#how they irrevocibly changed your life

[yellow-faerie]

So I went to go see Wicked yesterday, as a birthday present, and anyway, Glinda and Elphaba are like those two male leads who are apparently straight but who everyone ships together

That is to say, I came out of the theatre and came to the conclusion that they are deeply in love

[toasted-buguette]

Idk if anyone mentioned this already but those dice were Web coded as FUCK

[paigemathews]

Do you ever think about what Wyatt and Billie’s relationship would look like? I mean, do you ever think that maybe he sees Billie as an omen? A prophesied witch with not only extraordinary power, but projection specifically, that evil has hunted and desired for years, to the point of creating intricate plots to turn them from a young age? (While my Wyatt doesn’t realize yet, the fact that Billie and Wyatt both fell into evil’s clutch in the past? That their redemption came at their sibling’s life? That their deaths can be traced directly to them?)

Imagine Billie post-series, who has lost. honestly, everything in under a year. She went from a confident, headstrong newly-discovered witch determined to save the day to a powerful witch who lost her entire family and was manipulated and used by evil to attack good as a whole. After all of that, I don’t really think that you walk out of that without it becoming a deeply impactful and integral part of your experience.

So a Billie who is more subdued and removed from magical affairs. A Billie who knows the price and risks with magic, especially her own. A Billie who learns how to master her magic, because she’s already seen the consequences of her failures, but there is no real need for it anymore with the lack of demonic attacks. And she is asked, by the sisters who she betrayed and had to earn their trust again, to help teach a witch just like her to control his powers.

Beyond her own experiences, do you think Billie ever told the sisters about Dumain showing her what Wyatt was supposed to “become”? Or did she just chalk it up to his lies and manipulation? And even if she did tell them, do you think that the sisters would be able to tell her? When they themselves never actually knew how bad it was in the unchanged future? When they’re still unsure if they can trust her again and handing her that information includes telling them how, despite all of their power, they could still do nothing as a son/nephew died in front of them?

So she tries to impart how important it is that Wyatt uses his powers for good, not to harm. She trains him to control his power, tries to teach him to respect it as something incredibly dangerous. She conveys over and over again that projection is powerful, but dangerous and if you’re not careful, it can create a lot of harm. She isn’t his only teacher, but she, with her own history and the same power and the knowledge that he will outclass them all and that vision that is bad enough without considering what else he is able to do, is the one who is able to understand best. Piper and Phoebe and Paige are extremely powerful, obviously, but their power is rooted in their bond and that itself helps keep them in check because there is a balance. Billie, her sister (the key) dead and her as the real Ultimate Power, is the closest to knowing what that’s like.

Except Wyatt is Wyatt, his mother and father’s son in everyway but especially his heart. He’s the child who tried to prevent conflict before he was even born. He’s the child who took everyone’s burdens on himself as his to solve before he could even speak. He needed to protect his loved ones, no matter how powerful they individually were. When he failed, he blamed himself. When people struggled, and he couldn’t help them, he blamed himself. Not only does he blame himself for not being able to save or help people, he pins his entire worth as a person on his ability to help. This is the child who thought that he deserved to die because of his father’s grief and inner turmoil, something he wasn’t even to blame for. And he sees so much of himself in Billie, sees her story as a warning if he is to slip to the wrong side, if he is to be blinded to evil and used as a weapon. He takes every message that Billie tries to teach and internalizes it just a little bit too much, takes it just a bit too personally.

And imagine what happens. Billie, who can relate to Wyatt’s potential future just a bit too much, trying to teach him caution and instead teaches him fear. Wyatt, who sees a bit too many similarities in Billie’s past, transforms her lessons of control and innocents into repression and his value. Because they see those similarities, but they don’t quite see the differences and those differences change everything.

[pinkcadillaccas]

Anyone else feeling the relentless march of time on this Saturday night

[rainbowsmagicandshit]

Headcanon that when Merlin started working for Arthur, he didn’t know what over half the names of things were—not only the parts of armor, but also just things around the castle and noble/city life—so he’d just make up names for them. When Arthur would ask for something, he’d have to describe what it was he wanted if Merlin didn’t recognize what the thing was by name, and then Merlin would go “oh, you mean the (weird name he came up with)!” and go get it. It always frustrates and annoys Arthur, and he tries to correct Merlin every time. Merlin eventually does learn the names of most of the stuff but still calls everything by the names he came up with because he knows how it annoys Arthur. Arthur still tries to correct him sometimes, but after a few years has accepted that Merlin’s not gonna stop and is doing it on purpose. Arthur will sometimes ask for something and Merlin will “correct” him with “you mean the (wacky name he came up with for it)” and Arthur rolls his eyes throwing something at him or cuffing him over the head as Merlin ducks away with a grin to get what he asked for. Eventually it gets to the point that Arthur adopts Merlin’s names for things without really realizing it. It just saves time. It gets to the point that Arthur will be talking to his knights or some noble or royal and he’ll end up using Merlin weird name for something. No one will know what he’s talking about and ask him to repeat himself. He does and they still look at him confused. He goes to explain what he’s talking about because he’s used to doing so with Merlin, and halfway through his explanation he realizes he called it Merlin’s stupid name and clears his throat and calls it by it’s proper name, a slight blush on his cheeks. No one calls him out on it or says anything to his face because he the prince and then the king, but Arthur stil complains to Merlin about what happened and “this is all your fault!!” while Merlin is grinning and laughing until Arthur has enough and throws something at him.

I just really want these two to have a language together. We get them having “prat,” “dollophead,” “cabbagehead,” etc. but I want it to extend to random objects too. Arthur adopts Merlin’s insults in canon and throws them back at Merlin occasionally, so I wanna see them do it with other stuff also. I think it’s be so funny and cute. Showing that Merlin really has a big impact on Arthur even down to the vocabulary he uses—changed irrevocably forever after. No longer the arrogant prince but the king Merlin made him, using vocabulary from the people rather than just the nobles and royals, setting him apart from his predecessors.

[ebitenpura]

man wtf, wtf. Goodwill Hunting. I didn't expect to get slapped in the face with all the glaring issues I'd ever experienced in college but. wow. I fucking cried. the emotional gaps between people from different economic backgrounds, different chances at economic and academic success....when you're a student who also faced that daunting bracket of having your college path be literal life and death for what comes after and always having to be adjacent to people where this is what they've lived in their whole lives, and then how different that is next to those who can't have that chance ever and the sheer uncertainty and fear of it. the trauma that comes from a background of abuse and how it confuses others from the outside who can't understand why you'd pass up the chance for something better from their view economically, academically, emotionally. it hurt so much.

[sjyuns]

HEAVENLY ┆ A PARK SUNGHOON ONESHOT

SYNOPSIS! park sunghoon has put a curse on you after smashing you heart into a million pieces — that you’d never be able to find anyone comparable to him. and now he’s back, cocky and flirty as ever to prove that he’s the only one you’d ever need.

GENRE! playboy! sunghoon x fem reader, kiss his face with an uppercut romance, exes to lovers, fake dating, mutual pining, fluff, angst

CAUTION! cursing, party, attempt of writing heartbreak angst, slightly toxic (?) behaviour, make out scenes, cheating allegations, sunghoon douchebag, sunghoon has major confrontation issues, smoking

WORDCOUNT! 9.5k

MIKAELA’S! IM BACK, he’s back. playboy hoon! finally writing after like three months, it’s not the best so please forgive me. written to CIGARETTES AFTER SEX’s discography. feedback and reblog are appreciated! NOT PROOFREAD

TEASER SERIES MASTERLIST

WHERE IT’S SO SWEET AND HEAVENLY

THE VERY definition of sin and salvation, Park Sunghoon brings out the best of you in the worst ways. The first, your first — your first kiss, your first boyfriend, your first love.

He pulls you in and invades your senses, every careless whisper, every note passed in class, every make out session in dim empty classrooms, Sunghoon makes you yearn for him and you would be able to tell him apart from everyone else by touch and smell alone.

You still remember the summer two years ago, when you sat in the passenger seat of his convertible, wind in your hair as you had the greatest time in your life.

“Frozen?” You say as the radio in his car starts blasting ‘let it go’, and Sunghoon looks over to you with a boyish grin on his face.

“Why not?” He says, one hand on the steering wheel and the other moving to brush a strand of your hair back, “Elsa and Anna are pretty cool.” He holds your hand, thumb caressing the smooth skin of yours as he watches you throw your head back, laughter ringing through the air at his words.

“They are,” you agree with a giggle before your other hand fists to your lips as a microphone. And you sing with him, at the top of your lungs. That summer, in his passenger seat, you fell irrationally and irrevocably in love.

He looks at you, trying to catch his breath, and he adores — the way your lips curve up into the prettiest smile, the way you radiate warmth, and the way you’re you, intoxicating, captivating, and all together godly.

And he kisses you like his life depends on it. It’s soft, hot, desperate, and tender all at once. Your lips smooth, falling open at the brush of his tongue and Sunghoon can’t seem to get enough, teeth tugging at your lips, fingers twined into your hair before he breaks it only to barely press his lips onto your again, shifting from the corner of your lips to the centre, and then to the rest of your face, tiny pecks everywhere, as if he was worshipping you.

“Let’s do this again when we’re eighty,” he whispers, eyes locked onto you and forehead pressed against yours.

“You really think we’d make it till eighty?” You ask, and Sunghoon wears that infamous grin of his. A scoff leaves his lips as he replies, “baby we’d still be together even if you’re in heaven and I’m stuck in hell.”

“You don’t think we’d ever break up?” You question, and he chuckles at your innocence. Him? Breaking up with you? And he wonders if you realise the way he looks at you, how he kisses you like your lips are heaven.

“No way, princess,” he murmurs, bending over to place a ghost of a kiss on your lips, “I could be clinically insane or have the worst memory lost but I’d never forget how in love with you I am.”

How stupid you were to indulge in such empty promises. You should have known, been more aware that you could never change him — his habit of losing feelings fast.

How quickly he threw away a year of memories, how he kissed it off you and how you couldn’t help but comply, tears rolling down your cheeks. And you hated the way his face flashed a glimpse of regret — as if he was sorry he got caught.

“She pushed herself on me, love. As soon as she heard footsteps approaching.” Sunghoon pleaded, and you truly wanted to believe him. The way his hair was unusually dishevelled, his eyes full of pain. Yet all you could envision when you saw him was the picture of his body against one that was not yours, looking at her the way he looked at you.

“I really can’t handle this right now Sunghoon,” you cry, twisting your wrist out of his hold. Sunghoon feels his heart crush — he hears it. It chips off piece by piece as he watches you crumble to the ground, hands over your face and he wants to go over to console you yet his feet are glued to the ground.

“I swear,” he whispers, soft yet it shakes both hearts in the room, “you and me.”

Your head hurts and nothing matches up. Maybe you’re a coward for not choosing to fight or maybe you’re just too tired. “I can’t,” your voice cracking uglily, “I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“I love you,” you say, vision stuck on the floorboards, too scared to look at Sunghoon’s expression — was it pain like yours was, or was it joy and excitement at breaking yet another girl’s heart, “so much Hoon,” you manage to croak out.

“And I’d always trust you, but I need some time to process this, alone.”

That was the breaking point, when his heart shattered into small sharp shards of fragile vulnerability. It just seemed like yesterday when the both of you laid side by side and swore your forevers. He was never one for love and romance but now he gets it.

There wasn’t any point living if it’s not with you.

And he blames himself — his previous actions and deeds that cursed him for life, the karma that haunted him for his unrighteousness. Maybe he does deserve it, he thinks, if this was what every other girl felt like when he had broken things up with them.

“Please,” he muttered, eyes red and tears running down. Sunghoon doesn’t know who he’s talking to anymore; if he was begging you to stay by his side or begging himself to stop inflicting pain on your precious heart.

“Not now,” your chest squeezes and your rib cage traps your ferociously beating heart to hold it in its place as you make a rash decision, “I don’t want to see you.”

Sunghoon thinks he could’ve turned into a grotesque monster the way you shunned him out. All bloody and contorted, far away from the charm he once used to hold. And he wants to disagree, yet he murmurs the heavy words of agreement.

You only hear the shuffling of feet — one that you can recognise from miles away, before the door clicks close and your throat burns from the loud sobs emitted from your heart.

As much as you wanted to indulge in such a cliche that you could be the one person who changed his way, this was sadly reality. That Park Sunghoon never belonged to you the way you belonged to him.

He’d always be wanted everywhere he went, and you don’t know if you’d ever be able to handle that.

ONE YEAR LATER

You’re kissing a boy whose name you don’t remember. Is it Park Jaemin or Park Jaeon? Is his surname even Park? Eyes closed and lips on lips, and it isn’t very polite of you to rate a boy’s kiss, but it’s all you can do to satisfy your boredom as his teeth carelessly bites down on your tongue. Fucking hell, you think, as you break the kiss only to meet the boy’s apologetic expression, it’s a two out of ten.

Dreading to tell your friends about yet another terribly gone blind date, you force a tight lipped smile as you wave goodbye to the boy whose cheeks are flushed red. As cute as he looked, you wished you would never see him again.

“God, why are men like this,” you complain right as you open the doors to your dorm room. Karina, your dorm mate and self proclaimed best friend sits up on her bed, patting the spot next to her in eagerness, ready to listen to yet another night of whining.

“It can’t be as bad as the lifeguard guy,” she says, tilting her head to examine your fatigued expression, “how was the kiss this time round?”

You don’t even bother saying it out, you didn’t even want to think about it again. Simply raising two fingers up at her, your back hits the soft cushion of Karina’s bed, a loud sigh leaving your lips.

“Still not comparable to,” she pauses, looking at you warily before continuing, “him?”

Him. God, it’s insane that he’s still stuck in your mind a year after he mercilessly stepped on your heart. You stay silent, and that’s all it takes for your dorm mate to flop down beside you, a big sigh leaving her lips as well.

You’re over him. You’re over Park Sunghoon. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. But despite days and nights of going out again and again with different boys to forget about him, changing habits and sleep schedules to leave memories with him behind, deep inside your heart you know that you’ll never get over Park Sunghoon.

He’s the reason why any blind date your parents set you up with doesn’t go smoothly. You’re picky, and you can’t seem to find a boy comparable to him. And you fault Sunghoon for making you like this — overly obsessed with the composition of people.

Like every boring blind date starts, the boy picks you up, drives you to your favourite restaurant and asks you the same questions, “what do you study?”, “how are you liking school?”, and oftentimes questions of more substance like, “how was your day today?” At least with those kinds of questions your answer could vary.

And everytime you get asked such questions you can’t help but remember him. Park Sunghoon, who told you that he practised knotting his tie an hour a day to prepare for your very first date together. How he likes KitKats so much but he’s boycotting Nestle so he doesn’t buy them, and how he absolutely hates the taste of coffee, but drinks it to look cool.

Your eyes start to burn slightly, and you squeeze them shut, trying to stop the collecting tears from trailing down the apples of your cheeks. You hate Sunghoon, you despise him so much you wish you could punch him and his god awful handsome face a couple times. Why, you wonder, why did he have to be such a good boyfriend? Maybe if he wasn’t you’d be content with a boy who wasn’t experienced in kissing, maybe you’d be fine with a boy who asks you how your day went just for the sake of asking.

And it doesn’t help that you’ve grown the exact same habit as him, that you had to restrain yourself from telling every single boy you sit across the table from small details about you like you used to tell Sunghoon.

Hands moving to furiously wipe the tears streaming down your face, you open your eyes to see Karina, who looks at you with sympathy. It’s become too common of an occurrence, and she hates that she can’t do anything about it other than offer you comfort.

“He was a good boyfriend, but there are better out there,” she says this time round, moving over to lay beside you. There are better boys out there, everyone is better than a boy who broke your heart. But he’s the one you want. Park Sunghoon.

No words are exchanged but a tight hug before you shuffle back to your bed. Your nighttime routine begins as your head hits the pillow and you start thinking about Sunghoon. You always think about Sunghoon before you fall asleep, you did since the very first time you met him, and you do now. The words he said, the way he looked. The inside jokes you had, the silent moments you shared. And if you ever dream, you dream about him. Because it’s Sunghoon, and everything in your life seemed to revolve around him.

It’s strange, how the moments the both of you shared felt like forever. Until suddenly you’re nineteen, and he’s halfway across the world. The earth becomes an hourglass, and you’re watching the sand pile up at the wrong end. And you’re thinking about how when you first met him, when you dated him, and when you were just beside him. Then your heart was like a kick drum at a rock show. But now, it is merely a ticking bomb of pain and anguish.

The arrogance and beautiful glory that shined with him — and you can still never forget the time it blinded you. How you were supposed to be the main character yet all you could focus on was the godly playboy who stole your firsts.

“I’d kiss you but your boyfriend’s watching,” Sunghoon mumbled, and he was so close you could feel his breath on your lips.

He held your gaze confidently, with a tinge of arrogance as his tongue darted out to lick his lip. You remember thinking that Sunghoon was the most annoying person in the world, because how could he have looked so devilishly handsome and have such an intoxicating effect on you.

It all started when he showed up unannounced and uninvited to your birthday party — still in his school uniform, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up with his blazer hanging over his shoulder.

And you should have known better than to let him charm his way into your house. “What are you doing here, Hoon?”

Sunghoon loved the way his nickname rolled off the tip of your tongue, so addictive that he wanted to record it — to play it again and again, even if your tone was one of spite.

“Happy birthday princess,” Sunghoon completely ignored your words, taking steps closer towards you, “now, where’s my birthday kiss?”

He’s at it again, aimlessly flirting with you. You rolled your eyes, a deep sigh exiting your mouth, “it’s my birthday, Hoon.” How did he even know where you lived? You were sure you told everyone you invited not to bring him along.

“So I’ll give you a birthday kiss,” he grins, eyes glinting with mischief as he watches your facial expressions fall, ears burning red as you quickly turn around.

You hated Park Sunghoon and the unimaginable hold he had on you. “I’m going to find my mother. Do not, I swear to god, cause any trouble.”

“Your mother? It’s a little early in the relationship,” he moved swiftly to your side, arms casually slinging over your shoulder as he pulled you closer into him forcefully. “But it’s okay, I’m ready.”

Where in the world did Sunghoon get his cocky attitude from, you think as you try your best to pry and lift his arm away from your shoulder. Despite your surface indifference towards his advances, there were millions of butterflies invading your stomach at his every single action.

Before you can even try to escape, a voice calls your name and you stop to talk to Yunjin. “Park Sunghoon? What are you doing here?”

Sunghoon steals a glance at you, and he thought you looked absolutely adorable as you pouted at the image of multiple people seeing you with him; given how you always seemed to have complaints about his overly flirty nature and playboy ways.

But Sunghoon hadn’t fooled around since you transferred into Decelis two months ago, a personal record for him. At first all you were was a form of entertainment, someone who had cute reactions to his smooth pick up lines.

Then it all came crashing down, when he started to feel the need to bicker with you everyday and mess up your hair every time he saw you in the hallways. And somewhere in between the blurred lines, he fell in love.

“Here to celebrate my girl’s birthday,” he cocks his head towards you, who’s palms now cover your face in sheer embarrassment. God, now it’s going to spread like wildfire. His girl?

Yunjin’s eyes widen and jaw drops, “really? You guys are together? But I thought you were with Choi Soobin.” She asked, nudging you.

Sunghoon frowns at her words. Choi Soobin? Since when? Sunghoon literally followed you around school whenever he saw you, and he’s never seen you ever talk to that boy.

“Soobin and I are just friends,” you clarify, “also we are not a couple,” your finger gesturing to you and Sunghoon as you answer the girl.

“We’ll be one by tomorrow,” Sunghoon cuts back into the conversation, voice loud, and he catches your surprised expression as he smirks slyly.

Though he continues the conversation without a single stutter or break, Sunghoon’s feeling utterly disgusted. Is that the kind of boy you like? Nerdy losers who can’t do anything for the life of themselves? He doesn’t really like the thought of turning into those types of boys, but whatever you want, he thinks — he’s already practised abstinence for you, he might as well go all the way.

At the same time Sunghoon wonders if you’re really that oblivious to his obvious advancements towards you. He’s made it crystal clear: dumped his girlfriend, followed you around, talked about you literally all the time, and yet you’re still clueless.

And he whisks you away before you find the chance to clarify his words again. He’s determined this time round, to make it extremely straightforward for you.

“Hoon why in the world would you say stuff like that,” you groaned, hands slapping his chest. And he grins like an idiot at your touch, if this was what it took for you to initiate skinship with him, he’d be more than willing to proclaim himself as your boyfriend any day.

He placed a hand on the place you’d just hit, “it’s painful,” he pouted, and you almost feel a little guilty at your harsh actions, “can you kiss it better?”

Until that. You huffed, “I'm leaving,” you announced as you turned away, ready to walk right back into the crowd. Sunghoon quickly clasped his fingers around your wrist, pulling you into his chest.

Your eyes become those of a deer caught in headlights as your body is pressed firmly against his, his arms finding their way to your waist; a gentle but firm hold as he bent down.

“Wasn’t done yet, princess,” he smirked, and you feel some sort of danger looming over because Sunghoon looks like a devil enticing you to commit sin. His black hair styles perfectly like always and his red tie, due to his excessive movements, is now dropping down even more to expose his honey skinned collarbones.

The most you can muster is a mumble, “what,” and your eyes are glassy as you stare up at him, he thinks he might go insane — to just move in to place a kiss on your invitingly soft lips.

“I’d kiss you but your boyfriend’s watching,” and he literally spat the term out, unable to believe he’s labelling someone else other than him ‘your boyfriend’. He knew you guys weren’t together, but just for the comfort of his heart he had to hear it again.

It took you a while to process his words. “He’s not my boyfriend, Hoon,” and it’s that short statement coupled with the way you said his name that really did it for him.

Sunghoon moves in just as you finish your sentence, and he sinks into your pillowy lips. It’s paradise on earth and he thinks he will never be able to get enough of this feeling.

“Sunghoon,” you mumbled when he broke the kiss, slightly out of breath as you looked up with hazy eyes.

He chuckled, “sorry, baby, my bad. I’ll return your kiss back,” and Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate to give you another kiss, fingers caressing your waist as he pulled you closer to him.

This time it’s you who breaks the kiss, way too out of breath to even form full sentences without a few breaks in between. “You just kissed me.”

“Right, I just did that baby,” he smiles, those tiny fangs of his showcased as he gazes adoringly at you. “Actually, I’m looking for a girlfriend.” He pauses, eyeing your flushed cheeks and pink lips, “Are you looking for a boyfriend by any chance, princess?”

Now that you’re literally glued onto Sunghoon, you take the chance to look at him. Sharp nose, pretty moles that you could probably trace along all day, and his eyes which contrasting to his calm demeanour, held anxiousness as he waited for you to answer.

You’ve thought about dating Sunghoon before. Multiple times. Way more than you should’ve. And you never wanted to ever confess to it, because he was everyone’s crush. And not only that, he was annoying — constantly teasing you and making you flustered by his actions. You’d curse every time your heartbeat started to accelerate at his flirty words. You had thought that there was no way he’d ever like you back.

“I’m looking for a boyfriend,” you admit, letting out a soft giggle at Sunghoon’s overjoyed expression. And you decide that maybe now’s the time to get back at him, tease him a little to get him to stay on his toes, “maybe I should go find Soobin.”

His shoulders downturn almost immediately and his arms wrap around your waist securely, chin resting on the top of your head. “No fucking way,” he grumbles, “you’re my girlfriend now. And I’m your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, you are,” you say, voice muffled in the embrace of Sunghoon. And you hear him giggle slightly, the rumble of his chest exposing the boyish feelings your boyfriend was currently going through, “for now.”

Sunghoon lifted his chin from your head, fingers brushing over your cheeks before they landed themselves on your jaw. He tilts your chin up, “too bad my intention is forever.” And he placed chaste kisses on your lips again and again.

What a joke. What a liar, you think as you feel the cords of your heart tug at the memory. He haunts you and you wish you were here with him in his arms, fresh perfumed scent from Tamburins that he always used wafting into your senses, intoxicating you, consuming you.

Sticky cheeks and bloodshot eyes adorn your face as Karina shakes you incessantly, bringing you back to reality. “What,” you groan. You weren’t in the mood for whatever gossip she had to tell you — Sunghoon consumed your mind in ways that made it ache; you barely have space for any other thoughts.

She thrusts the phone into your face, the blaring screen making you squint as you recognise the familiar school news forum website. The big bold title of the post names ‘guys help me find this guy i saw on campus in omfg’ along with a picture attached.

You’re left speechless as a wave of emotions hits you and you feel like you’re drowning. This is not a dream, it’s real. And you don’t know if this was the universe’s way of pushing you to get over him or if you’d just managed to anger the world with your incessant wailing about the boy.

Because Park Sunghoon is back and he’s looking ten times hotter than you’d remembered.

Sunghoon sits with his long legs comfortably spread open and arms resting on the cushions of the couch, as if he was the owner of the house.

“So,” the girl straddled on his lap says, twirling her hair and batting her eyelashes at him, “what’s your favourite fruit then?”

They’ve been at it for minutes that felt like hours and Sunghoon doesn’t think he can withstand the urge to push her off his lap for any longer. Sunghoon grins cockily, “wanna know, babe?”

He watches with dark eyes as the girl, who’s name he can’t seem to remember, nods bashfully. It’s the fifth girl in three days, and Sunghoon’s getting a little tired of the same old expressions to his flirty behaviour.

“Strawberries,” Sunghoon tells her, “I could live on strawberries my whole life.”

“You like them that much, huh?” He almost visibly cringes at the sultry tone of her voice. That’s too much. But he doesn’t say anything, nodding his head at her words. “Why?”

He freezes up for a while. Why? Well, Sunghoon has never had a care for strawberries, but that summer, your lips were so stained with strawberries it was all he could ever taste.

And he remembers how your hands traced the veins of his neck, limbs tangled with his as he kissed your strawberry lips goodnight and good morning.

“Tastes nice,” he shrugs, and the girl moves on to her next question. Sunghoon, however, tunes her out like he had wanted to since she pounced over onto his lap.

He almost curses the girl for asking him such a harmless question, cursing himself for answering it the way he did. Sunghoon doesn’t have a favourite fruit, so why did his thoughts have to travel there, to the back of his mind, where he kept all his memories with you untouched.

Ironically, Park Sunghoon is here to see you. Despite having a girl planted on his lap, he finds his eyes constantly wandering every time people enter the house — it’s an unfamiliar game of waiting, one that Sunghoon’s never played before.

Hell, Sunghoon doesn’t even know if you’re going to come, but he’s bagging on it because he knows your parents wouldn’t let you skip the chance to network with your schoolmates. And now that he’s back as your schoolmate, Sunghoon swears that he wouldn’t miss the chance to ‘network’ with you.

Speaking of the devil, you walk through the door, and Sunghoon is in awe. Pretty little black dress with black heels, and god you still looked the same, maybe even prettier — yeah, definitely more prettier.

And his heart is thumping against his rib cage, nostalgia flushing through him as Sunghoon remembers the very first time he saw you in class after he came late. One look at you and he thinks all his efforts are in vain, Sunghoon wants to touch you, call you pet names and see your cheeks flush his favourite shade of rosy red, but the weight on top of his lap stops him, and he can only watch as you walk into the kitchen without a glance towards the couch.

Then he hears your voice, it's loud and smooth like it was back then, and he remembers because every single time he hears the nickname ‘Hoon’, he hears your voice. And Sunghoon will never forget the sound of your voice calling his name over and over.

“Soobin,” you call out, “Choi Soobin,” and his shoulders drop. Soobin? Out of everyone you could move on with, you got together with him? He’s better, Sunghoon knows he is, and he can’t believe the fact that you would downgrade to a second class nerd.

Sunghoon shifts in his seat, the poor girl on his lap thrown to the side as he attempts to get a view of the open kitchen where you stood alluringly. He disregards the scoff thrown at him from the girl, who walks away with hips swinging.

God it’s that effect again, and without even a look you have him wrapped around your finger unknowingly. Sunghoon suddenly feels the need to kiss you again, and he realises how much he misses you.

How selfish of him though, to crave for you as though you were his to miss at all.

Sunghoon clears his throat, arms folded and muscles bulging, trying to be discreet about the toll you take on his mentality. He’s here and you’re just a walk away — yet why does he feel so undeserving of being next to you.

The past was just a misunderstanding, and he wouldn’t have been at fault if he didn’t just hop on a plane to the other side of the world just as you were ready to talk it out.

But there you are now and he feels as if it’s his final opportunity before you slip through his fingers. Sunghoon wants to call your name, blurt out his feelings and kiss himself better; hell he’d never admit it over his pride but he had been thinking of what to say to you when he would finally see you again.

The lump in his throat’s the size of a cherry pit as he shifts awkwardly, finding himself on the way to the kitchen, on the way to you.

And he hates it — how fidgety you make him feel, how his palms turn sweaty like a teenage boy, how out of character you make him feel.

You’re just another girl now, an ex, a stranger. Sunghoon knows he’s just lying to himself, because you’d never be a stranger to him, not when you’re in everything he sees and does, not when he’s never had the confidence to tell his parents who constantly ask about you that you’re no longer together.

Filtering through the crowded room, he prepares himself, rehearsing the words he’s always wanted to tell you. Yet a flame in his heart burned luminously green at the sight of you laughing, with a boy that wasn’t him, with Choi Soobin.

“New boyfriend already? I see the princess has downgraded from a prince to a knight,” Sunghoon looms over you, a look of distaste all over his face as he looks pointedly over at the other tall boy.

You knew he was here watching, you could feel the gaze of Park Sunghoon from a mile away. And now he’s right behind you, chest pressed against your back as Soobin looks away from you to meet his gaze.

“Sunghoon?” Soobin murmurs in confusion, and Sunghoon smirks, waving him off as a gesture to leave the both of you alone.

That was one thing you’d always hated about Sunghoon, how he used his influence to control everyone around you, as if they were unworthy of your attention.

“Stay Soobin,” you say, before you turn around to meet Sunghoon’s gaze for the first time in a long while. Your heart slams against your chests like fists on a punching bag and feelings overwhelm you. You wouldn’t label yourself as someone emotional yet whenever you’re around Sunghoon you can’t help but drown in your feelings — love, hate, anger, and longing.

Sunghoon shoots you a sharp glare before returning his gaze to Soobin and cocking his head to the side. “I think I should leave,” he mumbles, tripping over his words before he steps out of the kitchen.

And there you find yourself, face excruciatingly close to Park Sunghoon’s as you try to choke down your feelings. He looked a little different, less playful and more mature, yet he still has the same sharp features you loved, and the multiple moles peppered across his face that you used to kiss every night.

“Is this fun for you, Sunghoon?” And he winces at your tone, loaded with disappointment and frustration but he remains quiet, reaching over to brush a strand of hair away from your face.

You can’t stop yourself from leaning into it, his warmth and familiarity. “Hm?” Sunghoon hums, his voice deeper than it was back then, “I don’t know, is this fun for you, princess?”

You’re taken back to highschool, when Sunghoon would press you up against the cool metal lockers and tell you how pretty you are, like a princess hence the nickname he has for you. Then, you couldn’t control the vibrant red that ruled over your cheeks and ears at the sound of that nickname and now, you still can’t seem to.

“You can’t just barge in here and act like you know me, Park Sunghoon,” you seethed, “like nothing ever happened.”

“I don’t know, princess, maybe you can refresh my memory,” he grins at the way your eyebrows squeeze in irritation, “a kiss for old times sake?”

You place your palms on his chest, using force to push him away yet he doesn’t budge. “Hey sweetheart, I know you’re excited to see me but it’s a little early to be feeling me up don’t you think?”

Immediately retracting your hands, Sunghoon lets out a laugh. It’s just as melodious as you remember and you can’t help but sigh at the familiar feeling of bickering with him. “Get the fuck off me, Park Sunghoon,” you groan.

“Woah, full government name? Baby I thought we were in love.” God, you think, how you wished you could kiss his face with an uppercut. It didn’t help that he was exactly the same as he was before and everything more, because you can feel yourself sinking deeper and deeper into him, more than before.

And you hated how he looked so good, like he never ghosted you and gave up on your relationship, like he wasn’t crying constantly over the memories you shared together.

“Why are you back Sunghoon,” you sigh, at least you were prepared — having cried your heart out, panicking over what to do when you’d finally see him with Karina. “Why are you here disturbing me, why can’t you just go find another girl to bother?”

It hurt you to say this, yet the clear image of Sunghoon with other girls was painted clearly in your mind. He was a player, and you felt hopeless trying to change him.

“It’s always been you, love.” He bends closer towards you holding your gaze, “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I wake up in the middle of the night calling out your name.”

“Will you please stop joking around,” you scoff at his unbelievable attempt at wooing you yet your heart pounds against the blooming flowers of your rib cage.

“Who says I’m not being serious,” he says, “besides it’s hard to find another girl to bother when you’re all everyone around me talks about.”

Your heart stops and your stomach dips as though you’ve just tumbled from a great height. It’s the closeness between the both of you that makes your knees weak, and his skin brushing against yours that jolts you like a spray of hot sparks. It’s how he knows exactly what gets to you, even if you’d never meant for him to.

His words pierce your heart, half agony half hope. And maybe if you loved him less you’d be able to bite back.

“We are long over and you know that,” you answer, so softly yet the pain drums against your whole being, “you made sure of that when you left without a word.”

Sunghoon feels constricted, and his shoulders feel the heavy weight of his guilt as he breathes. And since a few months ago, he’s always thought that the wound from your relationship had festered yet here, right in front of you, it still bleeds fresh.

“We never officially broke up,” Sunghoon points out. And he feels like such a desperate douchebag hanging onto the thinnest thread that could snap at any given second.

You scoff as you feel annoyance rise up in you, “you’d think that leaving your girlfriend to live across the world at the lowest point of your relationship literally shouts break up in every single angle.”

Sunghoon, for once, doesn’t have a cocky comeback to your words as they fizzle down his throat in silence. He opens his mouth yet bites back his tongue, guilt ridden.

You look at him, begging for an explanation that never seemed to come, “forget it, I’m an idiot for thinking that you’d ever waste your breath explaining yourse-”

“I get it, you hate me,” he groans, cutting you off as you fidget awkwardly at his words. No one could ever hate Park Sunghoon, even you — especially you. He sucks in a breath, ready to embarrass himself, bracing himself for rejection.

He can’t let you go like this, not when your heart blackens at the sight of him, not when he’s still madly in love with you.

So he does what he does best, he plays. And this time, it’s a game that he needs to win.

Park Sunghoon has a way with words, or maybe that’s just his charm — where every sentence and every word entrances, putting you in a state where you can’t seem to do anything but oblige to his commands.

You stand in one of your favourite dresses at the entrance of the restaurant, Sunghoon beside you as you try your best not to take a peek at him for the nth time.

You’re not here for him, you’re here for his mother.

At least that’s what you’ve been trying to tell yourself.

And you’ve been dreading it all, the feeling of familiarity — remembering how much you’d loved his parents, how well they treated you, and how you’d always meet up with them with Sunghoon.

Yet here you were again, a year later, trying to convince yourself that this was the closure that you needed to move on. It’s just an hour or two.

“Oh my gosh Sunghoon, you brought her,” a flowery voice cheered as you watched Mrs Park push back her chair to throw her arms around you, “I’ve been asking Sunghoon to set up a date for us to meet for the past year but he always claims you’re busy with Uni. How are you doing?”

You wrap your arms around her, a real smile blooming on your face, “I’ve been coping well, it’s much busier than I could’ve ever imagined. But I’ve never been better.”

Lie, lie, lie. It seemed like that was all you could do around things that surround your ex boyfriend; lying about your feelings, lying to his mother, lying to yourself.

“I can imagine,” she smiles, gesturing to the both of you to sit, “now that Hoon is back, I’m sure he’d look after you well.”

“Not even a hello to your own son and you’re already putting words in my mouth,” Sunghoon complains, rolling his eyes at his mother’s usual antics.

And at times like this he remembers how you’d squeeze his hands, as if warning him to listen to his mother, yet right now his hands lack the warmth yours radiate and he only has himself to blame.

After all he was the one asking you to join him, and he couldn’t have expected you to actually act like you used to. You weren’t his to touch anymore.

“It’s great that you’re back next to him,” Mrs Park comments, completely ignoring her son. “You’re the only one he listens to. He’s changed a lot since he met you.”

You let out a forced laugh, one that goes unnoticed by Mrs Park but not Sunghoon. And he questions if you actually believe his mother’s words.

Sunghoon used to think it was foolish to believe that people could truly change for the better — life was made to be a cycle, and no matter how long summer radiated, winter would still send a chill down your spine. Yet with you his world felt like constant summers in paradise, peace and comfort he hasn’t been able to find anywhere but in your arms that wrapped around his flaws and never let go.

“Barely any parties overseas, always studying,” she points out and you’re shocked at the new revelation you’d just made, “but he’s started smoking, maybe now that you’re back by his side you can fix that up.”

Sunghoon groans, “whatever.” His fingers run through his hair as you finally cave in, taking a glance at him. His sculpted features that followed you to your dreams, the rustic looking leather jacket that hugged his figure perfectly and just everything; from the way he breathes to the way he speaks. He’s everything.

Time ticks away as you find it harder and harder not to hold Sunghoon’s hand like you used to, holding yourself back from purposefully hitting his leg with yours under the table cloth just for the fun of it. And it wasn’t that you weren’t enjoying yourself — it was just how minutes felt like days being so close yet not being able to touch him.

The cold breeze of the night bites your cheeks, turning them a frosty red. You shiver as you blow hot breaths on the palms of your hand, rubbing them to keep warm only to find the weight of a jacket draped over your shoulder.

“I don’t need it,” you say to Sunghoon, without having any intention to give his jacket back, “I’m not that cold.”

“I can hear your teeth chattering from a mile away, princess,” he says, lips twitching.

“Sure,” you comment, “and when you’re cold later on don’t ask for the jacket back.”

Sunghoon lets out a laugh, it’s animated and excited as his head rolls back and his mouth widens. “Don’t worry about me, love, I’ve got it covered.”

Reaching into his pocket, Sunghoon pulls out a box of cigarettes, smoothly lighting one up before he breathes out a cloud of grey smoke. And you can’t help but look.

You hold your breath at the sight — his dark eyes alight under the moonlight and his jaw tilted a few angles up, hair messy from the night’s breeze, and finger clad rings that hold such death.

It makes you scared: scared of the love you have for him. Because it has ruined you once and it will ruin you again, you’d let it ruin you again.

“You shouldn’t smoke, you know,” you start, “it’s bad for your health.”

“You’re bad for my health, sweetheart,” he answers, “yet you seem to be everywhere I am.”

The silence of night engulfs the both of you, and the chatter from the restaurant tunes out as you meet his gaze.

It’s insane, you’re going insane. “You know you can’t just do that,” you say, trying to keep yourself calm.

“Can’t just do what, love?” He hums, smoke wafting around him. And it really should have disgusted you, the way he chose to blacken his own lungs yet it didn’t. It could never.

“That,” you point out, tearing your gaze away from him. “You can’t just return out of nowhere and pretend like everything is fine. Calling me pet names, making me meet your mother because you failed to tell her about our breakup. You can’t just rope me back in after I’ve spent all my time and energy grappling out of the hold you have over me.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you desperately try to blink them away. Your vulnerability on full display for Sunghoon to read — not that he ever needed you to tell him, he could read you like an open book.

“Stop playing with me Sunghoon. I’m not just a toy you can throw around and find when you’re bored.”

Only the soft cackle at the end of Sunghoon’s cigar can be heard as he stills. And he wants to tell you that he loves you, he wants to scream it to the world. You were never a toy to him and he has always been fully devoted to you, like a religion of his.

Sunghoon doesn’t know how to say it, he can’t really put it into words: the feeling he has when he’s around you. He’s addicted to it — the feeling of being alive, like he’s known you for lifetimes after lifetimes, like he’s free.

His proclamation gets stuck in his throat as he fumbles on a thorough response. It’s always been hard for him to show his true feelings, much more to actually say it out loud.

He’s never really been an emotional person, much less a confrontational one. It was why he liked playing around; baseless actions without reason, there wasn’t any need to show his true feelings or even feel much to begin with. He never had to explain himself, not once.

And at times like this when Sunghoon’s utterly scared, he can’t do anything but accept; that maybe you and him were just meant to be a precious memory.

Maybe it was time to let you move on.

Friends with deep history. That’s what Karina decides to title your relationship with Sunghoon. And you’d never thought it’d hurt this much, given you and Sunghoon were never once considered friends.

It’s a whole different type of pain and worry that gnaws at your heart — like an emerald monster of envy as you watch him interact with other girls in ways he once did with you, to hear him call others by pet names like he used to call you.

Sunghoon lets the word ‘babe’ roll off his tongue without a second thought, it’s the only pet name he could ever bear saying without much thought of you.

‘Babe’ was conventional, normal. It was everything you were not.

And he wonders if you realise it, if you pay attention to his every word like he does to yours, if you’d really moved on and accepted the fact that the two of you were friends.

It’s weird, Park Sunghoon has never hated any word more. The sour aftertaste it left on his tongue and the tension surrounding it. Fuck friends, he thinks, it’s only been a week of such an arrangement and he can’t take it any longer.

There’s only been two types of days throughout the week — ones where you’re beside him and he can smell the familiar scent of vanilla and honey and others, where seconds felt like months and minutes felt like years.

This isn’t what he came back for. He didn’t come back just to torture himself with close proximity, he came back to touch you, kiss you, to feel your breath on his lips, to feel your heart beat against his.

It’s been a week since Sunghoon swore to himself that he’d let you move on, give you space, and finally let you go from his grasp. Yet whenever he spots you with another boy that wasn’t him, his being burns.

His heart scalds as if it’s drowning in fiery hot lava. And Sunghoon doesn’t sob or wail, his grief horribly discreet, persistent, and almost as silent as bleeding from an unstitched wound. It feels unspeakably lonely, draining and his mind’s a blank state. A sickening wet feeling.

How the memories haunt him everywhere he finds himself to be; your favourite cafe, a poster of the movie you’d made him watch multiple times he could recite half the movie script, the bitter coffee he forces down his throat just to torture himself.

“Because it’s kinda cool,” he remembers telling you, “stuff like coffee runs, or caffeine adrenaline that runs through my veins after the bitter taste coats my tongue.”

The heavenly laugh that you let out, the one that makes him want to keep on loving you. “Caffeine adrenaline, really Hoon?” You said with a grin on your face, “I don’t think there’s such a thing.”

“Yeah there is,” he insists, mirroring the goofy grin plastered on your lips, “and it makes me want to kiss you.”

Now all time does is pass and he finds himself in front of your favourite cafe, wondering if you still order your favourite chocolate pastry and get it all over your lips; if there’s someone else who kisses the stains of chocolate away like he did once.

And he shouldn’t have been surprised to see you there, in your glory, a plate of your favourite chocolate pastry in front of you half eaten.

At least some things don’t change.

He watches you intently, as you take another bite of the chocolaty goodness, nodding inattentively at the words spouted from your company’s mouth.

Sunghoon thinks the boy in front of you is doing it all wrong. If he was in front of you now he would’ve teased you for being a messy eater, bent over the table just to kiss the chocolate away from your lips as you tell him to stop while laughing.

You find your attention dwindling from the boy in front of you. He was good looking, for sure, defined features and a nice smile. But Sunghoon’s more handsome, Sunghoon looks good with and without glasses but the boy in front of you would never be able to pull glasses off.

If Sunghoon was here, he’d have already made me laugh at least thrice, he’d have planted a kiss on my lips, calling me a messy eater, he’d have already changed the topic to keep to your interests.

You look away from the boy, scanning the interior of the familiar cafe, one that was supposed to be your favourite yet you’ve never really thought much about the interior or their food. Everything’s dull and you figure that maybe it’s the company you’re around that matters instead.

The cafe wasn’t your favourite, Sunghoon was. With his witty comebacks and chivalrous smirk, the tall figure and eyes you could stare at for days.

And then you see him, and he’s just there. You don’t know what to think anymore. Just that you’re here and he’s here. That you’re supposed to hate him for leaving yet you can’t find a tinge of hate in your heart. That moving on was clearly for the better but everything’s mundane without him.

Sunghoon’s already looking at you, and when you meet his gaze he lets out a string of curses under his breath. This wasn’t a good idea. You and him in a place scattered everywhere in your memories, just a few steps away yet miles apart at the same time.

He can’t take it any longer. So Sunghoon leaves, fingers clenching the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

You frown at the sight of his back, turning as he left the cafe without a second thought. A sense of déjà vu encompasses you. Is this how it’s always going to be — turning away from each other without a smile, seeing him everywhere yet not being able to talk to him, holding the label of friends but never having a proper conversation?

“Hey, you okay love?” You grimace at the name he calls you, looking back at the boy who did nothing but blabber away all this while.

“Uhm, I think I have to go,” you say, chair pushed back hurriedly as you make your way out without a second thought. Head turning to find a boy in a denim jacket, the boy that held your heart in his hands.

“Sunghoon,” you call once you spot him, puffs of smoke wafting over and around him as he leans gorgeously against a wall. “Is this really how it’s going to be?”

Sunghoon lifts the cigarette between his fingers, cold eyes that once held no emotion seemingly brightening at the sight of you. “What are you doing here princess?” He asks, small puffs of smoke exiting his mouth as he talks, “boy not to your liking? He seemed bland.”

“Why are you doing this Sunghoon,” you say exasperatedly, “why are you everywhere that I am, why do you follow me in everything that I do.”

“Am I distracting you from your dates, love?” Sunghoon laughs, and you’re annoyed at how he dodges your questions perfectly, how he manages to twist everything yet hit the nail on the head.

“You promised me that you’d let me move on,” you pause, catching your breath, “you owe me that. You owe me space.”

“You think it’s that easy to give you up?” Sunghoon’s eyebrows furrow as the cigarette in his finger dims and drops to the ground, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you’re all around me. I can’t even-”

“Then why,” you cut him off, vision already blurry, “why did you leave without a word, why did you leave just when I was ready to talk, why didn’t you answer the thousand messages I left you, why did I have to find out you were gone from someone that wasn’t you. Why?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Sunghoon says shakily.

“You didn’t have a choice?” You scoffed, “I cry myself to sleep wondering who you were talking to instead of me, wondering why you did me so wrong and everything that was wrong with me. I checked my phone, Sunghoon, every fucking ten minutes hoping to see your name on the screen and if it wasn’t I would cry again and again. You always come and go as you please, whatever is convenient for you. I bet you’ve never once thought of my feelings, yet all I could think about was if you were coping well on the other side of the world.”

Sunghoon stands and he marvels, your words striking him like a final knockout blow. And its realisation all over again that he loved you, he loves you, and you still loved him.

He’s always thought you’d hate him for what he’s done, the suffering he’s brought into your life. Being serious never yielded him much results so he kept pretending, passing it over.

“And you think I didn’t,” he wails, and it’s the first time you’ve seen perfection with flaws, “you think I didn’t look at your texts and cry? You think I’ve never had any sleepless nights thinking if texting you back would be the right choice? I thought it would’ve been the best for you, I wouldn’t have been able to treat you the way you would’ve wanted to be treated and I didn’t know how long my father would’ve made me stay there if I didn’t beg to come back.”

“But now that you’re here in front of me, I’ve realised how stupid I must have been to make such a decision. I missed you and I still miss you even when you’re here — and it occurs to me that I’ll probably never move on from you because you’re the first person I’ve ever truly loved unconditionally, the only one that’s ever mattered.”

A strangled sob of tears leaves your throat as you bury your face in his chest, trembling wildly as tears travel down your cheeks. “I hate you,” you croak out, fists clenched, “I hate that I miss you.”

“I missed you everywhere.” He says, fingers running through your hair to your back. And for the first time, Sunghoon lets the pain and ache bleed into his voice.

“Here,” he says and his lips brush against the place your heart beats, “and I’ve missed you here.”

Once Sunghoon kisses you, your heart slows and everything seems so dreamy. How much you needed him terrified you, and you couldn’t imagine that this was what love was like for everyone. Maybe it was just you, just you and Sunghoon. Maybe together you were just a volatile entity that would either implode or melt together, thrilling and exotic, sweet and heavenly.

It’s silent for a minute and you miss his voice again.

After a period of sadness, happiness doesn’t just jump in your life. It grows slowly into the cracks and fissures of you, like small plants that sprout in cracked concrete.

“Can I kiss you, princess?” Sunghoon mutters into your mouth as his arms wrap around your waist. Your arms around his neck as he hoists you up in the waters of his swimming pool.

It’s weird, how it feels like he’s never left. And ever since you’d cried your hearts out in each other's arms, you’ve both been making an effort to communicate with each other.

“You just kissed me, Hoon,” you laugh, water droplets harmonising with the sound of your laughter. And Sunghoon just stares like he did last night and the night before. He isn’t obsessed, yet when your fingers run through his hair he can’t help but think he is.

“I know, but I want to,” he grins, “I want to kiss you again.”

“You don’t have to ask,” you say in slow tenderness. His star mapped skin, cacophony of laughter, and his smile that makes you feel a little less alone — it makes you feel like the sun’s out in the middle of the midnight sky.

“Consent is what hot guys do,” he smirks, and you almost fall back in laughter.

“Really?” You reply, “I don’t see any hot guys around here?”

Sunghoon groans, “I’m right here? You’re saying that as if you don’t want a piece of me.”

You don’t think twice before leaning into Sunghoon, thoughtlessly holding him as you fall in love all over again with all your heart.

“You know who I want a piece of,” you sigh, head buried in the crook of his neck. “This new hot guy in school, everyone’s been raving about him for the past month. Bet he kisses well.”

“Oh,” Sunghoon gasps, “what is his name?” You roll your eyes at his facade of obliviousness.

“I think it’s Park Sunghoon,” your lips raise as you turn to look at him.

“That’s me baby,” he chuckles, “too bad I already have a girlfriend.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” you frown.

“Yeah, too bad I’m all hers,” he mirrors your frown, “now can my girlfriend allow me to kiss her?”

You giggle, nodding your head before Sunghoon presses his lips on yours. And it’s everything and nothing at once — heartbeats merging as one, heaven’s on your lips and Sunghoon feels the need to repeatedly repent his sins. He wants to touch you until his palms burn.

And unlike the rollercoaster of emotions his heart once felt, it feels calm, it feels as though he’s finally returned home.

© SJYUNS

[gojonanami]

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 - 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

summary: it's gojo's birthday, and he can't help but reflect on what birthdays have meant to him over the years, especially the year you decide you don't really want to do anything for his birthday (but it turns out you do).

contents: angst then fluff, i promise there's a happy ending, you just have to earn it, shibuya does not happen in this timeline, instead we celebrate gojo, slightly angsty, reflections on events of jjk 0, crack, all of gojo's students (aside yuta and hakari and rirara make an appearance), mentions of sex/pregnancy, innuendo

word count: 2,821

December 7, 1989. 

A day that had changed the balance of the jujutsu world irrevocably — the day Satoru Gojo had burst onto the scene. 

But to Satoru, the anniversary of that day had meant nothing to him for most of his life. It was another day in the calendar — the caretakers from the Gojo clan cared not for his birthday, as they did his development as the head and face of the Gojo clan. He had received the best of everything — the best foods, the best training, the best room in the compound. 

At least, the strongest sorcerer had. 

Satoru Gojo had barely received anything more than reverent bows, averted gazes, and hushed whispers — and he saw them all, with the six eyes he never had asked for. And Satoru Gojo had grown up without affection or anything of the sort — to the point where he had thought he was simply beyond that — love, compassion, or friendship — no, the only thing he had was duty. 

And birthdays only served as a marker that he had lived another year. 

Until they meant something more — when he had met Suguru, Shoko, and you. And then it had meant something for a little while. It meant a celebration with his friends — with a cake that you and Suguru had hastily made after a mission, while Shoko hung decorations (with the help of one of Suguru’s curses reaching the high points). It had meant forcing Nanami to wear a party hat against his will (Shoko and Haibara’s doing), and Satoru inevitably smearing cake on your face to start an all out food fight (which only ended with Satoru getting scolded and smacked on the head by Yaga, even on his birthday). And it meant you, Suguru, and Shoko giving him his first real birthday present — something he had never received in fifteen years of living. It meant something more. 

Until it didn’t, again. 

Because, now, it was another year he had spent without his best friend. Another year he watched other sorcerers die. Another year he had to spend apart from you and Shoko because you or he had been sent on missions while Shoko was stuck in the infirmary or the morgue. 

And now, this year it was the first time he had a birthday that Suguru wouldn’t age. He would never age again. He would stay 28 forever, and Satoru — he didn’t know what age he’d turn. He hoped he would die before old age or disease took him — he rather not live long enough for that. Although you and Suguru always joked that he would be even better looking as an old man. 

But all Satoru could think about was growing old alone — without anyone else around him. He was the strongest after all, how could anyone else survive? People around him were killed off one by one — and he was left all alone. And maybe that’s why he didn’t like birthdays — it was just another year, another year older — another year marking who had left him. 

And so many did. 

And how many birthdays would pass until he lost another? Would it be one of his students? Would it be Nanami? Would it be Shoko? Would it be you? 

You…you were someone he couldn’t bear to lose. He had already lost you once. Pushed you away after Geto defected, pushed himself into work until he was burnt out, and pushed away any thoughts that he had of you. It didn’t last. It wasn’t a year until you had battered at his walls and his actual door, forcing your way back into his life. 

And he was thankful you did, because he didn’t know if he would have found his way out of the hole he had dug himself in — before the dirt covered and buried him. 

You — you would never let his birthday go. You never let him go a year without making him feel special, in one way or another. Last year, you had baked him his favorite cake, took him on a trip to a hot spring, and made arrangements to make sure the two of you weren’t disturbed the entire weekend (which was a feat of miracles on par with his six eyes and limitless itself). 

“C’mon, just tell meeeee,” 

And the strongest sorcerer’s snatching your gradebook out of your hand for the millionth time, and you surely look unamused, brow knit together, as you rub your temples, “You know living with you is worse than a child,” 

“Wanna test your theory? I could fill you up right now and nine months—” 

“I’m going to murder you,” and he only shrugs, all too smug. 

“You’d miss me too much,” and he adds, “plus I know you’re strong, but you couldn’t—” 

“Finish that sentence and you’re sleeping on the couch all week, I don’t care if it is your birthday tomorrow,” and he meets your gaze, and you’re unwavering, as he sighs, and hands over your grade book. 

“We really aren’t doing anything?” your husband asks, raising a single eyebrow curiously, “you always have something up your sleeve, sweetheart,” 

You frown, setting your grade book aside, “I just thought with everything going on — Yuji’s appearance, the special grades running around — I don’t think we should be away right now, and I thought we could do something small, just you and me,” 

He nods slowly, a smile shoddily crafted and pasted on his lips, “Yeah, bet if I leave, the higher ups may try to pull something on Yuji,” he sighs dramatically, leaning his head back on the couch, “what a curse to be the strongest,” 

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” you press a kiss to his forehead, “you sure you’re okay with not doing anything?” 

“Of course,” he finds your lips in a kiss.  

But why wasn’t he? 

He wasn’t one to care for things like this. He thought he was beyond caring about things like this. But all he could feel was the festering urge of disappointment seeping into his thoughts. Even the next day, the universe seemed to be against him, sent on a wild goose chase mission to hunt down a supposed special grade only to find two grade A curses that he took care of with ease. 

He trodded back home to you — lips still in a pout that he couldn’t even enjoy his morning with you on his birthday. He didn’t even get to enjoy cuddling with you — woken up to travel across the country to deal with some curses he didn’t need to handle. 

It didn’t used to be like this — sent off to do missions alone. Again and again. Heavy was the head that bore the crown, but no one had mentioned how lonely it was. Lonely even surrounded by those who tried to understand him — and he had you, he had you, but how could anyone truly see him for who he was — when he didn’t feel like he knew who he was anymore. Suguru’s question still rang in his ears — was he the strongest because he was Gojo Satoru, or was he Gojo Satoru because he was the strongest? 

And all these years later, he still didn’t know the answer. He didn’t know if he would ever know the answer. 

But he didn’t have time to linger on his thoughts as he spotted his home in the distance, but that wasn’t all he saw — there was a lot more cursed energy at home than usual — multiple people in his home, and his lips curled. 

He sneaks up, diminishing his presence to nothing, as he pressed his ear to the door, and he could hear them — 

“Too high, Itadori, lower!” Nobara barked, and Yuuji groaned, “come on, how long is it gonna take you to do this?” 

“Then why don’t you get up here and do it?” he snaps back, and Nobara scoffs. 

“I’m supervising, that’s why,” 

“EH? Who else are you supervising besides me?” 

“Stop messing around you two, and get the banner hung,” Megumi sighs, and Satoru could imagine him scowling, “Inumaki-senpai, do you need more balloons?” 

“Salmon,” 

“Maki, hurry up with cutting those strawberries, Nanami is almost done frosting the cake,” Satoru could hear Panda chewing and then a distinct THUNCK. 

“THEN STOP EATING THEM YOU DAMN ANIMAL!” 

“Alright, alright, stop fighting guys,” Satoru heard you sigh, “Nanami, I hope the frosting and cakes I baked were decent — I followed the recipe you gave me to a tee,” 

“You did a good job from what I could tell, but I’m pretty sure you could feed that idiot a plain cup of sugar, and he’d like it just the same,” and Satoru pouts, hearing Shoko laugh as well. 

“Especially if it’s from you,” Shoko teases you, as you scoff playfully, “can’t believe you two got married still — won’t be long until there are little Gojos running around, if Satoru has his way, with the way he’s been railing you,”

“Can we change the subject?” Nanami asks, disgust evident. 

You only chuckle, “Well, he’s insisted that we start trying once things settle down, saying it never hurts to practice, but—” and then your phone chimes, “Yaga said Toru’s on his way back for a while, he should be close.” 

There’s a mad dash and scramble as they put everything in its place, and Satoru leans against the side of the house — they even put up a curtain to hide their cursed energy on the inside, prioritizing invisibility. 

And Satoru grins  — all this for him? 

“Let me video call him and see where he is — I think I can distract him enough,” and he teleports down the road from his home, as your phone call comes through, “hi birthday boy, are you almost home?” 

“Almost,” he hums, “need something, sweetheart?” 

“Just my lovely husband home so I can cuddle him,” you smile, and he can see you’re walking into your shared bedroom now, sound of the door closing behind you, “got a surprise on for you under this dress,” 

And he’s pausing, “is that right?” And the party ebbs away from his mind, as your fingers slid the straps of your dress down, and teasing the baby blue and white lingerie set underneath, “my perfect birthday gift — all ready for me to unwrap?” 

“As soon as you get home,” and all blood flees his brain and heads southward, “I’ll be waiting,” 

And you disconnect the call — and he’s rushing now, party be damned. He would have you in bed, even if he had to sneak away with you upstairs for five minutes. 

He unlocks the door, and hears several bangs from poppers, as all of his students, colleagues, and friends shout “surprise!” And he smiles, glancing around at the birthday decorations, the birthday cake precariously balanced in Yuji’s hands, and you — grinning right at the front of the group, holding a bouquet of red roses. 

Everyone is stepping up to wish him a happy birthday, even grumbling happy birthdays from Megumi and Maki, as his arms curl around you after, “did I fool you?” 

And he only smiles, “I’m always a fool for you, sweetheart,” and his lips find yours, only yielding disgusted groans from most of your students, “and don’t think I forgot about my present,” he whispers, while pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, “I have a feeling I’ll be tearing off the wrapping soon enough,” he winks. 

You roll your eyes, “Party first, presents later,” your hand finds his as you take him to mingle. 

Satoru doesn’t get his wish of a secret rendezvous with you — but he does get several other gifts from his students — a blue ray of Human Earthworm 4 from Yuji, Crocs from Nobara (“they’re as tacky as you are”), Megumi gives a gift card (Yuji: “No creativity,” Nobara: “Seriously how boring,” and Yuji earns a fist to the head from Megumi). The second years’ pitched in and bought him a book on ‘how to date’ (“it was Yuta’s idea — he’s not sure you know how to date even after getting married”). 

He’s being pulled over to cut the cake that Yuji miraculously only dropped once (but Maki had luckily caught), you at his side, as everyone crowds around for him to cut it, and he thinks, maybe he doesn’t need to be understood as the strongest — maybe he can just be understood as Satoru Gojo, and that can be enough. 

And he blows out his candles, as your fingers interlaced with his, and he’s cutting a particularly big chunk to feed you, nearly smearing it over your lips, “What did you wish for—umph—” and he’s kissing you, the sweet frosting didn’t compare to the sweetness of your lips, your fingers finding his shoulder, and he barely hears the groans of his students, parting as you softly pant, beautiful smile spread on your face, “Toru—” 

“I have everything I could wish for,” and he’s pressing his forehead to yours, before you kiss his nose, only to drag some frosting across his cheek, “oi!” 

“That’s for smearing cake all over my face,” you brush the crumbs from your chin, and he only grins wider. 

As he’s pulling you close with an arm around your waist, his breath warm against your lips, “Will you help clean it off?” and you roll your eyes, as his students grimace at his words, booing him. 

You only give a small smile, and kiss his cheek, whispering, “...after they leave,” and they do soon enough, after everyone enjoys their slice of cake and a few drinks (Yuji sneaking a glass of wine when Nanami isn’t looking), they leave to go back home. 

Satoru collapses on the couch first, and then you toss yourself beside him, throwing your legs over his lap, “Tired?” you curl yourself against him, your head finding his shoulder, nose brushing against the warm nape of his neck. 

“Was that mission earlier your doing?” 

“Well how else would I get you out of the house with all your pestering? And knowing you, you would have kept me in bed all morning,” and he laughs, as his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you properly into his lap. 

“How’d you see my birthday wish list?” and you scoff, as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “you still have one more gift to give me, one that you teased me with earlier,” and his fingers are creeping up your bare thigh, squeezing teasingly at your flesh. 

“Two more, actually,” and he’s tilting his head, as you grab the bouquet of flowers from the coffee table where he had left it, “you missed something in here,” 

And he’s smiling, as he pulls a small box nestled in the middle of the roses, “What’s this—” and his fingers are too quick for his question, as he’s met with your gift. 

Positive. 

He stares — stares if it would disappear before his eyes, that somehow the six eyes were wrong this one time — the one time it mattered. 

“Are you really surprised with all the practice we’ve been getting in?” and he gives a brief chuckle, shaking his head, as you chew your lip at his relative silence, “wow, have I rendered the great Satoru Gojo — the man who never shuts up even when he should — speechless?” he still says nothing, “Toru? Say somethin—” 

And his arms are wrapping you in a hug, pulling you fully into his lap, as he engulfs you in his warmth, burying his face in the crook of your neck, “Are you sure I’m the father?” 

You snort, “Satoru, I swear to god, I’m going—” 

And his lips find yours in a sweet kiss, palms cupping your cheeks, as his blue eyes swim with a happiness you’d rarely seen before, as he presses kisses all over your face, until he’s kneeling before your stomach, pressing a sweet kiss to it. 

“You better look like your mom or I’m going to demand a re-do,” 

You huff, “Satoru, we aren’t having another kid for at least three years—” 

“We didn’t mean to have a kid right now, but we are,” he gives a devilish smirk, before you cross your arms, unamused. 

“I swear, we have another kid before three years are up, and I’m sleeping in a separate bedroom,” and his arms are looping around your waist to pull you close. 

“You can’t resist me for that long,” and he’s pulling into a kiss again, your arms wrapping around his neck, as your lips part. 

“Try me,” and he pouts before you laugh, tugging him to the bedroom, “come on, birthday boy, I believe I owe you one last present,” and his lips are curled again as he follows you eagerly, your dress over your head and on the bedroom floor before he’s two steps into the room. 

December 7, 2018. 

A day that changed the balance of Satoru Gojo’s family life — for the better. 

a/n: this was supposed to be pure fluff but turned into angst / fluff - as always. i can't write anything w/o angst.

tag list: @merzel69695, @senseiigojo, @forest-fruits-jam, @forest-hashira, @amanemisamisa, @ririthedevil, @a1is0n-png, @chosomoso, @hawkwithsocks, @aliyalala, @icecubesaredelicous, @sugurusdiscordmoderator, @acewoo, @sodoney,

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 1: Bruises and Bloodlines]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else's protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm's End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), Aemond stressing everybody out, Aegon hating his life even more than usual, RIP lil Luke Strong, don't touch bats in real life or you will get rabies.

Word count: 6.3k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @mrs-starkgaryen @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

Cannibal, a noun: one that devours its own.

~~~~~~~~~~

He’s back, you can feel it: a sensation like falling, the impact of Vhagar’s claws against the earth. You get glimpses like this, unpredictable flashes of intuition, a window into the contents of his mind or the scenery he is draped in like how branches hang from a willow tree. You set Blueberry down on the windowsill, where he skitters to the edge and swoops out into the night, chasing white specks of moths and lacewings. Then you leave your bedchamber to meet Aemond in the hallway.

One of the maids is there, trying to be patient as she paces with Maelor in her arms. He’s just like you were at that age: a demon who never sleeps. His white-blonde hair is disheveled, his eyes rheumy and pink from crying in protest. But then they brighten.

“Red Red!” Maelor swipes at you with tiny, grasping hands.

“What are you doing awake?” you coo at him, beaming. “It’s nighttime. You aren’t a bat. Are you a bat, huh? Are you hiding a pair of wings somewhere?”

He giggles as you pretend to inspect him. The maid smiles.

“If you don’t have any wings, I’m afraid you’ll have to go right to sleep. That’s the rule for humans.”

Maelor trills in his toddler lisp: “Then I want to be a bat.”

“Okay! I’ll find some bugs for you to eat.”

“No!” he squeals, dismayed. “No bugs!”

“In that case, I guess you’re a human after all. If you go to bed now, you can help me collect seashells tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Maelor agrees grudgingly, and the maid ferries him away. From the Godswood, great horned owls hoot. One of the knights of Aegon’s Kingsguard, Sir Willis Fell from the Stormlands, passes by on his patrol and gives you a quick nod, polite but a bit avoidant, awkward truths he pretends he can ignore. He doesn’t ask if you need assistance or why you’re awake at this hour. He already knows. He vanishes again, his white cloak swishing behind him like the tail of a wolf or a jackal.

You lurk at the top of the Grand Staircase shrouded in shadows and shifting firelight, feeling night wind skate over your cheek like children playing on a frozen lake, and that breeze is not here but outside where Aemond must be trudging across the courtyard towards the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. You drum your fingertips impatiently on the stone banister. When at last he appears—first only a silhouette in the darkness, then rippling into color under the torches, black leather and silver hair—Aemond is drenched with rain and ascending swiftly, two stairs at a time.

You grin as you take a step down to him, slinking, conspiratorial. He told you all his plans before he left; he tells you almost everything. “How was Storm’s End?”

But Aemond doesn’t answer. He blows past you and stalks towards Criston’s chambers, rainwater dripping from his hair and littering the floor with tiny, transluscent pools.

You turn to watch him leave, mystified. “Aemond?”

He says without stopping: “Go wake Aegon and Mother. Tell them to meet me in the small council chamber. I’ll get Criston and Grandsire.”

“Why?” Again, Aemond ignores you. This is unusual. You bolt after him, closing the space between you until your fingers catch his wrist. “Aemond, what—?”

He grabs you and pins you to the wall, the stones cold against your belly through the crimson velvet of your robe, Aemond’s hips braced against yours, domineering, demanding, promising what he will do for you after. You close your eyes and sigh shakily—a savoring, a surrender—and then he is tender, turning your face so he can kiss the apple of your cheek. He murmurs, warm and low: “Do as I ask.”

You nod. “Okay,” you agree in a whisper. Aemond releases you and vanishes to rouse Criston. You break for Aegon’s chambers.

There is a woman in his bed, snoring softly and with long auburn hair spilling over her bare shoulders. He has endeavored to spend less time drinking and philandering since becoming king, and yet…it is so rare for a creature to change its spots or stripes or scales. Aegon has always been this way. Without his vices, you would not recognize him.

You kneel beside the bed and rest a palm lightly on Aegon’s damp forehead. You have to be careful when you wake him; he flinches, he startles, he has too many memories of being ripped from sleep by bruises and crescent-moon indentations of fingernails. “Aegon? I’m really sorry, I know it’s late.”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s you. “Fuck off,” he groans into his pillow.

“Aemond’s back from Storm’s End, but something’s wrong. He wants you to meet him in the council chamber.”

Aegon looks up and blinks drowsily. Moonlight spills into the room through gaps in the curtains. He smells strange, like lavender; that must be from his companion. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

You shake your head.

Now Aegon is alarmed. The dark, cloudy blue of his irises is rapidly clearing. “Alright. Give me five minutes.”

“Wash the girl’s perfume off you so Mother isn’t quite so disappointed.”

Aegon chuckles, rubbing his eyes; something about the way he does this reminds you of Maelor. They are both just boys; they are both so incendiary and yet so vulnerable. “Get out, whore.”

You tousle his hair roughly, smack a kiss onto his sweat-salted temple as he tries to shove you away, snicker as he hurls pillows at you. You are slipping through the doorway when you hear the woman in bed mumble: “Huh? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “Thank you very much for your company, your skills were more than adequate, now kindly find your way home…”

You hurry down the hall to Mother’s chambers. There are seven-pointed stars on the walls and the furniture, green tapestries everywhere. She will always be a Hightower, averse to Valyrian oddities and suspicious of that sinister, ancient magic. She does not understand it; she tries to overlook it in her children. It’s the only way she knows how to love them. You sit beside the indistinct shape beneath the blankets, sinking into the goose feather mattress, and nudge what you guess is her shoulder. “Mother?”

She stirs, and then her face fills with concern when she sees you in the dim light from her candles. “What’s happened, darling? Are you ill?” You are prone to headaches and chills and nausea, you always have been, maladies of the flesh that are either a blood inheritance or a curse from bad stars. Once when you were very young, Aemond pushed you into a cold stream during a royal progress to the Vale, and you had been laughing when Criston leapt in and dragged you from the water; but two days later, you began burning up with a fever so hot they thought you might die. Aemond had slept on the floor beside your bed, and when you shivered so violently your bones ached he climbed in beside you and held you until you could sleep again; and later when his eye was cut out on Driftmark and he was half-mad with pain, you did the same for him.

“No, Mother, I’m fine. It’s Aemond.”

She sits up and studies you. “Aemond?”

“He’s back from Storm’s End, and he wants to talk to you.”

“To me?”

“And Criston and Aegon, and Grandsire too.”

She doesn’t understand. “Now? Why? What’s wrong?”

“I have no idea.”

“What did he say?”

Everyone expects you to already know, but you don’t. “I think he wants to tell all of us at the same time. In the small council chamber.”

“Now?” she says again, puzzled, still half-asleep. “What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“Mother, there are only so many ways for me to express that I don’t know. If I had any indications at all, I’d share them.”

“Alright.” She’s smiling; you have amused her. She throws off the covers and touches her bare feet to the floor. “Pass me my robe. It���s on that chair over there.” And of course, the swath of velvet you hand her to wear over her nightgown is a deep emerald green: the color of fertile fields, not blood or beasts.

By the time you and Mother arrive together, everyone else is already taking their places in the council chamber. Aegon is at the head of the table, spinning his stone—a black sphere of volcanic glass—and peering around boredly. Grandsire and Criston are greeting Mother and yawning into the backs of their hands. No one has woken Helaena, and yet she is here, settling nimbly into the chair beside Aegon. He gives her a brief, fond glance, noting that she is fidgeting with a small oak dragonfly he once made for her. Aegon carves wood, Helaena embroiders, you shatter seashells with tiny hammers and use the shards to make mosaics, miniscule yet unladylike violence. Aemond has books and swords in place of crafts. And Daeron…you assume he must have cultivated some artistic talents while away in Oldtown—he was always so imaginative as a boy—but you would not know them. You see him so rarely now. You sit across the table from Aemond. He is the only attendee not dressed in nightclothes. His black leather tunic is still layered with a sheen of rain.

Grandsire lowers himself gingerly into his seat, grinding arthritic bones that pain him. The nights have grown chilly, even here in the south. Winter is coming, the maesters warn. His gaze passes over you and Helaena—the two of you aren’t really supposed to be here, but you’ll be permitted to stay if you cause no trouble—then he smirks humorlessly at Aemond. “So you failed.”

“No,” Aemond says, and you think as you look around the table: No Orwyle, no Lannister, no Wylde, not even Larys Strong. What does Aemond not want them to know? “Lord Baratheon has agreed to marry his youngest daughter to Daeron in one year’s time. He was very enthusiastic about the match.”

“Great!” Aegon declares. “Although, personally, I am of the inexpert opinion that this could have been discussed over bacon and honeycakes at breakfast…”

Grandsire snorts, derisive; he disapproves, though perhaps he is not surprised. He says to Aemond: “You were sent to negotiate your own marriage, not Daeron’s.”

Aemond shrugs, as if it happened by coincidence. “That was Borros Baratheon’s preference.”

“It was your preference, you mean.”

Aemond is careful not to reveal any emotion. “Daeron is young, but he already has a reputation. He is known to be handsome and chivalrous and…” A wave of the hand as he searches for the right word. “Unmutilated. It is not so difficult to imagine why a father would believe him to be a more worthy son-in-law.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, one Targaryen is as good as the next,” Aegon says, and of course nobody pays much attention.

“Perhaps Borros Baratheon’s judgment has been contaminated by certain disturbing and disgraceful rumors,” Grandsire counters and glares at you. You don’t reply; there’s nothing you can say that would help. Everyone knows, but it rarely spoken of aloud, as if it is a ghost nobody wants to inadvertently conjure. All your life there has been this perpetual rebalancing of scales: someone mentions a diplomatic match for you, you stall and Aemond makes excuses, Grandsire and Mother try to convince him, Aemond is immoveable and they aren’t willing to invoke his wrath. Vhagar is the subtext of every dispute. They need her, they are terrified of her.

Criston attempts to deescalate. “Aemond’s task was to ensure the Baratheons’ loyalty to the crown, and he has accomplished that. Perhaps it would be wise to move on.”

“Fine, what else?” Grandsire snaps. “You assembled us here for some reason, I presume. It must be urgent to merit a meeting now. It better be urgent, or I’ll be paying people to shake you awake during the hour of the wolf for the next month.”

“It is urgent,” Aemond says softly, then pauses, gazing down at the ball in front of him, white quartz dappled with blue. Everyone watches him. You share a glance with Aegon; he is curious, but you have nothing to offer him. You turn back to Aemond with bewilderment in your face, furrows in your brow.

“Aemond?” Mother prompts.

He looks at you, only for a second, but you’re thunderstruck by what you see in his remaining eye. You have rarely known Aemond to be afraid, but he is right now. What happened? you think, horror making the blood in your veins cold and slow and heavy. What did he do?

Aemond begins: “Luke Strong was at Storm’s End too.”

“What?” Grandsire says, more baffled than worried. “That runt? Why?”

“He’s a weasel,” Aegon mutters, spinning his ball again.

“Rhaenyra’s son?” Mother asks. “She sent him there all alone? How peculiar. The way she was always hovering over him while they were here, I’m amazed she let him out of her sight for that long. How old is he now? With that plain, ever-anxious, pug-nosed face, he looks like a little boy—”

Aemond says: “He was sent to remind Borros of his old pledge to uphold Rhaenyra’s claim. But Luke had no incentives to offer.”

“And so Lord Baratheon rejected him,” Grandsire surmises.

Aemond nods, though perhaps halfheartedly.

“Well, good,” Grandsire says, surveying the table for agreement. “That’s good, right? With every house that refuses to aid her, Rhaenyra will be more likely to accept our terms, and we can resolve this question of succession without any bloodshed.”

“Meleys and the Dragonpit,” Aegon reminds him.

“Without further bloodshed,” Grandsire amends.

Mother and Criston concur, but you’re watching Aemond. He hasn’t responded yet. Mother’s gaze flits between the two of you. She is somewhat sympathetic to the affinity you share, but she doesn’t understand it. More than anything, you get the sense she believes it is something you must be saved from. The Hightowers could stomach Aegon and Helaena’s match—Viserys was still healthy enough to insist upon it, and the couple so seemingly platonic it was easy to forget they were married at all—but they have no appetite for a desire that defies political expediency, that burns scorching and wild.

“Aemond, did you quarrel with Luke?” Mother says, her tone patient in an I-won’t-be-mad-if-you-just-tell-me-the-truth sort of way. “I know…your eye…” She touches her own face, wincing at the memory of how he suffered. “Did you seek restitution of some sort from him? Did you make accusations?”

“We…exchanged some words,” Aemond admits. “And then…when Luke left on Arrax…” There is a lull, and everyone stares at him. “Vhagar and I followed.”

“What?!” Grandsire exclaims. “You threatened Rhaenyra’s son?!”

“I…” Aemond closes his eye, then after a moment opens it again and continues. “It was my intention to frighten him, that was all.”

“Idiot,” Grandsire hisses. “You know better. You’re too well-educated to act like you don’t. Now, that one…” He jabs an accusatory finger at Aegon, who is caught off-guard, what the fuck do I have to do with this?

Criston says, more gently: “That was very dangerous, Aemond.” Mother covers her mouth with one hand and shakes her head. Her long coppery hair hangs in uncombed waves, still tangled from sleep.

“So what happened?” Aegon asks. “Where’d you chase him to? All the way back to Dragonstone? You must have scared him to death.”

Aemond chooses his words with great care and agonizing slowness. “Everything was under control. Then Arrax…he unleashed his flames on Vhagar, and she…she attacked.”

Everyone is silent. After a moment, Grandsire says: “What do you mean she attacked?”

“She…” Aemond gestures vaguely with open hands, hands that have held you, caged you, dragged you, pleased you until you were forged to him like a blade to a hilt. Again, he looks at you, and what is he asking for? Help, empathy, compassion, forgiveness? “She bit Arrax.”

“She wounded him?” Aegon says.

“She devoured him.”

Criston blinks. “So…Arrax is dead, and where is Luke now?”

Aemond laces his fingers together on the table like he’s praying. “He’s…he’s gone.”

“Gone?” Mother echoes.

“Did you look for him?” Grandsire demands. “I mean, did you even bother to search for Luke, or did you just leave him in the Stormlands somewhere? Did he fall into the sea, could he be wandering around in a forest? If Luke is injured, we should send out people to find him. We could hold him as a hostage.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Aemond’s voice is frayed. And now for the first time tonight, you finally know what he’s going to say. Your eyes snag on Aegon’s, and he reads the terror there, and then it hits him too. “There is nothing to search for.”

Mother is gaping at him, the unwanted knowledge seeping in like rain through earth. “Nothing?”

“There is no body. Pieces, perhaps.”

Unspeakable, suffocating dread fills the room, and then Grandsire leaps to his feet and slams his fists down on the table. “Useless!” he roars at Aemond. “Worse than useless, a saboteur, a curse, a plague, you have ruined everything your Mother and I worked for, Rhaenyra was considering our terms and now you’ve condemned us all!”

“You killed Lucerys Velaryon?” Mother says, stunned. Her large dark eyes glisten with unpardonable betrayal. She’ll never look at him the same way again. “You murdered Rhaenyra’s son? A prince, the heir to Driftmark?”

“It wasn’t murder,” Aemond pleads. “It was…it was combat, it was a battle—”

“A battle with that child?!” Grandsire thunders. Helaena begins to cry, and Aegon places a hand on her wrist as his wide eyes dart around the table. “Everyone’s seen him, it’s no secret, and not a single person in the realm would be delusional enough to believe a clash between Vhagar and Arrax was anything but a slaughter!”

“Aemond,” Criston says quietly, appalled, astonished.

Aemond can’t meet his eyes. He peers down at the table, and despite everything—what will happen to us, what will happen to me?—there is an ache in your chest like cracked ribs trying to heal, a profound lightless distress, a ricochet of the pain he’s feeling. “It wasn’t my intention to harm Luke.”

Grandsire shouts: “Did you give Vhagar the order or not?!”

It feels like a long time before Aemond answers. “No.”

“Oh gods,” Criston says as he sinks down in his chair, turning to Alicent. She has hidden her face with both hands and seems to be weeping.

“So you can’t control Vhagar,” Grandsire seethes. “You ride the largest and most dangerous dragon in the world and you can’t stop her from eating people.”

“I never would have purposefully—”

“But you created the situation! You pursued Luke, you tormented him, and surely somewhere in your sick brain you considered that you were endangering his life! And now… now…now Rhaenyra will be merciless, she will never submit, she will endeavor to destroy us all!”

“It will bring more allies to her side,” Criston says. “They will believe she was wronged, and she will wield that weapon to great advantage. She is cunning.”

“What about your family, Aemond?!” Mother sobs, her face a hectic, bloody pink. “You and your brothers will have to go to war, you might be maimed or butchered, and your sisters and I…we could be taken as prisoners, we could be executed for treason!”

“That will never happen,” he swears; but his pale blue eye is misty, and he bites his lips together so they won’t tremble.

Mother is desperate, tears streaming down her cheeks “What can we do, Father? How can we salvage this?”

Grandsire points to you. “She must be wed immediately. We’ve already waited too long.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Aegon says, but no one is listening.

“Mother,” you beg. “Please don’t let them—”

“She will be married to whoever can help us in this,” Grandsire says. “The Lannisters or the Redwynes or the Swanns, perhaps the Butterwells or the Mootons if that will coax them to our side—”

“Then the realm will burn,” Aemond replies darkly, leaning over the table. “But I’ll come knocking on your door first, Grandsire.”

Grandsire looks at him, startled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Shall we find out?”

“Otto, please,” Criston says, holding up a palm. Then he considers how to dissuade him. “All things considered—the military strength that Aemond has brought to our side, the devotion that he has shown this family, present circumstances notwithstanding—he has never asked for much.”

“He asks for the one thing we cannot give him,” Grandsire replies, then turns to you. “What do you think about what Aemond has done? This recklessness, this monstrous error?”

He rarely asks for your opinion about anything. This is not a question but a summons: you are supposed to disavow Aemond. You are the one who can hurt him best. Instead you say, though it’s not what you truly feel: “Luke was an enemy. He perished in combat.”

Grandsire, Mother, and Criston all begin yelling at once. Helaena shrinks into herself, her dragonfly made of oak wood clutched to her chest. Aegon whispers something to her—you can leave, you believe he says—but she shakes her head no. You are stoic as the adults berate and implore you, and perhaps it’s strange that you still think of them that way since you’re an adult now too, and yet…their gravity seems so much heavier than yours, their tethers to the earth overgrown with weeds and moss.

“I’ll gut you myself!” Grandsire screams at Aemond, empty threats woven from helpless terror. “I’ll lock you in the Black Cells, I’ll have you banished to Dorne—!”

“I’ll throw a feast!” Aegon says suddenly, and the others go quiet.

“You’ll what?” Grandsire snarls.

“Little Luke Strong is dead and that’s a victory for our side. There’s no other way to look at it.”

“You intend to celebrate this calamity?”

“What else should we do?” Aegon asks. “Apologize? Go crawling on our bellies to Rhaenyra for forgiveness? No, she’d burn us alive. If it’s done, we must embrace it and use it to bolster our cause as much as possible. It was a battle and a victory. Aemond is a war hero. Onto the next objective.”

“What a disaster,” Criston mutters, rubbing his forehead. “Yes, that might be the only option we have.”

Mother clasps the small seven-pointed star that hangs from the gold chain at her throat. “I must go to the sept. I must pray for our survival.”

Grandsire glowers at Aegon. “You are a humiliation.”

“I am the king. I want a feast.”

Grandsire sighs deeply, pushing his chair away from the table. “I suppose I have letters to write.” And then, to Aemond: “When your sisters are captured and enslaved and married off to whichever Black loyalists will pay Rhaenyra and Daemon the most for them, I trust you’ll remember who’s responsible.”

Aemond gets up and storms out of the small council chamber. Mother mops the tears off her face with the sleeves of her green robe. Criston takes one of her hands and is murmuring promises, assurances, perhaps lies. You, Aegon, and Helaena say nothing. None of you can defend what Aemond has done, but you won’t denounce him either.

Then Grandsire grins at you, a cruel bestial flash of his teeth, an old grizzled animal tough from too many winters, icy wind shrieking through the chambers of its heart. “Oh, are you pretending that you’re not about to run after him?”

You don’t reply. But you rise from the table and flee as Mother watches you, her vast eyes swimming with misery.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a game with five pieces: the green snake, the yellow butterfly, the blue wolf, the red bat, and the purple shadowcat. They chase each other around the board, and if one of the other pieces lands on the same spot as yours then you have to go all the way back to the start.

Daeron is the youngest, but he almost always seems to win; some people are like that, luck flows like a river in their veins. Helaena enjoys playing even if she finished last. Aegon feigns disinterest but never declines an invitation, sliding his snake across the spaces with his index finger between slurps of wine. And sometimes Aemond is ruthless, taking every single opportunity to land on your spot and send your bat hurtling back to the beginning, sawing your legs out from under you, shattering your hopes like glass again and again until you are so frustrated you can feel embers glowing dry and searing in your throat.

But other times, Aemond pretends to misread the dots on the dice so he lands either too close or too far away and you are spared, and if you win he lies and says you deserve it.

~~~~~~~~~~

He is waiting at your bedroom door; when you are close enough to breathe him in, you taste rain and soot. Perhaps—if it isn’t your imagination—you can even detect the coppery tinge of blood, splatters of little Luke Strong soaked into the black leather of his tunic or his coat. You remember that boy you barely knew, more a phantom than flesh, a wraith who stole Aemond’s eye and then was spirited away to Dragonstone to escape retribution, a tiny god who Viserys worshipped from afar the same way he never stopped loving Rhaenyra. All you knew of your father was absence, and this was a sadness but a relief as well, because you could not escape the sense that if he was there you would only disappoint him.

“What is wrong with you?!” you whisper savagely. Aemond smiles and reaches for your face, but you swat his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me. You’re insane, you’re going to get us all killed—”

He drags you into your bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him. He’s lean but wiry, all muscle, and when you fight him—although you both know you want him to win—it is in vain. He tugs your hair out of its braid and hauls you across the room, pushes you down on the bed, rips off his coat and tunic and then follows you onto the mattress. You clamber away until you hit the headboard, your spine flat against the wood. As he closes in on you, your palm cracks across the blind side of Aemond’s face, and he grins. You have often thought that it should have been reversed, you wed to Aegon and Aemond to Helaena. You would not be so scandalized by Aegon’s vices; Aemond would be chivalrous with a meek, compliant wife. But alas, Helaena was born first, and the arrangement was set in stone long before any of your natures became apparent.

Aemond unfastens your robe and reaches under your nightgown of white cotton. “Open your legs.”

“No.” It is always this way with him; it always has been. You fight and he vanquishes, and both of you enjoy it.

He forces your thighs apart and you moan, the resistance bleeding out of you, you muscles going soft and yielding, Aemond radiant with this clandestine conquest on a night when nothing else is under his control. He can only love you when you’re tamed and tractable. Sometimes you think he likes that you don’t have a dragon, that your egg never hatched, that all of the unclaimed beasts denied you. You will always be vulnerable, powerless, at his mercy.

You cling to Aemond, your arms around his neck. He knows exactly what you need because you’ve already done this, more times than either of you could count: everything besides what could get you pregnant, and not just because Aemond would rather slit his own throat than have bastards like Rhaenyra’s. It’s something you’re both saving until at last you are married, and no one except The Stranger can separate you.

You gasp and Aemond growls through your hair: “Shh. Hurry up.”

“I missed you.”

“I know.” He doesn’t have to say it back; if he hadn’t missed you, he wouldn’t be here right now, two fingers buried to the knuckles and the heel of his hand grinding against you, almost, almost, almost…

The bedchamber door bangs opens, and Aegon saunters in with a goblet of wine, emeralds gleaming on the rim.

“Stop,” you tell Aemond, but he knows you don’t mean it, not really; beneath your nightgown his hand works faster, more roughly. You sigh and kiss him, deep and messy, surrendering, very close.

Aegon takes a swig of wine, licks the stray drops from his lips, and frowns down at you both, slightly intrigued but mostly nauseated. He cannot fathom a hunger for his own.

Aemond looks to him and says casually: “Do you want something?”

“I do, actually,” Aegon replies. “Were you planning to thank me?”

“Thank you for what?”

“For what I did for you in the council chamber, obviously. For the feast.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Thank you, Aegon,” you say, and you are sincere.

Aegon raises his goblet in a mock toast. “That’s very kind, Red, but I wasn’t asking you.”

You whimper against Aemond’s throat, embarrassed but in ecstasy, not able to hold off much longer. “Aemond, just thank him.”

“Well I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.”

“That’s okay,” Aegon says. “I can wait.” He sits at the end of the bed, then bounces up and down a few times. “Oh, this is a great mattress! Very soft, like sleeping on a cloud! Why isn’t mine this nice?”

“Probably because you’ve ejaculated all over it five thousand times,” Aemond says.

“Oh, right,” Aegon jests. “Not quite that frequently, I think.”

“Aemond,” you plead breathlessly. “Just say thank you. Get rid of him.”

Aemond sighs and, with his hand still beneath your nightgown, turns to Aegon. “Thank you.”

Aegon smirks, mischievous. “And how will you repay me?”

“By overcompensating for your shortcomings in order to ensure the enduring success of our family, as I have done since birth.”

“Of course,” Aegon says, though a bit distantly.

Aemond glances down at you and then asks his brother: “Were you hoping to join us?” It’s not a serious question; if Aegon ever tried to touch you with genuine desire, Aemond would break both his arms. Fortunately, Aegon is the closest thing you’ll ever have to a real brother, and thus his limbs are safe.

Aegon chuckles and stands. “No, this is a bit unsavory, even for my taste.” He gulps the last of his wine and says as he leaves: “Enjoy, freaks.”

“Bye, Aegon,” you call, laughing. He waves and then closes the door behind him.

Seconds later—twenty, thirty, time evaporates like mist burned away at dawn—Aemond is making you come, and then you are yanking off his trousers and taking him in your mouth, and when you do this he always has to be touching you, smoothing back your hair, telling you how well you’re doing, and even though he warns you so you can pull away if you choose to, tonight you swallow every last drop of him and think of the sea that Lucerys Velaryon’s scraps tumbled into, the mineral bite of salt and metal and blood.

But when he finishes, Aemond doesn’t collapse like a dead man as he usually does. He throws you onto your back, licks and nuzzles his way down your breasts and belly, parts your legs and murmurs against the inside of your thigh before he begins again: “I want you, I want you, I want you, I can’t wait much longer.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s one of your earliest memories. You are in the garden, and it’s a blazing hot day, and a million varieties of blooms cut through the greenery: goldenrods, orchids, lilies, irises, daisies, bellflowers, red roses, blue forget-me-nots. Butterflies whirl in the air and land on Helaena’s outstretched fingertips. Grandsire is slapping Aegon and calling him an imbecile for trying to pet a bumblebee, and Aegon is wailing: But it’s fuzzy! Why can’t I hold it?!

You must not be very steady on your feet yet, because Aemond is pulling you up by both of your hands and asking: If I ran, do you think you could catch me?

Yes, you had said, and then you’d staggered after him as he darted into the foliage. Under the shade of blossoms and shrubs that towered so much taller than you, you tripped and fell and scraped your palms, one of them bleeding from striking a pebble. You cried out, but no one was there to pick you up: no Mother, no Criston, no Helaena or Aegon. You wept pitifully, thinking—as children do—that you would be lost forever, that you would never see your family again.

But Aemond came back for you, and he studied your bloodied palm, carefully plucking out every grain of brown soil; and then he kissed it, held it against his cheek, painted himself with the scarlet ink of your arteries and veins.

See? he had said, smiling so you knew everything would be okay. Now we’re both red.

~~~~~~~~~~

“How are the babies?” Aemond asks when he arrives, dressed for the feast in a green tunic embroidered with shimmering gold threads in the shapes of dragons, flying, shrieking, breathing fire. Helaena made it for him, of course. Each of you have wardrobes full of garments she’s sewn, a collection of Aegon’s woodcarvings scattered around your rooms, seashell mosaics hanging from walls: insects for Helaena, Sunfyre for Aegon, heroes from myths for Aemond.

You grin over your shoulder. “Come see them.”

It’s dusk now, so they are leaving the roost you keep in one corner of your bedchamber, covered with dark velvet to blot out light and sound as they slumber. Aemond kneels beside you and holds out his hand so River can scurry from your palm into his, clawing with his hooklike appendages. All of your bats are named after blue things—Blueberry, Sailfish, Clear Sky, Blue Jay, Misty, Dragonfly, Lagoon, Lightning, Kingfisher—just as Aemond’s hawks and war horses are given names like Fox and Rusty and Cherry and Pomegranate. He is the only one who defends your pets when Mother threatens to banish them back to the Godswood or the seaside cliffs. You have no dragon; you must find solace with some other creature that inspires dread and revulsion. But you think they’re beautiful, and strange, and fearless, and wrongly unloved.

“Let’s move things along,” Aegon says as he appears in the doorway, wearing all green except for the Conqueror’s crown. “No one can dig into the roast boar until the guest of honor enters the Great Hall. So I need Aemond to show up immediately.”

“Almost ready,” Aemond replies without looking away from River, who is now scrambling up his forearm. Lighting takes flight and attempts to land on Aegon’s shoulder; Aegon yelps and flings him away.

“No, you can’t!” you say, rushing across the room to scoop up Lightning and cradle him in your arms. Fortunately, he is unharmed. “I told you, Aegon. They have tiny bones, you have to be gentle or you’ll hurt them.”

Aegon shudders. “They’re fucking disgusting. Rats with wings.”

Aemond sets River on the windowsill, goes to his brother, shoves him hard; Aegon’s back hits the wall. His crown is knocked from his head and clatters against the floor.

“I’m not apologizing,” Aegon insists. “I’m a victim of grave injustice. I was attacked. That thing could have bitten me.”

You say to Aemond in High Valyrian: “Should we do this for a while to annoy him?”

Aemond smiles. “Yes. We should talk a lot. A great amount, we should talk. Very much talking.”

“Hey, hey, stop that,” Aegon says.

“Aemond, what else will they serve besides boar?”

“I heard something about pies.”

“What kinds of pies?”

“Who knows. Maybe apple, or cherry, or plum…”

“Oh, I adore apple pies. Perfect for autumn. I could eat them all day.”

“I could eat you all day.”

“Don’t tease me, or we’ll never make it to the feast.”

Aegon is distressed. “I mean it! Stop!”

“They aren’t saying anything important,” Helaena assures him as she swishes into your bedchamber wearing a butter yellow gown. In her hair are gold pins shaped like ladybugs.

“Okay, but what are they talking about?”

Helaena says matter-of-factly: “Sex and pastries.”

Aegon groans and rolls his eyes. “Why did I ask. Okay, time to go.”

You walk together to the Great Hall, where Helaena and Jaehaera and Grandsire will dance in the center of the floor, and you and Aemond will whisper in shadowy corners, and Mother will peer around worriedly with her large watery eyes as Criston yearns to console her, and Aegon will smile patiently and never scold Jaehaerys when he gets underfoot or spills his pomegranate juice.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s another game, or maybe it’s a ritual; you are a little girl again, and every once in a while, without any warning, Aemond will shove you into a closet or a heavy wooden trunk and lock you inside. You will scream and pound on the door, but no one will hear, and you will spend what feels like hours alone in the darkness, wondering if this will be the time when you are not discovered until you have died of thirst and hunger, until there is nothing left but bones.

Then you hear approaching footsteps and Aemond lets you out, and when you strike and scratch at him he embraces you fiercely, like he’s a soldier who’s been away for a year or more; and he holds you until you stop fighting it and your heartbeat goes quiet in your chest.

[alatariel-galadriel]

Me on my hands and knees with every MCU installment (in vain):

also the way the blip was used exclusively for comedy in ffh makes me CRAZY. peter and may had to find a new apartment while the world reconstructed itself. peter still has all his old tshirts which means that after he died either tony or happy went to their old apartment and packed up all their belongings and kept them in storage for 5 years for no real reason at all since there was no hope of return at that point. ned and mj both dusted but we don't get to hear about their families?? did they have little siblings who are older than them now too??? ffh plays it off as "very goofy how we're all legally 21 but in reality we've been frozen at 16 years old for the past 5 years and have to find out where we fit in this new reality. lol!" NOT LOL. HORRIFYING.

[moonagedaydreamsofrhiannon]

Perhaps the wilderness in Yellowjackets is not just a symbol of death. Perhaps it is also—in its own way—freedom.

In the wilderness, Lottie didn’t have to hide her visions for fear of being called crazy. She was exalted as a leader and a prophet. But when she returned, they called her crazy and locked her up.

In the wilderness, Misty didn’t have to be ashamed of her intensity and eccentricity. She was helpful, she was needed, she was important. But when she returned, they called her a freak and exiled her once again.

In the wilderness, Tai didn’t have to pretend to be something she’s not. Her other self was not a weakness but a strength, it gave her power, and kept her alive. But when she returned she had to suppress her urges and hide her other self, or lose everything.

In the wilderness, Shauna didn’t have to be small, and hide the fire inside her. She was angry, and violent, and powerful. But when she returned, she was forced back into a supporting role, forced to contain her darkness and her drive in order to fit a role she never wanted to play.

In the wilderness, Travis didn’t have to put on an act to fit the societal expectations of masculinity. He was feminine, and emotional, and soft—not the man of the group, but just another Yellowjacket in the hive. But when he returned, he was forced back into the cage—back into the closet—isolated, hardened, closed off and separated from the girls once more.

In the wilderness, Natalie didn’t have to feel guilty for surviving. She was the hunter, the provider, and the gun in her hands made her a savior, and a leader, not a killer. But when she returned, she was a killer once again, haunted by guilt, and outcast by society for the things she did to stay alive.

The wilderness gave them the freedom to be their truest and most authentic selves, but the cost was the blood spilled. The cost was their old selves. The cost was a place in the world upon their return.

Maybe the wilderness did not destroy them; it simply changed them into something new, something irrevocably different, something that would never—could never—fit back inside the narrow box of their old lives, and because they could no longer fit, society called them broken.

The wilderness freed them, but it never let them go. Because once you’ve tasted flesh and blood, once you’ve stared death in the face and overcame, once you’ve been to the very brink and seen the true depth of your own capacity for violence, once all the former markers of morality and success have become meaningless, in a world where survival at all costs is the only law, how can you ever go back to a world ruled by pointless, hollow, conventions? Once you’ve shed every remnant of your humanity, once you’ve run with the wolves, and howled at the moon, and become one with the ancient wild gods, how can you ever be a human again? Once you’ve had a taste of complete freedom, how can you ever be satisfied with a fake, insignificant, half-life, made up entirely of half-truths and haunting?

[queenofwands89]

Stolen Hearts and Cuddles

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Reader

Summary: While cuddling, Jake tells Y/N that she made him believe in love at first sight.

Warning: Tooth rotting fluff.

Notes: Hello, this is my first Jake fic. I just watched twisters with my family last week, and it got me back in my Glen Powell feels (Always been down bad for him the movie just reignited that spark lmao), so yeah I hope you enjoy byeeee.

The sun has set, and the soft glow from the table lamp casts a warm, cozy light across the living room. You’re nestled together on the plush leather couch, your head resting on Jake's chest as you listen to the gentle hum of the city outside your window. The faint aroma of popcorn lingers in the air, remnants of your impromptu movie night.

Jake's arm is draped protectively around you, his fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on your shoulder. You find solace in these moments – the simplicity of being close to him, away from the chaos of the naval base and the pressure of his duties as a aviator.

“Y’know,” Jake's voice breaks the comfortable silence, a confident lilt even in his softer moments, “I used to think love at first sight was just a myth. A fairytale people tell themselves to make life seem a little more magical.”

Tilting your head slightly, you look up at him, your curious eyes meeting his green, mischievous yet earnest gaze. “Oh really?” you tease, a playful smile dancing on your lips. “The great Lieutenant Jake Seresin, charmer extraordinaire, didn’t believe in love?”

A chuckle rumbles from his chest, making you vibrate with the sound. “Hard to believe, huh?” he smirks. “But yeah, I was always about the next mission, the next challenge. Love seemed like a distraction.”

Your fingers play with the hem of his navy blue T-shirt, your touch sending electric shivers down his spine. “So, what changed?” you ask softly, genuinely intrigued.

Jake’s expression softens, the cockiness melting away to reveal the depth of his feelings. He gently cups your face with his hand, his thumb caressing your cheek. “You,” he says simply. “You changed everything.”

Your heart flutters at his words, and you lean into his touch, feeling the warmth of his palm against your skin. “How?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Jake’s eyes lock with yours, reflecting a sincerity that’s often hidden behind his confident exterior. “The first time I saw you, it felt like someone had flipped a switch inside me. Suddenly, life wasn't just about flying high and chasing adrenaline. It was about finding a way to keep you by my side, to protect you, to love you.”

He takes a deep breath, as if steadying himself to say something deeply personal. “You didn’t just capture my attention, Y/N. You stole my heart. Completely and irrevocably. And for the first time, I realized that love isn’t a distraction. It’s what makes all the risks worth taking.”

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, your emotions welling up at his heartfelt confession. “Jake…” you begin, but he gently hushes you, his gaze soft yet intense.

“I’m serious, Y/N. You’re my everything. My whole world. The one I’d sacrifice everything for,” he continues, his voice filled with unwavering conviction. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as your lips meet in a tender, passionate kiss. Each touch, each breath seems to reaffirm your bond, a silent promise of the future you will build together.

When you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his, your heart racing. “I love you, Jake. More than words can say.”

“I love you more baby,” he replies, his voice a soft murmur in the intimate space you share. “More than you could ever know.”

You settle back into his comfortable embrace, the weight of the world outside disappearing as you lose yourself in each other. In that moment, in the safety of your love, you find a tranquility you have never known before.

As you drift off to sleep, the world outside continues to spin, but for you and Jake, your universe is right there on that couch – wrapped in each other's arms, in a cocoon of stolen hearts and unyielding love.

[drabblesandsnippets]

Safe

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus-size female reader

Background: TW: (Past) SA. During times when old traumatic memories start to pop up again (for whatever random reason/trigger), I find myself seeking out art that I can connect with to help me process things. Over the years, I’ve spent endless hours searching for stories/books where the main character is dealing with sexual trauma while also trying to have/maintain a healthy sex life - this is my attempt to write that type of story (without delving into the details of the trauma).

Summary: (4k) TW: (Past) SA. Bucky’s girlfriend craves intimacy while struggling with triggers and flashbacks.

Warnings: 18+ Only. TW: Mention of past SA/trauma (very vague), flashbacks (including during sex), anxiety. Established relationship. Bucky doesn’t always sleep with his prosthetic on (who else has this headcanon?). Fluff. Praise. Enthusiastic consent. Soft and sweet Bucky. Pet names (doll, sweetheart, baby). (Unprotected) PiV. Aftercare.

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Trauma has a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it. 

One minute, you’re laughing and dancing in the kitchen with your boyfriend, his hands around your waist while he sings a song from the 40’s, and the next thing you know, you’re leaning over the sink, your knees nearly giving out as you try to remember how to breathe. 

All it took was one fleeting press of Bucky against your back and you were suddenly transported to a different time, your mind taking you back to those moments when your life irrevocably changed.

Other times, it’s less conspicuous. 

You’re on the back of his motorcycle, enjoying a peaceful ride outside the city, taking the scenic route to enjoy a bit more time together, when you’re hit with a wave of anxiety. Something in your brain made a connection to the past, and the only signal you can give Bucky is a tighter hold around his torso.

There’s not much that fazes him, given his own history and lingering struggles, but it doesn’t always make it easier. You oscillate between wanting to talk it all out and just wanting to pretend you’re fine - Bucky doing his best to meet you wherever you’re at, trying to ease your burden as best he can.

When you’re really lucky, it’s a momentary thing, your mind allowing the memory to fade so you can focus on the present. When that happens, you get to go weeks, sometimes months, without it happening again.

Of course, you’re not always that lucky. There are times when it invades the rest of your day, seeping into moments it has no business being a part of. Trying to control parts of your life that you swore it’d never touch. 

And then, there are times like now, when it sticks around. When it feels like the smallest thing sets you off, brief flashes of things you’d rather not have to think about playing out behind your eyes. Your body constantly on edge, giving you no reprieve, even when the memories finally fade out.

You’re not sure how many days it’s been, or what the initial trigger even was, your mind too preoccupied with trying not to take a trip down memory lane. The only lifeline you can cling to is knowing you have a partner who supports you as much as you support him, especially during dark times, refusing to give up on each other.

As painful as it all can be, it’s a familiar pattern, one you know you’ll eventually break free of, no matter how turbulent it gets. Until then, you ride the wave, doing everything you can to stay afloat, to allow yourself to continue to live your life, seek out the things that bring you joy and pleasure.

Yesterday was filled with laughter and adventures, Bucky taking you to some of his favorite places, whisking you off to the next destination when your anxiety started to get the better of you. As if he’s made it his mission to help you find your footing again.

Bucky’s love and patience is more than you could have ever hoped for, and as you wake up with him snuggled against your back, in the bed you’ve shared for years, the remnants of your dream trying to take hold, his name spills out of you, filling the dark silence.

In an instant, he’s awake enough to breathe your name in return, his voice husky with sleep as he asks, “You okay? S’wrong, doll?” Bucky’s aware it was probably another nightmare, or maybe a flashback, but he’s learned not to assume anything, giving you the space to decide if and how you want to be heard.

It’s not always that simple. Sometimes your voice can fail you, words getting trapped in your throat as you struggle to focus on the moment. You’re not even sure how to describe what’s happening, other than to admit that you feel on edge, like your skin is crawling, your body growing restless.

Bucky doesn’t need more explanation, his hand leaving its normal resting place on your thigh to slide along your back, his intention clear. His familiar touch draws the expected reaction out of you, a soft sigh of relief as a bit of tension leaves your body, his fingertips dancing across your shoulder blade.

Almost immediately you’re curling up, inviting him to keep going, his reverent touch spreading tingles across your skin. As intimate as it is, there’s nothing inherently sexual about it, Bucky wanting nothing more than to help you relax, to lull you back into a peaceful slumber.

Yet, your body seems to have other ideas, each tender caress of your back sending sparks of arousal to your core. It’s far from the first time, even over the past several days, but it’s yet another aspect of your relationship that gets thrown off balance during times like this.

Any other time, Bucky would read your subtle cues, happily accepting the silent invitation to touch more of you, to bring you unspeakable pleasure. Until you’re back on solid ground though, it’s not an option for him. He can’t risk pressuring you, the thought of adding more stress on top of everything you’re already struggling with too unbearable to him. 

You can’t exactly blame him. When the roles are reversed - when Bucky is dealing with his own trauma, ghosts of his past invading his mind - you follow his lead, offering him nothing more than a place to rest. A safe space, where he’s completely in control.

That’s what he’s been offering you since your brain decided to spend so much time in the past. Intimacy, in whatever form it takes, is on your terms, things never progressing unless you’re vocalizing your desires. 

Bucky’s patience is unyielding. No matter how much your soft, breathy noises of appreciation stir up his need for you, the path of his hand doesn’t alter. His fingertips continue to draw circles across your skin, exploring the contours of your back, as if he hasn’t already mapped every single inch of you. 

One of his favorite things is to touch you. To bring you comfort, to provide safety, and yes, when you allow him, to bring you pleasure. And right now, despite - or maybe because of - the turmoil broiling beneath the service, it’s what you need.

There’s a risk that things might overwhelm you. That you won’t be able to lose yourself in the moment. You try not to think about that, telling yourself that you at least deserve to try, knowing Bucky will help you through it, wherever it leads.

Your request for more remains subtle, a slight shift of your hips, pressing back into him, the evidence of his own arousal growing against your ass. Nothing changes for Bucky, his gentle touch following a trail up along your spine to the back of your neck, his thumb stroking a particular tense spot, refusing to take advantage of your trust in him.

There’s a part of you that wonders if you should just allow yourself to succumb to the sleep that’s threatening to overtake you again, but you miss him. And, as he drags the back of his fingers down to the dip of your waist, you moan softly, your thighs tensing with need, seeking out friction.

Bucky knows exactly what he’s doing to you, each pass of his hand along sensitive flesh making you tremble, goosebumps spreading across your skin. It’s not long before he’s able to smell you, the knowledge that his touch turns you on so much nearly enough to make him lose his resolve.

Somehow he remains steadfast, even as you shift again, arching your back and angling your hips to find more pressure, his erection trapped against the curve of your ass. There’s an ache building inside of him to grind against you, to give you what your body is so obviously asking for, your shuddering sighs encouraging him to keep touching you, waiting for permission that he knows might not come.

It’s more than okay if it doesn’t, Bucky content with easing your burdens in whatever way you’ll allow him. It’s a privilege he’ll never take for granted. 

As is the privilege of getting to bring you more pleasure. And the moment you whisper his name, followed by a barely audible utterance of “please,” he’s asking you what you need. Desperate to give you everything you desire.

It provides the catalyst to empower you to ask for more, telling him how good he feels as you shamelessly rub against him, Bucky’s own heavy breaths and words of love spurring you on. The gentle caress of his fingers never cease, tentatively dipping lower to tease along your hip, and you leave no room for doubt, quickly letting out a needy moan of “yes.”

His reaction comes as no surprise, your consent making him groan, his hard cock throbbing against you. You’re about to reach back, wanting to feel more of him, when you’re triggered without warning, your breath catching and your back stiffening, unwanted images flashing in your head. 

“Are you okay?”

The concern in his voice keeps you in place, choosing to ignore your body’s instinct to pull away, forcing yourself to breathe through it. As the silence tries to consume you, threatening to derail everything, Bucky’s hand on your hip helps you get the words out, the soft clearing of your throat letting him know a response is forthcoming.

“Yeah,” you finally whisper into the dark, grateful when he doesn’t move, his thighs flush against yours. “I don’t- I’m okay, I don’t wanna stop.” Before he can ask if you’re sure, your hand comes into contact with his arm, your fingers sliding down to gently take hold of his wrist, refusing to second guess yourself as you guide his hand higher up your body, showing him exactly what you want.

The heat of his hand cupping your breast brings you fully back into the present with him, ripping a strangled moan out of you, your back arching to grind harder against him.

“Fuck,” he exhales heavily, Bucky wasting no time in following your lead, your erect nipple pinched between his long fingers, his palm squeezing your tit as he murmurs soft words of praise. His ears are trained on you, listening for every noise he elicits, from the loud moans to the barely audible gasps, ensuring his touch remains welcome.

It’s everything you could possibly want, his leg soon finding its way between yours, Bucky barely getting a chance to ask you if it’s okay before you’re begging him to keep going. Your whine of pleasure drowns out his own noises of appreciation, his thigh pressed to your slick heat, his rock hard cock starting to leak pre-cum.

“You feel so good,” you whisper, one hand gripping the edge of the bed, giving you leverage to grind on his thigh, the fingers of your other hand still gripping his wrist, keeping him pinned to you.

“So do you, baby,” he moans in your ear, nudging his leg higher to find a steady rhythm against your swollen pussy, intent on drawing this out as long as you’ll let him. “Love when you ride my thigh like this, when you let me feel how wet you are.”

Your body takes over, chasing the high, Bucky letting you set the pace, his large hand palming your heavy breasts, the occasional pinch and playful tug of your nipples building you higher. He never lets the silence settle for too long, filling the moments between heavy breaths and barely coherent words with a string of praises, reminding you how much he loves every inch of you.

The darkness seems to amplify your senses, allowing you to get lost in the sensations, your walls pulsing with every delicious grind against your clit. You’re on the verge of begging him to fuck you, the words on the tip of your tongue when a wave of tension takes over, ruining all your plans.

Your hips falter the same time Bucky’s do, his gentle assurance of, “it’s okay,” calming your racing heart before it can beat out of control. Keeping his hand pressed to your stomach, you breathe through the confusion, trying to pinpoint the trigger before deciding to focus on how to move forward instead.

A request for more comes in the form of asking him to turn on a light, the need to see him overpowering everything else, and Bucky’s climbing off the bed, a lingering kiss and touch to keep you company until he returns. You’re kicking the covers off just as he clicks the adjoining bathroom light on, your eyes adjusting quickly to the soft glow now illuminating the room.

The irresistible image of you waiting for him has him returning to the bed within record time, his feet only pausing when his gaze drifts to his prosthetic arm, safe in its resting place in the corner of the room. He doesn’t always wear it to bed, your sex life never suffering without it, but he knows how much you enjoy having both his arms wrapped around you, the slight furrow of his brow telling you exactly what he’s thinking.

You interrupt the unspoken question, your voice pulling Bucky’s attention back to you, your unprompted words taking him by surprise. “I wanna ride you.”

“Oh really?” he asks, the former subject easily forgotten, a grin spreading at the eager nod of your head. He doesn’t need to be told twice, jumping onto the bed with a flourish, landing on his back with a soft thud, a giddy look plastered across his face.

“You’re ridiculous,” you laugh, getting to your knees beside him, not missing the way his eyes travel along your curves, the peak of his tongue wetting his lips giving you momentary pause, your thighs tensing with need.

Bucky’s obviously thinking the same thing, his laughter sending a thrill down your spine as he asks, “Whatcha thinking about ridin’, doll?”

You enjoy having his head between your thighs just as much as he does, the teasing flick of his tongue along his top teeth having you shaking your head at him. “Your cock, if that’s okay with you,” you tell him, the playful grin on your face masking your concern of being triggered again if you can’t see his eyes.

“Oh, no complaints from me,” he emphatically promises, offering out his hand to help you climb on top, your worry not lost on him. You’ve been through so much together, Bucky having learned to read your body, understanding your emotions even better than you sometimes. As obsessed as he is with you, his mouth watering at the thought of tasting you, he won’t push for it, especially not tonight.

Your bodies fit together perfectly, puzzle pieces interlocking like you were made for each other, his thick cock stretching you slowly with each roll of your hips, taking him inch by glorious inch. His firm grip on your thigh encourages you to keep going, his audible grunts and gasps filling your ears, unable to tear your eyes away from him.

“Jesus,” Bucky pants, his lashes fluttering every time you let him slide in just a bit deeper, his hips tense underneath you, determined to give you complete control. “Feel so good, baby. God, I love you.”

You’re quick to nod your head, your hands finding their way to his chest, allowing you to find an easy rhythm, your eyes nearly rolling back when he bottoms out inside of you. “Oh fuck,” you whine, your hips moving on autopilot, grinding in slow circles, soon finding the perfect pressure against your clit that has you trembling on top of him.

There’s something incredibly intoxicating about being in charge of your own pleasure, especially when Bucky could easily overpower you, the occasional twitch of his hips signaling just how hard he’s working to control himself.

It leaves you breathless, your body finding a quicker pace, the head of his cock hitting that spot deep inside of you that has you seeing stars. When his name starts to fall past your lips like a prayer, his thighs tense, shifting underneath you, the new angle forcing out the words burning the back of your throat, “Bucky… baby, please. Please, fuck me.”

“Co’mere,” he growls, pulling you down on top of him, your palms finding purchase against the mattress on either side of his head, his eyes never leaving yours. With his arm wrapped around your waist, hand splayed across your lower back, he starts a slow pace, watching the pleasure play out across your face.

Bucky pulls out until your walls pulse, a prideful grin twitching at the corners of his mouth at how greedily you welcome him back in, his eyes darkening when he bottoms out, your thrusts soon meeting his.

“That’s it,” he pants, nodding his head, his hold on you grower firmer, doing his best to keep the right amount of friction against your clit. “Just like that, take whatever you need baby.” He’s aware your muscles are going to grow tired soon, your knees likely needing a break before long, but he refuses to stop until you tell him to, gritting his teeth with effort to hold his own orgasm back.

You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve come close to the edge yourself, only for the feeling to fade, your mind threatening to spiral into unwanted territory. Until this very moment, you’ve done a good job at holding the unwanted feelings at bay, your desire for intimacy and connection driving your actions.

Except, that’s suddenly no longer the case, a particularly sharp burst of pleasure has you closing your eyes and before you realize it, everything’s come to a standstill. The unwarranted apology dies on the tip of your tongue, a heavy sigh of frustration leaving you as you quickly shake your head, sitting up to try to regain some semblance of composure.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, taking hold of your hand to bring it to his lips, brushing a kiss across your knuckles to soothe your anxiety. “Tell me what you need.”

You breathe heavily, your bodies still connected, Bucky nestled deep inside of you, your walls spasming uncontrollably around him. There’s no reason to push through this, to ignore your body’s obvious discontent, no matter how much you want to pretend you can handle this.

It’d be unfair to subject either of you to that inevitable discomfort. The only thing you can do is face it, admit that you’re not as strong as you’d like to admit, your independent nature wanting to fight you the entire way. A gentle clearing of your throat, followed by a rough swallow and you’re bringing your awareness back to the present, your eyes finally opening to meet his once again.

One look at him and it’s easy to find your voice, his warm smile breaking down your walls like they’re paper-thin. “I need to feel you on top of me.” To feel the comfort of his weight, the safety of his embrace.

Bucky’s more than happy to oblige, trusting that you understand your own needs, knowing you’ll tell him if it becomes too much. Guiding you back down on top of him, his lips find yours, pouring all his love and devotion into the simple act as he secures an arm around you, cradling you against him in order to roll you both over.

It’s not as seamless as either of you anticipate, your tense muscles and abundant wetness causing him to slip out. Neither of you are able to hide your exhales of disappointment, Bucky’s grin meeting your own when he lines himself back up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

As grateful as you are, it’s not needed, and your hips shift, telling him everything he needs to know, the nod you give him alleviating any lingering doubt. With his weight settling on top of you, his body aligned with yours, he slides his arm underneath your shoulder to cradle the back of your neck in his palm and finally surges forward, sinking back into your tight heat. 

Your unbridled reaction spurs him on, your gasps and cries of exquisite pleasure causing heat to race up his spine, his hips setting a familiar pace. He can’t stop himself from praising you, watching you start to fall apart for him, your walls fluttering around him with every deep stroke, his body grinding hard against your clit.

You cling to him, nails digging into his back, your orgasm just out of reach, sweat covering your body, the desperation written all over your face. You’re so close, Bucky’s loud groans and animalistic grunts usually enough to send you spiraling, his words causing more arousal to coat his cock, but there’s still something holding you back, your body on the verge of tensing again.

“Tell me I’m okay,” you gasp, your eyes locked on his, your hips meeting his thrusts, your body begging for release.

“You’re okay,” he promises, dropping his forehead to yours, his heavy breath fanning your face, using every ounce of energy to not succumb to the pleasure threatening to overwhelm him. “You’re okay, my sweet girl. You’re safe, I’m not going anywhere.”

His steady stream of assurance has you crying out, tears pricking your eyes, the familiar tingle starting to build to unbearable heights, surely about to tease you again. Bucky refuses to give up, fucking you through it, maintaining the perfect, consistent speed, his cock bottoming out each time, the sounds of your bodies meeting in a heated rush adding to the sensations coursing through you.

“There we go,” he groans, his grip on the back of your neck tightening, holding you in place as you start to tighten around him, refusing to let you push him out. “You feel so fucking good, sweetheart, just let go for me. You’re safe, you’re right where you belong.”

That’s all it takes, your mouth opening in a silent scream as your entire body tenses, your limbs wrapped around him, his movements never faltering, letting you ride out the intense waves taking over your senses. You’re not even aware when your voice returns to you, a string of incoherent noises filling the air as you come hard, sobbing from the onslaught of pleasure, Bucky not missing a single second of the glorious vision unfolding underneath him.

He doesn’t allow himself to let go until he’s sure it’s what you want, your gasping pleas triggering his orgasm. With a groan of your name, he pulls you into a fiery kiss, his hips thrusting just a few more times as his pulsing cock fills you with his release.

You've been reduced to heavy pants and trembling limbs, Bucky's body shaking against yours, more sweet utterances of love and devotion being shared as you both return back to reality.

For the first time in too long, you’re able to stay relaxed in his embrace, refusing to let him move for several moments, the weight of him pressing down on you keeping you grounded. It’s not until your lungs start to ache from lack of deep breaths that you relent, letting Bucky roll you both over, your bodies continuing to draw comfort from each other.

There’s no rush to clean up, no dire need to leave the bed, the two of you remaining there for as long as you want, your mind at ease, Bucky’s steady breaths and gentle caress of your back almost lulling you back to sleep. 

This time, there’s no need to fight it. You let yourself drift off, peaceful rest once again overtaking you, Bucky content to hold you for the rest of the night, promising to keep you safe wherever your dreams take you.

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Comments & reblogs very much appreciated!! 🩶

Main Masterlist

[inkieflame]

New personality test just dropped:

Would you, or would you not, behead your business partner turned king? Your king turned close confidant, turned something else unspoken.

Would you? What if he begged you? What if he took your hands in his and made you to look into his warm eyes while he explained what you are to do to him? How the blade would come down on his neck and tear bone from bone. How you would hold the weapon.

Would you do it?

To say no is to break this trust you have. To push aside your oath to follow him indiscriminately. Push it aside for the selfishness of not wanting to go through with this. Why does it have to be you? To say no means you can distance yourself from this decision, this death. It means you can distance yourself from your king altogether.

But if you say yes then you have your king's blood on your hands. And you can't scrub the stain away, it will always be there sticky and black on that altar. To say yes is to end a life that you hold dearer than even your own. To feel the skin and bone give way under the blade. To witness the way his body folds and crumples as the color drains from him.

To say yes is to be changed irrevocably.

To say yes is to never be able to get that image out of your head.

But to say no is to risk losing this unspoken thing you have. You might lose his trust and his loyalty.

So what do you do?

[petaltexturedskies]

You are crucified by your own limitations. Your blind choices cannot be changed; they are now irrevocable. You have had chances; you have not taken them. You are wallowing in original sin; your limitations. You cannot even decide to take a walk in the country: you are not sure whether it is an escape or a refreshing cure from cooping yourself in your room all day. You have lost all delight in life. Ahead is a large array of blind alleys. You are half-deliberately, half-desperately, cutting off your grip on creative life. You are becoming a neuter machine. You cannot love, even if you knew how to begin to love. Every thought is a devil, a hell - if you could do a lot of things over again, ah, how differently you would do them! You want to go home, back to the womb. You watch the world bang door after door in your face, numbly, bitterly. You have forgotten the secret you knew, once, ah, once, of being joyous, of laughing, of opening doors.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[anonymityisfunwriter]

we’re still friends

pairing: bucky barnes x reader summary: you're still friends. it's wonderful. it's mature. and though you've changed in your endeavors, you still have plenty in common, like that you're both still hopelessly, irrevocably in love with each other. based on this song - we're still friends - amy winehouse

a.n. - back to listening to amy winehouse records in between listening to TTPD. hope you guys enjoy! 💛

Bucky Barnes Masterlist | AnonymityIsFun's SongFics

you weren't sure what you were expecting.

you thought knowing he would be here would make it easier. it's why you thanked sam for the heads up. you knew he would be here. you had weeks to ready yourself for this moment.

still, nothing could prepare you seeing him for the first time since that quiet separation.

friends.

you were friends, you reminded yourself.

it’s wonderful.

it’s mature.

you’re friends.

friends that have explored every inch of each other. friends that have bared their souls to each other, that know their deepest, darkest, most intimate secrets.

yes, you were friends, but you knew in every fiber of your being that it shouldn't be this hard to see a friend. it shouldn't hurt this much to see your friend walk through the door without you by his side.

"hello… friend."

he gives a shy smile with a hesitant wave. there's a staleness in the air. a tension that makes you so viscerally aware of each and every move you make. each move is strained, rigid, forced like you're moving against tar. “how have you been?”

"good."

"good." bucky offers another half smile. it's impossible for him not to notice everything about you. it's only been a few months. time could only change a person so much. and you hadn't changed. not a bit. it's only because he notices everything about you that he realizes he still hasn't introduced the woman standing beside him when your eyes shift to just over his shoulder. he clears his throat, "oh, sorry, um, this is my friend."

"that's - it's wonderful." it doesn't take more than a split second to know that she's not just a friend. still, because you are just friends with him, you stick out a hand to her, "it's nice to meet you."

she smiles at you, a warm, genuine smile. for some reason, it only makes it hurt more. she looks at you, genuine curiosity shimmering in her eyes, "and you are?"

"um, we're - we're old friends." you're not sure what he's told her. you'd lost your old title. you were just friends now. you jut your thumb in the opposite direction. "it was nice to meet you, but i should go find sam. wish him a happy birthday."

his first clue should be the fact that he almost immediately goes after you. he barely tosses an explanation over his shoulder to his date to go after you. it's instinctive. it's natural. it's what feels right to him.

bucky catches up to you a quick moment later. he reaches for your arm, barely making contact with your skin before he remembers he lost that privilege some time ago. you turn around with a distant, tired expression. "hey, she is - she really is just a friend."

a huff of laughter leaves your lips, "you've been using that word a lot tonight."

"look, i'm sorry, i didn't know what to say," bucky stammers out. "the last time we spoke -"

"it's alright. really. that's what we are now. i mean, we are still friends, right?” that's what he said the last time you two spoke. you parted amicably. that was the story you purported. you and bucky were friends now. there's a long beat of silence. you've picked up the habit of chewing on the inside of your cheek again, bucky notices. “right?”

yes, you were friends. friends that were still hopelessly, desperately in love with each other. but at least you're still friends. at least he still had a place in your life.

he clears his throat, shakily nodding, "yeah, of course. we're friends."

you nod once, offering nothing more than a tight smile before you take off again.

"that looked... intense," sam interrupts as you walk away.

"just a friendly conversation. between friends." the word escapes bucky's lips like he's spitting out a mouthful of venom. friends. just friends.

sam quirks an eyebrow. "you're friends, really?"

bucky's eyebrows pull together as he defensively replies, "of course we are. we were friends before everything. we can be friends after too."

sam crosses his arms over his chest with a small shrug. "i still don't understand why there is an after."

"it just - it got complicated," bucky replies with a shaky sigh. "we called it before things got ugly, before we couldn't stand to be in the same room together, before we stopped -"

"loving each other?" sam finishes the sentence for bucky.

"sam." it's a short, clipped warning that falls from bucky's lips without a second thought. this wasn't up for discussion. that night was not one he was keen on reliving more than he already did.

"i'm just saying," sam raises his hands in defeat. "you stopped fighting before you even had to."

"it wasn't like that," bucky insists, still watching the doorway you left through.

"so what was it like?" sam wonders. "the right person, wrong time?"

"something like that."

"and now you're pretending to be friends."

"we are friends," bucky doubles down. "we've always been friends."

sam quirks an eyebrow. "and how exactly are you friends?"

“what do you mean?"

"you two don't hang out anymore. you don't laugh together anymore. you don't have anything in common."

"we have plenty of things in common.” like the fact that you’re both still in love with each other.

sam grips bucky's shoulder, offering a comforting, grounding squeeze, "all i'm saying, you were so worried about losing her. but take a look, buck, you lost her anyway."

there isn't anything that bucky can say to that. not as he ambles back to his date. sam's words hit him like a ton of bricks. isn't that exactly what he was worried about? losing you. and isn't that exactly what happened? friends to lovers. lovers to strangers. strangers masquerading as friends.

there's a longing look on his date's face that he's sure wasn't there just a moment ago.

bucky gives his date a sheepish, apologetic smile, "sorry, i had to-"

his date looks over bucky's shoulder to find you finally talking to sam. a wistful smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "that's her, isn't it?"

"huh?"

"the reason why we'll only ever be friends. it's her, right?"

for the second time tonight, bucky is rendered speechless. his mouth gapes for a moment, debating the merit of lying. it's not worth it. by the looks of it, his date has seen right though him. "yeah, that's her."

she juts her chin towards you. "you should go after her."

bucky quirks an eyebrow. "i should?"

"you should," she agrees. "i understand. and to be honest, you just reminded me that i deserve to have someone look at me the way you look at her."

"you do deserve that, but no, we, uh, we didn't work out. we're just friends now," bucky states, more as a reminder to himself than to inform his date.

she softly snorts, rolling his eyes, "i know i'm the stranger here, but i don't think you'll ever be just friends with her."

"i'm sorry."

she waves him off. "i'll be fine, but it looks like she's leaving, you should go."

it was the kick in the ass he needed and the second one he'd gotten tonight. bucky nods, "thank you."

the door slams shut behind you as you step into the nighttime air. your lungs painfully expand then clench as you take your first real breath of the night. something about watching the person you thought you'd have a lifetime with stand with another woman was just too painful.

it didn't matter what you promised him all those months ago. sure, you'd pretend. you'd keep up the facade. but you knew down to the depths of your bones that you couldn't be friends with someone you still loved with your entire heart.

"hey!" bucky calls after you.

you jolt at the sound of his voice, schooling your face into a soft smile as you whip around to face him. "what are you doing out here?"

"funny, i was about to ask you the same thing," he half heartedly chuckles, stopping less than a foot away from you. just out of reach. the corner of your mouth twitches up in the most sincere smile you can muster in this moment. it only makes his heart ache even more. "i'm really sorry about tonight."

"it's fine. we're friends, right?" your words are so stilted that you're not even fooling yourself anymore. there's a long, drawn out silence. the silence is your answer. you weren't friends. you couldn't even pretend. it was too soon. perhaps it would always be too soon. maybe you would always love him. but you and bucky would never be just friends. "we can't be friends, can we?"

he takes a long step forward. the familiar smell of your perfume wraps around him like a warm blanket on a blistery day. he looks at you and he can't even remember why he thought you could ever be friends. it doesn't make an ounce of sense to him anymore.

his hand twitches with the urge to touch you, to feel you once more.

how could he be so foolish?

how could you be friends when the taste of you still lingered on his lips? when he could still feel your warmth on your side of his cold bed? when his heart still called out to you with each rising morning and setting sun?

he finally caves to his most base, most desperate desire to simply touch you again. his thumb drags over your bottom lip. "no, we can't."

Bucky Barnes Masterlist AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

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