#and like. I know that’s not normal but to me I’ve lived with it for so long that just like

[nichuuu]

Paper Houses

Cho Miyeon x M reader

(1st instalment of The View Between Villages)

Word Count: 18k+ Special thanks to @defmaybe for helping to draw out the best version of this fic.

(All the details? Really? Oh wow. Okay…)

(I’m gonna dissociate myself from this so… “you” is gonna appear a lot. Don’t sweat it cupcake—you’re not actually the one in this mess. 

It’s just a bad habit of mine, that’s all.)

--

(You’re lucky. You get the sweet start to it all. For what it’s worth: sweetness is a fucking deceiving concept when you have rose-tinted lenses.)

“You know: out of all the men I’ve dated, you cook the best.”

You raise an eyebrow as you flip the grilled cheese in your skillet. Frankly, there’s nothing to be impressed about over grilled cheese and tomato soup. Cheese sandwiched between two evenly buttered slices of bread, grilled till golden brown and served with a side of hot tomato juice in a bowl. Literally everything has been prepared for you and packed neatly into some package in a grocery store. All you did was heat it up and add a few of your own ingredients.

“Is that a compliment or a flex?” you ask, turning your gaze away from your skillet momentarily to look at Miyeon as she replies. Her face isn’t gonna add value to her answer, but you just like looking at her. She is hot after all. 

She scoffs and takes a sip of her coffee. “Jeez… Can’t a woman compliment her boyfriend in peace?”

You’ve had this conversation before, but you like to entertain her.

“This woman can’t,” you tell her, making sure she can see the smirk on your face as you turn back to the sandwich. You wave your spatula in the air as you speak, almost like you’re referring to PowerPoint slides. “She’s too weird about everything. Never take her seriously.”

“Oh, so we’re just gonna call me weird and neglect the fact you keep your butter in that?” she exclaims, pointing at the butter bell on top of your fridge. It was a Christmas gift from your mom last year, and even though you did think it was weird at first, you have not gone back to keeping your butter in blocks. 

“You keep my fucking butter bell out of this,” you warn, and it’s half joking and half serious. 

(No one fucks with your butter bell.)

Miyeon chortles. You don’t need to look at her to know that she’s raising her hands in the air when she says, “jeez man. Didn’t know you guys were tight like that…”

And it’s stupid exchanges like this that make you appreciate her company by bounds. It’s lonely in the apartment when she’s out being famous; really nice to have her around for the holidays, albeit for a short time. It’s been a while since she’s been back. There’s much to catch up on over an 11 am brunch. You don’t know why she’s up so damn early today, cause normally you guys sleep till the late afternoon, then go figure out what to eat for dinner before lazing around in the apartment.

So with cheese falling from the corner of her lip, she gives you the latest developments in her life. Then it’s your turn, and you're glad to say that nothing’s really of interest in either of your updates. That’s usually for the better: sometimes the news you give each other can be a little heart-attack-inducing, so it’s better that your lives are pretty bland.

“You know,” she says as she wipes her mouth. “I might just keep dating you for your food,” she tosses her tissue onto the dining table and lets out a sigh. “Fucking delicious.”

You scoff and sip on your coffee. “Bet you told that to all the guys,” you reply wryly. “Probably gets them real excited, huh?”

She grins. It’s cheeky, mischievous, maybe even a little naughty. “Not telling.”

“You don’t tell me a lot of things,” you chuckle, and you’re low-key unsurprised to hear a little bit of unintended bitterness in your voice. “Not that it matters or anything… I just value communication.”

Oh, you’re petty. So fucking petty that it makes your skin crawl a little.

Miyeon’s unfazed. 

“Don’t get your tits in a tussle, pretty boy,” she muses. She folds her arms and leans into the table. “You’ll know more when I trust you more. For now: I’ll give you information as I please.”

And you kick yourself because you forget she can be a bit of a handful herself.

“Ugh, what will I ever do with this mysterious woman?” you smirk, resting your elbow against the table as you lean in as well. To be perfectly clear: you’re not mad at her. Her secrecy just bugs you out a little, and she knows it. “Such little knowledge on such a hardened beauty… must be tough to really crack her open and figure her out.”

You love her eyes, and you love to make them roll (in multiple contexts). They kinda gleam as she tilts her head. “Fine… I’ll give you something since you’re so damn desperate,” she drums her fingers against her cheek while her chin nestles itself into her palm. “What I’m about to give you is gonna change your life in so many ways. It’ll probably redefine your whole damn existence.”

You express your interest by leaning in a little more. Miyeon checks her six—like she isn’t in the comfort of her own home—before leaning in. She’s all clandestine. You have no idea what for. 

“You ready?” she checks. And you know she isn’t expecting an answer, but you nod nonetheless. She checks her left and right for good measure. You never know: maybe your lamp is listening.

“I’m aching for cock right now.”

And you guys don’t even make it to the couch.

It’s on the floor next to your table where she has your face in her hands, and she’s kissing you aggressively. She’s properly kissing you, and it makes you knock the back of your head against the floor a little, but it’s really not too big of a deal. 

She lifts her lips off yours and smirks. “For the record: it’s your fault that we aren’t fucking on the couch.”

“Yeah, and I actually paid rent early for once,” you shoot back sarcastically. “And would you mind helping me clean the yacht I most definitely own on my luxurious salary? Thanks a bunch, honey.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. She knows you’re full of shit, but she’s full of the same shit as you. Form a shit pile or something, maybe even a shit mountain if you feel like it. You could really go on for a while about how you two can talk for hours, but that’s not the main event.

The real deal comes when she has her hand beneath the waistband of your pants, slithering down to the very thing she aches for. She has that smile on her face, the one that kinda says “Oh I’m gonna love this” or “you’re gonna love this” or maybe even both. There are ways to distinguish the messages by looking at her eyes, but you’re a little too lazy to go figure it out right now. And before someone calls you a bum, you can’t help it: she has her hand on your cock and a piercing gaze trained on you. How about you try and focus on discerning implicit messages when there's a hot woman touching you in the right places?

“How are you hard already?” she asks, a hint of a giggle in her tone as she presses your shaft against your body. There’s barely any space down there, yet she makes it work so easily. “I didn’t even, like, do anything yet.”

“Well,” you hum, just as she starts to squeeze your member, appling that toe-curling pressure to your tip and smiling as you strain a little. “I can kinda see your tits through your shirt.”

Miyeon raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t even look at her shirt. “Oh?” and she starts to pump. “I didn’t notice that…”

“Totally,” you grunt. “Like how you don’t notice that your shorts are barely shorts?” you continue, but there’s something more bugging you. “And at least pull my pants down if you’re gonna jack me off, would you?”

Miyeon snorts, but compiles nonetheless. She gets your pants and boxers off with ease. It’s one swift motion (it’s practiced grace really), and she gets back to the task at hand before she was so rudely interrupted. 

“What does seeing my tits have anything to do with you?” Her motions are languid and fluid, steady and flowing like a stream. She doesn’t need to look. She doesn't need to guess. She knows you like the back of her hand. “Does it turn you on? Excite you?”

You have it in you to roll your eyes before they shut. “Stop asking these fucking ridiculous questions.”

“It's a basic inquiry.” She laughs in this aloof tone that you know is paired with the most devious of smiles. “So you won’t let me compliment you and you won’t let me ask questions? Tsk. Chivalry is dead.”

Miyeon goes a little faster, adds a twist of her wrist. This is just her hand, mind you, and it’s already ruining you in a way that only she is capable of. The tender touch of Cho Miyeon is something no woman you’ve met could ever replicate, and it takes you to places that you can only visit with her. Those fingers are magic, that mouth is magic—hell, everything about her is magic. 

“Please,” you manage to quip past the jolts of magic being sent through your system. “We both know that you have the answers to all the questions you just asked.”

She giggles—playfully, you might add. This is all a part of the game you play with her; this is the way Miyeon’s cookie crumbles. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Who cares?”

You care: not a lot, but enough to make this as humorous as you want it to be. You kinda only give two shits because it lets you be kinda petty with her, but not that you externalise it or anything. You just have it pent up in you for the fun of it.

“Anyway,” she muses, halting the strokes of her hand to your cock. “Have I told you about how much I wanted you to fill me while I was filming?”

You take a moment to breathe. “No… But do tell.”

And gets to that, but not before ridding herself of her shirt first. By technicality, it’s your shirt, but it shrunk in the dryer at some point, so it just became hers. She gets into the details, the nitty gritty; tells you exactly what she’s imagining during the filming of her Music Video all while you kind just sit there and ogle at her chest. She takes her time, covers the stuff that you don’t really need to know but it’s kinda hot to know — things like “ugh, I needed you to bend me over the hood of that car and just fuck me at that point…” — because you admittedly get off knowing that she ever thinks about you that way and… God, you’re rambling aren’t you? Still pretty fitting though: it’s the way Miyeon talks when she’s thinking nonsense.

“Ugh. Now I’m wet,” she mutters. She speaks as if it’s your fault that she went on rambling about her fantasies with you. “You know you make me like, really horny right?”

“Oh no… Whatever will I do?” you’re really just rolling with it. Not because you want to, but because you want to get this bit where you tease each other over and done with. It’s kinda like marinating meat in the way it makes the sex a little hotter. Truthfully: you’re aching for her. Really: you want nothing more than to just get her pinned beneath you and writhing on your wooden floor. 

And frankly? You could do all of that right now.

So it’s with a bit of grace (and some dexterity) that you flip the positions: now you’re kneeling over her while she is the one that lies on the floor, if that makes any sense. Miyeon isn’t shocked by your sudden movements, more so delighted by the fact that you finally gave in to your carnal urges and just went for it. She smiles, knowing full well that she’s done something that's gonna give her that fuel she needs for the week. You know: sex that’s the opposite of soft; some shit that fulfills some wild thoughts. 

“Gotta say, you’re quicker than usual,” she has that cocky smirk on her face. You wanna wipe it right off her face, and you know just how. “Normally you’re all talk, no– Oh…”

You like that it really only takes a finger pressed against her panties to shut her up. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make her shut her eyes and shut up for a moment. The spot you press on is damp, soaked in that sweet slick. Gently, you trace the outline of those swollen folds. “You were saying?”

She has it in her to laugh—a breathy chortle. “Fuck you.”

“I’m working on that,” you fire back. Your cock twitches a little when you see her jolt in response to your touch. Your finger pressed down on that one spot that makes her weak, and it really works wonders: an airy gasp slips past those thin, luscious lips. The number of times you’ve kissed those lips swollen is not a number countable with 10 fingers.

Miyeon sighs, and it’s a mix of pleasure and frustration in her breath that humors you. She relaxes into the floorboards, her hips rock, her cunt rubs against your fingers. She's searching for some friction — sweet release in lewd movements. You let her move for a bit, watch her shake like the bough of a willow tree as she pleases herself against your fingers. 

“Enjoying yourself?” you quip. 

“Yeah..” she hums. “Passing time while you’re still not taking these shorts off me.”

Of course… How could you be so forgetful?

You stop for a moment to help her wriggle out of her clothing. It isn’t one of her most graceful moments, but it quickly passes. The shorts join your pants on the floor. Her panties are pink — not that subtle shade of pink or even like a darker version of pink. It’s Barbie fucking Pink.

“So we’re feeling loud today, huh?” you ask, letting your finger trail the lacy parts of the fabric. Miyeon smiles.

“Sana gave them to me,” she explains, not the least bit sheepish that her damp spot is visibly darker than the rest of her underwear. “Hope this doesn’t affect you in your work or anything…”

You feel the corner of your lip turn up. “No, no… Of course not,” you assure her, all while you let your hand slip between the fabric and her skin. You can feel her shudder, then you feel the heat of her cunt at the tip of your fingers. “You caught me on the right day actually… Pink’s in my rotation of favourite colours this fine morning.”

“Right,” her voice has a lilt. It’s shuddering a little too. “I knew that… Definitely had that in mind.”

You laugh. Your index fingers slip between her folds. She moans. 

You lower yourself, capture a swollen, taut nipple in your mouth. The sweet suction you deliver makes her gasp. Her hand finds itself in your head.

It’s all quite rhythmical, almost like a routine for the two of you. The way your bodies react to each other feels so natural that you think it might just be second nature at this point. You know her body: you’ve memorised the dips and curves and tender spots; the hot spots, the warm parts and the best parts. She knows you—the way you think, the way you talk; the way you play with her and the things you want to do with her. It would be safe to say that you guys practically have PhDs in the subject of each other, but that’s not a fair statement because you’re both a little more complicated than you let on. That keeps the sex exciting; it makes you crave each other a little more than last time. 

“One or two?” you whisper, letting your finger dip in and out of her lips and getting it all wet in her slickness. She takes a moment to think, or maybe she’s taking a moment to really soak in the teasing. Either way: she takes some time to reply. 

“Two,” she shifts herself a little lower, her clit pressing into the base of your middle finger. It makes her sigh — a low, kinda sonorous escape of air through her lips. “I hope you trimmed your nails this time.”

“That last time was a minor mishap,” you admit. You kinda want to pull your hands out to double-check, but you’re too mired in the moment to assuage your worries. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it all under control.”

She beams like the damn sun. “Good. I like it when you’ve got the reins.”

And that makes you suck in some air through your teeth. 

(God, does she know how to try you on.)

Your digits push themselves inside of her. They’re wrapped in her tight warmth, snug as a bug in a rug or whatever. You love the way her abs kinda flex as your fingers introduce themselves to her insides. It makes the best parts of her pop. Her chest rises a little more than the last time, her breaths becoming a little longer and more drawn out as your fingers explore her like always. The way she jolts when you get to that one spot at the roof of her pussy tells you that she has been primed and ready for this moment, loaded up like a shotgun and the trigger is really just any part of you that makes her cum. It could be your fingers, your tongue, your dick, your thigh—any part of you that can get her to that sweet high. Of course: you’re more than happy to assist. And so your mouth latches itself back onto her breast, tongue licking and swishing and flicking the swollen nipple atop her small yet generously sized breast. You relish the way it feels in your hand as you cup it—not too firmly and not too gently—and give it a squeeze, enjoying how the flesh spills out a little between your fingers but still fits in the palm of your hand.

“How do you only get better at this?” she hisses through her teeth. “I mean, I just saw you last week but… Oh god…”

You remove her nipple from your mouth. “Art is honed. This is art.”

She laughs, then throws her head back to let out a moan. “Well I’ll be damned,” her eyes close as she speaks, resting themselves for a bit so that she can enjoy the feel of your fingers in the best part of her slick. “Paint me like one of your French girls then.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now.

You can’t track the exact moments where she starts to blue screen on you, but you can guess it's somewhere between you pinching her nipple and when you slide a third finger into her. The pressure, the stretching—it’s, like, everything she wants as of right now. She lets out this choked-up cry that you like to hear, the supple curve of her back growing more defined as she arches just a little more. She doesn't hold back, she never does. When you’re making her feel good, you can bet some good money that she’ll let you know. She’ll find her own way to express herself, be it through sound or action or words—sometimes a combination of all three. 

The way she feels around your fingers—delicate squeezing and sweet pressure around your digits as they stretch her to new lengths—is nothing short of enthralling. You can feel her pulse around you, the dull throb of her heartbeat as it beats for the sole purpose of getting all that blood rushing into the right areas. Your hand is kinda messy, fingers coated down to your knuckles in the sweet substance from her heat. Miyeon starts to writhe, squirm. A whine leaves her mouth. It’s followed by another, and another, and another—keeps going till the whiny stream ends with a guttural moan. 

Her legs close around your wrist. Her throat bobs.

“Mmph… baby…” her hand flails a bit as she tries to search for you. She catches your shoulder and her nails dig in. “Your mouth… I want your mouth on me.”

You always loved how forthcoming she is. 

“Miyeon…” you drawl, and this next bit is really just for the fun of it. “What’s the magic word?”

She laughs softly through the pleasure, lets a smile grace your eyes. She doesn’t fight it; she wants it—wants you. She just wants you in any shape or form. Any version of you will do; she’ll take all the different sides of you in a heartbeat. All she needs is you. “Please.”

You’ve never found so much delight in hearing that word. Kinda makes you want to hear it again.

“I can’t hear you,” your thumb presses down onto her clit. Her thighs start to twitch. 

“Please!” she yells that magic word in the form of a shout this time. Your cheeks hurt from how widely you’re beaming.

You retract your fingers. They come up to your mouth so you can taste her off of them. She’s nothing short of delicious, and you can kinda tell that she knows it because she’s smirking as she watches you clean off yourself.

“How are we feeling about the samples?” she has that proud gleam in her eye. “Pineapple’s been in my diet as of late… Just wondering if anything’s different.”

You smack your lips. “Picking up on a little tang here… Can’t be sure though.”

Her hands slide down to her hips, thumbs hooking into the band of her panties and pulling them down her thighs. “No worries. There’s more where it came from.”

The gall of this girl is insane, you’re thinking, smirking as you assist the journey of her underwear down her slim, milky legs. Like all your other clothing, it’s tossed aside. 

Miyeon spreads thighs, bends her knees so that her feet are flat on the floor.  You get in position, let your palms slide down her body with careful consideration: run your hands over the sensitive parts of the stomach, skim that one portion of her inner thigh that makes her shiver. She watches—waiting and anticipating while failing to keep her excitement off her face. 

She is glistening, swollen and plump to your eyes, kinda far ahead considering that you just used your fingers. She’s eager, unashamed and more proud than embarrassed about her arousal. Her legs shift a bit. She looks at you, a fingernail between her teeth as she exhales sharply when your thumb traces the outline of her pussy, careful in its endeavor as you feel the muscles around her slick tense up in response. Oh she’s so damn impatient right now, but she lets you get away with all of this because it gets her off a little harder; the teasing is just part of the show and the climax will probably follow pretty soon, fast and hard

“You’ve been looking forward to this, huh?” you remark, watching as her eyelids flutter when you put a little pressure with the pad of your thumb. 

“Mhm…” she replies. It’s a low hum, one that resonates in her throat rather pleasantly. “You have no idea…”

You laugh. Your eyes roll towards the ceiling then set themselves back on her. “Please… We both know I have some idea,” you stop your thumb on her clit, and you begin to draw small circles around it. “You did tell me” —and you have to pause for a bit to use your other hand to press down on her pelvic area, stopping her from jolting her hips up to get that sweet sensation of your thumb rubbing her swollen nub. She whines a little, a soft plea following suit— “about all the things you wanted to do with me.”

She desperately tries to shift herself, press herself a little more against you. The smooth wooden floor hinders her, the lack of friction failing to aid her. Her brows furrow. She’s frustrated. “Yeah, well, if you know what I want so much, why aren’t you fucking getting to it?”

You wink. “Relax. I’m just letting the meat tenderise.”

“Oh shut it you fucking—  Mmmph!”

And the way you part her with your tongue, it’s like she’s butter and you’re a hot knife slicing her open. You're slow with it, and you don’t stop when Miyeon’s thigh stiffens against your palm, or when she squirms a little and almost got your tongue derailed from its track. You know what makes her tick, what makes her hit the octave and gets her nice and messy for you. If anything gets Miyeon going more than actually fucking—it’s definitely gotta be when you get your tongue on her folds. 

“You’re never gonna let me finish my sentences, are you?” she laughs breathily. You watch her abdomen as it rises and falls together with the quick breaths she takes.

“Dunno…” you nuzzle your face in her folds for a little, giving her time to say whatever she wants for a bit. “You did say that chivalry is dead.”

From your bottom up view of her, you can tell that she just rolled her eyes. “No comment. You won’t let my finish it any— oh my fucking god.”

Now it’s the flat of your tongue against her clit that stops her dead in her tracks. Her juices have begun to lather your tongue in their addictive taste, drawing you into her just a little more with each lap of your tongue. You suck on one of her folds, then your tongue is inside her, and she moans, her hand finding a spot on the back of your head that she can grip on to. She calls you crazy, calls you baby, runs her fingers through your hair. Your tongue dips in, circles, laps; your nose brushes against all the right spots of her skin and it draws out these almost sob-like, quiet sounds from her chest and she’s… Fuck, she’s amazing.

“I might take a while,” she whispers to you. You call malarkey, but play along nonetheless.

“Fuck yes,” your tongue swipes the entirety of her in a long, broad stroke. “Please, by all means princess. Take your time,” you don’t think you could ever sound as enthusiastic as you did right now. She pushes you down a little harder onto her slit, and you delight in how she squirms when you push your tongue a little deeper between her folds.

Her nails start to dig into your scalp a bit, and she starts pushing you down onto her cunt a little more.

“You know,” she speaks with this half-whisper-half-gasp, the type of tone that tells you that she’s fighting to stay in control of her own body. “I— mmph… Sometimes I lock myself in the changing room and just get off to the thought of you eating me.”

You suck on the other fold that you neglected earlier. “Oh yeah?” and you get a finger inside of her. She cries out, abdomen flexing deliciously as she turns pliant under the pressure of your finger getting a hold of that sweet spot. You can feel the heat—it feels like your skin is gonna melt. “Bet you get off real hard to it, maybe even harder than you will in like, two minutes.”

“Two?” she tries to sound a little defiant, but her voice is cracking and it’s really not working out in her favour. Your finger is barely pushing up by the way, yet it seems like she’s got thousands of pascals of pleasure weighing down on every part of her being. “Don’t put yourself on a fucking pedestal… I am nowhere close.”

You hum in reply, saving your energy to suck on her clit. And it’s almost like she’s spring-loaded in the way her thighs clamp around your ears immediately after. Her fingers eat into your scalp, a light, searing pain growing across your head as you kiss her right fold, then her left. You can tell that there’s liquid burning heat running through her body, spilling all over her. Miyeon tries to hold on, tries to prolong this for a little more by getting her nails deep in your scalp. But she’s falling apart, coming undone with each second.

“Baby.”

“One minute left,” you put your lips back around her clit. Her head thumps against the floorboards.

“I—can’t.”

“Ugh. Hate it when you lie.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Just fucking cum.”

And she ruins herself. She loses sense of the world for a bit—convulsing and twitching on the floor while you continue to lick her. No cry leaves her mouth; a strained, choked up phonic gets caught in her throat and refuses to dislodge. Her back arches, her thighs flex. Her world fades for a bit. 

Give or take: she takes a minute or so. When she gasps for air, you know she’s come back down to earth. You welcome her with a kiss to her abdomen as you rise up. Her cheeks are rubicund—flushed and making her glow as she smiles at you. She softly captures your cheeks in her hands.

“Okay,” she huffs, taking deep breaths as she strokes your face with her thumb. “Out of all the men I’ve dated: you can cook and eat the best.”

“Twenty dollars says that you’ve said that to at least four guys,” you muse. “Maybe five if I’m generous.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. Inhales. Exhales.

“Hand on my heart,” she uses one hand to push some hair out of her face. “I’ve only said this to you.”

Ignorance is bliss. Believing her is a sort of ignorance.

You willfully let yourself be blissful because you can.

--

(Then fast forward a little. Maybe like, three hours? Or however long it takes for you to have a nap and a shower to get ready to go out.)

“Are you seriously going out in that?”

And you have to stop at the door. You know that tone all too well.

“What is it this time?” you grumble, turning around to face the bed so that she can get a full biopsy of your outfit. It isn’t a bad outfit in your honest opinion, and you’re no stranger to horrible (unintentional) attempts at making fashion statements. Colour-blindness is a hereditary curse; it’s not your fault that you can’t tell that this shade of blue doesn’t work with that shade of grey and whatnot. “I swear I wore this a week ago and you said nothing.”

Miyeon slips out from under the covers. In your T-shirt, she saunters with purpose and urgency as she makes her way over. She stops in front of you and takes your tie into her hands. “It’s either you lose this tie or do something else to this already god-forsaken outfit.”

You consider the options for a hot minute. You’re kinda proud of this outfit—it took a lot of time and vetting through Miyeon to get it planned out and everything. The tie was kind of a staple piece—as important as the shirt or trousers. To hear that (in essence) you looked like shit admittedly dealt a blow to your ego, but why be petty when you can be cavalier?

“Whatever,” you reply, making no effort to stop her from trailing a nail up your shirt. “I couldn’t really care less about how this woman perceives me tonight. Not even into her anyway.”

Miyeon chuckles. The finger on your chest wraps itself around the top of your tie. “That’s an option as well,” she adjusts the knot, though it doesn’t look like she’s doing it to make you look better. “But can I give you one more alternative?”

“By all means, princess.”

She tugs on your tie, pulls you close. Your lips are just centimetres away from hers. You get a whiff of her scent. She’s using the shampoo you bought her. 

“Stay home,” she makes sure that her voice is kinda breathy, tickles your face as she lets the phonics dissipate into warm air. “Skip the date. You have a smoking hot girlfriend to fuck anyway.”

Oh and it takes you just about everything to stop you from grabbing her by the face and just kissing her. It's so easy: reach forward, get her face (or waist) in your hands and just smash her lips against yours. You know she’s thinking the same thing; but she’s waiting on you, anticipating what you’re going to do next. It’s a sick little game the two of you play, but it’s fun as hell and really doesn’t get boring in the near future.

“You know what my mom would say…” you begin, and you know she’s gonna stop you.

“Say you're sick”—bingo motherfuckers. She owes you five bucks—“tell her that you got the cold and so you can’t show up.”

“Expended on that one… And the work emergency one too,” you regretfully inform her. “And no: I will not be telling them that we’re actually a thing—“

“Cause you want to protect me and blah blah…” she interjects yet again, her fingers moving up and down, closing against her thumb in mimicry of a mouth moving. It’s petty, kinda frustrating—but it’s Miyeon. She’s a handful to deal with at times, but at least she’s your handful to deal with. “Been running the same jig for a little too long, tiger. I know your game.”

“I know,” you admit. “I’m a one-trick Pony and my carrot is you. What’s new?”

She chortles at that, and you take that moment to really get a good look at her because by god is she beautiful. Head-turner, eye-widener, heart-racer — not to be a bore, but again: it’s Miyeon. There’s a lot more about her that you could synthesize into words, but you won’t (not because you don’t want to or anything; but it’s more about the fact that you probably don’t have enough time to get someone to understand her.)

Cause here’s the thing (about her, you and both of you): she’s just as human as anyone, and that means she’s just about as complicated as anyone. You’ve got a story, she’s got her’s, and the two cross somewhere to form a midpoint before they start running parallel to each other before meeting again and running together and… You get it, don’t you?

No? Fuck. 

Okay. She may or may not be able to hold down a relationship; and you may or may not have been able to secure a relationship. You kinda get drunk with her over this revelation one night and you may or may not have joked over the fact that maybe you should get together. And then you may or may not have had the hottest sex you’ve had in years before you may or may not have realised that she’s the best thing to happen to you. It’s all kinda hypothetical to you cause you’re still processing the fact that this is all real. Still wondering if it’s a fling cause it’s only been about 3 months since this started.

(Calm down cupcake, no one likes a party pooper who prods on details in the midst of a story. It’s just… Ugh. The story behind how the two of you know each other is so boring and complicated—full of unnecessary exposition like this whole bit really. It hurts to retell it, so here’s a summary: she used to date your roommate, roommate moved out after they broke up, she stayed and hanged around you, here you are now. Fuck the details, there’s no room for it really. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.)

“Save the charisma,” she tells you, really putting on some breath behind her words. “I prefer it when you use it in bed.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now.

The kiss kinda blurs the line between passionate and sweet (if there even was a line to begin with). It’s quite aggressive, a little tender but also a wee bit emotional. It makes you a little bitter, but don’t get it twisted: you love this girl with all your heart and you’d do anything to stay with her. It’s just that you’d love—more than anything—to lose the shirt and pants you’re wearing to make out with her, and then let things flow as they do. Unfortunately, your parents really want you to meet this girl, and you have to get going or you’ll probably get cut from the will or something.

She tries again. “Stay…”

“Miyeon—”

“I fucking need you… Please.”

It’s just so fucking tempting…. But there are only so many lines you can cross before you find yourself in trouble with border patrol. And if there's anything you hate more than lectures, it’s lectures from your mother.  

Her lips graze yours, hovering just millimeters away. She wants to kiss you—bite your lower lip and pull you into an undoubtedly sloppy lip lock. That will end with your hand somewhere on her body that gets the ball rolling (and we all know where that ball goes). She has it in her to do it; she has the right, the means and the fucking autonomy (and audacity). She’s just waiting on you, seeing what happens when she plants the seed of an idea in your head and waters it a little. 

Unfortunately for her, you’re too damn terrified of your parents to let that seed grow.

“I‘ll see you later,” you whisper, albeit a little reluctantly. “Call me if anything comes up.”

She understands that she’s lost. Doesn’t stop her from giving you that kiss though. “Don’t keep me waiting tonight… I love you.”

Ugh. She’s one hell of a woman, isn’t she?

--

So get this: this woman that your mother found for you is possibly the most boring person you’ll ever meet. She’s beautiful and all, but she has the personality that has just about the same amount of flavour as food in the west before spices.

She spends the meal talking about her job, and you kinda just fix her with a hundred yard stare and tune out. You couldn’t give a shit about computer security really—never was and never will be into that shit. It doesn’t help that your phone is kinda blowing up at the moment. It’s buzzing all over your thigh in your pocket. Pretty trippy, kinda makes you wonder if Miyeon had just slipped one of her vibrators into your pocket.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom at some point. You’re not sure how long she’s been yapping your ear off for, but it kinda doesn’t matter. All you’ve gotten from this meal is really just a handful of nonsense and a migraine. 

Anyway: it’s in the confines of the bathroom store that you check on the ruckus in your pocket. The screen lights up and you find that the spasming of your phone was caused by a combination of posts from a news outlet and from Miyeon. She takes precedence over the news.

Miyeon//8:01 pm: I swear to you I have no idea what’s going on 

Miyeon//8:01 pm: I’m getting this at the same time as you

Miyeon//8:02 pm: I don’t know what’s happening. Please come home.

And the way you open your news app almost instantly makes you feel like you’re all too familiar with this. It’s not a headline, but it might as well be from the way it makes your eyes widen and your breath stop for a second. 

You blink. You blink again. 

The words don’t change. 

Suddenly, you have a valid reason to get out of this dinner.

(How you get home is a little fuzzy, but that’s not really the important part. 

What? The headline? Oh you know it, don’t you cupcake? It was literally the only thing on people’s minds for some reason, as if an idol dating an actor is something unheard of.)

“What the fuck?” you ask when you step through your apartment door.

She sighs as you remove your coat and hang it behind your door. “Look… I’m just as confused as you are—”

“An actor?” you interject. You’ll admit that it’s a little rude, but you’re really just trying to make sense of this as fast as possible. “How long have you known this guy?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t,” she huffs. “I swear to you, hand on my heart and the other on the bible, I am not in love with that man.” She says. “I barely even know the fucker, never talked to him in my life.”

It’s a little hard to look at her right now. You have lots of things to say; lots of feelings and lots of thoughts. If you’re really gonna be honest with yourself: you’re scared, hurt and a little confused. Miyeon’s good at lying—a little too good for your liking. Pair that knowledge with your insecurities, and congrats: you’ve just given birth to multiple insecurities. They’re like little demons running amok in your chest. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.

You can’t do this with her now. Not when all this is all so fresh and new. 

But she catches your arm as you try to walk past her. Her grip is firm, pleading. 

“Please,” she utters, letting her hand slide down your arm to let her fingers wrap around your hand. “Trust me on this.”

You want to. You really want to. And so it hurts you to ask, “Am I just another fling?”

You can see it in her eyes when she realises the motivation behind the question. She doesn’t take long to come to the epiphany—just a little less than a second before her eyes soften and her lips part a little. Her expression scares you. You want to run from this all together and leave it to another day, but God knows that you won’t be getting any sleep with this weight in your head. It’s comical, almost hilarious if it weren’t for the fact that it’s your relationship with her on the line.

You like to think that she can’t express her answer into words, so she kisses you instead. You’ll never know why she chose to kiss you, but it's sweet and so powerful that you can kinda live with that gap in your knowledge. You may or may not have teared a little, and you may or may not have melted into her lips a little too quickly. What you can say for certain: when you find yourself back in those eyes, panting with your face between her hands—the words ‘I love you’ escape your mouth faster than you can think. You don’t say it for the sake of it; you say it cause you mean it. You want her to know that you’ll fight for this relationship, that you’ll fight for her.

And it makes her smile. 

“I’m like, in love with your goofy ass,” she mutters, thumb tracing a path along your cheek. “So don’t you ever think that I’d drop you for some slick-back fuck face.”

That’s more than enough for you. Her smile is contagious as you hold her waist. “Crude. I love you, Miyeon.”

“Yeah. I heard you the first tim—”

Of course: you don’t wait for a finished reply to kiss her. It’s a practice, almost a common tongue at this point.

Miyeon lets her hands fall, gets her arms around your neck while you reacquaint your lips with hers. She’s lovely, fucking divine and maybe even a little addictive—straight up dangerous if you’re to sum it up. You wonder, for a second, if you’re being manipulated, and it’s really only for a second because she’s got her teeth in your bottom lip and she’s dragging them towards her. She wants more—more of you and less of this need to prove her love. She touches your chest, palm flat against your flesh as she deepens the kiss. Ignorance is bliss. Believing her is a sort of ignorance. Kissing her deepens that ignorance, makes you all the more blissful.

“I need you,” you breathe, unashamed by your blatant desire to have her right now. Really: you can’t get enough of her smell right now. “Please Miyeon… Let me be the only one.”

She smiles softly. She runs her fingers through your hair. “Baby, you already are.”

You press your forehead against hers. “I know. But can we just…”

You can’t really verbalise what you want out of this. You want Miyeon, but you don’t just want the idea and concept of her. You long for that connection with her, that union and that closure, not just some fleeting, superficial feelings. This woman is quite literally one of your dreams. It’s selfish to say this, but you want that security—something tangible to know that you’re really hers and she’s really yours, a piece of her that you can hold on to that helps rid your heart of those little demons. You hope she can understand this through your closed eyes.

And something about the way she fixes your hair tells you that she does.

“It’s okay,” she assures you, her other hand finding that one spot on your chest. It feels like it’s touching your heart directly, calming it. “I get it,” her fingers wrap around the knot of your tie, loosening it till it unravels completely. “You’re hurt and scared. Frankly, so am I.”

Miyeon wraps the tie up neatly in her fist. Her hands cross over each other as she reaches down to grab the hems of her shirt. It slips off her, a layer peeled away. Then the tie rolls down from her hand. 

“I want you to know”—she drapes the tie around her shoulders, the thin portion ever so slightly shorter than the broader portion as they hang on either side of those perky mounds—“I will do everything I can to protect you and us.”

She tosses the smaller end across her body, cloth flying over her left shoulder and dangling behind her arm. The broader end is wrapped around her neck—once, twice. 

Miyeon steps closer and takes your hand. The broad end of the tie gets slotted into your palm. 

“And even though I might have to be seen with him,” she coos, and she’s a little clumsy as she reaches for the thin end behind her, but she gets it on her second or third try. “Even though I might have to hold his hand in public,” she slips it between her skin and the loop she’s made, ties it off. “You should know: I am yours.”

She shocks you into silence as always. You know what she’s insinuating. You know that she knows what she’s insinuating. Your eyes search her for consent, and you find that it’s the only thing you can make out behind the veneer of a tender gaze. She checks the makeshift leash she’s made. It’s not coming off anytime soon.

You wrap some of the tie around your hand. Your fingers close around the silky fabric. 

(Just so we’re clear: the tie may look horrible on you, but she looks amazing in it.)

You pull.

And it’s just that. 

Clothes come off, lips meet, sighs fly through the room. Her hands explore you, grab you, pump you; your kisses find the best parts of her, the parts you love the most and the parts she loves attention at. The tie never leaves your hand, and you give it a tug or two when you get your digits in her on the couch. You’ll never forget the way she looks when her head is forced up just after it whips back, the glassy look in her eye as she begs for you, keens for you. Never in your life has anything this debauched been so intimate. You’ve never heard sighs out of you and her so luscious. 

“Princess,” you quite literally growl as you address her. It’s not necessary, but the squelching of your fingers in her slick brings out something in you—a part of you that’s wild and somewhat untamed. “I fucking love the way you moan.”

Miyeon bites down on her lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. “Yeah? She husks, her eyes going half-lidded in pleasure when you get your fingers in the same, soft, tender spot on the roof of her pussy. “It’s all for you. Ngh— A-All yours…”

And you don’t know how you can not believe her at this point.

You pull at the tie. She almost straightens completely. You kiss her. Her moans send pleasant vibrations down your windpipe.

It’s all so perfect. And it somehow gets even more perfect when she cums—waves of heat burning through her system; eyes shut and mouth agape; hands around your neck and your name spilling from her lips in a mix of curses (that mostly contain the word ‘fuck’); body convulsing and twitching in ways that make a low grunt emerge from the depths of your chest as you watch her. She’s beautiful—your beautiful princess.

When it’s over, you let the tie go slack. She crashes against the couch, forcing air back into her lungs with deep breaths. There’s sweat on her face, her body. Your hand finds its place on her tummy as you place small kisses on the corner of her lip, her jaw. Her skin is moist and sticky.

“Have me,” and it’s more so of a demand than a request. “Take me. However you want, wherever you want,” she runs her hands through your hair, “You’re the only one I want.”

You let out a low hum. It lightly vibrates at the base of your throat as you catch her earlobe between your lips. 

“Has anyone told you how fucking beautiful you are?” you can’t help but ask. She searches your face or a minute, then she chortles.

“About half the world,” she replies. “But it means the most coming from you.”

(Oh… That line really means the fucking world to you.)

You kiss her, hard. It’s messy, sloppy, and at some point you guys are scrambling to get on top of each other. She wins at one point, and so she rides you—dropping and rising hard and fast on your cock like a lewd merry-go-round carriage. She’s relentless, letting your cock fill her while she blanks out and just lets herself cry and moan like you don’t have thin walls in your apartment. You let her please herself, throw herself down onto your cock again and again till you decide that it’s your turn to have some fun. The tie is your friend, and you use it to pull her real close to not too kindly hiss your instructions into her ear. 

You’d kill to see the look in her eyes again.

And so you have her against the nearest wall in less than a minute, her back flushed against it and one of her legs bent in the crook of your arm. She reaches between your bodies, grabs your throbbing shaft and rubs your tip against her slit. You feel the heat of her pussy—the desire and depravity that burn in her core. You can’t believe she’s yours.

“I’m gonna put this in me,” she narrates her course of action, all breathy and silky. “It’s gonna fill me, fuck me… Maybe even cum in me.”

“I wouldn’t get ahead of ourselves here,” you whisper, your hand wrapping itself back in the fabric of the tie. “That last part? I dunno… Seems a little optimistic, don’t you think?”

She pushes your head in between her folds—not all the way, but enough to part them. “And why is that?”

You pop your hips, push yourself in a little more. She inhales sharply. 

“I only cum inside good girls.”

The smile that creeps its way onto her face is wicked.

“Trust me,” her hand finds purchase on your shoulder, pads of her fingers digging into the muscle. “I’ll be the best you ever get.”

She puts her weight onto the leg in your arm. You slide into her.

And you both take a moment to enjoy the unity—the feeling of the two of you being joined as one; your out of sync heartbeats that feel like pattering raindrops around your shaft. You want to say something witty, a quip that will get a nice chuckle out of her.

All you can really manage is, “Fuck.”

And in response: “Talk less. Fuck more.”

You draw back, push in. There’s the sopping sound of your shaft going in and out of her, wet pushing into warm flesh. You groan. She sighs. 

Tight, hot, wet, divine.

And it goes without saying: when you pick up the pace, she lets you know that she loves the feeling—the stretching, the filling, the push and pull. It comes to you in the form of pure filth: words that have very little consideration for propriety and no room for decency, something along the lines of “I can’t believe you feel this good. I can’t believe this cock is mine” or “That’s it. Keep filling me. Keep fucking— Oh” or maybe even a mix of both. You can’t be certain, because between you and her, you both know that the undulating of your cock into her tight, creamy heat and the almost torturous pressure around your dick is taking you under by the second. It’s not hard to lose yourself in her when she’s basically a little piece of you. 

Like always, she let her pleasure be known through desperate noises and choked up words. “Keep going, please, fuck—don't stop,” and it sounds like it hurts but you know it’s the other way around. Her pleasure coated tongue makes the lust in her words undeniable, her half-lidded eyes ruining the argument that she’s in any pain whatsoever. You yank on her tie, her body curves closer. You need a better look at that face.

(Trust me, it’s a face you don’t want to forget. 

For lack of a better word: it’s porny as fuck.)

It's a blissful dance – the rhythmic, almost metronomical give of her thighs as you slide yourself home again and again steadily and firmly. The smacking of sweaty and sticky skins colliding is almost evenly paced, sighs and grunts filling the spaces between slaps. She follows your lead, rocks her hips accordingly, angles herself and adjusts so that she can feel you in the deepest parts of her cunt. You lift her leg a little higher, spear yourself a little deeper. You listen to your body, she listens to hers. You give in to your desires.

You don’t mean to blurt it. You don’t mean to make the sex more complicated than it already is. But it happens—it fucking happens and you can’t stop it. 

“I love you,” your voice is nothing more than a rasp. She feels so fucking good around you — squeezing, pulsing and doing every little thing that makes your jaw tighten and you legs tense. “I fucking love you, Miyeon.”

She holds your gaze, then smiles, then nods. She nods vigorously, enthusiastically. “I know… It’s all I’ve ever known.”

Your hand on the tie releases it from your grasp. You catch a bouncing breast in your hand, squeeze the tight and taut nipple with your fingers. The tie shakes violently like a snake writhing, bouncing and swaying with each firm impact against Miyeon’s skin. She mewls, pulls you in, kisses you. She lets herself come undone with her chest flushed against you and your hearts aligned as she lets the cries transfer from your mouth to hers. You pump yourself faster, harder, faster, harder. Your finger digs into the flash near her knee. Your blood is boiling, molten metal spilling over and washing over you—gold rush, acid flux, saturating you in this bliss that numbs you out. You can’t tell where your thrusts start and end. They’re blurred by the heat washing over your eyes. You can’t get enough. The way you fuck her—it feels relentless, merciless, a fire that only burns brighter and can’t be put out, fuelled by the heat of Cho Miyeon flushed against you and the sublime squeeze of her slick heat. Everything about this is hot; everything about her is hot. 

“Don’t you ever let me go,” she hisses. “Fuck— don’t ever leave. This cock is mine. You are mine.”

“Princess, I’d never,” you nuzzle yourself into the crook of her neck, pepper her nicely with kisses. “You. Only you.”

“Yeah,” and her breath is hot on the nape of your neck. “Cause I can’t ever fucking imagine anyone else filling me this fucking good. No one has ever filled me this good.”

And her fricatives feel like acid: Aqua Regia—melting straight through solid gold just to get to you. It makes you burn a little hotter, fuck her a little harder. Your heart burns at the thought of her; your brain melts at the sight of her—glassy-eyed and mouth agape while cock pumps her full of pleasure and want. She finds a spot on your shoulder, whispers her proclamation of love— “I love you I love you I love you— Fuck—”—before she buries her face into your shoulder blade. Her love is an animal call, cutting through the darkness and bouncing off the walls, reaching a soft spot in your heart that you hold for her. Nothing in this world is gonna stop you from turning her into a messy little fucktoy. 

It’s hard to think. It’s hard to breathe. She’s become your world, the only thing you ever want to think about. Anything that isn’t her tight little pussy is irrelevant; what isn’t her thin lips pressed against your shoulder is invalid; no pair of eyes will ever match the glassy, lust-fogged ones that Cho Miyeon possesses. Your pulse is rushing, your head is reeling, your face is flushing. You want her—all of her. You suck hard on the milky skin you’ve caught between your lips, marking her, claiming her. She has no qualms nor worries; she tilts her neck to give you better access to that lovely patch of skin that becomes your canvas. She mewls, presses her forehead harder into your body, grounding herself in the sensation of her skin on yours. 

“I’m gonna fucking fill you, Miyeon,” you drawl. “I’m gonna cum inside this pretty little pussy and make a mess out of you,”

“Yeah, yes,” she’s barely holding it together at this point. “Please. Oh god please.”

Your hips move on their own now, taking liberties without signals from your fried brain as you pump yourself into Miyeon with the sole goal of piping her full of your hot seed. For long, wordless minutes, you're thrusting into her in a mindless, fervent fashion, giving in to your desires and your depravity and fucking her like she’s a doll. You relish the feel of her skin in your palms; the feel of her hands pressed against your chest; the sheer, strained phonetic atrocities that rise from the depths of her throat. Your shaft glistens in the light of the room, slick with her sweet juices as it slips in and out of her hot cunt, spearing into her with depth, making her legs weaker by the second. Miyeon cups your cheek, moans your name. You bury your nose deep in those silky locks of jet black hair. You need every last part of her to be close to you.

She's whimpering, eyes squeezed shut, toes clenching; she’s a coiled up spring, a bundle of nerves waiting to be released. Her bottom lip is between her teeth, her throat bobs. She's coming undone, breaking a little more with each thrust of your cock. You know that she’s cumming before she announces it, and when you fuck her over the point of no return, it’s bliss.

Miyeon melts, head whips back and thumps against the wall, positively combusts on the spot and ceases to hold on to the last bits of herself. She lets herself fall through the pleasure, orgasm almost ripping through her system as she shakes in your grasp. She’s such a precious thing, yet she can look like lust itself when she’s busy cumming all over your cock and whining like her life depends on it. She’s tighter, wetter, even better to fuck. 

She really is the best you’ll ever have.

“Miyeon–”

“Just fucking cum.”

Your line; same effect. You fill her, make a creamy mess of her cunt because you can. You fuck her through it, push your load deeper with each thrust. Your cock pulses, spasms, shoots load after load after load into her pussy till you can’t take it anymore and jitter to a halt, and there’s nothing left but a filthy mess flowing out at the base of your cock where her lips are splayed the widest. It’s a sight for sure. 

(And there really isn’t a word for the moment that the two of you share in that wrinkle in time, that moment where it’s just all warm and fuzzy and you have your forehead pressed against hers.)

You cradle her in your arms, kiss her chest, her jaw, her lips. It’s tender, it’s gentle.

“We’ll figure this out,” she pants through closed eyes. “I promise you: you and me, we’re gonna figure this all out.”

Somehow, you don’t doubt it.

--

(Still here? Great. We’re getting to the good part. Get your special sock out or something.)

So the newest rage of the K-pop scene is the photo of Miyeon kissing him in a car.

It's a publicity stunt—the whole damn relationship. They are supposed to appear in love according to Miyeon, and it was his idea to kiss her. She never consented and he just did it. It’s a pretty lewd photo: up close and personal and all. You can see his lips on hers, his hand on her breast and they’re like, clearly getting it on in three. Pretty steamy if you do say so yourself,

(...)

Oh fucking hell. Who are you kidding describing this photo like you’re just viewing an artwork. It makes your blood boil, and speaking to her after seeing this photo feels like dancing to alarm bells when you feign ignorance and just talk with her like it’s a normal Wednesday. You’re gonna hurt yourself at this rate, but she really means too much.  

She told you that he forced his lips on hers, you believe her to the best of your ability. You kiss her, tell her it’s okay, that she’s doing what she has to do to protect the two of you. She says she’s sorry, that she feels like she’s failed you. You kiss her again—albeit a little half-hearted—and assure her once more that it’s okay. You want to nurse her pain, but you also have your own problems to deal with.

And as if this fucking actor hasn’t interfered enough with your relationship, he has the audacity to call during the make up sex.

Her phone starts to ring when she’s on her hands and knees on your bed, and you’re fucking her into the mattress like she’s some pliant plaything. There's a rage inside you that hasn’t been quenched, and you don’t realise that it’s bringing out that dark side of you till you spank her ass a little harder than you intended to. It doesn’t help that you kinda twitch when you hear her yelp, and it really doesn’t help when she tightens after the second spank. The phone only continues to vibrate next to her head.

“Baby,” she rasps. “My phone…”

“Pick it up,” you hiss. “Pick it up and let whoever the fuck it is hear how you’re being fucked like a slut.”

Degradation has never really been a kink of yours, but you know she’s kinda into it. Even so, you’re not calling her a slut because you consciously want to. You feel like an asshole for being angry, kinda hate yourself a little for not being able to accept that she’s doing what she needs to do. And then you kinda hate her for making you hate yourself and— Ugh. It just gets more complicated the more you try and rationalise it. You can’t stop the hot blood from coursing through your system, fuelling your firm strokes into her tight heat like you’re trying to inject all the hate in your body into her. 

Her hand that was once clawing at the sheets now reaches for her phone. You keep thrusting as she flips it over, keep thrusting as she shows you the caller ID, keep thrusting as she looks back at you with a gaze that says “are you sure?”. You hope she isn’t met by that dark look you often see when you look at yourself in the mirror after a new headline about them hits your screen. It’s funny how one person can flip the idea of make-up sex on its head—turn it from something so tender and beautiful to a spite-fuelled fuck fest that’s gonna make things more complicated. She hasn’t even picked up the fucking phone, but you can hear his sick voice in your head as you drive yourself deeper into her cunt, fuck her harder and faster than you knew you could. She’s in no state to answer the phone, yet her finger taps on the ‘accept call’ button. 

(She would’ve rejected it if she could, but she got into some deep shit the last time that happened. Must’ve been threatened or something for her to pick up the phone while she’s getting fucked.)

“Hello?” she does her best to steady her voice, and she’s doing pretty well considering how loud the smacking of skin against skin is. She presses the phone a little tighter against her left ear. You don’t intend on stopping. Let him hear her being owned by you for all you care. “T-This is a bad… a bad time.”

Damn straight it is. 

Your hand caresses the curve of her ass. You spank her again, making sure that it’s loud and it leaves a red patch on her smooth, creamy skin. She contacts around you, gasps a little as you bend down and pin her down with your weight on her back.

“W-What?”—and it feels like she’s talking to both of you. You hiss into her other ear. “I’m going to fuck you like this,” your voice is actually a snarl, a dark one. Your body is energized by the promise of taking and ravaging the helpless, prone woman beneath you, your words dripping with loathing and your thrusts brimming with spite. “I’m going to fuck you hard and rough, and you’re gonna keep him on the fucking line so he can hear it.”—“No I’m… Jogging.”

She’s terrible at lying. You let her know through each thrust—hard and deep, uncaring for her pleasure or her comfort or anything other than your need to bury yourself again and again inside her body. There’s the need to dominate her, the need to make her yours. You hope this guy can act like he doesn’t care that his supposed girlfriend is being prone-boned by another guy, act like he isn’t totally aware of the fact that Cho Miyeon’s body is never gonna belong to him at any point as long as you’re alive. 

(Keep this between us: but with the way you're going down on her, it feels like the message is being transferred to her and not him.)

You hear indistinct chatter. Miyeon bites down on her lower lip, undoubtedly holding back the stream of cries and sighs and lyrical monstrosities that threaten to burst forth. With her eyes she begs, challenges you to do more. You could be reading her wrong by like, a hundred percent. Doesn't matter, not when you can take every liberty with her body because you couldn’t give more of a shit. There’s more indistinct chatter on the other end of the phone; Miyeon says something along the lines of “no. Don’t buy the choker for me”. You give her a choker—raise yourself up and reach around her to wrap your fingers around her throat. Her whole body tenses when you apply pressure around her windpipe. In no universe does this guy not know what’s going on right now.

Cause she’s there—right there, all choked up and struggling to breathe while the fucker keeps yap-yap-yapping away like he’s some fucking guard dog. It irritates the hell out of you. At some point, he kinda has to hear a squelch or smack or two, maybe even a moan or a cry as well. But he stays on the phone, and not once does Miyeon ever have to address the question of whether she’s being fucked on the other end of the call or not. You thought you were ignorant, but this guy is a whole new fucking level of blissfully ignorant. It feels like his sole purpose is to drive a wedge between the two of you, to make you hate her because you hate him. Again: it’s kinda complicated to say exactly what it feels like to be in this situation. 

And you can imagine the moans she wants to let out. They’ll tumble out of her lips like water down a waterfall, and they’ll mix with the sound of your lips smacking against her skin as you lean back down to kiss her neck, stopping at one spot that you know will be good to mark her and sucking hard. It feels like getting back at her—doing all the things you want to do while she can't speak her mind freely (and you know how tortuous it is for her when she can’t moan while she’s being railed like this). You’re not sure why you would ever need to get back at her when she’s done nothing wrong, but I guess it helps to synthesise and dumb down the emotions you’re feeling at the moment.

“Tonight?” she asks. Then she buries her head into the sheets because she can’t hold back this moan that almost explodes from her chest. You’re not squeezing really hard around her throat, mind you—only enough to make her a little uncomfortable, like a tie has been wrapped around her neck. She's getting off on it though: her walls squeeze you a little tighter; her breaths become more ragged and short. Honestly, she's taking your cock so well, and you communicate this to her with a growl. It makes her shudder a hell lot. 

Her other hand clutches the sheets, spasms. She’s pliant, she always is, but it feels like you can wrack her tiny body with so much more pleasure as you keep a hand around her throat and keep your dick pumping in and out of her. You wish you had a mirror to see that pretty face warping under the heat of her lust. You kinda forget that she’s still calling him when she speaks again, cause she follows up with, “I can’t— I can’t believe…”

And if that damn phone call wasn’t happening, she’d be saying something along the lines of “I can’t believe that you’re fucking me this good”.

“Sorry. I got cut off,” she pants. “Yeah… It’s harder to hear me when I’m running.”

Now she's talking to you. The reply is to him, but she’s addressing you. You take her up on it, and the slapping and squelching start to ricochet off the walls and ceiling. What you’re doing should be considered as a whole sin in itself. Technically, it’s adultery, but you’re not too sure if you can even classify this as something that simple. This is jealousy, hate and love mashed into one—a mix of things that kinda shouldn’t go together when you have a woman who’s quite literally like putty beneath you. It doesn’t help that she's this hot, this tight, this wet. She’s straining her moans, and it’s so cute that you want to choke her a little harder. You don’t do it (just clarifying some doubts here), but you almost do. 

“R-Really?”—you’re almost certain that what comes next is gonna be addressed to you. You can imagine her signing your name off on it—”wow… That must be so fucking good.”

Bingo. Gotta say: she’s kinda smooth with it.

“I’m fine. Out… Out of breath” you don’t know how she manages to keep her voice steady. “Y-yeah… I’m gonna come… Don’t worry.”

You hope that she can hold on.

You don’t know how long more you fuck her for while she’s on the phone. It’s a blur; you kinda only see red and you’re still choking her out even after she hangs up. It’s only when she goes, “Oh, fuck, daddy—!” with this breathless, perverse, pleading tone and a voice that’s so loud; her body unable to do anything other than gasp and moan and urge you to really give it to her, and when she says “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” like you’re not doing just that (and only that) at the moment that she’s hung up on him. Now she has every facility available to focus on the rock hard meat she’s receiving. You feel filthy, like you’re doing something wrong.

But hey: the sex is hot and Miyeon’s kinda into it, so you keep going. You keep fucking her into the bed—the same way you would if you were fucking her against the wall or in the shower or against any flat surface, really. It’s twisted, it’s dark, it’s hot; the angle her body is at lets you drive yourself deeper and faster and harder into her wet, tight and hot pussy like you never have before. You’re experiencing a novelty, a new chapter.

(Caveat: is it kinda messed up that you call her a cocksleeve? Not really? Huh.)

“God Miyeon…” you feel like the voice that comes from your throat is not your own. “You’re such a good fucking cocksleeve for me,” and you may or may not be tightening the grip around her throat as you speak. “So tight and wet for me. You’re such a good fuck.”

“Oh daddy, fuck you’re so big and deep in me,” she gasps. She has lots to say, even though air is like a fucking luxury for her. She rarely calls you Daddy, yet she’s using her precious air to do so now. “Fuck, fuck me as hard as you can, daddy! Do whatever you want with me! Own me! Take me!”

You barely recognise the woman she’s become: depraved, sordid and one hell of a hot mess. You love it. It’s fantastic. Fucking fantastic.

And she falls apart under you not long after, writhing and moaning and twitching as this beautiful mess of a woman you’ve made out of her. You want to cum in her, really own her; but your thoughts are fueled too much by the hate in your heart that they're wilder than anything she can ever imagine. 

You pull out of Miyeon, your shaft glistening in the dim light. You get off the bed, pull her away with you. Her mouth opens to say something. You kiss her—shut her up. She moans into your mouth, and you swallow it, bite her lower lip, and it's not rough, but enough to get her attention.

“You’ve gotten enough loads inside your pussy,” you husk. “Get on your knees. I want your mouth.”

She nods, and you relish the disappointment in her eyes. You push down firmly on her shoulders. She goes with the motion, and you're not sure if you can ever get over the image of Miyeon on her knees with her pretty little princess face staring at you with anticipation. You think about fucking her face, letting your cock thrust into the back of her throat over and over and over till you paint her face in a messy spray of cum. 

And you know what? You’ll do just that.

Of course, Miyeon perfectly understands what has to be done. You step up to her. She parts her lips and takes your cock right into her mouth, grasping the base of your cock and pumping it with one hand while she gently cups and squeezes your balls with the other. The pace she launches into is hard and fast; blurring her chocolate hair and your vision—taking the top half of your cock in and out of her wet mouth with rapid urgency while her fingers work your shaft in a corkscrew motion. The suction of her mouth is almost lethal, the seal sublime; and the audacity she has to look up at you while she takes your cock in and out of her mouth is so exhilarating that it makes you weak in the knees. She’s gorgeous, even more so when she’s got cock in her mouth.

Your hand finds a clump of her black, sweaty hair, and you close your fingers around it, holding them in your fist. You push her head down onto your cock, pop your hips and start thrusting with firm, slow strokes. She exceeds every expectation you ever had, adapting to you, changing to please you. Your eyes shut involuntarily. Your brain blocks out all sensations that aren’t the wet, hot cavern of Miyeon’s mouth sealed tightly around your shaft. With the first entry into her mouth her wet tongue is pressed tightly against the underside of your shaft, lathering it with her spit. The backstroke is somehow even better, that pretty little mouth endeavoring to suck you right back in when you draw yourself back out. It feels like time stands still, but Miyeon’s still in motion, and she’s the one making you feel like all the natural laws in the world are being defied.

A small part of you knows that you have to see it happening in order to truly believe it’s all real, so you force your eyes open to watch the spectacle unfolding between your legs. Smoky eyes glazed with pure lust staring right up at you, watering, projecting perverse pleasure with a gaze; hollow cheeks and a seemingly unhinged jaw to accommodate your length; spit leaking from the corners of her mouth, dribbling down her chin.

“Fuck I—” is all you manage to say (or maybe ‘grunt’ is a better word) before your orgasm takes the reins to your body. It overwhelms your senses, but you force your eyes open to watch as you pull Miyeon off your dick just in time. Thick, glistening cum erupts from your tip to land on Miyeon’s face, on her cheeks and nose, painting her smoky features with pearlescent, warm ropes. You paint her face with your hot white seed, and it’s far from an elegant piece of art. She doesn’t look anything like one of the French girls she wanted to be painted like, but the look of utter lust on her needy features is still breathtaking—mouth open, tongue out, eyes closed in delight and bliss.

Ugh, she's one hell of a woman, isn’t she?

And when it’s all over, she takes your cock in her hand and licks off the drops that she’d been deprived of. 

“If you ever do that again.” you love the raspy touch to her voice. The lilt in it is doing wonders too. “I’m gonna make sure that you’ll be calling your mom the next time I blow you.”

You roll your eyes and sigh. “Whatever you say, princess…”

The hate seems to fade. Your heartbeat slows.

Maybe this relationship is salvageable. Maybe you guys can last.

You talk to her about it afterwards and apologise sincerely. She says that she didn’t think much of it when it was happening. Then you guys are at peace again.

(What do you think? How long does the honeymoon last? A month more? 

Two?

Generous.

Try one. Fucking. Week.)

--

“Okay. Hands down: this is the best Jjamppong I’ve eaten.”

The growing pile of clam shells beside her bowl tells you that you did something right. It’s the first time you've made this dish, and there’s always that lingering worry that you fucked up somewhere along the way when you eat it for the first time. The soup seasoning is a little off in some places (you don’t know where exactly), but it’s nothing a dash of fish sauce and some chilli flakes can’t fix.

“I mean,” Miyeon continues, speaking between small yet generous mouthfuls of noodles. “You only get better and better at cooking. I don't know how you do it.”

You give a half-hearted smile. Your noodles have kinda gone cold by now: you’ve been stirring them around with your chopsticks for the past five minutes or so. Appetite has become a luxury for you these days, and it’s one of those days where a new article about him and her comes out, one of those days where you both agreed to put a pin on it and just enjoy life. “Well… It’s a lot of love and care, I guess.”

“You can say that again,” she smiles. “Thank you for making dinner. No one cooks like you.”

“Thank you for cutting scallions,” you say. “No one cuts them like you do.”

She laughs and waves it off, then takes another slurp of her noodles. “I honestly don’t know if I like your tomato soup over this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. My tomato soups have always been the peak of my cooking prowess.”

“I really don’t know!” she tells you, grabbing another clam from the centre of the table. “This stuff is all smoky and tasty… It just feels like home and I—”

You drop your chopsticks into your bowl. Soup splashes onto the table.

“How do I keep living like this, Miyeon?” you ask. There are only so many pins in your possession and you feel like you’ve used all of them. “I’d love to sit here and talk to you about how I made this meal like everything’s okay, and this is just Thursday and maybe we’ll get ice cream later… But it’s not like that right now.”

Miyeon takes your hand in hers. 

“I can’t pretend like things are the same when everything’s… different,” you close your eyes, take a breath. “I love you, Miyeon. You’re like, the best thing that’s ever happened to me and… I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

You can hear her take a breath to start speaking. You really want to let her, but there’s too much on your chest. 

“I know you’re doing what you have to, for me, for us,” you want—oh so badly––to just bury your face in your hands right now. But once you do that, the tears will inevitably come and your ability to speak your mind will disappear faster than you can regain yourself. “But it hurts. It hurts to see you holding his hand, walking around and… and kissing him.”

Your heart stings when you see the tears welling in her eyes when you find it in you to look at her. The last thing you want is to see her in pain. This next bit hurts you even more to say, but you know that it’s better to tell her how you feel.

“I feel like I’m an open wound… and you're just pouring salt on me,” and you start to choke up a little. “I’m sorry to put it that way but—”

“No,” she interjects. “No. I get it… I-I understand.”

And for a moment, it feels like everything's okay for a bit.

Then she comes around the table to kiss you, and hell’s bells start ringing all over again. It hurts to kiss her, but it feels so right.

Miyeon leans into you. She kisses you. She pulls you close. She lets you run your hands across her body, down her back. You stand. Your tongue pokes into her mouth. One of you says I need you and you don’t know who it is.

And like when things were okay: you guys don’t make it to the couch.

You get naked. She gets naked. The sex isn’t about pleasure or thrill. It’s the aching within the both of you that drives your shaft into her cunt, rocks her hips as you fuck her. You quite literally make love with her, your strokes passionate and fervent; her cries are earnest and wanton, full of longing. For long moments when her chest is against yours, your hearts are aligned. You wish that you could fuse them together, take away the pain by making the two of you one singular person there on the floor. It feels possible when your dick is throbbing inside of her, pumping her slick with rock hard meat again and again and again.

But the thing that sucks the most is that you can’t do that. You’re two separate people with two separate problems that kinda overlap at the same point.

You have her bent over the counter, propped up on the kitchen sink—anywhere you could reach was a surface for you and her. And normally you’d be a bit of a party pooper about fucking on these surfaces, but today you really can’t give more of a shit. You want to feel like everything’s okay again, like you’re not fighting for your life to hold on to this relationship that’s being torn apart day by day, night by night.

And you may have pieces of each other deep within your souls, but they don’t seem to fit anymore.

When it’s all over and you’re panting against the dishwasher, reality hasn’t changed and you’re still torn. You have a wound that only you can heal through acceptance, yet you can’t find it in you to accept that this is the life you have to lead. You want to love her. You want it so bad. But you can’t find the will in you to love her when there’s another man in the picture, albeit that her love for him isn’t even minimally a concept. You can’t nurse her injuries either, and it hurts to know that as her delicate hands cradle your cheeks. Her touch is perfect, her breaths are soft on your skin. The two of you have tried so hard to make it work, yet you’ve only come so far. The solution to this problem is like thousands of hot fire pokers stabbing you simultaneously, and it only hurts because it’s the only way forward for the both of you. 

“Miyeon,” you can’t quite believe what you’re about to say. The tears streaming down your  cheeks aren’t making anything easier. “Let’s break up.”

(And this isn’t for pity: but you cry yourself to sleep after she leaves that night. Ain’t it fun being heartbroken? You would know how it feels, right cupcake?)

--

Three months, two weeks and one day (about 105 days if you really want to be fully accurate. Go write that down somewhere) pass uneventfully—and by that you mean, you never picked up any of the 138 calls that came from Miyeon. It would have been 140 calls if you hadn’t picked up two of them when you were drunk. But hey, she was drunk too. So it kinda cancels out… at least you like to think that it does. It does, doesn't it? Two negatives make a positive? 

(No?)

Ah well. Anyway,

(Okay, caveat, again: you’re thankful that she hadn’t showed up to the apartment once throughout this period. You’ve been stuck between your anger and a blame that you can’t face because you don’t know if you blame yourself or her or him. Drinking doesn’t help to lighten the ache in your chest, so you tried exercising: running, swimming, even pilates; you tried to pick up music—bought a guitar and everything. Your fingers still hurt when you play chords, and you’re considering giving up at some point; you tried to learn how to make those pain in the ass French desserts, and now you have a fire extinguisher permanently installed in your kitchen because you somehow managed to set fire to macarons; and you tried to write. That didn’t go well. 5 Wattpad users politely asked you to kill yourself. Not fun.

One way or another, your thoughts would end up drifting back to Miyeon, and you’d have to sit in place and kinda stare into the distance for a little. And yes, you did question your choice to end things with her many times if anyone is asking. You kinda hate yourself a little for not trying to make things work, and you also kinda hate her for not insisting on staying to make things work. 

It took two of the three months for you to realise that you were both kinda in the wrong. But it’s already too late by then.

You couldn’t get a grip of yourself and fight off your internal demons; she couldn’t stop doing what she thought was right to protect the two of you. Net-net: it’s a loss for the both of you in the business of love. Now you have to look for a way forward through this grey-area mess that you’ve made, learn to live with the fact that maybe you guys just weren't meant to be in the grand scheme of things.

The updates on Miyeon’s relationship with that damned actor kept coming, but it stopped as of late. But for a while, they were all the rage for gossip blogs. Every now and then, a shitty title like “Cho Miyeon stuns with her visuals on her date” would pop up, and you have to swipe away quickly before you accidentally tap on the notification and see her holding hands with him. You’ll admit that you opened some of the articles just to get a look at her face, then smile to yourself for a bit before you fight the urge to punch the spot next to her where Squid Game wannabe is smiling. You’ve succeeded so far.

You kept away from Jjampong and tomato soup with grilled cheese too. It’s hard to take your butter bell down from the fridge without tearing a little, and the fish sauce and chilli flake panacea for food doesn't apply to a broken heart by the way (it’s just really salty and spicy. You don’t know what you were thinking. Probably drunk. 0/10, please, please, please do not try). The two dishes are too homely; their tastes remind you of her.

Okay. Let’s ‘anyway’ for real this time.)

Yeah, so uh, remember how you said that sometimes the news you give each other can be a little heart-attack-inducing, so it’s better that your loves are pretty bland? Yep… Sad to say that the same confirmed hypothesis still stands, even when you guys are on day 106 of your break up.

This time the news comes in another headline—and you mean like front page, breaking news headline—on Tuesday night. Wonderwall isn’t treating you too well. You’re pretty sure that your finger tips might be turning purple. Your phone buzzes next to you like crazy, just like it did that night, and it’s like having an iPhone seizure. You don’t think too much when you put down the guitar and pick up your device. 

And you only read the first six words to give yourself a valid reason to reset your miscall streak with Miyeon.

Idol Cho Miyeon Slapped In Public…

(The title was a lot longer than that. You should know it since you’re here in the first place.)

It’s in moments like this when you kinda wish that speed dial was still a thing. (I mean there's siri and all, but do you really have time for that right now?) In a blur of great clumsiness, you open your contacts and experience no difficulty in locating her number again. She’s on the top of your miscall list, so it really takes no wizard to figure this out.

You hate that she’s letting it ring for so long. Every brr brr makes you tremble a little more in your seat. If your mum could see you now, you’d probably get an earful for your bad habit of biting your nails.

She finally picks up the phone. It’s good to hear her voice. “Hey…”

Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Now you realise that in your hurry to check on her, you’ve yet to rehearse what to say to her. The debate between your head and gut almost tears you in two. 

“You okay?” you finally manage to blurt after some struggle. “I saw the news… Just wanted to check if, you know, you’re still up and kicking…”

You hear that familiar scoff from the other side of the phone. “Please. You know that it takes more than that to take me down.”

If your ears don't deceive you, you can hear a bit of a strain in her voice. She hates it when you jump to conclusions though, so you leave it as it is for now. “That’s… That’s great.”

And it’s silent again. If you were in the business of losing her interest, you’d be making crazy profits right now. Okay, better end this fast.

“Well uh,” you begin, stopping for a second to swallow some saliva to soothe your semi parched throat. “I guess—”

“Can I come over?” 

Like she always does, she shocks you into silence. Your throat dries up. Your mouth is the Sahara. 

“I… I miss you… if my miss-calls weren't clear enough about that,” she chuckles. You swear you hear a sniffle. “I’d like to see you again,” and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears, “for closure of course… and maybe tomato soup?”

Your heart joins the debate between your head and gut. It wins.

Minutes later, your butter bell is open, a knife scraping out the last bits of creamy butter out of it so that it can be used to evenly butter the other side of your bread. You’re moving on instinct, with glee and excitement. You’re not sure why you’re happy. You’re just happy—happy that you’re gonna see her; happy that you can prepare this dish again without the knowledge that you’re not gonna see her when you turn. It isn’t till the doorbell rings that the joy fades, and in its place comes that familiar tension of a two tonne weight wrapped around your chest. 

You aren’t sure why she rings the door when you haven’t changed the passcode to the lock. If she’s trying to be polite? You appreciate it. If she just forgot the pin? Well… you wouldn’t put that past her either, really. Your gut, head and heart agree you that it’s most likely the latter, and you kinda have to remind yourself as you open the door that she's just as forgetful as anyone else.

“Hi,” you catch yourself staring at her. You don’t mean to look at her dress first, but it’s the first thing your eyes are drawn to; it's been a while since you’ve seen her in anything other than a t-shirt and shorts. The white dress she’s wearing is bedazzled out, the light that’s reflected off of it catching you and making you a deer in headlights for a bit. Then you snap out of it. Your gaze travels up to her face and… “You look… Fucking terrible.”

You love her eyes and you love to watch them roll. “Thanks. You look not bad yourself. Gained some weight?”

You try not to stare. You fail—horribly you might add. 

But in your defence, it’s hard not to look at the purple spot on her milky skin. 

Miyeon covers her cheek. She looks down at your feet like there's something really interesting about them. “Are you, you know, letting me in? Or are we just gonna keep standing here?”

You blink. “R-Right.”

And soon she’s settled into her usual seat, nibbling on some grilled cheese while you ladle out her tomato soup into a bowl. It feels like nothing has changed, but you know that’s not true. Both of you know that everything’s different, that you can’t just give her tomato soup and peck her on the cheek.

“So you play guitar now?” she catches you off guard as the bowl makes a small thunk against the table. It’s in the same spot she always places it, and you know because a woodring has formed in that area. You follow her gaze and see that she’s spotted your Fender on the couch. 

“Sort of?” you reply, a little uncertain in how to rate your abilities. “Just basic stuff, you know?”

She smirks and picks up her spoon, starts chipping away at her soup “So you’re finally digging up the singer-songwriter in you… Good on you, man.”

Again, you find yourself staring at the bruise. It’s a deep shade of purple, splotchy and a sight for sore eyes. From the looks of it, he hit her hard. There’s a burning in your chest—a mix of grief, pity and anger as you watch her eat her food. You wish that you could’ve been there to stop it. You wished that you could’ve just dated her under different circumstances so that maybe, just maybe, you could’ve gotten that ending you wanted. You don’t know how she’s ever gonna cover that up when—

“If you’re gonna get something for this thing, go do it,” she mutters. “Chivalry hasn’t died completely, right?”

You nod and scuttle off. It’s easy to lose track of how long you’ve been staring when you’re lost in your thoughts. Is it scary how this feels like just another conversation between you two? 

The ice pack from when she bought that ice cream cake was still in the freezer, and it’s chilly in your hands as you grab it and return to the table. She has finished her soup—not a single scrap left inside the bowl. She must be starving.

Her grilled cheese is half eaten in her hand; she stares into the distance as she chews. 

(And she’s as beautiful as she can ever be, by the way. A lot of people haven’t seen her the way you see her, and you’re kinda glad that you get to witness that tender part of her that she rarely shows to cameras. It’s… It’s hard to describe what it means to know that someone like her finds it this easy to be herself around you, but you know it’s an honour and a blessing.

But when you're looking at her with your rose-tinted lenses stripped away from you, the notions you hold towards vulnerability become contradictory, because on one hand you know that she’ll never hurt you the way she did, but on the other you know that she’s not the same person when she’s not around you. So at the end of the day, you’re just kinda left figuring out which side of her is the real her. Do you believe what the Cho Miyeon you know tells you? Or do you believe what the Cho Miyeon the world knows? It gets confusing, makes you wonder why she ever has to put up two fronts in the first place. 

Then again, it’s not exactly her fault: she does what she has to so she can stay afloat. No industry is free from dirt. Some are just filthier than others.

I guess what I’m getting at is that… she’s this contradiction in my mind. I want to believe her, but I can’t, yet I still love her like she’s just a regular human and our lives are just a little messy. I know there's this whole argument about the fact that idols are humans too and all, but I guess it’s kinda… undermined? Yeah—undermined by the fact that they can’t exactly lead ‘normal’ lives once they’re famous. Look at me, using these big words.

So I guess… I guess dating her was like the worst of all blessings and the best of all curses. Does that make sense?

…

Ugh. I’m blabbering. 

Sorry cupcake, I’ll get back to it.)

And maybe you forget that she isn’t your girlfriend anymore, or maybe you just kinda blank out in the moment, or maybe you just wanted to do it. For whatever reason: you call her name, and when she turns, the ice pack in your hand is gently applied against her face. You don’t think much of it for like, three or four seconds. But when her wide eyes finally register in your head, there’s a moment where your breath is caught in your throat. 

This is important, so you should know: the silence is fucking deafening. 

She swallows the bit of sandwich in her mouth. “I refused to sleep with him, and he hit me like a girl. Fucking embarrassing on his part,” and there’s that smile on her face as she speaks, the same one that she loves to flash your way when she told you that she loved you. “Barely felt it. Light work.”

You can’t resist—your other hand cradles her unblemished cheek. “Miyeon…”

She closes her eyes. She knows that tone you’re using, the one that’s like ‘don’t lie to me’ or ‘it’s okay, you can tell me’. “Look: when the man that loved you the way no one else loved you breaks up with you, nothing can be more painful than that,” she whispers. Her throat bobs a little. She furrows her brows as her eyes squeezed themselves shut themselves a little tighter. “And that man is you by the way…” her voice cracks, her eyes open, “don’t know if I was clear enough.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now. She always is.

The familiarity of her lips against yours almost makes you melt. The ice pack drops from your hand, your palm taking its place on her face. You kiss her like you used to. You kiss her like you want nothing else but her. You kiss her like you want nothing else but her because you want nothing else but her. She’s home – Jjamppong and Grilled Cheese with Tomato soup — and you don’t ever want her to leave again.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks, and you wipe the tear trailing down her cheek. “I should have never… We should have never—”

You shush her with your lips. She lets herself melt into you, her hands running through your hair the way she would sometimes when she called you crazy or baby. You don’t realise how much you’ve missed her touch till now.

“We were both wrong,” you tell her once you break away (rather reluctantly). “So how about we just call it a truce?”

She nods, and she does it enthusiastically. “If it’s cool with you…”

You scoff. “Why would it not be?” and your thumb gently caresses her bruise gently. You want to kill him, but you’ll save that for another time. “I’m the one who suggested it… Guess Chivalry is not all dead, huh?”

And it’s good to hear her laugh again.

“Come here you big idiot,” she giggles, and she kisses you again. 

Then you dive down to her collarbone when you can’t take it anymore. And the rest is history repeating itself.

You know: it feels like you’ve been picked up from the ground. Miyeon has come to get you… she's come to get you.

Maybe everything’s okay after all.

--

(And uh… The media covers the rest. What was it? Like, two weeks later? 

Ah whatever. You know what happens, don’t you? It’s pretty crazy, made headlines and all.

CUBE has some really good lawyers… And liars. Almost the same thing.)

--

“So that’s the story?” 

Nursing your third bottle of cider, you chuckle. You’d thought by fleshing out whole smuts in verbal form would have chased her away by now, yet here she is. Then again: she is an old friend of yours, so you guessed that she’d be rather adjusted to your bullshit. “Are you sure you’re an investigative journalist?” you question her, “I thought you’d ask something more along the lines of ‘what happens after?’.”

From across the booth seat, Chou Tzuyu shoots you a smirk. 

“The news covered it. Why should I pour salt into old wounds?” she admits. Her glass of wine swirls, manipulated expertly by her delicate fingers. “Anyway, I think I got… The main gist of it. Unless you have more information regarding the restraining order filed against you by CUBE, I have no further questions.”

You roll your eyes. No, you do not have any new information about why CUBE decided that you were a danger to Cho Miyeon, and you’ll never know if Miyeon knows either. She was out of town when it happened, and all she knows is what the news reported: you’re allegedly a stalker and hence a threat. You only know that she called and texted you frantically after, but…

You know what? Maybe you’ll think about this another time.

“You do know that, like, you're kinda bad at this right?” and you set your cider bottle aside, letting it join the almost empty whiskey bottle you bought yourself. You fold your hands and lean into the table. The world spins a little. “I don’t know why you’re prying, but I’m guessing that you heard something from the grapevine that you were itching to hear more about. Either that or you’re just… Could it be that you’re desperate to get something fresh, Miss Chou?”

She sips on her wine, leaves the question hanging in the air for a little as she swallows. 

“Keep this between us: I can’t trust Shuhua sometimes,” she muses. “If I’m gonna write about this, I’m gonna have to make sure that all the information I’ve gotten from her can be corroborated,” she pushes a wisp of hair behind her ear. “And for the record: I am not bad. I do my research as thoroughly as anyone else would—enough to know that you are someone who tells the truth.”

“So you’re saying that you trust me as a source?” you can’t help but scoff. “Me, the very guy that got fucked over by CUBE? I could be bigoted and biased for all you know. Or even worse: I’m lying.”

She smiles knowingly. “Respectfully, you have too much… personal voice in this recount that I might as well write an autobiography on your behalf.”

And she stuns you into silence. It occurs to you that you're a little drunk, and you’re pretty sure that you called this woman ‘cupcake’ multiple times. You’re not too sure; you don’t even have half a mind to know what you’re doing or saying.

Tzuyu gulps down the rest of her wine before she rises from her seat. 

“I best be going,” she opens her purse and fishes something out of it. She hands you a card, an address and a phone number handwritten onto it in what looks like a felt pen. “If you want your story to be heard, give me a call… Or a text. Whatever strikes your fancy. I’ll need a version of this that doesn’t include all the fucking and your drunk blabbering,” she shoulders her purse and smiles. “Can’t promise that I’ll buy you a drink to make you talk again, but I can treat you to some really good Chinese dumplings. Maybe we can catch up a little too. It’s been a while.”

You stare at the card, tracing the hooks and curves that form numbers and letters. Your eyes fix back on her. “Why are you doing this?”

She shrugs, and it’s not a “I dunno” type of shrug, but more like a “the proof’s in the pudding, open your fucking eyes” type of shrug. 

“I want to report the truth, and I know you well enough to know that you want that too.”

That's right. Another series. I know I'm doing everything but finishing up Beats Me, and you can go cry a river in my asks if you want. Just kidding, I love all of you, but I want to write what I want to write. Let me have my fun, would you? Also, for the record: I did not finish this 5 days after Beats Me 7. Beats Me 7 was finished before I vanished from tumblr for a bit. This has been brewing since December. You can thank long drives and Noah Kahnan for this.

Anyway, another big thank you to @defmaybe for being such a great sport and reading through the 39 page document that showed up in their discord DMs one fine day. This fic would have been full of typos and horrible grammatical errors if it weren't for them.

Stay safe, Nichu

[professssor]

This post reminds me of one of my photography projects from my senior year of high school. The project’s theme was to create a black and white photograph of what you believed your future would hold.

I’m sure other students submitted work that featured money, children, traveling, whatever their wildest dreams could imagine.

But me? I took a picture of a car crash. Because I couldn’t envision a future where I was alive. It felt impossible.

I never felt like I deserved to live, let alone to enjoy the act of it. How could I hand in an assignment about anything other than death? That had been the only future I could dream of.

Then I stumbled along to the next thing (college), and fumbled around, fell in love, had my heart broken twice, but graduated. Assumed that the summer after my college graduation would be my last, because… what else was left to do for someone like me to do?

It’s been almost 20 years since I’ve graduated high school, and I know it’s super cheesy, but it does get better. Meds helped tremendously, although I still have not been able to forge ahead with obtaining a therapist.

Maybe it’s okay to normalize not having a plan. Maybe it’s okay to say I don’t want to feel this way forever. But you do have options. 🖤

One of the weirdest thing about growing up suicidal is that you assume you have no future, you don’t even try to envision it because you see no point. So eventually, you start assuming everyone else sees nothing in your future either. Recently, my friend and I were talking and she said something about how at her wedding I could wear a suit or a dress as long as it matched her bridesmaid’s dresses because the butler of honor has to make a good impression. This hit me so hard because I had never realized before how other people thought about me. She said it so casually like it wasn’t even a hard decision, just a given fact. She loves me so much she saw me at her wedding, standing with her on one of the most important days of her life. And you know what? There are so many people who think about you that way. If that isn’t proof that you should keep going I don’t know what is.

[cherryxbooo]

You’re my heart, my home

Summary: When a girl joins Mason’s friend group and begins vying for his attention, his girlfriend feels sidelined in their relationship. After a painful fallout, Mason realizes his mistakes and tries to fight for his relationship.

Reader x Mason Mount

Genre: fluff/angst

Being with Mason for the last two years has been nothing short of a dream.

Sure, we had our ups and downs, but we always found our way back to each other.

He’s the clingy, romantic type, always finding a way to hold my hand, cuddle me, or just sit close.

I loved that about him, even when his friends teased him for being so attached.

Their jokes didn’t bother him, though. He’d just laugh it off and kiss me on the forehead, completely unapologetic.

Tonight, we were out at a party with his group of friends.

Everyone was in high spirits, including me.

It was one of those rare nights where I wasn’t buried in work, and Mason wasn’t tied up with training.

The atmosphere was lively, and I was having a blast mingling with the other girls while Mason hung out with the guys.

But then, I noticed her.

A girl I didn’t recognize was lingering around Mason’s group. She wasn’t one of the girlfriends, that much was obvious.

She was beautiful, sure, but there was something about the way she hovered near Mason that made my stomach twist.

I leaned over to Sarah, one of the girlfriends I’d become close with, and whispered, “Hey, do you know who that girl is?”

Sarah frowned, glancing in the direction I was looking.

“No clue. But if I were you, I’d keep an eye on her. Something about her screams trouble.”

I nodded, silently agreeing. The rest of the evening, I couldn’t help but notice how she kept talking to Mason or pulling him along somewhere.

He didn’t seem to mind, he was always polite to a fault, but it didn’t sit right with me.

Hours passed, and I hadn’t seen much of Mason. It was unusual; normally, he’d stick to me like glue at these kinds of events.

Finally, I saw him weaving through the crowd toward me, his familiar grin lighting up his face.

“There you are,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.

“I’ve missed you.”

I smiled, leaning into his embrace.

“I thought you forgot about me.”

“Never,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

We stood there for a moment, just enjoying each other’s presence, before the girl appeared again.

She didn’t even acknowledge me at first, her focus entirely on Mason.

“Oh, Mason! There you are,” she said, her tone dripping with sweetness that made my skin crawl.

Mason, ever polite, introduced us. “This is Y/N, my girlfriend.”

Her eyes flickered with something, was it disdain? Jealousy? Before she forced a smile.

“Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I replied, though I didn’t mean it.

She didn’t waste time pulling Mason away again, leaving me standing there alone.

I tried to brush it off, but the knot in my stomach tightened.

Later that night,

The sound of laughter and the soft hum of music filled the air as the party began to wind down.

I had spent most of the night with the girlfriends of Mason’s friends, chatting and laughing about everything under the sun.

But as the hours ticked by, my mood shifted.

Mason had been absent for most of the evening, floating between his group of friends and, more noticeably, that girl.

I’d caught glimpses of her tugging on his arm, whispering something to him with a sly smile, and each time, my stomach twisted a little tighter.

By the time Mason finally found me, I was nursing the last sips of a drink I barely tasted.

His smile, that usual bright and boyish grin that I loved so much, faltered the moment he saw my expression.

“Hey, love,” he said softly, his hands sliding around my waist.

“You’ve been hiding from me all night.”

I scoffed, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Funny, I thought it was the other way around.”

His brow furrowed, confusion etched into his features. “What do you mean?”

I shook my head, not wanting to cause a scene here. “Let’s just go home.”

The car ride was silent at first, the only sound the low hum of the engine as the city lights streaked past the windows.

Mason reached over, his hand finding its usual spot on my thigh, but tonight, it didn’t bring the comfort it usually did.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, breaking the silence.

His voice was gentle but tinged with concern.

I hesitated, my fingers twisting the hem of my dress. Finally, I spoke, my voice quieter than I intended.

“That girl… She’s been clinging to you all night. It didn’t sit right with me.”

His eyes darted from the road to me, genuine surprise flashing across his face.

“Wait, what? I didn’t even notice. She was just… talking. That’s all.”

“That’s not all, Mason,” I said, my voice trembling.

“You didn’t see the way she was looking at you, or the way she kept finding excuses to pull you aside. And you didn’t see the way everyone else was noticing it, too.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he pulled into our driveway.

“Y/N, I swear, I didn’t mean to make you feel this way. She doesn’t mean anything to me, love. I’m sorry if I didn’t realize it sooner.”

His apology was earnest, his eyes searching mine as he reached for my hand.

And though the knot in my chest hadn’t completely unraveled, I nodded, letting him lead me inside.

Mason made it his mission to reassure me that night, wrapping me in his arms and whispering soft apologies until I finally let myself relax against him.

The days seemed to blend into one long, monotonous routine.

My office job had me tethered to my desk for hours on end, the fluorescent lights of my workspace burning into my skin.

The deadlines felt endless, the meetings never-ending.

By the time I dragged myself home each evening, exhaustion was my only companion.

Mason, too, was caught in the whirlwind of his demanding football schedule: training, travel, matches, and media obligations filling his calendar.

Our moments together became fleeting. In the mornings, he would kiss my forehead as I groggily clung to the last few minutes of sleep before facing my own hectic day.

At night, we exchanged tired "goodnights" before collapsing into bed, too drained to have a real conversation.

It was like we were ships passing in the night, brushing past each other but never truly docking.

One Friday evening, I found myself with an unfamiliar luxury: a free night.

No emails to check, no looming deadlines, just peace.

The thought of spending the evening with Mason filled me with excitement.

I hadn’t had a moment to truly connect with him in weeks, and I missed him desperately.

I decided to text him: "Hey, how about a cozy night in? Just us. I’ll cook dinner, and we can watch a movie or something. I miss you. ❤️"

The little "delivered" icon appeared, and I waited.

My mind wandered to the memories of our lazy nights together, how we’d cuddle under a blanket on the couch, my head on his chest while his fingers absentmindedly played with my hair.

I smiled at the thought, hoping tonight could be like that.

When Mason finally walked through the door, I felt a flicker of hope.

His smile was warm and familiar, and he pulled me into his arms without hesitation.

“Hey, love,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple.

His cologne was comforting, wrapping around me like a favorite blanket.

I leaned into him, letting the weight of my day melt away.

“Hi,” I said softly, savoring the moment before pulling back.

“I was thinking we could have a night in tonight. Just us.”

My voice was light, but the anticipation was evident. “I miss spending time with you.”

For a moment, Mason’s smile faltered.

His hands stilled on my waist as his expression shifted, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

“I would love that,” he began, his tone apologetic,

“but… I already told the guys I’d meet them tonight.”

The spark of excitement in my chest dimmed, replaced by a sinking feeling.

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat, trying to keep my voice steady.

“And her?” I asked, not needing to say the name aloud.

Mason hesitated, guilt flashing across his face.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, “she’ll probably be there.”

I nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

“Okay, have fun.”

His brow furrowed slightly as he studied me, but I stepped back before he could say more.

Mason leaned in to kiss my forehead, a gesture that once made me feel safe but now felt hollow.

“Love you,” he said softly before heading upstairs to change.

“Love you, too,” I replied automatically, though my voice lacked conviction.

As soon as he disappeared upstairs, the smile I had been holding crumbled.

I sank onto the couch, staring blankly at the flickering light of the television I hadn’t even realized I turned on.

My chest felt heavy, like a weight I couldn’t lift no matter how hard I tried.

Why couldn’t I shake this feeling? Was I overreacting? Was I being unreasonable?

But deep down, I knew the answer. This wasn’t just about tonight.

It was about the growing distance between us, about the way our once unshakable connection now felt like it was fraying at the edges.

And it was about her, the girl who seemed to have inserted herself into our lives, lingering like an unwelcome guest.

I replayed every interaction I had seen between Mason and her.

The way she laughed too hard at his jokes, the way her hand always seemed to find its way to his arm.

And worst of all, the way Mason didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t seem to mind.

When Mason came back downstairs, his smile was easy, oblivious to the storm raging in my chest.

“Don’t wait up, yeah?” he said, grabbing his keys.

I nodded, my voice failing me, and watched as he walked out the door.

The sound of it closing behind him echoed in the quiet of our home, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Over the following weeks, the pattern repeated like a cruel cycle I couldn’t escape.

Every time we had a rare opportunity to spend time together, Mason had other plans.

He would promise me he’d be home early or that we’d plan something soon, but it never happened.

And she was always there.

I tried to push my feelings aside, telling myself that Mason loved me and that I was being irrational.

But each time her name came up in conversation or I saw another picture of them together with his friends, the knot in my stomach tightened.

It all came to a head one evening when I found myself sitting alone at the dinner table.

I had made Mason’s favorite meal, hoping for once we could share an evening like we used to.

I even lit candles, trying to recreate the warmth that felt so distant now.

But as the hours ticked by and my phone buzzed with a text:

“Sorry, love. Running late. Don’t wait up.”

I realized I was fooling myself.

When Mason finally came home that night, he found me curled up on the couch, pretending to be asleep.

I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t bear the guilt in his eyes or the empty promises of “I’ll make it up to you.”

The next morning it was the same again, he kissed my forehead and whispered a soft “I love you” before leaving for training.

I whispered it back, but the words felt hollow in my mouth.

The weeks that followed were marked by a growing distance between us.

Mason seemed unaware of the storm brewing inside me, while I became an expert at pretending everything was fine.

But the truth was, I felt like I was losing him, and losing myself in the process.

Every time her name came up, it was like a knife twisting in my chest.

And every time Mason chose to spend time with his friends, and her instead of me, it felt like another crack in the foundation of our relationship.

I wanted to tell him how I felt, to lay everything out and make him understand.

But every time I tried, the words caught in my throat.

What if he didn’t see it the way I did? What if I was the only one who felt this way?

Late at night, as I lay in bed next to him, I would stare at the ceiling, wondering when things had started to change.

And if they could ever go back to the way they were.

It was Sunday, the day I had been looking forward to all week.

My only day off, my sanctuary from the endless grind of work and responsibilities.

I had envisioned a lazy morning spent tangled in the sheets with Mason, the sunlight filtering through the curtains as we sipped coffee in bed.

I wanted a day to pause and just be with him, to feel like we were still us amidst the chaos of our separate lives.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen as I poured myself a mug.

I smiled to myself, thinking about how I’d surprise Mason with breakfast in bed.

He deserved a break too, after all.

When Mason wandered into the kitchen, his hair still ruffled from sleep, I felt a flicker of hope.

Maybe today would finally be the day we reconnected.

“Morning, love,” he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

“Morning,” I replied, warmth spreading through me at the small gesture.

But the moment was fleeting.

As he reached for a glass of water, his next words hit me like a gut punch.

“I’m heading out with the guys later. And yes before you ask, she’s coming too,”

he said casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

I froze, my coffee mug halfway to my lips. For a moment, I thought I must have misheard him.

“What?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

He glanced at me, confused by my reaction.

“I promised the lads I’d meet them for lunch. You know, a group thing.”

“And her?” I pressed, though I already knew the answer.

His hesitation spoke volumes. “Yeah, she’s part of the group now too,”

he admitted, shrugging as if it were no big deal.

The fragile peace I had been clinging to all week shattered.

My chest tightened, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thin.

“Are you serious, Mason?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“You know this is my only day off, and you’re choosing to spend it with her?”

His shoulders sagged, and he let out an exasperated sigh.

“Y/N, not this again.”

The words were a slap to the face. “Yes, this again!”

I snapped, slamming my mug onto the counter so hard I was surprised it didn’t crack.

“Do you even realize how this looks? How it feels to constantly come second to her?”

“Y/N, I don’t want to do this right now,” he said, his tone clipped, frustration evident in every word.

“Well, I do!” I shot back, my voice rising.

Mason ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I knew meant he was trying to keep his temper in check.

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion,” he said, his tone colder now.

I stared at him in disbelief. “Out of proportion? Mason, I have been patient."

"I have been understanding. But this… this is too much. You spend more time with her than you do with me!”

“That’s not true,” he said defensively, his voice rising to match mine.

“Yes, it is! And the worst part is, you don’t even see it. Or you don’t care.”

“I care, Y/N. Of course I care,” he said, his voice softening just enough to make me falter.

But then he shook his head, his frustration bubbling back to the surface.

“But I can’t have this argument every time I go out with my friends. It’s exhausting.”

The words stung, slicing through the fragile thread of hope I had been holding onto.

My heart clenched, tears welling up in my eyes.

“If it’s so exhausting, then why are you still here?” I asked, my voice breaking.

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of my words hanging heavy in the air.

Mason stared at me, his expression unreadable, before he grabbed his keys off the counter.

“I’m not doing this right now,” he said flatly.

And just like that, he walked out the door, leaving me standing in the kitchen with tears streaming down my face.

The sound of his car starting and pulling away echoed in my ears, each second driving the pain deeper into my chest.

I sank into a chair at the kitchen table, my head in my hands.

The tears came fast and hard, shaking my body as I sobbed into my palms.

All the frustration, the hurt, and the anger I had been holding back for weeks spilled out in that moment.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

The constant tug-of-war for his attention, the way he dismissed my feelings like they were insignificant, it was too much.

I needed space. I needed to breathe.

With trembling hands, I grabbed my phone and called my best friend.

The line barely rang before she picked up, her cheerful voice a sharp contrast to my broken one.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” she asked immediately, her tone shifting to concern.

I tried to speak, but my words came out in choked sobs.

“He… he left. He walked out,” I managed to say between gasps for air.

“Okay, breathe,” she said firmly, her voice steady and reassuring.

“Start from the beginning. What happened?”

As I recounted the argument, her silence on the other end of the line felt like a lifeline, her presence grounding me even through the phone.

When I finished, she let out a long sigh.

“Pack a bag and come over,” she said without hesitation.

“You don’t need to be alone right now.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me, and wiped my tears with the sleeve of my sweater.

“Okay,” I whispered.

I packed an overnight bag with shaking hands, throwing in random items of clothing and my toothbrush.

As I zipped it up, I glanced around the bedroom Mason and I shared, the weight of the memories threatening to pull me under.

The bed where we used to stay up talking for hours now felt like a stranger’s, the space between us too vast to cross.

My best friend greeted me at the door with open arms, pulling me into a tight hug.

I broke down again, the dam I had been trying so hard to hold together finally bursting.

She didn’t say anything at first, just held me as I cried into her shoulder.

When I finally pulled back, she led me to the couch and handed me a mug of tea.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” she said gently. “But I’m here.”

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

As I sat there, sipping the tea and feeling the warmth seep into my hands, I realized how much I needed this.

Someone who understood, who wouldn’t dismiss my feelings or tell me I was overreacting.

Over the next hour, I poured my heart out to her.

I told her about the weeks of feeling like I was being pushed aside, about the constant presence of her in our lives, and about the crushing loneliness that had taken root in my chest.

“Y/N, you deserve better than this,” she said firmly when I finished.

“He loves you, I’m sure of that, but he’s not treating you the way you deserve to be treated. He needs to wake up and realize what he’s risking.”

Her words hit me hard, but they also gave me a flicker of strength. Maybe she was right.

Maybe Mason needed to see what it felt like to lose me, to truly lose me, to understand how much he was hurting me.

For the first time in weeks, I felt a sense of clarity, even if it was wrapped in pain.

I wasn’t sure what would happen next, but I knew I couldn’t keep pretending everything was okay.

Something had to change.

Meanwhile at the party,

The party buzzed with energy, laughter and chatter echoing through the air as people mingled in small groups.

Normally, Mason would have been at ease here, relaxed and in his element, but tonight, everything felt off.

His friends noticed it too. Ben nudged him with a grin, trying to lighten the mood.

“You alright, mate? You’ve been staring at your drink like it owes you money.”

Mason forced a chuckle, but it was hollow. “Yeah, just tired, I guess.”

Ben raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.

“Well, if you need a break from all this, let me know. I’ve got your back.”

Mason nodded, appreciating the sentiment, but his mind wasn’t on the party or even on his friends.

The argument replayed in his head like a broken record, your words cutting deeper each time he thought of them.

“Do you even realize how this looks? How it feels to constantly come second to her?”

The memory twisted in his chest, a sharp pang of regret piercing through him.

He had brushed off your concerns so many times, dismissing them as overreactions.

Now, standing in the middle of the room surrounded by people, he felt the weight of those choices crushing down on him.

And then there she was. The girl.

She approached him with her usual confident stride, her smile wide and her eyes locked on his.

Mason tensed instinctively.

He had hoped to avoid her tonight, to stick with his friends and steer clear of any more trouble, but she seemed to have other plans.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,”

she said, her voice light and teasing as she leaned in closer than necessary.

“Yeah, just tired,” he said curtly, taking a deliberate step back.

She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she didn’t care.

Instead, she placed a hand on his arm, her touch lingering just a second too long.

“Come on, Mason. Loosen up a bit. You’re the life of the party, remember?”

Mason forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m good, thanks.”

But she wasn’t deterred.

Throughout the night, she kept finding excuses to be near him, brushing past him to grab a drink, laughing a little too loudly at his jokes, and slipping into conversations uninvited.

His friends started giving him knowing looks, some playful, others more pointed, as if they could sense the awkward tension building around him.

Finally, she cornered him near the back patio, away from the crowd.

Her voice was soft, almost coaxing.

“Mason, I think you know how I feel about you.”

His stomach churned.

He stepped back, creating distance between them.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, though he already knew.

She smiled, tilting her head as if to feign innocence.

“Come on, Mason. We have chemistry. You can’t deny that.”

“I have a girlfriend and you know that,” he said firmly, his voice sharp.

“She doesn’t have to know,” she said, her tone light but laced with something darker.

Mason’s jaw tightened, anger surging through him.

He couldn’t believe the audacity of her words, the way she dismissed me so casually, as if I were some obstacle to be brushed aside.

“Are you serious right now?” he snapped, his voice rising.

“You’ve known about Y/N this entire time, and you think this is okay? Do you have any idea how wrong this is?”

Her smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of annoyance.

“Mason, you’re overreacting—”

“Overreacting?” he cut her off, his tone ice-cold.

“No. I’m done. Stay away from me, and stay away from her.”

Without waiting for a response, Mason turned and stormed back into the house.

His heart was pounding, adrenaline coursing through him as he grabbed his jacket and left the party without a word to anyone.

The drive home was silent, save for the low hum of the engine.

Mason gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white.

The encounter played on a loop in his mind, each word she had said making his skin crawl.

But more than that, your voice echoed in his head, soft and broken from the argument.

He had been so blind, so wrapped up in trying to keep the peace and avoid confrontation, that he hadn’t seen the damage he was doing.

Every time he dismissed your concerns, every time he prioritized someone else over you, he had chipped away at the foundation of your relationship.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, his chest ached with guilt.

The house was dark and quiet when he stepped inside, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the party.

The emptiness felt suffocating, a reminder of the space between the two of you that he had allowed to grow.

He pulled out his phone and dialed your number, his hands trembling slightly as he waited for the call to connect.

It rang and rang, each passing second a punch to the gut, until it went to voicemail.

“Babe, it’s me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“I need to talk to you. Please, just call me back. I’m so sorry.”

When there was no response, he tried again. And again.

Desperation clawed at him with every unanswered call.

Finally, he scrolled to another contact and pressed call.

Your Best Friend.

Your best friend’s voice was sharp and cold when she answered.

“What do you want, Mason?”

“I need to talk to Y/N, I know she's with you.”

he said, his voice pleading.

“Please, I need to apologize. I messed up.”

“She needs space, Mason,” she said firmly.

“You’ve done enough damage already. Leave her alone.”

“But I love her,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t lose her.”

There was a long pause, and for a moment, he thought she might relent.

But then she sighed, her tone softening only slightly.

“If you really love her, then give her time. She needs to heal, Mason.

The line went dead, and Mason was left standing alone in the dark living room, his phone dangling limply in his hand.

He sank onto the couch, his head in his hands, as the weight of everything he had done, and everything he had lost, crashed over him like a tidal wave.

For the first time in a long while, Mason Mount felt completely and utterly helpless.

The days without Mason dragged on endlessly, each hour feeling heavier than the last.

I spent most of my time at my best friend’s place, curled up on her couch with a blanket draped over my legs.

The television played softly in the background, but I barely registered the sound.

My mind was stuck in an endless loop of memories, of Mason’s laugh, the warmth of his arms around me, the way he used to look at me as though I were the only person in the world.

But those memories were tainted now, overshadowed by the sting of betrayal.

Every time I thought about how he had prioritized her, a fresh wave of anger and sadness washed over me.

I told myself that I was done, that I deserved better, but the ache in my chest refused to go away.

“You’re overthinking again,” my best friend said, walking into the living room with two mugs of tea.

She set one down in front of me, giving me a pointed look.

I sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around myself.

“How can I not? I feel like I can’t breathe. I want to hate him, but I can’t stop missing him.”

She sat down beside me, her arm draping around my shoulders.

“It’s okay to miss him, Y/N. You loved him. But that doesn’t mean you have to forgive him, at least not until he proves he deserves it.”

Her words were comforting, but they didn’t ease the knot in my stomach.

Nights were the worst.

I’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, every creak of the apartment reminding me of Mason, of the home we’d built together, of the life we’d shared.

While you were struggling to keep yourself afloat, Mason was falling apart.

His usually confident demeanor had crumbled, leaving him a shadow of the man his friends knew.

At training sessions, he was slow to react, his passes off-target, and his energy nonexistent.

“Again!” the coach barked during one drill, his voice sharp with frustration.

Mason barely heard him, his mind somewhere else entirely.

When he finally collapsed onto the sidelines after a particularly grueling run, he dropped his head into his hands, breathing heavily.

“Mason, a word,” the coach called, motioning him over.

Dragging himself to his feet, Mason trudged over, avoiding his teammate's concerned glances.

“What’s going on with you?” the coach asked, his tone softer now.

“You’re not yourself.”

Mason shook his head, unable to meet his coach’s gaze. “It’s… personal.”

The coach sighed, patting him on the shoulder.

“Sort it out, Mount. You’re too good to let this drag you down.”

After practice, Højlund cornered Mason in the locker room, his expression serious.

“Mate, this has to stop. You’re a wreck, and everyone can see it. What’s going on?”

Mason sank onto the bench, rubbing his face with both hands.

“I messed up, Rasmus ,” he admitted, his voice hoarse.

“I hurt Y/N, and now I might’ve lost her for good.”

Rasmus sat down beside him, frowning.

Rasmus has been one of Mason's closest friends on the team and that's how he got to know you.

He quickly grew a friendly connection with you.

“What did you do?”

Mason hesitated before spilling everything, the other girl, the countless times he’d brushed off Y/N’s feelings, the moment he realized just how much damage he’d done.

Rasmus listened intently, his frown deepening.

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ve been trying to call her,”

Mason said, his voice cracking. “She won’t answer. Her best friend won’t even let me near her.”

“And you’re just giving up?” Rasmus asked, his tone challenging.

Mason’s head snapped up.

“Of course not! I love her, Ras. More than anything. But I don’t even know where to start.”

Rasmus patted him on the shoulder.

“You start by showing her. Words won’t mean much right now, Mason. You’ve got to prove it.”

By the end of the week, Mason couldn’t take it anymore.

With a heavy heart and a bag slung over his shoulder, he showed up at your best friend’s doorstep.

He had come every single day, trying to see you, only to be met with the door slammed in his face by your best friend.

Still, he didn’t give up. Each time, he left flowers with heartfelt notes on the doorstep.

He knew it couldn’t undo the hurt he had caused, but to him, it was the least he could do.

The crisp evening air bit at his skin as he shifted nervously from foot to foot, rehearsing what he would say.

When the door finally opened, your best friend stood there, her arms crossed and her expression icy.

“What are you doing here, Mason?”

“I need to see her,” he said, his voice trembling.

“Please. Just five minutes. If she tells me to leave, I will, but I need to talk to her.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Mason thought she was going to slam the door in his face.

But then she sighed, stepping aside.

“She’s in the guest room. Down the hallway left.”

Mason nodded, swallowing hard.

“Thank you.”

As he made his way down the hall, every step felt heavier than the last.

His heart pounded in his chest, and his palms were slick with sweat.

When he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment before knocking softly.

Hearing the knock, I looked up, surprised.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw Mason standing in the doorway, his eyes glassy and filled with regret.

“Mason,” I said quietly, my voice a mix of shock and pain.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping inside hesitantly.

He closed the door behind him, leaning against it as if he needed the support.

“I’m sorry,” he began, his voice cracking.

“I’ve been an idiot, and I’ve hurt you in ways I can’t even begin to fathom.”

I didn’t respond, wrapping my arms tighter around my knees as I stared at him.

“I let someone take up space in my life that belongs to you,” he continued, his voice trembling.

“I see that now, and I hate myself for not seeing it sooner. I was so caught up in trying to be polite, in trying to avoid conflict, that I didn’t realize I was pushing you away.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I stayed silent, my gaze unwavering.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” Mason said, taking a cautious step closer.

“But I can’t lose you, Y/N. I can’t. You’re my everything. I’ll spend every single day proving that to you if you’ll let me.”

His words cracked something inside me, and a tear slipped down my cheek.

“Mason, you really hurt me,” I said, my voice trembling.

“I felt like I didn’t matter to you anymore.”

“You matter more than anything,” he said urgently, dropping to his knees in front of me.

He took my hands in his, his eyes pleading.

“You’re my heart, my home. I’ll never make you feel like this again. I swear it.”

His desperation was palpable, his sincerity undeniable.

But the pain he’d caused me was still fresh.

“What happens the next time someone tries to come between us?” I asked softly, my voice laced with doubt.

“There won’t be a next time,” he vowed.

“I’ve already cut her out of my life. She’s blocked, deleted, gone. No one will ever come before you again.”

For a long moment, I didn’t respond, letting his words sink in.

Finally, I reached out, cupping his face in my hands.

His breath hitched at the gesture, hope flickering in his eyes.

“You have one chance, Mason,” I said firmly.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice steady.

When he pulled me into his arms, I felt the weight of his love, his regret, and his determination.

And for the first time in days, I let myself hope.

As we stepped out of the room, Mason still holding my hand like it was his lifeline, my best friend stood in the hallway with her arms crossed.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed but not entirely unsupportive.

“So?” she asked, her eyes darting between us.

“I’m going home,” I said softly, glancing up at Mason.

My best friend tilted her head, giving him a long, pointed look.

“You know, Mason, I’ve been Googling ways to hide a body this past week. Just in case.”

Mason’s eyes widened, and he stammered, “W-well, I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”

“Me too,” she said, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

“But the shovel’s still in the trunk. So, tread carefully.”

I groaned, hiding my face in my hands. “Oh my God, stop.”

Mason chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Noted. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

As we walked out of the apartment, she called after us,

“Remember, Y/N, call me if he even looks at you wrong. I’ll be there in five minutes, shovel and all!”

I laughed at her antics but was grateful for her support and comfort.

Mason opened the car door for me, shaking his head with a grin.

“Your best friend is terrifying.”

“And don’t you forget it,” I teased, sliding into the seat.

Once he was in the driver’s seat, he reached over, lacing his fingers through mine.

“You think she’s serious about the shovel?”

I smirked.

“Dead serious.”

He groaned, laughing despite himself.

“Guess I’ll have to make sure she never needs to use it.”

As we drove away, a lightness settled over us that hadn’t been there in weeks.

It wasn’t perfect yet, but for the first time, I felt like we were on the right track, and I knew, deep down, we’d be okay.

The end

[stellasdrafts]

The Light in His Eyes (Vendetta! Leon)

Summary: you have each other’s backs (Vendetta! Leon x DSO!Reader)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: alcoholism (on Leon’s part), some vendetta leon comfort because that man needs it :(, no official relationship but mutual feelings are implied, pining…

Notes: a small Christmas-ish one-shot in january because it’s my blog and i make the rules (i forgot to post in december whoops). also sorry this one is christmas specific but christmas lights are very special to me and i wanted to write a little something about them <3

One of these days, these missions are going to kill you. You’re sure of it. You find yourself sitting on a rooftop overlooking the city, needing some fresh air after almost getting your head bitten off on call today. Being a D.S.O. agent isn’t for the faint-hearted and truth be told, sometimes you aren’t sure how you got this far in the first place. You close your eyes, deeply breathing in the cold, stuffy city air and listening to the night traffic below. What would it be like to live a normal, quiet life? For your only burden to be being stuck in the traffic below on your way home from your safe nine to five? Your heart aches when you have thoughts like these…

You’re snapped out of your mournful contemplation when someone clears their throat behind you. You whip your head around, startled. You barely register your fists clenching and muscles tensing up, ready to throw a punch or something, your tired brain registering the sound as the grunt of an infected.

“S’just me.” Leon lifts his hands, traipsing toward you. “Can I join?”

Your shoulders slump with relief. Truth be told, you wanted to spend time alone tonight, but Leon happens to be the one who saved your life today and you figure you owe him this much. “Mhm.” You nod and pat the freezing concrete beside you.

He takes the offered seat and leans back, propping himself on his arms. His warmth carries through the cold wind and seeps through your jeans. He’s only an inch or two away, after all. Despite your previous sentiment, his presence is oddly soothing. You’ve never met anyone as good as him in your field of work. He makes you feel safe, like somehow, you’re immortal in his presence because he always looks out for his team. It’s impossible, really. You know it’s a childish and dangerous mindset to have in this line of work, but there’s just something about him. You wonder how much that selflessness is destroying him from the inside….

Actually, the habituality of the liquor on his breath may already give you an idea.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?”

“Hmm?” You look up at him, noticing how his eyes are fixed on the sea of tall buildings before you. “Oh, yeah… I like the lights. I’ve always liked lights.”

A grin tugs at his lips. “Oh yeah?” He shifts to rest on one knee to get a better look at you.

You feel yourself melt under the older agent’s gaze. “Yeah. All kinds of lights…”

He just watches you for a moment and you find yourself silently cursing the extensive psychology training the government’s had you D.S.O. agents do. You’re sure he can read you like a book, seeing through the façade you’ve been tirelessly trying to keep up. He has his own, after all.

He looks out at the few festive lights wrapped around balcony railings and trees standing proudly in windows. “Like… Christmas lights?”

That reaches you. You turn your head to look at him with a dopey smile. “Especially Christmas lights. I miss them a lot.”

Your nostalgia must be contagious because he smiles at you too. You never see him smile anymore. In your few years of working together, you’ve never known him to be an extraordinarily sunny man, but it had worsened recently. Little to your knowledge, he likes seeing you smile, especially when it’s directed at him. “I didn’t know you liked Christmas so much. Maybe I should buy you a tree and some lights this year,” he jokes lightly.

You shrug, your smile fading a bit. “We never stay in one place long enough… And people don’t celebrate as much as when we were kids. It wouldn’t be the same.”

His expression softens considerably when he notices the shift in your demeanour. His lips pull into a much more familiar tight frown, his shoulders dropping a bit as well. “Yeah, I guess so…” he pauses for a moment, debating his next words. “We could make our own tradition, you know?”

You tilt your head, your smile fully sarcastic and sour now. “Sure. If we’re both still alive by holiday break.”

He grimaces, evidently not liking the sudden grim attitude, even if it carries truth. Ironic, you find yourself thinking, for a man with his attitude. “Don’t talk like that,” he chides softly, wrapping an arm behind you and dragging you a twinge closer. “I’m not letting you die anytime soon.”

And you know that coming from his lips, that’s a vow, not a weak promise. You lean into his warmth, the cold wind hitting you again now that you’re no longer in your cozy bubble of colourful lights and denial. “Right. Sorry…”

“It’s alright.” He gives your side a reassuring squeeze and resumes staring out at the dark skyline.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a minute or two, admiring (perhaps longingly) the people going about their lives in their apartments and offices. Parents putting their children to bed, couples cooking together, families watching what you self-indulgingly believe to be holiday movies in their decorated living rooms… Even the young man working alone at this hour of the night seems to sit with some sense of serenity. All possibilities of the lives you and Leon could have had if you hadn’t been pushed into the claws of the genius Division of Security Operations. He sighs – if in soul-crushing envy or in momentary peacefulness, you can’t tell. But his whiskey-ridden breath is warm and a welcome contrast to the cool winter night air.

You chew at your lip, getting a bit nervous. “You smell like booze,” you remark quietly.

“I know.” He chuckles and you know it’s a piss-poor attempt to cover how uncomfortable the topic of his drinking makes him feel. “You got a problem with that?” He scratches his neglected stubble.

You know a slightly hostile question is the best outcome for you. If it were anyone else starting an intervention, he would’ve raised his voice already. You’ve seen it first-hand with some other people on the team. “You’ve got a problem with that, Leon.” You stare blankly at the buildings ahead, your previous fascination and warmth for the sight dampened.

You feel Leon’s body stiffen beside you and his demeanour shifts. You look, and like you, he no longer seems as placated as he was a mere minute ago. His brows tug down and his gaze darkens. “Don’t do that. Not you,” his tone is surprisingly tender for being paired with his current expression.

He knows you mean well. He knows you’re worried about him. But he can’t bear having you look at him like everyone else does, like you have to tiptoe around him or like he’s always incompetent and inebriated. He looks away out of shame. He knows you’re right, but he’s stubborn and also knows that’s led to his downfall more than once.

“Are you even going to remember this tomorrow?”

Leon looks back up, his gaze stormy. His defensiveness gets the best of him, as it usually does in these situations. He’s angry, or at least he’s trying to be. But you’re sitting close enough to spot the gleam of self-hatred in those beloved blue eyes. “Why does it matter if I do or not?”

“Because believe it or not, our conversations actually mean a lot to me.” The weight of your words hangs between the pair of you for a moment. “And it’s dangerous to day drink with a job like ours. We never know when we’ll get called out. It’ll get you killed,” you add to try and save face as if you don’t care more about him than you do the other agents.

He cringes a bit more at that, and his anger falters in favour of discomfort. He sighs and leans an elbow on his knee, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”

You tuck your knees up to your chest, even his body heat isn’t enough to cancel out the cold between you now. “That’s what worries me. You act like it’s fine, it’s normal. You don’t even act drunk anymore. You don’t… slur your words or stumble around or vomit everywhere. Apart from being angrier… depressed… you behave normally when you’re drunk.” You turn your body in his direction, trying desperately to get through to him. “You’re not even you anymore. Isn’t that scary?”

He exhales again, letting his hand drop from his face. He knows you’re right. Damn it, you’re always right, but he can never bring himself to admit it. “I… I don’t get what the big deal is. I do my job – well, if I might add. I don’t get into bar fights with random civilians… unless they ask for it. I supply my own drinks and keep to myself. So why’re you worrying?”

You take his face in your hands, your expression softening. Maybe he won’t lie to your face if he’s looking right at it. “Leon, drop the act, please.” From what you hear, he’s a shell of the person he used to be.

His eyes widen with surprise. He doesn’t answer anything for a few moments, your gentle touch making his mind go blank for a second. He can’t remember the last time anyone was gentle with him. He knows he can’t argue when you use that tone or when you have that look in your eye. “Fuck…”

He practically sags onto you as he lets himself feel everything he’s been drowning in alcohol for months. You have an agonizing way of making the tension in his body disappear with nothing but a few words in that honeyed tone of yours.

You support his weight. Like you always do, as he always does yours. Because it’s just Leon. You’d never let him fall, in any sense of the word. “You know, how are you supposed to put up that tree and the lights you offered me if you’re too drunk to make sense of anything? I’m not letting you in my room at HQ if the drinks are making you a grouch, either.”

He does want to give you that, a tree grand and worth being yours, pretty lights you can stare at while you doze off in the evenings, Christmas itself… More than anything, he wants to make you happy. The thought alone makes him happy. He huffs and looks away to hide his smile. “Yeah, yeah. Damn you.”

You let out a breath and a smile of your own, feeling relieved that you got to him at least a little bit. “Try again, please… At least to cut back. We can do it this time.”

He tenses again at your request. It’s not an easy one, and he’s reluctant to agree, not sure if he can even will himself to cut back so easily. But you’re too close, too warm, and you’re using that damn tone in your voice that always gets to him. He wants better for you. For himself, too. A shot at a better life. “I’ll try. Try. For you, alright?”

You hum. “That’s all I ask.” You bring up a delicate hand and brush some of that pesky hair out of his face.

He practically melts into your touch, too tired to bother hiding the effect you have on him. You both know something has been lingering between you for a while, anyway. “Anything else you want from me?” he mutters in a teasing tone, trying to lift the atmosphere he feels he ruined.

You chuckle lightly. “Probably, but we’ll work towards those things later on.”

He perks up at that, a smug smirk toying at his lips as he picks up on the implications of your words. “Y’gotta be a little more specific than that.”

Your eyes soften. Not now. Not like this. “I’ll tell you when you’re sober.” Your timbre isn’t unkind – it’s careful, genuine… You’re trying to encourage him more than anything, knowing he always fares well with a challenge or an end goal.

The muscles in his face ease as well. He gives a small nod. “I’ll hold you to that.”

You feel a spark in your chest of something you haven’t felt in a long time – hope. “So will I.”

You’re more determined than ever to bring back that light to his eyes.

[redpill-tfs]

Red Wave

January 1st, 2025

Yo, so I started this Red Wave trial thing today. The docs said it’s supposed to, like, make your brain work better or something. Was told to track my thoughts in this journal thing. Honestly, I’m just here for the cash. I’m not buying into any of their science-y shit. Took the first pill this morning. Feel normal so far. Guess we’ll see if this stuff actually does anything.

Since I was told to describe myself a bit, I guess I might as well if I want that cash they promised. Name's Blake. I'm 26 and work at a local manufacturing company in the finance department. It's a pretty chill gig. Don't gotta wear a suit either which is good. Didn't even wear one to my graduation and I don't plan on starting now.

Anyway bro, I'm also a proud atheist. Never got into politics, but I guess I'm more liberal. I mean, just let people do what they want, right?

February 10th, 2025

Alright, not gonna lie, I’ve been feeling kinda sharp lately. Like, my head’s clearer, and I’m getting more stuff done at work. My boss Emily even said my presentation didn’t totally suck, which is rare. Oh, and I actually ironed my shirt today before work. Don’t know why—just felt like I should look decent. Weird, right? Maybe these pills aren’t total BS. I don't know why, but I've been thinking of wearing a tie to work...

March 12th, 2025

So get this, man: I bought a suit over the weekend. A whole grownup suit and a tie to go with it. I dunno know why, but I just felt like stepping up my game for my presentation at work today. And man did I look good. I got so many compliments on my fit. It honestly felt really good. My bros thought it was weird and so do I, but now that I have it I guess I'll use it at another presentation in the future.

April 15th, 2025

Something weird is going on. I heard some chick at work talking about her church today. Instead of scoffing and rolling my eyes, it made me, like, think a little. Like I got curious about it. I don't know what's going on, but I might have to check it out sometime.

Speaking of work, I've been wearing a tie more and more. It feels... right. People seem to notice too. I get so many compliments about them. I went back to the store and pick out a whole bunch of different colors. I may be the only guy in the department wearing one, but standing out isn't a bad thing I guess.

May 18th, 2025

Alright, so… I went to church today. Yeah, me. Blake, the proud atheist. Walked past St. Mark’s on the way to grab Starbuck's, and something just made me stop and go in. The music was kind of awesome, and the pastor’s talk about purpose hit me harder than I expected. I don’t even know what’s happening to me, but I’m starting to think there’s more to life than what I’ve been living. I might go back next week to see what I've been missing, but I'm not sure yet.

June 30th, 2025

This morning, I prayed. Like, actually prayed to God. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, but it felt… good. I’ve also started reading bits of the Bible over the past week. There’s some deep stuff in there. Work’s going great, too. I’ve been mentoring one of the new guys, and Emily says she’s impressed with my leadership. Suits are now my everyday thing. Who knew dressing sharp could feel so right?

July 23rd, 2025

I’ve been pulling away from my old friends. Their whole sarcastic, edgy vibe just doesn’t sit right with me anymore. Instead, I’ve been hanging out with people from church who share my interest in self-improvement and faith. I’m even thinking about joining a volunteer group at the church. Life feels more meaningful now. My mind still feels so clear too. I don't know what this pill is doing to me, but it's working.

August 11th, 2025

I’ve been reflecting on some big ideas lately: responsibility, tradition, family values. They make so much sense now. I’ve also started watching a few commentators online who align with these views. Their logic is compelling. Honestly, I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. It’s like a veil has been lifted. Why should abortion be legal? Why should we violate the second amendment with gun control laws? Why do gays think thy can decide how the rest of us live our lives? So many questions I'm learning the answers to. I never paid much attention to politics, but maybe I should.

September 7th, 2025

Sunday service has become the cornerstone of my week. I’ve officially joined St. Mark’s and volunteered for their community outreach. Pastor Williams’s guidance has been invaluable. I’m entirely committed to this new path. My wardrobe, my habits, even my worldview have all transformed. I’m proud of the man I’ve become. I've said this a million times already, but it just feels right.

October 20th, 2025

Today is my birthday, and reflecting on this past year astounds me. My former self seems like a stranger. I’ve embraced faith, order, and purpose, and it just feels right. I got my hair cut to be a lot shorter than I once had it as a special birthday gift to myself. It feels more appropriate for my new image.

I had some friends from bible study over for a small party. I wore my best suit for the occasion. We played games, ate good food, and prayed of course. There was a riveting debate on the role of faith in politics. All in all, it was a good time. I can't believe how much my life has changed just in 10 months.

November 30th, 2025

Today was the final day of the trial. The scientist leading the study asked me all sorts of questions, from my conservative views to my faith in God and my new sense of style. I'm not sure what it all has to do with a mental focus pill, but I didn't feel like asking questions. I'm sure they know what they're doing. Anyways, I better get going. St. Mark's is having an event today to celebrate God and all of His glory. I wouldn't miss it for the world.

December 1st, 2025

The Red Wave trial has concluded with a 100% conversion rate among participants. Subjects exhibited profound and permanent shifts in personality, behavior, and worldview. Pre-trial skepticism and liberal inclinations were entirely replaced with conservative, faith-based identities. This case highlights the pill's efficacy in aligning individuals with structured, traditional conservative values. Further research will examine long-term societal impacts of widespread application. More subjects needed.

[trrsseea]

The Choices We Make

pairing: Bucky x reader

warning: non

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his vibranium hand. The dog tags around his neck clinked softly as he shifted, the sound somehow heavier than usual. Y/n was in the kitchen, humming to herself as she made breakfast, blissfully unaware of the war raging in his mind.

It wasn’t her fault. She was perfect—kind, smart, patient, everything he didn’t think he deserved. But that was the problem. Wasn’t it? She deserved someone who fit into her world. Someone who understood memes without needing them explained. Who didn’t get overwhelmed by crowds or who could actually laugh along with her friends instead of feeling like an outsider in their world. He didn’t belong here. Not at this time. Not with her.

Y/n walked in her hair slightly mussed from the morning, wearing one of my old shirts. She was holding a tray balanced carefully in her hands, carrying a breakfast, golden French toast and two steaming mugs. I assumed one was tea for her and the other, black coffee for me. Her face lit up with her usual radiant smile, a look so serene and angelic that she seemed almost otherworldly.

She smiled even brighter, which I didn’t think was possible as she handed me a mug. “Morning, sleepyhead.” I looked up and took the coffee, but the warmth of the mug did little to ease the cold feeling in my chest.

“Y/n, we need to talk,” I said, my voice low but steady.

She frowned, placing her mug on the table with a soft clink. “That sounds ominous,” she said, followed by a light giggle, unaware of just how right she was.

I took a deep breath, staring into the dark liquid swirling in the mug I held tightly. “I’ve been thinking… maybe this isn’t working.”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” At first, she didn���t understand, but then she realised it.

“We’re fine. Aren’t we?” she asked, her frown deepening as her eyes searched mine.

I shook my head, unable to meet her eyes. “You deserve someone… normal. Someone who understands your world, your jokes, your friends. Someone who isn’t stuck in the past.”

“Bucky,” she said softly, sitting beside me. “Where is this coming from? Did something happen?” She sounds worried and places her hand gently on my knee, her thumb moving in slow, soothing circles.

“It’s not one thing,” I admitted, setting the coffee down. “It’s everything. You’re young, Y/n. You have your whole life ahead of you. And I’m… I’m old. I’ve lived through things you can’t even imagine. And sometimes, I feel like I’m dragging you into my mess.”

She stops the movement of her hand “That’s not how I see it,” she said firmly.

“I know,” I said, finally meeting her gaze. “But it’s how I feel. And I don’t think it’s fair to you. You could be with someone who doesn’t come with all this… baggage.” I gesture to myself.

She stared at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she stood up, crossing her arms. “Okay, let’s break this down. First of all, yes, you’re older. But that doesn’t mean we don’t understand each other. And you’re not the only one who has been through tough things. Everyone has baggage, Bucky.” She says firmly not letting her shields down.

“It’s not the same,” I argued.

“I’m not saying it’s the same baggage,” she countered, her voice steady, “but we all have something we fight.”

“No, it’s not,” she admitted, her tone softening. “But it doesn’t have to be. We don’t have to be the same to make this work.”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Y/n, you’re too good for this. For me.”

She let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You don’t get to decide that for me. I knew who you were when we started this, Bucky. I chose this. I chose you. And yeah, it’s not always easy, but what relationship is?” She smiled slightly at me.

I looked up at her, the walls I’d been building around myself starting to crack. “What if I can’t give you what you need? What if—”

“Stop,” she interrupted, sitting back down beside him. “What I need is you. Flaws, baggage, your dad jokes, and all of you. You don’t have to have everything figured out, Bucky. We can figure it out together.”

I was silent for a long moment, the weight of her words sinking in. “What if I can’t be enough?”

She moved to sit on top of me, each leg on one side, and placed her hands on my cheeks, her gaze locking onto mine. “Then we deal with it. Together. But you don’t get to push me away because you’re scared. That’s not fair to me.”

I stared at her, my throat tight. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Maybe not,” she said with a small smile. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulled her close, and buried my face against her, inhaling her familiar scent. She responded by wrapping her arms around me, holding me just as tightly.

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “You’re stubborn.”

“That’s why you like me,” she whispered into my ear brushing her lips softly against it.

Without thinking, I lifted my head closing the distance between us, and pressed my lips softly against hers. The kiss was tender, lingering for a moment as if we both needed the reassurance.

And for the first time in weeks. I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe we could make this work Maybe I didn’t have to do this alone.

[writing-mlm]

Reddit Discovers a Relationship

Summary: Peter is acting strangely following a trip to Asgard and you, naturally, take to Reddit to get opinions from absolute strangers Pairing: Peter Parker x Gn!Reader Wc: 2k tags: readers gender is up to the viewer, mentions of cheating but nothing happens, reader is the adoptive child of Loki, this is formatted like a Reddit post LOL a/n: this came to me in a dream

r/AmItheAsshole 4d ago

throwRA-unclepleasedontseethis

AITA for being upset with my bf for being weird after we visited my family abroad?

Hii! Sorry if formatting and spelling is wrong, I’m on mobile. 

So, I (20nb) and my boyfriend (21m) met when we were both around 15, dating since we were 17. If it matters we met through my (adoptive) uncle: they sort of worked together but in the way that you work with Jane from Accounting. It’s a relatively small business so we did eventually cross paths, I don’t want to go into details for privacy's sake, sorry. If it’s confusing I’ll explain in an edit. 

EDIT: basically he’s the bosses intern-turned-employee, I’m the weird guy's brother's kid turned employee. He joined at 15, I ‘joined’ at 13, i’ve been there two years longer than him

So, recently I went to visit my dad in our home country for two weeks with my uncle and his maybe gf, naturally my bf, wanted to join. He wasn’t allowed to at first bc the last time we tried something similar to this he kind of died?? I’m not sure if the event is still triggering for people, but it was that global event where the population got… sanded?? EDIT: yes the blimp But after that I get nervous with him traveling around there, I know it’s not normal and he would be perfectly fine. It took a while but I eventually agreed that he could go. 

We get there without any hiccups and he sees my country for the first time, i literally have to drag him into my childhood home and let him set up a room. My dad wouldn’t let us sleep in the same room, he went to crazy lengths for that lol. But that was fine, it was only two weeks. Really a week and half. But we have a good time, he meets my old friends, I taught him some traditional cooking and such, we explored for a whole day. I literally took him flower picking and they're in our living room. He spends some time with my folks, some of which I was too busy for, my friends had dragged me out and one time no one woke me up. The last day we spent I literally did not see him at all, like at all. And one of my friends, I’ll call her Vivi, was gone too even though we all said we’d have a group picnic in the garden. 

Eventually, we leave back and he’s just… I don’t want to say ignoring me but he’s definitely distant. He’s hiding his phone (not that I check it, it’s just he got a screen blocker thing, he’s leaving it face down, and in the car, he stops all the notifications from coming through the speakers), he’s all sweaty around me, genuinely will not talk about the trip, he keeps asking if I’ve kept in touch with my friends and what they’ve said. 

Prior to this. he’d literally shove his phone in my face to show me videos or text his aunt if his hands are busy. I’ve heard his text messages between him and his friends where they talk about embarrassing topics like him peeing his pants bc he was drunk. He’s also not one to really sweat, he’s nervous a lot but it’s never like this. 

At work he’s asking to be paired with other people and my uncle keeps staring at him?? they talk in the corner a lot and my uncle cannot whisper for the life of him but he suddenly learned. 

I spoke to one of my friends, not the childhood friends but ones I made here, and they think he’s cheating. Idk, we’re never really apart for him to. We live and work together. We commute together. Our friend groups overlap a whole bunch to the point where I only have two friends that aren’t his friends and the same with him. The same friend said he’s always been off, she just never said anything bc I really like him. I’m cutting her off because even if she is right, that’s a weird thing to harbor right?? like if my friend had a shady bf I’d definitely let them know when I felt that. But maybe that’s an American thing, I don’t know. 

I asked him about it, I think three times. Each time he gets more nervous and I’ve decided I’m going to be the same way. His boss, who’s really just like a weird older brother or something to me, says I’m being petty and we need to grow up and talk. His wife says she did the same thing to him and the issue ended up being that he was going through major heart problems and she still feels bad about that. But i don’t think he’s having heart issues, our jobs need regular medical checkups and he’s his same healthy self. 

Am I going crazy? Should I ask again?

EDIT: he’s 21 and I’m 20 but we met when we were both 15 bc his birthday is earlier than mine is

——

WNDRGRL639 • 3d ago

NTA, i’m sorry sweets but it does sound like he cheated. That day where he was gone with ViVi for the whole day is suspicious, have you talked to her to see what she was doing?

-> throwRA-unclepleasedontseethis OP

Communication with people back home is difficult. They’re kind of the send a bird to deliver mail type, I can only talk to my dad when he’s in this specific area bc it has signal. It’s a portable device from over here. I don’t want to ask him to ask her because everyone is kind of… fearful of my dad but I don’t think she would do that. 

—> Holding_Space

why don’t you think she would?? also NTA 

—-> throwRA-unclepleasedontseethis OP

bc she’s only into women, sorry I forgot to add that detail I was in a rush 

JoyfulCalling629 • 4d ago

NTA, it’s frustrating when a partner doesn’t say what’s on their mind but give it time. could it have been something your uncle and dad said? are they too protective?

-> throwRA-unclepleasedontseethis OP

I wouldn’t put it past my dad but my uncle absolutely adores my bf, like even if we weren’t dating they’d still have the same relationship lol. but from what I noticed my dad does like my bf, he just comes off as scary to basically everyone 

—> Daylighthatings

NTA but it sounds like your bf wants to propose!! my wife was the same way leading up to the proposal 

—-> throwRA-unclepleasedontseethis OP

hmm. We’ve spoken about marriage for sure, so I know it’s something on his mind. I’m going to hope it’s that and not any of these crazy ideas lol. I saw someone say he’s planning on leaving me for my dad, that he’s cheating with my uncle, that i’ve probably scared him off bc my country must be scary. 

——> Daylighthatings

aw it’s certainly none of those, i’ve read through your other replies and the two of you seem absolutely smitten

fhendnsn79 • 2d ago

YTA, he probably gotten scared by your dad. keeping the two of you separate for two weeks? he has issues. not to mention you kept bringing up him dying! i’d want to break up too probably call the cops too

-> throwRA-unclepleasedontseethis OP

trust me when I say this, I have your address and I’m sending the IRS bc you have unfiled taxes since 2010 good luck in prison!!!!

—-

r/confessions 2d ago

u/spiderman

I asked my partners dad for the family ring and I’m planning to propose but they think I’m cheating on them 

Hii! First time posting, sorry if the formatting is wonky I’m on my phone. Throwaway bc my partner knows my main

Okay, so I (21m) and my partner (20nb), have been together for around 3 years and I knew I wanted to propose to them after they agreed to binge watch all of Star Trek with me even though they hate (and I mean HATE) most alien media because it’s inaccurate. They ended up enjoying it, but that’s not the point. 

Recently we visited their dad, after a lot of pestering they agreed to let me go and I was super nervous. It wasn’t my first time meeting their dad, maybe the third time but I was about to ask a man who could kill me in a second if I could get his family ring so I could marry his only child. I tried to tire them out, meeting with friends, taking me across a lot and I mean a lot of hills and such so I could also talk to their best friend alone. I’ll call her Ivvi. So, I didn’t have a lot of time and unfortunately had to spend the last day of the trip with Ivvi and their dad talking about traditional wedding stuff and how to properly propose (i didn’t even know there was a wrong way!!!) 

So, with all those expectations I’m super nervous. I have to hide my phone bc their uncle is sending me texts about it and he absolutely does not know how to speak in code. my aunt is the same way and I Don't want them to ruin it. I’m also so close to just blurting out the question so (we work at the same place) I’ve been avoiding them. Their uncle keeps pulling me away to ask when and it’s making me so nervous I can’t even think straight around them anymore. 

They’re starting to notice, not start they BEEN noticing but now they’re giving me the cold shoulder. I know this one friend they have, not Ivvi, it’s this one friend they met during college who I CANNOT stand bc she’s fake. They can’t see it because they tend to take things at face value when it comes to Americans because they think we don’t like to lie. I’ve been trying to tell them that it’s not true. But yeah. That friend spoke to one of my friends who asked me if I cheated and i, of course said no, and spilled my whole plan to her because if anyone could help, it would def be her. 

But I know that friend planted some evil seed in my partners head and now I have to rush my plans. 

I’ll update this after I propose tho!!!!

—

DjMightyThor • 2d ago

I just checked… this is Spiderman’s official Reddit. 

Xsavior • 2d ago

SPIDERMAN IS PROPOSING TO NORIDC???

MegannnHorsie • 1d ago

didn’t know they were that serious wow

Spideyfan4EVA • 2d ago

does he know he posted this to his main hopefully Nordic doesn’t see this LMFAOOO

—

r/BestofRedditorUpdates • 1 hr. ago

u/TonyStark

Clearly, I am not Nordic or Spiderman but they’re both too embarrassed to update. You’re welcome. 

Original post- Nordic

Original post- Spiderman

Thought I should update the people of Reddit on the kids proposal plans. I was unfortunately not there but I was fortunate enough to hack into the cameras in their apartment to see it. So, I’ll give a sort of play by play. 

Spiderman, in the living room with the place decorated in Asgardian stuff, rose petals everywhere and their favorite song in the background. He’s typing the Reddit story because he’s so nervous. 

Nordic, coming back from hanging with their friends, enters the apartment. Spiderman posts it without double checking ANYTHING. Chucks his phone into the kitchen sink somehow. 

Nordic walks inside and looks at the sink before looking at Spiderman. Ugly cries, a lot of tears. Like a lot. I asked (got permission to post) and apparently some of the items were from their since deceased family, so it was extra emotional. Spiderman, in full fucking Asgardian, asks Nordic to marry them. Oh it’s snotty tears now. Idk wtf he said, and Thor won’t translate, so…

There’s two rings!! The royal one and one from Nordic’s blood family. They kiss and fireworks!!! Joking, that’s a fire hazard. But he does immediately call Thor, who was in the room with Sam. I heard the tears from my office. They hang up and I’ll cut the rest of the footage bc I do not want to bleach my eyes thank you. 

—

spiderman • 1 hr. ago

MR STARK YOU DIDNT NEED TO PUT THE LAST PART 

-> throwRA-unclepleasedontseethis 

or any of this actually why are you in our cameras??

—> TonyStark  I made them.

[hyunjiiniw]

*ੈ✩ (현진)

HIS GLASSES

your brother’s friend came over with a new look.

────────────────────

────────────────────

✩ brother’s friend!hyunjin fem!reader ONESHOT, strangers to friends to lovers,open-ending,cute/romantic,fluff.

✩ hyunjiniw’s note my second hyunjin fluff,decided to try some other tropes as well with time,comments,likes and reblogs are always appreciated,feel free to say your opinion,taglist,requests and messages are open,hope you will like this fic as well.

✩ happy reading to you <3

────────────────────

i wasn’t expecting company that day. curled up on the couch with a blanket,my phone and a steaming mug of tea,it felt like a perfectly ordinary afternoon. my brother felix was somewhere in the house,probably gaming or on a call. it wasn’t until the doorbell rang that my bubble of tranquility was popped.

“can you get that?” felix shouted from his room.

with a sigh,i shuffled to the door and pulled it open,only to come face-to-face with him.

hyunjin.

my brother's best friend and, admittedly, the subject of more of my daydreams than i’d like to admit. he was handsome in the way people in magazines were-effortlessly and almost unfairly so.

"hey," he greeted, his lips quirking into that familiar, boyish grin.

"hi," i replied, stepping aside to let him in. i’ve been around hyunjin plenty of times before, but this time something was different.

it didn't hit me until he turned to take off his coat. his glasses.

thick-framed, black-rimmed glasses sat perched on his nose, framing his almond-shaped eyes. i blinked, momentarily stunned. hyunjin had always been attractive, but the glasses added a softer, more thoughtful air to him.

"new look?" i found myself asking as he followed me into the living room.

he chuckled, adjusting the glasses with a casual push of his finger. "sort of. i usually wear contacts, but i ran out. figured i’d see how these felt."

"they look good," i said before i could think better of it.

he raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "yeah?"

i nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his gaze. "yeah. they suit you."

"thanks."

at that moment, my brother appeared, his hair a mess and his usual hoodie slung over his shoulders. "hyunjin, you're here. took you long enough."

"nice to see you too," hyunjin quipped, following my brother into the kitchen.

i trailed behind, quietly observing as they joked and laughed over snacks.

normally, i wouldn't pay much attention to their conversations, but today, i couldn't help myself. my eyes kept drifting to hyunjin—the way his glasses would slide down his nose just slightly when he laughed,how he’d absentmindedly push them back up,the gleam of the frames catching the kitchen light.

"earth to y/n," my brother called, snapping me out of my thoughts. "you good?"

"yeah, fine," i said quickly, looking away from hyunjin's amused expression.

the boys eventually settled in the living room, with hyunjin lounging on the armchair and my brother sprawled on the couch. i sat back in my spot, determined not to let my attention wander again.

but hyunjin made it hard.

i wasn’t sure if it was intentional, but he seemed to keep glancing my way. each time my eyes met his, he'd smile—a small, knowing curve of his lips that made my cheeks warm.

"do you always stare at people like that?" he asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

my brother had stepped out to take a phone call, leaving just the two of us.

"i wasn't staring," i said defensively, though my voice lacked conviction.

"right." he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "so,what is it? the glasses?"

"they just make you look... different," i admitted, feeling a bit silly.

"different how?"

"smarter," i said with a shrug, though the word didn't quite capture what i meant.

hyunjin chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "i’ll take that as a compliment."

"it was meant to be," i said softly, my gaze dropping to my lap.

the room grew quiet again, but this time it was a charged silence. i could feel hyunjin's eyes on me, studying me as if trying to figure something out.

when my brother finally returned, the moment was broken. hyunjin leaned back in his chair, slipping seamlessly into their conversation about some upcoming event. i stayed quiet, listening but not fully paying attention.

it wasn't until later, when hyunjin was getting ready to leave, that he turned to me with a softer expression.

"see you around,y/n," he said, his voice lower, almost intimate.

"see you," i replied, my heart fluttering at the way he smiled at me, his glasses catching the light.

as the door closed behind him, my brother gave me a pointed look.

"what?" i asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"you've got a thing for hyunjin," he said matter-of-factly.

"do not," i shot back, but my flushed cheeks betrayed me.

felix snorted. "whatever you say."

but as i returned to the couch, my mind replaying every glance and smile, i couldn't help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—

hyunjin had a thing for me too.

[ofbatsandballads]

Hi Rae. Who gave you permission to snap my heart in two at midnight? No, really, this has me going insane so have my ranting under the cut:

He's not normal. Not someone you should be happy to see. […] But you are– everytime he drags his weary body to your window– you're happy. You smile, welcome him inside like he has a place there.

The way I’m already screaming “because he does have a place there!” before we’ve even hit the end. Something about Jason not being able to accept love not because other people are liars or insincere but because he can’t comprehend why anyone would love him is so heartbreakingly in character.

It's not like he can offer the same back or return the favors you so freely give. He wants to– at least he thinks he does– he just gets stuck when it comes to what to do with you.

Reciprocity—tit for tat, an eye for an eye—being so ingrained in his perception of the world and of himself that he can’t realize he doesn’t have to return the favor, that he can just accept the kindness for what it is, makes me want to cry. Thanks.

shocked to stillness each time your hands don't bring a wave of hurt to his skin.

Stray dog coded Jason who doesn’t know what to do when touch doesn’t hurt is so dear to me. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: your characterization of him is golden.

He adores you. He won't admit it to anyone, not even to himself most of the time. But he does.

Jason who loves so deeply, so completely that it could destroy him. Jason who has spent both of his lives just trying to stay above water, running from anything that could harm him. Jason who was killed because he loved so fiercely. Just…him finding himself loving someone that much again and sort of bluescreening on what that means for him.

There is no happy ending when all he can offer is fleeting comforts and one word answers. He doesn't deserve your patience, your endless willingness to understand and wait for him to figure himself out.

The absolute overpowering emotion of needing to drill it into his head with love and kindness and care that there is a happy ending with all of that actually. And that he does deserve good things and patience and love. I just know loving him would be so frustrating sometimes but that each time it would just make you want to stick around more.

If he knew how, he'd ask if you were really okay with who he is, what he does, how he acts. Your eagerness to make him feel like he does fit into any place in your life makes him wonder if it's all just a mask. If you're just waiting for him to be at his worst to reveal that it's all a lie– that he's truly and devastatingly unwanted.

So this whole paragraph took me out but that last line destroyed me. The phrase “truly and devastatingly unwanted” is going to live rent free in my head for a while now.

it's just that the store was out and he was bleeding too heavily through his suit to stop at anywhere else.

I recently read a piece of Jason meta that said that he would accept any and all harm or mistreatment just to get the companionship and love he craves and this really speaks to that because why are you picking up ice cream when you’re bleeding out??? Oh, it’s because he thinks he’s unworthy of basic human decency if he has nothing to offer.

You're just too good. Everything Jason isn't. He feels like he's dragging you down with him when you offer to keep emergency weapons for him hidden in your apartment. He's definitely staining everything you are with his greedy hands when you start keeping extra first aid kits in your closet.

Clawing at the walls while screaming “they do it because they love you!!!” I love reading this from the perspective of his partner because it’s just sitting here listening to the internal monologue of man that is confidently incorrect. Your description of him being an unreliable narrator is spot on.

And when you clean out a drawer in your dresser for him to keep clothes in, when you stock your cupboards with all his preferred foods, fill your shelves with his favorite books, and play the songs he loves to hum along to, he selfishly lets himself believe you might want this forever too. You do.

One of my favorite things about how you write Jason is that he always, without fail, breaks at the end just a little bit. The sustained love and care and kindness always manages to get the tiniest foothold in his soul, like a flower growing through a crack in concrete. Even when he thinks he’s being selfish or delusional or blindly hopeful. It’s so true to what loving someone like him would be like—slow and gradual and hard fought, but resolute and unflinching.

So yeah, in short I love this with my entire being and I will be sending you the bill for my therapy (please never stop writing).

If He Could

Jason is an unreliable narrator ~1k words

Jason's no good for you. He's too brash, too rough, too easily pulled away to defend the streets of Gotham. He's a liability in your life, a dark stain in the otherwise perfect fabric of your reality. He's all the worst of shadowed alleys and tortured corners of decaying apartments.

He's quick to pull a weapon, even quicker to throw a punch. He doesn't quite remember how to make his smile look natural, how to stand without his shoulders tense and ready to dodge whatever comes his way. He's not normal. Not someone you should be happy to see.

But you are– everytime he drags his weary body to your window– you're happy. You smile, welcome him inside like he has a place there.

And he doesn't know what to do with it. Doesn't know how he should react to your bright eyes and soft touches and fond words. It's not like he can offer the same back or return the favors you so freely give. He wants to– at least he thinks he does– he just gets stuck when it comes to what to do with you.

He knows he shouldn't tense up at your reassuring pats to his arms– but he freezes, shocked to stillness each time your hands don't bring a wave of hurt to his skin. He knows he shouldn't be so quiet when you ramble about your day, but he can't find the words to describe just how much he does care about every mundane fact you share with him.

And oh, does he care. Too much even. Cares in a way that scares him off the grid for days at a time, only to sheepishly find his way back to your fire escape with a tub of melting ice cream or cooling coffee and a half-baked excuse on his tongue.

He adores you. He won't admit it to anyone, not even to himself most of the time. But he does. It's you who he wants to come back to when his feet ache and his eyes strain to make out words and figures. It's you who makes him feel not so heavy when the sun starts to rise over the tired, crumbling buildings he knows better than his own skin.

He has a portion of his heart and mind set aside just for you. But Jason can't tell you that. The more he relents to you (because he can never say no when you ask), the more he threatens to ruin you. He's a slow rot, a plague that sets into the very marrow of your bones.

But you don't see it. He doesn't want you to, but you should. You should understand that by carving out a place for him besides you, you are going to destroy yourself from the inside out.

There is no happy ending when all he can offer is fleeting comforts and one word answers. He doesn't deserve your patience, your endless willingness to understand and wait for him to figure himself out.

It's not fair to you– to either of you. But he always ends up back in your living room, always ends up with his hands curling into fists as you graciously take whatever food or trinket he's brought to try and win your continued affections.

He secretly believes he must be the most selfish person in the world when he leans into your warm hugs, when he passes out on your couch after your semi-regular movie nights. (He tries not to linger on what it means when he sleeps better on your old, worn furniture than his own bed)

It's cruel of him to lead you on like this. It's cruel of him to set himself up for heartbreak. You'll learn that he's not worth your time soon enough. But, for now, he can't help but bask in the way you offer to stitch the tears in his clothes, the way you so excitedly ask him to try every new recipe you've made.

If he knew how, he'd ask if you were really okay with who he is, what he does, how he acts. Your eagerness to make him feel like he does fit into any place in your life makes him wonder if it's all just a mask. If you're just waiting for him to be at his worst to reveal that it's all a lie– that he's truly and devastatingly unwanted.

Those words still haven't come from either of your lips– don't come– even when he messes up and brings you the wrong flavor of ice cream. (It's not that he forget what you liked– it's just that the store was out and he was bleeding too heavily through his suit to stop at anywhere else)

The words don't even come when he doesn't tell you why he disappeared for over a month this time. (Someone got too close to his identity– to you. He had to track down everyone involved before he could even think of resting or seeing you again)

Jason wants to have the right words, wants to do the right thing, and make you laugh and watch your eyes light up because of something he did. He wants to hug you back in a way that makes you feel safe and needed and wanted above all else. He wants to. He just doesn't deserve to give you that, even if he knew how to do it.

You're just too good. Everything Jason isn't. He feels like he's dragging you down with him when you offer to keep emergency weapons for him hidden in your apartment. He's definitely staining everything you are with his greedy hands when you start keeping extra first aid kits in your closet.

But for the life of him, he can't stop. Can't stop his familiar trek to your windowsill. Can't stop craving the hugs you offer, the conversations you share.

He wants this forever. He wants to keep this– you– whatever this is, in between his fingers and never let go. (He could if you'd just let him) You would.

And when you clean out a drawer in your dresser for him to keep clothes in, when you stock your cupboards with all his preferred foods, fill your shelves with his favorite books, and play the songs he loves to hum along to, he selfishly lets himself believe you might want this forever too. You do.

[twopoppies]

https://www.tumblr.com/twopoppies/771848190054088704/hi-gina-i-just-had-a-thought-pop-into-my-head

From aotv after being a guest on James show:

“I still don’t necessarily buy into it as a reality, as such. Cause, you know, with all the… just the reality of a celebrity anyway, and how excited it makes all those people. In reality, I’d like to sit down with them and go “think about it. What is it you’re getting so excited about?”. I’d live in my fucking bubble of normality and that’s anytime I’m not at work. I live in my own head, where I’m fucking… you know what I mean? I live a normal life. And there’s moments like them where I come into that kind of situation and it takes me a second to adjust from that world that I’ve just been in, that I’m super comfortable in and where I’m completely meself. And then there is more that is expected of me in that situation, which I feel. So, it’s an interesting contrast”.

Thanks, love. I don't think this is about code-switching (although I'm sure that's a part of it), but yes, I think he's very good at keeping himself grounded and aware that he's an ordinary person with an extraordinary job. And I'd imagine he's a big part of what keeps Harry that way, too.

[motorsportbarbie13]

Track Limits - Part One

(author's note: this is a fully original series that I wrote this summer, with fully original characters. I will be posting every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I won't be using my tag list for my F1 Fanfics, so if you want to be added to this one, please leave a comment! As always, my inbox is always open for suggestions, comments, questions, etc. I love love love hearing from you guys!!)

Warnings: brief talk about cheating boyfriend and panic attacks, but nothing serious on page Word Count: 3.1k

Intro Post Series Main Navigation Page Master List

Celine

CelineStG posted

CelineStG Siri, play 'Home' by Good Neighbors RealMollyGrace bitch, what? >>>CelineStG oops? AlexStGerard I’m sorry, since when are you home?  >>>CelineStG Hi big brother, consider this my official notification that a sister visit in imminent. Hope you’re prepared! >>>AlexStGerard When am I ever prepared for a sister visit? >>>CelineStG Never.  >>>AlexStGerard Exactly  SebSimonet STG C if I don’t see you before quali I’m running you over with my car >>>CelineStG What an awful thing to say to your bestie.   User123 Are you in town for the race?  User34 Of course she is, her family literally owns a team. Idiot. 

“Ms. Saint Gerard, what a pleasant surprise to see you today! Your father didn’t say anything about you visiting this week. Would you like me to take you to the estate then?” George Fishburn asks as he holds the car door open for me. 

“No, no.” Waving him off, I slide into the back seat of the SUV.  “I’m staying at the Hermitage this week.” I ignore the man’s raised eyebrows, choosing to pretend like he isn't giving me the opportunity to give him a little bit of gossip like I always tend to do. I’m certain he’s dying to ask why I won’t be staying with my father and on a normal day, I would have been happy to answer his questions. George has been my father’s driver and all around errand man for as long as I can remember and normally I would have gladly chatted with him about why I was suddenly home.

Today though? Today I was glad he was giving me the quiet distance that my melancholy mood craved. 

“Could you take me to Alex’s condo and then drop my bags off at the hotel though? If it’s not too much trouble.” I ask once George has loaded my bags in the trunk and settled himself in the drivers seat. 

He chuckles and rolled his eyes, “Of course it’s not too much trouble, you know that. I’ll leave you with your brother and take them up to your room myself.”

“Thank you.” I sigh as he starts the engine, sinking into the supple leather seats that are a sharp contrast to the turmoil rolling through me. 

Moments later, he’s smoothly navigating the car out of the parking lot and is making his way towards the highway that leads from Nice to Monaco. My clenched jaw softens as I watch the French country side slip by, a wash of relief unknotting the constant stomachache I’ve been living with for weeks. Kilometer by kilometer, the tension that I’ve become quite acquainted with seems to melt away. I had woken up that morning in my townhome in London but this afternoon, I found myself home again.

Technically, Monaco isn’t really home, in the strictest sense of the word. I had lived in New York City until I was 14 but the tiny principality had always felt more like home than any apartment in the city or home in the country I had ever shared with my mother. My father had always brought my brother, Alex and I here during our summer visits after my parents had divorced when I was three. Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of a London rainstorm swearing I can smell the salty air of the Mediterranean and perfume of the wealthy residents. 

So it really wasn’t quite a surprise that the only place I thought might be able to fix me after what I’d been through in the last six months was Monaco. 

Slipping my phone out of the pocked of my bag, I check the notifications on my Instagram post earlier. It had been such a last minute trip to come home this week that I hadn’t even told my best friend, which she was apparently not very pleased about. 

Moments after the I send the last text, my phone vibrates, interrupting the quiet tranquility that I had been soaking in. 

“Are you okay?” Guilt sits at the edges of Molly’s tone when the call connects. 

Glancing out the window, I tip my head back against the soft leather head rest as I ruminate over my answer. 

“I’m...alive?” A dark chuckle escapes before I can stop it while I stare out the window as we begin to pass through the outskirts of Monte Carlo. I briefly catch a glimpse of the glittering sea that sits at the edge of the city. Even just the briefest of looks at the water chases a bit more of the anxiety that sits heavy in my chest away.

 On the other end of the phone, I hear Molly shuffling about and the muffled voice of someone that sounded a lot like Bev, Molly’s PR manager. Checking my watch I suck in a breath, “Molly! You have a show in like 45 minutes, shouldn’t you be warming up?” 

While Molly might be my best friend, she is also multi-Grammy award winning singer Molly Sharpe. We met five years ago when she had nearly thrown a punch at a drunk guy that was getting a bit too handsy with me at a party during the Cannes Film Festival. We had never said a single word to each other before she came to my rescue, somehow picking up on my panic from just a glance, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. Even when we were on opposite sides of the globe, which happened more often than not now that she was on tour, we try to FaceTime at least once a day. 

“Nah, this is more important. I’m already warmed up anyway, so stop trying to deflect. What happened that made you literally flee the country?” 

I barely fight the urge to groan. “I ran into William at a coffee shop thi-.” I stop mid-thought to correct myself. “No, no! I saw my cheating ex-boyfriend at MY coffee shop this morning, Molly! In MY neighborhood. On MY side of London!” I cry, my molars grinding together. “With whatever the fuck her names is, that stupid red head that he cheated on me with.” 

Heat rises in my cheeks as I remember the scene from this morning. I had just left my pilates class and had been planning on making a quick run to the barn to exercise my horses even though that was the last place I wanted to be. But all of my plans came to a screeching halt when I saw William arm in arm with the girl he had cheated on me with walk straight into my favorite coffee shop. 

“Coming from anyone else, I’d say you claiming it was ‘your’ side of London was simple hyperbole but I genuinely don’t doubt you and your family actually own a significant portion of the city.” Molly teases. 

A smile tugs reluctantly at my lips, “Shut up.” I scoff. She was right, of course. My family had been the founding investor into the Formula One team that all these years later, still bares our last name. We had a luxury road car division that was the first bit of our business, the racing coming second after my great-grandfather fell in love with the sport. Simply put, St. Gerard was as synonymous with luxury car production as Chanel was with haute couture.

“So anyway, I saw him with her and I couldn’t breathe. I completely panicked. Between that and,” I pause, my breath catching in my lungs. “What happened last month, I just lost it. So, I did the most mature thing I could think of at the time.” 

“And what was that?” Her tone held an edge of a laugh, like she knew this was going to be ridiculous. 

“I called an Uber right there on the street corner, packed a bag, and chartered a flight home.” 

“Céline Cristelle St. Gérard! That is the most out of touch way to deal with your problems.” 

I let out a chuckle. “Thats rich coming from a girl who quite literally chartered a jet to fly her favorite chef from New Orleans to Portugal just to make her chicken noodle soup when she was sick last year.” 

“That was a medical emergency.” She pouts. 

“So you’re telling me that you wouldn’t have done the exact same thing?” 

Molly cackles and I could just imagine her throwing her head back laughing in the green room at whatever stadium she was performing in tonight, “Oh no, I would. We’re both equally insane and privileged. It’s a dangerous combination. Go on.” 

“That’s it. I flew home. I don’t even have any luggage packed. We were 20 minutes off the ground when I remembered that the race was in Monaco this weekend and panicked that I wasn’t going to be able to find a place to stay but I somehow managed to find a room at the Hermitage.”

“You’re not staying with your father?” 

“Ha! Absolutely not. He’ll be furious with me when he hears about what I did yesterday.” 

In addition to a cheating ex-boyfriend that had just broken my heart recently, I'd also decided a few days ago that I was done with show jumping for the season. There had only been a few competitions but after what had happened six weeks ago to my heart horse, I just didn't have the competitive drive in me anymore. For as long as I could remember, show jumping had been my 'thing'. Alex had racing and the team but I had always had my horses.

Until I didn't.

On the other end of the phone, my best friend gasps. “You haven’t told him yet?” She shrieks. 

“I was kind of hoping the press would do it for me, to be honest.” I wince, nibbling at a cuticle my manicurist missed at my nail appointment yesterday. 

“Céline!” Molly hisses.

Rubbing my free hand over my face, I groan into the phone. “I know! I know! I’m a coward. I’m actually on my way to see Alex to try to figure out how the hell to break it to the old man. He’s going to be so mad.” 

Molly’s tone softens at the guilt that I know fills my voice. “He won’t be if you’re honest with him.” 

I stay silent for a moment, considering Molly’s words. I know my father is going to lose his mind when he finds out that I had made this huge, life altering decision without even so much as consulting him. Not because he’d tell me that I wasn’t allowed to but because show jumping is such a big part of my life and making such a big decision like pulling out of competition for the year without even so much as consulting him was going to set him off. My father was solidly of the 'the St. Gerard family is not a family of quitters' belief and this was going to break his heart.

“Listen. We just pulled up to Alex’s place so I’m going to let you go. Say a little prayer that I survive the first firing squad?” 

“Alex will be on your side, he always is. Text me later and I’ll call you after the show if it’s not too late.” 

“Love you.” 

“Love you too Cece.”

Theo

TheoJHighgate Posted

TheoJHighgate Rolling into Monaco race week like... user918 the curls are curling evansracing so excited!! user0199 does this man know what he does to us??? >>>user029 oh 100%

The Evans Racing garage thrums with the kind of energy that only happens during race week. Mechanics scurry around my car making any last minute adjustments before the first of three rounds of practice tomorrow, the sounds their tools make a familiar grind in my ear. I lean against one of the many sleek orange and black toolboxes that line one side of the garage, taking it all in. 

Monaco is my favorite track on the entire circuit. I have so many good memories here that every time this weekend rolls around, I try to soak in as much of the energy I can. The team has been really consistent so far this season but we’re still winless and this weekend feels like the perfect time to remedy that situation. 

“Theo.” A sharp voice yanks me out of my podium day dreams. “My office. Now.” Scott Hayes, Evans Racing’s team principal stands just outside his office door, his expression all storm clouds threatening a downpour. Fuck, he does not look happy. 

I straighten, ignoring the stares from the mechanics who are trying to look busy while hoping to overhear the verbal undressing I feel like I’m about to get. I shuffle through my memory quickly as I push off the tool box. While I have somewhat (read: huge) of a reputation in the paddock of being the driver that gives the PR team the most headaches before race weekends, I don’t think I’ve done anything recently to bring the wrath of Scott Hayes down on me lately. 

“Sounds like I’m about to be on the receiving end of one of your inspiring pep talks boss.” I flash him my most disarming smile, trying to hide the pit that has suddenly formed in my stomach. 

Scott simply rolls his eyes and steps back into his office without another word, leaving me no choice but to follow. 

Fantastic. 

“Good luck in there.” My performance coach Levi McAllen claps me on the back when I walk past him. “Find me after and we’ll go through what he says, okay?” 

What he means is ‘I’ll talk you down off the ledge Scott is about to put you on’. While Scott Hayes is a legend in Formula One, he’s also one of the scariest mother fuckers I’ve ever worked for. I hate being on his bad side, which seems to happen on a regular basis more and more lately. Thankfully, my driving makes up for it. Most of the time. 

“Yeah, yeah.” I sigh dramatically, running a hand through my mess of dark brown curls that are in desperate need of a haircut. I make a mental note to get to my barber before tonight’s charity gala, knowing our PR manager Loraine will have my head if I don’t. If I can show up with a clean cut mullet, she usually doesn't give me shit. The way that woman had almost buzzed off my entire head of hair when I showed up one day a few months ago with said mullet was almost scary. There might have been tears.

Weaving my way through the labyrinth of the garage easily, I manage to pretend I'm ignoring the engineers who keep tossing what look like sympathetic glances my way. 

This is not going to be good. 

I shut the door behind me, the snick of the latch the only sound in the quiet office.  

Scott waves a hand towards one of the two white plastic chairs in front of his desk. 

“Theo.” He begins, his voice softening a fraction. “We’ve invested a lot in you. You’re our number one driver, the face of Evans Racing in F1.” 

I nod, a flicker of pride settling the anxiety still churning in my stomach a bit. Being a Formula 1 driver has been my dream since the first time my dad plopped me down behind the wheel of a go kart. It’s exactly where I want to be. Fast cars, pretty girls, the roar of the crowd dressed in your team colors - it’s a life I’ve dreamt of since I was a scrappy little kid fighting for the podium on dusty, back woods karting tracks. 

“Frankly, Theo,” Scott continues, his voice turning rough again, “The results haven’t been there. A few podiums, yeah, but no wins. We’ve poured resources into this car and it’s showing. We need you to step it up, to translate that speed into wins.” 

I lean back in my chair, shoulders dropping. He’s not wrong. We certainly had the fastest car on the grid most weekends but I hadn’t capitalized on it yet. The media was starting to chatter about how I might not have the skill or mentality to handle a fast car and championship fight. Here I was, my sixth season in F1 and only one win to my name. And that singular win had taken me four and a half seasons to get. Sure, I was consistent enough, I hold the record for the most podiums before winning a race in all of F1 history. Second and third place finishes will only get you so far in this sport though, especially when your team has made huge leaps in technology in the last half dozen years. 

The responsibility of translating that speed and those improvements into wins sat squarely on my shoulders. 

“I know, Scott.” I say. “Believe me, I want to win just as much as you guys do. Probably even more.” 

It was true. My entire career I’ve been the ‘solid, consistent, well performing driver’. Good enough to gain the attention of Evans back when I was just 16 years old driving in F3 but never quite good enough to be considered one of the greats. And the reputation of being ‘almost good enough’ starts to grate on your ego after a while. 

Scott studies me a moment, a hint of doubt lingering in his eyes. “Theo,” He says finally, “you have the talent we want here at Evans. We wouldn’t have signed you otherwise. You’re a natural behind the wheel, your race craft impeccable. But sometimes…” He trails off, the silence of his unfinished words hanging heavy in the air. 

I know exactly what he’s trying to say. The late nights, the tabloid headlines, the reputation for being a player that follows me like a shadow. It’s a tightrope I usually walk a little better than I have been lately. Balancing the bad boy image with the laser focus I need on the track was something I’m usually good at. Or at least I thought I was. 

Maybe I’m not as good at the balancing act as I thought I once was. 

“I’ll do better.” I promise, meeting his heated gaze head-on. “This race, this whole season? It’s mine. No more distractions, just wins.” 

A flicker of something that might have qualified as a smile crosses his lips. “We’ll see.” He says, a hint of steel still in his voice. “We’ll see. Your contract is coming to an end this year and we want you to be in this seat next year. You are the heart and soul of this team but we need you to start winning.” 

We both knew my word is only as good as my last race. The pressure was on. I had to get serious about my driving. I know I have it in me to be a better driver, that I haven’t hit the peak of my career yet. I was just running out of time to finally find the missing piece to the puzzle that was my career. I had to find it and I had to find it fast. 

Tag List (reminder, this is 100% different from my normal tag list!)

@ahgase99

[akookminsupporter]

Why do you think jikook chose to serve together?

Also, why not jimin and tae if they're soulmates? Why not jungkook and tae? Why do you think they did it?

I feel like I’ve answered this question more times than I can count over the past year but I post way too much, so finding my first answer feels impossible. That said, I’m happy to answer it again, haha.

Anon, the most honest responses I can give you are:

Because they wanted to. Because they didn’t want to. And because they didn’t want to either.

Let me start by saying that, as fans, anything we discuss about the members’ decisions is pure speculation. We’re piecing things together based on the limited information we have, and at the end of the day, that’s all it is—our interpretation of the choices they’ve shared with us.

That said, I believe Jimin and Jungkook made the decision to enlist together because they’re the closest members of the group. Their bond is unique, and that’s been obvious to anyone paying attention over the past 10 years. I imagine they considered the pros and cons of enlisting together and concluded that it was the best decision—not just practically, but emotionally. Most importantly, it seems like it’s what they both truly wanted.

Over the past year, I’ve seen fans speculate about their reasons, saying things like, “They did it because X needed the emotional support of Y” or “Y needed the physical support of X.” And while those are valid perspectives, I’ve always leaned towards a simpler explanation: they just needed each other.

over the past 10 years, I think we all have noticed that their bond is unique. It’s clear they provide mutual comfort and understanding in ways that don’t seem to happen with the other members. There’s a certain synchronicity between them—a level of shared traits, habits, and even ways of thinking that make them perfectly attuned to one another. They’re simply each other’s person. So, if they had the chance to face one of the most challenging periods of their lives together, why wouldn’t they take it?

We don’t know if Jimin wanted to enlist with Tae or if Jungkook wanted to enlist with Tae but Tae wasn’t on board. Based on the brief exchange they had about it on AYS, it doesn’t seem like that was ever the case. From the beginning, it always seemed like the plan was for Jimin and Jungkook to enlist together, and that decision alone says a lot about the kind of relationship they share.

Their decision to enlist together doesn’t confirm or deny anything about the romantic nature of their relationship—that’s not something we can speak to with certainty. What it does prove, however, is that Jimin is the Cristina to Jungkook’s Meredith, and vice versa. If you’ve been paying attention, that’s been obvious for a long time. They’re soulmates in every way that matters—whether that’s platonic or something more we don’t know for certain.

The fact that some people still deny the strength of their bond or downplay it is another story entirely. But for me, it's crystal clear after everything we’ve seen.

And since someone asked about this recently—yes, Tae said Jimin is his soulmate, and I absolutely believe they are. But that doesn’t mean Jungkook isn’t Jimin’s soulmate too, just in a different way. That much is obvious.

Sometimes, I get frustrated when I see debates about this, haha. It’s so clear that Jimin and Tae care about each other deeply, but their relationship is completely different from the one Jimin shares with Jungkook. And from the one Tae has with Jungkook. Each dynamic is unique, and each connection is valuable. Why is that concept so hard for some people to grasp?

Lastly, since they enlisted, we haven’t heard much about them. But in the little we have seen, read, and heard, it’s clear it was the best decision for them. Jungkook pretty much confirmed it during his last surprise Wlive.

It’s obvious they’re not just a source of calm and stability for each other but also a sense of normality amid everything. I mean, how many times did we hear one of them mention, before all this, that they’d spend hours talking about music, singing, or practising together? How many times did we hear them say that after a long day of work or commitments, they’d still end up together?

No one goes through the whole process they had to go through to apply for the buddy system just for a simple colleague or someone you don’t feel completely secure and comfortable being around.

[mrs-stans]

Inside Sebastian Stan’s Winning Look at the Golden Globes 2025

With help from Frank Sinatra and hopes of a postshow burger, the Prada- and Cartier-clad Stan prepared for his first major awards show victory.

BY SAVANNAH WALSH

Sebastian Stan entered the Golden Globes 2025 with two chances at winning—nominated for both his portrayal of Donald Trump in The Apprenticeand his more comedic performance as Edward, an aspiring actor living with neurofibromatosis, in A Different Man. But in the lead-up to his big night, Stan was eager to put his double nominations into perspective, instead focusing on what he could control: a hearty postceremony meal. “You always read about people having burgers or somethingafter these award shows,” he told Vanity Fair.“I mean, that sounds kind of nice, to be honest.”

A celebratory nosh was well-earned by Stan, who won best actor in a musical-or-comedy film, his first-ever Golden Globe. After thanking A Different Man filmmaker Aaron Schimberg and his costar Adam Pearson,who has the genetic condition neurofibromatosis in real life, Stan advocated for more inclusive narratives onscreen. “Our ignorance and discomfort around disability and disfigurement has to end now,” he said. “We have to normalize it and continue to expose ourselves [and our children] to it. Encourage acceptance.”

A Different Man languished for two years before it debuted at the Sundance Film Festival, and the A24 movie later landed Stan the Silver Bear for best lead performance in Berlin. But The Apprentice, directed by Ali Abbasi and written by Vanity Fair special correspondent Gabriel Sherman, also endured a beleaguered road to distribution in the weeks before the 2024 presidential election. “Both of these films started out as major risks,” Stan told VF shortly before the Globes. As such, he’s not taking any of the recent accolades for granted.

“I feel very blessed that I have good people around me, friends who I’ve had for 20 years at this point, who remember as much as I do what it was like to be in New York City and going out to auditions and not getting it,” said Stan. “Even my mother, who has been with me over the holidays, I was growing up with her in Vienna, Austria, and not even really knowing that I was going to get to America. So when I think about those moments,” he continued, “I’m immediately humbled and on the ground. Because even as it is currently, without anything happening on Sunday, it already feels like such a win.” Stan dedicated the award to his mother and stepfather during his acceptance speech, also taking the time to profess his love to his girlfriend, actor Annabelle Wallis.

Stan spent hours in prosthetics for both A Different Man and The Apprentice, getting comfortable with a bit of metamorphosis. “I kind of liken it, for better or worse, to being in a relationship,” he said of transitioning back to himself postproduction. “I always remember somebody telling me, ‘However long you’ve been with somebody in a relationship, take away half the time, and that’s how long it’s going to take for you to get over them when you break up.’ It’s a little bit like that. It doesn’t just go away suddenly, I guess. There’s a process…that happens with it. It’s sort of a slow, gradual disconnection.”

But does Stan find it harder to disappear into a character or present as himself at an awards show? “That’s a very good question,” he said with a laugh. “Sometimes it’s easier transforming into a role…. Being yourself at an award show, it can be quite tricky, because I’m not going to an award show [thinking], Oh, I’m a funny, interesting guy. I’m feeling self-conscious.”

Nevertheless, Stan was excited to venture beyond his comfort zone in custom Prada. “It’s really fun and different, and it’s something I’ve never really worn before,” he said, crediting stylist Michael Fisher with steering him toward a different era in Hollywood. “You get romantic sometimes when you see clips in black and white of the Oscars and how people dressed up. So I think I’m more old school like that in my mindset rather than, Hey, let me take a crazy swing on this red carpet. Even though, once in a while, Michael has definitely had me in pink.” This time, though, Stan opted for a black mohair coat and trouser with contrasting white piping detail, paired with a black knit wool sweater and white poplin shirt, plus black brushed-leather lace-ups.

The “timeless and classic” vibe continued with Cartier accessories, including a [Sur]naturel transformable brooch made of 18k white gold, diamonds, and black lacquer, as well as a 1968 CartierCollection wristwatch made of 18k yellow gold, sapphire cabochon, and leather. This collaboration marked a full-circle moment for Stan, who fondly remembers wearing Cartier at May’s Cannes Film Festival, where The Apprentice premiered.

Stan’s vintage-Hollywood vision also extended to his pre-Globes playlist. “I don’t mind a little Frank Sinatra,” he told VF. “We’re going to be getting ready at the Hotel Bel-Air, and that hotel itself has such history and that Old Hollywood classic style. I might be playing some ’20s or ’30s music, something that will at least keep me under the illusion that I’m in a different time, because it does feel like a different time.”

As for grooming, Stan said that with age, he’s embraced more facial hair. “I used to be more clean-shaven when I was younger, but it also depends on what I’m working on at the time,” he said. “A lot of how I was looking this year was informed by the fact that I was shooting Thunderbolts, so there was not much I could do. Even with the hair, I don’t always want everything to be perfect or slick. Maybe that just reflects my attitude in terms of staying flexible in the moment with these things—to go, All right, keep it loose and keep it fun.”

Stan never dreamed that A Different Man and The Apprentice would debut in the same year, but they have been in conversation with each other this awards season by virtue of his involvement. “Both films, to me, are about the loss of identity and the loss of self, and to some extent denial of reality and denial of self-acceptance,” said the actor. “Both of the films focus in different ways on characters that go to great lengths to abandon their true selves.”

Stan’s searching, self-conscious characters in the two films meet ego-driven fates. Edward is “obsessed with what he doesn’t have, and then he spends the rest of the film trying to deal with the shame that he’s buried, the shame that he’s never really accepted himself,” said Stan. “Then the Trump story is very obvious to me—it’s a total loss of humanity, empathy and vulnerability, and any morals, sort of at the hands of this very self-indulgent, self-narcissistic way of life. It’s also about how far one can go to deny the truth, deny reality, and lose humanity as a cost.”

Stan’s performance in The Apprentice, which was bested by Adrien Brody’s in The Brutalistfor best male actor in a drama film, has faced a particular uphill battle given the utter Trump fatigue in many circles. “Trump is part of our lives. It’s inevitable that we’re talking about him. You go to a coffee shop, and someone’s talking about him; you open your phone, the news, whatever—he’s everywhere, even in the award season,” says Stan, who believes his film will stand the test of time for boldly “challenging, or at least the attempt was to challenge, history as it’s happening rather than waiting.”

With Trump’s second election to the presidency, it feels as if perception of The Apprentice has shifted, as evidenced by its awards season embrace so far. (Stan is also nominated at the upcoming Independent Spirit Awards.) Would that be the case had Trump been defeated? “I don’t know if I know the answer yet to that,” said Stan. “We’re all still trying to figure out how to feel, or to think, about the election and what happened and the next four years.”

In the days before his first Golden Globe victory, which involved a lively backstage reunion with his frequent Marvel costar Anthony Mackie, Stan was similarly open-minded about what’s next. “[In] Eastern Europe, we grow up with a lot of superstitions,” he said. “But this year I just basically surrendered to whatever’s going to happen. Wherever this wild sort of ride I’m on is taking me, I’m just going to kind of follow and really try to be in the moment as much as possible.”

[bunny48294]

this is just me ranting/venting into the void

————————

so i had/am having an metab day today, so i allowed myself to eat a ”normal amount” (i’m at 1450 kcal for today and won’t eat more, just water and/or pepsi max). i’ve eaten unhealty food, my favorites from before all of this.

this day has been so rough mentally. i’ve cried so much that i have a headache and i could fall asleep any second now. i feel like my eyes are still blurry from crying but i’m still very lightheaded like i’ve been for weeks now.

i feel like i failed. i’ve been planning on my meal for today for multiple days now but i still feel like i failed. i feel so disgusting for having had eaten all of that garbage. i want to disappear.

it’s weird, i don’t feel lovable because i look how i look but also because i can see that i am ill. i’m a burden either way. i want to be thin, get better and stay thin. i don’t want to feel like a monster anymore.

all the love my friends give me feels wrong. they want to see me recover, they know i see doctors who are willing to help me recover. i just don’t think i’m ready yet. i’m not good enough yet. i don’t want that all this effort i’ve put in to losing weight would not matter. i don’t want to give up. they deserve a better me.

one of the reasons why i’m here is that i don’t want my friends to see the ”real me” or the real state i am in. i’m scared to let anyone close to me and see that haha yeah this is the life i’m living rn. i know they’d want me to recover and get better, and i am thankful for that, but i don’t know if i am capable of recovering yet. i don’t want to let anyone down and i know that everything i’ve written in here and every reblog would be me letting my closest one’s down.

my body is normal, i’m not underweight and i have never been. i don’t feel like i’ve succeeded until i am. but am i then too sick to be loved? idk and i’m too scared to find out.

i haven’t been answering to messages today almost at all. i don’t want anyone to see me like this. i just want to sleep for a year and wake up skinny. i saw a post here when i joined that said how ed’s are really lonely illnesses. that person was so right and that post made me feel so seen.

fuck mental illnesses. this shit fucking sucks.

[xiofaire]

I want to use this post as a sort of a vent, in the hopes that others understand how I feel or others who feel the same way. I lately have been feeling extremely frustrated with this reality.

What I want to talk about on this post is something I’ve had a really hard time coming to terms with. Society is so fast pace and we as people can’t just live and rest, call it laziness but I don’t see how I have to work everyday 5 days a week with absolutely no breaks but the weekends until I am 70. My parents, siblings and I recently went on vacation, I returned 3 days before them. I had the house to myself for 3 days and I loved it. I loved it so much that I wished they had stayed longer on vacation. This made me think how it’d be a long time before I could have my own home, not just that but that it’d be a long time before I could just roam around my own house all day and do nothing, every single day, just do nothing at all. Decades that’ll take, once I hit retirement I could do this. I sometimes, in glimpses of moments forget that I am a shifter. Thinking about my waiting room dr and how I’d do nothing all day there but just eat, sleep, take the best baths, and watch media all day there. I could stay there for a long time, as long as I wanted.

Look I love my parents, I really do, but being around my mother is so draining. In my AP literature class we learned about energy vampires and I couldn’t help but think about my mother the whole time. Me and my mother have a complicated relationship, I love her but if I am being honest, I don’t like her. She’s the biggest reason why I am so insanely insecure, she has picked on my weight since my middle school days to the point where I didn’t have a quince because I am so insecure about how I look. Now for my father, I love him as well, I just hate how aggressive & loud he gets when someone doesn’t listen to him. I also hate being around drunk men so it really bugs me when he gets drunk. I’m scared all the time here, even when I haven’t done anything wrong I have a fear of my parents getting incredibly angry with me.

I want to know if anyone feels similar in the way that they don’t feel a strong connection with their family here. I can’t help but think I am not normal for this but it’s truthfully how I feel. I’d much rather be around the people in my drs. I feel an ease just thinking about being there in their presence.

[komaedas-fragments]

[Komaeda hesitates before doing what he did next. They place their free hand on Hinata’s shoulder, arm wrapped around him as they pull him to lean against them.]

It’s okay, really. I mean it, I’m okay with it.

Look, let me try and word it in a way that can be understood. My luck is- very linear when it comes to how it works: After every bad thing that happens, it’s followed with an equally good fortune. And after every good fortune, something bad comes after, so on so forth. There are times where I’m able to rely on my luck in order to get a certain outcome, even if that’s still a bit of a work in progress.

My luck has definitely ruined any chances of me having a normal life, that’s for sure. But I- feel like since I’ve met you, there’s been a strange shift in it. I don’t understand it either, and truly theres no reason it should’ve, but something’s changed in my life since and I’m not quite sure what.

Haha…Maybe I’m just happier, I don’t know.

But now, it feels like it follows that structure a bit less. Putting it plainly, something awful should’ve happened by now, way before we even became friends. And yet? Nothing. It’s not happened, and it’s been months since we even met.

So really, things are all up in the air at the moment. They always have been a little uncertain, but now I really don’t know what’s going to come next. And I think- I’m fine with that, strangely enough.

Anything could happen. That includes me living a full life. And thats thanks to you.

…

Hinata Hajime, you’ve really changed my life. For the better.

[Komaeda stares down at the letter for a long time in front of the locker. He had been getting weird stares so far from even being in the reserve department as a main course student, but they only seemed to pick it up now that he was actually stood in front of Hinata’s locker.

All they had to do was put the letter through the gap and leave, that’s it. That’s all he would have to do to have all those emotions, thoughts and feelings out in the open to Hinata, since they were too much of a loathsome coward to try and admit it to his face.

Gripping onto the letter with a force, Komaeda sighs as they opt out, putting the letter back in his bag and making his way to the exit.]

(What am I, stupid? A worthless nobody like me stooping this low is unbelievable. Hinata could never derive hope from a letter like this, not from me.)

@komaedas-fragments

*Hinata isn’t at his locker at the time— he’s probably in class or studying. The hallway is empty, save for a handful of unimportant Reserve Course students.

Two particular boys walk past, nearly bumping into Komaeda as he goes by. One of them stops, elbowing the other to get his attention. They speak to each other in hushed, angry voices, gesturing to Komaeda a couple times before one of them approaches him from behind and grabs onto his shoulder.*