#and he has his favorites and he picks them out every night to be read to him

[shimjake]

flowers in december

pairing . jungwon x fem! reader (ft. sunghoon) about . 16.2k+ words, angst, unrequited love + hanahaki synopsis . jungwon doesn't think there's anything scarier than watching his best friend, who he's secretly been in love with his whole life, get married to another. however, as he coughs up blood and tries to ignore the ache in his chest, he starts to believe that maybe, there just might be something worse: death.

warnings . major character death, blood, throwing up, alcohol/drinking, cursing, themes of suicide and death overall, this is a hanahaki au so i cannot stress enough how much grief there is in this, miscommunication, heavy angst, depression, sickness, there's like 1 suggestive line, its barely implied reader is shorter than jungwon but it doesnt matter too much, if you are reading this hoping for a good time there is none ok

playlist . flowers in december by mazzy star, bonfire by wave to earth, no one noticed by the marias, romantic homicide by d4vd, space song by beach house, favorite crime by olivia rodrigo, beaches by beabadoobee

notes . first fic on this account hello!! also this was written for @hoonigiris i hope you enjoy my grad gift to u! (let's ignore how this was supposed to be done by last august.) also thank you to @sungbeam for dealing with me crashing out every single time and for beta-ing, i love u so much. genuinely writing this has ruined me i'm so sorry jungwon for putting you through this much pain but at least i finished the fic yknow 😭

The light that streams in through the blinds is unbearably bright today.

Usually, Jungwon can ignore it. He can reach over to tug the blinds shut or bury his face into his perfectly fluffed pillow. He can pretend he has no other obligations and surrender to the slumber that consumes him once more. At least, until his alarm rings, he can exist in a world of peace where his only soulmate is the quilted pattern of his blanket.

Unfortunately, though, he cannot replicate this sequence of actions today. Mainly because no matter how hard he tries, the ever-so-persistent buzzing of his phone doesn’t seem to quell. 

Jungwon reaches for his bedside dresser unquestioningly, not wanting to open his eyes, which currently feel weighted down by dumbbells. His fingers fumble around the hardwood until they land on something smooth, and he grips his phone with whatever strength he has this early in the morning. With one eye, he peeks at his phone screen to see a flashing call appear on the glowing screen. With a grumble, he picks up.

“Hello?” he whispers. Only then does he register the dryness of his throat, that scratchy, aching feeling he gets after one too many vodka shots at the club. 

“Jungwon, finally!” he hears from the other end. It takes him a little bit to recall your chirpy voice from the other end of the phone. “Do you know how many times I’ve called you? This is–”

“Y/n,” he starts, his eyes scanning the clock hanging across his room. “It’s seven in the morning. I never wake up this early. You never wake up this early.”

Jungwon hears a rustle of sheets next to him, a soft whine echoing out from his sleeping hyung. Jay’s tired eyes blink open, and he throws an arm over his eyes as if the light streaming in personally insulted him.

“Fuck, my head hurts. What time is it?” Jay mumbles.

“Seven.”

Jungwon’s headache makes its presence known on cue, and flashes of last night’s misadventures spring through his memory. He groans, already regretting tagging along with Jay to the bar near his house, the one with Jay’s bartender friend that always gives them half off on drinks. Nights like these are ones he always regrets, never too fond of the aftermath of a raging headache, but sometimes he just needs a little something after a long day of work.

“Are you with Jay?” Jungwon hears on the other end, and he hums softly. “Good, because I have something important to tell you both!”

Your voice is wispy, full of breaths and almost-stutters as if you landed in some sort of unescapable trouble. Jungwon’s heart picks up, worry pounding through him as he puts your call on speaker and climbs out of bed. He fumbles around the room, tugging on a shirt and searching for his keys as he responds.

“What’s wrong? Did you miss your bus again? I can come pick you up–”

“No, Won, nothing’s wrong.” Your breathing staggers on the other end, as if you were controlling every inhale and exhale, and he finds himself not believing your words.

“Are you sure?”

“Jungwon. Listen to me.”

He stops, pausing for a beat, and listens. He listens, just like he always does.

“He proposed, Won. Sunghoon proposed.”

And suddenly, Jungwon feels like he’s suffocating.

He doesn’t register much after that, only Jay expressing a small ‘congrats’ as you both continue talking. His knees buckle, and he’s forced to sit back down on the bed with his shirt half-on and shaking hands. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he hears shuffling across the room and finds his tears staining Jay’s bare torso, pressing into his chest as Jay brings him in for a hug.

Jay doesn’t say anything at first; he just rubs circles into his back with a touch so delicate that it barely registers. When Jungwon cries harder, he breaks, whispering apologies into his ear as if they can do anything to crush the tidal wave of anguish that just swept over Jungwon. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he repeats, over and over again like a mantra, but Jungwon doesn’t understand why. Did he do something wrong? Did you do something wrong? Is loving someone who isn’t him wrong? 

Or is it he that’s wrong, loving you irrevocably despite your heart belonging to another? Loving you and lying to everyone about his true feelings with only a selfish desire to keep you close. Was it so wrong that he just wanted to be with you, even if it was as your best friend and nothing more?

All the memories of you suddenly resurface, handpicked moments where he could’ve confessed at any moment, but instead remained silent. Moments where he watched you chase your happiness, even if that didn’t involve him. A small, gnawing feeling in his chest makes itself known, crawling its way up his intestines and up his throat.

“Hyung,” Jungwon whispers. Jay pulls back, searching his eyes and anticipating any sort of grief-filled reaction that comes Jungwon’s way. “I… I think I’m going to throw up.”

Jay frowns, already reaching for the pink Hello Kitty bucket in the corner of Jungwon’s room, reserved for hangovers, rough nights, and maybe in rare cases like this, heartbreak. Jungwon’s eyes flutter shut as he heaves, and heaves, and heaves, all his yearning leaving through his mouth until nothing remains and he’s pulling the bucket away with a slight cough. 

“Won, you need to rinse your mouth,” Jay starts, patting his back. Jungwon stares into the bucket, his face contorting into something of confusion.

“Won?” he hears again, but this time he rubs his eyes in disbelief, blinking three times before tilting the bucket towards his hyung.

“Look, hyung. Petals.”

White, curled petals, sitting against the baby pink interior of the bucket. A sight so unrealistic that it doesn’t even look real until Jay shakes the bucket and the petals flutter to the bottom. Jungwon can only stare in shock, almost in wonder, until he throws up again.

(He finds out later, after he’s calmed down and the tears on his cheeks have become one with his skin, that Sunghoon proposed to you on that mountain. The one that you and Jungwon discovered first together, back in high school when you ventured off the trail for your senior pictures and stumbled upon the view of a beautiful sunrise studded with pine trees. The mountain that you’d revisit with Jungwon every summer, dragging him, and later Sunghoon, along because it became something of a tradition, sitting at the top of the world with the whole forest spread beneath you.

You would stare at the view. Jungwon would stare at you.)

In retrospect, it’s not like Jungwon didn’t see it coming.

He’d anticipated it for a while now, or at least started expecting it after Sunghoon had pulled him aside during a house party months ago and shyly asked him for his photographer friend’s number, the one who specialized in weddings and surprise proposals. Sunghoon had stared at him so cutely from behind his thick-rimmed glasses that Jungwon had no choice but to ignore the sinking feeling as he forwarded his friend Riki’s phone number, tapping him on the shoulder and wishing him good luck.

(That sinking feeling that he’s always had when he sees you with Sunghoon, as if he doesn’t have a Pinterest album of his ideal wedding that he’s imagined you walking down the aisle in. As if he hasn’t daydreamed about sliding a ring on your finger since he was seventeen, mourning the distance between you two as you headed off to college without him. As if he hasn’t imagined how he’d get down on one knee in the midst of a rainy afternoon and ask to be yours forever.)

It’s just that Jungwon didn’t expect it to be this soon. He thought he’d have more time to bury his reverence for you, to pretend as though you really just were two best friends. He’d wanted to imagine himself cradled in your arms one last time before he lost you for good.

Instead, he has to settle for watching you from a distance. He glances at you one too many times today, admiring the flowy sundress you have on as you sit in the wicker chair next to Sunghoon. It’s like his body knows that you’re slipping from his grasp, because his eyes flicker over to you like it’s second nature, and he has to fight to regain his focus. 

It’s the first time he’s seen you, physically, in a long while. You look different, almost as if you’re glowing, so giddy with every movement that Jungwon feels it radiate off you. Conversely, Jungwon feels as though there’s a storm cloud brewing in his stomach, twisting and turning and flipping over and over again as though he’s sick. The complementary croissant from the restaurant lies untouched on his plate, and he busies himself with his phone, reading through the influx of messages from Jay about what’s supposedly wrong with him and his newfound ability to throw up petals.

“Jungwon,” you start, abruptly enough that he almost drops his phone before his eyes glance back up towards you, “and Jake. Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome? What is this, an announcement?” Sunghoon’s best friend chimes in, stifling a laugh at your formal behavior.

“Sort of, actually,” Sunghoon responds, observing Jungwon’s confused expression. “We, um,” he clears his throat, the pink rising to his cheeks. “We’re getting married. In two months.”

Time seems to hate Jungwon. It trickles down at moments where Jungwon’s impatient, watching the clock tick as he taps his foot in rhythm, and it crashes through like a tsunami when he craves some peace and quiet. Time seems to slide through his fingers like sand from a broken hourglass, escaping through every crack as if it's running away from something. He never seems to have enough of it, either too much or too little, and right now, he wishes that it was more friendly to him because he knows that getting over you will take a lot longer than two months.

(Really, he’s had a lifetime to do this, but he’s deluded himself into thinking that getting over you is measurable. A process he can start once he needs to. It’s not. Getting over you is an immeasurable entity that he will be battling for the rest of his life. It’s not time that’s unfair to him; it’s himself.)

“That’s so… soon,” Jungwon finds himself saying lamely.

“Yeah,” Jake echoes. “Didn’t you guys just get engaged?”

“Sunghoon has a work trip early next year, so we thought it’d be best to tie the knot before he goes off,” you explain. Your ring glints from the soft sunshine as you meet Sunghoon’s gaze, like a cheesy romance scene in a movie Jungwon wishes he’d never seen. “And we’d like you both to be part of the wedding party.”

The swirling in Jungwon’s stomach intensifies.

“Like, I’d be your maid of honor?” Jungwon lets out, drinking a glass of water to calm the weirdness in his chest.

“Or like, a dude of honor,” Jake comments. Jungwon’s too preoccupied waiting for your reaction to notice Sunghoon’s eye roll.

“Yeah, basically.”

He can’t stop his brain from overthinking, trying any way to get out of something he’d regret. Something you’d regret.

“Are you sure about this? I mean, like, what about Wonyoung?” he asks, knowing how close you are with your college roommate. “She probably knows more about this wedding thing than I do. Or what about Ningning–”

“Won,” you interrupt, placing your hand over his. Your touch is delicate, like always, but he finds it scathingly hot today, as if you’ve set him on fire. “You’re my best friend. Why would I want anyone other than you by my side?”

Oh, how he wishes he could be by your side, not just as your best friend, but as your lover. Sometimes he thinks you know this gaping secret he’s hiding, choosing to say innocent little musings about him and you as if they have no effect on his sanity. He feels sick again, that same sickness from when he gripped Jay’s shirt tightly as tears cascaded down his face, and all he had was the overwhelming urge to get it out. He can’t necessarily do that now, though, not when Sunghoon’s stare is piercing into the side of his head, waiting for a response.

No matter how fucked up this all is, how you unknowingly take and take from him until he has nothing left to give, he still prefers this over not knowing you at all. So he agrees, just like he always does.

“You’re right. Okay,” he says numbly, watching your face light up in a grin as you clutch his hand a little tighter, as if his skin hasn’t been burnt off enough. Even though the whole table radiates with joy, infectious from your laughter, he feels like his heart is being ripped to pieces with every smile you throw his way.

He excuses himself to go to the bathroom a few minutes later, the urge to vomit becoming unbearable with every word he watches you say. He watches the petals float down into the toilet basin, scoffing as he slumps down on the gray tile and wipes his mouth. His hands are finding Jay’s contact before he can even register it, and he tries his hardest not to cry and make a fool of himself in front of you as the phone rings.

He wishes he could go back to a time when he wasn’t in love with you. When all you were to him was just another friend, when he didn’t feel guilty for staring at you a little too long or wanting you more than he wanted anyone else. He wishes he could go back to that time, even though he knows that it never existed, because all he’s ever known is how to love you. He knows he’s been put on this Earth to love you, and to wish otherwise would mean he’d cease to exist.

“Hyung,” Jungwon whispers when the call goes through. His throat is raw and scratchy again, aching just like his feelings for you.

“It’s called hanahaki disease, Won,” Jay whispers slowly, as if it pains him to say. “It’s rare, but it happens when you’re in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. You’ll keep coughing up petals until eventually you die from it.”

Jungwon laughs bitterly because somehow, death doesn’t seem that bad compared to losing you for a lifetime. In the end, death seems better than this sick and twisted fate of his.

Jungwon has always known that you wanted to get married in a garden.

He knows that it’s been a dream of yours to get married with the river flowing behind you and the dandelions peeking through the blades of grass. Early enough that the morning dew still prickles beneath your feet, but not too early for you to complain about your heavy eye bags from lack of sleep.

Jungwon hates that he knows little details about you like this. He hates that he has the ability to read you faster than he’s read himself, as if you’re a book filled with annotations and dog-eared pages from a life well-lived. If Jungwon were a mere acquaintance, crushing on you from afar, he thinks it would’ve been easier to distance himself emotionally. It would be easier to stop loving you without the weight of the world crashing down on his shoulders.

To his dismay, however, Jungwon is not a random nobody to you. He’s your best friend, your other half, the one who completes your sentences and ties your shoelaces. Jungwon knows you like to think of yourself as a star, a tiny, twinkling star that somehow found its place, but to him, you are the epicenter of every universe. A universe where he handpicked all the stars and galaxies, painted the darkness behind you with a soft brush as if it barely exists in comparison to your glow, because he sees you for all that you are. A universe where he settles for being a small planet that orbits you because he is bound to you by heart and soul, and he won’t be able to escape that, no matter how hard he tries.

Your relationship is so tightly knit that he’s the one helping you pick out flower arrangements today instead of Sunghoon. He adjusts uncomfortably in the too-smooth leather couch in the floral shop, watching your fingers flick through the guidebook and trying not to stare at the ring that has now become a permanent placeholder on your body. He subconsciously makes note of the flower arrangements that you linger on for too long, knowing that you won’t remember them until you retrace your line of thought.

(It’s okay, though. He’s always been there to remember things for you. Like the time you forgot your notecards for your sociology presentation, and he printed out spare just in case. Or when you forgot to ask for mango sago in your drink, so he pulled the cashier aside after to let her know. Even if you’re not aware of how much he does for you, he’ll still continue to do it just to see that glow on your face. That same glow that spreads slowly, the one that barely appears, but the one he still notices because he loves you.)

“They’re all pretty,” you murmur, flipping back and forth through a couple of different arrangements. “What about the petunias?”

Jungwon eyes the multicolored flowers in the photo, his brows arching skeptically. “You didn’t want flashy colors, though,” he reminds you gently, taking the book from your hands.

You sigh, slumping against the couch as if you’re over this whole ordeal, even though it’s only been thirty minutes. Jungwon flips to the next page, ignoring your disinterested gaze because even though your eyes glaze over, he knows how important this is to you, and therefore how important it is to him, too.

He scans the pages until his fingers pause, pressing indents into an arrangement with white colored flowers and pretty green springs. His heart rate spikes as his mind races with every intention to turn the next page, to forget about the same flowers that continue to plague him, but you’ve already noticed his silence and leaned in curiously to examine the page.

“Those are pretty, aren’t they?” you echo, your fingers tracing over the white crysanthemums. Even in the picture, they look delicate, as if one harsh gust could blow away the petals, and all Jungwon can think about is how much they remind him of you.

(They’re the same white flowers he wanted to ask you out with. He’d preordered the bouquet weeks in advance, waiting until the cherry blossoms bloomed to plan the perfect date. The collared shirt he picked out matched how pure the flowers looked in his hands, and he purposefully waited to get his hair cut because he knew you liked to run your fingers through the silky length. 

The date never happened, though, because you told him about your crush on Park Sunghoon three days later. The cute barista who always drew hearts on your coffees and added extra boba to your tea. Jungwon smiled back at you as if every word didn’t pierce through his chest, and the bouquet stayed in his dorm, shriveling up until the color became unrecognizable.)

“They are pretty,” he whispers. “Are you sure, though? White flowers tend to wilt faster.”

“They’ll only be for the centerpieces, Won. Besides, the color is versatile enough to go with everything, so it’ll be easy to make a theme around it.”

He wants to tell you that he won’t be able to bear seeing you walk down the aisle with white crysanthemums, a pointed reminder of what could’ve been if you had reciprocated even an ounce of his feelings. He wants to tell you that he’ll die because of this very flower, that the petals he throws up because you don’t feel the same way are the same ones you want to center your entire wedding around.

He wants to tell you that white chrysanthemums mean death, not for you, but for him.

He can’t say any of that, though. Not when you speak so happily to the cashier, discussing logistics and deciding this is the one you want. He can never say no to you, because denying your happiness is like denying his whole existence, even if it causes every part of him to wither away until all that remains is a singular white petal.

The wind whips through Jungwon’s hair as he peeks his head out of the car window, but even that is not enough to stop the ever-so tumultuous feeling in his stomach.

His disease is getting worse. Initially, he’d only throw up after being close to you for prolonged periods of time, or when you sat a little too close for comfort, a little too close to even function. The petals were annoying, and it felt hard to breathe at times, but it was bearable enough that he could deal with it. He could pretend everything was fine when you stared him in the eyes or when your voice fluttered through his ears.

It’s harder now, though, because even the mere thought of you is enough for him to find solace in the Hello Kitty bucket again. There are more petals, too, stained with blood at the tips as if they really are a part of his body and not some figment of his imagination. He chokes on his words more often, always accompanied by a cough and wheezing. He’s gotten paler, enough that he has to apply copious amounts of foundation to resemble his usual self, and his lips are chapped from the number of times he’s had to throw up in the past month.

Jay has moved into his apartment indefinitely, treating him like a sick patient because, well, that’s what he is. There’s no cure, no medicine that can make him feel better, and he has to suffer with this terminal illness until he either dies or kills himself at your altar. Jungwon just hopes he dies after your wedding, while you’re blissfully aware on your honeymoon with Sunghoon. He hopes that when he dies, your last memories of him consist of nothing but happiness.

The Hello Kitty bucket joins him on the way to the cake shop, becoming a permanent fixture in his hands as Jay drives in the seat next to him. Jay’s fingers grip his thigh every time Jungwon coughs, but he manages to make it to the store in one piece.

At least, until he sees Sunghoon’s car parked outside, and all that he has tried to hold back spills out (all the secrets he has buried, one flower at a time).

“It’s okay,” Jay says, wiping the blood from the corner of Jungwon’s mouth, “I’ll be here. I’ll come up with dumb excuses when you need a break.”

The soft aromatics of the bakery waft through Jungwon’s senses as he steps out, and he just prays that he’ll be able to hold on for long enough today in your presence. He wonders how he’s supposed to survive your actual wedding if he can barely even make it through cake testing today, but he knows he’ll have to figure out a way without making you suspicious of what’s going on.

As much as he hates that Sunghoon loves you, it’s hard not to see why. You’re incredibly perceptive, even having noticed the lack of color in Jungwon’s skin despite his best efforts to try and hide it. You’ve seen how much he’s been coughing recently, even calling him more often to check in on him. You make him chicken noodle soup when he feels notably worse, and even if he doesn’t have the heart to see you, you deliver little gift baskets to his door with medicine. If anything, the question is, how could someone not love you?

The doorbell jingles when you walk in, and your eyes immediately light up when Jungwon walks in. Already, you’re skipping over to him and shoving some flavor of cake in his mouth. Knowing you, you’re probably on some sugar rush from all the sweetness, but if anything, it just makes you seem even more adorable in his eyes.

“Red velvet,” he says through bites and shaking his head, “It’s good, but it’s a hit or miss for a wedding cake.”

“Back to the drawing board,” Sunghoon sighs behind you, picking up another slice of cake and sliding it over to Jungwon. He shovels it into his mouth, already grimacing at the sour lemon taste and glancing over to see your reaction.

“God, I hate this,” you say, and Jungwon hands you the water glass before you can even reach for it. You thank him before taking a big swig, finishing the water in the cup, and you step aside to refill it with Sunghoon in tow.

“Can you be any more obvious?” Jay whispers from his side, and Jungwon quirks an eyebrow.

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, man. You look at her with googly eyes. You have to be a little more subtle with these kinds of things before Sunghoon catches on.”

“Yeah, but,” Jungwon sighs, running his hands through his hair, “that’s how we’ve always been.”

“You have to understand that it can’t be like that anymore.” Jay rests his palm on Jungwon’s shoulder, gripping it to emphasize his words. “They’re getting married. You can’t take care of her forever because that’s Sunghoon’s job, not yours.”

Jungwon already feels it crawling up his throat before Jay can finish, and his feet fly towards the bathroom, locking the door behind him as he empties his stomach. Jungwon watches in horror as the once white petals are now blood-stained to the core, soaked in deep red as they make their way down the drain. One look in the mirror shows the blood coating his lips, and he tries his best to wipe off the residue so he doesn’t leave the bathroom looking like a vampire.

Loving you is destroying him, he admits to himself with a bitter laugh. He’s living in this sick, twisted version of fate where he’s punished for wanting what his heart desires. 

(When in reality, loving you has always been a form of punishment for him. Watching you at your college graduation as Sunghoon pulls you in closer with your purple graduation stole, leaving featherlight kisses on your cheeks as if you two were the only ones to exist in this world. Knowing that, as he recorded you throwing your graduation cap high in the air, he’d never be enough for you. The sleepless nights when he’s agonized over you, haunted by being in your shadow because he’s simply not worth it, have already burned his soul to ashes. His heart is already a decayed, shriveled version of what could’ve been; he’s just too late to realize it.)

Jay is waiting for him by the door as he steps out. One look at his face, and Jay can already tell how much worse his condition has become, but he chooses not to comment on it as they walk back into the room.

“Are you okay?” you ask, scanning his face in worry as he walks over to you. “You were in there for a while.”

“Yeah. My stomach was kind of acting up from the lemon flavor.”

“I didn’t like that one either,” Sunghoon responds, eyes trailing over Jungwon before his brows furrow. “Hey, you have something on your lips.”

Jungwon’s thumb runs over the corner, pulling back to reveal a smidge of blood he’d missed in the bathroom. He pales, and Jay tenses up next to him, trying to think of an excuse so you wouldn’t overanalyze things.

“It’s probably from the dark chocolate raspberry, right?”

Jungwon laughs, dry and hollowed out. “Yeah! I had a lot cause it was pretty good.”

“I wanna try,” you say, scanning the tables for the flavor. Your fingers reach for the cup, and Jungwon watches your eyes light up as the fork disappears behind your lips. “This is pretty good,” you say between muffled bites, “not too sweet and not too tart.”

Sunghoon grips your shoulder, and you turn slowly, facing him with wide eyes. Your eyes lock, and he blinks once, twice, a silent exchange passing between you both before he pulls back to disappear behind the cake counter. 

(Jungwon can’t help the bitter taste in his mouth that spreads when he looks at you. Once, that was you and he, sharing secrets between your eyes in a language you both could only understand. Now, he has to watch his form of love being exhibited by another. A love that he’s now a bystander in front of.)

“Thanks for the save,” Jungwon whispers to his hyung when the noise has settled down.

“Don’t mention it.”

Jay passes him a leftover cake slice, and Jungwon shakes his head. The back of his throat burns, and he can’t tell if it’s from throwing up earlier or the raw intensity of his feelings pounding through his chest every time he looks at you. And even though his heart echoes in his ears, he knows you can’t hear it. 

He has always been on mute for you, just static background noise in a world where only you and Sunghoon exist.

Jungwon doesn’t like looking at his reflection in your mirror.

It’s not that he hates how he looks, per se (although he does look like a shell of his former self, vampirish with how pale his skin is and how chapped his lips are). He’s just constantly reminded of how out of place he is in your apartment, all long legs, floppy hair, and that constant nagging feeling that he doesn’t really know you anymore.

He feels a little more disconnected every time he visits. Even though he’s seen it evolve from beige walls and empty floors, even though there are remnants of him everywhere he looks, he’s always felt like an outsider looking in. 

From the stain on your carpet when he spilled beer in a drunken stupor to the cat magnet on your fridge, which he’d bought at an Asian market years ago, physically, he knows you. However, Sunghoon’s things scattered throughout the apartment remind him that, emotionally, you are not the same person you once were. A casual hoodie draped over the bar stool is enough to make his stomach stir.

(These days, he has to focus on breathing. In and out. In and out. However, so many ins and so many outs cannot help him hide how left out he feels in your presence. He hates to bear witness to you and Sunghoon sharing glances, as if he is the only one that matters to you. He hates the thought of Sunghoon trailing kisses down your stomach, of whispering breathy words against your thighs like a poem made just for you. He hates knowing that no matter how much Sunghoon loves you, he could love you better.)

Jay was right. Your eyes don’t search for his anymore. They search for Sunghoon’s.

“Stop thinking,” Jay chastises. “I can practically hear your thoughts from here.”

He can’t, though. To him, you’re second nature, a permanent fixture in the back of his mind like an itch that won’t stop bugging him. It’s so irrevocably easy for him to think of you because he searches for you in everything. In every flower bouquet he passes by at the market, in every banana pudding recipe he finds on the internet, in every gray cat he sees running by on the street. Asking him to stop thinking of you would mean losing the very thing that’s been keeping him going.

He hears Jay sigh beside him, turning to place an envelope and a wedding invitation card in his hand.

“Focus on this first. You can think about her when you cry yourself to sleep at night.”

Jungwon nods, slipping the card inside the pocket absentmindedly. His heart is never really there during your wedding preparations, or really anything that has involved you lately, but he hopes you appreciate the effort he puts into trying to show up. It’s hard, especially when he feels the blood swirl in his stomach after seeing your name carved next to Sunghoon’s on the envelope, but he’d rather sacrifice his happiness for yours instead of being apart from you.

He’s gotten better at training himself, though. Focusing on his breathing and counting down from ten seems to do the trick most of the time. However, it comes with a heavy price tag. The blood gets worse when he holds back, and it almost feels like he’s hyperventilating once he does find a chance to empty his stomach. It’s always worse in your presence, too, but good thing you’re not here today, leaving your friends to mail out the invitations as you figure out the decorations.

“Jungwon,” Jake calls out from beside him, “do you think the white stamp or the gold stamp looks better?” He flashes both colors in front of Jungwon’s face, the lights glittering from the clear reflection of the gold one.

“Gold. She’ll like that it’s shiny.”

Subconsciously, his eyes flicker toward Sunghoon, looking at him for approval. He nods, not looking up from the table, and Jungwon’s eyes linger before turning back to his own task.

Jungwon doesn’t really harbor any resentment towards Sunghoon. He’s always viewed him through your eyes, always your boyfriend before anything else. It’s not like he’s done anything wrong other than being the unfortunate human being that you happened to be in love with, the person that took everything away from him. It’s hard to see why not, too, because Sunghoon loves in that silent, caregiving way that you don’t realize until you really get to know him. Sticky notes you find on the counter after you come home from work, dishes cleaned if you’re feeling particularly down, holding your hand in his jacket pocket because he loves deeply, not openly. In many ways, Sunghoon is everything Jungwon has ever wanted to be for you.

Jungwon has always wondered if Sunghoon knows about the extent of his feelings towards you. He always stares into Jungwon as if he’s reading his soul, with that piercing gaze that’s not harsh or unkind but rather, telling. They’re not ridiculously close, but they play video games together sometimes and share a cup of coffee after a long few weeks. Sometimes, late at night, when Jungwon gets roped into Jay’s drinking escapades and doesn’t want you to know, Sunghoon will pick him up and let him sleep over. He’s always gone by the time Jungwon wakes up, but he never leaves without leaving fresh hangover soup and painkillers on the bedside table next to him.

Sunghoon is not a bad person, which makes everything incredibly difficult. In fact, he’s the ideal boyfriend, and the guilt eats Jungwon alive whenever he interacts with you and Sunghoon stares a little too long.

“Jungwon,” he hears. It takes him a moment to register that he zoned out, staring at Sunghoon’s face. Sunghoon smiles awkwardly before asking him if he’s alright.

“Sorry– I was just lost in thought.”

Sunghoon hums, and he feels Jay’s stare burning into him as Sunghoon continues.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the orchestra arrangement.” He stands abruptly, beckoning Jungwon to follow him into the kitchen.

Already, Jungwon has that sinking feeling in his stomach because he knows this conversation will be about anything but the orchestra arrangement. He wipes his sweaty palms against his cardigan, and Sunghoon frowns.

“Look, Jungwon. We’re all excited for this wedding, and I’m sure you are too, but if it’s too much, we’ll understand, okay?”

Jungwon looks at him with a blank stare.

“I– I just mean, you just look exhausted, Won. And I know that,” Sunghoon sighs, running his fingers through his hair as if he’s bracing himself, “I know that I’m not exactly your best friend, but I’m here if you want to talk about it. I care about you, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

Jungwon feels horrible. In his mind, it’s always been him and you, or you and Sunghoon, but he’s never really considered how Sunghoon thinks about him. Sunghoon is genuine, caring about Jungwon’s health, even though he’s five seconds away from ruining his marriage.

(Jungwon doesn’t deserve any of the good around him. Not Jay, who loves him more than he loves himself. Not Sunghoon, who has always tried to be there for him when no one else was. Not even you, who cares for him even when there is nothing left to care for.)

“I’ve just been feeling a little under the weather, hyung. I’m feeling a lot better, so don’t worry about it.” He coughs, and Sunghoon looks unconvinced. “I promise.”

“Are you sure, I mean–” Sunghon starts, reaching out with his fingers in an attempt to graze his cheek. Jungwon flinches, and his fingers pause midair. “Sorry, you’re probably right. I’m just overthinking.”

Sunghoon has that shyness to him, the one that makes his cheeks pink. He looks guilty, and Jungwon’s heart breaks.

“Thank you for checking up on me, though, hyung. It means a lot.”

Sunghoon smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Jungwon turns to leave before the room feels too suffocating, before the walls close in on him and taunt him for how much of a horrible human being he is, but he pauses once he feels Sunghoon’s palm on his shoulder.

“Wait, Jungwon, I–” he pauses, trying to find the right words. “I know, Jungwon.”

Jungwon stills.

“I know that you love her.”

It feels like his heart is decomposing, burning alive from just the mere mention of you. It hurts a little too much, and he doesn’t even register that he’s crying until he sees the droplets staining the floor. He’s not standing in your apartment anymore, crafting wedding invitations with his friends and debating what color looks better under your cheap lighting. All that he now knows is himself, the tears that slide down his face, and the weight of Sunghoon standing behind him.

“I’m sorry, Jungwon-ah. I’m so sorry,” Sunghoon chokes out. Sunghoon’s fingers grip his shoulder tightly, and Jungwon can distinctly feel the way he trembles underneath Sunghoon’s touch.

He can feel the cool metal of Sunghoon’s rings through his thin shirt. The tears fall too freely now, silently as if he’s afraid to make himself known, and a singular teardrop finds its place against the smooth skin of Sunghoon’s hand.

“Why are you apologizing?” Jungwon whispers so quietly that he’s not even sure Sunghoon hears it. His chest feels too tight, as if he’s curled into a cocoon. “I should be the one apologizing. It’s my fault.”

Jungwon has been hearing a lot of apologies lately. Apologies for loving too much, apologies for loving not enough. He doesn’t really know whether he deserves these apologies, if they really mean anything, or are just words that are intended to fill that gaping hole in his heart, but what he does know is that he’s sick and tired of hearing them. These apologies symbolize that there is something to blame, someone who is guilty, when really, there is only one culprit here.

When really, everything is his fault. Jungwon is the one who learned to love, and now he has to learn to forget. The apologies that fly around his head, whether of pity or sorrow, are worthless to him because, if anything, he is the one who should be saying sorry. Sorry to Sunghoon, sorry to Jay, sorry to you, and sorry to the universe for loving so much that it hurts even to mention it.

“I was too selfish,” Sunghoon whispers. The word sounds foreign in his voice, too unassuming and soft, as if Sunghoon doesn’t even know what it really means.

Jungwon laughs bitterly. Right then and there, he realizes exactly why you fell for Sunghoon and not him.

Sunghoon is too kind to the world. He cares about everyone and everything, from the little caterpillars in the weeds to the dandelion waiting for its dying wish. Jungwon is the opposite. His heart is blood-stained. He feels only for one person, you, and only you. His heart beats too fast because his love for you is like that, someone who feels too much and too intensely. Jungwon’s love is ruination, destroying everything along its path until it’s just the two of you in this universe.

Maybe Sunghoon is selfish, but at least he knows moderation. Jungwon’s love has no limits. He only knows how to take, to take and suck you dry until all you know is him.

“You’re not the selfish one, hyung. It’s me. It’s always been me.”

After he goes home, he throws up. Jay brushes his hair out of his face, and when Jungwon pulls back, all that meets his eye is dark, soul-crushing blood. No more petals. Just blood.

“Maybe you should tell her,” Jay suggests off-handedly as Jungwon drinks water. “It might be good to let it out of your system.”

He can’t, is what he tries to tell Jay. He can’t because admitting he loves you is like confessing the worst of his mistakes. Speaking it into existence will only force him to confront the horrifying truth that you always viewed him as a best friend, or worse, a brother, and he would rather live with the what-ifs and the daydreams than let you leave because of one stupid confession.

Instead, he finds himself nodding. “Sure,” he squeaks out miserably, with every intention of not doing what he’s told. And then he throws up once more.

Jungwon wakes up from a nightmare.

He doesn’t remember what exactly it’s about, only that he’s now dehydrated and his phone is buzzing on the counter next to him despite how late it is.

He sees your name flashing on the screen, and he’s already tugging on his jeans as he answers. It’s like clockwork to him, answering your calls, worrying about you even though you’re probably fine, but he still can’t stop his racing heart or his trembling hands.

It’s as if his brain is hardwired for you. Every beat of his heart, every blink of his eyes, every twitch of his legs, it’s all for you. Jungwon has never lived a single moment without being reminded of your existence in some shape or form. He has never lived a single moment without knowing how to love you.

“Hello?” he asks, almost tripping over his keys.

It takes him a few moments to recognize you crying on the other end.

“Where are you?” he whispers, gentler this time, so as not to scare you away.

“Practice room,” you mumble, so softly as if you don’t want to say it.

He finds you slouched on the ground as he walks into the studio a couple of minutes later, tears staining your light-washed jeans as you furrow into yourself. You’re not crying anymore, not visibly, but somehow knowing that this is the aftermath makes him feel ten times worse.

He’s never really heard you cry before. He knows you’re a private person, someone who likes to share your happiness but keep your sadness to yourself. So, the fact that he could hear your hiccups over the phone meant you were holding back too long, trying to do it all and ruining yourself to the point where you couldn’t hold back your tears anymore.

He hates that you never recognize he’s right here for you. All he’s ever wanted was to be the person you could lean upon, the chest you could curl into as you cried your heart out. He wants to be that person that you share your sorrows with, the one to take hold of your burdens and shoulder them himself, but you never let him do it.

(So it brings him, with sickening greed, a small amount of satisfaction to be the one that’s here for you tonight. Even though his mind tells him not to, even though his body physically forbids him to be near you, his heart only beats your name as he slides down next to you.)

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s stupid,” you mutter. Your fingers pick at the dry skin near your fingernails, and he can see the redness of your eyes as you look up at him. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“I won’t judge,” he says, repeating himself when you don’t respond. “Please.”

You sigh. “Hoon and I had dance practice today. You know, for our first dance. But I–” you laugh, wiping away the tears that make their appearance, “I can’t seem to do it right. He moves so effortlessly, and it feels like I’m stumbling and picking up the pieces. It’s dumb, but I can’t stop thinking about not being good enough.”

One thing Jungwon has learned about you, so subtle that he doesn’t even think Sunghoon knows it yet, is that you’re fragile. He knows you hold your heart in pieces, begging the universe to glue you back together, even though he knows it can’t. So, in lieu of the universe, Jungwon tries. You never give him direct liberty to, but he holds you. He holds you and your broken pieces, and even though it eats him alive that he can’t help you more than this, somehow, it works. It always works for you because he treads carefully, gently, never pushing too hard to keep you grounded.

Right now, as you stare up at him with glossy eyes and the world in your hands, Jungwon knows he has to prove to you that, truly, you are enough. Just as he always has, like when you failed your physics exam in ninth grade, or when you didn’t get that promotion at work even though you tried so hard for it. All he knows in this life is how to be there for you, even if you’re not there for him.

He takes your hand in his, pulling you up from the floor as he turns on the music. “Let’s practice. I’ll help you until you get it right.”

A soft melody floats through the air, spinning around the two of you until he’s clutching your waist. His touch is so light that he’s pretty sure you can barely even feel it, but already he’s regretting being in such close proximity with you as the blood swirls throughout his stomach. Your hands clasp each other behind, wrapped around his neck, and you can’t see the way Jungwon stares at you because your eyes focus on the ground with staggered steps. You stumble as he moves you left, and then right, and the concentration in your gaze wavers as you try not to step on his feet.

“I can’t do this, I–”

“Shh,” he whispers. Your arms loosen, and he grips your waist a little tighter. “This isn’t a performance. It’s just a dance.”

You’re still unconvinced, a frown working its way onto your face. One of his hands comes up to cradle your chin, tilting your face up so that you can meet his gaze.

“Just focus on me.”

You let Jungwon lead you, your eyes never leaving his as the music flows between you both. A slight blush makes its way across his cheeks, but he reminds himself to focus on the steps, back and forth, as if you’re not right in front of him. Jungwon moves like magic, flitting across the dance floor as if he has wings, and you quickly learn how to soar with him, to match his pace and create a rhythm of your own. He notices how relaxed you’ve become when he dips you, a little too low, and you just giggle and hold onto him tighter. 

“Thought you were going to drop me,” you gasp after he lets you up. He shakes his head, twirling you around before bringing you in.

“Never,” he murmurs. “I would never drop you.”

He’s so close that he can see the texture on your skin and the light reflecting across your hair. Your irises seem to swirl, lulling him in, and your lips have the curve of a faint smile that he’s worked hard to bring back to your face. He’s so close that he could kiss you, so close that every inch of his curiosity could be satisfied if he just leaned in, but the music behind him slows to a stop as you pull away from his grasp.

“Thank you,” you say, breathless. Then, teasingly, “It would be easier if it were you up there with me instead of Sunghoon, right?”

And suddenly, Jungwon remembers his nightmare. It wasn’t really a nightmare, not something that was frightening enough for his heart to race in fear. Instead, it was a dream tinged with blurred lines and all his what-ifs, a dream of him kissing you after your first dance and how brightly you’d smiled. It was a dream tinged with his blood, a dream that could never be true because you would never think to look at him the way he looks at you.

You busy yourself with packing up your stuff, too focused to see the absolute pain on Jungwon’s face as he clutches the barre next to him. The world caves in around him, and he has to try his absolute hardest to wave goodbye to you as if he’s not crumbling on the inside. Of course, his feelings are nothing but a joke to you, as if they’re not the very reason he’s currently on his deathbed surrounded by a pool of flowers.

He wishes it were him, too. As the blood spills from his lips, dripping down his face, his arms, down to the very floor he stands on, all he wishes is that it could be him dancing with you, being in your arms legitimately, instead of yearning from afar as he twirled you around today.

Maybe, if it really were him dancing with you at the end, this wouldn’t be his last dance alive.

You look happy.

It’s the first thing he notices as you climb into the car, already a little tipsy from the alcohol you’d consumed at your pregame. Your friends, not faring much better than you, help you keep your balance as you buckle your seatbelt and motion for him to start the car. You look genuinely happy. Not just in the way a drunk person looks, but in the way that it’s infectious. You radiate with that kind of energy that makes him want to tug close and kiss the life out of you.

The streetlights twinkle through the window as he drives, filtering out the loud bass of your music and your friends singing along in the backseat. The club you’d chosen for your bachelorette party was a little far from your apartment, but your group doesn’t really seem to mind as they control the aux on his phone and queue another Britney Spears song. The air is charged with that upbeat feeling, the kind that has him drumming his fingers along to the music as he steps on the gas.

He notices your silence in the front seat, watching your head tilt out of the window and the wind whipping through your hair. Usually, you’d be singing along, especially after a little bit of alcohol in your system, but you seem lost in thought today, and it makes him a little worried.

“You okay?” he asks. He wonders if you even hear him over the loud karaoke of your friends, but you turn back to him with a soft smile.

“Yeah. It’s all just kind of hitting me right now, you know?”

“What, the alcohol?”

There’s a soft pause before you look back at the window, pressing the button and watching it roll up.

“No, the wedding,” you say, playing with your engagement ring absentmindedly. “It just feels so surreal.”

Jungwon chooses to say nothing, turning up the volume of the music instead. He feels your eyes on him, but he doesn’t know what to say as he grips the steering wheel tighter. He’s glad he chose to stay sober tonight because maybe he would’ve responded with something not particularly appropriate. Perhaps he would’ve decided to tell you that he does wish this wedding were just a figment of his imagination. Maybe, he would’ve told you that he’s scheduled to die soon because of your surreal wedding, your surreal love for Sunghoon, and his not very surreal love for you.

He doesn’t say any of that, though. He keeps his emotions in check and drives, watching the headlights of the car next to him race by. He drives until the bright neon lights of the bar flash through the mirror, and he barely has a chance to park before you and your friends clamber out, giddy with excitement.

The club has this dizzying sort of atmosphere, the flickering lights from the dance floor and the loudness of the music hitting him all at once. He feels like he can’t breathe, he really, really can’t breathe, and he’s already making his way to the bathroom before you have a chance to drag him to the center.

I can’t do this, he texts Jay. The multicolored ceiling tiles blur before his eyes as he slumps against the bathroom stall door. He hears someone throwing up next to him, and he wonders briefly that if everything were normal, that if he weren’t dying because you loved him back, maybe he’d be a drunk idiot throwing up in his Hello Kitty bucket too.

He’s not normal, though. Every time he inhales, it feels painful as if something’s stuck in his throat. His voice has become too raspy, and he swears he can feel the weight of his lungs through every breath, pounding against him particularly hard whenever he’s near you. Every ticking moment reminds him that you are genuinely content with all this. Content with Sunghoon, content with this wedding, and content living a life Jungwon may not even be in.

He doesn’t know how long he stays in the bathroom stall, pouring his feelings out, but he wipes the blood off with a tissue and leaves the stall. His eyes look bloodshot in the mirror, and his heart pounds with every beat of the EDM music reverberating through him. He hasn’t had a sip of alcohol, but this is the sort of effect you have on him, world-spinning and regret seeping through his every vein.

His eyes scan the dance floor for you, and he relaxes slightly when he finds you swinging your arms in the air to a Charli XCX song. You’re in your own little world as your friends dance around you, and Jungwon feels like he’s standing on the edge of it, one foot in and one foot out. It's as if he’s almost there, but not quite.

(Lately, though, he’s been choosing to stay out. Choosing not to get devoured by the force that is you, all-consuming and leaving him with no room to breathe. Once upon a time, he would choose to drown every time, to feel the burn in his lungs as he swam towards you.

Now, there is no more burning left in his lungs. There is no more you. It’s just him and his thoughts, floating endlessly in the ocean until the point of no return.)

He’s scrolling on his phone, slouched against the bar stool, when he hears two taps on the marble next to him. He looks up to find the bartender sliding over a glass of fizzy liquid, topped with a sliced lime and a salted rim.

“Oh, I didn’t order this,” Jungwon sputters, reaching to push it back, but the bartender clasps his hand and wraps Jungwon’s fingers around the glass.

“It’s on the house, and it’s non-alcoholic, so don’t worry about it.” The bartender smiles, a contagious sort of grin that makes Jungwon want to smile too, and he leans over slightly to speak closer to him. “You look like you need it.”

Jungwon thanks the bartender, sipping at his drink slowly and feeling the bubbles fizz down his throat. It’s a Sprite, mixed with something a little fruity, and already it has him feeling lighter than a couple of moments before.

“I’m Sunoo, by the way,” he hears. Sunoo’s nameplate flashes from the strobing lights, dancing from all the colors around him. “So, tell me, which girl is it?”

Jungwon coughs, the drink going down the wrong pipe, and Sunoo merely blinks, watching him.

“What? What girl?”

“The girl that’s you’re heartbroken over, silly!”

Jungwon sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’re like a dejected puppy. Even a five-year-old could probably tell.”

Jungwon sips at his drink, carrying it while peeking back over his shoulder. His eyes search until they land on your figure, now at the far left near the DJ.

“That one, over there,” he says, pointing at you. “The one in the white.”

“She’s pretty,” Sunoo says absentmindedly, and Jungwon finds himself agreeing before turning back to face him. “Did she reject you?”

“No,” Jungwon starts. His throat feels parched, suddenly, despite his dedication to sipping the drink in his hands. “I– I never told her. She’s getting married next week.”

Sunoo’s gaze softens. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

The drink tastes bitter now, prickling in Jungwon’s mouth. His lips press into a line as his fingers play with the straw in his glass. He swishes it, around and around, watching the little cyclone that appears when he moves the straw too fast. He wants to tell Sunoo that it’s okay. There’s no reason to apologize, and he’s sick of every sorry that comes his way because it’s fine. In a normal world, Jungwon would have moved on, slowly but surely, and he’d have come back to this bar in the future as a healed person.

It’s not okay, though. It’s not okay because how can Jungwon move on when you make up every inch of him? How can Jungwon move on when the reason he lives and dies is because of you? You pour life into him and take it away from him all at the same time. You are the one to poison him and you are the one to heal him, and Jungwon just has to stand there and take it until he physically isn’t able to anymore. Jungwon will never be able to find someone who loves him just as much as he loves you, because he only has space in his heart for you and no other. So even if it means that Sunoo’s last memory of Jungwon is right now at this bar, pining after you from afar, he’s forced to accept it. 

After all, there is no him without you. 

There is only you without him.

Jungwon should be at the venue already. Instead, he’s lying against his mahogany rug, fingers twisting in the strings that are woven into it as he tries to reach for his phone.

He was having a good day, or at least, he thought he was having a good day. He woke up early to run some errands before work. His presentation proposal went spectacularly well, and there was barely any traffic as he sped home. He got a free hot chocolate today with the welcome of a new month, a new December, and he didn’t have to spend any portion of today hunched over a sink waiting for his guts to spill out.

He was having a good day until, well, everything started to go wrong.

He was searching for his keys as he straightened his suit tie and fixed that annoying strand of hair that kept falling in his face. He was on call with Jay, who had offered to drive him to the restaurant where your rehearsal dinner was being held. It was all fine. 

He was fumbling around for his suit jacket when suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He doesn’t know how he ended up on the floor, or how the sharp, radiating pain spread from his lungs to his heart. All he knows is that he’s crying, and Jay’s voice is somewhere distant, telling him to stay calm and to wait for him. He can’t respond, every hoarse attempt to speak failing miserably with a cough. His insides feel like they’re being burned alive, and distinctly he can feel the tears drip down his cheeks, or maybe the blood spill from his mouth.

He can’t seem to move, not when he tries to reach for his phone, not when Jay shows up and shakes him by the shoulders, not when the paramedics show up at his apartment and shine a bright light in his eyes. He can’t move when he’s hooked up to the oxygen mask, or when the ambulance shudders beneath him and Jay’s tears drip down his arm.

Somewhere along all of this, he fades in and out of consciousness, dizzy from the bright lights and the emergency siren. He can’t tell if the pain gets worse or if it gets better, but he tries to focus on the beeping of his heart rate and how grounded Jay’s hand makes him feel.

And throughout all of this, despite his best efforts to ignore it, he thinks of you. He thinks of how you’re probably at your rehearsal dinner right now, holding hands with Sunghoon. You’re probably talking about how you met him, how you fell in love with him, and how you will continue to love him just as he loves you. You’re probably talking to all your friends and family and serving your homemade banana pudding recipe that you worked hard to make. He knows you probably have that stupid little grin on your face, the one he sees in his daydreams of you and him, and other words that don’t belong together.

He’s still dreaming about you when he wakes up, barely registering the pain from the IV needle as he scans the room. His eyes land on Jay in the chair next to him, who’s already rushing over as soon as Jungwon’s eyes open.

“Where am I?” Jungwon says groggily. His free hand clutches his forehead, aware of the dull headache that rests on the sides of his forehead. “Is this the hospital?”

“Jungwon,” Jay breathes, cradling Jungwon’s face. “You’re awake.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Not long,” Jay says, pulling away and sitting on the edge of the bed. His fingers clutch Jungwon’s hand tightly, as if he’s still in disbelief over Jungwon breathing and talking right in front of him. “A couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours?” Jungwon shrieks. He tugs the needle from his arm, wincing from the sharp pain as it rips out. “We’re so late. So late. She’s probably waiting for me! I told her I was gonna help set up the decorations–”

“Jungwon,” Jay whispers, gripping his wrist. Jungwon sees the frown lines etched on his face and pauses. “I sent her a text about us being late. She never even responded.”

“No– that’s– she would never,” Jungwon scoffs. His fingers reach for this phone on the bedside table next to him, dialing your number before Jay can even stop him.

The line rings, once, twice, too many times before the sound of your voicemail filters in. He tries again, and again, and each time feels like a stab to his freshly wounded heart. His eyes fog up, and he can’t stop the tears that escape him as he dials over and over again. His tears fall on his phone screen, staining the glass until he can’t even click on the call button, and the phone slips from his grasp.

His body pulses in his hyung’s hold as he hugs him, heavy sobs erupting from him as he finally lets go. He lets go of all the pain and misery he’s faced from you, about you, like an asteroid that burns up when it reaches too close to the sun. No matter how hard he tries, it’s impossible for him to accept that he’s just another person in your orbit, fading in and out when you need him.

He remembers all the times he’s centered himself around you. Every moment when he thought he was wanted by you, even if it was just as a friend. Now, all he can see is how convenient, how easy he is for you. How pathetic he is to fall in love with you, to keep loving you even though he knew you would never love him back. And yeah, he’s always there when you need him, but even now, as he sits inches away from his death, you’re never there for him.

“You always put her before yourself,” Jay murmurs in his shoulder. “Even if she’s the reason you’re dying, you’re still addicted to her.”

“I can’t help it, hyung. I love her.”

Jay exhales, pulling away from Jungwon. Even though Jungwon is stupid, the never-give-up kind of stupid, he appreciates Jay for still trying to save him, even if there is nothing to be saved.

Jay reaches over to grab a folder from the table, the bright blue color matching the print of his hospital gown. He flips through a few pages before pulling out a black, semi-translucent slip of film, flipping it over for Jungwon to see.

It takes a few minutes for Jungwon even to register what he’s seeing. The scan is zoomed in on his upper half, centered on his lungs and vertebrae, but what’s in his lungs is anything but typical. Flowers bloom through every crevice of his lungs, sprouting, growing as if they’re meant to be there. They’re still small, but Jungwon can already see the buds and even tiny flowers that have sprouted. There’s not an inch of space left empty, every alveolus filled with a leaf or a stem or a flower.

“Is this what I was coughing up?” Jungwon asks, fingers tracing his chest where his lungs reside. “That’s inside of me?”

“Yeah. The doctors said that as the disease progressed, there were too many flowers to cough up, so they started growing in you.” Jay speaks with incredulity, as if he can’t even believe it’s real.

“What do you mean, progressed? Is it not still progressing?”

Jay turns to him, and only then does Jungwon register his bleary eyes and the tear stains that have dried on his cheeks. His fingers tremble as he holds the page, and he speaks so softly as if he refuses to solidify the statement’s existence.

“You’re in your final stages, Wonie. You have a week left at best until the flowers bloom fully and you’ll die of oxygen poisoning.”

Jungwon thinks that if he weren’t so adamant about making it to your wedding and seeing you at the altar, he would’ve killed himself a long time ago. Maybe the day you asked him to be your maid of honor, or maybe even as early as when you got proposed to. Killing himself would’ve rid him of all this yearning, yearning that presented itself in the form of this disease that takes and takes until his very last breath. This disease, that no matter how hard he tries to avoid, reminds him of you. 

You with the soft fingers that he wishes he could intertwine his with. You with the eyebrow you always arch expressively when you dislike something. You with the back tattoo of a sparrow that’s a little chubby, just the way you wanted it. You with the soft voice that he’s blessed to hear through the little song covers you’d always send him. You who’d never notice the cherry blossoms that fell in your hair, the ones that he’d have to pick out imperceptibly every time.

You who he’s so irrevocably in love with. You, who despite having a heart full of love, have never loved him back.

And then, there’s him. Jungwon. That same Jungwon, with a heart full of love to give only to you. Jungwon, who stays by your side even if you never notice it. That same Jungwon, who worries about you when there is nothing to worry about. That same Jungwon, who kept a mental list of your favorite foods so you won’t feel indecisive at restaurants. That same Jungwon, who holds your hair when you drink a little too much and whispers that it’s okay in your ears, that it’ll all be over before you know it.

They say moles are marks of where your soulmate kissed you in your previous life. Jungwon knows where all of yours are: the one on your eyebrow, the two on your lower torso, the ones on your hands that he noticed when he interlocked fingers with you, and even the one on your forearm that he memorized as he watched you fall asleep during a sleepover. He doesn’t know if he was your soulmate that kissed those moles into existence in a previous life, or in any life at all, but he’s tried his hardest to be the one for you, even if you’re destined for another.

And even now, knowing that you two are never fated to be together in this life, he’ll still try. Because who is he, if he doesn’t even exist to love you?

And distinctly, he remembers the time he did confess to you. The time that he tells no one about because it’s a moment too pathetic to remember.

It was during break, the summer before his senior year of college. You and a couple of others, newly graduated seniors, were at a karaoke bar five minutes away from campus. Jungwon had to watch as you cozied up to Sunghoon from the other end of the couch, a little too drunk and a little too loose. His heart had simmered beneath him, tinged with jealousy every time Sunghoon had pressed a kiss to your cheek or pulled you closer.

He didn’t really mean to avoid you that day. He just didn’t want to third-wheel you and your boyfriend, especially since he was a little tipsy and didn’t trust himself to remain sane around you. You looked so happy, with a giddy voice and a bright smile, and he didn’t want to do anything to hurt your mood.

So, he stayed on the other side of the room. Even when you wanted him to join you in a karaoke battle, to that one song you always queued while he drove you around, he shook his head and remained in his spot. He didn’t drink too much, just enough to feel the buzz, but he still couldn’t shake off how pretty you looked in that dress, or how much you laughed as you curled into Sunghoon’s side.

After some point, the lights in the room and the loud bass of the music start to get too suffocating. He excuses himself for some air, grabbing the empty boxes from the food you’d ordered to throw them away. He doesn’t notice your eyes on him as he balances the carts and slides open the door.

The hallway is long and winding, and by the time Jungwon finds the trashcan and a water fountain, he’s a little out of breath. The walk has sobered him up a little bit, so he doesn’t feel as dizzy as he was when he walked here on the way back. He turns, wiping the corner of his mouth from the dribble of water that slid down, but he finds you standing right behind him instead, with a frown on your face and a bottle of Pink Whitney in your hands.

Already, he knows you’re more shitfaced since the last time he saw you. Pink Whitney has never treated you kindly, and as he sees you struggle to stand upright with your heels on, he knows you’ve passed that limit of tipsiness and charted into dangerous, drunken territory, the kind that he knows you’ll regret the next morning.

“That’s enough of that,” he says, grabbing the bottle. You protest weakly, attempting to snatch it back, but he holds it behind his back so you can’t reach. “Why did you leave the room? You can barely walk.”

“I missed you,” you hiccup. He notices how your tears pool in your eyes, as if you don’t want to cry but can’t really stop it. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

“What?” he breathes. He didn’t really think you’d notice the distance that he’d tried to maintain, assuming you were too preoccupied with Sunghoon to even care that he made no effort to talk to you.

“You refused to share your fries with me. You always share your fries with me.” You’re full-on sobbing at this point, and your fingers find home in his jacket lapel as you sniffle. “Did I do something wrong? Why do you hate me?”

His heart hurts seeing you like this, being the reason that you’re reduced to this mess. His arms curl around you, pulling you in closer so he can rest his head on your shoulder. Your fingers grip his jacket tightly, and he’s too focused on your feelings to notice how your tears stain his shirt.

“Why would I hate you?” he murmurs against your ear. “Don’t say stupid things like that.”

And he means it. Not one inch of his body could feel any sort of resentment towards you, no matter how hard he tried. He wishes it could, so he could hate you peacefully and move on from all the grief he’s been shouldering, but there’s some invisible string tied between you two that he can’t seem to break, no matter how far he goes.

“Then why haven’t you talked to me today?”

He sighs, thumbing the strands of your hair. “I was just giving you space since you were with Sunghoon.”

You pull back, and through your glossy tears, he sees your lips pull into a pout.

“But, I want you too.”

You say it so simply, as if it’s easy for him to accept how you still want him in your life, even though you already have the world with Sunghoon. So simply, as if it’s easy for him to admit that sometimes you love unfairly, and he doesn’t have it in him to seek anything otherwise. So simply, as if it’s easy for him to accept how you still want him even though you have no more love left to give.

Like a puppy on a leash, he glows after hearing those words, even if they hold no weight coming from you. He cradles your face, brushing away the tear streaks across your cheeks.

“You already have me,” he says honestly. “I’m already yours.”

You smile with your eyes closed. It’s the kind of smile that’s earnest, one that stretches across your whole face. Jungwon would run to the ends of the universe if it meant he could see it again.

“I love you.”

The confession slips out of his mouth, raw and unfiltered, as he stops breathing. He didn’t mean to admit it, especially not in front of you like this with your boyfriend a few rooms over. It was supposed to be a secret he carried to his grave, not some abrupt confession he said in hushed tones in front of a karaoke bar water fountain. He was supposed to say it on that day, the day when the cherry blossoms bloomed, and he wore that white shirt to match the flowers in his arms. He wasn’t supposed to say it like this, holding an uninhibited version of you and taking advantage of the fact that you’re not sober enough to process his words.

He stills, like a frame paused, in time waiting for your reaction. He knows you’re going to hate him, not want him anymore, even if it’s selfishly, and he knows this is the last time he’ll ever get to see you like this. His heart pounds against his chest, erratic as if it’s escaping, and he can’t seem to find the words to apologize or take it all back before you slip from his grasp.

You don’t do any of that, though. You remain in his hold, with his fingers holding you like a porcelain doll, and that soft smile. Instead, your hands wrap around his, your fingers sliding between the crevices as you open your eyes.

“I love you so much, too, Wonie. You’re the bestest friend ever. My best friend.”

His lungs release the breath he didn’t even know he was holding, but it’s not loud enough to disguise the sound of his heart breaking. You don’t hear it, of course, oblivious to the tumultuous storm that rages inside him, and you just pull him tighter as you hug him again.

He cries. He cries against you just as you cried against him, only stronger with the weight of all his unsaid confessions pouring out of him. It’s silent enough for your drunk self not to notice, but the droplets plink against your hair, and he has to wipe away the tears rapidly before you catch on. It hurts so, so much. It hurts more than anything else he’s ever felt because, while you’re the center of the universe to him, he means nothing to you. While you’re everything to him, he’s just a fleeting moment to you.

Unmistakably, he wonders if anything would’ve even changed had he confessed to you properly then. Or if anything would’ve even changed if he confessed to you now, mere days before your wedding. If maybe the pain in his lungs would’ve eased away, if maybe the flowers would’ve withered and died right inside him.

Deep down, though, he knows that confession wouldn’t have healed him one bit, because you have never felt anything for him in return. From the very first time he laid eyes upon you, sculpting castles in the sandbox alone, to now, he has always cared for you and your impression of him. Even when that impression is anything but what he really is, what he really wants to be, he still cares.

He knows that even if he confessed to you, the flowers in his heart would still continue to bloom, unconstrained without the very thing he desires from you: love.

The air is a little breezy today.

Not breezy enough that Jungwon feels cold (although his suit jacket provides him plenty of warmth already), but just enough to make the blades of grass sway softly, as if they’re dancing along to the faint melody of the music in the background. It’s early in the morning, a time when he can still hear the birds chirping and the sun rays peeking above the horizon.

On a regular day, he’d still be in bed waiting for his alarm clock to ring. Or maybe he’d be hungover from a long weekend with his friends, choosing to sleep in and ignore a headache. Today, though, he stands under the drapes of the altar, next to the podium where Sunghoon shifts nervously.

Waiting for you.

Jungwon’s fingers fumble with the flower in his pocket, a singular, white chrysanthemum against the black of his suit. Your bridesmaids have the same flowers as corsages, but Jungwon’s is different because the flower rests right in front of his heart, beating, echoing with every pulse.

And already, Jungwon knows today is his last day alive, because today is your wedding. Today is the day he’ll lose you forever, the day that you step out of every daydream of his and into another man’s. Standing here, as your man of honor, is the most twisted punishment the universe could make him face. On the day of his reckoning, instead of wishing him away with peace, you’ve decided to make him bear witness to the very act that caused his ruin.

Sunghoon stares at him knowingly. He can’t tell if it’s with pity, or even worse, with pride.

All Jungwon wants is to get this over with. He’s agonized over this moment for months now, from the beginning of autumn to last night as he wrote his man of honor speech. Once upon a time, he had hoped he would be able to accept your marriage with a healed heart. Now, as the music shifts into something slower and the audience hushes, he knows he will leave with nothing but pain. With nothing but pure, raw desire simmering through his heart and burning every flower that grows inside of him until he no longer remains.

He feels like he’s dreaming when he finally sees you.

You, in your long, white gown, with handwoven patterns of silk and thread stitched across the front. A dress with patterns of all kinds of flowers, patterns of every stem and leaf that glimmer against the white cloth. The flowers sprout against the exterior of the mesh, with petals that sway with every step as you make your way to the altar.

And beyond all that, you’re wearing that smile. That same smile that he’d give up everything for. That same smile he’s yearned for his entire life, from the very first moment up until now. That same smile that he’s now dying for.

He doesn’t recognize his breath staggering until he feels lightheaded, hands finding purchase on the decoration behind him as he steps back. I’m so close, not now, is all he can think as you step even closer to the platform. He starts to see spots in his vision, black circles dancing around, and he’s thankful enough that everyone’s eyes are too focused on you to see him stepping off to the side and rushing to the bathroom.

Jungwon doesn’t make it that far, though. His eyesight blurs around him, and his fingers grip some random door handle before he stumbles inside. Faintly, he can recognize the mess of your makeup room around him, but he trips over a spare piece of clothing and falls before he can fully register his surroundings.

Sharp, dull pain blooms on the side of his head, but he can’t seem to move his arms to feel for any blood that might’ve been triggered from his fall. The pain in his head is nothing compared to the strain on his lungs now, though, as if every breath of his is poison. His senses are painfully aware of the weird, cracking noise inside him, but he can’t seem to figure out what it’s from. His ribcage? His neck? His throat? Or maybe even everything? He feels like he’s choking on air as the blood spills from his lips. His speech, the man of honor speech that holds everything he wanted to say to you one last time, falls out of his jacket pocket, and blood drips across the corner as if it’s ink. He can’t move, he can’t breathe, he can’t even think anymore as his vision fades out into nothingness.

And even in his final moments, like this, he remembers you. This universe is so, so unkind to him, to his soul that hoped to see you like this one more time before he left forever. Oh, how he wishes he were still alive to watch you recite your vows. To hear what it’s like to be loved by you, to be cherished until death do us part. To hear what maybe, in another life, what was meant for him instead of Sunghoon.

As it all comes crashing down before his eyes, all he wishes is that you will find peace. He hopes the flowers that bloom in December will treat you kindly, and every white chrysanthemum will be a poignant reminder that you are always loved. Even if he is not physically present with you on Earth anymore, he will love you through the gentleness of the breeze, through the swaying of the grass blades, through the sun rays that appear before the horizon, and through the smiles of everyone you hold dear to your heart.

And with this clarity, he is able to let go. To let go of all that he’s known of you through every flower that blooms in his heart. To let go of a timeline in which you and he coexist.

To let go of you, and therefore, him. Because without you, there is no him. And without him, there is only you.

Jay has never understood love. Or rather, the unbecoming of it. 

But he has never seen it ruin someone so wretchedly as it did Jungwon.

It’s Jay who finds Jungwon first, lifeless in a pool of his own blood and tears. The world blurs around him as he kneels down, shaking Jungwon’s shoulders in every effort, every plea for him to wake up. The words fall on closed ears. Dead ears. Jungwon is long gone, from misery only his heart could produce. He’s long gone from the flowers that surround every inch of him, buried in his own, sickly love for you.

His fingers clutch tightly onto Jungwon’s man of honor speech, one he refuses to read because he can’t justify that torture. It’s you who needs to read it, to recognize the consequences of your actions, of how greedy you were to have the most wonderful human being beside you and still yearn for another. He needs you to read this speech in all its glory, tear-stained, blood-stained, flower-stained, until you recognize the extent of how much Jungwon truly loved you. 

Of how much he truly still loves you.

The funeral happens on a Tuesday evening. The once forgiving December now releases its inhibitions, pouring from the sky as if it has been holding back this entire time. The universe thunders with anger and rage, and every strike of lightning is a furious reminder of what’s all been lost in the process.

Jay stands before Jungwon’s coffin. He has no umbrella to shield him from the fury of the universe, but he doesn’t care. He deserves this form of retribution for not trying harder, for not being able to save him, even though there was nothing more he could do for him.

You stand next to him. Sunghoon holds an umbrella above your head, and it sways with the sudden wind gusts and cracks of lightning. You haven’t said a word all day. You haven’t said a word since you found your best friend dead, veins protruding and eyes rolled to the back of his head.

(Your fingers trembled as you brushed his eyelids shut, watching as they carried him out with a stretcher. Even with his eyes closed, he still looked like he was in pain, shouldering it all upon himself, no matter how hard you’d tried to get him to open up. You’d wanted to shake him open, for him to let go of everything he’d held back, but he stayed in place, eyes boring into yours as if he had nothing more to say. Closing his eyes felt like finality, like he was finally gone from every memory you’ve had together and every memory you were supposed to have together in the future.

Now, all that was left was the remains of him and his soul. You cried against the pool of blood he’d left behind, letting it stain the pearly whites of your gloves until you drowned in his essence.)

Jay watches as you grab something from Sunghoon’s hold, walking over to the edge of Jungwon’s grave. The freshly buried dirt sinks slightly under your steps, and you place a bouquet at the center before you walk back under the protection of the umbrella.

Jay cracks when he sees the familiar white chrysanthemums against the dirt.

“What the hell is your problem?”

Your head twists sharply toward him, not expecting him to say anything of that sort, or anything at all. The wind whips through your hair as you stare at Jay with bloodshot eyes, and it’s only then that you recognize the single tear that’s slid down his cheek.

“What? What did I do wrong?”

Jay laughs, sharp and twisting. You feel it through your bones, the hatred seeping through you until you, too, start to cry. Sunghoon stares at Jay from behind you, begging him with wide eyes not to say anything that could ruin you even more, but Jungwon’s unsaid confessions rush out of Jay’s lips like the roar of every lightning strike behind him.

“What haven’t you done wrong? Were you that fucking stupid to see that he died because of you? Because of how you never loved him back?”

His words hit you like a truck, slamming into you with the impact of the wind behind you. You stumble back, one, two steps before you’re rushing forward and grabbing the lapels of Jay’s jacket.

“What are you talking about? What do you mean, he loved me?”

Jay gives you a stare that is almost murderous, his voice dropping octaves as he responds. “He loved you. He’s been in love with you since the day you two met. He died from a disease caused by unrequited love, you fucking asshole!”

Your tears stain the edges of Jay’s jacket, and although he tries to push away from your grasp, away from you and everything you stand for, your grip on him remains tight.

“God,” he continues, laughing bitterly, “he loved you. He loved you so much that in the end…”

He can’t even finish his sentence because his voice breaks and he can’t breathe. And in that moment, he wonders if this is how Jungwon felt, if he was experiencing even a fraction of the hurt, the suffocation he had to endure on a daily basis.

“Jay, please,” Sunghoon echoes from behind him.

Your fingers finally release themselves from their grasp as you turn back to look at Sunghoon. His eyes never leave yours, and although he tries to lean forward to shield you from the rain with the umbrella, you push him away.

“Did you know about this?” you ask, even though you already know the answer. The rain seeps through your hair, wetting your eyelashes and streaming down your face, but even it cannot hide your cries as you sob in front of him. “Did you know he loved me?”

Sunghoon swallows so audibly that he doesn’t even have to say any more, and you start laughing. Ballistically, without any form or reason, you laugh with that crazed look in your eyes, your hands swaying against the wind as you turn back toward Jay.

“So you all knew about this and decided not to tell me?”

“You don’t get to act like the victim in this.” Jay’s words feel like a harsh slap in your face, but he continues. “How were we supposed to tell you months before your wedding? Oh, hey, by the way, Jungwon is in love with you, and he’ll die if you don’t love him back. Jungwon was an idiot for loving you, for sure, but he wasn’t stupid.”

He hates that he has to speak about Jungwon in the past tense now. He hates that he has to talk about Jungwon to someone who never reciprocated his feelings, someone who never saw him for who he truly was. He hates that he can’t put into words the extent to which Jungwon loved you, even if it meant putting you before himself and committing to death.

“What– what was I supposed to do?” you whisper. Jay has to restrain himself from telling you that you don’t have the right to cry, that you’re a murderer in his eyes, and he can’t even bear to look at you.

“You were supposed to love him back. All he ever wanted was to be loved by you.”

And, as if the universe is responding, the rain picks up. It drowns you, completely, as you stand in a sea of graves for the one person who maybe loved you more than anyone else ever could.

You remember meeting Jungwon for the first time. How he tapped your shoulder politely after watching you play in the sandbox alone, asking if he could build sandcastles with you, even though his other friends waited for him beside the playground. He always did that, putting you first before anyone else, and you can’t believe it took you so long to realize truly how much Jungwon really cared for you.

Even in all the little things, you’re reminded of him. From the buttons on your coat jacket that he thrifted to your shoes that he scrubbed clean after a long hike, Jungwon has always been that stagnant reminder that life keeps going. Even during your darkest days, when all you wanted to do was hide from the rest of the world, he sat beside you and nursed you back to health, piece by piece. It’s taken you so long to realize how Jungwon is your center, the gravity that pulls you back to Earth and keeps you grounded, the star that orbits around you in every universe.

How Jungwon has always been yours.

As Jay leaves, his footprints tracking through the dirt as a permanent reminder he was always there, he presses a slip of paper into your hands. The corner is speckled with blood, and your eyes flicker up to Jay’s gaze, already knowing what it is.

“Have fun on your honeymoon,” he mutters. He’s gone just as quickly as he came, the wind sweeping him away until he is no more.

As you sit in Sunghoon’s car, shivering underneath the heater from your wet clothes, you find your fingers opening the paper in your hands, smoothing out the crinkles from Jay’s rough grasp. And as you read, the warmth is not enough to stop the frigid cold that suddenly rushes through you, that crazed feeling that you can’t shake off, no matter how much time passes.

As you read, you cry. You cry for what lived, and now, for what you’ve lost, because this piece of paper represents all of Jungwon in his entirety, all of what’s left of the boy who paved the Earth so that you could walk on it. Of Jungwon, who sacrificed himself just to sustain a world with you in it, even while knowing that he and you are two parallel lines never meant to intersect. 

Of Jungwon, who didn’t know what love meant if it wasn’t made of you.

Dear you,

First of all, you know I have performance anxiety. So, making my speech come last feels like some sort of specially-inflicted torture that you and Sunghoon designed for me (cue the audience laughter. I hope they laugh).

I wrote many drafts of this. They’re all sitting in my trash can right now, because coming up with a speech to summarize everything I want to say about my best friend just isn’t something that can be done in one sitting. No amount of words can describe the extent to which I feel for you, of how much joy you’ve brought into my life and everyone around us.

I should probably be talking about Sunghoon and how he’s perfect for you, which, I mean, he kind of is (let’s hope the audience laughs again). I should probably be wishing you a happy married life, where you get that gray cat you always wanted. And I genuinely do want to convey all that to you, and so much more, because you deserve everything good in the world.

But I wanted this speech to be about you. For you to realize how much I, and everyone in the audience around us, care for you. I’ve been your best friend since childhood, watching you grow from that awkward little kid to the beautiful person you are today. You have uplifted and supported me in so many ways that no one else has, and I think I speak for everyone when I say that we are so grateful to have you in our lives.

Sunghoon, you are so blessed to have the most wonderful wife in your life. Cherish her, adore her, lift her up with all your strength, and twirl her around until you hear that beautiful laughter and see that beautiful smile. It’s so worth it. So, so worth it. As her best friend, I resign all my duties to you, for you to be her new best friend and her life partner. Love her wholeheartedly, with every fiber of your being until it hurts, and then a little more.

And you. No matter what comes your way, never lose your energy, your resilience, your joy, and everything that makes you who you are. I love you, and I can’t wait to see where life’s journey takes you, one step at a time.

From your now ex-best friend,

Jungwon

[linkons-most-wanted]

No Return Night - Thoughts

Spoilers below the cut! As usual I apologize if mobile Tumblr trolls anyone. I'd started this a while ago but got distracted, figured better late than never to share my thoughts! 🤣

SPOILERS BELOW HERE

First off, I want to add a disclaimer that 1) I have a strong Sylus bias and 2) I will accept no hate for Caleb or Caleb girlies!!! These are just my subjective thoughts.

Something that stood out to me watching No Return Night is just how many friends Caleb has that he basically tells to fuck off because he only wants to spend time with MC. And I totally get the dark romance aspect and that this is part of the appeal, but 1) that specific dynamic not just my thing personally and 2) I ended up thinking about the contrast to Sylus's birthday where Luke and Kieran are celebrating every day of the month 'cause they don't know the specific day and they're just tickled to be able to wish him happy birthday.

Part of what is (subjectively) off-putting (to me specifically) about a lot of Caleb's content and especially No Return Night is just how callous he is towards his friends. Like when Gideon first sees him again he has ZERO compassion for like "hey so I know you thought I was DEAD and probably MOURNED me."

When MC mentions that the rest of his friends are having a party in his honor but without him there, it's like--has he told them he's alive? If so, kind of a dick move to not at least make SOME time to hang out with them, even on a different day. More likely, only Gideon knows, and MC and Caleb are just sitting there eating while his friends are mourning his death having a memorial dinner for him on his birthday.

Like... dude. I do not feel okay about that.

Not to mention MC just casually picks him up from running THE EVIL SPACE MILITARY THAT MURDERED A CHILD AND KIDNAPPED ANOTHER ONE.

But "dead to the world" is an explicit theme for them--we even see in Homecoming Wings that one of Caleb's first ideas for keeping MC safe is to tell everyone else that she died.

I think this is an artful and intentional decision that highlights the toxic nature of Caleb and MC's relationship. It's the kind of relationship that leads them to want to cut off other people--even people who care about them very much--in order to spend time only with each other.

In contrast, MC spends Sylus's birthday encouraging him to engage with others more. She wants to be at his side going out into the world, and she welcomes and cherishes the presence of Luke, Keiran, and Mephisto. The unhealthiness in Caleb x MC's relationship helps make more clear how intentional and healthy so many aspects of Sylus x MC is.

Something this has made me realize is that I've had several relationships (not romantic, but familial and professional) with people who have tried to cut me off from other people, to keep me to themselves, etc. And so I find that I have a pretty visceral avoidant/fear reaction to some of Caleb's behavior.

Which makes this good writing! Caleb's team is successfully painting a picture and what doesn't work for me is exactly what someone else is looking for, and vice versa. That sort of self-destructive obsession can be really gratifying to read.

But personally, I find that some of Caleb's content leaves me vaguely unsettled and I always learn something about myself while unpacking it, and for that I am legit grateful.

I hope we still get more Caleb yearning content now that we have cards of them "together" because that is always my favorite Caleb mode--desperately wanting something you don't feel good enough to have is deeply relatable. And I think there's a lot of threads to pull about how his self-hatred is what causes him to cut off his friends, even when they could be there for him. So I really do think there's a ton of interesting stuff to look at there, and he's well-written, it's just not always my cup of tea.

I fleetingly saw someone post about how No Return Night felt anti-climactic to them, and ofc they got a lot of disagreement in the comments, but I felt the same way. I think you can project whatever arc you want onto the card, and that's great! But I find myself preferring yearning Caleb and we don't really see any of that in No Return Night--just "all is well" Caleb and then "I'm sick of waiting" Caleb. I found myself either wanting things to be more raw (like their altercation in Homecoming Wings) or more tender (a yearning confession met with acceptance).

What I also think is really interesting and telling is that I do not have nearly as much in common with Caleb's MC as with Sylus's MC. I thought it was poignant and important that she talked about always having taken him for granted--but I just couldn't relate to that, because I had always been the eldest sibling trying to hold it together for everyone. In my own personal journey, I did the equivalent of saying "fuck you" to the Deepspace Fleet and charting my own path. I don't take kindly to ignoring the consequences of our actions and ignoring our access to leverage.

I need to face the truth, in all its ugliness, to keep moving forward and that's a large part of why I gravitate towards Sylus.

Alright, I think that's all my big thoughts. 😅

Again, these are just my personal reactions! I'm sorry for all the disclaimers, but some people will say "oh this is just me" and not really mean it and I really do mean it. 🤣 If you loved the card I love that for you!! I think we can mold and shape and fill in the blanks to these stories in our own personal way, and that is 100% valid and intended. Things that feel like gaps to me may feel complete to you and I actually think that's fascinating and really cool! I know the same thing happens with Sylus and he just clicks with my brain more so it all makes sense. (He's also intentionally written as a "healthier" character.)

[friendlyrandomperson]

Hello! I noticed you eyeballing my fankid art and I suddenly had the urge to ask you - how do you think Frank and Eddie would be as parents? I feel it’s obvious they’d be good parents, but I still like to think of the little quirks and habits they pick up when it comes to parenthood ^^ so I’d like to hear your headcanons on that!

Howdy! I do find your fankid art absolutely adorable. Very well done!

That being said, here are some headcanons!

1) Eddie would probably bring them along on his mail runs, calling them the “Mini Mailman”, as well as give them his hat for it.

2) Frank would make them little flower crowns or bracelets out of their favorite flower(s).

3) Eddie’s fear of bugs is probably something he’d try to overcome, whether that’s to be brave enough to take a bug away or to hold a bug he’s given.

4) Frank would have various plants that the child named, and often lets their child ramble on and on to the plants about nothing and everything.

5) 👏Family👏Movie👏Nights.👏

6) No matter how big they are, Eddie constantly lifts the child up, swinging them around like a pendulum. Either this, or he playfully tosses them over his shoulder, kind of like a bag of potatoes. Frank finds both of these actions amusing, but reminds Eddie to be careful.

7) If the kid gets a splinter when gardening, scrapes their knee in a game, hoo boy. Eddie is led by his heart, so if they’re hurt he somewhat panics, no matter how minor the injury is, whereas Frank is more calm and logical about the situation.

8) They do the line on the wall height chart thing. Every year on the kid’s birthday, they’ll stand on the wall and Frank takes a marker and makes a little mark, doodling a little flower at the end of it. If the kid stands on their tiptoes, Eddie leans over and pats their head repeatedly until they stand normally or start laughing so hard they can’t stand on their tiptoes anymore.

9) Eddie uses them as an armrest. No doubt.

10) If the kid is doing something with a neighbor, Frank will send them off with lunch in a paper bag that has a cheesy little note on it (Yes, the reaction is always “Daddddddd!” Or whatever they call him). Eddie, on the other hand, doesn’t put his note on the lunch bag. He writes a note on their hand. Frank often has to remind him to not use permanent marker.

11) Eddie teaches them origami. The first thing he ever teaches them how to make is a butterfly.

12) The bedtime routine is different depending on who puts them to bed. Frank reads bedtime stories, tells them facts about plants, and overall just tries to bore them to sleep. Eddie recounts the events of the day, tells facts about stamps and letters, and plays little games with them until they are too tired to stay awake.

Thank you for the ask! :)

[skinreflectsthesun]

.

[aughtpunk]

That Time a Published Author Told Me to Un-Queer My Novel

So, I don't think I ever shared this story on Tumblr before.

As you may know I've spent the past ten years turning my old Welcome to Night Vale fanfic into a stand alone novel called Echo of the Larkspur. Now, I haven't been working on it ten years straight. I'd pick it up, do a bunch of editing and rewriting, submit it to agents/publishers, get turned down, put the book away, wait 2-3 years, dust off the book, re-edit and rewrite, etc etc. A cycle that repeated itself far too many times that I would like.

Well, during one of these cycles when I was in the 'get rejected by every agent and publisher I submit to' stage I asked the writing group I was in what I was doing wrong. Because at this point I had reached a hundred total rejections and I was starting to suspect that the issue was with me.

One of the members of this writing group, a male author who was traditionally published, offered to read my first chapter and give his advice on how to fix it. This was, in retrospect, a mistake. But I was desperate. I sent him the first chapter and waited for his response.

Folks. The email he sent me changed my life.

First he said that agents wouldn't publish my novel because it was Sci-fi with hardcore gay erotica in it. This is curious because while the book certainly is queer, at no point in the conversation with this man did I say it was hardcore erotica. Nor did the first chapter feature any. It's almost as if he assumed that just because something was gay, it had to be hardcore erotica. Interesting.

He went on to say that a Human/Robot pairing was weird and that there was "No Way" my story could seriously address the issues of a relationship like that. Once again, he only read the first chapter. He just...assumed I wouldn't think of that? And that my book wouldn't cover it?

The author then said “I also felt that the LGBTQ inclusion really seems to cloud things.” Direct Quote.

And then this is when he said my favorite quote of them all:

The idea of a book being a sci-fi with romance AND a mystery is a Modern Art Marzipan Owl. It's just too confusing! No one can handle a story that is a mystery in a sci-fi enviroment AND has a romantic subplot! THEIR BRAINS WOULD LITERALLY EXPLODE!

Thankfully he had a solution to my book problem. His answer? Turn the book into an Action Spy Thriller and turn S.A.G.E., a robot that identies as a gay man, into a sexy lady robot who needs a MAN to teach her what it means to be human.

(I assume the male lead will teach the 'confused' female robot how to be human via his penis.)

Now my favorite part about this advice is that at no point did he outright say "Remove the gay part". No, instead he sneakily changed the robot love interest into a female robot as if I wouldn't notice. Just sort of swept away the gay bits as something totally unneeded and just mucking up the narrative. Also that's not the plot of my story, I have no idea where this virus thing came from.

(Also note that the female robot can't be robotic-like at all. Must preserve the average straight-man sex drive at all costs I guess)

He then finished his email basically saying that I should remove everything that 'traditional publishers' don't like (aka the queer parts) and make it easier for 'your average reader' to digest and my book will be good as published!

When I said this email changed my life I meant it. Because it made me realize I'd rather be self published and unknown than traditionally publish milquetoast trash like he suggested. Like holy fuck. If I removed all of the "Difficult" to digest stories out of Echo of the Larkspur then there wouldn't be a book left!

So here I am. Self publishing my Marzipan Modern Art Owl of a book. I know it'll never see the inside of a bookstore or top the charts on Goodreads but hey, I'd rather it speak to one person than have a thousand people get excited for the part where the male lead teaches the lady robot how to be human (via his penis).

If a Queer Sci-fi/Romance/Mystery novel sounds like your jam then consider preordering it!

Looking for something to read now? Can't afford the book? Willing to read in exchange for an honest review? You can join my ARC book readers here!

[berryfairyluvr]

hihi I loved the zayne princess treatment post could you do a sylus one as well please 🥹💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

sylus and his princess (queen) treatment

pairings: bf!sylus x fem!reader

warnings: none really, maybe minor mentions of some memories

a/n: thank you for the love and the request xx hope you enjoy <3

With a high bounty on his head Sylus has many enemies. Now having you as his beloved partner in this dangerous life (and all the ones before and after) your life has taken priority over his own. Despite your stubborn tendencies, he always has eyes on you ensuring your safety.

He not so slyly suggests you stay at his place 99% of the time as an answer to any of your complaints claiming he has 'this and that' but really it’s to keep you close by.

You insist on waiting up for him after his many late night outings much to his opposition. The lamps dim lighting catching his eye through the window each time he returns to find you cutely tucked into yourself sound asleep on the plush couch. He’d chuckle quietly and scoop you into his arms carrying you bridal style down the dark hallways to the bedroom.

You often complained about the coldness of his marble flooring even in socks. He’s made sure to have his staff keep you slippers in your most visited rooms ever since.

You thought his shower was huge before? He had it expanded and added multiple shower heads. When you asked why, he responded with “Time is of the essence, now we can save it by showering together sweetie.”

He loves to accommodate you, adding a vanity to his bedroom, his and hers closet, shared armory access personalized just to your liking… The list goes on.

He’s discreetly possessive with his touches but it’s usually masked by his powerful demeanor. For instance, when the two of you are out he’s often guiding you on his arm or with his large hand splayed on the small of your back. At meals and meetings his hand finds its way to rest on your thigh.

He will not stand for any sign of disrespect towards you, those who haven’t learned that are met with something violently unpleasant. (Most times completely unbeknownst to you— Sylus makes sure you’re occupied)

You yap and he listens. Earnestly. And I mean undivided and devoted attention. He is so very fond of the way you light up like a child when speaking about your life.

His attention to detail is remarkable and he shows that in your everyday life. Whether it’s picking up on your favorite scent or noting what things make you relax more than others, he provides you with them as much as possible.

That travel magazine you’d been reading hadn’t gone unnoticed and to your surprise, he’d arranged for the two of you to escape reality and venture out for a vacation.

This man can compliment, and he can compliment goooood. He has no issue expressing his gratitude and respect for you through his words and oh boy is he good with his words.

Seeing you scared or fearful wounded him enough the first few times that it now melts him into a puddle at the first sign of worry from you.

this is his *please don’t be worried/upset* look

He doesn’t mind one bit helping you bathe and dress after a long day of work. He even brushes your hair.

Your words mean everything to him, he wants to hear it. (He praises you for it in return 🤭)

For all the excursions you often clung to him like a backpack atop his bike— he decided a spare motorcycle helmet just wouldn’t do for you anymore and had one made to match his.

His date at any and every auction, he revels in getting to flaunt you around all dolled up and on his arm. Some even say his demeanor changed since you began attending these events with him..

read zayne’s version here

read caleb’s version here

requests open ❤︎

[ghouljams]

Being the favorite sex worker of any of the 141 must go crazy

It's certainly interesting. Having one regular is good but five? And they pay well for discretion? Oh, it's fantastic, you're willing to put up with a lot for a good-looking man that pays well and fucks better.

Nikolai, of course, found you first. Not one for picking up random girls when they can be so touchy. You know his type well, the sort that wants exactly what they want and don't take kindly to deviation. You sit at his feet and play pet, sucking his cock and providing more warmth than he can find in the cockpit of a helicopter. You don't ask questions when he stinks of gunpowder and oil, or look twice at the tattoos that even an untrained eye could tell were prison made. You simply sit on his lap while he murmurs to you, all hard consonants softened by a tongue that's still wet with your slick, and mewl when he finally fills you with that fat cock.

Which is exactly how he brought you John. Another man who has no time to look for what he can easily pay for. A gentleman in certain aspects, a monster in others. You prefer when Nik brings him along, enjoying the soothing that the Russian gives you after John spanks you raw, but he's not awful alone. Violent delights, is how you would describe him. He likes a fight, enjoys pinning you down while you struggle and gasp, slapping your face when you gag on his cock, spitting in your mouth. Another type you know all too well, a man with perfect control and no outlet for the tumultuous waters that churn beneath the surface. At least he cleans you up afterwards, drops an extra few hundred on your nightstand for each bruise he leaves. You could cover your rent off one session with him, guilt is always a fantastic money maker.

With John's introduction you find three more soldiers slipping into your rotation. Kyle comes, sheepish, and you can't imagine he has any trouble finding partners to play with. Those soft brown eyes and the slight tilt of his brows when he asks what you do. You almost feel bad taking his money, worried you're sullying some poor awkward virgin. Until he's got you pinned to the bed, drooling over the way he fucks your ass and pulls your hair, spilling absolutely sinful words over your skin. Nobody talks to you like that, like a man who's had years to build up the words, and plenty of practice draping them over partners until he found exactly what would make them clench up. He's the first of them to kiss you, a quick peck on your cheek when he leaves. He sends you flowers afterwards, and you laugh to yourself reading the card that asks when he can see you again.

Johnny comes with toys. You appreciate the thought, but you have your own. You fuck him until he's a babbling mess, shaking and pulling the sheets out from the corners of the mattress with the way he tries to hide the flush on his cheeks. It's sort of cute, red to the tips of his ears, blush creeping down his chest to color his cock. It's always a conversation with this one, never the same scene twice. Costumes, role playing, ropes and toys. You're certainly never bored with Johnny. The only consistency is him fucking you in the shower afterwards, tired and content as he slaps his hips against your ass, his lips locked to the pulse in your neck and his breath sighing out of him. He tells you once that he's checking things off his list, "wanna try everthin'." You think he watches too much porn, but he pays you every time he goes to confessional, so you don't mind.

Simon... Well, the first time you meet him, he'd tagged along with Johnny, sat in the armchair opposite the bed and watched. He's delicate for being a big, mean looking fucker. You'd been a bit worried what he was interested in, you learn to be careful in your line of work, avoid masked strangers and men that are too big for anyone's own good. You'd almost turned him down. He still hasn't fucked you. He books the whole night with you and spends the entire time between your legs. Licking and sucking at whatever he can get his mouth on; a heavy arm draped over your stomach to keep you in place once you start squirming with overstimulation. He likes feeling useful, you think. Another type you know all too well, too much of the world on his shoulders to relax outside of your rooms. You pet his head and praise him just to watch him stiffen and melt between your thighs. He's a good boy, and the most reliable orgasm you can schedule. You would wonder what happened to make him keep himself so covered when he's around you, but you're just a whore.

And you know your role as well as you know theirs.

[steveslevis]

can you see right through me?

azriel x mate!reader

summary: after finding out you're mated to the Spymaster of the Night Court, you can't help but feel self-conscious, thanks to the jealous remarks made by patrons at your bookstore.

warnings: mentions of self-hatred and self-sabotage, angst!!!, body image issues, depression, mentions of death, azriel is an idiot but he figures it out ok, mentions of sex & the mating frenzy

word count: 9.5k (oops...)

Ever since finding out that you’re mated to none other than the High Lord’s Shadowsinger two months ago, everything in your life has flipped upside down.

You’re not just some ordinary bookstore owner anymore, you’re now part of the Night Court’s Inner Circle by default. Your status as a citizen in Velaris has completely changed, but you refused to quit working just because of your mate, much to his disappointment. He’d rather you just stay with him in the House of Wind, filling your days reading your favorite books instead of selling them, but you insisted. You wanted to get to know the male better before immediately accepting the bond, moving in and forgetting about your old life, especially after hearing all the things people say about you and your new mating bond when they’re in or around your shop. 

You have to deal with sidelong glances and whispers from almost everyone who comes into your tiny shop next to the Sidra, have to hear the spiteful unmated females who might kill to be in your position. 

“How do you think she got him? Do you think she slipped one of those banned love tonics into a drink or something?” 

“He could be mated to anyone, and the Cauldron picked her of all people?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he already rejected the bond, I don’t ever see them together.”

“She’s definitely just using him for his money and power, she had to have manipulated him somehow.”

“I thought he was with the Morrigan, she’s much more fitting for a male like him, much prettier.”

Every snide remark hits you like a knife to the heart, but still, you keep your composure throughout every single day. It isn’t ever until you’re in the safety of your own apartment above the bookstore that you allow yourself to mull over the comments, to let yourself fall back into old self-loathing habits.

You quickly learn how to contain your sadness to your end of the bond, blocking Azriel from seeing the pain that you endure on a nightly basis. You’re convinced he would be so embarrassed to see you cry yourself to sleep, to see you poke and prod at your skin in front of the mirror, to see you skip over meals in order to appease that incessant hatred filling your mind, to see you become filled with so much disgust in yourself when you replay the remarks over and over and over again.

The comments never seem to die down as weeks pass, and you slowly convince yourself that they’re all right, that Azriel is going to reject the bond because you don’t deserve him. You don’t see him often anyways, as you’re both preoccupied with your jobs throughout the week, which doesn’t help the fact that you’re convinced that he doesn’t want to be around you. 

You’re stuck between trying to change yourself to fit what you think the Illyrian would like in a mate and rejecting the bond before he gets the chance to break your heart. You eventually decide it’s worth a shot to change yourself into the ideal, beautiful mate that you think he wants you to be before being stung with the inevitable heartbreak that comes with rejecting a bond. 

Sundays used to be your favorite day of the week because you get to close shop at mid-day and spend the rest of the day reading at the foot of the Sidra or walking around to the nearby shops. 

For the last few Sundays, you didn’t feel like doing anything aside from wallowing in self-pity in your bed. You never let yourself do just that, though. 

You’d taken it upon yourself to change your lifestyle after thinking long and hard about the women that he’s surrounded by in the Inner Circle. All of them are tall and toned and so strong, more in shape than you’ve ever been in your life. All of them have natural beauty and grace that you could only wish to have. 

Every Sunday for the last month, you’d spent the afternoon running or doing some kind of training in order to “fix yourself”, to look an inkling more similar to those beautiful high fae of the Inner Circle. This Sunday was no different. 

You closed the bookstore around noon and headed up to your apartment, changing into training clothes before deciding to go for a long run after a day of extremely ruthless comments. You slip out the back door of the bookstore to begin your run, but are halted almost immediately when you walk straight into a wall of leather and warm skin, shadows skittering around your shoulders as you take a step back. 

Azriel peers down at you as you frown at him, concern lacing his features when he takes you in. His heart races as you stand in front of him, excited to finally see you after not seeing you for over a week. He swears you look different every time he’s seen you recently, your frame beginning to thin out in ways that concern him, but he knows better than to bring that up. 

“S–Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” you say meekly, tugging at the sleeves of your jacket while avoiding direct eye contact with the male. 

“It’s quite alright,” he says gently, watching you closely as his eagerness extends down the bond to you. “Where are you going?”

“Was just gonna go on a run,” you reply with a shrug, feigning nonchalance as the self-doubting thoughts swirl around in your mind even more in his presence. “Did–did you need something?”

“Am I not allowed to visit my mate whenever I please?” he teases, which makes your eyes widen in fear that he’s actually upset.

“I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean it like that!” you stammer, shaking your head at him apologetically as you take a step back, backing into the door behind you. 

“Hey, no it’s alright. I was only joking.” Azriel says quickly, one of his hands coming up to caress one of your arms. “I didn’t mean to take you by surprise, I’m sorry. I should’ve made sure it was okay that I stopped by.”

You shake your head again, blinking before looking up at him with a frown. He wants more than anything to ask you what’s bothering you, but can see that you’re obviously already distraught about whatever it is, and doesn’t want to pry. Since he’s known you, you’ve always been closed off, like him, about your emotions. So, he opts to change the subject instead. 

“I did have a real reason for coming over here though,” he suggests and you nod slowly, waiting for him to continue. “Rhysand requests your presence at dinner tonight.” 

“T–The High Lord?” you question, and Azriel nods. “W–Why is he requesting my presence at dinner?”

“Well, we have family dinner once a week, and he claims it’s not a complete family affair if my mate isn’t present.” he explains, the ghost of a smile on his lips, “I tried to tell him to fuck off, because I know you’re typically busy on Sunday nights, but he insists that you come this week, at least this once.”

There’s a pleading look in your mate’s eyes that makes you nearly melt at his feet, and you know you can’t say no to him at that moment. 

“I–I, yeah, I can come tonight.” you say finally, giving him a weak smile as he grins down at you triumphantly. 

“Perfect,” he retorts, his shadows dancing around you with equal excitement, “I’ll meet you here around five? It’s just over at the River House.” 

You nod quickly, forcing a smile onto your face as he leans in to press a kiss to your cheek before bidding you goodbye. The small gesture makes your heart flutter, but you can’t help but wonder how forced it is, can’t help but wonder if inviting you to dinner is a ploy to bring you in and publicly reject your bond.

There’s no way in hell you’re going for a run now. 

You spend the next five hours pacing around, thinking about what you’re going to wear if you want to even come close to looking as good as the other females that will be there. The clothes in your closet are few and far between, but you finally decide on your nicest dress, one that's made of a gauzy navy fabric, adorned with silver embroidered stars littered over the bodice. It’s more revealing than most clothes you wear, but it’s the closest thing you have to the clothes that the Inner Circle wear. It takes you almost an hour to feel presentable in terms of makeup and hair, and by the time you’re done, you hear a knock on the back door of the store. 

You throw your shoes on quickly before making your way down the stairs, mentally preparing yourself for the evening as you do. 

Azriel’s eyes go wide when you open the door, something like amazement and confusion mixed in his gaze as he stares you down.

“I–I’ve never seen you wear anything like this, it’s beautiful,” he starts, unable to tear his gaze from the flowy dress, “You’re beautiful.”

Your chest aches at his compliment as your mind tries to convince you that he’s lying, but you smile up at him weakly nonetheless. He extends his arm for you to take, ready to lead you to the River House across the Sidra.

The two of you are greeted by more people than you’d expect when you enter the High Lord and Lady’s home, but you recognize them all before they get a chance to introduce themselves. You’ve only met Cassian and Nesta prior to this dinner, so the first hour was spent essentially introducing yourself to each of them one-by-one. Azriel stays by your side through each introduction, hand on the small of your back as his shadows swirl around your hands comfortingly. He can tell that something in you has changed since he met you a few months back, that the light and excitement in your eyes when you first found out he was your mate has since dissipated. There’s an unmistakable lump in his throat as he thinks too much into it, wondering if you’re having second thoughts about him. 

Dinner comes and goes as smoothly as you hoped it would. The nauseous feeling roiling in your gut keeps you from eating much, only pushing the food around on the plate while taking miniscule bites to fight off any comments that any of them might have about your hesitancy. You’re only roped into conversations every once in a while, so you’re able to sit back and explore the dynamic between the group a little more without much involvement. Azriel mainly stays silent, only making a few remarks here and there. 

With a snap of the High Lord’s fingers, dessert appears in front of everyone along with more wine in each of your glasses. 

“I propose a toast,” Rhysand suggests after getting everyone’s attention, eyes landing on you finally, “to Y/N, for bringing our Shadowsinger so much happiness.”

A deep blush spreads across your cheeks as you force a smile, raising your glass as the others do too. ‘Cheers’ is mumbled by everyone before they all take a drink, and Azriel reaches over to squeeze your hand that’s sitting on the edge of the table. You turn to look at him, noting an unfamiliar look in his eyes that you nearly mistake for love, before your thoughts are interrupted by a loud laugh from Amren across the table.

“I, for one, am so grateful that Y/N finally came along after all this time.” she says with a sly grin, “because I think if she wouldn’t have, then the Spymaster would’ve continued to pine after Mor for the rest of eternity.”

There’s a collectively uncomfortable murmur from everyone at her words, and Nesta jabs her in the side with a warning glare as she notices the smile on your face falter for a split second. You could feel all color leave your face as your heart plummets to your stomach, the female’s words confirming all of your doubts about your current situation. Azriel shifts his eyes to you then, but you bring back the same composed mask to your face, the same one you’ve held for the last three months any time someone made snide remarks at you, while you try to avoid his burning gaze. You give the female a withering smile, ignoring the worried stare from the male at your side as you do. 

“Truly, I’m grateful the Cauldron deemed me worthy of being a welcome distraction to such a male like him,” you say in response with a laugh, hoping your voice comes out in a joking tone as you try to mask the disappointment in your wavering voice. 

The comment is enough to earn a few chuckles from around the table, pushing away any awkwardness that stemmed from Amren’s comment. You’re able to skate through the rest of the evening without any snide remarks from the Inner Circle, glad that you’re one step closer to getting the hell out of this house as the group finally starts to stand from the table. 

Azriel follows closely behind you as you bid everyone goodbye, exhaustion raking over your bones as you give one final wave to the High Lord and Lady before turning toward your mate.

There’s a look of worry shining in his eyes when you finally peer up at him, shadows skittering anxiously around your wrists in the meantime.

“Ready to go home?” he questions, forcing a smile onto his face as he guides you towards the front door when you nod. 

“You don’t have to walk me home, Azriel.” you start once you’re out of earshot of everyone else, stopping in your tracks to look at him again. The look on your face is almost unreadable, but his shadows whisper to him about your pain and embarrassment as the two of you stand on the outside of the front door to the River House. “I’m truly fine to go by myself, you don’t–don’t have to bother to go out of your way for me.” 

His brow furrows and a frown pulls his lips down at your words, finally seeing the slightest glimmer of sadness and disappointment shining in your eyes as you speak. He only shakes his head, taking a step towards you before he speaks. 

“I–You’re not a bother to me.” he says, unsure of what else to say to you, “If you’re upset about what Amren said, please know that she always says bullshit like that when she’s drunk, I have not thought about Mor in that way for centuries–”

“Truly, Azriel, it’s quite alright.” you interject with a pained smile. “You didn’t ask to be mated to me, I understand if you’re preoccupied with other love interests or if you just don’t want to be with me.” 

The Illyrian opens his mouth to speak, but is downright dumbfounded by your words to the point where he simply closes his mouth again. He very obviously had been reading the situation wrong this whole time, as he thought that giving you space was the right thing to do in order to let you process the very new bond from your end. He realizes then that you needed reassurance and not space, but it could very well be too late now. Before he can protest, you’re taking a step closer to him in order to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek before stepping away.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “I get it, I really do. And–And if you need to reject the bond and never want to see me again after tonight, I’ll understand.”

Oh, fuck. You think he wants to reject the bond. 

Hazel eyes meet yours then, and you swear you see a twinkle of regret and hurt shining somewhere between the bronzy flecks, but it’s almost undetectable. Such a miniscule expression that you tell yourself that you imagined it, that his face never changed and that he truly does not care about what you’re saying to him now. 

He shakes his head as you take another step away from him, as you turn on your toes to walk away from the townhouse, away from him. His chest feels like it’s going to cave in then, as the bond to his heart hums with a sadness he’s never felt before. He can feel the bond quivering in pain between your souls, threatening to wither away if either of you even thinks about truly rejecting the bond. 

But you don’t feel it because you’ve expertly blocked the bond out for the last month, because you truly believe that there’s no way Azriel could ever truly want you, because you’re convinced that he wants this.

There’s no hesitation in your step when you turn your back to the male, walking in swift strides towards the bridge to cross the Sidra to reach your little apartment on top of the bookstore. You refuse to let him see how much it kills you to freely offer up a rejected bond, you can’t let him see how you’re crumbling with each step you take. So you stay steady in your gait, hiding your shaking hands in front of you as you blink back the tears that threaten to spill. 

If you would’ve looked back in that moment, you would’ve seen the tears that spilled down the shadowsinger’s cheeks. If you wouldn’t have blocked out the bond in that moment, you would’ve felt the way you almost tore his heart out of his chest as you walked into the darkness. 

Azriel didn’t follow after you though, he didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. He’d fucked up so badly by not showing you how much the bond truly meant to him, by simply assuming that you needed space. 

So, he simply sent a shadow to make sure you got home safely and sat down on the front step of the townhouse. 

He sat on that step for almost two hours, staring at the stars and cursing himself for all of the mistakes he’d made. 

You only get one mate in your eternal life, and he really fucked it up this badly already?

Memories of the first few times the two of you had met replayed in his mind as he sat there, remembering how your eyes glimmered with the most love he’d ever been shown in his life.

You were shy and quiet, something he wasn’t used to from being around the Inner Circle for so long. After living with the loud, boisterous crown for centuries, he was used to emotions being expressed outright. So, he’d mistaken your meek behavior for disinterest, mistaken your nervousness for distaste. He thought you’d needed space, needed time to get used to his brooding and intolerable presence, needed room to process the sudden bond. But, fuck, was he wrong. 

Everything becomes clearer to the male as as it nears midnight. The ache in his chest becomes more and more painful with each passing minute now, and he realizes that he has to get you back, he has to fight to make you understand how much you mean to him. 

_______________________________________

Nesta Archeron started her Sunday much earlier than usual this week, thanks to her mate’s early morning departure. Cassian woke her by rustling around their shared bedroom before dawn, seemingly flustered as he tried to gather his leathers and put them on in the dark. 

“You’re not very good at being quiet, General.” she remarks tiredly, sitting up in the bed to flick one of the bedside faelights on.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, shooting her a sympathetic smile as he nearly trips over the leathers he tries to step into. “Rhys said there’s an emergency in Windhaven, Az and I are leaving soon.” 

She only hums in response, watching him finish getting dressed in comfortable silence. Cassian stands over her at the edge of the bed after tugging on his boots, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek before heading out for the day. 

Nesta knows then that she won’t be able to fall back asleep, so she decides to reach for her latest read on her nightstand. Once she grabs the book, she realizes that she’d finished the night before and is completely out of books to read. She knows then that she’ll have to make her way into town, deciding to take a trip to your bookstore at the base of the Sidra for the first time. 

She took her time getting ready, slipping into a gray dress and her usual boots before heading downstairs to eat breakfast. It was a little after seven in the morning when she made her way towards your bookstore, basking in the chilly morning air as she walked along the river.

It took her all of thirty minutes to reach the store, where she was met with a locked door and a dark front window. It was well past opening time for the store and there were no other signs on the door to suggest otherwise, but your store was definitely closed. 

“I’m not surprised,” Nesta hears a female say from behind her, giggling to her friend as they pass the storefront, “I’m sure she’s been rotting away upstairs because the Shadowsinger broke their bond or something like that. The store’s been closed all week. A lesser fae store owner like her did not deserve a male as beautiful as him.” 

Nesta turns to see the culprits of the spiteful comments and laughs, and the two High Fae females’ eyes widen upon her whipping her head towards them. 

Their smirks fall immediately, the one who was speaking starts to open her mouth but Nesta only holds up a hand to shut her up.

“I don’t know either of you females–and I’m very glad I don’t–” the sharp-eyed female spat out, “but I do know the Shadowsinger and his mate. And all I have to say is that if I hear either of you coming around here to harass her or if I hear of you spewing more lies about her relationship, I will be sure to mention it to the High Lord and Shadowsinger. I’m sure neither of them would be very happy to hear the rumors flying around.”

The females nod feverishly as Nesta stares them down with that silver fire flickering lowly in her eyes, both mumbling apologies under their breaths as they scurry away.

Nesta lets out a huff, turning on her heels to make her way towards the other bookstore across town, where she only finds two new books for herself instead of the countless romance novels she knew she would’ve found at your carefully curated store. The remarks from the two females about you aren’t lost on her as she makes her way through the city, their spiteful words and evil giggles running through her mind as she replays the scenario. 

Instead of trekking all the way back to the House of Wind after gathering her books, she makes her way to the River House in order to spend the day with her favorite person–Nyx.

The day goes by quickly between reading and rolling around with the toddler and his mother, and it’s evening before she or Feyre even realize it. Three Illyrian warriors clad in leathers make their way into the drawing room where the two females lounge on the couch, looking exhausted from a day of crisis management at the camps. 

“Long day?” Nesta says as she raises her eyebrow at the three males, stroking Nyx’s hair as he sleeps silently on her chest. 

Her mate only grunts in agreement, coming over to press a kiss to the crown of her head in greeting. The High Lord is greeted by Feyre with a loving stroke of his cheek, smiling up at him sympathetically. Azriel only stands at the threshold, looking more brooding and closed off than usual.

“Well, good news is you can tell us all about it at dinner.” Feyre suggests, trying to lighten the sour mood of the three males as she reaches for Rhys’ hand to intertwine into her own. “Nuala and Cerridwen just finished making some delicious stew and I don’t know about you all, but I’m starving.”

Dinner seems to lighten the mood quite a bit for the group, quiet conversation carrying through the dining room after Cassian and Rhysand get their complaints out for the day. Azriel sits on the other side of Feyre, silent for the majority of the meal, only engaging when Cassian involves him. 

A burning question gnaws at Nesta as she takes in the sad, hazel-eyed male, she can almost feel the pain radiating off of him from across the table as he stares intently down at the barely touched food in front of him. It’s hard to read the male, so she’s not entirely sure what the sadness is about, but she has to know eventually.

“How was your day, Nes?” her thoughts are interrupted by Cassian’s words and his elbow nudging hers lightly.

“Great, for the most part. Got to spend it with my favorite nephew,” she jokes, grinning briefly over at the babbling toddler being fed by his mother. “But I did find something very interesting on my trip to get some new books this morning.”

She notes how Azriel’s eyes flicker towards her then, intrigued by the mention of going to a bookstore.

“Oh, did you go to Y/N’s store? I’ve been meaning to ask if you wanted to take a trip over there to get some new books.” Feyre asks while forking some food for her son. 

“Well, that was the original plan.” Nesta retorts, lips pulling into a half-frown before turning towards the shadowsinger, “Have you heard from your mate lately, Azriel?”

Azriel drops the spoon he was holding into the bowl of stew with a loud clatter, obviously taken aback by the question directed towards him. The room is silent as he finally looks up, seeing four expectant pairs of eyes staring back at him, Nesta’s gaze the harshest out of all of them. 

“No, I haven’t heard from her since Saturday.” he says, willing his voice to be strong as he feels as though he’s going to throw up.

“Hm, interesting.” Nesta hums, eyes sharpening even more, if that’s even possible, “I tried to stop by the store because I finished my last novel last night, but the door was locked and the lights were all off. Then I ran into the most interesting pair of females who I overheard say that the store had been closed all week.” 

“All week?” Feyre questions, a frown on her face now too.

“You haven’t heard from your mate for a week and you haven’t thought to try to contact her?” Rhys interjects, disappointment laced in his tone as he stares down Azriel from across the table, his honed gaze rivaling Nesta’s. 

“She–She hasn’t left her apartment since last Saturday.” Azriel grits out, stopping anyone else from their questioning. “She thinks I want to reject her, to reject the bond. And I’m starting to think I should.” 

Everyone goes silent then, even Nyx’s babbling is hushed as a thick air of tension fills the large dining room. Azriel’s hands are shaking as he stares at his untouched glass of wine, shadows slashing around his wings angrily now.

“Why do you think that?” Nesta’s the only one brave enough to question him, unafraid of facing the upset male. “What makes you think you should reject the bond?”

“I fucked up. I thought she needed space, thought she was overwhelmed by me, by all of this, by being part of the Inner Circle by default.” he says, a pained expression on his face as he finally looks up to Nesta. “I hurt her and I didn’t even realize it. She needed me and I wasn’t there for her. I can’t figure out how to make it better, I–I don’t know how to take away her pain. I’ve been her mate for less than six months and I’ve already lost her trust in me. I don’t deserve such a sweet creature like her.”

“Do you want to reject the bond?” Nesta persists, and he knows she means to ask if he loves you or not.

“I don’t. But–”

“There’s no but, Azriel.” Cassian interrupts firmly, “You either want to, or you don’t. And you don’t want to reject it, I know you don’t. You’ve never been happier than you were when you realized you had a mate and that it was her. You need to get your head out of your ass, stop pitying yourself and start showing her that you want to be with her. If not, you’re going to kill the poor female. You’re gonna fucking kill her from a broken heart.”

_______________________________________

In all honesty, you don’t know what day it is anymore. You’ve sat in the dark in your apartment above the bookstore all alone for Gods know how long, letting yourself wallow in the sorrow that fills your chest every time you breathe. 

You can’t remember the last time you ate, the last time you did anything aside from stare at the wall next to your bed, save for the times that you’ve gone to the bathroom. It truly feels like you’re dying, like you’re withering away into nothing, and you might as well be. You don’t know what day it is, but you do know that Azriel hasn’t tried to contact you since you left the River House on Saturday, you do know that he wants nothing to do with you.

You hadn’t realized how much you had grown to rely on the male’s visits and nervous glances, how much they’d excited you, until they were no more. 

The golden thread in your soul quivers every time you think about him, but you don’t let yourself think about missing him for too long. You always shut down before it gets too bad, and push yourself back into the thoughts of self-hatred, the thoughts of how you wish you’d just cease to exist already. There wasn’t anyone around anymore to check on you, anyone to make sure you made it through this bout of depression like there used to be. Your sister and mother have been gone for years, and now your mate, the one who gave you a sliver of hope for the shortest time, is gone too. 

When the first knock falls on the door to your apartment, you barely hear it over the incessant ringing in your ears. You choose to ignore it, thinking whoever it is will go away eventually if they stand out in the late evening cold for long enough. 

But they don’t. 

They knock, and knock, and knock, and knock for what feels like thirty minutes, each knock getting louder and more insistent than the last. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to fall back asleep to ignore the sound, but it doesn’t work. After what feels like hours, but is probably only a few minutes, the knocking finally stops. 

What you don’t hear–or see–in that moment is the shadows that slip under the door at the bottom of the stairs, quietly unlocking it for their master to slip inside, and the other shadows ahead of their master that report back to him about your state before he makes his way up the stairs. 

Moments later, you hear the creak of the stairs and your heart sinks, but you feel too weak to move, too weak to save yourself, and for a moment, you thank the Cauldron that some intruder has finally come to put you out of your misery in one way or another.

You don’t expect the weak, broken voice of a male at the top of the stairs as you’re laying with your back towards the threshold, the sadness in an all too familiar voice when you hear, “Gods, Y/N. I am so sorry.” 

It takes every ounce of strength out of Azriel to walk over to the bed after taking in the sight of your studio apartment in complete disarray. The place is unkempt and needs plenty of repairs just from what he can see with a quick scan, but that’s not what hurts his heart the most in the moment. You facing the blank wall, staring mindlessly ahead as you’re curled up in a ball at the edge of your bed is what breaks him. He finally makes his way over to the wall that you’re facing, but you don’t look up at him, unable to take the energy to complete the small gesture.

Azriel falls to his knees in front of you, reaching a hand out to stroke your hair. He takes you in fully then–your unkempt hair, chapped lips, red cheeks and heavy eyes–you truly were dying from a broken heart.

“Y/N,” he says gently, trying to keep his voice as strong as possible while choking back tears. You take a long moment to finally look up at him, a look of confusion and then delusion crossing over your face as you do–you had to be dreaming him, right?

“I’m–I’m so fucking sorry, love. Gods, how long have you been laying here?” he says, and you only blink up at him because you’re not even sure of the answer, numb to it all at this point. “Are–Do you want me to help you? Can I help you somehow, please? I–I wanna fix this, I wanna make you better.” 

A strange noise leaves your throat then as your brow furrows at his words, your delusions during depressive episodes have never said anything like this to you before, and that’s when it all feels too real. You slowly realize that this is very much the real Azriel kneeling in front of you with tears shimmering in his eyes, clasping your very clammy hand between his very warm ones. Tears brim in your own eyes now, the weight of the entire situation hitting you like a ton of bricks. You’d ruined yourself before he’d even broken the bond, so now you’ve hurt him by somehow signaling to him of your suffering. 

“‘M sorry, A–Azriel,” you croak out, the first words to have left your lips in days. 

“S–You’re sorry?” he says, voice more stern than before, shaking his head persistently, “No–No, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about, love.” He squeezes your icy hand then, giving you a weak, bitter smile, “I’m sorry for not coming sooner, okay? I’m so sorry and I’ll apologize until the day I die for not being here for you when you needed me. I–I wanna help you now, if you’ll let me. Will you let me help you? Can I take you home with me to get you some help?” 

Despite the confusion and sadness swirling around in your deprived brain, you nod at the male, who jumps up almost immediately after you nod. He slowly peels the covers off your frail form, heart breaking at the sight of you. He pushes the ache in his chest down to be strong for you then, gently scooping you up into his arms. The two of you are engulfed in shadows seconds later as Azriel shadow-walks to the House of Wind as quickly as he can. 

You don’t remember much from your first moments at the House of Wind, other than the fact that there were a lot of people around you in a very short amount of time. You recognized some of them, the High Lord and Lady, along with Cassian and Nesta, but other faces were less familiar. One woman came into the room you laid in, tugging a warm blanket over your body before using what you could only assume was healing power on you. She’d mumbled something to Azriel on her way out before patting him on the shoulder, and that was the last thing you’d remembered before finally falling into a peaceful sleep for the first time in a week.

Sunlight streaming in through the curtains woke you later on, you weren’t entirely sure how long you’d been out for but you’re sure it had been for more than a few hours at this point. You groaned lightly as you stretched your weak legs, eyes fluttering open to take in your surroundings fully for the first time. The room smelled of mahogany and amber, a familiar and inviting scent you knew too well to not understand whose room you were in. 

Though alone at the moment, you know he’s not far, as his shadows skitter excitedly around you as you attempt to sit up in the bed. 

The door opens not even two minutes later, the shadowsinger standing in the doorway with a tray of what looked to be steaming food, a glass of water, and some medications. He nearly drops the tray when he sees you sitting up in the middle of his bed, not expecting you to already be awake and so alert. Without a word, he strides over to the large bed, placing the tray on the bedside table before sitting in the chair he’d positioned on the side where you laid.

“Hi,” he says with a sharp inhale, giving you a weak smile as he searches your eyes for any emotion he can find. 

“H–How long was I out for?” you ask meekly, the full weight of your actions crashing down on you all at once. “How long have I overstayed?”

“What?” he questions, a frown pulling his lips down as his heart sinks. You truly think you’re burdening this male, when all he wants is for you to be safe and to feel loved. “You haven’t overstayed, I brought you here to heal, I wanted you to come here to get better.”

You shake your head then, blinking harshly at him as you refuse to believe what he’s telling you. “N–No, you only came to find me because I’m–I’m stupid and didn’t give you the opportunity to reject the bond before I mourned what we never had.” you insist, looking at him with wide eyes. “I’m sorry you had to deal with all of this, please–please, you can reject it now, you don’t have to pretend anymore.”

The level of self destruction going on in your mind was on another level that Azriel couldn’t deign to comprehend in the moment, but he knew it wasn’t just by your own doing. He can see the internal turmoil you’re going through, can feel your peril down the bond that he now realizes you’ve been shrouding in your own shadows for months, can feel the way you’re tearing yourself apart from the inside out. He reaches for you then, hands coming up to cup your cheeks gently as his shadows rub soothing circles along your back to calm you down, though you continue to babble apologetically about how he should hate you and how you’re the one who should be apologizing for everything.

“Y/N, hey, hey, hey. Look at me.” he coos gently, thumbs stroking your cheekbones softly to bring you back to the moment as you finally lock eyes with him, “I don’t want to reject the bond, I never wanted to reject the bond.” 

You try to shake your head feverishly, but he doesn’t let you as his hands stay on either side of your face. “Nesta told me about some females she heard outside your store on Sunday, who said some pretty foul things about you.” he begins, having to reign his anger in as he speaks about the females, “Is that something that happened a lot at the store? Did females that come into the bookstore say things to you about us often?” 

You can’t even look at him now, dread and self-loathing gnawing at your chest as you think back to all the hateful comments thrown at you throughout the last few months. You shake your head slowly now, brow furrowing as you try to push down the bile rising in your throat. 

“No, it only happened a–a few times.” you lie bluntly, staring down into your lap as you try to pull away from his touch again and this time he lets you, watching closely as you attempt to stand from the bed. “I want to take a bath.” you say, attempting to change the subject to something less painful.

Azriel is there to catch you when you all but fall when trying to stand on your own two feet, hands landing on your waist to situate you back on the edge of the bed, “You’re not supposed to be getting up on your own yet. You didn’t eat for almost a whole week, you’re too weak to stand right now.” he says softly, hands firmly planted on your waist still, “Do you want me to take you to the bathroom? This food will still be warm when we return if you’d rather bathe now.”

You nod wordlessly, brow pinched in frustration at your current situation. Azriel easily picks you up, carrying you bridal style into the en suite bathroom and sitting you on the edge of the large tub as he draws a warm bath. He turns the tap off once it’s nearly full, turning on his heels to leave you alone in the bathroom for some privacy. 

“A–Azriel,” you call out before he shuts the door, making the male stop in his tracks to face you, heart nearly shattering when you look at him with wide, shameful eyes. “Can you help me bathe?”

The male is at the edge of the tub in an instant, nodding at you gently. He looks away as you strip out of the clothes that you’d been in for a week, tossing the dirty pajamas into a pile at your feet before stepping into the tub slowly. He helps you ease down onto the bottom, letting go of your hand he didn’t realize he’d grabbed once you tug out of his grasp to wrap the arm around your knees you pull into your chest. 

You settle into the water, letting the warmth engulf your cold limbs as you lean your head back to dip your hair, up to the scalp, into the water. Azriel gives you a few minutes to relax in the water, watching as your muscles finally relax slightly under the caress of the liquid. He reaches for the bottle of shampoo eventually, eyeing you closely as he pours some into his hands to lather it. You lean your head up as he does, giving him a small nod of invitation before he reaches for your scalp.

There’s nothing but love and tenderness behind his caress, fingers combing through your damp hair to thoroughly clean it. He’s careful with every movement, making sure to not make the wrong move and send you spiraling for one reason or another. 

It’s such a tender moment as he gently tilts you back to rinse your hair with a cup of water that it nearly makes you sob, but hold back for him to continue. 

“Can you promise me that you won’t ever let yourself get like this again?” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he runs conditioner through your hair. “I–I don’t know if I can handle seeing you so sad ever again. I won’t let you destroy yourself over my stupidity, not when I’m the one to blame for this whole situation.”

You tense at his words, chest tightening as you hear his voice crack when he chokes back tears. It takes you a moment, but you finally turn to face him, your own tears blurring your vision as you look up at the hazel-eyed male.

“It’s–It’s not your fault, Azriel.” you say, shaking your head insistently at him, “It’s my fault for making you feel obligated to be nice to me, I–I know you didn’t ask to be mated to a lowly, lesser fae bookshop owner when there’s plenty of beautiful high fae females out there ready to accept your hand in marriage at the drop of a hat. I shouldn’t have tried to pursue you after the bond snapped, I–I should’ve let you reject it then so you could go be happy with whoever you want to be with.”

“It’s you I want to be with, Y/N.” he insists, hands shaking as they fall from your head. He falls to his knees then, pivoting so he’s face-to-face with you when he continues, “I don’t care that you’re lesser fae, I fucking hate that you’re considered that anyways, it’s a disgusting term. I’m not even a high fae myself, I don’t care about title or status or whatever else, I only care that I’ve finally found my mate.” Azriel is trying his damndest to keep himself from falling apart as he speaks, “My mate, the love of my life, the one that I get to spend the rest of my days with. I know you feel like I pushed you away and I know I made you feel unwanted, but I thought you wanted space. I know now that you don’t, and I promise you that I’ll spend every waking moment, from now until we die, showing you that I am so fucking happy that you of all people are my mate. I love you.”

Whether he realizes it or not, Azriel projects his passion and love down the bond in the moment. Your deceitful brain would’ve told you he was lying had it not been for that tug and flow of warmth between your souls, if it had not been for the true, unadulterated ache you felt in your chest when he said that he was happy that you were his mate. 

Tears well up in your eyes once more as you stare at him, really taking him in, in full form, for the first time. He’s so beautiful, and though there’s a little voice in the back of your mind that still tells you that he’s lying, deep down you know that he’s all yours. Something blooms in your chest then, something stronger than you’ve ever felt, something so compelling that you can’t just sit and stare at him anymore. 

You don’t say anything as you continue to stare up at him, reaching your shaky hands out of the water to cup his cheeks. He almost flinches when you do, taken aback by you initiating the touch, but he doesn’t. With the strength gifted to you by the love confession of your mate, you’re able to maneuver onto your knees and tug him a little closer, crashing your lips into his in a gentle, watery kiss. 

“I love you, Azriel.” you murmur against his lips when you finally pull away from the kiss for a short moment. 

He smiles against your lips, pulling you back in for another kiss as his hands grip your forearms to keep you from slipping in the tub. 

“We really need to get you cleaned up before we can finish this conversation, yeah?” he encourages in between kisses, smoothing down your wet hair as it drips on the side of the tub.

You breathe out a laugh, nodding at him before turning to let him continue washing your hair, and then moving on to your body. Each touch threatens to set you on fire, but there’s no sexual intention behind them, only loving caresses meant to wash you clean of the last week of pain. 

After getting you out of the shower, Azriel slowly dresses you in one of his large shirts, mumbling an apology about how he’ll be sure to bring some of your clothes over if you’d like him to. You only smile at him softly, knowing you’ll be bringing more than a few of your items over soon enough. 

He insists that you eat after your bath, bringing you back to the bed where the soup is still steaming hot, likely thanks to the House that Azriel explained was imbued with magic and would do anything you wished it to. You eat the stew after taking the handful of medications and strength tonic that the healer, Madja, had given him for you, relishing the feeling of the warm food settling in your stomach. 

The change in your energy level after the strength tonic is astonishing. You feel as though you can run for days, but know better than to try something like that in front of your terrified mate. But, there is one thing that you feel like you need to do at the moment, something that’s long overdue.

You’re laying in Azriel’s arms when you finally get your burst of energy, sitting up abruptly enough to make him sit up with you. There’s a look of wild concern on his face when he reaches for your hips, steadying you as you pull your legs to the side of the bed. 

“Are you alright?” he questions immediately, brow furrowing when you miraculously stand on your own two feet. “Do you need something? The House can get you whatever you need.”

You give him a small smile, leaning down to caress his cheek before kissing his forehead gently. 

“I wanna get this thing myself,” you state matter-of-factly as he raises a brow at you. “You stay right here, alright?” 

Before he can protest, you’re walking towards the door of the bedroom to swing it open. You shut the door behind you, leaving the male in the room without a word. 

The House is magic alright, you confirm that when you’re on your way down the stairs and it lights the way for you, only letting the fae lights on the direct path towards the kitchen light the way. It knew exactly what you were doing. 

You’re met with a cutting board, a block of cheese, a loaf of bread and a bowl of grapes next to an empty plate when you enter the kitchen, a lone fae light above the counter lighting the area so you can prepare the plate. You make quick work of cutting the cheese and bread, trying to ignore the way your hands are shaking incessantly as you saw into the sourdough. It only takes you a few minutes to lay everything out on the plate and the House takes care of the rest, then you’re on your way back upstairs, on your way to change your life forever. 

Azriel shifts quickly on the bed when you return, sitting up straight as he locks eyes with you. His heart nearly leaps out of his chest when his eyes flicker down to the plate of food in your hand, realizing what you were up to when you left the room. 

You give him a nervous smile, gripping the plate with two hands as you make your way over to the bed, careful not to tip its contents onto the floor as you quiver. You wonder if he can hear your heart beating in the moment, as you feel like it’s about to beat through your ribcage with one more loud thump. 

“Y/N…” he trails as you shakily extend the plate to him when you perch on the edge of the bed, looking up at you with a look you can only describe as certainty. “Are you sure about this? You want to accept the bond right now?” 

“If you don’t eat this food right now, you might as well send me back to my little old apartment so I can try to die of a broken heart again.” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you give him a watery smile and push the plate closer to him.

He takes the plate from you then, but doesn’t grab any food at first, looking back up at you before he does. He leans over, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss before taking a shuddering breath.

“I promise you that after this bond is accepted, I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you that you are so much more than all of those evil things that those females said about you. I’ll spend every waking moment showing you how perfect you are and making up for the time that we didn’t get to spend together,” he begins, planting a kiss on your cheek, “I love you.”

“I love you, Azriel.” you whisper, “now eat that food, please. I’m tired of waiting.” 

He smiles at you then, leaning back on the bed as he grabs for a piece of bread and cheese, ready to spend the rest of his eternal life with you, with his mate. 

_______________________________________

It takes almost a whole month for the mating frenzy to die down enough for the two of you to be able to integrate back into society. Rhys insisted on letting the two of you stay in the Cabin for your time away, but you opted to spend your time in Summer in a secluded bungalow for the four weeks instead. 

When you do return to Velaris after your time away, Azriel insists on taking another week off from spymaster duties to get your bookstore back on track and to help move your belongings to the House of Wind while the two of you look for your very own home, somewhere closer to the Rainbow where you can continue to run your bookstore. You don’t dare to protest your mate’s wishes, letting him alternate between packing the little amount of things you have upstairs and taking inventory in the store while you run the register. 

It’s a sunny Saturday when you open your doors for the first time after over a month of being closed, and you’re much busier than you’d expected to be in all honesty, though it seems many of the females coming in are just being nosy to see how true it is that you’re actually back in the flesh. 

There are less snide remarks thrown your way now, but still enough that they make you flinch every once in a while. They don’t bother you anymore, though. During your time away, Azriel showed you how much you meant to him and how beautiful he thought you were in many ways, with his mouth, with his hands, with his tongue, with his…

“Do you think she’s single again? Like…do you think he actually rejected the bond?” you hear a high fae female say on the far end of your busy shop, her eyes darting in your direction as she speaks to a friend.

“I hope so, there’s no way he actually–Oh my Gods.” her friend says, eyes wide when they fall on none other than the shadowsinger himself emerging from the back room of your store, a dozen books in hand. 

A satisfied smile spreads across your face as Azriel walks behind the checkout counter to press a kiss to your forehead before placing the books next to you. The sound of the females whispering hastily falls on deaf ears as your mate turns to you, grabbing a small piece of paper off the top of the pile of books he’d been holding. 

“Found six more copies of both of those romance novels you said you were out of, so no need to order more until those are gone.” he says while pointing at the books. “You really need a better inventory system.”

“Hmm, maybe I’ll just hire you to do it for me instead, since you’re so good at it.” you tease, shooting him a smirk.

“As long as I’m compensated fairly, I wouldn’t mind.” he jokes with a wink, pulling you in for an embrace to speak to you lowly. “On another note, you are officially fully moved into the House of Wind. So once you’re closed up for the day, we’ll be able to go home and officially christen the bedroom.” 

“We’ve already christened that bedroom,” you giggle, rolling your eyes at him, “it’s been thoroughly christened, multiple times at this point. And if I remember correctly, it’s the first place that was christened by us.”

“And?” he says, lips quirked up into a smirk, “I plan on christening it multiple times tonight, and the next night, and the night after that…”

“Okay, I get it,” you laugh, slapping his chest lightly as you pull out of his grip, “You’re insatiable.”

“And you’re beautiful and the love of my life.” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

It was safe to say that you’re getting nowhere past the mating frenzy phase of your relationship anytime soon.

And you’re okay with that.

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[bowtiepasta]

‘EVERYTHING’ ON THE MENU nanami’s favorite bakery always serves… cunt? in more ways than one. ❤︎

WORD COUNT: 2,697

INDULGING: smut! afab and f!reader, close proximity, mild language, bakery owner reader, he’s a corporate slave w a 9 to 5, pússy starved kento, cunnilingus, praise, p in v, unprotected, food play, creampie, hair pulling (his), tense usage inconsistent. sorry.

ROMY’S NOTE: goooooood day/night nanami nation. the art you see in the header is by mineco000 on twitter, please go send them some love. heart divider is by enchanthings. happy reading!

CONTAINS EXPLICIT NSFW CONTENT, MINORS DNI

nanami kento was completely, and utterly, screwed.

he hadn’t expected the day to end like this: slouched in a corner of his favorite bakery, tie crooked, hair tousled, and his head — oh, his head was pounding.

it was meant to be a quick stop, a coffee or a pastry to settle his nerves before heading home. but somehow, merely walking into the place had set him off.

something about the warm, cinnamon laced air, the subtle wafts of vanilla, and- no. it was the baker. it always came down to you.

you stood there, apron tied loosely at the waist, a few stray strands of hair falling from the knot at the back of your head. your hands moved fluidly as you worked, effortlessly elegant, the tip of your finger brushing along the top of a pastry in a way that made his throat close up. you were so unnecessarily beautiful.

he should’ve known better. should’ve just ordered what he wanted and left, but your presence made everything else fade into the background.

“nanami,” you said, voice gentle, like you were pulling him out of some kind of daydream. your eyes flicked up from the lattice pie crust you were arranging, a flicker of admiration? worry? maybe it was his wishful thinking. “you look real tired.”

he cleared his throat, adjusting his collar, though he knew it was a losing battle. it had been one hard fucking day, and now, for some reason, every part of him felt more exposed in this small, intimate space. “long day.” he said, keeping his tone even as he gestured to your current project. “came for a slice.”

you smiled, a smile that seemed to know exactly how much he was trying to hide, a soft weight pressing against him. “I see,” you said slowly, eyes trailing over his figure long enough to notice. he shifted uncomfortably, looking away, but not without catching the faint smudge of flour on your cheek.

he wanted to reach out, to brush it away. though he wasn’t sure how he’d explain it to himself if he did.

“you’ve been working long hours?” he asked, trying to shift the focus on something, anything else.

you looked to the clock on the wall behind him, then back to him. “a few,” you said casually, before adjusting something behind the counter. “but I don’t mind.”

you paused, “seems like you could use a break.”

a fork falls, and when you bend down to pick it up, the slight shift of your body catches his eye. the position, the curve of your back — it gave him ideas. unwelcome ones. blood rushed south, and suddenly, it wasn’t coffee he was craving.

entirely uninnocent, you continued. “you’re always in and out so quickly,” light but pointed. “you can take your time here, y’know. it’s nice and quiet.”

the moment stretched on, more awkward than it had any right to be. he could practically taste the tension when you reached for a plate by the register.

“I’ll take two slices and an americano,” he said suddenly, voice significantly hoarser than intended.

there it was again — the curve of your lips, the small, satisfied grin you sported that made him feel like a schoolboy confessing to his crush.

“coming right up,” you nodded, and he’s almost certain you slowed on purpose, taking your time slicing, each motion deliberate and unhurried.

and before either of you could fully process it, the lights above flickered, darkness swallowing the room. the hum of the machinery, the mixer blades, the ambience — it all came to a quick halt.

for a moment, it was eerily silent.

then he heard your voice, exasperated undertones evident despite the lack of visuals. “sorry, I know you need to get home. I swear I pay my bills.”

he could make out the sounds of you feeling around the tables to navigate the room. probably in search of the breaker box, if there was one at all.

in the pitch black of your company, he still couldn’t find it in himself to leave. at least not yet.

there was a shuffle — your footsteps barely audible over the stillness — followed by the unmistakable squeak of something giving way beneath you, the muted thump of your body hitting the ground, and the clatter of a metal tray toppling from the counter.

“shit-” he moved before he could think, reaching into his pocket and swiping his phone’s flashlight on. the glow sliced through the dark, casting long, uneven shadows against the bakery walls.

his beam found you sitting on the floor, palm braced against the tile, hands cradling your ankle. near your feet, a smear of something glossy: a dollop of custard or maybe an egg wash.

he crouched, assessing you. “are you hurt?”

you blew out a breath, turning over your hands, not so clean anymore. then your foot, which you carefully flexed. “I don’t think so,” you frowned, but when you shifted to stand, a quiet hiss escaped.

nanami didn’t hesitate. “stay put.”

you blinked at him, clearly taken aback. the dull throb in your ankle kept you from arguing. you pointed your thumb towards the back. “fridge,” said through a wince. “there should be an ice pack on the freezer shelf. do you think you could-”

without a word, he pushed to his feet, phone leading the way. he navigated past the swinging doors, slipping through the narrow doorway that led to the storage pantry. the air there was cooler, lined with metal racks and ingredient bins.

he spotted a blue industrial fridge and heaved it open, the faint chill seeping into his sleeves as he reached inside. a few conveniently placed ice packs accompanied by ziploc bags of strawberries.

less than a minute later, he returned, earnestly kneeled beside you once more, gingerly pressing the ice pack onto the afflicted area (your left foot).

“you really didn’t have to,” you mumbled, voice softer now, edged with something he couldn’t quite place.

“of course I did,” he said simply. and despite himself, despite the long day and the exhaustion catching up to him, he didn’t move away.

nanami propped his phone up against the closest cabinet, illuminating your expression — clearly very grateful, maybe a little surprised.

it also made him really want to kiss you.

you sighed, watching him. “you’re really good at this,” you said, quieter now, calmer.

“taking care of people, I mean.”

nanami exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening for a fraction of a second.

“you should elevate it,” he grunted, voice jaggy, words landing somewhere between nervous command and gentle suggestion.

you countered, tilting your head at him. “you didn’t leave when the lights were still on.”

he could have. should have. instead, he was here with you — pulse hammering in his throat, stomach twisting at the way you looked at him.

your hands moved with a mind of their own, fingertips brushing against his wrist. fleeting, yet it still burned. nanami was already stiff, and that simple contact made something snap inside him.

the ice pack is forgotten when he presses his palm flat against the floor beside you, leaning in enough to feel the warmth of your breath against his own lips.

“you must’ve really had a long day.”

the corners of his mouth twitched. god, has he always smelled this good? “you could say that.”

he hesitated, and then your fingers curled around the front of his tie, hardly grabbing, and he was a goner.

it wasn’t rushed. nanami kissed like he meant it. no frantic clashing of teeth or fumbling for control — he had thought about it for far too long, and now that he had finally allowed himself to indulge, he wasn’t going to waste a single second of it.

you made a soft sound against him; his forehead, like clockwork — rested against yours, breath uneven.

you swallowed, eyes flickering down to his mouth again. “not gonna blame this on exhaustion?”

his lips quirked — not a smirk, but close. “no.”

it was too easy, too natural. he’d been standing on the edge of this moment for far too long, waiting for an excuse to finally fall. and now that he had, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to find his footing again.

“good.” and before either of you could think better of it, you pulled him back in.

-

his hands, broad and greedy, spread you apart, thumbs pressing in, keeping you exactly where he wanted. a curse rumbled in his throat at the sight of you — glistening, open, waiting for him. so fucking pretty. he leaned in, let the heat of his breath fan over you, teasing, testing, before dragging his tongue up the length of you, slow, deliberate, savoring.

your thighs trembled at the first stroke, fingers clawing hard at his hair, tugging in pure, mindless desperation. he groaned against you, vibration sinking deep, right where you needed it. didn’t stop you. didn’t tell you to be gentle. he let you take what you needed, let you use him however you’d like. “nanami-”

his fingers dug in harder as he sucked. “call me kento,” he kissed the inside of your thigh, lips warm and damp, “go ahead, do it again.”

you barely had time to register it before he was back on you, everywhere — open mouthed kisses, slow, obscene drags of his tongue, sharp edge of his teeth scraping sensitive skin, just to see you jolt.

“if I’m doing this,” another deep, wet lick, “we’re far past formalities, don’t you think?”

your answer was in the way your body reacted, hips rocking into him, desperate little whimper breaking from your throat. it only spurred him on.

“that’s it,” he mumbled from under you, voice half praise, half tease. his tongue flicked against your clit, pressure building. “let me hear you.”

his hands kept you wide open, holding you still as he worked you over; he buried himself in you like he’d been starved. (he had been.)

he’d been letting his own discipline choke him, and you wanted him to lose it, he’s sure.

he yanked your top apart, fabric jerking from your shoulders. the buttons of your blouse popped free one by one. the clasp of your bra released with a quick, almost inaudible snap. a hand rested on your thigh as the other reached past you.

a cabinet door creaked open, and a slow hum rumbled from his chest, thoughtful.

“ah,” nanami mused, pulling down a familiar canister. he spun it in his palm, reading the label as if he hadn’t already made up his mind. his thumb flicked idly against the cap before he met your eyes, mischief replacing his usual composure.

“I assume this is for coffee,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners while he turned the label towards you. reddi wip, made with real cream.

“can I use this?” he coaxed when you didn’t answer, free hand skimming along your side. “please?”

you nod.

“I’ll be careful,” he murmured, eyes hazy as he bit the cap off. “unless, of course, you prefer otherwise.”

nanami’s jaw pulled taut as he watches the first dollop of whipped cream land. it pools, soft peaks forming against the curve of your chest.

his breath shuddered, a rough, unintentional inhale, fingers flexing. his cock gave the faintest, needy twitch in his slacks, heavy against the fabric, but he kept placid — for the most part.

his palm scaled up, fingers brushing under the swell of your breast as he leaned in, mouth a breath away from the mess he made. “can’t let this go to waste,” he murmured, voice thick, nearly lost to the sound of his own restraint. “stay still, sweetheart.”

a beat, then his tongue flickers out — devastatingly intentional as he licked a long, deliberate stripe through the sweetness, from your stomach up to your tits — lips trailing along the sticky trail.

you grappled at the neat blonde strands at the nape of his neck, tugging enough to make him groan again, the sound vibrating against you. he tilted his head, pressing his lips over the soft swell of your nipple, gently sucking and biting like he’s working overtime.

“mm- been thinkin’ about this all day,” he panted, voice dripping. “needed to get my hands on you-” another lick, another groan, “needed to taste you.”

the way he looked up at you, lids heavy, pupils blown — pooled between your legs. you swallowed, breath hitching as his lips brushed higher, dangerously close to your throat. “gonna take your time with me, kento?” you rasped out as he palmed at you again.

he chuckled, breath at your pulse. “oh, baby,” he murmured, kissed below your jaw. “you have no idea.”

he traced over the sticky remnants on your skin until he dragged his thumb over your lips, prodding.

“open,” he ordered, and when you did, he slid his thumb past your lips, watching as you closed around it. he staggered, hips rolling forward in insensible need. “fuck, sweetheart — gonna ruin you, y’know that?”

a hand slipped between you, unfastening his belt with a quick pull. the clink of metal echoed in the charged air, and then — zzzt! — the sound of his zipper sliding down, agonizingly slow.

and when he finally sinked into you, raw, he swore you were trying to swallow him whole. it doesn’t take you long to adjust, and it doesn’t take long ‘till he’s rutting into you, frenzied and desperate, spasming inside you.

“goddd- you’re so. hah- fucking. tight.” he leaned in to kiss you, practically drooling all over your tongue.

you were milking him, the strangled noises both of you made not exactly helping his case. he grinded and pumped into you until the cabinets start creaking, thrusts growing lazier and lazier.

soon enough — you were seeing stars. your back arched as his knees buckled, hand moving to brace on the counter while he fucked you through your high.

“juuuust like that, good girl,” nanami cooed, nipping at your collarbone as he started back up again, his precum collecting at his base as he did.

his forearms slipped under your thighs, tilting your pelvis up as his hips smacked over and over against yours. “so good to me, baby. you’re-” thrust. “so,” thrust. “good,” thrust. “f’me.”

nanami’s face grew hot as he chased his climax, muscles tightening as he emptied himself inside of you, spilling out and moaning into your mouth when your eyes rolled back during your second.

he gently pulled out, thumb grazing the back of your hand. “feeling okay?” his eyes were locked on yours, waiting for an answer.

you nodded, closing your eyes, letting yourself breathe. “better than okay.” he didn’t let go of your hand. instead, he reached over to where his button up laid on the counter, draping it over your shoulders.

“I didn’t mean to—” nanami started, voice hesitant.

“you don’t have to apologize,” you interrupted, squeezing his wrist. you pulled it to your chest, your heart still beating, now a steady thrum. “I trust you.”

a breath of relief left him then, shoulders relaxing, weight lifted. he smiled, sincere. “thank you.”

his fingers traced slow patterns on your skin, touch anchoring you in the moment.

“if you need anything,” he whispered, “I’m here.”

you shifted, leaning in towards him, lips brushing his ear as you spoke. “and if I need more than anything?” you teased, laughing into another kiss.

nanami raised an eyebrow, lips curling as he fake-checked his watch. “I’ll need to check my schedule.”

he turned away to grab a clean towel, quietly dampening it with cool water. he looked like he belonged in there. in your bakery, your life. you fidgeted with his shirt, pulling it tighter around you.

nanami wiped the sweat from your brow, hand brushing against your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. he leaned in, pressing his mouth to your forehead before moving to grab a glass of water from the counter. you watched him, smiling as he returned to gently hand it to you, fingers lingering.

“same time tomorrow?”

romy 🐰 is typing… not the best thing I’ve ever written but practice makes perfect, right.. and not as long as I originally intended for it to be but yk what, hell yeah!

© bowtiepasta: do not copy edit or repost anywhere

[skeltnwrites]

Break the Bed In— ⋆₊˚⌂

The first morning in your new home is slow and soft, spent tangled up in bed with Steve.

mdni 18+ fem/afab reader, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), switch!steve/reader, the fluffiest sweetest smut you'll ever read | 4k

a/n: this is dedicated to all my single ladies. happy valentine’s day you freaks! coincidentally i also moved houses yesterday so this feels extra fitting

── .✦

You wake well-rested; like every inch of you was unraveled and woven back together while you dreamt. Your wrist hangs off the side of the mattress, fingernails brushing the carpet. Your bed frame is a heap of wooden slats across the room, as is most of the furniture currently in your house. 

Steve’s arm is warm under your neck, his breath a steady string behind you. You flip over, your ear landing in the crease of his elbow. 

He’s softer in sleep. Cheek squished to his shoulder, lips pressed to a pout. He’s boyish in a lot of ways still, but growing less so the longer you know him. He’s got stubble and sun spots and smile lines. And you love each of those things, swearing he’s getting more and more handsome with them every day. Blame it on the lingering moving high but today the feeling triples. 

There’s a unique kind of joy in buying your first home together. It’s perpetual surprise, popping up in the most mundane of moments. It’s picking taupe over eggshell for the living room and it’s paying extra for matching key designs and it’s waking up beside your favorite person on a mattress on the floor. 

You stamp your lips into his skin in good morning, and again because it’s a satisfying warmth on your mouth. He smells sweet, like your new body wash since he couldn’t find his last night. You decide you like the scent on his skin better than yours. 

The quiet is strange but the farthest thing from unwelcome. No neighbors or roommates or parents to wake to. Just the soft hush of rain against the roof and the swish of your ankles underneath the blankets. 

Your fingers chase the hair from Steve’s eye socket, your thumb perching behind his ear. His pupils shift under his eyelids and he sighs the softest little sound you’ve ever heard. 

It’s cruel to wake him, certainly. He did most of the heavy lifting yesterday and was up organizing later than you were. But you’re feeling especially selfish this morning, tickling him awake with a swarm of several more arm kisses. 

There are worse things to wake up to, you reason with yourself as Steve hums, his fingers curling against the sheet. He’s quiet for a long beat and you decide maybe it's better to let him rest. 

But his lips part and he rasps out, “Mornin’.” 

“Mornin’,” you parrot. Your grin is immediate, spanning ear to ear with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. 

He smushes your face to his bare collar, the heel of his free hand climbing up his cheek. 

You turn to watch his eyes unstick themselves of sleep and continue to wonder how you got so lucky. You press another kiss to his chin. Another to the coarse thatch of hair on his chest. Another to his shoulder. You just can’t help yourself today. 

“It’s so quiet,” he murmurs, hand crawling under your shirt in a long splay up your spine. 

You beam, weaving a leg under his heavy one. “I know.” 

“We have a house.” 

“I know.” You sound as excited as you can be without yelling. 

He hums, the corners of his smile creeping wider, a hand steady on your back. 

Your finger twists a curl at his nape idly. “What’re you thinking?” 

Steve’s gaze flickers from the ceiling to you, eyes like old pennies under the clouds coloring your room a gloomy shade of gray. “Nothin’,” he whispers, lips skimming the corner crease of your eye. “Just happy.” 

You hum, one part agreement, two parts delight. “Can we get a dog now?” 

He huffs out a chuckle, vibrating the place where your chests kiss. “I can’t believe it took you this long to ask.” 

“‘Cause you always say no.” 

“‘Cause it didn’t make sense before.”

“So, we can?” 

He has a hard time pretending to hate the look you show him. Your jutted lip and raised brows show no mercy. He wants to say yes, of course he does, but he’s not as impulsive as he used to be. He’s a homeowner. His responsibilities extend beyond just himself now. 

“Can we unpack the house first? Then we’ll talk about it.”

You flick his collarbone. “Excuses. Excuses.” 

If there’s a fond way to roll your eyes at someone, he’s figured out how to do it. Steve knows you’re all drama. And he knows you’re over the moon with or without the promise of a dog. 

You bend out of his embrace and regret sitting the second you’re up. Your back aches twice its weight, muscles sore with yesterday's labor. 

But Steve relishes his view. You're in nothing but underwear and one of his shirts, the dip of your lower back exposed where the hem has scrunched up. He might buy you new pajamas if he thought you’d actually wear them or if he didn’t adore just how lovely his clothes look on you. 

And he doesn’t give you a chance to ask, his fingers automatically massaging a path up your aching shoulder. You squirm but you love it. You kiss his hand in thank you and carry it around your waist to play with. 

“Don’t get up,” he says. Pleads, practically.

You face him. “But we have sooo much to unpack.” 

“It can wait,” he argues. He steals your entwined hands for a persuasive set of kisses. One to each knuckle and then a flurry up your arm. And his hands are an equally convincing force, coercing you right back onto his chest. 

You’re putty, melting into his hot hands like candle wax. You throw a leg over his waist and settle down in a more comfortable straddle. The possibility of you falling back asleep jumps an alarming percentage. 

You bolster your chin on his sternum and meet his eyes. “But I really want that dog.” 

“More than me?” 

You hum debatably into his puckered lips.

He smiles hard and forgets about kissing you, pinching your side until you yelp. Your giggles spill through twin smiles, overlapping each other in layers. “Might have to put the house back on the market if you keep being so mean to me," he says.

“I’ll be nicer if we go look at the shelter today.” 

“Mm. Not letting this go are we?” 

You shake your head.

He pecks the corner of your mouth. “We’ll go–”

You see the shift in his expression before he even says anything. Your eyebrows jump in excitement. 

“If,” he tacks on quickly, “we finish downstairs today. Hmm?” 

“Mhmm. Easy.” 

“Easy,” he repeats. But not one lick of him believes you. It wasn’t easy carrying so many of your boxes yesterday and it certainly wasn’t easy getting you to pack everything up in the first place. 

But ultimately he’s amused. And he thinks you’re especially pretty when you’re confident. So Steve kisses you like he has something to prove. 

He gropes the swell of your ass mid-kiss and while it’s not unusual for him to do so playfully, you can’t perceive it in any way innocent when you’re pressed up against his morning wood. 

“Steve,” you scold lightly. 

He hums against your mouth, a faux sound of innocence. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

You break apart with a wet smack. “Gotta unpack.”

“Have all day,” he says, words all smushed together so he can sew his lips right back to yours. 

“Mm-mmm.” You turn your cheek, but the hands on your waist don’t let you go far. “‘S, like, ten-thirty already.” 

He works a slow line past your jaw, spending extra time on the sensitive skin around your throat. Devious. 

“Steve.” 

“Hmm?” 

You push off his chest until you're sitting upright on his thighs.

His heart tick tick ticks under the flat of your palm. His pupils are wide, mouth kiss-bruised a bright shade of red. He’s so, so dreamy, all flushed and starry-eyed like this. He’s got you wrapped around his finger just as much as you’ve strung him with yours.  

You sigh. “Why do I let you win?” 

He smirks that stupid victorious smirk you love so much. “‘Cause you love me.”

“You’re so annoying.” 

“Me?” he laughs. 

“Mhmm. And a hypocrite.” 

The hand clasping your hip pressures you back down, the other cradling one side of your jaw. “A hypocrite?” he whispers. 

“Mhmm.” 

He fills the tiny space between you, half-lidded and heavy-handed in a fervent kiss. He’s not rough but he is eager. Open-mouthed and persistent like he’s trying to weld his face to yours. 

You meet him with the same intensity. It’s instinctual. The push-pull of your bodies, like you’re more one entity than two. You’ve been dating Steve long enough to know what he likes and what he doesn’t. You’ve made out more times than you can count. And he’s a simple man. You’ve got him hard, properly hard, in a matter of minutes. 

His bottom lip is pinned between your teeth, your chests rising and falling in sync. You grind back on his crotch and his breath hitches. 

“Ahh,” he pants. “Can I…” 

You don’t know what he’s trying to ask but you nod anyway. It’s not hard to piece together, though; not when he’s fisting the fabric of your shirt like it’s causing him physical pain to see you wear it. 

You help him hitch it up your back and down your arms to be tossed out of the way. Steve quickly stops you from lying back down. His large palms spread wide against your tummy, thumbs kneading either side of your belly button. He roves up your ribs attentively, studying how your skin pulls and dips beneath his fingers. 

You swear you feel him down to the divots in his fingerprints, the slow speed of his hands tantalizing. 

His thumbs pause at your breastbone, sweeping up and around your nipples as if he’s never played with them before. They perk up easily, to Steve's obvious enjoyment. 

He’s told you a thousand times how pretty you are, naked and not. And he doesn’t have to say it now for you to know he’s thinking it. 

He stares at your chest, your tummy, the soft stretch of your thighs, each like they’ve been carved from marble, destined to end up behind a glass at some museum he’s never been to. 

You get shy eventually, needling past his hold to hide in the slope of his neck. Your mouth peppers lazy kisses where it can reach. Soft ones, not nearly as greedy as before. You work your way up, suckling long enough to leave a couple of red rings in your wake. 

Steve's hips shift under yours as you arrive back at his mouth. He’s getting antsy, the finger fidgeting with the hem of your panties no longer satisfied. So maybe you shouldn’t be as surprised as you are when he holds your hips down and bucks up into your clothed cunt. 

Your jaw slackens, a broken moan dampened against his mouth. 

“Can be loud ‘s you want now,” he assures. His hands roam, around your ass and back up your sides. Soothing, but so feather-light you shudder. 

“Still have neighbors.” 

He hums in half agreement. Yes, you have neighbors, but their bedroom wall isn’t attached to yours. He imagines you’d have to scream bloody murder for the neighbors to hear you here. 

You slink back up to sit and Steve’s fingers fall to your hips. Your pelvis rolls into his. Again when he shudders. 

“Shit,” he sighs. 

“Feel good?”

His eyes disappear behind his lashes, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Mhmm.” 

You continue to work him through his briefs, a slow back and forth forming a hot puddle between your own legs. With one hand propped against his sternum, you force your eyes over to the stacks upon stacks of moving boxes in the room. 

“Condoms… condoms.” 

Steve almost misses your mumbling– and to his credit, you’re talking more to yourself than him– but he blinks out of his daze and sighs vaguely at the nearest box. “Fuck. Bathroom, maybe.” 

Not ideal. 

“Think I have one in my purse,” you remember, swaying heavily to the side to scan the floor beside the mattress. 

Steve’s hands fly to your waist to balance you as he huffs. “You mean your bottomless pit?” 

“Don’t shame me. It comes in handy.” The bottomless pit in question is spotted, half buried under yesterday’s clothes across the room. “One sec’.”

Steve grumbles as you climb off of him. But his heart turns in his chest as you saunter off. His love for you is always there. It’s the shape of you as you crouch, how you tip your purse upside down and fan the contents out across the floor with a hum. 

“Aha.” You pop up, waving a glossy, square packet as you skip your way back. “My trusty bottomless pit saves the day.”

You clamber back on top of him clumsily, planting yourself in his lap like he’s no more fragile than the kitchen barstool. 

Steve groans under his breath. You’ve got him really wound up and his patience is thinning. 

Your hips roll into his again, the curve of his cock a strong silhouette through two sticky layers of fabric. You scoot back on his thighs and palm him with modest pressure. 

“Babe,” he shudders, thumbs pawing the sides of your underwear again. “Please.” 

“So impatient,” you tease. 

You watch him intently. How his nostrils flare the second you break the seal between his hot skin and the band of his underwear. How his eyebrows crinkle together as you push the cotton down his thighs. 

His cock bobs free before you take it gently by the base. Steve’s not just a pretty face, and he’s not cocky for no reason. He’s well-endowed, a dusty shade of pink blended tan into the dark curls at his hilt. 

“Fuck, baby.” 

He shifts his gaze past you because he’s certain if you make eye contact with him this’ll be the shortest sex of his life. And even the half-blurry blob of you in his peripherals is still too fucking enticing. He forces his eyes up at the popcorn ceiling and traces the shapes in his mind. 

You spread the pearl of precum down a vein on the side of his cock, using the slip to tug him a handful of times. The slick dissolves, and your hand catches twice before you’re getting ready to spit in it.  

But Steve whines, “Need to feel you.” 

Your hand stops but the pad of your pinky trails a sneaky line from tip to base. “My hands not enough for you, Stevie?” 

“Not gonna– mm– last.” 

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” 

You mean it rhetorically but he quickly shakes his head no. You forget how much you enjoy being in charge until you have Steve squirming under you. 

You stabilize yourself on his chest, hiking one leg up at a time until you’re underwear have been flung to the floor. The slick between your folds is more palpable as you sit back on his thighs, hot skin to hot skin. 

His eyelids flutter closed as you roll the condom on. He’s flushed up to his ears, breath nimble off his open mouth. 

“Ready?” 

He nods like you’ve asked something outrageously silly. 

You guide the head of his cock up to your folds, sinking down in one tedious stride. It’s a good kind of ache, scratching the deepest part of your tummy. 

His hips jerk involuntarily as you release your full weight onto them, his nails leaving crescents on your skin. “‘M not gonna last,” he warns again. 

“I’ll go slow.” 

It’s not much consolation. No matter what you do to him, he’s not gonna last. You’re too damn irresistible for your own good. 

You rock your hips forward and back in a continuous cycle. The pace is indulgent, just slow enough to make things last. Your eyes unfocus, your head tipping back. Every drag squeezes the coil in your stomach tighter. 

Steve’s eyes flick to yours, his voice wavering as he mumbles, “Tease me too much.”

“I do?”

“Mhmm.”

You smile softly at him and his eyes jump away. He’s drawing loopy patterns into the meat of your thigh to distract himself. And it doesn’t help when you cover his hand and sweep your thumb across every digit. He’s so focused on not blowing his load that he can’t even speak. 

You pause your rhythm and hum to yourself before continuing. “Know what I just realized.”

“Hmm?”

“Forgot the shower curtain.”

Steve exhales hard, words sticking to his teeth.“We’ll get a new one.” 

“I really liked that one.”

He can’t think straight long enough to tell if you’re purposely trying to distract him or not and he doesn’t care all that much either way. He just needs you to be the same level of fucked that he is. 

His hand trembles over to your pubic bone, thumb snaking right up to your clit. 

You nod as he presses. Right there. 

He rubs slow circles, a spark of pleasure each time he closes a loop. 

“Fuck,” you drawl simultaneously. 

You laugh, blissfully unaware as your muscles clamp around his cock. 

But Steve’s fingers pause on your clit, his other hand tense at your hip. “Don’t,” he shudders out. 

You close your mouth, a soft little apology grin that sends Steve’s stomach flipping. He’s so fucking in love it’s not even funny. 

“Sit on my face.”

You hum, so high on cloud nine you’re sure you’ve misheard him. 

“Let me taste you.”

Your breath stutters. He’s serious. 

“Come here,” he’s pushing you up and off him before you have much of a chance to process it. “Wanna make you feel good.” 

Your cheeks burn a hot shade of embarrassment, your tongue suddenly too heavy in your mouth. You wriggle up his body, guided by the relentless hands on the backs of your thighs. Steve’s eaten you out, but not like this. 

“Steve,” you manage. 

“What?” He knows you better than he’s known anyone in his life. He feels your shaking and he hears the rampant doubts coursing your mind. “I want to,” he promises, pressing a long, love-packed kiss to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. 

You’re unconvinced. You’re certain you’ll break his face the second you sit down. You’ll be so mortified you’ll have to break up with him if he doesn’t first. You’ll have to sell the house before you’ve even unpacked–

“Please?”

He’s not trying to be pushy or even funny as he bats his eyes. He just so genuinely craves to see you unravel in the same way you’ve spun him around. And yeah, he has a sweet set of brown eyes. Sue him. He loves you too much to look at you with any less adoration. 

You nod emphatically. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve been this nervous about sex with Steve, but you’ve learned just about everything there is to know about him since. You trust him in every capacity, especially in bed.   

He nips his way up your thigh, pulling you lower and lower until his breath is hot on your cunt. Steve licks a wide stripe up to your clit, sucking before swirling his tongue around the sensitive hood. And then his mouth starts lapping you like you’re his last meal. 

Your fist jerks, fingers knotted through the hair on his scalp, and he moans. You don’t hear it over the wet smacking as much as you feel it, the vibrations sending pleasure through you like a pulse. 

His tongue drives you to a mess. He’d push you completely over the edge if you didn’t stop him.

“Okay, okay,” you gasp, pushing up onto your knees. “We’re even.” 

He smirks and strokes down the backs of your calves. “Are we competing?” 

“You seem to think so.” 

He shimmies to a sit with an arm around your waist and bestows you with a fleeting kiss, lips washed with the taste of your juices. “Lay down.”

How the fuck could you say no to such a pretty face? 

You scooch down, face up on the sheets. Steve parts you by the ankles and crawls up your body, planting kisses like seeds. His teeth graze the inside of your wrist before he stretches it up and flat against the mattress above your head. 

Your fingers thread through his, his other hand steadying his cock at your entrance. He swipes the head up and down your wet folds before sliding in with a groan. There’s less resistance this time, a fluid in and out to his hips. 

His thrusts are languid. He indulges more closely in the taste of your mouth and the balmy feel of your waist. 

The winding in your tummy resumes, your fingers naturally finding your clit while Steve rocks into you. A heavier thrust and your lips detach, Steve’s rehoming to the skin beneath your jaw. He picks up his pace, puffing and panting into your neck in short bursts. 

Your legs wrap around his, the heel of your foot digging into his lower back. “Mm– Steve.”

“Yeah?” he huffs. 

“Mhmm.”

If the sounds you’re making are anything to go by, Steve thinks he’s doing a pretty good job. And you know he’s just as close to cumming. You know his little sounds and twisty little expressions like the back of your hand. How his stomach tenses and his breath catches. 

You burn the entirety of this to your brain, rubbing yourself faster, more in time with his movements. 

“‘M close,” he says, desperate and hopeful that you are too. 

You nod, focused on the high climbing higher each second. 

His hips stutter when you clench around him. The coil releases and you come undone simultaneously. 

“Fuck, ah– fuck,” he whines, sharp but breathy in your ear.  

Your fingers slow and his thrusts wane and the pleasure softens. Steve wobbles down onto you as gently as he can, taking your interlaced hand between your bodies. Your hearts kiss with each rise and fall of your chests. Steve mouths over the most accessible bit of skin under your ear, thumb sweeping the gentlest curves around your face. 

You exhale into his crown, raking a hand through the dark mop of curls damp at his nape. Your other eases down his back, savoring the contraction of his muscles as he breathes. You travel down the curve of his ass and give him a firm squeeze. “How’s your ass? Still sore?” 

He huffs at you, nose crushed to your neck. “I fall down one flight of stairs and I never hear the end of it.” 

“I told you to be careful.” 

“I was being– whatever.” His thumb continues to caress your jaw, his lips idle on your neck. 

This is Steve’s favorite part of sex. To hold and to be held, easing off a high that’s miles better than a good smoke. There’s nothing greater. 

“Should I check for bruises?” 

“If you kiss ‘em better.” 

Your chest aches with the sweet swell of laughter. Steve’s your person. You realize it time and time again. 

He peels himself off like you're double-sided tape. His hair’s still crazy despite your finger-combing and his eyes are just as heavy as they were when he woke up. He slides out of you with a hiss, sitting back to knot the condom and toss it toward a pile of bubble wrap. 

He looks back at you fondly. “Shower?” 

You shake your head. “Just lay with me.” 

“Downstairs isn’t gonna unpack itself, you know.”

“Shut up.” You palm his chest until he lays and you throw an arm across his middle. “This was your evil plan all along.” 

He chuckles, taking your hand to massage between both of his. “I’m just the worst aren’t I?” 

[madamechrissy]

Yandere Bestie Choso

pairing- Yan Choso x fem reader

warnings- Mdni- Stalking, yandere behavior, videoing without consent, oral sex (f receiving), masturbation, stealing panties, somnophilia, baby trapping, possessive behavior, jealousy, semi public sex, don't read if you don't like darker/yan content

Full Oneshot Here

Yandere Bestie Choso who was so shy but befriended you at work one day, when you talked to him and really heard him. The next day he's bringing you coffee -your favorite! You're not sure how he knew.

Yandere Bestie Choso watches you avidly with violet puppy dog eyes, god he watches everything you do, as you slip up your glasses on the bridge of your pretty nose. He loves when you tap your pen, shifting your hips while you sit at your desk, up to and including the color of your panties every day when he puts a camera under your desk.

Yandere Bestie Choso has to stroke his cock in the bathroom when he watches you uncrossing your legs, revealing a clear damp spot on your panties, he thinks it's so cute they have Hello Kitties on them! Oh, and when you are shooting him a pretty smile, you're just too pretty, and he can't take it. When he bumps into you leaving the bathroom, he still has cum sticking to his boxers.

Yandere Bestie Choso panics when you ask if everything is okay, you can't know, right? But you're oblivious, thankfully, and you shock him then, when you ask him to come over and watch a movie at your house!? He agrees, trying to be calm outwardly, blushing furiously at you. He is jerking off so much that night his pretty cock is sore, picturing all the ways he'll have you soon.

Yandere Bestie Choso comes over to your house that night, and you think he's just so cute you're nervous too. He seems so sweet you don't know if he'll make a move, as you both sit next to each other on the couch, your shoulders pressing together as you lean a little close. A scary part of the movie comes and you cling to him, his big hands gripping your waist.

Yandere Bestie Choso gets a kiss from you that night, a heated one where you ended up in his lap, and fuck he couldn't take it, your heat against his cock over his jeans, tongues messy and desperate, but you're so pretty, you're too pretty, he needs you too much. For a moment he gets rough with you, shocking you and making you wetter, before he pulls back with a 'Need a moment, I'm s-so sorry...' you pull off him, taking a breath 'It's intense, be right back?'

Yandere Bestie Choso quickly gets up as you go to the bathroom, slipping out the little cameras and sneaking to your room. He puts one up and then opens your top drawer, nearly cumming in his pants as he sees your vibrator, your panties, your bras. He'd take a pair but they're too clean, you know, so instead he grabs one from your hamper, stuffing it in his pocket before you get out, and he's making an excuse to leave, he's just not sure he deserves you yet, he needs to know so much more about you!

Yandere Bestie Choso jerks off his cock while he licks your cunt off your pretty purple panties, tasting how sweet you are. He is blushing when he cums so much, white and sticky, jerking nervously when you call him. He cleans up, picking up the phone then. 'H-hey, pretty' 'Cho, was I too forward?' You ask nervously, he watches you on his other phone now, pacing back and forth half naked in your room. 'No, no! I'm sorry I got nervous... please let's hang out again?' You sit and then lay back on the bed, giving him a view of your legs. 'Sounds good!'

Yandere Bestie Choso is furious when he sees your other coworker Nanami flirting with you the next day, you're blushing as he does, as Nanami’s hand brushes back your hair. Choso grips the bag of breakfast he bought you, so angry to see anyone touch his perfect princess. You smile sweetly then, running up to him. 'Cho, good morning!' He just glares now, and you watch him walk away curiously. Choso comes up to Nanami then, 'what were you talking about?' he asks quietly, jaw clenched. Nanami smiles curiously. 'I asked her out, she's single still right?' Choso’s full lips set in a line. 'No, she's not'

Yandere Bestie Choso has you pressed against the closed door of the break room then, your breath catches as he leans close, a hand on the side of your head, the other cupping your face. 'Do you like him?' Choso asks. 'Who?' You whisper, looking up at him, breasts rising and falling under your blouse, as the guy you've crushed on forever finally seems to notice you. Choso is so serious then, not silly or sweet, towering over you with his muscular frame, your fingers itch to touch him. 'Nanami. Do. You. Like. Him.' You giggle a bit, breathless 'you jealous?'

Yandere Bestie Choso shocks you when his fingers find you under your skirt, your cunt drooling all over his thick digits when he presses the cotton against you, you're whining out, head falling back against the door. He grips your chin, making you look up at him. 'Do you like him?' He whispers again, and you shake your head nervously, hips arching for more of his touch. 'Use your words' you're shocked, sweet little Choso is ordering you around!? But it just makes you wetter, desire pooling in your tummy. 'N-no, I like you Cho' he exhales, kissing you then, desperate and messy, nothing like the shy kiss last night, slipping his fingers under your panties, finding your twitching little clit.

Yandere Bestie Choso watches your beautiful face screw up in pleasure as he rolls his fingers on your clit, bringing you closer and closer, you're clinging to him, until he pulls back, sucking you off his fingers and exhaling. 'Tell him you don't want that date, then I'll finish this' he then leaves you- and you blink in confusion, trying to get a breath. Choso smiles when you turn Nanami down right by the water cooler, and he rewards you that night, by devouring your pussy while he's in your bed, drinking all your juices up as you yank on his dark, loose hair. His tongue fucks inside your slick hole, drinking you, urging you on with a 'that's it, let go f'me, I got you'

Yandere Bestie Choso smiles against your cunt as you scream out his name, oh he can't wait to watch this back on the video over and over, he thinks, as he's grinding his cock against your mattress, his black painted blunt nails leaving marks in the plush of your thighs. 'Choso s'good I-ah!' You're cumming so hard you're blinded, as he laps you up eagerly, tongue ring hitting your spot. He's groaning against you, he can't stop himself from shattering as he eats your pussy, as he watches your fucked out face. You beg for his cock over and over, until you pass out from overstimulation. Choso will give it to you soon, first he watches you as you sleep with a pussy drunk grin, kissing down your pretty face, your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples as your breasts rise and fall in your slumber.

Yandere Bestie Choso takes your phone as you are lightly snoring, using your finger to unlock it, and deletes every man's number but his. He also puts a tracker on there, for your safety of course! When you wake up all dressed in pajamas, pussy cleaned, you go to check the phone and panic, seeing the only number left is your girl friends, parents and him. You are so furious the next day, ignoring the memory of his tongue ring on your clit, you heartedly whisper how mad you are in the break room. Choso smiles all sweetly, as you shove at him, only for him to have you bent over the table, shoving his cock in your eager pussy so deep you have to bite back the scream of shock and pleasure.

Yandere Bestie Choso hears no more complaints after he fucks you so hard you're cumming all over his dick, arousal making his cock slide easier and easier, thrilled knowing any mome t someone could see him claiming you, claiming what's his. You're whimpering against his big palm, as his reddened tip slams your cervix, and he's moaning in your ear. Your eyes roll back, body convulsing as he pumps harder and harder. 'Never gonna leave me, are you pretty?' You can't manage to remember you're scared anymore, not when you're cumming all over Choso's thick, veiny cock. And you forget to get mad again later when he's got panties shoved in your mouth as he fucks you in his apartment. You also forget to ask where he got them.

Yandere Bestie Choso loves watching you sleep after struggling to just give up, he thinks it's precious and cute how stubborn you are! He caresses your face, admiring you even as he's back playing with your pussy, you're so sweet and pliant sleeping, whining out as he slips back inside you, so happy that he got rid of your birth control. He can't wait to keep you with him forever, busting his load so deep in you, while you weakly stir from your sleep, crying out as you feel him pulsing in your gummy walls. 'Cho!?' 'Shh, gonna make you a mommy, hmm-ah f-fuck...' you let him fill you all night, delirious off him and his cock, and Choso smiles as he holds you tight, knowing you're going nowhere 🥺

Disclaimer none of this is okay omg it's all terrible but 😭🤣 I saw a post wanting Yan Choso from @naammiii, and had to try making him Yan hehe

permatags- @alt--er--love @seeing-stars-alt @nanasukii28 @labelt-san @makingtimemine @cuntphoric @n1vi @aldebrana @indiewritesxoxo @loafteaw @moonlitwitchdaisy

[carlislefiles]

domesticated | nanami kento ╰►nanami was born to be a husband—measured, attentive, impossibly good with his hands—but more than that, he was born to be your husband. he keeps a bullet journal, folds your laundry with surgical precision, and makes you tea just the way you like it. and as sure as you are that he’s perfect, he’s still determined to prove it to you, every single day. 7.3k words

a/n: a couple nights ago, I plagued my dash with thoughts of housewife!nanami and I will continue to do so forever and ever. if there are no nanami stans, I'm dead...but who am I kidding, there will always be nanami stans. gonna have to fight all of you for my man :[ also I'm thinking of doing a part two to this.....maybe like a sunday type vibe where reader has the day off....let me know your thoughts on that. warnings: embarrassing amounts of fluff, kissing, cussing, brief allusions to sex.

the alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m. sharp. it always does. nanami never changed it, never wanted to. that hour—early, quiet, untouched—was his. a small thing, a leftover ritual from a life that used to feel like it belonged to someone else. once, it meant gritting his teeth, dragging himself into suits and subways and glass towers built by people who didn’t even know his name. another day. another spreadsheet. another serving of silent resignation to a world that didn’t care. it’s hard to believe he lived like that. harder still to believe he accepted it.

he doesn’t like to think much about the man he used to be before he met you. it’s not that he’s ashamed—he knows those years carved him into the man he is now. and now, well...now he’s yours. and that changes everything. because back then he was exhausted. hollowed out. sore in places he didn’t know could ache. and now...

now he’s something else entirely. now he’s a teddy bear stuffed with love and golden light. now he’s weightless, floating from room to room with no burden but joy. now he’s a sunbeam slicing through dusty blinds—warm, unhurried, soft at the edges. now he’s a worn sweatshirt straight out of the dryer. the favorite. the one that always gets picked. now he’s a breath finally released. a pause between footsteps. the part of the song that makes you close your eyes. now he’s a well-read book with creased spines and scribbled margins—flawed, loved, and endlessly reread.

he’s happy. deeply, undeniably happy. the kind of happiness he used to believe was just propaganda. nobody was really this content, were they? and yet. and yet. and yet. nanami kento is living proof.

he moves to shift under the blanket, but then he remembers: you’re here. pressed close. your arms looped around him, soft and certain. you’re holding him—again. and he lets you. he's always been a big spoon kind of man. still is sometimes. there’s something steadying about it, something protective. now though, he indulges you. indulges himself, too. years ago, maybe a younger version of him might’ve thought being held like this made him look weak. that version of him was a fool. now, being cradled by your smaller frame feels like the highest honor. a sacred trust.

he has irrational fears sometimes—irrational but persistent. little thoughts that creep in at 6:02 a.m. when the world is quiet enough to let them whisper. that maybe you’ll leave one day. for someone else. someone who knows your favorite candle scents without being told. someone who cooks your comfort foods without asking. someone who loves you the way nanami does. but those thoughts don’t last long. they can’t.

because every morning, no matter how you fell asleep or what kind of day you had, nanami wakes up like this: in your arms. somewhere in the middle of the night, without fail, you always roll over and reach for him. it’s never intentional. it’s never showy. it’s just instinct—your body choosing him over and over again. and it sparks something in him every single time. besides, nanami doesn’t think anyone else could love you like he can. not really. he’s made it his life’s work. his calling. and no one else gets to touch that.

you’re still asleep. peaceful. you’ll stay that way for at least another thirty minutes if he lets you. he always tries to. sometimes you stir, bleary-eyed and half-dreaming, whining for him to stay just a little longer. and every single time, he does. without hesitation. he’ll curl back around you, press slow kisses into your hairline, trace half-shapes against your back through the fabric of your sleep shirt.

he’ll watch you. just for a little while. just until the next breath, the next blink, the next alarm. because there is no word—no language—for the way he feels about you when the light is just beginning to bleed into the room and your arms are wrapped around him like he’s your home.

he would stay there forever. but duty calls. eventually, he has to slip out of your arms. you make a soft noise of protest in your sleep, half-whine, half-murmur, and he stills for a moment—just to watch your face settle back into peace. then he tugs on a worn t-shirt and pads downstairs, still in the pajama pants you love so much.

the infamous ones. the soft navy plaid pair, a little threadbare at the waistband, stretched just enough in all the right places. you claim they’re evil. you swear they cast a spell on you. you’ve clung to his back like a koala over them, muttered threats into his neck, taken full bites out of his shoulder muscle, a woman possessed. he claims he wears them because they’re comfortable. “worn in,” he says with a shrug. but the truth? nanami is a simple man. a man of taste. and if wearing a particular pair of pajama pants means you ogle him like he’s a limited edition photo card, then yes—he will wear them every damn morning for the rest of his life. is it so wrong to enjoy being desired by your wife?

he never really considered himself…attractive. he knew what he looked like. tall. built. decent face. good hair, on good days. but that wasn’t rare. plenty of men fit that description. what made him special? according to you? everything. you say he’s ‘the hottest man in the entire fucking world.’ and while nanami still finds that declaration hard to believe, your constant, shameless, adoring attention has slowly started to rewire something inside him. he doesn’t flinch at compliments anymore. doesn’t second-guess the way you look at him like he’s the eighth wonder of the world. he’s learning to believe it. to believe you.

the kitchen is still dark when he steps in, and he keeps it that way for the most part—only flicking on the light above the stovetop. you’re a deep sleeper, but he’s always careful. gentle. quiet. always respectful. the espresso machine kicks to life with a low whirr, a noise that would’ve startled you awake in the beginning. now? you’ve learned to tune it out. it’s part of the soundtrack of your mornings. a promise in mechanical form.

before nanami, your mornings were bleak. he knows. he’s seen the evidence. you used to crawl out of bed like it was punishment. pour bitter, watery coffee into a chipped mug and pretend it helped. eat a protein bar that tasted like packing material. maybe a questionable piece of fruit if you were feeling ambitious. lunch, if it existed, was often cold leftovers. a bag of chips. a vending machine soda. nanami clocked those bad habits early on. but it wasn’t until you lived together that he could finally do something about them.

now, breakfast is an event. your coffee is never just coffee—it’s the best thing you’ve tasted that day. every morning. he experiments. plays with flavors like he’s crafting love letters in liquid form. homemade blueberry syrup. chocolate cold foam. cinnamon and nutmeg dusted on top just the way you like. he’s memorized your preferences, your allergies, your little quirks. he rarely makes something you don’t like. not just because he’s perfect, but also because he pays attention.

most mornings, he keeps things simple—something warm, something satisfying, something you can eat quickly but meaningfully. a sit-down breakfast is non-negotiable. even on your busiest days, he insists on it. you protest sometimes. you’re in a rush. but he always slows you down. this morning, he’s feeling a little indulgent. leftover homemade butter. pancakes, fluffy and warm. chocolate spread. whipped cream. a handful of fresh berries arranged just so, like a café plate.

you’re going to whine. complain. say he went overboard again, that he doesn’t need to spoil you like this. that you would’ve been fine with toast. he won’t have it. spoiling you is his mission. his hobby. his calling. the high he chases every day. the utter bliss it gives him, knowing he's taking care of you and satisfying you, is like a narcotic. no, better than drugs. nobody even needs drugs, he thinks. they just need a wife. too bad he has the best one, huh?

he moves around the house like a whisper. clean. efficient. at ease. the space is warm, soft, lived-in. he decorated, of course. you squealed when you saw it—pointed out the little touches that screamed nanami. the minimalism, the elegance, the occasional absurd indulgence (like the handcrafted ceramic fruit bowl that cost more than your cart battery when it fizzled out). he cleans constantly. you praise him constantly for it. you love the fresh sheets, the gleaming sink, the way he folds the towels just right.

he doesn’t care much about the structure itself. but what it represents? that matters. this is a home. one he built with you. one he wakes up in and thanks the stars for. he’s had money. he’s lived in a penthouse before—cold, glassy, and forgettable. but this house? this ordinary, wonderful house? this is the dream.

and speaking of dreams—he still can’t believe how lucky he got with yours. you work for a media group. graphic design. a career he could never do, but one he respects deeply. you make good money. more than he ever did. and that doesn’t bother him. not even a little. if anything, he’s proud. stupidly, ridiculously proud. you could afford to work less. but you love what you do. you light up when you talk about projects and deadlines and clients who “get it.” he loves that. loves you.

whatever makes you happy. that’s his mantra. his north star. happy wife, happy life. happy wife, happy life. happy wife. happy wife. happy wife. and you are happy. endlessly. still, he questions it sometimes. your happiness. it creeps in on the stairs as he heads back up with a warm mug of tea. iced coffee is coming—it’s non-negotiable, your fuel—but it’s not warm, and you are always so cold in the mornings. cold and grumbly, buried beneath the covers like a goblin in a hoard of soft blankets, protesting life and light and everything in between.

he gently shakes you awake. a groan. a flail. you throw the covers over your head and threaten to go feral. if you don’t get up now, you’ll be rushing. he knows it, and so, as gently and patiently as ever, he coaxes you into sitting. there’s a quiet apology in the way he touches you—soft fingertips at your wrist, a thumb brushing your temple. he presses a kiss to the crease between your eyebrows, then ghosts his lips over your eyelids like a benediction. 

this used to trouble him. all of it. when he first moved in, this—you—was a source of constant, gnawing doubt. if waking up early made you this miserable, then you shouldn’t do it. he would’ve kept working every day of his life if it meant you could sleep in forever. his pretty, sleepy, grumpy wife. as long as she was happy. but he knows now. that’s not what you want. not what you need. and nanami is good—painfully good—at knowing the difference.

you sit in bed, blinking slowly. your hair a mess. his warm presence anchoring you like gravity. it’d be so easy to curl back up and drift off again. but you can’t. you won’t. you’ve got things to do, and you’re already shifting upright. your eyes open—and there he is. the love of your life in the flesh, holding your favorite tea in one hand and looking at you like you invented sunrise.

you’re a strange pair, really. half your life is spent in a slow, sweet argument about how incredible the other one is. you tell nanami he’s everything. he tells you you’re perfect. you shower him with praise; he worships the ground you walk on. it’s silly. it’s true. it never gets old.

he hands you the tea without a word. ginger and lemon, naturally. you curl your knees up to your chest and sip, bleary-eyed, not ready to speak yet. he just watches you, something aching and fond tugging at the corners of his mouth. then he moves around the room—quiet but efficient. he flips on soft lamps, avoiding the harsh overhead light you hate. of course he remembers that. he remembers everything.

“what do you have going on today?” he murmurs, his voice the low, calm timbre that makes you feel safe even in chaos. you mumble something about a meeting—ceo of another media group, something high-profile. they want you to design a billboard. then you’ll be in your office most of the day. there’s that frustrating nonprofit commission you’ve been chewing on. you sigh, already tired. but excited, nonetheless.

nanami already knows all of this. of course he does. but he still asks. because he wants to hear you say it. you’re not naturally forthcoming. you’d rather listen than talk, and rambling feels like overstepping. you get embarrassed. feel like a burden. he adores when you ramble. top five favorite things. maybe number one.

your voice, soft and lilting like a melody. the way your brow scrunches when you explain something complicated. the unfiltered rage you hold in your soul for adobe. that one coworker who “should legally be banned from computers.” your excitement over color theory. your pride in your designs. if he didn’t ask, you wouldn’t say it. so he asks. every morning. every night. every chance he gets. just to hear you talk. just to make you smile.

eventually, you slip out of bed, tea finished, and make your way to the bathroom. your morning routine is precise. mouthwash, brushing, flossing, double-cleansing, serum, moisturizer, sunscreen. like a dance you’ve rehearsed. nanami watches, leaning in the doorway, equal parts enchanted and reverent. he loves this about you. these little rituals. these ways you care for yourself.

yes, he lives to care for you. would happily do everything for you. but he treasures these moments when you do it for yourself, too. and you’re used to his affection by now. at least, mostly. he’s worn down your flustered protests, your half-hearted deflections. even when you mumble “you’re being too nice,” cheeks pink, he never stops. there’s no such thing as “too nice” for you. you deserve everything. he’ll give you everything. and then he’ll find a way to give you more. for now, he settles for a kiss on your cheek.

he stays nearby while you do your hair and makeup. watches, quietly admiring, as you transform. he finds something unspeakably beautiful in it—this act of femininity, of self-care, of artistry. it stuns him, every time. you’re so pretty. and he gets to watch. (he’ll watch you at events, too. galas. weddings. fundraisers. you, dolled up and radiant, chatting easily with someone across the room—and he just stares. eyes full of nothing but awe. “you are so beautiful,” he’ll say for the billionth time. "I could stare at you all day.”)

when you finish, you meet him in the closet. he’s already dressed—business casual, of course. slacks, loafers, a soft button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm, collar open just enough to make your heart skip. he doesn’t wear the full suits anymore, not unless the occasion demands it, but the polish is still there. he can’t help it. decorum is in his blood.

he’s laid your clothes out on the bench by the mirror. slacks, a soft t-shirt, your favorite warm cardigan. comfortable, professional, just the right amount of cozy to help you survive a long day. you smile a little at the sight. he always remembers what you like—what makes you feel like you.

and then, the final touch—he pulls your heels down from the shelf. the black iriza pumps with the red soles. you don’t even have to ask. he kneels without a word, sliding them onto your feet with a reverence that makes your chest ache. his hands move with the same tenderness he uses to handle fine china or you when you're sick—like the smallest gesture carries all the love in the world. he meets you at your lips. it’s not quite chaste, but not quite enough to start anything either. a kiss meant to ground you. linger. set the tone for your day.

you give him a peck on the cheek in return and step back. he watches as you grab your purse, a cute little thing that holds next to nothing. “doesn’t it match my shoes perfectly?” you coo, spinning once in the mirror. nanami nods solemnly, the corners of his mouth twitching. indulging you, as always. adoring you, as always. indulgent; smitten. pleased. you say that he spoils you with his praise. but you’re not spoiled. not to him. you’re treasured. treated as you should be.

back in the kitchen, you raise an eyebrow at the breakfast. you shoot him a mock-glare and sit down. no protests today. not out loud, anyway. you’re feeling pampered again; overindulged. and you’re sure he’s done too much. but you know better than to say it—because if you do, you’ll get The Lecture™. the one where he insists this is nothing, that you deserve every sunrise, every meal, every ounce of tenderness he can possibly offer. that spoiling you is the bare minimum, and it’s his honor to do it.

so today? you just eat. quietly. gratefully. and nanami watches, content beyond words. this—you—are all he’s ever wanted.

breakfast is a sweet, simple ritual—one of nanami’s favorite parts of the day. a quiet, shared slice of time before the world starts demanding things from the two of you. he’s already eaten (he always eats early), so while you sit at the bar, nibbling through your pancakes and trying not to rush—because you know it bothers him—he turns to your lunch. some days it’s leftovers. on those days, he makes you vow—swear on our marriage, he’ll say with a solemn expression—that you’ll microwave it properly, and actually eat it. but today, you’re in luck. today, he’s making your current hyperfixation meal: a stacked sandwich, piled high with all your favorite toppings, neatly layered on his homemade focaccia.

nanami was always a good cook. phenomenal, really. but his bread? his bread should be on display in glass cases, under soft lighting, guarded by museum security. he doesn’t share his recipes—what would be the point? no one could replicate them anyway. sourdough, ciabatta, baguette, rosemary focaccia. every loaf tailored to your tastes. he bakes for you more than he eats it himself now—not because he doesn't enjoy it, but because he enjoys you enjoying it so much more.

your reactions are what he lives for. the way your eyes widen like you’ve just tasted heaven. the soft, delighted groan that leaves your throat after the first bite. the dramatic proclamation that this one is the best thing you’ve ever eaten in your life, even if you said the same thing yesterday. he shrugs off the praise on the outside, but inside, it settles warm and heavy in his chest. he stores it away. cherishes it.

once the sandwich is wrapped and tucked lovingly into your lunch tote, it’s time for nanami’s least favorite part of the morning—sending you off to work. he heads out to the garage to turn on your car. always does. makes sure the seat warmers are on, the vents are blowing gently, not too cold. stepping into your car always makes him a little dizzy—it’s the smell. concentrated amounts of you. your perfume, your lotion, your very presence soaked into the upholstery. it’s intoxicating.

he lingers there for a moment, eyes closed, just breathing you in. but there’s still time left in the routine, and he won’t waste it. you’ve finished rinsing your plate in the sink by the time he’s back inside. he tuts disapprovingly as he comes up behind you. “what did I say about doing the dishes?” he murmurs, already plucking it from your hands.

you pout up at him, mock wounded. “can’t help it. felt like contributing to society today.”

“unacceptable,” he replies dryly, kissing your cheek. “that’s my job.” you don’t fight him. you know better. nanami’s house rules are immovable forces of nature.

he double checks that your wallet is tucked into your little purse, the one that holds absolutely nothing of practical value but “matches your shoes so well,” as you put it. he slings it over your shoulder, leads you out the door, opens the car for you. you stop him there. plant him against the frame of the door. grip his collar and pull him down into a kiss that curls his toes. and then, wickedly, as his lips part just slightly, you drag your tongue over his bottom lip and murmur against it: “oops. must’ve had some whipped cream on me still.”

he stares at you like you’ve punched him in the brain. pink starts crawling up his neck, staining his ears, his cheeks. his lips part again, just barely, like he might ask for more. you only giggle, smoothing your thumb across his flushed jaw before pressing one last kiss to his lips. every time you touch him like this, it’s as though he’s starved for it. like the barest flicker of attention from you has to sustain him for weeks. like he still can’t believe you’re real.

you shower him in love and kisses and praises, and he soaks it all up like he’s afraid one day, you might run out. as if being loved by someone like you is a miracle he hasn’t earned, but somehow still gets to wake up to every morning. once, nanami read a quote that said, "I don’t argue with my wife’s decisions—because I'm one of them.” it was supposed to be a joke, but it was the god-honest gospel truth to nanami. he considered framing it. tattooing it on his arm. maybe carving it into the headboard. because you choosing him? that’s a daily gift he never takes for granted.

he watches you slip into your car, watches the way your hand waves lazily as you reverse out of the driveway. watches until your taillights disappear down the street. and then he lingers in the cold morning air just a little longer. the scent of your perfume still clings to his shirt. the ghost of your kiss tingles on his lips.

eventually, he shakes it off. there’s bread to make. floors to sweep. emails to answer. he’s got things to do. just as he’s locking the door behind him, something catches his eye on the kitchen counter. your lunch. you’d forgotten it. of course you did. he exhales slowly through his nose, already imagining the soft lecture he’ll give you later about rushing and forgetting things and the vital importance of eating lunch. but for now, he just picks it up with a quiet sigh and a shake of his head. looks like he has lunch plans after all.

—

the rest of nanami’s day, much like his morning, is timed—methodical, efficient, and executed with care so precise it almost feels reverent. early on in this new dynamic, when you had finally—finally—worn him down enough to convince him to quit his job, nanami had struggled with an unshakable guilt. he felt…lazy. like he wasn’t contributing to your shared life. as if quitting the corporate world had somehow made him lesser.

you had nearly smacked him across the head when he confessed that. nanami kento? lazy? not contributing? he was the single most productive person you had ever met. you reminded him, loudly and passionately, that not every contribution needed to be measured in income or tasks completed. that there was deep, meaningful work in taking care of the life you'd built together. that he had always deserved softness, too.

he still had his moments of doubt. but now, he channeled them into what he could control. order. care. precision. he kept a bullet journal—the kind that could convert a disorganized soul on sight. it was pristinely kept: straight lines, color-coded tabs, neat boxes to check off with a smooth black pen. unlike your own journal, which was...more interpretive in nature. your diary had concert tickets and fruit stickers tucked between pages, long-winded odes to nanami’s biceps scrawled next to rants about fictional characters and lipstick swatches. his was a blueprint for the day. yours was a fever dream. and yet he loved it—loved you—so deeply he didn’t dare change a thing.

his emotions didn’t need pages. he had you. his heart belonged in the way he folded your socks. today’s list was written last thursday. he’s already ahead of schedule. he starts upstairs, stripping the bed of sheets and the three extra blankets you required to feel comfortable. he throws them in the washer with your favorite lilac-scented detergent. he preps the next load before the first one even starts, separating laundry with care bordering on scientific. the previous night’s load, already dry, is folded and put away with mechanical precision. your blouses are ironed, sleeves crisp and ready for the week ahead.

while in the closet, he notices a pair of your heels—scuffed. he doesn’t hesitate. out comes the polish and buffer. by the time he’s done, they’re immaculate. he dusts the bedroom. cleans the bathroom. reorganizes your skincare and makeup for ease of access. the candle in there—burnt down to a stub—is replaced with one of your favorites: citrus and basil, a fresh brightness even in the dead of winter. the paperback on your nightstand, left open and face-down with its spine bent (a sight that used to make him wince), is now neatly bookmarked and placed beside your pillow.

nothing escapes him. every corner of your shared home is touched by his hands, cleaned and maintained and tended to with quiet, devoted affection. he doesn’t consider it "work." this is care. this is love, made manifest in folded sheets and citrus wax. 

he moves to the kitchen next. washes the breakfast dishes. wipes the counters. sprays lavender mist into the air and lights another candle. before he met you, before he moved in with you, nanami never imagined living like this. his concept of a “successful life” was sterile and metallic—money, penthouse, cold glass towers. but the first time he stepped foot into your place, with its stained-glass lamps and chaotic blanket nests and dangerously excessive candle collection, something in him shifted. this wasn’t just a place to live. it was a home. and now, it was his home. and just like he took care of his wife, nanami took care of his home.

later, he works out. of course he does. it keeps him grounded, focused, sane. you fawn over the results with a delight that still manages to surprise him, like you don’t expect him to blush anymore when you bite your knuckle and ogle his arms. he runs in shorts that you once called “illegal” and a t-shirt that sticks to his back. sometimes he runs shirtless. not in public. he has standards—and no audience but you is worth the scandal.

saturdays are his favorite. when you run with him, taunt him, throw yourself on his sweaty back with zero shame. when you lick salt off his collarbone and call him “dangerously edible.” he laughs. he’s also suffering. in a good way. he shakes the thoughts away. focus.

he heads to the farmer’s market, cloth bags in hand, route already planned in his head. he stops by the bakery stand to talk flour ratios and rises with the vendor, who recognizes him by name now. he pauses at the humane society tent. doesn’t linger. you’ve been begging for a cat lately. he’s trying to stay strong. then he sees a fluffy calico curled up in a little ball. he looks away immediately. nope. not today. he is not getting a cat today. he steels his resolve and walks home. 

more laundry. more journaling. he plans meals for the week—one of his favorite rituals. he lets himself feel a little smug. everything is under control. until he walks into the kitchen and remembers. your lunchbox. still on the counter. he sighs. picks it up. you’d texted him only five minutes earlier: "I forgot my lunch :[ I was so looking forward to that sandwich.” silly, silly girl. of course he’s going to bring it to you.

he drives over with a small smile and zero annoyance. if anything, he’s grateful for the excuse. you meet him at the curb with a radiant grin, hopping into the passenger seat like he’s your getaway driver. you’ve taken off your cardigan, and your hair’s been pulled up, exposing your neck and arms and that glint in your eye that always makes his pulse skip. and the heels. those damn heels. he has to focus very, very hard to not to stare. but he does anyway. 

you devour the sandwich right there, humming your approval with every bite. he hands you the water bottle from the cupholder. “drink,” he says gently.

you groan, “ugh, why do you have to be so responsible all the time, kento?” but you’re smiling, and he’s helpless against it.

he shrugs. “one of us has to be, sweetheart.”

you make a pleased little sound and lean against his shoulder. he allows himself to bask. twenty minutes in your presence is enough to refill him for the rest of the day. you’re a goddess, and he’s your humble servant. he’ll take crumbs. he’ll take your leftover lip gloss and soft laughter and “accidental” thigh brushes when you shift in the seat. you kiss his cheek before hopping out. he doesn’t start the car until you’re out of sight.

he turns to the passenger seat. it still smells like your perfume. then he sighs, spots the lid to your water bottle left sitting in the cupholder, and smiles. old habits die hard. you will forget something everywhere you go. he’ll scold you about rushing later. for now, he’s just happy.

when nanami returns to the house, it’s still home—but still, without you in it, it feels hollow in a way he tries not to think too deeply about. the air is quiet. still. you’d only just kissed his cheek twenty minutes ago, but already, he misses you. he tells himself not to dwell. still, the ache settles low in his chest, familiar and persistent. he doesn’t like being idle, not when he starts thinking too much. not when his thoughts turn to things he doesn’t want to name—irrational worries about not being enough, about you waking up one day and deciding this isn’t what you need anymore. you work so hard, after all. you make things happen. you move the world. and he...keeps the spice rack alphabetized.

you’ve never said anything to make him feel this way. on the contrary—you’re painstakingly kind, endlessly reassuring. you’d never be disappointed in him. never shame him for slowing down, for stepping back, for choosing a life that’s softer, more deliberate. but old wounds whisper, and nanami is a man who has always been his own harshest critic.

what he doesn’t understand—what you’ve tried to tell him a hundred times in a hundred ways—is that you need him now. that somehow, you lived an entire life before him, but you can’t remember how. that your husband taking care of you, anticipating your every need, keeping your life from falling apart in all the ways you don’t have time to see—that’s what gets you through the day. how did you ever survive without him? he doesn’t know. he doesn’t let himself linger on that either. instead, he works.

he deep-cleans the stovetop and the oven, scrubbing every crevice with focused determination. he pulls out the spice rack and reorders it—alphabetically, then by cuisine, because he’s a perfectionist and you love that about him. he’s printed custom labels for everything: cinnamon (ceylon), smoked paprika (hungarian), za’atar (imported). he wipes down the insides of drawers, then fixes the loose one that’s been catching lately. he replaces the kitchen faucet filter and oils the front door hinges. updates the home maintenance log tucked neatly into a drawer.

by the time he starts prepping sourdough, the sun’s slanted low across the floor. it filters through your stained-glass lamp and turns the kitchen gold. this recipe’s new—something he found in a baking forum he checks occasionally. different hydration ratio, different shaping method, new blend of flours. a hint of citrus in this one, something he knows you’ll love. it won’t be ready until tomorrow—good sourdough can’t be rushed—but he smiles as he preps it. he can already picture you breaking off a piece with your fingers, humming in approval. the thought alone makes him light up. nanami is quietly, blissfully happy. and he has you to thank for that. and thank you he will.

he starts dinner next—something you’d offhandedly mentioned craving earlier in the week, half-asleep, your voice muffled against his chest. you probably don’t even remember saying it. he does. of course he does. he listens like that. cares like that. knows you like that.

he times it perfectly. dinner will be hot and plated at exactly 5:30 p.m.—early, yes, but nanami insists on an early evening for your sake. he wants you in bed by 9:00 sharp on weeknights. you hate mornings. you don’t need to be more sleep-deprived. not if he can help it.

now, finally, he allows himself to sit. he sinks into the couch with a book—something dense and intellectually satisfying, a translated work of eastern european literature with tiny font and no chapter breaks. he’s got one of your throw blankets draped over his lap, soft and mismatched against the clean, minimal lines of the living room. he reads. he also checks your location. not obsessively. just...periodically. casually. he tells himself it’s practical. safety-oriented. (he’s lying. he just misses you.) he checks the time. he reads a little more. checks again. his finger taps the edge of the page, eyes drifting to the soft glow of his screen. you’ll be home soon.

he’s stirring the soup on the stove when he hears the garage door shut, then the sound of the front door opening. “namiii, m’home,” you call, voice lilting through the house. it makes his chest ache, in the best way. you sound so lovely. so tired. so his. he could cry, just from the way you say his name. and silly girl—he already knew you were home. he clocked it the second you left the office. still, he abandons the pot on the stove and strides to the front hall.

he meets you at the door, takes your purse from your shoulder and hangs it neatly. then he bends down and kisses you until your knees go soft and your sighs melt right into his mouth. you always make those sweet, airy noises when he kisses you first, like you’re surprised every time. he could do this for hours. sometimes, he does. but for now, he pulls back and drops to his knees—again—a quiet echo of this morning’s ritual. he slips your heels off, cradles them delicately in his hands, and then lifts you into his arms before you can protest. you squeal, whining with a sleepy pout, "I can walk up the stairs, nami…”

you always call him that when you’re sleepy. he loves it. but still—he just clicks his tongue, shakes his head. “let me.” he’ll take care of everything for his billionaire wife. after all, you’ve made him the happiest little househusband in the world. he’d do anything for you.

he sets you down gently in the bedroom, tucks your shoes into their rightful place in the closet, and fetches your favorite comfy clothes. you’re starfished on the bed, face-down, groaning into the freshly washed sheets like they’re heaven. he starts the shower—hotter than he can stand, just how you like it—and presses a kiss to your temple.

“dinner will be ready when you’re done,” he murmurs. he loves when you’re freshly showered. loves knowing he’s taken care of you, start to finish. you work so hard. you give so much. and now, he gets to make you clean and full and soft.

sometimes you eat at the table. on warm nights, out on the balcony. when you’re sick or sad, he brings dinner to the bed and ignores how it messes the sheets. he’ll wash them again anyway. but tonight? tonight, you’re affectionate. you tell him you missed him. that it didn’t matter that you saw him at lunch—because you missed him before that, and after that. you curl up in his lap while you eat. spoonfuls of warm soup, every bite met with praise: so good, incredible, he’s a genius, a chef, a miracle worker.

this is the part of the evening where you praise him endlessly. he used to try and cut you off, tell you he was just doing what needed to be done. that you deserved it. that it wasn’t a big deal. he doesn’t stop you anymore. not when your voice is that sweet. not when you pepper kisses across his face and tell him how good the house smells, how excited you are for tomorrow’s bread, how you need a vacation just to spend every waking second with him. you call him handsome, strong, perfect. you say you’re desperately, stupidly, irremediably in love with him. he squirms. he blushes. but you’re not teasing. you never are. that’s what makes it worse. you’re sincere. honest. brutally so. and you won’t let him wriggle out of your arms without hearing it.

after dinner, while he’s still tucked into the chair, you slip away—quiet as a mouse but not quiet enough. you make it all of five minutes into doing the dishes before he appears in the doorway, arms folded, already displeased. he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t need to. he walks over, firm but unhurried, and before you can launch into your rehearsed defense—“just a few plates, I promise, nami, let me help—”—his hand closes gently around your arm and turns you. you barely register it until your cheek is pressed into his chest, until his warmth surrounds you like a blanket you didn’t know you needed. 

and just like that, you’re undone. your shoulders slump. your arms go limp. your whole body sighs in defeat—but it’s a sweet kind of surrender, the kind that only he can pull from you. all at once, you're smaller. sleepier. soft and warm and in love. he smells like spices and soap. the soft cotton of his shirt holds your temple. his fingers are moving slowly across your back, soothing little circles. you cling to him out of habit, cheek smooshed against his sternum, the tension melting from your limbs.

“this is a dictatorship,” you mumble. he hums. noncommittal. he knows it is. you’ve called it that before.  “you’re gonna get burnt out,” you say, quieter now, words thick with sleep and guilt. “you’re gonna wear yourself out doing everything…”

his chin rests against the top of your head. "I won’t.”

“you could let me do some things,” you say, even softer. "I can wash a dish, y’know. fold a towel. vacuum. occasionally.”

his arms tighten just slightly around you, like he’s afraid you’ll try to wriggle away. "I know you can,” he says. “but I like doing this for you.” you try to argue again, but he shushes you gently with a kiss to your hairline. “let me take care of you,” he whispers. “just tonight.” it isn’t just tonight. you both know that. but you nod. because the truth is, you don’t want to fight him on it. not really.

it’s his devotion that tames you. his steadiness. his quiet pride in being the one you trust enough to collapse into. and it always gets you like this—pliable, drowsy, obedient in a way you aren’t for anyone else. you press your forehead harder into his chest like you’re trying to fuse into him. and oh, how he loves that. how he craves it. he rocks you slightly as he finishes the dishes. you stay wrapped around him the whole time, arms slung around his waist, your head bobbing with every slow sway. the sounds of running water and clinking porcelain fade into a background lullaby. rosy-cheeked. hair slightly tangled. a sleepy, beautiful mess. “you’re gonna spoil me,” you murmur, avoiding his loving gaze. 

he brushes a speck of dust off your collarbone, kisses your temple. “that’s the plan.” you huff and roll your eyes and…you believe him. because with nanami, love isn’t loud. it’s offered. it’s kneeling to take off your shoes. it's soup on the stove and tea by the bed and holding you steady when you’re too tired to hold yourself up. it’s never asking you to earn it. and your soft, trusting surrender? that’s the gift you give him back.

he lifts you up onto the counter like a child, still damp from your shower, skin warm and lotioned, hair pulled back, fuzzy socks on your feet. he cleans the kitchen around you while you swing your legs, watching him. he preps your coffee setup for tomorrow, gets out your favorite breakfast tea. he thrives in this.

and the whole time, you tell him everything. your meeting. the nonprofit update. the best and worst parts of your day. he listens, attentive and quiet. he sees your tiredness and tries not to let guilt creep in. this is what you want. what makes you happy. you’ve told him that a million times.

you go on a walk. the sun is still hanging on, soft and golden. you ask about his day now. he tells you—about the farmer’s market, the old man he chatted with, the cat he saw loitering around the humane society’s tent. you beg for the cat. promise him the world if he lets you bring it home. he almost gives in. he will, eventually. “...I'll think about it,” he says. he’s been thinking about it. he’s always thinking about what you want and how he’ll find a way to give it to you. 

back home, you smell like lilacs and wind. he heads upstairs to grab your book and favorite blanket while you brew tea. normally he’d insist on doing it for you, but you’re focused, content, and he can’t bear to interrupt. you bring him a cup of his usual—unsweetened chamomile. yours is sugared and creamy, bright and warm. just like you, he thinks. you hand him his cup with a smile that nearly undoes him.

then you both tumble to the couch, legs tangled. your feet over his lap. book in hand. forehead resting on his shoulder. you read like that for a while. your eyes start to close. eventually, you whine—don’t wanna go to bed yet, wanna spend more time with him. but he’s heard this before.

he takes your cups to the sink and guides you to the bedroom—not carrying you, not tonight. you’d fuss and push at him, and he doesn’t want to risk the tears. you cry sometimes when you’re too tired and he overwhelms you with love. he can’t take that. it breaks him. so he’s gentle. calm. steady.

he changes into your favorite pajama pants and cradles you close. your hair is dry now. he runs his fingers through it. presses kisses to your temple. whispers sweet little things. how much he loves you. how proud he is. how you’ve given him everything he never dared hope for. you always say he does more for you than you do for him. he ignores that. he doesn’t believe it. you give. every day. every hour. and he will spend the rest of his natural life giving it all back.

he’ll make you sourdough french toast in the morning. ginger-lemon tea. it’ll be a new day, and it will be good. he holds you tight as you fall asleep, tracing your back exactly how you like. you’re out within minutes. he stays awake just a little longer, arms around you, nose tucked into your hair. when the alarm goes off in the morning, your arms are wrapped around him. just like always.

screaming crying throwing up. nanami is my husband, I scream as they carry me back to my white, padded room.

[witchbitchlovesdilfs]

Tease

Jack Abbot x f!reader

synopsis: you can hardly concentrate when jack has his readers on

warnings: smut, oral (f), cuts off before it gets real good (sorry), unspecified age gap, language, alcohol

words: 1.3k

a/n: my first smutty fic. hope y'all like it!

mdni below the cut

Jack Abbot is a tease, and you’re his favorite target. He has to know what he’s doing, sliding on those damn reading glasses every time you enter the room. He must notice the way your thighs clench together, or else he’d stop doing it. 

In reality, Jack is completely oblivious to his effect on you. At first, he wasn’t sure about his feelings towards you - he felt the heat rise to his cheeks whenever you stepped into his line of sight, the way his pants tightened when you took control in the OR - but you were three quarters his age. It felt wrong. 

Wrong when he patted your shoulder when you saved a life, proudly telling you that you did a good job.

Wrong when you sat next to him on one of the park benches after a shift.

Wrong when your fingers brushed while reaching for the same tool.

When Robby started noticing, he realized he had a staring problem. And so did you. At first, every time you caught him looking, you immediately turned away to busy yourself with someone’s chart or pretend you were taking notes. But after a few weeks, you began to maintain eye contact.

And God was that hot. 

The first time you met his gaze and held it was after a successful but difficult procedure. You’d been arguing with Walsh about whether you made the right call, and he’d come flying in like he sensed your distress. Maybe he did. 

Desperate to prove your point and your worth, you turned to him, looking him dead in the eyes and explaining why you made the choice you did. Jack was frozen under your gaze, studying every particle in your eyes, but he coughed himself out of the daze and commended you for your speedy decision. He rushed out of the room, desperate to hide his blush, as you turned to rub it in Walsh’s face.

The next time you made eye contact was after hours, sitting at a bar with a few other doctors and nursing some beers. You made it there first, squeezing yourself beside Shen and Ellis and chatting about your days. You looked up when Jack slid into the booth across from you, sighing as he finally gave his leg a break. Your eyes met, and you were a goner.

That night, Jack walked you home under the premise of you being drunk. You weren’t drunk - you weren’t even tipsy - and you told him this pointedly, but he insisted anyway. When you arrived at your front porch, you bit your lip and met his eyes again. He couldn’t hide the lust behind them, and you couldn’t ignore it. Dragging him inside, you showed him that the two of you could feel so right.

Several weeks later, and here you are: leaning against the nurses’ station in the ED with a water bottle in your hand and a scowl on your face. When the two of you are together, Jack sticks to wearing his readers as little as possible: you think he’s scared it makes him seem older. But when he’s in the ED, he hardly takes them off - only to exchange them for those surgery goggles. 

You huff.

Dana picks up on your mood immediately. “Horny?”

Your head turns so fast you think you might need to get checked for whiplash. “I’m sorry?”

Dana waves you off. “Salt and Pepper over there’s got you all worked up.”

You gape at her. “I’m not horny,” you refute. “I’m admiring.” You take a sip of your water.

“Admiring his dick,” Dana cracks, and you cough on your drink. Jack, standing across the ED talking to Robby, immediately turns to check on you. You wave him off, embarrassed. “Oh my God, no.”

“Oh come on,” Dana huffs. “Everyone knows the two of you are dating.”

Patting your chest to soothe your lungs, you gawk at her. “What? How?”

She turns back to her computer and begins to type. “Us nurses notice everything.”

“So much for privacy,” you mumble, saying goodbye before grabbing a clipboard and making a hasty exit to curtain two.

And of course Abbot comes in after you, asking about the patient’s stats and taking the clipboard with a nod. He slips on his readers, and you drop onto the stool by the patient’s bed. Jack quirks his brow but says nothing as you will your heart to stop beating so hard.

“You can send him home,” Jack says, handing the clipboard back. Your fingers brush, and you flinch. Jack notices, and his lips crack into a smirk. Leaning forward, he whispers in your ear, “Meet me in the empty bay when you’re done.” 

You can’t hold back the gasp that escapes you. 

Jack steps out of the room with a wink.

When you slip into the empty bay of the hospital, it’s dark, and you wonder if Jack even showed. Wandering the halls, you shriek when a hand reaches out to grab you, relaxing when you recognize the calluses and veins. “Hi,” you manage, letting him pin you against a wall. He remains silent, studying you, his gaze stuck on yours as he tries to figure you out. 

“You’re horny,” he says finally, and your eyes widen.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” you huff.

Jack grins, leaning close and brushing his lips over your throat. “What’s got you all riled up, sweetheart?”

“You!” you groan, moving your hands to his shoulders to support your wobbly legs. “You and those fucking glasses.”

Jack pulls back in surprise. “My readers?”

You nod, moving your hand to fiddle with the glasses hanging from the neck of his scrub top. “How come you don’t wear them around me?”

He runs a hand through his hair in exasperation. “I’m an old man, doll. And you’re-”

“I’m hot and bothered,” you cut him off, lifting the glasses and setting them on his nose. “It’s unfair. You’re unfair.”

Jack smirks at this. “I’m unfair? Really?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out.

“Wasn’t so unfair when I was eating you out last night, was I?” he begins to lower himself to his knees, and your jaw drops in surprise. “Didn’t drag it out; let you get what you wanted.” He settles on the floor, looking up at you in those damn glasses, and you swear your heart stops. 

Jack’s hands move to fiddle with the string of your scrubs, and you stumble as the lust kicks in. Steadying you, Jack lowers your pants to your ankles before bringing his lips to your thighs and kissing them teasingly. He sucks on the skin just below your panties, and you moan in desperation as he takes the waistband between his teeth and begins to draw your underwear down…down until your perfect cunt it in view. 

Jack presses a single kiss to your clit, and you startle. You can feel his grin as his hands move to your hips to hold you in place. “Do you want me to be fair?” he asks, breath fanning your lips and sending a shudder through your spine. “Or do you want me to treat you like the needy slut you are?”

“God, Jack,” you moan, taking his hair in your fist but letting him be in control. 

He looks up at you, his glasses already fogged by breath and heat, and drags his tongue through your pussy lips. “I guess I’ll have to start wearing the glasses more often,” he whispers before taking the pebble of your clit between his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours.

All you can do is nod and let him have his fun.

a/n: pain relief pt 3 is next on my list. coming tomorrow?!

[allfearstofallto]

Also wanting to write a yandere historical au!! Like so bad!! Like imagine...

[Part 2] [Part 3]

Spoiled Prince! Scaramouche who gets whatever he desires as the next in line for the throne. He needlessly torments you, his favorite maid to pick with. He knows that you can't run away, not while you're so poor and desperate. You're at his mercy, his every beck and call until you decide that you'd rather live on the rat infested streets than in his palace any longer. But you quickly begin to notice that the streets are littered with more than rodents, when you are made aware that Scaramouche has sicked the palace guards on you. Dragged back to the mansion, where he waits for you with a scowl. How dare you think you can run away from him?

Hero of the Nation, Knight! Childe who was already popular with the ladies for his good looks long before he slayed the dragon tormenting the kingdom, but now he was bombarded with admiration. Yet he still chases you, the baroness with what you and others assume is nothing special to your family's name. You ignore his constant bombardments of gifts and love letters thinking them to be jokes at your expense. Why would he want you, when the princess, the jewel of the city, has asked for his hand three times over? He practically goes mad with rage when he finds out you're arranged to be married to someone else. You accept being betrothed to another, yet you won't take him?

Arranged Husband! Diluc who you're weary of. Your father assured you that he was the most suitable marriage candidate for your family that was running low on funds, and he always seemed disinterested, almost scared of you. You're wed to him a mere three months after meeting him and with only two letters exchanged between the two of you. Moved into an unfamiliar palace, you try to wander the halls as normal, while avoiding your also unwilling husband. Until you stumble upon a room with a door slightly ajar. Your husband stands in it, surrounded by portraits of you on the wall that you never posed for, underwear and garments that had gone missing, and your bed linens from the night before. It begs the question, who did you marry?

I'm so sorry...I've been reading A LOT of reincarnated as a villainess manwhas...

[angrythingstarlight]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DJt1UWoxhCl/?igsh=M3drNndlcTdsYXQy

This is such a Bucky and sweet Bee thing 😂🥹🥰 like did you ghostwrite or manifest this reel 😅

Bucky and our sweet Bee have been co-conspirators since she was born.

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader, daughter nicknamed Bumblebee

CW: Fluff

WC: 1k

A/N: Part of the Bumblebee series.

You have to keep a constant eye on these two because the second you’re not paying attention, they’re up to something. Running off to some store or looking up how much a baby highland cow costs. And how to sneak said baby highland cow into the house.

Last week, you overhead them plotting ways to get you on the jet so they could spring an impromptu vacation to the Maldives on you. Bucky tossed out the idea of simply tossing you over his shoulder and taking you on the jet. Bee approved. And what Bee wants, Bee gets. Or so Bucky told you as he carried you to the plane.

The next night all of you were at a new restaurant, you wait until the orders placed and the drinks on their way to go the restroom. You leave Bee digging through your purse for her stash of crayons while Bucky places a few cloth napkins in front of her.

You're gone for less than five minutes. Just five.

You come back to an empty table and a wide eyed, slightly nervous waiter telling you that your husband and child will be back soon.

Bucky has Bee answer the phone when you call. The conversation is all too familiar. They’ve done this before.

He listens in, ignoring the salespeople rushing around him trying to locate the exact pieces he custom ordered before the jet landed.

“Hi, mommy. I can’t tells you. It’s our secrets. Okays. Yeah. My favorites too. Okays, I tells you a wittle bit. We gonna gets you—waits. Hi Papa. Okays. Mommy, we—we gonna sees you laters. Bye. Loves you.”

She hangs up, leaving you chuckling into your glass of wine.

In all fairness, Bucky doesn’t make you wait too long. The appetizers arrive just as your mobster strolls back in, everyone watching him make his back to the table.

You can’t blame them for staring. There’s something about him that’s magnetic, drawing attention effortlessly. Maybe it’s because he looks so damn good in his dark grey suit, tattoos peeking past his sleeves, and that signature smirk on his bearded face. Could be the way he’s attentively doting on the little girl in his arms that has every woman in this place swooning. Bee is adorable in her fluffy white and pink striped dress, her head tilted back as she talks, a small white bag with a black logo in her hand.

Bee stops mid-sentence when she sees you, a smile brightens her face. “Hi Mommy.”

“Hey sweet Bee.”

Bucky leans down, setting her on the chair next to you, leaning over to sweep his lips across yours. “Hi Malyshka,” he murmurs with a teasing grin.

“James.” Your eyes roll, but he can read you better than his favorite book, he knows you’re happy to see him and that you’re curious about what they did. He gives you another kiss before he takes his seat. His blue eyes flicker between you and Bee. She’s squeezing the bag between her hands, brimming with excitement, he gives her a brief nod.

Bee empties the bag on the table, two small velvet boxes tumble out, one knocks against your plate with a faint clink. “Oops. I gots it,” she says, picking them up and holding them in front of your face. Little fingers wrapped around cobalt blue cloud your vision. “Prise!”

Leaning back, you take one and pop it open. Your heart melts. Just gone in a puddle of sheer happiness. In your periphery, you see Bucky, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, a pleased grin breaking through.

You want to appear unfazed, tease him a bit, tell him he can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep spoiling you like this.

But you can’t. The words won’t form.

Not when you’re gazing down at a pretty bumblebee locket, your baby’s initials etched into the hand-carved wings. Bee snaps open the other box, revealing a heart-shaped locket, lined with gorgeous pink diamonds.

“Its for us Mommy,” she says, switching the boxes and opening her locket. You gently trace a finger over the photos of you and Bucky. These are from New Year’s, you let Bee use your camera to take pictures of the city before the countdown. It wasn’t until later that you found the ones she took of you two. “You loves it?”

“I do.” Tears prick at your eyes as whatever is left of your melting heart warms your chest.

Bucky’s smirk fades into something softer, sincere. His hand brushes down your arm and he rests his chin on your shoulder. “Look at yours Malyshka,” he asks, voice deep and thoughtful.

The locket opens with a soft snick. You recognize the photos. You have them on your desk. Baby Bee and her toothless grin, the one you could never get enough of. Bucky, the night he proposed, looking up at you, the passionate emotions captured in his eyes always make your breath hitch.

“Its perfect,” you breathe out.

“Always is,” Bucky responds, his gaze drifting across your face. He can’t imagine anything more perfect than you. And little Bee.

“Thank you. This is amazing.”

Bee wiggles in her chair, legs swinging. “You welcomes.”

Bucky says nothing, happy to let his baby take all the credit. He places the locket around your neck and does the same for Bee. Topped off with a kiss on the lips for you, one on the forehead for her.

Dinner goes by too fast. Cherished memories you’re going to store away, right next to all the other incredible moments in your life. You take it all in. The delicious food is made even better by the bite or two stolen from each other’s plates. Excellent wine. Bee’s apple juice. Your hand in Bucky’s. His arm around your shoulders. The sounds of the band unnoticed over shared laughter and Bee’s wildly imaginative stories about Mr. Tato and Elmo.

And the heart-shaped locket warming against your skin as the sun sets.

Life is good.

You’ll never be able to stop these from conspiring against you, but you’re about to one-up them. Give them something that can’t be bought in stores.

[inkydelusions]

written in the stars - 2.1k

summary: spencer’s been spending too much time with morgan and now he’s a flirt. reader had an interesting conversation with a fortune teller and now it seems everyone around her is plotting to make her fate come true. c.warning: bau!reader x bold/flirty spencer. reader has their fortune teller on speed dial. tension. lots of it. suggestive content? maybe? nothing too serious and also barely descriptive. everyone knows you about spencer's and reader's mutual crush, and they're trying to give them a little push. a/n: this literally came to me as i was brushing my teeth last night, so enjoy it!! reblogs are appreciated !! <3

part two !!

“You’re kidding.” You huffed a laugh. Morgan, who was resting against your desk with his arms crossed and a cheeky smile on his lips, simply nodded. “That many?”

“Never underestimate the power of these, baby.”

“Ew, Morgan. Put those away.” You jokingly cover your eyes, as if the sight of Morgan's biceps was the scariest thing ever. “Don’t ever do that again. I mean it. It’s inappropriate.”

You hear a snort from the other side of the wall that separates your desk from Spencer's. His light and yours are the only ones still around you.

The rest of the team already headed out a while ago. Emily left the office in a rush; said she was done for the week and needed some alone time. Hotchner didn’t specify, just left with a king and stern goodbye. And Garcia made sure to let everyone know that she was going to spend the weekend with kevin. The way she had said it—plus the way she’d wiggled her eyebrows as she said it—was enough to know you shouldn’t ask any questions.

“Ha, ha. Funny.” He raised from your desk and picked up his stuff from his own. With his jacket hanging from his arm he turned to both you and Spencer, who was still working on some paperwork. “Anyway. If you'll excuse me, I have a date to attend to.”

“With which one of the twelve girls that gave you their numbers last night?” you asked, but he didn’t answer. He leaned down to murmur something to Spencer that sounded a lot like good luck, boy, and clapped his back before he started towards the elevator. Once inside, he winked at you just in time before the doors closed. “How the hell does he do it?”

Spencer raised his head from the stack of papers he’d been reading for the past ten minutes. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he said, “Well, he’s objectively attractive. Athletic. And he knows how to read people, which means that he knows what to do and what to say to appeal to them. I'd say he has the perfect combination of attributes to make him an excellent suitor.”

“Suitor, huh?” He shrugs. “So, what are your plans for tonight?”

You laid back on your chair, playing with the blue pen you were holding in your hands. Spencer watched as the small tube danced between your fingers, twirling clumsily before clattering against your wooden desk.

“I don't have any.”

“Really? You don’t have a never ending list of phone numbers to call when you need a date?”

He stared at you for a second, wondering if you were joking.

“No. No, I don't.”

You pouted. “That’s a shame.”

Why? he wanted to ask. Why would you care if he had dates or if his phone was full with numbers of random girls he met under even more random circumstances. But most importantly, he wanted to ask why you’d seemed so relieved when he’d said no.

“Do you?” he ventured. “Have a collection of phone numbers to hit on Friday nights, that is.”

“Oh, yeah. definitely.” You’d swear you could see him visibly cringe at your answer. “One of them is my favorite pizza place right around the corner from my apartment. The owner and I are already on a first name basis. I'd say that’s promising.” Spencer looked down to his stack of papers to hide a grin. “The other is the number of my personal fortune teller. I call her every three weeks to see what the stars have in store for me.”

Spencer huffed a laugh, feeling a heavy weight lift off his shoulders.

“You don’t actually believe in that, do you?” he asked.

“I'm not sure what I believe.” You shrugged. “I know I have fun talking to her, though.”

Before you could contain it, a laugh slipped past your lips at the thought of your last session with the fortune teller. Her read had been too off, so terribly wrong you’d jokingly threatened to sue her.

“What?” Spencer asked, smiling like a fool. That was the effect your laugh used to have on him. “What is it?”

“Nothing. I just remembered something the fortune teller told me some days ago.”

“What? Did she promise you’d be rich by the end of the month?” he joked.

You leaned over your desk, eyes staring straight into Spencer's. He noticed the vibrant spark in your eyes, the one that always let him know what you were about to say was going to crack him up, and he almost wiggled in his chair, all excited.

“Hey guys. What are you still doing here?” JJ came out of her office as she finished buttoning her coat.

“JJ, hey! what are you doing here?” you asked in return, confused. “I thought you’d left hours ago.”

 “Oh, no. I was finishing up some papers for the upcoming week. And I was waiting for Will to come pick me up.” She walked down straight to your desks.

“Will's in town?” Spencer asked.

JJ nodded, smiling broadly. “He came over for the weekend. We were going out for dinner tonight.”

“That's awesome. have fun, you two.”

“Thanks.” She beamed at you and started walking to the elevator. Something made her stop in her tracks, though. “Actually… why don’t you guys come with us?”

That got Spencer's attention.

“Are you sure?” you asked, frowning. “You don’t think it could be weird?”

“Weird? no, no. It'll be fun. like a double date!”

That has you laughing. Not in mockery, but out of nervousness. You’ve never been on a double date. You haven’t even had that much experience with individual ones. You had dreamt about going out on dates to fancy restaurants, to beautiful parks and museums. and most of the time, your companion was a certain BAU agent known for his analytical mind and his tendency to yap in the most inconvenient of moments. But that’s not here nor there.

In your experience, dating has never been that fun. Talking with someone for hours just to realize with every passing minute that the person in front of you was simply not it. They were never the one. Because the one was probably sitting on his couch reading something written by an ancient philosopher or watching star trek—or whatever it was cute nerds like him liked to watch in their free time.

“That’s… that’s ridiculous,” you said, tone faintly wavering.

At the same time, Spencer said “it could be a good idea.”

Your words seemed to surprise him, making him blink several times and readjust his glasses again. Just like his answer made your eyes open wide and look away from him.

“I mean… as we discussed, none of us have other plans for tonight. Besides, this could be a great moment to catch up with Will, right?” He turned to JJ for support. She smiled proudly at him before turning her eyes to you.

“Of course. It’ll be fun.”

She was smiling in a way that had you wondering if maybe your discreet glances towards your teammate hadn’t been all that discreet. She was looking at you like she knew why, all of the sudden, you were blushing and shaking like a teenager.

“Well, then. If it’s okay with you guys…”

JJ waved her hand around. “Oh, Will won’t mind it. Besides, he loves you two. He’ll be happy to see you again. He's actually waiting down in the lobby.”

And so Spencer and you started packing up your stuff. you could feel his gaze on you the whole time, like he was listening to all your tells. You prayed that he didn’t notice the way you almost dropped your bag twice because you were fumbling with the strap. Without needing to look at him, you could feel him standing right next to you, so close you could smell his cologne. You thought he was just walking up to the elevator, but then you heard him say, “JJ, you go ahead. I just remembered, we still have to finish something before we leave. it won’t take long, I promise.”

JJ nodded, a shadow of a mischievous smile on her lips. “Sure. I'll see you guys in a bit.”

You’d have swore your mind was playing tricks because you thought you saw JJ wink at you just like Morgan before as the metalic doors shut before her.

“Do you need help with that?” Spencer asked, seeing you struggle with the folder you’d been trying to fit into your bag.

“No, don’t worry. It's fine. See? done.” The paper is now all crumpled and the corners are folded inwards, but hey, at least it’s inside the bag.

There was a beat of silence and you felt him get closer, just barely. The points of his converse were merely an inch away from the side of your boot. With the back of his fingers and with so, so much care, Spencer lifted your chin up so you both were staring eye to eye. He looked confused, and excited, and maybe a bit hurt. And you wanted to punch yourself because you knew it was your fault, that it had been your words that made him feel like that.

“Can I ask you a question?” His voice was soft, barely a whisper. you could only nod. “Why is the idea of you and me going on a date so ridiculous?”

You bit the inside of your lip, hating that you’d said that. But also extremely surprised at his boldness. Never before had he dared to get so close, to touch you like this, with such care and softness. He took another step, backing you up against your desk. His other hand landed on your hip, helping you keep balance.

you stared right into his eyes, wondering what exactly had happened for him to behave like this with you. He'd always been shy, quiet and reserved. choosing to hide his feelings behind longing stares and awkward smiles as he handed you files and takeaway cups of coffee. So why was he behaving like the lead in a romcom? Not that you were complaining, though. you were pretty much enjoying it, if the bubbly feeling in your belly meant anything.

“You need to stop hanging out with Morgan,” you whispered back. “He's turning you into a flirt, just like him.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Yes.” You wet your lips, eyes breaking apart from his.

“Why?” His voice was full of genuine confusion, his eyebrows knit in a soft frown.

“Because it makes me want to flirt back. That’s why.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Oh, definitely.” You grip the edge of your desk to refrain from holding onto him.

“Why’s that?” His thumb was now tracing the line of your jaw, walking a path up and down and getting dangerously close to your lower lip.

“Because you know what flirting leads to.”

“Dates? Double dates?”

You were thinking of way more private activities, the kind that didn’t involve fancy clothing—or any clothing at all—, but sure, his answer was also true.

“Mhm.” You nodded.

“And would that be so bad?”

Your eyes drop to his mouth out of their own volition. No, no it wouldn’t.

Suddenly, one of your phones started ringing, completely watering down the tiny spark lighting between you two. Spencer fished his phone out of his pocket and answered. And you take the opportunity to take a deep breath. He didn't move an inch, though. His body still pressed against yours, your legs pressed to the edge of your desk. His stare did not break away from yours while he spoke to JJ.

“Yeah, sorry. We’re heading down right now. Sorry.”

He put his phone back in his pocket and took a step back, offering you his hand. You didn’t consider it for longer than a second before taking it and starting towards the elevator with him right behind you. Once inside, giggling like a pair of teenagers, you rested your head against the metallic walls and looked at him from beneath your eyelashes. He stared at you like he’d never seen you before, or at least not like this: all flushed cheeks, excited giggles and sparkly eyes.

“Do you want to know what the fortune teller told me the last time I spoke to her?” he nodded. “that i had a great dating opportunity coming my way.”

With a lopsided smile that was so uncharacteristic of Spencer—and yet it looked so good on him—he hummed and said, “maybe we should start believing what this lady has to say.”

thanks for reading <3 likes & reblogs are appreciated !!