#and i look forward to learning much more! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dior-luxury · 3 days ago

Note

i’d like to say first that i adore your writing! it’s just absolutely lovely to read everything you write o(^▽^)o ♡ thank you for your work! if you don’t mind, i’d like to leave a request!

could i get some domestic fluff about babysitting with the twst characters? like helping leona babysit cheka (and any other character you’d like to write for who has a younger relative…or maybe just insert some random kid for whoever you pick lol) and the whole experience gets them thinking about the future and perhaps having a family of their own?

Babysitting With Them

( ✧ ) ────── parent stories . fluff - f!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] dormleaders . riddle . leona . azul . kalim . vil . idia . malleus

- [𝐩:𝐬] Fluff/Domestic Fluff . Babysitting . Future Family Themes. Mild Chaos/Cute Chaos . Soft Moments/Emotional Introspection . Mentions of Children . Parenthood Imagery/Future Parenting

Note: Thank you so much for enjoying my writing!! (≧◡≦) It's funny how I two of the same requests that have the same theme Lol, so I just decided to combine them both ( ´ ▽ ` )

Riddle Rosehearts

When Professor Trein approached Riddle with the task of watching his twin grandchildren for an afternoon, Riddle felt a surge of pride and immediate stress. “A demonstration of responsibility,” the professor had said with a knowing glance. Of course, the twist was that you’d be watching them with him.

He'd barely made it to the faculty quarters with the twins before they began running in opposite directions, giggling. One made a beeline for a bookshelf while the other tried to unbutton Riddle's blazer. You calmly scooped one up with a laugh and offered a distracted Riddle a reassuring smile. “We’ve got this.”

“Indeed,” he said, although his voice cracked slightly.

The afternoon was a test of patience, creativity, and teamwork. The twins were mischievous but not unmanageable, especially with your steadying presence. You suggested a tea party—“Just like in Heartslabyul, Riddle”—and helped set out little plastic cups, cookies, and juice. The twins delighted in it, making Riddle the "tea king" while you were “his queen,” to which Riddle flushed a bright pink but didn't correct them.

He even loosened up. At one point, you caught him kneeling beside a stuffed bear, seriously asking if it took sugar in its tea, and your heart melted.

Later, when the twins were napping in a sunlit corner of the lounge, curled up with stuffed animals, Riddle sat beside you on the couch, sipping lukewarm tea you both forgot to drink. He was unusually quiet.

“You were great with them,” you said, brushing a crumb from his sleeve.

He looked at the sleeping children, eyes soft and thoughtful. “I always feared I’d be too strict. That I’d repeat my mother’s mistakes. But... I felt something different today.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, and he hesitantly took your hand in his.

“I think… if it were with you… a future like this wouldn't be so terrifying,” he whispered. “Perhaps even… something to look forward to.”

And for a moment, the world was quiet—just the hum of a peaceful room, the steady rhythm of children’s breaths, and the quiet, blooming thought of someday.

Leona Kingscholar

You'd never seen Leona more alarmed than when a magical mirror blinked open to deliver a very energetic Cheka into his dorm room—complete with suitcase, plushie, and an extremely chipper "UNCLE LEOOO!"

Apparently, Crowley thought it a wonderful learning opportunity for Leona to engage with family during the school’s "Interpersonal Growth Week." And Crowley, in his infinite wisdom, roped you in as Leona’s "emotional support."

Cheka tackled Leona’s legs with a hug, and the big bad lion grumbled something unintelligible, already looking exhausted. You knelt to greet Cheka with a wide smile and a friendly high-five, which the little lion cub enthusiastically returned.

The next few hours were chaos wrapped in a sugar high.

You tried crafts—Cheka glued everything to the table. You tried games—Cheka turned hide-and-seek into a full-blown stealth mission that almost broke a vase. Leona had all but collapsed on the couch, arms crossed over his eyes, muttering, “I need a nap from this nap.”

But then—magic.

The three of you ended up outside in a sunny corner of the savannah-like lounge. Cheka chased butterflies while you helped Leona set up a blanket and snacks. You fed each other bits of dried fruit while pretending you weren't watching Cheka try to roar at squirrels.

Leona eventually laid down, head resting in your lap as he watched the sky.

“You’re good with him,” you said, fingers brushing through his hair.

“Tch. I just didn’t want him breaking anything.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

He huffed but didn’t deny it. Instead, he turned his head slightly, golden eyes catching yours. “You’re the one who’s a natural. Think you’d survive if we had a few of our own running around?”

The way he said it was casual, but there was weight behind the words. His gaze didn’t waver.

Your heart did a little somersault.

“I think we’d survive,” you replied, smiling. “And you’d be better at it than you think.”

Leona snorted softly. “Maybe. As long as they don’t wake me up before noon.”

“Deal. I’ll be the morning parent. You handle bedtime.”

He smirked. “Bet I’d be great at bedtime stories.”

That night, Cheka finally fell asleep with you reading to him while Leona lazily played with the boy’s hair. The warm glow of the dorm’s lighting, the distant buzz of cicadas, and Leona’s hand resting on yours as he watched his nephew drift off—it all felt like a fleeting glimpse into another life. A quieter one. A better one.

Later, after Cheka was tucked in, Leona didn’t say much. He just leaned into you, holding you a little tighter than usual, his voice a low murmur against your hair:

“I wouldn't mind this. With you. A pride of our own.”

Azul Ashengrotto

It all started when a local couple from the Coral Sea sent a formal request to the Mostro Lounge. They were in urgent need of a sitter for their precocious little mer-child, Mira, during a diplomatic visit to the surface. Azul, ever the businessman, couldn’t resist an opportunity to help—especially with you involved.

“This is strictly a professional arrangement,” Azul said, straightening his tie as he paced the Lounge. “We’re simply... fulfilling a need. With compensation. Nothing more.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “So, you’re not looking forward to spending time with an adorable tiny sea-creature and me?”

He flushed to the tips of his ears. “I never said that.”

The moment Mira arrived, everything spiraled beautifully out of Azul’s control. The little one was all curious tentacles, gleaming eyes, and boundless questions. She immediately took a liking to you, tugging your hand and asking if you were “Mr. Azul’s princess.”

Azul nearly choked on his own breath.

You spent the afternoon in the VIP room of the Lounge turned “child-safe zone,” crafting with enchanted water paints, building pillow forts, and watching Mira “swim” in circles around the furniture. Azul tried to stay aloof at first, but Mira eventually suckered him in with wide eyes and a tragic, “I need someone to be the sea king in my game!”

He relented with a sigh that masked a small smile. “Very well. But only because the realm demands it.”

You watched as he donned a makeshift crown made of napkins and posed dramatically while Mira shrieked with joy. Your heart swelled at the sight—Azul, so often rigid and serious, pretending to grant royal decrees while holding a glitter-covered wand.

Later, when Mira was curled up on a plush bench, dozing peacefully with your coat wrapped around her like a blanket, Azul sat beside you, strangely quiet.

“She reminds me of myself,” he said softly. “Always watching, always asking questions. Curious. Smart.”

“She’s sweet. And she adores you.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Temporarily, perhaps. Children change quickly.”

You nudged his shoulder. “She didn’t see the business mogul. She saw someone kind and gentle. Someone safe.”

He looked down at his gloved hands. “I never imagined myself with a family. I didn’t think I was built for that kind of softness. But with you here… it doesn’t seem so foolish.”

You reached out and laced your fingers with his, resting your head on his shoulder.

“It’s not foolish at all.”

He squeezed your hand in return, and together, you watched Mira sleep—Azul’s heart caught somewhere between fear and hope, wondering for the first time if maybe, someday, he could create a world where a child of his own wouldn’t have to hide who they were.

Kalim Al-Asim

It was supposed to be a simple favor—watching one of Jamil’s younger cousins for the afternoon while the rest of the Asim family attended a formal banquet. You and Kalim were already spending the weekend at the Scalding Sands estate, so it seemed like no big deal.

That is… until little Layla arrived.

A tiny whirlwind in a flowing dress, Layla was the human embodiment of a sugar rush. She immediately tackled Kalim in a hug, shrieking, “COUSIN KALIM!” as he caught her mid-spin and lifted her into the air like a carnival ride.

“Kalim, she’s going to launch herself into orbit,” you laughed as Layla shrieked in delight.

“She’s light as a feather!” Kalim grinned. “Come on, let’s play palace adventure!”

The next few hours were a technicolor blur of activity. Kalim turned the entire courtyard into an elaborate obstacle course. You both took turns being “guards” or “thieves” as Layla declared herself “Queen of the Flying Carpets.” There were glittery sticker crowns involved, you wore one. Kalim wore four. He looked fabulous.

Kalim was born for this. He matched Layla’s energy effortlessly, spinning stories, making her laugh, and doing every silly voice. You helped bake cookies together (well, tried—Layla mostly just poured sugar in everything while Kalim pretended not to notice). At one point, Layla sat in Kalim’s lap while he played a lullaby on an oud, her little eyes drooping as she leaned into him, totally at peace.

When she finally fell asleep in a cozy mountain of cushions, Kalim looked at you with a warmth in his eyes that was deeper than usual. Not just sunshine—something realer, steadier.

“You’re amazing with her,” you whispered.

He smiled wide but soft. “So are you. She really likes you, y'know.”

He paused then, eyes flicking toward the sleeping child, and his smile grew quieter. Thoughtful.

“Hey… do you think someday, we could do this again? Not for someone else. Just… us.”

Your breath caught at how gentle his voice was. How unguarded.

“With our own little one?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he nodded, reaching for your hand. “I used to think I’d never be still long enough for that kind of life. But with you… I think I could be. I want to share all this joy with someone. With a family.”

You leaned into him, head against his shoulder as the warm breeze swept past, carrying the scent of cardamom and sugar.

“I’d love that, Kalim.”

He kissed your forehead, the weight of the moment grounding even someone like him.

“Then let’s make it a dream to reach together.”

Vil Schoenheit

It began, like all beautiful disasters do, with Crowley.

Apparently, a child from the local village—eight years old, precocious, and obsessed with “divas”—had written a very passionate letter asking to spend a day with the “fabulous Vil Schoenheit.” It ended up in the headmage’s hands, and of course, he passed it along to Vil with a wink and a “learning experience in mentorship and patience.”

Vil wanted to say no.

But you, of course, smiled and said, “Come on, it might be fun.”

That was how you ended up babysitting a tiny fashion-obsessed firecracker named Sera, who insisted on calling Vil “Miss Vil” and who immediately begged to do makeovers.

“She’s got spirit,” you whispered with a grin as Vil exhaled, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “Admirable spirit,” he muttered. “With a worrying love of neon eyeshadow.”

You helped set up a little “studio” in Pomefiore’s drawing room. Vil arranged the mirrors, the light, the seating—because of course he did—and then the three of you got to work. Sera wanted you to do her nails (purple sparkles, no exceptions), while Vil demonstrated eyeliner techniques and gently corrected her brush strokes.

“You must treat your face like art,” he explained patiently, holding her hand as she tried to line her eyes. “Not a battlefield.”

She beamed up at him, utterly starstruck.

Later, she demanded a “runway walk,” so you all spent an hour in the Pomefiore halls, strutting like queens to invisible music. Sera wore one of Vil’s silk scarves as a cape and declared the two of you her “royal beauty parents.”

And Vil—Vil actually laughed. Not the elegant, posed kind, but a real laugh, from the chest.

That evening, with Sera curled up between you on a chaise, happily snacking on sugar-dusted pastries and humming to herself, you noticed Vil watching her. His hand gently smoothed back her hair, his movements soft and careful.

“She’s going to remember this,” you whispered.

He glanced at you, his voice quiet. “So will I.”

You leaned into him, warmth in your chest.

“You were incredible with her,” you said.

He hesitated for a moment, then looked at you with something unguarded in his gaze—no pretense, no performance.

“I used to think children would be... interruptions to my life. But watching her today, seeing her confidence grow just because someone believed in her?” His voice dropped. “I think I’d like that kind of legacy. To build someone up. Guide them. Shape them into someone proud and whole.”

You reached for his hand and laced your fingers together. “You’d be amazing.”

“And you,” he said, brushing your knuckles with his lips, “would be the heart of it all.”

And in the soft silence that followed, with the glow of the setting sun catching in the gold of Vil’s hair, the two of you quietly let the idea take root.

Idia Shroud

Idia’s nightmare began with Ortho cheerfully saying, “Big Brother! You’ve been chosen to babysit my friend’s little sister while their family visits a Space-Tech Expo!”

Idia’s soul left his body right then and there.

“Wh—What?! I—I don’t know how to interact with mini-humans! I barely manage with regular humans—!”

“It’s okay! Y/N will be with you!” Ortho said brightly, clearly having planned this. “Think of it as a co-op quest! With NPC cuteness!”

That’s how you both ended up in Idia’s room, where the lighting was turned to “soft ambient galaxy mode” and a six-year-old girl named Nari was stomping around in your oversized headphones and calling herself “The Boss Monster.”

Idia was frozen at first—tucked in his gamer chair like it was his only line of defense. But you gave him a warm look, handed him a second controller, and said, “C’mon, let’s introduce her to ‘Fantasy Brawl X.’” The game was co-op, cartoony, and had a character that looked suspiciously like Idia with fire hair.

Nari was hooked.

She squealed when she figured out how to make her character jump. Idia mumbled quiet instructions that she somehow understood perfectly. And you, of course, kept the energy balanced—cheering, helping Nari when she got stuck, and giving Idia little confidence boosts every time he muttered, “I’m gonna mess this up…”

You even caught him smiling when she called his gaming skills “SO COOL, like a real boss!”

Hours passed, filled with giggles and glowing screens. You made microwave popcorn and juice box “potions.” Ortho peeked in once and whispered “Level Up!” at Idia, who turned pink and kicked him out.

When Nari finally nodded off on a beanbag chair, hugging a plushie of Idia’s favorite mech character, the room went quiet. The only sound was the hum of LED strips and the soft soundtrack of the paused game.

You turned to find Idia staring at her—his expression unreadable, for once not hidden behind his hair.

“She... wasn’t scared of me,” he said quietly. “She called me cool. Even though I’m... me.”

You moved beside him, laying your head against his shoulder. “That’s because you are cool. And kind. And you gave her a space to just be happy.”

He hesitated, hands fidgeting.

“I didn’t think I could ever picture something like this,” he whispered. “Me. In a family. That’s, like, the opposite of my anime origin story.”

“But…?”

He sighed, almost smiling. “But… if it were with you… maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad ending. Or maybe... a good beginning.”

You kissed his cheek, and his hair turned a shade of glowing pink so fast it lit up the room.

Malleus Draconia

The request came from Lilia.

“I need someone to watch one of the castle’s younger wards while I run errands in Briar Valley,” he said, flashing a mischievous little grin. “You’re good with children, right? And Malleus could use a bit of… exposure to the chaos of mortals.”

Before you could even process what you were agreeing to, you were left with a wide-eyed little fae girl named Aris—no taller than your hip, with bright moss-green hair, tiny horns, and a suspicious amount of energy for someone who literally glowed when she got excited.

“She’s precious,” you whispered.

“She is terrifying,” Malleus replied gravely, watching her zip around your legs with the glee of a creature who’d just discovered sugar.

You had both agreed to spend the afternoon in a quiet glade outside of Diasomnia, where the ancient trees arched high above and the air sparkled faintly with fae magic. Malleus, always fond of serenity, conjured floating lights and flowers that opened at a touch. Aris, of course, immediately declared this was her “kingdom” and that you and Malleus were her “knights.”

Malleus blinked, bewildered. “She… promoted me?”

You laughed. “Congrats, Sir Horns-a-Lot.”

To your surprise, Malleus took his new title seriously. He let Aris ride on his shoulders, gently cradling her little legs with those long, careful fingers. He answered every one of her endless questions about dragons, thorns, and whether he could breathe fire ("Only when properly irritated, young one").

You played tag. You helped make flower crowns. Malleus, despite never doing any of this before, adapted like he'd been waiting for a moment like this his whole life. Watching him kneel in the grass with Aris, guiding her tiny hands to shape a flower into a glowing orb of magic, made something deep in your chest ache in the best way.

When the afternoon faded to dusk, Malleus conjured little floating flameflies and told Aris a fae lullaby. She curled up between you both on a picnic blanket, humming softly, eyes half-lidded, her fingers tangled in Malleus’s cloak.

He looked down at her with something unreadable in his emerald eyes—something warm, gentle, almost reverent.

“She reminds me of the younglings I used to watch from afar,” he murmured. “Always distant. Always curious. But never mine to protect.”

You slid closer, brushing your hand against his. “But she’s here now. And she feels safe with you.”

“She calls me her knight,” he said quietly, a small smile ghosting his lips. “No one has ever said such things to me—not without fear behind it.”

You leaned your head against his arm. “She sees you the way I do.”

He turned toward you, his expression soft.

“Do you think,” he asked, his voice nearly a whisper, “that one day, we could have this? A little one. Not by duty or politics, but… something born of us? Of love?”

Your breath caught, your fingers curling around his.

“I do,” you said, certain and full of emotion. “With all my heart.”

Malleus looked up at the stars, glowing brighter against the indigo sky. And then he closed his eyes, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“If this is what the future holds,” he said, “then I have never been more eager to walk toward it.”

In the hush of twilight, with Aris sleeping peacefully between you and the fireflies dancing in the air, Malleus dreamed—not of grandeur, not of ancient destiny, but of a quiet life filled with laughter, tiny footsteps, bedtime stories, and you.

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blackmoonoracle · 2 days ago

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How to stop overthinking?

——————————————————————

pile i

You literally have so much physical evidence that things are getting better babe, you need to interact with them more whole heartedly and learn to trust again. You may be jaded from past experiences, you could’ve felt in the past like no one was trustworthy- as if you were completely alone and as if you would never find anything to suit you or stabilize you.

Well the past has come & gone, you are in a season of developing this desire, want, need, goal, etc…

If you don’t pay mind to the energy you’re putting forward while developing it you could delay it further.

Pick your head up, stop tweaking, and trust that you have the strength to overcome all obstacles.

pile ii

By remembering ur literally that bitch, ur popular, ur likable, ur important to either ur family, community, or friend circle/group, etc.. or maybe even to ur ancestors! You’re very liked & appreciated, a lot of what you perceive comes from a place of lack & of fear. You could have gone thru a very difficult past in this lifetime or the one prior where u weren’t loved and appreciated!

By having gratitude for all aspects of your life, by appreciating your moments of success and recognition & your moments of peace & internal quiet.

Be at peace within yourself.

pile iii

Girl, if you don’t take your ass outside and start drinking more water & eating healthily!!! Your mental health is suffering because your physical health is suffering. You don’t need to get healthy for anyone but you. It isn’t about losing weight, or being perfect- it’s literally about taking care of yourself. For some it could be that y’all are not eating enough and for others it could be that you need to be eating food w more nutritious value.

Spending more time off of social media, engaging with YOURSELF. Finding more meaning in your day to day life & passions. You don’t need to be like influencers or people you see online, even if they’re spiritual a lot of the time influencers are genuinely not the people you should be molding yourself after.

Some of you may need to break free from the LOA hamster wheel and look deeper bc u are very gifted but there’s more to learn out there for you

#tarot community #tarot online #tarot reading #pac #pick a card #pick a pile #tarotblr #pac tarot #pick a picture #tarot

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manicpixiedreamkira · 1 day ago

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halfway home

megumi x reader, college!au, no curses!au, roommates to friends to lovers, aged up, drinking, reader is described as small/smaller than megumi (i also imagine him taller here, since he’s older—like 6’1/6’2), mentions of family trauma, smut, size kink if you squint, hair pulling kink (megumi), unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), use of pet names, tattooed!megumi, pierced!megumi—he has a dick piercing (amongst others), dirty talking, aftercare, not beta'd

w.c: 11,973

The apartment wasn’t perfect. It was a third-floor walk-up in an aging building that creaked in winter and trapped heat in summer, the kind of place where the shower knobs had to be turned just right or they screamed like a dying kettle. But the rent was doable, the location close to campus, and it had a living room with enough space for a couch and a secondhand TV. In Tokyo? That was gold.

You didn’t meet Megumi Fushiguro until move-in day.

He was leaning in the doorway of his bedroom—tall, lean, arms crossed over a plain black hoodie, quiet and unreadable as he watched you struggle with your suitcase. His hair was spiked in a wild way, eyes dark and watchful.

Piercings caught the soft hallway light: one on his lip, another through his nostril, and a small silver barbell through the arch of his brow. The glint was striking against his otherwise quiet demeanor. He didn’t say much, but his presence was loud. Subtle tattoos peeked out from the cuffs of his sleeves: dark ink winding down his forearms, curling all the way up to his wrists, geometric and elegant and sharp like him.

You thought, he looks like he broods for fun.

"You're Y/N?" he asked. His voice was low, calm. Like someone used to listening more than speaking.

You adjusted your backpack and offered a small smile trying not to sound winded from dragging your suitcase up three flights. “That’s me. You must be Megumi.”

His nod was a half-inhale of air, barely perceptible.

“Or can I call you Megs?”

That got a reaction—barely. The tiniest twitch of one brow, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Not annoyed, exactly. Just surprised. He looked at you a moment longer, then said, “You can try.”

Then—barely, but there—it was: the corner of his lip twitched, a breath of a smirk.

That was how it began.

—

Megumi wasn’t what you expected in a roommate.

You figured you’d be living with someone a little messy, maybe overly talkative, maybe glued to their desk and headphones. Instead, you got him—quiet, precise, hard to read but oddly present. He moved through the space like he didn’t want to disturb it, always barefoot, always hoodie-clad, always with a subtle awareness of his surroundings.

He didn’t offer much at first—just glances, half-smiles, low murmurs when you crossed paths. But the silences weren’t uncomfortable. He was the kind of quiet that filled a room without trying. The kind that noticed. If you left dishes in the sink, they were washed and drying the next day. He also never said anything when you forgot to take your laundry out—but you always found your things quietly moved, never scolded, just handled.

When you fell asleep on the couch during finals week, you woke up with a blanket over your legs. He kept to himself, but you never felt like he was avoiding you. If anything, it felt like he was learning you—quietly, carefully.

You didn’t see much of his body—he lived in layers, in oversized hoodies and dark clothes—but sometimes you’d catch flashes. Ink just barely peeking from the cuff of his sleeve when he reached up to grab something from a cabinet. A whisper of a tattoo above his collarbone when he leaned forward over the sink, hair damp from a late shower.

He never mentioned them. You never asked.

The only reason you knew the extent of them was because you saw it one day by accident, when he walked out of the bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips after a past midnight shower at the same time you were on your way back to your room from the kitchen, glass of water in hand. His chest and back were covered in ink, intricate and striking, with one long line of script that curved over his ribs. It was all you were able to glimpse in the dark.

There was an unspoken rhythm to your cohabitation. You weren’t friends, not yet, but something about him made it feel like you could be. He listened. He looked at you like he was actually seeing you—not scanning or assessing, but seeing. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand attention, but makes you want to give it anyway.

Shared coffee in the morning. Brief conversations in the hallway. Laughs here and there when you teased him about how his hair looked post-shower. You started calling him Megs more often, just to see that subtle eye roll he gave you.

Over time, it became normal.

One night, you got home late, exhausted, and found him sitting on the couch, long legs stretched out, scrolling on his phone. You plopped down next to him with a groan, your arm brushing his.

"You good?" he asked without looking up.

"Dead. But alive."

"That makes no sense."

You cracked a smile. “Neither does living with a guy who only wears black and never makes noise. You're like a ghost.”

That got him. He let out a quiet laugh—just a breath, but it made your heart stutter.

Then there was the night you couldn’t sleep.

It was past one in the morning when it happened.

You’d been tossing in bed for nearly an hour, mind buzzing with thoughts you couldn’t pin down. Too much homework, too little rest, the vague sense of loneliness that clung to the early hours of the morning. So you gave in, padded into the kitchen in your oversized sleep shirt and socks, and went for a glass of water.

The light was already on.

Megumi sat at the kitchen table, a mug in one hand, the other resting against his temple as he stared down at a notebook filled with scribbled notes and highlighted lines. His black hair was tousled, softer without product, and his hoodie was nowhere in sight—just a dark tank top that revealed the sweep of tattoos down both arms, inked patterns wrapping like smoke and feathers from shoulder to wrist.

You froze for half a second.

Not because of the tattoos—though they were undeniably beautiful—but because this was the most open he’d looked since you moved in. Bare. Human.

He glanced up when he heard you.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice quieter than usual.

You shook your head and crossed the kitchen to grab a glass. “Brain’s too loud.”

He hummed in agreement, a small sound deep in his throat. “Yeah. I get that.” That was the most personal thing he’d ever said to you.

You hesitated, then slid into the seat across from him, curling your fingers around your glass. He didn’t seem surprised. If anything, he looked like he expected it.

“What’re you studying?” you asked, tilting your head toward his notes.

He hesitated, then pushed them a little closer so you could read. “Social psychology. It’s a gen ed, but… not terrible.”

You smiled faintly. “It suits you.”

He quirked a brow.

“You’re always observing. Like some quiet, mysterious people-watcher.”

One corner of his lips twitched—the one with the silver ring. “You think I’m mysterious?”

“I think you like people more than you admit,” you said, surprising even yourself. “You just don’t trust them easily.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a moment, something passed between you—soft, fleeting. A current you didn’t know how to name yet.

He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch.

“You’re… different,” he said finally. “Not in a bad way.”

“Thanks?” you laughed, a little unsure.

“You don’t hide. Most people do.”

The honesty in his voice made you look away, a strange warmth blooming in your chest. You took a slow sip of water, then whispered, “I try not to. Hiding never really helped me.”

His gaze lingered on you—curious, almost gentle.

“I notice that about you,” he murmured. “It’s rare.”

You didn’t say anything after that. You didn’t need to. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else—something easy.

You sat there for a while, just drinking water and listening to the hum of the fridge, Megumi’s notes open between you, the scent of his tea filling the kitchen. You were tired, but you didn’t want to go back to bed just yet.

It felt like a beginning.

Not of something explosive or sudden.

But of something quiet and steady, like a new current under the surface.

Something you both felt, even if you didn’t have the words for it yet.

After that night in the kitchen, things shifted—just a little. Nothing obvious, nothing anyone else would have picked up on. But you felt it.

He started leaving the kitchen light on when he stayed up late, like he expected you to wander in again.

And you did.

Some nights, you found him reading or scribbling in a worn journal with ink stains on his fingers. Other nights, he was doing absolutely nothing—just sitting in the dark, hoodie draped over the back of the chair, tattoos visible in the low light, the ring on his lip catching the glow from the streetlamp outside.

He didn’t say much. Neither did you. But he made space for you in the quiet.

You learned things about him in fragments.

That he liked his coffee bitter, almost punishingly so.

That he hated loud music but loved the sound of thunderstorms.

That he had an older sister he didn’t talk about much—but when he did, his voice changed. Softer. Guarded.

That the tattoo over his ribs was a quote from a book he read at sixteen, one that stuck with him even when everything else didn’t.

He wasn’t easy to get close to, but he wasn’t cold either. Just careful. Like someone who’d had to build his own walls brick by brick, and wasn’t sure what would happen if they came down.

But with you, cracks started to show.

It began in the small, almost invisible ways.

Like when he made too much miso soup and slid a bowl toward you without a word.

Or when you were late for class and likely to leave without eating breakfast, only to find a neatly wrapped sandwich waiting for you next to your bag. No notes, just the sandwich.

Or when you were curled up on the couch after a long day, and he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

One evening, you passed by his door and heard music—something low and melancholy, plucked guitar strings and a haunting voice.

You stood there for a second, listening.

He opened the door before you could knock.

“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” you said softly, already backing up.

He didn’t look annoyed. Just blinked slowly. “You can come in.”

His room was… him. Sparse but warm. Textbooks stacked on the desk, a small record player in the corner, a half-finished charcoal sketch on the wall above his bed—black lines trailing the shape of a figure, mid-movement. You recognized the patterns in the drawing: the same ones inked into his arms and back.

“You drew that?”

He nodded. “It’s… old. I haven’t had time to finish it.”

“It’s beautiful,” you said, without thinking.

He didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you. Really looked at you. Like he was searching for something under your skin.

“You ever let anyone in like this?” you asked, gently.

His voice was quiet. “Not really.”

And that was it. Not a confession, not a declaration. Just a truth, placed in your hands like something breakable.

—

You started studying together sometimes, though neither of you ever officially suggested it.

Megumi would pull up a chair beside you at the dining table, flipping through his textbooks, his hoodie sleeves pushed up past his elbows. You sat cross-legged beside him, highlighting too much and chewing pens, your laptop blinking lazily between tabs.

Once, during midterms, you passed out right there at the table.

You woke up under a blanket, your notes stacked neatly beside you, and an unopened bottle of water set where your head had been. His handwriting was on a sticky note.

You drooled on your chem notes. I didn’t judge. – M

You kept the note.

—

Sometimes, you wondered how he saw you.

You were short next to him, almost comically so, your frame curvy yet small, half-drowning in the hoodies you stole from where he forgot them in the kitchen. You were louder, more expressive, and—let’s be honest—more chaotic. Your side of the living room was a mess of throw blankets and mismatched socks, while his was neatly kept, symmetrical.

But he didn’t seem to mind your presence. If anything, he gravitated toward it.

He started lingering in the living room longer when you were there.

Started offering to pick up food when you were too tired to cook.

Started asking quiet things like, “Did you eat today?” or “You okay?” with a kind of earnestness that made your heart ache.

One rainy Saturday, you both ended up on the couch watching a movie neither of you cared about. The storm rolled outside, wind howling against the glass. You were wrapped in a thick blanket, tucked into the corner of the couch, and Megumi was stretched out beside you, socked feet barely touching yours under the covers.

You didn’t talk much. Just sat in the hush between thunderclaps, the kind of silence that felt like trust.

At one point, you felt him shift.

Then—hesitantly—he let his head rest against the back of the couch, tilted slightly in your direction.

Not on your shoulder. Not quite.

But close.

Close enough that you felt his warmth, his calm, his quiet hum of presence.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe too loud.

And in that moment, something inside you softened.

Not because it was romantic. Not yet.

But because it was safe.

Because it was him.

—

You started noticing it in the quiet.

How his presence changed the shape of your space. How the silence that used to make your apartment feel cold now felt alive when he was there—like the two of you were filling it together, without ever needing to speak.

He’d begun doing this thing.

When he walked past the couch and you were there, curled up reading or scrolling on your phone, he’d rest his hand lightly on the back of it. Not for long. Just a second, fingers ghosting over the fabric. It was casual—almost thoughtless—but you felt it every time. The warmth of him. The comfort.

And when he sat down next to you now, he sat close. Shoulder to shoulder. Knee to thigh. He never said anything about it, and neither did you. It was just… natural.

But you both knew it hadn’t always been like that.

One afternoon, you came home to find him asleep on the couch, textbooks open on his chest, one arm draped across his face. You hesitated for a second—then walked over quietly, knelt beside him, and gently closed his book.

He didn’t wake. Just murmured something half-dreamed and rolled onto his side.

You noticed it again then, half-exposed under the hem of his shirt.

The ink that covered his ribs.

You didn’t stare, but you couldn’t look away either. You wanted to know what it said. Why he chose it. What it meant to him.

You wanted to ask. Not because you were curious.

Because you were starting to care.

—

You cooked together more often now.

At first it was practical—splitting groceries, saving time—but it became something else. A soft ritual. A kind of choreography you both eased into without thinking. You’d play music low from your phone, swaying around each other in the kitchen like two orbiting stars, never colliding, always just close enough. He always took over the knife work—his movements clean and practiced—while you handled seasoning and taste testing. You started wearing one of his hoodies half the time—because you were always cold, and he never seemed to mind.

One night, you were baking—well, trying to—and you accidentally knocked over the bag of flour. A whole puff of white exploded into the air and rained down across the counter like a soft, slow-motion snowstorm.

“Shit,” you gasped, hands halfway out like that could somehow stop it.

Megumi blinked at the mess, then at you, brushing his fingers across his now powdery hoodie. “Seriously?”

“I’ll clean it up, I swear—”

Before you could move, he reached down, scooped a small handful of flour, and gently patted it to the side of your cheek.

You froze. “Megs.”

He tilted his head. “You’re in the splash zone.”

“That’s not a thing—!”

But you were already laughing, lobbing a pinch of flour toward him. It hit his hoodie and left a ghost-white smudge. His mouth curled into a smirk—crooked and rare.

“You’re gonna regret that.”

“I regret nothing.”

Soon, flour was everywhere. On the counter. On your–his–sweatshirt. In your hair, even smeared across your cheekbones. He had it streaked across one of his eyebrows and down the side of his neck. You both leaned over the counter, breathless and trying to catch your breath, cheeks flushed from laughter.

“Kitchen’s a crime scene,” he muttered, surveying the mess.

“All your fault,” you shot back, grinning. “You look like a failed pastry,” you wheezed, looking him up and down.

He gave you one of those rare, unguarded smiles—the kind that curved more on one side than the other and softened the hard edges of his face. “And you look like you lost a fight with a Pillsbury can,” he shot back, brushing a bit of powder from your temple.

His fingers lingered for a second. Not long.

But long enough.

You looked at him. And in that beat, something softened. The kitchen was dim. The apartment quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the wind tapping at the window. His face was so close.

Still amused, still light-hearted—but there was a shift underneath.

He broke the quiet first.

“I used to hate shared spaces,” he said, voice low.

“Why?”

He hesitated. “Everything felt temporary. Like I was just… passing through.”

You leaned a little on the counter, matching his softness but your chest tightened. “I get that.”

He glanced at you. “Not just physical spaces. People too.”

That hit somewhere deep. You knew the feeling.

“Like you never really belonged to any of it,” you murmured. “Not fully.”

He gave the smallest nod.

And then, after a long pause his gaze flicked to yours. “But this—” he gestured vaguely to the kitchen, the chaos, you “—doesn’t feel like I’m passing through.”

You watched him, heart suddenly loud in your chest.

There was a pause.

Then—his voice, softer than ever—“I’m not sure if this is home,” he said. “But it’s… closer than I’ve ever been. Maybe… halfway there.”

Your breath caught. Your voice was barely a whisper when you said, “Halfway home.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Not surprised. Just steady.

Like he’d been thinking it too.

And he nodded.

Like that meant something.

Like you meant something.

—

Later that week, it happened.

The kind of night where it all cracked open.

You’d gotten into it with your mom again. One of those calls where every word felt like a scratch. The kind where the conversation starts with “How are you?” and ends with you curled up at the kitchen table, staring at your untouched tea.

You weren’t crying.

But your eyes were glassy and your hands were trembling, and that was worse somehow.

You didn’t hear him come in. Just felt his presence. He said your name softly.

You looked up, trying to laugh it off. “It’s stupid.”

He crouched beside you. “It’s not.”

And just like that, something inside you cracked.

He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t push. He just opened his arms, and you leaned into him like it was instinct.

He held you for a long time. One hand on your back, the other cupping the back of your head, slow and grounding. You could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The low hum in his throat when he murmured, “I’ve got you.”

And you believed it.

Not because he said it like a promise.

But because he said it like a fact.

And that was what scared you most.

Because maybe you’d never had that before.

Maybe this wasn’t home yet.

But god, it felt like the map.

—

The shift came quietly.

Like a door slowly swinging open, not creaking. Like the breath before a kiss—not the kiss itself. You couldn’t name the moment it happened, but suddenly, everything meant more.

Every glance. Every brush of fingers. Every silence.

He started standing closer. His hand would rest on your lower back as he passed behind you. When you handed him something, your fingers would touch, and neither of you would pull away right away.

Not anymore.

One night, he walked in while you were on the couch reading, legs tucked under you in a pair of old gym shorts and one of his hoodies. You didn’t realize you’d stolen that one, too. It still smelled faintly like him—like cedar and fresh laundry and something you couldn’t name but always noticed.

His eyes landed on you, lingering just a beat too long.

“You’re always stealing my clothes,” he said.

You shrugged, not looking up from your book. “You’re always leaving them on the kitchen chair. Finders keepers.”

A pause. Then: “That one’s my favorite.”

You looked up. “Yeah?”

He scratched at his eyebrow ring, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “It’s the softest.”

You held his gaze a moment longer than you should have. “I’ll give it back.”

His voice was low. “I didn’t say I wanted it back.”

Something buzzed under your skin.

You looked down at the page and didn’t read a single word.

But you didn’t give back the hoodie either.

—

The next time you were both home on a rainy Saturday, you found yourselves in the same place again—doing nothing. Not even pretending to be productive. Just existing, in parallel, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You were sitting on the floor against the couch with your laptop, browsing through Pinterest, earbuds in. He was stretched out on the cushions behind you, hood up, sketchbook balanced on his stomach.

He did that sometimes—drew when he thought you weren’t looking. He never let you see the pages, but you’d catch glimpses of bold ink lines and intricate forms. Once, when he fell asleep with the book open, you saw the edge of a figure. Shoulders. The curve of a hip. The shape of someone sleeping, maybe.

You’d wanted to ask if it was you.

You didn’t.

But the idea stayed in your chest like a warm stone.

You’d both been quieter that day. Not uncomfortable—just still. The kind of still that sinks into your bones. You didn’t realize how much time had passed until your stomach growled, embarrassingly loud.

Megumi looked up from his sketchbook. “Was that you?”

You groaned, stretching your arms. “I think I’m dying. Feed me or I’ll haunt this apartment forever.”

He closed the book and stood. “Cursed with your ghost sounds about right.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “You’d miss me.”

He looked at you like he wanted to say something—but didn’t. Instead, he held out a hand.

You blinked at it.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll cook.”

He made ramen.

Not the instant kind. Actual noodles in a pot, soft-boiled egg, scallions, seasoned broth. The whole thing. He didn’t talk much while he cooked—he rarely did—but you liked watching him. His hands were precise. His movements efficient. He tasted the broth with a spoon, made a face, added more chili oil.

You leaned back against the counter, arms folded, watching steam rise from the pot.

“You’ve done this before,” you said.

He nodded. “My sister taught me.” He stirred the broth slowly. “She liked her ramen so spicy it’d make your eyes water.”

You smiled a little at that. “Is that what you’re going for?”

“Kind of a tribute.” He glanced over at you. “Haven’t made it like this in a while.”

He said it like he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad one.

He stirred a bit more, then lowered the heat. “I used to make it like this for her when she had rough days. Just… figured I’d try it again.”

There was something careful in the way he said it. Like the memory was fragile, even now.

You hesitated. “Are you two close?”

A pause.

“We were,” he said. “She’s… not around much anymore.”

You nodded, not pushing. The air between you had settled, softened.

When you sat down at the table and he handed you the bowl, it was with quieter hands.

“You’re a domestic goddess, Megs,” you said, voice lighter.

He smirked. “Eat before I take it back.”

Halfway through the bowl, you found yourself glancing at him again. The curve of his brow, the line of his jaw. Something soft had gathered behind his eyes since that moment by the stove.

And maybe it was the warmth of the soup, or the weight of the story he hadn’t told—but you braved the question.

“Do you…” You paused, lowering your spoon.

His chopsticks stilled in the bowl.

You hesitated. “Do you miss it? Home?”

He didn’t answer right away.

You added quickly, “Sorry, that was—kind of personal. You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” he said. Then: “Not really.”

You nodded, gently. Let him go on.

“Never felt like a real place to miss,” he said, quietly. “Just somewhere I waited to grow out of.”

Your chest ached at that. You both chewed in silence for a few moments.

“I think that’s why I like it here,” he added, softer now. “Not just this place.” he clarified.

He looked at you.

“The way you let me take up space. Without asking.”

Your breath caught.

You wanted to say something. Me too. Or You do the same for me. Or I notice every time you leave a hoodie on the chair just so I’ll steal it.

But you didn’t say anything.

Instead, you reached for your drink. Your hand brushed his on the table.

And this time, neither of you moved.

—

It was later that night—closer to midnight—when you caught each other in the hallway. Both of you on the way to the kitchen. You paused at the same time, facing each other across the short stretch of hardwood.

He looked… soft. Sleepy. His hoodie had slipped halfway off one shoulder, revealing the edge of a tattoo, curling down from his collarbone. You couldn’t see the whole thing, but it was intricate. Sharp lines and dark shading, disappearing beneath the fabric.

You tilted your head. “What’s that one?”

He glanced down at where your eyes had landed, then shrugged the hoodie back into place. “Just something I drew once. Got it done last year.”

“You draw your own ink?”

He nodded.

You stepped closer. “Can I see?”

He hesitated, eyes catching yours.

Then, slowly, he pulled the hoodie down again, off his shoulder this time.

The tattoo started on his chest and curled up across his collarbone, snaking toward his shoulder. Sharp black lines softened with curves—some kind of wolf motif, maybe—but abstract, not literal.

You lifted a hand before you even thought about it. “Can I…?”

He nodded.

You ran your fingers lightly along the ink, careful not to press too hard. His skin was warm. The tattoo was beautiful. Intimate in a way that made your breath go shallow.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But something changed in that silence.

You felt it in the air. Thick. Tense. Waiting.

He caught your wrist gently, not to stop you—just to hold it. His thumb brushed your pulse point.

You looked up.

And he looked down.

And for the first time, neither of you looked away.

—

It was Friday night. Cold, damp, and strangely quiet. The kind of night where campus emptied out and everyone either went home or drank their way through the ache of the week.

You didn’t feel like going anywhere. Megumi hadn’t planned to either.

So you both stayed in.

It started, like most of your nights lately, in the kitchen.

He was standing at the stove, stirring something with minimal enthusiasm—a boxed mac and cheese situation that smelled better than it probably should’ve. He had the hood of his dark sweatshirt pulled down, sleeves shoved halfway to his elbows, exposing the black ink winding up one arm. You still hadn’t seen all of it, just pieces. An arrow across his bicep, a wolf’s skull peeking out above his elbow. Sharp lines and precise shading. It suited him.

He caught you looking. Didn’t say anything—just arched one brow.

You rolled your eyes and reached for the fridge. “Don’t flatter yourself, Megs.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face said it.”

“I was born with this face,” he said, deadpan.

“Tragic.”

He snorted.

It started with the wine.

You found it in the back of the fridge on a night that didn’t seem to want anything except quiet—behind some sad lettuce and an expired packet of tofu. Plum wine, half-forgotten since the start of the semester and slightly sticky at the neck.

You held up the bottle like it was a prize. “Look what I found.”

The cork crumbled a little when you opened it, which made Megumi raise an eyebrow. His piercing catching the light.

He squinted at it. “That’s definitely off.”

“It’s wine, Megs. It doesn’t go off.”

“That’s not how chemistry works.”

“I don’t see mold.” You shrugged, pouring it into two mismatched mugs. “Then we’re good.”

He accepted his cup with only a small shake of his head that said if we die, it’s your fault and leaned against the opposite counter. Hoodie sleeves still shoved to his elbows, collar stretched a little too wide. You could see the black edge of a tattoo on his chest where the fabric fell just off-center. Just a glimpse—no more than that—but you couldn’t help looking.

It wouldn't be the first time.

The ink curled like smoke over his collarbone, disappearing down where you didn’t dare let your thoughts follow.

He caught your eyes and didn’t look away.

You took a too-fast sip of wine.

Dinner was low-effort comfort. The kind of meal you made when the day had taken too much out of you to pretend to care. You ate side by side at the little kitchen table, laughing over half-drunken stories you probably wouldn’t have shared otherwise, bare feet brushing accidentally (and then not-so-accidentally) under the bench. The hum of the overhead light filled the silence between conversation. Soft things. Easy. Familiar. It had started to feel like that a lot lately.

After the food was gone and the bottle was mostly empty, you lingered with your chins propped on your hands across the table from each other, your legs stretched lazily under his.

“So,” he said, voice low, “what’s your terrible movie pick tonight?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m the one with bad taste.”

“You think The Mummy is high art.”

“It is.”

“I rest my case.”

By the time the bottle was gone, you were both buzzed.

Lightheaded. Warm.

But not enough.

“Hey,” you said, nudging him with your socked foot under the table. “Let’s go to Lawson.”

He didn’t look up from his phone. “No.”

“Come on. We need beer. Or chu-hi. Or… whatever looks the worst.”

“We have classes Monday.”

“It’s Friday.”

“And it’s raining.”

You tilted your head at him with exaggerated innocence. “Are you scared of getting wet?”

He gave you a flat look.

You kept going. “You, a grown man, covered in tattoos, pierced like a delinquent, scared of a drizzle?”

He sighed. “You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

Another long pause.

Then, deadpan: “Get your shoes.”

—

You came back with two bags.

You bought cans based solely on the labels—one with a polar bear in a Hawaiian shirt, one bright pink with hearts, and one that claimed to taste like salted plum and regret.

Megumi made fun of your choices the entire walk home.

He carried both bags anyway.

You were already laughing as you pushed yourself up the stairs and into to your shared apartment, padding barefoot toward the living room. The rain had turned your hair damp, your sleeves cold at the cuffs. You both peeled off the soggy layers and he followed you suit behind, hoodie left behind on the chair. His t-shirt clung to his chest in a way that made it difficult not to stare. The fabric stretched slightly around his arms, where more tattoos snaked up from the elbow, curling in black ink over pale skin.

After dumping everything onto the coffee table, you put on a hoodie that was draped over the armrest—his favorite one—and collapsed onto the couch with a blanket, letting it drape over both of you. He sat close—closer than necessary, and yet you didn’t move away.

He smelled like clean cotton and soap and something warmer beneath. Maybe the wine. Maybe just him.

The first can was awful.

So was the second.

By the third, you were both half-laying down, legs tangled, and laughing at a stupid movie you didn’t even recognize. Some terrible action comedy with bad dialogue and worse CGI. You didn’t remember the name. You didn’t care. You were warm from the booze and warmer from his knee resting next to yours.

By the time you opened the fourth can, your head was buzzing. Somewhere in the middle, he shifted slightly and slouched deeper into the couch, resting one arm behind you. Not around you. Not touching. Just there.

The distance between you disappeared in degrees.

First, when your shoulders bumped and didn’t pull away.

Then, when your leg rested fully against his beneath the blanket.

Now your legs were draped over his now, his hand resting absently on your shin.

The warmth between you wasn’t new.

But tonight it felt… uncontained.

You watched him as he tilted his can back, the curve of his throat, the glint of his lip ring under the flicker of the TV.

You’d always known he was attractive. But being this close—this comfortable—was starting to feel dangerous.

“You always watch movies like this?” you asked, voice small, eyes back on the screen.

“Like what?”

“Quiet. Tense. Judgy.”

“I’m not judging.”

“No?” you chuckled, then, when you looked up at him—and found he was already watching you.

You held the gaze longer than you meant to.

His mouth parted just slightly. His lip piercing glinted.

You dropped your eyes.

“I’m watching.” he said.

He wasn’t talking about the movie. You knew that. He knew you knew.

The air between you felt different now—thicker. Not uncomfortable. Not bad. Just tight. Like something was waiting to break open.

“You know you’re hard to read, right?” you said softly, gaze determined to focus on the movie once more.

His head turned slightly. “You’ve told me.”

“I mean it.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“I know.” You paused. “You just… you never say what you’re thinking.”

There was a long moment before he replied. “Neither do you.”

You glanced at him. Your skin felt too tight.

Your voice dropped. “If I did… would you listen?”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“I always listen to you,” he said.

You shifted a little to face him better. He didn’t move.

Your voices stayed low. Muted. Like you were both afraid to disturb something too fragile to name.

“Why do you look at me like that?” you asked.

He studied you for a beat too long.

Then: “I think you know.”

The moment swelled, heat under your ribs. Your chest tightened. You licked your lips. His eyes followed the motion.

He was looking at your mouth now.

You didn’t look away. It wasn’t intentional at first.

Until it was.

Until you shifted a little and his fingers slid higher up your shin. Not high enough to be obvious, but enough that you felt it. Enough that your breath caught.

“You’re drunk,” you whispered.

He gave the smallest shake of his head. “No.”

“Tipsy, then.”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in, slow and careful.

And then, softly—too softly to brace yourself for it—his lips touched yours.

It was barely a kiss.

Barely pressure.

Just warmth.

Just a breath.

But then it deepened—his hand on the side of your neck, the plush drag of his lower lip catching yours. You felt the cool flick of his lip ring before his tongue brushed yours, and that made your breath catch.

There was metal there, too—a piercing. You could feel it. Smooth, hard, unexpected. The weight of it against your tongue sent a flicker of heat down your spine. You let out a sound you didn’t mean to, soft and startled against his mouth.

The kiss became deeper. Your hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric. You whimpered softly against his mouth. He groaned—quiet, rough.

And then—

He froze.

Pulled back.

You blinked up at him, dazed.

His breath was heavy, lips kiss-bitten, pupils wide.

His hand was still on your neck, thumb ghosting over your jaw like he hadn’t meant to stop.

You were stunned. Dazed. Wanting.

But then—

He pulled his hand back, dragging it down over his face.

“No,” he said, voice rough now. “Shit. We shouldn’t.”

You blinked at him, breath shaking. “Why?”

“You had wine.”

“So did you.”

“That’s the point,” he said, shaking his head.

He closed his eyes for a second, like he was trying to center himself.

“I don’t want it to be… I don’t want this to happen because we’re tipsy and bored.”

You swallowed.

You were still staring at him. Still thinking about the way he’d kissed you. About the weight of his mouth and the heat of his body.

But then—he exhaled, slower this time.

“I want you,” he said. “But I want it to be real. Not like this.”

The room was spinning slowly.

You didn’t argue.

Because even in your tipsy haze, you knew he was right.

Your chest was a tangle of nerves and something softer—something that twisted beneath your ribs in a way that was almost painful.

You nodded.

Quietly. Gently.

And he nodded, too.

He exhaled and leaned his forehead against yours for a moment before he pulled back completely, gently tugging the blanket higher between you.

Still close.

Still touching.

But not crossing that line again.

Not yet.

The air was suddenly tighter. Not hostile. Not uncertain. Just pressurized. Like one wrong breath would push you into the next thing—and maybe that scared you more than you expected.

You looked down at your lap. “This is stupid, right?”

“What is?”

“This…” You gestured vaguely between you. “Us.”

A pause.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

You glanced back at him.

And this time, you saw it clearly. The want.

Not loud. Not burning. Just real.

Settled there in the blue of his eyes like it had always been.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Then what is it?”

His hand moved—slowly—toward your knee. A light touch. Just his fingers resting there, warm and steady.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I’m not in a rush to name it.”

Your throat went tight.

You could’ve kissed him.

Right there, in the flickering glow of the shitty movie and the soft scratch of his calloused fingers brushing circles on your skin.

But you didn’t.

Not yet.

Because for the first time, you understood what this was.

It wasn’t a moment waiting to break open.

It was one waiting to settle.

You turned back to the screen. The movie was still playing, somewhere behind all of it. Some explosion. A line of terrible dialogue.

Neither of you were watching.

And still—

He stayed beside you.

Still close.

Still warm.

Still waiting.

Eventually, you fell asleep there—legs tangled, cheeks flushed, his hand still resting lightly on your knee like a promise he wasn’t ready to break.

Not until it mattered.

Not until it was real.

And somewhere deep down, you knew—

Whatever this was…

It had already changed.

You weren’t just roommates.

You weren’t just friends.

You were something else now.

Maybe you’d always been on the way here.

Maybe you’d always been halfway home.

—

The next morning wasn’t awkward.

It should’ve been, probably. You’d fallen asleep on the couch tangled around each other after making out like two teenagers with bad impulse control, and yet—

When you woke up, his arm was still around your waist, your cheek pressed to his chest, and neither of you moved right away.

His heart beat under your ear, steady and slow.

You didn’t speak. Just breathed in the quiet.

Eventually, he shifted a little and looked down at you, hair a soft mess, voice rasped from sleep.

“You drooled on me.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled.

“You kissed me,” you whispered, as if to counter.

He blinked at that, unreadable for a beat, then:

“Yeah. I did.”

And for the first with this new glint in your eyes, you let yourself fully smile at him.

—

Nothing broke after that.

That was the strange part.

You thought the tension might shatter into something awkward or forced. You thought he might avoid you, or pretend it didn’t happen.

But Megumi didn’t run.

He made pancakes instead.

Real ones, too—from scratch. With eggs and milk and a drizzle of vanilla that you knew he didn’t own until that very morning.

You didn’t ask where he went to get it. Just sat on the counter watching him whisk, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed back, tattoos ink-dark across his arms. There was one on his inner wrist you hadn’t seen before—clean lines, a small lotus. You stared longer than you meant to.

He caught your gaze, but didn’t comment.

Instead, he asked, “You want coffee?”

You nodded. “With milk and sugar.”

“Figures.”

“Judgy.”

“Just accurate.”

You didn’t talk about the kiss.

But it hovered.

In the way he moved around you in the kitchen. In the way his eyes lingered on your mouth longer than before. In the way his hand brushed your lower back when he passed behind you.

It didn’t feel like it wasn’t being talked about.

It felt like it was still happening.

Slowly.

Carefully.

You had to go to work that afternoon, and so did he, but you lingered too long before leaving. Your backpack half-zipped. Your shoes still untied.

“I’ll see you later,” you said, standing near the door.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice was quiet again. Thoughtful.

Then, softer: “Be safe, princess.”

You didn’t answer.

Just looked back at him once before closing the door behind you, heart skittering like a secret you weren’t ready to say out loud.

—

You didn’t kiss again for three days.

But the days felt different.

He texted more.

Sent you dumb memes during lectures and followed up with “you better be paying attention” when you took too long to reply.

He cooked twice. Once with too much salt, and once with enough effort that it felt like more than just a favor.

On the fourth night, it rained again.

This time you didn’t even ask—you both just ended up on the couch, the blanket between you again, knees pressed close, a movie you weren’t watching on in the background.

This time, it was you who turned to him first.

“Do you ever think about it?” you asked.

He glanced down at you. “About what?”

“This. Us.”

He didn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he said.

You nodded.

Your throat was tight.

“I’ve never had this before,” you admitted, voice small. “Whatever this is. With someone.”

His brows pulled together a little. “Something safe?”

You hesitated.

“Something that feels like… home,” you said. “But not the kind you leave.”

His mouth parted slightly, surprised. And maybe—

Maybe a little bit moved.

“That’s what I was trying to say,” he murmured. “When I said that before. Halfway home.”

You looked up at him.

“You’re the first place that felt like one.”

Silence stretched.

Warm. Solid. Real.

And then, slowly, he leaned down, and this time—this time when his mouth met yours, you weren’t drunk. You weren’t trying to avoid the edge.

You stepped into it.

The kiss was different.

Not rushed. Not frantic.

Just full of everything you hadn’t said yet.

He kissed you like he meant to stay. Like he’d wanted to for longer than he’d admit. Like it was the start of something new, not the ruin of something comfortable.

You broke it first, breath shaky, and looked up at him.

“You still sure?”

His thumb traced your cheek. “Yeah.”

You nodded once, then leaned back in—and this time, the kiss didn’t stop.

Not when your hands found the back of his neck.

Not when his settled at your hips.

And not when the blanket slipped off your shoulders and the rest of the world went quiet except for the sound of two people finally letting go of the tension they’d carried for months.

His mouth was warm. Open. Slow.

You weren’t drunk this time. Not even tipsy. You could feel everything—his breath, the pressure of his hands, the flicker of his tongue ring sliding against yours, cool at first, then hot, wet, dizzying.

You moaned into him without meaning to.

The kiss became deeper, languid and unhurried, like neither of you wanted it to end. His hand slid up your side, not groping, not urgent—just there, deliberate, like he was mapping the shape of you, reminding himself it was real.

You tugged at his hoodie, fists curled in the fabric, and when your fingers slipped up into his hair, he groaned. Low, throaty, unexpectedly desperate.

You froze.

Pulled back just enough to look at him, breath shallow.

“What—”

His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark and shining, his lip ring catching the light as he swallowed.

“Do that again,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Your hair?”

He nodded once. Barely.

So you did.

Fingers buried deep, nails scraping lightly at his scalp.

He moaned, jaw going slack, and something in your chest fluttered.

You grinned. “Holy shit. That’s your thing, huh?”

“Don’t start,” he muttered, flushing slightly, though his hips had pressed forward like a tell. “You’ll abuse it.”

You tugged again, a little firmer.

He cursed softly. “Fuck. Princess.”

It hit low. Tight. A pulse between your legs you hadn’t fully acknowledged until then.

“You like that?” you whispered, mouth brushing his.

His lips curved—barely.

“You have no idea.”

You kissed him again.

Hungrier this time. Messier. The kind of kiss you felt all the way to your spine.

Somewhere in the middle of it, he pulled you onto his lap. His hands found your thighs and dragged you closer, legs parting over his hips like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were in loose shorts and an old cotton sleep top, and he was still in that damn hoodie—black, oversized, hiding everything but the heat of his body under your hands.

You broke the kiss just long enough to gasp, head tilting back, the fabric of his hoodie catching on your fingertips as you gripped the hem.

“Take it off,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you as he pulled it over his head.

And then—

Fuck.

You’d seen bits and glimpses of his tattoos before. Knew they were there. A flicker when sleeves rolled up, the shadow along his back when he walked past shirtless after a shower.

But this close? With your hands on him?

They were everywhere.

Ink swept over his chest, his shoulders, down his arms—clean black linework, fine and sharp, a contrast to the way his skin felt. Warm. Soft, where it wasn’t hard muscle.

And on his ribs—just under the curve of his left pectoral—a line in black script:

you don’t have to be whole to be loved.

You reached for it before you could stop yourself, fingers brushing the edge of the lettering.

He flinched—barely, but enough.

“I like this one,” you said softly. “It’s true.”

He didn’t speak. Just looked at you like you’d stripped him naked with that single sentence.

Maybe you had.

Your hands slid down, brushing the line of his waist, and you felt the way his breath hitched.

“Take me to bed, Megs.”

He exhaled slowly. “You sure?”

You nodded.

He stood without hesitation.

You were light in his arms, legs locked around his waist. Not princess-style—cradled, close and tight, your center pressed to the thick, hard line of him beneath his sweats.

Your heartbeat was a storm in your throat.

His mouth found your neck as he pushed the door to his room open with his shoulder, and you gasped when his teeth grazed your skin.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I want you,” you said. “That’s all.”

His voice dropped lower. “You’ll have me, pretty girl.”

And then he laid you down—slowly, like you were something to be unwrapped.

The room was quiet except for breathing. Your shirt was the first to go—peeled up and over, leaving you bare. No bra. No modesty. Just flushed skin and peaked nipples, chest rising and falling fast under his gaze.

He froze.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

You couldn’t help it—you arched into him.

He kissed down your throat. Over your collarbone. Took his time getting to your chest, his mouth hot and wet when it wrapped around a nipple. Tongue ring dragging just enough to make you gasp.

“Megs—”

His hand slid down your stomach, rougher now, and then under your waistband.

“You’re soaked,” he growled. “All this from just kissing?”

“Hair pulling,” you teased, gasping when he pressed two fingers against you, slow circles. “You’ve got a thing for it.”

“Princess,” he warned, then—smirked.

He tugged your shorts and panties down with too much ease. And for a moment, he just looked at you.

Eyes dark. Face flushed. Breathing shallow.

“You sure?” he asked again, quieter now. “Because once I go down on you, I’m not stopping.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I’m sure.”

His mouth curved. Wicked.

“Good girl.”

Megumi slid to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your legs over his shoulders like he had every intention of devouring you.

He looked up from between them—eyes dark, mouth already wet from kissing you stupid.

“You gonna keep looking at me like that?” he murmured, voice thick.

Your throat was dry. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to memorize me.” his thumbs pressed into your inner thighs, spreading you wider. “You don’t need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

And then—

He kissed you.

There.

Warm, slow, filthy.

Tongue soft at first, just a wet glide over your clit, before he added pressure. His barbell on his tongue rolled against you—a new texture, a new spark—and your hips bucked in surprise.

“Oh my God—”

He laughed into you. That tongue piercing? It wasn’t just a decoration. It was a fucking weapon.

He took his time. All of it. Flattening his tongue, then curling it up, then circling—soft, then firm, then teasing. Every motion was practiced, patient, like he liked this, like he was learning you by feel and sound alone—to the way you whined and breathed and fisted the sheets.

And when you buried your fingers in his hair, tugging instinctively—

He groaned.

Low and rough, deep in his chest.

So you did it again. A little harder.

He moaned.

Then he pulled back just enough to speak, mouth glistening, voice wrecked.

“You trying to kill me, pretty girl?”

“I didn’t think you’d like it that much,” you breathed.

“Now you know.”

His mouth slammed back down.

Sloppier now, his mouth messier, wetter. Your thighs started to tremble. Your breath hitched with every suck, every pass the pink muscle. It was too much and still not enough, and when you clenched on his tongue, he growled—a real sound, needy, low in his throat.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, fingertips pressing into the soft part of you. He sucked your clit into his mouth and rolled the barbell across it—and your hips snapped, needy, desperate.

He gave you one last, deliberate lick, then kissed your thigh—open-mouthed, tongue dragging.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You were dripping. Ruined.

But he wasn't done.

“You taste fucking amazing, pretty girl.”

His name slipped out of your mouth like a prayer. “Megs—”

“Could stay down here all night,” he rasped. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You were panting. “Megumi—please—”

He didn’t answer. He was already moving again.

Faster. Deeper. Rougher.

The wet glide of his tongue, the flick of the piercing. The suction. The rhythm. You were unraveling, fast and helpless, no thoughts except more, more, more.

And then he slid two fingers inside—crooked just right—and sucked hard at the same time, tongue flicking and curling and sucking until your back arched off the bed, until you gasped his name and shattered into his mouth, thighs clamped around his head, shaking, soaked, ruined.

He loved it.

You came with a sharp cry, back arching off the bed, thighs trembling. His name on your lips, broken. Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips grinding against his mouth.

He didn’t stop. Just slowed, licking you through it, moaning quietly like he couldn’t get enough.

You felt him groan into your cunt, like he was trying to memorize your taste, like he couldn’t help it.

Your hand stayed tangled in his hair, but weaker now, your muscles gone soft and boneless and slick with sweat. When he finally pulled back, his chin was wet, his pupils blown wide. He kissed your thigh, then your hip, then up your belly, slow and reverent, until he hovered over you again.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah.”

He kissed your cheek, then your jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeated, breathless. “That was—holy shit.”

He smirked.

“Come here,” you murmured, tugging him down, your legs around his waist again.

He leaned down slowly, settling over you, weight braced on one forearm as the other slid behind your head. His hoodie was already off, forgotten somewhere between the couch cushions. The ink across his chest and arms glowed dark in the low light—sweeping blackwork, linework down his ribs.

And below, he was already naked.

He must’ve kicked off his sweats when you weren’t looking—silent and practiced. His cock hung heavy between you, thick and flushed and so pretty it knocked the breath out of your chest.

You reached between you, slow, curious—fingers wrapping around him.

And you felt it.

Not just the heat, the weight—but something… hard. Not just him—though he was hard, thick and heavy and pressed against your thigh—but something else. Something smooth and firm under the ridge, something…metal.

Your brows twitched, just slightly.

His breath hitched. You looked up at him, question rising.

“You—?” you started.

His jaw tightened. He looked almost…shy.

“…Megs?”

He hesitated.

You palmed him curiously and he twitched.

“There’s—” You looked up at him. “Are you pierced?”

His breath caught.

You stared at him, lips parted. “You have a dick piercing?”

“…Yeah.”

You blinked.

You glanced down again to get a better look, thumb brushing over the spot carefully. Holy fuck.

Thick. Long. Pierced.

The barbell of the piercing gleamed, curved through the head, metal catching the light.

You swallowed. “What kind?”

He looked like he was seriously debating lying, but finally said, low:

“Apadravya.”

Your mouth dropped open.

“Jesus Christ.”

He groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to make a life-altering decision.”

You bit your lip. “How long have you had it?”

“Since I was eighteen.”

Your brows shot up. “That’s early. Why?”

His cheeks actually turned a little pink.

“You ever do something stupid just to feel like your body was yours?”

You paused.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I have.”

His hand found your face, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“I didn’t do it for anyone else. Didn’t think anyone would ever see it.” He laughed quietly. “Definitely didn’t think it’d make someone look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”

You stared up at him.

“You mean like I want to push onto the mattress and ride you until I forget my name?”

“Exactly like that,” he rasped.

He kissed you again—deep, tongue curling past your lips—you felt the tongue piercing once more—familiar now—as your mouths moved in tandem.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet now. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

You reached down, wrapping your hand around him and giving it a soft squeeze.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Princess—”

You leaned in and kissed his neck, just below his ear. “Let me look at you.”

He let you.

And you did. You traced every tattoo, every line of his body—ink across his shoulders, ribs, chest, a stretch of fine black lines and text that ended in the soft skin above his hips.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said. “Anytime.”

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, heart pounding.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

You wrapped your legs around him again, slower this time.

And he rocked into you, still outside, just the pressure of him against your slickness making your whole body pulse.

He groaned.

“You’re gonna take all of me, baby.”

You gasped. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, bending to kiss you again. “I’ll make it fit.”

Your brain melted.

But he didn’t rush it. He never rushed.

He ran his hands over your body like he was savoring it—inch by inch, breath by breath. Worshipping it. And when you were whiny and squirming beneath him, he took a step back, eyes full of dark heat.

“You’re perfect.”

You grinned, breathless. “Then come here and fuck me already.”

He groaned.

And then slapped your ass—just once.

You gasped.

He smirked.

“Get ready, pretty girl.”

You could feel the weight of him above you—his forearms braced on either side of your head, body flushed against yours, skin warm and buzzing. His cock pressed heavy against your stomach, thick and hard and aching.

You reached down again, wrapping your hand around him, and this time he groaned against your mouth, voice low and helpless.

“Fuck, baby…”

You rolled your thumb under the head, slow. Felt the bar again—the piercing. It shifted slightly under your grip, smooth and hard. You were soaked already, throbbing. The idea of how it would feel inside you—

“Need you to lie back for me,” he said roughly, nuzzling into your neck, kissing your jaw. “Just like that. Legs up—good girl.”

You didn’t correct the pet name. Couldn’t.

He moved back slightly, sitting on his heels between your thighs. His hands slid over your hips and up—slow and reverent—just warm skin and heavy breath and the sharp, hot sweep of his eyes as they roamed.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered.

You flushed, hands fidgeting at your sides. But then he leaned down—kissed your sternum, your breast, circled your nipple with his tongue, then sucked, sharp and wet—and you forgot how to think.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful, princess,” he murmured, voice gravel. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

He kissed down your ribs, slow and wandering. You felt his lips pause, then press again—right under your breast, where he sucked the skin a bit harder.

You ran your fingers through his hair, dragging them gently at the roots.

He groaned again. “You have to stop doing that.”

“Why?” you asked innocently.

“You’re gonna find out,” he said, and grinned. “Keep doing it and you’ll see.”

You did.

When he lowered himself again, kissed between your thighs, and licked—deep this time, slower, intentional—you curled your fingers in his hair, tugging, and he moaned so loud it vibrated through you.

He looked wrecked when he pulled up. Flushed, pupils blown, lips wet.

“You like that?” you asked, giggling breathlessly.

“I fucking love that,” he growled.

He kissed you again, slow and hungry.

Then he lifted your hips—just like that—hands under your thighs, hauling you into him, legs wrapping naturally around his waist. You gasped, fingers clinging to his shoulders.

“Megs—”

“You okay?”

You nodded, flushed and dizzy.

You reached down, guiding him, and paused.

“Wait,” you whispered, breath catching. “You—do you have—”

He reached toward the drawer, then hesitated. “You on the pill?”

“Yeah.”

His jaw ticked. “Clean?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

Still, he waited. “You sure?”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him.

“Yes.”

He pushed in slowly—so slowly it made your breath hitch, your spine arch, your hands grasp for something to hold onto.

The stretch made you gasp—hot, overwhelming. You could feel the piercing slide in, the way it dragged against your walls, made your whole body twitch.

“Holy shit,” you whimpered.

Megumi groaned, deep in his chest. “Yeah, that’s it. Fuck—feels so good, baby.”

You tightened around him and he shuddered.

“You feel so tight, so warm—shit—this pussy’s perfect—”

His words sent a jolt through you, heat pooling low in your belly.

He rocked into you, slow and deep, and you felt everything.

Every vein, every inch, every press of steel and flesh and heat.

His hips ground into yours, angling just right. The piercing nudged something devastating inside you, and your whole body jerked.

“Megs—”

He kissed you hard, messy. His hands were everywhere—your thighs, your waist, your tits. And when you clawed at his back, he grinned.

“Go ahead,” he breathed, “mark me up. I don’t care.”

You dragged your nails down his spine, and he growled.

And then—crack—

His hand landed a slap to your ass.

Not rough. But firm. Possessive.

You gasped.

He kissed your cheek. “Too much?”

“No,” you whispered, dazed. “Not enough.”

He laughed—low and dangerous.

And he fucked you harder. He fucked you like he meant it—like he was unraveling, like the sound of your voice did something to him he couldn’t take back. His rhythm stayed steady, devastating, but there was an edge now. A roughness. Desperation behind every thrust, like he was chasing something just out of reach.

Every thrust felt deliberate—slow but powerful, like he needed you to feel all of him. Like he wanted to carve himself into your memory with each push of his hips. His forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged, eyes half-lidded as he watched every expression flicker across your face.

You felt everything. Every inch of him. The head of his cock, that piercing, kept catching right there—just inside—sending shocks through your whole body. You moaned, loud, unrestrained, and he groaned in response, burying his face in your neck like he needed to ground himself.

“God, baby, you feel—fuck, I can’t—” he gasped. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

The room spun, heat thick around you, sweat-slicked skin sliding against his as he drove into you, harder, deeper. Your legs were locked around him, thighs trembling, and you couldn’t stop moaning—couldn’t stop saying his name like a prayer.

“Megumi—God—please—”

His breath hitched. “I know, baby, I know. You feel so good—fuck—you’re taking me so well.”

You whimpered—your whole body on fire, nerves lit up. You could feel the piercing with every roll of his hips, dragging along your walls, stroking something almost too much. Too sharp. Too good.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice thick. “Taking me so fucking well.”

“F-Fuck, Megs—” your voice caught, high and trembling.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, sweet and messy, then pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you.

“You okay, baby?”

You nodded, eyes wide, lips parted. “Yeah—God, yeah—just…”

He smiled, soft and wrecked. “I know. I know, baby. You’re doing so good.”

His thumb slipped between your bodies, found your clit with practiced ease—two fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles as his cock dragged deep. Slow. Cruel. Perfect.

You cried out, hips jerking.

“Shh,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Just let it happen, princess. Let me take care of you.”

You clenched around him, helpless, and he groaned—deep in his chest, like he could feel it everywhere.

“You feel that?” he breathed, leaning in to kiss your throat. “That little flutter—fuck—you’re close, huh?”

And then, as his cock pushed in again, deeper than before, he shifted his weight and brought one hand down to your lower stomach.

He pressed gently—right there, just above your pelvis—and you gasped.

“Right here,” he said, voice dark with wonder. “You feel me, princess? That’s me. All the way inside.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, heat rushing through your veins like fire. The pressure of his hand paired with the drag of the piercing made your whole body twitch.

“Megs—”

He smirked against your neck, breath hot. “I know, baby. I know it’s a lot. You’re taking it so well.”

He kissed your jaw, slow and sweet. “I want you to cum for me,” he whispered. “Right here. While I’m inside you. Wanna feel this perfect pussy squeeze around me.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your body coiling tighter with every stroke.

“You can do it, baby,” he coaxed, voice low and soothing. “You’re already so close. Just let go.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit hard—white-hot, overwhelming. Your body locked up, then shattered all at once. You cried out, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders. The wave of it crashed over you again and again, endless, dizzying.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, thrusting deeper. “You’re so fucking tight when you cum—gonna make me—shit—”

His rhythm faltered, turned rougher, messier, as he lost control.

“Pretty girl—shit—gonna cum, baby, gonna—”

“Cum inside me,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “Please, Megs.”

He moaned—loud and wrecked—and buried himself to the hilt.

You felt everything. The heat, the pulse, the way his whole body locked down as he came. His mouth pressed to your throat, hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d slip away.

He stayed there, buried inside you, panting against your skin. You could feel his heart hammering in his chest, the sweat on his back, the way his fingers stayed tangled in your hair.

Then he lifted his head, kissed you—slow and raw, lips dragging over yours like he didn’t want the moment to end.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby. You don’t even know.”

You touched his face, thumb stroking under his eye, and he leaned into it—like it hurt not to. Like he needed it more than air.

The moment stretched—bodies tangled, breath shared, your walls still fluttering around his softening cock.

And he was still inside you.

Still holding you like a lifeline.

Like he didn’t know where he ended and you began.

None of you moved at all, really—just stayed there, his weight heavy but comforting, his breath fanning against your cheek. One arm curled around your waist, holding you close, like the aftershocks were still rolling through him too.

You exhaled slowly, boneless, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

“Megs…”

He hummed, low in his throat. Kissed your temple, your cheekbone, then your mouth—soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, flushed and hazy. “Yeah. Just… can’t feel my legs.”

He gave a breathless little laugh, nuzzling into your neck. “That might be the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You smiled—tired and full.

After a moment, he eased back, still buried inside you, his hand brushing your cheek. His expression was unreadable—something caught between awe and disbelief and maybe something a little softer.

“You’re really something, you know that?” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him. “You make it sound like I just saved your life or something.”

His smile crooked. “Feels kind of like you did.”

That silenced you—for a beat too long.

He caught it, of course. Looked a little sheepish. “Sorry. That was probably too much.”

“No…” You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “I just didn’t expect you to say something like that.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Neither did I.”

He kissed you again before you could say anything else—gentle this time, like he needed the feel of you more than the words.

Then he pulled out carefully, slow and warm and messy, and you both winced a little.

“Shit—sorry,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a warm, damp towel and one of his shirts. You stayed sprawled on the sheets, utterly wrecked, and let him tend to you.

His touch was careful. Reverent.

He cleaned you up with soft little apologies under his breath, then helped you into his shirt—big and worn and smelling like him—and tucked you back into bed before crawling in beside you.

You turned toward him automatically, curling into the warmth of his body. His arm wrapped around you like muscle memory, hand stroking slowly up and down your back.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of sheets and your breathing syncing up again.

Eventually, you mumbled, “We’re definitely gonna have to talk about this tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your forehead. “But not now.”

“No?”

“Mm-mm.” His fingers traced lazy patterns against your spine. “Right now, I just wanna hold my girl.”

You froze—just for a second.

Then smiled, into his chest.

He felt it, and pulled you closer.

—

When you woke up, the light was soft—barely morning.

You were warm.

Your limbs tangled with his under the sheets, skin to skin. Megumi was still asleep, mouth slack, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, hair sticking up in every direction.

His arm was heavy across your waist, hand curled against your stomach like it belonged there.

You could feel him breathing—slow and steady. Completely relaxed in a way you’d never seen before.

You blinked at him. Wondered, for a moment, if last night had actually happened.

But then you shifted, and your body answered for you—sore in places you hadn’t used in a while, hips aching, thighs a little raw.

And you could still feel the ghost of him inside you.

Heat crept across your cheeks.

You tried to move without waking him, carefully peeling the blanket back.

No such luck.

His eyes cracked open—barely.

“Where you goin’?” voice rough and sleep-heavy.

“Bathroom,” you whispered.

He hummed, eyes falling shut again. But his hand slid lower—resting just above your thigh, possessive even half-asleep.

You disappeared for a minute, returned to find him still sprawled across the bed, one arm flung over your side like a claim.

When you climbed back in, he rolled toward you, dragging you against him without hesitation.

You yelped—softly. “Jesus, Megs.”

“Mmm.” He buried his face in your neck. “You smell like me.”

You froze.

Then laughed—quiet, breathless. “You’re such a menace.”

He grinned against your skin. “You like it.”

You did.

You didn’t say it.

His hand skimmed under your borrowed shirt, fingers tracing lazy lines along your hip.

“Still good?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you said. “Sore, but good.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

His expression was unreadable again—sleepy, but serious beneath it. That focus of his, like he was seeing straight through you.

“You sure?”

You nodded, heart thudding. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “We should talk about it.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I know.”

Another pause. His thumb brushed the side of your thigh.

“But not yet?”

You smiled. “Not yet.”

He kissed you then—soft, like a promise.

And you let yourself melt into it, let the morning wrap around you like warmth, like quiet, like something new.

Something that didn’t feel temporary.

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk megumi #jjk men #jjk fanfic #fushiguro megumi #megumi x reader #megumi smut #megumi x you #megumi x y/n #fics.manicpixiedreamkira

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mintyys-blog · 20 hours ago

Text

HOW TO GIVE HEAD 101 | jason todd x reader

DC COMICS MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: blowjobs (male receiving oral sex), sexual themes.

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work (AI generated or otherwise) without my permission. @mintyys-blog

MINORS DNI

You and Jason lounged lazily on the couch, half-watching a movie, half just basking in each other’s company. You two had been friends forever — the kind of effortless bond built from late nights, too many shared secrets, and just enough mutual bad decisions to trust each other with anything.

You were playing with the hem of your hoodie, mind racing, heart hammering a little faster than you liked. Finally, you blurted out, “There’s this guy I like.”

Jason turned his head lazily toward you, one eyebrow quirked. “Oh yeah? What’s he like?”

You shrugged, a little embarrassed. “He’s… experienced. Like, really experienced.” You avoided Jason’s eyes, choosing instead to pick at a loose thread. “And we’ve been talking, a lot. It’s getting… flirty.”

Jason smirked knowingly, but said nothing.

You swallowed. “The thing is… he really likes—” you lowered your voice, like the apartment walls had suddenly become sentient, “—blow jobs. Like, a lot. And I’m not… super confident about that kind of thing.”

Jason’s expression stayed easy, but there was a flicker of amusement in his blue eyes. You pressed on, cheeks burning.

“I just… I don’t wanna disappoint him, you know?” You fiddled harder with your sleeve. Then, almost too quietly to hear, you added, “So… I was kinda thinking… maybe…”

You turned your head slowly toward Jason, giving him your best wide-eyed, innocent look.

He stared at you blankly for a long beat. Then, deadpan: “Are you asking to suck my dick for experience to impress another guy?”

You grimaced, embarrassed, but forced yourself to nod. “Well… when you say it like that—”

Jason huffed a short laugh, tossing his head back against the couch. Then he looked at you again, more serious this time, something a little more careful in his gaze. “Go ahead,” he said, voice low, a smirk tugging at his lips. Your eyes widened. “Really?”

A grin broke out on your face — you couldn’t even help it — excitement and nerves mixing together in a way that made you buzz. “Yeah,” Jason shrugged, casual, but you could tell he was fighting a real smile. “I wouldn’t mind teaching you. First step, you already got down: sound excited — not like it’s a chore.”

You nodded quickly, trying to tamp down the giddy flutter in your chest. “Should I, uh… take notes or something?”

Jason let out a low chuckle and leaned back, spreading his arms across the back of the couch, legs parted just enough to be cocky without trying. “Nah, baby,” he said smoothly, “you’ll have to learn from some hands-on training.”

Your heart thudded so hard you were sure he could hear it. Hands-on training. With Jason. This night was about to get a lot more interesting.

You shifted nervously onto the floor, settling between Jason’s spread legs, your knees pressing into the carpet. You looked up at him, feeling a strange mix of excitement and nerves twisting in your stomach.

Jason rested his arms lazily on the couch behind him, watching you with that same amused, half-lidded look. His voice was calm when he spoke, almost soothing.

“Alright, first thing you gotta understand…” he started, letting his legs spread a little wider, making room for you. “A blow job isn’t just about your mouth. It’s about enthusiasm. Pressure. Rhythm. How much you’re into it.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. Your hands rested awkwardly on your thighs, waiting for him to tell you what to do.

He smiled faintly, noticing. “Relax, babe. You’re not gonna hurt me.” He leaned forward slightly. “Start by using your hands first. Tease me a little. Get me hard. It’s not a race.”

You nodded again, hands a little shaky as you reached up and started fumbling with his belt. Jason chuckled low in his throat, reaching down to help you, fingers brushing yours as he undid it and let his jeans hang loose.

“Here.” His voice had dropped a little. “Go slow. Just… touch me. Light at first.”

You swallowed and slipped your hand inside his boxers, fingers grazing against warm skin. Jason sucked in a breath through his teeth, but didn’t rush you.

“Good… now, see, the first few seconds?” he said, tone lazy like he was explaining a game. “It’s about building it up. Light touches, kisses. Make it feel like you’re teasing the hell out of me before you even get serious.”

You blinked up at him again. “Kisses?”

“Yeah.” Jason smirked. “Like you’d kiss someone you really wanted. Start slow. Right at the tip.”

Your face burned hotter, but you leaned in, lips brushing just barely over him. Jason’s breath hitched — barely, but enough that you caught it — and your confidence grew just a little.

“There you go…” he murmured. “See? Already getting the idea.”

You placed another soft kiss, then another, feeling him twitch a little in your hand. Your mouth moved gently over him, just like he said.

Jason leaned his head back against the couch, watching you through half-closed eyes. His voice stayed calm, but rougher now.

“Now… flatten your tongue. Lick up the underside real slow. That spot’s sensitive as hell.”

You obeyed, sliding your tongue along the underside like he said, feeling him grow harder against your hand. His hand twitched like he wanted to touch you, to guide you, but he kept it at the back of the couch, letting you figure it out.

A low groan rumbled from his chest. “Fuck… you’re a quick learner, babe.”

You smiled a little against him, feeling bold now. Jason’s hips shifted just slightly forward, encouraging without saying a word.

“Now… open your mouth. Take just the tip in. Easy,” he coached, voice low and gravelly. “Don’t rush. Use your tongue while you’re sucking, swirl it a little.”

You did as he asked, easing him into your mouth, feeling the weight of him on your tongue. You swirled like he said, cheeks hollowing a little as you sucked carefully, listening to every sound he made, every little twitch of his body.

Jason groaned again, this time not bothering to hide it. His hand finally slid off the back of the couch, fingers brushing lightly through your hair.

“Shit… you’re gonna kill him if you do it like this,” he muttered, his voice thick with lust. “You’re already better than half the girls I’ve been with.”

You pulled back slightly, a little shy at the praise, and Jason laughed breathlessly, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek.

“Don’t stop now, baby,” he murmured. “Lesson’s just getting started.”

You swallowed and leaned back in, lips wrapping around him again, feeling a thrill at how Jason’s body tensed beneath you. His hand stayed light in your hair, barely guiding — just a reassuring presence.

“Good girl…” he rasped, the words slipping out before he could catch them. You flushed at the praise, heart thudding harder.

Jason gave a low chuckle at your reaction, voice rough but still patient.

“Alright. Now use your hand too. Grip the base — yeah, like that. Twist your wrist a little while you move your mouth. Not too tight, just enough to keep the pressure steady.”

You tried it, sliding your hand along the length of him while your mouth worked the tip, feeling him throb under your touch. His breath caught, fingers flexing slightly in your hair.

“Shit, babe, yeah…” he muttered, letting his eyes close for a second before forcing them open again. He wanted to watch you — needed to.

You hollowed your cheeks a little more, moving your mouth and hand together like he said. Jason let out a low, broken groan, hips twitching slightly.

“You’re killing me here, you know that?” he gritted out, voice hoarse. “The way you’re looking up at me, all eager and pretty… fuck.”

You whimpered a little around him, and Jason cursed again under his breath. His thumb brushed your jaw, gently wiping a bit of spit away.

“Alright, next part,” he said, clearing his throat like he needed to get control back. His hand tightened slightly in your hair, but not enough to hurt — just enough to make you focus.

“Breathe through your nose. Try to take me deeper, a little at a time. You don’t have to force it — just let your throat open. If it gets too much, pull back. No shame in it.”

You nodded, determined, and slowly eased your mouth lower. Jason sucked in a sharp breath, the sound raw in the quiet room. You felt him bump the back of your throat and instinctively gagged a little, pulling back immediately.

Jason chuckled low, rubbing your scalp gently.

“That’s normal. Took me a while to get a girl to even try that.” His voice was warm, almost proud. “You’re doing better than you think.”

You tried again, taking him slower, relaxing your throat just like he said. This time you managed to take him a little deeper without gagging right away. Jason’s hips shifted again, this time clearly fighting the urge to thrust deeper into your mouth.

“Jesus, Y/N…” he groaned. His hand gripped your hair more firmly, guiding your pace now — a slow, steady rhythm.

“Fuck, that’s it. Nice and slow. Let me feel your mouth, your tongue, all of it…” His voice was rough, almost shaking.

You felt yourself getting warm all over, your own thighs pressing together as you listened to him fall apart above you. It was addicting — the power of it, the trust he gave you, the way he praised you like you were already the best he’d ever had.

Jason’s breathing was ragged now, a deep flush creeping up his throat.

“Start stroking with your hand at the same time, baby. Mouth and hand together.” His instructions were getting choppier, like it was getting harder for him to think straight.

You followed, hand twisting at the base while you bobbed your head in slow, steady movements, feeling him twitch and pulse inside your mouth.

“F-fuck…” Jason hissed. “If you do that to the guy you like, he’s gonna fall in love on the spot.”

You smiled a little around him, pride blooming in your chest.

Jason’s other hand gripped the couch cushion like he needed to anchor himself, hips twitching again, almost involuntarily.

“You wanna really drive a guy crazy?” he gritted out. “Look up at him while you’re doing it. Let him see how much you love it.”

You glanced up through your lashes, cheeks flushed, mouth full of him — and Jason’s head dropped back against the couch with a broken growl.

“Goddamn it, Y/N…” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You’re too good at this.”

Jason’s breathing was ragged now, every muscle in his body drawn tight. His hand was firm in your hair, but not harsh — grounding you there, keeping you moving at the pace he wanted.

You kept your eyes locked on his, cheeks hollowed around him, hand sliding up and down the base just like he taught you.

“Fuck… Y/N,” he groaned again, head tipping back, veins standing out along his throat. “You’re gonna make me lose it if you keep looking at me like that…”

Your stomach fluttered at the broken edge in his voice. It didn’t sound like he was coaching anymore. It sounded real — desperate.

His fingers tightened just a little more, forcing your mouth to take him a little deeper with each slow thrust of his hips.

“Little more, baby,” he muttered, voice rough and coaxing. “Open your throat, breathe through your nose, yeah? You can do it.”

You nodded as much as you could, letting him guide your rhythm — his hips rocking up slowly into your mouth, pulling back just enough not to overwhelm you. Every slow thrust made your throat burn a little more, but the raw sounds coming out of him made you want to keep going.

Jason’s hand left the couch and grabbed your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where spit was starting to drip down your chin.

“So fuckin’ pretty like this,” he growled under his breath. “Such a good girl… letting me teach you.”

Your thighs squeezed together instinctively at the praise. You were supposed to be learning for another guy — but right now, all you could think about was Jason, the way he sounded, the way he looked at you like he wanted to tear you apart and worship you at the same time.

“Move your hand a little faster,” he ordered, voice dark, strained. ��Keep your mouth tight around me, fuck—”

You obeyed, hollowing your cheeks again, and Jason let out a broken, guttural moan that sounded like he was barely holding himself together.

“Fuck, Y/N… if you don’t stop, I’m gonna—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

You whimpered a little around him, swirling your tongue just like he taught you, determined to see it through. The tension in him snapped — his hips jerked up once, hard, and his grip tightened on your hair as he spilled into your mouth with a strangled groan.

You gasped around him, swallowing instinctively because you didn’t know what else to do — Jason’s whole body was shaking, his head dropped back against the couch, chest heaving.

For a second, the only sound was his ragged breathing, the hum of the city outside the window.

Finally, Jason looked down at you — pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, chest still rising and falling fast.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, a slow grin curling his lips. “You’re dangerous, baby girl.”

You wiped your mouth shyly, heart hammering, unsure what to say. Part of you still couldn’t believe you actually did that.

Jason reached out, tugging you gently up by the arms until you were straddling his lap, his jeans pushed halfway down his hips. He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, his touch unexpectedly soft.

“You still wanna impress that other guy?” he asked, voice low, thumb stroking your jaw.

You blinked at him, mouth parting slightly.

“I…” you hesitated. Your heart twisted, because the way he was looking at you now — like you were the only girl in the world — made you forget why you wanted to impress anyone else to begin with.

Jason chuckled quietly, pressing his forehead lightly against yours.

“Thought so,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “You don’t need anyone else, Y/N. Not when you already got me.”

Jason’s hand was just sliding up your thigh, his mouth brushing along your neck, when you stiffened slightly beneath him. He immediately pulled back, concern flashing across his face. “What’s wrong, doll?” he asked, voice low and careful.

You pressed a hand against his chest, chewing your bottom lip anxiously. “Jay… don’t get me wrong— I do like you, you’re amazing. But… I also really like this other guy, and…”

Jason leaned back the second you said it, smiling a little, though you could see the flash of disappointment he tried to hide.

“It’s okay, doll,” he said easily, lifting you gently off his lap and setting you next to him on the couch. “I get it.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow, hugging it against your chest, guilt washing over you. “I’m sorry if I led you on—” you started, but Jason just laughed, shaking his head.

“You didn’t lead me on. Trust me,” he said, voice warm and teasing. “And anyway, it’s fine. I’m not gonna get butt hurt just because you like some other guy.” He gave you a playful nudge with his shoulder. “Say… what’s his name?”

You brightened immediately, eager to tell him. “Oh! His name is Dick Grayson!”

Jason had just taken a sip of his beer — and immediately choked, spraying it across the room. You panicked, rushing to his side and thumping his back. “Jason! Oh my god, are you okay??” you cried, worried as he coughed and tried to wave you off.

He nodded, clearing his throat with a rough laugh. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” he said, voice hoarse. Then he smirked at you — a sly, almost wicked little look.

You didn’t catch it. You were too busy fretting over him. Jason reached out, ruffling your hair affectionately, and said, “Don’t worry, doll. Just do what you did tonight, and he’ll love it.”

You smiled wide, relief and excitement lighting up your whole face. “Thanks, Jason.”

He leaned back against the couch, tossing an arm around your shoulders in an easy, protective way. “Anytime, sweetheart,” he murmured, still grinning to himself — because you had no idea Dick Grayson was Jason’s older, adoptive brother. And Jason? He couldn’t wait to see how that was gonna play out.

Later that night, after you left — practically skipping with excitement about your crush — Jason was still stretched out on the couch, grinning at the ceiling like a man who just watched fate set a bomb and walk away whistling.

He grabbed his phone off the coffee table, thumbing through his contacts until he found the one labeled:

“Asshole #1”

He smirked and typed quickly:

Jason:

bro… we gotta talk.

it’s about you. and it’s hilarious.

He barely had time to set the phone down before it buzzed angrily.

Dick:

?? what did i do now?

i’m literally just eating cereal rn wtf

Jason barked out a short laugh and leaned back, picturing the look on Dick’s face when he found out who had been practicing just for him tonight.

He tapped another reply:

Jason:

nothing yet. just… be nice when a pretty little thing gets brave enough to flirt with you soon.

she’s special. don’t be a dick, dick.

There was a pause. Then:

Dick:

???

who the hell are you talking about???

JASON ANSWER ME

Jason laughed so hard he nearly dropped the phone. He thought about telling him the full truth — that you, sweet, bright-eyed you, had just spent the evening on your knees for him practicing — but he decided to let it simmer a little longer.

Wouldn’t hurt to make Grayson sweat.

He threw his phone onto the couch and muttered to himself with a grin, “Man… this is gonna be good.” And for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd felt like he had something to look forward to.

It all happened faster than you thought it would.

One minute, you were sitting next to Dick Grayson at a Titans gathering, both of you laughing over something stupid. The next, you were alone together in his room, your heart hammering so loud you could barely hear yourself think.

When you dropped to your knees in front of him — cheeks burning, nerves twisting in your gut — he barely had time to react before your hands were on his belt.

“Y/N—” he started, but the second your mouth wrapped around him, all coherent thought seemed to leave his brain.

He hissed through his teeth, one hand flying to the back of your head automatically — but not pushing, just gripping at your hair like he needed something to hold onto.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he groaned, voice cracking, hips jerking slightly against your mouth. You took him deep, hollowing your cheeks exactly how Jason had taught you, keeping your hand at the base and twisting gently as you moved — slow, purposeful, confident.

Dick almost blacked out.

It wasn’t just good — it was skilled. Way too skilled for someone who, from what he remembered, had said she was “still learning.”

He forced his eyes open, looking down at you — and that’s when the first little seed of suspicion planted itself.

Something about the way you worked him over — the way you squeezed at the base, the way you bobbed your head in rhythm, your tongue teasing just right at the tip — it wasn’t just natural talent. It was training.

You finally pulled off, blinking up at him innocently, a little bit of spit trailing down your chin.

He sucked in a ragged breath, trying to get a grip on himself. “Holy shit, Y/N,” he muttered, wiping his thumb gently across your lips. “That was— I mean, where did you learn to do that?”

You flushed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand shyly. “I mean… I practiced? Once. Before tonight.” You smiled nervously. “I told you I didn’t have a lot of experience… but I wanted to impress you, so…”

Dick’s brows furrowed slightly. “Practiced… with who?” he asked, trying to sound casual — but his voice cracked halfway through.

You shrugged, fidgeting. “Oh— um. Just… my friend Jason helped me.”

Silence. Utter, horrified silence. Dick’s whole face froze — eyes wide, mouth slightly open — like his soul physically left his body for a moment.

“Jason,” he repeated, voice tight.

“Yeah,” you nodded brightly, oblivious to the internal meltdown happening inside him. “He’s really good at explaining stuff. Super patient.”

Dick scrubbed a hand down his face, groaning. “Oh my god,” he muttered under his breath.

He wasn’t mad — not really. He couldn’t be. You didn’t know the full story — you didn’t realize you had literally just given him a blowjob with Jason Todd’s signature techniques. Techniques Dick had, unfortunately, recognized mid-orgasm.

He exhaled sharply, still trying to wrap his head around it.

“Okay,” he said, voice strangled but still kind. He reached down, pulling you into his lap carefully. “Okay. We’re gonna… just… move past that for now.”

You smiled shyly and snuggled against his chest, thinking he was embarrassed because he liked it so much.

Later that night, Dick was stalking down the hall like a man possessed, trying to find Jason. His face was flushed, his hair a mess, and he looked like he’d just been run over by a truck.

(Which, in a way, he kind of had.)

He found Jason exactly where he expected — in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, sipping a beer like he had all the time in the world.

Jason clocked him immediately, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Well, well, well,” Jason drawled, setting his beer down and crossing his arms. “Look who survived his special tutoring session.”

Dick stopped a few feet away, running a hand down his face in pure agony. “You’re a dick, you know that?” he groaned.

Jason barked out a laugh. “Me? I’m the dick?” He pointed at himself, grinning ear to ear. “I’m not the one who got the full Jason Todd patented blowjob experience without even asking.”

Dick made a strangled sound in his throat, visibly dying inside. “You taught her,” he hissed under his breath, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one else was nearby. “You taught her how to— to—”

“—to suck your soul out through your dick?” Jason finished helpfully, smiling so wide it should’ve been illegal. “You’re welcome.”

Dick was halfway between throttling him and bursting into laughter. “Dude, she’s so innocent,” he said, flailing his hands helplessly. “She has no idea— she just— trusted you!”

Jason shrugged, completely unbothered. “Hey, I was a perfect gentleman about it.” He took another sip of his beer, smirking behind the bottle. “She asked for help. I provided a public service.”

Dick pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, groaning. “This is so messed up.”

Jason clapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending him stumbling forward.

“Look at it this way, Big Brother—” Jason said with a teasing grin. “At least you got the rewards without doing any of the work.”

Dick glared at him murderously — but he didn’t argue. Because— God help him… Jason wasn’t wrong.

You padded into the kitchen, still floating on a little high from earlier, only to freeze in the doorway. There stood Jason, casually leaning against the counter — and Dick Grayson, standing stiff as a board like he was caught hiding a dead body.

You blinked, shocked. “Jay! Hi—uh, what are you doing at the Tower?”

Before you could spiral into awkwardness, Jason’s grin stretched wider. He pushed off the counter and pulled you into an easy hug, ruffling your hair affectionately.

Dick just stood there behind him, looking like he was silently begging the universe to strike him dead.

Jason hugged you tight, smirking directly at Dick over your shoulder. “Oh, you know,” Jason said casually, voice dripping with amusement. “Just visiting family.”

You pulled away, frowning slightly. “Family? I thought you said you were adopted?”

Jason chuckled, like he was just remembering a silly little thing he forgot to mention. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck like it was no big deal. “Well, funny thing… turns out I kinda forgot to tell you—Dick and I are brothers.”

You stared at him. Then at Dick. Then back at him. The realization hit you like a brick wall. Your face drained of color. Your jaw dropped. “Oh… oh no,” you breathed, stepping back in horror.

Jason just beamed, the most evil, smug, entertained older brother you could ever imagine. Dick, on the other hand, looked like he was about two seconds away from throwing himself out the window.

You covered your mouth, mortified. “I gave head to your—your—!!” you squeaked, unable to even finish the sentence.

Jason patted your head like you were a confused puppy. “Relax, dollface,” he said, winking shamelessly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Actually…” He cocked his head at Dick with a shit-eating grin. “You made my brother a very happy man tonight.”

“JASON!” Dick barked, red-faced, but Jason was already moving toward the door, laughing under his breath.

Before he left the kitchen, he turned back, tossed you a wink so quick Dick didn’t catch it — and said, “Good job, sweetheart. Proud of you.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hallway, whistling innocently.

You stood there frozen, absolutely mortified. Dick dragged a hand down his face, groaning like his soul had physically left his body.

“Well,” you mumbled, cheeks burning hotter than the sun, “at least now I know why it felt like he was weirdly good at teaching…” Dick just let out a helpless little noise of pain, looking at you like he had no idea whether to laugh or cry.

Later that night, Dick lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling like a man at war with his soul. He had been tossing and turning for an hour, replaying every agonizing second from earlier — your mortified face, Jason’s shit-eating grin, the way Jason had said “proud of you” like he was handing out a damn scouting badge—

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He groaned, rolling over to check it, praying it wasn’t who he thought it was. It was.

Jason Todd:

Hey big bro.

How’s my favorite little student?

Dick glared at the screen, feeling his blood pressure spike.

Before he could even respond, another text came in:

Jason Todd:

Did she use the twist?

Be honest.

Dick threw the phone onto the bed like it had personally insulted him, running both hands through his hair. “damn it, Jason,” he muttered, pacing the room.

The phone buzzed again.

Jason Todd:

You can thank me later.

Or name your first kid after me.

Your call.

Dick actually let out a strangled, painful laugh — half from genuine amusement, half from the soul-crushing secondhand embarrassment that was now his permanent companion.

He snatched the phone back up, thumbs flying across the screen.

Dick Grayson:

I’m going to kill you.

Slowly.

A second later:

Jason Todd:

You’re welcome.

Dick groaned again, collapsing face-first onto the mattress. This was his life now.

#x reader #reader insert #x female reader #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd smut #Jason Todd #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson smut #dc #dc comics #dc universe

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lostintransist · 2 days ago

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The Second Duchess

Y'all, Noona's brain worms got me again. AO3 | This will be two parts. | This will end bitter. A/B/O dynamics, vaguely victorian, there will be an actual ghost in part two, odd power dynamics.

When John found you, a foreign lady, visiting a neighboring earl, he thought he had found redemption.

His first wife had been designationless, like you. He and his pack, Johnny, Simon, and Kyle, had ill-treated the first duchess. Her final words, left in an open letter, lingered over them all, even now.

You were supposed to be better. Every tale of you spoke of your bravery, your dedication, your loyalty. I found them all to be lies. When my corpse haunts your memories, may you think on it with more fondness than you ever did me.

The people who claimed the right of parentage over you had sent you to a foreign court in the hopes that someone would take pity on you. Foolish attempt really. No one at home wanted you; no one here would either.

All your life you had been discarded. Set aside for your lack of designation, you learned to cope. The scarred skin at your neck where your gland had failed to grow in the womb became your favorite place to decorate. If not with necklaces, then with art. You had learned how to paint on your body and create wreaths that wound round your neck; you set new standards because you could not do much else. If people were going to stare, why not give them something to look at?

Running wild became your favorite way to use your lack of designation. You could ride a horse side saddle or sitting forward like a man. You could ride better than most men in either seat. The stable hands at home got used to a horse disappearing for a few hours. You always stabled the horses you used, fed them, and brushed them. They stopped complaining after they saw how well you cared for the animals.

You hired art teachers and painted nude bodies. Music teachers taught you how to listen to the lewd songs sung in the taverns and play them at dinner parties. Languages were mastered; the curses were the things you memorized first. The cooks blustered when you demanded to be taught, but when you threatened to hire someone to teach you they quickly gave in.

The maids taught you on the sly the cant and candor of the working class. When they told you of the needs in the community you worked directly with the women who headed each group in need. Connections were gathered like coins in a purse and guarded like a hen over her chicks.

Without quite knowing how you became a woman of influence. A whisper or a word in the right ear and you could turn the tide on harmful policies. If you declared a business untenable for their use of child labor or the way they treated their workers the working class would not patronize them again.

That same level of leverage never breached the bubble of the aristocracy; hence, how you found yourself shipped away to start again.

The weeks warning your mother had given you had been enough for any in your contact to fire off letters to kin and foe alike of your coming. Even letters to foes told of your abilities to conquer changes.

Dock workers had a penchant for overindulging in your country. Men overindulging left women and children bereft of comfort and stability. You had been working at the underpinnings of fact before you had been shipped off.

No one noticed where you wandered, even here in this new country. No one cared. Just this morning you had sat down with the head of the laundress of the city to see what pieces you could shift. Their letter had arrived first, and tending to their needs would become your first priority. They needed childcare.

Children often needed tending and older children needed to be taught reading, writing, and arithmetic. An aging governess or two could be convinced to play school teachers and a maid without a reference could become a tender. Most of the legwork would arise from connecting with the women who would care for and teach the children. The juxtaposing issue would be where to house them and the children during the day. The price per child needed to be reasonable to the laundress and enticing to the governesses and the maid.

Censure, while a familiar disrespect, never became easier to bear. It bit at your flesh like the slap of hands. You had been relegated to the piano in the corner of the room while the other women partook in after-dinner sherry.

You hated sherry. You hated all alcohol really but sherry most of all. It tastes of lies and disappointment in its syrupy sweetness. Shuttering those memories, you focused on playing through a key change and into a jaunty tune; lewd would be a more accurate word, for the song you had learned down at the docks.

All these thoughts swirled through your head as your fingers played without you. Being so deep in thought you failed to notice the men had rejoined the party.

The knuckles rapping the top of the piano before your eyes brought you back to your body. Your motions paused the last notes you played lingering in the air. It is doubtful anyone was listening to you anyway.

A broad man leaned against the piano. His hair was cut short and sprinkled with gray. A neatly maintained beard, sun-kissed wrinkles around his eyes, as well as the fine cut of his coat completed the look of a lord. Being unfamiliar with this county’s aristocracy you offered a demure smile.

“Can I help you, my lord?”

“Where did a thing like you learn a tune like that?” His voice is rich and cadence firm.

“It is astounding the things musicians will teach you for the right incentive.” Settling your hands back to the keys you began to play a medley of your favorite drinking songs.

“Why do you not hide it?” His voice is as a surprise as it is unexpected.

Decorum meant different things here. Like it being acceptable to ask about one’s secondary gender.

“Why would I hide something I am not ashamed of, my lord? I am not causing harm to others by existing,” you lift a brow as you glance at him quickly.

He stared at the paint ringing your neck. The style of dresses here, that your great aunt had draped you in despite your protests, involved low necklines and off-the-shoulder sleeves. The corset cinched around you held up the dress. You had painted flowers and vines. Now, if anyone stared overlong you could assume they were observing your skill with a brush and not the scar where your scent gland should be.

Transitioning into a light, airy tune that has been well accepted by “higher” society you stole glances at the lord. You had yet to be introduced, but his dismissal of decorum intrigued you. Not many men approached you for a chat, even less without being introduced as an oddity first.

“Would you take a turn around the room with me?”

And there went your interest. Like with anyone who did not conform to society’s standards, you were propositioned every so often. Pursing your lips, you don’t look at him again.

“If you can gain an introduction before I depart for the night, I will consider it.” Focusing back on your fingers you played around a key change into a moving piece.

This bit of music sounded a bit like weeping when you played it.

He would not find your aunt anywhere near this room. She had consumed a fair amount of dairy in the soup course and would be leaving rancid deposits for the maids to clean in the morning. Once she felt well enough to travel she would send someone to collect you to the carriage. No one else here could claim acquaintance to the point of introductions.

As you predicted the lord could be seen drifting from person to person questioning and pointing toward you where you played still. All shook their heads and peered around for your aunt. Nearing forty minutes later a maid approached you, hands clasped neatly in front of her white frock.

“Ma’am, your aunt awaits you in the carriage,” her voice is mouse quiet even as her eyes dart to and for.

“Thank you for telling me. Can you inform the butler I will need my things?”

The notes lingered before dying, suffocated under the volume of conversation. The lord noticed though. As you slipped around seats and finally into the front hall, he followed. The aged butler held out your shawl, gloves, and hat.

One glove on and buttoned at the wrist you started on the other one when he appeared. The lord gave a near-silent dismissal to the butler. When you turned you found your hat and shawl held hostage.

“My things, my lord,” your hand extended for your things.

“While I was not able to obtain a formal introduction, I wanted to introduce myself. Duke John Price, at your service.”

Plucking your bonnet from his hand, you hum. Duke Price glared at you as tied it in place.

“How wonderful I avoided the misfortune of being introduced to a duke then being as lowly as I am, hmm?” You glanced at his face.

His sun-kissed wrinkles are now plucked with frustration.

“Will you be returning my shawl or shall I brave the night with bare shoulders, Duke Price?”

You let the title remind him of his place in the scheme of life.

The blue of his eyes reminded you of the center of a flame, scorching in its heat. You saw the decision in the tilt of his head. Standing stiller than the statues you saw dotting this land, you did not fight when he settled the shawl around your shoulders.

“Travel safe. I look forward to our upcoming introduction,” Duke Price held to the end of the shawl as you stepped back.

“Must not have much to look forward to in this country,” you let derision drip from your tone.

One more step back and you are free. A hand behind your back finds the doorknob and you are out. Now the footmen are looking to the door as you descend the stairs.

“What kept you?” Your great aunt’s voice bites from the dark of the carriage.

“It took some time for the butler to gather my things,” you lie. Climbing in and sitting forward on the bench to peer out the door window, Duke Price watches you from the door.

Sliding back the darkness hides you from view.

John fired off a letter before the sun had risen. I have found her. I will return when wed.

It took weeks before he secured your acquaintance. He tried though, gods, the way he tried. You would have laughed if he didn’t disrupt so many damn meetings.

A local Chaplin had agreed to offer room and board to the two governesses and the two maids who would be watching and teaching the children. A different church, whose Bishop agreed, would serve as the care space and classroom. The two churches would have no fees, but negotiating the prices that would remain fair for the laundresses and the women caring for the children became the sticking point.

The women all raised their voices. It was as if they could shout a little louder than their neighbor they might be clearly heard. In times like these, you were grateful for your nose blindness. Someone had once explained that the overlapping scents of anger reminded them of a barn fire, acrid and dense.

You finished finalizing the numbers on your page before standing. Snatching up your mini abacus, because math in your head forever alluded you, you placed it in a pocket of your skirt. Both hands lifted your skirt. Once your feet could move freely, you stepped onto the chair and then onto the long table where the discussion had devolved.

Both boots planted firmly you released your skirt and shoved fingers in your mouth to whistle. The piercing sound cut through all of the noise. All of the women sat down and glowered at each other, and you.

Movement at the door of the room tipped your annoyance into rage. Duke Price stood in the doorway. This was the fourth meeting he had appeared in.

“The Duke of Price has two seconds to be gone from this room or he will be funding this project for a year.”

Your pointed glare and sharp words caused all the women at the table to turn and do the same. These were proud women. They would not accept charity, and the offer of it would be seen as offensive. The duke narrowed his eyes and stepped back into the shadows.

“Close the door, my lord. If you are incapable of such a feat one of these lovely women would be happy to assist.”

The iron lock clicking into place turned all eyes back to you. Pinching your fingers to the bridge of your nose you shut your eyes and took a deep breath.

“Here is the pricing that accommodates everyone. The women handling the children will not need to cover room and board, which will reduce their incoming monies. In turn, that reduces the burden per child for the laundresses. Now, you must decide among yourselves,” you open your eyes and scan the laundresses now, “If you wish to pay a per child fee or a flat fee. Tally your votes and inform me of your decision. This scheme will begin on the first.”

The women who handled the dirty laundry for the city nodded and rose. They spoke among themselves as they exited the room.

The older governess, Brenton, if you recall correctly spoke up now. Her white hair gleamed under her dowdy cap.

“Who will be supplying the learning materials? The pay for watching the children will not cover that.”

You climbed down as you thought over how to obtain the needed materials.

“There is an irksome lord that I will make pay for the displeasure of my constant annoyance.”

All four women shared a look. They had worked under several lords and ladies and knew this would be a formidable task.

“Well,” Miss Brenton clapped her hands twice, “We will leave you to your trial ma’am. If we can be of any assistance before our work begins, please reach out.”

“Thank you. I know this is going to be an odd period of transition for all of us.” Settling at the head of the table as the other stood, you gestured to the door. “Miss Brenton, if you don’t mind, could you play chaperone for a moment?”

“Must say, I am interested to see how this plays out.” Tucking her skirt back down Miss Brenton sat back down.

Pulling out a clean sheet you began to note down the needed items, chalk and chalkboards, readers, nappies, blankets, cribs, the list went on. The click of heavy-soled shoes stopped at your side. Paying it no mind, you continued. A second sheet joined the first, transferring a list of vendors that would help funnel money to the bottom where it was most needed. Some were spouses of the laundress, others were brothers, fathers, or uncles. All were low class and would provide solid work.

A total of three sheets filled you ensured each was dry before stacking them. Folding them into neat thirds, you turned and handed them to Lord Price.

“You are a difficult woman to make an acquaintance of,” he took the papers held in proffer. “What is this?”

“The bill.” Standing, you let the chair legs scrape against the floor. “Miss Brenton, can I interest you in having company on your walk home?”

The shrewd woman looked near apoplectic at your handling of a duke.

“This is a lengthy bill.”

If you didn’t know any better, you could have sworn there was a hint of a smile in his voice.

Lord Price’s eyes were upon you when you finally let your head finish turning. No smile graced his lips. Shame. For all he had made your last few weeks as painful as a throne in the thumb, he was nice to look at.

He wore a blue today. His eyes shone with the gold stitching on his jacket and vest.

“It has been extraordinary lengths you have gone to bother me; this seemed a fair request.”

Neither gaze shifts when Miss Brenton choked on air.

“Consider it done,” Duke Price tucked the list into his inner coat pocket. “May I join you ladies on your journey?”

“Of cour—”

You cut Miss Brenton off with a hand and a sharp look. Turning that sharp look on the lord, you speak your piece.

“No. I do not know what your intentions are with me, and frankly, I am tired of finding you amidst my business. The only men who pursue me do so for my,” you gesture to your scarred neck, “eccentricities.”

A string attached to your stomach could not have pulled tighter than if it were looped to a kite. This conversation made you wish you could skitter into a hole, a church mouse hiding from god. This would be the sixth time you had told a man no.

The duke huffed a laugh.

“I have enough eccentricities roaming my home. What I seek is a chance to see if we would get on well.”

His blue eyes left heated trails as they worked across your face. Goose flesh rose on your arms. Chest and further down where you dare not think of the flesh continued to rise. Every bit of you reacted.

“Why?” The question is breathy, haunted with questions.

Duke John Price held the sword of Damocles at your neck. The blade yearned for a taste.

You spent your days in the shadows. Confronting men who could take what they wanted was the only time you thought you knew what it was like to be whole. Acid bullied the back of your nose.

“I am in need of a wife. Someone who has the skills to manage others.”

He is not done. You don’t care.

“Choose any of your fashionably young countrywomen then.” Ripping your eyes from him, you stack your papers and close your ink well for travel. “There is a full troop of them yet unwed who would kill for the chance to lay in a duke’s bed. They have all been trained to manage households.”

The string in your body is cut. A tangle now lives in your chest.

“Miss Brenton, was it?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Can you give us the room for a moment?” The kind command would take more fortitude than the aged governess possessed.

A beseeching look to the matronly woman did not save you. Her wrinkles quivered as she slowly stood.

“I can give you three minutes m’lord.”

He inclined his head as if accepting a toast from a royal.

As the door swung shut you formed a plan. Stepping to the opposite side of the table, for distance and a barrier, failed. The toe of your boot caught the leg of the table. Papers fluttered from your hands as your knees cracked against the stone floor. Duke Price was there in an instant. He lifted each paper, laying it neatly in a stack.

Tears pricked at your eyes. You hadn’t moved from your fallen position. Head hanging to your chest you held back from weeping by the breadth of a string.

“Why will you not leave me be?” The words are harsh, strangled by the tightness in your throat.

“When hunting foxes, one strategy to attempt is sending them to ground. Where do they hide when they can no longer run?” His demeanor was cool, his voice soothing. “You run in circles, managing to better every bird, twig, and rock you brush against in your escape.”

Sniffing, you set about finding a handkerchief to wipe your face; you refused to face the laundress’ if they knew you used your skirts as rags.

A blue handkerchief in a gloved hand drifted below your nose. Lifting it, careful to not touch even his glove, you dab your nose.

Somehow you had managed to drip ink into the crease where your nail becomes flesh. Gloves hurt your hands after a time. You had managed to work around wearing them. No one noticed. No one ever noticed. And if they did they didn’t care to police a grown woman who had no prospects.

“I have a pack, they are wonderful and I would burn the world for them. I need a wife who can see. I am looking for someone who notices the needs overlooked, connects with those unheard, and sends war captains on impossible journeys. If you had allowed an acquaintance between us weeks ago, I could have courted you slowly.”

Duke Price holds out your papers. They crinkle in your delicate grip as you press them to your breast.

“I do not believe you.”

His cloth pressed to your nose cannot prevent all the vile feelings filling up your bones from injecting themselves into the words.

No one wanted you. Even the one who had lied in word and deed to make you believe he did.

Brokenness allowed you to see because you could not smell; that did not make you valuable.

“And what would make you believe me?” He curls nearly in half to peer up at you.

A duke is on his knees, craning his need to get a look at you. What the hell had this world turned into?

Sniffing again, you straighten. Plans. You can make plans.

“A contract. Legally binding even in marriage. Make it two. One to court me and become engaged and the second retaining my rights to leave this country unhindered, if I so desire, if marriage were to come to pass.” You study him now. The wheels are turning in his mind.

“And what of the consequences of reneging on either contract?” A single brow is lifted in your direction.

“I imagine your solicitor has worked with you a long time, my lord. If he does not think of something suitable, I would be happy to revise and return it for review,” you lift a brow in response.

Games were easier. The rules never changed. Once understood, you could slide below notice and return to living life and helping where you could.

The man before you lifted both cheeks into a full smile. Your heart dropped into your heels still below your butt. He had a beautiful smile.

“They will be at your door for review before the week is out.”

“You have not yet gained an acquaintance, my lord, it might be rejected at the door,” you gave him a saucy wink and a watery laugh.

“I think a contract will be introduction enough.”

He held out a hand. You shook it, grip firm. Twice it bobbed before he turned your hand over and laid a kiss on your knuckles.

Catching sight of your lifted brow from his position he threw you off balance, again.

You had been to sea. Once only, were you out during a storm.

Then you had clung to the railing until a man in a slicker had slid a rope around your waist and helped haul you below deck. That wild energy that had commanded you to land came now. This time though? You longed to dive below the waves. If only to see if the storm could touch the seabed below.

Solicitor Allchin sat stiffly in the sitting room of your great aunt’s home. He wore black as if born to it, hair flounced the appropriate amount to show he would be fastidious and dogged in a task.

Your nails, trimmed short, bite into the fabric coating the arms of the wing-back chair. The crazy fool had actually done it. Two contracts lay strewn on the tea table before you. Unable to continue to read, they had been thrown down.

“Allchin?”

The man startled at being addressed. He had been taking surreptitiously deep breaths. If anyone believed you to be afflicted with no scent gland upon meeting you would call them a liar.

“Yes ma’am?”

“What is your opinion of Duke Price?”

You refused to call him John. It felt like ceding ground in a war you didn’t intend to entrench in.

“He is a fair man, mostly. Cares well for those that he considers his, discards those he doesn’t.” Allchin spoke firmly. Confident in his honesty.

“Thank you. That will be all. I will return these with any adjustments within three business days.” Standing would be beyond your power. If you rose the only thing you would manage is the three steps to vomit in an oriental vase.

“Ma’am,” Allchin rose, tugging his coat neatly into place. “If I may? I have a question.”

“You may not.”

Rage fluttered in your chest with hummingbird wings; it stung your eyes, water filling them.

Allchin nodded once and saw himself out. Lifting the paperwork, you read what you could. He had tilted everything in your favor. If you agreed to an engagement you could keep it quiet until the bans were read. Either party could break the engagement and you would receive a settlement for cover “pain and suffering.” You would retain full autonomy and legal status as a person in the event of a marriage. Property bought or sold in your name would remain yours.

Working itself out seemed to be working in Lord Price’s favor.

Someone, and if you ever found them you might actually hurl them down the stairs, had told your great aunt about the visit and the paperwork.

“What is this I hear about an offer?”

The testy old woman had called you to her office like a child. She opened and shut a fan in one hand. Open. Shut. Open. Shut.

Blinking slowly, you release a breath.

“I did not think you could hear at all anymore, Aunt.”

Slam. The fan cracked against the edge of her desk.

“Do not test me, child! Have you had an offer?” Her frail voice betrays none of her age as she shouts.

Disdain drips from your canines like blood from a throat you clenched between your teeth.

“I lost my childhood to bigotry and hate. I will not lose my adulthood to it as well. Any business between myself and any man who might make an offer is none of your damn business. Only those who care about my welfare are welcome to that knowledge.” The temperature in the room changed, flashing cool before heating up with a rage you knew waited to boil over.

Turning on a heel, you stride from the room.

Any calls from your aunt fall on deaf ears. You lock yourself in your room and squirrel away the paperwork. Not well enough.

One of the maids must have found them. Word reached you as you were fitted for a wedding gown that your aunt had offered a hefty reward for the person who could pry the information from you. You thank the young woman pinning the skirt and ask after her children. She smiles as she tells you of her daughters and their clumsy attempts at stitches.

Masterlist | Part 2

#cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #john soap mactavish #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #soap cod #john price x reader #soap mactavish #price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick #captian john price

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fishnapple · 18 hours ago

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Positive changes coming into your life

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost

Book a reading with me - KO-FI (Read this post : personal reading)

LAPIS LAZULI

The theme is balance, your life will be much more balanced in terms of material comfort, resting and working, dream and reality. Balance means that you will learn how to adjust various areas in your life to fit each other. You will slowly understand the "rhythm" of your life, when you need to rest, when you need to focus, when you need to give, when you need to ask for what you want. During this process, you will come to get to know more about both your physical body and your spirit, giving them both equal care.

You will gain more independence, feeling like you have more control of your life than you previously thought. It might come from the stability of your surroundings, you gain more financial independence, or you will gain a new insight that helps you feel more contented with what you have, rather than seeking more and more and never feeling enough. One thing I notice is that you will focus solely on doing what's good for your growth, your decisions will be based on your gut feelings and your introspection. You will no longer feel the pull to compare yourself with others, as you follow your own heart and not be distracted by everyone around you. This period will be a tremendous growth for you.

Life will treat you fairly for your effort. Problems won't go away all at once, but you're capable of tackling them one by one. Your emotions will run high, sometimes you will feel like you're being swept along by the current of your emotions. But you will not let yourself drown in them, instead, you will surf along with them, make them into your greatest inspiration and motivation. Your mantra will be "I got this". Your inner strength will manifest outwardly. You will shed old unhealthy habits and look after your physical vessel more, being more active and flexible. A healthy heart and a healthy body will be accompanied by a fresh mind, one that can conjure up magic out of the most mundane thing.

ROSE QUARTZ

Spring is here, after a long bitter winter. A joyful time ahead. You will feel like waking up from a long slumber, sleepiness will still follow initially, life will still feel groggy, but not for long. The cold winter will finally go away, new spirit will fill your heart, and along with it, your whole body. Your steps will feel lighter, smiles will grace your face more frequently. If you've been feeling down, lost or disappointed lately, you will soon see the light peaking through new leaves.

Your life will be much "softer". You don't need to force anything or try too hard to achieve something. You learn to feel at ease, to let yourself rest more and dream more. You don't have to walk briskly with purpose or run towards a goal, you can stroll along the streets more leisurely. Not that everything will suddenly become better or solve itself, but your attitude will change, and that's enough to make some previous problems dissipate.

If you're struggling with feeling confident and worry a lot about security, you're going to gain a new confidence boost. Maybe you will meet someone new or stumble upon a new knowledge that encourages you to take a step forward, to dare to dream bigger, be more daring. I see new acquaintances, people who are much different from you but can lift you up greatly.

If before, pursuing what or whom you desired might seem out of reach with too many obstacles then now, you won't see those obstacles as anything of consequence anymore. You're willing to give it a try, no matter the result. And you will be rewarded for that attitude. The act of going after your dreams is exhilarating. You perceive it as a fun challenge, an experiment that you can enjoy and go at your own pace. Your energy feels both fast and languid. No frantic move, just a little bit of faith in luck and a heavy dose of romanticising that will expand your connections with the world and its people.

CARNELIAN

The theme of mental clarity will be prevalent in the upcoming period of your life. Confusion and misunderstanding will be solved quickly, or if they still linger from the past then you will gain a new understanding of them and be able to move on or find closure. You will likely gain decisive information from people around you, especially those who are close to you that will help you make decisions more easily. Prepare to speak the truth and hear the truth, no matter how unpleasant or unexpected it is. You will be more receptive to it, even when it's harsh or feel criticising, you will no longer react with hurt or too much sensitivity, because you can be detached enough to not let things go into your heart too deeply. It doesn't mean that you will be cold, on the contrary, you will be more compassionate and humble, that's the quiet power you will gain.

Unexpected events might happen around you that can alter the way you perceive the world. They might not even be related to you, you might just hear them from your friends or acquaintances, but they will open a new way of thinking for you. It's like waking up from a long slumber, you're jolted out of the sleepiness and wide awake, with a clearer mind. Don't be too alarmed if you have some arguments or debates with people, they will be great opportunities for you to sharpen your mind and exercise objective judgement. People might remark that you seem much more lively, much more assertive than before. It's just the beginning, you're slowly waking up to yourself, prioritising the vitality and jollity of your life.

TIGER'S EYE

I see fluid movements, gentle and expanding, like a person dancing. The energy inside your heart will uncoil itself and spread out gracefully. A more gentle melody will be playing for you.

This upcoming period of your life will be much more simple and straightforward. You won't concern yourself with complicated matters, heartaches or imminent catastrophes. Your focus will be on finding peace, be in it and keep enjoying life as much as possible. The energy is very soft and playful. And that's how you will overcome any hardships lurking around.

What might have plagued your mind recently won't be so as you adopt a more carefree and spontaneous attitude. You know that nothing lasts forever, so you enjoy every moment yet also don't hold on tightly to any. The heavy burdens will be lifted from your shoulders. You need this very much. Not everything has to be about being good, being proficient, being orderly, being responsible. You will still hold yourself highly with maturity, but you don't let life's obstacles put a hiccup in the great melody that you're playing. Social life and enjoyment of beauty will be a great focus of yours. Pleasant new connections will be formed, old connections will be strengthened.

You will find fulfilment in everyday activities. Giving and receiving will be very satisfying. You give and you will be given back in return. You will see the flow of life, the cycle of if and you will go along with it, not against it. You're active but in a quiet and accepting way. You don't need to be constantly moving, constantly striving. You let yourself rest and still, so that the working of nature can work its magic for you.

CITRINE

If you've been busy lately, having lots of things and people to take care of, or you've been feeling depleted lately, lacking the time and energy to have fun and pamper yourself, then it's about to change. You will have time to retreat into yourself, stay away from the draining influences around you for a while and have time to recenter yourself. You've been working hard, it's time to tuck yourself in cosily, have a rejuvenating rest and allow yourself to rest, to feel good.

Life will slow down for you, not the kind of no-progress slowing down, but the kind that lets you catch your breath. The fight is over, you don't need to exert yourself all the time. Now it's time to heed the call of your heart, pull away the worries and let your energy flow into where you're called to. I see a time of discovery, of opening a new perspective. You're about to get your mind opened wide and let in many new wonders.

If you're pulled to spirituality and the occult, trust that the more you dig deeper, the more free you will feel, the more clear the road is for you. You will get intuitive messages about where to go, what to do, those messages will likely come from the sensations of your body, the involuntary reactions, like a jump of excitement, heart beating fast full of anticipation. You might wonder why you feel a strange sensation out of nowhere, or called to try out new tastes, new scents, new activities. Don't hesitate, grab hold of that sensation and honor it, you might never know what promising future it could lead you to.

AVENTURINE

You will be blessed with wise insights that allow you to move forward cautiously and strategically. You might have the tendency to act from the place of fear, defending yourself against invisible threats that endanger your stability. This survivor mentality can't protect you from harm all the time. There will be times when you have to step outside of your comfort zone and be bold and adventure forth with blind eyes. But the good news is your heart won't be blind and so is your mind.

In the incoming period of time, you might have to face some untrustworthy words and actions that raise your doubt about the trust you placed on people. But your discernment will be wide awake during this time. This is the time of illusions shattering. You will hear clearly, see clearly and make your decisions based on facts and concrete proofs. Glibness won't be able to hide the truth from you. You stand firm in your stance and trust yourself more than ever. Your words hold wisdom and faith. You will be able to chase away trickery with humour and prudence.

In turn, you will be rewarded with pleasant surprises. More fun adventures await you at the most unexpected times. Your light will finally have the space to shine. Don't hesitate at breaking away from old habits. You know deep within that your heart has already set its sight on a farther horizon.

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antiiqueness · 2 days ago

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DANCE WITH ME

character: bakugou katsuki warnings: none i can think of, just kinda sad to sweet and very sentimental >.< words: 1.2k

synopsis:

”Years and years of Masaru begging his beloved son to listen and take interest in the things he did, before he eventually gave up. Katsuki didn’t even notice when exactly his father stopped asking him, wishing now more than ever he had listened. He wanted that outlet. He wanted to be able to find joy in tranquil activities. You made him want that.”

notes: i luv him so much i wanna die. i'm in the works for a spooky little AU for him as well as one for tomura so stay tuned for those im vv excited hehe

Growing up Katsuki's parents wanted him to be the best. To do everything. His mother wanted him to find art in more aggressive sports and hobbies. His father however, pushed for actual art. Masaru had a genuine joy for the peaceful and quiet, something of which he couldn’t enjoy as much as he’d wished for with the home he lived in. Nevertheless, in the seldom moments he had of quiet, he danced, and painted, and sat in the garden of their home, enjoying the moments he had to himself and his thoughts.

As a kid, Katsuki hated how his father would get in specific “moods” where he just wanted to be to himself and his thoughts. He never truly understood it growing up, until he met you. You were so alike to his father; wanting to sit and enjoy the peace you had in random little moments and increments. It was such a foreign concept to Katsuki.

He looked at you as if you were an anomaly. When the two of you had first begun dating, he just didn’t get it, who would want to be in areas of time where no one could sit and appreciate what you do. At least with volleyball, and boxing, and debate classes you earn respect for doing it and winning.

He would sit and watch you in seemingly your own world, planting flowers, or annotating classic literature and be brought back in time to when he was 12 years old seeing his dad sit in the garden reading the same exact book with a pencil in hand. Certain foods you would make, and specific songs you would play would remind him of his father and how much Katsuki truly missed him.

It was raining out the day he saw you swinging on the porch with a cup of tea and a book in hand, when he had called his dad. He wanted to understand it; he wanted that same peace the two of you seemed to hold so dearly. He wanted to bond over it.

As a kid his father wanted him to take ballroom dance classes, was adamant it would be a healthy outlet to learn to express himself and to get lost in. Mitsuki and Katsuki were not big on the idea though, brushing it off and pursing their interests that more often than not landed them or others in hospital beds.

Years and years of Masaru begging his beloved son to listen and take interest in the things he did, before he eventually gave up. Katsuki didn’t even notice when exactly his father stopped asking him, wishing now more than ever he had listened. He wanted that outlet. He wanted to be able to find joy in tranquil activities. You made him want that.

“I'm going to my parents for a bit, want me to grab anything on the way home?” Katsuki stood by the door of the backyard, looking out at the back of your head, you sitting silently in a chair, rocking back and forth. “No, I'm okay baby. Thank you.” quietly muttered as if it were a secret, you don’t turn around. He doesn't want you to. He just stands for a moment more before muttering a quick goodbye and closing the door.

The drive itself is weird. He doesn’t know if it’s age or if he was having an odd midlife crisis, but he doesn’t speak a word the entire drive, just quietly excelling forward.

When he arrives at the house he had grown up in, spent every memory of birthdays and holidays, where he learned to ride a bike, where he had his first tooth fall out, every memory lingering in the air around the house, he just stands at the door for a moment.

He doesn’t know what was different this time, but something was. Maybe himself. Maybe he had finally grown up. He was changed, and content with it.

His attention is only brought back to the present tense when the door opens, and he sees his father's brown eyes staring back at him. Katsuki doesn’t know what comes over him, but without saying a single word, he gently pushes his way into the house and grabs ahold of his father. He felt like a little kid all over again. He just wanted to hug and talk to his dad. He wanted to take those ballroom dance classes. He wanted to bond with him.

So that's what they did. Masaru was a man of few words most his life, keeping relatively quiet and to himself, but coming completely out of his shell with his son now. He had taught Katsuki everything he wanted to learn with a small smile and a joy Katsuki had never seen in his father.

By the end of the night Masaru had grabbed an old record and put it on the player, having classical music whirl throughout the house, before turning to Katsuki and teaching him how to dance. Mitsuki watched quietly, quieter than Katsuki had ever seen her, with a smile and tears gleaming her eyes, happy she could see her two favorite people bonding in ways she knew her husband had always wanted to with him.

Katsuki felt closer to them, he felt as though he had truly understood family finally. He drove home with a smile, a calm, content smile that had rarely graced his handsome face, cheerful all the way up the steps to the home he shared with you.

Opening the door, he knew his perspective had changed, knew that life was different, a good different, and that he was fortunate enough to share it with you. You had this lopsided smile on your face when you had seen him walk through the door, raising an eyebrow and walking closer to him, covered in little raindrops.

“I assume you had a good night at your parents’ place?” Helping him out of his jacket, you move to hang it on the rack before he stops you and interlaces his fingers with yours. “Let's dance.” he says simply, looking down at you with a look in his beautifully light eyes that gleamed and shone in enamor and affection.

“What?” you laughed, taken aback and smiling even bigger, “Yeah, I wanna dance with you.” Tossing his phone onto the counter, the same song his father played for him started to drift throughout his new home, the home he shared with you, the home in which he held dearest of all, simply because you existed in it. you were his home.

Grabbing ahold of you like his dad had shown him how to, he started to sway slowly, leaning his head against yours, and tightening his grip on your hips ever so lightly. He looked so odd, there was no anger, no irritation, no malice in his features whatsoever, just pure contentment. You wanted to live in this moment for the rest of the days you two had together, falling in love with him all over again.

Katsuki Bakugou was great at many things, but as he grew and matured, he became great at understanding life, and how much peace was truly worth, especially if it meant this is how he could spend the rest of his life with you.

#katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugou #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #katsuki x reader #bnha #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou smau #bakugou smut #katsuki bakugou smau #bnha x reader #mha #my hero #my hero academia #mha x reader

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piroulinewafers · 2 days ago

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HELLO FELLOW FREAK /affectionate :P i was wondering if u can do a fic w calebmc and guided masterbation...basically the readers inexperienced and its her first time and calebs had his fair share of experience maybe? KSJSKSJSJ hopefully my point gets through, idm u adding ur own elements to it, thank you have a lovely day<333

psssstttt i LOVE ur fics btw ♡

𝐚/𝐧: waaa hi fellow freak 😏 your brain is so big... i wasn't sure if you wanted something more specific, but i lowkey had so much fun writing this... when is it my turn for gege to teach me how to pleasure myself sigh.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: caleb x fem! inexperienced! reader 𝐜𝐰: smut, overstimulation. 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: open.

the regret was surely getting to her.

the second the words slipped past her lips, she wished she could chase them down and lock them away. her cheeks burned hot, her gaze fixed on the floor, unable to look at him.

caleb hadn’t said a word yet, but she could feel the weight of his stare— steady, unreadable and just a little amused.

she squirmed beneath it, twisting the hem of her shirt between her fingers. “i… i shouldn’t have told you anything. it was dumb,” she mumbled, voice barely over a whisper. “just forget i said anything.”

caleb didn’t move at first. he stood by the edge of her bed, one hand still resting on the waistband of his uniform slacks, the other braced on the doorframe. his dog tags shifted when he tilted his head, catching just a glint of light.

“you think i’m gonna forget you said somethin’ like that?” he asked, tone mild— teasing, but not unkind. there was a sparkle of something in his voice too. gentler. steadier.

she fidgeted more. she wished she could just disappear into the floorboards.

he finally stepped forward, closing the distance with quiet, even steps. “you’re nervous,” he said, not as a question, but as something already known. his voice lowered, soft but firm. “and you’re beating yourself up over it.”

he knew her too well. she gave a tiny nod, still not meeting his eyes.

caleb stopped in front of her and gently tilted her chin up with two fingers. his touch was light, careful— like he was afraid of pushing too hard and making her retreat, despite wanting to do so badly.

“i still shouldn’t’ve said anything— i sounded pathetic, i just— “

caleb cut her off with a look. gentle, but firm enough to close her mouth without another word, brows drawing to a furrow.

the mattress dipped as he moved to sit on the bed, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his uniform jacket. he reached for her, slow and easy, guiding her to sit between his legs like it was the most natural thing in the word. his. hands found her hips, warm through the fabric, thumbs brushing her waist as he leaned in close enough that she could feel his breath at her temple.

“you don’t sound pathetic, just honest. i’m glad you told me.”

her shirt wrinkled beneath his fingertips as he toyed with the hem, almost absentminded. the silence was thick, the space between them warmer than it should’ve been.

“you’re nervous still,” he murmured, caleb murmured, lips brushing just behind her ear. “but i can smell you, pips.”

her breath hitched.

“i could teach you, you know,” he added, voice soft like he was making an offer, not a demand. “show you how good it can feel… if you’d let me. i can’t believe my meimei’s never properly learned how to make herself cum… it’s cute.”

caleb leaned back just a little, enough to look down at her, framed between his legs like she’d always belonged there.

the creases in his uniform pants were sharp and pressed perfect, every line rigid and clean where hers were soft and uncertain. his tie was still knotted, though a little loosened now, collar open just enough to let her see the bronze of his throat.

he traced a slow circle on her thigh with one hand, the other resting firm at her waist. not moving further, just… holding.

“y’know,” he said, voice low and thoughtful. “it makes me a little mad.”

her eyes flickered to his, wide and unsure. “what does?”

“that no one ever took the time,” he murmured. “to show you. that you’ve been tryin’ to figure it out all by yourself, feelin’ like you’re broken or something just ‘cause you couldn’t get there.”

she lowered her gaze, shame prickling up her neck, but his fingers tightened gently— just enough to keep her grounded.

“i don’t like that,” he added. “hate thinkin’ of you feeling that way.”

but then, his mouth curved into something quieter. something warmer.

“still,” he said, almost to himself. “part of me is glad.”

“glad?” she blinked, parroting his words adorably.

caleb nodded slowly, like he was chewing on the words before saying them out loud. “means no one else got there first. means you’re still all soft and untouched in all the ways that matter.”

he let that sit in the air for a moment, thumbing the hem of her skirt again, this time with a little more purpose, his voice dipping lower. “it means i get to be the one who show you and teach you how to make yourself feel good. the right way. won’t you let your gege help?”

and maybe he shouldn’t enjoy that thought as much as he did, shouldn’t feel that selfish little swell of pride in his chest— but he did. because she was his, even if she didn’t know it yet. and if she was going to learn anything about herself, about her body… it’d be from him. only him.

caleb’s thumb brushed against the delicate skin of her inner thigh, his hand warm, even through the fabric of her shirt as he pressed again her back. she could feel the strength in his fingers, the calluses that spoke of a life spent in service and discipline. it was a touch that promised both control and comfort and she ocouldn’t help but lean into it, craving more of that intoxicating mix.

“you’re overthinking again,” caleb murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her chest. his other hand slid up her spine, the heat of his palm seeping into her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “stop trying to analyze everything to death. just… feel.”

his fingers tapped at her thigh. “i know you’re curious, pips. i can practically hear the questions spinning in that clever head of yours. so what are you thinking?” his words were muffled.

the heat of his breath fanned against her jaw, making her eyelids flutter. she let out a shaky breath. “i’m thinking a lot of stuff…”

caleb’s voice was low and patient, almost brotherly in its gentle guidance. “here, let me show you,” he murmured, taking her hand and guiding it to the soft swell of her breast. he encouraged her fingers to knead the supple flesh, shaping and squeezing in a way that made her breath catch. “like this, don’t be shy now.”

his other hand trailed slowly down her body, calloused fingertips skimming over her stomach, her hip, before reaching the hem of her skirt.

with a deft motion, he bunched the fabric in his fist and tugged it upwards, exposing more of her thighs to the cool air.

“spread your legs for me, pips,” caleb coaxed softly, his voice a low rumble that sent warmth unfurling in her belly. his thumb pressed against the centre of her panties, right where she was already slick and aching.

the friction made her gasp, her hips twitching forward involuntarily. “caleb,” she breathed out, his name falling from her lips like a plea. her chest heaved with each shaky inhale, nipples straining against the thin fabric of her shirt. the sensation of his touch, so intimate and new , set her nerves alight with anticipation.

he rubbed slow circles over her clothed slit, feeling the heat of her even through the barrier of her underwear. “shh, i’ve got you,” he soothed, thumbing her clit with a maddeningly gentle pressure that made her toes curl.

her hand moved from her breast, but caleb was quick to use his free hand to grasp her wrist, watching the way it twitched and squirmed under his touch.

“ah ah, i didn’t tell you to move it, did i?” caleb hummed out, leading to a faint pout to settle on her lips.

beneath her panties, she could feel her clit swelling, the delicate flesh throbbing with a desperate ache. caleb’s touch, his guidance, the low timbre of his voice urging her own… it was all too much and not enough, all at once.

caleb’s fingers slipped beneath the fabric of her panties, brushing against her sensitive folds. he could feel the slick heat of her arousal, the way her body trembled under his touch. his thumb easily found her clit, circling the sensitive nub with a maddeningly gentle pressure that made her arch her back against him.

“mm, you’re not shaved down here,” caleb murmured, his voice a low rumble in her ear. “all prickly and untouched…”

he could feel her squirm with a sudden shyness, trying to clamp her thighs together. “caleb, don’t…” she protested weakly, embarrassed by his intimate discovery. this was already quite embarrassing as is, having her childhood friend see her like this, and now…

but caleb was having none of it. his strong arms pinned her in place, holding her hips steady as he pressed firmly against her back, chin practically propped against her shoulder.

“hey, hey… none of that, pips,” he soothed, his voice gentling. “it’s cute, really. i like getting to see you all bare, so natural. ”

to punctuate his words, caleb rubbed her clit a little harder, a little faster. his fingers dipped lower, teasing along her slit. “i like it,” he declared again, as if that settled the matter. “it’s perfect on you.”

she whimpered, her hips twitching as she fought to urge to grind against his hand. caleb’s touch was electrifying, setting her nerves on fire until she thought she might combust. she could feel every inch of herself, from the aching swell of her breasts to the throbbing heat between her thighs, and it was all because of him.

“caleb…” she gasped out again, her voice high and breathy. her fingers moved up, digging into the soft flesh of her breast, kneading and squeezing just like he’d shown her. the sensation of her own touch, combined with his, was almost too much to bear.

caleb’s fingers stilled for a moment, and he looked at her with a quirked brow. “tell me something, pips,” he murmured. “ have you ever fingered yourself before? i’m curious.”

she immediately burned red, shaking her head and trying to hide her face away from him as best as she could, but with him sitting behind her, there was little she could do.

“when i put my fingers in, it’d just feels like… i don’t know. weird. not in a bad or good way.”

caleb chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest as he processed her shy confession. “wait… you’ve never actually done it properly, have you, pips?” he teased, eyes sparkling with amusement. “you just stuck a finger in there and wiggled it around until it felt weird?”

she scowled at him, brows furrowing as she pouted. “well, yeah… i mean, it did feel strange!” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “it’s not the same as when i see it in porn…” she blushed hard, realizing her admittance.

it was strange. caleb and her had known each other since they were kids, practically siblings, so all of this… it was foreign and a bit embarrassing.

caleb’s eyes widened slightly, a hint of surprise flashing through them before his expression settled into a more thoughtful one. “you shouldn’t try to compare everything to porn you know.” he let out a huff, almost sounding a little jealous. “you should have just asked your gege for help with this stuff.i could’ve shown you how to make yourself feel good ages ago.”

without waiting for a response, he slowly, steadily, eased a finger inside of her, groaning softly at the way her walls clenched around the thick digit.

“fuck, pips… you’re so tight,” he grunted out, pumping his finger in and out of her virgin hole. “no wonder it feels strange for you. your little cunny is gripping my finger like a vice.”

she moaned softly, hyper-sensitive from his teasing and his fiery-hot touch, a needy breathy sound. she pouted at his language, flustered and overwhelmed. “don’t… don’t call it that…”

he curled his finger slightly inside, brushing against a spot that made her feel stars. “shh, don’t pout,” caleb cooed, his thumb coming up to rub soothing circles on her lower belly. “i know its a lot to take in. the feeling of being touched like this… it’s overwhelming at first.” he gently pushed in a second fingers, stroking her insides in a way that had her toes curling and her breath coming out in sharp pants.

caleb watched her face intently, eyes roaming over her features, noting the way her nose scrunched up and her eyes were shut. “tell me, pips,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp. “has it ever felt this good when you helplessly rubbed your little clit all by your lonesome?” his fingers pumped steadily, curling and stroking along her walls in a way that made her thighs quiver.

she quickly shook her head, strands of hair swept across her forehead as she whimpered out. “n-no… it’s never felt like this before, gege…” her voice was breathy and high, straining with the intensity of the new sensations coursing through her.

caleb could feel her body tensing, her walls starting to flutter and clench around his invading fingers. he could sense her impending release, could feel the way her little cunt was already starting to spasm and tighten. his eyes darkened with lust as he watched her teeter on the brink of climax.

“that’s it, pips… just like that,” caleb encouraged, his thumb rubbing firm circles over her swollen, throbbing clit. “don’t fight it. let yourself feel this, let yourself cum for me…”

he knew he was supposed to only be helping her, and yet, he couldn’t help himself from inserting himself in the narrative to ensure she at least vaguely understood that he was the only one who could make her feel this way. she was his, forever and always and he had no plans on letting anyone touch— let alone see— her in this state aside from him.

with a sharp cry, she came undone, body convulsing as her very first real orgasm crashed over her. her inner walls clamped down round caleb’s fingers, gripping them like a silken vice as wave after wave of pleasure washed through her.

caleb couldn’t help but groan, feeling the way her cunt spasmed and quivered, dripping with her premature release.

“fuck, pips…. you cum so easily,” he growled, a hint of pride and possessiveness in his voice. he kept stroking her through her orgasm, fingers pumping steadily as he worked a third digit into her fluttering hole. “such a good girl, summing so hard and fast for your gege…”

she could only whimper and mewl, her body writhing beneath his touch as the intense pleasure consumed her. she’d never felt anything like this before, never known her body could feel this way.

her whole bottom was buzzing as caleb continued, her hands clumsily moving to push at his, but he paid no heed to her feeble attempts, easily overpowering her weakened efforts as his fingers kept pumping steadily.

“shh, shh, don’t fight it, pips,” he chided, voice a low rumble. “you can’t be humming already… so fast and sloppy, drenchin’ my fingers like this.”

he held her hips down, with his free hand, pressing it firmly where her hips and thighs met. her slick, swollen walls were so sensitive, still fluttering from the aftershocks of her climax. each thrust of caleb’s fingers sent bolts of electric pleasure shooting up her spine, making her writhe and whine helplessly.

“gege… please…” she gasped between ragged breaths, face flushed and eyes glazed. “it’s too much… too much… ahh!” her protests turned into a sharp cry as he increased his pace.

“too much? or not enough?” caleb countered, practically feeling her juices dripping down his fingers, her arousal making obscene squelching noises as he fingered her overstimulated hole. her panties, of which he had elected not to take off, were drenched, a very obvious damp spot against him that soaked into the sheets beneath them.

“look at the mess you’re making, pips,” caleb taunted, holding her chin and forcing her to meet his heated gaze. “squirtin’ all over the place, humming before i even got my fingers all the way inside…i swear, you’re going to be the death of me.

despite his words, there was clear pride in his voice, knowing he could reduce her to such a desperate dripping state. she was all his.

caleb’s fingers never slowed, never stopping their merciless pumping. he could feel her second climax building, body tensing and tightening as she hurtled towards the edge once more.

“that’s it, give me another one,” he commanded insistently. “show your gege what a needy little thing you are, humming over and over again on his fingers.” caleb punctuated his words by burying his fingers as deep as they could go, grinding against that spongey spot that he knew would make her completely collapse in his arms.

her lips parts in a. silent scream of pure ecstasy tore from her throat, her limbs trembling and chest heaving as she came again. finally, only then, did caleb retract her fingers, noting the way the evidence of her arousal clung to them in a sticky mess.

“good girl,” caleb praised, a rare softness entering his voice as he took in her utterly debauched state leaning against him. he gentled his touch, bringing his fingers to his lips and making a show of licking her essence from his digits.

“delicious,” he purred, holding her gaze. it only made her scrunch her nose up in faint disgust, a huffy sound leaving her.

too tired and sated to argue, a blissful smile played at the corners of her lips. she leaned heavily against him, small frame molding to his larger one like it was meant to be there. tilting her head back, she pressed a sloppy open mouthed kiss to his jaw, a muffled “thank you” whispering past her lips.

“you always take care of me…” she whispered, her voice barely a sound, fragile and full of trust.

“i always will,” caleb replied without hesitation, tilting his head to press a kiss to her temple. he shifted them both just enough to lay her back against the pillows, guiding her head to rest over his heart. he was still dress in his uniform, the material stiff at the this rate and vaguely damp with her body sweat. caleb ran his fingers slowly through her hair, brushing it away from her face with a tenderness that made her sigh.

“you’re too good…” she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut. “don’t deserve you.”

that made him huff, something low and amused, but he didn’t let it slide. “no,” he said softly, tipping her chin up so she’d look at him in her bleary, sleepy state. “you deserve everything.”

she looked up at him through her lashed, tired, but so, so content.

caleb watched her like she was the only thing that mattered. and maybe she was. he stroked his thumb over her cheek, then leaned down to kiss her forehead— slow, warm, reverent.

she was already half-asleep against his chest, her breath warm and steady through the thin fabric of his jacket. her fingers twitched faintly where they rested on his stomach, like even in sleep, she was still clinging to him.

caleb’s arms stayed wrapped around her, firm but gentle, his thumb tracing idle patterns against the curve of her spine. he could feel the faint flutter of her heartbeat through her back. slower now, relaxed. safe.

she trusted him. with this. with herself. that thought alone made his throat tighten.

she’d never been touched like that before and it had shown in every flinch, every shy glance, every nervous little laugh and embarrassed pout. she’d let him guide her, let him take care of her, let him love her all the way through it.

he knew it wasn’t fair. knew it was selfish. but as he held her, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest, caleb found himself clinging to the one truth he couldn’t shake.

he wanted to ruin it. all of it.

ruin sex. ruin pleasure. ruin any touch that didn’t come from him.

not necessarily out of cruelty, but out of love. a possessive, protective kind of love that rooted itself in the deepest parts of him. he wanted her to forget anyone else had ever existed before him. wanted her to only feel this full, this safe, this undone, this good— with him.

if he could rewrite the way she saw herself— teach her what it truly meant to be adored, desired, cherished— then he’d do it a hundred times over.

only him. only ever him.

she stirred slightly, sighing gin her sleep and caleb leaned down to press a kiss into her hair.

she didn’t know it yet. but she was his forever.

and he’d make sure she never wanted it any other way.

#caleb x reader #love and deepspace #caleb lads #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x mc #caleb x you #xia yizhou #caleb x fem reader #🍪 reqs #caleb x y/n #caleb smut #lads caleb #love and deep space #calebmc #lads #lads smut #cw smut #cw overstim

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lexalith · 3 days ago

Text

HIDDEN pt.2 || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)

summary: this is part 2 of my original fic HIDDEN. you should read that one first or you’re gonna be very confused!

warnings/this story contains: female reader, age gap (reader is 24 now, seunghyun’s 37) unresolved tension, mutual pining and emotional damage, reader’s life being absolute trash (?), seunghyun and the reader being very anxious people. angst (jealousy, heartbreak, guilt, shame, regret, self loathing, not being able to let go but also not being able to stay. timing never being right and love not being enough like alwayssss, i’m sorry) personal growth, forgiveness, closure, and a tiny little bitty bit of fluff if you squint your eyes very, very hard (lmao).

a/n: i never planned on writing a part two, but here we are! thank you so much for the endless support and for looking forward to this <3 as always, english isn’t my first language! seunghyun’s texts are in blue, reader’s texts are in orange. reader’s dialogue is in bold.

songs: champagne coast — blood orange (yes, again, because this is their song. i’m making it canon) ll all i wanted — paramore || lovers — anna of the north || all too well (10 minute version) — taylor swift

it’s been nine months since the breakup, and your life couldn’t be more different than it was—if someone took a polaroid of you now and held it next to the girl who packed her bags for seoul with stars in her eyes, you’re not sure you’d even recognize her. you’re back in brownsville, no longer coordinating payload systems at starbase—because, well, turns out when your year-long secret relationship becomes very suddenly not so secret, someone decided having you around was more trouble than it was worth. after they cut you off—citing professionalism and image and propriety—you didn’t really have a plan.

you spent a month unemployed, half-heartedly scrolling through job listings you didn’t want while lying facedown on the couch, alternating between waves of quiet panic and nausea that came every time you accidentally thought about seunghyun for more than five seconds. it was still raw then—the kind of heartbreak that didn’t just ache but physically made you feel sick, like your body was rejecting the entire experience. everything reminded you of him, and you hated it—how you could go from brushing your teeth to fully sobbing in the span of a minute because some memory had snuck in through the cracks, as if your own mind was determined to torture you for ever letting someone get that close.

and eventually, when your savings account started looking like a damn joke, you took the first job you could find—bartending at a small spot downtown. it’s not what you studied for. it’s not even remotely what you imagined doing when you walked across that graduation stage in your too-tight heels and got your aerospace degree handed to you… but it’s steady. you’ve memorized the orders of the regulars, learned how to hold your tongue when men call you sweetheart like it’s your god-given name or snap their fingers and whistle like you’re a fucking dog, and you’ve gotten really good at pretending you’re okay—smiling through it. your shoes are always sticky by the end of the night, your clothes reek of grease and cheap vodka no matter how many times you wash them, and there’s a tiny scar on your wrist from a shattered pint glass that slipped mid-shift during a friday rush. but hey… at least the tips are decent.

you’ve also been… seeing someone. the guy your friends had been annoyingly pushing for months (back when you were still secretly dating seunghyun and pretending to consider it just to shut them up). he’s your age, works in construction and is very nice, which sounds like a shitty compliment, but it’s not. you’ve been seeing him for about two months now—hanging out and hooking up. you like him. really, you do… a little bit. but every now and then you catch yourself comparing the way he holds your face to the way someone else used to, and you have to blink it away before it sinks too deep. he doesn’t know about seunghyun, of course. not the real version of it, anyway. just that there was someone before, someone who hurt you. and you appreciate his patience—he gives you space when you need it and doesn’t ask too many questions. and, well, he eats your pussy good, so. there’s that too. sometimes that’s enough to shut your brain up for a bit, enough to make you forget the ache that still sits in your chest like a bruise that never really healed. even though you know it’s not fair. and you wonder, sometimes, if this guy’s waiting for you to fall in love with him and has no idea that you’re still scraping someone else’s fingerprints off your skin.

but the most significant thing—the one that still sits in your stomach like a rock you can’t digest—is that you found out. you finally know. it was her. your mother. you didn’t even get it from her directly. you found it by accident—buried in an old email. you weren’t snooping—just printing a return label for something, waiting for the slow-ass printer to wake up—when your eyes caught the subject line: re: media contact – confidential inquiry. and you clicked it. you scrolled through every line with a growing sense of horror. you confronted her that same night. you didn’t plan it, didn’t rehearse what you were going to say—you just walked into the kitchen, heart pounding, and said, “how long were you planning on hiding the fact that you’re the one who leaked it?” she didn’t even deny it. just looked at you, quiet for a second, then said, “i did what i had to do.” “you had to?!” your voice broke, equal parts disbelief and fury. “you had to sabotage my entire fucking relationship?!” “he was taking advantage of you,” she said flatly. “what the fuck? what the—what the fuck is wrong with you?! you had no right to interfere like that! none!” “you think i didn’t see what he was doing? he was grooming you—” “don’t you dare use that word,” you spat, stepping forward. “don’t you fucking dare put it like that just because you needed a reason to feel better about what you did! i was twenty-two, not sixteen!” “i don’t care! he’s thirteen years older than you, and you—” “he wasn’t using me! i knew what i was doing—” “no!” she pointed at you, jabbing the air, furious and breathless, “you were just following him around like some starstruck idiot, lying to me, running away from your job, from your family—” “oh my god, shut the fuck up!” you snapped, tears hot in your eyes. “shut the fuck up! i was in love! and you fucking ruined it!”

you don’t remember much after that—just fragments. you remember your mother shouting something about protection, about how she couldn’t stand by and watch you throw your future away over a man who was never going to give you anything real. you remember knocking over a stack of books, slamming a drawer so hard it bounced back open, dragging your suitcase out of the closet with shaking hands and yanking things off hangers without looking. she cried, kept repeating that she didn’t mean to hurt you, that she was scared, that she thought she was doing what was best. but you didn’t care. you were too angry and too fucking tired of being treated like you didn’t know your own mind. you haven’t spoken to her since. you don’t know if you ever will. because it turns out there’s heartbreak that comes from losing a lover, and then there’s heartbreak that comes from realizing the person who raised you is the reason you lost them. and now it’s too late to take any of it back.

you’ve been crashing with one of your friends for the past three weeks—sleeping on a futon that creaks every time you turn over and makes your back ache by morning. you didn’t really know where else to go. your job barely covers groceries—forget rent, forget deposits, forget the fantasy of having a space that’s actually yours. so now you’re here, trying not to be a burden, trying not to cry into your friend’s couch cushions at night because she’s doing you a favor, and you already feel like a walking pity case. sometimes you lie there and think about how you used to fall asleep in a king-sized bed with high thread count sheets and a man who kissed your shoulders before falling asleep with his hand in yours, and now you’re in someone else’s place, listening to the hum of a fridge that never stops running—feeling lonelier than you ever have in your entire life.

you thought life would’ve gotten better by now, but you spend the nights crying instead—staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. you cry because nothing feels right, because everything feels too hard, because you lost your job, your relationship, your home, your sense of direction—and even though you keep telling yourself you’re only twenty-four, that there’s time to figure it out, some nights it just feels like you’re stuck in and endless pain loop. no one warned you adulthood would feel like this.

you’re alone that night. your friend’s covering a night shift, the apartment is quiet, and your body feels like it’s made of wet tissue—fragile and bloated and cursed with every symptom imaginable, because the universe decided you needed your period on top of everything else. the cramps are brutal, your back hurts, your tits ache, and the fucking futon now has a suspicious little stain that you know you’ll have to scrub later. you’ve been crying (again!) and your throat is raw from it, your eyes puffy, your nose sore from wiping it too hard with paper towels. you feel pathetic. like genuinely, award-winning levels of pathetic. and maybe that’s what finally does it. you reach for your phone with hands that are slightly shaky, not because you’re nervous, but because you’re just so damn tired. of yourself, mostly. and maybe the universe too. your fingers open his old messages. you used to do this sometimes—type things you needed to get off your chest. but you never sent them because seeing your words in that annoying green bubble would be worse than anything else. it would remind you that yes, he blocked you. yes, he’s still gone. yes, this is over, and it’s been over. move the fuck on already, girl. so, following your little tradition, you type:

it was my fucking mom this whole time. she’s the one who leaked everything. i found out like three weeks ago, and i still haven’t processed it. i wish you knew. i wish i could make you know so you wouldn’t go on living your life thinking i betrayed you or whatever tf you decided to believe instead of trusting me. but anyway. talk about trust issues now, bc honestly, idk how i’m ever supposed to trust anyone again!🥰 love this for meeeee omg!😍😍 i shouldn’t have told her i was moving to seoul. i should’ve just disappeared from her fucking life and been happy with you and what we had. but no. because life can’t be that easy for me, right? no. life has to be a fucking bitch in every possible way. i’m so fucking tired.

your fingers hover over the delete button as you cry profusely after typing that paragraph—eyes blurry, throat tight, the screen glowing too bright in the dark room. and maybe it’s the hormones, or the sleep deprivation, but something inside you hits send. because why the fuck does it matter? he’s not gonna read it, he’s got you blocked. but the second you see the message go blue—you freeze. your stomach drops and you stare at your phone like it’s just slapped you across the face. he unblocked you. wait—what? since when? you shoot up like you’ve just been electrocuted, eyes wide as the full horror of what just happened sinks in. “what the fuck! what the fuck! shit, shit, shit—” you whisper to no one, pacing the tiny apartment. so much for crying in your period-stained pajamas—turns out all it takes to yank you out of a full-blown breakdown is the absolute fucking horror of realizing you just sent a long-ass vent session straight to the one person on this planet you were least fucking ready to talk to. congrats, girl! you keep outdoing yourself! “oh my—fuck! fuck, fuck, fuck! oh, god. oh my god,” you keep mumbling. when the fuck did he unblock you?! and why the hell didn’t you check?! your heart is in your throat, pulse hammering so fast it makes your vision blur for a second. you swipe back to the chat like maybe you hallucinated the whole thing. maybe the app glitched. but no. and before you can delete it, there it is—read. “huh?!” you stop in your tracks, frozen in the middle of the room. your mouth falls open. your lungs forget how to work. your entire body goes cold and then hot, and then cold again. “no. no no no no no no—fuck!”

you groan into your hands and sink down onto the futon. your palms are damp with sweat and your brain’s screaming. the message is sent. he’s seen it. and no matter how much you want to crawl inside your phone and delete it—there’s nothing left to do but sit in the aftermath. so you do. you sit, legs curled beneath you, staring at your phone screen. you check the time—3:41 a.m. in texas. in seoul, it’s late afternoon. you decide to leave your phone face up on the floor next to you and try to pretend you’re not watching it from the corner of your eye like it’s about to perform a fucking magic trick. every time it lights up, your heart jumps—once it’s duolingo, passive-aggressively reminding you for the hundredth time that you haven’t finished your korean lessons (well… thank you for the reminder, motherfucker!). and another time it’s your period tracker app asking if you’re feeling moody lately. no shit! you lurch forward every time, breath catching in your throat, only to get sucker-punched by disappointment again and again. and still, no reply. you try to sleep, not because you think it’ll work, but because it’s the only other option. but lying down just makes it worse—your thoughts are louder. you flip your pillow, then flip it again. the sheets are damp with sweat, your legs restless, your hands twitching toward your phone like it’s calling to you. you wait for hours… he never replies.

and by the time the sun comes up, you’ve barely slept at all. your eyes sting, your mouth is dry, and you’ve gone full zombie-mode by the time your shift rolls around. you survive your shift at the bar by sheer muscle memory, making drinks, taking orders and smiling through clenched teeth. and when it ends, your body aches like it’s been rolled through the pavement. you go home—your friend’s home—after midnight, feet aching, back sore, and stomach hollow from skipping dinner because the thought of eating made you feel sick. the place is dark when you walk in. she’s probably already asleep, and you tiptoe into the kitchen to grab a glass of water before collapsing on the futon. you check your phone—still nothing. and that’s it. that’s the end of the story. why would it end any other way? of course he’s not going to reply. you should’ve never sent that fucking text. you should’ve stuck to your sad little ritual of typing and deleting and pretending you had closure. because this? this is embarrassing.

you toss your phone onto the floor like maybe breaking it will break the shame too, and flop onto your side dramatically… and then it buzzes. you’ve never gotten up so fast—hands scrambling for the phone. you swipe, thumbs clumsy with nerves because holy shit, there’s a notification from him. but somehow you manage to open the message.

Can I call you?

you stare at the screen. your pulse is pounding loud in your ears, and for a second you’re genuinely not sure if you’re going to throw up or pass out. your entire body is shaking and your blood has drained out of your face. you can feel it. you’re cold and clammy all over, heart thudding like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest. you try to breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth—before typing:

yeah, okay

your phone starts ringing a second later—like he’d been waiting. and the sound of it, his name lighting up your screen again after all these months, knocks something loose in your chest. the apartment is quiet—just the creak of the floor beneath your feet as you cross over to the sliding door that leads to the balcony. you slide it open as quietly as you can, since you don’t want to wake your friend, and step outside. it’s darker than you expected, the only light coming from the streetlamps below and the faint orange glow of someone’s window across the way. the balcony chair creaks under your weight as you sink into it, the metal cold against your bare thighs. your breathing’s all uneven now—short little gasps like you just finished running, though you haven’t moved more than ten feet—and you can’t stop staring at the screen. you swipe to answer. for a few seconds, there’s nothing. only silence. then, finally, a voice. “hi.” you grip the phone tighter, trying to stop your hands from shaking. “hi,” you say back. and then silence again. you can’t tell if it’s awkward or loaded or both.

you shift in the chair, curling one leg up underneath you. “how are you?” he asks. oh lord. he was literally fucking you raw less than a year ago… and now he’s making small talk. stop this madness. “i—i’m good,” you say, lying through your teeth, obviously. you clear your throat. “you?” “fine,” he says after a beat, but he sounds anything but—tired, like something in his chest’s been weighing him down. and then another pause, before he finally says, “i read your message.” “yeah… i know. i mean—i saw.” you chew the inside of your cheek, fingers picking at the hem of your sleeve. “was it really her?” you nod before realizing he can’t see you. “yeah. it was.” he doesn’t say anything, so you keep going, just to fill the space. “i saw… an email she sent. and we—we fought. bad. i left the same day and i… i haven’t been back since.” “you—where are you staying?” he asks, and you hear something in his voice, concern. “friend’s house.” you try to make it sound casual. he goes quiet again, and for a second, all you can hear is the low static hum of the call. you bite your bottom lip before blurting, “i didn’t know you’d unblocked me.” “yeah. i did like a month ago, i think.” you hum. you want to ask why, but you don’t. because the call already feels like a glass balancing on the edge of a table, and you don’t want to make it more awkward than it already is. and besides, you know you wouldn’t get the answer you want. if he wanted to talk, he would’ve. if he missed you, if he regretted it, if any part of him wanted to reach out… he would’ve. and he didn’t. so you swallow that sharp little ache, ignore the part of you that still wants to believe in something softer, and you say, “i’m sorry for sending that, by the way. i was… i don’t know. not in a great headspace yesterday.” “don’t apologize,” he says. “i’m glad you told me.” “you deserved to know.” “mmh.” the silence stretches for another second before he says, “thank you.”

the quiet that follows is soft, almost gentle. for a second you think that’s it—you can almost feel one of you hovering over the red button, and you know you should probably let it happen, let it end on something simple and clean. but you don’t want to hang up yet. so, instead, you do what you always do when your nerves start to buzz—you talk. “i’ve typed stuff before. like—messages. to you.” oh my god… shut up! shut up! why the fuck are you saying this? you want to swallow the words back down immediately but nope—your mouth keeps going. “i never sent them but… i don’t know. i wasn’t even supposed to send you that one last night—i don’t know why i did.” you press a hand to your forehead, silently screaming. “anyway i—yeah. sorry. i should just… shut up.” there’s a pause on the other end, heavy enough to make your fingers twitch against your leg. you expect him to change the subject or maybe just hang up altogether, and for a second you even brace yourself for the sound of the line going dead. but then he says, “what kind of stuff?” you blink, eyes still fixed on the quiet street below, unsure you heard him right. “what?” “the messages,” he answers, and his voice is a little quieter now, like he’s not sure if he should be asking. “what were they about?” you’re caught so off guard that you let out this small, breathless laugh that doesn’t hold any humor at all. “seriously?” you ask, more to yourself than to him. you rub a hand over your face. “i don’t know, just… random things about my life. like my day, what i was doing… sometimes just things i wish i could say to you but knew i couldn’t. i don’t know.” you trail off, embarrassed, already regretting every word spilling out of your mouth. “you can tell me now,” he says. you blink, heart stumbling a little in your chest, because you don’t know what you were expecting him to say—but it definitely wasn’t that. your fingers tighten around the phone again. “you… want me to tell you?” “i do.” you hesitate. not because you don’t have things to say—god, you’ve got too many—but because you don’t know what version of your life he’s expecting. probably not the one you’re living. “i didn’t think you’d care,” you admit quietly. “i care—of course i care.” oh… you close your eyes, press your palm to your chest and you can feel how fast your heart is beating. you force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “i’m bartending now.” you immediately want to cringe, because wow, what an opener. “they fired me from starbase. so… yeah. but it’s okay, this job isn’t so bad… i mean—it’s not good either, but it pays.” he hums, a soft sound of acknowledgement, like he’s listening. “and, like i told you, i’m living with a friend. after—after everything that happened with my mom… i couldn’t stay. so, yeah.”

something about saying all of that out loud—narrating your life to someone who once knew it better than anyone else—makes your bottom lip tremble before you can stop it. this tiny traitorous movement that you feel more than see, like the last thread of control slipping quietly from your hands. you swallow hard. try to hold it together and sound normal. “but i’m, um… i’m looking for a place,” you add, voice higher now, too fast. “something small for myself.” you don’t mention that your bank account laughs at you every time you open the app, or that you fall asleep on a futon in the corner of your friend’s tiny apartment, feeling like a burden. you don’t say any of that, because it’s pathetic. but the tears come anyway, completely against your will. not just because of your mom or your job or your life crumbling in pieces so small you can’t even name them—but because you’re talking to him. and everything about this feels so impossibly far from what you used to be. the way you speak to each other now, like strangers, it’s breaking you open in places you didn’t know were still sore. you try to sniff it away, wipe your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, but it’s useless. “are you…” his voice cuts through the line. “are you crying?” “no.” you suck in a breath. “i mean—yes. yes, i am. it’s just—i don’t know.” the tears are falling faster now, and your throat is thick with everything you’ve been trying so hard not to feel for the last nine months. you sniff, drag the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your nose, and bite out, “why’d you even call me, seunghyun? seriously. what was the point?” “i wanted to apologize.” he pauses. “i—i’m sorry. i should’ve trusted you, i should’ve listened. i was just… angry. and scared.” you exhale through your nose, trying to steady the shaking in your chest. “it’s okay,” you say quietly, even though part of you wants to tell him it’s not.

he doesn’t reply right away, and for a second you think the call might be really ending this time—that this was all he needed to say, a final stitch to close the wound and move on. but then—“i missed your voice.” your breath catches, and you don’t know what to say to that. because it hurts. it hurts so fucking much to hear it. “you hurt me, seunghyun,” you whisper. “i know,” he says, voice breaking. “i know i did, baby—shit. sorry. fuck, i—i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to call you that.” you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your knuckles to your lips like it’ll stop the sting. “don’t. don’t do that.” “i didn’t mean to—” “no, you don’t get to do that,” you cut in, sharper this time, words tumbling out fast. “this isn’t fair,” you say, and now your voice really starts to shake. “you’re not—you’re not being fair, seunghyun.” “listen—“ “no, i don’t wanna fucking listen!” you raise your voice, frustration spilling out faster than you can rein it in. “sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry. i—i didn’t mean to speak to you like that.” “i know,” he whispers. “but i understand. i deserve it.” “no, you—i just… it’s a lot. and hearing your voice like this again—fuck, i don’t know.” he doesn’t say anything, and you’re not even sure if that’s a good or bad thing, so you keep going before you lose your nerve. “you shouldn’t have unblocked me. you should’ve just left it the way it was,” you continue, sobbing between words. “what—” “i was doing okay,” you lie, even though you both know you weren’t. “or at least, i was trying. and then you—you do this, and now i feel like—i feel like i’m right back where i started.” he’s silent again, and it drives you fucking insane—how he always does this, lets the silence do the work for him, like it’s your job to fill in the blanks. “you can’t just show up in my life when you feel like it. that’s not how this works. you don’t get to block me, forget about me, go on with your life, and then crawl back into mine just because you’re curious or lonely or whatever the fuck this is.” your breath is shallow now, chest rising and falling fast. “i can’t do this, seunghyun. i can’t—” you cry. “so do it again. block me. because if you don’t… i will.”

you wait a second—two, maybe three—before you hang up. you stare at the screen for a beat too long after the line goes dead, your own reflection faint in the glass. your limbs feel shaky as you drag yourself up from the chair with the kind of stiffness that makes you wonder if heartbreak settles in your bones like lead. the apartment is quiet when you slip back inside. you don’t even bother changing. and when you fall onto the futon, you collapse. your chest hurts, in the literal, physical way—like there’s something pressing down on it, making it harder to breathe with every passing second. you’re still crying, face crumpling into the crook of your elbow. and even though you try to keep it quiet because your friend is asleep in the next room, your body has other plans. the sobs come in waves, ugly and loud and gasping, and there’s no one to stop them, no one to shush you or hold you or say it’s going to be okay. you press your face into the pillow and scream once, like it might help get it out, but it doesn’t. you cry until you’re too tired to cry anymore, until your body feels wrung out and empty. until your eyelids are heavy, your head pounds and the ache in your chest starts to dull—because, yes, even pain has its limits. and when sleep finally takes you, it feels like relief.

you don’t even hear her come in. it takes a few tries before your friend gets through to you, nudging your foot, then your shoulder, then finally your name, said a little too loudly for how early it is. “hey! you’ve gotta get up. don’t you have work?” you jolt upright like you’re coming up for air, groggy and disoriented, face crusted with dried tears. you mutter something like “shit, what time is it?” before fumbling for your phone. and that’s when you see it. seunghyun texted you while you were asleep.

Hi. I just booked a flight to Texas.

I’ll be in Brownsville for a few days, and I really, really want to see you.

I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me.

But if you do, I’ll be here next Sunday at 4 P.M.

he had sent a location.

We have a lot to talk about.

I didn’t want our call to end like that.

You don’t have to reply, just know I’ll be there, waiting.

And if you don’t show up, that’s okay too.

I hope you have a good day. 🫰🏼

your first thought is no. not even a soft, hesitant kind of no—just a loud, stubborn one that echoes straight through your head. NO. you don’t want to see him. you don’t want to talk. you don’t want to sit across from him pretending like the last nine months haven’t been eating you alive. you lock your phone, toss it somewhere near the futon, and move through your morning like you’re not actively dissociating—getting dressed and slapping on mascara with a shaky hand. you go to work, surprisingly making it on time. and when your shift ends, you go home. you eat leftovers straight from the container, ignore the ache behind your eyes, and tell yourself you’ve made a decision. you’re not going. simple as that.

but as the days creep forward and that sunday inches closer, your initial no—the one that came so fast and full of conviction it practically shouted over your entire body—starts to feel less like a boundary and more like a bluff you’re trying to convince yourself to believe. you find yourself rereading his texts on the bus ride home, or glancing at the clock and thinking about time zones again, something you swore you’d broken the habit of months ago. it’s not that you want to see him (girl… you do, you aren’t fooling anyone) it’s just that you’re curious. and a little bit stupid, apparently. and then, like your brain didn’t already have enough to chew on, instagram decides to kick you while you’re down. you get the notification late at night: TOP 최승현🌙 posted for the first time in a while. you stare at the alert, blinking. no way. how fucking convenient. you open the app before you can stop yourself, and there it is—proof that he unblocked you on your private insta, because you’re staring right at his profile. oh my… you’re a slut in mourning. it’s a selfie. he’s staring straight at the camera, head tilted slightly to the side to flex that stupid jawline, jesus christ... he’s wearing a black hoodie—the same one you used to borrow when you were together. more specifically, the one you were wearing the first time you let him fuck you raw. is he doing it on purpose? is this his way of getting your attention? trying to say he misses you? that he’s thinking about you too? or maybe you’re just being delusional and he’s literally just wearing his fucking hoodie like any normal person would… not everything is about you. right? you zoom in without shame, you stare, you squint and you hate yourself a little. you flip your phone face down and mutter, “fuck off,” like that’s going to do anything—like you’re not already replaying every time you tugged his hair while he was between your thighs, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue circled your clit.

sunday. 3 p.m. comes and you’re still telling yourself no, still convincing yourself with weak half-arguments and imaginary moral high ground, still walking around the room like you’re above it, like you’ve evolved past the the version of yourself who would show up for him no matter what. you’re not going. you’ve already made that decision—made it days ago. in fact, you’ve been repeating it like a fucking mantra: i’m not going, i’m not going, i’m not going. it’s the one thing you’ve been stubbornly sure of. and yet, by 3:07, you’re in front the drawer your friend let you use. you’re not sure when you stood up or how you ended up yanking it open, but suddenly you’re staring at your clothes like any of them will know what the fuck you’re doing. and you tell yourself: what harm could there be in just… seeing? just showing up, looking hot, and reminding him what he lost? right? what could go wrong? you drag yourself into the shower, rinse off the sweat and anxiety, and talk yourself out of having a panic attack while shaving your legs. you towel off, throw on something decent and slap on a bit of makeup as you wonder why the fuck are you wasting your free day on this, when you could’ve been watching reruns of some trashy dating show or doom-scrolling in peace. and before you can rethink your decision again, you’re on the bus, heart pounding harder with every stop.

you show up an hour late—closer to five-thirty than four—but you don’t feel bad about it. if anything, it makes you feel a little less like you’re crawling back and a little more like you’re arriving on your own terms. the place he chose to meet you is a rooftop wine bar in downtown brownsville with thick wooden beams stretched overhead to break the light. string lights hang loosely between them and the tables are spaced out, some close to the railing with a quiet view of the city below. he’s already there, of course, seated near the far edge of the terrace, next to the railing, with a half-finished glass of wine in front of him. you spot him instantly. he’s in a long-sleeved maroon sweater, and you don’t know why the fuck he’s wearing sleeves in this heat. his trousers are loose and slouchy, and his boots—yes, boots, in thirty-degree texas weather—are polished to hell, the soles thick and clunky. his cap sits on the table beside his wineglass, and he’s wearing his glasses—the ones that make him look so gentle. you used to love it when he wore them around you. he doesn’t see you right away—he’s looking out over the terrace, lips pursed like he’s deep in thought—but your stomach still drops like it’s the first time all over again.

you take a slow breath, then start walking. the heels of your shoes click against the tile, and the closer you get, the more surreal it feels—seeing him again. and then he looks up. you don’t know what you expected, but the way his whole face shifts when his eyes land on you catches you off guard. his brows lift just a little, like he’s not sure he’s seeing you right, and then there’s this soft pull at the corners of his mouth, the kind of expression people only ever give to people they’ve missed. he moves quickly after that, chair scraping back as he stands up too fast, brushing his palms down the sides of his pants like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. your heart thuds a little too hard as you close the last few steps between you, nerves spiking even though there’s no reason to be this tense—you’ve seen him like this before, touched him, kissed him, loved him. but now it feels like starting from scratch. “hey,” you say first, because someone has to break the tension. your voice comes out quiet, breathier than you meant. he clears his throat, shifting his weight. “hi.”

he stands there, hovering beside the table, and for a second it’s like neither of you knows how to move—do you shake hands? do you hug? his gaze flickers down to your hands, like he’s expecting you to offer one to shake, and then back up to your face. it’s clear he doesn’t know what to do, and god, neither do you. a hug feels too intimate, but standing here in this weird, polite standoff feels worse. so you do it—you step forward, close the space, and wrap your arms around him quickly, not giving yourself enough time to regret it. he’s surprised, you can tell by the way his arms come around you just a second too late. you pull away before it can get weird, and he lets you, hands immediately dropping to his sides like he’s scared to overstep. you glance at the wine glass, then back at him. “sorry i’m late.” seunghyun shakes his head, quick. “no, it’s fine. i—” he exhales. “i didn’t think you were coming.” you nod, slow and awkward, arms crossed tight over your chest for a second before you remember how that looks and force yourself to let them fall to your sides. “yeah. me neither.” he huffs a tiny laugh, almost embarrassed, and gestures toward the seat across from his. “do you wanna sit?” you nod, murmuring a soft “yeah,” as you move toward the chair. you sit, legs crossed, back too straight, and he mirrors you, settling across from you. the table feels huge between you. ridiculous, really—after everything you’ve done together, everything you’ve been to each other, now you’re playing pretend like two people on a first date who forgot how to talk.

he reaches for his wine glass, turns it slowly between his fingers without drinking. “you look good,” he says, eventually. “i mean… really good.” you meet his eyes, and then, because you can’t help it, “so do you.” he smiles at that, soft, almost sheepish, and then glances down at the wine list sitting neatly on the table between you. “you want anything?” he asks, tapping the edge of the menu lightly. “they’ve got a good selection.” you shake your head, giving a small, polite smile. “just water’s fine.” “water, then,” he says, and signals to the server passing by to order you a glass. there’s a beat of silence after the server leaves, just the soft clink of his glass when he shifts it on the table. he doesn’t look at you—just studies the red swirl of wine for a second like it’s got the right words floating in it somewhere—then finally says, “i’m glad you came.” you nod once, unsure what to say to that, fingers twitching in your lap. “and… i’m sorry,” he adds quietly. “about the phone call. the way it ended… that wasn’t how i wanted it to go.” “i know.” “i didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he says. “or backed into a corner. i just—my head was a mess, and i handled it wrong. i’m sorry.” “it’s fine. thank you—thanks for the apology.” and you mean it. he leans back slightly in his chair, exhales through his nose. his fingers trace the rim of his wine glass like he’s trying to occupy them. “i didn’t know if you’d ever want to see me again. after everything.” “i didn’t know either. up until like… three o’clock.” his mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smile. “last-minute decision?” “very,” you say. “bad one, maybe. not sure yet.” “i get it. i wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t shown up.” “i almost didn’t,” you admit. “but then i thought—i don’t know. if i didn’t come, i’d just keep wondering what you wanted to say.” he nods, finally meeting your eyes again. “i wanted to say a lot of things.” “like what?” he hesitates, jaw tightening slightly, like the words are caught somewhere behind his teeth. he exhales, slow and heavy, and leans forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table. “i wanted to apologize,” he says. “for how things ended. for—for what i said. for not listening.” “seunghyun—” you start, but he shakes his head. “i didn’t believe you,” he goes on. “and i should have. i should’ve known better—i did know better. but it was easier to be angry than to be scared, and i was so, so fucking scared. scared of being exposed again, of people dragging my name through the mud all over, of losing everything i’d tried to build back up—” “i know. i know, hyun. i understand you. it’s… it’s okay.” it isn’t, though. “and instead of trusting you,” he says, like he didn’t hear you at all, “i panicked. i pushed you away. and i hate myself for it.” you shift in your seat, hands gripping the sides of the chair, aching with the weight of all the things you wish could make this easier. “hyun,” you murmur again, softer now, like saying his name might take the edge off his pain or yours. “you don’t have to—” “i do,” he says. “i haven’t stopped thinking about it… about how fast i let it all go. how fast i let you go. and the worst part is…” he stops, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “the worst part is that i made you think you didn’t matter to me. like it was easy for me to—to cut you off. and it wasn’t. it’s never been easy. it still fucking haunts me.” he pauses. “i just needed you to know that. i needed—i needed to say it to your face.” he exhales shakily, like just getting the words out took something out of him. his eyes stay fixed somewhere past your shoulder, like he’s afraid that meeting yours will make it harder. “and i missed you,” he says quietly. “fuck, i missed you so much.”

the words land somewhere low in your gut, like they’ve been thrown instead of spoken. and for a second, it stings in a sweet way, that traitorous part of your chest aching at the sound of his voice wrapped around something soft again, something that once made you feel safe. but the sweetness evaporates almost instantly, replaced by a sharp kind of heat under your skin, the kind that flares when something touches a bruise you thought had already faded. because you don’t get to miss someone and do nothing about it. not when you’re the one who made it clear, so fucking clear, that it was over. your jaw tightens. because no. no, he doesn’t get to say that. your eyes start to sting, the burn rising fast and sudden behind your lashes. and then, without warning, a single tear slips down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly with the back of your hand. “why didn’t you reach out, then?” he blinks, startled, like he hadn’t expected the question. you sniff once, wipe at your cheek again even though the tear’s already gone. “i waited, you know. for so fucking long. every day, i thought maybe today you’d say something.” you scoff. “but you didn’t. not a word—not until i told you the one thing that finally cleared me.” his lips part like he wants to speak, but you don’t let him. “and now you’re here,” you go on, voice shaking. “saying all the things i used to fantasize about hearing. and don’t get me wrong—it’s nice. it’s—it’s really fucking nice, i needed to hear it. but if i hadn’t sent that message, if i hadn’t broken down and hit send for once instead of just typing and deleting like i always did… would we even be here right now?” you’re not sure what answer you’re hoping for. but you needed to let him know how much it sucked to feel like the only one who kept looking back.

he exhales slowly, eyes falling from yours to the table, like he can’t bear the weight of them. because what you’re saying isn’t just true, but something he’s thought about too, something he’s afraid to admit out loud. “you’re right,” he says, voice low and tight. “you’re right. but i—i wanted to. so many times. but when i thought about saying something, i’d convince myself it would only make it worse. that you didn’t want to hear from me. that you were happier without me.” you stare at him. “you thought i was happy?” “i hoped. because the alternative fucking hurt.” “but you still let me think it was my fault,” you say, voice sharp with disbelief. “you let me sit in that, seunghyun. for months. do you even understand what that did to me?” he doesn’t speak right away—just drags a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to rub the shame off his face. “i know. i know i fucked up.” “you didn’t just fuck up,” you snap. “you abandoned me. you—you went on with your life while i… i lost everything. and all because you couldn’t bring yourself to believe me.” “i wanted to believe you,” he says, a little too desperate now. “i swear to god, i did.” “then why didn’t you?” he looks at you like that question physically hurts him. “you already know. i told you—i told you about han seohee. i’ve been betrayed before, and i just—it felt safer to assume the worst than risk getting hurt again.” “yeah?” you say, and your voice comes out rough, almost trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been trying to swallow. “well guess what, seunghyun—i wasn’t han fucking seohee. i wasn’t anyone but me. your… your girlfriend. and you didn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt. not even for a fucking second.” his jaw tenses, lips pressing into a thin line like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to speak. “i didn’t ask you to be perfect,” you continue, voice softer now. “i never did. all i wanted was for you to believe me—and you couldn’t do that.” he shakes his head, pained. “it wasn’t about you,” he mutters. “it was about me. my past. my shit. it twisted everything.” you shake your head, the frustration rising even though you don’t want it to. “yeah! and you let it win!” you lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly through your nose, trying to collect yourself.

this wasn’t what you intended when you showed up. you really don’t want to raise your voice at him—shit, you weren’t even supposed to get this upset. the last thing you want to do is hurt him. “i moved across the world for you, seunghyun,” you continue, calmer. “i put everything on the line. and the second things got hard, you chose to believe the version of me that fit your fears.” his face falls. “i know,” he whispers. “i know. i thought i was protecting myself—but i should’ve protected you too. i should’ve protected us. all i ever wanted was to keep this thing—what we had—safe.” he sighs. “i’m really, really sorry. for everything.” the interruption comes at just the right time—the server appears, setting down the glass of water with a soft clink. you thank him with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and seunghyun gives a nod before the server leaves, the space around you settling into silence again.

you take a sip, the cold water almost jarring against the heat crawling up your throat. the moment stretches, and you know there’s more to say. the conversation isn’t finished—not even close—but your chest already feels too full. it’s too much all at once, and you feel the weight of it pressing down behind your eyes. so, you set the glass back down and glance up at him, forcing your voice to steady and offering the smallest smile you can manage. “i watched squid game,” you say. “you were amazing in it.” his face softens and he lets out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “yeah?” you nod. “yeah. like… really good. i wanted to text you when it dropped but… you know.” yeah, he knows… he had you fucking blocked. seunghyun nods once. “i appreciate that,” he says, voice a little quieter now, like he’s not sure what to do with the softness in your tone. “wasn’t expecting it to do that well, to be honest.” you hum, tracing the rim of your glass with the pad of your finger. “well, people love a villain. especially when he’s funny… and hot.” that pulls a small, surprised laugh out of him, and his cheeks turn red. “well, thank you.” you smile, gaze softening. “i read the interview you made back in january too, by the way.” “oh. did you?” you nod. “yeah.” “you know, i kept wondering what you’d think if you read it. part of me hoped you wouldn’t. the other part hoped you would.” “i did. twice, actually.” you smile faintly. “once when it came out, and again when i was mad at you. to remind myself you were still in there somewhere.” that seems to knock the wind out of him a little. you continue, “i think… i didn’t expect you to be that honest.” “i wasn’t planning to do it, you know,” he says after a pause. “the interview. for years, i thought if i just stayed silent, eventually everyone would forget. but i didn’t forget. i couldn’t.” you study him. “it read like someone who’s been carrying a lot. for a long time.” and you know that better than anyone—because you were there, in the thick of it, helping him through his worst days. his mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. “yeah.” you let the silence sit for a beat before speaking. “i thought… i thought it was brave. i actually—i felt proud,” you confess. and there it is. the thing you’ve been meaning to tell him ever since everything ended, but couldn’t bring yourself to say until now. “i’m proud of you, hyun.” he feels it—that familiar, overwhelming tightness in his throat. he swallows hard, eyes watering slightly. he nods once. then, he opens his mouth, tries to speak, to say thank you, but his lower lip trembles before the words can form… so he closes it again. and hopes the nod is enough.

his family never said that to him. at least not after his mistakes were exposed. so this—this thing you just gave him, so casually and so fucking sincerely—it hits like a punch to the ribs. and it comes from you. you, who he’d hurt more than anyone else. it comes from someone who knows. someone who was there when he was a shell of himself, someone who saw the worst parts of him and stayed, until he made it impossible for you to do so. his eyes hurt and his throat burns and there’s a tremble in his jaw he can’t quite stop, and still he says nothing, because there’s nothing that would be enough to meet the weight of what you just gave him. “that part you said about the group,” you murmur after a moment, voice a little hesitant now, “how seeing them felt like looking at a photo of a family you’d been separated from…” “that’s exactly what it feels like.” “i know,” you nod, gently. “i’m sure they miss you too. i don’t know if you’ve been in touch with them or—” “i haven’t.” he cuts in quickly, and there’s a finality to it. you don’t push, but you notice the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his jaw tenses. there’s even a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his face. “sorry. i didn’t mean to bring up something that—i mean, i wasn’t trying to pry. i just thought… maybe after everything, after all these months, it might’ve felt possible. or… i don’t know.” you trail off, suddenly unsure of what you’re even trying to say. maybe part of you just wanted to believe he wasn’t as alone as he used to be. he hums. then, after a moment: “you were the one thing that made that time bearable. everything else was a mess, but with you, it was—” he stops himself, mouth twitching, like the rest of the sentence is too fragile to say out loud. “you didn’t fix it. but you made it hurt less. and i’ve never—i’ve never thanked you for that.” “you didn’t need to. i knew you were thankful.” you pause. “and… i’m not saying the article fixed anything, but it made sense. why you pulled away. i get it more now.” “that doesn’t make it okay.” “no,” you agree, “it doesn’t. but it helps.”

after that, things start to loosen—the conversation shifts slowly, and the air between you starts to feel less dense, less charged with the tension that had been building since the moment you sat down. the heaviness doesn’t vanish, it’s still there but easier to ignore when you’re focused on something else, like the way seunghyun starts tapping his fingers against his glass, or how your knee keeps bouncing under the table because your body hasn’t quite figured out what to do with the weird, awkward comfort of being near him again. it’s not like either of you suddenly forget the months of silence, or the way things ended, or all the shit that never really got said… but eventually, the edge softens, and your mouths start moving for other reasons—comments that aren’t weighed down by anger or guilt, memories that aren’t necessarily painful, and a rhythm that, while still tentative, starts to resemble the way things used to be between you, back before everything got ruined. because at first, you’re both careful—testing the boundaries of what’s okay to say, what’s still too raw to touch—but as time passes and the conversation wanders into safer ground, you find yourself laughing. which then makes him start laughing too, and it feels bizarre and comforting all at once—like your body forgot how easy it used to be to laugh with him, how that sound had once been a constant part of your days. and when he leans back in his chair, a little more at ease, you realize it’s been a long time since you’ve seen seunghyun look like that. it’s still weird. you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t. it’s weird to be sitting across from him, in real life, hearing his voice without a screen in between, seeing the way he moves and talks and exists like a real fucking person again. there are still moments where it catches you off guard—how familiar this all is, and also how far away it feels from who you were the last time you looked at him like this.

and when he asks, “do you want to go for a walk? brownsville’s botanical garden isn’t far from here. and it’s still open for another hour and a half,” you don’t even pretend to think about it. you just nod, and the look on his face, that flicker of relief, tells you he didn’t expect a yes. his driver’s already waiting outside, like always, and neither of you says much on the way. the ride is short, ten minutes, maybe fifteen. you watch the town pass through the tinted window, and beside you, he’s silent, but not in the closed-off way he used to be when things were bad. it’s a softer kind of silence now, where he’s letting himself be here, in this moment, with you. the botanical garden is smaller than you remember, and it’s mostly empty by the time you get there. as you walk, side by side but not too close—under a pink sky that’s starting to fade into something darker—there’s still a nervous flutter in your stomach, still that ridiculous awareness of where his hand is, of how close it would be if you reached out, but you don’t. because you remember—you remember how fucking much it hurt to lose him, how badly it ended and how long you waited for an apology that never came, until today. and as you both slow near a bench surrounded by wildflowers and a few trees that creak lazily in the warm breeze, he gestures toward it with a quiet nod, and you both sink down into the wooden slats. there’s a few inches between you, enough space to feel the gap and remind you both that no matter how easy the conversation’s been, there’s still a line neither of you has crossed yet. for a moment, you both just sit there, watching the wind tug lazily at the branches, listening to the low hum of cicadas starting up somewhere in the distance. and then, very casually, he asks, “so… is there someone in your life these days?” god—he hates how obvious it probably sounded the second it left his mouth. he doesn’t look at you when he asks, just keeps his gaze forward, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you, like the question is just curiosity and not the thing he’s been thinking about since the second he saw you again. you glance at him. “yeah,” you say softly, honest because there’s no point in pretending. “i’ve been seeing someone.” oh… it hits him harder than he wants it to. not because he thought you’d been waiting around for him. of course not. he knows better than that. knows he doesn’t have that right. but something about hearing it out loud, from your mouth, in that voice he used to fall asleep to—it makes his stomach twist. you can see it in the way his jaw tightens slightly, and in the way his hands suddenly find his lap, like his body doesn’t quite believe the version of calm he’s trying to sell.

a long silence settles in, and he tells himself not to ask the next question, the one that’s pushing at his throat, but it slips out anyway, “does he know you’re here?” you shake your head. “no.” he turns slightly toward you, brows pulling in just a little. “i never told him,” you add. “about us.” and that fucking stings. “i just said there was someone once. but not who. i wanted to respect your choice, you know… you didn’t want it out there, you wanted to keep it private. and i… i guess i got used to it, too. so… i kept that, even after it ended.” he swallows hard, but doesn’t speak. because what is there to say, really? he sits there, listening to your words settle into the space between you, feeling it again—the shame. seunghyun stares out into the garden with a tight jaw, wondering when exactly he stopped deserving that kind of grace from you—and why you’re still giving it anyway. he stays quiet longer than he should, but he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack under the weight of everything he isn’t saying. and maybe he should let it go—but he can’t. “is he good to you?” he asks. he hates how much he wants to know. hates how pathetic it makes him feel to sit here, asking about a man who has what he used to. what he walked away from. “yeah,” you reply, and your voice is careful. “he’s… he’s kind. he works in construction with his dad—they run their own small company, mostly residential stuff. but we don’t see each other a lot… he’s the kind of guy who’s in bed by ten and up by five, and my schedule’s kind of all over the place too, so… yeah. but it works. things with him are—they’re simple… easy.” you don’t mean it as an insult, but fuck, it lands like one. “that’s good,” he says, and the words feel like gravel in his mouth. he forces them out anyway, and forces himself to nod, like that makes it more believable. “you deserve that.”

seunghyun wonders if this guy knows how you like your coffee, if he knows how you get when you’re overwhelmed—how you play with the hem of your shirt, how your voice gets sharp when you’re scared and how underneath that, you’re just trying not to break into a million pieces. he wonders if this new guy has ever seen you cry, and if he did, whether he knew what the fuck to do with it. if he sat with you in it, or tried to fix it, or made it worse by telling you everything would be okay when he didn’t know shit about what was actually going on inside your head. he wonders if this guy knows how you ramble when you’re tired. if he’s heard the stories you only tell when you’ve had one glass of wine too many, the ones that make you laugh even as you wipe your eyes. if he knows the things you’re afraid of. he wonders if this guy’s ever traced the line of your spine with his fingers just to feel you shiver under him, if he knows how your breath catches before you ever make a sound, how your thighs tense when you’re trying not to beg. does he know how to touch you the way you like? and fuck—does he get to hear you like that? whispering his name, nails in his back, legs shaking, voice breaking around the kind of moan that used to make seunghyun lose his goddamn mind? and then, in the middle of all that wondering, he hates himself a little—for being so fucking jealous.

you must feel the shift in the air too, the way his silence has gone from thoughtful to tense, like he’s holding something back. so you add, “we’re not… dating.” his head turns a little at that, eyes flicking over to you for the first time in minutes. “no?” you shake your head. “i’m not ready for that. not again. it’s been—i’ve been figuring shit out. still am.” he nods slowly. you glance at him, like maybe you’re trying to gauge his reaction, but he gives you nothing. “what about you?” you ask after a moment. “you seeing anyone?” “no.” it comes out fast and flat, like the idea pisses him off. you wait, maybe expecting him to explain, but he doesn’t. so you press, “not even casually?” seunghyun lets out a short, humorless laugh. “what would be the point?” your brows pull together, but you don’t answer. “i’m not exactly great company,” he adds, almost bitter. “and i’m not trying to let anyone close just so they can realize it for themselves.” “you are great company, hyun. don’t say that.” he just scoffs under his breath and shifts on the bench like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. “yeah, well,” he mutters, “guess that’s not enough anymore.” you turn to look at him. “what?” “nothing.” “no—say it.” you’re watching him now, fully turned toward him, and he can feel it—the weight of your stare, the tension in your voice. he shakes his head. “you’re here, telling me you’ve got someone, and—i don’t know, it’s just… i don’t know.” “you asked, seunghyun.” “i know. i just—i wasn’t expecting that answer.” you blink at him. “so what? you ask me if i’m seeing someone, and now you’re pissed that i answered you honestly?” “i’m not pissed,” he lies, and you both know it. “don’t lie to me. i know you better than anyone—” “do you love him?” he asks, and the question comes out so suddenly, so bluntly, it knocks the air out of your lungs. “no,” you say, after a beat. “i don’t love him. if i did, i wouldn’t be here.” he nods, like that’s what he wanted to hear, but the tightness in his mouth doesn’t ease. “okay.” “what do you want me to say, seunghyun?” you ask, keeping your voice even, though it’s getting harder. “that i waited around? that i haven’t touched anyone since you left? is that what you were hoping for?” “i wasn’t hoping for anything,” he snaps. you raise an eyebrow. “sure.”

he exhales, a short, frustrated breath, and leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the dirt path between his shoes. because the truth is—he was hoping for that. he was hoping you’d tell him that, even after all this time, you were still a little bit his. and hearing otherwise—he doesn’t know what to do with that. doesn’t know how to sit across from you like it doesn’t matter when it feels like it’s fucking tearing him apart—sitting here, stewing in his own mess, wanting things he let go of, wishing you’d stayed stuck when all you ever did was survive the damage he left behind. every twisted part of him that wants you to be okay, also wants you to still need him. he’s so, so fucking selfish. and you’re right, of course. every word. his hands curl into fists. his vision blurs. he doesn’t mean to start crying, but it happens anyway. fuck. he takes his glasses off and drags a hand over his face, hoping you won’t say anything, hoping maybe you’ll look away long enough for him to get it under control. but he can’t. “i’m sorry,” he chokes out. “i’m sorry i’m acting like this. i just—i didn’t think it would feel like this. seeing you. i thought i could handle it, and i can’t.” his throat aches. he wipes at his face again, furious at himself for crying, for falling apart in front of you, for being nine months too late. “seunghyun—“

his name barely leaves your mouth before he’s crumbling again, shoulders shaking. you slide across the bench, closing the space between you, and wrap your arms around him, firmly. he tenses at first, like he doesn’t know what to do with the comfort, and then he just folds into you. his face buries into the crook of your neck, warm and damp with tears, breath shuddering against your skin, and your hand comes up to cradle the back of his head instinctively. “i’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over again. “fuck, i’m so sorry. i fucked everything up.” you close your eyes, heart aching with the weight of it. “i ruined it,” he says again, voice cracking. “i ruined us.” “it’s not your fault.” “it is.” “no—you were just scared. my mom’s the one who put us in this situation. and yeah, you hurt me but i—i forgive you, hyun. you’re forgiven, okay?” you hold him tighter, your chin resting lightly on his shoulder, breathing slow and steady because maybe if you stay calm, he’ll remember how to do the same. and for a while, he just cries. you haven’t seen him like this in a long time—haven’t seen him break this hard, this openly, not since the first time he told you he didn’t know how to live with himself. or the nights he’d curl into you, silent and shaking, too proud to sob until his body gave him no other choice.

when the worst of it passes—when the sobs begin to slow and his breathing evens out—he leans back and sniffles, avoiding your eyes as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black cloth—one of those soft ones he always carried for his glasses, or for sweat when he was anxious. he dabs at his face, wiping away the tears first, then pressing it against his temples and the back of his neck. he’s sweating like hell, his hair damp, the collar of his sweater sticking slightly to his skin. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse. “i’m a mess.” you reach for the cloth gently, fingers brushing his as you take it from him, and he doesn’t resist. “let me.” you wipe the tears from under his eyes first, careful and slow, then run the cloth lightly across his forehead, down to his cheeks, around the curve of his jaw. your other hand rests on his shoulder, grounding him. “you’re okay,” you murmur. “just breathe.” he nods, throat moving as he swallows hard. and then, after a long pause, with a voice that’s barely there he says, “i… i still love you.” you freeze, the cloth limp in your hand, your breath catching mid-air. did you hear that right? and then, quieter, he adds, “i don’t think i’ve ever loved someone as much.” yeah, you heard that right. your heart stumbles in your chest and you sit there, watching him. he won’t meet your eyes now, like saying it took the last of whatever strength he had left. his shoulders are hunched, jaw tight like he’s bracing for rejection even before it comes. he looks younger like this, and older too, worn down by months of pretending he was okay, of convincing himself he didn’t still ache for you every fucking day. and you love him. oh, you love this man so fucking much… you wish you didn’t sometimes, wish it didn’t still hurt. you place the cloth down carefully in your lap and reach out without thinking, your hand brushing the side of his face, fingers sliding into his hair like muscle memory. and he leans into it. you let your hand fall to his jaw, thumb gently swiping along the damp edge of it. “i love you too, hyun,” you say. “i never stopped.”

his shoulders shake, and you can tell he’s holding back again, trying not to fall apart a second time. you take his hand in yours. “you said… you said that you missed me. earlier. and the truth is… i missed you too,” you whisper, voice low and breaking now. “i missed everything—us. i tried to forget all of it and i couldn’t. i didn’t want to.” his fingers twitch under yours and he grips your hand tighter. you can feel how warm his skin is, how clammy his palm’s gone from the crying and the heat and all the fucking emotion, but you don’t let go. you just hold on, because this is the first time in months you’ve both said the truth out loud, and if it’s going to hurt, you’d rather it hurt with him right there beside you. his eyes are glassy, and you can tell he’s struggling to find the words. “i used to wake up in the middle of the night thinking you were still next to me,” he says. “and every single time it hit me that you weren’t, it felt—” he stops himself, rubbing a hand over his chest to stop it from aching. “i missed you so much it made me sick sometimes.” and you believe him. because you know that feeling. you remember what it felt like to lie awake with your back to the wall, trying to sleep in a bed that felt too big and too cold, your hand unconsciously reaching for a body that wasn’t there anymore. you remember the mornings you’d open your eyes and forget, just for a second, that he was gone—and how that second was always worse than the rest of the day combined. but sitting here now, his hand still trembling slightly in yours, all you can think is: we can’t go back. “i love you,” you say. “and i want to be with you, seunghyun. i want—hell, i’d spend the rest of my life with you.” your voice cracks on the last word, and your chest pulls tight as the tears finally spill over. “and i mean it. but… what would change?”

he’s silent. not because he doesn’t know what to say—but because he knows exactly what he’d like to say, and none of it would be true. “i can’t go back to hiding,” you continue before he can speak. “i can’t—i don’t want to be that girl again.” he closes his eyes for a second, then nods. “i know.” “but i also know…” you exhale, voice shaking, “i know that’s all you can offer me right now.” he shifts slightly, like he wants to argue. “that’s not—” “there’s no point in lying, seunghyun.” he runs a hand over his mouth, pained. “i could—maybe, in a few months, if things calm down—” “you and i both know that’s not how it works,” you say, cutting him off gently. “a few months won’t change the industry. or the people watching you. it won’t suddenly make us easy. and you know, seunghyun… you know a few months is unrealistic. and i don’t wanna—i don’t wanna wait in the shadows anymore. i won’t do it. i promised that to myself.” he sighs, long and defeated. “yeah. i know—i’m sorry. i just… i didn’t think i’d be getting this much attention again. after everything. the interviews, the show… it’s all been more than i expected. and it could get to you too, for the wrong reasons—” “i know,” you nod. “i know. and i get it, i really do. i’ve already deleted half my socials because of the harassment i got when it was just a rumor, and that wasn’t even real to them.” his face falls, shame coloring every line of it. “i’m sorry about that, too.” “yeah,” you murmur. “it’s fine. or—it’s not, but… it happened. those months were awful. but they’re behind me now.” he watches you for a long second, then says, “if we’d been closer in age, maybe it wouldn’t have been so complicated.” you smile, even though your lower lip is trembling slightly. “yeah. maybe it would’ve been easier.” the world outside won’t stop pressing in, and the timing keeps pulling you apart before you even get the chance to hold each other properly. “i hate this,” he whispers. “i hate that we finally said everything and it still isn’t enough.” “me too,” you say, sniffing. “but love isn’t the problem. it never was.” he nods slowly, and you know he’s holding back more tears.

you look at him—his swollen eyes, the slight tremble in his mouth that mirrors your own—and for a moment, you wish you could be selfish. you wish you could say fuck it, go back with him, crawl into the warmth of what could’ve been, and pretend that love alone is enough. but you can’t. “maybe you were right,” you say, trying to laugh through the tears, your voice catching halfway through. “maybe breaking up was the right thing to do. for both of us.” oh… the way his heart drops when he hears that—how much he wishes he could take those words back. how much he regrets ever saying them in the first place. how much he’s begged time, in every quiet moment since, to let him go back and rewrite your story. but it’s useless. it didn’t feel right then, and it sure as hell doesn’t now. you’re all he ever wanted. you’re all he wants. and deep down, he knows—you always will be. and it fucking kills him. it kills him to know that loving you isn’t the question—he does. with everything. the question is what to do with that love, now that it can’t go anywhere. because if you tried again… if you gave in to the ache and the want and the desperation—nothing would really change. you’d end up right back here. except next time, you’d be even more broken. “if i were braver,” he starts, “if i was different—” “don’t,” you cut in. “don’t do that. you don’t need to be a different person, hyun,” you say softly. “you just need a different life. and you don’t have that right now—and maybe you never will. but it’s okay.” “how can it be?” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice that makes your chest tighten. “how the fuck is it okay to want something this badly and still have to let it go?” you let out a shaky breath and look down at your lap. “we can’t change it. this. it’s… it’s not okay—fuck, i know it’s not. but it’s what we have.”

he goes quiet again, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand, tears still hanging in his lashes. you both sit in it. the sadness. the weight of every missed chance, every wrong timing, every choice that brought you to this bench. “if there’s another life,” you murmur, “maybe we find our way back to each other there.” he nods. “maybe,” he says, and you know he’s picturing it too. the could-have-beens. the should-haves. the soft life you never got to live. but not this one. he’s quiet for a while after that, like he’s still standing in that other life you just painted with your words—still walking through it in his mind, holding your hand in a version of the world where things were easier. and then his voice cuts through the silence, “but i don’t want to lose you in this life, either.” and before you can say anything, he adds, “do you think we could… i don’t know—be friends?” you turn to look at him, and he’s watching you carefully, not with expectation but with something closer to fear. he’s afraid you’ll say no, afraid you’ll cut the thread that still tethers you to him, even if it’s frayed and worn and barely holding. but you smile a little. it’s small and sad, but a smile after all. “yeah. i think we could.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “maybe not right now,” you add gently. “maybe we give it some time. let it stop hurting so much. but yeah… eventually, i’d like that.” he nods again, eyes flicking toward you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact light, with this exact expression—still full of love. “i just don’t want to lose you completely.” “you won’t,” you say. and it’s the one thing you can promise. “you’re too much a part of me now, hyun, you always will be. we’ll figure it out.”

the gravel crunches quietly under your shoes. the path back through the garden is dim now, the sun completely dipped behind the horizon, leaving the sky painted in that deep, rich blue, settling into dusk. every now and then, you glance at seunghyun in your periphery—his hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed, like he’s trying to hold on to every last moment of this without showing it. you walk without touching, without speaking, but everything between you is loud. and then, just before the path curves toward the iron gate that separates the quiet of this place from the rest of the world, you stop. “seunghyun,” you say, his name barely above a whisper. he turns to you slowly, like he already knows what’s coming, like he’s been waiting for it without letting himself hope. you reach up with both hands and cradle his face—thumbs brushing over the curve of his cheekbones, your fingers slipping into the soft, familiar edges of his hair. his breath catches, his eyes flicker, and then they fall shut just as your mouth finds his. his hands are on you within seconds—your waist, your back, the side of your neck, fucking everywhere. he kisses you back hard, full of need and every word he didn’t know how to say earlier. you make a soft sound against his mouth, one he swallows greedily, pulling you closer, gripping the fabric at your back like he doesn’t trust the world not to rip you away. your fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan, and when he groans against your mouth, his tongue slips past your lips, deepening the kiss. he kisses you hungrily. because he knows this is the last moment he’ll get to remember what it feels like to be wanted by you. his hands slide up your sides, and then one of them cups your face, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, catching a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. your heart stutters in your chest at how tender it is—how fucking unfair it is that someone can love you this gently and still not be yours. you kiss him deeper, your tongue meeting his, your mouth opening wider like maybe if you just give enough of yourself, it’ll keep him for a little longer. but eventually, it has to stop. your hands loosen in his hair, and his grip on you falters. you pull away first, even though it feels like tearing something out of your own chest. you’re both panting, and your lips are swollen. “sorry,” you whisper. “i just… i needed to do that one last time.” you close your eyes and let your hand rest over his chest, right where his heart is pounding beneath your palm—fast and uneven, like yours. “i needed it too,” he says quietly. you both feel it settle deep in your bones—that quiet, devastating truth: the kiss was goodbye. to everything you were and everything you’ll never be again.

by the time you make it back to your friend’s apartment, the sky has already folded into itself, navy and thick. you step inside, the house dim and quiet, the hallway lit only by the warm spill of light coming from the kitchen where your friend’s probably left a candle burning. you move through the space like you’re not really there. your shoes come off, your jacket lands somewhere near a chair you don’t look at, and you’re halfway down the hall toward the living room with that hollow, buzzing emptiness ringing in your ears—when your phone vibrates once. and you think, for a stupid second, that maybe it’s him. but no. instead, it’s your banking app, and there on your screen, as casual as if someone had just venmoed you for last week’s pizza, is a deposit—an absurd amount of money, like… frankly ridiculous amount—and next to it, the name. choi seunghyun. you stare at it for a second, not really processing it, your brain taking its sweet time catching up, and when it finally does, you quickly message him.

seunghyun

WHAT THE FUCK

what

why

wtf

what the actual fuck

You told me you were staying with your friend while looking for a place.

I thought it might help.

are you crazy?

wtf

this is insane, hyun

It’s nothing🙂

it’s NOT nothing wtf

you wired me enough to pay rent for a year

maybe more

no, no, definitely more

way more

what part of that feels normal to you

this is so much money, what were you thinking

I was thinking you deserved it.

i don’t need you to take care of me like that

i’m not your responsibility

You’re not.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you however I can.

it’s too much, hyun

So is everything I feel for you.

i don’t know if i can accept it

Please do.

Friends help each other, don’t they?

i’m being so frl rn old man

Me too, princess.

are u trying to make me cry?💔 be honest

We’ve cried enough today.

I want you to be happy, so please let me do this for you.

thank you seunhyun, really

Of course🫰🏼

i love you

I love you too.

Take care❤️

you too :)

you press the phone to your chest, close your eyes, and sigh. and maybe it’s dramatic to cry over a money transfer, but here you are. not because you need the money, but because you know, this is the only way he knows how to take care of you now—by giving you something tangible and useful in his absence. and that hurts.

it’s been two years since that last conversation with seunghyun—two whole years since that kiss in the garden, since the deposit, since his last message sat in your phone. life didn’t stop after him. it moved forward the way time always does—slow. and eventually, you did too. you moved out of your friend’s place not long after meeting seunghyun—gave yourself permission to look at listings just slightly outside your price range, to stop filtering by ‘cheapest first,’ to imagine something more. and when you found it—a corner apartment on the top floor of a building, all warm wood and tall windows and soft morning light—you said yes. it’s not huge, but it’s beautiful. clean lines, a little balcony that overlooks the street, a kitchen that makes you want to cook even when all you know how to make is pasta… it’s the first place you’ve ever lived that feels like it was meant for you. and yeah, sometimes you think about seunghyun—you think about how he gave this to you. but mostly, you think about how you made it into something your own.

you also dropped the guy you’d been seeing back then and focused on yourself. let yourself learn how to be alone. you got a new job too—something better, something steadier. it pays well, and you don’t come home every night feeling like you’ve been scraped raw, which is more than you used to ask for. things with your mom are better now, or at least better than they used to be. she calls every week, asks about work (because that’s her favorite topic), sometimes even about your mood, and it’s clear she’s trying. but the thing that still sticks in your throat, the thing you can’t seem to move past, is that she’s never actually said she was sorry. she speaks like it was a necessary evil, like leaking your relationship to the press was some calculated decision made for your protection, not a betrayal that burned through your entire life. and maybe if she showed even a flicker of regret—real regret—you’d be able to meet her halfway. but without that, there’s only so far you can go.

you’re not healed. but you’re okay. you wake up most mornings without feeling like you’re drowning, you go to work, make dinner, fold laundry while music plays in the background. you laugh with friends and sleep through the night more often than not. and your screen time is down 12% this week—so, progress. that has to count for something. but some nights, when it’s quiet in your apartment and the city hums softly outside your window, you think of seunghyun. you wonder where he is, if he’s okay, if he ever sees something and thinks of you. you wonder if he’s happy, if he’s sleeping well, if his hands still tremble when he’s anxious or if someone else has learned how to hold them steady. and sometimes, you stare at the ceiling too long, or catch yourself holding your breath when a memory slips through—and it still surprises you, how much he lives in the smallest, stupidest things. because no matter how much distance time gives you, there are people who never really leave. and seunghyun, no matter how far away he is now—he’s one of them.

so when his name lights up your phone one random thursday evening two years later—you almost fall off your bed.

Hi.

Sorry if this is weird.

I was looking through my gallery and I found this.

it’s a photo taken from above—his arm stretched out enough to fit both of you into the frame, the angle slightly off-center. you’re completely out, fast asleep on top of him, arms loosely wrapped around his waist like you were trying to merge with him in your sleep. your cheek is smushed against the ridiculous pajama top—the one he bought for himself first, then ordered a second one for you when he realized how cute you’d look matching. yes, the infamous pajama set that everyone and their mother saw after your mom leaked everything. his hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, but his face is soft—eyes shining even in the low light of the room, a sleepy grin on his face.

Turns out, the picture those fans took of us wasn’t the only one we had.

I hope life’s treating you nicely🫰🏼

and something about it—about him still having that photo, still thinking of you enough to send it—makes you smile. you write back faster than you thought you would.

omg seunhyun!!! hii!!

when did you take that photo? and why didn’t u tell me about it?😭

I took it when you came to Seoul for my birthday.

I forgot I took it.

You woke up right after hahah😴😄

it’s sooo sooo cute🥹

It is😊

How are you?

i’m good :)) but a bit tired because i’ve been helping my friend paint her house and it’s been a lot of work

my arms are so sore😭

what about you?

you doing okay?

Yes! I’m good.

I missed talking to you.

me too :)) and i’m glad to know you’re doing well!

I also wanted to know if you’d like to go for a coffee next week?

I wanted to fly to Texas to see you.

We could catch up.

If you want to, of course🙂

yesss ofc, i’d love to :)🩷

i’m really happy you reached out

been thinking about you a lot, honestly

You have?

more than i’d like to admit hahah

i was wondering how you were doing :)

I’ve thought about you too.

And I’m really looking forward to seeing you😊

me too🙂‍↕️

I’ll send you the details once everything’s booked, is that okay?

yeah, sure, that sounds perfect :)

See you soon🫰🏼

when the day finally comes, there’s a quiet nervousness in your chest—not the kind that makes your hands shake, but the kind that hums beneath your skin. you don’t know what to expect. it’s been two years. whole seasons, whole versions of yourself have passed since you last stood in front of him. you’ve changed. you’ve grown. but some things stay. he’s waiting outside the café when you arrive—hands in his coat pockets, hair a little longer. and the second your eyes meet, he smiles. and you smile back, like no time has passed at all. the conversation flows without effort. you don’t even notice your coffee going cold—you’re too busy talking and laughing like it hasn’t been two years. and you don’t try to stop the feeling that rushes in, that warm, aching knowing in your chest that says, yeah. it’s still him. even after everything. it’s still seunghyun. you don’t know what’s going to happen next, and for once, that doesn’t scare you. you just let the moment be what it is, suspended in something that feels a lot like peace. because maybe this is it. maybe you don’t need another life to find your way back to each other—you already do in this one.

i hope this lived up to your expectations for part 2 :) i genuinely did the best i could. i’ve spent so much time on this fic and gotten so attached to everything about it that it doesn’t even feel like something i made up anymore?? like someone out there is living through it and suffering bc of seunghyun fr… my brain fully believes it atp😭

thank you so much for all the support you’ve shown to this fic, and for all the kind messages i’ve been getting because of it—i seriously wasn’t expecting it at all 🥹💗

regular taglist: @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @infinetlyforgotten @bettelaboure @scream-queen-25 @flwerangii

hidden pt.2 taglist: @ulquiorraswife @rubyylovestoread @youlikeex @liv2cool

#choi seunghyun #t.o.p bigbang #seunghyun x reader #hidden #t.o.p fanfic #bigbang x reader #top bigbang #bigbang #big bang #top x reader #t.o.p x you #t.o.p x reader #t.o.p #squid game #part 2

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yandere-sins · 2 days ago

Note

thank you soooooo much for writing for pm dazai I am absolutely starving for good content for him... could I request mafia dazai being sweet to his darling? or the closest thing to sweet hes capable of... maybe hes had a sad day and is using darling as a comfort object? tysm, have a good day!

Of course! Thank you for requesting ♥

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

If you had learned anything about your captor, then that there were no good days.

There were days where he seemed slightly annoyed by your presence as if you were an inconvenience (that he caused himself!), and then there were some where he couldn't get his hands off of you. Neither was good. It was either starving and freezing or desperately trying to get rid of him. Those days could all be counted as 'bad'.

For you.

But of course, a bad day for Dazai looked much different than a bad day for you. It looked like blood on his gloves, splatters of it on his shoes that he discarded. It smelled pretty badly, too. Like a mix of gore and cement, drifting in with his body as he dragged himself back into his private room and spreading like the shadows he cast as he turned on the lights. It felt like his hands slowly digging beneath the rim of the blindfold, painfully patiently pulling it off to reveal an even deeper, even worse darkness in his eyes.

"Darling," he cooed, a smile crooking his lips. His expression seemed to be in need of time as it tried to remember how to soften. How to be gentle and sweet. But bit after bit, his face contorted back into a memory of adoration, although he couldn't fool you.

"I missed you."

As soon as his face had appeared, it was buried in your shoulder, the restraints on your arms not allowing you to shove the bones right into it and give him what he deserved. You two had fought it out before, and Dazai knew which finger to separate from the others in a way it would hurt if you moved.

His hands let go of the blindfold, the fabric landing in your lap and sparsely warming your bare thighs there. Arms weaved into the space beneath your armpits, leaving a tinge of pain in your finger joints as he ruthlessly moved them. Then, two warm palms pushed you forward, resting on your shoulder blades as you felt, heard, and saw him take a deep breath, rubbing his face deeper between your neck and shoulder, lips still curled into a smile as he hovered them above your pulse.

"Did you eat today? I told them to check in on you regularly, have they treated you well? Do you want some ice cream for dessert?"

As if the promise of ice cream was enough to repent for leaving you alone all day and at the mercy of some goons who thought they could shove you around and burn your tongue with hot soup. Even though you were glad for every minute away from this psycho, Dazai leaving you alone all day was just as much of a challenge as having him by your side.

He waited for all but five seconds for your response before you felt his hands curl inwards, nails scratching over your skin in an effort to coax a reply. And you gasped, even now, your body reacting so sensitively to all of his punishments. Dazai had left his marks plentiful and in return, made your subconscious even more afraid. As much as you wanted to fight and resist him, your broken bones had only just healed, and you've only just recovered from feeling weak and helpless—a state you didn't want to return to.

"Ice cream..." you mumbled. "That would be nice."

"Thought so," he replied, sounding happy with your choice as he gave you another squeeze before moving away.

"Dazai?" you called out as he got up again, and he immediately twisted around, the faintest hint of a spark returning to his eyes as you called his name.

"Yes, my love?" he immediately replied, sitting down by your side again and cupping your face. His gaze flitted from one of your eyes to the other, trying to read your mind and learning what you wanted, the anticipation killing him. You could imagine the thoughts that raced through his head. Thoughts that included you telling him you loved him and all those fake feelings he expected you to develop after kidnapping you. But you really only had one thing in mind.

"Can you... can you cut the rope?" you asked carefully, wiggling your arms a little to emphasize your point. "I'll be good, I promise! It hurts and I want to enjoy the ice cream... with you."

Immediately, the spark you had caught in his eyes vanished. Your lies were as transparent to him as they were to you. Dazai was too clever, too aware to fall for your empty promises, his hand falling from your face as he shook his head, chuckling lightly. He seemed to always hope that it was true, his sworn feelings transmitting to you, but he let himself get disappointed over and over.

For a few, anguished moments, he merely stared straight ahead, lost in the ghost of a memory. Then, he gave one, hearty nod and turned back to you, not looking into your eyes as he reached behind you.

"Just for today then," he mumbled, and you heard the click of a pocketknife unfurling before pressure built against your hands and then vanished completely.

You let out a deep breath of relief, your mind briefly out of commission as you let your upper body fall forward, now being the one to rest on his shoulder. Normally, you would have flinched away immediately, but your strained muscles didn't even jerk at the idea of moving away. They were much too happy with losing the tension and resting, your body immediately hurting all over.

Unexpectedly, Dazai sat still as you leaned against him. Even when you applied more pressure, he didn't move away and let you fall face-first onto the mattress of the bed. He let you rest, and it emboldened you somewhat to have the merciless mafioso serve as your counterweight.

"Today was hard..." you admitted, voice drifting off feebly. Having to follow the orders of his goons while blindfolded, having them dribble food all over you and laugh at your misery really didn't do your mental health any good. And with your arms bound in an uncomfortable position, it had been impossible to lay down or do anything, your body in constant restraint and tension. Even if you weren't working hard, every day was a fruitless struggle and it was wearing you down.

"So it was."

You thought you didn't hear right, but Dazai agreed with you, and you forced your head to turn sideways, eyeing him. He barely hesitated before looking down, giving you a small, tired smile, probably the first real emotion you had seen from him in a long time.

"You have hard days?" you asked, part sarcastic, part curious.

"Many," he admitted, smile widening to reveal his teeth, but it didn't conquer his eyes. Instead, he leaned down, kissing the top of your head. "But I don't complain. Not when I come home to you and get to turn every bad day into a good one by being with you."

Silence fell between you two as you lowered your gaze. It was enough to feel his eyes digging into you from above. Enough that you knew how obsessed he was with the idea of bettering his life by being with you, making you out to be some saint who will wash away the sins he commits. But he had to kidnap you first because he couldn't live with the idea of having to share you with anyone, tearing you down to his level until you'd finally cave and become his kind of crazy; that was the plan.

Exhausting. Utterly exhausting.

Perhaps, for him, too.

"Does ice cream still stand?" you asked into the silence, and his head leaned against yours as he let out a long, thoughtful hum.

"You already got to take the ropes off, I'm not sure if you deserve it anymore."

"And I promised to be good, isn't that reason enough?"

"Hmm, is it?"

You let out a long breath. He had too much fun playing you like this. Clearly, it wasn't exhausting enough for him. Perhaps, fortunately, you weren't dumb either, playing his game like a pro just as much. Because no matter how false it was, a little bait could still sway a heart as cold as his.

"What if I feed you?"

Instantaneously, his body tensed, and he sat upright, forcing your head to slip off his shoulder, and you already regretted it. Nevertheless, you slowly heaved yourself back into a seating position and watched as Dazai jumped to his feet, a spring in his step as he moved forward, declaring loudly, "Ice cream it is!"

"No crazy flavor, please!" you yelled after him, an unlikely normal moment passing between captor and captee. But to your surprise, Dazai turned around the table in the middle of his room, returning to your side and leaning over you, his breath tingling on your cheeks as he froze for a moment, observing you.

"No, nothing crazy," Dazai confirmed before suddenly crashing his lips down on yours, his hand jolting upwards to support you as he threatened to topple you over from the force. His breath was steaming hot as it slid over your tongue, his lips forceful and demanding, testing your promise to be good to the point of overdoing it.

But just as suddenly as he had initiated it, Dazai broke it off again, leaving you both breathless, with a darkened fire swirling in his eyes.

"Something as sweet as you. I needed this. I needed a reminder of what you taste like, but I think I can go and find something now. Thank you."

And with that, he walked off, never turning around as he left you bewildered and flustered behind to presumably get some ice cream. You knew it would taste bittersweet, especially when you had to share every other spoon with Dazai, his hand probably kneading your legs while he gave you a lovesick grin and stole bites from you despite his own bowl of ice cream melting before him.

Because when Dazai had a bad day, it usually had a sweet aftertaste.

At least for him.

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just-aake · 3 days ago

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Everlasting Devotion - Part XIV

Pairing: princess!Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Sequel of Boundless Devotion Series. MedievalAU. With her coronation over, Natasha is now the queen of the Romanov Kingdom. However, the position comes with challenges from both old and new enemies as Natasha tries to maintain the peace while also navigating her relationship with you.

Masterlist Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

Warnings: light angst, light fluff

Words: 1668

The room is shrouded in silence, tension thick as smoke in the aftermath of the Carter princess’ announcement.

No one moves.

Natasha stands at the center of it all, regal in posture but visibly rigid. Her expression is unreadable to anyone unfamiliar, but her clenched fists at her sides betray the slow boil of fury just beneath the surface.

Sharon smooths the front of her dress almost casually, though there’s a slightly uncomfortable air to her action. Her eyes flicker between the queen and the rest of the royal family.

“It is late,” Sharon says smoothly, her voice calm. “And from your reaction, I can see this may have been…unexpected. We can always discuss the finer details of the arrangement another day.”

Melina exhales, obviously relieved for the excuse to postpone the discussion.

“Yes, I think that’s best,” she agrees quickly, stepping forward with a graceful tilt of her head. “Princess Sharon, I’ll have one of the attendants prepare a guest suite for you tonight.”

With a polite nod, Sharon allows herself to be guided away, her heels clicking softly against the stone as she exits. The door closes behind her with a faint but resounding finality.

The room falls into silence again. This time is heavier, laced with a slow-burning fury.

Natasha doesn’t speak for several seconds. Her gaze remains fixed ahead, unblinking. The anger within her bubbling steadily to the surface until she could no longer hold it inside.

“What the hell?!” Her voice slices through the room like a whip, sharp and commanding.

“Language, Natasha,” Yelena drawls from where she lounges against the back of the chair, her tone mockingly parental in a similar tone their mother would use.

Natasha ignores her, head snapping toward Melina, eyes blazing.

“I thought I told you not to get involved in my relationships anymore.”

Melina’s spine stiffens at the accusation, but her voice remains composed as she responds.

“This wasn’t me. I only learned about the contract tonight, when Sharon approached me during the celebration.”

Natasha narrows her eyes.

“If you didn’t do this, then who?”

Melina sighs and lifts a hand to rub her temples, then glances pointedly to the side—toward the hearth.

Natasha follows her gaze.

There, hunched near the fireplace, her father pokes at the embers with far too much focus, his back partially turned like the flames might offer him sanctuary from his daughter’s wrath.

“Really?” Natasha’s voice drops, low and cold. “Are you seriously pretending to stoke a fire right now?”

Alexei’s body visibly jumps. Realizing all eyes are on him, he clears his throat loudly.

“I think the room’s getting a bit chilly, don’t you think? Might be time to get some more logs—”

He stands abruptly and moves toward the door, only for Natasha to step into his path, arms folding tightly across her chest.

“Explain. Now.”

He glances toward Melina for help, but none comes.

With a defeated sigh, Alexei finally meets her eyes—briefly.

“Alright, alright,” he mumbles, shifting uncomfortably. “It was…during my last visit to the Carter Kingdom. The queen, uh, she had mentioned she was looking for a suitable match for her niece, and, well, your mother had said that if you hadn’t chosen a partner by your coronation, then we would choose one for you…so I thought perhaps preparing some options beforehand would be good.”

Natasha’s lips part in disbelief.

“Options? You call arranging an engagement contract an option? Why did you never mention this before now?”

“Well, there was that ambush on the way back,” Alexei mumbles, twiddling with his thumbs. “And with everything that happened after, it sort of…slipped my mind.”

“Oh, well, that makes everything okay,” Natasha snaps, sarcasm thick in her voice. “Except—I did choose someone as my partner by the time of my coronation.”

Alexei raises his hands as if to block from his daughter’s wrath.

“Yes, well—that’s why I made sure there was a contingency in place,” he says hastily. “If you couldn’t fulfill the contract, then…Yelena would.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

“What?!” Yelena shoots to her feet, outraged. “Me? You volunteered me like some kind of backup prize?!”

Alexei turns to his other daughter, his hands still up in defense.

“I thought I was doing what was best for the kingdom!”

An exasperated sigh comes from Melina behind her while Natasha presses her fingers to her temple, dragging them down her face in disbelief.

“So let me get this straight. You promised both your daughters to another kingdom—without telling either of us—and you thought that was somehow a good idea?”

Alexei holds up a finger.

“Technically, I only promised one at a time.”

“Alexei,” Melina warns sharply, eyes narrowing.

“What? You have to admit this is a good opportunity. Natasha’s single now anyway,” he mutters.

Silence.

Yelena gapes at him.

Melina closes her eyes with a pained breath.

Natasha lifts her gaze slowly, and the full fury of a queen and daughter simmers in her expression.

Alexei blinks, confused, until he catches the identical looks from the three women in the room. It finally dawns on him.

“That is…unless you are not…actually.” He winces. “Right. That…explains the tension.”

Yelena scoffs.

“Wow. Father of the year.”

Natasha drowns out the following words of her father’s attempt to appease Yelena and Melina.

Her hands drop to her sides, no longer clenched in anger. Her eyes, though, remain sharp and faraway, fixed not on her father but somewhere beyond the walls of this room.

Somewhere softer. Warmer.

She sees you.

Or rather, she remembers you—just hours ago, tangled in silk sheets and the hush of moonlight, your breath warm against her skin. The weight of your body folded into hers, every touch reverent but unhesitant, as if you’d both finally crossed a threshold neither of you wanted to leave.

Your scent still clings faintly to her skin beneath the perfume and ceremony. Your voice, soft and teasing against her ear, still echoes somewhere in the corners of her mind.

The way you looked at her after—that glow in your eyes, like she wasn’t just your queen, but your choice—your future.

That memory stabs deeper than any betrayal in this room.

Because now it’s not just about her future.

It’s about yours.

And it’s about Yelena’s.

Her jaw tenses as she feels the walls start to shift inwards. It's no longer a question of how to respond properly as a ruler but...of who she’s willing to sacrifice.

A chair creaks behind her, the silence too long between her words.

“Nat.”

Her sister’s voice pulls Natasha halfway back into the room.

Yelena’s voice isn’t teasing anymore. There’s no sarcasm in her expression, just quiet concern, the kind that only someone who truly knows her can wear so effortlessly.

“What do we do?”

Natasha exhales a slow and tired breath, her shoulders heavy.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The corridor is silent, except for the soft hush of the wind weaving through the palace arches. Night still blankets the kingdom, moonlight spilling in gentle waves across the stone floor as Natasha stands just outside her chamber door.

She doesn’t move for a long while.

Her hand rests against the carved wood, fingertips brushing the handle but never quite gripping it.

The weight of everything presses in on her—her position, her responsibilities, her family’s choices…the impossible decision looming in her mind.

And you, just on the other side of this door.

She draws in a slow breath, centering herself.

Then, finally, she pushes the door open.

The scent of warmth and soft linen greets her. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the moon pouring through the tall windows, and there you are.

No longer asleep.

You’re standing at the window, wrapped in nothing but one of her robes, the fabric hanging loosely around your form. The light kisses along your cheek, the line of your shoulder, casting you in a glow that nearly brings her to her knees.

You turn toward her, and the moment your eyes meet, your smile blooms—soft, gentle, and unguarded.

That smile breaks her heart.

“Hey,” you say quietly, voice still laced with sleep. “Where’d you go?”

Natasha swallows the lump forming in her throat and answers with as much calm as she can muster.

“Family meeting.”

You nod, understanding flickering in your gaze, and step closer. You don’t press. You never do when you sense her walls are up.

Your arms slide around her waist, pulling her into a hug as you lean in, resting your head against her shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like you’ve always done for many years before.

And for a second, Natasha doesn’t move, her heart heavy in her chest.

Then, slowly, her arms come up around you, pulling you in tighter, holding you like she’s trying to memorize the shape of you against her body. She buries her face into your hair, eyes fluttering shut.

There’s a silence between you, soft and safe.

But you feel the tension in her. The way her muscles are drawn taut, the way her breath is steady but not relaxed.

You murmur into her skin, “Everything okay?”

The question lingers in the air.

Natasha falters.

She should tell you. She should say something—about the contract, about the impossible choice.

About how by tomorrow, the entire kingdom will know what she didn’t have the courage to tell you tonight.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she tightens her arms around you, anchoring herself in your presence, and whispers, “You’ll stay by my side, right?”

You pull back just enough to look into her eyes, your expression sincere and unwavering.

“Always, Natasha.”

Something shatters in her chest.

Unable to hold your gaze any longer, Natasha presses her lips to yours, a silent kiss, soft and lingering.

I’m sorry.

She doesn’t say it aloud.

She can’t.

So she holds you instead, soaking in your warmth, knowing that by tomorrow, nothing will be the same.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

a/n: Thank you for reading! Sorry for the wait and for a short chapter, but I decided to just post it instead of overthinking it.

If you asked to be tagged and I missed it, please let me know again.

Taglist : @midastouch013, @2silverchain, @dvrkhcld, @observeowl, @x-drowned-x, @fireandblood-3, @natsxwife, @leequifey, @blacklightsposts, @srt-sah, @scar-letwidow, @likefirenrain, @autorasexy, @natsbiggestfan1, @lex13cm, @iheartjohansson, @tofu9162, @unexpected-character, @natashasilverfox, @acciowriting, @qtreesfanstuff, @mrsrushman, @inarayofmoonlight, @viosblog112, @inarayofmoonlight, @maximoff-jp, @natashasilverfox, @hellenheaven, @hotcocoandonuts, @alwaysgoodnight, @cactuslover2600, @nebthetautora, @mousetheorist, @dyslexic-dreamer, @canvascoloredin

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanoff

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rederiss · 2 days ago

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In today’s session of Rederiss Rambles, we will be talking about: Jeremy Knox

Buckle up guys, this will get sad. (This is your warning. If you have not read TGR, STOP NOW!!!)

Thesis: Jeremy Knox has a disassociating problem, and I will be shedding light on how this affects the narration, his views on himself, and his views with sex. (This is a very shitty thesis, but whatever. Im graduating soon, so i dont give a fuck)

Before we get going, I am not saying he has a disorder. I am specifically looking at disassociating as a form of coping and disconnecting from the world.

The very first time we, as the audience, may experience may experience a potential disassociating moment from Jeremy Knox is when his brother texts him, and he drops his phone into his coffee (Exhibit A below). I’ve only added these parts of the whole scene to show the full shift. Jeremy literally went from casually talking about the issue at hand to completely a whole different side of him. He starts feeling dread, reads the phone, then drops his phone into his coffee a moment later. He does not even move. Laila had to take the mug out of his hands and the whole scene feels as if everything becomes a fog. The tone Jeremy uses goes from focused to distant, and he’s not fully back until Laila presses a kiss on his temple. Now, we all know that he very much so needs that touch to anchor him…

But sometimes touch doesn’t always anchor him! Sometimes, he uses it as self harm, though he labels it as “rebellion.” Yes, we are now going to talk about his sex life becuase that is such a huge part of Jeremy. Has anyone noticed that Jeremy never details the sex? At first, I thought it was because Nora purposefully omitted those parts, but then after thinking on it, this is Jeremy. If Nora is omitting in Jeremy’s POV, it probably means we should focus on what is being omitted and how she details the omission… and yes you can detail omission. Jeremy Knox is notorious for omitting that we need to focus on it to know more.

For instance, a great example is when he saw the police and kept his eyes forward, trying to ignore the police. We all noticed this, of course. Jeremy was omitting information from us and framing it in away where he attempts to gloss over him doing that, but in reality, it’s a focus point. Why is he doing this? So, we need to really dig into his narration to have some understanding… it’s actually how I figured out he had a sex scandal before TGR came out (look, I made that post as half a joke, as a meme…)

OKAY, so let’s look at an example omission scene… Actually two and compare them now that we know we need to look at how he is framing these omitted information. If you compare both the Leo and Faser sex scenes, you’ll notice the same framing: Jeremy describes some foreplay then omits the entirety of the sex and describes how he leaves. It’s like he mentally goes in and out. We don’t even know that his neck gets bruised until much later. When we learn about the bruises, he passes it off pretty easily and quite literally says “he remembers…” and that it was “easy to ignore” which show some sign of dissociating/disconnecting.

At face value, we wouldn’t think much about Jeremy omitting those scenes, but when you compare them and then add in the “Jeremy remembered Faster’s bruising grip” we get to see a more clear picture. We all know that Jeremy is using sex as self harm, but he also uses it to disconnect from what he doesn’t want to face. Him dissociating during sex is very harmful, which we see with Faser. He remembered, but he ignored since he was more focused on the pleasure (we see this in the next line, I purposely didn’t include).

What I am trying to say is we don’t get details… because Jeremy may just completely disconnect and allow himself to fall into sex. With the extreme that he does this, he no longer uses sex to cope, he uses it to harm himself.

There is one more that I wanted to discuss, that I think is a missed sign of Jeremy having a problem with disociating…

Did not want to add the full scene because it is a couple pages long, but this is the most relevant part. Though I do suggest rereading how this part is framed. Jeremy and Jean are talking, then Jean gave him a reassurance, causing Jeremy to immediately go into a full LONG paragraph about his family’s lackadaisical care for Jeremy/how they view him and how Jean views Jeremy (which Jeremy mischaracterizes). We get this in Jeremy’s POV so it may not have seemed like he became disconnected, but then the above ^^ happened where Jean brought him back.

Jean saying “You go away when you go home” shows how much Jeremy does disconnect, and it’s framed as a coping mechanism… but then the sexual encounters becomes so extreme that it becomes unhealthy, so therefore his coping mechanism is unhealthy. Jeremy needs touch to feel grounded, which is why he uses sex, but it’s now going so far that he’s completely disconnecting and causes himself harm.

#If you got this far #I really applaud you because holy fuck #I yapped #But hey dont get an English major doing analysis posts #aftg #all for the game #jeremy knox #the sunshine court #the golden raven #aftg fandom #jean moreau #tgr spoilers #jerejean

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nats-w1fe · 23 hours ago

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Worse or Even Worse: 3

Natalie Scatorccio x Reader/Shauna Shipman x Reader

Summary: You had all began to accept that you probably weren’t going to be saved and you learn the truth about Shauna and maybe she’s not as perfect as she seemed.

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: Past plane crash, toxic relationship, gore, mentions of blood, abuse, violence, mentions of vomit, broken bones., arguing, bad writing and ither things I’ve probably forgotten

Characters included: Reader, Natalie Scatorccio Lottie Mathews, Shauna Shipman, Jackie Taylor, Van Palmer, Taissa Turner and other Yellowjackets.

A/n: I’m still writing drabbles so please give requests!

Worse or Even Worse Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’d been in the wilderness for a while. Most of you had accepted that you weren’t going to be saved and it’d be best to just give up. You all learnt how to survive in the wilderness, you adapted. Natalie and Travis become the hunters and everyone else just did what they could to help with things. You wanted to be the one to fetch water, but after the injuries to your leg from the plane crash and the wolf attack it would never be the same again. you could still walk on it but after too long the pain would be too much and it would just give out on you.

Still, you did what you could which mostly consisted of helping Akilah, Lottie and Mari look for berries. Today though, your leg was acting up. it ached more than usual and you were told to stay behind. You were sat on a log outside in front of the fireplace. You looked over at Shauna as she sharpened her knife, you couldn’t lie and say she wasn’t at least a bit attractive doing that.

Jackie sat beside you, rambling about random things as usual. You’d admittedly zoned out a while ago In the conversation. Then you saw Natalie and Travis returning from their hunt. Usually they came back empty handed, but this time they came back holding a large deer. Your eyes widen and you carefully pulled yourself up to your feet, using a makeshift walking stick that Van made for you.

“Holy shit” you muttered.

Coach ben looked over, his eyes widened slightly,

“Nicely done, you two” he complimented, walking over with his crutches. You looked at the deer as they placed it on the ground, it was quite hard to look at,

“It was all Natalie” Travis said, you looked over at them. they way they looked at each other made your stomach churn uncomfortably.

“So, what do we do with it now?” you asked, breaking Natalie and Travis’ attention away from each other.

“First, we have to bleed it out.” he told you all. There was a beat of silence until Shauna stood, and cautiously stepped forward,

“I’ll give it a try” she said, taking her hunting knife out. She knelt down beside the animal and pressed the tip of the blade to the deer’s throat. After a moment she plunged it deeper, deeper than began to draw it straight across. As the animals blood began to spill onto the ground, Shauna felt a thrill she hadn’t ever felt before, she craved more.

You grimaced and looked away from the gory sight,

“Well I think that’s settled” Coach Ben said, “Shauna should be the butcher” everyone nodded in agreement. Shauna shot you a smile and you returned, happy for her but you seriously couldn’t look at that blood.

Later that night, in the glow of the blazing fire Shauna diligently worked on sawing hunks off of one of the deer’s legs which she had sloppily severed and skinned. Meanwhile, around the fire Mari had been cooking the meat while everyone else ate. You sat next to Taissa, not a word had been spoken between anyone, much too focussed on eating. You looked over to Shauna and decided to walk over.

“Hi..” you gave her a gentle smile. She looked at you, pausing, almost as if she were admiring you. it made a faint blush grow on your cheeks,

“Hey you, here to help?” she asked, holding up the bloody knife with a grin. You chuckled and grimaced,

“Oh no no I’ll leave it to the professional” you jokingly insisted, she chuckled too and shook her head. Taking your hand she pulled you closer slightly by her side,

“Come on, give it a try”.

She stood behind you, her front pressed against your back as she carefully guided your movements. You cut into the deer’s leg and made a noise of disgust; she chuckled and you only then realised how close she was to you. Her warm breath fanned against your neck,

“There you go, see you’re actually alright at it” she muttered into your ear. You were more than grateful it was dark out and Shauna couldn’t see how red your face had become.

Natalie glanced over at you two. Her jaw clenched and her grip on her tray of food tightened. She placed her tray down, suddenly put off of her food. She stood, walking off as she couldn’t look at the sight of you and Shauna any longer. Jackie noticed and quickly walked after her.

“Hey! Hold up” she called out to her. Natalie groaned and turned to her,

“What?” she asked.

“Y’know you cant be annoyed at Y/n for finally moving on” when Natalie scoffed in response, Jackie continued “You treated her like shit and she deserves so much more than an alcoholic druggy who probably cheated on her any chance she got” Jackie told her, crossing her arms over her chest. You had told her everything that happened between you and Natalie, it took a lot of persuading to convince Jackie not to slap the shit out of her.

“You’re right, she did deserve better…but I never cheated on her, okay?” Natalie said. It was true, she would’ve never done that to you,

“Well you used her! If you know she deserved better why didn’t you treat her better then?”

Natalie sighed and pulled Jackie further away from everyone just to be sure you wouldn’t hear

“I didn’t use her, I lied…okay you’re right, she does deserve better because I am a druggy and I am an alcoholic and I’m a fucking mess, and she is just…” Natalie sighed, looking over at you and Shauna. You were giggling and just looked so happy, it made her heart ache, “She deserves so much better than me, if Shauna makes her happy then that’s all I want for her” she explained simply, looking down at the ground. Jackie softened slightly,

“Oh…you really like my sister then huh?” she asked, unfolding her arms and dropping them to her side.

Natalie nodded,

“I think I love her, but I don’t know how be in a proper relationship, I’m not good at it…Y/n deserves better than me so I had to let her go, its best if she just thinks I was just using her” Jackie couldn’t think of what to say, so without a word she turned on her heels and walked off, running a hand through her hair.

You sat next to Shauna on the floor, leaning against her with your head resting on her shoulder. Music started playing, “this is how we do it” came from the Walkman. You chuckled and watched as a few of the gurls launched into a choreographed dance number, elaborate enough you could tell they’d been working on this for weeks. Mari, Akilah, Lottie and Van came in doing the running man while quite literally chanting the words ‘running man’. You giggled, then Shauna suddenly stood up and joined Taissa, Natalie and some others as they did the Bart Simpson dance move.

“And Javi... and-- Javi, you're late!” Mari exclaimed, Javi hurried to get on beat and Taissa jumped in the help. They all re-synchronized and everyone cheered. Suddenly the tape began to struggle, the song creepily slowly and distorting into an eerie dirge before stopping completely. Everyone stopped. Van walked over, giving the Walkman a few hopeful smacks,

“Has hitting something ever fixed it?” she asked to no avail, everyone walked over to try give their assistance,

“Maybe try blowing on it?” you offered, still sat down.

Before anyone could reply they all heard a distinct, sustained scrapping noise from the attic. You looked up at the attic in fear.

“Um. The fuck is that?” Jackie asked, everyone paused and stared up at the ceiling. You carefully stood and walked closer to Shauna.

“...You hear it, too?” Lottie asked, seemingly very surprised. Everyone looked at her, quite confused. You held onto Shauna’s hand.

“It's probably just a branch” Taissa casually remarked, trying to ease the tension.

“Inside? On the floor?” Mari asked, she paused. Everyone seemed to tense at that slightly, “What if it's him?” she suddenly asked.

“What, the dead guy?” Shauna then questioned. You tensed once again. Ghosts weren’t real, right?

“Um, yeah” Mari responded, as if it were obvious. Taissa snorted defensively. Then Natalie spoke up, in a deadpan voice,

“You know what it probably was? The dead guy's missing fingers... trying to find their way home” she teased. A few of the girls squealed, including you as you clutched onto Shauna’s arm. Taissa shot Natalie a glare, “You really have to encourage them?”

Akilah then said to Taissa,

“You gotta admit, it didn’t sound like it was on the roof” she said, sounding extremely nervous just like the rest of you. Jackie joined in,

“Fine, so it was a rat, or a racoon…or I dunno-“ she was cut off when Lottie called out,

“Shhhh! Listen!”

Everyone paused, straining to hear, but there was only silence.

“Well I don’t hear it now” Mari said which a shrug and others agreed. Before the debate could resume Coach Scott spoke up,

“You know what I think? I think the ghost decided it's time to get some sleep. We should do the same” he said. Thus concluding another evening of the forever slumber.

You changed into your pyjamas, pulling your shirt over your head you caught Shauna staring at you. You blushed, expecting her to look away, but she didn’t. you looked down at the ground as you changed, feeling her eyes on you the whole time.

That morning was your least favourite. You woke up to your period. In fact everyone had their period. You’d all synced. Luckily for you, you didn’t get cramps. But you did get a very heavy flow. You sat outside, eating your breakfast. You looked over as the cabin door opened and Jackie walked out. Van and Laura Lee hung laundry together while Taissa chopped wood nearby. Other girls stacked chopped wood by the cabin and swept the porch. Akilah was rolling torn-up shirts into makeshift pads. Right by her were two heavy pots, simmering over the fire.

Jackie made her way over to the breakfast pot till Mari intercepted her, shoving an empty bucket into her hands,

“How about getting some more water? Breakfast isn’t going anywhere” Jacke shot her a glare before walking off.

After a bit Jackie came back holding a the heavy, sloshing bucket, clearly struggling. As awkward as it was, it was not hard to feel like she was being extra dramatic as she set it down to rest. Taissa and Van both shared an eyeroll at the sight. Catching the look, Shauna made her way to Jackie,

“Need a hand?” she asked her.

“No, I can do it…Why are you so chipper? Or don't you have a blood sacrifice between your legs like the rest of us?” When Jackie noticed Shauna hesitate she then asked, “Hang on... do you not?”

“I'm... late this month. I mean, we were in a plane crash, so it's probably just stress.” Shauna responded, shrugging it off,

“Lucky you're a virgin or we'd really have to worry...speaking of…what’s going on between you and Y/n?” she asked. Shauna looked over at where you were sat.

“Dunno yet…I like her though; I think she might like me too” she said hopefully, Jackie hesitated. She knew Shauna had a crush on you for a while. The way she looked at you was far from friendly, she even noticed how she would look at you when you got changed. It made her uncomfortable, she didn’t know why but she never confronted Shauna about it.

“Right, well you know just be gentle with her, she only recently got out of a relationship not too long ago” Jackie told her, placing the bucket back down. Shauna nodded and picked it up for her,

“I know, I wont hurt her Jackie” was all she said before she walked off. Something deep inside Jackie just made her feel so unsure about this, something felt off.

Shauna went to cut up some more of the deer, she stood by her bench, taking her knife out. She then looked over at you, you were already looking at her. You smiled and gave her a sheepish wave. She waved her hand, beckoning you over. Carefully, you stood up, walking over to her with a slight limp.

She smiled at you,

“Hey, I wanna give you something” she told you; you looked slightly confused but kept your smile on your face,

“Okay…what is it?” you asked, she put her hands on your hips and gently turned you around so that your back was to her. a small blush lingered on your cheeks as she put a necklace around your neck. You looked down at it and recognised it as Jackie’s heart necklace. You smiled and looked at her, “I thought Jackie gave this to you?” you asked her. She shrugged with a small smirk,

“And now I’ve given it to you…you wanna give me something in return?” she asked. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, but when her eyes flicked to your lips you realised what you meant. With slight hesitancy you leaned in, connecting your lips with hers. It was a quick kiss but gentle.

Shauna grinned as you pulled away,

“Now that, I’ll cherish” she teased. You couldn’t help the giggle that fell from your lips,

“Good” you grinned, scrunching your nose up. She found that adorable, which made her question that deep, burning sensation, that sensation that was so deep down and rooted into her soul. She wanted to ruin that smile. Ever since she pushed the blade into the deer for the first time she had a thirst for blood. Your blood. Your tears. Your pain. She craved it.

Natalie watched from afar. A sick feeling rose in her throat and she felt like she could strangle someone, Shauna to be specific. She didn’t deserve you; you were too perfect for Shauna. Those lips didn’t deserve to touch anyone, not Natalie and certainly not Shauna. When you turned your head you caught Natalie’s eye. She snapped her head away, continuing on with her current task. That stung. You knew you weren’t over Natalie, you didn’t know if you ever could be. But you did honestly think you had feelings for Shauna, she was always there for you, she looked after you, she understood you and It helped she was attractive.

Natalie then felt a tap on her shoulder, she looked and saw Lottie holding the bucket,

“Hey, wanna come get some water with me?” she asked, with a sweet smile. Natalie couldn’t help but smile back, she nodded,

“Sure, but didn’t Jackie grab water not too long ago?” she asked, furrowing her brows slightly as they began to walk.

“Yeah but with washing all the pads, we’ve already run out” Lottie chuckled.

They went to the lake; Natalie carefully dipped the bucket in and picked some water out. Lottie stared at her the whole time. Just as Natalie turned to talk to Lottie, the brunette crashed her lips against Nat’s, kissing her. She was clearly not experienced, but she wasn’t terrible. Natalie didn’t pull away for a second, till she did.

“Lottie I- I can’t” she dropped the bucket and quickly walked off, leaving the brunette alone at the lake.

It had been a few more weeks. Food was growing slim again and more than anything you wanted a good, well-cooked steak. Things with you and Shauna had been going well. She was so kind to you, so gentle. You weren’t officially together, but you sure acted as such. She always called you nicknames, things like ‘doll’ and ‘babe.’ You did notice Shauna acting quite weird though, she disappeared earlier with Taissa and you had noticed something is changing in her appearance, but you couldn’t figure out what is was.

You were sat with Shauna, leaning against her when Natalie and Travis emerged from the forest, holding a dead deer. You grimaced at the sight of it, its antlers were coated in blood and flesh, everyone cheered,

“Whoa. That thing is gnarly” Van said, “It's like--Freddy Krueger and Bambi had a baby” she commented, making a few laugh.

“I'm not eating that” you said, grimacing at the sight. Shauna took her hunting knife out her pocket and stood.

“Guys, deer shed their antlers seasonally. This is all normal.” Coach Ben insists, he then looks at Shauna, “You want to do the honours?” Shauna walked to the deer, crouching down as she cut into its belly. A chorus of disgust followed at the sight of the inside of the deer, it was infested with parasitic worms. Completely inedible. You couldn’t see from where you were standing, you went to go look.

Natalie noticed this, she knew how sensitive you were to things like that and you’d throw up at the sight. Out of instinct, she quickly stepped in front of you, gently grabbing your wrist to stop you from going over,

“Don’t” she said, her voice gentle. You were taken aback slightly by the sudden action and froze for a moment before pulling your wrist away harshly and sitting back down. Shauna watched the interaction, her jaw clenched.

“That normal too, Coach?” Jackie asked, Ben looked as grossed out as the others. You heard Taissa scoff,

“We can't do this anymore, you guys! What happens when winter gets here? We starve to death? Freeze?” she questioned, looking around at her troubled faces of her teammates. All except for Lottie who continued to stare at the deer. “We can't count on getting rescued anymore-- we all know that is not gonna happen. We have to save us. That's why I'm gonna go find help.” Some of the girls seemed shocked, while others, along with you seemed on board. “I'm leaving in the morning. Come with

me if you want to get out of this fucking hellhole.” Was all she said before turning back to the cabin

Anxious murmurs aroused as she left. You stared at the floor, Tai was right, you couldn’t wait here any long to be saved. This could be the only way home.

Taissa stood opposite the rest of the Yellowjackets around the campfire. She scanned their faces, looking for hints of dissent,

“Everyone?” she asked, Jackie spoke first,

“Some of us think there aren’t any good ideas”.

“Well, we have to do something. We're starving. There's nothing to hunt. And it might still be warm enough during the day, but it's starting to get cold at night...” Taissa explained to everyone, you knew you were already on board with going,

“The animals must be migrating.” Misty said, gasping in realisation.

“That's probably why the only game we've seen for weeks was the one sick deer. And it's just gonna keep getting colder. Not 'I-better-put-on coat cold.' We're talking 'dying-feels-like-falling-asleep cold’” you shifted uncomfortably, leaning more into Shauna who put a comforting arm around you. You decided to just block out what they were saying, choosing to instead stare down at the dirt.

But as they spoke, Taissa’s words pulled you out of your zone,

“Anyone who wants to come with me is welcome. But I'm going.” She said, grabbing her bag off of the floor,

“I’m coming” you said, everyone seemed surprised by this. At the same time, Natalie, Jackie and Shauna all spoke up in unison,

“What?” you looked at them and shrugged.

“You’re not going” Shauna said, the way she said it was as if there was no room for argument. Like she had control over what you did,

“Listen, if I'm wrong, I'll die out there” she paused, “I'm leaving in an hour.” Was all Tai said before pushing through the crowd and walking off.

You looked at Shauna,

“I’m going” you then looked at Jackie, “I want to actually help for once, so I’m going” you stood up with a bit of a limp. Jackie scoffed,

“Y/n you can barely walk, you’re not going and that’s final” you then scoffed too,

“You cant fucking control me Jackie” you stormed off in a random direction.

Natalie sighed and looked at Shauna. She couldn’t help the way her eyes widened slightly. Shauna looked fucking furious, like she was going to explode. She clenched her fists and got up, going after you. Immediately Nat felt unsettled, she got up to go after her but Jackie held her arm,

“Just leave her” she clearly didn’t see Shauna’s state.

You stumbled slightly as you walked, your leg ached. You then suddenly tripped, hitting the floor with a grunt. Shauna came up behind you,

“Are you fucking stupid?” she asked, your brows furrowed. Struggling, you pulled yourself back up to your feet, “Excuse me?”

“You’re basically fucking crippled Y/n, you’re not going so stop being a brat” she spat, the words stung to hear from Shauna, someone who was usually so kind to you,

“Fuck you Shauna” you went to walk past her till you felt a harsh hit to your face then a shove. You landed back on the floor with a small cry of pain,

“Don’t talk to me like that you little bitch..”

You looked up at her in pure fear and surprised, nobody had ever laid a hand on you like that.

“You’re a psychopath!” you yelled at her. Without hesitating another second she quickly got on top of you, you yelled and tried to squirm away. she slapped her hand over your mouth, you bit down on her hand. she pulled her hand away and slapped you hard across the face. Tears filled your eyes as you tried to push her away, “Get off of me!” you yelled to her, hoping someone would here.

You then felt her hands around your throat, you gasped as she started to squeezed. You slapped at her hands, trying to push them away. It wasn’t working. The harder she squeezed the weaker you felt, you didn’t know if you could fight back anymore. Just as you were on the brink of passing out she let go and got up. you gasped out, taking in as much air as you could. Choking, you sobbed loudly. But you weren’t as loud as you were when she suddenly brought her foot down on your ankle, on your bad leg. You screamed in pure agony. You were sure the others could hear.

Quickly Shauna crouched by your side and held your body In her arms, you tried to squirm away but then suddenly felt her hunting knife to your back,

“Shhh baby…don’t move, be a good girl” you whimpered quietly, “You’re not going to tell the others about this, you fell and hurt your leg real bad…and I helped you, hm?” she told you. she ran a hand through your hair, the soothing action calmed you down slightly. You sniffled and gave a small nod,

“O-Okay..”

Jackie sprinted over, followed by Tai, Van, Lottie, Mari, and Misty. They looked at you in shock, then Natalie appeared, holding her rifle as if she thought you were being attacked. You buried your face in Shauna’s shirt, not being able to look at the others.

“What happened?” Jackie asked, rushing to your side,

“I think she fell” Shauna lied, very well too, “She’s hurt her ankle really badly”.

“Were you not with her? You went straight after her so you couldn’t have been far” Natalie speculated, she knew Shauna was lying. It pained her, she knew Shauna hurt you but there was nothing she could do about it,

“What are you insinuating?” Shauna scoffed.

“That doesn’t matter, we need to get her back to camp so we can help her” Misty said, Shauna picked you up in her arms and carefully carried you back to camp. Natalie glanced at you every now and then, checking your condition. Her brows furrowed when she noticed odd marks on your neck, they appeared to look like red lines, handprints. Out of anyone, Natalie would be the one to recognise that.

#yellowjackets #shauna shipman #natalie scatorccio x reader #natalie scatorccio #sophie thatcher #sophie nelisse #shauna shipman x reader

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the-halloween-jack · 10 hours ago

Text

Tether ✢ Jason Todd

Synopsis: When a battered Jason stumbles into an alley and finds unexpected refuge in a stranger’s kindness, it sparks a fracture in the walls he’s built to survive. Trust was never a luxury he could afford, but as survival blurs into something more, Jason is forced to confront the most dangerous risk of all, love.

Jason Todd x Reader, female pronouns.

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and scars. Hurt with comfort.

Masterlist

Notes: A couple of weeks ago, I posted a pair of headcanons, 'when he realised he loved you' and 'when he admitted he loved you'. A few people were interested in an extension of Jason's parts, and this is the result. So, if some moments sound familiar, that is why. It follows Jason as he meets, gets to know, and, eventually, falls in love with the reader.

Words: 5,992k

The air was thick with the acrid scent of oil and looming rain. The Gotham sky threatened a storm, as it always did, the kind that lurked but never quite arrived, it pressed down upon her shoulders; she huddled against it. Y/N did not intend to be outside long. It was just the rubbish, nothing more than a trip down two flights of stairs to the alley behind her apartment, a chore too mundane to warrant much forethought. But that is when she saw him.

At first, Y/N was not sure what she was looking at. Just a shadow, too still, too broken at the base of the brick wall. Then it moved, a sharp, pained shift, and the outline resolved itself into something unmistakably human.

He was bleeding. Not in the way of scrapes and gashes; this was deeper, darker. New wounds layered atop old scars. She froze, bin bag clutched within her grasp, knuckles white. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He did not look at her. He was watching the mouth of the alley, just past the corner, breath coming fast and shallow. Voices echoed from somewhere beyond. Sharp. Searching.

‘Where the fuck did he go?’

‘Check the rooftops. Check the damn dumpsters. He couldn’t have gone far.’

His eyes flicked up, just barely, only enough to register her. His shoulders fell slack, ever so slightly. She was not a threat. Just a girl.

Jason Todd had been in more confrontations than anyone should survive. He had bled in them, broken in them, died in one. There was a pattern to this kind of moment, the hush before pain returned, the liminal space where adrenaline gave way to his collapse. He had learned to expect nothing from strangers. No mercy. No help. Just the turning away of eyes and the closure of doors. So when she stepped forward instead of flinching, when her voice did not falter or fill with fear, something within him stalled.

‘My place is just there,’ she said, nodding toward the fire escape tucked beside the alley’s edge.

‘You can’t stay here. They’ll find you.’

He did not react, nor move; he simply watched her.

‘You need to get off the street,’ she added, lower now. ‘You won’t make it five minutes if they come back this way.’

Still, he hesitated. His whole body was coiled with his refusal. She could see it in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers hovered near his belt, ready to draw, to run, to die fighting. She dropped her gaze, it fell to rest on his boots.

‘I’m not trying to trap you,’ she said, voice quieter now, nothing more than a whisper. ‘I’m trying to help.’

That was the part he could not understand, would not let himself believe. Why would anyone help him? Especially like this, so suddenly, without demand, without recognition. She did not know who he was, not really. If she did, would she have still reached for him?

Another voice rang out nearby. Closer this time.

She stepped forward and reached for his arm without thinking. He flinched, not from pain, but reflex. The kind born of being mishandled too many times. But he did not pull away. She guided him to his feet, shocked by how heavily he leaned once upright, how much weight he was carrying in silence.

And he followed.

All the while, Jason could not make sense of it. A thousand voices in his head, Bruce’s warnings, Alfred’s caution, his own brutal sense of realism, all shouted at him to resist, to stay low, to get out. But this woman, this stranger, offered him nothing but quiet resolve. And something in him, something tired and long frayed, gave in.

Her apartment was small, neat, yet well-lived-in. Warm lights, blankets strewn unceremoniously over the couch, a kettle still warm upon the stove. He stood in the centre of her living room, stiff and vigilant, akin to a stray dog unsure if the hand reaching for it would offer food or a harsh blow.

He should not have come. He knew this was a mistake. He did not belong in spaces like this. Every breath of its domestic warmth grated against the sharp edges of his being, reminded him of everything he had lost and all he had ruined. And yet he stayed, frozen beneath the soft lighting, the aromatic scent of bergamot and quiet calm surrounding him like a haze.

‘You need a hospital,’ she muttered, though her tone already bore traces of defeat; she knew this sentiment would be futile.

He turned immediately, preparing to leave.

‘Or not,’ she amended quickly, voice grim, and stepped into his path. ‘You’re not going back out there like this. At least sit down.’

He halted. Only because the pain had lanced through his ribs like a warning. He hated this, the helplessness, the imbalance. But she did not look upon him as a burden, but simply as someone who needed help.

Reluctantly, he eased himself onto the edge of her worn armchair, its leather creaking beneath him. His mask remained on, armour still clinging to him; blood was now beginning to seep through the layers. He shifted his weight, conscious of ruining her chair.

She returned with a first aid kit, unassuming, but well-stocked. He did not stop her when she knelt beside him, did not flinch when she pulled back the material of his jacket and placed it aside, though his hands twitched at every passing sound beyond the apartment. When she reached for his armour, the woman hesitated, not wanting to overstep, though Jason understood and quickly pulled it back in parts, revealing only what was necessary.

She did not ask questions. Not the ones he had expected when he followed her here. She was not probing for his name or what he had done to deserve this, what had happened for him to pursue it. She just worked, focused and calm. Her touch was gentle, but not tentative. She bore a steadiness he had not expected, not from someone who should have recoiled, who should have been scared.

Jason found himself watching her, not with suspicion, but with something near disbelief. Why? Why was she doing this? Did she think she was helping some misguided hero? Did she see something redeemable within the blood and ruin of him?

Did she not care who he was? Did she not care about what he does?

These thoughts gnawed at him more than anything else. It bothered him that this kindness may not be the fallacy of a skewed perception, but rather a simple resolve to help, despite everything he was.

When she finished, she offered him water. He took it, fingers brushing hers. It grounded him more than he cared to admit.

‘There’s a spare bed in the study,’ she said. ‘You can rest there tonight.’

He did not answer. But he followed again as she walked away, grabbing his clothes that lay discarded on her floor. Something about her voice, soft, steady and undemanding, made resistance feel pointless.

Then she opened a door. It was a small room, books lined the shelves, and a narrow bed was tucked into the corner, with clean sheets and a folded quilt.

‘There’s a lock,’ she said, gesturing to the inside of the door. ‘If you need it. You can take your mask off. I won't be able to open it from the outside.’

He looked at her then. Truly looked. Not for weakness. Not for a motive. But for the truth. And what he saw left him stunned, not simply because it was unfamiliar, but because it was real. There was no pity within her unrelenting gaze. No awe. Just, quiet offering.

He did not say thank you. He could not. Jason could feel the words billow on the edge of his tongue; he yearned for her to understand his gratitude, and though he could not utter them, she nodded as though she had heard them anyway. His relief was palpable.

Then he stepped inside as she hovered in the doorway. For the first time, he spoke up,

‘What’s your name?’ He wanted his voice to come across as gentle, but there was a gruffness he could not quite quell. She did not seem fazed by it.

‘Y/N.’ She murmured, and when it became clear to her that this conversation would not expand beyond this simple query, she closed the door.

He remained there for a moment longer, staring where she had just been, before shifting the latch of the lock. Jason peeled back the remaining layers of his ensemble until he was left in nothing but his boxers. It was not ideal, but he could not bear the notion of crawling beneath her covers in his grimy, blood-uncrusted getup. The bed was small yet inviting, his frame hardly fit, though he could not recall the last time he had been this comfortable. He was not sure if it was the sleeping arrangement or the soft snores of the girl across the hall that acted as a reminder of someone who had been so unusually kind. Regardless of the catalyst, he fell into a quick slumber as a foreign warmth bloomed within his chest.

By morning, the door was open.

Not just unlocked, but wide and unoccupied. The bed was made, the quilt folded precisely. The only trace of him was a faint indentation left upon the pillow; if she had not known better, if she had not just thrown away his bloodied gauze, she could easily believe he was never there.

She stood in the doorway for a prolonged moment, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed. The quiet lingered around her, louder now, and she caught herself wondering if he would ever come to fill it once more.

Jason should have known better.

The notion built upon him slowly, like bruises forming beneath his skin, invisible at first, until the ache settled and colour bloomed. The morning he slipped from her apartment, he had told himself it was nothing more than a fleeting refuge. He left nothing behind. He would not burden her with the aftermath of last night’s choices. But it was not until he had cleared the block, boots light, breath even, body stitched back into shape, that the thought hit him like a bat to the ribs.

He led them to her.

Not intentionally. Never that. But reckless all the same. The alley had been a haven born of desperation, not strategy. He had not known where he was going, he only knew that he had needed to get away. And when she opened that door to him, he walked through it without so much as a second thought. Without calculating the risks.

And now the calculation was catching up with him. This kind samaritan was in danger because of him.

He returned that night. However, Jason did not allow himself to venture too close. He perched three rooftops down, crouched low in the shadows, eyes locked on the slow hum of the street outside her building. The fire escape remained still. Lights flickered softly inside.

She was fine.

But that did not soothe him.

He stayed longer than he meant to. Hours passed. Long enough that the shadows stretched and yawned, long enough that his body reminded him it had not properly healed. Still, he waited. Not for her. Not really. That is what he told himself, at the very least. He was not watching her. He would never do that. He never allowed his gaze to touch her window. He was not here for her.

He was here for them.

The ones who had chased him. The ones still searching. If they had half the sense he wielded, they would retrace his escape route. They would check for kindness. They would look for open doors and cracked windows and people foolish enough to help. He hated how plausible it was.

And so he came back again the next night.

And the one after.

It became routine, though he refused to admit that to himself. This was a stakeout. A surveillance effort. He was not lingering. He was not tethered. He certainly was not attached.

But even in the silence, even with his gaze anchored on the street, he could sense her behind that wall; he pictured her reading in that chair, sipping from the chipped mug he could envision near the sink. She did not know he was out here. She could not. He would never be that careless.

Yet, somehow, it still felt like he was trespassing, even though he had not so much as looked at her in all this time. That strange warmth she had offered him, freely, like it had cost her nothing, haunted him more than pain ever had.

He told himself he would stop. Every night, he told himself it would be the last.

He was so very close to relenting when he laid eyes on her for the first time since that night, she was not in the hazy warmth of the apartment, but under the jarring clarity of daylight. Mid-morning. A street corner in Park Row. She had a velvet bag slung over her shoulder, a paperback in one hand and half a pastry in the other. Casual and effortless.

He nearly walked past her.

Jason knew he should have.

But the moment he registered her, truly saw her, without the fog of blood loss and alleyway silence, something happened. Something ridiculous. His stomach flipped. Not in fear, but... something worse. Something more dangerous. Something soft. A breathless kind of jolt that made his chest feel too tight.

Butterflies.

He scoffed aloud at the word.

Ridiculous. Juvenile. Weak.

But they were there, fluttering behind his bruises, beating against ribs that had withstood so much worse. And the worst part? He did not hate the sensation.

Though he certainly did not trust it.

She did not recognise him. How could she? They were meeting in a new context. She stood before a different version of him. No mask, no blood, no warning in his eyes. Just a hoodie, dark jeans, hair still mussed from too little sleep. He looked... normal. That was the trick of it. That was the danger.

He could speak to her now, and it would not be an invasion. This was not some rooftop vigil. It was not surveillance steeped in adrenaline and exhaustion. This was his chance.

A chance he should not take. Though Jason felt the butterflies once more and spoke anyway.

‘Hey,’ he uttered, too rough, the word catching against a throat unused to casual conversation.

She turned. Eyed him.

No recognition.

‘Sorry, this is probably strange,’ he added quickly, stuffing his hands into his pockets, as though that could hide the nervous itch crawling under his skin. ‘You just looked like you could use a second cup of coffee. Or company. Or both.’

She blinked. Then, a slow, small smile.

‘Is that your way of asking me out?’

He froze. Not because she was wrong. But because she was direct. Unflinching. Just as she had been before. Could it really be that easy?

He laughed. A low, surprised sound that felt foreign against his tongue.

‘Yeah. I guess it is.’

She studied him for a breath longer, then nodded, easy as anything.

‘Alright. But I’ll take a tea.’

He wanted to ask her name again. Wanted to tell her his.

But instead, he fell into step beside her, quiet, casual. Just another face on the street, a casual trip to a café. He felt a blush creep onto his skin, and he turned away from her, fidgeting hands buried deep in his pockets.

It was not love at first sight. Jason did not believe in things like that, not anymore.

If anything, it was suspicion at the first conversation. Interest at second. Uncertainty for the next dozen or so. She had no idea who he was, and he preferred it that way. There was a freedom in this anonymity, in being seen without history clawing at his heels. She did not look at him like she was waiting for something to fall apart. She did not glance at his hands like she expected them to be bloodied. She saw him for who he truly was, it felt like the rarest thing of all.

And so he kept showing up.

Cafés became a habit. A tether. Once a week, then twice. Never planned, always on a whim, or so they liked to pretend. They visited bookstores and late-night markets. Together, they would walk past the same food trucks where Y/N would consistently order the wrong thing as though it were a rule, never complaining. Though she would smile sheepishly when Jason offered his much more appetising selection.

Y/N would ask him about books. Music. The kinds of questions he had not been asked in years. He did not always answer. Sometimes he just watched her talk, let the cadence of her voice steady the parts of him that threatened to fray.

She had looked different in the daylight.

Less shadowed. Still sharp, still grounded, but without the weight of the tension that had hung between them that night. She had laughed once, and the sound had startled him. It was unguarded. Open. He had not heard anything that unafraid directed at him for a long time.

He had to stop himself from reaching for it.

Jason tried to keep it casual, whatever this was. Whatever they were circling. He made sure never to cross certain lines. He would not stay too long. He would not text first. He would not touch her unless she touched him. There was an instance where she had brushed her fingers over his knuckles on the edge of a café table, he had stared down at the spot as though it had caught fire.

She did not comment. Just went back to sipping her tea, Earl Grey. He could smell the bergamot wafting from it, as he had in her apartment that first night.

He could not define when it changed. When the space between them stopped feeling like distance and started feeling like an invitation. Maybe it was the first time she made him laugh, not a small chuckle, not one of those scoffs of disbelief, but a genuine, gut-twisting kind of laugh that left him breathless. She had just looked at him with raised brows, like she was not sure whether to be proud or concerned.

Maybe it was the night she found him again, bleeding, no more than that first time. A busted lip, bruised jaw; he had already changed into his regular clothes and considered turning around. He should not allow her to see him like this. But before he could bring himself to move, she opened the door and ushered him inside without question.

Did not so much as blink. Just helped him again, only her touch was familiar and welcome now. Still careful, still steady.

And when she looked at him, saw past the blood and the scowl and the silence, she reached up and brushed his hair back from his face, her thumb resting at the corner of his temple. Nothing more. How could she accept him so willingly, without question? How could she not demand the catalyst of his newly mangled face and bloodied knuckles?

Jason had kissed her then. He had not planned it. It was simple instinct, or rather an impulse, or some failing of his exhausted restraint. But she did not flinch. Did not push away. She just leaned in, met him halfway, soft and certain.

After that, there was no use pretending.

It was not some grand explosion, not as books had made him believe. There were no bold declarations, no breathless confessions. Jason did not see romance the way others did. He did not show up with flowers. He did not call just to say he missed her. He barely knew how to say what he felt, let alone trust that it would not crumble in his grasp.

But she understood him in a language he had not known he was speaking. When he disappeared for three days and came back with split knuckles and a haunted look, she did not demand an explanation. Just held his gaze for a moment too long and set a cup of tea on the table beside him.

He would never deserve her. He knew that. This concept was stitched into every part of his being, the sense of ruin, of fracture, of being too far gone to love or be loved back. But she never asked him to deserve her. She just asked him to show up. And over time, he did. More than he thought he could.

Eventually, she saw through him.

Not all at once. But in pieces. The subtle way he scanned every room before they entered it. The half-second delay before he ever turned his back. The scars he never explained, the exhaustion he carried within his shoulders.

He realised he could not lose her, the very thought of it left him asphyxiated, left him gasping and sputtering for air. It terrified him more than anything ever had. It was worse than the crowbar, worse than the vestige of the green glow left shimmering behind closed eyelids. He remembers how he had met her, how she had helped him so unflinchingly, how he had been bewildered by her lack of fear. And he realised this actuality left him horror-struck. What if she helped someone in this manner once more? What if they were not so kind?

This is how he justified his need to remain in her orbit: that his vigilance was the only way to keep her safe from all lingering dangers, but even as the words circled his mind, a deep, gnawing doubt took root. Was he truly only here to protect her? Jason knew better, a heinous selfishness had been sown, and he stayed because he could not bear the notion of parting with her. Could he ever atone for how these mistakes had already placed her in harm’s way? The weight of that guilt threatened to crush him, but he could not walk away now; he was in too deep.

It happened with a shift of fabric. A flash of his skin. A scar.

They were in her kitchen. She had been making him breakfast. Jason, barefoot and groggy, was pretending not to enjoy the way she fussed over the frying pans. He had reached for something on the top shelf, muttering under his breath about her terrible organisational choices. Y/N had laughed and leant against the counter, trying not to watch the way the muscles in his back shifted beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

Then the hem lifted.

Just a little. A second, maybe less. But time had a strange way of stretching in moments like this, in moments that mattered.

The scar was thin and brutal, a memory carved into his flesh. Indented above the waistband of his jeans, angled on his side. She remembered it too well. The jagged line. The way this shiny white mark had gleamed underneath blood-soaked skin, beneath dour body armour…

Her breath caught.

She did not mean to gasp. It was soft. Barely audible. But it was enough.

Jason froze.

Then, akin to a fiend caught suspended within a spotlight, his hand dropped from the shelf and yanked the shirt down with quiet, desperate precision. He met her gaze.

But it was too late.

She had seen it. And more than that, she recognised it; he could discern familiarity as it flooded her perception.

He moved toward her, slow and measured, but stopped over a metre short. He already knew what was written across her face, he had no choice but to meet it head-on.

Their eyes locked, though neither of them shifted.

Silence bloomed between them, vast, tense and electric. Though not empty. It was full of all the acts and secrets he had not disclosed to her. Visions of the alleyway, of blood and heavy breaths, the weight of him leaning against her to stay upright, and her hands pressing gauze against the cuts that circled that familiar scar.

‘You remember.’ He spoke quietly.

It was not framed as a question, it was a statement, an observation.

She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. ‘That night,’ she whispered. ‘The one in the alley.’

He nodded once. Just once. Nothing theatrical. Nothing dramatic. But it felt like the earth beneath them had shifted.

Red Hood.

It all slotted into place, the bruises, the silence, the way he would flinch ever so slightly when she would reach for a part of him he did not want seen. She had known he carried secrets. Had made peace with the fact that some parts of him were locked behind years of pain and choices she might never fully comprehend.

But this… this was different.

‘You should’ve told me,’ she murmured, not out of anger, but the truth felt heavy against her tongue. Like it had waited too long to be spoken aloud.

Jason’s jaw flexed, a muscle twitching in his cheek. ‘I didn’t want to lose this.’ He motioned around them, motioned towards her.

‘This?’ she echoed, almost hollow.

He looked upon her as though she were deserving of reverence, as though he could scarcely believe she was his to hold, yet, even now, his manner was crumpled with wretched trepidation. Jason awaited her outburst, anticipating the command to leave; he could not bear the weight of her silence.

‘You. This place. The quiet. The version of me that you know.’ He added.

She stared at him, truly stared, and realised something terrifying: she had known. Maybe not consciously, not in the way of facts, names and alter-egos, but within her bones. In the way he moved. The way he disappeared. In the weight he bore like a shroud, constricting him with every breath.

And she had loved him anyway.

The hood, the violence, the vigilante beneath her kitchen light, none of it overwrote the man who made her tea when she could not sleep. The man who listened to her gush about books and could recall her favourite lines. Who kissed her like she was something he did not think he deserved, and treated her like she was the only real thing in a world full of spectres; Y/N was sure this was what he told himself.

Her voice was soft when she finally spoke again.

‘You didn’t have to be someone else to be wanted, I hope you know that.’

He closed his eyes, and she watched as something in him fractured, not like breaking glass, but like old tension unravelling; she could see his apprehension flow out from beneath his skin.

‘I know,’ he said, barely above a whisper. ‘But I didn’t know how to be him… and still be this.’

She stepped forward. One pace. Two. Slow. Careful. As if approaching something transient.

Jason flinched, not quite pulling away, not quite reaching out. A lifetime of rejection was hardwired into his muscle memory. Though he caught himself before he could move away, standing rigid as she closed the space between them.

Her hand found his, warm and steady. He looked down at their entwined fingers. Jason could not believe that something so simple could feel so profound.

‘You’re simply you, boyfriend by day and regrettably, vigilante by night. Knowing this won’t change how I think of you,’ she affirmed. Then she tilted her head, thoughtful, and spoke once more.

‘Though… it may just heighten my anxiety levels. Knowing you’re out there.’

And for the first time since that fateful night in the alley, Jason let himself believe that maybe this could work.

Jason felt it before he understood it, like the first rays of sun on his back after a winter that had lasted far too long. A warmth he had not asked for. Had not expected. It crept into his system uninvited, compelling and unfamiliar, thawing places he had long since numbed for survival.

It struck him suddenly, not like a realisation, but like a tempest. He thought he had not wanted it. He did not trust it. But it was there all the same, pressing against his ribs, blooming beneath his skin.

Love.

It was not loud. It was not cinematic. It was not even convenient. It arrived in the middle of a quiet evening, while she was brushing her teeth, half-asleep, one of his old shirts covering her frame, bare legs beneath the hem, humming something tuneless under her breath. A song he did not recognise.

The bathroom door was ajar. Lamp light filtered in behind her, soft and pale, painting the air gold. She was swaying gently where she stood, oblivious to the weight of his stare. And Jason, standing there in the threshold, rooted to the spot, watched her like she was something too precious for this world. As though she might flicker and vanish if he exhaled too harshly.

And in that moment, watching her in that domestic stillness, he could believe, even just for a breath, that the world was not a place of carnage. That outside the window, it was not broken. That pain was not inevitable. That this could last.

But the thought brought with it a sharp, biting panic.

It was in this moment that he knew he loved her.

His body tensed, his mind retreating into old reflexes. Not to run, not literally. He could never leave her. But something within him tried to pull away, to armour up, to prepare for the moment when this would inevitably be ripped from him.

Because that is what always happened. Moments like this, soft, perfect, undeserved, were fleeting in his world. They were the eye of the storm, not the end of it.

He did not deserve this. And even if he did, the world had a cruel way of taking beautiful things and turning them to ash.

She caught his reflection in the mirror, stilled, and turned toward him. Her eyes met his. Sleepy, soft, utterly unguarded. A small smear of toothpaste clung to the corner of her lip, and yet she looked at him like she could see through him. Not with fear or judgment, just mild concern and a gentle curiosity.

‘You okay?’ she asked, voice thick with sleep, amused by the way he loomed in the doorway like he had stumbled into a scene too fragile to touch.

It disarmed him. Utterly.

Jason swallowed hard. After everything he had seen, everything he had survived, the Lazarus Pit, the alleys, the gunfire and betrayal, he was not sure he had ever been less okay. And yet, standing there in her bathroom doorway, heart thundering like he had just survived a firefight, all he could do was step forward.

He did not speak, not at first. He just reached for her and kissed her temple, soft and fleeting, like the moment itself. It was not meant to answer her question. It was not meant to fix the chaos unravelling inside his chest. It was just the only thing he could offer that was not ruin.

‘Yeah,’ he said quietly. ‘Just tired.’

But it was a lie.

He was not tired, he was reeling.

That night, he did not sleep. Not because he was unable, but because he would not. He lay in her bed, curled beside her, her breath slow and even against his collarbone. One of her arms was draped across his ribs, anchoring him with a kind of warmth he did not dare disturb.

He memorised it. Every part of her.

The cadence of her breath. The shape that her hand made against his chest. The way she murmured in her sleep. He memorised her like a man convinced the morning would seize her from his grasp. Like this was all a dream and he would wake back in Gotham’s dirt-streaked alleys, alone, masked, and untouched by her grace.

But she was real.

And for now, it was enough.

Y/N was stitching him up again, hands steady, breath shallow, a routine so familiar it hurt. Nothing fatal. Nothing new. His form was half-draped in shadow, his skin cold under her touch. She sat cross-legged before him, knees meeting his.

‘You’ve got to stop doing this,’ Y/N murmured. It was not the first time she had said this, and it would certainly not be the last. Her sorrow clung to her like a second skin; he would never stop hurting himself and, by extension, hurting her. Her fingers twitched, and she forced them steady.

Jason did not answer her. What would he tell her? Definitely, not the truth; she would not want to hear it. Every stitched-up wound felt like proof that she cared; he could not resist the temptation. It was how they had met, it was why he had allowed himself to grow close to her. Jason did not believe she could love a man like him, but when he felt her gentle fingers work over his skin, he let himself consider it; he let himself yearn.

‘I’d die for you, you know?’ he muttered. Off-handed. As though it were the most obvious thing, as though it were as easy as breathing.

A frown turned her face. ‘That’s not comforting, Jason.’

And then, something unspooled. It was akin to a thread that had been pulled taut for too long, it snapped under the tension. Jason sighed.

‘What I was trying to say… What I meant was… I love you…’ He looked into her eyes, gaze piercing, willing her to see the truth of it.

The words had flooded out like a barrage breaking open.

‘That’s all I’m trying to say. I’d die for you because… I can’t picture a world without you in it. I wouldn’t want to.’ He shivered at this, at the concept of a sphere she did not grace; the very notion made him ill.

She stilled. Hands held suspended above him, pausing their work. He was not looking for a response, only a release; he had needed this off his chest. But she gave him one anyway.

‘I love you, too.’ She had uttered it so softly, had Jason not already been watching her lips, he might have missed it. His breath caught, not in fear, but in awe, as though his lungs had momentarily forgotten their most natural function.

Her words felt like electricity brimming beneath his skin, like every nerve had been awoken at once. A new fullness bloomed within his chest, as though the ribs could no longer host his heart; as if it had suddenly grown too large to contain.

He spoke up again, softer this time, ‘I’ll try to live for you too. That part’s harder. But believe me when I say I want it. More than anything.’ He gave her one of his rare smiles, and her heart jolted.

She silently placed the first aid materials to the side and leaned in, placing her head against his shoulder. After a short while, she shifted, leaving scattered kisses across his fading scars, lingering on each for a moment. He felt that same electricity once more, humming under her touch.

Her hands ghosted over him like he were something precious, as though the ruin of him was worth loving, and that was the message she was trying to convey, what she was trying to have him understand.

Once again, Jason did not sleep at night. Not out of pain or panic, but because he was afraid it had been a dream. That peace, for someone like him, was more fragile, more fleeting than any reverie; and he could not stand the idea of waking up.

We saw small glimpses of domestic Jason here. Why is it everything I want in life? Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

TAGLIST: @aidansloth

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood x reader #dc comics #jason todd angst #x reader #gotham #detective comics #angst #fanfic #fanfiction #one shot #dc universe #dc #the-halloween-jack #domestic jason todd #fluff #hurt/comfort

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