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honeyryewhiskey · 2 days ago

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mirrored souls

or, dean dreams of what he believes he can never have. warnings ! angst, hurt/some comfort, dean's feelings are hurt, unexpected pregnancy, tough conversations, two ppl with the same fears j's note ! hey so let's not even talk about the fact that this is neither of the two fics i posted snippets of lol idk what possessed me to write 5k fucking words for this i'm sorry i just want to baby trap dean winchester erm idk enjoy? it's sad but maybe pls dont take my word for it i'll continue this and let them be happy also i stopped proof reading half way through bc it is my bed time <3 5k words

He’s had this dream every night for weeks.

The sun is golden, thick with warmth, stretching over endless fields of green. It settles on his skin like an old friend, seeps into his bones, loosening the ever-present tension in his shoulders. The air is clean, carrying the scent of wildflowers and summer, and for the first time in his life, he feels safe. Like he could lie back in the grass, close his eyes, and let the world move on without him.

Then, he hears her.

A laugh—small and weightless, like wind chimes in a summer breeze—rings through the stillness. It stops him cold, strikes something deep in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

He turns, and she’s there.

She can’t be older than four, standing barefoot in the grass, staring up at him with wide, curious eyes—green as polished emeralds, too big for her little face. His eyes.

But everything else—her delicate nose, the slope of her cheekbones, the way her wild hair frames her face—that’s you.

She tilts her head, smiling in a way that makes something inside him shatter. Then she reaches for him, small fingers wrapping around his calloused hand like she’s always belonged there.

And just like that—like the break of a wave, like the snap of a thread—she’s gone.

Dean wakes with a sharp inhale, the remnants of warmth already fading, replaced by the cold press of reality. His chest aches, heavy with something deeper than longing. A quiet, creeping fear slithers in, curling around his ribs.

Because she has his eyes and your face—a combination that will never exist.

You left. And you haven’t come back in months.

It was always cat and mouse with you—years of fleeting moments, an unspoken desire for more that neither of you had the courage to face. You’d cross paths, use each other's bodies to release some tension, but never linger long enough to ignite anything real.

Until about eight months ago, when everything changed. You stayed longer than just a weekend. Dean had you in his arms for four months—four months that felt like a lifetime of stolen moments, of finally letting down walls you both had built so high. But when it all started to feel too real, when the weight of it all settled between you like an unspoken truth, you pulled away. You told him it was too much, that you needed space, that you couldn’t do it anymore. You needed to breathe, to step back before it swallowed you whole. And with that, you walked away, leaving him to sift through the pieces of something that was never meant to last.

His heavy hand slams down on the bleating alarm clock beside his bed. The sharp noise cuts off, leaving only the ragged sound of his breathing in the dark. He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his tired eyes, but it doesn’t do anything to clear the remnants of the dream—the sunlight, the laughter, the way she looked at him like he was her whole damn world.

Dean exhales sharply and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Another short night, another dream of something that doesn’t exist, of someone who will never be real. He tells himself it’s just a trick of the mind, a byproduct of too many years spent running on empty. But the truth—the one he won’t say out loud—is that the dreams never started until you left.

And maybe that’s what makes them feel more like a haunting than a fantasy.

He’s spent each day the past four months trying to shove it down, burying it under booze and hunts and half-hearted distractions. But it doesn’t matter how many times he tells himself he’s over it, that he saw it coming. Because he did. He knew you would run the second things got too real, the second you got too close, too comfortable, like maybe you wanted this life with him.

And then, just like his dream, you were gone.

You never said it outright, but he knew—deep down, you were always more like him than you wanted to admit. Built for the road, for the chase. Love wasn’t something you stayed for.

Except you never really left, not completely.

Every now and then, his phone would ring, and it’d be your voice on the other end—casual, distant, asking about a hunt, about a lead on something nasty you were tracking. Always avoiding the bigger conversation, never asking how he’s been, never giving him the chance to ask where you are.

And Dean let it happen. Let you keep him at arm’s length. Because at least this way, you were still something in his life.

But now, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, the dream still fresh in his mind, it pisses him off.

He stands, yanking on a t-shirt and running a hand through his hair before heading for the door. He just needs coffee—something to shake off the lingering ache sitting heavy in his chest.

But the second he steps into the hall, Sam is there, hovering with that anxious look that never means anything good.

“Hey,” Sam starts, lifting a hand like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “Before you go in there, just—don’t freak out, okay?”

Dean’s stomach tightens, his muscles tensing. The look he cuts Sam with makes the younger brother’s eyes widen, searching for words to mediate and settle the storm brewing at either side of him. “Sam, what the hell are you—”

Before Sam can answer, Dean hears it.

The sound of pacing. Quick, uneven steps against the kitchen floor. His body goes still, his breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t need to see you to know.

You’re here.

Dean’s pulse pounds in his ears. His stubborn rage choking out the glimmer of childish hope that sets his nerves on fire. He stares at Sam, waiting for some kind of explanation, but Sam just shifts on his feet, uneasy.

That’s when another sound cuts through the silence—your voice.

Muffled, pacing, like you’re muttering to yourself between shallow breaths.

Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he pushes past Sam. His mind is already racing, his thoughts a tangled mess of you, his dreams, his heartache and the damn voice in his head telling him to grip you tight enough so that you can’t leave him again. Whatever this is, whatever brought you back, he’s not in the mood for it. Not today. Not after all this time.

But when he steps into the kitchen, the world tilts on its axis.

You freeze mid-step, eyes wide, hands curled tightly around the edge of the counter as if you’re holding yourself together, bracing for something. For him, maybe. Your posture is rigid, your whole body taut with tension. You look… different. There’s an unreadable heaviness in the way you stand, the nervous bite of your lip as you chew it—like you’re preparing for a blow, for him to lash out, to reject you.

A heavy silence falls over the room, thick and suffocating. His heart hammers in his chest, but there’s no anger now, no easy target to aim it at. Just this painful, aching pull between what he wants and what he’s afraid to hope for.

“You…” He’s barely able to get the word out. His throat feels tight, words caught somewhere between anger and something much softer, something more dangerous. He’s not sure which one is scarier.

You glance at him, then quickly look away, the uncertainty in your eyes like a crack in a mirror he never thought he’d see. Dean feels something in his chest twist—familiar, painful, like it’s been waiting for you to come back and break him open all over again.

His mind is a whirlwind. He wants to be angry—hell, he’s had four months of anger built up over your disappearing act. But standing here, with you so close, he realizes just how torn he is inside.

He wants to scream at you, demand to know why you didn’t come back sooner, why you couldn’t have just stayed. But that’s not the real question, is it? Because deep down, a part of him knows it wasn’t just you who ran. It was him, too. He shut off long ago, convincing himself it was easier that way. He was easier that way.

But you? You always seemed to slip through his defenses.

Dean stares at you, struggling to find his voice, his hands suddenly feeling useless at his sides. The walls he’s built up for his entire life—years of anger, bitterness, and pain—are cracking, piece by piece, and he has no idea how to stop it.

Dean crosses his arms, trying to shove down the storm already brewing inside him. “Well,” his voice is rough with sleep and something dangerously close to hurt. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Your spine straightens, and just like that, the tension shifts. Whatever nerves had you pacing seconds ago are buried under the sharp edge of your own attitude. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly plan on it either.”

Dean scoffs, a bitter chuckle, the undertone to the eye roll he throws you. “Oh, great. That makes me feel real special.”

“I…” You hesitate, fingers digging into the edge of the counter before you let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Dean. I don’t know if this is the right thing, or if I’m just—” you stop yourself, biting your lip again. You were never as good as he was at hiding your pain. It’s evident now, in the vulnerability in your eyes that cuts through him, raw and unguarded, and it makes everything inside him spin faster.

Sam clears his throat. “Why don’t I give you guys some space?” He glances between the two of you, clearly ready to escape the tension.

Dean doesn’t look at him, just stares at you as you stand firm, the scowl on your face trying desperately to cover the sadness in your eyes. The fact that you’re asking for anything at all should piss him off. After months of the half-hearted check-ins that only ever came when you needed something, after the way you left—why should he give you the time of day?

But he can’t say no.

And that scares him more than anything.

Sam nods to himself when neither of you protest and slips out of the kitchen, leaving you and Dean in thick, suffocating silence.

“Why are you here?” His voice comes out quieter than he intended, but the question hangs in the air, laced with something deeper, something that sounds too much like hope. A falsehood he’s terrified to acknowledge.

You take a shaky breath, your shoulders slumping just slightly, as if the weight of being in the same room as him is too much to carry alone.

Dean takes a step toward you, his feet heavy on the floor, his chest aching. His instincts shout at him to pull away, to protect himself from the inevitable hurt, but something else—something buried deep inside him—begs him to go closer.

The words come out before he can stop them, quieter now, barely a whisper. “I don’t know if I can do this again, are we gonna keep pretending we have nothing to talk about?”

You wince, a flicker of pain crossing your face, and it rips through him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, but he can’t stop the words. He can’t stop the fear, the resentment, that’s built up over all this time.

"I don't know if I can just act like nothing ever happened between us. Like you didn't leave me. Like..." His voice breaks off, his throat thick with emotion he’s been swallowing for far too long. He’s not even sure who he’s trying to convince anymore, you or himself.

His hands are trembling now, and he clenches them into fists, fighting to keep the storm inside him contained. But every time he looks at you, sees the way you’re standing before him, so tired and lacking the fire that he always adored. That you’re here now when he never thought he’d see you again, it pulls him under a wave of emotion he can’t quite place.

“I don’t know how to do this, not after everything,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to be okay with it.”

Your eyes fill with regret, but there's something else too—a quiet understanding. You know what you’ve done. You know what this looks like, but still, you're standing here. And that small, painful spark of hope flickers in the pit of his stomach.

“Can we just sit and talk, please?” Your voice is soft, pleading. And this time, you don’t look away.

Dean stands there, his whole body tense, his mind screaming conflicting words in the crosshairs—walk away, stay. But something in your gaze, in your quiet desperation, tugs at him. For a moment, he’s paralyzed—conflicted in the most unfamiliar way.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he nods. “Fine. But we talk,” he jabs a finger at you, his brows set with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat, “really talk. No more running.”

You nod, your shoulders relaxing, just slightly, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, if maybe—just maybe—he’s still capable of believing in the possibility of this. Of you.

His eyes narrow, the weight of years of unresolved anger and hurt pressing down on him. But despite it all, despite everything you put him through, he can’t seem to dig his heels into this anger. Not when you’re standing here, so close, with those big, pleading eyes that always seemed to strip him bare.

The years of touch and go, the broken promises, the words left unsaid—they all float between you, a suffocating fog that neither of you knows how to break. But Dean’s tired. Tired of fighting this pull, this pull toward you he can’t seem to ignore, no matter how many times you leave.

With a frustrated sigh, he crosses the kitchen, the hard floor beneath his boots clacking louder than it should. He grabs two chairs from the worn wooden table, scraping them across the linoleum as he sets them down. Wordlessly, he nods toward the seat beside him.

“Sit,” he mutters, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You stand there for a moment, the air between you thick with things left unsaid. And then, quietly, you take the seat next to him.

Dean can feel the weight of the moment in every fiber of his being. He doesn’t want to look at you. Not yet. Not until he’s ready to hear whatever it is you came to say.

The silence stretches on, thick and uncomfortable, as you sit side by side, neither of you knowing how to begin.

Finally, you clear your throat, a small sound, but it’s enough to break through the tension. “Look, I know I don’t have the right to ask you for anything. But… can we just talk, like we used to? No games. No running away this time, okay?”

Dean stares at the table in front of him, his fingers tapping restlessly against the edge. Your words hit harder than he expected, and for a second, his chest tightens with something raw and unfamiliar.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore, you know?” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Every time you leave… it’s like you take a piece of me with you. And I’m just left here picking up the pieces, wondering if you’ll ever come back.”

You wince at the admission, and it hits him harder than he wants to admit. He doesn’t know why he said it—maybe because this is the first time in years that you’re actually sitting here, facing him. Maybe because it’s the first time in years that he feels like you might actually be willing to stay.

You reach out, placing a tentative hand on his, stilling the tapping. And for a brief moment, his breath catches.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Dean,” you say softly. “I never wanted to be another person who hurts you.”

to forget the months of silence, the aching space you left behind. He wants to pull you close, bury his face in your neck, and pretend none of it ever happened—that you never walked away, that he never let you.

But reality crashes down just as fast.

He can’t let himself go there, can’t let himself believe this is something he can have without it slipping through his fingers. So instead, he exhales sharply, shoving that fragile part of himself deep down where it belongs. His jaw tightens, and when he finally speaks, his voice is rough, edged with his angry armor.

“Then why did you leave?” he grits out, his voice quiet but commanding. He needs to know. Needs to understand why the person he thought he might finally let himself love disappeared without a trace.

You pull your hand back, lips pressed tight. “I—”

The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, like the weight of months spent apart. Dean’s still trying to wrap his head around what’s happening, why you’re here, why you’re sitting beside him, but something shifts in your expression.

You take a deep breath, eyes falling to your lap before lifting to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words soft but full of weight. “I’m sorry for always running off. For disappearing when things got too real. I know it’s not fair.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t know what to say, what to feel.

“I was scared,” you continue, voice breaking just a little. “I still am. I…” Your words falter, but then you press on, searching his eyes for understanding. “I was consumed with this fear of losing it all. That I’d attach myself to you and this life would rip you away.”

The quiet admission sits heavy in the air. Dean feels his heart thudding faster beneath his rib cage. A pang of regret washes over him, for never admitting he shared that fear. That he thought he would be the thing that rips you apart. And maybe if he had, you wouldn’t have felt alone in those thoughts.

You run a hand through your hair, a nervous gesture, and he watches the movement, the tension in your body. “I didn’t think I could do this. I didn’t think we could do this. I don’t see a world where something like that survives,” you shake your head, lost in the thoughts that shuffle through as you try to find your words, “Where… where we get a happy ending.”

Dean feels his chest tighten, his pulse speeding up as he takes in what you’re saying. The words hang between you, both of you holding your breath. And for a long, painful moment, the only sound in the room is the distant hum of the refrigerator, a constant reminder that time is still moving, even when it feels like everything’s frozen in place.

“I’m not saying that I don’t want it, Dean,” you add quickly, your voice cracking. “I just—I don’t know how to believe it’s possible. But I didn’t come here to ask for you to take me back.”

Dean stares at you, his pulse hammering against his ribs. There it is—that damn crack in your voice, the one that always cuts through him like a blade. He wants to be angry, to hold onto the bitterness that’s been festering since you left, but it slips through his fingers the second he sees the way you’re looking at him. Like you’re scared. Like you don’t expect him to want this.

Like you don’t expect him to want you.

His throat tightens, his fists clenching at his sides as he fights the urge to reach for you. “Then what do you want?” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “If you’re not here to ask me for anything, then why come back?”

You open your mouth, then close it, searching for words. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jacket, your shoulders curling inward, like you’re bracing for him to tear you apart. And damn it, that does something to him, because he’s never wanted to be the reason you look like that.

Dean drags a hand down his face, trying to ground himself. His mind is a battlefield, waging war between the fear clawing at his insides and the need to fix this—fix you. But how the hell is he supposed to do that when he’s still not sure how to fix himself?

“You don’t know how to believe it’s possible?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, join the damn club.” His chest feels too tight, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “You think I had some fairytale idea of us, sweetheart? That I thought this would be easy?” He lets out a breath that’s more of a laugh, humorless and hollow. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’d be any good at this. But you didn’t give me the chance to figure it out, did you?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, a tear slipping down your cheek before you can stop it. And God, he hates that. He hates seeing you cry. Hates even more that he’s the reason for it.

“I was scared,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like shattered glass. “I am scared.”

Dean swallows hard, his anger flickering, giving way to something deeper, something more painful. He’s scared too. He’s scared as hell. Of not being enough. Of screwing this up. Of losing you all over again.

But when he looks at you—when he sees the way you’re trembling, barely holding yourself together—it hits him. He’s not the only one drowning in this.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair before finally, finally stepping forward. His hands hover for a second before settling on your arms, grounding you. Grounding himself.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, softer now, “I guess we can be scared together.”

You drag the backs of your hands across your cheeks, trying to contain the tears that just won’t stop flowing. “No, Dean, you don’t get it—” you cut yourself off with a groan. Your breathing is coming out uneven as anxiety pulls at your every nerve, and suddenly you can’t sit still. You can’t do this.

You’re up on your feet again, pacing slightly as you try to steady your breathing.

Dean watches you, his stomach twisting as you distance yourself. There’s a wild, frantic energy in the way you move, your arms wrapping around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together. Your breath is uneven, shaky, and those damn tears keep slipping past your lashes no matter how hard you try to blink them away.

His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach for you again, to do something—anything—to stop that panicked look from overtaking your face. It melts his resolve, steadies his rising temper.

His voice comes quieter this time, hesitant. “Hey—what’s going on?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, shaking your head as if you can will away whatever storm is raging inside you.

Dean’s chest tightens. His mind is running through every possibility, each one worse than the last. “Sweetheart,” he tries again, the pet name easing off his tongue as if no time had passed since he last called you that, “talk to me.”

"I... I didn't catch it in time, I'm sorry." You start, your voice barely more than a whisper, the words thick with something he can't quite name. Your eyes squeeze shut as if the simple act of speaking is too much.

Dean’s chest tightens, a knot of confusion twisting in his stomach. “What the hell are you talking about?” His tone is gentle now, trying to coax it out of you, but the moment you raise your eyes, he sees it—the fear, raw and trembling beneath the surface.

He’s on his feet again, closing in on you like you’re a scared animal that’ll take flight from any sudden movement.

“I just thought it was stress making me miss my period again, but…” You choke, your voice cracking as if admitting it out loud is tearing something inside you apart.

Dean’s breath hitches, and his heart races, but he doesn’t dare interrupt you, his own confusion giving way to a growing sense of dread. He takes another step toward you, but you flinch, eyes shimmering with tears that slip through your heavy breathing.

You finally break, the tears turning into sobs that shake your shoulders. You shake your head, wiping at your face again, as if trying to push it all away. But it’s too late now.

“I’m scared, D.” You gasp the words out, the weight of them crushing you. “I’m so scared.”

Dean’s chest tightens, a cold sensation creeping down his spine, even as his heart lurches in his chest. He can feel the tremor in your voice, the rawness in every syllable, but he can’t make sense of it. The world seems to slow, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place—but not quickly enough for his mind to catch up.

“What… What are you saying?” He asks, his voice quiet, strained with confusion and something that feels dangerously close to panic.

You glance up at him, eyes wide and glassy with tears. You open your mouth, but the words seem stuck, lodged in your throat. The silence between you is deafening.

Finally, you take a deep breath, almost like you’re gathering the strength to face something unbearable. “I’m pregnant, Dean.” The words fall from your lips in a broken whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

Dean freezes. His entire body goes still, as though he’s forgotten how to breathe. The weight of your words hits him like a freight train, and for a moment, everything goes silent except for the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

Pregnant.

His mouth goes dry, his thoughts scrambling, trying to make sense of it all. The pieces click into place—the missed periods, the way you looked at him when you walked in, the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes.

His dreams.

He takes a half-step back, his mind too far behind, too rattled by the weight of what you just said.

And then, slowly, it hits him—this isn’t just a shock; it’s a bombshell. One that could tear everything apart, and yet, at the same time, it pulls something from him that he hasn’t felt in a long time. The edges of his world begin to blur. He’s scared. He’s terrified.

“Are you… are you sure?” His voice comes out rough, almost panicked, like he’s waiting for you to tell him this is some sick joke, but he knows it’s not.

You nod, sniffling. "I took a test, I went to the doctor and they told me I was already four months along." you whisper, choking back a sob. "I didn’t know what to do."

Dean steps closer, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady you. But you flinch again, the space between you thick with everything you’ve never said to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you. I could have just called, I should have—” Your voice cracks, and you finally meet his gaze, eyes full of everything—regret, fear, and a raw, aching vulnerability that threatens to break him.

Dean's heart races, the panic starting to crawl up his throat. He wants to scream, to tell you that he’s terrified—that he doesn’t know how to be a father, that he’s too broken, too fucked up to raise a kid. The thought of something happening to you, to your child, terrifies him in ways he can’t even put into words. But you’re standing there, so small, so vulnerable, looking at him like he’s the only one who can fix this. And damn it, he has to be strong.

He closes the distance between and pulls you into his arms before either of you can second guess it. His hands are warm and steady on your back, but inside, his mind is a storm. His pulse is erratic, his breath shallow, but he holds you close, trying to give you the comfort he doesn’t know how to find for himself.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice like a lighthouse to steer your sinking ship. “Everything’s gonna be okay. You’re not alone in this.”

You shake your head against his chest, a shaky breath escaping. “I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know what to do.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression soft but full of intensity. His thumbs pushes away your tears, warm and rough against your skin. “You don’t have to know right now,” he assures you, trying to convince himself as much as you. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time. I’m here, okay? We’ll get through this.”

Inside, though, his mind is spinning out of control. He doesn’t know how to be the man you need. He doesn’t know if he can even be the father this child deserves. But in this moment, he’s all you have. And somehow, he knows that no matter how badly he’s freaking out, no matter how scared he is, he’ll find a way to make this work—for you, for the little life growing inside of you.

He gently strokes your hair, pressing his cheek to the top of your head, grounding himself in the act. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers again, his voice thick with the promise of something more than just words.

But inside, the panic churns, a rising tide he can’t escape. He holds you tighter, pretending for your sake that everything will be fine, even as the weight of the world presses down on him.

edit to add tags why do i always forget tags @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @ultravi0lence14

#dean winchester #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester angst

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solangeloficawards · 3 days ago

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solangelo fic awards 2025!

happy february! as everyone always wants to know, we totaled roughly 130+ fics this year! as the last few years, nominations are split up by post, but you can use the masterdoc for convienence! voting will close february 13th <3

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BEST SERIES NOMINATIONS:

a sweet tooth for you by @thebhorror

bar trivia AU by @thebhorror & valhallasoundbox @kotenokk

Clichecore au by Gates_of_Ember @gatesofember

dear reader by @wrongcaitlyn

Percy Jackson and the Olympians Actors AU by @damiphantom

The Di Angelo-Solace Paranormal Case Files: Declassified by Anzojin @theshakykid

and our AUTHOR OF THE YEAR areeee:

HandleWithCare @wordsofasarcast (ao3)

langatism @losergender (ao3)

negativefouriq @mediumgayitalian (ao3)

@pey119 (ao3)

snoelled @snoelledarts (ao3)

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voting guidelines:

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#solangelo #solangelo fic #fic awards 2025 #voting #best series #author of the year

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h0efor2ho · 3 days ago

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Playtime Pt. 3

Yunho X Reader X Mingi

WC : 1.6K

TW : Porn with little plot, three some (MFM) double pen ( kinda ) use of nick name ( pretty, baby ) fingering, D sucking, nipple play, oral

Part one here : Part two here

Your head snaps to the side, looking at the side of Yunho's face while he looks over at his best friend. He has his head resting on your shoulder, an easy lazy smile on his lips. "Hmm" he hums "What do you say love?" His head slowly turning and meeting your eyes. "I think it's only fair he cleans up the mess he made. We both know him watching you got you off even more then normal" Your breath hitches as Yunho gives your thighs, that he still has spread wide, a gentle squeeze. You turn your head back, eyes colliding with a pair of big brown ones looking at you so intently. You can see the fires of desire flaming in them as he holds your gaze.

"What do you say pretty girl?" Mingi's deep voice sends a shiver through you. He's standing at the end of the bed by your feet, hunched over a hand on each side of your ankles. Your eyes trail down from his to his full mouth. His tongue sliding over his lip as he wets it, drinking you in. Your gaze continues down, over his long neck. You watch as his adams apple shifts with each deep breath. Down to the exposed collar bones and the top of his chest exposed from the bottoms of his dress shirt being open. Your gaze keeps gong only to stop short.

Hingis long cock now hangs between his legs due to his hunched over position. Even after he's spent he's still long and thick. Your mouth waters at the sight, the heat reigniting low in your stomach as you rip your eyes away back to his. He gives you a playful smirk as your eyes resettle on his face. "Well" he coos out "Are you gonna give me a taste of you pretty girl?" You dont even have to think before your head is shaking up and down and you breath out a small 'yes' You hear Yunho blow out a small breath before he lets out a small chuckle. Mingi gives you a Cheshire cat smile. "Good girl"

He stands, each hand wrapping around your ankle before giving them a quick tug. You pull away and slide down Yunhos chest as your ass is settled at the end of the bed, right in front of Mingi. Your legs caging him in as he stands in the middle. Your head rests on the mattress as you look up at your ceiling for a moment before Yunho comes into your view, upside down. "At any point you want out, you say your word. Ok?" His face filled with understanding. This is why you loved him. "Yes, I understand" you breathe out. He gives you one of his signature smiles before punching forward and giving you an upside down, spider man style kiss.

As he's doing so you're vaguely aware of Mingis hands that are now hooked under your thighs, having dropped to his knees his face is right in line with your wet center. Yunho pulls back, looking at you right as Mingi swipes his tongue from your entrance to your clit. You suck in a breath before releasing it as a moan when his tongue passes over your clit. "Fuckkkk" Mingi groans. "You weren't kidding, she tastes amazing" He dives back in with another pressured swipe. "I told you" Yunho chuckles, his hand stroking your cheek. "Just wait till she's cumming on your tongue dude" He smiles as you moan again.

MIngi takes that as a challenge because the next thing you know he has his mouth smashed to your cunt. His thick lips wrapping around your clit and suck as his tongue continues to flick over your bundle of nerves. "Fuckkk" you moan out. Your hands immediately flying down to slide through his hair. "Oh she likes that" Yunho says as he shifts his self to be next to you. You look up at him as another moan is ripped from your throat. You watch as he kneels on the bed next to you, his hands going to the button on his slacks. Slowly he undoes it and pulls his zipper down, tugging the waist of this slacks down just the same way Mingi did.

Yunho reaches in and pulls out his cock, fist wrapping around the base before he gives it a tug. You can see the slick shine on the tip as he lowers himself and inches forward. "open up baby" he says and you do so immediately. He slips himself into your mouth. His head falling back and letting out a sigh as you wrap your lips around him, tongue swiping along his shaft as he pushes in. "God" he groans out as he pulls his hips back before shifting them forward again into your mouth. His hands sliding over your chest, his nimble fingers pinching and tugging on your hard nipples.

Mingis hand unwraps from around your leg, placing it on your thigh and pushing it open wider as his tongue laps at your wet entrance. His hand trailing up your thighs till you feel his long finger sliding into your entrance and his tongue moves back to your clit. Your back arches off the bed at the feeling, as you moan around Yunhos cock that's now hitting the back of your throat with each thrust of his hips. The heat pools in your lower stomach as that invisible band becomes tight. Mingi picks up the pace of his fingers before slightly curving the tips upward. You can barely take it anymore. You given up trying to focus on Yunhos cock as he uses your mouth.

You can feel yourself approaching the edge. Your hips lifting to meet Mingis fingers as you use your hands to tug his hair and keep him buried in your cunt. Yunho pulls out of your mouth, saliva stretches connecting the tip of his cock to your lips as loud moans fill the room. "Oh you really like him eating that pussy huh baby" he says, still pinching your nipple between his fingers. "Yessss" you moan out. Your hips becoming more frantic chasing the feeling of Mingis fingers tips on your sensitive spot inside you. "mmm good, let him hear you baby. Come undone for him, cum all over Mingis fingers."

You cant hold out anymore. The band snaps and you're releasing. Right as your walls being to tighten on his fingers, Mingi pulls them out leaving you empty but quickly replaces it with his tongue. He laps at you while you shudder through your orgasm all over his mouth. He slowly slows his licks as you let go of his hair. He gives you one last slow agonizing lick from entrance to clit again that sends a jolt through you before lifting his head. You glance down when you feel him pull away, your hooded eyes taking in the sheen on his chin, covered in your release. His tongue darting out to lap at his lips again.

"I think you're the best thing Iv ever tasted" his voice has dropped an octave as his eyes roam over your very naked body. You dont respond, you cant. Your cunt may be wet but your throat is bone dry from all the moaning you just did. Like on cue Yunho is lifting your head and pressing a bottle of water to your lips. You look up giving him a smile as you swallow. You notice movement from the corner of your eyes and look to see Mingi stand. Eye immediately going to his cock that is now very hard again. He's so big and thick that on his own it doesn't quite stand straight up, weighed down a bit.

Your mouth waters at the thought of what he must feel like. The look on your face doesn't go un noticed. "You like what you see baby?" you hear Yunho say from next to you. His cock to still out and hard. "Yes" you whisper not taking your eyes off Mingi who is sucking his wet fingers clean. "You want to feel what he can do with that thing?" Yunho poses the question in a low sultry voice. "What?" its not you who asks but in fact Mingi before you could form words. "Why not" Yunho says, "We have been friends since high school and I realized that we have done everything together. So why not Y/N? I know you find her attractive and her you or we wouldn't even be here, and me and her have had conversations about maybe trying to add someone so why not you, the one of the only other people besides her who I trust with my life?"

His hand is gripping his cock, giving it slow lazy strokes while he talks about his best friend fucking his girl friend like it's the most normal thing in the world. You'd be lying if you hadn't thought about it just once. You've spent so much time with Yunho and Mingi it was hard to not notice how good looking Mingi was, how tall and lean his body was. "Would you like that baby?" Yunho asks, looking down at you "Do you want me and Mingi to fuck you?" Again with out hesitation the words spill from your mouth "Yes, please" You hear Mingi blow out a breath of hot air as his hands thread though his hair.

He looks back and forth between the two of you for a moment before looking down at his hard cock then back at your wet cunt in front of him. A smile spreads on his face as he looks over at Yunho. He bends, hands coming to your knees before he's pushing them up and open, opening you up and placing you on display. "Man I owe you two a hell of a Christmas gift this year." He lets out a dark chuckle.

"You ready pretty girl?"

.. To be continued ..

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t-chlmt-blog · 2 days ago

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ADHD!reader x Spencer Reid

when reader gets overstimulated at the office spencer finds her in an odd spot and helps calm her down.

word cound: 0.7k

warnings: neurodivergent reader and spencer, mentions of breakdowns, i dont think there anything else but lmk!

also pls be kind this is my first fic! and if i continue to write for adhd!reader most of what i write ab is stuff that i personally deal with while having adhd, it can be different for everyone so pls take everything with a grain of salt!

The hum of the AC in the bullpen is boring into your skull. Along with the chatter of other agents, all the sensations are getting to be too much. The stack of paperwork on your desk hasn’t gotten any smaller in the past hour and your legs started aching from sitting too long. It’s all too much. Morgan and Prentiss are chatting no more than 10 feet away and you can’t concentrate , not with everything going on.

Standing up and pushing away from the desk, you quickly slip by the duo whose conversation you couldn’t follow mumbling a quick “excuse me” with your head down.

Ducking behind the door to the stairwell, you sit down on the first few steps trying to calm yourself down. Nobody really ever comes this way unless the elevators were out of service. The stairwell is quiet but each small movement creates an echo that provokes that suffocating feeling of overstimulation. Normally in a situation like this, you’d let Spencer know and he’d sit with you, toning down his rambling as he lists grounding techniques for you to try, however, today was a bad one gone worse and the thought of anyone talking is almost enough to send you into a full blow meltdown. You feel hot and stuffy and realize the water bottle, full of ice cold water from this morning was still at your desk. Great.

You’re focused on the cool tile beneath you, laying your palms down trying to cool down, when you hear footsteps coming up the stairs. You hadn’t payed much attention to the fact Spencer had been missing from the bullpen and didn’t even realize he had been a floor down this whole time. Sometimes when he needs a bit longer to think he takes the stairs to his destination.

“What are you doing out here?” He asked with that slight smile and gentle voice. He knows all too well the struggles of neurodiversity and finds that he two of you can relate to each other more so than the rest of the team.

Your head whips up and to the right, where Spencer has suddenly appeared, why didn’t you hear his footsteps before? “Just needed a second, it got kinda stuffy out there”, a simple explanation he understood to be more than you’re making it out to be. Years of masking and trying to fit in, you could handle a lot before you would totally break down, having learned where your threshold for this sort of thing was so as to not make a fool of yourself in front of other people.

“Are you ok, do you feel well?” Spencer asks, putting down his files next to you, attempting to look for any tell tale signs of illness or injury. When he finds nothing too concerning, just your flushed skin, starting to bead with sweat, he sits next to you. He’s been looking out for you a lot more recently, both in and out of the office and field.

“I just didn’t get enough sleep and the bullpen’s too loud and those lights were starting to bug me.” As soon as you told Spencer the reason for your hiding, he understood. He’s no stranger to feeling overstimulated like this and knows you aren’t either. Conversations on the jet and in the break room detailed the feelings you both shared being neurodivergent. Although Spencers brain worked almost completely opposite of yours, you both understood each other fairly well.

“Here,” he says gently taking your hand in his, feeling the heat, placing them in a new spot on he tile. Since he’d come up the stairs, you hadn’t moved an inch, it felt refreshing against your hot palms once again. “Would leaning against the wall help at all?” You hadn’t tried it but inched backwards and turned so the your back connected with the wall.

Your eyes close in relief. You hadn’t realized it but from ay one, Spencer has started to pick up on all the details and quirks that make you , you. Of course his eidetic memory helps, but somethings he just gets.

Starting to cool down, in the comfortable silence you open your eyes and look to Spencer and his brown eyes and smile. Joining such a tight knit team was intimidating but Spencer always made you feel wanted.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x bau!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer x reader #bau team #bau!reader #spencer x you #criminal minds cast

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cuntyji · 1 day ago

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taking a break from my own shitty writing to read some GOOD GOOD literature...the goodest of them alll....the baddest, the realest....the okay let's just get started.

gojo is the type of guy to buy a "slay and yaas and twink" shirt with you, i don't make the rules.

geto suguru.....geto suguru.....!!! i have been infected by a virus (getoism) because of daphavocadokuna and let me tell you geto's part of the fic is the one that gagged me the most. he is such a romantic...i need 10 of him and another 500 for all my gays and girls. also geto is THEEEE gossip queen i love it when people write him as such, and having it confirmed by leader of geto-ville herself...gege write that down

guys i'm genuinely rolling down the wall [edit: isn't it sliding??? girl bye they see me rolling LNJNHDHUHDUUADH] when i read the sukuna one because i was like "oh flower ! 😄 what is this link? 🙀 OH DEAR GOD THAT'S- *gunshots*" don't even play with me rn daph i think i shed a tear I. LOVE. YOU!!! he is so like....himbo coded. but like a himbo who drank too much monster. do you get the vibes...man i need to write more of soft idiot in love sukuna!! *stares at my current wip manifesting it blossoms into a soft fic*

toji.....toji fushiguro....guys did u all know i went for @nkoprra's wedding with toji it was saur romantic.....anyways 💗 i feel like he is more of a dry texter than sukuna and the CALLLINNGG he is deffo a call > text guy, i think he'd send more voice messages too. he deffo gets you the best gifts on occassions, he's saur money [peak english here]🕺🕺

DAPHHNNNENENENENENEE NANAMI'S HAD ME CRYING I CAN'T CHOOSE BETWEEN HIM AND SUKUNA FUCK MEEEE. i need a man who corporate responds to all my shared videos than say nothing at all. "thank you for sharing" IM CRYINGGG U HAVE NO IDEA I WAS GIGGLING SO HARD. as someone who likes having someone sit by them as they fall asleep this was such a cute detail to add and im in tears im honking weeping wailing even

choso they will never make me hate you and your chick flick liking ass....love ur characterization of him he is deffo more than just an awkward weird boy....he is THE boy

"objection. we had sushi two days ago" WHY IS HE LIKEEE THIS AHHAHAHA. a man hiding his smile behind his hand is such a hot thing to do i don't know why + bonus points if they lean further into their hand to cover their entire face oh MAMA 🐕🐕🐕

naoya is the typa lad who'd quadruple text you in a row saying "im going. going to bed. going to sleep. i'm closing my eyes. this is your last chance fr. this is naoya's father did you ever care for him" LMAISJDFIEHUWHU he's such a drama kweenie.....i never even thought of reading naoya fics icl once indie wrote an ex!bf naoya fic and that's it, but you dear pookiekuna [to me atleast] have become synonymous with naoya [in a good way] because you write him just so dang funny and dorky i fear i would fold like a lawn chair [is that the saying?] for him.... bonus points if we wildly smooch in public. I AM WAITING FOR BOLTER SEASON 2 PLELASEEE DAPH VALENTINE'S DAY SPECIAL EP WHEN MY GLORIOUS QUUE- *GUNSHOTS*

kashimo is giving pimento and rosa's relationship from b99 idk why he just seems like such a stupid lad. also daph wtaf stop playing u're making me realize how fine half of the jjk cast is oh im gonna be SIIICKKKKK

"it is natural for others to admire beauty such as yours. however, they must know it's not theirs to claim" sir if someone said that to me i would have a mental breakdown. he's the "you're killing my tough guy personality" guy. HE SEEMS SO BITEABLE DAPH I CANT VOCALIZE MY THOUGHTS IM SHAKING WRITING THIS IM GENUIENLY GOING OOGA BOOGA CAVEMAN STYLW WHAT THE FAWKKKKKKKKKKKKK DONT CHAT TO ME

pick your love story °🍵⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ jujutsu kaisen edition (sfw)

gojo satoru ☆ childhood friends to lovers

loves to tease you, and he'll always poke your cheek, ruffle your hair, or steal your food just to get a reaction. if you're shy or quiet, he lives to make you flustered. buys the most ridiculous gifts, including matching sunglasses and designer items that cost more than your rent. acts like your personal heater, always draping himself over you, wrapping his long arms around your shoulders, or sneaking his hands under your sweater to press them against your skin. if someone flirts with you? well, he's throwing him arm around you so dramatically, calling you his 'beloved' in the most obnoxious way possible. if the person doesn't back off, his carefree tone disappears and he gives them a chilling smile. loves late night drives and cafe dates, he's so the type to blast music in the car and sing off-key on purpose, always laughs when you tell him to zip it. his love language is definitely physical touch and words of affirmation, and he needs to be touching you at all times, and he constantly reminds you how much he loves you in different playful and heartfelt ways <3 he's even softer when he's sleepy, nuzzling into your neck and shit, voice always dropping to a quiet murmur as he spills whatever's on his mind.

geto suguru ☆ best friends to lovers

pretty chill, protective and a faux deep thinker type of guy. gentle and attentive, always knowing what you need before you even ask. if had a rough day, he's gonna run you a bath and try to get your favourite drink. tries to sit still and listen patiently while you rant. lowkey a bit overzealous when it comes to jealousy, but never petty. he doesn't get outwardly possessive. but if someone flirts with you, he'll wrap an arm around your waist and give the person a pretty sharp look, enough that they'll back off and shit. always takes pictures of you, and he has an entire album of random shots of you reading, laughing or even just existing bc he really does think you look beautiful in every moment. loves bookstore and vinyl shop dates, and he enjoys those sweet peaceful moments with you (flipping through books, aka arguing about different genres). he's super big on quality time + acts of service, and if he sees you struggling with anything, he'll try to take care of it before you even have to ask. loves running his fingers through your hair, and he claims it calms him, and sometimes he just gets so lost in thought while doing it, that you have to snap him out of it. he's the type to whisper sweet things in your ear absentmindedly, like 'you have no idea how much i love you' when he thinks you're not paying attention. goes all red and dismissive when he realises you actually did hear that :D and he says he's not in gossip and drama but no one talks shit like he does, lets be real

ryomen sukuna ☆ prob sum weird enemies to lover shit

claims he doesn't date, but somehow ends up trying to figure out your favourite flower. calls you stupid shit like 'brat' or 'pet' more than your actual name, but if someone disrespects you, he tears them apart without hesitation. gets jealous easily, but he won't admit it, and if someone looks at you wrong, he'll grab your chin and kiss you (not that you mind <3) his love language is physical touch and dominance, expect him to always keep a hand on your waist, neck or chin because as much as he pretends otherwise, he loves feeling your skin against his. gaslights you over silly things for fun ('i literally told you that' 'no you didn't' 'oh, so you're forgetful now). also whispers absolute nonsense in your ear just from time to time, 'did you know that octopuses have three hearts? bet you didn't, but now you do. you're welcome'). will open a jar way too aggressively to try and show off his strength but breaks it, and now you're left with no pickles and a sulking sukuna with pickle juice on his hand. carries you like a sack of potatoes on his shoulders if you piss him off. pretends he doesn't gaf, but always shares his food with you and tries to order what you like.

toji fushiguro ☆ reluctant friends to lovers

grumpy but soft for you typa boyfriend who doesn't believe in using full words in texts. only texts in 'ya' or 'nah' and he accidentally replied 'k' to you saying 'i love you' and he called you immediately afterwards because he knows he messed up. loves pda but in the most lazy way possible, and will always drape himself over you like a weighted blanket and refuse to move. always steals bites of your food (half the meal) but will act offended if you do the same. once won you a stuffed animal at a carnival and acted like it was no big deal, but he actually used up all his carnival tickets trying to win you the biggest prize. spoils you in a reckless way, and he'll hand you a wad of cash and refuses to tell you how he got the money. he just tells you to go buy something nice. love language is acts of service and physical touch because he claims he's not amazing with words, but his hands always find their way back home to you. loves lazy mornings, and grumbles when you try to get out of bed, pulling you back in with an arm around your waist.

nanami kento ☆ love at first sight

exhausted but devoted you get me, and he claims that you energise him and light up his life. lectures you when you only sleep for three hours a night. replies to the tiktoks you send with corporate replies 'that was humorous. thank you for sharing. i love you.' he thinks you're absolutely the most beautiful person on the planet, and always lets you know. pretty gentle, mature and devoted. shows his love in sweet, meaningful ways. always puts your comfort first, and he tries to take things off your plate without asking. loves cooking for you, and believes cooking is its own love language. hates unnecessary, brash pda but loves quiet intimacy. holds your hand, brushes your hair against your ear. lingering kisses on your temple. reads to you at night, and he'll sit beside you if you have trouble drifting off. his love language is absolutely acts of service and quality time, and he doesn't just say he loves you, he'll prove it in every little action of his. loves taking you out to scenic parks and hikes, and just stares after you with so much love as he tries to adjust the focus of his camera lenses to try and capture you as well as he can.

choso kamo ☆ strangers to lovers

kinda awkward but genuinely, really quiet sweet. overthinks everything, and at the start of your relationship, he even started overthinking how you said 'goodnight!' and wondered if you were mad at him, because there was no heart or emoji. would die before making the first move idk, like you're going to have kiss him first or else, otherwise i fear he's going to have a stroke. holds grudges as long as he can, and will bring up little shit (like you stealing his lunch) six months later 'remember that time you betrayed me?'. but he can only really give you the silent treatment for two whole minutes when you tease him, and then immediately apologises because he feels bad. a lot of friends tease the two of you because they think choso is too quiet or a pushover but the truth is that he's actually pretty snarky, clever and observant. very determined and always sticks to his morals, even at times when you disagree with him, he's able to put his foot down. love language is quality time and gift giving, because he's the type to remember everything you like and surprise him with it. loves watching movies with you, and pretends not to care for 90s chick flicks, but he's digging them deep down. loves holding your hand, and even in public, he'll reach for you quietly.

higuruma hiromi☆ coworkers to lovers

overworked but loves you so bad. he sometimes reminds you of a tired, single dad but he's truly joyous to date. if you call him baby in public, he immediately malfunctions and blushes. you once kissed him in a courtroom (not even when court was ongoing!) on the tip of his gorgeous nose, and he almost choked. will 100% object to random things just to irritate you, with topics like takeout for dinner, 'objection. we had sushi two days ago.' takes everything pretty seriously, until you do something cute. then he just sits there, hiding his smile behind his hand like an adorable anime protagonist. tries to be strict or protective, but you just make him super soft. secretly likes pda but pretends that he doesn't. grips your hand so tight like he fears you might disappear. loves when you rest in his lap or against his chest as he reads over cases and paperwork. you told him that he'd look hot with glasses, and you caught him browsing through lens frames.

naoya zenin ☆ arranged marriage (kinda ooc naoya btw, bear with me)

sort of a menace who should have been left on read a long time ago, but this wasn't your first choice. somehow, he folds for you almost immediately but you think he'd rather dig his own grave and neatly fold his hands over his chest as he buries himself at his own funeral before he admits that he likes you. calls you annoying but will drop everything if you text him that you need help. always saying dumb shit to you, or trying to make fun of you, but if someone else does? they're gone, like he's going to stalk them, find where they work, and get them fired from their job. texts you the stupidest things like 'if i was ugly, would you still love me?' 'i just saw an ugly baby. damn' 'what would do if i got arrested? be honest.' saw someone flirting with you once at like a fancy event, and rolled his eyes, pretending that he didn't give a flying fuck. ended up at the bathroom mirror, gripping the sink and trying not to throw up. if you ignore his texts, he's gonna send vaguely ominous messages, like 'answer me' followed by 'this is how it ends?' 'i'm leaving btw, i'm going to pack up and leave you forever and go live on my own in the wild.' you check his location and he's still at home. naoya thinks he's the prize in the relationship, he's not. definitely a pda menace, and he loves just kissing you in public.

hajime kashimo ☆ enemies to lovers but in that 'we met when we were fighting' way

your relationship is just him being reckless with no survival instinct, and you trying to keep your boyfriend alive. aka trying to stop him from licking the power outlet. will randomly challenge you to fights for no reason, never mind the fact that he'll feel bad and back out at the last minute. has no concept of personal space, and will stand nose to nose with you just to make you uncomfortable. if you back away, he's gonna follow you and ask where you're going. if someone flirts with you, he's not even going to do too much, just laugh in their face and ask the offender if they really thought they had a chance. kashimo has no concept of an inside voice at all, so god forbid you try to take him somewhere quiet. energy level always at 200% and it's a mission to even take him someplace like a grocery store. if you said 'i love you' first, it might have been the only time that someone else has bested him in something. hajime physically can't process emotions and goes green and pale (he loves you so much btw) and he looks vaguely ill at your confession. stares for five minutes before throwing himself at you. definitely a words of affirmation type of guy, instead of actions, because sometimes, he's all bark and no bite.

noritoshi kamo ☆ sweet, rom-com crush

he's actually a bit traditional, but very sweet. unfortunately, he's also so formal that it hurts sometimes. but it's fun when he asks you things like 'would you like to accompany me for an evening meal?' or 'shall we go for a stroll?' if you hold his hand, for the first few months, he sweats profusely but acts as though he's totally cool (narrator: he was not cool). lowkey believes that he doesn't deserve you and he absolutely treats you, the love of his life, like royalty. super observant and determined to make you as comfortable as possible, so you're never really left wanting for anything. if someone flirts with you, he doesn't really get jealous, but rather gets philosophical. 'it is natural for others to admire beauty such as yours. however, they must know it's not theirs to claim.' a key forefront runner of the sassy men apocalypse, even though you wouldn't be able to tell at the start. super quick-witted, but he's the type to keep his thoughts to himself, but luckily, he gets more comfortable sharing his jokes with you as times go on. blushes super easily, and he hates it because he thinks it ruins his aloof/mysterious guy persona.

#recs ★#they need to start columns like this in newspapers and call it true reporting #thank u my glorious queen i will see you in your inbox

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luigifan1998 · 1 day ago

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Hey idk where u manifested from but i love ur blog and i love u. Ur writing for wife hc’s left me devastated, 1,000% agree with all of it. That man is a fucking mess who wants to crawl under ur skin and it’s so sexy.

Thought I’d love for you to entertain: College Lu pining over u, the prettiest girl in one of his lecture hall classes. Him being so pathetically down bad for you he’s stalking ur social media desperately to find out more about u as a person, trying to see what direction ur off to after class, looking for u all around campus. Not knowing ur going insane doing the exact same thing in regards to him, because i am also willing to die on the hill that this man NEEDS to feel intoxicated off a mysterious gorgeous deviant mentally ill girl he’s plotting to speak to any day now.

this is so sweeeeet smooches you

you get the vision. growing up in such a prestigious family, an italian one at that, has instilled a fatal flaw within him. hes a morbid longer. source: trust me

morbidly longing for something he cannot find, did not find in high school, failed to access in college, could not obtain in maryland, hawaii, japan. hes soooo "its not a metaphor, this ache". much of his life has been about perfection and following rigid societal practices. he wants something disgusting and consuming and nauseatingly complex. my sweet im your man by mitski boy

in regards to the second part, his infatuation for you is anything but cathartic. hes losing sleep, losing focus. he cannot string a coherent thought together, much less engage in banter with his social circle. he pulls back and into the recesses of his mind that allow the perverse nature of his adoration to overtake him. his friends are relieved, assuming hes finally succumbed to the exhaustion from making himself available to everyone. theyre happy he can find rest. they dont know that the nauseating and near animalistic drive to check your internet presence is something hes sodden with shame over. he feels like a fraud for writing about the importance of divorcing ones self from the modern cellular device. despite it, the practice of poised fingers as to not alert you of his invisible attendance is something his resilience in the protest of social media has become soft to. knowing its wrong, pathetic, inappropriate, he feels like he has to punish himself in some way. in the ever-rare moments he finds himself alone, he touches himself and he doesn't allow for completion. invites the pressure build within, increased sensitivity and a gnawing desperation for release. he doesnt let himself be reduced to the inability to control himself from spilling into his cupped hand and down his cotton briefs until hes seen you in real life. a gift to himself. walking to class, talking to a mutual friend, swaying back and forth as you wait in line in the dining hall. this reverence is not sustainable without more give, and he is wearing like loved linens

hiding the way you feel for him is, in many ways, easier. you escape into buildings for majors you have never heard of when you spot him walking in your direction. you cherish the blessing of being able to use your hair as a curtain in which to protect yourself from the prospect of being perceived when in close proximity to him through your mutual friends congregating sporadically throughout the campus. you blame various ailments for reasons as to why you cannot go to gatherings you had previously agreed to attending. its heavy, this curse of needing. you want to drop to your knees and crawl to him, taking his fingers into your mouth and letting the love-conditional curse break, but you dont. cant. wont let it. it feels too good to have this private affliction be something you own. darkness on a leash, locked into a tower only you have access to. when nobody knows how you feel, not even him, he can be yours

#i love you anonnnn #luigi mangione #luigi mangione x reader #luigi thoughts #💌#luigi mangione imagine #yn

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starpelted-dove · 2 days ago

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This is one of my favorite clips in tfp. Smth about seeing my three favs interact in such a passive aggressive manner makes me think alot.

The fact that while ratchet isnt the sort to kill someone directly, he also is hesitant to actually help someone like starscream. Something something medic code.

He doesn’t want to help him, but the idea that he may be able to get something out of the exchange that could help them get optimus back is definitely a motivator. In my opinion hes less likely to care when optimus isnt around. That combined with bulkhead, who also tends to care less about the well being of decepticons, makes this scene almost portray the autobots as coldhearted without optimus around. I fully believe that if star hadnt had information for them, bulkhead and ratchet wouldn’t have helped him. Whether I’m right or not is up for debate, thats just my take.

The absence of optimus during this time definitely put them all on edge, so they’re less likely to care for the well being of someone like starscream. Which is something i think about, because these sorts of scenes are probably some of the only times starscream could have been persuaded to the autobots side.

Whats even MORE interesting to me in this scene is starscreams willingness to share information about optimus. As far as hes concerned his info is genuinely helpful to the autobots, and while hes been known to help them here and there as a third party, he doesnt really hesitate to let them know. His only condition is that they help him. Which is crazy cause his information isnt even of value until he mentions the space bridge.

Its moments like this that make me yearn the idea of an ACTUAL starscream redemption. Not some coddled “woe is me, full of regrets and victim of circumstance” pity party, but a properly written and well paced redemption that actually includes the nuance of how each of the characters interact with him.

They all really dont like eachother, its awesome

#welcome to star over-analyzing tfp clips #i love them all so much #starscream #bulkhead #ratchet #transformers #transformers starscream #transformers prime #tfp #maccadam #tfp starscream #transformers clip #tfp ratchet #tfp bulkhead

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thefrontmanscockwarmer · 3 days ago

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My Best Friend’s Brother (Part 5)

Player 001 x reader

Masterlist <- comment on this post to be added to the tag list

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

You, Jun Ho, and In Ho walked to your apartment, grabbing clothes, your favorite throw blanket, and stuff for your cat.

“Why do you need so much shit?” In Ho, who seemingly had something to say all the time, spoke. He rolled your suitcase.

“She’s gonna be staying with us all month, dim wit” Jun Ho replied.

“Well that’s stupid. Don’t touch my shit while I’m at work.”

“Our room, our stuff” you said cheekily before you shot a look at him.

“No. My room, my stuff” he said.

“Wellllll I am staying there for a whi-“

“Whatever. Don’t touch my shit.”

“She touched your shit yesterday…” Jun Ho said.

“I dont give a fuck, i gave her permission to touch my shit.” In Ho snapped back. “Now, im telling her not to touch my shit when I’m not home”

“I don’t want touch shit at all”

“You literally scoop cat shit” Jun Ho says. In Ho snickered.

“Good one” he gave a fist bump.

“Can we stop talking about shit?!” You ask heatedly. The boys shut their mouths before In Ho whispered:

“Someone’s losing her shit.” Jun Ho laughed loudly, In Ho following suit.

“Seriously, In Ho? You’re literally older than us, get your shit together” they both snorted before laughing even louder. Making you laugh too.

Jun Ho left almost as soon as you guys arrived to the house.

In Ho pushed you against the door, barricading it shut. Breathing heavily in your ear, his cock leaking in his pants.

“I’ve been wanting to get ahold of you since you got out of bed this morning.” He growled in your ear. “I shouldn’t have let you go”

“No, you shouldn’t have” you reply, helping him out of his pants. You dropped to your knees. In Ho pulled your hair up, as you licked his tip. The feeling making him throw his head back, a low grumble from his chest accompanying it. You took his length, putting his cock deep in your throat. In Ho grunted primally as he pushed his cock in deeper. Forcing your head to hit the door. He pinned your hair up, thrusting into your mouth.

“Oh god, (y/n), why does your mouth feel so fucking good?” He coaxed in a low tone, fucking your throat. “I almost want to cum right now, fuck” the foreign feeling of his cock in your mouth was a long awaited day dream, you began to gag and choke on his thick member. The vibrations sending him into overdrive. He sped up, chasing his orgasm now, continuing his brutal assault on your throat. He braced his hand against the door, his hips stuttered. His body tense and convulsion with every thrust into your mouth. A low grumble”oh god” was uttered in the most sinful groan as he released cum down your throat. Thrusting slower now to fully empty himself inside you before putting himself back in his jeans.

“Your cum tastes almost like whiskey” you giggle.

“Well, according to last night… you really fucking like whiskey” he said. Your watery eyes looked up at him. “Ready to go pick out a new mattress your-annoyingness” he joked. You slapped his shoulder as you stood.

“Shut up.” You squint at him.

“Sorry” he kept laughing. “Mom, tell your son to stop laughing at me” you said as you walk into the kitchen.

“I would but, I haven’t heard him laugh this hard since he was younger.” She giggled lightly.

“Where Mr. Hwang?” You ask. “we might need his help.”

“He’s out betting on the horse races. Just have them deliver it to the house, the boys can do all of that.”

“Okay.” You shrug. You hear a loud groan as your cat emerges from In Ho’s room.

“Come back! I wanted more cuddles!!” He shouts chasing after the animal.

“Awww he’s so precious!” Mrs. Hwang exclaims. “What’s his name?”

“Wiseuki” you say aloud. The cat rubs against her legs as she repeats his name, looking at you knowing why you named him that… after her whiskey drinking son.

“Come on (y/n), let’s go pick that mattress” In Ho says pushing you out the door.

As soon as you entered the mattress store, he threw himself onto a bed. Immediate disgust etching on his face. You could tell this was going to be a long trip.

Taglist

@christinamadsen @sebbymybaby21 @nakiio5775 @xcinnamonmalfoyx @player279achlys @watasinekoru @galaxygurlll @angelofthorr @whamzou

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nishitanis-left-nut · 3 days ago

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i really gotta replay the games and pay attention to how kiryu actually reacts to and deals with stuff cuz i feel like the fandom's brainwashed me into having a picture of Kiryu in my head thats not actually real, and this is the first time in any fandom ive actually cared about that

im real slow at picking up on character personalities and stuff like that (for reference, in Saiki k it took me until the episode where they get in a shipwreck and the entire episode Saiki is trying to convince his friends and us that He Absolutely Did Not Get Sea Sick How Dare You Even Imply That for me to finally catch on that hes an unreliable narrator and lies all the damn time) but one of the times he did something that made me think more about his personality was back when hes arguing with Rikiya over whos got the better fashion sense, and he talked himself up so much but when he got to the clothes shop he admits to the clerk to not knowing much about fashion. it could just be interpreted as friends bickering but that wasnt the first time Kiryu acted in that way over something seemingly inconsequential

another time he does something like that is in 0. theres this QTE when Kiryu and Oda meet a guy at a restaurant, if you get it right he hands the guy his business card but accidentally gives it to him backwards. oda calls him out on it but lets it slide since its his first time in one of these meetings. if you dont do the QTE oda reprimands him harshly and slaps him upside the head, and when kiryu gives the guy his card and oda sees he gave it to him backwards, he goes to smack him again about it but kiryu stops him and insists he was about to flip the card. we know he wasn't, we know he lied to save face

these two instances alone dont really mean much but together paired up with everything else hes done matter alot to his characterization i feel like. he might let his emotions get the better of him all the time but hes not an Emotional guy if that makes sense. his pride(from despair) is something thats always at the forefront when hes interacting with anyone he respects or cares about (im not counting side story stuff cuz they're not exactly canon)

too fucking soft

I can't believe Majima calls Kiryu 'soft' when the guy is the most insensitive mf ever.

No but honestly, I have no idea how Kiryu can go up on that roof and babble about Majima being free and getting to let loose, so convinced that fighting is the only thing Majima cares about?? Does he ever look at him? Listen to him?

And Majima is just like 'ugh this mf is so dense' so he plays along but looks absolutely tortured.

Like, Majima straight up tells Kiryu he's going to really miss him, and what is Kiryu's reply????

"Take care of Daigo for me."

Bro, what???

#my stupid #stupid boy #i think about him a lot #my son #kiryu kazuma #ryu ga gotoku #yakuza 4 #majima goro #kazumaji #like a dragon #nishida #yakuza kiwami #yakuza 3

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letmebeyourcrrsh · 3 days ago

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the echo of his broken heart

idol!jeongin x reader

warnings: mention of hate, angst?

tell me if there is more-

genre: breakup

summary: you are dating the one and only maknae of stray kids. you two had been in a happy and healthy relationship for very long now.. until suddenly the internet was filled with pictures of you two…

You never thought you'd be here. Never thought the day would come when you'd have to walk away from him. The man who made your heart feel whole.

Jeongin was your secret—your calm in the chaos. You never wanted the world to know about your relationship. It was yours and his, tucked away in a quiet corner of the universe. The late-night phone calls, the stolen kisses when no one was looking, the soft promises to always be there for each other… That was enough. It was always enough.

But nothing stays hidden forever.

It was one photo. One innocent moment. You were both at a small café, tucked away in a quiet corner, laughing at something he had said. It was like any other day. However.. A fan saw. A fan snapped a picture, and from that moment, everything shattered.

At first, it was just curiosity.

“Is this real?” “Who are they?”

People wanted to know. But soon, the floodgates opened, and the hate followed.

They don`t deserve him. They’ll ruin his career. They’re just using him. They dont even look good next to him? ew. Bet they are only there for the money.

Jeongin tried to protect you at first, tried to deflect the hate, tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. But you saw the pain in his eyes. You heard the exhaustion in his voice when he called you late at night, asking how you were holding up.

It hurt him. And it hurt you.

The once peaceful love you had shared started to feel suffocating. You didn’t want to be a part of the world that was judging you, tearing apart your life for the mere crime of loving someone who happened to be famous. But you knew that as long as Jeongin was by your side, you could endure it.

But then came the threats.

They started slowly—comments on his posts, DMs flooding his inbox. It wasn’t just hate anymore. It was fear. The " fans " were relentless. They told him to end it with you before things got worse. They said if he cared about his career, he would choose them over you. They said you weren’t good enough for him, and that you would bring him down.

And then the worst part came.

The messages you received. The ones that told you to leave him. The ones that told you to disappear. They weren’t just cruel; they were dangerous. They said they knew where you lived. They said they knew everything about you.

Your life became a nightmare.

You wanted to fight back, to scream at them that they didn’t know you, that you weren’t some kind of villain. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t risk his safety. You couldn’t risk your own.

And in the quietest, darkest part of your heart, you knew what was coming. You knew this couldn’t go on.

It was the night after a particularly ugly comment had gone viral. Jeongin called you. His voice was low, almost robotic, as if he had rehearsed these words a thousand times in his head.

“Y/N, we need to talk.”

You already knew what he was going to say.

“I think... it’s best if we end this,” he said, his voice trembling slightly.

Your chest tightened. You had been expecting it. You had known it was coming. But hearing him say the words felt like a knife twisting in your heart.

“No,” you whispered. “Please, Jeongin. We can’t just let them win. We’ll figure this out. We can make it through.”

He was silent for a moment. And then, you heard the deep, painful exhale of a man who was already broken inside.

“I can’t do this anymore, Y/N. I can’t see you like this. You’re scared all the time. You’re hurting, and it’s because of me. You don’t deserve this. You deserve peace. You deserve a life that isn’t filled with hate and threats.”

Your tears began to fall silently, as if your heart knew the end was coming even before your mind could process it.

“Jeongin,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I don’t care about the hate. I care about you. You’re worth every bit of pain. I just want to be with you.”

He was crying now, and his voice was barely audible as he responded, “I love you so much, Y/N. I always will. But the truth is… I’m not enough to keep you safe. I can’t protect you from this. I can’t let you drown in a world that doesn’t care about you the way I do.”

Your world felt like it was crumbling. All of the love you shared, all the quiet moments, the dreams you had together—they were slipping through your fingers, and you couldn’t stop it.

“Please… don’t ask me to walk away,” you begged, your heart breaking with every word. “I can’t do this without you.”

But he was already shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. You’re everything to me, but I can’t be the reason you lose yourself.”

There was no more fight in him. No more hope in his eyes. Just sorrow. Just resignation.

And so, you did what you had to do. You said goodbye. The words felt empty as they left your lips. They were hollow, unable to fill the space between you two, because the truth was, neither of you wanted this. Neither of you wanted to let go.

“I’ll never forget you,” he whispered, his voice broken. “I promise.”

You wanted to say the same, but it was too much. The tears clouded your vision as you turned away, walking out of his life with the weight of everything you couldn’t change.

And as you walked away, all you could hear was the echo of his broken heart, calling your name in the distance.

#jeongin #i.n stray kids #skz jeongin #i.n #stray kids #k pop #skz #i.n x reader #jeongin x reader #jeongin x you #jeongin x y/n #jeongin fanfic #breakup #jeongin angst #skz angst #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids x you #skz x you

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selfproclaimeddoctoroflove · 1 day ago

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It was that time of the year it seemed. Dan Heng hadn't been a sociable person by nature, but he would never go as far as to lock himself in his room for a month, even refusing basic essentials like food and water from the express. Right?

Every time this had happened, it had seemed to take you by surprise. When you had gone to knock on his door to check on him, he had gruffly declined your invitations of conversations. At some points you would get so concerned that you would ask Himeko and Welt of they knew why this happened. Himeko would just laugh and welt would dismiss it. Pain in the ass.

But you were tired of not knowing. Of all the damn secrecy.

It had been a few weeks into his 'hibernation' as you called it, and you had confidently waltzed over to his room, banging on the door.

"Come on! Let me in! Or at least talk to me!" And although your voice was mainly flooded out by the rough banging of the door, you could still be heard fairly clearly. After a few moments of banging, your hands felt weak, and you were starting to get irritated from the lack of acknowledgment.

"Listen here if you dont open this damn door I'm going to--"

"Please.. Stop banging on the door, it's causing me a headache." Dan heng cut you threat short as his voice rang out, however it was clear he was heavily breathing. At His request, you promptly stopped banging on the door, though your irritation was still apparent. Who did he think he was? He finally spoke to you just to tell you to stop because you were worried? You were growing more furious as you balled up your fists.

"Are you serious? I've been so damn worried about you. You lock yourself in your damn room for weeks on end. How do you not expect me to start banging on your door?" You stated with a cold tone. Then you heard a breathy moan escape from the room. You stood in shock for a moment.. Moan... Locked in room.. Could he be?

"You masturbate for a whole damn month!?" You gasp at the thought of it. How the hell is that even possible? A month of non stop jacking off? He must be insane!

No sound was audible from the other side of the door until Dan heng spoke up again, "... Have you ever heard of heat?"

"Yea. Its the thing that makes you sweat."

"Not that heat. The kind where people get... You know..." His voice trailed off and the embarrassment was clear as glass.

"Oh. Your going through heat? That kind of heat... Well we're friends, right? Shouldn't friends help friends?"

And that's where it all went "up hill" (the hills not the only thing that went up, that's for sure.)

You were kissing Dan Heng ferociously like someone gone mad, trying to match his intensity, your lips were together like two ink smudges draw to close together, his hand slowly made itself a home on your waist as you straddled your legs around his lap.

"Aeon, I could just eat you whole.." He could hardly get his words out though, and had to make a effortless effort to try to pull away to speak, even though you both knew he'd come back to your lips like a starved man.

"You might not be able to eat me, but you sure can eat me out," you suggested through breathy moans, a sultry smile spreading across your face. You tightened your legs around his lap and moved to hands up to grab his face and coddle it with a intensity so that it seemed less like coddling and more like man handling.

By now the atmosphere was totally different from usual. Unlike the usual calm and soothing vibe of the room, the room was filled with unspoken desires and fantasies. Ones you have committed to fulfilling.

"Hah... Your right," his words came out in a low, dangerous whisper. It didn't take him to long to maneuver your pants off of you, leaving you in only soaked undergarments. "Your so wet..." he pointed out bluntly, using his thumb to circle your clit through your panties, making you loudly moan out in pleasure.

"Aren't you captain obvious.?" You shot out snarkily. With that, he moved your panties out of the way to directly touch your clit, moving his fingers around it and maneuvering your folds.

"If you keel talking like that, I won't do much more then this," he stated, still playing with your folds. He was incredibly skilled with his hands, having already made you moan out several times.

"Fine, I'm sorry... Please just.. Please.." Your voice was hardly audible however through the heights of pleasure you were reaching. You wondered if march could hear you.

Suddenly, he inserted a finger into your wet pussy, and due to how soaked you already were, his finger slid in like a knife through warm butter. Slowly he started to curl his finger. With his rich technique, he soon hit your G-spot, making you moan out uncontrollably in pleasure. As he slowly uncurled his finger, taking it out, there was a noticeable amount of sticky white cum on it. Underneath yourself, you could feel the sheets around your clit getting soaked with cum.

"Damn it.. I'm sorry, I didn't mean.." However your monologue was quickly cut short. "Don't stress it. I can get new bedsheets. And anyway, I should be thanking you." He said before licking the cum off his fingers, "let's do it again sometime."

#HSR #HSR smut #hsr x reader #hsr x you #Dan heng smut #dan heng x reader #dan heng #hsr fanfic #hsr fandom #honkai star rail smut

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grabby-smitten · 2 days ago

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I feel so conflicted. I’m so happy but sad, empty but so full of joy, crying and laughing at the same time. Moby’s owner, you wrote such a beautiful story.

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold.

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug.

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works?

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really."

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table—framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly—not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say—until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy.

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter—just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just—vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours.

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit.

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you. Time moves like water carving through rock—gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.) And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?”

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by.

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself.

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill.

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter.

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it.

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons.

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!––minutes on the elliptical.

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind.

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session.

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I’ve seen you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I’m not, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I’m doing TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.”

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?”

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from cringe.

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her.

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.”

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him.

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams.

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine.

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown.

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood.

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight.

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light.

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival.

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clink of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond.

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.”

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment.

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable.

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unspoken. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her.

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just to feel less alone about your own. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake.

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose.

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization.

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her husband struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you.

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark.

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it.

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict.

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth.

Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door.

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point.

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes.

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences.

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him.

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation.

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home.

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown.

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath.

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation.

He exhales. Then winces.

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it.

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh.

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left.

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago.

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware.

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago.

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil.

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively.

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer.

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting.

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable.

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere.

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists.

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home.

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now, with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

#don’t wanna spoilt so back to my usual place. the tags. hahaha #omi.recs.fics #lads Sylus #ufff. where do I even begin? I don’t just love Sylus and Reader here but her group of friends and family surrounding her.#it makes her so human? so relatable? I love how it’s not only focused on their relationship/love story but also her personal struggles #her inner monologue/thoughts and the pacing. I think it all developed so well.#hell. I started crying even before reading and as the story progressed I kept sobbing and laughing and marveling at the way it was directing #us to the grand finale. like we knew Sylus would pop up eventually in some way. but the girl with the iPad? and the guy asking reader out #and friends and family? it all was just a well shaped road to that fated moment. beautifully placed in my opinion.#I SCREAMED WHEN SYLUS DESCRIPTION BEGAN EXCUSE THAT WAS SO UNEXPECTED BUT SO FITTING IN THIS NARRATIVE #LIKE IDK I FELT HE CHANGED BUT WAS THE SAME BUT FOR HER #LIKE IDK IM JUST A SAPPY MESS #it’s so overwhelming to come to an end. it’s one of my favorite fanfics of all time. and I’ve been to plenty of fandoms.#Moby’s owner (sorry I just got so used to calling you that 💕🫂)#I’m so happy to share a fandom with you and being able to read such a wonderful series!!!#I have so much to unpack. damn. I’m so emotional.#BUT I CANT IM A SEA OF TEARS #(now let me cry. bye)#I REPHRASE THAT SYLUS CHANGED PART! I mean that she saw herself so below him sometimes? so different? so out of reach? and instead of reader #becoming this idk MC like being. Sylus came back *human*? like her? like saying physically *I love you for you.* I love you so much that #I can leave my godlike self behind. it’s worth it for you. you are perfect for me so becoming like you is being perfect as well?#I DONT KNOW BUT I CRIED AND IM STILL SOBBING #DOES THAT MAKE SENSE

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