#i love how they made him old in the beginning

[obeymeluv]

Being Clever with the Fae (Malleus x Reader, Lilia x Reader, Sebek x Reader)

Pre-established relationship implied. You tell the Diasomnia boys that your world planned for ways to outsmart faes. You pull your trick but you're not sure who won.

Warning: Pepaw Bat's gets a little spicy so be careful.

I'm taking liberties with Sebek's part because he's a neutral for me and I don't know that much about him.

You and Malleus had talked about fae folklore more than once. He was delighted to know fae had something of a presence in your world but was wildly horrified at the misinformation. Out of everything you told him, only a handful were correct:

Don't give your name unless you trust that fae because names have power

Iron will hurt some fae but not all. Iron is more harmful to nocturnal fae than day fae.

Being rude to fae may be the end of you altogether

Partaking in fae food means you open yourself up for a wager

Yes, fae like to play tricks. Expect them and be wary.

Stepping into a fairy circle will summon the fairy who made it.

Just about everything else was wrong. That's why he and Lilia were teaching you what not to do if you came upon the various fae in Twisted Wonderland. Thus far you'd only managed to memorize what herbs kept smaller creatures at bay and how to curry the favor of the various faeries that helped out at NRC. Your current assignment from Lilia was filling out a map of different fae territories and classifying them as 'safe' for humans or 'unsafe'. Each territory had a tree they would love to craft from or loathed to be near and you were expected to know that, too.

Strange stuff but apparently it was important.

They liked to break up the bigger chunks of information with smaller, digestible things like etiquette so it felt more manageable. Malleus was currently instructing you on how to part from a fae in a formal setting as to not incur their wrath.

"Again, Child of Man," he's bowed down until eye level with you, one hand holding yours.

"Light shake, eye contact, nod, slide foot back, squeeze the hand, turn." he's parroting your motions until you turn away. He, instead, draws himself to his full height and observes as you pretend to walk away.

"Excellent," he nods. "But ensure you don't slouch while leaving. It will make some feel as if you don't hold them in high regard."

"That's so--" you roll your eyes. He simply lifts his brow as if to question your mild frustration. You puff your cheeks out and he laughs.

"We can be a bit particular." he agrees.

"To a fault." you smirk.

"Oh?" he's intrigued, eyes twinkling.

"Yeah," you smile. "In my world the fae were known for being literal with their word so you always had to keep something clever in reserve."

"Do tell," Malleus' grin goes from practiced and polite to genuine. A hint of fang shows.

"It's kind of specific though. Depends on that old joke about fae wanting to come for the first born."

"That's not really a joke," Malleus crossed his arms. You can't tell if he's offended or not. "We like the younglings. We're always looking to bring more around to the fae ways. In fact, fae make fantastic guardians because--"

He had a lot to say and you felt the beginnings of a lecture creep up. In some way you felt like you were in trouble. To save yourself, you said, "Just pretend. Then I can show you what we do."

Malleus pretended to make a deal with you. It looked a bit intimidating and official with the magic pulsing in the rickety floorboards of Ramshackle. They were groaning. Shadows danced along his face as pieces of his signature thorned briar wove around your joined hands. "In exchange for the repairs around Ramshackle, you will give your firstborn to me."

You pull him in, his green eyes searching curiously for any hint of what's to come. "Sure! How soon do you want to start working on that? Or do you want to wait a little while?"

All at once the floorboards fell quite. The hum of magic died with a rattle that broke the briar into tiny pieces. A few fell at your feet, the others shooting off into various directions.

Oh. Did he not understand? You thought it was clever! Maybe he was too sheltered to--

His laugh is kind of a snort at first but then you hear it honest and lilting. The hand holding yours slides up your arm and snakes around your waist. You're lifted until your hands find purchase on his shoulders and your legs wrap around whatever they reach. Your heart goes from your chest to your throat when his gloved hands slide down to your thighs as he walks you to your sad couch.

"Now is fine," he's careful to hold his weight above you, silky hair spilling around you and tickling your cheeks. His eyes are bright and boyish, a deadly compliment to his kissable lips.

Well, that technically backfired but if this were a real situation you'd make out just fine because he'd chosen to make out with you instead of curse you.

------ ----- ----- ----

Lilia wanted to focus on physical protection as much as written knowledge when it came to handling fae. You still couldn't wrap your head around the idea of him being a general but he had old photos, a weird mask, and a massive magearm to prove it. You'd picked up quite a few self-defense moves and practiced them regularly. He wanted them to be second nature to you. So here you are, in a designated training room within Diasomnia.

"You just want to cuddle me," you teased, in the familiar position of him being behind you with an arm around your neck. One elbow was planted in your shoulder, the other clasping it at the forearm to make a little prison for you. He gave a reprimanding squeeze, ever mindful of the pressure since you were fully human. Lilia gave a huffy laugh, trying to relax his smile into something more stern as he wove his fingers into your hair. You flinched at the tug and slapped his arm lightly.

"Focus," he couldn't deny himself the simple pleasure of whispering into your ear. If you asked him, it was to throw you off balance and distract you. "What could you do now?"

You thought about just leaning back into him, pressing against him, but you knew that wasn't what he meant. Capitalizing on this moment of closeness, the stillness, to huck him over your shoulder and into the floor crossed your mind but then you'd have to give him a back rub later.

Not that you minded that, either.

"We could make a deal," you leaned back to whisper in his ear even though it hurt your neck a little. You could tell by the way his bangs fluttered that he'd jerked in surprise. Was that a little pink on his cheeks? Before you could nip his pointed ear, Lilia leaned you forward and took his elbow off your shoulder, opting to hold you in a bearhug instead.

"Acceptable in this situation," he managed, clearing his throat when his voice cracked a little. "Although this exercise is supposed to be combat related."

"So make the terms. I can't negotiate a deal that doesn't exist." you try to break his hold, shimmying your shoulders and sliding your feet to see if you could slip away. He lifts you off the ground with an ease that doesn't seem possible with his short, lithe body. You hang there against him as he thinks.

"Your life for that of your firstborn."

A bit dark, wasn't it? Kind of rude, really, you thought. But, your train of thought continued to ramble, he did find Silver somewhere so it didn't seem too unusual that he'd want a kid. Either that, or he was messing with you because you told him that whisking away kids was something fae were known for in your world.

"You can't have a firstborn with your clothes on." you joke.

"That's not true because I found Silver with my--" Lilia drops you when he realizes what you've said. You weren't expecting him to drop you and didn't catch yourself, hissing as you land on your knees. Before you can start complaining or poke fun at him for being an old man he's locked the door. You're bowled over as he rushes over to you, pinning you on your back as he peppers kisses along your throat and collarbone.

He's several bites in and you’re halfway undressed when you think you hear a knock at the door. Lilia begrudgingly peels himself off of you, licking blood from the corner of his lips.

"Father? Are we not going to train today?"

"M'fraid not, my boy," Lilia turns his attention back to you, opening your legs to slip between them. "But you'll be getting a new sparring partner in about nine months."

His red eyes are glowing. They're absolutely beguiling.

"Do they come with therapy?” he hears Silver mumble as you look up at him through your lashes.

He pounces on you again. It was a brilliant, filthy tactic. He's not exactly mad about it. You've earned favor with one fae, at least, and he will protect you from the others.

----- ----- --- ---

Sebek is a hard worker. He's a product of his environment; he has Baur's straightforwardness, Lilia's dedicated regimens, and his mother's impressive teeth and jaw strength. Lilia thought the best way for you to learn some of the self-defense tactics was to fight someone your size.

Sort of. Sebek seemed to be the better choice since Silver was too sleepy to be a constant threat. And, in Lilia's mind, you should have an easier time fighting a half-fae versus a full fae.

You never noticed how muscular Sebek was until you were under him. He's got corded arms and you can see the muscles of his shoulders flexing under the Diasomnia shirt he chose for the exercise.

You've never seen him in casual clothes! He actually looks very nice. Not as buff as Jack but sturdy in his own way; his chest is broader than you imagined. A solid man.

More than capable of being Malleus' body guard.

You groan as he knocks the air out of you a little. He's on top of you, pressed into your back. He's got one foot braced against the floor, leaning his weight into you. Your arms are pinned at your side courtesy of the one he's snaked underneath you.

When did he flip you over? Asshole, you scrunch your nose in frustration as your cheeks begin to burn. He's an asshole that means well and won't go easy on you, though. He makes sure you learn. You try to inch out from beneath him but he angles his shoulder down and grabs his own wrist, dragging you back to him.

"You're supposed to do something in this situation!" he grumps, "You know how to break this hold!"

You do, but he's heavy and it probably wouldn't work. And he's had a literal lifetime of training versus your handful of months. You've tangled your legs together and used his half-lean to put him on his back. Your kicking like a tipped-over bug and almost free when you remember that his fae half is crocodilian and you might have triggered his death roll tendency.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Sebek's pupils change, the dark of his eye slitting and boring into you. His throat strains like he's growling but you don't hear anything. It trembles against the back of your neck and you're reminded in that moment of just how much bigger he is than you.

How he folds around you and encompasses you.

He opens his mouth, teeth glinting and sharp. "You've bested me," you admit, swallowing thickly as his teeth hover near your shoulder. "Make your deal."

You somehow turn yourself around in his unrelenting squeeze.

Sebek huffs as if he's insulted and you swear you see his teeth dull. His pupils begin to fill out. He's usually loathe to acknowledge his human side, as he'd much rather be full fae, but it serves him in this instance. "I'm not a true fae. Such a thing wouldn't work on me!"

"You have to pretend! Lilia's teaching me how to deal with the fae! You just won't hurt me as much. Maybe." you dare to flash that teasing grin at him and Sebek nearly tears into his own lip because he doesn't know what to do with that wiggly feeling you give him.

Him? Hurt you? Not on purpose. It would go against the core values his grandfather AND Lilia taught him! Any fae caught abusing their spouse would be drawn and quartered, made a public display of. Any human man who chose to do so was no man at all!

Sebek's face feels almost painfully warm. He can feel the heat spreading from his cheeks to his ears. "In an act of benevolence inspired by the great Prince Malleus, I shall spare your delicate human self in exchange for a child. Is that the cliche rubbish you desire?"

Some of his once slicked-back hair has fallen down on his forehead, between his eyes, as if it's disappointed in you too.

"You think our child would be cliche rubbish? Cliche Rubbish Zigvolt? That does NOT sound good! I'm naming the firstborn, you're just helping make it."

"Wha--but I--that's not!" Sebek doesn't know what to say and he hasn't been trained for this. He's careful not to shove you away but untangles himself like a thrown ragdoll. He rolls over sharply, totally fine with hiding his face in the floor. His green hair is in disarray and his arms are limp, stretched out to either side of him.

You laugh, climbing onto his back and raking your nails down it gently. He makes the noise. You're not sure what it is but you've heard it before. It's deep and somehow soothing. He relaxes underneath you as you continue to scratch his back, throwing in a squeeze to his muscles every now and then.

It's not until you're in what would be the small of his back (if he wasn't build so solid and thick) that he raises his head, folds his arms up, and rests his chin on his hands. "You're safe." he can't bear to turn his head and look at you right now. If he did, you'd see how...how...weak and mushy he looked. Sebek snorts through his nose, arching his back in surprise as your hands slide all the way up until you flop on his back and your arms hang off his shoulders.

"Thank you, o' kind Zigvolt!" you hug his neck. "This delicate human appreciates it!"

"And I...appreciate...you." he mumbled slowly, the words a little foreign to him. More scary than foreign, honestly. That heartwarming shyness evaporated in an instant when he pinned you and began a stern lecture about how you should NOT offer to conceive a child with ANY OTHER FAE and what YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE INSTEAD.

You weren't surprised by this. Sebek lectured Silver all the time and Lilia said he was a very informed pupil. You, too, would be informed as it didn't seem like he was letting you go anytime soon.

[dumbbitchgalore]

Old Man!Price with an equally Insane!Reader as him 🧚‍♀️✨

TW: Slight mention of faux miscarriage (honestly not that bad imo)

Price is a quiet man, a cautious and calculating man. Every action, thought and plan ever conjured in his sick mind has always been well thought out.

Even when he decided to cheat on his wife of 20 years with you, he thought everything. John chooses the right moments to cheat on his wife, strictly following his wife's schedule allowing him to sneak away without suspicion. He uses burner phones, makes reservations under fake names, hell John will even have a separate car to pick you up to drive you to motels and dinner dates. 

He’s a sneaky bastard that's for sure but cheating wasn’t his mistake. It was the mistake of cheating on his wife with you. 

The moment you found out that you were his mistress, you decided to take things slow. You never made John realise that you’ve found out the truth, letting him enjoy your body to the fullest as you stayed in blissful ignorance. 

Nights when John came to you became even more extravagant. Lingerie becomes more sensual, more for his taste. You take up the role of ‘wife’, fulfilling each aspect of John’s marriage that his actual wife lacked in satisfying. 

You’d cook him home-cooked meals, re-filled his beer for him, sucked his cock exceptionally well while he watched the footy match on TV. You let me fuck you, fill you up with his cum. You submit, willingly accepting all his flaws that John’s wife would nag him about. 

You became John’s ‘perfect little wife’. Not to mention you were younger, hotter and more lively- according to his words. 

His sense of security and trust bloomed for you and now it was time to break it. 

You find his address and go to his house when his wife opens the door and you happen to be looking for John. 

His wife gives you a weird look.

“Oh, I’m John’s girlfriend, well actually-” You smile at the Missus patting your belly. “Hopefully ‘wife’ once I tell him about the little babe. And, you must be… his sister?”

You were fucking with her. You knew John didn’t have a sister but oh God, did you love how huffy and puffy the Missus looked. You feign a look for confusion as you tilt your head to the side. 

The Missus slams the door in your face and not a minute later, shouting erupts from inside of the house . Booming voices of the missus and John reverberated through the walls and is carried outside but the wind. 

All you do is simply get into your car and drive home. 

A few hours later in the dead of night, aggressive knocking can be heard on your apartment front door, you go to open it only to be met with a fuming John. Without even acknowledging you, he forces himself inside your flat as he paces around shouting and yelling at you as if you were the problem.

Once again you feign ignorance, walking up to him and hugging him from behind to still his movements while you nuzzle your face into his flannel clothed back. 

“I didn’t know, John. It was an honest mistake. I just… I needed to see you…” You whisper against his shirt, a sniffle follows. 

John sighs, a hint of resignation in his voice. “Is it true… are you…” his voice begins to shake.

You turn him around to face him, tilting your head up to look into John’s cerulean eyes as you give him a slow nod. 

“I didn’t mean to, John. I swear it just-” Your pleas were swallowed by John’s hungry kisses, desperation creeps into them as he tries to find any faults in your words. Alas, he couldn’t.

You kissed him back with the same fervour as he’s shown you clinging into his shirt and John makes his mind up right there. He was going to leave his wife and John was going to take care of you and the baby and this time he was going to do everything right. 

The following week, John files for divorce. A few months later, just as John and his Missus’ annulment was finalised, you just happened to have a miscarriage. 

There was no turning back from this now. John could go back to his wife as if she’d take him back but his one reason for committing to you was now gone. 

Oh well, not like the pregnancy was real anyway.

[goldfades]

sweet on you Joe thanking his wife during his MVP speech when he wins pretty pretty pleaseeeee

omg yes! this idea has been floating around as soon as you sent this ask. hope you enjoy!!! sweet on you will be back i promise, just need the motivation to finish :) and yes in this universe he DID win mvp

MVP SPEECH FT. SWEET ON YOU

The stadium was deafening. Fans roared, confetti rained down in gold and white, and the cameras were all on him—Joe Burrow, the newly crowned MVP, standing under the bright lights, trying to keep himself together.

He ran a hand through his slightly damp hair, exhaling a slow breath as he adjusted the microphone in front of him. The trophy was heavy in his other hand, but it wasn’t the weight of the metal that had his chest tight—it was everything leading up to this moment. The years of hard work, the sacrifices, the unwavering support from those who had been there since the beginning. And more than anyone else, it was her.

Joe cleared his throat, the noise dying down just a fraction as he leaned in. “Man,” he started, shaking his head with a small, breathless laugh. “This is—this is crazy. I don’t even know where to start.”

The crowd cheered again, cameras flashing, but his eyes weren’t searching for them. They were searching for her.

And then he found her.

Sitting in the front row, hands clasped over her mouth, eyes glassy and bright, looking at him like he had just hung the damn moon.

His wife.

His whole world.

Joe swallowed hard, gripping the mic a little tighter. “Obviously, there’s a long list of people I need to thank—my teammates, my coaches, my family. None of this happens without you guys. But, uh—” he huffed out a soft, nervous laugh, shaking his head before glancing at her again. “There’s one person in particular who—God, I don’t even know if I have the words.”

The crowd fell a little quieter, as if they could sense this was something important.

Joe smiled, softer now, and only for her.

“My wife,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “You’ve been with me through everything. Before all of this—before the trophies, before the headlines, before anyone knew my name. You believed in me when I was just some kid with a dream. You stood by me through every high, every low, every doubt I ever had about myself. And somehow, through it all, you loved me.”

She was already crying, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe him, even though she should have known by now just how much he meant every word.

Joe chuckled, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he glanced down at the trophy for a second, then back up at her. “I know I work a lot, and I know there have been nights where football took me away more than it should have. But not once—not once—have you ever made me feel like I was in this alone. And I need you to know—I need everyone to know—that I wouldn’t be standing up here if it weren’t for you.”

A collective aww rippled through the audience, but Joe didn’t even hear it. He was locked in, focused only on her, watching as she wiped at her cheeks, smiling like she wanted to scold him for making her cry in public.

“And Hayes,” he added, his voice hitching just slightly at the mention of their son. “Our boy. I hope one day, when he’s old enough to understand all of this, he knows just how lucky he is to have a mom like you.”

She let out a teary laugh, covering her mouth again, and Joe grinned.

“I love you,” he said simply, his heart in his throat. “More than football. More than anything.”

The crowd erupted in cheers again, but none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was the way she looked at him in that moment, like he was the greatest thing she had ever seen. Like she had always known he was capable of this, long before he ever did.

And when he stepped down from the stage a few moments later, trophy in one hand, the other reaching for her, she was already there—waiting, arms open, eyes shining, love pouring out of her like a flood.

She kissed him, right there in front of everyone, not caring about the cameras or the eyes on them.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured against his lips, laughing softly as she pulled back just enough to look at him.

Joe grinned, pressing his forehead against hers. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But I meant every word.”

And when he kissed her again, the whole world could have disappeared, and he wouldn’t have cared. Because this—she—was his greatest victory of all.

[yaniluvs]

don't leave me , my love

[ 방찬 ] ✷ ‎. . after a series of terrible arguments, you break up with your boyfriend. life slows down. but then . . ?

۫ 𖨂 𓈒 𝑖dol𝑏f!chris ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. heavy angst , lots of tears , misunderstandings , hurt , lovers to exes to ??? , second chance love , skz ensemble . 12OOOw. ⎯⎯⎯ LiBRARY ⟢ cw. language , injuries , car-accident . ┆ ✉️ ⋮ a req. oneshot .ᐟ ֹ ₊

yani's note 𑁍ࠬܓ hihihihihii finally another channie fic !!!!! the loml. seungchan stans rise !! i loved loved loved writing this. my angst comeback guys (flashback to my early tumblr era where all i posted was angst....) eh. i love angst. so much. woohoo okay bye <3 oh and ty for the req. anon !!! comments, likes, req./asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! send in a reply or an ask if you want to be in my mastertag, or my individual series' taglists. happy reading, love <3

the room smelled like rain.

not in the fresh, new-beginnings kind of way, but in the way that clung to damp clothes and old wounds.

it seeped through the cracks of the windowpane, curling around the tension like a silent spectator. outside, the city pulsed—headlights cutting through the mist, distant sirens wailing, the soft patter of rain against the glass an unwanted metronome to the argument unfolding within these four walls.

“you don’t fucking get it,” your boyfriend's voice cut sharp through the quiet, raw and exhausted, an edge to it that he never used on you before. not like this.

his fingers gripped the bridge of his nose, his other hand planted on his hip like he was trying to physically hold himself together. “you don’t—god, y/n, you don’t understand what it’s like to carry this.”

you stood by the doorway, arms crossed so tightly against yourself it almost felt like a shield. the air was thick with it—frustration, exhaustion, love buried under layers of hurt.

you felt it like a weight pressing against your ribs.

how it had started.

the room was dark save for the faint glow of his laptop screen. the hum of the air conditioner filled the space, masking the silence that had grown between you two over the last few days.

you had sat across from him, knees pulled to your chest on the worn-out couch in the room. the atmosphere was suffocating—a mix of tension and exhaustion—and you weren’t sure when the comfort of this small, cramped room had turned into a battlefield.

he was hunched over his desk, headphones perched around his neck, fingers frozen above his keyboard. you could see the subtle tremble in his hands, the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly despite his usual perfect posture.

chris—was tired. that much was clear. but what stung was how he wouldn’t let you in.

“you’ve been sitting there for hours,” you had said softly, your voice hesitant, almost afraid of breaking the fragile calm that hung between you.

“i’m working,” he replied curtly, not bothering to meet your gaze.

it wasn’t the first time you had this conversation, but tonight it felt different. there was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. you could feel the ache in your chest building, a familiar burn of frustration mixed with concern.

“you’ve been working for days,” you shot back, louder this time. “you barely eat, you barely sleep, and—”

“i’m fine,” he interrupted, his tone sharp and clipped, his eyes finally meeting yours. there was something in his gaze—tired, distant, and defensive—that made you hesitate for a moment.

“you’re not fine, chan.”

the words hung in the air like a challenge. he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. his laptop screen dimmed, signaling inactivity, and for a second, you thought he might actually listen. but then he turned his chair to face you, and the frustration etched across his face sent a chill down your spine.

“why do you always do this?” he snapped.

your heart sank. “do what?”

“this!” he gestured vaguely between the two of you. “this… nagging. you don’t get it, do you? this is my job. this is my life. i can’t just stop because you think i’m overworking myself.”

you blinked, his words cutting deeper than you expected. “i’m not.. nagging, chan. i’m worried about you. there’s a difference.”

“well, it doesn’t feel that way.”

the bitterness in his voice was like a slap to the face. you stared at him, disbelief and hurt warring within you. “do you even hear yourself right now?”

“yeah, i do!” he shot back, his voice rising. “i hear myself every damn day, y/n. and you know what? i’m sick of it. i’m sick of feeling like i have to explain myself to you all the time.”

your hands balled into fists, nails digging into your palms as you tried to steady your breathing. the room felt smaller, the walls closing in as his words echoed in your mind.

“explain yourself?” you repeated, your voice trembling. “i’m not asking for an explanation, chan. i’m asking for you to let me in. to let me help you.”

“help me with what?” he spoke, standing abruptly. the chair screeched against the floor, and the sudden movement startled you. “you can’t help me, y/n. no one can. this is my responsibility. my burden. not yours! and i don't need you worrying to add on to that weight!”

“don’t do that,” you shot back, voice steadier than you felt.

“don’t act like i don’t understand you, like i haven’t been here every single fucking night waiting for you to come home, waiting for you to remember i exist outside of your damn laptop and deadlines.” your breath hitched, but you swallowed it down, forcing your voice to stay level. “i do understand, chris. but you don’t let me in.”

chris let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he turned away, running a hand through his curls in frustration. his fingers were trembling.

you knew he hadn’t eaten properly today. you knew, the small, white snackbox you had packed his favorite rice in, was left untouched. you knew he hadn’t slept much either. but that didn’t change the fact that he was hurting you.

“you want me to let you in? fine.” he turned back to you, eyes dark with exhaustion, jaw tight.

“i have no time. none. i have a fucking comeback to prepare, songs that aren’t finished, choreography that isn’t final, members who rely on me, a company breathing down my neck—” he took a step closer, and even though he wasn’t yelling, his voice was thunder. “i don’t get to sit around and wait for my life to fall into place, y/n. i have to make it happen.”

his words hit like a gut punch. you flinched before you could stop yourself.

something in his expression shifted for half a second—guilt flashing behind the anger—but he didn’t stop. couldn’t stop.

“and what, huh? you want me to pause? to step away? to just—what? go on dates, lay in bed all day with you, pretend that none of this exists?” his voice cracked, his hands clenching into fists. “i can’t, y/n. i can’t afford to be selfish like that.”

you felt something splinter inside of you.

"wow," you whispered, blinking rapidly as you looked at him. "is that what you think this is? me asking you to be... selfish?" your voice was quiet, but it held the weight of everything you’d been holding back. "i have never asked you to choose me over your career, chan. never. but i wanted—no, i needed you to meet me halfway. to at least fucking try. but you didn’t. you never do.”

chan scoffed, rubbing his temple, pacing like he was barely keeping himself together. "you don’t get it, y/n. you never will."

and that—that—was what broke you.

your hands shook. you swallowed the lump in your throat, but your voice still wavered. "you don’t get it, chan. you don’t fucking get what it’s like to love someone who makes you feel like an afterthought. to go to bed alone every single night and wonder if you even cross their mind.” you exhaled shakily.

“i never asked you to give up your dreams for me. i just wanted to be a part of them. but i guess i was asking for too much.”

he let out another bitter laugh, his face twisting. "i make you feel like an afterthought? that’s rich, coming from someone who doesn’t have to live under this pressure." his voice rose, sharp and unrelenting.

"you don’t know what it’s like to have the weight of an entire fucking group and a partner on your shoulders. to feel like if you fuck up, you’re dragging everyone down with you." he was breathing heavily, shoulders shaking. “you think i don’t want to be with you? you think i choose this over you? i fucking hate this. i hate feeling like this. but i don’t have a choice.”

there it was. the breaking point.

your lip trembled, and you hated yourself for it. "you do have a choice, chan. you always did." you shook your head, voice barely above a whisper. "you just never chose me."

silence.

a ringing, deafening silence that made the rain outside sound like gunfire.

the crack in his voice didn’t go unnoticed, but it only fueled your own anger. “oh, and weight? is that what you think i’m trying to do? burden you?”

“that’s not what i meant—”

“then what did you mean?” you interrupted, standing as well. your voice was louder now, shaking but firm. the tension between you crackled like a live wire, and neither of you seemed willing to back down.

“i don’t know!” he shouted, his hands flying to his hair in frustration. “i don’t know, okay? i’m fucking tired, y/n. i’m tired of all of this.”

the silence that followed was deafening. you stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest, his words ringing in your ears. he didn’t mean it, you told yourself. he was just frustrated, just exhausted. but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“all of this?” you repeated quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

he froze, his eyes widening slightly as he realized what he had said. “no, i didn’t mean—”

“save it, chan,” you cut him off, your voice cold and flat. “you’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”

chan stared at you, eyes widening, as if only now realizing how deep the wound he had inflicted was. his lips parted slightly, and for the first time that night, his anger faltered. his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you, to fix the damage, to take it all back. but he didn’t move.

you exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to look away. "i can’t do this anymore," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. your own words tasted like ash.

chan took a step closer, his voice softer now, desperate. “y/n—”

“i think we should take a break.”

the words left your mouth before you could stop them, and once they were out in the open, there was no taking them back.

chan inhaled sharply, like you had just physically struck him. his face crumpled for the briefest moment before he forced it into something unreadable. he nodded once, barely.

“fine,” he said. but it was not fine. none of this was fine.

you walked past him, your shoulder brushing his for the last time in weeks. and maybe, in some cruel way, you were both waiting—waiting for one of you to stop this, to say something, anything that could undo the damage.

but neither of you did.

and that was how it ended.

or, maybe, how it all began.

you turned away, grabbing your jacket from the couch and heading for the door. your vision blurred with unshed tears, but you refused to let them fall. not here. not now.

“thank you,” you stopped in the doorway, your back to him. your voice cracked as you spoke, the weight of the moment threatening to crush you. “really, for everything. i wish you nothing but happiness, christopher.”

the door closed behind you with a soft click, and the tears you had been holding back finally spilled over. the night air was cold against your skin as you stepped outside, but it did little to numb the ache in your chest.

you didn’t know how long you stood there, staring at the empty street, your mind replaying the argument over and over again. his words, your words, the pain and anger that had filled the room—it was all too much.

and yet, despite everything, you couldn’t stop loving him.

present time : the first snow.

the morning stretched itself thin across the sky, a pale, muted kind of light filtering in through the curtains. it was the kind of cold that bit through the windows, creeping into the cracks of the apartment like it had been waiting for permission to enter. the air felt heavier today, as if winter had fully settled into its place, pressing its weight into the walls, into the silence, into the empty spaces beside you.

you sat by the window, knees drawn up against your chest, your breath fogging up the glass. outside, snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, dancing in the quiet before settling onto the pavement below. the city looked softer like this—less like the endless rush of bodies and neon lights and more like something frozen in time. for a moment, just a moment, it almost felt peaceful.

almost.

but then the memories came creeping in. the way the first snow always meant something to the both of you. how he would drag you outside, laughing, even when you whined about the cold.

"come on, it’s tradition, babe, you can’t just sit inside like an old grandma."

how he’d cup his hands together, carefully forming a snowball, only to grin mischievously before pelting it straight at your shoulder. the way you’d chase after him, slipping and stumbling, both of you breathless from laughter, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.

and then—later. after the cold had seeped into your bones, after your fingers were numb from the snow, how you’d both tumble inside, shaking off your coats, limbs tangled together as you curled up by the fireplace.

the heat of the flames casting golden light across his face, the warmth of his arms wrapped securely around you. how he’d press lazy kisses to your temple, whispering in that quiet, tired voice of his,

you’re warm. stay like this forever.

you blinked. the snow outside blurred for a second before settling again into focus.

it had been weeks.

weeks since that night. weeks since you last heard his voice, felt the rough callouses of his fingertips against yours. the apartment had never been this quiet before. not really. not in a way that stretched into your bones like this.

you exhaled sharply, rubbing at your eyes before pushing yourself up from the chair.

no. stop it. get up.

the cold floor met your feet as you padded toward the bathroom. the water ran hot, steam curling against the mirror as you stepped into the shower, letting it scorch against your skin, washing away whatever remnants of sleep and memories still clung to you.

you let yourself stay there longer than usual, hands braced against the tile, watching the water swirl down the drain.

by the time you stepped out, the mirror was completely fogged over, your reflection nothing more than a blur.

you ignored it.

instead, you pulled on a sweater—thick, oversized, soft. paired it with jeans, boots, wrapped a scarf around your neck. routine. just keep moving.

the apartment felt emptier than usual as you moved through it, wiping down counters, straightening pillows, clearing dishes that didn’t even need clearing. you weren’t sure why you were cleaning so meticulously. maybe it was just something to do with your hands, something to keep yourself from thinking too much.

but even then, the silence pressed in. the absence of his voice. the way he used to hum under his breath while scrolling through his phone. the way he’d reach for you absentmindedly, fingers finding yours without even thinking.

you swallowed.

the clock on the wall read 10:42 am.

late. you needed to leave soon.

you grabbed your coat, slipping it over your shoulders, fingers fumbling with the buttons. your scarf was next, wrapped snugly around your neck, followed by your gloves. you caught your reflection in the mirror near the door and paused.

the sweater you had chosen—it was his.

you thought you had returned all of his belongings that stayed in your apartment.

his sweaters, hoodies, tees, sweats.

maybe this was the unlucky— or lucky one.

a quiet, humorless laugh escaped your lips.

of course it was.

you debated changing it. maybe you should. but then again… maybe it didn’t matter.

the streets were covered in a thin layer of snow as you stepped outside, the air crisp against your skin. your breath curled in white clouds, disappearing into the winter sky. people moved past you—some alone, some hand in hand, their laughter rising into the air. you pulled your coat tighter around yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets.

the restaurant— your restaurant, the empty place by the busy crossroads you'd bought a few years ago, was a few blocks away. a small, warm place you had always loved—your own little escape from the rest of the world. the bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside, warmth wrapping around you instantly.

you forced a small smile at the familiar faces, nodding in greeting.

routine.

just keep moving.

the warm, familiar scent of fresh bread and spices enveloped you as you stepped behind the counter, shrugging off your coat. the restaurant was alive in the way it always was at this time of the day—soft clatters of cutlery against ceramic plates, the low hum of conversation from occupied tables, the occasional burst of laughter from a corner booth.

it smelled like home, like routine, like something steady when everything else felt uncertain.

“morning, boss.”

you glanced up to see mira, one of the servers, leaning against the counter with a knowing smirk. she had been working here almost as long as you could remember, joined a few months after you started the restaurant chain, and she knew you well enough to read your moods before you even said a word.

“you’re late,” she teased, but there was no bite to her words.

“i’m not late,” you said, rolling your eyes as you tied your apron around your waist. “i just… took my time getting here.”

mira gave you a look—one that was far too perceptive for your liking—but didn’t press. instead, she just handed you a notepad. “table five wants a refill on their coffee, and table two asked about the special of the day.”

you took the notepad with a nod. “got it.”

and just like that, the day began.

the hours passed in a blur of movement and familiarity. you lost yourself in the rhythm of it—taking orders, pouring coffee, clearing tables, exchanging pleasantries with customers who had been coming here for years. the work was muscle memory at this point, your hands moving on autopilot while your mind drifted elsewhere.

somewhere in the middle of the lunch rush, as you wiped down the counter, jaehyun—one of the chefs, poked his head out from the back. “hey, y/n, you eating today or just running on caffeine and regrets?”

you snorted, shaking your head. “i’ll eat later.”

“you always say that.”

“i mean it this time.”

he narrowed his eyes. “you said that last time too.”

“i—okay, fine.” you held up your hands in surrender. “i’ll grab something when the rush dies down.”

he grumbled something under his breath before disappearing back into the kitchen, and mira smirked from where she was refilling a salt shaker.

“he’s got a point,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “when’s the last time you actually sat down and ate a meal?”

you waved her off, busying yourself with stacking plates. “i eat. at home.”

“uh-huh. sure.”

you didn’t have an answer to that, so you didn’t bother giving one.

the day continued. the restaurant buzzed with life—friends catching up over coffee, families sharing warm meals, couples leaning into each other, their conversations dipping into soft murmurs.

you liked this. you liked watching people exist in these little moments, as if nothing else outside of these walls mattered.

an older woman at table seven caught your eye as you passed by. she smiled kindly. “it’s nice seeing you again, dear.”

you blinked. “oh—thank you. it’s nice seeing you too.”

“you’ve looked a bit tired lately,” she observed, stirring her tea slowly. “make sure you’re taking care of yourself, alright?”

there was something about the way she said it—something warm, something familiar—that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

you swallowed. “i will.”

you weren’t sure if that was a lie.

the evening arrived before you realized it, the once-busy restaurant now quiet as the last of the customers trickled out into the cold night. the staff began to clock out one by one, exchanging tired goodbyes as they pulled on their coats.

“you sure you don’t need help closing up?” mira asked, pausing at the door.

you shook your head, forcing a small smile. “i got it.”

she studied you for a moment before sighing. “alright. don’t stay too late.”

“i won’t.”

she gave you one last skeptical look before disappearing into the night, leaving you alone with the faint hum of the overhead lights and the distant sound of the wind outside.

you exhaled, running a hand through your hair.

the silence was heavier now.

slowly, methodically, you began the closing routine. you wiped down tables, stacked chairs, swept the floors, turned off the neon ‘open’ sign that flickered against the window. the motions were comforting in a way. predictable.

but when you finally locked the door and turned to face the empty restaurant, something about it felt unbearably lonely.

this place had always been warm, filled with laughter and conversation and life. but right now, standing here alone with nothing but the sound of your own breathing, it felt hollow.

you swallowed, staring at the spot where he used to sit when he came by to wait for you after his own schedule.

the memories came too easily. the way he’d lean back in the chair, arms crossed, a lazy grin on his lips as he watched you work.

you’re cute when you’re focused, he’d say. like, ridiculously cute.

you had always rolled your eyes at that, but—god, what you would give to hear it again.

shaking your head, you grabbed your coat and turned off the last of the lights.

the night was waiting.

and so was the silence.

. . .

the car was absurdly cold when you got in, the leather seats stiff from the winter air. you sighed, rubbing your hands together before gripping the steering wheel, the silence of the empty parking lot pressing against you.

the restaurant behind you was dark now, locked up for the night, its warmth left behind in the echo of distant laughter and clinking glasses.

you stared ahead for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle onto your shoulders. the exhaustion clung to you, heavy and unmoving, but there was something else beneath it—something quieter. something you didn’t want to name.

with a slow inhale, you turned the key in the ignition. the engine rumbled to life, the soft hum filling the car as headlights illuminated the frost-kissed windshield. you sat there for a beat longer, watching your breath fog up the glass.

then, finally, you pulled out onto the road.

the city stretched out before you, streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. the roads weren’t as busy at this hour, but there was still movement—taxis weaving through lanes, pedestrians bundled up in coats, the occasional cyclist braving the cold.

the world kept moving, even when you felt stuck.

your fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel as the radio played low through the speakers. some old song, one you barely recognized. the melody was soft, almost lulling, the kind of tune that made your thoughts wander.

and they did.

“you’re always working.”

his voice was still so clear in your mind. that night, the argument—it played back in fragments, like scenes from a movie you couldn’t turn off.

“and what about you, chan? you act like you’re the only one trying here.”

your grip tightened. the memory of his voice, the sharpness of his words, the way frustration had tangled between you like something inevitable.

“maybe we need a break.”

you blinked hard. the traffic light ahead turned red, and you eased the car to a stop, exhaling as you leaned back against the seat.

the world outside the window blurred slightly, the glow of headlights streaking across the wet pavement. snow had started falling again, light and unhurried, swirling beneath the streetlights.

you used to love this time of year—the first snowfall, the way the city seemed to quiet under its weight.

and him.

you remembered the way he used to pull you into the cold, ignoring your protests as he dragged you into the snow-covered streets, laughter spilling from his lips like warmth against the winter air.

“you’re so dramatic,” you had grumbled, shivering in your coat.

“and you’re no fun,” he had teased, tugging you closer. “come on, just one snowball fight.”

“you say that every year.”

“and every year, darling, you lose.”

the memory made something inside you ache. the way he would wrap you in his arms afterward, pressing his cold nose against your cheek just to make you squirm.

the way you’d sit by the fireplace afterward, tangled together under thick blankets, sharing hot cocoa that he always made too sweet.

it had been easy, then.

before the late nights, before the exhaustion, before the words that had chipped away at what you had built together.

before you started feeling like you were losing him.

the light turned green.

you blinked, shaking your head as if to clear it, and pressed your foot against the gas pedal.

and then—

the world tilted.

a sickening crunch of metal. the sharp, jarring impact of force slamming into you. the violent, uncontrollable spinning.

for a split second, all you saw were headlights—blinding, swallowing everything in white—before everything blurred into chaos.

the sound was deafening. screeching tires, the shriek of twisting steel, car horns blaring, the distant shouts of people. the seatbelt dug into your chest, locking you in place as the car was thrown sideways. your vision swam, dizziness clawing at you, and then—

silence.

everything felt… far away.

the ringing in your ears was the only sound you could process, drowning out the panic outside. your vision blurred, the edges of the world darkening, swallowing up the streetlights, the movement, the shapes of people rushing toward you.

your fingers twitched, barely. your head lolled slightly to the side, and through the cracked windshield, you saw red and blue lights flashing in the distance.

voices.

faint. muffled.

“is she breathing?”

“call an ambulance—”

“stay with me, okay?”

you wanted to respond, to say something—anything—but the words didn’t come.

your eyelids felt heavier now. the weight of exhaustion, of impact, of something you didn’t want to name, pressed down on you, pulling you under.

somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

then—

darkness.

. . .

the world around you existed in fragments.

there was no time, no clear beginning or end—just moments bleeding into each other, slipping between consciousness and the heavy pull of unconsciousness. you weren’t awake, but you weren’t entirely gone either. you were somewhere, floating in the space between pain and oblivion.

the first thing you registered was the weightlessness, the peculiar sensation of being lifted, carried. the cold, biting wind was gone, replaced with the sterile scent of something clinical—alcohol, antiseptic, the faint metallic tang of blood.

voices. sharp, rushed. urgent.

"bp’s dropping—move!"

"we need to stabilize—"

"get her on the stretcher—"

there were hands on you, pressing against your limbs, holding you still. you wanted to move, to speak, to tell them that you were here, but your body refused to listen. it felt like trying to swim against a current that only dragged you further down.

the pressure of something tightening around your arm. the firm press of fingers against your wrist—checking, counting, assessing. the beeping of machines, rapid and rhythmic, like an anxious heartbeat.

"possible concussion—mild contusions—check for internal bleeding."

the sounds flickered in and out. you slipped again, deeper into the darkness, but not completely.

then—light.

harsh, fluorescent, searing through closed eyelids.

the movement stopped. the sensation of being lifted again, transferred. the scrape of wheels against tile. doors swinging open. more voices.

"pupils reactive—no immediate signs of severe trauma—"

"get an iv started."

the world tilted. the mattress beneath you was firmer than the seat of your car, colder than the pavement. a hand smoothed over your forehead, pushing back strands of hair matted with sweat. the touch was gentle, grounding.

"you're in the hospital," a voice said, distant but soothing. "we’re going to take care of you. just rest."

rest.

the word settled over you like a command, a lullaby. the beeping of the machines steadied. you let yourself be pulled under again.

when you resurfaced, it was slow.

a dull ache pulsed at the edges of your awareness, the type that came in waves—bearable, but constant. your body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and something else.

the first thing you saw was the ceiling. white. sterile. unmoving.

then, your own hands—resting limply against stiff sheets, an iv taped to your wrist, an oxygen clip attached to your finger.

a hospital room.

the realization settled into your bones before you fully processed it. the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, the faint hum of ventilation, the low murmur of voices outside the door—it was all unfamiliar.

your throat was dry. you swallowed, wincing at the soreness that stretched across your ribs, the dull sting blooming in your arm. not unbearable. but not comfortable either.

there was movement beside you.

a nurse.

she had kind eyes, the kind that made you feel like you weren’t alone in this too-bright, too-quiet place. she glanced at you, a small, reassuring smile appearing as she noticed you were awake.

"welcome back," she said softly, reaching to adjust something on the iv line.

you tried to speak—tried to ask what had happened, how long you had been here—but the moment your lips parted, she shook her head.

"don't strain yourself," she murmured, voice gentle but firm. "the doctor will come by soon, but for now, just rest. talking will only make it worse."

you frowned, but the protest never made it past your lips. even if it had, you doubted it would’ve been much more than a weak rasp.

she adjusted your pillow, moving carefully, as if she knew exactly where you hurt. the iv line shifted slightly, the cool liquid continuing to drip down into your veins, dulling the sharper edges of pain.

"your car got in an accident," the nurse continued, her tone soft, as though the words themselves were delicate. "you’re lucky—it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. some injuries, but nothing that won’t heal."

lucky.

the word felt foreign, distant. you had stopped at the light. you had waited. and yet—

your fingers twitched slightly against the blanket. you tried to piece together what had happened, the moment the world had gone from mundane to chaos, but the memories were scattered. all you could recall were headlights and the sickening weight of impact.

the nurse must have noticed the way your breathing shifted, because she placed a light hand on your arm, grounding.

"you need to rest," she said again, softer this time. "sleep will help."

you wanted to argue. you wanted to ask why this had happened, how long you had been here, if anyone had come to see you. if he—

but your body was already betraying you, exhaustion dragging at your limbs.

the pain wasn’t unbearable, but it was enough. enough to remind you that you weren’t okay. that you wouldn’t be for a while.

so you let your eyes slip shut.

not because you weren’t afraid of the darkness this time.

but because, for the moment, there was nothing else you could do.

the hospital was quiet in a way that felt unnatural.

not the usual city stillness—the kind that came late at night when the streets were empty and only the hum of distant cars remained—but a silence laced with something heavier. something sterile. something fragile.

outside, the world moved on. people walked down busy sidewalks, cars skidded through melting patches of snow, neon signs flickered against the early evening dimness. life carried on, indifferent.

but here, in this fluorescent-lit corridor, the world had paused.

the nurse glanced at the clipboard in her hands, the patient’s name standing stark against the white paper. her brow furrowed slightly before she exhaled, reaching for the phone on the counter.

"are you sure this is the right contact?" the doctor beside her asked, checking the same file.

"it’s listed as her emergency number."

the nurse hesitated for only a moment before pressing the call button.

one ring.

two.

a click.

the voice that answered was slightly out of breath, like they had been running.

"hello?"

"hello, is this..."

. . .

silence. the kind that didn’t come from confusion, but realization.

the kind that carried weight.

and then the line went dead.

the waiting room door pushed open half an hour later.

the person entered in a rush, but not carelessly—like he had run, but forced himself to slow down the second he stepped inside. the nurses at the desk barely had a chance to greet him before he was already speaking, voice tight with urgency.

"i’m here for y/n l/n. i got a call."

one of the nurses, the same one who had called, recognized him immediately. she straightened.

"she's stable. sleeping. but—"

"what happened?" he didn’t mean to interrupt, but the words were out before he could stop them.

the doctor nearby spoke this time, his voice calm.

"a car accident. her injuries are moderate—some bruised ribs, minor fractures. a concussion, but nothing too severe. she was lucky. she'll need rest, but she'll recover."

the weight of those words landed squarely on his chest. he exhaled shakily.

"can i see her?"

the doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse before nodding.

"she's still unconscious.. had woken up for a bit, after we had gotten her here, but then she dozed out again. you can sit with her. just keep your voice down."

a nod. then, without another word, he followed them down the hall.

room 801 was dimly lit, the blinds drawn halfway.

the beeping of the heart monitor was steady, a quiet reassurance that life still lingered in this room, soft and persistent.

and there you were.

lying against the pristine white sheets, head turned slightly to the side, expression peaceful in a way that didn’t match the reality of what had happened.

your arm was bandaged, an iv drip feeding slow, steady doses of pain relief into your veins. a bruise, darkening at the edges, sat on your temple. your breathing was even, but too still. too quiet.

he took a step forward. then another.

until he was at your bedside, standing so close he could see the faint rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers twitched slightly even in sleep.

he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

and then—finally—he let himself feel it.

the panic. the helplessness. the gut-wrenching thought of what if?

what if the call had been worse? what if it hadn’t come at all? what if this had been it?

his fingers curled into a fist, nails pressing into his palm. he inhaled sharply, forcing himself to keep it together.

but his eyes were burning.

and before he could stop himself, he was sinking into the chair beside the bed, his hand hovering near yours but not touching. not yet.

"i’m sorry," he whispered, the words breaking in his throat.

you didn’t hear him.

but he said it anyway.

. . .

the room was quiet—too quiet.

a suffocating kind of stillness. the kind that settled in hospitals, lingering in the air like a held breath. it pressed against the walls, snaked into the cracks of the cold linoleum floor, wrapped itself around the sterile scent of antiseptic and faint traces of metal. even the steady beeping of the monitor felt muted, almost like a whisper in the vast emptiness of it all.

and then there was him.

sitting hunched over in the chair, elbows braced against his knees, fingers threaded into his curls as he stared at the floor like it held all the answers he didn’t have.

his breath came shallow, unsteady. his chest felt tight, too tight, like the air wasn’t reaching his lungs no matter how hard he tried. his heartbeat pounded against his ribs, out of sync with the quiet rhythm of the machines.

the sight of you in that hospital bed was something he could barely process.

your face, pale against the stark white pillow. your arm, wrapped in clean bandages. the soft rise and fall of your chest, far too slow for his liking.

it didn’t feel real.

none of this felt real.

he swallowed thickly, but it did nothing to rid the lump in his throat.

he had been fine—or at least, he had convinced himself he was—right up until he saw you lying there, unmoving, their body smaller beneath the weight of the hospital sheets. that was when the panic finally crashed over him, dragging him under like a tide.

the kind of panic that left him hollow. that twisted something deep inside his chest, wringing him dry until all that was left was guilt and fear and—

he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to get a grip.

but the harder he tried, the worse it got.

his shoulders trembled. his fingers dug into his hair. his breath came out in a sharp, shaky exhale. and then—before he could stop it—his first sob broke free.

it tore through him, raw and aching, a sound ripped straight from the deepest part of his soul. his whole body caved under the weight of it, his forehead pressing against the heel of his palm as another sob wracked through his chest.

"shit," he choked out, barely above a whisper.

his hand clenched into a fist, nails pressing into his palm.

he wasn’t supposed to be like this.

he was supposed to be the calm one. the strong one. the one who kept things together even when everything else was falling apart.

but right now?

right now, he felt helpless.

his eyes burned as he lifted his head, gaze falling on you again. he wanted to reach out—wanted to take your hand in his, press his forehead against your knuckles, tell you he was here. that he wasn’t going anywhere. that everything was going to be okay.

but he couldn’t. because.. again,

because what if it wasn’t?

what if this was his fault?

the thought hit him again like a punch to the gut.

what if he had done something differently? what if he had been there? what if you hadn’t been alone?

what if—

"i’m so, so sorry, y/n," he whispered, voice breaking.

it wasn’t enough.

it would never be enough.

but it was all he had.

seconds passed. maybe minutes. he wasn’t sure. time had blurred into nothing but the quiet hum of the machines and the faint, rhythmic sound of his breathing.

he hadn’t moved from his spot.

couldn’t.

his body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and emotions he wasn’t ready to name. his hands were trembling, his fingers flexing and curling against his knees as if trying to ground himself. but nothing worked.

the guilt still clung to him like a second skin.

and the worst part?

you didn’t even know he was here.

didn’t know that he had dropped everything the second he got the call. that he had nearly broken the speed limit trying to get here. that he had spent the last hour sitting by your side, trying and failing to pull himself together.

didn’t know how much he missed you.

how much he needed you.

he exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face.

then, hesitantly—almost as if afraid they would disappear if he touched you—he reached out.

his fingers hovered over yours for a second, hesitant, before finally pressing lightly against the back of your hand.

a warmth that was barely there. a quiet reassurance that you were still here. still breathing.

his throat tightened.

"please wake up," he murmured, barely audible.

it wasn’t a demand.

it wasn’t even a request.

it was a plea.

a desperate, aching plea that carried every ounce of guilt and regret and love that he hadn’t been able to say before.

but you didn’t move.

didn’t stir.

didn’t even twitch.

and that—more than anything—was what truly broke him.

the past few weeks : what remains in the silence

the studio lights hummed overhead, casting a dim, sterile glow over the cluttered desk, the scattered sheets of lyrics crumpled in frustration, the empty coffee cups pushed aside and forgotten. the air was thick, weighed down by the scent of exhaustion—of ink and paper, of stale caffeine and sleepless nights.

seated at the console, shoulders hunched, was him, fingers threading through his curls as he stared at the blinking waveform on the screen. the metronome ticked steadily in his ears, a cruel reminder of time passing, of the hours slipping through his fingers like sand.

it was late. too late. but that didn’t matter.

the others had gone home. the studio halls were quiet now, the usual buzz of voices and laughter absent, leaving only the low hum of the equipment and the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the table.

but he couldn’t leave.

not yet.

not when his chest still ached like this.

not when his mind kept playing the same loop of memories, over and over, like a cruel, broken record.

"you don’t get it, do you?"

the words echoed in his head, sharp and raw. your voice—frustrated, hurt—lingered like a ghost, filling every inch of the suffocating silence.

he had said things, too. things he didn’t mean. things he hadn’t even realized were leaving his mouth until it was too late.

and then it had ended.

just like that.

no closure. no finality. just silence.

and god, the silence was worse than anything else.

it was deafening.

it followed him everywhere.

to rehearsals, where his body moved on autopilot, executing every step with precision but feeling none of it. to meetings, where words blurred together and became meaningless noise. to the dorm, where the others cast worried glances his way but didn’t push, because they knew.

they knew he was a storm waiting to happen.

and here, in the studio, where it was just him and the music—his only escape—he found that even that had turned against him.

because every melody he wrote sounded like you.

every lyric that spilled from his pen became a memory. a moment. a fragment of something he had lost.

and he couldn’t do it.

he couldn’t use your voice as his muse.

so he erased them. again and again.

trashed the songs. deleted the files. ripped the pages from his notebook and threw them aside, watching as the words—his words, their words—were reduced to nothing more than discarded, crumpled paper on the floor.

but it didn’t stop.

it didn’t stop the ache.

didn’t stop the way his fingers shook when he reached for another blank sheet, knowing it would end up the same way.

didn’t stop the frustration that built in his chest, hot and suffocating, curling around his ribs like a vice.

"hyung."

the voice was soft, hesitant.

chan barely glanced up, recognizing the figure lingering in the doorway.

minho.

the younger guy leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes dark with concern.

chan knew that look. knew the way minho studied him, like he was trying to pick apart the pieces of him that had begun to unravel.

"you should go home," minho said after a beat.

chan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. not this again.

"i’m fine."

minho’s eyes narrowed. "no, you’re not."

chan pressed his lips together, turning his gaze back to the screen, hoping minho would take the hint and leave it alone.

but minho never left things alone.

"you look like hell."

"thanks."

"that wasn’t a compliment."

chan sighed, rubbing at his temples. the headache that had been lingering for hours was starting to settle in, a dull, throbbing pulse at the base of his skull.

"i just need to finish this song."

minho’s expression didn’t change. "and then what?"

chan didn’t answer.

because he didn’t know.

didn’t know what came next.

didn’t know how to fix the mess he had made.

didn’t know how to stop feeling like he was drowning in his own emotions.

minho stepped further into the room, his gaze softening. "hyung."

chan swallowed. looked away.

"just let me work." his voice was quieter this time. almost pleading.

minho studied him for a long moment before exhaling through his nose.

"fine. but if you pass out from exhaustion, i’m dragging your ass out of here myself."

with that, minho turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

chan sat there, staring at the empty doorway, his hands clenched into fists.

he should go home.

should rest.

should sleep.

but he wouldn’t.

because the moment he closed his eyes, you would be there.

in his memories. in his mind.

and he didn’t know if he could handle that.

present : five days in winter

the hospital was cold.

not the kind of cold that seeped into bones, but the kind that settled somewhere deeper, heavier. a silence that stretched too long, too empty, filled only with the steady beeping of machines and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall. the scent of antiseptic lingered, clinical and distant, sterilizing not just the air but the very essence of the place.

chan had learned to hate that smell.

it clung to him now, in his black hoodie, in his hair, in the tired lines beneath his eyes.

five days.

it had been five days since he first walked into this room, five days since he first saw you lying there, still and unmoving, lost somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness.

and he hadn’t left.

not really.

sure, he went back to the dorm at night, sometimes. sometimes he sat in the studio, headphones on, staring at unfinished tracks that never seemed to progress beyond the first verse. but his mind was always here. with you.

and when he was here, he stayed for hours.

ignoring texts. ignoring calls. ignoring schedules that piled up like a stack of unopened letters.

he didn’t care.

he couldn’t.

because every time he walked into this room, every time he sat beside the bed and saw your still face, it felt like something inside him cracked just a little bit more.

the doctors had reassured him. told him there was nothing to panic over. that you were breathing fine. that your body was simply taking the rest it needed to heal. that waking up was a matter of time.

but what if time took too long?

chan exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. his fingers threaded through his curls, gripping the strands, frustration curling into his shoulders.

"you’re missing out on so much, you know?" his voice was quiet, barely more than a murmur. "the first real snowfall happened yesterday. the big kind. the kind you like."

he swallowed, glancing at your face. no movement. no response.

"some kids were playing in it. there was this little boy outside the café across the street. his mom was trying to get him to go inside, but he just kept throwing snowballs at his sister. reminded me of you."

a bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"you always loved winter, even though you complained about the cold."

silence.

the only response was the quiet beeping of the monitor.

chan sighed, leaning back against the chair, letting his eyes drift up to the ceiling.

it wasn’t fair.

it wasn’t fair how time kept moving forward like nothing had happened, how the world outside still spun, still breathed, still continued—while in here, in this small, sterile room, everything felt suspended.

stuck.

frozen.

a soft knock came at the door. chan barely reacted as it opened, the familiar figures slipping inside.

hyunjin and felix.

both looked exhausted in their own way. felix had a bag of snacks in his hands, a feeble attempt at normalcy, and hyunjin’s face was tense, like he had spent too much time trying to convince himself he wasn’t worried.

"hyung," felix spoke first, his voice cautious. "you should go home for a bit."

chan barely glanced at him. "i’m fine."

"you always say that." hyunjin crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "and it’s never true."

felix sighed, walking over and placing the snack bag on the table.

"have you eaten?"

chan shrugged. he didn’t remember.

felix gave him a look before sighing again, softer this time. "she’s going to be okay, you know."

chan exhaled sharply.

"you don’t know that."

hyunjin scoffed. "don’t do.. that. don’t start with the worst-case scenarios. the doctors literally said she just needs time."

"yeah, and how long is that gonna take?" chan’s voice wavered, and he hated how it did. hated how the helplessness crept into his tone despite how hard he tried to shove it down.

hyunjin frowned, his expression softening just slightly.

"she’ll wake up," he said, quieter this time. "she’s strong."

chan swallowed hard. he knew that. knew it better than anyone.

but it didn’t make this any easier.

didn’t make the waiting any less agonizing.

felix sat down on the other side of the bed, glancing at your unconscious form. "she looks peaceful."

chan didn’t answer. he didn’t know if he could agree.

because to him, peace and stillness weren’t the same.

and this—this unbearable stillness—felt more like limbo.

like something unfinished.

like something waiting to break.

and god, he didn’t know how much longer he could take it.

the morning air outside the hospital was crisp, the early sun painting soft streaks of gold across the pale blue sky. inside, the hospital remained the same—a quiet combination of beeping monitors, hushed voices, and the sterile scent of disinfectant that had long since embedded itself into chan’s lungs.

he arrived early. earlier than usual.

not that it mattered—his sense of time had warped over the last six days, stretched thin between restless nights and hours spent sitting beside a bed that felt both too still and too fragile.

he pushed the door open slowly, careful not to let the hinges creak too loud, as if any noise might disturb you. but you hadn’t woken up yesterday. or the day before that. or the day before that.

still, chan had hope.

"morning, sleepyhead." his voice was soft, a little hoarse from exhaustion, but there was warmth in it nonetheless.

he shut the door behind him, moving to his usual chair beside the bed. his body moved on autopilot—placing his bag down, pulling out a bottle of water he wouldn’t drink, adjusting the blanket that didn’t need adjusting.

just something to keep his hands busy.

something to stop the weight in his chest from pressing too deep.

"you missed another sunrise," he murmured, fingers ghosting over the back of your hand. "it was a pretty one, too. all pink and orange—one of those skies you’d probably take a million pictures of and never post."

a weak smile tugged at his lips as he exhaled. "i can already hear you scolding me for not taking one for you."

silence.

the beeping of the machines remained steady. the slow, gentle rise and fall of your chest didn’t falter.

chan swallowed.

he shifted, resting his forearms on the edge of the bed. his fingers absentmindedly traced over your knuckles—slow, barely-there movements, as if they might break under the weight of his touch.

"remember that one time we tried making that french hot chocolate you saw a tiktok of, and ended up burning it?" he huffed a soft chuckle. "you were so mad. said i ruined the perfect winter aesthetic. but then you tasted it anyway, and we both agreed it wasn’t that bad. we even made it again, just to prove we could do it properly."

he exhaled through his nose.

"i think about stuff like that a lot."

he swallowed again, throat thick, voice quieter. "i think about you.. a lot."

his fingers curled around yours, gentle, firm. "you’re not allowed to keep me waiting too long, you know. my patience only goes so far."

the day passed like that.

slowly.

like wading through water.

chan sat beside you, talking sometimes, falling into silence at others. occasionally, he’d lean back and let his eyes slip shut, only to jolt them open again minutes later, unwilling to let himself fully drift.

the others didn’t visit today.

he was grateful for that.

he didn’t want to share this space.

not today.

not when he felt so—raw.

evening settled before he realized it. the room darkened except for the faint glow of the bedside lamp. outside, the city continued—cars honking, streetlights flickering on, the world moving forward as if nothing had changed.

chan hadn’t moved much.

still in the same chair.

still holding your hand.

his thumb rubbed slow circles against your skin.

the exhaustion was catching up to him again.

he fought it.

tried to ignore the heaviness in his limbs.

tried to push past the way his blinks grew slower, the way his head tilted slightly forward.

but eventually, he gave in.

just for a second.

just long enough for his body to sag, for his grip on your hand to loosen slightly, for the warmth of your skin against his to lull him into something shallow, something that wasn’t quite sleep but wasn’t entirely wakefulness either.

minutes passed.

then—

a twitch.

a faint pressure.

the smallest tug against his hand.

his eyes snapped open instantly, breath catching in his throat.

he jolted upright, gaze flickering down to your fingers—his heart hammering against his ribs.

had he imagined it?

had his mind finally started playing tricks on him?

no.

because there it was again.

a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of your fingers against his.

his breath shuddered.

"hey—" he whispered, eyes wide, gripping your hand a little tighter. "hey, love, can you—?"

the door creaked open before he could finish.

the nurse stepped inside, clipboard in hand, but the second she saw the look on his face—saw the way his hands trembled slightly as he held yours—her expression shifted.

"what’s wrong?"

chan exhaled, barely able to find the words. "she—she moved."

the nurse’s eyes widened before she swiftly turned back toward the hall.

"doctor!"

chan barely registered the next few moments.

footsteps.

voices.

the doctor entering, the nurse moving to check the monitors, the air shifting into something more urgent—but not panicked. not alarming. just… observant.

"vitals are stable," one of them murmured.

"it’s a good sign," another reassured.

chan sat there, unmoving, barely breathing as he watched them work—checking, adjusting, monitoring.

. . .

darkness.

it is soft, quiet, weightless. a vast ocean with no shore in sight, where time does not exist, where thought drifts like mist, thin and shapeless. you are floating, untethered, caught in the liminal space between nowhere and somewhere. there is no urgency, no need to wake, no pressing demand. just the silence. just the stillness.

then—something shifts.

a sound.

faint. a murmur against the quiet.

it trickles in like light through the cracks of a door, hesitant yet persistent. a voice. low, gentle, carrying the weight of something you cannot yet name.

you want to reach for it.

but your body is heavy, limbs sinking, lungs thick with something dense and unmovable. the darkness doesn’t want to let you go. it tugs at you, pleading, desperate to keep you here, to keep you safe, to keep you—

another voice.

closer this time.

then—a touch.

warm, real.

a thumb brushing over your knuckles, a soft squeeze, something grounding in the haze.

the weight in your chest shifts. not gone, but different. a tether, a pull toward the surface. the nothingness that held you so gently begins to peel away, unraveling thread by thread, revealing something beyond the void.

your fingers twitch.

there is a sharp inhale—someone else’s, not yours.

the silence ripples.

then— light.

blinding, even through the barrier of your closed eyelids. it seeps in like an intrusion, pushing back against the murk of unconsciousness.

your head throbs. your throat is dry. your skin feels strange, as if it doesn’t belong to you.

then, after what feels like forever—

you open your eyes.

at first, there is nothing but a blur. a smear of color, shifting shapes, movement too fast for your sluggish mind to process. you blink, once, twice, and the world slowly begins to sharpen.

white walls. fluorescent lighting. the steady beeping of machines.

a hospital.

the realization comes sluggishly, like trying to recall the details of a dream upon waking. you start to remember how you got here. you remember why.

but then—

"y/n?"

a voice.

your gaze flickers to the source, slow and unsteady, as if your body is learning how to exist all over again.

chan.

he is beside you, close, his body half-perched on the chair, half-leaning toward you like he doesn’t trust the space between. his hands are on yours—solid, warm, trembling.

his eyes, wide with something that looks like relief and devastation twisted into one, are locked onto your face as if looking away might shatter you back into nothingness.

your throat is raw when you try to speak.

nothing comes out.

chan moves instantly, reaching for the cup on the bedside table. you watch, dazed, as he adjusts the straw, his movements quick but careful, and then he’s guiding it to your lips.

"here. just a sip."

you take it.

the water is cool, soothing against your throat, but your body feels unfamiliar, unsteady, as if you are a guest in your own skin. you pull away after only a small sip, and he sets the cup back down.

his hand returns to yours.

like it never left.

there is a moment of silence.

then, softly—

"you scared me."

his voice cracks. just slightly. barely noticeable, but you hear it. feel it.

the weight of it settles in your chest.

you swallow. try again.

"how long?"

the sound of your own voice surprises you. it is hoarse, fragile, barely more than a whisper.

chan exhales, running a hand through his curls. he looks exhausted, like sleep has been a stranger to him for far too long.

"six days."

you blink.

your mind tries to grasp the number, the weight of it, but everything feels slow, like you are running through molasses.

"i was… asleep?"

"more like unconscious," he corrects, his thumb brushing absently against your knuckles. "the doctors said it wasn’t too dangerous, but—"

he stops. shakes his head.

"it felt dangerous to me."

your chest tightens.

his fingers curl around yours, firmer now, as if testing to make sure you are real.

"you wouldn’t wake up," he murmurs, voice quieter now. "no matter how much i talked to you, no matter how much i—" he exhales, shaking his head. "i thought—"

he stops himself.

his jaw clenches.

you squeeze his hand.

his gaze snaps to yours immediately, like the smallest movement from you is something monumental.

you clear your throat, trying to fight past the dryness, past the exhaustion clinging to your bones. "i’m here."

it’s not much.

but it is enough.

chan swallows hard, his lips pressing together, and for the first time, you see it. the glassiness in his eyes, the way his breath shudders, the way relief sits so heavy on his shoulders it almost looks like it might break him.

"yeah," he exhales. "yeah, you are."

the tension in the room softens. the air shifts.

you watch as he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing the lightest kiss against the back of it.

his eyes shut for a moment, like he is trying to ground himself in the sensation.

when he opens them again, there is something softer there.

"don’t scare me like that again, yeah?"

his voice is steady, but you can hear the emotion beneath it.

you give the faintest nod, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"i’ll try."

it’s the best you can offer.

and for now—

it is enough.

the moment chan’s hand was gently pried away from yours, a chill settled over your skin, one that had nothing to do with the temperature of the hospital room. his warmth had been the only thing tethering you to something familiar, something steady. but now—now it was gone.

"mr. bahng, we need you to wait outside while we check on her," one of the nurses had told him. a request, but also not.

you had seen the hesitation in his eyes, the reluctance, the way his fingers had twitched as if they didn't want to let go. but he listened. because it was for you. because it was what was needed.

now, the door clicked shut behind him, and the room felt bigger. louder, with the beeping of the monitors, the shuffle of nurses moving around you, the crinkle of gloves being pulled on.

“alright, sweetheart, we’re just going to do a quick check-up, alright?” the nurse closest to you—an older woman with kind eyes and soft hands—offered you a reassuring smile as she reached for your wrist, checking your pulse. “you’ve been through quite a bit, so let us know if anything feels off.”

you swallowed, throat still dry, but nodded.

the world still felt slow, like you were wading through water. the dull ache in your limbs, the stiffness of your joints—it was a strange thing, waking up in a body that had been still for so long.

someone else adjusted the iv drip beside you, and you felt the cool trickle of medicine entering your veins.

“you were lucky, you know.” the nurse’s voice was light, almost teasing. “your injuries could have been a lot worse.”

your injuries.

the words settled over you like a distant echo. you had almost forgotten.

“what.. what else happened?” your voice was rough, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of something fragile.

the nurses exchanged a glance. then, the older woman—the one who had spoken first—tilted her head slightly. “do you remember anything?”

your brows furrowed, but you managed a light nod.

the memory was there, hazy and fractured, like a dream slipping through your fingers the harder you tried to hold onto it.

the road.

the red light.

the blur of headlights.

the sound—

your stomach twisted.

“i—” you swallowed hard. “a car accident.”

the nurse nodded. “yes. you were brought in unconscious. you woke up for a few minutes, you remember any of that? some injuries—nothing too major, but enough to keep you out for a few days.”

a few days.

that still didn’t feel real.

you exhaled shakily, trying to absorb the information, but your mind felt slow, reluctant to process everything all at once.

the nurse squeezed your hand gently. “you’re going to be okay, sweetheart. you just need some time to heal.”

there was a soft rustling as another nurse adjusted the pillows behind you, shifting your body slightly so you were more upright. the change in position sent a wave of dizziness through you, but you didn’t protest.

a few more checks—light in your eyes, testing reflexes, changing out bandages. you winced when they cleaned one of the scrapes along your arm, but the nurse was quick to murmur a gentle, “i know, sweetheart, almost done.”

then, just as she was finishing up, her voice took on a different note.

“your boyfriend, by the way,” she said casually, as if the words weren’t about to send your heart into a spiral, “has been coming in every day since we called him.”

you froze.

the nurse didn’t seem to notice. she kept adjusting the blankets around you, her tone light. “your emergency contact, right? he looked ready to drop everything the second we rang him.”

your lips parted, but you didn’t know what to say.

boyfriend?

boyfriend.

your thoughts fumbled over the word.

the nurse chuckled softly. “oh, don’t look so surprised, sweetheart. it was obvious. the way he was hovering over you, holding your hand like he was afraid to let go? if that’s not love, i don’t know what is.”

your heart did something strange in your chest. a slow, twisting motion that left warmth blooming in its wake.

“he’s been here every single day,” she continued. “for hours. sometimes the whole day. we had to practically force him to go home and rest.”

your fingers curled slightly against the sheets.

“he talks to you, too,” she added with a small smile. “like you could hear him. maybe you could, who knows?”

you swallowed, trying to ignore the way your throat suddenly felt tight.

“he would just sit here, holding your hand, telling you about his day. about how the weather was. about how your friends were worried about you.”

the warmth in your chest grew.

“he even told you stories,” she said, shaking her head fondly. “little things. things that probably wouldn’t matter to anyone else, but he told you anyway. like you were just asleep and he was waiting for you to wake up and respond.”

something swelled in your throat.

you hadn’t been aware.

you had been floating in that quiet, in that darkness, not knowing that he had been right there.

“i think,” the nurse said after a pause, a small knowing smile tugging at her lips, “he really, really cares about you.”

your breath hitched.

the words settled deep into your bones, warming the spaces you hadn’t realized were cold.

chan had been here. everyday.

talking to you.

waiting for you.

your fingers brushed over the blanket absently, heart thrumming in your chest.

the nurse gave your hand a final squeeze before stepping back, gathering the used bandages and tools into a tray. “alright, sweetheart, we’re done here for now.”

another nurse adjusted your iv, and the beeping of the monitor remained steady, rhythmic, like a quiet reassurance.

“we’ll let your boyfriend back in now,” the older nurse teased lightly. “poor thing’s probably pacing a hole into the floor out there.”

you huffed a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head slightly.

and then, the door opened.

and chan stepped in.

the door clicked shut behind him, but you barely noticed.

he stood just a few steps inside the hospital room, his breath caught somewhere in his chest, eyes searching yours like he needed proof—proof that you were really awake, that you were really, fully, looking at him.

you blinked at him, your throat tight, your fingers curling against the thin hospital blanket.

there was something about him. something different.

the exhaustion was written all over his face—his skin paler than usual, dark shadows pooled beneath his eyes, his shoulders slouched in a way that didn’t belong to him. his curls were disheveled, as if he had run his fingers through them too many times.

but it wasn’t just the fatigue. it was something deeper. a hesitation in the way he stood, a carefulness in his every breath, like he was afraid to move too quickly, afraid to shatter the fragile moment between you.

afraid you’d send him away.

a lump formed in your throat.

“you stayed,” you whispered.

his breath trembled as he exhaled, and then—then he was moving.

not rushing, not lunging, but stepping forward, crossing the space between you with a quiet desperation.

the chair beside your bed scraped slightly against the floor as he sank into it. his hands, shaking just barely, hovered over yours before he swallowed and finally—finally—took your fingers in his.

a choked, breathy laugh left him, something wet and exhausted and disbelieving all at once.

“of course i stayed,” he murmured.

you let out a shaky exhale, glancing down at his hands. he was warm, solid, real.

but then, something flickered over his face. his brows pulled together, his jaw tightening.

“i—” he sucked in a breath, struggling for words, his grip on your fingers tightening just slightly.

you knew that look.

he was overthinking.

regret, guilt, pain—all of it flickered in the depths of his tired brown eyes.

“i—” he tried again, then exhaled sharply. “i’m so, fucking sorry.”

your lips parted.

“for everything,” he continued, voice thick. “for the argument, for—” his voice cracked. “for not talking to you. for letting my frustration—” he broke off again, shaking his head, his fingers tightening around yours. “i should have—should have been better.”

you swallowed.

your vision blurred, the weight of everything pressing into you.

you had both been hurting. both been so lost in your own emotions, in your own pain, that you had pushed each other away.

and now—now he was here. holding your hands like they were something precious, like he had been waiting for this moment for far too long.

tears welled in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“chris,” you whispered, shaking your head, your own fingers tightening around his.

his gaze snapped up to yours, as if the sound of his name was something he had been waiting to hear.

you swallowed, blinking through the blur of your tears.

“i’m sorry, too,” you murmured.

his lips parted, something raw and vulnerable flashing across his face.

“i—” your breath hitched. “i shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have let my frustration get the best of me either.” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “i should have—should have listened more, should have—” your voice cracked. “i missed you.”

a sharp breath left him.

“you don't need to apologise. it's none of your fault, all mine, love. i missed you too,” he whispered.

and then—then he was leaning forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

you closed your eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of him—the faint traces of cologne, the warmth of something undeniably him.

his breath trembled against your skin.

“i thought—” his voice was barely above a whisper. “i thought i lost you.”

your heart clenched.

you shifted slightly, letting go of one of his hands so you could cup his face instead. your thumb brushed over his cheek, over the warmth of his skin.

his breath hitched, and then—then his own hand covered yours, holding it against his face, as if grounding himself in the feeling of you.

you swallowed, blinking rapidly against the tears in your eyes.

“i love you,” you whispered.

his breath stuttered.

then, before you could even fully process it, his arms were wrapping around you, pulling you into him, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

you buried your face into his shoulder, your fingers clinging to the fabric of his hoodie, the warmth of him settling deep into your bones.

neither of you spoke for a moment.

just breathing. just existing.

just feeling the weight of everything that had been broken and the quiet, fragile way it was coming back together.

then—his voice.

soft. shaky.

“thank you for forgiving me.”

you swallowed.

his fingers curled around the back of your hospital gown, his forehead pressing against the side of your head.

“i’ll make up for it every day,” he murmured.

your breath hitched.

you pulled back just slightly, just enough to see his face, and then—then you cupped his cheeks again, tilting his head down slightly as you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead.

he let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut, hands still clutching at you.

your thumb brushed over his cheek again.

“just stay,” you whispered.

his lips parted.

then, slowly, he nodded.

and as he pulled you back into his arms, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand, to the crown of your head—

you knew.

you knew that, no matter how broken things had felt, no matter how lost you had both been—

you had found your way back to each other.

and that—

that was enough.

“i love you so, so, much more, sunshine.”

now playing . . . don't leave me, my love by colde

please don't leave my side, i hate nights without you.your heart cannot be changed. what am I going to do again now?

제발, 내 곁에서 떠나가지 말아요, 그대 없는 밤은 너무 싫어. 돌이킬 수 없는 그대 마음. 이제 와서 다시 어쩌려나?

mastertag ୨୧ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @bddaramjis @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan

[partiallysame]

Okay okay, I LOVEE your writing. & I was wondering if you could work your magic for a little idea I had. Hear me out fem nanny x John price .

Price divorced dad of an infant hires a nanny to watch over sweet little baby thing while he's overseas but comes home early in the middle of the night without notice, ☀️ nanny hears footsteps in the house and in a frantic rush grabs a weapon and hides the baby & herself 😭 idk why I need this but I need to know how John reacts

I hope you like it!!!

John Price x Nanny!reader

The last thing Captain John Price ever expected was a week old infant being dropped in his hands from a one night stand but here he was. The only thing that got him through it was you, his new nanny. You came highly recommended from a few different higher ups who had hired you to help their wives while they were away for long periods of time. Years of experience and too many references to count, John didn’t think twice about hiring you, especially after he saw how good you were with his tiny newborn daughter. He was scared to even touch the poor thing but you walked him through step by step how to care for his daughter. He had turned down a few different missions but this one he wasn’t allowed to say no to. Leaving his 6 week old daughter for two months was not what he wanted to do but he trusted you, and was overjoyed when he was able to return home a week early.

The first sign that panicked you was the neighbor’s dogs barking. You’ve been living in this house for almost 4 months now and have never once heard them bark. Then the security lights in the front of the house lit up and you could hear the doorknob rattling. Fuck. You could feel the pit in your stomach growing, something’s wrong. Reaching under the bed to pull out a hunting knife you had found one day putting away laundry. You really shouldn’t have been surprised when you kept finding hidden weapons in a military captain’s house. Knife in hand you made your way to the room next to you, to grab the baby. The creak of the front door opening sent you into full fight or flight. Hearing the heavy steps at the bottom of the stairs, you quickly grabbed the sleeping infant. “We’re gonna play a lil game of hide and seek ok?” you quietly whispered to her, placing a soft kiss on her forehead as you peaked out her bedroom door to make sure the hallway was clear before making your way to the large closet in the master bedroom. The only closet with a lock on it. You could hear the footsteps get closer, your heartrate picking up as you locked the two of you in the closet. Holding the sweet baby tight to your chest.  

Now John began to panic when he went to check on his daughter and she wasn’t there. His feet started moving faster to find your room empty too, a glass of water spilled on the floor, one you hadn’t even realized you had knocked over in your rush out of the room. But what really sent him into a frenzy was the small stuffed bear on the floor in the hallway. The one his baby girl never let go of and would not sleep without. The Captain pulled his gun out and began clearing rooms looking for you two.

As you heard doors begin slamming and the noises of the intruder growing louder you placed the sleeping infant behind a few boxes, out of sight, before standing in front of her and facing the door. The doorknob twisted a few times, the intruder trying to get in, one hand covered your mouth to keep from screaming while the other had a white knuckle grip on the large knife. Suddenly the door flew open, Price kicking it down. You twisted the knife around in your hand, bringing both hands up ready to fight for yours and the child’s life. All you could see was the silhouette of a large man with a gun. The light on in the room behind him, keeping his face dark and identity hidden. Price began to lower his gun, seeing it was you and you started to lunge towards him, knife swinging. He easily dodged and removed the knife from your hands.

“Hey hey y/n. It's me. It's John. You're safe.” You almost didn’t hear him from how hard you had been breathing. His hand went to turn the light in the closet on so he was visible to you. He stood there watching you for a moment, chest heaving and hands still in fists as the adrenaline started to wear off.

“What the fuck John?” He didn’t answer.

“Where’s my daughter?” 

“She’s safe” You stepped to the side and moved the boxes you had hidden her behind. John watched you amazed as you revealed his still sleeping daughter all wrapped up in a blanket, safe and sound. Reaching down to hold his tiny girl in his big hands he couldn’t help but look at you. Your hands shaking, eyes full of fear starting to return to normal. He knew he trusted you with his daughter but now? He’d never let anyone else near her. You were ready to fight a fucking home invader and honestly if it wasn’t him who opened the door, he was pretty sure you would have been successful with the knife in your hand. He’s looking at you, standing in your pajamas, hair messy from sleeping and he’s thinking he doesn’t ever want to be without you.

[the-witty-pen-name]

Everything that I Wanted (3)

Eddie Munson x F!Reader / Billy Hargrove x F!Reader 

Word Count: 4.9k 

Synopsis: Love triangle between your best friend Eddie and your first boyfriend, Billy Hargrove that spans over many years as you get everything you think you ever wanted. However, your life doesn’t play out how you expected it, starting from the first time you’re asked out on a date. 

Warnings: 18+ MDNI; SMUT (piv sex; oral f receiving), angst, language, depictions of a toxic relationship (physical force; manipulation, coercion/guilting & isolation from peers); fighting/violence;

A/N: Comments & Reblogs are always appreciated! Please let me know what you think! Thank you so much @munsonsmixtapes @punkrockmlchael @keeryhours @losingmygrasponreality @fizzing-imagines - everyone for letting me yap & helping me!

PART ONE PART TWO

Stranger Things Masterlist

The ache that settled deep inside you festered in ways you never imagined before. As the weeks passed, your thoughts were consumed with Eddie and how it was becoming unbearable to not be around your best friend. You craved being surrounded by him like you used to be before. You wanted to be in his room, surrounded by his things and his mess. You wanted to smell his signature scent of cologne and weed with the hint of cigarette smoke that always lingered on his shirts. 

You thought Billy would’ve been your be all, end all. But you were realizing there was so much more that you needed that he didn’t give to you. His attention was something that you began to feel like needed to be earned, and you had to lure him towards you- it made you feel like he was indifferent. He didn’t care if you were there at all. Everything felt like it revolved around Billy and you’d let yourself get lost in it. You were beginning to see the way the scale tipped. 

The first time you’d dreamt about Eddie you thought it was a fluke. A side effect of the bad weed since you couldn’t buy (he never let you pay) from Eddie. You rationalized that the substance in your system was to blame. Until it happened again… and again… and you couldn’t explain them all away. You’d dream that he’d settle himself between the apex of your thighs, and stay there for what felt like hours- telling you how much he loved you. It was like everything Billy didn’t offer you, dream Eddie would make a reality. 

It would always be roughly the same thing each time it had happened. You only remembered small glimpses:  His bed with wrinkled sheets; his hands and the coolness of his rings on your skin; the image of his hands holding your thighs; his head between your legs and his curly hair looking wild. 

Billy was none the wiser to your secret fantasies that you harbored for your best friend. His own defense mechanisms of locking himself away kept him from really being able to fully see how his actions were affecting you. It wasn’t that he didn’t care- it was that he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to be a boyfriend, and he was so scared about losing you that he didn’t realize you’d been silently gaining the courage to move on. His tight grip would just cause you to slip from his grasp despite how hard he tried to keep the world out. 

You’d been dating Billy for about two months and your mind was becoming more preoccupied with Eddie with each passing day. You became so vigilant- knowing when you could steal glances or a smile when Billy wasn’t looking. It felt like cheating. It was a thrill and you didn’t know why you couldn’t just cut the ties and break up with Billy. You wanted nothing more than to just run back into Eddie’s arms, be surrounded by your friends and go back to your old life. You were scared. 

You were scared of how Billy would react. The next layer was that you were scared that after you broke up with Billy, your friends would want nothing to do with you. You can picture being turned away by Hellfire- banished for your crimes of treason. Gareth wouldn’t forgive you, the best friend that abandoned him. You couldn’t blame him. And Eddie, not only would he never forgive you- he’d reject you if you could ever tell him how you were beginning to feel. They’d have every right to hate you- for all you know they do hate you. 

You’re not happy when you’re with Billy- not anymore, like you maybe were once. But leaving isn’t easy, still. The what-if’s plague your mind. Maybe being with Billy isn’t ideal right now, but it’s what you’ve come to know. Breaking up with him opens a box of so many unknowns and that thought itself also scares you. You’d be completely and utterly alone- left to your own devices. 

You don’t remember how the argument started as you followed closely behind Billy, speed walking to catch up to him as he was storming to his car. He always did this- shut you out and leave whenever a fight got a little too real. The topic of Hellfire came up again, and Billy was pissed that after everything, you still wouldn’t just let it go. At this point, you had been yelling after him to come back and talk it through- everyone in the parking lot staring at the two of you instead of leaving immediately after school. You were too pent up to care. You were done. He was about to get in his car and drive off without you. 

“Fine! You know what? I’m done!” You exclaim loudly, throwing your hands up in defeat. 

“What the fuck are you sayin?” Billy says, turning around to face you and slamming the car door- loudly. It was startling, the noise and you were surprised it didn’t fall off the car honestly. It made you wince- the confidence you had a few seconds ago completely evaporated. 

“We’re over,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady and you take a deep breath to try to keep up your strong front. Billy laughs, actually laughs, shaking his head and crossing his arms. 

“You don’t mean that,” he says in disbelief. He’s silently waiting- holding his breath that you aren’t serious. He doesn’t let himself even think about the idea of losing you- it would be too much for him to bear. In his mind, you and him were an absolute truth. You’d made him feel and experience so much in such a short time- there’s no way you’d give it all up. He couldn’t see how he’d been pushing you away. 

“I’m breaking up with you,” you say, matter of factly. He spirals, and panics- his heart completely dropping into his stomach. If he was a different guy, with a different father, maybe Billy would’ve known how to fix this. He would know how to apologize, he would know to fall to his knees and beg for you, he would know how to be gentle and promise to do better. That’s not who he is- not yet. “I’m going,” you say, turning on your heels to leave him behind. 

You can’t leave him. He needed you, wanted you too badly. He couldn’t let you just walk away. He strides over to you and grasps your arm. He’s too emotional to realize how tight his grip is on you, and he’s just so focused on keeping you from walking away so he can talk this out- he doesn’t realize at first how truly scared you look. 

“Let me go,” you struggle against his grasp, but it’s like his brain doesn’t register what’s happening. He can’t retract his arm, or you’ll be gone forever. But then he sees your eyes, and he recognizes the look all too well. It’s in that moment, that Billy realizes that he’s becoming what he always swore he wouldn’t- he’s his father. Before Billy can even process the realization of this horrific truth, he’s suddenly on the ground, head to the pavement as he falls backwards. 

Eddie had emerged out of the woods from behind the school just in time to witness the entire scene between you and Billy from a distance. He had his metal lunchbox tucked under his arm as he recounted the cash he just received from one of the football players. Tucking it away into his wallet, he hears yelling from the parking lot that pulls his attention. He sees a small crowd of people lingering and his curiosity gets the better of him. As he walks closer, it becomes apparent that he hears your voice- and you sound petrified. 

He drops the tin somewhere mid stride and doesn’t even care as he pushes his way across the parking lot, running in between moving cars, shoving his way through cliques of students- it didn’t matter. All he could think about was getting to you. His eyes completely zero in on Billy’s white knuckled grip around your arm that he doesn’t even think. He’d more than passed his breaking point when it came to Billy. 

It doesn’t even register to him that he swung until the crack when his fist came in contact with Billy’s face. His eyes widen in surprise as he watches Billy fall, and thankfully he doesn’t take you down with him. You watch in shock at the scene that folds out, tentatively taking a few steps back so you’re away from Billy. 

Billy thinks his nose is broken and he can feel the blood dripping down his face. He laughs hysterically at the metallic taste of his own blood. He can’t believe he’s ended up here. You want nothing to do with him, the only person he’s maybe cared about is just gone- he can’t help but laugh at himself, but it makes him sound so sinister. Picking himself off, he ignores the way his skin burns from the contact it made with the pavement. He’d wanted an excuse to fight Eddie for a long time now, and he’s not passing up the chance now. 

“You don’t want to fight me, freak,” Billy spits, wiping his face with his hand. Despite taking a hard punch, he’s still worked up and thinks he can take Eddie. He’s hungry for it. He doesn’t miss how you step behind Eddie for him to protect you, and it makes him absolutely livid. 

He manages to take a few swings, and Eddie takes a punch to the gut that makes him take a few steps back. Billy manages to make a swift hit right to Eddie’s jaw, sending him practically spinning to the ground but Eddie’s able to catch himself in his fall, and recovers quickly. 

An even larger crowd has begun to gather, a mix of people cheering for either boy. Some people cheer for Billy, egging him on and encouraging him for finally dealing with the Town Freak. Others applaud Eddie, ecstatic to see someone finally putting Billy in his place after his reign of terror. You’re frozen, shocked to see Eddie swoop in and defend you like he did. He didn’t hate you.

Eddie manages one more hit and it makes Billy collapse. He can’t get up right away and it’s like he’s lost all pride. Suddenly, he looks so small and for a brief moment Eddie almost pities him. He wipes the blood from his cut lip and just leaves Billy there, walking away- guiding you away from the scene. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, out of breath. He’s so preoccupied with making sure you’re safe that he didn’t even seem to care about himself at that moment. He brings his hands up to cup your cheeks, his eyes scanning your face to make sure you looked okay. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you insist- and you were. Shaken up, of course- but you weren’t hurt. “But, Eddie you…”

“Don’t worry about me,” he chuckles. He leans down to whisper to you, “You should see the other guy.” 

Your little giggle was enough to make Eddie’s heart swell and constrain against his chest. He couldn’t ever express to you how much he missed that sound, being the one to make you laugh. “I don’t want to see him anymore,” you admit softly, gazing up at Eddie. Your eyes trail over every part of his face, recommitting it all to memory. 

Eddie glances over to where he left Billy, and he sees Tommy and Jason helping him up from the ground. They make eye contact briefly and he swears it almost looks like Billy could be- blinking back tears as he looks at you and the way you're looking at Eddie. He watches as Billy shakes his head and avoids your direction as he walks away from the scene. 

Eddie smiles, looking back at you. Eddie was never the one to be the hero, but now? He feels like he can do anything. You smile, trying to read his expression. “Does this mean I can come back to Hellfire?” You ask, hopeful- biting your lip to hold back your smile. You can’t help but rock back and forth on your heels.

“Oh my god, yes,” he sighs, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “I’m not even kidding, the campaign is in absolute shambles. We need you back to whip them into shape- it’s been absolutely pathetic.” 

Eddie’s arm around you makes goosebumps rise on your skin. It’s like the reality of your situation has just come down on you all at once. Billy was gone, and you felt like you could finally breathe. And Eddie… your beautiful, sweet, wonderful Eddie is back next to you and its like everything makes sense again. It feels like you might be able to just pick up right where you left off- but neither one of you wants to go back to being just friends. Both of you secretly hope the other feels the same.  

You bring your hands up to cup his face, and you look at where he’s hurt. A small cut on his eyebrow and his lip, and you’re sure he’s going to develop a black eye. God, was he always this pretty? The way his brown eyes look back at you with such a soft gaze makes you wonder how you could’ve ever looked anywhere else. Your thumb gently grazes his bottom lip, careful not to disturb the cut. 

“Eddie, I’m so sorry,” you say, tears welling in your eyes. “Just for everything- for ditching you all, for blowing off plans. I threw everything away for some guy who I don’t even think really liked me. God, I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I really thought any of it was a good idea. Then you, because you’re just so wonderful- stick your neck out for me and save me after I’ve treated you like shit- Fuck, Eds. I ruined absolutely everything… including this moment, because I should just shut up and kiss you.” 

“Please,” he says with a soft smile, his voice hardly a whisper, and he rests his forehead against yours. 

He meets you halfway, and you press your lips to his in a gentle kiss. 

This. This was the moment you had been waiting for. It’s the all encompassing, sweeps you off your feet first kind of kiss that makes you feel like your body is just melting into him. It’s butterflies, fireworks, electricity… everything you’d convinced yourself wasn’t real. All of it was just fantasy. But it’s not- it’s everything. It’s so undeniably Eddie. 

Your lips find a rhythm with his so easily, and you feel warmth through your whole body when you feel his arms wrap around you. His large hands on your back, gently pulling you in flush to him. Your arms wrap around his neck as the kiss deepens. You think you could stay here, tangled up with him like this forever if you could. 

“I love you so much,” he says, rushed between fevered kisses. “I always have, sweetheart.” He caresses your cheek as he pulls away from the kiss- he needs to look at you. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you,” he sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

He genuinely means it. He can remember it so distinctly. It’s one of those memories that just never seems to fade no matter how much time has passed. 

First day of his sophomore year, he’d put up flyers for Hellfire Club on the bulletin boards in the freshman hallways. Some of them had been torn down or defaced by whoever- maybe guys on the basketball team. He’d come back, putting up more- replacing the ones that had been messed up. 

He saw you on the opposite end of the hallway, reading one of his flyers intently despite the moustache and monocle drawn on his logo. You were (and still are) the prettiest girl he’d ever seen- and it was enough to make him blush that you’d given your attention to something of his. He observed as your brow furrowed in concentration, and the way your nose scrunched as you squinted to read his messy handwriting. He assumed the worst- you thought it was weird, or maybe you were scared. He watched from a safe distance as you carefully peeled back the tape to pull it off the board, and you folded it to put in the front of your binder. When you and Gareth showed up to the next meeting, he was already completely smitten. 

“I love you too,” you smile and reconnect your lips with his. Eddie’s back rests against the tree behind him and he pulls your flush against this body as he deepens the kiss. Now that you’ve kissed Eddie, you think it’s ruined you- kissing anyone else won’t ever feel as good as this. You’re so wrapped up in him it’s like everything else just fades away. The kiss escalates and you feel desperate to be even closer. 

“Where’s your van?” You murmur, gently tugging on his hair, making him groan. His lips trail across the skin just under your ear, and you can hear his keys jangle in his hands. It makes you chuckle, and you can feel his smile against your skin. He interlocks his hand with yours, his keys in the other, and he leads you over to  the van where it’s parked across the lot- most other cars already cleared out after the fight had ended. 

“Ladies first,” he says dramatically as he opens the door to the back. You scoff playfully, rolling your eyes at his dramatics. Your heart tugs cause it was the part of Eddie you secretly missed the most. You duck your head as you crawl into the back, and he’s quick behind you. 

He wraps you up in his arms and reconnects his lips to yours, and he gently lays you down on the floor of the van. Your hands cradle his face, pulling his body down to yours. You couldn’t get enough of him. You wanted to be surrounded, completely encased in him. You’d missed so much of him- you needed to be as close to him as possible. 

Eddie can’t even believe that you’re here. He’s imagined this moment so much he’s convinced he might’ve just slipped further into his fantasy that he can’t distinguish it from reality. But you’re real, and you’re here- with him. After months of complete and utter torture, it all feels like nothing when you’re kissing him like this. He’d been hoping to get you back, but he couldn’t have imagined you’d have ended up like this. It’s so much better than he’d ever dreamed. 

“Eds..,” you sigh, as he kisses your neck. “Please…”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he promises, his hands finding the hem of your shirt and yours push his jacket off his shoulders. He’s quick to shrug his jacket off, and you get distracted by the tattoos you can see peeking out from under his dark t-shirt. It totally inflates his ego, blush rising on his neck. Your head tilts, noticing one you don’t recognize picking out from the collar of his shirt. 

“What’s that one?” You ask, tugging his shirt collar. “You got a new one?” You pout, looking back to him with wide eyes. “I wanna see…” 

Eddie’s shirt is off his back in seconds. 

There’s a new spider tattoo next to his zombie head. You bite your lip, your fingertips outlining it delicately. The feeling gives Eddie goosebumps. You’d seen Eddie shirtless before- countless times when the group would go swimming at the lake, or that one summer Grant’s family had the above ground pool, but it was never like this. Suddenly, your awkward best friend was gorgeous and he’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. 

His hands slide under the material of your shirt, lifting up slowly. You lift your arms for him. He moans, a pathetic whimper just at the mere sight of you. He dips down, kissing all of the exposed skin- starting with your navel all the way up your chest to your shoulder where he delicately pushes your bra strap down. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he marvels, toying with the strap as he kisses down the outline of your cups. 

You’re feeling so desperate for him, and you push off your jeans so now you’re just in your bra and panties. You momentarily regret for the briefest of moments that they don’t match, but he’s looking at you so intensely that you don’t think he even cares as his eyes rake over your body. Your skin feels like it's on fire under his heavy gaze, and you feel so needy that you’re involuntarily bucking your hips up into him, grinding against the bulge in his jeans. He kisses you again feverishly, his hand holding the back of your neck and the coldness of his rings sooth the hotness of your skin. 

“Eds,” you whine, not even fully sure what you're asking for as you gently tug his hair again- just to hear the noises that rumble deep from the back of his throat. It’s addicting. 

“Sweetheart, please..,” Eddie pulls away to kiss all over your body again, all the way down to the waistband of your panties. He kisses and licks along the waistband, “Can I?” Fuck yes. 

“Fuck, Eds- god yes,” you nod. 

You’re surprised when he hones in on the little wet spot, pressing a kiss right there over the fabric. He smirks when it makes you shiver, he’s been fantasizing for so long to be just where he is right now. He’s planning to spend so much time worshipping you, showing you just how fucking much he loves you- making up for all the time wasted by not telling you how he felt sooner. 

He slides the panties down your legs, kissing down your thighs, your calves, your ankle before resting your legs over his shoulders. He peppers kisses to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You don’t miss that your panties were discreetly slid into the back pocket of his jeans. You’ll tease him later, when you’re less distracted by the way his hair tickles your skin. Right now, you’re so overwhelmed by how good he feels that you’re already panting. 

Eddie doesn’t really have any experience- that’s to say, he has none. But, he’s imagined all the ways he wants to make you feel good for so long and he’s so eager to please. He licks at your folds, kissing your wetness- his nose pushing into your clit at just the perfect angle that it makes you grip at his hair for some sense of stability. You throw your head back in pleasure and his grip on your thighs tighten to keep you in place for him. He’s eating you like a man starved and your moans are as equally depraved. 

He doesn’t stop, even when you warn him that you're close- he just keeps at the same pace, working you through your first orgasm. He looks up grinning, your slick completely coating his mouth and chin. It’s quite a sight. You’re shaking, coming down from your high- Eddie kissing your thighs and hips, praising you and whispering sweet nothings. You can see his obvious tent at the front of his jeans which somehow look tighter than when he started. He climbs back on top of you to reconnect your lips in a searing kiss, and your hands make quick work of palming him through his jeans. He whimpers against your lips, bucking into your hand desperately seeking more friction. 

“Why don’t you take these-”

Eddie’s kicking off his jeans before you even manage to finish your sentence, and it makes you giggle at how eager he is. It’s endearing, and it makes you feel so wanted- so desirable. It’s dizzying. His boxers remain as he surges forward to kiss you again, your arms wrapping around his neck as he fumbles with your bra. It takes him a few tries, embarrassed by his clumsiness, he buries his face in your neck as he struggles with the small clasps. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, before finally managing to manage the hooks open. “Thank fuck,” he sighs, kissing your shoulder. “That would’ve been embarrassing,” he jokes, making you smile. You let the straps fall down your shoulders and Eddie pulls it off- tossing it somewhere. Who cares where. His eyes nearly bug out of his head. Your face feels warm, and you move to hide your face in your hands. Eddie is practically drooling. You’re perfect- just like he always fucking knew you would be. 

You smile up at him, and he swears he feels his heart might beat out of his chest. So many nights he imagined you here, under him, looking at him just like how you’re looking at him now. God, he thinks he’s still dreaming. Your hands tug gently at the waistband of his boxers and he winks at you. He pulls them down, kicking them off his legs and your eyes widen. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” you gasp, staring hungrily at his cock. 

“Bigger than Billy?” he teases you and you swat his arm. “I’m sorry,” he laughs, pushing your hair out of your face, “I’m only kidding.” He leans down and kisses your lips softly. “You’re gonna forget all about him by the time I’m done with you, sweetheart.” 

“Eddie- I never slept with Billy,” you admit softly, cradling his face in the palm of your hand. “I mean- we did stuff,” you wince for a second at your own awkwardness, “But- yeah, we never did this… I want you to be my first, Eds.”

Eddie melts at your words. He feels like his entire body is flushed. Fuck, okay. He is going to be your first. You want to lose your virginity to him right now in his van- with him. You, his best friend- the star of all his dirty fantasies and the love of his life- you are picking him too. He is trying so hard to think about literally anything else except this to keep from finishing the second he pushes his cock into you. 

“I love you so much,” he whispers, kissing you gently. You kiss him back, matching his pace- letting him take the lead. “Um,” he pulls away reluctantly, “One sec-” 

You sit up on your elbows and watch as he riffles through his pants to find his wallet- and he just can’t believe he’s finally using the condom he’s been carrying around. You bite your lip, holding back a smile. He slides it on, and leans forward- kissing you again, and it’s slow and romantic and it makes your brain cloudy with how good it feels. 

You feel so full when he pushes into you, and you gasp as the sensation. God, he felt so amazing as he stretched you out with his cock. You both take a second, needing to adjust to the feeling. He begins to move his hips when you let him know you're ready, finding a rhythm that works for the two of you. 

It’s romantic and a little clumsy- but you wouldn’t want it any other way. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in close to you and your hands hold onto his shoulders. Your face twists in pleasure when he finds the perfect pace, hitting your g spot perfectly. He’s whispering sweet nothings, praising you for how well you’re doing, for how good you feel- completely and utterly obsessed with how you’re taking his cock. 

“So pretty,” he praises, his fingertips grazing your nipples- squeezing gently, teasing you as he fucks into you. “You’re so fucking perfect, sweetheart- fuck.”

“Eddie, baby- I’m so close,” you whine, overly sensitive from your first orgasm. He keeps his pace, his thumb rubbing your clit, coaxing your orgasm from you nice and gentle. He’s doing his best to keep himself from finishing- he needs you to cum again for him first. 

When you squeeze his cock, and your orgasm pulses through your whole body, Eddie can’t hold off another second. With his final thrusts, he’s finishing into the condom- riding out his high. He never imagined it would ever feel that good. Fuck, he loved you so much. 

He ties off the condom and tosses it in the trash bag. He collapses next to you, kissing you gently- pulling you in close to his chest. “I love you,” he mumbles into your hair, kissing the top of your head. 

“I love you too,” you sigh, contently, resting your head into the crook of his shoulder. 

“Do you even know how long I’ve wanted that- how long I’ve been in love with you?” Eddie asks, tracing shapes on your bare skin absentmindedly. “Sweetheart you have no idea how many fantasies of mine we just played out,” he chuckles, reaching for his cigarettes from his jacket pocket. 

“We’ll have to play out some more later,” you tease, kissing his cheek as he lights up. He groans, holding the cigarette away from you so he can kiss you again.

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[maskedmenmakemeferal]

Daddy Daughter day

As you and Simons daughter -Lily- gets older, the more he mourns how she was when she was young. She was all bright eyed and would cling to Simon every change she could.

But now, she’s 14 and that once close relationship is crumbling away.

Now, it’s not like she’s a bad kid. She gets good grades and is always respectful to you two. She’s just…..not as eager to hang out with Simon.

After another Friday night of her hanging out with her friends, Simon’s at home stewing.

There’s a rerun of Lily and his favorite movie and now he’s too pissy to enjoy it. He’s grumbling something along the lines of ‘Im too sad to watch it’.

You roll your eyes and smile. “Si. You know Lily loves to spend time with you. Just not like how she used to.”

“‘Ts bullshit, birdie. She doesn’t even want to go to car shows w’ me.”

“She never wanted to. She hated going to those, but she knew it made you happy.”

He furrows his blonde eyebrows in disbelief. ‘No way.’ He thinks. ‘His best memories with his daughter couldn’t be due to her wanting to please him.’

“Come on, Si. You just need to do stuff that appeals to 14 year old Lily, not 7 year old Lily.” You gently rub his shoulders.

So, that’s how he ended up at the mall with Lily, 200£ and a goal to spend time with his daughter.

She flits around from store to store, blabbering about the things in them.

Simon couldn’t care less, but now it’s time for him to suck it up and deal with his boredom.

They eventually end up at the food court and he gets some pretzels. He hands one to Lily, who chose a table towards the back.

Eventually, after a few minutes of awkward silence, they see a poster for their favorite movie from when she was a kid.

Standing right in front of it are her friends. She looks away, worried they’d spot her hanging out with her dad.

“Wha’s wrong?” Simon squints a bit, knowing she’ll try to bullshit him.

“Nothin’. Jus’ thought I saw someone I knew.” Simon looks over at her friends.

“Worried they’d see you with your ol’ man, eh?” Even though his voice sounds joking, it isn’t. He is really hurt over feeling like an embarrassment to his kid.

“No, no. It’s just….their dads are kind of…..pricks. And I don’t want them to be upset I have such a cool one.”

Simon can tell she’s fucking with him on this. Sure, he’s met her friends dads and they are kind of assholes, but he definitely isn’t cool.

“If ya’ so embarrassed ‘bout hanging out with me, go.” He gets up and walks away. People move away from his fuming form like he’s on fire.

He gets a ticket for that movie, a last ditch effort to remind him of a simpler time. He sits down, crossing his arms and having a small pout on his lips.

The cheesy comedy movie begins and it doesn’t help. He still feels like an asshole. He knows he got a bit sensitive about Lily not wanting to hang out with him and he became a dick.

30 minutes into the movie, someone opens the door and comes in. It’s Lily with tears rolling down her cheeks.

She sits down a few seats away, clearly not knowing what to do to make it right. But Simon knows she’s trying. He moves a seat closer, and so does she, until eventually their next to eachother.

“‘M sorry you think ‘m embarrassed of you.” She sniffles and whispers.

“‘M sorry I made you feel like a dick for growing up.” He wraps a burly arm around her and gently hugs her tight.

They watch the movie, talking about how shitty the quality is and how predictable the ending is.

But, this is Simons new favorite memory.

Why?

Because. His baby girl is finally spending time with him again.

And that’s perfect to him.

[teaandjumpers]

Occasion (obikin ficlet)

Summary: Obi-Wan gives Anakin a gift. Rated G. - - - -

“I thought we agreed you’d wear goggles at the workstation,” said Obi-Wan, sidling up to stand beside Anakin at his workbench.

The younger man was hunched over the table, soldering something, his face too close to the tool to be considered safe. 

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t creep up on me like that,” said Anakin, not bothering to glance his way. 

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, leaning against the workbench. He had broadcast his approach through the Force, and he knew Anakin was aware of his presence, the younger man sending him a slightly annoyed ping across their bond. 

Anakin was often hard to reach when he was working on a project, immersing himself completely in a task and finding it difficult to refocus when he was interrupted. 

He felt bad for a moment, but he had a good reason for disrupting his former Padawan. 

“I have something for you,” he said, keeping his voice light. 

Anakin’s head shot up at the words, his shoulder-length hair whipping about him. 

Oh, how he’d grown into those curls. When he had first started growing his hair out, the dark, golden strands beginning to coil near the ends, Obi-Wan knew that his soft-eyed Padawan was going to be a heartbreaker. 

He just didn’t realize it would be his heart Anakin would be breaking. What a cruel fate to fall for your former Padawan. And a crueler fate to have half the galaxy fall along with you. 

Obi-Wan had done all he could to rid himself of his feelings—the attraction, at least. 

He had given up on not loving Anakin long ago, maybe even as early as that day on Naboo, standing beside his new apprentice, the young boy having been through so much already, standing tall alongside him as an entire planet cheered them on. 

He had asked Yoda once, years before Qui-Gon took him on, what it was like for a Master and Apprentice, what shape a bond took. 

“Different every Master and Padawan relationship is. Find your way there perhaps one day you will.”

And find his way he had. Or rather, it had found him. 

He had loved his Master dearly, his Master’s presence in the Force always grounding, a warm fire that made him feel forever safe, like nothing bad could ever truly happen. 

But Anakin—Anakin was like a supernova, an unending, thunderous storm, a screaming bright star that was impossible to ignore.  

In those early years, he thought of little else but Anakin, his welfare and whereabouts. 

Had his own Master woken repeatedly in the middle of the night, sheets drenched, a blind panic thundering against his chest as he searched the Force for his Padawan’s location? 

Anakin had always been close. Almost always safe. And though Obi-Wan felt him in the Force, he always had to check, confirm it with his eyes, that Anakin was alive, healthy, there.

He was eternally grateful that his apprentice was strong in the Force. It meant Obi-Wan would never have to confront who he would be, who he would become if his Padawan was ever in any real danger.  

Standing beside Anakin now, perhaps one of the strongest Force users in the galaxy, he felt silly, wondering if it was too late to take back his words. Wondering if the younger man had seen the small bundle he was clutching in his right hand. 

Of course he had. 

Obi-Wan wordlessly handed the package over, watching with some trepidation as Anakin untied the string holding the linen fabric in place. 

The cloth fell away to reveal a model ship. It was still grimy despite Obi-Wan’s best efforts to clean the thing, the ship’s insect-like design making it difficult to thoroughly clean its delicate, spindly limbs. 

He had bought the toy on a recent mission, passing by a storefront on a mid-rim planet where a child who looked remarkably like a 10-year old Anakin from behind had stopped him in his tracks, the young boy’s palms pressed against the smudged window pane as he gazed at the model ships neatly displayed on the other side.

How many times had a similar scene played out with Anakin, his Padawan’s gaze straying, fixing on a toy he would never have. 

“It’s a Jedi Vector ship,” said Obi-Wan, the words clumsy on his tongue. “It was a High—”

“A High Republic ship,” finished Anakin, turning the model over in his hands, smiling as he did so. “I know.”

Anakin smiled up at him sweetly, and if Obi-Wan didn’t know the man, if there had been no planet-wide history between them, he would have grabbed him by the face and kissed him. 

A ‘pathetic life form’ he had called him once. Anakin would have been a complete stranger in a different life, a speck of sand in a large desert of people who deserved better. 

It was selfish, and very un-Jedi-like, but Obi-Wan was grateful that Anakin’s fate had been different. 

“But what’s the occasion?” asked Anakin, still smiling, still looking up at him, still, somehow, every bit as spirited as he was before the war. 

The occasion, thought Obi-Wan. The occasion was every occasion, every year, every month, every day, every breath the Force sought fit to gift him, here, alongside Anakin. 

But he simply said—

“You are.”

[42ap]

Talking about the differences in their relationship with desire again, I think it's fascinating how this difference influences their actions.

Stanley usually finds it relatively easy to get what he wants, and he doesn’t want that many things to begin with. Because of this, whenever he does want something, he acts on it immediately and with great enthusiasm to satisfy that desire. Want an electronic badger? Go out after dark and steal one—that kind of thing.

At first glance, it might seem like Stanley spends a lot of time chasing after what he wants, making him appear “greedy.” But in my view, for someone who doesn’t want much to begin with, accepting and pursuing desire is simply an enjoyable experience. You act, you get what you want, and you’re happy—it’s a positive cycle. It’s like how a 16-year-old craving fried chicken is an everyday, even unhealthy, occurrence. But an old lady with no teeth craving fried chicken? If she gets to eat it, everyone around her would be happy for her, because having a desire, and being able to easily fulfill it, is already a joyful thing. Not every old lady is so lucky—just a couple of bites of fried chicken can make her day.

For Stanley, pursuing his desires is undoubtedly a positive feedback loop. Especially after turning 30, when his life stabilized, things generally went well—except for anything related to Ford. Everything else he wanted, he could get. And if getting what he wanted made him happy, then of course he would keep chasing after those things immediately.

Ford, on the other hand, is completely different. He wants too much. He is always chasing after something, always pursuing a dream. But as soon as he gets what he wants, it loses its value because it’s now within reach, and new desires take its place, always distant and unattainable. Everything must feel terrible for him because, in his eyes, he has never truly gotten anything he wanted.

So his relationship with desire is deeply negative. To him, "wanting something" is a feeling that must be fought against—because desire comes with risk, consequences, and lack of control. It doesn’t bring happiness. Trying to fulfill desires only leads to exhaustion (though he is still hopelessly hooked on his “save the world” dream). Whenever a new desire arises, he locks it away in a mental prison, refusing to even look at it. He doesn’t evaluate whether it’s realistic or not, whether it’s saving the world or just a better-tasting cup of coffee—it all gets thrown into the same cell.

But not actively pursuing desires and not thinking about what one wants are two different things. If someone hands him a cup of coffee he wants, Ford wouldn’t refuse it. I think he has simply lived so long believing he can never have what he truly wants that he’s developed a kind of learned helplessness—or, to put it in a more flattering way, caution. He doesn’t really not want things.

If someone takes the first step, throws the opportunity in front of him, and he sees that it’s actually achievable, Ford would be the type to fully commit to making it happen. He has an incredible ability to act, a terrifying level of persistence, and the patience to see things through.

Honestly, I’m just saying all this because I really love the idea of old Stanley realizing he has feelings for Ford. At first, he’s happy but cautious, carefully testing the waters. But then he finally discovers that Ford has always liked him, has never stopped liking him—not just now, but since they were kids. He never truly let go of those feelings.

It’s just such a good flavor.

[zaine-m]

arcane serial killer au pt 3 JAYVIK TIME

Soon he felt completely neutral about taking someone's life, it didn't matter if they were a corporate elite who let thousands starve to death or a single mother. All he was doing was picking apples from a tree, gathering a life saving tool from a body

He did however begin to find joys in the routine of killing, when people bent all the way into his trunk to put the groceries away allowing him to easily shove their body the rest of the way in or when someone's body could be used to the fullest

And his favourite joy was finding the perfect body

When he first saw Jayce he was on cloud 9

A healthy, muscular man who was overly kind and trusting

He would often see him around the office they worked at, always willing to help whenever someone need it

He slowly began to put himself in Jayce's world with small talk by the water cooler and asking for help with the stairs

Jayce was incredibly receptive to it and began automatically offering his hand to Viktor whenever he might need it and stopping by Viktor's cubical when he had a free minute

Everything was falling into place and Viktor had a lot more patients waiting for organs

He made a point to look extra tired and weak at lunch, he looked at his phone and let out an upset sigh

"What's wrong?" Jayce asked

"oh, it's nothing"

"are you sure?"

"it's just I'm getting a new fridge in a couple of days and the people who are going to install it need the old fridge to be out of the way first and with my leg that's going to be a hard task"

"oh, don't worry about that. I can come over and move it"

"are you sure?"

"yeah, it's no problem"

hook, line, and sinker

Viktor prepared extra tranquilizer for Jayce's body mass

He was practically vibrating with joy, he wanted to savor every part of this moment so when Jayce arrived with pizza and suggested they eat first he was all in

They set up in front of the TV and by the time they'd finished the pizza Jayce was cuddled up in Viktor's lap

Viktor rubs Jayce's thigh, imagining himself stabbing the sedative into him while Jayce looks up to Viktor with complete trust

Pretty soon they're in bed together

Viktor wakes up the next day panicked, how did he let his plan get away from him

But as he looked over at Jayce he had the realization that once he finished the job he would never see a victim so perfect again so maybe for now he could go along with it and when he needed the organs he would get them

But as Viktor waited his perception of Jayce changed, Jayce wasn't just the perfect body, he was the perfect man, caring, kind, intelligent

He wanted to have Jayce in every way he could and it was dangerous how much of his time Jayce would give him, how when Viktor stared at him like a owl stalking it's pray, Jayce would stare back with the same love struck look he always had

prev - master post - next (Jayce finds out)

[blossomthepinkbunny]

Sinsmas made Stolas much worse

Sinsmas was probably the worst episode they could´ve done for Stolas as a character. He was always fighting an uphill battle to begin with because narrative wise, his character is the perfect villian/antagonist for HB.

It´s a show about a group of hellborns who run a gruesome business who, due to their low class in hells society, also face discrimination and are constantly undermined. Now what would the possibly best antagonist for such a show be? Probably a rich, royal demon who didn´t have to work for his wealth, who uses his high status to hold the object that the imps need over their heads, to get what he wants out of them. That´s Stolas. Or atleast that´s how Stolas functioned in the Pilot and the first episode. This changed a bit since episode 2 and then in "Ozzie´s", the different direction they wanted to take his character became apparent. Ever since then we got a mix of rewriting what we thought was happening to make Stolas more sympathetic and trying to force a newer personality into a mold shaped by the general narrative, which didn´t really fit at all.

And then Sinsmas happened as the season two finale and made it so so much worse. I just want to ignore all the other bad things about Stolas (like his relationship with Octavia, the show not really holding him accountable etc.) and for now focus on his absolutely ruined character arc. His whole motivation for doing anything in s2, was to convince Blitz that he isn´t what Blitz always assumed of him. I mentioned his role in the narrative before and I just want to say, that I do know that subverting the narrative has sort of become a main character motivation for Stolas. He doesn´t want to be seen as this pampered, ungrateful prince that Blitz sees him as. But he is just that.

Stolas loses his powers and status and goes to live with Blitz and his group. Someone he thought he was going to die for. One could assume that with all of this, Stolas would try and be on his best behaviour. That he would do everything in his power to help, support, love Blitz and mainly, to show him that he isn´t the spoilled asshole Blitz once saw him as. But he doesn´t do that. He behaves exactly how Blitz would have probably assumed him to be in s1. That´s a whole season worth of character development just skipped. Blitz makes him breakfast and he insults it to his face and then whines about how perfect his old life was. He looks this guy, who had to face being a lower class citizen his entire life (who he is supposed to love and has spent an entire season convincing, that he is different and not what he´s expecting) in the face and tells him practically "Oh no, being poor sucks, your place sucks, your food sucks, and your holidays suck too. I wish I was rich again, then I wouldn´t have to deal with all of this poor people bs".

And I know, that he was very in shambles after losing his status, powers and daughter, but he never once considers how Blitz was very close to actually being killed and is now basically letting him live there, which probably isn´t going to help their bank account. He is exactly what he wanted to convince Blitz he wasn´t. One could also be more cynical and assume that he pretty much has everything he ever wanted now, with Blitz feeling a little responsible for what happened, so he has no reason to be nice anymore, since he now knows he´ll get away with it. This episode just made him less likeable somehow, something I didn´t think was so easily possible.

And it didn´t even have to happen like this. Why couldn´t Stolas have just been trying to push everything down to try and fully care for Blitz. It would´ve actually been a pretty sympathetic character trait if he tried to ignore everything going on to support the person he supposedly loves. But that doesn´t happen and Stolas is just less and less likeable the longer the show goes on (which I always assumed was the opposite of what HB wanted to accomplish, esp with Stolas, but oh well).

It really sucks, because it feels like all of the emotional rollercoaster moments we had to endure over the course of s2 (a season that was really bad) were for nothing. Oh, not for nothing I guess. Just for Blitz to also completely change character all of a sudden and just be completely fine with being diminished like that and Stolas basically insulting him to his face. How nice that the one character mainly defined by not wanting to be tied down is now subservient to the guy who harrased him for a while. Really cool.

Also I just realized that Tumblr has a charater limit now for posts. That is really pissing me off. I love talking and now I have to constantly make sure I don´t exceed the word count.

[larluce]

LETS PLAY!!

What do you think is this merthur story about?

Fire and smoke, burning and suffocation, was the only thing Merlin could see and feel.

"Satan can take many forms!" He could distinguish the voice of the king that was superimposed on the others who shouted 'Witch!' in the background. "Like this witch, who has taken the appearance of a man to confuse my son and induce him to commit the worst of sins. Do not be fooled! They call themselves healers, but with their spells and potions they corrupt our children."

Merlin would have laughed if he had the strength. If he were really a woman, he would not be in this situation to begin with. But he supposed that it suited the king for people to believe that. Maybe he even tried to convince himself that this was the truth.

That his son was not a sodomite.

The flames rose and burned his skin more intensely. He let out a heartrending scream.

Arthur... even his thoughts sounded weak, but he made an effort think of Arthur.

He remembered when he saw him for the first time, entering his medicinal herbs and potion stant. His pearly smile, his sky-colored eyes, his blond hair like gold. He remembered their walks through the fields, when they kissed for the first time under his own roof, his laughter, when they gave themselves to each other for the first time with such passion and, yet, so much innocence in that small cabin abandoned in the middle of the forest.

Tears ran through his eyes. How could such a beautiful thing be a sin?

Another burst of fire. He shouted again, but the scream quickly turned into a cough. Hopefully the smoke would kill him before the fire.

Think of his voice the pain was unbearable, but the memory of his beloved made it a little less unbearable. He could almost hear his voice saying "I love you" in the ear after making love. His voice saying his name as if savoring it in his mouth.

But suddenly he heard the voice of his beloved farther away, still saying his name, but this time screaming in horror.

"Merlin!" his screams were almost as heartbreaking as his, as if he were also being burned in flames. "No! Let me go! Merlin!"

Merlin made an effort and looked up. He tried to distinguish something, but couldn't see anything. There was too much smoke.

No... no, no, no, no ¡No! a despair grew within him, even greater than his fear to death. He could not die without seeing him! Not without seeing his face one last time.

"Let me see him!" he prayed to the heavens then with all his might. "Let me see him, just one more time, please."

And God granted it... only not in the way he expected.

...

Several centuries later...

Mildred Duffy, a 60-year-old woman, looked out the window with a motherly smile as the principal guided another interested couple to the playground to meet some of the children. That orphanage had become almost a second home for her and she loved those children as if they were her own. It would always be a great joy to find each child a home, a family, even if later she would spend weeks missing their little faces and worrying about their destiny. She turned her attention to the even younger children that were in the same room, who were drawing at the tables or playing with dolls peacefully on the floor. No couple who saw them would believe how murky the past of many of them were just by seeing them like that, in their purest innocence.

"Did you send for me, Miss Duffy?" a voice took her out of her reverie.

He turned to meet one of the young volunteers there. She suppressed the laughter when she noticed how noticeably tired and stressed she was, with some hairs coming out of her bun and her clothes tugged and stained with paint.

"I did… Claire, right? I need you to keep an eye on the kids while I take care of something".

The girl opened her eyes wide.

"All of them?" The girl's voice rose an octave and Mildred couldn't contain a soft laugh this time.

"Careful, Claire. They can smell your fear."

"I'm not afraid of them". The girl became defensive immediately. "It's just that I didn't think they were going to be—"

"Such little devils? They are" Mildred interrupted smiling. "But only if you let them. You've made the mistake of seeing them as helpless children in need and they have used the compassion you have towards them in their favor". She shook her head in disapproval. "Pitty is the last thing you should feel for them, Claire. It's okay for you to be kind, but there is a thin line between being kind and being permissive. Show them who has the authority!" she tapped her on the back, encouraging her, before heading to the door. "They are all yours".

…

Mildred went down the creaky wooden stairs, unhurriedly. She'd only had to file some papers in her office. Something that hadn't taken more than 20 minutes, so she decided to give 15 minutes more for herself. She was confident Claire wasn't having any problems. Besides, she was an old woman, she also deserved a break.

She didn't intend to do anything other than wander around the place for a while. She wanted to make a mental note of what could be changed in the infrastructure, aesthetically speaking, such as the color of the walls, which seemed to come from the same palette of opaque colors for more cheerful colors, for example, or some furniture that didn't seem to combine with the space. Mildred sometimes believed maybe she should've been an interior designer instead of a tutor because of how much those details bothered her.

But Mildred's plans changed as soon as she finished going down the stairs.

"That he deserved it, he deserved it" she heard a little voice. "Doesn't mean you didn't do wrong, Double C. You know Dimples doesn't like when you're mean to people".

The woman turned in the direction of the voice, surprised. At this time children were either in the playground or in the games rooms, where couples could see them, not hidden in the corridors.

"Okay, okay, I'll drop it. But don't think we've finished this conversation, uh? I should be mad at you too, you know"

She soon found the source of the sound. On one side of the stairs, in a half-hidden corner, a little girl with brown hair and blue eyes was sitting on the floor playing chess… completely alone.

"Don't hurry me" the girl complained to someone who wasn't there, seeing the black pieces in front of her with an infinite concentration. "I'm thinking"

A new maternal smile formed on Mildred's face. She would recognize that girl anywhere.

"Am I interrupting?" decided to make her presence known.

"Of course not, Miss Duffy" said the girl returning the smile. "Prince Cotton Candy and I were playing."

"I see" Mildred said in a particularly animated voice and sat next to her watching the game as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. "I didn't know you knew how to play chess. Who taught you, darling?"

"Fairy Dimples"

"Of course" she giggled, tender. The girl probably was making up her own chess rules. "Is she around?"

"He, he is a he" corrected the girl. "And no, Cotton Candy and Dimples fought again for something stupid, and they won't be in the same room until they make up"

"Looks like they fight a lot."

"They do, but they love each other"

"It's good to know that". Miss Duffy decided then to turn a little serious. "Bridget—"

"Brigitta" corrected the girl. "But you can call me Biddy. Prince Cotton Candy calls me that."

"Sorry" she apologized. "Biddy, I don't doubt Prince Cotton Candy and Fairy Dimples are very nice people and great friends, but maybe you could… try to make some new friends? It's not good that you isolate yourself so much from the other children, darling".

"I had other friends" the girl's cheerful voice clouded a bit of sadness. "Jheny and Chris. But they aren't here anymore".

Mildred's heart clenched in her chest. From what the orphanage psychologist had told her, these three had been inseparable… well, at least until the children in question were adopted, leaving little Biddy alone. Prince Cotton Candy and Fairy Dimples appeared shortly after she said goodbye to the last of her two friends.

"Imaginary friends are sometimes created as a defense mechanism to cope with a loss or it may be the result of a major change or significant alteration in a child's life," the psychologist had explained her "But it's nothing abnormal, Mildred, she's 5. Many children have imaginary friends at that age and as soon as they came, they leave, it's not something we should force. I think it's important to clarify her she shouldn't prefer her imaginary friends over the real ones, but beyond that, I don't think you have anything to worry about. "

Yes, maybe she was worrying too much.

"Check!" exclaimed the girl, excited, eating a bishop with her horse and cornered the white king.

"Oh, wow. You really can play chess" Mildred said surprised when she saw the girl moved the pieces correctly.

"Yes, I told you Fairy Dimples taught me"

Mildred frowned and shifted her gaze from the girl to her side, specifically where a second player would be if there was one.

A chill ran through her. Could it be…?

An incredulous laugh escaped her, dismissing those thoughts immediately. Yes, she was definitely worrying too much.

"Right, I forgot" She stood up, briefly resting one hand on the girl's shoulder in a loving manner. "Don't forget to leave that board in its place when you finish, okay?"

"Yes, Miss Duffin" the girl answered cheerfully and dismissed her with her hand in a very adorable way. Mildred smiled. She didn't understand why nobody hasn't adopted that girl yet. She was way too charming.

Well, time to go see how Claire was doing with those little devils.

…

"Double C!" Little Biddy said as if she was calling someone out. "It's your turn".

Silence.

The impatient expression of the girl softened to a more understanding one.

"You know Dimples never stays angry for too long. he's not even avoiding you to bother you. He disappears because he doesn't want to say hurtful things that aren't true… Or at least that's what he told me."

Silence.

The girl laughed.

"Well, don't tell me that, tell him. And remove that sad doggy face already and play. Come on, be a good loser".

Almost immediately afterwards a white bishop rose into the air and, in one quick movement, brought down the black king.

The little girl smiled.

"Checkmate".

...

Now, this originally was a very old draft I had for a another's fandom story that I never finished cause the fandom kind of died in between. But today a started reading my old drafts out of nostalgia and I realised this prompt actually fitted merthur way better than it did for the original pair. I made very minor changes (we got Brigitta in this AU too! :D).

While I never finished the story, I clearly remember how it was going to go, so... What do you think is happening? Share your theories in the reblogs or comments 😄

[lottienathive]

right off the bat, nat and lottie are introduced as complete opposites - lottie is rich, sweet, soft-spoken, etc. and nat is poor, extremely brash, and bold. even wearing a skirt and jacket, but in completely different ways. this is an easily understood set-up for their first time in the wilderness. the very first dilemma of the show—the allie situation—is also very representative of this. lottie is unsure on how to approach the situation and doesn’t assert herself (“she kinda sucks, but… i don’t know.”) whereas nat makes her opinion very clear (“that’s because it’s bullshit” / “you know what? fuck this.”) after the crash., nat throws herself onto travis almost immediately following the loss of his father. she immediately sticks up for him when lottie makes a jab (“who died and made him king of snacks?” “his dad, lottie, literally his fucking dad.”) this is already showing us that nat is considered with the individual feelings of people around her, whereas lottie is more focused on the hive mind and likelihood of the group as a whole.

further into their time in the wilderness, both of the girls establish themselves as providers. nat becomes a hunter, providing food and protection since she’s the one who earns the privilege of having the only weapon. on the other hand, lottie is slowly made into a group leader because of the spiritual comfort she provides the girls with. in a desperate time of need, both of them are ready to provide and protect the group, but in completely opposing ways. they aren’t so different, really just two sides of the same selfless, caring coin. this complex rivalry makes much more sense when you look at their childhood individually. we see in season 1 that nat grew up in terrible circumstances, with an abusive alcoholic father and a dismissive mother, she is responsible for making her own way. her father’s death is symbolic of this; although she didn't kill him directly, it was her fault he died. because of this upbringing, nat has heavy walls built around her. she sees the world for what it's been to her: cruel. however, despite this cold shell that her parents caused her to develop, she's incredibly caring all the less. this is especially represented through her relationship with travis. lottie, while she grew up rich, clearly didn't have very loving parents. the first scene we see of her at home is before the crash, and while most of the other characters are being goodbye-hugged by family members, lottie is receiving a bottle of her medication from her maid. at the beginning of season 2, we see that lottie has had some sort of psychic abilities, able to predict a car crash before it happens. instead of taking time to understand her, her parents throw her into therapy and pump her up with medication following the rescue, lottie's parents take no time to process that their daughter has been heavily traumatized, and immediately send her away to a whole different country. the dismissiveness of lottie's parents, similar to nats, affected her in a completely opposite way. instead of building up walls and becoming cold, lottie seeks to use her abilities to give comfort to everyone else around her. while dealing wth similar core traumas, they react to it in very different ways.

despite this, lottie (especially adult timeline) stays prominent as the only person who can comfort nat. after years following the crash of replacing her pain with drugs, sex, etc. it took one week at lottie's camp for her to want to start healing. lottie did that for her. the regression scene shows that no matter how old she is, lottie is still the only person who can bring out the parts of herself that she tries to bury, in both positive and negative ways. the season 2 finale is where everything about their relationship shifts. i don't think enough people process that "the wilderness" is really just, obviously not completely, but in simple terms a manifestation of lottie's inner nature. when you listen to it, it gives you what you want. when lottie decides that nat should be the leader by saying "the wilderness already chose who should lead us," what she's really saying, unconsciously and metaphorically, is that she has noticed nat's resilience and determination to lead as a reflection of her own determination to lead. now...we talk about nat's death scene. happening parallel to the scene where she's crowned leader adult nat is accidently killed during a hunt put together by lottie to give the wilderness its final sacrifice, an exercise intended to help them let go. in her final moments between life and death, nat finds herself in that plane again. in her very final moments of life, what is nats last sight?? young lottie next to her, hand on her heart, telling her that it's going to be okay. as she says, "IT'S not evil, just hungry." this line correlates with what lottie said a few episodes earlier: "just because you don't understand something doesn't mean it's evil." nat and lottie both don't understand each other's ways of dealing with their issues, so they argue and they oppose. in a tragic end to their story, nat's death is documented as a drug overdose and lottie is sent away to a psych ward by her friends. despite everything they went through, the ups and the downs and the healing, lottie and nat will always be the psycho and the druggie. they are similar in this way: they are stuck with these issues and that's all they're seen for by anyone else. but they see each other as more.

you made so many excellent points. great analysis! they really are two sides of the same coin and narrative foils.

"the dismissiveness of lottie's parents, similar to nats, affected her in a completely opposite way. instead of building up walls and becoming cold, lottie seeks to use her abilities to give comfort to everyone else around her. while dealing with similar core traumas, they react to it in very different ways."

this part in particular reminded me of a thought i had the other day. about lottienat and the deer + moose symbolism. it pretty much reflects what you just mentioned. lottie being associated with the deer (a creature considered in many mythologies to be connected to the supernatural and the divine, a creature that prefers to live in herds. just like lottie who doesn't isolate herself by choice. she surrounds herself with people) vs nat being associated with the moose (unlike other deer species moose do not form herds and are solitary animals)

[badgalsasuke]

Do we know anything about how Sakura was created? Was it Kishimoto’s idea to create such a character or was she added by the editors so that the story wouldn’t look even more gay?

Hey anon!

yes, Kishimoto has talked about Sakura's creation before. He talked about it in the first official Naruto fanbook that came out in 2002

He also talked about it for the Jump SQ interview he did in 2014 [Full Interview]

Basically, Kishimoto didn't know how to come up with an actual plot or a conflict for the manga after he was done with the pilot chapter, so his editor Yahagi who was beast mode for Naruto suggested creating a rival (Sasuke) and then a heroine (Sakura).

I don't know for sure if Yahagi suggested a traditional love triangle (two boys fighting over a girl) and then Kishimoto was like "no, thank you" and did his own gay thing or if right off the bat Yahagi knew what Kishimoto intended which was Sakura and Naruto chasing and fighting over Sasuke, the gay version of a love triangle, basically making Sakura a character that was conceived as a red herring from the beginning.

I personally think it's the second one and let me tell you why, Kishimoto *LOVES* Yahagi (some mangakas hate their editors like Togashi lowkey), in every interview where he talks about that man he's always so grateful for having to work with him and saying how he learned so much from him and so on which leads me to believe Yahagi was a very flexible editor when it came to the story, but also that Yahagi himself has talked about how he saw something fresh in Kishimoto's writing that wasn't being done in shonen when he was first assigned as an editor to him. Now, it could be that "fresh" aspect was the colorful foreign looking ninjas, a concept which before Kishimoto didn't exist but it could also be that he took the relationship between two boys (the main character and his rival) in shonen manga beyond what was accepted and running at the time. Yahagi is not dumb, he was supervising 100 other mangakas and worked with Kishimoto from 1995 to 2008, that's 13 long ass years so you can't pull the "Kishimoto accidentally wrote Naruto and Sasuke gay" because Yahagi would've 100% noticed (if 12 year old kids notice, what makes people think an actual pro-editor wouldn't? lol) and then make Kishimoto correct and change the manga, because that's the other thing, Yahagi was always telling Kishimoto to change shit, a few examples:

Change the story from a fox that can turn into a human boy into the Naruto/Kurama dynamic we saw

Kishimoto wanted Hokages and senseis to be animals (the fourth hokage was a dog before Kishimoto came up with Minato) and Yahagi had him turn them into humans.

Kishimoto wanted Kakashi's rival to be from another village and introduce him during the Land of the Waves arc, Yahagi made him wait to properly develop a rival and make him from Konoha instead, that's how we got Gai.

Speaking of Gai, it was Yahagi who designed Gai and Rock Lee based on Bruce Lee

Kishimoto wanted more missions abroad but Yahagi made him instead come up with a tournament arc, that's how we got the Chuunin exams.

These are just a few of his contributions to the manga, that's how much power he had over it, if he didn't like what Kishimoto was doing with Naruto and Sasuke he would have put a stop to it *instantly* and yet it kept going and going and going, to the point Kishimoto talks so fondly of him years after they stopped working together. Yahagi knew and I believe he encouraged Kishimoto even more.

[scarameownya]

so.... that ppgear post about niko growing old (immortal x mortal my beloved) how does wanderer cope? try to delay the inevitable, ignore it to the best of his ability, relish each moment w niko and trace every wrinkle that appears? please ;-; they won't leave my mind ;-;

oh no wanderer getting scared because history is about to repeat itself and he'll be left all alone nick + niko how you you do this to us all ;-; /lh

this question punch me in my gut and forced me to kneel, for i have to face my sin and see the truth (aka THIS MADE ME CRY FROM THINKING SOB //POS)

the moment he realized the inevitable, he tried to ignore it to the best of his ability, he tried to treat each day like normal, his hang outs with niko all the same and their dynamic never changed. at some point, wanderer thought, hah, why was he even worried in the first place ? he had went through it before, he's ready for it to hit...

but it's really is not that easy, the more days passed and the more he realized just how... visible the changes are, the dread settled down on his stomach, he's suddenly acutely aware of how many wrinkles are now on niko's hands-- they were visible on his eyes before but he, part denial maybe, also brushed it aside as him never getting enough sleep. but it's obvious... some people only believe what they can see, and right now for wanderer, all he can see is the actualization of how fast time had passed.

no matter how much he tried to delay the inevitable, telling niko to exercise more, eat more healthily, stop overworking himself, ect... at some point, people had even mistaken him as niko's grandson, something he had accidentally let his emotions taken over and yelled at them for... he knows he has no power to stop the progress.

the night that his fingers traced along one of the wrinkle lines on niko's hand, was when he started counting down the days.

the time niko passed away, he didn't cry, no tears, no reaction... just a blank face as he hold onto his hand. at this point, he thought he had did it, he was able to get over the loss of someone dearly closed to him with no problem, he thought he had finally managed to mastered his own emotions.

until he came back to their shared home, mekal behind the door, waiting for him to be alone so he can played niko's final audio messages to him.

when wanderer hear it, he couldn't help but laugh, the audio was full of mess ups, niko tripping and falling over, his words caught in his tongue and a small 'had to do this from the beginning... again' followed by a frustrated sigh and the whole message being read from the start again.

wanderer huffed, complaining about how the second time was barely audible without realizing the world around him had became deafening from how much tears that was falling from his eyes, how blurring everything had become even though the sun was still shining outside.

because the sun he was used to, the sun that he so desperately tried to deny he had loved the warmth of, had settled.

and he had to deal with the coldness of the night.

alone.

once again.

[shipthecarsons]

I love the idea that the Park and the other Slow Horses have one address for Lamb, but Catherine is the only one who knows where he really lives and neither of them ever talk about. Just for emergencies. Can totally see her knowing the code for his phone too. Just in case.

In my head, she’s almost certainly his next of kin too.

We put this joint drabble together

Thanks for inspiring us

😁👇

Part I. (Me)

It had been almost three months since Jackson Lamb haggled for and won the punishment-detail department of MI5, became king, and, for reasons unknown to a soul, brought Catherine Standish with him. The Aldersgate office—never before used, except for made-up legends—was assigned to them.

Every day, Jackson Lamb stayed in his office. Smoking, drinking, sleeping, resting, doing nothing. Apart from occasional visits from Catherine Standish, who wanted to know, for example, what her job actually involved. At the beginning, he told her it was all about making his tea, opening his mail, and sorting the files. But the kettle was faulty, he had only received two letters so far, and there were no files yet. Eventually, her visits became less frequent as he let her know each time how unwelcome they were—or rather, how unwelcome she was.

That morning, she was particularly bored, so she risked invading his den again. She woke him by placing a weak, lukewarm cup of tea on his desk.

"When are we getting more people in? I feel like we should have more work."

"I am working, Standish."

She gave him an incredulous look. "Working?"

"Yes, hard at it. Can’t you see?"

She paused. He was supposed to be one of the best they had. Maybe this was the way he operated—solving mysteries with his eyes closed.

"A desk is a dangerous place from which to watch the world?" she asked softly, as if in understanding.

"Fucking hell. You’re quoting le Carré, Standish?"

She shrugged.

"Christ, don’t tell me you’ve actually read it."

"I have."

"Before or after you joined the Service?" He seemed genuinely interested now, sipping his tea.

"After."

"I suppose that’s slightly better. No false hope..."

"Charles always said we needed to know le Carré to understand Second Desk’s discourse—"

"The old bastard’s?"

"He quoted le Carré in every meeting he went to."

This was already one of the longest conversations they’d ever had.

"No book could illustrate the outlandish shit we go through, Standish."

"You know John le Carré was actually a spy."

" Then he definitely left out half the outlandish shit he went through. We go through."

She didn’t say anything, just folded her hands, waiting for him to elaborate.

"You shouldn’t read crap like that. It’s not real, you know. But I suppose with the drinking you’ve always struggled with reality, haven’t you?" The first proper taunt of the morning.

"What do you recommend I read, then?"

"Try a fucking cookbook, so you can learn how to make decent tea—"

"The kettle isn’t working properly." She tried.

"—and do it in your own fucking office."

She sighed and hurried out before he decided throwing the mug at her might be a good idea.

The following week, Jackson Lamb got mail—his third letter overall. It was from Mills & Boon, a confirmation for a monthly subscription to their bodice-ripper novels…

She had to read it several times to believe it. Being thorough, she noticed something else: the home address in the letter didn’t match the one in their system...

@aladio-milhomes part II.

The feet were firm on the pavement, but her head felt light.

Her heart though, was right in the midst of it all, literally and figuratively. Racing from the exercise and her sudden decision, but also steady because of the frozen fresh air.

Perfect balance, if it wasn't for all the batty ideas that were crossing her mind.

He did that on purpose? Was it meant for her?

And why on earth would he want her to know something like that?

It hadn't been at plain sight, but easy enough for her to see since she was the one to receive the post and sort it —between the two of them—, not his usual complete spook secrecy either.

She knew almost no personal data was truthful in his file, but she wasn’t expecting this kind of intel, nor she expected to find out this way. She had a subscription letter between her hands, a book subscription. Or was it? This certainly had to be a mistake, or some kind of joke.

Deep down she'd been forever curious about what kind of place a creature like him could inhabit. She always thought it would be the complete opposite of Charles'. And she wasn't wrong.

It was already dark when she went out for her unexpected afternoon stroll.

She didn't see where she was going, nor didn't she need to. Her body was an autonomous being, even though her eyes were looking inwardly.

She felt grateful that since she'd arrived at that corner not a single drop of rain fell, for she had been standing there for quite some time now. Although, on the way here, some wind had shoved water under her umbrella, and her hair was still wet. She really should be going.

He probably wasn't there anyway, but she didn't want to raise suspicions amongst the neighbours either.

Just in case.

However, Lamb had a way to learn about everything, and she was afraid she wouldn't be able to justify herself under these circumstances. He wouldn't trust her ever again.

And now that she thought of it, he probably had one of the neighbours trained, with that inherent charm of his, to alert him if something weird like this happened.

Despite her serious inner monologue, her head felt uneasy with giddiness. The kind you start feeling when certain animals flutter in certain organ.

Silly woman. What a daft thing to do.

She took in all she could, while imagining how it would look on the inside. No doubt the same as his office, filthy, smelling of tobacco and sweat and hasn't changed a single wall, stinking of the 70s, like his oily hair. She chuckled.

A car passed her at quite a speed, startling her from her thoughts. At the same time, a glimpse of a very brief orangy blazing spark could be seen on the middle window of the first floor.

Catherine looked back at the house to get a last look, probably for the last time too, and retraced the path that led her there.

He watched her go from the darkness of his room. With a small smile tugging his mouth, full of smoke. "Clever girl."

@onesimus42 part III.

Catherine eyed the object lying in the middle of her desk with suspicion. It certainly wasn’t a style that she would have picked out for herself. Truth be told, it was a bit of a stretch to use the word style and this object in the same sentence. It actually looked enough like one that he wore that she examined it closely determine that it was in fact not pre-worn by himself. After ascertaining that it was at least clean, she took an experimental sniff. It smelled faintly of cigarettes. So, it had been with him, but not worn by him at least.

Turning the bucket hat over, she tried to determine some reason that he would have left this gift on her desk. Did he want her to go undercover? As what? A middle aged man with poor taste? Although deep down, she knew the reason. He had seen her. He had seen her closely enough last night that he knew her hair was wet. That meant there was a good chance that he’d followed her after she left the corner down from his house. She had to admit that if he hadn’t wanted her to notice him following, she likely wouldn’t. With his over-developed sense of protection over her, he’d probably wanted to make sure that she made it home safe.

Now, he wanted her to know that he’d seen her. Did he want her to confront him? Probably not. If he had he would have just called her into his office and given her a good bollocking. It wasn’t like he hadn’t before. No, he just wanted to know that she knew that he knew. Honestly, following his logic made her head hurt.

She was tempted to throw the ugly, bucket hat in the bin. On the other hand, it was a sturdy hat at least. It would keep her hair dry even if the wind blew it in under the umbrella. No need to throw away something useful. To that end, she hung it on her coat rack. At times during the day, she would glance at it and smile softly to herself. She thought, maybe, he might just be a little proud that she had found her way to his house. Not that he’d ever admit it, and she would certainly never mention it.

PS:

next of kin, all goes to her in the will — That’s all 100% true.

We know, they know, he knows, even Diana knows