#but I don’t know if that’s an accepted reading of it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shiranuieditorial · 13 hours ago

Text

Professional editor here 🙋🏽 piping in to say that that sentence is 100% grammatically correct, but it could use a pair of em dashes (if following U.S. English standards) or en dashes (if following U.K. English standards) to break up that interior monologue or emphasised exclamation (whichever one you intended it to be) as an interjection/interruption inserted within the main sentence. It would help your readers’ clarity and understanding, and therefore, boost their enjoyment levels too!

So, yeah, it still stands that English’s grammar sphere is extremely flexible, twistable, stretchable, flammable, combustible, slice-and-diceable, and however the fuck else you wanna abuse it to your selfish satisfaction! You just gotta make sure your overall creation is still readable, parseable, legible, decipherable, understandable, and therefore, enjoyable—you know?

Unique author voices are completely different from grammatical errors and linguistic inaccuracies. The former is to be cherished! Treasured! Praised! Uplifted! Celebrated until the end of time! Meanwhile, the latter is to be reduced to a minimum, because we don’t need them if they don’t serve a very intentional purpose. A trained eye will be able to distinguish this without problem, which is indeed why human editors like me and my friends aren’t that easily replaced by AI—thank you very much!—but this elephantine task certainly takes on a differently flavoured toll when an author self-edits their own writing, especially if they don’t have years of specialised knowledge and training in the art of editing. (And trust me, it is a wholly different and just as serious of a skillset as the writing part itself.)

Now, whether or not you plan to work with a trusted professional editor later on is up to you to decide (I mean, it’s obviously recommended, but the choice is still in your hands; and even if you do hire editors, the final choice to accept or reject their suggestions is also still in your hands), but here are a few things to keep in mind during your self-editing rounds:

Trust yourself, first and foremost! You’re the one who understands your story best. If something strongly resonates with you, keep it in. At the very least, it’d add a touch of you and your humanity to your creation, if nothing else.

Having your own unique voice is a good thing. You should want more of it, and no one should ever try to kill it off of you—not even yourself. Stay authentic to yourself, explore whatever interests you, and keep honing your storytelling voice(s) through practice, practice, practice—no matter how you think it “stands out against” or “blends in with” or “doesn’t hold a candle to” or “bastardises” other people’s creations you’ve interacted with. Your voice is solely yours, and that is so, so valuable.

If you heavily suspect something contains a technical error, check with reputable sources, like some bigwig dictionary’s example sentences section, or whichever style guide you’ve chosen as your patron saint, or various editor(ial)s’ blog posts and articles, or Q&A/AMA sessions with editors or linguists, or you could try your luck and slide into their DMs if you have a particular someone you admire, or whatever combination of those options you fancy the most.

If you’ve heard or read someone irl (including yourself) say those words or that phrase/sentence/monologue before, then it’s probably fine, dude.

For hearing folks: Say it aloud. Use various text-to-speech settings to read it aloud to you. Have your friend or relative read it aloud. Does anything feel wonky, somehow? Does anything need a sprinkle of pizzazz to liven up the dead air? Do these words fit the mood you’re currently feeling during this scene? Did your companion stutter at any point?

Let your writs marinate alone for as long as you can afford to. Forget about it. Then, come back to it with a fresh perspective—not one of an author’s nor an editor’s, but pretend you are a reader who is reading some anonymous writer’s work with the intention of simply sinking into the read and enjoying whatever is served.

The world isn’t divided into “grammatically correct” and “grammatically incorrect”. There are many other variables to composing, writing, editing, proofreading, and speaking. If you have the time and headspace to learn about them, do so. Finding the proper terminologies to describe your ideas and experiences will benefit you with great satisfaction.

Punctuation marks, symbols, spacings, margins, line breaks, paragraph breaks, scene breaks, chapter breaks, placements, pacing, etc. are difficult and time-consuming for us copy editors too. Don’t beat yourself up for struggling with these technical details, but also, don’t be so afraid of them that you omit them entirely from your writs. Instead, shift your energy and attention to creating and maintaining your very own author’s style sheet, which you can then pass on to your editor to upgrade and tidy up for you as you kick back and relax, but it can certainly help ease your own writing process if you’ve sketched up your own guide for yourself.

Editing any piece of work—fiction or non-fiction or any hybrid of them—should always prioritise the author’s original vision and goals above all else. Don’t treat it like grading schoolwork with checks and crosses and /100 scores. There is no right and wrong to the art of writing. Why did you start writing in the first place? What do you want to explore and express in your crafts? What do you want your readers to get from your story? How do you want them to feel about your characters? What message are you trying to tell, and why is it important? Do you want to impress people more with your substance or your style? Linguistic unorthodoxy be damned; if your quirky choice gets the point across with all the right vibes and nuances ticked off, then go for it!

Remember that language is constantly evolving… as it should! What was once regarded as “incorrect” a century ago could easily be the norm nowadays. If you’ve decided to become the progenitor of a new trend, then you better own up to it! Be unapologetically compelling.

Remember that there is always a solution/answer to your confusion/curiosity. Even if you don’t find what you’re looking for right now, there’s still hope. Either you’ll find clarity when you least expect it, or you’ll create homemade organic closure for yourself, one way or another. The possibilities are endless. What matters most is to trust the process and never give up on yourself!

one of my worst writing sins is abusing my power to create compound words. i cannot write the sentence "The sun shone as bright as honey that afternoon." no. that's boring. "The sun was honey-bright that afternoon" however? yes. that sentence is dope as fuck. i do not care if "honey-bright" is a word in the english dictionary. i do not care if the sentence is grammatically correct. i will not change. i will not correct my erred ways. the laws of the english language are mine.

39K notes · View notes

lvrsatoru · 3 days ago

Text

╭ pairing ⸺ gojo satoru x reader

╭ drabble ⸺ 1.8k, before his final fight with sukuna, gojo reunites with someone he thought had been long gone </3 sorry in advance luvs

𐙚 december 24th, age 28

she’s standing in front of him.

his mind loops over the thought, unable to process it, unable to accept it. his six eyes tell him it’s real—she’s real—every fiber of his being tuned to the cursed energy signature he knows better than his own.

but it can’t be.

because he was 23 when he kissed her goodbye for the last time. because he was 23 when he got the call, when he read the report, when he stared at the empty space where her body should’ve been.

because forever had lasted less than a year.

and yet—

“satoru,” she whispers, hesitant, careful.

his name in her voice sends a violent shudder through him.

his infinity is still up. she hasn’t touched him. she can’t.

but he feels her anyway.

it’s muscle memory, instinct. his body still reacts to her, still leans toward her even as his mind tells him to run.

he doesn’t.

but he doesn’t move forward, either.

she takes another slow step, like she’s afraid he’ll bolt.

“you look different,” she says, soft but teasing, a poor attempt at levity.

his throat is too tight to respond.

her gaze drifts over him, and the weight of it makes his skin prickle, makes him aware of how much he has changed.

his hair is shorter now, with the undercut he gave himself one night, after she’d left. he’s leaner, stronger, his body hardened by war and loss and time.

but she—she looks like she’s lived, like she has known something beyond grief and battle and the never-ending ache of survival.

and it makes him feel sick.

like she’s had years he wasn’t a part of. like she kept going while he stood still.

like the dead had the audacity to age.

“where the hell have you been?” his voice comes out strangled, hoarse, barely a whisper.

her expression shifts, guilt flashing across her face before she can hide it.

“satoru—”

“where have you been?” louder, harsher this time.

she flinches.

and it kills him, because she’s not supposed to flinch at him.

she takes another step forward, cautious, careful.

his infinity is still up.

she stops.

“you’re not real,” he says flatly, more to himself than to her.

she blinks, startled. “what?”

“you’re not real. you’re a trick. a clone. a shapeshifter. an illusion.” he lists them off mechanically, like if he keeps saying it, it’ll become the truth.

but his six eyes don’t lie.

and neither does the ache in his chest.

she swallows, and for the first time, he sees the fear in her eyes.

but it’s not fear of him.

it’s fear for him.

he hates it.

he hates that she still looks at him like that. like he’s something fragile, like she’s worried he’s about to fall apart.

because he is.

he is, and she knows it.

she’s always known.

“satoru, it’s me,” she says, voice softer now, and god, it sounds like home.

he shakes his head.

no.

no, no, no, no

this is cruel.

this is so fucking cruel.

“you died,” he says, as if saying it aloud will make it true again.

her face crumples, and he has to look away, has to stare at the ground because if he meets her eyes, he’s going to break.

“i had to leave,” she whispers.

his jaw clenches.

“you left,” he repeats, voice hollow.

she hesitates. “i—”

“you left.”

his infinity flickers.

just for a second.

just long enough for her to step forward, just enough for her to lift a hand to his face—

just enough for her fingers to brush against his skin.

he shatters.

the breath rushes out of him like he’s been struck. his legs feel weak. his hands, which have been clenched into fists, loosen, tremble.

her hand is warm, so impossibly warm.

it has been five years since someone has touched him like this.

since she has touched him like this.

he wants to pull away, wants to shove her back and demand why, why, why, why she thought she had the right to do this, to touch him, to stand here in front of him like she hadn’t been a ghost for half a decade.

but he doesn’t.

he can’t.

he leans into it instead, his face tilting into her palm like it’s instinct, like he has no choice in the matter.

and maybe he doesn’t

maybe he never has.

“you left,” he whispers, softer this time, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had come.

“i’m sorry.”

it’s so quiet he barely hears it.

but he feels it.

feels the tremor in her hand, the way her thumb brushes against his cheekbone, the way her fingers tighten against his skin like she’s afraid he might slip away.

like he’s the ghost.

“you left me,” he repeats, because it’s the only thing he can hold onto, the only thing that makes sense in all of this.

“i know.”

“you—” his voice breaks, and he hates himself for it, hates the way his shoulders shake, hates the way he can’t stop leaning into her.

her forehead rests against his, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his breath coming out shaky and uneven.

“i know,” she whispers again, her voice cracking.

his hands move on their own, gripping her waist, holding her there.

he shouldn’t.

but he does.

he clutches her like she might disappear again, like she might slip through his fingers if he lets go.

she wraps her arms around him.

and that’s when he breaks.

a sound leaves him—something between a sob and a laugh, something raw and guttural and helpless—and he buries his face in her shoulder, his whole body trembling.

she smells the same.

she feels the same.

but everything else is different.

he is different.

“i thought i was getting better,” he breathes. “i thought i—I thought I was moving on.”

“i know,” she says, holding him tighter.

“i wasn’t.”

“i know.”

he swallows, his throat tight, his hands clenching at the fabric of her clothes.

“i still love you,” he admits, and it feels like surrender, like defeat.

she exhales, a shaky, broken thing, and pulls back just enough to cup his face again.

“i still love you too,” she whispers.

it’s unfair.

it’s so fucking unfair.

because she’s here.

but she won’t be for long.

and he’s about to die.

they stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, both afraid to let go. he clings to her, hands curled into the fabric at her waist, like if he holds on tight enough, time will stop, and none of this will matter.

but he knows better.

time has never been kind to him.

“you have to go, don’t you?” he murmurs.

she stiffens.

he pulls back just enough to look at her, to search her face for answers, and god—he hates that she looks guilty.

“tell me,” he says, voice quiet but firm.

she bites her lip, hesitates.

and that alone is enough to set him off.

he pulls back entirely now, hands falling from her like she’s burned him.

“don’t,” he snaps. “don’t look at me like that. like you already know how this ends.”

“satoru—”

“don’t.”

she exhales, looks away.

and fuck, it’s happening again, isn’t it? she’s leaving again.

“why?” he demands. “why now? why show up just to—” he stops himself before he can say it, before he can put words to the fear clawing at his throat.

just to leave me again.

she steps forward again, hesitant, like she’s unsure if she’s still allowed.

but his infinity is still down.

he hates himself for it.

“there are things i can’t tell you,” she says finally, and he wants to scream.

“that’s bullshit.”

her jaw tightens. “it’s the truth.”

he laughs, sharp and humorless, runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

“i spent five years thinking you were dead,” he says, voice low, almost trembling. “five years, and you come back just to—just to what? tell me there are things you can’t tell me? give me some cryptic half-truths and expect me to accept it?”

“it’s not that simple.”

“it never is with you.”

she winces.

it makes him feel sick.

“do you think this is easy for me?” she asks, voice cracking.

he stares at her, and for the first time since he’s seen her again, he lets himself really look.

her hair is longer, her face a little older. she carries herself differently now, like someone who’s had to live a life she never wanted.

it hits him then—she didn’t want this, either.

but it doesn’t make it any easier.

“why did you come back?” he asks, quiet now, all the fight drained out of him.

she takes a shaky breath.

“because you’re about to fight sukuna,” she says.

his stomach drops.

he had almost forgotten.

almost.

the weight of the truth settles in his chest.

she came back because she knows.

“you think I’m going to lose,” he says flatly.

her eyes are glassy, but she doesn’t deny it.

his breath catches.

“i don’t—” he swallows, shakes his head. “i don’t know how to do this.”

she reaches for him again, and this time, he lets her.

her fingers trail over his cheek, down his jaw, feather-light and devastating.

“neither do i,” she whispers.

and suddenly, he hates her for this.

for coming back, for giving him this sliver of something just to take it away again.

but he can’t be angry.

because she’s here.

she’s here.

and it’s the cruelest thing the universe has ever done to him.

“stay,” he says, and it’s not a demand—it’s a plea.

she swallows hard, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone.

“i can’t.”

his hands tighten on her waist, his chest aching so badly he can hardly stand it.

“please.”

she shakes her head, her own tears slipping free now.

“i can’t,” she says again, and it shatters him.

he presses his forehead to hers, closes his eyes, breathes her in.

because this is all he gets.

a stolen moment before the end.

she holds him just as tightly.

“i love you,” she whispers.

his breath hitches.

“i still love you,” she says, voice breaking. “i never stopped.”

his chest cracks open at that, something deep inside him splintering beyond repair.

his grip tightens, fingers digging into her like he can carve her into his skin, like he can keep her here.

he doesn’t say it back.

because it’s never been a question.

because of course he loves her.

of course he does.

he always has.

he always will.

but she’s already slipping away.

and he lets her go.

#gojo satoru x reader #fic rec #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #jjk #jjk satoru #gojo angst #gojo satoru angst #jjk angst #jujutsu gojo #gojo x y/n

155 notes · View notes

qinluna · 3 days ago

Text

compliant piece to this, but can be read as a standalone. cw: discussion of suicidal thoughts, toxic relationship dynamic / arrangement. directly references 2-9. reader is gender-neutral. reader is not mc but still works for the association. reader is severely depressed. special cameo at the end + slightly happy ending.

“I’ll be gone. Aren’t you happy that you won’t have to see me then?”

…

“I’m about to leave. It’d be nice if we had a meal together.”

Three days too long. Three days too tumultuous for what you could tolerate. Three days—finally, miraculously up. Everything leading up to it—drove you to the point of mentally drafting resignation letters to the Association. Some combat medic you were. You learn in your time on Skyhaven that perhaps your will was not as strong as it initially was.

You were still a scared, little child in spite of it all.

You’ve drowned out the sound of the news report, before Caleb switches off the TV. Seated on the couch, your weary gaze is focused on your lap. You’re tugging at the bracelet he put on you back when you were in the infirmary. The infection of your wound—and the force of his Evol that held you down when you protested his protection.

The cold, detached look in his eyes…

(And how it hardened even more when you attempted to fight back physically.)

You hadn’t spoken a word since.

‘If being with me only brings you pain, then just put up with this for three more days.’

Three days that you didn’t sleep properly at night—and if you did, it’d be in short, unsatisfactory increments of time. Three days that you ended up vomiting every meal he had prepped and left in his fridge for you.

Three nights of nightmares that were a reminder of your disturbed, regressing soul.

You keep fiddling with the bracelet, the action causing the hologram panels to glitch as they constantly appear and disappear. Caleb’s noticed your deteriorating state, but his duties as a Colonel kept him away from doing anything about it.

In that short bracket of time, when he would arrive back home, he would feel his heart beat uneasily seeing you twitch in your sleep—brows furrowed in distress.

(On the second night, that’s when the guilt nearly cut through him, all because he saw the glisten of tear streaks on your face in the moonlight.)

Finally, in the present, does he make a move.

Caleb strides toward you, getting on one knee and resting his hands on top of your own, stopping you from messing with the bracelet any further.

“I’d say you could be mad, and… to not let it affect your health,” he speaks gently. “But… I hate seeing you like this. Especially when it’s your last day in Skyhaven, and…”

I know I fucked up, he wants to say. I know I should have done better. I know you needed me. I know I’m the reason you’re—

The rest of his thoughts remain unspoken. You don’t care.

“...Remember when I told you, on my thirteenth birthday, that… I wanted to die?”

You finally say something. But the lack of use in your voice has left it hoarse and unfamiliar. You don’t even feel whole. You feel like everything was taken from you, because of him—and you can’t get it back. If there were gods out there, you now accepted the gravity that perhaps this was your punishment. No higher power was protecting you from the yearning of Death.

Caleb’s jaw tenses, and he squeezes your hands a bit firmer as he spoke lowly, “Yeah, I… remember. I hated it.”

“...That’s how I feel right now.” You confess, clearing your throat, “Despite… everything… despite how much I missed you… I never would have thought that I would feel this way again.

“Let alone—you being the reason for it.”

The underlying darkness in Caleb’s eyes dissipates. The constant sight of what was a cold, calculating commander who could bend anyone at his will—shifts. Even in the moments he feigned tenderness for your sake, it’s not even that particular scheme that his gaze changes into.

For once, ever since he held you captive to his side—a glimpse of his truest soul dusts into the violet gaze that looks over you. Offense? Hurt? Sympathy?

You feel like you could hear the distant traffic of Skyhaven’s busy main street. There’s also the slight hum of the heater running—but close enough to you was the slight hitch of his breath. Caleb, who once meant the world to you. Caleb, who once swore to always make you smile.

Caleb, who grieved with you about the life you should’ve gotten instead. You should’ve been happier as a kid, should’ve felt safer. He would have done everything in his power to ensure you of that.

But even as you lift your head to find his eyes, the brief guest of his sincere heart is not meant to stay. It is not enough to sway you to believe that the Caleb you knew was still there.

“...Just let me go home,” you begged him, your voice cracking amid the quiet. “I wanna go home…”

(Had it been different circumstances, you were already home.)

There were a few thoughts running through Zayne’s mind when he was informed by Yvonne that you were checked into a room, only seven hours after you’ve returned from Skyhaven.

One: he’s relieved you’re safe. Considering your days of silence, it prompted him to check his phone more often than he would, hoping to hear something from you. You willingly came to Akso—likely for a check-up. Two: he feels an indescribable, repressed rage that was foreign to him.

An evaluation of your vitals showed you were slightly malnourished and dehydrated. It’s what’s reported to him by Greyson as he’s on his way to your room. But standing near your bed, Zayne instantly notes your eyes, circled by sunken, dark shadows and traces of puffiness that indicated long, agonizing tears. On top of it, your skin was slightly paler.

He needs to know what happened to you on Skyhaven.

Yet that was the last priority of the current matter.

You had been gazing out the windows looking over Linkon City, finally turning your head towards the door to see Zayne. He forgets his role as your doctor for a moment, seeing the silent plea in your eyes.

He barely has time to get a word out when he finally reaches your side. You throw yourself onto him, clinging to Zayne as you break into a horrific fit of sobs. Your tears soak into the pristine, rigid fabric of his white coat. You’re continuing to beg through this anguish, no coherent words leaving you.

And with utmost ease, he envelops you in a firm, protective embrace.

The warmth you had sought in those agonizing, isolated days—was finally here. It’s always been.

127 notes · View notes

stripysockxx · 2 days ago

Text

I’ve been thinking about a universe where Amy the hedgehog is our main character and her rival is Blaze the cat…. This is just a self indulgent fuse of Sonadow and blazamy but I’m kinda crazy about it…. Idk infodump below????

Okay so Amy here is pretty much Sonic but not as fast, and she still has her hammer because and I quote “it’s cool”. She doesn’t have to use it to fight but she has fun with it and she KNOWS she looks cool. But yeah I have more thoughts about Blaze….

I’m honestly finding it kinda difficult to translate Shadows story but… Blaze is the ultimate life form created by (probably some variation of Maria as an eggwoman not sure yet) and was created to be a weapon for gun. Iblis is basically this universes black doom and its flames are living inside of her. She wears 5 inhibitor rings to ensure she doesn’t overdo her power (2 on her arms, legs and one in her hair) Now I kinda want Silver to be her dead sibling….. and I’m really rocking with the idea that Blaze accidentally kills him… but then that doesn’t really set up her want for revenge but… I don’t know the thought of her resenting her power but not able to do anything about it I really like.. and I love when characters struggle with self hatred and suicidal tendencies so…

And just like Amy showing Blaze to accept herself and her power, is just cute and I want insane crazy girl rival Yuri in my life so yeah idk I’m gonna cringe if anyone read this but I’m cringe and free…

oh also about the last piece I was thinking that if blaze went super she wouldn’t be able to control herself and would incinerate the entire universe being the only one to remain for eternity :) Butttt!! Since Amy would be there to go super with her she would be able to control it with her help!! Yay!

147 notes · View notes

lizard-ratt · 1 day ago

Text

NOTE: this is all steam of consciousness, minimal editing and proof reading, not to be taken seriously. Cool, thanks, enjoy.

WC: 2,288

Steve, in all honesty, should have seen this coming. Really, it was staring him right in the face, if he was just brave enough or smart enough to figure it out.

Eddie Munson was his soulmate.

Since he was young, his parents held a particular distaste for his soulmates. Soulmates, plural. Having read every last word scrawled across his skin, they decided the two people he was bound to for eternity were everything they stood against.

For years, they told him that he was to avoid his soulmates at all costs. “They’re just not right for you,” they said. “We’re just looking out for you.” Then they had nothing to say about them at all, too busy with their business trips to France, Germany, Costa Rica, and wherever else they went to.

Steve decided everything they taught him was bullshit anyway.

He met his first soulmate on accident. Robin Buckley. Assigned to a group project with her in Mrs. Click’s class, he couldn’t get a single word out before she just started to talk. He recognized the words immediately. Could’ve recited them in his sleep.

He glanced down at his watch and waited.

Eventually she petered out and the finished the essay tattooed across his chest. He glanced down at his watch again, ran the numbers and spoke.

“Three minutes and forty-two seconds. Impressive.”

Robin’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “No. No way.”

“I’m sorry, do you need more proof. Perhaps the three page thesis you tattooed across my chest?” Snark came naturally. Probably for the best that he wasn’t on his best behavior. Cause then he’d be lying to his soulmate. Robin needed to know her soulmate was a bitch. Cause he was a bitch.

Robin snorted, but it came out a bit forced. “Thesis, big word for you.”

“You’re avoiding the point,” he prodded.

“I need to process.” Steve could understand that. He accepted it with grace and they moved on to their assignment.

Robin, as Steve found out quickly, was fun. Bitchy in the way Steve was bitchy. They traded barbs and poked and prodded at each other like they’d been doing it their whole lives. Neither of them mentioned the whole soulmate thing.

By Robin’s request, they kept their friendship quiet, for the most part. He was well known and brought a lot of attention wherever he went, and Carol and Tommy probably wouldn’t take too kindly to Steve hanging out with a Band Nerd. That was fine with him. In his opinion, they weren’t good enough for Robin anyway.

One month into their friendship, Robin told Steve that she wasn’t ever going to be interested in him romantically. Told him about Tammy Thompson.

It didn’t shock him as much as it probably should have. It wasn’t like he knew, but it just felt right. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place. Robin wasn’t meant to be his romantic with him. Platonic Soulmates.

“Tammy Thompson’s great and all but she’s a total dud,” he told her.

“She is not!”

“She is! She wants to be a singer. She wants to move to Nashville and shit.”

“She has dreams!”

“She can’t even hold a tune!”

The relief is pouring off of Robin in waves, thick in the air, practically a physical sensation. Robin had looked so scared, like Steve could ever not want Robin in his life.

Later, after they sang Total Eclipse of the Heart together, Robin told him about her other soulmate. Said that she had another one. A simple two words scrawled on her wrist. Robin, right?

“I’ll show you my other soul mark later,” he promised her, in response. “I don’t really feel like taking off my shirt right now.”

About two months into their friendship, Steve showed Robin his other soumark. Lounging in his backyard, he took of his shirt and showed her. First, the giant block of text across his front, her words etched permanently on his skin. Then, he turned around and showed her his back, the other three page thesis tattooed to his body permanently.

“…. Oh. Oh no.”

Steve appreciated the real effort she put into not laughing. It lasted a whole ten seconds before the dam burst and she was in tears.

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up.”

“You are so unlucky!” She got in between wheezes of laughter. “You don’t have any torso left!”

“You think I don’t know this?”

She quieted down, before the laughter started up again. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I just imagined little baby Steve covered front to back with his soulmates’ first words to him.”

“I’m pretty sure I have a picture of myself somewhere…” he trailed off, forcing his grin off his face.

She zeroed in on Steve, like a shark smelling blood in the water. “I have to see it.”

“What’ll you give me for it?” He asked.

“I’ll bake you a cake,” she offered.

“You’re terrible at baking. Try again.”

“I’ll get my mom to make you a cake.” He considered it. Her mother was a fantastic baker.

“Better, but still no.”

“I’ll get Mom to bake you her secret brownies.” That one almost broke him. Those brownies had to have cocaine in them or something, because they were the best thing he’d ever placed on his tongue, but he knew he could still get something better from her.

“Better….”

“I’ll give you my family’s brownie recipe.”

“Sold!” He put on his best impression of an Auctioneer. “You bring me your mother’s Brownie recipe and I will hand over not one but two photos of me as a baby with my Soul Tattoos on display.”

They sealed it with a handshake.

For a few years after that, he didn’t think about soulmates.

He started to date Nancy Wheeler, despite not being each others’ soulmates. They worked, in Steve’s opinion. Then Barb vanished from his house, and he found out that Jonathan Byers took photos not only if the party but of Nancy getting undressed.

He probably should’ve felt guiltier about breaking his camera, but he just didn’t. He told Robin about it, though. She agreed with him that it was creepy, so it eased some of his concern.

Then later, he found Nancy and Jonathan in her bedroom and felt his heart plummet. He ran to Robin as quickly as possible and spent a little bit too long eating ice cream and listening to sad music while crying about how unfair life was, content to break up with Nancy and move on.

Tommy and Carol saw that as the coward’s way out and took it upon themselves to publicly shame Nancy Wheeler.

He ended up in a fist fight with Tommy (got his ass beat) and spent about thirty minutes cleaning off the spray paint from the Movie theater’s Marquee with Robin shouting encouragement.

They later went to apologize for Tommy and Carol’s behavior and all Hell broke loose. He and Robin, he decided, made a pretty good monster hunting team

Things kinda sped up after that.

He and Robin got all their information from Nancy and Jonathan who were, surprise, surprise, soulmates! (They swore up and down the wall that they didn’t do anything and planned to tell Steve, which he believed). They explained the alternate dimension and the monsters inside. A little girl with superpowers who sacrificed herself to kill the Demogorgon.

Steve and Robin went back to his house, laid down, and stayed there for a long time.

For a year, it was just those four. Robin, Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan. He didn’t talk to Tommy and Carol, and let his social standing slip away from him. The four of them fit together. They were jumpy and anxious and any flicker of the lights made them all stiffen, waiting for something Other to crawl from the walls.

It never did.

A year passed in a blur of anxiety and paranoia. He and Robin spent most of their time in each other’s back pockets, never too far from each other. Too worried that it wasn’t as over as everyone claimed.

Then, Jonathan and Nancy vanished with no warning. They had been shifty for a little bit prior to their sudden departure. Going quiet when certain topics came up, giving each other meaningful looks.

He and Robin went to the Wheeler house already positive they weren’t there.

They ran into Dustin Henderson instead.

If asked, later, what happened, exactly, he wouldn’t be able to tell you any specific details. Robin would be his go to whenever he had questions about everything, as she seemed to remember everything in high definition. What he did know is that he threw himself in front of a whole bunch of middle schoolers (and Robin) not once, not twice, but three times. In the process he got himself concussed and nearly mauled by a bunch of Demodogs, while wrapping himself around little Dustin Henderson.

After that, Dustin attached himself to Steve’s side like a barnacle and brought his friends (Lucas, Will, Mike, Max, and El) with him. Steve was okay with that.

He helped Dustin with his hair and gave him a ride to the Snow Ball. He gave the kids rides everywhere and hosted sleepovers and filled the silence with their noise. It settled something that Steve wasn’t even aware needed settling.

He graduated and when his parents didn’t show up, everyone else did. Nancy and Jonathan and the Party, and Mrs. Byers and Hopper. And Robin, playing with the band.

He didn’t make it into college, not that he tried all that hard. Officially, he got cut off, not that it mattered to him all that much. He saved up, stowing away cash whenever he could. Saving the Hush money, and allowance money, and lifeguard money. He was, for a while at least, fine. He still got a job, and Robin was right there with him, applying to Scoops Ahoy.

Dustin left before he could see their uniforms, and he expressed great disappointment in this. Steve promised him free ice cream for when he got back.

The Uniform was… ridiculous. They looked stupid and felt it, too. It got them money and kept them busy, and it was all fine. Even as he got covered in melted ice cream, and cleaned up kids vomit and got yelled at by kids parents, it was all fine because he had Robin.

The Party visited often, taking full advantage of his employee discount and the hall behind scoops that led direct to the theater. At least one of them thanked him each time (Will. Will never forgot his manners).

Then Dustin came home and shit hit the fan again.

Russian Code, hidden Bunker, child endangerment, and more!

More that he didn’t want to talk about let alone think about. More, like the questions, demanding he tell them what they wanted to hear. More, like the fists, like the broken bones and blood and pain. More, like the pleading, begging for mercy. Screaming. Crying. More, like everything that came after.

If Robin and him were inseparable before, they were practically conjoined twins after. After the mall blew sky high and Hopper died, and half of their group left to move to California. They had each other, and that would have to be enough.

Dustin Henderson first mentioned Eddie Munson about two days after his first day of Senior Year and already, Steve was regretting the fact that he still had most of his hearing on his right side. He was able to make his first joke about it, a few hours later. ("Do you think if I ask the Russian's nicely, they'll take away the rest of my hearing so I don't have to listen to Dustin's hero worship of Eddie Munson?") The look Robin gave him was a mixture of so many emotions, he nearly apologized before she burst out into hysterical laughter.

It didn't stop there. It only got louder and louder, the more Dustin got to know the guy.

From all the stories, it should have clicked in his mind, then, that the words tattooed across his back could come from none other than the 'Best Dungeon Master in Indiana'.

He first spoke to Eddie on a random Hellfire night, when he was picking up Mike, Dustin, and Lucas. In a near perfect repeat of the first words he traded with Robin, Eddie spoke before Steve could.

"If it isn't King Steve," he began. Steve stole a quick glance at his watch and he waited for the theatrical monologue to play out before him. Some things of note in the monologue included: scathing critiques of capitalism, scathing critiques of putting people into boxes, comments about the 'Little Sheep' that Eddie had taken under his wing and their supposed hero worship of Steve.

It was strange, listening to him talk. Like puzzle pieces falling into place. One of the first mysteries of Steve's life, and it was all coming together before him. Context finally provided for some, frankly, insane sentences.

Finally, Eddie wore himself out and stared at Steve expectantly. Steve stole a glance at his watch, did the metal calculations, and announced loudly, "You spoke at me for four minutes and two seconds. That is impressive."

Eddie's eyes bugged out of his skull, as did the other members of Hellfire that Steve could never remember the names of.

"There is no way..." one of them muttered. The one with the halo of curly hair in the flannel.

Steve turned and lifted his shirt to show the veritable wall of text tattooed to his back. Shoulder to shoulder, neck to hip, he was covered. He heard a sharp inhale of breath, before he dropped the shirt and turned back.

"Surprise?"

Steddie soulmate first words are fun and all but Eddie Munson will forever be a dramatic motherfucker, Steve has a full 3 page essay scrawled over his back about the dangers of capitalism and his dad hates it, you think Eddie would get the chance to speak to the Steve Harrington and wouldn't milk it for the most Shakespeare worthy performance you've ever seen in your goddamn life

Bonus points, Robin is his platonic soulmate and she'll ramble till the sun goes down so steve just has no space left on his body by the time those two are finished

#stranger things #steve harington #steddie #pre steddie #soulmate au #steddie soulmates #platonic stobin #platonic soulmates stobin #codependent stobin #stream of consciousness

2K notes · View notes

dem0batz · 1 day ago

Text

Just Pretend

Caleb x MC // Love and Deepspace

Author's Note: I don't normally update this frequently so please don't expect me to continue to pump out chapters for this au at the pace that I have been. I'm just following the brain worms. Summary: Based on the main story track when MC is staying in Skyhaven with Caleb. You develop a minor cold and accidentally fall asleep the night you were supposed to rescue Kevi, unbeknownst to you that it was very intentional on Caleb's part. 🔞Content Warnings: Dead Dove; Do Not Eat, afab!mc, she/her!mc, yandere!Caleb, pseudocest, drugging MC, stalking (filed under “surveillance”), angst, brief mention of pregnancy and pregnancy loss, noncon, somnophilia, oral (f. rec), masturbation, breeding kink, cream pie Word Count: ~3000 words | read on AO3 | Chapter List

“Maybe you should take tonight to rest instead of meeting up with your friends, pip-squeak. You’ve been coughing all day.”

Caleb phrased it like a suggestion but you took it for what is was. Some things never change and his bossy tendencies was one of them. You had no intention of staying in tonight, cold or not— you promised Kevi you would help him and Zayne was waiting for you to bring the boy to him so he could be smuggled out of Skyhaven before the fleet found him.

As much as you wanted to trust your brother, there was something nagging at you that he was a different Caleb than the one you grew up with. You weren’t sure whose side he would take— yours or theirs should it be found out that you are secretly suspicious of the Farspace Fleet and investigating them.

“You’re probably right,” you say, exaggerating a cough.

“I’m always right,” he teases. “Besides, Skyhaven is under lockdown tonight while the fleet conducts a clean up.”

He disappears further into the apartment and returns a few moments later with two white pills in the center of his palm. You eye the pills warily.

“Cough suppressants,” he reassures.

A weight leaves your chest. You must be feeling especially paranoid with the whole Mia and Kevi situation. You don’t trust the Fleet but Caleb would never put you in danger, despite what his orders were.

You truly believed that. He was just trying to look out for your well-being. Taking the cough suppressants would probably help with the worst of your symptoms tonight anyway.

“Thanks,” you accept the medication. Caleb watches you chase down the pills with a glass of water, a satisfied smile on his face. “Why the need for the lockdown?”

“I see you haven’t gotten any less nosy over the years,” he accuses playfully.

“And you haven’t gotten any less avoidant over the years,” you counter. Still, you continue to probe. “Is it classified?”

Huffing a laugh and shaking his head, Caleb cages you against the counter. His eyes dance playfully across your face, left hand coming up to cup your jaw. You find it a little odd, considering that he was right-handed but you quickly push it from your mind, heart racing at the feeling of his proximity. His thumb strokes your cheek, subtly checking your skin for a rise in heat to ensure you haven’t caught a fever. At least that’s what he tells himself, and it’s partially true, but really he just wanted an excuse to touch you again after nearly a year of missing the feeling.

“No, it’s not classified,” he eventually gives. It wouldn’t hurt to allow you this small bit of information. “A weird fluctuation in the tunnel is riling up the Wanderers. So teams are being sent out tonight to handle it. But it’s nothing you need to worry about because you’ll be resting. Right?”

Thankful for your years of training at the academy, you school your face though guilt wracks through you for the lie you were about to tell. Yes, you believed Caleb would always put your safety first, but you still didn’t know how involved he was in this situation with the kids. You couldn’t risk letting them down. If it turned out you were wrong and the Fleet really had their best interests in mind, then you would tell Caleb the truth once Kevi was out of Skyhaven.

“First of all, I’m a Hunter and eliminating Wanderers is my job. So of course it’s something for me to worry about,” you narrow your eyes defiantly.

The lop-sided smirk on his face only grows in amusement. He always got his entertainment out of picking fights with you and then making it up to you afterward. But things were different now. You were different now. You had to learn to survive without the safety net Caleb provided. He needed to take your job seriously and recognize that you were more than capable.

“Unfortunately though, you happen to be right about me needing to rest and get over this cough. I need to return to work next week and I would hate for a mild cold to keep me from my job.”

At the mention of returning to work, his face drops, lips pursing disapprovingly. Caleb never did like the idea of you going into such a hands-on, dangerous profession but Gran always kept him from interfering with your career too much. Now that she was gone, there wasn’t anyone to bat away the insane thoughts of keeping you locked up at bay. Truth be told, his reaction was less to do with your job now and everything to do with you leaving Skyhaven. Thankfully, those thoughts didn’t win out today as he nods, backing away and changing the subject.

The distance between you was back to feeling cold and empty.

“I need to get ready for my shift. I’ll make sure to say goodnight before I head out. Get some rest, pip-squeak.”

The way he went from hot to cold gave you the worst kind of whiplash. One minute he was playful and fun, and the next he was closed off and felt far away and unreachable, even more so than when he was “dead”.

You swallow down the painful lump in your throat as you watch the back of his white sweater disappear down the hallway to the guest room he had been staying in during your visit since you have been staying in his.

After going through your usual bed time routine so as to not make Caleb suspicious, you crawl into the large soft bed. Rolling over on your side, you cozy up to watch raindrops hit the floor-to-ceiling window as yet another storm dumps on Skyhaven. You had every intention of feigning sleep until Caleb left but somewhere along the way, your eyes grew so heavy that it was impossible to keep them open. You hadn’t even realized that you fell asleep and when you did, it was like being submerged in a warm, soothing bath that you couldn’t seem to come out of, falling into such a deep sleep that not even dreams or nightmares could touch you.

Many hours later, an exhausted Caleb returns home. He doesn’t even bother shedding his damp uniform, leaving the OTTO unit to clean up the trail of water left behind from his soaked boots. He only has one destination in mind after a long night cleaning up the streets of his city.

Caleb pushed open his bedroom door a crack. Peering from beneath the bill of his uniform cap, his eyes dart over your sleeping form. He takes a moment to admire the sight of you curled up in his bed, waiting for him to return home from work. It was something he spent his entire adult life dreaming of and now it was a reality, even if wasn’t of your own doing. Very little was when it was left up to him.

He was trained to sus out lies in interrogation rooms and could read you better than a book. After all these years, you still had the same tells though you had gotten better at concealing them. To anyone else, you likely would have been the perfect little liar but he knew your face and your body language better than anyone, despite what your new little boyfriends thought.

Yeah, he knew about them.

It was his job to know things and above everything else, you were always his first priority of business. He had continued to keep a close eye on you after his recovery post-explosion. Even if the professor hadn’t assigned you to his charge as a secret mission, Caleb would have done it regardless. His Colonel rank only gave him more resources to keep tabs on you, even if that meant occasionally having to destroy certain types of evidence to keep you safe. There were some places you went where he wasn’t able to keep watch— the N109 Zone, specifically. But it didn’t take long for the Onychinus leader to show his face in Linkon City.

Sylus may have been wealthy and full of resources competing with his own that kept his identity unknown to most other government and military entities, but he was difficult to ignore when he started showing up everywhere you went in Linkon. Wasn’t exactly subtle in the way he was pursuing you, touching you like you belonged to him.

But he would be dealt with later.

Out of all of your admirers, there was one in particular that set Caleb’s teeth on edge and that was his former best friend.

It was no secret that Gran always pushed you and Zayne together which is why Caleb invited him into your bedroom in the first place. He wanted to make sure that Zayne understood the only way he would ever get to have you was because Caleb allowed it. For years, it would seem that he received that unspoken message, never making a move on you beyond the permission Caleb directed in those intimate moments. It didn’t take long for the doctor to take advantage of your loneliness though, to swoop in and be your shoulder to cry on in his absence.

If any of your boyfriends deserved the Farspace Colonel’s wrath, it was Zayne.

This was personal.

Now that you knew the truth of Caleb’s life, there was no reason to continue to sit back and watch those four continue to take what was his. You didn’t need anyone else when you had him.

Caleb pushed the thoughts of those other men out of his mind, not wanting to spoil this rare moment he had to watch you in person again, comfortable and pliable in his sheets.

Just like when you were younger, the blanket was tossed to the side with one leg in and one leg out like your body couldn’t decide whether it was hot or cold. This gave Caleb a view of your body, his familiar oversized aviation tee that you had stolen years ago covering you. He can’t believe you still had it, and wore it regularly by the look of the thinning material. It rode up your torso, teasing a view of your stomach. The temptation to keep his hands to himself is impossible as a leather gloved finger traces the hem of your sleep shorts.

Caught in his thoughts, he’s thrown back to your sophomore year of college. He was in his last year of pilot training but made the trip from Skyhaven to Linkon as often as he could to see you. One particular weekend, he surprised you with with a visit and you surprised him with a positive pregnancy test. He was over the moon, thinking of the best way to break the news to Gran and trying to convince you to finally let him put a ring on your finger. Not that he needed your permission because he wouldn’t accept no for an answer, but hearing you say yes of your own accord would be ideal.

Yes, you were both young but he’s loved you for as long as he could remember and spending your lives together was always the plan. Not to mention, he’s been looking for a way to convince you to stay out of the Hunter’s Academy for years— a baby was the perfect reason to keep you off of such a dangerous career path. You didn’t need to risk your life when he would always be there to take care of you. Both of you.

That all came crashing down when you miscarried just a few days later.

He was devastated.

You were relieved.

Your relief broke his heart and made him angry, feeling like he was grieving the loss of your baby alone but he would never expect you to carry the burden of his pain so he kept it to himself. Regardless, he hadn’t let go of his plan for your life together; the timeline would merely be pushed back a little. He’d been patient for years at this point. A couple more wouldn’t hurt.

That was, until the explosion that left him dead to the world and confined to a bed during his recovery. For a while, he let go of that silly dream, content to watch you live your life from afar while he kept you safe from the clouds above. But now that you knew the truth and were back in his life, he felt a flicker of hope return.

Pushing the t-shirt further up your body, he hunches over to press a trail of soft wet kisses across the skin, imaging what you’ll look like swollen and heavy with his baby.

“I’m going to put another one inside you one day,” he continues peppering his lips over your stomach then resting his forehead there as his cap rolls off his head to land on the mattress. “This is my vow. As soon as I deal with the professor and we’re both safe, we will finally have the life we were always meant to, pip.”

You begin to stir under his touch, the feeling of his soft damp tendrils brushing your skin, tickling you even so deep in your sleep. The soft gasp of his name on your sleepy lips is enough to make him harden uncomfortably in his uniform pants, the starchy material leaving very little growing room. He can’t help but to bury his face in between your legs, inhaling the familiar scent of you with a shudder. It’s enough to leave the rational part of his mind behind, the last shred of his self-control slipping since your arrival as he pulls your sleep shorts down and tosses them to the side along with his jacket and gloves.

Caleb palms himself through the now unbearably tight pants before unzipping them for some relief. Kneeling back onto the bed, he carefully shoulders his way between your thighs, admiring the sight of your beautiful pussy and inhaling you again, feeling a sense of home for the first time in nearly a year. The temptation was too much to resist.

Just one taste.

That was all he needed to get by until he could convince you that this is where you belonged.

With him.

Knowing you wouldn’t wake up with the pills he fed you earlier, he flicks out his tongue to lightly spread your folds, teasing himself with the hint of your comforting flavor. He hadn’t completely lied about the nature of the pills— they would certainly heal up that cough of yours but would knock you out for a solid 12 hours before you came out of it. They basically put the consumer into a temporary coma to encourage a quickly healing process. The medication was not available for public consumption, reserved only for fleet members who needed a quick recovery but his rank gave him access that most others did not have.

Earlier, he had felt guilty for deceiving you but reminded himself that you were lying about staying in to rest and likely intended to sneak out once he was gone. He couldn’t have you wandering around Skyhaven alone at night without his protection. Not to mention, he never would have been able to do this if he hadn’t pushed you to take the medicine.

Your flavor explodes on the tip of his tongue, causing his hips to jerk into the mattress as he throws your legs over his shoulders to deepen his kiss to your center. Licking through the seam, he seeks out your clit, teasing and sucking it between his lips until you’re swollen and slick, gushing around his mouth with sleepy sighs and moans as you came on his tongue. Even if you wouldn’t remember it, he needed to make you orgasm, missing the feeling of you falling apart beneath him as if a piece of himself had been missing for ten long months.

This was the most alive he’s felt since he died.

Rising to his knees, chest rising and falling in heavy pants with your essence coating his chin, Caleb pulls his hard cock free. His head falls back in ecstasy as his hand cradles his girth. With you lying there and the lack of feeling in his right hand, he could almost pretend you were the one tugging on it, bringing him to the brink.

“Fuck, pretty girl. Missed you so damn much,” he pants, left hand climbing up your soft thigh to thumb your slick clit again. He had always been addicted to touching you, but now it was like going on a bender after getting sober and he couldn’t get enough.

Surprising himself with the quickness of his orgasm, he spurts all over you with a pained groan. Ropes of white coat the inside of your thighs and stomach, and he can’t tear his eyes away. When there’s nothing left to give, he slumps down, admiring the sight of his claim. Heart pounding in his chest, another intrusive thought invades his mind, bouncing off of the walls of his skull until he gives into the compulsion. Scooping the spend up with his fingers, he carefully stuffs you full of it, your pussy sucking them in like it was welcoming him home.

Slicking back his damp hair, Caleb feels like the storm clouds of his mind have been temporarily settled, allowing him to think clearly again. Guilt once again floods him as he thinks about what he’s done, always at war with himself when it came to you. He busies himself with cleaning you up and redressing you, ensuring to leave no tangible evidence of what he had done behind. Only the knowledge that he had left a piece of him behind for you to take back home with you.

OpaLADS Taglist: @i-messed-up-big-time @sorryimakira

*If you would like to be added or removed from my tag lists, please let me know!

#love and deepspace #lads x mc #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb x reader #lads smut #Caleb #lnds caleb #lads caleb

101 notes · View notes

gimmebackmyskeeball · 2 days ago

Text

needed to speak abt this cuz HELLO

might be controversial, might be a bit of a stretch, might be rude but some of y’all are WEIRD

madison has a gf, rudy has a gf, the two never publicly spoke about ever dating which means even if they did, they DON’T want people knowing or speaking about it

yes I liked Jiara, yes I miss Jiara, yes I think it was EXTREMELY forced but it was sweet, yes I don’t think JJ should’ve ever died and yes I think it sends the wrong message that contains ‘abused kids never get a happy ending’ which could cause some serious mental issues for kids that take it seriously— but that’s not what we’re talking about here

the season is OUT, jj DIED, rudy LEFT (he’s mostly likely not coming back) y’all have no business tryna create more drama

“madison didn’t recognized her own gf, she recognized rudy!!!!” don’t care. doesn’t mean they dated. nobody asked. shut the fuck up.

“rudison 2025 = jiara obx s5! jj comeback confirmed!!!” do u hear the shit leaving ur mouth? do u seriously hear the delusional bullshit that is leaving your mouth?

“they dated, y’all don’t GET IT” I’m employed, what does this mean? why do u care? WHYYYYY do u care? go get a job.

this shit is exactly the reason why the cast got fucking icky and why rudy left and now y’all wanna go out there and cry about jj’s death when all this time YOU WAS THE REASON

as a FUCKIN FAN I’m tired of hearing this bullshit imagine mariah or elaine (I have no comments on both, I’m not interested in their personalities, they can suck as people, doesn’t mean y’all have the automatic right to mess with their relationships)

I need y’all to be so fucking fr for one second, it is SO disrespectful and BORING to come out here and write paragraphs about why you think rudison ever happened. “it’s time for us to accept the truth!!” bitch, it’s the time for you to go do your damn assignments

y’all need to learn the concept of boundaries and sit your asses down and read fucking fanfiction to cope. I don’t wanna stalk madison bailey and see comments about her ‘BOYFRIEND’(?) rudy. you FREAKS.

79 notes · View notes

tovibeornottovibe · 2 days ago

Text

Deny! Deny! Deny! - Part II

Azriel x Priestess!Fem!OC

Thea receives a visitor in her office in the library. Azriel has something for her, and catches a break. They keep each other company for a little while. [3.9k words]

warnings: dirty thoughts, sexual fantasy, Thea being a horny mf, very, very implied sexual assault (one insinuation of it and absolutely no descriptors)

Part I

Prefer to read on Ao3?

Training that morning has made Thea sore. Her arms ache and she’s having trouble keeping her legs crossed while she sits on the floor and spreads out every letter Eris has ever sent her in front of her in a semi-circle. She’d use her desk but it’s covered in other books and papers and she doesn’t have the patience to move them. Besides, she works better on the floor. Something about physical grounding. The hard, dark wood of her little office sequestered on the top floor of the library digs into her thighs.

There’s nothing in these letters that Thea hasn’t already logged and told Rhys about. Still, familiarising herself with the way that he writes and what he responds well to is integral for when he replies to the request she sent him yesterday. If he accepts, and he will, he has to, then she’ll suddenly be playing with the Heir to the Autumn Court in real life. On paper, he’s a game. Like a fictional character she can imagine scenarios about and not deal with the consequences if she says something he doesn’t like. Now, the fate of her Court might rest on her getting it right and not pissing him off. Daunting doesn’t really cover it.

Azriel said nothing to her about it at training. Thea’s not sure if they’ve told Cassian and Nesta that Eris will be living in their house for a few days. She’d think that they might be in less of a good mood if they had; Cassian especially. Though he seems a gentle soul, if a little brutal with his exercises, she gets the feeling from Azriel that he’ll be in for a beating when they’re informed of the plan. If the thought of Azriel going at it in the ring with someone who can actually match him stroke for stroke weren’t so appealing, she might have felt bad about being the cause of it. Fortunately, she can save herself the guilt, and indulge.

Later.

The quiet, strumming music from her symphonia keeps her mind ticking on something other than how Azriel’s throat bobs when he drinks.

Or how he grins and flexes when he takes off his shirt to spar with her.

Or how good it’ll feel when he tenses his fuckable thigh beneath her.

Hm.

She’s had sex since coming to Velaris. Not a lot, but enough so that the thought of it doesn’t make her freeze up like it used to. It wasn’t always good, but she always picked partners who could make her finish, so it stacks up well against the usual experience of casual sex that she’s heard people talk about when she’s people-watching in the cafés along the Sidra. They probably don’t expect anyone will hear them; they give extremely intimate details of their lives and Thea files their experiences away on her list of dos and don’ts.

Stranger who sells sea urchins to the dockworkers in the mornings can’t get off unless she’s thinking about her ex. Other stranger with the twiggy hair will come every time someone licks the underside of his prick. Barista with red eyes thinks it’s hot when customers exchange sordid anecdotes of what they get up to in bed and think that he can’t hear them. Co-worker keeps looking at Thea’s tongue when she drinks her coffee and licks the rim of the mug to catch the droplets that fall down the side.

Thea does it slowly on purpose.

Sex with Azriel is pure fantasy and she knows it. She doesn’t know his preferences and will never ask him. What she thinks about when she lets her hand slip under her waistband is based on her own imagination and what she can attribute to him after analysing the little things he says and does around her. The fact that he does the same is a bonus, and makes it so when she comes on her fingers and Az—! is what passes through her lips she doesn’t feel like she’ll be making him uncomfortable. It’s also somewhat satisfying to be the subject of his pleasure. She’s never seen Azriel hard, but she thinks it would probably be the second most memorable moment of her life so far.

Her attraction to him, and vice-versa, has no conclusion but disappearance. Someday, she’ll be able to look at her friend and not wonder whether or not he’ll let her get on top of him or how he’ll shudder when she gets him to climax just by touching his wings. Their meetings in the training ring in the middle of the night will go from strangely charged to actual exercise. She’ll be able to read filth and not consider if Azriel will do that with her. Repeatedly. While he keeps her groaning muffled with his hand because his family are in the other room.

And someday, he’ll look at her when they finish sparring and not seem like he wants to bite her.

A flush creeps up her neck at the thought.

Catching the words Eris Vanserra signed at the bottom of the letters in front of her cools the heat coiling at the bottom of her stomach almost instantly. Thinking about the way Mor stormed out of the meeting yesterday kills it completely.

She’s not sure Mor will ever forgive her. It’s funny because she and Mor aren’t friends. They don’t talk aside from when there’s an issue to take note of or a change going on in the library. And yet, Thea owes Mor everything for the life she leads now, even if Mor insists that she doesn’t need any sort of thanks, and this is betrayal. But if she’s right and this plant does what she thinks it will, then it’s a necessary betrayal. Thea can live with that. Especially as both Rhys and Az understand the reasons for it and don’t think she’s weak for setting a boundary.

Leaving the library, training so hard in the mornings that her muscles get stiff, having sex with strangers now she’s strong enough to provide her own retribution if something goes wrong, these are things she can do. Meeting Eris Vanserra outside of Velaris, in somewhere like the Hewn City or in another Court, fills her with so much dread that she starts to feel queasy. She makes herself tea and sips it carefully, back on the floor, to calm her nerves.

There’s a possibility that Eris comes to the House of Wind, doesn’t appreciate the things she needs to do to understand this plant, and simply kills her. For some reason, the prospect of imminent death doesn’t scare her. Maybe it’s the tea. Or maybe it’s because Azriel would avenge her. He’d probably stop it before anything happened, actually. His shadows would detect Eris’ intentions and inform him that he needs to slit his throat to protect her. Thea doesn’t know if that’s how they work and intends to ask Az about it next time they can’t sleep.

She studies how Eris leaves his Os open and what that says about his personality for a good five minutes before there’s rapping at her door.

Two short, sharp, decisive knocks. It’s not a style common with the priestesses, but it could just be one of the junior acolytes here to ask her a question or attempt to gain her favour with biscuits. What they think her favour will gain them, Thea doesn’t understand. Hierarchy isn’t something she concerns herself with, and it’s probably why she’s going to stay under the radar of the likes of Merril forever. Not a complaint. And the biscuits are always appreciated.

“Come in!” she calls, frowning at the way Eris crosses his double Ts in a single line. Determination, she thinks. Or stubbornness.

Whoever it is at her door shuts it behind them and stands utterly still while she continues to stare down how Eris writes her name because it changes slightly every time. She pushes her reading glasses back up when they slip down the bridge of her nose.

“You do know you look insane, don’t you?”

She looks up to see Azriel peering down at her, tilting his head slightly with a kind of boyish half-smile on his lips, and blinks. That’s… not who she was expecting.

Since this morning, he’s changed out of his training leathers and into an expensive-looking black shirt and pair of trousers. The whirls of his tattoos that sometimes she thinks about licking the sweat off of are just barely visible, peeking over where the neckline of his shirt sits now that he’s undone the top two buttons. He’s rolled up his sleeves so the full extent of the burn scars on his arms are on full display, and Thea thinks that the Summer sun must really feel stifling to him or he’d be trying to hide them like he usually does. She shamelessly, but quickly, memorises the corded muscle of his forearms in this context. His shadows smoke lazily at his shoulders, a few dropping through the curls of his hair.

Clutching one of Eris’ letters, she gestures in front of her with it and asks, “What’s insane about this?”

He pauses for a moment, looking between her and the floor and the piles of paper on her desk and waits, tucking his wings in a bit more now she’s taken notice of him. In turn, she raises her eyebrows at him.

“A grown female, sat cross-legged on the floor, squinting at paper with a perfect semi-circle of other papers out in front of her, drinking tea on the hottest day of the year so far?” he says matter-of-factly.

Thea goes back to squinting at her paper. “Not seeing anything strange about that.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then—

“...No,” he agrees, “that’s perfectly normal. I do it all the time, actually.”

She hums, seeing that often Eris dots his Is with a downward slash instead of a point or a horizontal one. She isn’t sure what that could mean. “Floor’s comfier than a desk, Az,” she says. “You should try it sometime.”

“I’ll consider it,” he says.

Something clinks when it lands right in front of her, barely skimming the letter in her hand and bumping her shins where they’re crossed.

“Don’t spend it all at once.”

Letter discarded at her side, Thea picks up the coin purse and fondles the bottom of it. “There are more than twenty marks in here,” she says, reminded of how Azriel gulped and smiled when she caught him under the chin with the tip of her blade this morning. Double or nothing pays off, it seems. She should make bets with him more.

“Your disarm was flawless too,” he says with a shrug, moving to assess the books on her desk corner. He picks up the one on the top: a paperback with a dark cover, frayed edges and tabs marking passages she likes to return to. It’s much thicker than a brick, but Azriel has no problem wrapping his hand around the spine. He flips it over and reads the blurb. “I think you might rival Nesta for the amount of nasty smut you read.”

“My tastes are better curated than Nesta’s.”

Though she would never judge Nesta, Emerie and Gwyn for what they read, with Azriel, she has no compunction about complaining about it. Frankly, she thinks they deserve better fiction than what they waste their time with. The plot holes alone irk her, but sometimes she can work past them if the quality of the writing is good enough. Sellyn Drake, in her (correct) opinion, is awful on both accounts. She can’t say that to them. She knows them, but they aren’t so well-acquainted that she can recommend things to them, and Nesta scares her.

Azriel starts flicking to the pages with tabs on them and Thea has to force the screaming tendons in her thighs to move so she can get up and snatch the book out of his hands, ducking past his wing and jabbing him in the side so he doesn’t hold it above her head and out of reach. He barely flinches, just looks at her, a little bemused, and his shadows skitter behind him rather than get in her personal space.

Despite her height, he’s still taller, and even though she’s built the muscles in her shoulders, he’ll always be much, much broader. Not as broad as Cassian, though. Azriel has a slimmer physique. Thea knows it’s probably not common for her to think about his tapered waist so often.

They’re very close and he doesn’t step back to accommodate her. He’s practically trapping her between the desk and his body.

She supposes she trapped herself, really.

The heat coming off him is heady in the coolness of her office. Illyrians are clearly built for the cold. She wonders if the snow even thaws in the Steppes in Summer.

“Are you here for any other reason than to expose my reading habits?” she asks, folding her arms and leaning against the desk, putting the idea of distance between them.

“I gave you what I owed you, didn’t I?”

She rolls her eyes at him and he huffs a laugh. Thea’s never heard him laugh any harder than a chuckle, but she’s determined to make him crack one day. That, she thinks, would be the most memorable moment of her life so far. “Don’t be a pedant,” she says. There’s humour in her tone.

He looks at her like he might consider continuing to be petty, but then the lightness in his features dulls and he grows serious. “I have a present for you,” he says.

From the low of his back, underneath the wing that he shifts so he can reach, he produces a bundle of something wrapped in black cloth. He manoeuvers it carefully and offers it to her. It’s heavier than she thought it would be, and, following his example, she cautiously grips what feels like a handle while she takes the fabric off it slowly, fold by fold.

“Oh.”

Gleaming, razor-sharp, silver steel glints in the low faelight. The ornate, carved hilt fits perfectly in her hand—like it was made for her. Along the blade, runes of a language she doesn’t quite recognise have been meticulously etched. She flips it in her grip like Azriel taught her to, and the heft of it seems exquisitely balanced, as though the dagger responds to how she moves it through the air by itself.

Eyes wide, she looks up at him to see him swallow thickly, watching her reaction. “For when Eris gets too close,” he says neutrally.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes. “Thank you.”

What seems like relief washes over his face as he settles his wings against his back and looks away, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t fade. “I figured it was time you had a weapon of your own,” he says, adding with a wry smile, “instead of pining after mine.”

She scoffs, though it’s a little shaky for her liking, and wraps the dagger back up before setting it down on the last free space left on her desk. “I do not pine for Truth-Teller,” she says, but it’s too forceful and definitely sounds like a lie. Of course, it is a lie. She’s incredibly envious of the fact that Azriel gets to carry around such a marvel of smithing work on his hip like it’s nothing. Now, she thinks, she might be able to do the same with her own dagger.

“Okay,” he concedes, “you long for Truth-Teller.”

Thea smacks him in the arm and shakes her head, not bothering to argue the point. It’s an unwinnable debate, and Azriel is relentless at the best of times. She slips past him and returns to where she was sitting on the floor. One look at her tea and she knows it’s gone cold. The letters in front of her suddenly seem much less important than the Illyrian shuffling on his feet.

“I’m serious, Azriel,” she says, increasingly aware of the fact she has nowhere for him to sit that will fit his wings and she’s starting to feel bad about it. Truthfully, she’s never considered it before because Azriel never stays in her office for longer than a few minutes, and he doesn’t come on a regular basis. Just if there’s something she needs to know, or if Rhys asks him to pass on a message. She didn’t even recognise his knock. “My floor is comfortable. See?” She stretches her legs out in front of her to prove her point. Her calves burn just from that.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, and Thea casts her gaze down so he can decide with some modicum of privacy. Then, she hears him lower himself almost silently against the wall nearest the door, and the fabric of his trousers rustles as he stretches his legs out so his feet are flat against the side of her desk. He relaxes his wings and she’s glad she brushed up the bits earlier so they don’t irritate them while the membranes curl against the ground.

“Do you sit on the floor often?” he asks, resting his head on the wall behind him and closing his eyes like he’s got a headache. She knows tonics don’t work for him, but she almost wants to offer anyway.

No point, she thinks, he’ll deny it regardless.

“Sometimes a change of position is necessary,” she says, turning her attention to the most recent letter Eris sent her. It’ll let Azriel sit without feeling like she’s assessing him. “Helps keep the mind fresh, you know?”

He hums in agreement and they fall silent. A couple of minutes pass with them comfortably keeping each other company while she reads and rereads and he enjoys the quiet. Thea thinks he might even be asleep, and that pleases her more than she could possibly have guessed.

When he next speaks, his voice is soft and low. He doesn’t look at her, just keeps his head pressed back against the wood. “It’s cooler down here,” he says.

May the Mother bless him, he really is struggling in the heat. It occurs to her that she could tell him to wear something other than black, but Azriel is over five-hundred and is capable of dressing himself appropriately. If he was going to wear another colour, he would be doing it already, and he looks like he could do without her ribbing him for it right now. “The room,” she says, “is water cooled.”

“Summer Court?” he asks.

She nods, though he won’t be able to see it. “It’s a good way of releasing a bit of power without exerting myself.”

He takes that information in by eyeing her across the room.

“Explain how it works to me.”

“...Really?”

“You explain things so well,” he says.

So she does. Walks him through how she manipulates the air circulation to keep the water cool and flowing through the little pipes she installed in the walls one Summer decades ago. Tells him about the time one of the pipes burst and water leaked into the tea room below. It rotted one of the counters and she still hasn’t admitted to Clotho that it was her fault, which makes him chuckle under his breath. She says that, actually, being on the floor is the best in Summer because hot air rises and that’s why all the houses in her home Court have their bedrooms on the ground floor.

“You know,” she tells him, “you might stay cooler if you stretched out your wings.” He gives her an odd look, so she continues, “You’d create more surface area and there would be better heat dissipation.”

That boyish smile is back, but his eyes are more sincere than teasing like they were earlier. “You just want to see my wings,” he says. Goes back to his presumably headache soothing position.

She shrugs. “They’re pretty wings. And I am right. It would keep you cooler.”

Thea catches the faint blush on his cheeks that she’s certain isn’t just from the heat. A second later, his fully flared wings are taking up three-quarters of the length of her office wall, and she hears a faint pop of air as they reach their full breadth. Her lips part as she watches the spectacle. They are a thing woven from the spool of divine silk, she’s convinced of it. What she wouldn’t give to know if they feel like leather or velvet…

“You’re staring,” he says, but his eyes are closed.

Thea shuts her mouth before she starts to drool. “You can’t even see me,” she grumbles, grabbing a pencil off her desk and writing some nonsense on the letter in her hand so it feels like she’s being productive.

“My wings are very sensitive. They can feel when someone looks at them.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

He’s not, and he knows that she doesn’t think he is, so he smiles and asks her if all the homes in the Summer Court have internal cooling or if she’s just clever. Idly, pretending that it’s just so she can refamiliarise herself with the concepts and not because she wants to impress him, she blabs on about the different ways they do it in Summer. He doesn’t seem to mind, and listens to her with a relaxed look on his face.

A good thing can only last for so long.

Eventually, he peels himself off her floor and they bid each other goodbye. She promises him that she’ll disarm him again next time they have training. He smirks and says, “I’ll have to stop going easy on you.” Though she gasps like she’s scandalised, she knows he isn’t going at full pelt when they spar. He would, simply, wipe the floor with her. One of these days, she’ll ask him to show her what that’s like.

When he leaves, Thea’s happy to see that the slight hunch in his shoulders has loosened almost completely. He shuts the door gently. She absolutely watches him go.

Out of curiosity, she opens up the coin purse and spills the contents of it to see how much more he’d given her. Thirty gold marks. She laughs to herself and decides she’ll spend the twenty she actually won on a half-decent meal for herself, and the other ten on something stupid for him from The Rainbow. It’s his money anyway.

She gathers all of Eris’ letters—she really hasn’t been reading them since Az appeared—ties them back in a bundle and sticks them in one of the drawers in her desk that isn’t full of crap. She does the same with the dagger, even if it feels like sacrilege to squirrel it away, so that Clotho won’t confiscate it if she comes to see her. How Azriel managed to get it past her, Thea doesn’t know. It’s a secret between him and his shadows presumably.

Today, she decides, she will continue to shirk tidying in favour of finding a quiet corner of the library and cracking open the new crime novel she’s reading. Maybe then Azriel will believe that she doesn’t just read erotica.

Eris responds to her request to meet him in Velaris that afternoon.

taglist for you lovelies:

@dhcghbdscj @quantumquillz @batboyslutt @honk4emoboyz @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @anainkandpaper @casiiopea2

a/n: i really hope that worked, i have never tagged anyone before, also my b for tagging someone who didn't ask to be earlier, forgive me please?

#azriel #azriel x oc #azriel angst #eris vanserra #azriel x you #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar

91 notes · View notes

absolxguardian · 2 days ago

Text

@egregiousderp #especially since you can find writings of early modern and medival european men writing about the pros of being friends with your wife#they have no concept of romance just friendship and carnal desire#if you actually like your wife shes your best friend#so its culture!#<-absolxguardian’s prev tags#I CAN COMMENT ON THIS ACTUALLY!#because marriage wasn’t so much about sexual desire as it was about the duty of procreation and lineage for a lot of nobler houses?#it’s more tied in with the idea of status or duty!#you see that especially well in some of the chivalry movements#wanting to have sex with someone was almost completely divorced from the idea of proper marriage#seducing a guy you like so he has to ‘do the right thing’ and make your child legitimate was a thing#we have a very different view of sex and marriage post-birth control pill is my theory at least#it’s still super odd as an ace person seeing these people who don’t even LIKE their spouses as people but are so horny for them they marry

You're exactly right. My tags were just about one aspect of this different system, not differentiating between friendship and feelings of emotional affection towards your spouse/sex partner (romance). This isn't even getting into marriage, which was a thing that could be separate from both sexual attraction and friendship/romance. The idea that the birth control pill caused a major sea change is commonly accepted historiography (as well as easier to use condoms and for a period of time before HIV emerged cures for all STDs). A lot of our contemporary sex negative ideas are out-dated good advice when sex could be very dangerous (of course these ideas have forgotten their purpose. They become self justifying with their own value judgements, instead of practical advice about pregnancy being dangerous and new people causing complications).

Another thing that has occured to me since writing those tags is the idea that some contemporary historians have, deeming very close friendships between 17th and 18th century as "romantic friendships" (and thus sexless). This is done in a very no-homoing way, but considering this a way to make their relationship not queer is asexual erasure. But on the other hand, these relationships weren't considered deviant or even all that close to sodomy in their own time periods. But if their culture can be seen as not differentiating between romance and friendship, then what?

I'd put my guess for the emergence of romance as a concept in Europe as with the movement- romanticism- it takes its name from. But I don't feel like I know enough to confidently present this as a thesis, and I haven't been able to find an actual acadmic paper saying the same thing. Potentially you could say that courtly love is the first instance of romance in Europe, but you could also classify it as being about sexual tension and unconsummated sexual relationships. They did consider what they did dancing around the line, in a time when you weren't required to like your spouse. (And this is just Europe, but I know very little about this kind of intellectual history elsewhere, since I can only read stuff that has been translated into English).

I'm currently in a philosphy of sex and love class, and after four weeks I have no more insight into what romantic love is. But most of the texts we've read have been about figuring out a definition for love in general. The only guy who put forth an idea about romance specifically, has a definition that is incompatible with polyamory. But I am writing this right before doing the readings for our upcoming week that is focused on polyamory, so maybe I'll have more to say in two hours.

[guy who is aromantic voice] sexual attraction just makes more sense than romantic attraction. like ok, you want to fuck someone. this is quantifiable. it is quite easy to grasp what "i want to fuck someone" looks like, even if you have no idea what it feels like. romantic attraction, though? this is a nebulous construct which seems to largely be "glorified friendship with sex" in the popular imagination. what even is the difference between friendship and romance? the line between friendship and sexual attraction, though both can coexist, is that when there's sexual attraction present, you want to fuck someone. the line between friendship and romantic attraction, so far as i can perceive it within a heteronormative, amatonormative framework, is that it is... friendship where you want to fuck someone. what?

2K notes · View notes

weekendlusting · 2 days ago

Text

A TALE OF FAME

pairing ꪆৎ charles leclerc x ahaana patel ᥫ᭡. f1 driver x bollywood actress au

chapter ꪆৎ 3

summary ꪆৎ she's everything, and he just drives.

note ꪆৎ no hate to any characters used in the story, none of what i write reflects on how they actually are. all my love, happy reading.

────୨ৎ────

Charles Leclerc sat in his hotel suite, fingers drumming impatiently against the glass of whiskey in his hand. He wasn’t even drinking it—just swirling the amber liquid in the dim light of his room, as if the motion itself could steady his thoughts.

Alex was late. Of course, she was. She had a way of dragging things out, prolonging the inevitable, believing that if she held on long enough, reality would bend to her will.

He heard the sharp knock at his door and exhaled slowly before getting up to open it. Alex stood there, all too put together—her blonde hair in effortless waves, her lips curved in a knowing smirk, like she already thought she’d won whatever game she was playing.

“Chéri,” she purred, stepping past him without waiting for an invitation. “Miss me?”

Charles shut the door and ran a hand through his hair. “Sit down, Alex.”

She turned, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. “Oh? We’re being serious now?” She strolled over to the couch, sitting with the grace of someone who still thought they held all the cards.

Charles didn’t sit. He remained standing, arms crossed, his jaw tight. “I told you this was over.”

Alex let out a soft laugh, tilting her head as she crossed her legs. “And yet, you called me here. Mixed signals, don’t you think?”

“I called you here,” Charles said, voice measured, “because you don’t seem to get it. We are done, Alex. Finished.”

Her smile didn’t waver, but something flickered in her eyes. “Are we?” she said smoothly. “Because I keep hearing your name next to mine. The media still calls me your girlfriend. You haven’t exactly rushed to correct them.”

Charles clenched his fists. “I shouldn’t have to. We broke up. You just refuse to accept it.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “Or maybe you’re just confused. Maybe this—whatever this little tantrum is—will pass, and you’ll realize that I am the only woman who truly understands you.”

Charles let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Tantrum? You think I’m throwing a tantrum? Alex, I am exhausted.”

Her smirk faltered slightly, but she masked it quickly. “Exhausted of what?”

“Of you!” His voice rose, exasperation lacing every word. “Of the mind games. Of the manipulation. Of the constant need to control everything, including me.” He pointed at her. “You think if you show up enough times, if you insert yourself into my life over and over, I’ll just—what? Change my mind?”

Alex’s eyes darkened. “I wouldn’t have to insert myself into your life if certain people weren’t trying to replace me.”

Charles exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And here we go.”

She stood, arms folding as she stepped closer to him. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Charles. That little actress you’ve been parading around—Ahaana.”

Charles’s eyes snapped to hers, his posture stiffening. “Ahaana has nothing to do with this.”

Alex scoffed. “Please. You think I don’t see the way you looked at her that day?” She stepped closer, voice dripping with venom. “She is nothing. She’s a novelty. A shiny new toy for you to play with. And once the excitement fades, you’ll realize what I’ve always known—you and I are inevitable.”

Charles’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. “You are delusional, Alex. And actually fucking crazy if you think that Ahaana has anything to do with this.”

Her lips curled. “Am I?”

“Yes,” he snapped, stepping forward, closing the space between them. “I have never—never—been more certain about anything in my life. We are over. I am breaking up with you. I don’t love you. I don’t even like you.”

She inhaled sharply, but before she could speak, Charles continued.

“You want to know why? Because I see you now. For who you really are. You’re not the woman I fell for—you’re a version of her, twisted and bitter, clinging onto something that doesn’t exist anymore.” He exhaled harshly. “You’re right about one thing. I do look at Ahaana differently. Because she isn’t like you.”

Alex’s face twisted, her hands curling into fists. “She will never be me.”

“Thank God for that.”

The silence between them was thick, charged with something dangerously close to hatred. Charles had never wanted to hate Alex—had never even imagined he could—but looking at her now, seeing the pure, unfiltered malice in her eyes, he realized he might be close.

She straightened, lifting her chin. “You’ll regret this.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I won’t.”

She stared at him, something almost desperate flickering across her features, before she masked it with indifference. “Fine,” she said. “Have it your way.”

Charles said nothing. He just watched as she turned, her heels clicking against the floor as she stormed toward the door. But before she left, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder.

“This isn’t over,” she said, voice eerily calm.

And then, she was gone.

Charles stood there for a long moment, his heart pounding, his fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms.

But then he exhaled, shaking his head, as if shedding the last remnants of whatever hold Alex had on him.

For the first time in a long time, he felt free.

Meanwhile not too far away,the hotel room was bathed in soft hues of twilight, the warm amber glow of the setting sun spilling through the sheer curtains. Ahaana sat curled up in a chair by the window, her phone resting idly on the armrest. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of a coffee mug, long gone cold. The day had been uneventful, yet her mind was anything but still. The ghosts of the past lingered in the shadows, whispering doubts, tugging at old wounds she had worked so hard to forget.

India.

Film city.

Even the thought of it sent a strange chill through her veins. It wasn’t fear—not exactly. It was the weight of something unfinished, something unresolved, lurking in the corners of her memory. The industry that had once been her playground had also turned its back on her when she had needed it the most. And yet, here she was, being offered a way back in.

What the fuck is happening? She sighed to herself, rubbing her temple.

The phone buzzed suddenly, pulling her out of her thoughts. She glanced at the screen, expecting yet another half-hearted PR email or a message from her manager. But instead, a name lit up the display, and for the first time that day, she felt something shift inside her.

Varun Dhawan.

She hesitated for only a second before answering. “Hello?”

“Finally! Madam has answered my call.” His voice was light, teasing, filled with the familiar warmth that had always made her feel like home.

Ahaana huffed out a small laugh. “Hi, Varun.”

“Hi, she says. That’s all I get? After ignoring me for days?”

“I haven’t been ignoring you.”

“Really? Because Karan and I were starting to think you had developed some severe phone phobia. Should we be concerned?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic? Me? Never.” His tone dropped slightly, losing some of its playful edge. “Ahaana, you know why I’m calling.”

Her smile faltered. Of course, she did.

“You and Karan are relentless,” she muttered, leaning back against the chair.

“Because we believe in you,” he countered immediately. “And because we know you still love this. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

She exhaled slowly, staring out at the dimming sky. “It’s not that simple, Varun.”

“Yes, it is.” His voice softened. “You were born for this, Ahaana. And you know it. Whatever happened before—”

She stiffened slightly. “Let’s not talk about that.”

There was a pause, as if he was choosing his next words carefully. Then, he sighed. “Fine. But don’t let the past dictate your future. You’re not that person anymore.”

She wanted to believe that. She really did.

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know. And we’re still your people, Ahaana.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. She had spent so long pushing everything away, convincing herself that she didn’t need anyone, that she had forgotten what it felt like to have people who cared. People who wanted her back.

Then, before she could respond, another voice chimed in from the background. “Has she said yes yet?”

Karan Johar.

Ahaana let out a small laugh despite herself. “Karan, are you eavesdropping?”

“I don’t eavesdrop. I supervise.”

Varun snorted. “He’s been pacing for the past ten minutes, by the way. I think he might actually combust if you say no.”

Karan’s voice came through again, a touch more serious this time. “Darling, you’re a star. Stop dimming your own light.”

Ahaana stared at the city skyline, a myriad of thoughts swirling inside her. But for the first time in a long time, the hesitation didn’t feel quite as heavy. Maybe Varun was right. Maybe Karan was right. Maybe it was time to stop running.

She inhaled deeply, a quiet moment of clarity settling over her. Then, she spoke.

“Okay.”

A beat of silence. Then Varun whooped so loudly she had to pull the phone away from her ear. “YES! Ladies and gentlemen, she’s back!”

Karan’s relieved sigh came through the speaker. “Finally. I was this close to staging a full intervention.”

Ahaana laughed, shaking her head. “You two are impossible.”

“And you love us for it,” Varun quipped.

She did. More than she cared to admit.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to come home.

The gang had game nights far too often then they'd like to admit, Max and Kelly were ofcourse there, Ahaana was there, Carlos and Rebecca joined, Lando somehow always inserted himself in even though everytime he cheated and got himself uninvited. Even Alex Albon and Lily joined them from time to time, but couldn't make it this time and Charles was with them for the first time ever.

The night was young, but the energy in the room felt like the start of a Grand Prix itself—fast, loud, and filled with the potential for absolute disaster. The gang had gathered in Max’s hotel suite for a game night, and true to form, it had already descended into chaos.

“I’m telling you, Lando cheats,” Ahaana declared, pointing an accusatory finger at him as he smirked from his spot on the couch. “There is no way you won that round fairly.”

Lando, lounging back with all the ease of someone who had just scammed his way into victory, dramatically placed a hand on his chest. “How dare you? I am an honest man.”

“Honest, my foot,” Kelly interjected, shaking her head. “Even Charles saw it, didn’t you?”

Charles, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for the past few minutes, blinked. “Huh?”

“See? He wasn’t even paying attention,” Lando scoffed. “Probably too busy thinking about how free he is now that he’s finally dumped his psychotic ex.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Rebecca, who had been stacking poker chips, froze mid-motion. Max, who had been snickering at Lando’s misfortune, raised a brow. Ahaana, who had been preoccupied trying to figure out how Lando had managed to win five rounds in a row, looked up.

“You finally did it?” Carlos leaned forward, grinning. “You actually told Alex to get lost?”

Charles exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. “It was not exactly smooth.”

“Of course, it wasn’t,” Max said. “She’s like an overly attached leech.”

Kelly winced. “Oof. Harsh, but fair.”

“I don’t even want to know the details,” Lando said, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Actually, no. I do. Tell us. In detail.”

Charles groaned. “Why are you all like this?”

“Because this is the most entertainment we’ve had all season,” Rebecca quipped. “Now spill.”

Charles rolled his eyes, but he recounted the story of his final conversation with Alex. The room responded accordingly—with gasps, laughter, and a few muttered curses aimed at Alex’s name. When he finished, Ahaana just shook her head, unimpressed.

“She’s delusional,” she said simply. “Absolutely delusional.”

“I would’ve paid money to see her reaction when you told her it was over,” Max admitted, grinning.

Charles smirked. “It was… satisfying.”

“Okay, enough about the she-devil,” Lando said, stretching. “Let’s get back to the game before Ahaana starts accusing me of cheating again.”

“You do cheat,” she said without hesitation.

“I do not—”

“Lando, you have a history of cheating at literally every game we’ve ever played,” Max said, unimpressed.

“I prefer to think of it as strategic improvisation.”

“Strategic bullshit,” Rebecca muttered.

The next hour was filled with absolute mayhem. There was yelling. There was a near-brawl between Carlos and Lando over an Uno reverse card. At some point, Kelly got so frustrated she threw a playing card at Max’s head, which only made him laugh harder. Charles, for the most part, found himself entertained just watching it all unfold.

Ahaana, in particular, seemed to come alive in the chaos. Her laughter was light, effortless, and every time she rolled her eyes at Lando or tossed a witty remark at Max, Charles found himself watching her just a little too long.

“Alright, alright,” Ahaana said, throwing her hands up in surrender after another brutal loss. “I need a break before I throw Lando out the window.”

“Jokes on you,” Lando said. “I’d land gracefully.” To which Max snorted.

Ahaana got up and stretched, and that’s when she casually dropped, “Oh, by the way, I officially start shooting for Jigra in 17 days.”

The room went silent.

“What?” Max was the first to react, blinking.

“You’re actually going back?” Lando added.

Rebecca gasped. “Finally! You’re returning to the big screen!”

Ahaana smiled, a little softer this time. “Yeah. It’s time.”

There was a beat of silence before Max, ever the older brother figure, crossed his arms. “Are you sure?”

She looked at him, understanding the weight behind his question. “I am.”

Max studied her for a long moment, then exhaled. “Alright. If anyone gives you trouble—”

“I know, I know.” She grinned. “I’ll call my attack dog Verstappen.”

He smirked. “Damn right.”

After a long round of jenga and then stuffing their faces in food, the last slice of pizza appeared on the table, and the room instantly went silent, all eyes locked on it.

Ahaana leaned forward, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Well, look who’s in the spotlight now.”

Carlos didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been eyeing that slice for the last ten minutes.”

“Oh, please,” Ahaana shot back. “You just noticed it now because it’s the last one.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “You’re really gonna fight over pizza? This is an all-time low, even for you.”

“Shut up, Lando,” Carlos grumbled. “It’s mine.”

Max chuckled from the side. “This is gonna be good.”

Ahaana picked up the slice like it was some sort of prized possession. “I’m just saying, I’ve had a long day. So I think I’m entitled to this.”

Carlos shot up from his seat, but Ahaana held the slice just out of reach, her smirk widening. “Nice try.”

Max shook his head, watching the two of them. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve seen all week.”

Ahaana, sensing victory, took a deliberate bite of the pizza. “Too slow, boys.”

Lando leaned back, popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth. “Well, that was anticlimactic.”

Later that night, after the raucous energy had settled slightly, Charles found himself watching Ahaana from across the room. She was laughing at something Lando had said, her head thrown back, eyes crinkled in amusement. The dim lighting softened her features, casting warm shadows over her skin, making her look almost ethereal.

He didn’t know when it started, this quiet admiration of her. Maybe it was when she first walked into his life with that effortless confidence, like she belonged in every room she entered. Maybe it was when he realized she wasn’t just sharp-tongued but also deeply, frustratingly kind. Or maybe it was moments like this, when she wasn’t doing anything extraordinary—just laughing, existing—and yet, she managed to pull his entire attention like a force of gravity.

There was something in the way she carried herself—unapologetic, bold, yet with an underlying grace that was hard to ignore. She was an enigma, a storm and a lull all at once. And he was starting to realize he liked that about her. A little too much.

“Are you staring at Ahaana?”

Charles nearly choked on his drink. He turned sharply to see Max smirking at him, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“No,” he denied, a little too quickly.

Max hummed, unconvinced. “Sure. And I’m a level headed person when angered.”

Charles groaned. “Can you not?”

Max chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Oh no, mate. I definitely can.”

Across the room, Ahaana caught his gaze, a small, soft smile playing on her lips. Charles smiled back but quickly looked away because he was scared his blush would be way too evident, but the warmth on his face lingered and Ahaana caught it anyway, chuckling a bit at the very handsome man, which Charles heard.

Yeah. He was in trouble.

────୨ৎ────

ᝰ.ᐟ third part! hope you guys like it!

────୨ৎ────

tags @seonghwaexile @bookishprophecy @justadesirebel @peterholland04 @bakingpiastries @ricciardosheart @mikefaistgf @sp1rl @charlesgirl16 @leila-030304 @uhcalli @blahblechblah @phobiccneel

comment to be added to taglist

────୨ৎ────

66 notes · View notes

jeonscatalyst · 19 hours ago

Note

I'm basic and like Woosan and Minsung lol. Like, I'm a sucker and click on the YouTube shorts / tiktoks about their chemistry or how they're whipped for each other.

That said, I think if anything, the presence of fan service is a pretty clear indicator that the relationship is platonic lol. Like, if two members were actually dating, flirting, etc. then they'd keep it hidden from the public and probably other idols/industry folks, too.

i saw this on my timeline from a stan of another group. but aren't they telling the truth ? will a real couple be that public with their gay relationship with their bandmate ? Its very unlikely 2 men who have a secret relationship behind the scenes will flaunt it for public to see in their homophobic country, especially knowing its harmful for them their group their company their families etc. Going on trips, filming and releasing it, saying you got bitten, allowing staff to film it, having numerous skinship moments on screen and on stage - especially when one is extra private and professional to the point he even hides his iphone airpods which he shares with his supposed bf because they have a contract with samsung and the one who is stalked every 2 days by his y/n saesangs who apparanlty doesnt know about his sexuality or relationship with bandmate, huh?. This all sums up to them being genuine platonic friends who are playing up for their fans and doesnt mind being called a couple. None of heavily shipped duos in other groups doesnt shy away from pda, even teasing fans in their live streams because at the end of the day they are close friends who have nothing hidden going on or to fear.

Its naive to think jikook are a real couple who should be protected in their homophobic country(or world in general) and from crazy fandom when its Jikook themselves who are exhibiting their friendship in homoromantic way for public to see. Make it make sense ?

Hi anon,

So what I’m reading is that you and others see it too? You see exactly what we see…you recognize that the way Jimin and Jungkook behave with each other could easily lead anyone to believe their relationship isn’t purely platonic. Yet, rather than acknowledge that possibility, you attempt to rationalize it by arguing that a real couple, especially in a homophobic country, wouldn’t behave so openly but would instead go to great lengths to hide their relationship. Noted.

But that raises an important question: who set the rules on how people in such circumstances are supposed to behave? Sure, there are common expectations for how individuals might act in certain situations, but the truth is, we can’t possibly know the full extent of their reality. Unlike them, we don’t have firsthand insight into their experiences, nor can we accurately gauge the risks involved the way they can.

Every time I see arguments like yours, I can’t help but roll my eyes. It’s painfully clear that many people don’t understand the first thing about queer history or the ways in which queer individuals have learned to navigate a world that hasn’t always accepted them. Queer people have mastered the art of hiding in plain sight. For most, that’s second nature because, at some point in their lives, they’ve had to conceal at least parts of who they are. But let’s not forget that humans are, well, human….we aren’t always calculated. There are times when emotions override logic, and in those moments, people who are forced to hide often end up revealing more than they intend. Those are the moments where we catch glimpses of something real.

Idols, of course, are expected to engage in fanservice…it’s practically built into their job. They understand that many of their actions, especially on stage, will automatically be dismissed as just fanservice. So tell me, Anon, if you were a queer person who had spent years perfecting the art of blending in, what better way would there be to take advantage of moments where people are already primed to excuse your actions as something else?

Also, I have to wonder, do you honestly believe that most Jikookers ship Jimin and Jungkook purely because of what they do on stage or because of this “fanservice”? Because if so, that only proves how little you actually understand. There’s far more to why we believe they could be in a romantic relationship than just their stage interactions.

You brought up examples like: “Would a closeted couple go on a private trip, take videos, and post them?” And to that, I have to ask: Do you realize what you just admitted? The fact that you even question whether a closeted couple would do something like that means that, on some level, you also perceive those actions as non-platonic. So instead of asking whether a couple in a homophobic country would behave a certain way, why not ask yourself: Why would two “just friends” do these things in the first place?

Regardless of whether Jungkook filmed and posted GCF, the fact remains that he took Jimin to Tokyo…during a short break, at a time when both were going through a lot. Regardless of whether Hickeygate ever saw the light of day, the fact remains that it happened. Jungkook still carried a tipsy Jimin bridal-style, spun him around, and when Jimin wanted to be let down, he bit Jungkook’s neck…an erogenous zone. These things all happened whether we got to know about them or not. And since you’re citing these examples as things a queer couple in a homophobic country wouldn’t do, that means you also recognize that these actions don’t exactly scream platonic friendship. Unless, of course, you’re seriously trying to argue that traveling to Japan together, carrying each other in their arms, and biting each other’s necks in private were all just for the sake of fanservice?

“Its naive to think jikook are a real couple who should be protected in their homophobic country(or world in general) and from crazy fandom when its Jikook themselves who are exhibiting their friendship in homoromantic way for public to see. Make it make sense ? "

No, Anon. I don’t think Jikook are deliberately presenting their friendship in a homoerotic way. I think they’re simply existing and interacting with each other in a way that comes naturally to them. You’re the one perceiving something more…..and that says a lot more about your own instincts than whatever you think Jimin and Jungkook are intentionally doing.

And once again, don’t assume for a second that I, or most Jikookers, believe in Jikook just because of what you call “fanservice.” That’s where non-shippers and rival shippers (honestly, I can’t tell which you are) always get it wrong. You miss the details that people who genuinely pay attention to Jimin and Jungkook as a duo pick up on. The little things….the ones that make all the difference.

Go back and carefully comb through Jimin and Jungkook’s history if you care to. Look at all the little TMI’s we’ve gathered over the years, from staff members, Jikook themselves, from the members and from their friends and acquaintances. Then come back and tell me, honestly, if you still believe that people think there is more going on with Jikook because of “fanservice.”

#jikook #jimin #jungkook #ship discourse #my asks

59 notes · View notes

onceinablueberrymoon · 7 hours ago

Note

I don’t know if you’re doing smut, but if you do, how about the reader is a recruiter like the salesman and there together and how would he be with you in the Bed! (He’s a total psycho for me hehe)

salesman x recruiter!reader headcanons (sfw + nsfw)

sorry for the super long wait! i did headcanons for this one since i’m not the most comfortable w hardcore smut. if you’ve read my stories, you probably already know i’m a sucker for soft and domestic salesman lmao

notes: gender-neutral!reader; the recruiter is called salesman here since reader is also a recruiter here

warnings, just in case: mentions of whips, guns, slight exhibitionism

minors dni! there’s smut in this one, folks

(also pls send me requests! i’m working on the ones i’ve already received, but more are always welcome♡ not just for the salesman either, i am begging anything sangwoo too)

sfw

if the reader is also a recruiter, you’d have probably met the salesman just after becoming a recruiter yourself.

while the salesman’s game of choice was ddakji, yours was tic-tac-toe.

similar to the salesman who carried ddakji tiles and various bills of won, your briefcase contained a simple wooden frame and wooden ‘x’ and ‘o’ pieces.

when you first met, he was polite and courteous towards you.

as time went on though, you felt as if you were being followed after work hours. one morning however, you’d caught him following you and confronted him, saying that his assigned location wasn’t anywhere near yours.

stunned that you had discovered him, he offered to have lunch together, which you accepted. the two of you started to grow closer, with both of you checking in on each other via text throughout the day.

even though you and the salesman would rarely cross paths during work, you always made time for each other after work.

this man can be soft when he wants to be. from cutely pouting when he loses at board games to snuggling in bed after a long day of slapping people, he’s capable of being a loving partner when he feels like it. he just didn’t have someone to share that side of him until you came along.

that’s not to say he doesn’t have a dark side. of course he does! that’s what we’re all here for, right?

nsfw

you always knew the salesman had interesting… tendencies.

although you also played games while seeking out prospective players, you didn’t bring that part of your life home. that is, until you met the salesman.

you quickly learned that he loved games. so much so that he’d incorporated them into your sex life.

what game haven’t you played by this point?

tag, where he chased you around his apartment until he eventually pinned you down and had his way with you.

marco polo, where he shouted “marco!”, to which you replied “polo!” from your hiding spot. he’d then crack his whip in the direction in which you called.

tug of war, where you’d both tug on a special rope he’d bought just for the occasion. he’d usually win, unless he took it easy on you. the winner would use the rope to tie the loser’s hands to the bedpost.

and of course, when he was feeling spicy, his favourite: russian roulette. while he rarely loaded the gun with a live bullet, he thrived on the fear in your eyes when he pressed the gun against your chin and clicked the trigger.

of course, he’d do it to himself too, even going so far as to deepthroat the gun. even though you were scared out of your mind, you had to admit it was a huge turn-on.

contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t always the one in charge.

you also had your fun, like when you would play with one of those paper fortune-tellers you made when you were a kid.

depending on what “fortune” he had chosen, you’d do different things to him.

for example, if he chose “slow”, “teasing”, and “cockwarming,” you’d do exactly that. you’d tie him to the bedpost, then teasingly grind down on him for as long as you wanted. no amount of frustrated groans or the rare whine would get you to stop your actions. of course, you’d capture his lips to muffle his moans. while he loved making sure that your neighbours could hear you through the walls, you preferred not to have an audience.

finally, he’d take the utmost care in helping you clean up afterwards. as much as he would love to show your ruined state off to the world, you had to be presentable for your job.

you’d try your best to care for him as well, buying expensive lotions for his calloused hands.

all in all, you made a great team, both in the streets and in the sheets.

i am very proud of that last line ngl

62 notes · View notes

28harryssunflower · 2 days ago

Note

Could you maybe do an angsty one with a happy ending? Harry is mistreating/ not putting y/n or the relationship first. He gets defensive at first when y/n brings it up

I didn’t know what era you preferred, so I chose the 2017-ish era. Hope that’s fine! But in the end you can imagine whatever era lol. It’s just about the picture at the top!

Hope it matches your expectations xx

Gone but not forgotten

It wasn’t always like this.

There was a time when Harry made you feel like you were the most important thing in his world. He used to text you first thing in the morning, send you little voice notes throughout the day, and surprise you with coffee when he knew you had a long afternoon ahead. He used to come home and pull you into his arms like he needed you, like you were the best part of his day.

Now? Now, you felt like an afterthought.

It started slow - plans canceled at the last minute, phone calls ignored, messages left on read. Then it became days without a word from him. Nights where he barely acknowledged you. Excuses that felt emptier every time he spoke them.

And it wasn’t just the silence. It was how he treated you when he was home.

When you tried to talk, he barely listened, nodding absently as he scrolled through his phone. When you reached for him, he’d pull away, muttering that he was tired. He didn’t touch you the way he used to, didn’t look at you the way he used to. You felt invisible, like he had already walked out of the relationship but forgot to tell you.

And you tried. God, you tried.

You made his favorite dinners, hoping he’d sit and eat with you instead of disappearing into the bedroom. You asked him about his day, even when he never asked about yours. You pretended it didn’t hurt when he came home late and went straight to bed without so much as a goodnight.

But tonight, something inside you snapped.

It was nearly 2AM when he finally walked through the front door. You sat curled on the couch, staring at your phone, your last unanswered message still on the screen: When are you coming home?

He didn’t even look at you. Just sighed, kicked off his shoes, and dropped onto the couch like he was the one suffering.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, voice tight. “You don’t even look at me anymore.”

Harry barely reacted. Just ran a hand through his curls and muttered, “Not now.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right. Not now.”

“Can we not do this tonight?” he sighed.

“No, Harry. We are doing this tonight,” you snapped, standing up. “Because I am so tired of feeling like I don’t even exist to you.”

His jaw clenched, but he still wouldn’t look at you. “You’re being dramatic.”

Your heart cracked, but you pushed through. “Dramatic?” Your voice shook with anger. “I never see you. You don’t call, you don’t text, you barely talk to me. You’re home maybe twice a week, and when you are, you don’t even fucking acknowledge me.”

“I’ve been busy,” he muttered.

“Busy?” You let out a hollow laugh. “You’re always busy, Harry. But you’re never too busy for your friends. You’re never too busy for a night out. You’re never too busy to go to some fucking fashion event. You’re only ever too busy for me.”

His eyes snapped to yours, irritation flashing in them. “That’s not true.”

“It is true!” you shot back. “Do you even realize the last time we spent a full day together? The last time we had an actual conversation that wasn’t just me asking for your time?”

Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Christ, I can’t do this right now.”

Your whole body stiffened. “You never want to do this. You never want to talk. You just expect me to sit here and accept the fact that I don’t fucking matter to you anymore.”

His expression darkened. “That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is how I’ve felt these past few months,” you shot back, your voice rising. “You put everything before me. I feel like I don’t even fucking exist to you anymore!”

“You know that’s not true,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Do I?” You scoffed. “Because every single thing in your life comes first. The studio, the tour, your career, your friends. Fucking Christ, strangers get more of you than I do. I don’t even know if you love me anymore.”

Harry’s face twisted with frustration. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes! I am dead serious! Because I’ve spent months wondering what the hell I did wrong! If I wasn’t pretty enough, if I wasn’t good enough. If you just fucking stopped loving me and didn’t have the decency to tell me.”

His whole body went still.

You swallowed hard, trying to stop your voice from shaking. “Do you have any idea what that feels like? To sit alone every night, wondering why you’re not enough for the person you love? To look in the mirror and hate yourself because you think you are the problem?” Your breath hitched, the weight of it all crashing down. “And the worst part? You let me. You let me believe that I wasn’t worth your time.”

Silence.

Harry just stared at you, his face pale, his lips slightly parted. He looked like you had just shattered something inside him.

And then the tears came. You broke, a sob ripping through your chest as you clutched your arms around yourself, trying to hold it all in. But then, suddenly, Harry was there.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly. You tensed at first, but then the warmth of his embrace shattered whatever restraint you had left. You collapsed into him, burying your face in his chest, sobbing so hard your whole body shook.

He held you like he was afraid you’d disappear. His hands ran up and down your back, his lips pressed into your hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You clung to him, gripping his hoodie, letting out every tear you had held back for months.

After what felt like forever, your sobs quieted. The exhaustion hit you like a wave, and Harry pulled you down onto the couch with him, tucking you into his chest. His arms stayed wrapped around you like he was afraid to let go.

“I never stopped loving you,” he murmured after a long silence. His voice was hoarse, like he had to force the words out. “I was just so caught up in everything, I- I didn’t see what I was doing to you.” He swallowed hard. “I hate that I made you feel that way. That I made you question yourself.”

You closed your eyes, your body still trembling. “You hurt me, Harry.”

“I know,” he whispered. His grip tightened around you. “I swear to you, I’ll fix this. I’ll fix us.”

You wanted to believe him

For now, you just let yourself breathe in his warmth, hoping that this time, he meant it.

The morning after the argument, you woke up to the sound of quiet movement in the kitchen. For a second, you thought you had imagined it. Harry was never up before you. But when you peeked into the kitchen, there he was.

He was standing by the stove, shirt rumpled, hair a mess, clumsily flipping pancakes.

It wasn’t perfect. There was flour on the counter, a sticky bottle of syrup sitting dangerously close to the edge, and from the slightly burnt smell, it was clear this wasn’t his first attempt. But when he turned around and saw you standing there, something in his face softened.

“Hey,” he said, almost hesitant.

You blinked. “You’re making breakfast?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. I, uh… I figured you shouldn’t have to wake up alone again.”

Your heart clenched.

You wanted to be mad. Wanted to remind him that one breakfast wouldn’t erase months of neglect. But the sincerity in his voice, the way his green eyes searched yours like he was hoping you wouldn’t push him away - it made something in you thaw, just a little.

So you sat down, letting him serve you the most uneven stack of pancakes you’d ever seen. And when he poured your coffee just the way you liked it, remembering exactly how much sugar to add, you realized: He was trying.

That’s what the next few weeks were.

Small things, big efforts.

At first, it was just tiny changes - goodnight texts when he was at the studio late, longer hugs when he came home, soft kisses pressed into your hair when he thought you were asleep. He started noticing you again. Asking how your day was. Actually listening to your answers.

Then, the changes got bigger.

One night, when you were curled up on the couch scrolling through your phone, Harry sat down beside you and nudged your leg with his knee.

“Let’s go out tomorrow,” he said.

You glanced at him in surprise. “Out?”

“Yeah.” He reached for your hand, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “Like a real date. Dinner, maybe a movie after. Whatever you want.”

You stared at him, half expecting him to say just kidding. But he didn’t. He just looked at you with this quiet determination, like he wanted to do this, like he needed to.

So you said yes.

And when the date actually happened, when he held your hand the entire time and kept stealing glances at you like he couldn’t believe he had let himself drift so far away from you - you felt the smallest flicker of hope.

The intimacy was the last thing to return.

It wasn’t that Harry didn’t touch you - he did. But there was a hesitancy now, a carefulness, like he was afraid to push too soon.

One night, as you lay in bed beside him, staring up at the ceiling, you whispered, “Why are you being so careful with me?”

Harry turned his head, his eyes heavy with guilt. “Because I don’t deserve to hold you the way I used to.”

Your chest tightened.

You turned on your side to face him, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his arm. “I still want you to.”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You won’t,” you murmured. “Not if you keep trying.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you. Then, slowly, carefully, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His touch was hesitant, but when you leaned into it, he let out a shaky breath - like he had been holding it for weeks. Then he softly and carefully connected your lips.

And when he finally pulled you into his arms, holding you close, his lips pressing into the top of your head - you felt, for the first time in a long time, like maybe things could really be okay again.

Not perfect. Not yet.

But better.

And for now, that was enough.

#harry styles #one direction #short story #headcanon #one shot #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n

87 notes · View notes

cheshireliam · 1 day ago

Text

"Growing Feelings Poured Into Chocolate" Collection Event

Liam Evans

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Read this before interacting

Kate: Nn… haah… Liam…?

The moment I let Liam in when he visited my room, he started kissing me without warning.

Liam: — Be quiet.

He pinned both of my hands above my head, holding them tightly in place so I couldn’t move, and continued his attack on my lips.

(What’s gotten into him…?)

I was struggling to breathe, and yet I couldn't stop him.

Liam looked like he was in more pain than I was, so I accepted his kisses without resistance.

And that went on for who knew how long.

After kissing me for so long that I thought my lips might’ve been swollen, Liam finally released my hands and pulled away.

Kate: Liam… did something happen?

Liam: …

Liam: Kate… do you like pain?

Kate: Huh…?

Liam: If you like pain, I can give you as much pain as you want.

Liam: If you like being bitten, I’ll bite you however much you want… we can even do more dangerous things together.

Liam: … I'll act as kind of man you want me to be, Kate. So please—

Liam: Please… don’t abandon me…

This time, Liam started crying into my chest.

Kate: … Liam. I don’t like pain.

Liam: Really…?

Kate: Yes. Because the person I love doesn’t want to hurt me… I always want to take good care of my body and make sure I don't get hurt.

Kate: Also, you don’t need to act. I love you just the way you are, Liam.

Even though I had told him that countless times before, I firmly reassured him once more.

Liam: Is that really how you feel…? I thought…

Liam: … I- I’m sorry, Kate. Thanks for telling me you love me.

Liam: I love you too. So… let me love you as you are too from now on.

Liam: … Sorry for being violent with my kisses.

Liam gave me a gentle kiss, and the two of us tumbled into bed together.

…

Kate: … Ah!! I almost forgot all about it!!

After a moment of Liam and I affirming our love for each other, something came to my mind and I immediately bolted up while still in his arms.

Liam: Is something the matter?

Kate: Yes. I’ll be right back, Liam.

I got up and brought something from the kitchen back to my room.

Kate: Happy Valentine’s Day, Liam!

Liam: Is this… for me?

I presented Liam with a moderately sweet chocolate cake.

Kate: Yup. I wanted to make something you’d enjoy eating… so I used a special chocolate that’s especially aromatic.

Liam: It really does smell good…

Kate: Fufu. It was hard to obtain, but worth the effort to beg Jude for help.

Liam: Jude? By any chance… did you pick up the chocolates this morning?

Kate: Yes, that’s right… did you happen to see me?

Kate: I tried to make it a surprise by receiving it in secret…

Liam: What… so that’s what it was…

Liam: I saw you smiling so happy when receiving some package from Jude.

Liam: Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I assumed you and Jude might have feelings for each other…

Kate: Eeh!? That’s impossible. I’m fully devoted to you, Liam!

Kate: So that’s why you asked if I liked pain…

Liam: Yeah… I’m sorry for doubting you.

Liam: … It made me insecure knowing you’re such a wonderful person that anyone would admire.

Kate: Then please always voice out whenever you feel that way, I can clear those feelings for you.

Kate: Because my love for you will absolutely never fade.

Liam: Thanks, Kate.

Although it was late at night, the two of us shared the chocolate cake.

Even if our love melts and loses its shape in the heat caused by jealousy, like chocolate, we can always reshape it beautifully.

Because I want to be together with Liam until the end of time.

#ikemen villains #ikemen series #ikevil translations #liam evans #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #otome #ikevil collection event

62 notes · View notes

livingformintyoongi · 2 days ago

Text

Poème | Kim Taehyung

Summary: For centuries, Taehyung has roamed the world, trapped in an eternity he never truly desired. Desperation led him to accept an offer of immortality, a gift that quickly turned into his greatest curse. Once a hopeful young man dreaming of a future with the love of his life, he now wanders through time burdened by regret, forever mourning the one he lost. No amount of power, beauty, or wealth can fill the void left by you. If eternity means living without you, then what is the point of living at all? Author’s note: Hi again! I hope everyone is well ^^ I know I had said I was going to focus on GAS? but…. Tae vampire came to my head and demanded to stay until I managed to bring him to this world :) Soooo, I don't know if most of you read this but I seriously, seriously need your help for this, I really don't know how to move it forward :(( so please, if you have any ideas on how to move it forward or any scenes you'd like there to be, send me an ask or a dm, I'd really appreciate it <3 Pairing: Vampire!Taehyung x Human!Reader (female) AUs: Vampire!AU Word count: 4.6k Status: Unedited Permanent Taglist: @thunderg @minjianhyung @queenv1997 @yoongtism @lizzymizzy-blogg @superbbananananana @drpepperobsessed @themwordsblog @taekritimin123 @bluecloudss @yooglefics @tan-veee @angellekookie @madussthougths Dividers by @the-aesthetics-shop and @strangergraphics

What would you do if you were given the option to live for all eternity? If someone offered you the secret behind immortality and eternal youth, would you accept? Would you be capable of leaving everything behind just to avoid facing death?

Taehyung wished with all his heart that he had asked himself those questions before saying yes to the beautiful woman in the elegant dress who offered him a second chance at life—one without sickness or poverty, a life filled with luxuries and privileges he could never have had as a mere villager in the Victorian era. Something he could have never even dreamed of when he was still human.

When desperation consumes you and you don’t know what else to do to avoid falling into the clutches of death, you… accept the first offer placed in front of you, no matter how risky it may be. That was exactly what led Taehyung to an eternity of regret, suffering, and torment.

He had been blessed with eternal life, but what was the point of living until the end of time if he was alone? What was the use of existing for centuries, watching people be born and die as if they were nothing more than tiny toy soldiers with an expiration date set by a child who had decided it was time to discard them, believing he was too grown up to play with them anymore?

He refused to live an endless life if you weren’t in it.

But you had been gone for so, so long, and he could never forgive himself for it. He could never turn back time and reject the offer from the one who was now his creator. He would never see your smile again, hear your laughter, or smell the soft scent of flowers, of the forest, of you. If only he hadn’t left home that night, if only he had waited a few more minutes… If only you had gone with him, perhaps… Perhaps now, the two of you would be living a long life together, enjoying each other’s company until the end of time.

But that wasn’t how things happened. He left his home that night. He didn’t wait. You didn’t go with him. And now, his fate was sealed. He couldn’t die, he couldn’t be harmed, he would have eternal youth and an ethereal beauty that could make any human give him anything he asked for with just one look. He could have everything—everything except you. And that, without a doubt, was the greatest torture anyone had ever inflicted on him.

That had happened over 170 years ago, and he had spent each one of those years tormenting himself. When he was still human, he had been vibrant and full of life, a social butterfly who, even without the seductive abilities of a vampire, could charm anyone with a single smile. Now, he was nothing but the empty shell of the man he once was.

During that time, he met many like him—those with whom he managed to form something close to what he could call a "family." Jiah was his mentor, the woman who had turned him and helped him through the difficult transition from human to vampire. Chaeyoung was the second oldest, a cheerful and optimistic young woman who had been a vampire for over a thousand years. Sooah and Hoseok came next, both turned in the 15th century. Then there was him, Jiwon, and Jimin—the three of them transformed in the 19th century, all saved from the brink of death by the compassionate leader of their small group.

They had been his family until now, and though he loved them as much as he was still capable of love, his love for them would never amount to even a fraction of what he felt for you. Not even a hundred people could mend the wound in his heart, no matter how hard they tried.

He could still remember his life by your side, when his body was still warm and his heart beat in a rhythmic melody, reminding him that he was alive. The two of you met because of Taehyung’s father’s work—you were a young lady from a wealthy family, and he was the son of a tailor who barely had enough money or resources to live. Yet, you noticed him—his smile, his playful jokes, and his flirtatious charm, reserved only for you.

You weren’t supposed to be together—you both knew that. But neither of you wanted to give up, you didn’t want to lose the only real thing in your lives. So, you ran away. With no money, no place to stay, only the hope of finding a place in the world where you could live without regrets or judgment.

It was his selfishness and foolishness as a teenager that led you both to that situation.

He should have realized it was madness, that there was no way you could survive in the outside world with dreams and hopes coated in sugar and honey. This was the real world—it was cruel and ruthless, showing no mercy to anyone, no matter their age or gender.

The first few months on your own were peaceful. You traveled from town to town on horseback, living freely, loving each other with all your hearts, talking about your dreams for the future, and how exciting it would be to have a family together.

You had managed to stabilize your life—Taehyung making elegant garments for high-society ladies, and you painting beautiful portraits under a pseudonym, which he promoted and sold with his natural charm.

For the first two years, life had been peaceful. Until smallpox arrived. That was when everything fell apart. No matter where you went, how much money you had, or which doctor you saw, once you were infected, there was no escape.

You both caught it at the same time. He did everything he could to keep you both from falling into death’s hands, but it was a fatal disease—there was no cure, especially with their limited resources.

It was on a dark winter night that everything changed. You were starving, and Taehyung was determined to find something—anything—to feed you. Despite his weakened, trembling body, he walked through the dark streets of the coastal city until he reached a shop. But his body was on the verge of collapse, and he fell just a few meters away from home.

He clung to the last bit of strength he had, trying to crawl back to you if necessary—anything to avoid dying far from you. He didn’t want you to think he had abandoned you, didn’t want to make you suffer when you found out he had died in the cold, damp streets, all for the sake of bringing you something to eat. He didn’t want to die without you by his side.

That desperation was what made him accept so quickly the offer placed before him by a complete stranger. “Just one drop, and you will never feel pain again.” And he accepted. He drank whatever she gave him, clinging to the hope of surviving a few more minutes. Then, everything went black for a moment—until he opened his eyes again.

Everything felt new, as if he had been reborn and was rediscovering the world. He felt good, healthy, strong, and maybe a little thirsty—but alive. And that was all that mattered.

When the initial shock passed, he begged the woman to do the same for you, to save you just as she had saved him. She smiled kindly and let him lead her to your small home.

But she stopped before entering, giving him a look of pity and compassion. At that moment, he didn’t know that he could hear a human’s heartbeat from a distance. He didn’t know that, even before stepping inside, she already knew that you were no longer in this world, and nothing could change that—not even her blood.

Taehyung may not have died that night, but his heart… His heart shattered into a thousand pieces the moment he laid eyes on your pale, lifeless body. His body had survived death—but his soul never would.

For a long time, his life had become a series of meaningless events that only served to make his desire to die grow stronger. He knew it was foolish to feel this way when he had what many would kill for; his eternal life was a miracle that tormented him every damn day, and he knew that would never change.

It took him 138 years to get over you—if that was even the right word to use in this context. Perhaps a more accurate way to put it would be, well, trying to forget you through other people. 138 years of solitude, where his only company was six other vampires just as reserved as he was, each keeping the scars of their previous lives a secret, each too afraid to open up to the others and relive memories of a past they all wished to forget.

The first time he tried something with a girl was because of Jimin, who insisted that he should look at someone else besides your portraits—the ones he himself had painted back when he had wanted to immerse himself in your world. He went to a stupid bar, too loud and filled with drunk and high people looking for something casual. But he didn’t want something casual. He wanted something lasting. He wanted you.

Hours passed before a rather beautiful girl approached him. Her shy smile and flushed cheeks seemed endearing, but nothing inside him stirred the way it had when he first met you; her eyes weren’t like yours, her essence wasn’t like yours. He didn’t like her, but still, he forced himself to try.

That night was the first and last time he attempted to move on with someone else. There was only a kiss, a brief brush of lips that the girl gave him as a thank-you for walking her home. That night, he cried like he hadn’t in years, clawed at his lips with his nails until they bled, and his screams were so agonizing that everyone in the house had to check if he was okay, because it sounded as if someone had just run a blade of iron straight through his body.

Taehyung felt that kiss exactly like that—like someone had just plunged an iron sword into his heart and desecrated his body in every possible way.

Sooah called him dramatic. Jiwon even mocked him for making such a fuss over a simple kiss. But it was Jiah who ordered them to be quiet and stayed by his side all night, comforting him as his tears fell ceaselessly down his cheeks.

After that day, he resolutely refused to go out with anyone else for the rest of his life. He didn’t need a replacement—he was much better off living with your memory than trying to forget it.

That was exactly how he managed to slowly overcome his pain—by treasuring your memory through the works of art he created, reliving every one of his feelings for you with each brushstroke on the blank canvas, until there was no trace left of the pain he had once felt. Now, all that remained was peace and a beautiful memory that he would keep deep in his heart for the rest of eternity.

It took him 175 years to achieve that peace—175 years in which he held onto the one thing he had left of you: your last painting, the one of a young wealthy woman standing alone in the middle of a grand ballroom. The soft tones and the contrast between the setting and the woman in her simple pastel dress gave off a strange warmth. It wasn’t one of your best paintings—he knew that better than anyone. You had created true masterpieces, works that your clients back then would have died to own. But this one… this one was simple, more discreet, with much less detail—mostly because you were already unwell when you finished it. But your essence, your touch, the feeling you poured into it… all of it was still there. And that made it the most important piece you had ever created.

That was why, as the last act of love he could offer to you and your memory, he traveled to Paris to present it at the Musée d’Orsay. The meeting with the museum’s curator was far more pleasant than he had expected, and he even considered making a generous donation after they agreed to exhibit the painting.

The inner peace he felt when his eyes saw the painting hanging on those cream-colored walls, among hundreds of other paintings from important figures of his era… was something he could never put into words. For the first time, his heart felt at ease—it did not beat, it did not pump blood, he knew that. And yet, for a second, Taehyung felt as if he had come back to life.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent around him. Despite the years, there was still a faint trace of you in it. And though it hurt to think that he would never again hold you in his arms, never again breathe in your scent, he felt happy.

Happy for you—because finally, one of your works bore your real name, because at last, people could see the incredible talent you had. This had been your dream, and somehow, he had made it come true for you.

He wondered if there was something after death, if there was truly a paradise in the afterlife. He knew that if such a place existed, you would undoubtedly be in heaven—in a paradise unlike any other, shining like the brightest star the world had ever seen. If that place was real, were you watching him from above?

What would you think of him right now? Would you be afraid of the fact that he was no longer human? Or of the fact that, in his first years as a vampire, he had taken the lives of many?

Would you still love him from that place so far away from him?

He prayed every day to a god he wasn’t sure existed, just to hold on to the hope that the answer was yes.

"How are things going over there?" Jiwon asked through the phone.

Taehyung’s feet carried him through the museum for the sixth time that afternoon. He still wasn’t in the mood to leave, and it’s not like anyone needed him at home at the moment. He would probably head to a nearby bar, have a glass of wine, and wander around the city until the sun rose again.

"Fine, I guess," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the paintings displayed in front of him. He had seen many of them online, but seeing them in person… it was definitely something completely different. Noticing the brushstrokes, the old traces of a brush over the oil paint, the colors, the size—everything was a new experience. It was like meeting the same person a second time; the feeling and the first impression could never be the same if you only saw them through a screen.

"So expressive, Kim." Taehyung rolled his eyes at Jiwon’s mocking tone. He wasn’t in the mood to be expressive, and it’s not like he was obligated to be.

"Anyway, Jiah is pretty worried. You know how she is, especially when it comes to you."

Taehyung nodded in silence, even though he was aware she would never see the gesture. Jiah was… she was like a mother to their small family. She was the one who turned them, the one who took care of them and taught them how to maintain their composure, always patient and loving with everyone. Taehyung couldn’t recall a single time when she had ever raised her voice at any of them.

He had always known, just like the others, that she had a certain weakness for him, something he associated too much with the fact that she had witnessed him fall apart upon finding you lifeless that night. She was the one who worried about him, who paid to give you a proper funeral, who helped him get through his sleepless nights, and who showed him a completely new world. She was the mother Taehyung never had, and he was grateful every single day for everything she had done for him, despite all the trouble he had dragged her into.

"I’ll be back soon, I just… I just want to say goodbye properly."

He stopped again in front of the painting he had submitted. That small pang in his chest had returned and, although for a few seconds he regretted it, the weight lifted when he saw someone else stop in front of your artwork to take a photo. He had managed to immortalize your memory—that was all that mattered.

At last, he would no longer be the only one completely in love with your art.

There were a few seconds of silence in which neither of them seemed to know what to say. The stillness was broken by Jiwon's soft and—unusually—understanding voice.

"Are you really okay over there, alone? We’re all a bit worried about you."

Taehyung let out a soft chuckle, lowering his head to glance at his elegant brown oxford shoes. When he was still human, he had longed to wear a pair like these, and now that he could afford them, half of his wardrobe revolved around them. You would probably be just as enamored with them as he was.

"I’ll be fine, Jiwon. It’s just a few days, it’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing."

He made his way toward the museum exit, but not before giving the painting one last look. This would be the last time he saw it—this was the final farewell. He sighed, running his tongue over his dry lips.

"Besides… I need to do this alone."

"Alright, okay, I get it. It’s your healing process and all that cheesy crap you love." Jiwon let out a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. Even miles away, Taehyung could feel the worry in her voice. A part of him was touched by it. It was nice to see that, despite everything, she still cared for him.

"Just… call us if anything happens, okay? Jimin is about to lose his mind."

"Jimin is always about to lose his mind," he chuckled under his breath, politely nodding to the guards watching the entrance.

The first thing he saw upon stepping outside was the sky, painted in pastel hues, with a faint trace of stars beginning to emerge, preparing to turn it into a beautiful nocturnal canvas with the moon as its protagonist.

"I’m going to hang up. I need to go somewhere else before heading back to my hotel."

"Alright, I get it, you’re bored of me." Even without seeing her, Taehyung knew she was smiling on the other end of the line.

"See you."

And with that, the call ended, leaving him alone with his own thoughts once again.

He wished that becoming a vampire had meant his emotions—like his heart—simply stopped functioning. Life would be easier that way. Carrying the weight of his emotions would be… probably a little more bearable.

The soft sound of Taehyung’s footsteps echoed through the dark streets of Paris, faintly illuminated by the streetlights surrounding the small, quiet alley he had chosen to escape the bustling crowd—and, in turn, his own thoughts. He had stopped by the bar he had wanted to visit for so long, but after spending a couple of hours sitting at the counter, sipping a drink he could barely taste… it was dull not being able to savor it the way he once did.

He gazed up at the night sky stretching above him, noticing how the stars seemed much closer, as if they had gathered there just to shield his eyes, rather than simply existing as part of nature’s design.

Tomorrow, he would probably buy a ticket back to Korea, still debating whether to purchase a first-class seat or a regular one. Jiah had given him more than enough money to indulge in any luxury he desired, but he didn’t want to take advantage of her generosity. He had his own savings, and not just a small amount—old trinkets he once considered worthless centuries ago were now worth millions, a fortunate advantage for all of them.

A soft melody from a nearby radio pulled him from his thoughts. He hadn’t noticed the old record store beside him, still open for some reason. It had a distinctly vintage, understated charm—exactly Taehyung’s style. He studied its exterior, noting the yellow sign with red lettering perched atop the roof, reading: Le cœur de la musique.

In the display window, several vinyl records from the ’70s and ’80s were neatly arranged, among them the famous Can’t Help Falling in Love with You by Elvis Presley, the very song now enveloping the alleyway with its gentle notes and romantic lyrics.

Taehyung truly loved that song. He closed his eyes, letting the music seep into more than just his ears—letting it settle into his body as well. With graceful movements, ones that seemed almost ingrained in him, Taehyung began swaying to the melody. He had been a great dancer in his youth. When you were both just children, you had asked him to be your dance partner so you could practice. The two of you had ended up falling completely in love with the warm, intimate feeling of it. Even when your bodies had grown cold, even when death gnawed at your bones and drained your souls, neither of you had ever stopped dancing.

His memories of you returned, vivid as always; he could almost feel the soft scent of your skin against his nose, the sensation of your hair brushing against his rough fingertips, your forehead resting gently on his shoulder, your breath against his chest. It was almost as if you were still there with him, dancing in the empty streets of Paris, in front of an old record store, your hearts swaying in perfect harmony beneath the stars.

His feet continued moving across the pavement until a soft click snapped him out of his trance.

Instantly, all of his senses sharpened. He halted his movements at once, scanning his surroundings for whoever had made that sound. He knew it was a camera. And he knew it hadn’t been close—if it had been, he would have smelled the person’s blood by now, wouldn’t he?

His dark eyes flickered with a brief glint of alertness as he surveyed the alley. That’s when he finally noticed her. At the far end of the alleyway, a young woman stood frozen in place, her face still partially hidden behind the camera lens aimed directly at him.

Before he could even think, his feet carried him forward, ready to demand why she had captured such a personal moment without his permission. But then, the delicate scent of strawberries and roses reached his nose. And right after—her blood.

Sweet. Addictive. More tempting than any other scent he had encountered in his 175 years of existence.

For a fleeting moment, Taehyung swore his heart beat again, just from the sheer intoxication of it. His gums began to itch as his fangs pressed against the inside of his lip, the thirst for blood growing exponentially with every step he took. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the overwhelming urge to feed suffocating him, clouding his mind.

Until she lowered the camera.

Until he saw your eyes.

Large. Bright. Filled with life, staring at him from the end of the alley.

His heart—still lifeless, still incapable of pumping blood—felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. And though he had no need to breathe, he swore the air caught in his lungs.

Did that make sense? Of course not, but you—standing right there, smiling at him as if you hadn’t died in his arms over 170 years ago—didn’t make sense either.

And yet, there you were.

The same eyes. The same lips. Your hair was different, yes, but everything else… everything else was exactly as he remembered. Exactly the same as the day death had stolen you from him.

Was this some kind of punishment? Retribution for the countless lives he had taken in his early years as a vampire?

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable!” you blurted out the moment you noticed the man standing just a few feet away from you. A soft, warm blush quickly spread across your cheeks—not only from the embarrassment of being caught photographing a complete stranger without permission but also because that very stranger, the one now standing before you, was breathtakingly handsome. And now he was looking directly at you, so intensely that you could feel his gaze burning into your skin.

“I-It’s just that I was on my way back to my hotel, and I saw you dancing alone. You had this melancholic expression that was just so captivating from here and… I’m sorry, that’s no excuse for what I did, I’ll delete the photo right away!”

As you fumbled over your apology, nervously gripping your camera once again, Taehyung took the opportunity to examine you—every detail of your face. You had the same beauty mark beneath your left eye. The same faint scar between your index and middle fingers. Even your voice—one he remembered as if it were his own—was exactly the same.

Your clumsy way of speaking.

The pink flush on your cheeks.

Your long eyelashes.

There was no doubt in his mind. The young woman standing before him was you.

“I…” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “What’s your name?”

He watched as your eyes lifted to meet his. He couldn’t help but notice how your lips parted slightly at the unexpected question.

Ah.

He still remembered the way your lips moved against his—soft yet intoxicating, slow yet sensual, always keeping him on edge. He remembered the way you used to smile whenever he playfully nibbled on your lower lip.

He missed it.

He missed you.

“Oh! S-Sorry, how rude of me,” you chuckled nervously, carefully lowering your camera so that it hung freely around your neck. The strap dug slightly into your exposed skin, but it was the safest way to carry it without accidentally dropping it. “I’m Y/N. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Y/N,” he murmured, savoring every letter of your name.

He knew it. He knew it. It was impossible for you to be anyone else.

His eyes began to sting as the reality of what was happening finally settled in.

After 175 miserable years—

You had come back to him.

Looking exactly as you had the last time he saw you.

“The pleasure is mine,” he said softly, reaching out to take your hand in his own, gently, fearful that the moment his fingers brushed against your skin, you would disappear.

But you didn’t.

You were still there when his lips pressed lightly against your knuckles, inhaling your scent as discreetly as possible.

So this is how you smelled when you were full of life.

Without an illness slowly stealing you away. Your blood had the sweetest scent he had ever known, and he couldn’t help but close his eyes at the steady, rhythmic beat of your heart echoing in his ears, proof that you were alive, proof that you were here.

Taehyung had never believed in God, but now, with you standing before him— he could only describe this as a miracle.

Masterlist.

42 notes · View notes