#and i would at least like a phone call or something

[neimaami]

You dream about me? (M)

SYNOPSIS: Jungkook takes you out to eat...except food isn't the only thing he's having tonight. aka, he fucks you against his bike :)

WARNINGS : SMUT, unprotected sex (this is purely fantasy! I condone safe sex), dirty talk, titty sucking, fingering, multiple orgasms, JK pretending he's a bad boy but he's actually a sweetheart, FLUFF, non-establish relationship, friends to lovers (?)

word count: 5.3k

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Your usually neat and respectable bedroom was an absolute disaster. 

The one thing your parents had drilled into your head, over and over again since the moment you were born—was how to behave like a woman. You had old parents. A mother and father who were two whole generations behind yours. Parents with mindsets set in stone—unchanging, no matter what. It wasn’t exactly torture growing up with them, but it did come with a whole lot of expectations—ones that no longer fit into modern day society.

One of them being, ‘a lady should have a clean room no matter what, in order to appear civilised and educated’ two words come to mind - fuck that. You were a woman through and through, whether your room was in pristine condition, or if your room looked like a pig sty, which was currently the latter. Putting together an outfit you never imagined yourself wearing wasn’t easy—especially one that went against everything you’d been taught. So why did something so wrong feel so damn good? 

Usually, your closet was full of bright, pastel colours, ones that rightfully represented your outgoing and bubbly personality. Even though most of your articles of clothing were picked out by your mother, somehow your tastes aligned…for the most part. Sometimes she’d show up with a shopping bag full of crocheted ponchos and actually expected you to wear them. That is one thing you refused to wear - ponchos. They were unflattering, baggy, uncomfortable, hideous even - and they hid everything you had going for yourself. 

Ponchos? A big no.

This time you were in search of clothing on the complete opposite side of the spectrum. Jungkook had invited you to go out to a diner with him. You weren’t exactly sure what it entailed, he didn’t specify, but in your mind it was a date, at least it’s what you hoped it was. You wanted to impress him above all else, you wanted a jaw dropping, show stopping outfit that would land you in his bed - tonight. Thinking back on all the times you had spent in Jungkook’s company, you had learned that his usual attire consists of black leather and worn out jeans. Even though you were sure he’d tease you relentlessly for ‘stealing his lingo’ as he likes to call it, you wanted a change. You used Jungkook’s name as an excuse, because truthfully, for the longest time, you have wanted to break this continuous cycle of being a notorious rule-follower. Even if it was as silly, as simple as an outfit change, it was a step in the right direction. One that you wanted to - no, needed to go in.

As you rummage through options on the floor, you feel your phone buzz in the back pocket of your sweatpants. You reach behind you and drop your gaze to the home screen of your iphone. Your heart races in your chest at the sight of the contact name; there is a singular text message from Jungkook: 

omw princess, wear something sexy for me, yeah? ;)

Oh sexy you’ll give him, alright. Then the words ‘on my way’ dawn on you and realisation strikes you. Shit, you hadn’t even picked out an outfit, let alone showered and done your makeup. Thankfully you had already picked out 3 suitable options for clothes and had tried them on countless times. The hardest part was picking out which one out of the three was best. But you didn’t have time to dwell on the options, Jungkook would be showing up at any second. 

“Arlight, let’s do this shit.” You mutter under your breath, walking over to your messy bed and eyeing the three options wearily. It was almost embarrassing how seriously you were taking this - especially for someone who you weren’t even dating, but alas, this was Jungkook, the hottest man you have ever had the privilege of seeing. Your hand instinctively reaches out for option 2. The outfit consisted of small leather shorts that stopped just below your ass, and a tight, below the shoulder black top.

The moment you step foot outside, a chilly breeze greeted you—not surprising for 8:35 PM. You muttered a curse under your breath, annoyed at yourself for forgetting a jacket. As you walked down the pavement and rounded the corner of your apartment building toward the parking lot, your eyes landed on Jungkook. Leaned back against his sleek black motorcycle, he looked as sexy as ever. His black hair pushed back, tattoos giving him that edgy look craved to want. You caught the slight raise of his eyebrows, surprise evident as you approached.

He lets out a low whistle, straightening up and taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “Fuck…look at you.” He drags his eyes over your figure, desire simmering beneath his gaze, a look so intense that it sets your whole body on fire. With a flick of his fingers, he tosses the cigarette onto the gravel, embers glowing for a fleeting moment before fading. “Are you trying to impress me, baby?” His lips curl up into a cocky smirk, taking yet another step forward - his chest grazing against yours. 

“Depends…did I succeed?” He hums in response, reaching out to grip your hips with his big hands and pulling you further against his chest. You couldn’t help but admire the colorful, intricate designs of his tattoos covering his left arm, it made you want to trace them with the tip of your fingers. They especially popped under the soft glow of the moonlight. You remember him mentioning how he was going to get them re-colored - and by the looks of it he has. The parking lot was relatively quiet, with only a few people locking their car doors before heading out.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate on anything tonight with you looking like this” Your heart flutters at his words. It’s almost laughable how just a few sweet words from the man in front of you can stir such strong reactions from your body. His thumbs run smooth circles on the small strip of skin between the hem of your top and the waistband of your leather shorts. 

“Maybe that was the goal” You flirt with a teasing smile, your hands run over his arms, feeling the way his muscles ripple beneath the palm of your hands. He wore his usual white wife beater - it was skin tight and displayed his bulky stature perfectly. He lets out a raspy chuckle, leaning in to press a featherly light kiss to your cheek, his lips barely grazing the warmth of your skin.

“Yeah?” He smirks against your cheek “you wanted me to look at you, didn’t you baby? To notice you…” He lifts his head up to meet your gaze, one of his hands reaching out to softly grip your chin - forcing your eyes to lock on his. He lets his gaze wander over your face tentatively, noting the way your cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. He was definitely making a mental note of this moment. It made his smirk widen, a hint of cockiness pooling within the depths of his eyes. “Well I see you…here, in my thoughts, in my dreams…” His voice is low and sultry, using his thumb to pull down on your bottom lip. At this rate you weren’t sure if the both of you would be making it to the diner.  

“You dream about me?” you whisper - eyes wide and shining under the moonlight, you press a light kiss to the tip of his thumb, all while your eyes are locked on his. The cocky smirk on his lips falters slightly at your action. His eyes intensify, boring deeply into yours. Your breath catches in your throat as the world around you stills. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, his cocky, playful side coming back out.

“I jerk off to you too” He smirks and shoots you a wink, clearly feeling very proud of his quick wit. You groan in annoyance and take a step back, crossing your arms over your chest. Slightly disappointed. 

“You ruined the moment” You complain, to which he lets out a boisterous laugh, his bunny teeth coming to view. The sight alone momentarily distracts you from any frustration you had been feeling. 

“Come on, let’s get out of here, princess…” He wraps a hand around your wrist, fingers curling against your pulse point, as he tugged you towards his motorcycle. That darn motorcycle, you were afraid he’d choose that piece of machinery over you one day. You couldn’t help but think back to the day where he so trustingly gave you permission to drive his motorcycle around the block of his apartment. He had been a nervous wreck, babbling on and on about how you should be careful, that if you got so much as a scratch on the paint he’d kill you. It wasn’t your first time driving a motorcycle, so you had somewhat of an experience, you weren’t blindly going at it - which had given him a sense of relief. Still, Jungkook remained a nervous wreck, his chest had pressed against your back as he hovered his hands over the handlebars of the motorcycle…just in case. You smile at the fond memory.

He grips your hips and lifts you up to straddle the leather seat of the machinery, before swinging his own leg over the seat. He hands you one of the protective helmets.

“You okay to put this on? Or do you need help?” He says as he reaches out for his own helmet. You roll your eyes and successfully tug the helmet on and tighten the strap beneath your chin.

“I’m not a child, kook. I know how to put on a damn helmet.” He shoots you a smile over his shoulder, not at all phased by your remark. The dimple on his left cheek popped out momentarily. Your heart races in your chest.

“Sass. That’s what I get for trying to be a gentleman.” He scoffs as he successfully puts on his helmet and revs up the motorcycle.

You snort and wrap your arms around his waist, scooting forward on the leather seat to press your chest against his muscular back. “The last word I’d use to describe you is ‘gentleman.’” It was a teasing jab, no real cruelty behind your words. 

“I never said I was, I said I’m trying to be.” With that he kicks up the stand. You tighten your arms around his waist instinctively, it was always quite nerve wracking sitting on the back of Jungkook’s motorcycle - he was unpredictable in more ways than one. The tires crunch against the gravel as he eases out of the parking lot, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows over his sharp features. Then, with a smooth twist of the wrist, he takes off, the wind whipping past you as the city blurs into streaks of neon and asphalt.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

“You drive me crazy-” Jungkook rasps out, his breath fanning across the shell of your ear. “Can’t get enough of you…” His hands reach down to grip the back of your thighs, arms flexing as he hoists you up effortlessly and walks all the way back towards his motorcycle. He wastes no time latching his lips onto the side of your neck, sucking deep dark, purple marks. You were a whimpering mess against him, your hands gripping onto his shoulders for dear life, your legs tightening around his waist. You didn’t even care for the fact that the two of you were just about done exiting the diner, that the owner could catch you both if he so much as looked out the big windows. Apart from him, the parking lot of the Diner was empty, the two of you had been the only ones left inside.

The date had gone better than expected, you laughed, talked, kissed, but the both of you didn’t last much longer - couldn’t last much longer. The long gazes, the lingering touches, it was becoming all too much to handle. Jungkook had treated you like a princess all night, not that you were surprised. From the moment you met Jungkook a couple of months back, you have always had an inkling feeling that Jungkook wasn’t this ‘badboy’ everyone said he was. Not with the way his doe-eyes shone big and wide as they looked into yours, head nodding with each word you spoke. You didn’t expect the way he treated you so delicately, so softly, like you might break if he said the wrong thing, touched you the wrong way…He truly was a gentleman, no matter what others may come to believe. Or maybe, just maybe, he was this way with you, and only with you. 

He sets you down onto the leather seat of his black motorcycle. His hands squeeze the muscles of your thighs as he settles his body between your spread legs. His chest molds against yours - His growing erection pressing directly against your clothed clit. You bite your lip to stop the moan threatening to spill from your lips. You tighten the grip of your hands on his shoulders. He couldn’t help but let out a low groan as he started to grind his hardened cock against you. The tight confines of his jeans were starting to feel like torture. The friction was so delicious it made your brain turn to mush. You spread your legs even further, bucking your hips up to grind your hips against his, as a result he throws his head back in a deep, drawled out moan. His eyebrows furrowed in pleasure. Your heart stops in your chest at the unforgettable sight. This man was going to be the death of you. 

“Fuck…you’re gonna make me cum in my pants if you keep doing that” He rasps out, his hands moving up your body to grip your tits over the black top you wore, giving the mounds a good, rough squeeze - Your strangled moan echoes across the empty parking lot. With gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, Jungkook tugs the material down your arms, letting the fabric pool against your waist. You shiver  when the cool air hits your newly exposed skin, nipples pebbling against the fabric of your bra. 

“J-Jungkook…we’re still outside…” You remind him nervously, taking a quick peek behind his shoulder for any living soul. He doesn’t seem to even acknowledge your words - his hand already sliding around your body to toy with the clasp of your bra. He cursed under his breath as he struggled against it for a couple of seconds. You couldn’t help but let out a giggle to, which he shoots you a glare before the bra successfully unclasps. The cool air of the night only serves to send a shiver down your spine. 

“Relax, there’s nobody here…” When your bra falls to the dusty ground, he leans in to capture one of your rosy nipples into his mouth. Your brain is suddenly too fuzzy to even remember what you were worrying about as you felt his tongue on your skin. His hands gripped your waist tightly, pushing your tits even further against his face. You reach out to thread your fingers against his black locks, giving it a rough tug as his tongue swirls around your sensitive nub - teeth grazing against it. 

“Hmmph…Kook…” You moan out breathlessly, your hips moving on their own accord against his growing erection. He releases your nipple with a small ‘pop’, a string of saliva connects your nipple to his lips before it breaks. He stands up straight, looming over your smaller frame. 

“You’re so fucking sexy, you know that?” His breath comes out slightly ragged, his hooded eyes darkening at the sight of your reddened cheeks. “So sensitive…I love it when you blush for me.” He whispers under his breath, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples, taking a couple seconds to admire the way your tits rose with every breath you took.

“Touch me kook…” You whimper, hands desperately reaching out to grip the waistband of his jeans and giving it a good tug towards you. He’s impossibly close now, his pelvis pressing tightly against yours. Gripping the back of your thighs, Jungkook forces them to wrap around his slim waist. “Or are you all talk no bite?” You challenge, to which he raises a brow - surprised at your sudden confidence, A smirk tugging at his lips. He leans down, breath fanning across the shell of your ear.

“Oh I’ll touch you alright, maybe even fuck the attitude right out of you while I’m at it.” He releases his grip on your breasts, settling them against the cool leather of his bike instead. He grips the edge of the seat, one arm on either side of your body, caging you in. His face was now inches away from yours. “Is that what you want, baby girl?” He whispers huskily “Does the princess need a good, rough fuck?”

Your cheeks bloom at his lewd words, the palm of your hands already feeling clammy with sweat. You could only nod dumbly, your eyes shining with pure, unadulterated lust. This man could so easily reduce you to something resembling a brainless zombie. He lets out a dark chuckle, the deep sound sends a fresh wave of heat coursing through your body. “So eager” He hums, leaning in and placing his lips on your uncharacteristically softly. You moan against the warm, soft, pillowy lips, his teeth grazing your bottom lips enough to where your breath hitches in your throat. His big hand cups the side of your face, tilting it slightly to the right as he deepens the kiss. His tongue sliding against yours naturally. It felt so right, so good. He suckles on your bottom lip before pulling away.

“Tell me baby, what is it you need from me, hm?” His voice is a breathless whisper, grinding back against the heat of your core that pressed intently against his painfully hardened cock. One of his hands travels between your bodies, to cup your pussy over the leather of your shorts, the palm of his hand grazing over your clothed clit. You could only gasp at the feeling, the warmth of his skin seeping through the fabric.. His lips continue their torturous graze across the skin of your neck. “Want me to taste this sweet pussy? Maybe use my fingers on you?...” 

You shake your head, your arms shooting out to grip his biceps. He pulls back with a tilt of his head “No?” He questions, his eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion. Had he done something wrong? Maybe he had misread the situation? He pulled his hand away in case you were second guessing yourself.

“I don’t want to wait.” You reach out to pull his hand back, the other already reaching down to toy with the button of his jeans, he quickly captures your wrist in his hand, pulling it away from where he needed you most. “Wha-” You look up at him in confusion.

“I don’t want to hurt you” His eyes softened ever so slightly, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang in your chest at the sight. “I’m not exactly…small.” He could have easily said that for an ego boost, but looking deeply into his eyes you could tell this wasn’t the case, all you could see was concern…care. 

“I’m not a virgin, Jungkook.” You argue back, mind still fuzzy from lust, clearly not reading the situation or reacting to it as you probably should have. Using your other hand, you reach out to toy with the button of his jeans impatiently, successfully undoing it. He shakes his head, face scowling in disagreement as he captures your other wrist in hand, gripping them in one of his large hands.

“That doesn’t matter.” His voice comes out slightly frustrated, but mostly caring, he releases your wrists to grip your waist instead, pulling your chest to his. “Just because you’ve had sex before doesn’t mean you don’t need the proper foreplay-” 

“But I’m so wet for you, kook…” You whimper.

That makes Jungkook short-circuit. He swears he almost came in his pants.

With not so much as a word he pulls the zipper of his jeans down enough to where the fabric pools down to his ankles, leaving him in his white wife beater and tight boxer briefs. “You’re positive?” He eyes you wearily, eyes raking your face for any sign of regret or reluctance.

You gave him a reassuring smile and nodded “Positive.” You promise. “Just please…touch me kook, I don’t think I can wait much longer…” desperation was evident in your voice as your hands raked your nails down his back. He visibly shudders at the feeling.

“Fuck…you’re going to be the death of me” He groans, pulling the waistband of his boxers down enough so that his cock sprung free. Your breath gets caught in your throat. He wasn’t lying, he was huge. His cock was girthy, long and had veins running up the base. You could see the way it shot straight up, slapping against his abdomen. The tip is bright pink, shining with beads of pre-cum that slid down to lube his shaft. You gulp.

“You okay?” He asked in concern, reaching out to cup the side of your cheek, thumb rubbing smooth circles against your skin.

“Y-yeah…on second thought…maybe I do need the foreplay…” You bite your lip nervously, slightly embarrassed - you take in the way he let out a breathless chuckle. He reaches down to unbutton your leather shorts, you raise your hips off the leather seat of his motorcycle to help him slide them off. He easily slides them down the expanse of your legs, placing the material across the leather seat - not much could be said for your bra. 

“What do you need?” It was a simple question really, but your mind was going miles per hour. Too unfocused for coherent thoughts. He decides for you, slipping his fingers into the waistband of your panties as his fingers graze over your slick folds. You let out a shuddering breath. He leans his free hand back down against the leather of his bike, pressing his chest to yours as he rubs your clit in deliberate circles. The calloused pads of his fingers run up and down against your slit, coating them in your wetness before circling your entrance. His eyes remain locked onto your face at all times, searching for any signs of discomfort.

“Please…” Your eyes flutter closed, voice coming out in a breathy whisper, almost inaudible…but he heard it - oh he heard it alright. His cock pulsed painfully in his jeans. He began to slip two of his fingers inside you, hissing at the way your walls tightened around them. He easily glided them knuckles deep inside you. You were so damn wet there was practically no friction.

“So tight…” He rasped, slowly starting to pump his thick fingers in and out of you. His fingers curled and motioned a ‘come here’ sign. You shudder at the feeling, letting out a small, breathless moan against the side of his neck. Your right hand comes up to cradle the side of his cheek, pressing your lips against the side of his face. Your warm breathy pants fanned his scorching skin.

“That’s it baby” He coos, his fingers working even faster inside you, watching transfixed at the way your face morphed into one of pleasure. The tips of his fingers curl to find that spongey, soft area inside you, the area to which he begins to slam his fingers against, over and over again. You let out a surprised sound, a loud moan tearing from your throat as he begins to part his fingers in opposite directions, scissoring your pussy open, stretching you out for what was to come. “You’re so fucking wet…all for me, isn’t that right?” His voice dripped with oozing confidence and overpowering lust. His fingers only picked up the pace while his thumb worked in tangent, applying just enough pressure to your clit that leaves you a whimpering, moaning mess. The parking lot was still empty, still dark, the two of you caught up in your own little bubble.

“Ohh my…oh god-” You gasp, throwing your head back, his eyes narrowing to the sensitive skin of your neck to which he takes the opportunity to latch his lips against, sucking even more deep, purple marks. His breath hitches when he feels your velvety walls clamping down against his fingers, your hands were a scrambling mess against his body. Gripping his hair, shirt, wrist, arms…anywhere you could latch onto, bracing yourself. 

“That’s it pretty girl, that’s it…let go for me princess” His deep voice encourages, leaning down to crash his lips to yours in a sloppy kiss, his tongue swirling against yours. You hum into the kiss, your body trembling against his as you feel the growing burn in your lower abdomen. His lips against yours muffle the moans that threaten to spill as your orgasm finally crashes over you. The hand gripping onto his hair only tightened as your eyes rolled back in your head, your pussy spasmed around his fingers. He pulls back just enough to see your face contorted in pleasure, he groans at the sight. 

“Fuck yes, so sexy baby” He slurs, his eyes dark and hooded as he slows down the frantic movement of his fingers, helping you ride out your mind-blowing orgasm. When your breath calms down he extracts his fingers from inside you, bringing them up to his mouth for a taste. Your cheeks redden at the site of his tongue swirling around his coated fingers. He hums deeply at the taste before pulling his fingers out from between his lips and crashing them against yours. “I can’t wait-” His voice was muffled against your lips, reaching down to give his painfully hard cock a couple of fast strokes. 

  He stands up straight, gripping the back of your thighs and using his strength to manhandle you, scooting you towards the edge of the seat. He brings your thighs towards your chest, tapping the back of them. You reach down to grip the back of your thighs.

 “I’ve got you, baby” He says through ragged breaths, his eyes filled with lust - one of his hands gripping your hip, the other gripping the base of his cock as he slaps it against your slick folds. You moan at the lewd slapping sound. “You’re on birth control, yeah?” He pauses, eyes on yours.

When you nod he groans and presses the tip of his cock against your entrance. He let out a shaky moan before pushing inside. The initial stretch is a lot, almost painful as your nails dig into the skin of your thighs. His grip on your hips tighten as he lets out a whimper. Your whole body shudders at the sound. Never in a million years would you think Jeon Jungkook was the type to whimper. 

“Ssooo…” He hisses, shuddering as he bottoms out inside you. “Tightest pussy ever.” He strains, a vein popping out from the side of his neck, chest rising and falling rapidly. His hooded eyes locked onto where the both of you were connected. “Can I…?” 

“Please” You breath out impatiently. He pulls back just enough to leave the tip inside before slamming back down against you, taking you to the hilt once again. He throws his head back in pleasure, eyes shuttering closed. 

“Oh fuck-” He chokes “I’m gonna…” He bites his lip, stilling his cock inside you, the grip on your hips tightened. Your eyes widen at the implications of his words.

“W-we can take a break, kook” You let go of the back of your thighs and circle them around his waist instead, reaching out to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He leans his forehead against yours as he shakes his head. 

“Shut up-” He growls in frustration and embarrassment, a pretty pink blooming across his cheeks. His hands snake around your body to grip the globes of your ass. You let out a strangled moan as he uses his grip as leverage, slamming his cock inside you in fast, rough thrusts. He groans against the side of your neck, nuzzling his nose against your cheek as one of his hands lets go of your ass and grips your thigh instead. He throws it over the crease of his elbow before leaning his hand back against the edge of the leather seat. His hips never faltered their relentless pace.

“Oh Jungkook!” You cry out in ecstasy, your fingers digging into the skin of his back, clutching onto his wife beater for dear life. He nips the lobe of your ear, teeth grazing against the skin,  only further igniting the assault on your senses. The cool air around you only dropped in temperature the darker it got. It was practically pitch black except for the singular street light which lit up just a small circle of concrete below it. The diner lights closed, the both of you completely isolated in the public parking lot. 

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed throughout the empty lot, except for the moans and groans spilling from both your lips, lost in the throes of passion. His lips were on yours, silencing your needy whimpers as he picked up the pace of his thrusts, his balls slapping against your ass. He groaned deeply against your lips as he felt you tighten around him, your walls squeezing him so hard his hips stuttered. He pulls back from the sloppy kiss, his nose brushing against yours with each thrust of his hips. “You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” His voice comes out ragged and out of breath, eyes hooded and dark. You nod through heavy pants.

He reaches down to rub fast, hard circles on your clit, adding just enough pressure to drive you insane. With a last shuddering whimper, the second orgasm of the night washed over you, coating his cock with your juices. He let out a strangled moan at the feeling of your juices dripping down his shaft and onto his balls. With a couple more deep, hard thrusts, he pulls out with a reluctant groan. He fists his cock in his hand, throwing his head back as he strokes it hard and fast. Spurts upon spurts of thick, hot cum land on your bare tits, some on the black top that was still bunched up around your waist. Jungkook looked like he was in pain - in the best way possible. His head was thrown back, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips slightly ajar.

As both of your orgasms start to subside, he pants and gives you a one-over. A goofy grin broke onto his face. You couldn’t help but smile back. “What is it?” You giggle breathlessly.

“Oh nothing…” He shrugged, reaching down to grab your bra, using his hand to remove the dust as he handed it to you. As you take the bra you raise a brow at him suspiciously. He reaches down to pull up his boxers, tucking his softening cock back inside. He then adjusts his baggy jeans into place. He reaches down into one of the pockets to hand you a kleenex packet. You gratefully take it and start to wipe yourself clean before clasping your bra in place. 

“Tell me.” You press even further, sliding your hands into the sleeves of your black top before hopping off the bike, the gravel of the parking lot crunching underneath your black boots. You quickly put on your leather shorts. He takes a step forward, reaching out to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling your back against his chest. 

“After that…I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you” His teeth grazed against the lobe of your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “You’re mine now, baby.” He presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “My girl.” 

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

LONG POST upcoming…if u see this & decide not to read my review (i dont blame u, shes LONG), at least take this message: DO YOURSELF ONE AND READ THIS MASTERPIECE. IVE NEVER FELT THIS PASSIONATELY ABOUT A FIC BEFORE PLS PLS PLS PLS!

ronnie…..ronnie oh my love………im gonna spam text u after this in both agony & pure joy because this is truly one of the best things i’ve ever read on this godforsaken app….i told myself i wouldnt be super active while im on vacation but 1) couldnt help myself i had this fic on fhe back of my mind ever since it was posted and 2) i cant beat jet lag so here we are but at what cost??? BC I AM IN TEARS RN RONNIE. I AM IN LITERAL TEARS BC OF THIS AND YOU AND HEESEUNG AND THE WAY THEY FELL IN LOVE OH MY GOD. i have screenshots of lines i absolutely loved bc i truly am so overwhelmed by it all.

i genuinely felt like i was watching a romcom with how detailed everything was and the pacing was incredible. idk how you did it but you made the three years of their friendship go by in such a satisfying way that didnt feel too rushed at all and i could feel exactly how close they were and their relationship.

“It feels surreal, how easy this is, how natural. And yet, when you look at him, really look at him, you realize this was never sudden at all. This wasn't a moment. This was a lifetime in the making.” I CRODE RONNIE. I CRODE !!!!!!!!! I HAVE LITERAL TEARS STREAMING DOWN MY FACE RN LIKE A MAN POSSESSED.

“But I still feel like I'm standing in that damn Halloween party with you, waiting for something to happen." the way you used the waiting room metaphor & motif throughout genuinely made me want to scream because I LOVE WHEN WRITERS WRITE.

and then….when THE scene happens — i dont even want to call it smut bc the word smut is too harsh to me for what that scene deserves. that scene deserves to be written on hand-made paper straight from the scrolls of greece with ink dipped in gold and announced to the crowds like a message from the gods above because it made me feel so many emotions i didnt even know i could feel while reading…ronnie it was SO beautiful and SO HOT AT THE SAME TIME. the hand holding my phone went numb bc the other was covering my hand in shock (and to keep myself from squealing) thats how good it was.

this post has gotten so out of hand im gonna continue raving to you over text you’re gonna get so tired of me. i cant believe you had this up your sleeve all along and decided to just drop it and change my life just like that ronnie. why would u want to ruin me like this. i thought we were friends (you’re my favorite person on this planet rn)

this has everything i ever need in a fic ever—the pining, the bits of jealousy, the humor, the almost maybe moments, the falling in love slowly, the realizations, the love and then the ~loving~, waiting room you will never be forgotten (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀)

WAITING ROOM ──★ ˙

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: heeseung x fem!reader ... ﹒ friends to lovers, fluff ... ﹒ w/c: 21k synopsis: for three years, you and heeseung have hovered between friendship and something more—stolen glances, late-night car rides, hands brushing under tables. but when the waiting finally ends, you realize you were never just friends to begin with. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: smut, mdni! explicit sexual content, petnames, unprotected sex (dont do it!!!!) not proofread 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: waiting room - phoebe bridgers

Three years ago, you met Heeseung at a Halloween party. And, in a way, he never really left.

You remember the night in sharp, neon clarity, the kind that only exists in memories warped by time and too many cheap drinks. The bass of the music was rattling against the walls, distorting into something unrecognizable by the time it reached your ears. The air was thick, humid with the breath of a hundred strangers crammed into an apartment too small to hold them. It smelled like spilled alcohol, synthetic fog from a cheap smoke machine, and the faintest trace of cinnamon, probably from some idiot who thought Fireball was a good idea.

You were standing in the kitchen, gripping a plastic cup half-full of something blue and questionably sweet, when you felt it. The warmth of someone moving too close. The press of a shoulder against yours. And then—disaster.

A smear of green, across your arm, your ribs, your stomach.

You stared at it, confused. It looked like paint. Wet, sticky, and clinging to the fabric of your skeleton costume like it belonged there. You blinked once, twice, before dragging your gaze upward, locking eyes with the culprit.

“Oh, shit.”

He was green. No, really, he was covered in it, from his jawline to his collarbone, down his arms, streaked across his hands. He was, in fact, one of the Ninja Turtles.

“Are you radioactive?” you asked, because that felt like a genuine concern at this point.

Heeseung—though you didn’t know his name yet—blinked at you, then looked down at his own arm as if just realizing that, yeah, maybe painting his entire body for a costume wasn’t the best idea. “I, uh—fuck, I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think what?” you repeated, glancing down at your once-pristine skeleton costume. “That maybe body paint takes a while to dry?”

“No, see, I thought it was dry. I waited, like, an hour before putting the costume on.” He sounded both defensive and regretful, like someone who had just now realized the full extent of their mistake.

You sighed, poking at the stain. “Well, congrats. You’ve officially made me the first skeleton in history to die of green slime exposure.”

He let out a breath of laughter, then scratched the back of his neck—a habit you’d later come to recognize as his go-to nervous tic. “On the bright side… at least now you match me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

“Not even a little.”

A slow grin spread across his face, lopsided and teasing. “Damn. Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

And he did.

That was the beginning of it, you suppose. A stupid mistake, an even stupider conversation, and a boy painted green who somehow managed to wedge himself into your life like he belonged there. You didn’t know then that he’d become your best friend. That in three years, you’d be sitting next to him in a car at two in the morning, singing along to songs you didn't really know. That you’d learn the exact way he liked his coffee, the rhythm of his breath when he fell asleep next to you on your couch, the way he always looked at you like he was on the verge of saying something important but never quite did.

No, back then, all you knew was that he was an idiot. And that, somehow, against all odds—you kind of liked him anyway. But you and Heeseung became friends by accident.

It wasn’t an immediate thing, not like some cosmic force snapped its fingers and tied the two of you together. No, it was slower than that, more like a series of small collisions, a gradual intertwining of orbits. And most of it had to do with Yunjin.

You and Yunjin had been friends since the beginning of college. One of those friendships that happens fast, like flipping a switch. One day, you were just two people forced into the same group project, and the next, you were sneaking snacks into late-night study sessions, texting each other memes at 3 a.m., and laughing until your stomach hurt over things that weren’t even that funny. She was the kind of person you felt like you had known forever, even though it had only been a few years.

But somehow, despite all that time, you had never actually registered who she lived with. You knew she had a roommate—she’d mentioned him in passing a few times, usually accompanied by an exasperated sigh or an eye roll—but you had never put much thought into it. The guy could’ve been a faceless NPC for all you cared. Just a background character in the world of Yunjin’s apartment. Until one fateful Tuesday afternoon.

You had gone over to Yunjin’s place to work on a mind-numbing, soul-draining research paper, and the two of you were sitting cross-legged on her living room floor. The atmosphere was calm, quiet—at least, until the front door swung open with the force of someone dramatically entering a scene in a sitcom.

“YUNJIN,” a voice rang through the apartment, loud and excited. “I JUST BOUGHT ZELDA: BREATH OF THE WILD. I NEED TO PLAY IT IMMEDIATELY.”

You barely had time to process before the source of the chaos came bounding into the room. A guy, slightly breathless from what must have been a very passionate journey home, clutching a Nintendo Switch game case like it was the most important thing in the world.

And he was green.

Well, not literally—he wasn’t still covered in body paint—but your brain made the connection instantly. The excitement, the unfiltered enthusiasm, the slight air of someone who had been making questionable life decisions since birth.

It clicked.

“Oh my god,” you blurted. “You’re the Ninja Turtle guy.”

Heeseung froze mid-step, eyes flickering to you like he was only now realizing there was another person in the room. For a second, he just stared, lips parted in muted shock, like you had just caught him committing a crime.

Then, in a tone that was both confused and slightly mortified, he said, “Oh. Uh. Yeah. That’s me.”

You squinted at him, taking in the full picture—the messy hair, the slightly wrinkled hoodie, the expression of someone who had absolutely not been expecting to relive his Halloween mistakes today. Then, you turned to Yunjin.

“You live with the Ninja Turtle guy?”

Yunjin, who had been watching this interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, grinned. “I guess.”

Heeseung cleared his throat, regaining some of his composure. “For the record, my name is Heeseung.”

“Really?” you said, nodding slowly. “I thought your name was Donatello”

He looked mildly offended. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” you said, gesturing vaguely, “I feel like I at least deserve to know which turtle was responsible for my suffering. I thought it was Donatello.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes but played along. “Leonardo. Sunghoon was Raphael, Beomgyu was Michelangelo, and Jake was Donatello.”

You considered this for a second, then turned back to Yunjin. “I can’t believe you live with Leonardo.”

Yunjin, deadpan, replied, “Trust me, I can’t either.”

And that was the second collision.

You didn’t know it then, but this was how it would always be with Heeseung—dramatic entrances, loud declarations, and an energy that burst into the room like an unexpected firework. You had met him twice now, and both times, he had been the human embodiment of chaos. But for some reason, that chaos felt a little less like a background character now. And after that day, Heeseung stopped being just Yunjin’s roommate.

You started seeing him everywhere. Not because you were seeking him out—not at first, anyway—but because he had a tendency to appear in your life like some kind of recurring side character in a sitcom. You’d be minding your own business in Yunjin’s apartment, and he’d burst through the door, ranting about how someone stole his favorite study spot in the library. You’d go to grab coffee before class, and there he’d be, dramatically arguing with the barista about why oat milk was a scam. He just kept showing up, like the universe had decided that, for better or worse, he was part of your story now.

And then, you found out you had a class together. It wasn’t a real class. Not in the sense that it required effort or critical thinking. It was one of those ridiculous elective courses that the university offered purely to fill up credit requirements—something slapped onto the catalog as an afterthought, designed for students who were too lazy or too exhausted to take anything serious.

You had signed up for it without even reading the description, choosing it solely because it fit into your schedule and had a reputation for being an easy A. Heeseung, apparently, had done the same.

That was how the two of you ended up in "The Philosophy of Memes and Internet Culture."

The class was exactly as stupid as it sounded. The professor was a guy in his late 40s who still said things like “epic fail” unironically. The syllabus included assignments like “analyzing the impact of Vine on modern humor” and “writing a 500-word essay on the evolution of the Rickroll.” It was the kind of class that could only exist in a university desperate to appear progressive and relevant, and you were 90% sure the school administration had no idea it was happening.

It was, in short, the best class either of you had ever taken.

You and Heeseung immediately became the worst students in the room. Not because you weren’t paying attention, but because you were paying attention too much—finding everything so absurdly hilarious that neither of you could take it seriously. Every lecture felt like a fever dream. Every assignment was an excuse to see how much nonsense you could get away with before the professor caught on.

And then, of course, came the group project. It was a simple assignment: pick a meme, trace its origins, and present its cultural impact. Most people chose something predictable—Doge, Grumpy Cat, Distracted Boyfriend.

You and Heeseung, however, chose Shrek. More specifically, you chose Shrek’s cultural legacy as an ironic meme figure.

It was supposed to be a joke. A way to entertain yourselves in a class that was already ridiculous. But the further you got into your research, the more serious it became.

Somewhere along the way, you and Heeseung stopped just pretending to care and actually started caring. You spent hours deep-diving into obscure Shrek forums, analyzing the rise of “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” discourse, debating whether or not the character’s internet resurgence was fueled by genuine appreciation or detached irony. You became scholars of the Shrek Renaissance.

The night before your presentation, you were in Yunjin’s apartment, sitting on the floor with your laptops open, surrounded by a mess of half-empty snack bags and unfinished slides. The clock blinked 2:37 AM, and neither of you had any business still being awake.

Heeseung was slouched against the couch, staring at his screen with the expression of a man who had seen too much. “I think I know too much about Shrek,” he said, voice hollow.

You let out a dramatic sigh, rubbing your temples. “Yeah. We flew too close to the sun on this one.” There was a beat of silence.

Then, Heeseung slowly turned his laptop around, revealing a slide titled ‘Shrek and the Post-Ironic Era of Internet Humor: A Critical Analysis.’ And for some reason, that was it. That was the moment you broke.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that you had just spent the past three hours watching deep-fried Shrek memes with Gregorian chants in the background. Maybe it was just the sheer, stupid absurdity of the entire situation. But suddenly, you were laughing.

Not just laughing—cackling. The kind of breathless, full-body laughter that made your stomach hurt. That made you feel like you were going to die right there on Yunjin’s living room floor, lost to the void of Shrek academia.

And Heeseung—poor, equally sleep-deprived Heeseung—was right there with you. He doubled over, gasping for air, his head nearly colliding with your shoulder as he choked out, “We’re never recovering from this.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You turned to him, trying to catch your breath, and found him already looking at you. His eyes were crinkled at the edges, his cheeks flushed from laughter, his whole body still shaking slightly from the aftermath. And for a moment—just a moment—you thought, this is nice.

Not just the laughing. Not just the inside jokes and the chaos.

But him.

You pushed the thought away before it could settle.

Because, at the end of the day, Heeseung was your friend. Your dumbass friend who still had green body paint under his fingernails two weeks after Halloween. Who got irrationally angry at mobile game ads. Who had just spent the last six hours dissecting Shrek memes with you like it was a matter of academic integrity.

And that was all he was.

Right?

Heeseung, on the other hand, wasn’t sure when it started. That feeling.

That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling. The one that sat quietly in the back of his mind, like a notification he refused to check. Like a waiting room. A vague, almost imperceptible awareness that he enjoyed your company a little too much—that your laugh had started to feel like background music in his life, something he didn’t know he needed until it was gone.

Not that it meant anything. Obviously.

He liked lots of people. He was a social guy. He made friends easily, enjoyed being around them, and—despite Yunjin’s many accusations—was not emotionally repressed. He just… liked the things you liked. That was normal.

It was normal that he started watching that terrible reality show you always talked about, even though he swore he hated it. It was normal that he got a random impulse to buy you a weirdly specific snack he saw at the store because “it just screamed your vibe.” It was normal that he sent you voice notes every time he saw something even remotely related to Shrek, even months after your presentation.

That was just friendship. Which was why, as a friend, he invited you to an arcade.

It was one of those places that felt like it had been stuck in time since the 90s—neon lights, sticky floors, a vague smell of burnt popcorn in the air. The kind of place that probably hadn’t passed a health inspection in years, but had an undeniable charm to it. You were too good at skee-ball.

It was honestly annoying. Heeseung had challenged you three times, and each time, you had obliterated him without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t even close. “You’re cheating,” he accused, arms crossed as he watched you land another perfect shot.

You grinned, tossing the last ball effortlessly. “You’re just mad because you suck.”

“I don’t suck,” he argued. “This game is just—rigged. The physics are all off.”

“Oh my god. Did you just say ‘the physics are off’ in a skee-ball game?”

“Yes,” he said, completely serious. “I am a man of logic and reason.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Sure. Okay. Man of logic and reason. If you’re so smart, let’s see how well you do at Dance Dance Revolution.”

Heeseung froze. “I—uh—what?”

“Come on,” you said, already dragging him toward the machine. “Let’s see those skills.”

Here was the thing about Heeseung: he was good at a lot of things. He could play video games for hours without blinking. He could talk his way out of almost any bad situation. He could even recite the entire “All Star” lyrics from memory.

But he could not dance. At all. And that became painfully clear the second the game started.

Heeseung missed every step. Every single one. While you moved effortlessly, barely even glancing at the screen, he was flailing. His feet weren’t in sync with his brain. His arms kept jerking awkwardly, and he could hear you laughing beside him, and somehow, that made it worse.

By the time the game ended, Heeseung was defeated. He doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping dramatically. “I think I died,” he announced.

You patted his back. “You fought bravely.”

He looked up at you then, about to retort, but the words got lost somewhere in his throat. Because you were smiling at him—really smiling. Your eyes were crinkled at the edges, your face still flushed from laughing. The neon lights flickered against your skin, casting everything in shades of blue and pink, making you look—

Well. Heeseung swallowed. That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling? Yeah. It was there.

But you were just his friend.

So, when Beomgyu casually mentioned, in the most offhanded, unbothered way possible, that he thought you were cute, Heeseung should’ve just let it go. But he didn’t.

“You think she’s what?”

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. “Cute. You know, in a hot way.”

Heeseung felt something in his chest twist. It was irrational. Objectively, completely irrational. Because, yeah, you were cute. That wasn’t news to him. He had eyes. He was aware. He had just… never thought about the fact that other people might also be aware.

Heeseung almost laughed. It was a knee-jerk reaction, the kind of dry, disbelieving scoff that came when someone said something so absurd it didn’t even process at first. But then, Beomgyu kept talking.

“I was thinking of asking her out.”

And Heeseung felt it. That twist, low and tight, in the pit of his stomach.

He blinked at Beomgyu, waiting for the usual rush of banter to kick in, for the easy teasing to roll off his tongue. But for some reason, his mouth felt dry. Beomgyu liked you. Beomgyu thought you were cute. Beomgyu wanted to date you.

It wasn’t that wild of a concept. People liked you all the time. You were funny and charming in that effortlessly chaotic way, the kind of person who made friends in the span of a single conversation. It made sense that Beomgyu, out of all people, would look at you and go, Yeah, she’s my type.

And it wasn’t like Heeseung had a say in the matter. So he shrugged, leaning back against the couch, and said, “Yeah, good for you, man. Good for you”

And that should’ve been the end of it. Except. Beomgyu actually did ask you out. And the worst part? You said yes.

At first, Heeseung didn’t think much of it. He was fine. It was fine.

So what if you had gone out with Beomgyu last Friday and came back looking kind of flushed, kind of happy? So what if, the next time he saw you, you had that soft, secretive look in your eyes, the one that said you were thinking about something that made your stomach twist in the good way?

So what. You weren’t dating. You weren’t his. And he sure as hell wasn’t jealous. Except then it wasn’t just one date. Because you went out again. And again. And again. And suddenly, Beomgyu wasn’t just one of Heeseung’s friends anymore—he was the guy you were seeing. And that, for some reason, was so much worse.

The thing about Beomgyu was that he was annoying. Like, Heeseung had always known this, but now, for the first time in his life, it felt personal. “Dude,” Beomgyu groaned, stretching his arms behind his head as they sat in their usual spot in the campus lounge. “Y/N is so fun, bro. Like, actually so fun.”

Heeseung clenched his jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She’s, like… different.” Heeseung made a face. “No, I’m serious,” Beomgyu whined. “She’s not like other girls.”

I’m gonna walk into traffic, Heeseung thought.

“No, like—” Beomgyu hesitated, looking off into the distance. “She’s just cool, you know?”

And Heeseung didn’t know why that pissed him off. Maybe because he knew that already. He had always known that. He had known it before Beomgyu, before any of these dates, before whatever the hell this was.

He had known it since the night he met you. Since the moment you called him Donatello when he was, in fact, Leonardo. Since the first time you said his name with that teasing edge, like you were permanently in on some joke he didn’t even realize he was making.

So, yeah. Maybe he didn’t like hearing Beomgyu say it like he had discovered it first.

But whatever. Heeseung let it go. Because it wasn’t like this was going to last forever. And then, it didn’t.

One day, you walked into Yunjin’s apartment, kicked your shoes off in a way that sent one flying across the room, and threw yourself onto the couch with all the weight of someone carrying a great and terrible burden.

Heeseung, sitting on the floor, scrolled mindlessly through his phone, pretending he hadn’t immediately noticed you. But then, you sighed. A deep, world-weary, existentially exhausted sigh.

Yunjin looked up from where she was painting her nails. “Jesus,” she muttered. “What.”

You groaned, stuffing your face into a pillow. “I think I’m over it.”

Heeseung’s thumb froze mid-scroll. Casual. He had to be casual. So, without looking up, he mumbled, “Over what?”

Another dramatic sigh. You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to life itself. “Beomgyu.”

Heeseung blinked. Okay.

Yunjin, who had been the biggest advocate of this whole thing, frowned. “Wait, what do you mean? You were literally texting him heart emojis yesterday.”

“I don’t know.” You stretched out your legs like the weight of your own existence was exhausting you. “I just… don’t feel like it anymore.”

Yunjin gave you a look. “Like, what? He’s a hobby you got bored of?”

“No! It’s just—” You hesitated, pressing your lips together. “Like, I liked the idea of him. And at first, it was fun. But then, the more time we spent together, the more I realized… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

You exhaled, shutting your eyes. “I feel like I was trying to make myself like him the way I was supposed to. But it just wasn’t working.”

And that was when Heeseung’s grip on his phone tightened. He forced himself to keep his face neutral, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you. “The way you were supposed to?”

You turned your head towards him. “Yeah. Like, Beomgyu is great, okay? He’s funny, and he’s cute, and he’s nice, and I should like him.” You paused, expression softening. “But every time he kissed me, I just…”

You trailed off, lost in thought. Heeseung swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He wasn’t sure why.

Yunjin made a gagging noise. “Okay, ew. Please don’t get all sentimental about kissing Beomgyu on my couch.”

You laughed, pushing her half-heartedly with your foot. “I’m just saying—it’s not clicking. You ever get that? Like, you try to like someone, but no matter how much you do, it just doesn’t fit?”

And the way you looked at Heeseung when you asked that—like you expected him to understand—made something in his chest tighten. Because yeah. He knew exactly what that felt like. He just… couldn’t say it.

So he swallowed, rolling his shoulders back, and forced a small smirk. “Damn,” he said, voice light. “Tough loss for Beomgyu.”

You let out a soft huff of laughter. “Yeah.” Then, a pause. “Guess I’m single again.”

Something in Heeseung’s chest lurched. But he just nodded, keeping his expression neutral, easy, unfazed. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t change everything.

A few weeks later, Heeseung showed up at your apartment. It was raining that day.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in that soft, half-hearted drizzle that made everything look just a little bit duller. The sky was gray, the streets were damp, and Heeseung had definitely stepped into at least two puddles on his way up to your place.

Which, in his opinion, was already way too much effort just to fix your stupid kitchen cabinet.

“Okay, I just wanna say,” he announced as soon as you let him in, dragging his slightly-wet socks across your floor, “I don’t know how the hell you managed to completely detach a cabinet door, but honestly? I’m kind of impressed.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping aside to let him in. “Are you gonna help me or are you gonna make fun of me?”

“Oh, I’m definitely gonna make fun of you.” He grinned, toeing off his shoes before making his way to your kitchen. “But I’ll fix it after.”

You followed behind him, crossing your arms as you watched him inspect the broken cabinet. It wasn’t like you had meant to break it. You had simply been existing in your own kitchen, minding your own business, when the handle somehow got caught on the sleeve of your hoodie—one tug too strong, and suddenly the door was in your hands instead of on its hinges.

“I literally don’t understand how this happened,” Heeseung muttered, crouching down to assess the damage.

“Okay, handyman,” you shot back. “Can you fix it or not?”

Heeseung snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, let me just—” He held out a hand. “Pass me my phone.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“My hands are kinda full,” he said, nodding towards the cabinet door that he was currently balancing on one knee. “Look up how to fix this real quick.”

You huffed but grabbed his phone from the counter, unlocking it without thinking as you leaned against the kitchen island. You didn’t love the idea of looking up a YouTube tutorial like some kind of DIY newbie, but considering that Heeseung was already physically here fixing your problem for you, you figured you could at least meet him halfway.

So, with one hand holding his phone, you typed "how to reattach cabinet door" into the search bar—

And then, your thumb froze. Because right there, at the top of the screen, was a notification. A message. From Chaewon. Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know who Chaewon was. Of course, you did. You weren’t stupid. Chaewon was his ex.

The one he never really talked about. The one who had, at one point, been a name you’d only heard in passing, just a piece of his past that you had no real reason to care about. Except… you did.

Because now, here she was. On his screen. Texting him. And suddenly, you felt fucking ridiculous. Because why were you even reacting like this? It wasn’t like he was your boyfriend. It wasn’t like he owed you an explanation. So, then… why did it feel like this?

You forced yourself to look away from the message, pressing the YouTube link on the screen as if nothing had happened. But something had. Because when Heeseung glanced at you, waiting for your next words, you just… couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.

“Uh.” You cleared your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your voice didn’t sound normal. “It says you need a screwdriver.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow at your abrupt shift in tone, but he didn’t question it. “Okay,” he said slowly, getting up to grab one from his bag.

You took the moment to shove his phone back onto the counter, clenching your jaw as you crossed your arms tighter over your chest. It was fine. You were fine.

“Hey.” His voice cut through the air, slightly muffled as he rummaged through his bag. “Can you hold this while I—”

“No, it’s fine.” The words came out too fast, too stiff.

And Heeseung noticed. He glanced at you, pausing with the screwdriver halfway in his grip. “You good?”

You forced out a laugh. “Yeah. Why?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head. “You just got all weird all of a sudden.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

You exhaled sharply, schooling your expression into something that wasn’t betrayal or insecurity or whatever dumb thing was currently buzzing inside your head. “I’m just tired.”

It wasn’t a total lie. Heeseung didn’t look fully convinced, but he didn’t push. He just hummed under his breath, turning back to the cabinet as he started working again.

And maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was irrational. But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The notification. The name. The way your stomach had twisted on instinct before you even had a chance to tell yourself it didn’t matter.

Because maybe… Maybe it did.

The next time you’re at Yunjin’s apartment, Heeseung isn’t there.

It’s not intentional, not entirely. Maybe there’s a small, petty part of you that’s relieved when Yunjin mentions he’s out, like the universe decided to grant you a break from the exhausting push and pull of whatever this thing is between you. But mostly, you’re just here because you always are.

There’s an old episode of some dating reality show playing in the background, and Yunjin barely glances at it as she paints her toenails a shade of red so deep it’s almost brown. You pick at the hem of your sleeve, casual, too casual, before finally asking, “Does Heeseung still see Chaewon?”

Yunjin snorts, like it’s the dumbest thing she’s heard all day. “God, I hope not.”

Something in your stomach untwists just slightly, but you don’t let the relief settle. You just raise an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What happened with them, anyway?”

Yunjin pauses, her brush hovering mid-air. She gives you a look. The kind that says she sees through you. The kind that makes your skin prickle with the discomfort of being known. But then she sighs, leans back against the couch, and says, “They burned out.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

Yunjin tilts her head. “You ever leave a candle burning too long?” She dips the brush back into the bottle, shaking her head. “They were good until they weren’t. And when they weren’t, it was obvious. Chaewon got tired of waiting for him to catch up.”

You frown. “Catch up?”

Yunjin shrugs. “She loved him first. And she wanted him to love her back just as fast, just as much. But Heeseung…” She sighs, blowing lightly on her nails. “Heeseung takes his time. He doesn’t fall in love all at once, he kind of… eases into it. Like the dumbass that he is.”

Your chest tightens.

Because you think about the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. About the way he always notices when you’re cold before you even say anything. And then you think about the way he doesn’t say anything. About the way he’s always on the edge of something, always almost.

Yunjin is watching you. You can feel it. And you know, you just know, she’s about to say something that’s going to ruin you.

So you get up, stretch your arms above your head like you can shake the weight of this conversation off your skin. “Right. Well. That was fun. Thanks for the gossip.”

Yunjin smirks. “You’re so fucking obvious.” You ignore her, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. But before you can shove it in your mouth, she says, “Heeseung’s not stupid, you know. He just doesn’t like to move until he’s sure.”

You pause. And because you’re you, and because this is Heeseung, and because everything about this whole thing is a goddamn waiting game— You pretend you don’t hear her.

And then it’s 2:14 a.m. when your phone buzzes.

You’re half-asleep, curled up in bed, the glow of your screen slicing through the darkness. You squint at it, groggy, before reading the message.

heeseung: you awake? heeseung: also. do u want mcdonalds

You blink. Then again. You type out a response with fingers that still feel half-dead from sleep.

you: is that even a question heeseung: valid. be outside in 10

And just like that, you’re stepping into your slides, and slipping out the door like this is the most normal thing in the world. Because with Heeseung, it kind of is.

The streetlights cast long, tired shadows across the pavement, and the air is that weird mix of crisp and stale that only exists at this hour, like the city itself is pausing, caught between the last breath of night and the first inhale of morning.

Heeseung’s car rolls up exactly nine minutes later, music already playing low through the speakers. When you slide into the passenger seat, he barely even looks at you before reaching into the back and tossing you his hoodie.

“You’re gonna get cold,” he says simply.

You huff, but you put it on. It smells like him—faint detergent, something vaguely woody, and the unmistakable scent of McDonald’s fries from however many late-night runs have preceded this one.

Heeseung pulls out onto the street, the familiar hum of the engine settling between you. He’s got one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel, and there’s a soft shadow of exhaustion under his eyes, but he still looks… at ease.

It’s quiet for a while. Comfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel like it needs filling.

Then, as he turns onto the main road, he says, “You ever think about how weird time is?”

You glance at him. “That’s an insane way to start a conversation.”

“I’m serious,” he laughs, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Like, right now. It’s 2:30 a.m. for us, but somewhere else, it’s a normal afternoon. Someone’s getting lunch, someone’s going to work. And here we are, about to eat McNuggets in a parking lot.”

You hum. “I feel like this is your way of convincing me that time isn’t real.”

He nods solemnly. “Nothing is real.”

“Except McNuggets.”

“Exactly.”

A beat passes, the soft rumble of the tires against the road the only sound for a moment. Then, quieter, more thoughtful, Heeseung asks, “Where do you think you’ll be in a year?”

The question catches you off guard. You tilt your head, thinking. “I don’t know,” you admit. “I mean, I have plans, but… life never really goes how you expect it to, does it?”

Heeseung exhales a small laugh. “No. It really doesn’t.”

You hesitate before adding, “Where do you think you’ll be?”

He takes a moment. His grip on the steering wheel tightens just slightly, like he’s holding onto the words before letting them go. “I don’t know either.” He pauses, then glances at you with something unreadable in his eyes. “I just hope I’m somewhere that still feels like home.”

You feel something shift. A small, almost imperceptible weight settling between the two of you.

And maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the fact that your brain isn’t fully awake yet. Or maybe it’s just him—this version of Heeseung that only exists at 2:30 a.m., the one who speaks in half-truths and unspoken things. But you suddenly feel like you understand exactly what he means.

The McDonald’s drive-thru is basically empty when you pull in. The girl at the window looks like she hates her job, and Heeseung, being Heeseung, makes it his personal mission to get her to smile.

“Are McFlurries still a scam?” he asks solemnly.

The girl raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You mean, is the machine broken?”

“Yeah.”

“Obviously.”

Heeseung sighs. “I knew it. A tragedy, really.”

Her lips twitch—just barely—but he sees it. He shoots you a triumphant look as he pulls forward.

With the food secured, he parks in a near-empty lot. There’s something about eating fast food in a car past midnight that makes it taste ten times better—something about the way the city is so still, like the world has shrunk down to just the two of you and the glow of the dashboard lights.

For a while, you just eat in silence, the occasional rustle of a fry bag or the quiet click of a sauce container the only noise. Then Heeseung says, “If you could live in any movie, which one would it be?”

You think for a moment. “Probably something stupid and fun. Like… a rom-com where everything works out in the end.”

Heeseung snorts. “Yeah? You want to be the main character that badly?”

“Obviously.”

He grins, dipping a fry into his BBQ sauce. “You’d be the chaotic best friend, though.”

You throw a fry at him. He catches it in his mouth.

“What about you?” you ask, popping a nugget into your mouth.

Heeseung leans back against the seat, thinking. “I don’t know. Something small. Quiet. One of those movies where nothing really happens, but it still makes you feel something.”

You tilt your head. “Like a waiting room.”

Heeseung turns to you. “What?”

“A waiting room,” you say, like it’s obvious. “That’s what those movies feel like. Like something is about to happen, but you don’t know what, and maybe it’s okay if nothing does.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he smiles. And it’s not his usual grin, not the teasing, lopsided smirk. It’s something smaller, softer. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Like a waiting room.”

Neither of you say anything after that. The city hums in the background, neon lights bleeding into the darkness, the last remnants of fries sitting forgotten between you.

And then, a party. Not the kind you remember from three years ago, not the one where you met a boy covered in green body paint who changed your life without even meaning to. But still, a party. The music is just as loud, the air just as thick with heat and laughter, the night just as full of things waiting to happen.

You’re not sure why you came. Yunjin had begged, of course, had stood in your doorway with her most dramatic expression, wailing about how you never do anything fun anymore. But even then, you could have said no. You could have curled up in your apartment, wrapped yourself in something soft and safe, ignored the way your stomach flipped when you thought, what if Heeseung is there?

But you didn’t.

And now, you’re here, standing in the middle of someone’s too-small living room, holding a lukewarm drink, feeling like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. And then, you hear your name.

It cuts through the music, through the laughter, through the static in your brain. It pulls you toward the kitchen, toward the familiar lilt of a voice you know better than your own. And there he is. Heeseung.

Standing in front of the fridge, cracking open a beer, wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans that hang just right. His hair is a little messy, his eyes a little bright, and when he sees you, he grins—that same lopsided, teasing, dangerous smile.

"Look who finally decided to show up," he says, raising his drink in a mock toast.

You roll your eyes, taking a sip of whatever’s in your cup. "Don’t make a big deal out of it."

Heeseung hums, leaning against the counter. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

But he’s looking at you like it is a big deal. Like maybe he’s been waiting for you all night. Like maybe he always is.

Hours pass, the party moves around you—people spilling in and out of rooms, music shifting from one song to the next—but you and Heeseung stay where you are, orbiting around each other.

At some point, someone suggests a game. Cards, or maybe something more ridiculous—something designed to make people confess things they wouldn’t say otherwise. You should say no. You should step away before you find yourself caught in something you can’t get out of.

But you don’t. You sit next to Heeseung on the floor, close enough that your knees touch. The game starts, questions fly, people laugh. And then—

Jake turns to you. "Alright, Y/N. Who was your first college crush?"

You blink. "What?"

The group whoops in unison. Jungwon throws an arm around your shoulder. "Come on, don’t be shy."

Your throat goes dry. Your eyes flicker to Heeseung, just for a second, but it’s enough. His smirk twitches—just barely, just enough to be noticeable—and suddenly, you know you have to get out of this.

You clear your throat, reaching for your drink. "I think I’ve blocked it out," you lie.

A chorus of boos erupts, but the game moves on. The moment passes. But beside you, Heeseung is watching you, his fingers tapping against his knee, like he’s putting something together. You pretend not to notice.

Later, when the party has blurred into something soft and distant, when most people are drunk or half-asleep, when the night has stretched itself out into something too fragile to hold forever, Heeseung finds you on the balcony.

You’re leaning against the railing, breathing in the cool air, staring out at the city lights. "You hiding from me?"

You don’t turn around. "You think everything’s about you, don’t you?"

He laughs—soft, amused, something warm threading through the sound. "It usually is."

You roll your eyes, but then he’s beside you, resting his forearms on the railing, close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through the night air.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The music inside is muffled now, the party nothing more than background noise. The city stretches out before you, endless and alive, full of people who have no idea that this moment is happening.

And then, quietly, Heeseung asks, "You really don’t remember your first college crush?"

Your fingers tighten slightly around the railing. You exhale. "I remember."

A pause. "Yeah?"

You glance at him. He’s watching you, expression unreadable, something deep and knowing in his eyes. You swallow. "Yeah."

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, and for a second, you think—Is he going to ask? Does he already know? But he doesn’t.

He just nods, looking back at the skyline, and says, "Me too."

And somehow, that’s worse. Because you think—no, you know—that he’s not talking about some early college memory, some long-forgotten infatuation.

He’s talking about you.

And for the first time, you wonder if this thing between you—this waiting, this almost, this three years of something unspoken—has been more obvious than you thought. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one waiting.

One month later. The thing about time is that it moves whether you’re ready or not. It stretches, it folds, it carries you forward even when you feel like you’re standing still.

And ever since the party, things with Heeseung have been… different. Not in an obvious way. Not in the way that people would notice, not in the way that Yunjin would tease you about over breakfast. But in the small things.

In the way his eyes linger just a little too long. In the way your stomach flips when he says your name. In the way every conversation feels like it’s balancing on the edge of something you can’t name.

Because you and Heeseung have always been close, always been drawn together like something written into the universe itself. But now? Now, it feels different. Like someone turned up the volume on something you didn’t even realize was playing in the background.

And the worst part? Neither of you are talking about it.

Instead, you’re doing what you do best—pretending. Pretending that nothing is different, that things are still light and easy, that three years of something unspoken aren’t finally starting to spill over the edges.

Until one day, when you’re sitting on Yunjin’s couch, your phone rings. It’s your mother. You hesitate before answering, already bracing yourself for whatever she’s about to say.

And the moment you put your phone down, you groan, collapsing onto the couch, like the weight of the conversation is physically pressing down on you. Heeseung and Yunjin are both looking at you expectantly, their attention fully on you in a way that makes you regret opening your mouth at all. But it’s too late now, so you just exhale, pressing your fingers against your temples before muttering, "My mom called."

Yunjin snorts. "Yeah, we got that much. What did she want?"

You roll your eyes, but the annoyance in your chest is directed at yourself more than anything else. "There’s a wedding. My cousin’s. Next weekend."

Heeseung, who had been absentmindedly rolling a bottle cap between his fingers, finally glances up, eyes curious. "You going?"

"Yeah." You sigh again. "Didn’t really have a choice. If I said no, she would’ve found a way to guilt-trip me into oblivion."

Yunjin grins knowingly. "Classic mom move."

You hum in agreement, then hesitate, picking at the hem of your sleeve. "And then she made it weird," you mutter.

Heeseung raises an eyebrow, shifting slightly on the couch so he’s facing you more fully. "How weird?"

You pause for a second, then groan, throwing your head back. "She brought up the fact that I’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything."

Yunjin cackles. She actually leans forward, hands on her knees, cackling. "Oh my God," she wheezes. "That’s so embarrassing for you."

You glare. "Thank you, Yunjin, for your endless support."

But Heeseung doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease. He just tilts his head, watching you with an unreadable expression. "She said that?"

You nod, rubbing your temples. "Yeah. She was all, ‘You can bring someone, you know,’ and then just immediately went for the ‘You’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything,’ like I don’t already know that."

Yunjin wipes a fake tear from her eye, still far too entertained. "Damn. She really called you out like that."

"Okay," you deadpan, "I think we’ve established that this is humiliating for me. Can we move on?"

But Yunjin grins, her eyes practically glowing with mischief, and that’s when you know you should have never said anything at all. "Well," she says, stretching out the word, "if it bothers you that much… you could always bring Heeseung."

Silence.

You feel it immediately—the way the air shifts, the way your stomach twists, the way your breath catches for just a second too long. You don’t look at Heeseung. You can’t.

Instead, you scoff, shoving her shoulder. "Oh my God, shut up."

"I’m serious!" she laughs. "It makes sense, doesn’t it? You need a date. Heeseung’s around."

Heeseung is silent. And that—that’s what makes your chest tighten. Because Heeseung is never silent.

You finally force yourself to glance at him, just a flicker, just to see how he’s reacting to this. And when you do, you find him already looking at you—his expression unreadable, his fingers stilling where they had been absently playing with the bottle cap.

Something tightens in your throat. Because it’s one thing to laugh it off. It’s one thing to pretend this isn’t something charged, something delicate, something that feels like standing on the edge of something too big to name.

But Heeseung isn’t laughing.

When you open the door on the wedding day, Heeseung is already leaning against his car, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, looking entirely too good for someone who is supposed to be doing you a favor. His hair is neat but still has that slight, careless tousle to it, his sleeves are pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms, and his black dress shirt is criminally well-fitted.

You try very hard not to notice any of that. But Heeseung is looking at you like you just stopped time.

It’s not obvious—he doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t let his jaw drop like some kind of movie cliché—but his fingers twitch slightly where they’re resting in his pockets, and his throat bobs as he swallows. His eyes move over you in a way that isn’t just admiration but something deeper, something heavier, something that makes your chest feel too tight.

You pretend not to notice that, either. Instead, you lift an eyebrow, shifting your weight onto one foot. "You gonna open the door for me, or are you just gonna stand there?"

Heeseung blinks, snapping out of it. He clears his throat, pushing off the car, his usual smirk creeping back into place. "Right, yeah. My bad."

You roll your eyes, but your face feels warm anyway. The ride starts out easy. The hum of the road fills the space between you, the occasional comment about the directions or a song playing on the radio breaking the silence.

"You, uh," Heeseung starts, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "You sure your mom’s gonna be cool with me coming?"

You blink. "What? Yeah, of course. I already told her."

He raises an eyebrow. "You told her?"

"Yeah," you say, adjusting the hem of your dress. "I mean, I talk about you all the time, so it’s not like it’s weird or anything."

Silence. You don’t notice it at first, but when you glance over, Heeseung is staring straight ahead, gripping the wheel a little tighter than before.

And the thing is—Heeseung is not someone who gets flustered easily. He doesn’t trip over his words, doesn’t get all weird when people talk about him. But now, he’s sitting there, completely silent, like his brain just blue-screened.

Because you talk about him all the time. To your mom. His ears burn at the thought.

Because it’s one thing to be close. It’s one thing to be your best friend, to be the person you go to for late-night McDonald’s runs and life-altering conversations on balconies. But it’s another thing entirely to know that he exists in your life even when he’s not there.

That when you’re on the phone with your mom, when you’re recounting your day, when you’re talking about the people who matter—he’s there. And it’s so stupid how much that does to him.

He coughs, forcing himself to sound normal. "Oh. Cool. Yeah. That’s cool."

You snort. "I told her you’re my friend, and that’s it."

Heeseung hums, tapping his fingers on the wheel again. "Yeah. Right."

But for some reason, the word friend doesn’t sit right in his mouth.

The wedding is beautiful. Not in the over-the-top, fairytale kind of way, but in the way that feels real. The ceremony is held outdoors, the late afternoon light draping everything in gold, the air carrying the soft hum of laughter and clinking glasses. There are flowers on every table, music drifting lazily through the air, and a warmth that lingers beneath the chatter of distant relatives catching up.

And you almost forget that you’re here with Heeseung. Almost. Except—you can feel him.

You can feel him next to you at the table, the warmth of his presence settling into your skin. You can feel the way his hand brushes against yours when he reaches for something, the way his eyes flicker toward you when he hears you laugh.

And the worst part is that he looks good as hell.

It’s almost unfair, the way he carries himself. The way his sleeves are still rolled up, the way his shirt is slightly undone at the collar, the way he leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, watching everything unfold like he belongs here.

And for the first time in a long time you don’t know where you stand with him.

Because this is Heeseung. The boy who sends you Shrek memes at 2 a.m. The boy who once argued with a barista about oat milk for a full five minutes. The boy who makes you laugh until you can’t breathe.

But right now? Right now, he’s something else, too. Something that makes your stomach flip. Something that makes you forget how to breathe.

The music shifts. It’s not immediate—not some grand, dramatic moment where the world slows down—but you feel it.

The moment the first notes of the song drift through the air, you feel it in your chest. Like something tightening. Like something pulling at a thread you don’t want to unravel. Because you know this song. Of course you know this song. And so does he.

You don’t even have to look at Heeseung to know he recognizes it too. That he knows exactly what’s playing, that he knows how much you love her, that he knows you’ve played this song before—in his car, in your apartment, in the quiet spaces between friendship and something else.

You know he knows. And yet, he still turns to you, his voice a low murmur beneath the hum of conversation. “Phoebe Bridgers,” he says.

You swallow. “Yeah.” Heeseung hums, watching you carefully. His fingers drum lightly against the table, slow and steady, in time with the beat of the song. Then, after a second—

"You should dance with me."

You blink. You blink again. Your stomach twists. “What?”

Heeseung shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything. “You love this song.”

Which—okay. That’s true. But this is not a song you dance to. This is a song you listen to alone, in your room, in the quiet, when it’s too late and you’re too restless and you’re thinking about things you shouldn’t be thinking about.

This is not a wedding song. And yet, Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like this is a dare, like he’s waiting for you to say no, to call him out, to pull away before it’s too late.

And yet, his hand is outstretched, waiting, patient, warm. And yet— You take it. You don’t think, you just do it, just let yourself be pulled. And Heeseung holds you like he’s afraid to press too hard.

One hand on your waist. The other clasping yours loosely, like he’s letting you decide how close to be. Like he’s still waiting for you to laugh and push him away and say, ‘This is so stupid’.

But you don’t. You just breathe. You just exist here, in this moment, with him.

If you were a waiting room, I would never see a doctor I would sit there with my first-aid kit and bleed

Your throat tightens. Because God, this song.

Because you know every lyric by heart, because you know what it means, because there’s something about it that always makes you feel like you’re standing in the middle of something you’ll never quite have.

And now, here you are, dancing to it with him.

Heeseung exhales softly, tilting his head toward you. “You ever think about that?”

You blink. “Think about what?”

His fingers twitch slightly against your waist. “How music reminds you of people.”

Your stomach flips. Because of course you do. Of course, you think about it. Of course, this song, this moment, this whole damn night is going to be tied to him now, forever, no matter what happens after.

You nod. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I think about it.”

Heeseung hums, like that makes sense. Like he already knew what you were going to say. Then—

"Does this song remind you of me?"

Your breath catches. The air between you thickens.

Because that shouldn’t be a question. Because he already knows the answer. Because you’re standing here with him, swaying to a song that makes your chest ache, and you know, you know he hears the lyrics just as clearly as you do.

I wanna be the broken love song that feeds your misery.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to sound normal. “Maybe.”

His lips twitch. “Maybe?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

Heeseung laughs, soft, breathless. And God, you hate him.

You hate the way he makes everything feel like a game, like he’s always hovering right at the edge of something and waiting for you to push him over. You hate that it’s working.

And when broken bodies are washed ashore—who am I to ask for more?

You shiver. Because this is the part of the song that gets to you every time. Because who are you to ask for more?

Who are you to ask for something that maybe, just maybe, was never meant to be yours? But then Heeseung, of all people, says “I think this song reminds me of you, too.”

Your heart stops. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you, and suddenly this doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

This doesn’t feel like something you can laugh off. Because Heeseung is serious.

Because his hand is still on your waist, his fingers still brushing against the fabric of your dress, his breath still warm against your cheek, and you don’t know how to go back from this. You don’t know if you want to.

Heeseung shifts slightly, his grip tightening for just a second. “You ever think about it?”

You blink. “Think about what?”

Heeseung hesitates, his eyes flickering over your face. His jaw tightens—just barely.

"Us."

Your stomach drops.

Because he says it so simply, like it’s nothing, like it’s a passing thought, like he hasn’t just destroyed your entire world in one syllable. Us. The word sits heavy in the air between you, impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend you didn’t hear.

Heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t look away, doesn’t do anything to make this easier for you. He just keeps holding you, keeps swaying with you, keeps waiting—like he has all the time in the world.

You want to say something.

You want to throw your head back and laugh it off, tell him he’s being ridiculous, tell him to stop playing with you. You want to scoff and roll your eyes and pretend that the thought of you and Heeseung has never crossed your mind, that it hasn’t been haunting you for years, that it hasn’t been living under your skin since the first time he looked at you like you were something worth remembering.

But you can’t. Because this is Heeseung. Because he knows you too well, because he’d hear the lie in your voice, because there is nowhere left to hide when he’s looking at you like this.

So instead, you stall. You breathe in, slow and careful, and say, "What about us?"

It’s a cheap move. A pathetic attempt at deflection. And Heeseung knows it.

He exhales, the ghost of a laugh slipping past his lips, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your waist. "You know what I mean."

You glance down at your hands, the way your fingers are still laced together with his, the way your other hand rests so easily on his shoulder, like this is something you’ve done a thousand times before. And maybe you have.

Maybe you and Heeseung have always been dancing around each other like this. Maybe you’ve just never let yourself notice. The song keeps playing, keeps taunting you, keeps threading its meaning between your ribs, pulling you closer and closer to something you don’t know how to name.

I wanna make you drive all night just because I said, maybe you should come over

You let out a slow breath, forcing your voice to stay steady. "We’re friends, Heeseung."

He hums. "Yeah. We are."

But he doesn’t let go.

He doesn’t move away, doesn’t drop his hand from your waist, doesn’t step back into the safe distance you’re used to. He stays. And that’s the part that gets you.

Because if he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t be holding you like this. If he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t have asked the question in the first place.

You glance up at him again, searching, waiting for him to say something else, to give you an out, to change the subject, to laugh and let it go. But he doesn’t. He just watches you. And suddenly, you feel exposed in a way you never have before.

Like every late-night conversation, every half-smile, every almost has been leading here, to this moment, to this song, to this feeling that you don’t know how to escape. You force yourself to swallow.

"Why are you asking me this?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, considering you, considering his words.

"Because I think about it, too."

Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers tighten against his shoulder. Your heart slams against your ribs.

You feel like the whole world has shrunk down to just this. To the space between your bodies, to the way he’s looking at you, to the fact that he thinks about it, too.

Heeseung’s fingers twitch slightly against yours, but he doesn’t let go. He’s watching you with this careful intensity, like he’s waiting for something, like he’s giving you the chance to decide what happens next.

And that’s the problem.

Because you don’t know what happens next.

Because you’ve spent years existing in this strange, untouchable place with him, in this in-between, in this waiting room of a relationship that never moves forward but never lets you leave either.

And now, suddenly, here you are. Standing on the edge of something irreversible.

She'll be the best you ever had if you let her

Your heart stumbles. Because this song knows too much.

Because this song feels too much like the two of you, like something ripped from your ribs and put into lyrics, like a truth you weren’t ready to confront. And maybe—just maybe—Heeseung feels it, too.

Because he leans in. Just a little. Just enough.

Not enough to cross the line, not enough to destroy the thing you’ve built, but enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, enough that the scent of him—clean soap, something faintly woodsy, something entirely him—wraps around you.

Enough that you could close the distance if you wanted to. And God, you do.

But you don’t. Because you’re afraid. Because you don’t know what happens when you let this become real.

Because Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like he could ruin you if he wanted to, like he’s giving you the chance to ruin him first.

I know it's for the better

You exhale, too shaky, too uneven. And Heeseung notices.

His gaze flickers, barely, to your lips, to the space between you, to the way you haven’t moved away from him yet. And then his jaw clenches.

Like he’s just realized how close you are. Like he’s just realized this is about to happen if neither of you stop it. And that’s the thing, neither of you stop it.

Not immediately. Not when his fingers tighten slightly on your waist. Not when your grip on his shoulder trembles just a little. Not when the air between you stretches so thin it might snap in half.

Not until you hear, Know it’s for the better…

The song starts to fade. The moment fractures. And just like that, you both pull away.

Not much. Just an inch, a breath, a single second too late. But it’s enough.

Enough for reality to settle back in. Enough for the noise of the wedding to come rushing back, for the chatter and laughter and clinking glasses to remind you where you are, who you are, what you almost did.

And Heeseung, he knows it, too. You see it in the way his throat bobs, in the way he blinks hard, in the way he forces himself to take a step back, to drop his hand from your waist, to roll his shoulders like he can shake off whatever just happened between you.

The song ends. And neither of you say a word.

And three months later, silence.

At first, it’s subtle—just a missed text here, a conversation that doesn’t last as long as it used to, an inside joke that no longer lands the way it should. But then it becomes something else. Something colder. Something that feels less like a pause and more like a choice.

And that’s what happened to you and Heeseung.

You didn’t stop talking completely. That would have been too obvious, too final, too much like admitting that something had shifted beyond repair. You still sent the occasional meme, still ran into each other at Yunjin’s, still had conversations that skimmed the surface of what they used to be.

But it was different. The late-night McDonald’s runs stopped. The effortless teasing felt strained. The ease of being around each other—the one thing you never questioned—was suddenly gone.

Neither of you did anything about it. You let it happen. Because it was easier that way.

Because acknowledging it meant admitting that something had changed, that you had gotten too close, that something had almost happened that night at the wedding. And you weren’t ready to admit that.

You weren’t ready to ask if Heeseung had almost kissed you, or if you had almost kissed him, or if you had both just been caught in some stupid, fleeting moment that meant nothing at all. So, you didn’t.

And now, three months later, all that’s left is silence.

The rain comes down in sheets, heavy and relentless, drumming against the windows of your apartment. You sit curled up on your couch, blanket wrapped around you, phone abandoned on the coffee table. The storm had rolled in an hour ago, sudden and unforgiving, and now the whole city feels swallowed by it, the streetlights barely visible through the downpour.

Then, there’s a knock at your door. You weren’t expecting anyone. It’s too late, too stormy, too much of a nothing kind of night for visitors.

But something in you knows—before you even open the door, before you even take that first breath—that it’s him.

And it is. It’s Heeseung.

Standing in your doorway, soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing unevenly like he just ran here.

You freeze. "Heeseung?"

His eyes flicker over your face, searching, desperate, wild in a way you’ve never seen before. His clothes are damp, sticking to his frame, his hands clenched at his sides. But it’s his expression that gets you.

Like something is breaking inside of him. Like something has already broken.

“I can’t—” His voice catches, hoarse and raw, and then he shakes his head, like words are failing him, like they’re too small for what he’s trying to say.

Your heart is pounding. “Heeseung, what are you—”

"I can’t stop thinking about you."

The words crash into you like a wave, knocking the breath from your lungs. You stare.

Heeseung swallows hard, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, like he’s trying to find a way to make you understand.

"I’ve tried," he continues, voice shaking. "I really, really tried. But you’re always there. You’re in every song I hear, in every dumb inside joke, in every single thing that happens to me. I see something stupid and my first thought is always, ‘Y/N would think that’s hilarious.’ I go to text you and then I stop because I don’t know if I’m supposed to anymore. I—"

He lets out a sharp, frustrated laugh, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “I thought if I just gave it time, it would go away. I thought I could just—move past it. But I still feel like I’m standing in that damn Halloween party with you, waiting for something to happen.”

Your throat is tight. “Heeseung—”

“I miss you,” he interrupts, pushing forward, stepping into your space like he’s afraid you’ll shut the door on him if he doesn’t. "I miss you so much it’s making me lose my goddamn mind."

Your pulse is roaring in your ears. You should say something. You should do something. But you can’t. You just stand there, staring at him, your body frozen in place. And Heeseung just keeps talking.

"I don’t know how to be your friend anymore," he admits, wrecked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to sit next to you and act like I don’t want more. I don’t know how to look at you and pretend that you’re not the first person I think about when I wake up and the last person I think about before I fall asleep. I don’t know how to listen to that fucking song without remembering the way you looked at me that night."

The air is too thick. Your vision is blurring.

Heeseung breathes out a shaky, desperate laugh, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "And the worst part?" He meets your eyes, and it destroys you. "I don’t think I want to stop thinking about you."

And that’s it.

That’s what breaks you. That’s what makes you move.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate.

You step forward, grab the front of his stupid wet shirt, and kiss him.

The storm rages outside. And for the first time in three years, neither of you pull away.

The moment your lips crash into his, Heeseung stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but then he’s pulling you closer, like he’s been waiting for this forever.

His hands cup your face, fingers threading into your hair, holding you like you might disappear if he lets go. And you grip the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you standing, like if you let go, the moment might shatter around you.

Heeseung sighs into the kiss, like he’s relieved, like this is something he’s needed more than breathing itself. He tilts his head, deepening it, and you melt into him, the heat of his mouth sending shivers down your spine.

It’s surreal, familiar and foreign all at once, like stepping into a dream you’ve had before but never been able to hold onto. Because this is Heeseung. The boy who has always been by your side, the boy who has spent years making you laugh until your stomach hurts, the boy who has always been a constant in your life.

But now, he’s something else too. Now, he’s the only thing you can feel. And that’s the strangest part, how utterly consuming this is. Because your brain is struggling to keep up, still caught in the absurdity of it—Heeseung is kissing me, I’m kissing Heeseung, this is happening, this is happening.

And then he moves forward, stepping into the apartment fully, finally, his hands still tangled in your hair, still refusing to let you go. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound almost lost beneath the roar of the storm outside.

Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. His lips find yours again, his hands skimming over your waist, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s trying to make up for all the time he spent pretending he didn’t want this. And you can’t breathe. Because this isn’t like any kiss you’ve ever had before.

You’ve kissed people you liked. You’ve kissed people you thought you could love. But you have never, never felt this. This heat, this ache, this impossible, indescribable pull. Like your entire life has been leading up to this moment.

Like every other kiss you’ve had before this was just a poor imitation of what it was supposed to feel like. And that’s terrifying. Because how do you go back after this? How do you pretend this doesn’t mean something?

Heeseung exhales against your lips, his breath uneven, his fingers tightening just slightly against your waist. Like he’s thinking the same thing, like he’s struggling just as much as you are to make sense of this.

You should stop. You should pull away, take a breath, process. But you can’t.

Because he tilts his head, kisses you deeper, and suddenly, you’re walking backward without realizing it, your body moving on instinct, your hands clutching at his shirt as if he’s the only thing keeping you steady. Heeseung follows, one hand sliding down to rest against the small of your back, guiding you without thinking, without hesitation.

Your legs hit the couch. You stumble slightly, your balance faltering for the first time, and Heeseung, on pure reflex, catches you. His hands tighten instantly, pulling you against him, steadying you before you can fall.

But the movement leaves zero space between you. You can feel everything, his chest rising and falling against yours, the heat radiating off of him, the way his fingers twitch slightly where they’re curled into the fabric of your shirt.

His breath brushes against your lips, his nose bumping against yours as you both hover, just for a moment, just long enough to realize how close you are, just long enough to make it worse.

Before you can stop yourself, before you can think, you kiss him again. This time, it’s slower. This time, it’s deeper. This time, it’s not about the rush, the adrenaline, the storm raging outside. This time, it’s about everything else.

About the way his hands move carefully now, like he’s trying to remember every single detail, about the way he tilts his head slightly to fit his mouth against yours like he’s done this a thousand times in his head, about the way he lets out a soft, wrecked sound when you slide your fingers up into his still-damp hair. And you’re drowning in him.

You fall back onto the couch, pulling him with you, and he follows without hesitation, bracing himself with one hand on the cushion beside you, the other still gripping your waist, his fingers trembling just slightly against your skin.

His lips leave yours only for a second, just long enough for him to breathe, just long enough for his eyes to flicker over your face, like he’s trying to memorize you at this moment.

And then, so softly you almost don’t hear it—

“Tell me you want this.”

Your breath catches. Because God, you do. You do. You always have. So you don’t say anything. You just pull him down and kiss him again.

The weight of him settles over you, his body pressed against yours, his hands everywhere and nowhere at once—on your waist, your ribs, twitching like he doesn’t know where to hold you first, like he doesn’t want to stop touching you long enough to decide.

It's overwhelming. His warmth, his scent, the soft, unsteady breaths he exhales between kisses, the way his fingers slide under the hem of your shirt just slightly, just enough to brush against bare skin. It’s careful. Hesitant. Like he’s testing something fragile.

Heeseung groans softly, his grip tightening, his lips parting against yours in a way that sends a full-body shiver down your spine. His hands move up your sides, down to your hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes like he wants to commit this exact moment to memory. You arch just slightly, chasing his warmth, and the movement makes Heeseung suck in a sharp breath, his forehead pressing briefly against yours.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You laugh, breathless, hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him shudder. “That’s dramatic.”

His lips graze yours again, barely there, just enough to drive you insane. “You have no idea.”

And you could stay here forever—wrapped up in him, in his weight, in the way his lips brush over your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he’s learning you one kiss at a time.

He shifts just slightly, pressing more of his weight into you, his thigh slipping between yours, and your breath catches. Heeseung notices immediately. You feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his grip on your waist tightens, in the way he exhales shakily against your cheek.

You don’t move. He doesn’t move. The air changes. Slows. Thickens. And suddenly, it’s not just kissing anymore. Suddenly, it’s so much more than that. It’s every feeling you’ve been ignoring, every second of the past three years, every single moment leading up to this one catching up to you all at once.

And Heeseung feels it too. Because he pulls back, just a little, just enough to look at you properly, his expression wrecked. His fingers brush against your cheek, light, careful, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop. Like he’s scared of what happens if you don’t.

You stare up at him, breathless, your pulse pounding in your ears, and— God, he’s beautiful.

His hair is still damp from the rain, strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look softer. His lips are kiss-bruised, parted slightly as he catches his breath, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

You exhale slowly, one hand sliding down his chest, feeling the way his heart slams against his ribs, and he shudders. You know what this means. You know there’s no going back after this. So you whisper—soft, shaky, everything all at once—

"Heeseung."

And that’s all it takes.

Heeseung exhales—a shaky, uneven breath, like he’s barely holding himself together. His fingers tighten slightly where they rest on your waist, his body still hovering over yours. Then, softly, barely above a whisper—

"Say my name again."

Your stomach flips. You don’t, not at first. Because you feel lightheaded, because this is Heeseung, because what the hell is happening right now?

But Heeseung isn’t impatient. He doesn’t push. He just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face—your lips, your eyes, the way your breath catches in your throat. And then, carefully, deliberately, he grabs your wrist.

Your breath hitches as he lifts your hand, as he guides it slowly, until your palm is pressed flat against his chest. You can feel it. His heartbeat. It’s slamming against his ribs, too fast, too unsteady, completely out of control.

You stare at your hand, at where it rests over his racing pulse, at the way his skin burns beneath your touch. Heeseung swallows hard.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, his voice low, rough, wrecked.

And you do, because it’s all you can feel, because it’s like his entire body is responding to you, and you nod, your fingers twitching slightly against his shirt.

Heeseung lets out a breath like he’s relieved, like he needed you to know this, to feel this, to understand what you do to him. Then, slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him, he leans down, brushing his lips against the curve of your jaw. You suck in a breath, your eyes fluttering shut as he moves lower, pressing the softest, slowest kiss to the side of your neck. Your fingers curl against his shoulders, your pulse hammering beneath your skin, and he feels it.

“Heeseung,” you breathe, and it’s embarrassing how it comes out, a little too soft, a little too needy, like you’re already losing yourself in him.

He shudders, letting out a sharp breath. “Fuck—”

Then, his teeth graze your pulse point, and you gasp, back arching instinctively into him. Your hips shift beneath his, your hands moving without thinking, fingers grasping at the hem of his hoodie, your skin itching for more of him, more warmth, more of everything.

Heeseung lets you. He lets you push the fabric up, lets you brush your fingers over the bare skin of his stomach, lets you feel the way his muscles tense under your touch. He exhales a groan, head dropping to your shoulder like you’ve just taken the breath right out of him.

He murmurs your name, voice strangled, his fingers digging into your waist as if you’ve completely unraveled him. You suck in a breath, your hands still fisting his hoodie.

“I want to hear you,” he admits, so quietly, like he almost wasn’t planning to say it out loud. “I want to—”

He cuts himself off with another soft groan as you push the hoodie all the way up, your fingers skimming over his bare chest before you finally tug it over his head. It hits the floor with a soft thud, but you barely register it.

Because Heeseung is above you, half-naked, breathing heavy, flushed, and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that exists. You don’t know what to do with yourself. So you just stare up at him, breathless, waiting. And then, finally, you whisper—

"Heeseung, tell me what you want."

Heeseung exhales sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his fingers still pressing into your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, steady himself, like he’s trying not to lose his mind completely.

His hand slides up, fingertips grazing your ribs, slow and deliberate, and you shudder beneath him. His thumb brushes the fabric of your shirt, his touch gentle but knowing, and he meets your eyes, and God, he looks ruined.

"I want—" He starts, but then he laughs breathlessly, shaking his head like he can’t believe himself, like this is too much, like you are too much. His hands are still moving, still exploring, still teasing at the fabric of your shirt, still making your body burn in ways you’ve never felt before. "I want all of you."

Your stomach flips. Because he’s not even touching you properly, and yet it’s the way he says it, the weight of his voice, the truth in it, that makes your pulse stutter.

And then, before you can respond, before you can tease him for how wrecked he sounds, his hands move, slow and deliberate. Fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, pushing it up, knuckles skimming over your stomach, over your ribs, over every single inch of skin he reveals as he goes.

Your breath stutters, your body arching up into his touch. His jaw clenches, his lips part, and then he’s leaning down, pressing his mouth to your collarbone, trailing featherlight, open-mouthed kisses along your skin as he slowly tugs your shirt over your head.

And then, finally, your shirt joins his hoodie on the floor. And suddenly, you’re both bare and breathless, staring at each other like you don’t know what to do next, even though you both know exactly what’s about to happen.

"Heeseung," you whisper, and his eyes flicker, dark, burning, like your voice alone is enough to unravel him.

"You’re not making this easy," he murmurs, his fingers skimming up your sides, his thumb brushing along your ribs, his body pressing down just slightly, just enough to feel how perfectly he fits against you.

Your breath catches. "Good."

And that ruins him. Heeseung groans, low and deep, and then he’s leaning down again, lips trailing along your jaw, down your neck, to your collarbone, soft, open-mouthed kisses, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every single second. His voice is strained, thick with something raw, something undeniable.

"You feel so good."

You whimper at his words, your nails digging into his shoulders, and Heeseung reacts immediately, his hips pressing down, his body slotting perfectly against yours, his breath catching as he feels you, all of you, right there beneath him.

"Shit," he mutters, his head dropping to your shoulder, his hands gripping your waist like he needs something to hold onto. You’re both breathless now, bodies pressed so close there’s no space left between you, every single movement sending heat crashing through your veins. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this."

Your heart stumbles. Because neither of you were supposed to say it. Neither of you were supposed to acknowledge it. But now—it’s out there. And there’s no taking it back.

And then Heeseung looks at you, really looks at you. His eyes, dark and hooded with something deeper than just desire, trace every inch of your face, your parted lips, the flush spreading down your neck, the way your chest rises and falls, rapid and uneven beneath him.

“You’re…” He swallows hard, his voice thick with something close to reverence. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

His hands move lower, squeezing your thighs before dragging up again, pushing your legs further apart beneath him. Heeseung exhales sharply, his pupils blown wide as he takes in the way you look beneath him, flushed, needy, completely and utterly his for the taking.

“Fuck.” His voice is raw, thick with barely restrained need. “You’re perfect.”

His mouth finds your collarbone, lips hot and insistent as he moves lower, tasting, worshiping. His tongue flicks over the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing lightly before he sucks, leaving a mark. His fingers dig into your skin as he rolls his hips down against yours, pulling a sharp gasp from your lips. He watches, fascinated, as your body reacts to his, as your fingers clutch at his arms, as your lips part with another breathy whimper that shoots straight through his bloodstream.

“You like that?” he murmurs, dragging his lips up to your ear, his voice nothing but a low rasp. “Like feeling me this close?” You nod, but it’s not enough. Heeseung needs to hear you say it. “Tell me,” he demands, his fingers tightening just enough to make you squirm.

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a breath.

Heeseung smirks against your skin, the sound of your desperation fueling the heat building between you. “Good.” His lips trail back down, kissing, tasting, exploring every inch of you. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Heeseung hovers over you, his breath warm against your skin as his hands trail lower, fingers grazing the waistband of your pants. His fingers toy with the fabric at your hips, teasing. His voice, when he speaks, is deep and laced with restraint.

“Can I take these off?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the sight of him like this—his lips swollen, his gaze dark with barely contained desire, sends a shiver down your spine. Your stomach tightens, heat curling low in your belly as you whisper, “Yes.”

And the second the word leaves your lips, Heeseung exhales sharply, like he’s been holding back this whole time. His hands move with deliberate slowness, sliding under the waistband, his fingers warm and firm against your hips as he starts to pull your pants down.

His hands guide your pants lower until they slip past your thighs, pooling somewhere near your ankles, and he takes his time, his lips pressing slow, reverent kisses along the soft skin of your lower belly, just above the edge of your underwear.

He groans against your skin, his voice husky. “You have no idea how good you look right now.”

His hands splay over your thighs, his lips follow the same path, pressing kisses, biting gently, dragging his tongue across the warmth of your skin as he moves lower. You let out a shaky breath as he spreads your legs just a little more, his fingers gripping, massaging, his lips marking every inch of your inner thighs as he inches closer to where you need him most.

Heeseung hums against your skin, his breath hot, teasing. “So soft,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with admiration, with hunger. His hands squeeze your thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to make you arch slightly. “So perfect.”

His lips brush dangerously close to the edge of your underwear, his nose nuzzling against the sensitive skin just beside it, inhaling deeply like he wants to drown in you. His grip tightens. His lips part, and he looks up at you.

The sight of him between your legs, hair messy, lips swollen, his dark eyes filled with something you can’t quite name—it’s almost too much.

His voice is thick, teasing but affectionate. “You’re shaking,” he notes, his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh in slow, soothing circles.

Your breath catches. “Because of you.”

Heeseung groans softly, his hands gripping tighter, his lips trailing higher again, back to your hip, back to your stomach, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin there. “You have no idea how much I love hearing that,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly, he starts to move up. His fingers slide up to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek, like he needs to feel every part of you, like he’s grounding himself in your presence. He exhales sharply, his forehead resting against yours for the briefest second, like he’s gathering himself, like he’s trying to hold back.

“I need to taste you,” he murmurs, his voice nothing but a raw, desperate rasp. “Please.”

Your breath stutters, your fingers gripping onto his arms, feeling the tension coiled tight beneath his skin. You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself, but the truth is, you want this just as much.

“I need to hear you say it,” he murmurs.

Your pulse is a pounding rhythm against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with heat, but somehow, you manage to find your voice.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I want it. I want you.”

Heeseung groans, his grip tightening for just a second before he’s moving again, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. His hands slide back down your body, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of you.

And then he’s sinking back down between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours, his hands parting your legs with a reverence that makes your head spin.

Heeseung grips the hem of your underwear between his fingers, his breathing ragged, his hands slightly trembling as he looks up at you. His eyes search yours, dark and full of something raw. “Can I?” His voice is hushed, reverent, like a prayer whispered into the silence.

Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as you nod. “Yes,” you murmur.

Heeseung exhales, almost like he’s relieved, like he was afraid you’d stop him. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he slides the fabric down your legs, his fingers grazing your skin as he does, his touch both featherlight and electric.

And then he sees you. His breath catches in his throat, his hands tightening slightly around your thighs as he takes you in. His gaze, hooded and heavy with admiration, rakes over you like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory, like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his voice almost disbelieving.

The way he’s looking at your body, so intense, so completely captivated, sends a flush of heat racing up your spine. Your instincts kick in, your legs twitching slightly as the urge to close them overtakes you. But Heeseung doesn’t let you.

His hands move quickly, firm but gentle as he grips your thighs, keeping you open for him. “Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Your breath hitches, your whole body thrumming under his touch. Heeseung leans in, lips ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath hot against your already burning skin. He looks up at you again, his eyes locking onto yours, and what he says next sends a sharp pulse of anticipation straight through your core.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he promises, his voice low, edged with something sinful. “So good that you’ll never forget me.”

And then he dips down. The first press of his mouth against your clit is enough to steal the air from your lungs. Warm, wet, hungry—Heeseung doesn’t just touch, he devours. His tongue moves slow at first, tasting you, savoring every single reaction you give him.

You gasp, arching against him, your body already trembling from the sheer intensity of his touch. Heeseung groans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, sending shockwaves up your spine. His grip on your thighs tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he keeps you exactly where he wants you.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your heat. “Just like I knew you would.”

Your moans come freely now, breathy, desperate, the pleasure crashing over you in waves as Heeseung works you open with his mouth. He hums against you, pleased, lost in you, whispering praise between every stroke of his tongue. “So good for me.” Kiss. “So fucking perfect.” Lick. “You’re mine.” Suck.

And when you whimper his name, broken and pleading, Heeseung only grips your thighs tighter and pulls you even closer, determined to ruin you completely.

Heeseung groans against you, the vibrations sending a shiver up your spine as he keeps his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking, licking, savoring you like he’s starving. Then, slowly, he moves one hand between your legs, his fingers tracing a teasing path through your slick folds. You shudder, your hips instinctively bucking at the sensation, and Heeseung chuckles, a low, rough sound against your skin.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh before glancing up at you through dark lashes. “So fucking perfect.”

And then he presses a finger inside you. The stretch is slow, deliberate, his touch both gentle and utterly devastating as he sinks into your heat. You gasp sharply, your walls fluttering around him, and Heeseung groans, low and guttural.

“Fuck,” he hisses, watching the way you take him in. His finger curls inside you, testing, feeling. “You’re so tight, baby.”

The words send another wave of heat crashing through you, your body tightening at the sheer hunger in his voice. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he eases his finger in deeper as he continues working you open, his tongue never once leaving your clit. Your back arches, your fingers tangling in his hair, and Heeseung groans again, the sound muffled as he devours you, the heat of his mouth sending you spiraling closer to the edge.

“Heeseung—” His name slips from your lips, breathless, desperate.

Heeseung growls against you, deep and possessive, and you swear you can feel the sound reverberate through your entire body. His grip tightens, his pace quickens, his finger thrusting deeper, curling, coaxing pleasure out of you with every calculated stroke.

And then he adds a second finger. Your body tenses, the stretch just enough to make you whimper, and Heeseung groans at the way you clench around him.

“You’re taking me so well,” he praises, his voice thick, raspy, dripping with admiration. “So fucking perfect for me.”

His lips wrap around your clit again, sucking hard, and your body seizes, heat curling so tight inside you that you can’t hold back any longer. Heeseung feels it, and he sucks harder, pumps his fingers deeper, his other hand pressing down on your stomach to keep you still as your moans turn into cries, your body trembling beneath him.

“Cum for me,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me feel it.”

And you do. The pleasure slams into you all at once, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping as your body locks up, your thighs trembling around his head. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he keeps licking, keeps sucking, drawing every last drop of pleasure from you as you fall apart beneath him.

Your body shudders, aftershocks rippling through you, and Heeseung finally slows, his touch turning soft, reverent, as he presses one last lingering kiss to your sensitive clit before pulling back.

He looks up at you then, his lips glistening, his pupils blown wide, his breath ragged. And then he smirks, his voice low and utterly wrecked.

“Told you I’d make you feel good.”

You smile softly, but before you can even reach for him, he moves, fast, precise. A startled gasp escapes your lips as he manhandles you, lifting you effortlessly off the couch, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessiveness that sends a shiver through your entire body. His hold on you is strong, unwavering, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s afraid to let go.

You cling to him, your arms locking around his shoulders as he carries you with ease, moving through the dimly lit apartment. Your lips find his neck, tasting the warmth of his skin, inhaling his scent. The closeness, the heat between your bodies, makes you whimper softly against his throat.

And Heeseung groans. A low, deep sound that rumbles in his chest as he grips you tighter, his pace quickening like he’s growing just as desperate as you are.

Because this isn’t just anyone. This is Heeseung.

The boy who has been stitched into your life for years, who has laughed with you, argued with you, known you in ways no one else has. This is the person you love most in the world—and you’re finally having him like this for the first time. The thought makes you cling to him even harder, your lips trailing messily along his jaw, your fingers gripping at his shoulders, needing more, needing all of him.

When Heeseung reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He kneels onto the bed with you still wrapped around him, letting your back sink into the soft mattress as he gently lays you down, his body hovering over yours.

His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling as he looks down at you, his gaze deep, searching. His Bambi-like eyes, so wide, so full of something tender, something real, hold you in place more than his body ever could.

His hands, still gripping your thighs, slowly loosen, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along your skin. Like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s realizing, holy shit, this is happening.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his belt. The soft sound of the buckle unfastening fills the space between you, followed by the quiet rustle of fabric as he pushes his pants down, revealing his bare skin, the strong lines of his toned body, every inch of him that you’ve never seen before but already crave more than anything.

You exhale sharply, your eyes dragging over him, admiring the way the soft glow of your bedroom light casts shadows over his sculpted stomach, the definition in his arms, the sharp cut of his hips. He’s breathtaking. And every second that passes, the ache inside you grows, the need twisting tighter and tighter.

You swallow hard, your voice soft but certain when you finally whisper, “I didn’t know I needed you this much until now.”

Heeseung stills. For a moment, his breath catches, his fingers twitching where they rest against your skin. The flush that spreads across his cheeks, blooming down his neck, his lips part slightly, his eyes flickering between yours, something breaking, something giving way inside him.

Then he looks down at you again. And this time, his gaze is molten. Dark, intense, filled with something raw and unfiltered as he leans down, his lips hovering just above yours.

“I think,” he whispers, his voice low, breathless, “I’ve always needed you like this.”

And then he kisses you. Deep, slow, pouring everything into it, every ounce of longing, every unsaid word, every moment spent waiting for this. His hands roam, tracing the curves of your body, feeling, memorizing.

The moment you feel him, thick and hard against your aching core, you let out a soft, needy moan against his lips. Heeseung still has his underwear on, but the heat of him, the way his hips press down, grinding slowly against you, makes your body arch instinctively, chasing the friction.

Heeseung groans into the kiss, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating against your lips. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, before he soothes the sting with a slow, lingering kiss.

Your hands wander, trailing down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the firm ridges of his toned stomach, lower, until your fingers reach the waistband of his underwear.

Your breathing is ragged, your body thrumming with anticipation as you whisper, “Please, take this off.”

Heeseung curses under his breath, his body tensing above you. He doesn’t want to tease you, doesn’t want to drag this out. He wants you just as much, he needs you just as badly. Without hesitation, he pushes his underwear down, freeing himself completely. The air between you thickens, the weight of the moment settling in as his bare body hovers over yours, his skin flushed, his muscles taut with restraint.

You lean in, hands splaying across his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath. Your fingers trace every inch of him, his collarbones, the defined lines of his stomach, the dip of his lower abdomen, moving lower. But before you can go further, Heeseung catches your wrist. His grip is firm but gentle, his breathing heavy, his eyes dark and searching as he looks at you.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I need to ask you…” He swallows hard, his thumb brushing slow circles against your wrist, like he’s grounding himself in your touch. “Are you totally sure?”

Your chest tightens at the rawness in his voice. His expression—so open, so vulnerable—makes your heart clench.

“Because once this happens,” he continues, his forehead nearly touching yours, “I’m not ever letting you go.”

And there it is. The unspoken truth, finally laid bare between you. This isn’t just a night of pleasure. This isn’t just a long-overdue release. This is everything.

Your lips part, your throat tightening with emotion, and for a second, you can only stare at him, overwhelmed by how much he means to you, how deeply you feel this. Then you whisper, with more certainty than you’ve ever had about anything in your life:

“I’ve never been so sure about something before.”

The moment the words leave your lips, something shifts in Heeseung. His entire body tenses for a beat, then he exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, like he’s just now letting himself believe this is real.

And then he kisses you. It’s not slow. It’s not careful. It’s hungry, possessive, filled with all the pent-up emotions neither of you ever dared to voice until now.

His hands slide up your arms, capturing your wrists, pinning them above your head as he presses you deeper into the mattress. His body presses against yours, skin to skin, warmth melting into warmth.

And then you feel it, the tip of his cock, hot and heavy, pressing against your entrance, so achingly close. Heeseung breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven. He looks down between you, his jaw clenched, his grip tightening just slightly on your wrists as if this is the moment he’s been waiting for all his life.

His voice is nothing but a hushed rasp when he says: “Tell me if it hurts.”

Heeseung lets go of your wrists, his hands sliding down your body with a deliberate slowness, like he’s savoring the feeling of your skin beneath his palms. His fingers find your hips, gripping them gently before one hand moves lower, wrapping around the base of his cock.

He watches you carefully, his gaze dark, hungry, yet filled with something soft, something almost reverent, as he presses the tip against your entrance. He doesn’t push in just yet. Instead, he rolls his hips slightly, dragging himself against your slick folds, teasing, his length brushing against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation sends a shiver through you, a breathless whimper escaping your lips as your fingers dig into his biceps, your body tensing in anticipation.

Heeseung groans, his grip tightening around himself as he watches the way your body reacts to him. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re so wet… so fucking perfect for me.”

Your nails sink deeper into his skin as he finally begins to press inside, the stretch slow and steady, filling you inch by inch. The feeling is overwhelming, him, thick and hot, splitting you open so exquisitely that all you can do is moan softly against his shoulder, your body trembling beneath him.

Heeseung curses under his breath, his forehead dropping to the crook of your neck as he stills, letting you adjust. His hands slide up your sides, fingers grazing over your ribs, your waist, gripping you firmly like he’s afraid to let go.

“You feel so good,” he rasps, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “So fucking good, baby.”

His words send another rush of heat straight through your core, and you can’t help the way your hips shift slightly, taking him even deeper. Heeseung groans at the feeling, his lips parting against your skin.

He lifts his head, searching your face, his eyes filled with both need and restraint. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing softly over your hip. “Can I move?”

You nod quickly, breathless, your fingers tracing over the muscles of his arms, his shoulders, needing him closer. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Heeseung exhales sharply, his grip tightening on your hips as he begins to move, rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts. Your breath stutters, a moan slipping from your lips, and Heeseung loses it.

His movements quicken, his hips snapping against yours, his grip turning bruising as he holds you in place, thrusting deeper, harder. His breath is ragged, his chest heaving, and with every stroke, he sinks further into you, like he’s trying to become a part of you.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice rough against your skin. “You’re taking me so fucking well. So perfect for me.”

His lips find your jawline, tracing a path down your neck, his tongue flicking against the sensitive skin before he sucks, leaving a mark, claiming you in every way possible. Your moans grow louder, your body arching against him, and Heeseung groans, loving the way you respond to him, the way you cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

His lips travel lower, over your collarbone, down to the valley between your breasts. He kisses, licks, nips, worshiping every inch of you as he keeps thrusting into you, each movement deep and unrelenting.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked, possessive. “Only mine.”

His grip on your hips tightens as he pounds into you, his pace growing desperate, wild, his body completely losing control in you. And all the while, he praises you. “Tighter than I ever imagined.” Thrust “So fucking beautiful.” Kiss “You feel like heaven, baby.” Groan.

His words, his touch, his everything push you closer and closer to the edge, your body trembling beneath him as the pleasure coils tightly inside you, ready to snap. And Heeseung feels it. He knows you’re close. And he’s not stopping until he sends you over the edge.

Your body trembles beneath him, pleasure curling tight inside you, hot and overwhelming. Your fingers cling desperately to his skin, your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to ground yourself against the way he moves, deep, unrelenting, perfect.

“Heeseung—” Your voice is breathless, wrecked. Your nails dig into his back as another wave of pleasure crashes over you. “God, you feel so good.”

Heeseung groans at your words, his hips stuttering for just a second before he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re such a good girl for me,” he rasps, voice dripping with praise, with something darker, something possessive.

And that’s when you snap. The coil inside you tightens dangerously, winding so tight you know you’re seconds from breaking. But you don’t want to break, not yet.

So, with the last shred of control you have left, you grab Heeseung by the side of his neck, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair, holding him in place. “Let me ride you,” you plead, your voice thick with desperation. “Please.”

Heeseung growls. A deep, guttural sound that sends a shiver through your entire body. His fingers dig into your hips, his thrusts faltering for a moment as your request sinks in. Then, he moves. In one smooth motion, Heeseung shifts, rolling over and pulling you with him. The world tilts, and suddenly, you’re on top, straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you.

A sharp, choked moan leaves your lips as you feel him fully, the angle changing, the sensation making your entire body tremble.

“Fuck,” Heeseung groans beneath you, his hands flying to your waist, holding you steady as his eyes drag over your body, your heaving chest, the flush painting your skin, the way you’re clenching around him, barely able to contain yourself.

His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, his entire expression wrecked with need. “You look so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick, reverent.

His hands move, Heeseung slides them up your torso, fingers splaying across your ribs before catching your breasts in both hands, squeezing, worshiping. His thumbs flick over your nipples, and the sensation sends another jolt of pleasure straight through you, making you whimper.

“You’re so delicious,” he groans, his thumbs circling your hardened peaks, his hips rolling up slightly into you, making you gasp.

Your head tilts back, your hands bracing against his chest, your body arching into his touch. The heat between you is unbearable, your body already on the edge, but you refuse to let this end too soon.

You start to move, slowly at first, rolling your hips in a deliberate, teasing rhythm, feeling every inch of him stretch and fill you completely. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine, pleasure pooling deep in your stomach as you watch Heeseung’s reaction.

Heeseung groans, his grip on your thighs tightening, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s trying to ground himself, trying not to lose control too soon. His head tilts back for a moment, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths as he tries to contain himself.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw clenching as his eyes squeeze shut, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. His hands flex on your thighs, squeezing, like he’s trying to hold back, like the feeling of you around him is too much.

But then he opens his eyes, and the second his gaze locks onto you, dark and hooded with raw, unfiltered hunger, your whole body burns. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, sweat glistening along his collarbones as he watches you move above him, taking him so perfectly, so effortlessly.

“You’re fucking unreal,” he groans, his voice rough, biting down his lips, barely above a whisper. “Just like that, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

His words send a jolt of pleasure through you, making you clench tighter around him. Heeseung feels it, and his breath hitches, his fingers twitching against your skin.

One of his hands moves from your thigh, sliding up your body, tracing along your stomach, your ribs, before finding the back of your neck. He grips you there, firm but gentle, and pulls you down until your foreheads almost touch, your breath mingling with his.

His other hand stays on your thigh, stroking, soothing, before he snaps. A deep growl rumbles in his chest, and he picks up the pace, his hips rolling up to meet yours, his hands guiding your movements. The pleasure intensifies, your thighs burning with the effort, but Heeseung doesn’t let you slow down.

His hands slide to your hips, gripping hard, his fingers pressing into your flesh as he takes control. And then he slams into you. A sharp, broken moan escapes your lips as he thrusts up, driving deeper, harder, filling you so completely that you swear you might lose your mind.

“That’s it,” he groans, his grip unrelenting as he pounds into you, chasing the feeling of you wrapped so perfectly around him. “Take it, baby. Take all of me.”

His voice, deep, rough, dripping with praise, sends you spiraling, pleasure building, your body trembling under his relentless pace. His mouth finds your jaw, then your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your skin between ragged breaths. His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your sweat, and then his teeth graze your pulse point, his lips closing around it as he sucks.

Your fingers claw at his shoulders, your body arching against his, your moans coming faster, higher, completely overwhelmed by the way he’s taking you.

Heeseung doesn’t slow down. His thrusts stay deep, hard, relentless, his grip unyielding as he drives into you, chasing the pleasure building between you both. His hands remain at the back of your neck, keeping you close, keeping you exactly where he wants you, his breath hot against your skin.

He groans, voice wrecked, rough. “Fuck—baby, you feel so good. So fucking perfect.”

His words send another wave of pleasure crashing through you, making your thighs tighten around his hips. You’re close, you can feel yourself unraveling, your body tightening as the coil inside you threatens to snap. And Heeseung knows. He feels it.

His fingers tighten against your skin, his movements growing desperate, erratic, as his own release begins creeping up on him. His forehead presses against yours, his breath uneven, his voice nothing but a strained rasp.

“Cum for me again, baby,” he pleads, his words like fire against your skin. “Let it go.”

The command, the way his voice drips with authority and adoration, is what finally undoes you. A sharp, broken moan rips from your throat as your body tenses, pleasure surging through you like wildfire. Your walls clench around him, pulsing, milking him, and Heeseung loses it.

A deep, guttural groan escapes his lips as he thrusts into you one last time, burying himself deep, his entire body shuddering as he lets go, his release spilling into you. The pleasure crashes over both of you at once, your moans mixing together, filling the room, raw and unrestrained.

And then, stillness.

Your body, still trembling, collapses against his chest, your forehead pressing into the slick heat of his skin. Your breaths are ragged, uneven, matching his as he tries to catch his pace, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

Neither of you speak for a long moment, the silence filled only with the sounds of your slowing breaths, your racing heartbeats.

Heeseung moves his hands, still firm but now gentle, slide down to your lower back, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles against your damp skin. His touch is tender, reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again, like he can’t believe this moment is real.

His lips brush against your hair, barely a whisper of a kiss, before he exhales shakily. And then, he murmurs—soft, breathless, like a vow.

“I’m never letting you go.”

Your chest tightens at the raw emotion in his voice. His arms wrap tighter around you, holding you impossibly close, his hands never stopping their slow caresses against your back. His lips press against the top of your head, again and again, each kiss softer than the last.

“Never,” he whispers. “Never, never, never…”

His words sink into your skin, into your bones, into you. And as you melt further into his embrace, letting the warmth of him envelop you completely, you realize: You never want him to let go.

You slowly lift your head, your breath still uneven, your body still thrumming with the remnants of pleasure.

You meet his eyes, his Bambi-like, doe eyes, wide and full of something so deep, so undeniable, it makes your chest tighten. They glimmer under the dim light of your bedroom, reflecting every unspoken word, every silent confession hanging thick in the space between you.

You let out a breathy, almost disbelieving smile, your gaze sweeping over his face, his flushed cheeks, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, the soft sheen of sweat on his skin. He looks wrecked. He looks perfect.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Heeseung mirrors your smile, soft and hazy, his expression filled with something tender, something so Heeseung that it makes warmth flood your entire body. His hands find your face, large and warm, his knuckles grazing your cheeks in slow, delicate strokes, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

You lean into his touch, nuzzling against his palm, and the way he exhales, soft, shaky, like he’s feeling everything too, sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, barely above a whisper, you say, “I…”

And suddenly, you stop yourself.

Because the weight of what you were about to say hits you all at once.

Your lips part slightly, your throat tightening. The words are right there, sitting heavy on your tongue, aching to spill out. But there’s fear too, fear of what this means, fear of how much this changes everything.

Heeseung notices. His fingers pause against your cheek, his brows twitching just slightly, his gaze flickering between your eyes like he’s searching, trying to read you.

But then, he smiles. Soft, knowing, patient. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his touch featherlight, his voice a quiet murmur in the space between you.

“I know,” he whispers.

Your breath catches. Because you believe him.

Heeseung has always known you better than anyone, always understood you in ways that no one else could. And right now, in this moment, with the way he’s holding you, looking at you, you realize you don’t have to say it.

Because he already knows.

Heeseung leans in, his nose brushing against yours, his lips hovering just above yours, waiting, giving you the choice. And when you press your lips to his in the softest, most deliberate kiss, you’re telling him everything you couldn’t say in words.

Heeseung sighs into the kiss, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you closer, pressing you against his warmth, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm.

And when you finally pull away, when you rest your forehead against his and breathe him in, you realize: You were never afraid of loving Heeseung.

You were afraid of admitting that you always have.

But now, with his arms around you, his lips brushing against your temple, his heartbeat syncing with yours, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.

Because he’s never letting you go.

And neither are you.

That’s why he stays at your house the next day. And the day after that. And for the few days that follow, until time becomes a blur and neither of you think to question it.

Because how could he leave, how could either of you go back to a world where you weren’t tangled up in each other like this?

The first morning, you wake up wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, your head tucked against his chest, his fingers absentmindedly tracing soft, lazy circles against your back. Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you want to.

His lips press into your hair, a silent good morning, and you melt into him because it feels natural, because this is Heeseung, your best friend, the boy who has always been a constant, and yet, now, everything is different.

And it’s better. He doesn’t leave. You don’t ask him to.

Instead, you spend the morning like you have a thousand times before: lounging on the couch, talking about nothing, watching movies you’ve seen a hundred times. Except now, there’s a new rhythm, an unspoken understanding.

His fingers brush yours absentmindedly. His arm finds its way around your waist without hesitation. His lips press against your temple between conversations like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Because maybe, it is.

The second night, he kisses you in the kitchen while you’re making dinner, stealing a taste of the sauce on your lips, grinning when you roll your eyes. The third night, you fall asleep with your fingers intertwined, his breath warm against your neck, his hand resting over your heart like he’s afraid you might slip away in the night. By the fourth day, he’s using your shampoo, leaving his clothes in your drawers, stealing your socks because he swears they’re more comfortable than his own.

By the fifth, you don’t even realize he never went home. Because this is home now. Not the walls. Not the bed. But this. Him. You. Together.

One night, a week after everything changed, you find yourselves in your living room, curled up against each other, laughter spilling into the quiet air.

It feels surreal, how easy this is, how natural. And yet, when you look at him, really look at him, you realize this was never sudden at all. This wasn’t a moment. This was a lifetime in the making.

It was in the late-night phone calls when you both should’ve been asleep. It was in the way he always kept your favorite snacks in his kitchen without thinking. It was in the stolen glances, the inside jokes, the nights spent shoulder to shoulder, pretending you didn’t feel the weight of something more. It was in every single thing before this.

And now that the truth is out in the open, now that you know, you don’t ever want to live in a world where you don’t wake up next to Heeseung. And it doesn’t feel real.

Not because you don’t want it to be—but because it still catches you off guard. The quiet way Heeseung reaches for your hand without thinking. The way his presence in your space isn’t something fleeting, but something constant. Something permanent.

It’s been two weeks since everything changed, and somehow, the world didn’t shift to match it. The sun still rises the same way. Your friends still send memes in the group chat. Life moves on, but now, there’s this.

This is Heeseung pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder when he wakes up before you. This is him playing with your fingers absentmindedly when you’re watching something together. This is the way he still teases you the same, still makes fun of you the same, but now he kisses you after like he can’t help it.

Yunjin is the only one who knows.

She had her suspicions, she always had her suspicions, but it became painfully obvious the moment you showed up at her place wearing a hoodie that was at least two sizes too big, one she distinctly remembered seeing Heeseung wear last week.

Which is why, at her birthday party, there’s this lingering tension in the air. It’s subtle, the way you and Heeseung hesitate just slightly when you’re around the others, the way you don’t know if you’re supposed to act like you always have or like something’s changed.

Because something has changed. But the world doesn’t know yet.

You and Heeseung sit at the dining table, pretending everything is normal, pretending that you’re not constantly aware of the warmth of his body next to yours, the way his knee brushes yours every time he shifts.

And then, under the table, he takes your hand. It’s subtle, careful, the warmth of his palm slipping against yours, his fingers threading through yours in a way that makes your stomach flip. Heeseung doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge it, just holds your hand beneath the table, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Finally,” Sunghoon mutters, watching Heeseung with a knowing smirk.

Heeseung freezes. You both turn to see Sunghoon leaning against the chair next to him, arms crossed, eyes flickering down to where your hands are intertwined beneath the table.

“I was wondering when you were gonna stop being a coward,” Sunghoon teases, nudging Heeseung’s foot under the table. “Took you long enough, man.”

Heeseung groans, dropping his head back against the chair. “Jesus, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon just grins, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Nah, I’m happy for you guys. But also, I knew you two had something going on.” He points a lazy finger at you. “Your whole ‘we’re just friends’ thing was so fake.”

The table erupts in laughter, and you sigh, shaking your head. But then, Heeseung squeezes your hand, and when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. Soft. Quiet. Certain. And you realize, this feels right. Being here. Being together. Being this.

The night winds down. People leave. And you end up in Heeseung’s car, the windows slightly fogged from the cold air outside. The soft strum of Waiting Room fills the quiet, the melancholic chords settling deep into your chest.

You watch Heeseung, his hands gripping the wheel loosely, his face relaxed, bathed in the glow of the streetlights.

“Wanna go to McDonald’s?”

You blink. “What?”

Heeseung smirks, eyes flickering to you before turning back to the road. “You heard me.”

A beat of silence. You laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

You order fries and ice cream and talk about the dumbest things. about how Niki's new girlfriend is the worst, about how Jay got too drunk, about how Jake still doesn’t know how to properly pour a drink.

But somewhere between the laughter, somewhere between the way Heeseung licks salt off his fingers and tosses fries into your mouth, somewhere between the way you lean against his shoulder in the drive-thru line.

Heeseung sighs. And then—

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You still. Your fingers tighten slightly around your drink, your breath catching at the quiet, vulnerable way he says it. And when you turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you, soft, so soft, his gaze deep, searching.

Your chest tightens. “Heeseung…”

He smiles, a little shy, a little unsure. Then, he reaches out, sliding his fingers over yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I just—” He swallows, then exhales. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Your breath catches. And in that moment, in the soft hum of the radio, in the glow of the streetlights, in the taste of salt and ice cream and the warmth of Heeseung’s fingers against yours, you know.

“I thought maybe it would go away,” he continues, his lips quirking slightly, like he’s laughing at himself. “Like—it’s just Y/N, right? My best friend.”

You hold your breath, watching him, the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face, making his eyes look even softer, warmer.

“But then,” Heeseung shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Every time I thought I had it under control, you’d do something stupid, like wear my hoodie and refuse to give it back, or make me watch Shrek 2 for the tenth time, or grab my hand in a crowded room like it was nothing.” He swallows, his voice dropping to something even softer. “And I’d realize—I was never going to stop feeling this way.”

Your chest tightens. Because it’s always been like this, hasn’t it? The quiet kind of love. The kind that slips into the cracks of everyday moments, unnoticed until one day, it’s too big to ignore.

You feel the words sitting heavy in your throat, pressing against your ribs, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely a whisper.

“Heeseung.” He looks at you, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s bracing himself. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, then squeeze his hand. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time, too.”

The tension in his shoulders dissolves instantly. His lips part, his eyes searching yours like he wants to make sure he really heard you right.

And then, he smiles. Not the teasing kind, not the smirk he throws at you when he’s making fun of you, but something real. Something deep. The kind of smile that says, I know. I knew before you even said it.

You shift closer, your forehead brushing against his, the warmth of his breath mixing with yours. “I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it,” you murmur. “But I do now.”

Heeseung hums, tilting his head slightly. “You sure?”

You laugh softly, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Good.” He squeezes your hand, his nose nudging against yours. “Because I would’ve had to spend another three years waiting for you to catch up, and I don’t think I could survive that.”

You groan, shoving his shoulder lightly, and he chuckles, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you in, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

And just like that, it’s easy again. The way you tease each other, the way you fit against him, the way you fall back into the rhythm of your friendship except now there’s no pretending.

Now it’s all out in the open. And it’s better.

As Heeseung drives you home, the song still playing softly in the background, your mind drifts back. To three years ago. To that stupid Halloween party where you met, you in your skeleton costume, him in that ridiculous Ninja Turtle onesie.

To the late nights spent working on that Shrek project, arguing about PowerPoint transitions like it was life or death, only to laugh until your sides hurt. To the wedding where he spun you around on the dance floor, looking at you like he already knew, like he was just waiting for you to catch up. To every car ride, every inside joke, every time you almost realized what he meant to you.

Your fingers tighten around his, and Heeseung glances at you, his eyes flickering between you and the road.

“What?” he asks, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You shake your head, but you’re smiling too. “Nothing.”

Because you understand now. Because Waiting Room plays softly in the background, and the lyrics echo in your chest—know it’s for the better.

You do. You know now that keeping Heeseung in your life like this, is the best thing you’ll ever do.

And when Heeseung looks at you, his grip on your hand tightening like he knows too, you realize.

For you, it was worth waiting.

my masterlist 🧦 ☆★ // previous fic

author's note: hey guys! this is my first long fic about heeseung, the first one i've ever written, and i hope you liked it! i know 21k+ words is a lot, but i had so much fun writing it. thank you for reading! <3

[sturnswiftie]

you and your child come first to baby daddy!chris always.

it’s past midnight when you call. you have the phone pressed against your right ear, sandwiched between your head and your shoulder, while your arms occupy the little life currently miserable after having been up for the last hour or so. you’re fearful of the possibility that the call goes unanswered—you know it’s late—but a breath of relief leaves your mouth when chris picks up on the second ring, his voice groggy but alert.

“she won’t stop crying,” you whisper immediately, skipping a greeting all together in your brewing anxiety. you try to soothe your daughter against your chest, but all it seems to do is muffle her cries. “she’s burning up, chris. i don’t know what to do.”

you feel awful for waking him up, the fear of failing as a mother always lingering just beneath your core, but you’re not too proud to admit when you need help—not when it comes to your child, and not when you know chris would never let you drown alone.

your ex-boyfriend doesn’t hesitate. “i’m coming,” he huffs out.

you hear rustling in the background, a woman’s voice—confused, irritated. “are you serious?” she huffs somewhere in the distance.

chris doesn’t answer her. the line goes dead, and less than twenty minutes later, he’s at your door, his hair damp from a rushed shower, dressed in sweats and a familiar hoodie you think you’ve worn a time or two. his eyes scan your face first, then drop to your daughter, curled up and whimpering in your arms.

“she won’t settle,” you murmur, both fear and guilt seeping into your words as you watch him take her without hesitation, his large hands cradling her small frame as he rocks her gently.

“shh, baby, daddy’s got you.”

and just like that, she melts into him.

once inside, you watch as chris soothes her, his voice a low murmur against her tiny ear, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. when his gaze flickers back to you, there’s something in his expression that you can’t quite read—something unshaken, unmovable. unspoken.

you shift a bit uncomfortably under his gaze, trying to pass it off as though the couch beneath you is causing your sudden discomfort. “you, um... you didn’t have to leave,” you say, even though you know what’ll come from his mouth next.

chris scoffs, settling deeper into the couch with your daughter tucked against his chest. “yes, i did. and i’ll do it again, too. every single time.”

because this is what he does. this is who he is—a father before anything else. your person before anything else. you knew from the moment you told him you were pregnant that he would always be there—even if you aren’t together. even if he spends his nights with other women. his heart—at least, the part that matters—is yours and yours alone.

his words fall over your fears and anxiety like a warm blanket, and you can’t help the way you lean into his side, exhausted and finally able to just let go for a moment. his free arm drapes over your shoulders, holding you close.

“thank you,” you whisper quietly, allowing your eyes to flutter shut.

chris presses a kiss to the top of your head, warm and lingering. “get some sleep, mama. i got her.”

you do.

and months later, when you’re staring at a positive pregnancy test, the second one in four ears, you don’t have to pick up the phone and interrupt his night with someone else, because he’s right next to you. always.

©sturnswiftie

divider by; @issysh3ll

[circledwithaheart]

Buck is a few shots deep (when did he switch to shots?) with his new bar buddy. An attractive older guy who, as it turns out, also used to work at the 118 under Captain Nash.

"You worked with Bobby?" Buck lights up and rambles on before the guy can answer. "That means you must've worked with Hen and Chim, right?"

The guy mumbles a few things that Buck can't hear, and probably doesn't want to, before confirming he worked with Hen and Howie.

"Yeah, right. Howie. You know he married my sister? Gave me the cutest little niece." Buck beams and pulls out his phone to show off the album of Jee Yun photos. And then the other thought strikes again.

They look about the same age. It's possible, he thinks. Well, it's not impossible. Buck goes to pocket his phone again, only he misses his shirt entirely and it clatters on the table.

"Sorry 'bout that, uh, so if you worked with them- did you, uh, work with, uh, T-tommy? Tommy Kinard?"

Why is the name that used to slide off his tongue so easily now trip and stutter like it doesn't belong there?

The guy laughs, not seeming to notice Buck's elocution issues, and takes another shot. “Fuck, I’m getting too old for this shit.”

He spins the empty shot glass like a top. “Kinard? Yep, sure did. One of the best partners I could've asked for. At least he got to leave on his own terms.”

Buck furrows his brow, something familiar scratching at the back of his tequila addled brain. “What, uh, what did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t,” the guy says matter of factly.

“But, you seem like a nice guy, so I'll tell you," he adds with a wink. "It’s Deluca. Sal Deluca.”

Buck's heard the name, a few stories here and there. Heard he moved to the 122, but doesn't know why.

"You transferred, right?" Buck asks cautiously.

The guy - Sal - shrugs his acknowledgement. "More or less. Anyway, I guess I better amend my introduction then. It's actually Captain Deluca. But Sal is fine. Or just Deluca."

"Buck."

Sal looks at him like he's got three heads. "Is that something new the kids are saying these days or...?"

"No, uh, 's m'name. Buck. Well, Evan Buckley, but you can call me Buck."

Sal studies him for a second before holding a hand out. "Nice to meet you, kid."

They shake hands and Buck thinks about the way Sal called him 'kid'. It's not like when Tommy said it. More like Bobby or Chim. Familial.

"Sorry to drink and run, but I gotta get home," Sal says, pushing out of his chair. "Wife's gonna kill me if I'm home too late."

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Maybe I'll see you around."

"Yeah, maybe." Then he's throwing some cash on the table and walking away.

~~~~~

As soon as he's out of sight, Sal taps on the camera app. It's probably a little unethical to surreptitiously be taking photos of the kid- Buck- but it's for a good cause.

Once upon a time he might have tried to pick him up, something about the kicked puppy look pulls at his heartstrings. Among other things. But now he's a happily married man with a whole brood to think about. Gina really would kill him, decorated fire captain or not.

He swipes over to messages and fires off a quick text.

Met your boy tonight. Christ Kinard he’s as bad as you. Should really put yourselves out of your collective misery.

It doesn't take long before the bubbles appear.

I did, remember? It's better this way.

Sal attaches the picture this time.

Better for who, exactly?

The bubbles appear and disappear again, until his screen eventually goes dark and no more responses come. Sal sighs and gets in the cab of his truck, contemplating another text, but ultimately decides against it. Tommy will talk when he's ready.

He steals another glance through the giant plate glass window where Buck is still sitting, sullen and lost, albeit with what looks like water this time.

"I hope it works out, kid, and he doesn't wait too long." Sal pushes aside the phantom acrid scent of a dinner forgotten in the oven while they fucked on the kitchen floor, the fear in Tommy's eyes when Sal asked when they could tell people about them. Because it had been months of sneaking around to each other's apartments. Of being more than just work partners- or so he thought. "Maybe he'll get his head out of his ass before it's too late this time."

[mixsethaddams]

For the Love Confessions prompt as part of @stmarchmm Stranger Things March Mating Madness

Steve was never anyone's first choice, was the thing.

Throughout his whole life he was always the after thought, the second phone call. Even his name, Steve, wasn't his parents' favourite. They had to go with their back up name after a neighbour gave birth three days before his mom and used the name Marley before she got a chance to.

Once he started dating, it was more of the same. Omegas would get him to ask them out, make him pay for meal and the movie, and then once they were done doing whatever they got up to in the back seat of his car, they'd gush about how they had the confidence after all of that to go after the alpha that they really wanted.

He was used to it now, he supposed, being used as practice. He didn't mind much once he made his peace with it. It was nice to get out of the house and go some place that wasn't work a few times a week. And he got to listen to rumours about the other alphas of Hawkins while he was at it, which admittedly he loved.

It didn't make sense to him when Eddie Munson shuffled into Family Video one sunny Saturday afternoon and asked about his plans for the night. 'Great,' Eddie had said when Steve said he had none. 'Well, not great, but uh, maybe we can do something?'

Steve ran through the rolodex of local gossip he'd picked up recently. He hadn't heard anything about an alpha having their eye on Eddie, or vice versa. And given the depth of some of the stuff the omegas around here knew about, it would be hard to hide any sniff of a crush on the town Freak.

It didn't make sense when Eddie insisted on going dutch for their bill in the diner, and paying for his own movie ticket. In fact, at the end of the night when Steve was used to going on auto-pilot and feeling someone up on their front doorstep, he was totally baffled when Eddie blushed and asked if they could do it again next week.

'You… want to see me again?' he asked, feeling a crease between his eyebrows. 'Why?'

Eddie snorted. 'Way to tell me you didn't have a good time, Harrington,'

'I did!' Steve saiad quickly. 'I just, I guess I'm not used to second dates,'

Eddie smiled and lightly punched Steve's shoulder. 'Pick me up next Saturday, same time,'.

Steve watched him climb the steps into his trailer, half expecting him to turn around and say Gotcha! I actually have a date with someone else!

But the door clicked close with a finally parting glance and grin from Eddie and Steve, of course, drove straight to Robin's house.

'It doesn't add up,' Steve said through her window. She was on curfew, and he had to climb across windowsills from the garage to get to her room. 'Everybody knows I'm the practice alpha, what does he want from me?'

'Sounds like he wants a second date,' said Robin, focused on trimming her own bangs.

'But why though?' Steve mused. 'He didn't even want me to kiss him, it was weird'

'Did you try?'

'Yeah, leaned in and everything,' Steve sighed. 'But he moved so I got his cheek,'

'Romantic,' said Robin. 'Maybe he likes you,'

'No omegas like me, Rob,' Steve said flatly. 'I'm not that guy,'

So it just didn't make sense that they were six weeks down the line now and Eddie was still asking Steve to pick him up for dinner and a movie every Saturday. They met for lunch at least once a week. They sat next to each other when everyone hung out. They held hands. Eddie even let Steve kiss him after their third date. Steve liked the kissing.

Steve liked everything, if he was honest. He liked the consistency of the same person calling him at the end of every day to say goodnight, he liked being a part of 'Steve and Eddie'. He liked Eddie. In fact, he really liked Eddie. Maybe even more than that. The idea that Eddie would eventually be through with Steve, practice run over, made his heart hurt.

They were napping together on a summer evening. They were in their boxers on top of the sheets, Eddie's heat was coming up so he was feeling the warmth in the air more than usual. Steve couldn't sleep even though they'd spent the whole day swimming at the quarry. He should be exhausted. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from Eddie's face.

They had yet to cross the line of sleeping together, so it was the first time Steve saw Eddie at rest like this. Eddie looked beautiful in the spot orange light that filtered through the thin curtains. The slope of his nose, the gentle pout of his lips, Steve's drank in the sight of him like water. Even the small swell of his chest, swollen because of an upcoming heat, was perfectly placed and proportioned.

It was the time of day where the birds were singing their last songs and the neighbours had already finished their noisy returns from work. The only sound Steve could hear was the slow breathing of the omega laid out before him, blankets piled around them in a makeshift its-too-damn-hot nest. He didn't even want to breath himself for fear of disturbing him.

'Stop staring at me I look gross,' Eddie mumbled, turning his head into the pillow.

'No you don't,' Steve protested, hoping he didn't look like a serial killer watching someone sleep.

'Mmm, heat next week, my skin looks like shit, pimple, see?' Eddie tapped on his jaw to a small red bump.

Steve hadn't even noticed it, or if he did he didn't care.

'That's not gross,' he said softly.

'Whatever you say,' Eddie yawned, stretching before shuffling himself closer to Steve, burying his face in Steve's chest. 'You'll be the one stuck staring at it until it's over,'

'I, what?' Steve asked. 'What do you mean?'

'My heat,' Eddie mumbled. 'You'll have a front row seat to all my gross zits,'

Steve felt his heartrate pick up. Eddie wanted him to be part of his heat? That was kind of a commitment, maybe he didn't know? Steve would tell him, and Eddie would laugh and say oh man, my mistake, you're right!

'That's, uh, that's kind of a lot,' he said, preparing himself to laugh along with the obvious mistake.

Eddie pulled back quickly, wide awake now. 'You don't want to be there?' He looked hurt.

'No! I mean, yes!' Steve stuttered. 'But, you know what that means, right? It's kind of a couple thing, and, we're, I dunno,'

Eddie sat up and flung his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching down to grab his socks from the floor.

'Me neither, apparently,' Eddie said quickly. 'And here I thought—'

Steve grabbed one of Eddie's wrists. 'You thought what?'

'I thought maybe were fucking were a couple, Steve,' Eddie hissed, trying to bat his arms away.

'You like me?' Steve asked.

'You're kidding me?' Eddie shot back, staring at him in disbelief. 'How could you not know that I liked you? We make out like six times a day!'

'No one likes me,' Steve said quietly. 'No one ever picks me,'

Eddie softened, dropping the sock that was in his hands and scooting back onto the bed. 'Do you remember our second date?'

Of course Steve remembered, how could he forget? He was so surprised that Eddie actually opened the door of the trailer when he knocked that he couldn't speak for thirty minutes. He nodded.

'How about our third?' Eddie asked. That was the date they kissed on. It was the first kiss in years that Steve had really wanted. It felt like it lasted for hours, and he was disappointed that it couldn't last forever.

'And our fourth, fifth, sixth…' Eddie said, retaking his place in Steve's arms. 'All of them?'

Steve nodded again. He could tell Eddie every detail of every single date or hangout they'd had if he asked.

'I don't ever want another first date again,' said Eddie. 'Or third, or fourth, or fifth, or sixth,' He added with a laugh. 'I only want to be with you. I just didn't know I needed to spell it out for you,'

And Steve all of a sudden felt incredibly stupid. Because of god damn course they were a couple. Right up to the awkward meet-the-family weeknight dinners that they'd both sat through and giggled about in the car afterwards.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I just didn't think you wanted that with me, no one ever does,'

'Do you want it with me?' Eddie asked earnestly.

Steve kissed him softly in response. 'That's all I want,'

'Good,' Eddie said, rubbing his face in Steve's chest hair. 'Can I go back to sleep now that you're done scaring me to death?'

Steve smiled against the top of Eddies head, rubbing his back lightly.

Steve listened as Eddie's breathing evened out again. The birds had returned to their trees by now.

He still didn't sleep. His mind was racing. Thoughts of a future were bouncing around his head like never before, with Eddie right in the middle of all of them.

Steve breathed in Eddie's lavender and cold milk smell as deep as he could. His heat might not wait a full week before coming, if the intensity of his scent lately was anything to go by.

'I love you,' Steve breathed against his hair. He smiled to himself his eyes sliding closed. It felt so right to say it out loud, finally being able to name the feeling that was built up behind his rib cage.He revelled in the secrecy of speaking to someone lost to sleep, not having to worry about being caught showing his cards too early.

'I love you too,' Eddie whispered back.

[nanenna]

That's Not How You Keep a Low Profile

Available on AO3

DPxDC

Danny joins Ember's backup band and goes with them on tour, he didn't take into account that he was in hiding from several groups and organizations chasing after him for various reasons. Who knew Ember would get popular enough to be noticed by one of them?

🎵🎸🎶

Damian entered the classroom to find Skylar and a couple of her friends standing off to the side, clustered around one girl holding a phone that was playing loud rock-and-roll music. Damian set his bag down at his desk, then went to go join them. “Good morning, Skylar.”

“Damian, hi!” Skylar greeted cheerfully, then moved so Damian could join their group. He obligingly moved in so he could also peer down at the video playing on the girl’s phone. “It’s this new artist who’s been getting popular recently, Ember McLain. She’s doing a tour right now and is going to be pretty close to us, just over in Pennsylvania.”

Damian studied the vocal artist, a young woman dressed in mostly black with a few silver accents, bright blue hair, and what he believed Brown had called “corpse paint” make up. Though from the way her hair seemed to almost defy gravity and the blue skin tone of her back up musicians perhaps she was a meta or alien like them. The exception was a baseline human young man dressed in a similar style to McLain with dark hair and a regular skin tone, playing back up guitar and doing back up vocals.

Damian frowned, something about the back up vocalist was familiar.

The song wound down, the back up vocalist abandoned his stand mic to move to front stage next to McLain while swinging his guitar behind himself. The keyboardist picked up a virulently pink guitar and took the vocalist's place. Damian pointed at the phone, “Who is he?”

“That’s Frosty McGee, usually he’s the back up vocalist but they have a duet.”

Damian scrunched up his nose, but chose not to comment on the poorly chosen stage name. The camera zoomed in, finally giving him a clear view of the older teen’s face as he opened his mouth and started singing.

Damian’s whole body went cold.

It couldn’t be, it just couldn’t. He’d watched his older brother die with his own eyes, lowered into the Lazarus Pit never to rise. And surely if he did somehow survive he wouldn’t be singing for some rock-and-roll band in America, he would’ve found some way to return home. Surely.

“This…” Damian tried not to let his face twist as he spoke the name, “Frosty McGee is a stage name, correct? What’s his real name?”

Skylar looked thoughtful as she pulled out her own phone and began typing away. “I don’t think their real names are public,” She said slowly as she navigated to the artist’s website. While she went to the “about” page, Damian pulled out his own phone to follow Skylar to the website. “Yeah, all they have listed are everyone’s stage names.”

Damian just nodded, already looking up their tour information.

🎵🎸🎶

Danny collapsed into a chair in the green room, exhausted after spending half the night tapping into his ghostly wail while in human form. Ember and the zombies looked fresh as ever, the consequence of Danny being the only one with a heart beat in the band.

“Your stamina’s getting better,” Ember offered with a smirk.

Danny resisted flipping her off, he knew she really meant it, even if she seemed to like getting under his skin a little too much.

“Look alive,” Mortimer, their manager, said as he walked into the room. “Someone actually bought a VIP ticket with the backstage experience, so you’re going to meet a fan.”

Ember perked up, already excited. “Just one? Or a whole group?”

“Just the one, so be ready to give him the full experience.” Morty left then, likely to go walk their fan back.

“Try to look a little tired at least, you are supposed to be a normal human,” Danny groused as he sat up and went about mopping up what sweat he could without smearing his makeup.

Ember scoffed, “No, we’re metas, Danny. You’re the one who’s supposed to be normal.”

“Or aliens,” Gunther said with his craggly voice. “We never did decide which one we like better.”

“You can be aliens, I’m a meta,” Ember declared proudly.

There was a knock on the door. Everyone straighted and turned to face the door, a bright smile spread on Ember’s face.

Danny’s own soft smile fell as he watched their fan enter and look around the room. A boy, the same age Danny was when he stepped into the portal, with an all too familiar face. His sharp green eyes zeroed in on Danny. There was a long tense moment where everyone simply stood, Damian just inside the door and Danny just in front of his chair (when had he stood?), staring at each other.

“Akhi?”

In a panic Danny turned partly invisible, “It’s been eight years Damian, let me go.” He finished slipping from human sight, then intangibly slipped right out of the room. He raced invisibly through hallways and walls until he got to their tour bus. Technically as ghosts they didn’t need it, but 1) the living expected that sort of thing and 2) Ember insisted on doing the whole experience. (He knew it was really because as someone who wasn’t entirely ghost Danny did actually need someplace to sleep and eat and shower and all that, that Ember actually got the tour bus for him.)

Once inside Danny let his powers fade as he curled up on a seat in the back, arms wrapped around his legs and face buried in his knees. Stupid! Why did he say that? Why did he run?!

He knew why.

“Baby-pop?” Ember called faintly, phasing into the van.

“Here,” Danny called miserably.

“Okay, good. We're all here just open a portal and we'll skedaddle.”

Danny sniffled but nodded. He looked up to find everyone was already gathered in the bus, all staring at him with worried faces. “Right, yeah, okay, I can do this.”

Rock got behind the wheel while everyone else settled in. Danny had to leave the bus, having been taught by Wulf on making portals. Not every ghost could learn, but Danny was predisposed to it because… well, it was pretty obvious why.

Danny clawed open a portal to Ember's lair, grabbing an edge and pulling it wide enough to fit the whole bus. The bus trundled through and Danny quickly followed, closing the portal behind him.

Almost on reflex he transformed once fully in the Realms, taking a deep (but completely unnecessary) breath of that crisp, fresh ectoplasm. The others filed off the bus, Ember put a gentle hand on Danny’s arm. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Good.” Ember crossed her arms and gave Danny a Look™, “Care to explain what just happened?”

Danny groaned, he knew this was coming. “I’d rather not.”

Everyone frowned at him.

Danny scrubbed at his eyes briefly. “I haven’t told anyone, not even Sam and Tucker, not even Jazz!”

“So… do you want to conference call them in and explain it to everyone at once? Or is this a dead men tell no tales kind of situation?”

Danny gave Ember his own Look™. “I know what gossips ghosts are.”

“Hey,” Gunther cut in, “if you want us to not tell anyone we won’t tell anyone. Promise.”

Danny groaned as he thought it over, but he kinda did owe them an explanation. “Alright, but can we go somewhere a little more comfortable first? I’m still exhausted.” He wasn’t, not physically. But ghosts aren’t physical so being emotionally exhausted was basically the same thing.

“Yeah, let’s go hit my lounge.” Ember slung an arm over Danny’s shoulder and led him away from the bus.

Danny smiled, feeling loved and cared for. It was still a little weird sometimes, realizing how much his former rogues actually liked him despite how at odds they’d been at the start. They’d basically been coddling him ever since…

Once in the lounge everyone picked a plush, overstuffed piece of furniture to literally lounge on. Ember had no shoes off rule, it felt weird to just put his boots up on a couch, so Danny chose to slouch comfortably into the back while his legs stretched out to the floor. Once everyone was settled, they all looked over at Danny expectantly.

How to even start? “So uh… I’m adopted.”

“Wait, how does Jazz not know you’re adopted?” Ember exclaimed.

“Oh no, that’s the part everyone actually knows, or at least everyone I knew back then. It’s everything before that that no one knows.”

“That kid is from your bio fam,” Steve wheezed. Everyone looked at him, then back to Danny.

He shrugged and looked down at his gloves, “Yeah. That’s Damian, my little brother.”

“And you just ran from him because?” Ember prompted.

Gunther snorted, “Didn’t just run, he literally ghosted the kid.”

Danny couldn’t help blushing, “I panicked, okay?”

Everyone relaxed at that, smiling brightly at Danny’s embarrassment. Morty pulled out his phone and started tapping away, “Should I get in contact with him about a redo then?”

“No!” Danny yelped, his voice cracking like it hadn’t in almost two months. He flushed harder, Ember was going to tease him about that later. “No, no absolutely not. Honestly if he’s found me then that means Mother and Grandfather know I’m still alive after all. I think… I think I’m going to have to stay in the Realms.”

“What?!”

“Baby-pop, no!”

“You can’t!”

Danny looked down at his gloves, picking at the seems. “Look, no adoption starts for happy reasons, every adoption comes from a tragic backstory. My birth family is dangerous, even to us. No, listen,” Danny said harshly when the others scoffed. “They’re dangerous, they’ll hurt you trying to get me back.”

Ember’s lips thinned, “Are they ghost hunters like the-” she cut herself off, her face getting all the grimmer.

Danny shook his head, “No, magic users. They won’t have to know what you are to use magic artifacts against you. After all, blood blossoms were believed to be harmful to witches, it was just coincidence they were harmful to ghosts.”

“Okay,” Ember said, looking over to the rest of the band. “So Frosty McGee is quitting, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still hang around us. You can be a roadie,” Ember cut in when Danny tried to protest. “Wear one of those medical masks when you’re working, never be on stage or in front of a camera, that’s fine. But we still need you, Danny. You’re the one who’s been dead the shortest, you know how things work now. You’re the one that suggested I get a manager and start doing things legit instead of just overshadowing my way into gigs.”

“We didn’t even know metas were a thing until you told us,” Gunther added.

“I wasn’t aware of how much technology had advanced,” Morty added. “If it weren’t for you we would have a completely outdated website and no youtube channel. We’d probably only have half the merch we currently have available.”

“Don't forget the portals,” Steve wheezed.

“Yeah! Without portals we couldn’t make regular pit stops back to the Realms to recharge. So we need you, Danny. Frosty can quit, but don’t let Danny abandon us.”

Danny sighed, but he couldn’t help smiling at his friends, even if his bottom lip was wobbling dangerously. “Alright, I get it. I’ll stay, a roadie you say?”

“It’ll make us loading and unloading the bus more believable if we have hired muscle pretending to do it.” Morty smirked down at his phone.

“Ugh, gonna make me earn my keep.”

🎵🎸🎶

Damian stood in the green room in shock, unsure what had just happened. His mouth felt dry, his skin felt cold, every hair on his body was standing on end, his hands felt clammy. Daniel had just vanished right before his eyes. He turned to ask someone, anyone, what had just happened.

The room was empty.

Damian looked around, the door behind him was still closed, there were no other exits, he was the only living being in the room.

Metas, Damian reminded himself. He was fairly certain McLain and her band members were metas, likely the phrase Daniel had spoken was actually a code phrase for immediate evac. Damian turned and left the room, quickly making his way further into the building and out to the back. There was an employee parking garage just behind the venue that surely the band’s equipment vehicles were kept in during the show.

The garage was not completely empty, but it was completely bereft of trailers, tour buses, or other equipment hauling vehicles. Damian had been too late, they had fled completely. Damian kicked a support pillar in frustration, it didn’t help.

All he knew was his brother lived, and for some reason he chose not to return home, had fled at the mere sight of Damian.

Well, he would have some research to do. But before that, he had to return home before his absence became suspicious, there was only so long his careful web of misdirection would hold.

The next morning he returned to the manor, no one the wiser. Thomas was on his way out and greeted Damian as he entered. “Hey, how was the sleepover?”

“It was an experience,” Damian commented absently.

Thomas laughed at Damian’s response. “I’m glad you had fun.”

He was about to leave when Damian realized this was the perfect opportunity for some information gathering. “One of my peers said something I didn’t understand, I believe it was a meme.”

“Oh yeah? Which one?”

Most memes followed a format where the exact details could be adjusted to the situation at hand. Considering Daniel had said Damian’s name and the specific number of years he’d been -dead- missing likely he could swap those out for less suspicious details. “It’s been two years Thomas, let me go.”

“Ah, okay so you just claimed to be a ghost or a grief fueled hallucination and that I need to get my shi- uh… stuff. Together. My stuff together. Anyway, usually whoever says that also disappears right after they say it.”

“And is this meme recent?”

Thomas shrugged. “Eh, not really? The concept’s been around for decades at least, even in that format, but I don’t think I’ve seen it used as a reaction until a little bit ago.”

Damian nodded, “Thank you for the clarification.”

“No problem.” Thomas waved and was on his way. Damian went to his room to take care of his overnight bag. A quick check of McLain’s website showed no change, but that was to be expected so soon after they fled. He wondered if the whole tour would be cancelled.

Damian spent the next few days practically haunting McLain’s website (when he wasn’t systematically searching for Daniel’s likeness on public cameras), as well as the website of the tour’s next venue. He even went so far so to create a throw away email, signed it up for McLain’s fan club, and set it to alert him of incoming emails. Thus he was one of the first to find out when the next concert was suddenly cancelled, all tickets refunded. The newsletter that followed informed the fans that, “Sadly Frosty McGee has had to part ways with us due to some matters Frosty wishes to remain private. We wish him and his family well.” It went on to promise that though the next concert was cancelled the rest of the tour would continue as scheduled.

So Daniel had fled.

Damian wasn’t surprised, judging from his reaction Daniel felt his new identity had been compromised. Damian just didn’t understand why. Why Daniel was afraid of him. Why he hadn’t attempted to contact Damian. Why he hadn’t come home.

He had been away from the League and Grandfather’s influence long enough to understand why Daniel would choose not to go back to them, but Damian had been out of the League for five years, did Daniel not know? Had he not heard the news about famous billionaire Bruce Wayne’s youngest and only (known) blood related son?

It didn’t matter, Damian wouldn’t have the answers to any of his questions unless he found Daniel again. Even if he has fled again, Damian really only has the one lead and he would follow it.

In the meantime he had his regular duties to attend to.

🎵🎸🎶

“C'mon, what are you doing just sitting around? It's time for lessons.”

“What?” Danny looked up from where he was slouched in a chair with phone in hand, blinking at Ember.

“Lessons, we still haven't gotten you to sing and play at the same time yet.”

“I… quit… the band?”

“Frosty quit the band, I figure we can use this time to really work on your skills so they're finally up to snuff when we debut Phantom.”

“What?”

“What do you mean what?” Ember huffed and rolled her eyes. “Do you know how many people asked for refunds when we said you quit? I'm not letting any more fans get away.”

Danny just kept blinking, “You know Phantom is in hiding just as much as Danny, right?”

“So you get a costume change and pick a different stage name. Your old duds are outdated anyway.”

“It's what I died in???”

“And you think I died dressed like this?”

Danny wasn't sure how to respond to that.

“So we get you some new duds, pick out a better stage name, and wear makeup while performing. Do you know what contouring can do?”

“It would be suspicious-”

“If we brought you in right now,” Ember cut him off. “Which is why we're aiming for the next tour, which will give us time to get everything set up, including improving your abysmal guitar skills.”

Danny couldn't help smiling, “Yeah. Yeah, okay, let's get to it then.”

🎵🎸🎶

When the time came, Damian knew better than to buy another VIP ticket, they would be on guard for that. This time he decided to find and sneak into their vehicle while the concert was held. There was the risk the band would take a taxi or uber to their hotel instead, but considering the size of the venue and number of tickets sold they would likely attempt to reduce spending, especially since they missed the previous concert. It was a simple matter to pick the lock and sneak onto the bus. He sat waiting in the driver’s seat, making it impossible for them to drive off without him.

McLain stood just outside the bus and opened the door with a scowl on her face, crossing her arms once the door was open. “I could have you arrested for this.”

“I merely have a few questions for you.”

“I should sue you for lost revenue, do you know how much we lost in deposits alone? All those tickets we had to give a full refund on. Not to mention we lost 10% of sales for the rest of the tour, which might not sound like much but when you’re counting pennies that’s a lot!”

“How does Frosty McGee feel about having such loyal fans?”

McLain threw her arms in the air, “I don’t know! We haven’t heard from him since he left. Just took one look at you, packed what he could fit in one bag, and hopped the next bus.”

“And he told you nothing?”

“He told us he was oh for two on families, but you were from the first set of fuck ups and he wasn’t going back.”

That was disheartening to hear. It sounded as if Daniel had found a family to take him in the way Father took in children, but it also sounded as if they were not good to him the way Father is with his children. “Who was his second family?” Damian would make them pay.

“Fuck off, I’m not telling you that. It doesn’t change anything anyway, they know where Frosty is even less than us.”

Damian would like to find out what Daniel had been up to since his disappearance, there was also the chance it would give him a better idea of Daniel’s direction, and certainly he would like to find out what this so-called family did and find a way to get justice for Daniel, but McLain was not wrong that little of that would be useful in tracking Daniel down. He pulled a business card from a pocket and held it out to her. “If he does contact you again.”

“No.” Despite her words she took the card. She took it and set it on fire before dropping it to the asphalt beneath her feet. “In the extremely unlikely event he does get back in contact, I’m not telling you. He clearly wants nothing to do with you, got spooked real bad.” She crossed her arms again and looked away. “I’m worried.”

“Very well.” Damian descended the bus’s stairs, the band moving aside to glare at him as he passed. “You’re not the only one worried for him, it may have been years but he’s still my brother.”

“That’s none of our business.” McLain waved him off as she entered the bus, the manager and the rest of the band following behind her. Damian stood to the side and watched as the bus trundled out of the parking lot, leaving him behind.

🎵🎸🎶

Danny watched Damian until he was out of sight, going so far as to lean invisibly out of the bus. Once the building they were passing came between him and his little brother, he finally moved back inside and quietly scoured the bus.

“Baby-pop?” Ember asked as she watched him methodically search high and low.

Danny put a finger up to his lips, then went back to scouring. One thing Danny had learned over the years is that ghosts have a 6th sense for when they’re being observed, they always know when being watched or listened to. Danny felt that subtle itch now, a scratch at the back of his brain that felt a lot like how on edge he used to be all the time, like the paranoia Grandfather had carefully beaten into him.

The first bug he found was just a tracker, a weirdly spiky oval with a tiny red light to let him know it worked. Well, that he would leave on the bus, their whereabouts would be public anyway, and if only one of the bugs goes out Damian might not come back to plant more. He handed it to Morty with another finger over his lips again, he’d answer questions after he found the other bug.

Eventually he found the listening bug, this one a plain little button shape. It almost looked like an oversized button, the holes for the mic a good disguise. This one he showed to the others before phasing his arm out the car and dropping it in the road. He did one more sweep to make sure there weren’t any others, double checked the weirdly spiky tracker didn’t have any tiny cameras or mics attached, by the time he finally sat down to explain the bus was parked in the hotel's lot.

“The one I dropped outside was a listening device, that one I gave you is a tracker. Since where we’re going on tour is already publicly available I don’t see a point to getting rid of that one too, though we should probably leave it behind when we go to the Realms.”

“Ancients,” Morty murmured, staring down at the tracker nervously.

“Not painting a very reassuring picture,” Gunther agreed.

“Danny,” Ember said softly, “your little brother broke into our bus and hid bugs inside.”

Danny sighed as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Right, this is the part even Jazz doesn’t know about. You need to keep this to yourselves, you can’t even hint you know what I’m about to tell you.”

Everyone nodded.

“Jazz and… the Fentons believe I was raised in a cult before I met them. Honestly, looking back at it now, they’re right. An incredibly violent assassin cult that worships pools of nasty smelling, bubbling, glowing, green water.”

Everyone was staring at him with wide eyes, forgetting to even pretend to breathe.

“The person who both started and runs this cult is my Grandfather, who is over five hundred years old and still alive. Well… mostly, so far as I can tell. I didn’t know about ectoplasm or the Realms back then, so it’s kinda shifted my view of a few things but I can’t really confirm anything without going back there, yanno?”

“That is… a lot,” Morty said quietly.

“Have you ever assassinated anyone?” Gunther asked.

“I was nine when I got out,” Danny deflected.

“Has your brother assassinated anyone?” Rock asked.

Danny shrugged, “I dunno, probably?”

“Ancients,” Morty murmured again.

“So we’re just… keeping this?” Ember plucked the tracker from Morty’s open palm.

“I’m hoping if the tracker keeps working and is accurate he won’t break in and put more devices in here.”

“Lovely.”

“I can see why you were hiding,” Morty said tiredly.

“And also why I didn’t want to tell anyone,” Danny added. “Ghost hunters may have all the specialized tools to hurt us, but most of the ones we’ve met so far are pretty incompetent.” It had taken Danny letting his guard down for him to be caught in the first place, and by the time he had realized the betrayal it had been too late.

“That explains the hat though,” Steeve wheezed with a laugh.

Danny hadn’t just been wearing one of those paper medical masks, he’d added a brimmed hat to hide his hair and face from cameras. The mask got hot and sweaty sometimes!

“Well this just makes our decision all the better, you'll blend in better if we have other roadies,” Ember said confidently.

Danny perked up. “Oh? Who'd you get? Johnny actually looks human, I could blend in with him. And Kitty would kill it as security.”

“They're waiting in the hotel, you'll see.” Ember winked as she got up and exited the bus. Danny followed, eager to see more familiar faces. 

The faces waiting for him in the hotel were familiar, but not the ones he expected.

“Sam! Tucker!” He ran to them, arms open wide. His best friends eagerly opened their own arms in welcome. It was like coming home and breathing for the first time, being in his best friends’ arms. Only one thing could make it better, but no annoying older sisters were in sight. Danny wasn't going to let that ruin this reunion, though.

Danny leaned back just enough to look Sam and Tucker in the eyes. “What are you doing here? How?!”

“We took our finals early,” Sam supplied. “And since the last week is just classroom parties we took it off.”

“We're gonna spend the whole summer with you!” Tucker grinned so brightly Danny thought he might go blind. Or it might just be the tears brimming.

“You guys!” Danny snuffled and swiped at his eyes.

“Check it out.” Tucker turned around to show the back of his shirt, which had “STAFF” in big white letters across the top, stark against the black shirt, and the tour's info below.

Sam pulled out a black fabric face mask from her pocket and offered it to Danny. He held it up to find it also had “STAFF” in bold white letters across what felt like very breathable fabric. It probably wouldn't stop a sneeze, but it worked great as a disguise.

Danny couldn't help barking out a bright laugh, “You guys going to help me load and unload the band's gear?”

Tucker scoffed, “You wish, I'm Ember's new tech guy.”

“Makeup and costumes,” Sam said in a deadpan before raising her voice slightly. “Which seems pretty sexist.”

“Do you want to help Danny cart gear or not?” Ember asked from where she and the others were watching their reunion.

Sam made a face and sighed, “Makeup and costumes it is.”

“So glad we got that figured out. Hey dipstick, open a portal to my lair. The boys and I are gonna party.”

Danny rolled his eyes but obliged. Honestly it was sweet of them to let him have the room to himself while he and his best friends caught up. Danny was so lucky to have so many good friends.

🎵🎸🎶

After Damian’s lackluster conversation with McLain, dashing any hopes for progress or leads, it was time he told Father and the others the situation. Truly he knew he should have before now, springing Daniel on Father would not be kind, he had simply hoped to have Daniel's whereabouts known so Father could meet him as soon as he was ready. Instead Damian was going to need to request assistance in tracking Daniel down.

It felt like a personal failure.

Still, to tell Father about his living, if missing, son was far preferable than him finding out about Daniel some other way and believing him dead. Damian had just finished setting up his presentation on the large screen TV in the media room when Father and Alfred entered.

“All ready to go, chum?”

“Yes, Father, we’re just waiting on the others now.”

Alfred began setting out drinks and snacks while Father took a seat in one of the armchairs. “While we wait, any chance of a hint on what all this is about?”

Damian was unsure how to answer, the news was not all bad but it seemed Father was under the impression this was some left over school project or something of the like. “It is a very serious matter,” was all Damian ended up saying.

Father smiled, “I’m sure it is, you wouldn’t have gone to all this effort otherwise.”

Damian nodded, glad Father understood.

Soon the others began trickling in. Thomas and Cain, as other residents of the manor, had been invited, Richard of course was also invited as he would be devastated to learn of a new brother any other way, Gordon and (reluctantly) Drake had been invited as Damian would be requesting their help in searching for Daniel, and Todd had been invited purely as curtesy and had, expectedly, turned the invitation down. Damian had considered some of the other Gotham vigilantes, but had ultimately decided against it. There were already enough people crowding into the room.

Once everyone had arrived and found their seats, Damian started his rehearsed presentation. “Thank you all for coming, I appreciate the support. I’m afraid this will not be as light hearted as you may be expecting. In fact, I have some rather distressing news. Father, at Mother’s behest I have been keeping a secret from you.”

Father sat up straighter, his pleased smile falling into a frown.

Damian took a deep breath, “I am not your firstborn, I had an older brother.”

As expected, this announcement caused quite the stir. There were a few shocked gasps, Richard looked devastated, Father had hunched forward to rest his elbows on his knees while staring down at the floor, Alfred moved to stand beside father with a hand on his shoulder.

Damian gave them a moment to digest what he had just told them before moving on. “His name was Daniel, when he was nine and I was six he went on a mission and came back successful but critically injured. Grandfather granted him permission to use one of the smaller Lazarus Pits, but he died en route. Mother put him in the Pit anyway, but the device used to lower him broke and his body never surfaced.”

“Oh Dami,” Richard said softly, a hand held out as if he would pull Damian into a hug.

“I’m telling you all this now because five weeks ago I saw him in a video for a performing artist.” Damian started the visual portion of his presentation, beginning with with a promotional photo of McLain and Daniel, then zoomed in on Daniel’s face.

Everyone’s heads snapped back up, entire focus laser guided to Daniel’s picture.

“He is using the stage name Frosty McGee,” Damian paused to allow the snickers and guffaws he had been expecting, he switched to a different promotional photo, this one including Daniel’s bandmates, “and was performing as a back up guitarist and singer for the artist known as Ember McLain. As they were, and still are, touring I attended a concert under a VIP ticket that included meeting the artists after the show.”

Father frowned, “I didn’t know you went to a concert.”

“It was an information gathering mission for personal reasons, of course you were not informed. I simply wanted to be sure I was not mistaken and McGee was actually Daniel before I burdened you with this distressing secret.”

“Daniel isn’t a burden, none of you are a burden,” Father said tiredly.

“And you confirmed that Frosty is Daniel?” Tim asked rather loudly.

“Yes, Drake. Unfortunately he recognized me as well. He said, and I quote, ‘It’s been eight years Damian, let me go.’ Then he and the other artists all vanished into thin air.”

There were more titters and guffaws. Thomas smiled brightly, “Ah, so that’s why you asked about that meme.”

There were a few frowns, clearly the others already putting puzzle pieces together. “Vanished?” Drake asked.

“I believe the other backup band members may be metas, possibly McLain herself as well. Invisibility is not a common met ability, but it is not unheard of either.”

“Or magic,” Cain offered.

Damian nodded to her, “Magic is also a possibility. Unfortunately,” Damian clicked to the announcement about Frosty McGee leaving the band, “McLain claims Daniel packed his belongings and left without any further explanation, neither she nor her companions have heard from him since.”

“Oh no!” Richard and Gordon both said together.

“I have monitored all publicly available modes of transport out of Midville, Pennsylvania, but I have not been able to track Daniel’s movements.”

“Send me what you got, I’ll see what I can do,” Gordon ordered.

Damian nodded, glad to have her help. “There is one last matter. McLain said Daniel had been adopted, but he was hiding from them as well, I suspect that was why he was using such a ridiculous stage name.”

“Well we’ll just have to look into finding them as well,” Gordon said with a wicked grin.

“They don’t have any shirts in my size,” Richard whined, staring down at his phone.

The others all pulled out their phones and began tapping away.

“Oh,” Thomas said brightly, “he has a credit on one of the songs!”

“Yes, he performed a duet with McLain.”

“Anything for You?” Tim scrunched his nose as his phone.

“Unfortunately,” Damian agreed. “A standard pop love song.” For the duet no less.

“Everything from the tour is listed as limited supplies,” Richard said morosely, swiping further.

“Of course,” Gordon said with a smile, “Frosty left without saying he’d ever come back, they aren’t going to make more merch with a member who’s left.”

“I don’t think they have shirts wide enough to fit any of us,” Thomas said.

Father tapped his phone decisively, then tucked it away while looking quite proud of whatever he’d just done.

Damian sighed deeply, from his very soul. “McLain also has a youtube account, there are a few private videos with behind the scenes footage if you wish to see Daniel in a more casual situation.” Damian regretted going straight to the next concert rather than doing his due diligence on digital information gathering, at the time he had felt rushed by the concert being only a couple days after his discovery.

Drake was already pulling a laptop from some hidden place while Gordon rolled over to his side of the couch, her own phone in hand.

Father stood and came to stand next to Damian, an arm reaching across his back to rest on his far shoulder. “Would you like to talk? About Daniel?”

“I believe I have given you quite a shock, do you not need time to digest the information?”

Father shrugged, “Likely, but we all know if I’m left to my own devices I’m going to just start digging and not come up for air for three days.”

“Yes, anything to prevent you from spiraling, Master Bruce.” Alfred smirked at Father before turning his attention to Damian. “I understand why you did not inform us of Master Daniel sooner, thank you for letting us know now.”

Damian nodded, glad he did not have to explain himself on that part.

“Too easy,” Drake crowed as the TV sputtered to life with one of the private videos.

Daniel and his bandmates were sitting on folding chairs in an otherwise empty space, likely an on stage rehearsal. On screen the recording of Daniel hopped up onto a folding chair, “May I have your attention, please! All rise for the national anthem.” There were titters from behind the camera, but the other three members of the band all obligingly lumbered to their feet. Daniel took a deep breath, then started singing, his voice low and haunting even as he pulled his hand into a sloppy American style salute.

Seasons don't fear the reaper Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain We can be like they are

The other band members were laughing and hooting when Daniel started singing, but quickly fell in to join him on the chorus.

Come on, baby (don't fear the reaper) Baby, take my hand (don't fear the reaper) We'll be able to fly (don't fear the reaper) Baby, I'm your man La, la, la…

Daniel started laughing too hard to keep going. The other band members were laughing right along with him.

“C’mon, dipstick!” McLain’s voice came from behind the camera. “Have you no respect? Finish the national anthem!”

Daniel was laughing so hard he tumbled from the chair, though the short fall didn’t seem to do him any harm. He attempted to sing the second round of “la la la” from the floor, but was incapable through his laughter.

Damian looked up to see Father looking on fondly, smiling gently as the video came to an end. The others were smiling at the video as well, likely glad to see Daniel being happy and enjoying himself. Despite everything he’d been through he still found his own happiness.

And then Damian’s impulsivity had driven him away from the friends and happy life he had made for himself. Damian needed to find Daniel.

🎵🎸🎶

Danny, Sam, and Tucker were just hanging out in the latest hotel room after a long day on the road, just a pit stop between one concert venue and the next. They could just use portals, but for some reason Ember was insisting on the full concert tour experience, including greasy diners and sketchy hotels.

Danny collapsed onto his back on one of the beds, “Ugh, Ember has me practicing singing and playing at the same time by singing Anything for You,” Danny complained.

“Well, it’s your duet,” Tucker pointed out.

“It’s Frosty’s duet, I won’t be singing it when I re-debut. Besides, it’s such tripe, just the required slow song to cool things down before the grand finale.”

“So… re-debut with a new duet?”

“Avoid love songs this time,” Sam ordered from where she was hunched over a notebook at the hotel room’s desk.

“I think Ember has it stuck in her head a slow duet has to be a love song,” Danny scrunched up his nose at the thought.

“There are plenty of duets that aren’t love songs.” Tucker defended.

“Name one,” Danny said with a huff. “No really, I need examples.”

“Easy, there’s… uh…” Tucker blinked and trailed off, suddenly looking kinda scared. “What about… Mungoje- no… um… there’s always You’re the Top uh…” he started visibly sweating. “Anything You Can Do… oh! Somebody I Used to Know.”

“Ooooh! A break up song!” Danny liked that, it would definitely be something more along Ember’s whole image too.

“I’m Not Writing You a Love Song,” Sam offered.

“Not a duet, but a good example of something that feels like a love song without being one.”

“You could also go all in on the devotion, sing about how you’d die for her or something,” Sam continued. “Or sing about loving each other even after dying, real obsessive stuff.”

“Have Ember sing about wrapping my calcified heart in my own poetry?” Danny asked with a cheeky grin.

“Not my fault Mary Shelley invented romance,” Sam said with a sniff.

“I hate to say it, but Sam’s right,” Tucker added. “That would really fit the whole undead thing more.”

“They’re all great ideas, I’ll bring it up to Ember tomorrow when we do lessons.”

“Your re-debut as Phantom is going to be great,” Tucker said with a laugh.

“Yeah… Phantom,” Danny replied morosely.

Sam sighed, “I don’t understand why you won’t even brainstorm on possible name ideas.”

“It’s just!” Danny sighed and rolled over on the bed to look at Sam, “If I pick a new name I can’t use the logo you designed for me any more.”

“And I can design you a new one.”

“I know, and it’ll be awesome. But you worked hard on that first one, and it’s so… perfect. I’d hate to never use it again.”

“No one says you can’t keep the old logo too,” Tucker cut in before this old not-quite-argument could play out again. “One of the costume ideas was a jacket with patches on it, so put the DP on there somewhere.”

“Right at the top of the sleeve,” Sam suggested, pointing to her arm just below the shoulder joint.

“You can have patches for everyone, even. A skull and crossbones for Youngblood, a paw print for Wulf, a thirteen for Johnny.”

“A heart dripping poison for Kitty,” Sam said thoughtfully. She turned and started furiously scratching at her notebook. “Pandora’s helmet with four crossed swords behind it…”

“Pandora uses one single magic staff,” Danny said in a deadpan.

“Do Frostbite’s ice and bone arm, that’s rad as hell.” Tucker laughed to himself.

“Just don’t design anything for Spectra, I refuse to have her on my cool jacket.”

“So you’ll do the jacket?” Sam didn’t even look up.

“Yeah, I really like the idea. It’s a good way to keep my logo and little reminders of all my friends. You’ll do patches for yourselves too, right?”

“And Jazz,” Sam promised. “Val too, even. Red Huntress deserves her own logo.”

“Yeah, she does.” Danny rolled back onto his back and picked his phone back up, going to the notes app. “So I guess I can’t really use Phantom at all since I’m still hiding from the GIW and any connection to Amity Park.”

Tucker sighed, “Yeah, probably not.”

“And Ember has already vetoed any more ice or cold names.”

“Which is too bad, there are some killer ice puns out there.”

“Could always go with Great One,” Sam said airily, “that’s your yeti name.”

“Absolutely not,” Danny said with an upside down glare sent Sam’s way.

“Tyrant’s Bane,” Tucker suggested.

“Guillotine,” Sam gave her own suggestion.

“Imperial Coup.”

“Monarchy Ender.”

“Twenty-three stab wounds.”

“I didn’t even kill the guy, just put him back down for nappies.” Danny couldn’t help laughing. Any further banter stopped dead as Danny’s phone started buzzing and dinging. Danny sat up, “It’s Jazz.”

Sam and Tucker both turned to look at Danny, staying quiet as he answered.

“Hey Jazz, you okay?”

“Danny! Have you heard the news?” Jazz sounded excited, so hopefully it was good news.

“Not yet, hold on a sec and I’ll put you on speaker for Sam and Tuck.” While he put his phone on speaker, his best friends both moved to sit on the bed, surrounding the phone. “Okay, so what’s this news?”

“The Justice League is finally getting somewhere! Mom and Dad are on trial for supervillainy, the GIW is suspended while under investigation, and the anti-ecto acts are being repealed!”

“Oh shit!” “Really?!” “Finally!”

“Well,” Jazz hedged, some of her excitement dimming a little, “the GIW is probably going to be disbanded, so that’s good at least. But it turns out the anti-ecto acts are scattered over several bills working together. Apparently several pieces were hidden in environmental acts, probably betting on ecto being misread as eco. The big thing they’re trying to focus on first is all the legal definitions that are scientifically incorrect, like ecto-beings being non-sentient.”

“Yeah, I’d kind of like the government to acknowledge I can feel things,” Danny said with a hollow laugh.

“The other big news is the meta protection acts are getting expanded to include anyone from the Realms!”

“Danny!” Tucker was bouncing in place in excitement, “Danny you’re going to be legally protected!”

“Yeah,” Jazz agreed. “The meta protection act should supersede the anti-ecto acts. The main thing is that everyone from the Realms are going to be considered people now.”

Danny didn’t know what to say to that, it was… it was great! It was wonderful!

“So you keep saying everyone from the Realms, is that more than just ghosts?” Sam asked.

“Any kind of spirit, actually. Nature spirit, city spirit, spirits of the dead. Since the Infinite Realms are infinite it actually includes a lot, mostly it’s ‘the otherside of the veil’ and is also where fairies and elves and goblins live? And maybe demons and angels and some gods?” Jazz sounded less sure the more she said.

“Oh, nature spirits,” Sam said thoughtfully. “I guess that explains Undergrowth.”

“Something like that. Basically anything supernatural is getting lumped in all together. And also a few undead too, guess they’re using this as a chance to really expand things. From the way Wonder Woman was talking a lot of the magic users are upset this wasn’t done sooner.”

“Well considering that a few heroes have died and come back they were really leaving themselves open to be blindsided,” Tucker joked.

“It’s about time they stopped and considered actually doing what they promise to,” Sam grumbled.

“Danny,” Jazz asked in worry, “you okay?”

“I’m… legally a person.” Danny felt a little numb and kinda floaty, but he was pretty sure he was still on the bed.

“You’re legally a person,” Jazz said warmly.

“Hey,” Tucker said, “does this mean Phantom doesn’t have to be in hiding and you can use it as your stage name?”

“Just because I’m legally protected doesn’t mean all the people out for my head are going to suddenly stop. People do illegal stuff all the time,” Danny said.

“Yes,” Jazz agreed sadly before plowing on with steel in her voice, “but you shouldn’t have to hide anyway! If you want to be a ghost on stage then you should get to use your name.”

“It’s not like they wouldn’t recognize you anyway,” Tucker added.

“Plus, any former GIW agents that come looking for you won’t have government backing anymore. They might not even have access to any useful anti-ghost weapons.”

“I’ll think about it,” Danny said. “Later, for now I just want to enjoy this good news.”

“We should tell the others,” Tucker exclaimed.

“We should throw a party!” Sam scrambled off the bed and went digging through her luggage.

“Yeah,” Danny thought that was a great idea, “let’s throw a party!”

🎵🎸🎶

Time passed and life moved on, much to Damian’s annoyance. Daniel never resurfaced, not surprising when all Damian had was a single chance encounter after 8 years of hiding from The Demon. They couldn’t find any hints of how he managed to leave Midville, and no hints he was still there either. McLain was no better a lead, Gordon found she had had a few shows a couple years earlier, but all traces of it had been scrubbed from the internet. Likely her previous debut had been a humiliating flop and McLain wanted to bury it. Unfortunately for the bats whoever she got to do it was good, they didn’t even know where shows had been, let alone if it was where she had met Daniel. Gordon had set up a facial recognition program that was constantly scanning for Daniel, but all it ever turned up were false matches. It was frustrating, but it was beginning to look as though they would have to wait for Daniel to realize Damian wasn’t a threat and reach out to him.

Damian hoped Daniel would realize.

Father’s order came in, copies of every piece of McLain merch that had Daniel on it, including the duet as a single. On vinyl. Most of it was put on display in Father’s office in the manor, an acrylic “standee” ended up on his desk at Wayne tower, nestled in among the various photos of the family. When Damian saw it he wondered if Father’s employees had noticed it and if he’d explained who Daniel is to them yet. That would certainly be an interesting conversation.

Damian had also ordered a round of merchandise, even if most of it wasn’t displayed. The private videos had been downloaded and saved in various storage states to preserve them. Damian watched one from time to time, it gave him strange feelings watching Daniel be happy knowing he wasn’t living like that right now.

Damian hoped Daniel found new friends and another new life to be happy in. He hoped Daniel hadn’t gone and become a hermit somewhere to be so hard to find.

But all of that fell into the background as life continued. Summer was in full swing in Gotham, which meant miserably wet and hot days with barely any reprieve at night, and a population whose collective patience was at its shortest. Then school started, the weather finally cooled in the fall, Damian turned 15, and then another busy holiday season rolled around.

Damian wasn’t sure, but it seemed his family was specifically avoiding mentioning Daniel. It was understandable, they still had no idea where he had run off to, he couldn’t join them for the various holiday traditions they all partook in. When he asked Richard about it, he had told Damian that in these kinds of situations it’s better to focus on the people you are with than the people who can’t be there. As if to prove Richard’s point, Todd even showed up for a few of the holiday traditions.

And yet all Damian could think about was how every Christmas he’d ever celebrated had been without Daniel.

Then on Epiphany something happened. McLain announced a new tour in the spring, this one featuring a special surprise guest. It was all Damian could talk about at dinner that night. “Surely if she were just replacing Daniel’s role she would not make such an announcement.”

“Maybe, you said she lost a lot of fans when Daniel left?” Father asked. “It’s possible she feels highlighting the rest of her band may be a good PR move.”

“What are the chances it’s Danny with dyed hair and facial recognition obscuring stage makeup?” Duke asked jokingly.

“That would be utterly foolish,” Damian said with a sniff. “Daniel is smart enough to know better than to keep company with anyone he’s already been discovered with.”

“I don’t know about that,” Father said with a furrowed brow.

“Father, you’re not insulting Daniel’s intelligence!”

“No, no… not at all. But after you told us about him I don’t think any of us looked into Ember’s current doings too much. Bands usually have a lot of staff traveling with them on tours, and they usually don’t have photos taken of them. We couldn't find out much about her staff, it seemed she was paying them all under the table.”

Damian frowned, “Aside from their manager, I didn’t see any staff with McLain.”

“Well, it certainly won’t hurt to look into the staff working this new tour, just in case.”

“We should go to the new show either way, see who this special surprise guest is,” Duke said with a cheerful grin.

Damian did allow himself to make a sour face at that, sitting through the first show had been enough punishment.

“I will say, after paying so much attention to her I have grown a soft spot for Ember’s music,” Father said with a mischievous smile.

Damian did not want to go, but she was still their one and only connection to Daniel. “Very well, I will allow you to make the arrangements.”

Now time was passing with a goal, Damian found himself anticipating the coming spring break. It was foolish, he knew this likely wouldn’t lead to Daniel’s whereabouts, and yet the anticipation persisted.

When the night of the concert arrived Damian had found some of his family had chosen the most ridiculous clothes. Father was sensible, wearing his usual casual clothing. Damian, Cain, and Drake were all wearing the shirts from McLain’s previous tour, since they were available in their actual sizes. Richard and Thomas were also wearing the same shirt, but since it wasn’t available in a size that would fit them they had both altered the clothing by taking off the sleeves and seam ripping down the sides until the shirts gaped, like the ones worn while lifting weights at a gym. Todd chose to wear a shirt that actually fit him, though his was for a completely different band called The Grateful Dead, apparently it is a faux pas to wear a band shirt for the band one is seeing. Judging from how many other attendees were wearing either the previous tour shirt or the one with just McLain’s face on it, it’s not much of a faux pas.

The night went much the same as Damian’s previous McLain concert experience, neither improved nor worsened by his family’s presence. Although Todd kept making odd faces. Between songs he motioned them all to lean in close.

“There’s something going on with their voices, magic I think. Not sure what though.”

Ah, so it was magic that was used to spirit Daniel away when he was discovered. There was even a chance he had been learning it as well, it might even explain why they couldn’t track him down after.

“Alright, Easton!” McLain said loudly, earning a round of cheers from the audience. “You guys ready for the debut of a brand new song?” Judging from the way the audience cheered, they were. “Anything for you, my lovely fans.”

That earned a round of surprised gasps along with the cheers. The lights suddenly turned off and the audience hushed in anticipation. A spotlight came on, shining on McLain as she started strumming a slower song.

I, I just woke up from a dream Where you and I had to say goodbye And I don't know what it all means But since I survived, I realized

What followed was a bittersweet song about spending the end of the world next to her lover. It seemed morbid, but the sentiment all the sweeter for it. The song built in intensity as McLain wailed the chorus, then the song pulled back. A second spotlight came on, a new artist was strolling onto the stage.

Oh, lost, lost in the…

The rest of the line was drowned out by excited screaming from the audience, which was quickly hushed by the rest of the audience. The teenager that came walking up as he sang was playing a glittering, white, translucent guitar that looked to be imitating ice. He was wearing a black jacket covered in colorful patches over a black shirt, silver belt, and loose black pants tucked into silver combat boots. Most notably his hair was pure white and seemed to defy gravity while his eyes were such a bright green they could be seen even in the audience.

The pair sang together, trading off lines in the chorus or harmonizing when they sang together. The effect was certainly haunting, but most haunting of all was just how familiar the new singer’s voice was. Damian glanced at his family to see them all staring at the stage with similar focus, clearly thinking the same thing as Damian.

It seemed whatever magic or cosmetics Daniel used to change his appearance couldn’t be done to his voice.

Thomas was going to be insufferable.

A large screen at the back of the stage lit up and words appeared. Phantom and McLain held their hands out to the audience, who started singing along.

If the world was ending, I'd wanna be next to you If the party was over and our time on Earth was through I'd wanna hold you just for a while and die with a smile If the world was ending, I'd wanna be next to you

As the song wound down Father leaned down to whisper into Damian’s ear, “I’m glad I sprung for the backstage experience after the show.”

“We’re not deviating from the plan,” Damian responded.

“Yes, of course.” Father straightened back up and clapped along with the audience once the last note played.

The audience screamed, “Phantom!” loudly from behind them. Damian turned to find a portion of the audience jumping in place, holding up signs with what seemed to be a stylized D on them or the name Phantom scrawled across.

Daniel, presumably Phantom, looked shocked. He put a hand up to shield his eyes against the now brightly lit stage lights. “Is that…?”

“Surprise!” McLain called cheerfully as she patted Daniel on the shoulder.

“Oh ancients, you guys!” Daniel was clearly struggling to keep hold of his emotions. He rallied with a bright smile despite his glittering eyes, “Where my Parkers at?”

The audience screamed, yelling phrases such as, “We love you Phantom!”

“I missed you guys too.” Daniel sniffled, but was smiling so wide it was becoming unsettling.

“For those of you who don’t know, this is our surprise secret guest: Phantom Dwarfstar!” McLain paused to allow the audience to express their excitement. “Now nothing and no one can replace Frosty McGee as a person, but Phantom here is taking his place in the band.”

“I was actually supposed to debut with Ember, but couldn’t until now.”

“And it’s great to finally have Phantom up on stage with us, right where he’s supposed to be. Let’s hear it one more time for our newest member!”

The audience cheered once more, most of it coming from the section that already knew him, it seemed the rest of the audience had mixed feelings about Phantom. A glance at Father showed him him frowning for some reason, clearly looking concerned.

Daniel smiled and waved, “Alright, enough about me. Let’s hear it for the real star of the show. Ember! Ember!”

As if on cue the portion of the audience that had been chanting for Daniel started chanting for McLain, the rest of the audience quickly picking the chant up as Daniel jogged over to join the rest of the band.

“Alright, you guys ready for Remember?!”

The rest of the show went on as before, save for Damian and his family keeping their eyes solely on Daniel. Once the show ended Father herded them towards the backstage, where their VIP experience would pay off.

“I would like to state for the record,” Thomas was saying, “that I called it. Bruce as my witness, right down to the bad dye job.”

“I dunno,” Todd replied, “I think the hair is legit. I’m pretty sure Phantom was doing some kind of magic with his voice too. The same kind of magic as Ember, but a different spell? I’m not really sure how to explain it.”

“It makes sense Daniel would learn magic if he took up with magic users,” Damian said stiffly.

“If we’re going to stick with the plan you need to use his stage name,” Father said softly.

Damian nodded. He knew what he had to do.

🎵🎸🎶

Danny and his friends were celebrating in the green room after the show. Danny felt… strange. Emotionally tired, physically pumped. Guess doing the show as a ghost really changed his stamina.

“I can’t believe you guys!” Danny said with a laugh.

“I give the best surprises!” Ember cackled, spinning in the air in delight. “The look on your face!”

“It’s amazing! Any clue on when they have to go back? It’s Saturday night…”

“It’s spring break, dipstick,” Ember mocked him. “They’re here until next weekend!”

Danny felt gravity’s hold on him slip away, the room growing brighter. “The whole week?”

“It took a lot of doing to arrange things like this, you better appreciate!”

Danny darted over and pulled Ember into a hug, “You’re the best, Ember!”

“And don’t you forget it!”

There was a knock on the door, Morty poked his head in. “The VIPs are here for their backstage experience.”

“Awesome!” Ember settled down on the floor, always excited when these happened. Danny was rather proud, he thinks it was one of his better suggestions. He moved to go perch on a nearby armchair while the zombies all leaned back on a couch.

Morty opened the door wide and in filed a group of people. Four absolute tanks of men, one guy who was just regular buff, and a woman. One of the tanks, an older man with gray in his hair, stepped off to the side while everyone else approached Ember for the meet’n’greet. Something about the older man looked strangely familiar. It wasn’t helped by the way everyone kept glancing over at Danny. At Phantom.

“And you are?” Ember asked the older man after meeting everyone else.

“Bruce Wayne, but I’m just here as the chaperone.” Which was an odd thing to say, everyone else was at least old enough to drive but half of them looked like full blown adults.

Ember seemed to agree, “You guys need a chaperone?”

“Not them, no. My youngest.” Mr. Wayne looked back, “Do you want to come out and say hello?”

Damian stepped out from behind Mr. Wayne.

Danny couldn’t help stiffening up in shock, looking between Damian and Mr. Wayne. He was paler than Damian, but the similarities were there. ‘So that’s where I get my eyes from,’ Danny found himself thinking.

Ember also recognized Damian, crossing her arms and scowling. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Hello, again,” Damian said blandly. “I simply wish to send a message to Daniel.”

Danny caught the way Damian’s eyes darted to him for a moment. Time to commit to the bit, “Ember, who’s this?”

“This is the guy who scared Frosty off,” Ember motioned to Damian. “And I already told you, we haven’t heard from him since he left.”

“Nevertheless, if he does contact you please inform him that Grandfather is dead and I left the League years ago.”

“WHAT?!” Danny couldn’t help shrieking, rocketing into the air in shock.

Everyone in the room turned their attention fully on him, including Damian. “Grandfather is dead, and I left the League years ago. I’ve been living with our Father.” He motioned to Mr. Wayne, who waved awkwardly.

Danny didn’t know how to react to that, didn’t know how to feel about that. His legs wisped into a tail before popping back to legs, a layer of frost coated the room then vanished. Danny looked over to Ember.

“Baby-pop I swear if you abandon the tour again!”

“No, no, of course not,” Danny defended.

“I’ve already bought so much merch, how can I brag about you to my board members if you drop out again?” Mr. Wayne asked.

Danny felt something in his brain break and couldn’t help giggling at that.

“How much longer is this going to take?” Dash’s voice came loudly yet muffled from the hallway. “We have an afterparty to get to!”

“Give them a moment, Phantom’s in the middle of a reunion with his birth family,” Morty snapped back.

“WHAT?!” Jazz shrieked. Oh, Jazz was here too! This was great! The door to the green room burst open, Jazz standing in the doorway. She leveled the Not-Fenton-Anymore Anti-Creep Stick at Damian and said, “You!”

“Jazz!” Danny zipped down and wrapped himself around her for a full body hug.

“Danny!” Jazz hugged him back, everything was right in the world.

“Ms. Nightingale,” Mr. Wayne said with a strained smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Bruce Wayne, Danny’s father.” He held a hand out, which Jazz ignored.

“It’s okay, they said Grandfather is dead and Damian’s not in the League anymore.”

“I’m assuming the League is the cult you were born in,” Jazz said with a fond sigh. She turned her attention back to Mr. Wayne. “How do you know my name?”

“I’m one of the Justice League’s backers, I like to keep abreast of their bigger projects. Finding out the US government nearly started a war with an entire dimension was quite the shock.”

Great, now Damian was going to look up everything to do with Jazz and find out all about everything.

Sam and Tucker slipped into the room and joined the hug. Okay, now for real everything was right in the world.

“So, how about that afterparty?” One of the tanks asked, Danny thinks he introduced himself as Jason.

“Can we come?” One of the other ones asked. “It’s okay if not, we can just exchange phone numbers, it’s a lot to take in.”

“No, afterparty’s fine.” It really was, Danny was actually pretty happy about getting his little brother back in his life, and he was super curious about his birth father. “You guys got a hotel for the night?”

“Wait, hold up,” Sam demanded. “Is that Bruce mother fucking Wayne?!”

“He did fuck my mother, thank you for reminding me,” Danny deadpanned.

“Danny!” Jazz snapped, accompanied by a relatively gentle smack to the back of his head.

“Hey, watch the piercings, those hurt!” Danny protectively put his hands up to shield his ears from any errant hands. The piercings may be fake, but only because he just straight up phased them into his ears.

“No, back up, you’re telling me Bruce Wayne is your bio dad?!”

“I literally just found out myself.” Danny sighed deeply, then squinted at Sam, “Wait, how do you know him.”

“He’s richer than Vlad and kinda famous for it.”

“Oh… gross.” It seemed Danny just couldn’t escape from money. Danny idly wondered what his too-rich-for-his-own-good secret underground lair was, couldn’t be worse than Vlad’s cloning lab or Grandfather’s afterlife sewage jacuzzi.

“To answer your question,” Mr. Wayne said with an amused smile, “yes, we do have hotel rooms booked for the evening. Though we can extend it a little longer if you’d like.” Mr. Wayne sounded so hopeful.

“I dunno, my friends are only here for spring break…” Danny looked towards the door, where the rest of his friends were waiting to start the afterparty. He could hear the rest of his classmates starting to get more and more impatient.

“We can arrange something later,” the second tank said brightly. “We’ll extend the hotel a day or two, exchange numbers, make some plans, and you’ll have the rest of the week to hang out.”

Sam scoffed, “It’s not like Gotham’s even all that far, c’mon let’s get going!”

“Gotham?” Danny asked, that seemed important for some reason, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it as Sam dragged him out the door.  He had an afterparty to get to. He had a new life to get to.

[overadores]

˗ˏˋ do you love me? ˎˊ˗ ★ daniela avanvini

"But I'm lettin' go"

pairing.ᐟ daniela avanzini x reader

about.ᐟ distance makes the heart grow fonder—at least, that’s what you told yourself every night before bed, clutching your phone like a lifeline. you trusted daniela with everything, never doubting her love for you, but trust is a fragile thing, and it shatters the moment you see a familiar name pop up in her messages.

genre.ᐟ heavy angst.

cw.ᐟ backburner, toxicity, manipulation, cheating

wc.ᐟ 1657 words

a/n.ᐟ idk what song to put cuz tbh been listening to niki's album nicole and billie's album on repeat sooo and yes i broke my own heart while writing this--just a little bit 🤏. (okay maybe listen to wildflower by billie eilish)

"I guess this is where we say goodbye"

Long distance was never your thing.

You had commitment issues, trust issues—the kind that made you second-guess everything, overanalyze every silence, every delayed reply. You always needed reassurance, needed to hear that your partner still cared, still loved you, still wanted you the same way they did in the beginning. It was never easy.

You tried it once. At first, it was everything. She messaged you constantly, called whenever you over thought things, reminded you over and over that she would never get tired of you, that she would love you endlessly. But it all fell apart a week before Christmas. The messages slowed, the calls stopped, the little 'I love you’s faded into nothing. You told yourself she was just busy. You kept up the routine—texting, calling, watching movies together, saying good mornings and goodnights—even when it felt like you were the only one trying. And then one night, you just… stopped. You got tired of waiting. Tired of hoping. Tired of being nothing more than a placeholder. And after that, you swore you’d never do it again.

Then Daniela happened.

Daniela was different.

She was everything you didn’t believe in anymore—steady, warm, patient. She took her time with you, learned every scar and every unhealed wound, held you like something fragile, something worth keeping. With Daniela, it wasn’t a question of if you could trust her. You just did. It felt like you had known her forever. Five weeks in, and you already saw your future with her. It was stupid, maybe, reckless even, but you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting her in ways you had never wanted anyone else.

In a month and a half, the two of you did everything—dates, road trips, late-night conversations, stolen kisses that felt like confessions; neither of you had the courage to speak aloud. And then, like some cruel joke, reality struck. Daniela had to go back to LA. Her mom needed her.

You couldn't ask her to stay. It wasn’t fair.

So you drove her to the airport, carried her suitcase to the terminal, and tried to pretend like your heart wasn’t breaking. When they called her flight, Daniela turned to you, cupped your face in her hands, wiped away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“Darling, I’ll always call you. I’ll always message you.”

You nodded, swallowing back the fear clawing its way up your throat. You hugged her like it was the last time. It felt too soon to say the words that had been weighing on your tongue, but you needed her to know something, anything.

“I’ll miss you, my lover.”

It had been two weeks since she left, and at first, Daniela kept her promise. She called you every chance she got, texted even when she was exhausted, made you feel like you still mattered. But as time passed, the gaps between messages grew longer, the calls became shorter. You told yourself she was just busy. You trusted her. But the thoughts still crept in, whispering that maybe she had someone else, that maybe you were just a second option, something convenient for when she was lonely.

You wanted to tell her how you felt. You wanted to say that you were scared, that you didn’t feel like enough, that you hated how easy it was for her to forget you. But you didn’t. You didn’t want to be a burden. So instead, you let it fester, let it consume you until the weight of it pressed down on your chest every night.

Then, just as you were beginning to believe the distance would break you, Daniela told you she was coming back.

You met her at the airport, flowers in hand, heart in your throat. The second she saw you, she ran, arms wrapping around you, lips pressing against every inch of your face.

“I missed you so much, mi amor.”

God, how could you have ever doubted her?

That night, you took her to your first date spot, listened to her ramble about school, watched the way she smiled like she wasn’t carrying the weight of your world in her hands. And before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“I love you.”

Daniela froze.

You panicked. “You don’t have to say it back, I just—I needed you to know.”

But she smiled, reached for your hand. “I love you too, mi amor.”

It should have been enough.

For a while, it was.

Then a moment your phone buzzed, the world cracked in half.

It was late—too late. Daniela had left hours ago, her perfume still lingering in the sheets, the ghost of her touch still pressed against your skin. You weren’t expecting a call, let alone from a number that, deep down, you already recognized.

You shouldn’t have picked up.

But you did.

And there it was. A voice you didn’t know, but words that felt like a knife to the ribs. A lazy chuckle, tinged with smugness. "Hey, is Daniela still there? She said she’d be home by now."

The air in your lungs turned to glass. "Who the fuck is this?"

A pause. Then, a slow realization from the other end. "Oh. You must be—well. I guess she didn’t tell you."

The call ended before you could demand more, before you could make sense of the hurricane tearing through your chest. Your hands were shaking, but you weren’t sure if it was from rage or the sheer weight of betrayal crashing down on you.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, staring at the wall like it held the answers. Your head was screaming at you to let it go—to wait, to be rational—but your body was already moving, already reaching for your keys. The road blurred past, your heart hammering against your ribs like it wanted out. By the time you reached her place, your knuckles were white against the steering wheel.

Daniela opened the door with that same easy smirk that used to unravel you. But tonight, it felt like poison.

"Babe," she purred, stepping closer. "What are you doing here?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you held up your phone, the call log glaring between you like a death sentence.

Her gaze flickered, just for a second, just enough for you to see the calculation. And then—

"Oh my god, are you seriously stalking my calls now? Jesus, you are so fucking insecure."

The dam inside you cracked wide open. "Don’t. Don’t fucking do that. Don’t turn this around on me. Who was he?"

She rolled her eyes, arms folding over her chest like she was the one exhausted. Like she was the one breaking. "It’s not what you think."

"Not what I think?" Your voice broke, raw and ugly. "Then tell me. Tell me why some random guy thinks you’re coming home to him. Explain it to me, Daniela. Make it make sense."

Her jaw clenched, but there it was—the flicker of something beneath the surface. Not guilt. Never guilt. Just irritation at being caught.

"Look, I was going to tell you," she sighed, running a hand through her hair like this was just another inconvenience. "But I knew you’d overreact. Just like this."

Something inside you shattered. "Overreact? Are you fucking kidding me? You were with him. You lied to me. You—"

"I didn’t lie," she snapped, voice sharp enough to slice skin. "I just didn’t tell you everything. There’s a difference."

The breath punched out of you. "That’s not—fuck, that’s not how this works."

Her lips curled, a cruel sort of amusement in her eyes. "Oh, so now you’re the expert on relationships? Please. You suffocate me, you know that? Always needing reassurance, always assuming the worst."

Your hands clenched at your sides. "I needed reassurance because you gave me reasons not to trust you. And I was right."

She laughed. Actually laughed. Like this was all some sick joke. "God, you’re exhausting. No wonder—"

She stopped. But it was too late.

No wonder, what?

No wonder he was an option?

No wonder she kept looking for something else?

No wonder she never really loved you the way you loved her?

Your breath came in sharp, ragged gulps, the air suddenly too thick, too heavy. "You know what? Fuck you, Daniela. I gave you everything. I loved you even when it hurt. Even when you made me feel like I was never enough. And this? This is how you repay me?"

For the first time, she hesitated. Just for a second. Just enough to give you hope, before she crushed it beneath her heel.

"Maybe you were never enough."

The words slammed into you like a bullet to the chest. And the worst part? She didn’t even say it with cruelty. Just indifference. Like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Like she had known it all along.

You stepped back, every part of you screaming, begging to fight for her. To make her see, to make her stay. But what was left to fight for? She wasn’t sorry. She wasn’t even sad.

She had never been yours to lose.

So you turned. Walked away, even as she called your name, even as your heart begged you to look back.

Because this time, you knew.

If you looked back, you’d never leave.

The silence you left behind is deafening.

And still, it’s not enough to drown out the sound of your heart breaking.

When the door closed behind you, the weight of it all crushed you.

You never answered her messages after that.

You never trusted love after that.

Maybe that’s why you don’t do long-distance relationships.

The trust was broken. The walls you spent years rebuilding had crumbled again. The heart you tried to mend had been torn apart once more.

Maybe you were meant to lose things.

Meant to watch people walk away.

Meant to feel the ache of being left behind.

Over and over again.

[shysuccubusstuff]

Dilf! Sylus pt. 1

Content: Headcanons + some longer parts ♡; Age gap + mention of child abuse (not made by Sylus, of course) + alcohol taking + consensual/dubcon (alcohol intake on both sides).

Summary: After graduating university, you've been looking for a stable job for several months, but for the moment, you just have to content yourself with working as a nanny during the summer holidays. Who would have thought that you would meet such a hot and single (did I already say hot?) dad that would require your services?

Note: I just remembered the fanarts done by someone in Twitter with the boys as dilfs, these fanarts together with some Lana del Rey unreleased songs got me hyped for him... Wish I could see an even older Sylus... he's already hot af tho. I keep saying that I have a bunch of stuff almost ready but I never post it, talk about being like a man (jk depending on how you take the joke). Still, I hope everyone is having a nice week. This video just popped on my tl, hope anyone finds it funny!

Note 2: I'm lowkey scared that some parts are just too corny/cringy... I have no real idea how an older Sylus would speak with some woman that has around... 10? years less than him. Let me know if you want a pt. 2 + the same prompt with other LI!!

You had graduated several months ago, and yeah, of course you knew that finding a job would be the easiest thing in the world, but come on, your area wasn't even THAT full. How was it possible that you were almost the only one that didn't find a job after graduating? You were laying in bed, scrolling through your phone as you kept complaining in your mind. Suddenly, your phone rang, making you almost fall to the floor, quickly taking the call with the hope of getting the job.

"Hello?" You were able to hear some faint sounds in the background, some running around, together with a few giggles.

"... Yes, sorry. I was just busy with something. I call because of your advertisement, the one about working as a nanny?" Suddenly, you heard the deep and velvety voice of a man, even if that voice sounded slightly tired.

"Sure! I'm available for all the week, including weekends. I can even stay at your house if you prefer it that way, I do have to say that the rate does get a bit--"

"That's ok, I don't mind paying as much as you want as long as you do your job appropietly. We can meet this weekend to present them to you, if you are able, of course."

"Yes! Sure, let's meet that day, maybe in the morning?"

"Then that's settled. Thank you, let's meet in a couple days." The man hanged the call, barely allowing you to wave him goodbye. Well, at least that was somewhat solved... right?

The week went fast, with you barely moving around apart from buying groceries or spending your time with some not so interesting game as you complained about your boring holiday with your closest friend. Before you know it, you were already getting ready for that meeting, with your hands starting to sweat a bit as you tried to imagine the kind of children that man could have. Oh God, what if they were the annoying kind? The ones that mess with you cause they hate all their nannies, always acting up and... Wait, just calm yourself, it can't be that bad... right? You grabbed your bag, carrying all the documents that you may or may not need as you kept repeating into your head that there was no way that you would have such bad luck.

You finally entered the café, your hands still sweating a bit as you tried to guess who was the man that had called you. That question was quickly answered, as there was only a single man with not only one, but two children. The two small boys were busy sketching some stuff, with both of them sometimes talking to each other, with the man sometimes answering to them while he took a few sips from the coffee cup. You made your way to the table, clenching your bag as you kept telling yourself to calm down.

"Hi! I'm the nanny, we spoke a few days ago, I don't know if you remember me?" The man's gaze slowly moved from his children drawings to you, his gaze turning much cooler as soon as he stopped looking at them.

"Yes, I do remember you, do you want something to drink while we talk?" You sat down, trying your best not to stumble on your words while you tried to think as fast as possible, your hands lending him the papers that proved that this was not the first time you had worked as a nanny.

"Thank you, I don't want anything, we can just talk like this... I mean, if you want!" The man lifted his brow a bit, perhaps a bit taken aback by your nervous movements, his eyes quickly scanning through the documents.

"That is fine. My name is Sylus. These are my children, Luke and Kieran. Luke is the one on the left, Kieran is the one on the right." The children moved to look at you, both of their faces with several scars that went up their face and arms. The sight made you shiver a bit, but seeing how the two of them were completely calm, you chose to wait in case there was something wrong going on. "They are 8 years old. You will have to work from Monday to Friday, I have to plan the weekends, as it depends on the week. I will make sure to pay you accordingly, of course, you will have bonuses the days that you are asked to stay. I don't require you to teach them nor make any housework, just to take care of them. I would pay you around 25$ the hour, I hope that is enough?" You almost choked on your own spit, trying your best not to act surprised. This was not the first time you had worked for some rich family around town, and yeah, he may be the hottest guy you had ever seen, but you just had to focus on your work. Maybe you could even make it your full time job if you did it correctly?

"There's no problem! I just need to know when should I start working, well, as well as where the house is." As you kept speaking, the two small children got down their chairs, moving closer to you.

"So... when will you start living with us?" Luke rest his face on your leg, with Kieran following him close by. Guess this was their way of greeting you?

Dilf! Sylus who is away most of the day, arriving at late hours at night when both Luke and Kiera are already asleep. He arrives on his motorbike, parking it on the garage, entering the house in complete silence except the sound of the keys being left on the entrance. You had already noticed that this was indeed a routine, as the twins already let you know on the first days you were there. You were barely able to hear him as your room was quite close to the staircase, hearing his soft steps on the carpet as he made his way to his bedroom.

Dilf! Sylus who had no kind of photos or paintings of his (possibly) late wife. The whole house was neatly decorated with mostly dark colours, with the childrens' room being the only exception, as they were the ones that had chosen their own furniture. It took you a few weeks to find out that the two boys had been adopted by Sylus several years ago after they arrived to his door barefoot, with their limbs and faces even more scarred than now. Despite the traumatic experience, the two children seemed mostly fine, even if it was clear that they were extremely anxious the second one of them got separated from the other.

Dilf! Sylus who sometimes arrives in the morning, as always, he leaves the keys on the entrance, rushing to the children's room so he could kiss their forehead, with the two of them hugging him by the neck, allowing him to carry the two of them, each with one arm to the kitchen, where he allowed them to sit as he started making breakfast. These days weren't common, but each time he arrived, you were able to see just how much he cared for Luke and Kieran, with Sylus even spending a few hours playing around with them before leaving to work once more. At first, you tried to avoid interrupting them, choosing to stay silent as you helped him make breakfast or simply tidying up after the twins. That was until the three of them started to open themselves to you, with Luke and Kieran beginning to introduce you on their private chats, even getting to the point in which you were able to see what resembled a smile on Sylus' face. This marked the beginning of the closer relationship between the two.

Dilf! Sylus who begins to have more free time. And despite this would usually mean a reduction on your working hours, this changed nothing, except the small trips with the three of them. The trips started as short outings to the park, sometimes to a restaurant around town. Then, the trips became longer, with the four of you spending a couple days on different countries, as Sylus worked, having to meet with different people while the three of you spending your time by walking around the different cities.

Dilf! Sylus who starts to spend more time alone with you. Inviting you to his private gym in case you had some free time while the twins were sleeping, together with even allowing you to help him test the condition of his motorbike. It had been clear since the start that Sylus was in no way feeble, as you often saw him carrying Luke and Kieran while all of you played together. But it was then, when he was too busy checking every single element of his motorbike, with him simply wearing a tight sleeveless t-shirt, allowing you to see just how much time he spent keeping his body as fit as possible.

"Like what you see?" Sylus' eyes were once again focused on you, his hands slightly tainted by the motor oil, some even staining his face.

"I was just-- Sorry" You felt your face heat up, your eyes starting to move around the garage trying to find anything to focus on.

"No need to excuse yourself, sweetie. I understand, can you help me a bit with this? It seems that I need to check this thoroughly."

Dilf! Sylus who begins to make the work harder for you, with him sometimes rubbing against you as he passed by, making you blush just from remembering the veins on his arms and hands as he worked out. The sexual tension between the two finally came to an end the night the two of you found each other in the living room. Sylus had just arrived, his cloak still being carried under his arm.

"Good night, I didn't expect company so late at night, tell me, would you mind accompanying me for some alcohol?" You bit your lip, still not sure on what to do, before you answered him, Sylus added: "Don't worry, the boys won't be up until maybe around 12, they spent all their energy playing with their friends."

"I suppose it would be ok then, just a bit, ok? I'm not that good with alcohol..." Sylus nodded, going to the kitchen and coming back with two small glasses, together with a bottle of tequila, salt and a few slices of lemon. He had already changed into more comfortable clothes, with him only wearing some expensive smock that looked perhaps a bit too short for your own safety.

"How about we play some cards while we drink? The one who loses will have to drink." You knew that wasn't the best choice for you, but how could you refuse when he was already smirking as if he had already won?

Before you were able to notice it, the bottle of tequile was almost finished, both of your faces being as red as a tomato.

"Come on! Just accept your defeat already, afraid that someone younger than you is better than you?" You smiled, your left hand moving the liquid inside the small glass while you kept glancing at the cards on your right hand.

"Oh? Someone has gotten bolder now, do you always talk to your bosses like that?" Sylus left his glass on the table, smirking while he left the cards fall on the table, resting his head on his left arm. "Just so you know, I have no kind of insecurity regarding my age, sweetie."

"You sure? I mean, you work out a bit too much for someone--"

"I have no idea why would you assume that, the fact that I work out a lot is merely due to the fact that my job--" Sylus stopped himself, taking a deep breath before going on. "That is just because of some requirements that I have to meet in order to keep my position." You looked a bit confused, not realising until then that you had never wondered why did he always arrive so late. Still, the alcohol was still running down your veins, making it difficult to even realise the possible danger of it.

"Suuuure, let's just say I believe you. Why would an old man like you need to stay as fit? Are you sure that you're not planning on wooing some naïve girl into your claws?" You laughed, taking a small sip out of the glass.

"Maybe I want to do just that." Sylus' gaze darkened, his usual dangerous aura coming back to him as his crimson eyes pierced your face. "Maybe I should do just that, I'm sure I would be able to teach some wild kitten just how she is supposed to behave to be considered a good girl." You felt a shiver being sent through your whole body, the hair on your arms stooding up as your face flushed from the tone Sylus had used in those last few words. Sylus chuckled at your reaction, taking once again his glass from the table and playfully moving the ice cubes within his glass that was now filled with some old whisky he had taken from the cabinet. "I was just messing around, no need to act all coy now, we have been in much more intimate situations, am I wrong, sweetie?" Sylus took a small sip of whisky, changing the way he sat to one that made the cloth rode up allowing you to catch a timid glimpse of his underwear. Feeling as you were being tested on purpose, you quickly rose from the couch, thanking the courage given by the alcohol as you suddenly pressed your lips against his, your body clamping against his bare chest.

What first began as a one sided kiss was soon reciprocated, with Sylus soon taking the lead of it, his rough hands positioning on your hip, his thumbs making small circles around the area as his tongue suddenly entered your mouth, the meek kiss soon turning into a lewd one, the room now filled with wet noises together with soft moans and whimpers.

Just as you were starting to feel slightly light-headed, Sylus got away from you, moving his right hand towards your face and caressing your cheek with extreme care. "Guess I made a mistake. It seems this wild kitten is very much aware of what she is capable to do to me." You bashfuly locked eyes with him, encountering one of the softest looks you had ever seen. "I would have liked it more if this had happened on a better occasion, one in which you had enough courage to do all these bold moves without relying on a silly game." Sylus smiled, his eyes still fixed on you, making you feel even more flushed as you could clearly tell just how much he had been holding back from doing anything inappropriate. "Let me take you to bed, I think we should talk about this... change in our relationship tomorrow, when both of us are fully aware of what all of this means." Sylus lifted you with ease, opening the door with one of his legs and soon arriving to your bedroom, suddenly changing the way he held you so he could acommodate the sheets. Before you could say anything, he covered your body, planting a tendeer kiss on your forehead. "Sleep tight, I hope you won't regret anything tomorrow, sweetie."

[3igbootyl0ver]

doctor's in [pt.3]

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: Just as you thought fate was finally on your side, the universe had other plans—ones that seemed determined to pull you and Tara apart. But you and Tara had other plans, and that was to keep trying.

word count: 3752

a/n: hehe this is the end of this fic, I hope you guys like it!! I really enjoyed writing this one

Tara was getting impatient. 

Just as she thought you both were progressing into the ‘relationship’, it seems that fate was not on your side anymore.

It was getting ridiculous! After multiple of countless attempts to set a date—just the both of you, there’s always something or someone to ruin the night you both fought so hard for.

“Well, I guess fate is just not on our side for now,” Is something you would always say when your dates gets disrupted unexpectedly.

Well, Fuck Fate.

At first it was something silly— like a sudden work emergency or a meeting you couldn’t get out of. Tara had laughed it off, saying, ‘Duty calls, I get it.’ But then it happened again, and again.

The second time, your best friend, Stacy, showed up unannounced at your apartment during your movie date, heartbroken and needing a shoulder to cry on. Tara had sighed but understood. The third time? Your neighbor’s cat somehow got stuck in your apartment, and you had to call for help to get it out, calling for a rain check for your date due to your allergic reaction from the cat.

It was getting even more ridiculous when once you both planned to grab dinner together. Everything was going perfect!—until a potential hurricane emergency came in and you both had to retreat back home, not even managing to grab a bite of your food.

Now, on the sixth failed attempt, she was done being patient.

Tara sat on her bed, phone in hand, staring at your latest message: "I'm so sorry, an emergency surgery came up. Can we reschedule?"

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Should she play it cool? Should she call you out? Or worse—should she give up?

Tara wanted to be mad at you. Really, she did. But the truth was, she wasn’t entirely innocent either.

The first time she had to cancel, it was because her lecturer dumped a last-minute project on her class. She had groaned in frustration but knew she couldn’t say no.

The second time, Mindy had dragged her into some family drama—something about Chad not helping out with their chores (which she didn’t get why she had be included in the first place), and before she knew it, hours had passed, and your date was long forgotten.

The third? Well, she hated to admit it, but she fell asleep. It had been a brutal week, and she had closed her eyes just for a second—only to wake up to your, ‘Where are you?’ text, heart sinking.

Both of you had at least 10 different failed attempts on going on the “perfect” date; With no one to burst your bubble and just being in each other’s arms. Hell, Tara got even more pissed when she thought about how you both haven’t had a cheeky, steamy makeout session yet.

And now, here you both were. A mess of bad timing, terrible luck, and an endless cycle of almost but not quite.

Tara stared at your message and sighed. Maybe fate was trying to tell you something. Or maybe, it was time to fight harder for what you both wanted.

Tara :)

it’s fine, i get it. next time i guess

Sent at 4.03pm.

Tara had spent the entire day convincing herself that this time would be different—that nothing would get in the way. But now, with disappointment settling deep in her chest, exhaustion crept in faster than she expected.

Her phone slipped from her grasp onto the bed, the screen still lit with your chat. She hated how bitter that sounded, but what else was she supposed to say?

Her eyelids drooped, her body sinking into the comfort of her pillows. Maybe just a few minutes of rest. Just enough to shake off the frustration.

And as she drifted off, she wondered—would there really be a next time? Or was this just a slow, inevitable fade into nothing?

———

Tara was awoken by an array of vibrations from her phone. Groaning, she turned it on—eyes squinting from the level of brightness which she reduced afterwards. The first thing she saw was the time—9.55pm. She saw the number of texts she had gotten from you and Sam afterwards, her heart quickly jumping out of her chest thinking it was an actual emergency.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she unlocked her phone, scrolling through the notifications (deliberately ignoring Sam’s texts).

You: Tara? You: Hey, are you there? You: I know you’re upset, but please reply. You: I’m sorry, baby. I’ll make it up to u

You: I brought food. If you don’t want to see me, I’ll leave it at your door.

Sent at 8.30pm.

Her heart stilled. She scrambled to sit up, pushing her hair out of her face. Her half-asleep brain struggled to catch up—had she read that right? Her cheeks were slightly tinted with the pet name as she proceeded to the door, opening it slowly which made the hinges creak slightly. There it was, a bowl of her favorite takeout pasta, with a rose and note saying, 

‘I’m sorry, I didn't want our night to end like this. I hope this makes up for it—at least a little. Text me? -Y/N’

Tara exhaled softly, her fingers tracing the edge of the note. The smell of the pasta was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the lingering disappointment she had felt just hours ago. Tara swallowed, suddenly wide awake. After everything—the cancellations, the bad timing, the missed chances—you still showed up.

For her.

She picked up the bowl and the rose, stepping back into her apartment. Closing the door behind her, she stared at the small gesture sitting in her hands. It wasn’t much—just food, a flower, and a few words—but it was enough to make her chest tighten.

Her thumb hovered over her  screen keyboard, but before she could type a response, her eyes spotted a message she hadn’t seen yet during her spiral of emotions.

You: 

i’ll be at the library, researching for my paper due.  come over if u see this?

Sent at 9.45pm.

A sigh left her lips as she replied to your texts, the three little dots appearing on her screen as she types out her response.

Tara :)

u're an idiot

i’m omw 

With that, she threw her blanket off from the couch and got to her feet, heart pounding as she made her way to the door.

———

The library was quieter than usual when she stepped inside, the scent of old books and freshly brewed coffee from the café near the entrance instantly familiar. She greeted the librarian, Mrs. Grahams, whom recognized her instantly.

“Hey sweetheart, looking for Y/N? They’re just a few tables away around the corner,” She stated softly, before redirecting her attention towards her computer.

Tara gave her a soft thanks before walking towards your direction, slightly shy with how the librarian knows how you and Tara were seeing each other.

‘Seeing each other’. She didn’t know what label to put on the both of you, were you guys dating, just talking, or figuring it out? Nevertheless, her inner turmoil was halted when she spotted you before you noticed her—head bent slightly, fingers absentmindedly tapping against the cover of a book as you scrolled through your phone.

She took a deep breath and walked over, stopping just in front of your table.

You looked up, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Tara—”

She sat down across from you before you could finish, folding her arms on the table. “If I didn’t come now, we’d probably miss each other again.”

A slow smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “So, you’re saying fate isn’t against us after all?”

Tara rolled her eyes, but there was a softness to it. “I’m saying… maybe it’s time we stop letting it win.”

Silence settled between you, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable kind. It was something… lighter. Something that felt like the start of finally getting it right.

You slowly slid your hands under hers— testing the waters, before interlocking your hands with hers.

“Look—I’m sorry about this whole thing. Some dumb ass swallowed plastic beads and we had to get rid of it before it caused a blockage. It was a mess, and I didn’t want to cancel it again, but—“

Tara sighed, shaking her head, but she didn’t pull her hands away. “You and your stupid emergencies,” She muttered, but there was no real anger in her voice—Just exhaustion. Just the weight of every missed chance between you both.

You squeezed her hand gently. “I know. And I hate it just as much as you do.”

She stared at your intertwined fingers, running her thumb lightly over yours. “I just… I didn’t know if we were ever gonna get this right,” she admitted, voice quieter now. “Every time we tried, something got in the way. I started thinking maybe it wasn’t meant to happen.”

Your grip tightened slightly. “Tara,” you murmured, waiting for her to look up at you. When she did, there was something unspoken in your gaze—something real. “It is meant to happen. We just have to fight for it.”

She exhaled slowly, as if letting go of the frustration, the doubt. And then, a small smile tugged at her lips. “Well,” she said, squeezing your hand back, “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

You let out a breath, one that felt like relief. “Yeah,” you whispered. “You are.”

———

“Follow me to get some books? Please?” You managed your best puppy eye look at Tara, which made her sigh before standing up from her chair. The legs screeched slightly against the floor as she got up, giving you an unimpressed look before walking toward the aisles.

You grinned. You knew you’d always win.

As you scanned the shelves, Tara leaned against one, watching you. “Why are you even using books again? Can’t you just, like, Google it?” she asked exasperatedly, clearly forgetting that you were actually here to study and not just hang out.

“One of my old attendings from work said it’s better to gain knowledge from books instead of online because the internet ‘rots our brains,’” you replied, pulling out a thick textbook.

Tara snorted. “Sounds like someone who still handwrites emails.”

You smirked, turning to her with a playful glint in your eyes. “Jealous? Do you want me to write you a love letter instead?”

She scoffed, but you didn’t miss the way her lips twitched upward. “Oh please. Your handwriting is probably worse than your texting skills.”

You took a step closer, holding a book out to her. “Maybe. But I bet you’d still keep it if I did.”

Tara met your gaze, raising an eyebrow as she took the book from your hand, fingers barely brushing against yours. “Bold assumption.”

You tilted your head, lowering your voice just slightly. “Am I wrong?”

For the first time, she hesitated—just for a second—before rolling her eyes and turning back to the bookshelves. “Hurry up and pick something before I leave you here.”

You chuckled, watching her with amusement. “You love me too much to do that.”

She didn’t respond, but the faint pink dusting her cheeks told you everything you needed to know.

You smirked, watching the faint blush creep onto Tara’s cheeks as she turned away, pretending to focus on the books in front of her. You knew she’d never admit it, but you caught that tiny hesitation—that brief moment of flustered silence that told you everything.

“Alright, alright,” you said, grabbing another book and tucking it under your arm. “I’ll behave.”

Tara scoffed, still not looking at you. “Since when do you ever behave?”

You took a slow step closer, closing some of the distance between you. “Oh? Does that mean you like it when I don’t?”

She finally turned to look at you, eyes narrowing, but you caught the way her breath hitched—just slightly. “You are so annoying.”

You leaned in a little more, voice dipping lower. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Tara swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of how close you were. The dim library lighting cast soft shadows across your face, and she could see every detail—the mischievous glint in your eyes, the curve of your lips that held back another teasing remark.

She should have said something—should have shoved you away or rolled her eyes or done anything to break the tension. But she didn’t.

“I would very much like to kiss you right now.” 

“Please do.”

It was quick at first, almost as if she surprised herself, but the moment her lips brushed against yours, the world around you both seemed to pause. The books, the shelves, the quiet hum of the library—it all faded.

Your breath caught as you instinctively cupped her cheek—the books on both yours and her hands forgotten as it drops with a thud on the floor, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss. It was warm, lingering, real—the kind of kiss that made every missed chance, every delay, every frustrating almost completely worth it.

When she finally pulled back, her lips barely parted from yours, she whispered, “You’re insufferable.”

You let out a breathless chuckle, forehead resting lightly against hers. “And yet… you’re still here.”

She rolled her eyes, but this time, she was smiling. “Shut up.”

You grinned, brushing a thumb along her cheek. “Make me.”

And just like that, she kissed you again. You groaned softly in her mouth, your hands dropping from her cheek to under her thighs, lifting her up like she weighed nothing while she wrapped her legs around your waist. She gasped slightly, which you took the opportunity to slip your tongue in, intertwining with hers in a slow, deliberate dance. The kiss deepened, turning into something more urgent, more desperate, as if you were making up for all the lost time—the missed moments, the interruptions, the endless waiting.

Tara’s fingers tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to make you groan again. You pressed her back gently against the nearest bookshelf, your grip tightening on her thighs as you held her up effortlessly. A couple of books from the shelf that was supporting Tara fell to the floor, creating a loud thud which made both of you break the kiss.

“We’re in a library” You whispered against her lips.

“Then we should probably keep quiet.” Tara smirked, lips brushing against your jaw.

You opened your mouth—probably to fire back some sarcastic retort—but she silenced you with another kiss, one that made you melt. It was miracle there was barely any people in the library and you were glad no one was there to witness your steamy makeout with Tara. Well...That was until the librarian showed up.

“Excuse me, what is happening here—Oh,” Mrs. Grahams, the elderly librarian, stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening slightly behind her glasses as she took in the sight before her.

Tara, not missing a beat, pushed you away gently but firmly, her voice cutting through the sudden awkwardness. “Not now, Beatrice. I’ve waited too long for this.”

With that, Mrs. Grahams simply walked away, grumbling about how rude the generation are nowadays. You couldn’t blame her, the sight of you and Tara  pressed against the bookshelf, lips slightly swollen, faces way too close to be considered studious, a couple of books lay abandoned on the floor, evidence of your less-than-innocent activities is definitely not a good look.

You sighed and let out a soft chuckle, “You traumatized that poor lady,”

Tara didn’t even flinch at the comment. She adjusted her shirt, tossing a glance toward the librarian’s retreating figure. “I’m not letting anyone—especially a librarian—ruin my chances.”

———

As the two of you made your way to the library exit, the evening air cool against your skin after the stuffy warmth inside, you walked side by side, the lingering tension between you now replaced with an undeniable ease. Tara kept her gaze forward, her hands tucked into her jacket pockets.

You couldn't help but smile, feeling light-hearted for the first time in what seemed like ages. "Well," you said, nudging her gently with your shoulder. "That was definitely an interesting trip to the library."

Tara shot you a quick, half-smile. "You have no idea."

You reached the door, and Tara hesitated just for a moment before stopping. 

She looked over at you, her face turning more serious, though still softened by the smile she couldn’t quite shake off. "I need to go say something to Mrs. Grahams... for, you know, traumatizing her."

You raised an eyebrow, confused for a second, then chuckled softly. "You're going back to apologize? You’re a brave one."

Tara rolled her eyes, her lips curling into a mischievous smirk. "Shut up. She probably thinks I’m some sort of troublemaker now. I’ve been coming here for years—can’t have that reputation."

“Yeah, I should probably apologize too,” You said with a chuckle. “That woman has probably seen me here since high school, it’s the least I could do.”

Both of you stepped into the library again, the warm light from inside casting her in a soft glow as she approached the front desk. Mrs. Grahams looked up from her computer, a knowing look in her eyes as you both stood awkwardly in front of her.

"Mrs. Grahams," Tara started, her tone sincere but with a hint of embarrassment. "I just wanted to apologize for earlier... We didn’t mean to make things uncomfortable for you...And for using your first name."

Mrs. Grahams raised an eyebrow, clearly not used to this kind of apology, but then she softened, offering a small smile. "It’s alright, dear. Just... maybe next time, keep it to the less public places, hmm?"

Tara nodded quickly, grateful. "Of course. I promise, no more making out by the shelves."

“And Y/N, I didn’t expect that from you. I basically raised you, child.” She stated, feigning a strict tone.

Your cheek had a slight pink hue, embarrassed at the attention and comment. The librarian chuckled after seeing your reaction, shaking her head in amusement.

“I’m kidding, please be more mindful next time, eh? I doubt anyone wants to see you both shoving your tongue down each other’s throats.”

You flushed even more, but your lips tugged upward. “We’ll try to be more considerate next time. Thanks Mrs. Grahams.” You gave a small, sheepish wave before grabbing Tara’s hand and heading back toward the door.

“At least we’re off her watchlist. For now.” You gave her a teasing smile. "You’re lucky she didn’t ban you from the library."

Tara smirked. "Please, as if. I’m too cute to ban."

———

You gave Tara a sideway glance, noting the subtle shift in her posture. She was chewing on her lips, clearly caught in her own train of thoughts.

"So," you said, trying to break the awkwardness, "about… everything that happened tonight."

Tara gave you a quick look, then looked back ahead, her voice a little quieter than usual. "Yeah."

You let out a soft sigh, the words you wanted to say feeling heavier than expected. "So, are we... are we actually, like, doing this now?" You motioned between the two of you, trying to lighten the mood, but your heart was beating a little faster as you waited for her answer.

Tara hesitated for a second before she finally spoke. "I mean, are we doing this or not?" Her voice was teasing, but there was an underlying uncertainty in her eyes that you hadn’t expected.

You stopped walking for a moment, forcing her to pause with you. "I think we’re doing this, but... I don’t know, we've never really... said it out loud, you know?"

Her lips curled into a soft smile as she crossed her arms, eyes narrowing a little. "You really want to hear it, huh?"

You shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed but trying to keep the tone light. "I guess I’m just wondering if we're on the same page."

Tara took a deep breath, her shoulders dropping slightly as she looked up at you. "I’ve been waiting for you to ask," she said softly. "Yeah. I’m in. I want to make this work." She paused, her eyes locking onto yours, a little nervous but mostly serious. "I’m yours, if you want me."

You felt a small sense of relief wash over you, your heart warming at the sincerity in her words. "I definitely want you," you said with a grin. "And, for the record, I’m yours too."

Tara's face softened, the playful tension between you both melting away. She nodded, a little sheepish but clearly relieved. "Good. Because I was about to get all mushy on you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d run for the hills."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Mushy? I can handle it, promise."

Tara raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Well, in that case..." She leaned in closer, her breath warm on your face. "I think I can finally say... you’re stuck with me now." You chuckled softly, pulling her into a hug. "I’m good with that," you whispered, feeling the weight of everything finally settle into something solid, something real.

As you pulled back, you both shared a quiet moment, the air between you now full of the quiet joy of finally having a label, a confirmation. It felt right, like something had finally clicked into place.

"So," you asked, breaking the silence, "does this mean I get a kiss now, or…?"

Tara rolled her eyes, but there was that familiar smile playing at the corner of her lips. "You’ve been getting kisses since the library," she teased.

You grinned, reaching for her hand. "Well, now it’s official, so I’m just making sure." With that, you both laughed, the uncertainty that had once hung between you now fully gone. Tara gave in to your request and tip toed to give you a slight peck on the lips and cheek.

You were together, and it felt like the start of something exciting—something that would no longer be interrupted by bad timing or distractions.

And as you walked down the street, hand in hand, Tara leaned in and kissed you, soft but certain.

"Definitely official," she whispered against your lips.

"Definitely," you replied, feeling like the world finally made sense. And for the first time, it felt like nothing was getting in the way.

———

a/n: i'll try my best to be more active from now on! I have a few ideas for pics that I might write down and post, but you're all welcome to send me ideas of your own!! I know this part is slightly short, but I'll try to lengthen up my fics in the future :)

[accidentcache]

Late night confession with keigo

confession prompt list + i wrote half of this on my laptop and the other on my phone can u tell

every monday, tuesday and friday you meet with keigo and share an order of chicken skewers on the roof of the agency. it started out as his guilty pleasure, it's a cheap stand just a block away-- the meat isn't nearly as good as the usual place he gets chicken from; but it's close and they're fast. fast enough that he can dip down and grab an order and be back and within ear's reach in case he was needed for something.

ever since you caught him months ago, you've been indulging him in this little activity-- eating about four skewers as you watch the sun dip below the skyline of the city. the two of you talk (keigo more than you, but you're starting to open up more) and by the time the sun is down, it's the end of your shift and you depart to clock out for the day.

keigo is nothing but sweet on you. everyone in the agency knows it, they can see it. it's obvious-- you're his favorite.

you weren't always on his radar. when you started as just a lowly intern, he barely saw you at first-- literally and figuratively. he was just a busy guy and you were trying to keep up with him.

but keigo has come to admire your dedication. years you've spent at his agency, promotion after promotion-- until you landed the position as his personal assistant. if he didn't notice you before, he definetly paid attention to you then.

and from that moment on, to be honest.

he's paid attention to the little quirks you have that have become so painfully obvious to him. how you lick your thumb every fifth sheet on papers that you’re filing, how you take one half ‘n half and one french vanilla creamer serving while making your coffee in the break room in the morning. you never use the microwave. you always hand him a blue pen first instead of a black one.

you always sit on the left side of the couch in his office, and you always take your hair down the moment you’re clocked out for the night.

even nights like this— friday, the city is buzzing with drunk patrons and night life; he can’t help but take looks at you. you were scheduled a double today, he could tell you were practically buzzing when he met you out in the usual spot.

he wonders why you haven’t called him out about staring at you for as much as he has been tonight. are you really that exhausted? should he have sent you home earlier when things were slower and didn’t need you to stick around?

the slouch of your spine says yes. you lean back onto a palm, sliding another bite of chicken off the stick with your teeth before you’re chewing again, zoned out on the skyline.

it’s late. you should be in bed, it’s going on 11:30 and keigo knows both of you have an early morning of interviews and meetings ahead of you. keigo doesn’t think you’d make it home if you drove yourself and wonders if he should offer to fly you to your apartment.

but for some reason— with as busy and hectic and chaotic as his life is— he finds himself breathing so easily. his head feels empty in such a good way, floating above the crowds without even using his wings.

something about this, right now— you— feels right.

“i think i like you,” his mouth moves and forms syllables before his brain can function and stop them.

a small chuckle leaves your lips, and your head tilts towards him. “i like you too,” you reply— though yours isn’t a confession. at least not like his. “i would hope so, i am your assistant.”

keigo stiffens ever so slightly. his grip tightens on the cheap styrofoam container that your shared late night snack came in, and his eyes finally dart away from your form. “not like that,” he mutters.

your brows scrunch together minutely, and your lips part with words on the tip of your tongue. you find yourself unable to really say anything in response.

“i think i… like you,” he repeats, lower this time. quieter, but more firm. sincere and almost embarrassed.

for the first time, you find yourself stuttering in front of him.

you’ve always been good with words. you know exactly what to say and when to say things, you’ve spoken on his behalf at so many meetings and at broadcasts. you’ve never shown the country that you’re capable of shaking in your boots.

keigo’s never seen you look so startled before. “i’m sorry,” he’s immediately apologizing, his expression melting to one of distraught embarrassment. “that was unprofessional of me, i’m your boss; i should’ve known better—“

your head dips down to look at the watch on your wrist. your cheeks are warm in the slight glow from the tiny screen and keigo feels a tiny flutter in his chest.

“i clock out in seven minutes.”

keigo’s eyebrows knit together. “you’re not going to acknowledge my apology?”

your head tilts, a sigh leaving your mouth in response. you yawn— but keigo can tell that it’s forced. he feels like his blood pumps faster through his veins. is this what it feels like to be rejected? is this what happens when you confess and get turned down?

“i might need a ride home,” you say after a beat, stretching your limbs in a way that keigo is all too late to pick up on as a hint. he can only stare at you, his expression confused, eyebrows drawn so tightly together you would think they’ve connected by now.

you stare back at him. a silent challenge is offered.

do you want to talk this out?

five minutes now.

both of you continue to stare at each other, keigo still looks somewhat confused. you guess you’ll have to spell it out for him in another subtle way.

“can you fly me home, hawks? i think i’m too tired to drive.”

© accidentcache do not repost, translate or alter my work without permission. all rights reserved.

[imagine-it-was-us]

Stephanie's place || Lando Norris

Inspiration: Joesef "Stephanie's place"

Author's note: Been obsessed with this song since the drop. And my interpretation of lyrics immediately went to some form of unrequited love and dependency. So here's my take on it. Hopefully you will have fun reading it 🔥

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Warnings: none really. Just mentions of drinking.

Summary: She’s the one he always calls. And she always answers. A habit, a ritual, whatever you want to call it. They orbit each other, close enough to feel the pull but never enough to collide. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s just fear of what’s left when the line goes silent. Either way, she stays.

Word count: 3.2k+

“Lando, have you seen the time?”

Her voice was thick with sleep, groggy yet edged with familiarity, because, of course, it was him. Who else would be calling at this hour?

“Yeah, sorry to bother you. Could you pick me up, please?”

She sighed, already rolling out of bed, rubbing at her tired eyes. 2:46 AM. At least she had managed to get a couple of hours of sleep before this inevitable call.

“Where are you?”

“At Stephanie’s place.”

Her brows knit together.

“Who’s?”

“I will message you an address. Thank you, angel.”

Angel. She sighed again, not out of annoyance, but out of something deeper, something she didn’t have the energy to name.

This wasn’t the first time she had to step up for him. But lately, especially during his break from F1, it had started to feel like a pattern. A habit. The locations changed, the drinks changed, the people around him changed. But one thing stayed the same: he always called her.

It should’ve meant something.

Maybe, once upon a time, she would have let herself believe it did. But after the last embarrassment that happened a couple of years ago, she wasn’t about to go there.

That time, she really thought that what they had was something. Their friendliness slowly turned into flirting, spending every minute possible together which was easy due to proximity, being almost next door neighbors. When they hang out, the stares would linger, the rest of the world would be out of focus. And she knows that it was not in her head, because they even kissed.  Just once, in a haze of alcohol and late-night honesty. Yet in the morning, he acted like nothing had happened, so she rolled with it, thinking it was just a matter of time. Believing that it would inevitably happen again.

Yet a couple of weeks after the kiss, Magui appeared from what seemed to be thin air. Just like that, the lines shifted. She wasn’t pushed away. Just pulled back. Reframed. No longer a possibility, just a presence. Always within reach, never quite held onto. The good neighbor. The dependable friend. The shoulder to lean on when things went to shit. 

And it happened more than you would think. Margarida was a sweet girl, no matter what world whispered about her behind her back. But simply her and Lando were never meant to be. Their relationship became undone in slow, inevitable fractures. A wrong word here, a missed call there. Too many nights spent apart, too many silences stretching too long. She had seen the way he tried to hold on, and worse – the way he finally let go.

And through it all, she had been there.The one who picked up the phone at 2:46 AM. The one who drove him home when he had nowhere else to go. The one who never asked for anything, even when she wanted to.

And now? Now, she wasn’t sure if he was calling her because he needed her… or because she was simply the last person left to call. Still, she grabbed her keys. Because even after everything that went down, when it came to him, she always would.

After 20 minutes, when she pulled up, she spotted him immediately. Lando was already sitting on the sidewalk, head tilted back toward the night sky. He looked almost peaceful, like none of the mess from the past few days could touch him here. As if it was all floating somewhere far above him, out of reach.

She rolled down the window.

“Lando.”

It took a second, but he blinked, as if shaking off a trance. Then, with a sloppy sort of grace, he pushed himself up and stumbled into the car.

“Here’s my favorite neighbor,” a sheepish grin never leaving his face.

There was another eye roll on her end. Drunk Lando was always full of rizz, dripping in flirtation he’d never remember in the morning.

“More like your personal driver around Monaco,” she muttered, shifting the car into gear. “So who’s this Stephanie?” she asked, trying to sound as calm and collected as possible, even though there was a pinch of curiosity in her voice.

“Oh nobody, we just met last night. Crashed at hers, but I think I overstayed my welcome.”

“Wait, you have been here since Thursday?”

“Yeah, we were drinking last night. Then drinking today,” he just shrugged his shoulders casually. 

She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. Classic. There was no point in pushing him, no point in asking anything remotely serious. She knew better by now. This was the stage of the night where anything she said would slip through the cracks of his drunken haze, lost by morning.

So she just kept her eyes on the road, gripping the wheel a little tighter than before. But he was the one who didn’t want to sit in silence.

“Oh, Magui asked me to pass you a message.” His voice was lighter than the words themselves. “She said if I ever find something of hers in my apartment, could you please reach out to her as she’s, uh… blocked me in every possible way.”

Her brows lifted slightly, though she kept her eyes forward.

“So it was that bad?” she mumbled more to herself rather than him. But, of course, he picked that up.

“I wouldn’t say it was bad. It was… messy.” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “She kept on yapping about how I was never in it with everything.”

“And were you?”

Silence stretched for just a second too long.

“I don’t know.” His voice was softer now. “I thought I was. I really liked her, you know. She was great fun. I maybe even loved her.”

Maybe even.

She swallowed, keeping her expression unreadable. “Loved her… or were you in love with her?”

It felt like he was willing to overshare tonight, and if that was the case, she wanted the details.

Another pause.

Then, quietly, almost like an afterthought –

“I was never in love with her.”

It was hard for her to let this conversation go.

“Then why did you stay with her for so long?” 

Almost two years. That was a long time to be with someone, to build a life together, to share moments that, at least on the surface, should have meant something. In her opinion, it was plenty of time to figure out whether someone was your person or just a passing chapter.

Lando exhaled, his head resting back against the seat.

“I don’t know. Maybe I was just holding on because I didn’t want to be alone.”

She wasn’t prepared for that answer. For a moment, she kept her gaze locked on the road, fingers flexing around the wheel.

Not wanting to be alone.

The words settled in her chest, heavy and unexpected. She had never thought of Lando – charming, reckless, constantly surrounded by people – as someone who feared loneliness. He was always the one filling rooms with laughter, the one who had a million plans, a thousand friends, a life too fast-paced for solitude.

And yet… here he was.

Maybe that’s why he always called her. Because she was easy to reach. Familiar. Safe. The realization settled like a weight in her chest. If that was all she was to him – just a reflex, a habit – then why did she keep picking up?

She swallowed, pushing down the unease curling in her stomach.

“And what about now?”

He stayed silent for long enough that she thought that he had fallen asleep. But then, just as she was about to let the conversation drop –

“I’m scared shitless,” he admitted silently, almost like a whisper. “But I knew I couldn’t do it for longer. For both of us.”

The way he said it sent her into a spiral, her mind latching onto those words, twisting them in every possible direction. 

Which “us” was he talking about? Him and Magui? The relationship he had just ended? The one he had stayed in out of fear of being alone? Or… No. No, she wasn’t going to do this to herself. She wasn’t going to let hope creep in where it didn’t belong.

Lando sighed, running a hand down his face. He looked tired, like the weight of everything had finally started pressing down on him. And for a split second, she wanted to reach over, wanted to do something, but she kept her hands on the wheel instead.

“You know,” she started, her voice carefully measured, “for someone who didn’t want to be alone, you sure spent a lot of time acting like you were.”

It slipped out before she could stop herself. But once it was out there, hanging between them, she didn’t regret it. Because it was the truth.

That is what she has witnessed in his previous relationship – he was always the one to put his distance between himself and Margarida, not the other way around. He was always in some way emotionally unreachable. 

At first, she had blamed his lifestyle. The relentless travel, the expectations, the way his world was built around schedules and speed. But deep down, she knew better. If he had wanted to make it work, he would have. Because she had seen him do it before. A couple of years ago, when things between them were different – he had tried. He had made the effort. He had shown up, in ways that mattered. And then, just when she had started to believe in the possibility of them, he had turned away.

She also knew that this conversation was slowly pushing them to the point of no return, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to brush it off and change the subject. She just kept her hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, counting on the alcohol in his system to blur the edges of this conversation by morning.

Lando exhaled, rolling his head against the seat to look at her.

His voice was quieter this time, almost thoughtful. “You could say I’m good at self-sabotaging, then.”

It was an attempt to shake off what she had said. To make it sound like a joke. But his voice lacked the usual carelessness. And she knew – he wasn’t just talking about Magui anymore.

“That’s a hell of a thing to admit so casually.”

Lando let out a quiet laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What, you want me to say it dramatically? Maybe get on my knees and confess my sins?”

“I want you to say something that actually means something when it means something.”

The words came out before she could soften them into something easier, something safer. But maybe she was done making this easy. Because honestly, if that’s the route he wanted this night to go, she was finally willing to let it happen. If she was just his safety net – just the person he landed on when everything else fell apart – then fine. But she wouldn’t sit in silence and pretend she didn’t feel anything. Not anymore. If this conversation was shifting toward the edge of something dangerous, something irreversible, then she owed it to herself to stop pretending she didn’t want to know where they stood.

Lando blinked, caught off guard. For once, he didn’t have some quick-witted reply ready.

“I mean it, Lando,” she pressed, voice steady but laced with something heavier, something she didn’t want to name. “You say you sabotage yourself, fine. But are you ever gonna stop?”

His jaw tightened. His fingers twitched against his thigh. She could tell she had struck something deeper. 

It was for him to decide – brush this off like he did with their kiss those years ago, or finally face it and break the toxic cycle he was stuck in. And he had the perfect opportunity, as she had just pulled up into his driveway. 

The longer they sat in the silence, the more suffocating it felt. But he didn’t move and she didn’t either. Through the window, she was looking at the moon looming over them, thoughts running through her head at the speed of light.

Lando finally broke the awkward silence.

“You know, sometimes I think about that night.”

Her breath hitched. “What night?”

Lando let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “You know which one.”

The weight of his words settled between them, thick and undeniable.

“Thought you didn’t remember?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Oh I did. For weeks whenever I closed my eyes all I could see was your face. But I was a coward, so it was easier for me to pretend that nothing happened,” he shook his head. This whole conversation felt like it was sobering him up. 

“And how was it fair on my part?” She turned to him, annoyance written all over her face. So not only he pretended that nothing had happened, but he also left her on hold for two years. Alone. With her feelings. Where she thought that maybe she read too much into his behaviour and it was just a drunk impulse, that meant nothing to him. She had to see him fall in and out of the relationship, dragging someone innocent into his toxic ways. All because he was letting fear to dictate the way he was supposed to be living. 

His jaw clenched. “It wasn’t fair. I know that.”

She let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. “Do you? Because if you did, you wouldn’t have let me sit with it alone for two fucking years.”

Lando opened his mouth, but for once, he didn’t seem to know what to say. His hands curled into fists on his lap. 

“It did mean something.” He finally admitted. 

“Then why didn’t you act like it?”

Silence. Thick, heavy.

She turned away, blinking hard at the windshield. The weight of everything, years of buried feelings, of watching him with someone else, of being the one he always called but never truly saw, was crushing.

“You don’t get to sit here and act like you suddenly see me just because your relationship crashed and burned,” she whispered, voice shaking, because she hated how much it was taking a toll on her.

Lando exhaled, rough and unsteady. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?” She let out a humorless laugh, looking at him again. “Then what is it, Lando?”

He didn’t hesitate this time. “I know I was never in love with Magui, because I am in love with you.”

Her breath caught. But she couldn’t let herself believe it – not yet. 

“Don’t do that.” Her voice wavered, but she held her ground. “Don’t sit here and say things you don’t mean just because you’re scared of being alone.”

“I’m not scared of being alone.” He turned toward her fully now, desperate for her to see him. “I’m scared of being without you.”

She let out a sharp breath, looking away again, because she couldn’t let herself fall – not when he had let her drop before.

Lando ran a hand through his curls, frustration written all over his face. “You think I don’t know what I did? You think I don’t fucking hate myself for it? Why do you think I drink myself to oblivion, when I can’t just face you sober.” His voice cracked. “I see you, okay? I always have. I just… I was too much of a coward to do anything about it. And then Magui came along and for a flicker of time I thought that maybe the kiss was a fluke. But the longer I stayed with her, the better I understood that it wasn’t. I was just an idiot who would rather keep you at arms length in my life than risk it all and eventually lose you.”

She clenched her jaw, still facing away. “And what’s changed now?”

“I have.” His voice softened. “And I know that probably doesn’t mean shit to you right now. But I swear, I love you. I really do.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Those words… God, those words. She had wanted to hear them for so long. But wanting them and believing them were two different things. And she wanted to believe him so bad.  For two years, she had convinced herself that what had happened was nothing but a drunken misstep in his eyes. She had picked up the pieces of her own heart in silence, forced herself to move forward while he moved on with someone else. And yet, no matter how much she tried to bury it, the truth remained – she had never stopped loving him. 

Because that was why she stayed. That was why she always answered when he called, why she showed up when he needed her. She wasn’t just his safety net – she had made herself one. And that realization twisted something deep inside her.

Maybe that made her pathetic. Maybe that made her just like him – stuck in a loop of self-sabotage, never brave enough to step off the ledge.

The weight of his confession hung between them, thick and fragile all at once. She could feel him watching her, waiting, hoping, maybe even pleading.

“I won’t say it back, if that’s what you’re hoping.” Her voice was quieter now, but no less firm. It took everything in her to stand her ground, to not just give in.

“I’m not asking for anything.” His tone was steady, but there was something raw in it, something that felt real. “You don’t owe me shit. It just wasn’t sitting well with me, that’s all.”

“If you mean it, and I mean really mean it, you’re going to have to show me.”

Lando didn’t hesitate. He nodded once, his gaze steady, unshaken. “I will.”

She faced him, studying his expression, searching for doubt, for hesitation. Something to prove that it was just another bluff. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t see any.

She exhaled slowly, reaching for the gear shift. Getting back in touch with reality from something that felt surreal. “Go inside, Lando.”

He didn’t move right away. “And in the morning?”

She met his eyes, holding him there. Letting the weight of this moment settle.

“In the morning, we start by not pretending that this didn’t happen.”

It was a clear dig for his past behavior. And he welcomed it as a slow exhale left his lips, shy smile creeping to the corners of it. Then, finally, he nodded. “Okay.”

She watched as he stepped out, his usual drunken stumble replaced with something steadier. Something different.

She stayed in the driveway for another minute, just to steady herself, to let the conversation sink in.

For two years, she had convinced herself that this was one-sided. That she had been foolish for holding onto something he had long since let go of. And now, in the space of a single conversation, everything had shifted. 

Of course, there was always the possibility that after sobering up, things will look different to him again. And yet… something felt different tonight. Maybe it was the way he had looked at her, steady and unshaken. Maybe it was the way his voice had cracked, or how he hadn’t tried to take the easy way out. He hadn’t asked for forgiveness or promises – just the chance to prove himself.

That was new.

She exhaled, resting her forehead against the steering wheel for a brief moment before finally leaving his driveway.

Hope was dangerous. But at least until the morning, she was willing to take this gamble of hoping. 

[jinmindeulle]

love next door | kwon soonyoung

The soft knock on your door instantly made you smile. You didn’t even have to check through the peephole to know who it was.

“Oh, hi Soonyoung” you tucked the strand of hair that bothered your sight.

“Hi y/n” He returns the smile and looks at his feet for a second before continuing with his daily mission “I was wondering…”

“Let me guess” you leaned on the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest. “Is there a new Japanese restaurant you wanna try out?”

“Nope.” he shook his head eagerly.

“A new game you wanna play?” 

“I tried it yesterday and it sucked, so no” Soonyoung made a face, showing his disappointment.

“You saved me from boredom” you giggled “Then… movie night?”

“Have you watched Sonic 3?” the shine in his eyes, and the hopeful tone he used to ask you the question made you decide almost immediately that you had to lie to him. 

“I have been wanting to!” you nodded, thanking your past self for not having uploaded any picture of all the ones you took when you went to the movie premiere with your co-worker and bestie. 

When he extended his hand your way, inviting you to walk a few meters to his own apartment, you chuckled, “Give me a sec”

You went back inside to get your keys and phone, and as soon as you locked your apartment door, Soonyoung took your hand and interlaced your fingers. “Do you wanna order?”

“You choose”

As much as you were used to his impromptu dates — which were never called that, at least as of now — he never failed to impress you. His living-room was already set with dim lights and the couch was full of pillows and fluffy blankets. 

You gave a cute whine when you saw your favorite plushie already waiting for you on ‘your side’ of the couch. “My Cinnamoroll!”

“He has been waiting for you for a long time”

His soft smile and the way he caressed your fingers with his without letting go had you entranced. All those little details, how he just knocked your door with a different idea on how to spend time together, even though you had barely held hands for three whole months — you just knew he was the one. 

So when you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, the shocked face he gave you was the one you were expecting. He had always been cautious, respecting boundaries that you hadn't even set, and in response, he would never have dared to kiss you.

 “Wh-wha… I-I'm… what?” 

“Sorry for keeping you waiting” you giggled feeling your cheeks heating up. You were brave, but that didn’t mean you weren’t shy.

“I didn’t- I never e-expected t-this” his surprise slowly morphed into a bashful smile, and he suddenly seemed to understand that he was allowed to kiss you back “Oh” 

“Yeah” you chuckled, “Please kiss me or I’ll think you have been taking me out for months just because you didn’t have anyone else to do all those things with”

“Bullshit” 

Soonyoung liked challenges, and he also liked you. So kissing you was not something you would have to ask him to do from now on. Because he had been waiting to do that ever since you moved into his building — just steps away from him. 

¸.·✩·.¸¸.·¯⍣✩ seventeen masterlist ✩⍣¯·.¸¸.·✩·.¸

[foxtrology]

sweet sweet baby (since you've been gone)

harry castillo x reader

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader.

The last time he had gone up to a woman was at a wedding reception and it ended terribly for him.

Lucy was her name.

He had thought she was the one. All the time they had spent together, all the nights he held her, it was all for nothing. In the end he was the one left behind while she and that broke fucking waiter—oh how much he hated that broke waiter with a fucking passion—ran off into the sunset all happily.

John.

John was his name. Living in a rundown studio apartment with a struggling college student as a roommate. Yeah, what a fucking life she decided to choose.

He still follows her on Instagram.

An Instagram she begged for him to have. He valued his privacy. Being a successful CEO had its perks but it also had his downsides. Privacy was a major downside. He's lucky if a week has gone by without The New York Times calling his office.

Something he should've done a long time ago was delete Instagram and move on from Lucy, but of course he loves to make things more difficult for himself.

19lucy89 has posted a photo!

He should've at least turn off the notifications notifying him of her posting but he couldn't do it. He still wasn't over her. Scrolling on the social media app had him scoffing.

She had posted a photo of her and that broke waiter kissing.

"Whiskey neat."

Harry slips his phone back into his pocket, thanking the bartender. Sliding off the barstool, he glances at all the couples around him. He rolls his eyes.

Since when is everyone fucking dating? Everywhere he goes it's always a couple canoodling. It pisses him off.

Getting back to his table, Danny slaps Harry on his back as he sits down. He cringes as the hand hits his back. He's always had back problems but never acknowledged them.

Not until Lucy. She made him start seeing a chiropractor.

But since she's out of his life, he has been ignoring his pains and ignoring his chiropractor’s calls. She didn't care anymore so why should he.

"Dude Vanessa and everybody are going to an afterparty—"

"Is this not an afterparty?" Harry furrows his brows, interrupting his partygoer friend.

Danny shakes his head playfully, scoffing. "Any excuse to continue drinking, am I right?"

He really didn't want to spend another hour at a party. He's 54 for god's sake, he done.

He's old. He's an old man.

He gets cranky if he doesn't go to sleep at a certain time, he gets aggravated when he pushes paperwork aside leaving it to the last minute, he hated pleasing his friends who have been trying to get him out more ever since the whole Lucy thing happened.

He's leaving, he wants to go home.

"I think I'll be heading—" Then his phone vibrating in his coat pocket stops him.

Maybe Lucy texted him?

Fuck he's so delusional.

"Actually I'm gonna head out. I have a lot of paperwork." Harry stands up, pulling out his phone.

Danny furrows his brows at his friend.

"But you didn't even touch your drink?"

Harry tells him he has liquor at his place, he can finish his drink at home, not here. He doesn't bother to say any goodbyes to any of his friends. They won't remember it anyways.

He hurriedly swipes open his phone as the cold air hits his face.

19lucy89 has added onto their stories!

Clicking onto her profile made him sick.

He should have deleted Instagram.

He should have blocked her.

But he wasn't strong enough.

She posted a video.

Though it wasn't just any other video. The video showed John on his left knee holding up a ring.

He was fucking proposing.

It was like his whole world came tumbling down.

He had never felt this sick in his life.

Harry used to hate the way rich people would talk about how money. They used to say money isn't everything, how it doesn't solve anything and it isn't happiness.

He begged to differ.

He didn't grow up with much. His mother struggled especially.

She was sick and wasn't financially stable for treatment so she died.

He used to think that if they had money she would still be here.

He never told anyone about it. Never spoke about the situation, he always tried to ignore it. Until Lucy came around.

She was the only person he confided in. He cried in her arms.

He didn't understand how she could just leave so easily. He remembers the night she told him, they were in the kitchen when she spoke the truth about how she was still in love with John.

She had said that he was the one that got away and that they needed each other.

She packed up her clothes and left his penthouse.

And that was it.

And now he’s standing outside The Met at 54 years old, pathetically hung up on a woman who left him for some broke waiter in a studio apartment that probably has one fucking bathroom.

A couple bumping into him made him come back to earth. He mutters an apology for blocking the entrance.

Another fucking couple.

He shoves his phone into his pocket with too much force, rolling his shoulders as he takes the steps two at a time, the cold air biting against his skin.

Only Vanessa Garnier would throw a goddamn dinner party at The Met.

He needs to go home.

Needs to drink.

Needs to pretend he didn’t just witness the woman he once loved agreeing to marry a broke fucking waiter.

Harry is already pissed off as he stomps down the Met steps. He’s just trying to leave this godforsaken party, get home, and drown himself in whiskey while pretending he doesn’t care about Lucy’s engagement.

Then—he sees her.

She’s sitting on the steps wrapped up in her own world, scrolling her phone.

She’s alone. Not giggling into her phone like the socialites inside, not throwing herself at men with trust funds bigger than their personalities.

Just…sitting.

And for some reason, it annoys him.

"You’re in my spot."

It wasn't his spot but he was annoyed.

Maybe he was annoyed of seeing people who aren't miserable like him.

She barely looks up.

Just a quick flick of her eyes from her phone to the man standing in front of her, assessing him in a single glance before exhaling softly through her nose—unimpressed and unbothered.

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

Since he was already irritated, already on edge, already a step away from either throwing his phone into the street or smashing it against the nearest wall—he stood there, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come.

Nothing.

No wide eyes.

No forced politeness.

No recognition.

Just a woman sitting on the steps of The Met, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, scrolling through her phone like he wasn’t even there.

His jaw ticked.

"Did you hear me?"

She sighed—actually sighed—as if he was the one disturbing her.

Well he kind of was.

Finally, she lifted her head, phone still in her hand, her gaze settling on him with all the enthusiasm of someone being asked to do a survey on the street.

"Yeah. I heard you."

His brow furrowed. He waited.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t apologize.

Didn’t give him an inch of what he was used to—deference, nervous laughter, people scrambling to please him just because of who he was.

Instead, she blinked once slow and deliberate before tilting her head slightly to the side.

"Pretty sure the city owns these steps."

Harry clenched his teeth.

Of course.

Of course, he’d have to deal with this tonight.

This was not his night.

This was not his fucking night.

He didn’t even know why he was still standing there, why he hadn’t just turned and left. He should be in his car by now, should be halfway home with a drink already in his hand.

But for some reason he wasn’t.

For some reason he sat down instead.

A slow, deliberate movement. A shift of his coat as he lowered himself onto the step beside her, his knee brushing against the fabric of her own red coat as he exhaled sharply.

Her brow lifted slightly, her grip on her phone tightening for a moment as if she was considering whether to acknowledge his presence or simply ignore him altogether.

She settled on the latter.

Good.

Fine.

He didn’t want to talk anyway.

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring out at the street with the same burning resentment that had been sitting in his chest since he walked out of that party.

Another fucking couple passed by.

Laughing. Whispering. Holding hands like they were the only two people in the world.

His grip tightened around his knee. His mouth pressed into a firm thin line.

He should be at home.

He should be anywhere but here.

Instead, he was sitting on the cold steps of The Met beside a stranger who didn’t care that he was Harry fucking Castillo.

He scoffed.

The sound must have been louder than he intended, because this time—she looked at him.

Actually looked at him.

Not just a glance. Not just a flicker of vague recognition before returning to her phone.

No—she studied him, just for a second.

And then…the corner of her mouth twitched.

Not a smile. Not exactly. But close enough.

Close enough for something inside of him to tighten, for his stomach to knot in that irritating way he didn’t like.

She turned back to her phone.

"Rough night?"

He huffed out a sharp breath, shaking his head adjusting his tie even though it wasn’t loose.

"Something like that."

She hummed. Hummed. Like she wasn’t even surprised.

Like she already knew that about him.

Like she had already figured him out.

His teeth clenched.

She didn’t know him.

She didn’t know anything about him.

"What?" His voice was sharper than intended.

She barely reacted. Just tapped her thumb against her screen, scrolling absentmindedly before murmuring

"Nothing."

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was something.

It was definitely fucking something.

Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of his exhaustion settle deeper into his bones.

This night was never going to end, was it?

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

The sounds of the city hummed around them. Car horns. Distant conversations. The occasional roar of an engine as someone sped down Fifth Avenue.

And then—

"You gonna sit here all night?"

Harry turned his head slightly, catching the amused glint in her eyes as she finally looked at him again.

"Depends," he muttered. "You gonna move?"

She smirked. "Nope."

He exhaled.

Rolled his shoulders.

Ignored the way something unsettled was shifting in his chest.

"Guess I’m staying, then."

And for the first time in a long time—he didn’t mind.

That realization alone should have pissed him off. Should have made him get up, adjust his coat, and leave like he had originally planned.

But he stayed.

The cold air pressed against his skin, sneaking beneath his collar, curling around his fingers where they rested against his knee. The whiskey from earlier still burned slightly in the back of his throat, though it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, to settle the restless storm churning inside his chest.

The silence stretched.

Not an uncomfortable one, surprisingly. But an unfamiliar one.

People didn’t let silence sit with him. They filled it, rushed to fix it, scrambled to find something clever or charming or useful to say because people who sat next to him were always trying to get something from him.

The woman sitting next to him, scrolling through her phone like he wasn’t even there. Like he was just another insignificant part of the city.

That part should have pissed him off.

But it didn’t.

It intrigued him.

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch the faint reflection of her screen. Not because he cared what she was looking at—he didn’t—but because he needed a distraction. Any distraction.

A taxi app.

She was waiting for a ride.

She was leaving.

Good.

Great.

That meant he wouldn’t have to sit here much longer, wouldn’t have to keep pretending like this wasn’t some strange, unexplainable moment in his otherwise predictable night.

He could go home, pour himself a drink, scroll through Lucy’s Instagram like a fucking idiot, and pretend he wasn’t still furious.

But—

He didn’t want her to leave.

Not yet.

Not before he figured out why the hell he was still sitting here.

Not before he figured out why she wasn’t miserable like him.

His gaze flicked to her hands, the way she tapped at her screen absentmindedly like she wasn’t in a hurry, wasn’t anxious about the time, wasn’t dreading the ride home.

He wanted to ask where she was going.

He didn’t.

Instead, he spoke before he thought.

"Where do you live?"

She didn’t react at first.

Just kept scrolling.

Then without looking up.

"That’s a weird thing to ask a stranger."

Harry exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

"You’re waiting for a cab."

Finally, she turned to him, brow raised. "And?"

He rolled his shoulders, voice even. "I’ll take you home."

A beat of silence.

Then—

She laughed.

Not a giggle. Not a polite chuckle. A real, unfiltered laugh.

Like he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

Harry’s expression did not change.

"I wasn’t joking."

That just made her laugh harder.

She shook her head, lips twitching as she locked her phone and slid it into her pocket, finally—finally—giving him her full attention.

"You, a man who I met ten minutes ago, are offering to take me home."

Harry blinked, unfazed.

"Yes."

"In your car?"

"Yes."

She exhaled, shaking her head again.

"This is the part where I ask if you're a serial killer."

He smirked, dry and humorless. "Would a serial killer offer?"

"Maybe a dumb one."

He scoffed. "Do I look dumb to you?"

She considered him for a moment. Then—

"A little bit."

Harry almost smiled.

Almost.

Instead, he sighed adjusting the sleeve of his coat as he stared out at the street again.

"Look, I don’t care where you live. I don’t care what you do. And I don’t care if you take the cab or not. But it’s late and I have a driver waiting." He paused. "Take the ride. Or don’t."

She studied him for a moment.

Not like the people at the party, not like the women who assessed him as a prize, a trophy, a walking investment.

No, she was studying him like she was still trying to figure out if he was serious.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why offer?"

Harry clenched his jaw.

Good question.

Why had he?

Because he was restless.

Because he didn’t want to be alone.

Because he wasn’t ready for the night to end.

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead he said, "Because I can."

She hummed at that, something unreadable passing over her face.

Then to his absolute fucking surprise

She stood.

Pulled her coat tighter around herself.

Looked down at him with a grin.

"Lead the way, then."

The Maybach was parked at the curb, sleek and expensive and definitely out of place for a random stranger sitting on museum steps.

His driver, James barely batted an eye when Harry pulled open the door and gestured for her to get in first.

She hesitated.

Just for a moment.

And then—

She slid into the seat like she did this every day.

Harry followed, closing the door behind them.

James glanced at him through the rearview mirror, silent, waiting.

Harry exhaled, glancing at her.

"Where to?"

She gave him a look.

"Aren't you supposed to be a gentleman and ask for my name first?"

He huffed. "You never asked for mine."

"Because I don’t care."

His lips twitched. "Then why get in the car?"

She leaned back against the leather seat, legs crossed, gaze flicking out the window.

"Because I wanted to see if you'd actually do it."

Harry shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he gave James the silent cue to start driving.

This was insane.

He should have just gone home.

Should have just let her take the damn cab.

But now—he was in a car with a woman who didn’t care who he was, nor his money, didn’t even seem remotely fazed by the fact that she was sitting in a million dollar car with a man who could buy out half the city.

And for the first time all night...

Lucy’s engagement didn’t feel like the worst thing that had happened to him.

The car pulled away from the curb, merging smoothly into the flow of late night Manhattan traffic. The soft hum of the engine filled the space between them, a quiet luxury that most people would have fawned over.

But not her.

She wasn’t running her fingers over the leather seats, wasn’t sneaking glances at him, wasn’t pretending to be indifferent while stealing curious looks.

She just stared out the window, completely at ease.

Harry tilted his head slightly, studying her side profile.

"You still haven’t told me where you live."

She blinked, turning back to him, almost as if she’d forgotten he was even there.

"Oh. Right." She exhaled, stretching her arms slightly before dropping them into her lap. "I’ll just have your driver drop me off at the corner of—"

"Not James." His voice was firm, sharp in a way he didn’t expect.

She raised a brow.

"What?"

"Tell me."

A slow smirk curled at her lips, amusement flickering in her gaze.

"Are you always this controlling?"

"Are you always this difficult?"

Her smirk widened slightly, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she turned to the front of the car.

"Excuse me, take me to—"

"Don’t talk to my driver."

She whipped her head back to him, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"He’s not your driver."

She let out a small, sharp laugh, shaking her head.

"You’re serious?"

"Very."

She rolled her eyes, but there was something else there, something interested.

She sighed, crossing her arms, "Fine. Since you clearly need to be the one in control, Lower East Side."

He barely nodded before shifting his gaze back toward the front.

James, wordlessly, made a turn.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Harry leaned back against his seat, stretching out his legs, exhaling slowly as the tension from earlier in the night settled into something quieter.

The city moved past them in streaks of light, taxis cutting through traffic, pedestrians still wandering the streets like the night would never end.

She stayed turned toward the window, her fingers mindlessly tapping against her knee.

The silence should have been comfortable.

But it wasn’t.

Not for him.

Because he was still thinking.

Thinking about Lucy. Thinking about how stupid he felt for still checking her Instagram. Thinking about how much he hated the feeling of losing.

But also—thinking about her.

This woman.

This stranger who got into his car without a second thought, who didn’t care about his money, who didn’t care about him.

That part was what unsettled him the most.

Because he was used to being recognized. Used to being admired, envied, feared.

But she?

She was just here.

Like he was just another man.

Like he wasn’t anything at all.

And for some reason—he wasn’t sure he hated that.

She broke the silence first. "So, what’s your deal?"

Harry exhaled, rolling his head to the side slightly.

"My deal?"

"Yeah." She waved a hand vaguely. "You seem miserable."

"You say that like it’s an observation."

"It is."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Maybe I just don’t like parties."

"Nope."

He arched a brow.

"No?"

"Not just parties. Life."

Harry’s jaw tightened. "Bold assumption."

"Accurate assumption."

His gaze flicked toward her, sharp, assessing.

She met it without hesitation.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she shrugged.

"Look, I don’t know what rich guy problems you have but you were sitting on those steps like someone had either ruined your life or just rejected your marriage proposal."

Harry stilled.

His fingers twitched slightly against his knee, his pulse slow, heavy.

She didn’t know how close she was.

How dangerously fucking close.

She didn’t know about Lucy. About the proposal he never got to make. About much time he spent believing he was enough only to realize that he wasn’t.

She didn’t know anything.

But she still saw right through him.

And that?

That pissed him off.

"Maybe I just wanted some fresh air." His voice was clipped, sharp.

"Sure." She smirked, looking out the window again. "And maybe I’m a billionaire, too."

Harry inhaled, slow and deep, rolling his head back against the seat, eyes flickering up toward the roof of the car.

"You’re insufferable."

"So I’ve been told."

For a moment, it was quiet again.

Then—

"Was it a girl?"

His brow furrowed.

"What?"

"The reason you were brooding." She tilted her head slightly. "Was it a girl?"

His fingers clenched.

She smirked.

"It was, wasn’t it?"

He clenched his jaw.

"Not everything is about a woman."

"I never said it was." She lifted a shoulder. "You just confirmed it, though."

Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face.

This was insane.

She was insane.

Why was he even still talking to her?

Why hadn’t he just dropped her off and left?

"I don’t do small talk." His voice was firm.

"Good. Me neither."

Then—silence.

Not uncomfortable.

Not forced.

Just…there.

The car slowed as they reached her street.

She shifted slightly, sitting up, unfastening her seatbelt as James pulled over.

For a second, Harry felt something strange.

Something he didn’t want to name.

She reached for the door handle, but before she could push it open—

"Wait."

She paused.

Glanced back at him. Brows lifted, waiting.

Harry swallowed.

"Let me take you to dinner."

Silence.

Her head tilted, lips curving up at the corners. "Are you asking or telling?"

"Does it matter?"

She smirked.

"I guess not."

She pushed the door open, stepping out into the cold.

Harry watched her go, watched as she turned, hands stuffed into her pockets, eyes unreadable as she met his gaze one last time.

Then—

"If you find me again, maybe I’ll say yes."

And just like that—

She was gone.

Harry sat there for a long moment.

Watched the empty space where she had been.

Felt the quiet weight of something new settle over him.

And for the first time in years, he found himself hoping—

That he’d see her again.

And knowing, somehow—

That he would.

[hellhouse-of-horrors]

okay so this has been bouncing around in my head for awhile I’m gonna try to put it into words as best i can.

I think, in the s3 adult timeline, Van already knew that Tai wasn’t “conscious” or “present”.

It’s been set up that she knows how to read Tai very well. In s2 she immediately clocks “other” tai. Then, in s3, after the dine and dash bit when they kiss in the alley, she looks at Tai for a moment. Tai hesitates for a heartbeat before she speaks, in the same way that she tends to do when she’s in her fugue state. Van is aware of this mannerism - she even asks if Tai’s okay - before they kiss again.

Then, there’s the whole scene where Tai lights the candle and calls out to the Wilderness. Van clearly notices something is wrong. But she doesn’t say anything - in fact, she plays along to such an extent that they nearly kill an innocent man as a sacrifice to the Wilderness.

There’s also the whole thing with Tai being a vegetarian but eating meat in s3. I assume Van would know that Tai is vegetarian (hell, I figure the majority of the survivors are; we know Shauna still eats meat but I mean,, it’s Shauna), and this would seem odd to her.

the first phone call seems like another obvious sign, too. What else would Van be thinking at that point?

All this to say, and I apologize for not wrapping it up very neatly but I’m not feeling exceptionally eloquent at the moment, I think Van is perfectly aware. But she’s in denial. She wants so badly to live the rest of her life - however long that is - with the woman she loves. And she wants more than anything for Tai to love her back.

But the truth is, Tai moved on. She got married, started a family. She and Van haven’t seen each other in 25 years.

25 years.

Sure, we don’t forget the people we once loved, but there comes a point where we realize - no, I don’t love them anymore. And we subsequently realize that that’s okay, because we’re different than we were before, we have a different perspective and we’ve moved on.

Tai has moved on. But Van is stuck - she’s living on a clock and she wants so desperately to be loved that she’ll cling onto the one person who has loved every single piece of her, even the bad, the horrifying, the irredeemable parts.

There are moments, of course, where Van hesitates. “I’m feeling kinda bad about last night”, in reference to the dine and dash plot point. Later, the scene in which she confronts Tai for not caring about lottie’s death, for hiding in their little bubble while the rest of the world keeps moving. But I think these scenes - or, if not both then at least the confrontation scene - are simply further proof that Van knows something is wrong.

The scene in the latest episode (e6) where Tai wakes up in the middle of the night, I think, is enough to propel Van out of it. I think we’ll see Van start to act a lot more rationally and break out of that bubble. The illusion has been tarnished, the veil lifted. They can’t keep living like this, and Van knows that.

anyways. I highly anticipate the next episode, can’t wait to see where they go with this !!

[mistymisfit]

I'm your man

angst, mentions of past abuse, loosely based on the Mitski song by the same name, they're kinda toxic ngl. (2,1k)

You were no strangers to arguments, they tend to happen more often than not when two stubborn people decide to date. Normally, you could work it out. Sometimes, one or both of you needed some time to cool off and let the initial anger wear down so you could approach it without yelling and think more rationally.

Other times, the arguments could end up with laying in bed with your head on his chest, thinking you were glad to have such a hot headed boyfriend. Some nights, you'd sleep on either side of the bed, your backs to the other and facing your respective walls, only to wake up with your limbs tangled together and find out you both reached for the other in your sleep.

This time it had been different, you didn't know why he got so defensive when all you asked was that he was careful that night. And you were no better than him, so when he started to get mad, you got mad too. He doesn't know why he said such hurtful things to you, you don't know why you couldn't be the only one whose feelings got hurt that night.

"Sure, be careful" You said absentmindedly, you always told him to be careful at night, and you didn't think tonight was any different.

"Yeah, when am I not?" He sighed. You didn't like the tone he used, like he was tired of you, as if he didn't want to hear it from you.

"Why the attitude?" You questioned almost immediately, and that's how it started.

Then one thing led to another, and you both pressed the other too hard that night.

"You think I'm an idiot? Think I didn't see you last night with that guy?" He finally cracks after a solid fifteen minutes of yelling that for sure your neighbors were going to complain about.

"Is that what it is?" You're pretty sure he could see the disappointment painted all across your features, "You think I'm cheating?"

"No I-" He sighed "You know what? fuck this, forget it"

It ended with him storming out of the apartment, and you waiting up all night just so you could work it out when he returned home. Hopefully, he had blown off some steam by then. But that never happened, and now you hadn't seen or talked to your boyfriend in two weeks.

At least you hadn't heard from him, but you did read a news article about some drug dealer's warehouse being blown up the same night you got a call from Babs asking if you knew what he was up to, or if you knew he was okay, recognizing that's the type of reckless stunt he'd pull when he's going through something. It was not hard to put two and two together, even if your reply was intentionally vague to help him. You said something along the lines of: "Babs, you know he doesn't tell me that. He wouldn't tell me he is Red Hood if it was up to him." and "We're not broken up if that is what you're asking". You were not so sure of that last one.

You itched to call him or text him all the time. You even got your phone out and the text ready to send before deleting it, remembering he was the one who got offended when a friend walked you home once. Once. At night, after he was the one who asked you a million times to avoid walking home alone that late. If he didn't swallow his pride to talk to you, why should you? Yes, you were offended, but you were also worried. He had never disappeared like this before, he'd always stayed with you no matter how angry he was. You weighed your choices, waiting clueless until he returned or calling someone with the same hobby as his --vigilantism--. The second option would definitely end with Bruce knowing and suspecting Jason was up to no good again, and he'd hate that. You considered calling Roy but then remembered you didn't have his number. So you waited for two long anxiety-ridden weeks, you were sleeping poorly and eating even worse. Even your friends asked if you were okay.

Until one night, he finally enters your apartment through your window. You want to jump and hug him at the sight of him for the first time in what felt like forever, but you don't. Instead, you stay put in your place on the couch. It's late, but he's glad you're awake, so he makes quick work of uncovering his face and dropping his guns on the floor. And in no time, he's kneeling in front of you, looking up with tear-brimmed eyes.

"I'm sorry" He breaks the silence. You shake your head no, holding his face with both of your hands and swiping away his tears with your thumbs.

"No, I'm sorry" You speak faster than you think. All these days, you didn't feel the need to apologize, and now you do. "I swear he's just a friend, he just walked me home 'cause it was late, and I didn't tell you because I thought it didn't matter-"

"No, no, I know that" He sighs, his hands lay over yours in an attempt to feel more of you, or so that you wouldn't stop touching him. "I trust you, baby"

"Then what is it?" You insisted with tears in your eyes too "Just talk to me, Jason, I can't- I can't deal with you disappearing like this. I was worried sick"

You had to pause a second to sniff and wipe your own tears before continuing; "even Babs called me to ask about you and I had to lie"

I was scared, thinking how easy it'd be for you to leave me, how easy it'd be to lose you, he thinks, come on just say it. "I've been stressed, I'm sorry I took it out on you" I'm sorry, I was hurting, and I had to hurt you too, I don't know why I do this, he wants to add.

"Okay," you sniff, nodding and accepting his reasoning even if you don't fully believe it.

You don't have the strength to push him into telling you the truth. It was a hard learned lesson with him, pressuring Jason to open up would only get the opposite effect on him. Another hard learned lesson was that when he wants to reach out, he'll do it, but in the most dramatic way possible. 

"Hit me" He begs

"What? No." You are taken aback with his request.

"Please," He insists. Why he needs violence to repent is beyond you, it's all he's ever known. He craves it as much as he does affection, sometimes even more, which is why you think he argues with you so often. He needs to hear you call him a jerk, an asshole, and every name in the book as much as he needs to hear you call him sweet pet names.  "I deserve it"

"Jay-" Your voice is stuck on your throat. You can't believe what he wanted you to do, to harm him. Your tears start falling again on their own at the thought of how ingrained the association between forgiveness and being hurt is in his mind, how many times he must have suffered as a kid and an adult at the hands of those he loved the most to think like this. You were aware of the deep self-hatred your boyfriend had, but he had never asked you this. "I'd never raise a hand against you"

He looks up at you, stunned and unsure of how to act. That's what a life time of abuse caused him, years and years of being fed crumbs of love and affection that he does not know how to behave around someone like you. Someone who so freely gives him what he's always wanted, unconditional love, to be taken care of as much as he's taking care of the other person.

At first, it was his mostly absent parents, whether it was psychically like his dad, or mentally like his mom. Maybe it was a head pat once from his father, or Catherine telling him "you take care of me so well" or a few praise words every once in a while that made it all worth it. Never mind the neglect he went through, he would grab those crumbs of love and mistake them for grand gestures.

Then he got adopted, and Bruce gave him all he ever wanted. Completely casting aside the fact that he isolated him from kids his age, in favor of not repeating the "mistakes" he had while raising his predecessor. Or that when he felt he was no longer needed, or wanted, he left to look for his biological mother. Even now in his adult years, if he wronged Bruce, he felt a fight would settle it. And he was never above giving Jason what he wanted. Not that he'd ever recognize any of the parental figures on his life were abusive, but it is what he's learned. That if he lets people hurt him, then they won't be mad at him anymore.

Jason's always been hungry for love, but now that he has it, he's choking on it. You've spoon fed him his wildest dreams, and he can't stop trying to push you away. It's even worse because you stay, you may yell and get equally as angry as him, but you stay.  You always wait for him, and he always comes back for you.

"Baby," You cut him off with a kiss before he can insist. His hands hold your face like he's going to lose you, and you'd think this was the last chance he had to kiss you with how intense he gets. "I'm sorry"

"I know you are," You nod, eyes still closed, lips still close to his. "and I've missed you"

"I've missed you too" He kisses your cheek, it feels almost shy, the way he presses his lips so lightly to your skin as if waiting for you to push him away.  

"Why don't you spend the night here?"

Jason takes your offer without much complaint, nodding before his tears get too much to handle. He hides his face on your lap right as he starts sobbing. All you can do is pet his hair and tell him everything is okay until he calms down, or maybe tires himself out. Then you can finally lift his head and lean down to kiss his forehead. His eyes are puffy, and he's about to apologize again when you take his hand and guide him up to take him to your room. You gently and quietly help him rid of his armor and clothes. He does not say a word when you look up at him like he's worth something, as if he's not way past fixing.  Your fingers trace the mark on his neck, and for once, he lets you. No complaints, no wincing. He lets you trace and kiss all the scars, marks, and bruises you want.

But he's afraid, afraid that your soft gaze will disappear once you figure him out, once you stop believing in him. He knows that if he lost your love, dying would be the only thing to bring him comfort, and that he'd deserve it.  For tonight, he settles for following you to bed, basking in the warmth of your embrace. Limbs wrapping around each other to leave as little space separating you as possible. Jason can be selfish every once in a while, maybe he doesn't think he deserves your forgiveness, but he'll accept it anyways.

"I don't know why you keep putting up with me," He sighs into your hair.

"Because I love you," you explain, grabbing his arms so they wrap around you tighter. The hum you get in response is calm, but with your ear pressed against his chest, you can hear his quickened heartbeat. "just don't ever ask me to hit you again"

"Promise," You feel the barely there nod that accompanies his words,"I'll make it up to you, I'll be better"

Now it was your turn to hum and nuzzle your nose to his chest, even planting a little kiss for reassurance when you feel tears falling on your hair. You know this doesn't fix anything, that his promises are probably empty, and he'd still beat himself up over this in the morning. And he'd still feel unworthy until he's finally ready to make some deep changes in how he views himself, but until then, you could only be there for him.

[aleskie]

hey!! you’re genuinely one of my favorite writers, i check your profile everyday to see if you wrote something new. ily.

i was wondering if you would be able to write ex!charles leclerc calling after winning monaco and leaving a voicemail of how he wishes she could be there with him to experience it after all the years he dreamt of it and every single time he did she was there? kind of like a “the one that got away” trope?

if so then thank you so much may everything good happen to you foreva

Anonnie! ILYT!!! You're so so sweet! I love writing angst so this was right up my alley!! I really hope you like it!

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY | Charles Leclerc x Reader

Warnings: None. There is no happy ending.

It’s late at night, long after the celebrations of his Monaco win, when he thinks of you. He tries not to. It hurts too much. But after this—after years of chasing this, of dreaming about this—all he wants is to share it with you. He can’t, though. Because he left. Because he chose to leave. And he regrets it every single day.

“I just need to focus on my career,” he had said. “I don’t need distractions right now.”

He called you a distraction.

“I can’t have anything unimportant ruin my chances at helping us get a Constructor’s Championship.”

He called you unimportant.

“This is all too much. This relationship is too much. I have too much on my shoulders to worry about this.”

He said you were too much.

But you weren’t. You were never too much, never unimportant, never a distraction. You—God, you were his whole world. And he let you go.

That night, he left. Stayed at a friend’s place until you both could figure out how to split everything. He thought there would be a conversation, a plan. But he didn’t have to wait—when he returned, you were already gone. Your keys left at the front desk, your presence erased from the apartment that once felt like home.

Your shoes were no longer on the rack by the front door. Your clothes were missing from your side of the closet. Your perfumes and makeup—gone. Your skincare, once neatly arranged on the bathroom counter, wiped away as if you had never been there at all.

You were gone, and yet your absence was everywhere.

If he could take it back, he would.

But he can’t.

He let go of the one person who had been there from the very start—the one who watched every race, who nursed his wounds after every crash, who celebrated every podium, every victory, as if they were her own.

And he regretted it more than anything.

Still, a part of him—selfish and desperate—wanted to hear your voice just one last time. Wanted to tell you about this win. Wanted to imagine, just for a moment, what it would feel like to have you here, whispering, I’m proud of you.

Against his better judgment, he calls you. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No voice in his head warning him that this might be a mistake—that you might not want to hear from him ever again.

The phone rings, and he hopes. He knows you won’t pick up, but still, he hopes. Hopes that, against all odds, you’ll answer. That you’ll say what he’s desperate to hear. That you’ll come rushing over to celebrate with him. That maybe…just maybe, you’ll tell him you want to try again.

The call pushes through.

"Hey! This is Y/N! Sorry I can’t get to you, but just leave a message after the beep!"

His heart sinks, just a little. But at least his number isn’t blocked.

“Y/N? Hey, this is Charles.” He exhales, steadying himself. “I don’t know if you saw—I hope you did, but I don’t know if you still keep up with Formula One—but I finally won Monaco!”

He’s sure you can hear the smile in his voice. Even now, with the weight of this call pressing down on him, the sheer joy of the win lingers.

“I…” He hesitates, his breath shaky. “I’m sorry for calling.” A pause, longer this time. “I’m sorry for everything.”

He paces around the apartment, eyes drifting to the empty spaces where your things used to be—gaps on the bookshelf where your favorite novels once sat, the flower vase beside his piano that hasn’t held a bouquet since you left, the shelf where your little trinkets used to be, now collecting dust.

“I don’t know why I called you,” he admits, voice quieter now. “I just… felt like I needed you to know.”

His gaze lands on the fridge. The photos are still there—pictures of the two of you frozen in time, untouched, unchanged, as if removing them would make the loss too real.

“You were always there for me. Through everything. And I wouldn’t be here without you. I hope you know how grateful I am for that.”

His fingers trace the outline of your smile in one of the photos.

“I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you. No one could put up with me like you could. No one else would stay.”

Your picture is still in his wallet, tucked in the same place it’s always been. A habit he never broke, a piece of you he never let go of.

“I don’t know if what I did then was the right thing,” he confesses, voice raw. “I don’t know if I would have moments like this if we were still together. I don’t know how my life would have been if I never let you go. But I do know one thing—I will always love you.”

A silence stretches between him and the voicemail, like he’s processing the weight of his own words.

“There will always be a part of me that belongs to you,” he murmurs. “No matter how long it’s been, no matter how much time passes—I’m yours. You don’t spend your life with someone and then expect that to just disappear.”

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

“If you ever want to come back to me, and God, I hope you do—one day, when we’re wiser, when we’ve healed, when we’ve lived a little more—my door is always open. My arms are always open. For you. Always for you.”

A shuddering exhale.

“I love you. I’ll always love you. And I will always regret letting you go. You’re always going to be everything to me. I would give you all I have, everything you want, everything I could give.”

“I love you,” he says one last time before ending the call, fingers lingering on the phone like he wants to say more. But there’s nothing left—nothing that wouldn’t crack his voice, nothing that wouldn’t let you hear the quiet devastation settling in his chest.

So he puts his phone away and goes to bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping.

Maybe he’ll receive a reply tomorrow. Or next week. Or years from now.

He’ll be waiting, after all.

You listen to his voicemail that night, curled up in your bed, sobbing into your pillow, your chest aching in a way you thought you’d left behind.

Why now?

Why would he choose to break your heart all over again?

You’d think you’d moved on. You’d think you’d healed. And you did. You really did. You built a life without him. You stitched yourself back together, piece by piece.

But then you hear his voice, and suddenly, the wounds aren’t scars—they’re fresh, raw, bleeding all over again. And God, you want to go back. You want to step into the past, into his arms, into the life you used to share.

But that’s not healthy anymore.

You can’t keep waiting for someone to slow down when their entire existence is built around going faster and faster—so fast that a crash is inevitable.

Your finger hovers over his contact. You trace the familiar details—the way his name looks on your screen, the phone number you could recite in your sleep, the goofy picture of him you took all those years ago still set as his image. A piece of the past frozen in time.

A notification pops up.

[Block this contact?]

Your breath catches. For a second, you hesitate. But then you remember—the sleepless nights, the ache of waiting, the empty promises, the way he chose his career over you without a second thought.

And this time, you choose.

You press the button.

No more waiting. No more hoping. No more him.

This time you were choosing yourself. As much as it hurt, as much as it broke you, you were going to let go.

A final notification.

[This Contact Has Been Blocked]