Her body was a live wire, jolts of pleasure running through her with every touch. The room spun, narrowing the world down to the sensations in her body from the cocks inside her and the hands touching her. "Harder," she begged, her voice muffled by the pillow. "I need it harder."

ArthurTV took her mouth again, his cock sliding in and out of her lips as she moaned around him. She could feel the tension in his body; his orgasm was just out of reach. "You're going to make me cum," he whispered, his voice strained. "You're going to make me fill your mouth with my cum."

The words brought a new wave of arousal to her as her pussycat clamped onto Isaac's cock. She sucked harder at him, her tongue working his shaft while he continued to fuck her mouth. The taste of the other men's cum remained prevalent, reminding her of the degradative journey on which she had set out.

Chris and Arthur Hill watched, their cocks already growing once again hard. They had never seen a thing so erotic, so primal. The thought of their friends taking her, using her body for their own pleasure, was just too much for them. They leaned forward, touching her, their hands wandering over her body as they whispered filthy words into her ears.

"You're doing so well," Arthur Hill whispered, his soft tone a stark contrast to the coarseness of the others. "You're taking us all so beautifully." His hand moved to her clitoral area, his fingers teasing the sensitive flesh as he watched Isaac fuck her from behind.

The combination was too much for Y/N to handle. Her body is a maelstrom of sensation, pleasure so high that it's almost painful. She felt ArthurTV's cock swell in her mouth; his orgasm was near. "Swallow it," he said, his voice thick with lust. She nodded, wanting to please him, and took him deep into her throat as he came.

Isaac's movements became frantic as his cock slid in and out of her with wet, sloppy sounds. She could feel his orgasm building, his cock pulsing with every stroke. "I'm going to cum," he grunted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm going to fill you up."

Y/N's body tensed, and her pussycat clamped down on him, the beginnings of her third orgasm already washing over her. She screwed her eyes shut, her body shaking with the force of it. "Do it," she begged, the words a desperate plea. "Cum inside me."

With a roar, Isaac emptied himself into her, his cum joining the rest inside her. She felt his warmth fill her, and the sensation sent her spiraling into another orgasm. Her body spasmed, her pussycat contracting around his cock, as she screamed into the pillow.

Limbs were tangled, sighs were sated, and the room was thick with sex. Y/N was lying on the bed, her body shaking with aftershocks of pleasure. The men pulled out—their cocks covered in her juices—and fell around her, their breathing heavy with exertion.

There was only the sound of their hearts beating as one, the quiet whispers of their breathing filtering through the air. The candles danced around them, their shadows veering across them through flushed and sweat-slickened bodies. They had taken her, used her, claimed her as their own, and she had loved every second of it.

The men lay sprawled around her, their eyes glazed over with satisfaction. Their chests rose and fell with deep, contented sighs, their cocks now at rest, having spent their seed inside her welcoming warmth. It was in the aftermath of a primal dance wherein desire had knitted them together—a palpable thread forged in the fire of passion.

Her mind was a mess, her body humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. She couldn't believe she just did this—that she let herself be used by all five of them. But she didn't feel used; she felt powerful and desired. Each thrust, each groan of pleasure, was a declaration of her sexual prowess, and she reveled in it.

Arthur Hill's gentle strokes on her clitoral had been like a sweet caress, a tender reminder of his dominance amidst the frenzy. His words in her ear were soothing and challenging, pushing her closer to the edge with every syllable. The way he looked at her when he came, as if she was all that mattered in this world, had been heady.

His hands on her breasts had branded her, marking her as theirs. She felt the heat of his gaze even when he wasn't touching her, his eyes devouring every inch of her. The way he'd whispered dirty words in her ear had made her feel like the most desired woman alive. It was like a paint of his cum on her face, leaving a part of himself with her, claiming her in the most primal possible way.

George's gentle touch had belied the others; his kisses on her neck and breasts were as light as butterfly wings. His patience was a sweet reprieve, his tenderness a gentle reminder that beneath the chaos, there was a person with feelings and desires. Whispers of praise had been balm to her soul, soothing the beast that had been loosed within her.

The dominance of ArthurTV had been oddly alluring; the way he took her mouth, his cock claiming her like a conquering force, thrilled her. She'd never felt so powerless, so completely consumed by another's pleasure, and she found that she enjoyed it. His smirk as he watched her cum for him, his own release imminent, had been the final push she needed to let go, to fully embrace the slut they had all turned her into. Isaac's raw need had been undeniable. His eyes were wild with lust, his touch almost desperate as he claimed her from behind. His gruffness, the whispered dirty words in her ear, had made her feel so much like a prized possession. The painful sting of his brutal treatment of her hair, mixed with the extreme pleasure of feeling his cock fill her up, had brought out something in her she never knew existed. She likes it—the way he uses her, the way he makes her feel like some dirty little secret.

Lying amidst a circle of men, faces upwards, panting and spent, she could not help but feel triumphant. She did what she wanted to do and had taken all five of them. She did not waste a single moment, enjoying every bit of it. Her body was sticky from sweat and cum, telling of the carnality of their session. The bed beneath her was a tangled mess of rumpled sheets and discarded clothes, a battleground of pleasure.

The soft candlelight bathed the room in its gentle glow, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The air was heavy with the scent of sex, a heady perfume that seemed to cling to her skin. She felt odd, nearly at peace, her body sated but her mind racing with the memories of what had just transpired. What now, she wondered? Would they all just lie in this bed, basking in the afterglow of their depraved act? Or would they find themselves once again thrown into the battle, eager for more of what so willingly she had given to them?

Chris was the first to move, his hand tracing a lazy pattern across her back as he leaned in to press a soft, gentle kiss against her neck. "That was," he started, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find his words. "Amazing," Y/N supplied, her voice still husky from screams torn from her throat. He chuckled, low and warm. "Yeah," he agreed. "It really was."

The tension in the room began to break as the others stirred, their sated bodies moving lazily against the tangled sheets. Arthur Hill propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze sweeping over her form. "You're something else," he murmured, a hint of awe in his voice. She couldn't help but preen under his praise; her cheeks hued with a mix of pride and embarrassment. "Thank you," she whispered, trying to find some further words and coming up empty.

Chris leaned down, his hand staying on the small of her back, and pressed a kiss against her cheek. "You're incredible," he said, gravitas in his tone. "We'll have to do this again." At just the threat of it, a thrill ran through her, excitement already building for another encounter with these men. "Definitely," she agreed, the smirk dancing around her lips.

The others stirred, starting to wake sated. Arthur Hill leaned in, slanting his mouth over hers in a bruising kiss. His tongue slid against hers, tasting the last remnants of passion they'd shared. "I never get enough of you," he muttered, his voice heavy with lust. "Me neither," she whispered.

They shifted, their bodies resettling around her. It was clear that the night was really nowhere near over, as desire still gleamed brightly in their eyes. "What now?" Y/N asked, her voice imbibed with a mix of excitement and trepidation. "Now," Arthur Hill said, a roguish smile playing on his lips, "we make this a regular thing."

The idea of becoming their friends with benefits was exhilarating and terrifying. The thought of the five men she had just met, having unlimited access to her body, sent a thrill down her spine. But she couldn't run from the pull—the raw, primeval need they had awakened in her.

"We'll take good care of you," George assured her, his voice a husky purr of seduction. "You can always be our little slut to come to whenever you need it." And strangely enough, the thought of being the girl they ran to whenever they needed their sexual fix was reassuring in some odd way. It wasn't love, no, but it was something. It was passion and desire, raw and unfiltered.

ArthurTV chuckled, his hand stroking her thigh. "And we'll make sure you're always satisfied," he said, eyes gleaming mischievous. "You never have to beg for it again." The promise sent a thrill through her—the idea of having them at beck and call all the time was incredibly arousing.

Isaac leaned in, his already starting to harden again. "But for now," he said, his voice a gruff whisper, "I think we need to clean up." He slid off the bed, his cock glistening with mixed juices. "And then," he winked, "maybe round two?"

The others laughed; the spark of mischief danced in their eyes. Y/N couldn't help but feel the thrill of it, her body already begging for more. They helped her off the bed, the stickiness of the cum between her legs making her wobble just a little. Arthur Hill caught her, his arms strong and steady around her waist. "Let's get you cleaned up," he murmured, leading her to the bathroom.

The warm water from the shower washed away the remnants of their encounter, embracing them with steam as they stood under the spray. The men took turns soaping her body, their gentle touches standing in stark contrast to the ferocity of their actions earlier. They were attentive to make sure she was clean and pampered; it touched her in a way she did not expect. It was as if they were reassuring her that, in spite of them taking her so thoroughly, she was very special.

They emerged from the shower, bodies shining and renewed. The bed was made afresh, with new candles in place and a bottle of champagne chilling on the bedside. "To us," ArthurTV toasted, his eyes locking with hers as he clinked his glass to hers. The bubbly liquid slid down her throat, the sweetness just right against the saltiness of their sweat and cum still in her mouth.

They lay entangled with each other in the clean sheets, their laughter filling the room thick with the odor of sex, sweet with this new bond. They talked and laughed, sharing stories and getting to know one another outside of the bedroom. It was a moment of companionship that she hadn't anticipated—a moment of happiness that she knew she would treasure.

What remained of the night had been a blur of hot kisses and soft touches, the odd bout of sex interrupting their talking. But what really stayed in her mind was the tenderness: the manner in which they had regarded her, the manner in which they had made her feel. This was a night she knew she'd never forget, one that changed her in ways she was only just beginning to fathom.

When morning finally broke, the men held her close, their arms wrapped warmly around her in protection and longing. Whispering sweet nothings into her ears, warm breath sent heat to her skin. There was a promise of times yet to come—a heady mix of excitement and anticipation left hanging in the air. Y/N closed her eyes, feeling more content than she had in a long time. For now, she had finally found a place she fit, molded in the arms of those five men who so thoroughly claimed her.

That night, they had spent reliving their story of how they met, but the story that was going to be truly theirs was only just now beginning, and as morning light spread over London, casting its golden rays over tangled limbs, Y/N knew she knew exactly where to find home. She was theirs, and happy to be so. The five of them had found that special something that superseded physicality: love. As they drifted to sleep, their hearts beating in unison, she knew she had found her place in life—the most unlikely of places.

*****

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