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elikajinnie · 3 days ago

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P: Baseball Player!Ni-ki X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Possessive Behaviour, Emotional Manipulation, Controlling Behavior, Obsession, Stalking Themes, Gaslighting, Mental Health Struggles, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Injuries, Angst, Ex-Lovers, Jealousy, Begging, Degradory Language (Slut), Speeding, Suggestive Content, Violence, Mentioned Use Of Drugs, Power Imbalance, Post-Breakup Trauma.

Synopsis: You left him, his fame, his fury, the love that felt more like a cage. But obsession doesn’t end with goodbye. And when he finds you again, it’s clear that some ghosts don’t knock. They beg.

A/n: I had another more normal plot idea for this, but in the end i went darker :) reblogs and commentary are appreciated!

now playing: DISCONNECTED by chase atlantic

Back then, the world felt smaller under the bleachers.

Ni-ki's hand always found yours first, calloused from pitching, fingertips cold from the Gatorade bottle he never finished. He’d lace your fingers together like it was second nature, like he’d practiced it just as much as his curveball. His hoodie always smelled faintly of sweat and sunscreen, and you’d rest your head on his shoulder, pretending not to hear the way his breath stuttered when you did.

He used to draw little stars on the back of your hand with a pen cap during downtime. Never hearts — always stars. “For luck,” he’d say. “You’re the reason I throw straight.”

You’d tease him for how dramatic he was, and he’d grin like he couldn’t help it, like adoring you was just muscle memory, the same way he knew the weight of a baseball in his palm without looking.

On game days, he made you promise to wear something red. “It’s not even our team color,” you’d argue, but he swore it helped him focus. Said it reminded him where to look when everything else blurred. The crowd, the pressure, the scouts in the stands. He’d pitch like the world was on fire, and when it was over, he’d find you first, always, and pull you into his chest like you were the only reason it was worth winning at all.

Sometimes he’d take you to the field at night, when no one was around. Just the two of you beneath flickering floodlights, with crickets singing in the grass. He’d throw pitches in silence, and you’d sit cross-legged by the dugout, humming whatever song was stuck in your head.

“I want all of this to mean something,” he said once, without turning around. “Not just the games. You. Me. I don’t want to lose it.”

You told him he wouldn’t.

At the time, you meant it.

You were always the calm before his storm.

When his anxiety got bad, when the scouts sat too close, when the headlines read someone else’s name, when his own doubt was louder than the roar of any crowd you were the only one who could quiet it.

He wouldn’t say it outright, not at first. He’d just pace, bouncing the ball off his palm like his thoughts were moving too fast to grip. You learned to catch him before he spiraled — with soft hands on his jaw, with slow reminders whispered into the hollow of his shoulder. “You’re not nothing,” you’d say, again and again. “You’re built for this.” And every time, he’d melt into your arms like he wanted so badly to believe you.

Before every game, he’d hold the baseball out to you with both hands, like it was fragile — like it needed you, too. “Blow on it,” he’d whisper. “You’re my good luck charm.”

It became a ritual. A superstition more sacred than any warm-up stretch. And when he walked onto that mound, just before he’d square his shoulders and breathe deep, he’d always glance over his shoulder and throw you a flying kiss, two fingers brushing his lips. Like a promise. Like he needed you watching to make the pitch count.

You never missed a game.

And after every win — especially the big ones, the hard-fought ones where the crowd roared and his fingers shook from adrenaline he always brought you home. Not to celebrate with teammates or party with boosters. Just to you.

He’d carry you into his room like you were something soft he didn’t trust the world to hold.

No teasing, no rush — just the quiet strength of his arms beneath your thighs and the steady thump of his heart against your chest. You’d bury your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the sharp, familiar scent of cologne and the clean trace of whatever soap he used in the locker room. He always smelled like effort. Like adrenaline barely worn off.

The door would shut behind you with a soft click, and it was like the world slipped away.

He’d set you down gently at the edge of his bed and reach for his duffel bag, pulling out the same wrinkled jersey — the one he swore was lucky, the one that still had grass stains on the hem and a small tear near the collar. He never let anyone else touch it. Except you.

He’d undress you slowly, with the kind of care you didn’t know teenage boys could have, fingertips grazing along your spine, lips brushing your shoulder as if he were memorizing the way your body moved under his hands.

Then, he’d pull the jersey over your head — his jersey — letting it fall over your bare skin like it belonged there. The fabric swallowed you whole, oversized and worn thin, sleeves brushing your fingertips, the number on the back stretching across your shoulder blades. It smelled like him. Like game day and summer and something safe.

You were left in nothing else. Just his name on your back like a brand.

He’d press his forehead to yours, hands resting on your hips, fingers curling lightly in the hem.

“You look better in this than I ever did.”

Then he’d lay you down slowly, like if he moved too fast, you’d disappear. Like this — you in his bed, wearing the symbol of everything he chased was what made it all real.

“You’re everything good,” he’d murmur into your skin. “Everything that keeps me from falling apart.”

He kissed you like worship. Like winning wasn’t real until he was wrapped around you, forehead pressed to yours, your laugh muffled in his duvet, heart beating steady beneath his ribs.

Back then, it was easy to believe that love was enough to carry the weight of his fear. That you could anchor him through anything, even the pressure. Even the expectations.

But pressure has a way of changing people.

The turning point was supposed to be a celebration. He’d won a full scholarship — full ride to a top-tier university, scouts already circling, offers slipping into his coach’s inbox like promises wrapped in gold. People were calling him a future pro. A star. A name to remember.

He should have been happy.

And at first, he was. He lifted you off the ground when the letter came in, spinning you in the hallway of your school like he didn’t care who was watching. He kissed you hard, messy, grinning so wide his eyes crinkled at the corners.

But beneath it — even then — something had already begun to shift.

He started checking his phone more. Refreshing notifications, pacing during lunch. His grip on your hand got tighter, more distracted. His smiles didn’t reach as far.

You told him you were proud. Told him he deserved every second of it.

He nodded, kissed your temple, whispered “Couldn’t have done it without you.” But his eyes were already somewhere else.

The first time he lashed out, it wasn’t even angry, it was desperate. You missed one of his practices to study for an exam, and he showed up at your house that night, eyes red-rimmed and quiet. “I didn’t throw right,” he said. “Coach said my arm’s off.”

You apologized. You told him you’d make it to the next one. He didn’t yell. He didn’t scold. He just stared at you like you'd tugged a thread and everything was starting to unravel. “You’re my balance,” he whispered. “If you’re not there, I fall.”

At first, it sounded sweet. Romantic, even. Like something out of a love story. But then the calls started — late at night, between training sessions, before games, after games.

Where are you? Pick up the phone.

At first, it was easy to chalk it up to nerves. He was under pressure. He just needed reassurance. So you answered. Every time.

You’d lay beside him until 1AM, bathed in the soft glow of his lapm or the hum of his breath against your skin. You’d whisper over and over — “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You’re okay.” And he’d cling to you like a drowning man to driftwood, arms wrapped so tightly around your waist you could barely shift. Sometimes he’d fall asleep like that — fists curled in your shirt, jaw clenched even in dreams. Sometimes he wouldn’t sleep at all, just lie there staring at the ceiling, blinking slow like each thought hurt to hold.

You kept holding them for him. That was love, wasn’t it?

But as the matches stacked up, so did your own life. University deadlines. Club meetings. Family obligations. You missed a game and promised you’d be at the next.

But it didn’t matter. That was the beginning of what he called you drifting.

“You’re different lately,” he’d say, eyes narrowed. “I’m tired,” you’d explain. “But you still find time for other people,” he’d snap.

And then it started — the shift.

He didn’t question you anymore. He questioned everyone else.

It stopped being about him needing you, and started being about him needing you away from anyone else.

“Why are you spending so much time with her? She doesn’t even care about your work.”

“That guy from your class... does he always sit that close?”

“You were laughing with him. Was he flirting?”

He'd show up at your study sessions uninvited. Sit in the back, eyes locked on you the whole time. Silent. Waiting. Watching. Afterward, he’d wrap his arm around your shoulder like a claim and whisper against your ear, too quiet for anyone else to hear: “He looks at you too much.”

You’d brush it off. Laugh nervously. Tell him he was imagining it. But the jokes stopped landing. His smile never reached his eyes anymore.

One afternoon, you were walking down the hall with a group from your project, a guy you'd known since middle school beside you, both of you laughing about something stupid and harmless. And Ni-ki was waiting at the end of the corridor, bat still slung over his shoulder from practice, cap low, shoes tapping against the floor.

He didn’t say anything until you were alone.

“Tell me the truth,” he said quietly, boxing you against your car. “Do you like the way he looks at you?”

You shook your head. You tried to touch his arm. He flinched like it burned.

“You smiled at him more than you smiled at me today.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d measured you in moments. Counted seconds. Tallied attention like he was keeping score in a game he refused to lose.

You let out a shaky laugh, trying to brush it off. “Ni-ki, it wasn’t like that—” You reached for his chest — a soft push, a gentle cue to take a step back, to breathe. But he didn’t move.

Instead, he surged forward.

Your back hit the car with a dull thud, his body pressing too close, his hand slamming flat against the door beside your head. The other gripped your waist — not hard enough to bruise, but tight enough to remind you that he could.

He didn’t yell. That would’ve been easier. It was the quiet that scared you.

“Don’t do that,” he said, low. Controlled. Voice rough around the edges. “Don’t push me away when I’m trying to talk to you.” His cologne wrapped around you, sharp and heavy. Sweat clung to the collar of his shirt, mixing with the earthy tang of dirt and grass. It was the smell of post-practice — of games and victory and everything he used to come home from, laughing, pulling you into his arms. But here, this close, it felt suffocating.

“Ni-ki…” your voice wavered.

His eyes searched yours like he was waiting to find proof of betrayal hidden behind your pupils. “I see how people look at you,” he muttered. “You act like it doesn’t mean anything, but you’re not stupid. You know.”

You flinched as his fingers flexed at your waist, grounding you, caging you.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, almost like a prayer, like if he said it softly enough it would make it true again. “You said you’d be there forever. I’m not asking for anything you didn’t already promise.”

But he wasn’t asking. You felt it in the weight of his body, in the tension humming beneath his skin, in the way he stared at you like you were already slipping away and he was trying to pin you in place.

You swallowed thickly, heart pounding. You didn’t want to be scared of him. But in that moment, you were.

And after that day, it kept going like that.

Little things, at first. His hand finding yours too quickly, his grip a little too tight. His eyes always scanning, watching. Not the crowd, not the field, but you. He started glaring at anyone who looked at you for too long — classmates, teammates, even people you’d known since before him. His jaw would clench, fingers twitching like it took everything in him not to storm over and rip their gaze away from you.

You thought it was just stress. That it would pass. He had so much riding on him — pressure, scouts, press and you were supposed to be his calm. His peace. So you kept brushing it off. You told yourself he didn’t mean it. That he was just afraid of losing you in a world where everything else was up for grabs.

But it got harder to pretend.

He started staring from the court when you were late — not angry, not dramatic, just focused. Eyes locked on you like a storm cloud building behind his expression. No smile. No wave. Just waiting.

And after the final whistle, once the cheers died and the team dispersed, he’d always find you. Pull you into some dark corner of the hallway — near the locker rooms, behind the bleachers, anywhere the light didn’t reach and no one could interrupt.

“You were late,” he’d murmur, too calmly. “Where were you?”

You’d try to smile. Laugh it off. “I had a meeting. I ran across campus.”

He wouldn’t laugh.

“With who?”

You’d blink, confused. “What?”

His body would shift closer, blocking the light from behind you, his hand brushing your hip like a claim. “You were smiling when you came in. Was it with someone?”

And that was the pattern.

Every match. Every win. Every time you showed up just a little behind schedule or talked to someone for too long, he’d corner you after like the game didn’t end until you explained yourself. He’d never yell. He didn’t need to. The silence between you would do all the talking. His stare would press like weight on your chest, daring you to lie. And when you swore there was nothing going on, he’d sigh like the world was testing him, rest his forehead against yours, and whisper “Don’t make me feel crazy. I just love you too much. That’s all this is.”

You’d nod. Every time.

Because fighting him felt impossible. Because you still remembered how soft he used to be. Because you still wanted to believe this was love. Even when it started to feel like a cage.

It wasn’t sudden.

The shift crept in like a storm — slow, quiet, inevitable.

He started getting rougher with you, but never in a way you could explain out loud. Never in a way that would look like what it was. Not at first.

His kisses turned punishing — all teeth and desperation, like he was trying to brand you with his mouth. They came without warning; in stairwells, behind buildings, during parties when someone looked at you too long. His hand would grip your wrist, your jaw, your waist — and then he’d kiss you until your breath was gone, lips swollen, head spinning. You’d be left gasping when he pulled away, a thin thread of saliva clinging between you like proof that you were his.

Sometimes, he’d whisper it, too.

And he meant it. Every word.

“You’re mine.”

“Let them fucking look.”

“They’ll never touch you.”

You wore his jersey constantly, not just to his games, but everywhere. His name stretched bold across your back, a silent warning to everyone else. You stopped asking to wear anything else. He stopped giving you the choice.

Then there was the necklace — thin, heart-shaped, engraved with his initials. He gave it to you on your two-month anniversary with trembling fingers and a soft kiss to your throat. Back then, it felt sweet. Intimate. A promise.

But soon, it became a rule.

You weren’t allowed to take it off. Not even once. He noticed when you didn’t wear it — immediately. “What happened to the necklace? Don’t you want people to know you’re mine?”

And when you wore it — when you obeyed — he made sure everyone else noticed too.

Your throat was always marked up, your collarbone covered in bruises that bloomed in purples and reds. You stopped wearing low-cut shirts. Not because he told you not to but because you didn’t want people seeing what he left behind.

When he walked with you, his hand was always on you, hooked around your shoulder, gripping your waist, thumb stroking your hipbone beneath your shirt like he was staking a claim.

There was no such thing as personal space anymore. No such thing as subtle.

Every touch screamed mine.

You told yourself it was passion. That he just loved you too deeply, too fiercely. That this was what it meant to be adored by someone who couldn’t bear to lose you.

But deep down, when you were alone, when your lips were still tender and your skin ached where he’d held you too tight, you started to wonder if love was supposed to leave fingerprints.

Everyone around you told you that you were lucky.

And you’d laugh. You’d smile. Sometimes you'd even nod, pretending to blush, acting like his devotion made you feel cherished instead of chained. But it was fake. It was all fake.

“He’s so obsessed with you.”

“He never even looks at other girls.”

“You’re his whole world. You can see it in his eyes.”

Because they didn’t see what happened when the game ended and the crowd thinned out. They didn’t see the way he pulled you aside, pressing you into walls and whispering questions with clenched teeth and clenched fists. “Why’d you hug him for that long?”, “Were you trying to make me jealous?”, “You like being watched, don’t you?”

They didn’t see how you flinched when your phone buzzed, because if it wasn’t Ni-ki, it would become about Ni-ki. Didn’t matter if it was your friend, your classmate, your cousin — if it wasn’t him, it was a threat.

And yet, to everyone else, he was perfect. Devoted. The golden boy who always had an arm around you, who walked you to class, who kissed you like he couldn’t stand to be apart for even a second. They didn’t see that the kisses were possessive. That his hand on your waist was a tether, not a gesture. That every “I love you” came with a price.

You smiled through it. Laughed at the right moments. Told yourself it wasn’t that bad. You let them call you lucky. Because if they believed it... maybe you could too.

Because you didn’t feel lucky.

But every time someone said “I wish I had someone like him,”

you felt something in your chest tighten.

You tried to distance yourself.

Gently, at first — like stepping backward without making a sound. You started saying no to late-night calls. Told him you needed more time for school, for yourself. Said you were drowning in assignments. Group projects. Exams.

He didn’t like it, but in the beginning, it worked.

He’d grumble, maybe pout, but he let it go. For a few days, he stopped asking where you were every hour. He’d send quiet texts — “miss you”, “don’t overwork yourself” — and it almost felt normal again. Almost made you believe the worst was behind you.

But distance, to Ni-ki, wasn’t space. It was threat. It was rejection in disguise. And it didn’t take long for the quiet to turn dangerous.

He started showing up unannounced, unexpected. Waiting for you outside your class, even when he had practice. Leaning against the wall like he belonged there, like you owed him your time. You’d come out with a backpack heavy from study sessions and see him — arms crossed, cap pulled low, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Didn’t answer my call,” he’d say, before you could even open your mouth.

“I told you, I was studying,” you’d reply gently, trying to walk past him.

His hand would catch your wrist. Not hard. Not painful. Just enough to stop you. To remind you he was still there.

And after that, the distance didn’t help.

Because now, Ni-ki was everywhere.

He waited outside your classroom door like a shadow you couldn’t outrun. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, pretending to scroll through his phone but his eyes were always on you. Always tracking your every step. If you stopped to talk to someone, he’d look up immediately. Watch. Assess. Wait.

When you excused yourself to the bathroom, he followed.

He wouldn’t come inside, He’d wait just outside the door, standing still in the hallway while others passed by, until you came back out. Then he’d fall into step beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like breathing.

And when you hesitated for a second, he’d tilt his head, lips twitching into that soft, broken smile you used to love. “You don’t want a ride from me?”, “Did I do something wrong again?”

He started driving you to and from school, even when you didn’t ask.

“It’s not safe to walk alone.”, “I’m already going that way.”

Guilt was always his favorite kind of leash.

You wanted a moment to breathe. But Ni-ki didn’t want breathing room. He wanted control. He wanted to own every inhale you took. Every step you made without him. Every word you said that he didn’t hear first. He didn’t just want your love anymore — he wanted your heart. And no matter how many times you told him you were busy, or tired, or just needed time to yourself, he’d show up anyway. Like silence was a challenge. Like space was something he had to fill with his presence, with his voice, with his hands, with him.

He made sure you were at every one of his matches — unless, of course, you had something more important to do, in his opinion. If you said you had classwork or plans with friends, he’d get quiet. Distant. Cold. And then, sometime later, the questions would come.

“So your school comes before me now?”, “Is that guy from your group project more interesting than watching me play?”

You stopped feeling like his girlfriend, and started feeling like his hostage. A pretty thing he carried in his shadow. A girl with his name on her back and his hand on her throat, her smiles running thinner every day.

And still, no one noticed. Because from the outside, you were lucky. From the inside, you were drowning.

You started pulling away in small, careful ways. Texting less. Avoiding being alone with him. Keeping conversations short, cold. It was the only way you could keep yourself together. But Ni-ki noticed. And he didn’t get angry, not at first. That would’ve been easier to handle. Instead, he got hurt. Or at least, he acted like he did.

“You don’t talk to me like you used to,” he murmured one night, standing outside your apartment with his hands shoved into the pockets of his team jacket. “Did I do something? Just tell me. I’ll fix it. I always fix it, don’t I?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not without starting something you weren’t ready to finish.

So he stepped closer, eyes wide and pleading. “Do you not love me anymore?” he asked softly, like a child. “Is that what this is?”

Your stomach twisted.

He knew exactly what strings to pull.

“You said you’d be there,” he added, voice cracking just enough to make your chest ache. “You said we’d get through everything together. I believed you. I still do. But you...” He looked down, jaw trembling. “You barely even look at me anymore.”

You tried to breathe. To stay steady. “I’m tired, Ni-ki. That’s all.”

But he wasn’t listening. He was already unspooling — fast, desperate, drowning in a panic he was trying to dress up as devotion. “I can’t pitch right when we’re like this,” he said, stepping closer. “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking… what if you’re leaving? What if someone else is making you laugh the way I used to?” He grabbed your hand, holding it to his chest like a lifeline. “I need you. Don’t you get that? You’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart.”

You wanted to pull away, but he looked so shattered. So raw. And you hated yourself for the way your heart still ached when he looked at you like you were the only person in the world who could stitch him back together.

He leaned in, forehead brushing yours. His voice dropped to a whisper. “If you go… I don’t know what I’ll do. I really don’t.”

That was the moment you realized he wasn’t asking you to stay. He was guilting you into it.

Love didn’t sound like affection anymore. It sounded like obligation.

And still, you stayed.

Because you didn’t know how to leave something that once felt like everything. Because a part of you still wanted to believe the version of him you met under the bleachers — the boy who kissed you like you were the only thing that could quiet the storm in his chest.

But that boy was gone.

And the man standing in front of you wasn’t afraid of losing you. He was afraid of not owning you anymore.

The moment you knew you had to leave him had been building for weeks — thick, silent, suffocating like smoke before fire.

Ni-ki had just signed a deal with a pro league. It was everything he had ever wanted. The dream he’d bled for, cried for, crushed everything else underfoot to reach. And when he told you, he was glowing. Golden. Lit from the inside like the world had finally opened for him. He’d grabbed your hands, eyes wide with excitement. “We did it,” he’d breathed.

We.

Ironic, because that day, tucked into the back of your bag, was your own dream, an acceptance letter from a global company. It offered you a position most people your age could only dream about. High-level position. Out of the country. Out of reach.

Out of his world.

You wanted to tell him. You really did. But then he’d looked at you with that crooked, hopeful smile, the one he still wore like armor.“I’m so glad you’ll be by my side through all of this. I need you there. You’re my number one. Always.”

And just like that, the words died on your tongue. Because what he meant was: You’ll stay. You’ll follow. You’ll fit your life around mine.

And once upon a time, you promised you would. You told him you'd never leave. But you made that promise to a softer Ni-ki. The one who kissed your knuckles and whispered dreams into your skin. Not the version of him that watched you like a threat, clutched your waist like a chain, and called it love.

So, no. You didn’t feel guilty for wanting out.

The chance came sooner than expected — at some overstuffed graduation party in a villa owned by some rich kid you barely knew.

You stayed close. Of course you did. That was the expectation. Staying by Ni-ki’s side like always, sipping from a plastic cup of cheap, watered-down liquor while he laughed with mutual friends. His hand on your lower back, his laugh too loud, his fingers toying absently with the hem of your skirt like you were a lucky charm he’d pocketed.

You waited for a moment when his grip loosened, his attention distracted by a story someone was shouting over the music. You gave him a soft excuse — “Gonna get some air” — and he barely nodded, too lost in his drink to notice the shift in your tone.

The breeze was cool against your flushed skin, and for a moment, you breathed. For yourself.

Then came the guy.

You didn’t recognize him — older, maybe someone’s college-aged cousin. Tall, a little tipsy, smile confident and lazy as he leaned against the railing beside you. “Didn’t think someone like you would be out here all alone,” he said, slurring only slightly. “That guy you were with is a little busy getting shitfaced, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You just glanced out at the pool below, not even looking at him. Disinterest plain on your face. You didn’t even want the attention. Not from anyone.

But he kept talking.

“Can’t blame him, though,” he went on, stepping a little closer. “You’re kind of a prize, aren’t you? Standing out here looking like that…” He gave you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Bet you’re tired of being dragged around. Bet you could use someone who actually sees you.”

You turned to leave. That should’ve been the end of it.

But then his hand moved.

Just a small motion — a fingers-reaching-out kind of thing, aiming for your arm.

He didn’t get the chance to touch you. Because before his hand could even make contact, another hand snatched his wrist mid-air. Tight.

You both froze.

And when you looked up — your heart sinking fast — Ni-ki was standing there.

Silent. Pale. Seething.

His jaw was clenched, eyes unreadable, locked onto the guy like he’d just watched him commit a crime. His grip on the guy’s arm looked brutal — knuckles white, tendons straining, like he had to physically hold himself back from doing worse.

The guy blinked, confused and starting to sober up. “The fuck are you doing?” he asked, trying to yank his arm free.

Ni-ki didn’t answer.

He just punched him.

Fast, vicious, and without warning, his fist connected hard with the guy’s jaw, sending him stumbling back into the railing, dazed. You gasped — too stunned to move, the cup slipping from your fingers and hitting the floor with a dull clack.

“Ni-ki, stop!” you shouted, reaching for him, but it was already too late.

The guy swung back, half-blind and half-drunk, and in seconds they were on each other — fists flying, limbs colliding and a blur of rage. People were yelling. Someone dropped their drink. The music kept going like nothing happened.

You barely registered the crowd that started gathering. All you could see was Ni-ki — his face twisted, eyes wild, mouth set in a furious snarl as he shoved the guy down, pinning him, punching again. And again.

Too much.

You stood frozen as fists flew, as grunts turned into snarls, as Ni-ki's fists landed again and again — blind with rage, not even registering the damage he was doing. The other guy tried to fight back, but Ni-ki was relentless, all adrenaline and fury, a storm that had been building for months finally tearing loose.

It took two people — maybe three — to finally drag them apart.

Both of them were a mess — blood streaked across their shirts, knuckles raw and faces bruised. The room was spinning with whispers, gasps, the sound of someone filming on their phone.

And then, the guy wiped his mouth and laughed — low and bitter and mean. “You’re fucking psycho,” he spat, glaring at Ni-ki. Then his eyes cut to you. “You letting him treat you like that, princess? Or are you just another slut who likes the attention?”

The word hit like a slap.

Your heart stopped.

And in a blink — before anyone could react — Ni-ki snapped.

He tore away from the guys holding him, shrugging them off like they were paper, his eyes wild with something unhinged.

“Say that again,” he growled, voice shaking with rage.

“Man, back the fuck off—”

But Ni-ki didn’t back off.

He lunged.

Fists flew again, wilder this time — uncontrolled, messy. Not a fight anymore, but something primal. He tackled the guy to the ground, shouting, screaming, fists slamming down. You could barely make out the words — something about respect, about you, about never letting anyone speak to you like that.

It was too much.

Too loud. Too violent. Too far.

People scrambled around you, shouting for someone to stop him, to call police, to get help. But you just stood there, eyes wide, throat tight, watching the boy you once kissed under the bleachers become someone you didn’t recognize.

People screamed. Not just at Ni-ki now, but at each other — panicked voices, phones in hands, someone calling 911, someone crying. You couldn’t hear any of it clearly. It was like you were underwater, watching it all through glass.

It took five people to pull him off.

Five bodies—teammates, strangers, friends—grappling him off the bloodied figure beneath him, whose face was now barely recognizable. The guy didn’t even fight back anymore. Just groaned in pain, one arm twitching weakly, the other cradled against his chest.

Ni-ki was still snarling, spitting curses, trying to shake them off like an animal backed into a cage.

And you just… stood there, staring at the wreckage of the boy you once thought you’d grow old with.

The sirens came next. Red and blue lights splashing across the villa walls, cutting through the music that someone had finally managed to kill. You didn’t speak. You didn’t follow.

You just watched as the guy — barely conscious, nose shattered, blood soaking through his shirt was lifted onto a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance.

He’d live. But he’d carry the scars.

Then came the police.

Ni-ki didn’t run. He didn’t argue. He just stood there, jaw clenched, still breathing hard, red staining his fists and shirt, and let them cuff him. His lip was split. His eye already darkening. And as they pulled him past the crowd, he looked at you.

Not angry. Not pleading.

Just broken.

You didn’t say a word.

It never made the news.

No articles. No headlines. No scandal.

The pro league Ni-ki had signed with stepped in before the blood had even dried. Lawyers swept in, statements were buried, NDAs signed. The boy? Paid off. Silenced.

They couldn’t afford a scandal tied to their newest star.

But the story didn’t go away for you. Because you were there. Because you knew what that silence cost. Because you couldn’t scrub the sound of fists from your ears, the look in his eyes, the way you’d stopped recognizing his love long before the cuffs ever closed around his wrists.

“Just a misunderstanding.”

“Boys will be boys.”

“Emotions ran high after graduation.”

Ni-ki was free within two days. No charges. No consequences.

Well — He lost you.

And that was the consequence that mattered most.

You didn’t answer his calls. Not the ones that came in late at night from unfamiliar numbers. Not the voicemails, shaky and pleading, that begged you to just “talk to him.”

You blocked him. Everywhere. And then you erased him. Photos, playlists, half-written notes on your phone. That one hoodie he made you wear when it got cold after practice. All of it — gone. You didn’t cry when you packed it up. You didn’t hesitate. Because by the time your fingers closed over the necklace, you realized you hadn’t felt like yourself in a long time.

You weren’t his girl anymore.

You were just you.

But you needed to say something. Not for him but for yourself.

So you wrote a letter. The kind you could never say out loud. A quiet, shaking truth spilled out onto lined paper at 3AM, the last remnants of what had once been love now bleeding out in ink:

I don’t know who you are anymore, Ni-ki. I don’t know when things changed, or when I stopped feeling safe with you, but I do know this — I tried. I tried so hard to hold on to the version of you I first loved. The boy with stars in his eyes and dirt on his jersey. The one who kissed me soft and laughed with his whole chest. But that boy disappeared. And what’s left is someone I don’t recognize, someone I’m afraid of. I’m leaving. For good. I didn’t tell you because I knew you wouldn’t let me go. And I’m done asking for permission to breathe. This is me choosing myself for the first time in too long. And if there’s anything left in you that still cares for me, even a little. Let me go. Goodbye, Ni-ki.

You folded the letter. Slipped it into an envelope.

Inside his mailbox, you placed the letter, the crumpled jersey — the one you used to wear proudly like armor — and the necklace he gave you on your second month together. The one that had felt like a promise. Now a collar, a chain.

And then you left. Without ceremony. Without goodbye. You took your suitcase, your silence, and your second chance, and you left.

The airport was a blur. The terminal loud. The lights too bright. But your lungs felt clear for the first time in years. No more waiting at locker rooms. No more bruises dressed as kisses. No more “I’m sorry”s that sounded like threats. Just you. And a future you didn’t have to earn by staying small.

Somewhere, Ni-ki would open that mailbox. He would read those words. He would hold the necklace. But you wouldn’t be there. And for once, he wouldn’t know where to find you.

You made it.

The company you’d taken the leap for? You thrived there. Climbed fast. Faster than anyone expected. The office became your world with sleek glass windows, buzzing deadlines, coffee-fueled ambition. People respected you. Listened when you spoke. Your name meant something in boardrooms and business deals.

You had become what they called a career woman. Sharp. Independent. Untouchable. You filled your life with projects and flights and noise. You lived on your own terms. No more checking your phone every ten minutes. No more needing permission to exist. The mental chains were gone, rusted remnants of a past you refused to wear.

But love? You never really found your way back there. You tried. God, you tried. There were dates. Setups. Coffee catch-ups that turned into dinners, into maybe’s, into almosts. And they were all… fine. Nice, even. But none of them moved you. None of them made your chest ache the way his name once did. None of them were Ni-ki.

None of them looked at you like you were their oxygen. And maybe that was the problem.

Eventually, you stopped pretending. You poured yourself into work instead. Pushed the idea of romance to the edges of your life, somewhere between vacation days and unread emails. People called you focused. Driven. Strong. But they didn’t see the way your fingers paused on the remote every time his name came on TV.

Because he made it too.

He was different now. Older. Sharper. Still beautiful in that reckless, untouchable way. You’d watch him pitch, watch the way his jaw set before each throw, the way he exhaled like it was all still life or death.

Riki Nishimura. Pro league star. A face you couldn’t avoid if you tried.

Interviews. Highlight reels. Jerseys sold out. His name, once inked across your back in high school, now lit up on stadium scoreboards across the country. And sometimes, late at night, you’d catch a game playing on the sports channel, the commentators’ voices drowned out by the hum of your thoughts and you’d just… watch.

And you never changed the station.

Because ever since the first time you’d spotted Ni-ki on the TV — all bright stadium lights and sharp focus, the crowd chanting his name — there was one thing you couldn’t unsee.

The necklace.

That fucking necklace.

The one you left in his mailbox the day you walked away from him, folded next to the letter that said goodbye.

He wore it. Not under his jersey. Not tucked away. Over it. Always visible. Bold. Meaningful. And before every pitch, without fail he would kiss it. A quick, subtle gesture that to anyone else might have looked like superstition, a silly habit from high school. But you knew better. You knew it was intentional. You knew exactly what it meant. Because it wasn’t just habit. It wasn’t luck. It was you.

And every time his lips touched that necklace, just before he drew back and hurled the ball across the plate, he stared straight into the camera. Like he knew you were watching. Like he was aiming right at you. It made you stiffen. Every. Single. Time.

You’d be halfway through writing an email, sipping cold coffee on your couch, and the game would be on in the background — his game — and then you’d see it.

The way he stood on the mound, chest rising slow. The way his fingers brushed the chain. The way his eyes, those same eyes that once undressed your soul flicked up as he kissed the charm and held it there for a beat longer than necessary.

You’d feel it deep in your chest. That ache. Not longing. Not guilt. Just… that sharp, sick pull of memory. Of the boy who ruined you still holding onto something you gave back.

And somehow, despite everything, part of you still watched. Because he still made you feel like a ghost haunting your own life.

You wanted to scream at the screen. You wanted to throw the remote.

You wanted him to let it go — let you go. But he didn’t. Not then. Not ever. Because Ni-ki, even now, with fame stitched into his skin and the world chanting his name, still couldn’t let go of the only thing he ever thought was truly his.

A weekend. A gift. A smile. Nothing more.

You packed light. Told no one, not even your coworkers, that you were flying home. You didn’t post about it. You didn’t check the local news, or his team’s schedule.

But still… there was a part of you that hoped. A quiet, treacherous part. That maybe he was still there.That maybe he hadn’t left yet.

You didn’t say it out loud. Not even in your own head. But when the cab rolled past the old gas station he used to stop at after practice, you stared too long out the window. When you passed the high school baseball field, your chest went tight, not from nostalgia, but from recognition.

You wondered if he still trained there. You wondered if he still stood on the mound after dark, pitching into nothing, haunted by ghosts only he could name. You wondered — for just a breath — if he ever looked into the crowd and imagined you sitting there again. Because part of you wanted to believe he remembered everything.

No.

You shook the thought from your head, sharp and fast, like a reflex.

You weren’t here to hope. You weren’t here to dream.

You were here for your friend — for one night, one celebration, one brief step back into a place you used to know. That was it. There were no fantasies waiting to unfold, no old wounds waiting to be reopened. You were older now. Wiser. Sharper. You had carved a life without him, one made of clean edges, firm boundaries, and no more “what if”s.

So no, you told yourself as you walked up the front steps of the party — you weren’t here for him. And you wouldn’t look for him. You wouldn’t check every street, every shadow in the corner of your eye for his face. You wouldn’t scan the crowd for someone taller than memory, broader in the shoulders, eyes darker than they used to be.

You wouldn’t ask anyone if he was still in town. You wouldn’t go near the field. You wouldn’t stay longer than the weekend. You would laugh. Toast your friend. Smile like someone untouched by old ghosts. And then you’d leave — just as quietly as you came.

You had to.

Because you knew what Ni-ki did to you. And you weren’t sure you’d survive another kind of love from him.

So you fixed your expression, smoothed down your clothes, and stepped inside.

And for a while it was okay.

Better than okay, even.

You had fun. Real fun. Reuniting with people you hadn’t seen in years, laughing over old stories, clinking drinks together under string lights.

You were careful. You kept the conversation light — stories, travel, career talk. You danced around any questions that flirted too close to the subject of relationships. You smiled when someone asked if you were seeing anyone, gave a noncommittal shrug, and redirected the conversation.

No one brought him up. No one said his name. And you allowed yourself to relax.

Which was a mistake.

Because you had taken your guard down, just enough. Enough to let a friend pull you in for a picture, arms around each other, mid-laugh. A harmless moment. A beautiful one, even. And you hadn’t thought twice about it.

But they posted it.

Tagged you.

You didn’t even notice until hours later, when you stepped outside for air, your chest light with the kind of buzz that only alcohol brought on.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. A notification.

[you’ve been tagged in a photo]

You opened it without thinking.

The photo was harmless. Beautiful, even. A version of you that looked happy. Present. Alive. You scrolled through the likes — a habit you didn’t know you still had. And then you saw it.

Riki Nishimura.

Your thumb froze mid-scroll.

That couldn’t be right.

But there it was, clear as day, his name sitting quietly among the others who liked the photo of you. And then — as if the universe couldn’t help itself — another notification dropped:

Riki Nishimura (@rikinishimura) has requested to follow you.

Your stomach dropped.

You stared at the screen like it had betrayed you. Like your friend had. Like you had — for lowering your walls for even a second.

“Oh no,” you whispered.

Because this wasn’t a coincidence. This wasn’t passive.

He saw you.

And now, he wanted in.

You didn’t hesitate.

You turned your phone off. Fast. Like it might explode in your hand if you looked at it any longer.

You then slipped back inside the house, weaving through the crowd, pretending to get another drink until you made it to the front door. You left your half-finished cup behind, didn’t even say goodbye.

You weren’t going to overstay your welcome and you definitely weren’t going to wait around in case he decided to make an appearance. Because if he had seen the post — liked it that fast, found your private profile that fast, then he could easily find the rest. Find you.

You didn’t want to find out how far he’d go now.

You got in your car and drove. Fast. Silent. Knuckles white around the steering wheel. The streets of your hometown passed in a blur. Too familiar. Too dangerous. By the time you pulled into your parents’ driveway, your heart was still hammering. But luckily — blessedly — the house was empty. Your parents were out of town for the weekend, something about a road trip they’d been planning for months. You didn’t remember the details.

All you knew was: you had the house to yourself.

You locked the doors. Twice.

You took a shower — water too hot, too fast, like it could wash off the way your skin suddenly itched with awareness. Like you could scrub away his name.

You didn’t cry, you just got out, dried off, and curled up in a blanket with a movie playing in the background. Something light. Meaningless. Something with no romance, no tension, no eyes that lingered too long.

You tried to breathe. But every so often, your eyes flicked to the corner of the room. To your phone. Still dark. Still silent. And even though you told yourself not to, you wondered if he was already looking for you.

You curled deeper into the couch, the movie flickering across the screen in bursts of color you weren’t really seeing.

But your mind wouldn't stay still.

You told yourself he couldn’t know where you were. That a like and a follow request weren’t a threat. That he wouldn’t show up. But your body remembered something your mind didn’t want to say out loud.

It hit you like a whisper.

A flash of cotton candy and laughter. The blaring music of cheap rides and blinking carnival lights.

You were still with Ni-ki back then. It was supposed to be a carefree night. A carnival had rolled into town, the kind that took over the whole parking lot by the mall. You hadn’t planned on going, but a friend had begged, and you’d needed a break, just one night to yourself.

You hadn’t told him.

Not because you wanted to hide, but because your phone had died halfway through the afternoon, and you figured it could wait. Just one night. A few hours. He had practice. He was busy.

He’d be fine.

But you should’ve known better.

You didn’t see him at first. You were in line for the ferris wheel, chatting with your friend, head tilted back as the lights spun overhead.

Then you felt a hand curling gently around your elbow. You turned and saw him standing there, hoodie pulled low, jaw tight. Not angry. Just... calm. That kind of calm that came right before something cracked.

“I’ve been calling you.”

You held up your phone like it was a shield. “It died. I was gonna—”

“Who are they?” he asked, eyes flicking to the guy beside you — your friend’s cousin. He hadn’t even said two words to you.

“They’re just—” you started, already raising your hands in defense.

“You didn’t think to tell me?” he interrupted, voice sharp but low, his eyes flicking only once to your friend beside you, and then back to you like they were the threat and you were the betrayal. “You didn’t think I’d worry?” he continued, tone cooling like he was reigning himself in. “You just disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear,” you said, trying to laugh it off. Trying to reach for his hand, to calm him the way you always did. “My phone died. I was going to text you when I got—”

But he didn’t take your hand. Instead, he stepped closer, close enough that your breath caught, and rested his hand on the small of your back — not like a boyfriend pulling you in, but like a handler claiming what was his. “I looked at your location,” he said flatly.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“You forgot to turn it off.”

And that was how he’d found you.

No call. No message. No warning. Just your dot on his map, blinking like a target. He’d tracked you like it was natural. Like it was his right.

You felt the unease slither into your chest, but you pushed it down. You told yourself it was sweet. That he cared. That he was just scared. So you tried to soothe him again — voice soft, placating. “Ni-ki, it was just an hour. I wasn’t trying to hide—”

His lips dipped to your ear before you could finish, breath warm, tone like velvet pulled over a blade.

“You really disappointed me tonight.”

You froze.

“You know I don’t like not knowing where you are,” he whispered, quiet enough that your friends wouldn’t hear over the carnival noise. “You know what it does to me.” His hand at your back flexed slightly. “You say you love me,” he continued, still murmuring, “but then you go running around like I don’t exist. Like I’m just some guy you can forget.”

You swallowed. Hard. Eyes on the crowd. On your friends, oblivious. “I didn’t forget you,” you whispered back, voice tight. “You know I don’t.”

“Then act like it,” he said, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His were steady. Unblinking.

And you nodded. Like always. Because what else could you do?

He kissed your cheek after that — soft, sweet, like none of it had happened and slipped his fingers into yours.

He walked you to his car. You didn’t say goodbye to your friends. He said you were tired. That you had somewhere to be.

And later that night, you told yourself it was love. That it was just him loving you too much. That maybe… this was just what forever looked like.

You lay in his bed, wrapped in his arms, his breath even against the back of your neck, and you tried to drown out the part of you that felt small. You tried to convince yourself that needing space was selfish. That being followed was protective. That love meant bending. That boundaries were optional when someone cared enough to break them for you.

But now — years later, curled beneath a blanket with a long-forgotten movie flickering in the dark you saw it for what it really was.

That night should have been a red flag. A screaming, blood-colored warning sign. Because love shouldn't feel like surveillance. Love shouldn’t come with GPS coordinates. Love shouldn’t feel like guilt when you forget to text back. Love shouldn’t make you flinch when you laugh too long with someone else.

You swallowed, throat dry as the memory burned slow through your chest, filling all the places you still hadn’t cleaned out.

It took a long time before your body let go, before the weight of exhaustion finally dragged you down. You don’t know how long you were asleep when the doorbell ripped through the silence.

Rapid. Aggressive. Too many times in a row.

You bolted upright, heart already pounding in your throat. Your skin prickled with cold sweat, chest tight as your mind tried to catch up with reality. You blinked at the old alarm clock on the bedside table, squinting through the darkness.

2:47 AM.

You groaned, rubbing your eyes, your head thick and fuzzy with fatigue and leftover tension. Your body moved on autopilot, legs heavy as you stumbled downstairs in the dark, each step creaking louder than you remembered. At first, you didn’t open the door. You just peered through the peephole.

No one.

The porch light cast eerie shadows on the sidewalk, the empty driveway, the unmoved welcome mat.

Nothing.

Still, something itched at the back of your neck. You crept over to the kitchen and, with slow fingers, peeled back the curtain just enough to peek out the window.

Still nothing.

No car. No silhouette. Just silence.

You let out a slow breath. Maybe a prank. A drunk kid. Someone at the wrong house. You hoped. But something made you open the door anyway. Just a crack, enough to glance at the porch, to check if anything had been left for your parents.

And that’s when it happened.

A hand snatched the door handle from the other side.

You gasped as it was ripped from your grasp, the door yanked open fully with a force that sent your heart straight into your throat.

And standing there — tall, broad, shadowed under the porch light — was Ni-ki.

His face wasn’t furious. It was desperate.

Red-rimmed eyes locked onto yours like they’d been searching for hours. His hair was a mess — flattened in places like he’d been tugging at it, the way he used to do when he couldn’t calm down. His face looked thinner, more hollow. And he was still in uniform. His baseball uniform. Dirt and grass smeared across the white fabric, clinging to his legs, streaked across his chest like he hadn’t changed, hadn’t showered, hadn’t done anything except get in the car and drive straight here.

His cleats were still on — muddy, scuffed, grinding into your parents’ porch, dirtying up the ground with every trembling step forward.

He looked like he hadn’t slept. Like he hadn’t eaten. Like he hadn’t breathed properly since he saw your face again. And he was staring at you like you were the only thing holding him upright.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All the air in the world seemed to tunnel between your ribs, caught just beneath your lungs.

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out at first.

Then, finally, a whisper.

“Are you really here?”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t trust your voice. You just gave the smallest nod, a barely-there confirmation that, yes, you were standing in front of him. That you existed. That he hadn’t hallucinated the photo. That you were real. But even as you nodded, your fingers were slowly curling toward the edge of the door — toward the handle.

You were trying to figure out how fast you could grab it. How quickly you could slam the door before he could stop you. Before he could reach you.

But it was like he read your thoughts.

His body jerked forward suddenly, his legs trembled as he stepped past the threshold, both hands gripping the sides of the doorway like he couldn’t keep himself upright. Like he’d collapse if he let go. His eyes were glossy. Wide. Brimming with tears that clung to his lashes like they had nowhere else to go. And then the words came. Rushed. Tumbling. Blurred around the edges with panic and pain.

“I missed you,” he gasped, like the words had been clawing their way out of his throat for years. “I missed you so fucking much I thought I was going insane.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. He was unraveling right in front of you.

“Since you left—” he choked, “—I haven’t slept right. Haven’t breathed right. I can’t focus when you’re not there. I tried everything. Therapy, distractions, practice, God—” He wiped at his face, his palm streaked with dirt. “I’d go out on the field and see your face in the crowd even when I knew you weren’t there.” His voice cracked harder, falling apart. “I thought maybe if I kept playing, if I kept winning, it would get easier.” He swallowed, and this time when he looked at you, there was something terrifyingly honest in his eyes. “And I tried to forget. I swear I tried. I tried everything,” he said, wiping at his eyes, smearing the tears across his cheeks. “But nothing worked. Not the parties. Not the interviews. Not even when the headlines said I made it.”

He looked up at you then and something behind his eyes shattered. “I only stopped thinking about you when I started taking pills.”

You swore your heart stopped.

“I figured it out. That was the trick,” he said, with a hollow laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s when I saw you again. In dreams. In hallucinations. You’d talk to me. Smile. Tell me it was okay. Tell me you still loved me. Even if it wasn’t real, it was better than nothing.”

You stared at him, throat tight, fingers still frozen near the door.

He took one final step in, just inside. Not touching you. But closer.

“So I kept taking them,” he whispered. “Even when they told me to stop. Even when my hands started shaking before every game. Because seeing you felt better than being clean and feeling nothing.” And finally, his voice broke into something soft and raw and terrifyingly small. “Without you… I’m just gone.”

You stood there, jaw trembling, every breath shallow, every part of you aching to say something. But nothing came out right. “Ni-ki,” you said, voice barely a whisper, “you can’t—this isn’t—” Your throat closed. You shook your head, blinking fast, heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. Every word tangled before it could even leave your lips. “You shouldn’t be here,” you tried again. “You can’t just show up like this, you—this is not okay, Ni-ki.”

But he didn’t respond. He just watched you. Hung on to every word like it was oxygen, as if even your rejection was better than silence.

“Please just stop,” you murmured. “You need to go. You need to—I can’t do this with you again.”

And before you realized it, you were backing up.One slow step at a time. And he followed. Eyes locked on yours. No words. No threat.

Just… devotion. Twisted and heavy and far too close.

But he kept moving with you, silent, his cleats dragging dirt into the hallway, scuffing the floorboards. His body was trembling, soaked in sweat, in desperation, in memory.

“I’m not the girl you remember,” you said, almost frantic now, backing through the kitchen, voice shaking. “I’m not her anymore. I left. I left for a reason. You can’t show up like this—like it’s still your right to find me, to follow me, to—” Your heel caught on the corner of the carpet and you stumbled. Caught yourself on the kitchen counter, fingers clutching the edge like it might save you.

And still, he followed. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t raise his voice. He just kept coming.

“I’m not yours,” you said, louder now, trying to force the words out before you lost your nerve. “I’m not yours, Ni-ki. Not anymore. You don’t own me. You never did.”

And still, he didn’t stop. He was trailing behind you like gravity. Like you were the center of something he couldn’t escape. And it was all too quiet. That was the worst part — the silence. The way he didn’t argue. Didn’t yell. Just watched you unravel. And somehow, that was more terrifying than if he had screamed. Because you didn’t know what he was going to do next. You didn’t know what he wanted. Only that he was here. And he wouldn’t stop following you.

Your back hit the side of the dining table. You flinched, steadying yourself with trembling hands, heart stuttering wildly behind your ribs. You stared at the boy you once loved, the man he’d become, and the empty space inside him that looked a lot like you. “Ni-ki,” you breathed, “please—just stop.”

He didn’t.

You backed around the table slowly, feet scuffing against the hardwood, trying to keep something — anything — between you. “This—this isn’t love,” you said, voice cracking now, trying to stay steady, to stay in control. “Whatever this is, it’s not what we used to have. It’s not healthy, and it never was.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t answer. Just kept following. Silent. Breath uneven. Shoulders tense. Like your words weren’t even registering or like he’d already decided they didn’t matter.

You reached the other side of the kitchen, the cool edge of the counter brushing your back. You could feel yourself trembling now. Fully. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, voice rising. “I’m sorry for the way things ended. I’m sorry for the road you went down. I’m sorry you hurt. But this? This is not my fault anymore.”

Still, he said nothing. Still, he kept walking. Step by step. Quiet. Purposeful.

“Say something!” you snapped, desperation cracking out of you like thunder. “Anything. Tell me why you’re here. Tell me why you think this is okay. Tell me what you want—just talk to me, Ni-ki!”

But he didn’t. He just stared at you like you were slipping further away, like you were glass and he didn’t know how to hold you without shattering something. And every time you moved, he matched your pace.

You couldn’t take it anymore. With your heart in your throat and your limbs moving faster than thought, you turned and ran.

Up the stairs. Two at a time. You heard him behind you, footsteps heavy, breathing ragged as he followed without hesitation. You didn’t stop to look back. You didn’t call his name. You just ran the way you should have years ago.

You reached your bedroom, heart pounding, and slammed your hand against the door to shut it but before it even closed halfway, his hand caught it.

You gasped — a strangled sound caught between fear and disbelief as Ni-ki shoved it open, the force of it sending you stumbling backward.

You screamed. Loud. Raw.

It tore from your throat as you backed away, palms out, as if that would stop him. But he was already inside. Already past the door. Already in your space — again.

“Get out!” you cried, voice splintering. “Get out!”

But he was already inside. Breathing hard. Eyes wide. His whole body shaking as he stepped into your space like he couldn’t bear to stay away. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice cracking open, “I love you. I still love you. I never stopped. You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted—the only one I could ever want.”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes, but he kept going, his voice rising, trembling.

“I wake up in the middle of the night and I can still feel your hands on me. I swear to God, I can still smell you sometimes—like you’re right there, right beside me.” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now, unraveling in front of you. “I’ve tried everything. Everything, baby. But no one is you. No one even comes close. I see other people and I feel nothing. I touch them and it makes me sick.”

You pressed yourself farther away as he came closer.

“I don’t want anyone else. I don’t care how long it’s been. I just want you. Your voice, your skin, your laugh... I want to taste your lips again, I want to feel you again. Please.”

And then... his tone shifted. Softer. Slower. Dangerous in its sweetness.

“You said you loved me. You said forever. You promised.”

You swallowed.

“That wasn’t—”

“You promised,” he said again, stepping closer, eyes narrowing in conviction. Like he truly believed your past bound you to him. Like your old words still had chains around them.

“You left,” he whispered, voice trembling. “And I let you go once. I didn’t chase you. Not the way I wanted to. I respected your space.”

You stared at him.

Respected?

“I let you have your little career,” he said with a broken smile, too wide, too thin. “But tell me the truth... are you really happy without me?” You opened your mouth, but he kept talking, his words picking up speed again, wrapping around your ribs.

“No one will love you like I do. I know that. You know that! You felt it. I’d give you everything. And you’d throw it away for what? A job? A clean break?”

Your breath came in short, frantic gasps now, body screaming for an exit, for space, for him to stop.

“But maybe,” he murmured, “you don’t care anymore. Maybe you forgot what we had. Maybe you just threw it all away—like it meant nothing.”

You shook your head quickly, voice caught in your throat.

He moved closer, and your body flinched before you could stop it. “I would’ve burned the world for you,” he said, heartbreak bleeding into resentment now. “And all I ever wanted was for you to stay.” His voice broke again, somewhere between a sob and a snarl. “So tell me baby,” he said, voice low, lips trembling, “how was I supposed to survive you leaving?”

Your breath shuddered in your chest, hands raised instinctively as if that would shield you from the storm rising in his eyes. “I’m not responsible for your survival, Ni-ki!” you shouted, your voice shaking but firm. “I loved you. I gave you everything, but you twisted it! You crushed it! And then you blamed me when it broke!”

Something behind his eyes snapped.

And then—he moved.

Fast.

You barely had time to react before he grabbed your arms, too tightly, and crowded you to the wall. You gasped, your back hitting the plaster with a dull thud. His face was inches from yours, eyes wild, breath ragged. You could feel the tremble in his hands, the erratic thrum of his pulse — too fast, too hard, too close.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered, shaking his head like a child being told their favorite dream wasn’t real. “Don’t say that like I didn’t try. Like I wanted to lose you.”

You opened your mouth, but your words caught. Because just as fast as he’d snapped — he collapsed.

His grip loosened.

And then, suddenly, he dropped.

Down to his knees.

Arms wrapping tight around your hips, his forehead pressing against your thighs, shoulders shaking violently as the sobs tore out of him. “Please—” he choked, voice muffled against the soft cotton of your pajama pants. “Please don’t push me away. Please—just for a second. I can’t—I can’t be without you.”

You stood frozen.

His arms clung like a vice around your waist, his body folding in on itself, rocking as the tears came hard and fast — ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that soaked through the fabric where his face was buried. “Please,” he cried again. “I’ll fix it. I’ll do better. I’ll be better. Just—don’t leave again. I swear I can’t go through it twice. I can’t—” His words tangled, cut off by a broken breath. His grip tightened, desperate, fingers curling into the fabric like you were a lifeline. “I wake up every night reaching for you,” he choked out. “Do you know how empty I’ve been? How hollow everything feels without you in it?”

You stared down at him, paralyzed.

This wasn’t the confident, golden boy on magazine covers. Not the rising star who kissed cameras and made stadiums scream. This was a boy broken by his own obsession. Drenched in sweat and dirt and grief, clinging to you like something he’d been chasing for far too long.

His shoulders shook as he sobbed against you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, muffling apologies, pleas, half-spoken fragments of the version of you he still carried in his head. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered through the fabric. “I don’t know how to be without you. I don’t want to.”

You hesitated. Then, slowly you placed your hands on his arms. “Ni-ki…” you said softly. “Let go.”

He didn’t. Not at first. His grip only twitched — reluctant, scared.

But eventually, you pushed a little firmer, easing him back.

And he let go.

Just enough to fall backward onto his heels, blinking up at you like you’d stolen the ground from beneath him. His face was blotchy, streaked with tears, bottom lip trembling like a kid about to be left behind.

You were taken aback by the sight. By how small he looked. How pathetic.

You didn’t say anything. And that silence — that tiny pause — was all it took.

Suddenly, he surged up, fast and unsteady, arms reaching before your voice could catch up. His hand gripped the back of your neck, pulling you in too fast.

And suddenly his mouth was on yours, just as his other arm slid around your waist, under your pajama top, fingertips pressing against the small of your back like they remembered the map of your body by instinct.

You opened your mouth to protest but that only deepened the kiss.

He kissed you like he was drowning. Like he believed if he clung hard enough, kissed deep enough, you’d come back.

And worse, your body responded. Your fingers, traitorous and aching, clenched into the fabric of his jersey, tugging him closer as your lips moved with his — automatic, confused, familiar.

It was heat and memory. Hunger and heartbreak. Years of silence crashing together in a moment you hadn’t meant to create.

And eventually — breathless, shaken — you both pulled back. Just far enough to breathe. Just far enough to feel it.

His forehead rested lightly against yours, his breath spilling into your mouth, warm and shaky. Your lips brushed with every inhale, every exhale — like even air had become too intimate now, shared and stolen between you.

You couldn’t think. Could barely blink. Your heart was pounding, your hands still gripping his shirt like he was the last real thing you had.

His eyes searched yours — red, glassy, wrecked — and he whispered your name like a prayer, like an apology, like a need.

And somehow, before you even realized what you were doing, you kissed him again. Slower, this time. Softer. Like maybe if you closed your eyes, you could pretend none of the pain had happened. Like you could rewind the world to a version of him you once trusted.

He exhaled shakily into your mouth, his hands fisting the back of your pajama top, like he didn’t know how to let go even if he wanted to.

The kiss deepened, again, on instinct. Because your body still remembered. Because your heart still ached.

Somewhere along the way, words stopped working. You weren’t sure what was said. Only that eventually… you let him stay.

He showered. You gave him a clean set of clothes — old ones, left behind from before. They still fit. Too well.

He didn’t speak much after. Just moved slowly, like he was afraid any wrong word would make you disappear again. When he finally crawled into your bed, it wasn’t with the same fire he’d arrived with.

It was quiet. Fragile. Desperate in a new way.

He laid beside you, then gradually shifted until his head rested on your stomach, arms circling your waist like a shield. Like if he held on tight enough, the nightmares would stay away.

You didn’t sleep right away.

One hand reached for his hair, almost without thought. Fingers brushed gently through the damp strands, and he leaned into the touch like muscle memory. The steady weight of him against you was too familiar.

But for a moment, just one…

You let yourself breathe.

And sometime after, sleep found you both.

Morning came too bright.

You woke to his weight still wrapped around you, his breathing heavy and even. There was something almost childlike in it, how tightly he clung, how peaceful he looked, like the storm hadn’t touched him in his sleep.

You slid out carefully, moving slow enough not to wake him, padding quietly down the stairs.

The television was on from the night before, volume low. You moved to shut it off until something on the screen made your fingers freeze.

Breaking Sports Update: Nishimura Riki Abandons Match Mid-Game

Your heart dropped.

You turned up the volume.

The announcer’s voice was calm, but laced with speculation.

“In a shocking turn of events during last night’s game, rising pitcher Riki Nishimura left the field during a seventh-inning break and never returned. Sources confirm he left the bench and disappeared before the inning resumed. The team ultimately suffered a loss without their star player, sparking controversy and concern about his current condition.”

You sat down slowly.

The pieces clicked together like glass shattering in reverse.

He hadn’t just shown up at your door in uniform out of habit or stubbornness.

He’d walked off the field. He left — in the middle of everything.

Just to find you.

And his team… lost.

You stared at the screen, numb. Suddenly the way he looked last night made sense. He hadn’t even changed. He’d just run.

Straight off the mound. Straight to you.

Bonus:

The break started the way it always did, sweat dripping from his temples as he strode back to the dugout, teammates clapping his back, someone tossing him his water bottle. His chest heaved with every breath, the stadium buzzing with lights and noise and pressure.

He grabbed the bottle and tilted it back like it was air, water spilling over his lips as he drank greedily. His throat was dry. His hands were shaking.

Someone was talking. The manager, maybe. Strategies. Signals. Bullshit.

Ni-ki wasn’t listening.

He sat down, elbows on his knees, water bottle rolling to the side as he pulled out his phone, a habit he wasn’t even supposed to have during games, but no one ever stopped him.

He scrolled. Mindlessly. Endlessly. A blur of faces, ads, noise.

Until... There.

He nearly missed it, just another flash of a picture, a crowd, people smiling. A familiar mutual. Someone from a lifetime ago. His thumb hovered over the unfollow button like it had for so many others lately.

But something froze him.

His vision sharpened like a camera lens snapping into focus.

You.

Your name.

Your face.

Your smile.

His body locked up. His mouth went dry. The world dropped out from under him. You were there. You were real.

His thumb twitched and double-tapped the post without thinking, a quick, desperate motion, like if he didn’t claim it now, it would vanish. Be deleted. Be just another dream.

But the like stayed. The photo stayed. And so did you.

For a long second, he just stared, then his breathing turned sharp, his chest squeezed so tight it felt like something inside him snapped.

A hot wave of nausea rolled through him, twisting low in his stomach, crawling up his spine. His hands started to tremble, not from exhaustion, not from the game, but from everything that photo brought crashing back into him like a tidal wave of knives.

Your face. Your smile. That quiet tilt of your head. The one you used to do when you were teasing him. Or forgiving him.

He hadn't seen it in years. But it hadn't changed. And neither had he.

The ache was instant. Violent. All-consuming. It was like someone had scooped his insides out and replaced them with fire.

The cheers from the stands blurred into noise. The smell of sweat and chalk and grass became suffocating. He looked down at his hands, the same hands that once held your waist, that once pulled your fingers into his between innings like a secret, and he felt sick.

Because you weren’t with him. And someone else was close enough to take that picture.

His jaw clenched.A red-hot sting curled behind his eyes, not just grief, but fury.

How could you still be so beautiful without him? How could the world get to look at you when he hadn’t seen your face in years?

How could you be so close and not tell him?

Every fiber in his body was screaming. Muscles tight. Teeth clenched.

Find her. Find her. Find her.

His body moved before his mind caught up.

He was standing. Grabbing his phone. Ignoring the coach, the teammates, the voice shouting his name. He left the dugout still in uniform, cleats slamming concrete, each step faster, more unhinged. He didn’t care. Didn’t explain. Didn’t even think.

Because in that moment nothing mattered.

Not the team. Not the score. Not the reputation. Not the consequences. All that mattered was that you were here. And if he didn’t see you — didn’t touch you — he’d combust. Cease to exist. Dissolve into the version of himself he’d barely held together since the day you walked away.

He didn’t know what he’d say. What he’d do. How you’d look at him.

He just knew he needed you. And every inch of him was already gone.

He didn’t remember getting into the car. Only the way his fists trembled as he jammed the key into the ignition, the engine roaring to life like it shared his pulse — fast, erratic, furious.

His baseball cleats slammed the gas. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just raw, blinding need.

The tires screeched against the asphalt as he tore out of the parking lot, the stadium lights shrinking in the rearview mirror. His match was forgotten. Irrelevant. Nothing mattered now. Not his career. Not the team. Not the media. Not the law.

He flew down the highway like something feral, like the ghost of every sleepless night was sitting in the passenger seat, whispering go faster, go faster, she’s slipping away again.

He didn’t care about the speed limits. Didn’t care about the red lights blurring past. Didn’t care about the fact that he couldn’t feel his hands anymore, fingers clenching the wheel so tight his knuckles went white. He wasn’t in his right mind. Not even close. But none of that registered. His vision tunneled. Your name pulsed in his head like a heartbeat he hadn’t heard in years. Your face. That photo. It was all he saw.

He didn’t even know where you were exactly. But something inside him did. Something old and twisted and devoted. Like his body had been carved to find you, like every breath, every cell remembered the way you tasted, the way you ran your fingers through his hair when he couldn’t sleep, the way you whispered his name like it meant something.

The match had been out of town. A few towns away. A long drive. Several hours. He didn’t care. He’d drive through the night. He’d drive to the ends of the earth. He’d drive into the damn ocean if it meant seeing your face again — not in a photo, not through glass, but real. Breathing. Close enough to touch. Close enough to keep.

The speedometer climbed. 140. 160. 180. The engine growled beneath him, the kind of sound that came with warnings and regrets. But Ni-ki didn’t hear it. He didn’t feel the way the tires shook beneath him, the way the car trembled on sharp curves. Didn’t notice how the road signs smeared past like watercolors in a storm, unreadable, unimportant. He flew past them all. A blur of red taillights and distant horns, none of it touching him.

190.

Faster.

He clenched the wheel tighter, jaw locked, eyes wide and unblinking. Wind whipped through the open window, slapping against his skin like punishment. The sweat on his forehead dried against the cold rush of night air, but the fever in his chest only climbed. Every inch of him screamed with one singular obsession:

200.

Get to her.

Before the world tries to take her from you again.

It wasn’t speed anymore. It was compulsion. It was possession.

And nothing — no cops, no crash, no consequence was going to stop him. Not when he’d finally seen proof that you still existed. That you were still within reach. And he’d break the world in half just to feel your heartbeat against his again.

He wasn’t going to let you slip through his fingers again.

Not without a fight.

Not without everything.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

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allsteddie · 2 days ago

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Richard Harrington is not happy when he finds out his son is queer. Even less so that he’s not only queer, but also fooling around with the town freak. Disappointment doesn’t even begin to describe what he feels; disgust is a little closer, but still not enough.

And Steve is not surprised when his father proves to be exactly the fucking discriminating asshole he’s always known he was. Their confrontation after his dad found out about him and Eddie is not pretty, but goes just how Steve expected it would.

Steve is not welcome in his father’s house anymore, and he is officially cut out of the Harrington money for good. That’s okay, though. Again, Steve has been expecting it to happen sooner or later, so at least he’s had time to prepare for it in advance.

He packs his things and leaves the house without looking back. That place has stopped being his home years ago, finally leaving it behind is pretty easy, almost a relief.

He and Eddie move in together. Steve has quite a bit saved up from his jobs at Scoops Ahoy and Family Video, and Eddie has been working with his uncle since he graduated, so between the two of them they can easily afford a small apartment downtown. It’s nothing fancy, far from it, but Eddie is not a fancy guy and Steve honestly doesn’t care at all; he’s learned a long time ago that money really doesn’t equal happiness.

Life is not easy. There’s no upside down anymore, but there are so many people still judging Eddie for things he didn’t do, and also so many people judging both of them just because they decided they’re not afraid to love each other openly. They face everything together, as always, but things get harder when their friends start going away to pursue their personal goals and they are the only ones left stuck in Hawkins, with no back up if needed.

Almost a year after they drop Dustin off at college, Steve and Eddie make a decision. They pack everything they have, load it into Steve’s car and move to Indianapolis to start over, this time without the weight of unfair misconceptions hanging over their heads for once.

It’s the best decision they could have made. Eddie finds a job at a record store, a dream come true for him, really, and Steve has enough experience with customer service (and the face and hair) to land a position in a designer store not that far from where they live. Money is not a problem, their past is just that, past, and the two of them make a real home out of their modest apartment. For the first time in a while, life is good.

Then, a couple of years after they leave Hawkins, Steve’s mom shows up at their doorstep, unannounced.

Eddie prepares himself for the worst. He hadn’t been there the night Steve left his parents’ house, but he had seen the bruises and the split lip the asshole had left behind when their argument escalated to something more physical. And even though Steve has never said bad things about his mother, not the way he’s said about his father, Eddie can’t bring himself to trust someone who doesn’t fight to protect their only son.

So imagine Eddie’s surprise when the first thing the woman says when she opens her mouth is, “I’m going to leave him, Steve. I can’t take it anymore.”

And Steve clearly also wasn’t expecting that because the “What?” he lets out is more a squeak than anything else.

Steve’s mom (‘Laura. My name is Laura. It’s nice to finally meet you, Eddie’) spends the afternoon at their place and the three of them have a very long, very needed talk.

She apologizes. She says she recognizes she should have said something when her husband was being a dick, that she should have intervened when he tried to kick Steve out, but she had been so afraid that she just couldn’t.

“I know this is not an excuse,” she says. “You’re my son, I should have fought for you. But believe me when I say I’ve regretted it every single day since it happened.”

She also hands Steve a small piece of paper with the name of a bank and a bunch of numbers scribbled on it.

“This is the bank account I opened for you when my mother died and left you half of her money,” the woman explains before either of them can ask. “You probably don’t remember her; you were three when she died. You were also her only grandchild, so half of the inheritance went to me, and half to you.”

“And how much money is that?” Steve asks, surprised.

“Over four hundred thousand dollars, I think. Close to five hundred, because I put part of it in a fund, but I don’t know exactly how much.”

“What the fuck!?” Eddie wheezes.

“Mom, I don’t want your money,” Steve argues.

His mom shakes her head. “But it’s your money,” she insists. “Your grandmother left it to you, so it’s yours.”

She doesn’t stay much longer after that. Steve asks if she’s gonna be okay facing his father by herself and Laura brushes off her son’s concern.

“I doubt Richard’s gonna care if I’m gone. I’ve barely seen him these past months, too busy with his new mistress, I guess.”

She hugs Steve goodbye, promises she’ll keep in touch from now on and leaves. Just like that. As if giving her son almost half a million dollars was something she did every freaking day.

“Babe, no offense, but your mother is crazy,” Eddie says after the woman leaves, still pretty stunned by how things turned out.

“She married my dad, of course she’s crazy.”

There’s a total of $357,461 in the bank account his mother handed him, plus $183,972 in the fund she mentioned. They don’t touch the fund money, but they do use a good chunk of the rest to open their own record store in Indianapolis; Eddie taking care of everything music related, while Steve handles the boring business side of things.

And although running their own business is hard work, it’s something they enjoy because they can do it together. They faced literal monsters together, for fuck’s sake, dealing with annoying costumers is child’s play.

(As for Laura Harrington, she does leave her husband. The money she gets out of the divorce, plus her inheritance money, is enough that she’s never gonna have to worry about working a single day in her life. She visits Steve and Eddie occasionally, as she promised, but most of her days are spent travelling all around Europe. Eddie still thinks she’s crazy, but he admits she’s also kinda fun to have around now and then.)

#this was supposed to be a headcanon #haha #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steve x eddie #steddie headcanon #my writing #steddie fanfiction

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4evrgreeny · 16 hours ago

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Hey @bluesciencefoodoperator I debated responding to your comments at all for a while, considering your tone and clear attempts to derail the conversation away from the issue of people letting domesticated cats free roam, and their impact on the local ecosystem.

But then I remembered, we're on the same side here. We both clearly care about the environment, assuming of course, that your comments on my post are anything to go off of. So take this as my attempt to bond on our mutual love of both the environment and cats.

I want to start this off on a positive note, you brought up some really good points in your comments. Pesticide usage, cruel and or apathetic people, habitat loss due to urban expansion and farming, irresponsible dog owners, corporations poisoning the water we drink and the air we breath, are all really good and valid causes to bring up when discussing actions that damage the ecosystem. I don’t want to ignore the valid points you made.

With that being said I find it somewhat confusing that you said all those things while hiding in my comments section instead of either re-blogging this post with those points as an addition (don’t be scared, it would have been a wonderful addition to the post, I love when people add onto what I have to say) or even made your own post talking about the issue. I stalked your page a little couldn’t find any posts talking about this issue. Instead you choose to comment attacking the others commenting on this post. Again, we are all on the same side here, there's no reason or cause to be so rude about all of this.

Your rather unkind comments are wasted on an audience that already cares about the ecosystem. You’re starting a fight with those on the same side as you. Arguing doesn’t help anyone, community does. Maybe try working on building more community on this issue instead of arguing about which issue is more worthy of being talked about.

I also want to address the comment you made, that was directed at me instead of the (wonderful) people in my comments.

This is a multifaceted issue, meaning that yes, it’s not just the irresponsible cat owners that are causing the degradation of the green little orb we call home. But it being a multifaceted issue does not mean all facets of this issue, have to be brought up all at once, every time the issue is brought up. Nor does it mean any post speaking on a specific facet of the issue is claiming that the issue they brought up is the entire issue.

At no point in time did I, or anyone else in my comments (as of 07/11/2025) say anything about blaming the cats. It’s not the cats fault it’s a cat and will act the way it was bred to act. I directed the post at cat owners, as they’re the ones causing the issue.

I love cats, I’ve owned cats my entire life, as such I’ve grown incredibly fond of the species. So when I am unfortunate enough to drive past dead cats on the side of the road, or hear of people’s cats leaving to free roam one day and never coming back, knowing all the horrid ways they might’ve died, I want to do what I can to prevent that ending for other cats. I tell people to keep their cat/s inside because I love cats, not because I blame the cats.

I'm not here to attack cat owners, I am very well aware that if someone's been raised with outdoor or indoor/outdoor cats there's no real expectation that they'd think of indoor/outdoor or outdoor cats as anything other than normal and appropriate way to treat their cat/s. This post is my attempt to help spread information on why keeping indoor/outdoor or outdoor only cats is harmful to both the cats and the outdoors. It's not meant to shame, merely to educate.

I know some people think those who believe cats should be indoor only hate cats, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. An overwhelming majority of those who advocate for keeping cats indoor only, I’ve met love cats, they often have their own cat/s. They tell people to keep their cat/s inside not because they hate to see them out and about, but because they are aware of the danger and risk free roaming your cat puts them in.

Yes there will always be those who tell people to keep their cat/s inside because they do hate cats, but from all of my experience those are the minority.

However even if they were the majority, their reasoning doesn't change how keeping your cat inside, and allowing supervised outside time will still help the cat and the local ecosystem even if the person suggesting keeping your cat inside is doing so because they don't like cats.

We wouldn’t have the feral cat problem we have today if people kept their cats inside. We wouldn’t have so many species struggling or gone extinct if cat owners controlled their cats.

I don’t blame the cat for hunting, anymore than I’d blame the dog for barking. It’s what they do, they’re unable to reason as we do, which is why it’s the owner’s who are causing this issue not the cat, in that it’s not the cat’s fault their owner is irresponsible.

I’m not necessarily saying all this just for you specifically Blue, because if your previous comments are anything to go off of, I’m not entirely confident you’re open to an actual conversation, though I do pray you prove me wrong, as this is an issue I’m very passionate about and would love some more in-depth and detailed conversations on what people can do to help the ecosystem thrive.

Just as a side note. My post focused on cats specifically, because it’s a two birds one stone issue for me. I love cats, and as a result of that I know very well about all the things that can hurt and kill a cat when they free roam outside. I also care about the ecosystem, so encouraging people to be responsible cat owners, is about both protecting cats and protecting the ecosystem.

Sorry this is rather long, this isn't just for you bluesciencefoodoperator this is also for anyone who see's the original post and has similar feelings wanting me to discuss other issues that impact the ecosystem.

I'd love if we could have a discussion on this, however if your comments are anything to go off off, it doesn't seem you're open to an actual discussion. Which is fine, if you don't want to reply, you don't have to. I just hope your day got better from whatever made you upset enough to be so rude in my comments. :)

If you care about your local wildlife, you won't let your cat free roam outside. There are ways to allow your cat some outside time that will keep both your cat and the local wildlife safe, if that's something you're set on. Enclosed outside spaces (catio, enclosed patio area, properly fenced-in and cat-proofed backyard) or taking your cat on walks are both great ways to get your cat outside while still keeping your cat and the local ecosystem protected.

#cat #cats #ecosystem #local ecosystem #outdoor cats #outdoor cat #indoor/outdoor cat #indoor/outdoor cats #indoor cat #indoor cats #domestic cat #domestic cats #domesticated cats #domesticated cat #invasive species #cats are an invasive species #protect your ecosystem #native species #protect native species

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cheeseceli · 2 days ago

Text

Am I talking too much?

"-and then this one is called Dino. He is a bird, very cute. But he wasn't that cute when he was born. He looked like a dinosaur, that's why we called him Dino."

You smiled seeing the pictures of your own pets. You truly loved animals, you could never shut up when it came to that. Actually, you could never shut up most of the time, even if there was a voice inside your head (a very irritating one) telling you to stop talking at times.

But you couldn't help it. It felt like excitement took over all of your being when you had the opportunity of talking about the things you loved. Maybe because you didn't have that many opportunities to do so at home, maybe because you didn't have many friends who'd be interested in hearing you talk. Maybe there was no reason. Maybe you were just you and that explained a lot.

Minho didn't seem to mind, though. He was on the quieter side, but he didn't mind someone louder around. Sometimes he would reply with a snarky comment. Most times he would just nod and smile. A few times it was obvious he had no idea what you were talking about but it was clear he was trying his best to keep up.

Now, you were talking about your pets to him.

The corner of his lips were slightly turned up by seeing the pictures of your bird - Dino -, but you couldn't help but let your mind wander a bit. What if you were boring him? What if he was just extremely polite and that was why he never refused to listen to you talk? What if he secretly hated your guts??

Suddenly your voice lost a bit of its power until it became nothing but a whisper, your lips barely moving. He didn't look up. He was still just scrolling through the pics you showed him like your voice was background noise. Indifferent, unimportant. You should've known better, why would someone even want to-

"Why'd you stop talking?"

You froze. Genuinely just stopped thinking for a while, definitely not making any sound. Did he notice?

By the lack of response, he finally looked up. You realised he had finished seeing the sequence of photos of your pets. He actually saw every single one of them.

"You were saying?"

"Uh, it's not..." you struggled a bit under his gaze, feeling either shy or embarrassed, you couldn't quite pinpoint "it's not that important. You have heard me talk about that like, what, a thousand times already? I'm probably talking too much."

The last part of the sentence was supposed to be a joke. You did jokes all the time! It was supposed to be natural, a little laugh leaving you lips by the end of the last word. He didn't indulge in it.

"Keep talking" he said, his voice never sounding more sincere than now "You could never be too much."

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Reminder this is just fiction!! I'm not trying to portray real life and you shouldn't believe that this is how the members actually are. This is just for the vibe and the delulu!

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sharksimp-03 · 2 days ago

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Huntrix Dating HC's

TW: slight angst in Rumi's and a touch of Mira's.

Saja Boys Dating HC's here

Rumi

WC: 354

Rumi was a hot mess when you two first started dating. Scared to touch you because she didn’t want to hurt you. Oh, she’s so gentle when she shows you affection. The softest of caresses to your cheek, it’s almost reverent. Like, she can’t believe that you're here. Especially after you see her marks and when you tell her you love her, all of her, while your hands cup her face. Cue the tears, because Rumi never would have thought someone could love her like you do. And when you pull her into your arms while whispering how much you care for her, she melts immediately. Burying her face into the crook of your neck while she sobs.

When she gets stressed out, she’ll mindlessly start to braid your hair. Absolutely devours anything you make her, whether it’s homemade or store-bought, you put food in front of her, and she’s praising you like you invented it. I think she’d love to match with you, but not in a super obvious way, something more subtle and meaningful, like matching phone charms or phone cases. Her pet names are sweet, calling you angel or love, bonus points if she adds ‘my’ in front of it like ‘my love’, or ‘my angel’.

Meeting Celine was not a good experience. At first, you had admired Celine; she had helped Rumi be the person she was, took her in and raised her, but when you saw how Rumi acted in front of her. Quiet, closed off, making herself smaller, even covering up her marks. It made your smile turn tight, and the idle chatter turn into tense silence. After the dinner meeting was over, you asked Rumi why she covered her marks. Which led to a very uncomfortable conversation, with a lot of tears. Finding out how Celine treated Rumi made you seethe with rage. Rumi was touched that you were so willing to defend her, but wanted to put it all to rest. You only agreed under the conditions that you would never have to be around Celine, and Rumi was not allowed to be alone around her.

Mira

WC: 385

Does not like PDA generally; she prefers to show her love for you at home. Mira doesn’t need to be flashy, and she’s not very vocal about her love, but you see it shine through her actions. Small gifts pertaining to your interests, something you were talking about recently. Reminders on sticky notes or texted to you telling you to eat a proper meal, or drink some water. Wordlessly cuddling up to you after a long day, resting her head in your lap, and snuggling into your stomach for comfort.

Mira hates to see you upset and will do everything in her power to fix it. Sometimes when she comes home and finds you in the kitchen fixing up a simple dinner for the two of you, she’ll walk up behind you and hug you, hooking her chin over your shoulder to see what you’re doing and when her hair brushed up against you neck and causes you to giggle, the softest of smiles graces her features. Casual with her pet names, simple ones like babe or sweetheart are her go-tos.

It’s really important to her that you get along well with Zoey and Rumi, since she longs for that connection of a family. When Mira comes home one day to see you sitting on the couch chatting away with them and you’re all laughing and munching on snacks, her heart melts, and it just confirms that you’re perfect for her. Not the type to get jealous when it comes to Zoey and Rumi, but if someone else gets too close, she’s glaring with a deep scowl on her face.

Not exactly insecure but she does question if she’s enough for you. Mira would try to distance herself a little when she becomes unsure if she’s good for you, but when you notice it you’re immediately shutting that shit down. When you ask her what’s wrong, and she can’t look you in the eye when she talks to you? You’re tilting her chin towards you and forcing her to talk. It may cause her to get flustered, but when you hear her tell you why she’s been avoiding you, you laugh and pull her in for a tight hug, reassuring her that you could never want anyone else, and that she was perfect for you.

Zoey

WC: 364

Zoey loves loudly and with her whole heart. She wears her heart on her sleeve, which has led to more than a little heartbreak in past relationships. Needs to be in contact with you at all times, loves to cuddle, and hold hands.

You see how she styles her hair every day? After a shower, she loves to care for you, she’ll blow-dry your hair for you, brushing/ detangling it for you so gently. If you have curly or wavy hair, she’s eager to learn your process, so that she can do it for you.

Makes up silly raps of things you're doing, even if it’s the most mundane thing, she makes it fun. Alternatively writes songs about you in her notebooks. These ones are sweet and meaningful, ones you don’t know about at the start, but when you find out about them, she turns bright scarlet and just stammers until she stops trying to talk. When you gently take her hands into yours and reassure her that you think it’s adorable that she’s written songs about you. Which doesn’t help her blushing problem, but it does stop her from overthinking.

You help her overcome some of her more extreme people-pleasing habits. She gives very thoughtful gifts for your birthday, and she plans months in advance. She’d be the type to stockpile gifts for you throughout the year, so when your birthday rolls around, she doesn’t have to stress if her idol life is getting busy. The first year you two are together, and it’s her birthday, you gave her a small red-eared slider turtle. Cue the squealing and the sound of her tackling you to the floor in a hug. Zoey almost proposed right then and there. Obviously, the turtle is now your child and you have to love and care for it as well, which you agree to with a large smile.

Zoey is the type to call you silly pet names most of the time, pumpkin, cutie, and sugar are her go-tos, but when she’s feeling more serious, she calls you ‘my muse’ which makes you blush every time because she says it with the most adoring look on her face.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Comments, likes, and reblogs appreciated! (:

#divider by saradika graphics #dividers by saradika #huntrix #huntrix x reader #zoey kpdh #zoey x reader #mira kpdh #mira x reader #rumi kpdh #rumi x reader #k pop demon hunters #kpdh headcanons

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exitingmusic · 2 days ago

Text

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Maybe you were too sensitive, maybe you were too insecure to date a man as pretty and popular as Satoru Gojo.

He did nothing wrong of course, never passing up on a moment to praise you or show you off. It was the other people that just made you tick.

Sometimes they'd look surprised when he introduced you, laughing it off and giving some excuse, oh I wasn't expecting this to be your girlfriend. Sometimes they'd be downright rude, insulting you directly in front of you or talking behind your back. Sometimes they'd look confused, like they didn't know how Satoru Gojo could fall for someone as normal as you.

To be honest, you couldn't blame them.

You didn't know why he wasted time on you either. You didn't know how he could be so caring and affectionate and not expect anything from you in return. He'd pay for your dates, hell, sometimes even before you'd come in, he'd hand his card to the waiter. He drops off gifts at random times, for nothing special, just saying he wanted to spoil you. In public he always had an arm around you or a hand on your back. He never looked at other women, he defended you, he always stuck with you.

When you did see his eyes, he looked at you like you hung the very stars in the sky. He looked at you like you were everything.

He brought you to meetings, to gatherings, anywhere and everywhere. And sometimes when the host would sneer at you, refusing to give you even a chair, he'd simply get up, set you down, and ask for a chair himself, "You didn't get the strongest a chair?"

It didn't matter if you were with his friends, his students, or his superiors, he always made sure you were the first priority, interrupting any snobby sorcerers to ask if you needed anything loudly.

You didn't understand what you did to deserve this. Of course you were grateful, but you felt like your gestures were too small for his tastes.

Sure you did small things. You cleaned up around the house, picked fresh flowers to put in vases, cleaned his fancy clothes and washed his blindfolds. Sometimes you'd get him gifts too. Some were hand made, like drawings or the lego flowers you got him. Others were bought, like the rack for his sunglasses or funny shirts you found online or his favorite album on record.

Whenever he got them, he looked too happy for it to be fake. He listened to that record over and over, not because he liked the songs, but because you gave it to him. He used the sunglasses rack, knowing he always lost his pair, but also because you gave him it. He wore and laughed at the funny shirts, wearing them to sleep or around the house or out, because you gave them to him. Any art you made, framed and displayed around every corner of the house, no matter how much you disliked the piece.

He loved how he could come home to you after a long day or mission and just melt in your arms. No one was watching either of you there.

Satoru Gojo didn't have to act like the strongest with you.

He could be Satoru Gojo. He could be just a man so in love with you that he couldn't even think. He could be someone you held with such tenderness that he nearly cried each time.

And when one time you asked him if you were worth all it, all the time and money and love spent, he nearly fell to his knees.

How could you, his goddess, his one believe he was above you, that you weren't worth him?

It didn't matter where he was, as long as you were with him.

In another life, he was on stage, crowds staring up at him with adoring eyes. But his eyes were on you, front row, giving you a look of love he couldn't share to anyone else, or at fan meetings where he refused to let them touch him, only you got to do that.

In another life, he couldn't act the loving, tender roles without staring at you, off set. He couldn't give such soft gestures to anyone but you. He always made sure to have you next to him in interviews, to make sure you got as much attention as he did.

In another life, he got into his car, but not before blowing you a kiss from the paddock. He made sure you had all the passes, just to get you close to him whenever he went into that metal death trap of a car.

In another life, everything he painted was reminiscent of you. Maybe it'd be themed only using the shades of your eye color, maybe it'd be a portrait of you, maybe it'd be a private piece for himself. All he knew was you were his muse.

He made it his personal mission to make you see reason. Wherever you went, he was already there, attached to your side. Whenever you glanced too long at something while shopping, you found it on your doorstep the next day. Whenever someone tried to insult you, he just snapped at them and spun on his heel, already planning to make life miserable for them.

He made sure you didn't have to share him with anybody. He made sure he was worth it all, just for you.

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#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk gojo #jujutsu gojo #satoru gojo #jujustu kaisen #jjk fluff #gojo fluff #satoru gojo x reader #Spotify

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foxtrology · 2 days ago

Note

So so sad the main story has ended but it ended so perfectly it made me happy... i'd like to request 35 on the prompt list plz <3 girlie doesnt understand that the bullet in question is having a loving and supportive family likeeeee

dad! harry castillo

prompt 35: lucy is interviewed for a podcast. she says she “dodged a bullet” not marrying harry. someone sends him the clip. he doesn’t finish it.

prompt list

⸻

The podcast clip came in just after lunch.

It was a slow day—gray clouds over Montauk, the kind that made the house feel even quieter than usual. Adella was in the living room taking a nap, the fireplace was going even though it was barely chilly, and she had just pulled the last of the cookies from the oven when Harry’s phone buzzed twice on the counter.

He didn’t check it right away.

He was helping her put the tray on the cooling rack, one hand on the small of her back, murmuring something about how she made them too soft on purpose just to watch him cave. She rolled her eyes, smiling like she always did when he flirted like that. Like it still surprised her, even after all this time.

She moved into the living room to fold laundry. He stayed in the kitchen, poured himself a coffee, and finally glanced at his phone.

Two messages from Maya.

Maya: tell me you haven’t heard lucy’s interview yet Maya: don’t listen to the whole thing. just—don’t.

Harry frowned. Clicked the link.

The title of the podcast was something insufferable. Voices of Divorcees or whatever. A photo of Lucy front and center—hair freshly styled, makeup soft, sitting like she was selling a lifestyle.

He should’ve closed it.

He didn’t.

Not because he wanted to hear her voice.

Not because he missed her.

Just because the idea of her still thinking she had something meaningful to say about him made his jaw clench.

The clip was only thirty seconds.

She was laughing—light, girlish. The kind of laugh he remembered being practiced. The kind she used to perform like a party trick.

“I mean, I don’t regret anything, you know? But let’s just say—I dodged a bullet not marrying Harry Castillo.”

The host made a sound of surprise.

Lucy laughed again.

“I mean, he was intense. Brilliant, yes. But calculated. Rigid. Everything had to be just so. And I think, deep down, he wasn’t capable of being soft. Not really. He didn’t know how to love the messy parts. I saw that coming and I’m glad I walked away when I did.”

Harry didn’t finish the rest.

He set the phone down slowly.

Didn’t swear.

Didn’t storm out or laugh or call Maya back.

He just stood there. In his kitchen. With the smell of cinnamon in the air and the sound of laundry folding softly in the next room.

His knuckles whitened slightly around the mug.

And then—

“Hey,” her voice floated in from the living room. “Are you eating those without me?”

Harry blinked.

Looked up.

She was standing in the doorway. Barefoot. Wearing one of his sweaters, sleeves pushed to her elbows. Her hair was up. She looked soft and warm and like every version of home he’d ever wished for and never believed he’d have.

He exhaled slowly. Set the mug down.

“Come here,” he said.

She frowned. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he lied. “Just… come here.”

She walked over, eyebrows still slightly knit. He took her hands as soon as she was close enough. Tugged her into the circle of his arms, against his chest.

“You’re tense,” she murmured.

He kissed her temple. “Only for a second.”

They stood like that for a while. No rush. No performance. Just quiet.

“I love you,” he said suddenly.

She blinked. Tilted her head to look at him. “I love you too. What brought that on?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just cupped her face in his hand, thumb stroking gently beneath her eye.

“You make my life feel like it was always meant to lead here,” he said.

Her smile was soft. “That’s a fancy way of saying I’m your favorite.”

“You are.” He kissed her forehead. “You always will be.”

She leaned into him, fingers curling around the front of his sweatshirt. “You’re being really sweet. Which either means you broke something or you’re about to tell me something weird.”

He chuckled. That deep, low sound she loved.

Then he said, “Lucy gave a podcast interview.”

Her mouth dropped open a little. “Oh.”

“She said I was incapable of being soft,” he said, his tone perfectly even. “Said she dodged a bullet.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then she laughed. Sharp and quiet and honest.

“She really said that?”

Harry nodded.

“She left you for a man who still puts ice in his red wine,” she muttered.

“I know.”

She looked up at him. “You okay?”

He kissed her again. Slower this time. Lingering.

“I'm irritated,” he admitted. “At what she said.”

She slid her hands up beneath his sweatshirt, fingers grazing the scar on his side he always forgot about. “I don’t like that she still tries to rewrite your story.”

“She can say whatever she wants.” He leaned in closer. “But I have you. I have Adella. I have this house. These mornings. These fucking cookies.”

She smiled, even as her throat tightened.

“You’re soft in ways she couldn’t recognize,” she whispered. “That’s not your fault.”

“I don’t want to be soft for everyone,” he said. “Just you.”

She kissed him then. Slow. Deep. Her hands anchoring at the back of his neck, mouth warm and sweet from the stolen cookie she’d just eaten.

Harry pressed her back against the counter. Moved like a man who still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch her like this.

His hand slid beneath the sweater.

She sighed against his lips.

And for a minute, there was no Lucy. No interview. No past.

Just his hands on her waist.

Her mouth on his jaw.

The quiet between them thick with want and knowing and all the years they’d fought to get here.

She was the one who finally pulled back.

“You’re everything,” she whispered.

Harry brushed his knuckles down the side of her face. “She thought I needed someone easier to love.”

“Maybe you did. Then.”

“But now?”

Her smile deepened. “Now you need someone who knows how to hold the sharp edges.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “That’s what you’ve always done.”

They stood like that until the timer went off.

The cookies were cool.

The rain had started.

He turned off his phone. Deleted the clip.

Because it didn’t matter.

Lucy could say whatever she wanted.

Harry Castillo was still the man who got down on the floor to read bedtime stories in a blanket fort.

The man who wore purple sneakers to match his daughter.

The man who burned dinner and still got told it was the best night ever.

He was not the man Lucy remembered.

He was not the man she deserved.

He was hers.

Belonged to his wife.

And when Adella came running in from the rain an hour later, tutu soaked, cheeks flushed with joy, and yelled “Daddy! Daddy, look at my leaf!”—

He didn’t think of Lucy at all.

Just dropped to his knees.

Opened his arms.

And smiled like his whole life had finally made sense.

#sweet sweet baby replies #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x you #harry castillo #materialists #harry castillo x reader #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo fic #harry castillo materialists #harry castillo x you #harry castillo x female reader #materialists fanfic #the materialists fanfic #the materialists #materalists

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sluttyminghao · 10 hours ago

Note

Have you seen that clip of the thunder performance where seungcheol’s tumny jiggles a bit? He’s gotten a lot of hate for BUT IS IT JUST ME OR HIS TUMMY MAKES HIM 100 TIMES MORE ATTRACTIVE LIKE HES JST SO BIG AND STRONG AND FLUFFY LIKE OMG 😖 pls write smth to help me pls (if you dont want to thats completely fine mwah 💋)

“Stop staring,” he mutters, his cheeks growing pink as he pulls his stage shirt down a little, in an attempt to cover the soft part of his stomach. “I’m sweaty and gross right now.”

You straddle his lap before he can move again, grabbing his wrists gently to stop him.

“No, you’re hot. You’re perfect.” And you mean it.

You press your lips to his collarbone, then down his chest, you move lower, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of his belly. He flinches.

“Babe, come on…”

You look up at him, dragging your fingers along the soft skin of his abdomen. “This is mine, too,” you whisper. “This? Right here? I love it.”

Your hands slide around his waist, pulling him as close to you as possible, almost like you want to drown in him. “You know what I see?” you murmur, nails raking over his skin. “Strength. Comfort. A man who knows how to hold me. A man who takes care of people. Who deserves to be taken care of, too.”

His breath stutters. “You make me feel...” He swallows, trying to find the right words as his blush deepens. “...safe.”

You smile. “Good. Now lie back.”

And he does. You worship every inch of him; your tongue, lips, and hands are all over his chest, his arms, his tummy. You adore the way he squirms a little when you kiss the soft parts, like he can’t believe someone could love that much. You whisper praise with every breath:

“So strong.” “So sexy.” “You’re everything to me.” “I’d live on this stomach if you let me.”

When you finally ride him, his hands on your hips, his lips parted in awe, he keeps whispering your name like a prayer.

“No one’s ever touched me like this…” “You make me feel so loved.” “I’m never letting you go.”

And later, when he falls asleep with his arms wrapped around you tightly, your head resting on that same belly you kissed so tenderly, you feel him exhale, finally relaxed. Like he knows he’s home.

#sm: masterlist 2025 #sluttyhao smut #kpop smut #seventeen smut #s.coups smut #seungcheol smut #kpop reaction #seventeen reaction #s.coups reaction #seungcheol reaction

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revelboo · 2 days ago

Note

Someone just said the word "crochet" and "cybertronian".

So I just wanted to share this:

Meet Catimus Purrrime.

I love the concept of creating plushies in the likeness of your favorite Cybertronian. Even if they get jelous for it.

That’s so cute! 💕

Plush

TFP Optimus x Reader

• Hears the laughter as he steps through the ground bridge and Optimus’s head turns to find the humans clustered together. And while the base used to be relatively quiet during the day when the human kids they pretty much adopted are in school, now there’s always at least two humans in the base at all times. Seeing all five of the adult human clustered together, though is unusual enough. And that they all fall silent at the same time and turn to stare at him doesn’t bode well. Talking about him? Finding you in the little group, he frowns slightly at the thing in your hands. Some kind of stuffed toy fashioned to look like him.

• Holding up the crocheted doll since there’s no hiding it, you smile up at Optimus and try not to laugh at his serious stare. Still can’t believe Bee’s person took the time to make them all plushes of their bots. You do good to find the time to maybe read a bit, your time divided between work, home, and the Autobot base. Even though Optimus has asked you to just stay. It’s not like you’d be the only human living here at this point, but it’s a big step in your relationship and you’re not really sure there is a relationship. You like him, but you’re not sure if he likes you that way. “I have a little you,” you say sheepishly.

• “I see that,” he murmurs, kneeling as you hold up the plush for him and he smiles faintly. Offering you his hand, he rumbles softly in amusement when two other humans push you his way and you hug the toy as you ease yourself into his hands, face red. Standing slowly as you clutch the plush to yourself, a hand on his servo for balance, he carries you deeper into the base. “Why a stuffed toy version of me?”

• Because it’s awful when he goes through the ground bridge and you know he’s fighting Decepticons and might come back hurt. Because you miss him when he leaves and you can hang onto the soft him at night since you’re too shy to take him up on his offer to just stay with him. To spend every night here like you had at first when he’d rescued you after your wreck. Can’t admit that you miss him. Think about him more than is probably healthy. That you’d slept better sprawled on him as hard a bed as he’d made, than you’ve slept since. You can’t actually say any of those things, though. “It’s cute,” you manage, hating yourself for being chicken.

• Carrying you to his desk to note his patrol details, something about the way your shoulders hunch bothers him. Clearly unhappy about something as he lets you slide down on his desk and he sits in his chair. And you slump down to sit against the inside of one of his arms as he works up his report. Likes the warmth of you there and keeps glancing at you as you smooth a finger over the toy him. Wanting to ask you to stay again. Sees you almost every single day, but he still misses you when you’re away from base. But he’s afraid you’ll resent him if he pushes to get his way. That you might feel like you’re losing your freedom. Wants you to choose him. To want to stay. And he’s asked before, but he can’t tell if you think of him like he thinks of you. Or if he’s too alien to be anything more than a friend in your mind.

#transformers x reader #optimus prime x reader #tfp optimus prime

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laceyhearts · 2 days ago

Text

౨ৎ SPILLING THE TEA ; HUGHES BROTHERS !

➪ summary: 3 times where y/n needs to tell her brothers about the drama going on at her school no matter where they are or who they're with, or what it'll take to tell them

➪ pairing: quinn hughes x sister!reader, jack hughes x sister!reader, luke hughes x sister!reader

➪ warnings: none (mostly proofread, improvement)

➪ word count: 1.6k

➪ emma's notes: i wasn't going to edit this bc last night i did not have the motivation but then i woke up and edited it so 😛 also this is out earlier than normal bc i won't be home so yes!

1. scheduled tea time (ft. brock boeser) ; reader: 18, quinn: 24 ; november of 2023

He should’ve expected the call; it was a Saturday, and he had no plans for the day after practice. But he was oblivious to his phone ringing in his bag, too focused on changing and gathering the rest of his things to realize it.

Just as he was about to leave, he felt a hand on his shoulder, looking back to see his teammate standing there, “Hey, uh, y/n called me? She said you missed ‘tea time’.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, his hand reaching for his phone before pausing, “Wait, how’d she get your number?”

“It doesn’t matter, just put the phone to your ear, Quintin, or call me.” The voice was mumbled, but he knew it all too well.

Brock held his hands up in surrender as he hung up his phone, leaving his captain to call his sister from his own phone.

And two minutes later, Quinn was launched into a conversation about two kids he barely knew, “Anna and Neil broke up!”

Quinn shook his head. “Who?”

“You know, Neil Castro and Anna Cunningham? They broke up, bro. They were endgame too! This is so rigged.”

“Wait, wait, who? You can’t just give me names, y/n/n.” He started walking out of the locker room, grabbing his keys from his back pocket.

“Anna is one of the girls on the team with me, and Neil is one of the guys on the football team. They were endgame. I swear I told you about them.”

“Oh, is he the one who got you all to do that one cheesy promposal thing last year?”

“Yes! I can’t believe they broke up Quinn. I have no hope for finding a relationship if they didn’t last. Love isn’t real.”

Quinn just chuckled as he got into his car and started driving out of the parking lot, “I’m sure you’ll find someone, y/n/n. Just give it time.”

“You sound like every taken girl who is trying to reassure her single best friend that there’s someone out there for her.” She groaned loudly, “Anyway. Other drama I need to catch you up on.”

“Hit me.”

“So David and Pen got together, he asked her out after her game the other day.”

“Is Pen the one who kind of looks like that chick from Pretty Woman?”

“You mean Julia Roberts? Quinn, we seriously have to educate you. And I found out that this guy likes me. Which, before you say a single word, Quintin, he looks like Jack, and I would not like to date someone who looks like my brother, thank you very much.”

“Okay then…”

“And he’s a total creep, one time Ruby found him staring at us during practice, like just sitting in the bleachers.”

“Yep, I retract my statement that I never said.”

And for the next twenty minutes, Quinn sat in a majority of silence, only making a few comments here and there as his little sister continued to ramble on about people he’s never met.

“Okay, I have homework to do. Bye Quinn!”

“Bye y/n/n.”

⎯⎯⎯ ౨ৎ ⎯⎯⎯

2. who said what (w/ the new jersey devils) ; reader: 16, jack: 20 ; september of 2021

The unexpected ringing of a phone made the rest of the guys who were in the locker room jump. Each one fumbled for their phones, Jack coming up the lucky one. However, he groaned when he saw who was calling him, “Who is it?”

“My sister.” He threw his jacket on before answering the call, “Hey.”

“Jack, oh my god!”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”

“‘What’s wrong?’ Nothing. Well, that’s not true, but nothing’s wrong with me personally. I have just have news.”

“Okay…?” He put it on speaker and placed it on the bench before continuing to put his shoes on.

“So basically, I was in class today and this guy came in.”

“Wait, you’re on speaker.”

“Who’s there?”

“Uh, Nico, Kevin, Dougie, Daws, Jesper.”

“Oh, okay! Ask them if they want to hear the drama!”

Jack eyed his teammates, who all shrugged and took a seat near his phone, “Talk away, little Hughes.”

She grinned, “This guy came into class today and he had a homecoming poster.”

“Did someone ask you to homecoming?” “Was he cute?” “What’d the sign say?”

“Okay, okay, hold. Nico, no one asked me to homecoming. Daws, no, he was not cute, unfortunately. And Jack the sign said, ‘Would you be my chick at Hoco’ with food from Chick-Fil-A.”

They all nodded their heads, her answers fulfilling their questions, “Okay, proceed.”

“So Dylan, that’s the guy's name, asked Elizabeth to homecoming, but here’s the catch, he was still quote-unquote dating Layla.”

“He what?”

“I know, right? But that’s not all.”

The 6 exchange looks at each other, all slowly growing more intrigued by the second, “Go on.”

“Dylan’s about to get sleazier. So Elizabeth was the girl his best friend had a crush on, his best friend was Brandon, and Brandon was going to ask her out to homecoming with the same poster on the same day, just later.

”It doesn’t end there. I heard from Shannon, she’s my best friend. Anyway, I heard from Shannon, who heard from Brenda, who heard from her brother Liam, who heard from his girlfriend Chloe, who heard from Addison that Layla was going to break up with Dylan to ask Brandon to hoco. So I guess Layla wasn’t hurt by it but still, that’s fucking shitty.”

The boys all nodded wordlessly, trying to keep up with all the information that was being thrown at them. Jesper finally spoke, “Aren’t you just a sophomore?”

“That is totally besides the point, Jesper. But these are seniors fyi.”

“And how do you have all the senior drama?”

“One, they’re popular. Two, I have connections.”

“Connections, huh?” Nico’s voice filled her room.

“Yes, connections, Nico. I am a very popular girl, contrary to people’s belief.”

“Aww, little shy y/n is all popular with a bunch of friends.” Jack teases.

“Okay, this is not why I called. I’m hanging up now! Bye, boys.”

“Wait, wait, wait!”

“Yes, Douglas?”

“Next time shit happens I want to know, I’ll have Jack send you my number.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

“Uh, excuse me, I’m the captain.”

“Mhm, I’m aware. You’re all Jack talks about, it’s always Nico this and Nico that.” Y/n mocks.

“Goodbye, Y/n!”

“Bye, Jacky!”

⎯⎯⎯ ౨ৎ ⎯⎯⎯

3. personal drama (w/ the umich wolverines) ; reader: 17, luke: 19 ; september of 2022

Luke was lounging on the couch surrounded by most of his team members when he got her call. At first, he was hesitant to answer it because he didn’t have the energy to do much, but the voice in the back of his mind told him to answer anyway.

“What’s up, y/n/n?”

“Luke! Okay, so, big news. Like massive.”

She could hear his groan on the other side, “Don’t give me that. You’re going to want to hear this. Put me on FaceTime!”

He rolled his eyes but did as instructed. He propped his phone against his water bottle. “Say hi to everyone.”

Everyone’s head popped into the frame, and she waved excitedly, “Hi! Oh! You guys are going to want to hear this, too.”

Her words caused all of them to scoot closer to Luke to see her better, watching as she talked animatedly, “So apparently, wait, do you remember Clara and Ruby?”

Luke nodded his head while the others shrugged cluelessly, Luke clueing them in on who people were “Right, so Clara and Ruby have been beefing since like freshman year for no fucking reason.”

“Language.”

“Would you stop with that? I’m eighteen, Lukas.”

“Almost eighteen, y/n. Now, continue before I hang up.

She whined, making the others laugh, but continued, “We were at practice before the game, and suddenly Ruby knocked on my car window with tears streaming down her face.”

Y/n took a sip of her water before going on, “And what happened was that Clara was talking shit about me and Ruby was not having it so-”

“Wait, what’d she say about you?” Rutger chimed in from behind Luke.

The girl only shrugged, “No clue, still trying to find that part out. All I’ve heard is that it was pathetic and douchey, so probably not something vary good.”

This caused all the boys’ eyes to narrow at her, “Are you lying?”

“What, no? That’s preposterous.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Tell us.”

“She called me a slut.”

This only made Luke bark out a laugh, “That’s impossible. You haven’t even had your first kiss yet.”

Y/n blushed a bright shade of red, murkiness, “That’s besides the point, Luke. And why do you always have to embarrass me in front of your friends?”

She buried her head into her hands, not daring to look at them. The boys chuckled before Adam spoke, “Don’t worry, we still find you adorable.”

She only blushed harder at his words, Luke hitting him in the arm, “Dude, that’s my sister.”

After a few minutes of awkward silence, y/n finally remembered why she called them in the first place, “Right, anyway, back to the entire reason we’re talking in the first place.

“Ruby yelled at Clara, like badly, but then she talked to Caldwell, one of our coaches, and she’s not in trouble, so that’s good. But jeez, I swear yesterday couldn’t have been more chaotic.”

“Well, thanks for the update?”

Even though she knew his voice was sarcastic, she still smiled, “Anytime. Now I have to go tell Jack because I know he’s getting out of practice, and the last time I told him something, Nico and Dougie were there and they wanted to know everything.”

HUGHES BROTHERS MASTERLIST ; NHL MASTERLIST ; OTHER MASTERLISTS

JOIN THE TAGLIST ; MY NAVIGATION

#˚ ༘ ✶ ꒰ laceyhearts’ writing ! ꒱#˚ ༘ ✶ ꒰ hughes brothers ! ꒱#quinn hughes #qh43 #quinn hughes x reader #jack hughes #jh86 #jack hughes x reader #luke hughes #lh43 #luke hughes x reader #hughes brothers #hughes brothers x reader #hughes!sister #hughes!reader

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littlemissforgetfulwrites · 1 day ago

Text

retirement activities

summary; reader's instagram after Daniel has retired and he finally has more time to spend with his kids

paring; dad!daniel ricciardo x mom!reader

˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿⋆·˚❀˚˚·⋆✿˚˚

y/n_ricciardo

liked by landonorris, maxverstappen1 and 87,315 others

y/n_ricciardo someone's finally home for good 😘😘

view all 5,681 comments

user the picture of the messy house 😭😭

user something tells me that Daniel is definitely behind the house being wrecked 💀

y/n_ricciardo he is 😭 and he's only been home for three weeks

danielricciardo erm we also have four kids

y/n_ricciardo you set a bad example for our girls 😔

landonorris does this mean i'm allowed to babysit again

y/n_ricciardo NO

danielricciardo NO

user HELP LANDO IS BANNED FROM BABYSITTING?!?!

y/n_ricciardo when someone leaves your couch cushions torn and covered in jam i think it's safe to say that they're not allowed back to babysit 😒

landonorris IM SORRY PLEASE LET ME COME OVER AGAIN

danielricciardo i can't believe we'll need a chaperone for the babysitter

oscarpiastri i'll babysit

y/n_ricciardo i trust Oscar ☺️☺️

landonorris WHAT

user HAHAHAHA OMG

user this is so funny

user why does it make sm sense that lando isn't allowed to babysit anymore 😭

⋆·˚❀˚·⋆

y/n_ricciardo

liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55 and 76,131 others

y/n_ricciardo sunday activities with the family 🤍🤍

view all 4,813 comments

danielricciardo spent a fortune at barnes and nobles 😔

y/n_ricciardo gotta keep our kids educated 😘

user the fact that the girls have Daniel's hair 🥲🥲

user and that Daniel helps them maintain it 😭🥲

danielricciardo gotta kept those strong genes healthy

y/n_ricciardo yeah right, you should see our shower drains

user 😭😭

user i wonder what the haircare product budget is 💀

user the girls are so cute omg

y/n_ricciardo spent almost five years pregnant but if your definition of cute is copies of Daniel then yeah i guess 😔

landonorris i think so 😁😁

danielricciardo Lando this does not mean that you will be babysitting anytime soon

landonorris OH COME ON

danielricciardo and i think our kids are very cute

y/n_ricciardo i know they are, i was kidding i love them very much

danielricciardo enough to give them a baby brother?

y/n_ricciardo honey i think it's time to get some hobbies

⋆·˚❀˚·⋆

y/n_ricciardo

liked by maxverstappen1, lance_stroll and 75,129 more

y/n_ricciardo didn't get a baby brother but we did get a cat ☺️

view all 3.974 comments

danielricciardo 😔😔

y/n_ricciardo Daniel please find something to do or leave my instagram comment section.

user AHAHHHAHAHA

user not y/n telling Daniel to find retirement hobbies 😭😭

y/n_ricciardo he needs some

maxverstappen1 i volunteer to cat sit (and babysit)

danielricciardo yes

y/n_ricciardo to both those questions

landonorris SERIOUSLY

user 💀💀

user im on the floor

y/n_ricciardo lando we love you but babysitting is just not one of your talents

landonorris 😔😔

user i love the ricciardos especially now that Daniel is retired

user lol real y/n's posts are too funny 😭😭

#f1 x y/n #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 fanfic #daniel ricciardo x female reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo imagine #lenorah's og work

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lorelei-larai · 3 days ago

Text

Finally, I have time to read this—I've been looking forward to it. I hope you don't mind if I ramble a bit, because tags aren't enough.

The sorceress and dragon reference killed me—practically them in another universe, in a way. It's ironic that Sylus calls it nonsense, man, he still doesn't understand what someone would do for love. Meanwhile, Y/N is risking her life to see him again even though she said she wouldn't. Yeah, they're both so stupid and they're perfect for each other.

And Y/N absolutely fell for those flowers. If there was any doubt before, there isn't now, but who could resist Sylus and his sweet gestures? I find the "You had no idea if you'd ever dialed that number" so amusing, she almost immediately searched for a way to call.

And regarding the call, Sylus mentions that if he wanted anything less than Y/N, he would have married the first woman his father introduced him to. So he's the son of a mafia family? I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe that's where his feud with a family like Y/N's, who aren't exactly simple civilians, comes from. On the other hand, it also speaks to how much the man values feelings and one's own decision above all else. As he says, addicted to authenticity.

Sylus was definitely in the middle of some shady business, which is why he dodged the question (he probably didn't approach Y/N because he knew she couldn't easily get away). But he answered anyway. The man cared more about a phone call from the woman he met two days ago than his job. He fell hard too. Very hard. The fall probably hurt.

“For all I know, you could be the most dangerous person I know.”

“Then trust me to be dangerous only for you, sweetheart.”

And he turned out to be a hopeless romantic just for her. Many will know the terror boss of Onychinus, but only a few, like Y/N, know Sylus as a romantic partner.

I adore Elea so much. She accepted Sylus so quickly. She's too young for prejudice and only knows that he loves showing his drawings to her father. And Sylus is really being manipulated by a child. The man is truly made for having a daughter. When he was watching from a distance, did he wish for that? The wish that Elea would talk to him about rabbits and crayons? And Sylus just fit in, like he'd always been there. He cooked for them, not just Elea, he's also there for Y/N—though. Y/N tries so hard not to fall for Sylus again. (She's a lost cause, but she's in denial.)

I'm really curious how screwed up that night was that made Y/N abandon everything to run away. Maybe she saw Sylus kill someone? She genuinely seems closed to the idea of trusting Sylus, or rather, her heart does. The man and she had a romance for a reason, but her mind, her logic, tells her not to trust him. And Sylus can wait for that, but he clearly can't wait to claim his place in the family. Who knows how long he'll wait for that.

I can't help but think about how he may have manipulated Elea a little to convince Y/N to stay, but he knew she wasn't ready yet, so he didn't push. He's there to be a father, and he won't use his daughter against Y/N. Still, I think about how Sylus spent his first night with his daughter filled with laughter and warmth, only to return to the loneliness and darkness of his home at the end of the day. I know he truly wanted to stay, but he knew it was pushing too hard.

Going back to the past, I have a theory that Sara is currently dead because I doubt Y/N would have walked away so easily from her, who is a very good friend and even, I would dare to say, a mother figure. She is so brave to go against the orders of Y/N's family, who I believe are a mafia family because it's not normal for them to control that place so much. I mean, phone monitored 24 hours a day? Not even a child is that controlled.

Sylus absolutely went all out on the first date. The man really put in the effort to make it a good first date. A yacht? Private? The man is setting the bar very high. Damn Sylus has money and isn't afraid to let him know.

ALSO. Confirmation that Y/N's family is a mafia, but she prefers not to say so as not to scare her partner. She and Sylus have more in common than they think. LMAO.

“I have a feeling you'll be very insufferable in the future.” GIRL, YOU HAVE NO IDEA

I love her so much that Y/N didn't hesitate to hit the pervert. It's risky, yes, but not as much as her escapades from home. She comes from a dangerous family and put him in his place. I doubt Sylus didn't notice all that.

The dancing, the flirting, the one night stand between them. I think I read the ending three or four times because god, you have no idea how much I loved the longing between them. They're so in love, both passionate, and want to kiss so badly. Sara said, "Don't fall in love too quickly," and Sylus fell twice as hard for both of them.

"When do I get to see you again?"

"Whenever fate's wheel wants."

"Should I just break the wheel then? Twist fate until it's begging me to keep you?"

That exchange made me think about the current situation. Whether it's fate or Sylus's own doing, they're together again.

ALSO. That last paragraph. “Make sure he understands what happens when he looks at something that’s not his.” Sylus already claiming ownership of Y/N from the first date? Anyway, he’ll find out he’s late to the party; Y/N already landed a good one on him. Although I guess he didn’t act sooner because he didn’t want to scare her off. I mean, seeing my date hit another man on the first night isn’t a good impression.

I absolutely loved this. How did you write over 22k words in such a short amount of time? I admire your skill.

CHAPTER 2

— Onychinus Leader!Sylus Qin X Mother!Female Reader

She Ran To Protect Their Child. He Built A Kingdom To Bring Them Home.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

*⁠.⁠✧ SYNOPSIS : She was the daughter of his enemy. He was the king of a criminal empire. They fell in love, but when she found out she was pregnant, she vanished-fearing the life their child would inherit. Seven years later, Sylus finds her. And he's not here for revenge. He's here to take back what's his.

*⁠.⁠✧ WARNINGS & TAGS : Dad! Sylus, mom!reader, mafia, rivalry, second chance, secret baby, exes, time skip, past lovers, alternate universe, break in, angst, fluff, romance, love, mature language, stalking, threats, run away! y/n, mentions of pregnancy, blood, gore, dark romance, lovers to strangers, enemies to lovers, their daughter Elea, kiss, 22.2k words

*⁠.⁠✧ LOTUS NOTE : We are getting more of the past in this chapter. My love life is so dry that I can't even write an imaginary date 😭. Literally worked my butt off for that damn date. Also please don't hate y/n, she has solid reasons for what she did I swear.

*⁠.⁠✧ — NAVIGATION // LOVE & DEEPSPACE MASERLIST

➥ KISSED IN POISON : THE SERIES

➥ CHAPTER 1 // CHAPTER 2 // CHAPTER 3

➥ Heart Divider's By @/cafekitsune

DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE. MINORS DNI, IF YOU DO THEN IT'S YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

[9 YEARS AGO, CHANSIA CITY]

Two nights in a row. For the first time in your life, you sneaked in the middle of the night two days in a row. And the reason made you want to bang your head on the wall till you forget this embarrassing memory. It was so pathetic of you to risk your life just because your hormones can't stay put.

Two nights in a row. For the first time in your life, you'd snuck out in the middle of the night not once but twice. And the reason made you want to bang your head against the marble walls of your father's mansion until the memory cracked and slipped away.

It was pathetic you, the perfect daughter, the next heir, the girl with a dagger hidden behind her smile - risking your life because your traitorous heart and your cursed hormones couldn't stay put. Poor Sara-having to risk her life yet again just because of you.

Sylus Qin. His name tasted like a secret you'd never meant to keep. A name as sharp and alluring as the man himself dangerous, dark, sweet in a way that left bruises on your soul.

The previous night, you'd spent hours hidden away in a corner of the library, your knee pressed against his thigh as the two of you argued voices hushed but sharp over the tragic legend of the blue-blooded dragon and the luminary sorcerer.

One, bound by an ancient curse to destroy the very soul they loved most; the other, who poured her wrath into a spell that doomed every dragon's veins to hunger for the taste of her kind. And yet as if fate were some cruel trickster a prophecy bloomed from all that ruin: only a child born of the dragon's tainted blue blood and the sorcerer's celestial power could stand against the darkness when it rose to swallow the world whole.

The novel had no author's name, only a title inked in gold and a cover that looked like sorrow carved in paint - devastating and beautiful enough to feel like a promise.

Per Aspera Ad Astra.

Sylus had scoffed at it called it foolish, all that sacrifice for a world so quick to forget. But your heart ached for those two souls bound in the cruelty of fate's twisted joke doomed to be each other's destruction, yet the only salvation the world had left.

You'd stormed out were. Again. telling yourself you'd never come back. Yet here you were again.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, head lowered as you slipped through the half-buried alley behind the florist’s shop. Each footstep crunched on frost-laced cobblestones, your breath ghosting into the winter-dark like a secret you couldn’t hold in.

Inside, the bell above the bookshop door gave that soft chime — the sound that now made your blood sing instead of settle. You stepped in, your eyes blinking against the golden warmth of lamplight and old wood. The hush of paper and ink settled over you like a blanket.

You scanned the rows of books, each shadowed aisle holding a promise, a memory. But he wasn’t there. No sign of that beautiful sin draped in black, lounging where he shouldn’t be.

You told yourself the disappointment curdling in your chest was just nerves — the dread of your father discovering the gaps in your curfew. You drifted deeper into the aisles, fingertips grazing cracked spines — Fyodor, Woolf, Wilde — but none of them could hook your interest tonight. None of them were him.

Minutes slipped by like melting snow. The disappointment grew harder to ignore, a bitter ache you pretended wasn’t hope at all. Finally, you exhaled a shaky breath, hugging your coat tighter around your ribs. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe you should run home before your absence turned from suspicious to dangerous—

A tap on your shoulder made you flinch so hard you nearly knocked over a stack of secondhand hardcovers. You turned, your heart stuttering — stupidly, embarrassingly hopeful — only to find the half-bored teenage shop boy standing there, hair sticking out from beneath a knit cap.

“Uh… sorry.” He mumbled, shifting his weight, “A guy at the counter told me to give you this.”

He shoved a bouquet into your hands — carnations, wrapped in parchment paper. Your breath caught. Your fingers trembled around the stems, the cold moisture seeping through your gloves.

You blinked at the boy, “Who…?”

He shrugged, already turning away, “Said you’d know.”

Your eyes dropped to the carnations — lush, crimson petals cradled by parchment and tied with a ribbon so dark it nearly looked black in the soft library light. They were fresh enough to bead dew on your fingertips — like they’d just been cut for you alone.

Your pulse kicked, betraying every shield you’d built around your foolish heart. You slipped the small card out, the thick paper heavy between your gloved fingers. His handwriting — elegant, lazy, sinfully familiar — stared back at you, every word a dagger turned lovingly in your ribs.

“I know it’s not very gentlemanly of me to send this through someone else, but… work. I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught on that word — sweetheart. He said it like a vow. Like a hook sunk deep into your throat.

“If you miss me — call. Or don’t. I’ll find you either way.

S— +42….”

Your thumb brushed over the number. So simple. So damn easy to dial. It shouldn’t feel like a lifeline and a noose all at once — but it did. And then the final line — slanted just slightly, as if he’d leaned closer to whisper it against your neck:

“PS: You looked absolutely beautiful tonight… and the other night. Would have admired you more if I’d had time.”

You could almost hear it — that low hum in his chest when he said things that were almost compliments, almost confessions. Your cheeks flamed, your mouth bitter with how much you hated and craved that stupid velvet voice.

The flowers quivered in your grip, petals brushing your wrist like his lips might if he were here — if you let him. Was he here? Did he drop off the bouquet himself? Maybe you could still find him.

You slipped the card back between the stems like it might burn you — like you’d keep it safe anyway. You had no idea if you’d ever dial that number. But you’d never throw it away. And you hated yourself for that.

You all but bolted from the shop, the bell above the door jangling frantically behind you. You nearly collided with another girl coming in — her yelp barely registered. Your eyes scanned the street — snow falling like confetti under the streetlights — but there was no sign of him. No dark coat in the shadows. No familiar silhouette leaning against the wall like he owned the whole city.

Disappointment clawed at you, cold and sharp. The smart thing would’ve been to tuck your chin down, press the flowers close, and hurry home before your father’s dogs noticed you were gone.

But your feet betrayed you — because next thing you knew you were across the street, pushing your way into the old glass phone booth that stood crooked under a flickering lamp. The cold air disappeared behind the warped door. Your breath fogged the glass, your heartbeat drowned out the snow’s hush.

You dug the card out again, fingers trembling as you matched each digit to the faded numbers on the dial. It was so stupid. So dangerous. But you pressed your finger into the dial anyway — once, twice — until the final number clicked into place.

The dial tone purred in your ear — each ring a slow, deliberate drag of teeth against your resolve. You didn’t even know what you’d say. Maybe he won’t pick up, you lied to yourself. Maybe this means nothing.

And then — click.

No greeting. Just his voice, velvet wrapped in a grin you could practically hear.

“Couldn’t resist, sweetheart?”

Your eyes fluttered shut, your forehead bumping against the cold glass as a helpless laugh escaped your lips — halfway between a sigh and a curse.

“How did you know it’s me?” You asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be — like he’d pulled it right out of your ribs.

On the other end, you could hear his smirk, velvet and sin, slipping between the static lines.

“Darling, who else would it be? You think I hand out my number on pretty cards to every girl wandering in the library at midnight?”

A pulse of warmth slid down your spine, making you press your palm flat against the booth’s glass. He let the silence linger, like he was listening to you breathe — like the sound of you alone was worth more than anything he could be doing right now.

“Maybe?” You echoed, trying for playful but it came out a little breathless, a little too real.

A soft hum on the other end — you could almost see the way his lips would curve, the slow drag of his thumb across his lower lip as he looked out into the night.

“Mm.” He made a low, amused sound, “It’s quite a problem, you know. Can’t read. Can’t sleep. Can’t work. All because I’ve got a voice in my head whispering about Dostoevsky and how I’m ‘infuriatingly smug.’”

You bit back a laugh — the memory of your argument still sweet on your tongue. Your free hand toyed with the edge of the card, crumpling it just a bit.

“Maybe you should find someone less… distracting, then.”

A low, velvet chuckle slid through the line — dangerous and sweet all at once.

“Darling, if I wanted less, I’d have married the first woman my father found for me the second I turned legal. But I find myself…” He paused — and you could feel the heat of that grin, even though you couldn’t see it, “…addicted to the real thing.”

Your pulse fluttered in your throat — reckless, traitorous.

“Addicted, huh?” You teased, hoping your voice didn’t tremble the way your fingers did, “You don’t even know me.”

A beat of silence. Then his voice dropped — silk catching on the edge of a blade.

“Oh, sweetheart — that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? I know just enough to be ruined. And not nearly enough to stop.”

“What work do you even have at midnight anyway?”

For a moment, all you hear is his quiet breath — then that low, lazy hum that makes your stomach twist.

“Ah. Curious now, are we?” His tone was teasing, but there was a shadow beneath it — something unspoken that made the night feel sharper around you, “I promise you, sweetheart — it’s nothing you’d want to lose sleep over.”

You rolled your eyes — he could almost hear it, because he laughed, low and genuine.

“If you don’t want to tell me, just say that.” You muttered, but your voice softened on the edges, curiosity gnawing at you. Who the hell was this man?

“It’s better this way, trust me.” His voice dropped — that hush you’d felt pressed against your skin the first night in the shop, “You’re too sweet for the details. Let me stay interesting a little longer, hm?”

You bit your lip, fighting a smile you didn’t want him to hear, “You’re impossible.”

Your breath caught — shamefully soft in your ear. You forced out a laugh that sounded a little too much like surrender.

“So what now?” You asked, the words tumbling out before you could think, “You going to stand me up? Alone? At this time? Even though I risked my life to get here?”

Your words were true. You did put your life on line by sneaking out but Sylus didn't need to know that. To him, these probably felt like words of tease.

Another low chuckle — dark, pleased.

“Never. You have my word. I truly have business to handle tonight — tedious, brutal, and entirely less interesting than you.” You could hear the faint sound of his coat shifting, like he was leaning back, letting the city sprawl at his feet, “But I can fix that. Unless you’d rather run back home and pretend you’re not desperate to see me again?”

Your mouth parted — an indignant little sound caught there. He was right, the bastard.

“I’m not desperate.”

“No?” He purred, “Then what are you doing out in this freezing cold, sweetheart? Freezing your pretty-self off just to see me again? Calling me barely a minute after I dropped off the bouquet just to hear my voice? Tell me.”

Your pulse was a drumbeat now — wild, hungry. You glanced out at the snow and wished you could lie.

“I wanted…” You breathed, the words catching in your throat, “I wanted to know if you meant it.”

“Which part?” He asked, softer now, a hush that slid beneath your skin, “The part about you looking beautiful? The part about missing me? Or the part where I said I’d find you either way?”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut as you whispered, “All of it.”

A sigh, quiet but indulgent, filled your ear. You could imagine the way he’d look right now — head tipped back, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in that dangerous promise of his.

“Every word, sweetheart.” His voice dipped, a low rumble of sin wrapped in silk.

A hush settled between you, the snow muffling the city outside the booth. You could almost feel him leaning closer through the line — that warmth and danger braided together.

“So…” He murmured, voice curling like smoke around your ear, “How about a proper date, sweetheart?”

You froze, your breath catching. Date. The word shouldn’t have made your heart thud like that.

“A date?” You echoed, hating how shy it sounded.

“Mhm,” He hummed, amused, “A real one. Just you and me. No dusty books, no midnight ghosts. Somewhere I can look at you properly — watch you try not to fall for me too fast.”

Your laugh came out flustered, half a huff, half a sigh, “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“No.” He corrected smoothly, “I’m sure of us.”

Your fingers tightened around the receiver, the cold glass at your back doing nothing to settle the warmth pooling in your chest.

“When?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

There was the faintest sound of leather shifting — maybe gloves brushing over his coat. When he spoke again, you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Two days from now.” He said, each word perfectly deliberate, “This Thursday, dinner. If that’s fine with you.”

Your lips parted, a breath of disbelief slipping out. Thursday. Two days. That soon. And yet — not soon enough.

“Yeah…” You managed, and you hated how breathless you sounded, “That’s fine.”

“Good girl.” It was a purr, a sinful little stroke down your spine, “Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

Your eyes snapped open, heart skidding in your chest.

“Pick me up?” You echoed, your tone climbing into something like scandalized laughter, “From my house?”

He hummed — a dark, amused sound, “Of course. I’m a gentleman, sweetheart.”

You let out a disbelieving scoff, your fingers pressing harder into the cold glass at your back, “You’re moving too fast, Sylus.”

“Mmm. I don’t think I'm moving fast enough.”

“I barely know you,” You shot back, your voice light but your pulse anything but, “What kind of girl do you take me for? Giving my address to a man I’ve known for — what — two nights?”

“Two very good nights.” His voice slid around your ribcage like silk, “Besides, you already know you’re safe with me.”

“Safe?” You teased, your mouth twisting into a grin even he couldn’t see, “For all I know you could be the most dangerous person I know.”

A low chuckle — a promise wrapped in danger, “Then trust me to be dangerous only for you, sweetheart.”

Your head hit the glass with a soft thunk. You hated how you were smiling, how your breath fogged up the phone booth window like a teenager.

“Nice try, Mr. Qin. No address. Not yet.”

“Then how should I find you, hmm?” He asked, that velvet threat weaving into his words, “Should I follow your footprints in the snow? Climb your balcony like a thief?”

“Try it and I’ll call the police.” You teased.

“You won’t.” He murmured, so certain, so terribly right, “Thursday, then?”

“Thursday. Pick me up from the library.” You breathed.

“Good. Sweet dreams, darling.”

“Goodnight, Sylus.”

[PRESENT TIME, LINKON CITY]

The memory faded like mist when you blinked, replaced by the muted clatter of boxes being shuffled through your hallway. The faint scent of carnations lingered under the stronger smell of spices and herbs. You didn’t even remember standing this still for this long — you’d been leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching Sylus take over your home like he’d never left.

Elea was over the moon — she’d skipped school altogether, clinging to Sylus like a baby koala to its branch. In all her tiny six years of life, you’d never seen her so adamant about anything. No coaxing or bribes could pry her from her father’s side — and honestly, you hadn’t had the heart to try.

The whole day drifted by in a soft blur of giggles and crayon stains and Elea’s high, excited voice filling corners of the house that had always felt too quiet before. She’d dragged Sylus from room to room — showing him her little hoard of drawings taped crooked on the walls, the flower she’d pressed between the pages of her homework notebook, the butterfly facts she’d written in that sprawling, wobbly handwriting of hers.

And Sylus — gods, you’d thought you’d seen him cold, you’d seen him cruel, you'd seen him soft like a rose petal, you’d seen him bored and amused and lethal — but never this. Never the way he went soft for her, crouching down so she could fix his hair with plastic clips shaped like stars and daisies, letting her drag him by the sleeve from one crayon masterpiece to the next, his low hums of praise so gentle they made your chest ache.

The day blurred into dusk far too quickly. And now — night. The windows had gone black, the soft hum of the city seeping through the walls. Sylus was in your kitchen like he’d always belonged there, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he moved with that same lethal grace, stirring the pot on the stove like it was a weapon he knew better than anyone else.

He’d insisted on cooking — refused to let you lift a finger — so you’d perched keeping an eye on Elea while did her math homework. But every time you snuck a glance at her, you caught her eyes darting to the kitchen. Every two seconds, she’d peek over her shoulder, pencil tapping against her bunny’s floppy ear.

She'd scribble down a messy number and whisper for the ninth time in the span of ten minutes, "Is daddy done yet?"

You bit back a laugh, smoothing your hand over her curls, “Almost, baby. Why don't you complete your homework fast? By then daddy will be done with dinner."

A new fire of determination flashed in Elea’s eyes — her little tongue poked out as she scribbled numbers so hard her pencil nearly snapped. You hid a smile behind your hand before slipping away, your steps muffled by the hum of the city breathing through the windows.

The kitchen was warm — too warm. Or maybe that was just him. Sylus stood there, sleeves still rolled, steam curling up around the strong lines of his shoulders. He stirred the pot with a practiced flick of his wrist, like the wooden spoon was an extension of his hand — like even the simplest things bowed to his command.

You found yourself leaning back against the counter across from him, arms folded tight across your chest, heart doing that stupid, fluttering dance it had no business doing as you watched his back move in the kitchen like he knew every nook and corner of it.

Sylus didn’t look up right away — but you could see the corner of his mouth tip up when he felt you there, the way the tension shifted in his shoulders, like your presence was something he was always ready to lean into.

“How’s our little mathematician?” He murmured, voice low as he tasted the broth, the metal spoon glinting in the soft kitchen light.

“She's asking if the dinner is ready every two minutes.” You quirked an eyebrow, “So hurry up or she’ll riot.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him — low, warm, dangerously fond. He set the spoon down, the scent of garlic and herbs wrapping around you both like a blanket.

“Can’t have that.” He wiped his thumb across the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking to yours, “I want to move in as soon as possible. Preferably by tomorrow."

"What?" Your voice snapped, "Don't you think you are moving too fast? I'm not even sure if I can trust you yet."

"So dramatic." Sylus whispered, throwing you an amused glance, "Or would you rather move in with me along with Elea?"

Your eyes narrowed, "Sylus—"

"What?" He tilted his head, eyes bright, "You said you don't trust me yet but you're standing right here, sweetheart. Watching me cook. Staying close enough to breathe me in. With our daughter in the next room. I'd say we're making progress."

You scowled at him, pulse misbehaving, "I'm keeping an eye on you just in case you decide to set this place on fire in the name of revenge."

“Ouch. You wound me, sweetheart.” The words rolled off his tongue like a purr, too warm, too easy — the kind of tone that made your heart misbehave more than you’d ever admit.

He turned back to the stove, giving the broth one last swirl before dipping the spoon in again. This time, instead of tasting it himself, he lifted it — careful, steady — and brought it to hover just inches from your lips.

“Here.” He murmured, eyes cutting to yours beneath those lashes, “Tell me if it’s good.”

Your mouth opened, words caught somewhere behind your teeth. He held the spoon there — patient, infuriatingly calm — like he had all the time in the world to watch you squirm.

“Why don't you test it?” You eyed the spoon suspiciously.

“Don’t be shy.” He coaxed, the corner of his mouth curving just a little more, “I promise I didn’t poison it. Yet.”

You shot him a withering glare but leaned forward anyway, lips brushing the warm metal. For Elea — you told yourself. The taste bloomed over your tongue — rich, savory, perfect. Too perfect.

“Hmm?” He tipped his head, studying you like he could see straight through your skull, “Good?”

You swallowed — the heat of it, the heat of him, “It’s… fine.”

“Fine?” His brows shot up, faux offended, “I need delicious. My girls deserve only the best."

Your stomach did that traitorous twist. My girls. The words still clung to your ribs like honey and barbed wire all at once.

You forced out a scoff, arms crossing tighter against your chest like that would protect you from the way his voice made your pulse stumble.

“Your girls?” You shot back, trying for bite, “There’s only one girl of yours here, Sylus. And she’s in the living room — doing math, not—”

His eyes flicked to yours — steady, unbothered — and the rest of your sentence shriveled on your tongue.

He let out a soft, humorless laugh as he set the spoon aside. Then he leaned in — slow, caging you in with one hand braced on the counter beside your hip. Not touching, but the heat of him made your skin prickle. His voice dropped, rough silk.

“Just because you woke up one day and decided that I wouldn’t absolutely burn the world down for you — and ran away without a word — doesn’t make you any less mine.”

Your throat closed up, the air between you thick with memories you’d buried so deep they ached to breathe.

“You can hate me all you want.” Sylus went on, eyes locked to yours like a promise carved into stone, “but I'm gonna pretend that I want you with every fiber in my body. Even if it makes you uncomfortable. I’ll take back the one who was mine. You.”

He paused then — close enough you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your cheek. His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“And for that, sweetheart…” He hummed, that smile — more dangerous than any blade, “I need you to tell me what on earth actually happened.”

Your next breath came out shaky. You wanted to spit out a retort — to shove him back, to spit every damn detail of that night — no word came out. You couldn't utter a word because you knew the second you started talking, you would shatter like a fallen glass vase.

Outside, you could hear Elea’s pencil tapping on the table, oblivious to the storm brewing in her parents’ silence. Sylus pulled back just enough to smirk, voice softer now — so soft it scraped the raw edges inside you.

“I’ll wait.” He murmured, “However long it takes.”

Then he turned back to the stove, the faint clink of the spoon against the pot the only sound that dared to fill the space he left behind. You stayed pressed to the counter, arms crossed so tight they almost bruised your ribs, the ghost of his breath still warm on your cheek.

He didn’t look at you again — didn’t need to. His voice came out low, almost casual, but the edge in it cut through the steam curling around him.

“Set the table, sweetheart.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not with your pulse still stumbling over the weight of everything unsaid — the truth you’d buried under a thousand careful lies. The smell of garlic and herbs suddenly felt suffocating, the walls too close.

You set the table with stiff, deliberate movements. Fork. Knife. Spoon. Small glass for Elea — she’d spill it otherwise. Napkins folded, your hands trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t see.

Behind you, Sylus hummed something low under his breath, tasting the soup again like nothing had happened — like he hadn’t just reminded you that no matter how many locks you’d thrown over your heart, he still knew exactly where the key was buried.

When you finally turned to call for Elea, you felt his eyes on your back — warm, sure, inevitable.

Dinner was… fine. More than fine, actually — but only because Elea, in all her tiny, relentless sunshine, refused to let the dark edges creep back in. She babbled about her day at school, her favorite flowers, the new bunny sticker she’d stuck on her notebook — you’d swear Sylus would have nodded along even if she’d recited the entire encyclopedia backward.

Every time you looked up, you caught Sylus watching her with this look you couldn’t decipher — soft and unguarded, the way you’d seen him only once before. He didn’t interrupt her once, just kept spooning more food onto her plate, his eyes bright with something dangerously close to awe.

You pretended not to notice how he’d cut your portion just right, how he’d poured your drink without asking, how his knee brushed yours under the table — steady, warm, present. Like he was staking a claim he didn’t have to say out loud.

Elea beamed the whole way through, blissfully oblivious to the thousand unspoken things passing between her parents.

But the problem — the real problem — started when you’d finished clearing the plates, when Sylus stood to slip back into his coat. Elea was on him in a heartbeat, her arms like tiny iron bars clinging around his waist.

“No, daddy — no! Stay! Stay here!” She hiccuped, face buried against his pants. Her tiny shoulders shook with each sob, “Don’t go away again, please… mommy, tell him to stay.”

“Hey…” Sylus crouched low, one big hand cradling her head so gently, “I promised you, didn’t I? Daddy’s not going anywhere. I’ll be right back tomorrow. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Elea just wailed harder, bunny clutched so tight you worried the ears might come off. Her eyes — those same eyes she got from you — flicked up, glassy and desperate.

“Mommy — mommy, please! Can he stay? I’ll be good, I promise! Please don’t make him leave.”

Your chest squeezed so painfully you almost said yes, right then, just to make the tears stop. But your mouth wouldn’t move — and neither would the old fears lodged in your ribs like splinters.

Sylus’s eyes met yours over her shoulder — something soft and pleading buried in the ice-blue. He didn’t push, didn’t demand, didn’t force you like you half-expected him to. He just scooped Elea up, rocking her gently, murmuring in that low, steady voice you were coming to know all too well.

“Little dove.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple, “I’ll be right here. Tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that. Okay? You trust daddy, don’t you?”

She sniffled, snuggling closer, her tiny fingers fisting the lapel of his coat, “Promise?”

“Promise.” He said — and you could feel the vow curl around the edges of your own bruised heart, warming places you wished would stay cold.

When he finally set her down — her eyelids heavy with exhausted tears — she clung to your side instead, still hiccuping, still watching him like she was afraid he’d vanish if she blinked.

And Sylus — Sylus just looked at you. Quiet. Certain. Like he knew no matter how many times you bolted, he’d find a way to stay.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow.” He said, his voice—all gentle thunder as he opened the door, “Keep our girl safe for me, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t speak — so you just nodded, holding Elea tighter. And the echo of the door closing behind him felt like something dangerous and tender all at once.

That night, the house felt too quiet — like it was holding its breath. You’d tucked Elea into the middle of your bed, her bunny nestled tight under her chin, the tip of one ear already soggy from all the tears she’d shed clinging to Sylus’s coat.

You smoothed a hand over her hair, brushing away the stray curls that always stuck to her damp cheeks. Her eyes, still glassy with sleep, blinked up at you — wide, trusting, far too big for someone so small.

“Mommy?” She whispered, her voice so soft it barely made it past the covers, “Daddy… he’ll be back, right?”

You froze, your hand stilled mid-stroke. For a heartbeat, you wanted to lie — to tell her the perfect fairytale version, no cracks, no shadows. But the promise you’d seen in Sylus’s eyes tonight burned at the back of your mind, steady as an ember.

You swallowed the ache in your throat and forced your voice to be warm — solid — the mother she deserved.

“He’ll be back, baby.” You murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, “Daddy promised, didn’t he?”

Elea nodded, but her little fingers crept up to clutch at yours, her bunny squished between you both, “Daddy doesn’t break promises?”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding — your eyes drifting to the darkened hallway where you could still feel his presence, lingering like the faint scent of carnations.

“No.” You said, quiet but certain — more certain than you’d let yourself feel in years, “Daddy never breaks promises.”

Her eyes fluttered closed at that, her grip on your hand loosening as sleep pulled her under. You stayed like that a moment longer — tracing her knuckles with your thumb, staring at the tiny heartbeat you and Sylus made together.

[9 YEARS AGO, CHANSIA CITY]

You were annoyed, to say the least. Thursday had come in a blink — so fast it made your head spin. Two days, that’s all you’d had to tear through half the city, combing through silk and satin and soft chiffons until your fingers smelled like perfume and new fabric. The perfect dress. The perfect shoes. The perfect little bag that could hold your dreams — and your secrets — all at once.

Everything needed to be perfect. This was your first date — the first anything in your life that you’d chosen for yourself, on your own stubborn, foolish will. But in your frenzied quest for perfect lipstick shades and borrowed courage, you’d forgotten one small, crucial thing: How on earth were you going to sneak out?

Midnight was easy. Midnight gave you shadows — sleepy maids, half-drunk guards, a whole house lulled under the weight of its own secrets. But tonight? Sylus was coming for you at 8 p.m. Sharp. Bright. The hour when the house hummed loudest — when the table downstairs would be set with heavy porcelain and your father and brother would talk “business” in low, rough voices, pretending you weren’t there, yet demanding your presence all the same.

Tradition, they’d said once, when you were too young to understand why your stomach always turned to knots when you sat at that long, cold table. Family should eat together. Even if you were invisible. Even if you’d rather be anywhere else.

You sat on the edge of your bed now, your new dress laid across your bed like a beautiful mess. The clock on your wall ticked mercilessly toward 6:00. An hour to come up with a plan. An hour to find the courage to shatter the only thing that held you here — the illusion that you were safe in this pretty, suffocating cage.

Then — like the answer to a prayer you hadn’t dared to whisper out loud — came your saviour: Sara.

The only soul in that entire suffocating house who looked at you and saw you — not the pretty daughter, not the pawn to be traded at the right price, but you. She’d slipped in with arms folded and eyes dancing like she’d been waiting all day to pull you out of your misery.

“Pneumonia.” She’d said, biting back a laugh when you gaped at her, “Who’d want a sick little mess coughing all over their roast, hmm?”

And it had worked — like magic. When the doctor came, Sara was quick with the hot pack tucked under your sheets, your skin flushed and forehead beading sweat on command. The thermometer ticked up, the doctor frowned, your father’s mouth curled with disgust, and the final verdict was handed down like a blessing from the devil himself: Stay in your room. Rest. Do not come near the dining hall.

When they’d left, Sara locked the door behind them, pressing her back to it like she half-expected them to barge in again. But no footsteps came. No voices barked your name. Just silence. Freedom masquerading as fever.

She turned to you then, her grin wicked and soft all at once.

“Up.” She ordered, hauling you off the bed before you could blink.

Your new dress waited, a small, defiant rebellion draped across the sheets like spilled wine. Sara’s fingers were quick and sure — undoing the ties, tugging the soft ivory blouse over your shoulders. The fabric was lighter than air, its wide collar brushing your collarbones, tiny red flowers blooming against your skin like stolen kisses. The hem of the blouse was tucked into the deep wine-red skirt cinched at your waist, falling in neat pleats a few inches under your knees, brushing your bare feet as you swayed on the balls of your heels.

“Shoes—” Sara breathed, shoving the cream Mary Janes into your hands. “Bag?”

You held up the tiny burgundy bag like it was your ticket to another life — which, in a way, it was. Inside: a handful of crumpled bills, your mother's pocket watch, a compact mirror and a red lipstick. And your watch — the slim red leather strap biting into your wrist, ticking the seconds down until you’d be in his world, not theirs.

Sara fussed with your hair next, fingers gentle as she gathered it back, pinning the loose waves with a little gold barrette shaped like a crescent moon. It glimmered in the low lamplight — a secret piece of the night sky you’d carry with you.

“Perfect.” She whispered, standing back to admire you like you were some masterpiece she’d helped smuggle out of a locked gallery, “Now… don’t fall in love too fast, all right?”

You laughed — breathless, a little unsteady — and hugged her so tight she squeaked. And when you pulled back, you saw it in her eyes: the pride, the fear, the hope she dared to have for you.

“Go.” Sara breathed, already pushing you toward the balcony doors, that spark in her grin brighter than any chandelier, “Before they realize their sick little bird has learned how to fly.”

You slipped out like a ghost — feet barely touching the cold marble floors, heart hammering against your ribs loud enough you were sure it would give you away. The night air kissed your flushed skin the moment you ducked through the side door Sara had left cracked open for you, the scent of the garden’s damp earth and late-blooming roses mixing with your nerves.

The streets were quieter than usual, shadows swallowing your hurried steps as you pressed the little bag to your side like it could anchor you to this reckless freedom. You wished — not for the first time — that you could bring your phone. Having it would’ve been so convenient, so normal. But your father’s rules wrapped around you like barbed wire even now — the device tracked 24/7 by men who’d sooner lock you away than let you breathe the same air as your own choices.

So you walked. One block. Two. Past shuttered shops and flickering street lamps, the weight of your watch ticking heavy on your wrist. When the library’s familiar arched windows finally rose into view — pale light spilling through stacks of books like a sanctuary — you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

This place was yours. Untouchable. Your father’s reach ended right outside its old stone facade — his men had no authority here.

You slipped through the doors, the soft scent of old pages and ink wrapping around you like an old friend. You found your favorite corner — the one hidden behind the tallest shelves — and curled into the velvet chair, knees pulled up, the gold crescent moon barrette catching the warm lamplight.

You must have checked the clock on the far wall a hundred times, your foot tapping against the carpet every second that passed. 8:00 p.m. The time he’d promised.

And right on the dot, the world outside shifted — headlights slicing through the dark. You peeked through the dusty window just in time to see it: a sleek black car gliding up to the curb, so quiet it could’ve been a phantom.

Your heart somersaulted into your throat. Sylus Qin — your Sylus, even if you’d never dared to say it out loud — had come for you. Just like he’d promised.

Your fingers curled tighter around the strap of your bag. No shadows tonight. No walls. Just you. Just him. Just the wild, terrifying taste of a freedom that belonged only to you.

You almost ran out — embarrassingly fast, your shoes scuffing the stone steps of the library as the heavy door swung shut behind you. The cool night nipped at your bare collarbones.

And there he was — stepping out from behind the wheel like he owned the pavement beneath his feet. Sylus Qin. All shadow-slicked coat and dark hair tousled just enough to look like he’d run his fingers through it a few dozen times. The streetlight caught on the sharp line of his jaw, the faintest curl of a smirk ghosting over his mouth when his eyes found you.

“Easy there, sweetheart.” He drawled, voice so low that it glided down your spine, “Wouldn’t want you bruising those pretty knees before I even get you in the car.”

You huffed — but the sound caught somewhere in your throat the second you really saw him. Sylus Qin, right on time, not a hair out of place except for that deliberate tousle you knew he’d done just to make it look effortless. The streetlight turned the edges of his dark coat to silver, catching on the faint twist of a grin tugging at his mouth.

“I just… didn’t want to be late.” You muttered, clutching your bag like it might anchor you to the sidewalk.

He laughed — soft, low, a sound that seemed to slide under your skin. He stepped in close, boots brushing yours on the cracked pavement.

“Late?” He repeated, voice warm against your ear as he leaned in just enough to breathe you in, “Sweetheart, we have the whole night to ourselves."

Your heart did that traitorous flutter, and you hated that he could probably feel it — could sense every little thing you gave away just by standing there. His gaze dipped to your lips, lingering like he was tasting something only he could sense.

“Let me see you,” He murmured. His gloved fingers brushed the edge of your jaw, trailing up to the moon-shaped clip nestled in your hair, “Mm. Perfect. Did you wear this for me?”

“Nope.” You lied, but your voice cracked down the middle.

Sylus chuckled, thumb dragging softly along the edge of your earring.

“Liar. I like it.” His eyes flicked to yours, dark and sure and bright all at once, “You look…” He tilted his head, the streetlight catching in those sharp eyes, “Beautiful”

Your lips twitched, the compliment heating your cheeks in a way you hated him for. So you fired back, chin lifting just enough to hide the flutter in your chest.

“You don’t look half bad yourself, Mr. Qin.” You shot back, all false bravado, letting your gaze drop pointedly over his broad shoulders, the open collar of his shirt, “Though you could’ve at least tried. I did put in a little effort, you know.”

“Mm. So you did.” His voice dipped lower, silk over steel, “A pretty skirt, that sweet perfume — your favourite lip colour. I notice everything, sweetheart.”

His thumb brushed your bottom lip — so soft you almost leaned in.

“But next time you say you’re putting in effort, remember…” His mouth dipped just close enough that his words brushed the edge of your skin, “It’s never wasted on me.”

Your cheeks burned under the weight of his stare — that smile that said he knew exactly what he was doing to you. You ducked your gaze, fingers gripping the strap of your bag a little too tight.

“We should get going now.” You mumbled, clearing your throat, hoping he wouldn’t hear how breathless you sounded.

“Alright.” He murmured, straightening up, “Your wish is my command.”

He stepped back, the loss of his heat a betrayal your skin immediately mourned. With one hand, he popped open the passenger door, the other sweeping low to guide you inside — his palm grazing the small of your back, fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long.

“After you.” Sylus drawled, eyes dancing, “Before I lose control and skip all the formalities.”

The click of your seatbelt was almost too loud in the hush of the car as he rounded the hood, slipped into the driver’s seat, and shot you that same wicked, impossible smile.

“Ready?”

The engine hummed beneath you, low and smooth as Sylus pulled away from the curb. The city lights flickered past the window in a blur — gold and neon and sharp edges that made your heart pound in your chest for reasons you couldn’t quite name.

You kept stealing glances at him — the way one hand rested lazy on the wheel, the other drumming a slow rhythm on the console, the streetlights slipping like liquid gold across the sharp cut of his jaw. He looked unbothered, like this was just any other night. Like you weren’t sitting here trying not to choke on your own heartbeat.

You cleared your throat. Casual. “So… where are we going?”

Sylus didn’t look at you, but you saw the smirk tug at his mouth, the corner of his lips catching the city’s glow.

“Impatient?” He murmured.

You scowled, ignoring the way his voice wrapped around your spine, “I thought we were going to a restaurant or something but you are driving towards the outskirts."

He hummed, that deep, thoughtful sound that always meant he was enjoying this more than he should.

“Sweetheart,” He called out, tapping the wheel once with his ringed fingers, “Has anyone ever told you that you don’t dream big enough?”

Your frown deepened when he turned off the main road — the neon signs fell away, replaced by quieter streets. Then the hush of water came up all around you, glittering in the moonlight. You sat up straighter, peering out the window. Docks. Wide, private. Yachts — not just boats, but floating palaces lined up like a kingdom of secrets.

“Wait…” You breathed, “Why are we at the port? Are you going to murder me and then dump my body in the sea?”

Sylus’s laugh was sudden, his fingers drumming once on the steering wheel before he cut the engine. The quiet that fell around you both was filled only by the soft slap of water against the docks.

“Murder you?” He echoed, turning to you with that maddening tilt of his head — all shadow and citylight catching in his eyes, “You wound me.”

You tried to glare at him — you really did — but the heat in his gaze made your pulse stutter in your throat. He leaned closer, one arm slung over the back of your seat like he owned every breath you took.

“If I wanted you gone, sweetheart…” His thumb brushed your chin, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his, “…you’d never see me coming. You’d just feel it — right here.”

He tapped your pulse point, the pad of his finger warm against your skin, lingering just a moment too long.

Your breath a humiliating hitch — and the corner of his mouth curved like he’d heard it, like he could taste the panic and the thrill mixing in your veins.

He leaned in — close enough that his hair tickled your cheek. His breath was warm as he spoke, words threading straight through your ribs.

“But I don’t want you gone.” Sylus’s smirk softened into something darker, hungrier, “I want you here. Right where you are.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at you — his eyes glinting under the streetlight, too bright, too sure, before he got down from the car. Your eyes followed as he rounded the car and stopped to your side.

The door opened. Your hands curled tighter around your bag. Your skin burned under his stare. But your door clicked open anyway, and Sylus’s gloved hand was there — palm up, patient, so infuriatingly steady.

You slipped your hand into his, and he squeezed — just once, just enough to tell you there was no turning back.

“Let me give you the best night of your life, sweetheart.” He murmured, lips brushing your knuckles like a vow, before he tugged you out into the night — toward the dock where the waiting yacht glowed like a secret kingdom built just for you.

Sylus led you down the private dock, your hand swallowed in his — warm, steady, that subtle squeeze every few steps like he liked reminding you you were tethered to him now. The closer you got, the more your breath caught in your throat.

Your jaw nearly hit the polished wood when Sylus helped you step aboard. You felt like a giddy child as you padded across the deck, the boards warm under your shoes, the hush of the ocean wrapping around you like a secret only the two of you shared.

Sylus stayed a step behind you — close enough that the heat of him brushed your shoulders when the breeze kicked up. He didn’t say a word, just let you wander — let you trail your fingertips over the soft drapes, the glassy rail, the scattered petals that shimmered like they’d been kissed by the stars themselves.

Fairy lights strung across the upper deck turned the sea into a bed of diamonds. Somewhere, the low croon of jazz melted into the soft slap of the waves, the kind of music that made you want to dance barefoot with your heart wide open.

You spun slowly, your skirt flowing around like a tulip in bloom. Every detail was perfect — almost painfully so. The candlelit dining table set for two. The soft velvet cushions arranged in the lounge. The chilled bottles resting in a crystal bucket near a tray of tiny, delicate desserts.

Your chest squeezed tight, breath stuttering when you realized there were no other guests, no laughter drifting up from hidden corners. Just you. Just him. And the hush of the sea all around.

You turned, your pulse jumping when you found Sylus leaning against the railing, arms crossed, eyes glittering under the warm glow. Like he was the one thing that made all this beauty make sense.

“There’s… no one else?” You asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

He tilted his head, that ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, “Disappointed?”

Your cheeks warmed.

“No— I just thought…” You gestured helplessly at the fairy lights, the flowers, the empty hush between you, “All this, just for me?”

Sylus pushed off the rail, closing the distance with those lazy, predator-smooth steps that always made your knees go a little soft. He stopped just close enough for you to smell the faint spice of his cologne under the salt-sweet air.

“Told you I'll give you the best night of your life.” He murmured, slipping his hands into his pockets, “I'm a man of my word after all.”

His eyes dipped to your lips, lingering there like a promise, “Tonight, you’re mine alone.”

The yacht hummed beneath your feet, a low, steady purr that seemed to match the way your pulse tripped in your throat. Slowly, the dock fell away, the city lights shrinking behind you like a string of dying fireflies swallowed by the dark.

You braced your hands on the polished railing, the breeze teasing your hair as the gentle sway of the vessel carried you farther and farther from everything you’d ever known — the rules, the walls, the eyes always watching.

Up above, the city’s haze faded into a sky so clear it made your chest ache. A blanket of stars blinked back at you, the moon full and silver, the sea catching every reflection like a thousand scattered diamonds.

For one breathless moment, you almost forgot how to hold all that wonder inside your ribs. Sylus placed a hand on the centre of your back and brought you down to the middle of the deck — where a single table waited like something out of a dream: candles flickering soft golden halos, crystal glasses catching the moonlight, petals scattered across the linen like a promise you hadn’t dared to make.

His hand slid down your back, "Take a seat."

You shot him a half offended look but amusement glinted in your eyes, "Since when do you get to boss me around?"

"I'm not bossing you, sweetheart." He bowed his head dramatically, "It's a humble request of this peasant that you kindly take your seat and provide some rest for your delicate feet."

"Since you asked so nicely — I'll humour you I guess." You chuckled and sat down.

Sylus settled into the chair across from you, legs angled wide, elbow draped over the back like he owned not just the seat, but the whole damn night. Candlelight flickered across the sharp lines of his jaw when he glanced at you — and didn’t bother to look away.

With a snap of his fingers, a server emerged so silently you almost startled — a bottle of deep red wine balanced on a tray. The cork popped, the wine slipped into crystal glasses like ink spreading through water. You caught the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of Sylus’s mouth as he swirled his glass, eyes on you instead of the swirl.

“What would you like, sweetheart?" Sylus took a sip of the wine, letting it rest on the tongue before swallowing, "Order anything you want tonight?"

"Anything? Did you chefs from all over the world?" You meant to tease but the smirk on his face paused you, "Wait! Did you really?"

Sylus shrugged as if it was just another Tuesday, "I told you I'm gonna give you the best night and I meant it, sweetheart."

Your jaw dropped a little, and he had the audacity to look smug about it. You leaned back, arms crossing under your chest, giving him a look.

You turned to the waiter, “Then I want shrimp tempura, a Truffle Fettuccine and Oysters Meunière. For now."

The meal was a beautiful, delicious mess. You’d lost count of how many times Sylus leaned across the flickering candlelight to wipe sauce from your mouth — always with his thumb, always dragging it slow across your bottom lip before sucking it clean, eyes glinting with that insufferable, devastating heat.

Somewhere between the last bite and the swirl of wine on your tongue, the servers faded into the shadows — discreet ghosts. It felt like the whole world had shrunk to this table, this ocean, this man and the way he watched you like he already owned every secret under your skin.

He leaned back, thigh pressing against yours under the linen, “So, when are you giving me your number?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the casual way he asked, “My number? What for?”

His thumb tapped lazy against the rim of his glass, a half-smirk curving his mouth, “So I don’t have to stalk you every time I want to steal you away.”

You laughed — a bright, startled sound that warmed your chest, “Nope.”

His brow arched, the predator’s smile sharpening, “Why not?”

You possibly could not tell him that it's because your father was a crime lord could you?

“There's no fun in that,” You repeated, nudging his shin with your foot beneath the table, “Also my father’s people track every call. He’d love to trace you right back to your home and beat you up. My father is a very important businessman you know.”

His brow arched higher, amusement flickering like a flame in those dark eyes.

“Beat me up?” He echoed, laughing under his breath, low and dangerous.

He leaned forward, elbow propped on the table as his thumb brushed the rim of his glass again — but you could feel the heat of his knee pressing a fraction harder into yours under the linen.

“I’d like to see him try.” Sylus murmured, voice dipped in velvet and knives. He tilted his head, eyes locked to yours, every word a slow drag across your pulse, “So you’re telling me I have to keep chasing you down in the shadows… every time I want you to myself?”

You pretended to think, tapping a finger to your chin while fighting the grin threatening to betray you, “Mm-hm. That’s the price you pay for trying to steal a princess from her tower.”

Sylus’s lips curved into that infuriatingly slow smile — the one that said he could and would burn the whole damn tower to the ground if you dared him to. His knees slid closer — almost touching yours under the table — heat seeping into you like he was a flame and you were tinder.

“And here I was hoping you’d make it easy on me, sweetheart.” He drawled, low, intimate. He leaned closer until your noses almost brushed, his cologne and the salt-sweet night curling around your head like a spell, “But fine. I like a good hunt.”

"What am I? A dear in the wild?" You shot him a look, but the edge of your mouth betrayed you, twitching, “I have a feeling you'll be very insufferable in the future.”

“And you'll love every second of it.” Sylus murmured, a wicked spark lighting behind his eyes. He drew back just enough to drag his thumb once more across the corner of your mouth — slow, deliberate — before bringing it to his lips, his tongue flicking over it like a promise, “Every. Damn. Second.”

You were too busy dragging your fork through the last bite of tiramisu to notice Sylus stand. When you finally looked up, he was watching you with that half-lidded, devastating stare.

He said nothing at first — just stepped around the table, each footfall a soft, controlled echo on the polished deck. He stopped in front of you, close enough that the crisp scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body made your pulse skip.

Then he extended a hand, palm up, fingers loose but sure.

“Dance with me.” Sylus said — simple, low, and laced with a smile you could feel in your ribs.

You let your gaze drift from his hand up to his eyes — the way they glinted like the night was bending just for him, just for you. A teasing huff slipped from your lips as you set your fork down, wiping your mouth with the napkin, stalling just to make him wait.

“Quite a romantic, aren't you?” You teased, but your fingers were already sliding into his palm. His grip closed around you — warm, possessive — a promise and a threat all in one.

The music drifting through the speakers shifted — the jazzy hum softening, melting into something slow, something that curled in your chest like a secret. The hush of the waves, the distant call of the sea, the rhythm that matched your heartbeat.

The music curled around you like smoke — slow, sultry, timeless. Sylus’s hands found your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric, warm through to your skin. He guided you effortlessly, each step a delicious push and pull, your bodies brushing, then parting, then brushing again like you were trying to learn each other by touch alone.

Your palms slid up the hard line of his shoulders, fingertips tracing the nape of his neck where his hair curled just slightly. He hummed at the contact, his eyes half-lidded, his breath a lazy heat against your temple.

When he spun you, you felt the rough pad of his thumb skim the sensitive inside of your wrist — a touch that made your stomach tighten, a spark that shot all the way up your spine. He caught you again, pulling you flush against him, his thigh pressing between yours, stealing the air from your lungs. His nose grazed across your shoulder, breathing you in.

“You’re dangerous like this.” You teased, breathless, lips brushing the sharp edge of his jaw.

His teeth grazed your earlobe, “Look who’s talking. You’re the one who’s got my hands shaking.”

You laughed, but it broke into a soft gasp when he rocked you gently into him, one hand sliding low on your back, the other catching your jaw. His thumb traced the corner of your mouth, and you felt him smile against your cheek, felt the hungry drag of his breath.

The world shrank to the hush of the waves, the whisper of silk and suit, the flicker of candles caught in his hair when he tipped your head back just enough to look at you — really look at you — like you were already half-undone.

But then — that itch. That cold ripple down your spine — the unmistakable feeling of eyes where they didn’t belong.

Your face frowned, your gaze flicked past Sylus’s shoulder. And there he was. One of the servers, lingering by the shadows near the bar, his eyes locked not on the wine or the plates — but on you.

His stare slithered down your body, blatant, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the dance.

Sylus hadn’t noticed yet — too wrapped up in the way your pulse stuttered under his thumb. But your spine went stiff under his hands. The music, the candlelight — they all felt like they were miles away now, swallowed by the weight of that filthy, lingering gaze.

Your skin crawled under that stare, the filthy weight of it dragging you right out of Sylus’s touch, no matter how warm his hands were on your hips.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear, voice sweet as honey, “I’m gonna freshen up. Don’t miss me too much, hm?”

Sylus’s answering hum rumbled against your collarbone, “Hurry back. I haven’t had nearly enough of you yet.”

You managed a smile — one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. He pressed a fleeting kiss to your cheek, but your focus was already locked over his shoulder, on the bastard in the shadows.

As you stepped away, you caught the server’s gaze dead-on — a look that makes perverts drool. You knew he would follow.

You slipped inside the corridor leading to the washroom, your steps soft, your breath steady. The muffled sway of music faded behind you, replaced by the low hum of the yacht’s engines and the slap of water against the hull.

You rounded the corner and waited for him. No long after you heard him — the shuffle of cheap shoes on the polished floor. Pathetic. Predictable.

You didn’t wait for him to speak. The instant he opened his mouth, you spun on your heel and your fist connected with his jaw — a sharp, clean hit that sent him crashing against the wall before he crumpled to the ground like trash.

He let out a low, broken whimper. You stepped over him, heel grinding just enough into his ribs to remind him exactly who he’d messed with.

“Eyes up next time, pervert.” You hissed, brushing imaginary dust from your knuckles.

Without another glance, you slipped back down the corridor, heart pounding not from fear — but from the electric rush of it all. You pushed open the door, stepping back out onto the candlelit deck where Sylus waited, oblivious and still half-drunk on the taste of you.

You let out a breath, smoothed your skirt, and glided back into his orbit like you’d never left.

Sylus lifted an eyebrow, catching your hand to pull you back into the dance, “Everything good, sweetheart?”

You smiled up at him — sharp, satisfied, a secret tucked behind your lips, “Perfect. Now, where were we?”

The ride back was a blur — city lights streaking past the window, your hand tucked safely in Sylus’s like it belonged there, his thumb brushing lazy circles on your skin as if he couldn’t stand to stop touching you, not even for a second.

But your mind was already racing ahead. The creak of your bedroom window. Sara’s worried hush as she’d help you sneak back in before anyone noticed. If you were late, she’d catch hell for it — and you wouldn’t let that happen. Not for anything.

By the time the library came back into view, you almost wished the road would just keep on going. That you could stay wrapped up in this impossible, stolen thing for just a little longer.

Snow fell in soft, fat flakes, landing in Sylus’s dark hair, on the shoulders of his coat, melting against the warmth of your cheeks. He cut the engine, but neither of you moved. The silence stretched until it was too fragile to break.

When he finally did open your door, you stepped out onto the frost-slick pavement, boots crunching on salt and snow. Sylus didn’t let go of your hand — if anything, he tugged you closer under the light of the streetlamp.

“Well…” You murmured, your breath misting between you, “This is… goodbye, I guess.”

Sylus tilted his head, eyes glinting under the amber glow, “When do I get to see you again?”

You let out a soft, helpless laugh, brushing a snowflake off his shoulder, “Whenever fate's wheel wants.”

His thumb stroked your wrist, “Should I just break the wheel then? Twist fate until it’s begging me to keep you?”

Your heart stuttered, “You can’t.”

“Sweetheart.” He murmured, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of him, “Don’t tempt me.”

“Don’t look at me like that” You breathed, every inch of you coiled tight.

“Like what?” His voice was silk and sin, “Like I want to drag you back to my car and ruin you ‘til dawn?”

You almost said yes. Almost begged him to do it. Instead, you rose on your toes, pressed a soft kiss to his cheek — a coward’s goodbye, a promise you’d never speak.

“Goodnight, Sylus.” You whispered, lips ghosting his jaw, “Thank you… for tonight.”

You turned, boots crunching in the snow — one step, two, three, four—

Then you spun around, your chest bursting, your feet carrying you right back to him. You grabbed his collar, yanked him down, and crushed your mouth to his.

The kiss was fire and teeth and too much all at once. His hands caught your hips, fingers digging in like he’d carve your shape into his palms. He bit your lower lip — sharp enough to draw a gasp, sharp enough that you tasted blood when he chased it with his tongue.

You broke away, breathless, lips throbbing.

“Sylus, you dog—” You whispered, half-laughing against his mouth, “You bit me.”

He smirked, eyes blown wide and wild, “Don’t act like you didn’t love it.”

You did. God, you did. This time, you forced yourself to pull back — really pull back, the cold rushing in to fill every place he’d left burning.

“One day.” He said, voice low, promise carved into each syllable, “I won’t have to let you go.”

You smiled — a tiny, trembling thing — and disappeared into the falling snow before your bones changed their mind. The moment you were fully gone out of the view, Sylus’s smile fell away like a mask sliding off glass. He turned toward his car, jaw ticking once, twice.

He pulled his phone from his coat pocket, thumb hovering just a second before he hit call.

“Kierran ” He said when the line clicked open, his voice now all frost and iron, “I want every server from tonight — every single one who set foot on that yacht.”

A pause. His eyes flicked the way you had disappeared.

“Find that piece of shit who couldn’t keep his eyes to himself.” He continued, tone so calm it burned, “Make sure he understands what happens when he looks at something that’s not his.”

He ended the call, the snow catching in his hair, melting on his lips — lips still stained with your kiss, with your blood. His eyes glinted dark as the sea beyond. And then Sylus Qin smiled — but there was no warmth left in it at all.

LIKED IT? THEN PLEASE LEAVE A LIKE, REBLOG & COMMENT. IT WOULD MEAN A LOT AND FOLLOW ME FOR MORE LIKE THESE. THANK YOU ♡

#I hope this isn't too messy #I've been wanting to bark for days.#So I hope you don't mind all my ramblings.#Ty for the food 🫶🏻#I wanted to say more but this is already too long

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ikeufile · 2 days ago

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SJY ✷ BEST PART

【 requested by】 . . . @nodoubtily ･ᴗ･ !husbandjake x f.reader¡ warnings ﹐➜ kissing , skinship. wc 451 NOT PROOFREAD.

note ઇ 𓈒 first rec kinda nervous eheh… anyway this is kind of a part two of this fic! but I hope you enjoy it , deuces ❤︎!!

mornings with jake would always make you feel at home. the shared laughter while arguing to finally get up out of bed, the fresh smell of breakfast filling the small apartment — or the hour showers where you both would splash shampoo bubbles at eachother.

ever since you two got married, it seemed like the mornings got even better. sometimes jake would wake up extra early to prepare a warm bath for you — or cook you a whole diner worthy breakfast.

sometimes jake would come home a bit late from work. but he never forgets to make it up to you by staying up extra late to binge watch a series of rom coms, or just order takeout and cuddle after.

today was like all the others — you were currently in the kitchen mixing up something on the stove, when you heard the front door unlock. signaling jakes arrival. you didn’t even need to guess what he was going to do next, because he was that predictable.

before you could even react, his hands snaked around your waist from behind and nuzzled his face in your neck. like he always does. “mh.. missed you.” he mumbled incoherently. “missed you too baby.” you said in reply.

“how was work?” you asked him while turning off the stove, leaving your full attention on him. “good, missed my beautiful wife the whole time tho..” he said while giving that signature smirk he always gave you.

you just gave him a small giggle, turning around to see him properly. he stared at you with those big brown eyes – the ones you could get lost in for hours, and he knew that for a fact.

he didn’t even hesitate to start peppering ligjt kisses all over your face, finally reaching your lips to give you a soft and slow kiss. only filled with pure love, he knew you liked those kisses the most.

after he broke the kiss he reached out for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours as he ran his thumb over your ring finger, directly where your ring was. his eyes always stared at it with pure admiration. “ur doing it again…” you said with a hint of teasing in your tone. “i can’t help it baby.. still can’t believe how lucky I am..” he said while lifting your hand up to kiss the back of It. like you two were in a sappy disney movie.

you knew for a fact that you were lucky, to be with someone who truly loved you. and you never forget that. because no matter how you were feeling, jake would always be there for you. to support you throughout the whole way.

hope you like it (ㆁωㆁ*) !! kinda rushed the ending but .. don’t worry about that…. @nodoubtily ୨ৎ

#jake sim #jake sim x y/n #enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen fluff #jake sim fluff #jake sim x reader #jake sim imagines #enhypen x reader #sim jaeyun #jake x reader #sim jaeyun x y/n #jake sim x you

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grapejuicebrat · 2 days ago

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stillness in your storm [angst]

You learned to love Harry in silence.

You learned it in waiting rooms and hotel lobbies, behind velvet ropes and backstage doors. In the spaces where his hand would squeeze yours for a second before he stepped into the lights. Where your voice became a whisper because his life was already too loud.

And you told yourself you could live with that.

Because you loved him.

Because he loved you.

Didn’t he?

⸻

He came home at 3 a.m. again.

You were curled up on the couch in one of his old sweaters, your eyes barely open, your body already aching from pretending not to care.

The door clicked softly. He didn’t expect you to be awake.

When he saw you, his whole face lit up. “You waited up for me?”

You didn’t answer. You just watched him. Taking in the wild curls pushed back with his hand, the collar of his shirt slightly wrinkled, lipstick smudged on his neck — not yours. Probably just a fan or a stylist. Something innocent. You hoped.

“I missed you,” he said, walking toward you like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn’t always disappearing lately.

You blinked slowly, words stuck in your throat. “You said you’d be back by midnight.”

“I know, m’sorry,” he murmured, sitting next to you, reaching for your hand. “Things just ran over. Paparazzi were mad. Jeff needed me to—”

“Stop.”

He did.

You looked at him — really looked — and for a second, you hated how beautiful he was. How the world bent to him. How millions of people felt like they owned a piece of him, while you… you were just the shadow beside him. The girl in the background of blurry photos, always unnamed.

“I don’t know who I am with you anymore,” you whispered. “Or maybe I do, and I just hate her.”

“Hey—” he moved closer, but you pulled away. You couldn’t handle his hands on you right now. Not when your heart felt like a cracked glass one gust away from shattering.

“You know what it’s like?” you said, your voice trembling. “It’s like you’re the sun. And I’m just standing too close. I’m burning alive and you don’t even notice.”

Harry’s jaw tensed. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you said. “It’s not. But it’s real.”

⸻

You remembered the first time you met.

He wasn’t Harry Styles to you yet. Just a boy with sleepy eyes and dimples who asked if he could sit next to you on a flight to London. You talked the whole way. He wrote your number on a napkin. And you — foolishly, hopelessly — thought he was something soft.

But he was made of gold and glass and noise.

You couldn’t keep holding him without dropping yourself.

⸻

That night, you cried in the bathroom with the water running.

He knocked once. Didn’t push.

You could hear him pacing outside the door, murmuring your name like it was a song only he remembered.

“Please,” he said finally. “Let me in.”

You opened the door with red eyes, wet cheeks, and every part of you screaming to be held and left alone all at once.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you choked. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t care when you miss our anniversaries. When you cancel our weekends. When I see you smiling with someone else in photos before you even tell me you’re gone.”

Harry stepped forward, arms wrapping around you despite your protests.

“I’m not good at this,” he whispered against your hair. “I know I’m not. But I swear to you, I love you. You’re my quiet in all the chaos. You’re my home.”

You sobbed into his chest because how could love feel this heavy?

How could home feel so cold?

⸻

You stayed.

Of course, you did.

You made up. He kissed your collarbone like it would erase the pain. He promised to try harder. To call more. To bring you next time. He whispered that he needed you.

And for a while, you believed him again.

You clung to the good days — the mornings he made pancakes, the nights he read poetry to you, the way he held you like you were sacred.

But then the world came calling again.

And this time, when he left, he didn’t even say goodbye.

⸻

The silence stretched for three days. Three. You didn’t even fight. There was no screaming match, no tearful plea to stay. Just… nothing.

When the phone rang on the fourth night, you didn’t answer. You stared at the screen until it stopped flashing.

When he finally showed up at your door, soaked from rain, eyes wild, you stood still.

“Don’t,” you said softly. “Not this time.”

He stepped forward anyway. “I’m falling apart without you.”

“I’ve been falling apart with you,” you said. “And you didn’t notice.”

He broke then. Right in front of you. Voice hoarse. Knees weak. Tears — real, raw — on his cheeks.

“Then let me gather you,” he begged. “Let me fix this. I’ll quit everything. I’ll stay. I’ll—”

“No,” you interrupted. “You were never meant to stop being the sun. But I was never meant to live in your shadow.”

He opened his mouth, but there was nothing left to say.

You pressed your palm to his chest, right where his heart was breaking, and whispered:

“I love you. But I love myself now, too.”

And you closed the door.

⸻

Harry stood outside in the rain for a long time.

You watched him through the curtains.

Just like you always had.

Except this time, you didn’t go after him.

And maybe that was the bravest thing you’d ever done.

You break, I gather. You go quiet, I understand. You’re alone, I disappear. You leave, and I miss you.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry x yn

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creator4favestuff · 2 days ago

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Home

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑠 + 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒 : Gender Neutral + Fluff & Angst ❃.✮:▹Summary: Optimus has come to care for Earth, but more importantly, he's come to love you. ˏˋ°•*⁀➷𝐸𝑥𝑡𝑟𝑎 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑒: Uhh... I don't know man- I was feeling pretty sappy and this came out. DONT JUDGE ME- I wrote this one all in one sitting, and I suck at dialogue. Not beta, we die like autobots.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The Autobots arrival and stay on Earth reminded Optimus greatly of one fact.

He wasn't home.

Yes, the government was kind enough to offer him and his companions a base of operations, equipment to continue their objective-

But the barren walls, with nothing familiar to surround him, and the eerie silence, hit further home that this was foreign territory.

That wasn't to say he hated being on Earth.

It was a beautiful place.

Greenery that Cybertron didn't have, with plants that exceeded his expectations with their beauty and use, animals that would spark his curiosity given their vastly different biology: all of it brimming with life, even with as small and unassuming as they were.

Even the humans held such strong convictions, with determination and morals no different than his own people.

So unique, and different, all in their own ways.

Each soul containing a life that shouldn't be touched by their fight.

And yet, somehow, through a weave of fate, you stumbled upon him.

He believed he was alone, secluded in a forest the Prime usually went to at night. Left to sit in his thoughts, to think about what he could have done better, to plan his next step and make sure less damage was caused in the next battle.

Even if he saw the way Ratchet snuck glances at him, or the others being straightforward with their concerns, he couldn't.

Optimus couldn't burden the others with his troubles. Not after he failed them on Cybertron...

He was the beacon of hope, an unbreakable, and unshakable spirit that needed to stand tall for his comrades. It kept their hope alive, so he would carry that role, no matter how much it hurt. To be strong amidst all dangers and do whatever it took was a Prime's job, their duty.

Maybe the stream could carry his tears with it, hide the pain that he let slip out. Wash them away so that no one could see them with only the soft rustle of the trees to comfort him.

Until the snap of a branch and a yelp breaks him from his thoughts. Tired optics land on you, a human dressed to combat the cold temperature. Silence filled the atmosphere, and Optimus is unsure of what to say, but even if he did, you seemed to have your own question.

"....Are you okay?"

The gentle sympathy in your eyes shined amidst the moonlight, hands held together and wringing themselves. "Sorry, that must have been weird, huh? Uh... I mean, I meant it, but, I can understand how it's weird given we're strangers, so..."

Your feet move forward, now standing beside him, now looking at your hands, "...I can lend an ear."

Maybe, in that moment, he wished to speak to someone, anyone, about his troubles. Perhaps it was his spark yearning to have someone understand, to hear him. His words slipped out, even as part of his processor told him to keep it buried inside.

A human shouldn't get involved in such things. Not when it was his burden, but here he is, involving you.

At the end, Optimus feels a bit lighter, but the guilt for keeping you here and spilling his own worries upon you has him apologizing. But you simply shrug it off with a simple smile.

"Seems like you needed to get that off your chest. I'm glad I was able to help."

His own servos rest on his knees, optics now looking at the water, "...Are you not afraid me? I am...not what humans are used to."

"Afraid? Umm..."

With a tilt of your head, a short pause fills the air.

"No. I mean. you haven't really done anything to...scare me? I'm sure if you wanted to, you could have squished me. I guess, more than anything you seem...lonely."

"...Lonely?"

You hum, "Given everything you said, not complaining by the way, I can understand keeping stuff inside. It's hard opening up to people, especially in hard times. Sometimes just...being by yourself will have to do."

"Is that the reason for your walk?"

A chuckle slipped past your lips, "Kinda?"

Apparently, you lived not too far away in a house previously owned by a relative. Walks were a part of your nightly routine, and given work held you longer today, said walk was pushed back to now.

But now, he had to cut this fairly nice conversation, to return back to base, "I apologize, but I must take my leave."

Your eyes wide, "What? Why?"

Optimus stands from the rock, making sure to keep a bit of distance from you. "Agent Fowler has requested we tell him of any interactions with the locals-"

"You don't need to do that! I promise I won't tell a SINGLE soul! Think of it as a fun secret! It's not every day someone gets to meet a...um..."

He stills, dermas opening before speaking, "...Optimus."

Your smile widens, finger pointed at him, "Right! It's not every day you get to meet an Optimus! And I can teach you all I know about Earth! If you tell this Fowler guy, we might not be able to meet again."

His optics turn to the stream, pondering your words, "I...suppose you make a fair point."

"Anything you wanna know, I'll do my best to answer!"

You raise a hand, before giving your name.

It's pretty, and he makes a mental note in his processor as he lowers himself and a digit for you to shake, testing your name upon his dermas.

"To our newfound friendship!"

Meeting you, in hindsight, was a miracle: One he never thought he deserved, but deeply yearned for. Like a undying light that kept him from fading too deep into his fears.

Every night, without fail, he would meet you by the stream and speak about each other's day, whether good or bad.

Sometimes, during these conversations, he even felt like...Orion again. To the days of youth where the most he had to worry about were organizing and reading archives.

That young, optimistic side of his would shine through, eager to learn about whatever it is you'd show him. No matter how "dull" or "boring" you explained your "silly hobby" was, he wished to know about it. If he knew more, you two could become closer, maybe even invest time into it himself.

A silly thought, but one he couldn't help but think of every so often.

Of course, someone was bound to figure out, but he hadn't expected it to be so soon, and by Ratchet of all people.

Though all the medic had to say was that he had a feeling something was going on, and proceeded to scold the Prime a little. You tried to defend him, but given the look Optimus gave you, the words died down.

And since Ratchet knew, the others were caught up the next day, and the meetups were also at the base. Fowler wasn't too happy, but given Optimus defended you, there wasn't much else to say, other than the usual- "You better keep this under wraps Prime."

Safe to say, you two did NOT have the best first impression, but eventually it mellowed out during your stay.

Not to mention. your quick thinking and knowledge helped them in tough situations, which earned you the others respect.

Optimus was grateful for that, as it gave more reasons for you to stay for longer periods of time. Something selfish, sure, but that tiny part of his spark wanted to be by your side for as long as possible.

Coming back to you after a mission took much of the weight of loneliness off his shoulders.

Your care for him lifted his spirits, yet it also overpowered him.

It was gentle, warm and always so safe, yet always so ready to consume him into just...forgetting his responsibilities, a thing that rarely happens.

Sometimes, it would scare him with just how comfortable, or rather, just how dependent he had become.

So Optimus did what he believed was best, and kept his distance.

It hurt, but he knew it was necessary to keep his processor on the Autobot's goal. He hated seeing you so sad and confused, like you had done something wrong, which was FAR from the truth-

He just didn't expect you to stop showing up in general.

The first responses to your whereabouts were work related, but then you stated you didn't want to be where you weren't wanted.

So that didn't last long.

Him showing up at your home, looking like a kicked puppy while apologizing, was NOT on your bingo card. Optimus spoke of his concerns with burdening you with any more of his worries, which technically wasn't a lie...

But he also knew that "fear" of dependence, was something more-

That the other part of his dependent nature, his yearning for that safe comfort-

Was him being in love.

Optimus fell in love with you, and he couldn't even tell when it happened.

Being with you, speaking and strategizing together, it all felt so natural, like it had always been a thing.

The sigh of relief that left you allowed him to relax, unknowingly tense, "I thought I did something to bother you..."

The Autobot lowered his hand for you to climb upon, raising you face to face, "No... It was my own thoughts that kept me away. You did nothing wrong."

Your hands fiddled with each other, looking at them rather then him, which made him a bit sad.

"...You can always talk with me about that stuff y'know. No matter what it is or how how long, even if it's not positive. You mean a lot to me, and I wanna help you however I can. I can't exactly fight like the rest of you, so..."

Oh...

You truly are a miracle brought to him.

"Thank you..."

Safe to say, it brought you two closer, getting you a guarenteed spot on not only his shoulder, but in the quiet of his room, his chasis. A glimpse at his spark, a moment only shared with those of lovers, but he wouldn't tell you that.

A secret of his own to keep.

Even when the kids enter the frame shortly after, nothing changes. Sure, you help them with homework and scold them like any responsible adult would for the crazy stunts they pull, but you still made time for him.

The others think your friendship is a gift to Prime, as he seems more relaxed then before, while Miko's positive you're both secretly dating.

A point that Ratchet silently agrees with when confronting his friend. He's seen the way Optimus looks at you, the softness of his voice, his gaze. The fact that he lets you in his room, something NO ONE else can do, confirmed everything he feared.

Though you may not be dating, that he's certain of, Optimus was deeply in love.

"She's human. A shorter life span than ours, and much more fragile. With different biology than our own."

Optimus stood at the base's computer, optics glued to the screen for any Decepticon activities, "...I know."

He paused, before moving a bit closer, "...Will you tell her?"

Another beat of silence stretches between them, with the younger bot pausing his typing, "For now, no... In the future, that could be a possibility."

The medic could only sigh, "Just...focus on yourself."

"...Duly noted."

Optimus knew Ratchet spoke from a place of concern, that his points were valid, but...

He couldn't see himself loving anyone other than you.

Even when Megatron took him aboard the Nemesis, when Orion Pax was "safe from the evil Autobots", something prodded at his processor.

Asking his old friend garnered nothing positive, proclaiming you had lost your life at the hands of Ratchet. That your last wish was for him was to decrypt the Iacon archives to help stop the war.

It's all Orion has to go off of, as searching on their computer backs it up, so...he does what he can.

But his spark keeps nagging at him, like something is wrong.

Even though he should be working...

It isn't until the chaos outside the room leads him to sneak out and find you, calling him by the name "Optimus", that you both "have to go"-

And Orion has a choice to make.

Leave with you and head back to this base you speak of, or stay and continue decoding.

But his body seems to have made the choice for him as he follows your directions, before being confronted by Soundwave. Somehow, he's able to keep you hidden before being taken back to the room.

That's when you quickly tell him the truth: about the war, him being a Prime, the Autobots being his friend, dismantling all the lies Megatron spoke. It's hard to digest, but he finds himself believing you and planning an escape once his old friend shows his true colors.

A part of him wishes he didn't have to regain his title of Prime back.

Because even if he didn't remember everything upon returning, he was thrust into fixing something he did, and in such a quick manner.

Even as he states he'll be fine, and that he needs to get back to work, you still remain concerned.

"I'm not asking if Prime is okay, I'm asking if YOU are, and I know this may be rude to say, but I care more about how you're doing than the stupid archives right now."

His servos stop moving, and his optics finally turn from the screen, down to your worried yet determined expression.

Once again, just like back then, he voiced his concerns, the guilt, the pain of it all. Lately, it just felt like fate was against him, not even to test him, but to spite him.

Because he wasn't good enough as a leader? As a Prime? He didn't know, but it all felt so...unfair.

"You're doing the best you can in your position. Nobody blames you for what happened, and more than anything, we're just glad that you're okay. We can always get the coordinates decoded, but we can't get another you."

And when Megatron began his attack on the base, you stayed with him, hiding in his chasis and refusing to leave him alone. When Smokescreen finds the two of you, the young bot is shocked, but a bit impressed at your tenacity.

As he goes to retrieve the Forge of Solus Prime, your voice acts as a lifeline.

Optimus turns his hand away from Alpha Trion, clinging to the warmth of your touch, and the softness of your worried voice. Never did his optics leave yours, as if trying to comfort you. To assure you that he would make it.

You remained by his side as much as possible, even after he recovered.

But once again, it feels as if fate was being needlessly cruel. Not being able to speak about anything but work, along with constant missions, and finally your kidnapping.

That was the most angry the others had seen Optimus, even with the Omega Lock situation. Even Megatron understands when his punches are full force, that this is a battle with the Prime he needs to take seriously.

But once everything is said and done, with everyone saying goodbye, you and Optimus are alone in his room, by your request.

Once again, messing with your hands and looking at them as if they held all the answers you needed, before speaking in a soft voice that...he didn't hear a lot.

"I...really like you Optimus. Given everything we've been through, y'know, I...guess somewhere along the way I fell for you before I knew it... If you don't feel the same, it's okay...I just.. I guess I wanted to get it out there?"

The silence is suffocating, and after a moment, your eyes drift up to see him kneeling before you, digit gently brushing some hair from your face.

"Even though it will bring struggles of its own?"

The hope that shines in your eyes, along with the way you place your hand on his, makes his spark swell, "Even if. I want to stay by your side."

He returns the smile, this one by far, the brightest one you had seen, "If you will have me."

To know that you love him back, is the greatest gift in life he could ever receive, especially after the many years of war he endured.

The others aren't too surprised by his response to stay on Earth. They see just how much Optimus loves you, how much you mean to him.

Cybertron is his birthplace, and forever will he love it dearly-

But now, he has a home with you.

In that same forest that had led you to him. Your home being rebuilt with the help of friends after it's destruction during Jasper's takeover. Built to accommodate his size, even with the help of mass displacement, along with his fast growing books.

And with the AllSpark returned to Cybertron, and the bulk of the war being over, he relinquished the Matrix of Leadership, much to the surprise to everyone. They knew he would want to settle down with you soon, but given their home would be in it's infancy, they would need a leader, but Optimus simply smiled.

"While I am no longer the holder of the Matrix, I will offer my assistance however I can. Know you can call upon me whenever you should need it."

While stunned, they offered their undying support.

How could they not?

This was the happiest they had seen him, knowing exactly who he was thinking of, and they wouldn't take this from him.

No longer did he need to be Optimus Prime.

Now, he was simply Orion Pax, beloved to his dear human and happier than ever.

"Spouse" as humans called it.

Such a simple word that filled him with so many positive emotions.

Emotions that he didn't need to hide anymore. His affections for you were free, as well as whatever things he wanted to do. The Autobot could enjoy the simple things in life, go wherever his spark wanted, spend the night without worry, all by your side.

The barrage of photos taken, even in the simplest of moments, were neatly lined in empty scrapbooks.

Even if time eventually took you away, you would never fade from his processor.

Your smile and laugh, the cute quirks and habits you held, even what you considered flaws, that overwhelmingly bright light that led him forward amidst the chaos, they'll be carved into his spark.

For you are now, and forever will be, his home.

No matter where you go, or wherever he goes, he knows he will always find you again.

#transformers x reader #transformers x human #tfp x reader #transformers prime x reader #optimus x reader #tfp optimus #optimus prime x reader #also sorry i was gone #life said fuck you girl

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