#PRETEND I POSTED IT ON TIME PRETEND IT'S NOT LATE-

[kissesz]

𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

caitlyn kiramman x f!reader

warnings: see above, mdni. this is nothing but pwp. f!sub!reader. f!dom!caitlyn. mean!caitlyn. but it's soft. she's only a little mean. also a little flawed but like, who isn't? semi-toxic it is then. she's very sorry you guys are making up later. vaginal fingering. cunnilingus. orgasm denial (1x). biting. p.s. english is not my first language, please bear with my struggling.

read here on ao3

notes: first post, hi!!! if you love women as much as i do, consider sticking around! this was requested (and encouraged to post) by one of my dearest friends, em. i'll love you always. and to my sweetest readers who managed to make it this far, i cherish each and one of you, stay wonderful. feel free to comment your thoughts, shoot me a message, i'm all ears.

(repost because i fucked up the formatting, whoops.)

Two rapid knocks on your door after the clock has struck two only meant a single thing as of late.

Caitlyn Kiramman.

A woman you grew to hold close and dear in the depths of your heart. She’s shining prestige wrapped in affluence and grace with sugared kindness that blooms a warmth in your chest. The concept of the unattainable envisioned by the masses. She’s soft with affection where she ought to be, sharp and cold where it benefits her.

And yet, here she was. At your doorstep, at this ungodly hour, like clockwork.

You didn’t know when, exactly, this became routine. Perhaps it began with stolen glances across crowded rooms, or fleeting conversations that swirled around in your mind far longer than they should have. Caitlyn had always been a topic of interest to you, carefully composed, her smiles perfectly rehearsed, her every move designed to captivate. And yet, somewhere along the way, she let you see behind the curtain. Not all at once, but piece by piece, until you could no longer remember how you managed to hold her at arm’s length to begin with.

Maybe it was the night she showed up on your doorstep for the first time, instead of you on hers, drenched from the rain, the mask of elegance she wore so well slightly cracked. You’d never seen her like that before: vulnerable, desperate for a moment of reprieve. She didn’t say why she came to you, but she didn’t have to. The answer was in the way her voice trembled when she finally spoke, in the way she clung to you like you were the only stable thing in a world determined to break her.

You should’ve questioned it. Should’ve hesitated before letting her in, before letting her slip past your defenses so easily. But you didn’t. Instead, you simply held her, murmured quiet reassurances against her temple as she exhaled shakily into your collarbone. As if you were someone she could turn to. As if you were hers to seek comfort in.

Or maybe it wasn’t one defining moment at all. Maybe it was the accumulation of a thousand small gestures: the way she reached for your hand without thinking, or how she never left your side without making sure you felt safe. The way her laughter softened in your presence, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear. The way her fingertips brushed against yours in passing, always lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. The way her eyes sought you out first in every room, as if to silently ask, Are you alright? before anyone else even considered it.

You didn’t ask for her affection, and yet, here she was—woven into your life so tightly that you couldn’t imagine untangling her, even if you wanted to.

Now, she stood patient. Draped in a tailored fur-lined coat that framed her figure like it belonged in a gallery. Gold glinted in the low light—her jewelry, her dress, the faint shimmer of her makeup, all intentionally resembling starlit skies. Even in the dead of night, where most fall victim to obscurity, she was truly flawless.

You had tried, once, to ignore it—to turn away from the soft tap of her knuckles against your door, to pretend you didn’t care whether she came or not. That resolve had crumbled the moment she spoke your name through the threshold, hushed and laced with something dangerously close to yearning.

And so, like always, you found yourself standing before her, breath uneven, pulse traitorous.

Pushing down the handle, you stepped back to let the door fall ajar.

“You’re awake,” Caitlyn noted, her tone soft and conversational, though her sharp eyes certainly betrayed her. She offered a smile, which you returned in kind. It was familiar, comforting. You let your eyes take her in, committing every detail of her to memory as if she’d forever be gone by the next sunrise.  

Leaning against the doorframe, you let your head rest against the pale ivory of the wall. It was late. “Barely.” 

Her smile widened slightly, but she said nothing, merely stepping forward as though your presence in the doorway was an invitation. Her arms enveloped you, as did the scent of her perfume: something vanilla with an edge of spice, curling around the slightest of florals. You nuzzled into the crook of her neck, closing your eyes to savour the sensation of being in her proximity. Her hands came to rest on your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

There was something unbearably vicious about the way she held you. Like she knew you needed it more than she did. Like she could sense the weight of her absence pressing into your ribs, suffocating, unbearable. She never said it aloud, never boasted of it, but you felt it in the way her fingers curled against the fabric of your shirt, just barely tightening. The smallest tell.

A soft sigh squeezed itself from your lungs as you parted, and she tilted up your chin to hold your gaze for a second seemingly never ending. When Caitlyn decided she had admired you enough, (but only for the time being) she clashed your lips together in a kiss so deep you feared you’d drown.

That happened a lot with her. The incessant fear you could easily lose yourself.

She kissed like she had no intention of stopping—like she wanted to steal every thought, every protest, every inch of hesitation until all that remained was her. Until she was carved into your bones.

Gentle teeth then nipped at you, snapping you out of whatever reverie you were beginning to spiral into as your breaths grew heavier.

“I missed you,” was whispered into the oxygen-depleted air between you by Caitlyn, as she ever so slowly started inching towards your couch. Those three words floated, so quiet, yet so heavy. The depth of them crashed over you like a wave, making your thoughts hazy as you struggled to breathe.

The worst part? You believed her.

You always believed her.

It was a dangerous thing, the way she could make you forget the ache of waiting. How she could saunter into your life after days—weeks—without word, and with one look, one touch, have you willing to unravel at her feet.

Pulling you along with her, seeing as you didn’t protest, she moved with an ease that suggested she’s done this countless times. Familiarized herself with your space enough to know you’ll trust her to guide. You didn’t want to admit you’d do so regardless. 

But she knew.

Gods, she always knew.

There was no hiding from her. No veiling the way your body responded to her, no pretending she didn't have this hold over you. She saw every flicker of reluctance, every frantic breath, and she made it her mission to unravel you. To pull apart the pieces of you that were too stubborn to fall in line.

As the back of your knees hit the edge of the couch, she pushed you downwards, your back now against plush velvet. Caitlyn pulled back, her lips puffy and swollen as if mirroring yours, pupils dilated as if high out of her mind on the taste of you. Her fingers skimmed your skin like fire, searing a path from your collarbones, down between your chest, before finally finding purchase on the sash of your robe, pulling and watching as it fell open, mesmerized. You wanted to say something. To stop her before you lost yourself entirely in her. But the words never came. How could they when she was looking at you like that? Feral, tinged with something much deeper than desire. Her hands found your waist next, fingers pressing in just enough to make you gasp, to make you arch instinctively into her touch. She knew you so well. Knew exactly how to make you bend to her, how to make you fall apart at her will.

And then, she kissed you again.

This time, it was different. Less tender than before, more demanding—insistent. Her lips crashed against yours with the intensity of a storm, and you couldn’t help but meet her with equal fervor. She tasted like whiskey and something richer, something intoxicating, and you drank it in as if it were the last thing you'd ever have.

Your pulse raced as she pulled back, but only enough to leave a teasing space between you, enough to make you ache. She took a staggering, deliberate breath as she admired the mess she'd made of you.

Her voice, low and perilous, cut through the quiet. "I want you," she whispered, her lips barely brushing against yours, three words that made your heart race with an intensity you weren’t sure you were prepared for.

Messy, so messy as sly fingers snaked themselves around your breast, painstakingly slowly closing, increasing the pressure of which they’ve captured it. Your pulse fluttered, and Caitlyn swallowed the deliciously high-pitched moan threatening to spill from your velvety lips. Once only a string of saliva connected the memories of your kiss, she dove headfirst into the fragile skin of your neck, sucking and biting on it like a predator starved. The gloss of her lips smeared against you colorless, only blooming hues from beneath by her ministrations contrasted against your skin tone. A myriad of carmine and crimson, dancing in spots and dots of darker and lighter.

Flexing one knee upward you pressed it against her side, asking, the burn in your abdomen pooling deeper—dripping molten in carnal need. A pathetic keen was what you could offer as a cry for salvation, the state of your desperation swirling into and sweetening your blood. Caitlyn huffed a sound akin to a giggle, reveling in your sounds reverberating around her heart, savouring every inch of you as her hands stilled, and moved to trace down your sides. Deliciously tingling shivers were her reward, only, the true euphoria of eye-rolling breathlessness rested lower, between your thighs. 

Though not before she spellboundly locked your eyes together, to witness your fall from grace, had her hand made the descent against your glistening folds.

Caitlyn Kiramman was clever with her fingers. She was an excellent shot, after all. Manicured, slender, long and expressive—from the very start she delighted in curling and waving them around unnecessarily seductively every chance she got. Intertwining and lacing them around the neck of a wine glass, door handles, your shoulders, all while you fell enchanted, and far down a wicked fantasy of her digits buried inside of you.

Accompanying a sharp, satisfied intake of breath from her, they sunk impossibly deep with no warning. A sight to behold and cherish for her you were, as an obscene whine loud enough to wake the city, followed by a filthy whimper that made her want to tear you apart, tumbled from your parted, lovebitten lips. Her fingers picked up a pace from which they never slowed, hooking up to caress your saccharine inner walls as they tightened around her in order to suffocate.

And oh it was pristine unadulterated ecstasy when her thumb found its leverage on your clit, drawing tight circles around it as if chasing and ruthlessly shoving you towards your orgasm.

“Ngh- Cait- ah-”

Pitiful little thing you were, spine contorted unnaturally, breath heaving, hair sprawled beneath you as you gazed up through glossy eyes at the harbinger of your exhilaration, only to find soulful azures staring lovingly back at you.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” Her ambery tones of cashmere and cardamom suffocated you, dripping your senses in a glowing warmth, nuanced by a dusky tint in the way she formed her syllables. An unspoken truth between you was interrupted by yet another mewl, alongside a fumbling hand clutching at her wrist in silent command to keep going.

No perplexion in the fact she obliged, even going as far to lean further down in order to languidly lick a stroke up the expanse of your breast to encircle a nipple between greedy lips. Your toes curled as the sudden absence of air in your lungs felt like the first note of a symphony, the kind that built steadily but constantly, keeping you blind with pleasure as it swept you into its crescendo. Sweet release was within reach, your restless heartbeat a telltale sign and the unabashed squelching sounds of your core a reassurance nonpareil. Frenzied, as you are done apart, hands now pawing at the sheets—it took only a particularly sharp thrust of her finger upward to have you almost toppling and falling over the edge.

But as soon as you felt it, it was gone. Hollow was the space inside of you, squeezing and tightening against grueling, agonizing nothing, as all stimuli were robbed of you. 

Whipping your head upwards with a cry akin to that of wounded prey, you sank your nails into Caitlyn's wrist. Something livid and bewildered flickered in your eyes, alongside the undeniable flow of salty tears that threatened to spill lest you blinked them back. 

“Why? Why did you-”

Cruel, devilishly cruel and vile was the laugh that tore its way through her throat, smoky vetiver strangling bygone syrupy spice and comfort. It was utterly amusing to her how melodramatic you could act, like this was disturbingly traumatic to that poor tiny heart of yours. Shiny, pearly white teeth glinted beneath the dull lighting as she yanked you closer by your calves.

Her mouth made direct contact with your slit in a split second—an experimental lick descending onto your swollen clit had you sobbing out her name like a mantra meant for worship. 

You didn’t just say it—you felt it, like you were worshiping at the altar of her touch, drowning in the devotion she’d drawn from you, effortlessly.

“Mhm, good girl.” Her humming vibrated against you, the praise spilling from her lips resembling cloyingly sugar-saturated ambrosia. Doubling down on her efforts her grip was bordering on hurtful, tongue curling just at the right angle to have you lightheaded, lost, wailing and whining as the knot in your stomach threatened to unfurl. Though, there now lacked a sense of serene to wash over you as her threat of denial wasn’t foreign to you anymore. 

And what does one do when they find themselves needing more—when they’re lost in uncertainty, fear gnawing at the edges of their thoughts? Pray, of course.

Opening your mouth for stray honeyed pleas of "Please," easily softened her to devoted compliance. It was music to her ears, absolutely addicting. There was a certain cadence to your voice, trembling with need, with the kind of vulnerability that made her all the more ravenous, swirling her tongue around a spot that made you see stars. 

It didn’t take long for you to come undone with a pornographic moan—blinding white bliss abruptly veiling you, your thighs quivering and breath held, every drop of your juices diligently lapped up by the woman still nestled in the midst of your legs. 

Closing your eyes, the rise and fall of your chest was the sole thing keeping you grounded. And when it fell silent, no more Caitlyn caressing you merciful and gentle: porcelain cracked and glass shattered as in response to your comedown. Your stares locked, now wide open, both of you suspended in the stillness. 

Caitlyn didn’t rush to move, her presence still coiling around you like a weight. Her fingertips brushed against your skin one last time, slow and deliberate, before she shifted, finally distancing herself. The warmth of her body, the comfort of her touch, seemed to vanish all at once, leaving a cold void in its wake. She sat up, taking her precious time, as though her every movement was meant to torment you. You couldn’t help but watch, unable to break the trance she’d mercilessly dragged you into. She didn’t look back at you immediately, but when she did, her eyes held something—a tenderness, yes, but also something unreadable. You couldn’t tell if she pitied you or if she simply treasured the downright control she had over you.

“It’s late, isn’t it?” she said, a casual observation that somehow felt like a statement heavier than whatever was anchoring your states of mind. She tilted her head, her gaze now piercing, but there was no harshness there, just that sharp, calculating precision you had come to recognize. “You should sleep. You really should.” 

But you couldn’t just let her leave like that, couldn’t let her slip away when the air between you still crackled with the remnants of everything that had just passed. You opened your mouth, ready to say something—anything—to pull her back. Maybe beg her to stay a little longer, maybe ask her why she was so calm, so composed when every part of you felt exposed and desperate.

But before you could speak, she was there, leaning over you once more, her presence surrounding you like a blizzard unforgiving, frigid and bitter. Tilting your face up to meet hers, her eyes locked onto yours with a force magnetic that made it impossible to look elsewhere.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice hushed, silencing. Sour and acrid was the tone that reprimanded—shut you up like one would a child. There was no room for argument, no room for anything but what she allowed.

Her lips pressed against yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your airways, quieting the words that had formed on your tongue, now buried and dead. It was a kiss that took, that owned, that coerced you to forget everything else. You melted into it, no resistance left, just the feeling of her mouth against yours, a reminder of the untainted power she held over you. Her lips were plush, but the kiss was anything but. It was an imprint, a claim, and before you could even process the heat of it, she was pulling away, leaving you gasping with a faint, satisfied smile dancing at the corner of her lips.

“You know where I am if you need me,” she said, her voice drifting like a whisper through corners secluded, a promise without a guarantee.

And just like that, she stood. The couch shifted slightly as she moved, her body vanishing from your sight as she made her way to the door. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. All you could do was watch her, feeling the sorrow of her absence the moment she stepped away.

With one last lingering glance, Caitlyn reached for the door, grazing the handle. She paused, as though considering something, and then her voice broke the quiescence once more.

“Rest,” she said softly, her words like velour—slipping through the air with a discreetly. “You’ve earned it.”

She was gone.

©️ kissesz

[writer-with-jazz]

Bad nights (part two)

A/N: hi everyone!! Bad night was the first ever fix I posted and I am very glad everyone liked it so much!! I wasn’t expecting more than 20 likes? But this is crazy and I am overjoyed! This took me a lil while since I started working on this request I got which is a very interesting idea, but thank you sm <333

p.s: I reread this 3 times and used grammars for spelling mistakes if there are still any, do tell me!

Summary: Remus got clingy cuz of the full moon, James lost a match, Sirius has problems with his parents and you aren’t well. How Will this situation turn out?

Read bad nights part one, here

The tension in the room only deepened after Remus pulled back, He was always the calm one, the one who understood the unspoken language of their relations, but today, with every emotion piling up, even he was slipping.

You could feel the heat from his body as he stepped away from you, the silence hanging in the air, thick and uncomfortable. Your stomach churned in response, both from the physical ache and the emotional weight of everything around you.

James finally broke the silence, though his voice was very much with frustration. "I get it, Sirius," he said, barely holding back the anger in his tone. "You’re upset, and I’m upset, but don’t act like you have it all figured out." His hand clenched into a fist by his side. "This—this whole thing—it’s not just about losing a match, alright? It’s about everything. Every bloody thing that's been piling up lately." He paused, glancing at you as though the weight of his next words was too much to carry alone. "It’s about her. About how she’s always there for all of you, and… I can’t even seem to be enough for her."

Your heart squeezed at his words, but before you could say anything, Sirius snapped. "Enough? Enough? What about me, huh?" His voice cracked an that made your chest tighten. "I’ve been fighting off my mother’s poison for years, I’m constantly keeping my own demons at bay, and I’m the one who gets left behind! She’s always there for you, James, and for you, Remus. Always comforting you, holding you up, and I’m just… just here, trying to keep my head above water." His face was twisted in anguish, eyes wild. "And all I get is the scraps—the leftovers."

"That’s not fair!" Remus’s voice was raw, , "You think I want to cling to her like this? You think I’m not aware of everything she does for me? But I need her, Sirius. I’m barely holding it together after last night—" His voice wavered, and you saw the raw hurt in his eyes as he turned to you for comfort once more, even as he fought back his own tears. "I’m not asking for more than what she can give. I’m just asking for her to be there when I can’t be there for myself."

Sirius's glare softened for a split second before he snapped again, his frustration morphing into something darker. "Yeah, well, we all need her, don’t we?" he spat. "But it’s always you, Remus. It’s always you who gets the comfort, who gets the attention. And I’m just supposed to wait in the damn hard moments , pretending I’m fine when I’m falling apart inside." He was pacing now, his voice rising with every step. "I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when she’s the one holding everyone else together."

The words hit harder than anything you could have prepared for, and it was like a pressure released in the room. You knew he didn’t mean it like that. You knew he wasn’t blaming you specifically, but the weight of it settled over you like a suffocating wall. You wanted to shout at him, to tell him that you weren’t some object to be fought over, that you couldn’t be everything to everyone, but the words wouldn’t come.

"You think I’m okay?" James's voice cut through, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and hurt. "I’m the bloody Quidditch captain! I’m supposed to lead everyone, make everything perfect, and now I can’t even—" He stopped, voice cracking, fists clenched at his sides, looking away from both of you as if his words were too much to handle. "I’m so sick of failing."

s. That broken crack in James that you had never seen before. You wanted to walk over, to hold him, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, but as soon as you moved, Remus took a step toward you, his eyes pleading, like he was afraid to lose you in all this madness. and Sirius’s hurt eyes, his unspoken plea, were just as raw.

But your body was betraying you. The nausea was getting worse, and the headache was growing more unbearable. You couldn’t hold on any longer.

“Stop,” you whispered, barely able to keep your voice steady as you stood between them, your hand resting on your stomach. "Stop. All of you. I… I can't do this anymore."

The room went silent, and for a moment, everything stopped.

You felt tears pricking at the edges of your eyes, but you held them back. "I’m trying so hard for all of you. I can’t be everything. I can’t be the one you all lean on all the time." Your voice was shaky, but you pushed through it. "I… I’m struggling too. Do you not see that? I’mtrying, I’m hurting, and no one’s even asking if I’m okay. All I do is try to hold everyone else together, and no one sees it until I’m falling apart. I just… I need… I need a break."

You didn’t give them time to respond, didn’t let them apologize or tell you it was fine. You turned on your heel and walked away

But in the quiet, as the seconds passed, you realized something. You weren’t the only one struggling,It was time for them to see that.

And you weren’t sure if that would make them love you less, or more.

alright so I think part three will be out more soon and will be the final part!!!!

taglist: @almostjollypizza @setayeshmohseni @navs-bhat @treefairy-28 @may-madness @ameliaweasley @maysrain @reggieswriter @meowmeowbby @hiireafstuff @flowerytombx @hcqwxrtss123 @unstable-cucumber @aleatorio1234 @penned-musings @plk-18 @iheartpieck @livia7137 @liviessun @eeviee4 @marvelsmarauder @amatoanima @minejungwoo

[redcherrykook]

────𐙚 inevitable transition (a)

────୨ৎ────

content: cheater!jungkook

note from cherry: i've spent the past days horribly anxious and with all this nervous energy, i channeled this angsty fic. I hope it hurts in the rightest ways.

────୨ৎ────

Waking up to a silent phone.

Ordinary buzzing of your alarm and sheer nothingness after. The other side of the bed was left empty, touseld, not unusual. He does wake up earlier than you do, does have a tight schedule.

Your phone remained empty.

A routine you had gotten familair with recently.

Your "thinking about you baby" and "I love you my angel" texts have disappeared into thin air. Merged with the chirping of birds that are only audible for the ones who wake up early enough to witness them.

In actuality, they have been transfered to the screen of another.

Her arguably beautiful face lights up in the morning, greeted by his profile picture. Him, him and his doberman. For her, it did not matter when she woke, he'd been there. Left his traces, given security.

You knew this, yet he still kissed you with the same lingering smile, spit the same "love you" when met with your presence.

It had become routine after all, to behave like lovers.

Which explains why, when Jungkook changed his profile photo from him and you sharing a kiss, you did not question it. Brushed over it, like he did every time he came home late.

Until the lights started to give out as well, the apartment he came back to had turned dim. A house, simply that.

Jungkook no longer felt home.

His arms had not lost their strength and yet, an embrace had never felt weaker. A kiss never duller.

It seemed almost too perfect, how he'd put on a show- pretend as though all these miniscule things didn't turn into a portrait of his betrayal, did not hold any weight to them. An accumilation of odd details. If you didn't know better, he seemed close to oblivious.

"You're overthinking it" his voice ringed, filling your ears with a sentence that should have been reassuring, should have put your racing heart at ease, lowered your cortisol.

In contrast, that is far from what it had done to you. It should have been obvious why he started referring to you with your full name, should have been evident why it took him longer to respond, longer to like your posts and even longer to message first.

Well aware of who he was talking to when it showed he is online but your text still read delivered.

It was right before your teary eyes.

The livingroom clock ticks, time will pass recklessly, without control. The minutes will go by anyways.

You grew into the habit of reminiscing times of a near past- you had been his only once. When there had not been another number to dial, a selfie to open, a giggle to share.

Bittnernes from your morning coffee mingled with the question, if that reality ever existed in the first place or if- maybe, he has been awaiting a chance to escape, replace, all along.

'I'm so attached to you'- a simple string of a unkept words that have forgotten their true integrity somewhere along allure and temptation of another. He hadn't meant it, nor could he bare the slight drop in the corner of your diluded smile- one which used to possess the property of igniting a spark inside his chest.

Jungkook's attachment is mirroring a sticker stuck to the back of ones phone, peeling away from continued usage, drained of its color, barely grasping the surface. Simultaneously, it was however, no more than the remainders of its glue that you will never be able to rid yourself of- it would always be part of you.

You have been forgotten before- have blended into the anonymity of a growing circle when on your part, it has only been you two. an us. it would stay that way for you, for as long as your lungs work, as long as your heart pumps.

[hyperfocusfox]

So many of these comments on this post did not pass the vibe check so I wanted to add:

I am 30 and trans. (Genderfluid leans masc heavily)

I only have vague memories of the first 27 years of my life because I was so absolutely fucking horribly miserable every day of my life that my brain literally forgot it. Everything was a misery I was simply surviving.

A huge amount of being that miserable was not knowing I was trans. No joke.

And the MAIN REASON I didn't know I was trans was because my parents made it very clear from when I was a young child that they hated trans people and considered them gross and wrong and a sin against god. Very much not a 'letting your child express themself and listening respectfully' sort of environment. So I never allowed myself to even consider it as a possibility until I was outside of my parents influence. Because it wouldn't have been safe. My brain wouldn't even let me think about it.

Well all things considered how can I be so sure it was the lack of trans support making me miserable and not something else? Glad you asked. Here are some fun facts about me as a kid/teen.

I remember when I was really little and my parents stopped letting me run around without a shit on outside. And I was so confused and upset. Because my brother and my dad got to play outside without a shirt. Why not me? I didn't understand and was annoyed.

I always tried to act like one of the guys at school: climbing trees and roughhousing with people much more than anyone else. Tbh I was a bit too violent because I clearly didn't fit in and was overcompensating.

I used to be fascinated by the one or two trans kids at my school. I would watch them anytime they were around me and emotionally I ached. And I could never figure out why. And then I would have to pretend I hated them because my parents taught me I had to.

I used to watch YouTube videos of people who had top surgery and their experience with it. I would watch late at night when no one was awake and be captivated for hours. And then I would look up pictures of what people looked like after top surgery. And at that time it was much harder to find resources or images for. So I would look for hours. And then I would feel so upset afterwards and not know why. And I would pretend I didn't watch/see any of it because I felt so hurt and confused by my fascination with a topic that was supposed to be taboo.

Sometimes I would be spending time with adults and someone would share news that someone we knew had breast cancer or endometriosis. And I would feel JEALOUS. I would feel a deep jealousy. I would consider them lucky, while other people would mourn and cry over the need for necessary surgery such as mastectomies or hysterectomies. I would wish that were me. And then I would feel like a horrible awful shit person for thinking that. Because what the fuck right?

Do you want to know what it took to make me realize I was trans?

I had just disconnected from my parents and an abusive ex. It was the first time in my life I ever felt safe. The first time I was ever in a position to not be judged in 27 years of living.

And my trans friend was talking to their drunk coworker about them being nonbinary. And the drunk guy turned to me unceremoniously and said 'are you nonbinary too? Is that you as well?'

And I was literally stunned because no one had literally EVERY IN MY LIFE asked me about my gender before. And I gave the most awkward delayed stuttering reply of 'n-no. I'm a female.' It was not fucking convincing AT ALL to anyone present. Except for maybe the drunk guy who forgot he even asked the question by the time I replied. And I literally couldn't stop thinking about it. I thought about that until I literally realized I was trans.

That's it. That's all it took. Was me being in a nonjudgmental environment and for one single person to ask me my gender.

Having any freedom to explore my gender as a kid in a safe way with any amount of support from my family would have been fucking LIFE CHANGING. All the nonsurgical care approaches mentioned above would have been LIFE CHANGING for me as a child.

I still would have fumbled around for a bit trying to figure out what exactly was the right label. (Which I did as an adult anyways while feeling incredibly self conscious lol) But I would have come to the exact same conclusion years sooner with just any amount of support. And honestly it would have been less likely I made any permanent changes I regretted.

Being a full adult who had already gone through a puberty that didn't work for me made everything so much harder. All my decisions felt more pressured and more hectic because I was so desperate to lessen my dysphoria. My body was so mentally distressing to me that even while being very careful to make my decisions with the help of my therapist and my doctor it was still hard to tell what I was doing because it was what I wanted and what I was doing to just try anything to try to fix the dysphoria. (It worked out I'm good and happy with everything I decided to do.)

If I was transitioning as a kid I could have just paused puberty with blockers and then taken the time I needed to figure things out in a social setting without as much stress and crushing dysphoria from my physical body and being worried I needed to do everything right away or it was too late.

Gender affirming care is life changing care for trans people, especially kids. At all levels. The social support, the puberty blockers, the hormones, and even the surgeries. It saves lives. It keeps kids alive. We can skip whole arcs of trauma for these kids by just listening to them and respecting them and letting them figure it out. Please please please protect trans kids and their healthcare.

is it okay for a minor to go through and consent to life changing surgeries?

especially when they cannot drive, vote, get a tattoo, you think a minor has the ability to think through such a decision?

[leeyoomisdoll]

Lend me a hand.

Kang No-eul x fem!reader

ִ ˚｡‧ ୨୧ ‧ ˚ ♡

synopsis: you make a post on rednote asking people to send hand pics and one in particular stands out <33

a/n: this is literally inspired by a TikTok post I saw on TikTok abt asking rednote girls to post their hand pics to I wrote abt it :3

warnings: suggestive!!! ^_^

You’re lying in bed, half-draped in your sheets, scrolling through Rednote with lazy amusement. Tonight the timeline is a real trainwreck—thirst traps, midnight confessions, and way too many purse-rattling, blurry mirror selfies. Nothing new. Nothing interesting. Just the usual blend of chaos and thirst, a digital void where people throw out their most reckless thoughts and hope someone bites.

Your thumb rests on the record key and without much deliberation, you push it down.

"Alright, I’m just gonna say it—hands are hot. Like, good hands? Nice veins, rings, long fingers? Yeah. If you have them, drop the proof below. Do the right thing."

You smirk at the camera before stopping the recording. The caption practically writes itself:

“Hand lovers, rise up. Don’t disappoint me.”

With a swipe of the finger, you share and drop your phone on the bed. It’s not that deep. Just a few minutes of distraction, maybe a good chuckle, maybe, someone quite rare actually flourishes.

But you don’t expect anything serious.

Certainly not what happens next.

The next time you glance at your inbox five minutes later your stomach somersaults just watching an email.

One reply stands out among the sea of comments.

@noxx: I got you.

Your heart stutters. Your skin prickles.

Attached is a photo.

You hesitate, pulse hammering as you tap on it.

As soon as it loads, all the breath is gone from your trachea.

No-eul’s hand.

Lying casually on a dark background, effortless—as if she just snapped the picture without thinking. However, it is the fine details that make your thighs to be squashed.

The faint veins tracing over her knuckles. The long fingers, elegant and deceptively relaxed. The harsh opposite of her black-lacquered nails ontop of her flesh, broken just enough to ruin you. The rings—silver, a little worn, snug on her fingers, the kind that would feel heavy if they ghosted over your skin.

Your mouth goes dry.

Oh.

You shift on your bed, pressing your thighs together, trying not to let a damn picture of her hand affect you like this—but it’s already too late.

Another notification pops up, making your stomach lurch.

A DM.

Noxx: Did I pass?

You inhale sharply, fingers hesitating over the keyboard.

Your body is already betraying you—too warm, too aware, too restless.

You: Are you trying to kill me?

The typing bubble appears.

Noxx: Depends. Is it working?

Heat licks at your skin.

You bite your lip, acutely aware of how you lie there, forgotten, dreaming about her hands in a way that, frankly, they really shouldn't both excite bore you.

You: You should be arrested for this.

Noxx: For what? Sending a picture?

Your breathing is now shallow, your body is stiff enough that the task is too trivial. But it’s not simple at all, is it?

Because she knows.

She knows.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you type.

You: For knowing exactly what you’re doing.

A pause.

Noxx: Oh? And what exactly am I doing?

Your stomach tightens.

Your thighs press together harder, frustration mounting because she’s baiting you, and it’s working. She wants you to say it, to admit it.

And God, you want to.

You hesitate.

You: You’re making it hard to think straight.

A longer pause this time.

Noxx: Interesting choice of words.

You swallow hard.

You should walk away from this. You should avoid her and pretend that one and only photograph did just pull everything apart.

But—

Another message.

Noxx: Should I send another? Maybe a video this time?

Your breath catches.

Your body reacts before your brain does, heat curling low in your stomach at just the thought of seeing those hands move.

For a second, you stall (long enough to think about turning away from the cliff's drop), but your fingers are already flying across the keyboard.

You: Show me.

The very second you click the "send", you swear you lose the ability to breathe.

The typing bubble appears. Then disappears.

Your pulse is a thunderous rhythm in your ears.

Then, finally—

A new message pops up.

Noxx: Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Attachment: Video

You hesitate, fingers trembling as you press play.

The screen opens to her hand—slow, deliberate movements as her fingers flex and curl, stretching in a way that feels way too intentional. The lighting is moody, casting sharp shadows that emphasize every detail—the veins, the tendons shifting beneath her skin, the glint of silver rings catching the light.

A your breath comes to a standstill, she pulls her thumb across her palm in a slow, teasing caress, a motion that is threatening.

Then, the audio kicks in.

A soft, amused hum. Low, rich, dangerous.

"That flustered already?"

Your stomach drops.

Your entire body burns.

Sudden feeling of warm current races through your body and hips close to each other while tremor runs up your back.

Oh. Oh.

You were not prepared for this.

Your fingers shake and you struggle to type a response.

You: You’re actually evil.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Noxx: And yet, you’re still watching.

You suck in a sharp breath, pulse hammering.

Because she’s right.

And you have a very big problem.

<33

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Steven Beschloss at America, America:

Anyone who’s spent time with an abusive narcissist understands the dilemma: If you just go along to get along, you’ll never escape their grip. And if you confront them, they will do anything they can to make your life a living hell—until you get away or they leave forever.

America is trapped right now in this ugly nexus, thanks to millions of Americans who identified with Donald Trump’s anger and hatreds or didn’t comprehend the dangerous choice they were making. But we have a chance to overcome this dark chapter with a clear, fearless opposition. That will require elected officials refusing to work with him and abandoning the idea that collaboration is the only way they can mitigate the damage he will cause or accomplish something themselves. The more they give him, the more he will take. The more they communicate that they accept his dominance and respect his power, the more he will exploit their vulnerability, particularly because he sadistically relishes harming and demeaning others. We saw that dynamic play out yesterday when the president of Colombia initially rejected two military planes carrying deported migrants, demanding that the U.S. create a protocol that treats these people with dignity before they would be repatriated. It was a moment when a significant trading partner and ally reminded all of us what we are fighting for.

“A migrant is not a criminal and must be treated with the dignity that a human being deserves,” Colombia’s President Gustavo Petro said. “That is why I returned the U.S. military planes that were carrying Colombian migrants.” Petro went on to say that his country would receive these citizens only if they are transported “in civilian planes, without being treated like criminals.” The bellicose, over-the-top response from Trump? He would immediately put a 25 percent tariff on Colombia and issue a travel ban revoking the visas of Colombian government officials as well as their allies. “These measures are just the beginning,” Trump threatened in a Truth Social post.

Could Trump have picked up a telephone and had a simple conversation? Of course, he could have and should have. It’s not like there wasn’t an easy solution. Colombia received 475 flights with migrants deported from the U.S. between 2020 and 2024, according to the Associated Press, including 124 in 2024. But the abusive Trump preferred to bully this strategically important ally, which buys billions of dollars in U.S. exports, including corn which is important to U.S. farming states. Reluctant to escalate the unnecessary dispute, Petro’s government subsequently announced that the country would make available their own presidential planes to pick up the migrants and provide them “dignified conditions.” Classic Trump case: Escalate a minor dispute that could have been resolved calmly and simply. Exploit the “crisis” he created to pound his chest and pretend that it demonstrates how powerful he is. “I have directed my Administration to take…urgent and decisive retaliatory measures,” Trump posted.

This extreme reaction concerned less than 200 migrants, but late last night Petro reversed course to avoid a trade war by allowing even military aircraft. And the false Trump response, delivered by White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt: “Today’s events make clear to the world that America is respected again.” Donald Trump doesn’t care about or respect laws. He doesn’t care about or believe in American democratic values and principles like equality, diversity and justice. He rejects free speech and despises the peaceful assembly of those who disagree with him. He is bored by the details of policy and governance, belittles the value of expertise, only wants attention and spectacle, and is determined to surround himself with sycophants who will bow down to him. He doesn’t care about or comprehend the pain he causes other human beings. He is more than ready to use political violence to get what he wants.

He will never make an effort to unify the nation. He will never rely on inspiration, only stoke fear, seek to intimidate and threaten violence. He will never work to gain the trust of the majority. Is this an American president? Are we obliged—are elected Democrats obliged—to treat such a man with respect? This is the person who pardoned over 1,500 convicted felons who attacked the U.S. Capitol; just this weekend he invited the remorseless Oath Keepers founder Stewart Rhodes—freshly released from prison and his 18-year sentence for seditious conspiracy—to appear behind him in a Nevada rally.

Should Democrats find ways to work with Trump or oppose him at every turn? Is there any reason to believe he will do anything to make lives better rather than commit acts to glorify himself and enrich himself and his billionaire cronies by stealing from the wealth created by hard-working Americans? As I see it, going along with even some of Trump’s policies in order to minimize the damage represents collaborating with a man bent on the destruction of American democracy and aiding his effort. I understand the decision of 13 Senate Democrats (many from border states) to sign a letter to Majority Leader John Thune, offering to work with him “in good faith” to craft border security and immigration legislation. But do they really think Trump will ever work with them in good faith, especially as he’s focused on mass deportation, building a wall (again) and demonizing refugees and Democrats?

As the transgressions and degradations and the acts of corruption and criminality mount—and, yes, they already have been at an alarming pace meant to shock the unsuspecting—we should demand that Democratic leaders and anyone who is committed to overcoming this dark chapter in our history refuse to work with this regime. That will become even more important as he is surrounded by dangerously reckless cabinet secretaries and others in leadership positions motivated to carry out his agenda, satisfy his hunger for vengeance and dismantle the very government programs and agencies they have sworn to serve. Soon the deeply unfit Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth will likely be joined by the retribution-minded Kash Patel at the FBI, the Putin-supporting Tulsi Gabbard as the Director of National Intelligence and Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. “running” Health and Human Services.

[...] We have to prove that we will not be drowned, not just to be resilient in the face of hostile forces, but capable of confronting and overcoming them.

In the first week of 47’s reign of terror, he has rapidly slid the country into the toilet.

[bambii1i]

Run Your Mouth

PART 2 of hesitation

Authors note: sorry this took so long (OOPSIES) and sorry if it’s not to your liking, I kind of.. procrastinated this story and I was writing another one (or three different stories) and also WOAH? I didn’t expect that much people! Thank you for all the reblogs and likes! Super appreciated

Warnings: angst, jealousy, pettiness, complicated relationship, kissing, mentions of; cocaine, underage drinking.

Summary: resolving the ongoing issues between you and Rafe

Every single thing that Rafe says, is so unbelievable. You can’t help but get irritated at him but at the same time have a soft spot for him which is the reason for all of these problems. Summer’s up, surfs up, parties are on, late nights, sneaking outs, beach, car rides. You’re living the last year of your ‘college days’, and you’re going to end it with a bang.

After that day at the beach, few days of ignoring each other you guys were back to your normal habits your little cycle. The rest of that day was a blur, you swam around with your friends, splashing water in each other’s faces, sunbathing for a few minutes before riding the car to Tannyhill with Rafe and Kelce.

The cool breeze of the wind hits your skin carrying the scent of the trees around the house. You sat on the couch, cross-legged your phone on your hands as you scrolls down with an absent mind. “I’m telling you, we need a theme. Something that people would talk about, something epic,” Kelce continued to talk about their plans.

“Are you a fucking idiot Kelce? No one cares about the themes. They care about drinks and cocaine,” a sarcastic scoff with a followed up a chuckle leaving Rafe’s lips. You glanced up from your phone briefly, watching how he leaned over the balcony with his arms crossed over his chest. Catching yourself staring too long you brought your gaze back to your phone, pretending to be interested in whatever post was on your screen, browsing over the caption and comments.

“C’mon man, you’re no fun…” Kelce groaned dramatically before walking over to the couch and slouching as he sat down. You can’t help get a little snicker out, slightly smirking as you eavesdrop their conversation, saying nothing while you continuously scroll on your phone. You felt Rafe’s glances in your direction, making it slightly hard to focus on your phone. “Someone’s being quiet.”

You heard his voice, thinning your lips you took your gaze up, meeting with his eyes for a second before shrugging. “Just letting you guys do your thing,” you said in a casual tone, taking in mind that you were still trying to ignore him, take your mind off him.

“You’re supposed to help us,” Kelce scoffed up before rolling his eyes.

You bit your lip, taking a breath and shrugging your arms. Locking your phone, setting it aside and looking up at Rafe. “Fine, what’s the plan then?”

Loud music escaped the speakers, the bass vibrated throughout the house, the air was heavy with sweat, perfume, and the sharp scent of spilled beer. The house filled with a person on each corner, moving around at each beat of the song. You leaned on the counter, illuminated by the glow coming from the cabinet lights, watching the people dance around with a red cup on your hand waiting for your other friends to arrive; Chloe and Sofia. While you waited, you tilted your head to the side chuckling at what a guy was talking about. He leaned over closer to you, his hand brushing yours.

From across the room, Rafe watched you interacting with the random guy. His back was pressed up against a wall, his grip around the neck of the beer bottle tightening as he watched you laughing around with some other guy. It was a slap on his face as he remembered his hesitation from the day at the beach, knowing that it wasn’t right how he’s acting right now. Not that he cares.

You looked different tonight, more radiant somehow, the soft waves of your hair with the reflection of the light, your skin glowing under the vibrant colors of the party lights. Your eyes practically shining as you smiled towards the guy, your lips were glossy and red, curved into a smile. It nagged Rafe, that smile. You haven’t looked at him that way all day.

As Rafe’s friends kept chattering around, their voices blurring into the background with the beats of the music as he focused in on you. You leaned in closer to the guy, chuckling around as you laid a hand on him, playfully hitting him. Rafe thinned his lips, not being able to take it anymore.

Rafe pushed himself off the wall, tightly holding the beer bottle on his hand, walking through the crowd. he didn’t care how he bumped onto the other people dancing around, how each person looked at him with an irritated face. He swerved through people until he stood right beside you.

“Hey,” Rafe said flatly, he cut off what this guy was saying.

“Oh hey man, what’s up? We were—“ once more cut off by Rafe, grabbing your hand with his tone sharp, “and I was just going to talk to her.”

You stood there with a bit of irritation as you scoffed at Rafe, furrowing your brows in surprise as he grabbed your wrist both firmly and gently, pulling you away from the guy. He walked amongst the crowd, tightly holding onto you as you both bumped into people. Once you were both isolated in a hallway you thinned your lips staring at him, waiting for an explanation.

“Seriously?” You snapped, yanking your arm back free as you both reached the silent hallway, “what the hell was that Rafe?”

The hallway was wrapped in shadows and had the faint scent of cedarwood. Dim light flicked from a wall scone, casting patterns across the floor and the walls. Compared to the hallway, on the other side of the doorway was were the chaos was, bass of the music, shaking the walls. Laughter and conversations clashed rising about the sounds of the occasional clinking of the bottles. The colored lights flickering erratically around the room in flashes of red, blue, purple, green could be seen from under the shut door.

“You tell me,” Rafe responded, his voice was low, raising his brows back at you. “You having fun?”

A sarcastic expression left your face, you blinked at how stupid he sounded right now. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

“You’ve been ignoring me all day, not a fuckin’ word. Now you’re all laughing and being all giggly with that dude?”

Your brows raised, eyes narrowing. “Wow. Just wow,” you replied with another sarcastic scoff leaving your lips. You stared at him, a sharp stare, shaking your head. “You don’t get to do this Rafe. You don’t get to fucking choose and pick out who I can or can’t talk to just because now you’re suddenly paying attention.”

He stepped closer to you, air filled with tension. Your perfume filling up his nose as he took a breath, the combined scent of classiness and sweetness, a sophisticated rose scent, something both floral and citrusy. “It’s not abou’ that,” he replied.

“Then what is it about Rafe?” You questioned, your arms crossed around your chest. “It sure as fuck feels like jealousy to me.”

His eyes widened at your words, silent filling in the hallway, heavy and suffocating. His lips parting yet not a word leaving it, heavy cleared his throat, turning around for a second as he moved his hand towards his head. Once more looking at you, staring, lips parting and closing again and again.

“See, that’s what I thought,” words leaving your lips bitterly as you watched him try to regroup himself together. Your heels clacked as you turned around right about to leave, walking towards the end of the hallway.

“You’re not wrong,” he lets the words slip out of his mouth, his voice rough, low and raw, running his mouth.

You stood tall, your heels stopped clacking, and you paused, your breath catching in your throat as you hear his words. Slowly, you turn back to face him, your eyes searching his face. “What?”

“I hate it.” The words left his lips, almost holding back. “seeing you like that.. seeing you with someone else, fuckin’ laughing and shit.”

Your heart stared to race, feeling the confusion, the anger trying to stop you from falling right onto your knees. “Then stop running your mouth, doing all that hot and cold shit, leaving me dry, all that mixed signals,” you said softly, your voice trying not to crack at each word you say. “Figure out what you want, because I can’t keep doing this.”

His jaw clenched at your words. “See that’s not fuckin’ fair.”

“No?” You replied, turning to face him once more. Eyes sharp directed at him, glinting under the faint glow of the hallway lights. “What’s not fair is that you pulling me in when you want and pushing me away whenever it’s convenient for you Rafe.”

Rafe moved a few steps closer to you, leaving a gap for the tension between you two. “It’s not that simple, you just—“ he muttered, placing the bottle of beer he was holding onto the table beside him, his free hand moving towards his lip.

Your breath hitched, hearing his repetitive words, but you stood your ground. “It is simple, for me it is. I wanted you Rafe. I want you, but I’m done playing your stupid games.”

He raised his brows, walking a few more steps closer to you until he finally came into a stop. The tension crackled, heavy and electric. His gaze flickered down on your lips, then back to your eyes. “Say something,” you whispered.

Instead, he leaned in to your level, closing the space between you two in one swift move. The kiss was slow at first, filled with longing and affection. His lips were warm, soft, but you could taste the liquor coming from it. Your breath hitched as you melted right onto him, onto his touch, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

The world around you both blurred, the faint press of his body onto yours, the way his lips pressed up on yours. His hand slid down to the curve of your waist, getting ahold of yours dress, grounding you as the kiss deepened, hungrier, desperate for your touch, desperate for your attention. It wasn’t like the ones you’ve had with him, it was something more. Your senses flooded—his taste, how sweet yet bitter he tasted, his warmth, his musk scent filling your nose.

After another minute, he finally let go to take a breath, staring into your eyes with a look of sorrow. You swallowed hard, the taste of him still lingering on your lips. “We shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered.

“Probaly’ not,” Rafe admitted, his voice was rough, low but he didn’t move away. He stood tall, looking as if he did not regret it one bit. His fingers brush against your cheek once more before letting his arm falls on his side. “But I wanted to.”

Your chest tightened, knowing how this would only complicate your situation even more, complicating everything between you and Rafe. You forced yourself to step back, creating a distance. “We can’t keep doing this… It’s a literal loop,” you mumbled with a light chuckle leaving your lips.

Rafe’s expression flickered—disappointment, frustration, and something else you couldn’t figure out. “I know.”

The silence between you both was loud. In the distance, the faint hum of the beats and music from the party called back to you, snapping you back in reality. “I should go back inside,” you hummed quietly, the words cutting through the moment you just shared. Rafe nodded, thinning his lips, his hand moving up to his head once more out of habit, his gaze lingering on you. “Yeah, okay.”

Once you turned around, walking towards the door leading back to the party, his voice stopped you.

“Hey.”

You paused, turning your head over your shoulder, hoping his words change something between them, prove how the moment you shared meant something not only to you but also to him.

But the only words that left his lips were, “You looked beautiful today.”

Your breath was stuck on your throat, forcing a faint smile. “Thank you.”

Tag-list: @maybankslover @ltristessedureratoujours @czm0

(IDK WHY I CANT TAG THE REST HELP.)

[hjvi]

𝙉𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙜𝙞𝙖 PART 2 part one (optional)

Pairing: Bf!Chris x Fem!Reader

Summary: After the breakup, Chris reaches out to Y/N's therapist, desperate to understand what she's been sharing post-split, hoping to find a way to fix things before it’s too late.

Warnings: Smut. MDNI. Heartbreak. Angst.

Word Count: 8k

CHRIS POV

The sunlight streams through the blinds, forcing its way into the room and pulling me from a restless sleep. For a split second, I feel the warmth of it on my face and instinctively reach my arm across the bed.

“Good morning,” I mutter softly, my voice thick with sleep.

But the bed is cold. My hand grazes nothing but empty sheets, and reality hits me all over again. She’s not here. She hasn’t been here for weeks.

The hollow ache in my chest flares up again, as it does every morning, but I push it down, swallowing the lump in my throat. I throw the covers off and sit on the edge of the bed, my hands in my lap as I stare at the floor. For a moment, I just sit there, unmoving, as the weight of it all presses down on me.

I eventually force myself to stand, dragging my feet as I make my way to the bathroom. The mirror above the sink catches my eye, and I hesitate for a second before looking into it.

The reflection staring back at me doesn’t even look like me anymore. My eyes are sunken, dark circles heavy beneath them from the countless nights I’ve spent tossing and turning. My hair sticks out in every direction, unkempt and messy, like I haven’t cared enough to fix it. My skin is pale, almost lifeless. I look like a ghost of the person I used to be.

I grab my toothbrush and start brushing my teeth, the minty taste sharp on my tongue. I stare into the mirror as I do it, unable to look away from the version of myself staring back at me. The movements are automatic, robotic, like I’m just going through the motions because I have to.

Rinsing my mouth, I splash some cold water on my face, hoping it’ll wake me up or at least make me feel something. The water is icy, shocking against my skin, but it doesn’t help. I dry my face with a towel, toss it onto the counter, and take a deep breath.

I head back to my room, pulling on the first clothes I can find—a hoodie and some sweats. I don’t even care if they match. What’s the point? No one’s going to see me anyway.

The stairs creak as I make my way down to the kitchen. The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge. I grab a glass from the cupboard, fill it with water, and lean against the counter as I drink. The cool liquid soothes my dry throat, but it doesn’t do anything for the heaviness in my chest.

The sound of footsteps pulls me out of my thoughts. I glance up to see Nick and Matt walking into the kitchen. Great.

They exchange a quick look before Nick speaks up. “Chris, you can’t keep going on like this.”

I don’t respond, staring down at the glass in my hands.

“You need to figure something out. This can’t keep going forever,” Nick continues, his voice firmer this time.

“If you love her, why did it end?”

That question cuts through me like a knife, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. My grip tightens on the glass, and I feel the lump in my throat growing, making it harder to hold everything in.

The pause that follows is deafening.

“Chris, I’ve never seen you like this,” Nick says, his voice softer now, like he’s trying to reach me. “Please talk to us. We’re only here to help you.”

I shake my head, barely processing his words. It’s too much. Talking about it means reliving it, and I don’t think I can do that.

Matt steps forward, his tone more encouraging. “Well, you need to talk to someone—anyone. Maybe a therapist.”

The word therapist hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve only been to therapy once, back when our parents practically dragged me there after I was first diagnosed with ADHD. I hated it. Sitting in that office, spilling my guts to a stranger who pretended to care—it felt fake, forced. Like I was just paying someone to nod and tell me I’d be okay.

I glance at Matt, shaking my head again, but his words stick with me.

Therapy.

I set the glass down on the counter, my mind drifting to her—Y/N. She used to go to therapy all the time for her anxiety. I remember the night she opened up to me about it. We were sitting on her bed, the room dimly lit by the string lights she had hanging along the walls. Her voice was shaky, and she kept fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie as she told me about the things she struggled with—the intrusive thoughts, the overwhelming panic that came out of nowhere.

I remember holding her, my arms wrapped tightly around her as I whispered that I’d always be there for her. That I’d help her through it.

And she believed me.

She started going to therapy less and less after that. She told me that being with me made her feel safe, like she didn’t need it anymore. Like I was enough.

But now…now I’ve become the source of her pain.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the memory, but it’s no use. Her face is burned into my mind, the sound of her laughter echoing in my ears like a ghost.

An idea suddenly hits me, sparking something in the back of my mind.

She must’ve gone back to therapy after that night. After the things I said, after I ruined everything, there’s no way she didn’t go back.

A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips—something I haven’t felt in weeks. If I can figure out who her therapist is, maybe I can get some answers. Maybe I can convince them to give me something—anything—to help me figure out what’s going on inside her head.

I know it’s a long shot. I know it’s probably not even allowed. But at this point, I don’t care.

This might be my only chance to fix things. To make things right. To get her back.

And I’m willing to do whatever it takes.

I slam the car door shut and storm into the house, my mind racing a hundred miles an hour. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I don’t even know if it’s from the frustration, the anxiety, or the sheer desperation clawing at my insides. My hands are shaking—I don’t know if it’s from the cold air outside or from the weight of what I just found out.

I need to find something. Anything.

I rush up the stairs, skipping two at a time, barely able to breathe as I push my bedroom door open. The room is dark, only the dim glow of my lamp spilling light over the mess I’ve been living in. Clothes are piled up in the corner, my bed is still unmade from this morning, and the air is heavy—like it hasn’t been touched by fresh air in days.

I don’t even hesitate before I start tearing through everything. I yank open my drawers, throwing out crumpled-up receipts, random guitar picks, and old Polaroids I don’t have the heart to look at right now. My hands move frantically, shoving aside hoodies and sneakers as I dig through the mess, my breathing uneven.

Then, I stop.

A hoodie—her hoodie.

Ralph Lauren, navy blue, the one I used to steal from her even though it was already oversized on her tiny frame. My fingers graze over the soft fabric, and I swear I can still smell her on it. Vanilla, mixed with the faintest hint of lavender shampoo.

My throat tightens.

I set it aside gently, like it’s something fragile, before continuing my search. I check under my bed, my closet, the nightstand. My hands skim over the remnants of us—the lip gloss she left behind, the hair ties, the tiny silver ring she used to wear on her thumb before she started playing with it too much and lost it between my sheets.

She never asked for them back.

A sharp pain twists in my stomach, and I have to sit down on the edge of my bed. My hands press against my knees as I stare at the floor, my thoughts spiraling.

She never asked for any of it back because she doesn’t want to see me.

She doesn’t even want to be reminded of me.

I imagine her in her room, sitting on her bed, maybe curled up with her knees to her chest like she always did when she was anxious. I can see her phone on her nightstand, face down, waiting for a notification that never came. Waiting for an apology that never left my lips.

I clench my jaw, squeezing my eyes shut. Why didn’t I call?

I should’ve said something. Anything. Even if it was just to tell her I was sorry.

My fingers dig into the fabric of my sweatpants as I try to breathe through the guilt.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see it.

A small orange bottle, half-hidden underneath a pile of clothes.

I reach for it, my hands trembling as I pick it up. The label is worn, slightly smudged, but the name is still visible—Y/N L/N. My eyes scan the rest of the text, and my stomach drops when I see the words printed in bold letters:

Prescribed by Dr. Callahan.

My heart pounds in my chest.

I turn the bottle in my hands, my thumb tracing over the edges of the label. She hasn’t been here in weeks. If this is still in my room, that means she hasn’t been taking her medication.

Has she been okay without it?

The thought makes my chest tighten uncomfortably.

I exhale sharply, standing up so fast the room spins for a second. I grab my phone from my nightstand, my fingers typing the number on the bottle into my phone.

I hit call.

It rings.

My leg bounces as I wait, my free hand gripping the bottle like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality.

Voicemail.

I grit my teeth, but then I notice something—Dr. Callahan’s website.

I pull it up, my eyes scanning the screen so fast that the words blur together. The address is listed at the bottom. My heart stutters in my chest as I read it over and over.

I don’t think. I just move.

I grab my keys and rush out the door.

The waiting room is too bright, too clean, too quiet. The sound of the receptionist typing on her keyboard is the only noise filling the space, and it’s driving me insane.

I shift uncomfortably in the chair, my foot tapping against the floor. My hands are clenched into fists in my lap, and I’m pretty sure my knuckles are turning white.

The door to the office finally opens, and Dr. Callahan steps out. She’s a woman in her late forties, dressed in a blazer, with a calm but unreadable expression. She looks at me, then at the receptionist, and back at me.

“Christopher?” she says, her voice even.

I stand up so fast the chair scrapes against the floor. “Yeah.”

She glances at the receptionist before nodding for me to follow her. I do, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The office is small but warm, the walls lined with bookshelves and framed diplomas. There’s a couch, a chair, a desk—everything you’d expect in a therapist’s office.

She sits behind her desk and gestures for me to sit. I do, leaning forward, elbows on my knees.

“I don’t usually take walk-ins,” she says, folding her hands together.

“I know,” I blurt out. “I just—I needed to talk to you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “About?”

“Y/N.”

Her face doesn’t change, but I swear I see a flicker of something behind her eyes.

“I can’t discuss—”

“I know. I know, you can’t tell me anything confidential,” I interrupt, my voice shaking. “But I just—I need to know. Is she okay?”

She exhales, tilting her head slightly. “Chris, I understand that you’re worried, but I can’t disclose any details about my patients.”

I swallow hard, gripping my knees. “Please. I don’t—I don’t know what to do.” My voice breaks slightly, and I hate myself for it.

Dr. Callahan studies me for a long moment before sighing, leaning back in her chair.

“What I can tell you,” she says carefully, “is that you should return her medication.”

I stare at her, my stomach twisting. “So… she’s okay to see me?”

Dr. Callahan’s expression doesn’t change. “No. Do not go yourself. Maybe leave it at her door.”

I clench my jaw. “Why?”

She exhales again, standing up and grabbing her coat. “Because she’s not ready to see you right now. You really hurt her, Chris. That’s all I’m going to say.”

The words hit me harder than I expect them to. My throat feels tight, my chest aching like someone’s squeezing it.

I nod slowly, standing up.

“Thank you,” I mutter.

She doesn’t respond, just watches me as I turn and leave the office.

When I get home, I’m exhausted.

I drop my keys on the counter and run a hand down my face, exhaling slowly. The conversation replays in my head, over and over, until I can’t take it anymore.

I grab my phone.

I dial her number.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

Voicemail.

I call again.

And again.

And again.

Thirty times.

Nothing.

I grip the phone tightly before finally pressing the voicemail button.

“Hey… it’s me,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I—uh, I have your medication. I just wanted to—” I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I just wanted to see you. Just for a second. Please call me back.”

I hang up, staring at the screen.

The silence is unbearable.

I can’t stop thinking about her, about what Dr. Callahan said.

I’ve hurt her. Badly.

The thought of her sitting alone, trying to get through each day without her medication, without me, makes my stomach churn. She’s struggling, and it’s because of me.

I hear voices upstairs.

Nick’s laugh echoes faintly down the hallway, followed by the sound of Matt’s voice, a little louder, more animated. I know exactly where they are—Matt’s room. They’re probably streaming or recording, trying to keep the channel alive while I’ve been... well, absent.

I climb the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. When I reach the top, I pause for a second outside Matt’s door. I can hear them laughing, joking with each other like they always do, but there’s something in their tone that feels... forced.

I push the door open without knocking.

The room is lit by a neon blue light strip that lines the walls, casting an eerie glow over everything. Matt is sitting in his gaming chair, his headset on, while Nick is sprawled out on the bed, scrolling through his phone.

They both look up the second I step inside.

“Chris?” Matt says, pulling off his headset. His eyes widen when he gets a good look at me.

I probably look like shit. My hair’s a mess from running my hands through it so many times, my hoodie is wrinkled, and my eyes feel swollen from the lack of sleep.

Nick sits up straighter, his brow furrowing. “Dude, you good?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, stepping further into the room. I can hear the faint chatter of the Twitch stream coming from Matt’s computer. A quick glance at the screen shows the chat scrolling rapidly, the viewers probably wondering what’s going on.

Matt looks from me to Nick and back again before turning to his setup. “Uh, guys, hang on a second,” he says into the mic. “We’ve got a little... interruption here.”

“Don’t stop,” I say quickly, my voice hoarse. “I don’t care if the camera sees me.”

Nick and Matt exchange a look, their worry written all over their faces.

“You sure?” Matt asks carefully.

I nod, collapsing into the chair next to him. My legs feel like jelly, and the moment I sit down, it’s like all the exhaustion hits me at once.

Matt adjusts the camera angle slightly, so I’m in the frame now. The chat immediately explodes with messages.

“Yo, it’s Chris!” “Where have you been???” “Are you okay???” “Chris, we miss you!”

Matt clears his throat awkwardly. “So, uh, I know you’re all wondering what happened to Chris and why we haven’t been uploading with him...”

Nick’s elbow jabs into Matt’s side so fast it makes me flinch. “Shut up, dude,” Nick hisses, his voice low enough that the mic probably didn’t pick it up.

I glance at the screen, trying to focus on the chat, but the words start to blur together. My chest tightens, and I feel the familiar sting of tears welling up in my eyes.

I swallow hard, leaning closer to the mic. “Hey, guys,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

The chat goes wild again.

“Chris!!!” “Where have you been???” “Are you crying???”

I force a shaky smile, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here lately,” I say. My voice cracks, and I quickly clear my throat. “I miss you guys more than ever, and I hope to see you all normally again very soon. I just haven’t been feeling my best.”

The words come out heavier than I expect. They’re for the fans, sure, but deep down, I know who I’m really talking to.

Her.

I glance at the screen again, trying to focus, but the tears keep blurring my vision. My hands grip the edge of the desk, my knuckles turning white.

“Guys, if you can hear me,” I say, forcing a small laugh to mask the emotion in my voice, “let me know.”

Matt glances at me, his concern obvious, but he doesn’t say anything.

Nick shifts uncomfortably on the bed, his eyes darting between me and the screen.

I lean back in the chair, running a hand through my hair. My heart is pounding in my chest, and my mind is racing. What if she’s watching? What if she sees this?

The thought is almost too much to handle.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my hoodie pocket.

I freeze.

For a second, I think I’m imagining it. But then it buzzes again.

I pull it out slowly, my hands trembling as I unlock the screen.

My breath catches in my throat.

It’s her.

Come over.

Nothing else.

My heart skips a beat, and for a moment, I can’t move. My eyes stay glued to the screen, rereading the message over and over again.

Nick and Matt are both staring at me now, their faces a mix of confusion and concern.

“I... I gotta go,” I say abruptly, standing up so fast the chair nearly tips over.

“Chris, wait—” Matt starts, but I’m already out the door.

I fly down the stairs two steps at a time, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of my chest. The phone is still clutched in my hand, the words "Come over" seared into my brain like a lifeline.

I don’t stop moving. My thoughts are a chaotic mess, but one thing is crystal clear—I need to see her. I need to see her now.

In the corner of the living room, there’s a small duffel bag stuffed with her things—things I couldn’t bring myself to give back. A hoodie she left the last time she slept over. A scrunchie she pulled from her wrist and tossed on my nightstand. A few bracelets, tangled together in a messy knot. I grab the bag and toss it over my shoulder,my hands shaking so much I almost couldn’t manage the zipper.

Her scent lingers faintly on the hoodie, and it hits me like a gut punch. My chest tightens as I pause for a second, staring down at the bag. What if this is the last time? What if she’s only calling me over to finally cut all ties?

I shake the thought away and slip on my sneakers, not even bothering to tie them properly. The laces drag across the floor as I grab my keys and practically sprint out the door.

The night air is cold and biting as I get into my car, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. The drive to her house is a blur. The streets, the headlights, the soft hum of the engine—all of it fades into the background.

The only thing I can focus on is her.

Her voice, soft but firm, echoing in my head: "Come over."

I don’t know what to expect when I get there. Is she angry? Sad? Does she want closure, or does she want to talk? The possibilities swirl around in my head, each one more nerve-wracking than the last.

My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white, and I couldn’t stop glancing at my phone on the passenger seat, just to make sure I hadn’t imagined the text. The world outside blurred together—the glow of streetlights, the faint hum of other cars, the dark silhouettes of houses passing by. It was all background noise to the storm of emotions inside me.

As I turn onto her street, my palms grow clammy, and I swipe them against my hoodie. Her house comes into view, and my stomach twists into knots. The porch light is on, casting a soft glow over the front steps, but the windows are dark.

I sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel and staring at her front door. My breath came in shallow gasps, and I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears. My phone buzzed faintly in the passenger seat, but I didn’t look at it. The only thing I could focus on was the faint light spilling from her living room window.

What do I say? What if she slams the door in my face? What if she doesn’t even open it?

She’s inside. The thought sent a jolt through me, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. I glanced at the bag sitting in the passenger seat, its weight feeling impossibly heavy. Her things. Pieces of her that I’d clung to for far too long, desperate to hold onto anything that reminded me of her.

I grabbed the bag and stepped out of the car, the cool night air biting at my skin. My breath formed small clouds in the crisp winter air as I made my way to her front door, each step feeling heavier than the last. The strap of the bag dug into my shoulder, but I barely noticed it. My entire focus was on the door in front of me—the barrier between us that I was so desperate to cross.

I stopped in front of the door, my hand hovering over the doorbell. My fingers trembled as I hesitated, the fear of what might happen next threatening to overwhelm me. What if she slams the door in my face? What if she doesn’t even open it? What if this is the last time I’ll ever be this close to her?

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to press the button. The faint chime of the doorbell echoed through the quiet night, and I stepped back, my heart racing as I waited. The seconds stretched on, each one feeling like an eternity.

The walk to her front door feels like it takes hours. Every step is heavier than the last, my heart pounding harder with each one. I can feel the chill of the night air seeping through my hoodie, but my palms are still sweaty, my fingers gripping the strap of the bag like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

When I reach the door, I pause, staring at it like it’s some kind of unbreakable barrier. My hand hovers over the doorbell, my breath shaky.

This is it.

I press the doorbell, the sound echoing faintly inside.

For a few agonizing seconds, nothing happens. The silence is deafening, and I feel my heart sink. Maybe she’s changed her mind. Maybe she’s upstairs, ignoring me, deciding I’m not worth the trouble.

But then, I hear it—the soft sound of footsteps approaching the door.

The knot in my stomach tightens as the lock clicks, and the door creaks open just a sliver.

And there she is.

She looks... different. Tired, maybe. Her eyes are slightly puffy, like she’s been crying, and her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that swallows her frame, and her bare feet peek out from beneath the hem of her sweatpants.

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.

God, I missed her.

“Hey,” I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t say anything. Her gaze flickers to the bag slung over my shoulder, and her lips press into a thin line.

“I, uh...” I clear my throat, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “I brought your stuff. I figured you might want it back.”

Her eyes soften just a little, but her expression is guarded.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice so quiet I almost don’t hear it.

I set the bag down gently on the porch, my hands lingering on the strap for a second before I straighten up.

The knot in my stomach tightens as the lock clicks, and the door creaks open just a sliver.

And there she is.

She looks... different. Tired, maybe. Her eyes are slightly puffy, like she’s been crying, and her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. Loose strands frame her face, wild and untamed, as if she’s been running her fingers through them all night. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that swallows her frame, the sleeves falling past her wrists, and her bare feet peek out from beneath the hem of her sweatpants, toes curling slightly against the hardwood floor.

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.

God, I missed her.

My throat goes dry. It’s like my brain short-circuits at the sight of her, my body forgetting how to function for a beat too long.

“Hey,” I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t say anything. Her gaze flickers to the bag slung over my shoulder, and her lips press into a thin line. There’s hesitation there, a wall built between us, but I see the cracks in it—the way her fingers tighten on the edge of the doorframe, the way her chest rises and falls just a little too fast.

“I, uh...” I clear my throat, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure of myself. “I brought your stuff. I figured you might want it back.”

Her eyes soften just a little, but her expression is guarded, like she doesn’t know whether to let me in or push me away.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice so quiet I almost don’t hear it.

I set the bag down gently on the porch, my hands lingering on the strap for a second longer than necessary before I straighten up. There’s so much I want to say, so much I need to explain, but the words knot in my throat, tangled with all the emotions I haven’t been able to process. I swallow roughly and turn to leave, but then—

A tap on my shoulder. Gentle, hesitant.

“Chris,” she says, barely above a whisper. “You can come in... if you want.”

Her voice wavers slightly, but the invitation is there. A lifeline I never expected.

I nod, stepping inside carefully, like the floor beneath me might give out at any second. The second I cross the threshold, nostalgia slams into me so hard it almost knocks the breath from my lungs. The familiar scent of her home—vanilla candles mixed with the faintest trace of her perfume—wraps around me like a ghost, pulling me under. My chest tightens as my eyes flicker around the space, absorbing every detail.

She leads me to her room, her fingers gripping the bag tightly as if it’s the only thing keeping her steady. When we step inside, I notice everything at once—the unmade bed, the pile of clothes on the chair, the half-empty water bottles on the nightstand. It looks... wrecked. Torn apart. A reflection of how she’s been feeling, how she’s been surviving without me.

My stomach twists at the realization.

I sit beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. She places the bag in front of her, hands trembling slightly as she unzips it. She doesn’t say anything at first, just starts pulling out her things one by one, setting them on the bed between us. Her face is unreadable, emotionless, but I see the way her fingers hesitate over certain items, how her breath catches when she picks up something tied to a memory.

Then she freezes.

A small, plastic box sits in her palm. Plan B. Her fingers tremble as she lifts it, her other hand brushing over the familiar silver foil of a condom wrapper.

Her expression shifts. Confusion. Realization. A flicker of something deeper, something more painful.

I feel my throat close up.

Shit. I hadn’t meant to put those in there. I wasn’t thinking—I had just shoved everything into the bag, desperate to get out of my house, desperate to see her. But now, sitting here, watching the way she looks at me, I realize what I’ve done. What this means.

The weight of it crashes down on both of us at the same time.

Me returning these things wasn’t just about giving her stuff back. It was a silent message. A quiet, unspoken truth that neither of us wanted to face.

This was me saying we’d never be that close again. That I’d never hold her against me like she was my entire world. That I’d never press my lips to her skin, whispering promises into the crook of her neck. That I’d never watch her breath hitch, her stomach hollowing out as she lost herself in me.

The morning she was hungover and wanted me to make love to her—it was the moment I broke. The moment I left. And now, this moment? It was the silent echo of that pain.

She inhales sharply, her eyes darting to mine.

“Chris...” she starts, voice unsure, awkward. “I—I’m sorry for... you know... that night. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Her voice is small, fragile, and it shatters something inside me.

I shake my head, cutting her off before she can keep talking. Before she can say something that might break me even more.

“No,” I say, my voice thick, heavy with emotion. “Don’t. Don’t apologize for that. That’s not... that’s not what this is about.”

She blinks at me, confused, but I don’t stop. The words pour out of me, messy and desperate and raw.

“I’m so sorry,” I breathe, my chest tightening. “For everything. For the way I handled things. For walking away when all I wanted to do was stay. I love you so much, and I don’t know why I did that. I was just—I was upset. I thought you didn’t want me the way I wanted you. That you thought I was too much, too clingy, because I know I can’t stop. I don’t know how to stop when it comes to you.”

Her lips part, her breath shaky, but I don’t let her interrupt. I can’t. If I stop now, I’ll never say it.

“It took everything out of me to not make love to you that morning,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Everything. Because it wasn’t just about that—it was about us. About how much I love you, about how much I need you. And now, I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know where we stand, I just—I can’t do this, I can’t live with the thought of never being able to touch you again—”

My voice catches, and I choke back a sob, my hands gripping the edge of the bed so tightly my knuckles turn white. The emotions are too much, overwhelming, consuming.

But before I can finish—

She moves.

Her hands cup my face, fingers threading into my hair, and then—

Her lips crash into mine.

It’s not soft or hesitant. It’s desperate, full of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every moment of longing that has torn through us like an open wound. She kisses me like she needs me to breathe, like I’m the only thing keeping her alive, and God, do I feel the same way.

Her lips are warm, soft yet demanding, moving against mine in a rhythm we lost but are now rediscovering. I groan into her mouth, my hands finding her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. There’s no air, no space, nothing between us except months of aching desire and the overwhelming need to feel her against me again.

Her tongue flicks against mine, and the taste of her—sweet and intoxicating, like vanilla and something uniquely hers—makes my head spin. My hands roam over the familiar curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, relearning her body like a map I had once memorized but was forced to forget.

I need her. Now.

Without breaking the kiss, I grip the back of her thighs and lift her effortlessly, pressing her against the wall. She gasps into my mouth, her fingers tugging at my hair as her legs wrap around my waist. My body presses against hers, every inch of me molding into her as if we were never meant to be apart.

I barely register the feeling of air brushing between us as I pull back just long enough to look at her. Her eyes—those big, beautiful doe eyes—stare into mine, wide and filled with so much emotion it nearly knocks the breath out of me.

I devour her.

My lips trail from her mouth to her jaw, down to the sensitive spot on her neck I know makes her shudder. I hear her breath hitch, feel her heartbeat hammering against my chest, and I smirk against her skin, pressing another lingering kiss right there, just to hear that soft whimper again.

I can't get enough of her.

With one swift motion, I pull us away from the wall and toss her onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. She looks up at me with wide, hazy eyes, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

God, she’s beautiful.

I strip my shirt off in one quick motion, and her gaze follows the movement, her lips parting slightly as she watches. Her fingers reach out, featherlight, and trail down my chest, hesitating over the bruises from the fights I’ve been in, before tracing straight down to my v-line. The soft touch sends a shiver down my spine, my stomach tensing under her fingertips.

I cage her beneath me, hands on either side of her head, our faces so close I can feel her breath on my lips.

“I missed you,” I murmur against her lips, punctuating my words with soft kisses along her jaw, down her neck, across her collarbone. My voice raw, filled with every ounce of longing I’ve held inside. “I love you so much. You have no idea.”

She shudders at my touch, her fingers threading deeper into my hair as she whispers, “Me too.”

Her hands slide up my arms, over my shoulders, threading into my hair as she pulls me down, our lips brushing once more. “I do,” she whispers against my mouth. “Because I missed you just as much.”

Her eyes flicker up to mine, full of longing, and I can’t hold back anymore. I cage her beneath me, my arms bracing on either side of her head as I hover just above her lips.

“I love you,” I whisper, brushing my nose against hers. “I love you so much.”

Her breath hitches, her fingers sliding up my arms, tracing the curves of my biceps. “I love you too.”

I trail kisses down her throat, moving lower, pressing my lips to the soft fabric of her sweatshirt. My hands slip under it, fingers grazing the bare skin of her waist, feeling the way she trembles beneath me. I slowly lift the material, kissing each new inch of exposed skin as I go—her sternum, her ribs, the delicate dip of her stomach. I can see her breathing unevenly, her stomach hollowing in and out as I press a lingering kiss right above her navel.

Her sweatpants are loose around her hips, and I hook my fingers into the waistband, pausing just long enough to look up at her. “Is this okay?”

She nods, but it’s the way she looks at me—her eyes locked onto mine, so vulnerable yet so trusting—that makes my heart nearly stop.

I tug them down slowly, letting my fingers brush against her thighs, and as I do, I catch sight of a small birthmark on her inner thigh. My lips curve into a soft smile, and I lean down, pressing the gentlest kiss right against it. Her breath catches, her fingers clenching into the sheets.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, my voice low, reverent. “So, so beautiful.”

Her lips part slightly, her chest rising and falling with deep, shaky breaths. I play with the delicate bow on the waistband of her panties, twirling it between my fingers, the gesture light and teasing. A memory flashes in my mind—her doing the same with the drawstrings of my hoodie the night everything fell apart. My throat tightens.

She watches me closely, her gaze never wavering, her eyes holding an intensity that makes my whole body burn.

I let my thoughts spill out, my voice raw, unfiltered. “I’m gonna give you exactly what you wanted that night.”

I let my thoughts spill out, my voice raw, unfiltered. “I’m gonna give you exactly what you wanted that night.”

Her breath stutters, her fingers reaching up to thread through my hair as I tease my lips over the sensitive skin of her waist. I let my hands explore her gently, my fingertips tracing over the curves of her hips, lingering at the edge of her panties as I drag my mouth across her skin. She whimpers softly, her legs shifting beneath me, and I smirk against her stomach.

“Patience,” I murmur, pressing another soft kiss to her ribs. “I missed you, let me take my time.”

She lets out a soft, frustrated sigh, her fingers tugging slightly at my hair, but I don’t give in just yet. I kiss lower, my lips teasing along the waistband, my breath warm against her skin. Her breathing grows more erratic, her hands clenching at the sheets as she bites down on her lip.

Then I see it—a dark patch on the fabric of her panties. My smirk deepens as I drag my fingers over the damp spot, watching the way her thighs tense at the teasing touch. My lips ghost over her hipbone, pressing soft, lingering kisses before moving inward, tracing along the delicate lace trim.

I press a kiss right against the soaked fabric, feeling her entire body tremble beneath me. Her back arches slightly, a small whimper slipping past her lips. I hum against her, the vibrations making her shudder even more. My fingers toy with the waistband, pulling at it ever so slightly before letting it snap back teasingly.

“You’re so sensitive,” I murmur, my lips trailing back up to her ribs. “So needy.”

She lets out a strangled whine, her fingers gripping my hair tighter. I chuckle softly, running my nose along the crease of her thigh, pressing another open-mouthed kiss to the birthmark I adored. I flick my tongue out, just barely grazing the skin before pulling away again.

She gasps, her head tilting back, frustration written all over her face as her chest rises and falls with every heavy breath.

I lift my head, locking eyes with her, watching the way her pupils are blown wide with need. “Tell me what you want,” I whisper, teasing the bow on her waistband once more.

"I want you Chris, nothing but you."

I tuck my head into the crook of her neck, nuzzling her gently.

I feel her smile against my skin, and my heart swells.

Y/NS POV

His fingers were buried to the knuckle inside your cunt, brushing against a spot he knew better than you did yourself. You rode down against his palm, looping your arms around his neck, allowing yourself to whine against his throat as he pumped his fingers inside of you.

“Cum on my fingers, baby.” He murmured against your hair, hand tightening its hold on your hip as he moved his fingers within you. “Let me take care of you.”

Your brows furrowed together, hips stuttering in their movement against his palm. You could hear the soft rumble of laughter in his chest as he helped you regain your pace, muttering something incoherent as your whines turned into keens, your lips parted against his throat as you clutched onto the back of his shirt for purchase.

“Good girl.”

That was all it took for you to come undone, crying out his name against his neck as your cunt spasmed around his fingers. He pressed kisses to your forehead as you rode his fingers through your orgasm, his thumb never stopping its circling of your clit until you whined through breathless words for a moment to breathe.

You could audibly hear the sound of your arousal as he removed his fingers from your cunt, both digits coated in a thin veneer of your cum. He looked at you, smiling wickedly as he pressed the fingers to your lips. You quickly opened your mouth, tasting yourself as he pushed his fingers into your mouth, nearly touching the back of your throat in the process. You noticed his breath deepening, pupils blown as he watched you suck his fingers clean.

“Missed that mouth.” He hushed out, words breathless as he withdrew his fingers from your mouth. You leaned up then, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pressed your lips to his. His tongue sought yours, the kiss full of hunger and need, teeth clashing, and moans swallowed. You could feel his hard cock straining against his sweatpants, each shift of your hips on his lap causing him to all but whine into the kiss.

His hands moved to the waistband of your panties, trying his damnedest to tug them off you as you straddled him, only for him to pull away with a frustrated, “Help me take these off of you before I rip them off.”

You laughed, lifting yourself as your hands moved over his, removing your underwear, items of clothing falling to the floor with a soft thud. Your hand curled gently around his cock, lazily pumping it as you returned to kissing him.

He moaned into your mouth, brows furrowing together as your thumb swiped over his tip. It wasn’t long until his touch on your hips grew needy, thumbs pushing into your hip bones in a silent plea for you to get on with it already. You’d half a mind to make him wait, but you needed him just as badly as he needed you. With a short lift of your hips, you guided him to your entrance, sinking onto his thick cock seconds later.

The stretch had you whining against his lips, slick sounds pooling from between your thighs as you slowly rocked down against him, each movement of your hips bumping your clit against his lower stomach. You could feel his thighs tensing beneath you, muscles flexing in tandem with each canter upward of his hips, pushing him deeper within you.

His hands guided your hips, breaths coming out as short grunts whenever you’d squeeze around him. You could feel his cock dragging inside of you, brushing against that spot that had your thighs twitching under his hold. He trailed his lips from yours to your jaw, breath hitching against your skin in between open-mouthed kisses to your throat.

It was slow, passionate - everything you’d missed in the months he’d been absent. You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers threading through the back of his hair as you rode him. He kissed down your throat and onto your chest, free hand moving up to cup your breast. You tightened your hold on him, head falling back as he bent his legs, planting his feet against the mattress as he fucked himself up into you.

The new angle and urgency had your cunt squeezing around him, legs giving out beneath you as he continued fucking you. He let out a breathless laugh, hands moving to your hips, essentially pushing you forward to rest against his chest as he rutted up into you, each thrust of his cock brushing against your g-spot in an almost blinding sense of pleasure.

Your hands blindly grasped at his shoulders for purchase, uttering pleas for him, words soon turning into incomprehensible sobs as the pleasure left you unable to do anything other than whine out his name against his chest. You could feel your cunt fluttering around him with each thrust of his hips, the movement causing you to rock forward, clit brushing against his lower stomach.

“You hear that?” He grunted out lowly, grasp on your hips tightening to an almost painful degree. “Hear how desperate you sound for me?”

With a strangled cry of his name, you came undone, cunt spasming around his cock as he pumped into you. You went limp against him, eyes squeezed shut as he fucked you through your orgasm, whispering words of praise against the shell of your ear as he chased his release inside of you.

“So fucking good.“ He grunted, words followed by a sharp thrust upward, tip pushing against your cervix as he flooded you full of his cum. You whined against his chest, feeling his cock twitch inside of you. As he caught his breath he lifted his hand, gently cupping your jaw to tilt your head back, eyes searching yours to ensure you were alright.

“‘M okay.” You whispered, voice barely audible. He nodded, sighing out a lungful of air as he leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead. You rested back against him then, shifting your hips slightly to make yourself comfortable - or as comfortable as you could be with him still nestled inside of your cunt.

“Just-“ He started, wrapping his arms around you to ensure you stayed put. “Just stay there, I’ll carry you to the shower later.”

A faint laugh left you as you allowed him to hold you close, knowing neither of you had the strength to move from the bed anytime soon. You’d have to call the front desk and get clean sheets once you did, but for now, you were content resting against him, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat echoing within his chest.

“I love you.” You whispered, moving your head to press a kiss over his heart, earning you an affectionate hum as he ran his fingers through your hair.

“I love you too, doll.”

A/N: Hey everyone! I just wanted to apologize for the delay with Part 2—I've been dealing with some heavy writer's block lately. On top of that, I'm working on multiple fics and writing requests, so it’s been a bit overwhelming. Thank you so much for your patience and for sticking with me! I’ve never written from Chris’s pov before, so any constructive criticism is more than welcome! I really appreciate you all taking the time to read my work! 💖

tags - @swagalicious260 @watercolorskyy @coquettechris @lovesturni0l0s @christmastreecake @ellbowmacaroni @blog-luvdance @sophand4n4 @meg4-matt44 @mommymomm @chriss-slutt @humpster35 @courta13 @idkwhatthisis2009 @yourfavoritefangirl @slutformatt17 @watercolorskyy @mylifeisevenstranger @suyqa @junnniiieee07 @thecrawlys

╰┈➤𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒚, 𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒊

[chippedshake]

Apparently, I never posted this on tumblr and it's actually one of the fics I'm proudest of. so. here.

It’s been just a week since he appeared in Tulsa, fresh off the latest freight with an exaggerated New York accent and nothing but a shoebox he refuses to open to his name.

Dallas Winston.

Johnny has to admit, he’s intrigued.

It may have to do with the fact that nothing ever changes in this goddamned town, so his mind has latched onto any hint of novelty, any new flavour that hasn’t been chewed to a pulp yet, eager for something beyond the usual cycle of fighting and smoking and skipping school.

It may have something to do with Dallas’s slight hesitation before saying his name or the way he forces himself to seem more like a New Yorker than he is. The way he refuses to open his shoebox – even pretends it doesn’t exist when asked (so convincingly Johnny almost falls for it) – and says he’s been in and out of the cooler since he was ten, but doesn’t say where or what for.

Johnny’s intuition is screaming at him that there’s something Dallas is hiding. Something he’s not telling them. Something there’s still to discover, underneath tall tales of muggings and conquests.

But all the intrigue in the world can’t make Johnny glad to find Dallas Winston leaning against a chain fence in the abandoned lot when all he wants to do is try and catch a couple hours of sleep.

It’s after midnight – too late to go to the Curtises’ after he assured them he’d be fine tonight. He doesn’t feel like waking Mrs Curtis up with the doorbell after she already made him dinner. There’s only so much generosity in a single person, even if Mrs Curtis’s seems infinite.

He’s considering turning back and pretending like he was never there – he doesn’t know Dallas, and something about him just screams ‘danger’ – when Dallas’s head turns almost imperceptibly towards Johnny and catches sight of him. His expression hardens slightly and he nods stiffly.

Johnny nods back and shoves his hands in his jacket’s pockets, trying to warm them any way possible. And also maybe to hide their uncontrollable shaking that he’s choosing to chalk up to the cold.

“Hey.”

For a moment Johnny thinks Dallas is smoking, but it’s just the brittle air, turning his breath to fog just as it needles Johnny’s skin and steals the feeling from his fingers.

“Hey.”

Dallas fumbles with the pack of cigarettes he takes out of his pocket.

“Wanna smoke?”

Johnny nods, uncomfortable. “Sure.”

The thin layer of frost that covers Johnny's face melts ever so slightly as Dallas lights his cigarette.

They stand side by side in silence, wrapped in condensation and cigarette smoke that spiral around them, carried by the whistling wind as it pierces through Johnny’s skin.

He suppresses a shiver for the third time as Dallas says, “You kicked out?”

Johnny laughs, short and dry.

“Nah, I come here for fun, y’know. Try ta’ see how long I can last ‘fore the frostbite gets me.”

Dallas rolls his eyes and scowls, but something about it is off, different from the perpetual frown his face seems to be stuck in the rest of the time. There’s a hint of smile, the smallest of curves at the side of his mouth, telling Johnny he’s amused.

“You?”

Dallas turns to face him, hint of a smile gone, seemingly annoyed at the mere idea of Johnny asking him a question. “Huh?”

There’s a spot of compressed air inside Johnny’s chest on the brink of an explosion. Every word he says to Dallas Winston could be taken however he wants to, and if he takes it the wrong way there’s no doubt in his mind that he’ll be beat to a pulp.

“You kicked out too?” he manages to get out.

Dallas scoffs and kicks at the ground, turning away from Johnny again. “Ain’t got nowhere to stay.”

“Oh.” There’s not much else you can say to that. “Where you been stayin’ ‘till now?”

Dallas shrugs. “Around.”

Johnny’s known for not saying much.

People notice, not because they’re uncomfortable in his presence, but because he’s learnt to attune himself to the people around him. He knows just what questions to ask to get someone talking – mention the plot hole in a book to Ponyboy, ask Two-Bit about his sister, complain about teachers to Sodapop, compliment the tablecloth Mrs Curtis has chosen (gift from her grandmother, as she always forgets she’s already told him), make a comment on Steve’s car, feign ignorance on something football-related with Darry.

He hasn’t had to figure a new person out since he was eight and first befriended Sodapop. Even then, Soda mostly monologued, only expecting the occasional monosyllabic response from him.

But Dallas Winston is a puzzle he has yet to figure out. He doesn’t have any easy buttons to push, anything that’ll clearly fill the silence between them.

He doesn’t seem hard-pressed to fill it either, eyes flitting around from the bushes on the other side of the lot to the small rocks at their feet, sometimes at the stars above them.

“That’s Taurus,” Johnny says, remembering a couple nights ago, laying in the Curtises’ backyard, Ponyboy pointing out the stars.

Dallas’s sharp gaze reminds him with a jolt that the person he’s trying to talk to is a hood. Just about the personification of the stereotype of a greaser. Telling him about the stars will get him called a sissy at best. At worst…well, Johnny doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen at worst.

“Yeah?”

He spares a glance at Dallas. Their eyes catch for a single disarming moment. Johnny turns away quickly and looks back up at the sky.

The air in his chest decompresses, wrapping around his heart protectively.

“I don’t know, really. Pony told me about it some time ago but I wasn’t really listening. All the stars look kinda the same.”

Dallas sighs – is he tired? Exasperated? Wistful? Johnny hates not knowing – and takes a moment to respond. “Yeah.”

Silence hangs tensely in the air between them and yet Dallas is completely unaffected. His eyes – jarring shards of ice – drift idly around the abandoned lot, making Johnny actually look at it for the first time. Notice the curb, the pathetic little shrubs that try to survive through the cracks in the old cement.

Another breeze sweeps the lot, prickly needles that poke through Johnny’s pores and freeze his bones, and make the dry leaves he always uses as firewood swirl around in a pointless circle before settling down again.

Dallas breathes out intentionally and watches the fog fade, its edges curling slowly into nothingness until it’s like it was never there at all.

The silence no longer hangs, strung between them with a tightly-wound cord, but rather settles, wrapping around Johnny’s shoulders like the blanket Mr Curtis brings him whenever he comes stumbling in at night to sleep on their couch. It’s a peculiar feeling, one Johnny’s never known before. Comfort in silence. Not feeling the need to prod at the other person until they fall into the easy trap of self-indulgent ranting.

Even as the wind cuts through his skin and he feels the late hours take a toll on his mind, Johnny is more at ease than he’s been in a long time.

…

When he sees Dallas in the same spot the next night, Johnny doesn’t hesitate to walk towards him.

Logically, he knows nothing new about Dallas apart from the fact that he’s not much of a conversationalist, but silence speaks volumes. Even if Johnny is never the one to fill a silence, he’s always the one most uncomfortable with it.

Because silence has never meant anything good. Because silence is never real. His house seems silent until an old wooden plank creaks under his father's heavy footsteps. His room seems silent until the smallest whimper escapes his lips. A Soc’s car engine is almost silent, imperceivable if you haven’t spent your whole life training to hear it.

Silence is never safe because nowhere is ever safe.

Silence just means the danger is hiding, camouflaging itself in the shadows, tiptoeing closer slowly. And Johnny can’t see it until a hand is wrapped around his throat.

Maybe it’s the knife Dallas carries around in his back pocket, the one with the dried blood on the handle that says he’s not afraid to use it. Maybe it’s the fact that Dallas didn’t laugh at him for looking at the stars, and could’ve jumped him at any point last night but didn’t. Maybe it’s the way he never questioned from the moment Johnny showed up that they would stick together that night.

In any case, something about Dallas is making Johnny want to trust him, something makes him comfortable in silence around him.

Johnny doesn’t know whether that should be comforting or terrifying.

Dallas notices him earlier this time, icy eyes following him from the edge of the lot until two feet in front of him.

“Hey.” Dallas doesn’t respond, limiting himself to a curt nod.

And for once, Johnny’s okay with that.

…

Johnny’s at the lot, just like Dally expected. He hasn’t noticed him yet, so there’s still to turn around.

Wait a minute. He shouldn’t want to turn around. He’s Dallas fucking Winston, for Christ’s sake, feared all around Brooklyn itself; he shouldn’t be scared of a guy his own age who can’t hurt a fly.

So why can he feel the acid in his stomach?

It must be because he didn’t eat lunch. Yeah, that’s probably it.

(Nevermind that he’s skipped food for longer and never felt like this before).

“Hey.”

Johnny looks up from the ground and nods at him. “Hey.”

“You doing anything later?” Johnny tilts his head curiously. “Wanna go to the drive-in?”

He looks at Dally with a strange expression. It’s calculating, careful, not unlike the leader of his Brooklyn gang when he first joined. Dally wants to squirm under his stare, but years of learning to keep his cool keep him still.

Johnny’s eyes flit around his face before his features relax just the slightest bit.

There’s something more there, something everyone else isn’t seeing. There’s more to this boy than the kicked-puppy impression or quiet kid stereotype he’s trying to fit. A shy kid can’t control his expression so well that even Dally has trouble figuring him out. An innocent puppy doesn’t immediately find all escape routes and potential weapons the moment he enters a room.

Something’s hiding under the face everyone’s fallen for.

“Sure.”

What’s under there, well that’s none of Dally’s business. He’s got his secrets, Johnny can keep his.

Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself to keep the curiosity from burning him alive.

…

Dally isn’t sure why he invited him to the drive-in. He doesn’t really like the movies or the people that hang around the place or the overpriced popcorn and Cokes.

He’s just trying something new, he tells himself. Something fresh in this town that’s getting old after just a month. Honestly, he probably should’ve split by now, but there’s something holding him back.

Whatever it is, it’s definitely not the shitty movies, if the one he’s watching with Johnny is anything to go by. The plot makes no sense – he’s not even sure there is one –, nothing makes any sense, really, the audio is terrible, and Dally also just doesn’t like movies.

Even so, there’s something about the experience that’s vaguely fun.

It doesn’t make sense for it to have been fun because, objectively, the whole thing was terrible, but Dally doesn’t walk away irritated at having spent two hours of his time watching an absolutely atrocious movie.

He walks away remembering how Johnny finally strung more than two sentences together when they were walking back home. He walks away remembering all the little comments Johnny whispered to him during the movie, making sure to keep his voice down even though there was at least one empty seat in every direction. He walks away remembering the short burst of laughter from when Dally surprised him with a dry response.

He walks away remembering Johnny.

…

Dally's late today. He got held up on a date with Sylvia and forgot to head to the lot.

He feels awful guilty considering they didn't even agree to meet up.

Something's wrong.

The lot is too quiet. It's always silent, but there's something different in the silence. It's lighter, maybe. Less intentional.

When he stands with Johnny and neither of them say anything, the silence is sort of comforting, in a way. Like a heavy blanket, weighing down on them, wrapping around both of them. Now it’s menacing, hiding something he can’t see. Until he hears a sniffle from nearby.

Johnny’s behind a pile of rocks, legs up against his chest, sitting like he always does.

Funny. Dally hadn’t noticed Johnny had a certain way of sitting. Or he did notice, only he didn’t notice he noticed.

Dallas Winston doesn’t like not understanding himself.

But now Johnny doesn’t look like he always does because he’s breathing too quickly. Needily. He’s gulping in air too fast to be normal. Like he isn’t actually processing it, the air isn’t reaching his lungs.

It doesn’t happen often that Dally isn’t aware of his movements. Maybe before it became too dangerous he used to move without thinking, but it’s been a long time since instincts were allowed. Now every twitch has to be calculated and every wince has to be planned.

There isn’t a hair on his head or a shiver down his spine that hasn’t been meticulously thought out.

And yet he’s freezing his ass off sitting in a cement lot on a cold December night, hand on Johnny’s shoulder with no idea how he got there. How the two of them became close enough for Dally to touch him without either of them flinching away. How Dally grew to care about him enough to not run away the moment he saw a tear.

He has no idea when he sat down, when he outreached his hand like it was second nature, not needing a single thought to know what to do when he saw Johnny almost crying.

Johnny never tells him what brought him to tears, and Dally never finds out. He doesn’t know what made the strongest person he knows turn into a blubbering mess, and he never will know.

All he knows are the muffled screams against his shoulder and the arm he didn’t notice wrapping around Johnny.

…

Johnny doesn’t know when Dallas became Dally, but at around the same time, he started coming around the Curtises’ for dinner like the rest of the gang does whenever they don’t have anywhere else to go.

It’s been a year to the day since Dally turned up unexpectedly in Johnny’s usual sleeping spot. This year they’ve thought ahead, though, and Johnny won’t leave the Curtises’ right after dinner; he’ll stay there so he doesn’t get frostbite in his sleep. Dally’s decided to stay too, so he’ll have company.

All the lamps in the living room have long since been turned off.

It’s almost completely dark; the room’s only source of illumination is the faint moonlight that filters in through the thin curtains. Johnny can only just make out Dally’s shape on the recliner as he turns over for the tenth time.

Dally’s got the recliner, Johnny’s got the couch, as always. It’s comfortable, and usually he’d be asleep by now. Sleeping on concrete every other day makes you appreciate a couch a whole lot more. But rather than lying with his eyes closed, he’s sitting with his knees up against his chest, arms around his legs, back against the armrest opposite Dally. Watching.

He doesn’t know why he’s watching Dally. It’s kind of creepy, when he thinks about it. He doesn’t know when he started. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t laid down yet.

Mrs Curtis said goodnight and turned off the light and he just… didn’t lie down. An hour later, he doesn’t know why he still hasn’t laid down.

His eyes trail out the window.

There was a new moon a couple days ago. It gets dark earlier now. Walking down the street alone was lonely, even with the streetlights on. Johnny doesn’t know what the newly white moon is called, but its light is milky. It trickles down the floor slowly.

It pours onto a small square of Dally’s forehead and a couple strands of hair above it. That’s the only part of Dally that’s visible. Everything else is submerged in the inky blackness around them.

Quiet hangs around them like drops of condensation on a glass. It’s a sort of peace in silence that Johnny still hasn’t been able to find with anyone else. Not with Ponyboy and his poetry or with Sodapop and his grinning ease. Not with Mrs Curtis and her golden warmth or with Two-Bit and his easy laugh.

No one but Dally. Dally, who gets into a fight every other day. Dally, who hasn’t treated anyone softly a day in his life. Dally, who came out of the womb with a blade in his hand and crude words on his tongue. Dally, who Johnny has every reason to be afraid of.

And yet, Dally is the only one whose silence is safe. The only one Johnny trusts enough, cares for enough, to feel truly safe around.

It’s easy, too, and maybe that’s the most terrifying part. Caring about someone has never been easy, not with the way he was rewarded for it by his parents. And yet Dally’s carved out some space for himself without even trying.

Johnny’s never listened to anyone breathe before. Maybe he’s never even heard them. But Dally’s breaths wade through the air, calm and steady, and for some reason Johnny finds himself following along. He doesn’t know why.

It doesn’t bother him, the not knowing.

Ponyboy always wants to know why things happen. Why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and why he has to eat his vegetable, but also why Steve is so angry all the time, and why Johnny is the only one Dally relaxes around. Why Darry spends more time with Paul than his other friends and why Two-Bit can’t go anywhere without a can of beer.

Johnny, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind part of the world being shrouded in shadow. He doesn’t mind not seeing the whole picture. Not everything happens for a reason, he’s old enough to know that, and not every reason needs to be uncovered.

So he stays quiet when Steve kicks the wall after his dad kicks him out. He doesn’t say a word about Dally untensing when they sit next to each other on the couch, touching from shoulder to knee. He doesn’t ask questions when Darry says he’s going out. He hands Two-Bit his beer for breakfast silently.

Ponyboy wishes the whole world were in broad sunlight, eliminating any hint of a shadow that could shield the intricacies of reality from his view. Johnny lets the darkness distort it to the extent that he can’t be sure Dally isn’t just a figment of his own lonely imagination.

And he doesn’t know whether he should mind.

“You watchin’ me sleep?”

“You ain’t sleeping.”

Dally makes a sound between a huff and a laugh and rolls over, burying his face in the couch before sitting up.

“Why ain't you asleep, Johnny.”

Johnny shrugs. “Not tired,” he says. And he really isn't.

Dally scoffs so softly Johnny almost can’t hear him. “Stupid kid. You’re gonna be tired tomorrow.”

He lies back down and rolls onto his side.

Something settles in Johnny’s chest, and he suddenly feels very sure. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s so sure of, but there’s a feeling of rightness, an absolute certainty that the pieces of the universe have fallen into place. Everything fits.

He didn’t even know something was out of place before.

…

They seem like little kids.

Dally’s never liked kids much. Annoying little shits, won’t stop moving around and screaming in those ridiculously high-pitched voices they have.

Under any other circumstances, he wouldn’t be caught dead playing tag like a five-year-old. But Johnny’s laughing despite himself and Dally can’t bring himself to give a shit about looking stupid.

Then they’re laying down in this stupid field and they’re both panting because of the stupid game and Dally’s nose is about to freeze off but his cheeks are warm and he’s smiling unironically and he might’ve never been good with words, but he’s sure it’s impossible for primitive caveman sounds to explain the way his chest is swelling.

…

Dally.

Dally’ll know what to do.

“Shit, what happened to you?”

“Dallas,” Johnny manages to rasp at Buck. “I need Dallas.”

“Yeah, man, I’ll go get him.”

Johnny leans against the doorframe as Buck fades from view. His vision blurs and he closes his eyes for a moment before remembering the very public place he’s in. A couple people send him concerned looks, but no one bothers to come up to him.

Of course they don’t.

Buck comes back out of the crowd, Dally trailing behind him. He looks vaguely pissed off until he catches sight of Johnny. Then his features morph into something indescribable before going blank as he quickens his pace. There’s a hand gripping Johnny’s upper arm in a couple seconds.

“You alright, man?”

Johnny just tilts his head ever so slightly to the right and Dally sighs that dry breath with a hidden smile that means he’s reluctant to find Johnny funny.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.” He doesn’t ask before wrapping Johnny’s arm around his shoulders to help him up the stairs to the room he’s staying in. Johnny never would’ve asked but, well, he’s not exactly in a position to deny help.

“First aid kit’s in the bathroom,” Buck calls out as they leave.

“I know!”

People part for them as they walk through the crowded room, loud country music making Johnny’s head pulse. He groans and buries his head in Dally’s shoulder. Stares follow them up the stairs.

“C’mon, just a bit further, Johnny.”

The sound Johnny makes is probably vaguely affirmative.

At some point, his eyes close.

He’s sitting down. Biting winter air hits his chest. He would shiver if it didn’t hurt. A sharp intake of breath. Is that Dally? He sounds scared. That has to be wrong. Dally never shows when he’s scared.

“Who did this to you?”

Cold tension ties the question together, strung in the air between them, frozen over.

Not even Johnny’s thoughts are intelligible, much less his words.

A cotton ball presses against his collarbone, wet in something cool. It burns. He sucks air in through his teeth.

“C’mon, Johnnycake, it’ll be over soon.”

Johnny nods and doesn’t open his eyes.

Time goes by. Bandages are wrapped around Johnny’s body. He laughs at the thought of putting ice against his bruises. He’d get pneumonia before it ever helped him. He’s guided to a laying-down position and a blanket is drawn around him.

After some rustling, another body lays down next to him.

He sleeps.

…

Dally’s in the cooler for a couple weeks. He hasn’t told Johnny why yet, but he probably will once he gets out.

For now, Johnny waits alone in the lot. He could be at the Curtises’ right now, but something inside him wanted to be in the lot. It makes no sense. The temperature is negative, and he can feel the wind’s needles through his jacket. He could be warm, under a blanket, leaning on a soft pillow rather than the lot’s hard cement.

And yet here he is. Why, he has no idea. But he needed to be here. So here he is, yawning himself awake.

It’s cloudy tonight. Cloudy enough that he can’t see the stars. Or the moon.

It’s dark tonight. Dark enough that he can hardly make out the far-away silhouettes of the houses across the street. Dark enough that closing his eyes hardly makes a difference.

Dark enough that he can imagine a lanky figure sauntering over, face hard enough to pretend he hasn’t a worry in the world. He can imagine the figure sitting down next to him and their hands inching together. He can imagine hot breath on his face, a brief respite from the coldness closing in on him, weighing down on his shoulders. He can imagine a chest under his ear rather than a jacket. A heart beating. It rises and falls.

He can imagine an arm around his shoulders and the days that come after. Fingers linked in the darkness, chasing each other in the twilight. Voices fading to the background in a movie theatre. Images casting shifting lights onto Dally’s face.

The months that come after. Stolen moments, stolen from God Himself. Hidden touches and forgotten smiles, sitting just close enough during dinner.

The years that come after. The world changing, maybe, enough for twilight to turn to dawn and darkness to broad daylight. Touches could become purposeful, smiles meaningful. Getting out of this town, or being the reason they stay, but being together either way.

Together.

The image is almost warm enough to give his fingers their feeling back as they touch his face, ice cold against flushed warm.

…

There’s a lot of breathing around Dally.

He can hear his cellmate fast asleep and the guys a couple cells down snoring. Someone nearby is panting like he’s just run a marathon.

It should be enough to cover up the aggressive silence in Dally’s head. The poignant lack of something. Of a rhythm, something constant and grounding, like a heartbeat, like a clock ticking.

Like shallowing breaths as someone falls asleep.

Like soft exhales rippling the thin fabric of his shirt.

…

Dally should’ve been there.

He should’ve been there. But he got distracted by a stupid argument with Tim and he wasn’t there.

And now Johnny, he’s– please don’t be dead.

There’s so much blood – and Dally’s seen worse things, he really has – he’s not exaggerating when he tells stories about New York.

But nothing as disturbing as this.

No amount of unknown corpses could make him sick to his stomach. The squelch of a knife entering a soft body would never make him turn away in disgust, unable to face it. If someone swears at him, he says something worse. If someone hits him, he hits back harder.

He’s never been squeamish. Closer to impenetrable.

But none of what he’s seen before has hurt Johnny. None of it has made him fear losing him.

He’s seen friends, even buddies, hurt. Almost dead. And it’s never hit him like the scene in front of him is hitting him. Because Johnny’s somehow entered a new category of person, one Dally didn’t even know existed. Touching a hair on his head is worse than any of the gruesome murders that’ve been committed in front of him.

Because Johnny isn’t his friend or his buddy or a part of his gang. Johnny is the air he breathes, and whenever he’s hurt, Dally starts to suffocate.

…

Johnny’s teachers may say he’s stupid, but he knows that fire takes up oxygen. He knows it’s why it’s getting harder to breathe.

He also knows that smaller kids have smaller lungs.

Johnny always thought that books were exaggerating when they said a fire roared. He thought it was an expression that caught on, something someone made up in the middle ages. Someone who’d never seen a fire in their life, never heard an actual blaze.

But the fire around him is roaring like a wild beast.

Ponyboy’s mouth is moving quickly. He’s yelling. Johnny can’t hear him.

The kids are a couple feet away. They’re screaming. Johnny can’t hear them.

He doesn’t know why he’s calm.

But wait– there– there’s something. Something he can hear over the raging fire.

A voice. Yelling. But not incomprehensible distress or futile attempts at organising their spontaneous rescue mission. Just a name.

His name.

Pleading, like his voice so rarely is. Begging him to leave. To get out. To save himself.

Johnny wishes he had the words and the lung capacity to tell him why he can’t.

…

Dally doesn’t say it back.

At least he doesn’t lie.

…

Johnny always knew life was going to run out. His granny died when he was eight; he knew it would come eventually. He just didn’t think it would come so quickly.

He used to think about killing himself. Putting an end to it, once and for all. No more screaming matches overheard in his bedroom, no more tiptoeing home from school, trying not to be perceived. It got to the point where he even talked to Ponyboy about it.

But now that it’s here, now that it’s really here, he’s not so sure.

Infinity. Eternity. Nothingness.

It sounds peaceful, really. Eternal rest. Who wouldn’t want that?

Johnny. Johnny doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want peace or eternity, he just wants to live.

He wants to keep breathing. He wants fog, condensed breath against cold air, and the way Dally sighs, vaguely amused, the way he’s only ever done in front of Johnny. He wants the heavy panting of that one time he convinced Dally to play tag, or even the hurried, desperate breaths when he just wants to curl up and cry.

He wants risk and excitement and running and toothy grins. He doesn’t care if it’s stolen, he doesn’t care if it’s secret, he just wants time. Time to graduate. Time to do something.

He hasn’t done anything with his life yet.

It’s not easy to realise he never will.

Peace is meant for the old, not a boy who’s just barely sixteen. A boy who’s never left his neighbourhood. A boy who’s never heard someone say “I love you” and mean it.

A cold hand wipes the tear from his cheek.

“It’s gonna be okay, Johnny.” He doesn’t answer, just stares back at him, asking his silent question that Dally can’t answer. “It’s gotta be.” Then, so quiet Johnny can hardly hear him: “I don’t know what I’m gonna do if it ain’t.”

Johnny sighs shakily and Dally pulls away.

“I gotta go. Nurse is comin’ soon.”

He didn’t say it back.

…

“Johnnycake?” Johnny doesn’t move. He just lies there, quiet. Still. Dead. “Johnny?”

“Hey,” he manages softly, opening his eyes to look at Dally.

“We won,” Dally says, and he knows he’s said something wrong because Johnny grimaces. “We beat the Socs. We stomped them — chased them outta our territory."

He tries to get Johnny to smile. Tries to get what he can’t accept will be his final moments to be happy.

And maybe he smiles a bit when Dally says they’re all proud of him. Maybe the light that usually danced around his eyes comes back for a couple seconds.

But it’s not enough.

It’s not enough because Johnny managed to dig his way into a part of Dally’s life that Dally didn’t even know existed. He pulled out the Dally that cared with scrapes and bruises and heavy breaths. He did whatever he needed to do and managed to find the version of him he’d left in Austin when he ran away at nine years old

It’s not enough because Dally didn’t say it back, earlier. He didn’t say it back when Johnny managed to rasp the words out and look at him hopefully. He couldn’t make himself say the fucking words that have been running through his head since finding him in that fucking lot. He couldn't make himself say the truth that's been beating with his heart, running through his veins, tied to every word he's said.

Because he always believed there’d be more time. There’s always tomorrow. There’s always later. You don’t have to think about that now, let it wait ‘till later. You’ll come to terms with your feelings later. Accept it later. Just live in the moment.

Well, it’s later now.

It’s later now and he didn’t say it. He didn’t say anything he really meant. He can’t say it now, either, not beyond acting like he’s speaking for the gang when he says he’s proud of him. There can’t be anything beyond pride in what he says because Johnny wanted Pony there and Dally’s lost his chance.

It’s not enough because Johnny’s talking to Ponyboy about something that Dally can’t even begin to understand. And he’s laying back down.

He spent his last words on someone else. He spent his last breaths on someone else.

And now he’s gone and Dally wants to scream.

How do you scream without air?

…

Dally’s running. He can blame his breathlessness on that.

He’s panting, just like he did when they ran around the lot chasing fireflies or played stupid tag to chase away the numbness in their bones. Only now there’s no Johnny chasing him. Now there’s no breathless laughing and grins and settling down to sleep.

Now there’s just pain.

Bullets ripping through his flesh. His friends watching, helpless. Johnny missing.

Dally breathes out and he knows it’s empty because his air is gone.

Dally breathes out and he knows it’s pointless because they’ve fallen for his bluff.

Dally breathes out and he knows it’s for the last time, so he watches the condensation curl into nothingness and pretends Johnny is still standing beside him.

[beanghostprincess]

A tale of daisies & larkspurs

For @sanusoweek || Day 2: Fairy Tale / WLW (pretend this was posted on time)

Relationship: Sanji/Usopp (F/F)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Recommend reading on Ao3 but the main ones are: Transphobia, gender dysphoria, child/domestic abuse, and violence (I swear this is happy too don't get tricked by my angst)

Chapters: 14/14

Summary:

‘I love you’, her mother always says. ‘My precious daughter. My angel.’ But her father’s words are still louder. “It is the only thing he will never be able to obtain.” He turns around to approach her numb body, as she uses her last efforts to hold on to Pedro’s armor. Judge doesn’t smile, but he has all the fun in the world when he frowns with disgust at his son. Son. “A true love kiss.” — Usopp smells like wild berries, daisies, and wood. Like ancient books, fire, and dirt. Like chemicals, poison, and deadly flowers. Like sunlight, wet grass, and thousands of thousands of songs Sanji hasn’t been able to hear. It is impossible to know what a song smells like, but she is quite sure they all have the scent of that music box Usopp made for her. She always brings gifts whenever she comes. It makes the princess feel less trapped and more… It wouldn’t be more, since she isn’t even a bit free. But it makes her feel free. Liberation, that’s what she smells like. Freedom.

Read on Ao3!!!

More of my works!

Check out @aimtodraw's fanart here!!! I loved it so so much and I had to hold myself back from screaming in the middle of work when I saw it--

Also @the-orion-inexpirience's art I asked them to draw quite obviously inspired by this fic!!!!!!! It inspired me so much to keep writing!!!

[kiisaes]

fuckass birthday cake

[robo-writing]

Cockwarming with the MK1 boys

Kuai Liang

Cockwarming? Never heard of it.

You have to explain it before the visual clicks in his head, and it’s only then you see him nod in agreement.

Surprisingly receptive to the idea, it doesn’t take him much convincing. He enjoys the idea of close intimacy.

When would you like to start?

“Now? If you say so, little bird.”

There’s a peace that blooms in him, despite the salacious position you’re in. Hands rubbing into your bare back, nose buried into your neck as he inhales your scent, the hitch in your breath as you adjust yourself on his length.

It would be relaxing, if the feeling of your pussy wasn’t currently driving him up a wall. Everything is heightened this way, every breath making you clench against him, every movement making him shudder in bliss, a repetitive loop of sensations that keep the both of you trapped in each other’s embrace.

You move, he follows. You whimper, and he tastes the sounds on his tongue. You stay like that until you fall asleep, where he wakes up and the first thing he feels is the warmth of your cunt.

Bi-Han

Confusion is painted on his face when you tell him your idea.

Eyebrows raised, he didn’t know you to be the type to be so forward, surprised at just how eager you were.

“Hm, seems simple enough.”

At first he didn’t understand the appeal—if you wanted to have sex he could easily hold you hostage to the bed.

But fine, he would indulge you.

As it turned out you are far more creative than he gives you credit for. He might enjoy this newfound position more than he thought.

Every time you squirm, it’s another slap to your ass. The sound rings loudly in your ears, the clash of skin only dwarfed by your whimpering.

“Bi-Han, please—“ you beg, arms wrapped around his neck, scared to move anymore in fear of your husband’s wrath. “Just a little bit, I need more—“

Another hand comes down on your backside. You jump in response, then shiver when Bi-Han’s cold hands soothe the aching flesh.

“You decided the rules darling, no moving.”

You almost want to argue, but the look in his eyes freezes you in place. You’re forced to obey, shaking with anticipation for the moment Bi-Han finds you ready and fucks you like you need.

Tomas

“You want to what?”

Poor Tomas, his face turns a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has to ask you to repeat yourself to make sure he heard you correctly.

When you do he becomes even more flustered, but it does spark a certain…curiosity.

He’s open to anything when it comes to you, and he would be a liar if he said otherwise.

As sweet as Tomas can be, it’s like he’s a different person when you’re like this—possessive, greedy even. He holds you by your ass and refuses to let go, kissing at your face when you shudder at the feeling of his cock inside you.

So big, so fucking full.

“Is this what you had in mind?” He grunts, barely stopping his hips from forcing you to bounce on his length. You can see it in his eyes, the barely-held back urge to dig his fingers into your skin and fuck you like he wants to, it’s only your pleas that keep him complacent for the time being.

You see shades of the sweet man you’ve come to love, almost overshadowed by the lust that pools in his very being. He wants to cum so bad, but more than that he wants to be good for you.

Johnny Cage

“You’re not kidding right? Please tell me it isn’t April.”

He’s over the moon, he’s actually thought about it before but was worried you wouldn’t be up for it.

But hearing you ask for it? You’ve given him far too much freedom, and you might regret that in the future.

Safe to say that it becomes his new favorite pastime.

Johnny was the one who invited you over in the first place, something about “needing to focus on his newest script.” A very obvious lie, but you suppose that hindsight is 20/20, especially where your boyfriend is concerned.

Instead of focusing on memorizing his lines, he instead memorizes what makes you tick, what buttons he has to press before you’ve become a writhing mess in his arms, how far you fall on his cock before your legs start shaking.

“Can’t help it baby,” he says, rutting into you softly. “You’re just feel too damn good.”

You almost want to beg him to fuck you, but you know him better than anyone—if Johnny says he’s going to keep you on his lap, he means it. So even if he’s barely focused on the script in his hands, you can be sure as hell you’re going to be sat on his cock until he’s had his fun.

Kenshi Takahashi

He laughs a bit, entertained at the thought.

You, sat pretty in his lap? It makes his heart beat faster.

He asks if you know what you’re getting yourself into, asking him a question like that, but your excited nod is enough of an answer for him.

“Okay then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Kenshi feels the heat that spreads through your body, a benefit of losing his sight. He knows all your weak points, his heightened senses aware of every reaction you have to his touch.

He knows you better than you know yourself, even without sento he knows how desperate you are to move.

“This is what you wanted, right?”

He coos in your ear, tattooed hands rubbing circle against your shaking hips, a gentle squeeze reminding you to keep still. You nod in reply, but it doesn’t stop the soft noises leaving your lips.

Raiden

Turns into a shade of pink you didn’t know existed

Lost for words, it takes him a moment to register what you’ve said before responding

“Well, if you’re interested, I wouldn’t mind…”

Poor man, he doesn’t know how to express himself, but he is very on-board!

He tries his best, really he does, but how exactly is he supposed to stay still when you pulse around him so deliciously?

He knows he’s supposed to enjoy this, but being unable to move is driving him up a wall. You have to scold him like a child every time his hips try to move higher.

He stares at the ceiling, head tilted backwards in an attempt to calm down his racing heartbeat, afraid that even the sight of you will make him lose control. In, out, his breathing is labored, your voice doing nothing to quell his urges.

“Relax baby,” you say, running your fingers through his hair. “We still have the rest of the night.”

Kung Lao

You’ve never seen him smile that wide before.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

If you didn’t ask him, he would’ve. He’s just glad you saved him the effort.

The moment you two walk into the bedroom he’s pawing at your pants. He’s impatient, and can you blame him?

“Kung Lao, calm down!”

You try to plead with your boyfriend, but it goes in one ear and out the other. What was meant to be a relaxing past time is now a struggle to keep his wandering hands to himself.

“Come on, don’t you want me to touch you?” He teases. His lips find their way to your nipple, lapping at the pebbled nub while his fingers slide between the two of you.

“This wasn’t the plan,” you whine in response, unknowingly pressing yourself into his greedy fingers. “I wanted us to enjoy this…”

“And we will,” he promises, circling your clit with a twinkle in his eye. “Just want you to feel as good as possible baby.”

Liu Kang

He’s heard of the act before, but never really gave it any thought.

“You sound like you’ve thought about this often, darling.”

He can’t help but tease you a bit, but he’s completely in agreement.

When he has a moment of free time he invites you to sit on his lap, grinning when his fingers dance across your skin.

For a god, Liu Kang sure can be a tease.

In his private quarters he keeps you close to him, one of the rare moments where he has no obligations and can simply enjoy himself. You thought this would be a perfect time to act on your little suggestion, and he thought the same.

Where you erred however, is misjudging a god’s patience.

Two hours ago you eagerly stripped for your husband, and in those two hours you’ve been left teetering on the edge, every time you close your eyes for a moments peace Liu Kang finds it fit to let his fingers remind you of where you are.

A repetitive cycle with no end in sight.

Your clit throbs with an incessant need, but you’re unable to do anything except take what he gives.

Syzoth

Beg your pardon?

You literally see his pupils dilate at the thought

“Really? Are you sure?”

He has his own misgivings about the idea, still ashamed of his ancestry as a Zaterran. It took him a while to become intimate with you but this…

You assure him that this is something you want, and he eventually agrees.

You gently coax Syzoth onto the bed, making your hips flush with his. You can see the doubt begin to flood his mind, until you drag his hands from the bed and onto your body.

“There’s no rush baby,” you murmur, resting your head on his chest. “Let’s just stay like this, hm?”

You hear his heartbeat return to its natural rhythm, his hands slowly brushing against your spine. Tentative, testing the waters, as if you’d shatter if he held you too tight. As the minutes pass he becomes more comfortable with your position, the feeling of your warmth enveloping him.

“I admit, there is something very peaceful about this…” he hums. You make a noise in agreement.

[coddda]

Hiiiiiii. Episode 25/26 lawlight analysis rant thingy here. I don't know how to write an intro for this so let's just get to it LOL

I think one of the reasons that the rain/foot scenes stick out so much (the. Sheer insanity of a Foot Massage Scene in an anime revolving around two guys trying to kill each other aside 💀) is the fact that the anime specifically suffers a bit in terms of adapting a few of the "emotional" moments in death note.

And I don't mean "emotionally impactful" exactly. For example I think the adaptations of scenes like Raye and Naomi's deaths were very impactful and the atmospheres of their final scenes were great, but I mean more from a characterization standpoint (if that makes sense). Being more focused on mind and logic games, Death Note as a whole isn't as invested in individual characters' deeper feelings as it is in its action (which isn't necessarily a criticism per say, it's simply part of the nature of a mystery thriller series). But just because they're fewer and farther between doesn't mean there are none at all. In the manga we do get to see, for example, how much Light actually cared for his family and especially Sayu, and how he actually felt more conflicted and suffered lack of sleep/appetite when he first used the Death Note.

The anime specifically as an adaptation is pretty good at adapting the main mind fuckery and action of Death Note, but its lacking in properly adapting scenes like the ones I mentioned above is a criticism I see somewhat often, and it's pretty fair imo. Compared to all the other adaptations, it certainly seems to fall short on an emotional level: the musical has entire songs going in depth about the characters feelings and relationships, the 2015 jdrama is. Insane and has its emotional moments in spades (because it's a TV drama, which are more focused on portraying emotional conflict and the like), even the 2006 movies has its emotional beats and L Change the WorLd is. Well. Oh Man.

Anime Light to a lot of people is like. Light but he's "already evil" (which I have my own thoughts on but I digress). Light but after using the Death Note for like 2 minutes he's already like "fuck yeah time to kill criminals". Basically the anime doesn't take as much time to delve into his less cynical sides or really delve into his already vague and harder to decipher feelings in general, he is noticeably colder from the get-go here, etc.

But that's part of why I think episode 25 manages to stand out so much tonally (apart from it being, y'know, the episode L literally Dies). I love the episode so much and could probably rant for hours about how much I love the artistic choices made in it but what I'm trying to get at here is that it's one of the very few moments where the show tries to go deeper into specific character's emotions, and one of the very few moments where the show Attempts (emphasis on "attempts" because, well, you'll see in a bit) to get more in-depth into Light's feelings apart from his cynicism/apathy/justice. ness.

L in these two scenes in episode 25 is, well, pretty damn open about how he feels. It's usually interpreted as him knowing that he's going to die, and you can see it. He visibly looks/sounds lost, somber, etc. He never really had much to hide around Light to begin with (since he doesn't really care about hiding himself the same way Light does) but especially not now and it Shows, and I personally thought it was pretty cool to delve into his thoughts/show how he feels this way. The somberness can be felt throughout the entire scene, even people who don't already know the plot of Death Note from the manga could probably tell that he's about to die.

In the manga, once L starts suspecting Misa again and Rem realizes what Light is trying to do, it goes straight to Watari and L's deaths, but the anime instead gives a distinct and unexpected pause in the middle of this where L contemplates his own death. It's fucking great, and the shift from straight action to slower emotional weight makes these scenes stand out a lot, since, like I said, the show usually focuses more on the former. But it's kind of ironic, too.

Not only does the anime open up L's feelings more in these scenes, but it also tries to dig deeper into Light's feelings as well through L. And it's really funny honestly because while, yes, these are the more "emotionally open" scenes of the anime Light still manages to be Incredibly avoidant and contribute almost nothing to the entire ordeal.

L is visibly upset -> "Yeah Ryuzaki, you're not making any sense at all" (Not addressing the obvious conflict from L)

"Tell me, Light. From the moment you were born, has there ever been a point where you've actually told the truth?" -> "[The most stale, over-explained, avoidant answer to a "yes/no" question that you could ever hear + blatant attempts to reframe the question]"

(L's half-smile here kills me) "I had a feeling you'd say something like that" -> [Nothing]

"I'm sorry" -> [Nothing]

"It'll be lonely won't it? You and I will be parting ways soon" -> [Nothing]

^ From this point Light continues to say literally Nothing for the rest of the scene. I'm not even joking, from then on the rest of Light's voicelines are reduced to nothing but vague noises of confusion.

Everytime L calls Light out as a person ("Has there ever been a point where you've actually told the truth?" / "I had a feeling you'd say something like that." / "Won't it be lonely?") he doesn't actually acknowledge anything. Out of those three lines, he only answers verbally to if he's ever told the truth, and even then it's the most blatantly people-pleasing answer ever, as it usually is with Light. And I don't think it's because Light just. Doesn't care about any of what L's saying at all, or that he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about (questioning Light's authenticity as a person, saying it would be lonely when they part), instead he's choosing not to acknowledge any of what this means about himself or him and L at all. He's like a fucking wall.

And like, for the truth question in particular, the show makes sure that you know it's not something that Light just. Doesn't care enough about to answer. The hard cuts to silence are a very rare but extremely effective way that the show conveys an extremely important moment (see: Light regaining his memories, Matsuda noticing Light opening the warehouse door before he escapes (not as much of a "direct" cut to silence but still)), and cuts to multiple angles/framings/zooms of the exact same shot are also used for the same purpose (see: Light hugging Misa when she was crying, Matsuda aiming his gun to shoot Light, Light regaining his memories Again). Just like the scene where Light gets his memories back, the moment L's question finishes the show utilizes both. That question cut Deep. There's is a solid Almost 5 seconds of silence before the sound of the rain gradually starts fading back in, and honestly that should be telling enough as is (but of course Light doesn't actually admit that. Or anything at all really, so). Oh also another fun detail! We do not see Light's face At All (except for the shot where you can see his mouth moving but not his eyes), for the Entire time that he's going on his spiel to L. We Will Be Revisiting This Later, by the way. This is not, in fact, the first time you're going to see this detail from Light.

The only sort of reciprocation that we see from Light during Any of these two scenes is when Light dries L's hair while L dries his feet. Biblical meanings/references aside it's interesting because it's the only time he directly does anything "for" L in these scenes, but even then he doesn't try to pass it off as anything meaningful really the same way L does ("You're still soaked", a purely neutral and factual statement. It doesn't Add Anything compared to L's. Sin atonement loneliness grieving stuff. While Light is showing his own reciprocation to this more personal moment he also tries to keep it impersonal enough that it doesn't actually have to mean anything deep). And when L says "I'm sorry" after he once again gets no response from Light. It's also after this that L gets that pained look on his face, like he knows that at this point he's not actually going to get anything meaningful from Light (again, very significant and rare from L in the show. We've seen him in distress (see: when Ukita died, hell, when Watari dies), but even then he mostly manages to keep his usually neutral expression), we never see him "look sad" like he does here):

I just think it's interesting that this is one of the few scenes in this particular adaptation of Death Note where they try to open up the character's thoughts/feeling (especially considering the fact that they. lowkey blunder in adaptations of original scenes from the manga), and L himself is being rather open (not that he ever really tries to hide what he thinks nearly as much as Light), and yet all Light contributes to it in return is like. Actually nothing. Bro fumbled it. There is no resolution to any of this, to any of what L asks at all, to any of the many opportunities for a meaningful conversation, and the only thing even relatively close to an answer that you can get from Light is what you can infer from how he acts in the episode after L dies, where he's just going through the motions, but hardly acting as if he's actually living at all.

(Honestly I think the transition from this scene with the taskforce to the subsequent scene with Misa says enough on its own. Light's expressions and tone says everything:)

(Oh sidenote but. This shit again:

"Light, this is our first date in forever. can't you enjoy yourself a little more?" ('Why don't you seem happy? We can finally be together since L is dead') -> No response, Light instead changing the topic to him wanting to move in with Misa without changing his mannerisms at all

Also there's that one detail again. You pretty much don't see Light's expression when he speaks here at all, except for one shot of his eyes, which is quite literally the exact same shot they used when he "saw" L, just altered for the new setting. You have No idea what he looks like when he's responding to Misa, although it's probably fair to assume that it's the same empty stare he has for the whole Two Shots where you can clearly see his whole expression in the entire scene.

Something something Light Yagami bad at feelings I think you get the point though)

I guess Light's Kind of showing what he's feeling now? He'll admit to himself that it's boring without L, but no more than that. Light never actually admits to anything "significant", and L's dead already anyway, so what would that even do?

And then we get, uh. Basically nothing from Light. For the next 5 Years. Except that he joined the NPA, so, uh, yay? Good job, Light you totally nailed it! Thank you for allowing us as an audience to delve deeper into your inner thoughts and feelings as a character so we can find out more about you as a person! Very helpful! Thank you for not sabotaging one of your few dedicated opportunities to look into yourself as a person and reflect on your relationships with others and being 100% honest with yourself! We stay winning guys.

Anyway, this got way too long for a scene that's over a decade old, and I've probably just said everything that everyone else has already said in this fandom before. But unfortunately this has been living in my head for way too long and I must scream. I just think this episode's neat is all :)

tl;dr Part of the reason why the rain/foot scene (tbh episode 25 in General) stands out so much is because the Death Note anime specifically was a bit robbed in terms of its more emotional character moments compared to the other medias, which makes more somber/introspective scenes like the ones in episode 25 stand out a Lot in comparison. But it's also incredibly ironic because it's one of the few moments where the show (or specifically L) tries to look deeper into Light's character, but because he is so avoidant for the entire duration of these two scenes he adds basically nothing at all. It's almost funny. Mostly sad. It's also very gay. Aand post

Okay actually nevermind one more thing I talked about how the jdrama is supposed to be more emotionally in-depth because it is a TV Drama and just for the record, same thing happens there! I could probably do an entire analysis of the Blue Scene in this context like I did with episode 25 but I'd literally be here forever, so uh, just take this iconic line as my main example:

Same Thing. L's statement "I wish we could have met some other way" is personal. It's his own wish, his own regret that he is expressing to Light. While Light's reply obviously has that same regret implied it's also phrased in a specifically impersonal way. It's closed off. "This is the only way we could have met" it closes off the topic and simply renders L's wish as ultimately futile. Light does not say that he Also wishes he could have met L a different way even if it was likely impossible, instead it's a cold statement of cynical fact.

Idk just. Something something L being able and Willing to be more openly sentimental/emotionally open towards Light/about Light vs. Light's inability to be honest with anyone including himself and his own nature preventing any form of meaningful reciprocation. Something something self-sabotage, y'know the drill. God don't even get me Started on how sincere L's tone is when he says "It'll be lonely won't it?"(at least in the eng dub) in the anime I could talk about his tone in that scene for ages. Also yes all of this relates to L Change the WorLd too by the way. Don't ask how it just does okay.

I do think that scenes like these (rain/foot scene, The Blue Scene. Uh. L Change the WorLd The Novel Adaptation) show, at least in those adaptations, that L does genuinely care for Light, and show that he values him as a friend not just in the mindgame-equal sense but also just like, a more sincere sense you know. Idk if that made any sense and that's a whole other topic for another day but you guys just have to believe me on this one alright please please believe me buries head in hands. Okay post over finally thanks for coming to my tedtalk hope you enjoyed my very-unnecessarily long analysis of the week

[puppppppppy]

my stardew farmer ^_^ he doesnt have a green thumb for shit so he keeps animals and does mining

some tidbits i came up with while playing hehe

reclusive and doesnt really go out of his way to talk or visit people unless its an errand. but he also doesnt try to befriend others to get something out of it, so he has a very easygoing approach to making friends. on good terms with linus and sebastian since he runs into them most often.

if he respects or takes a liking to someone, he'll greet them with miss/mister (name). if you get close to him he starts using first name basis. if he doesn't like you, he'll refer to you by your title without using your name. only a few people have caught on to this.

the farm he inherited, Milky Way Farm, was the site of a meteorite crash and sometimes you can find shards of meteor debris littered around the farm (i picked the hilltop farm bc of this lol)

lost his sweater and pants a long ass time ago and doesnt have the time to look for them, so hes been working in his sleep clothes ever since

isnt actually grandpa's real heir to the farm... ;)

[grelleswife]

Miri and Rei are all smiles on their excursion together…though a distraught Kazuki appears quite peeved at having to miss out!

1 2

[voidshrub]

Hiii hello first art post!!! I hope you guys like addi fanart :D

Woag wow they kiss,, Context? Backstory?? Sorry this is all for the aesthetic I dunno how they got like this :3

Click (pink) belongs to @brightgoat and Link (green) belongs to @e40536 :D

This is the only post I’ll ever be brave enough (and proud enough of) to tag them on probably because I am an anxious coward. Also expect me to draw them a bunch. I might be late to the hype but the brainrot is still strong (Help)