#and how for the first time in such a long while I felt like maybe things might be okay

[madamechrissy]

Pornstar Satoru

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Warnings- mentions of sex and sexwork, masturbation, mentions of drug use, weed smoking, Gojo has an OF hehe, lots of longing, pining, Satoru can't get hard if it's not you, whipped ass Satoru

This will be a FULL fic as a thank you for 11k followers (I can't BELIEVE I'm almost there!?!??) I wanted to show a little preview first, so here are some hcs!! Thank you all sm for following meee <3 Comment to get tagged!

Pornstar Satoru is one of the most famous pornstars there are, hence him constantly wearing jet black shades and hoodies at times, he never knew just who he'd run into that would recognize him. Whether it's his flicks or his OF - he's the top .01 % - he gets a lot of notice, especially in bustling LA. But, he loves what he does, he especially loves watching his abs flex in the camera as he hits one of his lovely costars from the back.

Pornstar Satoru loves making the costars and girls he collabs with actually cum, where they're shaking and squirting all over his latex covered cock. Not that fake shit like he watches them do with other men- no Satoru makes sure to slam that curved tip against their cervix, to roll his thumb right on their clit with the perfect amount of pressure. Perhaps that's the secret to how famous he really is, along with his good looks.

Pornstar Satoru makes so much money from each shoot and is in high demand, so he can have whoever he wants as a co star. They line up to have a chance at him, watching his videos and aching for a chance to feel his cock hitting them deeper than damn near anyone could hit, to say they got to shoot with the Satoru Gojo. This just makes Satoru fuck them harder, smiling right at that camera, as women dream it's really them that have captured his pretty blue eyed gaze.

Pornstar Satoru thinks it's a pretty damn good life, being rich for fucking beautiful women on camera, as he's inhaling a blunt after a threesome shoot with his best friend - and often costar- Pornstar Suguru, as they talk about who got the girl to squirt more, right in the middle of a bouguie party in East LA. Suguru let's out a throaty laugh, while Satoru narrows his blue eyes. 'I had her cumming so hard she was shaking' he says, taking a hit and handing it back to Suguru. 'Nah, that was all for me, did you see...'

Pornstar Satoru stops listening when he sees you enter the room, completely out of place at the coke filled, booze filled party, wearing a pair of black glasses that cover half of your pretty face, and a little nervous look as you stand there, in a cute white pleated skirt and a big oversized sweater. Satoru smacks Suguru on the shoulder then and he coughs up smoke. 'Shit what is it?' Satoru looks back at you, when you're handed a drink, some guy flirting as you look down shyly. 'Who's she?' Suguru blinks a bit curiously. 'I don't know, she's pretty though'

Pornstar Satoru scowls at Suguru who snorts in laughter then. 'Satoru we don't have 'girlfriends' and she... looks like a good girl' your eyes catch his then, across the room, like something shifts as you smile sweetly, before peering at your phone, biting your lip in concentration. 'I'm talking to her' Suguru chuckles as he watches his friend, and Satoru feels his heart race when he comes too close to you, something he can't say he's felt, even pleasing countless beauties, nothing has quite altered him as your sweet turn of lips, as you look down at your converse, so out of place you're fucking adorable. 'Hey sweetheart... Satoru Gojo' he says, introducing himself with ease, expecting you to maybe notice him, get starstruck, fuck women get wet just near him, but you simply grin, and your name whispers through his mind when it spills from your lips.

Pornstar Satoru has you sitting with him later, you fall into easy conversation, you're a little gamer nerd, you love science and the environment, he just bets you were head of your ecology club in college, which you quickly confirm, all while you're in awe of just how beautiful this man is. He's sweet, he's sexy... you feel he shouldn't even be talking to you. You're pretty but... he's experienced so clearly, by every way he moves, he's worldly, so confident, and you've never really left this little part of LA, but the two of you can't stop talking, to the point you forget what brought you here.

Pornstar Satoru laughs with you, as you're sitting side by side, and he lights up a blunt, leaning back on the burgundy couch on the outskirts of the party, inhaling it deep into his lungs. 'Want a hit, sweets?' he murmurs, you take it nervously, putting it to your lips and inhaling a bit, before coughing, covering your mouth. Satoru chuckles, 'you're cute' earning your cheeks heating up. 'Can you tell I don't do this?' you're nervously tapping your leg now. 'Yeah, what does bring you here, doesn't seem your...' 'my scene?' he nods then. 'yeah, that.'

Pornstar Satoru watches avidly as you sip on your drink, wincing at the strong liquor. 'Well, my friend invited me over, but she's running late' Satoru grins now. 'Party time is different, everyone comes late, that's on time. About fifteen minutes late' 'oh no I came early!' you smack your own forehead, giggling along with him. 'Are you like... a model, or an actor?' you ask, eyeing him and his baby blues, the cheekbones so perfect, those lips that wrap the blunt again. 'You could say I'm a bit of both,' he muses, then spits out his drink when you ask 'what are you in!?'

Pornstar Satoru coughs just a bit, he's never been ashamed of what he does, but he's nervous for some reason to tell you. Why, he doesn't know. 'I'm... into some indie flicks' you brighten up then. 'Oh, let me know, I love lowkey films! I bet you're great' Satoru sighs, gulping down the rest of his drink and eyeing your cup. 'Want more?' you frown now, maybe you're asking too much, or offending this actor that you don't recognize him!? You nod, the amount of people around you making you press against this friendly, pretty white haired stranger just a little more.

Pornstar Satoru has another drink, eyeing the sea of bodies undulating in the extravagant mansion, and soon the two of you are dancing together you're cute and so awkward, Satoru's enjoying this far, far too much. He has plenty of costars and fans come up to the two of you, but he's too interested in showing you how to move your hips to pay them any mind, when finally your friend comes. Satoru instantly recognizes her, she's a pretty famous co star he's collabed with on her Onlyfans not long ago. When she sees you giggling and enjoying yourself so much, she damn near drags you away, making Satoru curse.

Pornstar Satoru eyes you when your friend whispers in your ear- 'you really don't recognize him!?' you blink curiously, looking at him more closely. 'Should I?' she sighs then, eyeing Satoru up and down. 'He was in my OF videos, we collabed' you heat up furiously then. 'I never watched your videos! I just subbed to be supportive!' she giggles. 'You're so cute, I thought you at least watched some?' you shake your head nervously. 'I don't really watch, is he... like an OnlyFans guy?' Satoru is back over with Suguru now, while you sip your drink, feeling your body warm up. 'He's the top pornstar there is, the collab was like a dream. He's really sweet but you should know is all, you're kinda...' you glare. 'kinda what?' she giggles again. 'you're just... sweet, emotional, is all'

Pornstar Satoru expects you to be done with him once you find out, after all you just seem innocent, uncorrupted for this city, not the kind of girl to be at this party where lines are being snorted off bodies, and people are naked and jumping in the pools, a heady, wild atmosphere. But you smile at him, as you murmur - 'he's sweet?' to your friend. She nods then. 'He is, but just know... he doesn't date so, it'd only be physical' you frown at that now, that's not something you think you can do, you're about as demisexual as it gets, hence your very limited experience. 'He doesn't date at all?' Your friend gently touches your shoulder. 'No, love, I'd hate to see you hurt'

Pornstar Satoru catches you before you leave later that night, when you are just feeling too out of place, his big hand wrapped around your delicate wrist, earning you looking up at him. He can't stop thinking how pretty your eyes would look rolled back, how good your lips would feel wrapped around his cock, as you relax a bit, turning and looking up. 'Headed out already?' he asks softly, you flush as you remember just what he does for a living, your friend had just described his cock in far too vivid detail. 'It's not really my thing, but I'm glad we met, Gojo' you smile so cute then, leaning up and pecking him on the cheek, his arm wraps your waist as he leans down, inhaling that sweet vanilla scent cloying to your skin.

Pornstar Satoru pulls you in closer, blue eyes staring under snowy lashes. 'Can I... get your number?' Satoru has never asked for a number a day in his life, but he delights in watching you shift nervously, nodding as you tuck your hair behind your ear. 'Yeah, I'd like that' he exchanges numbers, tilting your chin up then, watching the way your eyes dilate, the color spread on your pretty cheeks. 'She told you?' you clear your throat, nodding a bit, still being captured by his fingers. 'I don't judge at all, Gojo, I'd still like to be... friends...' your whisper is met with the most subtle kiss on your lips, shooting desire hot and heavy until Satoru releases you, plump lips smirking- 'sure, sweets, we can be friends'

Pornstar Satoru can't get you off his mind, the feel of your skin on his, the sweet sigh against his lips. He is on a big shoot and - the Satoru Gojo that never gets soft - is having trouble keeping it up, to the amusement of his costar Pornstar Sukuna. Satoru scowls at his comments, just picturing your sweet lips against his for that brief moment. A man who just fucks and fucks, and doesn't feel, is hung up just on some fucking kiss. He has to take a break after pleasing his costar with his fingers, she's cumming so much she doesn't notice, but the directors wonder why he's off. He's in his own dressing room, eyeing the phone, hands shaking as he decides to type a message - 'could you give me a picture, sweets, to save as your caller id?'

Pornstar Satoru finds his cock is right back on hard when you send one quickly, just a cute selfie with a little peace sign, but he sees your glossy fucking lips, the teeth indentations he aches to rub the tip of his cock on, along with just a hint of your breasts. Your nipples press against the thin material of your little tee shirt- Pokemon, he notices, smiling- his cock throbbing. 'Can I get one too?' you're biting that lower lip nervously as you ask, getting a picture of him shirtless then, doing nothing to stifle the curiosity in your mind, your heart racing as you seee his body. 'You at a shoot?' you ask in the messages, he hesitates before answering - 'yes' - and somehow you feel jealous of whoever his costar is. You message a - kill it, Gojo! - despite the feeling in your tummy, little do you know you're drowning his fucking mind when he performs later, feeling the star squirting all over his latex covered cock.

Pornstar Satoru can't stop texting you that week, he can't even get hard if he doesn't look at that picture, and you can't stop your curiosity, when you friend mentions he's doing a live stream. Since Satoru can hardly perform, he's decided to masturbate on live cam, in minutes making more than he'd make in a shoot, all while having your picture propped up. People are chatting, watching, dollars by the hundreds being tipped every moment, fuck he's making way more than he usually would, and he can think of you. He laughs softly, abs flexing as he hits the right angle, reading the comments, making you dripping wet, this isn't what you do!?

Pornstar Satoru is stroking his wet, slick cock that's glistening, up and down with his huge hand, and you feel your pussy clench, breath coming faster, unsure whether to look away or keep staring, meanwhile he's picturing you in all sorts of positions, on your knees, a fucking mating press. He's shutting his eyes for a moment, grinning as the viewers go crazy. 'I know, it's pretty, huh?' he spits right on that long, veiny cock of his, pinching his pink tip and whining, white lashes fluttering open right when he sees a familiar name enter the chat.

Your name.

hehe it'll be a FULL FIC not a drabble/oneshot - if you're interested in getting tagged drop a comment <3

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[katiascraft]

Hi!! Sorry to bother you with a request. Can you make some angsty with miscomunication with happy ending where lando and reader are best friends and kinda like a thing but at the same time he is kinda with magui and then after a while lando and reader start dating and then dts Its drop and she finds out that magui was there when she trough They were already over? Very specific he he and im not good at english im sorry and thank you!

hey anon! I loved this idea sooooo much. i was already thinking about something like this so thank you so very much for your request! and sorry it took this long for me to write it :( i hope you enjoy it <3 (pss your english is very good and your requests will never bother me, they make me happy!) (also I hope it makes sense)

﹙LN4﹚ ── ❝ almost, always ❞

summary: this chapter of y/n’s life is about how lando said there was nobody else for him but then she appeared.

warnings: i used reckless by madison beer to write this one and traitor by olivia rodrigo :( and cried a lot. very angsty. but a happy ending after all. cursing. cheating. insults. please use your imagination along the ride! not proofread.

blog masterlist

You and Lando have been the best of friends since forever. Your older brother, Dante, went to school with George Russell and he has always been really supportive of his driving career. Since you have memory you were playing around at the karting competitions in different places of england and then europe. All of your family was really close to George's family so no doubt you were going to be there for him when he started racing in F2. and that’s exactly when you and Lando met. He was a cute little guy. But a handsome teenager with the most contagious laugh and sparkly ocean blue eyes. You knew that since then, that very first day of competition, you were in love with him.  

And Lando knew it too. He knew the moment he saw your sweet and shy smile directed at him there was no coming back to where things were. You changed his life. You showed him how it was like to love someone. The sun was behind you and it made you look like an angel in his teenage eyes. You were the most beautiful girl he has ever seen. So he knew he didn't have a chance. He kept his feelings and thought that he should be thankful you even talk to him. But you didn’t just talk to him just for talking. You built this magical bond full of love, understanding, admiration. It was healthy. It was safe.

You were inseparable, unbreakable and above all, untouchable. Everyone could see the chemistry. The sparks coming out of you. You had the kind of bond that made people think ‘they must be something more than just friends’. But you both were too scared to do anything about it. You just enjoyed each other's company and it was beautiful that way.

Until it wasn’t anymore. 

Nowaday things between you two are completely different but you were more than sure that if there was a chance to travel back in time, you would. And you would change everything that ruined everything. All the wrong decisions. All the stupid feelings. Her. you would more than gladly erase her. And maybe even erase him too.

Because even though he brought so much joy and love in your life, he also brought a lot of pain and insecurity. He was once your safe place but now you want to be as far away from him as possible. You’re no longer on speaking terms anymore. 

situationships suck ᝰ.ᐟ

(beginning 2023 - middle 2024)

You had convinced yourself what you felt for him was normal. That your heart racing every time he was too close was normal. That the way he looked at your lips when he talked to you was also normal. That the way he looked for you in the crowd every podium was normal. That the way butterflies went in circles in your stomach was normal. That your happiness was coming from his happiness was normal. 

It must be because he has a girlfriend. Luisa. And you like her, right? 

His touch didn’t burn your skin. His fingers didn’t trace circles in them when he was anxious. He didn’t whisper in your ear everytime he was nervous. He didn't ask his team to specifically be allowed to be at the garage close to him. He didn’t introduce you to every single member of the team and everybody knew you. He didn ‘t do all of that when she wasn’t around… because she wasn’t around and you were. 

Lando didn’t know what to do with his feelings. She was his best friend, the girl who got him in and out, through and through. She knew everything about him. She listened. She smiled at him in the sweetest way and made him gifts. When she was around she was the only person that mattered. And sometimes he forgot he had a girlfriend whether she was around or not. It was her, always. But he was a coward and didn’t believe she liked him back that way. She was gorgeous and he was just a dude. He wasn’t special the way he thought she was.

For him, it has always been you. But fear was a cruel thing. He didn’t wanna lose you. He didn’t want to hurt you. He wouldn’t forgive himself. 

So he played along as the loving and caring boyfriend with luisa when you were the only thing in his head. He preferred to stay in your safe bubble of almosts and what ifs rather than fuck it up with you. 

Until that night. The night he knew he couldn’t keep pretending and lose you. He couldn’t keep on lying to luisa. She deserved better. But seeing you with that guy in that little black dress drove him almost insane. You were so close to him, flirting disgustingly. He was red with anger. He wanted to do something but his girlfriend was there and you were supposed to be just that friend of his. His best friend and that was it. He should be happy for you. But he wasn’t. 

So in between the conversation you turned around and saw him staring. Stone face. He was looking straight through you. For a moment you forgot how to breathe. The way his jawline was pressed in a way it made his muscles show even more. His shirt unbuttoned. The lights reflecting on his beautiful eyes. You almost panicked. You could feel he was feeling the same. You knew you weren’t crazy. 

He felt it too. 

You don’t remember how it happened but you ended up on his sheets that night. The way he kissed you so desperately. He broke up with luisa as if it was easy. You didn’t have time to process it at the moment. To see the red flags waving high in the sky. Desire and desperation made it easy to ignore them. He was all your brain could think. His skin against yours. You moaning his name. 

You have waited for that moment your whole life. And you didn’t remember feelings of ecstasy ever before. 

“It’s always been you, yaknow?” His voice was deep and low. He pressed a soft kiss on your neck sending shivers down your spine. His fingers are tracing patterns in your arm. He felt at ease under your scent. 

You remember that night as the most magical night of your life. But you didn’t know that to him it was just another story he would get bored of and throw away.

While you were together, life was the most exciting thing in the world. Road trips, dates at the beach, paddle matches and barbecue with friends, travelling to london to visit his family, party nights, sex, kisses, roses and diamonds. It was perfect. He was the sweetest guy in this world. But there was one thing you wouldn't do. And that was calling him ‘mine’ because he wasn’t yours. You were just ‘friends’. But friends shouldn’t know how you taste, right?

That made you feel so confused. He told you he loved you and made love to you as if it was a promise. But then you were his friend to his family and friends. Just y/n. It was you, yes but not the way you would’ve preferred to be called. 

But then, out of nowhere it seemed, he would flirt with girls at parties in your face. And that’s when everything started going to shit. You didn’t understand what was actually going on. Why was he doing that? If you were so important to him, why would he play with you this way? If he cared so much about you, why would he put you under so much shit? 

But the breaking point was her. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a smile to die for. She was nothing special, just a blonde girl. But I guess blondes always have more fun than the rest of us, and more with that angelic face of hers. That’s when you lost lando. He started talking about her ‘she is nice, you know? I think you would like her’. And then he would stop inviting you to dates, but she would go with him and watch the sunset at max’s yacht. And she started replacing you in every way she could. And you just watched it happen being unable to stop it. You started realizing he didn’t even care about you. You were just another girl on his list and probably never considered you an actual friend. If he did, he wouldn’t have played with you this way. But he did, and it hurt. 

And that’s when everything ended. 

just a friend ᝰ.ᐟ

(july 2024)

“She’s just a friend y/n” he said, fed up with your questioning. You can clearly see in his face that he was so done with this discussion. 

“Lando, for fucks sake, stop lying to me. She clearly isn't” you insisted on entering his room at his Monaco house. 

“I can’t keep up with this y/n. Just stop. I don’t know what else you want me to say” he was getting really annoyed. 

“The truth! Tell me the fucking truth! Was I a joke to you? You never cared, did you? You just wanted to laugh in my fucking face right?” your voice expressed how hurt you were. 

“You’re not a joke y/n” 

You laughed dryly “right, alright. Then what’s her? Max told me lando, you kissed her. And i know you fucked her multiple times, i just know it. Stop pretending you dont know what the fuck is going on when you know exactly what im talking about!” tears started to stream down your face “is this what you wanted? Did you ever care about our friendship? My fucking feelings? I feel so used, it's disgusting lando. I knew you were stupid but I never thought you would be this evil. If you didn’t love me then why did you do all of this?” 

“y/n, i love you” you could see in his face he was now scared. But you didn't care anymore. And didn’t want to know the reasons for it either. 

“No, you don’t lando! If you fucking did you wouldn’t have hurt me this way! I was there for you for fucks sake, i was fucking there for you all of this time! I gave you everything! Everything! And all you ever wanted was to fuck a fucking model?! I can’t believe I was so damn stupid to believe every lie you fed me! Oh god i hate myself so much” 

·y/n, please, calm down. We can talk this-” 

“Do you really are asking me to fucking calm down after what you did?! And you didn't even deny it! You’re so guilty of all of it. You knew! You knew what you were fucking doing and you didn’t care! I hate you, lando. I hate you with every gut i have left” 

“No, no, no. please, y/n. Let me explain. It’s not like that. I do care about you. I just thought you didn’t want to be with me. You became so close to Max I thought you wanted to be with him and…” 

You couldn’t believe your ears. You just couldn’t believe he would really use that as an excuse. “Shut up lando, max is a fucking friend. It was you. It has always been you. Holy shit! I have your fucking letters saying i was all you have ever wanted! How could you? You’re ashamed of me, that's it, right? I'm not as beautiful as I should be for you to call me yours. I'm not a model enough for you, am I? I can't believe it! I'm so stupid” 

“No, y/n is not that, believe me. she isn't you.” he was literally begging on his knees. 

“Don’t be pathetic lando, i won’t ever believe a fucking word you say. You’re a liar. You played me as a toy. Like I was nothing and now you want me to believe you? Hope you are fucking happy with her, and i hope she can make up for what i couldn’t for not being fucking good enough for you” you were so hurt you just had to run from that bedroom, from that house. 

“y/n! Wait! Please!” It was too late. You were already in your mclaren. “I don’t know what I did…” he was left talking alone. And not understanding what he even did. But he knew he already regretted it. 

she. isn't. you.

she must be perfect but I hope you both go to hell ᝰ.ᐟ

(august 2024)

After that day, I didn't leave my bed. The way it all happened so fast. The way he would still lie to you. You hated men. You hated him and everything about him. All you knew from that day was what you could see on social media even though you always put ‘dont show this content’ or ‘i'm not interested in this content’. He lied and told everyone at a fan meeting that he was single, when you knew from Max he already asked her out… unlike with you. 

She seemed nice. She was very beautiful. But you weren’t that evolved yet. You hated her. If she didn’t exist then he would be still yours. It would be you there on holiday in the alps. Oh god, you fucking wanted to be her. She was all you wanted to be. Skinny, blonde, flawless. You wanted everything she had. She was sunkissed, you felt like a vampire. She was shining and you were drowning. She took everything from you and left no crumbs. 

And the worst part is that he seemed to be happy. You are still friends with Pietra and she told you she was nice and that they got along pretty well. And that maybe if  you and lando want to fix it, you all can be a huge group of friends. You fucking hated that idea. It repulsed you. But you weren’t so sure if it was because of her or because of him no more. 

It should be you, it should be you, it should be you. 

You were driving yourself insane stalking her profile. Obsessing with the idea she was everything you were not. You wanted to burn her alive even though the real asshole was him. 

But you loved him first, right? That should matter… Did it matter? Did he think of you? Did he regret it? Did he talk to her about his fears and dreams? Did he share the same joke that was only yours? Did he talk to her in her ear the same way he used to do with you? Was he as obsessed with her as he was with you? Did he feel the same? Was he in love? 

All the questions weren’t letting you have a moment of peace and your brain was really good at torturing you. 

guess my friends were right (you might love her now but you loved me first) ᝰ.ᐟ

(from august 2024 to march 2025)

Life for Lando wasn’t that easy after seeing you walking away from his life. He knew he fucked it up. But he tried to play it cool. As if you were right about everything, because he thinks he deserves to suffer after what he has done. Yes, he was a masochist at this point. He was dating someone he didn’t like at all, he knew. But he couldn’t stop his torture because he simply believed he didn’t deserve to be happy. He saw your eyes, the saw the pain he caused for being such a coward. And stupid. And idiotic. And a fucking loser. He acted like a kid and lost the girl of his dreams. The girl who had been there for him since the beginning. The one that got him by just looking in her eyes. She knew. She knew all of him, the real him. All his fears and dreams and desires and mistakes. He had it all. He had her, all of her to himself but let it fall. He threw her against the floor and broke her into so many pieces. And instead of mending his faults, he just ran away crying. Like a little kid running away from the monster under his bed. 

Maggie was doing her makeup at the hotel room’s mirror. He watched her for a while trying to puzzle what he felt for her. But all he wanted to see was you. And he knew it was impossible for that to happen now. And probably like ever again. 

The fact he had to pretend every single minute of his life was starting to take a toll on him. He lost that spark he used to have. He lost that characteristic smile when he did well in a race. And his interviews just turned monotone and grey. Something was off people would comment. But he didn’t care. He deserved it. He fucking deserved it. 

Maggie always tried to cheer him up and he pretended it was just because he hated the media. And not because you used to be there with him, always. But now it is almost alone. 

It almost happened. It was almost you. It was almost the happy ending you deserved but he decided to ruin it. It was almost you and him against the world. But it was almost, though all he wanted was forever with you. 

At the beginning he was obsessed with maggi. The way her eyes looked at him, that cheeky smile  of hers. She was all he wanted as a fantasy. She was his fantasy in real life. He was so captivated by her looks and sweet voice. Almost like yours. But something drew him to her. He still doesn’t know what it was. Guess some things don't have an explanation. She was soft and shiny. He wanted to touch her everywhere, everytime. He forgot he had the love of his life waiting for him to watch a movie and eat burritos and kinders. He forgot the small things mattered more. He forgot what it was like to feel love during sex. But he was drunk. In her looks, in the way she talked to him. He forgot about you. He couldn't concentrate. 

But when you were gone, he pretended maggie was you as twisted as it sounds. He was convinced he became completely insane. People constantly telling him how awful he was to the poor girl. Your brother hates him. Dante didn’t say hi to him ever again since that day. 

He saw you at a couple of races at the Mercedes garage. You always pretended to have never known him in your life. He saw fans on twitter theorizising why you didn’t look at him anymore. They also believed it was his fault. And surely it was. 

That day you walked past him. He smelled your scent, still wearing the same perfume you adored so much and that made him fall in love the first time he saw you. You were laughing while talking with Carmen in Spanish, because you were the king of languages. You were really good at them and you enjoyed so much learning new stuff. He liked that about you, you are always driven to learn and learn and learn. He wanted to say hi, and even though you ignored him, Carmen looked at him in a really not inviting way. Everybody knew he fucked it up. He felt so ashamed of himself. 

said you’d never hurt me but here we are ᝰ.ᐟ

(australian grand prix, 2025)

You were so nervous to be back at the paddock and at the same time so excited for this new chapter for mercedes. You were longing for Lewis but at the same time you were very excited about kimi. Weather conditions were terrible and it in a really sarcastic way showed how you really felt about being there. You didn’t want to come at first but Carmen was a really good convincing person and you were no exception. Plus, you wanted to see your friends George and Alex. The two brits were your best friends since F2 back in 2018 when it all started. It was insane that so many years have passed already. All of the memories you cherished in your heart. They were so precious to you. 

Kym illman received you at the gates taking pictures of you, your brother, carmen and george coming into the paddock for race day. You always hated the media because their cameras made you look so bad, you thought. But it was part of your friend’s work so, it was what it was. You were already so wet you thought it was embarrassing. A super big mercedes hoodie covered your body as a dress and some rain boots on. And you called that outfit a day. It wasn’t glamorous at all, but it was so you for sure. 

Heading to the Mercedes hospitality, you saw Lando taking coffee with his parents at the McLaren hospitality. Your brother put on his best dog face and didn’t look at them. But for some reason you couldn’t do that to his parents even though you hated their son. Lando’s mom looked at you and waved happily to see you. “Hey!, y/N!” she said sweetly and smiled at her. They were always really good to you. So you got closer and said hi to them properly with a kiss on a cheek and a little hug for each. 

“Hi” , you only said to Lando, keeping your distance in a sad and shy smile. He half smiled as well.

“Hi” he said back to you the same way. 

“Darling you look so gorgeous, I love that haircut on you. You’re such a pretty girl” his mom said and made you blush immediately. 

“Oh, thank you so much… i gotta go… have  a great race, lando” you said a bit awkwardly and walked away to the mercedes hospitality to join your people. 

Lando was in awe of you. He kept the way you said his name on his head. It’s been the longest time without hearing your voice, that he realized he forgot how it sounded. And he also realized that it was your sweet voice, the only voice he wanted to listen to the rest of his life. He hated himself for that. But after all this time, he had made one thing right. He broke up with Maggi a week ago. He couldn’t keep pretending, he was done. 

“She looked really beautiful… it’s sad you don't talk anymore. We really liked her” his mother said and he shook his head a bit.

“i fucked it up, mom. But i will figure out a way to make it right again” he answered but more reassuring himself rather than his mother. 

She smiled looking proudly at her son “the good thing is to learn darling, you’re a good boy, let yourself be happy and fight for what makes you happy… you deserve it” she said sweetly sending lando all the energy he needed to go afloat. 

the only girl you’ve ever wanted in your life ᝰ.ᐟ 

Lando won. Lando won. Lando won. He did it. Of course you were happy for your friend who came out third and kimi fourth! What an amazing race though you were at the brink of suffering from a heart attack for two hours. After a lot of champagne was thrown to George, you were resting in the hospitality building waiting for your brother, Dante and George to come around. Carmen went to talk to alexandra for a bit and Lili was already at the hotel. So you decided to check on twitter all of the memes and opinions on this race. You saw a few people sharing your pics and commenting whether they were happy to see you or telling you looked disgusting as ever. It was hard to get used to this side of the sport but you always tried to brush it off.

You were so concentrated on your phone, you didn’t realize until the third time Lando cleared his throat that he was there standing in front of you in his casual clothes already, and freshly showered, smelling as good as you remembered him. 

“Hi,” he said again, sitting in front of you. You smiled a bit shocked that he is here in front of you after so many months of not even seeing pics of him. And he looked really nice in your opinion, but when did he not? 

“Hey” you said. He was nervous, he didn’t like the fact your hoodie wasn’t McLaren but you looked cute anyway. 

“It's been a long time,” he answered.

“Yup” you nodded. 

Silence. 

You stared at each other for a while. If someone walked past, they would think you were playing eyesight war but you were just analysing each other trying to think of what to say or where to begin. 

“I’m sorry” you both said in unison. You looked at each other in surprise now and then laughed it away. 

“Alright, that was a bit weird,” he said, giggling. “Guess, we still connected somehow…” his voice turning off as the sentence ends. 

“I guess in a way we are… I can't stop thinking about you and what happened…” you confessed even to your own surprise. 

He smiled a little, feeling his heart start to race “me neither to be honest… i feel terrible about it” you could see how honest he was being. Or at least to want to believe him. He felt different. You guessed that maybe he doesn't know why he lied that much either. 

“I miss you” you confessed even though you didn’t want to. But even after everything… you still loved him. 

His eyes showed a little spark. It wasn't there when he sat in front of me a few minutes ago. Now his smile got bigger showing his dimples. He was a pretty motherfucker, you thought.

“I miss you too,” he agreed. 

Was this the beginning of a second chance? Or maybe you're announced dead? 

Or maybe the happily ever after you have always dreamed about, but only time will tell.

THE ENDᝰ.ᐟ 

dont forget to reblog, like or comment if you liked it! and follow me so we can be friends <3 (and drink mate together)

[shaiyasstuff]

glass half full | xavier | drabble

“It was always going to be her, wasn’t it?”

Your voice slipped through the stillness of the apartment, soft but sharp enough to slice through the air between you. It lingered in the hallway like smoke, unshakable.

Xavier stilled.

One foot forward, one hand still holding the edge of the wall. He didn’t turn at first—just stood there, his back to you, silent in a way that felt louder than any answer.

When he finally faced you, his expression was unreadable. Of course it was. He always was.

He parted his lips to speak, but no words came. Just a subtle shift in his jaw—a clench, a twitch. Hesitation.

So you stepped closer. “That’s why you’ve been leaving so often lately,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Another step.

“Why you’re willing to throw yourself into danger without hesitation.”

Another.

“Because you still love her.”

Now, you stood right in front of him. Inches away. Just close enough to feel the way he tensed.

“Then what am I?” you asked.

Your voice was calm, but your eyes betrayed you. You could feel the tears brimming, but you held them back. You wouldn’t let them fall. Not yet.

Xavier didn’t speak. Not even a breath of denial. His gaze didn’t waver, but it didn’t soften either. Still clouds. Still distance.

You pressed again, a whisper cracking at the edge. “Why do you still keep me around, then?”

This time, he flinched.

It was the smallest movement—a flicker in those pale blue eyes.

But you saw it.

You always saw him, even when he tried so hard to be unseen.

You weren’t asking for him to change fate. You knew how cruelly and arbitrarily the universe worked. Knew that some ties were stitched into the soul long before choices ever mattered.

But still. It hurt.

Because you were here. With him.

The one who shared coffee with him at 6 a.m. The one who stitched him up, not from battle wounds, but from the quiet ones no one else saw.

Because you loved him first.

And she didn’t even know.

“…Tell me,” you breathed, and your voice trembled this time.

A final plea slipping through the cracks of you.

His hand lifted halfway, like he meant to reach for you—maybe your cheek, your hand, anything.

But it hung there, suspended in indecision.

Caught between instinct and guilt.

And that—that was what broke you.

Not the silence.

Not the truth.

But the almost.

“I haven’t said anything until now… because I loved you.”

Your voice broke on the last word, cracking like porcelain under too much weight.

It trembled in the quiet, echoing off the walls that had once known softer versions of the two of you.

“I kept hoping,” you whispered, breath catching on a sob, “that maybe… maybe you’d see it.”

Your hand curled into your palm.

“That she doesn’t want you.”

The truth sat heavy in the space between you, too brutal to deny, too cruel to change.

Because she didn’t.

The lady hunter he clung to in silence had already moved on—living out her days in sunlit contentment with your doctor friend, oblivious to the way Xavier watched her like she was a constellation he could never reach.

And you… you had been right here the entire time.

Waiting. Wanting.

Loving him in ways she never would.

His fists clenched at his sides, the knuckles paling as tension rippled through his frame. You had never seen him look smaller, despite the quiet strength he always carried.

“I know,” he said.

Barely audible.

But it landed like thunder.

You stared at him, stunned—not by the confession, but by the ache tucked behind those two simple words. Like he’d been carrying them for a long time. Like they were too heavy to hold, and too late to matter.

You wanted to scream. To ask then why?

Why let you drown in your silence while he chased after a ghost?

But you couldn’t.

Because there was grief in his voice too. Grief that didn’t belong to you.

And maybe that was the cruelest part of all.

He knew.

He chose it anyway.

“I see.”

It came out on a breath, a fragile exhale laced with quiet resignation. A sob followed, muffled as you bit it back, swallowing the rest of your heartbreak.

You stepped past him—slowly, deliberately—shoulder brushing his as you moved toward the door. Your voice barely rose above a whisper.

“I’ll come back for my things.”

That was all you could manage.

No accusations. No pleas.

Just an ending dressed in softness.

But before you reached the door, his hand shot out and caught your wrist.

“Y/N.”

Your name broke in his mouth—softer than you’d ever heard it. Almost reverent. Almost afraid.

You didn’t look back. Not yet.

You couldn’t trust yourself to.

Not when his grip was warm and trembling.

Not when it felt like he meant it, finally.

But meaning it now changed nothing.

His hand was firm around your wrist, but his voice wavered.

Like he was holding on not just to you, but to everything that might vanish the moment you took another step.

You stood there, your back to him, shoulders trembling.

He said your name again—quieter this time. “Y/N… please.”

Please.

The word sounded foreign on his tongue. As if he didn’t know how to ask for things he thought he’d already lost.

“I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he said, and for once, his tone cracked through the calm. “I didn’t—”

He let go of your wrist like it burned him.

“I kept telling myself… it wasn’t fair to you. That I should pull away. But every time I tried—” His breath hitched. “You made it impossible.”

You turned to him then, tears clinging to your lashes.

His eyes were the color of sorrow, clouded and storm-wrung. “You were always here,” he murmured. “You stayed. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You wanted him to say the words. To finally say what he truly felt.

But instead, all he gave you was this—

“I don’t know how to let you go.”

And somehow, that hurt more than if he had.

Because love was never the problem.

Choice was.

“That’s what they all say,” you whispered, voice thin and fraying.

Xavier stood frozen, breath shallow in his chest.

“That you didn’t mean for this to happen. That it just—got out of control.” Your voice began to rise, shaky and sharp. “There’s always a reason. A justification. A story that makes it hurt less—for you.”

The silence between you stretched, brittle and aching.

“She’s my friend, too.”

That part came softer. So soft he almost missed it.

But he didn’t. He heard it.

And it hit him harder than any accusation ever could.

You looked at him then—really looked at him.

Not like someone you loved.

Not like someone you were begging to stay.

You looked at him like someone you were done trying to understand.

“Do you know how stupid that makes me feel?” you asked, voice trembling at the edge of tears. “To be the one to see it? To sit across from both of you and smile like I didn’t feel the air thinning every time you looked at her?”

Xavier’s lips parted, but there was nothing behind them—no defense, no denial.

Just guilt. And grief.

And the realization that maybe the worst thing he ever did… was say nothing at all.

And still, you waited. Not for an apology.

Just for something real.

Something true.

“Say something…”

Your voice cracked—not out of anger, but desperation. A final plea, quiet and trembling, like a hand outstretched in the dark.

Xavier’s gaze flickered, faltered.

His mouth opened—closed—opened again.

But still, nothing came. Just silence.

Just the sound of rain starting to tap against the windows, soft and cruel.

He looked like he was unraveling from the inside out. Like the words were there, tangled somewhere deep in his throat, buried beneath everything he was too late to admit.

“I…” he finally breathed, barely audible. “I thought if I kept my distance, it would go away.”

He laughed, bitterly, at himself. “Not the feeling. Just… the choice. Like if I said nothing, I wasn’t choosing at all.”

His eyes met yours, raw and wrecked.

“But silence is a choice, isn’t it?”

And it was. The worst kind.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

He saw the answer in your eyes. In the way your shoulders dropped.

In the way hope quietly slipped out of the room, one breath at a time.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he whispered.

And maybe he didn’t. But he did.

He just didn’t love you enough not to.

“I have to see her,” you choked out between shallow breaths, the sobs rising faster than you could contain them. “Every day… at work.”

Your voice broke entirely then, cracking open like the rest of you. “She looks at me like nothing happened. Like I’m not falling apart every time she says your name.”

You wiped at your face with the back of your hand, but the tears kept falling, hot and relentless. “Do you know how cruel that feels?”

You laughed—a hollow, broken thing. “She doesn’t even know. She doesn’t even know what I’ve lost.”

Xavier took a half-step forward, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to hold you, to anchor you—but he didn’t move further.

Didn’t speak.

And that—again—was the problem.

“She gets to have everything,” you whispered. “She gets your loyalty, your heart, your silence… and she doesn’t even know.”

Your hands clenched at your sides, not in anger, but in helplessness.

“I loved you loudly, Xavier. I was here. I chose you. Every day. Every damn day.”

Your voice collapsed into a whisper.

“And you let me stand in the shadow of someone who wasn’t even looking.”

The door slammed behind you, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Rain tore through the sky in torrents, drenching you to the bone as you stumbled down the steps and out into the street.

You couldn’t feel the cold.

Couldn’t hear the storm over the sound of your own sobbing breath.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Not like this.

Your vision blurred—tears and rain indistinguishable. The world moved too fast, too loud, too bright.

You didn’t see the car. Not until it was too late.

The light turned red.

You stepped off the curb.

A horn blared.

Tires screamed.

“Y/N!”

His voice cut through everything.

You turned your head, just enough to see him.

Xavier, sprinting after you, drenched and terrified, hand reaching out like he could will time to stop.

But it didn’t.

The impact was thunderous. A sickening thud.

Your body hit the hood, then the pavement. Hard.

Time fractured. Sound vanished.

Rain fell. Somewhere, people screamed.

Xavier was already on his knees beside you.

“No, no, no—Y/N, stay with me,” he begged, his hands trembling as they hovered above your face, not knowing where to touch without causing more damage.

Your eyes fluttered, unfocused, lips parting with a breath he didn’t know if you could finish.

“Why did you…” you whispered, voice too faint, too broken.

And Xavier—he broke.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m here, I’ve got you, just—just keep your eyes on me, please—don’t do this.”

But your blood was on his hands now.

And for the first time, silence wasn’t a choice.

It was all that was left.

[aquanutart]

I revive Shocking and heal them before continuing. As I do, I realize that child me also thought Revives were important, because I have way more than I have potions to heal Pokemon after reviving them. I should have bought another Max Potion instead of those Revives--but we've come too far to second-guess.

I forgot I named my rival Ash. It was one of the default rival names you could choose, and I think I just picked the first one. Unlike JELLYPOOO the Metapod, I didn't really know what to name my rival.

My apologies to the real Ash. I know it's not really you!

He leads with Pidgeot, and Blastoise quickly knocks it out. We're off to a good start!!

He sends out Alakazam, who does some serious damage with Psychic before Blastoise can even attack. We retaliate with Surf, but... it does barely anything?!

I use my last Max Potion to bring Blastoise back to full health. We might get hit with Psychic again, but on the next turn we'll switch out and--

NO!!! BLASTOISE!!!

It's okay!! I'll revive you!! But right now--who am I going to send out--??

I remember that either Psychic and/or Ghost is weak to the other type and to itself. I've only been playing the TCG for so long, which simplifies it to Psychic is weak to Psychic, and I remember it's different from the games. I know Ghost is weak to Ghost and Psychic, but is Psychic also weak to Psychic? I can't believe I forgot--?!!

Ghoulie will definitely get hit for super effective damage, so I don't want to send them out. Will Hypno take double damage from Alakazam--??

On the chance that Hypno can survive the damage and maybe do double damage as well, I send Hypno out.

Wait!! Psychic is RESISTANT to Psychic!! Hypno, we can tank the hits!!

All right!! Since half of our attacks will do no damage (Flash and Dream Eater) and one is ineffective (Confusion), we are left with one viable strategy: Headbutt Alakazam until it gives in!!

The battle between the two great Psychic-types begins! Hypno's incessant headbutting is wearing Alakazam down, but Alakazam keeps using Recover and undoing all of our work!

If it's to be a battle of attrition, I worry about how few healing items I have left. Still, I revive and fully heal Blastoise while Alakazam is using Recover. It's a matter of keeping my team together.

Then, suddenly, Hypno crits!! Alakazam has no chance to recover! Alakazam fainted!!!

Blastoise!! I'm so glad you're okay again!! Go for it!!!

Shocking comes in to handle Gyarados!

Blastoise joins in one more time for Arcanine!

And Beauty strikes the final blow against my rival's starter!!

WE DID IT!!! Blastoise, Hypno, Ghoulie, Shocking, Beauty, Kitty--everyone--WE WON!!!

Everything we went through--the years I spent trying to be someone else, the years I was afraid to talk to anyone, the years I felt like I couldn't be accepted or respected as myself, the years I felt like I couldn't speak up and had to be what others wanted--somehow, we got through it all and made it back together, to do what we set out to do.

I was talking and I mentioned that I have my old Game Boy and original Pokemon cartridge. I said, "I think they still work."

I was told, "The internal batteries on the Game Boy cartridges have run out. They're all dead."

"Oh," I said, trying not to show how crestfallen I was. I felt like I was losing nerd cred for not knowing that, although I never kept up with that type of info anyway. I'm here for the fantasy and imaginative aspects of games, and tend not to follow the competitive or technical details.

I tried not to feel anything as I went home. If they were real animals, I reminded myself, I would have had to say goodbye long ago.

But like so many other people, Pokemon was my childhood. It was all I thought about and dreamed about, and the closest thing I could imagine to heartbreak was the knowledge that they weren't real. I spent nearly all my time writing longhand self-insert Pokemon fanfiction--far more than I spent actually playing the game. My Pokemon were with me in my imagination wherever I went. I started playing Pokemon Blue when I was 5, and the last time I had played it was probably when I was 9 or 10. I remembered I had turned it on again one more time after that, not to play it, but to look at my childhood Pokemon.

It was during high school, after a move overseas that completely upended my life, and I was struggling with the crushing blow of being taken away from everything I knew and trying to make sense of anything (least of all adolescence) in another language. All I wanted was to go back to childhood and have everything go back to how it was before.

Seeing my Pokemon, just as I'd left them, had comforted me. I had looked at their stats pages, taken photos of them with my digital camera (that I don't even know if I still have), and then turned it off without doing anything.

That was probably 9 or 10 years after the games came out. It had been a long time since then. I had long since taken the AA batteries out of my Game Boy Color and left it untouched. I didn't even have AA batteries anymore.

It had worked then. But now it had been 27 years... I thought about not trying to turn my cartridge back on. As long as I didn't turn it on, I could believe my Pokemon were still there, the way I remembered them.

On my day off, which happened to be Pokemon Day, I googled and read that some people on forums and Reddit were still able to play their original Pokemon games.

Then... it was possible. I went out to buy toothpaste. At the store, I asked where I could find AA batteries.

It was a big thing for me to be able to go to the store and buy things myself. When I moved at age 13, I felt like something went wrong with growing up. It was difficult to follow what people were saying, and people didn't always understand what I said either. I had been introverted even in English, but now I had enough negative experiences that I became afraid and stopped trying to talk to people altogether.

I threw myself into video games and reliving childhood memories. The internet was where I could communicate in my first language and understand. I lived online and didn't interact with the real world. On the internet I felt like I was understood and could find people who shared my interests the way I did, but in the real world it always felt like I could get hurt if anyone knew me.

I realize now that I could have had a better experience overseas if I'd known how to adapt and socialize, but this was not something I knew even in English, and trying to learn in another language made it ten times harder. I'm sorry now for missing out on interactions that I know I could have had, but I just didn't know how. I wouldn't know how until I learned, and it took me a long time to learn.

I grew up online, in the company of others who had trouble fitting in with the real world, even in their own language. Those experiences shaped me, and the friendships I've made and support I've received online are invaluable to me. The internet gave me a way to live, and through it I learned how to interact with others. But in many ways, for many years, it felt like my life was put on hold and I stopped growing up.

Several years ago I moved back, to not far from where I was born, and I was able to work for the first time. I began to interact with people and feel like I had a place in the real world.

After shutting myself away for so many years, every little step I made out in the world felt terrifying. But every little thing I did on my own made me feel like I was living for the first time.

Even something as little as going to the store and buying a pack of batteries.

I was directed to a shelf at the end of an aisle, and found myself looking at a rack of lithium AA batteries. Did they not sell the old kind anymore?

I walked around to the other side and was relieved to find the familiar black and brown Duracell batteries I'd known from my childhood. I felt more confident about putting in a battery that looked the same as I remembered. The smallest pack they sold was an 8-pack for $12.99. I really didn't need 8 batteries. I didn't have any other devices that used them.

I thought, what if I turn it on and it doesn't work and I'll have wasted $12.99?

I also thought we might already have batteries. I might be able to say, "Mom, do we have any batteries?" and she'd pull out two AAs from a drawer somewhere and I'd save my money.

But somehow I felt like part of what was important about this was being an adult and being able to buy my own batteries.

Yet... what if it just ended up making me sad? Was it better not to know?

I went to the checkout with just the toothpaste and stood hesitating at the edge of the checkout line.

If I didn't get the batteries now, and it turned out we didn't have any batteries, I wouldn't try it. I knew I would just put it off until even more time passed, and then... "Are you in line?" someone asked me.

"No," I said, and I turned around and went back to the shelf.

I bought the batteries.

At home, I took out my original Game Boy Color from the drawer where I left it, the one my dad had surprised me with when I was 5 years old and that I had brought overseas and back.

I put the batteries in and turned it on without a cartridge first to make sure the batteries were inserted correctly. The Game Boy logo scrolled across the screen and it made the familiar blinging Game Boy startup noise. I turned it off again, satisfied.

I took out my original Pokemon Blue cartridge, momentarily having to remember which way it went in, and slotted it in.

I turned it on, watched the whole Pokemon Blue intro out of nostalgia, and then pressed START.

My heart leaped for joy.

MY POKEMON!!!! MY POKEMON ARE ALIVE!!! 🥺🥺🥺

My original Pokemon, that were with me in 1998 when I was 5-6 years old, are still with me 27 years later. I want to cry!!! I love the old sprites, I'm SO happy to see them again 😭😭😭 the Pokemon look so little and cheerful at the same time, which I love 🥺🥺🥺 I know there are people with many more hours on their games, who have leveled all their Pokemon to 100. But these are my Pokemon who were with me through my childhood, and I spent many more hours making up stories about them than actually playing the game. I'm so happy to see them again 😭😭😭

All I want is to see my Pokemon. My other Pokemon are in boxes. Now, how do I get to the nearest PC? Where am I?

Oh... Oh. I have to confess something. When I was a kid, I was scared of the dark cave areas, and whenever I got to them, I stopped playing for a while. (I was stuck at Mt. Moon until I was like, 7.) So I never actually beat the game.

And here I am on Victory Road, with the team of Pokemon I was taking to the Elite Four, without an Escape Rope.

The only way for me to see my other Pokemon is... to finally make it through Victory Road, after 27 years?!

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

You Found Me Here

Where Harry is a librarian who leaves notes poetry books.

Word count: 9k

Warnings: None. Just soft Harry at his finest.

London was soaked to the bone.

Rain spilled from a low, unbroken sky, coating the pavement in a shimmering blur. Cars hissed past, umbrellas tilted like tired eyes. She slipped into the library just after half-past four, damp from the walk, her fingers chilled, her shoulders damp where her coat had failed. The door creaked shut behind her with a low, familiar groan, and the noise of the outside world vanished.

Inside, the air was warm and still. Soft light hummed from brass sconces, catching in the floating dust. The scent of old pages, polished wood, and something faintly herbal—lavender, maybe—hung in the air. The building was old, but well loved. It wrapped around her like a blanket.

She took a breath. Then another.

Behind the front desk sat the librarian. Harry.

He looked up as she entered, as he always did, his eyes catching hers with that same, steady softness. He didn’t speak at first—he rarely did unless she approached—but he smiled, a slow curl of his lips that felt like the kind of thing you had to earn.

“Hey,” he said after a beat, voice quiet, almost reluctant to break the hush of the room.

He wore a thick navy sweater, pushed up at the sleeves, revealing a hint of tattoos that curled just below the hem—inky swallows, barely visible but enough to catch her attention. She’d noticed them before, and every time she wondered just how many there were, how far they went. They didn’t quite fit the softness of him, and yet… they did. Like poetry scribbled in the margins of a quiet life.

He had that kind of presence. Gentle. Self-contained. But there were hints—like the rings on his fingers, the slightly unruly curls that fell across his forehead, the scrawl of ink on his skin—that suggested there was more beneath the surface. A contradiction wrapped in warm jumpers and slow glances.

She smiled back, murmured a hello, and walked past him toward the back corner of the library—the part where the poetry and classics lived, tucked under a tall arched window fogged with condensation. This corner had become her habit. Her haven.

She settled into it the way one might slip into a favorite coat. The shelves were tall and close together, lined with soft-spined volumes that smelled like time. She ran her fingertips along the titles, tracing names she loved—Plath, Dickinson, Whitman. Her fingers paused on Leaves of Grass. Familiar. Comfortable. She pulled it from the shelf, already thinking about the rhythm of its lines.

As she opened the book, something slipped out and floated to the floor.

She frowned, crouching to pick it up. A folded piece of paper. Not a library slip or a note scribbled in haste—but something more deliberate. Neat. A little worn at the edges, as if it had been handled more than once before being left here.

She opened it.

The handwriting was slightly slanted, steady, a little unsure. Ink faded just enough to suggest it had been written a while ago—but not too long.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

She stared at it for a long moment, heart knocking once, hard, like it had heard something before her brain had.

There was no name. No initials. Just a phone number and a quiet, aching sort of invitation.

She glanced over her shoulder toward the front desk. Harry was bent over a return log, one hand in his hair, brow furrowed slightly in concentration. The light caught on the silver band around his finger, glinting briefly.

He didn’t look up.

She turned the note over in her hand, thumb tracing the fold. She didn’t know who had written it. But it had been left here—tucked between lines of Whitman, waiting for someone. Maybe her.

She slipped the note into her coat pocket, heart still oddly light and unsteady.

Outside, the rain kept falling, blurring the world beyond the window into nothing at all.

She sat with the book open, but she hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes. The words blurred, familiar verses gone shapeless under the weight of the note folded in her pocket.

It had to be a student, she told herself. Probably someone young and overly poetic, tucked into a reading nook upstairs with earbuds in and a tote bag full of battered paperbacks. Or maybe just a lonely stranger who wandered in from the rain and left a part of themselves between pages for someone—anyone—to find.

That’s all it was. A passing thought from someone she’d never meet. Someone hoping for a little connection in a quiet place.

Still, her mind played with the idea. Spinning tiny stories behind the handwriting—who they were, what they were thinking, if they meant it or if it was a dare between friends. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe someone was watching to see who would actually respond.

Her phone was in her bag. She could text. The number was right there.

If this means something to you too… text me.

The words looped over and over in her head, tugging gently at the corners of her thoughts. There was something vulnerable in them—something unpolished and true.

She reached into her pocket, pulled the note out, and read it again.

No name. No initials. No clue.

A small part of her wanted to reply. Not even to flirt or chase a story—but just to say yes. I understand. I come here to breathe, too. To disappear for a while. To feel something that isn’t loud.

But she didn’t know who would be on the other side. She didn’t know if she wanted to.

And really, it wasn’t her kind of thing. She wasn’t impulsive. She didn’t chase questions like this. She liked facts. Answers. Tangible things.

She folded the note carefully, the crease already soft from handling. Then she slipped it into the inside pocket of her coat and pressed her hand over it for a moment, like that would anchor it.

Maybe she wouldn’t text. Probably not.

But she’d hold onto it.

Because even if it wasn’t meant for her, something about it still felt like it fit.

Like a sentence she hadn’t written, but somehow remembered.

She didn’t text.

Not that day. Not the next. And after a while, the note just became another quiet thing tucked into her coat pocket, folded and forgotten like a grocery list or a half-finished thought.

Life pressed forward in the usual, slightly heavy way.

Work. Grey mornings. Crumpled receipts. The mundane rhythm of existing in a city that never really stopped to ask how you were doing.

She still came to the library, but not as often. Sometimes she brought her laptop and stayed in the nonfiction section just to change the view. Other times she breezed in and out, barely making eye contact with anyone. The note became something she didn’t think about anymore—just a scrap of paper, misplaced in memory.

Harry was still there.

Always tucked behind the desk or moving between aisles, shelving books with quiet efficiency. They rarely spoke. Just the occasional “afternoon” or a soft nod if their eyes met. He didn’t seem to expect more. He never pushed. It made her oddly grateful.

The seasons were shifting in the subtle way London always handled change—no dramatic turns, just a slow fade. The rain hadn’t stopped, but now the wind carried a different edge, cooler, sharper. People moved faster. Scarves reappeared. The evenings darkened early.

One Tuesday, she reached into the inside pocket of her coat looking for a receipt—and her fingers brushed the edge of the paper.

The note.

She pulled it out slowly, as if it might crumble.

It was still folded neatly, but the creases had softened. The ink looked slightly blurred in places, where the paper had rubbed against the lining of her coat. She stared at the words for a long time, as if seeing them for the first time all over again.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

Her lips pressed into a faint line.

She didn’t know why, but reading it now made her chest feel a little tighter. Not in a bad way. Just… aware. Like something had settled there, waiting. Quietly. Patiently.

She thought about how long it had been since she read something that made her feel anything. Since she let herself pause long enough to notice the weight of silence or the way the city sounded when you weren’t filling the gaps with noise.

And for a moment, she wanted to answer the note. To reach out. Not for romance. Not for mystery.

She didn’t grab her phone.

Not yet.

But she didn’t put the note away, either.

She slid it into her wallet, folding it once more so it fit beside her library card and a receipt from a café she hadn’t visited in months.

And this time, she didn’t forget it.

It was later than usual when she stepped into the library.

The sky outside was already slipping into navy, the rain quieter now, more of a mist than a storm. She’d been delayed—meetings that ran long, a bus that never showed. She almost didn’t come at all, but the thought of going straight home to silence made her stomach twist.

Inside, the library was nearly empty.

Most evenings at this hour, the building felt hollowed out, hushed in a different way—like the quiet had settled deeper into the bones of the place. Only a handful of students lingered at scattered tables, their laptop screens glowing pale in the warm lamplight.

She unwrapped her scarf slowly, fingers stiff with cold, and turned toward the front desk without thinking.

Harry was there. But not in his usual posture—not bent over returns or half-buried in the catalog system. He was leaning back slightly in his chair, a book in his lap, one hand absentmindedly curled at his chin. His eyes moved steadily across the page, completely absorbed.

It wasn’t the stillness that made her pause.

It was the book.

She recognized the cover instantly. Soft navy blue, with a gold-foiled title that had faded over time. To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Her copy at home was marked with ink and underlines and folded corners—half journal, half comfort object.

Something warm stirred in her chest.

Without really meaning to, she walked closer.

“You’re reading that one,” she said, her voice low, almost shy. “That book kind of wrecked me in the best way.”

Harry looked up, a little surprised to see her so close. His expression shifted slowly, from caught-off-guard to soft understanding.

“Yeah?” he asked. His voice was quiet, but not hesitant—just easy. “I just started it.”

She nodded, stepping a little closer to glance down at the open page. “It was the first book that made me feel like someone had opened up my brain and turned it into sentences. It’s kind of… everything, in a quiet way.”

Harry smiled. It wasn’t his usual polite, customer-service smile—it was small and real and slightly crooked. “That’s a good way to describe it.”

She tilted her head, fingers wrapped loosely around the strap of her bag. “It’s funny. I’ve read it three times and I still don’t think I understand it.”

“That’s probably why it’s good,” he said, and there was a faint glimmer of amusement in his voice. “Things that don’t give everything away at once.”

She looked at him a beat too long, surprised by how easily he said it. And maybe a little caught off guard by how that sentence lingered in the air between them.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” she murmured, smiling lightly as she stepped back. “Enjoy the existential spiral.”

He let out a soft laugh—barely more than a breath—but it was warm, and it followed her as she walked toward her usual corner of the library.

As she settled into her seat, something inside her felt shifted. Not dramatically, not loud. Just… nudged. Like the quiet had moved in a new direction.

She reached for her book but didn’t open it right away.

Instead, her fingers brushed her wallet.

The note was still there.

And for the first time in weeks, the idea of texting that number didn’t feel like a question mark.

It felt like a thread, waiting to be pulled.

She didn’t mean to pull the note out again.

It had become something of a habit lately—half-thoughtless, like a nervous tic. She’d run her thumb over the crease in her wallet, feel the worn edge of the paper, and glance at it like it might say something different the next time she read it.

It never did.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

But somehow, after what she’d said to Harry—after the strange comfort of finding him immersed in a book that shaped her, a book she loved like it had once saved her—it didn’t feel so abstract anymore. The note. The invitation. The possibility.

She looked around.

The library was quieter than usual. Dimmer. Outside, the rain had blurred the windows into watercolor. Inside, everything felt suspended. Safe.

She pulled her phone from her coat pocket. Opened a new message.

Typed slowly:

I found your note. And I understood. I still do.

The cursor blinked at her, patient. Waiting.

She hesitated. Let her thumb hover for just one second longer than she should have. The air around her felt charged—not dramatic, just… expectant. Like the moment before a match is struck.

She hit send.

The screen shifted. The message disappeared into the space between her and someone she didn’t know.

No reply came.

She didn’t expect one right away, not really. Still, she stared at her phone for a little longer than she meant to. Waiting for a buzz. For the dots. For something.

But the screen stayed still. Quiet. Blank.

Eventually, she turned it over, face down on the table beside her, and reached for her book.

She read the same paragraph three times before realizing she hadn’t taken in a word.

The next day, she checked her phone more than she wanted to admit.

Not obsessively. Not quite. But in the quiet moments—waiting for the kettle to boil, standing on the bus, walking past the window display at the bookshop she always meant to go into—her fingers would drift to her pocket, her screen would light up, and there would be nothing.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it had been a moment. A single, impulsive choice. It didn’t have to mean anything.

But it did. A little.

Because somewhere in the stillness between that book and that conversation and the folded piece of paper she kept reading like a poem, something had landed softly in her chest. Not a crush. Not even hope, exactly. Just a flicker of connection. And the ache of not knowing if it was real.

The silence stretched into a week.

She came back to the library, but it felt different now—like a page had turned somewhere she couldn’t quite find.

Sometimes, she caught herself watching Harry when he didn’t know. Not in a longing sort of way. Just… studying. Noticing. The way he leaned on one elbow when reading. How he tapped the side of his thumb against his mug when he was thinking. How he smiled when shelving the children’s books, like something about it softened him even more.

He didn’t look like someone waiting for a message.

He didn’t look like someone who’d left a note at all.

And that made it easier, somehow. To convince herself that the number had belonged to someone else—a passing stranger, a romantic idealist, a daydreamer with good handwriting and a moment of bravery.

Still, every time she sat in that same chair under the window, she half-waited for something. A flicker of something new. A word. A sound. A shift.

But nothing came.

Just the rain. The quiet. The rustle of pages being turned by people who weren’t thinking of her at all.

And somewhere between the silence and the stillness, she began to let it go.

Not all at once.

Just enough to breathe again.

It was nearly midnight when her phone buzzed.

She was already in bed, cocooned in a mess of blankets, the room lit only by the soft amber glow of a lamp she always forgot to turn off. Rain tapped gently against the window. The city beyond it had quieted, or maybe she’d just finally stopped listening.

She’d just turned a page in the book resting against her knees when the screen lit up.

Unknown number.

Her breath caught.

She blinked at it for a moment, unsure if she’d imagined it—if maybe it was one of those random marketing texts that slipped through late at night.

But it wasn’t.

Unknown Number: I never thought anyone would actually find it.

Or understand it.

Thank you for texting.

She stared at the words.

Not dramatic. Not flirtatious. Just honest. Simple. Like the note itself.

Her heart thudded softly under the weight of them.

Whoever it was—this person behind the words—they’d waited. Or hesitated. Or both. Maybe they were scared. Maybe they hadn’t known what to say. But they’d replied.

Finally.

She pulled the blankets up a little tighter and reread the message, then typed slowly:

I almost didn’t.

But I kept it. I don’t really know why.

I guess it made me feel a little less alone.

A few seconds passed.

Unknown Number: That’s why I left it.

Her chest tightened. Not in a painful way—more like a release. Like some small thread had finally gone slack after being pulled taut for too long.

She smiled to herself, barely, the corners of her lips curling as she set her book aside and leaned into the light of her phone.

The room felt warmer.

The night a little quieter.

She didn’t need to know who they were—not yet.

Just that someone out there had felt what she’d felt.

And that they’d seen her enough to answer.

Unknown Number:

I’ve hidden notes in other books, but that book felt… right.

Glad it found the right person.

Her:

It was kind of surreal, honestly.

Felt like it was waiting for me.

Or like I’d been waiting for it.

Unknown Number:

That’s exactly how I hoped it would feel.

Like something quiet tapping on your shoulder.

Her:

Why poetry?

Why not just say what you were feeling?

Unknown Number:

Because poetry says it better than I can.

And it’s easier to be honest when no one’s looking back at you.

She stared at that one a while. The glow of her screen lit her face, casting faint shadows on the ceiling. The room felt impossibly still.

Her:

I know what you mean.

There’s something safe about silence.

But also kind of lonely, isn’t it?

Unknown Number:

Yeah.

Exactly that.

She thought about stopping there. Letting the moment rest where it was. But her fingers moved before she could stop them.

Her:

You’re not alone tonight.

There was a longer pause this time. A full minute. Then:

Unknown Number:

Neither are you.

She set the phone on her chest and let her eyes close, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

She still didn’t know who he was.

But somehow, it didn’t matter—not yet.

The next few days folded into something soft and steady.

Their texts never came in flurries. No rapid-fire conversation, no pressure to reply. Just quiet messages sent mid-morning, or just before bed, or while she stirred sugar into her tea at the same café where she always forgot the barista’s name.

They talked about books, mostly. What they were reading. Which lines stuck. What made them pause. He—whoever he was—seemed to understand the way words hit differently when you were tired, or hopeful, or in between.

He quoted Woolf one night and said he’d cried reading it the first time, then followed it with:

I think I’m supposed to be embarrassed by that, but I’m not.

She’d texted back:

Good. You shouldn’t be. The world needs more men who cry over sentences.

He replied:

That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever texted me.

She found herself smiling at her phone more often than she meant to.

And when she wasn’t smiling, she was thinking—wondering. Not in a desperate way. Just curious.

What kind of person leaves a note like that and waits a month for an answer?

She imagined someone older than her, maybe. Someone who worked odd hours and stayed up too late. Someone who kept old poetry books on the floor beside their bed and didn’t mind a little mess. Someone soft-spoken and thoughtful and maybe a little lonely.

Sometimes, without meaning to, she pictured Harry.

Not because she thought it was him—he was probably too composed, too gentle, too real for something like this—but because he fit the feeling. The energy. Like the person on the other end of the screen carried the same softness in their shoulders that he did when shelving books. The same quiet consideration when he asked a regular how their week had been.

She told herself it was just a face to put to the voice. Just a way to soften the mystery.

She was sitting in her usual spot at the library on Thursday afternoon when her phone lit up again.

What do you see right now?

She glanced around, unsure if it was a trick question.

Then she smiled.

Golden light through foggy windows. A crooked stack of books someone left behind. A man a few tables away whispering to himself as he reads.

Unknown Number: You paint good pictures.

She hesitated, then typed:

What do you see right now?

She expected a reply like “the inside of a bus” or “my office wall”. But instead:

You.

Or at least I imagine you. Sitting somewhere quiet, near a window. Head tilted slightly when you read.

Her breath caught a little at that.

Her:

That’s exactly where I am.

Unknown Number:

That’s what I hoped.

She glanced up then. Toward the front desk, toward the shelves, toward the faint rustle of someone turning a page nearby.

Whoever he was, she liked not knowing. It made everything feel dreamlike. Like a story you got to walk through without ever turning the last page.

The texts continued like a secret thread woven through her days.

They never talked about names. Never asked what the other looked like. There was something sacred about the not-knowing. Something safe.

But the tone had shifted lately.

More personal.

More vulnerable.

More present.

One night, he asked,

Do you ever feel like you’re just moving through the world without touching anything?

And she replied:

All the time. But then something small happens. A look. A line in a book. A message. And it pulls me back in.

He said:

You pull me back in.

She stared at that one a long time. Let it sit in her chest like a pebble warming in the sun.

At the library, the distance between her and Harry felt suddenly… thinner. Like the invisible line between stranger and something else had shifted, even though nothing had changed.

She still greeted him with a quiet “hi.”

He still offered a soft smile and a slightly tilted head.

But she noticed more now.

The way he watched people when they weren’t looking. The way he paused with his hand resting on a book like he was listening to it. The little scribbles she sometimes caught in the margins of his notepad—half-formed phrases, lyrics maybe. Or poetry.

And she kept imagining him as him.

The voice on the other end of the texts. The one who made her laugh under her breath. The one who confessed fears she didn’t know how to name. The one who read slowly and felt things deeply.

It wasn’t fair. She knew that. It could’ve been anyone. A stranger in a completely different part of the city. Someone she’d never even met.

But still. She saw Harry, and the thought came uninvited: what if it’s you?

The unraveling began with a message.

She was at the library, sitting under the tall window again, when it came through.

I wonder what would happen if I walked into that library.

If I passed your table.

Would you feel it was me?

Her fingers hovered above her screen.

Her:

Maybe.

I think I would.

Unknown Number:

What would you do?

She didn’t answer right away. She looked up instead.

Across the room, Harry was shelving books. Slow, deliberate. Back turned to her.

She watched him for a moment, the way his shoulders moved beneath his sweater, the way his fingers traced the edge of a spine before sliding it into place. Something caught in her throat.

Then her phone buzzed again.

Would you want it to be me?

Her breath caught.

She read it once.

Twice.

Then, slowly, she looked back at Harry.

And for the first time, she let herself really wonder.

Because suddenly, the idea didn’t feel dreamy or distant or abstract.

It felt close.

Tangible.

Like maybe the person she’d been texting wasn’t far away at all.

She didn’t answer his last message.

Not right away.

Her phone sat in her palm, screen glowing softly in the dim light of the library, those words blinking back at her:

Would you want it to be me?

It wasn’t even a confession. Not yet. Just a nudge. A gentle pulling at the thread they’d both been carefully wrapping around themselves for days now.

She looked up.

Harry was still shelving in the far corner. Focused, quiet, unaware.

But her brain had already started moving without her permission. Turning over old moments. Replaying things that hadn’t seemed like anything at the time.

She’d always assumed the person behind the messages was a stranger. Maybe someone who wandered in off the street. A student. A writer. Someone passing through, looking for meaning or connection or whatever people looked for when they left little pieces of themselves in library books.

But Harry…

Harry was here every day. Surrounded by books. By pages that held all the softness and sadness and searching she’d been reading in those messages.

He shelved Leaves of Grass.

He could have left the note. Easily. Casually. Like a thought slipped into the world without needing to see where it landed.

She remembered the way he looked when he was reading—completely lost in it. Like the rest of the world dropped away when he turned a page. Like he felt the words, not just read them.

She remembered his pencil tucked behind his ear. The handwritten scrawls in his notepad. The way he listened when she spoke about books like he was saving the words for later.

And that night—when he’d been reading To the Lighthouse, the same way she once had, like it was revealing something about her she hadn’t known how to name—he’d looked up at her, and it had felt like he knew.

She’d pushed the thought away then.

But now?

Now it settled in her chest like it belonged there.

What if it was him?

What if she’d been sitting in front of the person this entire time?

What if all those words—the quiet honesty, the poetry, the gentle ache—had come from the man behind the desk with ink on his wrists and eyes that always met hers like they meant it?

It wasn’t a certainty.

Not yet.

But it was more than an idea now.

It was a possibility.

And that possibility was suddenly too loud to ignore.

She stood up without really thinking.

Her heart beat louder than her footsteps, but the rest of her stayed calm. Focused. Her hand tightened slightly around her phone, like it was anchoring her to something solid.

Harry had just finished shelving a small stack, turning slowly toward the desk with that same quiet ease he always moved with. Like nothing in the world was urgent. Like time bent around him.

She stepped into his path gently—careful not to startle, but intentional.

“Hey,” she said softly.

He looked up, surprised, but his smile came quickly, natural.

“Hey.” His voice had that same warmth it always did. Soft. Unassuming.

For a second, she almost chickened out.

Almost smiled, asked him about the book he was holding, and walked back to her corner to keep pretending.

But something in her wouldn’t let her.

She held his gaze and lifted her phone slightly in her hand—not enough to show the screen, just enough to acknowledge what it represented.

“I got a text the other night,” she said, her voice steady but low. “From a number I didn’t know.”

His expression didn’t change.

Not immediately.

But his eyes flicked—barely—down to the phone. Then back to her.

She continued.

“It was a reply to a note. The one I found in Leaves of Grass.”

Now he froze. Not in a dramatic way. Just… stillness. Like something inside him had stopped mid-breath.

“I didn’t text back right away,” she said. “And I didn’t expect a reply when I finally did. But I got one.”

She stepped just slightly closer.

“And the more we talked, the more I started imagining who it might be. Not on purpose. Just…” She hesitated, then smiled, just a little. “The words reminded me of someone.”

Harry swallowed, slow. He didn’t speak. But his fingers flexed around the edge of the book in his hand.

“I’m not asking you to say anything,” she said. “I just want to ask you one thing.”

He nodded once, eyes still on hers, gaze unreadable—but not closed off. Never that.

She raised her phone again, unlocked it, and turned the screen toward him.

The last message was still there.

Would you want it to be me?

His eyes dropped to the screen. Just for a second.

Then he let out a breath—quiet and careful—and when he looked back at her, it was different.

Open. Real.

“Yes,” he said.

Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Just honest.

Yes.

Her stomach flipped. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath.

She let out a small, shaky laugh, almost in disbelief. “It’s you.”

He nodded once. “It’s me.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

The world didn’t shift. The library didn’t gasp. The rain didn’t stop.

But something between them… settled.

Like two halves of a sentence finally meeting in the middle.

She was still holding her phone when he spoke again.

“I put the note there on purpose,” he said, voice low. “In Leaves of Grass. Because I knew you always go to that shelf.”

Her heart flipped again—different this time. Not from surprise, but from understanding. Everything shifted into place.

“You hoped I’d find it,” she said softly.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She studied him for a moment. The quiet behind his eyes. The weight of the admission.

“Why not just talk to me?” she asked. “All this time?”

He exhaled—slow, careful—and looked down at his hands, then back up again. When he met her gaze, he didn’t look away.

“Because this place matters to you,” he said. “You come in here and go straight to the same corner, like it’s the only place in the world where everything feels okay. I didn’t want to take that from you.”

His voice was even, but she could hear the truth in it. The care behind it. That it wasn’t shyness. It wasn’t fear of rejection.

It was respect.

“I thought if I said something,” he continued, “if I made it weird or pushed anything on you… you might stop coming. And I didn’t want to be the reason this place stopped being safe for you.”

She didn’t realize how much that would hit her.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and something quiet inside her broke open in the best way.

“I didn’t know you noticed,” she said.

He smiled, faint and crooked. “I notice a lot more than you think.”

She felt her throat tighten—grateful, stunned, and completely unsure what to do with all the feeling sitting suddenly between them.

And he must have seen it, because he stepped back slightly, giving her space.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly. “If this is too much. If you want to go back to how it was, or not talk at all—”

“I don’t,” she said.

He blinked.

“I don’t want to go back,” she repeated, quieter now. “I want to know you. For real.”

The corners of his mouth lifted, slow and sincere.

“You kind of already do.”

They stood there a little longer—both of them held in the small, fragile space between something ending and something beginning.

And for once, neither of them rushed to fill the silence.

It was enough to just stand in it.

Together.

They didn’t say goodbye when she left the library that night. Not formally.

Harry just walked her to the door, hand brushing lightly against the edge of the frame as he held it open. The rain had eased to a light drizzle, streetlamps glowing like small moons in the mist.

She looked at him one last time before stepping out. He smiled—small, knowing. She smiled back.

That was it.

No plans.

No pressure.

But something had changed. And neither of them needed to say it out loud to feel it.

The next afternoon, he texted.

You free tomorrow evening?

She replied:

Yeah. I think I am.

He sent:

There’s a coffee shop not far from here. Quiet. Big windows. You might like it.

She sent back:

You had me at “big windows.”

They met just after six.

He was already there when she arrived—curled up at a corner table with a book open and two mugs on the table, steam curling lazily into the air. The café was quiet, with warm lighting and mismatched chairs. Music played low, the kind you don’t notice until someone stops talking.

He stood when he saw her, smiled in that soft, earnest way he had, and pushed one of the mugs toward her as she sat.

“Earl Grey,” he said. “Took a wild guess.”

She laughed. “You’re good.”

“I shelve a lot of books. You learn things.”

They didn’t talk about the note at first. Or the texts. Or even the library. It was like they both understood that everything important had already been said in silence and margins and moonlight. Now was for the other things.

She learned he liked rainy days more than sunny ones. That he used to write songs before he realized he liked reading them more. That he kept a stack of journals at home and only let himself read old ones when he was feeling brave.

He learned she always carried two books in her bag because she didn’t trust herself to pick one mood for the day. That she once tried to write poetry and hated every line. That the library had saved her, once. Not in a dramatic way. Just enough to matter.

They stayed until close.

Neither of them wanted to leave first.

When they stepped outside, the rain had stopped completely, the air clean and cold and full of that stillness that only exists in the hour when the world forgets to be loud.

They stood near the curb, neither one saying goodbye.

He looked at her then—really looked—and said, “Can I walk you home?”

She nodded.

And he did.

No hands held. No promises made.

Just two people walking side by side under the soft orange glow of streetlights, a silence between them that no longer needed to be filled.

She still went to the library.

Even now, even after coffee shops and late-night walks and text messages that lingered long after the screen went dark—she still found her way to her usual spot under the arched window, coat damp from the rain, fingers chilled, heart a little steadier than before.

Harry was always there.

But things were different now.

There was an ease between them, threaded into their silences. A familiarity that didn’t need naming. They didn’t hover around each other, didn’t cling to conversation or force time together—but they noticed. They chose each other, over and over again, in small, deliberate ways.

The first time she found a book sitting on her table, it had no note. No explanation. Just a slim volume of poetry with a ribbon tucked into one page. A quiet suggestion.

She smiled, opened it, and read the poem he’d marked. It hit her like a quiet wave.

A few days later, she left a book behind on the returns cart—slipped between thicker volumes, nearly invisible. A copy of The Secret History, worn and annotated, with a sticky note on page 42 that simply read:

“I thought this line might stay with you. It stayed with me.”

She didn’t sign it.

But the next morning, when she came in, he caught her eye across the desk, and there was a softness in his expression that said I found it.

That became their rhythm.

A kind of silent conversation.

Some days it was a novel she’d mentioned in passing. Other days, it was something obscure—something she’d never pick for herself—but when she opened it, she’d find underlined passages or faint pencil marks in the margins. Sometimes she left her own—an asterisk, a question mark, the occasional folded corner.

They were learning each other through the books they passed back and forth. Through themes. Through characters they debated in whispers over tea. Through dog-eared pages and ink-smudged notes.

She started coming earlier, just to sit near the poetry shelves and pretend she wasn’t waiting to see what he might recommend next. And sometimes he’d wander over, lean against the end of a row, and ask, “Have you read this one?” like it wasn’t the highlight of her entire afternoon.

Once, he placed a novel in front of her, paused, and said, “This one made me think of you.”

She opened it to find a single sentence circled in pencil:

“She carried quiet like armor, and kindness like a blade.”

She didn’t say anything in response.

She just looked up at him, and he looked back, and neither of them had to explain the weight of that moment.

The more they read, the more they understood each other—without pushing, without rushing. It was all there, between the lines.

And every now and then, she’d catch him watching her with that look.

Like he couldn’t believe he’d left that note.

Like he couldn’t believe she’d answered.

One rainy evening, she arrived to find a cup of tea already waiting for her.

It sat on the corner of her usual table, still warm, steam curling lazily into the air. No note, no grand gesture. Just Earl Grey, just how she liked it.

She glanced toward the front desk. Harry didn’t look up, but she saw the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

She shook her head, smiling to herself as she slid into the chair.

Later, when she returned the empty mug to the cart behind the desk, she whispered, “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he said, without looking up from his computer. “But I’m charming, too, right?”

She rolled her eyes and didn’t answer. But she was smiling when she walked away.

They started talking more in between the books.

Not always with words.

Sometimes, he’d rest a hand briefly on the back of her chair as he passed by. Sometimes, she’d place a book down beside him at the desk with a sticky note that just said: “Read this one slowly.”

He started writing small lines of poetry on scraps of paper and slipping them inside the pages of the books he handed her. Sometimes they were his. Sometimes borrowed. She never asked. She just read them quietly and tucked them into her coat pocket.

She began to respond.

Once, she left him a copy of Letters to a Young Poet with a small folded square of paper inside.

It read:

“You said words were safer on paper. But you can say them to me now, if you ever want to.”

He didn’t say anything that day.

But two mornings later, she arrived to find a volume of Mary Oliver’s poems resting on her table, open to a marked page:

“Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say ‘Look!’ and laugh in astonishment,

and bow their heads.”

Underneath, in pencil, he’d written:

Look.

I’m here.

She sat down slowly, the book open in front of her, heart too full to move.

There was still no kiss. No confessions. No declarations of anything.

But every time she left the library, it felt like something important had happened. Something wordless and slow and true.

And every time she came back, it felt like returning—not just to the space, but to him.

To them.

Whatever they were becoming.

It started with a sentence dropped so casually she almost missed it.

“You ever cook with someone?” he asked one afternoon, eyes flicking up from the book she’d just returned.

She paused. “Cook?”

He nodded, leaning slightly over the desk. “Like, really cook. Not just throw a frozen pizza in the oven or boil pasta. I mean… stand in the kitchen for too long and make something slowly. Talk between chopping. Burn the garlic a little.”

Her lips quirked. “Very specific scenario.”

“I have a recipe I want to try,” he said. “And it’s a two-person dish. Apparently. According to the internet.”

She raised a brow. “Are you inviting me over to help you cook, or is this an elaborate metaphor for something else?”

He smiled—soft, a little crooked. “It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

She didn’t say yes right away. But later, when he handed her a folded piece of paper with the recipe written in neat, slightly rushed handwriting, she tucked it into her book without a word.

His flat was warm and a little chaotic in a lived-in way—books stacked under the windowsill, a record playing faintly in the background, mismatched mugs on the kitchen counter. It looked exactly how she’d imagined it and nothing like she expected at the same time.

She stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, watching him fumble with a garlic press.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” she said, amused.

“None whatsoever,” he replied, grinning. “But I make a very sincere effort, which should count for something.”

She reached for the knife instead. “Move over. I’ll show you.”

He didn’t argue. Just stepped aside and handed her a towel, fingers brushing against hers for a second too long. She didn’t pull away.

They cooked like that for an hour. Side by side. The kind of domestic closeness that would feel far too intimate if it weren’t laced with laughter and the smell of rosemary and lemon. He moved around her easily. She passed him ingredients without asking. Their shoulders bumped more than once, but no one apologized.

He read instructions aloud like they were poetry, and she corrected him without hesitation.

They talked about small things—childhood food disasters, favorite late-night snacks, the time he tried to make soup and ended up with something that “tasted like sadness.”

And then, somewhere between letting the sauce simmer and plating the food, something shifted.

He reached behind her for a dish towel, but she turned at the same time, and they nearly collided.

They froze—close. Close enough to see the freckle just under his left eye. Close enough that she could hear the small hitch in his breath. Close enough to feel it—that charged, suspended thing that had been stretching between them for weeks.

Neither of them moved.

Not yet.

“I like this,” she said quietly, eyes not leaving his. “This… not-the-library version of you.”

His voice was low, almost hoarse when he answered. “I think it’s still me. Just a little less… edited.”

She nodded, heart thudding. “I like the unedited version.”

A beat passed.

Then two.

And still, they didn’t move.

Until he spoke again.

“You know I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now, right?”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “I guessed.”

He tilted his head just slightly. “Do you want me to?”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak.

She just nodded.

And that was enough.

He kissed her like he’d been waiting. Like he already knew what it would feel like, and he’d just been waiting for permission. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hesitant. It was quiet, and full, and there.

All the unspoken things between them, finally said.

They didn’t rush away from it.

The kiss.

It ended slowly, naturally, like the final note of a song hanging in the air before dissolving.

She leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. He still had one hand resting lightly at her waist, the other curled against the counter behind her like he needed something to hold onto.

He looked a little dazed. Not in shock—just full. Like he hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed that closeness until it happened.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low.

He laughed under his breath, soft and warm. “Yeah. Just…” He shook his head slightly, lips curling up. “You’re really cute, you know that?”

She blinked, caught off guard—not because of the compliment, but because of how sincere it was. He said it like it had been on the tip of his tongue for a while. Like it wasn’t just about how she looked in that moment, but how she’d been showing up in his life—quiet, consistent, entirely herself.

“Cute?” she repeated, amused.

He gave her a look. “Very cute.”

She smiled, a little flustered. “That’s… surprisingly straightforward for you.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging, “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I’d say if this ever happened.”

Her chest tightened—softly, pleasantly. “This? Like… us standing in your kitchen, post-risotto, post-kiss?”

He nodded. “Exactly this. You, here, looking at me like that. Me, trying really hard not to say something too intense and ruin it.”

“You’re not ruining anything,” she said, honest, steady.

He exhaled, relieved. “Good.”

There was a pause.

Then: “I really enjoy you. Being around you. Talking to you. Sitting quietly near you. Reading the same book six feet apart and pretending we’re not aware of each other.”

She laughed, looking down for a second. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

“I never was,” he said, smiling. “You just needed time to catch on.”

She looked up at him again, heart full in a way that didn’t feel heavy at all. “I’m glad I did.”

He leaned in just enough to nudge his forehead lightly against hers. “Me too.”

The risotto sat forgotten on the stove, plates untouched on the counter.

Neither of them moved to fix it.

Some things could wait.

Eventually, they remembered the food.

They ate standing in the kitchen, barefoot and casual, sharing one plate between them. He offered the last bite. She took it without hesitation. No more pretense. No more edges between them.

Afterward, while he rinsed the dishes, she wandered.

Not far—just into the living room, where his bookshelves lined the wall in a slightly uneven row. Not curated for show. Just lived-in. Dog-eared. Annotated. Real.

She ran her fingers lightly across the spines, stopping now and then to tilt her head and smile.

“Of course you have three different editions of The Bell Jar,” she called out, teasing.

He dried his hands and leaned against the doorway, watching her. “They’re all slightly different.”

“Right,” she said, mock-serious. “Important nuance.”

He smiled, didn’t interrupt.

She kept scanning.

“Murakami. Wolfe. Some obscure poetry collections. A Little Life—you really went through that willingly?”

“I cried three separate times,” he admitted. “Once in public.”

She turned, grinning. “Okay, that earns you points.”

Then she pulled a book free, thumb brushing over the worn cover. The Picture of Dorian Gray.

“This one,” she said, softer now. “This was the first book that made me realize writing could be beautiful and brutal.”

“I remember you mentioned that once,” he said.

“You remember a lot.”

He shrugged, casual, but there was something warm behind it. “I was listening.”

She turned back to the shelf, pulled another. On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.

“This one wrecked me.”

“I figured. I found it shelved wrong one day and assumed it was you who left it there.”

She smiled without turning around, sliding the book gently back into place.

She could feel him behind her now. Not close enough to touch. Just… near.

Comfortably near.

“I like that you read like this,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Like it’s not just about escaping, but about collecting pieces of yourself in other people’s words.”

“I think that’s what I saw in you,” he said. “Right away.”

She turned, slowly, book still in hand.

He was standing a few steps behind her, eyes soft, arms crossed loosely like he was grounding himself.

“You’d sit in that corner of the library,” he went on, “with your entire body tilted toward a book like you were trying to fall into it. I couldn’t stop watching.”

They stood like that for a moment—between stories, between books, between whatever came next.

Then she reached back toward the shelf, pulled out another.

He looked at it, amused. “You’re curating my taste now?”

“No,” she said, handing it to him, “I’m organizing your shelf by emotional trauma level. This one’s top tier.”

He laughed, taking the book from her, brushing her fingers in the process. But this time, the touch didn’t linger. It stayed.

He held the book in one hand, and with the other, he reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

No words. Just a look.

That unspoken kind of look—the kind that says this is safe now. The kind that says you’re allowed to be here.

And she was.

After that night, nothing was technically different.

They still texted in the early mornings and late at night. Still passed each other books and notes in the library. Still sat in the quiet corners, reading, sometimes alone, sometimes side by side.

But everything had changed.

Now, when she walked in, Harry smiled like he’d been waiting to. Like he’d always wanted to.

Now, when she handed him a book, their fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary.

Now, he’d sometimes slide a note into the pages that didn’t say anything poetic at all—just things like “You’re on my mind” or “I like when you sit close”—and it made her smile in a way she couldn’t help.

He didn’t try to claim her time. He didn’t hover or demand space in her world.

He just offered.

Gently.

And she kept choosing to show up.

One afternoon, she walked into the library and found a book already waiting at her usual table.

A worn copy of Letters to a Young Poet. Her favorite edition. His.

Inside, a note:

“No one’s ever made me want to be understood this way. I think that matters.”

She folded the note carefully and tucked it into her bag like a secret.

When she looked up, he was behind the desk, head bowed slightly, pretending not to watch her.

But she knew he was.

She stood, walked over, leaned her arms against the counter.

“Do you want to get out of here when your shift ends?” she asked, voice quiet.

He looked up, surprised at first, but then his face softened, like he’d been hoping she’d ask.

“Always,” he said.

The days kept rolling in, and so did they.

Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Just a steady unfolding.

Sunday mornings spent sharing pastries on a bench just outside the library, passing back and forth a book of poems neither of them had read.

Wednesday evenings full of casual texts that read like confessions in disguise.

Nights at his flat, reading on opposite ends of the couch with their feet tangled somewhere in the middle. No music. No noise. Just the quiet rhythm of pages turning and two people learning each other sentence by sentence.

Sometimes she’d glance up and find him already looking at her.

He never looked away.

The library was still her place.

Still sacred.

Still quiet.

But now, when she sat under the tall window, it felt less like a place she came to disappear, and more like a place she came to be seen.

Because now, when she looked up from the pages, there was someone there.

Someone who noticed.

Someone who always had.

deeper.

It was a Thursday when she found the last note.

Not tucked inside a book or slipped across the counter.

This one waited for her at her usual table, folded carefully, resting on top of a hardcover she hadn’t seen before—some obscure poetry collection she’d never heard of, which meant it was probably perfect.

She sat down slowly, thumb grazing the edge of the paper before she opened it.

It wasn’t long.

Not poetic.

Not cryptic.

Just Harry’s handwriting, steady and familiar now.

You don’t feel like a maybe anymore.

You feel like home.

She stared at it for a moment, letting the words settle in her chest.

The light through the window hit the table just right. Dust floated in the air. Everything felt still.

She turned the card over and wrote two words on the back.

Me too.

Then she stood, walked to the front desk, and handed it to him—face down, no explanation.

He looked at her, really looked.

Then tucked the note into his pocket, came around the desk, and took her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They walked back toward her table together. No big moment. No kiss. Just their hands joined between them, like a sentence finally finished.

The book still sat there, waiting.

She opened it to the first page.

He sat across from her.

And they read.

Together.

[bear-yawns]

　𝗪𝗘𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘.　yuki tsunoda · #22

　　　no matter how many years you've been together with yuki, there's one thing he will never get tired of.

genres : fluff ... established relationship ... husband!yuki x wife!reader.　request : @lxvemaze for yuki + "god, close the curtains- i think i'm being blinded." for the 100 event　word count : 0.7k.　warnings : i fear that they're extremely in love ... not proofread.　 note : sigh the things i do for my friends (jk this was fun to write for my pookie) ENJOY FIRST YUKI FIC !!　　　( masterlist )　( taglist )

Your favourite way to wake up in the morning was when the first thing you felt was Yuki’s comfortable weight on top of yours. You’d never told him just how much you liked it, and half the time he wasn’t even aware that he always shifted in his sleep until several of his ligaments were splayed across your body. This morning it was his legs trapping yours and his head which had found its way to your chest instead of the pillow. 

You stifled a laugh at the ridiculous position he was in and glanced at your phone for the time. Already 8AM. You needed to get up, but you weren’t ready to disturb your husband from his beauty sleep. Especially with how much he deserved it. After a long and tiring race weekend, Monday was the day he could sleep in a bit. Plus, he had flown in late last night and the jetlag never helped either. 

You started by gently pushing his head aside, making sure that it landed on soft pillows. Getting your legs free was a little more difficult, as they were completely tangled with his. You managed with as little disturbance to his sleep as possible. With a satisfying stretch and a quick kiss pressed to his forehead because you couldn’t quite resist how cute he looked, you made your way to the bathroom.

Before Yuki even opened his eyes, he was already frowning. He could tell you had left the bed and gotten up without him. And he didn’t like that. Especially on his day off. And as soon as he opened his eyes, he was met with something equally as unpleasant as you not being in his arms at the current moment. 

“God, close the curtains—- I think I’m being blinded,” he whined, voice hoarse and tired as he shoved his face into the pillow to avoid the bright stream of sunlight that was directly hitting him. The sound of harmonious giggles filled his ears and made his heart tug in his chest just slightly. Maybe you had been married for over two years now and the so-called honeymoon phase should’ve been long over by now, but that didn’t change how much Yuki loved the sound of your laughter. Sometimes it made his heart flutter just the same way it did when he first met you. He felt the brightness fade from the room and he squinted his eyes open again, gaze finding yours sleepily. He pouted.

“That was the worst way to wake up.”

“Why? Cause you almost lost your vision to the power of the sun? You vampire,” you quipped endearingly at him, taking a sip of your coffee. A smile started to play on his lips. 

“No. You weren’t in bed with me. I think that should be illegal any day I’m actually home,” Yuki defended stubbornly, all with a lovesick smile on his sleepy face. You set your coffee cup down as he reached for your wrist, finding a way to gently tug your body down on top of his. You landed a bit messily on top of the soft duvet, but with Yuki’s hands to steady you, you were in no danger of losing your balance. 

“Well, I’m in bed with you now, aren’t I?” you noted. You stared at the ceiling as your husband wrapped his entire body around yours, legs entangling with your own just as they had during the night. Maybe it wasn’t so surprising that he did it in his sleep given how often he did it while conscious too. You were convinced you had married a koala bear with separation anxiety. 

“And you’ll stay here until I decide it’s time for both of us to get up,” Yuki said proudly. 

“As you wish, Mr. Bossy.” 

You ran your fingers through his hair, adjusting the different sections that stood up on their own thanks to the awkward way he had slept. He closed his eyes again, basking in the scent of your shampoo and how warm your body felt against his. 

“Don’t fall asleep again,” you warned, noticing how he was teetering on the edge of dreams again. He shook his head, muttering that he wouldn’t, and held you a bit tighter. 

Whether it be two years of marriage or twenty, you doubt that Yuki would ever get less clingy. But you hope he doesn’t, because there’s no feeling more comforting than his body weight on yours and his soft breathing matching with the rhythm of your heartbeat.

[archivegyu]

Midnight Rain

You met Seungcheol in the earliest days of SEVENTEEN, before the sold-out concerts, the world tours, the unrelenting schedules. Back when he was just a boy chasing a dream.

It was raining that night, and you had offered him a spot under your umbrella. He had smiled, warm and a little shy, and walked beside you like he wasn’t carrying the weight of an entire career on his shoulders.

“What if one day you’re too famous for this?” you asked playfully, nudging his arm.

“Then I’ll bring you with me,” he said without hesitation. His fingers brushed against yours, tentative but certain. “No matter what happens, I’ll always choose you.”

And you believed him.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

At first, he tried.

Even as SEVENTEEN’s schedules filled up, even as his responsibilities as leader grew heavier, Seungcheol made time. Late-night calls where he whispered about his day, stolen moments between rehearsals where he grinned at you like you were the only thing keeping him sane.

But the world was calling him, and slowly, he began answering it more than he answered you.

The missed calls became more frequent. The texts became shorter. The dates you planned were left abandoned, excuses piling up like dead leaves on the sidewalk.

“I swear, I’ll make it up to you,” he promised one night over the phone, his voice thick with exhaustion.

“You always say that,” you whispered back.

Silence.

You waited. But waiting became accepting. Accepting became realizing.

You wanted something steady, something certain—someone who would always come home to you. But Seungcheol was meant for stages, for screaming crowds, for nights that never really ended.

He wanted a sky full of lights. You just wanted one light left on at home.

⋆˚₊ 𖤓☽˚.⋆

years passed.

SEVENTEEN only got bigger. More music, more tours, more commitments. Their world never slowed down, and Seungcheol kept moving with it.

Some things, however, remained constant.

And for a while, you were one of them.

There were still days when you found yourself surrounded by the people who had been just as much a part of your life as he was. Days where you ended up in a dorm that felt more like home than your own apartment, where Mingyu would toss you a bag of chips the moment you walked in, and Soonyoung would pull you into an impromptu dance battle in the living room.

“Yah, be careful with the snacks!” Mingyu scolded as Soonyoung nearly knocked over a bowl of popcorn.

You laughed, shaking your head. “How do you guys still have the energy for this after a full schedule?”

“Muscle memory,” Soonyoung grinned, collapsing onto the couch beside you. “That, and caffeine.”

Mingyu stretched out beside you, tossing a pillow onto Soonyoung’s face. “Or maybe we just know we’ll always have you to come back to.”

You turned to him, brows raised in question. “What do you mean?”

“You’re the only thing that hasn’t changed,” Soonyoung said, voice softer now. “Even when everything else does.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. It was a fleeting reminder that, in their world of constant motion, you had been one of the rare things that stayed the same.

But some things weren’t meant to last.

☾⋆

2025

Caratland was always the highlight of the year.

Standing on that stage, looking out at the sea of lightsticks swaying in perfect harmony, Seungcheol should have felt complete. This was everything he had worked for, everything he had sacrificed for.

So why did it still feel like something was missing?

Later that night, as the car drove through the city streets, his gaze drifted outside. That’s when he saw you.

Walking among the fans, your hands clutched a concert banner, your face unreadable. You had come.

A memory surged forward like a wave crashing over him.

It was late at night, long before the world pulled you apart. You were lying in his tiny dorm room, squeezed together on his narrow bed, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. The air smelled like fabric softener and the faintest hint of ramen, and outside, the city hummed quietly.

“You’ll always be here, right?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Seungcheol let out a soft chuckle, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your back. “What kind of question is that?”

“I just…” you hesitated, tightening your grip on his hoodie. “I know this isn’t forever. That one day, you’re going to be everywhere, on billboards, on sold-out tours, leading thousands of people who adore you.”

He tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. “And none of that will change this.”

“You say that now, but what if you wake up one day and realize the world is enough? That you don’t need me?”

His brows furrowed, like the thought had never even crossed his mind. “I could have the entire world screaming my name, but it wouldn’t mean anything if I couldn’t come home to you.”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes. “Promise me.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, breathing you in, memorizing the way you fit against him like you belonged there. “Forever,” he murmured, sealing it with a kiss. “No matter what.”

The memory faded, but the ache it left behind didn’t.

As the car turned the corner, pulling him further away, Seungcheol closed his eyes and exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

He had kept every promise he ever made—to his members, to his fans, to the dream he spent his whole life chasing.

Every promise except the one that mattered most.

[goddessofwind8water]

so I wrote this prior to the ask where it was said that they weren’t together in ether of these au’s. Also I didn’t check some details so their are some things off (locket not haveing fangs, etc) but I wanted to share anyways

so tada👋👋

Could you imagine being Ambulon in the bot!locket au? You assured them everything was ok, that it wasn’t a big deal, that there was no issue at all. Everything was fine. Then they disappear, you hope they’re ok, that they’ll reappear.

They don’t

Pharma does nothing to find them, but then again they were right, your patient survival rate has gone down hill. Without Locket, you, Aid and Pharma are all pulling longer and longer shifts. You barely have the time to touch up your paint, time off becomes a things you fantasize about in the brief moments between consciousness and recharge. So it make senses that Pharma might not have time to officially call a search for Locket.

Then

then the rust plague hits, you’ve been wondering if Locket was right, as time goes on it’s only seemed more and more likely.

then the Lost Light comes calling, they send their CMO and an entourage to help. They send the CMO and an entourage to finally figure out why the survival rate had dropped. The CMO almost reminds you of Locket, not in the big ways, not in color-scheme or attitude, but in the little things, the way he conducts himself while accessing a patient, how he clenches and unclench his hand while he thinks and by his side stands a mech who’s willing to cut up unarmed mechs not with a scalpels precision but with a sword. And stranger still he too reminded you of Locket, his smile is just like Locket’s, down to the little fangs that they tried so hard to hide. (That they never quite managed to hide when they smiled). It felt like an odd inverted mirror, like a prism splitting up your Locket, the memories of them refracted onto these strangers.

Not that you had that much time to reflect on that, because then things are happening. Things happen so fast and the next thing you know you’re now serving aboard the Lost Light, now knowing the truth.

Locket was right, something had been terribly wrong, Your boss had been killing your patients. Your boss had caused a plague, he had planned on killing you.

You sit in your hab, safe, for the first time in a very long time, you have free time. Your mind is swimming.You wonder about Locket, it seems a good bet that pharma has killed them, he’d always seemed to have a weird grudge against Locks, he might have just done in for that.

but that doesn’t stop you from thinking, was it because Locket was to suspecting? (a part of your processor screams, you don’t remember if you had brought up Lockets fears to Pharma. Had you? Had you brought them to his attention? You don’t remember, there had been so much going on. What if you had?)Has they tried to look into it after they had talked to you? Maybe if you had been just a little more convincing could you have gotten them to drop it? Maybe if you had just taken their concerns a little more seriously, helped them investigate, maybe you would have been there when Pharma found them.

Maybe you could have made a difference.

Maybe if- maybe If- it doesn’t matter now your aboard a spacecraft a million centihics away from Messatine, a million centihics away from your Lockets most definite grave.

Locket x Ambulon to heal (or hurt) the soul

[himbo-kuto]

ceo!sylus x secretary!reader  summary: what happens you you become sylus' trusted secretary? part one.

the secretary position for your ceo just opened up at your job and you heard they were now trying to hiring from within

the pay was 10x more than what you were originally making just as an office employee, but the glaring problem was first and foremost: your ceo.

you’ve seen many a secretary come through those doors and all of them leave within the first week. needless to say your ceo was a pretty intense person who had zero tolerance for mistakes

you’ve only ever seen him at major company events for a split second or through pictures of him in the news, but never have you seen him up close.

you were a fairly competent worker– always meeting your deadlines, submitting your work with minimal mistakes, you were sociable with your co-workers and overall, people liked you

so you thought fuck it, why not! and submitted your application to be his secretary

you may have girl bossed a little too close to the sun because you did not think it would land you in the top floor lobby, waiting to be interviewed by him and his two associates the next day.

there were floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the city, it was a breathtaking view that gave you a bit of hope. maybe this is the view you could be looking out to everyday.

what could go wrong? (famous last words)

the sound of your name jolted you out of your daze. you were greeted by two people who introduced themselves as luke and kieran before they lead you into your ceo's office

it was starkly different from the vibe lobby– his office was dark. black, grey, red accents were painted all over the room, not even an ounce of sunlight was shining through his windows. 

you took a look around admiring the artistry of it all, you knew your ceo was a person of high class and his office clearly reflected that. 

you took a seat in the arm chair in the middle with luke and kieran being seated on the couches on either side, while your ceo sat with his back towards you.

“so we did a few background screenings– criminal records, speeding tickets– standard stuff, viewed your application, along with the work you’ve previously submitted on behalf of the company and we'd say that on paper, you’re pretty good fit for the job.” the one on the left said who you remembered to be luke began speaking.

“but does that mean you can actually do the job?” kieran, the one on the right chimed in. 

“you see our boss has a very low tolerance for mistakes, how can you ensure that you don’t make any mistakes?”

you took a second to breathe– they were both coming at you with comments and remarks so fast that it took you a second to catch up. 

you looked over to see that the chair in the middle was still turned around. a small bitter chuckle escaped your lips. was he even going to greet you? you were tired of men in power treating people below them like they’re nothing just cause they didn't have the privilege that people with money had. 

maybe this wasn’t worth the time and money. if he wasn’t even going to look at you when you stepped into the room, then what the hell were you trying so hard for? so again you thought.. eh, fuck it.

“well, first off, nobody’s perfect. i’m sure as long as you two have been working with mr.qin, one of you hasn’t made a mistake before. as an employee working for her boss, it’s more about accountability. how much is mr.qin willing to take on for your mistake as a ceo who i’m sure has a very specific image. nobody ever wants to make a mistake.. but i would hope that if mr. qin is the man that all the news outlets paint him out to be, that he would vouch for his employees. though it has been interesting to see the amount of secretaries walking in and out of this building for the past month so maybe he’s not all he’s chalked up to be” 

silence– you could hear a pin drop in there.

‘fuck, maybe that was too much.’ you felt the sweat drop down your back as the silence filled the room, but before you could backtrack, you heard a deep chuckle. 

your eyes snapped in the direction of the noise, to find that it was none other than your company’s ceo. you don’t ever think you’ve heard him speak, let alone laugh before. 

he finally turned his chair around and you could've sworn you felt all the air get knocked out your lungs. sure, you’ve only ever seen him from afar but seeing him this up close... it truly took your breath away. he was mesmerizing. from his silver hair and red eyes to his custom tailored suit, all the way down to his designer dress shoes. 

you’ve heard whispers in the office about how attractive he was, but now you were able to confirm their observations. 

“you’ve observant, i’ll give you that. luke and kieran have been working for me for as long as i could remember. i fired them many times from the amount of mistakes they’ve made, just ask them. they’re annoying, rowdy and loud, but they're loyal to me. they do good work and they’ve learned a thing or two over the past couple of years. they’ve earned that."

"but know that i’m not putting my reputation on the line for some random stranger without merit.” 

that shut you up. 

“if you want that job, it’s yours. i’ve gone through everything the boys have given me about you and you’re more than qualified. but just know that working for me is no easy feat.” with that he turned his attention to his computer, signaling to the boys that you are to be dismissed.

“luke and kieran will give you a tablet with my schedule and meetings. i start my day at 5:00am at the boxing gym. prepare the breakfast listed in the notes and pick me up from my residence at 6:00am.” as promised, the boys handed you a small stack made up of different notes and said tablet.  

“and if i choose not to accept?” he smirked. 

“then simply, don’t show up dear.” 

[kunfuseddd]

Chemistry Beyond the lab

W.c -3k

Paring -y/n x haechan

Warnings- slightly nswf mentions of characters having sex kissing flirting making out

Genere - study partners to lovers non idol au

A/n - hi guys sorry for not posting i have a lot going on with my disorders and health but i try posting more!!! Hope you like it anyone can request story positive feedback appreciate ENJOY!!

YN never expected Chemistry to be this difficult—or this distracting. It wasn’t the complex equations or endless experiments that threw her off; it was her lab partner, Lee Haechan.

From the moment Professor Suh paired them for the semester-long project, YN knew she was in trouble. Haechan was effortlessly charming, always flashing a teasing smirk, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. Meanwhile, YN was quiet, focused, and more comfortable with her nose buried in her notebook than engaging in playful banter.

“Looks like we’ll be spending a lot of time together, partner,” Haechan had said on the first day, leaning in just a little too close. “Try not to fall in love with me, okay?

”YN had rolled her eyes, but the way her cheeks burned betrayed her.

Their assignment was to create an experiment that demonstrated chemical equilibrium in action, which meant long hours in the lab together. For the first few weeks, YN tried to keep things strictly professional. She meticulously took notes while Haechan mixed solutions with practiced ease. But he had a way of breaking through her walls.

“YN, you’re too serious,” he teased one evening as they worked late in the lab. “Chemistry should be fun. Passionate. Like love.”

She choked on her breath. “It’s a science, not a romance novel.”

“Why not both?” He winked, and she quickly turned back to her notes, pretending to be unaffected.

But she was.

One evening, they met at YN’s dorm to finalize their project presentation. The tiny desk lamp cast a warm glow as she spread out her notes, and Haechan sprawled on her bed, flipping through their research.

“This is good,” he said, pointing to a paragraph she had written. “You’re brilliant, YN.”

She looked up, surprised. “You actually read my notes?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m your partner, aren’t I?”

Something in his voice made her stomach flutter. He wasn’t teasing this time.

They worked in quiet harmony, the sound of her pen scratching against paper mixing with his occasional humming. But as the night wore on, Haechan's presence became harder to ignore.

She was hyper-aware of how close he was, the warmth radiating from his body. When he reached across her to grab a book, his fingers brushed against hers. She froze.

“Relax,” he murmured, his lips curving into a knowing smile. “You act like I’m dangerous.”

“Aren’t you?” she shot back, trying to regain control of the situation.

He chuckled. “Only if you want me to be.”

The night before their presentation, they stayed late in the lab, perfecting their experiment. YN was measuring a reagent when she felt Haechan watching her.

“What?” she asked, trying to ignore the way her heart pounded.

“You’re cute when you concentrate,” he said casually.

She nearly dropped the flask. “Haechan.”

“What? It’s true.” He stepped closer, the playful edge in his voice softening. “I like seeing you like this. Passionate. Determined.”

Her breath hitched. He was so close now, the scent of his cologne wrapping around her like a trap.

“This—this isn’t part of the project,” she stammered.

“Maybe not.” He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”

Her pulse roared in her ears. Maybe it was the late hour, the exhaustion, or the way he was looking at her, but she gave in.

He kissed her.

It was hesitant at first, almost as if testing the waters. But when she didn’t pull away, he deepened it, his lips moving against hers with a mix of confidence and tenderness. She melted into him, hands gripping the front of his lab coat.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.

“That was a pretty good reaction,” he murmured. “Should we test it again?”

She laughed, breathless. “You’re impossible.”

After that night, something shifted between them. The flirting wasn’t just teasing anymore—it was charged with something deeper. Their stolen glances in class lasted a little longer. His touches lingered.

One evening, after another long study session in her dorm, things escalated.

Haechan had been reading over her shoulder, chin nearly resting on her shoulder. She was acutely aware of every breath he took.

“This is torture,” he finally groaned.

She turned to him. “What is?”

“Being this close to you and not being able to do this.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he tilted her chin up and kissed her again. But this time, there was no hesitation. It was deeper, needier. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her onto his lap.

Her fingers tangled in his hair as he trailed kisses down her jaw, whispering her name like a prayer.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, his voice rough.

But she didn’t. She wanted this—him.

The rest of the night was a blur of heat and whispered names, of tangled sheets and soft moans. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced—intense, electrifying, perfect.

The next morning, she woke up to the feeling of fingers tracing lazy circles on her bare shoulder.

“Morning, beautiful,” Haechan murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

She buried her face in the pillow. “This is a bad idea.”

He chuckled. “Too late for that.”

She sighed, rolling over to face him. “What does this mean for us?”

He propped himself up on one elbow, studying her. “It means I really, really like you.”

Her heart skipped. “You do?”

“Of course.” He brushed a kiss against her forehead. “I didn’t flirt with you all semester just for fun. Well—partly for fun. But mostly because I wanted you to notice me.”

She smiled. “I noticed.”

“Good.” He grinned. “Now, let’s ace this project and make it official after.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

Maybe she did.

And maybe, just maybe, their chemistry wasn’t just confined to the lab.

The end!!!!!

[lilangelbud]

pervy dad <333

“C’mon, just one kiss,” he said, his voice low and teasing, his breath hot against my ear as he leaned over the center console of the car. I could feel the heat of his body, the way his presence seemed to fill the entire space, making it impossible to ignore him. I turned my head, staring out the window at the school gates, my cheeks burning.

“Dad, stop,” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. I could feel my stomach twisting, a mix of embarrassment and something else I didn’t want to name.

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “You’re so cute when you’re shy,” he said, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. I flinched, but he didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care. “You know you like it. Don’t act like you don’t.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My heart was pounding in my chest, my palms slick with sweat. I could feel his eyes on me, those dark, piercing eyes that seemed to see right through me. He was always like this, always pushing, always teasing. And I hated it. I hated how he made me feel, how he could reduce me to a stammering, blushing mess with just a few words.

“Fine,” he said finally, leaning back in his seat with a smirk. “But don’t think you’re getting off that easy. I’ll get my kiss later.”

I didn’t bother to respond. I grabbed my bag and fumbled with the door handle, practically falling out of the car in my haste to get away from him. I could hear him laughing behind me, the sound following me as I hurried towards the school gates.

“Hey, sweetheart!” he called after me, his voice carrying across the parking lot. I froze, my heart skipping a beat. I didn’t want to look back, but I couldn’t help myself. I turned, just in time to see him leaning out of the car window, a wicked grin on his face. “Don’t forget to tell your friends I said hi. And if any of them want a kiss, they know where to find me!”

I felt my face burn as I turned away, my stomach churning. I could see a group of my classmates standing by the entrance, their eyes wide with shock and disgust. I ducked my head, trying to ignore the whispers that followed me as I hurried inside.

---

It had started a few months ago, little things at first. A hand lingering on my shoulder a little too long. A joke that felt just a little too inappropriate. I tried to tell myself it was nothing, that I was just overreacting. But then it escalated.

I remember the first time he did it. We were watching a movie together, just the two of us. He’d been drinking, as usual, and he was in one of those moods—chatty, touchy, and completely shameless. I’d been trying to focus on the screen, but I could feel his eyes on me, watching me with that familiar intensity that always made my skin crawl.

“You know,” he said suddenly, his voice slurred slightly from the alcohol. “You’ve really grown up, haven’t you?”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to. He shifted on the couch, leaning closer, his hand brushing against my thigh. I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

“Dad…” I started, but he cut me off with a laugh.

“Relax,” he said, his tone light and teasing. “I’m just messing with you.”

But then I felt it—his hand moving, brushing against the side of my leg. I looked down, my stomach sinking as I saw what he was doing. He had his pants unzipped, his hand inside, stroking himself slowly.

I felt like I was going to be sick. I turned away, my heart racing, but that only seemed to amuse him more.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “You act like you’ve never seen one before.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I just sat there, frozen, my eyes fixed on the screen. But I could still hear him, the soft sound of skin against skin, the occasional low groan that escaped his lips.

“You know,” he said after a while, his voice low and husky. “It just makes me harder when you ignore me like that.”

---

It didn’t stop after that. If anything, it got worse. He started bathing me again, even though I was more than old enough to do it myself. He said it was just a father’s job to take care of his daughter, but I knew better. I could feel his eyes on me the whole time, watching me with that same hungry look that made my skin crawl.

And then there were the pictures. He started taking them when I wasn’t looking, candid shots of me in the tub, my body exposed, my face flushed with embarrassment. He’d send them to my classmates, to the boys at school, with messages that made my stomach turn.

“Hey, boys,” he’d write. “Want a turn with my little girl? I’ll make it worth your while.”

I tried to tell him to stop, to plead with him to just leave me alone. But he just laughed, like it was all some big joke.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “You know you like it. Don’t act like you don’t.”

---

And now, here I was, standing in the school hallway, trying to ignore the whispers and stares that followed me wherever I went. I could feel their eyes on me, their gazes heavy with judgment and disgust. I wanted to disappear, to sink into the floor and never come back.

I turned the corner, heading for my locker, but I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw him—my Dad, standing there with a group of my classmates. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a wicked grin on his face.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “I was just telling your friends here about our little… arrangement.”

I felt my heart sink as I looked at the faces of my classmates, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief. I wanted to scream, to run, to do something—anything—but I couldn’t move. I just stood there, frozen, as he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush against my cheek.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. “I’ll make sure they all get a turn.”

[pankowcrumbs]

Got That Out of Your System, Princess? x Harry Styles

I’d like to think that I’m not the type of person who holds a grudge.

But when Harry and I had a petty little argument one of those stupid ones where neither of us could remember what we were even actually arguing about I found myself feeling a little... spiteful.

Not in a serious way. Just in a maybe I’ll cause a little chaos way.

Harry was overseas doing press interviews, and I was back home, stewing in my own irrational irritation. It wasn’t even a real fight. Something about whether or not he should’ve texted me or called me when he arrived at the hotel. I had been worried when I hadn't heard back but he was tired and It was stupid.

But still, my pride wouldn’t let me drop it.

So, I did the most ridiculous, over-the-top thing I could think of I took his credit card he gave me for emergencies and went on a spending spree from hell.

If he was going to make me feel petty, I was going to make him pay for it. Literally.

First, I strolled into a high-end boutique, the kind where the employees give you a once-over to decide whether you belong there. I had Harry Styles’ black Amex in my hand I belonged.

£50,000 later, I had bags full of entirely unnecessary designer clothes.

Then, I wandered into a car dealership and test-drove the most obnoxious luxury vehicle I could find. Sleek, fast, completely impractical.

“Would you like to discuss financing?” the salesman asked, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

I smiled sweetly. “Oh, no need. I’ll pay in full.”

That was another £100,000.

And finally, the pièce de résistance I bought a horse.

A real-life horse.

Do I know how to ride a horse? No.

Do I own any land or a stable? Also, no.

Did that stop me from dropping £10,000 on the most majestic looking stallion I could find? Absolutely not.

Petty? Yes.

Justified? Also yes.

By the time I got home, I was buzzing with the thrill of my absolutely ridiculous spending spree.

I had no idea how Harry was going to react. Maybe he’d be mad. Maybe he’d be so confused that he’d forget he was supposed to be annoyed at me.

Either way, I felt very pleased with myself.

Meanwhile…

Harry was finishing up an interview when his phone started vibrating relentlessly in his pocket.

He ignored it at first, but when he checked his notifications and saw five missed calls from his accountant, he knew something was up.

As soon as he was out of the studio, he called back, bracing himself for whatever financial catastrophe was awaiting him.

“Harry, mate, I have to ask are you okay?” his accountant’s voice was practically breathless with panic.

Harry frowned. “Yeah? Why?”

“Because there are outrageous charges on your account! Did you buy a £100,000 car today?”

Harry blinked. “...No.”

“Right. Did you spend £50,000 on clothes?”

Harry smirked, already catching on. “Nope.”

There was a long, exhausted sigh on the other end of the line. “And please, for the love of God, tell me you did not order a purebred racing horse.”

At that, Harry let out a loud, full-bodied laugh.

“Ahh,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “That’ll be my future wife throwing a tantrum.”

The accountant spluttered. “Harry, she bought a horse.”

He laughed again, running a hand through his curls. “Yeah, she’s a dramatic little thing, isn’t she?”

There was a beat of silence before the accountant sighed again, utterly defeated.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

Harry grinned. “Let her charge whatever she wants.”

“You do realise she spent a ridiculous amount of money, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said, still thoroughly amused. “Actually, could you sort out a stable for that damn horse while you’re at it?”

His accountant made a noise like he was about to quit on the spot.

Harry was still chuckling as he hung up and immediately dialled my number.

When my phone rang and I saw Harry’s name, I hesitated for a split second.

Then I answered.

“Got that out of your system, princess?”

I winced slightly. “You, um... noticed?”

Harry barked out a laugh. “Oh, I noticed. My accountant nearly had a heart attack.”

I bit my lip, feeling a little guilty. “I may have gone... slightly overboard.”

“Oh, slightly, yeah?” he teased, still entirely unbothered. “You spent six figures just to prove a point, love.”

I groaned, flopping onto the bed. “I was just being stubborn! You know I never spend your money, and I...I just wanted to be petty!”

“I know,” he said, warmth in his voice. “And honestly? It was hilarious.”

I blinked. “Wait... you’re not mad?”

Harry snorted. “Mad? Sweetheart, you just threw the most expensive tantrum I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s iconic.”

I let out a breathy laugh, feeling my tension ease. “I am sorry, though.”

“I know you are.”

I hesitated. “You really don’t care?”

“Not in the slightest,” he promised. “You could’ve bought ten horses and I’d still just be here thinking about how much I love you.”

My heart fluttered at that. “I love you too.”

“Good,” he said softly. “Now, about this horse...”

I groaned. “Yeah... about that...”

“Darling, where are you even planning to keep it?”

I bit my lip. “Is your accountant’s handling that?.”

Harry laughed again, long and hard. “Of course he is.”

There was a pause before he added, “You do realise this means you’re coming horse-riding with me now, right?”

My eyes widened. “Wait, what?”

Harry smirked. “Oh, you think you can just buy a horse and not ride it? Nah, love, we’re gonna be equestrian professionals by the end of this.”

I groaned, but I was smiling like an idiot. “You’re impossible.”

“And you are the most dramatic, expensive little menace I’ve ever had the pleasure of loving.”

I laughed. “That’s me.”

He chuckled again, voice low and affectionate. “Go to sleep, my love. I’ll be home soon.”

And just like that, everything was right again.

I sighed happily. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, my insanely expensive princess.”

Two weeks later, I found myself at a stable, standing in front of my very expensive, very large, very real horse.

Harry stood beside me, grinning from ear to ear.

“So,” he said, nudging me. “Shall we go for a ride?”

I turned to him, utterly deadpan. “I hate you.”

He just laughed, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and whispered, “Love you too, sweetheart.”

[strawberry-bubblef]

Scarabia x zaunite reader

Request by anonymous: Maybe how about a headcanons with Yuu who is born and raised in Zaun? Most importantly how would cast reacts to Zaun's environment once Yuu trusts them enough to tell about it? (Or maybe cast would see for themselves somehow?)

Synopsis: You have always kept your past a secret, but as their relationships deepen, the truth about Zaun slowly unravels. A city of smog, struggle, and survival far from the world of NRC. How will their lover react to the harsh reality Yuu once called home? And more importantly, can they bring comfort to the one who endured it all?

Gender neutral reader

Warnings: ⚠Mentions of poverty, crime, substance abuse (shimmer), survival struggles, and environmental pollution. The setting of Zaun includes themes of danger, societal disparity, and rough living conditions. Reader's past involves hardships, but the story focuses on comfort, understanding, and romance.⚠

Heartslabyul,Savanaclaw ,Octavinelle,Scarabia Pomifiore, Ignhyde,Diasominia

Since you didn't specify her past,I'm just gonna assume that she's an orphan like 99% of the Zaunite cast.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim had always thought the world was a bright and beautiful place.

Sure, he knew there were dangers,Jamil had told him as much, over and over. But Kalim was lucky. He had a home full of warmth, a family that cared for him, and more wealth than he could ever need.

And then he met you.

You were different.

You laughed with him, joked with him, cared about him but there was always something just under the surface. Something that made your smiles feel guarded.

And Kalim didn’t get it.

At first, he thought maybe you were just shy. Maybe you needed time to open up.

So he waited.

But even after you started trusting him, even after you let him hold you close and steal kisses between classes, that something never fully went away.

And it bothered him.

Not because he was upset at you,no, never! He just… wanted to help.

But he didn’t know how.

Until, one night, you finally told him the truth.

A city full of smoke and metal, where people fought just to live. Where the rich looked down from their towers while the poor choked on the fumes below.

Where you had grown up, struggling every day to survive.

And Kalim?

He froze.

Not because he didn’t believe you,no, he did. But because he had never imagined that you were having this kind of life.

And it hurt.

Because all this time, you had smiled at him, comforted him, loved him,while carrying that.

He felt stupid.

All his life, he had never gone hungry. Never feared for his life. Never even thought about what it would be like to grow up with nothing.

And yet… here you were.

His love.

His everything.

You had suffered, and he had never even noticed.

“…Kalim?”

He flinched, realizing he had been silent for too long. You were watching him, your face unreadable.

His heart ached.

How many times had people turned away from you after learning the truth?

He hated that thought.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He grabbed you,held you tight.

“Kalim—?”

“I’m sorry.” His voice wavered. “I… I never knew.”

You sighed. “Kalim, it’s not your fault-”

“But I should have known! I should have asked! I should have realized-”

You shook your head. “No, you shouldn’t have. It’s not something people think about unless they’ve been there.”

Kalim clenched his fists. That was exactly the problem.

He had never thought about it.

But now? Now he would.

And when the chance finally came to visit Zaun, he took it without hesitation.

Jamil tried to stop him, of course.

“This is a terrible idea.”

But Kalim just grinned. “It’ll be fine, Jamil!”

(It was not fine.)

The moment he stepped into Zaun, the reality hit him like a sandstorm.

The air was thick,wrong. It burned his throat, made his head spin. He wasn’t used to the smell of metal and chemicals, the weight of the smog hanging in the air.

The streets were crowded, but not in a lively way. People moved quickly, eyes sharp, shoulders tense.

And the children

Kalim’s stomach twisted.

Thin arms. Hollow eyes. Clothes barely holding together.

And this,this was your home?

Kalim felt sick.

And then he saw you.

You stood beside him, relaxed in a way you never were at NRC.

You knew these streets. Knew these people.

You belonged here.

And yet, Kalim hated that you had ever needed to belong in a place like this.

You must have noticed his expression, because you nudged him lightly. “I told you not to come.”

“I wanted to.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

Kalim hesitated.

Then, he squeezed your hand

And smiled.

“…You’re amazing.”

You blinked. “What?”

Kalim squeezed your hand tighter. “You grew up here, in a place like this,but you’re still you. You’re still strong, still kind, still incredible.”

Your breath hitched.

Kalim wasn’t stupid. He saw the way you tensed, the way your eyes darted away.

No one had ever told you that before, had they?

Well.

He’d change that.

From now on, he’d tell you every day.

Kalim beamed, pulling you into a tight hug.

“I love you, you know that?”

You groaned, but you hugged him back. “…Yeah. I know.”

“Good! Because I’m never gonna stop saying it!”

You laughed softly. “I figured.”

Kalim grinned.

No matter what, he’d make sure you never felt alone again.

Jamil Viper

Jamil had grown up knowing what it meant to be trapped.

His entire life had been dictated by duty, expectations, and the ever-present weight of servitude.

But your life?

It was something he couldn’t have imagined.

At first, he didn’t press. He knew what it was like to keep secrets, to hold your past close because trust wasn’t something freely given.

So he waited.

And when you finally told him?

He listened.

Zaun.

A city of smog and shadows. Where survival was a battle, and the strong didn’t protect the weak,they exploited them.

Where you had learned to fight, to hide, to survive.

Jamil didn’t react right away.

He just sat there, absorbing every word.

And then he said, quietly—

“…It must have been exhausting.”

You blinked.

No pity. No shock. Just understanding.

Like he knew what it was like to wake up every day and feel like the world was against you.

Because he did.

No, his struggles weren’t the same as yours. But the feeling of being trapped, of having to fight for every bit of freedom?

That, he understood.

Jamil didn’t ask if you were okay.

That would have been insulting.

Instead, he said, “You shouldn’t have had to live like that.”

And then-

“…But I’m glad you survived.”

You weren’t sure why, but that made your chest ache.

After that, Jamil changed.

He watched more closely. Took note of the way you reacted to things. How you scanned a room for exits. How you tensed at sudden noises.

He didn’t comment on it.

But he started doing things differently.

Subtle things.

Like making sure you always had an escape route.

Like handing you food without making a big deal out of it because he knew pride wouldn’t let you ask.

And then, one day, when the opportunity to visit Zaun came up,

You hesitated.

Jamil didn’t.

“I’m going with you.”

You frowned. “Jamil, you hate leaving things to chance.”

“Exactly.” His gaze was sharp. “And I don’t trust this place.”

You snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

But you let him come.

And the moment he stepped foot in Zaun

He understood.

The air was thick. Chemical-laced, sharp in a way that made his lungs burn.

The people watchful, wary, moving like they were always expecting a knife in their back.

Jamil felt the weight of the city pressing down on him, a suffocating mix of tension and decay.

And this—this—was the world you had grown up in?

He clenched his jaw.

No wonder you never let your guard down.

As you led him through the streets, Jamil walked close. Not obviously protective, but—

You noticed.

“Relax.” You nudged him. “I know my way around.”

Jamil’s eyes flickered to the shadows. “That’s what worries me.”

You smirked. “What, afraid someone’s gonna steal me?”

Jamil didn’t answer right away.

Then he mumbles quietly

“…I wouldn’t let them.”

Your breath hitched.

Jamil wasn’t the type to say things outright.

But you knew what he meant.

He wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

Not here. Not anywhere.

And later, when you sat together on a rusted rooftop, watching the city lights flicker through the smog.

Jamil spoke again.

“You don’t have to go back.”

You turned to him. “What?”

Jamil’s gaze was steady.

“You’re not trapped anymore.” His voice was soft but firm. “You have a choice now.”

You swallowed.

A choice.

How long had it been since anyone had told you that?

Jamil reached for your hand.

And for the first time in a long time.

You believed him.

English is not my first language.

[j1nxyo]

hungry for you— #sylus

Sylus x Reader

synopsis: You've always been afraid of anything intimate with anyone, but when things get too heated between you and Sylus one night you decide to let all that fear go.

word count: 1.4k

tags: 18+, smut, a bit of fluff lolz

authors note: hii!! this is my first official fic that i've actually finished, just wanted to write a quick one shot and take a break from my animation work :3 currently 5am as i'm writing this lolol, anyways please excuse any typos or errors it's late and im eepy haha. I've actually never written smut before so I apologize if it's not good… I hope you enjoy it ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

p.s: this is HEAVILY inspired by @kitimeq !! (layout included, pls so show her some love she's amazing) thanks so much for your sylus (say yes to heaven) fic!  you inspired me to pick up writing/reading fics again hehe <3 i hope to see more of your work in the future !!

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Hungry for you—

Sylus always was a patient man whenever it came to you. you've never seen him as gentle with anyone else than with you. He never once rushed you into anything you didnt feel comfortable with— but a man has desires. Sylus always suppressed himself with you. in truth you wanted to see how long he would suppress his feelings for, but that was just a cover, in all actuality you've never once felt the embrace and sensual love from a man before. Sylus was your first real relationship and you didn't know how to act. What kind of things are you supposed to do in a relationship with your partner? How do you initiate intimate activities? You didn't know. Sylus would get in the mood sometimes but you were always so afraid to go any further than intimate makeout sessions.

"What are you doing sitting all by yourself by the window?" He says, his husky voice sending chills down your back. Only because you've been pondering to yourself about how to bring up the whole intimacy thing to him. You stare at him for a while before finally throwing some words out your mouth. You watch as his eyebrows furrow in question.

"Nothing, just thinking" You spit out. He looks at you in confusion. He sits down next to you and grabs your hand, pulls it up towards his cheek and starts rubbing it along his face.

"Hey, you know you can tell me anything…right?" He says in a very soft tone. Your eyes match his and you smile and nod. You feel silly, how could you let something like this bother you when you could just be open about it from the beginning. 

"Yes, Sy". You reply, letting out a small chuckle while continuing to rub your on his face. You steal your hand back from his grasp and give him a small kiss on the cheek, which surprises him.

"Oh, did you not like that?" You say in response. He looks you up and down, gives you a small chuckle and picks you up and starts walking while kissing you all over your neck. You close your eyes in response to all the love you're receiving, letting out soft moans here and there. Before you realize it you're in the bedroom. He lays you down gently on the bed kissing every nook and cranny on your  body while doing so. He's so gentle with you, he always has been. Even now—taking his time and being gentle with your body and mind alike. You grab him by his hair and start twirling it around your fingers, letting him know you like what he's doing. He looks up at you while near your stomach. He gives you a cocky grin and proceeds to lift up your shirt. You let out a shocked moan at the feel of the cold air hitting your skin, goosebumps start to cover your skin.

"Oh no…looks like someone is cold, maybe I should warm them up" He says. He then starts kissing you all over your stomach, making his way down to your panties. He starts to move his hands underneath when you let out a loud gasp and grab his hands. Then quickly let go.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" He said while bringing his head up to meet your eyes. You meet his lips with yours and grab his hand and set it on your boob. Nodding and moaning at the same time—letting him know you are ready for this. He flips you over and pulls off your pants, you've never seen him act like this before. Hungry for you.

Sylus wastes no time, after he pulls off your panties he kisses all over your stomach, when his lips finally reach your vagina he kisses it softly and then starts doing unimaginable things with his tongue, swiliring your clit around his mouth. Tasting every ounce of you. You close your eyes and grip his hair to keep your mind distracted from the immense amount of pleasure you're feeling.

"You taste…delicious." He says. You let out a sharp moan letting him know he's reached your sweet spot. You open your eyes for a second and your eyes match his, feeling embarrassed you quickly close them again.

"No, Kitten. Keep them open. I want to see you while I pleasure you." He says, out of breath from slurping all of you. You keep your eyes open, even though this feels degrading for him to tell you to do so, but you're oddly into it. You let out a loud sharp moan which suggests that you're near.

"Nuh uh…" He says. "Not yet, sweetheart." He stops sucking on you and proceeds to take off his pants and everything that follows. You open your eyes for a second only to be eye to eye with his penis. It's huge not only in girth but in length as well. You audibly gasp and he looks at you and chuckles.

"You can take it. Kitten" He says. "I'll go slow". He slowly slides it in, you let out a sharp gasp, while grunting. Sylus slows down, when you catch your breath he slides it in further. Sylus lets out a loud moan

"Fuck…".

"You feel so good Y/N…".

He's not even fully in yet but you can feel yourself pushing your limit. He starts to slide in and out, the wetness of your vagina acting as a lubricant.

"You're such a good girl, taking me like that." He says, short of breath. His praise turns you on, you let out loud moans letting him know you like that. He kisses your neck while thrusting in and out of you. Each thrust becomes more welcoming to your core. You could see the pleasure on his face, each bead of sweat that fell down his forehead made you feel a certain happiness inside. You wrapped our arms around his neck, picked up your legs and wrapped them around his back, making your hole even more welcoming for him to enter. He liked that. With each thrust in, he spent more time inside of you than pulling out. His trusts becoming even more loving than before.

"Fuck, Sylus. Please" You moan. Which boosted him into high gear. Hearing that from you made all of his exhaust leave out the window next to you. He continues to thrust into you while leaving all types of love bites all over your body. Your nails scratching his back. Everything all at once just felt so ethereal. You felt yourself reaching your climax, and so was Sylus. Everything turned black. Your nails dug into his back for the last time, and everything just left your body all at once. You let out a loud moan, that reached even the furthest parts of Sylus's Residence. Your legs tighnted around his back for a second, then ultimately felt like noodles and fell on the bed. Sylus, after hearing you come, ultimaely came himself as well. He did one last thrust into your body and let out a loud moan, you could feel him twitching a bit as he came inside of you. Feeling him fill you up you tighten your grip on him, making sure he felt that. He releases himself from you and you both lay next to eachother on the bed. You can feel his juices leaving you as he speaks:

"I love you Y/N." He says while catching his breath. Your eyes snap to his. You cant believe he said that just now, I mean you guys have been dating for a while, but you wondered if it was just the sex high that made him say that.

"I've been meaning to tell you that for a while, and this isnt just the sex talking." He says. He knew you so well. He knew the things you were thinking before you even said it. That's what made you guys such a perfect match.

"I love you too, Sy" You say out of breath as well. As the night comes to an end and you both are laying on the bed next to eachother, he drags his body towards you and hugs you from behind. Feeling his body warmth, and comfort from the embrace you fall asleep, and so does he.

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HAHHAH i wrote this in like 2 and a half hours pls excuse the errors or messed up language, this is also my first time writing smut so pls be gentle lol...

[pilotingdreammsss]

Hii!! I’m kinda new to your blog but I’ve read the rules and so I hope/think I’m not breaking any rules with this?? But anyways !!

Pure vanilla cookie x gn reader who has known him for a long time and is absolutely SMITTEN with him so they confess their love/loyalty(?) to him-and it basically turns to him saying that he isn’t ready and how sorry he is, expecting reader to be upset but all they say is “I’d wait a thousand lifetimes for you, because you are worth waiting for. So when you are ready. I’ll be right here.” Or something along those lines!!

Also I’m sorry if my requests is like kinda hard to understand TvT I’m not the best at explaining

No rules broken with this! You're all good ^w^. I perfectly understand your request! At least, I hope I interpreted it right!

Unrequited

Premise: You would've accompanied him to the ends of the earth. From Beast Yeast to the corners of Crispia. Though he didn't yet feel so ready... Warnings: None! Though slight mentions of rejection, for my rejection dysphoric folks.

"I'm... sorry. I don't think I'm quite prepared for that."

Your ventures in Beast Yeast had confirmed one thing - a vast, undying loyalty to Pure Vanilla Cookie, revealed to be a deep feeling of infatuation towards him.

You had first encountered the ancient in his student days, though you spoke so little, you considered him an acquaintance. His gentle handling of the world around him showed no bounds even then.

Though you were nowhere near as powerful as him, you had sworn to remain his friend in arms and in private. Though you sparsely drew your sword for him. He was far too gentle for needless conflict.

What you said was true. You'd accompany him to the ends of Earthbread, till the very day you crumbled.

He expected you to take rejection as other cookies do, with bitterness or melancholy, to suddenly retreat from him. For the friendship to tense and wither.

You knew better than to do so.

"There's so much things to do... I do not think I would be so dedicated if we were to..."

He'd suddenly shuffle, lips trembling slightly. You, of all people, would know the meaning of his discomfort. He'd felt deepset guilt for a while now.

Your confession was sudden. You knew that, and you understood that maybe now wasn't the time. He took your silence as sadness.

"That... doesn't matter."

He grips his staff a little tighter, smiling slightly. It's nervous and lopsided, but it's a smile nonetheless.

"That doesn't change what I feel about you, Pure Vanilla Cookie."

You step forward, gently grabbing one of his hands with both of your own.

"Your mission on Earthbread isn't done yet. I understand, I'll wait. It doesn't matter how long."

With a sudden tug, you loosely embrace him. He gasps slightly, taken off guard, though with time, gently wraps both his arms around your form.

"If it's in this lifetime, or the next... I'll wait for you. I couldn't think of anything worth waiting for more."

The embrace turns from awkward to comforting. Though he lacked the words to say it, he too was relieved that someone would be waiting for him. Even if that meant waiting till he'd almost crumble himself.

"Want to go out for some coffee? Drinks on me."

He draws away, realising that he'd forgotten to drink and eat today. Friends or more, he knows you won't let him decline.

"That would be most pleasant, thank you."

A/N: I got a lot of things done today! Much thanks for requesting, anon! Hope to see you back in the future, whoever you are. I feel as if I made this too short, so have a doodle, too!

[imreidswifey]

Hey can I request something about post!bau spencer x nerd!reader. Perhaps they’re met after he broke up with max and reader reminded him of his old self? thank you, have a good day x

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐸𝐶𝐻𝑂 𝑂𝐹 𝑈𝑆

post!bau spencer x nerd!reader

w/c: 5k

a/n: sorry this took so long, I totally forgot about writing this but it's so cute and I love nerd reader cause I get to let out my inner geek💕

Spencer Reid had always been good at being alone. He wasn’t the type to feel restless in silence or uncomfortable in his own company. In fact, for most of his life, solitude had been a kind of refuge—a quiet space where he could get lost in books, theories, and the endless workings of his mind.

But now, sitting in a corner booth at his favorite coffee shop, staring into the depths of a cup he wasn’t even drinking, solitude felt different.

It felt empty.

Maybe that was the aftermath of leaving the BAU. Maybe it was the breakup with Max. Maybe it was something deeper—something that had been unraveling in him long before he even realized it.

The BAU had been his life for so long. A constant. A purpose. The thing that grounded him when everything else felt chaotic. And now that it was gone, Spencer wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be. He’d spent years chasing monsters, losing pieces of himself along the way, and now, without the cases, the flights, the endless adrenaline, he felt… untethered.

Teaching helped. He liked standing in front of a lecture hall, watching bright young minds absorb knowledge, asking the kinds of questions that reminded him why he loved learning in the first place. But it wasn’t the same.

And relationships? Well, those had never come easy for him.

Max had been good. Kind. Patient. But in the end, it wasn’t enough. Their breakup hadn’t been a dramatic, catastrophic thing—no yelling, no betrayal. Just the slow realization that they weren’t meant to last. That what they had wasn’t enough to hold them together.

And now, Spencer was here. Alone in a coffee shop. Wondering if this was just how life was supposed to be now.

Then he saw you

At first, it was nothing remarkable. Just another person tucked away in the café, immersed in a book. But something about the way you read caught his attention.

You weren’t just skimming the pages, mindlessly flipping through—you were absorbed. Your lips moved slightly, as if silently mouthing the words. Your fingers traced the edge of the paper, lingering just a second longer before turning each page, like you were savoring it.

It was such a small thing.

But it reminded him of himself.

Spencer had always loved watching people read. There was something intimate about it—the way a person’s whole world could shrink down to the size of a single book, lost in a reality that existed only in their mind.

He hadn’t seen anyone read like that in a long time.

Before he could stop himself, he spoke.

“Good book?”

You looked up, startled, blinking as if you were surfacing from another world. For a second, he worried he’d overstepped, but then your expression softened into a small, curious smile.

“The best,” you said, turning the cover toward him.

Spencer’s eyebrows lifted slightly. It was a lesser-known fantasy novel, one he hadn’t read in years. A book rich with poetic prose and layered themes, the kind of story that lingered in your mind long after you closed it.

“I haven’t read that since I was a teenager.”

Your smile widened. “Then you know how good it is. Every time I read it, I find something new.”

Spencer felt something shift. The same feeling he got when he encountered a particularly clever riddle or an unsolved puzzle—a pull of curiosity, an urge to know more.

It had been a long time since he’d met someone who spoke about books the way he did.

—

That should have been the end of it. Just a brief exchange between two strangers in a café.

But it wasn’t.

Somehow, you and Spencer kept crossing paths. At the bookstore, where you lingered in the classics section while he debated picking up a new philosophy book. At the park, where you sat under the same tree every afternoon, nose buried in a novel while he walked the path with his own book in hand. At the library, where you both reached for the same book at the exact same moment.

Each encounter led to another conversation. Each conversation lasted a little longer.

Spencer found himself drawn to you in a way he hadn’t expected. You weren’t just intelligent—you were curious. You asked questions that made him think, countered his arguments with ideas of your own, and listened—truly listened—when he spoke.

And somewhere along the way, something changed.

One evening, after another long conversation stretched past midnight, he found himself walking you home. The city was quiet, the air crisp with the beginnings of autumn.

“I like talking to you,” you admitted, hugging your book to your chest. “It’s been a long time since I met someone who loves words as much as I do.”

Spencer hesitated for only a moment before saying, “Me too.”

You smiled at him then, and he knew—knew in a way that was deeper than logic—that you were something special.

—

Spencer wasn’t sure when exactly it had become a date.

It had started as an innocent suggestion—dinner at a cozy, bookshop café downtown. But as he stood outside your apartment, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, double-checking that he had the right restaurant reservation, and mentally reviewing every possible topic of conversation, he realized… this was a date.

And he was nervous.

It had been years since he’d been on a first date. Years since he’d felt this kind of anticipation—the hopeful, anxious, heart-racing kind.

When you opened the door, smiling up at him with that same warmth he’d come to recognize, his nerves settled just a little.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Lead the way.”

Dinner was perfect in its simplicity. The café was small and intimate, the air rich with the scent of coffee and old books. You sat across from each other, sipping tea, letting conversation flow as naturally as it always did.

At one point, you asked, “What was your favorite book as a kid?”

Spencer hesitated, debating between several answers, before finally settling on one. “A Wrinkle in Time.”

Your eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s a classic! Let me guess—you loved the science elements?”

“I did. But more than that, I liked the idea that intelligence and love weren’t mutually exclusive. That knowledge didn’t have to make you cold—that it could make you better.”

You stared at him for a long moment before saying, “That’s beautiful.”

Something in the way you said it made Spencer’s chest tighten.

After dinner, you strolled through the city, the conversation shifting from books to life to childhood memories.

At one point, you turned to him and said, “You know, I was really nervous before tonight."

Spencer blinked. “You were?”

You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I was worried it would be different. That talking to you would feel… forced, now that this is a date.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh. “I was worried about that too.”

“And?”

Spencer met your gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I think this might be the best first date I’ve ever had.”

You beamed. “Me too.”

As the night came to a close, Spencer walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel lost.

Because, somehow, without even realizing it, he’d found his way back to himself.

And he’d found you.