#and even if they WERE in this pretend argument

[the-barefoot-hatter]

#copied from prev:#harry potter was not a covert attempt to brainwash children into fascism#they're very milquetoast 1990s british liberal#she used to fucking hate the tories#and yes there WERE some tells in her books that she had ye olde unexamined biases

#but in the wake of her going off the deep end people have twisted that into#''she was always a hateful bigot and hp was actually a nefarious attempt to corrupt children into sharing her bigotry''

#and like#no#she was once a well-meaning fairly progressive normie who just didn't think too hard about her own background assumptions about the world#and then she got famous and then she got older and she got radicalized by people who targeted her on purpose because she had#enough money and cultural caché to turn into real influence

#and she was completely unprepared to defend her worldview from people who were telling her that her knee-jerk reaction was always right#and anyone who said otherwise was not only a jerk but also a dangerous villain who wanted to hurt her and other innocent women and girls

#and y'all are not nearly as immune to those tactics as a lot of you think you are

#fuck the ghoul that jkr has become but the story of how she got here is not the story of a crypto-fascist who made it into mainstream#it is the cautionary tale of a normal decent person who fell down a bad rabbithole and got swallowed up by a hate movement

#re-writing history so you can pretend she was always evil won't protect you from sharing her fate

#you have to put in the effort to interrogate your own biases and your own knee-jerk disgust reactions#you have to take a minute every so often to step back and CHECK if you have ended up in an echo chamber bubble and touch grass a little

#because radicalization doesn't happen overnight and it can happen to any of us#it's very easy to let yourself believe that you're Correct and anyone who disagrees with you is Obviously Evil

#you have to force yourself to double-check that notion from time to time and to hang onto EXACTLY what it is that makes the other side wron#you can't just say ''well they're conservatives so obviously they're evil'' because that is how you wind up at ''these men are hurting youn#''girls by PRETENDING to be women in order to take advantage of the protections feminists have spent decades fighting for! and we shouldn't#''even be surprised really - men are awful after all. all they do is TAKE from women and PREY ON young girls. we all know this from our own#''bad experiences with men. and we were right to hate them for it! you see!!'' and whoops now you're a fucking terf

#it's easy it's so easy it's so fucking easy and i promise you i PROMISE you there is a hate group out there who has your fucking number#no matter how good and progressive and leftist you think you are there is SOMETHING that could radicalize you into hate if you let it#there is an argument about how certain people are Just Fundamentally Evil that would appeal to you and make sense to you

ok im going to #seriouspost for a second here. I don't think Harry Potter is a manifesto. I think it was a flawed passion project that millennials latched onto because of the fantasy of sticking it to their mean teachers and arbitrarily categorizing themselves (hogwarts houses; it's the thinking millennial's astrology). I think the fact that the series got popular when and how it did was very much a product of its time.

I don't think Harry Potter is the biggest symbol of JKR's bigotry. I think the most flagrant sign of that was how she responded to critics. I watched her become radicalized in real time. I watched how she doubled down on her racism when she was called out for the ways she promoted her tragically mid fantastic beasts movies. I watched her chase marginalized teenagers with a double digit follower count off of twitter for daring to criticize her thought process, and no one with any kind of power standing against her because she was the one who was paying them. This isn't to say Harry Potter is without flaws. This is to say she really didn't give a shit about that. Getting rich and powerful is a hell of a drug, and she had enough sycophants that she had no reason to care about what her critics were saying.

She was convinced that she was a martyr; a voice for the unheard; a leader for the ages, so of course her detractors were the bad guys. And I think we should take this to heart. We should see this as an example of how easy it is to get radicalized; if you think of yourself as a paragon of virtue, you are going to think that whatever you see as good and right is an objective fact. Most people don't know this, but the majority of terfs start out as trans allies. You are not immune to propaganda! You are not immune to falling into dangerous ideologies!!!

This is why the most important thing you can do as an activist is to listen. Do NOT think you're above being wrong; do NOT develop a god complex; do NOT form an identity out of being right all the time. Involve yourselves in the groups you claim to speak for. Listen to trans women; share resources that help trans women; familiarize yourself with the diversity of experiences that trans people have and the struggles they face.

No, none of you are as bad as JKR because you don't have her money or her power. You will likely never have the capacity for harm she does. But check yourselves. Do not affirm yourselves into thinking you always have the moral high ground. Watch yourselves; humble yourselves; check yourselves for signs of cult behavior and internalized prejudice. You are always learning. You will always be learning. Do not allow yourselves to get a power trip from brushing off marginalized voices.

[sshnzsr]

cigarettes after sex

wordcount: 16k

warnings: stepcest, smut, unprotected sex, getting caught during masturbation, lying about being on birth control, emotional manipulation, mentions of pregnancy, abortion, family issues, reader shows signs of depression, self-hatred, and isolation, poverty, arguments, smoking, lmk if I missed anything

note: This is my first time trying to write a long fic. It can be kinda repetitive at some parts that’s because I tried to make it longer. Take a look at my other works.

-

You hated Sunghoon. Not just because he was your stepbrother, but because he was perfect in everyone’s eyes. Your dad, your stepmom, even your cousins—they all adored him. Sunghoon, with his sharp jawline, dark eyes, and easy smile, could do no wrong. He got straight A’s, captained the ice skating team, and had a future everyone envied. Meanwhile, you were the screw-up, the rebellious one who skipped classes and talked back. No matter what you did, Sunghoon was always better. Your own dad, your biological dad, picked him every time.

It wasn’t fair. You remembered the day your stepmom moved in, bringing Sunghoon with her. You were sixteen, he was seventeen, and from that moment, it was like you didn’t exist. Family dinners were about Sunghoon’s achievements. Your dad’s praise was for Sunghoon’s discipline, his talent, his everything. You were invisible, and it burned. You wanted to hurt Sunghoon, to make him feel the pain you carried. You didn’t care how. You just wanted him to suffer.

The plan started as a vague idea. Seduce him. Play with his feelings. Make him want you, then crush him. You knew he wasn’t immune to you. You’d caught him staring sometimes—your tight crop tops, your short skirts, the way you flipped your hair. He tried to hide it, but you saw the way his eyes lingered. You were nineteen now, he was twenty, and the tension between you had grown. You weren’t kids anymore, and you could use that.

It wasn’t part of the plan to catch him jerking off. That was an accident. But it was the perfect accident.

You were sneaking into his room to borrow (steal) one of his hoodies, just to piss him off. His door was cracked open, and you froze when you heard it—a low moan, his voice, rough and desperate. “Fuck… Y/N…”

Your name. He was moaning your name.

You pushed the door open, heart pounding. There he was, on his bed, shirt off, sweatpants pulled down, his cock in his hand. His eyes were closed, head tilted back, lost in whatever fantasy he was having about you. His strokes were fast, his breathing heavy, and he didn’t hear you come in.

You should’ve left. You should’ve turned around and pretended it never happened. But you didn’t. This was too good. This was the key to your revenge.

“Sunghoon,” you said, voice sharp.

His eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to cover himself, face red with panic. “Y/N! What the fuck? Get out!”

You didn’t move. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, a smirk on your lips. “Moaning my name, huh? That’s fucked up, stepbrother.”

He yanked a blanket over his lap, stammering. “It’s not… I wasn’t… You weren’t supposed to see that!”

“But I did,” you said, stepping closer. His room smelled like him—cologne and clean laundry—and it made your stomach twist in a way you hated. “What were you thinking about? Me naked? Me sucking you off?”

“Stop it,” he snapped, but his voice was shaky, and you could see his cock twitching under the blanket. He was still hard, even with you standing there, calling him out.

You sat on the edge of his bed, closer than you needed to be. “You want me, don’t you?” you asked, voice low. “You’re jerking off to your stepsister. That’s so dirty.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting to your lips, your chest, then away. “You’re messing with me. Just leave.”

But you didn’t. You reached out, brushing your fingers along his thigh, just enough to make him tense. “What if I don’t want to leave?” you whispered. “What if I want you to finish what you started?”

His breath hitched. “Y/N, don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not,” you said, and you meant it, at least in that moment. The plan was working better than you’d ever imagined. You leaned in, your lips inches from his. “Fuck me, Sunghoon. Right now.”

He stared at you, torn between guilt and desire. You could see the battle in his eyes, but you knew you’d won when he grabbed your face and kissed you, hard and desperate. His lips were hot, his tongue pushing into your mouth, and you moaned, climbing onto his lap.

The blanket fell away, and his cock pressed against your shorts, hard and thick. You ground against him, feeling the heat pool between your legs. This wasn’t supposed to feel good, but it did. Too good.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he growled, hands yanking at your shirt. He pulled it off, exposing your bra, and his mouth was on your neck, biting, sucking. You arched into him, hating how much you wanted this.

“Fuck me,” you said again, tugging at his sweatpants. “I want your cock inside me.”

He groaned, flipping you onto your back. Your shorts came off, then your panties, and he was between your legs, his fingers brushing your pussy. You were soaked, and he cursed under his breath. “You’re so wet,” he said, almost to himself.

“Do it,” you begged, spreading your legs wider. “Fuck me raw. Cum inside me.”

His eyes darkened, and he hesitated. “You’re on birth control, right?”

“Yeah,” you lied, the words slipping out easily. You weren’t. You hadn’t been for months. But he didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

He didn’t ask again. He lined his cock up with your pussy and pushed in, slow at first, stretching you. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He was big, bigger than you’d expected, and the burn felt so fucking good.

“God, you’re tight,” he grunted, thrusting deeper. His hands gripped your hips, and he started moving, fucking you hard, the bed creaking under you. You moaned, loud and shameless, wrapping your legs around him.

“Harder,” you demanded, voice bratty. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

He did. His thrusts were brutal, his cock hitting deep, and you loved it. You hated him, but you loved this—his body, his desperation, the way he looked at you like you were everything. You clenched around him, already close, and he groaned, his fingers digging into your thighs.

“Gonna cum,” he rasped, his pace faltering. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you said, locking eyes with him. “Cum inside my pussy.”

He didn’t hesitate. A few more thrusts, and he buried himself deep, groaning as he came, his cock pulsing inside you. You felt the warmth of his cum, and your own orgasm hit, your pussy squeezing him as you shook, moaning his name.

He collapsed on you, breathing hard, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then reality hit. You’d done it. You’d fucked your stepbrother, let him cum inside you, knowing you weren’t protected. It was disgusting, but it was exactly what you wanted. You’d hurt him now. You’d make him pay.

-

Weeks passed, and you kept the secret to yourself. Sunghoon was different around you—quieter, softer, like he was trying to figure out what happened. He’d try to talk, but you brushed him off, keeping your distance. The plan was working. You could feel the power shifting.

Then you missed your period.

The test confirmed it. Pregnant. You stared at the stick, your stomach churning. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be a game, a way to ruin him, not this. You felt sick, not just from the pregnancy but from the weight of what you’d done. You’d fucked your stepbrother. You’d lied. And now you were carrying his kid.

You didn’t tell Sunghoon right away. You let it simmer, let the guilt and regret fester. You hated yourself, but you hated him more. He was still the golden boy, still the one your dad loved. This was your fault, but it was his fault too.

You decided to drop the bomb at dinner. Your dad, your stepmom, Sunghoon—they were all there, eating some fancy meal your stepmom had cooked. You waited until everyone was quiet, then set your fork down, your voice casual but sharp.

“So,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m pregnant. From Sunghoon.”

The room went dead silent. Your dad’s fork clattered onto his plate. Your stepmom’s mouth dropped open. Sunghoon’s face went pale, his eyes wide, like he couldn’t process the words.

“What did you say?” your dad asked, voice low, dangerous.

You shrugged, playing the brat like always. “I’m pregnant. Sunghoon fucked me. No big deal.”

Sunghoon choked, his voice barely audible. “Y/N… what? You said you were on birth control.”

You smirked, even though your heart was pounding. “Oops. Guess I lied.”

Your dad stood, his face red with fury. “You… you disgusting little…” He couldn’t finish, turning to Sunghoon. “Is this true?”

Sunghoon looked like he might throw up. “I… I didn’t know. She said she was protected.”

Your stepmom started crying, her hands shaking. “How could you do this? Both of you?”

But your dad’s anger was all for you. “You’re a disgrace,” he spat. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? To ruin this family?”

You didn’t answer, just stared at him, defiant. Inside, you were breaking, but you wouldn’t let them see it.

“Get out,” he said, pointing to the door. “You’re not welcome here anymore.”

You expected it, but it still hurt. You stood, grabbing your phone, and looked at Sunghoon. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. Of course he wouldn’t. He was still the favorite, even now.

“Fine,” you said, voice cold. “I don’t need you.”

-

You moved out that night, crashing at a friend’s place. The next week was a blur—doctor’s visits, arguments with your friend about what to do, and the looming appointment at the clinic. Your dad had called, screaming about abortion, saying you had no choice. You didn’t want the baby, but the idea of ending it made you feel even worse. This was your mess, your fault, and you couldn’t escape it.

The day of the appointment came. You sat in the waiting room, staring at the sterile walls, your stomach in knots. You kept looking at the door, hoping, praying Sunghoon would show up. He was part of this. He should be here. You texted him, called him, left voicemails. Nothing. Radio silence.

Of course he didn’t come. Why would he? He was Sunghoon, the perfect one, the one who got away with everything. You were the fuck-up, the one who’d ruined your own life. Tears stung your eyes as you realized you were alone. Completely alone.

The nurse called your name, and you stood, legs shaking. You regretted it all—every touch, every lie, every moment you thought this would make you feel better. You’d wanted to hurt Sunghoon, but you’d only hurt yourself.

-

The apartment was a shithole, but it was yours. A tiny one-room box on a dead-end street, where the only sounds at night were creaking pipes and the occasional cough from the old folks next door. The walls were stained yellow from years of smoke, the floorboards creaked under your weight, and the single window barely opened, letting in the damp night air. It smelled like cigarettes and stale ramen, no matter how much you scrubbed. You didn’t have furniture—just a mattress on the floor, a rickety table, and a single chair you’d found on the curb. A string of fairy lights hung above your bed, the only thing you’d bothered to make look nice. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

You’d been lucky to have some money saved up. Not a lot, but enough to cover the deposit and a few months’ rent in this rundown place. Your dad hadn’t called, your stepmom hadn’t texted, and Sunghoon—well, you’d given up hoping he’d show his face after the clinic. You’d sat in that cold waiting room, legs shaking, waiting for him to walk through the door. He didn’t. You went through with it alone, the abortion, and the memory of it clung to you like the tobacco stench in your apartment. It was a sharp, ugly pain, not just in your body but in your head, your heart. You hated yourself for what you’d done, but you hated Sunghoon more for letting you do it alone.

Life wasn’t good, but it was yours. You worked two jobs to keep it that way. Days at a greasy diner, wiping tables and dodging creepy customers, and nights at a corner store, stocking shelves while the radio played staticky pop songs. You came home exhausted, your hands smelling of bleach, your feet aching, but you didn’t cry. You wouldn’t. You’d made your choices—fucking your stepbrother, lying about birth control, dropping the bomb at dinner—and now you were living with them. No one was going to save you.

The nights were the hardest. You’d sit on your mattress, eating instant ramen from a chipped bowl, the fairy lights casting shadows on the cracked ceiling. You’d smoke, even though you hated it, because the guy who lived here before left half a pack of cigarettes, and it was something to do. The smoke curled around you, mixing with the ramen steam, and you’d stare at your phone, willing it to ring. It never did. Your friends had stopped texting, your dad had written you off, and Sunghoon was a ghost. You were alone, and the silence was louder than anything.

Until he showed up.

It was late, past midnight, the street outside dark and empty. You were on your mattress, scrolling through your phone, the cigarette smell heavy in the air. A knock at the door made you freeze. No one came here. No one knew where you lived. You grabbed a kitchen knife from the table, heart pounding, and cracked the door open.

Sunghoon stood there, his dark hair messy, his eyes shadowed. He wore a black hoodie and jeans, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. You stared, too shocked to speak. How the fuck did he find you?

“What do you want?” you asked, voice sharp, but your grip on the knife loosened.

He didn’t answer. He just stepped inside, brushing past you like he belonged there. You shut the door, your stomach twisting. The apartment felt smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space, making the air heavier. He looked around, taking in the bare walls, the mattress, the ramen packets on the table. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t say a word.

“Sunghoon,” you said, crossing your arms. “Talk. Why are you here?”

He ignored you. He set a plastic bag on the table, the kind you get from a convenience store. Inside were containers of actual food—rice, kimchi, some kind of stew. Not the instant crap you’d been living on, but real, cooked food. Your mouth watered just looking at it, but you didn’t move.

“I don’t need your pity,” you snapped, even though your stomach growled. “Get out.”

He didn’t. He sat on the chair, leaning back, eyes fixed on the floor. His silence pissed you off. You wanted to scream, to throw the food at him, to make him feel the hurt you’d been carrying since that night. But you didn’t. You just stood there, glaring, the cigarette smell stinging your nose.

This became the pattern. Sunghoon started coming over every few nights, always late, always unannounced. He’d walk in, drop off food, and sit in silence. Sometimes he’d bring other things—a blanket, a cheap lamp, a pack of bottled water. You didn’t ask how he found your address, and he didn’t offer an explanation. He never stayed long, maybe an hour, and he never talked. You tried, at first, to get him to say something.

“Sunghoon, why are you doing this?” you’d ask, voice rough from exhaustion. “You didn’t care when I needed you. Why now?”

He’d just look at you, his eyes dark, unreadable, then go back to staring at the floor. It drove you crazy. You wanted him to yell, to fight, to explain why he left you alone at the clinic, why he let your dad kick you out, why he was here now, acting like some silent guardian. But he gave you nothing.

One night, you couldn’t take it anymore. He was sitting there, same as always, a bag of food on the table—fried rice and bulgogi this time, the smell making your empty stomach ache. You were tired, your diner shift had been hell, and the sight of him, quiet and untouchable, pushed you over the edge.

“Talk to me, you asshole!” you shouted, slamming your hand on the table. The plastic containers rattled. “You don’t get to just show up and play hero after everything! You fucked me, you got me pregnant, and you didn’t even show up when I had to deal with it! Why are you here? What do you want?”

He flinched, just barely, but his eyes stayed on the floor. You stepped closer, your voice shaking. “Say something, Sunghoon. Or get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

For a moment, you thought he might. His hands twitched, like he wanted to reach for you, but he didn’t move. He just sat there, his jaw tight, his silence louder than your screams. You turned away, tears burning your eyes, and lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you like a shield.

“Fine,” you muttered, exhaling. “Keep your fucking secrets. I don’t need you.”

But you did. You hated admitting it, but you did. The food he brought kept you from starving. The blanket he left was warmer than the thin one you’d been using. And his presence, as infuriating as it was, made the apartment feel less empty. You hated him, but you waited for him to come back every time he left.

One night, things shifted. It was late, the street outside quiet except for the hum of a distant streetlight. You were on your mattress, smoking, the fairy lights casting a dim glow. Sunghoon knocked, same as always, and you let him in, expecting the usual routine. He set a bag of food on the table—jjajangmyeon, your favorite—and sat down. But this time, he didn’t stare at the floor. He looked at you.

You were in a tank top and shorts, your hair messy, cigarette dangling from your fingers. His eyes lingered, tracing the curve of your neck, the bare skin of your thighs. You felt it—the heat, the tension, the same fucked-up pull you’d felt that night in his room. You hated it, but your body remembered.

“What?” you asked, voice sharp, but your heart was racing.

He didn’t answer, but he stood, stepping closer. You didn’t move, even as he stopped inches away, his shadow falling over you. The air was thick, the cigarette smoke mixing with the ramen smell, and you felt it again—that twisted desire, the need to hurt him, to feel him, to make him pay.

“You want me?” you asked, voice low, taunting. You flicked the cigarette to the floor, crushing it under your foot. “That’s why you keep coming back, isn’t it? You’re still thinking about fucking me.”

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t speak. You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of his body. “Go on,” you said, voice dripping with venom. “Fuck me again. See if it fixes anything.”

He grabbed you, sudden and rough, his hands on your waist. You gasped, not expecting it, and he kissed you, hard, his lips crashing into yours. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t sweet—it was raw, desperate, like he’d been holding it back for weeks. You kissed him back, just as rough, your hands in his hair, pulling hard.

He pushed you onto the mattress, his body heavy on yours. Your tank top came off, then your shorts, and his hands were everywhere—your breasts, your thighs, your pussy. You were wet, embarrassingly wet, and he groaned when he felt it, his fingers sliding inside you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice low, the first word he’d spoken in weeks. “You’re so fucking wet.”

You arched into him, hating how good it felt. “Just do it,” you said, voice sharp. “Fuck me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His clothes came off, and he was inside you, his cock stretching you, filling you. It was fast, rough, no pretense of care. You moaned, nails digging into his back, your body betraying you. He fucked you hard, the mattress creaking, the fairy lights swaying above. You hated him, hated yourself, but you came anyway, your pussy clenching around him, your body shaking.

He didn’t pull out this time either, cumming inside you, his groans muffled against your neck. You lay there, panting, the weight of it all crashing down. He stayed for a moment, then pulled away, sitting on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands.

You stared at the ceiling, the cigarette smell stronger now, mixing with the sweat and sex. “Get out,” you said, voice flat.

He didn’t argue. He grabbed his clothes, dressed, and left without a word. The door clicked shut, and you were alone again, the silence heavier than ever.

-

The apartment was a haze of cigarette smoke and regret. The fairy lights flickered, casting weak shadows on the stained walls, and the air smelled like tobacco and the leftover jjajangmyeon Sunghoon had brought earlier. You sat on your mattress, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the cracked floorboards. The silence was heavy, broken only by the rustle of Sunghoon cleaning up. He was tossing out the cigarette butts and empty ramen cups you’d left scattered on the table, his movements slow, deliberate, like he was trying to keep himself busy.

You didn’t know why you said it. The words slipped out before you could stop them, soft and shaky, barely audible over the hum of the streetlight outside. “I’m sorry.”

Sunghoon froze, a crumpled ramen cup in his hand. He turned to you, his dark eyes narrowing, shadowed by the dim light. His hoodie was loose, his hair messy, and for a second, he looked like the boy you’d hated for years—your stepbrother, the golden child who stole your dad’s love. But he also looked different, older, weighed down by something you couldn’t name.

He sighed, tossing the trash into a plastic bag. “You should be sorry for yourself,” he said, voice low, cutting. “You ruined your own life while you tried to ruin mine. What is your problem? Do you like living like this?”

His words hit hard, like a punch to the gut. You wanted to snap back, to tell him to fuck off, but he was right. You’d done this to yourself—fucked him to hurt him, lied about birth control, got pregnant, and blew up your family. Now you were here, in this shithole apartment, working yourself to death, alone except for his silent visits. You’d wanted to break him, but you’d broken yourself instead.

You forced a laugh, leaning back on the mattress, a bitter smile on your lips. “Yeah, I do. It’s peaceful.”

He stared at you, his expression unreadable, then let out a short, dry laugh. “You’re crazy.”

For a moment, you both laughed, the sound sharp and hollow, echoing in the tiny room. It was the first time you’d shared anything like this, a crack in the wall between you. But it didn’t last. His laughter faded, and he stood, walking over to you, his steps slow, deliberate. Before you could move, he was there, looming over you, trapping you between his body and the mattress. His hands pressed into the bed on either side of you, his face inches from yours. You could smell him—clean laundry, a hint of cologne, so different from the stale smoke of your apartment.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, voice rough, barely above a whisper. “I never wanted you to be here. I never wanted you to get an abortion.”

The words were a knife, twisting in your chest. You hated him for saying it, for bringing it up, for acting like he cared now, after everything. You shoved him back, hard, your hands against his chest. “Shut up. I hate you,” you murmured, voice shaking, but there was no fire in it. Just exhaustion.

He didn’t move, his eyes locked on yours, dark and searching. Then, quietly, he asked, “Can I stay the night?”

You froze, your breath catching. The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning you weren’t ready to face. Stay the night? Here, in your tiny, disgusting apartment, on your shitty mattress? After everything—the lies, the betrayal, the abortion, the silence? You wanted to scream, to tell him to get out, but your body betrayed you, warmth pooling in your core at the thought of him staying, of his hands on you again.

“Why?” you asked, voice sharp, trying to keep the wall up. “You wanna fuck me again? Is that it?”

He flinched, just slightly, but didn’t look away. “No,” he said, too quickly, then paused. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just… I don’t want to leave you alone tonight.”

You laughed, bitter and cold. “Now you care? Where were you when I was in that clinic, Sunghoon? Where were you when Dad kicked me out? You don’t get to play savior now.”

“I know,” he said, voice low, almost broken. “I fucked up. I should’ve been there. I didn’t know how to handle it. I still don’t.”

You stared at him, your chest tight, torn between rage and something softer, something you hated even more. You wanted to push him away, to keep hating him, but the truth was, you were tired. Tired of being alone, tired of the silence, tired of carrying this weight by yourself. His visits, as infuriating as they were, were the only thing keeping you sane.

“Fine,” you said, voice flat. “Stay. But don’t expect me to forgive you.”

He nodded, like he hadn’t expected anything else. He stepped back, giving you space, and you felt the loss of his closeness, your skin prickling. You turned away, lying on the mattress, pulling the thin blanket over you. The fairy lights flickered, the cigarette smell clung to everything, and you heard Sunghoon move, settling on the floor beside the mattress. He didn’t have a blanket, didn’t ask for one, just lay there, his breathing steady in the dark.

You didn’t sleep, not really. The night stretched on, the street outside silent except for the occasional car. You kept replaying his words, his apology, the way he’d looked at you. You hated how it made you feel—vulnerable, exposed, like maybe he wasn’t the monster you’d made him out to be. But he was still Sunghoon, the stepbrother who’d taken everything, the one who’d fucked you and left you to deal with the consequences. You couldn’t let yourself forget that.

Morning came, gray and heavy, light seeping through the cracked window. You sat up, your body aching from the hard mattress, and saw Sunghoon still there, curled on the floor, his hoodie bunched under his head. He looked younger like this, less like the perfect son and more like a boy who didn’t know what he was doing. You hated how it softened you, even a little.

You got up, stepping over him to make coffee with the cheap instant packets you kept on the table. The smell of it mixed with the ever-present tobacco, and you lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you as you leaned against the wall. Sunghoon stirred, sitting up, his hair messy, eyes bleary.

“Coffee?” you asked, voice flat, holding out a chipped mug.

He took it, his fingers brushing yours, and you pulled back, ignoring the spark it sent through you. He sipped the coffee, wincing at the taste, but didn’t complain. You stood there, smoking, watching him, waiting for him to say something, anything.

“Why do you keep coming back?” you asked finally, voice low. “You don’t owe me anything. You made that clear when you didn’t show up at the clinic.”

He set the mug down, his hands resting on his knees. “I don’t know,” he said, voice honest, raw. “I just… I can’t stay away. I keep thinking about you, about what happened. I fucked up, Y/N. I know I did. But I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You can’t,” you said, exhaling smoke. “It’s done. I’m here now. This is my life.”

He looked around the apartment, at the bare walls, the mattress, the trash bag full of ramen cups. “This isn’t a life,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “You deserve better.”

“Fuck you,” you snapped, tossing the cigarette butt into an empty cup. “Don’t tell me what I deserve. You don’t get to decide that.”

He stood, stepping closer, and you hated how your body reacted, your pulse quickening, your skin tingling. “I’m not trying to decide anything,” he said. “I’m just… I’m trying to be here. For you.”

You laughed, sharp and bitter. “You’re a little late for that, stepbrother.”

He flinched at the word, like it burned, but didn’t back down. “I know,” he said. “But I’m here now.”

The air was thick, charged with everything unsaid—your anger, his guilt, the fucked-up history between you. You wanted to shove him, to kiss him, to scream until your throat gave out. Instead, you turned away, grabbing another cigarette, lighting it with shaking hands.

“Stay or go, I don’t care,” you said, voice cold. “But don’t expect me to need you.”

He didn’t answer, just stood there, watching you. The day dragged on, and he stayed, helping you clean the apartment, fixing the leaky faucet you’d ignored for weeks. It was weird, domestic, like you were playing at being something you weren’t. You didn’t talk much, but the silence was different now, less hostile, more fragile.

That night, he didn’t ask to stay, but you didn’t tell him to leave. He slept on the floor again, and you lay on the mattress, staring at the fairy lights, wondering what the fuck you were doing. You hated him, but you didn’t. You wanted him gone, but you didn’t. The cigarette smell lingered, the ramen cups were gone, and Sunghoon was still here.

-

The air smelled like cigarettes, stale ramen, and something new—Sunghoon’s cologne, lingering from where he lay beside you. You woke up in the middle of the night, your body warm, too warm, and realized why. His arms were around you, his bare chest pressed against your back. You were shirtless too, stripped down to your bra and panties, your tank top tossed somewhere on the floor. His jeans were still on, but the closeness, the skin-to-skin contact, felt wrong. So fucking wrong.

You weren’t doing anything, not really—just lying there, tangled together on your shitty mattress—but it didn’t matter. He was your stepbrother. The same stepbrother you’d fucked to hurt, the one whose name you’d moaned while he came inside you, the one who’d left you alone to face the consequences. The abortion, the exile, the mess of your life—it all started with him, with you, with that night. And now here you were, in his arms, like nothing had happened, like you weren’t both broken pieces of the same fucked-up puzzle.

Your throat tightened, tears prickling your eyes. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him, not again. But you couldn’t help it. You hugged him back, your arms wrapping around his, your fingers digging into his skin. The tears came anyway, hot and silent, sliding down your cheeks. You wiped them away quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice, and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, almost instinctual, like your body was acting without your permission. The warmth of his skin under your lips made your stomach twist—part comfort, part disgust.

You pulled away, slipping out of his arms, and stood, your bare feet cold against the floorboards. The apartment was dark, the street outside silent, just the hum of a distant car breaking the stillness. You grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the table and moved to the small window next to your bed, the one that barely opened. You forced it up, the cool night air hitting your face, and lit the cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating your trembling hands. You inhaled deeply, the smoke burning your lungs, curling out into the dark as you stared at nothing, your mind racing.

You’d ruined everything. You’d wanted to hurt Sunghoon, to make him feel the pain of being second best, but all you’d done was destroy yourself. The pregnancy, the abortion, getting kicked out—it was all your fault. You’d lied, manipulated, fucked him raw, and for what? This? A shitty apartment, a life of scraping by, and a heart that wouldn’t stop aching? You hated him, but you hated yourself more. And now he was here, sleeping in your bed, acting like he cared, and it made you feel even worse.

You didn’t hear him get up, but you felt him—his presence, heavy and warm, before his arms slid around your waist from behind. His chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck. You stiffened, the cigarette dangling between your fingers, your heart pounding. He shouldn’t be touching you like this. Not after everything.

“Love you,” he whispered, his voice soft, raw, like he’d been holding it in for too long.

The words hit you like a slap. You froze, your mind reeling, and flicked the cigarette out the window, watching it fall to the street below. You turned your head, just enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. His face was close, his eyes dark, searching, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Love? After all this? After you’d fucked each other up so badly?

You turned fully, breaking his hold, stepping back until you hit the wall. Your bra strap slipped off your shoulder, and you didn’t bother fixing it. “I feel disgusting,” you said, voice shaking, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “You’re right. What was wrong with me? I’m so disgusting. I… I should’ve never done something like that.”

His eyes softened, but he didn’t move closer, didn’t try to touch you again. “Y/N,” he said, voice low, “you’re not disgusting. We fucked up. Both of us. I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve been there.”

“Stop,” you snapped, tears burning your eyes again. “Don’t act like you care now. You didn’t show up. You let me deal with it alone. You let Dad throw me out. And now you’re here, saying you love me? What the fuck, Sunghoon?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I know,” he said. “I fucked up. I was scared, okay? I didn’t know how to handle it. You were my stepsister, and we… we did that. I couldn’t face it. But I’m here now. I’m trying.”

“Trying?” you laughed, bitter and sharp, wiping at your tears. “You come here, drop off food, fuck me again, and now you’re trying? You think that fixes anything? You think ‘love you’ makes this okay?”

He stepped closer, and you hated how your body reacted, your skin prickling, your pussy tingling despite the anger. “I don’t know how to fix it,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t know what to do. But I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stay away. I hate what we did, but I don’t hate you. I never could.”

You stared at him, your chest heaving, torn between shoving him out the door and pulling him closer. The cigarette smell clung to you, the apartment felt smaller, and his words echoed in your head. Love you. It was wrong, disgusting, but it was there, a twisted thread tying you together.

“Get out,” you said again for the one hundredth time, but your voice was weak, barely convincing.

He didn’t move. Instead, he closed the distance, his hands gentle as they cupped your face. You didn’t push him away, even though you should’ve. His thumbs brushed away your tears, and you hated how good it felt, how much you craved his touch after weeks of nothing.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, voice firm. “Not tonight. Not until you tell me what you need.”

You laughed, a broken sound, and shoved at his chest, but your hands lingered, fingers curling into his skin. “I don’t need you,” you lied, but your voice cracked, giving you away. “I don’t need anyone.”

He didn’t argue, just pulled you closer, his lips brushing your forehead. It wasn’t a kiss, not really, but it felt like one, soft and careful. You let him, your body sinking against his, the fight draining out of you. You were so tired—tired of being angry, tired of being alone, tired of hating yourself.

You ended up back on the mattress, not fucking this time, just lying there, his arms around you again. Your bra and panties stayed on, his jeans too, but the closeness was enough to make your skin burn. You didn’t talk, didn’t need to. The silence said enough. His hand rested on your stomach, where the baby would’ve been, and you didn’t push it away. You just lay there, the fairy lights flickering, the cigarette smell heavy, your tears drying on your cheeks.

Morning came too soon, gray light filtering through the window. You woke alone, Sunghoon gone, but there was a note on the table, scrawled in his messy handwriting. “I’ll be back tonight. Eat something.” Next to it was a container of kimchi jjigae, still warm, and a pack of cigarettes—your brand, not his.

You stared at the note, your chest tight. He’d be back. He always came back. And you hated how much you wanted him to, how much you needed it. You lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you, and sat on the mattress, wondering if you’d ever stop feeling disgusting, if you’d ever stop loving him, if you’d ever be free.

-

Sunghoon showed up late, past midnight, like always. The knock was soft, hesitant, and you let him in, your heart pounding. He looked tired, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his hoodie loose on his frame. He carried a plastic bag—more food, probably—and set it on the table without a word. But tonight was different. His eyes didn’t avoid yours. He looked at you, really looked, and you saw something raw, something broken.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you asked, voice sharp, tossing the cigarette into an empty ramen cup. “You say you love me, you bring me food, but you don’t talk. You don’t explain. Why didn’t you come to the clinic, Sunghoon? I begged you. I fucking begged.”

He flinched, his jaw tightening, and for a moment, you thought he’d stay silent again. But he didn’t. He sat on the rickety chair, hands clasped between his knees, and looked at the floor. “I wanted to,” he said, voice low, rough. “I tried. But Dad… he stopped me.”

You froze, the cigarette smoke lingering in the air. “What?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice shaking. “I need to tell you everything. You deserve to know. But it’s not an excuse. I still fucked up.”

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, your heart racing. “Then talk. Tell me.”

He took a deep breath, like he was bracing himself, and started.

-

Sunghoon’s life wasn’t as perfect as you thought. Growing up, he was the kid who had to be perfect—perfect grades, perfect athlete, perfect son. His mom, your stepmom, was strict, always pushing him to be better, to make her proud. His dad left when he was young, and when his mom married your dad, Sunghoon was seventeen, already carrying the weight of her expectations. Your dad was the first man who treated him like a son, who showed up to his skating competitions, who bragged about him to friends. Sunghoon loved him, needed him, in a way you never understood.

But it wasn’t easy. Your dad favored him, sure, but it came with pressure. Sunghoon had to keep up the act—straight A’s, captain of the team, no mistakes. If he slipped, your dad’s disappointment was worse than any punishment. And then there was you. You, with your defiance, your sharp tongue, your freedom to fuck up and not care. Sunghoon envied you, even if he never said it. You didn’t have to be perfect. You could be messy, loud, real. He couldn’t.

When you caught him jerking off that night, moaning your name, it wasn’t just lust. He’d always noticed you—your tight shirts, your short skirts, the way you teased him with a smirk. But it was more than that. You were everything he wasn’t allowed to be, and he wanted you, even though he knew it was wrong. When you walked in, when you didn’t leave, when you begged him to fuck you, he couldn’t say no. He didn’t want to. He fucked you raw, came inside you, and it felt like freedom, like breaking every rule he’d been forced to follow.

But then you dropped the bomb at dinner. Pregnant. His kid. Sunghoon’s world stopped. He was twenty, still living under your dad’s roof, still trying to be the perfect son. Your dad’s rage was terrifying, but it was aimed at you, not him. Sunghoon felt sick, guilty, but also relieved. He was still the golden boy. You were the one who paid.

The day you went to the clinic, Sunghoon was a mess. You’d been texting him, calling, leaving voicemails that broke his heart. “Please, Hoon, I need you. I’m scared. Come to the clinic. Please.” He listened to them over and over, pacing his room, his hands shaking. He wanted to go. He needed to be there. He grabbed his keys, ready to drive to you, but your dad stopped him.

Your dad was waiting in the living room, his face hard, unreadable. “Where are you going?” he asked, voice cold.

Sunghoon froze. “To see Y/N,” he said, trying to sound steady. “She needs me.”

Your dad stood, stepping closer. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “She did this to herself. She’s a disgrace, and you’re not getting dragged down with her.”

Sunghoon’s stomach dropped. “She’s my stepsister. She’s pregnant. I can’t just—”

“You can, and you will,” your dad cut him off. “You think I’m letting you throw away your future for her? She lied to you, Sunghoon. She trapped you. You’re not the father type. You’re not ready for this.”

Sunghoon tried to argue, but your dad’s voice was like steel. “If you go to that clinic, you’re out of this house. No more support, no more money, no more family. You’ll be on your own. Is she worth that?”

Sunghoon wanted to say yes. He wanted to be there for you, to hold your hand, to face it together. But he was scared. Scared of losing everything—his home, his mom’s approval, his future. He was twenty, still dependent on your dad for tuition, for his skating career, for everything. He hated himself for it, but he stayed. He put his keys down, sat on the couch, and listened to your voicemails again, each one tearing him apart. He didn’t go.

Your dad made sure of it. He took Sunghoon’s phone, deleted your messages, and blocked your number. He drove Sunghoon to practice that day, watched him like a hawk, made sure he couldn’t slip away. Sunghoon skated, went through the motions, but all he could think about was you, alone in that clinic, facing the worst day of your life without him.

When you got kicked out, Sunghoon begged your dad to reconsider. He fought, yelled, said you didn’t deserve it. But your dad was unmoved. “She’s not my daughter anymore,” he said, and Sunghoon felt like he’d lost you too. He didn’t know where you went, didn’t have your new number, didn’t know how to find you. He was trapped, living in a house that felt like a cage, carrying the guilt of letting you down.

Months later, he found you by accident. He’d been digging through old family records, looking for something else, and saw your name on a lease agreement your dad had co-signed before cutting you off. The address was there, a shitty apartment in a dead-end street. He didn’t tell anyone, just drove there one night, his heart in his throat. When he saw you, smoking, living in that bare, smoky room, he wanted to cry. But he didn’t. He just kept coming back, bringing food, trying to make up for what he couldn’t fix.

-

Sunghoon’s voice broke as he finished, his hands shaking. “I should’ve fought harder,” he said. “I should’ve gone to you. I was a coward. I’m still a coward. But I love you, Y/N. I always did. That’s why I keep coming back.”

You stared at him, tears streaming down your face, the cigarette forgotten on the table. Your chest ached, a mix of rage, pain, and something softer, something you didn’t want to name. You’d hated him for so long, blamed him for everything, but now you saw it—the pressure, the fear, the way your dad had trapped him too. It didn’t erase what he’d done, didn’t make it okay, but it changed something. He wasn’t the golden boy, not really. He was just as broken as you.

“You should’ve come,” you said, voice raw. “I needed you, Hoon. I was so fucking scared.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes pleading. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

You wiped your tears, your hands shaking. “I don’t know if I can forgive you either,” you said, but your voice was softer now, less angry. “But I… I don’t hate you. Not anymore.”

He reached for you, hesitant, and you let him. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and you buried your face in his chest, the smell of his cologne mixing with the cigarette smoke. You didn’t kiss, didn’t fuck, just stood there, holding each other, the weight of the past heavy between you.

The night stretched on, and you ended up on the mattress, his arms around you again, your bra and panties still on, his jeans unbuttoned but not off. It wasn’t about sex, not tonight. It was about something else, something neither of you could name. The cigarette smell lingered, the street outside hummed, and you fell asleep, tangled together, wondering if you’d ever be whole again.

-

The apartment didn’t smell like cigarettes anymore. The stale ramen scent was gone too, replaced by the warm, sugary aroma of vanilla candles and fresh laundry. The walls, once stained yellow, were now a soft cream, painted over during a weekend when Sunghoon showed up with cans of paint and a goofy grin. The cracked window had been fixed, letting in clean air instead of damp drafts, and the fairy lights were new, strung across the ceiling, glowing golden every night. Your mattress was still on the floor, but it was covered with a thick comforter and fluffy pillows, a cozy nest you and Sunghoon had built together. The rickety table had been replaced with a small wooden one, a thrift store find you’d sanded and painted blue. Your tiny apartment wasn’t perfect, but it was home, and for the first time in years, it felt like one.

You weren’t alone anymore either. Sunghoon was here, not just as a visitor dropping off food, but as your boyfriend. The word still made your heart flutter, even months after you’d made it official. It happened one night, after he’d told you about your dad’s sabotage, after you’d cried in his arms and admitted you didn’t hate him. You’d been sitting on the mattress, sharing a bowl of popcorn, the fairy lights casting a soft glow. He’d looked at you, his eyes nervous but warm, and said, “Can I be yours? Like, for real?” You’d laughed, tears in your eyes, and said yes, kissing him until you were both breathless. That was three months ago, and now, life was different. Better. Happier.

You stood in the kitchenette, stirring a pot of ramyeon—proper ramyeon, with veggies and eggs, not the instant kind. The radio played a cheesy pop song, and you hummed along, your oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. It was Sunghoon’s hoodie, soft and worn, smelling like his cologne. You wore it every chance you got, loving how it made you feel wrapped in him, even when he wasn’t there.

The door clicked open, and you turned, a smile already spreading across your face. Sunghoon walked in, kicking off his sneakers, his dark hair messy from the autumn wind. He carried a paper bag, the kind from the bakery down the street, and his grin was brighter than the fairy lights. “Guess what I got,” he said, holding the bag up like a trophy.

“Cupcakes?” you asked, eyes lighting up. You set the spoon down and wiped your hands on a dish towel, bouncing over to him.

“Better,” he teased, pulling out a box of your favorite cream-filled donuts, the ones with powdered sugar that always got everywhere. “And coffee. Real coffee, not that instant crap you used to drink.”

You laughed, grabbing the box and peeking inside. “You’re spoiling me, Hoon.”

“Good,” he said, stepping closer, his hands finding your waist. “You deserve it.” He leaned down, kissing your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, soft and slow. You melted into him, the donut box squished between you, and giggled when he pulled back, powdered sugar already on his hoodie.

“You’re a mess,” you said, brushing it off, but your hands lingered on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

“Says the girl with flour on her face,” he shot back, smirking. He swiped his thumb across your cheek, wiping away a smudge you hadn’t noticed. “Cooking without me? Rude.”

“I was gonna surprise you,” you said, pouting playfully. “Ramyeon and donuts. Romantic, right?”

He laughed, the sound warm and bright, filling the apartment. “The most romantic. Move over, let me help.”

You both ended up in the tiny kitchenette, bumping into each other as you tried to cook. Sunghoon insisted on chopping the green onions, even though he was terrible at it, and you teased him mercilessly when he got onion juice in his eyes. “Big baby,” you said, handing him a wet cloth, but you kissed his cheek anyway, loving how he leaned into it. The ramyeon bubbled on the stove, the donuts sat on the table, and the radio switched to a slow ballad, perfect for the cozy vibe.

Dinner was messy, delicious, and perfect. You sat cross-legged on the mattress, the blue table pushed close, sharing the ramyeon straight from the pot. Sunghoon fed you a bite, laughing when broth dripped down your chin. “You’re hopeless,” he said, but he wiped it away with his thumb, his eyes soft, like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, cheeks warm, and leaned over to kiss him, tasting salt and sugar on his lips. The kiss deepened, slow and sweet, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you onto his lap. You straddled him, your fingers in his hair, and he groaned softly, his grip tightening.

“Love you,” he whispered against your lips, his voice low, earnest. “So fucking much.”

Your heart skipped, and you pulled back, just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark, warm, and you saw it—the love, the promise, the boy who’d fought to be here, who’d chosen you despite everything. “Love you too,” you said, voice soft, and kissed him again, your hands roaming his chest, slipping under his shirt to feel his warm skin.

It didn’t go further, not tonight. You didn’t need it to. The closeness, the way his hands held you, the way he looked at you like you were his whole world—it was enough. You ended up curled on the mattress, the comforter wrapped around you both, the fairy lights glowing above. Sunghoon’s arm was around you, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The apartment was warm, the candles flickering, and for the first time in years, you felt safe.

“Remember when we painted the walls?” he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest. “You got paint in your hair, and I had to cut it out.”

You laughed, poking his side. “You were so bad at it. There’s still a streak of cream paint on the ceiling.”

He grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Worth it. This place looks like ours now.”

“Ours,” you repeated, the word sweet on your tongue. You hadn’t talked about moving in together, not yet, but it felt like it. His toothbrush was in your bathroom, his hoodies in your closet, his presence in every corner of your life. You liked it. You loved it.

You shifted, propping yourself up to look at him. “What’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever wanted to do with me?” you asked, grinning.

He raised an eyebrow, pretending to think. “Hmm. Probably take you to one of those drive-in movies, like in old rom-coms. Popcorn, blankets, making out in the back seat.”

You laughed, swatting his chest. “Perv.”

“Only for you,” he said, winking, but his smile was so soft, so genuine, it made your heart ache. “What about you? Cheesiest date idea, go.”

You bit your lip, thinking. “Picnic in a park. Like, with a basket and a checkered blanket and those little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. And you’d push me on a swing after.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer. “Deal. Next weekend, picnic and drive-in. But I’m cutting the crusts off the sandwiches. You’d probably burn them.”

“Rude!” you gasped, but you were laughing, and he was too, and soon you were kissing again, slow and lazy, the kind of kisses that didn’t lead anywhere, just felt good. You fell asleep like that, tangled together, the radio still playing softly, the candles burning low.

The past wasn’t gone. The memories of that night, the pregnancy, the abortion, your dad’s betrayal—they lingered, like shadows in the corners. But they didn’t define you anymore. You’d both fought for this, for each other, and every day was a step away from the pain. Your apartment was a home, your life was yours, and Sunghoon was by your side, loving you through it all. It was sweet, it was messy, it was real, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-

The apartment glowed under the fairy lights, the vanilla candle on the table casting a warm flicker across the room. The air smelled like fresh laundry and the faint sweetness of the donuts Sunghoon had brought earlier. You were curled on the mattress, wearing his hoodie, your legs tangled with his as you watched a cheesy rom-com on your phone. His arm was around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, and every so often, he’d lean down to kiss your temple, making you smile. Life had been good—better than good. You and Sunghoon were in love, your tiny apartment was a home, and the shadows of your past felt far away. But shadows have a way of creeping back.

It started with a text. You didn’t see it at first, too caught up in giggling at Sunghoon’s terrible impression of the movie’s lead actor. His phone buzzed on the table, and he glanced at it, his smile fading. You noticed, nudging him. “What’s up?”

He hesitated, then handed you the phone. It was a message from his mom—your stepmom. “Come home tomorrow. Your dad and I need to talk to you. It’s important.” No emojis, no warmth, just cold words that made your stomach twist.

“About what?” you asked, sitting up, the hoodie slipping off your shoulder.

Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I don’t know. But… I think they know about us.”

Your heart sank. You’d been careful, or so you thought. Sunghoon still lived with your parents, commuting to your apartment most nights, but you hadn’t told anyone about your relationship. Not your friends, not your coworkers, and definitely not your family. The idea of your dad—your cold, unforgiving dad—finding out made your skin crawl. He’d kicked you out for the pregnancy, disowned you for less. What would he do to Sunghoon?

“How would they know?” you asked, voice small.

Sunghoon sighed, pulling you closer. “I don’t know. Maybe someone saw us. Maybe I slipped up. I’ve been… distracted lately. Forgot to clear my phone’s location history a few times.”

You swallowed, the warmth of the apartment suddenly feeling stifling. “What do we do?”

He kissed your forehead, his lips soft but firm. “We face it. Together. I’m not hiding you. Not anymore.”

You nodded, but fear gnawed at you. You loved him, more than you’d ever thought possible, but your family’s history was a minefield. You didn’t sleep much that night, even with Sunghoon’s arms around you, his steady breathing a reminder that you weren’t alone. Not yet.

-

The next day, Sunghoon went home. You stayed at the apartment, pacing, checking your phone every five minutes. He promised to call after the talk, to tell you everything, but hours passed with no word. By evening, you were a wreck, the vanilla candle burned down to nothing, the apartment too quiet without him. Finally, your phone rang, and you grabbed it, heart pounding.

“Hoon?” you said, voice shaky.

“It’s bad,” he said, his voice low, strained. “They know. Everything.”

You sat on the mattress, your knees weak. “How?”

“Dad saw us,” he said. “That day we went to the park, had that picnic. He was there, picking up some client. Saw us kissing, holding hands. He didn’t say anything then, but he told Mom, and they’ve been watching me. Checking my phone, my schedule. They know I’ve been coming to your place.”

Your stomach churned. “What did they say?”

He laughed, bitter and sharp. “Dad called you a slut. Said you seduced me to ruin me, just like before. Mom just cried, kept saying we’re sick, that we’re not right in the head. They told me to end it, to never see you again, or I’m out of the house.”

You felt sick, the memories of your dad’s rage flooding back. “And you? What did you say?”

“I told them I love you,” he said, voice softening. “I said you’re my girlfriend, my future, and I’m not giving you up. Not for them, not for anyone.”

Tears stung your eyes, a mix of pride and fear. “Hoon…”

“I’m coming over,” he said. “I need to see you.”

He was at your door in an hour, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his face pale but determined. You let him in, and he dropped the bag, pulling you into his arms. His kiss was desperate, hungry, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish. You kissed him back, just as needy, your fingers in his hair, your body pressed against his.

“I’m done with them,” he said against your lips, his voice rough. “I’m out. I’m not going back.”

You pulled back, searching his face. “You’re moving out? Just like that?”

He nodded, his eyes fierce. “I can’t stay there. Not after what they said about you. About us. I’m staying here, with you, if you’ll have me.”

Your heart swelled, but fear lingered. “Of course I want you here,” you said, cupping his face. “But Hoon, what about skating? Your tuition? They pay for everything.”

“I’ll figure it out,” he said, kissing you again, softer this time. “I’ve got savings, some sponsorships. I’ll get a job. I don’t care. I just need you.”

You believed him, wanted to believe him, and for a moment, the apartment felt like a sanctuary again. You helped him unpack, making space for his clothes in your tiny closet, laughing when his socks got mixed with yours. That night, you made love—slow, sweet, nothing like the desperate fucks of the past. He whispered “I love you” as he moved inside you, his hands gentle, his eyes locked on yours. Your pussy clenched around him, your body trembling with pleasure, and when you came, it felt like a promise. You fell asleep in his arms, the fairy lights glowing, the future uncertain but bright.

-

But promises don’t erase reality. A week later, things cracked. Sunghoon was living with you now, his duffel bag a permanent fixture in the corner, his toothbrush next to yours. The apartment was still cozy, still yours, but money was tight. You were both working—your diner and corner store shifts, his new part-time gig at a skate shop—but it wasn’t enough. Bills piled up, and Sunghoon’s skating practice was suffering. He couldn’t afford the rink fees without his parents’ support, and you could see the stress eating at him, even if he tried to hide it.

It came to a head one evening. You were cooking dinner, a simple stir-fry, the kitchenette warm with the smell of soy sauce and garlic. Sunghoon was on the mattress, scrolling through his phone, his face tense. You’d noticed he’d been quiet all day, but you didn’t push, hoping he’d open up. But when you set the plates on the blue table and sat next to him, he didn’t look at you.

“Hoon, what’s wrong?” you asked, touching his arm.

He pulled away, just slightly, but it stung. “Nothing,” he said, voice flat. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit,” you said, keeping your tone light but firm. “You’ve been off all day. Talk to me.”

He set his phone down, too hard, and looked at you, his eyes sharp. “You want me to talk? Fine. I’m fucking drowning, Y/N. I can’t skate like I used to, I’m barely making rent, and I’m living in your apartment like some freeloader. I left everything for you, and now I’m stuck.”

You froze, hurt cutting deep. “Stuck? You said you wanted this. You said you wanted me.”

“I do,” he snapped, standing, pacing the small space. “But it’s not that simple. I’m trying, but it’s hard. I see you working your ass off, and I’m barely keeping up. I feel like I’m failing you, failing us.”

You stood too, anger flaring, but it was different from your old fights. This wasn’t about betrayal or the past—it was about now, about the life you were trying to build. “You’re not failing me,” you said, voice rising. “We’re in this together. But you don’t talk to me. You just shut down, like I’m the problem.”

“You’re not the problem,” he said, but his tone was sharp, frustrated. “It’s me. It’s this.” He gestured at the apartment, the cluttered table, the tiny space. “I thought I could handle it, but I’m losing everything—my skating, my future. And you’re just… fine. Like this is enough for you.”

His words hit like a slap. “You think I’m fine?” you said, voice shaking. “I’m working two jobs, Hoon. I’m trying to keep us afloat. I gave up everything too—my family, my old life. Don’t act like I’m not struggling.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild. “Then why does it feel like you’re okay with this? Like you don’t care if we’re scraping by, as long as we’re together?”

“Because I love you!” you shouted, tears spilling over. “I don’t care about the money, the apartment, any of it. I just want you. But you’re pushing me away, acting like I’m holding you back.”

He stared at you, his chest heaving, and for a moment, you thought he’d pull you close, kiss you, make it right. But he didn’t. “I need space,” he said, voice cold. “I can’t think here. I can’t breathe.”

“Space?” you repeated, hurt turning to anger. “You live here now. Where the fuck are you gonna go?”

“I don’t know,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “The rink. Anywhere. I just… I need to figure this out.”

You stepped closer, your voice low, sharp. “If you walk out, don’t expect me to wait forever. I’m not your fucking safety net.”

He looked at you, pain flashing in his eyes, but he didn’t stay. He grabbed his duffel bag and left, the door slamming behind him. You stood there, tears streaming down your face, the stir-fry cold on the table, the apartment too quiet. You wanted to run after him, to beg him to stay, but you didn’t. You’d fought too hard to rebuild yourself, and you wouldn’t let him break you again.

-

Sunghoon didn’t come back that night, or the next. You heard through a mutual friend that he was crashing at the ice rink, sleeping in the locker room, showering in the communal bathrooms. He’d quit his job at the skate shop, pouring every hour into practice, trying to claw his way back to the top. You missed him, ached for him, but you were angry too. He’d chosen to run, to shut you out, and it hurt more than you’d expected.

The apartment felt empty without him. The fairy lights seemed dimmer, the blue table too big for one. You kept working, kept living, but every night, you checked your phone, hoping for a text, a call, anything. Nothing came. You wondered if he was okay, if he was eating, if he was thinking of you. But you didn’t reach out. You’d meant what you said—you weren’t his safety net.

A week later, you got a call from one of Sunghoon’s teammates, Jay. “You need to come to the rink,” he said, voice urgent. “It’s Hoon. He’s… he’s not okay.”

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed your jacket and ran, the night air cold against your skin. The rink was a short bus ride away, and when you got there, it was dark, the parking lot empty except for a few cars. Jay met you at the entrance, his face grim.

“What happened?” you asked, your heart pounding.

“He fell,” Jay said, leading you inside. “During practice. He’s been pushing himself too hard, not sleeping, not eating. He hit the ice, and… he just broke down. He’s still out there.”

You followed Jay into the rink, the cold air hitting you like a wall. The ice gleamed under the dim lights, and in the center, you saw him—Sunghoon, sitting on the ice, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. He was alone, his skates still on, his practice gear soaked with sweat. You’d never seen him like this, so small, so broken.

You stepped onto the ice, your sneakers slipping, and called his name. “Hoon?”

He didn’t look up at first, but his sobbing slowed, his hands dropping to his lap. His face was red, tear-streaked, his eyes hollow. “Y/N,” he said, voice cracking. “You came.”

You knelt in front of him, the ice cold through your jeans. “Of course I came,” you said, voice soft but firm. “Jay called. Said you fell. Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, but his hands trembled. “Not hurt. Just… fucked up. I can’t do this. I can’t skate, I can’t live like this. I miss you. I miss us.”

Your heart ached, but you didn’t touch him, not yet. “Why didn’t you call? Why did you run?”

He laughed, a broken sound, wiping his tears with his sleeve. “Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I could fix everything by myself. I thought if I skated harder, if I won, I’d be enough. For you, for me, for them.” He gestured vaguely, meaning your parents. “But I’m not. I’m falling apart.”

You reached out, touching his cheek, your fingers cold against his warm skin. “You don’t have to be enough for them,” you said. “Just be you. That’s all I want.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching, and fresh tears fell. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’m not stuck. I love you. I love our life. I just… I got scared. I don’t know how to do this without their support.”

You pulled him into your arms, not caring about the ice, the cold, the rink. He clung to you, his face buried in your shoulder, his sobs shaking both of you. “We’ll figure it out,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “Together. But you can’t run again, Hoon. You have to stay.”

He nodded against you, his grip tightening. “I will. I promise.”

You stayed like that, kneeling on the ice, until his tears stopped, until his breathing steadied. Jay brought you a blanket, and you wrapped it around Sunghoon, helping him off the rink. He was shaky, exhausted, but he held your hand, not letting go. You took him home, to your apartment, and for the first time in a week, the fairy lights felt bright again.

-

The apartment was a warm glow of morning light, the kind that made everything feel soft and safe. The window, no longer cracked, let in a golden stream of sun, catching on the cream-colored walls you and Sunghoon had painted two summers ago. The fairy lights were coiled in a box now, saved for winter nights, but the room didn’t need them to feel alive. A small shelf held your growing collection of thrifted books and Polaroids—snapshots of you and Sunghoon laughing at a street festival, kissing under an umbrella, sprawled on a picnic blanket with powdered sugar on your faces from those donuts he loved. The blue table, still a little wobbly, was cluttered with coffee mugs, a plate of half-eaten toast, and a tiny cactus you’d named Spike. The air smelled like brewed coffee, butter, and the faint musk of Sunghoon’s hoodie, which you were wearing, the sleeves too long over your hands.

Your mattress days were long gone. A proper bed sat against the wall, a secondhand frame you’d sanded and stained together, piled with a thick comforter and mismatched pillows. The apartment wasn’t big, wasn’t fancy, but it was home. Your home. Yours and Sunghoon’s. It had been two years since he left your parents’ house, two years since you both cut them off for good. No calls, no texts, no tearful letters begging for reconciliation. Your dad had tried, at first, leaving voicemails that went from angry to desperate before they stopped altogether. Your stepmom sent one letter, formal and cold, asking Sunghoon to “reconsider his choices.” You’d burned it in the sink, watching the edges curl and blacken, and Sunghoon had held your hand, silent but steady. That was the end of it. You didn’t need them anymore. You had each other.

You were twenty-one now, Sunghoon twenty-two, and life was quiet, steady, beautiful in its simplicity. You worked as a barista at a cozy café downtown, the kind with mismatched chairs and live music on Fridays. Sunghoon coached kids at the ice rink, teaching them spins and jumps with a patience you hadn’t known he had, and picked up shifts at a local gym, cleaning equipment and spotting for lifters. Money was still tight sometimes, but you managed—bills paid, groceries bought, a little left for small joys like movie tickets or a new plant. The past, with its pain and betrayal, was a distant ache, not gone but softened, like a bruise you barely noticed anymore.

You sat on the bed, cross-legged, sipping coffee from a chipped mug. Sunghoon was sprawled next to you, his head propped on one hand, his t-shirt rumpled from sleep. His hair was a mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, and he had that lazy, morning smile that made your heart skip. The radio played softly, some indie song about love and rain, and outside, the street was waking up—cars humming, neighbors chatting, the world moving on.

“Remember when we thought instant ramen was a personality trait?” you said, grinning over your mug.

He laughed, the sound warm, filling the room. “God, yeah. We’d eat it every day, like we were gourmet chefs. You’d put, like, a single slice of cheese on it and call it ‘fancy.’”

You shoved his shoulder, laughing. “Excuse you, that was high cuisine. You were the one who thought ketchup was a spice.”

He grabbed your hand, pulling you closer, his fingers warm against yours. “I stand by it. Ketchup makes everything better.” He kissed your knuckles, his lips soft, and you felt that familiar flutter, the one that hadn’t faded even after years together.

You leaned against him, your head on his shoulder, the coffee mug cradled in your lap. “We’ve come a long way, huh?” you said, voice softer now, thoughtful. “From that shitty apartment to… this.”

He nodded, his cheek resting against your hair. “Yeah. Feels like a lifetime ago. You were so mad at me all the time. Thought you’d kick me out for good after that rink thing.”

You smiled, but it was tinged with the memory. “I wanted to. But I couldn’t. Even when I hated you, I didn’t.”

He turned, shifting so he could look at you, his eyes serious but warm. “I’m glad you didn’t. I was a mess back then. Still am, sometimes. But you… you make me better.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of love and gratitude. You set the mug on the table and climbed into his lap, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders. “You make me better too,” you said, voice quiet. “I was so angry, so hurt. I thought I’d never trust anyone again. But you showed up, kept showing up, even when I pushed you away.”

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, his hands slipping under the hoodie to rest on your bare skin. “I couldn’t stay away,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Even when I fucked up, even when I didn’t know how to fix it. I loved you too much.”

You kissed him, slow and deep, your fingers in his hair, your body pressed against his. It wasn’t desperate or hungry, not like the early days when every touch was a fight against the past. This was soft, certain, a promise in every brush of his lips. His hands roamed your back, warm and gentle, and you felt safe, loved, whole. You pulled back, resting your forehead against his, your breaths mingling.

“Tell me something,” you said, smiling. “What’s the biggest thing you’ve learned since we started this?”

He thought for a moment, his hands still on your waist, his thumbs tracing circles on your skin. “That I don’t have to be perfect,” he said. “Growing up, Mom and Dad… they made me feel like I had to be the best, always. No mistakes, no weaknesses. But with you, I can just be me. I can fuck up, and you’ll still love me.”

You smiled, your heart swelling. “I do. Always.” You kissed his nose, then leaned back, your hands on his chest. “Your turn. Ask me.”

He grinned, his eyes bright. “Okay. What’s the biggest thing you’ve learned?”

You bit your lip, thinking. “That I’m enough,” you said, voice soft but sure. “I spent so long feeling like I was less than you, less than everyone. Dad made me feel like I was nothing, like I’d never be good enough. But you… you showed me I’m enough, just as I am. I don’t have to prove anything.”

His smile softened, and he pulled you into a hug, his chin resting on your shoulder. “You’ve always been enough,” he whispered. “More than enough.”

You stayed like that, wrapped in each other, the radio humming, the coffee going cold. The conversation drifted, turning to memories, to how you’d grown. You talked about the early days, when the apartment was bare, when you lived on instant noodles and stubborn hope. You laughed about the time Sunghoon tried to “fix” the leaky faucet and flooded the bathroom, or when you burned a cake for his birthday and ended up eating the charred remains anyway, giggling like kids.

“We were so young,” you said, lying back on the bed, Sunghoon next to you, his hand laced with yours. “Not in age, but… in how we saw things. I thought hurting you would make me feel better. I thought I’d never get over it.”

He turned on his side, propping his head on his hand, his eyes tracing your face. “I thought I’d never be free,” he said. “From Mom, from Dad, from all their expectations. I thought I had to carry it forever. But you showed me I could let go.”

You smiled, reaching up to brush his hair from his eyes. “We saved each other, didn’t we?”

He nodded, leaning down to kiss you, soft and slow. “Yeah,” he said against your lips. “We did.”

The day passed in a haze of quiet joy. You cooked lunch together—spaghetti with homemade sauce, a recipe you’d perfected over months of trial and error. Sunghoon insisted on chopping the garlic, even though he always made a mess, and you teased him when he got sauce on his shirt. “You’re hopeless,” you said, but you kissed the spot on his cheek where a speck of tomato had landed, and he laughed, pulling you into a dance in the tiny kitchenette, spinning you until you were dizzy.

That evening, you sat on the bed, a blanket draped over your legs, sharing a bowl of popcorn as you talked about the future. Not big plans—neither of you were ready for that—but small ones. A weekend trip to the coast, maybe. A new shelf for your books. Trying a new recipe. Sunghoon wanted to teach you to skate, though he admitted he’d probably spend more time catching you than coaching.

“I’d be terrible,” you said, tossing a popcorn kernel at him. “I’d fall every two seconds.”

He caught the kernel, popping it into his mouth with a grin. “Good. More excuses to hold you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart fluttered. “Cheesy,” you said, but you leaned into him, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The apartment was quiet, the street outside calm, and you felt something you hadn’t in years: peace.

Growing up together hadn’t been easy. There were fights, tears, moments when you thought you’d lose each other. The past—your parents, the pregnancy, the betrayal—had left scars, but they’d faded, softened by time and love. You’d learned to forgive, not just Sunghoon but yourself. You’d learned to live, not for anyone else, but for you, for the life you’d built together.

“I love you,” you said, voice soft, almost lost in the hum of the radio.

Sunghoon’s arm tightened around you, his lips brushing your hair. “Love you too,” he said, and you knew he meant it, not just for now but for always.

The night stretched on, and you fell asleep tangled together, the coffee mugs forgotten, the popcorn bowl tipped over, the world outside irrelevant. You’d grown up, not just in years but in heart, and you’d done it together, step by step, love by love.

-

The apartment was a cozy haven, bathed in the soft glow of morning light. The cream-colored walls were adorned with more Polaroids now—snapshots of you and Sunghoon at a carnival, sharing ice cream, laughing in a rainstorm. The blue table, still a little wobbly, held a vase of daisies, a new addition from your weekend market trips, and a stack of takeout menus for lazy nights. The air smelled like fresh coffee and the cinnamon rolls Sunghoon had tried (and mostly succeeded) to bake, their golden tops peeking out from a plate on the counter. The bed, no longer a mattress on the floor, was a proper frame with a plush comforter, piled with pillows that always ended up scattered after your late-night cuddles. The apartment was small, but it was yours—yours and Sunghoon’s, a home built from love and stubborn hope.

Three years had passed since Sunghoon left your parents’ house, three years since you’d both cut them off and chosen each other. You were twenty-two now, Sunghoon twenty-three, and life was good—really good. You’d upgraded from your barista job to managing the café, a role that came with better pay and creative control over the menu. Sunghoon was thriving at the ice rink, coaching kids full-time and even competing in local tournaments, his passion for skating reignited. Money wasn’t a constant worry anymore; you could afford small luxuries like weekend getaways or new furniture. The scars of your past—the pregnancy, the abortion, your parents’ betrayal—were still there, faint and faded, but they no longer defined you. You’d grown up together, learned to love without fear, and built a life that was yours, free from the weight of your family.

You were curled on the bed, wearing Sunghoon’s t-shirt and a pair of his boxers, your hair still messy from sleep. Sunghoon was in the kitchenette, flipping through his phone, his sweatpants low on his hips, his bare back lean and strong from years of skating. The radio played a soft pop song, and you hummed along, scrolling through your own phone, when an email notification popped up. It was from an old family friend, someone you hadn’t spoken to in years. The subject line was simple: “Checking In.”

You opened it, curious, and skimmed the message. It was mostly small talk—updates on their life, questions about yours—but one line stopped you cold. “I was sorry to hear about your dad and Sunghoon’s mom splitting up. Divorce is tough, but they seem to be moving on.”

You sat up, heart pounding. “Hoon,” you said, voice sharp. “Come here.”

He turned, eyebrows raised, setting his phone down. “What’s up?”

You handed him your phone, the email open. “Read this.”

He scanned it, his expression shifting from confusion to surprise, then to something like amusement. “They got divorced?” he said, looking up at you. “When?”

“I don’t know,” you said, taking the phone back. “This is the first I’ve heard. I mean… we blocked them. Nobody told us.”

He sat on the bed, a grin spreading across his face. “So, technically, we’re not step-siblings anymore.”

You stared at him, then burst out laughing, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably. “Oh my God,” you said, clutching your stomach. “That’s… that’s so stupid. We’re not related anymore?”

He laughed too, the sound bright and free, his eyes crinkling. “Guess not. We’re just… us now. No weird family baggage.”

You fell back on the bed, still giggling, tears of laughter in your eyes. “All that drama, all that guilt, and now it’s just… poof. Gone. They’re not even together.”

Sunghoon lay next to you, propping himself on one elbow, his grin wide. “Kinda funny, right? We went through hell because of them, and they couldn’t even make it work.”

You turned to him, your laughter fading into a smile. “It’s like… we’re free. Really free.”

He nodded, his hand finding yours, his fingers lacing through. “We always were,” he said, voice softer. “But this? It’s like the universe saying we’re okay. That we’re right.”

You leaned in, kissing him, slow and sweet, your lips lingering against his. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt the familiar warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart. The kiss deepened, but it wasn’t urgent, wasn’t desperate. It was love, pure and simple, the kind that didn’t need to prove anything. When you pulled back, you were both smiling, your foreheads pressed together.

“Love you,” you whispered, your fingers tracing his jaw.

“Love you too,” he said, his voice low, warm. “Always.”

The discovery could’ve been heavy, could’ve stirred up old wounds, but it didn’t. It was a relief, a punchline to a bad joke, and it made you both lighter. You spent the morning talking about it, laughing over the irony, wondering what your parents were doing now but not caring enough to find out. They were gone from your lives, and their divorce was just a footnote, a reason to chuckle and move on.

-

That evening, Sunghoon was acting strange. He’d been fidgety all day, checking his phone, pacing the apartment, muttering to himself. You noticed but didn’t push, assuming he was just wired from the divorce news. You were in the kitchenette, washing dishes, humming to the radio, when he came up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, a little nervous. “Can we talk?”

You turned, drying your hands on a towel, raising an eyebrow. “You okay? You’ve been weird all day.”

He laughed, but it was shaky, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… come sit with me.”

You followed him to the bed, your heart picking up speed. He sat, pulling you down next to him, his hand tight around yours. The fairy lights were plugged in now, glowing golden, and the room felt warm, intimate, like it was holding its breath.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, serious. “I’ve been thinking about us. About everything we’ve been through. The good, the bad, all of it.”

You nodded, your stomach fluttering, not sure where this was going. “Okay…”

He took a deep breath, his eyes locked on yours. “I love you. More than I ever thought I could love anyone. You’re my best friend, my home, my everything. And today, finding out we’re not tied to them anymore… it made me realize I don’t want to wait. I want you forever.”

Your breath caught, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, velvet box. Your heart stopped as he opened it, revealing a simple silver ring, a tiny star etched on the band. It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t expensive, but it was perfect.

“Marry me,” he said, his voice steady despite the nerves in his eyes. “Not because we have to, not because of anyone else. Just because I want you, always.”

Tears welled up, and you laughed, a soft, shaky sound, your hands flying to your face. “Hoon,” you whispered, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He grinned, wide and bright, and slid the ring onto your finger, his hands trembling. You kissed him, hard and desperate, your arms around his neck, his hands in your hair. The kiss was messy, full of tears and laughter, and when you pulled back, you were both beaming, the ring catching the light.

“I love you,” you said, your voice breaking, and he kissed you again, softer this time, his lips lingering.

“Love you too,” he murmured, his forehead against yours. “Forever.”

You didn’t want a wedding. Neither of you did. The idea of a big ceremony, with dresses and flowers and people you barely knew, felt wrong. You’d spent years tied to expectations, to your parents’ rules, and you didn’t want your love to be a performance. Instead, you went to the courthouse a week later, just the two of you, in jeans and t-shirts, the ring on your finger and a matching one on his. You signed the papers, said your vows in a quiet room with a bored officiant, and laughed when you tripped over the words, Sunghoon catching you with a grin.

It was enough. More than enough. You celebrated with takeout pizza and cheap wine, eating on the bed, the fairy lights glowing, the radio playing your favorite songs. You made love that night, slow and tender, his hands gentle on your skin, your pussy clenching around him as you whispered his name, your bodies moving together like they were made for it. It wasn’t about passion or need—it was about love, about being one, about promising forever in every touch, every kiss.

After, you lay tangled in the sheets, his arm around you, your head on his chest. The ring felt new, a little heavy, but right. You traced his collarbone with your finger, smiling when he shivered.

“Mrs. Park,” he said, testing the words, his voice teasing but soft. “Sounds good, huh?”

You laughed, poking his side. “Don’t get cocky, Mr. Park. I’m still me.”

He grinned, kissing your hair. “Good. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

You talked until the candles burned out, reminiscing about your journey, laughing about the divorce news again. “We were so stressed about being step-siblings,” you said, shaking your head. “And now it’s like… who cares? They’re not even a thing anymore.”

“Right?” he said, chuckling. “All that guilt, all those fights, and they just… imploded. Guess we won.”

You smiled, snuggling closer. “We did. We really did.”

You talked about growing up, about how you’d changed. You weren’t the angry girl who’d wanted to hurt him, the one who’d lied and schemed. You were stronger now, kinder to yourself, proud of the life you’d built. Sunghoon wasn’t the perfect son, trapped by pressure. He was free, passionate, a man who loved deeply and fought for what mattered. You’d both learned to forgive, to heal, to love without conditions. The past was a lesson, not a chain, and you carried it lightly now, a story you’d survived together.

“I’m happy,” you said, voice soft, almost afraid to say it out loud. “Like, really happy.”

He looked at you, his eyes warm, his smile soft. “Me too,” he said. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

The night faded into morning, and you fell asleep in his arms, the apartment quiet, the world outside irrelevant. You were married, not by a big wedding but by choice, by love, by a promise no one could break. You’d grown up together, from pain to peace, and now, you’d grow old together, just the two of you, forever enough.

-

The house was alive with the chaos of a Saturday morning. It wasn’t the tiny apartment anymore—that was a distant memory, a place you and Sunghoon still talked about with nostalgic smiles. Now, you lived in a modest two-bedroom home on the edge of the city, with a small backyard and a swing set the kids adored. The walls were painted a soft blue, covered in crayon scribbles and framed family photos—you and Sunghoon at the courthouse, your twins as newborns, all four of you at the beach last summer. The kitchen smelled like pancakes and maple syrup, the radio playing an old love song, and the living room was a mess of toys, books, and a half-built pillow fort.

You were thirty, Sunghoon thirty-one, and life was everything you’d dreamed it could be. You owned the café now, a thriving little spot with your artwork on the walls and Sunghoon’s skating trophies on a shelf. He ran a skating school at the rink, coaching kids and adults with the same passion he’d always had, his smile brighter than ever. Your parents were a faint memory, their divorce a footnote you’d laughed about years ago. You hadn’t spoken to them in over a decade, and you didn’t need to. Your family was here, in this house, with the two people who made every day a gift.

The twins, Hana and Minjun, were five, a whirlwind of energy and giggles. Hana had Sunghoon’s dark hair and your stubborn streak, always bossing her brother around. Minjun had your eyes and Sunghoon’s quiet charm, content to follow his sister’s lead but quick with a cheeky grin. They were sprawled on the living room rug, coloring a giant piece of paper, their crayons rolling everywhere.

“Mommy, Daddy’s burning the pancakes again!” Hana called, not looking up from her drawing, a lopsided rainbow.

You laughed, standing at the stove, flipping a pancake that was, in fact, slightly too dark. “He’s not burning them, baby. He’s just… making them extra crispy.”

Sunghoon, beside you in a faded t-shirt and sweatpants, nudged your hip with his. “Liar,” he teased, his voice low, warm. He leaned in, kissing your cheek, his hand brushing your waist under the hem of your shirt. “You’re the one who distracted me.”

You swatted him with the spatula, grinning. “Keep it PG, Park. Kids are watching.”

He chuckled, stealing another kiss, quick and soft, before turning to the twins. “Who wants pancakes?” he called, holding up a plate stacked high.

“Me!” Hana and Minjun shouted, scrambling to the table, their coloring forgotten. You set the plates down, cutting their pancakes into small pieces, while Sunghoon poured orange juice, dodging Hana’s attempt to grab the jug.

Breakfast was loud, messy, perfect. Minjun got syrup on his nose, Hana told a long, dramatic story about a butterfly she’d seen, and Sunghoon kept sneaking bites from your plate, his hand resting on your thigh under the table. You caught his eye, and he smiled, the kind of smile that still made your heart skip, even after all these years.

“Eww, Daddy, stop looking at Mommy like that,” Hana said, wrinkling her nose. “You’re all mushy.”

Minjun giggled, covering his mouth. “Yeah, mushy-gushy! You’re always kissing!”

You burst out laughing, and Sunghoon leaned back, pretending to be offended. “What? I can’t kiss my wife? Who made that rule?”

“Me!” Hana declared, crossing her arms. “It’s gross.”

“Gross?” Sunghoon gasped, scooping her up and tickling her until she squealed. “You’re gonna be mushy-gushy one day, kiddo.”

“Never!” she shrieked, giggling, while Minjun joined in, climbing onto Sunghoon’s lap, demanding tickles too.

You watched them, your heart so full it hurt. This was your life now—pancakes and laughter, crayon stains and tickle fights. You and Sunghoon were still so in love, the kind that made you steal kisses in the kitchen, hold hands under the table, make love late at night when the kids were asleep, your bodies tangled, your whispers soft. Your rings, simple silver bands, caught the light, a quiet reminder of the vow you’d made—not with a wedding, but with each other, every day.

Later, after the dishes were done and the twins were napping, you and Sunghoon curled up on the couch, a blanket over your legs. The house was quiet, the radio off, just the hum of the fridge and the distant chirp of birds outside. He pulled you close, your back against his chest, his arms around you.

“Happy?” he asked, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low.

You smiled, tilting your head to look at him. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

He kissed you, slow and sweet, his hand resting on your stomach, where the twins had grown years ago. “Me too,” he said. “You, the kids… it’s more than I ever dreamed.”

You turned in his arms, straddling his lap, your hands on his face. “Love you,” you whispered, kissing him again, deeper this time, your fingers in his hair.

“Love you more,” he murmured, his hands sliding under your shirt, warm against your skin. The kiss heated, but the sound of small footsteps made you pull back, laughing softly.

“Mommy?” Minjun’s voice came from the hallway, sleepy and curious.

Sunghoon grinned, resting his forehead against yours. “Busted,” he whispered.

You climbed off him, smoothing your shirt, and went to scoop up Minjun, who was rubbing his eyes. Hana followed, dragging her blanket, and soon you were all piled on the couch, the twins nestled between you. Sunghoon draped an arm around you, his hand resting on Hana’s head, and you leaned into him, your heart full.

“Still mushy,” Hana mumbled, but she was smiling, snuggling closer.

“Always,” you said, kissing her forehead, then Sunghoon’s cheek.

The afternoon faded into evening, and you stayed there, a happy, messy family, built from pain and love, stronger than anything that had tried to break you. You’d grown up together, you and Sunghoon, from anger to trust, from chaos to peace. Now, with your twins, your home, your love, you were whole—a family, forever.

[sunandflame]

Heat of the Beast

Warnings: nsfw, rough smut, rutting instinct, size difference, mild breending kink, use of devil fruit (zoan hybrid form), possessive dominance, tbh it's pwp

Word Count: 3275

Pairing: Rob Lucci x AFAB!Reader

crossposted on AO3

The signs had been there all day.

You had seen it in the way Lucci watched you — those intense, slow drags of his green-gold gaze across your body like he was memorizing you, branding you. The way his fingers lingered too long against yours when passing a cup of tea, the way his breathing had become almost imperceptibly deeper, slower, more deliberate.

Heat. You knew what it meant by now. Once a month, his animal blood overpowered even his iron will, dragging him down into a storm of instincts he usually despised. He hated losing control. Hated being reduced to nothing but the primal urge to take, claim, breed.

Tonight was worse. You could feel it in the air between you — thick and heavy, almost buzzing. And even now, as you sat on the bed, pretending to read, you could feel him looming just beyond the doorway. Watching you.

Waiting.

"Lucci?" you called softly, heart pounding, pretending not to hear the way your own voice trembled slightly.

There was a long pause — and then the slow, deliberate thud of his boots across the floor. He stepped into the room, and the air shifted immediately.

You swallowed hard.

He wasn't fully shifted — not yet — but you could see the signs: the sharp gleam of his pupils narrowing into slits, the slight enlargement of his canines when he exhaled slow through his teeth, his muscles tensed and coiled tight under his black shirt.

When he spoke, his voice was lower than usual — rough, thick with restraint. "Come here."

Not a request. A command.

You set the book down with trembling fingers and stood. Your steps were hesitant — not from fear — but from the electricity that seemed to snap between your bodies as you approached.

You barely had time to inhale before he seized your wrist — gently, but with a grip that brooked no argument — and pulled you close, pressing your smaller form against the broad, tense wall of his chest.

He was burning to the touch. Heat radiated off him in waves. His scent — deep, musky, wild — curled around you like smoke, dizzying and addictive.

His head dipped low, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

"You smell like you want me," he murmured, voice a dangerous rasp. "You know what I need. Don't you?"

You nodded weakly, breath hitching, body already betraying you — arching into him, thighs pressing together.

He chuckled low — a dark, rumbling sound from deep in his chest — and his hand slid possessively down your side, over the curve of your waist, pausing at your hip. Holding you there.

"Say it," he ordered softly. "Tell me you’ll let me."

You shivered — half from nerves, half from the way his dominant presence swallowed you whole.

"I’ll let you," you whispered, barely audible. "I’m yours."

A growl vibrated against your body in response — approving, pleased — and then suddenly the heat between you ignited.

His body began to shift against yours — taller, broader, heavier — as the beast inside him took over. Muscle thickened under your palms; black-spotted fur prickled against your fingertips; claws pricked the bedsheets when he caged you against the mattress.

His hybrid form was terrifying — breathtaking — devastating.

A massive leopard-man looming over your much smaller frame, his green eyes burning down at you with pure, unfiltered hunger. He bent over you, nudging your cheek with his nose, inhaling deeply.

"Mine," he rumbled — a savage, reverent declaration.

You whimpered when his clawed fingers gripped your thighs and pushed them apart — rough but careful — as though he barely trusted himself not to tear you apart.

His mouth grazed the sensitive spot below your ear — and for a moment, he simply hovered there — breathing hard, muscles trembling with restraint.

"Last chance," he rasped, voice breaking with need. "Tell me no, and I’ll walk away. I’ll fucking tear myself apart if I have to. But if you say yes..."

You tilted your head back, throat bare to him, surrendering completely. "Yes," you breathed.

And that was all it took.

He surged forward — kissing you bruisingly hard, hands everywhere — dragging you down into the primal, raw hunger he'd bottled up for too long.

You moaned into his mouth as he manhandled you effortlessly — lifting you, spreading you, grinding the massive, throbbing heat of him against your core through the thin barrier of your panties. Still clothed — but barely — the friction between you was overwhelming. You could feel the hard outline of him, huge and leaking through his pants, rutting against you in slow, desperate rolls of his hips. 

Your skirt bunched up around your waist; your panties were soaked through in minutes.

Lucci's claws shredded the front of his own trousers enough to free himself — thick, slick, dripping precome already — and he pressed the blunt, hot head against your trembling entrance.

Still fully clothed, panting, grinding against each other like animals in the dark. You clutched at his spotted fur, nails digging deep, gasping his name.

"Lucci—"

"Shh," he growled against your throat, grinding harder, his cock catching against your clit just enough to make you sob.

"Take it," he rasped. "Be good for me. Let me have you."

One savage thrust — and he buried himself halfway inside — the stretch nearly unbearable, so big it stole the breath from your lungs. He froze immediately, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as he fought the urge to slam into you.

"Too tight," he growled against your shoulder. "So good—fuck, you're good—"

He rocked his hips in tiny, controlled thrusts — barely moving — stretching you slowly, agonizingly, forcing your body to take every thick inch.

Your legs trembled, wrapped around his waist.

Every movement was clumsy, desperate, still fully clothed, driven by pure animalistic need.

Lucci's mouth latched onto your throat — not biting, but hovering dangerously close — and his entire body shook with the effort of holding back enough not to hurt you.

"Mine," he rasped again. "Always. Forever."

You could only nod helplessly — body burning, nerves on fire — as he finally bottomed out inside you, filling you completely, claiming you in the most primal way possible as his cock throbbed deep inside you, buried to the hilt — impossibly thick, stretching you so full it made you whimper breathlessly against his furred chest.

And for one, trembling moment — Lucci didn’t move. He hovered there, shuddering, arms locked on either side of your head, whole massive body tensed like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

You could feel it. The primal, trembling urge inside him to just take you. To rut into you like a wild animal until you forgot your own name. But somehow — barely — he held himself still, teeth gritted, low snarling breaths rasping against your neck.

"Too small," he growled roughly, voice cracked with the effort of restraint. "You're too fucking small—"

You whimpered, squirming helplessly underneath him — but the tiny flex of your hips against him was enough to shatter what little control he had left.

He snapped.

The first thrust wasn't pretty — it was brutal, needy, frantic — a dragging pull-back of his hips that made you keen, made your nails rake helplessly down the thick muscles of his arms. When he drove back into you, it wasn't smooth — it was clumsy, messy, as if he couldn’t not slam back to the deepest part of you, chasing some feral, inborn high.

"Fuck—," Lucci snarled, forehead dropping to press against yours, his whole body shaking.

He pumped his hips in shallow, devastating thrusts — grinding you down into the mattress, holding you like you might disappear if he let go.

Each thrust was a struggle — not because he wanted to stop — but because he wanted to fuck you harder, deeper, rougher than your body could take. He cursed low and vicious under his breath in between every slow, desperate thrust.

Your thighs clung to his waist, trembling, heels digging into the small of his back, trying to keep him there — pressed so deep inside you that you felt him everywhere.

"S-so good," you gasped, arching up into him, sobbing his name.

Lucci snarled — a dangerous, wrecked sound — and bent to crush your mouth under his in a kiss that was less kiss and more claiming.

Teeth scraping. Tongues tangling. Breathless, broken gasps between the slamming of hips against hips.

"Say it," he demanded raggedly against your mouth, pounding into you with short, brutal thrusts that made the whole bed shudder. "Say you're mine."

"Yours," you sobbed without hesitation, clinging to him, body clenching tight around the thickness of him.

He lost it.

With a guttural growl, he shoved one huge arm under your waist — dragging you impossibly closer, tipping your hips up at a brutal angle — so he could bottom out even deeper inside you, grinding against your cervix with every desperate thrust.

"That's right," he snarled. "That's right. Mine. Mine. Fucking—mine."

He was rutting into you like he couldn't stop — rough and relentless, making you cry out with every slam of his hips, tears slipping down your cheeks from the overwhelming stretch, the raw burning pleasure.

Your body clung to him, trembling, and it only made him more frantic — chasing the smell of your heat, the slick between your thighs, the desperate way you mewled his name like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"Gonna breed you," he growled against your throat, voice raw, almost mindless. "Fill you up. Knot you if I have to. You're mine."

You sobbed something — yes, please, anything — and that was all he needed.

His hips slammed into you faster, messier, all rhythm forgotten — reduced to pure instinct, rutting hard and wild and mindless, grinding you into the mattress with each possessive thrust.

You barely realized you were coming until your whole body convulsed — clenching tight around him — sobbing his name brokenly into the crook of his neck.

Lucci growled— A ragged, feral sound that was half-pain, half-ecstasy — And his hips stuttered once, twice — before he drove himself impossibly deep one last time and came. The heat of it spilled inside you — endless, overwhelming — filling you up so much that you whimpered against his neck, nails raking down his back as he ground against you through the aftershocks.

Even after he came, he didn't stop moving — slow, shallow grinds, refusing to pull out, cock twitching deep inside you, his massive frame caging you down, panting harshly against your throat. Still trembling. Still barely holding back from starting all over again.

hjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

You couldn’t breathe. Not properly. Not with the way Lucci’s massive body was pressing you into the mattress, the heat of his skin searing against yours, his cock still sheathed so deep inside you it felt like you’d never be empty again.

He was trembling. Full body, bone-deep shakes — low, ragged snarls rumbling against your throat like he was still fighting himself, even though the worst of his heat had been sated. His arms locked tighter around your waist, keeping your hips pinned flush to his.

You whimpered softly — half overwhelmed, half aching — trying to shift, to ease the heavy stretch where he was still grinding slow, instinctive rolls into your sore, soaked cunt.

The second you moved, Lucci growled — deep, guttural — and shoved himself deeper, grinding into the soft, swollen spot inside you with brutal finality.

"Don't—" he rasped, voice shredded raw from panting and snarling. "Don't move. You're not going anywhere."

You could feel the thick twitch of him inside you — the way his cock swelled slightly, as if even the thought of pulling away made his body rebel. Possessive. Wild. His green eyes, glowing faintly in the darkness, pinned you — the feral glint in them making your heart stutter and your body shiver under him.

Slowly — as if he didn't trust himself — he nuzzled his nose against your neck, dragging in slow, ragged breaths of your scent. You felt the gentle scrape of his fangs skim the soft skin there — not biting, just hovering, threatening.

A reminder. A warning. You were his. You would stay his.

"Smell like me now," Lucci rumbled hoarsely, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Inside and out. They’ll know who you belong to."

You whimpered — overwhelmed, trembling, brain foggy from the brutal fucking and the way his weight blanketed you.

Your fingers twitched weakly against his back — still buried in the thick fur between his shoulder blades — and Lucci purred lowly in response, pressing his entire body closer, caging you against the bed as if he could merge you with himself if he just pressed hard enough.

Even soft, even done, there was no escaping him. You were stretched to the brink around him — aching, throbbing — slickness smearing between your thighs, a messy, embarrassing wet heat. But Lucci didn’t pull out. Didn’t let you breathe.

His hips gave tiny, unconscious rocks — not to fuck you, not yet — just to keep himself inside, to keep the bond sealed, to keep your body trembling around his cock until you couldn’t remember what it felt like to be alone. His nose brushed your jaw, a rare, dangerous tenderness in the way he held you — like a wounded animal clutching its mate, afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip.

"Little thing," he rasped, the words a broken, reverent snarl against your skin.  "Took me so well."

You keened softly — overwhelmed, flooded with the heat and praise and the lingering, dizzy ache of being so utterly filled.

He shifted, lowering himself even more until your chest was pressed flush to his — your heart pounding frantic against his much slower, rumbling pulse.

Slowly, gently — he hooked one massive, furred hand under your thigh and hitched it higher around his waist, making your battered core clench weakly around him, earning a low, dangerous growl.

"Fuck—" he gritted out. "Tight still. Don’t squeeze me—"

But your body wasn’t listening — clenching and fluttering helplessly around the thickness of him, still greedy even after being ruined. Lucci’s control frayed further — he pushed into you with a shallow thrust, slow but unstoppable, grinding deep where you were most sensitive. You whimpered, head lolling back against the pillow.

He didn’t stop — moving in slow, aching, endless rolls — dragging his cock along every battered, oversensitive nerve inside you until your thighs were trembling and you were mewling brokenly against his shoulder. It wasn’t rough anymore. It was tender now — brutal in a different way — as if he was trying to mark every inch of you from the inside out, to imprint himself so deep that even time couldn’t wash him away.

The air was hot, sticky, heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and something more primal — something that made your instincts curl inward, pressing closer, submitting without even thinking.

Lucci pressed his forehead to yours, breathing raggedly through his nose, one hand still cupping the underside of your thigh, the other wrapped tight around your back, keeping you caged and motionless under him.

"You’re mine," he whispered, voice wrecked, low, barely human. "Always. Even if you run, little thing. Even if you fight me. You're mine."

You whimpered weakly, nodding — because you couldn’t speak — because it was true — because even if you could have fought him, you never would.

You were his. And he would never let you forget it.

He nuzzled your jaw again, low growls of satisfaction rumbling through his chest as you sagged bonelessly under him — utterly, completely spent — trembling from the overwhelming fullness and the soft, endless way he rutted into you, claiming you over and over, even in the trembling aftermath.

You didn’t know how long he stayed like that — fucking you slow and deep and possessive in the dark, murmuring broken, snarling praises against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The only sound was your broken, shaky breathing against his massive chest, and the low, rumbling growl in his throat that hadn't fully stopped — a deep, vibrating sound of possessive satisfaction and lingering hunger.

You clung to him — fists tangled in the thick fur at his shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck. And he buried himself deeper around you, curling his larger body protectively over yours, surrounding you in heat and scent and the heavy, primal thrum of his heartbeat.

His cock still pulsed deep inside you, a slow, lazy twitch of ownership that made you whimper softly — overstimulated, overwhelmed — but somehow craving even more.

You could feel the way his muscles trembled under the fur. Not from exhaustion — no. From restraint. From the brutal, raw effort it took not to flip you over and take you again, harder, rougher, the way his instincts demanded.

Instead, Lucci dragged in a deep, shuddering breath — and pressed his huge, clawed hand between your shoulder blades, cradling you close.

"You’re safe," he rasped into your hair. His voice was rough, ragged — the words almost a plea. "With me. Always."

You nodded weakly, still trembling. One massive hand slipped under your thighs, adjusting you so gently it made your chest ache. He moved slowly, carefully — as if he thought you might break if he wasn't careful enough. Still half-dressed, your skirt pushed up indecently around your waist, your panties hanging loosely from one ankle — but he didn’t seem to notice, or care.

All he cared about was the way you smelled — the way you felt — warm, spent, and utterly his. 

His tongue — rougher in this form — rasped slowly over your shoulder, a slow, claiming lick that made you shiver again. Marking you. Scenting you. Binding you to him in ways far deeper than any ring or vow could.

You tilted your head weakly, exposing your throat without thinking. The growl that tore out of him was feral — but somehow gentle, too.

Slowly — agonizingly slow — Lucci shifted back, just slightly: shrinking down from his full hybrid form until he was still larger, still powerful, but more human in shape. Still, his green-gold eyes blazed down at you with naked, possessive adoration.

He cupped your jaw with one clawed hand, thumb stroking your cheek — a soft touch that betrayed the animalistic hunger barely restrained beneath his skin.

"You're too good to me," he murmured roughly.

You blinked up at him, dazed, body still thrumming from the aftermath. "I love you," you whispered hoarsely, voice wrecked from crying out his name.

Lucci stiffened — just for a moment — and then his mouth crashed against yours, devouring you in a kiss that tasted like desperation and devotion. When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped against yours.

He was breathing hard, trembling slightly. "I almost lost control," he confessed in a low, tortured whisper. "You made me feel—" His voice broke off, strained.

You stroked his jaw with trembling fingers. "You didn’t hurt me," you promised softly. "You never could."

Another deep, shuddering breath from him — as if your words physically relieved something heavy in his chest. Carefully, Lucci shifted again — this time fully back into his human form — and collapsed onto the bed with you, wrapping his massive body around yours.

His green eyes watched you — not cold now, but something devastatingly raw. As if you were the only thing tethering him to the world.

One large hand splayed protectively over your belly, fingers curling as if to shield the most vulnerable part of you from the world. He buried his face against your throat again, murmuring something so low you almost didn’t catch it.

"Mine," he breathed. "Only mine."

You smiled weakly, closing your eyes, letting the heavy warmth of him lull you into a fragile, exhausted peace.Outside, the world spun on — but here, in this dark little cocoon of heat and whispered devotion, you were safe. Cherished. Claimed.

This was a little request from @potato-imouto under this post. I hope you liked it sweetheart 😘

[mahowaga]

your phone buzzes in your hands as you scroll mindlessly. you glance at the message preview for a second—just a message from a group chat, one of many—and go back to scrolling.

and that's when it happens.

out of nowhere, like some kind of smug white-haired hawk, gojo satoru swoops in and snatches your phone from your hands with a victorious, "aha!"

"satoru!" you shout, scrambling after him immediately.

but he's already halfway across the living room, standing triumphantly on the other side of the coffee table like he's just stolen the declaration of independence.

his grin is positively feral. "let's see what secrets you're hiding from me, hmm?"

you stare at him, completely unamused. "what are you, twelve?"

"emotionally? maybe," he chirps, flipping the phone around dramatically in his hands. "now then, what spicy stuff do we have in here? hidden chats? secret admirers? is your wallpaper still me wearing sunglasses over my blindfold?"

you cross your arms. "give. it. back."

he holds the phone up like it's an olympic torch. "nope. not until i confirm you're not part of some underground spy ring."

"i literally let you eat off my plate. why would i hide anything from you?"

"suspiciously defensive," he says, squinting at the screen and pretending to scroll even though he hasn't unlocked it yet. "what's your passcode again? your birthday? my birthday? the number of times i've been right in an argument?"

you glare. "try zero."

"ouch," he grins. "cold. but fair."

you plop onto the couch, arms still crossed. "are you done?"

"nope," he says cheerfully. "i'm fully committed to this investigation. as your incredibly handsome and slightly unhinged boyfriend, it is my duty to discover the truth."

"the truth is i'm dating a pest in gucci sunglasses."

he gasps, hand clutching his chest. "you take that back!"

"only if you give me my phone."

he considers this with an exaggerated hum, pacing back and forth like he's on the verge of solving a great mystery. "you know if you were hiding something, this is exactly how you'd act."

you throw a pillow at him. he dodges effortlessly. "i'm annoyed, not guilty!"

he finally stops pacing and stares at the screen. "wait. your passcode is literally my birthday?"

you groan and throw your hands in the air. "congratulations, detective gojo, you cracked the case."

he beams. "aww, you like me."

"i tolerate you."

he unlocked the phone with a smug flourish, only for his expression to immediately drop. "wait—there's nothing in here."

"wow," you deadpan. "shocking."

he stares at the screen, then looks at you. "your most recent text is you asking your friend if it's okay to put ten cloves of garlic in pasta."

"there is no such thing as too much garlic."

"i'm actually really disappointed in you. where's the scandal? where's the mystery man? the forbidden double life?"

you sigh and hold your hand out. "give me the phone, satoru."

he walks over slowly, dejected. "you're boring," he says, placing the phone back in your palm. "adorably, tragically boring."

"and you," you say, locking your phone again, "are never touching my phone again."

"oh, come on," he pouts, collapsing onto the couch beside you. "just one juicy secret? just one? i'll settle for a weird shopping history. you don't even have a secret pinterest board of wedding dresses."

you narrow your eyes at him. "that's because you already do."

"hey," he says defensively, "a man can dream!"

you shove him with your shoulder and he immediately drapes himself over you like a weighted blanket with chaotic energy.

"next time," you mutter, "i'm locking it with your middle name. good luck remembering which fake one you gave me."

satoru's laugh is muffled against your shoulder. and despite everything, you can't help but smile.

because satoru, with all his pranks and dramatics, still ends up exactly where he always does—right next to you, grinning like an idiot, with no secrets between you.

just you, him, and the comforting knowledge that the most scandalous thing in your phone is a saved photo of him sleeping with a mouthful of marshmallows.

[maskedbyghost]

hear me out possessive reader x Simon who got into a petty argument earlier that night and course they’re both stubborn, neither willingly to apologize so later that night when they go out to a bar and a girl comes up to flirt with Simon (obviously they both aren’t sitting together, too petty) Simon doesn’t flirt back but he also doesn’t stop the girl from flirting with him. Then maybe that leads to semi public angry sex? In the bathroom, car or maybe alleyway? (≧ᗜ≦)ᡣ𐭩

anyways whatever you do I’m sure will be great!!

you just knew exactly what chaos you were unleashing when you asked for petty arguments, jealousy, and bathroom sex and honestly? you deserve a medal. thank you for the request <333 nsfw (18+), public sex (bathroom), possessive/jealous behavior, angry sex, rough handling (grabbing, hair pulling), slight dom!reader, unprotected sex

You were still pissed when you got to the bar, still wearing the same ugly little scowl you'd had in the car, arms crossed tight, sitting two seats away from Simon like you couldn’t even stand to be next to him, and honestly, if it wasn’t for the way he kept looking at you out of the corner of his eye, you might've actually believed he didn’t give a shit either.

You didn't even remember what the argument was about, something stupid, something about the laundry or the dishes or maybe about the way you kept stealing his shirts and he kept pretending not to care until you pushed a little too far and now here you were, pretending you didn’t want to climb across the bar and bite his stupid smug face off.

You were nursing your drink and ignoring him as hard as you could when she showed up — all bright eyes and big smiles, standing too close to him, hair flipping over her shoulder like she was in a commercial, laughing at something he didn’t even say, and you caught it, the way Simon didn't flirt back, but he sure as hell didn't stop her either, just sat there like a goddamn statue while she pawed at his arm and leaned in too close and touched the back of his hand like she had any fucking right.

You watched it for maybe ten seconds too long, clenching your jaw so hard your teeth hurt, your whole body coiled so tight you thought something inside you might snap, and when Simon caught your eye over her shoulder and smirked — that lazy, slow, come and get me smirk — you knew you were gonna lose it.

You slammed your drink back and stood up fast enough to knock your stool over, and if anyone in the bar noticed, you didn’t care, you were already stalking toward him, your boots heavy on the sticky floor, your heartbeat a mean little drum against your ribs.

You didn't say a word when you reached him, just grabbed a fistful of the back of his hoodie and yanked, hard enough to make him stumble off the stool, hard enough that the girl gasped and stepped back, all wide eyes and clutching her purse like she was the victim here.

Simon went with it, of course he did, laughing low under his breath like he was having the time of his life while you dragged him toward the bathrooms, shoving the door open hard enough that it banged against the wall, ignoring the people who turned to look because you didn't give a single fuck about appearances anymore.

The second the door swung shut behind you, you shoved him up against the sink, grabbed his face in both hands, kissed him like you wanted to punish him for breathing, for looking good, for letting someone else think she even had a chance, biting his lower lip hard enough that he groaned into your mouth and grabbed your hips, trying to pull you closer.

"You liked that, huh?" you snarled against his mouth, nipping your way along his jaw, biting just under his ear where you knew he was sensitive, where you knew he'd make that broken little noise you liked so much, and sure enough he shuddered and squeezed your waist tighter.

"Didn't do anything," he rasped, but you could feel the way his cock twitched against your thigh, could feel how fucking gone he already was, and it only made you meaner.

"You let her touch you," you hissed, shoving him back just enough so you could hop up onto the sink, dragging him between your thighs like you owned him, fumbling his belt open, yanking his jeans and briefs down just enough to free him, rough and messy because you didn’t care about being gentle, you didn’t want gentle, you wanted yours back.

Simon groaned low in his throat when you grabbed his cock and guided him to your dripping entrance, locking your ankles behind his back, yanking him forward until he bottomed out inside you with one deep thrust that had both of you gasping.

He tried to set the pace, but you weren't having it — you tightened your legs around him, dug your nails into his shoulders through his hoodie, made him fuck you the way you wanted, hard and deep and fast, pulling him in again and again while you leaned in close to his ear and let the words spill out, low and filthy and cruel.

"Mine," you snarled, grinding down against him when he tried to catch his breath, "You’re fucking mine, Simon, no one else touches you, no one else even fucking looks at you, you hear me?"

He choked out a broken little whimper, hands clenching uselessly at your hips like he couldn't decide if he wanted to fight you or just give in and let you ruin him.

"Say it," you demanded, yanking his hair back so he had to look at you, had to see the crazy in your eyes, had to feel how fucking serious you were.

"Yours," he gasped, voice raw and wrecked, "Only you, only ever you, fuck, I’m yours—"

You squeezed your legs tighter around him, kissed him filthy and hard as he spilled inside you, hips jerking desperately, his cock twitching against your walls as he came, thick and hot, filling you up so good it made your own orgasm snap right behind it, squeezing down around him, milking every last drop while he whined into your mouth like you were breaking him in half.

When you finally pulled back, chest heaving, your thighs sticky and trembling, Simon just leaned his forehead against yours, his whole body shuddering, smiling that stupid little smile he only ever gave you, the one that made you want to wreck him all over again just to see it.

"You’re fucking crazy," he rasped, dazed and breathless.

You grinned at him, cocky and wild and smug as hell. "Yeah, babe, we all know that," you said sweetly, tightening your legs around him again just to hear him curse under his breath.

And you were already thinking about round two.

--------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate

[ashthesalamipiece]

can I request one where reader and katsuki are “best friends” until one day they have a argument and she ignores him and he gets clingy and jealous and finally confesses? please and thank you!

"Say You Won't Let Go"

You and Katsuki Bakugo had been best friends since your first year at U.A., a bond forged through sparring sessions, late-night studying, and silent support during your roughest days. People often mistook you for a couple, but you would always laugh it off — even if a tiny part of you wished it were true.

Katsuki was your person. Always had been. Always would be... or so you thought.

It started with something stupid.

He had been spending more time with Mina, Denki, and the others lately — and you noticed. It wasn't that you didn't want him to have other friends; it was just...you missed him. And when you finally worked up the courage to say something, it came out wrong.

"Maybe you should just go hang out with them then, if I'm so boring!"

Your voice cracked in the middle of it, and instead of seeing the hurt underneath, Katsuki bristled.

"Tch, don't be fuckin' stupid, (Y/N)."

"No, it's fine. I'm tired of being your backup plan, Bakugo."

You left before he could say anything else.

After that, you ignored him.

In the halls. At lunch. During training.

You weren’t cruel — you just... couldn't bear to pretend like nothing had changed.

---

At first, Katsuki thought you needed time to cool off.

Then a day passed. Then two.

By the end of the week, he was losing his mind.

It wasn’t just your absence — it was how easily you seemed to move on without him. Smiling at Kirishima, laughing with Sero, letting Todoroki carry your bag after a mission when you usually made Katsuki do it just to annoy him.

It made him angry.

It made him jealous.

It made him scared.

You had always been there. His constant. His anchor. And now? It felt like you were slipping right through his fingers.

---

He cornered you after training one afternoon, the setting sun painting the gymnasium in fiery colors.

"Oi," he barked, his voice harsh to mask the panic swelling in his chest.

You barely glanced at him. "I'm busy, Bakugo."

Hearing you say his last name so formally — like a stranger — was a punch to the gut.

"Don't fuckin' do that," he growled, stepping closer. "Don't act like I don't matter."

You bit your lip and looked away, crossing your arms defensively.

"What do you want from me, Katsuki?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He faltered. His fists clenched at his sides.

"I want you to stop actin' like you don't fuckin' care!"

You blinked, stung by the rawness of his voice. "You have everyone else now. Go bother them."

"I don't want them!" Katsuki exploded, making you flinch. His chest heaved. His heart felt like it was going to tear through his ribs. "I want you. It's always been you, dumbass."

Silence.

You stared at him, stunned.

He took a shuddering breath, stepping closer, lowering his voice like a secret meant for you alone.

"I'm a fuckin' idiot. I didn't know how to say it. But... you're not my backup plan, (Y/N). You're my everything."

Your eyes burned.

You wanted to stay mad — to throw his words back at him and protect your heart — but the way he looked at you, desperate and terrified, broke down every wall you'd built.

Slowly, you shook your head. "You should've told me sooner, Katsuki..."

He hesitated, then cupped your face with rough, calloused hands, as if he was scared you'd disappear.

"I'm tellin' you now. Don't make me fuckin' beg."

You laughed wetly through your tears, clutching the front of his shirt to steady yourself.

"Idiot," you whispered. "I was in love with you this whole time."

Katsuki kissed you like a man drowning — fierce, wild, full of all the things he never knew how to say. And you kissed him back just as desperately, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Because he was.

Because he always had been.

---

Later that night, as you sat together on the roof of the dorms, his arm slung over your shoulders, he muttered into your hair:

"Never ignoring me again, got it?"

You smiled softly against his chest.

"Only if you promise the same."

Katsuki squeezed you tighter.

"Deal."

And this time, you both knew you meant forever.

[xmpsrrr]

Second guessing

inspired by the song “Love me not” by Raevyn Laene

(bakugo x reader)

The first time Bakugo said he loved you, it had been reckless.

A shout in the heat of an argument.

You were crying. He was furious. And the words exploded out of him like a grenade.

“I fucking love you, you idiot!”

You had frozen.

He had too.

Neither of you said anything after that.

Not really.

Not about that.

You both pretended it hadn’t happened — like pretending made it easier to breathe.

Like pretending made it real.

But pretending stopped working when the doubts started to creep in — eating you from the inside out.

Tonight, the apartment was too quiet.

You sat outside on the small balcony, the city’s lights bleeding into a thousand blurred stars. Bakugo’s hoodie was draped around you — oversized, heavy, smelling like him. But it didn’t stop the cold creeping under your skin.

You were tired.

Tired of wondering if he really meant it.

Tired of feeling like you were waiting for him to wake up one morning, realize he could do better, and walk away.

You heard the glass door slide open behind you. Heavy boots against the floor.

Bakugo didn’t say anything at first.

Just stood there, watching you.

“You’re freezin’, dumbass,” he muttered eventually, stepping closer. His voice was rough, frustrated — but you heard the thread of concern beneath it.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at him.

The silence stretched thin, painful.

Finally, he dropped down beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him against your side.

“You’re actin’ weird,” he said.

Still, you stayed quiet.

“You mad at me?” His voice was low now. Uncertain.

That was the worst part.

Bakugo Katsuki — who could fight entire armies without flinching — sounded scared to ask.

You shook your head, pulling the hoodie tighter around you. “No. I just…”

The words caught. You forced them out anyway.

“I don’t want you to stay if you don’t want to.”

Bakugo’s whole body tensed beside you.

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

You swallowed hard, fighting the burning behind your eyes.

“You don’t have to love me just because you said it once,” you whispered. “You don’t have to pretend.”

There was a sharp intake of breath — like you’d stabbed him.

You finally turned to look at him.

Bakugo’s face wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t annoyed.

It was wrecked.

“You think I’m fakin’ this shit?” he said, voice cracking at the edges. “You think I’d waste my goddamn time?”

You flinched. He saw it. His face crumpled even more.

“Shit. No, I…” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots like he needed the pain to ground himself. “I’m just—”

He cursed under his breath.

“I ain’t good at this.”

You waited, chest aching, every second stretching endlessly.

Finally, he spoke again. Softer.

Raw.

“When I was a kid,” he said, staring down at his hands, “everybody told me I was gonna be the best. Strongest. Perfect.” He gave a broken laugh. “And I believed ’em. Thought… if I was perfect, nobody could leave me. Nobody could… get tired of me.”

He swallowed thickly. His voice got quieter.

“But they still did. Friends. People I cared about. People who… mattered.”

Your heart twisted painfully. You reached out, your fingers brushing over his knuckles — a silent I’m here.

Bakugo flinched again — but didn’t pull away.

“I got it stuck in my fuckin’ head,” he rasped, “that no matter how strong I got, it wouldn’t be enough. I’d still lose the people I…” His voice broke for real this time. “People I loved.”

You felt your throat close up.

“And then you,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You show up. You see all the shitty parts. The temper. The pride. The fuckin’ ugly, broken pieces — and you stay.”

He finally looked up at you, and god — his eyes. They were red, furious, desperate.

“I don’t know how to trust that.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Katsuki,” you said, voice thick. “You never did.”

He exhaled a broken laugh — part disbelief, part relief.

“I love you,” he said, voice shaking. “Not ’cause I have to. Not ’cause I’m scared. Not ’cause I’m lonely.”

He leaned in, forehead pressing to yours, rough hands cradling your face like you were something precious.

“I love you ’cause you make me wanna be better,” he breathed. “Not for anyone else. For you.”

You clutched his hoodie tight around you, sobbing quietly.

“And I’m scared as fuck,” Bakugo admitted, voice hoarse. “But I’m not goin’ anywhere. You’re stuck with me, you hear me?”

You nodded fiercely, unable to speak.

Bakugo kissed you then — fierce, desperate, like he was staking his claim. Like he needed you to believe it.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, tasting the salt of your shared fear, your shared hope.

When you finally pulled back, he was still holding you like he never planned to let go.

“You believe me now, dumbass?” he muttered against your hair.

You laughed through your tears, burying your face in his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I believe you.”

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t second-guessing anything.

hope u guys enjoyed, i love this song.

[luigisbambinaaa]

Fic request for after Luigi gets out of jail.

He comes out not in a very good mental state ofc. He does a great job at keeping it together, goes to therapy etc, but has episodes where he snaps or is just out of line. (Not violent or anything but enough to say things he doesn't mean.) You both have a bad fight one night, and you rush off to your room where you lay down and cry. You pass out, and wake up to him on his knees by the bed, apologizing and kissing your hands and just begging you for forgiveness. Turns into smut, lovemaking but still intense (raw and super intimate)

Call it Fate, Call it Karma

Summary: Luigi snaps at you, hurting your feelings, and begging to make it up to you.

Content Warning: Very brief argument, Luigi crying, reader crying, p in v, a bit angsty (?)

An: oof this took me sooo long to write im sorry! spring break ended and i was swamped with work. this is also my first time writing anything angsty so i hope i lived up to your expectations anon! thanks for the request <3 enjoy!

other works: soft spot , soft spot pt. 2

—————————————

It wasn’t even a big deal.

Just some stupid comment you made about groceries and how tired and overwhelmed you were, obviously trying to make a joke.

But the moment the words left your mouth, Luigi’s whole face changed.

His eyes went cold, jaw tightened, and his fists clenched at his sides. And you knew that look, you knew he was trying to keep his anger from bubbling over, just like he had been working on with his therapist.

But he snapped anyway, disregarding any feelings you’d have.

“Why are the fuck are you still here if you’re so fucking miserable then, huh?”

“I didn’t ask you to stay. You can leave whenever you want.”

The words cut you like knives, leaving you almost frozen.

He wasn’t even loud nor violent, but cold enough to hit exactly where it would hurt the most.

You stood there, heart hammering and throat closing.

Feeling all your insecurities flooding back to the surface. Thoughts of not being good enough for him anymore, that he didn’t really want to be with you anymore after being gone for so long, that maybe he realized you were a burden too.

And you didn’t say a thing, you couldn’t bring yourself to.

You turned and ran, vision blurred with hot tears.

You barely remembered slamming your bedroom door, barely remembered collapsing into bed and sobbing into your pillows as your entire body shook.

You cried hard, even more than you expected to.

Every fear pouring out of every tear— of losing him, of not being enough to pull him out of the darkness he was plagued with, of loving him more than he could ever love you back.

And eventually, the exhaustion lulled you to sleep.

———

You awoke hours later to the sound of quiet sobs and broken breathing.

You blinked your swollen eyes open, sticky tears dried to your face, and saw Luigi.

Kneeling by your bed, forehead pressed against your hands, his entire body shaking with quiet, desperate sobs.

He kissed your knuckles over and over again, whispering quiet apologies against your skins like he was praying,

“I’m sorry baby.”

“I’m so fucking sorry, please.”

“Please, don’t leave me. Please.”

You stirred, fingers twitching against his, and his head snapped up immediately, letting you get a good look at his wrecked state.

Red-rimmed eyes, mouth trembling, and endless tears sliding down his cheeks.

Luigi, who never let ANYONE see him so vulnerable, so broken like this, kneeling beside you.

“Please,” he gasped, climbing into bed like he couldn’t bear to be any further away from you anymore.

“Please don’t leave. I didn’t mean it, baby. Please don’t hate me. Baby, I swear I didn’t mean it.”

You stayed silent for a second, still stunned by his appearance, still hurt by his words, before whispering,

“You don’t get to say things like that to me and pretend it’s nothing, Lu.”

“I’ve stayed because i love you.”

Your voice cracked and your hands shook, but you still managed to say,

“If you don’t want me— If you think I’ve been a burden, just say it now.”

Luigi broke.

Collapsing against you, sobbing, shaking, hugging you like he was afraid if he didn’t have any hands on you, you’d disappear.

His words spilling out frantically, “no, no, never, you’re my whole world, i’m sorry, please don’t leave, i’m sorry—“

You wrapped your arms around him, rocking him, whispering sweet little soothing words, letting tears slide down your cheeks as well.

“I’m here,” you whispered against his curls. “I’m not leaving, baby, I’m not going anywhere.”

———

Somehow, through all the tears, your mouths found each other.

Kisses that tasted of salt and of so many things left unsaid.

Luigi kissed you like he wanted to swallow you whole. Like he could kiss away all the broken parts of you.

And you kissed him back, desperate and trembling. Tugging on his clothes, needing him closer, and needing him now.

He stripped you first, tender but clumsy, tears still slipping off his cheeks and hands shaking when brushing against your soft skin.

You undressed him second, just as frantically. Tearing his hoodie off, yanking his jeans down, until you were both skin-to-skin, warm, sticky, but wrecked together.

When he finally pressed his body against yours, his forehead resting on yours and his heavy, hot cock between your thighs, you whimpered and dug your nails into his shoulders.

“Please,” you gasped, wrecked and needy.

“Lu… please, need you.”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “I’m here, baby.”

He lined himself up, hands trembling and pushed into you slow.

So slow it almost hurt. So slow you felt every single inch of him press deep inside, dragging a sharp, breathless moan from you.

Your legs spread wider without thinking. Just desperate to take all of him, to feel all of him and drown in it.

Luigi whimpered when he bottomed out, buried to the hilt with your walls fluttering around him.

“God,” he rasped, voice breaking. “You feel so good. So fucking good, baby”

He stayed buried inside you, trembling and peppering kisses over your cheeks, your throat, and your lips— whispering broken promises into your skin.

“You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“Forever.”

And when he finally moved, it wasn’t rough or frantic. It was slow, deep, and wrecked.

Every thrust lit your nerves on fire, feeling so full and stretched, and overwhelmed by his weight on you in the best way.

He fucked you like he wanted to become one with you. Like he needed your body to understand how apologetic he was.

Each slow drag of his hips pulled more tears from you, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming love and care pouring out of him.

“I’m sorry,” he kept gasping. “I’m sorry, baby. I love you so much. I’m never gonna hurt you again, swear.”

“I know,” you sobbed— kissing him and clutching him closer. “I know. I love you, Lu.”

He moved faster, deeper. His thrusts becoming messy, desperate, and grinding you further into the mattress until you were sobbing into his mouth and your nails clawing at his back.

He reached between you, hand sliding down your body to press little tight circles over your clit with his thumb.

“Wanna feel you cum on me, baby,” he moaned against your lips. “Wanna feel you milk me, bella.”

Your thighs trembled, whole body shuddering as he kept fucking you just right.

“That’s it,” he breathed, already panting.

“That’s my girl. My perfect baby. Taking it so good— fuck, gonna make me lose it.”

You came first— body locking up and clenching Luigi so tight he groaned— a low, broken noise that went straight to your pussy.

You sobbed his name, hands grabbing blindly at him, thighs shaking as your orgasm rocked through you, and still he didn’t stop.

“Good girl,” he whispered, fucking you through it. “So good, so fucking good for me, baby.”

And Luigi followed right after— burying himself as deep as he could inside you, sobbing out your name as he came, his hips jerking, cum spilling into you in warm pulses as he moaned against your mouth.

He didn’t stop kissing you. Not even when he collapsed on top of you, still inside you, panting, and trembling with how much he loved you.

———

You stayed there wrapped around each other, shaking, clinging, and sticky.

Kissing each other’s faces, whispering wrecked little ‘i love you’s’ until neither of you could speak.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you even thought about it.

You two were home right there, in each other’s arms.

———

You’re not sure how much time had passed, but eventually, Luigi stirred with his voice low as he whispered into your hair,

“I’m sorry again, baby. For everything I said. I shouldn’t have—“

You cut him off with a soft kiss and shaking your head.

“Stop,” You murmured gently. “You don’t have to keep repeating it. You already showed me. You’re here and we’re okay.”

His arms instinctively tightened around you as he buried his face in your neck.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it,” he whispered.

You ran your fingers through his curls, lightly scratching his scalp, grounding him with every tug.

“Then just start here,” you said softly. “Let’s sleep and just hold me.”

He pressed a soft and tentative kiss to your collarbone, his eyes fluttering shut.

And you both stayed like that, sore, but comforted. Both your hearts steady for the first time in a long time.

Because no matter how heavy the night had started, you were both ending it together.

[valeelavvale]

Glitter Heart

featuring : Oscar Piastri/reader; Oscar Piastri/family

summary : (requested by anonim) : Oscar wins again an he celebrates with his loved ones.

genre : romance/family

word count : 909

He could still hear the roar of the crowd outside, it echoed in his ears and it was a wonderful sound.

Oscar had started the season with a slip but, once he regained his balance, he started running like a flash. Two victories one after the other, the top of the championship. It still didn't seem real to him.

"It's not a dream," his girlfriend whispered in his ear, hugging him from behind while he was sitting.

"Come on, repeat it with me: it's really happening," she laughed again.

Oscar laughed shaking his head "I'm still not so sure," he joked.

"Well it is, it seems that on the track you are not the disaster you are at home!" Hattie, the eldest of his sisters, declared.

"Nicea s always Hat..." he replied sticking his tongue out at her.

"Kids!" Oscar's mother's voice echoed behind them "You are too good at putting up with all of us," she laughed at her son's girlfriend shaking her head.

"Oh, I'm used to you by now, Nicole, you know, I feel like part of the clan," y/n laughed amused "When I can, I even participate in the arguments!".

"I don't want to have to start scolding you too!" echoed the woman amused "I prefer when you help me put an end to these guys' arguments."

"I still think that we should swap her with Oscar, leave him at McLaren and keep her as a sister, we all gain," Edie commented without taking her eyes off her phone.

"I don't feel appreciated," Oscar exclaimed loudly.

"I appreciate you a lot," his girlfriend whispered in his ear amused without being heard by the rest of the family.

Oscar laughed, when he brought his parents and siblings along it was always a mess, when it was just y/n it was much quieter, but he had to admit that celebrating a victory with the whole clan, as y/n called it, wasn't so bad.

"Come on, we have a table reserved for dinner soon," she said giving him a kiss on the cheek "And I have to help your sisters choose what to wear first..." she laughed.

"All three? You know I'm jealous of my family lately, you spend much more time with them than with me and it doesn't make me happy," he joked turning his face to look at her.

"You should have seen the shopping I did with your mother this morning..." she laughed amused "Come on, from tomorrow it's just you and me again and we'll go out to celebrate without parents, little sisters..."

"... We can’t go out at all, we can celebrate at home," he smiled amused.

"Let's see how you behave tonight... If you argue with your sisters or not," she joked.

"Or what will you do, put me in time-out?" he teased getting up "I'm going to change," he continued giving her a kiss.

Y/n felt at home in that family, the fact that she had never known her mother and that her father had long been such an inconsistent presence in her life had pushed her to love even more the family atmosphere she breathed with those people.

With Oscar she felt at home, wherever she was, in any hotel, anywhere in the world.

It didn't bother her that his family was very present, that sometimes she had to consider sharing her boyfriend even when she might not have wanted to.

There were moments for them, they always managed to escape the confusion, close themselves at home, lying on the couch talking, watching dozens of episodes of TV series ignoring the phones that kept buzzing with messages.

She liked being the older sister that Hattie, Edie, and Mae pretended to desperately want instead of Oscar, when in reality, they adored no one as much as they adored their brother.

They had built the largest Barbie city in Mae's room, even Oscar once, when they were having lunch at his parents’ house, started playing with it (trying to build a city circuit to make Ken race).

Oscar loved that y/n didn't feel the weight of a family to which he, perhaps, was too attached.

Not that he didn't know how to set limits, but it was difficult to keep his sisters at home when their brother was traveling the world racing in a Formula 1.

-

After dinner, Oscar's parents and sisters had returned to the hotel, mainly to give the winner a break from the girls' chatter and to give him and y/n some time to celebrate the victory of a perfect Grand Prix together.

"In Miami, it will be just you and me," he commented passing an arm over her shoulders and stealing a kiss.

"I don't mind the idea at all, nothing against your family but... Sometimes I like having you just for myself," she smiled.

"When it's too much y/n, tell me..."

"...it's not too much, not now, okay? I love your family and I hope you've noticed how much your family loves me," she joked amused "It's okay like this, you're always traveling the world, I have to share you with so many people, the team, the journalists, the family... Then there's this little piece that remains for me and that I love to death," she smiled as he stopped to give her a kiss.

"I love you," the boy said with that simplicity he always had.

"Me too," y/n replied "And your sister stuck a glitter heart on your back," she laughed before kissing him again "I might have cut it out myself, a sign of my love, right?" she whispered.

"You're worse than them..." he muttered hugging her.

He was happy, really happy.

[florihaei]

• ౨ৎ ────── WHERE THE ROSES BLOOM ₊ ˖ ་.

( 이동혁 ) ꒰ lee!donghyuck x fem!reader

in which .. ꒰ in a city where secrets grow faster than roses, you find yourself entangled with the one boy everyone says you should stay away from.. lee haechan. the boy who was hiding more than he lets on, he’s everything you shouldn’t want… and exactly what your heart keeps reaching for. but as midnight talks linger longer than they should have , and his laughter hides even heavier truths, you realize sometimes the most beautiful things are born from chaos. and love? it blooms where you least expect it. ⟡ 🌹

⟡ 🌹 .ᐟ - drama au!, fluff/suggestive/angst, humor, friends to lovers!, fake dating!(briefly), jealousy!(misunderstandings, rumors!) slow burn romance!, mild alcoholic mentions!, arguments!, happy ending!- names : pretty, rose girl, sweetheart, angel!

౨ৎ … NOT PROOFREAD ! ( FLORIHAEI’S VALUT )

秋のメモ… ︵ ︵ ིྀ - this wasn’t planned out just thought of this randomly😭!, like and reblogs are always greatly appreciated!!, comment to be in the taglist for parts 2 and 3!! please enjoy reading!!

— ꒰ part 1! .ᐟ ✦

— ꒰ part 2 coming soon.ᐟ ✦

— ꒰ part 3 coming soon.ᐟ ✦

©florihaei 2025 ꒰ do not rewrite, copy, repost, or translate any of my works without permission ۟ ׅ ͡ ୨ৎ

“love is a little reckless like that, it never ask if your ready - it just blooms”

you weren’t even supposed to be at this party. it was the last place you wanted to be, a cramped, overheated house packed with bodies, the music was way to loud , and the air was thick with the smell of beer and sweat and cheap cheap cologne. you tugged yourself consciously at the sleeve of your jacket, wishing you could just disappear into the wall, but your best friend just looped her arm through yours and yanked you deeper into the chaos.

“come on” she says brightly over the music, “just live a little!”

you gave her a look. “you said this was going to be a “small hangout.”

she laughed, not even pretending to feel bad. “same difference.”

you sighed, resigning yourself to your fate. fine, just an hour. then you could sneak out and spend the rest of the night in bed, pretending none of this ever even happened. you just had to survive until then.

you trailed after her towards the kitchen, dodging the occasional tipsy papergoer. that’s when you saw him ..

lee haechan.

he was impossible to miss, perched up on the counter like it was a throne, swinging his legs and laughing with a group of friends. his messy brown hair caught the light every time he tipped his head back, flashing that obnoxiously attractive smile that you absolutely refused to think it was charming.

god, he was insufferable.

your best friend caught your line of sight and groaned. “ugh he’s here.”

“who?” you said, playing dumb.

“haechan” she muttered like a curse word. “don’t look, he’s already cocky enough without you giving him attention.”

you snorted. “relax.. he’s not my type.”

but even as you said it, haechan’s gaze flickered across the room, and locked straight onto you.

you stiffened.

his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smirk, like he could hear every thought you had just had about him. you looked away immediately, heart rushing from your cheeks, cursing yourself for even noticing him.

great. just great.

-

the night dragged on painfully slow. you sipped a questionable drink, wandered aimlessly through the house, and tried desperately to blend into the background. your best friend had already disappeared, probably off flirting somewhere, leaving your stranded.

you were about five minutes from faking an emergency call to get yourself out of here but that’s when you felt it. a shift in the air, a prickling at the back of your neck.

you turned and of course there he was, lee haechan and that stupid smile of his he always wore.

you consider just making a run for it.

but .. too late.

“hey rose girl” he drawled , coming to a stop right in front of you.

you blinked. “what?”

he pointed lazily at your wrist, where the edge of your rose tattoo peaked out under your sleeve.

“thought i saw you earlier, guess i was right.” his eyes flickered up to meet yours, dark, he was definitely up to no good, you could see the mischief right through him. “you look like trouble.”

you rolled your eyes. “that’s rich coming from you.”

“ouch” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “wounding me on sight, and here i thought we could be friends.”

you snorted. “doubtful.”

he grin widened, unfazed. “you don’t even know me, pretty girl.”

“i know enough.”

he leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip. “wanna know more?”

you opened your mouth to shut him down, but before you could, someone called out across the room.

“truth or dare!”

there was a a crowd, people cheering and whoops. someone dragged a circle of chairs into the living room, and bodies began collapsing into them with wild, drunken energy.

you turned backed to haechan, ready to make your escape.

he just smiled wider.

“come on rose girl.” he said, offering you his hand, wanting you to take it. “let’s go make some bad decisions.”

-

against all better judgment, you let him lead you over to the circle.

you ended up sitting next to him, of course. he sprawled in his seat like he owned the place, one knee bumping lightly against yours, every casual brush of contact making your skin buzz.

the game started tame enough, a few silly questions, some dares that seemed very questionable. but it didn’t take long before the attention swung your way.

“truth or dare new girl?” someone from the circle said.

you hesitated, haechan leaned in, whispering “pick dare, i’ll save you if it’s lame.”

you rolled your eyes but you said. “dare.”

there was a devilish glint in the guys eye. “i dare you to sit on haechans lap for the next round.”

the circle erupted in laughter and whistles.

you gasped. “no way..”

“a dare is a dare!” someone yelled.

you turned to haechan, ready to protest, but he just opened his arms invitingly, that stupid cocky grin on his face.

“come on rose girl.” he teased. “i don’t bite ..”

you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

muttering curses under your breath, you reluctantly stood and dropped yourself onto his lap, carful not to out any weight. his hands immediately find your waist, steadying you.

you stiffened. “don’t get comfortable.”

“too late” he said, voice low against your ear.

you hated the way your heart jumped.

-

the game blurred around you after that. you barely registered the questions or the dares, to aware of every place your body touches his, the solid warmth against your hair.

at some point, haechan learned in again, his breath warm against your hair.

“you’re terrible at hiding when you’re nervous” he murmured.

“im not nervous” you lied instantly.

“sure rose girl” he said, laughing softly. “whatever helps you sleep at night..”

you huffed and shifted, meaning to get off of him, but his hands tightened gently on your hips.

“stay.” he said, and for once there was no teasing his voice, just something warm and rough that made your stomach flip.

you stayed.

-

later, after the game had finally ended and people stared dispersing, too probably drink more, you slipped outside onto the porch from some fresh air. your heart was racing and your head was spinning, not from the drinking you were doing but from him.

you leaned against the railing, closing your eyes and breathing deep.

“you always run away when things get good?”

you opened your eyes to find haechan leaning lazily against the porch column, hands tucked into his pockets, watching you with that unreadable expression.

“needed air” you said shortly

he hummed, unconvince, but he didn’t push it.

for a long moment, you just stood there in silence, the night heavy and warm around you. the faint scent of roses from the bushes lining the yard, mixed with the rain that feel from the sky.

“you know..” he said finally, casual like he was commenting on the weather. “you’re the only person here who doesn’t look at me like a prize to win.”

you glanced at him. “is that a compliment or an insult?”

he smiled crookedly. “both.”

you stared at him, really stared, and saw something flicker behind the cocky face, some tired and raw that tugged at your chest before you could stop it.

“you’re not as annoying as i thought” you said, almost grudgingly.

“wow” he said, throwing his hands up. “high praise coming from you, should i frame that?”

“don’t push your luck.”

he grinned.

-

you might have stayed in that strange, almost comfortable silence longer, but then you saw her.

haechan’s ex.

she was standing just inside the doorway, watching you both with a look that could cut glass, she didn’t even try to hide her envy. she whispered something to her friend, and they both laughed, loud enough so both of you could hear.

you shifted instinctively.

haechan followed your gaze, his body tensing beside you.

and before you could process it, he turned to you with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“wanna make a bet?”

you frowned. “what kind of bet?”

“for the next two week” he said, stepping closer, “you pretend to be my girlfriend.”

you blinked. “what?”

“come on rose girl” he coaxed. “it’ll be fun, piss her off .. have a little adventure, you might even start liking me.”

you opened your mouth to say no, but just then, someone inside shouted. “are they dating?!” followed by another burst of laughter.

you whipped your head around, and found at least three people watching you from the window, grinning and edging you on.

your cheeks flamed.

haechan leaned in, his voice low. “don’t leave me hanging baby.”

you should have said no.

you really, really should have said no.

but with everyone watching, and haechan looking at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered, you found yourself doing something stupid.

you reached out, and took his hand.

“fine” you muttered. “but if this blows up, it’s your fault.”

he squeezed your fingers lightly, a victorious grin lighting up his whole face.

“trust me pretty girl” he said winking. “you won’t regret it”

-

and he pulled you back inside, your heart hammered against your ribs , too loud, too reckless.

somewhere deep down, a part of you knew, this was a terrible idea.

but another part of you, the wild part you usually kept buried.

maybe the most beautiful things only bloom when you stop being careful

and standing there, holding haechan’s hand, feeling the whole world tilt just a little to a side.

you realize you might be about to find out exactly what that meant.

[faithinus]

Invisible - Part Two

Summary: Quinn faces the aftermath of his decision. As the weight of Alayna's goodbye settles in, he's left grappling with the chilling realization that the life he took for granted might be irrevocably gone.

Read Part one here, Part three coming soon :)

Relationship: Quinn Hughes x OC Barzal!Sister

Word Count: 1.7K

Quinn knew, intellectually, what Alayna's words meant. A stark line, drawn in the sand with the unwavering certainty he'd seen in her eyes.

Just don't expect me to be here when you get back. 

Despite the starkness of her words, he still clung to a foolish sliver of hope. Maybe she’d just needed space, a night to cool off. A temporary retreat before she inevitably gravitated back to their shared orbit. He pictured it vividly: she would be curled on the sofa, the soft rise and fall of her chest, a forgotten book resting on her hand. She'd pretend to be asleep when he came in. He almost smiled at the thought.

Each step into Quinn’s apartment felt like hauling lead weights.

The space felt vast and empty. The busy flicker of city lights outside mocked his solitude through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His gaze swept the bedroom, searching for any lingering trace. Quinn’s eyes snagged on the splash of color against the muted gray of the comforter. His hoodie. The ridiculously oversized one from his rookie season, the one Alayna claimed was softer than any clothing she owned and habitually pilfered. It lay there, abandoned, almost accusingly.

Quinn crossed the room and snatched it up, balling the sleeve in his fist. The urge to bury his face in its softness gave way to a knot of resentment and rising panic constricting his chest. He flung it onto the floor, the aggressive motion a pathetic stand-in for the argument he hadn't fought, the apologies that remained unsaid.

It was just a piece of clothing, yet its deliberate abandonment spoke volumes. She hadn't simply forgotten it. She had left it behind.

 He needed a shower. Needed to wash off the sweat, the grime, the feeling of failure that clung to him like a second skin. Maybe the hot water would clear his head, maybe it would wash away the guilt.

Reaching blindly for the shampoo, his hand sought the familiar curve of Alayna's coconut-scented bottle on the corner shelf. Over the months, her toiletries had migrated, staking a quiet claim in his otherwise spartan bathroom. They were a subtle testament to the frequency of her stays. He’d even admit to himself, in the privacy of his own thoughts, that he started to prefer the subtle tropical scent to his own generic brand.

Now, his fingers brushed only cool, slick tile. He blinked, just to be sure. Still bare. It wasn't just a missing bottle; it was the first tangible tear in the fabric of their shared life. The comfortable normalcy he'd taken for granted was unraveling. A cold wave of panic washed over him, prompting Quinn to yank back the shower curtain, his gaze sweeping the rest of the small space as if searching for further evidence.

The extra toothbrush, usually nestled in the holder next to his. Gone. The small, hand-painted dish on the bathroom counter, where she’d toss her delicate silver earrings at the end of the day, a tiny splash of her personality in his otherwise utilitarian space. Missing. 

This wasn't a night apart. This was an exodus. It was a systematic, quiet erasure of her presence. The message was loud and clear. She wasn't angry. She was leaving.

He forced his head under scalding water, letting it beat down on him, but it did nothing to soothe the dread that was settling in his bones. He'd been so focused on the team, on the game, on the pressure, that he hadn't seen her withdrawal.

With a sickening certainty, he knew this wasn't just a fight. This was a goodbye. And he had no idea how to stop it.

________________________________________

The next day bled into existence. Quinn couldn’t remember falling asleep after so much tossing and turning. The weight on his chest was unforgiving. Game day. Typically, a steady hum of anticipation would build in his core, a calm reservoir of energy waiting to be unleashed on the ice. Today, a jittery unease vibrated under his skin.

The desperate urge to hear Alayna’s voice had him reaching for his phone before his feet hit the floor. He’d told himself the impulse to call her was purely logistical – did she plan on using her ticket tonight? It was a courtesy to the organization to ensure tickets didn’t go unused. But the lie crumbled the moment the line went dead. The unanswered ringing amplified the hollow ache in his apartment.

Beneath his flimsy excuse churned a deeper need, a longing for reassurance, for the familiar warmth of her "good luck, Captain" text. Pride, that stubborn, idiotic beast, prevented him from attempting a second call. He told himself she needed space, he needed to focus. But the truth was, the thought of her actively ignoring him stung more than he cared to admit.

The familiar thrum of the arena usually grounded him, a steady energy that refined his focus. Tonight, each step Quinn took toward the locker room felt strangely off-kilter, as if he were an intruder in a space that had always been his own. Quinn went through his pre-game routine with meticulous precision; each action was a practiced ritual he hoped would give him the illusion of control. He tightened the laces of his skates, but the familiar pressure around his ankles failed to provide its usual sense of stability.

On the ice, Quinn had been a shadow of himself. His skates felt heavy and unresponsive. Passes that usually zipped with precision fluttered and died. Shots that were normally lethal lacked power. He could feel the weight of his teammates' expectations, a silent burden in their subtle glances toward their captain. The steady presence they relied on in moments of crisis looked utterly lost in his own body.

An opposing forward skated by, chirping out a low jab that Quinn ordinarily would pay no attention to. This time, his knuckles whitened on his stick. The smirk on the other guy's face was the only thing he could see. A raw heat flared in Quinn, a feeling he hadn't felt on the ice in years. The shove wasn't a strategic play; it was just… a shove. A release of the tension coiled tight over the past two days. He sent the man falling backwards.

The thud of the other player hitting the boards echoed like a door slamming shut. Quinn stared straight through him because, truly, it wasn’t personal. The crowd's jeers were a dull roar he barely registered. Somewhere, a whistle blew, bringing Quinn back to the moment.

He watched the next play unfold from the box, but his mind kept taunting him with other images. The game felt distant and muted. This feeling he had been fighting off all day was fear, lingering fear that he had started down a path he could never return from.

The post-game interview was a blur of questions. The air was thick with reporters' ravenous need for a story, and Quinn was clearly it. When someone dared to dissect his faltering leadership, to allude to rumors that his team was losing focus, something primal inside Quinn snapped. The carefully constructed wall he presented to the world, the stoic captain's mask he wore with practiced ease, crumbled.

"What the hell do you want me to say?" he bit out. The raw edge in his voice was an unfamiliar sound that startled even him. "We played like absolute garbage! Okay? There’s your soundbite.”

A stunned hush fell over the room, the only sound the frantic tap-tap-tapping of thumbs recording his outburst. One that would later be published as an “uncharacteristic display of frustration.”

Quinn registered the shocked faces, the widened, almost gleeful eyes, and a searing wave of shame washed over him, hot and immediate. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t the measured, controlled leader his team respected. And it certainly wasn’t the man Alayna had loved.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled, turning his back on the stunned reporters and shoving his way out of the crowded room. He needed to escape the suffocating scrutiny, to gulp down air that wasn’t thick with judgment.

The relative quiet of the locker room offered little solace. He sank onto the worn bench in front of his equipment, pressing his forehead against his hands. The weight of the crushing defeat and the bitter taste of his own self-disgust pressed down on him.

I know you’re in two relationships, Quinn. One with me, and one with hockey. And hockey always comes first.

The accusation was a relentless, damning loop in his mind. He finally lifted his head, his gaze snagging on the stark silver letters hammered into the locker room wall: "NO EXCUSES."

It felt less like a team motto and more like a personal indictment. Cold. Hard. Unavoidable. Because wasn't that exactly what he'd been doing? Making excuses. Hiding behind the demanding schedule, the pressure of the game, to avoid the messy, vulnerable work of truly connecting with people he loved. He'd weaponized his career, the very thing he held sacred, as a shield against the terrifying intimacy he'd always equated with weakness. But Alayna... she was different.

For the first time, love wasn't the liability he'd always feared. It wasn’t holding him back. Instead, her support was an anchor. Her belief wasn't just a sweet affirmation on good days, but a quiet, steady force in seasons of doubt. When he came home after a win, she was there to say, "I'm proud of you." When they fell short, it was all the same.

"I'm proud of you."

Knowing Alayna would be there at the end of the day, win or lose, had kept him sane. They shared an unspoken understanding that steadied him, especially when the pressure threatened to overwhelm him.

He'd mistaken her presence for a constant, a given. Now, a terrifying reality settled in: Without his support system, he couldn't summon that crucial inner calm, that unwavering intensity on the ice. Quinn realized he'd pushed away the one person who truly pushed him to be a better version of himself.

[aryadelvich]

hiii could u write something about a movie theater date with luigiii. i think it would be so cute to cuddle in the seats and fall asleep in the car ride back

Yeah it’s cute, it’s the kind of date you do when you’re profoundly in the relationship and you know every details about him and it’s the same for him. Here it is, hope you like it.

Movie date - Luigi Mangione x reader

You and Luigi had been together for years, and every single time you went to the movies, it was the same old song, a full-blown argument over what to watch.

Luigi always wanted The Lion King. You wanted Midsommar. Total chaos.

If you were in the mood for a romantic movie, he wanted action. If you craved a thriller, he suddenly got sentimental and wanted a romance. You were basically like cats and dogs—stubborn, loud, and absolutely ridiculous. And yet, as always, Luigi was the one who gave in.

He could never really resist you, no matter how much he pretended to be "the man of the house" for a grand total of thirty seconds.

The rare times you did watch his pick, it either didn’t bother you, or (miraculously) you actually agreed.

"Seriously? You're picking this over The Lion King?"he groaned.

"Luigi, we’ve all seen The Lion King a million times as kids. Why rewatch it just because it’s live-action? It’s basically an animal documentary at this point."

"It's a classic,"he argued, crossing his arms like a grumpy kid.

"Yeah, a classic we already know the ending to. Meanwhile, Midsommar? Mystery. Suspense. Terror. Actual emotions!"you shot back.

"Hmph,"he grumbled.

But he still shrugged and stomped off to the concession stand to buy popcorn, candy and, of course, a bottle of water, because he knew you’d ask for one halfway through.

You felt a small pang of guilt watching him go. Just a small one.

You were practically bouncing in your seat as the movie started, already thrilled by the weird, creepy vibes.

Meanwhile, Luigi sat next to you, arms crossed, chewing popcorn like it was made of cardboard, a permanent look of betrayal stamped across his face.

You just ignored him, too busy soaking in the first thirty seconds of ominous music and unsettling smiles.

Ten minutes in, he whispered:

"Why is everyone smiling like that? Are they all on drugs?"

"Shh,"you said, waving him off, eyes glued to the screen.

Thirty minutes in:

“No way. NO WAY. This dude just jumped off a cliff like it’s a team sport. WHAT IS THIS MOVIE, Y/N?"

An hour in, you could feel him slowly... disturbingly... starting to lean forward. His popcorn-eating slowed. His eyes were glued to the screen, wide open. He looked like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time.

An hour and half in, when the craziest scene hit—flower crowns, screaming ceremonies, and some truly traumatizing dancing—Luigi clutched your arm.

"Look finally the flowers.”he whispered, voice trembling.

He shook his head in awe, eyes sparkling.

The movie ended. The lights came back on. You stretched your arms, cracking your neck a little.

Next to you, Luigi looked... suspiciously calm.

You squinted at him.

"So?" you asked. "Be honest."

He stayed quiet for a second, then finally blurted out:

"I LOVED IT."

You almost choked on your own spit.

"What?! You?!" you cried.

"Just... wow. I need to add this movie on my letterbox profile.”

"I thought you hated it..."

"At first! But then I understood. The symbolism. The trauma. The slow burn. It's genius!"

Luigi was already launching into a full dissertation.

"I mean, the cinematography? Stunning. The symbolic representation of grief through pagan rituals? The tension in the daylight scenes? Genius. Absolutely genius. Did you notice the mirroring of Christian iconography twisted into Nordic folklore—"

You blinked at him, stunned. You hadn't even caught half of that.

"...Yeah," you muttered. "Totally. I caught that too."

"AND," Luigi said, almost bouncing on his feet as you both walked to the car, "the part where the relationship dynamics subtly mirror the disintegration of Dani’s personal identity in favor of communal integration—wow. Ten out of ten."

You stared at him, utterly betrayed.

He was supposed to suffer.

In the car, Luigi was still going on, driving with one hand and waving the other around like the Italian that he is.

"You see, the real horror wasn’t the rituals," he said passionately. "It was the slow erosion of autonomy! Midsommar deconstructs the psychological impact of grief and isolation—"

You tried to nod along. You tried to keep up. But the soft hum of the car, the tiredness of the day, and the very warm window were too much.

Your head gently bumped against the window with a tiny thunk.

Luigi, mid-lecture, glanced over at you. You were out. Completely asleep, breathing softly, your forehead against the cold glass. He immediately shut up, smiling softly to himself. He adjusted the heating so you wouldn’t get too cold, turned the music way down, and drove the rest of the way in silence. Every few minutes, he'd sneak a glance at you — the way your nose scrunched when the car hit a small bump, the little snore you tried to fight off. And he smiled wider every time.

Tag list : @contrarianshitstan-blog @bean-is-reading @iinfinitelimits

[lokiandbuckysdoll]

Where We Stand

Summary: Logan does something that makes you second-guess everything.

Pairing: Logan Howlett X Plus-size! Reader, Logan x Jean

Wordcount: 746

Warnings: angst and cheating, arguments.

A/N: This isn't exactly how I wanted the story to go but it is what it is. 🥲

You hadn’t meant to see it.

You weren’t looking for pain.

You were just early. That was all. The art exhibit Logan had invited you to was only a few blocks from his apartment, and you had wanted to surprise him. Maybe catch a coffee together before the event. Laugh a little. You liked the way he laughed, warm and unguarded, like it didn’t come easily to him, but he gave it to you anyway.

So you climbed the stairs to his place, excited.

You paused upon reaching his apartment. The door was slightly ajar. You heard voices. One of them was Logan’s. The other familiar. Too familiar.

Jean.

Your breath caught before you even saw them. When you pushed the door open a few inches more, the sight on the other side clamped around your chest like a vice.

Jean was in Logan’s arms. Not in a casual way. Not even in a confusing way. Their lips met like they remembered exactly how to find each other. Like they never really forgot.

You stepped back instinctively, the wood of the door creaking. Logan pulled away from Jean instantly, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t sure he regretted yet. His eyes locked with Your’s.

“Y/N—wait!.”

But you didn’t.

You walked fast, head down, past confused faces on the sidewalk. Your chest ached, but not in a dramatic, movie-scene kind of way. It was dull, slow, a betrayal unraveling in silence under your skin.

You didn’t cry until you were home.

Logane came over the next day, trying to explain, and that's when the fight started.

He came, uninvited but not unexpected. You didn’t open the door at first. But when you finally did, Logan looked like he hadn’t slept. Like he’d fought himself all night.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he said.

You stared at him, arms folded over your chest. “But it did happen, Logan.”

“Yes. And I’m not going to pretend it didn’t. But it wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Oh? So she tripped, and your face happened to catch hers?”

He winced. “It was a mistake.”

You laughed bitterly. “No, Logan. A mistake is forgetting someone’s birthday. What you did was a choice. And it’s making me wonder what I ever meant to you.”

He stepped forward. “You mean everything to me.”

“Do I?” you shot back, tears burning. “Because let’s be honest, you don’t exactly parade me around like someone you’re proud of. You keep me close, but never in your life. Your friends barely know me. You say you like that I’m ‘real’ and that I don’t look like everyone else, but sometimes it feels like I’m your rebellion, not your partner.”

Logan looked wrecked. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I messed up. Jean was my past—I don’t want her. I want you.”

“You wanted me,” you corrected. “Before I saw you choose someone who’s safe. Someone who fits into your world better.”

Silence stretched between you two like a chasm. Logan opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words to fill it.

You wiped your face, steeling yourself. “I loved you, Logan. And I don’t know what to do with that now.”

He looked at you like he still wanted to reach for you, but didn’t dare. “I love you, too.”

Her eyes welled again, but this time, you held them back.

“I know,” you said softly. “That’s the worst part.”

Logan gave you space, and that space turned into weeks

The two of you didn’t talk anymore. Sometimes, you’d catch yourself looking at the door, wondering if he’d show up. Sometimes he did. But you didn’t always let him in.

One day, you opened the door. That led to the two of you trying again once. Laughed like old times. Kissed like you didn’t know better.

But trust, once cracked, doesn’t fit back the same. Love was still there, loud and trembling, but it sat beside doubt now, and silence too often followed the warmth.

So one day, you both stood on the edge of that same question:

What are we doing?

You didn’t have an answer.

So you held each other one last time. Not as lovers. Maybe not even as friends. But as people who had seen something bright in each other, and maybe, just maybe, you could find a way to hold on to the light without burning for it.

And then you let go.

TAGS 🏷️ add yourself here

@mochie85 @loopsisloops @hannibals-favourite-meal @imyourbratzdoll @silverfire475 @vbecker10 @sarahrogersevans @tomandcakes @hallecarey1 @lyds247 @rajali3 @supraveng @kingkamk @crimson25 @multyunervisesuperfan

[mmmerimari]

crash out!reader

co!reader who feels like ripping off her skin if she can't let it out

co!reader who has gotten away with every crime she's committed

co!reader who gets raging head aches

co!reader who bares her teeth when going through an episode

co!reader who owns a shotgun and pistol

co!reader who is get angry about making final decisions and being rushed

co!reader who has never touched paint before

co!reader who knows exactly where her bruises come from

co!reader who doesn't recognize herself when she looks in the mirror after an episode

co!reader who either gives 0% or 100% during arguments

The porch light above Y/n’s house buzzed like it might go out any second. She sat on the top step, knees up, head pounding, worse than usual, the pressure making her feel like her skin didn’t fit.

The rumble of Rafe's truck tore through the quiet. Headlights swung across her yard in wild, drunken arcs.

Doors slammed. Laughter. Feet hitting gravel. Kelce, Topper, and Rafe, leading the charge, stumbling a little but wearing that wolfish grin that made Y/n’s molars grind.

"There she is," Rafe barked out, arms wide, like she should be grateful. His eyes were bloodshot, teeth flashing. “Thought you were comin’ to the after, baby.”

Y/n stared at him, "I said no, Rafe."

Topper hooted behind him. "She too good for us now, bro."

Rafe ignored them. He staggered up the steps and stopped just a foot away from her. Close enough that she could smell the liquor sweating out of his pores.

"You think you're special?" he slurred, smirking down at her. "You think you get to just- just walk away? Huh?"

Y/n stood slowly. "Leave, Rafe," she said.

He grabbed her arm, rough. "You're comin'."

Y/n yanked her arm out of his grip so fast he stumbled back a step. The boys howled like it was a comedy show.

"OOOHHH!!"

"Eyyy—damn, Rafe!"

She didn’t smile. She didn't even blink. She turned and walked back inside her house without a word.

"Aw, c’mon, baby, don’t be a bitch," Rafe yelled after her, voice splitting open into something meaner.

The door slammed.

For a second, the boys kept laughing. Rafe turned, shrugging it off, pretending it didn’t gut him.

Then Y/n came back and she wasn’t empty-handed. A metal baseball bat gleamed in her hands under the porch light.

"You wanna grab me again, Rafe?" she shouted, voice cracking, vibrating through the heavy air. "You wanna fuckin' try that again?!"

She swung. Hard. Rafe ducked — just barely — the bat whistling past his ear.

Topper and Kelce sobered instantly, jumping out of their leaned positions against the truck. "Yo, yo, chill, chill!!" Kelce shouted, hands up.

Y/n didn’t stop.

"You make me feel like my fucking head is splitting open!" she screamed, swinging again. "You make me feel crazy, Rafe!"

Rafe, panting, dodged back, fury flashing hot and stupid across his face. Without thinking, he lunged and caught her around the middle, hoisting her off the ground.

"Stop!" he yelled in her ear. "Fucking stop!"

She elbowed him square in the side of the head — a dirty, brutal shot. Rafe staggered. The second Y/n's feet hit the ground she twisted, and drove her heel into his chest, kicking him backward.

He landed hard on the gravel, coughing, his arms thrown wide like a crucified saint.

"Fuck. Off," Y/n said, standing over him.

Topper helped Rafe up, muttering curses under his breath. Kelce hung back, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe any of this was real.

Y/n turned, walked inside, and slammed the door so hard the frame shuddered.

The lock clicked.

if you're interested: readers

[squarebracket-trickster]

Here's my awkward story (apologies, it's a long one):

We were fifteen, and I had it in my head that I wanted my first kiss to be all special and romantic (like in the movies), so I kept putting it off, telling him no every time he leaned in for a kiss because I was waiting for the right moment. I wanted to be kissed, and I wanted him to kiss me... just... not then, or then, or then...

The months wore on, and he started to get impatient with me, but, of course, we were fifteen, and neither of us knew how to communicate our needs well, so we started to have these little unspoken arguments where he'd try to kiss me, I'd turn my head away or try to deflect to a new conversation topic, he'd sigh loudly in frustration, and then I'd pretend to ignore him.

Finally, one night on a date, we were walking around a historic downtown neighbourhood (think narrow Victorian-era homes with bay windows, stone fences, and climbing roses) in the dark when he asked me (with a hint of frustration) why I never wanted him to kiss me; and I was fifteen, a girl tired of being the "responsible friend" and "so independant" daughter, and I really just wanted something romantic to happen to me organically without my having "make it happen", but I had no idea how to communicate that. All I knew was that expressing any kind of desire like that made me feel more like some adult no-nonsense intimidating business woman than the carefree teen girl I was craving the chance to be. I really didn't want to talk about it. Still, he was pretty frustrated (but doing his fifteen-year-old best to keep his feelings in check), so eventually I caved and told him that I wanted it to be romantic; and, yeah, saying it aloud really did make it hard to feel cute and girly in the moment. But, hey, communication... right?... (in hindsight, I was tired of being the "responsible one" in our relationship too, and I'd really wanted just this one thing to fall into place without me having to do anything. No wonder the communication made me feel worse. It wasn't communication that I needed. No amount of communication was going to get that boy to actually look before he crossed a road. I'd tried.)

He knew the neighbourhood better than me, and, after that, as we walked he started steering us toward the ocean, which I didn't realize until we came to the famous, long road in that city that hugs the coastline. We walked the sidewalk for a bit. To our left were more historic (and some modern rich people) homes which we could see in the streetlight. Had it been daytime, to our right, we would have seen rosehip and oceanspray bushes resting above a rockface that sloped gradually downward into stretches of coarse sand or the spray of waves and the open sea. On a clear day, you can see whitecapped mountains (and a dormant volcano) rising high over the horizon. But, we couldn't see any of that, of course, because it was pitch black beyond the streetlights.

Eventually, we ditched the sidewalk and climbed over the wooden fence that separated it from the rocks. By this point, I had put two and two together, and I knew exactly why he was taking me here, but I was still reluctant. I grew up in this city. It took more than just being near the ocean to impress me. Maybe if it was a pretty sunset or something... but it was nearly midnight, and there wasn't even a star in the sky. Still, I felt like it was this or nothing. It wasn't even just that his impatience had worn me down. It was also that I didn't think it could get much better than this. I mean, expecting some grand romantic gesture from a fifteen-year-old boy is just unrealistic, and, if I kept waiting for the right moment, it might never happen.

I've gotten good at playing up the scenic details when I tell this story (after it happened I lied about it and tried to make everything seem more romantic than it was), but, as we found a patch of rock to sit on together, all I could think about was how it was cold, and wet, and dark, and the rocks were cast in this dull light - the exact grey of old concrete, and most of the plants around us were invasive blackberry bushes and thick, overgrown lawn grass.

I curled in close to him because I was cold, and I did like the feeling of his hands in my hair and brushing my face, but then he moved us so I was on my back underneath him. There was some adjusting that happened because a rock dug into his knee, and then my back, and then his knee again... and then he kissed me.

It was very underwhelming. I didn't like how it tasted (nothing wrong with his mouth - I've kissed other people since and, apparently, I just don't enjoy the taste of mouth in general), and he must have been trying to copy a french-kissing scene from a movie or something because his mouth was moving too fast, I don't know what he was trying to do with his tongue, and his teeth kept hitting mine.

I was trying desperately to keep up with him and take some control of the kiss to get him to deepen it, slow down, and, like, make this a partner thing instead of him just kind of? speen-running some vaguely kiss-like motions on autopilot? It very much felt like mouths "battling for dominance" but not in a sexy way. His nose was cold and kept hitting my face, and I kept trying to pull away, but he kept pulling my head back in with his hand in my hair. And then... a drop of his snot fell into my mouth.

On the bright side, I got a good story out of it to tell over drinks, but for how badly I had wanted a romantic moment, the irony never ceases haha. I never told him what happened. I just let him keep kissing me and pretended it was a good first kiss when he asked about it after. I thought I would be a lot more disappointed about it than I was, but, in the end, it was just a kiss. It didn't matter that much.

What does bug me isn't the snot (at least it turned a boring story into a funny one), it was the dark, the cold, the not really being in the mood for it... The fact that I knew it wasn't going to be what I wanted, but I agreed to it anyway. I think if I hadn't, we might have broken up then and there, but knowing now the reasons we actually broke up, they were basically the same.

--

(As an aside) If any teenager happens to be reading this, please know three things:

1. You are allowed to say no when someone wants to kiss you as many times as you like, for whatever trivial reason your heart desires - there isn't a limit on the word "no". If that's a deal breaker for your partner, so be it. You do not have to go along with an unpleasant experience; it's not unreasonable to want to enjoy a kiss. If you want to save your first kiss for a special moment when you really feel it, that's not unreasonable either. "Oh but if you keep waiting the perfect moment might never come!" So what? Are you a fairy tale character who's going to die if they don't get kissed? A perfect moment will come. It's the moment when you actually want to kiss them, sunsets and ocean views be damned. If that moment never comes, then maybe they're not the right person (or maybe you just like sunsets more than kissing...)

2. If your first kiss ends up sucking ass anyway (and most do), it's not the end of the world. 10 years later, you're barely going to remember it. You'll have other memories you'll look back on just as fondly as fictional characters (and that one in a million real person) look back on their first kisses. Having a good first kiss story won't make you cooler or prettier or more deserving of love. You haven't blown all your chances at romance and being swept off your feet if your first kiss got spoiled.

And 3. No matter how picky you are, pre-engineering the perfect circumstances for your first kiss, your chances of getting someone else's snot in your mouth are low but never zero.

Not to out my self here but i am 19 and never been kissed this is fine but I am writing a book. There is aspects of romance in the book and I am asking any and everyone to give me your first kiss stories. Awkward beautiful idc give me anything and everything. Or don’t thanks!

[technoturian]

Do you think Egwene and Rand can still be together as a couple?

No book spoilers:

I hope not? I think the show has been fairly good from the beginning at spelling out that these two are doomed. We knew that before we even knew Rand was the Dragon or that Egwene could channel. The first thing we find out about them is that they're in love, they're together, they're breaking up and they want different things out of life.

I think exploring how they continue to be intertwined by fate and the plot while no longer being together is much, much more interesting than trying to drag out their relationship any more. I don't think they can come back from this and I don't think they should.

I don't really like how they broke up because I felt like they could have addressed the *actual* issues with the relationship -- that they'd both almost fully pulled away from each other emotionally while still relying on each other's proximity because it was comforting and familiar -- rather than having the same argument from season one, which doesn't give me faith if this continued for another season that it would go anywhere satisfying.

I want to see who Egwene is when she's no longer being held back by her regrets about Rand and feeling like she owes him a relationship she doesn't want. I want to see who Rand is when he's no longer pretending he can have a life with Egwene in the Two Rivers and then blaming her when reality intervenes. I look forward to them both finding the support in others that they couldn't give each other.

I hope they still love each other in the end, I hope it doesn't end with them hating each other. But they were never meant to be.