#i love the street lights reflecting on the wet street

[godricgryffinsnore]

So......tadaaaa, just when you thought you have striked off another request from the list, you have another.

(because I need some good Harry Potte/reader stuff, even if it takes weeks)

He was in a pretty bad mood, he had been stood up on a first date. He slumped on his way back when a girl came and sat beside him on the train, crying.

[slow burn please. Like the slowest slow burn. I am looking for a long slow burn...And Sirius is alive.]

All the Quiet Things ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : When a chance meeting on a train changes the course of two very different lives, what begins as quiet companionship turns into something deeper—something far more difficult to ignore. Amid shared silences, buried feelings, and a few missteps along the way, two souls learn what it means to heal, to choose, and to love without fear.

warnings : Emotional distress, crying, and healing, Jealousy, arguments, and dramatic love confession, Strong language and romantic angst, Explicit sexual content (18+): oral (both), unprotected sex, praise/dirty talk, slow to rough progression, Embarrassing moment (others overhear them), Canon divergence (Sirius, Remus & Cedric alive), Comfort, fluff, and aftercare. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. THIS IS AN 18+ FAN FICTION. PLEASE DO NOT ENTER IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE OR IF YOU ARE A MINOR!!!

della's note : Ya, so it happened... I don't know how, where or when I got the urge to write a smut scene, but I did. But don't worry, if you want this fic in a free-smut type of way, you can read it without the smut too. Smut is at the very end of the fan fic... and I will let you know when it starts. I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT <333

word count : 4.8k

main master list <3

banners : @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune

He had never liked dates.

He didn't know why he’d even said yes. Lavender had cornered him with her glittering eyes and her sugar-slick voice, and something about the way Ron had elbowed him had made Harry nod before his brain could catch up.

Now, it was raining. Of course it was raining.

The coffee shop had smelled too sweet, and the date never showed. Harry had sat at the window, watching the clouds gather like an omen. He didn’t even like coffee. He’d stared at his reflection in the glass—scar, glasses, eyes too tired for eighteen—and had wondered what he looked like to the rest of the world.

The train back to Grimmauld Place was nearly empty. The wet streets had scared the tourists off, and he was grateful for the silence.

He slumped into the seat by the window, coat damp, hair clinging to his forehead. His jaw was tight. The overhead lights buzzed.

Then—

A soft sound. A sniffle.

He turned, and there she was.

A girl. His age. Book pressed tight to her chest, sleeves too long, eyes swollen and red.

She sat across from him, not noticing him at all, crumpling into the corner like she was trying to disappear.

Harry should have looked away.

But she was crying. Not loud, not the kind of crying that begged attention—no. This was the silent kind. The lonely kind.

The kind he knew well.

“Are you alright?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She startled, blinking up at him like she'd only just realized he was there. Her lashes were soaked, and there was a smudge of ink on her cheek.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. It was the automatic kind of lie.

He didn’t believe her.

But he didn’t press.

The train groaned into motion, and the city lights outside blurred into gold.

She turned her face to the window, but not before he saw it—that broken sort of look, the kind people wore when they’d held on too tightly to something that slipped right through their fingers.

He wanted to ask. Who hurt you? Why are you crying? What book is that?

But instead, he sat in silence. Watching the rain. Listening to her breathe.

They didn’t speak again that night.

When the train stopped, she stood and disappeared into the dark, and he didn’t even know her name.

── .✦

They saw each other again.

Weeks later, in the library at Grimmauld Place.

It was Sirius who called her in. “Harry! This is the one I told you about—she’s working with the new historical records team from the Ministry. She’s got the brains of a Ravenclaw and the patience of a saint.”

Harry turned, and there she was.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. But she did smile—a small, knowing thing that twisted something deep in his chest.

“You’re the girl from the train,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Her eyes flickered. “And you’re the boy who stared at me like I was made of glass.”

Sirius looked between them, brows raised.

Neither of them explained.

── .✦

Weeks became months.

She started showing up more.

She was clever. Quiet. Laughed softly at Sirius’s ridiculous stories, asked sharp questions during Order meetings, and always smelled faintly like old parchment and stormy nights.

Harry liked talking to her. He liked the way her mind worked—how she made him feel like he wasn’t just the Boy Who Lived but a person with questions and dreams and wounds that didn’t need to be hidden.

But it wasn’t easy. Nothing ever was.

There were arguments. Disagreements. He didn’t like how she looked at Malfoy when he visited to give intel, didn’t like how she smiled when she spoke to Cedric Diggory at the Ministry.

She didn’t like how he shut down when he was hurting. How he’d go quiet and cold and pretend like nothing ever touched him.

“Harry,” she said one night, voice sharp with something unnameable, “You don't get to decide who I talk to.”

“I’m not deciding,” he snapped. “I’m just saying—Diggory? Really?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

And that’s when it began.

The bitterness. The bite. The awkward silences at meetings. The thunder in his chest when she smiled at someone else. The way she flinched when he ignored her in front of Ron and Hermione.

They became enemies in the way only people who used to care could be.

But oh—he still watched her.

He knew how she took her tea. Knew she cried when she read tragic poetry. Knew she kept a picture of her little sister in her notebook and touched it when she thought no one was looking.

She knew him too.

She knew how he clenched his fist when he lied. Knew when his nightmares came back, even when he didn’t say a word.

But they were silent. Too prideful. Too afraid.

Until the night everything broke.

── .✦

It was a storm.

It always had to be a storm.

Grimmauld Place, the attic, papers flying, windows rattling. The Order had had a terrible night, and Sirius had been nearly killed, and Harry found her pacing, wild-eyed, her hands shaking.

“You could’ve died!” she shouted at him. “You just ran in! No plan—no—nothing! What if—what if I never saw you again, you bloody stupid boy?!”

“I didn’t need a plan!” he yelled back. “I needed to save him!”

“You’re reckless! Arrogant! Self-sacrificing and completely idiotic—!”

“And you’re impossible!” he roared. “You smile at Cedric like I don’t exist, then act like you care—!”

“Because I do care, you great big idiot! I always did!”

Silence.

Breathing.

The storm howled outside, but inside—utter stillness.

“I always did,” she whispered again. “From the moment you asked if I was okay on that train.”

Harry stared.

She looked like everything he’d ever wanted and been too scared to ask for.

“I love you,” he said, voice hoarse, cracking. “I love you and it’s miserable. You make me feel like I’m worth something and I hate it because I’m terrified of losing you.”

And then—

They kissed.

Like a war ending. Like peace being signed on trembling lips. Like two storms learning how to hold hands without turning to thunder.

── .✦

They didn’t speak about the kiss.

Not the next day. Not the day after that.

She went back to the library. Harry helped Molly with dinner. They exchanged glances like secret letters—quiet, cautious, trembling with things unsaid.

Sirius noticed, of course.

“Why are you walking like you’re being haunted by your own hormones?” he muttered to Harry in the hallway, raising a brow. “Did something happen or not?”

Harry flushed so deeply he might’ve been hexed.

But no answer came.

Because the truth was this: kissing her had felt like magic, real magic—the kind Hogwarts never taught. And now, he was afraid that if he said it aloud, it would vanish into smoke.

── .✦

A week later, she packed her bag.

The Ministry needed her in Bulgaria for a temporary assignment. Three months. Maybe four. She didn’t tell Harry until the morning she was leaving.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” she said quietly, her fingers knotting in the strap of her satchel.

Harry stared at her.

“I care too much,” he replied. “That’s the whole problem.”

She smiled sadly. “You’re not the problem, Harry. You never were.”

And before he could say something—anything—she was gone.

── .✦

He wrote to her.

Every week.

He never sent them.

They were scrawled on napkins, the corners of maps, the back of old Order memos. He’d fold them, unfold them. Sometimes burn them in the fireplace, watching the words curl into ash.

I miss the way you whisper when you read aloud. I miss your damn tea order. I miss your stupid bookmark collection and the way you smell like lavender and rain. I miss you like a wound. Like air.

She wrote too.

But never to him.

She wrote poetry. Scribbled it between research notes. Tiny verses that felt like bleeding.

He looks at me like I’m holy and runs from me like I’m fire.

── .✦

When she came back, it was snowing.

December wrapped London in white lace, and the streets were muffled with softness. She arrived at Grimmauld Place with wind-blushed cheeks and frozen fingers.

Harry didn’t know she was coming.

He opened the door and nearly dropped his wand.

She looked... different. Softer, maybe. A little older. But the second their eyes met, something in his chest cracked wide open.

“You’re back,” he said dumbly.

“Apparently,” she whispered.

And then—

He stepped aside, and she walked back into the house. Into his world. Into the place that always felt like it had been waiting for her.

── .✦

It wasn’t easy.

They were awkward. Stilted. She would laugh too loud around others, and he would grow quiet again, like a tide retreating. He was still jealous. She still didn’t explain the way she’d touched Cedric’s arm at the last Order meeting. The tension curled between them like smoke—every conversation a slow unravelling.

Then one night—it broke.

A Christmas party. Too much firewhisky. A hallway. A sideways glance.

He snapped.

“You still love him, don’t you?” he said, sharp as glass. “You talk to me like I matter, and then you run to him every time he walks into a room.”

She turned slowly. Her eyes were on fire.

“How dare you,” she hissed. “You don’t get to dictate who I speak to, Potter. You don’t even speak to me unless it’s convenient for your bruised ego!”

His breath hitched.

“You kissed me,” he said.

“You kissed me,” she snapped. “And then you disappeared.”

“I was scared!”

“So was I!”

A pause.

A breath.

Her eyes glistened. “You think you’re the only one who’s been broken? You think you’re the only one who’s terrified of being loved just to be left?”

Harry’s hands shook. “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I,” she whispered. “But I’m still here. I’m trying.”

And then—softly.

“I love you,” she breathed, voice raw. “I’ve loved you since the train. Since the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

His chest cracked. Splintered.

“I love you,” he said back. “I love you so much it hurts.”

And this time, when they kissed—it wasn’t fireworks.

It was home.

── .✦

“You’re an idiot.”

Harry turned, startled. Sirius was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, an infuriating grin on his face.

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to. You’ve got that guilty ‘I kissed her again and now I don’t know if it meant everything or nothing’ look.”

Harry groaned and dropped his head to the table.

Sirius chuckled. “Relax, Prongslet. I’m proud of you. Took you what—two years and a raging argument to finally confess?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you hate how much you care. You hate that she makes you nervous. You hate that you want forever and don’t know if she does.”

Harry looked up. “Do you think she does?”

Sirius tilted his head, suddenly serious. “She looks at you like you hung the stars, Harry. That kind of love doesn’t fade.”

── .✦

Meanwhile, upstairs, she stood in front of the mirror, still trembling from that kiss.

She touched her lips, blinking at herself like she wasn’t sure she was real. There was something quiet blooming in her chest—hope, maybe. Or peace. Or the terrifying beginnings of both.

And then—

“Mistletoe,” Sirius announced, bursting into the room.

She screamed and spun, nearly throwing her hairbrush.

“What the hell—?!”

He grinned. “I need your help with some holiday decorations.”

“Sirius Black, if you ever want to live to see another Christmas—”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted with a wink. “The mistletoe’s not for me.”

He disappeared before she could hex him.

── .✦

The next few weeks were... soft.

Not perfect. But gentle.

She and Harry spoke more. Laughed more. There were long walks in the snow. Quiet tea in the library. Glances that lingered like poetry.

And the touches—

A hand brushing hers when passing her a quill. A shoulder leaning too close while reading by the fireplace. A pinky that hooked hers under the dinner table.

They didn’t talk about labels. Or plans. Or the future.

They just were.

And it was enough—for now.

── .✦

New Year’s Eve.

The entire house was glowing—candles floating in the air, laughter echoing through the halls, the scent of cinnamon and firewhisky thick in the air.

At 11:59, Sirius shouted, “Make a wish!”

Harry didn’t need to.

He was already standing beside her.

And when the clock struck twelve—

He kissed her. Quietly. Reverently. Like a prayer.

Not because he had to.

But because he could.

Because she was real. And here. And his.

And when she smiled against his lips, he felt like maybe, just maybe, all the quiet things were the most beautiful.

── .✦

It was late January when they went back to Hogwarts.

Not as students, no—not anymore.

McGonagall had invited them to speak to the sixth-years about magical ethics and wartime resilience. (Sirius joked that his own speech would be titled “Don’t Trust the Government, or Your Mother.”)

But really, it was just an excuse. An excuse to go back. To remember. To stand in those halls again and feel, for a moment, seventeen.

They walked through the front doors together, their fingers brushing but not quite intertwining, boots crunching on the snow-slicked stone.

The castle was quiet, blanketed in soft winter. Icicles like crystal daggers hung from the towers. Somewhere, faintly, a choir of enchanted birds sang from the rafters.

She looked up at the ceiling of the Great Hall and whispered, “It still feels like home.”

Harry looked at her.

So do you.

But he didn’t say it.

── .✦

Later that night, she found a small box on her pillow in the guest quarters.

Wrapped in dark green ribbon.

No note.

She opened it carefully—and gasped.

A charm bracelet.

Delicate. Golden. With three tiny charms already affixed.

A lightning bolt.

A teacup.

A moon.

When she touched them, they shimmered with warmth—enchanted.

The lightning bolt whispered, I’ll protect you.

The teacup murmured, I remember.

And the moon breathed, Even when we’re apart, you’re never alone.

She covered her mouth with her hand, eyes burning.

He hadn’t said a word.

But it was the most beautiful confession she’d ever heard.

── .✦

They went into Hogsmeade the next day.

It was bright with winter sunlight, the sky a sheet of silver-blue. They laughed together in the snow, tried butterbeer with cinnamon, got caught in a tangle of enchanted scarves at Gladrags.

And then—

He saw it.

A man. Laughing with her near Honeydukes. Brushing snowflakes from her cheek.

Cedric.

Harry froze.

He knew they were friends. He knew.

But still.

His blood went hot.

Jealousy curled through him like smoke. He stood, fists clenched, eyes locked on the soft, lingering way she looked at Cedric as he handed her a sugar quill.

Later, she found Harry sitting alone by the Shrieking Shack.

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t look at her.

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

A pause.

He exhaled sharply. “You smiled at him like I wasn’t even there.”

She blinked. “Harry—”

“You still like him, don’t you?”

Now she was angry.

“Are you serious? Cedric is my friend. He’s been there since before you even looked my way!”

“I’ve always looked at you,” he snapped. “You just never saw me.”

“Oh, I saw you. I saw you when you ignored me. When you let me walk away. When you kissed me and vanished.”

“I was scared!”

“I wasn’t,” she hissed, eyes glistening. “And I still showed up. I still loved you. Even when you gave me nothing.”

His breath caught.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She turned away. “Maybe sorry isn’t enough anymore.”

── .✦

She didn’t speak to him for three days.

Not in the corridors, not in the common areas, not even during the goodbye dinner in the Great Hall.

Harry felt like the walls were closing in.

Everywhere he went, he looked for her. Every empty chair she used to occupy, every ghost of her laugh echoing down the halls—it all clawed at him.

And yet, he said nothing.

Until Sirius—who’d had quite enough—shoved him up the Astronomy Tower steps one evening, locked the door behind him with a muttered, “For Merlin’s sake, fix it,” and vanished.

She was there.

Of course she was.

The stars tangled in her hair, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring out at the frost-glittered grounds below. She didn’t look up when he entered.

“I thought you’d given up,” she said softly.

He stepped closer. “Never. Not on you.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. “Then why did you keep leaving?”

Harry’s voice cracked. “Because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

Her breath caught.

“Because I was terrified that the second I touched something good, it would disappear. Like everything else.”

She turned then. Slowly. Her eyes—shining, tired, beautiful.

“And what changed?”

He stepped forward, close enough to brush her cheek with his breath.

“You didn’t disappear,” he whispered. “You stayed. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was a coward.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—quietly, trembling—he dropped to his knees before her.

“I love you.”

She stared.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another charm for the bracelet.

A star.

“Every time I lost my way, I followed you,” he murmured. “You were the light.”

Her lips parted. Her heart pounded.

He took her hand. “Let me try. Let me show you that I can be soft. That I can be better. That I can love you the way you deserve—without fear, without running.”

The silence cracked wide open.

And she kissed him.

Not in a storm of fire—but in a hush of stars. Slow. Gentle. Forgiving.

Her fingers trembled against his jaw.

“I love you,” she breathed back. “I think I always did.”

── .✦

Years later, Harry would still remember that night.

The soft rustle of her laughter, the way her fingers laced through his. The first time he felt like the world had stopped spinning just so they could finally begin.

They’d return to Grimmauld Place, hand in hand.

She’d read to him by the fireplace.

He’d cook (badly) and she’d pretend to love it.

Sirius would roll his eyes and tell Remus that finally, the idiots had figured it out.

And Harry—

Harry would never forget what she said to him one night, curled against his chest beneath a sea of blankets.

“You don’t have to fight for me anymore,” she whispered.

And he’d kiss the top of her head and murmur,

“No. But I’ll love you like I still have to.”

Grimmauld Place, the night they moved in.

The house was quiet. For once. Sirius and Remus had left for an Order errand, something vague and dangerous-sounding that neither Harry nor she had pressed too hard about. The silence that followed their departure was warm—not heavy. Not haunted. Just theirs.

And then Harry walked out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea—shirtless.

Shirtless.

With the waistband of his grey sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, hair still damp from a rushed shower.

She was curled up on the sofa, blanket around her legs and a book balanced lazily in her lap, but when she looked up and saw him standing there, her Harry, in their house—something shifted.

She grinned. “You’re not even trying to be subtle, are you?”

Harry raised a brow and handed her the mug. “Subtle?”

She gestured lazily to his very bare chest. “You’re practically begging to be devoured.”

His smirk curled up devilishly. “You offering?”

She blinked. “Oh, I’m more than offering.”

And just like that—air crackled.

Harry set his mug down slowly. Purposefully. Then crawled onto the couch, straddling her legs with a wicked look in his eye. “You think I planned this? That I came out here thinking, ‘Let’s seduce her tonight’?”

She leaned back, smirking. “Did you?”

“No,” he murmured, mouth brushing her jaw, “but now that we’re here... I’m thinking about a lot of things.”

His lips were hot as they kissed down her neck, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. He chuckled against her skin.

“Sensitive, aren’t we?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

So he did.

── .✦

They kissed like the air between them had finally caught fire. Slow at first, teasing, his tongue coaxing hers into a rhythm that made her toes curl under the blanket. His hands found her thighs, pushing the fabric aside, letting his fingers trail up and up until they ghosted over the soft cotton between her legs.

“You’re already wet,” he whispered against her lips, voice low and wrecked. “Is this all for me?”

“All of it,” she breathed. “Always for you.”

He groaned, deep and desperate, and kissed her again before sliding down the couch and settling between her legs.

“Let me taste you.”

She nodded, eyes wide, heart racing.

He tugged her panties off slowly, dragging the damp fabric down her legs like it was a gift he’d been aching to unwrap. And then he licked a stripe up her slit—slow, reverent—before moaning like he’d been starving for her.

“Fuck, sweetheart… you taste so good.”

His tongue was sinful. Deliberate. He licked, sucked, and circled her clit with slow precision, using his fingers to tease her open. She arched, hips rocking toward his mouth, gasping his name.

“Harry—oh, God—”

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, voice thick, lips wet. “Let me hear you. Let me make you come.”

He slipped a finger inside her. Then another. Curling them just right while his tongue stayed locked on her clit, flicking harder, faster.

She cried out—sharp, broken—and came with a full-body tremble, hand tangled in his hair.

But he wasn’t done.

He kissed his way up her body, letting her feel every inch of his weight as he pressed her into the couch. Her fingers found the waistband of his pants and shoved them down, gasping when his cock sprang free, hot and heavy against her thigh.

She flipped them suddenly, pushing him back onto the cushions.

“My turn.”

He stared up at her, dazed. “Are you—”

But she was already sinking down between his legs, tongue darting out to lick the tip of his cock. He groaned, head tipping back, one hand gripping the couch while the other threaded into her hair.

“Shit—fuck, baby…”

She took him deep, slow at first, letting her tongue swirl as she hollowed her cheeks, moaning around him. He bucked instinctively, hips twitching, then stilled.

“Merlin, you’re gonna ruin me.”

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, mouth full of him, and smiled.

That did it.

He pulled her up, breathless. “I need to be inside you.”

“Then take me.”

And he did.

── .✦

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly—so slowly—watching her eyes flutter shut, her mouth fall open in a silent moan.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered, burying himself to the hilt. “You feel perfect. So fucking tight, sweetheart…”

She gasped, clinging to his shoulders. “Move, Harry, please—”

He pulled out almost completely, then thrust back in hard. She cried out.

And he talked her through every second.

“Just like that.” “Taking me so well.” “You were made for me, weren’t you?” “Look at me. I want to see your face when you fall apart.”

Their rhythm built—slow and deep, then faster, harder. Their bodies tangled, sweat-slicked and desperate, Harry’s name falling from her lips like a prayer.

He kissed her through her next orgasm—held her as she shook around him, tightening impossibly—and then buried his face in her neck as he followed, moaning into her skin.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and breath and love.

── .✦

Later, when the sweat cooled and the stars were peeking through the curtains, he pulled the blanket over them and kissed her temple.

“You okay?”

She smiled sleepily. “I’m perfect.”

He looked down at her, wonder in his eyes.

“We live here now,” he whispered.

“We love here now,” she corrected.

And Harry Potter—her best friend, her storm, her home—held her tighter and said,

“Only you. Always you.”

── .✦

The first morning in their home.

The sunlight spilled in warm and golden. It bathed their skin in honey, lit her collarbones, kissed the curve of her thigh where Harry’s hand had curled all night long.

He was awake before her.

Still naked, hair a disaster, the sheet barely covering his lower half, and his eyes were locked on her. Soft. Mesmerized.

She stirred, blinking against the morning light.

“Harry?” her voice was hoarse, sleep-heavy.

He smiled. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Mmm… I’m sore.” She winced as she stretched, then gasped when she felt it—the dull ache of being loved properly.

Harry leaned over, kissing her bare shoulder. “Good sore?”

She glanced at him and raised a brow. “Smug much?”

He kissed her again. “You were perfect. You always are.”

Her fingers found his curls and tugged him in. “Then do something perfect again, Potter.”

He smirked—slow, sinful—and slid the sheet down, exposing her breasts to the cool morning air.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

── .✦

It wasn’t fast this time.

It was slow.

He worshipped her.

Kissed his way down her body like every inch of her was sacred. Bit at her hips. Licked at her inner thighs. Suckled her clit with aching tenderness that turned quickly filthy, his tongue moving in perfect circles while his fingers dipped into her soaked heat.

She gasped, cried out, her hand over her mouth to keep quiet—but he pulled it away.

“Don’t,” he whispered, voice dark. “Let them hear. Let the whole bloody house know who you belong to.”

She came with a strangled moan.

But he didn’t stop.

He flipped her over and took her from behind, her chest pressed to their pillows while his hands gripped her hips, fucking her slow and deep.

“You feel that?” he panted, voice rough. “That’s mine. All of this—yours and mine.”

She clawed at the sheets. “Yes, Harry, oh fuck—”

He reached around to rub her clit in fast circles, hips slamming into her harder now, all rhythm lost in raw need.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered. “Come for me again. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And she did. Shaking. Crying his name.

He followed a second later with a broken, “Fuck—yes—”, spilling inside her as he buried himself one last time.

── .✦

Later, when they finally dragged themselves to the bathroom, still shaky-legged and flushed, she tried to brush her teeth.

Tried.

Harry stood behind her in nothing but boxers, arms wrapped around her waist, his face in her neck.

“Stop,” she giggled through a mouth full of toothpaste. “Let me brush.”

“I like watching you,” he said, voice gravelly. “You’re too pretty to ignore.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

She spat, wiped her mouth, and turned around to face him—only to find herself lifted onto the sink, Harry between her legs again.

“Again?” she laughed, arms around his neck.

He kissed her, slow and deep. “Always.”

── .✦

Bonus :

Grimmauld Place, still warm from last night’s sins.

The kitchen smelled like toast. And sin. Mostly sin.

She was perched on the counter in one of Harry’s oversized T-shirts, her legs swinging lazily while Harry hovered at the stove, flipping eggs with the focus of a man who was absolutely trying to avoid a conversation.

Not with her.

No, she was grinning like the cat who’d eaten the canary. It was the other two occupants of the house they were both actively ignoring.

Because Sirius and Remus were seated at the kitchen table. And they were smirking.

“Well,” Sirius said, dramatically stirring his tea, “someone had a very active morning.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “Do we need to do this?”

Remus tried to keep a straight face. Failed. “You moaned her name like it was your Patronus.”

“Loudly,” Sirius added. “Repeatedly.”

“Honestly, I thought it was a murder.”

“A very sexy murder.”

Harry turned around slowly, face beet red, spatula still in hand. “You two have no boundaries.”

Remus lifted his mug. “We raised you. There’s nothing left to protect.”

Sirius leaned forward, chin in hand. “Though I have to say, I’m deeply offended you didn’t use a Silencing Charm. I live here, Harry. I live here.”

Harry turned to her, horrified. “Why didn’t we use a—”

She just beamed. “Because I like making you moan.”

Sirius choked on his tea. Remus actually blushed.

Harry groaned and buried his face in the kitchen towel. “I’m moving out.”

“You just moved in,” Sirius grinned. “And now you’ve christened the whole damn house.”

Remus chuckled. “Honestly, we’re just happy for you both.”

Sirius grinned, eyes sparkling. “Disgusted. Traumatized. But happy.”

Harry handed her a plate, still scarlet. “You’re evil.”

She kissed his cheek sweetly. “You moaned my name first, Potter.”

Sirius and Remus both groaned.

Harry hid his face in her neck.

The kitchen was filled with laughter, toast, and a love that was far too loud to be ashamed of.

[talesofesther]

best kept secret

➥ Yelena Belova x Reader/fem!OC

Summary: Yelena had chosen to keep what she feels for you a secret. Feelings were dangerous, after all. But maybe walking into the void could make her see things differently.

A/N: This is a very random little idea that I wrote in under an hour loll. It's not masterfully elaborated, but it's cute! Set during Thunderbolts, so expect some spoilers ahead.

Word count: 1,5k

Masterlist

"Why don't you ask her for something different?" You took a sip from your iced coffee, head resting on one palm. "A change of scenery?"

Yelena hummed. She had her eyes cast down, holding a staring contest with her coffee. She hadn't taken a single sip yet. "Valentina is not exactly malleable." She shrugged; there was a tiredness to her that had been there a while.

The night would settle in soon enough; the sky was already a darker shade of blue and orange. The air was fresh, though, that's why you had decided to sit together at the tables outside, instead of inside the little café.

Yelena's hair, still wet from a fresh shower, was combed back and framed her face prettily. She wore a dark grey hoodie and a silver chain around her neck. Her eyes reflected the last rays of sun. She was the most beautiful woman you had ever known.

Yelena had lost contact with all the Widows she set free from mind control. All, except you. She kept you close, she called time and time again to check on you.

You were the only one whom she sought out at night, when her knuckles were bloody and her lips tasted of sin. You kissed it all away. You were the one she'd hold close and press her mouth against with no words necessary.

You were the one no one knew about, the one who she'd deny being hers if anyone asked.

You were the one she couldn't let go of. And the one she'd never admit having.

"Try anyway?" You hoped, leaning down to try and find her gaze. Genuine worry for her hid behind the sweetness of your voice.

One side of Yelena's mouth quirked up. If you looked closely, you'd see her cheeks turning a soft pink. She wasn't used to having someone around, perhaps that's why you sometimes missed her, even when she was right in front of you.

Yelena reached over the table, all timid and reluctant. Her fingers brushed over your knuckles in a silent request for closeness.

It was all she'd give you out here in the streets, under so many watchful eyes. You could only love her in secret—safer that way, or so she'd say.

You turned your hand over, welcoming her touch when she tangled her fingers with yours. There were new scars on Yelena's hands. You made a mental note to kiss them later.

Yelena squeezed your hand. "Can I see you later?" She always asked. Her brows would always tilt up a little with the vulnerability she tried to hide. You could almost hear how she held her breath while you held the silence.

Yelena still feared the day you'd tell her no. The day you'd walk away, too.

You took hold of the spoon resting on Yelena's forgotten coffee. You stirred it lazily, each swirl clinking against the mug's porcelain.

Yelena glanced down, finally took the mug, and brought it to her lips. You smiled; "You better."

—⧗—

The clock read 12:36 a.m. when Yelena knocked on your apartment door.

She felt her heart skip a beat upon hearing your soft steps come to her. Yelena bit the inside of her cheek and wondered if the anticipation would ever go away. Part of her hoped it wouldn't.

When you opened the door for her, a sigh she'd been holding since leaving her father's house fell past her lips. Yelena knew the dangers of getting attached, but every time she tried telling herself it would be the last time, her throat closed up tight, and her fingers shook.

An empty cup of tea was on top of your coffee table, and the only light came from the kitchen adjacent to your living room. There was a wildlife documentary on, serving as background noise. And a fluffy blanket over the couch.

You'd been waiting for her.

Maybe it was unfair. Because Yelena would come back to you tasting of heartache and all the sins that wouldn't let her sleep at night, and still you'd kiss her, and hold her, and look at her as if she's someone worth looking at.

Yelena's hands were dripping with so much blood, but you held them anyway. And you pulled her in and you pressed your lips to each one of her scars, even the ones you couldn't see.

Yelena held onto your waist, falling forward like she had many times before. Her upper lip brushed yours. Yelena couldn't get enough of you.

"I called her," she breathed against you, Russian accent heavy on the syllables, "Just one more job and I'm done." Yelena's hands sneaked under your pajama shirt. She felt your goosebumps. She shivered at the thought of being the one to cause it.

You smiled into the kiss, hands buried in her short hair. You felt giddy at her consideration of what you'd said.

Yelena mimicked your smile with one of her own. She breathed you in. When you held her, she was free of all her sins.

Yelena loved you. She'd never tell you. You were her best kept secret.

—⧗—

New Yorkers were almost used to seeing disasters and superhumans wreak havoc in their city. You would have kept your distance from the chaos, but the city had been engulfed in a black void, and Yelena was at the heart of it.

You'd run to the eye of the storm, with fear sinking in your stomach and your heart beating at the rhythm of her name. There were fires to one side of you and rubble to the other. The smoke in your lungs made it difficult to breathe, but you needed to find her.

When you did, you caught the tail end of Valentina's speech about the new Avengers.

You stood among the crowd of civilians, rising on tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of who was at the front of the commotion.

Yelena froze when her gaze landed on you. Her eyes widened, and she took a step forward as if going to your side was second nature.

And you, you felt tears pooling in your eyes as soon as you finally caught sight of her. Dirty skin, bloody lip, torn clothes—but alive, and with the prettiest green eyes, finding you amidst so many people.

As soon as Valentina finished her speech, Yelena rushed forward without a second thought, pushing her way through the crowd. Reporters called out her name, and civilians tried to thank her for saving their lives. Yelena ignored them all, she kept walking, and then running towards you.

You met her in the middle, falling into a bone-crushing hug with the same kind of desperation and relief.

Yelena's arms closed tightly around your waist, her hands roamed over your back, trying to convince herself you were real. Her head fell to your shoulder, nuzzling there. You did the exact same, hands bunching up the fabric of her suit.

She smelled like smoke, blood, and sweat. But still had the same soft warmth you knew so well. Your lips found the space just under Yelena's ear, you placed a kiss there. It was gratitude for her coming back to you and a plea that she'd never leave again.

"What are you doing here? Are you okay?" Yelena's voice broke in the middle, out of relief, or something deeper.

You pulled away only to look her in the eyes, feeling the taste of tears on your lips. "Me? What about you? I was so worried, Lena."

A chuckle escaped her then, all shaky and happy. Her own tears left a clear path down the dust on her cheeks. "I'm okay. I'm okay now."

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Yelena's new teammates throwing very curious glances your way. An older man in red seemed especially excited, and the one you knew to be Bucky Barnes had to hold him back from running in your direction.

Part of you almost instinctively felt compelled to let go of Yelena, to put a respectable distance between the two of you. Yelena had always kept things private and hidden, after all.

But today, she didn't let you. Yelena's hold was strong for both of you; she wouldn't let you take a single step away.

You sighed, feeling your heart rate slow down for the first time in what had been an exceptionally long day. You let your forehead fall against hers at last. "Some last job, huh?"

"I'm sorry," Yelena whispered, one of her hands found your jaw. You felt the warmth of her skin and the fabric of her glove. "Please don't leave."

You closed your eyes. Your nose bumped hers when you shook your head vehemently. "I would never."

Yelena kissed your lips with poorly concealed love. Her hands held the back of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair and pressing into the skin there—it gave beneath her fingertips, as if it'd been made for her touch alone.

Yelena's love was familiar. You felt the taste of it on your lips, felt the shape of it on your skin. It had always been there.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Yelena’s taglist is open, let me know if you’d like to be added. Or you can follow @talesofesther-library and turn notifications on to know when I’ve posted a new story/chapter.

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

[littleprinces]

Birthday Breeding

Tags: Master Slave, Breeding, Happy Kyujin Day!

(Simple smut as always)

Kyujin, my sex slave, was a vision of innocence and depravity entwined. Today was her nineteenth birthday, and I had decided to make it special. We had spent the day exploring the bustling streets of Seoul, the city's neon lights reflecting in her large, doe-like eyes. As we sat in a quiet café, sipping our coffees, I could feel the electricity between us. It was time to take our relationship to the next level.

I leaned in, my eyes locked onto hers. "Kyujin, you know I've wanted to do something special for you today."

She blushed, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. "Yes, Master. What did you have in mind?"

I smiled, my voice low and seductive. "I want to fuck you, Kyujin. I want to make you mine completely."

Her eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in, her breath hot on my ear. "Yes, Master. I want that too."

Back at my apartment, I had her undress, her clothes falling to the floor in a soft heap. I took my time, exploring every inch of her body with my hands and mouth. She was soft and supple, her skin like silk under my touch. I started with her lips, our tongues dancing as I deepened the kiss. Her moans were music to my ears, a symphony of desire.

I trailed kisses down her neck, nibbling on her earlobes, making her squirm. Her nipples hardened under my touch, and I took one into my mouth, sucking and teasing until she was writhing beneath me. I moved lower, my tongue finding her clit, circling it before sucking it into my mouth. She cried out, her hips bucking against my face.

I slipped a finger into her pussy, feeling her wetness. I added another, scissoring them to prepare her for my cock. She was tight, her muscles clamping down on my fingers. I could only imagine how good she would feel around my cock.

I stood, shedding my clothes, and positioned myself at her entrance. I rubbed the head of my cock against her clit, teasing her before slowly pushing into her. She was tight, her pussy gripping me like a vice. I groaned, the sensation overwhelming.

"Master," she moaned, her hands gripping my forearms. "You feel so good."

I started to move, my cock sliding in and out of her. The sound of our bodies coming together filled the room, a symphony of sex. I could feel her muscles clenching around me, her breath coming in short gasps.

"You like that, don't you, Kyujin? You like feeling my cock inside you."

"Yes, Master," she whispered, her eyes locked onto mine. "I love it."

I flipped her over, positioning her on her hands and knees. I slapped her ass, I spanking her ans leaving a red handprint "Ahhh Masterhh" She moaned, pushing back against me. I entered her again, this time going deeper. I could feel her muscles stretching to accommodate me.

"Deeper, Master," she begged. "I want all of you."

I gave her what she wanted, my cock sliding in and out of her pussy with force. She was moaning, her body shaking with each thrust. I could feel her getting close, her muscles tensing.

I pulled out, making her whimper in protest. I wanted to feel her ass around me. I pressed a lubed finger into her ass, feeling her tense before relaxing. I added another, scissoring them to prepare her.

I positioned myself at her ass, pushing in slowly. She was tight, her muscles clenching around me. I groaned, the sensation overwhelming.

"Relax, Kyujin," I murmured, my hand rubbing her back. "You're doing so good."

I started to move, my cock sliding in and out of her ass. She was moaning, her body shaking with each thrust. I could feel her getting close again, her muscles tensing.

"Cum for me, Kyujin," I commanded. "Cum all over my cock."

She did, her body convulsing as her orgasm washed over her. I followed shortly after, my cock pulsing as I filled her ass with my cum.

I pulled out, watching as my cum leaked out of her. I positioned her on her back, her legs spread wide. I entered her pussy again, my cock coated in my cum. I wanted to breed her, to fill her with my seed.

I fucked her hard, our bodies slapping together. She was moaning, her body shaking with each thrust. I could feel her getting close again, her muscles tensing.

"Cum with me, Kyujin," I growled. "I want to feel you cum around my cock as I fill you with my cum."

She did, her body convulsing as her orgasm washed over her. I followed shortly after, my cock pulsing as I filled her pussy with my cum.

I pulled out, my cum leaking out of her. I collapsed next to her, our bodies slick with sweat. She was mine, completely and utterly mine.

Happy birthday, Kyujin.

[shy9-29]

── just the two of us, moonstruck ☾ (l.hs)

๑ After Heeseung finally breaks off his manipulative relationship, he storms out of the house late at night without an umbrella as it’s pouring rain, then running into you. He’s never been happier after he experiences what real love is with you.

a/n: this is actually so sad but I hope you enjoy it! Heeseung’s ex goes by the name Karina | wc: 2.6k | warning: not proofread! toxic relationship, angst, manipulation, minor flirting | song: moonstruck - enhypen 🎵

—

"Break up with me?!"

Karina sneered, her voice trembling with emotion. Her gaze bore into Heeseung, her words laced with anger.

The raw intensity of her expression conveyed the depth of her pain, begging him to reconsider.

“Why are you even acting surprised? You knew this was coming.” Heeseung’s response was cold and void of any sympathy. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t expect it.”

Karina's eyes widened, frustration etched on her face as she spoke, “All I did was treat you well like the loving girlfriend I am!”

Her voice wavered with hurt, her arms crossing defensively in front of her chest.

The accusation stung, her resentment evident as she tried to convey the effort she had put into their relationship.

“Loving girlfriend? You call manipulating me, constantly gaslighting me, and never giving me space ‘loving?’” his voice rising with each word.

“You were trying too hard to be ‘loving.’ I felt suffocated and trapped.” Heeseung’s voice grew more forceful. “It was like you were constantly hovering over me, trying to control every aspect of my life. I couldn’t breathe!”

Karina's lower lip trembled, her face flushed with anger.

"Is that all I did?!" Her voice escalated in volume. "I just wanted to be close to you! Is that a crime!?"

Heeseung furrowed his brow, his frustration evident.

"It was more than that," he retorted. "You smothered me. You didn't trust me. You made me question every interaction, every decision. You controlled everything. It was like I lost myself in the relationship."

As Karina was about to speak, Heeseung interrupted, his voice firm, "We're over, Karina."

The finality in his tone left no room for negotiation, the harsh reality hitting Karina like a wave as Heeseung stormed out of her apartment.

It was pouring rain as Heeseung stepped outside without an umbrella. His shoes splashed in the puddles, his face drenched as he walked away, feeling a mix of relief and sadness. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, the rain a fittingly melancholic companion to his heartbreak.

Heeseung found himself drawn to the nearby river, the moon shining brightly overhead.

Lost in thought, he reached the riverbank and gazed at the water's surface, reflecting the celestial light.

The gentle lapping of the waves was soothing, but the pang of heartache was still ever-present.

It was well past midnight. The once bustling streets lay silent, the moon casting its silvery glow on the empty cobblestones.

Most of the city was asleep, except for the occasional insomniac or late-night worker.

The rain continued to shower down, creating a melancholic atmosphere as Heeseung stood there, soaking wet, his gaze fixed on the shimmering river.

The silence was broken only by the soft sounds of raindrops hitting the water's surface and the occasional distant sound of a passing car.

It was as if the world had come to a pause for Heeseung, his emotions swirling like the eddies in the river.

Heeseung took a deep, shaky breath as a rush of emotions washed over him. It was like the rain was washing away the remnants of his relationship, leaving behind only the memory of the moon's ethereal beauty and the cold, comforting presence of the night.

Heeseung couldn't help but dwell on the moments leading up to the breakup, replaying the harsh words exchanged. The words he'd said to Karina haunted him, but deep down, he knew they were true. He needed space, freedom, a chance to rediscover himself without the stifling grip of a controlling partner.

As the rain continued to fall, Heeseung ran a hand through his wet hair, his gaze still fixed on the shimmering water. It was then that he noticed you standing silently behind him, quietly holding an umbrella over his head.

"You’re going to get sick if you keep standing in the rain, sir," you remarked, offering a friendly reminder to the man drenched in the pouring rain. Concern etched on your face, you chuckled lightly at the scene before you.

Heeseung startled, quickly turning around to see you standing there. A mixture of surprise and relief crossed his features as he recognized your kind gesture.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I got lost in thought..." he admitted sheepishly.

He took in your appearance for a moment, taking notice of your kind expression. There was something comforting about having someone show genuine concern.

Your concern grew as you stepped closer, shielding both of you from the rain with your umbrella. "Are you lost?" you inquired softly, your gaze filled with genuine concern.

Heeseung shook his head in response, his eyes meeting yours.

"No, not lost...just trying to clear my head," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability.

His drenched hair clung to his forehead as he ran a hand through it again, trying to regain his composure.

With you standing close, Heeseung felt a strange sense of comfort, despite the circumstances. The umbrella provided a welcome shelter and the act of sharing it with a stranger was oddly comforting.

His mind was still swirling with the events leading up to this moment, but the presence of someone caring enough to stand in the rain with him made his heart feel a little less heavy.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You asked as the words slipped from your lips. The tilt of your head indicated your genuine interest, an invitation to share what burdened him.

Heeseung hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering with contemplation. The weight of everything he'd been through felt raw and vulnerable.

"It's just...my relationship. It ended tonight," he admitted quietly, his voice tinged with the lingering pain of the breakup.

You nodded understandingly, your heart going out to him.

"Breakups are tough," you responded, your voice soft and compassionate. "But sometimes, they lead us to better things."

You could see the heaviness in his expression, the way his shoulders slumped slightly under the weight of his heartache.

"Do you have anywhere to go?" you asked with a hint of concern.

Heeseung shook his head, his gaze remaining fixed on the water.

"No, not really. I don't really feel like going back to my apartment right now."

There was a trace of sadness in his voice, as if he knew he should go back, but the thought of being alone in his empty, silence-filled home didn't appeal to him at all.

You studied his face for a moment, his wet hair clinging to his forehead, and the rain running down his face. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that tugged at your heartstrings.

"Would you like to come to mine? Just for the night," you suddenly offered, surprising yourself as much as him.

Heeseung's eyes widened in surprise, clearly taken aback by your unexpected invitation. He looked at you, disbelief and a hint of gratitude etched across his face.

"Really?" he asked, his voice soft. The rain continued to fall, the sound of droplets hitting the umbrella growing louder.

You nodded, a reassuring smile on your lips.

"Yeah, really. I have a spare room at my place. You can stay there tonight. Beats being out here in the rain."

Heeseung seemed both grateful and hesitant, the weight of his emotions still heavy in his eyes.

"I...I don't want to be a bother," he muttered, clearly torn between accepting your offer and not wanting to impose on you.

You shook your head, your smile gentle and understanding.

"You won't be a bother. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it." You moved closer, the umbrella sheltering both of you from the relentless rain. "Come on, it's pouring. You're already soaked."

Heeseung looked at you for a moment, seemingly weighing the proposition. When he finally nodded, it was with a mixture of relief and appreciation.

"Okay. I'll come with you," he said, his voice still tinged with the raw remnants of the night's heartbreak.

With that, you both braved the rain, walking to your apartment. The rhythmic tapping of the rain on the umbrella accompanied your steps, the darkness surrounding you only occasionally broken by streetlights along the way.

Heeseung followed silently next to you, the weight of his emotions still heavy on his shoulders. He found comfort in your presence, though, a stranger who had shown such kindness to him in a moment of vulnerability.

"What's your name, sir?" You asked, breaking the silence with a gentle question. The rhythmic sound of your footsteps hitting the rain-soaked puddles echoed in the air.

Heeseung turned to look at you, realizing he hadn't introduced himself. He gave you a small, slightly embarrassed smile.

"Oh, right. I'm Heeseung. And just call me by my name, please. The 'sir' thing makes me feel old."

A soft laugh escaped your lips, his remark putting you at ease.

"Alright, Heeseung it is," you responded, the sound of his name rolling off your tongue comfortably.

Heeseung looked at you, curiousity in his eyes.

"And what's your name?" he asked, genuinely wanting to know the name of the person who saved him from standing in the rain.

You smiled, feeling a warmth in your heart that he cared to ask.

"I'm Yn," you introduced, the simplicity of your name contrasting with the depth of your actions.

"Yn," Heeseung repeated, the unfamiliar name rolling off his tongue with a gentle lilt.

He found comfort in the way it sounded, like a soft melody that made his heart feel a little less heavy.

The rain continued to fall around you both as you reached your apartment building. Heeseung followed you into the lobby, feeling a mix of gratitude and relief at the thought of being out of the rain and surrounded by warmth.

You pulled out your keys, unlocking the door to your apartment and ushering Heeseung inside. The warmth of the apartment immediately enveloped them, offering a stark contrast to the cold, damp exterior.

Heeseung walked in, feeling the transition from the rainy atmosphere outside to the comforting shelter inside. He looked around the apartment, noticing the cozy, homey vibe, and he found himself relaxing a bit.

You gestured towards a door down the hallway. "You can hang your jacket in there." You pointed to the door next to it. "The bathroom's there. I'll get you a dry change of clean clothes that my older brother left behind. Make yourself at home, alright?"

Heeseung nodded, grateful for your hospitality.

"Thank you so much, Yn. I really appreciate this," he said heartfelt, his voice sincere.

He followed your directions, hanging up his damp jacket and taking off his shoes before heading into the bathroom.

As you headed to the bedroom to find something dry for Heeseung to wear, Heeseung entered the bathroom, the sound of the rain outside providing a calming white noise.

The warm glow from the bathroom light created a soothing atmosphere as he stepped inside. He turned on the shower and began washing the cold rain off, feeling a sense of relaxation wash over him.

He let the warm water run down his body, the sound of the shower mixing with his own thoughts.

He found himself reflecting on the events of the evening, the breakup, the rain, and your sudden presence in his life.

Heeseung stayed in the shower for a bit longer than usual, finding comfort in the warmth and solitude.

When he finally stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist, he felt refreshed and a little more calm.

Heeseung walked out of the bathroom, finding a fresh set of clothes laid out for him. He quickly changed into them, appreciating the simple gesture more than you could possibly know.

The clothes felt soft against his skin, the scent of fabric softener a comforting whiff of familiarity. Heeseung ran a hand through his damp hair and stepped out of the room, feeling a bit more at ease now.

As he re-entered the main living area, he saw you making hot tea. You glanced over your shoulder and smiled, seeing that he looked much more comfortable in the dry clothes.

"I hope those clothes fit okay," you stated, a hint of concern in your voice.

"And I made some tea. Chamomile, to help you relax," you said as you offered a teacup to him.

You urged gently, your words tinged with concern, "After you drink this, you should go to sleep. It's almost 2 AM."

The late hour and the worry in your words conveyed your genuine concern for his well-being.

Heeseung looked at you, a mix of exhaustion and gratitude in his eyes.

"You're right," he admitted, taking the teacup from you. The warmth of the cup felt pleasant against his cold hands.

"I don't think I could stay awake for much longer anyway," he said, a tired sigh escaping his lips.

Heeseung, feeling the weight of exhaustion, takes a sip of the chamomile tea you had made for him.

The warmth of the cup and the soothing fragrance of the tea comforted him, and he set it down on the table.

"Thank you," he said with gratitude, his voice sincere and heartfelt. "For everything. Letting me stay over, providing me with dry clothes... You've been incredibly kind, Yn."

You chuckled lightly, revealing the soft spot in your heart. "I guess I just have a soft spot for cute lonely souls who happen to be soaked by the rain past midnight," you teased, observing him delicately as he sipped his tea.

A hint of color rose to Heeseung's cheeks as he realized your teasing remark. He let out a small, embarrassed laugh, not used to such unexpected compliments.

"I guess that means I'm the luckiest, then," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of playfulness.

The warmth of the apartment, the comfort of the clothes you had provided, and the soothing tea in his hand made him feel at ease.

Despite the emotional turmoil of the night, there was a sense of peace settling in his heart, thanks to your compassionate presence.

His voice grew solemn, gratitude evident as he spoke, "But really—thank you, y/n. I felt something I haven’t felt from a long time, and I think you’re a really good person…" The weight of his words hung in the air, his genuine appreciation for you becoming apparent.

You felt your heart warm, a mix of emotions welling up within you.

"You don't have to thank me," you responded softly, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I'm just glad I was there to help you when you needed it."

There was a moment of silent understanding between you both, the weight of his words settling in.

The late hour, the weary exhaustion, and the vulnerability of the situation created a fragile connection, an invisible bond that seemed to grow stronger the longer you shared this quiet moment.

As the silence between you two stretched on, Heeseung broke it with a question that hinted at his growing curiosity about you.

"To be honest, I don't really want our night to end here," he confessed, his voice quiet but sincere.

"I know we just met, but I'd really like to get to know you better."

The vulnerability in his voice echoed in the room. Heeseung had been through an emotional rollercoaster of a night, and in this moment of vulnerability and weary exhaustion, he was opening up to you, a stranger who had shown him nothing but kindness.

The desire for connection, for something beyond the shared moment of late-night solace, was evident in his words.

Heeseung hoped that you wouldn't dismiss his invitation, that you would give him a chance to learn more about you.

You met his gaze, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"I'd like that, Heeseung," you responded, your voice carrying a note of warm honesty.

"I don't mind getting to know you better either."

thx for reading

[diamonddaze01]

missed calls

Pairing: idol!yoon jeonghan x gn!reader | wc: 3.7k genre: fluff, angst warnings: none a/n: missing my husband extra hard // all my love to @lovetaroandtaemin @gyubakeries and @gotta-winwin for beta-ing this <3

now playing: better half by jeonghan ft. omoinotake

summary: It’s a strange kind of ache, missing someone who feels both so close and so far.

The time difference makes you feel like a ghost sometimes.

There are moments when the world feels off-kilter, as though you’re existing in parallel timelines that never quite overlap. You wake to silence, your phone screen dark, the weight of unanswered messages settling in your chest like morning fog. You wonder where Jeonghan is when you miss his calls.

Maybe he’s walking through crowded streets in some unfamiliar city, the hum of life around him muted by his own thoughts. You picture him with his hood up, his head tilted just slightly, the breeze lifting strands of his hair as he stares out at a horizon that feels impossibly far from you. His lips might curve in that faint, private smile he wears when the world seems too loud, when he’s retreating into himself in a way only he can.

Or maybe he’s somewhere quiet, tucked into a hotel room that still feels too big for one person, the night pressing against the window like an old friend. You imagine him leaning back in his chair, his voice heavy with exhaustion, his words soft and slow as they try to find their way to you. But the distance swallows the sound before it can reach you, leaving you with nothing but the memory of how it feels to hear his laugh, his voice calling your name.

It’s a strange kind of ache, missing someone who feels both so close and so far.

Saitama, Japan. November.

네가 있는 그곳의 일기예보는 유난히 자꾸 눈에 들어와 이런 날 보며 웃어 줘 (The weather forecast where you are strangely keeps catching my eye / smile for me on a day like this)

Saitama. His third stop on the tour. Japan, a city far away from you, but close enough to feel like an ache in the back of your mind. It’s the way Jeonghan’s absence seems to stretch time itself. Some days, you don’t even recognize the hours as they pass—you only feel the silence.

When his name lights up your phone, it’s late—too late, really, to expect any sort of coherent conversation. But with Jeonghan, it never matters.

“I saw the weather in your city,” he says, his voice a low, familiar hum against the backdrop of your quiet apartment. There’s no greeting, no preamble—just the way his words always feel like home. “It’s raining, isn’t it?”

You glance out the window. The rain has stopped, but the world is still soaked in its aftermath. The streetlights paint the wet pavement in long, streaking reflections, the kind that feel like they belong in an old film.

“It’s not raining anymore,” you murmur, leaning into the sound of his voice. “But everything’s still wet.”

There’s a pause, the kind of silence that stretches not in discomfort but in longing. You can almost picture him, somewhere in Bangkok, leaning against the edge of a hotel balcony, the humid night pressing in around him.

“You always loved the rain,” he says finally, his voice soft with memory. “You’d sit by the window for hours, just watching it fall, like it was the most important thing in the world.”

“And you’d tell me to close it,” you reply, smiling even though he can’t see it. “Before we both caught a cold.”

He laughs, and the sound is so achingly familiar that you press your phone tighter against your ear, as though it might close the miles between you. “I miss that,” he says, quieter now, the amusement fading into something deeper. “I miss you.”

His words sit heavy and warm between you, like a blanket you can’t quite pull around yourself. You press your forehead against the cool glass of the window, letting it anchor you in the present.

“I miss you too,” you whisper, and though the words feel small compared to the weight of your longing, it’s all you can give him right now.

There’s another pause, longer this time, and when he speaks again, his voice is a thread pulled tight with exhaustion and tenderness. “It’s been seven stops,” he says, almost to himself. “Seven cities. But every time I look out at the crowd, I think of you. Wonder if you’d be somewhere out there, smiling at me.”

You close your eyes against the sudden sting of tears, the thought of him standing on a stage, searching for a face that isn’t there. “I wish I could be,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’d give anything to be there.”

“You’ll be with me at the last stop,” he replies, his voice firm, as if saying it will make it true. “We’ll be together then.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he echoes, the word carrying a weight that you know he won’t let go of.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence filled only with the quiet hum of static and the imagined sound of rain falling somewhere far away.

“Smile for me,” Jeonghan says suddenly, breaking the quiet. His voice is playful now, teasing in the way that only he can be. “On a day like this, just smile for me.”

And even though he can’t see it, even though it doesn’t feel like enough, you smile. Because for now, it’s the closest thing to being by his side.

Bangkok, Thailand. December. 

멀리서 바라본대도 언제나 함께인 너와 나 서로 꽉 잡아주었던 손가락 대신 말이야 (Even if we’re far away, you and I are always together / Instead of fingers tightly holding each other, we have words)

Jeonghan’s in Bangkok now, and your calls have become more sporadic. The time zone difference has made it harder to sync up, and his rehearsals and soundchecks stretch late into the evening. The countdown to Christmas is drawing near, and there’s something about the holiday season that amplifies the distance. The twinkling lights in your apartment feel colder, the festive music playing on the radio a bit too cheerful. It’s hard to ignore the ache that fills the gaps between the fleeting conversations.

But he always finds a way to let you know he’s thinking of you, even when the calls don’t come.

It’s one of those late nights, just days before Christmas Eve, when his name flashes across your phone. You’re curled up on the couch, surrounded by half-wrapped presents and an unopened box of decorations, the scent of pine from the small tree you managed to set up lingering in the air. The world outside is dusted with snow, and for a moment, you let the stillness settle. But the phone call is like a soft knock at the door, a gentle reminder that even when he’s far away, Jeonghan’s voice is always there to anchor you.

“Sorry I missed you earlier,” his voice crackles through the speaker, a bit raspy from all the singing. You smile to yourself, hearing that familiar tone, the one that always sounds so far away yet somehow so close. “I hate not being able to hold your hand.”

You press the phone to your ear tighter, as if that could bridge the miles between you. The emptiness of the space beside you feels even more pronounced in this quiet moment. Your fingers ache, as if they could still feel the warmth of his touch from all those nights when you held each other close.

“I know,” you reply, your voice soft, the words carrying a weight that makes the distance feel like a tangible thing. “We’ll make up for it.”

You let the silence linger, as if it could somehow fill the void. “Someday,” you continue, the hope threading through your words. “When we’re together again.”

You can hear him exhale, a heavy sound that speaks of fatigue but also of something deeper. “Someday,” he echoes, but his tone is threaded with something that makes your heart ache. There’s a distance in the word, and yet a promise too, like a whispered prayer in the cold night air. “Until then, I guess I’ll have to settle for this.”

“Settle for what?” You shift on the couch, glancing at the twinkling lights on the tree, the soft shadows they cast on the walls. The thought of him fills your chest with warmth despite the cold that’s crept into the room.

“My voice,” he says, the corners of his voice curling into a soft smile. You can almost hear it, as though he’s there, standing beside you in the living room, smiling that quiet smile you love so much. “Calling your name.”

The sudden rush of emotion hits you like a wave, and you let out a laugh, albeit a quiet one. You can hear his smile through the phone, and it makes your heart flutter in that familiar way. Even though you’re separated by miles and time zones, you know that smile. You know that voice.

“That’s all I need,” you say, your words steady despite the longing twisting inside you. There’s a comfort in this—knowing that, even through the distance, he’s thinking of you. Even as you sit here, surrounded by the quiet of the holiday season, you are not alone. You never are when his voice is with you.

“Just my voice?” Jeonghan teases, but there’s no mistaking the tenderness behind it.

“For now,” you tease back. The smile that spreads across your face feels like the sun breaking through the clouds after a long storm. “But I can’t wait for the day when I can hear you say it in person again.”

He pauses for a moment, and you can tell that he’s smiling too, even though you can’t see him. “Me neither,” he says softly. “Just wait, okay? I’ll be home soon. And I’ll hold your hand then. All the Christmas lights in the world won’t be able to compare to that.”

The words settle in your heart, and for a moment, you let the phone slip from your ear as you look out at the snow falling softly against the darkened window. The world outside seems to hold its breath as you hold on to that promise, the quiet magic of love woven through the simple exchange of words.

As the conversation ends, you stand and walk over to the window, watching the snowflakes fall. You can almost feel him beside you, can almost imagine his fingers lacing with yours in the stillness of the night.

And in that moment, with the twinkling lights of Christmas warming the room, you let yourself believe—this will pass. Soon, he’ll be back. And you’ll both hold on to each other, through every season, no matter the miles.

Incheon, South Korea. January. 

변하지 않는 중력처럼 끌어당겨 날 너에게로 (Like unchanging gravity, you pull me toward you)

The months of separation have felt like a quiet ache, each day stretching endlessly between you and Jeonghan, but as his flight lands at Incheon, the world shifts, and you feel it in your bones. The moment the doors open, his figure steps through the airport terminal, the hum of conversations and the bustle of travelers fading into a distant blur.

He's wearing the exhaustion of tour like a second skin—his eyes heavy, his steps slow—but there’s something in the way he moves toward you, something magnetic, something undeniable. It’s like gravity, drawing him back to you with an inevitable pull, no matter how far apart you were.

As he crosses the threshold, his eyes meet yours, and in that instant, the months of absence dissolve. His tiredness melts away in the warmth of your gaze, and his lips curve into a smile—soft, yet filled with the same intensity as a thousand words unsaid. He drops his bag with a thud, not caring where it lands, and before you can even take a breath, his arms are around you, pulling you close, as if the air itself is too thin for him to breathe without you in it.

It’s not just a hug. It’s an avalanche of emotion, a force so powerful that it steals your breath away. His heartbeat syncs with yours as if it has never been out of rhythm, as if time had never existed between the last time you held him and now. The world, with all its noise, its demands, its distractions, seems to quiet around you.

His scent is the first thing that hits you—a familiar blend of him, of warmth and the soft whisper of something that always makes you feel like home. His skin is warmer than you remember, and his fingers, gentle but sure, find the back of your neck, cradling your head like he’s afraid you might slip away again.

“I told you I’d come back,” Jeonghan murmurs against your ear, his voice hoarse, as though it’s been waiting for this moment for so long. You don’t know if he means he’d promised in the past or if it’s a vow meant to echo through every moment you share in the future. The weight of his words lingers in the air, rich and heavy, and you can’t help but let out a soft laugh.

The sound is barely audible, but it’s enough to break through the haze of emotions thick in the air. You pull away just enough to see his face, eyes darker than you remember but alive with a quiet, burning affection. Your fingers find the fabric of his coat, clinging to him as if it’s the only thing that could anchor you to this moment, this reality where the distance no longer exists.

“You’re real,” you whisper into the hollow of his shoulder, fingers gripping the cloth like you might lose him again if you let go. The ache in your chest rises, threatening to swallow you whole, but it’s different now. He’s here, and the space you’ve carried between you for so long is finally closed.

“I’ve always been real,” he answers softly, his voice a balm against the tremor in your voice. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands gently cupping your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks with a tenderness that threatens to undo you. His gaze is endless, like the ocean, deep and consuming, and you find yourself lost in it, drowning in the warmth of his presence.

“You’re the gravity that pulls me back,” he says, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile, one that’s both soft and filled with something heavier. “I could never stay away.” And then, before either of you can think about it too much, he leans in, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment before he seals it with a kiss.

It’s soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters of this closeness that feels like it could shatter the fragile air between you. But then his lips press against yours with a quiet urgency, a hunger that’s been buried under weeks of separation. His hands slide to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your hands threading through his hair, holding him as if you could absorb him into your very being.

The kiss deepens, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for this moment to unfold. There’s no rush, no hurry—just the slow burn of his lips against yours, the shared exhale, the tender weight of his arms around you.

When you finally pull away, the air between you feels impossibly full, as if the kiss itself has filled the space where words have always struggled to reach. Jeonghan presses his forehead against yours, his breathing unsteady but steadying.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, voice thick with everything he’s felt in the time you’ve been apart.

You smile, feeling like the distance, the longing, all of it has finally found its place in the quiet of his embrace. “I’ve missed you too.”

And in this moment, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter how far he goes, no matter the miles between you, he’ll always be the gravity that pulls you back to him. And you’ll always come back, too.

Bocaue, Philippines. February. 

어린아이처럼 늘 손을 꼽아 다시 만나는 그날을 (Like a child, I count down the days / Until the day we meet again)

Even reunions are fleeting. When Jeonghan leaves again, this time for the Philippines, you are left to breathe in the emptiness that lingers in his absence. The quiet stretches out before you like an untraveled road, the days growing heavier with every passing hour.

But in the stillness, you find a strange comfort—counting the days, one by one. The routine becomes a delicate ritual, as if the act of waiting itself is a thread connecting your hearts, pulling him back toward you.

You find yourself tracing the days in your mind, as though they were beads on a string, one for each heartbeat. Like a child who waits for the seasons to change, you cross off each night on an invisible calendar, whispering his name to the moon as if it could carry your voice to him. 

Each day feels endless, and yet, within it, there is hope.

One evening, just as you settle into your favorite spot by the window, the full moon rising to bathe your room in silver light, the familiar sound of his voice breaks the silence. You hadn’t realized how much you had missed the sound of it—soft, distant, yet so very close.

“Are you looking at the sky?” Jeonghan’s voice hums across the distance, pulling you in, weaving a bridge between the two of you.

“I am,” you reply, a tender smile pulling at the corners of your lips as you tilt your head toward the heavens. “Are you?”

“Always,” he says, his voice carrying a warmth that feels like a caress even through the phone. “It’s the one thing we can share, no matter how far apart we are.”

There is something about those words, simple yet profound, that makes your heart ache in the most beautiful way. You imagine him, somewhere under the same sky, the moonlight washing over his face, just as it does yours. His eyes, probably closed in that soft, familiar way, drinking in the same view. And in that moment, the world seems smaller. The distance between you and Jeonghan, though vast, feels like a mere whisper.

You picture him looking at the same moon, its light spilling over his face, and suddenly, the distance feels bearable. The days may pass in slow motion, but each one brings you closer to him. And so, with the moon as your silent witness, you smile softly into the night, counting the days as they turn into weeks, knowing that soon—soon—he will be home.

Osaka, Japan. March. 

다음 그다음 싹이 틀 연 분홍빛의 벚꽃잎이 수줍게 핀 모습을 함께 보도록 (the buds of pale pink cherry blossoms / Will bloom shyly for us to see together)

By the time Jeonghan reaches Osaka, spring has arrived. The cherry blossoms you dreamed of seeing together have finally bloomed, delicate petals painting the air with soft pinks, like a memory you’ve held onto through the long months of distance. Their fragile beauty seems to mirror your own waiting heart, tender and yearning, unfolding bit by bit with every passing day.

One afternoon, he calls you just as you’re stepping outside, the warm breeze teasing the edges of your jacket, the scent of fresh earth and spring in the air. The cherry trees in your own neighborhood sway gently, their petals dancing in the sunlight, their branches dipping toward the ground as though offering their beauty to the world. It’s not quite the same as the ones in Japan, but they’re still stunning, just like the dream you once whispered to him late at night: that one day, you’d be there together to witness this moment.

His voice crackles through the phone, distant yet intimate, like he's right beside you. “They’re blooming here too,” Jeonghan says, and you can hear the awe in his voice, the wonder that always lingers when he talks about the little things that make life feel full. “I wish you could see them.”

There’s a slight catch in his words, and you can tell it’s the same wistful longing that fills your chest when you look at the trees, but you smile anyway, because you know he’s thinking of you.

“Next year,” you reply, trying to sound certain, though your voice catches in the same way his did. “We’ll see them together next year.”

You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in the air around you, letting the thought of his warmth beside you on a spring day settle in your chest.

There’s a long pause. For a moment, the connection feels stretched across miles, but you can still feel him there, as though he’s standing in front of you, watching the same cherry blossoms. His voice, when it comes, is steady, unwavering, and filled with the quiet certainty that’s always been his signature. “We will.”

And in that moment, you know it’s true. You know that no matter how far apart you are, no matter how many missed calls or delayed flights or sleepless nights you face, this love is something that time cannot touch. It’s written in the cherry blossoms that bloom when the seasons change, in the soft glow of the moon that shines for both of you, no matter where you are. It’s in every smile that crosses your lips when you hear his voice, every quiet moment when you can almost feel him beside you, even though he’s thousands of miles away.

It’s in the way he always calls, no matter how late it is or how busy he gets. In the way he’s never too far to remind you that he’s thinking of you. You believe him because you’ve felt it—the way his love wraps around you, steady and sure, even when the distance feels endless. It’s in the promise of next year, and the year after that. It’s in every missed call, every whispered promise, and every moment that pulls you back together, stronger than before.

In the distance, a cherry blossom blooms.  

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 4

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[Note: Several time jumps. OC is finally getting back at him. Somehow. Bringing in Hobi and Jimin! I know there are a lot of unanswered questions but I promise it'll all make sense later. What do you think is going to happen to JK? How about OC? Let me know. Keep dropping your comments and theories. I love reading them! 💜

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The soft drizzle falls around you, the light mist catching the edges of your blazer and the hem of your skirt. You pull the collar up a little higher, the cool air a contrast to the warmth of the house you’d just left behind.

Behind you, your mother’s voice calls out, reminding to take your car keys and drive carefully. You turn back, offering a quick smile, but shake your head. No need for the car today. Not when the rain feels just right, and the familiar walk to the store is all you need.

The streets shine faintly from the rain, puddles holding broken reflections of streetlights and neon signs. A bus rumbles by, sending a damp breeze that smells of wet pavement and far-off fried food. Somewhere close, a bike chain rattles, and a quiet laughter drifts from an alley.

Jeongguk’s already waiting by the convenience store, umbrella tilted enough to keep the rain off his shoulders. The pavement’s slick, but he stands like he’s been there a while—shirt crisp, slacks pressed, shoes untouched by the puddles gathering near the curb.

“Did you walk?” No ‘hi’s or ‘hello’s’, he greets you with a questioning look.

“Unless I was dumb enough to drive with the sunroof open in this weather, then sure.” You say, wiping your face with the cuffs of your blazer like it would make a difference.

“You’ll get sick.” Before you can even react, he pulls you under his umbrella, arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Should’ve taken your car,” he mutters, and you almost miss the small, teasing glint in his eyes, “Or at least a raincoat, genius.”

“That would’ve ruined my outfit.”

“And it isn’t already?”

“Was aiming for that dramatic, soaked-to-the-bone, movie scene vibe—like something straight out of one of your old short films.” Jeongguk doesn’t laugh. Only tightens his grip a little on your shoulder.

“Let’s go inside before you turn into a puddle,” he says, almost quietly, as he begins steering you toward the convenience store.

It’s a familiar chaos inside – the old freezer rattling in the back, faded posters on the walls, narrow aisles that make you stand too close. You both slip into the old routine without thinking — wandering to the snack shelves, fingers brushing when you grab the same bag of chips, quietly arguing over ramen flavors in front of the shelves.

“Seafood again?” he murmurs when you toss two packs into the basket. “That’s gross.”

“You have gross taste.”

“I married you. You’re far from gross.”

You blink, a little thrown off, and for a second, you forget about the ramen in your hands. The playful remark catches in your throat, his words hanging in the air longer than they should.

“Going to get coffee. Put some ice-cream in that basket, will you?” You avoid his gaze. “And none of that mint choco shit, please.” Walking away, you hoped he doesn’t catch the way your heartbeat’s just a little bit faster.

Jeongguk snorts under his breath. Reaches for his usual spicy pick. Pauses over the pack. Sets it back quietly. Picks up the same flavor as yours instead.

The soft hum of the store surrounds you as you both sit by the window, ramen cups warming your hands. The rain taps against the glass in a steady rhythm that blends with the quiet between you. You take your time with each bite, the steam rising gently, mixing with the faint scent of the store’s dim lighting.

Every so often, a laugh escapes—when Jeongguk almost loses a fishcake or mutters under his breath about the heat of a bite still too much for him.

He blows on another spoonful, glancing around. “You could’ve picked anywhere,” he says, not quite looking at you. “Why here?”

You shrug, spoon tapping lightly against the rim of your cup. “Felt like ramen.”

“There’s a million places for ramen.”

You take a slow sip of broth, eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the window. “Yeah, but not all of them have that loud freezer in the back,” you say, nodding toward the buzzing from behind. “Music to my ears.”

Jeongguk huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Music.”

You nudge his foot with yours under the table. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss the suspiciously sticky floor.”

He smiles. Doesn’t say anything else.

The conversation wanders, light and easy. You complain about your mother’s terrible playlist from earlier at the house; he tells you about a messy photoshoot he has to redo with a rookie group who kept striking anime poses. The laughter between you softens.

Across from you, Jeongguk leans back a little, his shoulders no longer drawn so tight, and for a moment, everything feels a little lighter.

In between bites of ice cream, you catch him looking – nothing grand, just quick glances when you’re busy wrestling with a stubborn scoop. His eyes follow the way your brows pinch in concentration, the smudge of vanilla clinging to your chin.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Just wipes the mess off you, goes right back to his own cup. You keep your eyes on your ice cream, but your next bite comes a little slower.

The cups end up stacked between you, half-melted, sticky around the edges. Neither of you says much as you stand, wiping your hands on stray napkins, and straightening your clothes as if it was another routine.

By the door, the rain is still coming down—not hard, but enough. You hesitate, eyeing the gray outside, the sidewalk gleaming wet. The cold’s starting to get to you, starts seeping into your bones but there’s no regret with your choices this morning. Just thoughts on how you were going to get to work.

Jeongguk shifts beside you, umbrella already in hand. “I’ll drive you.”

You shake your head, pulling your blazer a little tighter. “I’m good. It’s not far.”

The air outside feels lighter than it should, like the morning forgot to wear its usual weight — and maybe that’s why you’d rather walk.

He doesn’t argue. Just presses the umbrella into your hand and steps back. You glance down at it, then back at him, brows raised.

“No gifts,” you remind him of the list that’s been dangling around, messing with reality.

“It’s just an umbrella. I’ll get it some other time,” He’s already turning toward his own way. “Just—don’t do the dramatic rain scene again. Once was enough.”

You smile, barely. “No promises.”

The office buzzes with its usual tension—the kind that builds before a storm of deadlines. Fashion week team is about to leave, and it feels like you're nowhere near ready to give them what they need. You’re starting to regret asking your mother to let you focus on this last project instead of the rest of the pending things needed to be taken care of. You've been stuck at your desk for hours, scrolling through model updates, fabric delays, and endless revision requests.

The conversations outside your office, the clatter of keyboards near the desks nearby, fades just enough for your eyes to drift to the black umbrella leaning against the corner of the room. It leaves a brief comfort in your chest amidst the office chaos but you quickly push the thought away before focusing back to the never-ending tasks on the table.

Mark’s voice cuts through the noise like caffeine. “Are you planning to blink today or should I hire a personal assistant to turn your head every few hours?”

You roll your eyes, tapping at your tablet. “If you bring me one more intern who can’t tell crepe from chiffon, I’m replacing you with AI.”

“Please. Even an algorithm wouldn’t put up with your mood swings,” he mutters before sliding into the seat across from you. He barely gets comfortable before he squints at you. “You walk here or swim?”

You don’t look up. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Sure. And I’m Miss Korea.” He leans back, head tilting slightly. “You’ve got that look—like one of those soaked leads in a drama who says they’re fine five minutes before fainting in the street.”

You finally glance at him, unimpressed. “I’m not going to faint.”

“Yet,” he adds, already pulling a file from your side of the desk like he’s about to manage your life himself. “Next time, toss on an extra coat. Or maybe wear a waterproof personality.”

You try not to smile, focus snapping back to your screen.

Mark flips through a few pages, then mutters like an afterthought, “Can’t even pick on you properly when you look like a sad dumpling.”

The hours stack on top of each other. Your inbox keeps refilling no matter how fast you clear it, and the tablet screen glares back like it’s judging your posture. Every time you blink, there’s a new message, a change in schedule, a missing sample no one can seem to track down. The morning calm feels like a different lifetime.

At some point, Mark slides a protein bar your way without looking up from the papers scattered. “If you pass out now, I’m not carrying you. My back’s already had enough this week.”

“For the hundredth time, no one’s passing out.” You huffed. “And don’t blame me for your old bones.”

“Take that back.”

You don’t.

Mark doesn’t say much after, just stands and disappears for a while—something about checking prints downstairs, or maybe he never said at all. You’re too deep into revisions to notice until his chair squeaks again.

Not long after, the office door creaks open. You don’t look up at first, expecting another intern with bad timing and worse questions. But then a voice breaks through the static in your head.

“You still squint at the screen like that? Thought Mark Hyung would’ve bought you glasses by now,” comes the familiar lilt.

Another joins in, teasing and warm, “She only listens to lectures if they’re wrapped in a compliment.”

You blink. And there they are—Hobi and Jimin. Hobi looks like he stepped out of a launch party, and Jimin, hoodie up, cap low, like he’s dodging both fans and responsibility. One of them’s already holding a takeout bag, the scent of something greasy and fried curling through the air like a bribe.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “You eat today or just survive on sarcasm and spite?”

Hobi grins, leaning his elbows on your desk like he’s got all the time in the world. “Someone said you needed rescuing. And voilà, the rescue party has arrived.”

Jimin plops down in the chair beside him, pulling his cap a little higher. “Not like we needed the call. But if we didn’t show up today, you’d probably talk to your fabric suppliers till later and not even squeeze in a call to deliver bread at least.”

You snort, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “If I had known I was going to get a course on how to stay on track today, I should’ve left the office, gone to the mountains for a hike.”

Jimin raises a brow. “Bold of you to assume we wouldn’t follow.”

“You’d get lost halfway up and complain about not having Wi-Fi,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth is already lifting.

The smell of fried chicken and bulgogi fills the office as the five of you settle into the small lounge area. The takeout containers are spread out like a battlefield, half of them already picked through, the other half still piping hot.

Hobi leans back in his chair, balancing a bottle of soda between his hands. “I still think you should let me do a rebrand on your office look. Maybe a neon sign with your name in it. Just to hype this place up.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a laugh bubbling up. “A neon sign in this place will make my company look like a club instead of a luxury fashion line.”

Hobi’s grin widens. “Man, I miss clubbing. Like an actual party where I don’t have an earpiece with staff panicking and asking what comes next.”

You shake your head, chuckling despite yourself. “You and your partying ass. Get over it.”

Jimin, who’s been quietly observing the banter, leans in with a teasing smile. “It’s not that bad. Though I bet Hobi Hyung would love an excuse to throw a real party here. We could call it ‘Fashion Week: The After-Party Edition.’”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t encourage him.”

Hobi shrugs innocently. “What? A little bit of fun never hurt anyone.”

You laugh, finally feeling like yourself again.

Jimin’s expression turns a little more serious. “It’s been a while since we caught up. Really caught up, you know?” He’s smiling, but there’s a quiet edge behind his words. “You good?”

You shift in your seat, avoiding his gaze for just a moment. “I’m fine,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just... busy.”

Hobi isn’t having it, though. Leans forward, narrows his eyes at you. “You sure? Because from where I’m sitting, you look like a walk-in freezer that’s been running on empty. I don’t know what’s worse—watching you survive on coffee or seeing you avoid the topic every time someone asks.”

Mark shifts, his gaze flicking between you and Hobi, before cutting in lightly, “Hobi’s just mad because he doesn’t get to plan your next ‘catch-up’ event. But yeah... ‘fine’ is not the word I’d use.”

Jimin sighs, a little quieter now. “You’ve been through a lot. If you want to talk about it—”

You shake your head, a half-hearted smile trying to escape. “It’s nothing. Just work and... you know other stuff.”

Hobi watches you closely, the corner of his mouth twitching in a subtle frown. “I get it, you’ve got a lot on your plate. But... seriously, how are you holding up? Other than—” you give him a look that makes him stop. “Jeongguk, how are things with Jeongguk?”

Your lips part, but nothing lands right away. “We’re... civil.” It’s all you say.

You don’t mention how you’ve been pretending to be fine with how things are, even when it’s harder than it should be. You don’t mention how you’ve offered yourself to your soon to be ex-husband’s shoulder to cry on when he shares his troubles with the woman, he’s replaced you with. You don’t mention how you sometimes catch yourself wanting to ask him things you shouldn’t.

“Civil,” Jimin echoes, unconvinced, breaking the silence.

“He’s civil. I’m civil. He’s keeping to the terms.”

“Civil’s overrated. Bare minimum” Hobi crosses his arms, drifting his attention to the office windows. “He’s still fucking married to you. Supposed to be giving you these things without it being printed on some damn paper. You don’t have to play nice for anyone.”

You stiffen slightly but keep your expression neutral. “It’s complicated, Hobi.”

Hobi raises an eyebrow, not backing down. “That’s your polite way of saying you’re letting someone walk all over you?”

Before you can respond, Jimin cuts in gently, giving Hobi a warning glance. “Take it easy.”

Hobi leans back, giving a mock sigh. “Told you from the beginning, I never liked that list.”

You smile faintly. “You also said we were the couple that’d never fall apart.”

“I still lose sleep over my wedding pep talk for you.”

“Loved that pep talk. Probably would’ve run away if it weren’t for that.”

“Good,” Hobi replies dryly. “You should’ve.”

Jimin shakes his head with a half-smile. “Hyung, let it go. Jeongguk’s important to her, she loves him and that means we have to tolerate him.”

Mark, who’s been pretending to focus on sorting samples, chimes in. “As long as he doesn’t mess with her deadlines, I don’t care who she loves.”

You snort, grateful for the shift. “Touching.”

“I try,” he deadpans, then sets a fabric swatch book down with a soft thud. “Now, if you three are done reliving heartbreak, someone needs to sort these model cards before I start mixing up shoe sizes with waistlines.”

Hobi stretches with a groan but grabs a stack anyway. “Alright, boss man. But I’m only helping if you admit I make this office look good.”

“You’re literally in a hoodie,” Mark replies.

“It’s Louis,” Hobi grins, already flipping through cards.

Jimin moves beside you, peeking at your tablet. “I’ll take over this round of approvals. You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe again.”

You don’t argue. Instead, you lean back, letting them fall into your chaos like they’ve always known how. For the first time that day, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

The sounds of clicking keyboards and soft rustles of fabrics fills your office. Hobi’s made himself at home by the mood board, offering unasked-for commentary on color pairings while Jimin plays assistant, flipping through lookbooks with exaggerated seriousness.

“Please tell me this model isn’t walking the finale in suede,” Jimin mutters, squinting at a printout.

“She’s not,” Mark replies dryly. “Unless you’re volunteering to carry her down the runway when she slips.”

“Depends—do I get a signature Seora tux?”

You just listen, fingers moving slower over the tablet screen. Hobi's voice floats nearby, filling the room with something lighter than what usually hangs in the air. Even Mark’s tension has eased.

Your phone buzzes once, face down beside the tablet. Absentmindedly, you flip it over.

An Instagram story—Jeongguk’s username in soft gray at the top.

You tap before you can think. It’s a video, no more than five seconds. A woman in the passenger seat, laughing at something, her voice muffled by the hum of the road. The camera shifts slightly—Jeongguk must be holding it—then settles on her smile. The caption reads nothing but a small white heart.

The video ends. The screen stays still in your hand. Something in you stills with it—like a thread pulled too tight.

Around you, the others are still talking, still moving. Jimin’s flipping through a file, Hobi’s complaining about fluorescent lighting, Mark is reaching for the stapler.

You clear your throat, folding the tablet shut a little too gently. “We should go out.”

Jimin looks up. “Now?”

“Now,” You’re already reaching for your coat. “Need something stupid. Loud music. Tequila. Bad choices.”

Mark doesn’t move right away. “You hate drinking.”

“I hate being bored more Besides, Hobi said he misses the club.”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to see what’s beneath your voice, then shrugs. “Fine. But if you start handing out hair ties instead of cash again, I’m not pitching in for the bill.”

Hobi chokes on his drink. “You what?”

“She tipped a cab driver with pastel scrunchies once,” Mark says, deadpan. “Three of them. Said they were limited edition.”

“They were,” you mutter, grabbing your bag.

He grins. “She blinked twice and called him a national hero.”

“Did not.”

Jimin’s already pulling you toward the elevator. “Definitely something you’d do.”

By the time the city wraps itself in night, you're walking into a bar – walls pulse with bass-heavy music, sticky tabletops, all neon haze and lights smearing across floors. It smells like citrus and vodka, crowd packed in and pressed close. The music thrums deep in your chest—loud enough to make you forget why you needed to come here in the first place.

Mark secures a booth near the back, but it’s barely enough to keep the group together. Hobi’s already nodding along to the beat, shoulder-rolling with someone from another table.

Jimin returns with drinks, grinning like a thief. “Don’t ask what’s in these. Just trust me.”

You take the glass, the cold damp against your fingers. Sip, cough, and laugh—too sharp, too quick.

Mark watches you over the rim of his drink. Doesn’t say anything, just clinks his glass gently against yours, like a nudge. Like he knows.

The music’s heavy with bass pulsing through the floor and bodies moving like they’ve got nowhere else to be. You’re tucked in a booth with the others, nursing something that tastes vaguely like lime and trouble. Your cheeks are flushed from the heat, maybe the alcohol — hard to tell.

Jimin’s off in the crowd, still dancing, his shirt clinging to his back. Hobi’s yelling at the bartender about the injustice of watered-down whiskey. The chaos keeps spinning around you.

Mark returns with a bottle of water, sliding it in front of you without a word.

You give him a look. “No more fruity disasters?”

“Your face is pink, and you’re blinking like the lights are talking to you. Figured hydration might be smart.”

You crack a smile, fingers curling around the cold bottle.

“You good?” he asks, all teasing disappears in the air.

You nod, too quick. “Having fun.”

His eyes linger on you for a second longer than they should, but he doesn’t say anything else. Just leans back, letting his arm rest on the back of the booth, fingers tapping along to the beat — slow, relaxed.

“Still can’t believe you’re out drinking,” he says after a beat. “Thought you swore off alcohol after trying to tip that cab driver with your hair tie stash.”

You groan. “I thought they were coins.”

“You tried to convince him you were paying in ‘emotional value.’” He’s laughing now, full-bodied and loud, and you can’t help but laugh too.

“Still think he should’ve taken the deal.”

“Yeah, well. I think he did out of fear.”

He bumps your knee gently with his. No big deal. Just enough to remind you you’re still here — not stuck in your head or somewhere else entirely.

The tray keeps refilling, and so does the laughter. Something about the loud music, the spinning lights, and Hobi trying to choreograph a dance routine with two strangers at the bar makes everything feel distant, easier. Lighter.

You’re halfway through a very passionate explanation about why mozzarella sticks should be a food group when you decide — loudly, proudly — that it’s time to get your life together.

“Okay, okay, wait—shhh,” you hush the table like you're about to deliver breaking news. You dig through your bag like there’s treasure buried beneath the receipts and lip balm. “I need to call Jin. Like, right now. I’m making big-girl choices.”

Mark side-eyes you. “You’ve had three drinks in the past thirty minutes and tried to high-five a coat rack.”

“I meant to,” you insist, already tapping at your screen. “No more waiting. No more maybe-this, maybe-that. We’re finalizing the divorce. I’m done.”

Hobi nudges the bottle of soju away from your reach. “I vote we give it till tomorrow, when you’re not quoting Taylor Swift between shots.”

“Thought you wanted me to get rid of Ggukie?” Your cuteness usually does the trick of easing your friends. Guess mixing it with drunkenness was not as effective as you thought it’d be.

“Babe, that’s enough.” Jimin tries taking the two shots you’ve stolen from Mark but you’ve already drowned it before your thumb scrolls past half your contact list. You squint. The letters blur a little. It start’s with a ‘J’. That’s good enough. Green button. Press. Done.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then clicks.

“Hello?”

You don’t wait for confirmation.

“Jin! Listen to me. I’m ready. Let’s just finalize it. The divorce. The thing. You know. The huge emotional mess I’ve been dancing around like it’s a part-time hobby?”

There pause on the other end encourages you to go on.

“No, seriously, like—what am I even doing anymore? It’s been dragging on and on and now I’m out here at Seoul Clubhouse, in case you need to send backup—and I’ve had, like, three drinks and a fry that might’ve been someone else’s, and I’m just—tired, Jin.”

You tap your nail against your glass, looking anywhere but at your friends. “It fucking hurts. Pretending everything's okay fucking hurts.”

Hobi watches you closely. Mark pretends not to. Jimin’s stopped trying to grab the phone from you.

“Thought I was stronger than this. This was supposed to make me happy,” you mumble, softer now. “But here I am, making emotional speeches to my lawyer like a rom-com extra.”

You pause for breath, lifting the phone to say more—maybe something about closure, or freedom, or how weirdly loud the DJ’s playlist is tonight—but all you get is a click.

The call ends.

The blurry call log stares back at you, vague and impersonal. You drop your phone into your bag, reaching for another drink as Mark leans closer, steering the conversation back toward something safer.

The lights blur like streaks of color, and the bass is thudding through your shoes. You don’t even feel your legs anymore. Just warmth—in your cheeks, in your chest, maybe in your throat, too, where the last round of drinks is still trying to settle.

You’re laughing at something Jimin said, though you’re not sure what it was, and your body leans a little too far to the side. Mark catches you with a steady hand on your back. He says something, but the music swallows it whole. You don’t hear him. Just feel the steadiness of him.

Your hand finds his. Without thinking, you lace your fingers together like it's nothing. Like it’s normal.

Mark stiffens a little, glancing at you—but you don’t meet his eyes. Just leaned your head against his shoulder, letting your fingers rest there in his. He doesn’t move away. Your breath is warm against his neck, and then your hand is brushing his jaw as you lift your face. The space between you pulls thinner. You lean in—

He pulls away before your lips get too close.

"Nope," he says, half-laughing, half-sighing. "Don’t go handing out kisses like drink coupons. I’m flattered, but also not trying to get sued by future you. Plus, you're not going to be like him."

You squint up at him. "You’re no fun."

"I’m plenty fun. Just also not a complete idiot."

He smiles at you, but his eyes say something softer. Excuses himself to get more napkins from the bar before you notice anything. Or maybe you’re too far gone you’re seeing things.

Jeongguk’s not sure what made him come. Maybe it was the call. Maybe it was the silence that followed. Maybe it was your voice on the other end, slurring things he didn’t know would break him.

His eyes adjust slowly to the dim lights and flashing neon. The music hits him first—loud, messy, alive. Then he sees you.

You’re at a booth, slumped a little, smiling faintly, blinking slow. Your makeup’s a little smudged at the edges. Mark sits beside you, arm draped across the booth behind your shoulders. Casual, but close.

He leans in to say something near your ear and you tilt your head, eyes closing like it’s the only way to stay balanced.

Jeongguk watches from where he stands near the door, half-hidden behind a group laughing on their way out. It should be easy to walk away. You’re surrounded by friends. You look… happy. Or at least like someone trying to be.

But his jaw tightens, and something keeps his feet planted.

Hobi spots him first. There’s no welcome in his stare. Just the faintest wrinkle between his brows. A silent question. Or maybe a warning.

Jeongguk nods once, barely.

And then your eyes find him. Even through the haze, something sobers in your face.

“We’re leaving,” he says once he’s close enough. His voice cuts through the haze like a thread—steady and low.

You blink, slowly. “We are?”

“Let’s go,” he replies simply.

“I came with them.”

Jeongguk looks at the group. Hobi’s arms are crossed, unreadable. Jimin’s chewing on his lip. Mark’s the last to glance up, his jaw clenched.

“She’ll be alright,” Mark says, but it lacks conviction.

“Respectfully Hyung, fuck off.” Jeongguk says, gaze flicking toward him. “She called me. This conversation is between me and my wife.”

“She’s your wife now?”

That pulls a shift in the air. Everyone exchanges glances, and it hits you with a wave of confusion.

“I didn’t…” you trail off, brows pulling in.

“Go,” Jimin leans over, pressing his palm to your back. “You’ll feel better if you talk.”

You look back at Jeongguk. His face isn’t angry. Isn’t soft either. Just still.

Your mouth opens to argue, but Hobi already helping you stand. “Call us if anything happens.”

Jeongguk takes your coat from the booth, drapes it gently over your shoulders. The moment you step into the cold air outside, it bites at your skin, but the tension in your chest is sharper.

You’re not sure how Jeongguk’s here. How he even knew where to find you. Not sure why your friends wanted you to do this as if they knew it’s something that the two of you needed right now.

But you’re walking beside him anyway, under the streetlights, your steps unsteady but sure enough to follow.

Jeongguk drives out of the city, past the closed shops and quiet streets, until the lights thin out and the trees start replacing buildings. You don’t know where he’s taking you at first. Just know that you want to get out of the seat that was occupied not too long ago by someone you wish you never get to see in this lifetime.

But you don’t smell that awfully familiar expensive, sweet, citrus fragrance that usually made your stomach churn. Then again, you’re too drunk out of your ass to know which of your senses were functioning right at the moment.

Jeongguk parks at the edge of an overlook, an old, tucked away spot you haven’t seen in years. A place people go to when they need to escape the harsh reality.

“Used to come here,” you murmur, eyes on the city lights below. “When the world felt too loud.”

“I know,” he says, leading you to the bench that’s still around. “You brought me here once. After your first runway show. Said the noise didn’t follow you up this high.”

Dropping onto the bench, you look up to the sky. “No one ever comes here this late.”

“That’s the point, right?”

Beyond the trees, a breeze stirs the leaves, brushing through the branches like a careful whisper. A few crickets sing from the grass nearby, soft and steady, like they’re keeping a quiet rhythm for the moment. The single lamppost nearby, casts long shadows that barely move. Everything feels like it’s waiting—for what, you’re not sure.

Jeongguk observes you, like he’s trying to find something in your expression he hasn’t seen before. “Any reason you chose a night of partying instead of dinner with me?”

“Thought maybe tequila, mojitos and shots of soju would help with forgetting – better than some truffle pasta that’s not even made with real truffle. And some noodles they probably boiled in the microwave.”

“Excuse me,” Jeongguk scoffs, then chuckles under his breath, trying to ease the tension between you. “That restaurant is Italian-owned. Verified and approved by Taehyung. You know how picky he is.”

You groan, your head falling back in laughter, nearly tipping off the bench—until Jeongguk catches your arm and pulls you close to his side. “Don’t make me add another regret to tonight.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything—just keeps his arm around your shoulders, steady and quiet.

“I’m sorry you had to come here,” you whisper, hoping he hears you over the wind starting to pick up. “Sorry if I messed up your plans for tonight.”

He exhales softly. “My plan was to take this beautiful woman to a little place called Eatanic Garden,” He glances down at you, voice playful. “She was supposed to have her favorite truffle pasta and a wine that was way too expensive for what it tasted like. Maybe laugh at my awful attempt to be the next best comedian in Korea.”

You smile, eyes barely open. “Sounds like she dodged a bullet.”

“Hope she didn’t,” he says, tugging your jacket gently. “She’d love that truffle pasta.”

You don’t answer. Just stare at the city beyond you. Jeongguk looks at you then, and his voice comes softer this time. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast. “Yeah… just a little foggy. Think I said some really dumb stuff earlier.”

“Yeah?” he asks, casual—but not really. You sense there’s something behind it, just couldn’t pin point what.

Shifting closer to Jeongguk, your body instinctively leans into his chest like it’s the only stable thing in your spinning world right now. “Last I remember, I picked up the phone. Meant to call Jin…probably to yell at him about paperwork or whatever.”

Jeongguk goes still like he’s holding his breath. You’re not sure. You’re too far into your head to name it.

“Didn’t even check if I dialed the right number,” you mumble, fingers now twisting in the hem of your sleeve. “Might’ve said things I didn’t mean…”

He swallows, his voice coming quieter than before. “Remember anything you said?”

You shrug against him. “Not really. Just that feeling like I was ready to... burn something down. Start over, maybe.” You laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Bet I sounded like a mess.”

“You didn’t sound like a mess.” Jeongguk says. Shrugs off the surprised look on your face, looks away with a forced kind of ease. “I mean…I can just imagine. You’re not really the screaming type, rambling maybe, but never yelling, even drunk. Probably just another sad and dramatic episode of yours.”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-joking. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Must’ve been a weird conversation, though. For the person who picked up, I mean.”

“Yeah. Wonder if I even got through Jin.” You tried looking for your phone in your bag, eyes still clouded. Relieved you got to find it quickly. Only for Jeongguk to snatch it away from you. You frown, not expecting him to take it. “Hey—”

“Maybe don’t check it right now,” Jeongguk holds the phone just out of reach. His voice is gentle, almost coaxing. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What? Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I don’t think you’ll like seeing the call log.”

Your stomach dips.

He doesn’t hand the phone back.

You look at him suspiciously, your senses suddenly coming together when you start to move away from him. “It was you, wasn’t it? I called you.”

Jeongguk taps against the phone once. Doesn’t answer.

The ripple in your chest feels like a shoot set has collapsed. “That’s why you’re here. Fuck, I called you. What did I say?”

He hesitates, shakes his head, thinks he can keep the truth from you. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Gguk.”

There’s a long pause but he couldn’t keep up with the way you were looking at him. “You said you were done holding on. That it was time.” His voice cracks there, so faintly you almost miss it. “You didn’t say my name. Didn’t have to.”

Silence pools around you. The wind brushes past your cheek, cold now. “I was drunk.”

“You sounded sure. Of finally letting go.”

You pause, glance at him with a tired smile. “That'd be a relief for you. Your final freedom.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—gone almost instantly, but you catch it. A tightening around the eyes. “Sure, whatever you say.”

“I’m sorry for whatever other stupid shit I said.”

His fingers twitch slightly where they still rest near yours, like they want to reach for you again but think better of it. “You said what you felt. That’s not stupid.”

You observe how composed he looks, how carefully he holds himself together. It strikes you, strangely, how calm he is right now. Or rather, how hard he’s trying to look like it.

“You’re being weird,” you mutter, resting your head against the back of the bench.

“I’m always weird,” Jeongguk says, but there’s no bite to it. Just quiet. A stillness too long between his answers. “Come on,” he says gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Let’s get you home.”

The air is too warm, too still. The silk sheets tangled around your legs feel like they’re trapping heat instead of offering comfort. Light cuts through the curtains in soft gold streaks, but there’s nothing gentle about the weight pressing against your chest.

Your skin’s damp — not from sweat, but from something deeper, like your body’s been fighting a quiet war all night and lost.

Every breath feels heavier than it should. Your limbs ache, not the kind that disappears after stretching, but the kind that lingers under the surface. Dull. Faintly buzzing. Like a warning that’s easy to ignore until it isn’t.

Somewhere downstairs, you hear muffled footsteps. A door opens, closes. Then silence again. Must be your mother leaving for grocery errands. You hoped it was. Wouldn’t want her seeing you like this again.

You shift onto your side, half hoping it’ll ease the tightness in your head, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sharpens — a pulsing reminder of everything you poured into last night like it wouldn’t matter come morning.

Your phone vibrates against the nightstand. Once. Twice. You painfully reach for it. Read the messages through hazy vision.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: You alive? Or did Soju win?

🌞💛: Barely. Think I’m actually dying.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Joke like that again, and I’m firing you.

🌞💛: Can’t fire me. I’m the boss. Just not today. Think you can handle off-site alone?

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Already on it. Sending help. Hate me next time.

You don’t argue. Don’t have the strength to. Just go back to sleep at some point before the heat becomes worse. Not from the blazing afternoon sun. No, you love those. Loved how it’s a comforting warmth on your skin. This time, it burns from the inside. Your bones feel like they’re melting and freezing at the same time.

The knock is soft when it comes. Two taps and a pause.

“Let me guess,” you mumble hoarsely. “Doctor delivery service?”

The door opens. Yoongi steps in — long black coat, silver chain peeking beneath his collar, a familiar bag slung over his shoulder. “You look awful.”

“Always know how to greet an old friend huh?”

He drags a chair to your bedside, sinks into, starts pulling things from his bag. “I should start charging Mark Hyung at this point.”

“I’ll pay you in cough drops and poor life decisions.”

“Pass.” He checks your pulse first, fingers cool against your wrist. His brows knit slightly. “Heart’s too fast.”

“Guess it missed you.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile. Just presses a thermometer under your tongue and sets his watch.

“Thought I felt bad last night when I got home.” You mumble. “Turns out that was just the preview.”

“Didn’t even change out of your clothes.” His tone’s flat, but still gently works the blanket over you. “That’s not ‘preview’ bad. That’s post disaster.”

“Was cold. Too tired to change, to do anything else.”

The thermometer beeps, and he checks it with a short sigh. “High. Not dangerous yet, but pushing it.” The stethoscope goes against your chest next. “Breathe.”

Shallow breaths. Deeper. Again. Yoongi listens for too long. Finally, he pulls back and leans in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “You’re paler than usual.”

“Thanks. Been trying this new foundation—thought we could use it for the Paris models. Not for my skin though.”

Yoongi doesn’t even blink. “Well, your new foundation’s reading a 41.2°C and counting.”

You groan and drop your head back into the pillows. “Maybe I’m just glowing.”

“If by glowing you mean burning alive from the inside out, sure.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a fever.”

“You’ve had three in two weeks.“

“I danced in the rain and drank poison. What else do you want from me?”

Yoongi leans back, crosses his arms. “To stop being reckless hoping the damage resets overnight.”

You look away. “It didn’t. So boo me.”

Yoongi shifts forward, reaching for your wrist again to check your pulse a second time. “I’m prescribing rest, fluids, and for you to stop pretending this is fine.” He begins repacking his bag slowly but doesn’t leave.

“Not pretending.”

“You are,” he reaches over and brushes the damp hair away from your forehead. “Can’t keep burning both ends. Sooner or later, it’s going to catch up.”

You pretend not to hear him. And he pretends not to notice.

Then Yoongi's gone. The silence that follows is louder than anything he left behind.

The gym smells like metal and sweat — the kind that sticks to your skin, soaks into your clothes, and clouds the mirrors. Jeongguk moves through his warm-up before the sun is even visible, breath steady, arms coiled tight under the weight of the barbell. The plates clink against each other like a metronome. Clean. Predictable. Easier than the mess in his head.

He lifts until his muscles burn and his palms sting. Until the thoughts go quiet.

Across the room, Mingyu waves, a playful grin on his face. They slip into an easy back-and-forth — set for set, sweat for sweat — until the hours pass, and they’re both leaning by the water cooler, shirts stuck to their skin, hearts still pounding.

“Bulking again?” Mingyu jokes, flicking his towel at Jeongguk’s side.

Jeongguk just shrugs, glancing away. “Just staying busy.”

Mingyu smirks, eyes unreadable. “That’s a lot of protein powder for someone who’s just passing time.”

Jeongguk doesn’t explain. Wouldn’t know where to start if he tried.

By the time he gets home, the sun’s high enough to throw soft shadows across the hardwood floor. He lets the gym bag fall by the stairs. The house greets him the same way it always does now — too still, too neat. Like a place where nothing lives anymore.

His eyes land on the scuff mark on the wall — the small dent from when you’d tried to carry that too-big box upstairs, laughing as you bumped into everything. He always said he’d fix it. Never did.

The fridge clicks open, cold light spilling over shelves lined up too neatly. No jars of sauce shoved in the corners. No half-empty cartons of almond milk pushed to the back. Just neat rows of containers he doesn’t remember filling. He shuts it again, the sound sharp in the quiet air.

A purple tulip sits on the counter in a slim glass vase — yesterday’s, technically, but the petals still hold their shape. His fingers graze the stem as he walks by. He changes the water. Watches it settle.

The streets of Seochon hum with life. Rain from the night before clings to the stone, and the scent of something sweet drifts from the café on the corner. Jeongguk walks beside Taehyung, listening — mostly — to a monologue about some artist who paints sadness in nothing but blues and grays. Taehyung calls it moving. Jeongguk can’t decide if it sounds lonely or honest.

His thoughts keep slipping sideways. To the curve of your shoulders under his jacket. To how small you felt, pressed against his side. To the way your voice cracked — just once — when you said you were ready to let go.

“You’re distracted,” Taehyung says, lightly shoving the younger to the sidewalk.

Jeongguk lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m okay.”

“Sure,” Taehyung drawls, but he doesn’t push. That’s the thing about old friends — they know when to let the quiet be.

They stop beneath a green awning, where a street stall overflows with peonies, ranunculus, and there, bold and bright — purple tulips. Jeongguk goes still, the movement small, almost easy to miss.

Taehyung leans in, his voice low. “Coincidence?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

There’s a shop tucked behind the record store — tiny, too warm, a little cluttered. He trails his fingers along the edge of a display until they stop on a postcard. Tulips, faded and bleeding at the corners like a memory that won’t stay whole. It’s just a card. Just paper. He keeps telling himself that as he brings it to the counter, as he slips it into his pocket.

Back home, it rests between his fingers longer than it should before he tucks it into a book you loved. The Little Prince. Right at the part with the fox —the part you always stopped at, smiling softly when you read it out loud.

Somewhere in between folding the laundry too neatly and fixing the bookshelf for the third time, the stillness starts to feel heavy. His eyes drift to the window — to the sky that stretches wide and quiet. He doesn’t name the feeling, but it tightens in his chest. It’s not longing. It’s not regret. He doesn’t know anymore what it is.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just the pull of an open day.

Almost without thinking, Jeongguk grabs his keys. The tulip on the counter watches as he walks past. The door clicks shut behind him. Though the house doesn’t speak, it feels like it knows exactly where he’s gone.

The afternoon drapes itself softly over the garden. You tip the watering can, slow and steady, watching droplets gather on the leaves, the scent sharp and familiar. Somewhere near the trellis, a bee hums lazily through the air, darting between lavender blossoms, unbothered by your presence.

From the veranda, your mother’s voice floats across the stones, light with amusement. “Careful — you’re going to drown that poor basil.”

You glance back, lips curving, the sun catching in your hair. “I’m practicing moderation,” you call, the words lilting, playful.

She steps onto the path with practiced grace, linen robe brushing her ankles, arms folded loosely in front of her. “You’ve been out here all morning.”

“Figured I owed the basil after nearly drowning myself with cocktails the other night.”

Her brow arches. “Drowning yourself and calling the wrong number, apparently.”

You don’t answer, just lean over to pat soil around a drooping sprig, movements a little too careful.

Your mother watches you for a moment longer. “You know, sweetheart, it’s okay to rest. You don’t have to work it off like penance.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I’m just—”

“—fine,” she finishes, a faint smile at the edge of her lips. “You always say that when you’re not.”

You blink down at the planter, pretending to check the stems again. Your hands smell of thyme and dirt, and there’s a tight pull in your shoulder that won’t quite stretch out. “It was one stupid night.”

Her hand brushes your hair back, a mother’s touch — practiced and full of quiet worry. “You walked in the rain in a blazer too thin for the season. Skipped meals if it weren’t for your friends. Then burned through your tolerance like you were nineteen again.”

You huff, a little defensive. “I’m only thirty-three. I’m still allowed to be a mess sometimes.”

Her thumb smooths over your temple. “Not this kind of mess.”

The words land heavier than you expect. You try to brush it off with a laugh, reaching for the watering can again. “Come on. You said I needed fresh air. This counts.”

“You’ve had enough fresh air,” she says, fingers curling gently around your wrist. “Let the gardeners do the rest.”

“I’m not fragile,” you say, too soft for it to sound convincing.

“Never said you were.” But she holds your wrist a moment longer before letting go.

You sit back on your heels, breath coming thinner now. The sun is warm, but there’s a faint chill that clings to your spine, like it knows something you don’t. Still, you press a palm to the planter’s edge and slowly push yourself to your feet.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, forcing a smile. “Just went overboard a little, that’s all.”

Your mother doesn’t press further, but her eyes flick over you once more — the way your skin looks slightly paler today, the subtle flush that’s not from the sun. She lets it go, for now.

“You’ll come in soon?” she asks.

“In a minute,” you promise, already turning back to the herbs.

She nods once, then makes her way back toward the house, her robe trailing softly behind her.

The wind shifts. A breeze filters through the garden, carrying the scent of earth and rosemary, and something else — a hint of something familiar. You don’t notice it at first. You’re too focused on getting the soil just right, on grounding yourself in this routine that feels easier than thinking.

But then — the faint creak of the garden gate.

You glance up, startled.

Jeongguk stands at the edge of the path, the sun catching on his dark hair, a paper bag in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. He looks like he wasn’t sure he’d find you here. Like he wasn’t sure he should’ve come at all.

You straighten slowly, heart thudding, unsure if the warmth rushing through you is from the heat or something else entirely.

He lifts the bag slightly, something sheepish in the tilt of his mouth. “Brought croffles.”

“It’s Sunday.”

His gaze flicks over you, pausing at your flushed cheeks, your hands smudged with soil. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

[ohproserpine]

vi. deer dolly

see all chapters here tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, heavy warning for violence and blood, overdose, murder, death, hunting, graphic descriptions of injuries, manipulation, allusion to death, grey morality, references to alcoholism, twisted view of love, gorey descriptions of love, murder, heated scene (making out)

˚୨୧₊♱

You never really liked cars.

The first time you had ridden in one was in the 1930s.

It was after one of your shifts, the wet streets illuminated only by the flickering glow of the rusting lampposts. There you stood, still in your glad rags and wrapped in a coat, the misty drizzle kissing your face. Alastor arrived a few minutes later with a honk of his horn, surprising you with a ride home in his latest purchase—a stunning red car with a sleek roof that gleamed in the dim light, its long, sweeping fenders and rounded body cutting a striking figure against the darkness of the night.

As you got into the car, excitement tingled in your veins, eager to experience the wonders of modern transportation. However, the thrill quickly turned to fear as the speeds increased, and your husband, the ass he was, seemed to enjoy nothing more than pushing the accelerator and hearing your horrified screams. Each time the car accelerated, you found yourself clinging onto him for dear life, the rush of wind slamming against your flushed face, your heart racing in your chest.

Since then, you swore never to get into a car again, preferring the safety of solid ground beneath your feet, the memory of that terrifying ride haunting your thoughts whenever you heard the roar of an engine.

Now, standing outside and shivering in the cold, you watched as a long royal blue limo pulled up before you. The sleek vehicle gleamed under the streetlights, its polished surface reflecting the dim glow of the surrounding city. The doors, adorned with gold accents, were automated and opened up for you, revealing a plush interior illuminated by soft, warm lighting. Small steps extended gracefully from below, inviting you to step inside.

Velvette wasted no time and went in first, her stiletto heels clicking against the polished floor as she settled into one of the luxurious seats. Already engrossed in a phone call, her voice echoed faintly through the open doorway, mingling with the low hum of the engine.

Meanwhile, Vox stood by your side, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the pavement. You knew he was making sure you wouldn't attempt to escape, although the thought barely crossed your mind.

After all, where could you possibly run to now? Any endeavor in that direction would likely prove futile and possibly even fatal. The evidence of your soul being sold was clear, evident in the now black color of your sclera.

"Well," Vox drawled, his voice carrying a subtle edge of impatience as he gestured towards the open limousine door. "Aren't you going to go in?"

You hesitated, biting your lip as you reluctantly took a step back. Vox eyed your actions warily.

"Is it safe?" you found yourself blurting out, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

"Is it safe?" Vox repeated with a scoff, a hint of annoyance flickering in his eyes. "Of course it's safe! I made it!"

He pointed to the VoxTek logo on the car—as though he were a seasoned salesman promoting a product. The metal emblem gleamed under the faint streetlights. Yet, rather than assuring you, the sight of the branding only heightened your unease.

Vox noticed the lack of change in your expression and sighed, deciding to take a different approach. With a faint glimmer of empathy, he motioned toward a nearby building which had a large billboard featuring his face and image.

"See there?" he gestured, his tone adopting a persuasive edge. "See what that billboard says? VoxTek is a symbol of power and security. You're in the safest hands possible. This limousine is equipped with state-of-the-art safety features."

His attempt to reassure you only rang hollow in your ears, and despite his words, a sense of unease continued to gnaw at you. Yet, Vox still persisted, his voice softening as he stepped closer to you. You had to crane your head up to look at him while he stared down at you, his figure casting a shadow over your form.

"I assure you," he pressed, his tone gentler now. "You have nothing to fear."

With no other choice but to comply, you reluctantly stepped forward, your movements stiff and hesitant. Vox held your hand as he guided you towards the waiting limousine. As you entered the luxurious interior, the door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing your fate as the vehicle pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night.

Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of color as the limousine sped through the streets. With each passing moment, the distance between you and Mimzy's torn-down lounge grew.

Lost in your thoughts, you barely noticed when the limousine finally came to a stop, the sudden silence jolting you back to reality. As the door opened with a soft hiss, you gazed out to behold the imposing V Tower looming before you.

Its grandeur was undeniable, with its towering floors and striking red windows gleaming in the night. At the very top, a massive antenna sat, reaching towards the sky like a beacon, while a studio sign was plastered along the building's front, featuring red lips nestled within the arches of the middle V, an iconic symbol of the entertainment empire housed within.

Vox and Velvette emerged from the limousine, their presence causing a few loiterers on the street to scurry away in fear.

Oh, how you wished you could do the same.

Inside the car, you hesitated, nerves coiling in your stomach as you fidgeted with your hands. Then, unexpectedly, Vox turned to you, his expression unreadable as he extended his hand.

Surprised, you paused for a moment before accepting his hand, allowing him to guide you down the steps. The chilly night air enveloped you as your feet touched the pavement, the distant sound of the limo's engine fading away as it drove off.

Seconds passed, and Vox still maintained his grip on your hand, his hold firm. Confusion flickered in your mind as you turned to him, noticing the irritation in his gaze as he eyed your wedding ring.

"Is there a problem, mister?" you asked as you followed his gaze to your ring.

Vox's expression remained inscrutable for a moment before he finally responded, his tone cool and detached.

"I suggest you ditch that," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It's a liability now. Doesn't do any favors for your image, doll."

"But I'm awfully attached. It's…" you began, your voice trailing off as you struggled to find a good enough excuse.

You knew all too well the consequences of revealing your connection, especially in your current vulnerable state. The mere mention of Alastor's name could unravel everything, plunging you deeper into this mess. With two powerful overlords and a soul contract hanging over your head like a guillotine, caution was not just a choice but a necessity.

"It's a symbol of your past life," Vox interjected, his voice cutting through your hesitation.

"And we're leaving that behind now." He extended his hand, the glint of his metal claws catching the dim light, mirroring the uncertainty in your expression. "Hand it over."

With a resigned sigh, you reluctantly slipped the ring off your finger, a pang of loss gripping your heart as you handed it to the overlord. Vox accepted it with a dismissive nod before tucking it into his pocket, his attention already turning back to the looming entrance of the V Tower.

As you entered the building flanked by both Vox and Velvette, you were immediately struck by the brash, modern atmosphere that engulfed you. The walls were painted in bold hues of pink and red, illuminated by the glare of oversized LED screens that flashed with images and advertisements for upcoming events. The floor beneath your feet was polished to a sterile sheen, reflecting the harsh neon lights that bathed the space.

Velvette, with her usual air of haughty superiority, led the way to your room, her steps brisk and impatient. She barely spared you a glance as she gestured towards the metal door that stood before you, its surface cold and unwelcoming.

With a swish of her fingers, she conjured an obtrusively bright star decoration on the wall, reminiscent of celebrity door decorations found in Hollywood, with your name scrawled in cursive on its surface.

"Right, if there's anything you need, you just go down to the lobby and find someone named Shalom," Velvette barked, her tone sharp and impatient, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.

"Say, is there a chance I could lay my mitts on a radio?" you asked, hoping to grasp onto some semblance of familiarity in this alien environment, your eyes flitting back and forth between the two of them.

But instead of a response, Vox began to buffer, his screen flashing with bright neon glitches, while Velvette's lips curled into a sneer, her expression one of thinly veiled contempt and amusement at your request.

"Guess I'll take that as a no then?" you smiled tensely, your attempt falling flat.

To your surprise, Vox shook his head, and his screen flashed back to his face, the glitches disappearing as quickly as they had come.

The TV demon reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek smartphone. Without a word, he plopped it into your hand, and you turned it over, confusion evident on your face.

"A phone?" you said, flabbergasted, your eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. You blinked in astonishment, the absurdity of the situation not lost on you. You were more surprised by the fact that it came from his pocket. Does he keep random smartphones on him at all times?

"Yes, a phone," Vox confirmed with a smirk, a hint of pride dancing in his eyes. "Consider it a courtesy from VoxTek. No need for a radio when we have such sleek products. This is the future! You don't need old shit from the past. Those radios barely pick up anything worth listening to, just crappy, barely audible broadcasts."

"Oh," you said, the air deflating from your lungs as a pang of disappointment settled in your chest. The phone was a thoughtful gesture, but it wasn't going to fix your longing to speak to Alastor. "Well. I suppose I should thank you."

"Don't mention it," Vox replied casually, his demeanor shifting back to its usual aloofness, his tone devoid of any genuine warmth or concern.

With a resigned sigh, you turned and stepped into your new room. You looked around the décor curiously, taking in the sleek modern furniture and it's peculiar design.

Velvette followed closely behind you, her eyes, framed with smoky eyeshadow, narrowing as she regarded you with disgust. The glint of her perfectly manicured nails caught the harsh overhead lights as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Really? A hooverette dress?" Velvette sneered, each syllable dripping with disdain. "You're like a relic from the '40s. Outdated."

You felt a surge of anger at the comment. Sure, you died near the 1940s, but that didn't mean you were outdated. Before you could even muster a response, Velvette raised a hand, and with a flick of her fingers, she effortlessly transformed the fabric of your dress. It rippled and shifted, morphing before your eyes into a pink silk pajama robe, trimmed with a cream-colored fur. She stepped back, a self-satisfied smirk curling her lips as she admired her handiwork.

"Much better," she declared with a clap. "Listen, you're representing VoxTek now. Even when sleeping, we can't have you looking like a washed-up has-been, can we?"

Swallowing your pride, you forced a tight-lipped nod, suppressing the urge to lash out in defiance.

"Yes, ma'am," you managed to grit out, your voice strained. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she retorted, her tone sharp and dismissive. "I've got a lot of work to do, and you've got a long way to go before I can get you stage ready."

With that, Velvette stormed out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor with each brisk step. As she disappeared from view, Vox leaned in, his shadow casting a long silhouette against the wall. He reached for the doorknob, his fingers gliding over the cool metal.

"Goodnight," he murmured softly, his voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning. With a gentle pull, he closed the door with a thud, sealing you in with your thoughts and fears. The latch clicked shut, and you were left alone, enveloped in the eerie silence of the unfamiliar space.

With a heavy sigh, you turned to survey your room even closer.

Your eyes swept over the tall walls adorned with abstract artwork, bursts of vibrant colors contrasting sharply with the subdued hues of the furniture. The wide windows offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, with skyscrapers twinkling in the distance like distant constellations.

Approaching the plush king-sized bed, you sank into its cloud-like mattress, feeling its comforting embrace envelop you. It was definitely an improvement from Mimzy's lounge. And yet, despite the luxurious trappings, a sense of confinement lingered. After all, a gilded cage remains a cage.

As you assessed your situation, it became clear that you were going to be the star attraction in Velvette's upcoming fashion extravaganza. Her shows were always a hit, and this year's circus-themed spectacle had her buzzing with excitement. The lead model was a singer-actress you'd heard of; you'd seen her the day Mimzy dragged her into the lounge. Pity the poor girl died.

Given the circus motif, it was apparent why Velvette had chosen you. Your background as a singer, coupled with your doll-like appearance, made you the perfect fit for the role.

The best course of action now was to play it safe. Going along with her plan was sure to draw attention, from the lowest imps to Lucifer Morningstar himself. Your face was bound to be plastered on every screen in the infernal realm, broadcasted to demons and damned souls alike. Even with his hatred for the picture shows, Alastor would have to be both blind and deaf to miss this.

He would come for you, you knew it deep in your bones, and yet a pessimistic voice in the back of your head whispered doubts.

Did you even deserve to be taken back after all of this?

With these thoughts weighing heavily on your mind like an anchor dragging you into the depths, you closed your eyes, seeking solace in the darkness behind your lids. But sleep remained elusive, evading your grasp.

As the night wore on, exhaustion crept over you like a heavy fog, its tendrils enveloping you in a suffocating embrace. Despite the turmoil raging within, your body succumbed to weariness, and gradually, you slipped into your dreams.

˚୨୧₊♱

Both you and Alastor embarked on a slow journey through the darkened streets of Louisiana, the car's headlights cutting through the enveloping gloom like beacons. Carefully navigating the labyrinthine city, you avoided the occasional patrol car with its blinding flashlights, skirting through shadowed alleys and side streets to evade detection.

Finally reaching the outskirts of town, where the forest awaited, Alastor brought the car to a halt, the engine's low hum fading into silence. Turning to you, he noticed the fear etched on your face, your wide eyes reflecting the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

With a tender touch, Alastor took your face in his hands, calling for you. "Cher?"

You turned to him, your lips parting slightly as tears welled in your eyes. Alastor's touch was feather-light as his fingertips traced a delicate path along the curve of your cheek. With a gentle brush of his thumb, he coaxed your eyelids closed. Tears streamed down your cheeks, leaving a trail in their wake. As you blinked your eyes open again, you were met with the tender press of his lips against yours.

"We did what we had to do," Alastor murmured against your lips, his voice a low rasp that sent goosebumps dancing across your skin.

With his eyes closed, he leaned in closer, his kiss growing more urgent, almost desperate. You responded in kind, the roughness of the kiss igniting a fire within you.

Feeling his fingers threading through the back of your hair, you whimpered and melted into his embrace, your hands clutching onto his broad shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his button-up shirt. Alastor groaned in response as he lifted you effortlessly from the passenger seat and settled you onto his lap. Your chest pressed flat against his, the rhythm of your heartbeat syncing with his own.

As the sky grew darker, the moon mingling with the fading hues of sunset, the wind whispered through the open windows of the car, carrying with it the promise of a new beginning.

Alastor eventually pulled away, his gaze lingering on your tousled hair and puffy lips as he leaned back in his seat, taking in every detail of your appearance. Seeing you in such a ruined state stirred something within him.

"Are you ready?" he asked. You nodded meekly in response, your heart racing.

Truth be told, you didn't think you could ever truly be ready for what you were about to do.

Your husband hummed in acknowledgment, allowing you to slip off his lap as he straightened his brown coat, the fabric rustling softly with each movement.

Guiding you out of the car, he then reached into the backseat, retrieving his hunting gun. The metallic click of the firearm being loaded echoed in the quiet night. And you damn near fainted when he handed it to you, the weight of it feeling heavier than you could bear. The metal surface was icy against your palm, and you fought the urge to recoil, but Alastor pressed it firmly into your hand, his touch reassuring yet commanding.

"You'll need this," Alastor spoke lowly, bending down to your height, his glasses slipping further down the bridge of his nose. "Use it for safety. There might be wild animals out."

You hesitated, the weight of the weapon heavy in your hand, but the urgency in his tone spurred you to nod in agreement.

"Do you remember when I taught you how to hunt?" he questioned, slipping on a pair of dark leather gloves he had pulled out of his pocket. His voice was low and smooth, laced with a hint of nostalgia. "You remember how to shoot, no?"

You nodded, eyes still glued to the gun, unable to tear your gaze away.

"Words, cher. Use your words."

"Yes, love," you whispered, finding your voice. Alastor smiled, the rough texture of his glove grazing gently against your cheek as he pressed his hand to your face one last time before stepping away.

Your husband made his way to the trunk of the car, the soft glow of the taillights casting long shadows across the forest floor. With strong pull, he opened it, revealing its contents. Your breath caught in your throat as he retrieved a shovel and a black body bag, the sight sending a sickening feeling through your stomach.

Alastor slung the bag over his shoulder and began walking, his steps confident, as if he knew exactly where he was going. The weight of the bag seemed inconsequential to him, swinging lightly with each stride. There was an odd, almost unsettling look in his eyes as he whistled a tune, the sound echoing eerily through the silent woods. A glint of something primal and untamed flickered within their depths.

Nonetheless, you followed him, drawn to his presence like a moth to a flame.

Trudging deeper, the shadows seemed to grow darker, more menacing. The silence pressed in on you from all sides, broken only by Alastor's whistling and the sound of your footsteps crunching on the forest floor. Each step felt like a descent into madness, the unknown lurking just beyond the reach of your flashlight's beam.

Suddenly, Alastor halted in a secluded corner, where the trees were decaying, their long branches resembling gnarled fingers reaching out for you in the darkness. He turned to you, the dim light of your flashlight reflecting off his glasses, giving his brown eyes an otherworldly glint.

In that moment, illuminated by the pale beam, he looked almost demonic, his features twisted by the play of light and shadow.

"I'll be back shortly, cher," he hummed with a smile, adjusting the bag over his shoulder. You couldn't help but notice a darkened spot on his brown coat, the collar of his white button-up now stained with crimson. "Stay here."

With that, he disappeared into the darkness, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the forest, leaving you alone amidst the looming trees.

Time stretched on endlessly, each minute feeling like an eternity as you stood alone. Faintly, you could hear the distant sound of Alastor's shovel breaking through the earth's surface, its metallic scrape and the muffled thud as it struck the soil sending another wave of nausea curling in your gut, each noise a grim reminder of the task at hand.

All you wanted was to escape, to return to the safety of your quaint house in the city.

More than anything, you longed to open a bottle of whiskey, to drown your fears and sorrows in its comforting embrace. Maybe have a second, or a third, and just forget.

Forget about all of this. Forget it all ever happened. But deep down, you knew that no amount of alcohol could erase the memories of tonight, each image now etched into your mind like scars on your soul.

All of a sudden, a rustling sound behind you sent a jolt of adrenaline through your veins, followed by the distant but unmistakable bark of dogs. The sound seemed to come from all directions, surrounding you in a menacing chorus.

With a sharp gasp, you spun round and round in a whirl, your vision tunneling with fear as you scanned the darkness, eyes wide and frantic. Every rustle of the leaves, every snap of a twig, seemed to magnify the sense of dread that gripped you. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, the cool night air burning in your lungs as you struggled to keep your composure.

And then, without warning, something lunged from the darkness, a blur of movement that sent your heart racing even faster. Instinct took over, and without thinking, you raised the gun and fired, the deafening sound reverberating through the silent forest.

You gasped for air, the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you found yourself sitting on the damp, muddy ground. The recoil of the gun had sent you sprawling backward, leaving you disoriented and breathless.

With trembling hands, you clutched the gun closer to your chest, the cold metal providing a shaky sense of security in the darkness. Despite the fear coursing through your veins, a surge of determination propelled you forward, your muscles tensed and ready for whatever danger lay ahead. Scrambling to your feet, you pushed yourself onward.

Each step was punctuated by the crunch of underbrush beneath your boots, the sound amplifying in the stillness of the forest. Amidst the shadows and foliage, you caught a blur of brown, relief flooding through you like a wave crashing against the shore.

Oh, heavens, it was just a deer.

As you trudged towards the poor animal, your foot caught on a branch, and you stumbled, the unforgiving forest floor meeting your body with a painful thud. In the fall, your gun slipped from your grasp, skidding off into the shadows.

Wincing, you pushed yourself up to your knees, the earthy scent of decay mingling with the metallic tang of blood. You looked toward the fallen creature, its form now visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the trees. But as you crawled over, dread crept into your heart.

There, lying face down on the dirt, was Alastor, his once-immaculate brown coat now dirtied, blending seamlessly with mud. His glasses lay shattered and discarded in front of him, glinting faintly in the dim moonlight that danced across the forest floor. A pool of crimson blood seeped from his head, staining the earth beneath him.

Your eyes widened with renewed horror as the truth dawned upon you, and you fell onto your back, scrambling away from the corpse of your husband, the damp earth sticking to your palms as you clawed at the ground in your panic.

The bark of the dogs were louder now, closer. Ignoring the dizzy vertigo in your head, you pushed yourself to your feet, your senses on high alert.

You choked out a broken apology but found that you could not hear it, that you could not make any sound at all.

You breathed, it was all you could do, all you could manage at the moment, and with the terrible weight on your chest, even that was made difficult.

What have you done?

˚୨୧₊♱

"Salutations! It's Tom back on the airwaves! Hold onto your hats because we've got some news that'll knock your socks off! Alastor Caron, the big shot radio host and husband of underground singer Dolly, also known as Y/N Caron, has been found pushing up daisies out in the sticks of Louisiana!

That's right, folks, he's dead!

Word on the street is, ol' Alastor met our maker with a bullet to the head in what can only be described as a real tragic whodunit. Sources close to the case are whispering in the wind, suggesting that Dolly herself might be mixed up in this spicy little affair. The coppers found her fingerprints on the gun! Can you believe it?! Stay tuned as we peel back the curtain and spill the tea on this sto—"

You shut the radio off with a frustrated slam of your fist, the sound echoing through the desolate living room.

Eviction papers and newspapers, crumpled and worn from countless readings, are strewn haphazardly across the table.

"Gone Girl," "Husband-killer," "Missing Marionette," "A Doll's Vanishing Act," "Manhunt underway for Suspected Murderer," "Louisiana Radio Host dead; Wife blamed."

The headlines scream, each word a painful reminder of the nightmare engulfing your life.

Empty bottles litter around you, their contents spilled and forgotten, the sharp scent of alcohol mingling with the drowning feeling of grief that permeates the room. Sirens wail in the distance while red and blue lights dance along the walls, cast by the dim light filtering through tightly shut curtains.

As you reach for another bottle, the drinks blur into one another, their labels indistinguishable in the dark room. The burning sensation as the liquid courses down your throat offers temporary relief from the turmoil raging inside your mind, numbing the pain and grief threatening to consume you. Each sip takes you further into a haze.

The room spins around you, items warping and dancing in a twisted mockery of your predicament. There are whispers now, soft and insidious, slithering into your ears like serpents. You try to push away the accusing voices echoing in your mind, drowning them out with your bottle's numbing embrace. But with each passing moment, the weight of the accusations grows heavier, dragging you deeper into despair.

Nausea churns in the pit of your stomach, and you finally stop moving, the dizziness overwhelming you. A deathly coldness settles over you, seeping into your bones like icy tendrils, causing you to shiver involuntarily. Your fingers lose their grip on the bottle, and it crashes to the ground with a shattering sound that echoes in the stillness of the room, shards of glass scattering across the floor like stars falling from the sky. You follow suit, collapsing onto the floor, limbs heavy and muscles twitching.

You stare vacantly ahead, unable to move, your eyes glazed over with a hollow emptiness as a sense of dread washes over you, suffusing the air with an oppressive weight. Each breath feels like a battle, your chest tightening with every inhalation, as if your lungs were filled with water.

Your breaths grow more labored, each one shallower than the last, until they eventually cease altogether, leaving you gasping for air that refuses to come.

The world around you fades into darkness, the edges of your vision blurring as consciousness slips away, leaving you engulfed in a silence broken only by the faint echo of your last heartbeat.

˚୨୧₊♱

There was screaming.

Footsteps thudded along a path nearby, accompanied by the fluttering of wings as creatures soared overhead.

You awaken with a startle, disoriented and groggy.

Slowly sitting up, you find yourself surrounded by a crimson landscape, a pentagram shimmering ominously in the air above you. As you move, your hand sinks into something cold and wet, a sickening squelch accompanying the sensation.

Horror grips you as you realize your hand is touching a corpse, its monstrous form adorned with twisted horns, jagged tails, and rows of sharp teeth. The pair of lifeless eyes shift and stare into you, devoid of any trace of humanity.

Frozen with terror and panic, you scramble away from the grotesque sight, the ground slick with crimson ichor, each step leaving bloody handprints and footprints in your wake.

The evening light of this place reveals a grim environment surrounding you – a lumpy, uneven field of corpses and bones, a mass grave unlike any you've ever seen. But these corpses are not human; they are demonic, twisted and contorted in death.

Before you can even make sense of this grotesque scene, a spear slices through the air, its sharp tip gleaming in the dim light. With a thud, it embeds itself into the ground beside you. A sharp, stinging sensation follows as your cheeks burn, crimson liquid trailing down your skin.

Gasping for breath, you look up and catch sight of a figure soaring overhead, its massive wings spread wide against the crimson sky. Each beat sends a gust of wind rushing past you, whipping your hair around your face. The figure's single eye fixates on you, its gaze piercing through the darkness, the other obscured by a large 'X' mark.

Adrenaline surges through your veins as you run away, the cold sweat of fear prickling your skin.

Your surroundings blur into a chaotic whirlwind as you race through the labyrinthine alleys of Hell. With every stride, your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. Each footfall echoes in the narrow passageways, the walls closing in around you like a vice, but the chase of the angel behind you drives you forward, your muscles burning with exertion as you push yourself to your limits.

Suddenly, you're yanked to a stop, your body colliding with a stone floor as you're pulled into a hidden doorway. Pain shoots through your arm, and you wince, clutching it tightly against your chest. It throbs with a dull ache, bruised from the fall.

As you cautiously lift your gaze, you find yourself in a familiar setting—a speakeasy, though more rugged and rundown than you were used to. The air is thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. Mismatched furniture and a barely held-together bar give the place a sense of makeshift charm.

"Well, look who it is."

The voice freezes you in place, and your eyes nervously move upward to see a familiar blonde woman before you, her sharp teeth glinting in the dim light, her eyes dark and intense.

"Mimzy?" you whisper, disbelief coloring your voice.

"It's me!" she cheers, swinging her legs and jazzing her arms up in the air. With a jump, she plops onto the ground, circling your hunched-over form with a mischievous grin. "How you doin', Dolly?"

"How?" your mind scrambles. "You-You…"

"I know! You thought I was dead?" she snickers before knocking you upside the head playfully. "Welcome to the afterlife, you ditz!"

"What?" you rasp, eyes frantically darting from her to your surroundings. "What are you talking about? Why do you look like that?!"

"Look what? Adorable~?" Mimzy hums and waltzes over to a gramophone, inserting a disk and starting a scratching melody that fills the speakeasy.

Hello, Dolly! Well, hello, Dolly! It's so nice to have you back where you belong~

"Come on, Dolly," Mimzy says, her voice low and melodic as she sways to the music. The bedazzled fringes of her dress sparkle in the dim light as she twirls, her heels dragging along the floorboards. "You haven't been living under a rock, have you? Or did'ja just arrive?"

You're lookin' swell, Dolly I can tell, Dolly You're still glowin', you're still crowin' You're still goin' strong

"I don't understand," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle to comprehend what's happening. Everything feels like a dream—a nightmare, more accurately. "Where am I? What's going on?"

"We're both dead," Mimzy chuckles, tapping her heels along to the beat.

We feel the room swayin' While the band's playin' One of your old favourite songs from way back when

"What do you mean?" you manage to croak out, the words barely audible over the music.

Mimzy pauses mid-twirl. "Oh, Dolly," she sighs, shaking her head. "Hell, darling. We're in Hell."

Your blood runs cold at her words, the reality of your situation sinking in like a heavy weight on your chest. The memories of that fateful night flood your mind, filling you with a sense of guilt and despair.

Before you can voice your thoughts, Mimzy grabs your hand and pulls you into a dance, the gramophone's melody swirling around you like a sinister lullaby.

"So, take her wrap, fellas," Mimzy sings along, her laughter echoing off the walls. Her eyes gleam with a mischievous light as she leads you through the steps of the choreography you once knew so well. She twirls you around and drops you into a dip. "Find her an empty lap, fellas!"

"Dolly'll never go away again~"

You feel a surge of frustration building within you, the absurdity of overwhelming your senses. With a shout of anger, you push Mimzy away, a scowl etched deep on your face. She stumbles back, nearly losing her balance in her heels, her smile fading into a look of annoyance.

"Will you cut it out!" you snap, your voice echoing in the empty speakeasy. "Tell me what's going on!"

"Killjoy." Mimzy rolls her eyes and lets out a scoff, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She moves over to the gramophone and turns it off, the melody abruptly silenced.

"I just told you what was going on, you doof!" Mimzy retorts, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The speakeasy falls into an uneasy silence, the air thick with tension, broken only by the faint sound of distant screams echoing outside the building. You gesture toward the source of the noise with a look of shock.

"Alright, I know well enough why I'm here, but what is that?" you inquire, your voice tinged with apprehension.

"An extermination. Angels come here to rid of sinners and such," Mimzy shrugs, her expression nonchalant despite the gravity of her words.

"Well, what about Alastor?" you press, the worry evident in your voice.

Mimzy's expression darkens, a flicker of anger crossing her features before she quickly masks it with a smirk. "Oh, you mean your darling husband? He's probably causing chaos somewhere, as usual. He'll be fine."

"I don't think he even knows you're here," she adds on with a yawn. "He probably thinks you're up in the shiny gates of heaven with his momma or something."

"Al knows I'm already dead?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yup!" Mimzy chirps, her grin widening. "Your death came out in the news months ago. But only Lord knows why it took 'em so long to get you through purgatory."

The barrage of new information leaves you dizzy, your head spinning with the implications. "Wait—my death? The news?"

Mimzy moves over to the bar, kneeling down the worn floorboards as she digs through the bottom drawers.

"Didja know there's this little killin' business in Hell? I.M.P.—the Immediate Murder Professionals. And there's this cute little fella named Blitzo who does deliveries for me. I was his first costumer and poor guy needs the extra money so—"

"Mimzy, why are you telling me this?" you interject, confusion evident in your tone.

Mimzy's grin widens as she peeks at you from over the counter, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Well, sweetcheeks," she purrs, continuing to leaf through piles of paper, "if you paid attention to their name, they do murder. Murder in the human world, to be exact. And I hired them to go snuff you out!"

"But lo and behold, to my surprise," Mimzy continues, her tone laced with amusement, "you did their job for 'em! And this is what they brought back as proof."

With a flourish, Mimzy procures a newspaper from the depths of the cabident, her hands waving it around in excitement. She throws it to you, and you catch it, fumbling to see the headline. Your stomach churns as you take in the bold letters.

'LAST SWING: Speakeasy Star Suspected of Husband's Murder Dies in Alcohol Overdose.'

"Hi-larious!" Mimzy snorts as she presses a finger against the title, her expression gleeful. You hold the paper up, your hands trembling as you read through the article detailing your own death.

With a cackle, Mimzy jumps onto a nearby table, her movements lithe and energetic as she snatches the paper away from you.

"So, did'ja do it?" she taunts, leaning in close to your face with a devilish grin. "Didn't take you as the type. What was it? Poison? Housewife classic, I tell ya. Maybe a knife? Good ole push him down the stairs? Or was it a gun?"

You tense up at her last words, a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. Mimzy smirks, her snicker ringing out like a sinister melody. Curls bounce around her face as she leans in closer, her lips practically ghosting against your cut.

"You shot him?"

"I—" you stutter, your breath catching in your throat as you run a hand through your frazzled hair, the disheveled strands tangling under your trembling fingers. "I didn't mean to! Heavens. I thought he was a deer!"

At that, Mimzy bursts out in loud laughter, tears streaming down her face as she clutches her stomach, doubling over with mirth. The sound echoes off the grimy walls of the speakeasy.

"Is that right?" she wheezes between fits of laughter, slapping her knee while still shaking with amusement. "No wonder he looks like a deer! Oh! The irony!"

"Deer?" you whisper out in confusion, your mind struggling to grasp the implications of her words amidst the chaos of her laughter. She laughs even harder at your response, kicking her feet in the air with unrestrained glee.

After a few minutes, she finally calms down. With a skip in her step and a glint in her eyes, she saunters over to you. Humming a tune, Mimzy twirls around you again, her movements fluid and graceful despite her earlier outburst.

"I know something you don't know~" she sings.

"What do you mean?" you frown, your voice trembling as you gaze at her, searching for any hint of what she's hiding.

"All in good time. I've told you a lot already, didn't I?" Mimzy replies cryptically, her tone snappy. "Let's see—I graciously saved you from that angel that was ready to spill your guts out, I've given you a wonderful welcome, helped you learn about your death, and, well, you were involved in my murder. I'd say the scales aren't balanced! You owe me. A lot."

Guilt churns in your gut as you nervously wring your hands. "Mimzy, no words can express how much guilt I feel about your—"

"Oh, cut the weeping dame bullshit. I don't care about that," Mimzy interrupts with a roll of her eyes and a wave of her hand. Her eyes gleam with a predatory intensity as she leans in closer.

"I'm feeling generous today," she purrs, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. "So, I'll make you a deal."

You eye her warily, the guilt in your gut twisting into a knot of apprehension. Despite your unease, you nod, silently urging her to continue, bracing yourself for whatever devil's bargain she has in store.

"In exchange for absolving your involvement in my murder and providing information on your husband," she whispers, her voice dripping with malice, "you'll owe me a favor. A big one. I want you to work for me again."

You tense, your mind racing as you process her proposition, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach. "What?"

Mimzy's smirk widens at your reaction, her eyes gleaming with amusement as she relishes in your discomfort. "That's right, sugar. I want you back on the job, working for me just like old times."

"Well I… I don't have much of a choice, do I?" you reply, clenching your fists in frustration.

Mimzy's laughter reverberates through the speakeasy, each chuckle sending shivers down your spine.

"Of course not! Would you prefer to go running to Alastor instead? Oh, dear hubby, please shield me from the consequences of my sins! My apologies for putting a bullet in your skull!" she mocks your voice, drawling the syllables out as she clasps her hands together and bats her eyes at you.

A surge of humiliation and guilt washes over you, weighing heavy on your shoulders as you struggle to come to terms with the choices before you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts. Despite the overwhelming guilt and shame swirling within you, you know that you're cornered. Mimzy has you right where she wants you, and the only way out is to play her game.

"Fine," you say through gritted teeth, your voice tinged with resignation. "I'll work for you again."

Mimzy's grin widens, her sharp teeth flashed at you. "Excellent choice, darling. You won't regret it."

With a snap of her fingers, a contract materializes in her hand. She hands it over to you, and you read through it. Funnily enough, it looks almost identical to your previous employment contract in the living with her, but one detail catches your eye.

"To settle the debt incurred due to the aforementioned act, Y/N Caron, acknowledging the gravity of her transgressions, agrees to become a singer for Mimzy's Lounge for a duration of ten decades," you read the line in shock. Turning to Mimzy, you clutch the contract tightly, your nails threatening to break the paper. "Ten decades?!"

"What?" Mimzy scoffs, her voice dripping with derision. "You stuck here for all of eternity anyways, and so is your husband. Might as well do something."

With a theatrical flourish, Mimzy reaches into her chest and pulls out a pen, waggling it teasingly in your face. "So? What will it be? Are ya gonna sign the contract? Or am I gonna have to throw you out where those angels can tear you to pieces?"

You read through the contract again, your eyes frantically scanning the paper for any loophole or escape route, but you come up empty-handed. With a sinking feeling in your chest, you realize that you're in this for the long haul.

"But what about Alastor?" you pressed, urgency creeping into your voice.

Mimzy's laughter filled the speakeasy, bouncing off the walls like mocking echoes. "Oh, sweetheart," she cooed with faux sympathy, "haven't you read the fine print? Your dear Alastor is strictly off-limits. Can't have him interfering with our little arrangement, now can we?"

"But… I need to see him," you pleaded, desperation lacing your words.

Mimzy's smirk widened into a wicked grin as she leaned in closer, mischief gleaming in her eyes. "And I need to make sure my end of the deal is fulfilled," she countered firmly.

Glancing down at the contract, you saw her pointing to a specific section. "Y/N Caron's husband, Alastor Caron, is strictly forbidden from being physically present around her in any way, shape, or form for the safety and integrity of this agreement."

"But… can't we find some middle ground?" you asked, a sliver of hope lingering in your voice.

"Ah, I've got an idea," Mimzy grinned , reaching into her drawer and pulling out an old radio. She extended it towards you. "You can talk with him as much as you like. This little radio will be your hotline to him. But there's a catch: he stays far, far away from you and this joint. How's that sound?"

Twisting the radio in your trembling hands, you felt the weight of the decision settle heavily on your shoulders. The device seemed ancient, its surface worn and its knobs slightly rusted, yet it held the power to bridge the seemingly insurmountable gap between you and Alastor. With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly brought the pen to the paper, the ink blotting the sheet as you signed your name away, sealing your fate.

"It's a deal."

[tobiosbbyghorl]

pairing: scientist!sunghoon x scientist! reader

wc:10.5k

released date: 05.17.2025

warning: PURE FICTION!!

synopsis: In the quiet of her lab, Dr. Y/N, a skilled scientist, sets out on a risky mission to bring back her late fiancé, Park Sunghoon, who died in a car accident. Using his preserved DNA, she creates a clone that grows rapidly in just two years. When Sunghoon wakes up, he faces the difficult reality of being brought back to life and the moral issues surrounding Y/N's actions.

a/n: ITS HERE!! Hope you guys will love it as much as I did writing it! feedbacks,likes and reblogs are highly appreciated!

In the cold glow of my underground biotech lab, silence is sacred. Down here, beneath layers of steel and earth, the world doesn’t exist. No grief. No time. Just me. Just him.

The capsule glows in the center of the room—a vertical womb of steel and glass, pulsing faintly with blue light. Suspended inside, wrapped in strands of bio-filaments and artificial amniotic fluid, is the reason I wake up in the morning. Or stay awake. I don’t know the difference anymore.

Park Sunghoon.

Or… what’s left of him.

One year ago, he died on his way to our civil wedding. A drunk driver. A rainy street. A second too late. I got the call before I even zipped up my dress. I still remember the way my coffee spilled all over the lab floor when my knees gave out. I never cleaned it. It’s still there, dried in the corner. A fossil of the moment my world cracked open.

⸻

He used to say I was too curious for my own good.

That I’d poke the universe too hard one day and it would poke back.

Maybe this is what he meant.

⸻

Sunghoon and I were both scientists—biotech researchers. We studied regenerative cloning, theorized about neural echo imprinting, debated ethics like it was foreplay.

He was against replicas. Always. “A copy isn’t a soul,” he’d say. “It’s just noise pretending to be music.”

But the day he died, I stopped caring about music.

I just wanted to hear his voice again.

⸻

I had everything I needed. A sample of his bone DNA—collected after a minor lab accident years ago and stored under a pseudonym. His blood type, genome map, neural scan from our first brain-simulation trial. A perfect match, all buried in our old hard drives. He never knew I kept them. Maybe he would’ve hated me for it.

Maybe I don’t care.

I called it Project ECHO.

Because that’s what he was now.

An echo. A ripple in the void.

⸻

The first version—ECHO-1—was a failure.

He looked like Sunghoon. But he never woke up. I ran every test. Monitored every vital. Adjusted nutrient cycles, protein growth, heartbeat regulators. But something in him was missing—something I couldn’t code into cells.

A soul, maybe. Or timing.

He died the second I tried to bring him out.

I cremated and buried that version in the garden, under the cherry tree he planted the first spring we moved in. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I just stood there holding the urn and whispered, “I’ll get it right next time.”

⸻

ECHO-2 was different.

I restructured the genome to prevent cellular decay. Added telomere stabilizers to delay aging. Enhanced his immune system. This time, I built him stronger. Healthier. The version of Sunghoon that would’ve never gotten sick that winter in Sapporo, or fainted in the elevator that one night after forgetting to eat. That version who could live longer. With me.

But the rest—I left untouched.

His smile. His hands. The faint mole scattered in his face. The way his hair curled when wet. All exactly the same. It had to be. He wouldn’t be Sunghoon without those things.

I even reconstructed his mind.

Using an illegal neural mapping sequence I coded from fragments of our joint research, I retrieved echoes of his memory—dream-like reflections extracted from the deepest preserved brain tissue. It wasn’t perfect. But it was him. Pieces of him. The things he never got to say. The life he never finished.

⸻

It took two years.

Two years in the dark, surrounded by synthetic fluid and filtered lights, modifying the incubator like a cradle built by obsession. I monitored every development milestone like a parent. I watched him grow. I whispered stories to him when the lab was quiet, played him our favorite records through the tank’s acoustic feed, left him notes on the console like he could read them.

⸻

One night, I touched the tank and felt warmth radiate back. His fingers twitched.

A smile cracked on his lips, soft and sleepy.

And I whispered, “You’re almost here.”

⸻

Now he floats before me—grown, complete, and terrifyingly familiar. His chest rises and falls steadily. Muscles formed and defined from synthetic stimulation. His brain is fully developed. His body—twenty-five years old. The age he was when he died. The age we should’ve gotten married.

And now, he’s ready.

⸻

The console buzzes beside me.

“Project ECHO – Stage V: Awakening. Confirm execution.”

My fingers hover. The hum of the lab grows louder. My heart beats so hard I feel it in my throat.

This is it.

The point of no return.

I press enter.

The Awakening didn’t look like the movies.

There was no dramatic gasp, no lightning bolt of consciousness.

It was subtle.

His eyes fluttered open, hazy and uncertain, like the first morning light after a long storm. They didn’t lock onto me at first. He blinked a few times—slow, groggy—and stared at the ceiling of the pod with a confusion so human it made my knees go weak.

Then his gaze shifted.

Found me.

And held.

Just long enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

“Sunghoon,” I whispered.

His lips barely moved. “…Y/N?”

And then—just like that—he slipped under again.

His vitals were stable, but his body couldn’t process full consciousness yet. It was expected. I designed it that way. A controlled emergence. Gentle. Like thawing from ice.

He would wake again. Soon.

⸻

Phase VI: Integration.

I had the room ready before I even began the cloning process. A private suite in the East Wing of my estate, modified to resemble a recovery room from a private hospital: sterile whites and soft blues, filtered natural lighting, automated IV drips and real-time vitals displayed on sleek black monitors. The scent of lavender piped faintly through the vents. His favorite.

I moved him after he lost consciousness again—quietly, carefully. No one else involved. Not even my AI assistant, KARA. This part was just mine.

Just ours.

He lay in the bed now, dressed in soft gray cotton, sheets pulled up to his chest. The faint hum of the machines harmonized with his breathing. It was surreal. Like watching a ghost settle into a life it forgot it had.

I perched on the armchair across from him, the dim lighting casting long shadows over his face.

“You’re safe,” I murmured, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “And when you wake up… everything will be in place.”

⸻

I spent the next forty-eight hours setting the stage.

Fabricated records of a traumatic car accident—minor amnesia, extended coma, miraculous survival. Hacked into the hospital registry and quietly added his name under a wealthy alias. I made sure the media silence was absolute. No visitors. No suspicious calls. A full blackout.

I memorized the story I would tell him. Rehearsed it like a script.

We had been on our way to City Hall. A drunk driver ran a red light. I survived with minor injuries. He hit his head. Slipped into a coma. No signs of brain damage, but long-term memory instability was expected.

He’d been here ever since. Safe. Loved. Waiting to wake up.

And now—he had.

⸻

On the morning of the third day, I heard movement.

Soft. Shuffling. Sheets rustling.

I turned from the monitor just as he groaned softly, his head turning on the pillow.

“Sunghoon?”

His eyes blinked open again, more alert this time. Still groggy, but present.

“Y/N…?” he rasped.

I rushed to his side, heart in my throat. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

His brows knit together, voice hoarse. “What happened?”

“You were in an accident,” I said gently. “The day of our wedding. You’ve been in a coma. Two years.”

His eyes widened—just a little. Then flicked down to his hands. The IV. The machines. The unfamiliar room.

“…Two years?”

I nodded, bracing for the confusion. “You survived. But it was close. We weren’t sure you’d ever… come back.”

He said nothing.

Just stared at me.

Like he was trying to remember something he couldn’t quite reach.

“…Why does it feel like I never left?” he whispered.

I smiled softly. Forced. “Because I never left you.”

And for now, that was all he needed to know.

But deep down, behind those eyes, behind the half-forgotten memories and muscle memory that wasn’t truly his—

Something flickered.

Something not asleep anymore.

He was awake.

And the lie had begun.

The days that followed passed in a quiet rhythm.

He adjusted faster than I anticipated. His motor skills were strong, his speech patterns natural—so much so that sometimes I forgot he wasn’t really him. Or maybe he was. Just… rebuilt. Reassembled with grief and obsession and the memory of love that still clung to me like static.

I stayed with him in the hospital wing, sleeping on the pullout beside his bed. Every morning he’d wake before me, staring out the wide window as if trying to piece together time. And when I asked what he was thinking, he always gave the same answer:

“I feel like I dreamed you.”

On the seventh day, he turned to me, his voice clearer than ever.

“Can I go back to our room?”

I paused, fingers wrapped around the rim of his tea mug.

He still called it our room.

I nodded.

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re strong enough now.”

And so we did.

I helped him down the hallway, hand in his, the same way I’d imagined it during the long nights of Phase II. His steps were careful, measured. But his eyes… they lit up the moment we entered.

It looked the same.

The navy sheets. The low lights. The picture of us by the bookshelf—framed and untouched. His books still on the shelf in alphabetical order. His favorite sweatshirt folded at the foot of the bed like I had never moved it.

He smiled when he saw it. “It feels like nothing’s changed.”

Except everything had.

I didn’t say that.

⸻

He asked about the lab a few nights later. We were curled together in bed—his head on my shoulder, our legs tangled like old habits finding their way home.

“How’s the lab?” he asked, voice soft in the dark. “Are we still working on the neuro-mirroring project?”

My heart skipped.

I’d gotten rid of everything. The pod. The DNA matrix. The prototype drafts. Scrubbed the drives clean. Smashed the external backups. Buried the remains of ECHO-1 under a new tree. The lab was as sterile as my conscience was not.

I turned toward him, brushing my thumb over the scar that curved above his brow. The one that hadn’t been there before the “accident.”

“It’s being renovated,” I said carefully. “After the crash… I couldn’t go in for a while. So I decided to redo it. Clear things out. Start over fresh.”

He nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”

He didn’t ask again.

And just like that, life began to move forward.

He followed me around the house again, stealing kisses in the kitchen, playfully poking fun at the way I never folded laundry properly. He rediscovered his favorite coffee, laughed at old movies like they were new, held my hand under the stars like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But sometimes—when he thought I wasn’t looking—he’d stare at his reflection too long. Tilt his head. Press his fingers to his chest like he was checking if something was still there.

Maybe he felt it.

The echo of what he was.

But if he did, he never said.

One night, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, he whispered into my neck, “I don’t know how I got so lucky to come back to you.”

I pressed a kiss to his temple, forcing a smile as my heart ached beneath the surface.

“I guess some things are just meant to find their way back.”

Even if they were never supposed to.

Time softened everything.

The sterile silence of the house began to fade, replaced by the quiet thrum of life again—the clink of mugs in the morning, the shuffle of his bare feet on the hardwood, the lazy hum of music playing from a speaker that hadn’t been touched since he died. I started to breathe again, and so did he.

Like we were rewriting the rhythm we’d lost.

—

Our first night out felt like time travel.

He picked the place—a rooftop restaurant we always swore we’d try, back when work kept getting in the way. I wore the same navy dress I had worn on our second anniversary. He noticed. His hand slid into mine under the table like it belonged there, his thumb tracing invisible patterns against my skin.

Halfway through dessert, he leaned in, grinning with chocolate at the corner of his lip.

“You still scrunch your nose when you’re pretending to like the wine,” he teased, eyes gleaming.

I blinked. “You remember that?”

He nodded slowly. “It just feels like… I always knew.”

I smiled, heart aching in that strange, quiet way it always did now.

“You’re right,” I said, brushing the chocolate off his lip. “You always did.”

Even grocery shopping with him became a date.

He pushed the cart like a child let loose, tossing in things we didn’t need just to make me laugh. At one point, he held up a can of whipped cream with the most mischievous glint in his eye.

“For movie night,” he said innocently.

I arched a brow. “For the movie or during the movie?”

He smirked. “Depends how boring the movie is.”

We walked home with one umbrella, our fingers interlaced in the rain, and the world somehow felt smaller, warmer.

He burned the garlic the first time.

“I told you the pan was too hot,” I said, waving smoke away.

“And you told me to trust you,” he countered, looking absurdly proud of his crime against dinner. “Besides, I like it crunchy.”

“You like your taste buds annihilated, apparently.”

We ended up ordering takeout, sitting on the kitchen floor, eating noodles out of the box with chopsticks, laughing about how we’d both make terrible housewives.

But the next night, we tried again.

He stood behind me, arms around my waist, guiding my hands as I chopped vegetables.

“You used to do this,” I said softly. “When I first moved in.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s one of my favorite memories.”

Cuddling became a ritual.

He always found a way to get impossibly close—sprawled across the couch with his head in my lap, humming contentedly while I read a book or ran my fingers through his hair.

Sometimes we didn’t speak for hours.

Just the quiet breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat echoing faintly against my thigh. Real. Solid. Present.

It was a miracle I could touch.

One night, as rain tapped gently on the windows and he was half-asleep on my shoulder, he whispered:

“I feel safe with you.”

I held him tighter.

Because if I let go—even for a second—I was afraid he might vanish again.

⸻

Love blossomed differently this time.

Slower. Deeper. Less like fire, more like roots. Tangled and unshakable.

And sometimes, in the quiet of our shared bed, I would watch him sleep and wonder if it was love that brought him back.

Or obsession.

But when he opened his eyes and smiled like the sun lived behind them, I told myself it didn’t matter.

He was here.

And that was enough.

For now.

⸻

I woke with a jolt, my heart pounding so violently it threatened to break free from my chest. The nightmare was still fresh, its vividness clinging to my mind like the smoke of a fire.

Sunghoon.

He was in the car again—his face frozen in the moment before everything shattered, his eyes wide with disbelief. The screech of tires, the crash. His body limp. The way I couldn’t reach him no matter how hard I screamed.

I gasped for air, my fingers clutching at the sheets, tangled in the panic that still gripped me.

My breath came in ragged bursts as I sat up, drenched in sweat. My chest heaved with the rawness of the memory, the terrible what-ifs that still haunted me.

A hand gently touched my back.

“Y/N?”

His voice, soft and concerned, cut through the haze of the nightmare. I froze for a moment, the world around me still spinning from the disorienting shock.

I turned, and there he was—Sunghoon—sitting up beside me in the bed, his eyes full of concern. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated his face, and for a moment, it was almost as if everything had shifted back into place.

But only for a second.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his voice warm with worry.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing. “I… I just had a nightmare,” I whispered, avoiding his eyes. My heart was still trying to settle, and I didn’t want him to see the fear in my face. I didn’t want him to see how broken I still was.

Sunghoon leaned forward, his hands reaching out to cradle my face gently. He brushed a strand of hair away from my forehead, his touch so familiar, so tender.

“Nightmares are just that,” he said softly, his thumb grazing my skin. “They aren’t real. I’m here.”

I nodded, trying to pull myself together, but the knot in my throat wouldn’t loosen. There was something about the way he said it—so assuredly. So real. Like the past didn’t exist, like he had never been gone.

Like I hadn’t created him from fragments of grief and obsession.

He sat next to me, his arm around my shoulders as I leaned into him. The warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, slowly calmed me. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of him—the same as it had always been.

“I’m here,” he repeated, his voice a quiet lullaby.

But somewhere deep inside, I couldn’t shake the question that had haunted me since the moment I had revived him: Who was he really? Was this truly the Sunghoon I had loved, the one who had filled my life with light? Or was this just a perfect imitation, a replica of my memories? An echo of a man who would never truly exist again?

I wanted to believe he was him. I needed to believe it.

But as he held me, his warmth seeping into my skin, I couldn’t deny the doubt that gnawed at my soul.

“Y/N?” he murmured, sensing my tension.

“Yeah?” I whispered, pulling myself closer into his arms.

He tilted my chin up, his gaze intense as he met my eyes. “I love you,” he said quietly, with such certainty that for a moment, it almost felt real—like the love we’d always shared before the accident, before everything shattered.

And in that moment, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to forget everything else, to let myself drown in the reassurance that this was him—my Sunghoon.

But the ghosts of the past still lingered in the corners of my mind.

“I love you too,” I replied softly, my voice shaky but true.

And for a few minutes, we just sat there, holding each other in the stillness of the night.

But as I closed my eyes and let the warmth of his embrace lull me back to sleep, the doubt remained.

Would I ever be able to escape the shadows of my own creation?

As the days passed, the weight of my doubts gradually lightened. Sunghoon’s presence—his warmth, his voice, the way he smiled—reminded me more and more of the man I had once loved, the man who had been taken from me.

The fear, the gnawing uncertainty that had once been constant in the back of my mind, slowly started to fade. Each moment we spent together was a little piece of normalcy returning. He didn’t just look like Sunghoon. He was Sunghoon. In every little detail—his laugh, the way he tilted his head when he was deep in thought, how he always made the coffee exactly the way I liked it. His presence was enough to reassure me that this was him, in all the ways that mattered.

We went on walks together, hand in hand, strolling through the garden I had planted the day we first moved into the house. It was filled with flowers that bloomed year-round—just like the memories I had of us, blooming and growing despite the heartbreak.

We laughed, reminiscing about everything we had shared before. Sunghoon was never afraid to be vulnerable with me, and it felt like we were picking up right where we left off. His sense of humor, always dry and sarcastic, never failed to make me smile. And slowly, I began to accept that the man who stood beside me, laughing at his own jokes, was truly my Sunghoon.

One night, as we cooked dinner together, I watched him carefully slice vegetables, his movements graceful and practiced. It was simple, domestic, but it felt like everything I had longed for since he was gone.

“Don’t forget the garlic,” I reminded him, teasing.

He shot me a look, smirking. “I remember.”

I smiled, feeling the warmth of the moment settle into my bones. This was real. The way he made sure I was comfortable in the kitchen, the way we worked together without needing words—this was our life, reborn.

The more time we spent in the house, the more at ease I became. We cooked together, watched old movies, read books side by side, and held each other as we fell asleep at night. There were no more questions in my mind. No more doubts. Just the feeling of peace settling over me, like the calm after a storm.

Sunghoon never asked me about the lab. And I never had to lie, because there was no need to. The lab had been dismantled long ago, every trace of Project ECHO erased. It was as if it never existed. My obsession, my grief—gone.

In its place was this. A second chance.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you, Y/N,” he said one evening as we sat on the couch, the sound of rain tapping against the windows. He held me close, his head resting against mine. “No matter what happens, no matter what changes… you’re the one for me.”

I turned to look at him, searching his eyes for something—anything—that might reveal the truth I feared. But there was nothing. Only love. Real love.

“I feel the same,” I whispered back, brushing my lips against his.

For a moment, the world outside disappeared. There was no past, no lab, no questions. There was only Sunghoon, here with me. And that was enough.

The days continued to pass in a peaceful blur of moments that I had once thought lost forever. With each sunrise, my doubts melted away, and with every touch, every kiss, I felt more certain that this was real. That he was real.

Sunghoon might not be the exact same person who had walked out of that door all those years ago—but in my heart, it didn’t matter. He was my Sunghoon, and that was all I needed.

Together, we built a life—one step at a time. And this time, I wasn’t afraid.

I wasn’t afraid of the past. I wasn’t afraid of the future.

I was just… happy.

Sunghoon’s POV

It had been a year since I came back to her, and in that time, I had slowly convinced myself that everything was okay. That what we had, what I had, was enough. That the woman I loved, the woman who had saved me—had done so much more than just revive me—wasn’t hiding any more secrets. But the past… it always had a way of creeping up, didn’t it?

I wasn’t snooping, not exactly. I was just cleaning up. I had offered to help her tidy up the office since she had been so caught up in her work lately, and well, I had nothing else to do. After all, it’s been a year now, and I’ve come to understand her more than I could ever have imagined. She’d been distant the past few days, and it made me uneasy. The kind of unease that makes you feel like there’s something you should know, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

It was as I was sorting through the boxes in her home office—one that she hadn’t allowed me to visit much—that I found it.

A video tape.

It was tucked behind a stack of old files, half-buried in the clutter. At first, I thought nothing of it. She was always meticulous about her work, so maybe it was just an old research document, something from her past. But when I saw the words “Project ECHO – Development and Breakdown” scrawled on the side, my heart stopped. I felt a sickening knot tighten in my chest, and instinctively, my fingers curled around it.

What was this?

My thoughts raced as I fumbled with the tape, my hands trembling just slightly as I slid it into the old VCR player she kept in the corner of the office. The screen flickered to life.

There I was.

Or… the version of me that had once existed. The first one. My mind was running faster than my eyes could follow the images flashing on the screen. I saw footage of my development, from the initial growth stages to the first electrical impulses firing in my brain, as well as my physical appearance being tested and adjusted.

My stomach turned as the video documented every breakdown of my body—every failed attempt to bring me to life. I saw the wires, the artificial fluids, the machines that I had been hooked up to before I had opened my eyes, before I had woken up in that hospital room.

But it was the last part of the video that hit hardest. There, in her cold, emotionless voice, Y/N narrated her thoughts, her failed efforts, her obsession with recreating me.

“I couldn’t get it right… not the first time. But I will, because I have to. For him. For us.”

My chest tightened as the realization hit me like a brick. She had known the entire time. She had created me. I wasn’t the Sunghoon who had died. I was a version of him. A shadow of the real thing.

The screen went black, but the words echoed in my mind like an incessant drumbeat.

For him. For us.

The pain of that truth was like a knife twisting in my gut. The woman I loved had spent years trying to recreate me, to bring me back—because she couldn’t let go. She couldn’t let me go. But she never told me. She never let me in on the truth of it all.

I was a lie.

I wasn’t real. And all this time, I had been believing I was the same Sunghoon she had lost. But I wasn’t.

I could feel the tears stinging my eyes as I reached for the nearby papers, pulling them out in a frantic rage. More documents. More of my development—charts, genetic breakdowns, notes about my failed memories, and even the procedures Y/N had carried out. Every page proved it. I wasn’t just a clone; I was the culmination of her grief and desire.

The door to the office opened quietly behind me, and I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The air in the room grew thick, suffocating. I could feel her presence like a weight pressing down on me.

“Sunghoon,” she whispered, her voice barely a murmur.

I finally turned to face her. She looked pale, her eyes wide, clearly having seen the documents I had scattered across the room. She knew. She knew what I had found.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I choked out, my voice raw. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth, Y/N?”

Her eyes flickered with guilt, and for a moment, I thought she might say something—anything to explain, to apologize. But instead, she took a step back, her hands wringing together nervously.

“I didn’t want you to hate me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I didn’t want to lose you again. I—I thought maybe if you didn’t know… maybe we could have our life back. I just wanted to have you here again, Sunghoon.”

My hands balled into fists at my sides, and I could feel the tears building in my eyes. “But I’m not him, am I? I’m not the real Sunghoon. I’m just… this.” I gestured around at the papers, at the video, at the mess that had been my life. “I’m a replica. A copy of someone who doesn’t exist anymore. How could you do this to me?”

She stepped forward, her face pale with fear, but her voice was firm. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I just wanted you back, Sunghoon. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t lose you. You were taken from me so suddenly, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t live with the thought that you were gone forever.”

I looked at her, the woman who had once been everything to me—the one who I thought had rebuilt me out of love, not out of desperation.

“Do you think I’m the same person? Do you think I can just pretend that I’m the man I was before? How could you think I wouldn’t want to know the truth?” My voice cracked, emotion flooding out of me like a dam breaking. “How could you do this?”

Her face crumpled, and I saw the tears well up in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sunghoon,” she whispered, her voice barely audible through the sobs. “I thought if I could just give you everything back, we could start over. But I was wrong. I—I should’ve told you from the beginning.”

I could feel the overwhelming ache in my chest, the confusion, the betrayal. But more than that, I felt the loss of something far deeper: trust. The trust that she had built between us was gone in an instant.

“You’re right. You should’ve told me,” I whispered, stepping back, my throat tight. “I need some space, Y/N. I can’t… I can’t do this right now.”

I turned and walked out of the room, my heart shattering with each step.

I paused at the door, the weight of her voice sinking into me like a stone. I didn’t turn around, not right away. The question lingered in the air, hanging between us, impossible to ignore.

“If I was the one who died, would you do the same?”

Her words were quiet, but they cut through the silence of the room with precision, like a knife through soft flesh. I could feel the tension in the air—the desperation in her voice, the need for an answer. She was asking me to justify her actions, to somehow make sense of everything she had done.

I clenched my fists at my sides, fighting the urge to turn and lash out. But I couldn’t do it—not when the pain of her question was a reflection of everything I was feeling.

“I… I don’t know,” I finally muttered, my voice barely a whisper. “Maybe I would. I can’t say for sure. But I don’t think I’d ever hide the truth from you. I wouldn’t keep you in the dark, pretending that everything was okay when it wasn’t.”

Her soft, broken gasp from behind me reached my ears, but I couldn’t face her—not yet. Not when the anger and hurt were still so raw.

“You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone you love that much,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “I couldn’t stand the thought of living without you, Sunghoon. I thought… maybe if I could just bring you back… we could have our future. But now, I see how selfish that was. How wrong.”

I wanted to say something—anything—to ease her pain, but the words stuck in my throat. The truth was, part of me still wanted to reach out to her, to hold her, to tell her it was going to be okay. But I wasn’t sure if that would be enough. Would it ever be enough?

“I need time, Y/N,” I said quietly, my voice cracking. “I need to think. About all of this. About us.”

The silence that followed was heavy, unbearable. And then, finally, I walked out the door, leaving her behind, standing in the wreckage of her choices—and my own shattered heart.

The days stretched on like a slow burn, each passing hour marked by the tension that filled every corner of our shared space. We were still in the same house, the same home, but it felt like we were living in different worlds now. The walls felt thicker, the silence heavier.

I moved through the house in a daze, keeping to myself more often than not. Y/N and I had an unspoken agreement—it was easier this way. She’d stay in the study or the kitchen, and I’d retreat to the room we used to share, now feeling like an alien space, void of the warmth it once held. We didn’t speak much anymore, and when we did, it was brief—polite, almost mechanical.

There were moments when I caught a glimpse of her, standing in the hallway, her head bent low, a soft frown on her face. Other times, she’d walk by without looking at me, her eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding my gaze as if she feared what might happen if she met my eyes for too long. I wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—but every time I did, the words felt inadequate, like they couldn’t possibly capture the weight of everything that had changed.

One evening, I found myself sitting in the living room, staring out the window at the moonlit garden. I could hear her footsteps in the hallway, the soft sound of her presence lingering in the air. For a moment, I thought she might come in, might sit beside me like she used to. But she didn’t. Instead, the silence stretched between us again, a reminder of the distance we had created.

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my eyes as frustration built inside me. The whole situation felt suffocating—like I was trapped between what I wanted and what had happened. I didn’t know how to fix it, or even if it could be fixed. There was so much to unravel, so many emotions to sort through. And then there was the truth—the truth of who I was now. Not just a man trying to find his way back to a life that no longer existed, but a clone—a replica of someone who once had a future, now burdened with a past he didn’t truly own.

The sound of her voice from the kitchen broke my thoughts.

“Dinner’s ready,” she called softly, her voice almost too gentle, too careful.

I hesitated for a moment, staring at the untouched glass of water on the coffee table. The empty space between us felt too vast to cross, but eventually, I stood up, making my way to the kitchen.

We sat across from each other, the dim light from the pendant lamp above casting shadows on the table. There were no small talks, no jokes exchanged like before. We ate in silence, the clinking of silverware the only sound between us. Every so often, I would look up, meeting her gaze for a fleeting second, but neither of us had the courage to speak the words that were hanging in the air.

The food was good, as always, but it didn’t taste the same. The flavor of everything felt hollow, like a memory that wasn’t quite mine.

When the meal was over, I helped clear the table, my movements stiff. The kitchen felt too small, the air too thick.

She turned to face me then, her expression unreadable, her eyes dark with something I couldn’t quite place. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. “For everything.”

I swallowed hard, the knot in my chest tightening. “I know you are. I… I just don’t know what to do with all of this.”

Her eyes flickered with unshed tears, and she stepped back, as though the space between us could somehow protect her from the weight of the moment. “I never wanted to hurt you, Sunghoon,” she murmured, her words full of regret. “I thought… I thought if I could just bring you back, we could have another chance. But now I see how wrong I was.”

I nodded slowly, trying to process the ache in my chest. “I don’t know how to fix this either. But I know… I know I need to understand who I am now. And what we are.” My voice trembled, but I fought it back. “I need time.”

“I understand,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “Take all the time you need.”

It felt like a farewell, and yet, we stayed in the same house. In the same life, but now it was something unrecognizable.

The next few weeks passed in the same quiet, empty rhythm. We moved around each other, living parallel lives without ever crossing paths in any meaningful way. There were mornings where I would wake up to find her sitting on the couch, staring at her phone, or nights where I’d catch her reading a book in the dim light.

Sometimes, I would linger by the door to her study, wondering if I should knock, ask her how she was feeling, but each time, I backed away, unsure if I was ready to face the answers she might give.

At night, I would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was how we were going to live—side by side but separate. I missed her. I missed us. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was just a shadow of the man she once loved, and that was a weight I wasn’t sure she could carry anymore.

One night, as I lay in the dark, unable to sleep, I heard the soft sound of her crying. The quiet sobs seeped through the walls, and my heart clenched painfully in my chest.

I wanted to go to her. Hold her. Tell her everything would be okay. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the words anymore.

And maybe, I never would.

The night stretched on, and despite the tension that hung thick in the house, I managed to fall into an uneasy sleep. The weight of everything—our fragmented relationship, the guilt, the uncertainty—had left me exhausted, though the sleep I sought felt shallow and restless.

It was around 3 AM when I was jolted awake by the softest sound—a faint, broken sob. My eyes snapped open in the dark, my heartbeat quickening. I froze, listening carefully, the sounds of her grief pulling at something deep within me.

It was coming from the direction of her room.

At first, I told myself to ignore it. After all, she had her own space, her own pain, and I had my own to deal with. But the sound of her brokenness—quiet and desperate—was too much to ignore.

Slowly, I slid out of bed, my bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. I moved silently through the house, drawn to the soft, muffled sounds echoing through the walls. When I reached the door to her room, I paused.

She was crying, the kind of sobs that wracked her body and left her vulnerable. I hadn’t heard her cry like this before—unfiltered, raw, as if the dam inside her had finally broken.

The light from her bedside lamp flickered weakly, casting long shadows on the walls. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her head buried in her hands, the tears falling freely, like they couldn’t be held back anymore.

I stood there, frozen, my chest tightening at the sight. My first instinct was to rush to her side, to pull her into my arms and whisper that everything would be alright. But I didn’t. I just watched from the doorway, a spectator in my own home.

The sound of her pain made me feel powerless, as if I were too far gone—too far removed from who I once was to even be the man she needed. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. The silence between us felt like an unspoken agreement, a distance neither of us knew how to cross.

And then she spoke.

“I’m sorry… Sunghoon,” she whispered to the empty room, the words slipping from her like a confession she hadn’t meant to make. “I thought I could fix it. I thought… if I could just bring you back, we could be happy again. But I don’t know what I’ve done anymore. I don’t know who you are. Or if you’re even really you.”

Her voice cracked at the end, and I could hear the weight of her regret, the guilt, the fear of everything she’d done.

The flood of emotions hit me all at once—anger, sadness, confusion—and yet, there was something else, too. The overwhelming desire to reach out to her. To show her that I understood, that I knew how hard this was for her.

But still, I stayed frozen. Silent. The words that had once flowed so easily between us now felt like strangers.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but it didn’t stop the tears.

“I was selfish,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible now. “I couldn’t let go. I wanted you back, no matter the cost. And now… I don’t know if you can ever forgive me.”

That was when the weight of it all hit me fully—the pain she had been carrying, the burden she had placed on herself. The fear she had been living with, not knowing if I could ever truly forgive her for bringing me back.

I stepped forward then, unable to watch her fall apart without doing something.

“Y/N,” I said quietly, my voice hoarse, betraying the emotions I had kept bottled up for so long.

She immediately stiffened, her breath hitching as she quickly wiped her face, trying to pull herself together. “You’re awake,” she said, her voice faltering. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

“I heard you,” I interrupted, taking a few steps into the room. “And I’m not angry with you.”

She looked at me, her eyes filled with so much sadness, it was almost more than I could bear. “But I did this to you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I brought you back, Sunghoon. And I don’t know if you even want to be here. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask to be—” She stopped, her breath shaky, as if even speaking the words caused her pain.

I knelt in front of her, my heart aching as I reached for her hands, gently pulling them from her face. “Y/N…” I said softly. “I am here. I’m here because I want to be.”

“But what if I’ve ruined everything?” she whispered. “What if I can never make it right?”

I shook my head, cupping her face in my hands as I looked into her eyes, searching for some glimmer of hope in her. “You didn’t ruin anything. You did what you thought was best… even if it was wrong. And I understand that. But we can’t live like this, hiding from each other. We need to talk. We need to be honest.”

She nodded slowly, tears still slipping down her cheeks. “But can we ever go back to what we were?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, filled with a quiet desperation.

I swallowed, my own emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice thick. “But I want to try. I want to figure it out. Together.”

There was a long pause, and then, slowly, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against mine, her tears falling onto my skin. I closed my eyes, letting the weight of everything settle in.

In that moment, I realized that maybe there wasn’t a way back to what we once had—but that didn’t mean we couldn’t find something new. Something different. Something real.

And I was willing to fight for it.

I held her closer, whispering against her hair. “We’ll find our way. Together. One step at a time.”

The silence between us stretched out, thick with the unspoken words, the weight of everything we had been through. Her breath was shaky against my skin, and I could feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine, like she was finally letting herself soften, letting me in again.

I wanted to say more, to fix everything, but the words weren’t coming. I could only focus on the rhythm of her breath, how the vulnerability in her touch made everything seem both fragile and precious.

And then, almost instinctively, I pulled back just slightly, my hands still cupping her face, fingers brushing softly over the damp skin of her cheeks. I searched her eyes for something, anything—some flicker of permission, of trust.

The question formed in my chest before I even realized it, and before I could second-guess myself, it slipped from my mouth, quiet and uncertain but earnest.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words were soft, tentative, as if I wasn’t sure she would say yes, as if I wasn’t sure I even had the right to ask anymore. But something in me needed to hear it—to know if we could bridge that last distance between us, if the gulf of everything we had been through could be closed with something as simple as a kiss.

Her gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, everything went still. She didn’t say anything. There was only the quiet sound of her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest under my palms. The world outside the room felt distant, irrelevant. It was just us now, alone in this fragile moment.

I waited. She could say no. She could push me away. But I needed to know where we stood.

And then, slowly, her eyes softened. She gave a slight nod, her lips trembling as if the simple motion of it took all her strength.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but it was there. It was all I needed to hear.

Before I could even think, my hands moved to her shoulders, pulling her gently closer. I closed the distance between us, hesitating only for a brief second, just enough to feel the weight of the moment.

And then I kissed her.

It wasn’t the kiss I had imagined—the wild, desperate kiss of two people who couldn’t control themselves. No, this one was different. It was slow, careful, tentative, like we were both afraid to break something that had just begun to heal. My lips brushed against hers, soft and uncertain, as if I were asking for permission again with every gentle touch.

She responded after a moment, her hands finding their way to my chest, clutching at me like she was trying to ground herself in the kiss, in the connection we were rebuilding. I could feel her hesitation, but I could also feel the warmth, the pull, the quiet promise in the way she kissed me back.

The kiss deepened slowly, our movements syncing, building, and for the first time in so long, I felt something stir inside me that had been dormant—hope. A fragile, trembling hope that maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back to each other. That maybe this was the first step in learning to trust again.

When we finally pulled away, neither of us spoke for a moment. We just stayed there, foreheads pressed together, our breaths mingling in the stillness. I could feel her heart beating against my chest, a steady rhythm that told me she was here. She was still here with me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice small, but it wasn’t the apology I had been expecting. It wasn’t guilt or regret. It was a quiet understanding. A promise, maybe.

“I know,” I whispered back, brushing my thumb over her cheek, wiping away the last remnants of her tears. “We’re going to be okay.”

And for the first time in so long, I actually believed it.

The air between us was thick with the weight of everything unspoken, but in that moment, there was only the soft brush of our lips, the warmth of our bodies pressed together, and the undeniable pull that had always been there. We moved slowly, cautiously, like we were both afraid of shattering something fragile that had just begun to heal.

The kiss deepened, an unspoken question lingering in the space between us. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast and erratic, matching mine. It was as if we both understood that this was more than just a kiss—it was a reclaiming, a restoration of something that had been lost for far too long.

I gently cupped her face, tilting her head slightly, deepening the kiss as my hands found their way down her back, pulling her closer, as if I couldn’t get enough of her, couldn’t get close enough. Her fingers slid up to my chest, tracing the lines of my shirt before pushing it off, the fabric slipping to the floor without a second thought.

There was no more hesitation, no more doubt. Just the raw connection between us that had always been there, waiting to be unlocked.

She responded with the same urgency, hands moving over my body, finding the familiar places, the marks that made me me. I could feel the heat of her skin, the way her breath caught when we came closer, when I kissed her neck, her jaw, her lips. The taste of her was like everything I’d been missing, the feeling of her so real, so tangible, that for a moment, it was hard to believe she was really here. Really with me.

Our movements grew more urgent, more desperate, but still tender, as if we were both trying to savor this moment, unsure of what tomorrow might bring, but desperate to make up for the lost time. I wanted to show her everything, all the ways I loved her, all the ways I had missed her without even knowing how much.

The world outside the room disappeared. There was no lab, no documents, no research, no mistakes. Just us—finding our way back to each other, piece by piece. I held her close, kissed her as if I could never let her go, and when the moment finally came, when we both reached that point of release, it wasn’t just about the physicality. It was about trust, about healing, about starting over.

When we collapsed against each other afterward, breathless and tangled in sheets, I felt something shift inside me. Something I hadn’t realized was broken until it started to mend.

Her hand found mine, fingers lacing together, and she rested her head on my chest, her breath slowing, and for the first time in so long, I felt peace. A peace I hadn’t known I needed.

And in the quiet of the room, with her beside me, I whispered softly, “I’ll never let you go again.”

She didn’t answer right away, but I felt the way she squeezed my hand tighter, her chest rising and falling against mine. She didn’t need to say anything. I could feel it in the way she held me.

And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe that we could truly begin again.

The quiet stillness of the room enveloped us, the soft sound of our breathing the only thing that filled the space. I held her, tracing the curve of her back with my fingers, savoring the moment as though it might slip away if I wasn’t careful. The weight of everything—the doubts, the fears, the mistakes—was still there, lingering in the shadows of my mind, but for once, I didn’t feel like I had to carry them alone.

She shifted slightly, raising her head to meet my gaze. There was a softness in her eyes now, the guarded walls that had once stood so tall between us slowly crumbling. I could see the vulnerability there, but also the strength that had always been her anchor.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but it carried all the weight of everything she’d been carrying inside. “I never meant to hurt you.”

I brushed a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers lingering against her skin. “I know,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. “I know. But we’re here now. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

She nodded, her eyes closing for a moment as if gathering herself. The air between us was charged with unspoken words, and I could feel the weight of the past year pressing down on us. But there was something different now—something that had shifted between us, something I hadn’t felt in so long.

Her lips found mine again, soft and gentle, a kiss that spoke volumes more than words ever could. It was an apology, a promise, a plea all rolled into one. And for the first time in so long, I allowed myself to believe in it fully.

When we finally pulled away, her forehead rested against mine, both of us still tangled in the sheets, the world outside feeling miles away. I could hear the distant hum of the city, the night stretching out before us like a quiet, unspoken promise.

“I love you,” I whispered, the words escaping before I could even think about them. But it felt right. It felt real.

She smiled, her fingers brushing against my cheek. “I love you, too. I never stopped.”

And in that moment, I knew. No matter the struggles we’d faced, no matter the secrets, the pain, or the mistakes, we were still here. Still us. And as long as we could keep finding our way back to each other, everything else would be okay.

We stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside fading into nothingness. In the quiet, there was only peace. The peace of knowing that, together, we could face whatever came next.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I finally let go of the fear that had kept me tethered to the past. Because with her by my side, I knew we could build a future. A real future. And nothing, nothing at all could take that away from us.

As the days passed, something began to shift between us. It was subtle at first, small gestures of kindness, moments of vulnerability that had been buried under the weight of secrets and doubts. But as we spent more time together, the trust that had once been strained slowly started to blossom again, like a fragile flower daring to bloom in the cracks of the world we had rebuilt.

Every morning, Sunghoon would make me coffee, just the way I liked it—strong, a little bitter, with just a hint of sweetness. It became our small ritual, something to ground us, to remind us that we were still learning, still growing. And every evening, we’d find ourselves lost in the quiet comfort of one another’s presence. Sometimes we didn’t say much, just the familiar silence that had always existed between us, but now it felt different. It felt safe.

One night, as we sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket together, he turned to me, his expression soft. “I’ve been thinking about everything. About what you did…and why. I don’t want to just forgive you. I want to understand. I want us to really move forward.”

I smiled, the warmth in his voice soothing the lingering worries in my chest. “We will,” I whispered, “We’re already on the way.”

Sunghoon gave me a small, genuine smile, his fingers lightly brushing over mine. It was a touch so simple, yet it carried all the weight of the world. I had feared this moment—the moment when the cracks would be too deep to heal—but instead, I felt something stronger than before. Something more real.

As the weeks went on, we found ourselves sharing more than just physical space. We started talking about the future—what we wanted, where we saw ourselves. There was no more fear of the unknown between us. Instead, there was excitement. There was trust, slowly but surely, weaving its way back into our lives.

I could see it in the way Sunghoon would ask about my day, genuinely interested, and how I would lean into him when I needed comfort, no longer second-guessing whether I deserved it. Our conversations had depth now, unafraid of the things we once kept hidden. We didn’t pretend anymore. We didn’t have to.

One evening, while we were cooking dinner together, Sunghoon turned to me with a teasing smile. “You’ve improved. Your cooking’s actually…not terrible.”

I laughed, playfully shoving him. “Hey, I’ve gotten better!”

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me into his chest. “I’m proud of you.”

I could feel the sincerity in his words, the love that had grown back between us like something tangible. The fear and doubt that had once plagued me were nowhere to be found now. In their place was a quiet certainty.

We weren’t perfect. We still had our moments of miscommunication, of moments when the past reared its head, but with each day, the trust between us grew stronger. It wasn’t about erasing the mistakes we’d made. It was about learning from them and choosing to move forward together, no matter what.

And as I looked into Sunghoon’s eyes, I saw the same thing reflected back at me—the understanding, the acceptance, the desire to never give up on us.

In that moment, I knew that trust wasn’t just something that had to be given freely—it had to be earned. And we were earning it every day. Slowly, but surely, we were becoming something new, something even more beautiful than before. Something that could withstand anything life threw at us.

And for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to believe in the future again.

In us.

Life had felt like it was finally settling into a quiet rhythm, like the calm after a storm. Sunghoon and I had been living together in peace for the past year, our bond mended from the cracks of the past. The tension had faded, leaving room for love, laughter, and domestic moments that felt so normal and reassuring. We’d shared so many firsts again—first trips, first lazy weekends in bed, first home-cooked meals. Everything felt right. Almost.

It was during one of these peaceful afternoons that I made a discovery. I was cleaning out the attic of our home, something I’d been meaning to do for months, when I came across an old box. It was tucked away in the corner behind some old furniture, covered in dust and cobwebs. The box was unassuming, wooden with a faded label that simply read, “Don’t Open.”

Curiosity got the best of me. I knew it was probably something from my past, but that label tugged at something deep inside me, urging me to open it. I hesitated for a moment, but then, with a deep breath, I lifted the lid. Inside, I found an old video tape. It was yellowed and cracked with age, but there was no mistaking the handwriting on the label: “For Y/N.”

My heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t like me to leave things unexamined, especially if they seemed tied to my past. But this felt different. There was an unspoken warning in those words. Still, I couldn’t resist.

I brought the tape downstairs and found the old VCR player we kept for nostalgia’s sake. Sunghoon was in the living room, reading a book. I hesitated for a moment before calling him over.

“Sunghoon, you have to see this,” I said, holding up the tape. “I found something in the attic…”

He looked at me curiously, putting the book down. “What is it?”

I popped the tape into the player, and the screen flickered to life. At first, there was nothing—just static. But then, the image cleared, and I saw him.

The figure of a man in a lab coat appeared. His features were unmistakable—he was Park Sunghoon, the real Sunghoon, the one who had died in the accident years ago. But this Sunghoon wasn’t the one Y/N knew now. He looked younger, more fragile, and tears stained his face.

“I… I don’t know how to start this,” the Sunghoon on the screen murmured, his voice choked with emotion. “Y/N… is gone. She passed away. Leukemia. It was sudden. I—I couldn’t do anything. She was everything to me. And I… I can’t bear it.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She glanced at Sunghoon, whose face had gone pale. He looked at the screen, wide-eyed, his expression unreadable.

“In my grief, I’ve decided to do something I never thought I would. I’m using her preserved DNA, the samples we took when we were researching regenerative cloning… to bring her back. I—I have to do this. I can’t live with the pain of losing her,” the real Sunghoon continued, his voice trembling.

The video cut to a series of clips from the lab: footage of the real Sunghoon working late nights, mixing chemicals, monitoring equipment, and seemingly obsessed with recreating Y/N.

“I’ve used everything we learned in our research. I’ll make her whole again,” the video continued. “But this is for me, I know. For us. I want to have a second chance. A chance to make things right. If you’re watching this, Y/N… then I’ve succeeded. I’ve recreated you.”

The video ended abruptly, and the screen turned to static.

It was strange, to know the truth about their origins—about the fact that their love had been recreated, in a sense, by science and heartache. But as Y/N lay in Sunghoon’s arms that night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that none of it truly mattered. What mattered was that they were together now. They had both fought for this. They had both fought for each other. And nothing in this world could take that away from them.

Their love had brought them to this point—not fate, not science, but love. It was a love that transcended life and death, pain and loss. A love that, no matter what had come before, had always been destined to endure.

They had started as two broken souls, unable to move forward without the other. But now, they were whole again. Their love, their memories—no matter how they came to be—were theirs to cherish.

And that, in the end, was all that mattered.

The rest, the science, the questions of whether they were real or not, faded into the background. Because, in the end, they were real. Their love was real. And that was all they needed to know.

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

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[newtsniffles]

BETWEEN YOUR EYES

the jackal x oc

chapter one

WARNING: this fanfiction will contain mature scenes, violence, and coarse language.

word count: 1.6k, a short set-up chapter. enjoy!

if you enjoy this fanfiction, please don't forget to interact.

CHAPTER ONE: ONE SHOT, ONE KILL.

Grace McCarron loved the smell of coffee. Especially in the early mornings when the sun hadn’t risen and the streets were still wet with last night’s rain. It irked her though, how people could be so loud at such an early hour. Couldn’t people just be quiet? Talk at a normal volume, it was only the hour of six. 

The blonde’s fingers rap against the counter in a steady rhythm. Her expression reads neutral as she watches the customers enjoying their breakfasts, discussing work projects and gossip. It was all so mundane, every word they said was capable of drawing a yawn from her lips. Nobody is interesting this morning.

With a sigh, Grace reaches under the counter for the remote, flicking on the television in the corner. Her head tilts, blue eyes sparkling with intense focus at the headline written across the lower third of the screen. 

Manfred Fest assassinated.

Grace’s eyes narrow, something interesting. Her attention is only being drawn away by the sound of a customer waiting to order. A young woman, brunette, she’d be mid-twenties. 

‘It’s horrible isn’t it?’ The woman says.

‘I’m on the fence,’ Grace admits. ‘What can I get for you?’

‘A latte, please… You don’t think it’s bad?’

‘That a fascist offended somebody and got himself killed? Not really.’ Grace presses the coffee, clicking it into the machine before foaming the milk. With practised expertise, she fills a takeaway cup with the espresso and milk, creating lines of art on the top. 

‘I don’t know much about foreign politics,’ the woman taps her card.

‘Take it from me, be glad he won’t be the new German Chancellor.’

Grace’s attention is brought back to the screen as the customer walks away with her latte. A single sniper shot from a distance of over three kilometres. Impressive. More than. The corners of her lips tilt into a small grin, leaning back onto the counter with crossed arms, she watches the news report.

It had started raining again, like it usually did in London. The sound of tires driving over the slick roads was comforting to Grace. Red brake lights reflected in the puddles by the footpath, headlights and street lamps casting a warm hue despite the darkening sky. She loved the rain, the sound of it pattering against whatever surface. However, it did make it hard to get a decent line of sight. Her lips quirked slightly, a lover of challenge. One blue eye closed, a glint of thrill in the other as it stared through the scope of a personalised sniper rifle. 

Sleeping with the blinds open, Grace could never understand it, but it certainly helped her in this case. The target laid across his bed, his thumb scrolling across the screen of his phone. The lights in his apartment were on, everything visible. He was so stupidly vulnerable. She could’ve shot six times over by now, but would there be any fun in that? Her finger taps against the trigger as she recalls the deviance of the sleazy man. The world would be better off without him.

BANG. One shot, one kill.

Grace pulls her head back from the sniper, standing up, she starts to pack down the rifle. Her eyes don’t leave the window of the now-deceased target as she unscrews the barrel, packing it all into a case. She hurries downstairs, unlocking her car and driving off swiftly. Chances are nobody would find him until morning, but it is still safer to get away as quickly as possible.

The internet cafe was practically dead at this hour, a lone stranger or two.  It had started to rain outside again, Grace could hear it on the roof, see it on the windows. It was also a Wednesday, unlikely that it would be busy. She plugs a USB into one of the many PCs, accessing Dark Core.

Access Chatroom:

Username: xxxfOxTROT22971x$

Password: ************

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___ job complete.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___he will not bother you anymore.

FPOxENT779X___thank you.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___yes.

CRTVDSTRYR*1908 one new message.

CRTVDSTRYR*1908___Big admirers of your work. Have project we think will interest you. Superlative remuneration.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___i don’t work for money.

CRTVDSTRYR*1908___What do you work for?

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___enforcement of consequence.

CRTVDSTRYR*1908___There is a man who needs to face consequences.

CRTVDSTRYR*1908___Can’t talk here.

CRTVDSTRYR*1908___Will you meet in person?

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___where?

Grace sits back in her seat, her finger traces her bottom lip as she waits for a response. This was an odd one, but they seem insistent. For them to know of her work, they had to have communication with sources she had helped in the past.

CRTVDSTRYR*1908___Will make a transfer of good will. Location attached.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___tomorrow morning.

Logout.

A sum of $10,000 has been transferred to your account.

A transfer message has been left.

Grace shuts down the computer, taking out the USB, she packs it into her handbag. Her lips quirk as she exits the internet cafe. Something new, something interesting, a potential challenge. This calls for a stop at that delicious dessert bar down the road from her apartment, a nice meringue or maybe some ice cream would do.

For once the sun was out in London, albeit only slightly, but it did still make Grace look less ridiculous for wearing a cap and sunglasses. She notices a woman sitting on the park bench, must be her. Her black coat flutters behind her in the wind as she sits beside the other woman.

‘Who are you?’ Grace asks.

‘Irish?’ The woman responds with a question.

‘And you’re American.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why am I here?’ Grace leans back against the park bench, crossing her legs. ‘What did he do? Was it assault, did he hurt the kids…?’

‘Ulle Dag Charles.’

‘UDC… the River man?’ 

‘Yes,’ She answers.

‘I don’t see how exposing the rich is a crime,’ Grace grins. ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve wasted my time.’

‘If he releases River, it’s not just the rich who fall. All secret networks will be exposed, you’ll be discovered.’ The woman turns to face Grace, trying to get a look at her expression. She quickly realises it’s impossible with the cap and the darkly tinted glasses. ‘You’ll go to prison for a long time.’

‘If that’s the case, hidden networks of paedophiles, rapists… it will all be exposed. You think they’ll go after little old me?’

‘I think even after exposing the rich, they’ll still have the power, and they’ll still be protected.’

‘You’re very insistent,’ Grace observes. ‘Why me?’

‘Because you always get the job done.’

Sighing, Grace looks up at the cloudy sky, the sun peaking out slightly. She sucks in a breath of the fresh park air before responding. ‘This job is a bit harder than the others…’

‘Which is why we’ve hired a second… professional, such as yourself.’

‘First, you ask me to eliminate a man for wanting to expose the rich, and now you tell me I’d have to work with another person?’

There is a silence that passes momentarily between the two women as they stare each other down.

‘River is good for nobody. You will go to prison.’

‘No, I won’t.’ Grace smirks knowingly. ‘Who is the other person?’

‘He is one of the best, alongside yourself.’

‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know his identity…’ She answers. ‘He took out Fest.’

‘Ah.’ Grace’s lips immediately quick upwards, a grin taking over her expression. She stands up, hands in pockets, she stares down at the woman still sitting. ‘And what do they call you?’

‘Zina.’

‘Zina… I don’t kill innocent men. Give me one good reason to take this job, and not because of River.’

‘...’ The American woman sits there contemplating for a moment, her mind working a million miles an hour. ‘You don’t have to take the shot. We need you to… babysit.’

Grace lets out a loud chuckle, ‘babysit?’

‘It seems our other hire is caught up in a few… troubles after the fest situation. We need you to ensure he gets the job done, and if he fails to, you step in and finish it.’

‘Well… let’s hope he doesn’t fail.’

‘Is that a yes to the job?’ Zina sits up straight.

‘He is aware, I assume?’

‘He will be made aware.’

‘Get me in contact,’ Grace turns around and walks away, her coat once again billowing behind her.

It was another early morning, three days after Grace’s meeting with Zina. She sat behind the counter at the cafe, it was a very quiet morning. A Sunday morning, not many were up and about. She opened her laptop, plugging in her USB.

Access Chatroom:

Username: xxxfOxTROT22971x$

Password: ************

**&525marTinGuerrE^$___who are you?

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___should i not be asking you?

**&525marTinGuerrE^$___i do not need babysitting.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___ah.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___the other ‘professional’

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___nice shot.

**&525marTinGuerrE^$___refuse the job.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___i don’t think i will.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___i get bored sometimes.

**&525marTinGuerrE^$___then stay out of the way.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___i do the job i’m hired for.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___don’t get into trouble, and i won’t have to step in and clean it up.

**&525marTinGuerrE^$___i don’t need anybody to clean up.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___a little birdy told me otherwise.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___i am not the enemy.

**&525marTinGuerrE^$___i don’t work in teams.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___there is a first time for everything.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___i’m not here to steal your job.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___i’m here to cover your ass so you can get it done.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___you said you don’t work in teams, that means you have no connections.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___you will fuck up, you will go to jail.

**&525marTinGuerrE^$___Munich.

**&525marTinGuerrE^$___i will send the hotel details.

xxxfOxTROT22971x$___see you there.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

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[withering-bloom]

One More Night

Hey guys!! I’m back and I come bearing an Arlecchino x fem Reader fluff fan fic!! I hope you guys enjoy ☺️

Not poof read

cc: blood mentioned, Arlecchino and reader are already married

1.1k words

——————————————————————————-

The restaurant was dimly lit, the golden glow of candlelight flickering over the half-empty glasses of wine, the quiet hum of conversation weaving through the air. It was the kind of place meant for special occasions—where everything from the linen napkins to the way the servers carried themselves felt too pristine, too perfect.Nothing but the best for Arlecchino's wife.

Even though, Right now, none of that mattered.

Not when Arlecchino was looking at her like that.

Like she was something worth softening for. Like she was something worth loving.

Her wife smiled, reaching across the table to intertwine their fingers, rubbing her thumb along Arlecchino’s blackened knuckles.

“You’re staring.” Her voice was laced with warmth, teasing.

Arlecchino smirked, tilting her head. “Can you blame me?”

A quiet laugh, a roll of the eyes—though not out of annoyance. “You’re terrible.”

“And yet, you married me.”

“I did.” Her wife leaned in slightly, a playful gleam in her gaze. “Starting to regret it yet?”

Arlecchino squeezed her hand in response, lifting it gently to her lips. She pressed a lingering kiss to her fingers, reverent and unhurried, as if savoring the moment itself.

“Not for a single second.”

Her wife flushed, tilting her head to the side to hide the way her lips curled.

“You know,” she murmured, her voice softer now, “we should do this more often. Just us. No children.” A small, affectionate sigh escaped her lips. “Even though I love them with all my heart… sometimes, they can be a handful.”

Arlecchino hummed, letting the moment linger. She wanted to say something, to promise that they could, that they would, but she wasn’t the kind of person who made promises lightly.

The world didn’t always let her keep them.

Instead, she reached across the table, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her wife’s ear. “Anything for you,” she whispered.

Her wife’s breath hitched slightly before she huffed a laugh and shook her head.

“You’re such a flirt.”

Arlecchino only smiled.

They finished their dinner, fingers lingering together as they walked out of the restaurant, the chill of the evening air pressing against their skin.

It had rained earlier. The pavement was still slick, puddles reflecting the warm glow of the streetlights. Arlecchino kept her wife close, her hand firm at the small of her back as they made their way down the quiet street.

“This was nice,” her wife murmured, resting her head against Arlecchino’s shoulder.

Arlecchino pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’ll make sure we have more nights like this.”

Her wife sighed happily. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

The laugh that followed was light, teasing. “I love you, you know that?”

Arlecchino’s lips parted to respond—

Then the world tilted.

A shift in the air. A sharp, slicing whistle. The unmistakable sound of steel cutting through the night.

Arlecchino moved on instinct—faster than a blink, her hand reaching for the blade hidden beneath her coat, her body twisting to face the incoming threat—

But she was too slow.

Not slow enough to miss it. Not slow enough to let her guard down completely.

But slow enough that the blade never touched her.

Slow enough that it sank into her wife instead.

The sound she made wasn’t a scream.

Just a quiet, choked breath.

The kind of sound people made when they didn’t quite realise they were dying.

And then—silence.

Arlecchino caught her before she hit the ground, arms wrapping around her trembling body, lowering them both to the wet pavement. Her mind was a storm, every muscle screaming at her to react, to find the assassin, to kil—

But none of that mattered.

Not when her wife was gasping in her arms, blood pooling between them, staining her hands, seeping into the cracks of the pavement.

“Hey,” Arlecchino breathed, her voice foreign to her own ears, hoarse and shaking. “Hey, stay with me.”

Her wife’s eyes fluttered, unfocused.

“Peru…?”

“I’m here,” she choked out, pressing her hands against the wound, as if she could close it together, but it wasn’t enough—nothing was enough. Blood seeped through her fingers, warm and relentless, as if mocking her efforts, reminding her just how powerless she really was at this moment.The warm liquid trickling down her arms was a sensation she was nothing but familiar with, however with each drop, it felt as though a part of herself was being left behind only to be discarded on the floor below.

“Please,” her voice broke, shaking with desperation, her breaths uneven, frantic. “I’m right here. Please don’t do this to me, please don’t leave me.” She pushed down harder, as if sheer force could keep her grounded, as if holding on tighter could stop life from slipping away. Her heart pounded, drowning out everything else, the weight of fear pressing against her chest so fiercely she thought it might crush her.

“You’re okay,” she whispered, like saying it would make it true, like sheer willpower could rewrite reality. “You’re okay, just—just stay with me.”

Her wife made a small noise, a tiny, pained exhale. She reached up, weakly grasping at Arlecchino’s sleeve, tugging—

As if she wasn’t the one bleeding out. As if she were the one comforting her.

Arlecchino clenched her jaw, her breath shuddering as she forced a smile. “You’re okay.” She lied. “You’re okay.” An attempt to tame her delusions to the truth that her beloved wife, the mother of her children, was slowly losing her life in her very own arms.

Her wife blinked slowly, her gaze lingering on Arlecchino’s face as if she were desperately trying to memorise it, to hold onto this fleeting moment before she slipped away into an endless, silent slumber.

Her fingers reached up, brushing against Arlecchino’s cheek, smearing blood across her skin.

“You’re crying.”

Arlecchino hadn’t even realised.

She let out a quiet sob, broken at the edges. “I’m s-sorry you can’t leave me. You’re—” Her breath caught. “You’re going to be fine, alright? Just—just hold on. I’ll get you help.”

Her wife smiled tiredly,as if all the energy was pooling out of her.

She knew.

She had always known.

Her fingers curled slightly, gripping Arlecchino’s sleeve one last time.

“I love you.”

Her breath shuddered.

Then stopped.

Just like that.

Arlecchino’s world shattered.

She let out a sharp breath, pressing her head into the crook of her wife’s lifeless body for the very last time, her grip tightening—like if she just held her hard enough, long enough, maybe she could keep her here.

Maybe she could keep her alive.

But there was nothing.

Nothing except the rain beginning to fall again, mingling with the blood beneath them.

Nothing except the quiet.

Nothing except the aching, suffocating emptiness where her wife’s warmth used to be.

Arlecchino closed her eyes.

And for the first time in her life—

She had nothing left to fight for.

—————————————————————-

All of their children are gonna have half a Batman arc LMAOO I’m so sorry please forgive me 😞💜

[mangooes]

Chaotic Velocity

The city lights flickered like fireflies, neon signs casting colorful streaks across the wet pavement. The cool night air carried the distant hum of traffic, but amidst it all, a deep purr of an engine rumbled in the parking lot where Sylus stood beside his black motorbike—sleek, dangerous, and perfectly suited to its owner.

(Name) stretched, yawning as she stepped out of her office building. She had just finished a long, exhausting shift. Her shoulders ached, her brain felt fried, and all she wanted to do was crash on the couch with Sysy—

But the moment she saw Sylus waiting for her here, instead of their warm place called home, leaning against his bike like some effortlessly sexy, dark-haired devil, she had a feeling she wouldn’t be getting a peaceful night.

Her suspicion was confirmed when he grinned at her, eyes glinting under the streetlamp.

“Night rides?” he asked, voice low, teasing.

She groaned. “Sylus, I just got off work. Can’t we—”

But then he moved.

With one swift motion, he pulled off his helmet.

His white hair spilled out beneath the night sky, a stark contrast against his crimson eyes as he stepped forward—his tall frame towering over her.

She blinked as he carefully placed the helmet on her head.

His fingers were gentle, adjusting the straps beneath her chin with care. So tender.

Then, he cupped her face with both hands—his thumbs brushing over her cheeks through the visor, his touch warm, lingering.

“You forgot yours,” he murmured.

(Name)’s breath hitched.

Before she could protest, he leaned down and—

Pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

The motion was so damn smooth, she felt her knees buckle a little.

Damn it. Why was he always like this?

As if he knew exactly what he was doing, Sylus straightened, smirking, and wiped an imaginary smudge off the glass of the helmet’s visor before turning on his heel and straddling the motorbike.

(Name), still blinking, hesitated.

Then reality kicked in.

“Wait.” She frowned, pointing at his now helmetless head. “Aren’t you gonna get fined for riding without one?”

At this, Sylus laughed.

Like, genuinely laughed.

A deep, throaty, amused sound that made her stiffen.

He turned to her, still chuckling, and gestured vaguely at himself. “Kitten, I’m a top criminal.”

She squinted.

“And?”

“And no cop in this city is going to pull me over.”

“…What if they do?”

“Then I’ll just pay them off.” He shrugged. “Easy.”

She opened her mouth, ready to fire back an excuse to get out of this, but before she could—

She felt it.

That familiar, weightless sensation.

“Wait, wait, Sylus, don’t you dare—”

Too late.

His Evol coiled around her like an invisible force—lifting her off the ground effortlessly.

“SYLUS—”

She floated helplessly in the air, her body maneuvered as if she weighed nothing, before she was gently plopped onto the passenger seat of the motorbike.

Sylus, amused, turned slightly to glance over his shoulder.

“Comfy?” he teased.

She scowled behind the helmet. “I swear to God—”

“Good.” He revved the engine.

The deep purr of the bike vibrated beneath them.

“Now, hold on tight.”

“Wait, no, Sylus, wai—”

VROOM.

The bike launched forward.

(Name) let out a scream.

Sylus laughed.

Wind rushed past them, the city blurring as they sped through the streets of the N109 Zone. The neon lights reflected against the sleek black metal, the hum of the engine a perfect symphony to the night’s thrill.

And as much as she hated to admit it—

She loved it.

Even as she yelled protests in his ear.

Even as he deliberately took sharp turns just to hear her scream louder.

Even as he reached behind him and grabbed her hand, squeezing it to reassure her while he drove like a complete menace.

Because at the end of the day—

He was Sylus.

And she’d follow him anywhere.

INSPIRED BY THE NEW FREE 4 STAR CARD PICTURE.. WE WON GUYS WE GOT MC AND SYLUS ON ONE FRAME I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE AKSJDNASKJD, anyways thank you for the requests! I'll start drafting them out tonight hehe so it should be out in two days or so <3

[moonlight-prose]

mr. perfectly fine

a/n: i've had this in my drafts since i saw the trailer of we live in time. and honestly it was basically done, so i don't know why i didn't just drop it. so this is me digging it back up and putting some finishing touches on this quick drabble of angst. it's small, but writing it really made me want to re-watch the movies. so we'll see if anything comes from that. for now though, enjoy!

summary: there's a lot you would change in your relationship with peter. how late he'd show up to dates, the massive amount of missed calls and texts, and his forgetfulness. only there's a defining factor that might shift the entire trajectory of your lives together. peter parker was spider-man...and you didn't know.

word count: 2.3k+

pairing: peter parker x reader

warnings: not explicit, angsty as fuck though, peter gets dumped (sorta) but it doesn't last long, lots of tears, secrets exposed, fluff, forgiveness.

New York always seemed to reflect your emotions with ease. Like a mirror you couldn't break, or even avoid. Maybe it happened because you were looking for it without realizing; searching for answers to the never-ending questions that nagged at you. Different ways to work out the equations that held no solutions. A new way of figuring it out.

Yet no matter how many trials you ran, how many times you inputted the numbers, you seemed to always find yourself staring at the one thing that made sense. ERROR.

You counted the times he stood you up, tracked the calls he missed and the texts he only read but never answered. You compiled them like research, as if you were stuck in your lab and he was the experiment. He became the hypothesis you had to back up with well crafted proof. Only science never helped in situations of love. And you found that counting the days, watching the minutes and seconds go by, only made things worse.

The dinner went cold an hour ago, the candles snuffed, and the soft love songs were traded out for something sadder. Like other nights, you half expected you'd see him in the early hours of dawn. The glow of sunrise illuminating him like your very own hero, your favorite person to exist.

Every other time you chose to forget, to move on with your time together and find something happy to focus on. But tonight's calendar had been marked. A red heart written around your initials.

One that he wrote.

Six months passed in the blink of an eye.

Where you used to be awkward—barely able to speak to each other—now you found comfort in the silence. But when the quiet gave way to loneliness, you felt yourself begin to slowly chip away. You always thought he'd be here to put you back together, to save you in moments of brief darkness that left you wandering this shared path alone.

Yet when the clock finally struck midnight, and you were three glasses of wine in, you felt the final thread of hope snap.

You sighed, the burn of tears spilling over as you swallowed the last of your drink. "Happy Anniversary Peter," you muttered, getting up from the table.

The rain outside pounded against the asphalt. Wet streets glimmered with street lights and smelled of discarded cigarette butts. You wrapped the buckle around your waist tight enough to close up what parts of the coat gaped on your body. The dark charcoal wool fabric didn't belong to you. It lingered with Peter's scent, but you couldn't find yours as you rushed out the door.

You didn't want to stay in that apartment longer than necessary.

Perhaps you should have left some message behind—let him know that eventually you'd be back for your things. Somewhere in the back of your mind you understood what tonight was. A defining moment in your relationship. A chance for him to finally pull his act together and be with you.

Yet like everything else...you'd be simply another thing he'd have to let go of.

He wouldn't have a choice.

The salt of your tears mixed with the drops of rain that streamed down your face. You welcomed it as you walked. There wasn't a defining spot you were going—no grand plan once this came to pass. But somehow you wound up in a park, staring at a bench, and picturing a past version of yourself. Nose buried in a science book and lunch propped on your knees. You could see how Peter rushed by, how he nearly broke his neck turning to look at you.

You watched the moment happen all over again right before you. And for the first time in two months, you wanted to stop him.

The door opened with the usual creak. He winced at the noise with the memory of saying he'd fix it eventually. The DW-40 sat under the sink where he picked it up, never getting around to actually completing the job. Simply another let down that he'd never live down.

You said it was alright; claimed that the squeak gave the front door character. And that might have been true.

It still didn't stop Peter from beating himself up over it.

"Babe! I grabbed some food on the way home. Got your favorite." He stuffed his mask in his backpack, discarding it in the hallway as he went. The suit still clung to his already soaked body, but he hoped you wouldn't pick up on the peek of red beneath his clothes.

The plan to tell you was coming together nicely. A romantic dinner on the top of the Empire State after hours surely would give you a chance to think things over. He just had to work out the logistics of setting up everything with the security guard he befriended.

"Also I remembered to ask May about dinner in two weeks-"

He froze at the sight of the dark living room, of the table decorated with candles and plates filled with food. Very little scared the ever living shit out of him now. A familiar territory of adrenaline he’d come to welcome. But the sight of the calendar placed on his chair—the red heart blaring like a signal in the night sky—had his heart dropping to his stomach.

"No..." The food was forgotten about, dropped on the counter as he picked up the offending piece of paper. The clear mark around the date drawn by him two weeks earlier. A reminder to let him know that of all days...he couldn't forget this one.

He couldn't let you down again.

The clock in the corner read ten thirty and his heart lurched at the sudden realization that you finally did it. You gave up on his antics. All the moments he couldn't fix himself. You chose yourself over the madness of loving him. He wasn't sure which was wore. You not being here to give him a chance of groveling on his knees, or the silence in the apartment at knowing that your laughter and love would never fill it again.

He didn't have time to rationalize his decisions. Barely even noticed that he was walking out the door—the loud bang echoing in the hallway—as he went. Somewhere in the city you were mourning a relationship he was determined to fix. Yet he couldn't figure out where the hell to start looking.

This wasn't the first fight you'd had. The first time you left the apartment he found you in a hole in the wall cafe. A place he'd never even heard of before. And after three cups of coffee, a long night of talking, you both agreed to work on the communication. To heal what small wound had been opened.

Only this time was different.

This time the wound festered, grew to the point of being fatal.

This time he wasn't sure he could heal what he already broke.

His web clung to the building as he swung, landing five feet away from the already darkened cafe. Much to his own detriment you didn't bother to try getting out of the rain.

A crackle of lightning echoed in the night sky, thunder rolling in a few seconds later. It covered the sound of him nearly collapsing to the ground as a car swerved by—the horn blaring in his ears. The calendar was tucked in his jacket pocket, the ink bleeding through the soggy paper. But he refused to let it go. He couldn't. That was his final piece of you—the last moniker of a relationship that was worth it.

He only hoped you felt the same.

"Where are you baby?" he muttered under his breath.

After checking your favorite diner, bar, and bookshop. He was starting to run out of options. Almost as if you simply up and vanished from the city entirely.

You didn't want to be found. Yet Peter knew he wouldn't be able to live without you. How could he? When the chance of getting a peek at your smile was worth waking up early in the morning to see you off for work. Little moments of joy kept him going. And nearly all of his were spent with you. Each laugh, kiss, and look, were his to keep.

His to protect.

And he'd fucked all of that up.

Time passed quicker than he would have liked. The rain beat down on his body and he could no longer discern between his tears and the water. Still he searched. He checked every nook and cranny of spots you shared together.

Until the park came into his view atop a random apartment building. His heart leapt in his chest, body thrumming with nervous energy, as he swung down to the mushy grass that squelched beneath his sneakers. The cold shouldn't have made his hands tremble. Although perhaps the weather had nothing to do with what made his stomach twist, body overwhelmed with a fear he might never understand.

He knew why he shook like a leaf. He could feel the nerves beat alongside his heart, echoing his earlier sentiment throughout his entire body.

Letting you down this time wasn't a chance he was willing to take.

"Baby!" he called, running past low lit sidewalks and darkened tree lines. He ran until he felt the cold sting of rain on his face—until his clothes dripped water and the soles of his shoes were puddles.

Only to pause at the sight of a hunched over figure on a bench, their hands gripping the edge of the wood, and shoulders shaking with each stunted breath. Peter's heart tore into pieces. Fluttering to the ground as he stepped closer. Simply a flimsy piece of that ruined calendar. He could hear your sobs, smell the salt of your tears, and that broke him beyond repair.

He did this.

He took the most important person in his life and ripped them a part.

"I'm sorry," he said over the rain, catching the way you jumped—your eyes wide and lips swollen from where you bit down on them.

"Peter-"

Before you could get out the words to dismiss him. He dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands pressing into either side of the bench. Caging you in. This wasn't a chance for him to grovel, to give excuse after excuse. He’d passed that point months before. This was him finally letting you into the final piece of his life—the truth he wanted to shout from the rooftops if it meant getting a chance to see you smile again.

Fuck he'd give anything to see you smile.

"There's no good excuse okay? I don't have one. I'm just sorry." You sighed, moving to unlatch his grip. Only to find you couldn't get him to budge. "I don't want to keep hurting you. So if after this, you wanna go then you can go. I won't stop you, or call you, or even ask you back."

"Don't-"

He shifted closer, surprising you as his speed. "Just know I love you. I'll love you forever baby."

"Peter what are you doing?"

With a sharp gulp of air, he stripped off his jacket and t-shirt. They fell to the ground with a went plop as silence wrapped around the both of you. For a moment, he wondered if you'd take him seriously. Maybe you'd laugh. Maybe you'd leave him faster than before. But you simply stared at him—mouth parted and eyes wide as you took in the spider emblem sewn in his chest.

He coughed, shoving his wet hair out of his face. "This isn't how I wanted to tell you. The dinner with May was actually gonna be me telling you on top of the Empire State Building-"

"That's why you always forget the milk," you murmured, glancing to the side—a dazed expression now donning your face.

"What?"

"Every time I ask you to pick something up from the store at night. You never remember."

Heat spread rapidly across his cheeks. A red flush he knew was bright against the light on the sidewalk. "I don't always forget."

Rainfall filled the void of silence as you dragged your eyes along each web, the itch of your fingers too much to take—finally pressing them along the ridged fabric you’d only seen in blurry newspaper images. A mark that all of New York came to see as hope. The promise that for once in their lives they would be safe on streets known for violence and horrors.

You tried to wrap your head around the truth, pressing a thumb into the spider carved directly above a heart you knew was too good to be true. One that beat in time with yours, a familiar thudding echo you fell asleep to each night pressed tight to one ear. Peter was that man, the savior of a home you couldn’t see yourself leaving, the hero you’d only heard stories about.

“I guess this complicates things,” you finally mumbled, hand finding his chin soaked by the rain.

His sigh bled into the air, filling your lungs with the air you struggled to find. “Does that mean…you’re staying?”

“I’m just glad you weren’t cheating on me.”

Peter laughed, surging up with a speed you’d never witnessed before. “Never.”

His lips were cold against yours, gloved hands rough against the skin of your cheek, but the taste of him was the same. The man who asked for a chance in this park, promising to make your life interesting despite the chaos he dragged atop shoulders stronger than others. He carried the world with ease. Now it was your turn to do the same for him.

“So what’s it like dating Spider-Man?” you mumbled against his lips.

He grinned, pulling you up with an arm around your waist. “Free transportation.”

“Anytime I want?”

Thumbing the top of your cheek he pushed what tears remained aside. “For the rest of your life. If you want it.”

Oh how you loved him.

“I want it.”

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Love Bites

A bookstore barista catches the attention of a vampire drawn to her scent, and everything changes when she invites him in.

Word Count: 6,956

Content Warning: mentions of blood and biting.

The rain poured steadily, creating rivers along the curbs and a persistent rhythm against the asphalt. Y/n pulled her coat tighter around her, the cold seeping through the damp fabric. The dim glow of streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, casting distorted halos that barely lit the way. Her shoes squished with every step, water seeping through the soles as she navigated the uneven sidewalk.

She glanced around, the city that never sleeps unusually subdued in the downpour. The occasional car splashed by, headlights cutting through the darkness, but the streets felt eerily empty. Her apartment was still several blocks away, and the thought of the warmth inside kept her moving despite the chill that gripped her.

The rain masked the usual cacophony of the city, leaving only the sound of water and her own breathing. As she rounded a corner, a faint light from a bodega sign flickered, offering a brief sense of orientation in the endless maze of shadows and slick surfaces.

“Almost there,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rain. But with every step forward, the night seemed to grow darker, the path more uncertain.

Y/n barely noticed the bodega’s door swinging open until a figure stepped out into the rain. She flinched slightly, startled by the sudden movement. A man stood there, pulling up the hood of his coat, his face half-lit by the flickering neon sign above.

“Bit of a miserable night, isn’t it?” he said, his accent soft and distinctly British, cutting through the rain like a warm thread.

Y/n blinked, momentarily caught off guard. The man’s green eyes seemed to hold an unusual brightness despite the gloom, his hair damp and curling slightly at the edges where it peeked out from under his hood.

“Yeah, you could say that,” she replied, clutching her coat a little tighter, the chill biting at her fingertips.

He gave a small, almost sheepish smile, the kind that didn’t quite belong on someone standing in the middle of a downpour. “You alright? Look like you’ve had a bit of a rough one.”

Y/n hesitated, unsure why she felt compelled to answer. There was something disarming about him, his tone unassuming, as if they’d crossed paths a thousand times before. “Just trying to get home,” she finally said, her voice soft but steady.

He nodded, glancing down the street as if considering her path. “Not too far, I hope?”

“A few more blocks,” she said, motioning vaguely in the direction she’d been heading.

He tilted his head, a small crease forming between his brows. “This time of night, in this weather… mind some company? At least until you’re closer to home?”

Y/n studied him for a moment, weighing her options. He didn’t seem threatening—just someone caught in the same rainstorm, maybe trying to make it a little less lonely. After a pause, she gave a slight nod.

“Alright,” she said, her voice quieter now. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, I’m Harry by the way,” he replied, falling into step beside her. The rain continued its steady rhythm, but somehow, the darkness didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

The rain softened to a mist as Y/n and Harry walked side by side, their footsteps splashing lightly against the wet pavement. The quiet lull of the city made their conversation feel intimate, as though the rest of the world had faded away.

“So,” Y/n began, sneaking a glance at him from the corner of her eye. His hood had slipped back slightly, revealing more of his damp curls. “What were you doing out so late in this weather?”

Harry smiled faintly, his hands buried in his coat pockets. “Needed a walk. Clears my head, y’know? And the rain… well, it’s peaceful in its own way.”

Y/n hummed in agreement, noting the melodic lilt of his voice. She found herself glancing at him more often than she meant to. There was something otherworldly about him—his pale complexion almost luminous under the faint glow of the streetlights, his features sharp but softened by a kindness in his eyes.

“And you? What’s got you out here braving the elements?” he asked, turning his gaze toward her.

“Long day at work,” she admitted, sighing. “I usually take the subway, but it was packed, and I just… needed some air.”

Harry nodded, as if he understood completely. “Fair enough. Sometimes the chaos down there feels worse than the storm up here.”

As they walked, Y/n noticed how his presence seemed to ease her nerves. She didn’t normally trust strangers—especially not in a city like this, and especially not on dark, rainy nights. But with Harry, it felt different. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt safe, as though he was someone she’d known for years rather than minutes.

They reached the corner of her street, and she glanced at him again. His coat clung to his frame, and she realized he wasn’t shivering despite the cold. In fact, he seemed entirely unaffected by the weather, like he belonged to the rain and the darkness surrounding them.

“You live nearby?” she asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

He nodded, gesturing vaguely down the street. “A few buildings that way. Looks like we’re practically neighbors.”

She smiled, a small warmth blossoming in her chest. “Small world.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, a softness there that made her cheeks heat despite the cold. “It is,” he said quietly, his tone almost wistful.

As they stopped in front of her apartment building, Y/n hesitated, unsure of what to say. She didn’t want the moment to end, even though they were still practically strangers.

“This is me,” she said finally, gesturing toward the door.

Harry nodded, his smile faint but genuine. “Glad I could walk you home, Y/n.”

She blinked, her heart skipping. “How did you know my name?”

For a split second, his expression flickered—something unreadable passing across his face—but then his smile returned. “You told me earlier, didn’t you?”

Y/n frowned, certain she hadn’t. But before she could question it further, Harry gave a slight nod.

“Get inside before you catch a cold,” he said gently. “Goodnight.”

And just like that, he turned and disappeared into the misty rain, leaving Y/n standing there, heart racing, wondering why she felt so drawn to him. 

The next day

The bell above the bookshop door jingled as Y/n worked behind the counter, the steady hum of espresso machines and soft chatter creating a comforting background noise. She loved her job, it was the perfect blend of cozy and bustling, surrounded by books and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

She glanced up as a familiar figure caught her eye. Harry was sitting at a corner table in the café, a book open in front of him. His damp curls from the night before were now dry, but he still had that same ethereal look about him—pale and strikingly beautiful, like he’d stepped out of a painting.

Y/n hesitated for a moment, then decided to approach him. She grabbed a clean cloth and pretended to wipe down the nearby table before stopping beside his.

“Well, well,” she said, crossing her arms with a teasing smile. “Are you following me now, or is this just a coincidence?”

Harry looked up from his book, his lips curving into a small smile. “Caught me,” he replied, his tone playful. “Couldn’t resist the coffee.”

Y/n chuckled, leaning slightly against the back of a chair. “You know, most people come here for the books and the coffee. It’s kind of our thing.”

He raised a brow, amusement dancing in his green eyes. “Is that so? What if I’m just here for the company?”

She rolled her eyes, suppressing the grin tugging at her lips. “Smooth.” Gesturing to the menu board, she asked, “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Pastry? We’ve got these killer croissants today.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I don’t really eat…”

Y/n blinked, her smile faltering. “Oh. Uh… okay. Just coffee, then?”

He shook his head, his gaze steady but kind. “I’m good with this.” He tapped the book in front of him, avoiding her curious stare.

A strange vibe settled between them, and Y/n felt a small prickle of unease. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about the way he’d said it—so casual, yet so odd—stuck with her.

“Well, if you change your mind, I’m just over there,” she said, forcing a smile as she nodded toward the counter.

“Thanks, Y/n,” Harry said softly, his voice carrying that same calm warmth that had put her at ease the night before.

She walked away, glancing back once to find him already immersed in his book again. The unease lingered, though, as if there was more to Harry than he was letting on.

Y/n lingered behind the counter, her hands busy with a towel as she wiped down the espresso machine. But her thoughts kept drifting to Harry, sitting so calmly at his table like he belonged there, as if their encounter last night hadn’t been strange at all. The question that had nagged her since then resurfaced, and before she could overthink it, she walked back over to his table.

“Alright,” she said, stopping in front of him, her arms crossed over her apron. “I need to ask you something.”

Harry looked up from his book, his brow lifting slightly. “Go on.”

She hesitated, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under his calm, steady gaze. “Last night, when you walked me home, you said my name. But I never told you what it was. How did you know?”

For a moment, Harry didn’t say anything. His lips parted as if he were about to speak, but he seemed to think better of it. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“You sure you didn’t tell me?” he asked lightly, though there was something unreadable in his tone.

“I’m sure,” Y/n said firmly, narrowing her eyes. “It’s not exactly something I forget.”

Harry tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe I overheard someone else say it.”

“There was no one else around,” she countered, crossing her arms tighter.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and melodic. “You’re very observant, aren’t you?”

“It’s a fair question,” she pressed, feeling a mix of curiosity and frustration. “It’s not every day a stranger magically knows your name.”

Harry’s smile faded slightly, his gaze softening. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”

Y/n felt her breath hitch at his tone, the way it seemed to hold more weight than his casual demeanor suggested.

“So?” she prompted, leaning closer. “How?”

Harry glanced down at his book for a moment, his fingers brushing the edges of the pages. Then he looked back up at her, his green eyes almost glowing under the café’s warm lights.

“Let’s just say,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “I’m very good with names. Especially when they belong to people I’d like to remember.”

Y/n blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his words. There was something cryptic in his answer, something that left her feeling like she was only scratching the surface of a much larger mystery.

She straightened, unsure of how to respond. “That’s… vague.”

Harry smiled again, softer this time. “Maybe some things are better left that way.”

Y/n studied him for a moment longer, her unease mixed with an undeniable curiosity. Finally, she nodded, stepping back. “Alright, mystery man. But don’t think I’m letting this go.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said, his smile returning, though his eyes seemed to hold a secret he wasn’t quite ready to share.

The days slipped by, and the bookshop settled back into its usual rhythm—customers browsing shelves, the hiss of steam from the espresso machine, the steady hum of conversations drifting through the café. But Y/n’s thoughts kept wandering to Harry.

She hadn’t seen him since that day. No quiet figure tucked into the corner with a book, no knowing smiles or cryptic comments. She found herself glancing toward the door whenever the bell jingled, half-expecting him to walk in with that calm, unreadable expression. But he didn’t.

“Everything okay?” her coworker, Ellie, asked as she restocked a display of mugs.

Y/n blinked, realizing she’d been staring at the café’s empty corner table for too long. “Yeah,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just zoning out.”

Ellie gave her a knowing look. “You’ve been weird lately. Is this about the guy who was here the other day? The tall one with the curls?”

“What? No,” Y/n said, maybe a little too defensively.

Ellie smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Y/n sighed, brushing a stray hair from her face. “It’s not like that. He’s just… interesting. And I haven’t seen him around. I might’ve scared him off.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “What’d you do? Grill him on his life story?”

“Maybe,” Y/n muttered, heat rising to her cheeks.

Her coworker laughed. “Relax. If he’s worth it, he’ll come back. Guys like that always do.”

But as the hours ticked by and the café emptied out for the night, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Harry wasn’t just any guy. There was something different about him—something that made her want to figure him out, even if she couldn’t explain why.

Later, as she locked up the shop and stepped out into the crisp evening air, she found herself looking down the street toward the direction of his building. The thought crossed her mind: What if I went to see if he’s around?

She shook her head, pushing the idea away. It was silly. He was a stranger, practically. But even as she walked home, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d see him again or if she’d scared him away for good.

The rain had stopped earlier in the evening, leaving the streets slick and shining under the glow of the streetlights. Y/n pulled her jacket tighter around herself as she walked, the familiar route past the bodega feeling strangely empty tonight.

She hadn’t planned to take this way home, but her feet had carried her here anyway, as if some part of her was hoping to see him again. The corner bodega’s neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a pale light on the pavement. The door was open, a faint clink of glass bottles and low conversation spilling out, but Harry wasn’t there.

Y/n lingered for a moment, pretending to check her phone as she glanced around. The street was quiet except for the occasional car passing by, its headlights cutting through the dimness.

What are you even doing? she thought, feeling a little ridiculous. It wasn’t like Harry had promised to meet her here or even hinted at being nearby. For all she knew, he was off doing something completely unrelated to her.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something—or someone.

With a sigh, she adjusted her bag on her shoulder and started walking again, her shoes clicking softly against the wet pavement. The night felt heavier than usual, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

When she finally reached her apartment building, she paused on the steps, casting one last glance down the street. Nothing. No sign of him, no flash of dark curls or the quiet intensity of his gaze.

Maybe he really is gone, she thought, a pang of disappointment settling in her chest.

As she unlocked the door and stepped inside, she resolved to let it go. Harry was just a stranger who had crossed her path briefly—nothing more. 

The weeks passed in a blur of routine. Y/n poured herself into her work at the café, stacking books, crafting perfect cappuccinos, and chatting with regulars. But her mind often drifted to Harry—his mysterious air, his cryptic comments, and his sudden absence. Every night she took the same route past the bodega, hoping for even a glimpse of him, but the streets remained empty of him.

Until one night.

The air was biting as she walked, her breath visible in the faint glow of the streetlights. The bodega’s sign buzzed faintly in the distance, and she was about to pass it when a shadow shifted in her peripheral vision.

“Y/n.”

The voice was unmistakable—low, soft, and tinged with something that made her heart skip. She turned quickly, and there he was.

But he wasn’t the same Harry she remembered. His usually radiant complexion looked pale and dull, his dark curls messier than before. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and his shoulders seemed to sag as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

“Harry,” she breathed, a mix of relief and concern flooding her. “Where have you been?”

He offered a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Around.” His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken much in days.

Y/n took a hesitant step closer, her worry growing. “You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering down the street as if he were debating whether to stay or leave. “I’ll be fine,” he said finally, though the words felt hollow.

She frowned, crossing her arms. “That’s not convincing.” Without thinking, she added, “Come back to my place. You look like you need… something. Rest, food, whatever.”

Harry’s eyes snapped to hers, wide with surprise. For a moment, he seemed frozen, as if the idea of being taken care of was foreign to him. “Y/n, I—”

“No arguments,” she interrupted, her voice firmer than she expected. “It’s cold, and you look like you’re about to keel over. My apartment’s just a few blocks away.”

He stared at her, his jaw tightening as if he were about to refuse. But then something in his expression softened, and he gave a small nod.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Lead the way.”

The walk to her apartment was quiet, the sound of their footsteps the only noise between them. Y/n kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to piece together what had happened in the weeks since she’d last seen him. He looked strung out.

When they reached her building, she opened the door and gestured for him to follow her inside. “It’s not much,” she said as they climbed the stairs, “but it’s warm.”

Once inside, she flipped on the lights, casting the small living room in a cozy glow. Harry stepped in hesitantly, his gaze sweeping over the space.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, shrugging off her coat. “I’ll grab you something to drink.”

He nodded, sinking onto the edge of her couch as if he didn’t quite belong there. As Y/n moved to the kitchen, she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him and why, despite his mysterious nature, she felt so compelled to help him.

Y/n filled a glass with water in the kitchen, the sound of the tap running filling the quiet apartment. She glanced toward the living room, where Harry sat on the edge of the couch, his posture stiff, his hands loosely clasped between his knees.

“Here,” she said, walking over and holding the glass out to him. “You look like you could use this.”

Harry glanced at it but didn’t move to take it. “I’m not thirsty,” he said softly, his tone calm but firm.

Y/n frowned, lowering the glass slightly. “You sure? You look—”

“I’m sure,” he interrupted gently, offering a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She hesitated, the glass still in her hand. The refusal wasn’t rude, but there was something about it that felt… off. Her instincts prickled again, the same way they had back at the café when he’d made that odd comment about not eating food.

To ease the tension building in her chest, she forced a nervous laugh and said, “What, are you a vampire or something?”

The room fell silent.

Harry’s faint smile vanished, and his gaze locked on hers, unblinking and intense. The air seemed to shift, the cozy warmth of the apartment suddenly feeling stifling.

Y/n’s heart thudded in her chest as the seconds stretched on, her own laugh fading into the stillness. “I was just kidding,” she said quickly, her voice quieter now.

Harry’s expression softened slightly, but there was something guarded in his eyes. “That’s an interesting guess,” he said finally, his tone measured.

The way he said it sent a chill down her spine. She tried to laugh again, but it came out shaky. “Well, you’re pale, you don’t eat, you’re… mysterious. You kind of fit the stereotype.”

Harry leaned back slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “And would it scare you if I were?”

Y/n froze, her pulse pounding in her ears. She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not—and that uncertainty was the most unsettling part of all.

“Harry,” she said carefully, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re kidding, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting hers again. “Maybe,” he said quietly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The room felt heavier now, the unspoken tension crackling in the air. Y/n clutched the glass tighter, her mind racing. She couldn’t decide if he was messing with her or if there was something she was better off not knowing.

Y/n blinked, unsure if she had heard him correctly. “What?” she asked, her voice a little unsteady.

Harry tilted his head slightly, his green eyes steady and unreadable. “If I were a vampire,” he said softly, his tone as calm as if they were discussing the weather, “would you let me… drink your blood?”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she continued to tighten her grip on the glass of water, unsure whether to laugh, run, or… stay. The question was absurd, yet the way he asked it—so direct, so quiet—made her pulse quicken in a way she couldn’t quite define.

“I—uh…” Y/n stammered, shifting on her feet. She tried to gauge his expression, but it was impossible to tell if he was serious or just teasing her.

“You’re nervous,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly. His voice was low, but it wasn’t threatening. If anything, it sounded… curious. “But you’re not afraid.”

Y/n swallowed hard, her breath catching as she realized he was right. Her nervousness wasn’t from fear—it was from something else entirely. A strange mix of curiosity and anticipation coursed through her, leaving her unsure of how to respond.

“Well,” she said finally, trying to keep her voice light, “I think most people would be nervous if someone asked to suck their blood, Harry. Hypothetically or not.”

His lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, though his gaze remained fixed on her. “Fair point,” he murmured, his tone almost playful. “But you haven’t answered the question.”

Y/n stared at him, her mind racing. Was he joking? Was he testing her? Was this just another layer of his cryptic nature, or was there something more?

“I don’t know,” she said at last, her voice quiet. “Would it hurt?”

The question escaped her before she could stop it, and her cheeks burned as she realized what she’d just said.

Harry’s smile grew slightly, the intensity in his eyes softening just a fraction. “Not as much as you’d think,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

For a moment, the room felt impossibly still, the air thick with an unspoken tension. Y/n’s mind screamed at her to break the silence, to laugh it off, to do something—but all she could do was stand there, caught in the strange pull of his gaze.

Harry’s gaze darkened, his lips curving into a faint, almost predatory smile. “So,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Would you let me do it?”

Y/n’s breath hitched, her pulse pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She didn’t speak, couldn’t find the words, but after a moment, she nodded—slowly, hesitantly.

His eyes flickered with something she couldn’t quite place, and before she could second-guess herself, Harry closed the distance between them. His hands cupped her face with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the tension in the air, and then his lips were on hers.

The kiss was soft at first, exploratory, but it quickly deepened, his fingers threading through her hair as he pulled her closer. Y/n felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of them, every thought and worry drowned out by the electric connection sparking between them.

Before she realized it, Harry’s lips left hers, trailing a line of featherlight kisses along her jaw, down to the curve of her neck.

“Trust me,” he murmured against her skin, his breath warm and sending shivers down her spine.

Y/n barely had time to process his words before she felt the sharp, sudden sting of his teeth breaking the surface of her skin. The pain was fleeting, replaced almost instantly by a strange, heady warmth that spread through her like liquid fire. Her knees wobbled, and she clutched at his shoulders to steady herself, her mind spinning.

Harry held her firmly, his grip strong but careful, as if he were afraid of breaking her. She could feel the pull of his mouth on her neck, the sensation both terrifying and intoxicating.

When he finally drew back, his lips red and his breathing heavy, Y/n swayed slightly, her vision hazy.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

Y/n blinked up at him, her hand instinctively going to her neck. She nodded, though her words came out shaky. “Yeah… I think so.”

Harry’s expression softened, his hand brushing her cheek. “Good,” he murmured. But there was something in his eyes—an intensity, a hunger—that made her heart race all over again.

Y/n leaned back against the armrest of the couch, her hand still pressed lightly to her neck. The room felt brighter, sharper—her senses alive in a way they had never been before. She wasn’t scared; if anything, she felt a strange, almost blissful calm.

“Is this…” she began, her voice dreamy, “going to turn me into a vampire or something?”

Harry let out a low laugh, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “No,” he said, his tone amused but gentle. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s a bit more… complicated than in the stories.”

Y/n tilted her head, her curiosity piqued despite the haze of euphoria swirling through her. “So, how does it work?”

Harry’s eyes softened as he looked at her, though the faint hunger lingering in them hadn’t entirely disappeared. “You’d have to drink from me, for one,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “But it’s not something I’d let happen. Not to you.”

She frowned slightly, her fingers absently tracing her neck where she could feel the faint warmth from the bite. “Why not?”

He smiled faintly, leaning closer, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Because I like you the way you are,” he said simply, his voice carrying an honesty that made her heart skip.

The faint flush in her cheeks deepened, and she looked away, suddenly self-conscious. “You’re… different,” she murmured, unsure if it was a compliment or an observation.

“So are you,” Harry countered, his voice soft but serious. “More than you know.”

Before she could respond, he added, almost to himself, “You taste… sweet. Like nothing I’ve ever had before.” His gaze met hers, his lips curving into a sly smile. “I could find myself addicted to you, Y/n.”

Her heart thudded at his words, a mix of excitement and trepidation flooding her. “Is that… a bad thing?”

Harry’s smile faltered for a moment, and his expression grew darker, more thoughtful. “It could be,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “For both of us.”

The weight of his words hung between them, but Y/n found herself unable to look away from him. Despite everything—his mysterious nature, his cryptic answers, and now, the undeniable truth of what he was—she didn’t feel afraid.

Instead, she felt drawn to him even more.

Harry’s gaze held hers, an intensity in his expression that made Y/n’s breath catch. He leaned back slightly, running a hand through his tousled curls as if weighing whether or not to speak.

Finally, he sighed, his voice low and deliberate. “The first night I saw you… outside the bodega,” he began, his green eyes locking onto hers, “it wasn’t by chance.”

Y/n tilted her head, confusion flickering across her face. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, a faint flicker of guilt flashing in his expression. “I… I caught your scent,” he admitted, his tone softer now. “As I walked out, it hit me like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Sweet, warm, impossible to ignore.”

She blinked, stunned by his words. “You smelled me?”

Harry gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “It’s a… heightened sense. Part of what I am. Your scent—it was unlike anything I’d ever encountered. I couldn’t help myself. I followed it.”

Y/n’s pulse quickened, her thoughts racing. “You followed me?”

“To your apartment,” he admitted, his voice steady but tinged with vulnerability. “And then… to your job the next day. I couldn’t stay away. I needed to understand why I felt so drawn to you.”

Y/n stared at him, her mind swirling with questions. “So… when you showed up at the café, that wasn’t a coincidence either?”

He shook his head, leaning forward slightly. “No. It was intentional. But when I met you, when we talked… it wasn’t just your scent anymore. You were…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “You were magnetic. I was… enamored.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she felt her stomach flip at his confession. “Then why did you stop coming around?”

Harry looked away, his jaw tightening briefly. “Because I was afraid you’d catch on. That you’d figure out what I am, or worse… that I’d lose control.” He met her gaze again, his voice softer now. “But when I saw you taking that same route every night, I knew you were looking for me. And I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat. “You came back… for me?”

“Yes,” he said simply, his tone unwavering. “I tried to stay away, but you… you make that impossible.”

Her heart thudded in her chest, the weight of his words settling over her. She should’ve been frightened—by the revelation, by the intensity of his feelings but instead, she felt a strange sense of relief, like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

“I don’t know what it is about you, Y/n,” Harry continued, his voice low, almost reverent. “But you’ve pulled me in, and I’m not sure I could let go even if I wanted to.”

Y/n took a shaky breath, her hand still resting on her neck where his teeth had pierced her skin. Her heart was racing, but not from fear. She looked at him, meeting his gaze, and finally admitted, “I feel it too. Like… there’s some kind of connection between us. I can’t explain it, but it’s there.”

Harry’s eyes softened, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “I’ve felt it from the moment I saw you,” he murmured.

She hesitated, her fingers curling into her lap as she worked up the courage to ask the question lingering in her mind. “Do you… do you drink from other people?”

Harry shook his head, his expression turning serious. “No,” he said firmly. “We have other ways to get blood. Hospitals, banks, sources that… don’t involve hurting anyone. Feeding directly from someone—it’s rare for my kind, and we don’t take it lightly.”

She studied him for a moment, her chest tightening as a strange mix of emotions swirled within her. “But you drank from me,” she said quietly.

He nodded, his gaze steady. “I did. I shouldn’t have, but… I couldn’t resist. You’re—” He stopped himself, his jaw clenching slightly before he continued. “You’re different, Y/n. I’ve never wanted someone’s blood like I wanted yours. But it’s not just that. It’s you.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced away, unsure how to process his words. After a moment, she looked back at him, meeting his gaze directly. “So… you’re a vampire.”

Harry blinked, and then a low laugh rumbled from his chest. He leaned back slightly, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “That’s such a dramatic word,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. “But yes, I suppose that’s what you’d call it.”

Y/n arched an eyebrow, her nervousness fading slightly as his humor eased the tension in the room. “I mean, it is what you are, isn’t it?”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “It just sounds… cheesy, doesn’t it? Like I’m straight out of some old gothic novel.”

“Well,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips, “you did just bite me and drink my blood, so… maybe the label fits.”

Harry grinned, his fangs briefly flashing in the light, and Y/n couldn’t help but laugh softly. 

Y/n shifted on the couch, her curiosity burning brighter than ever. She tucked her legs beneath her, leaning forward slightly. “I have so many questions,” she admitted, her voice trembling just a little, but more with excitement than fear.

Harry smirked, resting his arm on the back of the couch as he watched her. “Then ask,” he said smoothly. “I’ll answer—within reason.”

She narrowed her eyes at him playfully. “Within reason? That sounds suspicious.”

His smirk grew, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “There are some things you might not be ready to hear yet, love. But I’ll do my best.”

Y/n rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. “Fine. First question: how old are you? Like, really?”

Harry laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Straight to the point, I see. I’m… older than I look. A little over a century.”

Her eyes widened, and she couldn’t help but lean back in disbelief. “A century? You’re over a hundred years old?”

“Give or take a decade,” he said, his tone light. “Though I stopped counting after the first fifty or so.”

Y/n shook her head, trying to process that. “Okay, next question: can you go out in the sun, or is that a no-go?”

Harry chuckled. “I can, but I don’t recommend it. It’s uncomfortable—think of it like a really bad sunburn that happens almost instantly. That’s why you usually won’t find me out during the day unless I absolutely have to be.”

She nodded, her mind buzzing with possibilities. “Do you sleep in a coffin?”

That earned her a full laugh, Harry throwing his head back slightly. “No, I don’t. I have a perfectly comfortable bed, thank you very much.”

Y/n grinned. “Alright, what about garlic? Crosses? Holy water?”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Garlic’s just food. Crosses don’t bother me unless someone shoves one in my face, which is just rude. And holy water? Let’s just say it’s not my favorite thing, but it’s not going to make me burst into flames either.”

She laughed, relaxing a little more as she listened to him. “Okay, serious question now,” she said, her tone softening. “Is it… lonely? Living so long?”

Harry’s expression grew thoughtful, the teasing edge fading from his features. “It can be,” he admitted quietly. “You watch people come and go. You lose people. It’s part of the deal, but it doesn’t make it easier.”

Y/n felt a pang of sympathy in her chest. “That sounds… hard.”

“It is,” he said simply. “But then, sometimes you meet someone who makes it worth it.”

Her breath caught at the way he looked at her as he said it, his gaze steady and warm. She quickly diverted her attention to her next question, her cheeks flushing. “Alright, last one—for now. Why me?”

Harry smiled softly, leaning closer. “I wish I knew,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “But whatever it is, Y/n, I’m not sure I want to question it.”

Y/n hesitated before asking her next question, her voice barely above a whisper. “Would you ever… turn someone? So you could stay with them?”

Harry’s expression softened, his gaze dropping to his hands as he thought about her words. The air in the room grew heavy with the weight of the question, and Y/n could see the conflict flickering in his eyes.

He finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate. “It’s not a decision I’d take lightly,” he admitted. “Turning someone… it’s not as simple as just giving them eternal life. It changes everything—your body, your mind, your world. There’s no going back.”

Y/n watched him carefully, her heart thudding as she tried to read his expression. “But if it meant being with someone you loved… forever?”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he met her gaze. “I’ve thought about it,” he said honestly, his tone raw. “And I won’t lie—it’s tempting. But it’s also selfish.”

“How is it selfish?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

He sighed, running a hand through his curls. “Because it’s not my life I’d be changing. It’s theirs. I’d be asking them to give up so much—the sun, the ability to grow old, to live a normal life. It’s a lot to ask of someone, and it’s not something I could do lightly. Especially to someone I care about.”

Y/n felt a lump form in her throat at the sincerity in his voice. “So… you wouldn’t do it?”

Harry looked at her for a long moment, his green eyes piercing. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’d want to say no. To let the person I love live their life the way they were meant to. But if I knew I was going to lose them…” He trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not sure I’d be strong enough to let go.”

Her heart ached at the vulnerability in his words, and she reached out, placing a hand over his. “Harry,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside her, “I think you’re stronger than you realize.”

He gave her a faint, almost bittersweet smile. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “But with you… I think I’d have to be.”

Y/n’s hand lingered on his, her touch grounding him. She looked at him, her eyes soft but filled with determination. “I want to see you again, Harry.”

His jaw tensed, and he glanced away, as though wrestling with his thoughts. “Y/n,” he started, his voice low and measured, “this… this might not be a good idea. For you.”

She frowned, tilting her head. “Why not?”

He exhaled slowly, leaning back against the couch and running a hand through his hair. “Because the more time you spend with me, the harder it’ll be for both of us to walk away. And you might have to one day. For your own good.”

Y/n’s chest tightened, but she shook her head, her voice unwavering. “I don’t want to walk away. I don’t care how complicated this is—I want to see you. I feel… connected to you, Harry. I can’t just ignore that.”

His green eyes met hers, a flicker of something raw and unguarded passing through them. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said softly, almost sadly. “Being close to me… it’s not safe. It’s not normal.”

“I don’t want safe or normal,” she replied firmly. “I want you. Whatever that looks like.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly, as though trying to steady himself, before opening them again. “You’re making this harder than it already is,” he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite the tension in his voice.

Y/n leaned closer, her hand still on his. “Then stop fighting it. You want to see me again too, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but the way his gaze softened told her everything she needed to know. Finally, he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yes. I do.”

Her lips curved into a small, hopeful smile. “Then let’s not overthink it. Just… let’s see where this goes.”

Harry’s expression remained conflicted, but he couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward her. “Alright,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet but firm. “But we take it one step at a time. No promises, no expectations.”

Y/n nodded, her smile widening slightly. “One step at a time,” she echoed.

Y/n’s heart was racing, but she didn’t hesitate. Slowly, she leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. Harry’s breath hitched, his conflicted expression softening as she closed the distance between them.

Her lips met his, soft and tentative at first, but the electricity between them was undeniable. Harry responded almost immediately, his hand coming up to cup her cheek as he deepened the kiss. There was a gentleness in the way he touched her, as though he was afraid she might break, but there was also an intensity—an unspoken longing that neither of them could deny.

The kiss was slow but full of meaning, every moment stretching as though time itself had paused for them. When they finally pulled back, Y/n’s cheeks were flushed, her breathing unsteady.

Harry’s green eyes searched hers, a mix of wonder and restraint in his gaze. “You’re going to ruin me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

She smiled softly, her fingers brushing against his. “Maybe,” she whispered, “but you’re worth it.”

For a moment, Harry looked like he might protest, but instead, he leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. “You’re making it impossible for me to stay away,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

“Good,” she said with a small smile, her confidence growing. “Because I don’t want you to.” 

[littlelovelunette]

I love your writing so muchhh🩷🩷

Can you write some holiday stuff like they went to go celebrate Christmas with vanders family and then after they go home fuck possibly, but like make it messy and nasty

It's The Holidays

Contains smut, fingering, squirting

Everyone's sane and alive AU!

Someone complained I didn't mention ages here, so let me just state the obvious— this is smut so Vi and Reader are obviously 18 or above.

Thank you, Anon, and nice req, I gotchu

Snowflakes drifted lazily through the crisp Zaun air as you and Vi walked hand in hand down the bustling street, the glow of lanterns reflecting off the wet cobblestone.

Vi’s breath puffed in front of her, cheeks tinged pink from the cold, but her fingers squeezed yours, a silent promise of warmth.

"Vander's got the whole place decked out," Vi said with a smirk. "Bet you anything Mylo rigged up something stupid again."

When you reached The Last Drop, the scent of spiced cider and roasted meat spilled out into the street, a stark contrast to the chill outside.

The tavern was unrecognizable—garlands of evergreen and twinkling lights stretch across the rafters, mismatched ornaments dangled from hooks, and a battered old wreath hung proudly on the door.

Inside, Vander stood behind the bar, arms crossed, watching as Claggor struggled to lift a massive pot of stew onto the counter.

Powder darted between them, a bundle of homemade paper snowflakes in her arms, giggling as she flung them into the air.

"Hi!" Powder exclaimed, barreling toward the two of you, her arms wrapping around your waist in a tight hug. "You're finally here! I saved you guys a seat next to me!"

Vi ruffled Powder’s hair before grinning up at Vander. “So, what’s the damage?”

Vander chuckled, shaking his head. "Let’s just say Mylo tried to string lights up outside, and now half of ‘em don’t work."

"I told you it would work!" Mylo yelled from across the room, waving a half-eaten roll in his hand. "Claggor just dropped the damn power source!"

You and Vi exchanged a look before bursting into laughter, the warmth of the tavern settling in your chest.

The night unfolded in a blur of joy. Powder dragged you to the small corner where a tiny, uneven Christmas tree stood proudly, decorated with makeshift ornaments—glass bottle shards wrapped in ribbon, gears polished to a shine, and Vi’s contribution: a crooked metal star she welded herself.

Vander made his rounds, ensuring everyone's plate was full, his hearty laugh filling the air as he shared stories from past holidays.

Dinner was loud and chaotic, a mix of clattering plates, teasing jabs, and warmth that makes the world outside seem like a distant memory.

Vi kept stealing bites from your plate, smirking whenever you swatted at her hand, and Mylo nearly choked on his drink when Powder launched a spoonful of mashed potatoes at him.

As the night winds down, you found yourself curled up on the worn couch near the fire, Vi tucked against your side.

Powder dozed off, her head resting on your shoulder, while Claggor and Mylo argued over who had to clean up.

Vander watched over them all, a mug of cider in hand, his expression soft with something like pride.

Vi leaned in, her lips brushing your ear. "Told you it’d be fun."

You smiled, lacing your fingers through hers. "Yeah… best Christmas ever."

And as the fire crackled, casting warm flickering light across the room, you knew there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

"Wanna take this to my room?" Vi wiggled her eyebrows and you couldn't help laughing.

"Sure." You wrapped your arms around her neck, as she picked you up. Vi walked through the narrow corridors and reached her room. You opened the door for her as she carried you inside bridal style.

"Tell me what you want me to do to you." Vi put you down on the bed after locking the door and hovered over your figure.

"Just fuck me, yeah?" You smiled a little, reaching up and pressing a kiss against Vi's temple.

Vi's ears turned red slightly but she composed herself and gently tugged your panties down, pushing the skirt of your dress up.

"Ready?"

"Mhm." You hummed out.

Vi's fingers rubbed over your pussy lips and slowly dips inside to tease your slit making a small throaty moan break out of your mouth.

"Shhh," Vi's other hand clasps down on your mouth, "Powder's room is close by mine, don't moan too loud or she'll hear it."

You flushed a little, getting wetter at the thought of getting caught. You nodded either ways and moaned against Vi's hand.

Vi's fingers slowly delved inside your slit rubbing against your inner walls and scissoring through the tightness. "Is this your first time?"

"Mhm." You hummed behind her hand making her laugh softly.

"Im your first?"

You nodded again making Vi blush a little redder and continued gently pulling her finger back and inside.

You mumbled her name through her hand making her remove it. "Yeah?"

"Fuck me roughly. Please, take my virginity, be harsh with me."

"Oh, my love." Vi pressed a kiss on your forehead. "Are you sure?"

"Mhm..."

Vi got up, shifting to take all your clothes off and taking hers off too. You smiled at her naked frame and spread your legs.

Vi leaned down and shoved her fingers back in your pussy, putting one of your legs over her shoulder. You gasped and used one hand to muffle your moans. Her fingers were so fast and so hard making your hips buck up for more.

Vi bit down on your neck, leaving hickeys all over your skin for everyone to see. You knew you'd need makeup to cover it.

Your hands encircled around Vi's form as you desperately hung onto her. Her fingers thrusted in and out of you at an incredibly high pace.

Your juices were spilling all around Vi's fingers and sheets, the room was filled with the squelching sounds issuing from your cunt.

"V-Vi, I feel weird." You whispered in her ear, Vi smirked a little, adding a third finger making your toes curl as you squirted around her digits.

"Oh, baby, you squirt?" Vi smirked making you blush.

"It's never happened before." You whined softly.

Vi just smiled down at you before engulfing your lips in a soft kiss, tongue slipping past your lips.

Now, you were sure— this was the best Christmas ever.

[pit-stop-princess]

Click Click - Chapter Three

Ollie Bearman x Photographer!Fem!Reader

Kimi Antonelli & Antonelli!Sister!Reader

Summary: I came to F1 with my little brother Kimi to photograph his rookie season, not to fall for his best friend and Haas's golden boy. Somehow, Ollie Bearman keeps ending up in my shots!

Warnings: Angst, fluff, awkward text messages, young Kimi panicking, self-doubt, talk of perfection, picture of woman in swimsuit, light swearing

Word Count: 1694, not including text threads or social media posts

Notes: I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. It's very long. I'm graduating in just two weeks, so I've been feeling very nostalgic lately, and this chapter very much reflects that. Val's face claim is Niki Victoria for the sake of consistency. All in all, please enjoy and let me know what you liked about it!

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Nine Years Ago, ages 11 & 12

The kart was still smoking faintly when I reached the edge of the track, skidding to a stop just past the barriers. Kimi had ripped off his helmet and sat slumped in the grass, tear tracks already streaking the dirt on his cheeks. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp little curls, and he looked about two seconds from a full meltdown.

“My engine died,” he said, voice breaking halfway through. “It just- it stalled and I couldn’t fix it and I DNF’d the race and-”

“Hey,” I said, crouching in front of him. “Breathe, Kimi. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he sniffled. “I practiced so hard. And I was gonna win. You said I could win.”

“You can win.” I reached out and wiped a smudge of oil off his nose. “Just not today.”

He curled his hands into fists. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” I agreed. “But you’re not done yet.”

He looked up at me through wet lashes, lip wobbling. “What if I never make it?”

I smiled, even though my throat was suddenly tight. “Kimi, I swear on the stars you will. And when you do? I’ll be there. Every race. Every lap. Camera in hand, yelling louder than your entire pit wall.”

His eyes went wide. “You promise?”

“I promise,” I said, tears pricking my own eyes, pinky out. “You race. I’ll shoot. Deal?”

He linked his pinky with mine. “Deal.”

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Present Day

speed bump = Kimi, ollie bearman = Ollie Bearman, that bitch val = Valentina (Val)

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Val was waiting for me at the airport. She's tall, all sharp cheekbones and bright blue eyes, with beautiful curls that live in a perpetual state of artful chaos. She’s got the kind of style that looks effortlessly put together, even when it’s just thrifted jeans, a cropped tee, and golden hoop earrings.

We met at fourteen, two kids who dreamed too big for their school and the nuns who ran it.

Val was the new girl from Florence with clean blue nail polish and dreams of being a model. I was the girl with a camera instead of friends, always in the back of the classroom documenting shadows and corners and silence.

We were on a class trip when I asked if I could take a picture of her for the first time. I posed her, set up my angle, and got the shot. It was my first photo I was truly happy with since leaving Kimi.

When I showed Val the shot, she gripped my arm and told me I was the only one who made her look like her.

We’ve stuck together ever since.

She speaks with her hands, her heart, and absolutely no filter. One minute she’s dramatically reenacting a conversation with the cute barista at the cafe, the next she’s waxing poetic about the symbolism in a street mural or why that particular pigeon seems to be giving her attitude. There’s always a snack in her bag, a book with a cracked spine, and at least three bandages for other people’s blisters.

I told her how I loved motorsports, but stopped when Kimi went to the academy. I showed her the pictures I had taken, a year old at that point, and then newer pictures of people, landscapes, close-ups, and everything in between.

“You always think you’re photographing people doing something. Driving. Laughing. Walking. But the ones that matter, they’re when the person forgets they’re doing anything at all. It’s the breath between words. The blink after a smile. That’s the truth.”

When we left school, we built our empires. I would photograph for her, she would model for me. Our portfolios grew in tandem. She got her first job with a boutique brand in Milan. I got published in a small arts zine out of Rome. When I landed a travel feature for a new indie magazine, Val came with me to the Amalfi coast, wearing vintage scarves and red lipstick, standing barefoot on sea-slick rocks while I got the shot.

“You make me look like someone worth looking at,” she said once, quiet and serious, as we reviewed the prints in a café booth sticky with sugar.

I laughed. “You always were.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Before you, I just felt… pretty. Now I feel seen.”

And now, here she is, picking me up from the airport, hugging me so tight I lose my breath, already talking a mile a minute about the pasta she made and the barista she may or may not have a crush on but is too stubborn to admit it.

“I missed you,” I say into her hair, which smells like bergamot and sea salt.

She squeezes me tighter. “You left for, like, two weeks.”

“I know,” I say. “Too long.”

She pulls back, squints at me, then grins. “You look pale.”

“You look chaotic.”

“Thank you,” she says proudly. “Now come on. I made pesto. And I want to hear everything.”

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“So. Kimi sent you Ollie’s number, you texted first, he responded, and then the conversation died.”

“SÌ, basically. I think he might have been busy because he said he was ‘just training’ but I don’t know if I came across as too awkward.” I said, flopping down on her couch. “We haven’t talked outside of Kimi introducing us, so maybe it was too soon?”

Val shrugged her perfectly tan shoulder. “Maybe.”

“You’re supposed to lie and assure me it wasn’t too soon.”

She blinked at me. “Okay, you came off tragically normal. That’s even worse.”

I groaned and threw my arm over my eyes. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” She said, standing up gracefully. “Now come on, you’re back home, and we’re going to the beach. I need fresh air, and you need the sun.”

“I’m not that pale!”

She threw my swimsuit at me.

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I had missed the beach.

By the time we got down to the shore, the sun was bright and the sea was throwing glitter across the surface with every wave. I kicked off my shoes and wandered to the edge of the tide, the sand already cool and damp beneath my feet.

I just stood there, let the breeze get into my hair, let the waves pull at my ankles, let the sun kiss my skin. I could hear Val rustling around behind me, probably laying out her towel like a ritual, probably already monologuing to a seagull.

I turned just in time to see her toss a sun-warmed peach into the air and catch it like she was in a commercial for perfect summer evenings.

“Come on,” she called. “You're allowed to be dramatic, but not that dramatic.”

I laughed, and it felt good, loose and warm in my chest. I jogged back up the shore, collapsing beside her and stealing one of her chips.

“Hey!”

“Friend tax.”

We spent the rest of the day sunbathing and taking pictures. As much as I loved photographing F1, I missed taking photos of Val.

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❤️ liked by kimi.antonelli, valentinavlogs, olliebearman, & others

yourusername back home for a little while with @/valentinavlogs 🐚🩵

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valentinavlogs lookin like a couple of baddies

⤷ yourusername girl what are you talking about 😭

user34 I wish this was my life

⤷ user23 don't we all??

kimi.antonelli come back ollie hasn't stopped asking about you

⤷ olliebearman shut up, kimi

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user80 will she be at the next race?

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Five Years Ago, ages 13 & 15

It was late.

Too late for the track to still be echoing in his head, but I could see it in the way he sat on the curb- hunched over, hands loose between his knees, helmet abandoned beside him like it’d said something mean. The kart was parked a few feet away, half-loaded onto the trailer, the last stragglers from the paddock already packing up and heading out.

I sat down next to him, not saying anything at first. Just breathed in the warm, dusty air, the scent of engine grease and old asphalt.

He didn’t look at me. Just said, flatly, “I was shit today.”

“You weren’t.”

“I was. I spun out. I missed the apexes. I didn’t listen.” He ran both hands through his hair, frustrated. “Everyone saw it. They always see it. Every mistake, every second too slow-”

“Kimi.”

He kept going like I hadn’t spoken. “And I can’t keep up. Not with the guys the scouts are watching. Not if I keep messing it up every time it counts. Maybe I’m not- maybe I’m not cut out for it.”

“Andrea.” I touched his arm. “Look at me.”

He did, eventually. Eyes bright and wet in the glow from the nearest overhead light, jaw tight with everything he couldn’t say out loud.

“You are not your lap time,” I said gently. “You are not your placing or your telemetry data or how many people are looking at you. You are the kid who listens. Who learns. Who takes everything people throw at him and actually gets better. That’s rare, Kimi.”

He sniffled, quietly. “Doesn’t feel like enough.”

I tilted my head, nudged my shoulder into his. “You want to be perfect. But you don’t need to be. The ones who last? They take the hits, take the lessons, and come back swinging. You already do that.”

He picked at a loose thread on his race suit. “You’re always chasing the perfect picture.”

“SÌ, I am. Everyone is chasing perfection fratellino, but all you can do is attempt to be better than your past self. Learn from your mistakes, give yourself grace, and prepare for the next round.”

He didn’t say anything, so I looked up, out, into the vast stretch of stars overhead, and said, “You know what I think about sometimes?”

He glanced at me. “…What?”

“How lucky it is. That we’re on the same planet. In the same moment in time. Under this same sky.” I gave him a small smile. “Like, out of every possible version of the universe, we ended up in this one. Where I get to know you. Be here with you.”

Kimi blinked. “That’s weirdly comforting.”

I shrugged. “We’re small. But we’re not alone.”

He leaned against me then. Just a little. Not enough to crush me with shoulder pads or helmet hair, but enough that I could feel him start to breathe normally again.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“Always,” I whispered back. “I’m not going anywhere, Kimi. And even when I’m not beside you we are still under the same sky, remember?”

He looked up, lips twitching into something soft and tired and real. “Same sky.”

prev • masterpost • next

[ronearoundblindly]

Some Steve for you to enjoy 🥰🫶🏻

Gurl, this f***ed me up! I wanted to try to make it a snippet of Item 107 or The Cinder King, but the muses were just like "you know what you need? emotional damage." So now here we have my first semi-legit period piece (which has zero useful era detail eh) and truly is just the carrier for skinny!Steve love. Hint: It's thirsty, smutty love with hardly any plot ANGST.

Hello and welcome to Lexi's most self-indulgent fic ever. It's got everything: crippling insecurities about my real-life stuff, horniness unmatched even if there were sex pollen shot directly into their faces, and everyone is touch-starved. \o/ Enjoy! WC probably close to 3k but idk because I'm too afraid to look back at it. *slams post button*

Turned away again, Steve "4F" Rogers steps out of the recruitment center to see you standing there, staring up at the posters promising glory.

People hustle around you, several even knocking into you, but you remain transfixed, invisible. You're clutching your purse like a lifeline.

Down one step, worn-through shoes barely hiding every seam in the cobblestone, Steve has to get closer because that's the direction of home and a lonely, empty apartment he can hardly afford. He has to pass by. He has to, but then he sees the amber light reflect on trails of tears down your cheeks.

He has to stop.

"Miss?" Steve clears his throat, his own arm smacked by a rowdy man who then swats at your ass just as Steve tries to get your attention again.

You jolt and turn to him in surprise, hand flying up to cover a sob, sweeping to wipe the evidence of emotion from your face.

Fast--faster than Steve really processes--he's shouting for the guy to apologize before the guy makes to advance, Steve presses himself between you and the asshole still laughing at disrespecting you, and then he--Steve--is getting shoved into the alley with you still at his back.

It's dusk. The alley is nearly black. Steve can hear you crying but he's slipped on the stones wet from an afternoon rain. He scrambles to right himself.

Amidst the cries, he hears grunts of anger and resistance, terror creeping into his chest as Steve thinks you're being assaulted.

"Piece of shit," you bite out. The silhouette of you hurling your bag at the man's face repeatedly is clear from where Steve crouches, backlit as you are by the movie theater marquee.

Then the guy is down on the ground, too, being stomped on by your two-inch heel. "Piece of fucking shit."

"Woah," Steve jumps forward to hold you back. "Woah, language, ma'am. Let's go. Just leave him."

He has a weak arm around your waist, but you kick at the man one more time for good measure, hissing "liar" before turning to follow.

Your hand in his, Steve hurries through the streets, picking the ones he knows are busier but maneuverable to make sure you're not being pursued. Each time he looks back, he sees your sinking face, more tears, more exhaustion, and he makes a flash decision.

He doesn't stop until he locks the door of his apartment behind you both, and you break down on the bare wood floor.

"You hurt? Did he hurt you?" Steve's boney knees land a few inches from yours and he leans over, his long fingers brushing over your pinned hair and stiff curls that dislodged in the commotion. "You're alright. You're safe here."

Where your legs crumple underneath you, your slip lays over your thigh, uncovered by the skirt pooling on the other side of your hip. He can see the outline of a garter strap and the top of your stocking beneath the silky material. Steve's always loved pretty, delicate things. He also loves the faint bulge of flesh around the restraints.

There's meat on your bones, something to hold onto, and he shakes his head, chastising himself for noticing all the wrong things about the crying woman in his home. His lonely, empty home.

Steve attempts to think of anything other than your body.

"Do you know him? What'd you call him a liar for?"

You sigh in defeat, hands flopping into your lap, and confess that it wasn't about him so much as a man not here anymore. Gone. To war. You tell Steve a rambling tale of excuses and snide comments, of a parting that left you wondering why that man--any man--bothered to be with you in the first place, of a surety that you weren't ever wanted.

"I thought he loved me but he lied."

Steve sits cross-legged in front of you now, enthralled and utterly confused. Why would anyone...?

"That's the worst part," you exclaim, voice cracking. "I don't know. I'll never know." Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your skirt. "I heard today that he died. Don't know where. Don't know when. And I hate that I still care."

"But he wasn't good to you," Steve soothes and wraps his hand around yours, "and he wasn't good for you."

All you do is shrug and hide your face. Tears falls to the fabric below your eyes and seep through in dark patches.

He scoots forward and lifts your chin with a gentle nudge. When your puffy red eyes meet his, he's struck by how lucky he feels to see you like this. It's odd to think someone who knew you more and for so much longer couldn't feel infinitely more attached and protective. You're so vulnerable, so open, so...

"You're beautiful." Steve's tongue swipes over his dry lips. "You're so beautiful."

The words are loaded heavier than tanks and pack the punch of a bomb. He can tell you don't truly hear him by the way you shrink and shake your head out of his hold.

"Don't do that," he pleads. "Please don't hide from me."

"You don't know me."

"No, but I--"

"You don't even know my name!"

He sits back and offers his hand.

"Hi, I'm Steve. It's nice to meet you, and I think you're beautiful."

"That's stupid," you lash out, bitterly spitting the half-hearted, heart-breaking words. "You must be an idiot, Steve."

It's not the first time he's heard it, but it is the first time he's not mad at hearing it. He believed those things, too, long ago, before his mom convinced him to see the possibilities in one's struggles. If you perceive it as an obstacle, it is an obstacle. Perceive it as an opportunity instead and use it. Those aren't her exact words, but Sarah Rogers has so many different ways of teaching the same fundamental lessons that Steve can't remember the phrases anymore.

He can remember the feeling. He remembers seeing both obstacles and opportunities.

"Is it stupid to want to touch you?" he whispers. "Because I would love to touch you."

The question is purposefully leading since he knows from your story that's exactly what you long for. It'll be more impactful if he shows you he longs for that too.

Slowly--so slowly--his hand comes up to your cheek again, his fingers tucking behind your neck.

"I don't want your pity." There's still bitterness but no power behind it. You gently shift closer and meet him halfway.

He's kissed girls before, he's fooled around, and he has, in fact, slept with one girl. They went all the way--twice--which means Steve knows what it is to be pitied intimately. He knows what it's like to want something so badly you don't care what the motivation is.

You deserve to know his motives.

"I don't pity you." His focus falls to your quivering lip. "I want to make you happy." He's close. He's so close his breath rolls warm over your face. "I want to make you smile."

A soft whimper leaves you just as his mouth arrives.

"I want you," he says into the kiss.

Instead of fighting, you grab at his jacket, pulling him until you're both falling into the stand lamp. You taste of salt and something sweet he can't put his finger on. Steve resolves to put that on the list of things to find out about you.

He keeps kissing you as you both fall, the lamp now wedged at an angle by the side table. Despite the tangle of tongues, Steve keeps his hands to himself. He doesn't quite have enough answers.

"What do you want, beautiful?"

Hesitant as he pulls away, gripping worn leather like your purse in the street, your eyes dart between his. You're a dream beneath him, but that sounds too selfish to voice.

"May I..." Steve is already panting "...get you off the floor? More comfortable?"

Maybe you haven't been able to say the words, but Steve doesn't need more convincing to know you want him.

He could tell from the way you pawed at him. He could tell from the multiple times you crashed him into the walls along the hall to makeout more. He could tell from the way you melted like hot butter at his every returned touch, but finally, you two made it to his bed.

He'd be embarrassed by the lumpy old thing if there weren't a curvy, luscious dame standing with wide legs at the foot of it, letting his tie slip through your hands as he sits stunned.

Steve swallows thickly.

"Let me see you." It comes out as more of an order than the hopeful question he intended, but when he sees the command shiver through you, he feels six-foot-six and powerful as all hell.

You two share the burden of unbuttoning all of your layers, spinning you a few times to release front and back and side to side. His hands spread and roam to relish each garment, each moment, until you're top half is naked.

He stares, fierce blue irises muted by the dim light on his bedside table, 'beautiful' on his lips every second you spend with your finger yanking the knot of his tie and sliding off the bond. When you lean to pop his shirt buttons, your breasts hang in his face.

Steve stops you by your wrists, peaking up at you through his long lashes as he takes a nipple in his mouth. He keeps thinking it--beautiful--while his tongue sweeps flat across pebbling flesh. Each subsequent swirl has you melting again, pressing more of you to his face, dragging nails up his chest, sighing long and deep. When he switches to the other side, your fingers bury in his hair. He takes his time to worship you, tracing his own fingertips around the hem of your slip and garters.

He doesn't get impatient, if anything Steve feels greedy for wanting more, for praying this lasts forever, for needing all you're willing to give.

His teeth graze your skin in wanton lust, and you flinch in surprise, knocking you off-balance.

You fall to your knees on the mattress, straddling Steve's slender body beneath your hot core.

"Sorry," you mutter, wriggling to stand, forcing Steve to wrap his arms around you and halt your retreat. "I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you."

"You can sit on me morning, noon, and night," he rasps. "I won't complain. I'll thank you, beautiful."

He groans pathetically when you relax, the grind of your ass making his slacks pinch tighter and tighter. Steve lets his head fall back on the sheets, eyes fluttering shut. The army might not want him, the world outside may forget he ever existed, but you see. He could get addicted to this feeling. He might get lonely without it.

Steve isn't strong enough to keep hold of you, but your weight never leaves, his erection still slotted between your cheeks. His mouth drops wide when your hips roll. Steve whines when you rise up enough to resume unbuttoning him. His lungs and heart go into overdrive, but even so, Steve doesn't want you doing all the work.

He flips you--using the sum total of his strength--and shuffles backward to stand, ripping the tails of his shirt from beneath his belt and shucking off his trousers. That part he could have been more patient for, but Steve smirks and brushes away the hair falling in his eyes, chest heaving from exertion.

He's pleased to see you watching him, ogling his body without judgment. You look like you want to eat him alive, and he is perfectly fine with that.

His palm lands on your knee to sneak higher beneath your slip, nimble fingers popping the clasps along your stockings and hooking through the band of your underwear. You lifting for him is all the permission he needs. Steve leaves your slip, garter belt, and stockings in place, and in a cheeky twist, he lets your underwear hang off one of your ankles, kissing your inner thigh, pushing your knees wider for him to fit.

He throbs in his boxers at the sight of your sex.

Nerves roil in his belly at the idea he is solely responsible for your pleasure. As he glances up to you, propped up on your elbows with a fearful and expectant gaze, he sees a poster promising honor and glory, a service to be proud of, and for the first time, he has doubts.

You see it in his eyes.

"Steve?"

He wants to participate and show that he's worthy of you.

This isn't about him though, and Steve Rogers is nothing if not dedicated anyone other than himself.

"Right here." He snaps back to reality, laying his hand to your thatch of hair and gently teasing his thumb along your folds. "I'm right here, beautiful."

It's an honor to touch you. He's proud of the moan elicited because he strokes over your clit rhythmically. The glory of watching you writhe is all his.

Steve's breath stays rapid as yours picks up. You're fisting the sheets, slick pooling beneath the pad of his thumb, helping him pick up speed. He dips into you, tests the breach while pushing his boxers down, and crawls over the edge of the bed. Like magnets, you guide each other higher till the pillows cradle you.

You're a broken record, repeating a desperate loop.

"Steve," you whimper.

"Won't ever lie to you." He captures your lips again. "Want you so badly. I'll want you all the time."

Steve doesn't understand why you won't talk to him, so he slows, eyes questioning and brow furrowed. You have to see. The light is right there.

Bottom lip trapped, you still say nothing, but your arms raise to his smooth face and plead in the silence.

He wants the same thing. He wants to feel. Not just the sting of rejection. Not just the slippery, rough stones through his shoes. Not just the empty ache inside. He wants to feel like someone cares whether he lives or dies.

You care even when you don't want to, but Steve can earn you, your care, your smile and your tears. He'll get up and come home to you every time. He needs you to come home to.

Otherwise, this is a lonely, empty apartment. Otherwise, he is a lonely, empty man.

Your hands bring him close, lips pausing just before contact while Steve sinks two fingers into you.

You gasp. His fingers curl. His thumb goes back to work. You kiss him with what little breath you can hold between muted cries until Steve notices your roving hands tug at his waist.

He wants the same thing.

Sitting back on his heels, Steve drapes your thighs over his, his slick fingers spreading you. He's mesmerized watching his cock disappear inch by inch, and the caress of your walls shuts down all other brain function. All he can do is slide against you, bent into your soft body, your breasts padding his jerky thrusts, the base of him perfectly laving the hood of your clit in the growing mess.

You're wet, and he's driven wild by the need to make you come. He tries to sit up again, to play with you properly, but he's stopped by the weight of your legs crossed behind his ass, the strength of your thighs anchoring him in place.

Steve takes huge, deep breaths through his nose because he won't last concentrating on how your body bounces and ripples, plush beneath his boney form.

You get wetter, looser in a welcoming way that spurs him to drive himself home faster. He sucks in air, though it's futile once his heavy balls start to seize.

Suddenly, you shout, stretching to push yourself completely flush with his pelvis, and he has to pull out, keeping aligned with the cut of you as aftershocks make you mindlessly hump him. Steve's cum shoots all over his belly and your chest, some drops dampening what clothes he didn't discard, stains of joy replacing stains of sadness.

His chest might explode. He's gasping, taxed beyond his naughtiest dreams, head lolling toward the ceiling with his throat high.

He feels your legs fall away, and Steve hopes for an instant that you embrace him even though he might suffocate in the process.

The envelopment never comes. The world is fuzzy and too warm beyond him.

He hears the sink in his bathroom turn on just as he lands palms-down on sweaty sheets. He tries every trick he knows to calm down. The water still runs after all the time it takes for him to recover and stand. The closer he gets to the doorway, the clearer the sound really is.

Sobbing.

"Beautiful? What's wrong? Did I--"

The faucet squeaks off, and you barrel out, nearly running him over, your arms covering your chest and your disheveled hair hiding your face.

"What are you doing? Are you cold?" Steve tries.

"I'm disgusting," you hiss in a mad dash for the pile of clothes on the floor.

He trips over his feet to stop you, corralling you as best he can, but you're quick. You certainly have fight in you. Steve only want to show you you do not have to fight him.

"Come back to bed," he commands hopefully, grabbing your wrist as you scoop up your wrinkled dress. "I should clean up, but please, please, come back to bed."

There is something broken and fearful in the way you finally meet his eye. He's torn apart, shredded down to nothing in a single look. That's not how a feral animal sees the world; that's how an animal, abused and betrayed, locks the world out.

Your protection is what you really took off for him. Your thick armor is what Steve got past.

"I didn't lie." He lets go of you and steps back as calm as his rasping breaths can manage. "I want you. I want you to stay." He wonders whether he ought to cover himself, too, because perhaps total vulnerability makes you more nervous.

So he presents himself as an opportunity, not an obstacle.

Steve finds his boxers a foot away and says one more time, "I hope you stay."

Unmoving, your eyes follow his walk to the bathroom, and in the split second he's looking down to turn the tap, you're gone.

Disappointment floods his system, but like all the other stamped failures in his record, Steve goes through the motions of caring for a body that thwarts his desire to live at every turn. In fact, it tries to die so often, he's always surprised to find himself here, staring at this mirror again, wondering why he gets back up.

He's also surprised to find you here, in the bed with the sheet pulled up to your chin, nodding to the side table where you've placed a cup of water.

The tiniest of genuine smiles curves your lips.

Steve's home is neither lonely nor empty anymore. He could cry.

A/N: this got so incredibly out of hand... I'm so sorry. But also, thank you for reading!

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