#and if I were to go over every lyric from a will wood song that reminds me of him we’d be here a long time

[caseybobava]

This song is so him it’s not funny

And this the song:

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, mutual masturbation , penetrative sex, creampie, crying during sex, pet anxiety, mentions of pregnancy, artist!hyunjin, mdni

notes: in which your situationship ex hyunjin from college asks you to watch his dog for the week--and things spiral from there.

You almost don’t answer.

Your phone buzzes across the table, skittering like a beetle over the wood, and you glance at the screen with the reflex of someone who doesn’t expect surprises anymore.

Hyunjin. The name glows up at you, unfamiliar only in the way it makes your stomach twist—like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every lyric to.

It’s been months since you last spoke. Maybe a year since you last saw him. A coffee meetup that turned into wandering aimlessly through the park, talking like nothing had ever gone wrong between you, except it had. That night ended with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch that neither of you kept.

And now he’s calling.

You stare at the screen for another ring. Then another.

Then you answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you wonder if he hung up, and then:

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he’d been holding it. “Sorry—sorry to call out of nowhere. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

His voice hasn’t changed. Still soft in a way that wraps around your ribs. Still threaded with that low, careful tension like he’s always thinking five things at once and only saying one.

You shift in your seat, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

“Okay,” you say slowly, warily. “What’s going on?”

A soft rustle comes through the line—maybe the jingle of keys, maybe his bracelets sliding against his wrist. You picture him pacing his apartment, the same way he used to during finals week, lip caught between his teeth, hair tucked behind one ear.

“I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important,” he says. “And I get that it’s weird. Us not talking, and then—me dropping this on you.”

You glance toward the window, try not to let your voice shake. “What is this, exactly?”

He hesitates. “I have to leave the city. It’s an art residency. Last-minute. It’s… big.”

Your stomach twists again, but this time it’s sharper. Of course it’s big. Hyunjin was always meant for something more.

You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the rain sliding down the windowpane like it’s trying to draw an answer for you. A part of you wants to ask where he's going, what the project is, if he’s excited—because of course he is, he always was, always buzzing with vision and color and a kind of hunger you never could name. But that part of you lives behind a glass wall now. You’re not sure you’re allowed to tap on it.

So you don’t ask. You swallow the words like coins dropped into a well—silent, swallowed, never coming back up.

“I’m happy for you,” you say instead, and it’s almost true. “You deserve it.”

Hyunjin exhales, and for a second you wonder if he’s smiling. “Thanks. That means more than you probably think.”

It shouldn't. But you don’t say that either.

“I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need the help,” he adds, voice dipping a little lower now, like he’s bracing for the ask to land wrong. “It’s Kkami. My sitter canceled last minute, and everyone else is either busy or allergic. You were the only person I thought of who could handle him.”

You laugh softly, mostly out of disbelief. “Handle him? Hyun, your dog hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hyunjin says, though there’s something too quick in his defense, too breathless—like maybe he’s trying to convince himself. “He’s just... territorial.”

You huff a dry laugh. “Yeah, I remember. He tried to piss on my jeans.”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

“Okay, but in his defense, they smelled like me.”

You pause. The silence that follows is sharp and sudden, the kind that cuts deep and clean. It’s the kind of silence that remembers.

Because those jeans had smelled like him—after that night. The last one. The one where he’d backed you against the wall of your own bedroom with his fingers still wet from your mouth, where he’d said things he probably didn’t mean and kissed you like he hated how much he did.

The night you both decided—without saying it—that it was over. That whatever “thing” had been pulsing between you wasn’t something either of you could hold without bleeding.

And yet. Here you are. Picking at it like a scab that never healed right.

Your throat works around the memory before your voice does. You don’t say anything at first—just sit there, hand wrapped too tightly around your phone, eyes fixed on some vague point on the wall like if you don’t move, it won’t reach you. Like you can’t still feel him, breath hot against your neck, hands fisting in your sheets, mouth tracing every soft part of you like he was trying to memorize the map of a place he had no business returning to.

He clears his throat on the other end, and it sounds like guilt. Or maybe longing. You’ve always had trouble telling the difference when it came to him.

“Look,” Hyunjin says, quieter now. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option. Kkami doesn’t do well with new spaces, and I can’t board him. He’s too anxious, and if he’s not with someone he knows, he’ll make himself sick.”

You finally speak, though your voice is thin. “So you want me to stay at yours.”

A beat. Then—“Yeah.”

Just like that. No sugarcoating. No backpedaling. Just Hyunjin, honest and bare in the way he always was once he stopped pretending not to feel everything at once.

You run a hand down your face. “Hyun, we haven’t talked in almost a year.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t even seen me since—”

“I know.”

He’s not angry, not defensive. Just… raw. Like the words are scraping him on the way out. You can hear the scrape.

“I didn’t think I’d ever call you again,” he admits. “I thought that was the deal. But when they offered me this residency, and I realized I had to leave tonight—you’re the only person I could trust. With him. With my home.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the coppery edge of restraint.

His home.

It’s stupid, really. How easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. How even now, after all the months, all the distance, he can still lace your name with history. You’d been friends once. Kind of. You’d laughed a lot, touched a lot, fucked even more—on couches, against doors, in the low hush of early morning when everything was tender and wrong. It was always supposed to be temporary. Temporary, but all-consuming.

But the feelings crept in like rot through the walls. And neither of you were brave enough to call it love, so you called it off instead. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.

“I’ll wash the sheets,” he jokes weakly.

You laugh, soft and involuntary, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. It’s not really about the sheets.

It never was.

And the silence that follows—god, it aches. Not sharp like the aftermath of a fight, but dull and lingering, like a bruise you don’t remember getting. Like a conversation left open on a table, gathering dust.

You clear your throat. “What time’s your flight?”

“Late,” he says. “But I still have to pack a few pieces and drop off the canvases. It’ll be tight.”

“Do you need help?” The words are out before you can catch them. You curse yourself immediately for the softness in your voice.

He hesitates. “No. It’s fine. Just—just the dog. That’s all I need help with.”

Right. The dog.

You glance at your calendar. Clear. Of course it’s clear.

Of course the universe decided to leave space for this.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Just send me the code. I’ll stay at yours. It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” he rushes to say, and it’s like he’s trying to compensate for the ask with over-kindness. “I washed the old blanket. The one you used to crash under on the couch. It’s still there.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

He doesn’t mention that the last time you slept under that blanket, you were still tangled in him. Half-dressed. Half-drunk on him. That he pulled it over your hips after, when you were too spent to move, and he kissed your shoulder like he wanted to stay but didn’t know how.

You don’t bring it up either.

Instead, you breathe out slow. “Cool. I’ll head over in an hour or two.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you say I missed you.

Neither of you say This is weird.

Neither of you say Is this going to break us again?

Instead, Hyunjin adds quietly, “I’ll leave a note.”

“For the dog?”

“For you.”

You close your eyes.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just… hangs up.

And you let the dial tone ring for a few seconds longer than you should, like maybe he’ll change his mind. Like maybe you will.

But the silence stays.

And when you finally move, dragging out your overnight bag and stuffing it half-heartedly with essentials, you can’t stop thinking about the smell of his apartment. The way the floor creaks by the hallway. The coffee mugs he used to leave near the sink, rimmed with paint. The pictures he never hung. The sketchbook that held a drawing of you in fading graphite—one he never knew you found.

You wonder if it’s still there.

You wonder what else of you is.

The building hasn’t changed.

You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers still know the keycode before you even read the text. Hate that the elevator creaks on the same floor. That the hallway smells like turmeric and old wood and the trace of him—Hyunjin, in incense and paint and something vaguely sweet.

His apartment door is unlocked, just like he promised. A sticky note is taped to the front, scrawled in the quick, crooked handwriting you used to recognize across lecture halls and grocery lists alike.

“Come in. He’s dramatic, not dangerous. Don’t let him guilt trip you.” —H.

You roll your eyes and open the door.

It looks the same. Lived-in, messy in a way that’s curated. An art book cracked open on the coffee table. Two mugs in the sink. One of his hoodies flung across the back of the couch like he wore it last night. And maybe he did.

You hear the growl before you see him.

Kkami stands in the middle of the living room, ears pinned back, hackles raised, tail stiff like an accusation. He looks you dead in the eye and lets out a snarl so pointed you actually step back.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “We’ve been over this.”

He growls again. Louder.

You raise your hands. “I come in peace.”

He barks.

You take a careful step inside, nudging the door shut behind you. Kkami follows your every move like you’re an intruder in a palace he was knighted to protect. 

“I’m not stealing your shit,” you tell the dog. “I’m just crashing here. Ask your absentee father.”

Kkami doesn’t find it funny.

You inch toward the kitchen, where Hyunjin’s written schedule sits neatly beside two bowls—one for food, one for water. Both full. Fresh.

You glance at the clock. He’s probably already at the airport. Maybe already boarding. Maybe looking down at the city through a plane window, tapping his fingers against the glass like he always did when he was anxious. You wonder if he thought about calling you again. You wonder if he’s relieved you didn’t call him first.

Kkami lets out a soft, pitiful whine behind you. When you turn, he’s sitting but tense, eyes never leaving you. Suspicious. Wounded. Territorial, like Hyunjin said.

“Jesus, you’re worse than him,” you sigh.

A folded slip of paper catches your eye. It’s tucked under the magnet shaped like a paintbrush on the fridge. Your name is written across the front.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t open it. Not yet.

You drop your bag by the couch and finally take a seat, letting the quiet settle around you. The apartment hums with memory. You used to sit here wrapped in his hoodie, eating leftover tteokbokki at midnight, legs draped across his lap while he rubbed lazy circles into your shin. You used to kiss in this corner. Fuck in this corner. Sleep in the bed down the hall like it meant nothing, even when it meant too much.

Kkami barks once—sharp and offended—then hops up onto the other end of the couch and curls into a tight, annoyed little donut.

“Truce?” you offer.

He sneezes. Well then.

You sigh and reach for your phone. Maybe you can FaceTime Hyunjin later. Let the dog see him. Hear him. Maybe that’ll help.

Or maybe it’ll make everything worse.

You glance over at the folded blanket. The place where you used to lay your head.

And wonder how long it’ll take for this place to feel empty without him in it.

You don’t sleep well that first night.

Kkami stays curled at the farthest edge of the bed like he’s punishing you, his little back turned, ears twitching at every shift you make beneath the sheets. He doesn’t bark, but he lets out these occasional, theatrical sighs—deep, betrayed, bone-deep things—like you’ve committed the ultimate offense by existing where Hyunjin should be.

You get it.

You feel it too.

In the morning, you wake before the sun finishes rising. The air in the apartment is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your joints, your thoughts, the hollow behind your ribs. You drag Hyunjin’s blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, settle on the floor near the window with a mug of instant coffee that tastes like cardboard and nostalgia.

Kkami watches you from the kitchen doorway, still suspicious.

“Do you have a schedule, or are we just winging it?” you ask him.

He sneezes and turns his head. No comment.

The hours pass slow. You walk him—twice. He barks at a bus, growls at a stroller, and refuses to let you tie his leash to the bench while you grab a coffee from the corner place Hyunjin used to love. You wind up going without.

At noon, you wander the apartment, not touching anything but looking at everything. A half-finished canvas still rests on the easel in the corner. It’s abstract—something celestial, maybe. Blue and smoke and gold bleeding together like bruises in motion. You don’t know if it’s new. You don’t ask.

You think about texting him. Just something simple. He misses you already. Or He hasn’t peed on anything today. But the words feel too light. Too personal. You settle for:

12:31 PM — [You]: he ate most of his food. drank a lot of water too. no accidents.

The read receipt comes instantly. His reply is a few minutes later:

12:36 PM — [Hyunjin]: thank you <3

The heart curls in your chest. You close the app.

You make pasta for dinner and Kkami doesn’t touch his kibble until you sit beside him on the floor and pretend to eat a piece. Then he snarfs it all down like he’s proving a point.

That night, he won’t sleep again. He whines. He paces. He jumps down from the bed and runs to the door, then back again. Tail twitching. Eyes darting.

When you try to pet him, he flinches like he’s expecting a trick. You sit on the floor again, cross-legged in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie (you told yourself you brought it by accident), and say softly, “He’s not here. It’s just me.”

He whines again. Low and pitiful.

“Me too,” you whisper.

You glance toward the kitchen. Toward the fridge. That little slip of paper still waits, untouched beneath the magnet shaped like a paintbrush. Your name in his handwriting. Like a bruise. Like a dare.

You haven’t opened it. Not yet.

You slept on the couch.

Not because the bed wasn’t made—Hyunjin had even tucked in the corners, left a glass of water on the nightstand like he thought about what you’d need—but because you couldn’t bring yourself to crawl into the same sheets you used to wake up tangled in. Not when the scent of him still lived in the pillowcases. Not when the memory of his hands on your bare back still lingered in the seams of the duvet.

So you curled up under the old blanket instead, the one you used to steal during lazy afternoons and Netflix half-watched kisses and accepted the fact that your neck was going to ache in the morning. Kkami refused to join you. He spent most of the night pacing between the door and the hallway, growling at shadows.

The second night is worse.

Kkami is inconsolable. He won’t eat. Won’t lie down. Won’t stop pacing between the front door and the window like he’s waiting for Hyunjin to materialize from thin air. At one point, he noses Hyunjin’s shoes—left by the entryway—and lets out a sound so hollow and pitiful it actually makes your eyes sting.

You try everything. Treats. Music. White noise. The blanket that still smells like Hyunjin’s shampoo. But nothing works. It’s like something inside him is unraveling, the cord pulled too tight and fraying with every hour he doesn’t see the one person he’s built his little world around.

Same, you think bitterly, and feel stupid for it.

You end up sitting on the kitchen floor around midnight, your legs numb, your patience thinner than it’s been in weeks. Kkami’s resting his chin on his paws but still letting out this tiny, high-pitched whine every few seconds, like he’s trying not to cry but can’t help it.

And that sound—god, that sound shatters something in you.

You sigh, rub your face with both hands, and reach for your phone.

12:04 AM — [You]: he won’t sleep. he’s been crying for an hour. won’t eat either.

You don’t expect him to reply. Not at this hour, not while he’s halfway across the country doing Important Artist Things.

But your screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call within seconds.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then answer.

And for the first time in nearly a year, you see him.

Hyunjin’s face fills the screen—soft-lit and sleepy, hoodie bunched around his neck like he’d just been getting ready for bed. But it’s not just the setting that throws you. It’s him.

The long hair you used to run your fingers through—gone. All of it. In its place: a buzzcut. Clean, close, severe in a way that shouldn’t suit him but somehow does. It makes his features sharper, more present. Like there’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

You blink. You don’t mean to stare, but the shock is immediate, visceral.

“Hi,” he says, quiet.

You swallow. “Hi.”

He sits up straighter. “Is he okay?”

You shift the camera toward Kkami, who immediately perks up. His ears shoot up like radar, and he lets out a small, startled bark before beelining to your lap—bumping his snout into the phone like he’s trying to crawl through it.

Hyunjin laughs. It’s breathless. Disbelieving.

“God, he’s dramatic.”

“He gets it from you,” you mutter.

Kkami presses against your chest like he’s trying to bury himself in your heart, finally calm now, finally still. You stroke a hand down his back and try not to think about the fact that it took Hyunjin’s voice to soothe him.

You glance at the screen again. Hyunjin’s watching you, not Kkami.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The only sound is Kkami’s soft breathing and the low hum of the city outside the window.

Then, gently:

“I left you something,” he says.

You swallow. “I know.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d find it.”

“I did.”

“You gonna open it?”

You glance toward the fridge. The note still waits, tucked under the paintbrush magnet like a secret too fragile to touch.

“Not yet,” you say.

And he doesn’t push. Just nods. “Okay.”

Kkami shifts closer to your thigh and exhales, finally resting his chin on your knee. You pet him with one hand, still holding the phone in the other.

“He’s sleeping now,” you whisper.

“So are you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your eyes,” he says. “They do that thing. The little flutter when you’re about to crash.”

You’re too tired to argue. Too tired to ask why he remembers that.

“I’ll hang up,” he offers.

You don’t say no.

You just murmur, “Goodnight, Hyun.”

And you hear the softness in his voice as he says it back:

“Goodnight.”

You don’t sleep much better that night.

But Kkami doesn’t cry again.

The next few days fall into a strange kind of rhythm—quiet, off-kilter, but somehow soothing in the way old routines can be, even when they’re made of things that weren’t meant to last.

Kkami still hates you by daylight.

He growls when you walk into the room. Barks when you open the fridge. Refuses to eat unless you pretend not to look. He doesn’t let you pet him unless he’s half-asleep or tricked by a treat, and he definitely doesn’t let you forget that this is his house, his couch, his missing person.

But at night, when Hyunjin calls, it’s like a switch flips.

Kkami leaps into your lap the moment the ringtone echoes through the apartment. He curls there, fast and warm and trembling just slightly, like he’s spent all day building tension he doesn’t know how to unspool without Hyunjin’s voice in the room.

You always answer on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, phone propped up against a half-full glass of water. Hyunjin always looks a little tired, a little flushed from wherever he’s just come back from—a gallery tour, a studio session, a walk through some city that doesn’t have your footprints on its sidewalks.

He tells you about the art residency. The gallery director who makes coffee that tastes like battery acid. The studio space—wide and cold and full of light. He tells you about a piece he’s working on: abstract, rough, loud in a way he hasn’t painted in years.

“You’d hate it,” he laughs, voice crackling faintly through the call. “It’s all jagged lines. Chaos. I think it’s about… hunger. Or maybe grief. I don’t know.”

“I never hated your work,” you say.

Hyunjin quiets. Then, low:

“You hated what it did to me.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You did.

You hated the way he disappeared into it—into himself—those long stretches of silence when he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t touch you unless it was desperate and fleeting, like he was chasing the ghost of something he could never quite hold. You hated the way he used his own pain like paint thinner, diluted himself until all that was left was color on canvas and a shell of the boy you used to fall asleep beside.

But you don’t say that.

You just sit there, curled on his couch in his hoodie you’ve stolen from his drawer, your phone glowing in the soft hush of midnight.

“I hated how much it hurt you,” you say instead. “That’s not the same thing.”

Hyunjin nods slowly, his lips pressed into a line. “No. It’s not.”

Kkami shifts in your lap, stretching a little, his snout nudging your elbow before he sighs and drifts deeper into sleep. You stroke his fur absently, eyes still locked on the screen, on Hyunjin’s face—the new angles of it, the way the buzzcut makes him look older, sharper, like a wound that finally scabbed over.

He watches you for a while. Then murmurs, “I was scared to call you.”

You smile, tired and small. “I figured.”

“I thought you’d say no. That you wouldn’t even answer.”

“I almost didn’t.”

His throat bobs. “Why’d you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s not just about the dog. Not just about the key he left under the stairs or the food already stocked or the note still waiting on the fridge like a breath you’re not ready to exhale.

You look at him. Really look.

And when you speak, it’s quiet. Honest.

“Because I missed you. Even when I hated missing you.”

The silence after is different this time.

He blinks. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something, but all that comes out is a whisper.

“Fuck.”

You let out a laugh—dry, breathless. “Yeah.”

He shifts on the screen, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You still sleep on the couch?”

“Every night.”

“Why?”

“Because the bed remembers more than I’m ready to.”

His eyes flicker. He nods once. Like he understands. Like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Another pause. Then—

“I dream about you,” he says.

And it’s not a confession. It’s a bruise. Something he’s been pressing on in the dark just to see if it still hurts.

You blink. “Hyun—”

“Not just the sex,” he adds, voice hoarse. “Though… yeah. That too. A lot, actually.”

You glance away, heat creeping up your neck. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to,” he says. “I want you to know I still—”

He cuts himself off. Breathes out hard. Shakes his head.

Kkami stirs in your lap, shifting slightly. The air feels too tight suddenly, the silence too loud.

You focus on Kkami. On the slow rise and fall of his small body, the way his paws twitch in sleep like he’s chasing something warm. It grounds you—barely.

Hyunjin exhales on the other end of the line. You can hear it, soft and ragged, the kind of breath that holds everything he didn’t say. Everything he still might.

You don’t speak. Not yet. Because what could you say? I still touch myself to the thought of you? I still wear your hoodie like armor when I can’t sleep? I still think about that night on the floor when we couldn’t stop, even though we knew it was already over?

None of it would come out right.

So instead, you keep your voice even when you ask, “Do you paint me?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don't even know why you asked it. Maybe its because you're so sleepy you can't filter you're thoughts. Maybe because he mentioned it once, over soggy cereal over the golden morning light that filtered through the blinds, over the laughter you've never quite had again.

Hyunjin stills.

On the screen, he doesn’t look shocked. He looks… worn. Like someone who’s been carrying the answer around for a while and doesn’t know where to put it.

“I try not to,” he says eventually. Quiet. Careful. “But you always end up there.”

Your breath falters. You nod slowly, like that’s an answer you expected—because it is. Because you knew. Somehow, you always knew.

You shift the phone slightly, angle it so he can see the window behind you. The dark skyline. The reflection of the room, soft and gold and full of ghosts. Your voice is steadier than you feel when you say, “I haven’t opened it.”

“I know,” he replies, just as soft.

“I want to. But…”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I think I need more time.”

“Take it,” he murmurs. “I left it because I had to, not because I needed anything back.”

You nod. Not that he can see it—not really. But somehow, you think he feels it anyway.

“Okay,” you say. It's the only thing you can manage that doesn’t crack under its own weight.

A pause stretches between you. Soft. Not cold. Just full. Like the breath before a confession. Like the second before a kiss.

Kkami snores lightly, curled deeper into your lap now, his whole body lax with trust. You glance down at him, stroke a thumb between his ears, then look back at the screen.

Hyunjin’s still watching you. Not the dog. Not the view.

Just you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “Didn’t pack enough layers.”

“I knew you’d steal something,” he says, teasing, but low—like he's remembering the way you used to steal everything from him. His clothes. His time. His breath.

“You left the drawer cracked open on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

His smile softens into something quieter. More real.

“I used to love seeing you in my stuff,” he adds. “Used to come home and hope you’d be there. Curled up in it. Pretending to wait for me.”

You swallow. It’s harder than it should be. “I wasn’t pretending.”

Hyunjin blinks slowly. Like that hit him somewhere unexpected. Somewhere tender.

And then, quietly, almost afraid to hope: “Are you still?”

You could lie. You could deflect. But instead, you meet his eyes through the screen.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

His jaw works. “Neither have I.”

The words land between you like a marker—drawing a line not to separate, but to measure distance. And maybe the distance isn’t as wide as you thought.

Your fingers curl a little tighter in Kkami’s fur.

“I should go to bed,” you say. Your voice is quiet. A little raw.

“Okay,” Hyunjin whispers. “Me too.”

But neither of you move. The seconds tick by. You don’t even blink.

Eventually, he says, “Tomorrow night. Can I call again?”

You let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Hyun… you’ve been calling every night.”

His smile doesn’t fade, but it shifts—tilts into something deeper. Less playful. More certain.

“I know,” he says. “But that was for Kkami.”

You blink. “And tomorrow?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. Not once.

“That’s for you.”

It knocks the wind out of you a little, the way he says it. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just simple. True. Like he’s only just letting himself say it out loud, but he’s known it all along.

Your throat tightens. “Oh.”

Hyunjin watches you carefully. “Is that okay?”

You nod once. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”

Something in his posture loosens then, like he’s been holding a breath he can finally let go of. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches again, a smile fighting its way to the surface but not quite forming—like he’s still afraid to want too much, to hope too fast.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not really.

But you know you’ll answer.

And maybe this time you’ll stop pretending it’s for the dog.

“You’re on the bed.”

Hyunjin says it the moment the screen connects. No hello. No lead-up. Just those four words, soft and low and unmistakably aware.

You blink at him from where you’re sitting, back pressed to the headboard, knees pulled up beneath the comforter. His comforter.

You almost lie. Almost say you were just passing through. That the light was better in here. That Kkami stole the couch.

But Hyunjin’s already smiling—slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting for this.

You exhale through your nose. “Kkami’s on the couch.”

“Mm,” he hums, a little amused. “So it’s just you in my bed.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, feeling a little flustered. “Is that going to be a problem?”

His eyes darken a shade, but the smile stays. “Not even a little.”

You roll onto your side, careful not to let the phone slip. The sheets are warm beneath you, still smelling faintly like cedar and fabric softener and something only he ever carried. His presence is everywhere in this room. On the walls. In the folded clothes. Under your skin.

Hyunjin shifts on his end of the call—he’s propped up on pillows, a fitted black tank clinging to his chest, the cut of it leaving little to the imagination. His toned arms are on full display, lean muscle catching the dim light, subtle and sculpted like something sketched in charcoal. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint.

“I thought about you today,” he says after a beat.

You tuck your face into the pillow, just a little. “Like you usually do?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But this time I didn’t fight it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, slow and heavy. “What were you thinking?”

His gaze dips, like he’s shy all of a sudden. “That I miss you. That I used to wake up to you in that bed.”

You swallow, voice thinner now. “It’s a little colder without you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is different from all the others before it. It’s thick. Electric. It hums with all the things neither of you have said but haven’t stopped feeling. The kind of silence that shifts when the air gets warmer, when the breath starts catching, when the ache finally starts to slip through.

Hyunjin wets his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. “You look good there.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I feel... restless.”

He shifts again, almost imperceptibly. “Tell me.”

Your gaze flickers. “Tell you what?”

“What you’re thinking. Right now.”

You hesitate.

But then, softly, deliberately: “I was thinking about your hands.”

Hyunjin’s mouth parts slightly.

“I was thinking about how you used to touch me here,” you say, dragging your fingers over the blanket, slow, just below your collarbone. “And here.” Down, lower now, to the place between your ribs.

His breath stutters through the speaker.

“And I was wondering…” you murmur, voice barely above a hum, “if you miss the way I used to say your name when you touched me like that.”

Hyunjin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they’re dark, focused, hungry.

“I think about it all the time,” he says. “Every fucking night.”

Your thighs press together under the blanket. You feel your pulse everywhere—behind your knees, in your fingertips, between your legs. It’s not even about the sex. Not yet. It’s about the weight of being wanted by someone who remembers you—who still remembers.

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say.

He swallows hard. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

Hyunjin nods slowly. “Me either.”

Then, quiet: “Can I stay on the call?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, voice rough now, “if I asked you to touch yourself… would you let me watch?”

Your breath catches. Not from nerves. From need.

You don’t say yes. You just let the phone settle against the pillow beside you, angled toward your face, the way he used to tilt your chin when he wanted a better look at how undone you were.

The sheets shift as your hand moves lower.

Hyunjin watches. And when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper, like he’s already somewhere far beneath the surface with you.

“Fuck. You always looked so pretty like this.”

You inhale shakily, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and careful, testing the heat already gathered there.

Hyunjin’s eyes drag down your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. His voice is rough with memory.

“Remember that time on the floor? After your exam? You were so out of it—barely undressed. I just shoved your panties to the side and made you come in, what, two minutes?”

You let out a quiet, choked sound at the back of your throat.

He smiles—crooked, dark. “Yeah. You clenched so hard around my fingers I thought I’d lose them.”

You whimper softly. Your hand moves slow, wet, dragging through the mess of your own need, slick pooling beneath your fingertips like your body remembers him even better than your mind does.

“God, that sound,” Hyunjin breathes. “That little gasp when you’re just starting to touch yourself. Same one you made when I used to run my fingers down your stomach—real slow, just to watch you twitch.”

You press harder against your clit, circles tightening, mouth falling open as your back arches into the memory. He’s not even touching you, and still—your body bends like it’s learned him by muscle memory.

Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low and ragged, the kind that scrapes the inside of your throat just hearing it. “All spread out in my bed. Fucking yourself open with your hand like you want me to see everything. Like you know I used to make you feel better than anyone else ever could.”

You moan, breath catching, and Hyunjin’s smile sharpens.

“Touch your tits,” he says, not as a command—but a conjuring. Like he already knows you’re aching for it. “Lift your shirt for me.”

You obey without a sound, pushing the hem up slowly, just enough to expose the curve of one breast, the soft point of your nipple hard and aching from the friction of your shirt.

He groans. “You remember how obsessed I was with your tits? Couldn’t stop sucking on them. Couldn’t stop biting.” His jaw clenches. “You used to beg me to be gentle. And then beg me not to stop.”

Your fingers slide down again—slippery, desperate. Your thighs shake under the weight of it. The rhythm is messier now, your hips chasing pressure. Hyunjin watches all of it, his hand dragging down his torso, disappearing beneath his waistband.

“Touching yourself in my bed,” he growls. “Wearing my shirt. Letting me watch while you make yourself come for me.”

He’s panting now, hand working slow, deliberate strokes beneath the screen. His tank top clings to his chest, sweat beading along his collarbones. His buzzed hair is messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his mouth—his fucking mouth—is red and parted, like he’s still tasting you.

“You remember the way I used to fuck you from behind?” he says. “Pushed your face into the mattress, held your hips like you’d run from me if I let go?”

You whimper—your fingers falter, then speed up.

“Could barely breathe, baby. You’d just sob into the sheets. You loved it. Took every inch, crying like you couldn’t handle it—and still begged for more.”

Your body goes taut, heels digging into the mattress, orgasm hovering just out of reach.

Hyunjin's voice drops to a growl, breath quick and filthy. “Bet your pussy’s fucking tight right now. Clenching like it forgot what it’s supposed to take—like it’s trying to remember the shape of my cock.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll teach it again. I’ll stretch you open so slow you feel it for days. Won’t stop ‘til you’re dripping all over my sheets, crying into the pillow, begging for more.”

You whimper his name—helpless. Shattered.

“You want me to say it?” Hyunjin pants, fist working now, muscles flexing. “Want me to tell you how I’d do it?”

You nod, frantic. Desperate.

His voice turns molten. Thick with lust, arrogance, something cruel and beautiful.

“I’d start slow. Tease you with just the tip. Let you feel the stretch, let you beg for the rest of it. Then I’d give you all of it at once—deep, hard. Just to see you fucking cry.”

You do cry out. The tension in your body snaps tighter, hips lifting off the bed, toes curling. So close.

“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” he growls. “Grip your hips and slam into you so hard you’d lose your voice. You remember how I’d do that? Say, ‘You’re not done yet, baby. You can take it.’ And you always fucking would.”

You’re whimpering now, moaning into your own shoulder to muffle the sound, fingers moving in slippery, filthy rhythm. The orgasm’s close—so close—spooling at the base of your spine, hot and tight and relentless.

“Oh, fuck, there it is,” he gasps, fucking into his fist now, stroking faster. “You’re close. I can see it—hear it. Just like that, baby. Let go for me. Come for the boy who still dreams about the way you taste. Come for the fucking lunatic who’d trade his last painting just to feel your pussy clench around his fingers one more time.”

That breaks you.

You moan his name—soft, ruined, high-pitched—and you come with your hand buried between your thighs, eyes fluttering, back arching. The pleasure pulses through you in waves, soaked and frantic and unstoppable.

“God, you’re still so fucking perfect,” he grits out. “I could’ve painted this. You—like that. That’s my favorite version of you.”

You whimper, still trembling.

He grins. Dark. Gleaming. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

You nod, dizzy.

He shifts the phone—just enough for you to see the slick length of him in his hand. Red at the tip, dripping, veins thick under taut skin. His pace is ruthless now.

“I used to fuck your thighs just to tease you,” he pants. “Not even your pussy. Just that pretty space between them. Used to slide my cock right there and come all over your stomach.”

You let out a breathy sound of disbelief, hips twitching in aftershock. Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty and aching.

“Fucking ruined me,” he snarls. “You ruined me. No one else has even come close. No one sounds like you. No one feels like you.”

And then, through gritted teeth:

“I’m gonna come thinking about your mouth. That filthy little tongue. That sweet fucking smile you gave me while I fucked your throat.”

Your legs tremble again.

“Fuck, baby—fuckfuckfuck—”

He comes with your name on his tongue, head thrown back, muscles tensed, body shuddering through it as his hips stutter beneath the blanket. His jaw slackens, hand squeezing out the last twitch of pleasure.

The silence after is sharp. Breathless.

Your own body still buzzes, skin flushed, sheets damp with sweat and want and memory.

Neither of you speak at first. Just breathing. Just staring.

Eventually, Hyunjin looks up again. His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges.

“Tell me this isn’t just sex.”

You don’t.

You just stare back.

And then you hang up.

You hang up, and your hand is still trembling. Your whole body is still trembling, wrecked in ways that have nothing to do with the orgasm.

It takes less than a minute for him to call back.

Then again.

And again.

You watch the screen light up with his name—Hyun—and each time, it makes your stomach twist so violently it feels like punishment. Like grief.

You don’t answer.

The fifth time, he stops calling. Thirty seconds later, your phone dings with a text.

[Hyunjin]: i’m sorry. please just tell me if that was too much. [Hyunjin]: i didn’t mean to push you. i didn’t mean to fuck everything up. [Hyunjin]: we don’t have to talk about it. we can pretend it didn’t happen if you want. i’ll follow your lead. just… please say something.

You don’t respond to those either.

You just turn off read receipts and shove the phone under the pillow.

The next few days go by in a strange, slow blur.

You and Kkami settle into a rhythm. He doesn’t bark anymore when you walk past. Doesn’t flinch when you reach for his leash. He even curls up at your feet when you’re on the couch, sometimes nuzzling his nose into your ankle like he’s already decided you belong here.

It should feel comforting.

It doesn’t.

You stop sitting in Hyunjin’s bed. You stop wearing the hoodie. You wash it, fold it, and put it back exactly where you found it, like none of this ever happened.

You send him brief texts. Clipped. Neutral.

[You]: he ate all his dinner. no accidents. slept fine.

[You]: took him for a walk. he peed on someone’s shoe.

[You]: when’s your flight again? 

You don’t tell him how it feels like the walls have closed in.

How you’ve stopped sleeping in his bed again—even if the couch hurts your back. Even if the couch doesn’t smell quite like him. 

How Kkami curls up beside you now without growling, without guilt. You take him for long walks. Let him tug you through the park. Let him bark at pigeons and lick your knuckles and rest his chin on your thigh when you scroll through old texts you don’t send anymore.

You don’t cry. But your chest aches in a way that feels dangerously close.

You were never going to be able to leave without feeling like this.

But now it’s worse. Because you let yourself want again.

And it’s giving you vertigo.

[Hyunjin]: should be back around 5:30. just leave the key in the box. thank you again. for everything.

You stare at the message for a long time.

Not because of what it says.

But because of what it doesn’t.

And what you don’t know is this:

Hyunjin’s lying.

His flight lands at 3:10.

He’s already halfway through the city when you’re zipping up your bag.

He’s already in the elevator by the time you’re taking out the trash.

And he’s standing at the front door—key in hand, chest tight, hands shaking—when you reach for the handle to leave.

You open the door and nearly collide with him.

You freeze.

The air catches.

Time does something strange.

Hyunjin’s just… there.

Sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, suitcase by his side, curls of damp air clinging to the collar of his shirt from the humid sprint through the city. And his eyes—sharp, dark, wide with something between relief and devastation—lock onto yours like he’s forgotten how to blink.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“Hyun—?”

Kkami barrels into view like a missile. He lets out a shrill bark of excitement and practically throws himself into Hyunjin’s legs, circling and jumping and whining like he’s just won the fucking lottery.

But Hyunjin doesn’t look down. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

He just stares at you.

And says, low, quiet, steady:

“You were really gonna leave.”

You clutch your bag a little tighter. “You said you’d be back at five.”

“I lied.”

You swallow. “I figured that part out.”

His jaw clenches. His hands twitch by his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or shove them into his pockets or bury them in your skin just to make sure you’re real.

Kkami lets out another bark, trying to wedge his head between you two like he’s the center of gravity—but Hyunjin doesn’t even glance down. Not once.

All of him is focused on you.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A plea. A wound.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Bullshit.”

That makes you flinch. Just a little. He sees it. His expression softens, but only barely.

Hyunjin steps forward. Not fast—but purposeful. Like if he stops now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice taut with something sharp. “I’m sorry I came on too strong. I’m sorry I didn’t give you time. I’m sorry I didn’t say what I should’ve said months ago, years ago—fuck, the morning after. But don’t stand here and tell me I didn’t want you.”

You inhale—tight, shallow. Like there’s no room in your lungs for this.

For him.

“Hyun—”

“No,” he cuts in, but it’s not cruel. Just cracked. “You don’t get to walk out and let me find the ghost of you in my bed again. Not after you let me see you like that. Not after I—”

His voice breaks.

He swallows it down.

Kkami sits at his feet now, finally quiet, as if even he knows this part isn’t his.

“I meant it,” Hyunjin says, softer now. “That night. Everything I said. Everything I remembered. It wasn’t just to get you off.”

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.

“You said you missed me,” he goes on. “But then you shut the door in my face. And I was willing to pretend I didn’t care. I was willing to take scraps just to be near you. But if you’re still standing in front of me—if you haven’t walked away yet—then just fucking tell me.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

You look at him. Really look. And you know—he’s not going to let you run.

Not this time.

“Go get the note.”

His voice is soft, but firm. Like a command spoken through a kiss. Like an ache wrapped in velvet.

You blink. “What?”

“The letter,” he repeats. “The one I left you. On the fridge.”

You freeze.

“I know you haven’t opened it.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something dark in his voice—something possessive, guttural. “I want you to read it. Now.”

You hesitate.

“Please,” he adds, and that’s what breaks you.

You nod—barely—and turn without a word. Each step toward the kitchen feels thick, underwater.

You open it, and—

It’s not a letter.

Not really.

It’s a patchwork of thoughts, of half-confessions. Scribbled lines, crossed-out phrases, uneven spacing. The ink changes color midway—black, then blue, then black again. Some words are written in cursive. Some in a rush. Some like they cost him something to write.

You glance up. He nods again.

“Read it,” he says. “Out loud.”

You hesitate. Then you read.

“You once laughed in your sleep, and I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just watched you and hoped that whoever you were dreaming about looked like me.”

You swallow hard. Keep going.

The ink shifts color. From deep black to something fainter. Navy. A pen running dry, maybe.

Your voice wavers.

“There’s a sweater you left. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. I hold it anyway.”

Hyunjin’s throat works. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I never painted your face. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get your eyes right. But I painted your hands. A hundred times. Because they always knew how to hold me better than I knew how to ask.”

Your chest twists. You can’t speak the words out loud anymore, but you read. You read and read and read until there is nothing left, until the space between you feels alive–electric. 

He steps forward. Just one step. But it’s enough to close the distance.

“I lied,” Hyunjin says, voice low, rough. “The sitter didn’t cancel.”

You blink. “What?”

“I had people,” he continues. “So many people I could’ve called. People I trust. People who would’ve said yes.”

His eyes are burning now—dark, wet, glittering with something fragile and ferocious.

“But I didn’t want them. I wanted you.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. Your hands are trembling.

“I told myself it was about Kkami. About the timing. About convenience.” He huffs out a broken laugh. “But it wasn’t. It was you. It was always you.”

Your breath falters.

“I missed you,” he says. “So much it made me sick. I thought I could bury it. Paint over it. Work through it. But I couldn’t. I never did. You’ve always been underneath it all—under the hunger, the silence, the mess I made of myself.”

He steps closer. You’re breathing the same air now.

“I loved you then,” he says. “When we were tangled up in bedsheets and half-truths and pretending it didn’t mean anything. I loved you when you wore my hoodie and called me yours with your eyes. I loved you the second I saw you, and I—”

His voice cracks.

“And I love you now.”

You don't remember moving. Don’t remember closing the gap, dropping your bag, reaching for him with hands that should’ve known better.

All you know is this: one second, you're blinking back tears, and the next, you're kissing him like you're drowning.

Hyunjin catches you with both hands—one at your jaw, the other curling around your waist, steadying. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, frantic. His lips part on a gasp when you press your body to his, and then he's devouring you like something starved.

Your back hits the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. Fingers thread into his hair—short now, prickling at the scalp—and he groans like it’s breaking him.

You drop your bag. You don’t even hear it hit the floor.

You don’t care.

His hands are everywhere. On your waist, your hips, the curve of your spine. He pulls you in so tight you feel the tremor in his arms, the sheer desperation coiled in his chest like a spring pulled too far.

“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—”

His voice breaks again, and then he’s back on you, lips trailing across your jaw, down the line of your neck. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a moan as he bites softly into your throat—just enough to mark. Just enough to remember.

Your hands scrabble at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up, palms hungry on bare skin. He hisses as your nails drag over his stomach, muscles twitching beneath the heat of your touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe.

He does. In one motion, the tank top is gone—flung to the floor like it offended him. And you stare. You can’t help it.

He’s still art. Still all sharp lines and soft skin and lean, desperate hunger. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat glinting in the hollow of his throat, and you think: I could die like this. I could burn for him and never want to be saved.

Hyunjin kisses you again—harder this time, hungrier. Like he heard it. Like he wants to go up in flames with you.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you without warning, and you gasp as your back hits the wall again, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The air shifts. Your breath catches. His cock presses against you through his jeans—thick, hot, twitching with every grind of his hips.

“I can’t wait,” he pants against your mouth. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”

“Then do it,” you breathe, dragging your nails down his back. “Hyune—please—”

Hyunjin breathes something that sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer, and then he’s walking—stumbling, really—half-guided by the desperate way you’re clinging to him, the press of your mouths, the sharp hitch of your breath when he grabs at your ass to hold you higher. You barely register the shift from wall to bedroom until your back hits the mattress, until the world becomes sheets and skin and the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like it’s sacred.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, springs groaning under the tangle of limbs and heat and history. Hyunjin follows you down like gravity itself — hands sliding, mouth chasing, body already slotting between your thighs as if it never forgot where it belonged.

His shirt is gone. Yours joins it. He kisses you through every inch of skin he unveils, frantic and starved and reverent, like he’s not sure whether to worship you or ruin you.

You arch beneath him when his tongue traces the curve of your breast, the bite of his teeth following fast after — a soft sting that makes your breath catch, your fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans when your nails drag down his back, when your thighs fall open wider.

And then he’s there — rutting against your center, clothed still but so hard it aches through the friction, the weight of him pressing perfect and punishing between your legs.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only move — hips grinding up to meet every desperate push of his, your cunt soaked and aching with the need to be filled.

Hyunjin’s hand slips down, hooking your thigh over his hip. He grinds into you through the last barrier, jeans rough against your soaked underwear, and it’s filthy the way your body answers—already arching, already clenching around nothing. You chase the friction shamelessly, trying to wring every ounce of pressure you can from the maddening drag of his cock pressed to your core.

He hisses against your throat, breath hot, teeth scraping the fragile skin there. You’re drenched. There’s no mistaking it—the way your panties cling, the way your slick seeps through them and stains his jeans, how he shudders just from the heat of you pulsing against the fabric.

The zipper’s down before you can even register the motion. He pushes his jeans low enough to free himself—hard and heavy and flushed dark with want. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. He tears your panties off with a quiet growl, not cruel, just crazed with the need to feel skin on skin, no more layers, no more time.

When he lines up and pushes in, it’s one long, devastating stroke—his cock thick and perfect and stretching you open like you were made for it.

You gasp—sharp, strangled. Your nails sink into his back.

Hyunjin goes still.

Buried to the hilt inside you, his entire body trembling with restraint, every muscle locked tight like he’s trying to keep himself from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You—oh my god—”

His forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking. You feel it. In his arms, in his breath, in the way his cock pulses deep inside you without moving. The kind of overwhelmed that turns to worship. The kind of ruin that feels like coming home.

You tighten around him instinctively—hungry, pulsing—and he lets out a strangled moan against your skin.

“I swear to god,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “If I move, I’m gonna come like a fucking teenager.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, anchoring him there, as if you could stop time with the press of your fingertips. His cock twitches inside you, thick and throbbing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

Hyunjin groans—low, raw, like the sound is being dragged out of him by force.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “You feel… I forgot—fuck, I forgot how perfect you are.”

You whimper, breath caught in your throat. You’re stretched so full it feels like splitting—blissfully unbearable. Like he’s carved to fit you, or maybe you were carved for him.

He doesn’t move. Can’t. His whole body is locked in place, every muscle drawn taut with the kind of restraint that hurts.

“I’m gonna embarrass myself,” he rasps. “You’re so warm, I—I need a second.”

You nod, gasping. “Okay.”

But your body doesn’t care. It’s greedy. Slick clings to your inner thighs, to the base of his cock. You pulse around him again—tight, hot, involuntary—and he shudders, a curse breaking on his lips.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he whispers, biting your shoulder.

“I’m not,” you breathe, but your hips roll anyway, a tiny grind up into his stillness.

Hyunjin moans—loud, broken. “Baby, I’m serious. You do that again and I’ll fucking—”

You clench again, on purpose this time.

He snaps.

In one hard thrust, he pulls out halfway and slams back in. You cry out—sharp, wanton—as your body folds around his. The stretch. The impact. The sound of skin on skin.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your head tipping back, throat exposed.

Hyunjin watches the way your mouth parts, how your breasts bounce with every desperate snap of his hips. He groans then drops his mouth to your chest, sucking a bruise over your heart.

“This mine?” he pants, dragging his cock out slow before plunging back in. “Still mine?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, breath caught in your throat. He fucks you through the motion, slow and deep now, the grind of his cock so obscene you swear you can feel him everywhere—behind your knees, in your throat, echoing in every part of you that remembers how he used to love you.

“No, baby,” he murmurs, voice fraying, fingers sliding under your knee to push your thigh back, opening you wider. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”

“It’s—” Your voice breaks on a moan when he thrusts deep again, dragging against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. “It’s yours, Hyunjin. Always.”

He groans into your chest like the words punched the air out of him. Then he’s fucking you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the way you take him. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but you don’tHe moans into your chest like the words physically hit him, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers lacing together tight, grounding him even as he loses himself in the slick, pulsing heat of you.

You’re soaked, ruined, trembling under every thick slide of his cock. He hits so deep it borders on pain, and yet you arch into it—into him—dragging him closer, clawing at his back like if you could just get closer, it might be enough.

“I missed this pussy,” he growls, the words slurred and broken against your throat. “I fucking dreamed about it. Thought about it every night with my cock in my hand—nothing felt as good, nothing—fuck—”

You keen, high-pitched, overwhelmed. Your body pulses around him again, tight as a vice, and it makes him stutter—a half-thrust cut short by the shudder that runs through him.

He kisses you then—desperate, biting, tongue dragging into your mouth like he wants to consume you from the inside out.

You’re moan is swallowed by his mouth when he hits that spot—deep and relentless—and your whole body jolts. Your back arches, your legs tighten around his waist, dragging him deeper.

“Right there?” he growls. “That the spot, baby?”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but no words coming—just breath, just heat, just the sound of him splitting you open again and again.

Hyunjin grins. It's crooked. Crooked and cocky and dizzy with something feral. Like he’s gone. Like you’ve pulled him under with you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower now, grinding his hips in a filthy circle that makes your eyes roll back. “I remember. Right there. Got you clenching like you’re about to cry.”

contine this: His voice breaks on a moan, guttural and reverent. “Fuck, that’s so pretty—so fucking pretty, baby—your face when I fuck you like this.”

He’s unraveling, you can feel it—his rhythm fraying, pace faltering, every thrust a prayer half-remembered. He buries himself deep and stays there, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing inside you like a heartbeat. His forehead falls to yours again, and he’s breathing so hard it shakes both your bodies.

“You gonna cry for me?” he whispers, voice all fray and silk. “Wanna see it, wanna feel you fall apart. I’ll take care of it—I’ll hold you through it, I promise.”

You don’t mean to. But it’s been too much—his mouth, his voice, the stretch of him splitting you open in perfect, deliberate ruin. Your eyes blur, your breath hitches, and before you can stop it—

A tear slips down your cheek.

Hyunjin sees it. And something inside him shatters.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, fingers trembling where they hold your thigh. “That’s it, that’s—fuck—”

He fucks you through it, slow and deep, every stroke angled to keep you on the edge. His free hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek. And he’s murmuring now, wrecked and ragged and sweet:

“You’re so good for me. So perfect. I don’t deserve you—I don’t—”

You cry out again, back arching as your orgasm hits—wave after wave of unbearable heat crashing through you. You seize around him, walls fluttering, hips stuttering beneath his weight.

Hyunjin groans like it’s killing him. Like the feel of you falling apart around his cock is undoing him thread by thread.

“Can I—fuck, baby, where do you want it?” he gasps, teeth gritted, body coiled so tight you think he might break apart if you say no.

“Inside,” you breathe, wrecked and shameless. “Want it inside—please.”

That last word shreds him.

He thrusts once—deep, sharp—then again, slower this time, drawn-out like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. And then he’s coming—hard.

A low, desperate sound tears out of him as his cock jerks inside you, spilling warmth in thick, molten pulses. He buries himself as deep as he can go, arms trembling around you, breath stuttering in your ear. His whole body shakes with it, every muscle straining to stay rooted in you as pleasure rips through him like lightning.

He stays like that—deep inside you, trembling, breathless—until the shudders fade to something softer. Something quieter.

The kind of silence that feels like safety.

His forehead rests against yours, damp hair brushing your temple, and you can feel the weight of him everywhere—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with your own.

Neither of you speaks.

There’s nothing left to say.

Just breath. Just warmth. Just the slow, wet drag of him slipping out of you when his body finally yields, when your bodies finally remember they’re separate things again. You wince a little, overstimulated, but he’s careful—gentle hands guiding your hips as he settles beside you.

The bed is a mess. You’re a mess. But in his arms, none of it matters.

He pulls you close, one hand curling behind your neck, the other splayed low across your spine. You fit against him like you were made to—legs tangled, faces barely apart. His eyes find yours, dark and soft and unreadable. And then—

He kisses you.

Slow. Tender. Unhurried. Like he’s not trying to restart anything—just thank you, silently, for letting him fall apart in your arms.

Your fingers slip into his hair. His thumb draws circles at the base of your spine.

And in that quiet, breathless space—there is no ache, no past, no noise.

The gallery hums with low conversation and champagne glasses clinking. Golden evening light filters through tall windows, casting Hyunjin’s paintings in soft amber and dust. He stands near one of his larger pieces—stark, aching, all deep reds and pale ivory brushstrokes layered like wounds healed over—speaking to a small crowd of critics and curators, hands moving with slow confidence as he explains his process.

It’s been years since he’s spoken like this—without apology. Years since he let the world see him this raw and unguarded. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, long hair tied back loosely, wedding band glinting when he gestures. He looks settled now, anchored. And you know what it took to get him there.

You weren’t supposed to come.

He’d kissed your forehead this morning, hand warm and reverent on your swollen belly, and told you to rest. “You’ll just get exhausted,” he’d said, brushing your hair back, “and I’ll be distracted the whole time wondering if your ankles are swollen or if the baby’s doing backflips again.”

But now you’re here.

Standing just inside the gallery, framed by the door like something sacred. You wore the dress he loves—the one that drapes gently over the curve of your belly, soft and simple, glowing in the dusk light. One hand rests instinctively at your side, the other slipping under the swell of you. There’s a quiet smile on your lips, half proud, half bashful, and your eyes are locked on him.

Hyunjin doesn’t see you at first. He’s mid-sentence, talking about brush technique and layered memory, about how grief isn't linear, how art can be a body trying to heal. His voice is steady. His hands are sure.

Then he glances up.

And freezes.

You watch it happen in real time—the shift. His mouth stutters around a word, vowels cut short, fingers faltering mid-gesture. And then—god. That smile. Unrehearsed, boyish, wide in a way that crinkles his eyes and ruins all pretense. A pure, delighted thing that belongs only to you.

A few people glance over their shoulders, curious. But Hyunjin barely notices.

He catches himself, coughs once, and somehow fumbles through the last few lines of his explanation. His voice is softer now. Almost sheepish. He wraps up quickly, answering a question with a vague nod, thanking the crowd with a half-bow.

And then he’s moving.

Straight through the gallery, long strides purposeful, eyes never leaving yours.

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe just to greet him—but he’s already cupping your face in his hands before you can speak. His fingers are cool from holding a champagne flute, but his palms are warm. Familiar. His touch gentle despite how frantically he reaches for you.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, kissing your forehead. “I told you not to come.” A kiss to your nose. “I specifically said—” another to your cheek, “—that I’d worry—” your chin “—that you’d get tired,” he murmurs against your skin, peppering kisses like punctuation. “That your feet would swell. That you’d—fuck, baby, I said stay home.”

You smile, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze—warm and full of something playful. “I know, but—”

He kisses you.

Soft and certain, his mouth presses to yours before the words can even leave your lips. It’s instinctive, almost impatient, like he couldn’t bear to hear the excuse when you’re standing right here, glowing and breathless and his. His hand curls at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You feel him smile into it, lips warm and reverent, like maybe he’s trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming.

You giggle against his mouth.

It bubbles out before you can stop it—light, easy, surprised by your own happiness.

“Hyunjin,” you laugh, gently pushing at his chest. “Let me speak.”

He leans back only a little, just enough to see you again. There’s a smudge of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. His eyes trace every inch of your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone. “You take my breath away,” he murmurs, like a confession. “Every damn time.”

You want to say something—something light, something teasing—but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for irony. Just warmth. Just wonder.

And love. So much of it, it floods the space between you.

His hand slips down, resting over the swell of your stomach, and he sighs when he feels the smallest kick beneath his palm. “Little traitor,” he whispers to your bump, grinning. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.” He leans in and kisses you again—soft, slow, not quite chaste. Like there’s no one else in the room, no critics still lingering, no gallery full of people pretending not to watch the artist come undone in the arms of his muse.

Eventually, he pulls back—just a little. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Stay?” he asks, almost shy. “I want to show you something. After everyone leaves.”

You nod.

You nod, and his smile deepens—boyish, brilliant, the kind that still makes your knees weak even now. He kisses you one last time, quick and giddy, before reluctantly pulling away with a soft groan, dragging his hand down your arm like he’s tethering himself to you.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, squeezing your fingers before turning back toward the crowd. “Don’t go into labor while I’m gone.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “No promises.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder—mock-scandalized, lips twitching with laughter—and then he’s swept back into the flow of guests, nodding politely, shaking hands, answering a few last questions as people begin to drift toward the exit.

You watch from the side, sipping sparkling water from a plastic flute someone handed you, perched on the edge of a velvet bench like you belong in one of his paintings. A few guests glance your way—some with recognition, some with curiosity—but none of them matter.

You only watch him.

And he watches you too—between conversations, between thank-yous and signatures, his gaze keeps sliding back—like a tether, like gravity, like a vow that’s already been made a hundred times in silence.

You smile around the rim of your glass and press a hand to your belly, where the smallest flicker answers back. A quiet reminder of everything the two of you have built in the quiet spaces between the chaos. In the brushstrokes. In the breathing.

The gallery empties slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore. But you stay, bathed in golden light, watching the man you love exist in a room full of people who will never know him like you do. Who will never see the version of him that wakes up sleep-tousled and soft, who talks to your stomach like it already understands him, who paints love into everything he touches because he’s learned how to survive by making beauty out of ache.

[misctf]

Country Living

When he stopped to help you on the side of this lonely country road, you couldn’t have been more grateful. You didn’t expect your car to breakdown on these desolate backroads. Nor did you expect a lack of cell service. Your years studying in college didn’t exactly give you the knowledge on how to diagnose and fix cars. But based on all the smoke, you figured something was wrong.

“Aw, don't you worry none, I'm right happy to help y'all out.” He removed his ball cap and ran his hand through his short brown hair, “Name’s Bucky. What brings y'all to this neck of the woods?”

He was certainly taller and more muscular than you- not to mention ripe with the smell of a hard day’s work. And you could tell he was looking you over, the juxtaposition couldn’t have been clearer. Country vs city boy, manual laborer vs keyboard warrior, dropped out of high school vs college educated. The list could go on. But despite the bias you held towards these country folks, you were happy he was helping. And so you introduced yourself and expressed your sincere gratitude. Bucky smiled and gave you a bone crushing handshake.

“Ain't no trouble at all, I'm just glad to help out.” He smiled warmly, his dark eyes, while lacking intelligence, were filled with kindness and just a bit of mischief.

He winks at you and you felt your heart flutter for just a moment. Maybe it was the way his stubble framed his tanned face. Or the way the sweat dripped from his muscular arms as he worked on your car. Or perhaps it was the occasional glances he gave you and the sly smirk that told you he knew you were checking him out.

“I reckon I know what's wrong. Just need to grab a tool from my garage.” He said, wiping the sweat from his brow, “You care to join me? Looks like you could use a sip of somethin’.”

It was true. In the sweltering heat, you were certainly thirsty. And while part of you wanted to stay with your car, you felt beckoned to go with him. And so you did. You climbed into his pick-up truck and watched as he revved the engine. And before long, you were cruising down the old country road with your car disappearing from sight.

“Well, dang if this ain't my favorite tune!” Bucky said, turning up the volume, “You figure you into this kinda music?”

It was some country song. One about cars, beer, and living on a farm. Not something you’d listen to voluntarily. But as Bucky sang in his southern twang, you found your foot tapping along. Soon you were mouthing the words, almost as if you knew the song by heart. And a moment later you joined in with him, the two of you putting your hearts into every lyric. You barely noticed the southern twang that garnished your voice.

“Well, I'll be darned! Can’t believe you like these kinda tunes. No offense intended, but you don't quite fit the mold, do ya?” He says with a chuckle.

Bucky gives your arm a playful punch and you look down at the exposed, tanned skin of your bicep. Your muscles were contracting and seemingly getting larger, highlighted nicely by the wifebeater that clung tightly to your skin. You look up at Bucky and he gives you a wink. Again, you feel comforted by his kind smile and playful dark eyes. You turn away and absentmindedly run a hand over your growing biceps. So firm and tight, the skin somewhat weathered. But deep down you know something isn’t right. Its nagging at you, begging for you to say something. To at least find out what’s happening to you. You want to tell Bucky, but he’s just pulled up to his garage.  

“Mind givin’ me a hand findin’ my toolkit?” Bucky asks. You nod quickly- your anxiety being pushed deep into your subconsciousness. And as Bucky enters the garage, he pulls off his sweaty wifebeater, “Don't pay me no mind, it sure gets mighty hot 'round these parts. You’re welcome to do the same.”

And you follow his example. As you do, you catch a whiff of your pits. The musk that invades your nostrils is a far cry from the vegan deodorant you applied this morning. Moreso, your usually well-trimmed pit hair is now a curly damp bush of dark brown hairs that poke out when you lower your arms. The smell makes you dizzy and you feel like you might fall over, but Bucky lends you a hand.

“Don’t go faintin’ on me now.” He says with a grin, “We got a lotta work to do.”

“Don't you worry 'bout me none, I got this here handled.” You say- the words leaving your mouth without much input from your brain. Bucky’s eyes light up and he grins.

“I shoulda known that.” His laugh fills your ears and you swear it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve heard. He notices you admiring him, “Gotta find those tools now.”

You nod and start rummaging through his garage and workbench. You pick up a wrench and place it down. Then another and another. You never really needed to learn basic mechanic stuff, let alone the names of wrenches. You were more focused on your degree. Your degree in... In...? You stare at the composite wrench in your hand and your eyes narrow. You were studying something at that univer... uni... book-learnin’ place of yours, right? Your thoughts are distracted when some oil spills on your hands.

“Gosh darnit.” You mutter, wiping the oil on your work jeans. Work jeans that were stained and torn from years of laboring.

You turn towards Bucky to say something, but instead find yourself gawking. His perfect stubble across his face, the sweat gleaming on his firm and toned muscles, and the way his chest hairs frame his pecs. Your dick gets hard and you quickly start to massage your bulge. And when you see how well his work jeans fit tightly around his juicy ass, you can’t but help let out a whistle.

“You say somethin’?” He asks, turning to face you, “Yeehaw! Look at you!” He says, clearly gawking.  

You turn to catch a glimpse of yourself in a nearby mirror and your eyes widen. You bounce your juicy pecs, appreciating the light dusting of hairs that decorate them. You raise your thick, meaty arm and flex, causing your muscles to bulge. And then you look at your face. It had squared out a bit, giving it a masculine edge and your cheeks now sported stubble. You felt powerful, and you couldn’t help but continue to flex.

“Hey there big fella.” You let out a masculine moan as Bucky comes from behind you, his arm reaching around, and his hand grabbing a fistful of your muscle tit, “You’re bigger’n a bull in springtime!” You just nod, unable to produce words as pleasure courses through you from his teasing hand, “It sure does get lonesome out here in these parts. Reckon I wouldn’t mind some company, if it ain’t too much trouble.”

He spins you around, your bodies pressing up against one another. His hand moves down your abs and then down your work jeans. He’s staring deep into your eyes now, a primal lust replacing the prior warmth from earlier. And for the first time, you feel lost. Scared even. As though you’re going down a path you wouldn’t be able to back away from. The end of one chapter of your life and the start of another you weren’t sure you wanted.

“Wait a minute... somethin’ don’t feel right. I... this ain’t who I am.” You say, unable to talk like you used to.

“Now, don’t go overthinkin’ it. Just keep your eyes on me.” Bucky whispered, his hands working to undo the buckle on your jeans.

You watch as he pulls down your pants and slowly gets down on his knees. Your enlarged, throbbing dick continues to grow, adding inch after inch. Bucky is nearly salivating as he comes face to face with your monster, and without another word, his tongue traces along the shaft. You moan as his mouth expertly works your cock. He bobs up and down, taking its entirety into his mouth. You feel as his hands wrap around your waist and he grabs a fistful of your muscular ass, causing you to let out another deep, masculine moan. You can feel your dick throbbing, your balls growing heavy with your seed. And as he expertly works the head of your cock, you can feel it. You’re getting close... so close. And then it stops. You’re breathing heavy now, and you look down at him. A sheen of sweat covers your body, dampening your body hair and filling the air with your country musk.

“Wh... why’d ya stop?” You breath out.

Bucky smirks, “You sure 'bout this, darlin’? Leavin’ behind all that city livin’ and book-learnin’? Just you and me, livin’ simple out here?” He licks along your shaft again, “Once you say yes, that’s it. No turnin’ back, no second thoughts. You sure you’re ready for that?”

Was this what he wanted? To bring you so close? To send you into a horny frenzy? To make it so that in this moment, all you’d be able to say was yes? With a smirk and a wink, he went back to sucking your cock. And as he did, you could feel it. You could feel your brain shrinking. Your memories growing up in suburbia vanished. As were your memories of going to college in the city. Nerdy interests like videogames and comic books vanished from your brain, and you felt terror as you forgot about your friends and family. Everything that made you you was vanishing from your mind. Instead, you could feel new interests: farming, hunting, woodworking, lifting weights, and drinking beer with your husband after a long day. Your fashion sense simplified: wifebeaters and work jeans, and honestly going shirtless was preferred. And as your eyes dimmed to reflect your lack of intelligence, and Bucky bobbed up and down on your dick, you finally came, releasing all of who you used to be. And as you filled your husband’s eager throat, you blacked out.

If someone told you who you used to be in your past life, I’m not sure you would go back. When the police came by a few days after your transformation with a missing persons poster of some kid, you had no idea who they were talking about. You quickly forgot all about that encounter. You had more important things like fixing the truck. But before you did that, you should check on Bucky. It’s been a few days, and your balls were mighty full.

[shipmanl0ver]

“Now That You’re Gone”

————-

Yeah yeah my heart hurts anyways i love this song go listen to it

Pairing: Shauna Shipman x Reader

Warnings: Death (R!), and probably others I’m forgetting

————-

The cold doesn't bother her like it used to. Not anymore.

Shauna sits by the dying fire, the embers casting flickering shadows on the snow. It's quiet. Too quiet. Even nature seems to mourn.

Never thought it would be like this

What will you do

Now that you're gone?

She hears the lyrics in her head—the ones you used to hum when you thought no one was listening. You had a soft voice, always just under your breath, like a secret you didn't think the world deserved to hear.

You were her secret too.

You never said it out loud—not really. But your fingers lingered on hers longer than necessary. Your smiles held things unsaid. And in the dark of the wilderness, when the others were asleep, you'd lie side by side, backs to the cold, bodies pressed together under layers of stolen warmth and stolen moments.

She remembers your last night vividly. She didn't even know it was going to be your last.

You and Jackie had argued, again. You'd always tried to keep the peace, but that night, Jackie's words cut deeper than usual. She accused you of taking sides. Of betraying her. Of wanting more from Shauna than you dared admit.

You didn't deny it. Not this time.

You walked out into the snow, lips trembling, eyes shining, but not from the cold.

"I need to be alone," you'd said to Shauna, voice small.

She let you go.

She let you walk out into the freezing night.

And in the morning, all they found was a shape in the snow.

Curled up. Silent. Frozen.

Dead.

You.

Never known such unhappiness

Never thought it would be like this

What will I do, now that you're gone?

"Shauna?" Natalie's voice pulls her back to the present. She doesn't turn.

"Yeah?" she answers hollowly.

"We're low on firewood."

Of course they are. They always are. Everything is always running out—food, heat, time, sanity.

You.

She finally rises, brushing the frost from her jacket. Every movement feels heavier than it should. Her legs carry her toward the woods, toward the place where she last saw you disappear between the trees.

The spot is still there. Untouched, like time itself held its breath.

She kneels, fingers trembling as she touches the frozen earth. There's nothing left—not physically. But she swears she can still feel you here. Your presence, your warmth, your absence like a wound that never scabbed over.

"I should've gone after you," she whispers, her breath misting the air.

The forest doesn't answer.

The others talk about how you saved them. About how if Jackie had been the one out there that night, she wouldn't have made it. She was too proud. Too angry.

But you were strong. You gave up the shelter for someone else. That's what they say.

Shauna knows better.

You didn't want to be saved.

Not when she let you walk away.

Not when she chose silence.

The regret eats her from the inside out. She'd give anything to go back, to say the words she was too scared to say.

"I loved you," she says now, too late. "I love you."

And who's gonna rescue you

When you're lost at sea?

And who's gonna love you

If it isn't me?

The wilderness changed her, all of them—but not the way you did.

With you, it wasn't about survival. It was about softness in a world that had gone sharp. You made her laugh when it felt like the world was crumbling. You held her like she was more than someone else's shadow. More than someone else's mistake.

You saw her.

And now you're gone.

Shauna presses her forehead to the icy bark of a tree and lets herself break—just a little. She cries in silence, because there's no one left to hear her. No one who'd understand.

The fire in her chest isn't enough to melt the ice around her heart.

She dreams of you sometimes—half-formed, like smoke. In those dreams, you're always walking ahead, just out of reach. You never turn around.

She wonders if you're punishing her.

Or if you're just… gone.

When she returns to the cabin, she doesn't speak. She adds wood to the fire and stares into the flames, hoping to find something there. A sign. A ghost. Anything.

Jackie watches her warily from the corner. They don't talk much anymore.

Maybe they both know why.

Shauna touches the locket around her neck—yours, now hers. She never told anyone she took it. Never told anyone what's inside: a photo of you, grinning, squinting at the sun.

Before.

Before hunger.

Before winter.

Before regret.

Now, you're lost in the wilderness

You never dreamed it would end like this

What will they say, now that you're gone?

————-

[californiaahunny]

Hiii, loved your slash fic! Saw the requests open, may I ask for something similar with either duff or izzy? anything you prefer to be honest <3

your girl , izzy stradlin x fem!reader

call me late if you wanna get high

☆ summary: song writing isn’t the most effortless process but time with your guitarist is

☆ warnings: 18+ content, mdni. smoking. suggestive content but more on the fluffy side tbh.

☆ authors notes: um hi!!!! i honestly had super fun writing this & adding it to the singer x band member saga lol. i hope you enjoyed, thank u for requesting <333 also im not the most educated on the song writing process so go easy on me 🫣🫣

the, once baby blue, california sky was painted orange fading into yellow, shading every building with a shining cast, including the story your apartment was on. the apartment you rarely spent a constant time in, usually on the road and a tour bus.

the soft melody playing throughout the living room traveled up your spine as the wood panels beneath you kissed at your bare feet. your row of teeth chewed on a manicured nail, your chest vibrating with the soft hum in you.

you paced in attempt to find something that felt like you, an endless search through the tune.

gray smoke followed you like a shadow, falling from the blazing cigarette carefully sitting between the lips of the man on the rugged leather of the sofa. strands of dark hair fell over his eye sight while his fingers did all the work, adding to the lyrical search.

for a moment, he glanced up, eyeing your legs moving from one direction to the other. your eyebrows were pinched together, lips pursed before clamping your teeth over the bottom flesh.

you mumbled a few words to your self, some potential lyrics but nothing stuck.

“fuck,” you groaned, partially to yourself but the guitarist noticed, halting his motions and immersing the two of you in silence.

“don’t rush it, baby,” izzy spoke softly, plucking the cigarette from his lips and exhaling. he spoke so coolly, like your career wasn’t relying on the art you made with him and it’s anticipation.

you simply stare at him, big doe eyes full of impatience and weary while a minuscule pout etched onto your lips absentmindedly. he notices your shoulders drop before giving you a flash of sympathy, patting the material of the couch he occupied.

“c’mere,” he encourages. your vision glances down to his big palm, taking steps and slowly advancing towards him. izzy’s calloused hand reaches out to you, thick fingers pulling at your dainty ones, pulling you down to his level.

you obliged, knees gently dipping into the couch to fully face him. his dark orbs latch onto your skin, like thorns on a rose, dragging down every inch of you.

there was a moment of silence before you spoke up.

“i’m gonna write a song about you one day,” you murmur, the corners of your lips quirking up as your finger tips inched their way towards the strands of hairs framing his eyes.

he slightly raises his eyebrows, “is that so?”

you let out a giggle, your head nodding up and down. you let your body lean forward, hands crawling to plant on his jean-clad thighs.

“my muse,” you grin, placing a peck on his pink lips. his body vibrates from his deep chuckle before you gently grasp the guitar still in his embrace. getting the hint, izzy mirrors your actions and helps place the prized possession to the side.

with that moment, the air switches; erasing the jaded feelings. your skin warms up, one leg swinging over his lap to cage him in. rough palms slither up your exposed thighs, hiking up the hem of your sundress.

your chest immensely rises, a breath falling from your plump lips. a lustful haze over takes you as izzy’s touch gradually keeps getting higher.

your lashes flutter shut, skin on your sides, on top of the material of your clothing. the lingering smell of smoke remained around him, laced on his tongue as he guided you to lock his lips to yours, cradling the back of your neck.

your palms slid down his chest, body tingling with satisfaction. his digits dig deeper into your hair, giving a slight tug against your scalp. you smile into the kiss at the feeling, the feeling of him being engulfed in the heat.

you briefly pulled away, eyes flickering to his lips, residue of your lipstick lingering. the pad of your thumb gently rubs against them, not to get it off but to admire your mark on him.

“you’re my girl,” izzy whispered, voice gravely as his pools of hazel bored into you. he watches you shake your head, an amused smile etching onto your features.

your cheeks flush, “stop it,” you place a kiss on the corner of his lips, gradually moving down to the delicate spot between his neck and his jaw. izzy’s head lolls to the back of the sofa, entering a blissful state with every inch of him being covered by you and your touch.

“you are, you’re my girl,” his hooded lids peer down before his big hand smooths back the strands falling on your forehead head and back against the curve of your skull. izzy languidly pulls you into him, your ear against his heartbeat faintly pounding against his ribs.

it was intimate, your mind against his heart as your body fell limp, curling into his embrace. his palm continued to comfort you, putting your mind that was once worked up, to ease. yet that was all a minuscule moment now.

your body rose and fell with your breaths, the guitarists other hand falling slack across your body.

“always gonna be my girl,” he mumbled, words lazily slurred against his tongue.

you hummed in response, you were his girl now and you’ll be his girl then.

[ch3rrybbie]

Need.

Randall Kirkland x fem!reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

———

Summary: You can’t seem to stay away from Randall, you’re yet to speak and he can’t stop staring. Why do you feel like you know him? What does he want? What do you need?

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, unprotected sex, oral (fem and male receiving), fingering, masturbation, smutty daydreams, y/n is stubborn asf.

Note from author: Hi there! Tysm to the love on the snippet I put out, I just randomly write it and decided to share it and I’m so glad I did lol. I hope this lives up to what yall were expecting and I hope you enjoy. I will deffo probs write more for Randall and other fandoms so drop requests( hopefully Ik them). Also this is basically my first ever fic and time writing smut so pls be nice and I hope it’s not too bad lmao😭😭😭

———

You’d been in town for four months now. And as much as a hell hole as it could and would prove itself to be you were thankful for the reprieve from the outside world. You’d come alone on a post college road trip looking for something anything as to what your life should be as to who you would be. Then came the crows the tree and the bogeymen in the woods.

———

Life soon became mundane, wake, work eat sleep repeat. You’d decided to live in town and not colony house,your double bed becoming a lifesaver through those long cold nights. Whilst your house didn’t have the charm of your dorm or home bedroom you tried your best. Forgoing fairy lights and band posters you supplemented with writing down song lyrics and crudely drawn flowers on the walls you were no artist but it was something to look at before the whispering and tapping got too loud and you reverted back to tucking your head under the covers, knowing all that kept you from them was a rock loosely strung on the door.But you spent your fair share of time at colony house helping rule the roost with Donna and she’d grown to love you fiercely like a daughter and it kept you going.

The day the bus arrived,the day he came,was almost alike any other. You woke at sunrise to help Tian Chen with opening the diner after Sara’s…retirement. You were wiping down the tables when you saw it through the windows. The bus had lazily rolled in and heaved to a stop right outside the diner and you saw him swing off its disgruntled steps. Tall, toned with a buzzed head and a face like thunder you mused to yourself. But there was something maybe lust or the delirious state the town caused, something tugged you to him. A feeling that you should go let him know you were there, an obligation.

You heaved the thought down, as unpleasant as swallowing bile.

———

Upon Kenny’s command you resigned yourself to ushering in the bus folk. Your eyes caught Donna’s and with it you passed a sympathetic glare you hoped she understood its messaging-“I’m sorry you have to go this again but don’t be too much of a bitch with them”.

Most of them were heartwarmingly lovely to a point your heart broke, they didn’t know the fate that had befallen them.The pain and suffering they were yet to face. You remembered exactly how each and every second felt and resorted to flittering around helping how you could, making sure their steaming cups of herbal tea were always brimming. As you were filling an old lady’s second cup you heard a gunshot go off.

Your world span. Ears ringing you dropped the cup it’s shatter giving music to your pounding steps as you burst out the diner.

“Donna?!” you yelled praying she’d be able to answer.

“I’m fine sweetie but hold the door” she casually threw back her eyes trained on someone, gun pushed into their chest.

Burning heat arose as he turned his head, his furrowed brows lifting as soon as he saw you a confused look replacing his disgruntled one. He cocked an eyebrow, as if to say you know this crazy bitch??? You ignored him and felt envy flush over you as you watched Ellis and Fatima run off hand in hand after escaping bus passengers.

You wondered if you’d ever have someone that would run with you into danger without a second thought.

You begrudgingly followed Donna’s request ushering the last of the bus strangers into the diner hoping the simulated warmth would numb the fear of the tapping and whispering yet to come.

Donna kept him for last seemingly keeping a close eye on him gun nudging him periodically. Time seemed to slow the closer he got, his stature seemed to exaggerate with his hands strung loosely in the air, a sarcastic surrender. He was surprisingly stocky, muscles taught as his agitation grew stronger.

Your eyes once again locked and your breath caught in your throat. A spark lit within your stomach and spread all throughout you. He had a similar lust struck gaze yet his eyes never left yours,never once walked across your body.

You snapped your head away.

Donna incredulously looked between the two of you and shoved him into the diner. You dared not to turn and look for him in the sea of strangers. And yet that did nothing to quell you swelling desire, you felt it cresting, waiting to come crashing down.

It was going to be a long night.

———

As soon as the sun streaked through the windows you legged it out of there citing a lack of sleep. Which was true you felt his gaze on you the whole night and you hadn’t looked once.

———

It’d been a few days since you’d had your weird eye fuck with the stranger from the bus. Randall, as you’d come to find out and you’d vowed to push aside all thoughts of him and refusing to even use his name although your only danger of using it was at night when your convictions stuttered and were only quelled by toe curling thoughts of him.

Issue was he did anything but ignore you. He was everywhere.

He was at colony house arguing with Donna. He was atop the bus staring down all who dare walk past. Hell he was even occasionally scoffing his face in the diner. And yet you avoided him, not a single word uttered yet he had your heart hitching.

His staring persisted despite your avoidance. It seemed to only make him hungrier to see you.

You found yourself slipping into thoughts of what he smelt, tasted and fucked like.

Thoughts. That was all you could have.

No more.

———

You were trudging up to colony house after a late night drinking with Jade, in summary you lost your bet of out drinking him and he soon was let in on your little secret. But you trusted him. The only person you could never tell was looking at you a face like thunder. Your confusion clouded your perception and failed to see Randall him marching away from Donna.

Your breath caught in your throat as he got closer, you felt exposed. It was a balmy spring day so you’d sported jeans and a tank top thinking nothing of it. He finally let his eyes slip down your body, staring greedily, seemingly committing it to memory.

You’d reprimand him if you weren’t doing the same.

He wore a white tank with an open t shirt strung on top, his jeans tight in all the right places. You were about to look at his arms again before the muscle in his jaw clenched harder and he barrelled on.

Donna loomed at the top of the porch steps a face like thunder. And yet she didn’t care to rant about the backend of the altercation you saw.

Shit.

“You greenhouse now” she spat.

Fuck.

She shut the door behind the two of you with a slam so you opted to give your now peace offering, “Look here’s the bulb I told you about I think it’s gonna look great with the-“.

“Honey, we all have needs and wants I understand that but HIM?!” she flung out incredulously hands on hips. With your face a mixture of horror and confusion she continued “I saw the way you two looked at each other that first day at the diner and I’m sure you’ve done more than look since, hell what was that just now?!”

God you wished.

You couldn’t help but laugh, “Donna nothings happened, and as far as I’m concerned nothing will”

Her shoulders sagged and she sighed, “Good , you deserve someone better than him”

You cringed at that. Was he that bad?

“Now show me my beautiful new tulip bulb” she proclaimed.

———

Donna’s comment had been bouncing around your head for days alongside seeing less of Randall him, tension was building.

Yesterday you spied him working on a truck and couldn’t help but walk closer. He Sported the same white tank that exposed this thick corded arms. He’d grunted as he’d rolled himself under the truck. Jeans straining to contain him, legs spread. Arms straining with force. You imagined what it’d be like to even sit on his lap clothed, how good you’d feel.

How good you could make him feel.

You’d pictured him taking you pressed against the hood of the truck. Skirt flipped up, exposed for all to see. Tits bare and pebbling against the cold harsh metal. He’d stroke you first you were sure, then he’d fuck his thick cock into you. Uniting pain and pleasure,he’d make you taste yourself on his thick calloused fingers as he took you for all to see.

The day dream vanished as you watched a girl from colony house , Lola? Lila?, walk up to him and hand him water as he rolled out from under the truck.

Your heart dropped and an amassing wave of disappointment came over you. Albeit foolishly , you’d thought his attention had been solely concentrated on you and not whoever would reciprocate it.

You turned walked home before he could see you.

That night you couldn’t help but call his name as you came to the thought of him working on his truck.

———

The last place you could think of being alone was the woods, I mean your bedroom was the other but your thoughts couldn’t be controlled there as you’d realised last night.

After seeing him with the girl from colony house your conviction became stronger. And you decided to strengthen it alone in the woods the last thing you needed was to see him.

You started your descent into the peace, the trees were lush with greenery and swayed welcomingly. It was a thick, sweaty day. Your sundress swung as you walked providing the cool breeze you needed.How funny, you were trapped in a hellish town full of monsters human and other and yet it was so beautiful. Flowers were starting to sprout up through the dense leaves of the forest floor and you couldn’t help but be entranced. The less funny part was who your brain was obsessed with happened to be who you had decided was the resident fuck boy.

“Hey”

Speak of the devil.

Your heart pounded in your chest knowing the monsters wouldn’t be so polite. Your eyes were snatched up from the forest floor to all six foot of him lazily leaning across a tree. Same tank top and jeans as your daydream. He must be on break from working on his truck.

FUCKKKKKKKKKKKK. He looks good.

“What’re you thinking so hard about?” He inquired.

You awkwardly shuffled and looked around.

“Sorry forgot everything is secret here, you smoke?” He asked coolly

Taken by surprise you chuckled, “uhhhh yeah before, well you know” you gestured around you.

He hummed cigarette already between his teeth.in one slick motion he’d lit it and started steadily approaching you taking a drag. He lazily held it to you.

You leant forward not breaking eye contact as hou took a drag, cigarette still between his fingers. You could’ve sworn he swallowed harshly, but the moment was cut short as you spluttered and coughed.

It’d been awhile since you’d last smoked.

He laughed heartily and his hand slipped to your back stroking and patting till your coughing seized. His hand awkwardly retracted and you longed for its warmth to grace you again. He attempted to strike up a conversation again before seeming to change his mind, lips pressing back together.

They looked soft.

He had always seemed so sure of himself how strange you mused to yourself.

“I’ve seen you staring at me” you burst out, regretting it as soon as it fled you lips. So much for secrecy.

He chuckled caught aback then grew somewhat serious taking another drag, “You like it?”

“No” you lied through your teeth

“Really?” He smirked.

He paused, “It’s not like I haven’t seen you looking back sweetheart”

He looked satisfied with his own reply slowly walking back shrugging and once again leaning against the tree.

He smiled a boyishly handsome grin,took a longer drag taking in your shocked face.

SWEETHEART?! Really, he truly was a fuck boy then huh.

You once again lost control of you mouth, “I don’t think your colony house girlfriend would be too happy about you calling me sweetheart” you spat.

He coughs out smoke unable to stop himself from laughing,“ Who?” he laughs.

You refuse to let his facade get to you, not helping him with the answer.

His confusion blends back into another stupid smirk, “Oh, Laine?” He chuckles, eyes narrowing to gauge your reaction.

Laine? You think to yourself, what a stupid name. Lame Laine. EW! no you refuse to fight some random girl over him. He didn’t belong to you.

As much as you wanted him to.

Your eyes flicked back to his and something seemed to cross his face. His eyes darkened.

He knew. He knew you wanted him.

He slowly approached.

“You still want some?”, he asked. Gesturing to the cigarette.

He read your apprehension and said something that was dizzying to you.

“I could shotgun you” he she shrugged eyes not leaving yours. Unable to speak you nodded… a little too enthusiastically and he smirked. You could’ve sworn his eyes darkened.

He tilts your head up softly but as firm as needed to align your lips to his, all that separated you was air. With bated breath loosening unwillingly out your mouth in a sigh, your were lips parted in anticipation. Something he seemed to be unable to mock his face sporting the same intense stare as if he could unfurl your lips and drive you over the edge of what you weren’t sure madness pleasure?. Slowly, softly he blew the smoke into your mouth and you felt so intensely in need of him that it didn’t feel like breathing him in, it simply felt like breathing whole for the first time. It felt as natural as anything being this close needing him there needing him anywhere on you or near you. His fingers felt nice but the searing want shared silently was a feeling like no other. It radiated beyond magnetism. Staring at each other no longer held challenge but you were looking, truly seeing each other for the first time beyond the facade beyond this bodies you didn’t need to scratch the itch of knowing the conclude something. You’d know him before.

You breathed in the smoke he blew, eyes not breaking from his. His pupils were blown and it was your time to smirk. If you didn’t know before you knew now.

He wanted you too.

You blew out the smoke as slowly as you could. His eyes fixated on your lips.

He looked entranced.

His hand still cupped your jaw, his thumb coming up to glide across your lower lip. Smoke gone, you pulled his thumb into your mouth and sucked. His eyes once again met yours. “Fuck” he breathed out.

It was your turn to tease him. You spied the cigarette. It’s sweet red cherry still burning, you decided whatever was about to happen was going to burn like that.

Fast and hot.

Fuck it you thought.

You took it from his fingers, he was still entranced.

You breathed it in slowly and pushed on your toes to meet his face. Your tits brushed his chest. Your noses skimmed. His hands dropped to grip your hips and they bunched up the material of your dress. Surprisingly slowly but surely your lips softly bumped and grazed each other and you blew out the smoke. He didn’t breathed it in, so puzzled you stayed like that eyes locked till neither of you could bear it any longer.

He snapped out of the trance.

Your lips crashed together desire encompassing you heat moving lower. He smelt like pine and sea air and sweat and smoke and oil.

He tasted salty. His lips were soft.

It was almost all too delicious.

Almost.

You couldn’t stop yourself from moaning as his hand smoothed up your back to hold your head and pull you in further. He grabbed your thighs and pulled you up easily. He grinned into you as the kisses grew hot and sloppy.

Your back hit a tree and the friction between you started to give you much needed release. He started pushing his hardening crotch into yours. He broke the kiss, “I knew you wanted me” he leered. “Shut up” you groaned and seized his lips back to yours.

His lips start to wander sucking your neck and finding the spot that made you push out a lengthened moan, legs attempting to pull him in further.

“Fuck you needed this almost as much as me huh baby” he croons as his hand slithers from your waist. It skims up your stomach leaving goosebumps in its wake. It reaches your tit feeling its weight even inside your bra. His hand snakes in and is surprisingly cold, you hiss. “Awe is it cold baby” he mocks as he smooths his thumb over your pebbling nipple, his eyes flick to yours. “Huh baby?”, he pinches and rolls your nipple to elicit an answer. “Fuck yes” you hiss, your hips jerking even further into his.

You pull his face back to yours with both hands, teeth clashing wantonly as you kiss him viciously. He moans breathlessly , gasping and moaning as your hand slips to press against the outline of his hard cock. It’s as big as you thought.

“Tell me what you need baby” he begs, his grip on your hip tightening. You refuse to answer, smirking. He grabs your hand from his crotch and pushes his bulge into your underwear covered crotch. You throw your head back against the trunk and your moans come out as hums through your clamped lips. “Come on baby tell me what you need”.

A vision of you knelt before him flashed into you mind. And you grew wet. Going down on someone sometimes felt submissive, degrading even. But with him the idea of teasing and controlling him whilst knelt before him. You needed it.

You pushed him away and he lowered you to your feet looking sheepish.

“I’m sorry did I do something that-”

You cut him off by sinking to your knees and open palm sliding down his front and down his clothed thighs. You applied more pressure the closer to his crotch you got.

You looked up at him through your eyelashes, “Is this okay baby?” You crooned.

“Yes” he breathed out.

You took your time.

Unbuckling his belt and sliding it out, you kissed the outline of his cock in his jeans before unzipping and sliding them down. You made quick work of his boxers and there he was.

As big as you thought, bigger even. The head of his cock was burning red and seeping with precum.

Oh he was aching for you.

How many nights had he fisted his cock to images of you?

You trace a finger over the seeping head and he hisses. You smirk, “is that sensitive baby?”. You do it again and he moans long and deep. You trace a finger down the thick veins and caress his balls and he rewards you with a needy “please baby”.

You lean forward on your knees and kiss the tip. Kiss the shaft and lick your way down to his aching balls. You return you attention to the seeping head continuing to kiss is gently allowing the kisses to get sloppier. His hips jerk towards you and you indulge him. His burning tip slips into your mouth and you lower it till your nose brushes against his lower stomach. You keep your rhythm soft and slow and he melts into you. His moans must be reaching the town by now and you hoped that colony house girl heard. You started to increase your suction and go faster and he pulls you off him. You release him with a lavicious pop.

He tucks himself back into his jeans and you stand there unsure until he surges down tasting himself on you. He backs you up against a tree and drops onto a knee. Both of his hands snake up your legs lifting your dress and stroking your wet heat over your panties. He kisses your thighs and licks a thick wet stripe over your clothed clit. He tugs your pants down maintaining eye contact as he spits onto your bare gleaming pussy. He kisses you clit achingly soft and begins to lick and kiss building your already approaching orgasm. You begin to gyrate against his now gleaming face. His now hot calloused hand rubs your clit and he pulls away and just stares at you. His confidence vanquished, his face desperate to watch you come. He dives back and guides two finger into your heat and curls them perfectly. Your loud breathing transforms into moans uncaring of who might hear. He hums into your aching pussy seemingly encouraging you. White hot heat encases you everything goes numb as you come around his knuckle deep fingers, pussy spasming. He watches your face contort in pleasure and continues his ministrations carrying you through.

Your breathing stills and he rises lifting his fingers to your lips, letting them sink into your awaiting mouth. You plead to be able the touch him and he smiles and kisses you full of need. “Please touch me again baby” he moans wantonly. You needed to see him come. Your hands slid down his front and once again released him. You stroked him firmly, the head of his cock an even brighter red and was pouring pre come. He was close. Your lips lunged for his and you tugged his cock harder. His moans became louder, breathing harsher as he spurted hot and harsh against your bare stomach and pussy. Your hand was covered and his face was serene. This was way more delicious than a daydream.

———

You were both bashful as you helped each other dress. Cheeks flushing as he pulled up your panties and gently tugged your dress down, you’d stopped him from wiping his come away and his confidence sprouted back. “You want something to remember this by?” He jested. “You wish” you spat back, you both knew what he said held truth.

The bell sounded in the distance.

“Come on I’ll walk you back”, he tugged your hand putting you in front of him and nudged you towards the edge of the forest. Was it to put a barrier between you and those things? No, you wouldn’t delude yourself into thinking he cared. If he cared he’d of asked you out or something along those lines. Right?

You made it back in time. “This is me” you awkwardly shrugged. You both waited for the other to speak.

You broke the silence.

“Randall, look you don’t owe me anything I get it this was nothing. I won’t tell Laine and you can go back to persuing her”.

“Y/N, me and Laine are-“ he started

You cut him off. You couldn’t bare to hear it.

“I just needed a release from whatever weird tension we had, I get it seriously no need to explain”

He looked stunned and started to frown. But he quickly masked it with a careless gaze.

Your eyes narrowed, “thanks for walking me back I guess”

“Yeah yeah , anytime”

He turned to abruptly leave.

You wanted him to stay, your bed would bed would be so warm with him. The thought made your heart skip.

“Randall wait!”

He turned

“Get home safe”, you deflated as you were unable to ask him to stay. As if he’d want to.

His swagger returned, “Don’t worry about me too much sweetheart” he smirked.

He laughed at you rolling your eyes as he strolled away.

———

Why did him walking away hurt so much? Why did you feel like you knew him?

“Fuckkkkk”, you hissed as you slid down your door. Had you fucked him in college? No,no surely not you’d shamefully remembered every drunken fight and embarrassingly bad one night stand. Then how could you possibly know him? You didn’t know but it was almost certain he remembered and the one whiteclaw too many was the culprit as to your forgetting. How could you forget a connection like that it almost felt cosmic. God now you really sounded like a colony house hippy dippy idiot.

[aheathen-conceivably]

The soft ticking of a clock kept time in the corner of the room. For Antoine it seemed almost like a metronome, a steady beat to offset the rhythm of the fifth song he’d played for Zelda tonight. Or was it the sixth? The passage of time here just didn’t feel the same as it did on the road. It was softer, welcome even, the way the wrinkles on his hands made him smile now, or the laugh lines growing around Zelda’s eyes only made them sparkle more. It was safe. Like the loving embrace of home that only grows better with time. 

He didn't need to look at the lyrics or the notes to play the songs anymore. Weeks of practice had ensured that. So his compositions sat in a pile next to Zelda's feet as she read and reread everything he had put to paper, spilled out before her like the contents of his soul laid bare. “Did you really write all of these in so little time?”

His coy smile told her yes, and his pride emanated through the room like afternoon sunbeams. It was hard not to smile back at him when she spoke. “It’s amazing. Truly.” Her thumb rustled back and forth over the paper, as though trying to pull what she wanted to ask from the words written there. “So you’re happy when you’re out there?”

A brief, pregnant pause filled the air, as though it were the last question he had expected her to ask, especially not when he had already said so much with every lyric at her feet. “I’m happy to be home.”

She set the paper in her hand down gently atop the jumble of other songs. She traced her finger along the messy script running from left to right, most of it filled with nothing but love and longing for her and their home. It should have made her happy, but it was hard to read them without remembering that those were the very things he had agreed to leave again so soon.

A less rational fear would have told her that he had written them as some sort of apology, a balm for the rhythm that was to become their lives now; but she knew better than to think he would ever be so dishonest. No, the rustling presence at her fingertips and the fear clouding her mind was more nefarious than that.

The soft sound of wood hitting the rug reverberated through the room as he set the guitar down between his legs and extended his hand. “Come here.”

She moved toward him, nestling herself where the guitar had been moments before. His arms wrapped around her as he spoke, "This isn't about the next tour, is it? You know what I said, Zelda. You say the word and I won't go. I mean it."

Yet the crinkle of paper at her feet continued to tell her that he meant it less than before.

She leaned her weight onto the hand running along her hair as she shook her head no, it wasn't about the next tour. He looked down straight into her eyes, which were filled with worry. “You don’t have to worry about me, my love. All I do is worry about you and Violette when I'm there. I don't want you here doing the same."

Her feet ever so gently pushed the pile of papers further away, taking with them the question he had never really answered. Are you happy when you’re out there? She tried to nudge away the thoughts they had spurred too.

But they clung to her like wisps of fabric trapped in the breeze, wanting so desperately to be let free but unable to do so. She had promised herself that wouldn't hold him back, and if nothing else, she was wise enough to understand that her own anxieties were unwanted thoughts from the depths of her mind sent to lead her astray. She wouldn't let them lead him away from his destiny too. “Its my job to worry. I always will. But this...”

She stopped, gesturing toward the song lyrics before she rolled her head onto him and transformed her mouth into a smile. Only as soon as her eyes met his, it spread across her face, and finally, the ragged edges of her worry flew away on the wind, “this makes me feel like it’s worth it. All of that time away. All of the moments of longing, that at least all of this came out of it. That you're happy."

He kept his hand on her chin and gently angled her face closer toward his own, as though to ensure her eyes stayed trained on his when she answered his question. "You promise me, Zelda? You promise that you're okay?"

Her answer came breathlessly, and with no memory that he was the one who had never answered her question in the first place. “I’m sure, I promise.”

Even if the papers rustling below my feet make me worried you are happy. Too happy. More happy than you are here. Or at least more inspired. More alive. And sooner or later they mean you'll stop coming home, because this is what you were made for, and I'm nothing but a line in a song about a woman you used to love.

Previous / Next

[samsxowboyhat]

Redacted headcannons BUT some of them are actually cannon

After Vincent got turned and William was positive he wouldn’t go on a bloodlust spree he would sometimes go out and forget he was rich

Asher was one of those overly excited tall scrawny kids who would get colorful bands on his braces

Aaron and Elliot would play as duo characters for every video game that allowed the player to select characters

Gavin would know how to do things but wouldn’t know how he knew how to do them

Laskos powers sometimes happen as a reflex like his fight or flight instinctively turns into float the second he feels his body falling or if he’s on high places(you wouldn’t catch this man on any roller coaster)

Sam has an old outdated picture of him and his grandmother that’s in black and white

All earth elementals are naturally strong, Water elementals are naturally smart, Fire elementals are naturally determined, and Air elementals are naturally focused

Milo and Sam’s family bloodline has/had problems with addiction so they never associate with alcohol or smoking with the fear that they could get addicted

Quinn used to “joke” with Darlin when they were still together by grabbing them and pretending to turn them when they weren’t paying attention and to this day they wonder if he was serious about biting them

Asher was one of those kids who would listen to old metal songs over and over(AND OVER) again until he learned the lyrics

Sam does own a cowboy hat and the Shaw pack(main 8) has made “save a horse, ride a cowboy” jokes(Sam doesn’t know wtf they’re talking about)

Darlin would lie to Gabe and David’s mom about their parents letting them stay over because they wouldn’t wanna go home

Lasko wears sweaters WITH EVERYTHING

Gavin got his music taste from FL when they first started meeting up claiming that he wanted to get closer to them rather than having sex with them

Darlin and Sam were cautious when they had their first time always asking each other if they were okay before, between, and afterwards

David’s contact name in the pack phones is “Davey” but they’ll never admit that to his face(he currently knows that Asher and Angel have it as theirs)

Gavin has nipple piercings and a tongue piercing(he has tried to convince Lasko to get one)

Darlin has a slight degrading kink that you could NEVER get them to admit(Sam found that out when they once started crying and he thought he hurt them and was flabbergasted when they told him to do it again)

ALL of Asher’s shoes are dirty except for his dress shoes and Milo gets so pissed when he wears nice sneakers and creases them or gets them dirty

Angel and Baabe both like kpop specifically Ateez and seventeen

Sam has a house in the woods and prefers a working house over a cute one(he has a porch swing)

Sam doesn’t like talking about his family but could go hours talking about his grandma

David hates the nickname “Dave”(don’t ask me why I just feel like he does)

Darlin once thought they hurt sams feelings and disappeared for days until they came back with a gift for him and waited until he saw it before talking to him(they’re terrible at apologizing and refused to tell Sam where they went while they were gone)

Porter always kisses Treasure's knuckles

FL has once broken a comb in caelums hair(but was so confused when they were able to move their hands through his hair)

The younger Shaw pack had a clubhouse in the woods in an abandoned cabin that Gabe helped David clean up

TS TOOK ME ALMOST 3 HOURS I QUIT(I’m lying:3 GM AND GN It’s currently 4:36 IN THE MORNING)

[badomensgoodomens]

BAD DECISIONS

CHAPTER TWO.

Noah Sebastian X reader

cw: emo. and mention of taylor swift. if u have a problem with that please get over it.

taglist at bottom of post.

He stared at the computer in front of him, nothing was working, the lyrics weren’t flowing and he was just a mess. his knee bounced up and down, his thoughts constantly went back to her, it had been a week since she completely shut him out. Blocked him and removed him from everything. All because he couldn't give her what she wanted. 

he jumped out of his skin when he heard a knock on the door. “Come in” he croaked out, Nick's face scrunched up as he entered the studio, wincing at the bags under Noah's eyes. “You look like actual shit man.” he states, setting down a plate of food. He pulls up a chair next to him, grunting at the way it scraped along the wood floors. “Right, you won’t talk to jolly, you won’t talk to nicholas, what's got your knickers in a twist?” he said, resting his hands on his thighs. He came from good intent obviously, but it was painful how the boys wouldn't leave him alone. 

“What are you? The fucking IRS?” Noah grumbled, picking at the food. “Is it a girl?” Nick asked, taking notice of the way Noah tensed. “It is a girl!!! Tell me everything.”

“Dude. you're crazy. If an art hoe is in love with you, you gotta bag her.” Nick said, nudging Noah. He shook his head, sighing. “You know I'm not ready for that.” Nick audibly groaned. “It’s always Natasha bro. You need to get over her.” 

“I am over her! It’s just…” Noah took a deep breath. “You know how I am with commitment after that.” 

Nick sighed,  his shoulders visibly dropping. 

“Lets get you into some therapy, hey?” 

She was gutted, crying to every single Taylor Swift song that was even remotely related to her current situation. It took her a couple days to even leave the house.  No long drive through the city, accompanied by fast food and sad songs, could save her from this. Her sister, Nevada, always told her never to fall too hard for a situationship, but I guess that advice fell on deaf ears. 

‘Us’ played over the radio as she cruised through the bustling city part of florida. 

‘I wonder if you regret, the secret of us’ 

Hearing those words sung was almost laughable, she was a silly girl for ever believing that she was in love. Tears clouded her vision as she drove, rain beating down on her windshield. It was only September, yet the seasons were changing drastically. 

“I just wanted to be yours.”  

The words came out in a broken whisper, almost a plea. Truth be told, she barely knew Noah. Never cared to look into his social status, his music, what he was like other than the feeling of his sex. She had created this false idea of what he was outside of sex. It made her want to tear her hair out.

Eventually, she couldn’t go any farther. She pulled over, her hands shaking as she gripped the steering wheel, tears blurring her vision until the world outside became a hazy mess. She sobbed, gasping for breath, as though trying to expel the weight that had settled deep in her chest. All she could think was that she was waiting—for a sign, for some kind of message, anything that would make sense of the chaos, that would make this unbearable ache stop. A text. A call. A word, just one word to tell her it wasn’t really over, that there was still something left to hold on to.

It was a futile effort, her and Noah meant next to nothing. How is one supposed to build a thriving relationship off of a sex bond? 

After a long phone call with her sister, she came to the conclusion she needed a change of scene. This town had seen too  much of her, from every highschool heartbreak, to coming home at 4am from the club. Her art was never appreciated here either, no success at markets, or even by word of mouth. Her day job was excruciating, a boring cubicle with endless paperwork. Multiple times she’d considered giving up, leaving this boring life to live in a trailer park with some junkies, or move to LA and become a stripper. 

It took awhile, but she packed up her studio, and her small townhouse, and took the long drive across to her sister’s house in California. Nevada had so graciously offered her a job as the barista in the small, quaint coffee shop she and her husband owned. She fell in love with Dawn in senior year, she was a cheerleader and he played in the band. He had successfully set off within the music industry, thus providing financial support to nevadas small coffee shop that probably loses 30k a year.

After a terrible night's sleep in a cheap, shitty motel, she pulled up to her sister's big white house. They both welcomed her with open arms, setting up the guest bedroom to be her temporary home until she got back on her feet. Her paintings being stored in the back shed. 

For a while, things had been good. She was in a better place mentally, her routine steady with a reliable income from the coffee shop. Life in California was finally starting to feel right—like everything was falling into place. But then, as if on cue, her past came rushing back. Her ex from high school walked into the café, his new girlfriend in tow, and just when she thought she had control, disaster struck: the back shed went up in flames.

 Her ex was just taunting, but the shed was gut wrenching. Her past lay scattered like ashes in the wind, each memory a flicker of flame extinguished, leaving only whispers of who she once was. Just as the remnants of a life turned to smoke drift into the afterlife, so too did her former self dissolve into the ether, leaving behind a haunting silence where laughter and light once thrived.

Dawn apologised profusely, explaining that his electrical gardening equipment had spontaneously combusted, turning everything, including the shed exterior, to ash. She brushed him off, it wasn’t his fault whatsoever, it was just daunting that she’d have to put all that behind her. 

It was going to happen inevitably, but a more appropriate exit would have sufficed. She managed to book some therapy sessions. Just barely being able to pay for them. I mean, music in itself was a perfect form of therapy, 

“It only hurts this much right now.” 

Were the words she whispered at the beginning of each session. They were draining, and fried her social battery almost immediately. But they were helpful. Dr Sanchez was able to help her label the fact she allowed herself to fall easily, despite knowing the boundaries of their situationship. 

It was hard, having to deal with the different diagnoses that came with therapy. Especially how Dr Sanchez was able to offer medication for Adhd and anxiety. It made her question a lot about her childhood. Her dad, who was never there, did not believe in mental health, much less not abusing his children. Her mom however was riddled with mental health issues, which definitely contributed to the divorce. Hence why Nevada was so quick to move away.  

9/10 times when she got home from therapy, she would escape to her room. Instead of painting, she opted for drawing, sitting in front of the big window. The sun set, illuminating the soft pout of her lips as she concentrated, and the small dimples in her cheeks. She watched as the cars drove past, taking note of the gradual transition to headlights. Her mind subconsciously drifted back to her old life, having pondered so much of it with Dr Sanchez, it was almost a daily occurrence. 

He had spent the past month drinking himself hopefully into a coma. He was butthurt for no reason, not even about y/n, but about everything, about Natasha. He had a nightmare about her recently, it set him back quite a bit, almost reversing all the therapy it took to get here. It was then that he made the conscious decision to take folios advice, and go back to therapy. 

He kept drinking for a while after that, despite Jolly's constant complaints. Some of his best songs had always come from his drunk thoughts. Right now, they were deep into working on their newest album, fine-tuning each track. It was a shift in direction—blending elements of The Weeknd’s atmospheric style with hints of Bring Me The Horizon’s intensity

At the start of their new album cycle, Noah had 3 demos in production. The songs were oddly personal compared to previous albums, the boys just assumed Noah was finally channelling and dealing with his emotions through song following his return to therapy. 

Not one week goes by where Noah doesn’t ponder about what could’ve been, with both Natasha and y/n. They honestly didn’t live far, Noah even considered visiting them. I’m sure Natasha would’ve been thrilled, y/n not so much. Didn’t stop him though, a whole year after they stopped talking, Noah found himself planted in front of y/n's house. Standing face to face with an empty block of land. 

‘Fuck.’

It invoked something in him, an odd feeling that left him feeling unsettled and kind of woozy. He didn’t love her, he swore up and down he’d never date someone again. But as he slowly pushed his pride and fears aside, maybe she had wormed her way into his heart. With her warm skin and the scent of her perfume, or perhaps the cheeky smile always slung across her face. 

It made him a little suicidal that he had somebody infront of him, that despite the sole purpose of their relationship was to be greedy, and seek sexual pleasure from eachother with no strings attached, was so, so deeply infatuated with him. He felt guilty that he wasn’t ready and in the right place to hand himself over to someone, yet still agreed to be friends with benefits. It was a selfish act, nobody could connect in the way that they did, and not fall in love. 

Nothing has ever felt so wrong. 

Tour had kicked off, something to distract Noah. He wrote and scrapped so many songs in the two years he had between touring. His song writing, and the new album sumerian was egging for, were a losing battle. 

On a particularly windy night, Noah was sitting in the confines of his tiny bunk, hunched over his notebook. Nicholas poked his head in, staring at the tall man, concern lacing his tone. “You look like shit.” his words echo within the bus, earning a grunt of agreement from Joakim. 

Noah rubbed a hand over his face, the words scribbled on the page barely making sense. “I know.” he grunted, crossing out a line. “Look, i get that sumerians on your dick about the new album but-” Noah cut him off, waving his hand in his face. “I don’t have time for a break. I’ve pushed it back far enough.” Noah grumbled out, pulling the black fabric of his curtain along the rod, concealing himself from his concerned bandmates. 

‘I’m taking it slowly, you’d never know’

‘Her skin feels unholy, but I'm still drawn.’

‘No god, no religion. Just bad, bad decisions.’ 

The words made no sense by themselves, but they sounded right. He took a swig of hennessy, the bitterness burning his tongue. it almost made him laugh, thinking back to that night. Their relationship was just one, big bad decision. 

‘Bitter ends to the night’

‘I'm along for the ride.’

‘Out of breath out of time.’ 

‘Everything has a price.’ 

The way everything flowed together made Noah want to tear his own skin. 

‘You can be all ive got, what's the difference?’

‘Hennessy, and a lot of bad decisions.’ 

The song itself made Noah think deeply if perhaps everything that happened had stemmed from his ‘slight’ alcohol problem that had lingered from the stress of last tour. He had managed to polish off a whole bottle of hennessy and a whole new song by 2am. Drunkenly sliding under the covers to fall asleep.

He awoke to Nick and Nicholas standing above him, reading the notebook he had forgotten to stash away. Immediate regret filled his stomach, this is not what he needed.   

“Yooo is this about art hoe? Damn bro she got you messed up,” Nick said, laughing. 

“Who the fuck is art hoe?” Nicholas says, brows furrowed as he read over the lyrics. 

Noah rubbed his hands over his face, groaning internally. He was hungover and not about to deal with their shit today. 

READERS POV

I tied the apron around my waist with a weary sigh. Morning shifts at the café were always tough. It was early November, and winter was starting to creep in, its chill settling in the air. After flicking on the lights, I got to work, preparing the weekly specials with practised ease.

A small interchangeable collection of cakes Nevada and I designed. I’ve taken an interest in design lately, taking short classes at the local uni. I was gradually ticking off the long strenuous list of chores when the bell above the door rang. Looking up, I met the eyes of a happy looking boy. 

“Hey, what can I get you?” I smiled up at him, his dark brown hair was loosely combed back, his nose adorned a silver ring, a grin on his face. 

“I’ve got quite the order, if you don’t mind.” he said, pulling his phone out. I internally groan, peering over the counter to the long message laying out his order. 

“Okay.. perfect. Let me just type that into the system..” I hummed, lip between my teeth as I focused. “Alright, name?” I said, looking up at the boy, taking notice of the casualness, and sweetness radiating off of him. 

“Nick” he replied, a small smile on his face. He really was beautiful, ugh. And youthful, how old was this guy? “Alright, that’ll be $63.80” I respond, a little astounded myself at the price. “Fuck, sorry one moment please.” he smiled, pulling his phone out. I make myself busy, cleaning up my mess from before,  managing to catch on briefly to the end of his phone call conversation. 

“Alright, I'll just use the band card-” 

Huh. Maybe this guy is a musician or something. I've definitely dealt with a fareshare of musicians. 

All done?" I asked, smiling at him. He nodded, handing over the payment for the drinks. The bell above the door jingled as Nevada rushes in, offering a flurry of hurried apologies as she quickly tied her apron and hurried behind the counter.

It took a while, but we finally sent Nick off with his seven drinks. The day moved slowly after that—Fridays aren’t exactly prime café days. Most people prefer hitting up bars or catching a gig. I used to enjoy concerts, but these days, I’ve become more of a homebody.

“Yo dude i saw the cutest girl at the coffee shop-” Noah groaned, having heard enough of Nick’s questionable relationship choices while on tour. “No- seriously, she had this long, thick hair. She probably has a boyfriend though. Californian boys snatch the hot ones up real quick-” fuck? This kid was yapping. 

“Do you say that about every girl you see?” Jolly snorted, throwing a pillow in Nick's direction. He scoffed, throwing it back. The smaller boy sits down next to Noah on the bunks, handing him a controller. “You’re all so uptight, come on, play a round of mario kart with me.” 

Nights like these always ended the same, drunk rounds of mario kart followed by play fighting until everyone was too tired to move. The sun set hours ago, yet Noah found himself sitting on the bus roof with his notebook. The creative flair just wasn’t quite there though, the page having been empty for the past hour. He was feeling so many different, violent emotions, yet none at the same time. It was hard to portray these emotions in a controlled way, especially during tour. He tried not to let the boys see him when he was most vulnerable, wanting to maintain the respect they had for him. It was unrealistic, almost like a ticking time bomb. 

When Noah went back inside, Nicholas, his best friend, was the only one still awake. They sat opposite each other on the leather couch, beer in hand. “How’s the missus?” Noah slurred, taking a swig. “Ivy’s good, I really wanna marry her, yaknow?” Nicholas slurred back. The mention of marriage knocks the breath out of Noah’s lungs. “I wanted to marry Natasha.” he drunkenly murmured, slumping back on the couch. “I think she was a porn star.” Nicholas mumbled, his words make Noah laugh.  

She laid staring at her ceiling, the window, which faced the city, was cracked open the slightest. Something so melancholic, yet comforting about laying in the dark, just feeling feelings. 

Not even about anyone in particular, just feelings.

She knew she needed to be awake at 6am for work, but the feeling pooling in her stomach was addicting, overwhelming, and most of all, fucking amazing. It was like a coil, seconds away from laughing, seconds away from crying. 

hi gang!!! see, this one is somewhat better than the first chapter. I understand if you feel that this story is moving too fast but honey... this is just the beginning xoxo.

reply to be added to the taglist x

Tags: @emluvsuxo @Ima1986 @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @briefpersonenemy

[valkyriex]

"Always with you"

PAIRING: Jill Valentine x fem!reader

WARNINGS: Fluff and angst

WORD COUNT: 1.5K+

DESCRIPTION: After leaving Raccoon City for work, you receive shocking news from Jill Valentine after days of silence, urging you to meet her.

AUTHORS NOTE: This is my first time writing fanfiction, I hope its good

September 26th, 1998, twilight. You were driving your car through the almost empty highway, raindrops hitting the windshield in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. The wipers struggled, barely keeping up with the heavy rain, each swipe leaving streaks of water that blurred your vision. They squeaked slightly, their worn-out rubber scraping against the glass, making it clear that they hadn't been replaced in a long time. "I really have to replace them," you murmured to yourself, the thought lingering in your mind.

Inside the car, the smell of stale coffee hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of wet fabric from the umbrella tossed carelessly onto the passenger seat. The dashboard lights glowed a dull orange, casting a warm hue on your hands gripping the steering wheel. The soft hum of the engine was accompanied by the sound of music quietly playing through the radio—your favorite cassette, the one your girlfriend, Jill, made for you. Each song felt like she was there with you. Her presence somehow visible in the song's lyrics.

As you drove, your thoughts drifted back to why you were even on this lonely road. You had been forced to leave Raccoon City for a job that felt more like a necessity than a choice. It wasnt very far: an hour-long drive, and the offer to move for a work project was something you couldn't refuse. Your heart was heavy with worry for Jill. Ever since her last mission in the Arklay Mountains, she had been plagued by nightmares that haunted her every night. You felt like you were the only one who could comfort her—and it was true.

In just a few days, you both were supposed to leave Raccoon City and take a flight to Europe. Jill was determined to join her friend, Chris Redfield, and continue her search for evidence to take down Umbrella once and for all. While you knew you couldn’t help her with the mission, she needed your presence, your touch, and your reassuring words—and you needed hers just as much.

Few days after that, the radios and news were ablaze with reports of a strange pandemic. You and Jill had seen enough to know that the media often twisted the truth, which only deepened your worry for her. After everything she’d told you about the horrors of the Spencer Mansion, you feared that what was happening was far worse than a pandemic—so much worse. And you were right. Days turned into a blur as you tried to contact Jill, but each attempt was met with silence. You couldn’t even focus on your job anymore, consumed by anxiety.

Finally, at the beginning of October, she called. Raccoon City had been nuked, and she needed to tell you everything that had happened—but only if you came to her. She was staying in an old hotel not far from where you were, and without a second thought, you jumped into your car and drove there immediately. As you pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of the hotel, a mix of relief and anxiety washed over you. You were finally going to see her again. The building was tall, its brick exterior a mix of worn patches and faded paint, but it still exuded a certain charm. The sign above the entrance, though a bit weathered, glowed softly in the evening light, inviting weary travelers inside. As you stepped into the lobby, the air was filled with the faint scent of old wood and cleaning supplies. The reception desk, manned by a friendly clerk, stood proudly in the center, while mismatched furniture created a cozy, if slightly dated, atmosphere. Soft music played in the background, and the walls were adorned with photographs and knick-knacks that added character to the space.

"Room 128," she told you. You made your way there and knocked, the sound of your fingers hitting the door echoing through the quiet corridor. When Jill opened it, you immediately wrapped your arms around her, and she clung to you just as tightly, seeking comfort in your embrace.

“Jill, I was so worried about you. The media was saying—” you started, but she silenced you with a kiss, soft yet desperate, as if to convey all her unspoken fears. As you pulled away, you looked into her eyes—the same ones you fell in love with the first time you gazed into them. But now, they seemed heavy with sorrow. You could feel her pain radiating from her, and it made your heart ache. You were ready to listen to her every word.

“Let’s go out to the balcony,” she suggested. As you stepped outside, a cool breeze enveloped you, ruffling Jill’s hair and filling your lungs with the crisp night air. You leaned against the railing, taking in the breathtaking view of the forest silhouetted against the setting sun, the vibrant colors fading into shades of twilight. The beauty of the moment was almost surreal, a stark contrast to the turmoil in your hearts.

Jill took a deep breath, her voice trembling as she spoke. “This... thing... it’s been hunting me, and I’ve lost so many people.” She paused, her gaze falling to the ground before meeting your eyes again. Her hand reached yours. “But at least... you’re here.” Her hand felt cold in yours, and you squeezed it tightly, wanting to share your warmth with her. “Always, Jill. Always for you,” you promised, your voice steady but filled with emotion.

“I just want to end Umbrella, you know? So no one will ever have to live through that nightmare again.” She looked at you, her vulnerability shining through. You settled next to her, resting your head on her shoulder, feeling the weight of her burden. “So… you’re joining Redfield in Europe?” you asked softly, and she nodded, a mix of determination and weariness in her expression.

As she recounted everything that had happened in Raccoon City, the weight of her words hung in the air. You could see the exhaustion etched into her features, the toll that the last weeks had taken on her. After the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep hues of indigo, both of you eventually retreated inside, curling up together in the bed.

“Whatever you decide, I’m with you,” you whispered gently, wanting her to know she wasn’t alone in this fight. A soft smile spread across her face. “I know,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, before taking your hand and placing a tender kiss on it. As she drifted into sleep, you watched her calm features, finally at peace for the first time in a long while. Feeling the weight of the moment settle around you, your own eyes grew heavy, and you surrendered to sleep beside her, comforted by the connection you shared.

But a few hours later, you felt Jill stir beside you, her breathing uneven as she woke from a troubled dream. You turned to her, immediately sensing her distress. “Jill, hey, it’s okay. I’m here,” you murmured, reaching out to gently stroke her hair, grounding her in the moment.

She blinked slowly, her gaze finding yours, and for a moment, you could see the remnants of her nightmares flickering behind her eyes. “I… I’m sorry I woke you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Don’t be. You don’t have to apologize for anything. Just tell me what you need,” you said, pulling her closer, wanting to shield her from the darkness that lingered.

With a shaky breath, she started to share the fragments of her nightmare, but as the shadows of fear loomed, you gently shifted the conversation. “Remember that time we got caught in the rain on our way back from that movie? You were so mad at me for forgetting the umbrella, but we ended up laughing so hard when we arrived soaked to the bone?”

A small smile broke through Jill’s anxious expression, and she chuckled softly. “How could I forget? You said we looked like a couple of drowned rats.”

“And we definitely did.” you added, joining in her laughter. “And you insisted on making hot cocoa when we got home, but we both ended up burning our tongues because we were too eager to drink it.”

Jill’s laughter filled the room, and for that moment, it felt as if the weight of the world had lifted just a little. “I think you were the one who was too eager!” she retorted, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

“Okay, I’ll admit I may have gotten a bit too excited, but who can blame me? You make everything better,” you replied, squeezing her hand and leaning in to kiss her forehead.

The two of you spent the rest of the night sharing stories of silly moments from your relationship, from the time you both dressed up in ridiculous costumes for Halloween to the day you attempted to cook dinner together, resulting in a kitchen disaster. Each memory was a thread, weaving warmth into the fabric of the night and allowing you both to escape the harsh reality that awaited.

Eventually, Jill’s laughter subsided into soft breaths, and you felt her relax against you, finally finding solace in your embrace. As you both drifted back into sleep, the shadows that haunted her dreams began to fade, replaced by the light of your shared memories, bringing a sense of peace to your restless hearts.

[useless-catalanfacts]

Why are traditional Catalan tambourines painted with the same image?

The story of a women-only music genre

One of the traditional tambourines used in Catalan folk music is the square tambourine, and often you'll find them painted like this:

1st: modern pandero made copying the drawing of an old one, photo from Carrutxa. / 2nd: pandero of unknown date, made some time between 1601 and 1800, kept in Museu de Lleida, posted by Catàleg d'instruments de Catalunya. / 3rd: pandero made between 1700 and 1800, Museu de Lleida. / 4th: pandero from the year 1900, posted by the blog Quina la fem?.

Square tambourines used to be very common ever since the Middle Ages in many parts of Catalonia. They were very widespread in the Camp de Tarragona and some parts of Ponent areas of Catalonia throughout the 18th to early 20th centuries, but they quickly lost popularity after the year 1900. They are squares made of wood covered with goat skin and often have bells inside. Very often they were also decorated with ribbons and silk and painted with an image of the Virgin of the Rosary (Mare de Déu del Roser, in Catalan, where roser meant "rosary"📿 and "rose bush"🌹 in Medieval Catalan but for the last centuries only means "rose bush"🌹).

These tambourines used to be played by women who were members of the Confraternity of the Virgin of the Rosary (sometimes other female confraternities too, but the Rosary was by far the most popular one). A confraternity is an association of people who promote worshipping a certain saint or virgin and who help each other socially and economically if they're in hardship. It used to quite common for women to join because it was mutual aid.

When there was a holiday, party, wedding, baptism, festa major, Easter, or any time they wanted (for example, if foreign men were passing through the town), women members of the confraternity played the tambourine songs (cançons de pandero or cançons de tambor), which were improvised lyrics over a song played with the tambourine. In return, people gave them money as donations for the confraternity. It was common for young people in love to give some money to these women so that they would sing a song saying how wonderful their beloved is.

This was the opposite of what was usual in that society. Back then, it was normal and seen as something good for young men to sing on the streets about the beauty of their beloved, or go to the house of their beloved to sing them songs. Many towns in Catalonia still keep traditions where on a certain day the young men do this (and nowadays, in many cases women do it too). But centuries ago it was very unusual for women to be the ones singing about the boys like the Rosary singers did.

The Catholic Church banned the Confraternity of the Rosary from singing these songs a few times, but they never managed to make them stop because it was so popular. In the end, the tradition died because of the changes in society, when people aren't part of religious confraternities like that and parties have changed.

Folklorists travelled around Catalonia and compiled the lyrics sang by these women. Many of these songs are funny, mocking specific men for being vain or flirting with every woman they find, others are praising boys or girls for their beauty and grace, others talk about the holiday or celebration they were sang in.

Nowadays, even though these women groups doing improvised lyrics over the tambourine don't exist anymore, square tambourines are still used by bands who play Catalan folk music, and some of them play old cançons de pandero that they have learned in their hometowns.

Sources: Taula Parada. Blog de recerca i difusió del patrimoni etnològic i de memòria històrica., Cases de la festa, La teiera, Quina la fem?.

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine Jaskier confessing that you are his true muse…

Geralt and Ciri were off in the woods training. So you picked up a light bag of supplies and carried it to the rickety cart for the journey ahead.

The lute-playing bard trailed behind and had struck up a conversation about his inspirations. It was not long before he started listed various women (and men) who crossed his paths and drove him to write a line or two.

“I thought you were with the Countess?” You wondered with a small turn and a carefree laugh. “You last declared, boldly might I add, that she was 'the greatest muse to be found'.”

Jaskier nodded with a small sigh. “In hindsight I probably shouldn’t have. But she had been for my earlier works.”

You let out a laugh that sang into the sky, spinning back around and adjusting the bag in your arms.

“My, you change muses almost as often as pants.” Approaching the cart, you leaned forward and set the bag down. Dusting your hands before looking at the bard who had stopped a few paces away. “Is Geralt going to be the next?”

Jaskier scoffed. “He wishes.”

This made you laugh again. Stepping toward him, you pat his shoulder gently and made to leave but Jaskier clasped your wrist, catching you by surprise. His blue eyes were trained on yours as if opening up to your soul.

“Listen.” He said firmly. All jest washed away now. “You have been the muse to my songs from the moment we met and I cannot comprehend the magic you have woven in my lyrics - the beauty.”

“I’m hardly inspiration, Jaskier.” You told him softly.

“And yet I cannot imagine another face when I think, another smile when I write, another voice when I seek a melody.” Jaskier drew your hand to rest over his heart. “You have changed the essence of my tunes - the true ones.”

It was a folly thing to believe in love and happy endings with the perilous road ahead. And yet, you could not find yourself to pull away. Jaskier found a way to drum your heartbeat and dance to it.

If your fate was to be sealed in blood, then you would feel every remaining joy there was.

~ More imagines here ~

[grim333z]

i saw the bag of bones fan fiction u wrote and it was so good holy shit I was wondering if u could make a Carl x reader but it's like the song “Scott Pilgrim vs the world ruined a whole generation of women” it's so good imo and it's lowkey a bit relateable if ur comfy with it😓😓

[I looked at the lyrics and read into them a little but I think I might have changed the meaning a little however hopefully this is what you had in mind :) ]

DYEING-

Carl x gn!reader tw:  mentions of depression and suicidal thoughts, angst (pls lmk if i missed anything!)

"Bright dyed hair but dead inside."

"When did you do that?" You hear his voice before anything else. He'd grown to realise the volume of his footsteps didn't typically help when following you out into the middle of the woods.

You'd never been too sure of him. He was far too interested in you, given there was about five other teenagers to talk to... yet he made the time for you.

"do what? you turn too look at him, tilting your head at him as he leans against one of the thick dark oak trees that were scattered throughout the heavy forest which lined the outside of the Alexandria safe-zone. "You're all blue now." He smiles slightly.

Carl never really knew where you got all the dye from, part of him guessed your trips over the wall usually wound you up in that heavily run down hair salon, beside the apothecary. He glances down at your faintly blue tinged fingers, hovering over the deep brown leather coated handle of your hunting knife. 

"Why do you give so much of a fuck about what I'm up-to, Carl?" You state, like you're angry, in reality you're a whole lot of not a lot.  Though it was mildly annoying having some guy you weren't even close to weirdly infatuated with your every little move. "There's not exactly a whole lot to do around here." Carl states, his fingers tapping against the handle of his gun sitting in its holster, a nervous tic you'd notice him doing in your involuntary time spent around him. 

"Don't you have Enid?" You question, your expression writhing with sarcasm, you'd seen him prancing around the community with his silly little girlfriend. "Enid's alright, I guess." He hums, eye's firmly fixed on you. "And I'm sure Ron or Mikey won't mind you hanging out with them." He sighs in response to your words, "I'm sure they won't." He scoffs, he'd already gotten the feeling that Ron was iffy about him, and sure he liked Enid, but she was intense and hard to read at the best of times. 

"Go play video games or read whatever shit you usually read. leave me be, Carl."

 "I'm not gonna do that." Carl states, flicking the stray bits of hair off of his face, his deep blue eyes holding an unusual sense of knowing, like he's read you like a damn book, and too your knowledge he probably had, he manged to figure Enid out; albeit only surface level. He has a strange way of just figuring people out. Despite his age he's a incredible judge of character. 

"I don't need you worrying about me, or being all up in my shit. " You huff, turning to walk off, before you falter as he calls out, "I do worry about you, though." He coos, his voice unusually comforting and holding a weird sense of realness. Any adult who'd ever tried to comfort you never sounded so real in their words, always seeming fake. Like if they tell you everything is gonna be just fine, every urge you ever had will simply disappear and you'd forget whatever hell this new changed world had put you through.

"Why...? You hardly know me." You pause, typically you'd avoid these types of conversations via any means necessary but today, now, you can't fathom the idea of dismissing him. 

"You remind me of myself, if I'm being honest." He hums, his voice growing quieter as he finds himself feeling the need to become vulnerable with you. "You're acting how I did just after i lost my mom." He states, his nervous tapping growing faster and more anxious. 

You wrinkle your brow at him, "What? Acting like what." You state, before cringing internally at how cold you'd been, especially after he'd admitted something so personal to you. "Sorry, I'm just-" "I know." he nods, "It isn't safe out here, will you come back with me? please?" 

Your gaze drifts to the ground; despite Carl's urging for you to head back inside, where he knows you're less likely to wind-up dead or dying, you can't will yourself to leave the quiet solace of the woods. Sure they were dark and lonely and you came back littered with scrapes and bruises nearly every time but hell they were a space to just be. Be with your aching, it was stupid but embracing the numbness, becoming one with it, made it easier to deal with. Carl's asking for you to retreat inside the walls was also asking you to get your shit together and stop letting it take over. 

"Staying bitter doesn't fix anything." He scoffs, acknowledging your self-destructive behaviour, feeling like he's almost looking in a mirror back at himself, he'd done the exact same at some of the lowest points in his life. 

"Staying bitter has kept me alive." You spit.

"Staying bitter is gonna get you killed, and it'll be no ones fault but your own." He looks at you, his gaze utterly oozing with a strange resentment, he had to drag himself out of the whole he dug himself into. Watching you be offered a hand and deny it, irks him. "You and I both know what you're doing is stupid and will get you nowhere." He spits, "I can't leave someone with the knowledge they're in this state."

"If you've dealt with it then you know how its like, Carl, go back." You spit and you swear he almost snarls at you, it's nothing, a mere twitch of the upper lip. 

"I killed a man- a boy, because I was stupid and dumb and angry, and I let myself wallow in it." Your face drops, you try and will yourself to draw your knife or run but you can't, you're utterly unsure on how to process his words, you'd never killed, but the thought that you could, the thought that you weren't far off the mindset where pulling the trigger was as simple as taking a breath. Shit did it scare you.  

"I had to pull myself out of it because I didn't want another dead kid on my mind, and shit I think about him daily, and I think about how damn easy it was." 

You meet his eyes, "You don't want that on your mind." He states, as you walk towards him. 

"I'll come back." You whisper tentatively. 

[passthe5sos]

“Don’t Forget You Love Me”

Calum Hood

You know, every time you fall in love, you go through the realization. I didn't have to go through with it alone, because we fell in love together. Our love blossomed quietly, hidden behind the shadows of how we portrayed ourselves to each other, but when I looked in his eyes I knew. When he looked in mine, he knew too. We were in love. 

Our relationship had changed, it went from something peaceful to something loud, wild, and free. But it wasn't bad at all. It was a beautiful change, a way that could only happen between two best friends in love. 

We had our good days, some of the best days of my life. There were the ones that were quiet, days in where neither of us could face the hardships of the world and we'd lie in bed with a pizza and the TV on and pretend it was just us in this world. Playing with Duke in the yard while he smoked and I sipped wine. Or we'd have the loud good days, hanging out backstage at concerts and singing the wrong lyrics to songs but never being embarrassed because that's just what we did. Driving around with the windows down as music echoed around the streets. 

But we'd also have the loud bad days. The screaming at each other, throwing thing's out of pure anger. To follow, it was usually the quiet bad days. Sleeping in separate rooms, ignoring each other because that's all we we knew how to do. I couldn't even blame it on being kids, we weren't kids anymore. We were barely lovers, barely even friends. 

And normally when people break up with their exes, you can block them. Ignore their calls, texts. You don't have to see their friends anymore, or look in their eyes but with Calum it was another thing that made him stand out compared to everyone else, I saw him everywhere. I drive past his house sometimes, just to see if his cars in the driveway. I know I could just man up and knock on the door and he'd let me in, he wouldn't stop calling my phone but I wasn't sure if answering was the right decision. 

The last night we spent together, all we did was argue and with every insult, we knew it was going to be the last time. Neither of us were mature enough to talk. He was mean. I'll never understand when boys are mean. Girls can be mean too, but hearing a boy be mean, they just know it hurts and they do anything they can think of to push their pain onto someone else to momentarily forget why they're angry in the first place. 

I had sat at the couch, hands folded in my lap, and Duke hiding out. He never liked when we fought, but I'm sure he'll enjoy it when I've gone. No more fighting. "I can't do this anymore." Calum was pacing behind me, hard wood cracking under the pressure of his steps with the weight of what was to become our relationship resting on his shoulders. He scoffed. "You can't." it felt like a threat. I wasn't afraid you'd hit me, I knew you weren't that kind of guy. But the things you said felt as bad, if not worse. "You can't leave me." it was my turn to scoff. I had mentally checked out long ago, and I was just ghosting through the rest of our relationship while I tried to find the easiest way to break it off. 

Quick paced steps and you sit beside me. "I'm being serious, where you gonna go?" I break my train of thought, blinking a few times, trying to find myself again. I worried I had let myself go through the past few weeks on autopilot and I had really left myself, not just you. I was finding my own consciousness again. "I'm gonna stay with a friend, we just... Need a while." I stated slowly, hoping for once he wouldn't try and talk over me, tell me no. "We don't need anything, what you need is to stay here with me."

"Whatever is going on with us Calum, isn't gonna be fixed by me being in this house anymore. We just... Aren't on the same path anymore and our time has run out or something." I explained. Maybe if I gave it an explanation, it'd make this break much cleaner. If you can give a problem an answer, there won't be a problem anymore. "You can't make a wrong relationship turn right. It doesn't work that way." I trailed off. 

We sit beside each other in silence. It echoes louder than the words. "Fine then, if you wanna go just fucking go. Can't stand this anymore anyway."

Another blow, worse than an actual punch. I guess I was expecting you to beg some more, maybe plead for a second chance but the giving up? I hadn't thought you were that kind of man either. I just stood up silently, grabbing my phone and dialing up my friend to come pick me up as soon as possible. I headed into our bedroom, chewing on my bottom lip to give me something to do aside from crying. My eyes were burning and I kept tilting my head up to keep the tears from sliding down my cheeks. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting him see me cry. I packed my bag up with essentials. All the clothes that didn't have a story with you in it, thing's I bought myself. Everything that reminded me of you, I left behind. Another problem to deal with another day. 

I turned in the bedroom, about to head into the bathroom. I find you standing there in the doorway, just silently watching me pack. You always had the saddest puppy dog eyes I had ever seen. "So that's it then? You're just gonna leave me without a fight?" Calum argued. I sighed, pushing open the bathroom door and shoving more of my thing's into a bag. It was my turn to watch you in the bathroom mirror as you stand behind me. 

It reminded me of all the good times like this. In the morning, how I'd brush my teeth or do my hair or makeup and you'd just watch, enamored. It crushed me. All the times I helped you cut your hair, when I watched you shave your beard. I flipped around, leaning against the bathroom counter and dropped my bag, arms crossing over my chest. "I think we've done enough fighting." I nodded along, accentuating my point. Calum couldn't think of anything else to say to disprove me, so I picked my bag up and looked him in the eye, but he couldn't hold it for longer than a second. His whole frame took up the doorway. We used to talk about our future children and whose features they'd come to have. His height, his hair, his eyes, my heart, my smile. He told me he'd die of frustration if they took on my stubbornness. My attitude too. It just made me laugh at the time. But now that kind of thing seemed impossible to think of. 

Who's smile and laugh, hair and eyes were my future kids going to have now?

"You have to let me leave Calum." I said loudly. He shakes his eyes, eyebrows set in a deep furrow. He's grown so much since we started dating. I have too. We just didn't grow together, we grew apart and that's normal. My phone buzzes from where I had set it down on the counter, lighting up with a text from my friend that she arrived and was waiting for me outside. I pocketed my phone and push off the counter, walking up to him. "You gotta let me go now. I'm being serious." I repeated his line from earlier and Calum slips to the slide to let me pass easily. 

No one ever talks about how eerie it is to leave a relationship. Walking through the rest of the house, phantoms of our memories playing in my head, dancing all around me in broken fragments. I don't think there's anything wrong with me, or him. We were both stressed about work, the lack thereof on his end. Moving in was a huge step, and a huge mistake. But even with all that being said, it wasn't a waste of time. We both learned a lot about each other in our short time together. I learned how I wanted to be loved, and my perfect idea of love wasn't like this at all. Today ended up being one of our loud bad days, ending with complete silence as I walked through the front door. Maybe some day we'd find each other again, but at this time, I just don't think I'm ready. 

Even when I drive past his house, even when I wear the clothes he always liked most on me, even when I listen to the playlists we made together or ate our favorite foods in complete silence. I doubt there's ever going to be a day where I don't love him though. I wish I could forget, and I try to put more effort into it every day we spend apart, but I can't. I love him and it sucks.

[bitterbutblue]

firefly <3

i'll come closer to you slowly, very slowly ☆ firefly x fem!reader

~ WAAA this one was the second most popular one in the votes! unfortunately i have had to make some changes (literally the entire plot and idea) because i have recently began yearning again and its such a crazy feeling im gonna write abt it.. anyways this is a short one but i got a ROBIN FIC COMING.... YAYYY ROBIN ~

song: very, slowly - bibi ~

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

It's suffocating when she smiles. But it's also soft like a song on the train on your way home. You could only sit next to her as she hums her favourite song by Robin. At this point you could recite every lyric and every note even though you've never actively listened to that song yourself.

"Want one?"

You snap out of your train of thought, looking up at her. You could feel your heart leap when her eyes meet yours because who knew you could fit the entire galaxy, the sun's rise and it's setting in eyes and nothing but eyes. She holds up a small cake, tilting her head to the side like a lost puppy and you want to hold her so close she becomes part of you. She's already a part of you though, you knew that. You know that from now on no matter what happens, some part of you will always end up going back to her. Some part of you will always see the Dream's Edge and think about purple eyes and sunsets. Some part of you will see oak roll cakes and think of Robin's top song on a Monday evening.

"I got one for you."

The cake is by no means your favourite. It's rough, tastes like wood and barely sweet enough to be a cake. It's more like cardboard, but you'd never tell her that. You just take it anyways because, well, who were you to refuse her? Her smile already has you feeling so weak in the knees and you know if she asked you to do anything you'd agree immediately.

"Thanks."

You can't control the small tremble in your voice. You are just hoping the smile you shot her doesn't seem too forced.

"Hey!"

The familiar voice has your heart stuttering in your chest as it falls down the familiar chasm. The golden eyed girl runs up to you two excitedly and you see the way she straightens up, the way her eyes brighten as she shows the smile she only ever shows when she's around.

"Stelle!"

You can only watch as she gets onto her feet, walking over to Stelle to engage in a conversation that she seems to be more interested in than with any conversation she's ever held with you. It sucks. It hurts and you knew you had no chance to begin with from the moment you laid eyes on her but you couldn't fight the urge that is wanting to get closer to her. Wanting to know her and be someone to her.

You knew you'd never be anyone to her.

Who are you without her, though?

She finds herself lost in the golden girl's eyes. The golden girl who you know you could only stare at from afar, wishing you could be maybe just half of who she is so that she could finally look at you.

For once, maybe.

Just once, in the way you want her to look at you.

You hate the smile she smiles at you is nothing like the smile she smiles at Stelle. You hate how she always brightens up in ways she never brightens up around you. You hate, not her, but yourself. You knew you would get hurt getting into it, but like a drug you go back to her because you can't stay away from her warmth.

When Stelle touches her shoulder, you wonder how warmth can somehow feel so cold.

"Firefly?"

"Hm?"

She smiles at you but it's muted. You can tell it's muted because you've memorised all her smiles and movements. You know what each little wrinkle of her nose means and what each little twitch of her lips means. Now you can only watch as she falls in love with someone who you could never be.

"I need to go."

"Oh!"

She smiles.

"I'll see you later?"

Stay away, would you?

For your own good.

"I'll text you."

But you can't.

You could only walk away, fully aware of how you could now disappear and she really wouldn't mind because all she could focus on was the golden girl who you hated but also loved. You hate her because she is everything you want to be. You love her because she is everything you want to be.

She would never focus on you as much.

Fuck.

But you knew you'd always go back.

[kidspawn]

Don’t know if you’re into Taylor Swift but I have a feeling you just enjoy character songs in general. Was listening to Style by her and couldn’t stop thinking about Pynch.

Well, now you've got me started. When it comes to Taylor Swift and Pynch I have many many feelings so here's a relatively comprehensive list of TS songs that make my heart clench and think about them. Most of these are vibes, ofc, and many have to do with the fact that in my mind Adam is very very evermore to me and Ronan is very midnights to me and I could maybe be persuaded out of this, but actually I won't. Anti-Hero is a very very Ronan Lynch song. Ok? Ok.

(I should not be left to my own devices/They come with prices and vices/I end up in crisis/I wake up screaming from dreaming/One day I'll watch as you're leaving) <- ok my point has been made.

A lot of this relies on Dreamer Trilogy themes but I'll push ahead omg Here's my annotated list.

Out of the Woods (remember when you couldn't take the heat/i walked out/said "i'm setting you free"/but the monsters turned out to be just trees)

False God (this song does things to me in general. "religions in your lips/even if its a false god/we still worship this love")

New Years Day (something about the motif of "hey after the party and explosions and all the chaos is over I'll be here with you in the aftermath, after the crash you know you know)

Hoax (i cannot get into this one, but this entire song revolving around a flawed by everlasting relationship very very them)

The Lakes ("I don't belong" just very "you are made of dreams and this world is not for you")

gold rush solely because they're both pessimistic piners ok ("i call you out on your contrarian shit" very very pynch whoop whoop)

cowboy like me solely for the vibes

long story short (because "long story i survived" and the "if someone comes at us this time i'm ready")

ya now what fuck it willow too this is my list idc

maroon (very much so dreamer trilogy angst-era ok)

snow on the beach (because this is genuinely a very sweet song and as goofy as the lyrics "weird but fucking beautiful" it has that very dreamy but bizarre juxtaposition of the raven cycle in general)

look me in the eyes and tell me mastermind is not at least a little pynch coded. you can't. exactly.

the great war (once again very the dreamer trilogy.)

paris (summer at the barns. need i say more. escapism at its finest.)

hey stephen (i've had this conversation. this is very cute pining crush song. ronan's actual internal monologue the first few months he knew adam.)

i'll throw a state of grace on there. because the four blue eyes line and the lines, "you were never a saint/and i've loved in shades of wrong/we learn to live with the pain/mosaic broken hearts"

style i can totally get on board with too like "when we come crashing down/we come back every time" SHUT UP ugh i need to finish my john hughes movie-inspired fic bc this is going on the writing playlist

i could go on. i could do this all day. don't tempt me. i could. i could. (shoutout that bluesey is very "treacherous" ok ok goodnight. good morning. it's ten in the morning for me.)