#how to reach out to someone who is struggling

[youthguk]

Vestiges | jjk (m)

He built a life without you — success, power, everything you once dreamed of. You spent six years pretending you didn't destroy him. One night is all it takes to tear the silence open again.

 jungkook x reader | exes to lovers 

warnings: second chance romance, heavy angst, explicit language and sexual content, emotional manipulation, slight depiction of addiction struggles, toxic relationships, trauma themes, mature emotional content.

wc: 15k

author’s note: I didn’t mean for this story to hurt as much as it does. But heartbreak feels a lot like mourning — and sometimes, writing is just another way to grieve what you lost. Feedback is always welcomed. 

It takes you longer than it should to get dressed, longer than it should to run a comb through your hair, longer than it should to fasten the thin, trembling clasp of the necklace around your throat — because everything inside you feels reluctant, slow, half-stuck in a memory you wish you could forget but know you never will, no matter how many years or cities or mistakes you stack between yourself and that boy who once promised you the world with his trembling hands and reckless heart.

The mirror doesn’t help; it only shows you a stranger, one with hollows under her eyes and a dress that doesn’t quite fit the way it used to, an almost-pretty woman wearing borrowed pearls and borrowed courage, trying to pretend that she hadn’t spent the last hour sitting on the edge of her bed staring at nothing, wondering if the version of you he remembers — if he remembers at all — would even recognize what’s left.

The room smells faintly of turpentine and old paint, the corner where your canvases lean still cluttered with yesterday’s half-finished dreams, and when you reach for your phone, the screen lights up with a message from Minho, simple and sweet and unbearably distant: Call me when you’re free. Love you.You don’t answer. You can’t. You wonder if that makes you cruel or simply too tired to pretend tonight.

Your fingers fumble with the cheap clasp at your wrist — a borrowed bracelet too — and in that one careless moment, memory slices through the present like a blade: Jungkook, twenty-one, grinning boyishly as he caught your hand outside the university library, threading a handmade beaded bracelet over your knuckles with such earnest pride that you had laughed, embarrassed, your cheeks warm, the world so soft around you it felt unreal.

"Now you have to marry me someday," he had teased, and you had rolled your eyes, but you hadn’t said no.

You blink hard, banishing him from the glass, watching the woman who stares back at you set her jaw a little harder, fix her earrings a little faster, breathe a little shallower — because you can’t afford to cry over ghosts, not tonight.

The group chat blinks awake: Sora: “Can’t wait to see everyone tonight 🖤 love you guys.”

The words should be comforting. Instead, they twist inside your chest like a dull knife, because you know her love is real, but you also know that weddings are for the blessed, and you — you are only here because Sora never chose sides when everyone else did.

You wonder if Taehyung will even look at you, wonder if the cold shoulder he gave you six years ago will stretch into tonight’s vows and toasts and forced smiles. You wonder if seeing him beside Sora will feel like a betrayal or just another quiet ache to add to the pile you stopped counting long ago.

But it’s not Taehyung who makes your palms sweat, your ribs tighten like a vise around your lungs. It’s him.

You haven’t seen him since the day everything broke, since the night your voice cracked on the phone and he didn’t pick up, since the day you stopped being someone’s future and became a cautionary tale instead.

Jungkook might have buried that reckless smile you once loved beneath all the sharp suits and colder women; or maybe success never touched the part of him that burned for you. Maybe hatred is all that’s left now, a slow, steady fire smoldering out of sight — or maybe you’re nothing more than a scar he learned to live around.

Either way, standing in front of him tonight will feel like pressing your hand against an old wound, desperate to prove it's healed when you already know it hasn't.

The taxi honks outside — a short, impatient sound that feels impossibly loud in the quiet dusk — and you stand because there’s nothing else to do, grabbing your small purse, slipping your trembling fingers into cheap heels, locking the door behind you with a finality that feels too heavy for such an ordinary sound.

The city beyond your window is a watercolor blur of neon and shadows. Each streetlight you pass feels like a countdown, leading you closer to the moment you'll have to face him again. Not the boy who promised you forever with handmade bracelets, but the man he's become – all sharp edges and success stories, probably with a model on his arm and victory in his smile.

The driver barely glances at you when you climb in, muttering the address with a voice that barely feels like your own, and as the car pulls into traffic, the low murmur of the radio fills the silence between your heartbeat and your fear, a love song from another decade humming like a ghost you can’t quite outrun.

Outside the window, the world blurs into a thousand small, careless lights — neon signs flickering above half-empty restaurants, the gold smudge of streetlamps bending against the slick black of the road — and you realize, distantly, that you don’t even remember when this city stopped feeling like home and started feeling like exile.

Your hands twist the strap of your purse tighter in your lap, knuckles aching from the pressure, and you wonder — not for the first time — if tonight will shatter you, or if you have already been living inside the ruins for so long that you won't even feel it when the final pieces fall.

The venue creeps into view before you’re ready, a soft, golden glow spilling out onto the cracked sidewalks like an invitation you should have never accepted, the kind of place built for promises and photographs and futures you don't belong to anymore.

The car stops with a jolt that rattles up your spine, and you pay the driver with fumbling fingers, stepping out into the cool night air that smells like jasmine and distant rain, clutching your purse to your chest like it might somehow shield you from what’s coming.

You hear the music first — faint, lilting strains of a string quartet filtering through the open doors — and then the laughter, bright and careless, the kind of laughter that used to be yours once, when the world was smaller, safer, sweeter.

Somewhere inside, Sora is probably floating down the aisle in a dress spun from dreams, her hands steady, her smile untouched by the kind of ghosts that still cling to your skin.

Taehyung must be standing there too, pride pressed into his spine, betrayal still thick in his chest like old smoke.

And Jungkook — though you can barely force yourself to think it — is breathing the same air as you for the first time in six years, close enough to touch and a thousand lifetimes away.

You press your hand harder against your ribs, feel the panic fluttering there like a trapped bird, and when you finally force your legs to move, to step toward the door, it feels like walking into the mouth of something hungry and merciless, something that has been waiting for you all this time.

"Please," you whisper to whatever god still listens to lost causes, "let me survive this night."

The lobby is bright and soft and aching with gold, and familiar faces blur past you — old friends you barely recognize, old friends who barely recognize you — and you keep your head down, keep moving, telling yourself it will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine, until the lie thickens and clots somewhere at the back of your throat.

You are halfway to the main hall when you hear your name, soft and almost startled, and when you turn, Sora is there — radiant, trembling, beautiful in her wedding dress, her eyes shining with something between relief and apology.

She rushes toward you before you can move, gathering you into a hug that knocks the breath from your lungs, and for a moment you let yourself fall into it, let yourself believe in the warmth of her arms, the truth of her loyalty, the small, fragile spaces where you are still loved.

"You came," she breathes against your hair, pulling back to look at you with a smile that wobbles at the corners. "God, I was so scared you wouldn’t."

"I wouldn’t miss it," you manage, and your voice sounds almost real, almost steady.

Behind her, the world shifts — guests milling about, waiters balancing trays, the glittering haze of champagne — and then, through the blur of light and sound, you feel it, before you even see him.

A weight against your skin. A gravity pulling your gaze without mercy. You lift your eyes — and there he is.

Jungkook.

Standing across the room, half-turned toward you, a glass in his hand, a black suit cut sharp against the broad frame of his shoulders, his hair dark and slightly mussed like he'd run his hand through it one too many times.

He looks different now — older, harder around the edges, devastating in a way that feels less like beauty and more like a warning.

The noise around you dulls, falling away like heavy snow, until it’s just him and you and the space between your bodies that aches like a phantom limb.

His eyes — the ones you once memorized better than your own reflection — find you across the golden crowd, and for a breathless second, there’s nothing: no recognition, no anger, no tenderness, just a flicker of something vast and unreachable that knocks the air from your lungs.

Then, just as quickly, he looks away — leaving you suspended in the terrible silence where strangers live, where memories rot, where love once existed and now nothing remains.

The air inside the hall feels heavier now, thick with perfume and champagne and the kind of brittle laughter that stretches too wide over old wounds, and you realize as you stand there, clutching the small wrapped box to your chest, that your fingers have gone almost numb.

You try not to look for him again — you try, you swear you try — but your eyes betray you anyway, sliding across the glittering room until they find him near the bar, a dark figure half-turned away, laughing low at something someone says, and for a moment it stings more than it should, the way he looks — older, sharper, all clean lines and heavy shadows, the easy beauty of boyhood burned away into something colder, something harder, something you could cut yourself on if you dared get too close.

He doesn’t belong to you anymore — maybe he never really did — and yet some foolish, broken part of you aches anyway, aches in the marrow of your bones where even time cannot reach, where memory still reigns.

It hadn’t always been like this — hadn’t he once leaned against a chipped kitchen counter in the dead of night, grinning, offering you the last slice of cheap pizza like it was a crown, like you were something holy worth starving for? Hadn’t he once promised you — reckless, breathless — that he would fight every single battle for you, even the ones you didn’t see coming?

You had believed him. God, you had believed him so much it made you foolish.

Your throat tightens as you move forward, your heels silent on the polished floors, the soft music wrapping around you like a noose, and somewhere in the back of your mind the memories start to bleed — his parents’ disapproval, sharp and sterile in their polished dining room; the thin-lipped smiles, the cruel little glances they thought you wouldn’t notice; the way Jungkook had slammed down their checkbook one night and said he’d make it without them, because loving you mattered more than money, more than power, more than blood.

He meant every word — you never doubted that — but standing here six years later, wrapped in a borrowed dress and trembling under the weight of everything you lost, it’s hard not to wonder if they were right all along. You were the disaster they warned him about, the mistake they tried to tear from his hands, and maybe — if you’d loved him less selfishly — you would have let him go before you ruined everything he could have been.

You press the thought down, hard, like smothering a fire with bare hands, and you fix your eyes on the only safe thing left — Sora, radiant and teary-eyed in her wedding dress, laughing softly at something Taehyung mutters in her ear.

It should be enough to anchor you. It isn’t.

You force your feet to move, weaving carefully through the crowd, dodging the familiar faces, the flashes of recognition, the stares that linger a little too long.

You see him again — just for a second — Jungkook leaning casually against the far wall, speaking to someone in a low voice, his profile sharp under the warm golden lights. It hits you harder than it should, the way he holds himself now — heavier somehow, not in body but in gravity, in presence — the easy recklessness of boyhood hardened into something colder, something that doesn’t bow for anyone.

Sora had mentioned it once, in a hurried, breathless phone call you almost didn’t answer: how Jungkook had started a tech company straight out of university, how he had built it from nothing, refusing every offer of help from his family even when it would have made things easier, how now he stood at the helm of one of the fastest-rising startups in the country — a CEO at twenty-seven, sharp and brilliant and terrifyingly untouchable.

You never asked for the details — you didn’t need them. It was already clear enough: he had survived without you, built a life where you were nothing but a forgotten name.

The shame settles heavier against your ribs as you clutch the small wrapped gift tighter, pressing forward toward Sora and Taehyung where they stand near the main table, a little island of perfection in a sea of strangers. 

You reach them just as they turn toward you, and for a brief, foolish moment you let yourself hope — just for tonight, just for Sora — that you can pretend the past is not clawing up the back of your throat.

Sora’s face brightens when she sees you, her hands fluttering excitedly to her mouth as if she might cry, and you feel the first crack in your armor when she pulls you into a hug so fierce it knocks the air from your lungs.

"You made it," she whispers, voice thick with emotion, and you smile — a broken thing, but a smile nonetheless — as you hand her the small gift wrapped in trembling paper.

"For you," you manage, your voice smaller than you remember it being.

Sora presses the box to her chest like it's precious, like you are precious, and for a moment the noise of the party dulls into something almost kind.

But then Taehyung steps forward, his expression carved from something colder than marble, and the weight of him — of everything you once trusted — hits you square in the ribs.

You brace for it instinctively, the way a body remembers impact even after the bruises have faded. He smiles — wide, charming, empty — and leans in slightly, his voice low and sweet enough to rot your teeth.

"I’m surprised," he says, his words like silk over a blade. "That you had the nerve to come, knowing he'd be here."

The sentence slices you cleanly down the middle, and for a moment all you can do is blink at him, your hands limp at your sides, your breath sticking somewhere between your heart and your throat.

Sora’s eyes widen in horror, but she says nothing, and Taehyung only straightens his jacket with an easy grace, as if he hadn't just peeled the skin from your chest in front of half the wedding party.

You don’t even flinch — not really. Maybe you expected it, or maybe, somewhere deep down, you’ve always believed he earned the right to hate you.

Taehyung hadn’t just been Jungkook’s best friend. He had carried Jungkook’s heartbreak like it was his own, had stitched the bleeding pieces of him back together when you weren’t there to do it. Of course he would still bear the wound like a badge of honor, would still sharpen it against your skin whenever you dared step back into their world.

You swallow down the rising sting of tears, swallow down the shame that floods your gut like dirty water, and somehow — somehow — you manage to stay standing.

You wonder if he’s right — if you should have stayed away, if you’ve become nothing more than the ghost they all wish they could finally forget.

The air outside is cooler than you expected, crisp against your overheated skin, and for a moment you just stand there on the terrace, clutching the banister with both hands like it might anchor you to something solid, something real. Inside, the wedding hums on — champagne glasses clinking, laughter blooming like overripe fruit — but out here, under the weak glow of fairy lights strung across the courtyard, it feels like another world entirely.

You press your fingers against your temples, willing your heart to slow, willing your body to forget how it trembles from the inside out.

Footsteps sound behind you — soft, lazy, unhurried — and you already know, without looking, who they belong to.

The air always shifts differently when he’s near.

Still, when you finally turn, the breath catches sharp in your throat, as if your body wasn't prepared for the sight of him after all.

Jungkook stands a few paces away, his black suit rumpled just enough to look careless rather than messy, the knot of his tie loosened at his throat. One hand is shoved deep into his pocket, the other holding a half-empty glass that tilts dangerously in his loose grip, and for a moment you can't decide if he looks more like a fallen prince or a soldier long after the war has ended.

He lifts the glass slightly, a mock-toast, his mouth curling into something that might have once been a smile if it hadn’t turned bitter somewhere along the way.

"Well," he says, voice low and rough like gravel. "If it isn’t the ghost herself."

You flinch before you can stop yourself, the words scraping raw against old wounds, but you force your spine straight, force your lips into something that might pass for calm.

"Hi, Jungkook," you manage, the name strange and sacred on your tongue after so many years of silence.

For a beat, he just looks at you — and it cuts deeper than anything he could have said.

Because for a second — just a second — you see it flicker there, the ghost of another boy entirely, the one who used to trace your skin like it was a prayer, who used to kiss you like it hurt him to stop. Gentleness pools in his dark eyes, unguarded and aching, and it guts you with how badly you want to reach for it.

But just as quickly as it came, he shutters it away, his mouth hardening into a line you barely recognize.

"So," he says, voice lighter now, mocking almost. "How’s life?"

You swallow, wishing the earth would swallow you first.

"It’s..." you fumble, your mind blanking under the weight of his gaze. "It’s good. Busy. Art shows, part-time jobs... the usual."

He nods once, a jerk of his chin, his glass tipping slightly in his grip. You notice the way his fingers tremble faintly around the glass stem, how his pupils are blown too wide for the soft light — little things that tighten the pit of your stomach before you can reason why.

"And you?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel. "You’re... doing well?"

He huffs out a laugh — not cruel, not kind either — and sets the glass down on the stone ledge beside him, missing it slightly before correcting the movement with a small curse under his breath.

"You know everything already," he mutters, and there's something brittle under the words, something breaking. "CEO. Big company. Fancy suits. Bullshit meetings."

You flinch again — not at the words, but at the hollowness behind them.

And because some masochistic part of you can’t help it, you whisper, "Are you... okay?"

For a moment, he goes very still. Then his mouth twists, slow and sharp, and he laughs — a low, broken sound that makes the fairy lights above you seem suddenly, unbearably cruel.

"Am I okay?" he repeats, tasting the words like they’re poison. "God, you really don’t get it, do you?"

You open your mouth, close it again.

"You should have done me a mercy back then," he says, voice dropping lower, softer, deadlier. "You should have just confessed. You should have just told me you didn’t love me anymore."

"I—" You don’t even know what you’re trying to say. The guilt surges so thick it almost drowns you.

He chuckles again — the sound rougher, edged with something manic, and when he speaks next his voice is shaking slightly, like the words cost him more than he can afford to give.

"I thought," he says, looking past you into the night, "that I thought if I became enough — if I built something so big it touched the sky — you’d love me again or regret betraying me."

The weight of it hits you harder than any accusation.

"Jungkook," you whisper, stepping toward him without even realizing it, "please... don't."

But he moves faster. His hand closes around your arm — not painfully, but firm, desperate — and the touch burns through the thin fabric of your sleeve like wildfire.

"Don’t what?" he demands, voice rough. "Don’t say it? Don’t feel it?"

You stare up at him, heart beating so hard you think it might break through your ribs, and for a moment neither of you breathes.

Something in him falters; the fight drains from his body, and his grip loosens. You tear yourself free, stumbling backward as if the air itself turned against you. Without thinking, without looking back, you turn and flee — pushing the door open, slipping back into the too-bright, too-loud reception, the noise crashing over you in waves.

You don’t stop until you find the bathroom, collapsing against the cool tile, gasping for air that won’t come.

And when your shaking fingers brush against the marble counter — smooth and cold and smelling faintly of expensive soap — a memory surges up so violently it knocks the breath from your lungs:

Six years ago.

The walls of Jungkook’s tiny off-campus apartment seemed to shrink around you, the air too thick with the leftover taste of the night you couldn’t forget, no matter how tightly you crossed your arms or how fiercely you jutted out your chin to hide the hurt leaking through your bones.

You were pacing, barefoot on the worn carpet, your dress wrinkled from hours of sitting stiffly at a dinner table where every glance, every polite smile, every icy comment had felt like a slap delivered with a silver fork.

"You didn’t hear the way your mother said it," you muttered, arms wrapping tighter around yourself, your voice wobbling even as you tried to sound defiant, bratty, anything but the small, shaking thing you felt like inside. "The way she asked if I needed help... pronouncing the wine list."

Jungkook sighed heavily behind you, the sound rough, frustrated, loving all at once, and when you dared glance back at him, he was scrubbing a hand through his messy hair, his white dress shirt rumpled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the very picture of someone who wanted to punch something but was too busy loving you to bother.

"I told them to back off," he said, stepping closer, voice low, tight. "I told them you’re it for me. What else do you want me to do, baby?"

The word burned into you — baby — the way it always did, softening your anger just enough to make room for the real thing: the sadness.

"It’s not just about you standing up for me," you said, your voice small now, your throat raw from holding too much back for too long. "It’s your family, Jungkook. They’re supposed to... I don’t know... accept me. If they don’t — if they think I’m just some poor girl you’ll grow out of — maybe I don’t belong there at all."

Your hands twisted together in front of you, trying to tie yourself into a knot too small for pain to find, and you hated how broken you sounded, how much you still cared even after everything.

For a heartbeat, Jungkook just stared at you — something fierce and wounded flashing through his eyes — and then he crossed the room in three strides, his hands gripping your arms, pulling you against his chest with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.

"If they can’t love you," he said, his voice a growl against your hair, "then they’re not my family anymore."

You froze — heart thudding painfully — but he only hugged you tighter, burying his face in the curve of your neck, like he could physically shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.

"I already have a family," he whispered, voice cracking slightly. "It’s you. It’s always been you."

And something inside you — some fragile, terrified thing — cracked wide open and poured itself into his arms, because even though the world outside these walls was sharp and cruel, even though you could feel the future trying to tear you apart already, in that moment, he was enough. He was everything.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his lips brushed your neck — a featherlight touch that sent shivers chasing down your spine — and then he was kissing lower, onto your shoulder, the strap of your dress slipping down your arm under the insistence of his mouth.

Your body betrayed you instantly, leaning back into him, your pulse pounding wild and helpless beneath your skin.

"You’re mine," he murmured, each word punctuated with a kiss that burned hotter, lower, softer."No one else matters.I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

His hands slid down your sides — warm, steady, reverent — and when you arched instinctively into him, you felt it: the hard, urgent line of his arousal pressing into the small of your back, undeniable, desperate.

"I love you too," you breathed, tilting your head to the side to give him more skin, more access, more of everything he wanted.

He groaned softly at your words, the sound vibrating against your neck, and his hands moved faster now, not rough, but hungrier, slipping under the hem of your dress, mapping the familiar landscape of your body like a man tracing the borders of a country he already owns but never tires of conquering.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, voice thick, broken, worshipful. "You’re everything."

And standing there — half undressed, half unraveled, completely loved — you believed him.

You believed that love could be enough.

Jungkook’s hands are everywhere — frantic, reverent — as he lifts you easily into his arms, carrying you to the bed like you weigh nothing, like you’re something sacred he’s afraid he’ll break if he isn’t careful, and when he lays you down, the mattress dipping under your back, his gaze devours you with a hunger so raw it leaves you trembling before he’s even touched you properly.

He leans over you, bracing himself on one arm, the other already tugging at the hem of your dress with impatient fingers, and you raise your arms without thinking, letting him peel it off you inch by inch, baring you to the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window.His shirt follows quickly — buttons popping loose under his fumbling hands, sleeves yanked off — and then he’s kneeling above you, bare-chested, flushed, beautiful, the muscles of his arms flexing as he tosses his shirt aside and drops back over you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that steals every thought you ever had.

You moan against his lips as he grinds down into you, the hard line of his cock pressing hot and heavy through the thin barrier of your underwear, his jeans rough against your bare thighs.The friction is maddening — too much and not enough — and you arch against him instinctively, your hands clutching at his back, dragging your nails down the ridges of muscle as he rolls his hips again, harder this time, swallowing the broken gasp you let out into his mouth.

"Fuck," he growls against your lips, grinding into you again, the air between you electric, desperate, filthy. "You’re gonna make me come like this if you keep moving like that, princess."

You giggle breathlessly, dizzy with the heat coiling low in your belly, and nip at his bottom lip, making him groan again, deeper, rougher, before he pulls back just enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones.

He takes his time there, kissing, licking, sucking soft bruises into your skin, before moving lower, capturing one nipple between his lips and sucking hard enough to make you cry out, your back arching off the bed as his hand kneads the other breast greedily.

"You’re so fucking perfect," he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked with devotion and hunger, and you whimper, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging when he sucks harder, the sensation shooting straight between your legs.

"Tell me who you belong to," he says, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust and something deeper, something almost frantic.

"You," you pant, grinding up into him shamelessly, needing more, needing everything. "Always you."

"Good girl," he rasps, the praise making you clench around nothing, making you whine.

And then he’s kissing down your stomach, dragging your panties down with his teeth, leaving them forgotten at the foot of the bed, and when he settles between your thighs, his hands spreading you open for him, you think you might die from how much you want him.

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself, before he licks a slow, devastating stripe up your center, making your hips jerk, your hands fly to his hair, anchoring yourself to him as he groans against you, like he’s the one losing control.

He works you with his mouth until you’re writhing, gasping, begging — filthy, broken sounds spilling from your lips as he sucks your clit between his lips, fingers slipping inside you, curling just right, making your vision white out at the edges.

"Jungkook— fuck — please," you sob, grinding helplessly against his mouth, chasing the high building so fast it terrifies you.

"What do you need, baby?" he murmurs, teasing you with his breath, his fingers still thrusting slow and deep inside you. "Tell me. Wanna hear you beg for it."

"You," you gasp, shameless, lost. "Need you inside me. Need you now."

He groans again, desperate, wrecked, and kisses your inner thigh before pulling away, climbing back over you, his jeans shoved down just far enough to free his cock, flushed and leaking at the tip.

"You drive me fucking insane," he mutters against your mouth, grinding into your soaked core, making you both moan.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, trying to pull him closer, deeper, needing to feel him, needing to be filled.

"Beg for it," he demands again, teasing your entrance with the thick head of his cock, just barely pushing inside before pulling back, making you whimper.

"Please, Jungkook," you cry, breathless, broken, desperate. "Need you — need you to fuck me — please —"

That’s all it takes.

With a growl torn from his chest, he pushes into you in one slow, devastating stroke, stretching you, filling you, making you gasp, making him curse under his breath.

"Fuck, baby," he grits out, bracing himself on one elbow while the other hand lifts your leg higher, changing the angle, pushing deeper, hitting places inside you that make you sob. "So tight, so good — always so good for me."

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, and he starts to move, thrusting slow at first, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to carve himself into you, like he wants to live there.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, voice shaking. "Like you were made for me."

"Yours," you gasp, clenching around him, loving the way his eyes darken, loving the way he loses control when you say it. "Always yours."

He thrusts harder, deeper, the bed creaking beneath you, the sound of skin against skin obscene, beautiful, necessary.

But then — he flips you, rolling you easily until you’re straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you as you start to move.

"Fuck, yes," he groans, head falling back against the pillows, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy. "Ride me, baby. Let me see you."

You move — slowly at first, grinding down, rolling your hips — and his hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you whimper, making you move faster.

"You’re so beautiful," he says, voice wrecked, worshipful. "So fucking beautiful like this — my princess — my fucking queen."

You preen under the praise, loving the way he looks at you, loving the way his mouth falls open in a silent moan every time you clench around him just right, loving the way he can’t even think straight when you’re on top of him.

You ride him harder, faster, rolling your hips the way you know drives him crazy, loving the way his breath stutters in his chest every time you slam down onto him, loving the way his hands clutch your hips like he’s holding onto something sacred he doesn’t want to lose.

"Look at you," Jungkook groans, voice so low and rough it makes you clench around him without meaning to, "riding my cock like you were fucking made for it."

You whimper, heat flashing through your veins at his words, and grind down harder, faster, setting a brutal pace that makes the bed creak beneath you, the headboard thudding faintly against the wall with every desperate movement.

"You like this?" you gasp out, nails dragging down his chest, watching the way his abs tighten under your touch, watching the way his eyes darken impossibly. "You like me using you like this, Kook?"

"Fuck, baby," he curses, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts again, squeezing them greedily as he thrusts up into you, matching your rhythm. "I fucking love it — love watching you fuck yourself on my cock — love how messy you get for me — how wet you are, fuck, you're dripping all over me —"

You moan at his words, at the filth of them, at the way he says it like he worships you, and the pleasure inside you coils tighter, tighter, unbearable.

"You drive me insane," he pants, bucking up harder, dragging guttural sounds from deep inside your chest."You ride me so good, baby — fuck — gonna make me come just from watching you —"

"You’re so big," you whimper, losing yourself completely, grinding down harder, faster, chasing your own high with no shame now, loving the way he watches you like you’re something holy and obscene all at once. "Feel you so deep — filling me up — love it, Jungkook — love you —"

"Say it again," he begs, his voice wrecked, desperate, lost to you. "Say you love me."

"I love you," you gasp, nearly sobbing with it, pressing your palms flat against his heaving chest to steady yourself. "Love you, love your cock, love everything about you —"

"Fuck, that's it," he groans, hips pistoning up into you, chasing your pleasure with frantic, punishing thrusts. "Take it — take everything, baby — it’s all yours —"

You feel the orgasm building, spiraling out of control, and with a shaking hand you grab his wrist, dragging his fingers to your clit, needing more, needing him.

"Touch me," you gasp, voice breaking. "Please, Jungkook, need you — need you to make me come —"

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tease — just rubs tight, messy circles against your swollen clit with the rough pads of his fingers, fucking into you harder, faster, his mouth open on a gasp as he watches you fall apart above him.

"Come for me," he groans, wrecked, begging. "Show me how good I make you feel — want you to fall apart on my cock — fuck, baby, please —"

And you do — you shatter with a cry, back arching, nails raking down his chest as you come hard, clenching around him, waves of pleasure crashing through you so violently your vision goes white at the edges.

Before the last waves of your orgasm even finish crashing through you, Jungkook’s hands are gripping your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your back, knocking the breath from your lungs with the sheer force of him, the sheer need — and then he’s pushing into you again, deep and hard and desperate, a raw groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt inside your trembling body.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, doesn’t give you a second to breathe — just fucks into you in long, dragging strokes, slow enough to make you feel every thick inch of him, deep enough to make you cry out again, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, holding him there, locking him to you like you’ll never let him go.

"You’re mine," he gasps against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged and tasting like desperation and devotion."Always fucking mine. No one else gets you — no one else ever fucking will —"

"Yours," you sob, clinging to his back, your nails raking down the slick muscles there, leaving red trails he’ll feel tomorrow, proof that you were here, that you belonged to him in every filthy, holy way.

"You feel so good," he pants, thrusting harder now, the rhythm messy and beautiful, skin slapping against skin, the room filled with the obscene, perfect sound of your bodies coming together. "So fucking good around me — fuck, baby, you were made for this — made to take me — made to be mine —"

You whimper, lost to him, to the brutal tenderness of it, the way he looks at you like you’re breaking him apart and putting him back together at the same time.

"Want you to come inside," you gasp, dragging your nails up his arms, feeling him shudder under your touch. "Want to feel you — want you to fill me up, Jungkook — please —"

He groans like the sound is being ripped from somewhere deep inside him, thrusting deeper, faster, his hips snapping against yours in wild, desperate movements that have you seeing stars.

"Gonna fill you up," he grits out, voice wrecked, forehead slipping to your shoulder, his mouth hot and desperate against your skin."Gonna fucking come so deep you’ll feel me for days — fuck, baby, can’t hold it — can’t —"

You tighten your legs around him, dragging him impossibly closer, and he loses it — with a hoarse, broken cry of your name, he thrusts deep one final time and spills inside you, his whole body shuddering violently against yours, cock pulsing as he fills you up just like he promised.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move at all.

He collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside your soaking, fluttering walls, his body trembling from the force of it, from the emotion choking both of you.

His breath comes in ragged, desperate bursts against your throat, each exhale brushing hot and trembling over your sweat-slicked skin, and you can feel the way he’s still fighting for control even though it’s already shattered, the way his whole body trembles against you, the way his heart hammers so violently inside his chest you can feel it pounding against your own.

When he finally lifts his head — slow, heavy, reluctant — his hair falls into his eyes, messy and damp from sweat, and you barely recognize the expression on his face, so raw and wrecked and open that it feels like a sin to look at him and a greater sin to look away.

His eyes are glassy, undone, burning with a kind of desperate devotion that punches the air straight out of your lungs, and you realize too late that he’s not just holding your body — he’s holding everything he has left.

You barely manage to blink back the sting of tears before he’s reaching for you again, finding your hands where they lay limp and boneless against the mattress, threading his fingers through yours with a fierce, almost frantic tenderness, squeezing tightly, like if he lets go even for a second, you’ll slip through his fingers like smoke.

He keeps your hands pinned above your head, locked against the pillow, and when he leans down to kiss you, it’s not the desperate, sloppy thing you expect — it’s slow, reverent, aching, his mouth moving against yours like a promise he’s too afraid to say aloud.

The kiss deepens slowly, messily, lazy and languid, tongues tangling, teeth scraping, lips dragging — a thousand whispered apologies and confessions bleeding between the spaces where your mouths meet and part and meet again.

Every tiny shift of his hips still buried inside you makes you whimper into the kiss — makes him groan low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his whole body — because even now, even after he’s given you everything, he’s still not satisfied, still not ready to be apart from you, still thrusting shallowly inside you, tiny desperate movements like he’s trying to fuse you together permanently.

His nose brushes yours, clumsy and sweet, and he lets out a choked, breathless laugh against your mouth, pure emotion bleeding out of him in every ragged exhale.

"Can't... can't let you go," he mumbles against your lips, voice shaking with the weight of it, with how much he means it."You're mine, baby. Always mine. Always, always —"

You squeeze his fingers tighter, pressing your forehead against his, your heart splitting wide open inside your chest, because you can feel it too — the way you still belong to each other, stitched together by something reckless and terrifying and beautiful that no amount of distance or time or heartbreak could ever fully tear apart.

And as he rocks into you again, slow and tender, just to stay connected, just to keep you in his arms a little longer, you kiss him back with everything you have, everything you are, everything you’ll never be able to say.

You don’t know when it happens — maybe in the soft press of his forehead against yours, maybe in the trembling way his hands refuse to let go of yours, maybe in the way your bodies are still joined so completely it feels like one breath between you — but something inside you shifts, something warm and bright and terrifyingly fragile blooming deep in your chest, and for a moment you think you might actually break from how much you love him.

You think about how unfair life has been in so many ways — how you weren’t born into a family with silver-lined houses and gilded bloodlines, how you’ve spent so much of your life feeling like you were always standing on the outside looking in — but none of it seems to matter anymore, not when fate, or luck, or some reckless, merciful god saw fit to gift you with the only treasure that ever really mattered.

Jungkook.

You think, with a fierceness that leaves you trembling, that maybe you weren’t born into riches, but you were still the luckiest person in the world, because somehow, against every odd, you were loved by someone like him — someone who fought the whole world just to keep holding your hand.

You think about the past three years — about finding your way to each other through crowded lecture halls and late-night coffee runs and countless small moments stitched together into something so much bigger than either of you could have imagined — and you realize you’ve never been as happy as you are right now, wrapped up in him, in his messy devotion, in the future you were stupid enough to believe was already written in your favor.

You had friends — good ones.Taehyung with his bright, mischievous smile; Sora with her endless, unconditional love; Sungwon and so many others who filled your days with laughter and reckless plans — but when it came down to it, when the world blurred at the edges, it was always only him.

You needed only Jungkook, and he needed only you.

Even when you fought — and God, you fought — you always knew it was temporary, just a storm passing between two people too stubborn and too desperate to ever really let go.It was never about the two of you. It was always about the others — about the judgment of his parents, about the sharp words whispered behind closed doors — and even then, Jungkook had made it clear where he stood.

He cut them off without hesitation — the gold, the promises, the blood-ties that once weighed him down like anchors.

He built a life with you instead, stubborn and scrappy and achingly beautiful, guided by nothing but your trembling hands and his reckless heart — and somehow, against everything, it had been enough.

You believed in it with a desperation that left no room for doubt: that love like this could survive the world outside your window, that he would catch you when you fell, fight for you when you bled, hold on even when everything else told him to let go.

You were the luckiest girl in the world — and lying there beneath him, your fingers locked together like a prayer you hadn't realized you'd been whispering for years, you truly believed that nothing could ever tear you apart.

Because back then, you still believed forever could be real. Back then, you still believed love like this was enough to save you both.

You believed that nights like this could hold back the tide of everything waiting to destroy you. And that Jungkook — your Jungkook — would be the one thing in this world that never broke.

The next morning, sunlight bleeds soft and golden through the thin curtains, spilling across tangled sheets and discarded clothes and the two of you, still wrapped together, still skin to skin, still smelling of sweat and sex and something sweeter, something that feels suspiciously like forever.

You wake first — blinking slowly, drowsily, your body aching in the most delicious ways — and for a long, perfect moment, you just lay there, staring at him, at the boy who somehow managed to crawl inside your chest and build a home there without you ever realizing it was happening.

Jungkook is sprawled on his back, one arm flung carelessly over his head, his other hand still loosely tangled in the sheet that barely covers either of you, and your heart squeezes painfully at the sight of him — messy hair, flushed cheeks, kiss-bruised lips parted in sleep, a faint crease between his brows like he’s still dreaming about you even now.

You can’t help yourself.

Your fingers move without permission, tracing the hard lines of his chest, the muscles shifting slightly under your touch, warm and firm and familiar, and you take your time — outlining the ridges of his abs, the curve of his waist, the faint dusting of hair that disappears below the sheet — memorizing him, hoarding him, because some part of you already knows you’ll never love anyone like this again.

He stirs under your touch, a low, sleepy groan rumbling deep in his chest, and before you can even think about pulling away, his hand is shooting out, grabbing your wrist and dragging you down for a kiss — lazy, messy, desperate in the way only mornings can make kisses desperate.

You giggle against his mouth, breaking the kiss just enough to tease, "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Morning, trouble," he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep, eyes barely open but his mouth already chasing yours again, already greedy for more.

You shift slightly — intending only to reposition yourself — but when you move, you can feel it: the hard, heavy press of his morning erection against your thigh, hot and insistent and utterly unignorable.

You smirk against his lips, pulling back just enough to glance down, and then back up at him with a teasing sparkle in your eyes.

"Someone’s awake," you whisper, sliding your hand slowly, wickedly, down his chest, your nails grazing lightly over his abs, watching with smug satisfaction as his whole body tenses under your touch.

"You’re evil," Jungkook groans, head tipping back against the pillow, the muscles in his neck flexing beautifully as he tries and fails to control himself."Pure fucking evil."

You laugh, delighted, and throw one leg over his hips, straddling him easily, feeling the thick, twitching heat of him pressing against your bare core through the thin layer of the sheet.

"Am I?" you ask, feigning innocence as you grind down ever so slightly, making him curse under his breath, making his hands fly to your hips like he can’t help it. "I thought you liked me like this."

"Like you?" he rasps, his voice cracking deliciously. "Baby, I fucking worship you."

The words burn through you, leaving you flushed and reckless, and you lean down, bracing your hands on his chest, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across his skin — above his heart, across the slope of his pecs, down the tight ridges of his stomach — while he fists the sheets, his muscles trembling under your tongue.

"You’re killing me," he groans, head thrashing slightly against the pillow as you kiss lower, lower, lower still.

"Good," you whisper against his hipbone, laughing softly when he growls in frustration.

And then — slow, deliberate, teasing — you trace your lips along the length of him, the heavy weight of his cock throbbing against your mouth, so big and thick and perfect you almost moan at the taste of him, the sheer heat of him.

"Fuck," Jungkook hisses, his hands flying to your hair, not to force you down but to anchor himself, to keep from losing his mind completely.

You lick him lazily, dragging your tongue from base to tip, savoring the way he twitches against your mouth, savoring the broken sounds falling from his lips, savoring the way his thighs tremble under your palms.

"You’re so big, baby," you murmur against him, your voice sweet and filthy all at once. "So hard for me. You want me that bad?"

"Always," he gasps, his hands tightening in your hair. "Fuck, baby, you’re so good — driving me fucking insane —"

You giggle breathlessly and press teasing kisses all over his length along the thick vein pulsing along the underside, nipping playfully at the swollen head, loving the way his hips jerk up off the bed like he can’t help it, like he needs you too much to stay still.

"Please," he groans, utterly wrecked now, his voice shaking, desperate. "Please, baby, please suck me — need your mouth so bad — fuck, need to feel you —"

You finally take pity on him — finally wrap your lips around the flushed, leaking tip — and the sound he makes is nothing short of obscene, a strangled moan that punches straight into your core.

You suck slowly at first, teasing, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, hollowing your cheeks to create a suction that has him cursing, babbling, begging.

"God, you’re so fucking good," he pants, hips thrusting shallowly up into your mouth."Look at you — look so pretty with my cock in your mouth — fuck, baby, you’re made for this — made to suck me off —"

You moan around him, the vibrations making him curse even louder, and then you take him deeper, swallowing inch by inch until he hits the back of your throat, until he’s gasping your name like a prayer, until his hands are trembling in your hair.

You bob your head faster, working him with your mouth and your hand, feeling him grow even harder, even heavier against your tongue, until you know he’s close — until you feel his thighs tensing, his breath catching, his hands fisting desperately in your hair.

"Baby — fuck — gonna come —" he warns, his voice raw, frantic.

You suck harder, faster, moaning around him, and with a broken, hoarse cry, Jungkook falls apart, spilling hot and salty down your throat, his body jerking helplessly, his mouth falling open in a silent, beautiful scream.

You swallow everything, licking him clean, savoring the taste of him, savoring the way he collapses back against the bed like he’s been hollowed out, like you’ve stolen every thought he ever had except for you.

And when you finally lift your head, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, he’s staring at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Like you hung the fucking stars just for him.

You crawl back up his body slowly, languidly, savoring every inch of warm, trembling skin under your palms, and when you finally reach him, when you finally meet his mouth again, he kisses you like he’s starving, like he’ll never get enough, like he’s still drunk on everything you just gave him and desperate for more.

It’s a messy, perfect kiss — mouths open, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, gasps and laughter bleeding into each other until neither of you knows where you end and he begins — and when you finally break apart, panting against each other’s lips, Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed like he’s trying to savor the weight of you pressed so completely against him.

For a moment, neither of you speaks — just breathing each other in, suspended there, floating somewhere that isn’t entirely the world and isn’t entirely a dream either — and when he does finally find his voice, it’s rough, low, laced with something too big for either of you to name.

"I know," he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours, "that we live in a bubble."

You blink, lazy and drowsy and sated, but he just smiles — that soft, crooked smile he only ever gives you when it’s late and the world feels far away.

"I know," he says again, threading his fingers into your hair, cradling the back of your head like something precious. "That out there—" He jerks his chin vaguely toward the window, toward the city waking up beyond the glass. "—the world is still waiting for us. Still expecting things from us. Still trying to pull us apart."

You frown at that, nuzzling into his hand like a kitten, pouting without meaning to, your voice soft and bratty and unbearably adorable when you mumble, "I don't want the world."

He chuckles, the sound low and full of something aching and infinite, and pulls you tighter against him, like he can shield you from everything with the sheer force of his body alone.

"You," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your mouth, each one softer than the last, "are my whole world."

And when he kisses you again — slow, deep, endless — you realize it’s true.

In this little bubble made of tangled sheets and whispered promises and reckless hope, there is no city, no parents, no expectations, no fear.

present time

The fluorescent lights above the bathroom mirror buzz faintly, a cruel, ugly sound in the soft, gilded hush of the wedding venue, and for a long, dizzying moment, you just stand there — your palms flat against the cold marble counter, your chest heaving like you’ve run a marathon you didn’t realize you’d started until it was too late.

Your reflection stares back at you, wild-eyed and red-rimmed, mascara smudged in soft gray shadows beneath lashes that flutter helplessly against the tears you can’t seem to stop.

You try. God, you try. You dab at your eyes with trembling fingers, blotting the damage, smoothing your hair, painting a brittle, empty smile onto your mouth — the kind of smile that fools no one and saves nothing, but maybe buys you just enough time to get the hell out of here before the weight of the past buries you alive.

Your heart still races from the memory, from the aftershocks of his hands on your skin, his mouth on your mouth, his voice breathing love into the hollow places you hadn’t even realized existed until he filled them.

You stand there, willing yourself to move, whispering that the past can’t touch you anymore, that you’ve outgrown this kind of pain — that you have to be stronger than you feel.

But grief — true grief — has no sense of time, no mercy for logic or willpower; it doesn't politely fade into the background like an old scar — it waits, it sleeps under your skin, and then one careless thought, one familiar smell, one remembered kiss, and it awakens ravenous, dragging you back under as easily as if you had never crawled out at all.

You draw a shuddering breath, taste salt and bitterness on your tongue, and turn away from the mirror before you can shatter completely.

The wedding hall is a kaleidoscope of color and noise as you step back into it — laughter and music and champagne glasses clinking together like tiny, mocking bells — and for a moment the world tilts under your feet, the sheer vibrancy of it so at odds with the funeral you feel unfolding in your own chest.

Someone calls your name — a polite, curious lilt — and you manage a weak smile, nodding vaguely at a group of guests you barely recognize.

"Leaving so soon?" a woman asks, genuine surprise softening her features.

You mutter something about a headache, about early work tomorrow, about anything that isn’t I’m drowning and if I stay here another second I will die where I stand.

You make it halfway across the floor before you feel it — that unmistakable pull, that gravity that never stopped tying you to him even after everything tore apart.

You look up, helpless against the instinct, and there he is — Jungkook, across the room, frozen mid-conversation, his dark eyes locked onto yours like he can feel you slipping through his fingers all over again.

For just a moment, it’s there — the worry, the confusion, the stunned, aching tenderness he still hasn’t managed to bury.

But beneath it, something harsher stirs — raw and unrecognizable, dark enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

It flickers at the edge of him — in the slight tremble of his hand as he sets his drink down too fast, in the faint glassiness in his gaze that has nothing to do with champagne and everything to do with exhaustion, with habits he can’t seem to outrun.

He looks... thinner, somehow. Sharper around the edges. Like the success sewn into the cut of his expensive suit is holding together a body that's burning itself out from the inside.

It twists inside you, sharp and familiar, because you recognize that look — the hollow stretch of someone slipping out of their own skin, the weight of a world too heavy to carry sober, the slow erosion of time when surviving becomes the only thing left. Even after everything — after the betrayal, after the years — your heart still aches for him without permission, as natural and inevitable as breathing.

The years sharpened him: the expensive suit, the calculated ease — but none of it masks the way he carries his grief like a splinter buried too deep to remove. And somehow, with a clarity that feels like a blade to your ribs, you understand: no matter how high he climbed, no matter how much he built, some part of him never moved forward either.

Something inside him still folded back to you. He takes a step forward, almost involuntary, like he doesn't realize he's doing it — but it’s enough. It’s too much. You break the gaze like it burns, shove your way through the crowd, nearly tripping in your haste to reach the door.

The evening air slaps your face, cool and sharp, as you stumble outside, waving frantically for the first taxi that slows down, ignoring the concerned calls of a few lingering guests.

You hear the heavy thud of footsteps behind you — faster now, urgent — and you don't have to turn around to know it's him.

You keep your eyes down, refusing to look and to hope. You dive into the taxi, slam the door, choke out your address to the driver with a voice you barely recognize as your own.

The car pulls away, and you catch a final, fleeting glimpse of him through the window — Jungkook standing alone on the curb, hands clenching uselessly at his sides, his face carved into an expression that looks far too much like grief to belong to someone who supposedly moved on.

A vicious thought flickers through you — wondering if he feels the same hollow ache, if the hatred ever faded, or if somewhere deep down he never stopped loving you.

The city blurs past — streetlights smearing into liquid gold, shop windows flashing by like tiny, glittering ghosts — and you press your forehead against the cool glass, your breath fogging a small circle into the world you can no longer reach.

The thing about loss is that everyone tells you it gets easier. That time smooths out the jagged edges, that grief dulls like an old knife, that someday you’ll wake up and it won’t hurt to remember. But the truth — the ugly, merciless truth — is that time doesn’t move forward at all.

It folds, bends you back into the shape of your own broken heart, trapping you inside memories you thought you had outlived, making you relive every kiss, every fight, every promise you failed to keep as if it’s happening right now, as if it will always be happening, as if you will never truly escape the moment you realized forever wasn't a promise after all — it was just another kind of lie.

The taxi carries you deeper into the night, but part of you never moves at all — still trapped six years ago, clinging to the boy who held you through every storm, still bleeding in the ruins of everything you couldn’t save — and maybe, you realize, some pieces of you always will be.

***

The apartment smells like burnt coffee and wet paint when you stumble through the door, still half-frozen from the chill outside, your thin jacket doing little to protect you from the colder, heavier things clinging to your skin.

Minho is slouched on the battered couch, a sketchpad balanced on his knees, his pencil tapping absently against the paper in a restless rhythm, and he looks up at you with surprise when he hears the door click shut.

"Back so soon?" he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if you’re real or just a ghost wandering in from the street.

You shrug, forcing a small smile that feels brittle and wrong on your face. "It was boring without you," you lie, peeling off your shoes, your jacket, your skin, your heart.

He smiles — small, touched — and you hate yourself a little for the way you can’t feel anything when you look at him.

Because it isn’t the wedding you fled from.

It wasn’t the guests or the champagne or the polite conversations that drove you out like a storm looking for somewhere to crash.

Jungkook, standing across the room like a living wound you couldn't stop bleeding from, his eyes carving you open in places you thought had long since scarred over.

How predictably stupid it was to think that six years of silence — six years of precision avoidance, of carefully stepping around mutual friends and blocked numbers and old memories — could survive a single collision without splintering into a thousand sharp-edged regrets.

You told yourself — foolishly, naively — that you could be normal tonight, that you could smile and toast and laugh at old jokes without shattering, that you could pretend you hadn’t once built a whole life inside his arms only to lose it all in a breath.

You laugh under your breath — a dry, humorless thing — as you drift toward the bathroom, mumbling something about needing a shower before he can ask any more questions.

The hot water scalds your skin, but it does nothing to burn him out of you. You press your forehead to the cool tile, water pouring down your back like tears you refuse to shed where anyone might hear, and you find yourself whispering silent, stupid prayers to a world that stopped listening to you a long time ago.

You beg the water, the walls, the hollow silence — anything — to take it away, to stop the endless aching, to grant you even a moment’s relief. But grief doesn’t listen.

It isn’t a wound that scabs over, or a fever that breaks; it is a parasite, patient and merciless, sinking its teeth into your ribs, your spine, your lungs, gnawing through every part of you until you forget there was ever a time you were whole.

When you finally step out, you feel no cleaner than before, just wetter, colder, heavier.

You towel your hair half-heartedly, throw on a worn sweater and sweatpants, and emerge from the bathroom with the blank, practiced face of someone who knows how to act normal when the world expects it.

Minho doesn’t seem to notice the cracks you’re bleeding from. He tosses his pencil onto the coffee table and sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair.

"Club canceled the gig again," he mutters, frustration curling under his words like smoke. "Said they’re cutting back on live performances."

You offer him a tired, sympathetic noise — something noncommittal — as you collapse into the chair across from him, feeling the exhaustion settle deep into your bones like a second skeleton.

"I should probably find another part-time job," you say absently, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, feeling the weight of the future pressing down like a hand around your throat.

Minho hums, toeing off his sneakers with a grunt. "Maybe we’re just idiots," he says after a moment, not cruel, just tired. "Thinking we could survive as artists in a world like this."

A faint, broken smile tugs at your mouth — because isn’t that the cruelest joke of all? Not the falling apart, but the fact that, for one bright, reckless moment, you believed you could win.

"Maybe," you whisper, voice almost lost to the hum of the cheap refrigerator rattling in the kitchen.

He tilts his head, studying you with a quiet frown. "Since when did you stop believing?"

You only sit there, silent, because there’s nothing left inside you that knows how to answer. Because the truth is — you stopped believing the night Jungkook walked away.

Not because Minho isn’t good enough, not because you don’t love your art anymore — but because something inside you shattered that night, something vital, something sacred.

But because when Jungkook accused you, when he looked at you like you were something dirty, something cheap, something less — it broke more than your heart.

It shattered more than your heart — it stripped you of the faith you once had in yourself, the belief that you were someone capable of being loyal. 

And no matter how many paintings you hung on cold gallery walls, no matter how many late shifts you survived or coffees you poured or exhibitions you faked your way through, you never really found her again — the girl who believed she deserved to be loved without shame.

You glance at Minho, who has already gone back to sketching, his pencil moving in soft, furious strokes across the page, and you feel a pang of guilt so sharp it almost doubles you over.

He is good, and he is kind — steady in ways that should have made you feel safe, in ways that deserve something better than the hollowed-out version of you still clawing through the wreckage.

Minho deserves someone whole. Not this —  a girl still haunted by a boy she couldn't bury, still stitched together with threads too thin to hold under real weight.

You press your palms against your thighs, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay, and the thought slips in, unwelcome but familiar — that maybe grief is not something you outlive, but something you learn to carry, heavier with every passing year.

If some loves do not die cleanly, if they rot instead — festering quietly inside you, hollowing out everything they once touched — then maybe that decay is the only thing you have left to claim as yours.

___________________________________________________________________________

Time doesn’t heal wounds so much as it teaches you how to live around them — teaches you how to carry them in the quiet spaces between conversations, how to fold them neatly into your chest where no one else can see, how to laugh and nod and keep moving even when the old pain still howls beneath your skin.

You learn that grief becomes a kind of muscle memory — a reflex, a twitch just beneath the surface — and eventually you stop noticing the way you flinch when the world presses too hard against the places you are still bleeding.

You learn to live with it, folding the weight into your bones until it feels almost natural. You master the art of pretending — smiling, nodding, breathing like you're whole — and you almost convince yourself it's enough, until something sharp and familiar tears the stitches open all over again.

It’s been a week since the wedding.

A week of avoiding every thought that bears his face, every memory that tastes like blood in the back of your throat. A week of moving through your days on autopilot, smiling when expected, speaking when required, dying quietly in the spaces between.

When Sora’s message pings onto your phone, you almost don’t answer.

Sora:"Hey love, can you meet me at Primrose Café today? Need help planning honeymoon stuff! 🤍"

You hesitate — thumb hovering over the screen — but guilt sinks its teeth into your ribs and drags you under.

You owe her — more than silence, more than your fear, more than the cowardice clawing up your throat. So you tell yourself it’s fine, that he won’t be there, that it’s just coffee, simple, harmless, easy — but the lie tastes bitter even before you swallow it.

The café bells chime softly as you push the door open, the warm smell of roasted beans and vanilla flooding your senses — and for a brief, stupid moment, you allow yourself to relax, to believe that maybe today will be easy.

And then you see him. Jungkook is already seated at a corner table, his hands folded stiffly around a coffee cup he isn’t drinking from, his eyes dark and unreadable under the soft light.

The world tilts. Your stomach drops through the floor.

You freeze, every muscle locking tight, every instinct screaming at you to turn around, to run — but then you see Sora, waving you over with that bright, frantic smile she only uses when she knows she’s asking for forgiveness before the crime has even been committed.

You move because standing still feels worse — because running has never really saved you, only delayed the inevitable.

You slide into the seat across from him, feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter, feeling the air thicken around you, feeling the familiar prickle of his gaze skating over your skin like a brand you can’t scrub off.

Sora clears her throat awkwardly, twisting a napkin between her fingers.

"I know this is... a lot," she says, voice too loud, too brittle. "But I just— I love you both. And with me and Tae... with everything changing... I just want us to be able to be around each other without... without it being like this."

You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes on Sora, on the way her hands shake slightly while she bites her lip like she’s scared you’ll hate her for this.

You could never. She’s the only reason you still have anyone at all.

"I’m not asking you to be friends," she rushes on, voice cracking slightly. "Just— just civil. For me. For family events. Holidays. Birthdays. I don’t want to have to choose between the two people who mattered most to me for so long."

The weight of it all presses down harder.

You nod because it’s the only thing you can do without breaking apart in public.

Sora’s face softens, relief flooding her features, and she reaches across the table to squeeze your hand briefly before rising to her feet.

"I’m gonna give you two a moment," she says, and before you can protest — before you can even breathe — she’s gone, leaving you alone in the heavy, aching silence of too many unsaid things.

You feel his gaze on you — steady, sharp, unbearable — and for a long moment, you can’t bring yourself to look up.

But eventually, inevitably, you do.

And the moment your eyes meet his, the past hits you like a tidal wave — dragging you back to the night everything shattered, the night you learned that some betrayals don't bleed out cleanly but rot inside you for years.

The night everything you believed in burned to ash in his hands — the same night you lost him, and somewhere along the way, yourself too.

Six years ago

The night air was thick and heavy, the kind of suffocating stillness that clings to your skin, and you had been sitting alone in your small apartment, half-listening to the hum of the old refrigerator, your sketchpad abandoned at your feet, your thoughts drifting somewhere soft and slow, like maybe — finally — you could start piecing yourself back together after the stupid little fight you had with him a week ago.

You weren’t expecting anything.

Which is why the furious, violent banging at your door made you jump so hard you nearly toppled off the couch, your heart slamming against your ribs as a thousand terrible possibilities flashed through your mind — none of them preparing you for the sight waiting on the other side.

Jungkook.

But not the Jungkook you knew — not the boy who used to kiss you until the world melted away, not the boy who used to call you his princess like it was a sacred word.

This Jungkook looked like something broken loose from a storm — wild eyes, chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, with his rage, with his grief.

"Who is he?" he choked out the moment you opened the door, his voice raw, splintered at the edges."Tell me who the fuck he is, Y/N."

You blinked at him, confused, terrified, stepping back instinctively as he stormed past you into the apartment, his presence filling the small space with something frantic and electric and wrong.

"Jungkook, what are you talking about?" you asked, your voice shaking, your hands reaching out to him without thinking — but he jerked away like your touch burned him.

"Don't fucking lie to me!" he shouted, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself together."I saw it! I fucking saw it — you and him — you telling him you loved him like I meant nothing!"

The words didn't make sense.

They slammed against your brain but refused to stick, refused to arrange themselves into anything real, anything you could understand.

"I— I don't—" you stammered, tears already welling up because the look on his face — God, the look — was worse than anger, worse than hatred.

It was betrayal, heartbreak — and somehow, impossibly, you had been the one to put it there, even if you didn’t understand how.

"You're protecting him," he spat, eyes glinting wet under the cheap ceiling light. "You love him that much, huh? You love him so much you'd throw everything away?"

"No!" you cried, stepping closer, desperate, frantic. "Jungkook, I swear to you — I don’t even know what you’re talking about!"

But whether he didn't listen or simply couldn't anymore, it made no difference — the part of him that once trusted you was already too broken to reach and had already shattered beyond repair.

He shook his head, laughing hollowly, wiping his mouth like he was trying to scrub the taste of you from his skin, and then he was gone — slamming the door so hard behind him that the walls shook, that your bones rattled inside you.

You stood there for a long time after, staring at the door, at the emptiness he left behind, feeling something inside you collapse so completely it left nothing but ashes in its wake.

You called, you texted, you sat up all night watching your phone flicker to life and die again, over and over, until even the light felt like a knife against your eyes — and still, he never answered.

And somewhere in the pit of your stomach, you understood that this wasn’t a fight you could fix with an apology or a kiss or a whispered promise under the covers.

This was something bigger and fatal. Days passed — long, gray, aching.

When he finally agreed to meet, it wasn’t at your apartment. It was somewhere neutral, somewhere cold — a small, empty parking lot behind a coffee shop you used to visit when you were too broke for anything but each other's company.

You spotted him leaning against his car, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched so hard you could see the tension vibrating through him even from yards away. You approached cautiously, heart hammering against your ribs, clutching your jacket tighter around yourself like it could shield you from whatever was about to happen.

He didn’t speak at first — just unlocked his phone with shaking fingers and shoved it toward you, and you saw the images, the videos, spilling across the screen like a slow, relentless gutting.

You — in a too-short dress you didn’t remember wearing — laughing too loudly, leaning too close to a stranger, kissing someone whose face you couldn't place, slurring out words you didn't recognize as your own — "I don't care about anything. I love you. I love you."

You stared at the screen, horror blooming in your chest so fast and so hard you thought you might be sick.

"I—" you stammered, throat closing, hands trembling so badly you almost dropped the phone."I don't— I didn't—"

But you couldn't say it with certainty. You remembered going out that night after your fight, remembered the sharp, desperate need to forget how much it hurt when he raised his voice, when he walked away. You remembered drinking too much, laughing too hard.

But after that, your memory dissolves — slipping into darkness, into empty spaces where something should have been, leaving you grasping at shadows that will never take shape.

"Say something," Jungkook rasped, his voice barely more than a breath now."Fucking say something, Y/N."

You lifted your eyes to him, saw the devastation there, saw the way he was barely holding himself upright — and you realized, with bone-deep certainty, that you had destroyed him.

You had destroyed everything beautiful you had built together — every late-night secret, every whispered promise, every desperate, trembling hope — crushed under the weight of one stupid, reckless night you could barely even remember.

"It’s not real," you whispered, the words tasting like ash on your tongue."It can’t be real."

But doubt had already sunk its teeth into you, gnawing at every fragile truth you thought you knew, until even the ground beneath your feet felt like it was crumbling away.

"I need you," you whispered again, broken, desperate, hating yourself for even daring to ask when you were the reason he was bleeding out in front of you."I need you, Jungkook. Please. Now more than never."

For a heartbeat, something soft and familiar cracked through his face — something that looked almost like the boy who once loved you without fear — but it withered too fast, collapsing into bitterness, into fury, into a sadness so sharp it barely looked human.

"You needed someone to pay your bills," he snarled, stepping back like he couldn't stand the sight of you. "You needed someone to lift you out of your shit life, and I was dumb enough to think you actually loved me."

The words sliced clean through you, sharper than any knife.

"I never—" you tried to say, but your voice cracked, the tears spilling over now, unstoppable, humiliating.

He laughed — a hollow, broken sound — and wiped his mouth again like he could still taste your betrayal.

"You played me," he said. "You played me, and I fucking let you."

And then he was gone again — turning away, walking off into the night — leaving you standing there under the flickering streetlights, broken, abandoned, a ghost of the girl you used to be.

Present time

The silence between you stretches so taut it feels like it might snap and slice both of you open, and when you finally blink, the café shifts back into focus — cold coffee on the table, the faint scratch of chairs against wood, the distant hum of conversations you can't quite catch.

Jungkook is still sitting there, watching you with an expression that isn’t hatred, not exactly, but something worse — something exhausted, something hollowed-out, something like a man still bleeding from wounds that never truly closed.

You straighten in your seat, fingers tangling awkwardly in the hem of your sweater, your mouth dry, your heart thudding against your ribs like a battered bird desperate to escape.

He’s the one who breaks the silence first.

"You still painting?" he asks, voice low and rough, like it scrapes his throat just to speak to you.

You nod, barely, afraid if you use your voice it might crack apart.

"And still working those shitty jobs?" he adds, the corner of his mouth curling into something bitter, something that was never his real smile.

"Yeah," you whisper, and it sounds so small you almost hate yourself for it.

He doesn’t respond at first — just looks at you, and for a moment you think he might say something else, something sharp or cruel — but his gaze drops to his hands instead, to the way they tremble slightly as he grips the paper cup, knuckles whitening.

Your throat tightens.

You notice it then — the way the shadows cling too tightly under his eyes, the way his skin looks drawn and dry, the way his body seems almost too light in the chair like he's been losing something important slowly and no one cared enough to notice.

Without thinking, without weighing the danger, you lean in slightly, voice breaking through the shield you’ve built around yourself.

"Are you okay?"

The words are soft, tentative — a whisper stretched thin with guilt and fear — and for a second, just a second, something flickers behind his eyes, something startled and hurt and unbearably familiar.

But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

Jungkook huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head as he leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing not with malice but with a tired kind of disbelief.

"You don’t get to ask me that anymore," he says, and the way he says it — low and tired and irrevocably sad — stings worse than any shout could have.

You drop your gaze, staring at the table between you, counting the little scratches and coffee stains like maybe if you focus hard enough they’ll tell you what to say, how to breathe, how to survive this.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, struggling under the weight of everything that’s never been said. And then — so low you almost don’t catch it — he murmurs:

"It’s funny, isn’t it?"

You look up, and there’s something broken and almost wistful in the curve of his mouth, something too raw to be a smile.

"So many years," he says, voice rough, thick with the kind of grief that doesn’t dull, "and it still fucking hurts."

You swallow hard, your throat burning, your hands curling into fists in your lap just to keep from reaching for him.

"Me too," you whisper, the truth of it carving fresh wounds into your lungs.

He turns his gaze on you then, sharp and cutting, and the tenderness in his features vanishes like smoke.

"Then why don’t you just confess it already?" he snaps, and for once it doesn’t sound cruel — just desperate, like he’s begging you to make sense of the senseless wreckage you both live inside.

Your chest caves inward.

"I didn’t cheat," you say, the words trembling between your lips, and you hate the way your voice shakes, hate the way the tears well up without permission, blurring the world around you.

His jaw tightens, his whole body going rigid.

"Don’t," he says, voice low and strict, the command so familiar it punches straight through your ribs. "Don't you dare cry. You don’t get to cry. You did this to me."

And maybe you would have obeyed and swallowed the tears like broken glass and let them shred you from the inside. But the truth rises before you can stop it, ugly and shaking and alive.

"I was pregnant."

The words tear themselves from your mouth, leaving you gasping, weightless in their aftermath, as the world around you collapses into a silence so complete it hums inside your skull — your heartbeat thundering in your ears, your eyes locking helplessly onto Jungkook as he goes rigid across from you, his body stiffening, his face freezing, until he looks less like a man and more like something carved from stone.

You stay frozen too, trapped in the wreckage of the moment, breathless, unmoored — suspended in that terrible space where time folds in on itself, where every grief you thought you had buried, every memory you thought you had survived, comes roaring back to life with a vengeance.

Across the table, Jungkook stares — not with anger, not even with disbelief, but with the hollow, shell-shocked emptiness of someone standing at the edge of their own undoing, with no ground left to stand on.

.

there’s a second and final part already finished and available exclusively now on my private telegram channel (through paid subscription)

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

[shizuturnspages]

May I please request scaramouche and childe with a darling who runs away on their wedding day because she is terrified of them and just wants to live an independent and peaceful life away from the fatui? How would they react ?

The Runaway Vow

Synopsis: You thought if you stayed obedient, quiet, and didn’t struggle, they'd eventually let you live your life. But when the wedding bells chimed and the Fatui watched on with eerie reverence, your soul screamed. You ran. You didn’t look back. You only wanted freedom. But monsters like them don’t take rejection well. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Scaramouche, Childe x Reader

Scaramouche – The Broken Doll's Rage

The silk of your wedding dress fluttered behind you like a ghost of the life you were meant to live—fragile, immaculate, and utterly suffocating. The palace the Fatui built for the occasion had high walls and higher expectations. Scaramouche had insisted on the finest details: imported Mondstadt wine, Liyuen gemstone embroidery, Inazuman cloth, Snezhnayan orchestras. And yet, every opulent choice was a lock on your cage.

You had been silent too long. Obedient too long. You smiled through your dread, hoping he’d grow bored and forget the vows he claimed would "bind you together for all eternity."

But the truth was: he never intended to let you go.

The moment you disappeared, panic didn't take him—rage did.

“She ran?” Scaramouche’s voice cracked in disbelief as he stood in front of the shattered mirror you had used to sneak out through the servant hall.

You didn’t even leave a note.

“Where was security? Where was everyone?” His shriek echoed off the marble walls, wind, and lightning beginning to stir around the palace in unnatural tremors. He tore through the corridors, tearing down flowers, silk, and anything painted in white.

“She was mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.” His voice grew more distorted with each repetition. You weren’t just a bride. You were his proof—his proof that someone could love a "puppet" who had no heart. He had worked so hard to appear kind, patient even—biting down every violent instinct, every twisted urge just for you.

And now? You’d thrown it back in his face.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice dangerously calm. “Let’s not pretend anymore. I’ll rip the world open if I have to.”

The sky darkened with a storm that bore no weather pattern—only his rage.

He would find you.

He would carve your name into fate if he had to.

And when he did, you’d learn: a doll doesn’t let go of the only warmth it’s ever known. Not even if it breaks that warmth apart in the process.

Childe – The Smile That Didn't Reach His Eyes

Childe’s wedding smile was sharp.

Not out of joy—no, that smile was for the people watching. The Fatui agents. The Tsaritsa’s court. Everyone needed to believe this was a perfect union.

You had been quiet lately. Withdrawn. He thought it was nerves.

Maybe a part of him knew. Maybe that's why he kissed you on the forehead the night before and whispered, “You’d never run from me, right, darling?”

You had smiled, and lied: “Of course not.”

The ceremony was full of pomp. Soldiers in polished armour. Snezhnayan nobility. A chilling orchestra that rang out in victory.

But when the violins reached their crescendo and your cue came, the aisle was empty.

And Childe’s heart stopped.

The guests began murmuring. Fatui agents subtly reached for weapons, unsure of what this meant. But Childe didn’t speak. He stared down the aisle as if you’d simply been delayed. As if the vision of you in white would appear at any moment.

She’s coming. She’ll walk through that door and smile like always. She wouldn't—

The double doors remained closed.

He left the altar.

His knuckles were white.

He didn’t need to ask the agents stationed by your quarters. He already knew.

And the first thing he did was order them not to chase you.

“No,” he said calmly, brushing imaginary lint off his lapel. “I’ll handle it. Myself.”

The guests were dismissed. The music ended. The palace quieted.

Then he snapped.

Furniture shattered, portraits ripped from the walls, an entire courtyard frozen and crushed under his fury.

And yet, even in that rage, he whispered your name with something heartbreakingly tender.

“Why’d you run, love?” he murmured to the cracked wedding ring in his hand. “Wasn’t I good to you? Didn’t I give you everything? All I ever asked for was you. Just you.”

He wouldn’t let anyone else search. Because if anyone touched you, if anyone even looked at you, he couldn’t be responsible for what he'd do.

He’d find you himself. And when he did… he’d cry. He’d scream. He’d kiss you like you were glass and then shatter you anyway, just to glue you back together.

Because if you were too afraid to stand beside him at the altar, then he’d find a way to kneel at your feet and make you love him back.

Even if he had to break everything else to do it.

[airosuiren]

𝔒𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔄𝔰𝔥 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔒𝔞𝔱𝔥

A/N: This chapter is about transformation. Not the gentle, hopeful kind. The kind born from cracked bones and clenched fists. The kind that turns grief into grit and betrayal into steel. [Y/N] isn’t chasing acceptance anymore. She’s choosing power. She’s choosing herself. And Karma? He’s been ready to follow her into the fire from day one. They aren’t heroes in capes. They’re ghosts, blades, wolves in the dark. And they don’t need anyone’s permission to change the world. This is what it looks like when the forgotten rewrite their fate.

(Many changes were made because this is a fanfic.... I needed to do these because of the plot. And as promised, 2 parts! )

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 1, 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 3, 𝔖𝔦𝔡𝔢 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

The final year of middle school crept in quietly, dragging with it a sense of inevitable change.

For [Y/N] Midoriya, each day was another performance.

She smiled in the hallways. She nodded obediently in class. She sat at the dinner table at home, invisible, silent, a ghost sitting next to a golden child.

"Izuku, you’re doing so well," Inko gushed every night, her voice warm and overflowing.

When [Y/N] brought home a perfect report card, she received a distracted "Good job, sweetie," before Inko hurried back to praising Izuku’s doodles of hero costumes.

It stung less now.

Or maybe she had just gotten better at ignoring the sting.

After all, she had Karma.

And that was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

It happened on a humid Wednesday, the kind of day where the air felt sticky and wrong.

[Y/N] and Karma were walking home when they heard it.

A sharp cry.

Around the corner, four older students had a girl from Class 3-E backed against a wall, their voices low and threatening.

[Y/N] acted without thinking.

"Stop it," she said, stepping forward.

The boys turned, sneering.

"Buzz off, Midoriya," one of them snapped. "This isn't your business."

Karma cracked his knuckles lazily.

"Wrong," he said, flashing that infuriating, dangerous grin. "It just became our business."

The fight that followed wasn’t pretty.

But it was efficient.

[Y/N] didn't use her quirk. Neither did Karma.

They didn't have to.

When it ended, the bullies were groaning on the ground, and the girl had fled in terror.

[Y/N] wiped blood from her knuckles, heart pounding, adrenaline buzzing under her skin.

Karma clapped her on the back, laughing.

"See?" he said. "Told you. Wild."

[Y/N] smiled—a real, sharp smile—and for the first time, she felt it.

Power.

Real power.

The school did not see it that way.

They called her mother.

Inko sat stiffly in the principal's office, listening as the staff explained in hushed, horrified voices about [Y/N]'s "violent tendencies."

"It’s unacceptable," one teacher said, shaking his head. "She's a danger to other students."

[Y/N] tried to explain. She tried to tell them about the girl, about the bullies, about how they hadn't even used their quirks.

But no one listened.

They had already decided.

Suspension.

Mandatory transfer to Class 3-E—the "End Class," where all the failures and troublemakers went.

[Y/N] glanced at Karma beside her, who only shrugged and smiled like it was the best news he'd heard all week.

Maybe it was.

The ride home was silent.

[Y/N] sat in the backseat, clutching her backpack like a shield.

When they got home, Inko turned on her immediately.

"How could you do this to us?" she demanded, voice shaking. "How could you embarrass your brother like this?"

[Y/N] flinched.

"I was helping someone," she said quietly.

"You should have gotten a teacher!" Inko snapped. "You're not some thug!"

The door opened, and Izuku stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder.

Inko immediately launched into the story, painting [Y/N] as the villain.

Izuku frowned.

"[Y/N]...you should’ve gone to a teacher," he said, voice uncertain.

[Y/N] stared at him.

"They wouldn't have done anything," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "They never do."

She reached out, desperate for him to understand, to see her.

But he stepped back, his expression closing off.

"Violence isn't the answer," he said.

Inko nodded approvingly.

[Y/N] dropped her hand.

Something inside her cracked.

They called her a villain.

A troublemaker.

A disappointment.

And something inside [Y/N] Midoriya—something fragile and small—shattered beyond repair.

That night, she packed a small bag.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t leave a note.

She simply climbed out her window, dropped silently to the ground, and ran.

Karma was waiting.

Of course he was.

He took one look at her face, her hollow eyes, and slung his arm around her shoulders.

"Took you long enough," he said lightly.

She didn't answer.

Didn't have to.

Together, they walked into the night.

Away from the house that had never really been home.

Toward something new.

Toward freedom.

Moving in with Karma wasn’t official, at first.

His parents—absent, distracted—barely noticed.

Karma’s apartment became their headquarters. Their sanctuary.

No more pretending.

No more silence.

Karma gave her space when she needed it, jokes when she wanted them, and quiet support when she didn't know what she needed at all.

Slowly, carefully, [Y/N] began to rebuild herself.

Not the girl Inko wanted.

Not the sister Izuku needed.

Someone new.

Someone sharp.

Someone strong.

The first day she walked into Class 3-E, heads turned.

Whispers rippled through the classroom.

"That's Midoriya..."

"I heard she got into a fight..."

"Karma's friend."

[Y/N] ignored them all.

She slid into her seat beside Karma, who tossed her a lazy grin.

"Ready to cause some chaos?" he asked.

She smiled back—sharp and dangerous.

"Always."

And just like that, the girl who stayed silent was no more.

In her place stood something new.

Something wild.

Something unstoppable.

A villain, they had called her.

Maybe they were right.

But if she was a villain, she would be the one they regretted creating.

The villain who smiled.

The End Class wasn't what [Y/N] Midoriya expected.

She had heard the rumors: the rejects, the failures, the hopeless cases shoved into a crumbling building at the edge of campus to rot until graduation. Teachers who didn't care. Students who didn't try.

She had expected hostility, or maybe worse, indifference.

What she found instead was chaos.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt like she belonged.

Class 3-E was a mess of personalities.

Loud, reckless, stubborn—but alive.

Nobody pretended here. Nobody wore masks.

[Y/N] liked that.

She slipped into the flow quickly, Karma at her side like always, effortlessly dragging her into the heart of the madness.

Nagisa Shiota welcomed her with a shy smile.

Kaede Kayano plopped down beside her at lunch and started babbling about favorite foods.

Even the sharp-tongued Rio Nakamura winked and said, "Any friend of Karma's is a friend of mine."

It was messy. It was noisy.

It was home.

And then there was Koro-sensei.

The infamous, unkillable teacher.

[Y/N] had expected a monster.

What she found was a giant yellow octopus with a beaming smile and a weird obsession with sweets.

It should have been ridiculous.

It should have made her laugh.

Instead, it made her wary.

Because Koro-sensei wasn't just fast.

He was smart.

And he saw through people like glass.

"Welcome to End Class, Midoriya-san!" he boomed on her first day, practically vibrating with excitement. "I look forward to seeing your growth this year!"

[Y/N] bowed politely, murmuring thanks.

Karma snickered behind her.

She elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

Assassination training started immediately.

It was strange, at first.

Learning how to aim, how to move silently, how to think like a predator.

But [Y/N] adapted quickly.

She had been learning to survive her entire life.

This was just the next step.

Kasuma-sensei, their combat instructor, was a different kind of teacher.

Strict. Sharp. Honest.

He didn't coddle them. He didn't lie to them.

When [Y/N] hesitated during a knife drill, he didn't scold her.

He just said, "If you hesitate in the field, you die."

Simple. Brutal. True.

[Y/N] respected that.

She threw herself into training with a hunger she hadn't realized she possessed.

Karma matched her, step for step, grin for grin.

Together, they rose quickly through the ranks of 3-E.

Together, they became feared.

Not because they were cruel.

But because they were relentless.

Because they refused to break.

The others noticed.

Nagisa started partnering with [Y/N] during practice missions.

Kayano dragged her into prank wars against the other classes.

Even the stoic Ritsu—the AI installed in the classroom—offered her custom-tailored study programs with a cheerful, "I have calculated a 97% success rate for Midoriya-san's improvement!"

[Y/N] smiled more.

Laughed more.

Lived more.

One night, sitting on the roof of the dorm building, she turned to Karma.

"I think..." she said slowly, "I think I'm happy."

Karma tilted his head, considering.

"Yeah," he said. "Me too."

He bumped his shoulder against hers.

She bumped him back.

And for once, the silence between them wasn't heavy.

It was warm.

Safe.

The assassination attempts against Koro-sensei grew more elaborate.

Traps, ambushes, coordinated attacks.

Sometimes they failed spectacularly.

Sometimes they almost succeeded.

Koro-sensei always laughed, always encouraged them to try again.

But every time [Y/N] watched him dodge and deflect with impossible speed, she felt a gnawing sensation in her chest.

Because she knew.

Koro-sensei wasn't just teaching them how to kill.

He was teaching them how to live.

How to fight for themselves.

How to believe they mattered.

And when the time came, when they finally succeeded...

It would break her heart.

But she would do it.

Because she had to.

Because he deserved that much.

Because he believed in her when no one else did.

Months blurred by.

Seasons changed again.

[Y/N] grew stronger, faster, sharper.

Her control over Arcadia deepened in secret.

Late at night, when everyone else slept, she practiced on the cliffs behind the school.

Calling the wind to lift her.

Shaping water into blades.

Forging fire into chains.

She trained until her body ached, until her vision blurred.

And Karma was always there, lounging nearby, tossing pebbles into the sea, pretending not to watch her with quiet pride.

When the final exams came, they faced real enemies.

Professional assassins.

Villains.

Killers.

[Y/N] fought like a storm unleashed.

Karma fought like a wildfire.

Together, they tore through the opposition, leaving broken weapons and stunned foes in their wake.

By the time the dust settled, only three students stood above the rest.

Nagisa Shiota.

Karma Akabane.

And [Y/N] Midoriya.

They were awarded their assassination licenses in a private ceremony, away from prying eyes.

Kasuma-sensei presented them personally, his normally grim face soft with something like pride.

"You've earned this," he said simply.

[Y/N] accepted the heavy, cold badge with trembling hands.

Not because she doubted herself.

But because for the first time, she was being seen.

Truly seen.

Not as a disappointment.

Not as a burden.

As a warrior.

As a force.

As herself.

Afterward, they celebrated.

A bonfire on the cliffs.

Music crackling from cheap speakers.

Laughter echoing into the night.

Karma dragged her into a clumsy dance around the fire, both of them tripping over their own feet and laughing until they collapsed into the grass.

Under the stars, Karma pulled something from his pocket.

A ring.

Simple.

Unadorned.

But heavy with meaning.

"It's not... y'know... a proposal or anything," he said quickly, cheeks red. "It's a promise."

[Y/N] stared at him, heart hammering.

"A promise?" she echoed.

Karma nodded.

"That no matter what happens, no matter where we end up..." he said, voice rough, "we stick together."

[Y/N] swallowed hard.

Tears pricked her eyes.

She held out her hand.

Karma slid the ring onto her finger, clumsy and careful.

"Partners," he said.

"Best friends," she agreed.

But somewhere deep inside, [Y/N] knew it was more than that.

And judging by the way Karma smiled—soft, real, rare—she knew he knew it too.

The final semester raced toward them like a freight train.

The government intensified its pressure.

They had to kill Koro-sensei.

They had to.

[Y/N] hated it.

She loved him.

He was the first real teacher she’d ever had.

But she would do it.

Because he asked them to.

Because he believed they could.

And when the final moment came—when Koro-sensei knelt before them, smiling, proud—[Y/N] didn't hesitate.

She fired with the rest of the class.

And when the deed was done, when the sky cracked open with grief, she held Karma's hand so tightly her knuckles turned white.

They wept.

They laughed.

They remembered.

And when they stood again, they stood taller.

Stronger.

Unbreakable.

Graduation came with no fanfare.

No applause.

Just a quiet walk down the mountain, leaving behind the place where they had been forged.

[Y/N] glanced back only once.

At the ruins of the classroom.

At the memories carved into the wood and stone.

And then she faced forward.

Toward the future.

Toward the unknown.

Toward a world that had no idea what was coming.

Because [Y/N] Midoriya wasn't a background character anymore.

She was a force of nature.

And she was just getting started.

Training didn't stop after graduation.

If anything, it intensified.

[Y/N] Midoriya and Karma Akabane didn't get to drift into a peaceful summer of freedom. Kasuma-sensei made sure of that.

"You're not children anymore," he said, arms folded as he addressed them outside a private facility hidden deep within the mountains. "You have licenses. You have responsibility."

[Y/N] tightened her grip on the strap of her duffel bag. She understood. This wasn't school anymore. This was survival.

The facility was a maze of obstacle courses, simulated urban warfare zones, target ranges, and sparring arenas. They lived, breathed, and bled training for weeks.

Their schedule was brutal:

Dawn combat drills.

Midday quirk training.

Evening strategy simulations.

Midnight endurance tests.

Sleep was a privilege, not a guarantee.

Karma loved it.

[Y/N] thrived in it.

They pushed each other past limits they hadn't even known they had. Arcadia evolved rapidly under pressure—[Y/N] could now weave earth shields mid-sprint, summon lightning strikes with pinpoint precision, and freeze enemies in place with a snap of her fingers.

Karma’s control over his thermal fields became terrifying. He could flash-freeze a path across a lake and superheat a steel wall to glowing red in seconds. His ambushes became lethal art.

Together, they became a storm.

An unstoppable force.

"You two are monsters," Nagisa joked one evening, dropping onto the bench beside them during a rare break.

[Y/N] shrugged, sipping water.

"We had good teachers," she said simply.

Karma grinned, slinging an arm casually over her shoulders. "And better instincts."

Kasuma watched them with an inscrutable expression.

One night, after a particularly brutal sparring match that left the practice field scorched and frozen in equal parts, he called them into his office.

The room was bare, functional—a desk, two chairs, a wall covered in maps.

Kasuma didn't waste time.

"You're ready," he said.

[Y/N] straightened.

"For what?" Karma asked lazily, though his golden eyes sharpened.

Kasuma slid two folders across the desk.

"Field assignments. Real ones."

[Y/N] felt her heartbeat quicken.

This was it.

No more simulations.

No more practice.

Real targets. Real danger.

Real consequences.

Kasuma leaned forward, his voice low and serious.

"Remember your rules: Protect the innocent. Neutralize threats. Minimize collateral. And above all—trust each other."

They nodded.

Trust wasn't even a question.

They had been trusting each other with their lives for years.

Their first assignment took them to Yokohama.

A corrupt businessman with ties to underground trafficking.

The mission was simple:

Infiltrate. Gather intel. Disable.

Assassination was a last resort—only if capture was impossible.

[Y/N] and Karma planned meticulously.

Stakeouts.

Blueprint studies.

Behavioral analysis.

When the night came, they moved like shadows.

[Y/N] manipulated mist to cover their approach, while Karma destabilized security systems with sudden thermal surges.

They slipped inside the compound without a sound.

The guards never stood a chance.

In the end, they didn’t have to kill.

The target surrendered when [Y/N] cracked the marble floor beneath his feet and Karma made the air so hot he could barely breathe.

They extracted him cleanly, disappearing into the night before authorities arrived to "discover" the evidence they had carefully planted.

Mission: Success.

Kasuma debriefed them over coffee at a rundown diner.

"Textbook operation," he said, tapping the table lightly. "Efficient. Clean."

[Y/N] felt pride swell in her chest.

Karma stole her toast when she wasn't looking.

She smacked his hand away, laughing.

For a moment, it felt almost normal.

Almost.

Their next missions came faster.

A rogue quirk-user creating blackouts across Tokyo.

A gang smuggling illegal support gear.

An arms dealer with political protection.

Each assignment grew harder.

Each victory sharpened them.

The media whispered about a new pair of heroes operating in the shadows—ghosts who saved lives without ever being seen.

[Y/N] and Karma didn’t seek the spotlight.

They didn’t need it.

They had each other.

They had their purpose.

And they had their promise.

But not every mission ended cleanly.

One night, a routine surveillance turned into a firefight when a villain group ambushed them.

[Y/N] unleashed a wave of lightning, freezing the battlefield in a moment of stunned silence.

Karma followed with a blast of superheated wind, scattering their enemies like leaves.

But even as they fought, [Y/N] realized something chilling.

They weren’t scared anymore.

They weren’t hesitating.

They were efficient.

Deadly.

Professional.

She didn't know whether to be proud or terrified.

Afterward, sitting on the rooftop of an abandoned building, [Y/N] stared up at the stars.

"Are we still the good guys?" she asked quietly.

Karma leaned back on his elbows, considering.

"We’re the ones protecting people," he said finally. "Even if they don't know it."

[Y/N] nodded slowly.

It was enough.

For now.

The weeks blurred into each other.

Training.

Missions.

Recovery.

Repeat.

Kasuma pushed them harder.

The world grew darker.

Villains grew bolder.

The League of Villains rose in whispers, a storm gathering on the horizon.

And through it all, [Y/N] and Karma stood together, unyielding.

On their last night at the training facility, before they were reassigned to new posts, Kasuma called them in one final time.

"You’re not students anymore," he said.

[Y/N] straightened.

Karma grinned lazily.

"You're operatives," Kasuma continued. "And more than that—you're a team."

He handed them new badges.

Official.

Permanent.

Heroes.

But heroes built in blood and shadows, not in the gleaming spotlight of agencies.

"Stay sharp," Kasuma said, his voice rough.

"Stay alive."

They saluted him without thinking.

Kasuma smiled—small, proud, bittersweet.

And then he was gone.

[Y/N] and Karma stood outside under the endless sky, badges gleaming under the stars.

"Well," Karma said, bumping her shoulder. "Ready to save the world?"

[Y/N] smiled—sharp, fearless.

"Ready to burn it down if we have to."

Karma laughed, the sound wild and bright.

"That's my girl."

He held out his hand.

She took it.

And together, they stepped into the future.

Partners.

Best friends.

Unbreakable

A/N: They started as outcasts. As kids who flinched before they fought. Now? They don’t flinch. They end the fight. [Y/N] Midoriya isn’t the sister in the shadows anymore. She’s a storm wrapped in scars and loyalty. Karma isn’t her shield — he’s her reflection. Her flame. Her equal. They made a promise. And they meant it. Wherever this path leads next — whether into battle, ruin, or revolution — they’re walking it together. Because the world doesn’t get to define them anymore. They define themselves. And they don’t miss.

—Your author, still screaming about rooftop blood vows and shadow-born heroes🩸👣

Taglist: @feral-childs-word, @trashlanternfish360, @astro-girly1, @suneaterscape, @thatcatladywrites, @arislia, @kittzu, @ottjhe, @tinybrie, @wpdarlingpan, @ryuushou, @simpingpandas, @lettucel0ver, @moonxmio, @sirenetheblogger, @xzmickeyzx, @ironsaladwitch, @lithiumval, @starsdotalk, @fortunatelydifferentqueen, @ocean-mochi, @bunniotomia, @sept3mberchild

Let me know if I missed anyone

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

“You look fine in that suit.” Tommy pauses briefly, then he adds, a little more subdued, “I’m sorry. That’s inappropriate today.”

“You’re not even looking at me,” Buck says, confused. That much is true: Tommy, standing on the station’s rooftop terrace with his arms crossed, doesn’t turn around. He looks like a man enjoying the sun and the view, but Buck knows that’s not true. Without saying a word, he takes a few steps to stand next to Tommy. The view is spectacular, but they’re standing a little too close to the edge for his taste. Perhaps that's ambiguous.

“Noticed you earlier.” 

“We’re all wearing the same uniform,” Buck remarks, and Tommy just shrugs. 

Buck realizes that it was a small, very gentle and spontaneous confession, and he wishes he could tell Tommy that he understands, because he felt the same way. He wishes he could tell him he noticed Tommy, who, even though he will be one of the pallbearers, quietly slipped in through the door and kept himself in the background. He hasn't exchanged words with the others, not even with Chimney, and he hasn't looked at Buck, just like he’s not looking at him now. But Buck has seen him, and he wishes he could tell Tommy about that little sting in his heart, back then. Yet his throat is tight—not because he thinks it would be inappropriate to say anything, but because the reason they are here is only minutes away. The atmosphere downstairs is so devastating that Buck desperately needs a break.

“How did you know I was here?” Tommy asks.

“Well, if you're running away, where else would you go but up?”

Maybe that came out a little too harsh, because now Tommy turns his head, surprise and a little hurt in his gaze. 

“I-I mean...” Buck struggles to find the right words. Happens a lot lately, ever since Bobby’s death. “I get it. Nobody wants to be here today.”

“A lot of people want to pay their last respects to the captain, Evan.”

“Yeah, but that makes it so final. Tommy… I'll never see him again. None of us want to be here today. Chimney is tearing himself apart because he blames himself. And to be honest, Athena was pretty mean to him. I know it's just grief, but she was also close to not even showing up for the funeral because she said she had to solve a case. Can you imagine that? At Bobby's funeral?”

He pauses briefly, sniffs, and then continues in a staccato, as if all these words have to come out right now. 

“I would have preferred to stay at home either, honestly, but Eddie and his constant nagging about the changes I made in his house drove me out. Well, him and Ravi, who’s way too serious. He shouldn’t be so serious. Everyone is so sad, Tommy. Hen is crying all the time, and I wish I could too.”

Tommy's smile is gentle and sad. “Hold on a little longer,” he says softly. “Just… try. For Bobby, okay? I don’t think I can stand to see you cry again…” He trailed off, looking in the distance.

“W-what do you mean?” Buck asks with a frown.

“The military had the lab’s surveillance cameras on monitor. You didn’t know?”

“No. Wait. You saw Bobby die? That’s horrible, Tommy.”

Tommy looked ready to shrug it off, but this time, Buck wouldn’t have it. He's reaching out, because it's the right thing to do; he's pulling Tommy into a hug. They stand like this for a while, heartbeat to heartbeat; without a word, not moving. Grief unites, someone had once said to Buck, and now he understands what that means. Finally, Tommy gently withdraws.

“Thanks,“ his voice is merely a breath.

“We should talk. Later,” Buck urgently returns. Tommy raises a brow, “Do you really think so?”

“Of course I do,” Buck insists. “It's long overdue. We're really bad at it, but that’s no excuse.”

Tommy smiles indulgently, like he always does around Buck. “True. I just don't think this is the right place or time.”

“Oh,” says Buck. “You're probably right. Well. W-what are you doing on Saturday?”

[sturnswiftie]

i wanna see dealer chris get into like a real bad situation, not like life threatening, but maybe a deal gone wrong and reader is like "oh 😃" bc it's easy to forget sometimes that that life is not all sunshine and rainbows y'know

"five minutes, promise," chris had said, leaning over to nudge your nose with his. "just chill. you can pick the music while you wait."

you nod eagerly, cheeks warm and your hands tucked into the sleeves of your oversized cardigan as you adjust the aux and pick something soft and dreamy. you like the fact that it doesn't match the sketchy street you're currently parked on or the way chris disappears into the alley with his hood up.

it doesn't even cross your mind to worry. you're thinking about what kind of treat you should bake for your boyfriend later, if he might prefer cookies over brownies, and what kind. you think he'd like chocolate chip, but you do remember the time you'd made snickerdoodles and he'd pretended not to like them but stole a couple off the plate later on.

ten minutes pass. then fifteen.

and then—

you flinch when the door yanks open. chris slides in, breathing hard, but not panicked. not quite. his hoodie is pulled low, your gaze sliding down to his hand, which is... bleeding.

"oh," you breathe softly, eyes a little wider than before. "chris... your hand."

he doesn't look at you right away. instead, he starts the car, twisting the key into the ignition. "s'nothin'."

you blink, your gaze dropping further to his lap where the torn roll of bills sits like it had been shoved there in a hurry. his sleeve is ripped at the seam, and there's a scratch on his cheek. the radio is still playing softly, the instruments humming low in your ears, only now it's not quite as comforting as before.

"...did someone hurt you?" you ask after a pause, genuinely confused.

chris scoffs under his breath, shifting gears. "nah, i'm fine. just a dumb kid tryin' to act tough."

your head tilts. "did you... get in a fight?"

a beat.

then, quietly, "yeah. kinda."

you blink again. your mouth opens, then closes. you look at him like you're trying to do a math problem but keep getting the answer wrong.

"oh..."

slowly, you sit back against the seat, staring at the windshield. you don't cry, and you're not angry. you're just... processing.

because in your head, being a dealer means chris is cool and mysterious and good with his hands. it means he buys you silly things and stays out late and kisses your neck when he makes his quiet returns. you don't think about fists or torn sleeves or blood on the steering wheel.

after a moment, you glance at his hands again. "did it hurt?" you ask, voice small and curious.

chris glances at you, and then down at his knuckles before shrugging. "not really. 'm used to it."

"oh," you say again.

the car is quiet again, your fingers twisting into the hem of your sweater. "i thought your job was like, just talking to people and... you know. like business stuff. not..." you struggle to find the right words, and chris raises an eyebrow.

"not getting punched in the face?"

you blink. "well, yeah."

your boyfriend huffs a dry laugh, but it isn't mean. one hand leaves the steering wheel in favor of reaching over to rest his hand on your thigh gently.

"y'forget sometimes, huh?"

you nod, eyes still a little wide though you find comfort in his touch. "i guess so," you admit a bit sheepishly.

to you, the reality of his job wasn't real—not until right now anyway. and even now, you're not sure you know how to be scared. you just know there's a little crack in the version of chris that you see. the one who's invincible and handles everything that goes wrong with ease.

you're not crying, but you almost wonder if you should be.

[jacksonsturniolo]

tw — self harm mentions, suicide mentions, and bullying.

I just wanted to make one post about this and be done.

I see everyone’s asks, whether it’s nice, or rude. I just don’t have the energy to answer them. I personally know the person who’s behind that account, and it really hurts even worse that someone would assume I were to be making my own hate, and being cruel.

(https://www.tumblr.com/nickssidewitch/782280781982842880/hi-kiki-im-not-coming-to-you-with-the-intention)

Yes I self harm, yes I have failed attempts, and yes my best friend has passed away.

I understand why people think it would be me running the account for attention, but the truth is I hate attention, I hate any form of attention, I just hate people in general. I’m not the type of person to seek attention especially because of trauma, or mental health stuff ect.

I’m sorry if you read what that person I know said, if it triggered you I feel even worse. Trust me my main concern was the people it hurt in the process, I truly apologize on their behalf from the bottom of my heart.

The only way I feel about those posts is embarrassment, and shame. It’s not okay to do that to yourself, and it’s not okay to bully people for what they do to cope with their mental health.

If you or anyone you know is struggling, because of these posts or not you can dm me, or some hotlines I know of — 988 is a really good one.

I know I’m not a good example to show with this stuff because I hate reaching out for help, but I opened up to the best, most nicest friend and my heart felt a little less heavy.

It’s okay to reach out for help no matter how embarrassing, or scary it is. I promise it will get better.

I know first hand what it’s like to lose someone for suicide and no one you know or love should have to go through that.

My dms are open I’ll try my best to answer 🙂🖤.

[vegan-peppermint]

Older!Konig is a creep.

Cw: slut shaming, humiliation, toxic ex, masturbation

Older!Konig who has just moved on your floor. You don’t see much of him, leaving his apartment early in the morning and returning long after sunset,

Older!Konig who sees you struggling climbing up the stairs with your bags one random tuesday, elevator out of order for weeks now. You don’t hear him coming, just feel a wall of presence behind you as his much larger hands reach out and take the bags from your grip.

“Let me help you,” he says softly, his voice calm but firm. You’re caught off guard by the gesture, but before you can protest, he’s already several steps ahead, heading toward your door. You hasten to catch up, your mind fleeting with words you meant to say but quickly forget as he stops in front of your apartment.

He turns sharply to face you. It’s the first time you really get a good look at him — those few times you peeked through the blinds don’t count. You linger, fumbling with your keys. He’s in his mid-forties, with gentle lines framing his face, and his icy blue eyes are sharp, alert, guarded beneath tired eyelids.

“You’re Konig,” it’s the first thing you said to him, before introducing yourself as well.

He humms solemnly interested in getting your groceries inside.

Older!Konig who notices your clothes getting slutier every time he sees you. Over time, you notice his eyes lingering a little longer each time noticing our short skirts and tank tops.

Older!Konig who made it his main activity chaperoning you from your door to the exit of the building and vice versa. Always claiming “Ladies first,” letting you walk in front of him up the stairs. He’s just a polite man, schatz. Getting a look at your panties was just his reward for his courtesy.

Older!Konig who hears some loud noises coming from your apartment. He wasn’t eavsdropping, of course- but the muffled voices and raised tones make it impossible not to listen in.

“Oh, that’s rich,” your voice was muffled by the not so thick wall. “I think it’s fucking rich you could even think about screwing other chicks given the fact you didn’t make me cum once. Not even one time, you fucking prick.”

Konig who can’t help but chuckle at your frustrated complaints. How poorly had this man fucked you when faced with proof of infidelity it’s your second on your list of complaints.

Your shouting matches with your boyfriend are your main source of entertainment for König. He’s come home after a tough workout, collapsing onto his couch with a cold beer, the TV on mute as he leans in to listen.

Today your boyfriend started the argument, and Konig though his opening was weak.

“Can you stop dressing like a hooker for once?” Kyle sneered.

Konig’s lips twitch in a chuckle. Poor Kyle, having an eye-candy such as yourself as a girlfriend sure sounded like a problem he also wished he had.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you,” Kyle continued.

“It’s just a cute outfit,” you snap back, voice trembling wih anger.

“Those pieces of clothes barely cover your tits, be for real,” his voice grew louder. “You didn’t act like this before, when we first got together. Who are you tryin to impress?”

“Are you dense?” your screamed back. “Has it ever crossed you mind that I might do this for your attention? So maybe you would get hard and fuck me?”

“Don’t play all innocent,” he sneered, stomping so heavy the floor threatened to collapse. “I saw the way your eyes flickering after that old fuck across the hall.”

“Kyle,” you said in a calmer voice.

“Thats what I thought,” he continued with lowering voice.

Konig’s ears pricked, eyes narrowing as if it would help him hear anything. Muffled voices came from behind the wall separating your apartments but the man could not untangle the words spoken.

A sudden thud made Konig tense up hiis gaze flicked from the wall to his own silent front door and back again. If he knew anything it was what a fight sounded like- Yet, the idea of such a disturbance involving someone as seemingly delicate as his doll of a neighbor felt jarring, almost unbelievable. This put him in a precarious position. What was the right thing to do, Schatz? Would you welcome his intervention, a knight in shining armor barging through the door? Or would his interference be met with your proud defiance? You were strong, independent; he knew you would likely bristle at the notion of being "saved."

Then came a sharper noise, like something solid hitting the floor, followed by the unmistakable tinkle of shattering glass. Konig's breath hitched when he heard your voice:

“Get out! Get the fuck out!” you choked out just loud enough for Konig to promptly jump from his seat and walk straight through the door.

Older!Konig who is not surprised your shouts and swears were audible from the hallways, cut abruptly by the buzzing sound of your ring bell.

Silence.

Followed by muted movements and Kyle’s harsh voice urging you to be quiet.

Older!Konig who would cover the peephole just as your boyfriend tried to look through- element of surprise and what not.

Older!Konig, who really tried to not escalate the situation, just firmly told Kyle to step out of the apartment and leave, given he became a nauseous to you and implicitly to him. But that smug boyfriend of yours just had to show he had balls. So full of himself and aggressive for no particular reason- Konig was the same at his age. He, however, had older men teach him the hard and painful way it’s no way a true man acts. Showed him a thing or two about authority when he needed to, and fixed Konig’s testosterone induced behaviour issues.

It’s really in Kyle’s best luck Konig will do the same for him.

Older!Konig who dodged your stupid boyfriend’s punch effortlessly, eyes looking for you inside the apartment. This boy was not his priority nor the reason he came down here, were you okay?

He’d try to hide his smirk when he caught a glimpse of your doe eyes peeping from the living room door.

Konig does not condone violence. He has lived a long life at both ends of aggression, death and gore interlinked with the fiber of his very being. It’s a hard burden- the one of war. It stains the most precious things one could get in life long before he gets a chance to even touch them.

But he'd be lying if he said the way your eyes flickered when he knocked Kyle to the ground didn't entertain his darkest, most brutal tendencies.

You were not overly excited or thankful, not that he expected you to. Kyle left screaming and threatening, nothing to be worried about, Konig assures you.

“Sorry we bothered you,” you said distantly.

He hesitated, uncertain how to respond. Maybe you felt he’d crossed a line. He studied your features carefully, searching for a sign, a hint—how do you want to be treated, Schatz?

Older!Konig settlig on a quiet hum of agreement before turning away, retreating silently back to his apartment without another word.

Older!Konig who quickly noticed you realised he could hear you in your own home.

No more loud phone calls or fights, no more late movie nights with your friends or other activities he was used to. He was conflicted- what else could he have done? Not protecting you when that happened wasn’t a choice, but he regretted the outcome. Why did you cut his access to you? Those thoughts were overwhelming, and he grew more and more desperate to interact with you. Mind racing with plans on how he would knock on your door to apologize, bring you thousand of flowers - anything so you would allow him to be a witness to your life again.

Until one uneventful night, half past eleven- the dead of night interupted by your sweet voice.

Older!Konig who came to a sudden halt, brian short circuited. It couldn’t be…

“You will be the death of me,” he whispered. He walked with heavy steps towards your common wall, almost throwing himself at the sound of your moans. Ear pressed on the cold surface he closed his eyes, letting you flod every bit of him.

You’re too kind to him.

His jeans get tighter as he grabs his cock. This is wrong, he knows. You’re half his age at best, young and pure- way too pretty for someone like him. The fact he even allows himself to get hard to you should come as an insult, angel. His forehead is stuck to the wall as he fights with himself.

He know better than to do this, yet he quickly unbuckles his belt.

This is for the best, if he allows himself this- this time only- he won’t want more. You wouldn’t mind, would you? If he lets his mind wonder to your ass, and your tits,- to your dumb, whore face.

Gosh, his mother taught him better than to disgrace such a young thing with his seed but you are. So. Fucking. Wet.

Even through the thin wall, he can hear it when you slap your pussy. It’s as if you were spread in front of him, legs open wide just for him. You fucking tease.

His calloused hand brushes against his cock. He strugled to imagine your hand instead of his, disappointment and frustration building up. But the noises you were shamelessly making were meant for him to dry his balls to.

He always had his certain curiosities about your body, about you. He's glad to find out you're a whiny mess. Loves the fact you're loud.

What would you like? Could you fulfill all his wants and demands? Would you cry when he fucks you, balls deep in that needy hole of yours?

You’d scream.

Hand moving up and down his length to the rhythm of your pathetic whimpers. He curses under his breath as he imagined you on the other side. Were you wearing a cute matching set or were you completely undressed in the cold air?

He hopes you’re playing with your tits, pinching those needy nipples he saw so often peak through your shirts. Make him proud and slap them for him.

He grunts thinking about choking you. Slapping your ass and spitting on you- he knows you’d like to be owned like that. He’d fuck away any memory of any other man you’ve been with and mold you to his cock. He’d be too rough, but you wouldn’t complain. He’d stuff you full without any warming up and pretend not to get off to your cries and discomfort.

“Mmph~ Fuck me,” you moan louder this time. “Konig, please!”

You needy slut, of course you’d beg for it.

He laughs, hand stroking his dick faster.

He knows you’ll suck him off tomorrow.

Hell, you’d be on all fours for him right now. Bet you left your door unlocked for him to come, barging in on you in such an intimate. You’d like that, no? Why else would you try to get his attention like this? You want him to be the big, bad wolf. It would be too much for you to admit the want to be fucked dumb on his fat cock. No, you’re all innocent and kind- this is beneath you.

Don’t worry, Angel. He’ll take the blame for ruining such a pretty thing like yourself.

He will ignore your protests as he breeds you like a bitch tomorrow.

For now, he curses you for making him cum in his hand.

[beifong-brainrot]

I've seen the "Suyin reminds me of someone I know Irl" thing cited as a reson for disliking Su multiple times. I think this will be like the third? At least. And I get it, our experineces and biases colour how we engage with media, that's understandable and unavoidable. Happens to me too. I do try to seperate myself from my own previous experiences, unless I'm actively incorporating them into a post, but they definetly slip through. But I do think sometimes its important to look purely at the text.

I notice that people use extremely emotionally loaded language when talking about Suyin and Lin's altercation. "Suyin assaulted Lin" is shaky at best, as OP has stated, it was an accident. Especially when, if we're getting nitpicky, Lin was the one who escalated the situation twice. First by yelling at Su, and then bringing the altercation to the physical level. I also want to remind everyone, that this is a 22 year old cop, airing out personal beef with a 16 year old in the middle of an arrest, an already heavily tense situation.

Another one I commonly hear is "Suyin sliced Lin's face open" like Su somehow jumped onto Lin and pinned her down and carved her face with a scalpel or some way. The way some of yall talk about Lin's scar in general, actually, as a person with a scar from a family member, is just.... ew. Weirdly dehumaising. Idk how to describe it. It also happens with Zuko.

Su and Toph also didn't isolate Lin, it is clearly stated that they reached out to her, asking to reconnect and Su welcomed her to her city with open arms.

Suyin : Lin, Mom and I already talked about this years ago and worked things out. If you had gotten together with us like we'd asked, you would know that I'm a different person now. I've been a different person for a long time.

Hell, it's not out of the question Su would be more apologetic and distressed about the situation than she was years after she had worked through it, but that's speculation.

Lin is isolated, yes, but it is mostly self influcted, sadly. I, and this might shock some of you, like Lin as a character. I think she's a very soft and sensitive person deep under it all, and, of course, she's hurting. But she also uses her job as a shield, actively pushes people away, holds grudges to a ridiculous degree and escalates conflicts like no one can.

Lin seemed to have actively isolated herself from her family, even when they were actively trying to reconnect. Like, say what you want, but Suyin was fucken desperate to intergrate Lin to her family, introducing her by name to Huan and Opal (as the twins and BJ were occupied), to which Lin responds with mockery and calling Suyin's love for her children into question.

I also just think a lot of people tend to percieve this weird, hidden, manipulative depth to Su. And while yes, she certainly can be sneaky at times, I think some of yall are taking it to an absurd degree.

Suyin making Lin "look unreasonable" is just a product of Su having moved on and Lin not. And that naturally upsets Lin. I think, subconsciously, she was expecting Suyin to not have changed at all. Seeing that Su changed, grew as a person and is living a happy life feels like a betrayal to Lin. And to the audience too. I suppose does feel like Su is being "rewarded" for doing something bad. But we also have to remember that Su struggled to find her place in the world, and happiness for years, travelling, until she decided to build a home. And not just a home, a city, a city of innovation and growth. Like, yes her monetary status allowed her to achieve this, but i still don't think this was easy.

Suyin: It's complicated. We didn't have a normal childhood. Neither of us knew our fathers and Toph was always busy being Chief of Police. Because mom grew up in such a strict household, she gave us all the freedom in the world, hoping we'd figure out our own paths. Korra : That sounds like a good thing. Suyin : And in a way it was. But we both ended up fighting for mom's attention. Lin followed in her footsteps and became a cop. I was ... more of a rebel. Mom wasn't too happy with how either of us turned out. When I was sixteen, I left home to explore the world. [Pan to show Suyin's various collections and photographs.] I sailed the seas on a pirate ship, joined a traveling circus for a while, and lived in a sandbender commune in a desert. It took me a while, but, I finally realized what I was looking for was a family. So I bought this plot of land, found a brilliant architect who later became my husband, and created a place I could truly call home.

And once again, I don't want to say Suyin is perfect. She's not. She's a deeply flawed character and she's hurt people. So has Lin. And so has, dare I say, anyone who has aged past being an infant.

But she also tries to be good, and she cares and she suffers. She's greets the world with an open heart, connecting with others, even if she's been betrayed. She cares deeply for her family, and is terrified of something happening to them, yet still tentatively supports Opal in leaving to become an airbender and is proud of her for it.

I honestly think that her realism is what makes people dislike her. We have a different lense for her.

We take Lin's verbal abuse and outbursts of violence in stride, because that's just her character to us. So when she actualy has her moments of peeling back that brusque mask, that is what sticks out to us about her character.

While for Suyin, every action counts and is placed under scrutiny. Hell, we might even start using people from our real life to make her more easily digestible.

Of course, there's always a weird undertone of misogyny in a lot of Suyin hate. The constant pitting of two women against each other, the double standard compared to characters like Iroh from atla.... etc. Fun.

It feels like everytime we end up back here lol.

People always say they want complex characters. They ask for nuance, for gray areas, for emotional depth and realistic growth. But when a character starts feeling too real, so much so that they stop acting like someone in a story and start feeling like someone you could actually meet – that's when the discomfort kicks in. That's when admiration often turns into criticism. And very few in The Legend of Korra walks that tightrope quite like Suyin Beifong.

Su doesn’t follow the typical “lesson of the week” formula. She doesn’t get handed a tidy moment of reckoning, followed by an instant transformation. Her arc isn’t flashy or obvious. It’s slow, subtle, and sometimes contradictory. Just like real people. Because the truth is, most of us don’t change overnight. We grow a little here, slip back there. We learn something, but that doesn’t mean we always apply it in every situation. That’s Suyin in a nutshell.

Look at how she changes as a mother. At first, she tries to micromanage Opal’s choices out of fear, mostly, and a need to protect her. But eventually, she lets Opal go and lets her live her life without trying to control her path. That’s a win. That’s real growth. But then Baatar Jr. betrays the family, and Su reacts by putting him under house arrest. It’s easy to point at that and call it hypocrisy, but that misses the bigger picture. Her deepest fears for her kids came true with Baatar, and so, of course, she tries to regain some kind of control in the aftermath. And yet, she doesn’t try to rope Opal back in. She lets her stay free. That shows her earlier growth wasn’t erased, just complicated by pain.

This is the part people tend to ignore. They rush to call her a hypocrite without stopping to think about what hypocrisy really is. People are full of contradictions. We want conflicting things. We act on emotion. We stumble. We grow unevenly. No one is morally consistent all the time. Su isn’t some moral failure she’s just human. And that’s what unsettles people. They want characters who get what’s coming to them or learn the “right” lesson. But Su doesn’t fit into that framework. She just keeps going, flaws and all.

That’s also what makes her so compelling. She’s not a straightforward hero or a satisfying villain. She’s a complicated woman trying to balance power, family, control, and identity in ways that are messy and real. When people critique her, it’s often not because she doesn’t make sense, but because she makes too much sense.

She’s too familiar. Too human.

Everyone says they want nuanced characters... until they’re faced with someone like Suyin. Someone who holds up a mirror. And when that reflection hits a little too close to home, people tend to look away. But it’s in that raw honesty where her character really shines.

[rottenherbs]

Love on the Silver Screen (pt.2)

Pairing: D.M x Actress! Reader Summary: Draco, struggling with his growing feelings, finds himself caught in the tension of secretly admiring you from afar while trying to avoid confronting his emotions. After a chance encounter at a crowded panel, you share a quiet, unexpected connection, with Draco slowly realizing he might want something more, but unsure of how to pursue it. W/C: 2.3k A/N: I quite literally am in line for the Metallica show tonight while this posts. I hope you guys like hehe [masterlist] Much Love, Saige

The polite applause thundered around him, but Draco barely heard it.

He was rooted at the back of the hall, hands clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles ached. His heartbeat roared in his ears, drowning out the final words of the panel as the moderator thanked the speakers and invited the audience to mingle.

You stood, offering another easy smile to the crowd as you gathered your notes, the soft folds of your robe moving with you like some kind of spell.

Now, a voice hissed inside him. Go now, before you lose your nerve.

But he didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Because for all the nights he had spent imagining you — inventing impossible conversations and dreamt-up glances — standing here, with you so achingly real just a few steps away, was something different.

Something terrifying.

What are you even going to say, Malfoy? he sneered inwardly.

“Oh, hullo, I’m Draco, I’ve been pathetically obsessed with you from a distance for months — fancy a drink?”

He almost laughed — a sharp, bitter sound caught in his throat.

You were standing by the edge of the stage now, laughing at something one of the other panelists said, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear — that same small, familiar motion he had seen a hundred times on a screen.

Except this wasn’t a performance.

This was you.

Living. Breathing.

Out of reach.

The crowd was beginning to shuffle forward now, eager to ask questions, to shake hands.

Someone was already moving toward you — a woman in deep blue robes, chattering animatedly about your “brilliant fusion of disciplines.”

If he didn’t act soon, he’d lose the moment.

Draco shifted his weight forward, boot scraping softly against the stone floor.

One step. That’s all he needed. One.

His palms were sweating.

It was ridiculous — he had faced death, humiliation, endless years of being judged and hated — but this, the simple act of walking toward you, left him paralyzed.

What if you didn’t notice him?

What if you smiled politely and turned away?

What if you realized instantly what he was — who he was — and looked at him with the same cold suspicion everyone else did?

Draco set his jaw hard enough that it ached.

You’re not that boy anymore, he told himself viciously.

You survived. You’re trying to be better. You—

Your eyes glanced up briefly as you handed something to a fellow panelist, and for a moment — just a heartbeat — they flickered toward the crowd.

Toward him.

Not through him.

Not past him.

At him.

His chest tightened.

Did you recognize him? Had you noticed the way he hovered, a ghost at the edge of the crowd?

Or was it just a polite glance, nothing more?

The woman in blue was pulling you aside now, talking eagerly, and Draco saw the way your smile faltered just a little — polite, but a little tired.

You don’t even want to be trapped here, he realized suddenly.

You were just being kind.

The realization struck him harder than he expected.

He took a slow breath in through his nose, grounding himself against the swell of wild, reckless longing.

This wasn’t the moment.

You deserved better than a stammered greeting in a suffocating Ministry hall.

Better than being cornered by yet another stranger with expectations.

Draco stepped back, the decision settling in him like a cold stone.

Not now.

Not like this.

He would find another way.

As the crowd thickened and the noise grew, Draco turned sharply on his heel and slipped through the nearest exit, his heart pounding against the walls of his ribs like it was trying to escape his body entirely.

He didn’t look back.

If he had, he might have seen you glancing toward the door.

Searching, for just a moment, for something you didn’t even realize you were missing yet.

———

Draco stalked through the glittering, oppressive corridors of the Ministry event hall, his thoughts a tangle of shame and desperate, lingering hope.

He needed to get a hold of himself.

He needed space. Silence.

He pushed past a trio of old witches debating wand legislation and scanned the directory hovering mid-air above the atrium.

“Experimental Magic: Risks and Rewards — Panel C, Hall 7.”

Perfect.

Obscure. Likely ridiculous. Packed with know-it-alls arguing about theory instead of reality. The kind of place where no one would notice him sulking at the back.

Draco ducked his head and slipped toward Hall 7.

The corridor leading there buzzed with people, and by the time he reached the entrance, the room was nearly full — witches and wizards packed shoulder to shoulder, chattering eagerly. A few young Ministry officials darted about, conjuring extra chairs along the side walls.

Brilliant, he thought darkly.

Exactly the kind of chaos I was hoping for.

He scanned the rows quickly, avoiding eye contact.

Near the very back — partially tucked behind a stone pillar — he spotted a small gap. Two empty chairs wedged between a group of distracted-looking attendees.

No one would bother him there.

Draco slipped through the crowd, muttering apologies, and sank into the end seat, angling his body away from the center of the room. He let out a slow breath, feeling the tension in his shoulders finally start to loosen.

Good.

Here, he could disappear.

Here, he could shove down the wild pounding of his heart, forget the softness of your eyes, the way you had looked at him — like maybe, maybe you had seen him.

The room buzzed louder as the panelists began setting up. Draco let his gaze unfocus, staring blankly ahead, drowning in the noise.

And then — without ceremony, without hesitation — someone dropped into the empty chair beside him.

Draco stiffened instinctively, ready to shift away — until the faintest, most familiar scent hit him.

Soft. Fresh. Something like rain on parchment.

Slowly, disbelievingly, he turned his head.

You.

You sat beside him, utterly casual, one ankle crossed over the other, your program folded neatly in your lap. Your robes brushed lightly against his where you sat, unaware of the absolute mayhem you were causing inside him.

You didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

Just a small, unconscious tilt of your head toward the stage, your expression thoughtful, expectant.

Draco’s heart nearly stopped.

You weren’t seeking him out.

You weren’t here to trap him in conversation, to mock him, to recognize his name and turn cold.

You had simply… sat.

Next to him.

Like it was nothing.

Like it was natural.

For a terrifying, beautiful moment, he let himself believe it was.

He didn’t dare move.

Didn’t dare breathe.

The moderators began speaking, launching into dense arguments about spell mutability and ethics. The crowd leaned forward in excitement. Draco sat rigid as a statue, every nerve on fire.

You shifted slightly in your seat — and your knee brushed against his.

Just the lightest, briefest touch.

But it was enough to ignite something wild under his skin.

Draco stared straight ahead, the corner of his mouth twitching — not quite a smile, not quite a grimace — as he fought to keep himself grounded.

This wasn’t a dream.

You were here.

Right beside him.

The universe — whatever cruel, mischievous force ruled it — had set you down next to him without so much as a warning.

Draco closed his eyes for a beat, letting the sound of your soft breathing anchor him.

Maybe he didn’t deserve this.

Maybe it was reckless, and stupid, and doomed from the start.

But right now, for this breath, this heartbeat, he would allow himself to exist next to you.

No past. No guilt.

No Malfoy name hanging heavy between them.

Just you and him, and the barest brush of your knee against his in the crowded noise of a world still trying to rebuild itself.

———-

The panel rumbled on in the background, the speakers droning about the intricacies of magical law and experimental curses. Draco barely registered a word, his focus entirely fixed on you. He could feel the warmth of your body beside him, the soft rustle of your robes as you shifted occasionally, and the light scent of rain and something else — something familiar but so out of reach — that kept him tethered to reality.

The quiet brush of your knee against his was still alive in his mind. His heart raced at the simplest of things: the way you breathed, the way you sat, like you didn’t have a care in the world. Like you didn’t even know how much you were undoing him with just your presence.

And then, after what felt like an eternity of both suffocating silence and unspoken possibility, you shifted in your seat, and your voice — soft and casual — broke through his haze.

“Do you think this panel is as ridiculous as I do?”

You didn’t look at him, didn’t even glance his way. Your focus remained on the stage, as though you were speaking to someone else. But Draco’s heart lurched at the sound of your voice. It was different from the poised, scripted lines he’d heard on screen. This was you. Real. Unscripted.

He blinked, unsure if he had imagined it.

“What?” He cleared his throat, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“You think it’s ridiculous?” you repeated, now glancing toward him, a mischievous little smile playing on your lips.

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t expected you to turn toward him. For a moment, the words caught in his throat. All he could do was stare at you.

You tilted your head, clearly waiting for a response. Draco swallowed hard, trying to shake off the awkward tension that had settled between them like a thick fog.

“Um,” he said, his voice sounding too harsh in the silence. He cleared his throat again. “I think the whole thing is a bit… overinflated.” He managed a weak smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, talking about experimental curses as if they’re the next big thing is a bit much, don’t you think?”

You chuckled softly, a sound that made Draco’s pulse race. “Exactly,” you agreed, nodding with a little smirk. “It’s as if they’re still trying to make us believe we need to fix everything with new spells instead of looking at what we already have.”

For a second, Draco felt the beginnings of something — a spark of connection. You weren’t just talking to him. You were with him, sharing the same unspoken opinion. It was so simple, so subtle, but it sent a rush of warmth flooding through him. He found himself smiling — a real smile — something he hadn’t allowed himself in a long while.

“Right,” Draco said, leaning back in his seat slightly. “Like maybe we should focus on the basics for once instead of trying to be innovative for the sake of it.”

You gave a small nod, and Draco could have sworn you looked at him with something more than casual interest, but before he could read it, you turned back to the stage. His mind raced, dissecting every little shift of your posture, every micro-expression. Was that just politeness? Or was there something there?

“So,” you continued after a beat, turning to him again, your tone more relaxed now, “what brings someone like you to a place like this? You don’t strike me as the experimental curses type.”

The question caught him off guard. Draco wasn’t used to being asked anything personal, especially not by someone who wasn’t trying to either mock him or view him as a relic of some bygone era.

His immediate instinct was to shut down, to deflect. But for some reason, in this moment — with you, beside him, not demanding anything but a response — he found himself thinking about it. About how the answer wasn’t so simple. He’d spent most of his life stuck in a world he couldn’t quite leave behind, and yet here he was, stuck in this room, next to you, trying to reconcile who he was with who he might want to be.

“Obligation,” Draco said, a dry laugh escaping him before he could stop it. “Family legacy. That sort of thing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you did get roped into this whole thing?” Your smile was playful, as though you were testing him, curious about his discomfort.

Draco felt a flare of irritation, but it was quickly replaced with something warmer. You weren’t judging him — you were interested. And that, more than anything, unsettled him. He was used to being dismissed, to being written off as one thing: the spoiled Malfoy heir, the war-born villain. But you weren’t doing that. You were simply talking to him.

“Yeah,” Draco said, his tone softer now. “I’m… here for the family. Though I’d rather be anywhere else.” He let out a little exhale, half-joking, half-serious. “You know, like actually being useful instead of sitting here listening to all these people who have no idea what they’re talking about.”

You gave him a knowing look, a mix of amusement and sympathy. “Yeah, I get that. It’s why I don’t come to things like this unless I really have to.”

“Why do you come?” Draco asked before he could stop himself, his voice unexpectedly quiet. He realized immediately how vulnerable it sounded, how genuine the question was.

You paused, and Draco had the distinct feeling you were sizing him up. You met his gaze, your eyes steady and calm, as if you were truly looking at him — Draco Malfoy, the real person, and not the cold, distant figure that everyone else seemed to see.

“I come because,” you said after a moment, your voice thoughtful, “sometimes I think it’s important to show that we can change. That we can be a part of something bigger than our past.” You smiled a little, almost sadly. “Even if it means putting up with ridiculous panels like this one.”

Draco found himself nodding, feeling a strange understanding pass between them. It was quiet. Subtle. But it was there.

The noise from the panel blurred into the background as they sat there, side by side. And for a moment, in the soft hush of the crowded hall, Draco felt something he hadn’t in a long time: peace. Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t so impossible after all.

[lookingfts]

Hi. I know you aren't obligated to post here daily or anything, but considering some of your last few posts, I just wanted to see if you were OK. 🫂

Thank you so much. I'm always really touched when I get asks like this. The short story is I'm doing okay, but I'll go into some of the personal stuff for anyone who wants to read.

I won't lie, I definitely felt like I was reaching a breaking point recently. I usually handle stress pretty well but I'm going through it like everyone is. The biggest stress has been that I help take care of my grandmother, watching her a few days a week while my mom works, and her memory is declining so much that we can't leave her alone. She's forgetting almost everything as soon as it happens and not really capable of taking care of herself anymore. She's in her late eighties, so tough to say how long she'll hold on. It's pretty physically and emotionally draining, both to take care of her and to see someone struggle with age.

As I've spoken about, I'm also concerned about my job. My company laid off most of my team about a year ago and things have been rocky ever since. Obviously mass layoffs are happening everywhere and I haven't felt secure in my job for quite a while. But I still have it for now, and it's hardly a nightmare situation, so I'm just holding out and trying to make a plan for what I'm going to do if/when my job is gone.

I also had an insurance issue recently that was kind of my last straw but that's resolved now (hopefully). Such a hassle.

But I took some time off work and I'm feeling a lot better. It was a fun week - I took a weekend trip with my friend to a little beach town, went to see Sinners, got a massage, read a lot, and a bunch of other things to recharge myself. The stress is all still there, but I'm hoping I'll be able to handle it better now.

Thanks for checking in on me - I always appreciate it. I know this isn't an easy time for anyone, so please know I'm thinking of you all too. Make a little time every day to take care of yourself, even if it's five minutes. Sometimes that's all we can do, but it makes a difference.

[crimsoncrusade]

Hii!!! Gl on starting your new blog <3 can I get some headcannons for wind breaker? I want to know what you think their love languages are and how that looks .. thank you so much!!!

Wind Breaker Boys & Love Languages, part 1.

included: y/n, Haruka Sakura, Hayato Suo, Mitsuki Kiryu, Ren Kaji. This is Part 1. I will release Part 2 this evening. It will include more characters.

about: the boys of Wind Breaker and their love languages, and how they act because of them. Thank you for your kind words and submission ❤️ enjoy. Keep an eye out for part 2! While you wait for it, feel free to send specific names you want included in part 2 to my ask box!

Haruka Sakura

Sakura is not someone who is used to any type of affection, and you see him as he starts to grow from that. He struggles to accept compliments, and he stiffens under physical touch. Despite the blushes or the words he says to make it stop, *he secretly doesn't want it to stop.* With words of affirmation, though he struggles to understand due to his past, he still recognizes the warmth, fluttering, and comfort. However, he'll always reject this... *until they're from someone special.*

When y/n starts befriending Sakura, you notice the way he braces himself at the thought of any displays of affection or possibility of receiving it. Choosing to respect why nice words and compliments seem so foreign to him, you don't pry. Instead, you start laying it on thick. "You look so put together today, Sakura!" "My Sakura, how strong!" "You look so cool when you're so brave. I feel safe with you." All of these words make Sakura redder than a sea of roses, his hand always snapping over his mouth to stifle his smile until he can force it into a grimace, all while you smile sweetly at him. Despite his actions, his heart is lit ablaze, his cheeks are burning, his brain is spinning at neck breaking speeds, his palms grow sweaty, and the butterflies in his stomach rave on.

He may become avoidant of you at first, fearful of the effect your words have on him. But, he will start to miss the feeling your honeyed words provide. It feels similar to the usual compliments, thanks, and reassurances given to him by his comrades and the townsfolk he helps, but with you, it feels much different. So, he will eventually start to seek you out, preferably away from prying eyes and listening ears.

It takes awhile, but he finally realizes that he has feelings for you, and has no clue how to navigate that. There's a high he gets from your words. And he finally reaches a point, at least when it's just the two of you, to where he doesn't hide his face or grimace when you speak sweetly to him.

Sakura will eventually learn to love all of the ways to give and receive love with time, healing, and nurturing. But with you? It was love at first compliment. Words of affirmation is his favorite love language to receive from you. However, he isn't great with his words, or fluffy language.

His favorite love language to give is acts of service. Had a long day and didn't eat much? "I'm grabbing us some take out.", he says plainly. Someone giving you a hard time? Not if Sakura is on the case. You're sick? He's right there with cold medicine, though he won't give it directly, he'll sheepishly put it on your nightstand as you nap. Dishes piling up? Consider them done. Anything to hear your sweet voice singing his praises, and anything to make your day a little lighter so you can focus on babying him with sweet words later.

Hayato Suo

I get the feeling that Suo is big on acts of service and quality time. Every second with you counts, and he wants to make sure you're taken care of while he's with you. He doesn't want to have to worry about you when he's busy.

He LOVES teaching you new things. He loves teaching you about different teas, the music he enjoys, literature he reads in his spare time, of different countries and cultures from around the world. But he also enjoys teaching you basic things to help you in life.

While you'll always be his damsel, he doesn't want you to be *in distress*. Not only will he help you learn to cook tasty recipes or brew amazing tea, he will also randomly pop in "just for a kiss", but you've already figured out that he's making sure you're stocked up on groceries and tea. He wants to make sure you're taken care of, always. He also teaches you how to defend yourself, and subtly makes sure your windows are properly locked before he leaves.

He loves to study you when he spends quality time with you. He loves to collect information, and you're his new favorite subject. He wants to know all about his object of affection, and how best to take care of you. While you listen to music, he pays careful attention to the tempo of which you sway your hips when dancing with him, what songs and artists make you smile the hardest, and what songs seem to brighten your sparkle. He watches you carefully during movie nights, as to make sure he collects any dropped popcorn when you're zoned in to the movie. He pays attention to which actors and actresses catch your attention, which ones bore you, and which ones inspire you. Quality time is actually just his favorite way to have you all to himself, so he can absorb your presence and all there is to know about you.

He will plan dates around the things he learned. This artist is the one you dance and sing along the most to? "Surprise, my love. I got us 2 tickets to see them in concert." "I brought us to this movie tonight as a surprise, I know you really enjoy ____'s acting skills, and it's your favorite genre of movie." "I prepared your favorite food for you, with the seasoning you always try to over season with, my love. I hope it is to your tastes."

He's a guru type, always in search of knowledge, and he wants to teach you the ways of the world and prepare you, and he wants to take in all the knowledge of you there is.

As far as this being his favored love languages to provide, it's also his favorite to receive. It fills his heart to the brim when you seem so excited when he pops in, the way you're enthralled with his technique of brewing teas and seek to recreate it, the way the new names of the countries he teaches you falls so effortlessly off of your lips, the way you hug him as he tries to leave, whining "but love, just stay 5 more minutes with me?" It all makes him melt. He loves how much you pay attention, how much you listen, how much you thirst for the knowledge he provides, and how every second he gives you means the world to him, because every second you give him means the world to him as well.

Mitsuki Kiryu

Kiryu is a wildcard. He's a bit of a flirt and loves cute nicknames and compliments, but he also loves physical touch I feel.

He grew up in a home without sweet words, except from his older sister. So when you start laying the compliments on, it heals a part of him. It makes him feel safe, and reassurance is something that he needs from time to time. Sometimes, he may even ask for reassurance when you feel everything is okay. Always let him know how happy he makes you and about the things you adore about him!

He loves when you tell him you're proud of him. He'll offer a sweet and thankful grin, but the inside of him is warm and lit ablaze. It fuels him to strive to be his best self.

He loves to idly grab your hand in public, and to rub circles with his thumb. He loves to give you pecks all over your face, even when you blush and try to pull away. He loves holding you close, and forgetting the rest of the world while you rest in each other's arms. The feeling of holding onto you makes him feel like he won't float away with all the butterflies in his stomach. Kissing you is his favorite hobby.

He's definitely the type to approach you from behind, wrap his arms around your waist, and rest his head on top of yours.

He loves to both give and receive physical touch and words of affirmation. However... Don't doubt his gift giving game.

Surprise gifts! He loves to give and receive them. If you surprise him with gifts, he's going to start a shrine with them. And NOBODY better touch them.

"hiya loveee~ I was on patrol and we passed Cactus Bakery. I got you your favorite cream bun from there." "I bought you some summons on our game!!! I sent them to you!!! Let me know who you roll, cutie!" "Look at this plushie!!! I thought of you when I saw it. Its gonna look so cute in your room! I got a matching one as well."

His love is a sweet and light hearted love to the rest of the world, but to him, it's *everything and more*.

Ren Kaji

This one is big on physical touch all around. He loves to give it and receive it.

Don't get me wrong, he still enjoys things like pet names, but he typically sticks to the generic "babe" and "baby". However, he prefers them in private. He always will refer to you as "his girl" to everyone, though. And they better not forget it.

Hand holding, hugs from behind, bear hugs from the front. He craves your touch so much. It helps calm him down.

You're literally his anti-anxiety weighted blanket. He loves to cuddle. "C-can you lay on top of me, babygirl?..." He loves the feeling of you on top of him. Its so calm and comforting, but at the same time ignites a burning in him. He's addicted to the feeling of your closeness.

He definitely has googled about partner smell making you sleepy, because he swears everytime you're cuddled up to him, he dozes off so easily. (If you didn't know, there's a phenomena where your partners scent can make you sleepy if you're chemically bonded but we're not getting into the science of that right now lol.)

When you share your first kiss, he pauses. In fact, for him, the entire world stopped for one beautiful second. He has discovered his new favorite thing. He THOUGHT his favorite thing was the feeling of your hand in his, but no. Its now the feeling of your lips on him.

He will do anything to sneak a kiss with you. He's gonna walk you to wherever you need to go, and sneak a quick smooch around the corner. He's texting you when he's out on patrol, to sneak around the corner and give you a few surprise kisses. He's considered standing outside your window with a stereo at night to get you to give him a few, but thought better of it.

Speaking of stereos, he *definitely* listens to songs that makes him think of you. He also makes you hella playlists. He even upgraded his Spotify to the family plan to make this easier, and to make sure you always have access to the songs that make him space out and swoon over you.

[deeversuswords]

PAIRING — Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki x Vigilante F!Reader RATING — Explicit CONTAINS — heavy angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), mutual pining, slow burn, eventual smut, moral ambiguity, cheating (not between katsuki/reader), unhealthy relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, grief/mourning, dark themes (past abuse, stalking, kidnapping, torture, quirk trafficking), violence, swearing, open but hopeful ending, dual pov (mostly reader), no use of y/n◆ married bakugou katsuki—not to reader—and has a daughter too SUMMARY — Running away would be the sensible thing to do. Getting as far away as possible from him, the one person who’s your ticket to losing your freedom. Not searching for him out of stupid curiosity and showing up at the last place you should: his house. They say curiosity killed the cat, but yours seems to always end up as the key unlocking doors that should probably stay locked. Because when you open the door to Bakugou Katsuki’s life, it’s not a loving marriage, not a happy family of three you find, but falsity, forced duty, and a dark secret that threatens his very own life. Bakugou Katsuki, the pro hero tasked with catching you and your downfall. And you, the vigilante exposing ugly truths for a living—his salvation.

➥AO3 LINK // ➥AO3 CHAPTER LINK // ➥TUMBLR CHAPTERS LIST

CHAPTER WARNINGS — n/a

WORD COUNT — ~2.9k

a/n: the good news is that I got a rough outline for part 2 (I know how it begins, how it ends, and some of the things that need to happen in between). the bad news is that my perfectionist brain needs a lot of kicking to learn that drafting = get the damn words out, stop trying to write like it's final. perfectionism struggles 💀

as for a chapter note. reader's bff enters the scene, and we also get a glimpse into her past.

“What happened to you?” Your best friend’s concern carried through the quiet hallway of his apartment building. “I called you the entire evening. Your phone’s off. And what happened to your wrists? Why are they so bulky? Did you break them? And what’s that on your neck?”

Could the ground open up and swallow you up already? So many questions.

Your eyes lifted to Ayumu’s brown ones as you stumbled inside, gesturing to him to give you a moment; your lungs weren’t done wheezing for air.

It was well past two in the morning, or so the convenience store’s digital clock you’d passed displayed. The city was very much alive, though with the kind of activity that’d make someone walk a little bit faster—jog, in your case. To cut the trip short from Bakugou’s house to your best friend’s, your brilliant idea had been to venture through obscure side streets and alleyways, heart brave, mind prepared for a fight. Until you came across a group of shady-looking people and were hit with a wave of fatigue.

The lack of sleep from the last couple of weeks was finally doing a number on you. You had ended up sprinting past them like your worst nightmare chased you, despite your shaky legs, and didn’t stop until you reached Ayumu’s place.

“Bakugou happened,” you replied, massaging your numb thighs to life, trying to catch your breath.

“Who?” He sounded confused, as if he knew ten Bakugous, not one. “Bakugou as in…that Bakugou?”

“Yeah. Bakugou as in Bakugou Katsuki. As in Dynamight. As in whatever you want to call him.” You removed your shoes and dragged your feet to the living room, where you plopped down on your back on the couch, exhaling a sigh. Safety felt nice, like a warm blanket, and your body welcomed it, relaxing.

Ayumu sat on the floor by your head, brows furrowed, and gently pressed his fingertips on your neck. “No, seriously, what happened? Did he do this? Are you okay?”

A smile wobbled on your lips. “I’m okay.” You reached for his head, patting the mess of copper hair on his head. “It was my fault.”

“Explain?”

“I might’ve screwed up?”

“What did you do?”

Clearing your throat, you jutted your chin like your stupid actions were something to be proud of. “Curiosity got the best of me, so I broke into his house.”

Ayumu’s heart jerked back, eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. “Y-you did what?!” He slapped a hand over his cheek. “Are you serious? Oh, God. You’re aware you basically confirmed to him who you are, right? Right?”

“Listen to the whole story before you freak out. It’s not that bad. But before that,” you clumsily tugged on your sleeves, revealing the red feathery cuffs, “help me take these off? I was too busy running to bother.”

Awkward silence passed between you as Ayumu squinted his eyes at the handcuffs, then at your neck. A few more quiet beats, and your best friend broke into a round of cackles. He poked at the soft feathers.

“I get it now. Your break-in had a happy ending. Who initiated—”

“It’s not like that! I know how it looks, but it’s really not like that.” Your cheeks grew hot. “Please, just get them off.”

Fiddling with the metal buckle, Ayumu sent you a smug look. “You know, even if you did get it on with him, as your best friend, I won’t judge, but—” He smacked your leg with the removed cuff. “I’d prefer you don’t go around sleeping with the man hunting you down. There are other options out there.”

Other options you had probably exhausted over the years. Not many tall, hot, muscular blonds out there fit the mold well enough to trick your brain into seeing what wasn’t. And finding one with red eyes, too, was like diving straight into a haystack to search for a needle.

But Ayumu didn’t need to know about your escapades. About the moments your heart bled green and made you do dumb things.

“For the last time, I didn’t and I won’t. He’s married.”

“Ah, so if he weren’t married…”

You threw your head back on a groan, irritation nagging your nerves. “Remind me again why we’re friends?”

“Because I’m the best partner in crime you can have, why else?” he replied with one boastful grin before his face turned serious. “Need some ice for that?”

He was. He really was the best partner you could ask for. Without him, you wouldn’t have been able to trudge forward on this path you’d been forced on. Ayumu shared the burden of gathering information, covered your tracks, and took care of everything technical.

Putting the pieces together, finding the patterns, and scheming were your expertise.

“Later. Sit.” You sat up and patted the spot beside you. “Don’t say a word until I’m done, okay?”

You told him everything, in great detail — the altercation with Bakugou, the moment with his daughter. As word after word left your mouth, the color drained from his cheeks, leaving him ghost-pale by the time you finished. His warm brown eyes, wide with horror, dulled too.

He slapped his cheeks with both hands and puffed out a breath. “Sweetheart…it is that bad. Where do I start? Gloves, maybe. Did you wear some?”

“I didn’t touch anything with my fingertips, except his carpet, but I doubt he noticed that.” Your fingers curled over your knees at the memory. You’d been so close to hurting Bakugou and traumatizing Yua with the sight of her father stiff on the ground. “Thing is, he can’t prove anything. You heard me when I said his security system was off, right?”

“It’s indirect confirmation, everything he needed to hunt you down to the end of the world. Your carelessness handed him a golden opportunity,” he said, and your lips pressed together, understanding his point, but still not regretting a thing. “Should I tell you what he’ll do now? Find ways to stay close to you and wait for your slip-up. Why? Because he knows exactly who you are, meanwhile, we have no clue how he managed that.”

Sighing, you slumped against the couch and crossed your arms. “After tomorrow, I’ll have to be careful I never cross paths with him again.”

Now would be a good time for the ground to crack open and for you to fall through. Guilt vibrated your heartstrings with the reminder of the cat-and-mouse you’d been playing with Bakugou, for longer than necessary, behind Ayumu’s back.

You couldn’t tell him because he would’ve never agreed to the reason, and maybe, because something in you liked the idea of keeping this dangerous secret a secret. Strangely, it thrilled you.

“That’s now how it’s gonna go, and you know it.” Ayumu pushed to his feet and motioned for you to follow him to the kitchen. “He’s not the guy you call to sweet-talk a villain, or a vigilante, but the guy you send to trap, catch, collect. His reputation isn’t the way it is for no reason.”

He wasn’t wrong. Over the years, Bakugou gradually shifted from a general spectrum of commissions to a more specialized one—rescues. Not the disaster kind, but the ‘save people from the depths of hell’ one. During one of his rare interviews, he said it let him kick ass while saving, and that suited him and his quirk much better. The interviewer followed up with a stupid statement about how that sounded like he enjoyed violence.

Bakugou’s response was a cocked brow and a loud scoff.

You remembered scoffing alongside him at your TV screen. Damn vultures always, always brought up, directly or more subtly, his brash attitude, repeatedly glossing over that Dynamight got things done. As far as you were aware, he had never failed a commission. Yet.

In a way, your line of work and his weren’t all that different. Unlike him, you didn’t follow the law, revealing your discoveries as they were. Raw. Ugly. Gruesome. The tragedies of your past had taught you one valuable lesson: closure could come from the crude truth. And the public seemed starved for it, whether for morbid reasons or otherwise. The authorities, not so much.

Power existed in words, terrifyingly so when every claim proved true. Without exception.

If Truth Exposer said it, then it must be true.

You hopped on the kitchen counter and leaned back on your hands, nails drumming against the dark marble. “Knowing doesn’t equal proof,” you told Ayumu. “If anyone needs to be careful, it’s him.”

“You’d never hurt him,” Ayumu was quick to remind you as he opened the cabinet overhead. “He’s lucky your heart is in the right place. Even luckier, it’s got a soft spot for him. Can’t say the same for whoever is trying to mess with him.” He cast you a knowing look. “You think someone messed with his security system for some reason, and that can’t be good.”

It couldn’t be good, especially when Bakugou himself didn’t remember ever turning it off, even though the logs contradicted him. The shutdown happened one hour before your arrival. Your insistence on why it was off brought that to light.

“I’m not sure what I think, but something isn’t right.”

Ayumu took out two mugs and placed them on the counter, then braced his weight against the surface, attention locked on you. “What did it feel like?”

A good question. You took a moment to reflect on the experience.

Everything seemed so convenient—the security being down, the gate being ajar, the front door being unlocked—inviting you in like you were a guest, not an intruder. Almost as if an external force eliminated the obstacles prior to your arrival, cleared the path for you.

You dug deeper into your memories and found the one thing you overlooked in your haste to cross out the presence of blood.

Tobacco.

The air held a faint hint of tobacco.

A chilling shiver spiraled down your spine as you anchored your gaze to Ayumu’s, swallowing against the realization clogging your throat. “Unless Bakugou smokes, someone else was in the house before me.”

Ayumu narrowed his eyes. “What makes you sure they weren’t still there?”

“It has yet to fail me, but my instinct. I sensed no danger, only a weird vibe.”

His response was what you expected. “We really shouldn’t be considering it,” he said, emphasizing his reluctance with your name. “It’s dangerous…for you.”

Without a doubt, it was. Bakugou crashing into your life was bad enough. You returning the favor by breaking into his was even worse. The two of them tangling spelled disaster. Ruin. Catastrophe of the highest level. Your hands gripped the counter’s edge as you tried convincing yourself to step back.

None of your business. None of your business. None of your—

The hell? I ain’t rememberin’ shit about turnin’ this off.

Your eyes screwed shut as you willed away the echo of his stupefied tone, but his dumbfounded expression replaced it. The treacherous heart in your chest sprang to life, unfurling to make you feel exactly why you couldn’t regret your actions, why you didn’t fear the danger, why you had already decided.

“I want to know, Yu.” You opened your eyes, dragging them over your strained knuckles. “I want to find out why he doesn’t remember. Stress, or what?”

“Say we do, and it’s a person. Will you go after their why?”

“Yeah.”

“So, we’re doing this.”

You heard the resignation in the cadence of his words. Ayumu wasn’t happy with it, but he knew that once your heart set itself on something, backing out was no longer an option. Full speed ahead. Straight into the arms of the unknown. Strung up by risk and threat.

“I’m sorry, but I have to do this.” You met his eyes. “I can’t stay away.”

“You mean, you don’t wanna stay away.”

Ayumu turned away and busied himself with making tea, marking the beginning of his silence as he slipped into his thoughts, leaving you to watch his back with the slightest tint of remorse.

Had it been five years already since you bumped into him, quite literally, on a December morning?

The snow had been thick, a blanket over the whole city, the wind arctic and biting at your cheeks, making your eyes water as it had permeated the many layers you wore.

You knew you should’ve slowed down, instead of racing down the slippery street, but you couldn’t afford to be late for your job interview. One of the renowned TV stations wanted you—a chance like that was once in a lifetime for someone fresh out of college and starting. Stressing over the internships and putting your best into them paid off.

No matter what, you had to seize this chance, even if it meant breaking a leg.

Your dreams and hopes took a nose dive when you skidded around the corner and collided with someone, their paper cup flying out of their hand and splashing hot liquid all over you. Curses sharpened your tongue, and you bit down on it to refrain from loosening one with the pained hiss slipping from your lips. It hurt like a bitch. One inhale told you the culprit preferred vanilla cappuccino.

“Crap! I’m so sorry. Are you alright?” a masculine voice asked, tinged with a charming smoothness despite the pitch of panic. “I wasn’t prepared for a sprinting bear.”

“Excuse me? What did you just call me?” you snapped, wiping foam off your chin, as you cut the man before you a glare that could easily melt the snow.

However, some of your indignation melted instead as you took his appearance in. Against the white backdrop, his styled coppery hair stood out, accentuating the mellow brown of his eyes. He was handsome, the kind that was pleasant to look at in real life, and on screen, too. But it was in his smile that allure resided.

“Oh, now that I look at you…” He trailed off, inspecting you from head to toe. “I thought you had a mutant-type quirk, but no. It’s just about three too many layers of clothes.”

“You could use an extra one yourself,” you retorted without hesitating, mentally apologizing to your mother. She told you to be on your best behavior today. You pointed to his bare neck, thin trench coat, dress shoes dusted with snow. How this man wasn’t frozen solid was a mystery.

Misty puffs of air escaped his mouth as he laughed. “I take freezing over smelling like cappuccino any day.”

“Hey! Whose fault is that?”

His hands rose in surrender, and you noticed the crumpled paper he held in one of them. The logo at the top made your breath hitch. It was the same TV station you were heading to. Beneath the logo, though, I beg you, let me pass the interview! was written, bolded, and circled over and over in red ink.

Amusement played on your lips.

“You’re going the wrong way.” When he blinked owlishly, you added, “I have an interview with them too.”

“Really? But the GPS shows—” He twisted his wrist, squinting at the smartwatch. “Huh? Why is this pointing in this direction? Am I reading it wrong?”

You moved closer, deciding right then and there that he wasn’t just strange, but also a bit of a moron. “Follow me, if you want. But keep up. You already wasted my precious minutes.”

“I’m so sorry!” He repeated, bowing repeatedly as his steps fell in sync with your own. “Thank you. You just might’ve saved my life, Miss…”

Without looking at him, you had thrust your hand forward and uttered your name. He had taken it, shaking it with such enthusiasm that it nearly toppled you in the snow, introducing himself as Sakai Ayumu.

Sometimes, you wondered if he knew what awaited him in the future, whether he would’ve still accepted it.

“Ayumu?” you called out softly to him. When he looked over his shoulder, you asked. “Did you ever regret becoming friends with me?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Never. Why are you asking me that?”

You shrugged. “Curious.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighed, stepping in front of you, eyes soft with affection. He took your hand and pulled you off the counter into his arms. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me. That’s why I worry. I’m sorry if I sounded harsh, but this situation doesn’t sit right with me.”

Leaning into him, you returned the hug. “I know. It doesn’t sit right with me, either. But I landed in that situation, and if something or someone threatens his safety, I… I can’t turn a blind eye to it.”

“Baku—No. Dynamight won’t hesitate to take your freedom away if given the chance. He’s a good hero, but he won’t be one for you. He can only be your downfall.”

Downfall. That sounded about right.

Dynamight versus Truth Exposer. One winner. One loser.

“I’ll just have to escape him.” You shuffled back a step, staring at your best friend with the determination you didn’t feel much of. “After tomorrow, I’ll make sure to disappear off his radar. We don’t need his involvement to find out anything.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

By sacrificing yet another piece of your real identity. “Yu, I don’t keep a collection of wigs, makeup, and clothes for nothing.”

[sonic-takeover]

Silver your gonna be ok. Take a breath buddy. Your nerves are all out of whack 😭

Your feelings are your own to decide, whether you think of espio as a good friend or something more is something you can think on later. (As someone who has a complicated relationship with romantic feelings myself,I understand not knowing exactly how you feel about a person!)

I think what is important is that you enjoy his company. Don't let others comments get in the way of that, alright sweetheart?

Now go have fun with blaze and stuff!! Perhaps espio can show off his ninja skills to her or something,haha

*Silver takes a deep breath, forcing his quills to smooth back after they spiked up from nerves. He smiles as Blaze pours him a cup of tea* Thanks Blaze!

Of course. It's been so long since I've had tea with friends.

Me too! So how was your journey?

Oh, it was fine. You know how I love traveling.

Oh, who wouldn't? It's beautiful this time of year, too.

Indeed it is.

Which place?

*Silver feels his quills begin to stand on end again* .... Uh.. it?

*Espio snickers, covering his mouth with a half-fist. Silver gets a stupid little smile, realizing he made Espio laugh*

Eheh.. Everywhere is beautiful sometime, right?

*Espio smiles as he picks up his tea, nodding a thanks to Blaze as his laugh subsides* That's very true. This island is especially beautiful in the springtime. The flowers are all in bloom around this time of year.

Yeah.. what's your favorite flower, Espio?

*Espio watches him as he sips his tea* .. Hm.. Epiphyllum Oxypetalum. The night-blooming cereus. It is not only very rare, but only blooms for one night. Blink and you'll miss it.

Wow...

Excellent choice.

I also enjoy red roses. They represent poetry and passion.

O-Oh.. Nice. Classic.

Hm. And yours?

Bluebells! Uh.. Bluebells. They're really pretty.. *He fidgets under Espio's curious gaze, struggling with the eye contact*

I agree.

W-What about you, Blaze?

Jasmine and lilacs. I enjoy their fragrances and teas.

Excellent choices.

Yeah! Now I know what to get you guys for your birthdays, eheh..

Hmhmhm! Your company is more than enough of a gift, Silver. I'm always happy to spend time with friends on special occasions.

Aww, hehe!

*Espio reaches out to pour some more tea for everyone, using Fluffy's magic kettle that pours each person's favorite tea. Once he sets it down, he picks up a butter cookie, then uses slight of hand to make two more appear, then make them all disappear*

Woah!!

Ooh, impressive! Are you a magician as well?

Heh.. No. But slight of hand is a useful skill as a ninja. *He pulls a cookie from behind each of their ears, presenting them as gifts*

Hehe! You're very talented. You must teach me this trick.

Perhaps.

*Silver takes his cookie, his ear flicking from Espio's hand brushing against it*

[one-sunny]

Wrong Time | The Break

05: When you move to a new town, you don’t expect to run into your high school sweetheart. Old feelings begin to arise and you are suddenly faced with the complexity of relationships, communication, and the struggle for true connection.

Warning: 18+ only. use of cigarettes, toxic relationships, toxic behaviors, mentally/ emotionally abusive behaviors, gaslighting, manipulation, destructive behaviors, miscommunications, complex feelings, anxiety, loneliness, slow burn, angst

“How can I ever trust you!”

“Vera, my sweet, can we just talk about this-“

“You’ve been so distant.” Fat tears well up in her eyes, threatening to break any moment now. “And now you’re complementing other women!”

Sanji wasn’t even sure how they got here. Wasn’t sure what he had done to make her so upset. What was causing her to raise her voice. But only a small part of him cared about the details, the part that he shoves deep down, because comforting her was the most important thing. It’s what any man would do for the woman he cares for.

“Is she prettier than me?”

Sanji is taken aback by the comment. All he had done was compliment the icing on a lemon danish at a nearby bakery, the middle aged woman grinning with her already flushed cheeks from her efforts of kneading dough. A compliment that, for some reason, kick started an insecurity within Vera. He isn’t sure what he had even done wrong but he tries not to dwell on that fact.

“Vera, no. Never. You’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen.” Sanji steps closer and attempts to reach out to his girlfriend.

She quickly swipes away the touch. “Prettier than that ex-girlfriend of yours?”

And the words make Sanji deflate. Ever since that little incident, Vera had made sure to bring you up anytime an argument sparked. It was making Sanji regret even looking your way. Made him regret ever having feelings for you, even from back in high school before he even knew Vera.

“Vera, honey, please stop bringing that up. I’ve apologized-“

“You can never apologize enough for cheating on me, Sanji.” She snaps back, words laced with a certain venom that easily went straight into his blood stream.

“I didn’t cheat.” The words are weak off his tongue, for her knew that it didn’t even matter. Putting forth the effort to correct her never mattered.

Her arms cross and she completely ignores the statement. “You’re lucky I even let you make that up to me.” Vera shakes her head. She stares at Sanji for a long moment, the tears gone from her eyes despite never even falling, before she clicks her tongue. “I think we need to take a break.”

Sanji’s eyes blow wide, “W-What?”

“I need to be with someone who only looks at me when they walk into the room-“

“Vera, honey, I do that.” Sanji attempts, his chest squeezing with anxiety. “I don’t- I don’t understand.”

“Sanji, it’s, ugh,” Vera tips her head back with a groan. “I think we would both benefit from some time away from each other. It can really give time to reflect on how important we are to each other.” She purses her lips. “Among other things.”

“You’re so important to me, I already-“

“Okay, let’s not make this a whole thing.” Vera pushes her bangs from her eyes. “I’m breaking up with you, Sanji.”

And it feels as if he has been ran over by a semi in the silent moments that follow. “I-I-“ Sanji gapes, trying to form a coherent reply. “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand-“

“Honestly? So that you can have time to realize how important I am to you. Everything I do for you.” She runs her hands through dark curls, before a smile pulls to her red lips. “I’m not even sure you realize how lost you’d be without me, you know.” Vera shakes her head in exasperation. “And I want you to really think about it all. If you still want me, the woman who supports you and caters to your every need,” She gestures to herself, before her eyes narrow. “Or some other chick who you would crumble with.”

Sanji swallows hard, “I already have my answer-“

“No.” Her arms cross over her chest as her nostrils flare. “How am I supposed to know if your answer is real or if it’s some manipulative attempt to make me stay?” Her brows raise for a moment and Sanji isn’t even sure how to answer something like that. He would never manipulate her… would he? Not on purpose at least. “Just think about it, okay? And when you have your answer in a couple days, let me know.”

And with that, she waltzes away.

Sanji nearly crumbles in on himself with the tornado of emotions he was experiencing. Each one swirled around in his head with such a ferocity that he couldn’t place just one. And in their effort, it sucked up any and all rationale thoughts.

Technically, he was now single.

But despite that being a fact, he could still feel the manicured hand that has a hold on him. Could he really do anything without her? Would he be lost? Sanji couldn’t be certain.

His fingers twitch at his sides and Sanji is lighting up a cigarette before he even realizes what he is doing. He squeezes the golden lighter tight in his palm, allowing the sharp edges to press deep into his thumb as he sucks in a breath of smoke. Sanji makes sure to hold it as long as he can, feeling the nicotine enter his system and attempting to dull his nerves.

It doesn’t work.

Loneliness creeps up on him and pitches a tent, fully intent on staying a while. It wasn’t an unfamiliar foe, for all he had in his youth was pet mice that his father consistently tried to get rid of. Perhaps he would have succeeded if he paid more attention to Sanji. It makes him long for the pets. For something. Anything.

Then it makes him think of the only thing keeping him from loneliness in his adolescence. Of the girl that plagued his every thought and stole his breath every day back then. The girl he believed he would marry. The girl he saw an entire future laid out with. In fact, the only person he has ever seen in his future fantasies.

And that strikes a nauseous guilt inside of him. Maybe Vera was right? He hadn’t cheated on her, but he put considerably more thought into you than he should have. Maybe he was deserving of this. Of this crushing weight on his shoulder. Of the very thing that he is trying to dull as he fills his lungs with smoke.

But it just doesn’t work.

So he lights up another. And another. Until he almost smokes through the entire pack. And only then does he feel something. Perhaps it was the decline of his health after so many cigarettes. Or maybe, it was the emotional numbing, his body finally kicking into gear to protect itself, to leave him feeling completely and utterly numb.

So he sits on the knowledge that he would feel like this until he was able to pull Vera back into his life.

✐ ᝰ ✐ ᝰ ✐ ᝰ ✐ ᝰ ✐ ᝰ

Sanji slumps into the old battered couch, the wood beneath the cushions making him entirely uncomfortable, but he couldn’t be bothered to even move. What was a bit of physical discomfort upon the mental discomfort he has been experiencing? To add to this, the room absolutely reeks. The staff room smelled of sweat and metal, a sure sign that the employees of the gym were committed to their craft.

And those very same staff members were crowded around Sanji, arguing loudly with Luffy. Zoro was comfortable on the ground with his back leaning on the leather couch. Ace and Sabo sat across from them, arranged on an equally as tattered sofa. Jinbe sat silently in the floor in observation. Luffy was standing at the head of the group, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest.

“A battle royale is a horrible idea!” Sabo laughs incredulously. “And probably illegal.”

“But it would be fun!” Luffy glares.

As the voices raise again, Sanji looms around the room with irritation furrowing his brow. Why was he here? Zoro and Sabo were personal trainers, Ace a boxing and kickboxing instructor, and Jinbe a martial arts instructor. And Sanji was just Sanji. Even the front desk staff weren’t involved in this little meeting.

“And why is curly brow here, by the way?” Zoro huffs.

Luffy grins, “I needed one more person to vote on my side.”

Sanji glares at the man, “And why would you expect me to vote on your side?”

“Because we’re friends.” Luffy’s jaw drops as if shocked by the revelation that Sanji didn’t agree with turning a boxing tournament into an all out battle royale.

“You gotta understand why that’s a bad argument here, Lu.” Sabo pinches the bridge of his nose.

Luffy throws his head back in a groan, “Fine, you guys are so boring.” He then levels his eyes back on the group. “Ace, you’re in charge of all the planning then since it’s your whole thing.”

“That was the plan from the start.” Ace nods.

Luffy waves a hand to wave his older brothers off, “Whatever, Zoro and I are out. If you have any questions, well, you know what to do.” He offers a goofy grin to the group. Ace, Sabo, and Jinbe were more than accustomed to handling things on their own. It was one benefit of hiring such responsible parties onto his team.

With that, Luffy leads Zoro and Sanji out of the staff room.

Sanji follows on autopilot. Through the gym. Down the street. Turn. Down another street. Crosswalk. Turn again. Down the street. Up the stairs and through a door. Then more stairs. Then another door. His mind isn’t even processing the movements but he blinks and suddenly he is in the living room full of gaudy decor.

Luffy rummages around in the kitchen while Zoro takes place at the island bar, the pair chattering away. It is only then that he realizes that the others have joined. Ussop lounges back on the couch across from Sanji, brightly colored socks propped up on the coffee table. Franky is to his other side on a plush chair, short shorts riding up his thighs as he man spreads into the space.

A conversation is flowing over his head and he is entirely lost on the subject. Something about… wood carving? Sanji can’t be too sure.

“Are you good bro?” Franky’s loud voice finally processes as eyes fall on him.

“Yeah.” Sanji answers on autopilot.

“Awh, come on. What’s buggin’ ya?” The blue haired man pushes further. Franky was always one of the most in tune with his emotions, meaning he could read all of his friends just as easily.

“Just,” Sanji shakes his head and grasps at imaginary straws. He surely couldn’t offer every detail. His friends already had a distaste for his… ex-girlfriend… so he feared how they would feel with new information. “Vera and I are kind of,” He tips his head in consideration. Kind of what? He wasn’t even sure himself. “On a break.”

“A break?” Ussop prompts in confusion.

“Yeah, i think.” Sanji cringes at himself.

Franky hums in thought, “On a break, or broken up but willing to fix things?”

Sanji ruffles his fingers through his locks. “The second one.”

“Awh, okay, I get you bro.” Franky nods. “What happened? Is it still about the whole,” He waves a large hand. “Ex thing?”

“Kind of, trust and all that.” He grunts in response.

“Right, right.” Franky nods slowly.

“You know,” Ussop begins. “You never really told us how it felt to see her.”

Sanji feels heat creeping up his collar and suddenly his mouth is very dry. “I did.” He weakly argues, well aware of the lie.

“You didn’t.” Franky confirms, shifting in his seat to cross his legs. “Look, you don’t gotta, but maybe talking about it will help you figure out why it’s causing so much with Vera.”

“Cause she’s a nightmare.” Zoro calls from the kitchen.

“Hey, back off, mosshead.” Sanji seethes.

“Ignore him, bro. The floor is yours.” Franky nods encouragingly.

Sanji groans in response. “I don’t know. It’s like, i don’t know, seeing her was,” Sanji moves his hands as he speaks, attempting to put into words exactly how it felt to see you for the first time in five years. Well, the first time outside of old photos and social media posts.

“Nostalgic?” Ussop tries.

“Yeah, kind of.” Sanji huffs, head tipping to the side. “Like finding your childhood stuffed animal- not that she’s a toy, but whatever- like seeing the one thing that could always bring you comfort. Even though you’ve outgrow it, you’re still filled with this feeling when you see it.”

“Longing?” Ussop nods.

Exactly that. It was perfectly normal to long for a love that ran so deep, after all… Right?

“Love?” Franky raises a brow.

Sanji sputters out a response. “No, not- no it’s just that it’s been so long and, yeah she was my first love, but Vera is here now and-“ He isn’t even sure what he is trying to say anymore in an attempt to save face. He isn’t even sure if it was for the sake of his friends or of himself.

Ussop and Franky share a look.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel about her, anyways. She’s apart of my past.” Sanji shakes his head in dismissal. “It’s not like I’ll ever even see her again. We live different lives even if she happens to be living it here now.” He allows his head to fall back against the couch. “And Vera’s my future, you know. I’ll get her back. We just gotta work through our crap like real adults.”

“Whatever you say, bro.” Franky chuckles.

“Anyways, where’s Nami and Robin? Aren’t they joining us today?” He tries to change the subject.

“Do you ever pay attention.” Zoro rolls his eyes.

Sanji bristles at this, “Do you ever shut up?”

“They’re out shopping with Y/N.” Ussop huffs out in an attempt to silence the insistent bickering.

But Sanji’s breath catches in his throat at the name. That’s when his brain kick starts and all of the little pieces begin to form together. He had been far too distracted with Vera to keep up with this new friend that Ussop and Nami made. The one they met at the art studio. The one that moved to town recently. The one that happened to have the same name and profession as you.

Before he can choke out a reply, the front door flies open.

Sanji is on edge as Nami walks inside. Followed by Robin. And then by you. Loud greeting break through the air and Sanji takes a very brief moment to appreciate the smile lighting your face. Until your eyes meet his and you’re suddenly frozen in place.

Oh.

Oh no.

Series Masterlist | Chapter 6

Taglist: @thekatisspooky @teacarby @zoecelestine @vespidphoenix

[chronicallycouchbound]

There is a story told and retold in the Middle East about how to help someone who’s drowning.

The story goes that a man had fallen into a river. He was not much of a swimmer and was in real danger of drowning. A crowd of concerned people wanted to rescue him. They were standing at the edge of the water, each of them urgently shouting out to him:

“Give me your hand, give me your hand!”

The man was battling the waves and ignored their urgent plea. He kept going under and was clearly struggling to take another breath. A saintly man walked up to the scene. He too cared about the drowning man. But his approach was different. Calmly he walked up to the water, waded in up to his knees, glanced lovingly at the drowning man, and said:

“Take my hand.”

Much to everyone’s surprise, the drowning man reached out and grabbed the saint’s hand. The two came out of the dangerous water. The drowning man sat up at the edge of the water, breathing heavily, looking relieved, exhausted, and grateful. The crowd turned towards the saint and asked in complete puzzlement: “How were you able to reach him when he didn’t heed our plea?” The saint calmly said:

“You all asked him for something, his hand. I offered him something, my hand. A drowning man is in no position to give you anything.”

Let us remember not to ask anything of someone who is drowning.

From "How to Reach Out to Someone Who Is Struggling" by Omid Safi

[critter-wizard]

ep 43 had me tearing up in a fucking shopping centre ‼️‼️

b+w alt version that I truly couldn't decide if I liked it more . Also I included a lot of thoughts in the tags but they're somewhat incoherent<3