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dazevi · 3 days ago

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CHAPTER ONE: GHOST IN THE ROOM

heart to heart series | vi x fem!reader

synopsis: with the tour coming to an end, vi's manager insists on the band taking a break. meanwhile, you help your best friend, mel, with planning her wedding.

content warnings: MDNI. angst (lots of it), slightly suggestive, rockstar!vi, writer!reader, eventual exes to lovers (more like exes to fwb to lovers), no smut but mentions of sex, jaymel cameo, bestfriend!mel, time skips, mentions of alcohol and smoking

wc: 11,388 (about—i made some edits lol)

note: good morning!! (its morning where i am) this is my first time writing a series so feedback would be very much appreciated—would love to hear what you guys think!!! also i had some trouble deciding if i wanted to write jayvik or jaymel but i felt like mel would’ve been more fitting for reader to have as a best friend lol anyways here is the first chapter! i hope you all enjoy!!! (fanart by bunimint_ on ig)

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The hum of the venue echoed faintly through the backstage room, muffled by layers of concrete and steel.

The crowd had been electric tonight, their cheers and screams still ringing faintly in Vi’s ears as she sat on the small stool in front of a mirror. Her guitar sat propped against the brick wall behind her, its strings still vibrating in her memory from the final chords of the night. The air in the room smelled faintly of sweat and smoke, the residue of adrenaline and effort clinging to her skin.

The band was as much a family as it was a group of musicians. While Vi stands in front, Ekko was on lead guitar, the youngest of them but by far the most electric on stage, shredding solos and occasionally stepping up to rap when a song called for it. Then there was Steb on drums. He didn’t talk much, but he didn’t really need to. He was a crucial part of the band already and quite creative with his beats. And on bass was Loris, a big guy with a bigger heart, who filled every song with lines that could shake the floor of any venue.

But she was alone now, the rest of the band off celebrating the end of the tour, their laughter faint in the distance, just past the door. Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her—flushed cheeks, damp hair sticking to her temples, her tank top slightly wrinkled. Her chest rose and fell steadily, but her mind wasn’t calm.

Not really.

She reached up to push a strand of hair from her face when her fingers brushed against the cool silver chain around her neck.

Her hand stilled.

The necklace felt heavy on her neck as always, but she hardly thought about anymore.

Tonight, for some reason, it felt heavier. Vi tugged gently at it, pulling the necklace out from under her shirt to let it fall against her chest. They glimmered faintly in the dim backstage light, catching her eye like they always had.

She stared at them for a long moment, her throat tightening.

She hadn’t thought about it—about you—in a while.

Or… maybe that wasn’t true.

Maybe she’d just gotten better at pretending she didn’t.

But now, with the adrenaline of the stage fading away and the silence of the backstage room settling in, it hit her all over again.

Six years had passed since graduating high school. She remembers all the memories that came with it—that came with being with you—as if they happened yesterday.

But, three years.

It had been three years since the two of you had broken up, and Vi still couldn’t let go of this last piece of you. She told herself it was just a necklace, just a reminder of a time when life seemed simple, but deep down she knew it was more than that.

It was a lifeline to a past she hadn’t entirely made peace with—a time when the world didn’t feel quite so big, and her dreams hadn’t come at the cost of losing you.

She blinked at her reflection, her jaw tightening as her fingers played with the rings. The memories came flooding back despite her best efforts to push them down. The nights spent tangled up together in her room, the sound of your laugh as you teased her for pretending to know how to play certain songs when she wanted to impress you, the way you always smelled faintly of lavender and paper from all those books you carried around and loved so much. God, she could almost hear your voice if she closed her eyes, could almost feel the way your hands used to cup her face when you kissed her.

But you weren’t here. And you hadn’t been for years.

Vi exhaled shakily, letting the necklace fall back against her chest. She rubbed her hands over her face, her calloused fingers catching slightly on her damp skin.

She tried to tell herself this was what she wanted—what she had worked so hard for. The sold-out shows, the screaming fans, the endless crowds. It had been her dream for as long as she could remember.

But the truth was, none of it felt quite as fulfilling as she thought it would. Not without you.

The buzz of her phone on the dressing table broke her train of thought. She glanced at it, the screen lighting up with a text from Ekko reminding her to join them at the bar. She hesitated, her gaze drifting back to the mirror.

For a quick moment, she thought about it—thought about texting you. Maybe, calling you. Just to say hi. Just to hear your voice again, even if only through the cold distance of a phone call.

But she knew better. You had probably already moved on, or at least, you deserved to.

Vi stood slowly, adjusting the chain so it tucked back under her shirt, hidden from view. She ran a hand through her hair and grabbed her jacket, shrugging it on. As she walked out of the room, she felt the rings press lightly against her chest.

The party the next night was loud, chaotic, and everything it should have been to celebrate the end of a year-long tour. Vi found herself tucked into a corner of the room, a half-empty beer bottle in her hand as she watched her bandmates laugh and shout over the music. People swarmed around them—fans, industry suits, and a few familiar faces from the tour circuit.

It was exactly what she used to love, the kind of scene she’d dreamed about when she first picked up a guitar in her mom’s garage. But tonight, it all felt hollow.

She plastered on a grin when someone approached, making small talk she wouldn’t remember later, pretending the music wasn’t giving her a headache.

It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the celebration. She should have been celebrating. A year long tour. Ninety shows. Sold-out venues in cities she never thought she’d even visit, let alone play in.

But now that it was over, the rush was fading.

Vi’s manager had pulled the band aside after the final show, giving them a rundown of what came next.

Or rather, what didn’t come next.

“You’ve earned it,” the manager had said, looking around at the group. “Take a break. Go home. Recharge. You’ve been going non-stop for years. You deserve this.”

Home. The word lingered in Vi’s mind. It felt heavy and unfamiliar.

She sipped her beer and glanced around the party again. Everyone seemed to be having the time of their lives, but Vi felt detached, like she was watching it all through a screen.

The truth was, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do now. This band, for the time being, had been her life. The shows, the music, the adrenaline—it all kept her moving forward, kept her distracted.

But now? Now she was being told to stop.

Her fingers brushed against the chain around her neck, hidden beneath her shirt. She’d done it out of habit, her thumb grazing the spot where the rings rested against her skin. She swallowed hard, her jaw tightening as she felt some sort of pain swell in her chest. She pushed it down, forcing herself to focus on the noise and the people around her.

When a girl caught her eye across the room—pretty, confident, the kind of girl who wouldn’t ask too many questions—Vi didn’t hesitate.

She let the girl take her hand and pull her upstairs to some empty room in the penthouse suite. It was mechanical by now, second nature. She knew what to say, where to touch, how to make it seem like she was present when, in truth, her mind was somewhere else.

Or rather, with someone else.

It always ended the same way.

Vi closed her eyes, and it was you. There was no one else she could think of other than you.

It didn’t help that every time she hovered over someone else, her necklace would dangle just in front of her, and she’d look down and catch a glimpse of you beneath her, all pretty and waiting, with eyes full of love and warmth—the very eyes she fell in love with again and again. Every laugh, every touch, every kiss—it was you she conjured up in her mind.

But it never lasted.

Reality always came crashing back when the girl whispered her name in a way that had no effect on her or when she clung to her a little too tightly, too roughly.

When it was over, Vi sat silently by the bed, pulling on her shirt, avoiding eye contact.

“Can you stay?” the girl asked softly.

“No,” Vi shook her head, grabbing her jacket. She never stayed. She never left her number. And she never looked back.

Walking out into the cold night air, Vi lit a cigarette with trembling hands.

She thought about you—again. She thought about the way you used to smile at her, how your fingers used to trail through her hair when she rested her head in your lap, how you’d call her name so softly that it felt like she was listening to her favorite song. The ache in her chest was unbearable, but it was the only thing that reminded her she was still alive.

Since the breakup, Vi had grown bitter, the world feeling heavier with each passing day. She hadn’t felt truly happy in years, hadn’t laughed the way she used to.

So she buried herself into anything that could distract her—work, music, and nights like this one.

But it was useless.

Because no matter how far she ran, how many strangers she kissed, or how loud the music played, she always had you in her mind.

Always you. Only you.

To the little town she used to call home. To the life she’d walked away from when she chose this one.

And for the first time in a long time, Vi wasn’t sure she’d made the right choice.

The chime of the bell above the flower shop door rang faintly as a customer left, and you glanced up from where you sat behind the counter, absentmindedly wrapping a bouquet of daisies in soft brown paper. The shop smelled sweet and earthy—comforting in a way that nothing else had been for the past few years.

It had been your mom’s idea for you to work here after you graduated college, though you hadn’t exactly protested. It was a nice job to have. Stress free. Relaxing. Arranging flowers, chatting with customers, and helping with orders had its own kind of peace.

You figured it would be nice way to pass some time while saving up money for your own shop—a book shop.

But some time has passed now, and all you’ve got to do is find the courage to go downtown and lease out that nice empty spot by the town gardens.

But, you decide to put that off for next month. Maybe after the wedding.

Your degree in literature had been the culmination of years of dreaming, of late nights spent pouring over books and writing short stories that no one else ever read. And for a while, everything felt like it was falling into place. That book—the one you poured your soul into, the one that had felt like ripping your heart out to write—had done surprisingly well. It wasn’t a bestseller, but it had been enough. Enough to make you believe you were on the right path, to reassure you that the sacrifices had been worth it.

But now, the blank pages in your notebook always stared back at you, mocking. The words didn’t come as easily as they used to. It wasn’t writer’s block, not exactly—it was something deeper. A lack of fire, you called it. And you told yourself that the flower shop was just a temporary stop, a place to regroup until the inspiration came back.

But part of you worried it never would.

As you finished tying a ribbon around the bouquet, your gaze drifted to the small bookshelf by the window. Copies of your book sat there, stacked neatly, the cover facing out. Your mom kept them in stock, proud and supportive as always, even if the sight of them made you wince. Every time you looked at it, you remembered how much of yourself you’d poured into that story—how you’d been told it was heartbreaking and beautiful, and yet writing it had felt like stitching up a wound that refused to heal.

You always tried not to think about who had inspired it.

But of course, you failed. You always did.

Some days, it was easier to pretend that part of your life hadn’t happened, to bury it under layers of routine and busy nights. Other days, it hit you out of nowhere—a song on the radio, a laugh in a movie, the way a stranger’s voice pitched just so.

And suddenly, you’d be back there.

Back to her.

The chime of the bell rang again, snapping you out of your thoughts as a new customer stepped in. You forced a polite smile, brushing your hands against your apron. The shop was warm and safe, a place where you could hide from the rest of the world.

But somewhere out there, the rest of the world kept moving—just as it had for Vi.

You remembered the day you saw that headline.

You hadn’t expected to see it, but there it was—Violet Lanes Spotted Dining With Famous Actress Caitlyn Kiramman—in bold, glaring letters across the entertainment news section of your phone screen.

The date on the article was just two weeks after your breakup, and it felt like the universe had decided to make sure you never forgot. You could still remember the way your heart sank as you read it, like the air was suddenly sucked out of your lungs, leaving you breathless and dizzy.

You’d known about Vi’s fame, how it grew quickly when she started making music professionally, of course—how could you not? She was a rockstar, her face plastered everywhere, her name trending almost daily.

But this… this was different.

Caitlyn Kiramman was an actress with a reputation that preceded her, a star on a different level entirely. Vi was supposed to be with you—at least, you thought so, at the time. But as you read through the details, the pictures of Vi smiling across the table at Caitlyn, her arm casually draped around the actress’s shoulders, something inside you snapped. It was the first time, in the aftermath of everything, that you’d truly felt like you’d lost her.

You tried to dismiss the burning ache in your chest. After all, you hadn’t exactly been an innocent party in your breakup. You had your reasons for walking away, too.

But seeing Vi so effortlessly move on, laughing and drinking wine with someone like Caitlyn—someone who could stand next to her in the spotlight without being swallowed by it—hit you harder than you expected.

It wasn’t jealousy, not really.

It was just you realizing that Vi had stepped into a world without you, just as you had stepped into one without her.

You thought about calling her, but you didn’t.

The last time you’d spoken, you’d said what needed to be said, even if it hadn’t felt like it at the time. You had told yourself you were better off, that you deserved more than being constantly second place to her career.

You didn’t want to call. Instead, you buried yourself in your work, threw yourself into your job, and started writing stories that felt too hollow to ever really be finished. You kept your distance from everything that reminded you of her, trying to forget the feeling of her hand in yours, the sound of her voice when she’d whisper your name in that low, raspy tone that made your heart flutter.

Maybe Vi was happy. Maybe she had found someone else who could give her the things you couldn’t. The thought hit you harder than it should, but you couldn’t stop it.

You thought about the necklace—the one Vi had worn, the one that had been yours too, back in high school. Your fingers traced the small silver chain around your neck, the one you hadn’t taken off since that night you two shared it.

Had she kept hers? You wondered, for the briefest second, if she still thought about you.

But you had no way of knowing. You hadn’t heard from her in years, and you had convinced yourself that it was for the best.

The familiar sound of the bell above the shop’s door jingled softly as your mom stepped out from the back room, balancing a couple of boxes in her arms. She looked like she’d been at it for hours, strands of her hair falling from the bun on top of her head.

“Sweetheart,” she said, setting the boxes down on the counter with a thud. “Mel’s going to call about the flowers soon. You know how particular she can be about the arrangements.”

You sighed, pausing mid-wrap on a bouquet of white roses and eucalyptus.

“I know, Mom,” you muttered, though you couldn’t quite keep the smile off your face.

Mel had been one of your closest friends since high school, and if anyone had a reason to be particular, it was her. She deserved the perfect wedding, after all.

“She’s already called three times this week about those centerpieces. I’m pretty sure I know her vision better than she does at this point.”

Your mom laughed softly, brushing her hands on her apron. “She’s just excited. It’s a big day.”

She gave you a knowing look, the kind that said she wasn’t just talking about Mel.

Before you could respond, the phone behind the counter buzzed, cutting through the silence of the shop. You reached for it instinctively, already knowing who it would be.

“I swear, she has a sixth sense for these things,” you mumbled as you picked up the receiver.

“Hello, Lane Florals, how can I help—”

“Don’t even start with the formalities, I know it’s you,” came Mel’s voice, bright and slightly exasperated on the other end. “And I know I’ve already called you a million times this week, but I need to talk about the bouquets again. Jayce thinks we’re good, but I’m having second thoughts about the hydrangeas.”

You let out a dramatic groan, though you couldn’t help the laugh that followed. “Mel, you’ve gotta stop stressing. You’re going to make me go gray before your wedding day. What’s wrong with the hydrangeas now?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed. “I just feel like they don’t have the right… feeling. Maybe we should go with lilies? Or peonies? Or—oh! Do you think we could mix in some sunflowers? Jayce looooves sunflowers.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, glancing over at your mom, who was now suppressing a grin as she watered the potted plants by the window.

“Mel, we’re two weeks away from the wedding,” you said gently. “If we keep changing things, you’re not going to have any flowers at all.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Mel sighed dramatically. “You’re right. Ugh, you’re right. I’m just overthinking it. I’m sorry, I’ll stop being such a pain your ass.”

“You’re not a pain,” you said, softening. “You’re just… a perfectionist. But it’s all going to be perfect, I promise. The hydrangeas are beautiful, and they’re going to look amazing with everything else. Trust me. I’ll throw in some sunflowers, too, for Jayce.”

Mel let out a small, relieved laugh. “Thanks, babe. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Lose your mind, probably,” you teased, leaning back against the counter. “But seriously, you’re going to be fine. And as your maid of honor, I think you should take my advice and roll with it.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, and you could hear the smile in her voice. “Oh, and don’t forget, you promised to help me with the seating chart this weekend.”

“I know, I know,” you assured her, though the thought of wrangling that seating chart made you want to pour yourself a strong drink. “I’ll see you Saturday, okay?”

“Okay. Love you!” she said quickly before hanging up.

You set the phone down with a sigh, turning to your mom, who was now watching you with an amused expression. “Hydrangeas again?” she asked.

“Hydrangeas,” you confirmed with a laugh, shaking your head. “I swear, if I hear the word one more time, I’m going to lose it.”

But despite the teasing, you felt nothing but warmth for Mel. She was one of the few people who had stuck by you through everything, and seeing her so happy with Jayce was something you couldn’t begrudge, no matter how stressful wedding planning had become.

You glanced at the calendar on the wall, your thoughts drifting briefly, as they so often did, to Vi.

It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

At least, that’s what Vi had told you when she kissed you goodbye at the airport years ago, both of you standing on the edge of the new chapter—her with her band’s first big break, and you heading off to college.

She had cupped your face, her calloused hands warm against your cheeks, and promised, “We’ll make it work. You and me, we’re solid, baby. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

But it did.

You used to call everyday. Text everyday. It was so often that Vi would fall asleep on the phone every night, to the sound of your voice, telling her how much you missed her. You’d do the same, too.

But the calls that used to stretch into the early hours of the morning grew shorter and less frequent.

At first, Vi always made time for you, even if she was in the middle of nowhere, some dingy tour bus parked at a rest stop. She’d stay on the line, her gravelly voice cutting through the static as she told you about the show that night or the funny thing Ekko had done to annoy Steb. And you’d tell her about your classes, your professors, the friends you were making in your lit program. She also always used to mention you in interviews when people would ask the band if they were single or whatever.

And Vi would always say, “I’ve actually got a girl waiting for me back at home,” with cheekiest smile she could throw on.

For a while, it was enough.

But then the band’s success started to pick up, and Vi’s world got louder, busier. The calls started to come later and later—or sometimes not at all.

You’d stay up, staring at your phone, waiting for it to ring, only to wake up hours later with an empty inbox and a dull ache in your chest.

And the texts? They dwindled too.

You used to send each other everything—pictures, inside jokes, songs that reminded you of each other.

Days would pass before you’d hear from her. And when you did, it was always rushed. A quick voice message, “Sorry, babe, crazy day. Miss you, though. Love you,” followed by radio silence for the rest of the week.

You tried to understand. You really did.

You knew how much this meant to her, how hard she’d worked to get where she was. You were proud of her, more than you could ever put into words.

But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

One night, you were in your dorm room, sitting at your desk with a stack of notes and an unfinished essay in front of you, your phone balanced precariously on the edge. Vi had promised to call after a show—it had been over two weeks since you’d last spoken properly—but the clock was inching toward midnight, and there was still no word.

When the phone finally buzzed, you snatched it up, your heart pounding. “Vi?”

Her voice came through the line, raspy and tired. “Hey, baby. Sorry, show ran late.”

“It’s okay,” you lied, sinking back into your chair. “How was it?”

She sighed, and you could hear the exhaustion in it. “Good. Crowd was wild. But I’m beat.”

There was a pause, one that stretched too long, too heavy. You could feel the distance between you, the miles and the time zones and the weeks of missed calls.

“I miss you,” you said softly, your voice breaking a little.

“I miss you too,” she said, but it sounded automatic, like something she’d said a thousand times before—who are you kidding? She probably has.

You wanted to ask her why she hadn’t called, why it felt like you were slipping further and further apart.

But the words caught in your throat.

Instead, you said, “When are you coming home?”

“Uh…” Another pause. Then, “I don’t know, babe. Not for a while.”

It felt like a punch to the gut.

“Right,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I’m sorry,” she added quickly, like she could sense your disappointment in her. “It’s just… everything’s so crazy right now. But I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Okay.”

When the call ended, you stared at your phone for a long time, tears blurring your vision. Vi had always been your safe place. But at that time, it felt like she was slipping away, and no matter how tightly you held on, you couldn’t stop it.

And Vi felt it too.

She hated the way things were between you, the way she could hear the hurt in your voice even when you tried to hide it. She wanted to fix it, to drop everything, fly to you and hold you and tell you that everything was going to be okay.

But the truth was, she didn’t know if it would be.

Because no matter how much you loved each other, the distance was pulling you apart. And neither of you knew how to stop it.

NOVEMBER, THREE YEARS AGO.

It had been months since you’d last seen her—months that felt like years. You’d tried to bury yourself in your studies, keeping busy so you didn’t have to think about the loneliness she left behind with you.

But then your phone rang one rainy afternoon, and when Vi’s name flashed on the screen, you hesitated for only a moment before answering.

“Hey,” you said softly, curling up on your bed as you balanced the phone against your ear.

“Hey, babe,” she replied, her voice a little hoarse, like she’d been yelling or maybe singing too much. “How’s school?”

“It’s… fine,” you said, trying to keep your tone neutral.

You wanted to tell her everything—how much you missed her, how hard it was to fall asleep without her voice in your ear—but you swallowed the words.

“What are you up to?” You asked, bringing a hand up to rub the side of your neck.

“Nothing, right now… I’m in bed. I just finished up at the studio,” she said quietly. “It ran pretty late so…”

“Are you doing okay?”

You hear her take a breath before sighing softly, “Yeah, I’m… I just miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” you echoed.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then she said, “I was thinking… I want you to come to New York.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “New York?”

“Yeah. The band got invited to this award show. It’s kind of a big deal, I guess. I—I want you to be my date.”

Your stomach twisted at the invitation. You could hear the hope in her voice, and for a second, all you wanted to do was say yes. But then reality set in.

“Vi, I don’t know. I have finals coming up, and plane tickets are—”

“Will be taken care of,” she interrupted quickly. “I’ll handle it, everything. Just say yes.”

“Vi…”

“I wanna see you,” she said, and her voice was soft, almost pleading. It caught you off guard. “Please. It’s been too long. I miss you.”

You closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the wall, and sighed.

It was always hard to say no to Vi.

“Okay,” you murmured. “I’ll come.”

“Yeah?” she asked, her voice brightening.

“Yeah.”

The next few weeks all happened too quickly.

Vi arranged everything—a plane ticket, a car to pick you up from the airport, even a dress for the event. You didn’t know how she’d managed it all, but you weren’t surprised. She could practically do anything she sets her mind to.

When you stepped off the plane and into the terminal, you were expecting to just follow the signs to baggage claim, look for the driver Vi had mentioned in passing, and quietly make your way to whatever fancy hotel she had booked for you.

It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate her effort—Vi always went all out when it came to you—but you figured this was just another one of those things she couldn’t be present for, one more event she’d planned out from a distance.

But when you rounded the corner toward the arrivals area, your feet froze mid-step.

There she was.

Vi was standing near the entrance, her tall frame wrapped in an all-black outfit. A long black coat hung open over a fitted turtleneck and dark jeans, her combat boots planted firmly on the tiled floor. In her hands, she held a small bouquet of flowers—white daisies and a few pale pink roses wrapped in simple brown paper.

She looked every bit the rockstar she’d become, yet look on her face told a different story.

Her eyes scanned the crowd eagerly, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the paper wrapping as though she were nervous.

Your breath hitched, and tears prickled at the corners of your eyes.

For a moment, you couldn’t move.

Then Vi’s eyes found yours.

Her face lit up like the sun breaking through a storm, and before you could even process what was happening, she was running toward you. Her long strides closed the distance in seconds, and then she was there—her arms wrapping tightly around you, pulling you into her chest.

“Hey, baby,” she whispered against your hair.

You couldn’t respond.

Your throat was too tight, and the only thing you could do was cling to her, burying your face in her neck as the tears spilled over. The flowers were crushed slightly between your bodies, but neither of you cared. Vi’s hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, holding you like she was afraid you might disappear.

“I missed you so much,” she whispered.

She pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands cupping your face as she scanned your features like she needed to memorize them all over again.

She let out a breathy sigh, a smile making its way onto her face, “God, you’re even prettier than I remember.”

You let out a watery laugh, wiping at your cheeks with trembling fingers.

“Shut up,” you teased, though your voice wavered.

Vi grinned, a little sheepishly, and handed you the now slightly crumpled bouquet. “These are for you. Sorry, I think I crushed them a little.”

“They’re perfect,” you said, taking the flowers and holding them close to your chest.

She smiled again, softer this time, and reached out to take your suitcase.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here. We can go get lunch after the hotel. I know a place you might like.”

And for the first time in a long while, being with her finally felt right.

The weekend passed like something out of a dream. Vi stuck close to you, almost glued to your side, like she couldn’t bear to let go of you for even a second. She carried your bags, opened every door, kissed you in every private corner she could find.

In the the hotel room, with the city skyline stretching endlessly outside the window, she kissed you until her lips felt bruised, like she was trying to make up for every kiss she hadn��t been able to give you.

She made love to you slowly, tenderly, the way you deserved—whispering soft words against your skin, brushing stray strands of hair from your face, as if she couldn’t believe you were there with her.

“God, I missed you,” she murmured over and over again, her voice thick and quiet, spilling out each time her lips found yours. “I missed you so much.”

And it wasn’t just the being this close to you that left Vi breathless—it was everything else.

The way your laugh filled the room when she cracked a joke. The way you shyly tucked your head into her shoulder when she kissed your temple in public. The way your voice softened when you told her you missed her, that you loved her. Vi felt like she was relearning you, rediscovering all the tiny details she’d loved about you from the start—the way your fingertips felt trailing down her arm, the way you hummed absentmindedly when you were happy, the way you fit perfectly in her arms like you’d been made for her.

For once, Vi wasn’t thinking about work, about the band, about the next tour or the endless cycle of interviews and late-night rehearsals.

None of that mattered here.

The world felt smaller, quieter, when it was just the two of you.

She couldn’t believe how much she’d missed you, how much she’d missed this.

As the weekend was drawing to a close, you were lying in bed together, your head resting on her chest. Vi traced lazy circles along your shoulder with her fingertips, her other hand draped protectively across your waist. The sheets were tangled around your bare legs, the city lights painting soft, dim patterns on the walls.

“I forgot what this feels like,” Vi had said, her voice almost a whisper. “Just… being with you. I missed it.”

You tilted your head to look up at her, your eyes warm and full of something she couldn’t quite name.

“Me too,” you said softly, your hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her face.

Vi leaned down to kiss you again slowly, her hand cradling your jaw.

She wanted to stay in this moment forever, to bottle it up and carry it with her wherever she went.

Being with you, she wasn’t worried about the distance, about the time apart, about anything other than you.

But happiness like that didn’t last for long and, tomorrow, it would all go to shit.

The night of the music award show was everything Vi had hoped it would be, glimmering lights, and flashing cameras. She could hardly contain her pride as she stood beside you, her arm around your waist, guiding you through. Everything had been planned, from your dress to the after-party, and it seemed like everything was falling into place.

You looked stunning in the dress she had picked out for you. It was a deep shade of red that hugged your body in all the right places, with delicate lace detailing along the neckline that made your girlfriend want to cover your collarbone with kisses. Vi couldn’t take her eyes off you when she first saw you in it. She kept telling you how beautiful you looked, her voice filled with awe every time she caught a glimpse of you.

You had always been beautiful in Vi’s eyes, but tonight, you looked like someone straight out of a dream, her dreams. She felt a pride swell up inside her every time she looked at you, like the world had never seemed brighter, knowing that you, her girl, were beside her.

But despite how nice it was all going, it wasn’t without its discomforts for you.

There were moments when you felt too out of place in the spotlight, when the flashing of cameras made your chest tighten, or when you were pulled away from Vi to stand beside some celebrities for interviews, your smile feeling stiff and forced. Every time you were apart from her, even for a moment, you couldn’t help but feel a bit of loneliness, wanting to be close to her again.

The show itself went smoothly, though.

Vi did her thing and you watched from the sidelines, starstruck and completely in awe. It was so surreal to see her like this, her bandmates by her side, to see other celebrities you watched from home, the crowd cheering for her every time her name was called. She looked radiant. And it was hard to not feel overwhelmed by it all.

But the further the night dragged on, the more it felt like you were losing her to this new world.

You felt more of it at the after party. Vi had been swept away by a group of celebrities who wanted to talk to her, leaving you standing alone at the bar.

Ekko noticed and came over to keep you company, but it still wasn’t the same. He asked about how things were at home, mentioned how much he missed eating Benzo’s cooking. And it was nice talking to him—nice to have a friend around who didn’t feel too far into the fame as everyone else did in the room.

As you leaned against the bar, nursing your drink, you found your eyes wandering back to Vi, standing across the room, laughing and chatting with some famous actress, her hand resting on her arm. She looked completely at ease, her eyes sparkling as she talked with the other guests.

But it was clear that you that were nothing more than a bystander to her world now.

Ekko’s voice snapped you out of your daze. “You okay?” he asked, noticing your distracted expression.

You nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… a bit tired, I guess.”

Ekko raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. “You sure? Vi looks like she’s having a blast. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”

You smiled again, though it felt hollow. “Yeah, she always has a way of talking to people, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, she does,” Ekko agreed, grinning. “But you know she’s really happy to have you here tonight. She’s always talking about you. Can’t get her to shut up about you sometimes.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips, but it faded almost as quickly as it appeared.

You stand there, drink in hand, feeling an odd tension settle in your chest as you watch Vi across the room. She’s talking to someone—a tall woman, all legs and sharp angles, with dark blue hair that catches the light in an almost ethereal way. The way the actress moves, the way she laughs—effortless, magnetic, like she’s always been in the spotlight.

You’ve seen her before, vaguely—magazines, red carpets, maybe a movie trailer. She’s the kind of woman people can’t help but stare at. Perfectly polished, perfectly poised.

And there’s Vi, her face bright with a smile you once thought was reserved just for you. But now, as she stands there, chatting easily, you feel like a ghost in the room, watching from the sidelines.

Your fingers tighten around your glass, but you don’t move. You can’t.

It’s strange, this feeling that tightens your chest, this longing and bitterness you can’t seem to shake. Vi’s laugh carries over through the party, and for a moment, you close your eyes, remembering when you were the one who made her laugh like that. When you were the one who kissed that smile from her lips.

But it all feels so far away now.

The more you watch them, the more out of place you feel.

The more you look at Vi, the more she seems to belong in this world—this world of lights and flashes, of perfect strangers who all seem to know exactly who they are, exactly where they fit.

And you?

You’re still standing in the corner of this room, feeling like you’re made of something that doesn’t belong, something that’s too small for this space.

You swallow, trying to force down the lump in your throat.

It’s stupid, you know it’s stupid.

You’re just a girl from a small town with college exams coming up and some books you wrote.

Nothing glamorous.

And Vi—Vi’s everything you aren’t. She’s out here, living the life you never had the guts to chase. You can’t even blame her for it. She’s been nothing but amazing, talented and hardworking, giving you so much of herself, even when it all felt too complicated.

But seeing her like this, only reminds you of how out of place you feel now, in her world, in this world.

“I… I think I’m just gonna get some fresh air,” you say quietly.

You excuse yourself from Ekko, offering him a small smile as you slip away from the conversation. You need air—fresh, cool, anything to clear the thoughts that have taken root in your mind.

You take the elevator down to the ground floor, your heels clicking softly on the polished floors. The doors open with a soft ding, and you step out, immediately greeted by the cool bite of the night air. It’s a entirely different compared to the warmth of the party inside, and for a moment, it feels like a relief, like you can finally breathe without the walls of the venue pressing in on you.

The city lights glow in the distance, the hustle of traffic and the low hum of conversations from nearby streets filled your ears. You pull your coat tighter around you, the fabric clinging to your shoulders, but it doesn’t do much to shield you from the knot tightening in your chest.

You stand there for a moment, breathing deeply. The cool air is refreshing, but it can’t seem to cool the heat rising in your cheeks, the bitter ache in your stomach. Everything about it reminds you of how far things have come—and how far apart you and Vi have drifted.

You didn’t want to feel this way tonight. You didn’t want to spend another evening consumed by jealousy, by doubt.

But here you are, standing outside in the dark, unable to fight the feeling.

You really hadn’t expected it to be this hard.

Maybe it’s silly to think you could’ve ever fit into that world.

But the truth stings.

You want things to be different. You want to be the one she looks at, the one she chooses. But everything about tonight has made you feel like that’s something you’ll never be again.

You look up at the sky, the stars barely visible through the city’s haze, and for a moment, you close your eyes, letting the cold air fill your lungs.

You wish things were different. You wish you could go back to when you were everything to each other.

But you can’t.

Not anymore.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Vi’s voice cuts through your train of thought.

She must have slipped out unnoticed, and now, there she is, standing behind you. Her arms come around your waist, pulling you closer, her front pressed against your back. Her chin rests gently on your shoulder, her breath tickling the back of your neck.

“Hi, baby,” she muttered quietly.

You want to speak, to tell her how you feel, how the space between you both is only growing wider.

But the words stick in your throat.

Vi stays there, waiting for you, her body warm against yours. Her hands move from your waist, softly tracing over your arms, gently coaxing you into the safety of her touch, even though you don’t know how safe it feels anymore.

For a moment, all you can do is breathe, just breathe, feeling her arms around you… as if it’s the last time you’ll feel it.

When you do finally speak, it’s quieter than you intend, barely above a whisper. “Vi, I think we… I think we should stop this.”

Vi stiffens behind you, her hands pausing on your skin.

You can feel her heart rate quicken slightly. But she doesn’t pull away.

Instead, she presses closer, her breath brushing your ear as she whispers, “What are you talking about?”

She holds you tighter, and for a brief second, you feel the urge to give in to her touch, to forget the mess in your head.

But it’s not enough anymore.

You try to speak again, but your words come out jumbled, like you’re struggling to find the right pieces to fit together.

“I… I don’t know. We’re not the same anymore.” You let out a shaky breath, frustrated with yourself for not being able to explain the mess of feelings inside your chest. “It’s like we’re just… strangers now. I can’t keep pretending it’s the same, Vi.”

Vi’s hands stay on your waist, but you feel her pause for a moment. She pulls back just a little, enough to look at you, but not enough to fully let go.

You can hear the uncertainty in her voice when she speaks, “What? It’s still us. You and me. I—” She swallows, and you can hear the faint tremor in her words. “I thought we were okay.”

You shake your head, your chest tight.

“We’re not. We haven’t been for a while. And, I can’t tell if you even notice. Do you? You’re… you’re so far away, and I’m just… here.” The pain in your voice stings, but it feels like it’s the only truth you have left. “And I don’t know how to make it work anymore. I don’t know how to feel close to you when you’re a million miles away all the time.”

Vi’s arms move again, but this time, they’re softer, as if she’s afraid you’ll break under her touch.

“Don’t say that. I-I do notice. I do. I know it’s been a bit rough lately, but we can fix this… right? We’ve always been able to fix things before.” She tries to lighten the air, a little laugh escaping her lips as if she’s trying to erase the tension in the air. “I-I promise to call more, baby, please—”

But it doesn’t reach you.

You step back from her, the space between you both growing with each step, and for the first time in so long, you feel something other than the ache in your chest. It’s cold, too cold, and the distance feels like it’s swallowing you whole.

Vi’s arms drop at her sides, her hands twitching as if she doesn’t know what to do with them.

She watches you carefully, her eyes wide as you move away. When she tries to move closer, you flinch. It’s instinct, something you didn’t mean to do, but you can’t help it. You just need space.

And Vi hates it.

“I wanna go home,” you say, your voice shaking with the everything you’ve been trying to ignore, trying to bury.

Vi’s smile falters, her brows furrow as she processes your words. She takes a small step toward you, the panic creeping into her voice. “O-Okay. I-I’ll call a cab and we can go back to the hotel and—“

You cut her off before she can finish, your heart hammering in your chest. “No, Vi. I want to go back home. I don’t… I don’t belong here with you.”

The ring in her ears and as soon as they leave your lips, you can see the color drain from Vi’s face. Her breath catches in her throat, and you watch her, eyes wide, disbelief settling in. She furrows her eyebrows, her entire posture faltering as she tries to process what you just said.

“What?” she whispers.

She takes a shaky breath, her gaze searching your face, looking for any sign that this might be some kind of cruel joke, some kind of misunderstanding.

But you can’t give her that. You can’t pretend anymore.

“I just…” you start, but the words get caught in your throat, like you’re suffocating on them. You look at her, at the girl you once knew better than anyone else, and you realize that you’re not the same person anymore. “I thought I could keep pretending, but I can’t. And… I-I don’t see how we can change anything right now. I’m sorry, I—”

Vi opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She just stares at you, like she’s trying to wrap her mind around what’s happening, and in her silence, you hear all the things you can’t say.

The tears begin yo roll down your cheeks and Vi wants to wipe them away immediately, wants to take all that pain you’re feeling away for good… but…

“I need to go home,” you whisper again, this time your voice firmer, because if you don’t say it again, you might never leave.

And the look in her eyes—this heartbreaking, raw pain that flits across her face—makes your heart shatter even more.

Because you never wanted to hurt her.

But you’re not sure how to fix any of this. How to find your way back when it feels like everything between you two has crumbled into dust.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but the words feel so small. So insignificant.

Vi doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, frozen in place. She swallows hard, her lips trembling as she finally finds her voice.

“I thought we were… I thought you wanted to be with me.”

“I always want to be with you, I do, but this—” you bring a hand up, wiping your cheeks quickly. “What did you think was gonna to happen after this weekend’s over? That we’d have a great time here together, then everything would be okay? All of our problems aren’t just magically gonna disappear, Vi… You barely call. You barely text. And I’ll go back home and you’ll stay here and I… What, I won’t see you again for another four—five months? I-I cant be in a relationship with someone who—fuck, with someone who can’t even really be with me. And I don’t want to make you choose. I can’t make you choose but, Vi…”

Her eyes widen in panic, her face twisting with desperation.

“Don’t say that. I-I can fix this. We can fix this, baby, just—” she starts, her voice broken, her words faltering, as though she’s trying to pull something, anything, to make things right.

“Stop it, Violet,” you say quiet.

“No, no, just—just tell me what to do,” she says. She’s shaking, but it’s not the gentle tremor of someone trying to hold it together. It’s raw. It’s frantic. “Tell me what I need to do to, please—”

You stand your ground, feeling the anger swell within you as her frustration starts to mirror your own.

“Stop it.”

“I love you.”

You freeze. Your heart skips a beat, and for a split second, you wonder if she’s right, if there’s a chance, if somehow everything can go back to how it used to be.

But then the reality sets in.

“Are you happy with me, Vi?” You ask.

Vi looks at you and furrows her brows, confused at the question, “Of course, I am—”

“You’re happy with the way things are right now? Really?”

Vi freezes, the words caught in her throat. The certainty she usually wears like armor slips away.

“You’re happy with how far apart we always are? You’re happy that we barely talk anymore? That we don’t have time for each other anymore? T-That when I go home, you’ll forget all about me until you suddenly remember that you have a girlfriend miles and miles away, just waiting for you to call or pick up your damn phone?”

“I…” she stammers, her brow furrowing as she tries to find the right thing to say, but nothing feels right. She’s taken aback, not just by your question but by the realization behind it—the way your words cut through the illusion that she’s been clinging to, that everything is okay.

The silence between you stretches for so long and Vi fucking hates it. She hates the way you’re looking at her, as if you already know the answer she’s too afraid to give. Because deep down, she knows she’s not happy—not with the distance, not with the missed calls and the half-hearted promises, not with the way she’s been letting you slip away.

But admitting that feels like admitting defeat, like saying out loud that she’s failing you, failing this.

“I—” she tries again, but she looks away, her jaw tightening. “I’m sorry.”

She wants to say that she’s happy, that you’re enough, that she wouldn’t trade this for anything—but the truth is, she doesn’t even know what this is anymore either.

And by the look in your eyes, neither do you.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, before opening them again to look up at her. Your hand reaches up, trembling slightly, and cups Vi’s cheek. Her skin is warm, damp from the tears she didn’t realize had fallen until now. The moment your palm makes contact, Vi leans into it instinctively. Her eyes flutter closed, and her shoulders quake as she lets out the softest, most broken sound—a quiet sob she tries to hide but can’t.

“Don’t,” she whispers, shaky and fragile. “Please…”

You don’t pull your hand away. Instead, your thumb brushes along the line of her cheekbone, and how gentle you were with her makes her cry harder. She feels your breath, and she hates how much she craves you, hates how much it hurts.

You swallow hard, the sound of your barely louder than a breath as you say, “This isn’t good for us.”

Vi’s eyes snap open, bloodshot and wide, her lips parting in disbelief. For a second, she freezes, the words not fully sinking in, like her brain refuses to process them.

“We should stop,” you say again, softer this time. Your hand is still on her cheek, and Vi clings to it, her larger hand wrapping around yours as though she could keep you there forever. “We’re hurting each other, Violet. We’ve been hurting each other for a while now.”

“No,” Vi pleads, shaking her head, her voice so weak you could barely hear her as she presses harder into your touch, desperate. “I don’t wanna stop. Please, just—let me fix this—”

You shake your head, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay, though they’re already blurring your vision.

“It’s not about fixing anything, Vi. We’re just in two completely different places and…” Your voice falters for a moment, breaking. “…and it’s not working for us.”

Vi’s breath hitches, and the hand gripping yours starts to tremble.

“I don’t know how to—” Her voice cracks, and she looks down, her tears falling freely onto the ground. “I don’t know how to do any of this this without you.”

Your heart clenches painfully, and for a fleeting second, you want to take it all back. You lean down slightly, pressing your forehead to hers, closing your eyes.

“Yeah, you do,” you whisper, the words like a final goodbye. “You’ve been doing all of this without me already.”

She shakes her head softly, “That’s not true.”

Vi’s breath comes out shaky, her tears mingling with yours as she presses herself closer, trying to savor the moment, to memorize the feel of you before it slips away entirely.

“I love you,” she says, words trembling as if the words are the last lifeline she has left to offer.

She watches you closely, her wide, teary eyes searching yours, desperate for something—anything—to tell her this isn’t the end.

But you don’t say it back right away.

And for those few agonizing seconds, the silence feels suffocating. Vi’s heart pounds painfully in her chest, and a lump forms in her throat, threatening to choke her. Her lips part to say something, to plead again, but before she can, you finally speak.

“I love you, Violet.”

It’s everything Vi wanted to hear, but as soon as the words leave your lips, they cut deeper than any silence ever could. There’s a softness to your voice, a finality in the way you say it, and Vi knows.

She knows what it means, what you’re trying to say without saying it outright.

And it hurts so fucking bad.

Her breath catches, and her hands drop slightly from where they’d been holding you, as if the weight of the words has drained her strength.

She shakes her head, voice cracking as she stammers, “Don’t say it like that.”

You look at her with so much tenderness it almost shatters her completely, but it’s that softness that makes it clear you’ve already made up your mind.

“Vi,” you whisper, and the way you say her name only makes the tears come faster.

She hates it. She hates how much of a goodbye it sounds.

“I love you so much,” she says, words breaking, barely audible now.

But even as the words leave her mouth, she knows they’re futile. She knows that no matter how much she loves you, no matter how much she tries to hold on, she can’t stop you from slipping through her fingers.

And for the first time, the love she’s always clung to feels hollow, like it’s not enough to keep you here.

Like she’s already lost you.

After a moment, you lean in, pressing a soft kiss to Vi’s cheek, the warmth of your lips lingering on her skin.

Vi closes her eyes at the touch, savoring it, even though something deep inside her tells her this is the last time. She wants to hold onto it, to freeze this moment, to make you stay just a little longer. But you’re already stepping back, pulling away from her reach.

“I’m gonna head back to the hotel,” you say quietly.

Vi nods instinctively, her breath catching in her throat as she responds, “I’ll go with you.”

Just a little more time, she thinks. She just wants whatever time she could get with you. Her voice is so weak under her breath, but she takes a step forward, already moving to follow, to stay by your side no matter what.

But then you stop her.

You place a hand up between you—not to push her away, but enough to keep her there, frozen in place. And when she sees the look in your eyes, Vi feels the first crack split through her chest.

“I’ll be okay,” you say softly. “I’ll call a cab and find my way back.”

It’s not the words themselves that break her; it’s the way you say them, like you’re letting her go in every sense of the word. Her heart shatters, the pieces falling one by one, and she doesn’t know how to stop it. She doesn’t know how to stop you.

“Let me go with you,” she breathes out, her voice, desperate to see more of you for as long as she still can.

But you shake your head gently, the tears in your eyes threatening to spill over, and she knows there’s no changing your mind.

She’s never felt so powerless, so useless, and all she can do is stand there, watching you walk away, feeling like you’re taking every part of her with you.

She watches your silhouette grow smaller and smaller, her mind clinging to every detail—how your hair looked under the dim streetlights, how soft your lips felt against her cheek, how your voice cracked when you said her name. She already misses all of it, every little piece of you.

But deep down, she knows she’s been missing you for far longer than just tonight.

The air is damp and Vi doesn’t move. She doesn’t know how long she’s been standing there, rooted to the ground, staring at the spot where you disappeared from her sight. A faint drizzle begins, tiny drops kissing her skin. She barely notices it at first, but soon the rain falls harder, soaking through her clothes.

She shivers, but she doesn’t move. Her hands fall limply at her sides, her mind replaying every moment of the night, every word you said, every second she couldn’t hold on to you. Her knees feel weak, but the ache in her chest is worse.

She wants to run after you, to stop you, but even if she said all the right words, she knows you’d still be leaving.

And it’s her fault, she thinks. She let it all slip away.

Hours pass, or maybe just minutes—it doesn’t matter. By the time she finally stumbles back to the party, her hair is dripping, her hands are trembling, and her heart feels hollow.

You booked the earliest flight you could, and as the sky begins to lighten, you pull your coat tighter around you and make your way to the airport.

In the next couple of days, in a big headline on your phone, you find out that Vi punched someone at that party.

SATURDAY, PRESENT DAY.

The hum of soft music drifted through the flower shop as you sat at the counter, a list of names and scribbled notes sprawled out in front of you. A steaming cup of tea sat untouched by your elbow, the faint aroma of lavender and honey filling the air.

You tapped your pen lightly against the edge of the paper, squinting at Mel’s unusually messy handwriting.

“Does Jayce even know this many people?” you muttered, half to yourself and half to Mel, who sat cross-legged on a stool across from you, flipping through her wedding binder.

Mel let out a melodious laugh, shaking her head.

“Oh, you’d be surprised. He seems to think everyone he’s ever spoken to needs a seat at this wedding.”

She reached over and plucked the list from your hands, glancing at the names.

“This is ridiculous. He even invited his college professor,” she squinted, pointing at a name near the bottom of the page, “—Heimer…dinger?”

You laughed softly, shrugging. “Don’t look at me.”

Mel groaned, leaning back and rubbing her temples. “I swear, at this rate, we’re going to have to build a second venue just to fit all these people.”

“Maybe you could just cut the guest list in half,” you suggested lightly, marking a few names off with your pen. “Say the venue has a sudden capacity issue.”

She smirked. “Tempting. Though, knowing Jayce, he’d probably build a whole new venue himself just to make sure no one gets left out.”

You smiled at her, then turned your attention back to the seating chart—you were only halfway through the list. You could feel the warmth of the afternoon sun filtering through the shop’s windows. The scent of fresh blooms mixed with the faint perfume Mel always wore, filling the air with a sense of comfort you’ve gotten familiar with long ago.

“Do you think my mother will mind sitting next to Jayce’s?” Mel asks, uncertain. She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and frowns at the chart like it’s a puzzle she just can’t solve.

You glance up at her and let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “I think they’re are old enough to behave for one meal.”

Mel sighs, throwing her hands up in mock defeat. “You clearly haven’t met my family.”

“Yes, I have,” you roll your eyes and lean forward, studying the chart. “Okay, well… how about this?”

You move a few names around, scribbling quick arrows to new spots.

“We put your mom near your college friends. She can’t cause too much trouble if they’re surrounded by strangers.”

Mel grins at you, resting her chin on her hand as she watches you work.

“Perfect,” she says.

“How’s your mom holding up with all of this?” Mel asked suddenly, watching you as you meticulously rearranged the tiny paper name tags on the chart.

“She’s good,” you replied, your voice soft. “Excited, mostly. She keeps talking about how nice it is to have the shop involved in something so big.”

You paused, your hand hovering over one of the name tags.

“She’s just happy to see you and Jayce so… settled, I guess.”

Mel tilted her head, studying you with a thoughtful look in her eyes. “And you? How are you holding up?”

You hesitated, your fingers lightly brushing against the edge of the seating chart. For a moment, you considered giving her the same polite, surface-level answer you gave everyone else. But this was Mel—your best friend, the one person who’d known you through every high and low.

“I’m fine,” you said finally, though the words felt heavier than they should have. “Really.”

Mel’s gaze softened, but she didn’t push. Instead, she reached over and placed a reassuring hand on yours, her smile warm and understanding. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing great. And if you need anything—anything at all—you know I’m here.”

The phone rings before you can reply. You instinctively reach for it, the receiver cool against your hand as you press it to your ear. “Lane Florals, how can I help you?”

“Oh, hey! It’s Jayce,” a familiar voice greets you cheerfully on the other end. “Just checking in to see if Mel’s still holding you hostage over there.”

You laugh softly. “Hostage is a strong word, but yes, we’re almost done.”

Mel perks up at the sound of his name and reaches for the phone.

“Give me that,” she says playfully, taking it from you. “Jayce, we’ve been over this—your input doesn’t count unless you actually help with something.”

As Mel steps into the back to argue with her fiancé, you sit back in the chair, momentarily tuning out the sound of her voice. Your eyes wander around the shop, landing on the bundles of flowers waiting to be arranged, the sunlight filtering in through the windows, and the stillness of this place.

You absently twirl the pen in your hand, your mind drifting for a moment. It’s easy to stay busy here, to focus on what’s in front of you instead of the ache you don’t like to name.

“Jayce insists we keep his cousins together,” Mel said with a playful roll of her eyes as she returned to you. “I love him, but the man doesn’t understand how chaotic that side of the family is.”

“Maybe put them near the bar. That way they won’t bother anyone too much,” you suggested, earning a grateful laugh from Mel.

“Alright, I think we’ve almost got it,” she said, standing up to pour herself a glass of water.

Left alone for a moment, you leaned over the chart, eyes scanning the names to double-check the placements. Your gaze moved quickly at first, recognizing some familiar names and skimming unfamiliar ones, until it landed on something—towards the end of the list—that made your breath hitch.

Violet Lanes.

It was there, clear as day—her name printed neatly on a delicate little card, tucked beside a few other names at one of the smaller tables. Your hands stilled, hovering over the paper as a wave of something sharp and overwhelming crashed over you.

“Hey, you okay?” Mel’s voice pulled you back to the present.

You swallowed hard, nodding quickly.

“Yeah, I just—” You glanced down at the name again, your fingers brushing against the edge of the paper. “I’m fine.”

Mel’s eyes softened as she walked over, leaning over your shoulder. She followed your gaze to the card and let out a quiet sigh.

“I was going to tell you,” she said gently. “Jayce invited her. You know how they’ve been since high school. They’ve been in touch for a while, I guess. He didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

You nodded again, but the tightness in your chest didn’t ease.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, though the words felt hollow.

Mel reached out and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“If it’s too much, I can figure something out,” she offered. “She hasn’t even confirmed with us yet… She’s probably so busy anyway.”

You shook your head, forcing a small smile. “No, it’s… it’s your wedding. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry, babe.”

“Mel, really. It’s okay,” you threw on one of the best fake smiles you could give. “It just caught me off guard, is all.”

Mel studies you for a moment, her gaze lingering on your face. “If you don’t want her there, I can tell Jayce—”

You cut her off with a quick shake of your head. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I promise.”

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but you push through it. The last thing you want is for Mel to feel guilty, or worse, pitying you.

She doesn’t seem convinced, but she nods anyway, going back to arranging the seating chart. You know she’s trying to keep things light, to keep you from feeling weighed down by whatever’s hanging in the air. And maybe you’re fooling yourself into thinking you’re not still carrying it.

But the truth is, you don’t know what to do with the ghost of her, or your love for her, lingering between everything you do.

“Hey,” Mel says after a beat, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Want to grab a coffee after we finish here? We could use a break.”

You nod, grateful for the distraction. “That sounds good.”

Glancing at the seating chart again, your finger rests on the name that’s still too familiar.

series masterlist | next chapter (coming soon)

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#— heart to heart // series #b’s writings #vi x reader #vi arcane #arcane #arcane x reader #fanfic #arcane fanfiction #violet #violet x reader #violet arcane #angst #x reader #reader insert #series #vi smut #league of legends

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ofbatsandballads · 2 days ago

Note

Yay! I’m so glad you take requests. Feel free to decide if you want to write this or not, it’s fine either way :)

So, I was thinking about Jason dating civilian!reader, and her coming home all disheveled and horrified. Since she knows about him being Red Hood, she can confide in him. She had just killed someone for the first time, whether it was an accident, self defense or whatever, you decide.

I was just wondering how Jason would handle this situation since usually he’s the one doing the killing.

Thank you <3

oh, this is amazing food for thought. I actually think he’d be the very best person to come to in such a situation because he has experience with killing. who’s gonna understand you better than him? literally nobody. had something similar to this in my drafts but now my mind is whirling in a whole host of directions. excellent prompt, nonnie!

jason todd x f!reader. warnings include graphic depictions of violence and killing (in self defense), attempted and failed sexual assault, the aftermath of both events (reader’s in shock), hurt/comfort. this one’s got heavier subject matter so please do mind the warnings, folks. i did way too much research of the Gotham Knights map for this, but it’s my favorite depiction of the city so so be it. also reader and Jason live in the Belfry bc i said so (personal hc that i may or may not elaborate on some time). and one last thing! the romanized Arabic at the end is “حياتي ” which translates to “my life”. I love the idea that Jason picked up Arabic terms of endearment from Talia calling Bruce just about every one she could.

Jason wakes up to soft afternoon sunlight shining on his face. He grumbles out a gravelly hum and scrunches up his face in protest against being awakened when he was sleeping so nicely. He reaches out to find the comforting warmth of his beloved beside him, to pull you in and bury his face into your hair so he can hide from the morning for a bit longer.

All he finds are cold sheets and an empty pillow.

He bolts upright. Something’s wrong. You never, never wake up before him. He doesn’t even register the way that the sudden abundance of light stings his eyes. He takes stock of his surroundings, his training executing on autopilot. The open layout of the Belfry lets him get his bearings in seconds. He doesn’t see you anywhere from the bird’s eye view of your loft bedroom. There’s no smell of food in the kitchen nor any mess that would indicate you’d been working in there. The living room space, fully visible below, is empty too. The only enclosed space in your home, the bathroom that’s just around the corner from your bedroom, is dead quiet. No running water, no sweet singing, no familiar coughing from swallowed toothpaste. And without so much as leaving your bed, Jason’s already come to a conclusion that sends his heart pounding and dries his throat. You’re not here.

He’s up and grabbing the 9mm taped under your bedside table in the span of a few breaths. He moves through your home methodically, like he’s clearing one of Gotham’s criminal hideouts. There’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing’s been disturbed. He’s not surprised by this—barring Wayne Manor, the Belfry is the most secure building in Gotham. That’s precisely why Jason had moved you both here once you decided to live together. He checks the coffee table and sees that your phone and wallet are gone. A different type of fear takes over now. One that makes his heart ache. What if you’ve finally had enough, finally seen that he’s not good enough for you, not worth sticking around for? It makes him sick. He swallows hard and tries to clear the blistering thought from his head. No, that’s not you. You’re not cruel. You’re kind and gentle and loving. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. And you wouldn’t hurt him.

The sight of gears turning in his periphery catches his attention. He sees the cables pulling and the security panel go green, and he’s running to the elevator doors damn near ready to pry them open. He hastily tucks the 9mm into the waistband of his pajama pants, easily within reach if he needs it. Relief floods him when the huge metal doors grind open and he sees your pretty face on the other side. Then his heart drops when he realizes that that pretty face is scraped and splattered with blood.

Your hair is tangled and wet, dripping dirty water down your neck and staining the bright red of his your favorite hoodie. Your hands, which shake as they reach blindly towards him, are stained crimson and battered too. But it’s your eyes that haunt him. You look broken.

“Jay,” you croak out, unable to summon anything but a plea for the one person who can keep you safe.

The tears fall from your eyes at the same time that you collapse into Jason’s arms. He drags you inside and locks down the Belfry. Jason wants to panic but feels a strange sense of calm about himself. As loathe as he’d be to admit it, he finds himself falling into Bruce’s habit of assessment and action.

“Baby, what happened?” he asks, voice steady and assured.

You don’t even hear him. You’re digging your hands into his shirt, clinging on to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to Earth. He may very well be. He feels you going rigid and cold and he knows he has to get you stable before you descend further into shock.

“Listen to me,” he says firmly, adding on and enunciating your name for emphasis.

That sparks some semblance of lucidity. Jason hasn’t called you by your name in months, much preferring you be his baby or his sweetheart or his doll, or simply his. If it jars you back to reality, so be it.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” he demands gently.

It all pours out of you like a flood.

You’d woken up early by chance this afternoon. Normally you’d just close your eyes and snuggle closer to Jason to catch a couple more hours of sleep, but you wanted to do something nice for him. So you’d gotten up and gone to Lemay’s Flower Emporium in Gotham Heights. You’d bought him the prettiest bouquet of red and pink roses, so big that you had to hold on to it with both arms. The taxi ride from the Heights back to Coventry Station went fine. You were almost home. So close that you could see the clock tower where your heart was sleeping peacefully.

Then you stopped at Commerce Avenue Station. You just wanted to get him some pastries from the little bakery tucked away on 3rd Street that you both love. It was a decent walk; you knew that. You also knew that Jason wouldn’t want you to go out of your way by yourself. But it was morning and you were a grown woman and you could handle yourself, right? Well, that’s what you thought until a pair of hands clamped down on your shoulders and yanked you violently into a side alley.

Jason had prepared you for something like this. You’d spent countless evenings with him teaching you self defense techniques in the training area of your home. None of it mattered because the man that had you by the shoulders slammed you so hard into the brick wall that all your thoughts went hazy. Before you could regain your footing, you were shoved to the ground. The bitter sting of your palms scraping open pierced through the fog, as did the crushing weight of the vile man on top of you. Fear shot through you as the man started tugging at his belt and you realized that this wasn’t intended to be a mugging. You tried to scream but a grimy hand clamped over your mouth, hitting your head against the ground and soaking your hair in dirty rain water and blood.

Your eyes darted around in search of someone—anyone. But no one was coming. You felt fingernails scratch against your stomach as clammy hands curled into the waistband of your sweatpants and suddenly you saw your savior. A brick from the damaged alleyway laid within reach. You didn’t even think when you grabbed it, when you swung it as hard as you could into the side of the man’s head. The corner hit his temple and he crumbled to the side. You rose to your knees and hit the man again. And again. All you could remember were Jason’s firm instructions: if someone makes it a choice of you or them, you make sure that it’s you no matter what it takes.

“I don’t r-remember anything else,” you sob into his chest. “There was so much blood, Jason. And his head—oh, God.”

Jason shushes you gently. He holds you tight in his arms like he’s terrified that if he loosens his grip even slightly, you’ll fade away on him.

“Don’t think about it, baby. You did what you needed to do. You protected yourself. I’m so proud of you.”

“I killed someone, Jason. I killed someone.”

You look at him wide eyed—afraid, horrified, guilty. No. Jason won’t have that. You will not feel guilty over some lowlife scumbag who wanted to hurt you, who probably would have killed you. Jason can’t even stomach the thought. He wants to put a bullet into whatever’s left of that predator’s head. No, the only shame in you killing that man is that you got to him before Jason could.

“I need you to listen to me,” he says, repeats your name again for emphasis. “You. Did. Nothing. Wrong.”

“Someone’s dead because of me, Jay,” you argue, gripping him tighter as your panic rises.

“Baby, do you know how many people are dead because of me?” he asks. “Far, far more than I’d ever want you to know. Do you think I’m a monster, honey? That I did something wrong?”

He knows it’s an apples to oranges comparison. But you’ve used this same tactic on him so many times that he also knows it’s effective. Every time he demeans himself for something, you ask if he’d treat you the way he treats himself for the same thing. The answer is always no.

“No!” you reply emphatically. “You protect people. You do it to keep people safe.”

“You did it to keep yourself safe.”

“But—”

“No buts. Or ifs. No ands, either, just in case you get any ideas,” he says lightly, brushing a speck of blood off your cheekbone.

You smile at his stupid little comment and he feels the tension in his body release just slightly. As long as there’s light back in your eyes for even a moment, he knows that you’ll be okay. He picks you up, lets you cling your arms around his neck and bury your face in his chest as he carries you to the bathroom upstairs. He runs you a bath and, after asking repeatedly if you were okay with it, undresses you and washes the blood and grime from your body. He wraps you in a big fluffy towel, dries and brushes your hair, and tends to your injuries before he bundles you up in his comfiest hoodie and pajama pants. He soothes you when your tears make their return and never leaves your line of sight because he knows he makes you feel safe.

The thought gnaws at him throughout the day. It outright scalds him as he lies in bed with you after deciding to skip patrol. He’s failed you. Failed to protect you, failed to ensure nothing harms a hair on your head. He’s failed at taking care of you, the one thing that matters more to him than anything else. He’s seconds away from spiraling into self hatred when your sweet voice comes calling, soft and pleading.

“Jay…please stay with me,” you say softly.

Your eyes are clear and focused again. You squeeze his waist tight where your arms are wrapped around him, like you’re physically trying to anchor him in place in your bed. The look on your face says that you know exactly where his mind was headed. You see right through him. It makes him feel more vulnerable than anything else, and it surprises him how much he loves the feeling. And Jason, as always and for eternity, can’t bring himself to deny you. So he pulls himself together and shoves all his self loathing down. He can deal with it later—you need him more right now.

“I’m right here, hayati. Not goin’ anywhere, I promise.”

He kisses you gently and feels some of that self hatred wash away when you chase after him for more goodnight kisses. He feels it dissipate even more when you fall asleep in his arms with a soft smile on your face. It’s all but forgotten as he drifts off too, safe in the knowledge that you’re here with him, that he can feel your heart beating pressed tight against his own.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #red hood x you #remy writes 🖋️#answered asks #anon I love this prompt so much #thank you for giving me such good inspo bc it broke my writer’s block

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sugarplum217 · 2 days ago

Text

The Fire We Make (Part One)

Pairing: Terry Richmond X Black Female/Plus Size/Curvy Reader, MDNI

Authors Note: Hi guys, please be kind this is my first story on here and I hope you all enjoy it . Comment and tell me your thoughts.

Warnings: very heavy smut, unprotected sex, nasty & dirty talk, mention’s of abuse, triggering topics, not suitable for anyone under 18+, oral sex, sort of a slow burn, casual sex, fluff, use of the N word, AAVE, somewhat age gap relationship, mentions of verbal abuse, use of abusive lanuage. Do not copy or steal my work.

Summary: You came back to Elizabeth, South Carolina, to handle Nana Rosalyn’s land and tie up some loose ends, sign a few papers, and be on the next flight back to her real life. Simple. Or at least, that’s what she thought. Enter Terry Richmond: ex-Marine, built like a damn problem, and apparently living in your grandmother’s house like it’s his own. He’s quiet, unreadable, and way too fine for your peace of mind. Between the thick summer heat, old memories creeping in, and the way Terry keeps looking at you like he sees straight through you, one thing is clear…..This trip might not be so simple after all.

They say there’s no place like home, and maybe once upon a time, you would’ve agreed. Back when summers here meant running barefoot through the grass, shelling peas with Nana on the front porch, and falling asleep to the sound of crickets and old gospel humming through the walls. But that was a long time ago. Before life had a chance to show you just how cruel it could be. Now, sitting in front of your grandmother’s house, all you feel is the weight of everything you tried to outrun. The air is thick, heavy with that signature South Carolina heat, clinging to your skin like a second layer. Even the damn trees look the same—tall, unmoving, watching you like they know you don’t belong here anymore.

This place holds secrets. Buried in the dirt, woven into the foundation of this house, settled deep in your bones no matter how much distance you put between you and it. You swore you’d never come back. Swore you left this town and everything in it behind the moment your father died and your mother made it clear she wanted nothing to do with his side of the family. And yet, here you are. Staring at the same porch you once sat on as a little girl, knees scraped up from playing too rough, hands sticky from fresh peaches Nana sliced up just for you. Except now, Nana is gone. And her house—this land—is yours. The air inside the rental car was thick, heavy with the kind of heat that made it hard to breathe. The A/C worked overtime, but it was barely spitting out enough cool air to do anything besides tease your skin. The heat still clung to you like an unwanted memory, curling around your neck, sticking to the crease of your thighs, making your tank top feel like a second skin.

You gripped the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the house that used to feel like a second home—but now? Now, it just felt like a reminder of everything you tried to outrun. Your stomach twisted, nerves tangling themselves into something tight and uncomfortable. You hadn’t stepped foot in this place in years. Hadn’t even had a reason to. Not since—You inhaled sharply, cutting the thought off before it could sink its teeth in.It wasn’t like you had much of a choice being here now. Your grandmother’s passing made sure of that. And as much as you wanted to sit here, let the A/C struggle against the heat, and pretend you weren’t parked in front of the very place you swore you’d never come back to… you knew you couldn’t avoid it forever.

But damn, if you didn’t want to try. The loud buzz of your phone rattling against the cup holder snapped you out of your thoughts. The sudden sound made you flinch, your heart kicking up like you’d just been caught doing something you had no business doing. You blinked, shaking off the moment before grabbing your phone and swiping the screen without even checking the caller ID.

“Girl,” you groaned, already knowing who it was.

“I know that ain’t attitude I hear,” Tasha’s voice came through clear, dragging her words like she already knew what time it was.

“Of course it’s a damn attitude, I’m hot, sticky and do you know I had to drive a whole 4 hours from the damn airport?!” you grumbled, shifting in your seat.

“This ain’t my scene, Tasha. I’m sweating, my thighs sticking together, and the air out here smells like—” You paused, inhaling deeply. “Like grass, hot stank wood, and somebody’s granddaddy’s chewing tobacco. I ain’t cut out for this country-ass shit.”

Tasha cackled on the other end. “Now girl, your ass been there for all of five minutes and already ready to run back to the city?”

You sighed dramatically, wiping at the light sheen of sweat on your chest. “Girl, I ain’t even turned the damn car off yet.”

“The way your Nana used to talk about that place, you’d think it was paradise.” She snickered.

You snorted, side-eyeing the house. “Meanwhile, I pull up, and it’s giving—”

“Ghetto woods.” Tasha cut in, taking the thought right from your brain as if she was looking through it.

“Exactly.” You rolled your eyes, glancing at the property that inspite of it being ages since you had been there, things looked pretty decent.

Tasha hummed knowingly. “And yet, here you are.”

“Not because I wanna be here Tasha.. You know that,” you shook your head, inhaling deep againing as a exasperated sigh left your sticky gloss filled lips, “If it were up to me, I would have let my uncle’s and drunk fool of an aunt fight over this place.” You added, with a nonchalant shrug.

“Didn’t you tell me that none of your daddy’s siblings were her kids? So how in the hell would that even have worked?” Tasha questioned, and rightfully so.

None of your father’s siblings belonged to your sweet Nana Rosalyn. They were products of her late husband’s constant infidelities during their entire relationship and even part of their marriage. She had been young when she married him, head over heels for a man who sold her dreams but only ever delivered nightmares. And when the truth of his betrayals became undeniable, she made one thing clear—she wasn’t having no damn kids by a man who couldn’t keep his vows. But then life played its own hand.

Your father came later, unexpectedly, and he was her one and only, her redemption after years of being shackled to a man who never deserved her. And because he was born from love and not betrayal, Nana cherished him more than anything in this world. That alone was enough to breed resentment.

The siblings never could stay on one page. Too much history, too much pain, too much deep-rooted hate for the way your father had been the baby and the favorite. Your grandfather’s other children—some older than your father by decades—never let him forget that he was the only one born into real love, not just obligation. They carried that bitterness, wielded it like a knife, slicing through any chance of peace in the family.

And Nana? She may have loved them in her own way, but she wasn’t blind. She saw how they moved, how they made her son’s life hell, how they took every opportunity to remind him that, in their eyes, he was an outsider in his own bloodline. So, she made a decision. She wrote them out of her will. All of them.

Every last one of your grandfather’s children got nothing but the memories they made and the grudges they refused to let go of. Instead, she left everything to your father. And when he passed, she made sure that her estate—her house, her land, every last piece of what she worked her whole life for—would go to you. Because she knew they would never do right by her legacy. And truth be told? You didn’t blame her one bit.

Still, you never could understand how she stayed. How she spent years, decades, by the side of a man who disrespected her with every child he brought home. How she smiled and cooked and raised kids that weren’t even hers. How she carried the weight of a marriage that gave her nothing but heartache. If it had been you? That man would’ve met his damn maker on some railroad tracks.

“It wouldn’t have worked because she didn’t leave their asses a damn thing, not one fucking dime or penny. I can’t really say I blame her though because she took good care of them and when she needed somebody, those greedy motherfuckas weren't there.” You huffed, tone bitter and cold at the thought of how none of your father’s siblings even showed up for him, once he got sick.

Tasha let out a low whistle on the other end. “Damn. So Nana just cut them off completely?”

“Completely.” You adjusted in your seat, the leather burning the back of your thighs. “She ain’t leave them a damn thing. No land, no money, not even a ‘God bless you’ in that will. Just my daddy, and when he passed, it all came to me.”

Tasha hummed, her tone knowing. “And that’s why they got all that hate in their hearts.”

“Like I give a damn.” You rolled your eyes, reaching for your water bottle. The condensation dripped onto your fingers as you took a swig, but the lukewarm liquid didn’t do much against the heat. “I just need to handle this shit and get the fuck back to New York. I ain’t got time for all this country backwoods drama. This place suffocates me.”

“Girl, you've been there ten minutes… And you already sound like you are fighting for your life. ” She giggled, making you roll your eyes again.

“Because I am,” you stressed, flipping the sun visor down and fanning yourself with the nearest piece of mail you found in the passenger seat. “I step outside, and I swear the air is thick like molasses. The trees leaning in too damn close, like they trying to hear my business. I can’t even breathe right.”

Tasha cackled, fully enjoying your suffering. “You sound so damn dramatic.”

“Ain’t shit dramatic about the truth, Tasha,” you shot back. “I need to get in here, get this property situation squared away, and then I’m ghost. I’m going back to where the streets don’t smell like wet grass, and the heat don’t feel like it got hands.”

Tasha smacked her lips. “Mmhmm. Keep talking that ‘I’m leaving soon’ shit. Something tell me you gon’ be there longer than you think.”

You sucked your teeth, flipping her off even

though she couldn’t see it. “Yeah, alright. Let me get off this phone before I melt in this damn car.”

Tasha laughed again. “Hit me later. And don’t get your thick ass into any mess.”

You snorted. “Me? Never.”

With that, you ended the call, tossing the phone back into the cup holder. Taking one last deep breath, you reached for the door handle, already bracing yourself for the suffocating heat waiting outside. The sooner you handled this, the sooner you could leave. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. Immediately, the heat wraps around you like a thick-ass quilt fresh out the dryer.

“Damn,” you mutter, shifting your shorts as you grab your bag from the backseat. The old house stands in front of you, still the same shade of off-white, still with that wrap-around porch your Nana used to sit on every evening with her sweet tea. The screen door creaks when you walk up the steps, but you aren’t worried. You already know where the key is. Just like when you were little, it sits right under the worn-out mat. You bend down, grab it, and unlock the door, stepping into the house. The air smells like lemons, cedarwood, and something else you can’t quite place. Your fingers brush over the familiar wooden banister as you walk through the hallway, a strange mix of comfort and melancholy settling in your chest. Just as you were about to sit your purse to the side, the sound of sudden footsteps alerted you. You paused your movements as you listened closely to the steps nearing closer, coming from the end of the hall. Immediately the unfamiliar scent you had picked up on earlier, became stronger as the heavy steps came towards the living area. Soon the footsteps halted and you

You froze and your breath caught in your throat as your eyes snapped toward the hallway. And then, stepping around the corner, a man appeared. A very fine, very built, very wet man. Fresh out the shower, droplets still clung to his deep caramel skin, highlighting every hard-cut muscle like he was sculpted straight out of bronze. A white towel sat dangerously low on his hips, barely hanging on, and his broad, glistening chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths. His shoulders were massive, arms thick with veins that ran down to strong, capable hands. But his face? Strong jaw. Full lips. A nose that screamed royalty. And his eyes—God, his eyes—a stormy mix of hazel and gray that shifted with the light, catching hints of ocean blue, hell maybe even green when the sun hit them just right. For a second, neither of you moved but then—

“Who the hell are you?” His voice was deep, rough, carrying an authority that made your stomach flip.

“NO! Who in the hell are you?” you shrieked back, stepping further into the house but keeping a tight grip on your car keys—because you might just have to stab this man.

His brows furrowed slightly, gaze flicking over you like he was assessing whether you were a threat. “I live here. What the hell you doin’ breaking in?”

You damn near choked. “Breaking in?! I live here!”

His nostrils flared slightly before something in his expression shifted. His shoulders eased, his jaw relaxed just a fraction, and then he exhaled like something just clicked.

“Wait…” He dragged a hand down his face, water trailing along his fingers. “You—You Rosalyn’s granddaughter?”

Your chest still rose and fell from the adrenaline rush. “Yeah. Who’s asking?”

“Terry, Terry Richmond..” He said like that was supposed to mean something to you. When you just stared, he nodded toward the mantle, where an old framed photo of your Nana and you sat beside a dusty Bible. “She used to talk about you all the time. Should’ve recognized you.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “You mean to tell me my grandmother didn’t just leave me this house, she left me a roommate? Just great…” Your voice trailed off, annoyance seeping from your tone. Terry smirked at you, slow and knowing, and somehow, that tiny expression made him look even finer. He leaned against the doorway like he had all the time in the world, eyes dragging over you now like he was trying to figure you out. You instantly felt uncomfortable under his gaze as crossed your arms, shifting your weight to one hip.

“So, you’re telling me you were my Nana’s caretaker?” You suspiciously questioned.

“That’s exactly what I’m tellin’ you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If that’s true, how come I ain’t see you at her funeral?” You tilted your head, watching him closely. “You supposed to have been close to her, right? Where were you?”

His jaw tightened slightly, but his expression stayed unreadable. “I was there.”

Your lips parted, but he cut you off before you could press him.

“I sat in the back.” His voice was even, calm. “Ain’t family, so I kept my distance.” His stormy eyes flickered with something unreadable as he added, “Ain’t too fond of church anyway.”

You almost called his bluff, ready to argue, but then—

A memory flashed in your mind.

Most of that day was a blur, but… there was someone sitting alone at the back of the church. A man, broad and still, his head dipped low, hands clasped together like he was deep in thought—or prayer. He never moved, never spoke, just sat there, solid as stone, while grief and sorrow swirled around the room.

It could’ve been him. But then again… your memory of that day was shaky at best.

You had gotten high out of your mind just to get through it. Hit a blunt in your car before even stepping foot in that church. And then there was the tequila—more than a few shots—because there was no way in hell you were about to face your father’s side of the family sober. The whole funeral was a blur. You barely remembered the service, barely remembered speaking. Even now, when you tried to pull up details, they slipped through your fingers like water. Still… you felt like you should remember someone as fine as him. Your eyes flickered over him again—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his towel clung just low enough to test your focus, those ocean-storm eyes watching you with quiet patience.

Yeah. There was no way you wouldn’t have noticed him.

“…Hmph.” You didn’t realize you made the sound out loud until his lips twitched.

“That a problem?” he asked, voice edged with amusement.

You rolled your eyes. “No. Just making sure you ain’t lying.”

He huffed a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he continued to lean his body on the doorframe, still way too at ease for your liking. Something about him told you he was telling the truth. Despite the weirdness of finding out you suddenly had a damn roommate, you had to admit—it was kind of a relief. At least you wouldn’t have to struggle dragging your suitcases inside by yourself. But asking him for help? Yeah. That was the real challenge.

You cleared your throat, plastering on your sweetest smile as you tilted your head slightly. “Umm… so Terry, is it?”

“Mmhmm.” He raised an eyebrow, his full lips twitching like he already knew where this was going.

You hesitated, shifting on your feet. “You mind helping me with my luggage?”

Terry let out a low chuckle, deep and rich, before shaking his head. “After you just basically called me a liar?” He sucked his teeth. “Your Nana wasn’t lying when she said you was a piece of work. Said your little ass always needed a good spanking.”

For some damn reason, that sent a tingle straight to your pussy, making you shift uncomfortably. You quickly cleared your throat, rolling your eyes to cover your reaction. “Whatever. You helping or not?”

His smirk deepened, eyes darkening just a little as he let the moment linger. Then, after a beat, he pushed off the doorframe. “Yeah, yeah. Just let me get some clothes on first.” He gave you a lazy once-over before adding, “Can’t have the helpless princess out here struggling, now can I?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I ain’t helpless.”

“Uh-huh.” Terry just laughed under his breath and shook his head as he turned toward the hallway. You rolled your eyes again but couldn’t stop yourself from glancing down as he walked away. And damn. His back was all muscle, broad and defined, tapering into a tight waist. And that ass? Whew. Tight, round, sitting just right in that towel. You didn’t even realize you were staring until he suddenly glanced over his shoulder.

Busted.

You quickly averted your gaze, looking anywhere but at him. But you weren’t the only one caught slipping. Because as you quickly moved past him to head upstairs to your old room, you felt his eyes trailing down, and lingering on the curve of your thick thighs before he snapped his gaze back up, clearing his throat. As Terry disappeared down the hall to throw on some clothes, you made your way up the stairs, your feet moving on autopilot toward your old bedroom. The door creaked as you pushed it open, and the moment you stepped inside, nostalgia wrapped around you like a thick, heavy blanket.

Everything was still in place. The same twin bed with the floral comforter Nana Rosalyn had bought you when you were ten. The same wooden dresser, still covered in stickers you had no business putting on there. Even the faint scent of lavender and brown sugar lingered in the air, like Nana had just been in here yesterday and not… Your throat tightened as you swallowed against the thought. You hadn’t really let yourself think about it—her being gone. You’d done everything you could to avoid feeling it, pushing it down so deep you could almost pretend it wasn’t real. But standing here, surrounded by all these pieces of your childhood, it hit you like a gut punch. She was actually gone and now you were here, back in this house that held more love than you’d ever felt anywhere else, but she wasn’t.

Your vision blurred as you ran your fingers over the old wooden vanity, tracing the edges where the paint had started to chip. A lump formed in your throat, but before you could get too lost in your feelings—

Your phone buzzed loud as hell from your pocket.

With a sharp inhale, you wiped at your eyes and pulled it out, already groaning when you saw the name on the screen. It was your darling mother dearest, the last person you wanted to speak to at the moment. You debated letting it go to voicemail, but you already knew she’d just keep calling. So, with a deep sigh, you answered.

“Hello?” You took a seat on the edge of your old bed.

“Took you long enough.” Her voice was dry, clipped. No hey baby, no how was your trip? Just straight to the point, like always. “Did you make it?”

You clenched your jaw. “Yeah, I’m here..”

“Hmph.” A pause. Then, “Well, please hurry up and sell that damn place. I told your daddy when he was alive to put that woman in a home and get rid of it.”

Your grip on the phone tightened, anger bubbling up fast. “That woman was my grandmother… and your mother in law–”

“And your father’s biggest mistake,” she shot back, voice sharp as glass. “He let that old country woman manipulate him his whole life. Should’ve cut the cord a long time ago instead of running behind her like a lost puppy.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply through your nose. “You know what, Ma? I don’t wanna do this with you right now.”

She let out a dramatic sigh, the kind she always did when she was about to make you feel like you were the problem. “Oh, please. I’m just trying to get you to do the smart thing for once. That house ain’t nothing but a money pit. Sell it and move on.”

You bit down on your tongue so hard you swore you tasted blood. Before you could say anything else, she switched gears, her tone suddenly shifting into something damn near sweet. “By the way, did you get that link I sent you?”

Your stomach dropped.

You knew exactly what she was talking about, but you played dumb anyway. “What link?”

“The link to the doctor,” she said, like it should’ve been obvious. “The one I told you about for the weight loss surgery. Dr. Reynolds. He’s the best in Atlanta. Books up fast, so you need to get on it. His prices are fairly reasonable and I think he accepts most major insurances.”

“Wow. Not even ten minutes into this conversation, and you already back on that shit.” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head.

“Oh, don’t start,” she huffed. “I’m helping you. You’d actually be able to keep a man if you lost some of that weight.”

There it was. That same damn wound she’d been digging into your whole life. You could still hear her voice from when you were a kid, standing in front of the mirror in some dress she’d picked out, sucking in your stomach while she pinched at your waist.

“No man wants a fat wife, baby. You don’t wanna end up like those big, miserable women who can’t even get a date.”

And then your daddy, always stepping in, always fighting for you.

“Leave her alone, Monique. She’s perfect just the way she is.”

But your mama never listened. Not then, and definitely not now.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Oh, so you like struggling to find clothes in your size? You like being the biggest one in the room?” she snapped. “I don’t know why you’re so damn stubborn. I’m trying to help you, and you act like I’m the enemy.”

You let out a humorless chuckle. “Maybe because you are…”

She gasped like you’d just slapped her. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you said, voice flat. “And I’m done talking about this.”

Silence stretched between you for a moment before she scoffed. “Fine. Be fat and alone for the rest of your life. See if I care.” And with that, the line went dead. You pulled the phone away from your ear, staring at the screen until it blurred. You shouldn’t have been surprised. This was classic Monique Walker. Still, it hurt like hell. Tears slipped down your cheeks before you even realized they’d fallen. Your hand tightened around your phone as you gritted your teeth, voice barely above a whisper but thick with emotion.

“I swear, I fucking hate her.” You seethed. The words felt heavy leaving your mouth, but damn if they weren’t true in that moment. You swiped at your face roughly, sniffling, before your eyes drifted over to the small wooden dresser in the corner. Your breath caught as your gaze landed on a framed photo of Nana Rosalyn, her warm brown eyes staring back at you, lips curved into that soft smile she always had whenever she looked at you. She had loved you, no conditions, no judgments, no backhanded comments about your weight or your worth. Just pure, unshakable love.

You exhaled, blinking back more tears as you whispered, “I miss you, Nana. I wish you were here.”

The air in the room felt heavier, like she was listening. Like she was there in some way. You let yourself sit with the feeling for a moment, let yourself pretend you weren’t completely alone. Then the sound of footsteps and the scrape of something heavy against the floor made you snap back to reality. You turned just as Terry strolled in, carrying both of your heavy-ass suitcases like they weighed nothing. His arms flexed with each effortless step, muscles glistening with a light sheen of sweat, the white ribbed wife beater he had on stretching tight across his chest. His cargo shorts hung low on his hips, showcasing strong, toned thighs, and with every movement, the fabric shifted just enough to make your thoughts derail.

Damn….

Toni Braxton’s You’re Makin’ Me High played faintly in the back of your mind, slow and sultry, like the universe was tryna set you up. Your thighs clenched involuntarily as heat licked up your spine. This nigga was too damn fine, and he knew it. You barely heard whatever the hell he was saying because your brain had short-circuited the second he stepped into the room, muscles on display like some damn fantasy come to life. It wasn’t until his deep voice cut through the fog in your head, low and laced with something you couldn’t quite place, that you realized you were staring.

“You good?”

Your breath hitched abruptly. “H-Huh?”

His hazel-gray eyes flickered over your face, studying you. “You was cryin’?”

You blinked fast, quickly wiping at your damp cheeks, trying to play it off. “Uh… yeah. But I’m fine. Just… thinking about my grandma. It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”

Terry didn’t say anything right away. He just set your suitcases down near the foot of the bed, then leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over his broad chest. His eyes never left your face, unreadable and steady, like he was taking in more than just your words.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, voice softer now. “I know how that feel.”

You swallowed, suddenly feeling a little too exposed under his gaze. “You ever lost somebody close?”

His jaw twitched slightly. “Yeah.”

The way he said it—short, clipped, like he wasn’t ready to unpack that—made you nod and let it go. Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t exactly uncomfortable. Just… thick.

Heavy.

Charged.

Terry’s eyes lingered on you a second longer before he exhaled through his nose, pushing off the wall. “Aight, well, if you need help with anything else, just let me know.” He turned to leave, and you should’ve let him go. Should’ve just said thanks and let him walk out. But instead, before you even knew what you were doing, the words tumbled out.

“Terry.”

He stopped, looking at you over his shoulder, brow raised slightly. “What’s up?”

You hesitated, lips parting, then closing again as you tried to figure out what the hell you were even about to say. You just… didn’t want to be alone. Not right now.

“…Never mind,” you murmured, shaking your head. “It’s nothing.”

Terry didn’t press. He just gave you a long, lingering look before nodding once.

“Aight, then.” And with that, he walked out, leaving you alone with your thoughts—and the lingering heat he’d left in the room.

“Heavenly father give me the strength.” You sighed, flopping backwards on the old childhood bed. You had no idea how you were not only going to survive cleaning out your grandmother’s home of history, and memories. But now you had to figure out how you were going to do all of that with an extremely sexy and fine added edition to the puzzle. Your nana always had a way of being funny, even in the afterlife it seemed.

The heat had been relentless all day, and after everything—the long drive, the tension with your mother, the weight of being back in this house—you needed to wash it all away. Stepping into the shower, you let the cool water run over your skin, sighing as it soothed you, easing the sticky film of sweat and stress clinging to your body. The scent of your Dove vanilla & shea body wash filled the air, mixing with the lingering humidity as you lathered yourself, fingers gliding over curves that you tried not to think too much about. But the moment you stepped out and reached for your towel, reality smacked you in the face. It barely fit. You huffed, tugging at the edges, trying to cover as much as possible, but no matter how you adjusted, something was exposed. Your thighs, thick and soft. The curve of your ass peeking from the bottom. Your cleavage straining against the top. Your mother’s voice slithered into your head, uninvited.

You need to do something about that weight. A man isn’t going to want all that.

You swallowed, turning toward the mirror, your fingers instinctively gripping the towel tighter as you stared at your reflection. Your stomach wasn’t flat. Your thighs touched. Your arms weren’t slim. Maybe she was right. Maybe— A sharp knock at the door startled you, making you jump. Before you could even react, the door swung open.

Terry stepped inside like he owned the place, holding an envelope, his mouth already moving. “Your Nana left you a letter, figured you’d—” His words stopped short. His entire body stilled. Your breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t know if it was the shock of him barging in unannounced or the way his stormy gray, hazel-green eyes flicked down—slow and deliberate, like a man taking in a sight he knew he wasn’t supposed to see but couldn’t help himself. His gaze dragged over you, over the bare curve of your thighs, the deep dip of your cleavage, the towel that did little to hide any of it. And for a split second—just a split second—you saw sensual lust. Something dark and unreadable flashing in his eyes before he blinked it away, locking his expression into something neutral. Like he hadn’t just been openly devouring you with his eyes.

“Terry, what the hell?! Ever heard of knocking?” You yanked the towel tighter, heat rushing to your face. His gaze lifted to yours, slow and unbothered, as he leaned casually against the doorframe, his biceps flexing just enough to make you want to scream.

“Didn’t know you’d be indecent,” he said smoothly, though his voice was just the slightest bit rougher than before.

“I just got out the shower!” you hissed, shifting your weight, hyper-aware of how exposed you were. “What do you want?”

Terry, still infuriatingly relaxed, held up the envelope. “Your Nana left you a letter. I was instructed that soon as you arrive to give it to you.”

You glared. “And you couldn’t wait until I wasn’t half-naked before busting up in here?”

He shrugged, eyes glinting with something too smug for your liking. “Wasn’t expecting a show.”

Your mouth fell open. “Boy, if you don’t—”

“You gon’ take this letter or keep fussin’?” he interrupted, stepping closer, holding the envelope just out of reach like he wanted to make you work for it.

You snatched it from his hand, still scowling. “Get out.”

But he didn’t move right away.

Instead, his gaze lingered, just for a second too long. Just enough to make your thighs press together, to make your skin prickle with awareness. Then, finally, he turned to leave. But right before stepping out, he glanced back over his shoulder, his smirk damn near lethal.

“Nice towel, by the way.” And just like that, he was gone.

You stood there, heart pounding, body still tingling from the heat of his stare.

This man was gonna be a problem, you thought to yourself. You flopped down on the bed, still clutching the towel like it was the only thing keeping you from completely losing your mind.

“That nigga done lost his damn mind,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Barging in here like he payin’ rent.” Your body was still humming from the intensity of his stare, the way he’d looked at you like he saw everything and had the nerve to act like it ain’t affect him. Like he wasn’t phased, but you knew he was. And now, here you were, sitting on your old bed, legs still damp from the shower, wrapped up in this raggedy-ass towel, heart still racing. You sighed, finally turning your attention to the envelope in your lap. Your childhood nickname was written in familiar, neat cursive across the front.

Your heart clenched as a lump formed in your throat. Your fingers trembled slightly as you opened it, pulling out a piece of aged, cream-colored paper. You could almost smell her as you unfolded it—cocoa butter, vanilla, and something soft, like the scent of home. Then you began to read.

My Sweet Sunshine,

If you’re reading this, that means the Good Lord finally saw fit to call me home. Now, don’t you go sittin’ there cryin’, ‘cause you know I lived a full life, and I ain’t scared of no Heaven. I done raised my babies, spoiled my grandbabies, and loved with my whole heart. That’s more than some folks ever get to do.

Sunshine, I know you didn’t want to come back here. I know that city’s got its hooks in you, and I ain’t mad at it—never was. You always had big dreams, always wanted more than this little town could offer. But baby, don’t you ever let nobody make you feel like you ain’t enough just as you are. Not your mama, not them folks whisperin’ behind your back, nobody.

You always was my bright star, even when you ain’t see it yourself. Even when you was a little thing, sittin’ on my porch, talkin’ ‘bout how you didn’t feel pretty enough, or small enough, or good enough. I used to tell you then, and I’ll tell you now—you are enough. God made you just the way you s’posed to be. Don’t let the world tell you otherwise.

Now, about this house—I know it might not mean much to you right now, but baby, this ain’t just wood and nails. This is our history. This is where I loved your granddaddy, where I raised your daddy, where I held you in my arms and rocked you to sleep when life got too big for you. It ain’t just a house—it’s home.

I don’t expect you to stay forever, but I do expect you to sit with it for a little while. Let the memories wrap around you. Let yourself feel whatever you been runnin’ from. And don’t you let nobody make you do nothin’ you don’t wanna do. Not even your mama.

Take your time, baby. I love you bigger than the sky.

Always, Nana

Tears blurred your vision before you even finished. You pressed the letter to your chest, inhaling shakily…She knew… She always knew. And just like that, all the emotions you’d been pushing down, all the grief, all the anger, all the damn confusion, came bubbling up to the surface. You curled your legs up onto the bed, hugging the letter like it was the last piece of her you had left. And for the first time since you got here… you let yourself cry.

As you wiped the last of your tears away, you pulled yourself together, slipping into a simple oversized ‘90s-themed graphic T-shirt that stopped just below your ass, paired with black boy shorts that hugged your curves. Your fur slides slid easily onto your feet, accentuating the shimmer of your two delicate anklets against your smooth brown skin. Your toes, freshly done in a clean French acrylic set, peeked out perfectly, proof that even on your worst days, you refused to neglect the little things that made you feel like you. Your damp curls were drying into their natural coils, wild and free, and for the first time since stepping into this house, you felt somewhat like yourself again. Then, just as you were about to head downstairs, voices floated up from the front door. A woman’s voice. Sweet, a little too breathy, laced with the kind of forced shyness that women used when they were trying to be cute. You paused, leaning slightly against the railing as you listened.

“Terry, you really ain’t have to do all that. I swear, you a lifesaver.”

“Mmhmm,” came Terry’s deep, unbothered reply.

You stepped forward just enough to peek over the banister, instantly rolling your eyes at the sight in front of you. A woman—slim, with long curly hair cascading down her back, a high round booty sitting just right, and a rack that was damn near spilling out of her little sundress—was standing way too close to Terry, handing him a plate wrapped in foil. And the way she was looking at him? Yeah. She was on that.

“Oh, and here’s the money I promised you.” She slipped a few bills into his hand, her fingers lingering a little too long against his palm. “And I made you a little something as a thank you… some smothered pork chops, greens, mac and cheese, and cornbread.”

You smirked slightly. Cornbread looking a little dry.

Terry took the plate with a nod, glancing down at it. “Appreciate it, Celeste.”

Celeste. Figures.

She bit her lip, her eyes scanning over him like he was a damn menu. “And I made a little pound cake too. My mama’s recipe. But I guess you’ll just have to tell me how it tastes next time I see you.”

You sucked your teeth. Girl, be for real.

Terry, still unreadable as ever, just smirked slightly, shifting the plate to one hand. “I’ll let you know.”

Celeste giggled, reaching up to play with a stray curl like she knew she was the baddest thing standing in that doorway. “You know, Terry… you should really stop by sometime. I got plenty of food, and my son’s at his grandma’s for the summer, so…” She trailed off, her meaning clear. You folded your arms, arching a brow as you waited to see how he was gonna play it.

Terry, ever cool, leaned one broad shoulder against the doorframe, looking down at her with a knowing expression. “That right?”

She nodded, batting her lashes. “Mmhmm. You know, a man like you shouldn’t have to eat alone.”

Terry exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “Celeste.”

“Hmm?” She replied breathily, trying to act innocent.

“I ain’t interested.” The words landed so casually, so smoothly, that for a second, she didn’t even process them.

But then her lips parted slightly, her cheeks darkening in embarrassment. “Oh… um, well…”

“But I do appreciate the food,” he added, nodding toward the plate. “Your little boy needed that room fixed up, so it wasn’t no big deal.”

Celeste recovered quickly, forcing a laugh. “Right, right. Well, um… enjoy, Terry.”

He gave her a simple nod before closing the door, shaking his head as he turned toward the kitchen. You, still standing at the top of the stairs, watched the whole thing unfold, biting back a smirk. Celeste was pretty, no doubt. Probably more his type. But the way he had shut her down so smoothly? Interesting…. Very interesting. You padded down the stairs, moving casually into the kitchen, acting like you hadn’t just been eavesdropping on that whole embarrassing exchange. Terry was standing at the counter, peeling back the foil on the plate, and the expression on his face had you fighting back a laugh. He looked… disturbed. You leaned against the fridge, arms folded as you watched him poke at the smothered pork chops with his fork. The sauce looked a little too gray for comfort, the mac and cheese had a strange, gluey texture, and the cornbread? Yeah… dry as hell. He let out a slow breath, tilting the plate slightly as if inspecting it under better lighting was gonna change the fact that it looked like a crime scene.

“Damn, she really put her whole heart into that, huh?” You smirked.

Terry cut his eyes at you, his expression flat. “Don’t start.”

You laughed, moving toward the cabinets. “I’m just sayin’. If you value your life, you might wanna pass on that.”

He set the plate down, shaking his head. “Damn shame. I did all that work and got paid in food poisoning.”

You chuckled, pulling out a pan and setting it on the stove. “Lucky for you, I actually know how to cook.”

Terry leaned against the counter, arms crossing over his chest as he watched you. “Oh yeah?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, boy. I can throw down. What you want?”

He smirked slightly. “Something that won’t require me to get my stomach pumped.”

“Keep talkin’ shit, and I’ma lace your food with extra salt.” You shot him a playful glare, going towards the fridge to see if there was even anything cookable for you to whip up a quick meal. Terry chuckled, watching you move around the kitchen with an ease that he could appreciate.

“Aight, then little mama. Let’s see what’chu workin with.” He joked, licking his plump bottom lip. You fought the surge of butterflies in your tummy as your french acrylic nails gripped the counter, to steady yourself. Turning toward the fridge, you pull it open and blink in surprise at the contents—fresh meats, crisp produce, eggs, dairy. Whoever stocked this place before you arrived really knew what they were doing.

“You did all this?” You softly ask, glancing over your shoulder at Terry.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Had groceries delivered before you got here. Figured you’d want a stocked fridge.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to let that small, thoughtful gesture soften you. Instead, you hum and start pulling out the ingredients.

“Alright,” you say, setting things down on the counter. “I’m making honey-glazed salmon, garlic butter asparagus, and jasmine rice.”

Terry raises an eyebrow. “Hony glazed?”

You smirk, not letting him off the hook. “What? You thought I was only good for frying chicken and making cornbread?”

His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “Didn’t say that.”

“Mm-hmm.” You grab a cutting board and get to work, dicing, seasoning, and moving around the kitchen like it’s second nature. The wine Nana he had ordered as well was surprisingly good, and after a few sips, the tension from the day starts to slipped off your shoulders.

Terry watches you, quiet at first, before finally speaking up. “So… what kept you away?”

You pause for only a second before continuing to chop the asparagus. “What do you mean?”

“From your Nana. You used to visit all the time, then you just stopped.” His eyes don’t waver. The question hits harder than you expect.

You swallow and focus on the cutting board. “My mom.”

Terry stays quiet, just waiting, giving you the space to continue.

You sigh, stirring the honey glaze in a small saucepan. “Nana was my dad’s mother. When he died, my mom didn’t see the point in us coming down here anymore. She never liked my Nana anyway.”

“Why?” His eyebrow perked up.

You let out a humorless laugh and shake your head. “Because she’s an elitist. My mom grew up privileged, went to the best schools, rubbed elbows with all the right people. She married my dad because he was successful, but she never respected where he came from. And when he passed, she made it clear that his side of the family didn’t fit into her world.”

Terry’s gaze feels heavy, and the weight of it makes your throat tighten.

You flip the salmon in the pan, watching the glaze caramelize. “I wanted to come back,” you admit softly. “I always told myself I would. I promised Nana I’d visit.” You exhale shakily. “But life kept getting in the way… and now, I’ll never get that time back.”

The silence that follows is thick—understanding without pity, heavy without pressure.

You wipe the corner of your eye before turning to face him fully. “But, um… I don’t really wanna keep digging into that.” You force a small smile. “What about you? How the hell did you end up here, taking care of my grandma and her land?”

Terry is quiet for a long time, his jaw shifting slightly. Then, finally, he speaks.

“I got out the Marines a few years ago,” he says, his voice steady. “Came back home, trying to get my life right, but shit has a way of following me...”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist.

“What do you mean? Shit like what?” You cautiously questioned, not wanting to get all up in this man’s business, but at the same time you felt you had the slightest right. Terry stayed quiet for a long time, his jaw shifting slightly. Then, finally, he spoke.

“My cousin got into some trouble with the law a few years back,” he said, voice steady. “I went down to bail him out, but I ended up getting into some shit myself. Crooked-ass cops—racist bastards—decided they ain’t like me asking too many questions. Things got ugly real fast.”

Something about the way he says it made your stomach twist. “How bad did it get?”

Terry’s hazel-green eyes darken, something distant flickering in them. “Damn near died over it,” he says, voice calm but heavy.

“Oh, I’m um.. sorry to hear that.” You felt bad for even asking. Terry only hummed in response as a somewhat comfortable silence fell over the kitchen. You decided to drop the 21 questions all together and focus on finishing up the meal you were in the midst of preparing as he just quietly watched every move you made. The air inside the house was cooler than the sticky, suffocating heat outside, but it wasn’t enough to stop the slow trickle of sweat at the nape of your neck. Or maybe… just maybe… it wasn’t the weather making me feel like you were burning up. You could feel Terry watching you intently. It wasn’t obvious at first—he was too smooth for that. But after a while, you noticed the weight of his gaze, the way his stormy eyes followed every move you made as you prepped the food. His attention was heavy, unreadable, but not in a way that made you uncomfortable. No, it was the opposite. It made you hot. You shifted my weight from one foot to the other, clearing your throat as you reached for the bottle of wine, pouring yourself another sip just to have something to do. Everything about this man was turning you on and you loved it and despised it. It wasn’t just the fact that he was tall—though he was definitely tall, standing at least 6’3 with a solid frame that made it clear he was no stranger to manual labor. It wasn’t just the broadness of his shoulders or the way his arms stretched the fabric of his white tank, hinting at thick, corded muscle beneath. And it wasn’t just his face, though damn—that strong jawline, full lips, and a nose that looked like it belonged on a king? Yeah, he was definitely blessed in the looks department. But it was his presence that caught you off guard. Terry Richmond wasn’t the type of man you could read at a glance. His face was unreadable, expression calm yet watchful, like he was always two steps ahead of everyone else in the room. His stormy hazel-gray eyes, rimmed with thick lashes, carried something unreadable—something sharp, calculating. And depending on how the light hit them, they almost looked ocean blue, like a hurricane was brewing behind them, waiting to be unleashed. But right now, that intensity was locked onto you. And that shit made your stomach flip.

You turned back to the stove, pretending like the weight of his gaze wasn’t burning a hole straight through your back. The kitchen was already hot as hell, but somehow, his presence made the air feel even thicker. The pot on the stove let out a soft simmer, the scent of garlic, onions, and seasoning filling the air, but you barely noticed it because Terry was still watching you. And you felt all of it. His gaze wasn’t casual. It wasn’t some absentminded glance or a passing curiosity. No, he was studying you, eyes moving slow over every dip and curve like he had all the time in the world. You weren’t new to male attention, but the way he did it? This wasn’t some hungry, obvious ogling. This was different. Intentional. Like he was learning you. Like he was figuring out what made you tick, what made you fidget, what made you heat up. And Lord, were you heating up. You adjusted your stance, shifting your weight from one leg to the other, but that only made things worse because you didn’t know he was the type of man who appreciated a body like yours. The type that saw thick thighs, wide hips, and soft curves and lingered—the kind that recognized a woman built to carry healthy babies and be just as healthy herself. And sure enough, when you glanced over your shoulder, you caught him licking his lips, eyes still locked on you like you were a full-course meal, and he was starving.

“Damn, you gon’ cook everything in the kitchen?” His voice rumbled from behind you, smooth and deep, with that natural Southern drawl that could make a woman’s knees buckle if she wasn’t careful.

You smirked, turning back to the pot. “You got a problem with a woman feeding you?”

He let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through the air. “Nah, just surprised. Didn’t peg you for the domestic type.”

You scoffed, stirring the food. “Just ‘cause I can cook don’t mean I’m tryna play house with you, sir.”

That chuckle turned into a full-blown laugh, deep and rich, sending a shiver down your spine. You were too aware of him now, of the space between you and the way it was closing, little by little. The heat of his body was at your back before you even realized he had moved, and suddenly, his voice was right at your ear.

“You need any help?” His deep voice reverberated.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers tightening around the spoon as his presence seemed to take up all the air in the kitchen. His body was close—too close, his heat pressing against your back, his sheer size making you feel small, even though you weren’t a small woman. The scent of his cologne—dark, musky, and clean—wrapped around you, making your head swim for a brief second. For just a moment, the energy in the room shifted. A slow, charged moment where neither of you moved, where the only sounds were the bubbling of the food on the stove and the quiet, measured breaths between you. It was subtle but impossible to ignore—the low hum of something heavy, something thick and unspoken. Then, just as quickly as it came, it passed. You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to focus, though you swore you felt him smirk behind you.

“I got it,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice even. Terry didn’t move at first, letting the moment sit before he finally stepped back, his absence somehow just as noticeable as his presence.

“Aight then,” he murmured, his voice amused.

But even as he walked away, you could feel his gaze still on you. And something told you that this slow-burn tension between you? It was just getting started. After about twenty minutes, the food is finally done, the kitchen filled with the warm, savory aroma of glazed salmon and buttered asparagus. You take your time plating everything carefully, making sure it looks just as good as it smells. Since Terry is your guest, you serve his plate first, sliding it across the counter toward him before pouring yourself another small glass of wine.

“You tryna impress me or somethin’?” he teases, eyeing the plate like he don’t quite trust it yet.

You roll your eyes, lifting your glass. “Boy, please. If I wanted to impress you, I would’ve pulled out the big guns.”

His brows lift slightly. “This ain’t the big guns?”

“Not even close.”You smirk. Terry hums like he’s considering that, then finally picks up his fork and takes a bite. He chews slowly, his face unreadable, and you find yourself leaning in slightly, waiting for his reaction.

After a few beats, he nods. “Alright, I’ll give it to you. This is good.”

You wink cutely, sipping your wine. “Told you I wouldn’t let you die in my care.”

He chuckles, deep and smooth, before digging into his plate with more enthusiasm. You pretend not to notice the way his biceps flex when he moves, how his jaw tenses up when he chews. You felt your clit pulse at the way his lips became glazed over from the moistness of the salmon.

“Told you I know what I’m doing,” you added with a nervous giggle, watching him enjoy the meal as you tried to push the naughty thoughts back and out of your mental crevices.

Terry smirks, setting his fork down just long enough to meet your gaze. “I don’t know yet. You cookin’ good, but that don’t mean you can really throw down. Anybody can follow a recipe.”

“Excuse me?” Your mouth dropped open slightly.

He shrugs, eyes dancing with amusement. “I mean, this is cute and all, but I don’t see no mac and cheese, no smothered chicken, no collard greens. Where the food that’ll have a man ready to sign over his life?”

You narrow your eyes, setting down your glass. “Oh nigga, you really talkin’ reckless now.”

He leans in slightly, grin widening. “I’m just sayin’—”

“You just saying what, exactly? That I gotta cook like somebody’s Big Mama before you give me my flowers?” You scoffed, fighting your smile.

Terry’s eyes flickered towards you with something unreadable, something dark and playful all at once. “I’m just saying… if you wanna prove you really got skills, you might have to cook for me again.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “Oh, I see what this is. You tryna finesse another plate outta me.”

He smirks, grabbing his fork again. “Maybe.”

You fold your arms, eyeing him. “What do I get outta this arrangement?”

Terry lifts a brow, chewing another bite of salmon before answering. “What you want?” His voice dropping down to an even lower, sleek register. The sudden change shot an electric current straight to your pussy, making it moist and slippery. Although your lips below quivered and ached to be touched, you kept a pokerface.

“Hmm. Let’s see… If I’m cooking, then you’re cleaning.” You tapped a finger against your chin, pretending to think.

“Nah. Try again.” He scoffed.

“Uh-uh. I think that’s fair. You eat, you clean.” You playfully pouted, making him crack a small smirk at you.

“I fixed your grandma’s whole damn house. Ain’t that enough?” He countered, tone heavily amused.

You smirk, enjoying this way too much. “Oh, so now you keeping score?”

Terry leans in a little, his stormy ocean eyes glinting with something dangerous, something that makes the air between you tighten. “Nah, sweetheart. Just making sure I know what the stakes are.”

Your stomach flipped, causing heat to crawl slowly up your spine. This man was absolute trouble, and not the good kind. This man was the type to have you outside of his job, throwing bricks through his car window because he ain’t answer quick enough for your liking. This wasn’t no young nigga you were used to , this was big dawg.

You picked up your wine glass again, taking a slow sip. “Well, you let me know when you’re ready for that real meal. But just so you know… once I really start cooking for you?” You lean in slightly, voice dropping to something softer, silkier.. Almost wet and seducing. “Ain’t no going back.”

Terry’s smirk deepens, his gaze dropping—just for a second—to your lips before dragging back up to your eyes.

“That right?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard, feeling your pulse kicking up. You knew you had to get out of this here kitchen before you did something stupid.

Pushing off the counter, you grab your own plate. “Eat your food, Terry.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he digs back in. “Yeah, alright. But don’t think I’m forgetting this conversation.”

You roll your eyes, turning away—but not before catching the way he watches you, heat flickering behind that cool, unreadable expression.

Yeah, this is nigga here was definitely trouble. As you take your plate and head toward the table, you can still feel Terry’s eyes on you, the weight of his gaze heavy against your skin. You tell yourself you’re imagining it, that the warmth curling low in your belly is just the wine and not the way his voice dipped when he said that right. But then, just as you sit down, he speaks again—low, teasing, but laced with something else. Something thicker.

“Hope you know what you just started.”

You pause, your fork hovering over your plate, your pulse skipping before quickening. When you finally look up, Terry’s already focused on his food like he ain’t just sent a shiver down your spine. And just like that, the game had officially begun. You might’ve thought you were just cooking a meal, just having a little harmless banter over dinner—but Terry? He had other plans. The way he said it, the way his voice dipped into something slow and rich like molasses, told you plain as day that this was just the start. And whether you were ready for it or not…

Things were about to get real interesting.

#aaron pierre #terry richmond #rebel ridge #mufasa #green lantern #terry richmond x black reader #terry richmond x plus size reader #terry richmond fanfiction #terry richmond fanfic #terry richmond x black oc

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revelboo · 2 days ago

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I just know EIA! Megs is gonna hold the carrier thing Over their heads in the most PETTY of ways. Like the human and Starscream are like. Bickering about names like "They need a powerful name. Like Vaportrail or Heatseek." and the Human's like "Oh, I was thinking bc your name is STARscream it could be one of the stars we've named, like...Polaris or Arcturus." and then Megatron chimes in like "We're naming them after a poet." "What?!" "Hey, that's not-" "I'm sorry, WHO is the one who was forced into carrying?? Thats right me." or like. "Wow I cant believe I managed to find a pack of rust sticks." "yeah, amazing. Especially since your CARRIER would love rust sticks rn." "You're such an ass, ugh. here."

He absolutely will and bring it up every chance he gets

Everything Is Alright Pt 128

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Shockwave x Reader

• Antenna immediately flattening back upon seeing you cradled in Starscream’s hand, you at least take a petty pleasure in the fact that Shockwave is as unhappy to see you as you are to see him. “Lord Megatron has ordered more tests be run on my human,” Starscream says, wings flaring as he curls his lip derisively and lies through his denta while you struggle to not laugh at how serious he sounds. Wings preening like he’s showing you off and it’d be cute if you weren’t still nursing your annoyance with all of them.

• Venting softly as he lingers nearby to watch over you, Soundwave divides his attention between you and Shockwave. While the scientist is an old friend, most of that friend was stripped away a long time ago. Every good thing torn away like his face. Knows you don’t like Shockwave, but they’ll need him to create protoforms for them. Servos flexing as his own thoughts snag him. Protoforms. Wanting that. Wanting you with his sparkling, to spark you. To have a family even if it’s this dysfunctional mess as long as you’re part of it.

• Easing you down on the counter, Starscream’s servo lingers against your back. Reassuring himself and you. Because Shockwave? Unpredictable at best, motivated by who knew what. “There are other aliens besides humans out there, right?” You ask as Shockwave retrieves a scanner. “Other organics.” You’re looking up at him, expression uncertain. And he nods slowly as you look away to track Shockwave. “So Cybertronians and other organics?” You ask and he realizes what you’re asking. As far as he knows, organics have always been a taboo.

• ‘There are archival records of Cybertronians bonding organics in the past,’ Shockwave interrupts and Star looks more surprised than you are. Making it apparent he hadn’t know. “What about the sparklings?” You ask, holding still as the light of the scanner plays over you. ‘Sparklings? There were no viable sparks created from such unions,’ Shockwave growls, frowning at the screen. And you look up at Star then Soundwave. Because you’d been hoping for some reassurances. That this was going to work out in the end, but you’re back to being a weird one-off again. Your whole species weirdly compatible with theirs.

• “Query- the lifespans of such bonded pairs?” Soundwave asks and you look at him in surprise, before your expression empties and you look up at Starscream. ‘How long do you guys normally live?’ You ask him, voice tight. Not bothering to look up from studying the scanner, Shockwave’s antennas flick. ‘The organic’s lifespan is bound to the Cybertronian’s, not the other way around,’ Shockwave growls. And Soundwave’s tension eases, venting raggedly as he turns his attention back on you, watching you frown up at Starscream while he tells you how long they live. How long you might live if nothing happens to your bonded mates. And you pale slightly, nodding absently. ‘Why are there now two spark bond signatures?’ Shockwave growls, as he holds up the scanner.

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #megatron x reader #soundwave x reader #soundwave #starscream #megatron

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mvctavish · 3 days ago

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𝐓𝐅 𝟏𝟒𝟏 - 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐓

summary: headcanons for each members' reaction to you telling them you're pregnant

cw: afab!reader, pregnancy (duh), mentions of pregnancy symptoms (like nausea, vomiting) but nothing graphic, slight angst for some parts, established relationship, mentions of sex (?)

capt. john price

౿ ۪ ݁ honestly? price couldn't be happier. he always thought of himself as a family man, seeing himself as a father of (hopefully) many kids. he's overjoyed as you greet him when he gets home from a long and grueling deployment, wanting nothing more than to relax in your arms and go to sleep in his own bed. however, when you say the words "i'm pregnant" and showcase the sonogram, his heart nearly triples in size. that's his baby. you're carrying his baby, and he swears this is the best moment of his entire life. he whispers praises in your ear as he holds you tight, a large and heavy hand gently resting on your abdomen, thumb stroking your skin the fabric of your - his - shirt. he's truly never been happier. you, his darling girl, is harboring a precious life that blossomed from your love for each other. you just know he's going to be the best father your kid could hope for.

sgt. kyle "gaz" garrick

౿ ۪ ݁ kyle doesn't know what to say at first. he was the one that convinced you to take a pregnancy test in the first place - you'd been nauseous and fatigued for the past few days, and he noticed. he noticed each and every thing about you, from your slightly irritable mood to the tiny changes of your body. he never expected the test to come back positive, the two little lines on the stick staring up at the both of you. he's scared, just as scared as you, but he knows he needs to stay strong, at least for now. "it's gonna be alright, angel," he'd reassure you, taking your form into an embrace. he's oh so gentle, handling you like porcelain now that he knows his baby is growing in your womb. "we'll get through this together, ya hear, love?" he kisses your forehead. whatever you decide to do, he's there for you. despite his initial fears, the thought of having a baby with you excites him. you best bet that if you aren't married already, you'll have a ring on your finger by the end of the week.

sgt. john "soap" mactavish

౿ ۪ ݁ johnny has never felt so unprepared in his life. he's always so, so careful with you, hoping to avoid situations like... this. it's not that he's upset, no, he isn't angry. just unprepared. he doesn't feel fit to be a father, not yet. it's a lot of responsibility and an entire lifetime of commitment - and johnny doesn't want to let down his future child. though, the more he thinks about it, the more he begins to warm up to the idea of fatherhood. maybe you'll have a little lass with his eyes and your fiery attitude, or perhaps a lad with your nose and his spunk - whoever your child ends up being, he knows he'll love them unconditionally. just as he loves you. it does take him a few weeks to come around. at first, he'd drink his worries away at the pub, ranting to ghost or whomever else will listen. he's just stressed, and that stress never really goes away, but a stronger feeling of pride and excitement takes over. he's going to be a da! he knows you'll be a damn good mother, and he even takes an extra long leave to help around the house. he doesn't want you to lift a finger while you're pregnant (even though you're not even showing yet). before the baby is even born, he proves himself to be a very capable father.

lt. simon "ghost" riley

౿ ۪ ݁ when you break the news to him, simon is instantly afraid. memories of his own childhood come flooding back to him, and a new fear settles inside of him. he's always been afraid of turning out like his old man, and now that you're pregnant with his baby, there's a whole nother person that he could let down. he doesn't want that to happen - doesn't want his baby to suffer as he'd done. he makes a silent promise, both to you and the baby, that he'd always be there and present. he loves you more than anything, but the revelation has him growing distant for the first few months. whenever you bring up the topic of possible baby names, or ask to look at clothes at the shops, he tenses and responds in very short answers. it's abundantly clear that he's scared, and you don't really blame him. it isn't until you speak to him in the privacy and safety of your shared bedroom does he confess. "i'm just worried about turning into my father," his voice is uncharacteristically quiet, light eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he tries to blink away some unshed tears. "i don't want to hurt you, bunny, or the baby." he glances down at your abdomen, and you guide your hand to it. you have to reassure him many times that he's nothing like his father. it isn't until he comes with you to one of your appointments that he finally accepts that as a fact. when he hears your baby's heartbeat on the monitor, he knows deep in his heart that he'd do anything to protect you both.

#mvctavish ༉‧₊˚ . 🪽#call of duty #cod #call of duty x reader #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 headcanons #task force 141 #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader

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chimielie · 1 day ago

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hold ‘em up (above my heart)

summary: Atsumu x Physical Therapist!F!Reader. the sun rises and sets over and over as your relationship progresses from friends to pro yearners to more.

wc: 4.3k

cw: friends with benefits subplot and all that entails; not explicit, just suggestive, reader is fighting for her LIFE in her brain, atsumu is just chilling (not really)

a/n: hi i didn’t die :3

“Hands up,” you say, voice low so as not to disturb the peace of the morning.

Atsumu raises his arms, elbows bent, making a frame of his face. His blond hair is pale, almost white because his little kitchen window faces east and he wakes before it rises above the upper pane. You sidle past him, back to his front, ignoring the weight of his hand as it settles on your hip while you reach up for the granola you keep in the cabinet next to the fridge.

He likes traditional Japanese breakfasts, the savory and umami flavors of natto and rice and miso. You have a sweet tooth and a craving for crunchy food, like a wild animal that needs to grind down its molars. On the days he has work, he settles for an omelette (or scrambled eggs if he fucks it up). You eat the same thing every morning or you'll be sick.

Growing up, Atsumu was never a morning person, but he sleeps better on the nights you're next to him. He doesn't get angry when you slosh milk over the side of his bowl onto his dining table, doesn't snap when you ask him what his plans for the day are. Maybe this is what being an adult is, these steady waters and calm skies.

You don't speak much as you chew, staring into space and thinking the slow thoughts of the exhausted, and he busies himself scrolling through his group messages and social media accounts.

There's a request from a verified account, a retired athlete-turned-model. He knows her name, has seen her in ads, bumped into her at the last Olympics. He clicks on it.

Hey, handsome. I'll be in Osaka this upcoming weekend - let's get a drink!

"I'm gonna shower," you're patting your hair, looking irritated. It always sticks up in the morning, no matter how you sleep on it, a few particular strands defying gravity.

"You should go to work like that," he says, voice still rough even if his mind's woken up. His accent is thicker in the morning, you've told him, but he can't hear it.

"Hell no," you say. "You're the only one who gets to see this morning glory for now."

"I better be," his grin is roguish, running his hand through his own bird's nest. "C'mon, you gonna let me shower with you or what?"

"No, you'll use up all my nice shampoo again!" You fake running to the bathroom, keeping your pace slow enough for him to wrap his arms around your waist and tackle you down, careful to fold himself so that you land on top of him, body between his legs, face cushioned on his chest.

He leaves his phone face up, forgotten on the table.

He's toweling off his hair, dressed in his practice uniform, while you're packing your bag for the day in the kitchen. His apartment is small, way smaller than some of the other guys' on the team, but he grew up crammed into a room with his mom and his brother. He'd toured one penthouse and decided he couldn't live with all that space strangling him.

He'd tried to get Samu to bunk with him like old times, but his brother had just said I'll sleep three meters from your dirty laundry in hell, and that was the end of the argument.

Besides, he has a lot of car bills to pay. He managed to fold another Mazda last month and you've been carpooling in your ancient Toyota while he waits to get license privileges again ever since.

"You got a text, by the way," you say casually, digging through your purse with your lips twisted to the side. "Aha!" You pull out a tube of lipstick triumphantly. "You should respond before you forget."

"Ah, was it Samu?" He asks, crossing back into the bedroom to put away his damp towel.

"Nah, the model," you call. "Sorry, I read your texts."

You're fighting the growing bitterness of the words, trying to sound jaunty and uncaring and casual. The admission of invading his privacy weighs heavily on your shoulders; you can't make yourself look up into his face when he comes into the kitchen.

"I don't care," he shrugs. "You can read whatever you want."

"You shouldn't say that," you try to laugh and wince instead. He just grunts and picks up the phone, swiping away from the conversation and leaving her on read. "I don't have the right, don't I? I shouldn't have—"

"I really don't care," he cuts across your strained attempt at an apology again.

"You should!" You sound like you're about to stamp your foot at him. He doesn't understand why you're so angry; he doesn't bite. "Aren't you gonna get mad? Shouldn't we be fighting?"

"I don't wanna fight," he rubs his large, calloused hand over your shoulder, your upper trapezius, to cup the back of your and pull you into a loose embrace. You stand, dumbfounded, chin pushed into his shoulder, hands at your sides. "Do you? We can if you want to."

"No," you whisper. "Sorry, I—sorry."

"'S okay," he says, digging his thumbs into the tight knots of muscle. "No big deal. Here, you dropped your thingy."

The thingy is the tube of lipstick, a deep berry color, rolling towards the edge of the table. He steps back and squeezes your cheeks in one hands, prompting you to part your lips slightly. He does it how he knows you do, a soft smear on the lower lip and two dabs made sharp by a swipe of his thumbnail on the outer creases, all blended together at the end for a subtle touch of color.

"You look like a frog about to burp," he says when he's done. You laugh so hard you cry.

On the car ride to work, you keep chewing on your lip. He frowns when he notices, all his work bitten off.

You wait for him to get out of the car first, a holdover from the days when you would wait five minutes so no one would notice that you were coming from the same place. In some ways, it's easier that he crashed his car; so convenient that you volunteered to be his chauffeur. He comes to your side, opens your door. You squint at him, jutting your chin out like you're bracing yourself for something.

"I wasn't gonna go out with her," he tells you, a secret between you, him, and the hard asphalt of the MSBY gym's employee parking lot. "Ain't nobody else seein' this in the mornings either. That's all."

He turns around and strides off, leaving you blinking in the morning light.

"Can you move it?" You say, your brows knit together. Hinata grimaces.

"I can bend it, like this—" he curls the injured finger inward. "But it won't stretch out, like this. Ah!"

You release his hand, where you'd applied pressure to the digit. "It's sprained. You're sitting out the rest of practice."

"Aw, but it really doesn't hurt that bad," he protests. You give him a look. "Okay, okay. Can I least do some running and stuff?"

"Do you want to come to practice tomorrow?" You say evenly. He gives you big brown puppydog eyes and you fold like wet paper. "I'll give you some stretches and exercises for your legs that you probably can't fuck up."

"Yay!" He cheers. "Thank you!" He uses an affectionate diminutive of your name with -chan tacked on the end. You laugh and wave him off, walking out of the main gym area toward your office, where you can print him the exercises.

You lean against your desk while the printer huffs temperamentally, taking a long sip of coffee. You should really stop going over to Atsumu's on weeknights, but you've been telling yourself that for well over a year, and it's a lot more convenient since all your clothes and your toothbrush live at his place.

You tell yourself a lot of things when it comes to your blond coworker.

The door to your office slams open and you make an involuntary, high-pitched noise in the back of your throat, focusing hard on keeping the cardboard cup in your hand from jumping with you.

"Sorry, sorry," Bokuto says, his hair drooping dramatically. "It's just really important—Tsumu's hurt!"

You take an inhale so quickly it hurts and burst your coffee cup all over your coat and work pants. Luckily, you take it mostly milk and sugar, so it doesn't burn you, but you don't even really notice it, just shedding the coat and rolling up your sleeves as you stride out the door without hesitation.

Behind you, Bokuto follows, making garbled promises you hear as through water to buy you a house to make up for startling you and ruining your outfit.

You try to take three deep breaths before you enter the gym, knowing you'll be much more helpful calm rather than battling the wall of panic that threatens to overtake you. Atsumu is blocked from your vision by a crowd of his teammates, fluttering around him like a herd of bumblebees.

Iwaizumi is already there, you see with an exhale of relief, ordering everyone around him to stay calm. You motion to the players around him to give him space, hoping your terror doesn't show untowardly on your face, hoping he can feel your singleminded prayer: please be okay.

"Eh?" He has a dopey expression on his face, dopier than usual, anyway. He says your name gleefully, but you're too busy scanning him for visible blood or bone to respond right away. "Nice shirt. Hey, why's your coat off? Were you taking off your clothes in there? Without me?"

"He collided with Sakusa," Iwaizumi tells you. Atsumu reaches for your hand and you stroke your fingertips lightly over the back of it, along the bones and tendons, each touch saying you'll be okay, it's going to be okay.

I'll make it okay.

"Sakusa's shoulder got banged up, you should probably put him on reserve for a couple days," Iwaizumi says. You glance over at the black-haired spiker, who gives you a thumbs-up though his expression is characteristically flat. "Atsumu, though... he fell pretty hard."

You can see that. There's a bruise blooming along the side of his face, like the sloppy trail of your lipstick after a night out. His ankle is swollen, too; the disorientation of the head injury must have impaired the grace of his landing.

You kneel and shift into clinical mode, receding into the comfortable space of your training. You feel along his leg, asking him over and over does it hurt, can you move this, does it hurt when I do this.

"Okay, doc?" His beautiful honey eyes are unfocused. You want to cry. You want to squeeze his hand tighter, but you don't want to hurt him more. "S all good. I'm fine."

You shake your head, grateful it's not worse. Afraid of what you have to say to him.

"That's right, you'll be fine. But the concussion paired with the ankle injury... I don't think it's a good idea for you to return to practice for a month at least."

You squeeze your eyes shut and pull your hands away from him. He probably doesn't want to be touched. He might hate you for this.

What's the point of sleeping with the doc if I don't get special privileges, you imagine him saying, if you're gonna take my life away from me like this. A month of recovery doesn't sound like so much to other people, but you've been working around these volleyball freaks since high school. You know that it's everything to them.

"Okay," Atsumu simply says. You look at him. "You gonna drive me home?"

"If you don't mind," you say softly.

"Yeah, then it's okay," he says, and scoots around, hissing when he forgets and puts pressure on the injured ankle. He leans back, and you catch his head in your lap.

"I'm gonna break my leg," Barnes says from somewhere behind you. "I want the doc to hold me like that."

You hear a thwack and then Iwaizumi's voice: "Sakusa, stop concussing your teammates. L/N only has so much room in her car."

Atsumu recovers more quickly than you expect. You should have known, though; he's always had a strong ability to heal. He rarely gets sick and though he's brash and reckless and sometimes outright stupid, he's lucky. In almost all the inadvisable endeavors you've seen him pull, he almost never gets hurt.

You're not actually a doctor, not that the team believes that. You've been trying to explain that you're a sports medicine physical therapist for the three years you've been working for MSBY and not once has it deterred anyone from calling you doc.

Atsumu was signed six months after you started, and you had only been friends until a year after that. In all that time, you've been the consummate professional at work, never letting your touches linger, never stretching him too deeply, trying not to stare at him like he's just any other player. When he first propositioned you, you tried not to say yes too quickly, as businesslike as possible.

You went into sports medicine because of your sister. She had been a superstar from the moment she stepped foot on a tennis court; even at a young age you saw that she wielded the racket like it was an extension of herself. As the two of you grew in age, you also saw the ways she overextended herself: the swollen knobs of her knees, hidden under frozen packs of peas, the frequent doctor's visits for hyperextension, the tear tracks when she tore her ACL.

You had spent so much of your childhood waiting for her during practice, doing your homework in the bleachers, fielding questions about her play to the uninitiated relatives who came to support her matches that it felt like the most natural course of action to go into a career field that meant you could help her and others like her chase their dreams.

You had also almost exclusively dated athletes as a result. While you were attending university and chasing your certifications, you had been surrounded by two types of people: students and athletes. You had barely any time in your schedule, much less the ability to align it with a similarly crammed med student. Athletes, on the other hand, didn't have an obsession with comparing your knowledge, liked that you were too busy to monitor them all day long, and loved that you had to attend every one of their games because it was literally your job.

By the time you got the position in Osaka, you were beyond over the routine of dating the people in your care. You swore to yourself that you wouldn't mess around with the team and entered a yearlong celibate streak, which Atsumu blew up into a million pieces and never allowed to recover.

To his (and your) credit, the both of you became close friends before ever crossing the boundary of inappropriate conduct. Just because you were strictly business during work hours didn't mean that you, lonely and shy in a new city, were going to turn down your coworkers' offer to go out after practice. You'd gotten to know Meian well and considered Bokuto to be something of a little brother. Then they had traded a couple of players for Atsumu, and the moment he gripped your hand and slapped your shoulder instead of shaking it or bowing like a normal person, you knew that he was going to mean much more to you than any other of your team.

You had fallen quickly into a deep friendship, and his apartment was much closer to the team's favored bars than yours was, so it was just easier for you to go home and crash on his couch. And his couch was gross, because it belonged to a bachelor who had never heard of a steam cleaner, so one night you insisted on sharing the bed, and you had become good friends who cuddled weekly.

It happened like this:

You were the last two left in the booth that had once contained the extremely compressed bodies of several of the largest men in Japan, probably, but they had practice early the next morning and had trickled out, one by one. Atsumu had his head down on the table while you desperately tried to convince him to come home (already you were referring to his apartment as your home without thinking, though only a spare toothbrush and a coat were kept there at the time).

"Please," you said, "I'm so tired. I'm not even drunk anymore."

"I am," Atsumu said, turning his face toward you. "Very."

"I know," you groaned. "Let's go home."

"I can't," he said despondently.

"Why not?"

"Not with you," his words slurred together. "I gotta problem."

"What?" You suddenly felt very, very sick. Maybe you were more drunk than you'd thought.

"Mhm. I gotta apologize, I think."

Oh, you thought. This is it. He knows.

"I've been having," he hiccuped and turned his face into his arms again so that you couldn't hear the next thing he mumbled.

"I can't hear you like that," you say softly. "Please, Atsumu, you can tell me anything."

You've been seeing someone, and she wants me to stop sleeping over. She wants you to stop being friends with me. You need the apartment to yourself to have her over.

"No," he says, turning back to you again, his eyes glossy with drink, his lips pink and just the slightest bit open. "I have been having manly thoughts about you. Unmanly thoughts. Whatever."

"What do you mean?" You'd asked, heart beating fast.

"I wanna have sex with you," he said, and then slammed his forehead against the table until it left a red mark. "I'm sorry, women! It's wrong to dream about kissing your girl friends, I know!"

You ignored his nonsensical shouting and put your hand under his face so he wouldn't injure it.

"Then let's go home so we can have sex," you said. He whipped his head up so fast you worried for his spinal discs.

"You promise?"

You actually didn't have sex that night because he fell asleep as soon as you coerced him into the bed. The next morning, he'd been hungover and ashamed, stuttering and afraid to look you in the eye. You had given him a handful of painkiller pills and waited until he was washing it down with a glass of green juice before you said "I think about having sex with you, too," so that he spewed it all over the floor.

Maybe it was petty, but you needed vengeance for his forcing you to drag him bodily out of that bar the previous night.

After your first time, he said, awkwardly, something about not being able to commit to a relationship at the moment, something about difficulty expressing his feelings, about being too immature to settle. A script you were as familiar with as the back of your hands. You turned to him, swiping sweaty strands of hair out of your face, glowing with a smile as he stuttered his way through it, and said I know the game. We don't have to talk about it.

He insisted that it wasn't a game, that you deserved transparency and to be treated well, and you rolled over on top of him and kissed him until he forgot his own name.

During the month-long recovery period, you had resumed the friendship you had had in the early months of knowing each other, refusing adamantly to do anything strenuous or even unsportsmanly while you had to work much more closely together than ever before. You insist on sleeping at your own apartment for the first week, afraid of aggravating his injuries further, until he threatens to walk to you with his pillow and sleepover bag. You bring him food near-daily and call his brother when your schedule prevents you from doing so.

He's diligent about doing the exercises and stretches you assign him to bring him back to full functionality. Towards the end of his detention (you pinch him for using such a dramatic word), you start taking walks together, in the evenings on work days and the mornings on days off.

You keep expecting him to ask for space, to push you out of his daily routine, to realize that he's bored because he knows everything about you; there's nothing left to hide. Nothing except the one unspoken thing, the one you're sure he knows but you can't acknowledge.

New growth is beginning to sprout on the trees, grey wood dotted with little specks of bright green. Atsumu walks without a limp, now, his posture straight but relaxed, his hands shoved into his pockets.

His body is healed, but his heart aches. You're wearing casual clothes, big soft pants that billow around your legs and a black shirt with his name in yellow letters, and you look far away, worried. No matter how many times he smooths the pinch between your brows away with his thumb, no matter how many times he asks what's wrong, you refuse him a straight answer.

He wonders if he's pulled you too close, in this month dying of boredom, forbidden from running and setting and anything that could damage his brain. He still gets to see you in the morning, your back arching as you stretch and yawn, the crinkle of your nose when your feet touch the cold floor outside of bed, which is probably slowly draining all the function from his grey matter.

You're wearing gloves, your extremities sensitive to the cold. He takes your left hand, tugs it off. When he tangles your fingers together, you look up at him, questioningly, that knot between your brows back again.

"What, woman, now I can't hold your hand?"

You stop walking. He curses his big, fat mouth. He always chooses the wrong thing to say, always has.

Osamu used to ask him what he was supposed to say to girls. Atsumu, proud big brother that he wanted to be, would puff out his chest and give him paragraphs of advice, and Osamu almost never used it. There were so few opportunities for him to advise Samu, though; he was so self-sufficient, maybe more than Atsumu had ever been. He was more introverted, less brash and crass and rude. Sometimes, when Atsumu ceded his insistence on being the wiser one with six more minutes of life experience, he wished he could be more like his twin.

"Do you love me like that, Atsumu?" You ask, mouth pressed into an unhappy line, already pulling away from him like you were expecting him to say something completely insane. "Because I understood fucking, and being friends with benefits, but I don't know if I get going out for food and holding hands and—"

"Like?" He says, refusing to let your hand slip from his. "I love you. That's it."

"Oh," you say, and your mouth is twisted up like you're searching for something he can't see again, but the crease in your forehead is gone.

"You gonna go out with me?" He says, and it comes out way easier than he ever thought it would, and if choosing the rest of his life is as simple a decision as chasing volleyball and you has been, growing up sounds way better than he thought. "'Cause I wanna do it all with you."

Once Atsumu's allowed to drink again, it's time for the real volleyball season to start, and his diet becomes much stricter and your schedule much longer, but eventually the two of you find yourselves back at the same old bar with the rest of the team.

"You're a scrub with no hope of survival in the zombie apocalypse," sneers Atsumu. This is a common topic of conversation among them; each one vying to be the leader of your hypothetical ragged survivors' team.

"I could win a fight against you with one hand tied behind my back," snits Tomas, who usually is oblivious to Atsumu's provocations but gets a lot feistier when he's drunk, to the setter's delight.

"Please don't," says Bokuto, his hair deflating in fear of his friends fighting.

"Haven't you had enough dick measuring," says Sakusa, holding a mug in front of his face like it'll prevent him from seeing Atsumu's and thus pretending he's not there.

"Have you guys ever done that?" You perk up, looking around. "Isn't that supposed to be a locker room ritual?"

"In high school, maybe," snorts Barnes. "We're way too old for that now."

"Yeah, we're real mature," insists Bokuto, his hair bouncing back up into its familiar two-pronged shape. You’ve long wondered how it does that, but if working with MSBY has taught you anything, it’s that science can’t explain everything.

You nod, taking another sip of your beer.

“So how big is it?” Atsumu addresses Sakusa and you squeeze your eyes shut. You just got him to start attending team bonding nights.

“Small. Leave me alone.” You choke on your drink, spluttering as you make eye contact with Sakusa and the tiny, prideful smirk on his face.

The rest of the team dissolves into laughter.

"What about you?" Hinata, his cheeks rosy, says to Atsumu. Before you can think, your drunken mouth speaks for you.

"You can’t have it, I called dibs!”

You slap a hand over your mouth, mortified. You can’t even begin to think about the rest of your coworker’s reactions. You haven’t even disclosed your relationship yet! Atsumu guffaws.

“I don’t think anyone’s trying to take it from ya, doll.”

#im panic posting this immediately before an appointment and RUNNING AWAY i will be back with tags and summary such later #note that there is suggestive content #haikyuu!! x reader #miya atsumu x reader #haikyuu x reader #atsumu x reader #hq!! x reader #hq x reader #atsumu miya x reader #haikyuu!! x reader fluff #haikyuu!! fluff #atsumu fluff #atsumu x reader fluff

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 days ago

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RIDDLE DREAM SPOILER‼️‼️‼️

Lmao, why is his dream just...

"Quit your job"

"Why?"

"Join my emo band!"

(No but honestly, its a bit cute that, Riddle, in all his seriousness and rules sticking, still seemed to choose a more alt way to dress in his dream, like he still wants to rebel in some way. It was a plot twist in a way since many may have thought that Riddle would have cranked up on his authoritarian ways all the way to eleven, and yet his dream is silly, like all the other house warden's dreams seemed to be more serious in a way and showed off one aspect that we knew off, Leona's low self esteem and Azul wanting to completly overwrite his past, but Riddle wasn't quite that, we knew of his want for rebelion, but his dream wasn't full anarchy, it was just... rebelling in the small ways)

(Sorry for any misspelling, english isn't my native lenguage)

[You can read my thoughts on the book 7 chapter 12 part 3 update here!]

I just saw that meme on Twitter with Riddle and Cater 😭

I was shocked by Riddle’s new look in the dream… It’s close to alt fashion in the west, but I believe it is supposed to be Japanese visual kei. All that black… I don’t know, I don’t think dark eye and lip makeup suits him?? But that’s just me, what do I know about style www

I’m surprised Riddle even knows what that kind of clothing is…? You’d think his mom would not allow him to be exposed to this kind of fashion. I was half expecting Cater to mention he had shared it with Riddle at NRC on a slow day and Riddle expressing a little curiosity about it but ultimately holding himself back from dressing adventurously. That never ended up happening…

I do think that an authoritarian dream has its representation in the second and third layers of Riddle’s mind. The darker implication is certainly there. However, I think it makes the most sense for his surface level dream to be about his childish desires and experiences he never had. As much as Riddle might claim to be mature and to know it all, some part of him desperately misses out on happy childhood memories. He shares this sentiment after recovering from his overblot (“And after a meal, I want to be the one sitting around talking with everyone... And I really wanted to play with you and Chenya more, Trey.”). In events like Endless Halloween Night, Riddle tells his peers that he isn’t familiar with traditional entertainment media like movies or video games; he did crosswords and read textbooks as a child. Various voice lines, like his Suitor Suit, where he wishes his parents’ marriage was happy, or his Beachwear, where he complains about how he is not used to this kind of scandalous clothing, also express this.

I wouldn’t describe Riddle’s dream as an expression of him wanting to rebel or to have anarchy, per se. Wanting more freedom and a longing for a chance to express one’s inner child isn’t necessarily equal to being rebellious. Many of the things he desires are very childish: not wanting to go to school or to study, eating desserts multiple times a week, drinking tea sweet, being able to play all day, always having emotionally available parents, not having to follow rules, having many friends and a happy family… These are not all tied to being rebellious, these are things most children want. It speaks to Riddle wanting to have those childhood experiences he missed out on and having more independence… Being allowed to be his own person rather than a puppet on strings his mother controls and makes all the decisions for.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #Riddle Rosehearts #Cater Diamond #notes from the writing raven #jp spoilers #book 7 chapter 12 part 3 spoilers #book 1 spoilers

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bambisnc · 18 hours ago

Text

[ 01:03 ] his breathing is heavy when he pulls away from the kiss barely enough to speak, tilting your chin to look you in the eye, “jus' lose yourself f’me, love.” ♡

### . STARRING ⌢ n.rk ⋆ suggestive. angst. + 0.5k // unedited + kissing + implied on-off situationship ˖ ✧

🗨️ .. ⌞ XOXO ⌝ niki brainrot. blind eyes red by minnie inspo! + [m.list]

ex childhood best friend nishimura riki who stumbles into your apartment one late night with no calls, no texts informing you of his arrival. as per usual.

you wouldn't have even heard the knocking on the door, to be honest, due to the sheer volume of the pouring rain outside. but you do, inevitably, end up letting him in despite a small logical part of you screaming at you to not do it. as if you could’ve turned him away anyway.

when you finally end up face to face with him,.. his tousled hair plastered to his forehead, expression unidentifiably alluring; looking like an absolute mess due to being completely drenched from head to toe – you almost forget why you even broke off contact in the first place. almost.

as he staggers towards you, riki’s movements are tired, sluggish even – the stresses of idol life quite visibly taking a toll on him. his arms wrap around your waist like it’s second nature, all but leaning his entire weight on you. you’re used to this routine, of course, but that doesn’t mean it ever gets easier.

water drips off his entire being and seeps into your own dry clothing, making it stick to your skin. it feels uncomfortable, heavy.

you want to push him away. really, you do.

but the absolute desperation with which he clutches onto your figure, not very much unlike a man drowning being thrown a board too, makes you fall weak to his embrace.

then, before you know it, he’s angling your face towards his own and kissing you, mumbles of "i missed you"'s being whispered against your lips. it’s laughable how easily you melt at the taste of him.

pretending like you haven’t been thinking about this for weeks on end now, would be to no avail, and the way you can feel riki smile knowingly.., god that infuriating smile of his., it just about drives you crazy.

you do have to give him credit for the impeccable timing. it’s like he can somehow sense the exact moment when you feel even the slightest hint of confidence that you’ll be fine without him. that you’re getting over him. he won’t ever let you stray away from him, no matter how hard it is on both of you. riki's too selfish for that.

but you knew that.

or should have, in any case. definitely would’ve saved your heart a lot of trouble.

his breathing is heavy when he pulls away from the kiss barely enough to speak, tilting your chin to look you in the eye, “just lose yourself f’me, love.”

so, you do. for the moment, at least.

… however, just as soon as he’d stumbled back into your life, he leaves. gone in a whirlwind of mumbles promises. ones you and him both know he’ll never keep no matter how much he might want to.

the silence he leaves behind feels deafening. it’s colder now. you can’t help but wonder if riki didn’t just take the warmth with him. he took pieces of you too.

𐙚 . regulars : none yet! ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

#ㅤㅤ[ 📋 ⋆ 𐙚 ]#div by priestboy #niki x reader #riki nishimura #riki x reader #nishimura riki #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #nishimura riki x reader #riki nishimura x reader #enhypen niki #kpop imagines #kpop #kpop x reader #enhypen angst #kpop scenarios

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lovethyauthors · 2 days ago

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AHH OK well now you’ve got me thinking, what if there is no one Reason, what if they’re just stressed and distracted from the day to day of their jobs and just don’t notice how she’s feeling? Or if they do notice they think she needs space to work it out herself? OR WORSE what if they are actually annoyed with how often she checks in on them? Not enough to not want to be with her but just needing some space?

She’d eventually drop the whole break the bond request, though not after some arguing / begging I’m sure, and pretend like it’s ok but would walk away from the conversation CONVINCED she needs to change to keep her team happy. So she sets out to be more like Johnny, minimizing her needs, trying to get by on the bare minimum.

OR she accepts that Price won’t break the bond now so she decides to distance herself to save herself the heartbreak, to make their bond weaker so next time she asks, they’ll be as ready to get rid of her as she thinks they already are.

Either way it’s not a fun time for anyone as the team starts to notice how she’s slipping away, how she’s not their sweet, comforting girl anymore.

Price is confused when days go by and she doesn’t pop into his office once, doesn’t come check on him, doesn’t remind him to take a break and eat if he hasn’t. When he gives in and just calls her to his office, he’s hurt by how she stands by the door, shuffling her feet like she can’t wait to leave, and avoids eye contact at any cost. He wants his warm and bubbly girl back who would walk into his office and plop herself down on his lap like it was her rightful place, who would steal kisses and snuggles while he was filling out paperwork and he doesn’t know what he needs to do to get her back.

Simon has never been chatty, content to always let her drone on about the little things while he listens and chimes in when needed. He doesn’t realize how much he misses her sweet voice and giggles, how much they make him feel normal instead of the monster everyone else assumes he is, until she stops seeking him out. Now, everything she says to him is monotone and soulless, and only ever related to work. She never sticks around for long after she’s said what she needed too, never rewards him with the beaming smile at the end of her words like she used to and he hates it!! He hates that she seems like she’s been turned into a shell of her former self!! He tried to remember what she used to like to talk about, tries to follow up on those conversations, asks her about the things she could’ve ranted about for hours, only to receive a shrug and short answer. Simon doesn’t remember being this anxious trying to have a conversation since he was a child, and after the third time being shut down, he decides he’s had enough and storms in to Price’s office because they need to fix this! It’s tearing their little family apart, even Soap and Gaz are feeling the effects, and he’s had enough!!

Soap and Gaz who’ve tried to be much more gentle only to have her recoil at their smallest touch, always slipping out of their fingers, always having an excuse for why she needed to leave. Soap and Gaz who are torn between watching her leave and following her, not knowing what the right thing to do is in this new world they’ve found themselves in. They look to Ghost and Price for guidance, for leadership, but they’re just as lost, only knowing that they’re loosing her piece by piece.

Mmmmmm I can’t decide if they confront her about her new behaviour and the clear effects it’s having on her (because surprise surprise sacrificing your needs to keep others happy isn’t healthy if her weak and tired state and constantly sad smell is anything to go off of). If they do, I can see her finally being angry, yelling at them that they need to make up their minds about what they want from her, and as much as it hurts them to think that she’s been acting this way because she thinks it’s what they want, they’re relieved that at least she’s talking to them again, at least she has her spark back.

Or maybe they’re too cautious, maybe they avoid saying anything for fear of making it worse, of upsetting her more so they just don’t. And then they’re sent on a mission, gone for two months as they try to save the world from certain doom, at least content in knowing their entire world is home, safe, even if she’s upset. Does distance make the heart grow fonder? Or is it a trial run for separation? Because as hard as it is, as much as each day away from them hurts her, it makes it even more clear what she has to do.

Finally they’re back home, all safe, all alive, minor injuries that don’t really mean much anymore, not in their field of work. And they’ll take her comforting presence over anything, no matter how distant, no matter how cold. What they can’t take however is her request for Price to break the bond again. Four elite soldiers, used to death and blood and war, reduced to tears because for the first time they feel hopeless. Simon secretly wonders if it would’ve been less painful to bleed out on the battlefield than come back home to this.

Hey friend. I've put off this ask a little while, because I'm sure you're tired of getting it by now, but... are there any updates on the neglected! reader (a/b/o)? I really liked that one, and though I have no issues with the second part not being done yet, a little progress update (if you want to add one) would be very cool! Thanks for writing :)

ugh i know i've been putting it off for a long time but i haven't abandoned it guys! just feeling very stuck with where the narrative is sitting rn 🥲 however, here's a little tease of the beginning of part two, keep in mind it may not be written exactly like this when i post it:

"what?" kyle mumbles, rising from john's lap to grapple with the sudden coldness that overcomes him. no one else says anything, but you can see how your words affect the rest of them: john stiffens in his seat, simon's dismissive glance has turned into a burning glare, and johnny's hand has slipped from where it was resting on his captain's shoulder, a look of confusion and panic twisting on his face.

your anxiety may have dissipated, but that doesn't make this any easier. the air feels too tense, too uncomfortable. you don't like how agitated everyone's scents became the moment you walked in, and it hurts even more knowing they didn't even try to hide it. you don't like seeing them all together here like this. you don't like that you're believing that spiteful little voice in the back of your mind jeering at you that they've been planning your departure, planning how to break the news to you that you're not worth the hassle anymore.

it only makes sense why they're all cooped up in john's office, whispering amongst themselves.

"darling, what are you talking about?" john's voice cuts through your thoughts, but you try not to find comfort in it. he stands from his seat, and you try not to reveal how much you've missed his scent despite how thick it is with stress. your omega has been quiet for a while, but now that you're gathered in one place like this, she's getting restless, simultaneously wanting to hiss at them and cling to anyone who will spare a scrap of affection.

"please, captain, just do it. i don't want to be a burden any longer." you'll beg if that's what it takes; you'll get on your knees and clasp your hands together if it means saving them from unnecessary stress and annoyance and you from further heartbreak.

the earnestness in your voice is so strong it bites at them because how could you even suggest something like that? how could they even consider their pack whole if you're not there?

but hearing his rank fall from your lips leaves a bitter taste in john's mouth and a knot forming in his stomach. it's unnatural to hear you call him that while sounding so defeated and miserable. it's scary to feel so out of control when he's supposed to be your captain, your head alpha.

to know he's let you down so much makes his alpha growl pathetically in shame; how can he even consider himself a leader?

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winterzsurprise · 19 hours ago

Text

Change My Mind [7]

Pairing: BTS x reader

SUMMARY: As a make-up artist, you were expected to glamorize your clients with brushes and products that cost a week-worth of food, not to befriend them outside of work, let alone have them save you from dates yet here you are five years later as one of their closest confidants.

Being a stylist of the world's biggest boyband is no easy feat, someone is doing flips, someone can't stay still and one's asleep but its fine, you can work around their chaos but then one day, you find out they're all your soulmates, a whole different can of chaos you don't think you can handle.

Tags: Soulmates AU, Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Not Beta Read, Slow Build, Polyamory, Attempts at Humor

Words: 8.6k

IM BACK

laptop problem is solved. Shit was shady though (i literally have to pay the guy money for his 'efforts' in lying to get my laptop fixed) but its worth the money so idc. Rushed to finish this so this shit ain't beta read nor proofed, that's for Vuinterro of tomorrow to stress about. Will still take long to post chapters, might take a month per chapter. It really depends since I'm using this fic to fix my horrid writer's block and brain fog but I plan to see this fic through so dwww

also, what do you all think about having purely the boys' pov at some point in the story? Been thinking about having the boys' perspectives once the courting starts but that's prolly just me

lastly, enjoy this chapter. I hope my tired mind was able to write my vision down clearly, I'll fix the mistakes and add more details later on. Pls comment or like, I'm in desperate need for validation lmao

<<Prev || Masterlist || Next>>

______

Jung Hoseok is not scared.

Sure he screams bloody mary at the sight of bugs a thousand times smaller than him, and yeah he’s easily startled but he’s not scared.

Especially not by a piece of paper, that would be ridiculous!

The reason he went to his noona’s house instead of heading straight to the dorms after the news broke out that his Seokjin hyung is tethered to you is because she needed his help on something, and being the dutiful brother he is, swooped in to save the day!

“At least wash the dishes for me if you’re going to hide in my house because you’re being a scaredy cat,” Jiwoo says from the kitchen archway, leaning on the wall with her arms crossed. “I still don’t get why you’re so scared of a piece of paper. The most it’ll do is give you a small cut.”

“Well, that ‘small cut’ still stings a lot!” He argued back, pulling the throw pillow closer to his chest. “And I’m not scared!”

It was irrational how he’s getting cold feet at the thought of the blood result. It’s not like he was hoping to see anything other than ‘negative’ there.

Jimin would argue that he’s being pessimistic for thinking so but it was the obvious answer if you looked at his family tree.

From his grandparents’ parents and down to him and his sister, there hasn’t been a single tethered from his bloodline like most of the world’s population. Unlike his Jin hyung who at least had one distant cousin who got a soulmate or his Yoongi hyung who at least had his grandparents as soulmates, his family was barren from such a blessing. His grandpa had joked once, saying their family was cursed for never birthing a single tethered. Ever.

Not even with the people they ended up had ever resulted in having a tethered no matter their family background..

For him to turn out to be a part of your nexus would be a miracle of the highest degree that would make the tales in the bible pale in comparison.

Daring to have himself tested is stupid, he already knew the result and submitting his DNA meant he was hoping.

But hope is nothing in the face of facts, he should be wishing instead; prayer sticks, shaman blessings and all that.

Hoseok knew he was being greedy, wishing to be a part of a nexus relationship as crowded as yours. Growing up with the rest, he knew how much of a handful Jungkook can be on his own, matched with Jimin who now possesses bottomless energy, he has no business trying to squeeze himself in places he can’t fit in.

Sometimes he thinks he’s being influenced by the fact that he’s being singled out in the group. Now that their oldest has joined the harem, being the odd one out oddly felt ostracizing, being subjected to Taehyung and Jungkook discussing courting gifts, and Yoongi talking to Namjoon about their soulmarks shouldn’t have made him feel bitter but it did.

“You saying that while pouting on my couch, miles away from your friends who now have your exam result, is not helping your case.”

“If you don’t have anything nice to say to your brother, you shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m saying a lot because I care about you. This,” She says, motioning to him to which he replied with an offended look. “Isn’t healthy. The more you’re hiding away, the more this will haunt you.”

“You’re just saying that because you’ll have hyung over soon.”

“That I am, so just get your shit together and go! I planned a night for us but I had to move it because of you.” She shot back but he knew it had no actual snark behind it. She had welcomed him with warm arms after all.

Hoseok had seen how his friends slowly fell in love with you while he continued to look at you and see a best friend. Seeing how everyone seems to have been captured by you, he got curious.

For a long time since debut, Hoseok had stopped perfecting his craft and pursuing his aspirations to pay attention to someone else. It was uncommon but he too once wished for a soulmate until practice, video shoots, and music production began to eat up most of his time and he forgot about his initial wish.

Seeing his brothers be taken by their best friend, his crush, he couldn't help but be curious how it came to be.

Was it because you were closer to their age and, for the lack of better terms, accessible to them that they had begun to seek the comfort of a lover in you?

“Do you think because she's also been busy with us that she began to seek comfort with us too?”

“Tae, just eat your breakfast.”

It was such a random thought from Tae one random morning, and Hoseok would’ve brushed it off like the other time he gets struck with an idea but this one stuck to him like an annoying ex. The idea loomed over him the whole journey to the company and back home. He grew hypersensitive to how he approached you since that morning and he began to notice the miniscule details he would’ve shrugged off any other day.

From how your touches would linger on their skin, how you’d comfortably lean in closer to them without batting a single eye at how unusual it may seem to others, he took note of them all. It was how he knew their leader’s feelings for you, even if the man himself hadn't noticed it yet.

Hoseok found his proof in Namjoon’s eyes that restlessly roamed the room until he’d find you in the bustle of the staff. It was also in the way he’d always reach out for you, may it be when you’d turn to leave and he’d catch a drama-esque scene where instead of calling out for your name, Namjoon would reach for your hand and speak to you with that soft look in his eyes and the genuineness in the dip of his dimples when he smiles.

Eyes never lie nor do the dimples on his cheeks whenever he grins, even when the beholder hasn’t realized it yet.

It was then did he realise how odd your relationship is with them and decided to take a step back to draw a line.

Friends, especially ones whose gender are opposite of each other, aren’t supposed to be as touchy and comfortable the way you and his brothers are. You didn’t say anything when you noticed and wordlessly respected his decision. He was firm on drawing the line, his sister had questioned his actions but he’s determined, nothing is going to stop him from going back on his decision.

At least until he got sick.

Without any of his brothers available to tend to him as they had to leave for Japan the very day he fainted—he had to pass out while talking to the migration officer, so embarrassing!—, he thought he'd power through it alone for a few days. But then you volunteered to stay back to take care of him and everyone just let it happen as if it's normal.

Which is not.

He'd understand taking care of him during the job but to take a leave of absence just to watch over him because his family is unavailable due to the rough weather at the time, in a house far too big for the two of you while the rest flies to another country. It wasn’t appropriate, not normal at all.

In the haze of his high fever, he had asked you how you were acting as if the situation was normal and in response, you had hit him lightly with the drenched towel you used to wipe his face.

“Don't be ridiculous. You're one of my best friends even if you’ve been acting up these past few days. I'm not about to leave while you're sick and alone in the dorms. If your family could come to Seoul, I would've left with the others so don't overthink. This is just me being a good friend.”

Cooking for him, wiping his face and making sure he's comfortable in bed—It felt far too domestic to be friendly.

Familial doesn't sound like the right word either. There’s nothing familial about the butterflies in his stomach when you had kissed his forehead good night that day as a joke when Jimin had called you or when you had woken him up the next day.

Oh how beautiful you were that morning.

He knew at that moment that the goddess of beauty had favorites when she made your skin glow softly under the radiance of the rising morning sun like a halo and had your messy bed hair look frustratingly good on you.

You were borrowing their clothes that day since you had already got your items shipped with the other staff, Taehyung’s white striped polo hung off on you like a dress and Jimin’s red basketball shorts gobbled up your form yet even with the fabrics dwarfing and hiding the curves of your body, he still thinks you’re the cutest sight he has ever had the pleasure of seeing.

You were especially cute in their clothes though.

In his feverish haze, all he could think about was how pleasant it’d be if you were to wake him up every morning like an angel welcoming him to heaven. What he’d give to the world to have you be the first thing he’d see in the morning.

Then you spoke and greeted him in that roughened sweet voice and Hoseok was gone.

Realization immediately had him freezing, tensing up as you let yourself fall across his blanket covered feet to groan about how sleepy you still are after putting down his medicine and breakfast on the bedside table. He hadn’t been able to reply, busy with tampering down the racing heartbeat echoing in his ears.

Looking back a year later, him falling in love with you wasn’t as odd as he thinks it is, uncommon but still cliche.

Jiwoo taking the space next to him made him jump, breaking off his line of thought.

“Seriously, just get it over with. The faster you see the result, the faster you can decide whether to move on or not.”

It was the most logical step to take but it felt…wrong somehow.

He couldn’t imagine a day where he’d look at you and never feel the tickles of butterflies filling his stomach or the warmth your fingers would leave behind after carding through his hair or tilting his chin up to have a better look on his makeup. It felt like an offense to the fates.

Although loving you has its downsides, with your obliviousness to their feelings whether intentional or unintentional often makes him want to pull his hair out, he’d never regret feeling the joy of admiring someone when he’s with you. Hoseok has never felt more motivated to produce music with lyrics far too romantic to come from someone who has never had a lover since pre-debut. Not that you’d see that of course.

He couldn’t remember how many times he found himself wanting to grab you by the shoulders to shake you whenever you teased him about his creations, and hoped it would be enough to let you know that all those cheesy lyrics he had uncharacteristically puked out was all because of you.

“Don’t you go souring your face like that, you know that I’m right.”

“And just because you sound right, doesn’t mean I’m gonna listen to you.”

Jiwoo rolled her eyes and turned to her kitchen, probably to take a pan and hit him upside the head with it or to save herself from seeing the pathetic image of her brother being a fool for love.

He knew not to hope, he repeated those words to himself but at the same time, he could sense the small, miniscule bead of it hidden within his heart, pushed down to the bottom of the barrel and awaiting its eventual death once he set his eyes on the negative results on his test.

In all of the times he got scared, Jung Hoseok has never been so terrified at the thought of being left out of your nexus. It would be the highest form of torture, a cruelest fate the heavens have dealt.

How would he function seeing all his brothers do all the things he had imagined himself doing? Due to how sensitive the bond is, he wouldn’t be able to get a feel of your touch for a year, maybe two if the gods deemed it funnier.

What is he going to do then? Die from envy?

He wouldn’t be able to survive, it would ruin him completely. That parasitic feeling would eat him up from the inside and eventually spill out of him, it would damage the relationship he and his brothers had established through hardships and time. Something he too treasured as he does you.

A chime rang out and his eyes immediately fell to his phone on the coffee table. From the familiar set of emojis on the name of the messenger, he reached over to answer to his Yoongi hyung.

[18:23] MinSyuga🐱: i know what you’re doing [18:23] Me: i don’t know what i’m even doing right now hyung [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: you may fool the others but im not like them [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: jiwoo had already asked me last week about this problem ur supposed to be fixing so dont even try to lie to me [18:23] Me: im just worried [18:23] Me: you know about my family history right? We never had a single tethered so idk what even possessed me to take that test with jin hyung when we already know the answer [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: i think you’ll be surprised [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: not that i’m spoiling or anything, im just saying that if jesus could turn water into rum, then you can be the first tethered in your family [18:23] Me: well im not a son of god am i? [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: don’t get sassy with me [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: im just saying, miracles can happen [18:23] Me: i think i already lucked out with our jobs hyung [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: i doubt that [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: come home tomorrow [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: the maknaes are planning a party for you [18:23] Me: LOLOLOL WHAT [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: they even bought two different cakes [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: wont spoil what they say [18:23] MinSyuga🐱: come home if you want know [18:23] Me: i will

Despite telling his hyung that he’ll return, he wasn’t sure if he’s going through that decision just yet.

“Did you at least bring a change of clothes with you?” Jiwoo chimes, reappearing from the kitchen archway.

“What if I don’t have any?”

“Then you’re sleeping in those.”

Despite her words, she eventually pulls out a pair of pajamas from her boyfriend’s temporary side of the closet for him to borrow. Sleeping that night was far from being an easy task when he could read and see from the images the maknaes are spamming the group chat, photos ranging from decent captures of moments to a blurry mess where the one holding the phone is running away from a figure that distinctly look like Jimin.

He tried to ignore the nagging feeling at the back of his head and the way his stomach seems to shrunk and eat itself up with every picture and video he sees. He truly does try to ignore the voice judging him for daring to squeeze himself in an already perfect dynamic.

Eventually though, the voices quieten and he falls asleep.

______

Jimin is falling in love with his soulmate.

It shouldn’t come as a shock to anyone but he's actually falling in love with his soulmate. Tingling butterflies in his stomach, skipping heartbeat, tickling warmth in the chest, the whole mile.

What started off as playful admiration where he’d tease you and lightly tug or pull your hair up while you were putting setting powder on his under eye, quickly developed into a giggly high school romance kind of love where he’d avoid your eyes just so his stomach would stop feeling weird and feel the heat of your touch linger from where you last held him.

Now that he’s thinking about it, the whole thing sounds silly because of course he’s going to fall in love with his soulmate.

The morning started as most mornings have begun for him since Jungkook’s birthday, with your face, bare and naked of any products, and the warmth of your body seeping through the fabric of his clothes. More often than not, he’d find himself coming to consciousness feeling your body weight pressing on his arms or your breath ghosting against his throat and he'd just freeze.

Every time it happens, electric shocks would run down his skin and he’d be taking a quick trip to the bathroom to calm his racing heart.

It was insane how often he had to lean over the ceramic sink so early in the morning, breathing heavily to try and ground himself before he reenters the room and sneaks back into his bed, but strictly keeping himself on his side of the pillow fort while careful to take your hand in his once again without waking you up.

But today, he found himself wishing for time to stop just so he could stare at your face at this very moment.

With the light sheen of the light filtered through the curtains bouncing on one side of your skin giving you an ethereal appearance, he found himself at a loss for words at the beauty presented before him. His eyes traced the lines of the long lashes kissing the apple of your cheeks, the slope of your nose, and down to the plush of your lips.

Jimin has lost count on how many times he has wondered about how it’d felt pressing against his.

In the peaceful silence of the early mornings, all he did was stare and wait for time to pass while wishing internally for the world to slow just so he could soak in the peace the morning brought.

Eventually though, he had to steer his attention elsewhere. Jimin rolls to the other end to reach for his phone on the bedside table.

He’s been scrolling on his phone for a couple of minutes, lurking in the fandom space—both international and local—when the door creaks open and Taehyung steps in with sleep-lidden eyes and body heavy with lethargy. Forgoing to close the door of their room, he trudged towards the bed like an overworked employee before promptly falling face first to the spot between you and him. He churned in the small space, making himself comfortable by throwing an arm around your blanket-covered form.

For a long while, the only sound in the room came from the occasional videos he plays.

It was weird. Having a soulmate who has multiple soulmates is weird.

He should be feeling disturbed seeing someone cuddle up to his soulmate but he wasn’t. Jimin, contrary to popular belief, is possessive, probably more than Jungkook was in his younger age. Although it wasn’t to the point of killing like people like to showcase in films these days, possessiveness for him is as tame as snaking arms around waists and narrowed eyes.

Maybe there’s a bit of pulling them aside for a quick reminder in the middle of an event but the point is, he’s possessive.

But he couldn’t find a single cell in his body who was bothered by the presence of someone else in the room.

This soulmate thing is weird.

When he laughed at a post, Taehyung dragged himself up to shoulder level just to see what he was laughing at before giggling himself. Suddenly, you push yourself up and turn to them with squinted eyes.

“Good morning, noona.”

“Tae? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, Seokjin hyung sent me up here to wake you both up—”

“It’s still too early!” she groaned, stretching her arms above her head. “I’m not built for working this early!”

“— he said if you don’t go down before seven, he’ll eat the can of smelly fish you bought for him in Sweden as a joke.”

You paused, the threat successfully shutting you up before you let out an exaggerated groan and dramatically burying yourself back into the pillow.

“Can’t a girl rest? I have a bad headache, and I don’t even know if the beating is Namjoon’s or mine.”

It’s easy to forget how there’s six different soulmarks affecting her all at the same time. From how she’d hear their leader’s heartbeat no matter how far, to the altered taste due to his Seokjin hyung’s mark, and to his Healing Touch. He couldn’t even fathom how much of a nightmare it is sensing everyone.

They eventually dragged themselves down to the dining room after a quick bathroom break. Jin had immediately greeted them with heaps upon heaps of pancakes with maple syrup drooling over the side and scrambled eggs on the table.

Yoongi and Namjoon were already nursing their cups of coffee on the table—with Joon hyung taking his rightful spot on one end of the table as the leader, Seokjin hyung taking the seat on the opposite side, and Yoongi next to their leader—Seokjin was occupied with his food when they arrived, one scrolling on his phone while the other crazily scribbled on his journal.

“You didn’t even try to at least cook me waffles, hyung. I’m hurt!” He exclaimed and the man rolled his eyes.

“In another life, if you were my soulmate, maybe I would’ve considered it.” Jin then flashed a smile at you before skipping back to the kitchen.

Jimin couldn’t help but notice how you shifted uncomfortably on your seat at the noticeably more generous portion on your plate and he switched his plate with yours, immediately shoving one into his mouth before his hyung returned. An action noticed by everyone in the room.

“Jimin,” Yoongi called out, voice gentle as a whisper. “Give me one.”

He followed, standing up to bring his plate closer to his hyung and passing it over, adding the eggs into the equation when Yoongi motioned him to add it. Seokjin returns when Jungkook has trudged out of his room and taking the empty space next to Taehyung.

Jungkook immediately noticed the generous amounts on his plate and immediately reached out for two pancakes with his fingers and plopping it down on his plate before taking three more from the middle dish and practically drowning his towers in maple syrup. As if it wasn’t enough, he reached for the softened butter.

When Jin returned, it was with another dishful of bacon and slices of apple. If he noticed the change of plates, he said nothing.

For a long while, they all occupied themselves with their food. A companionable silence

“What’s the agenda for today?” Jungkook was the first to break the silence.

“Yoongi hyung is coming with us to buy furniture for noona.” Jimin replied.

Taehyung then stops slicing his pancake and jutted out his lips towards Yoongi’s direction.

“Can I come with you?”

“I need your voice for the new song I’ve been working on.” Namjoon replied, looking up from his journal with a stern stare directed at the pouting boy. “You’ve been gone for so long, I have a couple for you to work on.”

“I can do that tomorrow, hyung. Let me go just for today? Hm?”

“I can go right? Since you need Tae’s voice instead of mine.” Jungkook sleepily chimed in, eyes still half closed and a hand raised halfway.

“You’ll do the carrying?” Yoongi challenges.

“I’ll even do the talking.”

Jungkook held his gaze with a small, playful grin, waking his face up which Yoongi matched after a couple seconds passed.

“Alright, you’re going with us, kid.”

“I have a touch-based soulmark, I need to come too!” Taehyung argued..

“It's not as drastic as Jimin’s. Even then, you’ve recharged enough.” Seokjin responds, pointing his fork at him.

But before Tae could reply, a shrill notification sound pierced through the air and Y/N pulled her phone out of the pockets of her sleep shorts. Eomma <3

Shit.

Seeing how fast the entertained lilt in her expression drops into dread, the table falls into a hush. As if sensing the approaching tsunami of words from her mother, Yoongi takes his mug and walks out of the room with Seokjin following close behind.

_____

“What did I hear about you getting a soulmate? You ungrateful child, I carried you for nine months and raised you with my blood, sweat, and tears yet this is how you treat me?!”

That was how your mother had begun the moment you had accepted her call. Her voice, despite being carried through such a small device, had blasted out, her uncontainable rage far too grand to be limited by the phone’s initial features. How a small woman could hold such an explosive anger and powerful voice is a wonder no one in the world has the answer for.

Hearing her voice through the speakers had Seokjin, Yoongi and Namjoon fleeing the scene, but not without karma immediately hitting their leader who had accidentally checked his shoulder on the wall on his way out.

Jungkook followed quickly, dunking his milk in one go and taking his plate with him as he jogged to follow his hyungs, Taehyung behind him.

Jimin had tried to leave but was stopped by both your entangled hands.

“So damn ungrateful you are! Didn't even tell me what was happening, a fucking lawyer knocked on my door and there I find out that my child is tethered. What was my daughter doing to forget to tell HER mother she had soulmates? Why did I have to hear it from someone I don't know?!”

“Did you really think you could leave me alone here?” I whisper-shout at him.

“Noona, let me go. I know we can go for five minutes now.”

“You’re really gonna risk our health for that?”

“At least don’t turn the camera at me, let me hide under the table.”

“Is that my new son-in-law Jimin?” Your mother had chimed, her tone taking a sudden turn. I turned the camera to him despite the insistent shake of head and wide eyes. “When you said you were also trying to find a husband for my daughter, I didn’t think you’d mean you and your brothers!”

“I know right?! Who knew I’d be one of the husbands I’ve been talking about, right auntie?”

“Already talking about marriage, huh? Y/N!” You turn the camera to you and find her smiling so wide you feel your cheeks ache for her. “Your soulmates got good heads on them, already thinking about marriage this early on!”

You shake your head.

While marriage had once been an issue you lost sleep on, you knew it was impossible to attain as idols. They still got stadiums to perform in, songs to compose and perform for the ARMY. Bangtan would continue on for years as long as they sing and dance or as long as their passion remains alive and roaring. They had worked hard to get where they are now, with the taste of glory and power that comes with their rise in fame, retirement is a far away dream when they’re just getting started.

Not to mention, your brain still struggles to accept your new reality despite the very apparent a red string connecting you and Yoongi over the table, and hearing Namjoon's heartbeat at the back of your mind. Hoseok hasn’t even checked his test result yet but your mother is already looking decades ahead.

“Ma please, you know that’s after they retire which is thirty years from now.”

“Jimin,” she calls out, lip jutted out in a pout and he leans over to get into the frame. “Are you guys going to make this old woman wait to see her daughter be a bride? I’m not gonna last long you know? My bones hurt every morning and my appetite is beginning to weaken.”

Jimin laughed nervously, eyes wide as he turned to you for help but you're not going to jump in when his face has calmed the raging beast.

“Don't think for one second that I'm done with you, you ungrateful brat! You haven't even told me why you broke it off with Guwon when he was about to propose!”

“D-does it really matter now?” You winced when Jimin narrowed his eyes at you. Suddenly remembering what was drowned out by the sudden revelation of your soulmate links.

“It doesn't, global popstars sound much better than a lawyer anyway but would it hurt you to tell me what happened exactly? Don't you think your mother deserved an explanation at least after I toiled away trying to find you a husband?!”

“Don't you worry about it anymore, auntie,” Jimin says, voice like a gentle caress trying to tame her fierce anger. “Noona now has seven to care for her now, we'll get to that bridge when it comes but for now, how about we treat you girls to a nice spa out in Jeju?”

“Oh? I wouldn't want to impose on your bonding period, but I'd like to take that offer later. How so nice of you, Jiminie.”

“It’s not the best of gifts but I assure you that there’s plenty to come. Expect a couple of fruit baskets from Yoongi hyung and other stuff too from the others.

“You seven better take care of my daughter, it would be a shame if you all mucked it all up and I have to resent you all.” Your mother sighed, feigning sadness. “Anyways, expect a visit from Soo-in soon dear daughter. She will deliver my heartfelt joy in my stead, your father still needs my help around the house, damn pride of his, he shouldn’t have mindlessly tried to fix the roof himself.”

A shiver wracks down your spine at the thought of your mother’s gift after ghosting her and Soo-in for almost a week now.

The last time your sister had visited, it was after Jungkook had ‘ran-into-the-sunset’ with you on his shoulder and him covered from head to toe in black. The vile wrench had switched your sugar and salt, hid the lids of your tupperwares, hid lego in your shoes before eventually ending her wickedness by hiding the wires of your charger and the wifi router’s adapter.

If your mother only threatened to hang you upside down, Soo-in made sure everything in life became irritatingly inconvenient.

“She won’t be pinching my ears?”

“She’s classier than that, I raised her first so expect more. I love you, dear daughter! Visit us soon with your seven soulmates!”

__________

[Today, 12:42] [12:42] The BADDEST💅: so let me get one thing straight and two things gay [12:42] The BADDEST💅: ur linked with bangtan? [12:42] The BADDEST💅: THE ENTIRE ROSTER????? [12:43] The Mother😌: congratulations Y/N, I’m so glad you finally found your soulmates😊 [12:43] The Mother😌: always knew you’d be tethered [12:43] The PRETTIEST🌸: so who’s the biggest?👀 [12:43] The BADDEST💅: girl I don’t even think you got the libido for two [12:43] The BADDEST💅: how tf are you gonna handle seven?!?!?! [12:43] The BADDEST💅: she was in the hospital u fiend @The Prettiest [12:43] The BADDEST💅: she needs to be worrying about a different type of d to receive [12:44] Queen Oblivious😮‍💨: SHUT IT MINHYUK [12:44] Queen Oblivious😮‍💨: hoseok isn’t confirmed yet so its just six for now [12:44] The Prettiest🌸: bet you wish he’s your soulmate too [12:44] The Prettiest🌸: cuz the way that man thrusts his hips in baepsae? [12:44] The Prettiest🌸: 🥵 [12:44] The Mother😌: have some faith in her, she’ll manage [12:44] The Mother😌: gift giving for your birthday just got a whole lot easier though😊 [12:44] Queen Oblivious😮‍💨: wdym by that @The Mother😟 [12:45] The BADDEST💅: NO BUT SRSLY [12:45] The BADDEST💅: HOW TF ARE YOU GONNA MANAGE SEVEN [12:45] The BADDEST💅: ONE DICK PER DAY??? SEVEN DAYS A WEEK??/ [12:45] The BADDEST💅: lowkey wish that for me BUT [12:45] The BADDEST💅: HOW?????? [12:46] Queen Oblivious😮‍💨: MINHYUK PLEASE [12:46] Queen Oblivious😮‍💨: JIMIN IS LITERALLY NEXT TO ME [12:46] Queen Oblivious😮‍💨: NABI CONTROL YOURSELF [12:46] The PRETTIEST🌸: don’t scold me when ik ur thinking about it too [12:46] The Mother😌: when’s the soulbinding? [12:46] Queen Oblivious😮‍💨: Jihae please, its only been a few days [12:46] The Mother😌: back in my days, people bound themselves and completed the bond on the first day… [12:47] The PRETTIEST🌸: minhyuk i think you're forgetting the best part out of this [12:47] The BADDEST💅: wut? [12:47] The PRETTIEST🌸: imagine Alexa’s reaction when she finds out our dearest Y/N is Seokjin’s real soulmate [12:47] The BADDEST💅: OH [12:48] The BADDEST💅: she better HOPE she’s not in bighit anymore the moment the NDA expires [12:48] The BADDEST💅: im going to be the most annoying fucker she’ll ever meet [Today, 13:02] [13:02] The BADDEST💅: no but srsly how? [13:02] The PRETTIEST🌸: R I P that pussy ayee

________

There’s nothing more infuriating than picking furniture with your soulmates, you decided.

Yoongi wanting everything to be practical and of the greatest quality matched with Jungkook’s penchant for only liking soft things, it was hell to be stuck in a furniture warehouse with the both of them. Jimin had never looked so godly when he insisted on letting you pick the brownish-red persian rug to be placed under the wide round canopy bed you had eventually settled with after a long debate with the rapper and the youngest.

What started as Jimin towing you around the shop to place you in front of every furniture before a mischievous grin spread across his lips, and the strength of the bed frames immediately turned sour when you both found your other two companions calmly arguing about the color of the curtains—they both eventually settled with thick white, and beige curtains, to Jungkook’s dismay.

He wanted black-out curtains for when he eventually ends up sleeping in your bed, he claimed.

The current dilemma, however, had you going silent as the prickles of irritation began to itch your skin.

Yoongi wanted to commission a carpenter he knew for a custom desk made for you and is insisting on you to skip shopping for tables and shelves, and take the cheapest one for now but Jungkook thinks it’ll take too long and wanted the boho vanity table set with a huge round mirror with stained glass around the edges. The rapper wanted the place you’d be doing work on, to be built with the practical features while keeping it organized but Jungkook, although he saw his hyung’s vision, refused.

“Imagine waking up with a canopy, great quality bed, amazing decor, then you have to stand up and work on a rackety blue plastic table because you have to wait months for that desk. How does that sound, hyung?”

Jimin not picking sides only added to the pounding headache you’re having.

While you understand both sides of the argument, either of those options didn't make you feel less guilty about having them skip work to spend all this money for your room, even if you knew how barely of a scratch their collective funds will take.

If Taehyung hadn't had the foresight to hide your wallet while you were in the shower with Jimin, the guilt would've been lighter.

You envy Jin who has been prickling your tastebuds with honey glazed fried chicken back in bighit, the lingering taste on your tongue making your stomach uncomfortably churn in hunger.

The disguises could only last for so long before people start noticing how familiar your soulmates’ eyes are, seeing as they’re plastered everywhere in the major cities. For the public to see your hands entangled in the pocket of Jimin’s coat would fuel the press for a year; hell, a century even with how the media moves these days.

As Jungkook’s voice picks up, you reach for the red string and Yoongi halts, looking down at the connecting line before gently grabbing it too.

‘Head hurts’

‘No more’

The rapper lets out an exhale and Jungkook stops.

‘Sorry’

‘Forgive?’

“Ok, so how about we take the set and I commission my guy then we’ll change it out once it's done?”

“Deal.”

Next to you, Jimin sighed in relief. “Thank god that’s settled, I thought I was going crazy listening to them debate on what’s better.”

“I don’t think either of them has ever fought for something they wanted that much.”

You turn to Jimin and a teasing smirk grows on his face.

“They love you like that, noona. Wanted nothing but the best of the best for you.”

In a different context, you would've easily brushed off his comment but having the warmth of his touch thrum from your hand to your toes, the healing touch always at work, your cheeks flushed dark and you lightly slapped his arm.

Ever dramatic, he clutched his bicep and winced.

“Why are you hurting me like this?”

“Please, we have regeneration as our soulmark. You're barely hurt.”

“I'm gonna bruise and the fans are gonna see it then I'm telling them how much you like hurting me!”

________

When Hoseok arrived it was with a chorus of loud bangs!. The man had leapt at least a foot or two from the shock as confetti rained on him.

Once he recovered though, he rained curses on the mischievous maknaes—and surprisingly, Yoongi and Namjoon too but they were spared due to one having his hyung privilege and Namjoon having retreated to the kitchen before his hyung had recovered from the shock.

Jin had clapped him in the back when he entered the dining room, fitting the huge and frilly birthday hat on his head and taking a picture of his dumbfounded reaction before the man could even realise what was happening.

Seeing them celebrate such a small thing, an odd feeling settles in your heart. You try not to be a killjoy but you couldn't ignore the mass settling on your gut.

Everything continued on as normal, everyone acted like they had before Jungkook's confession. They find out their links to you and suddenly, the past is behind them. As if you hadn't—although unintentionally—led them on and hadn't rejected three of them. A soul link appears and every fault was forgiven.

It wasn't only you who seemed to be feeling this way though.

Namjoon too it seems, seeing how he had kept his distance. Not in a bad way but rather a respectable, perfectly platonic way. You guessed it'll take long before the information would sink in for the non-believer, he was the one who had treated you more professionally than the others. You'd feel his concerned eyes ever so often but other than that, he'd treat you like a fragile glass.

Never to be touched and never to be perceived too long, fearing the weight of his gaze is enough to make you crumble.

(Or was it just you turning something that was normal before into fuel for your restless mind with the soulmarks now in the picture?)

You knew Namjoon is just having a hard time settling down with the fact that he's in a nexus connection with you but the ugly voice at the back of your head whispered a different tale. All of them are negative and judged far too harshly than you normally do yourself.

Jungkook bets his hyung will break after the third week, Tae says a month, and Jimin slyly says next week. You think it'll take Namjoon at least half a year before he properly processes him being tethered to someone, a non-believer.

The thumb that began to caress your knuckles snapped you out of your thoughts and you immediately found Jimin’s concerned eyes.

“You okay?”

You nod but he knew you better. Luckily, he lets it go.

“Open it, open it!” Jungkook chants, bringing everyone to gather around them.

Hoseok nervously laughed, placing down his car keys, phone, and wallet on the table before flipping the envelope’s flap.

Unconsciously, you leaned forward as he carefully tears the paper, the sound seeming to echo loudly in the silence of everyone’s nervous anticipation. As his brothers had gone from standing at a respectful distance to noisily looking over the main dancer’s shoulder, Jimin had tugged you closer to join them, standing in front and peering over as Hoseok flips open the first fold.

Then out of nowhere, Yoongi had a burst of energy and screamed.

Everyone jumped at his sudden burst of energy making Hoseok’s hand shoot up to his heart and the three maknaes snapped their head to their hyung. The man in question laughed noiselessly, satisfied with the reaction he garnered.

“Hyung, why did you do that?! I just got out of the hospital and you want to send me back again!”

“You’re practically invincible, what are you talking about?” Yoongi shot back.

“Just open it, all I’m seeing is your information hyung and that’s boring!” Taehyung cuts in. “I already know what your blood type is, your last name—”

“You go open it then—”

His words died on his tongue when Taehyung snatched the paper up from the envelope and pulled it open. But before he could start reading the result, Hoseok took it back.

Waiting as he read through his results felt like watching the presidential race on the tv, heartbeat rising every time the opposing candidate gained more than the man you elected. You worried your bottom lip with your teeth. His eyebrows furrowed, his frown deepening as his eyes wandered lower and you began to panic.

Why are you even nervous?

Aren't you being too greedy for wanting to have Hobi too?

Hoseok then crumbled into the floor, curling up to himself as he clutched the paper to his chest. Instantly, everyone panics as his heart shattering sobs echoed in the living room.

Suddenly, the colorful decorations hanging on the wall and the balloons scattered on the floor made

“Hoba? What’s wrong?”

“Hyung come on, don’t make me nervous like this!”

“What did it say?”

Jimin falls next to him, your hand momentarily forgotten to comfort his hyung and Jungkook follows, hugging the sobbing man while Seokjin reaches for the crumpled paper peeking out of Hoseok’s curled up form, a grim expression on his face.

“I am writing to inform you of the results of your recent soulmark evaluation and tethered status assessment. After a thorough examination and review of your diagnostic tests, it has been confirmed that you are,” Seokjin takes a deep breath then releases it shakily, a wide smile spreading across his lips. “Indeed tethered.”

You let go of the breath you had unconsciously held in as everyone in the room began to celebrate. Jimin pulled Hoseok to stand, laughing as the man continued to weep before reaching up to fix the birthday cap Seokjin had slipped onto his head. Jungkook, unable to stop himself from ridiculing his hyungs whenever he could, pulled out his phone to record them.

“How do you feel knowing you’re the first ever tethered in your family?”

Taehyung follows by placing his phone under Hoseok’s chin like a mic.

“You must be so happy being the first Jung to have a soulmate since the dawn of time, sir. Please tell us what you’re feeling right now.”

“Get that fucking… camera off my face or I’ll break it.”

Hearing this, Namjoon turns to the maknaes. “Stop teasing him, Seokjin hyung isn’t even done reading it.”

Despite this, Jungkook didn’t stop recording but Taehyung had skipped over to look over Seokjin’s shoulder.

“I think you’ll want to read this one yourself, Hoba.” The oldest says, handing the paper over to the sniffling man.

With his result back in his hand, Hoseok straightened himself, clearing his throat as Jimin gently wipes his tears off of his cheeks.

“This means you have a soulmate, a unique and profound connection that is both rare and significant. Furthermore, based on the characteristics of your soulmark and the energy patterns observed, there is a high probability that your soulmark is of the altering type.”

“They have the technology to figure out the soulmark type too?” Yoongi asks, surprised.

“Unfortunately, the global fated registry haven’t figured out a way to pinpoint what soulmark our patients have. It is with our deepest—”

“Didn’t know that, had mine cancelled when I figured it out before the results came.” Seokjin replied. Beside him, Taehyung pulls up his phone to rapidly type out whatever he had in his mind.

“I wonder what kind of altering mark it is. There’s a lot of documented ones but what if it’s also a new soulmark? A revived one from the 19th century like Jimin’s?”

“That’s unlikely.” Yoongi refutes.

“You don’t know that.”

With the initial elation ebbing away, everyone continued the celebration seated around the dining table where Jimin had parted from you to take out the congratulating cake from the fridge to light up and serve in front of their hyung who had almost toppled over with how hard he laughed seeing it.

Yoongi had insisted they also take out the apologizing cake so it wouldn’t go to waste. Upon hearing this, the group broke out in laughters, unbelieving until Jungkook brings out the ube flavored cake with the sentence “sorry your family nerfed your potential to be a lover boy.” placed on top in red icing.

The excitement never faded away through the night, dinner was lively, as if they had swept the four daesangs on both award shows. But instead of being influenced by the joy you feel down the red line from Yoongi and the practically vibrating maknaes sitting across you who keep cutting through conversations with suggestions on what soulmark their hyung might have, you find yourself standing behind a tall wall.

When everyone cheered and raised their mugs to toast, you only felt yourself mentally retreat further as a mass settled deep in the pit of your gut.

Seeing the men around you with wrists decorated in thick bands of gold that cost more than your yearly wage, faces flawless from careful maintenance, and names carrying the weight of their country’s pride, did you really deserve them?

You, who was a nobody staff they just happen to gravitate to due to the closeness of age, matched with the members of the world’s biggest boyband. They weren’t just out of your league. You’re the human on earth wishing to reach the stars from another, far away galaxy, yet by fate’s generosity, you were given the chance to see the beauty of them from up close.

How does one come from dating sleazy men with oily hair and faces akin to an infant’s drawing to being tethered to superstars everyone in the world would sacrifice a life for a chance to talk to them?

When everyone had begun to retire for the night, Jimin had silently guided you back to his room. The sensation of him pressing a kiss on your forehead cuts off your thoughts, his arms wrapping around you in a tight hug grounding you further.

“Are you with me now, noona?”

“Of course, I always am.” You answered with a scoff, pulling away and he frowned.

“I could sense your feelings the entire dinner, don’t try to lie to me.”

Even in the shades of his room bare of any bright lighting, you feel Jimin stare past your physical body and peer into your soul. In the harsh darkness with only you and him standing in it, you felt exposed, stripped to the barest bone under his gaze.

Never have you ever hated having a soulmate than you do now with someone perceiving your feelings openly, sensing the slightest shift in your mood with a brush of skin. It's annoying, scary yet at the same time relieving that there’s someone who could hear the tune of the noise in your brain.

Not many people have the same luck you have, seven soulmates with one of them granting you what technically is immortality, who else wins at life like that?

But do you really deserve it? Deserve them?

“Stop that. You deserve this, deserve all of us. If someone thinks otherwise, tell me their name and I’ll go beat them up.”

You laugh. “You can’t do that, that’ll stain your image.”

“I don’t think you understand just how important you are to me, noona.” He says, pulling you closer to him. “Before you think about it, I’ll beat someone up for you with or without the soulmarks.”

The image of someone with the face of an angel and a sweet demeanor like Jimin jumping someone in the parking lot to fight for your honor shouldn’t have made you cackle the way you did. The warm rumbles from your linked hands spread across your body and the thoughts were immediately silenced.

“I know you wouldn’t like it but I’ll be telling the other guys about this. I don’t like how you think you’re undeserving of all this when you do, in fact, deserve this bond after sticking with us through thick and thin. You saw all of our flaws and helped us in our bad days, you may think you haven’t done much to warrant this kind of luck but you do.”

Jimin pressed his lips on your forehead and your heart skipped a beat.

“Namjoon hyung might have a problem expressing it, Yoongi hyung might not show it openly like Jungkook and Taehyung does, but they share the same sentiment. It’ll take them time to be more expressive so I hope you find it in yourself to be patient. We’re still in the adjusting phase so if anything bothers you, don’t hesitate to tell us.”

Tears were streaming down your face at this point, eyes burning as they poured out like a waterfall. The softness in his voice has eased its way into your heart and dispelled the gloominess surrounding it, replacing it with a crashing wave of relief followed by the warmth provided by the soulmark.

You didn’t realise how much your thoughts had been wearing you down until tonight. Comforted by his words and the tightness of his hug, the dam finally breaks and you falter in his hold.

“Shh, cry it all out, noona.”

“I-I shouldn’t be crying over something so stupid like this.”

He shakes his head. “It's not stupid. Don’t say that.”

There’s a tug on your pinkie and you feel the string grow heavier. Immediately, Yoongi’s concern bleeds into you.

‘Why crying?’

‘What happened?’

“Let’s go lay down, noona. I’m feeling the ache in my muscles bending down like this.” He says lightheartedly, giggling. “Don’t worry about answering the others, I’ll handle it later.”

Guiding you to the bed, Jimin tugs you to fall into his arms and you let yourself be pulled into his chest.

Between the sound of Jimin and Namjoon’s heartbeats, and his fingers tracing slow circles on your back while the other hand massaged your scalp, it was easy to be lulled into sleep. In the echoing sound of your sniffles and hiccups, his sweet humming permeates through the air. His song was familiar yet your sleep addled mind took a second to realise what it was.

Serendipity, your mind eventually supplied.

For a moment, in the solace his arms offered, the world became quiet and you fell asleep, forgetting to worry about what chaos yesterday will bring.

_________

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