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chosok-amo · 4 months ago

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LITTLE LAMB ! : NANAMI KENTO

you and nanami kento have been dating for years since you two graduated from jujutsu high. one day he came back from work and found you whimper and cry in your sleep.

warning. trauma, blood, death mentioned, nightmare, lil bit angst.

OHHHHH, i just love how cheesy and corny and cringe this is 😭

nanami exhaled a low, weary grunt as he managed to remove his shoe, using one hand to brace himself against the unyielding, frigid surface of the concrete. his head pounded incessantly, each throb resonating painfully as if his brain was pulsating with discomfort. the relentless demands of working for the jujutsu organization, coupled with the constant, exhausting presence of gojo satoru, surely had drained his mental fortitude and pushed his sanity to the brink.

each day felt like an uphill battle against the mounting stress and strain that came with the territory, leaving him yearning for a reprieve that seemed perpetually out of reach. the cold concrete beneath him served as a stark contrast to the heated turmoil within his mind, a reminder of the relentless challenges he faced in his line of duty.

slowly, nanami lifted his head, his gaze drifting upwards to take in the sight of his living room. the room was shrouded in darkness, with only a faint, warm yellow light providing a dim illumination that cast long shadows across the space. as he gently shifted his feet, the quiet movement seemed to echo in the stillness. he glanced to the side, his eyes landing on the clock, which revealed that it was nearly 2 AM.

sighing softly, he exhaled a string of weary breaths, each one a testament to his exhaustion. with a heavy heart and tired limbs, he began to make his way towards the staircase, every step deliberate and slow. the path led him straight to your shared bedroom, a sanctuary of comfort and solace that he longed to reach. the journey felt longer than usual, each step up the stairs requiring more effort as the weight of the day pressed down on him. finally, he reached the door, his thoughts filled with the anticipation of finally finding some rest and respite beside you.

the gentle creak of the door echoed softly through the room as he carefully opened it, trying not to disturb the tranquility. the room was enveloped in darkness, with only the soft, silvery glow of moonlight filtering in through the window, casting delicate shadows across the walls. as nanami's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he noticed your serene figure lying on the bed, comfortably cocooned in a warm blanket, your breathing steady and peaceful in deep sleep.

a tender smile spread across his face, a sense of calm washing over him at the sight of you. the urge to crawl into bed beside you, to hold you close and press gentle kisses to your forehead, was strong. however, he felt the grime and exhaustion of the day clinging to him, a reminder of the long hours and relentless challenges he had faced.

despite his overwhelming desire to join you, he knew that he needed to cleanse himself of the day's fatigue first. the allure of a hot shower beckoned, promising to wash away not only the physical dirt but also the mental strain that had built up. with a quiet sigh and one last glance at your peaceful form, nanami turned towards the bathroom, each step bringing him closer to the relief and rejuvenation he so desperately needed.

after a good half-hour, nanami emerged from the bathroom, feeling refreshed and a bit lighter. a small towel hung around his neck, which he used to gently dry his damp hair. he wore nothing but a soft blue long-sleeve shirt and comfortable beige pants, his attire reflecting his desire for comfort after a long, arduous day.

as he stepped into the dimly lit room, he suddenly heard soft whimpering, barely audible but enough to catch his attention. the faint, distressed sounds seemed to fill the room, contrasting with the quiet serenity he had expected to find. his heart clenched at the thought of you being troubled in your sleep. the sound, it's heartbreaking.

nanami paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness as he tried to locate the source of the whimpering. his gaze settled on you, still wrapped in the warm blanket but now shifting restlessly, a pained expression marring your previously peaceful face. the sight tugged at his heartstrings, urging him to move closer and offer the comfort you seemed to need.

with gentle, deliberate steps, nanami approached the bed, each movement filled with a quiet urgency. he reached out, his hand hovering above your shoulder before he softly placed it there, hoping to soothe you without startling you awake. the tender touch was meant to convey his presence and reassurance, a silent promise that he was there to protect and comfort you.

you were whimpering softly in your sleep, the sound reminiscent of a fragile, distressed little lamb. it was a heartbreaking noise that spoke of deep-seated hurt, echoing faintly through the stillness of the room. as nanami watched you, his concern deepened. the soft glow of the moonlight revealed the glistening tracks of tears on your cheeks, a silent testament to the pain you were experiencing even in your dreams.

your face, usually so serene in slumber, was now contorted with sorrow, your quiet cries breaking the night's tranquility. each tear that escaped your closed eyes shimmered under the silvery light, highlighting the depth of your distress. nanami's heart ached at the sight, feeling a powerful urge to protect and comfort you.

he couldn't bear to see you like this, suffering silently. he knew he needed to be there for you, to offer his support and reassure you that you were safe and loved. with a gentle hand, he reached out and softly brushed away the tears from your cheeks, his touch light and careful, hoping to bring some comfort.

nanami sat down on the edge of the bed, his presence a solid, reassuring anchor in the darkened room. he whispered soothing words, barely audible, but filled with love and reassurance. leaning closer, he wrapped his arms around you gently, pulling you into a comforting embrace, hoping to ease your pain and bring you some measure of peace even as you slept.

he gently roused you from your troubled sleep, his warm hand tenderly cupping your tear-streaked cheek. instinctively, you leaned into his touch, drawn to the soothing warmth and comfort it offered. “hey, my love, wake up,” he murmured, his deep voice flowing like a gentle river, soft and calming.

nanami's thumb brushed delicately over your skin, wiping away the remnants of your sorrow as he continued to whisper sweet reassurances. his presence was a beacon of solace in the dim light, a comforting balm to your wounded dreams. he watched as your eyes fluttered open, gradually adjusting to the moonlit room, his tender gaze never leaving your face.

“come back to me, my dear,” he whispered, his voice a poetic blend of concern and love, each word carefully chosen to bring you back to the safety of his embrace. your heart responded to his call, and you felt the tension slowly ebb away, replaced by the gentle rhythm of his care and devotion.

“ken. . .” your voice emerged as a faint whisper, your throat feeling tighter and drier than usual. he smiled at you with such gentleness that it seemed to melt away the remnants of your distress. “hey,” he murmured softly, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves.

“you were whimpering and crying in your sleep again, my love. is your nightmare back?” he asked, his calmness so profound you felt you could lose yourself in it. as he spoke, his thumb gently caressed your cheek, his presence a grounding force beside you.

“was i?” you responded, not fully aware that your old habit had resurfaced. yet, deep down, you knew the nightmares had returned, creeping into your slumber like unwelcome shadows. his calm inquiry and tender touch provided a lifeline, pulling you back from the depths of your troubled dreams.

“mhm… you were.”

his voice was a gentle hum, his tone taking on a quieter and calmer demeanor than usual. he looked down at you closely as he lightly stroked your cheek, his fingers warm and soothing against your skin. his eyes studied your features in the dim light, noting the signs of tiredness and stress on your face.

“you have bags under your eyes, my love . . . how many nights has this been going on?”

“i-i don't know,” you mumbled, tightening as if a lump was obstructing your air, refusing to let you breathe freely. your head spun, throbbing with pain, while your eyes began to sting— the pain from trying to hold back your tears.

the memories and vivid imaginations of yuu haibara— your best friends, tormented your mind, each detail rendered in brutal clarity. you could see him sprawled on the cold, merciless ground, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. the sight of his lower body missing was a horrific vision etched deeply into your consciousness. the way his eyes shaking from trying to took a glimpse of you and nanami for the last time— it's was crystal clear in your mind.

these haunting images clung to your thoughts, casting a dark shadow over your mind. the crimson pool starkly contrasted with the cold, unyielding ground, creating a macabre scene that refused to fade. cach recollection was sharp and piercing, like shards of ice embedding themselves into your soul, cutting into your peace and pulling you back into the depths of sorrow and horror.

the weight of these memories bore down on you, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, as the anguish and helplessness you felt surged anew within you. it was as if you were ensnared in a nightmarish vision, each detail a cruel reminder of a friend lost too soon, of a moment too horrific to forget. the cold ground and crimson pool were forever imprinted in your mind, a chilling testament to a tragedy that time could never erase.

he was there too— with you and yuu when that tragedy happened, engraved in your brain and his just like a gift, handing to you in a red bow, the color of his blood. leaving a stain neither you nor nanami could not get rid of just by simply washing your hands, letting it disappears, running with the waters.

that’s one of the reasons nanami kento insists you stay away from the world of jujutsu after graduation. the thought of losing you as he lost his best friend is an unbearable weight on his heart. the memory of that loss haunts him, a dark shadow that he cannot escape, and the idea of history repeating itself fills him with dread. he refuses to let you step back into that life of danger and uncertainty, unwilling to risk your safety for anything.

he will be angry at the world if he loses you.

to him, you are too precious, too irreplaceable. the pain of losing you would be a burden he could never bear, a wound that would never heal. his love for you is a fierce, protective force, driving him to keep you safe, to ensure that you remain by his side, far from the perils that once claimed his closest friend.

he observed the shift in your demeanor closely, noticing the way your throat tightened and your voice seemed to falter. he saw the tears welling up in your eyes and the pain etched on your face.

seeing you like this… it was like seeing your heart breaking in real time. he gently slid an arm underneath your body, before he lifted you up and pulled you closer to him, pulling you carefully into his lap. the faint scent of mint on his breath lingered in the air as he wrapped his other arm around you, his arms holding you close and tight against his chest.

you in such distress made his heart clench inside his chest, a deep sense of helplessness settling over him. he gently took hold of your chin, tilting your head up towards his as he saw the glossiness in your eyes. his hand moved from your chin to lightly brush some hair out of your face, his touch a tender comfort against your skin.

“look at me, honey,” he said quietly. “it’s alright. you’re safe here. i’m right here with you.”

there you are, your eyes glossy and broken, gazing up at him with a poignant, silent plea. the tears magnify their shimmer, making them glisten like fragile, luminous crystals under the soft embrace of the moonlight. the ethereal glow bathes your face, highlighting the depths of your sorrow. each tear catches the light, creating a shimmering trail that reflects your inner turmoil.

his soft and soothing voice brought slight comfort to the storm raging within you. he continued holding you, one arm protectively around your shoulders, and the other gently caressed the top of your head.

“you're safe. i've got you.”

he repeated those words a few more times, knowing they would take time to sink in. he held you closer, your body now sitting against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat steady and strong. he continued stroking your head and your hair, hoping to soothe and calm you bit by bit.

his gentle touch and coaxing voice managed to capture your focus, shifting your gaze from the memories haunting you to his eyes, their color and soothing presence anchoring you in the moment. as he spoke, his words wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, banishing the darkness that had begun to cloud your thoughts.

the weight of the past momentarily lifted, replaced by the assurance of his presence and the safety of his arms. you held onto him tighter, seeking solace in the familiar strength of his embrace, your fingers unconsciously clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

nanami felt the shift in your grip, noticing the tightness of your fingers on his shirt, as you clung to him as if he was your lifeline. he held you against him, his embrace firm and reassuring. he continued caressing your head and your hair, gently tucking strands behind your ears, and letting his fingers linger at your nape. his heart ached as he saw the pain and fear in your eyes, but he remained calm and steady, his voice just a soft murmur, meant only for your ears.

“just breathe, i've got you.”

“i’m scared. i can still see him, ken. . . like-like he’s still there,” you sobbed, your voice trembling with raw emotion. nanami pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you protectively, forming a shield against the torment haunting your mind. each of your sobs echoed in his heart, causing it to ache with a profound, sympathetic pain. the sight of your tears and the sound of your anguish tightened his chest, filling him with a deep sorrow and an even deeper resolve to keep you safe from the shadows of the past.

“he's not there, my love. je's not there... it's just us here, remember? it's just us.”

his voice, while calm on the surface, held a hint of a pain that mirrored your own. the painful memories of that tragic day weighed on him just as heavily as they did on you. as you continued to sob against his chest, nanami continued to hold you, his embrace tight and comforting. he felt the tears dampening the fabric of his shirt, each one a heart-wrenching reminder of your pain.

he whispered soothing words in your ear, trying to reassure you that he was here and that he wasn't going anywhere. every word he spoke was filled with love and reassurance, hoping they would help ease your fears.

“it's alright… everything's alright. just let it out, my love.” he held you tighter, his grip firm but gentle as he tried to soothe your fears. “listen to my voice, alright? focus on me. focus on my voice and nothing else. can you do that for me?” his voice was soft, just a low hum against your ear. he continued caressing and stroking your hair and head, his fingers running through your locks in a slow and soothing rhythm. he kept you held close against his chest, his heart thumping steadily beneath the fabric of his shirt.

as you listened to his voice and felt his touch, you found yourself calming down bit by bit. the sound of his steady heartbeat and the soothing motion of his fingers through your hair helped to ground you, bringing you back to the present.

you closed your eyes and took a deep, shaky breath, your sobs slowly subsiding as you continued to focus on him. the pain and fear still lingered, but they felt less overwhelming with him by your side. “okay,” you whispered, your voice still trembling slightly.

minutes passed by in a hushed silence, except for the occasional, quiet sobs escaping your lips. nanami continued to hold you tightly, his hands gently stroking your back in slow, soothing movements. he wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he could feel the tension gradually leaving your body, replaced by a weary exhaustion. he took a deep breath and spoke again, his voice low and gentle.

“are you feeling any better, my love?”

you slowly nodded against his chest, your body heavy with the emotional strain from the nightmare and the subsequent breakdown. “a-a little,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse from all the crying. you didn't lift your head from his chest, taking comfort in the closeness and the protective warmth of his embrace.

you felt a mix of exhaustion and relief, but the lingering memories of the nightmare still weighed heavily on your mind. despite that, being in his arms made you feel safer, like nothing could harm you as long as he was near. “how about i make you some tea and we can go to sleep after that, hm?”

you nodded again, the idea of a warm cup of tea and a good rest sounded like just the thing you needed right now. “yes, please,” you mumbled, your voice small and weary. you continued to cling to him, feeling the comfort in his arms and not wanting to let go just yet.

the thought of sleeping was a bit intimidating, as you feared the nightmares might come back, but you trusted nanami to stay with you and keep them at bay. after a few more seconds of holding you close, nanami carefully shifted his position, gently coaxing you to sit upright. je then stood up from the bed, keeping one arm around you for support. “here, hold onto me,” he said softly, guiding you to your feet. “can you walk, or do you want me to carry you to the kitchen?” you looked up at him, your eyes filled with gratitude and trust, and reached out, stretching your hands towards him in silent request.

nanami saw the gesture and smiled gently, understanding your unsaid request. he bent down and picked you up in his arms, lifting you with ease as if you weighed nothing. he cradled you against his chest, your body fitting snugly in his embrace.

“there we go,” he said softly, his voice warm and soothing. “just rest, okay? i've got you.”

nanami carried you to the kitchen, each step he took was steady and careful, ensuring that you were secure in his arms. as you reached the kitchen, he continued holding you comfortably against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around your body. once he got to the counter, he gently set you down on a stool, keeping a supportive arm around you as he spoke.

“i'm going to start brewing the tea. just rest here for a moment, alright?” he cupped your cheek for a moment, gently caressing it with his thumb, then leaned in to kiss your forehead. you just nodded your head as an answer.

with you seated on the stool, nanami stepped away to gather the ingredients for the tea. he moved around the kitchen, his movements graceful and efficient. he placed a kettle on the stove to boil the water, and then retrieved a box of tea leaves from a nearby cabinet.

he cast occasional glances in your direction as he worked, making sure you were alright and still resting comfortably. once the water was boiling, he steeped the tea leaves in the kettle, letting the aroma of the tea fill the kitchen.

as nanami prepared the tea, he noticed your unwavering gaze upon him. whenever he glanced in your direction, he met your eyes, the silent communication passing between you like a gentle current.

seeing your focus on him, he couldn't help but smile softly. the knowledge that you were watching his every move made his heart feel a bit lighter, knowing that you were still there with him, even if your mind had temporarily been taken by that nightmare.

“you're just going to watch me work, huh?” he asked jokingly, his voice was light and playful. “no requests or demands? i'm surprised,” he chuckled lightly.

he continued to move around the kitchen, his attention split between making the tea and comforting you with his presence, adding a bit of honey and lemon as you preferred. you shook your head slightly, a soft smile playing on your lips. “no, i just like watching you,” you replied, your voice gentle and filled with affection. “it's soothing. besides, i trust you to make it perfectly.”

your gaze never wavered as you continued to watch him, finding comfort in the simple act of observing his careful movements and the calmness he exuded. “thank you for always taking care of me, ken,” you added softly, your words carrying a deep sense of gratitude and love for your boyfriend.

nanami's heart warmed at your words, the sight of your smile causing a pleasant flutter in his chest. despite his usual calm demeanor, knowing that you appreciated his efforts and felt comforted by his presence never failed to affect him. he finished preparing the tea, a fragrant steam rising from the mug. he picked it up and walked back over to you, a tender smile on his face.

“of course, my love. i'll always take care of you,” he replied softly, his voice filled with sincere affection. “that's a promise i intend to keep.”

he placed the mug on the countertop beside you, and then took a step closer. he reached out and lightly caressed your cheek, his touch of tender reassurance, the touch firm but gentle. “you don't have to thank me,” he said softly. as nanami's hand touched your cheek, his thumb lightly stroking the contour of your face, he couldn't help but notice the exhaustion etched upon it.

the weariness from the nightmare and the emotional toll it had taken on you was still evident in your weary eyes and the lines on your forehead. he gently brushed a few strands of hair back, tucking them behind your ear, his touch gentle and soothing. “drink some tea, love. it'll help you relax,” he said, his voice a low, soothing murmur.

your heart warmed at nanami’s words and the gentle smile on his face. as he placed the steaming mug of tea beside you, you couldn’t help but tease him a bit. “maybe one day i'll actually have to wife you up with all this care and attention,” you said with a playful grin, your eyes twinkling, “you’re making it really hard to stay single!”

nanami’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he lightly caressed your cheek. “well, if it means i get to be your favorite tea-maker, i’ll gladly accept the role,” he replied with a chuckle. “you don’t have to thank me, my love,” he continued softly. “nut if you do decide to make that leap, i’ll be more than ready.”

as you teased him about marrying him, nanami chuckled softly. he couldn’t help but find it adorable how you teased him despite everything that had been going on, and he appreciated that you could find humor in the midst of all the stress.

his hand caressed your cheek gently, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles against your skin. he smiled at your playful banter, his heart light with affection. “i suppose i should consider myself lucky,” he said with a smirk. “you’ve got me wrapped around your little finger already.”

he picked up your pointy finger and gently brought it to his lips, your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected gesture. his eyes met yours as he pressed a kiss against your finger, the warmth of his lips sending a shiver down your spine. is gaze held a mixture of tenderness and a hint of amusement, as he couldn’t help but tease you back.

“see? wrapped around your finger,” he mumbled, his lips still lightly touching your skin.

your gaze was fixed on his lips as they brushed against your finger, making your heart race so intensely you felt it in your ears. after a brief silence, you cleared your throat. it always annoyed you how, whenever you tried to tease nanami, he effortlessly turned the tables on you, leaving you at a loss.

you cleared your throat, a tinge of embarrassment crept onto your face. nanami couldn't help but chuckle at your reaction, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you. he knew that you loved to tease him, especially when you thought you could get the upper hand in a situation. little did you know, however, that he had more than enough tricks up his sleeves.

“ah, come on now, my love,” he grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “can't handle it when i turn the tables on you?”

nanami continued to smirk as he watched you trying to compose yourself, enjoying the way your little teasing attempt had backfired so endearingly. his eyes sparkled with a touch of triumph, as he fully relished the moment. he moved a little closer to you, leaning his hip against the countertop as he spoke in a low, teasing tone. “you’re not too embarrassed, right? you started it, remember?”

you blushed, feeling a warmth spread across your cheeks as you tried to avoid his teasing gaze. “shut up,” you mumbled shyly, your voice barely more than a whisper. you glanced down, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips despite your attempt to play it cool. the playful spark in nanami’s eyes and his gentle touch only made it harder to stay composed.

as you blushed and tried to avoid his gaze, nanami chuckled softly. he could tell that you were flustered by his teasing, and it only made him want to continue messing with you a little longer. he leaned in closer, his body almost pressing against yours as he continued to smirk.

“ah, such a cute reaction,” he teased, his voice a low murmur. “you know i can’t resist teasing you when you’re like this.”

“shut up,” you groan, dragging the 'p' longer, your voice laced with a mix of shyness and playful frustration. your cheeks burned even hotter, and you quickly covered your face with both hands in an attempt to hide your embarrassment.

nanami chuckled again, clearly enjoying your embarrassed reaction. he carefully grabbed one of your hands, gently tugging it away from your face so he could see your expression. “no, no, no, don't hide from me now,” he teased, his voice filled with mock disappointment. “i love it when you get all flustered.” you let out a small, high-pitched squeal as you buried your face against his, your giggles escaping despite your attempt to hide.

as you screamed and hid your face in his chest, nanami found himself laughing quietly at your adorable behavior. the high-pitched sound and the feeling of your face against his chest only made his heart clench with affection.

he wrapped his arms around you and held you close, his hand gently stroking your hair, trying not to burst out into full-on laughter at your antics. he loved it when you acted so shy and cute, especially when you tried to hide your blushing face from him. “ah, my beautiful soon-to-be wife,” nanami murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

as he kissed the top of your head, his lips lingered for a moment, as if he was trying to imprint that affectionate gesture into your memory. he held you close, his arms strong and protective around you. he could feel you nuzzling against his chest, still trying to hide your burning face. nut he knew how much you loved it when he called you his ’beautiful soon-to-be wife’ it was a playful nickname he had used before, and it always seemed to get you just as flustered each time.

he chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest against your cheek. he enjoyed the feeling of having you so close, and the way your embarrassment made you cling to him.

you gently pushed your face away from his chest, your chin resting on it as you looked up at him. the remnants of embarrassment still linger on your cheeks, adding a soft, rosy glow to your flushed expression.

as you pushed your face away from his chest, nanami looked down at you with a warm, amused smile. his gaze softened as he saw the remnants of embarrassment still lingering on your cheeks, the soft, rosy glow adding a sweetness to your expression. his hand moved to cup your jaw, his thumb lightly tracing the contours of your skin.

“there’s that blush again,” he teased gently. “you just can’t help it, can you?” you raised an eyebrow and gave him a playful eye rolling. “oh, please. if you weren’t always so charming, maybe i wouldn’t blush so easily.”

nanami raised an eyebrow in return, his smile growing wider at your sassy response. he chuckled softly, clearly enjoying your playful banter. “charm, you say?” he replied, his tone is lighthearted and amused. “so it’s all my fault then, hmm?”

he leaned down a little closer, his face hovering just inches from yours, his gaze unwavering. “well, i suppose i can’t help it if you find my irresistible charisma utterly swoon-worthy,” he teased with a grin. you smirked, hugging his waist tightly.

“oh, so this is what happens when you come back from jujutsu and gojo’s influence starts rubbing off on you. you’re getting pretty good at this charming stuff.”

you tilted your head, feigning contemplation. “i suppose i’ll just have to deal with it, since you’ve clearly mastered the art of being swoon-worthy.” nanami chuckled lowly as you accused him of getting influenced by gojo, a hint of mock offense in his expression. he knew that gojo could be hard to shake off, both in person and his impact on others.

“oh, absolutely,” he said sarcastically. “gojo's charm and banter are like a virus that spreads. i have no control over it.”

he smirked back, loving the way you continued to tease him. “and you're just going to have to deal with it, because i've mastered the art of being irresistibly charming just for you,” he chuckled. “gojo might have his tricks, but i assure you, my love— all this charm is entirely my own.”

you scrunch your nose, smile still colored in your face, “you're so cheesy and corny.”

nanami chuckled even louder at your scrunching of your nose and your blunt comment. he knew he sometimes did go overboard with cheesy lines, but he couldn’t help it when it came to you.

“cheesy and corny, hm?“ he teased, not the least bit bothered by your playful criticism. “maybe i’m just trying to get you to swoon over me some more.” he smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “or maybe i just can’t help but be disgustingly romantic around you.”

he leaned in, you tightened your arm around his waist, a smile spreading across his face. you mirrored his expression, whispering, “and i'm disgustingly in love with you,” your lips brushing against his as you spoke.

as you tightened your arm around his waist and mirrored his expression, a warm smile spreading across your face, nanami’s heart skipped a beat in response. his eyes softened, a tenderness in his gaze, as you confessed your love. he leaned in closer to you, drawn to the affectionate gesture. he relished the way you spoke, the words dripping with sweetness.

even after all this time together, your affection still had the ability to make him weak in the knees. he closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sensation of your breath against his lips. the words ‘disgustingly in love’ echoed in his mind, a reminder of the depth of your feelings for each other. he chuckled softly, his breath warm against your lips before you kissed him.

“and i'm disgustingly in love with you, too,” he whispered, his voice filled with affection.

as your lips met in a brief, gentle kiss, nanami felt a wave of affection well up within him. he drew back briefly, drinking in the sight of your flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, before leaning back in to capture your lips again with his hands come up to gently cradle your cheeks. this time, he kissed you with a deeper, more passionate intensity, his lips molding against yours hungrily, his tongue exploring your mouth with a familiar, intoxicating rhythm.

you could feel his body press against yours, his hands holding your face tightly as he claimed your mouth with a possessive, overwhelming force. he pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss, his hand moving up to gently caress your cheek. he looked at you, his gaze filled with tenderness.

“you know,” he murmured, his voice slightly hoarse with emotion, “i could say cheesy, corny things to you all night long.” as he pulled back from the kiss, his hand gently caressing your cheek, you could see the tenderness in his gaze. you relished the huskiness in his voice, the raw emotion behind it making your heart flutter.

you chuckled softly at his words, a mixture of mock annoyance and affection in your expression.

“oh, I know you could,” you retorted gently. “but please don’t. my poor heart can only take so much cheese before it melts into a puddle.”

nanami laughed heartedly as he saw your playful eye roll in response to his cheesy words. je knew very well the effect his cheesy lines had on you, but he couldn’t help himself sometimes. the way you tried to brush them off with a coy smirk only made him want to keep going.

he pulled you in closer, his arms wrapping around your waist and holding you tight in an embrace.

“ah, come on now,” he said, his voice tinged with a hint of playful pleading. “you love it when i’m cheesy. don’t deny it.”

and just like that, with nanami's cheesy and corny jokes, his comforting presence, and the warmth of his embrace, your nightmares and fears began to dissipate. his gentle humor and unwavering support created a safe haven for you, where the shadows of your past couldn't reach.

in his arms, the weight of your worries lifted, replaced by a profound sense of peace and security. nanami's love and tenderness enveloped you, turning your darkest moments into memories of light and laughter.

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leclercmode · 1 year ago

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happy birthday ☁️ charles leclerc

summary: posts for charles’ birthday through the years.

notes: hope u guys enjoy it!! :)

ynusername

Liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton, and 17.972 others

ynusername i really hope you have the best of birthdays, char. always rooting for you! be happy, always.

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charles_leclerc thank you, i am very grateful for your support and friendship 🥰

❤️ by author

user1 it's so cute how yn has always been there for charles

user2 there's nothing better than friends to lovers

user3 thank you for giving us these photos, yn!!!!

user4 @user3 she literally posted the best old pictures of charles

user5 “be happy, always” 😭💔😭💔😭💔

ynusername

Liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, and 23.082 others

ynusername the birthday boy! happy birthday il predestinato - keep killing it and paving the way for the rest of us. always proud of you.

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charles_leclerc i would be nothing without you!

user6 @charles_leclerc wow!! a romantic.

user7 i just remember charles saying that he was in love with yn, but that he disguised it so she wouldn't notice. IS THAT DISGUISING IT?

user8 they were so in love with each other and only they themselves couldn't see it

user9 THE 2ND PIC

user10 i love them sm

ynusername

Liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, and 35.628 others

ynusername happiest birthday to you my other half, you deserve every bit of the amazing stuff coming your way. thank you for every single moment! 🤍

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charles_leclerc cannot live without you

user11 i love how yn has always been behind the scenes

user12 “i would be nothing without you” to “cannot live without you”

user13 @user12 I WANT WHAT THEY HAVE

user14 @user12 😭😭😭😭😭

user15 i love their moments together

ynusername has added to their story

ynusername

Liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton, and 48.972 others

ynusername pretty glad you were born. happy birthday, char.

View all 403 comments

charles_leclerc i love you so so much! everyday im reminded of how im the luckiest guy in the world to have you in my life.

user16 @charles_leclerc CHARLES OMG IM CRYING

arthur_leclerc my favorite people in the world, i love to see you making each other happy 🤍

user17 loving the whole fandom stalking yn's birthday posts for charles

user18 @user17 FR!!! they are so cute.

user19 they were already dating? (new to the charles’ fandom here)

user20 @user19 yes!!! this post is from 2022, charles said they had their first kiss in 2018 and started dating in 2019.

user21 yn and charles are so in love with each other and i'm in love with their relationship

ynusername

Liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, and 130.727 others

ynusername il predestinato, my ferrari boy and my char! countless nights i have dreamed about our future together. you are the man of my dreams, and i am so happy that you are not only my boyfriend but also my best friend. from the moment we met, i knew we were destined to be together forever. i cannot wait for the day where we get to grow old and frail together. i love you. happy birthday 🤍

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charles_leclerc you are my one and only, i love you so much!

user22 im so happy that they have each other

user23 “and i am so happy that you are not only my boyfriend but also my best friend” IM CRYING

carlossainz55 😍😍

arthur_leclerc love you guys !! 😘

user24 this couple is masterpiece

#f1 #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #charles leclerc #f1 instagram au #f1 social media au #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc social media au #f1 smau #charles leclerc fic

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onlyangel4 · 6 days ago

Text

off limits. ls18. smau.

lance stroll x alonso!reader

going to visit your uncle at work suddenly gets a whole lot more exciting when you meet his teammate

faceclaim: blanca padilla

y/nalonso posted a story

written: going somewhere very exciting today

y/nalonso posted a story tagging fernandoalo_oficial

written: that's right i'm meeting with uncle nando ahead of the spainish gp !

fernandoalo_oficial posted a story tagging y/nalonso

written: every home gp i am reminded of how grown up she is

f1updates

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 23,283 others

f1updates: fernando and his niece y/n have arrived at the paddock for media day, y/n alonso is a model and she has been unable to attend the spainish gp ever since fernando re-joined the grid due to scheduling issues. we are so glad to see her back

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user1: omg she is so pretty

user2: fr real she is going to be turning some heads

user3: this makes me feel so old i remember her from when she was 11 with braces in the paddock

user4: they are icons

astonmartinupdates

liked by user5, user6, user7 and 25,284 others

astonmartinupdates: in case you missed it the funniest thing just happened. aston martin were on stage doing a Q and A with fans when lance pointed to this girl in the crowd and said "what about you pretty girl got any questions?" and she gagged him by replying, "not really i tend to just ask uncle nando any questions i have about racing" and lance's face fell

this man managed to pick y/n alonso out in the crowd and then flirt with her in front of her uncle and his TEAMMATE. he is never going to live this one down

view all 5,283 comments

user5: no nando turning to lance and saying "hold on playboy that girl is off limits" had me dying

user6: i mean i can't blame him she is stunning

user7: i just know fernando proper shouted at him after that

user8: did anyone notice how y/n was blushing a little because girl same

y/nalonso posted a story

written: team colours for race day

fernandoalo_oficial replied to this story: the hotel i booked for you said you didn't check in is everything okay?

y/nalonso: yeah don't worry about me uncle nando i got drunk with flavy last night and stayed with her

lancestroll replied to your story: i think i should change careers and become a professional photographer

y/nalonso: is that so

lancestroll: maybe i just got lucky taking a picture of the prettiest girl

y/nalonso posted a story

written: oh how i have missed this

y/nalonso

liked by flavy.barla, lancestroll, fernandoalo_oficial and 583,383 others

tagged: fernandoalo_oficial. lancestroll.

y/nalonso: had the best time back in the paddock for the first time in six years

view all 56,283 comments

flavy.barla: loved seeing you pretty girl

y/nalonso: was a much needed catch up

fernandoalo_oficial: you are going to need to come back soon

y/nalonso: i am planning on it

lancestroll: it was lovely meeting you y/n

y/nalonso: thank you for making sure i didn't get lost in the paddock

user9: the lance tag and comment, get in there lad

lancestroll posted a story

written: first half of the season done, bring on summer break

y/ninsta posted a story

written: date night

fernandoalo_oficial replied to this story: a date, with who

y/nalonso: you don't know him

lancestroll replied to this story: i am so fucking lucky

lancestroll posted a story

y/nalonso posted a story

lancestroll

liked by y/nalonso, fernandoalo_oficial, estebanocon and 1,002,283 others

tagged: y/nalonso

lancestroll: summer break with you is worth remembering

view all 82,192 comments

y/nalonso: i love you so much

lancestroll: i love you too, even if you have a scary uncle

fernandoalo_oficial: if you hurt her, i hurt you

lancestroll: yes sir

user10: i wish i was there when fernando found out about this

user11: this is such a hot couple

user12: i love them so much already

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

@bibissparkles

@milkysoop

@hadids-world

@callsignwidow

@barcelonaloverf1life

@queen-of-the-hunt

@piastrams

@kravitzwhore

@a-beaverhausen

@fangirlforever2000

@formulaal

@azeal-peal

@magical-spit

@that-one-little-soybean

@raizelchrysanderoctavius

@zatarias-pandora

@unknownmystery22

@anotheranotherblogwoah

@leclercdream

@charlesgirl16

@kikiki04

@dullypully

@awritingtree

@stylesmoonlight12

@pippyth3hippy

@hc-dutch

@whosra

@lancestrollsgf

@dying-inside-but-its-classy

@vulkaari

@random-human02

@daisyfreecs

@fandommaniac07

@mbioooo0000

@novelswithariana

@exotic-iris13

@natashaalinovaromanoff1984

@colmathgames2

@ajordan2020

@sltwins

@nichmeddar

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homesick4la · 20 days ago

Text

complicated — hamzahthefantastic

1. pushing it down and praying

contains: a little cheating..smoking, some nsfw content but nothing crazy

summary: after half a year of no contact, you run into your ex at a party.

a/n: kinda got this idea from the lizzy mcalpine song bc i am obsessed with it. so listen if you haven’t lol. also i decided to split the fic but it’s only gonna be two parts!

it’d officially been six months since you and your ex boyfriend went no contact.

the first few months were hell for you.

of course, you went through the stereotypical phase of eating ice cream and crying to rom-coms directly after your break up. but that short-lived phase gradually shifted into one that was much more melancholic once the two of you decided to go no contact.

everyday that you woke up, you were engulfed by an emotional numbness. a dull pain that served as a constant reminder of your grief.

you were grieving what the relationship was and what it could’ve been.

you had always envisioned your future with hamzah in it which is why the lack of communication between the two of you left you absolutely soulless.

you had never experienced such an intense love before him. everything was picture perfect in the beginning. it was even better than the movies.

but after two years, the miscommunication between you to became destructive.

things that should have been minor disagreements escalated into full blown arguments. you’d yell over each other, ignoring each other’s feelings and growing overwhelmingly defensive.

eventually, it became exhausting. you were both so angry all the time and too stressed with work or school to address it properly.

ultimately, you two mutually decided to call it quits. additionally, you later agreed that going no contact would be the best option for both of you.

now, half a year later, you were finally trying to move on.

after reading an endless amount of self-help books, you learned that after experiencing every stage of relationship grief (which you had), you theoretically should be ready to search for love again.

despite your reluctance, your best friends had forced you to join all the dating apps- urging you to hook up with someone new to get your mind off your ex.

it took days of swiping left on men that were literally the epitome of a walking red flag for you to finally find a man suitable enough to go on a date with.

his name was matthew. he recently graduated from college and instantly started a 9-5 working in finance. he spent his free time hiking. he had a golden retriever.

he was kind. he was stable. but he wasn’t hamzah.

you two had gone on a few dates. you had even hooked up after a couple of them.

as guilty as it made you, each hook up was spent closing your eyes- imagining hamzah on top of you. that it wasn’t matthew deep inside of you but it was hamzah; the one that knew your body like the back of his hand and knew just how to please you every time.

you were giving your all to this “moving on” stage but you simply weren’t satisfied.

that being said, when matthew had asked you to attend an old friend’s party with him on your last date, you politely agreed.

now here you were, shuffling through a crowd of sweaty bodies with a man that barely knew you guiding you by your waist.

“how do you know the host again?” you ask, nearly yelling over the music that was blasting through numerous speakers.

“he’s a friend from my hometown, remember? from ottawa?”

“right, right. i remember now.” you look up at him. you did not remember.

you two make your way into the kitchen. he pours shots of vodka into red solo cups and hands one to you.

you feel the familiar burn of alcohol stinging your throat as you down the shot.

“you look gorgeous tonight by the way. forgot to tell you earlier.” he tells you, running his hand up and down your waist.

hamzah would’ve told you earlier. he would’ve been kissing up and down your neck before you even finished your makeup while getting ready. reiterating how beautiful you are each time his lips left your skin.

fuck. there you go again. comparing everything matthew said or did to hamzah.

he’s not in your life anymore, you think to yourself. it’s time to get over him.

“thank you.” you answer matthew, mustering up a smile.

“you ready to go meet my friends?”

“yeah, let’s go! i’m excited to meet them.” you were lying straight through your teeth. but you continued to put on this enthusiastic act simply because he was nice.

he leads you to the main room where you meet a couple of his hometown friends. one named kyle. another named josh.

they were essentially carbon copies of matthew. frat bros that grew up and became finance guys.

you quietly listen as the boys catch up on one another’s lives.

until something, someone, catches your eye.

hamzah. he was across the large room with his back faced toward you. but it had to be him.

you could recognize the shape of his shoulders and you knew that those dark curls stuffed under a camo hat could only belong to him.

you stomach drops. somehow, you had never ran into him since the breakup.

the sight of him mixed with the alcohol made you sick to your stomach.

“hey”, you tap on matthew’s shoulder. “i’m gonna go find a bathroom real quick.” you explain.

“okay, just come find me when you’re done.” he replies before resuming his conversation with his friends.

you turn around, walking in the direction of a long hallway that you knew must have a bathroom.

you turn the doorknob of the first door you find and miraculously, it is a bathroom.

you clutch onto the counter, letting out a sharp exhale.

one of your hands grips to your stomach while you continue taking deep breaths.

in for 4. hold for 7. out for 8. you repeat.

a breathing technique that hamzah had taught you.

you hear the doorknob rattle. before you can say anything, the door is being launched open.

“oh shit! sorry!”, you hear a familiar voice as the door is being pulled closed again. “wait- y/n?”

the voice belonged to mandy. hamzah’s bestfriend’s girlfriend. you forgot that her and martin were from ottawa. they must’ve known the host of the party.

she steps inside, shutting the door behind her.

“are you okay? what’re you doing here? i haven’t seen you in so long.” she pulls you into a hug.

“yeah i’m here with some guy i’ve been seeing. but i saw hamzah and just needed to take a sec.” you explain during your embrace.

she pulls away, looking in your eyes.

“did he see you?”

“no, he was facing the other direction.”

“oh okay”, she nods and looks down.

“yeah. i haven’t seen him since we ended things so, it gave me a bit of panic attack.” you chuckle awkwardly.

“i’m sorry, y/n. break ups suck.” she pauses, “when i went through my first break up, i saw my ex at an amusement park about a month after. and i got so upset, i threw up in front of one of those stupid basketball games where you can win a big teddy bear.”

you laugh at her story, “seriously?”

“yes! it was so bad, the worker ended up giving me one of those huge bears out of pity!” she exclaims.

once your laughter dies down, mandy breaks the silence once again.

“he still talks about you, you know. every once in a while.”

every once in a while. you had thought of him every single day.

“every once in a while?”

“yeah. seems like most of the time it’s too hard for him to talk about. but sometimes, he can’t help himself.”

maybe he did think of you as often as you did.

“anyway”, she continues, “whose this new guy?”

she smirks teasingly.

“ugh. mandy, he’s so boring! but he’s so nice! he’s just- he’s nothing like hamzah. i don’t know- he’s really sweet, it’s just not, exciting? i guess?”

she nods. “well, if you want my advice..i say you shouldn’t stay with someone just because they’re nice to you. a lot of people are nice. only a few people will make you feel ‘sparks’ or whatever.”

you nod understandingly.

god you missed talking to her.

“i gotta get back to martin but if you want to talk to hamzah, he went out on the balcony. and let’s not have to run into each other at a random party to catch up again, ‘kay? text me.”

“okay.” you hug her tightly, “we’ll go for coffee soon.”

she smiles before exiting the bathroom.

you look into the mirror, trying to decide if going out on the balcony is a good idea.

“fuck it.” you whisper to yourself.

you didn’t know when you’d ever get the opportunity to speak to hamzah again. you had to go out on that balcony.

you walk out of the bathroom, sneaking past matthew who was still deep in conversation.

turning the corner past the main room, you find the sliding glass door to the balcony.

there he is. alone. sat on the small balcony, lighting a joint that hangs between his lips.

with his camo hat he wore a pair of dark wash jeans and white t-shirt.

you take a deep breath before reaching to slide open the door.

his head instantly whips towards you, his eyes widening a bit.

“hi.” you break the silence. you feel awkward. what are you supposed to say to someone you’ve been completely heartbroken over for the last six months?

“hey.” his eyes soften as he speaks.

“i, um- ran into mandy. she told me you were out here.” you explain to him.

he nods slowly. “come sit.” he pats the space on the floor next to him.

you do as he says. plopping onto the ground and pulling your knees to your chest.

he takes a drag from the joint between his fingers before pulling it out and handing it over to you. you two had shared a joint countless times during your relationship, making the action feel natural.

you bring the joint to your lips, sucking on it for a few seconds before blowing out the smoke and handing it back to him.

“how’ve you been?” he asks.

his voice was calm. you wondered how he could act so nonchalant in this situation.

“i’ve been okay. school’s been stressful.” you say, trying to avoid ranting about the emotional turmoil you’ve experienced since you two separated. “how about you?”

“good. just working a lot. martin and i upload multiple times a week now and run the merch ourselves so it’s been busy, but it’s fun.” his face lights up as he talks about it. he’d always been passionate about his career.

“that’s great, hamzah. i still remember when you had him up on that cracked screen just to have him on the pod.” you laugh.

“oh god, it was a shit show trying to get that thing to run properly.” he chuckles at the memory.

it falls silent for a moment.

“you still gonna become a journalist?” he asks, cocking his head to the side while looking at you.

“that’s the plan, yeah.” you answer.

“good. you were always good with words.”

“yeah?” you smile.

“of course, it’s why i was always calling you smarty pants.”

you chuckle at the nickname you’d forgotten about.

“i thought you were calling me that because of my attitude.” since childhood, you were teased for being bit of a know it all.

“i mean- yeah that was part of it.” he laughs, “but it was mostly because of that big brain of yours.”he taps his pointer finger to your temple.

“well, i don’t feel very smart these days.” you admit. “my grades have been slipping.”

“seriously? how come?”

“just had a rough last couple months.” you try to remain vague.

“your new guy not keeping you happy?”

your eyes widen. how did he know about matthew?

“did you see me with him inside?”

“yeah. i was about to walk into the kitchen when i saw you two together.”

you exhale deeply. “oh, uh. sorry about that.”

“answer my question, y/n.” his voice was low, serious.

“what?” your voice tinged with confusion.

“are you happy?”

you think for moment. you could lie, tell him you’re happy, let him believe that you’ve moved on. but everything in you wants to be honest with him.

“i’m trying to be.” you respond quietly before taking the joint from his hands and up to your mouth once again.

his eyes were glued to you as pushed the smoke from your mouth, like he was studying your face.

“that guy’s not right for you.” he shook his head as he spoke.

“hamzah, you don’t know him.” you’re not sure why you feel the need to defend matthew but you do.

“i can see what kind of guy he is—the kind that can’t even begin to grasp the complexity to you.” he explains.

“you’re high, hamzah. and you’re jumping to conclusions.”, you shift your position on the ground, “based on looks, might i add. didn’t they teach you not to do that in elementary school? the whole don’t judge a book by its cover thing? did you tune that part out?” you say as you stand from your spot. it pained you how well hamzah could read people- how accurate his description of matthew was.

“baby all this rambling makes it seem like you’re avoiding the truth—that he’s not good enough for you. and you’re not happy. i mean has he even noticed how long you’ve been gone?”

you forgot how stubborn this man could be.

you let out a defeated sigh. “it’s none of your business, really. and you’re right, i’ve been gone too long. i should get back to him.”

you steal the joint from his hand and take one last drag before you start to walk back towards the sliding glass door. you hear hamzah rise to his feet behind you.

“y/n, wait.”

you turn around, facing towards him again. “yeah?”

“i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have said that.” he apologizes.

“s’okay.”, you shrug your shoulders. “it was nice running into you.”

he nods agreeably.

you turn back around, beginning to accept that this was it. your last few seconds with him before you were back to no contact.

your hand reaches the sliding glass door, about to pull the door open when you hear hamzah’s voice once again.

“y/n, don’t go.”

don’t go.

“what?” you question, furrow your eyebrows.

he takes slow steps toward you, ditching his joint by throwing the remains of it to the floor.

he keeps walking towards you until you’re just a foot apart. he grabs your hand, pulling you to him and shifting your bodies so your lower back rested the black metal railing of the balcony as he stood directly in front of you.

his face was inches from yours. you could so easily lift your head and kiss him.

“come back to my apartment with me.” he whispered.

“why would i do that?” you replied, feeling the pace of your breath quicken due to the close proximity.

“because you miss me.” the corner of his mouth upturned into a cocky smirk. “and i miss you.”

you were speechless. all you could do was stare into his eyes, trying to decipher whether or not those words had actually just left his mouth.

you swallow harshly before speaking, “i’m here with someone else, hamzah. i’m going home with him.”

you try to stand your ground, but god you wanted to give in.

he scrunches his nose and shakes his head as he places his hands on the metal railing behind you, trapping you between his arms.

“but he doesn’t know you like i do.”

before you can respond, you feel his fingers brush your hair away from the side of your neck.

he places his hands on waist as his head falls to your neck, his plump lips hovering above your skin. your head instinctively leans to the side, giving him full access.

“does he know how much you like being kissed right here?” he whispers softly, feeling his lips move on your skin as he speaks.

he presses his lips to place where your neck and shoulder meet, remembering how much this spot had an effect on you.

you shut your eyes in utter satisfaction. you hated how much of an effect he had on you.

you bring your hands to his neck, then weaving your fingers through his curls as he continues kissing, sucking, and nipping at the sweet spots on your neck.

his hands float down, gripping onto your hips- another minuscule touch that he knew drove you crazy.

with his hands on your hips, he pulls your bodies closer. suddenly, the thought of matthew has completely vanished. you’re completely caught up in hamzah, and it felt so good- indulging in his recognizable scent and familiar touch.

you let out a soft moan as his hand falls to your ass, grabbing it shamelessly.

“hamzah, hamzah— i can’t, we can’t do this.” you say breathlessly, using your hand to tap on his chest.

hamzah steps back, his breath unsteady as watches you carefully, his gaze lingering on your lips. for a moment, you think he isn’t going to say anything— that he was just going to turn around and walk away.

but then he leans, his voice low “meet me outside in five.” his tone carrying both a question and a promise.

you feel a rush of nerves as he walks away, opening the sliding glass door and slipping back into the crowd.

you stay out there for a moment, catching your breath.

you shouldn’t go. you know you shouldn’t.

but you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you.

next part: with you all night

a/n: yuppppp part two coming very very soon and it’s gonna pick up right where this leaves off. sorry if this is long and boring, tbh i just needed something to distract myself from everything going on lol…k bye muah

#hamzahthefantastic #slushy noobz #hamzah x y/n #hamzah imagines #hamzah x reader #hamzah fic #hamzah #Spotify

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grrrfrogs · 4 months ago

Text

she's not me.

homelander x supereader

warnings - mentions of death, stalking, angst

(covid doesn't exist in this universe)

based off of the song "she's not me" by lana del ray.

your pov:

you and homelander were the most popular superhero couple. atleast, you guys were 2 years ago.

2 years ago, you and homelander went on a mission, involving a heavily armed group and 3 supes that Vought called super terrorists, when it came down to fighting the last one, he threw you against the wall. as he walked towards you, you attempted to get up and fight him back.

you felt so weak from his throw but you knew you had to fight back, you didn't know where homelander was. as you finally gain back consciousness, the supe terrorist throwing what looked like lightning at you, groaning as you collapsed.

all you saw was the guy walking over to you and touched your body sending lightning through your entire body. electrocuting you to death.

atleast, that's what everyone else thought.

you woke up in some lab, you felt sore and weak, almost like you've just gone through hell and back. you groaned as you woke up from your coma, pulling off the tubes that were connected to your body.

"hello?"

you shouted out, you couldn't recognize the place you were in nor could you sense it being anywhere you or someone you know could have been.

you see a nurse walk towards your room, gasping at the sight before she shouts for someones name you couldn't recognize to come look.

you felt as some circus animal that kids wouldn't help but stare at, it made you feel nervous and self conscious, you were in the seven! what the fuck are you doing here.

you heard the doors open to where you back up, seeing two armed guards behind what looks like, an old nurse, not old enough to where she's brittle, but maybe im her late 60s. tilting your head at the sight.

"where the fuck am i."

you shout roughly, you narrowed your eyes at them, it was some Vought workers.. they asked you to sit down and if you cooperated, you would be let out in a month. nodding as all you wanted was to go back to your fiance, homelander.

"you got electrocuted to death, atleast that's what we thought. we were going to pull your plug today."

you were shocked, maybe that was an understatement but it was true. you.. died? that's impossible. Y/N doesn't die.

"how long was i out?"

you ask nervously, looking at the nurse with almost sad eyes, your mouth gaped open slightly. you saw the nurse look at the guards then back down to her hands, giving a small sigh.

"a year and a half. it's 2020 now.."

she said nervously. you began shaking your head, confused on how you could be out for so long. you stared back up at the nurse before mouthing "no" towards her, you were in deep denial.

homelanders pov:

when he saw your limp body fall, your veins becoming purple as your skin looked translucent. he looked at the supe terrorist, immediately lasering his eyes out, before walking over and ripping his body in half.

he picked up your limp body before flying away as quick as possible, flying to a Vought medical facility that was an hour away since it was the best hospital for superhero's. he stayed by you for months, always visiting you until when he heard the doctors whisper to themselves saying that you won't make it, he thought to himself that he better get unattached to you.

and so he stopped showing up, he stopped waiting for you.

the loss of you and translucent was definitely hard for not only Vought but for the seven, that was until he met storm front. every time he was around her he got reminded of the person who killed you, but he couldn't help but gain feelings for her.

he felt disgusting for it, for liking someone while you were in a coma, especially with someone's powers that caused it. but he tried disassociating powers from person, and that's when they started dating.

your pov:

you of course, didn't know about this. you thought that homelander didn't know where you were and Vought was hiding you from him, but you felt awkward asking, worried that maybe, there is a reason you weren't coming and seeing.

a week went by and you've been training on your strength, regaining your superpowers and this time, somehow in someway, they felt stronger.

you got to have access to some of the media, not really the news but that was only because the nurses knew you would freak out if you saw homelander with someone.

so for a month straight, you regained muscle, strength, and your powers. all you wanted was to see homelander so he could see how strong you were for fighting to wake up from that stupid coma, how strong you were for getting back your strength.

you didn't know how you recovered so fast, you assumed that the doctors were putting in small amounts of compound v in your blood stream.

homelanders pov:

he didn't know you recovered, in actuality he thought you died after a month of him not visiting. he would wake up from nightmares seeing you die over and over again, he would see you standing and staring at him in everywhere he went.

you haunted him.

when he would kiss storm front or when they would have sex, he would be visioning it was you under him, sometimes he would be shocked because it was your lifeless body or sometimes it was just you being alive.

he finally started to get the terrors away from him, he started focusing more on work and storm front, all of this was going well until he saw you in downtown NY. he stared freaking out again, you looked real this time. he blinked and you disappeared.

"fuck."

he muttered under his breath.

your pov:

it came to your release day, you were so deeply excited. they told you about some albums that were dropped and how they were going to give you some new clothes, what you were in right now was the replica of your super hero suit.

"will i see homelander?"

you asked awkwardly, giving a small smile. the excitement building up as you waited for their response.

"maybe."

they say nervously, not wanting to say no to you since you wouldn't understand why. "he is your fiance! why wouldn't you be able to see him." you thought to yourself.

you nodded at their response, feeling upset at the awkward maybe they gave you. it felt like they were hiding something from you, but you didn't know why or what it was.

as you sat in the back seat of the black car, you felt your excitement build up as you started seeing the tall buildings. you felt at home.

they dropped you off at time square where you excitedly smiled, this was the first time you were back at home after your coma.

it was all going well until you saw the big screen of homelander and stormfront, at first you were excited! seeing your fiance on television, but all of that went away, turning into confusion and anger when you saw them kiss.

"what the.. fuck..?!"

you shouted, you watched as she held homelanders hand as he smiled at her, they talked about their love life and you felt sick. utterly sick.

you had no one to show you around but you could hear somehow, through the honking, the talking, and the cars driving. you heard homelanders voice. you ran as fast as you could over to the set.

you felt adrenaline pumping through your veins, you ran as fast as you could, even shoving people down when they came in your way.

the pit in your stomach only deepening when the voices became louder, you walked up to set even when the producers told you to get off because they were filming, not realizing you were THE y/n.

you were about 20 feet away from them but you saw clear view of homelander, he looked.. inlove. but with her. you felt sick as your mouth dropped.

homelanders pov:

he had an interview with storm front today, they got to talk about their love for eachother and he felt happy!

he felt at peace, storm front comforted him about how you were dead, and that she was here for him.

when they got on set, storm front would kiss his cheek noticing your nervousness about me, they even fucked in his trailer 20 minutes before getting interviewed.

everything was going well, he kissed her on live TV he couldn't think on how anything could go wrong, he forgot about you for a minute, the first time in a year and a half.

all of that went away when he smelled your familiar smell, he felt his heart pumping as it began to get closer and closer, he started drifting off, trying to figure out where it was coming from.

"homelander?"

storm front said to him, looking at him confused as he finally gained consciousness, apologizing about him drifting off, making an excuse about saying he thought he heard someone in trouble.

your smell still lingered in his nose, getting closer and closer until.. you were right infront of him. he felt a pit in his stomach, he started blinking, trying to see if it was just a illusion or if it was you.

"Y/N..?"

he gasped out.

alright even if people don't want it IM MAKING A PART TWO! i really hope u guys enjoyed this because i def did writing this.

also i've been NEEDING homelander angst especially something that makes my heart hurt a little ;3

#homelander the boys #homelander #homelander x reader #storm front #the boys x reader #the boys x you #the boys x y/n #the boys #angst #i need smut #nymphomaniac

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itscherrylipsforme · 10 months ago

Text

When were you planning to tell us?: Theseus Scamander x fem!reader

Summary: During their wedding your recently married friends can't stop asking questions about your "mysterious" husband. Little they know he is the same man who has been flirting with you during all the ceremony

Warnings: Drinking a little, I guess? But nothing else except that Jacob and Queenie being unaware of the world around them; Leta and Theseus ot being able to hide their chuckles; and Dumbledore being a funny smartass. Takes place after Dumbledore's secrets and in Au where Leta doesn't die and she wasn't enganged with Thesesus

Requested: yes

Words: Around 1130

Author rambles: This is kind of inspired in a wedding I attended a couple of years ago and the situation fitted quite well with the request

Masterlist Characters I write for

Likes and reblogs are appreciated ღ

I do not authorize any of my works to be copied, translated or plagiarized ✗

Bright smiles, sparky eyes and some tears of pure happiness, that was a quick and accurate way to describe most weddings. Jacob’s and Queenie’s was not an exception to this. A small and intimate ceremony on the bakery, only family and friends attending, perfect for the couple union. While the bride and the groom, now wife and husband, were looking at each other with love-dove eyes, you and the rest of the guests were enjoying the sight.

“She looks beautiful today, even more that normally” You whispered to Theseus who was by your side leaning in the desserts table.

“I still believe you were prettier in your wedding” He replied a small grin playing on his lips.

“You are a charmer with words, Theseus Scamander” Your hands slowly moved to take two glasses of champagne, handing one of them to your companion.

“Only because you deserve it, darling” He took a quick sip of the pinkish beverage, which had been Queenie’s idea.

You would have scolded him for his smarmy antics if it wasn’t for your nosy friends who had been half-listening to your talk. Yeah, a small bakery was definitely not the best place to hold a private conversation. It wasn’t long until Mr and Mrs Kowalski came to your way with a mixture of curiosity and surprise.

“y/n you never told us you had been married, honey” Queenie sweet voice echoed in your ears. The realization hit you, you had been caught.

“Actually, I still am” Thesus couldn’t help but chuckle at your words.

“And who is the lucky man?” Jacob managed to speak while taking a bite from the nuptial cake “Do we know him?”

Theseus cheeks were starting to tint in a similar tone to his hair. You wondered how an auror like him, who has supposed to be calm and stern in every situation, couldn’t stop that grin from spreading on his face right now. Luckily for the two of you, Leta Lestrange, your best friend since your Hogwarts years (your guardian angel as you should call her from now on), appeared on the scene.

“What is the fuss for?” she joined the group and thanks to her endearing smile and her ability to put the focus on herself in every situation, you could enjoy a few seconds to think what would you say next. You were so relived thanks to her entry that you didn’t even get annoyed when she playfully stole your glass of champagne.

“y/n has just told us that she is married” The bride explained enthusiastically.

“Ohh…” Great, the last thing you needed right now was another person who couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. Surprisingly, she decided to play along. After all a little fun never hurt anyone “Of course she is, I was the bridesmaid”

“Leta…” You tried to interrupt her in order to finally reveal the truth.

“Wonderful!” Queenie clapped “So you can tell us more about that mysterious husband of hers”

“Yeah y/n, you never told us anything about him” Theseus took a sip of his drink and still he couldn’t hide his smirk.

Oh, he made a big mistake… Never play games with a girl who can play them better, Scamander. You should remind him that later.

“Well, he is the perfect gentleman. Sweet, chivalrous, caring…” You dreamingly looked at the celling “But also a little bossy, stubborn, touchy too. And he always overworks himself with his job to the point its annoying” Your audience was expectant to hear more about it. Theseus tried his best not to look slightly offended while Leta patted his back.

“But you love him, don’t you?” The older Scamander brother asked, his eyes shinning hopefully. One of the many things that made you fall for him since the first day.

“With every piece of my heart” Your gaze was locked in his.

That intimate moment which had somehow grown in a room full of people faded a wide the instance the door’s bell rang, announcing Tina’s and Newt’s arrival in the bakery. God knew what they had been talking about while the rest of you were enjoying the desserts.

“Guys, you will never guess what happened” Jacob said as soon as they came to his sight.

“Y/n is married!” Queenie announced as the sweet gossiper she was.

The young magizoologist’s eyes travelled back and forwards from yours and his brother’s face, clearly confused. The elder Goldstein sister just looked unaware, waiting for an explanation.

“Of course, she is” Newt finally broke the silence “I was the best man”

“You too?” Jacob said surprised “Are we the last ones to discover this?”

“I didn’t know until today either, Mr Kowalski. Although I have been having my suspicions since you two were students. You have never been good at hiding your feelings, Miss l/n”

Dumbledore laughed from the other side of the room where he was leaning on the wall absent-mindedly eating his piece of cake. A privileged position which he took advantage of to listen to the whole discussion.

“Or should I say Mrs Scamander now? Congrats anyway, thanks to your marriage Professor McGonagall owes me ten galleons now” Gasps of shock echoed between the bakery’s walls.

Your husband made himself comfortable, his hands now proudly around your waist in a gentle grip.

“Thanks Professor” he replied.

“When did you make it official if I can ask?”

“Just after he returned from the war. We wanted to keep it simple, Newt and Leta were the only guests” You softly squeezed your husbands hand.

“And when were you planning to tell us?”

“Jacob, sweetie, focus on what is important” His wife corrected him “Why didn’t you tell us?”

You two shrugged the question off. Being honest, you had never truly hidden your union, not intentionally at least. Theseus did not wear his ring on his finger, but in a necklace around his neck. Too afraid that he would lose it in a mission due to his work as an auror; so you decided to do the same. He didn’t keep the gesture of love low-key either. Always calling you pet names or protectively staying by your side. But it was true he did the same for Leta and his brother, and that kisses were always reserved for closed doors for unknown reasons. With those reasons, it was understandable that your friends hadn’t realized sooner you were in fact married. They just took you for an old friend duo. How wrong they were, but as no correction had been said before by either of you they were still ignorant of the fact.

As they say: “Actions speak louder than words” and that was exactly what your husband did. Arms tangled around your hip and lips that were leaning for a kiss which ended up in a resounding applause. In the next years you would receive endless teasing for it, but enjoying the moment you couldn’t care any less about it.

#theseus scamander x reader #theseus scamander x y/n #fantastic beasts x reader

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starsstuddedsky · 5 months ago

Text

Needles and Knives

red hood!jeno x doctor!reader

...

“Don’t you dare die,” you say, gripping the scalpel.

“Already did that,” Jeno mutters, eyes fluttering. “Didn’t agree with me.”

...

summary: Jeno’s plans never included you yet somehow you worm your way into his life. Being a vigilante isn’t easy - but neither is loving one.

genre: angst except i can’t stop them from making jokes so like fun angst. little bits of fluff here and there

warnings: gore, mentions of death, violence, cursing

wc: 16k

a/n: dc fans i am so sorry. my knowledge of these characters comes from wikipedia. medical workers i am so sorry. the medicine in this is NOT accurate. if ur neither maybe you can fully enjoy this fic. i hope you do :) this is as proofread as its going to get..... as always i appreciate any sort of feedback you can give. i hope this story leaves you as delusional about jeno as i am <3

Not for the first time, you open the door to your apartment to find a man covered in blood on your couch. At least he managed to keep it off the floors this time.

You can just see the back of his head from the doorway, black hair sticking up from where he slouches on the couch. The head seems to be intact, which is a bit of a relief—being a surgical intern means you’ve become numb to gore, but not fully immune to the nastiness of patching up a tear in his scalp.

“Still alive?” You ask as you kick off your shoes. Your feet ache from standing for the past eight hours.

Jeno huffs a humorless laugh. “More or less.” He twists to look at you, holding up a very sad looking plant. “Which is more than I can say for this poor thing.”

You drop your bag behind the couch and cross to stand in front of him, his head swiveling to follow you. He sets the dead succulents down on the side table. The tuft of white that hangs over his forehead bounces with the movement, stark against the rest of his black hair.

His shirt is already off, discarded to the side. At work, you’ve become just as numb to bodies as you have to gore. You haven’t quite managed that with Jeno despite seeing him shirtless on the regular since he seems to find himself covered in blood on your couch at least once a week. Still, you can’t really be blamed for being a little flustered when he looks like… Well, that. He’s got more abs than ribs and broad shoulders that give way to thick arms of pure muscle. But you can never truly ogle because he inevitably is covered in too much blood for you to ignore.

“I think I just popped the stitches,” he says, referring to the wound on his stomach that is once again bleeding. “No new shit. I think.”

“I don’t think that’s actually any better,” you say. “You know we usually tell patients to refrain from strenuous activity after they’ve been stitched up.” You retrieve the medical bag you definitely don’t keep stocked from the supply closet at Gotham City Hospital.

“They usually get pain meds, too,” Jeno grumbles, even though he’s never once complained about the actual pain of being stitched back together.

You kneel in front of him, focusing on what was once a deep gash. He showed up with it a couple days ago, spewing more blood than he physically should be able to produce. It’s already half healed, though the new stitches will still help.

“They usually aren’t getting blood on my couch either,” you say. “We can do this all day.”

Jeno doesn’t answer, staying quiet long enough for you to peek at him and make sure he hasn’t passed out from some injury you don’t know about. Instead you find his dark eyes, filled with an intensity that wasn’t there when you were children. You still find it hard to believe the kid that walked with you to school every day for three years has grown up into this—all hard lines and guarded expressions. Every time you look into those eyes you are reminded how little you know about him.

Here’s what you do know: Jeno and his family disappeared when you were twelve. Vanished in the middle of the school year, leaving the house next to yours half full of their belongings in the flight. And then you didn’t see him for another twelve years, long enough for you to graduate high school, and then college, and then med school. Long enough for you to get a prestigious internship in the surgical program at Gotham City Hospital, which had you moving three states over into an apartment you had to rent without even doing a walkthrough. It’s this apartment—the one that he sits in now—that brought Jeno back to you. Again, he’s become the boy next door, though you still can’t reconcile your memories of the little boy with this man, who never smiles. You barely recognized him. But he recognized you, and even though he didn’t seem all that interested in having friends, he found out you were a med student and just happened to need stitches. And then he needed help with a broken wrist. And then a black eye. And then, and then.

It didn’t take you long to figure out he’s Red Hood, one of the newer vigilantes of Gotham City. Or, more accurately, it didn’t take you long to figure out he’s a vigilante. It did take a while to figure out Red Hood, but his eyes eventually gave it away. One look told you he’s cold on the inside. One look told you he’s a killer.

(Plus you’ve seen the now-iconic leather jacket hanging in his entryway.)

But though you can’t call his eyes warm now, they aren’t cold either. He regards you with a softness you’ve never seen before, or maybe just never noticed. You duck your head and turn back to the stitches.

“If you pull these again, you’ll be sewing them up yourself,” you mutter.

“Well, how else am I supposed to see you?” Jeno asks. “You only ever make time for me when I’m bleeding.” Despite his earlier complaints, he doesn’t flinch as you begin the sutures. In fact, he doesn’t show any sign that he’s even noticed.

You roll your eyes. “That's because I took an oath. Something about saving lives, and something about ‘no matter how much I want to take a hot shower and pass out for the next twelve hours, I’m legally obligated to keep my weird neighbor alive when he shows up begging for help.’”

“Who said anything about begging?”

You pause, needle in hand. “I can leave you like this, you know. You can finish it yourself if you really want to.” And you know he can. You’ve seen the scars. So many scars, which tell the story he hasn’t told you: the oldest on his forearm, perfectly straight, the result of a real surgery; the thick ones on his back that look like they were never stitched up; the cut on his arm that looks like it tore through muscle yet was carefully stitched up; the scar on the back of his neck that looks like it should have broken his neck; and the angry red scar on his left knee that he said he stitched up himself a couple months before you moved in next door.

You open your mouth to tell him he’s really on his own now, but Jeno says, “I guess I can beg.”

You pause, then say. “That’s just terrible.” You have to look away so you continue the stitches. “You can do way better than that.”

“Oh, YN, great saver of lives,” Jeno says, “please do me the great honor of stitching me up. Again.”

You hum. “Better but still room for improvement.”

“I would die without you. I would get on my knees if I could. Please, please, do not stop stitching me up.”

You grin at him and almost get a smile back, his eyes truly warm. You take it as a win—or at least a vast improvement from how he was two months ago. You finish the stitches, sitting up straight.

“I don’t suppose you’ll sit still long enough to let these actually heal, will you?” Not that you know how long that is. You noticed a while back that most of his injuries heal far faster than they should. He shouldn’t need to come to you for minor injuries yet he does, over and over again. It doesn’t make any sense, but as long as he keeps showing up on your couch, you’ll keep taking care of him.

Jeno looks at you like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should. Maybe this is it. He’ll finally tell you exactly how he gets his scars. How he became the Red Hood.

Instead, he says, “Nah, probably not.”

You sit back on the couch beside him, sighing. “I watched a seven hour surgery today, and you know what I learned?”

“Hm?” He turns, cheek resting on the couch. For a moment you see the boy again, cast in gold from the afternoon sunlight. You can just picture his smile, the way his whole face melts into a gooey happiness. You blink and he’s gone.

“Surgeons are dicks,” you blurt out, forgetting what you were going to say. “They never want to believe patients, and I get it, sometimes they’re annoying and think they know best, but this girl came in three months ago complaining about pain and Dr. Park called her a junkie. She came back in today and collapsed in the waiting room because he never actually examined her.

“She was having a heart attack, and if he just listened the first time, it might have been salvageable, but the second one ripped her heart to shreds. Dr. Nakamoto said he’d never seen someone survive a heart that looked like that.”

“But she did survive?” Jeno asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “For now. She needs a heart transplant, though, so it’s a waiting game.”

He nods.

“I don’t get why Dr. Park or any of the other doctors couldn’t run a simple EKG. It’s not difficult and it would have saved her life but they took one look at her and assumed she was a junkie,” you say, “and I can’t even complain about it because Dr. Lee will just say some shit like ‘medical decisions are more difficult than you think’ because that’s easier than actually checking if his surgical team gives a shit about their patients beyond death rates.”

You sigh. “The worst part is, they aren’t even bad doctors. They know the medicine, and the procedures they can do—it’s really incredible. I don’t know, sometimes I worry you can only be good at medicine or good with patients, and it’s impossible to be both.”

“You really think that?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “I’m just tired.”

Jeno nods, letting silence settle between you. It’s far too comfortable to just sit with him like this, a peaceful solidarity you’ve only ever felt with him. You won’t give it meaning, won’t think about it any more than another afternoon on the couch together. That’s all this is.

“I should take a shower,” you say.

“I should get back to my place,” Jeno says. Neither of you move.

Lee Jeno doesn’t consider himself to be consumed with rage, despite what the headlines say. Yeah, the mask is intense, but he doesn’t use it to incite fear among all those who look upon his face. He just needed to keep his face hidden from Bruce (and, as much as it pains him to admit Bruce might be right about anything, he can’t deny that keeping his identity hidden is ultimately the right move).

He tosses the magazine on his desk. He’s got to stop reading the tabloids. They’re rotting his brain. But somehow they’re the only reliable source on the current crop of Joker’s little worshippers. Jeno still can’t believe it took him six months to realize the ads were calling for new recruits to the cult.

He feels the pit of anger, deep in his stomach, writhing at the thought of that man. Revenge would be too kind. Jeno will take him down, no matter what.

Maybe he’s a little consumed with rage.

But he can’t ignore the recent distractions. He’s spent the past week sitting behind the computer doing whatever investigative work he can, any excuse to avoid pulling the stitches again. You really didn’t seem like you were joking about making him do it next time, and it was a bitch to stitch up his knee on his own. The angle alone would make his ribs pretty much impossible.

Jeno sighs, tapping on his keyboard to bring the computer to life. Three monitors light up, the far left screen featuring the feeds of all the security cameras that show the apartment building that he very legally tapped into. The far right screen shows three different news feeds, local to Gotham, national news, and an international broadcast, volume off, subtitles on. The middle screen remains blank, ready for him to pull up whatever information he needs.

Hunt Joker. Get revenge.

It was simple when he first got his memories back. Those were his only goals. But then he had to train, become a better fighter, establish some sort of half-life in the city–which meant figuring out how to pay rent, which meant figuring out which billionaires he could reasonably steal from without them noticing. He admits it’s foolish to have Wayne Enterprises on the top of the list, but the bastard owes him.

Six months passed by before he finally set this place and a couple other safe houses up. And then another six passed, and Jeno is still no closer to revenge. He is supposed to be better than before, but all he’s done is steal some lunch money from people too rich to notice and take down a couple men who liked to pick on the weak. He hates that he did more in tights than he’s done becoming Red Hood.

He let his life become too simple. Day after day of hunting criminals and keeping them from hurting anyone ever again. It was freeing, no debriefings with idiots that would tell him that he should have acted differently—should have acted with more mercy. He makes his own decisions and no one is there to judge him. It’s proof he never needed anyone, even if hunting Joker is taking a little longer than it would if he had Wayne Enterprise resources.

And then you showed up.

He leans back in the chair, the joint squeaking. Jeno still doesn’t know what to make of you popping back into his life. He hasn’t been the kid you knew for so long he almost forgot about him. That kid died the day his parents yanked him out of school and moved to Gotham city. His parents worked back breaking shifts in one of the factories, while Jeno lasted a month in school before he realized he could stop going and no one would care. He learned how to survive Gotham quickly, and pretty soon he thrived. He barely even noticed when his parents died.

You bring back memories of suburbs and eating ice cream before it could melt onto his hand. He remembers this one time you were walking back home after school and you tripped and skinned your knee. There was so much blood, Jeno freaked out and thought he’d have to carry you (which he definitely couldn’t do back then), but you just stood up and gritted your teeth and walked all the way back. It didn’t surprise him at all to find out you’re a doctor now, not when you were always so hardcore.

It came in handy pretty quick, too, though he’ll at least admit to himself that his powers probably won’t let him die. It just turned into a routine for him, a nice way to end his day (though his work “day” generally ends at dawn).

But nice is for a boy that doesn’t exist, not for the justice he seeks. He can’t keep pretending to be someone he isn’t, and someone as smart as you can’t keep pretending to believe his lies. He focuses on the security feed, watching a dark sedan roll past.

He can keep avoiding you. It would be easy to clear out of here, especially when you spend most of your time at the hospital anyways. He could do it now—you’re in the middle of one of those endless shifts where you sleep in the hospital. You complain so much about being exhausted that he doubts you’d notice that he left, at least for a month. You’re not friends with him, Jeno doesn’t have friends. You just took an oath to save lives, and he forced you to save him. You wouldn’t even miss him.

But even as he contemplates it, he knows he can’t do it to you again. Even if all you are is the person that patches him up every other night, you deserve some explanation. A goodbye.

Rain begins to fall, slow at first, then a steady patter, the gentle wind strong enough to send the rain against the window.

He hears the truck engine rattling down the street before it finally comes into view on the top left camera. Strange, the bottom right camera covers the opposite side of the street but shows nothing. He keeps an eye on the truck, which rattles by, frowning at the bottom right screen.

Not just an empty street. Though the sky is dark in the background, the pavement and sidewalk are still dry. Jeno curses, getting to his feet and grabbing his belt. He loads the pistols, clipping on the extra ammo to his belt alongside the gadgets while keeping an eye on the other cameras, trying to see if he missed anything else. Two more screens play on a loop, the transition more obvious with the rain. He pulls on the mask, grateful he made it waterproof. His jacket is last, riddled with holes he never had the time to sew back together. He keeps his knife in his right hand, checking the cameras a final time—all showing empty loops—before ducking out the window onto the fire escape.

The jacket is thick enough to keep the rain from actually soaking him, but the cold seeps through. It brings an ache to his bones, an empty feeling like his body doesn’t quite belong to him. He presses a hand to his heart, the pressure bringing a new ache that reminds his body his heart still beats.

He jumps the rest of the way down from the fire escape, landing in a puddle of water that splashes beneath his boots, sending water up to his knees. He needs eyes on the situation. Ideally he’d go to the roof, but there’s too much daylight to be out in the open like that, turning him into a sitting duck. He opts for the alleyways instead, looping around the back of the building to where he can see the street without being seen. Whatever is going on, he needs to drive the action away from his place.

He scans the road, settling on the dark sedan parked in front of the corner store. It wasn’t on the security camera feed when he left, and as he watches, two tall men with dark hoods pulled over their heads slip out of the back seat. They approach the apartment building with the confidence of residents, though Jeno can tell from here they don’t. He memorized his neighbors a long time ago, but even if he hadn’t, Jeno has seen enough gangs to know bruisers when he sees them.

But who do they belong to? Who knows where Jeno lives? The people he’s been skimming from? He hasn’t been stealing enough to warrant this kind of a response. No, his life as Jeno couldn’t have attracted these men.

So it’s Red Hood? Anyone that knows about Red Hood should know better than to send two goons that could be taken out this easily. Jeno switches the knife to his left hand and pulls out a pistol, turning off the safety and cocking the hammer.

Before he can squeeze the trigger, he senses something, the rain behind him falling on something other than pavement. He drops to the ground and rolls until his back is against the wall and a dumpster protects his front. A bullet buries itself into the pavement where he had been standing a moment ago.

He moves again, vaulting over the dumpster, catching the man holding a pistol at the end of the alley by surprise. Still in the air, Jeno squeezes the trigger, hitting the man in the stomach. He lands on his feet and crosses the alley in two quick strides to kick the man as he falls. His hood falls off as he lands on his back, revealing an assuming face. Like the other men, Jeno has never seen him before.

Jeno kicks the gun out of his hand and snatches it from the pavement, slipping it into one of the extra holsters on his belt. He glances between the front of the building and the back. The two goons out front had to have heard the noise, which means he doesn’t have much time before they make it to the alley. But he’s got no idea what might be around the other corner.

He crosses back to the dumpster, keeping an eye on the man behind him as he waits. The man at the other end groans but doesn’t call out for his buddies. Rain overflows from the gutters, falling in spurts rather than droplets. Thirty seconds pass and Jeno only hears the rain. Are they waiting for him? Circling around to trap him between them?

He adjusts his grip on the knife in his left hand, holding it so that the blade is nearest to his pinky finger, his thumb wrapped around the bottom of the base. He keeps the blade facing out, stepping to the front of the apartment building. Instinct guides him to the left, giving him enough time to block the bat with his right arm, sending a shock up his shoulder.

He steps closer, letting the man—one of the goons from before—pull the bat back for another swing. Jeno swings the knife up, catching the man’s jacket but missing blood. He drops the knife and twists, turning so that the man is behind him and ducking to catch the arm still swinging the bat and flip the man over using his momentum and the bigger man’s weight. He hits the pavement hard, sending water splashing all over Jeno.

The second man catches up from the other end of the alley, firing wild shots that don’t come close to hitting him but force Jeno to step back. Jeno pulls a throwing star from his belt, sending it cutting through the air to knock the gun out of the man’s hand. With his right hand, he takes a shot at the man struggling to get off the ground, catching him in the back. He falls again and this time he doesn’t move.

The second man charges out of the alley, the throwing star gone from his hand, though it still drips blood. He has a crowbar in his other hand, like these guys want to be stereotypical goons. He moves about as well as the other man, all power and zero agility. Jeno dodges him easily, letting him take a couple swings before he shoots him in the head. The man drops a couple steps away from his buddy.

Jeno glances around but the dark sedan has left. No one else ventures out to investigate—probably because Jeno still holds a gun. He retrieves his knife and the throwing star, going back to the first man that he shot who still groans at the end of the alley. Blood mixes with the iridescent swirls of run off, red overtaking the blended greens and purples.

He kneels on his chest. Rain falls on the back of his mask“Who sent you?”

The man gurgles a laugh. “What’s it to you?”

Jeno pushes his knee a little harder. “I asked you a question.”

“Fuck you,” the man says. He tries to spit but the mix of blood and saliva ends up splattering on his own face. The man suddenly turns, moving with more strength than Jeno expected. At the same time that Jeno points his gun at the man’s head, the man pulls a gun from inside his coat, pressing it straight into Jeno’s stomach. Neither of them hesitate to pull the trigger.

Caution tape is up in the alley next to your apartment, but the rain seems to have washed away any sign of the crimes committed. It pounds into your head relentlessly, soaking you through your coat.

Though you’ve been living here less than a year, Gotham’s reputation has held true. Working in the hospital has given you even more experience with the diversity of types of people the city attracts—good, bad, and everything in between. You even worked on a guy who apparently turned out to be a Batman villain a few months ago.

Between working at the hospital and living in the city in general, you’ve gotten used to dissociating crime scenes with the sense that you’re actually in danger. Besides, you live next door to a vigilante. Who are you to say this is even a crime scene?

You don’t think anything of it until you open your apartment door and catch the unfortunately familiar scent of blood. Wind and rain crash through the open window, pulling your stumbling feet forward to find the source of the blood.

Jeno didn’t make it to the couch this time. He lies just inside the windowsill, barely sitting up with his back against the wall. One hand clutches his stomach, red blood spilling over the black shirt. His head hangs low, hair soaked by that rain that still falls on him through the open window. The red mask sits in his other hand.

For a scary moment, he doesn’t move.

You drop your bag, rushing to him. You can’t stop your voice from shaking. “Jeno?”

He groans when you shake his arm. “Ow.”

You curse as you slam the window shut and lay him out on his side, keeping his hand over the wound until you can get a better gauge on what it is. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”

He doesn’t answer, only groaning as you try to reach your medical bag while keeping pressure on the wound. You finally get it to the ground, pulling out the scissors and slicing through the shirt so that you can see the wound—a gaping hole framed by bullet fragments where his stomach should be.

“Fuck.” He needs a hospital, a surgeon that’s done more than assist on an appendectomy, but you can’t bring yourself to dial 911. It would bring too many questions on Jeno, who has clearly avoided hospitals for a reason. And he came to you. He trusts you, even if you don’t trust yourself. You have to save him, if only because you’re the only option.

You set out the equipment, spraying them with alcohol to sterilize them and get ready to cut.

“Don’t you dare die,” you say, gripping the scalpel.

“Already did that,” Jeno mutters, eyes fluttering. “Didn’t agree with me.”

You gape at him but he seems to have slipped back into unconsciousness. You force yourself to look back at the bullet hole. You can only yell at him if he’s alive, so you push away the thoughts and get to work, replacing any insecurity with arrogant belief that you know what you’re doing.

Death is nothing like falling asleep. For one thing, it fucking hurts. Jeno supposes the method might have played a factor. He used to think getting shot point blank might be better than being beaten for hours and then blown up (he now has the experience to decidedly answer that question: marginally better). But death itself. It hurts.

And resurrection? All the pain of death with none of the peaceful end. Jeno remembers crawling out of the ground, forcing his muscles to work even though his body still suffered from the wounds that killed him.

But it was the pain that forced him to keep moving, the pain that still fuels him now, a never ending ache deep inside that no time will heal.

Joker may have held the bat, but Batman didn’t stop him. He never stopped him. Jeno remembers the look on his face, the shadowed glimpse of it that he could see. He remembers dying, hearing the Joker cackle, and Batman calling out to him—calling him Robin.

He remembers the pain. Pain he can live with. Pain makes him who he is. He can’t let go of the pain, not when it is all that he is.

But the pain ebbs away when you’re around. And for the life of him he can’t convince himself that it’s a bad thing.

You manage to get Jeno into your bed after you finish patching him up—which was six grueling hours of pulling bullet fragments from the hole and praying he didn’t bleed out. No one should have been able to survive the amount of blood that seeped out of him but by some miracle (though maybe it’s a curse), his heart keeps pumping.

He woke up just long enough to let you sling an arm under his shoulders and half carry him into the bed. You spent the entire time praying he wouldn’t pull apart the stitches and bleed out for real, but it seems like luck was finally on your side.

You should get up. You should clean up the blood, or at least wash it from your hands. You can only find the energy to drag your armchair next to the bed and sit beside him. His chest rises and falls with even breaths.

Still alive, for now.

He mumbles again, voice too low to make out any words. His eyes flutter but remain closed. Does a man like him dream?

“What happened to you?” Your voice cracks. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t show any sign that he can hear you. “You disappear for weeks at a time. You rarely show up when you aren’t bleeding. But you never talk about it, and you don’t smile anymore. I don’t think I know you anymore. I don’t know if I ever did.”

You managed to hold back your tears, push all the emotions away to keep him alive but they come flooding back now. Tears spill over as you watch him breathe.

“Your heart keeps beating but are you really alive?” You ask.

He doesn’t answer.

You moved to Gotham in August. The heat was so bad that crime rates were down–making it miserable to carry box after box up two flights of stairs since the building didn't have an elevator. You’d only been here twice before, both times on school trips, never on your own.

But your friends all live back in your college town, and your parents were busy dealing with a lawsuit against your neighbor for the mailbox war, so you were stuck moving on your own—which wasn’t all that terrible since the apartment came half furnished. Still, you had to figure out a way to get a mattress up the stairs, along with a car full of clothes and all the rest of your belongings. Between the heat and the prospect of stairs, you weren’t exactly stoked about living in the city.

Two trips had you wheezing for air, leaning outside your door to catch your breath. The door to the apartment next to yours swung open. You hoped someone wasn’t already complaining about the noise you were making. Instead a tall, broad shouldered man stepped out, wearing a simple black t-shirt and cargo pants.

He turned around, revealing cold eyes and a face that looked like it spent most of its time frowning. But behind it all something familiar called to you, buried deep behind the bitter front. You remembered a boy who cried because he stubbed his toes, a boy who would fight you to make a wish on every dandelion that lined the sidewalk on the walk home.

He froze, a tiny frown in his brow. “YN?”

“Jeno?”

You set down the tote, stepping around it to get a better look at him. Your eyes jumped between his, trying to decipher the hardness behind them. Though it had been over ten years, you still thought of the sweet boy who lived next door often, always wondering what happened to him.

It seemed that the years had not been kind to him. Though he grew taller and filled out considerably, he had an emptiness behind his eyes, the kind that comes from too much hurt. He looked like it had been years since he last smiled. He barely seemed to react to you, guarding every expression as if you could be some sort of threat.

“You’re taller,” you finally said.

“It has been a while,” he said.

“I think ten years qualifies as more than a while,” you said.

He just nodded. “You’ve moved here?”

“Just today,” you said, gesturing to the boxes.

“You’re on your own?”

You shrugged. “My parents are bringing a load later in the week, so it’s really not that much stuff.” You paused but Jeno didn’t run away, so you figured it was safe to ask, “How long have you been living here?”

“In Gotham since I left.” He pauses, eyes flicking between yours. For a moment you think he’ll tell you everything. Then he says, “Here specifically, only about six months.”

You should have asked. Maybe it would have made things simpler, maybe you wouldn’t be dancing between fantasy and reality, balancing a tedious act of ignorance.

Instead you asked him if he’d help you move your mattress and what the pizza delivery situation was like.

Jeno wakes up sometime in the middle of the night. You snap awake from your dozing as he shifts.

“Sit still,” you say. “I don’t think I can put you back together if you fall apart this time.”

Jeno blinks. Even in the darkness you can see eyes are still glazed over in confusion.

“You were shot,” you explain. “Point blank from the looks of it.”

“Ah,” he says. His soft voice carries in the quiet hours of the night. “That’s what hurts.”

“Never make me do that again.” Your voice shakes despite your best attempts to steady it. The tears from earlier try to weasel their way back out of your eyes. “You should have died.”

He reaches out, except he really must be feeling weak because his hand barely makes it to the edge of the bed before it hangs limp.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles. “Didn’t want to get shot.”

You blink back the tears as anger courses its way through you. “I don’t think anybody gets shot on purpose,” you snap.

He tries to snort but it ends up sounding like a short exhale through his nose. “Fair enough.”

“I’m not a good enough doctor for all of this,” you say. “This isn’t a hospital. I don’t have sterile equipment, or a blood bank, or an extra set of hands, I mean, if anything worse happens, you could be in real danger and there’s nothing I could do about it, and I can’t—” You pause, taking a deep breath. “I don’t like when I have to admit I can’t do something, but with you, it feels like that’s all I can do.”

“You saved my life,” he says. “It doesn’t really feel like you couldn’t do it.”

“It was a pretty fucking close call,” you say. “Gunshot wounds aren’t particularly easy, and you had to go and get shot in the stomach.”

He shifts, hand running over his torso beneath the blanket. “I didn't pop the stitches, though,” he says. “I gotta get some points for that.”

You glare at him, though he probably can’t see it in the darkness. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to be serious.”

“So am I,” he says, “it was not easy. I sat still for two full days. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve done that?”

Ask. Get a real answer from him. Stop shying away from who he really is. You have to talk about it.

“Well, get used to it,” you say. “You’re staying in this bed. I don’t care if I have to tie you down.”

Jeno actually smiles. It’s been far too long since you’ve seen that smile, softening the hard lines and curling his face into something sweet. “I could be into that,” he jokes.

And maybe it’s because there are blood stains on your shirt that will never come out and you haven’t slept in about thirty hours and you came far too close to losing the only person you really care about, but you laugh. “Just shut up and get some rest.”

“You should rest too,” Jeno says. “You look terrible.”

“Yeah, well it’s your fault,” you say.

He pauses then says, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Well, don’t apologize.” You sniffle. “It’s harder to be mad at you.”

He smiles again, and you can’t even pretend to be mad at him anymore. It’s too hard on your heart, which has been through far too much for any more lies. You smile back at him.

After a day, Jeno can walk around on his own. You called out sick from work, despite his insistence that he’d be fine on his own. He had to bribe you to convince you to sleep on the couch, since you would barely let him go to the bathroom, let alone move back to his own room. He won’t complain too much, though. He forgot how nice it is to wake up to someone.

He sways on his feet, holding a hand up to stop you from helping him. He forces even breaths, determined to make it to the couch without any help.

“You don’t have to do this,” you repeat for the thousandth time.

“I told you I’m fine,” he grunts. Two more steps and he’s there. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the way his entire lower half screams at him. One more step.

He collapses onto the couch more than anything, but he makes it. He lets himself slouch a little, head resting against the back of the couch. How many times has he sat here like this? So many hours spent waiting for you, watching the sun inch across the room. But most of the time it’s been like this—you at the opposite end, always a cushion separating him from you.

The fake wooden floor is stained deep red, pooled around where he laid while you worked on him. He wonders what would have happened if you weren’t there. When he first came back he thought he was invincible, and his healing has saved him from a lot–but he’s never truly put it to the test. Could he have survived without you?

His mask still sits where he pulled it off underneath the windowsill. He peeks at you from the corner of his eyes, your head turned towards it. Say something.

You stare at the mask, clearing your throat. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for that shitty costume,” you say. “You don’t even have armor.”

“YN,” Jeno says but you refuse to look at him.

“Seriously, walking around dressed like a vigilante is going to get you killed.”

“YN. You know it’s not a costume.”

“What, you made it yourself? That’s even worse, I mean, it’s one thing to dress up like these guys but trying to be one of them, that’s just plain stupid. I can’t believe—”

Jeno shifts to the center cushion and wraps his fingers gently around your wrist, forcing you to look at him. “I am one of them.”

He lets go of your wrist and watches you process the words, trying to figure out any other meaning. Your eyes dart between his, panicked and desperate. For whatever reason, you don’t want to admit it, and it’s been fine. But Jeno is tired of feeling like he’s lying to you.

“I know,” you finally say, sighing and looking away again. He hates that it feels like he’s let you down. But he won’t apologize for who he is.

“Why didn’t you ever ask about what happened after I left?” He asks.

You’re quiet for a long moment. “I think I was afraid. It didn’t take long to realize what you were—or at least that you were wrapped up in something twisted—and then it was obvious whatever happened to you here wasn’t good, and I wasn’t sure if I should know that.”

Jeno nods, gaze traveling to the window. He can see some scattered rooftops, mostly shorter residential buildings of the area. Farther in the distance, skyscrapers stick out. He’s spent more years in this city than not, grown to love it like family. But unlike family, the city doesn’t love him back. It’s not capable of it. No matter how much of his blood lines the streets, Jeno will only ever be one of millions that call the city home.

Yes, what happened to him here wasn’t good. But it wasn’t all bad, and it’s not over yet. He won’t give up on the city just because of the past.

And there’s you now. He has these moments where his heart beats so hard it feels like his chest will burst in the good way. He no longer ceases to exist when he isn’t fighting. Jeno worms his way back into reality, not separate from Red Hood, but no longer overshadowed by him.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think these past couple weeks,” Jeno says. “Time to figure out what I want. For the longest time, it was revenge. It didn’t matter how I got it, how many people had to die. I would avenge myself no matter what.

“And then you came into my life, and I would catch myself wondering what would have happened if I could have stayed back then, how different my life would be. I even wondered what would happen if I took off the mask, permanently.

“But this is all I know how to be, and, I think even when I get my revenge, I won’t be able to leave this life behind.” He pauses, tilting his head away from the window and waiting until you meet his eyes. “I don’t want to die again. I don't want to live this miserable half life where all I think about is getting back at the people who wronged me. I want to live, and when I’m with you, I feel alive.”

You stare at him, eyes adorably wide. Maybe he's been a little too good at keeping his feelings hidden. It’s alright. He can wait for you to work it all out. It’s not like he’s got anywhere to be.

“I like being with you,” he says. “I like who I am when I’m around you, and I like you. I mean, you’re stubborn and you always have to have the last word.” He smiles at your bewildered eyes. “But you care so much, not just about me, or your patients, but about everyone, and everything.

“Like your little houseplants that keep dying no matter what you do. I mean, it’s hilarious that you can save my life but you can’t keep a succulent alive. Or the way you talk about the street cats, and even the rats. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had sympathy for the cockroaches.” He finally manages to cut the rambling off. For a long moment you’re too quiet, and he begins to feel the inklings of fear worming its way up his stomach.

“I don’t know about that,” you finally say, voice soft. “I think they might be radioactive here.”

He waits but you don’t say anything else. He knows he shouldn’t ask, that he already has his answer. Still, he can’t help it. “That’s all you have to say?”

Your eyes slide to the floor. “I… I don’t know.”

“You feel something,” he says, reaching a tentative hand out to rest on top of yours. You freeze beneath him, eyes darting between his hand and his eyes like you can’t decide which you’re scared of more.

“Tell me I’m not crazy,” he pleads. “Tell me you feel at least a fraction of the way I do.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking a deep breath. “I do care about you,” you begin slowly, “I care about you too much. You have this life, and I know you need it, and I want you to have everything that you want, I just don’t think I can be a part of it when it inevitably destroys you.”

He squeezes your hand. “It won’t destroy me,” he says, “I won’t let it.”

“You died.” Your voice shakes. “I don’t think I could handle that.”

“I won’t let that happen again!” Jeno says. “Things are different now, I’m not the same person I was when I died.”

He won’t die again. He’s sure of it, not just because he’s learned from his mistakes but because he has something else to live for now. He has more than the family that pushed him to be more than he could, he has his own life, goals outside of revenge. But grounding it all is you, the first person he thinks of, always. He won’t die when it would hurt you this much.

“Even if you could promise that, it’s not enough.” You look away from him. “I don’t want to die either, and it seems like that’s inevitable around people like you. The loved ones always die first.”

He opens his mouth to say he would never let that happen but the words die in his throat. He can’t guarantee that, and one look at you proves even if he could it wouldn’t matter. It’s not enough.

“I think I love you,” he whispers.

You smile sadly. “I think I love you too. I wish it was that simple.”

He sighs, resting his head against the couch cushion. “I don’t suppose supreme embarrassment is a good enough reason to let me go back to my own apartment, is it?”

He watches you purse your lips out of the corner of his eye. He pretends not to see the tears threatening to spill over.

“I have to go back to work,” you say, voice steady. “I suppose sleeping in your own bed won’t be a problem.” You turn stern. “As long as you swear you’ll actually rest.”

Jeno winces. “I don’t think I can do anything else.”

“And yet you will,” you say. Jeno knows it’s worthless to argue, especially when he really can’t promise he won’t do anything. He goes where he’s needed.

But until then, he’s perfectly happy to wallow in the embarrassment of getting shot and shot down.

(please enjoy a brief interlude until i figure out how to fix thing shitshow)

The city always smells cleaner after a good storm. You enjoy walking to work, though the piercing wail of sirens makes it harder to appreciate the way the city almost smells like spring. Green has returned, sprouts of grass and early flowers blooming. You can walk and breathe and pretend like your heart isn’t dragging along behind you.

Jeno haunts you. You dared to check on him before leaving and found he has reverted back to the one word answers and solemn expressions, a shadow of a person. He barely even looks at you, and you can’t even blame him. You’ve done more than break his heart; you can bear the consequences of doing so.

Because it doesn’t really matter. He will keep getting hurt and you will keep patching him up. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.

Even if you can’t stop dreaming about him.

An ambulance wails past, turning into the hospital. You try your best to push the Jeno thoughts away, preparing yourself for the inevitably grueling day. You push open the doors, the security guards now familiar. You smile at them, the movement of the muscles feeling foreign, and take the elevators to the fourth floor, heading to the locker room for the surgical interns.

You’ve barely changed into your scrubs when Jaemin appears.

“Wow,” he says, biting into an apple. “You look terrible.”

You glare at him. “You look worse. How long have you been here?”

He shrugs. “I got a whole six hours of sleep in an on-call room, so I’m actually doing great. You, on the other hand, look like you spent the two days fighting guys who wear pinstripe suits and call their henchmen goons.” He eyes you for a moment. “And you lost.”

“That’s pretty much how I feel,” you say. “Though I still think you act like the criminals in this city are cartoon villains.”

“The aquarium was attacked by a crocodile-man last week and the guy that stopped him cosplays as a bat,” Jaemin says. “I don’t know how you take any of this seriously.”

It helps when you have a melodramatic version of the bat guy bleeding out on your couch every other week, you think.

“I don’t know, being afraid for my life helps,” you say.

“Oh the crocodile guy just wanted to free his people,” Jaemin waves his hand. “He wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

“His name is Killer Croc.”

“Semantics,” Jaemin says. “But seriously, you’re okay? Nothing happened?”

You shrug. “I just haven’t gotten enough sleep, I’ll be fine. Why are you acting so weird?”

“You haven’t heard?” Jaemin asks. “Dr. Moon and Dr. Jung were both attacked three days ago. Dr. Jung is in the ICU and Dr. Moon is still missing.”

“What happened?”

“Police don’t really know yet,” Jaemin says, “but it’s connected. These big guys in suits with these weird black hoods were seen around both of their places before the attacks. They found Jaehyun in his apartment, beaten pretty bad, he’s been in a coma ever since.”

“Wow,” you say. You’ve worked with both of them quite a bit. You spent a week learning about skin grafts with Dr. Moon, a star plastic surgeon. Jaehyun gave you an extra shower curtain when you mentioned you tore yours when a cockroach crawled up your shower brain while you were in it. They’re both good, nice people, not the type to get involved in trouble—definitely not trouble like this.

“Is Jaehyun going to be okay?”

Jaemin purses his lips and shrugs. “Still not sure. He had some pretty serious injuries, most of which were patched up but apparently he had some bad head trauma. They called in the Lee Taemin from Central.”

“You didn’t shit your pants meeting your hero?”

“YN,” Jaemin says sharply, “a good friend of mine was in the hospital, and the best neurosurgeon in the country, the guy I will one day convince to be my mentor, was called in to save his life. Of course I was shitting my pants.”

“Did you get to meet him?”

“I thought it would be weird to introduce myself to him, but I did happen to visit Jaehyun while he stopped by, and happened to mention I wanted to pursue neuro when he asked.”

“And?”

“And he said it was a smart decision. Or said only the smartest thrive. He’s very confusing.”

“So basically you’re obsessed?”

“Yep.”

You lean against the metal lockers, letting the cold press against the back of your neck. You think about Jaehyun, hooked up to machines with a whole team of doctors, including a star doctor, all working to keep him alive. How long will it be before that’s Jeno, except no machines, no team, just you? How long before you won’t be enough?

Jeno has discovered all there is to know about his ceiling. There’s eleven cracks, tiny fissures in the paint that’s at least ten years old. The color is off white, not cream, though in the corner above the door, they did a touch up with a paint that has slightly more blue. He can tell what time it is from the angle of the light coming through the window.

He’s beginning to run out of things to learn.

He misses you, so much. He wonders what your ceiling looks like, if it’s got its own little galaxy of cracks. He misses sitting on your couch, knowing that he’d see you soon.

He can’t remember the last time he got out of bed, and he can’t even blame it on the gunshot wound. He's not fully recovered, but he doesn’t need to lay in bed all day. He should be up and moving, keeping himself in shape, or at least hunting down the guys who attacked him. All he managed to do was set up an alert with the license plate of the car he saw, feeding it through all the security cameras he could get access to.

But otherwise he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling.

Getting this dejected over a rejection makes him feel like a teenager—not that he ever went through this during his teenage years. He can put on the mask and be Red Hood, but Jeno? He doesn’t know how to be Jeno alone, he doesn’t want to learn. He had his parents when he was younger, then Bruce, and Dick, and the family that began to grow among them. Despite all he used to whine, he’s never truly been alone.

Will he be alone now? Will Jeno even exist without the people around him to keep him going? Or will he truly become Red Hood, letting the man behind the mask cease to exist.

He knows what Bruce would say. The mask can’t exist without the man. But Bruce is the reason he put a mask on in the first place. He can philosophize all day long, it’s his fault Jeno ever died. He doesn’t have to listen to the man’s words.

Jeno rests his hand over the wound. He hardly feels the ridge where the stitches are. He wonders how the wound will scar.

It doesn’t make any sense but even though his body heals unnaturally fast, the scars remain. It’s like his body remembers dying and wants to remind him—even though he came back once and he’s stronger than ever before—he’s still human.

And there’s nothing more human than a broken heart. He should be grateful it’s only metaphorical.

Jeno sighs. The worst part is he knows how dramatic he’s being. But it’s only been 28 hours. He can allow himself a little bit of time for the dramatics. Bruce takes like a month off when a civilian dies under his watch.

He pulls his blanket closer, wondering if it’s too far to put on some music—something loud, maybe.

Instead he hears a ding, a notification from his computer. He sits up a little too fast, feeling a tug on his stitches, though they don’t fall apart.

He can’t spare too much thought to them, not when his screen lights up with feed from a security camera, zoomed in to show the license plate of a dark sedan, the numbers he remembers. It rolls past, camera shifting down the block as Jeno drops into his chair, typing rapidly until the screen zooms out. The larger screen reveals the sedan is one of many, traveling in a line together.

He sets up the second monitor to plot their movements across the city, a bright red line tracing the few turns they take.

The windows of each car are tinted, concealing those within. But, with his previous encounter, it’s safe to assume there’s plenty of hired muscle in the six cars. It could be anywhere between fifteen and thirty men, headed this way.

He watches them draw closer, tapping his finger on the desk. They caught him by surprise last time. On a good day, he wouldn’t sweat odds this bad, but it’s not a good day. He can still feel his insides healing.

It’ll be a tough fight, but he’s planned for this. He’ll rig the place, take down as many as he can and get to one of the other safe houses.

The Jeno that lived here will disappear. And it will be for the best.

He changes into his suit, moving as fast as he can without hurting himself. He stuffs as many weapons as he can into his pockets, his belt weighing extra heavy around his waist.

Then he gets to work on the bomb. A smaller explosive, more of a popper than a true bomb, but enough to take out his computer and all of the evidence he’s left behind here.

He wonders if the police will come. Will they question you? Surely someone has noticed he spends a lot of time with you. You’d never give him up, but would you defend him? Would you go on television, tell the world Red Hood is just a man? You’d look good on television.

You wouldn’t though. You wouldn’t say a word, not to the cops, not to anyone.

He’s really going to miss you.

He checks the map. Still five blocks away. Except… The cameras first picked up the sedans in the upper east part of the city, by the Sprang River. They mostly traveled west from there, they’re still north of him.

They stop at a light, just two blocks away. He watches, waiting for them to turn.

The sedans roll straight ahead, passing the apartment. He frowns, staring at the screen but the cars keep going, one block, two, and then they pull to a stop.

Jeno curses, grabbing the keys to his bike. It was never about him.

The sun peeks through the windows of the hospital, the only sign time passes. The setting sun casts the parking lot in gold, making even the ugliest cars shine. You pause to peek outside, for once not in a rush. You have to scrub in with Dr. Qian in twenty minutes, but until then, you have a rare moment of freedom.

Because you’re standing at the window, you see the exact moment the cars pull up. They form a line, like a row of beetles, stopping in front of the entrance, blocking the parked cars. As soon as they roll to a stop, the doors fly open, men streaming out all wearing black hoods. They line up in front of the car closest to the entrance, whose doors had remained closed since stopping. The driver exits first, another hooded man, though considerably smaller than the rest. He opens the door to the backseat, head bowed low.

The man in the backseat takes his time. Pale hands peek out of the carefully fitted suit, the only open skin you can see. He steps out from the car and the line of men bend into sharp bows. He closes the door and you finally get a full look at him: from the suit to his shoes, he wears all black, but most striking is the black mask that covers his face. It melts into his suit, keeping every inch of his skin hidden save for his hands.

He must say something, because the men straighten and vanish from your view, streaming into the hospital.

Is it too late to alert security? There has to be twenty men, and with how Jaehyun looks, you doubt they’ll be able to hold them off. 911, then? It’ll take the cops forever to respond, and it’s too late. They’re already here.

You could call him. He’d come.

Despite all your instincts screaming at you to hide, you turn around. The lobby is packed with the final rush of visitors, and 9-to-5 staff getting ready to leave for the day. It’ll be safer to pack in with them than be caught on your own, and maybe you can warn security before mass panic breaks out. You rush down the hall to the large open space in the front of the hospital.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, but everything feels too normal. A father holds his child’s hand as they walk to the bathroom. A nurse whispers furiously into her phone. An elderly couple hold hands, clipboards to the side of them. You scan the small crowd, looking for a security guard.

Instead you find a brute of a man, black hood tipping back as he raises a gun above his head and fires it a couple times.

“Everybody quiet!” He growls. “On the ground!”

You drop into a squat, hands automatically coming above your head as screams echo. Someone yanks on your coat, knocking you off balance. Your heart nearly stops but it’s just Jaemin pulling you to sit beside him with a wall at your back instead of the open hallway.

“Thank you,” you whisper. You slide into a seated position, back against the wall. Jaemin crouches next to you, keeping one hand on the wheelchair of the patient he must have been with before all of this. You peek at him and recognize him as Yoon Jeonghan, the guy that got hit by a truck while biking. He looks like he’s trying to decide if he’s included in the “on the ground” order.

The goons pick on a couple people, shoving them to the ground.

“Hands above your heads!” One of them orders, pointing his gun at random. You raise your hands again, Jaemin following more reluctantly.

Ten minutes pass as goons escort people from all over the hospital, the lobby quickly becoming packed. Half the patients are in wheelchairs, clinging to IV drips while the doctors and nurses glare at the men. Finally, it seems they have collected everybody, and a quiet tension falls over the room.

Then the man in the black mask strolls in.

“What’s the saying?” He asks, muffled voice carrying in the open space. “If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.” He clasps his hands behind his back, strolling along, peeking at the cowering hostages.

“He doesn’t have a pinstripe suit,” Jaemin whispers.

“I don’t even think he’ll call the henchmen goons,” you whisper back.

Jaemin shakes his head. He’d probably tsk if he didn’t think it would get you both killed.

“I bet they’ll still beat us up,” you whisper.

“If you don’t shut up, they definitely will,” Jeonghan mutters.

Jaemin rolls his eyes and makes a face at you. You bite back a smile. You’ve tempted fate enough.

“The name you all will know me by is Black Mask,” he announces.

This time you can’t help the smile, turning away from Jaemin to prevent yourself from laughing out loud. Even Jeonghan mutters, “Very creative.”

“I have a list, you see,” Black Mask continues, “people that owe me. They know what they’ve done. I promise if your name is not on that list and you don’t make a fuss, no harm will come to you. I’m a reasonable man.”

Reasonable men don’t play dress up and shoot up hospitals, but you figure he’s due for a dramatic speech. At least he’s explaining why he’s here.

Black Mask pauses in front of one of the nurses—Shotaro, a good nurse who you’ve worked with several times. He grabs him by the shoulder, sending him sprawling to the floor.

“This one,” Black Mask announces, waving at his goons to pick Shotaro up. They half drag him away as Black Mask continues to make his way through the crowd.

“This is more efficient, you know,” he says. “I’ve tried other methods, but there were some complications. So, I thought to myself, if you’re all in one place, why not just go to the source?” He points at another nurse, Sehun, but Dr. Bae steps in front of him. Black Mask pauses, tilting his head to peer at her before gesturing to the goons to drag them both away. Dr. Bae puts up a fight, trying to twist out of their grip, but one of the men tosses her over his shoulder and carries her out. Sehun follows, stumbling behind.

Dr. Moon, Jaehyun, Shotaro, Sehun, and Dr. Bae, though it seems like she wasn’t originally a target. All good, hard workers, not the type to make mistakes, definitely not collectively. You watch as Black Mask creeps closer and closer.

You’ve worked with all of them. Only a few months ago, a case of a man with terrible burns on his face. Your blood runs cold as Black Mask stops in front of you. You stand up, a heartbeat before he points.

“You,” Black Mask says, venom seeping into his voice. “You owe me.”

“I remember you,” you say, keeping your voice soft.

“You remember what you did to me,” he says.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, “and neither did anyone else in this hospital.”

He raises a hand and smacks you, and before you can react, two of his men grab your arms, dragging you away whether your feet move or not. You try to think of something witty or smart, but all you can think is how much you don’t want to die.

They take you to the stairs, carrying you up two flights of stairs before depositing you in an empty patient room. One of the men stays with you, guarding the door, while the other vanishes.

You glare at the man, face stinging. Jeno would tell you not to provoke a psychopath.

But Jeno’s not here. You shouldn’t want him to be, because even if he could be here, he would only get himself hurt, and you won’t be responsible for causing him any more pain.

He said he loved you, even after all he’s been through. He wasn’t afraid.

You don’t want Jeno here, not to save the day. But it’d be nice to apologize to him. And if there was only one person you could say goodbye to before you died, you’d want it to be Jeno.

Maybe you do want Jeno to save the day. Just so you can apologize. Just so you can tell him you were wrong. Just so you can finally admit the truth.

Jeno’s bike screeches to a stop a block away from the hospital. He parks it in an alley, covering it with a tarp and trusting that the locks will prevent anyone from stealing it. He hopes he’s swiped it from the impound lot enough times for the police to leave it alone too.

He climbs to the roof of the nearest building, moving painfully slow, between the pull of the stitches and the exhaustion of healing such a large wound. But from here he can see the line of black cars in front of the hospital, the setting sun reflecting on the metal, making it difficult to see. He switches to infrared, the mask buzzing a couple times before picking up on the mass of bodies in the main lobby. Majority of the building is far too empty for a place of medicine.

From his memory of studying the schematics on an off day, he remembers the west facing wing houses the operating rooms, which explains why the infrared picks up a couple small masses. But with the rest of the hospital empty, the four rooms on the third floor stand out. Each holds two bodies, one significantly larger than the other.

That’s where he’ll start.

A better fighter would get a better gauge of the situation. Maybe spend more time determining which are civilians and which are hostiles, or figure out exactly where they’re holding people. But Jeno has always worked best flying by the seat of his pants. He still doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but these must be the hostages important enough to separate from the main group.

It would be safest if you were on the first floor, just one of many in the crowd, but the selfish part of Jeno wants you to be where he can see you. Where he can save you.

He can’t waste any more time. He shoots the grappling gun, pulling on it to build momentum even faster and angle himself directly at the window. It shatters beneath his feet, and he tucks into a tight ball, rolling once before springing onto his feet. He ducks as the big man swings a crowbar at him, wincing at the sharp pain near his stomach. He takes a quick strike with his knife, slashing up across the stomach first, then across the throat, finally driving the knife into the man’s heart. He crumples to the ground and doesn’t move.

Jeno pulls the blade out, wiping the blood from the knife on his pants and sheathing it. He turns around to find a figure in a white lab coat, cowering in the corner of the room, hands over their head, glass shards scattered around them.

He crouches down in front of you, brushing the glass off your shoulder. You peek up at him, eyes softening as you recognize him even though you’ve never seen him in the mask before. There’s a small cut on your cheek. His thumb moves on its own, swiping at the blood and doing nothing but spread more on your face.

“Are you okay?” Jeno asks. The modulator of the mask twists his voice into an unrecognizable beast. It’s perfect for protecting his identity and intimidating low lives, not so great for comforting the scared victims. Maybe he should tweak that part of the suit, make it adjustable. But you don’t flinch, standing up and shaking the rest of the glass off.

“I’m fine,” you say. “How did you get here so fast?”

“These are the same guys that shot me,” Jeno says. “I had a tracker out on the car, which led me here.”

“Sionis,” you say. Jeno frowns. He knows that name.

“Roman Sionis, that’s the guy doing all of this,” you explain. “He was a patient three months ago, really bad damage to his face. He’s targeting the team responsible for his care, doctors, nurses, everyone he blames for what happened to his face.”

“Which includes you,” Jeno says.

You nod, eyes tight. “Which means they weren’t after you when you got shot.”

“Hey,” Jeno says. “I’m fine. You patched me up, and I’ve got the super healing, so if either of us was going to get shot, I’d rather it be me. It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” you say, though you don’t sound like you believe it. “Should you really be jumping through windows, though?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t pull the stitches. I swear.”

You purse your lips but let it go. He wishes you would just say what you’re thinking but you look away from him, glancing at the door.

“They took three more of us up here, and they probably know you’re here by now.”

Jeno nods. Resolve the situation, then talk.

“I’m going to clear out the rooms one at a time,” he says, “then work my way downstairs.” He unholsters a gun, handing it to you. You raise an eyebrow.

“I’ve never used one of these.” You reluctantly take the gun out of his hands.

“Point and squeeze the trigger,” he says. “It’s semi-automatic, you don’t have to do anything to reload. If they’re close enough you won’t even have to aim.” He forms your hands around the gun, teasing your fingers into the right position and turning off the safety. He lets his hands linger, waiting for your eyes to meet his, though he remembers a moment later that the mask conceals them.

“Get the rest of the hostages and stay together,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” He forces himself to let go of your hands but doesn’t step away yet.

He should say something else. Maybe apologize for what he said. Take it back. But he meant every word of it, even if you did too. He’s said all he can, and if that’s still not enough then at least you’re still alive.

“Go save the day,” you finally say. “Then… I’ll see you after.”

He nods, turning away and striding to the door, stepping over the body. “Wait for me to clear the rest of them, then get the hostages out of here.”

He pulls the door closed behind him, trusting that you will be fine on your own. He doesn’t have time to worry, ducking to dodge the knife that flies toward him. He doesn’t let the man get a second chance, sprinting as fast as he can and burying his knife in the man’s heart. He’s turning a second later, using the man’s body as a shield against the second man in the hall, who doesn’t hesitate to fire a couple shots. Jeno throws the first man’s body on him, his knife following quickly after, burying itself in the man’s forehead.

Like always, his pains melt away when he’s fighting. He barely feels the tug of the stitches, or the exhaustion he felt earlier. This body was made to kill, and that’s what he’ll do.

He ducks into the room next to yours, knocking the guard to the floor and stabbing him. The hostage, a woman wearing a white lab coat, stands.

“Wait here,” he says. “I’ll clear the rest of this hall. Don’t go outside unless you want to get shot.”

She nods slowly.

Jeno clears the other two rooms similarly, quick and far too easy. He hesitates at the stairwell. He should clear the rest of the civilians if he wants to resolve things quickly, but it feels wrong to leave these hostages to you—you were a hostage yourself only a few minutes ago. But it’s irrational. He knows you’re capable of protecting yourself, and smart enough not to get yourself killed. He has to trust you and do his job. You were the one that told him to save the day.

He doesn’t bother with the stairs, jumping in the open space between the flights and using his grappling hook to control his fall. If he wasn’t hurt, he’d just drop the three stories, but it’s only a little slower this way. He retracts the hook with a button and sticks it back into his belt, pulling out his knives.

He makes it halfway down the hall before he sees the first figure, raising his knife on instinct. He drops it a moment later, picking out the scrubs from here. The nurse sprints past him, barely glancing at him. More and more people follow, until a stream of people flood the hall. They part around him, allowing Jeno to make it to the lobby as it clears. Only a few people remain, mostly patients that struggle to move on their own and the people that stayed behind to protect them.

Where is Sionis? Where are all of his men? Even in the flood of people, they would have stood out. Did they hear the commotion upstairs and run? One of the men fired his gun a couple times, maybe they went to investigate.

No, they wouldn’t have let the hostages go if that were the case. He curses himself for not trusting his instincts, turning around to get back to the stairs, but the hallway is still blocked by all the people clamoring to leave.

It takes painfully long to get to a stairwell, but he finally makes it. That’s when he hears the gunshot—different from the pops before, no this is a sound he recognizes. This is his gun.

You wait until the hallway is quiet, peeking out the window for good measure. Nothing moves, the bodies on the floor limp. Blood pools around the three, puddles bright against the white tiles. You wait for another heart beat, holding your breath but the only movement comes from the blood, trickling down the hall.

The door creaks open beneath your fingers. It feels like your footsteps echo as you hurry to the closest door. You make it to the first door, hand on the doorknob when you hear it—footsteps echoing from the stairwell, the opposite side of where Jeno left. They thunder up the stairs, at least ten men.

You open the door a crack, whispering a sharp, “Stay hidden!”

You don��t give whoever is behind the door a chance to argue, closing the door and sprinting to the stairwell as fast as you can. You hear a shout just as you cross into the stairwell, sprinting forward. You take one step toward the descending flight but see dark heads bobbing in the space between the stairs. You curse, turning and heading up.

Shit, shit, shit. You can only go up. The men from the other end of the hall burst into the stairwell, your heart sending another shot of adrenaline through your body and pushing you to take steps three at a time. Even as you feel your body working harder than ever before, you know it won’t last. You have to find somewhere to hide.

You burst onto the fifth floor, cringing as the door slams against the wall. No chance they missed that.

You run as far as you dare, ducking into a storage closet and curling into a ball in the farthest corner, hiding behind a wall of bedpans. You shove a hand over your mouth, trying to cover your heaving breaths. Bile rises in your throat as the sprinting catches up to you but you swallow hard, closing your eyes and praying.

Jeno’s gun rests in your other hand. The cold metal helps calm you down, your breathing evening out as you hear a door bang open. A moment later then there’s another bang. You hear footsteps in the hall, then another. They must be checking room by room.

You’re about halfway down the hall, maybe five rooms in. You don’t have much time.

You raise the gun, letting go of your mouth to hold it with both hands. Your finger drops to the trigger. Point and squeeze, Jeno said. You can do that. You aim it at the door, bracing your arm on your knees to keep them from shaking.

You flinch at the next bang, feeling the wall shake. They’re in the room right next to you. They trash the room, sending vibrations through the floor, until it suddenly stops.

You’ll have to move fast, you can’t give them any chance.

Light cascades around as the door is thrown open. You squeeze the trigger, keeping the gun aimed at the large mass in front of you. There’s a loud bang and the gun slams your shoulder back but the man stumbles backward. You squeeze the trigger again and this time he goes down.

A second man dodges the falling body, taking a step inside but you squeeze the trigger again and again and again and he falls too.

Shit, how many shots was that? You clench your teeth but they seemed to have learned the lesson for the moment—nobody follows.

“Alright, that’s enough fun.” You recognize Sionis’ voice from behind the mask this time. “Come out on your own or get dragged out. Your choice.”

“I’d really rather stay here,” you say, voice shaking. You force yourself to your feet.

“Fun way it is,” Black Mask says. This time two men push their way through, one blocking the other. You shoot and it hits the front man in the shoulder but he doesn’t go down. You squeeze the trigger again but nothing happens.

You throw the gun at him, hoping to catch him in the head but he just knocks it away. You start pulling things from the shelves, throwing as hard as you can. It does nothing to stop them, grabbing you by the arms and heaving you off your feet. You twist and kick and try to bite but they don’t seem to notice. They hold you up in front of Black Mask in the middle of the hallway.

“You are a feisty one,” he muses, watching you thrash.

“Let me go,” you say. You try to growl but it comes out more like pathetic begging.

“I’d like you to calm down a bit,” he says.

You open your mouth to tell him to fuck off but apparently that was some sort of signal because one of the men raises a fist and brings it down hard on the top of your head.

It sends jitters down your spine as your teeth clang together. You blink tears away, your head lolling forward a little. The floor blurs beneath you—no it’s your eyes, struggling to focus.

“Now, on with business,” Black Mask says, clasping gloved hands together. “I—”

You nearly fall to the floor as one of the men holding you—the one you shot in the shoulder—falls to the ground. You tilt backward as the second man goes down but a tight hand around your arm yanks you backward.

Black Mask pulls you into a patient room, the bed pushed against the wall next to the bathroom. He pulls you away from the door until your back is against the window. He keeps his hand tight around your arm, pressing something hard and cold against the side of your head. Your brain still reels from the hit but you don’t have to think hard to figure out it’s a gun.

There are a few shouts from the hallway but it falls quiet quickly. Only one pair of boots echo in the hall, solemn footsteps that pause by the door. Then Jeno appears in the doorway.

Blood splatters cover the shirt, concealing the bat motif. It seeps into his leather jacket, though Jeno himself seems to be unscathed. He holds a gun in one hand and his knife in the other.

“That’s close enough,” Black Mask says when he tries to step inside.

Jeno’s mask covers his eyes, but if it didn’t, you’re pretty sure he’d be glaring. “Let the innocent go. Settle this like an adult.”

“Innocent?” Black Mask cackles. “Sure, I’ll let the innocent go. I already did that.” He grips your arm tighter, pressing the gun harder into the side of your head. “But this one isn’t innocent.”

He taps on the mask. “I don’t wear this for fun, I’m sure you know. But I’m not like you. I don’t hide to protect myself or my loved ones—I don’t even have loved ones, and you know why? Because this idiot and the idiots at this hospital don’t know how to do a simple facial repair!”

“They were third degree burns, you’re lucky to have a face,” you say.

“Shut up!” Black Mask screams, shoving you. Jeno takes a step forward but freezes when Black Mask turns back to him.

“One more step and you’ll be cleaning some brains off your mask!” He takes a breath, lowering his voice. “I’ll be the first to tell you, that’s no easy task.”

“Let the hostage go.” Jeno sounds cold through the modulator.

“And you’ll let me go?” Black Mask huffs a short laugh. “I don’t think so. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Then you know what will happen if you pull that trigger.”

“Leave now and I’ll leave this one alive,” Black Mask says.

“What, half mad after you spend a few hours with your tools?” Jeno says. “Your reputation precedes you, too.”

Black Mask sighs. “Then it seems I have no choice.” The gun presses hard against your head.

“I’ll be seeing you around,” Black Mask says. You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the shot but the pressure on the side of your head vanishes.

There’s a loud bang, and for a moment you’re sure you’ve died, but then you feel a hard shove on your chest. Your legs hit the wall but it’s not enough to stop you from tumbling out the window, nothing but air beneath you.

You barely raise your arms out before something tackles into you, an arm wrapping around your waist. You wrap your arms and legs around whatever they find, clinging like a baby monkey to Jeno’s side.

He raises the other arm, shooting the grappling hook and pulling hard. You snap in the air, swinging up higher than you had fallen until you’ve crested the roof.

“I got you,” Jeno says, arm wrapped so tightly around you you’re crushed against his side.

He takes all the weight as you fall onto the roof, bracing the landing with his legs, somehow remaining upright.

You can only cling to him, waiting for your brain to sort out what happened. You aren’t dead. Black Mask threw you out the window. Jeno caught you. You repeat the words over and over in your head until they almost make sense.

“We’re back on solid ground,” Jeno says.

“Mhm.” You don’t let go, keeping your arms tight around his neck.

“You’re safe now,” he says.

“I know.”

He pauses. “You can let go.”

“Not ready yet.”

“Okay.”

For a long moment all you can hear is the pounding of your heart. It lessens and you start to hear tires screeching on pavement down below, people shouting, sirens wailing in the distance.

“Black Mask is getting away,” you say.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jeno says. “I’ll get him when I get him.” His hand ghosts over your back. “All that matters is you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you say. “Physically fine, at least. Just trying to sort out my head.”

He hums, second arm wrapping around you in a true hug. You let yourself linger in the moment, breathing in the sharp scent of blood on his jacket. It smears against your scrubs as you press closer to him, turning them slimy against your skin. The jacket hides the warmth of his body, a hard layer separating you from him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You lean back, letting go of his neck to rest your hands against the side of his mask. Whatever it’s made out of is hard, a thin metal that curves around his features yet doesn’t bend beneath your fingers. It doesn’t look anything like Jeno, the pale eyes concealing the most human part of him. He reaches up, pulling the mask off.

Sweat makes his hair stick to his forehead, which is creased with concern. His eyes flit between yours, dark and full of everything. For too long when you first ran into him, he would look at you with cold emptiness. Though you can’t read everything behind them now, he doesn’t bury all his feelings. He lets them shine through.

“It’s not your fault,” you begin, letting your hands fall to his shoulders. “Too much has happened, and that guy hit my head, and I thought I was going to die, so it’s hard to tell what I want to say. What I’ve been meaning to say.” You take a deep breath, looking at his forehead instead of his eyes, at the white streak of hair that clings to his forehead. “But if I don’t say it now, I think I’ll chicken out and never say it.

“I’m kind of a coward,” you say. “I don’t want to get hurt—I mean, like, don’t let anybody anywhere near my heart to keep it safe, and it works. I’ll find an excuse, any excuse to push them away.

“I did it to you. Yeah, I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to think about you dying because it always sends me into a spiral, but those were all excuses. It doesn’t matter that you wear that mask. That doesn’t change anything, and I won’t hide behind it anymore.

“I love you,” you say, “so much. So much that it’s making me brave. I don't want to be a coward anymore. I want to love you. I’m sorry it took me so long, but I love you, I really, really do.”

Jeno doesn’t say anything for a long moment, looking back and forth between your eyes. He doesn’t frown or smile, his face a mask itself.

“Oh,” he says.

“Apparently near death experiences lead to radical reflections and revaluations of life values.”

And then he smiles, a real smile that curls his eyes and sends your stomach hurtling in somersaults. He presses his forehead against yours, your hands still resting on his shoulders.

“Don’t apologize for things that aren’t your fault,” you say. You brush his cheek with your thumb. “Save your applogies for real fuck ups.”

He snorts. “Think there’s going to be a lot of those?”

“Somehow I think I’m going to get stood up a lot,” you say. “It’s okay, though. That’s just what happens when you date a superhero.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says. “I’m no superhero.”

You kiss his nose. “Whatever you want to call it. But you’re a good man, Lee Jeno, through and through.”

Jeno brushes his lips against yours, barely a kiss. He moves hesitantly, like he’s scared you’ll crumble in his hands.

Well, you’re not going to die, he made sure of that. You are here and alive, and so is he. You grip the neckline of his jacket, pulling him into a crushing kiss. You press your lips harder against his and his arms tighten around you, finally kissing you back.

It’s terrifying, how much you trust him. Like jumping off a cliff and knowing he’ll catch you—which basically he just did—you have to let go of the fear. Even when his arms are wrapped around you and you can feel him with every atom, it isn’t easy—a part of you will always want to run away, protect yourself. But you’re done running. Jeno put a gun in your hand and told you to fight. You can do that for him—for yourself.

You will hold onto him and you will love him and he will do the same for you. It’s all you can do.

Bonus:

Jeno doesn’t know how you slept on this armchair. The back is stiff against his back and he can’t hang his legs off the side without the arms cutting into the back of his knees. He can tuck his head against the wing but it leaves his neck at an awkward angle.

It’s for the best, though, since he needs to stay awake anyway. He shifts the chair until it’s against the side of the bed and sets his legs back on the edge of the bed, crossing one over the other and resting his elbows on the armrest. You raise your eyebrows at his feet but don’t tell him to move. He’ll give it a good twenty minutes before he tries to sit on the bed. He wonders if you’ll kick him out if he just asks outright if he can curl up next to you. Better to ease into it.

You look radiant, wearing a big t-shirt curled under the blankets. Your lips curl into a little smile every time you catch him looking at you (which is pretty much always).

“I’m going to invest in a big ass taser,” you say, still listing out your plan to keep yourself safe. “And some heavy duty pepper spray.”

“I can teach you how to shoot a gun,” Jeno offers.

You make a face, nose scrunching.

“No?”

You shake your head slowly. “No thank you. My arms hurt.”

“How about some hand-to-hand?” He asks.

“Are you going to be able to keep your hands to yourself?”

“What are you talking about?”

You look pointedly at his hand, which has found yours, fingers tapping on your knuckles. Huh, he didn’t realize he was doing that. He raises both hands, holding them up like a criminal waiting to be arrested.

“My bad,” he says, setting them in his lap. Your bottom lip juts out for a second but you’re too proud to ask him to hold it again. He bites back a smile at the little war behind your eyes.

“How’s your head?” He asks.

“Concussed,” you say flatly.

“You want to sleep?” He asks.

“Not yet,” you say. You finally concede, reaching out a hand for him. He puts his feet down, slipping out of the chair to sit on the edge of the bed, clasping his hand over yours. Your shoulder rests against his hip. You blink up at him.

“What?” He asks. “Is this okay?”

You nod slowly, studying him with piercing eyes. He gets the feeling you see right through him, so he turns his gaze to your intertwined fingers.

“What did you think of me when you first saw me? When you moved here, I mean,” he asks.

You pause for a long moment. “Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were unemployed for at least two months.”

Jeno snorts.

“I mean pretty much every time I knocked you were wearing sweats and half the time you looked like you had just woken up!”

Jeno scratches the back of his head with his free hand. “I don’t wear sweats that often.”

You pause for a moment and he doesn’t dare peek at your face. “When you asked me to sew up your scalp, I figured it was either vigilante or something worse, and then I saw Red Hood on the news and I just knew.”

He looks at you, head tilted down to see the top of your head. “Really?”

“It looks like you,” you say. You pause before adding, “Plus you’ve got that leather jacket hanging in your entryway. What’s up with that, by the way?”

“What?”

“Your ‘suit.’ A leather jacket and cargo pants?”

“They’re functional,” he says.

“Your name is Red Hood and you don’t even have a hood. It’s a mask.”

“Well a hood doesn’t exactly protect you,” he says, “and it strikes fear into my enemies.”

You snort. “Does the black t-shirt help with that?”

“Yeah, I can’t defend that one,” he says. “It’s cheap and easy.”

“No wonder you died,” you say.

“I take personal offense at that,” Jeno says.

You yawn. “Okay buddy.” You scoot over a little. “Just lay down already.”

Jeno grins, shifting to pull the covers up and slide his legs down them. He stretches out, rolling as close as he dares to you. His arm hovers over you until you shake your head and pull it over your waist, shifting until he all but lays on top of you. Your shoulder presses against his chest, his head resting on the same pillow only a breath away from you.

“If you wanted to cuddle you could have just asked,” you say.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You turn your head to meet his eyes, nose brushing against his. He could melt into your eyes, so warm and full of a happiness he hardly recognizes. He hopes he looks a fraction as happy as you do—and he hopes you know it’s only a fraction of how he feels.

He didn’t think he’d ever feel happy again. Even if he finally got his revenge on Joker and Batman, it would be bittersweet at best, the end goal of a bitter fight that started when he dragged himself out of that grave.

But he is happy. It’s the warmth that courses through every fiber of his body, the way his heart pounds every time he looks at you, the hope he feels when he thinks of the “after.”

“You know it’s been years since the last time I smiled?” He says.

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your eyes soften impossibly more. You rest your hand against his cheek again, fingers soft and careful as they trace the lines of his smile. They work their way to his lips, ghosting over the soft skin.

“I think that part is over,” Jeno says. “Hating the world.” He presses a kiss on your thumb. “I’d like to be happier now.

“Red Hood is a part of who I am, and it always will be. But Jeno is too, and I won’t let go of that.” He tightens his arm. “I’d like to hold onto you, too, though.”

You grin. “I’d like that too.” You press a short kiss to his lips. “But my head hurts and right now I’d really just like to go to bed.”

Jeno nods, shifting away only to turn off the lamp on your bedside table. He curls back around you, tucking his head against your neck and pulling you as close to him as he can. He is Jeno, he is Red Hood, and he isn’t alone anymore.

thank you for reading!! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated

#🌟 stars galaxy #nct #nct dream #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #nct reader #nct fanfic #nct dream fanfic #nct dream fluff #nct fluff #nct dream angst #nct angst #jeno x reader #reader x jeno #lee jeno #lee jeno x reader #jeno fluff #jeno angst

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elsfairy · 1 year ago

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i think loser!abby would 100% watch your every move while she goes down on you and always ask for reassurance so she knows that she’s making you feel good…ok anyways

the way my brain short circuited 🫠

When it first happened, you had just assumed it was because it was your first time doing anything together as a couple and that she was just nervous to touch you, in case she was doing anything wrong. The first night— although every night reminds you of the first because even though she was a nervous wreck half the time, she was still gentle with you. It was something you can’t forget. You’d never forget that even if she did have two of her fingers deep in your cunt, lips around your clit, and the pornographic sounds she was able to tear from you, it was heaven for her because you just looked so goddamn pretty all spread on her bed, begging for her. “You’re so pretty, could look at you for the rest of my life—”

It was quick how those weeks of dating had turned to months, then suddenly it was 2 years, and she was still doing it. Abby took in every detail of you. There wasn’t a part of you that she wanted to miss. She loved to watch the way your brows would furrow. How your fingers would curl up in the sheet, and grip a little too tightly that your knuckles turn white. The way your mouth would open, followed by a shaky breath when her fingers would brush against the spot that always sent you crazy and how your thighs would clench around her head. If there was something she loved the most, it would be when you ramble out the continuous strings of “so good, making me feel so good Abs—” and that would send her in her own frenzy. groaning and humming into your cunt, eyes flickering between your eyes, your tits—everywhere.

Now though? watching you as she fucks you and making you cum are the only two things on her mind. Her blonde hair is thrown over her shoulder, wispy parts sticking to her sweaty forehead, and her eyes are just focused on her fingers. Watching as your cunt squeezes around them, and then she’s spewing those small “is that good, baby?” “am i doing okay?” “looks so pretty like this” “prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen” that drives you crazy and she can’t stop blushing & smirking when you’re just nodding frantically, gasping into the arm you’ve got thrown over your face.

And when your hips start bucking up into her touch, she stills in her movements, her mouth is back on your cunt— almost winding you because she’s always been so quick and she’s letting you fuck her face, ride her tongue, whatever you need— but her hooded eyes once more remain on you. and her mouth drools at the sight of you cupping your tits, squeezing them with a whimper.

The sobs of “so good, always so good” fill her ears and she whimpers into your pussy, wrapping her arms tighter around your thighs. Who cares if her jaw hurts? If she’s making you feel this good, getting a sore jaw is nothing. She’s saying something, but you can’t quite make out what— not that she would care if you can understand it, because when your hand is on the back of her head, holding her there while your thighs tighten just slightly, she's starved, eyes rolling into the back of her head because you just taste so fuckin good. And it certainly isn’t until she can hear you gasping breathlessly, body almost collapsing back on the bed that she mewls, happily and contently licking and sucking at your folds.

Every night ends with the same, “was that good baby?”

#ᥫ᭡ cami baby #I HOPE THIS WAS LOSER ABBY UHM #😳😳😳#abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson smut #abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby anderson tlou2 #abby anderson drabble

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flamingpudding · 1 year ago

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Fictober23 Prompt: 27 - "I don't know if they will accept this."

Fandom: DPxDC

Rating: T

Warnings: -

A/N: Started writing this yesterday and finished it during lunch break today. So I decided to take a break tomorrow and post this early :D

Danny nervously poked his scrambled eggs as he sunk just a little lower in his chair. His eyes flicked back and forth between all of his new siblings that were currently in a heated discussion not noticing his slow withdrawal from the discussion and acting like he really didn't want to get noticed by them.

"Have you seen Mister Freeze's new sidekick? The white haired one that's probably a Meta with ice powers?"

"You mean Wraith?"

"Wait, I thought the kid was Ivy's sidekick? He helped blow up a facility last week!"

"No, no, no, no! Isn't he with Scarecrow?! I am sure he accidentally screwed up with the Fear Gas ten days ago so no one go harmed! But Scarecrow screamed at him that being new to the job wasn't an excuse."

"Didn't he help Catwoman steal two artifacts a couple days ago? One of them wasn't cat themed though I am pretty sure he was with her that time…"

"Wasn't he also the kid that was with Joker the last time he broke out? You know the white haired kid that was forced to assist him and tripped him right into his own trap and made the whole arrest a lot easier and quicker than usually?"

"It's like the kid switches who's sidekick he is every week…"

"Maybe he is interning with villains before breaking off to do his own thing? We better keep an eye on him."

Danny sank just a little bit lower in his chair and avoided looking at Alfred. Of course Danny knew about his new family's night time jobs, well day time in Duke's case, but when they had asked him if he wanted to take part in it he had declined. They didn't know about his second form, they only thought of him as a Meta with ghost powers that just escaped a horrible situation and now wanted a quiet and somewhat normal life. So they had accepted his decline in going into hero work, especially Alfred and Bruce appeared to be most relieved and happy about that decision at first.

But what Danny hadn't told them was that he might have declined going back into hero work, that didn't mean he would stay completely out of that side of his new family's life. The half ghost hadn't planned on it but it had all started with him accidentally coming across Poison Ivy. She reminded him of Sam in her values, so before his brain was able to catch up Danny asked if she wanted help blowing a facility that was pumping toxic waste into the water. Years of helping Sam with organizing activist protests did that to his brain.

One thing led to another and somehow Danny found himself more often than he liked in his phantom form acting as a sidekick or assistant to the rogues this family was fighting. In a way Danny felt like he was now more of an anti-hero than a hero, still fulfilling his obsession of protecting by finding creative ways to foil the rogues' plans if they get too dangerous or murderous but not really doing the whole righteous hero stick either.

Plus by working with Mister Freeze and Scarecrow at times he also gets to fully live out the mad scientist side of his brain. With them especially he gets to create whatever his weird wired brain could come up with, though, he did 'accidentally' leave behind USBs or papers with his inventions for Tim to find at the crime scenes.

What his new brother did with them was none of his business. If the Bats and Birds suddenly had new equipment in their arsenal that looked eerily similar to his inventions than that was that.

The problem was… his new family probably wouldn't like or accept that kind of turn of events. They were righteous and defenders of justice with moral codes and standards, Danny wasn't sure he could fulfill at the moment. Watching his new siblings arguing back and forth about Wraith, his new anti-hero alias Selina, Harley and Ivy had come up with, made his stomach sink every morning. In fact Danny was getting more and more scared with the passing days that his new family would kick him out the moment they learned about it just like his former parents had done.

He wished he had Jazz's contact to talk this over with her, but because of his situation Bruce found it better to wait a little longer before he could safely reach out to her. Maybe he could ask if Harley could talk with him instead.

A cup of tea was placed before him and Danny's head snapped up (when had he started to look down?) to find Alfred smiling calmly at him. "Master Daniel, I believe a nice cup of tea will help calm down your nerves."

"Thanks." Danny mumbled his hands cupping the cup and letting the warmth of it seep over his hands into his arms to comfort his nerves. He took a sip, eyes going wide for a moment before he looked over to Alfred who was currently taking away Tim's third cup of unfinished coffee while the other was distracted with the ongoing discussion. The old man gave him a knowing smile and Danny couldn't help the small grateful one that formed on its own, though he also couldn't help the slight feeling that Alfred knew what was frazzling Danny's nerves so much.

"Jason, maybe you can get into contact with Wraith?"

"Why the fuck should I?"

"You have a different reputation than us as Red Hood. He might be more willing to talk with you, to figure out his motives and such."

Danny choked on his tea, hurriedly placing the cup back on the table before pounding his own chest in a desperate attempt to get any tea that went down the airpipe out.

"Danny! Are you okay?" Dick was instantly on him, worried older brother vibes and all that.

He wheezed before breathing in relief once he stopped coughing, giving the oldest a barely hearable "I'm fine."

"<tt> Try not to die stupidly like this, Fenton." Damian clicked his tongue and Danny gave him a toothy grin.

"I am already half dead." He heard Jason snort. While the family thought Danny was just a Meta with ghost-like powers. Danny had explained his accident to them and how he died and revived with powers through it when they asked him why he was insisting through jokes that he was half dead. Jason and Dick were the only ones who really enjoyed his death related jokes and puns, the others were more worried about his mental state.

"Leave the death jokes to Todd, Fenton."

"Oh come on, don't ghost me like that! My jokes are just as much to die for then his are!"

"Fenton."

Danny just laughed, while the previous discussion made him fear for the future, he still loved the family he had gotten added into by sheer luck. He had come to quickly love them all and felt like his own weirdness fit perfectly into theirs. It truly made him hope that he could stay with them for a long time and maybe even add Jazz into the picture as well once his whole situation was more secured and Bruce would allow him to contact her and his friends.

Later that day Danny was in the library reading a book on Molecular Structure of the human biology and how it can mutate depending on external influence, as a preparation for his next endeavor as Wraith with Killer Croc, when he felt tapping on his shoulder.

Turning his head slightly Danny startled finding Cassandra in his personal space sitting next to him with a mirthful smile. She gave him a small wave as a greeting before sitting back a little, apparently satisfied with the fact that she sort of scared him there a little.

"Hey Cass." He smiled, putting one of the many bookmarks, Jason had distributed and stored away everywhere in an effort to stop his siblings from creating dog ears in books, on the page he was on before closing the book in his hands.

"You worry too much, relax." She signed with a reassuring smile once Danny had turned his full attention on her. Confused, the half ghost on the other hand tilted his head, puzzled about what Cass was going on about. He did feel rather relaxed right now.

"You being Wraith." Wide eyed Danny hurried to cover Cassandra's hands, like one would cover another's mouth if they blurred out a secret. His eyes hurriedly darted around in their surroundings but aside from the shelves filled with books Danny couldn't see nor sense anyone that might listen in on them.

Cass was shaking in silent laughter as Danny nervously turned back to look at her. "How…"

Slowly she freed her hands from his and patted them comfortingly before beginning to sign again, smiling knowingly. "I saw. Your body language is the same."

"I…" How was he going to explain this? He had gotten found out, was Cass going to tell him to leave now? Was this the end of his new found family life? It came sooner than he anticipated. Blankly he stared at his hands that uselessly lay in his lap on the book cover, one hand slowly moving to nervously trace unseen patterns on the books spine.

Danny did not see how Cass frowned at that action, all mirth gone from her smiles. She did not like her brother was drawing into himself, doubt and fear started to radiate from his body language and Cassander didn't like that even more. She moved a little closer, so that she would have an easier time to reach Danny and poked his cheek mercilessly until her little brother looked back up at her.

"No need to explain." She actually spoke instead of sign just to show Danny how serious she was. "It's fine. Funny even. Like Selina."

"But…" A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed, trying to find the right words. Cass waited patiently for him. "Mom and Dad… my former parents… they didn't accept me as a ghost hero…"

Cassandra nodded but didn't sign nor say anything, seeing that there was more her newest little brother wanted to say but still trying to find the right words for. It was something she could relate to. Unable to find the right words, hadn't she been through that before too. She lay a comforting hand down on Danny's shoulder, once more waiting patiently.

"I… I don't know if they will accept this… this turn of events. Especially in this family. You all are taking the Hero route and I…" Danny swallowed once more. "I can stop, I can change. I just don't… I don't want to lose another family…"

Before Danny knew what was happening he was enveloped in a warm hug, he blinked several times before realizing that Cass was hugging him tightly. He was held like this for a while before she drew back from him, poking him once more to make him look at her once more.

"No need. Don't stop." She spoke her voice, soft and smoothing while smiling at him brightly.

"But…" She shook her head, silencing whatever Danny wanted to say before giving him a mischievous smile, her hands letting go of his shoulder so sign her next words. "You are not hurting anyone, you keep them from killing, from being too dangerous to civilians, not really breaking any big laws. You help us in your own law breaking way. Like Jason does."

"I am not as good as him…" Danny mumbled still unsure but Cass only smiled fondly ruffling her little brother's hair.

"You started to smile more since you became Wraith." She flat out told him, causing Danny to look up at her stunned and she laughed silently. "Keep going. If you go too far, I will be there to pull you back."

"You're like Jazz…" Danny mumbled, finally with a little smile on his face and Cass returned it with a satisfying one of her own before pulling him in for another hug, he returned this time.

That night, Orphan watched happily how her little brother laughed carefree and freer than he had in a month sitting on Killer Croc shoulders, testing out his newest invention while the rogue was trying to get him off, unsuccessfully so far. Her other brothers surrounded the two and tried to figure out what was going on since Wraith was supposed to be their rogues gallery sidekick and not challenge them like that.

She laughed even when suddenly out of nowhere a USB-Stick hit Red Robin in the face. Obviously she had caught Wraith flinging it in his direction, but she was not about to tell them that. Orphan would let them figure that out on their own, meanwhile she was going to enjoy watching her newest little brother smile and laugh while being the chaos gremlin she had seen in him from day one as he was messing with the rogues as well as vigilantes / heroes of Gotham.

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shuahearts · 10 months ago

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maroon - yjh

pairings: yoon jeonghan x fem!reader

content: your valentines date, yoon jeonghan, wasn't the best at being reliable since the beginning. you probably shouldn't be giving him another chance, but with how much he's seemed to change since he met you, who were you to judge?

wc: 4k

genre: angst, fluff, suggestive

warnings: alcohol consumption (kinda), blonde jeonghan needs his own warning, mentions/allusions to sex, fwb to lovers

a/n: hii <3 happy valentines day! my first official fic on this acc lol... i hope you all like it!! reblogs are appreciated

He didn’t show. Though you were somehow expecting him not to, it still felt like a gut-punch to the stomach, the embarrassment and the way it surged through your body and cheeks, was an agonizing reminder that he wasn’t actually yours.

Evening was nearly upon the city street as you were perched on a bench. You scrunched the pretty red fabric beneath you, holding your equally as pretty bag close, both of which contrasted to the displeased frown on your face. You’ve always been fond of Valentine's day, hence the reason why your expectations were held higher today, but with every passing loving couple that walked by came a wave of disappointment and several wake-up calls.

You had messaged Yoon Jeonghan hesitantly yesterday, he wasn’t exactly the type to hold conversations with you on text. Some days, responses would be scarce and other days, they would come immediately. Yesterday had been one of those days in particular:

You: are you busy tomorrow?

Yoon: i think i’m free, angel

Yoon: mmm it’s valentine’s, do you want to meet up?

You: if you want to

Yoon: of course i do. do you?

You: i do

Yoon: meet you at 6

It was 6:23. Perhaps it was stupid to assume that you both would meet up for anything other than the usual– sex with zero romantic ties, no intent of love with little room for consideration of anything beyond a companionship. There was something different in the air though, whether that be Jeonghan’s open softness towards you or the Valentine's day spirit. Either way you knew if you kept letting the lingering hue of crimson remain on your cheeks, or flush throughout every part of you when he was around, you weren’t going to last.

You met him your sophomore year of college. Not one to be easily convinced, your friend Soonyoung had been adamant in taking you to one of those awful frat parties that reeked with hooch and rancid booze. Out of complete boredom and honestly annoyance, you had agreed to his suggestion, and to your shock it had been the exact opposite experience.

The party was small. Not much room to do a fucking keg-stand, but enough to know that the sole intention of it was getting laid. The drinks in general didn’t seem as cheap as you had initially expected when walking in. The event Soonyoung had taken you to was obviously of higher class and it worried you that he forgot to leave that bit out for you– because now you felt extremely small and underdressed compared to everyone else.

Half of the night you couldn’t recall, not only was it far from the expected loud and sweaty stereotype that frat parties held for themselves, but it was just boring.

Boring until you realized on your way out you bumped into a near stranger, colliding into them. An amazing misfortune for you, since the wine glass he had appeared to be holding in his hand was shattered onto the floor after the fluids splashed directly onto your torso. Any shriek you could have let out was immediately muffled by the feeling of a palm covering your mouth.

“Fuck, I am so sorry about that,” he mumbled with a groan, clearly trying to evade the attention away from you both, and thanks to the apparent conceitedness the guests at this party had, heads turned away from you both after a few moments. His hand dropped to his side, he seethed at the mess he made. You’re not even given a chance to look at whoever this man was as he was dragging you elsewhere, “would hate for you to step on that glass.”

You couldn’t lie to yourself and say you didn’t know who this man was just by looking at the back of his blonde head. He was all the talk around campus, infamous Yoon Jeonghan and his habit of flirting with everyone and practically their mothers. Hell, the way he took your hand in his told you exactly what you needed to know about him: you had to tread lightly. (Not lightly enough, you noted, the wine on your shirt was still very much there).

And with that you were immediately taken into the bathroom, Jeonghan disregarded the line that was outside the door and went inside when it was vacant, shutting the door behind you. Sighing and observing your stained shirt, he tsked in disapproval, “you’ve got wine all over you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes narrowed, “your wine.”

He hummed and shrugged, “if that makes you feel better.”

Sighing exasperatedly, you watched him grab a washcloth in his cupboards, “it’s fine. Don’t bother. I can go home and wash up.”

While you were wondering what on earth was so amusing to this guy, he hummed again, turning to face you, “but while we’re here at my house, can’t we get the job done quicker?”

“I’m just saying you don’t have to. It’s fine, I’ll be fine.”

“You know I would hate for such a pretty girl to show up at my party just to leave after I made a complete mess all over her,” he stepped forward, inching closer to you, “and although the red looks perfect on you, you don’t seem very pleased with it– or me, for that matter.”

That was the flirtatious manner everyone had been buzzing about. If you didn’t know any better you may have thought there was a bolder, ulterior motive within his words. You didn’t let yourself believe him.

When Jeonghan earned a glare from you, he chuckled in surprise, “you don’t believe me.”

With a shake of your head, he flashed you a satirical grin at your answer: “I don’t think I should.”

Jeonghan takes the now dampened washcloth in his hand, taking a moment to drink you in before he figures he should wipe off the drying mahogany that stuck onto your skin. It did make you look good, “will you please let me at least do this? If I don’t, it’ll remain in my guilty conscience forever.”

You sighed and gave him permission, you hadn’t really given yourself an option because how were you supposed to go home without Soonyoung, anyway? He smiled and reached out to cup your cheek, the other hand wiping your neck with the washcloth for some reason, agonizingly slow.

“I wasn’t lying by the way,” he mumbled, “I’ve had eyes on you the entire night, you’re one of Soonyoung’s friends, right?”

You ignored his initial comments, “yeah.”

“Should scold him for hiding you from me later.”

“Hiding me?” You asked, confused.

“I’ve never seen you around. Soonyoung surely would've mentioned having such a gem of a friend. Are you two dating?”

You shook your head, “I tend to avoid you.”

He clicked his tongue in disdain, “you know me?”

When you nodded, he clicked his tongue again, “I assure you that you don’t. Whatever you’ve heard about me doesn't equate to familiarity, angel. But you could know me. You should.”

You don't respond, trying to turn your attention away from the feeling of the warm washcloth dragging across your skin, “what’s your name so I can call you by it, pretty?”

“Y/n,” it didn’t matter whether or not you told him, something about him said that he’d find out either way.

“Well, Y/n. If you’d like I can wash your clothes for you and give you some of mine to wear, then you’ll be on your way home. I’m sorry about this, again.”

You were beginning to deep yourself in a hole, what was the harm of indulging in it? This man had come into contact with your skin faster than anyone has and maybe he was just captivating and sweet, but you were yet to learn about him. The way he happened to be the most gorgeous man you’ve laid your eyes upon was also a harmful position you would eventually put yourself into.

And even though Jeonghan knew he was just being kind, a part of him also knew that he wasn't one to usually do this, and the tipsy state he was put in had drawn him into you. Though you had just been standing for the majority of the party, he thought you were captivating, so beautiful and something new he just needed. He hadn't meant to fuck up his plans by somehow spilling wine all over you, but he liked to think that tonight was going to work in his favor.

“Okay,” you accepted his offer. Jeonghan could feel his lips pull into a smile and his heart rate intensify as he took you out of his bathroom, into his room.

Pulling out a random t-shirt for you to wear, he tossed it to you, “change into this and I’ll wash your outfit. You’re free to wait in here for now.”

And so you did.

That was the first ever time you spent in Jeonghan’s ever-familiar room, and somehow you both knew it wouldn't be the last. It didn't take long for him to take further interest in you. Red-flushed skin to skin contact that turned into something more, Jeonghan had found you to be all kinds of things: alluring, gorgeous, perfect, and sometimes he could argue that you were made for him. The way he kissed down your exposed back in such adoration and the way he coaxed you into giving into him every single time. It was enthralling and somehow he couldn't get enough of you.

Though, you could retort that it wasn't the case that way with Jeonghan. Sure he had put care into you after completely taking your ability to walk, but it was nothing short of superficial to you. You knew after each time he took you, he would go back to pretending you didn't exist, and it was a cycle you hadn’t been bothered with until now.

You: do you want to study with me in the library tonight?

Yoon: i was busy. sorry

That was his usual excuse. He was busy. You weren’t sure if he was fooling around with other women, while you yourself, well your only action was Jeonghan and it didn’t help that you felt yourself begin to harbor feelings for him. It made you feel uneasy and unsure in your situation with him.

After an outing with Soonyoung however, his bad habit of gossiping slipped on him, “it’s really funny. Whenever we’re all hanging out at Jeonghan’s, you know, the guys, he’s always leaving his room to join us after like 10 minutes.”

You made a sound of confusion, obviously bewildered as to why he was telling you this, “okay?”

Soonyoung grunts after sipping out of his straw, maybe you weren’t aware that everyone was aware, “his hair is all messy and he’s out of breath and he's red, Y/n. You’re always in there, huh?”

You felt yourself choke on your drink, he was right. You lost count of how many times Jeonghan had just finished with you, inside you, cleaning up his mess and kissing your bare shoulder sweetly before you drifted off to sleep in his bed. Now that you were aware his entire group knew– despite the fact that he would usually spend time avoiding you– made you feel embarrassed, “I’d rather we not discuss my… sex life, Soonie.”

“I think Jeonghan likes you, though. Everytime we ask him about you he’s all flustered and tries avoiding the question,” he shrugged, to which you only groaned.

“That’s because we have nothing to do with each other outside of that room. Or at least, that’s what he thinks.”

“I think you’re a liar, because he hasn’t been like this with anyone ever since his ex,” Soonyoung hums, pondering, “I don’t know, though. Sorry if I overstepped.”

Part of you wanted to press him for details, another told you just to leave it in complete ignorance. You chose the latter, but you wanted to ask: “been like what?” There was nothing between you both but an undiscussed trust you held for each other.

Nothing between you both. But you couldn’t deny the obvious tension between you and Jeonghan when his stare lingered on you longer in the halls between breaks, or how you knew he felt something when you were giving everyone attention but him at his stupid parties, and how you knew he wasn’t going to do anything about it. It had been a year of this. You were a pulling force and Jeonghan no longer knew how much he could take if you weren’t his, but something inside him felt it wasn’t right.

It’s not like you hadn't tried branching out, and Jeonghan didn't seem to mind when you did (which bothered you more than words could describe).

But there was an underlying problem– each man that had tried to pursue you was a terrible choice. They were awful in terms of personality, lacked any sense of self-awareness, and most recently, they couldn't measure up to Jeonghan. If you were going to do this you needed to stop thinking about him.

You were walking back to your house one night, coming back from a date which went the usual direction: with a boring, assholish man who made you pay for the meal once again. It didn't piss you off this time, you wouldn't let it. You were tired and ready to give up.

As the buzz sets off on your phone, you couldn’t help a grimace at who could possibly be texting you that late at night. However, there could only be one possibility.

Yoon: are you free?

Yoon: i know it’s late but i miss you

You: jeonghan

Yoon: angel

You: i just got back from a date

Yoon: oh

Yoon: bad time?

You: no

You: can you come?

Yoon: i’m on my way

The familiar knock on your door came minutes later, you swung it open and Jeonghan was taken aback by your appearance. You were dressed gorgeously in a blood-colored dress, tears ran down your face and Jeonghan felt himself surge inside, closing the door behind him and taking your cheeks in his hands.

“What’s wrong, Y/n? Did something happen?” Jeonghan asked you worriedly in a panic.

You sniffled, exhaling exasperatedly, both hands reaching up to take his wrists and peel his hold off of you. You knew what was wrong, “I’m just not cut out for anyone, I guess,” you turned to face away from his gaze, “no one.”

Jeonghan pressed his lips into a tight line, “you know that isn't true.”

It didn't occur to you that Jeonghan didn't care who you dated, you knew once you were unavailable he would eventually become a complete stranger, “what do I know?”

“Look at me,” he prompted firmly, and you complied sharply, “I don’t know what those poor excuses of men are doing with you but they don't know how to treat you at all.”

You watch him inch towards you, his hands finding purchase onto your cheeks again, kissing where a wet tear had just slid down, “I’m trying to be okay with you going out with people that obviously don't deserve you, but it’s really hard especially when they make tears run down your pretty face like this.”

“Baby?” He whispered against your lips, you wanted his on yours, “do me a favor?”

“Hm?”

“Eyes on me tonight,” he grunted, “don’t think about anyone else but me. Please?”

“Okay,” you croaked, finally feeling his lips on yours, not before he pulled away, groaning incoherent mumbles as his hands traveled down your figure, fingers gliding among your dress as they hiked up the bottom of them.

“They don’t deserve you, this,” he hummed, “I’ll make you forget they even exist.”

There was a distinct blur between where it was appropriate for the both of you to just be friends with benefits and more.

Throughout the next few weeks, there was an obvious shift in your relationship with him.

He no longer let his stare falter from you in the halls, his lips curved into a tempting smile as you passed by. Whenever you met up with him, he was greeted with your arms wrapped around his as his body pressed against yours warmly. You could feel his lips on your head, whispering “I missed you,” into your hair before a kiss, which vibrated throughout you.

It was a real shame that you knew that you could never be his, and he could never be yours, even when the lines in your relationship with him have blurred into complete dissipation.

Even when you could've sworn you could hear him whisper the words I love you, tickling your wine-sucked covered neck as his chest was pressed flush against your back & you could feel it rise and fall intensely.

Jeonghan wasn't one for commitment, and you knew that, but you were already so far. It was truly a shame how you let yourself fall for him when you knew.

6:35, the sun would’ve been gone, maybe if you let go of the hope you held for all of this. The hope you latched onto that you could be something more today. The hearts, the red and pink decorations and the occasional couples passing by on the street of the bench where you sat. It was all in vain. You could admire, but never be the one admired from the sole being you wanted it the most from. Even if he had given you room to hope.

About ready to accept defeat and break it all off, a low voice came from directly behind you.

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long, angel.”

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice, your eyebrows scrunched at the sudden presence of Jeonghan, when you were sure tonight was going to be another night of him cancelling out of the blue.

He didn't give you much time to bask in every part of him, the way your eyes flickered to his serious expression to his very new hair– maroon, a dark difference from the blonde he would sport on his long locks. And finally, when he straightened, a giant bouquet filled with scattered red carnations wrapped in the most luxurious tissue paper tied in a golden bow was held in his hands. His breath was labored and his chest continued to rise and fall as he looked at every part of you.

You felt confused, angry, and relieved all at once. All you wanted were answers.

“You’re late. You’re so late, Jeonghan, where were you?” You felt your voice break as you stood to face him behind the bench.

He looked at the flowers and then at you, “I swear I left the house early, quarter before six, promise Y/n. But I saw the flower parlor a few blocks down selling this gorgeous bouquet and the way they reminded me of you told me it was almost criminal not to get them. I didn't think it would take nearly an hour to wait in line, I’m sorry, baby.”

Your heart dropped, “you waited an hour to get these for me? Why didn't you text?”

“I didn't bring my phone, I was already halfway in line and I wanted it to be a surprise,” you watched him walk around the bench to stop in front of you, “I’m sorry you waited for me for this long, this is important to me, Y/n.”

“I…” You trailed off, not knowing what to say, your eyes traveled back and forth between the flowers, his incredibly handsome suit and his hair which matched effortlessly, “I don't understand anymore.”

He practically deflated at your words, “understand what, angel?”

“This, us,” you exhaled wobbly and let a hand run through your hair before letting it drop to your sides, “what we are. I don't get it, you pretend I don't exist for days and then treat me like I’m everything and more to you. Is it that hard just to choose one instead of leaving me to hang and dry like this?”

His expression softened as you continued, “you’re so confusing, Jeonghan, how do you want me so I can stop getting my hopes up–”

“I love you.”

“W-what?”

“I want to be your boyfriend, Y/n. I’ve wanted you since the day I laid my eyes on you, God, I love you and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to say it.”

You felt an all-familiar profound feeling in your chest, the ones you would feel when staring at him when he fell asleep on your table, insisting he’d watch you study. Or when you felt him pepper his kisses when he thought you’d be sleeping, or just seeing him direct his alluring smile to you, “are you… sure?”

He sighed, “I’ve been so sure it’s terrifying, but not about how you felt. I wasn't sure if you want me the same way I want you, so I figured the feelings would disappear naturally,” Jeonghan set the beautiful bouquet of carnations on the bench before reaching for your hands, “I don't want to be anyone else’s but yours. You’re the only thing in my life that’s going well, and I didn't want to lose that. I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head, wriggling your hands out of his grip and Jeonghan’s heart dropped as he was sure that he had lost you now, until he felt them cup his cheeks warmly, “I want to be with you Jeonghan. No more disappearing, no more leaving, if you mean it, can you do that?”

He nods rapidly and eagerly, “I don't ever want to. I promise.”

Feeling a smile creep onto your face, you pressed a kiss on his lips, full of love and sincerity. You felt his own form of a smirk before pulling away, “so, am I…?”

“Yes, Jeonghan, you’re my boyfriend,” you rolled your eyes at him, playfully hitting his chest, “and for the record, I love you too.”

With a giggle he takes the bouquet and hands it to you, in which you gladly take. You gesture to his hair and his eyebrows rose up in realization, “oh yeah, do you like it?”

Cradling the carnations in one hand, he took your free hand, swinging it happily as you nodded, “why red?”

He shrugged, “it reminded me of you. It makes me look sexy, doesn't it?”

You sighed and jokingly nudged him, in which he feigned injury, “it does. So, where do you suppose we go?”

His footsteps mirrored yours, “I made reservations for that one fancy restaurant down the block,” he hummed, “it’s at 7, so we have just enough time to walk there now.”

“At seven? What were we supposed to do for an hour, Jeonghan?”

His hand gripped yours tighter, and there was no mistaking what his quiet chuckle implied.

“Jeonghan.”

He chuckled again before stopping to face you. He ran a hand down your arm, “we can do that later, there’s a lot I want to do. But right now, I just want to be with you.”

He leans in to place a kiss on your cheek, “and before I get a chance to say it and rip this dress off of you later, you look absolutely beautiful.”

Your cheeks burned off a dark cherry afterwards, just before he began to walk with you again.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Jeonghan,” you murmur sheepishly.

He hummed, turning his head to pull you in for another kiss on the cheek, “happy Valentine’s, my Y/n.”

#jeonghan x reader #seventeen fanfic #jeonghan fic #yoon jeonghan x reader #jeonghan angst #🐰–yui's han

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 8 months ago

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AITA for being upset that my boyfriend of 3 years doesn't remember our anniversary even though i know he has adhd? ☕️☕️

I (26 W) have been dating my partner (32 M) for over 3 years now. He is officially diagnosed with ADHD and I am currently waiting for my own diagnosis for ADHD. He got diagnosed shortly before we got together and he has opened to me about how insecure he is over his disabilities causing a rift between us since all his previous relationships end with his partners leaving after they "get tired of dealing with his issues" because he also has autism and has been rude before in regards to my weight despite knowing that i am recovered from an eating disorder and this is the context in which his insecurities were disclosed to me. I also don't mean rude like accidentally, he literally put his hands on my stomach and said "what is this" after we had already had several Big Fights in regards to his previously rude behavior. For further context, I told him on our second date that I have a strict boundary around food and my weight and would appreciate it if he kept comments about my body weight or how much i eat to himself because it's triggering for me.

I try to be mindful of his limitations but recently, he asked me if he had forgotten our anniversary. This wouldn't bother me as much if it wasn't our third anniversary coming up in a couple of weeks and if I hadn't repeatedly told me over our time together the exact date of our anniversary. Now, I don't expect him to remember dates off the top of his head. I struggle with that information myself but what I DO hold against him is the fact that he KNOWS he forgets things and doesnt make ANY effort to have a failsafe against that. I put everything in my phone and he WORKS in tech so he knows how easy it is to set a repeat event with reminders nowadays so I don't understand why he can't just fucking figure out how to remember our anniversary without constantly making me be the one to remind him. I have told him exactly this and asked him why he didn't write it down over the last 3 years if he knows he's bad with dates. he said "that's a good point" and that was that. Now, he keeps trying to manipulate the information out of me by asking me when I'm like half asleep because he "thought i might slip up and just tell him."

Am I in the wrong for being mad over this? it feels like he doesn't care enough to do the bare minimum of being in a relationship with another person. I've dated others before with ADHD and it's never been a fucking issue before for them to remember our anniversary. I myself put in the effort when I care about someone to do the bare minimum and write down information I want to remember about someone. I just don't understand why I feel so guilty over getting mad about this when I feel like I have every right to be upset because it's not like I haven't been forthcoming before, it's not like i haven't repeatedly told him over the years and he puts in birthdays to his calendar so like why doesn't he care enough to put our anniversary into it? He wants to marry me but I dont want to spend the rest of my life reminding him to care enough about me to remember things like my birthday, our anniversary or my eating disorder.

But I also know that expecting people with ADHD to remember things is kind of an ableist move and I don't want to start an argument where I'm being a dick to his disabilities. So WIBTA if I decided to make this into a big deal because it is for me knowing my partner has ADHD and cannot help being so forgetful all the time?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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leclsrc · 2 years ago

Text

stay, at least for breakfast ✴︎ cl16

genre: angst, just. angst, fluff

word count: 9.2k

You love once and miss always.

notes... internet translated ita/fre, non linear format so might b a tad confusing but thats it

auds here... this fic is a tad long sry. many thanks to mack who recommended the most painful songs to me that got me through writing the last couple of scenes. ik i said i wasn’t sure when i’d release this but here it is :)

You’re the only person Pierre knows in New York, so you’re the first one he calls. You suggest you meet just at your place, so you can smoke more freely, because so many people complain about the smell these days. You stall. You say the L train is broken. You say you’re tied up with work at the firm. But Pierre sees through you and eventually you meet anyway.

He looks the same, and just seeing him reminds you of so much. Shadows and outlines of memories long gone. You try to keep up the pretense of being okay, to remember that truly, your mind has been elsewhere lately—off everything, off the memories, on work, on cases. You try not to bring him up, even if it’s inevitable that he arises; you keep conversation to a polite minimum.

Pierre offers a cigarette, a Camel light. You’re a fourth’s way through the stick.

“He asks about you, sometimes.” And then just like that, your world has ceased to turn.

“Oh?” A beat. “What do you say?”

“Just the usual. You’re working on this and that case for the law firm… you went to Greece in the summer.”

You and Pierre are still close, but it’s difficult to forget why. You two are connected by Charles, by a friendship so sacred it warranted a dinner for a Pierre-exclusive introduction. You’d grown close then, and when the breakup happened, it became hard for Pierre to maintain close contact with both of you.

Selfishly, you wanted him to see how broken you were, so he could report it all back to Charles, etch every last detail of your pain. But Pierre is more mature than he’s given credit for.

“Okay.” You say blankly, unsure of how to bridge a less tense topic.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension, Pierre does it instead. “Do you remember when we bought shaving cream and made Charles look like Santa?”

It was in here in Manhattan, you recall, when Charles had dragged Pierre along with him to visit you over winter, when he’d been dating you for nearly two years at the time. Your flat was just above a bodega that had a comical amount of cheap cans of shaving cream that you and Pierre had found so absolutely silly, birthing a series of Charles-related pranks. After your grocery run, you’d returned to your place, where your boyfriend was fast asleep, mouth half open.

Shh. Quiet, you’d said, spurting shaving cream along his chin, his jaw, laughing silently.

Pierre had followed suit until finally, a beard of Nivea Men bounded down to Charles’ torso. You’d snapped a picture; the shutter sound had woken him up to a red-faced you and Pierre.

He was a good sport about it, kissed you with laughter, so you, too, had a beard of froth. Pierre took a Polaroid with a gifted camera of you on Charles’ lap, arms entwined around his neck, both of you bubbly with the cream, cheeks achy with smiles and laughter. You pretend to forget where it is, to forget that it’s tucked in a box you open once in a while.

“I miss him sometimes, you know.” The confession rips through you, exacerbated by the cigarette.

“I know.” Says Pierre, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You realize maybe it is.

I still have so much love for him, you wish to say. But where will I put it? Will I keep this inside of me forever? A great, monstrous, shameful thing it is, to love somebody who’s left. But here I am doing it, trying to fill a void that feels like a crater. Where do I put this love? Maybe I can give it to somebody else, somebody new—but I’d say it’s not the same.

You think you’ll always hold a torch to Charles, even when the fire burns through the wood, ash trickling onto your arm until it hurts. And even then, when the light’s gone, when the flame’s wounded you and licked deep into your heart and bones, like it has now, you’ll linger, still holding this torch, still yearning, still unwanting to let go. Still loving. How desperate, you think. How human.

You clear your tobacco-flavoured throat. “It’s em—it’s embarrassing,” you say instead, throat closing up midway, in a futile attempt to water down your intense emotions. They threaten to crawl up your throat, force secrets out of you with the ease of ripping a piece of paper in half.

“Is it?” He asks, open-ended. “N’est-il pas honorable d'être si aimant?”

“Pas si ce n’est pas réciproque.” You scoff.

But he’s relentless, persistent in his pursuit to prove a point. “No. Love isn’t embarrassing, or pathetic, when it’s one-sided. It means more that way, when it’s not reciprocated. It means you’re selfless. It means the love is real.” He turns toward you, and in a billow of smoke, asks, “Does it not?”

You stare, left speechless. All you muster is: “Va te faire foutre.”

—

You exit the room at eight-thirty with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth. You stretch your arms over your head, combing a hand through your bedhead. Your eyes are half-shut, and already you smell it before you see it.

Pausing in your tracks, you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Charles?” You call out, still out of the kitchen’s view. You try to remember if he was in bed when you crawled out, but your mind was still cloudy then, and the desire to pee took precedence.

You turn toward the bedroom door. “Charles, come out here. I think something’s on fire in the kitchen. Babe!”

You speedwalk, concern taking over—you didn’t pay enough attention to fire drills in primary school, clearly. Once you peek into the kitchen, however, your concern is only exacerbated, but not nearly as much as the extreme confusion that begins to well up inside you. There, at your stove, is your boyfriend himself, clearly fully awake and conscious, and holding a frying pan in mid-air that’s billowing smoke.

Having heard your voice already, he feels your presence and turns slowly. His gaze blinks from the pan in his grip to your totally incredulous stare.

“I can…” He pauses. “I’ll try to explain.”

“Very smart save, babe,” you say, but it’s muffled by your toothbrush.

“You sound stupid,” he retorts.

You remove the toothbrush and try to speak as coherently as you can through the spearmint foam. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving me criticism right now.”

“Fair,” he says, flitting his gaze over to where he holds the frying pan in mid-air. “I will explain as soon as you rinse your mouth. I promise.” You narrow your eyes, wondering if maybe this is another tactic to get himself out of trouble, but you figure it makes sense. If you’re going to scold him, might as well not spray toothpaste everywhere.

You grab your phone on your way back, where the disarray has not subsided in the least. He’s wearing your kiss the chef apron, stained with grease and pancake batter, both vital ingredients to bacon and flapjacks, neither of which are to be seen anywhere.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

“I wanted to cook you a surprise breakfast. But I can’t get the stove right.”

“Tu es fou.” You laugh, inspecting the smoke-scented pan. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas simplement pris à emporter?”

“Je voulais être pensif!” He defends, pouting. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.” He deposits a batch of dishes at the sink as you watch in amusement. Your boyfriend is usually a good cook, you’ll say—he makes a mean stack of pancakes, and anybody can cook bacon, really. You suppose this is all just one honest mistake, born from a desire to surprise you on this morning.

He’s scrubbing at the pan when you wrap your arms around him in a backhug. “Thank you anyway. You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

He turns, a bubble of dish soap on the tip of his nose and hums. “Does this get me boyfriend points?”

“Alright, Jesus, a hundred of them.” You smile fondly, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. He makes you toast as compensation, takes the time to cut the crusts off the bread and the pulp out of the orange juice and the big bits out of the jam. He does his best, perfecting the art of toast and breakfast and, by extension, making you happy.

—

“Un amaretto sour, une bouteille de rose et un dirty martini,” you order smilingly in smooth, sure French.

The waiter nods and after thanks are exchanged, he leaves your table alone. In your limited knowledge of Paris, you’ve chalked it up to a few things: many people will be rude, the serving sizes will be petite, and the men will be anything but trustworthy. You’ve tried them before and they all go the same way, slipping out of hotel rooms with disarming desolés, buttoning their polos as they go.

So here you are, characteristically silent, because your friend is flirting with a guy and you refuse to do the same.

“You speak French?” The guy across you asks curiously. He talks like he’s always smiling, eyes turning into half-crescents. He’s accented, but you’re unsure of the origin—it sounds French, in the same way it kind of doesn’t. You nod politely.

“Ah? Où est-ce que vous l'avez appris?”

“Université,” you respond. “J’ai etudie le langue français, mais… est trés difficil.” He laughs, nodding like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. Half-crescents.

“I’m Charles. I grew up—I’m from Monaco, so I speak it. And Italian. Joris and I.” He elbows his friend, who your friend is flirting with. Oh, Monaco. So… not French.

“I’ve never been,” you say, letting yourself loosen up a bit more.

“It’s very small. You should go sometime.” An implication of something hangs in the air, like clouds over France. You smile, bashful, nodding along.

“I’ll make sure to.” The drinks arrive and flow through the night, laughter passed along the table like wine. At some point you and Charles get up to dance, but are quickly put to your chairs by the waiter—you mutter some slurred remark about how why play music if you can’t dance?!

But he is funny, and charming, and pretty. You find yourself staring at him in a very desperate, schoolgirl crush way, lip bitten and cheeks warm when he catches you.

Later that night, tipsy off the alcohol, Charles the Monegasque presses a kiss to your cheek and asks, shyly, if you’d like to come to his hotel. You tease him, just to see the half-crescents again, and then you’re in his car and in his room, top pulled off and bra unclasped, laughing drunkenly into his neck when the pleasure reaches its crux. And you hope he doesn’t ask you to leave the next day, drifting into sleep with his arm slung over your waist.

—

You like Charles’ voice in real life.

This is because it means you feel it more than hear it, a low thrum through his chest and into your ear. It lets you know he’s close by, which is the best kind of reassurance, because he never usually is. It doesn’t matter what he talks about—the day past or about to begin, racing, family—all you can really digest is the amount of love and care he puts into his words.

Most of the time you hear his voice through the layered, stuffy audio of your phone or your laptop, when they can’t quite catch up to his lips, when the Internet lag is just that awful. If you’re lucky, he sounds more like himself, but nothing compares to hearing it for real, the whispers and murmurs and roughness of it all. He’s here, and you’re home, content just to listen.

You’re in Monaco; it’s your fourth day here. You’re off school for two weeks before you dive into midterms, so you spend it in Europe, because you haven’t seen Charles in ages. Lately he’s been pixels, voice memos, bubbles of words. But now he’s Charles, real, tangible, yours.

Life has become easier when he’s around, a fact wholly owed to his presence. When he’s here, you feel at ease, like laughter is effortless and loving is natural. But there is a ticking timebomb you sleep on, and it’s your impending departure, your flight back to the city, your resuming of normal life. Of life without him.

“I’ll be in Geneva next week,” he tells you, voice throaty from having just woken up. They’re the first words out of his mouth after he hangs up the early morning phone with Andrea. It’s an invite, even if it’s phrased as a statement; he awaits your affirmation, should it come. He invites you to these things often, as a way to introduce you more into his world. The words rumble through him, slowly onto your fingertips that waltz silently across his bare chest. They skate while you formulate a response.

“Okay,” you say quietly, half-asleep still. “I have… a huge recitation coming up, so I don’t think I can make it. Criminal law.”

He tenses, and you feel it. But his words say something else. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I could,” you say, as compensation. It’s what you’ve both grown used to lately, wishing. Wishes that, for all your trying, never seem to come true. I wish I could make it. I wish I could visit. I wish we could celebrate together. I wish I was there for the podium, or the grades release, or the job offer phone call. I wish, I wish, I wish, and not much of anything else. Just wishing. Wishing, wanting, never getting.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I wish you could, too.”

The dissonance between the voice that rumbles through him and into you—comforting—and the words that leave—a touch too sharp—strikes through you like electricity. “I’m sorry,” you say achingly, and the morning is silent as you both fall back into ignorant, blissful sleep.

—

“Aaaaand that pretty much evens us out to a solid 12-3.”

You finish tracking the score on your Notes app, closing your phone and facing your boyfriend’s pouting face of defeat.

As always, the loser packs up the chessboard first—the wooden pieces click noisily against each other as he folds up the game, to be won (by you, no doubt) another time. Between work and the general upkeep of a relationship that’s constantly long distance, you and Charles find it difficult to begin and maintain romantic traditions.

But there’s always the assurance of chess. To air out grievances, to pass the time, to play footsie under the table. You and Charles always play, keeping a seasonal tally of near-daily games—during flights, pre and post race, after sex, at brunches with family.

“You’ve been cheating,” he accuses jokingly, storing the chessboard and inviting you onto his lap.

You’re in Nice today, housesitting for a friend while Charles spends time off racing. He claims it’s sufficient practice for when you one day buy a place together; two, at that: one in New York and one in Monaco. The days have passed in chess games, pots of coffee, and slow dances in the kitchen while you wait for pasta to boil or rice to cook.

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, clambering atop him. Your arms loop around his neck, his around your waist. “Don’t worry. The tally will restart in September.”

“I’ll best you then.” Here, in this still moment of silence, where the sunlight from outside filters in just right and illuminates every detail of Charles’ face, you can almost feel your heart swell to an unimaginable size. You connect the moles and freckles with the tip of your pinky, traveling lower until it rests softly against his lips. He smiles, flexing against your touch.

“Sore loser,” you say, flirtatious, playing with his hair.

“I think I keep losing,” he starts, hands tightening around your frame, “because every time I see you, I forget how to do the most ordinary things.”

You bite back a smile. “Hey, don’t try to charm yourself into a win.”

“Can’t help it, the winner’s too pretty,” he teases back; your lack of retort leads you to press your face into his chest. He smells like he always smells, clean and woody and a bit like your own perfume, your pretty boy. You inhale, breathe him in and ground yourself. Here, miles away from Monaco, even farther from Manhattan, you are home.

—

“How do you tell people you broke up?”

“I say we wanted different things,” you reply, two puffs into your second Camel.

A white lie, a half-truth, a rehearsed answer after being asked the same repetitive question so many times. You and Charles broke up because at that point, nothing about you made sense. You were growing older, and with age came the stupefying realization that nonsense wasn’t always romantic. If it didn’t make sense, it never would. But you did want the same things, you suppose, at least to some extent.

You know you wanted marriage. After law school, it had to be, and in Europe, somewhere sunny and windy and flowery with a sea nearby. A small affair, family and friends. You know you wanted kids, two or three, a bunch of Charles lookalikes, tufts of light hair and bouts of crazy energy. You know you wanted a house—not a flat, a house, a brownstone in Manhattan, a big property in Monaco. You wanted so much of the same things.

Perhaps that is why Pierre will never understand the magnitude of the way you miss Charles. You dream of him when you’re awake, of the times you spent together that finished abruptly. You look for him in everyday objects. You keep the tissue paper conversations, you want to say, even if it’s so, so mortifying, so raw to admit it.

“But you didn’t,” says Pierre, because he knows it.

“We didn’t. But what other explanation is there?” Where a concrete summary of your breakup is supposed to be, there lies grey matter, webs of explanation spanning years and months and questions unanswered.

“I get it,” he replies. But he’s not you, or Charles, so he doesn’t.

—

Charles looks at you and imagines your smiling face in every moment of his future. Holding a child, under a veil, half-asleep in the morning, flushed and warm after a few beers.

You’re—you’re you, and he just loves you, in a way he will never be able to articulate. He drives for a living—he looks at all kinds of statistics, worded and encoded onto machines and computer screens. But this love isn’t quantifiable. Not in numbers, not in speed, not in words, stanzas of Italian. His love for you is indescribable; it exists in a wordless plane, massive and all-encompassing, carved and chiseled finely.

When you’re absent, the world seems duller, a bit more empty. But it’s okay, he thinks—you’re here now, across the room, in nothing but lingerie, your dress pooled at your feet. You’ve both just arrived from another social gathering, with so many people, and an afterparty arranged by Max.

You’d utilized your well-used secret signal for parties that directly translated to “let’s go home”—bringing up peanut butter meant you were well past exhausted and needed to leave. One “the dessert would’ve been so good with peanut butter” later and you’re here. Years of being together means you’ve both created a vocabulary all your own, lexicon and phonetics making up a language of love and familiarity. Nobody else will ever get this, he thinks. It’s just yours.

You’re removing your makeup in the mirror, and oh, well, you’re beautiful. He wonders what he has to do now to be able to find you in the next life, to be able to meet your eyes again for the first time and fall in love with you the way he did.

You’re what he looks for after a race, after a win, after a DNF. So he can, if just for a moment, let his guard down and allow himself to be yours, yours and only yours, collapse into your arms from ache and overwhelm and find reprieve there. With you, he lets himself go, lets the façade fall, lets himself stay in your touch before he deems himself ready to be with the rest of the world.

“Hey, you,” you call, and he blinks. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“I just love you,” he says sleepily.

You tug on a nightshirt—his, from ages ago—and crawl into bed beside him, raising a teasing brow. “Sex is off the table.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

“Good,” you half-yawn, yanking the lamplight closed and nestling yourself beside him. “I look horribly un-sexy.”

“The shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Go to sleep.”

—

It’s raining today, for the first time in a dull stretch of weeks. The fall comes in angry, noisy sheets, made more furious by the wind. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, you clasp a mug in your hands, staring sullenly out the window, wondering when Charles will be home. Something has shifted in the weeks since you last saw each other, since you flew back out to New York and Charles didn’t finish in the last race.

Sometimes everything feels impossible to touch, like you don’t know what the next step is, let alone how to take it. There’s a certain uncertainty to where you stand, a possibility that, if the seconds tick just right, everything will crash down. This isn’t a feeling you’ve ever had before, but you suppose this is the only way to learn how to deal with it.

It’s comforting, then, when you hear the keys jingle at the door.

Your flat, as expensive as it is, has a quirk to it; the door only opens when you jerk it with your knee twice. You hear it, the double thump, and in almost childish excitement, you set your mug down and pad gently over to the foyer, so you’re ready for him when the door opens. Everytime you’re apart for this long, the routine is standard, and first thing you do is hug—so hard, so tight, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face in your neck.

“Hey,” Charles says, seeing you wait idly by the front door. You inch forward, but freeze. He heaves his luggage in, smiling softly, tiredly almost, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek and then disappears into the bedroom. The lump in your throat doesn’t go away when you slowly realize the hug you’d awaited, prepared for even, does not come.

You follow him instead, to the bedroom, where he’s still quiet, shirtless and picking out something from the drawers. He turns when he hears you. “Have you seen my grey hoodie?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wash.” You pause. “I used it last week, sorry.”

“I tol—it’s,” he says, inhaling, “it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taken aback by how affected he is. “I can get it dried.”

“It’s okay.” He insists, a bit sharply, tugging on a different shirt instead.

The air is thick, threatening to break, and you’re hopeless, lost, left wondering—what the hell is going on. You try your best anyway, humming as you take a seat on the bed and fold the bits of laundry you��d abandoned in the morning.

“Pascale’s inviting us over tomorrow,” you open, finishing a pair of shorts and depositing them into the drawers. Your arms wrap around him, and he holds them there. This is good, you think. This is okay. “For brunch, because Arthur’s going to be home. I told her okay—since I’m back in New York by Tuesday and you’ll be in Italy then, too. We haven’t had brunch with your family in forever. God, they’re going to be asking questions about marriage, and engagement, and ki—”

“Stop.” The room goes still. “Why did you tell her okay?” He asks, disengaging the hug and turning toward you fully.

You’re like a deer in the headlights, confused, lost all over again.

“Charles?” You prod, gently. “Is… are you okay? I mean, we always greenlight brunch.”

You watch him pinch his nose bridge, exhale, close his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You echo, stepping forward. He steps back, avoidant.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please, just… don’t.”

You’ve heard this often lately. In fact, no—you’ve maybe felt this more than heard it. This—this distance, this space, this push. Every call unanswered, every flight missed, every text answered with a brief, apathetic OK. You can’t quell the fear, the panic swelling in your chest, because you can feel him floating away, just out of grasp.

“Talk to me,” you say, because it’s the only thing that can bring itself to leave your mouth. It’s weak, it’s desperate, lacking composure and firmness. “Nous pouvons travailler à travers cela.”

“Non,” he says, as if he knows it already. “This, I—I just. I think I just need some space.”

Space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, I’ll go,” he insists, like he’s doing you a favor. I’ll save us the nasty fight, he seems to convey. I’ll go. So he does—grabs a coat and wrestles himself out of the door, with barely anything left to reassure you, just a short kiss and a hand on your hair. It’s performative, you know this, but you’ll take it. You don’t have much to accept these days.

The night passes, still and quiet, without the jingle of keys or the double thump at the door.

Even in memory and introspection you will come to find this moment and remain capable of recounting every thread of detail, ones as small as the eyes of needles, every prick of pain that pokes at you. Because even if you see him the day next, and even if he greets you with a kiss, and pulls you aside to apologize profusely, and even if you feel so loved in this very moment, with hugs from Pascale and jokes from Arthur and check-ins with Lorenzo, the fact has secured, burrowed itself into the dark crevice of your heart.

You will look back on this one day, and think, with the kind of certainty so crushingly absolute: yes, this is when it all went wrong.

—

“Is he seeing anybody?” Halfway through the third stick.

“No,” Pierre says, blowing smoke out into the air.

“Be honest.”

He snorts. “D’accord. An Italian girl, few months ago, but it’s over. It was quick. Very. And you?”

The information makes you weak in ways you refuse to share. “Just… testing things out with this guy.”

“Does he know about Charles?”

The silence is telling. “About Charles” is an awfully broad topic.

Charles was such a big part of who you are, and who you’ve been, and what you’ve been through. How would you even begin telling somebody about you both? The bits and pieces, the great figure eight, the tiny infinity. The moments within the moments, memories within memories. The love. The way you loved, the way you sought him, the way you have yet to replicate the feeling of loving him, the way you wait for the next life, so you can seek him all over again.

There is “does he know Charles,” and there is “does he know about Charles,” and the two are so cruelly separate and different. Anyone can know Charles; he is, after all, world-famous. You don’t know how he’s doing in motorsport these days, because a lot of the time the Google search for his name suggests ex girlfriend right beside it, and that’s enough to stun you into not searching again. But still he’s famous and renowned, so of course he’d be known. But for someone to know about him, what he meant to you—it feels like you’d be reciting a novel in an effort to explain how the both of you began, became, and ended. Reciting sonnets and stanzas of prose, of moments painfully intimate, of habits that have yet to die, of things you wished to be taught by him.

“So, no.” You nod softly.

—

The possibility of spending Christmas with either of your families grows thin as December begins. Between final exams and racing meetings, neither of you give, discussing over hours-long calls and coordinating calendars. You find that your only common free day is the seventh of January, which is effectively well past the holidays. You’ve sunk into a pile of misery at the very real chance of spending the holidays by yourself. It’s not a pretty idea, despite the fact that you’ve befriended loneliness lately.

Outside your window, Manhattan is caked in snow; it reminds you of Santa Claus Charles, with his foamy frizzy beard and kisses of froth and the Polaroid on the fridge. You wonder if Charles, wherever he is in Europe now—traveling multiple times a day—remembers you, too, in these little mundane things.

He’d called on the third of December, when it was three in the morning in New York. You picked up after two rings, busy studying, and mumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, clearly excited over something.

“Bit early, honey.” You’d said back amusedly, highlighting phrases on the textbook.

“Just saying it now, because the next time you hear me say these words, it’ll be in New York.”

You didn’t register his words until you realized you’d tinted two entire paragraphs fluorescent yellow.

You blinked. “Wait, what’d you say?”

“I’m there by the twenty-fifth, evening. Found a sweet spot in my calendar thanks to Joris.”

“If you’re joking, Charles, I swear—”

“I’ll see you then,” he had said; even then you could hear his smile through the scratchy audio of international calls.

That’s what you’re doing here, over your stove cooking chicken to commemorate your first Christmas together. You stick a thermometer inside it, busying your mind with thoughts of dinner instead of the fact that you haven’t spoken to your supposed guest in over a week.

Like many fights lately, this began over something irrational and grew into a serious, temperamental discussion about your future.

About moving in together and how impossible it seemed. About raising kids or getting engaged. Everything was written on different pages for the two of you. Your plans were always years too early, years too late, never aligning. Bilingual paragraphs eventually devolved into exhausted intermittent texts, check-ins if it mattered, and barely any concrete discussion at all.

It’s mortifying to have to say the phrases “like many fights lately.” You wonder what it proves about the two of you, about the relationship you share. Has it gone sour? No, you tell yourself. But this yogurt dip will, if I don’t put it in the fridge. You wipe your hands off after you do, rechecking your phone; still no texts or calls or updates. He’d texted this morning, a brief and simple see you soon, but hadn’t responded to your text.

Chicken, mashed potatoes, candles ready to be lit. You fiddle with the pink Bic, lighting and unlighting, sighing.

You dial the airline eventually. They man both public and private flights, so they should know something about his jet. Something, anything—any tidbit of information is useful to you right now. You’re embarrassed, alone on Christmas in a dress you thought was beautiful hours ago but now only seems over the top and mocking. A woman picks up your call after it’s transferred thrice.

I just need to know the ETA of this flight, you say. Under Charles Leclerc. He gave me the flight code.

Silence. You hear the bustle of the airport on the other end and wonder if Charles is there in that bustle, in his puffer jacket he uses in the winter, holding a suitcase and waiting for the delayed plane. Or maybe he’s already here in your timezone, in a cab bumbling with excitement, or in the elevator, or right outside, fist posed in front of the door—

A snowstorm, she says, her voice tinny through the phone. The pity in her voice makes you want to smash the landline to pieces. So sorry. If you’d gotten your husband to book just two days earlier, you two would’ve been together. Why don’t you call him, sweetie?

She is right about the unsolicited booking advice, wrong about the title. Charles is not your husband. You hang up after mumbling something you can no longer remember, too exhausted to be rude or polite at this point, and turn to face your dining room. Your texts go unanswered, and in your earlier effort to save energy, the lack of heating has caused your phone screen to grow cold to the touch. The roast chicken is getting cold now, too, the mashed potatoes cool, the sourdough stale, the butter melted into ugly coagulated puddles, the wine sweating all over the table.

You eat two bites before depositing a clean plate at the sink. The flat smells of pine and citrus; it’s stronger because you’re by yourself, with no Charles to cloud the room with his own scent. Your phone remains silent, your heart drowning slowly in a cloud of imprecise sorrow. And you realize, remembering the airline officer’s words as you unplug the lights from the Christmas tree and let the moonlight swallow the room, that Charles is not your boyfriend, either.

He texts the morning next, says he’ll make it on the next flight, twenty-six. He doesn’t apologize and you unwrap presents alone, from friends, shipped from family. You wallow in your loneliness, humiliated by your need for him, a need that is met only on the seventh of January.

—

“Are you and Charles okay?”

Lorenzo is always the first to ask. He’s intuitive, and you think maybe it comes with age, but damn if it isn’t infuriating when he knows something is up before anyone else. You purse your lips, hope your laugh is a good enough substitute for an answer.

“Are you?” Obviously, it’s not.

“We’re… we’re just working through things.” You’ve had two glasses of bourbon, and your eyesight is blurring the way your words do. You’re in a big Manhattan ballroom, just several floors underneath your hotel room. Charles is somewhere socializing, because of course he is, and you can’t take your mind off school, because of course you can’t.

“But you’re good, right?” He sounds hopeful, like your answer is the only thing that can convince him. Does he think you aren’t? What has Charles been telling him? Your breathing quickens, grows frantic.

“Yeah.” It convinces nobody, not even yourself. He nods, smart enough to drop the subject, and you’re alone again. This is the umpteenth gala you’ve been to this week alone, all for something or other along racing. You grow used to the faces, the introductions, the gentle nos when asked if you two are engaged, because why would you be? It’s a farfetched idea, engagement.

The bathroom is half-full when you usher yourself inside in your gown, almost tripping with how fast you try to make it to the mirrors. There are two middle-aged women beside you lazily drawing lipstick onto their faces, their French accents thick as they converse.

“…So I decided to divorce him.”

You stare deep into the mirror. You look like a caricature of yourself, a puppet. Where is Charles? He overestimates your capability to be alone.

The other woman goes, “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“I know! You’d think he would notice, no? Bah, men.”

“You’d felt it for a while then, too.”

“Tch, I really did. Just goes to show.”

Before you digest it, you’re turning and intrusively asking: “How did you know you wanted to divorce him?”

They exchange a look that’s as condescending as it is patronizing. Here you are, a naive twenty-something asking for relationship advice like you’re some know-it-all. You feel like a child suddenly, meek and curling in on yourself. Answer me, you want to say, tell me how it feels, tell me how you knew. You look petulant.

“Well,” she says, eyes meeting yours as she closes the tube of lipstick, “sometimes, dear, you just know.” It clicks closed.

“Yes,” says the other. “You just know. When you wake up one day and you feel it, that’s just it.”

Bullshit. Easy answer. You won’t know, you want to say.

No matter how stupid, how cliché, it sounds, you’ll never know this feeling. This feeling of nonchalance over a relationship lost, of laughter over unsuccessful love, of casually coloring the same lips that talk so abrasively of a lover. Because you have Charles, and Charles has you, and what else is there to know?

The rest are candles on a cake, kisses under a blanket, orange juice served over toast, arguments that end with compromise and a hug. The rest is love. These two know nothing about it. They know hurt and heartbreak and denial. They know nothing but this sad, sad feeling.

It must be sad to know, you think, even if the exact suffocating feeling crawls up your spine and wraps around your throat on the elevator ride back to the room.

—

This is boring

You scan over the scribbled phrase on the embossed, no doubt above asking price, tissue paper given at this (granted, boring) charity ball. Stifling a laugh, you fish a pen out of your purse, rereading the words and judging your outgoing response. In neater penmanship, you quickly write a message below it.

OK let’s end things.

He laughs when he reads it, eyes crinkling into half-crescents, mouth in a wide, silent smile. He mulls over a response and when you get it—

No goodbye sex? Quelle poisse. You giggle, rolling your eyes and squeezing his hand underneath the table, putting your little game on pause lest you get in trouble for not listening to the speaker onstage. This kind of lovely, comedic push and pull is what keeps you always entertained with Charles; he always, without fail, manages to make you laugh. Your easy, instant, but equally profound connection to one another constantly has you revisiting the idea of soulmates, of destiny.

Prior to meeting, your and Charles’ lives were barely entwined. You were a law student in America, Charles a racing driver based in Europe. A year ago, to the date, you’d been in Paris on vacation, when a friend invited you out to get drinks somewhere along the Seine. You had three case studies waiting on your laptop, but something tugged at you to accept the invite.

Had you not been up for drinks in Paris that night, for instance—you’d never have met. And the drinks wouldn’t have been suggested in the first place if Charles got home from a meeting early, expressing boredom over the phone to Joris, who relayed it to the girl he was currently flirting with, who relayed it to you. You would never have talked if you didn’t order cocktails in French, prompting him to ask where you learned the language.

And if you hadn’t, in a haze of rosé and amaretto sours, accepted the handsome guy’s invite back to his hotel—where would you be now? The series of little things make up where you are now.

“Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair.

But, then again, Charles has never felt like a stranger. You’re so sure that if you’d declined, or if Charles’ meeting ended on time, or if Joris was single, or if you ordered in meek English instead, you’d still be here, laughing over irrelevant tissue paper conversations, holding Charles’ hand under the table.

“Moi aussi,” you murmur. So sure.

—

God is the best scapegoat.

You first realize this when you’re ten and your favorite necklace snaps in half. You’d been running around, you moved too fast, it stuck on a branch, and became forever unfixable. You’d skipped on the usual nightly prayers as some sort of petulant, rebellious counterattack. You’re fifteen when you’re friendzoned, a first for you. You convince yourself it’s God playing tricks on you. You’re sixteen when you get an F for skipping class too often; you tweet God wtf is happening to me and you giddily watch it get thirteen likes. You’re not alone in this revolt, you think. You’re seventeen and a half when you lose your virginity; it sucks. You’re on top and you learn the art of faking. So you lay on your bed and bemoan Him for the misleading introduction to sex.

It becomes easy to blame God, moreso than usual, when the matter is one of life and death and danger. Being with Charles puts you in this position often. You curse God when something happens during a race that causes your heart to snag in itself and skip a beat or go five times faster. Inversely, it’s dreadfully difficult for you, innately unreligious, to pay thanks to God. Charles knows this, and is always the first to say “thank God” when a race goes well.

You throw around the phrase a few times, but it’s rare. Most, many, all times—it’s “oh, thank fuck” or “I’m so happy you’re safe.” It’s almost like you actively avoid the phrase, so whenever you say it, Charles is momentarily stunned; sometimes it’s after a particularly nasty circuit, or a rainy race day when you physically cannot withstand the stress of watching the love of your life drive fast under such bad conditions.

You have nothing to thank God for.

The hotel room is thin-walled and cold. Just last night you’d been tangled into each other for warmth, but now you’re throwing your suitcase onto the same bed and shoving laundry inside. No folding. No organizing. You make quick, messy work of it to avoid the conversation Charles so desperately tries to coerce out of both of you. The chessboard from last night’s game—5-7—lies abandoned, folded up at the foot of the bed. You ignore it.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he says, lazy almost. He seems to say oh, fine. If you need me to say sorry I’ll say it, here.

“You don’t understand.” You say, cutting phrases short to avoid saying anything you’d rather harbor inside yourself.

“Then enlighten me,” he shoots back. “Please, really. Dis moi tout.” He sounds sarcastic.

“I don’t fit here,” you respond cuttingly. If he chooses to be sarcastic, you think—then be it. You’ll be blunt. You’ll exaggerate. You’ll be impulsive, if for once in your life, you have to be.

“Here, in your life.” You clutch a shirt to your chest. “We don’t make sense. We never did, and you know what? We never will. I honestly don’t know why we keep trying. It’s pointless to believe this could ever work. In between our careers, friends, and schedules, it takes more work for us to see each other for just a day than to push a fucking rock uphill. Ç’est inutile et tu le sais—tout ce travail pour rien.”

Your words sting, join the draft leaving through the crack in the window, turn into dew that stains the vines of the hotel exterior. The ones about to leave his mouth, though, stay put, cement themselves in the grooves of your brain. You’ll think of this exchange years from now, and the words will never blur, sore on your tender heart.

A pregnant silence follows your soliloquy, prompting you to look up and meet his eyes. He says it then. “Pourquoi se disputer pour rien? Let’s just end things.”

“Fine, let’s just end things.” You repeat. Struck, hurt, and angry, you say one last thing, in a valiant attempt to get the last word in. “Thank God.”

The seconds tick by like days, where you look at one another, thinking the same thing. So that’s it? When did it all turn to this? You push past him, bearing your suitcase and messily wiping your face of tears, pretending not to notice the hitch in his voice when he mumbles a quiet goodbye.

Your steps to the elevator tick by like hours, and you take the time to think of how you’d lived much of your relationship thinking that, with how strong your and Charles’ personalities are, a breakup would be messy. Loud. A yelled out fight, tears, thrown curses and hurtful names. You’d always thought, with much conviction, that you would end with a bang.

Many previous fights had gone something like that. There was Thanksgiving, where you ushered him out of your family home to avoid anything escalating into a yelling match. Bang.

There was post-race, where, in the throes of frustration, you two had a heated exchange and you left the paddock in tears. Bang.

There was nothing, however, that couldn’t be solved without a shag and a kiss and an apology. So, reasonably, you expected the final fight to be the loudest. The angriest. This relationship, you were so sure—this would end in a bang. Because you and Charles love the same way: strongly, with so much conviction and noise, and the line between love and spite is more frail than you think. A great big bang, where finally you collided in ways you’d never done before, every frustration, every complaint, thrown back and forth like comets, like war.

But you are wrong. It doesn’t.

It ends with you softly sighing, arms crossed over your torso to shield yourself from the ache in your chest, tears slipping then falling unstoppingly in the elevator. It ends with a night’s sleep taking up one side of the bed. It ends with Charles deceiving himself into thinking you didn’t just thank the Lord that your relationship has just crumbled to nothing in the bounds of this thin-walled, cold hotel room.

—

“Say something to me,” you say quietly, like you’re afraid to disturb the still morning silence of Paris. “In Italian.”

It’s a corny, cheesy request, no doubt inflamed by the butterflies in your stomach when you think about the night before and one romantic comedy too many. But you ask for it, anyway, your leg bumping his under the too-thin cotton blanket of his hotel. You found yourself here this morning after a night of sweet French alcohol and slurred, flirty conversation.

“Assomigli al resto della mia vita.” He says, smiling.

“Okay. What’s it mean?”

“I won’t translate it for you, because it’s a bit cliché.” He narrows his eyes.

“All of European language is cliché.” You laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“I will one day,” he says, “I promise. I swear!”

The promise of “one day” is upsettingly romantic. Barely a day after you first met, first bonded, first kissed, first had sex. Okay, fine, you two hadn’t really gone the traditional route of dating, but here he is waxing poetic in Italian, finger tracing your bare arm. “One day,” you say, just so you’re sure.

“Yeah. One day.”

His hand finds yours, and fingers are laced together. Words wrestle themselves out of your throat nervously, a question that might seal the morning. “Should I go?”

The question rests in the air. How do you want your eggs, he wants to ask. Or would you want pancakes or waffles or bacon? Or bread, a croissant with coffee and compote? He wants to know all these things, hear all your answers, watch your eyes twinkle with amusement at the silly questions. So he’ll ask them, he figures. He’ll ask them if you don’t go.

“Stay,” he says. “At least for breakfast.”

—

Pierre leaves after a few more hours. He says Yuki texted him about some Mexican place they need to try. The night next, he is brought up in conversation: “Who were you with last night?”

“A friend,” you explain. “He’s an old friend, Henry.”

Henry Maxwell, the Wall Street guy you’re seeing, who’s inviting you to a charity ball a month into dating. To you, that’s basically a sign to end things, but you allow him to explain his invitation. Babe, don’t you think networking in New York is a gold mine for everything great these days? Don’t you think we need to network if we ever move in together?

“Henry, n—I mean. It’s just going to be another one of those stuffy city galas where everyone tries to out-wealthy one another,” you half-joke. In truth, the reason why you’re so adamant on not going is because this is just about the worst first date idea ever conceived—from experience, you’re sure you’ll have barely any time alone to get to know each other, whisked away to socialize with groups of other people.

“Oh, lighten up,” says Henry, with a sheepish smile. “You’re my plus one on the RSVP, so you can’t complain.”

“Am I?” You ask, chuckling. It’s a bit weird. But he’s excited, and asking, and convincing, so you tug a green silk dress out of your closet and take an Uber to the hotel address. Nevermind the fact that you’ve been here before.

You squeeze Henry’s hand when you walk into the massive ballroom, and not five minutes later you’re facing a crowd of people, drowning in taffeta skirts and wool suits and champagne and snooty small talk. Henry is charming, Henry is kind, Henry is a smooth talker.

He’s the ideal prototype of a guy you should be dating right now. His hand never leaves the small of your back, playing with the satin of your dress, laughing into your neck. You’ve faced several groups of business magnates and supermodels; right now, he’s introducing you to a big journalist for the Post.

She’s in the middle of talking about some hippie retreat to Thailand or somewhere or other when your eyes glide across the room, bored, searching for something to occupy you. To be frank, you really don’t care about ayahuasca.

The hands on the clock seem to halt just for you, just for now, suspending this moment in time like a mosquito in amber. Your eyes meet—and if you’d been less careful or maybe more tipsy, you might have mistaken his gaze for a stranger’s. But your heart demands hurt, demands the memories, demands the sick, sweet nostalgia threading through you like needle to cloth. Your heart demands you to remember, but the demand is so painfully easy to obey because you’ve never forgotten. All at once hate and love arise in you, like great big waves conflicting against one another, until you feel swollen with longing and spite, finding reprieve in the green of his eyes.

Timing, destiny, God. Whatever it is, it’s decided to play some silly joke, because here you are. In the precarious balance of a memory and a figment of your imagination, here you are. In the gap between never and always, here you are. You might appear to be strangers, stranded across opposite ends of this marble ballroom, but to both of you, the idea is almost unfathomable. No, not strangers; you two are anything but.

You are you, and he is Charles, here again in the place where it all ended.

He is never a stranger, and he could never be. He is Charles, your Charles, the beautiful boy who took up years of your life and explored every inch of your heart and mind. He is Charles, who broke your heart, he is Charles, whose heart you broke. But now, he is just Charles Leclerc, racing driver and charity gala attendee, conversing with the same crowds, mingling as he always does. Did. The usage of past tense is a painful pill to swallow.

Charles feels like it’s torture, suffering, a slow punishment, to be rooted to the ground and to do nothing but look. How can he look away now? He is rooted to the tiles, thick vines keeping him here, even if his heart tells him to go, run, now. He is stuck, tacked by the stillness of the memories that play back through his head, the love and the sorrow. You’re still you, hair a little shorter, brows a little darker, but you’re still you. The you he had once, held once, loved and lost once. The you he wishes to have, hold, and love once again.

For a moment, a fleeting, short, moment, he wishes to blink, to nod and to signal for you to meet him outside, on the balcony, so he can straighten his tie and press a polite hand to this person’s shoulder and say excuse me and leave, slip quietly into the night. So maybe you can tug on Henry’s suit jacket and say I’m sorry and join the crowd of gowns and satin and leave, run, go. Because you’re you. And what a sweet lie it would be if he said he wouldn’t do anything for you.

In the end you stay, and you stare, rooted still, time moving the way grass grows. When he smiles, you smile back, and the answers to what if are quietly fabricated in the limits of your imagination.

—

“I miss you. I know it’s—I know this is weird to say, after so long. After not talking for such a long time.”

“No, I understand. I miss you, too.”

“Right… well, how have you been?”

“Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s everything?”

“It’s… it’s okay. How’s life?”

“Tough, but great.”

“I noticed you were with someone.”

“Yeah, no. That’s—it’s sort of—I don’t see it going anywhere, really. It’s kind of over.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“Listen, I’m… sorry. For—just for everything. I’ve lived the past few years thinking about everything and still hoping I could someday apologize properly. I’m just glad I’ve been given the chance. And I think things ended without… without… I just don’t think we were mature enough. And sometimes now I think—it’s you, it’s still you.”

“Don’t apologize. Can you believe it happened right here?”

“I know. It’s almost crazy—”

“You left a bottle of scent at my place. It’s… it’s still half full. Sometimes I—nevermind. I mean, I think of you a lot. Probably too much for my own good. I think of us, our past, our relationship.”

“So do I.”

“—I love you. I try to stop it, I keep trying but I always end up here. Always here, back here, loving you.”

“If you didn’t see me tonight—would you have felt this way?”

“Oh, I feel… I feel it everyday. I think I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m always going to love you, too.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc angst #f1 x reader

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