#but its still frustrating to think back on and to observe

[cherierot]

no flash photography

“You make things louder too, you know?”

in which ✵ they were never on different sides—just different pages. seven false starts. one cracked-open heart. a love written in subtext and small, steady truths.

pairing ✵ oscar piastri × gn!reader

genre ✵ emotional realism, character study, poetic angst, miscommunication done right™, quiet Intimacy almost-love until it isn’t, slow-burn romance, no dramatic twists just two people learning how to mean what they say

warnings ✵ longing. tension. one bottle of water. zero chill. and two people allergic to timing, mild mentions of emotional burnout and loneliness, also reader overthinks a LOT, it's kinda frustrating, ooc oscar (?)

a/n ✵ to all the lovely people who supported message in a bottle—I swear I'll update it by next week. I had exams and hadn't time to write...I'm so sorry😭 by that time please enjoy this short thing I wrote while I was half asleep

(when the soul rejects its own fate)

1. in the paddock, beneath orange skies.

You’re laughing at something Lando said, the kind of laugh that makes you lean your whole body into it.

It’s too early in the morning for this kind of chaos, but he’s wearing two different shoes on purpose just to “test the team’s observation skills,” and you’re weak to that kind of stupid.

You barely notice Oscar walk in.

You only glance up mid-laugh and instinctively say, “Hey.”

It’s not warm or cold. Just a casual, passing Hey — tossed into the air like a coin. Oscar doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave.

He just nods — a tiny, barely-there tilt of his chin — and keeps walking. Doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t pause to greet Lando. Doesn’t even glance at you again.

You blink, your smile thinning just a little. You’re not sensitive, not really, but you’ve known Oscar long enough — long enough to know that he greets the engineers by name. He holds doors for people. He shares gum with Lando and trades barbs with Zak and somehow still has the energy to shake hands with PR interns.

You’ve seen him be warm. So when he passes you by without so much as a flicker of recognition, all you can think is: He doesn’t like me.

You don’t say it out loud. But Lando gives you a look like he heard the thought anyway.

“Don’t take it personally,” he says, patting a hand on your back.

You don’t answer. He adds, “He’s just like that sometimes.”

You hum. “Right. Like a sentient iceberg.”

“Exactly,” Lando says. Then, “Wait—” But your focus has already drifted.

Oscar’s disappeared around the corner of the garage, cool as anything, like your existence doesn’t register.

You don’t know it yet, but Oscar had walked in rehearsing a strategy debrief in his head. He hadn’t noticed the exact joke. Hadn’t caught the context.

Hadn’t registered the “Hey” as something meant for him — he’d assumed it was meant for someone behind him.

Still, he nodded. Just in case. Oscar Piastri always acknowledges what matters. And somehow, in that single, sharp second — you decide you’re not one of those things.

2. airport, at some ungodly hour

You spot him sitting two rows down from the charging station, sipping black coffee and reading something dense enough to qualify as medieval torture. His hair is still wet. There's a bag under his seat with a tag that says Priority, which feels metaphorical in ways you're not emotionally ready to explore.

You weren’t expecting him.

You were expecting, like... muffins. Delayed flights. Maybe a free toothbrush. But there he is, Oscar Piastri, unbothered and devastatingly upright at an ungodly hour, making you regret every life choice that led you to wearing Crocs in public.

You almost walk past. You do.

Almost.

“Didn’t know you read philosophy,” you say, dropping into the seat next to him like the universe put it there on purpose.

He looks up. Not startled. Not annoyed. Just... looking.

“It’s not philosophy. It’s a race engineering manual.”

You blink. “Wow. Even hotter.”

He doesn’t laugh. Not even a twitch. He just tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if that was sarcasm or a genuine compliment. You don't clarify. Mostly because you don't know either.

You shift in your seat. Pull your hoodie tighter. “Early flight?”

He glances at the screen. “Delayed.”

You nod, then immediately feel stupid for nodding at a fact he just gave you. You're one misplaced eyelash away from saying something like “Time is crazy, huh?”

He closes his book—not with frustration, just deliberate—and sets it on his knee.

“You always talk this much before 7 a.m.?”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“Jesus,” you say, light but not quite funny, “if you hate small talk just say that.”

He frowns. It’s subtle, like watching a shadow cross marble.

“I was just asking.”

But it’s too late. The words have already settled. Not hostile, not sharp, just... dry. Clinical. Like you’re an occurrence, not a presence. Like he’s not quite sure what to do with you, so he flattens you out with tone instead.

You smile, thin and automatic. “Well, lucky for you I’m boarding soon. You’ll be back to peace and silence in no time.”

You don’t wait for a reply.

You get up with a dramatic huff you pretend is playful.

Your croc squeaks. The final indignity.

He doesn’t stop you.

He doesn’t say anything.

You feel the bruise form just under your ribs anyway, dumb and soft.

As you leave, his eyebrows furrow in confusion, what was that?

3. a dinner reservation they technically didn’t make room for.

You're only here because Lando begged.

Actually, begged is the wrong word — he texted, “just come ffs,” followed by seventeen emojis and a voice note of him making dolphin sounds.

So here you are.

Half wedged between a potted plant and a guy from strategy named Nico or Niko or Neco. You’re not sure. You’ve given up trying to remember which men in polos you’ve met more than once.

You didn’t expect Oscar to come.

Which is dumb. It’s a team dinner, technically. But he seems like the kind of person who evaporates after hours — like a very polite ghost with social boundaries.

He's at the far end of the table. You only notice him because you laugh too loud at one point and catch him glancing sideways, not in a "you're annoying" way. More in a "you're noise and I haven't decided what to do with that yet" way.

Later, between courses, someone brings up childhood injuries. You tell the story about the time you tried to do a backflip off a moving swing and cracked your wrist.

You’re dramatic with it. You always are — wide eyes, hand gestures, sound effects.

There’s laughter. You soak it in.

Then Oscar says, level, cutting clean through the noise:

“Makes sense now.”

The table falls quiet for a second.

You blink. “What?”

He’s sipping his drink. Doesn’t even look at you when he says,

“The way you are. It tracks.”

Your chest does this slow little drop, like a plane hitting air turbulence.

You laugh, sharp. “Sorry — are you diagnosing me using my origin story?”

Oscar shrugs. “No diagnosis. Just observation.”

You smile. Wide. Bright. Blinding. The kind of smile that makes people think you’re fine.

“Cool. Love being observed like a cautionary documentary.”

Someone else at the table changes the subject. You don’t join in.

Lando's concerned eyes shoot between you and Oscar, as he reaches for his phone and texts a

u good?

You keep your eyes on your plate, ignoring the buzzing phone and tear a piece of bread apart slowly, as if it personally insulted you.

Later, when you get up to leave, Oscar moves his chair slightly to let you pass.

You say nothing.

He doesn’t look up.

4. hotel lobby. too late for thinking straight.

You’re sitting on the armrest of a couch that costs more than your monthly rent, scrolling aimlessly through your phone while waiting for Lando to come down from his room. There’s soft jazz playing through invisible speakers, a fake plant that looks disturbingly lifelike, and one too many people with suitcases shaped like trauma.

Oscar walks into the lobby, carrying a bottle of water and wearing that expression he always has, like he just read something mildly disappointing about human civilization.

You don’t say anything.

Not because you’re mad. You’re not. You’re... calibrating.

After all, last time he called you a walking brain injury in front of twelve people. Not directly, maybe, but spiritually.

So yeah, you stay quiet.

But then he walks over.

To you.

Not the concierge desk. Not the glass doors. Not anywhere neutral.

You.

“You looked tired earlier,” he says, voice low. Almost gentle.

You blink up at him, halfway through typing 'pls bring me snacks or I’m eating hotel shampoo' into Lando’s texts.

“Excuse me?”

Oscar looks... calm. Open, even. “I meant—you okay?”

Your heart does a little misstep.

You look at him. Really look. His face is unreadable but his body language isn’t stiff. His water bottle is slightly crinkled in one hand. His hair’s still damp from a shower. His shirt looked like it was tucked in haphazardly.

For a second, a full, stupid, dangerous second, you think he might actually be being nice.

Then your brain, traitor that it is, rewinds:

You looked tired earlier.

You looked tired.

You looked... bad?

You plaster a smile on. “Wow. Flirting already?”

Oscar tilts his head, brow creasing faintly. “That wasn’t—”

“I mean, I usually get offered drinks before the insults start, but sure. Let’s go full honesty hour.”

He pauses. You think maybe he’ll clarify. Maybe he’ll correct you.

But instead, he just says, quiet:

“Right. Forget it.”

And he walks away.

Cool.

Cool cool cool cool.

You sit back down on the couch, teeth clenched in a smile like it’s holding up your whole face.

Lando texts you:

coming down now btw, don’t be weird

You don’t reply.

5. the wrong hallway, the right moment.

You take the wrong turn trying to find the bathroom and end up in a corridor that smells like floor polish and expensive stress. The lights overhead buzz softly, like even they don’t want to be here.

You’re mid-turnaround when you hear footsteps behind you. Precise. Familiar.

Oscar.

You recognize him before he says anything. You could probably recognize him from the way he breathes at this point, steady, measured, like he’s training for a sport no one else understands.

You half-laugh, half-sigh. “Okay, is this the part where you push me into a supply closet and finally tell me what crime I committed against you?”

He stops next to you. Doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look anything, really, just Oscar, all centered gravity and very faint cologne.

“You missed a turn,” he says instead. “Bathrooms are the other way.”

You blink. “You were following me?”

“Not on purpose,” he says, and that’s probably true, which somehow makes it worse.

There’s a pause.

You’re about to say something stupid like classic, or guess I’m just magnetic, when he lifts a hand, slow, deliberate, and reaches out toward your face.

You flinch. Just slightly. Instinct.

But he only taps your cheek, once, with his thumb.

“There was glitter.”

Your mouth forgets how to move.

He wipes his hand on his jeans. Calm. Normal. Like touching you was just a neutral, Tuesday-level event.

You stare at him. “What?”

Oscar tilts his head. “Your cheek. Sparkly.”

You blink again, like your brain is buffering. “Right. I was at a merch table earlier. Probably rubbed my face like a raccoon. Happens.”

Another silence.

This one longer. He’s still standing close. Not in a way that says intimate, exactly, but in a way that says he hasn’t left yet.

You try again. “You know, you’re very confusing.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

You gesture vaguely. “You... monitor my glitter levels but also make me feel like I’m annoying you with my breathing.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Not guilt. Not amusement. Something else.

He shifts just slightly closer.

“You’re not annoying.”

You blink. It’s too much — the voice, the proximity, the stupid fucking hallway.

You laugh. Light, deflecting. “That’s not what your face usually says.”

“Then maybe you don’t know how to read it.”

And that’s the moment you forget how to stand still.

Because that wasn’t dry. That wasn’t flat. That wasn’t neutral.

That was almost—

The sound of someone entering the hallway behind you breaks it.

Oscar steps back. Like it never happened.

You do too. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But your cheek still buzzes like it’s remembering the ghost of his thumb.

And you’ll go the rest of the night trying to convince yourself it meant nothing.

Even though for a second it meant everything

6. a balcony. too late. too quiet.

The afterparty’s still raging downstairs, all flashing lights and sweaty joy and some DJ yelling something you can’t make out over the bass. But you’re up here, on a balcony with one drink, aching feet, and your phone dead in your pocket like it gave up on your choices.

Oscar steps out not long after.

You glance sideways, expecting him to leave when he sees you. He doesn’t. He closes the door behind him and leans on the railing a few feet away.

The silence is thick, but not hostile. Just... real.

You break it first. Of course you do.

“I don’t get you.”

Oscar looks over, eyes unreadable. “That’s vague.”

You shrug. “You’re vague.”

He exhales — not annoyed, not amused. Just tired. “What do you mean?”

You lean your head back against the wall. “I mean... I never know if you’re being polite or trying to escape.”

“Why would I be trying to escape?”

“I don’t know, Oscar,” you say, too lightly, like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe I talk too much. Maybe I laugh too loud. Maybe you just don’t like people who make everything a joke.”

His silence stretches. He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say anything.

That’s the worst part.

Until he says—softly, like it hurts to admit—

“I notice you too much.”

You freeze.

Your heart short-circuits and restarts sideways.

“What?”

He’s still looking out over the railing. “You make noise in quiet places. That’s hard to ignore.”

That’s hard to ignore.

Your brain fumbles. You laugh, shaky. “Right. Like tinnitus.”

He furrows his eyebrows, and blinks, finally turning to look at you. “That’s not what I meant.”

You push off the wall before you can think better of it. “No, it’s fine. I get it. I’ve been called worse.”

“I didn’t—”

You’re already stepping back. “It’s cool, Oscar. Seriously. I’m very ignorable once you get used to it.”

He doesn’t stop you. And that—that—is what hurts more than anything he’s ever said.

You disappear back inside, into the noise and the bodies and the mess of it all, trying not to let the echo of “I notice you too much” feel like a wound.

7. a service hallway, after everything.

You bump into him on the way out.

Literally.

You’re rounding a corner at speed, trying to chase Lando’s voice through the post-race chaos, and then—thud—shoulder, hip, the soft slap of your phone hitting the floor. You curse. He steps back.

Oscar.

Of course.

He bends, picks up your phone, hands it back without a word.

You take it, trying to pretend your pulse isn’t in your ears. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t walk away. He just looks at you.

You almost say what, but something in his expression pins you in place.

It’s not blank.

Not bored.

Not neutral.

It’s...tight.

Controlled.

A fuse wound just short of its burn.

“You think I hate you.”

He says it like he’s been chewing on it for weeks.

You blink. “I—what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he says, still too quiet. “I say anything to you and you flinch like I’ve thrown something.”

You bristle. “Well, forgive me for not decoding the emotional Morse code of your entire personality.”

He laughs, short and sharp. “Jesus.”

You fold your arms. “What? You’re impossible to read, Oscar. You say one thing and mean another. You look at me like I’m noise, and then you say something half-kind and act like I’m the one getting it wrong.”

“Because you are,” he snaps.

That is what cuts.

Because he means it.

You freeze.

He takes a breath, steps forward. Not threatening. Just present.

“I tried being quiet. I tried being careful. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

You scoff, hurt creeping up your throat. “Overwhelm me? You act like I’m fragile.”

“No,” he cuts in, firm. “You act like I don’t feel anything.”

Silence.

You swallow. You open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it.

“I notice everything,” he says, and it’s low and furious and honest. “The way you stand closer to everyone else. The way you make jokes so no one asks what you're actually thinking. The way you look at me like you’re already halfway out the door.”

You stare. You’re not breathing.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he says finally. Softer. “I was trying to make it mean something, and you—”

He breaks off. Shakes his head once, like he’s mad at himself.

You say nothing. You’re still standing in the middle of the hallway, holding your phone like it’s proof you’re allowed to be here.

Oscar exhales. “Forget it.”

“Oscar.” You call out.

But he’s already walking away.

This time, he doesn’t look back.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

(when the soul understands what it yearns)

1. a hotel cinema room.

Lando dragged you both to movie night with the confidence of a man who thinks he invented bonding.

Fifteen minutes in, he wandered off to find something “better than this knock-off popcorn,” and now it’s just you and Oscar, slouched on a velvet couch meant for three, lit only by the flickering light of explosions and overpaid actors.

You’ve barely looked at him.

But you can feel it.

That… watching.

Like he’s checking to see if you still laugh at the same parts. If you’re still the same person when no one’s looking.

You are.

Somewhere between the third helicopter crash and a deeply unnecessary close-up, you let out a laugh — real, full, stupid. You already know it’s ugly. You don’t care. It feels good.

You hear it when he shifts. The breath he holds. The second too long before he blinks.

You don’t even look at him when you say,

“You’re staring.”

A beat.

“I know,” he says.

You turn your head, just enough to see him watching you without apology. No smirk. No defense.

Just there.

“You going to say something or just burn holes in my face?”

“You’re different when you’re not trying,” he says.

You blink.

Then:

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Oscar’s mouth twitches. “It’s the opposite.”

You don’t say thank you. You don’t blush. You don’t deflect.

You just let the silence stretch, easy now, warm, and go back to the movie.

Still aware of him.

Still letting him look.

And when Lando crashes in with two bags of gummy worms and a juice box, you don’t flinch. You just laugh again.

But now, Oscar doesn’t look away.

2. a hotel hallway. too many drinks. not enough distance.

You’re barefoot in the hallway outside your room, hotel keycard somewhere in the purse you left at dinner. Or maybe the bar. Or maybe hell.

Oscar appears from the elevator like a ghost you might have dreamed into being.

Plain hoodie. Shirt crinkled. Hair falling over his eyes.

The world feels slightly warped. Too late. Too quiet. Too something.

You lean against the wall and offer him a lazy salute, you think it must be the liquid courage. “Well, well, if it isn’t Formula One’s most emotionally constipated heartthrob.”

He blinks. “You okay?”

You grin. “Define okay.”

He doesn’t. Just walks past you, swipes his own keycard, then pauses at his door.

You think he’ll go in. He doesn’t.

Instead, he turns around.

“You’re locked out?”

You nod. “Temporarily. I’m trusting the universe to deliver me back to my belongings.”

Oscar considers this. Then steps back, holds his door open.

“You can wait in here.”

You blink. “I’m not going to rob you.”

“I know.”

“…Or touch your toothbrush.”

“Less certain about that.”

You snort and step inside.

His room smells like laundry and lemon soap. You sit on the edge of his bed like it’s a stage you weren’t supposed to enter. He tosses you a bottle of water from the minibar and sits at the other end.

No TV. No small talk. Just… the hum.

Your head tilts toward him. You’re not drunk anymore, not really. Just warm. Open.

“You ever gonna tell me what you want from me?”

Oscar doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile.

Just says, voice low,

“Would you believe me if I said I haven’t figured it out?”

You breathe in.

“No.”

He looks at you, and for the first time, he’s not a mirror or a wall. He’s just there. Barefaced and bold and so stupidly calm about all of it.

“Good,” he says finally. “Then you’re paying attention.”

You grin. Tired. Fond. “God, you’re so annoying.”

His smile is small but real. “You stayed.”

You nod. “I always do.”

And then it’s quiet again.

But not tense. Not cold.

Just… waiting.

And neither of you dares to break it yet.

Because whatever this is, it feels like home.

3. behind the paddock. a different kind of silence.

The day feels too long. The kind where the sun presses against your neck like it's trying to flatten you. Where the air tastes like sweat and tarmac and adrenaline that didn’t go anywhere.

You lean against the barrier, fingers curled over metal, body still, mind spiraling.

You hear him before you see him.

Not footsteps — just the way the noise dies a little around him.

Oscar.

You don’t turn around, but your grip tightens.

“You do this a lot,” he says, voice even. “Vanishing.”

You roll your eyes, not unkindly. “I’m not vanishing. I’m avoiding being a bitch on camera.”

He exhales a laugh — short, real. “Smart.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The heat between you isn't temperature. It’s all the things that haven’t been said, and all the ones that have been almost said too many times.

“Rough day?” he asks.

You shrug. “Just noisy. Even when it's quiet.”

Another beat of stillness.

“I get that.”

You finally glance at him, over your shoulder. He’s standing a few steps back, arms crossed like he’s holding himself steady. His eyes are on you, but softer than usual — like he’s dropped something invisible and fragile between you and isn’t sure what happens next.

“You make things louder too, you know,” he says.

You blink. “That supposed to be a read?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not a bad thing.”

You tilt your head. “You say that like you mean it.”

“I do.”

And just like that, everything sharp in you softens a little.

He steps closer. Not in a dramatic way. Just... like gravity finally decided to do its job.

You let your hand fall from the barrier.

His hand brushes yours. Not accident. Not strategy. Just... barely. Just enough.

And you don’t pull away.

You don’t need to ask what this is.

For the first time, you both already know.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

2025 @cherierot all rights reserved

[cloverapple]

okay so i understand your point that once I decide I'll have it, If I decide I'll wake yp in my dr I will, if I don't ses my dr that just means it's an illusion because its not possible for the intention to not work. But how/when does the physical change? I have been doing the similar thing for a while, intending to shift and then whennI still see my cr I say "I have shifted, I'm already there, I just don't see it yet because my brain is taking time processing the chage" but I tell this to myself for weeks and still the 3d doesn't change. I don't understand what to do now like I get it it's just an illusion or wtv but all I after MONTHS is my stupid cr and then it get s harder to keep this facade and then I start thinking maybe that wasn't enough effort or wtv but another part of my mid also thinks and says there's no such thing as enough effort, you didn't do anything wrong. I am conflicted if I did do everything right, why isn't the illusion fading away? why am I still here?

Anon, I want to hug you so bad because you sound exactly like me in the weeks before I finally shifted 😭

I was crashing out, spiraling, tearing my hair out because every method, every piece of advice, every “just let go and trust” post felt like bullshit. I couldn’t figure out why I was still in my CR, why it wasn’t working, why I felt broken, why it felt like everyone else could shift except me.

Turns out I wasn’t broken. There was nothing wrong with me. And there’s nothing wrong with you. At all.

I can’t promise everything I say will click for you as everyone’s different. I write for myself, for the me who couldn’t shift, who blamed my CR, my ADHD, my brain, who thought I was the problem, who spent hours comparing myself to strangers on the internet who could shift and made it look so easy.

And in the end, it was paying attention to the weird, nonsensical cracks in reality that moved me forward, not the neat “just persist and assume” advice everyone repeats. It’s not always pretty, but it’s real. And it might help some people because back then, I wish I had someone telling me I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Maybe you’re not one of those people, and that’s okay. You should adopt what genuinely resonates with you and brings you peace, not what frustrates you.

But if you’re one of those people who’s sick of techniques that don’t work, of posts screaming “YOU ARE GOD” while you’re still stuck, of meditation that doesn’t stick, I want you to know this:

1) Wavering means absolutely nothing in the face of your decision and intention.

It’s like studying for a test, thinking you bombed it, spiraling the entire week about how you’re a failure and deluded—and then you get your score back, and it’s totally fine, and you realize you had nothing to worry about.

Of course, I’m not invalidating what you’re going through in your CR. I don’t know you or your struggles. But I do know you don’t need to ignore your CR for shifting to work. You can, and it’s a valid method that works for many. But ignoring reality is hard for some of us, and it might be hard for you too. That’s okay.

Don’t treat your CR like a place you need to get rid of immediately. It’s just one of many realities your awareness encompasses. Wavering doesn’t “put you back at square one.” You’re not living a facade. That implies your intention isn’t real when it is.

2) If you’ve been doing this for months, that’s months of proof that the intention is set. And you cannot deny that. You’ve intended to shift for months. That means the outcome is yours, and the only thing left is to get out of your own way. You don’t need to add more, try harder, or scramble for a missing piece. The action was done, and you can’t intend to succeed and fail. Sure, you can observe your outcome as failure, and that’s what keeps people in the loop, usually. Not seeing their DR after X amount of time = they’re failing.

3) Honestly, if everything I say sounds overwhelming? That’s okay too.

Let it suck. Let yourself say, “Okay, this doesn’t resonate with me right now,” and drop it. Let yourself explore, learn yourself, and place your power in yourself, never in any outside source. You’re not wrong. You’re not failing. You don’t have to rush. It’s already yours.

It makes total sense that you’re feeling frustrated seeing your CR day after day while knowing you’ve done everything right. It’s not silly or wrong to feel that way. It’s not wavering, it’s not failing, it’s not messing up your shifting. It’s simply noticing what you perceive is showing up, and that’s okay. It is okay to see your CR.

Don’t interpret seeing your CR as failure, even if you intend to be here for whatever reason, because it’s yours. It’s yours.

4) You’re using “seeing your CR” as proof that you’re not in your DR, when actually: “Seeing CR” isn’t proof of anything except your mind’s expectation that you should see CR until something else proves to you that you’re in your DR.

You’re in a loop that looks like: “Okay, I don’t see my DR, so I need to do something else, I need to keep trying, because this didn’t work.”

That loop is what I call continuity attachment, and it’s the mind’s familiar habit of:

“Do the action.”

“Check if the result happened.”

“If not, assume it didn’t work and try again.”

But the truth is: Creation (observation, shifting, deciding hat reality you want) is instant. The moment you intend to be in your DR, it’s done. You can’t intend to succeed and fail, period.

You know when you’re suuuper tired, get in bed, intend to sleep, and then don’t sleep? It’s not because you got in bed wrong, or didn’t intend to sleep. It’s because the moment you didn’t immediately fall asleep, you thought “oh great, now I’m not getting any sleep” and kept turning it over in your mind; how the bed’s uncomfortable, how you’re probably not going to sleep at all tonight, how tomorrow will suck because you didn’t get any sleep. All the while, all you needed to do was get out of your own way and let whatever happen. Say “fuck it, I don’t care if I sleep or not”....which ends up being the rest you needed.

You rest because you let yourself rest, you let your mind shut up because you don’t care anymore and know that this form of giving up sleeping is, in itself, the rest you needed. And then you fall asleep, which begs the question: were you always asleep?

5) Part of the illusion is that you need to see physical evidence to confirm it. The “waiting” and “checking” are illusions of continuity, where the mind says: “It must take time, so let me check if it’s happened yet.”

You aren’t doing anything wrong by noticing you’re still seeing your CR. It’s valid to feel upset, to want your DR now, to feel exhausted. It doesn’t stop you from shifting. It doesn’t cancel out your intention.

How I view it is: If I intended, then it’s impossible for me to fail.

And that: “Seeing CR can’t be proof I’m not in my DR, because if I’ve done the cause, the outcome must be there, and the perception of ‘not having’ is the illusion.”

6) Time is also part of the illusion. Creation/observation is instant, but the mind believes in gradual change, in waiting, in “processing” the shift. Once you see that’s not real, it begins to unravel. What you can do now:

You don’t need to ���try harder.” You don’t need to “fix” anything. You don’t need to fight your CR, ignore it, or force yourself to feel a certain way.

Instead: Let it feel strange that you did the action but still “see CR.” Let that confusion open the crack in the illusion. Sit in the knowing that you already did it, and nothing else needs to happen. Let the comfort of that realization settle in, because it will unravel reality.

You are not failing. You have not messed up your shift. You are not stuck because you feel bad or notice your CR. You’re in the exact place you need to be, and now you’re seeing how flimsy the illusion is because you’re frustrated.

Nothing can take away what you intended. Let it be weird, let it unravel, and let yourself relax into the absolute bs it is that your action (intention) had “no outcome.” You need to look at proof? I don’t blame you. I love proof. But remember that the proof is the intention, not the outcome.

If you bake a cake from scratch, toss it in the oven, and go into another room, do you still need to go check if you have the cake? No, the proof is there even when you can’t see it.

“What if I’m still seeing CR after months?”

You can live normally, react to 3D, laugh, cry, be human, and still know you’re in your DR. Because your DR isn’t a place you get to by seeing it. It’s a place you’re in because you decided, and it was done.

Your method didn’t fail. It worked. The only reason it feels like it didn’t is because you’re checking your CR for proof, and you think that proof in your CR is seeing your DR. When the proof is that....you did it.

[fursasaida]

This article is from 2022, but it came up in the context of Palestine:

Here are some striking passages, relevant to all colonial aftermaths but certainly also to the forms we see Zionist reaction taking at the moment:

Over the decade I lived in South Africa, I became fascinated by this white minority [i.e. the whole white population post-apartheid as a minority in the country], particularly its members who considered themselves progressive. They reminded me of my liberal peers in America, who had an apparently self-assured enthusiasm about the coming of a so-called majority-minority nation. As with white South Africans who had celebrated the end of apartheid, their enthusiasm often belied, just beneath the surface, a striking degree of fear, bewilderment, disillusionment, and dread.

[...]

Yet these progressives’ response to the end of apartheid was ambivalent. Contemplating South Africa after apartheid, an Economist correspondent observed that “the lives of many whites exude sadness.” The phenomenon perplexed him. In so many ways, white life remained more or less untouched, or had even improved. Despite apartheid’s horrors—and the regime’s violence against those who worked to dismantle it—the ANC encouraged an attitude of forgiveness. It left statues of Afrikaner heroes standing and helped institute the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which granted amnesty to some perpetrators of apartheid-era political crimes.

But as time wore on, even wealthy white South Africans began to radiate a degree of fear and frustration that did not match any simple economic analysis of their situation. A startling number of formerly anti-apartheid white people began to voice bitter criticisms of post-apartheid society. An Afrikaner poet who did prison time under apartheid for aiding the Black-liberation cause wrote an essay denouncing the new Black-led country as “a sewer of betrayed expectations and thievery, fear and unbridled greed.”

What accounted for this disillusionment? Many white South Africans told me that Black forgiveness felt like a slap on the face. By not acting toward you as you acted toward us, we’re showing you up, white South Africans seemed to hear. You’ll owe us a debt of gratitude forever.

The article goes on to discuss:

"Mau Mau anxiety," or the fear among whites of violent repercussions, and how this shows up in reported vs confirmed crime stats - possibly to the point of false memories of home invasion

A sense of irrelevance and alienation among this white population, leading to another anxiety: "do we still belong here?"

The sublimation of this anxiety into self-identification as a marginalized minority group, featuring such incredible statements as "I wanted to fight for Afrikaners, but I came to think of myself as a ‘liberal internationalist,’ not a white racist...I found such inspiration from the struggles of the Catalonians and the Basques. Even Tibet" and "[Martin Luther] King [Jr.] also fought for a people without much political representation … That’s why I consider him one of my most important forebears and heroes,” from a self-declared liberal environmentalist who also thinks Afrikaaners should take back government control because they are "naturally good" at governance

Some discussion of the dynamics underlying these reactions, particularly the fact that "admitting past sins seem[ed] to become harder even as they receded into history," and US parallels

And finally, in closing:

The Afrikaner journalist Rian Malan, who opposed apartheid, has written that, by most measures, its aftermath went better than almost any white person could have imagined. But, as with most white progressives, his experience of post-1994 South Africa has been complicated. [...]

He just couldn’t forgive Black people for forgiving him. Paradoxically, being left undisturbed served as an ever-present reminder of his guilt, of how wrongly he had treated his maid and other Black people under apartheid. “The Bible was right about a thing or two,” he wrote. “It is infinitely worse to receive than to give, especially if … the gift is mercy.”

[marvelstoriesepic]

Home With You

Pairing: Rommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky and you visit the animal shelter to choose a kitten for adoption.

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: lots of kittens; Bucky being a dork; pining

Author’s Note: Literally nobody asked for this but I needed it anyway. This is a part of a series with a loose timeline, but you can also read this as a stand alone. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Divider by @kodaswrld ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

“Oh my god, Buck, look at this one,” you gush, for about the fifth time since stepping into the animal rescue shelter, voice pitched high with the delight you can’t contain.

Bucky, who’s been trailing beside you with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, watches with a smirk on his lips. “Y’know we’re only takin’ one, right?” His voice is that deep rumble, smooth but laced with enough teasing for you to shoot a look up at him over your shoulder from where you are crouched down to greet the next feline in the row.

The small tabby you’re pointing at lets out an exaggerated yawn before rolling onto its back, fluffy belly exposed like an invitation, making you forget all about Bucky’s remark by the cuteness of it all.

You press your fingers against the cage, wiggling them slightly, and the cat swipes playfully, its little paws batting at you.

“Don’t go gettin’ attached to every damn cat in here, doll. We ain’t got the space for a zoo,” Bucky speaks up again, an amused smirk still in his voice.

You huff, dramatically rolling your eyes as you reach into another cage, letting a fluffy gray cat sniff your fingers before it headbutts them affectionately. “I am not getting attached to all of them.”

Bucky snorts, but you ignore him, continuing to throw those sweet cats little heart eyes.

The shelter smells faintly of clean hay, warm fur, and just a hint of that industrial-strength cleaner they probably use to keep everything sanitized.

The air is filled with meows, distant yips, and you hear some dogs bark from the kennels further down.

But right now, all you care about is the row of metal enclosures filled with cats of every shape and size. Some are stretching their little paws through the bars, whiskers twitching as they observe you with differing levels of curiosity. Others lounge lazily on their beds, tails flicking idly.

Bucky steps closer, peering into a cage somewhere above you where a sleek black cat watches the two of you with eery intelligent green eyes. “This one’s got a whole attitude,” he mutters squinting as the cat swishes its tail, unimpressed.

You hum, looking up at it as well. “Seems to be a little broody. That means you’d definitely get along.”

Bucky throws you a look and you grin back at him before a tiny calico presses its body against the door of his cage, eager for attention.

You scratch behind the ears of the sweet fluffy baby who immediately starts purring like a motor. Bucky watches you for a moment, with something softened in his eyes as if he’s already resigned himself to the fact that whatever cat you fall in love with is the one you’re taking home.

And honestly, you think he’s just as excited as you are.

You have been living with him for nearly two years now and you talked about getting a cat for quite some time.

You work well together, found a great dynamic in sharing an apartment.

You go grocery shopping together a lot. You watch movies together, you cook together. It’s never a discussion, never an argument, except for when either of you is trying to get a rise out of the other.

It started as a practical decision. You were already friends before that and it was easier for you both to just go looking for an apartment to split rent, save money, without having someone who would leave passive-aggressive notes about unwashed dishes.

It was meant to be temporary, but things just clicked and worked out and you never talked about moving out. No awkward transition period, no frustrating quirks that made you want to strangle each other. It was easy. It still is.

You cook, he cleans. Or the other way around, depending on the day.

If you make a mess in the kitchen trying some new recipe, he’s there ten minutes later, exaggerating frustration by rolling his eyes but then gobbling down your food in a matter of minutes.

You do laundry together sometimes and you had to rescue a few of his shirts already since he doesn’t always bother with separating colors properly. Or perhaps that’s just his excuse to do it with you.

And when you catch him watching reruns of Friends - even though he swore he hated that show - you plop down next to him on the couch, steal a bite of whatever snack he’s got, and make fun of him.

Bucky used to be all grumbles in the morning before you moved in together, but now he grins at you with a sleepy smile when you come into the kitchen, two cups of coffee already done - one black for him, one with just a bit of cream for you. You even got him to start drinking tea.

So when you both decided to get a cat, it seemed to be another thing that just made sense. An agreement that you would take care of it together.

The apartment is already cat-proofed, the corner near the window cleared for a cat tree, food bowls sat up neatly in the kitchen. A small box of toys sits by the couch, next to a ridiculously soft bed that you both know the cat will ignore in favor of napping wherever it pleases.

You both know you should probably talk about the logistics. Who takes the cat if one of you moves out? But you don’t. Because neither of you plans to go anywhere.

When the cat starts to lose interest in you and moves further back into its cage, you turn back to Bucky.

He has his arms crossed, stance solid, with an expression of determination on his face. And directly in front of him is that black cat, staring back with an equal amount of intensity. Its emerald-green eyes are locked onto Bucky’s baby blues with an impressively unfaltering focus. A long tail flicks behind it as if it has all the time in the world to assert its dominance.

It takes you a second to process what exactly is happening here. But then Bucky is narrowing his eyes, leaning closer in.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, amusement bubbling up so quickly it nearly makes you laugh outright. “Are you having a staring contest with a cat?”

Bucky doesn’t move, he doesn’t blink. His jaw tenses just slightly, but otherwise, he stays frozen in place, eyes locked onto his opponent.

“This little guy thinks he’s got the upper hand,” Bucky mutters, tone flat, but the muscles in his cheek and jawline tick.

You step closer, tilting your head, hands on your hips. “Are you serious?”

“I ain’t about to let a cat punk me, alright?”

The cat narrows its eyes as well. Just slightly. Like it understands exactly what Bucky is saying and is challenging him even harder.

You bite your lip, trying and failing to contain your laughter. “You do realize this is literally what they do, right?” You gesture at the cat, who remains unmoved, tail swishing from one side to the other. Even that looks dangerously deliberate. “This is, like, their thing. Hate to break it to you, Buck, but you don’t stand a chance here.”

Bucky huffs. “Watch me.”

A full, delighted laugh spills out of you as you lean against the enclosure, shaking your head at your best friend.

And the second your laughter bursts out, Bucky’s head snaps toward you. As though he couldn’t help himself. As though it is just pure instinct.

His stare-off with the cat, which has been going strong for nearly a minute, is instantly abandoned. And his eyes are softer again when they fall on you, something fond hidden beneath the humor.

“Well, now you lost, Buck,” you exclaim, still giggling.

Bucky’s brows immediately knit together, looking back over to the black cat, who looks thoroughly unbothered. It’s already stretching itself into a position of absolute superiority, head resting on its paws like it never once doubted its victory.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters under his breath, only now realizing his mistake. Then, he straightens back, rolling his shoulders, as if shaking off the loss. He gestures vaguely at the enclosure and shakes his head almost petulantly. “Yeah, nah. We sure as hell are not gonna take this one. Too much attitude. He’s gonna hold this over me forever.”

You snort, crossing your arms over your chest, peering into the cage at the cat who just effortlessly bested your six-foot-something, broad-shouldered, best friend in a silent battle of wills. “Oh, now you don’t want him?”

Bucky huffs, jabbing a thumb at the feline. “Look at him! He’s judging me. I can feel it.”

The cat blinks at him slowly, almost intentionally, before closing his eyes entirely like it has officially decided Bucky’s not worth any more of its energy.

You laugh again and Bucky groans.

You’re having the time of your life.

“Aww, Buck, don’t be like that,” you coo, nudging him playfully as you both start to walk away from the cage. “You guys had a moment. I think deep down he liked you.”

Bucky scoffs, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah? That why he looked at me like he was calculating how long he’d need to take me out in my sleep?”

You grin smugly. “Or maybe he just saw himself in you.”

Bucky gives you the flattest look and stops in his tracks. “You serious?”

You shrug. “I’m just saying, two grumpy boys with trust issues? Sounds like fate to me.”

Sighing profoundly, Bucky runs a hand down his face, tilting it backward a little. But you catch the slight tug at the corner of his mouth. You know he is actually enjoying your little banter. He always does.

And just as you are about to push a little further, Bucky glances back at the enclosure and exhales a sharp breath, shaking his head with a kind of amused disbelief.

“Oh, well, would you look at that,” he drones out, walking back a few steps to tap a sign with two fingers. A sign that says this very cat is already been adopted and is to be picked up shortly. “Guess someone else already called dibs.”

You lean in to read it yourself, eyebrows raising slightly. “Huh. Guess so.” Then, with a slow and knowing grin, you turn back to him. “Aw, Buck. You disappointed?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “What? No. Not even a little.”

You purse your lips, nodding like you definitely believe him. “Mhm.”

“I’m not disappointed, doll,” he emphasizes, but despite his words, his gaze moves back to the black cat for a brief second. “Little guy was too full of himself, anyway.”

You don’t argue. Just bite back another laugh and link your arm through his as you keep walking.

The two of you move further into the shelter, eventually arriving at what might be the most magical place on earth.

A kitten playroom.

The volunteer leading you here smiles knowingly as she opens the door. “You guys are welcome to go in and sit with them,” she says. “See if any of them take a liking to you.”

Bucky leans in slightly toward you, murmuring in your ear, his breath on your skin. “See if they like us?”

“Shh,” you whisper, barely containing your excitement. “This is how it works.”

He huffs but doesn’t say more, only watches as the woman steps aside to gesture for you both to go in.

The second you do, it’s like stepping into another world - a tiny, chaotic world made up of soft meows, little squeaky chirps, and the soft thump-thump of tiny paws hitting the floor as kittens dart around like hyper little gremlins.

The space itself is cozy, set up like a playroom with various cat trees, beds, and soft blankets scattered across the floor. Toys are everywhere - feathery wands, crinkly balls, and those little springy things that cats lose under furniture within minutes. There’s even a small bridge leading to a cubby system mounted on the walls, where a few sleepy kittens are already curled up, watching the room like tiny overlords.

You are in heaven.

Practically squealing and bouncing on the balls of your feet you drop to your knees without hesitation as a little orange kitten stumbles toward you. “Look at them.”

Bucky lingers near the entrance, eying the herd of kittens with cautious skepticism. “Jesus. It’s like a damn army of ‘em.”

You reach out and gently scoop up the orange one, who immediately starts purring, so little paws kneading at your sweater. Your heart melts on the spot.

You don’t see the way Bucky is staring. Not at the kittens. Not at any of them. At you. At the way you light up, completely glowing, giggling softly as a brown-white little ball of fluff bats at your fingers. At the way you coo at them all, speaking in that soft voice people only use when they are utterly smitten.

He is in heaven too. Just for a slightly different reason.

“Oh, we are absolutely taking one home,” you declare, beaming as another one - a fluffy gray sweetheart - climbs onto your lap and starts attacking the drawstrings of your hoodie. “Maybe two.”

Bucky clears his throat, exhales, and steps closer, careful of the small balls hopping around between his feet. “We’re not gettin’ two,” he states, but then crouches down beside you, just as a small, round tabby kitten ambles over to investigate his boots.

You watch, biting back a grin as the little thing lifts one paw and bonks it against the toe of Bucky’s boot. Just a soft little tap, like it’s testing to see if he’ll react.

Bucky tilts his head. “What’s this guy doin’?”

You rest your chin lightly on top of the orange kitten’s head, amused. “I think he’s trying to fight you.”

Bucky continues watching the not-even-remotely intimidating little cat lift its paws and bonk him again.

“Yeah?” Bucky muses, raising a brow. “That so?”

Bonk.

Bucky shifts slightly, considering this challenge, then reaches down with his index finger extended. The small tabby immediately latches onto it with both paws, kicking at him with its little back feet.

You see the grin slowly forming on Bucky’s face.

The kitten lets out the tiniest, most ridiculous little mrrp, still clinging to Bucky’s finger like it’s the most important battle of his short life.

Bucky sighs. “Jesus Christ.”

You nudge him fondly. “Come on, you love him.”

Bucky chuckles softly and pries his finger gently from the round tabby’s grasp.

“So,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You makin’ any decisions here, or we just movin’ in?”

You beam up at him, cradling the sleepy grey kitten in your hands. “This isn’t just my decision, you know.”

“I know, doll,” Bucky replies easily. “But I’m sure whoever chooses you is the right one for us.”

Heat wanders up and down your back and you avert your attention back to the little fluff balls in your arms.

You are giggling at a white kitten pawing at your sleeves when you feel something tugging at your hair.

But before the sharp claws of the cat that ambushed you from behind can loosen any strands of your hair, Bucky’s hands are there to save them.

“Alright, alright, relax there, tough guy,” Bucky says, voice low and amused.

You go still when Bucky’s fingers brush the nape of your neck, untangling a mischievous ball of orange-white fluff from your hair. He makes quick work of it, grumbling under his breath as he carefully pries the kitten’s tiny claws from where they’ve latched on.

His touch is light, but enough to send a sharp little shiver down your spine.

You can smell the familiar scent of clean laundry and cedar and something that is just undeniably Bucky and you are not sure why your senses are so adamant about picking it up instead of the smell of the room and the little cats.

Your breath stays lingering in your throat a second too long before finally coming up. Long enough that when he finally leans back, you are suddenly well aware of just how intently you’d been focusing on the sensation of his fingers brushing through your hair, his voice close to your ear.

You swallow, blinking as he gently sets the kitten down in front of you, its tiny tail waggling like it’s still considering another attack.

Bucky just scoffs, shaking his head. “Gotta watch your back in here, doll. They got no mercy.”

You exhale a breathy little laugh, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding like you just ran a mile.

The feline blinks up at you and you narrow your eyes.

“You did that on purpose,” you chastise it lightly.

It chirps in response, tail flicking.

Bucky chuckles warmly and you fight the urge to look at him, to turn and watch him like you always do.

Until you acknowledge a tiny, fluffy white kitten with bright blue eyes hop down from a nearby cat tree, landing in a little pounce before trotting straight over to you.

Your eyes go wide at the confident stride of the little one, lips parting just slightly in surprise as the kitten reaches you, then immediately climbs you and settles right in your lap as if finding a new home.

Bright blue eyes stare up at you for a second, then she lets out a little meow, head tilting slightly.

You freeze, feeling Bucky’s eyes on you.

And then, without hesitation, the kitten curls itself into the perfect little ball right in the center of your lap.

Your breath catches.

Bucky watches the shift in your expression, the way your body goes soft, the way your hands hover, hesitant, before finally pressing gently into the little thing’s fur. The way your entire face seems to melt, something delicate and awed settling into your features.

“Well. Guess that’s that, huh?” Bucky says softly, a fond smile on his face.

The kitten lets out a tiny meow and rubs her cheek against your palm, then promptly starts purring loudly.

Your heart is a puddle.

Looking up at Bucky, your eyes are bright, but careful. “Like I said, Buck. This isn’t just my decision.”

You don’t want to rush this.

This moment, this decision - it matters.

Because despite all the playful teasing and the cooing over the tiny kittens crawling over your legs, this isn’t just some random choice. It’s not like picking out cereal at the grocery store or deciding which movie to watch on a Friday night.

Bucky looks at you, seeing the way you already seem to have made up your mind, but needing him to want it too.

This isn’t just your home. It’s his too. It’s both of yours.

This choice - this little life curled up in your lap, soft and warm and trusting - has to be made together.

Bucky exhales, long and slow, seeming even a little nervous, before reaching out.

It’s careful at first, cautious, like he doesn’t want to startle her. But as soon as his fingers brush over the soft fur at the top of her tiny head, she leans into him, unafraid.

His fingers graze yours as you continue to scratch her belly.

And you feel it everywhere.

It’s a sharp heat that sizzles up your arm, fizzles through your chest, and crackles along your spine.

You will yourself not to react.

But the warmth of his hand is right there, just the shiest touch against yours, and it takes everything in you to stay perfectly still, to pretend like you don’t feel your pulse quicken, and don’t suddenly forget how to breathe normally.

Bucky’s hand stays, fingers brushing yours in a way so soft, so casual, that it feels anything but.

You almost pull back, but you don’t. Because he doesn’t either.

You force yourself to focus on the kitten instead.

She tilts her little head, her hot, pink tongue darting out and then she licks at the tip of Bucky’s finger, the tiniest little sandpaper kiss.

You laugh softly, and Bucky does too. So low and bright and genuine. It shines in his eyes when he looks at you.

“She likes you.” You don’t know why you are whispering, but this feels almost intimate.

Bucky scoffs, shaking his head, but his mouth is pulling into a wide grin. The softness of his smile lingers in the lines around his eyes.

“Yeah, well, she likes you too. So she’s gotta have taste.”

It’s so simple, the way he says it. And you are glad that his eyes are on the kitten in your lap because he surely would have seen what it did to you.

You two keep stroking her white fur while she relishes in the feeling, hands continuing to graze since her body is still so small. Something electric hovers in the air between you, something neither of you has ever really acknowledged but you - for your part - have always felt.

“Seems like we’ve been chosen,” Bucky states, voice quiet, thoughtful.

You giggle softly, feeling his eyes move up to your face, hand stilling momentarily against the fur. The purring continues and you feel the weight of the little baby press further into your lap, into your warmth as if she already feels at home.

You grin at him before moving your attention back to her. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Seems like we have.”

For a moment, there really seems to be nothing else. You don’t acknowledge another kitten bumping against your shoe or one attacking the sleeve at your elbow. It’s just you, and Bucky, and this little white sweetness cradled between you both.

“Well, isn’t that just the sweetest thing.”

The voice comes from the doorway, warm and delighted, and you glance up to see the same volunteer who led you in earlier - a woman seeming to be in her late forties, smiling so fondly you can feel it in your chest.

Bucky leans back slightly, shifting to rest his arms on his knees, but he doesn’t move his hand away from the kitten. He keeps his fingers right where they are, lightly against yours, grazing her fur, as if he doesn’t want to let go just yet.

“She’s a lucky little thing,” the woman says, stepping further into the room. “She’s going to be so loved with you two.”

Something about the way she says it makes something pull at your gut - pleasant but dangerous.

And then she beams, hands coming together in a light clap.

“Oh, you make such a lovely couple.”

Your insides feel like they’ve flipped. It’s so sudden. A weightless drop that leaves you momentarily breathless. Your lashes flutter and your brain scrambles for literally anything.

But before you can get words out, Bucky lets out a short, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. You didn’t notice the way his hand froze between white fur. Because yours did, too.

“Nah, we’re not-” he starts, seeming a little awkward. A little nervous. He lifts his free hand, and gestures between you. “-Y’know. Together.”

The woman’s brows lift. “Oh?”

You clear your throat, shifting slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of everything - the heat of Bucky beside you, the way his knee nearly brushes yours, the bashful way he looks down at the kitten.

“Yeah,” you manage, forcing a smile. “We’re just- We’re roommates.”

“Friends,” Bucky tacks on, nodding as if that settles it.

The woman hums, clearly amused. “Huh.”

She doesn’t say anything else for a second, just looks between the two of you, smiling like she knows something you don’t. Maybe you should try harder to suck in the rosy color on your cheeks.

Then she crouches down in front of you both and reaches out to run a gentle hand along the kitten’s tiny back.

“Well, couple of not, I can tell she is going to be really happy with you two,” she says, her voice softer now, sincere.

You smile at this small life in your lap who somehow fits perfectly into the world you and Bucky have built together. She definitely is going to be loved. She already is.

Bucky exhales and when you glance up at him he is wearing a fond smile as well.

He watches how the kitten seems completely at ease in your lap, her tiny body rising and falling with deep breaths.

“We’ll take good care of her,” he assures, voice quiet but certain. He swallows.

You lift your head and your eyes lock.

Something tender passes between you before you avert your eyes again and you nod at his words. They do something to you, you can’t even explain. Because there is no doubt, no hesitation. It’s not even a simple promise, it’s a commitment.

A vow that whatever happens, this little baby girl will never know loneliness, will never go without warmth, without love.

“We’ll try our best,” he adds, voice a little rougher now.

You know that as sure as you know the feeling of his presence in your life, the way he’s always there, something solid and good, something grounding and doting.

You find yourself smiling so wide, you have to bite your lip.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” the woman in front of you says, watching the two of you with sparkling eyes.

She seems so confident.

Bucky huffs out a laugh, and there is something sheepish in the sound.

You glance down at the kitten, who lets out a yawn, stretching her small claws before rolling herself further into you.

This is really happening.

And for some reason, it feels right in a way you weren’t fully prepared for.

“Sometimes, the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”

- A.A. Milne

[fixated-cookies]

different anon but imagine pure vanilla (bonus if awakened) and reader ganging up on shadow milk for revenge :) giving the jester a taste of his own medicine

Awaken pure vanilla...drools

that man is so gentle, it is hard to believe that even when he's jealous he's still compassionate. in fact is kinda poetic in a way, Shadow Milk Cookie, the one who always desires control, being put in the exact position he’s put others in? Now that’s a show worth watching. also, this is a reference from my previous post

WARNING- Smut, cuckolding

Pure Vanilla, normally so forgiving, so gentle, even in his jealousy, he doesn’t act cruelly. But he can be merciless in kindness. This is what makes is dangerous for Shadow Milk, no matter how much he squirms, or taunts "You can do better than that!" while he seethes in jealousy, Pure Vanilla simply smiles. A soft, knowing smile as he gently turns the tables. And you? Oh, you’re right there alongside Pure Vanilla. Feeding into his calm dominance, playing along so sweetly that it drives Shadow Milk up the wall. Kissing him and loving up on him like you're basically getting your marriage consummated right in front of him. Holding hands while he ruts into your wet tightness creates a frustration and envious feeling with shadow milk's souljam. two against one. So unfair, isn’t it?

This isn’t how the game is supposed to go. He is supposed to be the one orchestrating the scene, pulling the strings, controlling the script! But now? Now, he’s nothing more than a bitter spectator to your little performance with Pure Vanilla, and it burns...and makes his cock ache, just a little

He doesn't even need to gloat about it. his gentle touches, his soothing voice, the way he hums in contentment as you dote on him, riding him into your own ecstasy with your sweet and lovely moans and mewls. He knows Shadow Milk is watching, knows it’s tearing him apart, and yet he remains as warm and kind as ever. "Oh, Shadow Milk," he murmurs with that infuriatingly gentle tone, looking at him over your shoulder while he rubs your back. His hand strokes your back in slow, tender motions, guiding you, cherishing you, worshiping you as you gasp and tremble in his grasp. Nothing like the harsh fuck Shadow Milk put you through earlier...

Shadow Milk glares at him, biting his lip as he sits restrained in the very same chair, as punishment. He sees you glance at you glance at him over your shoulder, grinding yourself onto his length, you lock eyes at him while giving him a slight flustered smirk, Pure Vanilla moans, deep and unrestrained, his hands gripping your waist with the kind of reverence that only makes Shadow Milk seethe more. you teasing little—! "Surely, you're not jealous?" Pure Vanilla's voice interrupt his thoughts. its not an accusation, its an observation. And oh, does that make his jam boil.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair.

His lips curl into a snarl, but his breath stutters, his mask slipping—just for a second. You just keep going. Keep smiling. Keep taunting him without a single word, driving him up the walls with nothing more than your movements and your gaze. tugs at his restraints, hard, his breath coming in uneven puffs. He should look away, should focus on breaking free, should think of some grand, poetic way to turn the tables—but he can’t.

Not when the show is this good.

--

I need them both to destroy my cunt so bad!

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

SAFE & SOUND — part 2

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 13k

MASTERLIST

Warmth.

The first thing you notice when you wake is the warmth of the sun on your face, its golden light filtering through the gaps in the trees. You blink against the brightness, disoriented for a moment as you sit up abruptly. That’s when you realise your head had been resting on Jungwon’s lap.

He’s still there, sitting exactly where you left him, his blade resting against the wooden railing. His posture is stiff, and there are faint shadows under his eyes, but his gaze remains focused on the treeline, sharp and unwavering.

“You didn’t sleep,” you say, your voice hoarse from disuse. It’s not a question—it’s an observation, one that feels heavier than it should.

He glances at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t want to risk it,” he says simply, as though staying awake all night was no big deal.

Your brow furrows, guilt creeping into your chest. “I thought we were switching shifts.”

He shrugs, leaning back slightly against the railing. “You looked like you needed it more.”

You stare at him, the weight of his words sinking in. He barely knows you, yet he gave up his rest so you could have yours. The realisation sits uncomfortably, making your chest tighten.

“Thanks,” you say quietly, the word feeling inadequate. “But you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, his tone light but firm. “It’s fine, I didn’t think i would’ve been able to sleep anyway.”

The camp below begins to stir, the others waking slowly as the day takes hold. You glance down, watching as Sunoo stretches lazily, Sunghoon stokes the embers of the dying fire, and Jay mutters something under his breath, clearly not a morning person.

“You should get down there,” Jungwon says, his voice pulling your attention back to him. “Grab something to eat before they take it all.”

“What about you?” you ask, still uneasy with the thought of him staying awake all night.

“I’ll eat later,” he says, waving off your concern as he finally stands, stretching his arms above his head. “Someone has to keep an eye on things while everyone else sleeps in.”

For a moment, you consider arguing, but the look in his eyes tells you it’s not worth it. Jungwon’s sense of responsibility runs deeper than you realised, and while it frustrates you, it’s also hard not to respect it.

“Alright,” you say finally, climbing down the ladder. But as you reach the ground and glance back up at him, the faint guilt lingers.

You sit by the dying fire, its faint warmth barely reaching your skin as the morning unfolds around you. Despite the ache in your body and the exhaustion clawing at your mind, you can’t stop your eyes from darting across the camp, taking in the subtle movements of the group. 

There’s a rhythm to them, an unspoken flow in the way they interact, as though every task and gesture has already been decided without a single word being spoken. It’s not chaos, not the haphazard scramble you’re used to seeing in desperate survivors. It’s something else. Something deliberate.

The longer you watch, the clearer it becomes that they aren’t just a random assortment of people who happened to survive together. The dynamics of this group, odd as they may be, seem to work, each person carrying out a role that seems as vital as breathing. 

You hate to admit it, but it intrigues you. There’s a part of you—a part you thought you buried—that wants to understand how they make it work. Against your better judgment, you can feel your curiosity growing, clawing at you for answers.

One thing, however, is abundantly clear: Jungwon is the leader.

You spot him high up on the watchtower, his silhouette outlined against the soft glow of the rising sun. His arms are crossed, his posture relaxed but alert as he surveys the camp below. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t bark orders, yet the others seem to fall into line as if guided by an invisible tether.

“Hey,” Sunoo’s voice cuts through your thoughts, jolting you slightly. He’s seated across from you, fiddling with a dented tin cup and flashing one of his easy, disarming smiles. “Jungwon figured that if you’re going to be staying, it’d be better to let you in on how things work around here.”

Staying. You’re not entirely sure about that.

The idea of staying with a group, of being around people again, stirs something uneasy inside you. It’s not a fear of them—it’s a fear of what comes with them. The horror of your past still clings to you like a second skin, a constant reminder of what it means to care, to hope, and then to lose. You’re not sure you’re ready to open yourself up to that again.

Because staying with people means watching them die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually.

Not to say this group will meet the same fate—but in this world, there’s no guarantee of survival, no matter how capable or united they seem. Death isn’t a possibility; it’s an inevitability. The only question is when.

You’ve seen it before—how quickly things can go wrong. How one misstep, one unlucky moment, can unravel everything. Staying means becoming a part of something, and a part of you wonders if you’ve got anything left to give. After all, what’s the point of building something that will inevitably collapse?

“It’ll help you understand why we do what we do,” comes another voice from behind. You start slightly, not having noticed Jungwon’s approach. He settles on the log beside you, his presence calm yet commanding, as if he’s somehow taken control of the conversation without trying.

Sunoo leans forward, his grin widening. “Alright, listen up. Starting with our fearless leader over here—Jungwon.” He gestures dramatically, and Jungwon rolls his eyes, though there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s our strategist, the one who keeps us alive by figuring out where to go, when to move, and how to deal with… well, everything.”

Jungwon exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Someone has to keep you lot in line,” he says dryly, though there’s no malice in his tone.

“Whatever you say, captain,” Sunoo replies, offering a mock salute before turning his attention to Heeseung. 

The man sits at the edge of camp, methodically sharpening a blade. “Next, we’ve got Heeseung, our scout and tracker. He’s got the best eyes out of all of us. If there’s something—or someone—out there, he’ll find it first.”

“And that grump over there?” Sunoo gestures toward Jay, who’s seated a short distance away, carefully cleaning his pistol with a precision that borders on obsessive. “Jay’s our long-range shooter. Best shot we’ve got. He’d never admit it, but he’s saved all our asses more times than we can count.”

“Jake,” Sunoo continues, pointing toward the man currently inspecting a med kit, “is our medic. If you get hurt, he’s the one you want patching you up. And don’t worry, he actually knows what he’s doing, and not just throwing plasters on everything hoping for the best.”

Jake smirks faintly, his hands moving deftly as he tosses a roll of bandages into the kit. “I was in pre-med before all this,” he says, his tone light but tinged with a quiet seriousness. “It’s not anything impressive, but it’s enough to keep us alive. Just don’t make me work too hard, alright?”

“And then there’s Sunghoon,” Sunoo says, his tone growing slightly more dramatic, “our weapons expert and close-range fighter. If it comes down to it, he’s the one who’ll keep the rest of us breathing.”

Sunghoon glances up from where he’s tinkering with a makeshift blade. “And by ‘close-range fighter,’ he means I’m the one who has to deal with the messy stuff,” he says dryly, though there’s a faint glimmer of pride in his eyes.

“And then there’s me,” Sunoo adds, placing a hand on his chest with mock seriousness. “Diplomat. Negotiator. The one who talks us out of—or into—trouble, depending on the situation.”

“Mostly into trouble,” Jake interjects, his voice carrying a faint edge of amusement.

Sunoo waves him off with an exaggerated sigh before turning to the cheekiest of the group. “And last but not least, Ni-ki, our little magic hands. If it’s broken, he can fix it. If it’s running, he can make it run faster.”

Ni-ki, who’s crouched by the van inspecting its undercarriage, glances up briefly. “Yeah, and if you want it to work, don’t touch it,” he says, his tone sharp but not entirely unfriendly.

The pieces start to fall into place, the dynamic clicking in a way that almost makes sense. You find yourself both impressed and uneasy, the thought of fitting into something so cohesive feeling alien to you.

Sunoo tilts his head, his gaze meeting yours. “And you? What about you?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve been on your own for so long, your only role has been survival. You’ve never had to think about what you could bring to the table—only about what you could take to stay alive. And in that sense, staying would be a terrible idea.

Then again, these people clearly know what they’re doing. It doesn't hurt to be around people that will keep you alive.

“I guess… I’m figuring that out,” you say finally, your voice quieter now.

Sunoo studies you for a moment before nodding, his grin softening. “Stick around long enough, and we’ll figure it out too.”

About three days have passed in their camp, and you’re beginning to entertain the possibility of staying with them. They work well together, almost seamlessly. It’s not something you just discovered, but the more you witness their dynamics, the more in awe you are. 

You can’t help but wonder: if the community building you were part of had been like this, would it have fallen the way it did? Maybe with them, you finally have a real shot at staying alive.

Most of them seem to have opened up to the idea of you sticking around—at least, you think they have. Truthfully, the only people who’ve expressed any contentment with your presence are Sunoo and Jake. But that’s likely because they’re the ones you’ve spent the most time with. They’re always in camp, managing supplies and rations, keeping the place running while the others head out.

And, of course, because you’re not allowed to leave camp. Orders from Jungwon—though you suspect Jay had a hand in that decision too. You figure it’s less about keeping you safe and more about making sure you don’t fuck up their rhythm.

Speaking of Jungwon, you’ve noticed something about the way the group operates: his words hold a lot of weight here. And not just because he’s the leader.

Even after spending the last few nights on watch with him, sharing quiet conversations under the stars while the others slept, you still haven’t quite figured it out. There’s an ease to the way he interacts with the group, a quiet authority that doesn’t need to be forced.

Every decision, every movement, seems to flow through him first. But it’s not in a micromanaging or authoritarian way. It’s just… natural. The others look to him, wait for him to weigh in, like his judgment is the glue holding them together. He doesn’t shy away from it either, even when it’s clear the burden weighs heavily on him. 

Whatever this group’s flaws, it’s clear Jungwon holds them together, even at the expense of himself. And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to understand why.

He’s not the leader because he demands it—but because the others trust him to be. 

It works for them, clearly. They function like a well-oiled machine, each person playing their role with practiced efficiency. But if you’re being honest, you find it a little risky.

To have everyone’s lives hinge on one person’s decisions? To place that much responsibility on a single set of shoulders?

It’s a dangerous gamble. For even the strongest leaders have their breaking point. And if Jungwon ever falters, you wonder what will happen to the rest of them.

You’ve also learned that they only leave the camp unattended during high-stakes expeditions, like the one back in the city. Other than that, it’s almost always Jungwon, Heeseung, Sunghoon, or Jay who take turns heading out. And even then, they only leave when it’s absolutely necessary.

Not to hunt. Not to scavenge.

They don’t hunt. They’re surviving off the food they stole when they escaped The Future.

It’s a startling revelation, one that lingers in the back of your mind every time you watch them ration out supplies. Even though you know Heeseung is perfectly capable of hunting, they don’t take the risk.

No, when they go out, it’s not for food or water. It’s to cover their tracks and secure the perimeter. To ensure that no trace of their last expedition leads anyone back to this camp, which you suspect is also another reason why they don’t let you leave. 

Ni-ki is harder to figure out. He’s a wild card—sometimes he goes out when needed, but otherwise, he stays behind to keep watch. These past few days, though, Jay has been staying in camp too, and it’s clear he’s still wary of you. He doesn’t trust you, not fully. He doesn’t sleep when you’re on watch and makes sure you’re never alone with any of the others for too long.

Aside from Jungwon, Jake, and Sunoo, you haven’t exchanged many words with the rest. Even when everyone’s in camp, the conversations are minimal.

Most of them don’t like talking about their lives before the world fell apart. And you understand. What’s the point in reminiscing about a time that no longer exists? It only makes the loss worse, reminding you of everything you could have had.

Well, most of them feel that way—except for Sunoo.

He talks endlessly, filling the silences around camp with anecdotes and bits of his past. You’ve learned from helping him manage supplies that he was in law school before everything fell apart. It makes sense, given how much he talks. He’s always negotiating, always diffusing tension with his words.

When he asked you what you did before the world ended, you kept it vague, telling him you were in school too.

And yet, despite the distance, they’ve started treating you like one of their own. It’s been a long time since you’ve gone days without starving, and for the first time in forever, you almost feel like you’ve found a safe haven.

But before you even have the chance to fully sit with the idea of staying, your attention is drawn to Jungwon, who’s making his way over to Heeseung. His movements are careful, deliberate, and the moment they begin talking, it’s clear the conversation isn’t meant for everyone’s ears. Still, their words are loud enough to reach you from where you’re sitting by the logs.

“Heeseung, how’s our food situation?” Jungwon asks, his expression serious, his brows furrowed in thought.

Heeseung glances around briefly, his sharp eyes scanning the camp before leaning in closer to Jungwon. “We’ve depleted almost everything we took from The Future. With our current resources, it’ll last us about a week.” He pauses, then adds in a lower voice, “Well, less now that we have…”

Heeseung’s gaze shifts toward you, and you realise a second too late that you’ve been staring. Your eyes meet his, and he stiffens, clearly caught off guard by your attention. His words trail off, but the meaning behind them hangs in the air, unspoken yet deafeningly clear.

A wave of guilt washes over you, sharp and overwhelming.

That’s right. You’re just another mouth for them to feed. Another person whose survival they’re now responsible for.

You hadn’t thought about it before, not really. But now, it hits you like a freight train. Every bite you take, every resource you use—it’s something they can’t spare, something that might have kept one of them alive just a little longer.

And that triggers something in you.

You lower your gaze, suddenly unable to hold Heeseung’s. The weight of your presence in their camp feels heavier than ever, and the resolve you thought you’d solidified earlier begins to shift.

Staying with them, trusting them, letting them trust you—it’s not just about your own safety anymore. It’s about what your presence costs them. And that’s not something you can ignore.

So, you make up your mind there and then.

The next opportunity you get, you’ll leave. Leave and never turn back.

They don’t entirely trust you, but they don’t distrust you enough to keep you at arm’s length, either. They let you into their camp, shared their food, their fire. They even explained how they work together, the roles they each play. Yet, you remain an outsider, lingering on the edges of their tight-knit circle. And you know, deep down, that’s exactly where you belong.

So when the opportunity arises—though you’re not sure when you’ll have a moment alone long enough to slip away unnoticed—you’ll leave. You won’t even take anything with you. Just slip into the shadows and disappear before they even realise you’re gone. No attachments, no debts, no goodbyes. That’s how it has to be.

But not yet. Not until you’ve made sure they’re safe. 

Despite your resolve, you can’t bring yourself to abandon them while the unknown danger you and Jungwon discussed the night you met them still lingers. Not after everything they’ve done, not after the way they fought to protect each other, to protect you. That’s right, you still owe them for saving your life and feeding you these past few days.

So you’ll wait. Watch for the right moment. Repay your debts. And when it comes—when the threat has passed, and the dust has settled—you’ll leave. Without hesitation. Without looking back.

But that selfless thought is, in itself, an act of caring—you just haven’t realised it yet.

Jungwon and Heeseung return from their quiet discussion, their expressions unreadable. Without needing to say a word, the group instinctively gathers around the fire that has long gone out. The way they move, as if summoned by some unspoken signal, is fascinating. No commands are given, no prompting required.

Just the sheer presence of Jungwon.

“We’ll have to send a team out to hunt,” Jungwon begins, his voice calm but firm as his sharp gaze sweeps across the group. “Latest before noon. If we leave then, we can make it back before dusk.”

Jake, sitting with his legs crossed, looks up sharply. “Hunt? Are we out of food already?” Concern threads through his voice, his usual calm demeanour faltering just slightly.

Jungwon doesn’t answer immediately, his focus flickering toward Heeseung, who nods in silent confirmation. “We’re low,” Jungwon says finally.

“I mean, we do have one more mouth to feed,” Jay mutters, his tone biting as he glances at you. He clicks his tongue in annoyance, leaning back slightly, his arms crossed. It’s not the first jab he’s made, but it stings more than you’d like to admit.

You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, meeting his gaze evenly. If anything, you’re oddly relieved by his hostility. At least someone here is keeping their guard up around you. Someone who doesn’t want to trust you, who wants you gone. You can’t explain why, but you hope it stays that way. It feels safer, somehow, for at least one person to see you as an outsider—a liability.

It makes leaving easier to justify.

“Jay,” Jungwon’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp but not angry. It’s enough to make Jay’s expression shift slightly, though he doesn’t apologise.

The silence that follow is heavy, Jungwon’s words settling over the group like a cold wind. The reality of their situation is clear—if they don’t find food soon, things are going to get a lot harder. And none of them, not even Jay, have to ask for you to know you should be the one to do it.

“I’ll go,” you say, your voice firm despite the nervous knot forming in your stomach. All eyes snap to you, the weight of their gazes almost crushing.

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “You?”

You nod, holding his gaze. “You need every fighter you can spare here, and I can handle myself. I’d hate to sit around and do nothing all day, like a parasite. Let me help.”

“At least she’s self-aware,” Jay mutters under his breath, earning a sharp glare from Sunoo.

The air grows thick with tension, the subtle coo of morning birds the only sound as the group processes your words. Heeseung is the first to break the silence, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll go too,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “If she’s going out there, someone has to track. I’m not sending anyone out blind.”

Jay lets out a sharp, humourless laugh, shaking his head as he rises to his feet. “Yeah, no. If Heeseung’s going, I’m going. Someone has to make sure this doesn’t blow up in our faces.” His words are pointed, his glare fixed on you. It’s clear he doesn’t trust you, and he’s not about to risk Heeseung’s safety over it.

You bite back a retort, understanding his scepticism even if it stings. Heeseung glances at him but doesn’t argue, his focus already shifting to what the group will need for the trip.

“I’ll go too,” Jungwon says suddenly, standing up from the log. His tone is steady, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the calculation in his eyes. “We can’t take chances with this.”

“No, you can’t go,” you say quickly, before he can cement the decision. The firmness in your voice catches him off guard, his brow furrowing as he turns to you. The rest of the group falls silent, thrown by your sudden declaration. Usually, whatever Jungwon says goes, so for you to challenge him is clearly a first.

The awkwardness is suffocating, the weight of everyone’s stares pressing down on you. You take a small step closer to Jungwon, lowering your voice so only he can hear. 

“They need you here,” you whisper, your voice steady but insistent. “If you leave, that’s four people left at camp—two of whom isn’t much of a fighter.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly. “They can handle themselves. It’s not the first time I’m leaving anyway,” he replies, his voice calm but firm.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “But it’s clear they’re rattled by the food shortage. They’re anxious, Jungwon, whether they’re saying it out loud or not.” You glance briefly at the others, noting the subtle tension in their postures, the way their gazes flit to Jungwon as if waiting for reassurance.

“You’re their leader,” you continue, your voice soft. “You’re the reason they stay focused, the reason they trust they’ll make it through the next day. If something happens to you out there...” You let the sentence hang, the weight of the implication settling heavy between you both.

Jungwon’s expression falters for a fraction of a second, the barest flicker of uncertainty crossing his face before he schools it back into something unreadable. He doesn’t respond immediately, and you think he’s going to argue. But then his gaze softens slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought.

“And you think you can handle this?” he whispers, his voice softer now but no less serious.

“I do,” you reply firmly. “Heeseung knows what he’s doing, and Jay clearly won’t let anything happen to… well, him. I’ve hunted before, Jungwon. Plus, I know you stayed up on watch again last night. You need to stay here.”

Jungwon’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he exhales sharply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Alright,” he says, though there’s a reluctance in his voice. “But don’t take unnecessary risks. If it looks bad, you come back. Understood?” 

The way he says it, as if he knows you’re considering running, makes something twist in your chest. Not yet, though. Not yet.

“Understood,” you say, standing up and brushing the dirt off your palms.

Heeseung secures his knife into its sheath with a nod, and Jay rolls his eyes but grabs his gear without protest. The three of you prepare to head out, the camp watching in silence as you gather your supplies.

Just as you’re about to step beyond the barricade, you spot Jungwon whispering something to Jay. Whatever he says makes Jay scowl, shaking his head in visible protest. But Jungwon’s expression hardens, his voice firm as he cuts the argument short. Jay sighs, clearly annoyed, but ultimately relents. His sharp eyes shift back to you, now carrying an edge of suspicion sharper than before.

Jungwon’s gaze lingers on you as you leave, his expression unreadable. The weight of his trust—or maybe it’s his doubt—feels heavier than any weapon you’ve carried. But you push the thought aside.

The three of you move quietly through the forest, the morning sunlight filtering through the trees in patches of gold. Heeseung takes the lead, while Jay trails slightly behind, his sharp eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. You stay somewhere in between, the knife in your hand an extension of the resolve you’re trying to summon.

The silence between you is heavy, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the faint chirping of distant birds. You don’t speak, and neither do they, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s one born of necessity, of focus. Every sound, every shift in the forest, could mean danger—or an opportunity.

But, of course, the concentration doesn’t last. Jay, who you’re beginning to suspect thrives on friction, breaks the quiet with a pointed comment. 

“I don’t understand. Why does Jungwon care so much about you?”

Heeseung doesn’t turn around, but you can practically feel the exasperation radiating off him. “Seriously, Jay? You’re talking about this now?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge of disbelief in his tone.

“What?” Jay retorts, his tone almost defensive. “Are you not curious at all?  They stayed on watch together a few times, and now Jungwon’s ready to risk everything to keep her safe.”

“I’m literally right here,” you snap, the annoyance in your voice cutting through the tense air. “If you’ve got questions about me, maybe try asking me directly instead of talking like I’m not standing a few feet away.”

Jay glances at you briefly, his expression unimpressed. “Fine. Why is Jungwon sticking his neck out for you?”

You blink, caught off guard by the bluntness of his question. “I don’t think he’s sticking his neck out for me,” you say, your tone defensive as your grip tightens around your knife. “What are you even talking about?”

Jay lets out a humourless laugh, shaking his head as if you’ve just proven his point. “Then why did he ask me to keep an eye on you? Make sure you come back alive?” he says, his voice low but edged with irritation.

Your steps falter for just a moment, your breath catching in your throat. “He… told you that?” you ask, your voice quieter now, the frustration giving way to something more uncertain.

Jay nods, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah. Said you’ll be a great addition to the group or something. Like we don’t already have enough to deal with.”

You’re not sure how to answer—hell, you’re not even sure why Jungwon has been so willing to give you a chance. Before you can formulate a response, Heeseung cuts in.

“Maybe because Jungwon’s a nice person,” Heeseung says dryly, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “Not like a certain somebody who can’t seem to shut up.”

“Nice? Jungwon?” Jay scoffs, his tone sharp. “He’s the last person after me among the seven of us to be nice, especially to strangers. You think this is just him being friendly?”

You glance at Heeseung, hoping for some clarification, but he keeps his focus on the trail ahead. Jay’s words settle uneasily in your chest. If Jungwon isn’t the kind of person to extend trust easily, then what’s his angle? Why is he giving you the benefit of the doubt when others—like Jay—clearly think you don’t deserve it?

The weight of Jungwon’s trust feels heavier now, more significant.

“Well, I didn’t ask for him to do that. I don’t need anyone keeping an eye on me.” you say finally, your voice a little steadier, though the uncertainty still lingers.

Jay snorts, his expression sceptical. “Yeah, well, tell that to Jungwon. He’s not exactly the type to give orders lightly.”

The tension between you hangs heavy in the air, but before either of you can say more, Heeseung glances over his shoulder, his tone calm but firm. “Enough. We’re here to hunt, not to argue. If we don’t bring back any game, it’ll blame it all on you.”

“Well, it’s her fault we’re even out here in the first place. Blame her.” says Jay with a scoff.

Heeseung’s gaze narrows. “I said that’s enough, Jay.”

Jay rolls his eyes but doesn’t push further. Instead, he mutters something under his breath and turns his focus back to the forest ahead, the tension in his shoulders still evident.

You let out a slow, steadying breath, the heat of the argument leaving you rattled. But it’s not just the argument that lingers in your mind—it’s Jay’s words. Jungwon had specifically told him to keep an eye on you? To make sure you came back alive?

Why…?

Before the silence stretches too long, Heeseung motions for a stop, crouching low and studying a patch of disturbed earth. His fingers graze the ground lightly, his sharp eyes narrowing. You watch him carefully, impressed by the ease with which he reads the signs the forest leaves behind.

“Squirrels,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. He points to a set of tracks leading deeper into the woods. “A few of them. Probably moving together.”

Jay nods curtly, his grip tightening on the bow he’s been carrying. “We’ll have to be quick. If we miss, they’ll scatter.”

Heeseung glances at you, a faint flicker of consideration in his expression. “You’ve hunted before, right?”

You nod. “A few times. Mostly small game, but I know how to stay quiet.”

“Good,” he says simply, standing and motioning for you to follow. “Let’s move.”

As the three of you make your way deeper into the woods, the tension eases slightly, the rhythm of the hunt taking over. Heeseung’s calm, methodical approach is a stark contrast to Jay’s sharp vigilance, but they work well together—an unspoken understanding guiding their every move.

At one point, Heeseung stops again, holding up a hand to signal a pause. He crouches beside a tree, studying a new set of tracks. Jay moves ahead slightly, keeping watch, and for the first time, it’s just you and Heeseung.

He glances over at you, his expression softening slightly. “You’re doing alright,” he says quietly, his tone low enough that Jay won’t hear. “Not bad for someone new to the group.”

You nod, unsure how to respond. His calm demeanour is a welcome contrast to Jay’s constant scepticism, but you can still feel the awkward tension hanging in the air.

Heeseung hesitates, the silence stretching between you as he seems to weigh his words carefully. His hand flexes around the hilt of his knife, a nervous habit you’ve noticed before. Finally, he sighs, his voice dropping to a quieter, almost reluctant tone.

“Jay’s not… always like this with everyone,” he says, his gaze fixed on the ground, as though avoiding eye contact will make it easier to get the words out. “The way he’s acting with you, I mean. There’s a reason he’s so hard to trust new people.”

You furrow your brow, confusion flickering across your face. Of course, it’s not unusual for survivors to be cautious—vigilant even—around strangers. In a world like this, where danger lurks at every corner, you either kill or be killed. Trust extended to the wrong person could easily land a knife to your back.

But the way Heeseung describes Jay’s distrust, it sounds like something more. Something personal.

“Why?” you ask cautiously, your voice low. You don’t want to push too hard, but you can’t hold back your curiosity.

Heeseung sighs, running a hand through his hair. “After our escape from The Future, we took in another survivor. A guy, around our age. He was half-starved, injured. Begged us to help him. Said he’d been on his own for months.”

You can already feel where the story is headed, but you don’t interrupt.

“Jay didn’t trust him from the start,” Heeseung admits. “Said something felt off. But the rest of us… we thought he was being paranoid. We were tired of losing people. We wanted to believe the guy was just another victim of this world.”

His voice grows heavier, the memory clearly weighing on him. “At first, it seemed fine. He kept to himself but didn’t cause any trouble.” Heeseung’s jaw clenches, his knuckles whitening as he grips his knife tighter. “But turns out, Jay was right.”

Your stomach knots, dread curling in your chest. “What happened?”

“He waited until we were vulnerable,” Heeseung says bitterly. “Waited until we were distracted. Then, he grabbed one of our friends, put a knife to her throat, and demanded our supplies.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“We gave him what he wanted,” Heeseung says bitterly, his jaw tightening. “But he didn’t let her go. He slit her throat anyway, right in front of us. And then he ran.”

The air around you feels colder, the quiet of the forest suddenly oppressive. You glance at Heeseung, his calm facade cracking just slightly as he stares at the tracks before him.

“That’s why Jay is the way he is,” Heeseung continues, his voice low but steady. “He was closest to her. Blames himself for what happened. Ever since then, he doesn’t trust easily. And he doesn’t forgive.” 

Your mind pictures Jay back at the camp, how his posture is always tense and hunched as though he’s carrying the weight of that memory with him every second of every day.

“I didn’t know,” you murmur.

“No,” Heeseung says softly. “You wouldn’t have. But now you do.” He looks at you again, his expression softer, though the pain in his eyes remains. “So, if he’s hard on you… it’s not personal. It’s his way of protecting us. His way of making sure it never happens again.”

You nod slowly, the weight of the story settling over you. “I get it,” you say softly, though the words feel inadequate. “I’d probably feel the same.”

Heeseung glances at you, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe. But trust me, if you stick around long enough, Jay will see what the rest of us do. That you’re not like him. That you’re not a threat.” 

You don’t respond immediately, his words settling into your mind like seeds in freshly tilled soil. The weight of their past lingers with you, a reminder of just how fragile trust can be in a world like this—not that you needed the reminder. 

The two of you rise silently, falling back into the rhythm of the hunt as you make your way to rejoin Jay, who has moved further ahead on his own. You spot him crouched behind a dense thicket of ivy, his form still but alert.

Heeseung is about to call out when Jay abruptly places a finger to his lips, his sharp eyes locking onto yours as he motions for you both to get low.

You and Heeseung exchange a quick glance before crouching, carefully shuffling toward Jay. Every step feels heavier than the last, the rustle of fallen leaves beneath your boots deafening in the tense quiet. The forest, once filled with the gentle hum of wildlife, now feels suffocatingly still.

“What’s wrong?” Heeseung whispers, his voice barely audible as the three of you huddle closer.

Jay doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on something beyond the ivy. Then you hear it—the familiar shuffling of feet, slow and uneven. The guttural moans and growls you’ve come to dread. But this time, it’s not just a few. The sound is overwhelming, a dissonant symphony of the undead. Dozens, maybe more.

“There’s something very wrong,” Jay whispers, his voice taut with unease. “Look at the way they’re moving.”

Your stomach churns as you part a few strands of ivy, revealing a massive clearing surrounded by towering pines. In the centre of it, a cluster of zombies moves in a strange, unnatural rhythm. They’re walking in a perfect circle, their shuffling steps eerily synchronised like ants trapped in a death ring.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, the words slipping out before you can stop them. The sight is wrong—so wrong it makes your skin crawl.

And then you hear it.

Voices. 

Your head jerks toward Jay, whose wide eyes mirror your own shock. “Did you hear that?” you mouth, barely breathing.

The sound comes again, low but unmistakable. “Round... them... up…”

It’s deliberate, controlled. Words spoken in the same hollow, rasping tone as the undead.

“They’re… talking?” Heeseung whispers, his disbelief matching your own.

You strain your ears, heart pounding as the voices continue.

“Saw them… around here…”

“Find them…”

Your blood runs cold. They’re not just words—they’re instructions. Coherent, deliberate instructions.

Your breath catches in your throat, and your hand instinctively grips your knife tighter. You glance at Jay, and the flicker of fear in his eyes confirms what you’re dreading. These aren’t just zombies.

There are people—or not people—you're not entirely sure. But something is walking among the dead.

Heeseung’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing as he shifts his weight slightly, readying himself for whatever comes next. “What do we do?” he whispers, his voice steady but laced with urgency.

Jay’s gaze remains fixed on the clearing, his expression grim. “We move. Quietly. Back the way we came. Now.”

You don’t argue, your body already taut with tension as you begin to inch backward. The sound of human voices mingling with the moans of the undead burns in your ears, the weight of the revelation settling heavily on your chest. Whoever these people are, whatever they’re doing, one thing is clear: they’re more dangerous than the undead. And they’re looking for something—or someone.

The trek back to camp is a blur of tension and urgency. None of you speak, your steps light and calculated, careful not to make a sound that might draw attention. The eerie chorus of moans and human voices fades behind you, but the weight of what you’ve just witnessed hangs heavy in the air. Your chest tightens with every step, your mind racing with the implications.

By the time you see the familiar barricade of the camp, your legs are trembling—not just from exertion, but from the sheer adrenaline coursing through your veins. Heeseung is the first to signal to the others, his hand raising in a sharp, deliberate gesture that sets the camp into motion. Sunoo and Jake rush to open the barricade, their expressions immediately shifting from curiosity to concern as they take in your faces.

“What happened? Why are you guys back so early?” Jungwon asks, his voice calm but edged with urgency as he strides toward you. His sharp gaze sweeps over each of you, searching for any sign of injuries.

“We need to talk. Now,” Jay says, his tone clipped and serious. He glances back at the forest, his hand still gripping his bow tightly. “Inside.”

Jungwon’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t question it. The commotion quickly grabs the attention of the rest of the group and they instinctively assembles, their expressions a mix of confusion and worry.

Heeseung speaks first, his voice steady despite the tension in his posture. “We found a horde. Dozens of them, maybe more, moving together in a clearing.”

“Okay, and?” Jake asks, his brows furrowed. “That’s not unusual. Hordes travel together all the time.”

“It wasn’t just a horde,” you say, your voice quieter but no less urgent. All eyes snap to you, and you feel the weight of their attention pressing down on you. “They were… whispering.”

“Whispering?”  Sunghoon repeats, his expression sceptical. “You mean the dead started to talk?” Sunghoon leans forward slightly, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His usually calm demeanour cracks under the weight of disbelief, his brow furrowing deeply.

“We don't know what it was.” you say, your voice sharp. “They sounded like the dead, but they were coherent words.”

A heavy silence falls over the group, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Sunoo looks between you and Jay, his usual light-hearted expression replaced by unease. “Are you sure? It couldn’t have just been… I don’t know, echoes or something?”

“‘Round them up,’” you say quietly, your voice breaking through the tense air. “‘Find them.’ Those were their exact words. It wasn’t just random sounds or echoes. It was deliberate.”

Jay shakes his head. “And it wasn’t just one or two words. They were coordinating.”

“Coordinating?” Jungwon repeats, his voice low and measured. He’s not panicking, but the tension in his shoulders betrays his concern.

Jake leans back slightly, his expression hardening as he processes your words. “You’re suggesting that the dead have started to talk? Or that people are out there pretending to be the dead? Why? To what end? That doesn’t make any sense,” he mutters. “Why would anyone—”

“Doesn't matter. They were looking for someone,” you cut in, your voice sharper now as you recall the chilling words you heard.

Jungwon’s expression darkens, his sharp mind clearly working through the possibilities. “Did they see you?”

You shake your head. “No. We got out before they could.”

“For now,” Jay mutters, his jaw tight. “But if they’re moving through the area, it’s only a matter of time before they find the camp.”

The group falls silent again, the weight of the situation sinking in. Jungwon exhales slowly, his gaze sweeping over everyone before settling on Heeseung. “What did the clearing look like? Could it be a pattern, or just a random gathering?”

“It wasn’t random,” Heeseung says firmly. “They were walking in a circle. Over and over, like some kind of… ritual.”

The word hangs in the air, chilling in its implication. You glance at Jungwon, his expression unreadable as he processes the information. Finally, he speaks, his voice steady but resolute. “We don’t have enough information to act, but we can’t stay complacent. Sunghoon, Heeseung, start reinforcing the barricades. Make sure every gap is sealed. Jake, check our supplies. I need to know how long we can hold out here if we need to. Sunoo, Ni-ki—keep the van ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

“I’ll keep watch with Jay,” you pipe up just as Jungwon turns to you, his sharp eyes meeting yours. His gaze lingers a moment longer than you expect, as though he’s searching for something—resolve, maybe, or doubt. Whatever he finds, it’s enough to make him nod.

Without a second to spare, everyone falls into a rhythm. The weight of what you’ve encountered hangs over the camp like a storm cloud. Nobody says anything, but the silence tells you everything. They’re scared. Jungwon included.

You climb the watchtower with Jay, the makeshift structure swaying slightly under your combined weight. The sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the forest in hues of orange and gold. The beauty of it feels jarring against the tension in the air, a cruel reminder of the world that once was.

Behind you, you hear the faint sizzle of the campfire, now reduced to embers and smoke despite the night’s cold settling over the camp. It’s unfortunate, but it’s the smart move. Light and smoke would only draw attention, and right now, attention is the last thing any of you need.

Jay settles into position, his bow resting across his lap. His expression is stony, his eyes scanning the tree line with sharp precision. You don’t speak, sensing the simmering emotions beneath his calm exterior. Instead, you keep your focus outward, your own knife gripped tightly in your hand.

The forest is quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that prickles at the back of your neck. Time crawls, every second feeling heavier than the last. Dusk settles in slowly, the golden hues fading into muted greys and shadows. Then, just as the last rays of sunlight vanish, movement catches your eye.

A figure emerges from the tree line, their silhouette hazy against the growing darkness. They’re limping slowly, deliberately, their steps unhurried, as they approach the gate. It’s a single person, their posture relaxed but not aimless. Something about them feels… wrong.

“Someone’s coming,” you whisper, nudging Jay with your elbow. He turns quickly, his sharp gaze locking onto the figure. The second he sees them, his entire body goes rigid.

“Shit,” he breathes, his voice barely audible. Before you can ask, he ducks behind the barricade, pulling you down with him. His face is pale, his usual composure cracking just slightly. “Stay down.”

“Who is it?” you ask, your voice low but urgent.

“It’s someone we took in. Don’t necessarily have the best relationship with,” Jay whispers harshly, his voice barely audible as his eyes remain fixed on the approaching figure. His expression is dark, and there’s an edge to his tone you haven’t heard before—something between anger and unease.

“A survivor you took in…” you begin, your stomach knotting as you piece it together. “You mean the one who killed your friend?”

Jay’s jaw tightens, his eyes flicking toward you briefly before returning to the figure. “Did Heeseung tell you that?” he mutters, his voice sharp but low enough to avoid carrying. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is he’s bad news, and he’s here.”

Your heart skips a beat, a cold dread settling in your chest. You glance over the edge of the barricade, your gaze snapping back to the figure, who is now closer to the gate. His features are clearer now—sharp, wiry, with a crooked grin that sends a chill down your spine.

“He doesn’t know you,” Jay continues, his voice tight. “You talk to him. He hasn’t seen you before. If he recognises me, it’s over.”

You hesitate, the weight of what he’s asking sinking in. Before you can respond, the man stops just a few feet from the gate, his eyes scanning the camp with a calculated intensity. Then he calls out, his voice loud but casual, almost friendly. “Hello? Anyone there?”

Jay gives you a small nudge, his expression hard but pleading. “Just keep him distracted, long enough for me to warn the rest,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. You nod, swallowing hard as you straighten, forcing yourself to step into view. Your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand, its cool weight a poor comfort against the fear knotting in your chest.

The man’s eyes light up when he sees you, his crooked grin widening. “Ah, someone’s home. Wasn’t sure if this place was abandoned or not.”

You take in his tattered clothing, the dried blood stains on his skin, and those eyes. Those eyes belong in a mental asylum if this were the world before.

“What do you want?” you ask, keeping your tone neutral but firm.

The man chuckles, his gaze sweeping over you with a calculating glint that makes your skin crawl. “Relax,” he says smoothly, spreading his hands in a mock gesture of innocence. “I’m just passing through. Haven’t seen anyone in a while, thought I’d see if there were any friendly faces around.”

“This camp’s occupied,” you reply coolly, standing your ground. “You should move along.”

For a split second, his grin falters, a flicker of something darker passing through his expression. But then the smile returns, sharper this time, and his gaze narrows slightly. “Fair enough,” he says lightly. “Don’t worry, I’m not looking for trouble. Just curious, is all.”

He takes a step closer, his tone turning smoother, more calculated. “Say… you haven’t seen a group around here, have you? Seven boys. One’s blonde. Another’s got a sharp tongue—calls himself Jay.”

The air feels heavier, and your grip on your knife tightens instinctively. Your heart pounds in your chest as his words settle over you, their implications clear. Your mind races, trying to calculate the safest response, but the danger in his tone is unmistakable.

“I haven’t seen anyone like that,” you say carefully, forcing your voice to remain steady. “And I wouldn’t know if I had.”

The man’s grin widens, but his eyes remain cold, watching you with unsettling precision. “Is that so?” he drawls, his tone almost mocking. “Well, that’s a shame. Been looking for them for a while now. That guy, Jay, he owes me… let’s just say, a few favours.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with menace. Behind you, you can sense Jay’s absence, the faint rustle of his movements as he slips away to warn the others. It’s just you and this man now, and you’re painfully aware of how exposed you are.

“Like I said,” you repeat, your voice firmer this time, “you won’t find them here. So you should move along.”

For a moment, the man doesn’t respond, his gaze lingering on you as though trying to read between your words. Then he takes a step back, his grin never wavering. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time,” he says lightly, though there’s a faint edge to his voice. “Nice camp you’ve got here. Hope it stays that way.”

With that, he turns and begins to limp away, his steps slow and deliberate. You don’t lower your knife, your gaze fixed on his retreating figure, tracking every laboured movement until he vanishes into the tree line. Only when the shadows swallow him whole do you finally let out the breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Your legs tremble beneath you, exhaustion and adrenaline mixing into a potent cocktail that leaves you unsteady.

“Is he gone?” Jay reappears and asks from behind you, his voice low and tense. He steps closer, his eyes darting nervously toward the gate as if expecting the man to reappear at any moment.

“For now,” you whisper, barely able to hear your own voice over the pounding of your heart. The words feel hollow, more for your own reassurance than his. 

You glance at Jay—his face is pale, his usual composure shattered. His bow has been replaced with his pistol, and he grips it so tightly that his knuckles turn white, as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

The silence between you lingers for a beat too long. Without a word, you start climbing down the ladder, your mind racing to piece together what just happened. Questions swirl in your head, each one more unsettling than the last. Why was he here? How did he find the camp? And most troubling of all—what does he really want? 

Jay follows, his footsteps slower, more hesitant. By the time the two of you reach the bottom, the rest of the group is already gathered around. Their expressions range from confusion to concern, a tension hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

“What happened?” Heeseung is the first to speak, his tone wary but insistent. “What did he want?”

You glance at Jay, whose jaw is clenched so tightly it looks like it might snap. His grip on his pistol hasn’t loosened, and his posture is rigid, like he’s bracing for something.

You shift your gaze back to Heeseung, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them. “It’s the guy you told me about,” you say quietly. “He was looking for you lot.”

“And I don’t think he bought a single thing I said,” you admit, your voice even but laced with quiet frustration. 

Jay exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, but instead of relief, you see something else settle in his expression—panic, the kind that runs deep and raw. “Oh god… we can’t stay here. We need to leave. Right now.”

The fear in his voice startles you. You’ve never seen Jay like this, not the sharp, sarcastic, ever-sceptical man who’s never once let his guard down, and you’re suddenly more confused than ever. Then it clicks, the words the stranger said echoing in your mind: 

That guy, Jay, he owes me. 

He singled Jay out.

But why? If Heeseung was right, if the man was the one who killed their friend, why would Jay owe him anything? 

Your heart sinks, the realisation creeping in like a shadow. You glance at Jungwon, his jaw clenches subtly, the muscle ticking as he processes it all. He doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives you says it all. He’s thinking the exact same thing.

“Jay,” Jungwon starts slowly, his voice calm but laced with suspicion. “What did you do?”

Jay’s head snaps toward the leader, his sharp eyes locking onto him like a deer caught in headlights. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you. Then his jaw tightens, and you see it—the guilt, the weight of something he’s been carrying for far too long.

“What did you do, Jay?” Jungwon presses, his voice steadier now, his suspicion hardening into certainty.

“Are you accusing me of something?” Jay scoffs in mock annoyance.

The silence that follows is suffocating. Sunghoon steps forward, his sharp gaze fixed on Jay. “No, he’s right. Why would he be looking for us? Specifically for you?”

Jay’s head snaps toward Sunghoon, his eyes narrowing defensively. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m asking if there’s something you’re not telling us,” Sunghoon says, his tone calm but firm. “Because he didn’t just stumble across us, Jay. He knows exactly who he's looking for.”

Jay hesitates, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, and you can see the internal battle raging behind his eyes. Finally, he lets out a sharp breath, his shoulders slumping as the fight drains out of him.

“I went after him.”

“You what?” Sunoo’s voice is a mix of disbelief and anger. “You went after him alone?”

Jay ignores him, his focus entirely on the ground as he continues. “It wasn’t hard to find him. He was camped out at the edge of the city, asleep, surrounded by our supplies. I took them back. All of them.”

“And then?” Jungwon presses, his voice dangerously calm.

Jay hesitates, his jaw tightening. “Then… I shot him. In the ankle. Left him there. The sound attracted the dead, and I ran.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You glance around the group, their faces a mix of shock, anger, and something heavier—betrayal.

“You left him?” Jake says, his voice low and incredulous. “You left him to die?”

“He killed her!” Jay snaps, his voice rising as he finally meets Jake’s gaze, his eyes burning with a mix of defiance and regret. “What was I supposed to do? He put a knife to her throat, and we gave him what he wanted. And he killed her anyway. You think he deserved mercy?”

“You could’ve told us,” Heeseung says quietly, his tone cutting deeper than if he’d yelled. “You could’ve trusted us instead of going off and doing something reckless.”

“I couldn’t!” Jay’s voice cracks, the raw emotion spilling over. “I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. I had to… I had to make him pay.”

“And now he’s here,” Jungwon says, his voice cold and measured. “Looking for you. And you’ve put all of us at risk because of it.”

Jay’s shoulders sag, the weight of Jungwon’s words pressing down on him like a physical burden. “I didn’t think he’d survive,” he admits quietly, his voice barely audible.

“Well, he did,” Jake snaps, his anger bubbling to the surface. “And now he’s got a grudge and knows exactly where to find us.”

Part of you understands Jay’s anger, his grief. The sheer weight of what they’d lost—what that man had taken—could drive anyone to the edge. But the other part of you, the part sharpened by survival, sees the problem for what it is. Heeseung is right—it was reckless. This isn’t just about a chance encounter or a petty grudge. That man is here for revenge, and now the camp is squarely in his crosshairs.

Jay swallows hard, the fight in him extinguished. His voice trembles as he mutters, “I’m sorry…” The words hang in the air, hollow and inadequate.

The moonlight cast harsh shadows on everyone’s faces, highlighting the unease and exhaustion etched into their expressions. Sunghoon leans against the barricade, his jaw tight as he stares into the darkness. Jake’s hands are curled into fists, his lips pressed into a thin line. Even Sunoo, ever the optimist, looks pale and withdrawn.

Finally, Jungwon exhales sharply, breaking the tension. His shoulders square, and his expression hardens as he steps forward, taking charge. “We don’t have time for blame right now,” he says, his voice steady and commanding. The tone leaves no room for argument, cutting through the tension like a knife. “What’s done is done. We focus on what’s next.”

“And what’s that?” Sunoo asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“We leave,” Jungwon says simply. “Because if he comes back, he won’t be alone.”

The words hit like a hammer, and the weight of them settles over the group. Jake’s head snaps up, his eyes wide. “You’re saying we abandon the camp? Everything we’ve built here? I thought we’d finally be able to settle down.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Jungwon replies firmly, his gaze sweeping across the group. There’s a steadiness in his tone, but you can see the weight of the decision reflected in his tense posture. “He knows exactly where we are, we can’t defend this place against a coordinated attack. And it’s not the first time we’ve had to pack up and leave because of circumstances beyond our control.”

Heeseung nods slowly, his expression grim. “He’s right. We’ve seen what people like that can do. And it’s not just him. There’s that strange horde we encountered earlier today. If he’s somehow connected to them—staying here is suicide.”

“But where would we even go?” Ni-ki interjects, his voice edged with frustration. “It’s not like there are safe havens just waiting for us.”

Heeseung pulls a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket, its edges frayed and creased from frequent use. It’s a map of Seoul, though it’s seen better days. Parts of it are scratched out, and there are annotations scrawled in the margins—places they’ve scavenged, places they should avoid. As Heeseung unfolds it, you notice the heavy red crosses marking several areas.

“There’s nowhere to go but further north,” Heeseung says, his tone measured as he scans the map. “But that takes us closer to the demilitarised zone. That place fell to The Future the last time we checked.”

The tension in the group thickens as Heeseung continues to analyse the limited options. Judging by the sheer number of red crosses, it’s clear their choices are slim. The faint hope of finding refuge seems to dwindle with every second.

Then your eyes catch on something familiar—a road along the Seoul-Busan highway, just as it’s leaving the city. A rest stop is marked there, scratched out in bold red ink. The memory of that place hits you like a spark in the darkness.

“Here,” you say, pointing to the rest stop on the map.

Heeseung glances at where you’re pointing and immediately shakes his head. “No. That’s one of The Future’s outpost. The place is probably crawling with them.”

“What? No,” you reply quickly, your brows furrowing as you think back. “I was there. Scavenging. There was a gas station filled with supplies. It was too big of a place and too risky for me to set up camp, so I took what I could and left. But when I wanted to go back for more, it was overrun by the dead. I didn’t want to take my chances alone. But if there’s eight of us, it should be pretty easy to clear out if we’re careful.”

The words tumble out of your mouth, and for a moment, the group falls silent. You look up from the map, suddenly aware of the fleeting glances being exchanged between Jungwon, Heeseung, and the others. Confusion is written plainly across their faces, their unease palpable.

“When was that?” Jungwon’s voice cuts through the silence, careful and probing.

You hesitate, trying to gauge the timeline in your head. “Over a month or two ago? Give or take. It was the first time I had to venture that far out in search of food. Finding that place felt like a blessing—I hadn’t eaten for days at that point.”

You’re so caught up in recounting the memory that you almost miss the look of shock that flashes across Jungwon’s face. His expression hardens, his gaze shifting to Heeseung, who looks equally taken aback.

“Y/N, are you sure it’s the same rest stop?” Heeseung asks, his gaze sharp and unyielding as it locks onto yours.

“Positive,” you reply firmly, though the rising tension in the air makes your chest tighten. “I think I’d remember the place that quite literally saved my life.”

Heeseung’s lips press into a thin line, his eyes flicking toward Jungwon. “Jungwon…” he starts slowly, his voice laced with urgency. “Wasn’t the last time we had to move camp to run from The Future about two months ago?”

Jungwon doesn’t respond right away. His jaw tightens, his expression darkening as if the weight of the realisation is physically bearing down on him. Finally, he looks at you, his sharp eyes searching yours for answers, certainty, or maybe even doubt. But all he finds is your unwavering resolve.

“Something is seriously wrong,” Jake mutters, his voice barely audible as he scratches the back of his neck. His gaze flits between you and the others, confusion etched deeply into his features. It’s as though he’s trying to piece together a puzzle where the pieces don’t quite fit. “If that place was overrun by the dead, and The Future was still active there, then…”

His voice fades into the background, his muttering drowned out by the rising unease. The tension among the group is palpable, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. You’re equally as confused as the rest of them, but you can tell their confusion stems from something you don’t yet understand.

Jungwon’s expression hardens further, his voice low and deliberate as he says the words that send a chill down your spine. “The Future… fell?”

The statement lingers in the air, heavy and foreboding. Your mind races, trying to comprehend what he means, but before you can process it, the sound of shuffling feet cuts through the stillness.

It starts faint, like the rustle of dried leaves in the wind, but it grows louder with each passing second. The guttural moans of the undead follow, a haunting symphony of the dead. There’s no mistaking it—there are a lot of them, and they’re close.

Jungwon’s head snaps toward the sound, his hand immediately gripping the blade at his hip. His voice cuts through the rising chaos. “Ni-ki, start up the van! Everyone else, grab what you can and get on. Now!”

The group springs into action, weapons drawn as the moans grow louder, the shuffling of feet drawing closer. You grip your knife tightly, your pulse pounding in your ears.  The forest that once offered a fragile sense of safety now feels like it’s closing in.

“They’re coming from everywhere!” Sunghoon shouts, his voice cutting through the chaos as he points toward the tree line.

Jungwon moves quickly, stopping next to you, “Y/N, with me. We need to clear a path for the van to pass through.”

You nod, swallowing the lump of fear rising in your throat, and fall into step behind him. The first of the undead breaks through the undergrowth, its decayed face catching the dim light, its milky, lifeless eyes locking onto you with unrelenting hunger. 

“Stay close,” Jungwon says, his voice low but steady as he raises his blade.

The camp erupts into a flurry of motion and noise, the clash of weapons against bone mingling with the moans of the undead. You steal a glance at Jungwon, his movements precise and controlled as he takes down one of the creatures with a single, fluid strike.

Even as you fight, your mind is clouded with questions. The Future fell. The weight of those words lingers, gnawing at the edges of your focus. What could it mean? How could it connect to what’s happening now? The rest stop, the hordes, the whispers—none of it adds up.

Your thoughts are abruptly cut short as another zombie lunges toward you, its rotting hands outstretched. You dodge instinctively, driving your knife into its skull. The sickening crunch reverberates up your arm, but you can’t afford to dwell on it. Not now. That’s right, what’s the point of dwelling on the dangers of the future if you can’t even make it out of the present alive?

“Y/N, watch out!” Jungwon’s voice snaps you back to reality just in time for you to duck as another undead stumbles toward you. Jungwon’s blade flashes in the dim light, and the creature collapses in a heap. He glances at you, his expression unreadable but firm. “Focus. We need to keep moving.”

You nod, breathless but determined, and press forward. The path ahead is thick with the undead, their shuffling forms threatening to overwhelm the group. But together, you and Jungwon cut through the horde, each strike clearing the way inch by hard-fought inch.

Behind you, the van’s engine roars to life, Ni-ki shouting from the driver’s seat, “We’re ready! Let’s move!”

“Keep pushing!” Jungwon calls to the others, his voice unwavering. The van lurches forward, and you fight harder, carving a path through the chaos as the vehicle edges closer to the gate.

The group scrambles toward the van, the undead closing in with every passing second. One by one, the group leaps into the back, the interior modified into a wide, open space—likely Ni-ki’s handiwork. The seats have been ripped out, replaced with a carpet that’s seen better days but provides enough room for everyone to pile in.

You’re about to climb into the van when something catches your eye—a lone figure standing just at the edge of the clearing.

At first, you think it’s another survivor. It’s upright, still, as though it’s observing the chaos. But then you take in its tattered clothing and decayed flesh, and the breath catches in your throat. It’s a zombie.

But it’s not moving.

Your heart pounds as your gaze locks onto its face. The peeling skin and hollow cheeks are all too familiar, but its eyes—its eyes are clear. Not the usual milky, lifeless void you’ve come to expect from the undead, but sharp and disturbingly human. For a moment, you could swear it’s looking directly at you.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Jungwon’s voice cuts through the haze, snapping your focus back to the present. He’s gripping the doorframe, his blade still in his hand, ready to help you in.

“Do you see that?” you ask, your voice low and unsteady, gesturing toward the figure.

Jungwon’s eyes follow your line of sight. His expression shifts subtly—confusion giving way to unease as his gaze locks on the unmoving figure. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but the tension in his posture tells you he sees it too.

“Y/N, get in,” he says firmly, his voice quiet but insistent.

You hesitate for a split second longer, your mind racing as you try to process what you’re seeing. The figure doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound. Its eyes remain fixed on you, eerily still and unnervingly focused.

“Now,” Jungwon snaps, his urgency jolting you into action.

You clamber into the van, pulling the door shut behind you. The van lurches forward, the sound of the undead clawing at the sides as Ni-ki floors the gas, navigating the rough forest terrain with practiced skill. Inside, the group struggles to catch their breath, weapons clattering to the floor as they brace themselves against the jerking motions of the vehicle.

But you can’t stop thinking about the figure. You glance out the back window, searching for it, but the dense trees blur past too quickly.

Jungwon leans closer, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper, gripping the side of the van for stability. “It wasn’t like the others. It didn’t move. And its eyes…”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, his gaze fixed ahead as if he’s already trying to piece together an answer. “We’ll deal with it later,” he mutters. But you can see the unease in his expression, the weight of what you both just witnessed settling over him like a dark cloud.

The van jolts over another bump, and you force yourself to focus on the here and now. The memory of the figure lingers, though, its sharp, human-like eyes burned into your mind. Whatever it was, it wasn’t normal—and the thought of what it could mean sends a chill down your spine.

Sounds of laboured breaths and quiet muttering fill the van as everyone tries to catch their breath. Sunghoon sits near the front, wiping blood off his blade with the edge of his sleeve, while Jake rifles through the med kit, his brow furrowed as he takes inventory of what’s left. Jay is silent, his expression dark as he stares out one of the small reinforced windows.

“So,” Heeseung pipes up from the passenger seat, glancing back over his shoulder. “Any idea where we’re heading?”

“Can we not have a moment of silence for the fact that we’ve barely escaped death? Again.” Sunoo quips, his usual sarcasm laced with exhaustion.

“Geez, don’t have to be all prissy about it,” Heeseung mutters, rolling his eyes as he slouches back in his seat.

“Head for the rest stop,” Jungwon says abruptly, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. His tone is calm but resolute, the kind that immediately silences any further remarks.

Jay’s head snaps toward him, his dark eyes narrowing. “You can’t be serious. We don’t even know if what she’s saying is true. What if it’s not what she says it is? What if The Future is still there?”

Jungwon’s gaze flicks toward Jay, his expression unyielding. “We don’t have many options, Jay. You saw the map. Everywhere else is a dead end—literally.”

Jay scoffs, his frustration boiling to the surface. “And this isn’t? What if we’re driving straight into a trap?”

“Jay,” Jake interjects sharply, his voice uncharacteristically firm as he closes the med kit with a snap. “With all due respect, I don’t think you have any say in this right now.”

The tension in the van thickens as Jake’s words hang in the air. Jay glares at him but doesn’t respond, his lips pressing into a thin line as he looks away.

“We’ll approach cautiously,” Jungwon continues, his voice steady but firm. “We scout the area first. If it looks clear, we check it out. If not, we move on. But we can’t afford to keep running blind. We need supplies, and we need a plan.”

The group exchanges uneasy glances, but no one voices further objections. Jungwon’s calm authority seems to settle over everyone, even if only temporarily. You can feel the weight of their trust in him, even Jay’s, despite his reluctance.

You lean back against the van’s wall, your fingers brushing over the hilt of your knife as you try to steady your breathing. The memory of the lone figure from earlier flashes in your mind, its clear eyes locked onto yours. You push the thought aside for now—there’s no room for distractions when the stakes are this high.

The van jolts slightly as Ni-ki manoeuvres it over the uneven terrain, his focused expression illuminated by the dim glow of the dashboard lights. You catch Jungwon’s gaze briefly, and he gives you a small nod—an unspoken reassurance, for now.

About half an hour drifts by, Ni-ki drives steadily along the uneven roads skirting the edge of the forest, the dense trees remaining close on the van's left. It’s a long detour as compared to driving straight through the city. But it’s safer this way—quieter. No one speaks, no one stirs.

Everyone else is asleep, or at least pretending to be. Jake is curled up against the wall, his head resting on his arms. Sunghoon sits with his back against the van, his knife still in his lap. Even Jay looks like he’s finally let himself rest, though his hand never strays far from his pistol.

But you? You don’t sleep. And neither does Jungwon.

You both sit next to each other in silence, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing down on what little space there is between you. There’s an understanding in that silence—a shared knowledge of something far beyond your comprehension. Something that lingers, gnawing at the edges of your mind.

This isn’t just about surviving anymore. It’s about staying ahead of someone who knows how to hunt you down. That said, sleep is the last thing you’re worried about.

“What do you think that was?” you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air, cautious, careful not to disturb the fragile peace inside the van.

Jungwon doesn’t look at you. His gaze is locked on a single spot on the ragged carpet beneath his feet, his fingers tracing the worn fabric absentmindedly. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, distant. “A mutation? I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s him?” you press, your heart beating just a little faster. You don’t need to explain who you’re referring to. The thought is already there, lingering between you both.

Jungwon’s hand stills against the carpet, and for a moment, he says nothing. Then, in a voice barely above a murmur, he replies, “Maybe.”

That single word carries so much weight, so much dread. It hangs heavy in the air, settling deep in your chest. 

There’s no certainty in his answer. No confidence. It’s unnerving—he’s usually the one with the answers, the one who reassures everyone else that they’ll figure it out. But right now, there’s none of that conviction. Just tired confusion, vulnerable, almost hopeless. A stark contrast to the strong, commanding voice he uses when he speaks to the others.

It’s the kind of tone he never lets the group hear.

And for a second, you’re glad they’re asleep. Glad no one else is awake to see this side of him—the side that isn’t sure, that doesn’t have all the answers. 

Because you know, without a doubt, it would weigh on them. Everything Jungwon says, everything he feels, it spreads through the group like wildfire. That’s how much they rely on him. That’s how deeply their survival depends on his mentality—whether he realises it or not.

Jungwon exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “If it is him… then we’re in more trouble than we thought.”

The van jolts over a bump in the road, and Ni-ki mutters something under his breath from the driver’s seat, his focus unwavering. The silence stretches between you, thick with tension but not uncomfortable. It’s a shared quiet—both of you lost in your thoughts, both of you carrying burdens too heavy to put into words.

You glance at Jungwon from the corner of your eye. His posture is rigid, his arms resting loosely on his knees, but the tension in his shoulders betrays his exhaustion. He hasn’t slept since… Well, that’s the thing—you can’t even remember the last time you actually saw him let himself relax for a moment. His gaze remains distant, focused on nothing and everything all at once.

Without really thinking, you shift closer, the subtle bump of your shoulder against his drawing his attention. He glances at you briefly, his tired eyes flickering with surprise, but he doesn’t pull away.

Your heart is still racing from the events of the night—the man, the whispers, the horde that shouldn’t have been there. But now, sitting here beside him, the weight of it all feels a little easier to carry. Slowly, cautiously, you let your head rest against his shoulder.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. You wonder if you’ve overstepped, if he’ll pull away, but then you feel it—slow and hesitant. Jungwon shifts slightly, his body relaxing as he leans into you. His head rests gently against yours, his blonde hair brushing your temple.

Neither of you says anything. There’s no need to.

The hum of the van’s engine fills the space between you, a steady rhythm that matches the rise and fall of his breathing. His warmth seeps into you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the world outside fades into the background.

It’s strange, this quiet moment of closeness. You’ve spent so long keeping your distance from others, building walls to protect yourself. But with Jungwon, it feels different. It feels… safe.

“You should rest,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely louder than the hum of the engine.

“So should you,” you whisper back, your eyes closing briefly as the exhaustion pulls at you.

A faint chuckle escapes him, more a breath than a laugh. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moves. You both stay like that, leaning against each other, finding comfort in the quiet, fleeting peace. And for a moment—just a moment—you let yourself forget the chaos waiting outside.

You let yourself breathe.

part 1 - rotten | masterlist | part 3 - whispers

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: my apologies if i missed any taglist requests commented under the previous part! my tumblr's not working like it's SUPPOSED TO. regardless, i should've noted down everyone. part 3 is a little shorter so i'll post it coming saturday 12am kst (maybe earlier if this manages to reach 200 notes hehe) enjoy!

perm taglist. @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @M1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna

taglist open. 1/2 @sungbyhoon @theothernads @kyshhhhhh @jiryunn @strxwbloody @jaklvbub @rikikiynikilcykiki @jakesimfromstatefarm @rikiiisoob @doublebunv @thinkinboutbin @eunandonly @wilonevys @sugarikiz @jellymiki @adoredbyjay @rebeccaaaaaaaa @strawberryhotlips @baedreamverse @bamguetismee @flwwon @l1s0ro @engurishu @opheliaas-stuff

non-gray/underlined = cannot tag

[beloveds-embrace]

I’m loving Duchess with a backbone!!!!! Please can we see her finally put John and Simon in place?

The air in the drawing room is frigid, despite the crackling fire in the hearth.

You sit near it, posture perfect, gloved hands folded in your lap, but the warmth does not touch you. Not truly. It is there only in flickering light, in the faint scent of burning wood, not in the hollow of your chest or the chill in your bones.

Across from you, John and Simon stand as if waiting for something- perhaps waiting for you to acknowledge them. You do not, because you know they have already heard.

Johnny and Kyle had been shaken when they told them, voices uneasy, recounting the moment you stood before them, spine unbending, and reminded them exactly who you were. You had let them stammer through their weak protests, had let them fumble with excuses and empty justifications before you struck them down with the simple, inarguable truth:

You are the Duchess of this house. You will be respected within it.

And now, here they are. John, your dear husband, with his arms crossed, jaw tight. Simon, standing just behind him, silent as ever. They are lords in their own right, men of power and presence. You cannot pull rank on them the way you did with Johnny and Kyle, but you do not need to.

Your silence is its own weapon, and today it is what you’ll be wielding.

John exhales sharply, shifting his weight as if he cannot bear the way you refuse to look at him. “I heard you had words with Johnny and Kyle.”

Still, you say nothing.

Simon watches you closely, the scrutiny of his gaze burning at the edges of your vision, but you do not grant him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes.

John sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “We need to talk, Duchess.”

“Do we?” Your voice is cold, distant, detached.

His brows draw together. “Indeed, we do.”

You finally look at him then, your face unreadable. “…And why is that?”

A flicker of something passes through his face; frustration, perhaps, but there is something else beneath it. Something brittle. He does not like this version of you, you are unsurprised to note. A version of you that no longer leans desperately toward him, that no longer reaches for the warmth he once withheld. No longer begs for a single ounce of affection.

Good.

Simon does not speak. He only observes, fingers curling against his sleeves as if holding himself back. His silence is different from yours, though. Yours is deliberate, a wall carefully built, reinforced, fortified against the damage they have done. His is wary, calculating, as if he is still trying to find the best way to approach something he does not quite understand.

“Duchess.” Simon’s voice is low, and unhappy. It rankles you that he thinks he can speak to you like this; John’s lover he may be, you are the Duchess of this house, and yet he fails to show you even a sliver of respect for it.

You lift a brow, tilting your head just slightly, like one might when observing something of mild interest. “Yes?”

He hesitates. You can see it- the way he wants to tread carefully, the way he senses the ice beneath him is thin.

John, less patient, sighs again. “Are you just going to pretend we’re not here, then?”

You inhale slowly, exhaling just as carefully. “I am not pretending anything, my lord.” The title is precise, distant.

It is the first time in your marriage you have called him that.

John flinches- flinches- just slightly. His lips part, but for once, he does not have the words.

Simon exhales through his nose. “We were wrong.”

It is a confession, but it does not move you.

“Indeed.”

Another silence, heavier now, and John steps forward slightly. “We should have-“

You stand abruptly, and it makes them pause. Smoothing down the fabric of your gown, adjusting it with delicate fingers, before you finally, finally look at them both directly.

“You will not placate me with words.” You do not raise your voice, but it cuts through the space between you like a blade. “You can’t. Not after everything. I don’t care for your empty apologies, and I don’t care to stay here and be disrespected any longer.”

John swallows hard. “We-“

You shake your head. “No, my lord.”

A simple command. A final word.

You step past them, your presence colder than the winter winds outside. You do not look back, and care not for however they might react or whatever expressions they may have.

[carbonfiction]

Hi! How do you think Logan would feel about a girl that confesses that it’s difficult to orgasm without using her vibrator?

Okay so im a girlie who very much has this issue😭

But I feel like (and i think this has probably been said by others) he would very much see it somewhere between a teaching experience and a challenge? In that he would be practically conducting lessons to get you off without it. Adamant that you aren't broken for needing a toy, just need to learn what really feels good for you.

And its not like you could've confessed to someone with any more experience than him.

Its not that you can't cum by your own touch, it just.. Takes far too long. The pleasure once warming your belly seeming to Disapate the longer you play; it just.. doesn't feel as good. Your fingers, compaired to your vibrator, dont seem get you there how you like. In fact, Its more likely that your hands get cramp than get you off sufficiently.

So, cut to having admitted your little.. predicament to him, Hes sitting you down on your bed, back against his chest, in front of a mirror and asking you to show him. Cooing in your ear softly about how 'He needs to see what you usually do, needs to see how he can help you combat this' because lets be honest? A vibrator isnt always the most discreet.

Logan is eagerly watching how your fingers swirl around your clit with his head over your shoulder. Planting soft pecks to your neck while making mental notes of your speed and pressure. He's simply letting you take the lead with your own body until your whining, frustrated huffs panted from your chest as you feel the stiffness of cramp begin to grow in your joints.

Then and only then does he take over; really let the lesson begin. With one large hand placed over yours, touch knowing and guiding as he promts you to relax. To watch as his fingers begin their deft movements atop of yours.

And to your surprise, it actually feels really good.

Your pussy makes slick, sloppy sounds beneath your shared touch and paired with the little moans you let out Logan can feel his cock press solid against your back. But now isnt for him, now is for you and to make you orgasm comfortably without the use of a toy.

"Feel good?" he questions quietly. When you hum a little moan back he kisses the juncture of your neck, facial hair a pleasant rub as he mumbles out against the skin. "Just gotta keep goin like that alright? Keep on touching by yourself"

His hand between your legs pulls off but never leaves your body, his grip soft on your plush thigh or your tummy as he talks you through with gentle praise.

Hushed groans and whispers of 'doin so well' 'you got it, nice and steady' 'look so fuckin pretty like this'

He observes the concentration in your face, how your lip bites under your teeth. Your moans growing in volume, stomach muscles beginning to tighten at the steady pleasure.

This time you dont feel the telltale stiffness of cramp, only the growing throb of your puffy clit as you round it in presise circles.

"L-logan" you whine desperately, struggling to maintain your pace for the pleasure bubbling through your veins.

"Gettin' close princess?" he honeys cockily, lips pressing a kiss to your jaw. "Gonna make yourself cum?"

Moments later you do shatters from a quickened slick swipe against your nub. This pleasure different as it flows through you, back arched over his chest.

"There you go, good girl" he praises, lips still on your jaw, keeping you close. "Knew you could do it.."

Im so bad at closing out my thoughts/fics/drabbles ohmygod.

[lanalace]

Caleb’s Odyssey

Student Caleb x Teacher Reader

Summary: A young, 27 year old teacher's carefully built professional life unravels because of a brilliant, fixated student.

Warnings: Non-con, NSFW, dub-con, Drug use, Inappropriate relationship, obsessive behavior 🔞

Word count: 6.2k 🍎🍏

A/N: This was meant to be posted yesterday for Caleb’s birthday. Unfortunately, it was also my birthday and I got too busy to proofread and post. Anyhow, please enjoy the late Caleb’s birthday celebration.

Ms. L/n felt it in her bones when the bell for last period rang. The shift in the classroom's energy, the subtle hum of anticipation that had nothing to do with Shakespeare or literary analysis. It was Caleb Chen, of course. He was always the first one in, a silent observer near her desk, determined to disrupt the order in her professional life.

She loved teaching. Loved the way a complex text could ignite a spark in a student’s eye, the satisfaction of watching a hesitant voice find its confidence. But Caleb was a different kind of spark altogether. He was brilliant, undeniably so, devouring literary theory and dissecting symbolism with an unnerving precision. He was also, to her endless frustration, relentlessly fixated on her.

Today was no different. Caleb entered, composed, his uniform crisp enough to cut glass. He didn't look seventeen, his build and mental prowess, a weapon she hadn't yet learned to disarm had never allowed for him to come off as just a typical student. He moved toward her desk, slow, deliberate. He stopped just close enough, a whisper of a violation against the unspoken rule of student —teacher distance.

“Ms. L/n.” he began, his voice a low hum that always seemed to cut through the classroom’s usual din. “I was thinking about our discussion on The Odyssey.”

‘Here we go, again. Alright, buckle up buttercup, for the daily dose of intellectual flirtation.’ She managed a neutral smile. “Oh? What about it, Caleb?”

“Odysseus’s devotion.” he began, his gaze deepening as if contemplating something profound and sacred. “Ten years of war and another of wandering. He slays monsters, blinds a Cyclops, defies gods… sleeps with goddesses. And still, he spends ten years clawing his way back to Penelope. His wife. All that blood, all that sacrifice just for one woman. Isn’t that… admirable? A testament to true love, the kind that reshapes reality?”

Ms. L/n felt the familiar tightening in her chest. This wasn't about epic poetry. "Caleb, The Odyssey is a foundational text, but we don't admire Odysseus for his ruthlessness. His journey is a tale of perseverance, yes, but also of flawed humanity and often brutal consequences." She paused, her voice measured. "He wasn't always a hero."

"But his goal," Caleb countered smoothly, his eyes fixed on hers, unblinking, "was pure. To return to his rightful place, to his fated love. Doesn't that make the 'flaws' merely... obstacles? Necessary detours on the path to what's meant to be?" His gaze dipped to her hand resting on the desk, a silent, almost possessive appreciation of its vulnerability. She lifted it and placed it atop a stack of essays, a silent repositioning of control, a desperate attempt to wall off a part of herself.

“Devotion,” she said coolly, her voice firm, “is only admirable when it respects the people it claims to serve. Odysseus may have loved his home, but his path back to it was riddled with destruction. Loyalty without conscience isn’t noble, Caleb. It’s dangerous. It’s monstrous.” His private smile deepened, a knowing grin that Y/n doesn't understand, but she will.

“Perhaps. But doesn’t the depth of the love sometimes demand such a journey? Isn’t that what makes it grand? When the stakes are so high, Ms. L/n, that one simply must overcome every barrier?” He leaned a fraction closer, a movement almost imperceptible, yet she felt its invasion. “And to think, some people only see the monsters, not the magnificent destination.”

Ms. L/n’s jaw tightened. "The destination doesn't excuse the atrocities committed along the way, Caleb. There's a line. A fundamental difference between perseverance and obsession."

"Is there?" he murmured, his gaze holding hers, brimming with an unsettling blend of admiration and challenge. "Or is obsession simply perseverance, elevated? When you know something is right, when you feel it in your very core, isn't it logical to pursue it with every fiber of your being, regardless of trivial... lines?"

The bell screamed before she could respond, a sudden, startling her. The room filled with students and noise, a welcome disruption. Caleb drifted away, his hand brushing hers in passing. A brief, deliberate contact. Not forceful, but meaningful. She pulled away immediately but still felt the phantom touch lingering like a brand.

This had gone far enough.

She couldn’t afford to make it a scandal. His parents sat on the school board. Old money. The kind that turned misconduct into donations. The kind that could end her career before it ever really began.

But she wasn’t going to let this continue.

~🍎🍏~

Caleb's attention had become a persistent hum in the background of Ms. L/n's days, growing louder and more brazen with each passing week. It was a risky game he was playing, and she, by turns, felt both exasperated and acutely aware of the precarious position it put them both in. She always rebuffed him, but that didn't stop him.

"Just a little longer." She'd silently plead with herself, a mantra she repeated multiple times a day. The end of the school year was a rapidly approaching finish line, a beacon of relief she clung to. All that remained was prom tomorrow night, and then, finally, graduation the following week.

Every morning, walking into her classroom, she felt a prickle of anticipation, a bit weary, wondering how his escalating "attention" would manifest next. She'd developed a habit of scanning her desk, her chair, the space around her, bracing herself for the latest unwanted gesture.

And this morning, there it was. The ceramic mug sat on her desk, nestled amongst her graded papers like a silent, unwelcome guest. It was a rich, forest green, precisely the shade she'd once mentioned liking, though she couldn't recall to whom. Inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, was a single, perfect white orchid. No card, no note.

It was just the mug and the flower. It felt less like a gift and more like a marker, a claim laid on her personal space. She quickly tucked it away in her cabinet before the first bell, a shiver running down her spine despite the warmth of the room. She'd deal with it later. She had to.

The final bell rang, releasing the last students into the noisy hallway. Ms. L/n waited, her hand resting on the smooth wood of her desk, until the only presence left was the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights. Then, as if on cue, Caleb materialized in her doorway. His very stillness seemed to suck the oxygen from the air.

He leaned against the doorframe, all grace and calculated charm. His uniform was immaculate, his tie slightly loosened, as if he'd already begun shedding the trappings of studenthood.

"Caleb." She said, her voice calm, professional, but with an underlying firmness that she hoped conveyed her absolute resolve. "Could you close the door, please? I need to speak with you."

A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes then transformed into a composed look of triumph. He turned and pushed the door, the latch clicked shut, a soft, final sound in the suddenly heavy silence. He took a step forward. His eyes, usually so sharp, held a dangerous softness, as if he genuinely believed this was the moment she would finally unveil her true feelings and reciprocate his twisted affections.

“Ms. L/n.” He began. "Did you like my gift?" He spoke, tilting his head. His gaze dropped to her lips. "I thought of you the moment I saw it."

Another step. Too close now, towering over her much smaller form.

"Tell me you didn't think about me too." He whispered, his voice demanding. Y/n's instincts were slow to react. The suddenness of his advance stole her breath. That was all he needed.

He moved with the practiced ease, closing the space between them in two fluid strides. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against his body while his other hand gently. cradled the back of her neck.

He lowered his face to hers and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was warm and surprisingly soft. It was a kiss he bestowed like a lover, tender and possessive, as if longed for this moment for years. He did. Y/n was stunned, completely frozen for a moment.

As soon as the shock wore off, a surge of disgust slammed into Ms. L/n. She shoved him back hard. He released her instantly and she stumbled backward, hitting her chair as it scraped loudly, putting as much distance as she could between them.

Her composure shattered, replaced by pure outrage. Her hand flew to her mouth, wiping furiously, as if she could erase his kiss. She stared at him, breathing heavily. The silence was deafening, save for her ragged breaths.

Caleb stood still, his expression a fleeting mask of genuine confusion, quickly followed by profound disappointment. For a fraction of a second, she saw it… the glimpse of a boy utterly crushed, his carefully constructed fantasy crumbling.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, replaced by an unsettling, almost chilling calm. His eyes, though still fixed on her, were devoid of any readable emotion, like dark glass reflecting nothing but her own frantic reflection. Inwardly, a quiet, cold rage began to simmer, unseen.

"I called you back here." She managed, forcing herself to speak, her voice trembling at first then hardening with a desperate resolve. Her career. Her job. She couldn't let emotion control her.

"Because your behavior has become not just inappropriate, Caleb. It is completely unacceptable. You just assaulted me. The 'gift’… it’s not welcome. Your comments, your presence… all of it. This is a school. I am your teacher. There is absolutely no basis for this kind of... attention." She gestured around the empty classroom, her voice rising slightly with frustration and mounting desperation.

"This needs to stop. Immediately. Do we understand each other?"

Caleb's arm dropped to his side, his face settling into a mask of complete indifference. The smile vanished.

"Yes, Ms. L/n." He finally said in a flat tone. "I understand."

He turned on his heels and walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out without another word. Ms. L/n let out a shuddering breath she hadn't realized she was holding. He was gone.

But as the silence settled, she didn’t feel relief. No, instead an unshakable feeling of dread seeped in. The way he had just shut down... it felt off. She didn’t realize that she hadn’t deterred him. Her actions had the opposite effect, she taught him something and he was a quick study.

🍎🍏Prom 🍏🍎

The bass throbbed a relentless pulse through the gymnasium, shaking the floor beneath Ms. L/n's sensible heels. Fairy lights strung haphazardly across the basketball hoops cast a glittering, fractured glow over a sea of sequined dresses and awkwardly rented tuxedos. The air was thick with the scent of cheap cologne and the nervous energy of teenagers on the cusp of something.

Ms. L/n circulated, a forced smile plastered on her face, exchanging pleasantries with other chaperoning teachers, trying to look busy. Other supervisors chatted in small groups, their attention divided. Students laughed, posed for photos, and gravitated towards the music.

She scanned the room, her gaze darting around, unconsciously searching for him. He hadn't been in her classes today, which was a small mercy, but she knew he'd be here. No one misses prom.

She tried to push it away, focusing on the eager faces of her students, many of whom she genuinely adored. Prom was always a chaotic flurry of spilled drinks and awkward dances. It made her smile, watching the children create fun memories.

Whether it was from the overly crowded area or the lack of proper ventilation but the gym was quickly becoming unbearable. Ms. L/n felt a sudden wave of heat, the close air of the gym suddenly stifling.

'A little fresh air.' She thought, her gaze drifting towards the propped-open emergency exit at the far end of the hall, usually used by staff for quick breaks. She hadn't seen Caleb all night, and a small, irrational part of her hoped he just hadn't come. She excused herself from the party, making eye contact with one of her colleagues and nodding to them, gesturing to the exit before leaving.

Y/n sighed in relief as the cool night air washed over her. She leaned against the brick wall, closing her eyes for a moment, letting the gentle breeze clear her head. The music from inside was muffled now, a distant thrum.

It was peaceful, she could feel herself relaxing but it was abruptly disrupted. A voice, low and familiar, cut through the quiet. “Taking a breather, Ms. L/n?”

Her eyes flew open. Caleb stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the doorframe, bathed in the soft glow from the gym’s exit sign. He wasn’t wearing a tuxedo, but dark slacks and a crisp black button down shirt, sleeves rolled to expose forearms that had gained a surprising amount of definition. He looked less like a student and more like… a man. She quickly shook the intrusive thought from her head and reminded herself that this was her student.

He held out a clear plastic cup, condensation beading on its sides. “I believe that I owe you an apology.”

Her brow furrowed and she tilted her head slightly. “An apology, Caleb? For what?” She'd half expected him to avoid her, or perhaps offer a final, snide remark. This was an unexpected turn of events.

He offered a disarmingly charming smile, the kind that had probably won him over countless teachers in his academic career. "For being a nuisance, Ms. L/n. For pushing boundaries. I understand now. It was inappropriate, and I crossed a line." His violet eyes darkened as they locked onto hers.

"I truly am sorry for my behavior. Please, a peace offering." He gestured with the cup. "It's just punch. The real stuff is still behind lock and key." He chuckled.

She hesitated. It was so… mature. His direct, humble apology disarmed her more than any of his previous advances. She was tired, her guard was down, and the sheer audacity of his previous behavior had left her utterly unprepared for genuine contrition. She’d always prided herself on seeing the best in her students, even the challenging ones. ‘Maybe he finally understood. He was graduating, after all.’

With a soft sigh, she took the cup. "Thank you, Caleb. Apology accepted." She took a long, grateful swallow of the sweet, fruit-flavored liquid. It was cool, refreshing, and entirely innocuous.

Caleb’s smile deepened, a tasting victory on his tongue but she was too slow to catch read into it. "My pleasure, Ms. L/n." he murmured, his gaze lingering on her lips as she drank.

The pleasant sweetness of the punch dissolved, replaced by a strange, metallic tang at the back of Ms. L/n’s throat. A wave of dizziness washed over her, making the concrete beneath her feet heave and spin. But beneath the disorientation, unfamiliar and terrifying. Heat began to bloom low in her belly, spreading like wildfire through her veins. Her skin flushed with an unnatural warmth, her muscles tingled and weight down.

‘What… what is going on?’ Her vision swam, the faint glow of the exit sign began to blur out. Every sound from inside the gym, every distant car, every beat of her own frantic heart, amplified. Her body felt foreign, lit with fever she couldn’t control.

She shook her head, trying to clear the haze from her mind and lost her balance, stumbling on unsteady feet. She hadn’t even seen when Caleb moved. He was suddenly there, his presence just too close. His arm encircled her waist, gripping her arm as her legs buckled, preventing her from swaying.

He pulled her close, her head lolling against his shoulder, her mind struggling to form a coherent thought. All she registered was the overwhelming sensation of him, the intoxicating heat radiating from his body as she mentally battled with the primal urge to touch him.

"Easy there, Ms. L/n, just lean on me." He murmured, his voice soothing against her ear. Had she been of sound mind, she'd be able to pick up on the chilling hint of satisfaction.

“You're a little lightheaded. Too much dancing, maybe. Let's just get you somewhere you can breathe. Your classroom is closer." He began to guide her, away from the distant hum of the prom, into the darker, quieter recesses of the hallway.

Her legs felt like rubber. She swayed from side to side as she did her best to keep up with Caleb’s long strides. Had he not been holding onto her, she was sure she would be face down on the cold tiled floor.

He steered her expertly, past closed doors, his gaze sweeping the empty hall to ensure no one saw their departure. The cold knot of fear filled stomach, conflicting harshly with the artificial heat in her veins. Y/n could vaguely discern his whispered words.

"That's it, love. Just a little further. I've got you." He coxed sweetly.

They reached her classroom, the familiar number plate blurring on the door. It clicked open, then shut behind them, sealing them in near silence. He didn’t release her immediately. Instead, he pulled her fully into the room, pushing her against the cool surface of the blackboard, her own professional space now his stage. Caleb leaned in, his body pressing intimately against hers, forcing her to meet his smug gaze.

"So pretty." His thumb traced her jaw, then slid lower down her throat, over her pulse. A convulsive shiver wracked her body.

"Even in this state, you are stunning.” he murmured, tilting her chin up, forcing her glazed eyes to meet his. "Dazed. Desperate. Mine."

Her breath hitched, a weak protest dying in her throat. The drug was a living thing inside her, twisting every sensation into something molten and unbearable.

"Happy birthday to me." Caleb smiled saccharinely, his lips grazing her ear. "I’m finally eighteen. And in a week?" His teeth nipped at her earlobe. "You won't even be my teacher anymore. Why don’t we celebrate early?"

Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion, her thoughts having trouble picking up what he implied as her body continued to heat with desires. She could only whimper, a raw, helpless half protest, half something else entirely.

"You taught me so much about The Odyssey." He mused, fingers tightening in her hair. "Now let me show you what I’ve learned."

That was all he said before his lips crashed onto hers, devouring hers. It wasn't a kiss. It was claiming. Possessive. Demanding. She couldn't fight the way her body arched into him, her fingers gripping his hair. She could stop herself from kissing him back.

He groaned against her lips, finally getting the response he craved. "Knew you'd feel like this." he rasped, pulling back just enough to watch her gasp. "Knew you wanted me."

Her head lolled against the blackboard as his mouth moved to her neck as he sucked and nibbled little bruises into her exposed skin, tasting the frantic pulse at her throat, enjoying every sigh and whimper he pulled from her.

"C-Caleb… s'wrong—" Her voice slurred, barely audible.

"Shhh, baby." His hand slipped under her dress, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of her thigh, seizing her right leg and pulling her hips to meet his as she shuddered. She could feel the large bulge grind into her and let out breathy gasp. The friction was delicious, she instinctually jerked her hips to meet his. "Good girl. Just let go."

She whined when his palm cupped her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple. A broken noise escaped her.

"Look at you.” he purred, tilting her face toward him. "All those years playing professional. But I saw you." His thumb dragged over her bottom lip. "Always biting your lip when I answered questions right, always adjust your skirt when I stared a little too long."

Y/n whimpered and shook her head weakly, denying his claims.

Caleb laughed, low and dark. “I always get what I want, Y/n.”

His free hand yanked her leg around his hip, pulling her flush against him. She could feel him, rock hard, insistent and her body responded, heat pooling in her panties as her hips lifted to meet his.

"Fuck…" His grip turned punishing. "Even now, you're begging for it."

He pulled her head back slightly, just enough for her glazed over eyes to meet his. He found her docile demeanor to be so appealing, that he wished he could frame this moment. Then a smile played on his lips as an idea struck him.

Caleb reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, angling it in her direction. The bright flash momentarily blinded her as he snapped photos of her.

"Gotta remember this." He said, snapping another picture of her flushed face, his hand under her dress. Compromising. Damning. "My perfect little teacher, coming apart for me."

"N-no—"

He kissed her again, swallowing her protest. His fingers dipped lower, beneath the waistband of her panties.

“Ahh~” She jolted, grabbing his shoulders as if to ground herself as his long fingers slid up and down her slick petals.

"So wet for me, Y/n." he breathed against her mouth, a mixture of surprise and satisfaction.

"All for me." He curled his middle finger, pushing past her folds and into her heated core.

“D-don’t..!” Her vision fractured. light, shadow, the cold press of the blackboard against her back. His touch was everywhere, too much, and yet her body arched for more. A sob tore from her throat.

He groaned as she clamped down on his finger. "So tight.” Caleb forced another finger into her, making her shudder as he began to scissor her, opening her up for him. “Gonna have to stretch you out a bit.”

"I dreamed about this." He growled, fingers working her with cruel precision. "Every night, I imagined bending you over this desk, fucking you dumb—"

Caleb stilled. Then, with a slow, filthy smile, he lifted her effortlessly as if she weighed nothing. Wrapping her legs around his waist on instinct as He moved with her, carrying her towards her own desk. He lowered her onto it, scattering books and papers, the soft thud of textbooks hitting the floor barely registering. The cool surface felt amazing beneath her all too hot skin.

"Let's make it real, yeah?"

Caleb stood over her, his breathing heavy, eyes alight with a terrifying intensity. He took a moment, surveying his patchwork, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He ran a hand through his dark hair, then reached down, his fingers finding the hem of her dress once more.

Caleb’s gaze, a burning, unblinking intensity, drank in Ms. L/n’s dazed, disheveled form. The satisfaction on his face was absolute, tempered by a dizzying adoration that made his movements almost reverent.

"Christ…" he breathed, dragging a fingertip over the damp fabric. "Barely touched you and I’ve already ruined you for anyone else, huh?"

Her vision blurred. The drug was like a living thing inside her, twisting pleasure from panic, heat from horror. She couldn't tell if the moan that escaped was protest or surrender.

Caleb stepped back, drinking in the sight of her-hair fanned across graded essays, chest heaving, thighs trembling. He unzipped her dress with torturous slowness. The fabric pooled at her waist, baring her to the chill air and his ravenous gaze.

"Perfect." His eyes tracing every curve with pure admiration. "Every single part of you."

He moved to the front of her desk, a predatory grace in his movements, pulling out his phone once more. Not for a photo this time. He set it carefully on a stack of books, angling the camera to capture the scene.

"I want to remember this, Y/n." he explained, his voice gentle, as if explaining something vital to a confused child. "The moment you finally become mine. The moment you finally became mine."

He gathered her dress and underwear, slithered them down her body like a dying breath, falling at her feet that dangled above the desk. Cold air licked her exposed skin, raising goosebumps contrasting from the warmth that came from the shame she felt. She tried to cover herself, but her arms might as well have been filled with lead.

‘No. No. No.’ The plea never left her lips.

Caleb knelt before her, his dark head pressing against her belly as if in prayer. His lips tracing a path down her trembling abdomen with soft kisses that burned like brands. Then his hands gripped her hips, wrenching her forward with terrifying ease. The edge of the desk bit into her back as he forced her upper body down, bending her like a bow.

"Look at this." He breathed, staring between her splayed thighs with hunger. She didn't need to look, though. She could feel the slick heat there, the evidence glistening reflected in his dark eyes.

"Just like I dreamed." His voice trembled with something worse than lust-reverence. A fingertip grazed her swollen flesh, feather-light. Her body arched into the touch on reflex, a broken sound bleeding from her throat.

"Shhh.” he soothed, even as his fingers delved deeper, parting her with clinical precision. "Your body knows what you won't admit."

The first deliberate stroke sent lightning up her spine. Her hips jerked. A moan clawed its way out-half agony, half something unspeakable.

“More… please. C—caleb.”

Caleb's eyes lit up from her acknowledgment. "There she is." He smiled all too pleased, circling her aching bundle of nerves with torturous patience. "My perfect girl. Dripping for me."

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness only amplified the obscene sound of his fingers moving through her wetness.

"Uh uh. Open those eyes, baby." A command, not a request. "Watch what I do to you."

When she refused, he pinched her inner thigh-sharp enough to sting. Her eyelids flew open in time to see him bring glistening fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a groan.

Without warning he sealed his lips over her clit and suckling hard. White heat exploded behind her eyelids. Her thighs clamped around his head instantly, heels digging into his back as the first wave crashed over her. Caleb groaned against her, the vibration sending fresh spasms through her abdomen.

"C-Caleb—!" His name tore from her in a broken syllable, half protest, half plea. She whimpered, her nails scraping uselessly against the laminate as her thighs trembled. A hot, wet stripe along her slit, licking into her around his own fingers.

"Fuck, baby." His groan vibrated against her, filthy and reverent. "You’re even sweeter than I dreamed."

Y/n's back bowed off the desk, a shattered cry tearing from her lips as his mouth latched onto her clit again sucking with ruthless devotion. Her fingers, without conscious thought, tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer.

He reveled in it. The way her thighs trembled against his cheeks, the helpless little noises she couldn't keep down, he drank her down like a man starved, fingers pumping in time with his tongue, pistoning deeper into her gummy walls.

"That's it." he rasped between laps. "Let me hear you."

A scream built in her throat, morphing into a wanton moan as his fingers crooked just so, striking some hidden chord that sent white-hot pleasure searing through her veins. The orgasm hit hard, violent, devastating, tearing through her with such intensity that her vision whited out. For three terrifying heartbeats, she ceased to exist beyond the pulsating aftershocks wracking her ruined body.

Caleb didn't relent. His tongue worked her through the convulsions, eating up every twitch and tremor like a man starved. When she weakly tried to squirm away, the feeling becoming too much, body too sensitive, he gripped her thighs hard, pinning her in place.

"Shhh, shhh." he murmured against her quivering flesh, the vibration wringing another broken whimper from her lips.

He worked his fingers into nonstop, dragging out every last shuddering aftershock until she was limp, gasping, tears streaking her temples. When he finally pulled back, the obscene pop of his mouth leaving her skin echoed in the silent classroom.

He wiped his glistening chin with deliberate slowness, dark eyes locked on her ruined form-the flushed skin, the tear-streaked cheeks, the way her legs still trembled helplessly wide. His beautiful galaxy eyes sparkled with triumph.

"Perfect. You came so beautifully.” He breathed, pupils blown black with hunger. "But we're just getting started."

Caleb stood and began to unfasten his pants, the rasp of his belt buckle cut through the classroom's silence like a knife. He slid his pants down, freeing himself slowly, his arousal glistening with precum. When he pressed against her slit, the heaviness of it made her whimper as slid his cock between her folds, coating himself well.

Even drugged, her body instinctively tensed. Some conscious part of her recognized her predicament, understood how her that the weight of his cock was indicative of his well endowed size without even looking.

"Shhh." He soothed, kissing her trembling eyelids as he notched himself at her entrance. "I'll be gentle." A lie, he knew, as sweet as the poison.

The first breach was searing, a slow, agonizing stretch. He watched entranced, his dark eyes burning with a possessive fire, as her body stretched to accommodate him, inch by excruciating inch. Her choked gasp morphed into a shuddering moan when he bottomed out, his hips flush against hers, locking their bodies together.

"Perfect." Caleb breathed, the word a hot puff against her ear. His thumb, surprisingly gentle, swiped at the tear tracking down her cheek, cool against her flushed, fevered skin. Her pussy fluttered around him, clenching and releasing rapidly as she tried to adjust to him. To his credit and his extreme restraint, he allowed her a moment to, despite the intense urge compelling him to fuck her like the starved beast that he is.

"Taking me so well. You’re body was made for this. Fated to take me."

Y/n’s lip trembled as she laid there. With one particularly hard clench, Caleb hips snapped forward involuntarily, stealing both their breaths.

“Fuck, baby. I need to move.”

And so he did. Slow, shallow thrusts at first, each one a calculated violation of her most intimate space, an invading pressure that consumed them. Her traitorous body, slick and willing, began to respond. his control fractured.

“Hn… Ah~” it was soft, barely a whisper, but he heard it. Soon those meek little noises came quicker, louder and he couldn’t hold back.

His pace picked up, turning punishing. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls of the classroom combining with their shared sounds of pleasure.

"You feel that?" He growled, his grip tightened, leaving stinging imprints on her hips. His teeth grazed her collarbone, a prickling sensation sending electricity through her body.

"Feel how perfectly we fit?" He pulled back slightly, then slammed back in, the impact made her bite lip. "This was always going to happen. It was destined."

“No matter the obstacles.” He groaned, fucking her hard, his cock digging into her soaked channel repeatedly. “No one could stop this, not your job, not the school, not even you.” He breathed out.

“Fuck, I’m close!” He was, but he needed her to climax first. He needed to feel her milking his length, to ensure her pussy molded to the exact shape of his cock, needed to ruin her completely. With that chilling thought, he lifted one of her legs, hooking it in his arm, and began to drill into her with renewed, brutal force.

Y/n cried out in shock and pleasure. The bulbous head of his cock rammed into her, battering her cervix with merciless, rhythmic force as he moved like a wild man. She gripped his biceps, her nails digging in for purchase on his taut skin. He fucked her so primally that she could no longer find her voice. All she could do was hold on-feel everything as the building pressure pooled, hot and urgent, in her abdomen.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Fuck you so full.”

Before she could even attempt to comprehend what he was saying, her climax hit. Her orgasm rocked her on a seismic level, a white-hot tremor. Wave after wave of pleasure wracked her body, each convulsion milking him deeper, drawing a sharp, surprised gasp from him.

Caleb's groan vibrated through her chest as he followed her over the edge, a thick, guttural sound, spilling hot, viscous ropes of his seed into her, whispering her name almost like a prayer. He emptied his load into her swollen hole, cursing at the way the aftershocks of release continued to grip him for a few agonizing moments longer.

Y/n sighed in content. Her drugged mind cleared a fraction, a brief, horrifying window of clarity, as her breath began to stabilize.

"You wereamazing." Caleb smiled down at her, brushing a few wet, clinging strands of hair from her face with a hand that now felt sickeningly gentle. She couldn't respond, not even sure what to say. He didn't mind; he was content watching her post-orgasm, glassy eyes, so beautiful, so needy.

His cock twitched inside her, still perfectly hard as if he hadn't just climaxed. She involuntarily tightened, squeezing him, a small, helpless whine escaping her lips. Caleb gasped, resting his head in the column between her neck and shoulder as he tried to regain his composure.

To no avail, he tightened his grip on her hips and began to roll his hips into hers, unable to resist the call of her body. Y/n protested, her hands flying to his chest, pushing pathetically with her diminished strength. She was too sensitive, only a moment had passed between the last orgasm before he started pumping into her again, each thrust a fresh jolt of agony and alien pleasure.

But he didn't stop.

“Shhh. Be good baby." He pecked her lips. “You can take me. Mmm~ You’re so good for me. You can take it.” He whispered to her in such a loving tone, sharply contrasting sinfully deep, hard pace he set. Her core was a sopping mess, allowing him to glide into her without the slightest resistance.

“Damn it. You feel so good.”

~🍎🍏~

After what felt like an eternity, Caleb finally stilled, his breathing ragged against her ear. He remained buried deep inside her, the heavy weight of him almost suffocating her. He had learned everything that made her gasp, cry out, shudder and beg for him. He committed the unique taste of her sweat against his tongue, her juices, over and over again until she couldn't remember where she ended and he began.

The classroom air grew heavy with the stale scent of their arousal. The only sounds were the distant thumping of the bass from the ongoing prom filtering through the door and their panting. He shifted, and she felt the slow, deliberate withdrawal, enjoying his last moments within her. Slick seeped out of her abused cunt, emptying onto the floor beneath her.

Caleb didn't move far, quickly gathering his phone and slipping into his pocket before he reached down, his fingers finding the scattered scraps of her dress and panties on the floor. With disturbing care, he began to redress her, his touch methodical, almost tender, as he pulled the fabric over her still-slick skin.

She was limp, unresponsive, her limbs heavy and unwilling to obey. He settled her back onto the desk, her skirt smoothed, her top pulled down. Presentable. Almost. He took a moment, his gaze lingering on the faint marks blooming on her neck and collarbone. A satisfied smile touched his lips.

"That's better." He murmured, his voice a low, satisfied hum. He leaned in, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Her eyes, still wide and glazed from the drug, flickered, a tiny spark of something, a nascent fury, trying to break through the haze. He saw it. His smile widened, a chilling triumph.

"Three things will happen now, Y/n." He whispered, each word a hammer blow of control, soft yet absolute.

"One: You'll walk back into that prom like nothing happened. You'll smile. You'll say goodbye to your colleagues." He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of his command settle over her.

"Two: At graduation next week, you'll give me a very special thank you card. In front of my parents." The audacity of it stole the air from her lungs, but no sound escaped.

"And three..." He leaned closer, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth in a chaste, possessive kiss. "When I come to your apartment tonight, you'll answer the door. And you'll be wearing nothing but that pearl necklace I've seen you wear to faculty meetings."

He pulled back, his eyes, dark and unwavering, holding hers. "Do we understand each other, Ms. L/n?"

A/N: I’ve been absolutely obsessed with EPIC: The musical. If you know, you know. 😊

[anamina0]

Echoes

Part I , Part II , Part III , Part IV , Part V , Part VI, Part VII , Part VIII

Summary: Fleeing the wreckage of your heartbreak, you land in the chaos of Zaun, pouring drinks at a dingy bar. You're still facing unresolved feelings and emotions towards Ellie, but they’re easier to bury when Vi storms into your life—a whirlwind of sharp words and reckless energy. You start off bad, really bad but it's enough for you to think of something else for a bit.

warnings/themes : angst, heartbreak, lots of trauma, kind of enemies to lovers, unresolved feelings, a bit of violence, au

word count : 3.8k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back at it again, falling just where you started , completely alone , full of sorrow and regrets. Moving away to a completely unknown place was the best escape plan - literally. You knew nothing about this city, save for a few stories your best friend had told you. Yet, even the thought of staying in the same place as her couldn’t outweigh your choice - you'd rather wander off Zaun's shadowed streets, losing yourself for a lifetime than remain bound to the familiar.

City was close to what you have imagined. The fractures that happened few years ago helped to a great extent , after decades of suffering, the city had finally exhaled, though it had not lost its soul. Cleansed of its grime, its fumes, and its shadowed figures, the streets and the people remained exactly as your friend had described them—a perfect echo of her tales.

Finding a job wasn't hard , from now on you'd serve drinks in one of the city’s dim, suspiciously isolated bars—barely more than a shadow in the corner of a forgotten street. Pay wasn't good but it was enough for an apartment and food, nothing else mattered to you. You were trying your best to take as many shifts as you could, working whole night helped you not think about her , during daytime you would typically crash out , exhausted from your job. And yet, she always found a way to reappear.

At the bar, you distracted yourself by watching customers. Most of them came for a drink and a chance to ease their burdens, but for you, the real game was observing them—piecing together their stories from a glance, a gesture, a half-heard conversation. Sometimes , thought of her would reappear . Something would remind you of her scent, her voice, slipping into your mind without warning. But you had mastered the art of distraction, shifting your focus before the memories could take root.

It was in your dreams where she would visit most frequently, escape from her was almost impossible, as though she determined to remind you of what you wanted to forget: that no change of address, no new life, could erase her. She was etched into you, inescapably, a part of you as much as your own breath. But you had to move on , that's what you were best at, carrying pain and suffering throughout your life, god knows you've been doing that since the day you were born.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Can we talk?” she asked, her tone calm but firm, as she stepped closer to you.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “Ellie,” you whispered, bracing yourself for the inevitable fallout. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.” The words spilled out in a shaky breath.

Her green eyes searched yours, unreadable but sharp. “Why is that?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost careful.

“You already know why,” you said, your gaze flickering over her face—her furrowed brow, the tightness in her jaw. Anxiety clawed at your chest, every emotion colliding at once: fear, anger, love, and a desire that burned despite everything. Losing her wasn’t an option, not like this.

“That’s the problem,” she said, stepping even closer, her boots scraping softly against the floor. “I don’t know why. You told me how you felt and then ran off, didn’t even wait for my answer.” Her voice broke slightly, frustration seeping through, though she was clearly trying to hold it together—for your sake. “That’s not fair.”

“I couldn’t take it anym—” you began, but your trembling words cut short as Ellie moved.

Her forehead rested against yours, her breath warm and steady against your skin. “I need you,” she whispered, her voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “More than you could ever need me.”

“Nothing’s going to change that,” she said, her voice unwavering now, as if it was the most certain truth in the world.

* * * * * * * * *

Once again, your own screams tore you from sleep, Ellie had found her way into your dreams.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, the echo of her voice lingered in your ears. You glanced at the clock hanging crookedly on the wall and exhaled in relief—it was almost time for another shift.

You moved through your routine on autopilot: a quick shower, clothes and out the door. The walk to the bar felt like a blur, your thoughts still tangled with fragments of the dream you couldn’t shake.

“Hey there,” you greeted Revek, arguably only person who could be considered as your friend in Zaun , as you stepped behind the counter.

He glanced at you with that signature smirk of his, tossing his apron onto the counter. “Well, well, look who decided to show up. Twenty minutes late, no less.” Leaning against the bar, he crossed his arms and tilted his head. “Alright, what is it this time? Lost your keys? Got cornered by some hooligans? Or let me guess—lost track of time again?” His smirk widened as he tapped the counter, signaling for his usual drink.

“Cut me some slack, you asshole,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “It’s not like they’re paying me enough to show up on time.” You reached for the shaker, pouring his drink without missing a beat. “I just… had a bad dream, alright?”

The smirk faded slightly as he took the cup from your hand, his gaze softening. “Not again,” he said, his tone shifting to something more serious. He took a long sip before adding, “You know, if you ever want to talk about it… I’m here.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said quickly, brushing him off with a weak smile. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. Now scooch—you’re scaring off my customers.”

Revek gave you a knowing look, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he pushed himself off the barstool, raising the cup in a mock toast. “Fine, fine. Just don’t forget—I’ve got a hell of a good ear for this kind of thing.”

You watched him walk away, trying to shove down the unease crawling up your spine. Fixing your hair in the reflection of a glass, you turned to face the empty bar. The night was long, but at least behind the counter, you could pretend your mind wasn’t a battlefield.

The day had been dragging. The bar was dead slow, with only a few regulars stopping by for a drink and a bit of small talk. You made an effort to keep busy—wiping down the already spotless counter, rearranging bottles, polishing glasses—anything to make the hours pass. Not until she walked in. The air shifted instantly, the tension almost suffocating as the door swung shut behind her. You froze, your hand mid-reach for a glass, and looked up. You’d seen countless faces walk through those doors. From the desperate to the careless, from the downtrodden to the troublemakers, the bar had welcomed them all. Nobody ever stood out—nobody cared about anyone else here. That’s what you liked about this place. People came in, had their drinks, exchanged a few words, maybe played a game or two, and left as if they’d never existed to one another. But her? She shattered that silence like glass. You didn’t know who she was, but everyone else seemed to. Heads turned, conversations halted, and even the usual clamor of the old jukebox seemed to dull in her presence. She strode toward the bar, brushing off the stares that trailed her like shadows. It was obvious she didn’t give a single fuck about anyone in the room. Whatever power she held over the crowd, she didn’t seem interested in wielding it—at least, not tonight. Stopping at the counter, she gave the drinks menu the briefest glance before tapping the laminated surface with her finger.

"Can I have this?” she muttered, her voice low and uninterested, pointing to a drink. Then, without looking at you, she added, “Make it a double.”

“Sure thing,” you replied, watching her as you reached for the bottle. She didn’t meet your gaze, didn’t acknowledge you at all, but that only gave you the chance to study her features: pink hair cut into a sharp mullet, light blue eyes that didn’t seem to care about much, and freckles scattered across her nose like they’d been painted there.

“Here you go,” you said, sliding the drink toward her. She grabbed it without a word, her attention flickering to the room around her. Even now, she seemed utterly uninterested in you—or anyone else, for that matter. She didn’t sip the drink so much as down it, her throat working as the liquid disappeared almost too quickly. You found yourself leaning slightly forward, unable to look away. There was something about her, something impossible to read. You liked puzzles, and she was the hardest one you’d come across in a long time.

Who was she? Some kind of criminal? Or maybe she was the exact opposite? Why was she here? Trying to get drunk, or waiting for someone? Before you could settle on an answer, she tapped the counter sharply, her empty glass sitting in front of her. The message was clear. Another. You poured the drink without hesitation, the silence between you stretching long and tense. As you set the glass down, she didn’t so much as glance your way.

“You’re welcome,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm, hoping to at least provoke some kind of reaction.

It worked—but not the way you’d hoped. She turned her head, finally looking at you, and you almost wished she hadn’t. Her glare was sharp, cutting, and filled with barely-contained anger.

“Just do your job,” she said coldly, her voice low and cutting. “I didn’t come here for chitchat.”

She turned back to her drink, dismissing you entirely, but the tension she left behind lingered in the air, coiling around you like smoke. Whatever game you thought you were playing, she wasn’t interested.

“What an asshole,” you thought bitterly, dragging your gaze away from her and down to the bar. The question lingered in your mind—should you say something? Not because you couldn’t stand up for yourself, but because, you weren’t sure if she was even worth it.

She tossed back another drink, her sharp eyes cutting across the room as she motioned lazily for someone to come over.

“Again,” she muttered, her gaze flicking back to you. For a fleeting second, it softened—just barely. But the moment was gone as fast as it came, replaced by her usual aloofness when a tall man approached her with an appearance that screamed trouble. You busied yourself making another drink, ears pricked to catch their conversation.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, Vi,” the man greeted her, his tone carrying an edge of wary excitement.

She chuckled dryly, grabbing her fresh glass without even looking at him.

“What are you playing over there?” she asked, dismissive, like she hadn’t even heard him.

He hesitated, glancing at his buddies like he was searching for backup. It was obvious he didn’t want her involved, but too afraid to say no.

“Just some boring cards,” he replied with a strained grin. “You’re, uh, welcome to join.”

“I’ll be right there.” Her words were ice-cold as she turned back to you. “Another one.”

You stared at her silently, letting your expression say everything your words didn’t. She noticed. Of course, she noticed.

But instead of acknowledging it, she took the drink you handed her and headed over to the table of men, sliding into a seat among the kind who spent their nights gambling away the last shreds of their dignity. Vi. That was her name. At least you had that much now. But she was still a puzzle—a unsolvable one. You watched her, lost in your thoughts, until Revek appeared from the back of the bar, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on her.

“Haven’t seen her in a while,” he muttered, settling onto a stool.

“Who even is she?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop yourself.

Revek leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Remember I told you abour shit that went down three years ago? Piltover, Zaun, all that Hextech chaos?”

You nodded.

“She was part of it. A big part.”

You squinted, piecing it together. “That explains why everyone knows her down here.” You frowned, the anger bubbling back up. “She’s an asshole.”

Revek chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, you could say that. After everything went to hell, she holed up in some dump around here. Doesn’t talk to anyone. Just drifts between bars, sometimes… worse places, drowning herself in cheap booze.”

“Was she always like this?” you pressed, desperate to understand.

“That’s a long story,” Revek began, but his words were cut off by the sharp sound of glass shattering across the room.

Your head snapped toward the noise. Of course, it was her, standing over some poor bastard, yelling and swearing. Revek shot you a look and stood, ready to step in, but you stopped him with a firm hand.

“I’ll handle it,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

“You sure?” he asked, hesitation in his voice.

You nodded, already moving toward the chaos. By the time you got there, she was on top of the guy, fists flying with a fury that could have leveled buildings. The crowd around them was frozen, too shocked—or maybe too entertained—to intervene.

“Hey!” you shouted, but she didn’t even flinch.

“Stop it! Now!” you tried again.

Still nothing. She was too far gone, lost in her rage. Without thinking, you moved in to pull her off—but before you could, pain exploded across your face, and you found yourself on the ground, disoriented.

The room went silent.

When your vision cleared, you realized, she had hit you.

Vi stood over you, her expression flickering with something almost like regret. “Shit,” she muttered, reaching a hand toward you. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Get the fuck out,” you snapped, cutting her off as you staggered to your feet.

She hesitated, her gaze locking with yours. You made sure she saw every ounce of your anger, your disgust.

“Now,” you commanded, stepping closer.

For once, she didn’t fight back. She just turned and walked.

Days passed, and thankfully, she didn’t come back. Still, every time you stood behind the bar, her face crept into your mind—her cockiny, her sharp eyes, her unbearable attitude. It filled you with rage. You already had too much on your plate; the last thing you needed was to waste energy hating some pink-haired asshole. But despite yourself, you couldn’t stop thinking about her. It wasn’t all bad, you supposed. At least thoughts of her kept you from thinking about Ellie. But replacing heartbreak with anger wasn’t exactly a healthy trade.

It was another calm day, the kind you’d come to appreciate in the wake of the chaos she’d brought. If anything, her outburst had earned you some respect. The regulars gave you a nod, a look, as if standing up to her had proven something. But the peace didn’t last. The bar doors swung open, and the room fell into an all-too-familiar hush. You didn’t even need to look to know who it was. The tension in the air told you everything.

Vi.

Revek appeared at your side almost immediately, his eyes darting toward her. “This gonna be trouble?” he asked, his voice low.

“I’m fine,” you replied, keeping your gaze locked on her as she strode toward you. There was something deliberate in her steps, something… different.

Her eyes met yours from across the room, and you stood your ground.

“I think I made myself clear last time,” you said coolly, though your voice carried that simmering edge of anger you couldn’t quite hide. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I know,” she replied, stopping in front of the bar. Her tone was calm, almost subdued. “I’ll leave. But first, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You narrowed your eyes, studying her. There was no cocky smirk, no sarcastic retort. Just… awkwardness.

“I was drunk,” she continued, her voice low. “That guy said something—something that pissed me off. I lost control.” She hesitated, her eyes searching yours. “It’s not an excuse, but… I didn’t mean to hit you. I would never—”

“But you did,” you cut her off sharply, though you could already feel the fight draining out of you. She was being honest. You hated that you could tell, but you could.

“I know.” Her voice softened even more. “I didn’t see you. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

You exhaled, your shoulders dropping slightly as you leaned against the counter. You weren’t ready to forgive her—not entirely. But you were exhausted from carrying so much anger.

“Fine,” you said at last, pouring her the drink she’d ordered last time. Sliding it across the bar, you added, “I appreciate your honesty. I don’t appreciate assholes, though. And you? You were an asshole.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face as she accepted the drink. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something else. But instead, she downed it in one quick motion, set the glass back on the counter, and walked out without another word.

She started coming back. At first, you thought it was a fluke—a one-time thing. But no. A few days later, she was there again. And again.

Sometimes she was alone, sometimes with a new girl on her arm, but the pattern stayed the same. She’d order a few drinks, stay for a while, and leave without so much as a word in your direction. She’d read your message loud and clear. But what you couldn’t figure out was why. Zaun was filled with bars—plenty of them even filthier than this one. So why keep coming back to this one? Was it defiance? Did she just not care about the fact that you didn’t want her here? Then there were the moments that left you even more confused. The way her gaze would linger,as she was hanging out with some random girl, her eyes flicking over to you when she thought you weren’t looking. It wasn’t often, but it was enough to notice. Enough to keep her lodged firmly in your thoughts.

Vi was a mystery. An infuriating, captivating mystery. And for some reason, you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting to figure her out. Maybe it was the distraction she provided, pulling you away from the ache of Ellie. Or maybe it was something else. Something about the way she carried herself, the way she owned a room even when she was silent. Whatever it was, she had you hooked—and you hated her for it.

Today was no different. She strolled in like she owned the place, another girl trailing behind her—a new one this time. She made a beeline for the bar and ordered a round of drinks before sliding into a table suspiciously close to where you were working. Maybe you were imagining things, but it felt deliberate. There were plenty of empty tables scattered throughout the room, especially ones better suited for whatever this was supposed to be. An intimate date? That hardly seemed like Vi’s style. The girl with her seemed sweet. Blonde hair with blue highlights that caught the dim lights of the bar, bright eyes, a soft smile. She leaned toward Vi as they talked, her body language screaming interest. But Vi? She sat back, arms draped casually over the chair, her expression distant, detached. It was like she craved the closeness but couldn’t bring herself to let anyone in.

It was… familiar. Too familiar.

You turned back to the counter, your hands working on autopilot as you wiped down the surface. Yet, no matter how much you tried to ignore her, your gaze kept drifting in her direction. And every time it did, you caught her watching you.

You didn’t like it.

Pouring yourself a drink, you told yourself it was just to take the edge off. One drink turned into two, and before long, the alcohol made everything sharper, more noticeable. You were too aware of her—every glance, every quiet laugh, every time her eyes flicked toward you. When it happened again, you decided enough was enough. You locked eyes with her, letting your gaze trail over her features, daring her to look away. She didn’t. At first, she looked confused, but that quickly morphed into something smug—a slow, cocky smirk creeping across her face. She leaned over, whispering something in the blonde’s ear. The girl nodded, and just like that, Vi stood and headed straight for you.

“Hey there,” she said, her voice calm but carrying that familiar edge of arrogance. Her eyes bore into yours, steady, confident.

“Well, look at you,” you quipped, leaning casually against the bar. “Turns out you can talk.”

She smirked. “Can you blame me? You called me an asshole and made it pretty clear you didn’t want me to talk to you.”

“Both of those things are true,” you replied with a dismissive shrug, though the faint trace of a grin played on your lips. You blamed the alcohol.

“So let me get this straight,” she teased. “You don’t want to talk to me, but you want me to talk to you? Maybe even acknowledge you?”

“Oh, I’ve noticed you acknowledging me,” you shot back, your tone dry. “Not with words, though.” Your hand idly wiped at the counter with a cloth, pretending nonchalance.

Vi chuckled, brushing off your jab. “Fair enough. Since you’re so insistent, let me drop the ‘asshole behavior’ for a minute.” She leaned in slightly. “I don’t even know your name.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning forward to meet her halfway. “It’s Y/N,” you said, your voice firm. A beat of silence lingered between you, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, with a small smirk of your own, you added, “Now get back to your date. Don’t keep her waiting.”

You didn’t wait to see her reaction. The sudden surge of emotions made your chest tighten, and you dropped the cloth and glass onto the counter, heading for the backroom.

Intimacy—it wasn’t something you wanted. Not now. Not with her. Even the smallest brush of warmth from someone else felt like an open wound. You were comfortable in the cold, with the pain. Examining Vi had been easy, safe. She was uncertainty and sharp edges, not softness. You closed the door behind you, leaning back against it and exhaling deeply. Maybe one of these days you’d figure out what Vi was really doing to you. But not tonight. Not yet.

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Note from author: It's my first time writing something ever please please please let me know if you liked that! I think that this fic will have 6/8 parts , so there's a lot unfold here. I kinda changed finale of Arcane, because Vi and Caitlyn don't end up together. Also, I have included Ellie as reader's ex girlfriend, so she will have more appearances in future. It would mean world to me if you shared my work (if you liked it of course) and please don't hesitate to message me, ask me questions about it or let me know what are your thoughts! Thank you!

[secretlysamcro]

Black female reader x Jax Teller Explicit language, violent language & possible spoilers. If you're under the age of 18, haven't finished the show or dislike any of said topics, please read no further.

Request: "Jax x Black reader where they’re married. Also, they’re been separated for a little while and Jax keeps letting his little girlfriends forget their place until she has to come set the record straight about who’s really the queen of Samcro."

Backstory: y/n and Jax met shortly after Abel was born, Wendy out of the picture, the two grew closer and closer. Abel looks at y/n as the mother figure in his life. About two years later, Jax and y/n got married, had their own son together, Cain. However, with the stress of the club and other various outside factors, the two decided to separate for a while. They’re still married, and still on good terms, mainly for the kids though. Jax, spends most his time at the clubhouse or Gemma’s, if not though he sleeps in the boys room or on the sofa.

"Okay" you say, your voice barely above a whisper. It feels like surrender, something the two of you, are not used to. Deep down though, you know its the right choice. Even if it breaks you.

Jax watches you, really looks at you, and for a moment his mask slips. You see it, you've been with him long enough to know what he's thinking. To know that the weight of this decision is pressing down on him just as much as it is on you.

"Okay" he echoes, but his voice is rough, like it physically hurts to say out loud.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to hold it together. "What are we gonna tell the boys?" Your voice is strong, but inside you're screaming.

He drums his fist against the counter, a restless, frustrated motion. "Nothin" he says, shaking his head. "For now, it wont be that different. They start to notice then...then we'll figure somethin' out"

Jax has always been a master at building up walls, pretending things never hurt when they did. And right now, you can see him doing just that.

Jax stood in the doorway of the house that he used to share with you and the boys. It had been a while since he'd been or stayed here.

At first, not much had changed, aside from no longer sharing the same bed. He'd crash in the boys room or try to get comfortable on the couch. But now, over 6 months later, things were different. The boy's had sleepovers with him at Gemma's or he spent his nights in the clubhouse dorm.

The decorations were simple, but perfect. Different tones of blue balloons, a little "Happy 3rd Birthday" banner and a table stacked with gifts.

Cain was in the middle of the room, his little face lighting up when he spotted his Dad. "Daddy!" he squealed running full force into Jax's legs. He scooped him up without thinking, pressing a kiss to his son's curls. "Happy Birthday little man".

Abel wasn't far behind, standing by the couch with his hands in his pockets, watching. He was quieter that Cain, more observant and Jax felt the weight of his son's stare.

Abel gave a small smile. "Hi Daddy" Jax sets Cain down as he takes Abel into his arms. "Hey buddy" he studies his older sons face "you doin' good?"

Abel was quiet, but he wasn’t blind. He noticed everything. Cain, still too young to pick up on it, but Abel wasn’t. He noticed the little changes, before they grew bigger. How Daddy started sleeping in their room instead of Mommy’s. How Daddy wasn’t there for dinner anymore, always coming home a little later. How Mommy never told Daddy she loved him, not like she used to. Then the bigger changes, Daddy started staying at Grandmas, at first just for a night, then two, until it turned into weeks, months.

Now, Daddy doesn’t come home at all.

You set a tray of snacks on the table, working alongside Gemma as she sets down the last of the food. As you step into the living room, that’s when you see him. Standing with the boys, his head tilted down as they talk. Their faces lit up with joy, clearly happy to have their dad back home, even if it is just for the day.

You hold your breath. It's been a minute since you've seen him face to face. The last few months have been nothing but texts and quick calls, strictly about the boys. Nothing else.

You keep your distance, arms crossed as you watch him. He's knelt between the two boys, listening as they take turns telling him one thing after another. You can tell he feels you standing there but he drags the conversation out, like he's bracing himself for whatever comes next.

"You're early" your voice comes out even. You weren't expecting him yet. The other guests haven't even arrived.

"Yeah" he exhales, stuffing his hands in his pockets as you both watch the boys running off over to Gemma. "Figured I'd get some time in with the boys before shit gets crazy" a smirk tugs at his lips, memories flashing behind his eyes. "You know how these parties go"

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head as flashes of Abel's last birthday party come rushing back. Kids screaming, juice stains on the carpet and Juice himself sprawled out on the couch, too drunk to even be embarrassed about getting that wasted at a kid's party.

Jax shifts on his feet. "Told some of the guys they could come by" he says, watching you carefully, like he's waiting for some form of pushback.

You shrug, nodding towards the kitchen where the bottles of liquor line the counter "Yeah, I was expecting them anyway" a smile creeps on your face "Thats for after the kids are gone though, yeah? maybe remind Juice of that this time"

He laughs, shaking his head "yeah, wish me luck"

"I gotta go get ready" you glance at the clock. "Can you watch the boys while Gemma finishes up in the kitchen?

Jax nods, with one of those blank expressions on his face. "Yeah, course, I got 'em"

You hesitate for a second, then nod. "Cool".

As you turn to walk to the bedroom, you feel his eyes on you. Like he wants to say something but stops himself. You don't give him the chance though, disappearing down the hall before anything heavier can come of it.

The party is in full swing now, the house buzzing with laughter and conversation. Abel and Cain sit together, admiring the pile of gifts, and its clear which one is his favorite. The monster truck collection and track that Jax had got for him. Cain hasn't let go of one of the trucks since he unwrapped it, his little hands gripping it tightly as he watching the other kids race around, weaving in and out of the adults.

The rooms packed with familiar faces. Your family, Jax's family, and of course some of the club. Voices are overlapping, there's stories being told over plates of food. Cooked by none other than your mama. But you being the one in charge, you barely have time to sit and enjoy it. You're too busy making sure everyone else is being catered for.

You step into the kitchen, pressing your back against the counter, fingers gripping the edge like its the only thing holding you up. Your head tilts back, eyes shutting for just a second. That's all you need, a second away from the chaos, the kids, and the forced smiles and conversations,

Little did you know, that peace was about to be shattered.

"Lookin' a bit stressed" his voice cuts through the moment, smooth and familiar.

Your eyes open, and when you turn your head, Jax is leant against the fridge, hands tucked in his pockets, watching you.

You force another smile. "Yeah, just needed a second. I'll be better once the kids go and its just us, then, I can have a drink"

Jax raises a brow "Us?"

You let out a small laugh "Yeah, you know, the ones who are left after the party dies down, the usual crowd" You smirk, referring to the club brothers who always stick around long after the party finishes. It's never bothered you though, if anything it was always your favourite part of hosting these sorta things.

Jax chuckles, nodding "Right... the ones who don't know when to leave".

You laugh with him, grabbing a cloth off the counter and wiping down a spot that doesn't need it. Anything to keep your hands busy, to stop from holding the eye contact too long.

The tension in the kitchen thickens for just a second as Jax steps further in, pushing off the fridge and gripping the back of one of the chairs with both hands. His rings clink softly against the wood, a familiar sound, one that used to mean he was home.

"You did good" he says, his voice low, like he means it more than he's letting on. His eyes flick to Abel, who's sat talking to Happy, and Cain, dramatically telling his little friend something that seems like the most important thing in the world. A ghost of a smile pulls at his lips before he looks back at you.

"Boys look happy" he continues, his voice quieter now. "haven't seen em smile like this for a while"

You exhale quick through your nose, giving yourself a moment before speaking. "Yeah, well... that probably has more to do with you being here" you pause, "you know, being at home"

The words land heavy between the two of you, he shifts gripping the chair a little tighter before letting his fingers loosen. "Been a while, huh?" he mutters

You don't say anything, just nod, lips pressing together.

Jax clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know you can call me, if you need anything" he speaks clear, like he's trying to make sure you really hear him "just cause we're...you know..." he stops, brows joining in the middle.

You tilt your head, making air quotes "separated?" you say, emphasising the word with a small trace of doubt.

A grin twitched at the corner of his mouth, as if he knows just as much as you, this separation most likely wont last much longer. "Yeah" he looks down before making eye contact again. "It don't mean you gotta do this all on your own. You ever need help with anything, you know I’ve got you?"

There's something so genuine in the way he says it, it catches you off guard. You nod, running your finger along the edge of your lips to smooth out your gloss. "I know" you add, this time offering a real smile, not one of those forced ones you’ve been giving all day.

For a second, and just a second, it feels as if nothing has changed.

And then, that peace we were talking about earlier?

This is when it fucks up.

Chibs steps into the kitchen, his presence breaking whatever was lingering in the air. You barely look at him before turning back around, about to repour his usual, but then, he takes a step closer to Jax, voice low for only him to hear.

"Lola's outside Jackie, she's askin' for ya" he sucks in a breath as he finishes the sentence.

Jax scoffs, clearly irritated "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me" he mutters, dragging a hand over his face, already storming towards the front door.

Your grip tightens around the whiskey bottle, the glass cool against your palm. Your attention panning over to Chibs now, waiting for an answer you know damn well he aint gonna give.

"Who did you say was here?" you ask, your voice edged with something sharp.

Chibs presses his lips together, baring his teeth in the slightest, like he's debating what to say. Like he already knows whatever comes next is gonna set you off.

"you gonna make me go out there and find out?"

Chibs exhales, darting his eye contact away from you "not my problem, lass"

Your nostrils flare as you set the bottle down, hard. The sound of the glass against the wood snapping through the tension. Then, you push past him. Your anger already misdirected, but he doesn't take it personally. He mutters something under his breath about not wanting to be in the middle of this shit, as he watches you follow Jax towards the front door. Jax stands in the doorway, his posture screaming irritation. hes holding his hands folded accross his chest like he's stopping himself from making a bad decision. But it's not him you focus on.

Its her.

Blonde, young and dressed like she stepped straight out of a Red Woody production. Tight mini skirt clinging to everything it possibly could. A fucking croweater.

Your lips part in disbelief "Who's this?" you say, pushing past Jax just enough to plant yourself in the conversation, making sure this little whore sees exactly who's house she decided to show up at.

He doesn't even look at you, his jaw clenches, hard enough to crack a fucking tooth. "No one" he grits out. His patience clearly already running thin.

The blonde's lips curl into a smile. Her eyes looking you up and down, noticing your expression, your stance and the way you squared up next to Jax without hesititation.

"So you must be the baby mama" she says, voice fake with sweetness, but its the way she says it that makes your fist curl at your sides. Like an insult.

She knows exactly what she's doing.

Jax says something under his breath, running a hand over his face like he already knows what's about to happen next. He moves uncomfortably, his eyes flicking between the ground, the blonde, and then finally to you.

And the second he does?

Yeah, he's fucked.

Jax hasn't seen you this mad in a long time, and judging by the way your hands are fidgeting like you're ready to swing, you're barely holding yourself back. You let out a slow, controlled breath, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose before lifting your head towards him.

"Jackson?"

His lower jaw swings side to side at the sound of you using his full name, he's about to open his mouth to speak.

"Nah" you lift a hand, cutting him off before he even gets a word out. "don't even try it"

He sighs, shaking his head "Look, I didn't-"

"I don't give a fuck" you snap, stepping forward so your right in his space "what I do care about is why the fuck she is standing at my door like she has any fucking right to be here".

The blonde scoffs, crossing her arms like she's got something to say, but you don't even look at her. She doesn't exist right now.

"I never asked her to come here-"

"Well she’s fuckin' here, so now what?"

Silence, he doesn't have an answer.

You finally turn back to her, dragging your gaze over her like she's nothing. Your head tilts, your finger gesturing between the two of them. Your voice sounding calm, too fucking calm.

"You’re fuckin’ her?"

Its not an accusation, its not even a real question. It's a statement that you're waiting to be confirmed.

Jax stiffens, his eyes showing something unreadable, but you know him enough to catch it.

And that's all you needed.

You press your lips together, nodding slowly as the rage ignites. Now ain't the time. Not with a house full of people. Not with Cain's birthday in full swing.

A hundred thoughts race through your mind. How the fuck did she even know where to come? and why the fuck was she comfortable enough to just roll up like it was nothing. Jax is already fucking somebody else? She just called you his baby mama?

She's real fucking lucky it's Cains birthday.

And so is Jax, cause if it wasn't? You woulda had them both by the throat.

You stand in the kitchen, twisting the cap off the bottle of whiskey. You don't pour much, just enough to take the edge off while keeping things under control with the kids still around. The burn settles in your chest as you lean against the counter, a humourless laugh leaving your mouth. Your eyes land on the cake, monster trucks, flames, absolutely perfect for Cain. You pull open the drawer, grabbing three leftover candles and pressing them in without hesitation. With a deep breath, you straighten up, push it all aside and step back into the mayhem, back to hosting, back to being a mom, as if the betrayal isn’t coursing through your veins. “Time for cake!” you call out across the living room.

The energy in the room has changed, even if it is only you and Jax who sense it. Normally, this is the part where you’d catch Jax’s eye, give him the silent cue that it’s time to do this together, but this time, you don’t even look at him.

Cain, Abel and the other kids come running over, eyes wide with excitement, their little hands gripping at the table as they bounce on their feet.

"You need help?"

You don’t look at him, you don't even pause.

"No." your response is sharp and final, crouching down beside Cain.

You pull the lighter from your pocket, flicking it once, and then twice until the tiny flames catch the candles. The warm glow flickering across his face, his grin pure and unfiltered, and for a brief second, it softens the rage simmering in your chest, because this is what really matters.

Cain, stands there with his eyes squeezed shut, his breath puffing out his candles, his whole world world still so simple, and that's just how you intend to keep it.

The house is finally quiet, the other kids gone, the laughter and high pitched screams just an echo in the walls. In its wake though, crumbled wrapping paper, half eaten slices of cake, and the sporadic stickiness of spilled juice on the lino floors.

You and Gemma both move throughout the rooms, picking up plates, tossing empty cups and trying restore some sense of order. Both the boys sprawled against the couch, completely exhausted. Cain is barely fighting it, his curls covering his face as his eyes struggle to stay open. And Abel, staring at the wheels spinning on his toy Harley. You stop cleaning for a moment, watching them. Despite everything, Cain had his birthday, his perfect little day alongside his big brother Abel, who also had fun, especially with Daddy being home.

You don't look at him, but you can feel him.

He's still here, standing a few feet away, lingering as the party transitions from cake and balloons to brothers and booze. He hasn't moved much since everyone left, beer bottle loose in his hand and his eyes have been on you the entire time.

You ignore him deliberately.

You turn to Gemma, brushing your hands against your thighs before nodding towards the mess still scattered around the living room. "You okay if I take the boys to bed?"

She waves you off with a smirk, already stacking the scattered plates "Go on, I got it"

Before you can move, Jax's voice cuts in.

"I'll take Abel"

You don't look at him, you don't acknowledge him. You just move.

He doesn't wait for your approval either, he steps past you scooping Abel into his arms as he nestles into his father's chest. You sigh softly and pick up Cain, his weight warm and heavy against you as he mumbles something sleepily into your shoulder.

The walk to their room is quite, the only sounds coming from the soft creak of the floorboards and the slow, steady breaths of your boys.

You set Cain down gently in his bed, fingers working as you change him into his pyjamas, his eyelids already dropping, but he's still awake enough to giggle when you pepper soft kisses to his little button nose, his cheeks and his forehead.

"Happy birthday baby boy" you smile, smoothing his unruly curls back before tucking him in, pulling the blankets up tight and snug.

Across the room, Jax is doing the same with Abel, his voice low and soft as he asks him about his day. The space between you is silent, thick with all the things that haven't been said. You move around each other, careful and calculated. Like strangers in a familiar place, working in sync but not together.

You switch places without a word. Jax leans over Cain, pressing a kiss to his head, murmuring something low that only his son can hear. Meanwhile, you crouch beside Abel, running a hand over his warm cheek before dropping a kiss to his forehead.

Abel grins, his voice sleepy "I'm happy Daddy’s here...today was the best day ever"

Your chest tightens a little, but you push past it, stroking his hair gently "That's all that matters baby"

Across the room, Cain reaches out for Jax's necklace, his tiny fingers curling around the bullet pendant as it swings towards him, turning it between his fingers. His eyes heavy with sleep but still fascinated. “Happy birthday little man... Daddy loves you”

You both move towards the door, the weight of it all pressing down on the space between you. Just as you reach for the handle, Abel's small voice breaks through the quite.

"Daddy are you staying at home now?" his words laced with hope, so innocent and pure.

Jax pauses, his eyes flicking towards yours.

Before she showed up, before he let today turn into this, maybe you would've said yes. Maybe you would've let him.

But now? no fucking way.

Your voice is steady, quiet but firm "Not tonight baby". Jax doesn't argue, doesn't try to fight it. He just drops his gaze to the floor, exhaling slow through his nose.

“But that’s what Cain wished for…” Abel’s small voice cuts through the heavy silence. “…he told me…” he hesitates, “… We both want Daddy to come home”.

The weight of his words settle deep in your chest, Jax’s too. You tilt your head back, blinking up at the ceiling. Doing everything in your power to hold it together. You hover for a second, "Sometimes wishes don’t come true straight away baby" and then, you flip the switch, the room now dark as you both walk out.

“That wasn’t fair” Jax says, his voice rough and blunt.

You shake your head. “Not fair? What, did you want me to lie? want me to sugarcoat it for them Jax? Should I have told them I was gonna ask you to stay anyway? right up until your pretty lil skank showed up at my door?”

The muscles in his Jaw become visible, but before he can even open his mouth, you’re already turning away, you can’t even face whatever excuse was about to roll off his tongue.

The second you step outside, the night air hits your skin. The walls of the house had started closing in, the sound of laughter and clinking bottles grating against your nerves, making it harder to keep your composure.

Your hands shake a little as you pull the joint from your purse, watching the flame catch and the tip glow. You hold the smoke in your lungs and let it sit there seeping into the cracks of your anger. Because no matter how much you try to push it aside, the image of that bitch standing in your doorway wont leave your head.

"Since when did you start smokin' again?" His voice is low, careful like he's testing the waters.

"Since when did you start fuckin' blonde pussy again?" you scoff, taking another drag.

Jax breathes sharply through his nose, already trying to keep himself in line. Instead of answering, he sinks next to you on the step, his forearms resting on his knees. Without asking, he takes the joint from your fingers, taking a long pull before letting the smoke drift out through his nose.

You don't stop him though, because you're waiting. Waiting for the bullshit, but when he doesn't say anything, you push.

"You gonna talk?" you ask, tilting your head "or you just gonna sit there and act like the lil whore you been fuckin’ didn't just show up at our sons birthday party?"

He exhales slow, the smoke rolling from his lips as he shakes his head "It ain't what you think"

You let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head as you snatch the joint back from his fingers. "Then what the fuck is it Jax?" You take another long drag, exhaling before rolling your eyes at him "You get too comfortable with her? start talkin' too much while she's got her mouth all over you? letting her know where your house is? where our sons fucking sleep?" your voice sharpens, the anger rising again "you that fuckin' sloppy? or you just don't give a shit?" Jax exhales hard, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The weight of his own fuck up settling heavy on his shoulders. He looks at you, his eyes dark and tired. "y/n, I..." he starts "...she must have overheard somethin' at the club. I don't know how she found her way here, but do you really think I'd invite her?"

A bitter laugh erupts from you "didn't think you'd be stickin' your dick in someone else so soon." you snap, your eyes cutting into him "guess I was wrong about that too, huh?"

His whole body tenses, he goes to speak but stops himself, shaking his head like he's trying to shake away the shit. You saw it though. That flicker of something in his face. It could have been guilt, it could have been regret, either way it doesn't change a damn thing.

He drags a hand down his face, rubbing his beard before muttering "I'm sorry y/n"

You push off the step, "Yeah" you say, voice emotionless "heard that before"

Jax watches you, watches the way your hands flex at your sides, how your shoulders rise and fall like you're trying to hold back the rage and the fucking disbelief at how careless he's been.

You turn towards the house, desperate to put some space between the two of you, before the lump in your throat can choke you whole. Your feet stop before you even realise. Because you're not done yet.

"Baby mama?" you screw your face up, like the words taste wrong in your mouth "That's all I am to you now?"

Jax freezes. You can tell he's already exhausted, but he gets up anyway stepping closer to you, his hands lifting, reaching for you. But of course, you step back.

"I don't know why she said that" he whispers, his voice gritted, looking at you deeply as he speaks "I've never called you that"

You huff out a short laugh, folding your arms across your chest "Then why did she say it?"

"I dont know y/n" he says again, stronger this time. You know when Jax is lying, and this isn't one of those times.

Your throat tightens, but you refuse to let it show, refuse to let him see how deep its cutting. Because you're more than that, so much fucking more than that.

"If any more pussy you been fuckin’ comes to this house again..." your eyes lock onto his, your stare deathly "...I't wont be her I'm checkin"

He doesn't move, doesn't say a damn word. Because he knows you mean it.

The boys were at Gemma's for another sleepover, giving you a second, a chance to do something for yourself for once. No wiping sticky hands, no mediating arguments over toy cars, no little voices calling your name every five seconds. Just a quiet morning, one you intended to take full advantage of.

You start off with something simple. Getting your nails done, a small luxury but one that always made you feel a little more put together. French tip, almond shape. Your signature, the one thing you never switched up.

You weren't the chatty type when it came to self care appointments. Some people liked to gossip, spill their whole life story with the technician, but not you. You used the time to have some mental therapy. The chance to sit back and zone out while your mind did what it always did. Replay every single thing that had pissed you off during the week.

And unsurprisingly, Cain's party was right at the top of the list.

You managed to push it to the back of your mind for a while, but sitting here, staring at your hands as they shaped and polished your nails, it all came rushing back.

The audacity, the fucking nerve. The fact that no matter how you try to brush it off, its still fucking there.

Your fresh set, sharp and fucking clean rest against the steering wheel as you drive home. The day had been quiet so far, too quiet. Like the universe was just waiting to throw something in your path.

And then you see her.

Lola.

Hovering outside the clubhouse like a lost fucking puppy, pacing the lot, glancing at her phone, then back to the doors as if she was waiting for someone to let her in. Your grip on the wheel tightens, the coldness of your rings digging into your skin. You should keep driving, shouldn't even give her the time of day. But then, your gaze moves to the rear view mirror.

No Abel. No Cain. Just you, and her.

Without thinking twice, you swerve into the lot, the tires crunching against the gravel. She doesn't even notice, still caught up in whatever delusion was keeping her here.

She still doesn't notice as you walk up behind her, not knowing you were about to ruin her entire fucking day.

Not until, your hand fists the back of her hair, driving her forward, smashing her face against the rough brick wall of the clubhouse, her body jolting as she gasps in shock. She immediately starts to struggle, trying to push you off, but you shove her harder, using your weight to force her against it, letting the brick graze her cheek.

"Stay the fuck away from Jax..." you tell her, lips inches from her ear "...and don't you ever come to my fucking house again" she tenses beneath you, her hands pressing against the wall, trying to break free.

"Or what?" she spits, trying to sound brave but you can hear the shake in her voice "You're not even together anymore!"

You cant help but laugh, one of those bitter ones as you shake your head, getting closer to her now. "It's not about us not being together. This is about you, knowing your fucking place"

And that, made her still. The way your fingers curled tighter, pressing her harder against the wall, she understood how fucking serious you were.

You give her a second before releasing your grip, only to slam her face forward one more time, leaving pretty trails of crimson against her skin. You step back, admiring your still fresh nails, untouched by the mess they just endured.

A slow smirk, curling at your lips "Huh" you let out, as you flex your fingers in front of you.

"Jesus fucking christ" Chibs' voice cuts through the silence, you turn your head to see him and Juice standing near the garage, both of them watching the entire thing unfold.

Juice looks somewhere between impressed and terrified, his eyes wide as he runs a hand over his mohawk.

"Shit y/n..." he mutters, shaking his head "you're actually insane"

Chibs exhales, rubbing a hand down his face, but not in frustration, something familiar, maybe proudness. "You done now lass?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah" a grin forms on your lips, admiring your still immaculate nails "I guess I am"

Then, like clockwork, the deep familiar roar of Jax's Dyna tears through the lot.

Chibs sighs and Juice lets out a low whistle, stepping back like they wanted Jax to know they had no part in this.

He pulls in, the crunch under his tires breaking the tension. His sharp eyes sweep across the scene. His eyes lock onto yours, something dark beneath them. He already knows, he didn't even have to ask, but he did anyway.

"Someone wanna tell me what that fuck I've just walked into?" his voice sounds calm, but you could tell he was holding back.

You smirk, turning towards your car, you lean against the open door, tapping your fingers against the frame as your eyes lock onto Jax's.

"The boys are with Gemma..." you start, your voice light but somewhat dismissive. Then, with a slow flick of the wrist, you gesture towards Lola's wrecked form on slabs. "Don't take too long cleaning this shit up"

For a moment, there's nothing.

No words, no reaction, nothing.

And then you see it, so fucking small that you very nearly missed it.

The smallest quiver of his top lip, the way his mouth is parted open, with no words ready to come out yet. Like he's trying to fight a full smirk.

Then, the way his tongue slowly licks across his bottom lip.

That signature fucking look.

The one that always used to mean he wanted you. The one that, no matter what was going on. No matter how bad the fight, how deep the wounds were you would always end up fucked against something, breathless and completely undone.

You let your own smile spread across your face, just enough for him to see, just enough to make sure he knows you caught it. Then, almost mockingly you mirror his look. Running your own tongue against your lip before you slip into the car, driving off like nothing even happened.

Even though he knows he's fucked up, even though things are broken, seeing you handle business still makes him want you just as bad.

He doesn't say a word as your car disappears out of the lot, the engine fading into the distance. His jaw stays tight, shoulders squared and his hands restless. He inhales sharply, rolling his neck before turning towards the clubhouse.

Lola groans from the ground, blood smeared against her face.

Jax takes no notice at all. Doesn't check if she's okay, doesn't offer a hand, doesn't even fucking stop.

He just steps over her, like she wasn’t even there. His shoes scuffing against the gravel as he makes his way towards the door, Chibs and juice falling in line behind him.

"Is anyone gonna help her?" Juice says, looking over Lola.

Chibs snorts as he shoots Jax a look that says ‘This guy really thinks you’re about to play saviour to some wounded whore on the floor’

Jax meets Chibs’ look head on. A slow smirk creeping upon his face. His chin lifted slightly, but he doesn’t need to say a word, his expression says it all.

And just like that, the clubhouse door opens and swallows them whole. Leaving Lola exactly where she belongs.

Dismissed, completely fucking irrelevant and outside.

Photos & gifs do not belong to me. Just edited together (anyone peep the ‘Jackson’ tattoo hehe) 🖤

Thank you for reading! & thank you to anon who requested hope this works out well for you 🫶🏽

Keep the Jax requests coming! Starting to work through them again, whilst also brainstorming the new piece I can’t wait to fucking write.

Jax Teller Masterlist

xoxo secretly samcro

[im-so-normal-iswear]

Hi.... can I ask for a shadow x reader who is afraid of them

A/n: this was a bit rushed.

Shadow x Reader Who Is Afraid of Him

When you first met Shadow, his presence was overwhelmingly intimidating. Its just everything he has going on. And honestly, you aren't entirely wrong to be scared of him.

Shadow isn’t oblivious to your fear. the way you distance yourself, voice dropping to a mutter when around him, etc. all of it is painfully obvious to him. At first, he’s indifferent. Your fear doesn’t bother him, he’s used to it. Most people fear him, so your reaction isn’t new.

Though, it comes to a point it starts to irritate him. When he approaches, you flinch. When he speaks, you stiffen. Even when he’s doing something as mundane as sitting quietly, you seem on edge. This begins to bother him in ways he doesn’t fully understand.

Shadow isn’t the type to openly comfort anyone, but he starts making subtle changes to his behavior around you. He softens his tone when speaking to you, ensuring his words aren’t as sharp. Approaches you more slowly, giving you time to adjust to his presence. If he notices you startle when he moves too quickly, he’ll try to keep his movements deliberate and less abrupt.

Despite his efforts, Shadow finds it difficult to change who he is. He’s naturally intense, and suppressing his instincts is frustrating for him.

He often wonders why he’s going to such lengths to make you comfortable. The realization that he cares about your opinion (about how you see him) unnerves him. It’s not something he’s used to.

Shadow begins observing you more closely, trying to figure out why you’re so afraid of him. I mean, hes supposedly fixed (to the best of his ability) everything that freaked you out about him. Why were you still scared?

He watches how you interact with others, noting the ease with which you speak to them, and comparing it to the guarded way you act around him.

He doesn’t understand why you treat him differently. Are you afraid of his power? His reputation? Or is it something deeper?

Though he has innocent intentions, you do notice him kind of stalking you, which does NOT help with your fears.

One day, Shadow decides he’s had enough of your fear and confronts you about it. His approach is… not gentle. "Why are you so afraid of me?" he asks, his tone as direct and intense as ever.

Your immediate reaction is panic, which only frustrates him further. He doesn’t mean to scare you, but his impatience gets the better of him. When he realizes he’s only made things worse, he backs off.

If anyone else notices your fear of Shadow and tries to tease you about it, Shadow shuts them down immediately.

He doesn’t care what others think of him, but the idea of someone making your fear worse infuriates him. He’s quick to silence anyone who dares to make you uncomfortable.

If you do start getting more comfortable around hin, hes secretly happy, nit tgat he will tell you, or show it at all. Hes still just look like hes silently brroding like usual. But is happy about it though regardless.

[sonotpattismith]

as soft as we know

pairing: choso kamo x reader word count: 12.7k (oops) content: fluff, angst, choso experiencing his first christmas, jealousy, insecurity, loss of virginity, choso being a sweetie pie, smut, 18+ a/n: this is a continuation of 'it's britney, bitch', but it can definitely be read independently as well

“That’s not where it goes, Cho.”

“Lower?” 

“A little bit.”

“Here?”

Grunting in frustration, you reached for his wrist, guiding his hand to the proper positioning. 

“These are supposed to be his arms, Cho.” You laughed despite your playful exasperation, helping him carefully shove the small stick he’d found into the snowman’s lumpy torso. 

Stepping back to check your progress, you smiled gleefully and bit back a cackle at the state of it. Its head was far too small for its body, and the rocks you two had found for his eyes were completely different sizes. 

Turning to catch Choso’s reaction to his first snowman, you were almost caught off guard by his stoic expression. His sharp, dagger like gaze could cut straight through glass, pairing terrifyingly with the firm line his lips were set in. One thing you had learned in the few months you’d been with the half-curse though, was that he had the nastiest case of resting bitch face that you’d ever seen on a man. It was no wonder you were so put off by him upon first meeting. Still, you couldn’t help but tilt your head a little to meet his gaze. 

“You okay?” You questioned with a knowing smile. 

Blinking away the snowflakes that had gathered on his dark lashes, his eyes seemed to light up at your question, the abrupt switch in expressions nearly giving you whiplash. 

“Yeah, he looks funny. Why?” Choso grinned sincerely, reaching out to gently brush the snow from your hair. “Was I doing that thing with my face again?” 

“Yeah, you were.” You giggled and reached up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek, gripping at his bicep for balance. He hummed appreciatively, a flush quickly coming up to paint his pale cheeks. It was something you were eternally grateful that he hadn’t grown out of since the beginning of your relationship. You were sure if the day ever came that he stopped blushing so furiously at your kisses, your heart would split in two. 

“Does it look how you wanted it to?” He asked as he reached out to straighten the right eye that had slipped a bit. Huffing out a sigh, you sized up the snowman that looked like he had definitely seen better days. 

“He looks… unique.” You offered with a tilted head, trying to see which angle would make it look halfway decent. “But hey, if I can’t decorate a tree, our freak snowman is gonna have to do to get me into the Christmas spirit.”

“Why can’t we decorate a tree?” He questioned with a tilt of his head. From what you had told him, the tree was kind of the main event of this holiday you seemed to be buzzing about. 

“I don’t have time this year.” You muttered dejectedly, distracting yourself by straightening out the drooping arms of your snowman. “I’m supposed to be filling in as supervisor for some of the kids’ missions in the next few weeks.”

Choso hummed pensively, taking note of the gloom that had suddenly befallen your once cheerful mood. In a meek attempt to salvage it, he nodded toward the snowman. 

“Is there anything else we can do to him?”

“Well, I wanted to fix his head, but I think my fingers are gonna freeze off if we don’t stop here.” You confessed sheepishly.

“You’re cold?”

“You’re not?” Your brows rose challengingly, giving him a once over to note that he appeared perfectly comfortable. 

Choso tried to hide his anticipatory smile as he pulled you closer, tugging his gloves off with his teeth to reveal his chipping, black painted nails, courtesy of you, of course. It took almost four weeks of you observing the way he’d watch you so intently as you gave yourself haphazard manicures on the floor of your dorm. You would feel his warm breath over your shoulder as you picked up various bottles to choose your weekly color.

 One evening, you had of course seen it coming a mile away when he apprehensively requested if you could do his, too. You could remember smiling knowingly at him before nudging your chin toward the bottles to prompt him to pick one.

Maybe it was because this grunge side Choso had been ever so slowly leaning into as he came into his own made you swoon just a bit, but you’d be lying if you said your shared, weekly manicures hadn’t become some of your favorite memories with him. 

It was time for a touch up, you determined with a soft smile while he gently gathered your hands to uncover them as well. A slow breath escaped you as his large hands enveloped yours, and you gradually felt a steady warmth begin to fill his palms. Your thus far frigid fingers felt as though they were defrosting in his grip, and you nearly moaned in relief. 

“Is that your technique?” You finally gathered, his supposed immunity to the cold becoming less mysterious. He hummed affirmatively, shifting to place both your hands in one of his as the other came up to cup your rosy, snow-kissed cheek.

Leaning into the heater-like quality of his palm, you peered up at him through your lashes. He became more beautiful each time you looked at him, you were sure. 

The dark circles you once found so intimidating now served as an enticing emphasis for his chocolate, brown eyes. His ever-shifting blood-mark gave a dark edge to his otherwise benevolent nature that never failed to send shivers down your spine. These days, he was wearing his hair loose more and more, and maybe it was because you liked to tangle your fingers in it when he kissed you, but he’d never admit that, of course. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as his thumb maneuvered down to brush heat along your chin, unintentionally snagging on your bottom lip on the way. Everything about him made your mind turn to degenerate mush, and it only seemed to be getting worse the longer you spent with him. You weren’t sure how much longer you could take of the careful tango you two had been spinning in the past few months. 

Choso had been adapting quicker than you had expected to the sorts of little intimacies that came along with being in a romantic relationship. It took some gentle coaching for him to understand what types of those intimacies were appropriate and where. When he was introduced to the notion that your lips were essentially free game for him, you would have thought he’d won the lottery. You by no means minded that his new favorite hobby was discovering all the ways he could leave your lips red and raw, but you preferred he not do it in public.

Still, some neck kisses and love bites seemed to be the extent of Choso’s exploration so far, and you weren’t sure if it was your place to introduce more to him just yet. The man made it hard though when he looked at you with those tired, sultry eyes. Little moments like this, where it was clear how easily tenderness came to him, had your mind wandering around questions of how nice those heated hands of his would feel running up the insides of your thighs.

“I know something that will warm you up faster.” His raspy voice pulled you from your sinful thoughts, the suggestive context making your eyes fly open to meet his loving gaze. The corners of your lips twitched up in anticipation as your breath mingled with his and created ghosts that danced against the contrasting frigid air between you. You tilted your head down to press a soft kiss against his thumb as you raised a questioning brow at him. “Hot chocolate? I found the thick one that Yuji likes.”

Despite the crushing disappointment that you felt in your core, down to the heat between your thighs, you couldn’t help but smile in amusement at his oblivion. Acting on a gnawing urge, you wrapped your arms around his thick torso from under his puffer jacket and squeezed him, a small part of you wishing he’d always stay this adorably oblivious. 

“I’d kill for some, Cho.” You mumbled against his chest, sighing contentedly as his Herculean arms came around your shoulders to squeeze you back. A squeal of delight escaped you when you felt your feet leave the ground, wrapping your legs around his hips so you could climb into a more secure position, arms locked around his shoulders now as he began his trek back to the school with his hands gripping at your thighs.

It was something Choso took notice of very early on, how you’d flush instantly whenever he’d sweep you off your feet. That, and it didn’t hurt that his hands could wander without question when he was carrying you around wherever you went. His curiosity seemed to grow with each passing day, and he was quickly realizing that he was greedy, forever chasing an inexplicable craving he had for you that only drove him crazier the more he fed it. He had a general idea of what his body was asking of him, but the half-curse was still painfully unaware of how to broach the topic, or even what to do. 

So, for now, he’d allow his hands to creep up the expanse of your plush thighs, the ones he could undoubtedly squeeze between his fingers till they fell off. You didn’t stop him as his veiny hands drifted up to cup at the swell of your rear, so he figured it was innocent enough, even if it felt so incredibly far from it. God, how his digits seemed to be lighting ablaze, that insatiable demon in the back of his mind roaring for more as it always did. He wondered if you’d notice, glancing at your contended side profile as he allowed his fingers to squish at those enticing pieces of you that seemed so off limits despite your lack of protest. They were soft, just as he thought they’d be, and maybe if he just snuck a few inches lower he’d be able to see if that heat that seemed to emanate from between your legs was—

“Having fun?” You mused, trying to calm the way your breath wanted to hitch as he drew closer and closer to where you so desperately wished he’d explore, but you were entering the common area now, and you really didn’t want to have to deal with the consequences should someone see his hand on its way to your now throbbing heat. 

In an instant, he halted his exploration, and you chuckled breathily as you watched the blood creep up his neck. 

“Sorry,” he stammered out, guilt beginning to eat at his chest. “I didn’t mean to make—”

“It’s okay, Cho.” You reassured, leaning back to look in his eyes that wanted to focus on anything but you at the moment. Your fingers crept up his nape to twist at the soft tufts of hair there, making him hesitantly peer at you. “You can… touch me wherever you want. Just when it’s us two though, okay?”

The thought had his mind spinning, his heart racing into his throat as he pondered all the possibilities. For now though, you were sliding down his torso, your boots hitting the wood floors with a small thud as you greeted his younger brother who perked up at your mention of hot chocolate. Choso blinked a few times when Yuji asked him if he was okay, and he quickly plastered on a smile, finally lighting up at the thought of spending some time with his two favorite people. 

Though it didn’t happen how you two had expected, the brothers had actually grown closer since the beginning of your relationship. Maybe it was because Choso’s time was actually occupied by something else for a change, and it had finally given Yuji the space he needed to come to his older brother on his own volition. The other theory was tethering on the fact that the pink haired boy and his friends were genuinely baffled that the half-curse had managed to woo you into a relationship, and they were constantly trying to butt in these days to get a sense of how that dynamic even worked. 

Either way, those little moments of Yuji’s incessant nosiness and reaching out to his brother for a change, you felt so lucky to have been able to watch a genuine connection form between the two. 

You smiled warmly as you got the ingredients together, watching as they looked out the window at the snowman you two left behind. The younger boy was using some… colorful terms to describe the unique creation, surely just so he could rile Choso up as he was growing so expert at doing. Rolling your eyes in mock exasperation, you turned to Megumi and Nobara who had been spectating on the sidelines.

“You guys want some too?” You offered, pretending not to notice the way Choso now had his brother in a headlock as he demanded that he apologize for criticizing the snowman you had worked so hard on. Both observers mumbled in agreement, too busy trying to see who would win this one. With a defeated sigh, you began pulling out some mugs. 

“Got enough for one more?” 

The voice almost had you groaning in disappointment, but the last thing you wanted was to cause an unnecessary scene, so you simply clutched at the mug in your hand tightly before offering a tight lipped smile. The smug man leaned on the counter beside you gleamed as his lips twisted into a smirk. 

“Want peppermint in yours?” You offered with as kind a voice you could manage, begrudgingly looking up at Hiroki, with his perfectly punchable face. Since you’d stood him up those months ago upon giving into Choso’s begging, he had been oh so subtly taunting around you. He was smart with it though, never blatant enough for anyone else to notice or even for you to point it out, but you could see it in that sneering glint in his eyes, he was holding it over your head. 

“You trying to tell me I should freshen up for ya’?”

At this, both Nobara and Megumi tore their attention away from the fight to make sure they’d heard that correctly. Even Yuji stopped his attempts to fight his brother off to blink up dumbly at the suggestive comment. You felt the irritation creeping up your neck in the form of flushed skin at the thought of your students having to witness this painfully awkward situation. 

“Dude, are you gonna let him do that in front of you?” The pink-haired boy whispered incredulously at Choso, who was still trying to gather why the energy in the room had changed so abruptly. His brows twitched down in confusion, and he couldn’t understand what was so wrong with the man’s words, but he knew your shoulders were tense and the smile on your face wasn’t a genuine one. Slowly releasing Yuji, he was by your side quicker than you could have processed that the room had grown so silent. 

You felt his hand creep around to rest on your side as he smiled at Hiroki. A ball of guilt twisted in your stomach— you had never told Choso that he was the one you’d stood up all those months ago, and you certainly hadn’t told him about the way he’d been subtly taunting you about it either. 

“Right,” you stammered, hoping desperately to pull it together lest you make the tension obvious to your oblivious boyfriend. “No peppermint then.” 

“Actually, forget about mine— not as enticing when everyone wants it, y’know?” Hiroki shrugged with a poorly hidden smirk as he reached out to brush a stray hair behind your ear. For a second time that day, Choso could feel the energy shift, and he wasn’t sure why the man’s words felt sickening as they settled in the air around him. The hand on your waist tightened, and he pulled you just the few centimeters it took to press you against his side. He was sure if his fingers weren’t pressed to you, they would’ve found their way around this man’s neck. “But let me know when you’ve had your fill, yeah?”

As he walked away, Choso stepped forward, unsure of what he would do but acting on an instinct he had yet to feel throughout his self-exploration as a human. Your hand, still warm from the tight grasp you had on the mug before you, wrapped around his fingers to tug him back. As if coming back down to earth, he blinked a few times, looking back at you with that familiarly terrifying expression— though you were already used to it.

“Are… you okay?” He asked quietly, still unsure of what had transpired and why it seemed to have changed the trajectory of their otherwise pleasant day. 

You nodded, looking away from his concerned gaze to top off his hot chocolate with some marshmallows. As he peered down at the mug now being presented to him, you held your breath. Slowly, he allowed his tired smile to once again replace his frown, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek in thanks. The memory of what had transpired still lingered in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to let it ruin his day as he began handing the filled mugs out to his brother and his friends. 

You hoped that Choso had forgotten the whole ordeal by that night. The scene kept replaying in your head as the steaming water from your shower ran down your back— how you just stood there and took it as he humiliated you. At the very least, you were grateful that your boyfriend wasn’t too well-versed in deciphering innuendos just yet, but it was clear that he knew something wasn’t quite right. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have pulled him back, let him act on whatever his instincts were clearly telling him to do at that moment. Though Hiroki was a talented enough sorcerer, you were confident in the ways Choso could outmatch him in size as well as combat. It would have been satisfying enough just to see the look on his face as your otherwise docile boyfriend stalked toward him with nothing but human instinct and lean muscle on his side. You smiled at the thought while turning the shower off.

No matter how much he probably deserved the reality check, Hiroki was still technically your coworker. The last thing you wanted was a meeting with the higher ups about how ‘mixing business with pleasure always ended badly’. It gave you a headache just thinking about it. You could be civil, you rationed with yourself as you towel dried. You only wondered if you could say the same for Choso if he ever put two and two together.

Sighing wistfully, you hung up your towel, moving to grab your clothes and get dressed. Blinking a few times in confusion, you took note of the empty counter where you typically left your clothes waiting for you. 

“Shit.” You groaned quietly, your heart picking up a bit at the mental image of your pajamas at the edge of your bed where you’d forgotten them. Chewing at your bottom lip, your eyes drifted to the closed door where you knew Choso was waiting on the other side of. 

You shook your head at your unnecessary nerves. Sure, you two had never… explored each other in such a way yet, but you were both adults. Ripping your towel back off the rack, you wrapped it snuggly around yourself before cracking the door open and peeking out. 

Your boyfriend was lying stomach down on your bed, surely pretending to be sleeping as he had a tendency of doing so you wouldn’t kick him out at the end of the day. Rolling your eyes at his performance, you quietly slipped through the door, hoping he’d keep his eyes closed long enough for you to gather your clothes and run back into the bathroom. 

As you tiptoed to the other side of the bed, you weren’t expecting his eyes to already be open, now staring widely back at you with an unreadable expression. With a small yelp of surprise, you flinched back. It took expert reflexes, but you managed to catch your towel swiftly as it began to slip down your chest. 

Choso would be a stone cold liar if he said he had never imagined what was always hiding beneath the chunky cardigans and oversized sweaters you seemed so fond of. Though he could say with full confidence that he didn’t expect to be so… distracted by it now that it was right in front of him. Well, underneath the towel you were clutching desperately to, but still— it stopped barely midway down your thighs, allowing his eyes to traverse the smooth expanse of your legs and give him just an infuriatingly small taste of the curve of your ass that began just where the fabric ended. 

He felt his fingers twist into the pillow he had clutched underneath his head as his eyes traveled up to your chest, where the swell of your breasts threatened to burst out the top of your towel thanks to the tight grip it now had around your body. They were almost heaving in time with your labored breaths, still glistening from the water of your shower, and god did he want to just lick it off of you. 

“I forgot my clothes.” You stated awkwardly, hoping that he’d either make a move already or just close his eyes. This though— the silent, wide eyed stares that did little to reveal just what was going on in that head of his, the anticipation of what might come— you weren’t sure you could handle it anymore. 

Choso licked his lips, finally blinking for the first time in what seemed to you like hours, before slowly sitting up at the edge of the bed. Tearing his gaze from you, his eyes landed on the neatly folded clothes beside him. It felt as though there was lead in his arms as he carefully picked them up. Instead of handing them to you as you thought he would though, they instead hovered over his lap as he continued to stare down at them in uncertainty. 

“Cho—” You began, but he finally looked up at you.

“Can I kiss you?” He requested, fisting at your clothes while his eyes gave your body another once over before meeting yours again. “Just like this?”

A shiver ran down your spine at the way his ominous eyes seemed to drink you in. Releasing a shaky breath, you took a tentative step toward him, now standing directly between his muscular legs. In an instant, he was dropping your clothes to the ground, head tilting back to watch what you’d do next. 

With your fist tightening around your towel, you carefully raised your knee to rest it beside his hip before doing the same with the other until you hovered over his lap. His glistening, pink lips parted, and you swore you heard the tiniest of moans slip past them as his hands quickly found the small of your back to pull you into a snug straddle on his lap. One of his hands remained firmly on your back as the other crept up to softly grasp your jaw as he finally kissed you. 

That long since dreamt about, golden spot between your legs was pressed right against him now, and, even with the god-forsaken barrier of his pants, he could feel its heat right on his groin. Choso whined into your mouth, the fresh scent of your body wash only adding to the circus of sensations that were overriding his system. 

The hand on your jaw drifted down your damp neck, testing its luck as it grazed over the mound of your breast still covered by the towel. You arched against his tentative touch, and he wondered if you’d think he was completely depraved if he asked you to take the damned thing off. If only he knew you were only keeping the useless fabric on for the sake of him setting his own pace. 

Despite this, you couldn’t help yourself as you allowed your hands to dance down his torso and creep under the hem of his crewneck. Your fingers greedily explored his chiseled physique, the sensation of his abs jolting against your touch making you press yourself into the steadily growing tent in his pants. Choso gasped greedily at the feeling, quickly pulling away from you to yank his shirt over his head once your hands reached his shoulders. 

Had you been given the chance, you were sure you could have spent hours staring at each rippling muscle of his abdomen, the way even his shoulders looked so deliciously defined— you wanted to just lean forward and take a bite of him. So, you did, hands gripping at his bulging biceps for balance as you sunk your teeth into his firm trap. His jaw dropped open involuntarily, and it was now his turn to drive his solid bulge into your center. You moaned softly around his muscle, releasing it in favor of wet kisses to soothe the now irritated area.

Choso wanted so desperately to chase that sultry sound that had just swam into his ears. He gripped at the nape of your neck to pull you back, panting softly as he stared into your blown-out eyes.

“Did… did that feel good?” He asked, hoping to any god that would listen to him that he wasn’t all alone with these confusingly craven feelings. 

“Yeah,” You quickly rasped out, placing a hand on his shoulder to push him back against the mattress. His hand hesitantly found your thigh, running his palm up the smooth flesh until his fingers met the hem of your towel. Leaning forward, you rolled your hips against his, delighting in the way his face scrunched up so gorgeously when he moaned. “Everything you do feels good to me, Cho.”

The fingers against your thigh squeezed at the fat there as his free hand reached up to tuck your hair behind your ear in hopes of getting a better look at you. Despite his mind being on a completely different astral realm at the moment, this movement struck a memory he desperately wanted to forget about right now. 

Shaking his head subtly, he pushed it to the back of his mind and allowed his hand to creep under your towel as you leaned down to kiss him once again. Your skin was still warm from your shower, and his fingers were a mere inches away from your bare ass, and god why the fuck can’t he stop thinking about Hiroki and his grimy hands in your hair?

You pulled back a bit upon noticing the falter in his movements. 

“You okay, Cho? You wanna stop?”

“No!” He insisted eagerly, cursing himself for ruining the moment. An amused smile played at your lips, and you leaned down to begin pressing wet kisses against his jaw. His dark eyes stared up at the ceiling, the same words replaying in his mind until he couldn’t take it anymore. In one swift moment, he sat up, hands gripped at your back so you didn’t fall off his lap as you yelped in surprise. “I just…”

The way your fingers were now tracing feather-light touches up the nape of his neck was making it hard for him to concentrate. Still, when he looked at you he could only see that unexplainably tense expression you’d given just a few hours ago. Whatever chills the sensation of your bare thighs pressed against the skin of his waist were producing though were wildly outnumbered by that gnawing feeling of dread growing steadily in his stomach. 

“What did he mean?” Choso’s question came out firmly despite his apprehensive gaze. You tilted your head in question, but he quickly clarified upon seeing your confusion. “Hiroki.” 

You didn’t say anything for a moment, but your knowing expression still made his stomach churn. 

“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now, Cho?” You tried to smile easily at him, leaning forward to press another chaste kiss to his pouted lips, to which he returned quickly. 

“Something is going on.” He pulled away just enough to mumble against your lips. With his forehead pressed against yours, you could feel the way his brows furrowed at the thought of being left out of something seemingly significant. You sighed, your warm breaths mingling in the minuscule space between you. 

“Remember when I was gonna go on that date? You know, before we got together.” You began as you pulled away to sit back on his thighs. After a short moment of thought, he nodded. The slow unfurrowing of his brows told you he was already placing the pieces together though. “It was supposed to be with him, and… I guess he’s just still upset about how I went about it, is all.” 

“So, when he said to let him know when you got your fill—”

“Choso, don’t think—”

“He meant of me.” 

The mark against his nose twitched as his face heated, but for the first time, you weren’t sure if it was born from embarrassment or rage. You tried to gage the far off look in his eyes but were coming up short. A shiver shot down your spine when he looked at you once again, his dark eyes sharp as daggers. 

“He talked about you like you were food.” He spat, the rest of the odd conversation finally clicking in his mind. The fingers against your back dug into your towel before he carefully maneuvered you to the spot beside him. You quickly sat up when he snatched his crewneck from the end of the bed. Grabbing blindly at your sweatpants, you shoved them on under your towel. 

“What are you doing?” You questioned cautiously, gripping at the other end of his sweater to stop him. 

“I’m going to talk to him.” But the enraged glint in his eyes told you he had more detailed plans than he was letting on. 

“No, you’re not.” You insisted, tugging on his arm. 

“This isn’t the first time he’s talked to you like this, is it?” He assumed, searching your face as if daring you to lie. “I don’t like this. I’m going to say something.” 

“Choso, I’m asking you to please let it go.” You pleaded as you tugged him down to sit beside you. “If you make a scene, I’m going to be the one who will have to clean it up later. Please, I’m a big girl— you don’t need to defend me.”

His shoulders slowly deflated while taking in the desperation in your eyes. He could feel his resolve slipping from right underneath him. 

“Will it really upset you?” 

“It really will.” 

The man’s sigh morphed into a quiet groan that you wouldn’t have noticed had you not been so close to him at the moment. His shadowy eyes, still swimming with that unmistakable vexation, watched as the frigid air finally caught up to you, and a subtle tremble shook your frame. Pursing his pouted lips, he slipped his forgotten crewneck over your head before pulling the damp towel off of you. 

“Are you gonna kick me out now?” He muttered, widening his eyes in the matter he knew you always seemed to melt for. As you had already come to recognize— Choso catches on fast.

“You can stay as long as you do that heater thing with your hands again.” You compromised with a grin, watching as he wasted no time pulling the covers over the two of you. Scooting closer to you, both his hands came up to cup your face, and you soon melted into the warmth that flooded them. Humming contentedly, you reached up to hold onto his wrist as you allowed your eyes to drift shut. 

He studied you as you relaxed against him, the fat of your cheeks squished against his hands, and he felt his heart accelerate. It had been a few months now since he began learning of this side of humanity— learning about you. No matter how much he seemed to squeeze at you when he had the privilege of being beside you, or how ever long he’d spend memorizing the divots and marks on your face, nothing Choso did ever stopped the longing he felt for you when you parted. A soft call of your name had you humming in question, too comfortable to bother opening your eyes. 

“Do you think you’ll ever… get your fill of me?” 

At his apprehensive question, you sighed wistfully, blindly trailing your hand up until it tangled into his hair. 

“I could never get enough of you, Cho. I— ” I love you. The words died in your throat. Cracking your eyes open, you found that he was already peering back at you, patiently awaiting the rest of your sentence. Was he ready for that? Were you ready for that? Even so, you questioned if he would really understand the depths of your words enough to reciprocate them genuinely. Twisting your fingers into the hair on his nape, you tugged at it gently, the way he always shivered over. “I think you’re my favorite guy.” 

The way he smiled warmly at you, eyes glistening as he started from scratch once again making sure he had every part of you committed to memory, told you that your meaning got across anyway. One of his hands creeped around to the back of your head to pull you against his bare chest, slotting his leg between yours in hopes of enveloping you completely. 

“You’re my favorite girl.” 

As the two of you went about your week, you prayed that your intimate reassurance would be enough for Choso. Though you could hardly blame him for getting so upset, you wouldn’t change your stance on him letting this one go. And, truthfully, he had all but forgotten it that next morning when he woke up beside you. The only thing still fresh in his mind was your sweet promise, the reassurance that, of all the men that had waltzed into your life, he had somehow managed to find himself at the top of your list. 

This haze-like bliss only lasted so long though, and he was rudely reminded of the need for that conversation in the first place when he saw Hiroki again. The man wasn’t even doing anything wrong, simply talking to one of the supervisors about his next assignment, but everything about him made Choso’s blood boil. 

You had agreed to go on a date with him once, so that must mean at some point in time, in some shape or form, you had been interested in him, too. It was selfish, childish even, but to hell if he didn’t feel like a petulant toddler at the very thought of it. Tearing his eyes away from the man, he continued to remind himself of your request. 

“You gonna show this dude up or what?” Nobara suddenly questioned with a quirk of her perfectly defined brow. Luckily, your fondness of the half-curse helped Yuji’s friends warm up to him more, though they still had difficulty relating to his strange demeanor half the time. 

Choso grumbled under his breath, continuing to collect the materials they needed for their sparring today. A part of him wanted to yell that he was trying to, but he thought it best to keep the kids out of his relationship with their sensei. 

“Yeah, bro, I can’t believe you didn’t kick his ass the other day.” Yuji guffawed with a shake of his head. 

“It’s not worth the trouble.” He responded simply, hoping that they’d change the subject so he could think of anything else. 

“Like hell it is!” The redhead scoffed, piling the targets she was holding into Megumi’s arms so she could pop her hip at the man before her. “You’re underestimating how much girls like a man that fights for them.”

This made Choso’s movements falter for a moment. Should he really be taking romantic advice from teenagers? Yuji circled around him as he continued driving home their point. 

“Yeah, you’re basically giving this dude free reign to flirt with your girl when you just stand there and let it happen.” 

“That’s not what I’m doing.” The half-curse finally defended, his mind reeling with the mixed information he was receiving.

“Then do something about it!” Kugisaki shouted in exasperation as the trio followed him outside. “You want her to feel unappreciated? Get bored of you?”

Her words hit him like a ton of bricks, the memory of Hiroki’s taunting playing like a sick melody in the back of his head. Perhaps if he had been in a different state of mind, not already plagued with insecurities of which he’d never had to worry about before, he would have been able to recognize that the teenagers probably didn’t know best. But it wasn’t different though, and insecurity and jealousy were rearing their ugly heads at him in a first time’s greeting. 

Choso was far too consumed in these new, vile emotions to not allow these kids’ words to seep into his veins. So, when Hiroki passed by him with that nasty smirk on his smug face as the student’s were sparring, purposefully shouldering at the half-curse’s already tensed arm, rational thought was out the window. His hand quickly wrapped around the man’s wrist before he could leave. Taking a calculated breath, he thought that maybe talking wouldn’t be so bad. 

“What’s your pro—”

“I know what you’re doing, and I’m asking you to stop.” Choso explained levelly, his grip unintentionally tightening around his wrist as Hiroki raised an amused brow at him. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”

“Easy man, c’mon.” There was the smallest trace of unease in the man’s falsely nonchalant voice. He tugged at his arm in an attempt to free it, but there wasn’t a chance in hell that was happening before he agreed to the request being laid before him. “I haven’t done anything to her.”

“I know you think I’m stupid, but I’m not.” Choso seethed, and perhaps that insecurity was doing the speaking for him, because he just knew how he appeared to everyone else. Despite his age, he was less experienced, less assimilated to the world around him, and though he tried, he wasn’t sure he’d ever catch up. Still, he wasn’t a child, and the last thing he wanted was for you to ever think of him as someone who couldn’t be there for you because of his inexperience with humanity. “And she might be worried about making a mess, but I’m not.”

He wasn’t sure what was coming over him, but it felt as though he might implode without the opportunity to prove himself to this scum who at one point had a shot with you— who was fucking with you right under his nose. Hiroki scoffed “There’s no need for all that. We’re friends right?” Using his free hand, he patted Choso’s shoulder with an attempted brotherly bonding gesture before leaning into his ear. “No bitch worth getting a black eye for, right?”

He wasn’t sure what caught the trio’s attention away from their sparring first— the instantaneous morphing of his blood mark as it traversed the length of his vexed face in tandem with his last resolve of patience snapping, or the literal snapping of Hiroki’s wrist under his crushing grip. 

“Call her by her name.” His heated demand somehow made it out over the pained yells of the man crumpling to his knees before him. 

“I—”

“Actually,” Choso’s indignation wouldn’t let him just shut the fuck up and let it go. The feeling of bones crunching under his grip didn’t quell his anger— it made it worse. He was boiling over, bursting at the seams in search of relief that was nowhere in sight. “Don’t speak to her again— don’t speak about her again.” 

He thought it would help, give him a sense of accomplishment that he’d protected you from the disrespect of the lesser than individuals you were forced to call coworkers. What he didn’t understand though, was the fact that he was protecting himself. This man could come and make you think lesser of him, and how could he not do anything to stop it? Though he’d had time for his confidence in areas such as combat and technique to flourish over the years, Choso still held the vulnerability of a man decades younger than his body revealed. 

Despite his own justification, nothing would do away with the precipicing guilt setting his guts ablaze with discomfort. It couldn’t be explained— Hiroki deserved it, he deserved the humiliation of having to wake in the morning with the knowledge that everyone saw him brought to his knees so easily. So, why was the half-curse’s mind reeling with dramatized scenarios of how he might explain himself to you when the news undoubtedly found your ears? No matter the myriad of alternate endings he’d concocted though, nothing could have truly prepared him for the betrayal in your eyes as you burst into his space that night. 

Choso stood from the edge of his bed with a haste, as if trying to shroud the fact that he’d been staring at the door with an inexplicable immobility for what seemed like hours. His eyes fluttered as the heavy door fell back against its frame with a thud. Your lips parted, almost as though you had your monologue pre-planned from the moment you began your enraged trek toward his living space, but they shut with a click of your teeth as your face scrunched in frustration. 

His feet were planted firmly into the wooden floors beneath him, preparing himself for the calculated rage that was surely building within that heavenly frame of yours. What came though was worse, because your words were quiet and your eyes lost that flare of outrage that they held when you first entered, replaced by a hoaxed glimmer that made your irises gloss over heartbreakingly. 

“I asked you not to, Choso.” Your cheeks were still ablaze with an unfamiliar rouge, and he wasn’t sure if it was the bitterness of the cold nipping at your skin or an internal ticking clock. 

“How could I have ignored it?” He tried, but you were shaking your head before the last syllables spilled from his lips. 

“Because I asked you not to.” You ground out once again, that rage making a sudden resurgence as you took an indignant step toward him. “Do you know how humiliated I was?”

“You didn’t hear what he said about—”

“I don’t care what he said!” You gasped in exasperation, a smile of disbelief gracing your face before it fell back into that painful scrunch that made his soul cry out. “I don’t care about him. I care about you, I care about my job, my reputation, Choso!” 

The man fell silent before you, his face beginning to sting from the blood rushing to his mortified cheeks. He could only stare down at you with that familiar pout as you crossed your arms over your chest and shook your head. 

“I had to hear about how I was the cause of some pissing match today that put one of our sorcerers on leave.” You began pacing the room in your incensed explanation. Choso wanted to ask you what that meant, as he always felt so comfortable doing with you, but he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth. “Which, by the way, I am now having to help out on missions during said leave, just to put a cherry on top of this shit cake.” 

“I-I’m sorry, I—”

“No you’re not, you’re sorry because I’m having to clean it up like I told you I would.” You knew you might have been laying it on a little thick, but logic was racing from you in the midst of your humiliation. 

“You’re right, I’m not sorry.” He stated affirmatively, as if just now coming to this realization himself. Your brows shot into your hairline. “And you can’t expect me to be, it’s not fair. I can’t, I don’t know—”

“Yes, you can.”

“I don’t know how.”

“I’ve seen you learn to do things a hell of a lot harder than controlling your anger, Choso.”

“No— I don’t know how to not feel like I’m not good enough for you.” He finally confessed, face ablaze with a shameful tint of red. Your arms gradually fell from their defensive position, hovering at your sides with the weight of a thousand bricks as you watched the dampness gather in his waterline. “I-I’m sorry I made things hard for you, but I don’t know what to do with these feelings. You might have had time to figure it out, but this is my first time, okay?”

“Choso—” You breathed softly, reaching out for him when he turned from you to bury the heels of his hands into his leaking eyes.

“I’m sorry if I messed up. I just don’t know, I don’t—” His trembling ramble was cut short when you wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back. “Sometimes I don’t understand when someone is making fun of me right to my face, but I didn’t care until they started doing it to you, and I was…” You felt him take a shuddering breath. “I was too clueless to be there for you, or to defend you, or—”

“Cho, please look at me.” You pleaded gently. With an anxious air that was just so like him, he slowly shifted in your loosening grasp until you were looking right up at his blushing, tear stained cheeks. “I’m sorry I got mad at you. I didn’t know you were feeling like this.”

His somber eyes drifted to the side as if unable to look at you as he carefully sank onto the floor. You placed a hand on his shoulder while you lowered your beside him, watching carefully as he shoved his head into his hands.

“You shouldn’t be apologizing to me. I’m the one that messed up.” He corrected affirmatively. After a moment though, he peeked up at you with a hesitant purse of his lips. “Well, I didn’t mess up when I broke his wrist. I’d do it to his other hand too if I had the chance.”

Despite the mess his aforementioned actions had spilled upon you, you couldn’t help but laugh softly with an incredulous shake of your head. 

“Can I be honest?” You questioned, nudging against his arm with your shoulder, and he nodded with a quick sniffle. “I’m almost more upset that I didn’t get to see it.”

This helped ease some of the palpable tension in his shoulders, knowing that if you were still able to laugh with him that he hadn’t entirely fucked everything up. A shy smile spread shakily across his wet lips. Leaning forward, you brushed a featherlight touch against his cheek.

“Sometimes I feel things so deeply, and I don’t know where to put it all.” His attempted explanation made your heart warm. “I don’t know how to make sense of them, and I don’t know if I’m the only one feeling them.”

“Give them to me then.” You insisted, shifting to sit on your knees in front of him. “I’ll help you. I always have, remember? You have to talk to me though.”

Give them to you? There was a point so early on in your relationship when he was willing to do so without question, eager to learn whatever wisdom your advantage on humanity could give him. You always seemed to have the right answer— the ones that made it all click into place. Choso was learning though that as your relationship blossomed, as did the complexity of all those human emotions— as did the intensity of them. How far could he push before the impending possibility came to fruition that he was alone in these alien feelings? 

“I thought if he kept talking about me that… eventually you’d believe him.” 

You maneuvered closer to him until his hands found your waist, inviting you to sit on his lap. Running your hands up the sides of his neck, he closed his eyes as your fingers slipped into his hair. 

“Did you think any less of me because of what he said?” You asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. His eyes quickly cracked open, and he stared back at you as if offended that you’d ask such a thing of him. 

“No, I would never—”

“Then how could you believe I’d ever think less of you?” 

Silence hung between you, weighing you down on his lap as he stared back at you. Your words made him feel guilty— as though he had betrayed you by thinking so lowly of your devotion to him. His eyes drifted down your face, lips parting with an unspoken apology lingering between the minuscule space separating your mouth from his. 

“I… I have something for you.” 

His words were familiar, making your lips curl up at the memory of the day he’d confessed his feelings for you. Tilting your head, you squinted your eyes teasingly. 

“Is it another car?” You quipped, almost breaking your resolve as you watched his face fall, eyes drifting to the side in doubt before meeting yours once again.

“Do you want another car?”

God, how could you ever stay mad at him?

You clung onto Choso’s shoulders as he piggybacked you back to your dorm, purposefully jostling you here and there just to hear your harmonious giggles. Though you told him you could walk just fine on your own, he insisted on taking you himself— not that you fought him terribly hard on it either. In fact, you found it endearing how much he delighted in carrying you around, though you weren’t sure if it was due to his own enjoyment or the knowledge that you simply melted each time for it. 

“Close your eyes.” Choso scolded as he looked back at your curious gaze once he’d reached your door. Huffing in frustration, you allowed your eyes to shut, your head falling against his shoulder in defeat. You heard him rustiling with the spare key you’d given him— not that he had ever managed the tenacity to invite himself in without your prior invitation. Each time, you’d shake your head in amusement at the sound of his gentle raps against your door, and each time you’d remind him that he had his own key. 

The lingering smell of your festive candle flooded your nose as he stepped into the room, making you sigh contendedly. He crouched down until you felt your bum hit the soft comforter of your bed, and he carefully released you. 

“Don’t look yet.” He commanded clemently as you bounced back gently against your mattress. 

“Not peeking.” You assured with a smile, anticipation tickling up your toes and into your legs as he leaned down to press a swift kiss against your forehead. Upon feeling him pull away, your chest caved a bit in disappointment, your thoughts already having wandered far from whatever likely innocent surprise he had awaiting you. 

There was a subtle rustling on the other end of the room before a soft click had your curiosity reeling. 

“Um— okay, you can look now.” 

Squinting your eyes open, you were met with a myriad of gently twinkling lights. Blinking a few times to focus your vision on the sudden onslaught of brightness, an abrupt gasp escaped you at the sight of the lit up Christmas tree in the corner of your space. The ornament adorning it were a mess of contrasting colors, some too close together while there were various bare spots on the tree. Most of the decorations, you noted with a suppressed giggle, were focused on the upper half of the tree while it remained awkwardly vacant toward the bottom. It was a bit crooked, leaning marginally toward the right in its stand. It was far from the meticulously coordinated trees you had grown so accustomed to setting up, but it was perfect to you nonetheless. 

“Do you like it?” Choso questioned anxiously, smiling apprehensively at his first attempted Christmas tree. With his shadowy eyes fluttering from his handiwork to your awe-struck face, he tilted his head. “I can change it if you don’t like it.” 

“When did you do this, Cho?” You breathed out incredulously, feeling the salty dampness already gathering pathetically in your waterline. Sliding off the bed, you took a few, slow steps toward the tree. 

“Oh— I… I came this morning after you left for class.” He explained with downcast eyes. “I’m sorry for coming in without— hmph!”

His practically instinctual apologies were cut short as you tossed yourself onto his chest, arms wrapping snuggly around his neck. Without question, he was trailing his needy hands up your back to press you closer to him, dipping his nose into your nape with that love-sick smile of his.

“This is alot better than a car.” You attempted a joke through your onslaught of emotions, but the slight tremble in your voice was betraying you. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“You said Christmas gifts have to go under a tree.” Your boyfriend said obviously, and you followed his gaze to the choppily wrapped present sitting under said tree. Biting down your grin, you peered back up at him with a raised brow. 

“And would that be for me too, babe?” You teased, revelling in the sheepish smile that softened his intimidatingly sharp features as he nodded. “Well what do you want for Christmas, Cho?”

The sun was steadily setting outside your window, causing the soft glow of the string lights to warm your sparkling eyes as they stared up at him in question. The warmth in his flushed cheeks seemed to drain from his face, settling like stones at the pit of his stomach. Gulping at the lump in his throat, he shook his head softly at your question. 

“I don’t think I should answer that.” He sighed out honestly, lips twitching nervously under your questioning gaze. 

“What do you mean?”

The tilt of your head made your luscious hair sway just so, the ends brushing teasingly against his arm and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Had you focused enough, you would have felt the way his heart was beating out of his firm chest, making his breathing labor. 

Give them to me. Your words rang in the back of his muddled mind. That overwhelming sense of uncertainty and confusion flooded him once again, and though you had specifically told him you’d walk him through anything, this just seemed too daunting a confession. 

“It’s not—” His tongue darted out to lick his drying lips, and your wanton eyes followed the movement with a sharp precision. “I don’t think it’s… appropriate.”

Your brows rose marginally at his claim, the realization flooding you with the unconscious squeeze of his hands on your waist. A deep, calculated breath had your chest rising to brush against his, and you felt him shudder at the proximity. 

“It’s… just us here.” You offered quietly, hoping your silent invitation was enough for him to burst out of the anxious shell he’d been hiding behind all these months. He furrowed his brows in contemplation at your words, weighing whether the fruits of his vulnerability would outweigh the humiliation of possible rejection. Biding his time, he leaned down to press a longing kiss against your awaiting lips, the little remaining blood that was keeping his mind functioning properly rushing down south. 

“Just us?” He repeated breathlessly against your lips as he tried to make sense of the new territory he was daring to traverse. 

You nodded urgently, reaching up on your tiptoes to chase his panting mouth. Choso’s hands traveled down your waist to hook under your bum, hoisting you up around his hips as he carefully sunk to his knees. The soft whimpers escaping him were driving you into a nonsensical stupor despite his attempts to swallow them down. 

Shifting your hips forward, you urged him to fall back against his hands, his long fingers digging into the plush rug beneath him. You took advantage of the exposed expanse of his heaving chest, running your hands down his pecks until your fingers were dancing across the ripples of his abs as you bit at his lips. His response to your explorative touch was almost instantaneous, raising his hips in a desperate hope that your hands would slip just a few inches lower. 

All his not-so-subtle thrust did though was drive his painfully constricted length right against your inner thigh, the friction nearly causing his arms to buckle underneath of him. You had never mentioned it before— all the times his cock would press against you in such an embarrassingly obvious fashion. It never took much at all, and Choso wasn’t sure if your nonchalance at the feeling was because it was normal, or if you were simply saving face for him as you so endearingly did more often than not. 

Whichever it was though, he couldn’t take it anymore, not when you were dragging your hips against him as though you knew much more about his affliction than you dared to let on. The moan that left him almost teetered on the edge of a cry, and he brought a hand up to push against the subtle arch in your back, pressing you firmly against where he needed you the most. 

Your warm breath shuddered against his swollen lips as you moaned. The hands you had on his abdomen clutched desperately at his shirt, fighting for your composure because you could feel every inch of him straining right against your core, and his sweatpants were doing little to leave anything to the imagination. Pulling away from you in a frenzy, his eyes remained squeezed shut as his fingers dug into the fabric of your sweater. 

“Help me.” He pleaded, opening his eyes hesitantly to catch your reaction with burning cheeks. 

“He-Help you?” You repeated unassuredly, and he nodded quickly as your face flushed with the implications of his request. 

The hand on your back snaked around to tangle in with your own fingers, tentatively maneuvering your hand down his naval. His breath hitched as he guided you over his waistband, and he peered up at you timidly. A damp warmth spread along the lining of your panties at the raw vulnerability of his movements. When you made no indication of protest, his fingers danced up to grip gently at your wrist before you finally took the initiative to finish his clearly set out path, wrapping your hand around the prominent length poking through the outline of his bottoms. 

“Please.” Choso gasped out, bucking up into your warm hand. A blissed out hum reverberated in his chest, and he leaned forward to press his forehead against yours. “This is all I want. You’re all I want.”

Your thusfar gentle grip on his cock tightened ever so slightly at his tender words, and it was almost instinctual when you palmed him purposefully, squeezing carefully toward his tip in a manner that had him reduced to puddy beneath you. Fighting through your lustful haze, you nodded deliriously at his request, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Choso,” It was clear that you were trying so very hard to steady your voice, and your careful tone flooded into his consciousness. His darkly-lined eyes were half-lidded as they regarded you in question. “Have you… ever touched yourself?”

This made his gaze widen just a hair, the mark across his nose twitching in a tell-tale sign of his embarrassment. Though it seemed impossible, his face seemed to flush that much brighter as he opened and closed his mouth in an attempt to gather his composure before he answered you. A shaky huff escaped him as he cast his gaze to the side, and your free hand reached up to brush the hair from his face. 

“It’s okay, it’s normal. I just want to understand how much you know.” You explained gently. At this, his lashes shifted as he hesitantly looked back up at you before offering a nod so subtle you almost missed it. 

His mind was reeling with memories of all the mornings he’d spent with his hand shoved haphazardly down his pants, dreams of you having roused him from his sleep and lingering without any hope of solace. He thought about how dirty he’d felt when facing you afterwards, ignorant to the fact that he’d spilled himself onto his own mattress with fantasies that one day it’d be you. After so long of feeling isolated and depraved in these unfamiliar cravings, you were right here above him, your hand stroking up his cock in an all too familiar motion, telling him he was normal.

You nodded slowly at his confirmation, releasing your grip on him to trail your fingers along the sliver of skin exposed between where his shirt had ridden up and his waistband. His large frame trembled at the miniscule touch, hips rising in anticipation of your next move. The sudden shift dragged his length right against your pulsing clit, and you could barely disguise your breathy moan as you leaned into the friction. 

The wheels were turning in his head as he absorbed your reaction, his curious eyes locked onto where you two were connected. He tentatively raised a hand and settled it testingly just below your belly button before peering up at you.

“Can I… touch you too?” 

You hummed affirmatively, quickly maneuvering back as Choso leaned forward purposefully to lay you against the pillowy rug just beside the Christmas tree. He hovered on his knees between your spread legs, eyes drifting all over as if he didn’t know where to start. Your eyes fluttered shut as his hands began their wavering trek up the sides of your thighs. Feeling him pause at your waistband, you cracked your eyes open.

“You can take them off.” You offered, watching the way his eyes lit up. “—if you want.”

If he wanted. The man could have laughed in your face, because he’d be damned if he wanted anything more right now. 

Hooking his fingers into the waistband of your leggings, you assisted him by lifting your hips while he tugged them down. In his desperate pursuit, the laced hem of your panties were partially yanked down, leaving them bunched and just barely covering your intimates. He was leaning down, eyes locked on your center as though it might disappear if he blinked too long. His intense gaze made you flush, and you weren’t expecting it when he pushed the nearly translucent fabric to the side, the sudden gust of cool air against your wetness making you shiver.

Choso hummed, but you could swear it morphed into a soft groan as he decided that this view just wouldn’t do before sliding your panties off as well. The sight of your plush folds glistening under the twinkling Christmas lights was causing a sheen sweat to break out across his neck, and he pulled uncomfortably at the fabric of his shirt. 

“Take it off, Cho.” You pleaded, desperate to not be the only one so exposed. 

There was no need to tell him a second time, and his shirt was quickly joined with your discarded bottoms. Moved by the wanton way your eyes seemed to drink him in, he found himself crawling up over you to kiss you once again. Your hands wrapped greedily around his broad shoulders, nails working their way across his taut skin. He gasped against you as your hips rolled up in desperate search of friction, your wet warmth grazing against his covered thigh. 

“How? Show me how to touch you.” He rasped out, trembling hands already dancing down your naval as he propped himself up with his free arm. Much like he’d done just moments prior, you laced your finger through his, guiding them through your folds. 

“Here.” You gasped as his warm fingers grazed your clit. Choso’s face crumpled at the feeling, mouth falling open in a silent moan. You pressed down on his middle and ring finger with your own, encouraging the soft circular motions around your swollen bud. The back of your head hit the rug as you arched into his touch, slowly removing your guiding hand once the motion had grown familiar to him. 

“Am I doing it right?” His question came out practically a whisper as he watched you writhe against his hand. The strain in his pants was becoming painful at this point, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop the sensual circles that were sending you into such a whimpering frenzy, by his hand nonetheless. 

“Mhmm,” You hummed, one hand drifting up to grip at his bicep as the other trailed under your sweater, lifting it up in search of relief from the sudden sweltering heat Choso seemed to emanate. “You’re doing so good for me, Cho.” 

A groan worked its way up his throat at your praise, and his hips lurched forward in search of the pathetic friction your leg could provide him. His desperation was sending sparks up your thighs, making his slippery massaging feel that much more heavenly as you felt the familiar coil tightening in your stomach. 

Your jaw popped open, the hand that had found its way under your sweater clutching at your breast as if it could ground you. Choso’s eyes followed the movement hungrily. The swell of your breasts were just barely peeking out from the hem of your top, but it was enough to drive him into a frenzy if he couldn’t see what it was hiding immediately. 

“Take it off.” He commanded with a wavering resolve, his fingers increasing their pressure against you in anticipation. 

Had your teetering release not been solely in his hands at the moment, you would have teased him for his sudden burst of assertive confidence, but you thought you might begin kicking and screaming if anything deterred his rhythmic motions right now. Crossing your arms over your chest to grasp at the bottom of the offending sweater, you messily ripped it over your head before settling back against the rug that was now warm from your imprint. 

Your breasts bounced with your abrupt motions, and Choso felt the saliva gather embarrassingly on his tongue. It was far too clouded in your mind for you to notice though, your breaths beginning to come out in short pants as your peak drew nearer and nearer. 

“Please, please, please.” You babbled nonsensically, gripping at his forearm as your hips began grinding against his fingers. And, god, he wasn’t sure what you were begging for, but he knew he’d lay down his life right here and now if it meant he could deliver it to you on a silver dish, because he knew for certain that he’d never had the privilege of laying his eyes on anything nearly as debauchedly stunning as your naked body submitted so vulnerably beneath him. 

“Anything, I’ll give you anything.” He rationed through lustfully slurred words. Dipping down, he pressed drooling kisses against your heaving breasts, succumbing to a primal desire as he sunk his teeth into one of them.

“Cho—” Your choked plea pitched until it fell silent all together. 

Shifting his weight from his propped arm to his knees, he used his now free hand to press down against your hip as your thighs began trembling with the force of your climax. A warming flush spread from your scalp down your spine, sending tingles of relief down each of your nerves until you slumped back against the ground. 

“Ah— ah!” You stammered out as your boyfriend continued his purposeful ministrations against your now overly-sensitive bundle of nerves. Slamming your thighs shut against his wrist, you attempted to shimmy away from his relentless fingers. “Too much, Cho, it’s too much!”

His lips popped off your breast to pout wetly at you, the hand on your waist pulling you back down toward him as his fingers finally paused their assault on your center. Loosening the squeeze your thighs had trapped him in, he ran his hand up your stomach and chest before grasping the side of your neck. 

Upon closer inspection, you noticed the dampness that clung to his lashes and the way his brows were drawn softly together as he looked down at you hazily. 

“Choso? Are you—”

“I love you.”

Despite having been spread open before him just seconds ago while coming undone on his fingers, you somehow felt all the more exposed now. Your eyes fluttered a few times, and you drew your arms closer to your chest as though it would shield you from his raw gaze. A breathy, forced laugh escaped you as you shook your head softly at him. 

“You’re just turned on right now, Choso.” You tried to brush off his sudden confession, protecting your pride from falling victim to his naivety. He shook his head though, pulling you up until you sat perched upon his lap. 

“No, I love you.” He stated again, this time more matter of factly. “You’re the only one who treats me like.. I’m human and not a curse. You’re the only one who makes me feel like I am human.” His fingers wrapped hesitantly around your forearms as he gently coaxed your arms away from their defensive positions. “I love you. Don’t you love me?”

A soft tremor wobbled your bottom lip, but you willed yourself to pull it together. Allowing your protective walls to crumble down with your last bit of resolve, you pushed at his chest until his back hit the floor. Not once did he let his eyes drift from yours, even as your fingers dug into his waistband to tug down the remainder of his clothes. 

His swelled length sprang free from the fleece lined prison they had been straining against for painfully long, falling against his stomach with a barely noticeable smack. You thought he might shy away from you, flush that familiar shade of red you’d begun making synonymous with him in your mind, but it only felt so natural to him to have your lingering eyes on even the most intimate parts of him. 

“Of course I do.” You whispered, moving to straddle his slim, defined waist. A shudder racked your body at the feeling of his thick cock pressing against your stomach, his tip already smeared with evidence of his arousal. His mouth fell open, eyes widening at the sensation of your soaked folds running across his length. With his rustled hair splayed out on the floor surrounding his head, pupils creating black holes in his already midnight stained eyes, you concluded that Choso would never stop growing more beautiful. “I love you.” 

With a fluttering blink, a stray tear gathered at the corner of his eye, slipping down his temple as you nudged his tip past your slicked entrance. It had admittedly been a while since you were last intimate with someone, so you couldn’t help but wince subtly at the stretch of his girth forcing your walls open. For him though, he wouldn’t know the difference, because he was inside you, and your heat was enveloping him like flames licking up his every nerve ending.

 His hands hovered over your back as you slowly sank down onto him, unable to find the courage to disrupt you until he was finally buried in you to completion. With featherlight brushed against your spine, Choso ran his fingers down the expanse of the silken skin on your back until he met the curve of your ass. Curling his grasp around the plush of fat he’d learned he could utterly worship till the day his body became one with the earth, he held you in place for a moment. 

By the heaving of his chest and the tremble in his pitched moan, you knew he wouldn’t last very long, but you were satisfied enough to watch him come undone under the careful touch of someone who truly loved him— someone he truly loved. 

“Hah, I— I love you.” The man gasped again, teary eyes rolling back into his skull as you steadied your hands on his chest to lift your hips just barely off him before sliding back down. You bit at your bottom lip as his tip grazed against that plush of nerves that hadn’t been explored in so long. His lips were pulling down into his famous pout while he planted his heels into the ground to chase your rhythm with sloppy thrusts of his own. 

“I love you, Cho.” You reciprocated through a harmonious moan, watching his face scrunch up pitifully as the pace of his hips grew erratic. 

“Bite me—ah!” He whimpered softly, puppy dog eyes pleading up at you in the way he knew you could never refuse.

 Your lips curled up at his request, unaware of just how much your previous actions had lingered in his mind. Tracing up the firm planes of his chest, your fingers tangled into his hair, tugging at it to maneuver his head to the side before leaning down to sink your teeth into the first bite you had left on him, the mark just barely faded on his trap. 

Choso felt utterly consumed by you, his heart thumping wildly in his muffled ears. With the pressure of your fingers’ grasp against his roots combined with the subtle sting of your canines against the sensitive skin just below his neck, it took all but one last supple roll of your hips for it all to come crashing down on him. 

His eyes rolled back, a delirious grin tickling his lips at the sensation that he was all yours to use. The once gentle squeeze his fingers had on your bottom morphed into a frenzied digging, surely leaving crescent shaped marks in the wake of his chipping nails. It was meant to hold you there, ensure your hips stayed glued to his own as he spilled himself inside of you with bone grinding thrusts.  He could feel himself oozing out of you and onto the unsuspecting rug beneath him, but none of it mattered to him because he finally understood.

 It didn’t matter the spiteful words that would slice across his vulnerable soul, and it didn’t matter whether or not someone thought he was human enough for you. What he was experiencing now, enveloped in the must of sex-littered air that surrounded you was all the confirmation he’d ever need that he was irrevocably soul tied to you. The half-curse had seen the absolute pinnacle of humanity, and you were perched upon it with your drooping breasts and pleasure-ridden face— the one that made the space between your brows crease and your nails dig into whatever slab of muscle on him was closest to you. 

As he finally began tumbling down the hill of his climax, his hands drifted up to splay across your back, keeping you pressed against his sweat lined chest. The twinkling lights in his peripheral seemed to blur at the edges of his sight as they mixed with his lingering tears. You were working gentle kisses up his neck, dragging your wet lips across his sharp jaw until you finally circled back to his still swollen lips. He hummed against your kiss, deciding affirmatively that he’d stay awkwardly splayed out across the floor of your dorm all night long if it meant he could keep you this close. 

“I… I think I have to get you a better Christmas gift.” Choso concluded, revelling in the sensation of your warmth still enveloping his softening manhood. “Yours was way better.”

You laughed tiredly against his cheek, pulling back to peer down at him in question. 

“What did you get me?”

His cheeks flushed, and he looked over at the small gift that sat just a few feet away from you under the tree with a soft pout. 

“It’s… it’s a Britney Spears CD.”

this was supposed to come out before christmas, but alas the procrastination won this time, so sorry for the delay :(

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[sylusgworl]

(INVOLUNTARILY) GAWKING ft. xavier

content: fluff, fem!reader, housemates!au, pre-relationship situation, reader is awkward, xavier tries at flirting (and kinda fails),

a/n: it's too hot outside to properly function so my brain birthed this fic, uh enjoy ig - wrote this in like 15 mins (my study break) so it yet to be proofread. wc: 857 . rbs are very appreciated <3

m.list

it is infact not alright when it's 37 °C outside (about 100 F) and you are living with a (male) housemate.

nope, you no way you were going full on nude in front of xavier, nope. you'd rather die from the heat. although, at some point the heat became so unbearable any insane thought became completely rational.

“ugh it's so hot,” you groaned while stretching on the sofa, the shorts and tank top feeling sticky against your skin.

oh, right, the ac refused to turn on for some reason, and the fan was broken, apparently one of its blades had snapped off and it just stopped functioning correctly.

xavier cocked his head out of his room, a pearl of sweat sliding down his temple until it fell in a bead down from his chin.

he had it way worse, his wide shorts just right above the knee and a white t-shirt... just the sight of that made you sweat.

“it's alright [name], i've just ordered another one, it'll be delivered in a couple of hours,” his soft voice angelically carried the glad tidings, except you felt even more desperate and exhausted.

more hours of that inferno.

you closed your eyes. maybe a short nap would help take you out of that dread. minutes passed and... nope it was too hot to sleep.

you sat up and headed for the kitchen. there, a sight made you stop in your tracks. an unexpected one.

xavier leaned against the counter, shirtless, while drinking a can of chilled soda. his toned muscles seemed to shine under the natural light of the sun, his adam's apple bobbing up and down with each sip.

he didn't seem to notice you, so that gave you a chance to observe him for a while longer.

he was attractive alright.

you'd been housemates for about a month, but your schedules never aligned in a way that you'd be that often in each other's presence, so you'd never actually paid attention to xavier's presence around you.

you just thought having a man as a flatmate had too many downsides for your liking, but still accepted him as you really needed someone to split the rent with.

“oh, you're here,” his calm tone slowly carried you out of your trance.

xavier put down his soda and turned to face you, but then noticed his bare chest so he crossed his arms against it and swiftly turned around, a faint blush tinting his cheeks.

“oh how long have you been there? i'm sorry, i didn't realise...”

“no no, it's alright haha... i've been here for a while, i didn't mean to stare,” you stretch your hands forward in a defensive way, “but! i was going anyway...” you trailed off and ran away in a jiffy, heart thumping and a familiar warmth in your face.

shit. did i just get caught gawking?

you bit your lip in frustration and closed the door to your bedroom before plopping onto the carpeted ground.

dignity gone, you started planning your move-out. because, how could you even face him after that.

desperation aside, two hours went by, and except for the heat and the embarrassing scene from earlier replaying in your head every time you closed your eyes, nothing eventful happened.

“[name]?” a voice called out to you, followed by a knock.

you hesitated but still got closer to the door. “is she asleep?” a voice mumbled from the other side, so you nervously opened up.

xavier's watchful blue eyes were the first to meet your surpised - not really - gaze.

your heart leaped to your throat, you cleared your voice. “y-yes?” oh god, how awkward.

“i just wanted to tell you, the new fan has just been delivered,” he pointed to the living room.

“i already installed it, i think the maintenance is coming to fix our ac in about a day or two,” he said, trying to keep a neutral tone while scratching the back of his head.

your eyes involuntarily jumped to his flexed arm and you had to call each and every atom of your self-control to avert your gaze and stop staring.

“oh! that's... great! yeah!” you answered, a bit to excitedly. you hoped it sounded as natural as possible, embarrassment from a couple of hours prior still holding you captive.

xavier nodded and turned around, walking a few steps. then, as if he'd remembered something, he stopped and turned around.

you'd only now noticed a small bag he was carrying in his hand. he then offered it to you.

“here, since i've put the fan in the living room, use this if it's too hot at night,” and off he went, as soon as you grasped it.

closing the door behind you, you unpacked the gift(?) only to find a mini desk fan. how adorable, you thought with a smile, thinking of xavier's attentiveness, as warmth spread across your chest from gratefulness... and maybe something else.

a small paper fell out, so putting the object aside, you opened it.

i'm sorry for making you feel embarrassed earlier. also, i didn't say you couldn't look, you can stare as much as you want.

you gulped. oh.

© sylusgworl - 2025, all rights reserved / i don't allow anyone to copy, repost on other platforms or sell my works.

[ceilidho]

fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 4 masterlist

-

At the quantum level, an electron can behave as both a wave and a particle. It is the act of observing it that confines it to a single form. The electron that once could’ve passed through multiple openings at once is forced to choose a single path when observed. 

Because what the eye sees becomes—

“—real,” you whisper, staring up at the face hovering in the window beside your bed. His smile doesn’t waver. “You can’t be real.”

“Sorry about the other day,” he says, instead of answering. “I got a bit lost after you left.”

Again, you pinch the soft skin of your thigh to wake yourself up and twitch when the pain sets in. The reassurance that you’re still awake doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you. 

“This isn’t real,” you repeat to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and breathing heavily out through your mouth. “This isn’t real.”

Your words are met with a silence so profound that it almost feels as though you’ve plugged your ears, until you open your eyes and he’s still there, waiting right outside the window.

The blue lights around the inside of the window glow soft against his dark skin. You can make out the finer details of his face up close—the smoothness of his skin; the faint scar on his cheek; the fine grooves in his plush bottom lip. Too beautiful to have spent the last several days without food or water or sleep or fresh oxygen. You, with access to all of those resources, feel grimy; gritty. Skin tight against the bone, and hollowed.

“Was that you? Before?” you ask, thinking of the astronaut you saw drifting out in the distance, so lifeless and limp that you imagined the body within it long expired. 

He nods. The motion is slow, deliberate; still that sluggishness analogous with zero gravity. 

You wait for him to volunteer more information, but he just smiles wordlessly at you. It’s difficult to know where to begin. You’ve always been the kind to break a problem down into smaller, more manageable parts, but with this you don’t even know where to start. Its bigness is all you can focus on. The enormity of it. 

“Where did you go?” you ask instead. “You weren’t—…you were gone when I came back. We couldn’t find you.”

He blinks. “Elsewhere.”

“You can…move around out there?” 

“I can.”

His deliberate evasiveness frustrates you. Ostensibly one-dimensional with his glib charm and easy smile, but with an unplumbed depth. His response provokes more questions than it answers, and you can tell that it’s intentional. 

But again you’re prescribing an internal locus of control to an apparition that has been proven to exist only in your head. It can only supply you with information that you already have. 

And that’s the real quandary, isn’t it? The thing that has you whispering softly to yourself oh no oh no oh no oh no in the quiet of your room. Your body knows that the front door of your mind lies on its side, ripped from the hinges, dirt mounds blackening the entryway. And now outside stands a man, waiting to be let in. 

“How am I able to hear you?”

He smiles. “You must just want to listen.”

You huff out a breath through your nose. There it is again. 

“Who are you?” you ask, and you know that his answer won't matter. It won't matter because it won't be real. Because it's just you in your head and the words are too loud and whatever sickness is in your mind has crystallized in the body of a man that stares at you with a gaze too intense, too penetrating for what he is.

“You can call me Gaz,” he says simply, teeth peeking out from behind his lips when he enunciates the name. Glinting sharp like bone in the blue light. 

His answer makes you blink. It doesn’t seem like a name that you would come up with, but the mind works in mysterious ways. You didn’t think it could conjure up a person either, and now look at what’s happening to you. And it is happening to you, of that you’re sure. 

“Are you going to let me in?” he asks before you can open your mouth again.

He presses his gloved hand to the window. The folds in the fabric spread with his fingers, the pads of his fingers flecked with dust and grime, worn from years of use. 

You give a curt shake of your head. 

“Love…” Gaz says warningly. 

In the few days since he first appeared in the window, you’ve never heard him use that tone. You’re not too proud to say it frightens you. Whether he’s real or just in your head, so far Gaz has been perfectly affable, and you’re not sure you’re willing to face the implication that he might not always be that way. 

“I need to sleep,” you plead. “T-tomorrow—I’ll…I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

You press a button on the wall that drops a panel over the window with a quiet shunk, blocking Gaz from view.

When he knocks again, a shiver ripples down your spine. Guilt twists your insides up in knots. All you can do is pull the comforter over your head and block your ears. 

By morning, the temperature in your room has dropped a degree. You bundle up in a thicker sweatshirt and boots before going for your morning cup of coffee, but for the first time since takeoff all those months ago, you head for your work station instead of sipping your coffee in the cockpit. 

You start to hear him no matter where you are on the ship, a window no longer necessary. Always it comes after two solid raps against the hull of the ship, the sound jolting your heart into a frantic beat, pulse fluttering wildly under your skin. And then his voice, muffled through the layers of aluminum and titanium alloys, but intelligible despite the impossibility of it all. 

Sometimes, you respond. Just a few words to acknowledge his existence, even when the wall separating the two of you is impermeable, only his voice accessible to you. 

That makes it worse somehow though. Displaces his voice from his body, forcing you to reckon with his presence like a symptom of a bicameral mind, your own thoughts projected from you into the world. What difference is there between his voice and an audio hallucination? You should know better than to indulge in it. 

You’re beginning to understand the real root of the problem. The crux of it all. There’s a box in your mind labeled psychosis, and in the months of prolonged isolation and discomfort, you’ve inadvertently unshelved it, pulled it out of its storage space and peeled the lid open, all of its contents now released into the world. 

The thought is terrifying. You wonder if you can even trust your own mind, if everything is now compromised. Can you even trust what you see in front of you, or have you made it up as well? The thought is so disturbing that it paralyzes you in your bed at night. 

You’ve taken to sleeping in the medbay because it’s one of the few rooms without access to any exterior walls. Several other crew quarters separate it from the hull, while the main corridor runs along the other side. It’s the only place where you’re able to get a decent night’s sleep, though the lights stay on, fluorescent white at all times, programmed to stay at full brightness in case of an emergency. 

Even the sight of your own reflection makes you flinch until you realize it’s just you. 

One twenty-four hour period cycles into the next, pulling you into its embrace like crossing over an event horizon, your future self already distended out in front of you. 

In an effort to finally put you to good use (you try not to resent the implication when it’s framed like that), Farah tasks you with conducting pressure checks on the fuel tanks and lines around the ship while she continues to focus on the issue with the cruise control. You’re tasked with attaching a pressure gauge to the tank and increasing the pressure while keeping an eye out for any leaks or drops in pressure. A task simple enough that even the uninitiated could perform it. Busywork. 

You shut down the part of you that beats on your chest and demands that you leave. That this isn’t your job; you were brought aboard for a particular purpose and this isn’t it. You could be conducting your own research instead in the comfort of your lab, ensconced in data on antimicrobial resistance in space or microgravity-induced orthostatic intolerance. Not checking fuel tank pressure.

Someone raps their knuckles against the wall nearest you from the outside of the ship, startling you. 

“Shit,” you curse, the pressure gauge slipping out of your hand and clattering to the floor. You sigh when you bend down to pick it up and wince when you notice a crack in the glass where it hit the floor. 

“Love? Is that you?” Gaz asks from the other side of the wall, voice muffled.

Ignoring his voice doesn’t keep your heart from beating harder. You try to focus instead on the task at hand, pressuring the tank to fifteen hundred psi and waiting for the needle to stabilize on the gauge. Nothing abnormal. You jot it down and move on to the next tank, removing the gauge and starting the process anew. 

Another thump against the hull, the sound sending a jolt through your body. 

“I know you’re there.” He sounds amused. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

How could you avoid someone in your head? You almost say as much but then catch yourself on the verge of opening your mouth. You turn back your task, scrolling down the checklist on your tablet. 

There’s an edge to his voice the next time he speaks. “This is starting to annoy me, love.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” you whisper, finally breaking, the stylus nearly slipping from your clammy hands. Brows scrunched, eyes shut tight. Another breath out to stabilize yourself. 

“Ah, there you are,” Gaz hums. “Thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

Just ignore it, you think, breathing in and out again. 

“You’d rather talk to Farah than me,” he says when you don’t respond, almost accusatory, and you nearly brush it off until you register what he said.  

“How do you know her name?” you hiss under your breath, turning your head to stare at the panel that his voice emanates from behind. 

“I thought I was just in your head,” he says, amused again. Voice lighter than a moment prior. Easygoing as ever.

You worry at your lower lip until the skin threatens to break. “Yes, but—”

“Who are you talking to?”

Your head whips around at the sound of Farah’s voice. You hadn’t heard the cargo hold doors open, but she stands in the doorway, staring at you with an unreadable expression, shoulders squared and hands on her hips. 

Your instinct is to ask her how long she’s been standing there, but that won’t serve you in the long run. You almost want to ask if she heard his voice too, but you don’t think you could handle her confirming to your face that Gaz’s voice is all in your head. 

“…No one.”

Her face hardens and you wonder if you made the wrong call choosing to lie to her. But what else should you have said? The wall behind you remains conspicuously silent.

The next few seconds under her gaze feel endless. Eventually though, Farah pivots on her heel without another word and leaves the way she came, the doors sliding shut behind her. 

The room bellows its cold ire. Only the sound of your own breathing reaches your ears. 

An hour passes. Possibly longer. The stress eats away at your insides. Though you don’t cross paths with Farah for the rest of the day, you can’t help the way every sound makes you flinch and glance towards its source. Jumpy; paranoid. 

You make yourself dinner when the galley is still empty and eat in the medbay instead of with the rest of the crew. The peppery aftertaste is more prominent than usual while you eat; you almost have to choke your food down. Almost metallic, like antiseptic. 

It happens again on your way back to your quarters. The lights cycle with the night and dim in the hallway, a soft pale glow like a low-hanging moon illuminating the floor in front of you. 

You catch him in the corner of your eye this time, no knock to signal his presence. Just an astronaut hovering outside the window, nearly translucent with the absence of light. The fear that overcomes you is almost animalistic until it settles into the folds of your skin like an ointment rubbed in, and you turn to face him. 

It’s the same but different. You know what he wants. What he’s waiting for. 

“I don’t think I can let you in,” you whisper, looking away from the window to the other side of the hall. His gaze seers into the side of your head.

“Why not?” It’s the first time Gaz’s voice has sounded cold to your ears. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. 

“I’m worried you’re not real. That maybe you’re just in my head. And I can’t—” You bite your lip, swallowing the warble in your voice. “—I can’t let them know I’m crazy.”

Let them know. As if it were a foregone conclusion. As if you’ve already passed the point of no return. But what other conclusion could you draw from your observations as of late? The constant disappearances and reappearances, his voice in your head only when you’re alone. His voice in general, somehow audible despite there being no medium for it to pass through. You’ve been ignoring his anomalous properties because you’ve been desperate to believe that your mind hasn’t been compromised. That you aren’t a danger to the people around you—a voice in your head telling you to open the airlock when there’s nothing out there in space. 

When you turn your head, he’s still there, eyes stony behind the visor of his spacesuit. He tilts his head and the visor glints black for a second, suddenly opaque, obscuring his face.

He looms like a figure straight out of death, imposing even from the outside of the ship. Your arms hang limp at your sides, locked in place under his gaze. Even the thought of moving fills you with dread. 

But he isn’t real; he’s just in your head.

When Gaz lifts his head again, his visor clears and his smile is pleasant again, back to what it once was.

“I’ll prove that I’m real. Wait for me, love.”

And then he’s gone, the view beyond the window night sky black. Gone between one blink and the next; faster than light.

[porcelainbirdss]

you are all i need

summary: you were the only person who knew the crown prince of Kremnos from this side — his careworn gaze locking onto your sick form, silently begging for you to get better. Mydei always said he doesn’t need mercy from the gods, yet now his hands were interlocked in a desperate prayer, searching for any kind of help.

cw: gen. neutral reader, hurt/comfort, angst, health issues, unconfessed feelings, Mydei is absolutely whipped for reader. || wc: 4k

your body stirred into consciousness, but you didn’t open your eyes yet. there it was again — that awful ache, seeping through all of your muscles, making you wince whenever you moved. the room was unbelievably suffocating, and you felt the unpleasant way sweat clung to your skin, forcing you to push the covers away. short relief washed over your senses before shivers began to shake your bones — you grimaced, frustrated by your body’s indecisiveness. needless to say, you were absolutely sick.

it began as innocent coughs and sneezes, making you think it would eventually pass — after all, those symptoms rarely evolved into anything serious. Mydei chastised you for dismissing it, and kept insisting you take a few days off to rest. with how things stood now, it wasn’t difficult to guess whether you decided to listen. you regretted not doing so, because as it turns out, the illness turned into something way worse than common cold. you’ve been bedridden for the past eleven days, and the remedies hardly worked on you.

a sudden dryness squeezed at your lungs, making you break out into a fit of coughs. you cracked one of your eyelids open, and your heart almost jumped out from the sight of your friend leaning over you with a concerned expression, his face barely illuminated by the weak oil lamp.

"Mydei?" you forced out through your coughs, trying to sit upright. "what— cough — what are you doing here? it’s way too late, you should be sleeping!"

his hands immediately found their ways onto your arms, pushing you back into the pillows. you didn’t even have the strength to protest. "your temperature got higher, so i decided to stay for a little longer." he explained as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, pouring you some fresh water. you observed the man’s face for a while, taking note of his disheveled hair and dark circles, hanging lowly under the golden eyes. he was worn, and you felt guilty.

your gaze flickered over to the bedside table, stopping on the empty bowl. Mydei brought you soup around the evening hours, if you weren’t mistaken. when you’re sick, the flow of time starts to distort, and as you’re snapping in-and-out of consciousness the clock hands begin to jump around its face. it’s day — you closed your eyes for two seconds, and now it’s nighttime.

"listen, i appreciate how worried you are about me, but-" you paused, clearing your throat, "you don’t have to be there all the time, you know. i’m sure you have better things to do than looking after me." a chuckle escaped your lips, though it quickly died down when Mydei’s brows narrowed together.

"i can do whatever i wish to." he responded, obviously unamused. you blinked twice at his reaction, feeling the sweat start to become unbearable once again. arguing with Mydei was usually no use, as he was stubborn as a donkey, however this time you really felt inclined to have it your way.

"well," you began, pushing yourself up on the pillows to a half-sitting position, "what if you get sick too? who will be taking care of us, hm?"

"i guess we’ll both die then." he deadpanned, cocking one eyebrow up at you, expression still unimpressed. since Mydei was immortal, he definitely cared less about his well-being, and no matter how hard you tried to change that awful mindset of his, you still couldn’t.

"you’re really something…" a disheartened mutter left your lips as your eyes trailed after his hand, now pressing to your forehead. you felt weak, the late hour of the day filling your muscles with more pain than usually. the man retracted his palm with an unsatisfied frown, making your stomach squeeze with a bit of anxiety.

even though you joked about the situation, there were moments when intrusive thoughts took over your fatigued mind, and you wondered — is this how you pass? it was unlikely, alas you couldn’t help but feel slightly paranoid. eleven days of fevers, sometimes so high they changed into delirium. they kept tormenting your body, and no matter how much medicine you stuffed yourself with, it seemed to be only a temporary solution. at the start, no one aside from Mydei took it seriously. Phainon kept teasing you about your weak immune system, saying how poor and fragile you were. six days later he stood at your bed’s side, holding a big bouquet along with a letter of good wishes from everyone. back then you laughed at his careworn expression, though now you see it definitely wasn’t baseless.

as for your other friend — he kept visiting you regularly, although as of late it turned into something bordering on obsession. constantly checking your temperature, coming up with new remedies, calling up every single doctor in the area, then practically dragging them by collar into your room. none worked, and it seemed to only push him further up the wall. you didn’t know why he was acting like this. whenever you inquired about his odd behavior, he’d always mutter something about being "responsible" or whatever nonsense he managed to conjure up at that moment. to be completely honest, you personally saw no point to his actions. how was exposing oneself to a potentially dangerous virus sensible?

on the other hand, it’s not like you minded the attention he was gracing you with. it felt nice in a way, when you kept on coughing and whining from pain, and he’d always be by your side, that solicitous look painted across his face. he’d bring you food, sometimes starting to read out loud to occupy your mind. as you were close to drifting away, he would press his palms to your neck and cheeks, checking whether you were burning up. day after day, never losing focus of his goal — bringing you back to health.

right now as you were scanning his downcast expression, you began to wonder if such behavior was normal. you remember that one time when Mydei got sick — him and Phainon were both being irresponsible, which led to them getting food poisoning. you were worried, sure, you even went as far as to changing his compresses and running a few errands for him, but never to this extent. is that how a friend should act?

did he even perceive you as a friend? were all of those touches merely a gesture of platonic affection? all these stolen glances, and words, and—

your mind started to spin for a short while, and you fell back onto the bed with a huff. no matter how hard you wished to repress those feelings, they’d always find a way to resurface. it’s not like you were infatuated with him, but whenever your eyes locked, a sudden surge of something foreign would run through your spine, making you wonder where the line between everything started to blur.

"i’ll bring you some painkillers. the ones you took earlier probably stopped working by now." the man announced in a quiet voice, but before he could get up from the chair you grabbed his wrist, securing him into place. the sudden action made your muscles ache once again, evoking a wince.

"wait, Mydei— wait." for what? "i— just don’t go. you don’t have to bring me anything." you explained, your words slightly slurring.

he sent you a wary glance. "why not?"

because you’re obviously just as tired as me, you fool, and i don’t want to use you as my personal nurse!

"well, uhh…" a nervous snicker escaped you as you mulled over your options, “i’m obviously starting to feel better, so i don’t think i need any painkillers. stay for me, please?" you lied quickly, hoping it sounded believable enough.

that made Mydei sigh heavily, his shoulders hunching with resignation. you sent him a smile of approval, fighting through the pressure building up in your sinuses that slowly made your head pound with pain. you’ll grab the medicine by yourself later.

"sometimes i feel like you care more about my well-being than your own." he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. you couldn’t exactly deny the statement — you’ve known Mydei for a while now, and grown rather fond of him (perhaps too fond for your own liking).

"why, is that a bad thing?" you asked, pulling the sheets down. you felt overly hot, even though the room itself probably wasn’t humid. "i don’t mind if you’re immortal. you’re not separate from every other thing, and you deserve the same care."

the man’s lips opened as if he wanted to say something, but no sound left his mouth.

if he were to be honest, you had this weird effect on him — whenever you said something kind, his heart immediately clenched. more often than not he felt like a lovestruck fool, even though it made no sense to him. it’s not like he lacked in attention to desperately cling onto every syllable of your words — yet here he was, constantly by your side, taking in your restless form fatigued by fever as his hands clasped together in prayer, hidden from your sight. the curse of undying made it even more tangible how fragile human lives were.

Mydei couldn’t remember where or when it all began. perhaps when the summer sun shone onto your head so brightly it started to resemble a halo, your beckoning voice calling out to him. you wanted to show him the butterfly sitting atop your hand — he said it looked beautiful, even though his gaze was glued to your beaming eyes the whole time. you giggled as the insect fluttered away, murmuring how you wished it would stay forever. Mydei nodded along, thinking your words were more relatable than ever.

then again, maybe it was when that thick-skulled, ignorant lion started to spread rumors about him, and you would stand in front of its brass head, arguing and defending Mydei’s name for three full hours. others eventually got sick of your back-and-forth with the lion, trying to drag you away, yet you stood your ground, threatening to take it out in a fight after your patience ran thin. the man observed the charade from a distance, chuckling under his nose. discussing with the spirit usually lacked in any meaning, but you simply wouldn’t give up. when you succeeded, all sweaty and out of breath, you turned to Mydei with the proudest smirk on your face, bragging how he could always depend on you. he ruffled your hair in response, saying that he would from now on.

it could have been when you both were baking a cake. you were terrible at this, so you asked for Mydei’s assistance, since his cooking-skills are definitely higher than yours. in the middle of the process you ran out of flour, and you decided to go and buy it, even though the sky was overcast with dark clouds. wind blew straight at your faces as you sprinted for the closest vendor, trying to win the race against the upcoming storm. it seemed that day you were out of luck, and soon you were completely soaked, stumbling back into the kitchen with defeated looks. you dumped the flour packet onto the countertop, its wet contents now depraved of any use. Mydei was sure you were going to complain, yet all you did was laugh at his irritated expression, saying how you’d try again tomorrow. you spent the rest of the day conversing about the silliest of things, watching as the trees outside bent under unrelenting rain.

for all he knows, maybe his feelings started to pop and bloom in all colors when you first looked at him, your name slipping so nonchalantly from your lips as you introduced yourself, and he just mistook it for curiosity.

that’s what you were. caring, respectful, with a will seemingly made out of stainless steel. Mydei lived through ten thousands of tragic events, trauma after trauma piling up over his shoulders, keeping him pinned to the ground under its sheer weight. even though his body lacked in any kind of wounds, he felt as if his whole mind was covered in scars. never needing any kind of authority nor condolence from others, he kept the thoughts of comfort tucked away in the furthest corners of his mind. every single ounce of Mydei’s resolve shattered the moment he got a taste of your kindness, warmer and more forgiving than any other. you were the sun, and you were the night, and the ground held you up proudly, and so he simply couldn’t bear the thought of life without you.

for all those years he spent by your side, he never quite came to terms with his own sentiments towards you. taking everything for granted quickly melted into dubious anxieties as he sat by your bedside, counting your breaths, the thermometer in his hand clearly indicating a serious febrile condition. he’d trade hundreds of his deaths just for one life — yours. it was as simple as that.

his dark trail of reveries suddenly got interrupted by your coughing, making him jump up in the chair. "hey, are you okay? you didn’t even—" you paused, reaching for the glass of water, taking a few sips, "you didn’t even answer me. maybe you should really go to sleep, huh?"

"sorry, i just got lost in thought. and i’m not tired. on the other hand, why don’t you go back to sleep?” Mydei retaliated, his gaze flickering over to the clock. it was well after three in the morning, and you definitely should rest some more.

you pretended to consider his words for a second. "hmm, but knowing you, you’ll stay up — doing gods know what — and later i’m just gonna feel bad about leaving you alone.” a weak chuckle escaped your chest as you took in his careworn expression. seriously, he was way too worried for his own good.

the man shook his head, leaning back into the chair, his eyebrows tugged together in defiance. that evoked a sigh from you as you fell back onto the pillows, internally cursing him for being so stubborn.

"Mydei, listen, i’m trying to understand you here - but this time i cannot wrap my head around you." you chided, observing his attitude shift into something softer. perhaps you shouldn’t be scolding him like that, but you couldn’t help yourself. "why do you care so much? i don’t see Phainon, nor anyone else constantly hovering by my bedside."

the man seemed to take a moment of contemplation, the look on his face turning grim once more. for a second, you genuinely thought you offended him, but soon his quiet voice cut through the deep silence between you. "have i ever told you about Hephaestion?"

"i— i’m sorry, but i don’t think so." you replied, a bit surprised to see Mydei starting to open up before you. even though you were pretty close with him, he never attempted to reminisce about his past, so you didn’t ask.

"Hephaestion is—" he began slowly, mulling over his next choice of words, "a late friend of mine. he was my most trusted companion, and still is to this day."

you nodded in understanding, listening with intent to his story. there was a tangible sadness laced through Mydei’s tone, and you gripped the sheets a little tighter, trying to stop the multitude of words that kept pushing themselves onto your tongue. it’s better if you hear him out first before you start jumping to conclusions.

the man took a heavy breath, as if merely speaking about it brought him physical pain. "unfortunately, on the eve of my duel against my father, he got taken by sickness. we were supposed to celebrate together, and yet—" Mydei paused, his hands clenching around nothing, "—and yet, he passed the same day. there was nothing i could do. if only Hephaestion didn’t hide his condition away from me, then i’d surely… surely, i’d…"

he trailed off, as if debating whether he should continue. in his mind, the things he was telling you were not all that interesting, nor did you exactly care — even if you did, truly.

you stared at Mydei with wide eyes, suddenly forgetting about the insistent ache that kept pulling at your muscles. all of your previously prepared condolences rapidly died in your throat, leaving you speechless. the darkness and grief swirling in his golden irises rendered you unmoving, trapped between offering him any sort of comfort and remaining silent. what should you do? Mydei’s confession felt like a slap to your face, keeping you in a limbo, as you never expected him to go through such awful things. there were moments when he would look into the distance with something foreign to you in his gaze, however you never dared to inquire.

"perhaps that’s why i’m so concerned about your well-being.” he mumbled, his line of sight flickering away from your face.

"Mydei, you—“ your brows knitted together as you tried to form a coherent sentence, "i’m so sorry, i never knew…"

he shrugged, trying to gather himself and appear more impassive. "well, now you do."

a bit unsure, you reached out for his hand, linking your fingers with Mydei’s before he managed to suppress all of his vulnerable emotions back. you didn’t want him to hide, shying away from being perceived. it wouldn’t be fair.

a short moment of fright passed through his face as he noticed your action, though he didn’t point it out. "honestly, i don’t know what else you went through, or what awaits you in the future, but i need you to know that i’ll always be there for you. i- i know it’s not much, compared to all the suffering…" you stopped, trying to gather your thoughts, "you have the others too. i’m sure that-"

"alright, alright." Mydei huffed, interrupting your troubled rambling. "i understand what you’re trying to convey." although his voice was still low, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, making your chest just a bit lighter.

no matter how much he appreciated the sentiment, there was still a big problem hanging over the whole situation like an inevitable thunderstorm — you said you’d always stick by his side, but that simply wasn’t true. holding on with all his might to other people usually resulted in vain. he’d live to see all of them pass, fragments of his heart crumbling and chipping off as the time progressed. his friends long gone, leaving a deep, hollow cavity behind — your fate will be the same, eventually.

Mydei doesn’t like thinking about it. what will the future bring to him? more suffering? more pain? his body will remain the same, youthful face and body depraved of any scars, still overflowing with vigor. but what about you? he couldn’t care less about the changes mortal body goes through, although the sight of a face, worn by years and hardships always reminds him of one ultimate truth all humans share — death. what will he do once you’re gone? it’s stupid. it doesn’t make sense. he should cast aside his humanity and stop himself from becoming attached, and yet he couldn’t. what is a life without feelings and a heart? could it still be considered a 'life' instead of a meaningless 'existence'? wouldn’t he become reduced to a husk, which just happens to breathe and think like the others?

the decades will slip through his fingers, and he won’t be able to stop thinking about how cruel it is that now he’s left without you. he’ll be waiting — even though he shouldn’t be. he’d still wake up with things to tell you, and fall asleep thinking about what you two should do tomorrow. he’s going to stand in front of your porch, watching strangers enter and leave the house, wondering where’d you go and when will you be coming back. his memory will always cherish you, asking about you all the time. that’s not how it should be, alas the curse he bears can’t be undone.

anyway, grieving the loss that’s yet to come is… not rational. it won’t bring him any good, nor will it keep you forever. he should focus on the present, perhaps make you a compress or take your temperature—

"…dei. hey!" his gaze snapped towards you, now squeezing his hand a bit harder than necessary. "for gods’ sake, you’re really out of it. for a second there i thought you really fell asleep with your eyes open." your features shifted into something akin to worry as you took in the man’s expression. he only sighed in response, instantly making you guess what he was dwelling on.

"Mydei, if you’re thinking about- well." you paused, afraid of even speaking the words out loud. "i’ll say it just once — i’m not going anywhere." you consoled him with a smile, so bright it was almost blinding. the corners of his lips twitched upwards, as if he wanted to return the gesture, yet couldn’t.

"but-"

"all things aside — cough — what’s the point in worrying?" you mused watching his downcast face, "everyone loves you, and you’ll always be loved, so you don’t need me to be happy."

his jaw slacked open, as if what you said was the most absurd thing in the world. your words pounded like axes into his heart, and he couldn’t quite believe that you were ever able of mustering up such nonsense. Mydei used to pray and beg for your recovery, constantly coming up with new ways, new ideas, remedies, doctors, food — and you dared to suggest anything like this?

he swallowed, feeling the heat of irritation crawl up on his cheeks and neck. "no, that’s not how it works! none can compare to—"

you raised an eyebrow at his sudden lag, feeling like there was more behind his words. Mydei rarely acted so spaced out and anxious. in front of other people he was the prime example of fierceness, never letting his guard down nor behaving as if his mind was reduced to a mush. he must be tired, yes, what else could explain it? however, his words were thought-provoking — 'none can compare to'. to what? your company? your friendship? your amiability? your…

oh gods.

your mind spurred as the rapid realization hit you. you broke out into a fit of coughs, covering your blushed face with your palm, simultaneously letting go of Mydei’s hand. somehow, it all clicked into place, and you wanted to endlessly berate yourself for letting something so obvious keep flying over your head. of course the man’s actions towards you were never normal — you were simply too blind, stubborn on the idea of keeping your relationship purely platonic. it was the safest bet, after all.

right now Mydei’s face was twisted in distress, his eyebrows knitted together, and once again this night you completely didn’t know what to say. a nervous chuckle escaped your lips as the coughing finally died down, and you decided it would be best to let it go for the time being. you still had so much time left — and you were both weary. nothing coherent would born from you trying to vocalize your own feelings. you cleared your throat, mulling over the next choice of words.

"well, uh— i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to offend you." you muttered meekly, keeping your tone coy. "why don’t we just go to sleep? it’s nearing four o’clock. you’ll be groggy in the morning." a small smile graced your lips as you tried to convince yourself it was the best course of action. once you get back on your feet, you’ll confront Mydei, and resolve everything.

the man nodded slowly, although you could sense the slightest of disappointment painted across his features. he’ll understand. he always does.

you settled yourself more comfortably in the sheets, pulling them over your body when the shivers decided to come back. then, you reached out for Mydei’s arm again, tugging him closer. "c’mon, rest your head. don’t tell me you want to sleep upright?" you beckoned, sensing his resistance. his expression was a bit conflicted, yet he ultimately lowered his torso on the bed, hesitantly placing the weight of his head on your thighs. the position was a bit awkward, with him still sitting atop the chair, and you being confined to lying on your back, but none of you seemed to care.

"thanks for taking care of me." you whispered, briefly running your fingers through his blonde locks. "what do you say we go for a small walk tomorrow? i need to stretch out my legs, else i’ll merge into one with the bed." you snickered breathily, the sleepiness already making your eyelids begin to glue together.

Mydei hummed in response, feeling your body shake with laughter. "i don’t see why not."

you probably won’t go anywhere, as your body will continue to be tormented by fevers, but the empty promise was still nice. "alright. goodnight, Mydei."

"goodnight, [name]."

he closed his eyes at last, forcing his tense body to relax. he was tired, yet with his heart hammering so intensely, there was no way he could fall asleep. your body was so warm even through the sheets, and the slip-up he made earlier haunted his exhausted mind. did you realize what he meant? looking at the way you reacted, it was possible.

truth be told, the affection he held for you terrified him sometimes. what if one day he gets fed up with waiting, and decided to confess — would you reject him? would all years of friendship go to waste, simply because he overestimated the feelings you had for him? he knew it would ruin him. and he also knew he would let it. he’d embrace every ounce of what you could give to him, even if in the end it all led to destruction. still, he didn’t know if he could go another day choking on the ever-present words: "i love you."

he felt it in his shoulders, in his chest, in his stomach. yes, you were everywhere, buried deep within every song and bruise. were his mindscape to take form, it would be a boundless forest where every tree’s bark bore your own initials.

he didn’t know how long you’ll stay. it could be the next sixty years — or maybe fate will decide to separate you just the next month, week, day. there was no telling. still, as his head lied atop your lap, he couldn’t bring himself to fully care. at that moment, he was with you, your body peacefully dozing off into slumber. he did love you. and you were awfully perplexing, and kind, and he’d do anything to protect you from the world’s harm. he could die a thousands of deaths if it meant seeing you smile as you called out for him, waving your hand in the distant fields.

he’ll never get enough of you, won’t he?