#i think they just are caring about someone for the first time and only know how to parse the world through a romantic lense so they just

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 25: June 2024 - Part 6

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The office was quiet. Soft. Safe.

It always felt that way here — a small haven away from the noise of circuits and media storms, from the sharp edges of being forgotten and the new weight of suddenly being seen. The window let in filtered afternoon light, and Simone’s office smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

Belle sat curled in her usual corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, hands wrapped around a mug of peppermint tea she hadn’t yet touched.

Simone sat across from her with her notebook closed, eyes kind, waiting.

“I think the worst part,” Belle said softly, after a long pause, “is that I didn’t expect it to feel so loud.”

Simone tilted her head slightly. “The public knowing?”

Belle nodded. “It was quiet for so long. Just ours. Just… safe. But now—one photo, and suddenly everyone’s watching.”

“Does it feel like a loss of control?” Simone asked gently.

“Yes. And no.” Belle looked down at her mug. “I wanted people to know. Eventually. I chose to walk into the paddock. I chose to kiss him. I posted the photo. It wasn’t an accident. But now everyone has an opinion. People I’ve never met are dissecting my life like it’s a press release.”

Simone let the silence settle for a moment, then asked, “What grounded you when it started to feel overwhelming?”

Belle smiled faintly. “Max. He always knows when I’m spiraling — even before I do. He’ll just take my hand or touch my back and everything feels quieter.”

There was a pause.

“I told Arthur,” Belle said, voice softer now.

Simone’s brows lifted slightly. “How did that feel?”

“Better than I expected,” Belle admitted. “He didn’t defend Charles. He didn’t make excuses. He just showed up. And he listened.”

“That’s progress,” Simone said gently.

Belle nodded. “But it’s only him. I haven’t spoken to anyone else.”

“Do you want to?”

Belle was quiet for a long time. Then: “I don’t know.”

Simone didn’t press her. Just waited.

“I think part of me still wants them to reach out. To say sorry without being prompted. To see me on their own. Not because they’re embarrassed or because the media caught on. Just… because they miss me.” Her voice cracked just slightly on that last word.

Simone’s tone was careful, but warm. “It’s okay to want that.”

“I know. I just don’t know if they’re capable of it.”

“And if they’re not?” Simone asked gently.

Belle looked up. “Then I move forward without them.”

Another pause.

“Can I offer a thought?” Simone asked.

Belle nodded.

“If you do choose to let them in again — not now, not even soon, but eventually — it might be helpful to bring those conversations into a neutral space. Somewhere safe.”

Belle’s gaze flicked toward her. “Like here?”

Simone gave a small smile. “Like family therapy. With boundaries. With someone to help hold the structure while you explore whether rebuilding is even possible.”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t want to excuse what they did,” she said. “Or pretend everything’s fine because I married someone famous and suddenly they care.”

“I would never ask you to,” Simone replied gently. “You’ve already built a life. A marriage. Soon a family of your own. The question is whether you want to let them try to earn a place in it.”

Belle’s eyes shimmered, but she blinked them clear. “I think I might be open to the idea.”

“That’s enough for today.”

Belle let out a slow breath.

And for the first time since the Parc Fermé kiss and the global chaos that followed, the silence in her chest didn’t feel like pressure.

It felt like peace.

***

It started with a dress.

Just a simple, pale blue linen one — a favorite of hers. Soft. Easy. Forgiving in the waist. She’d worn it to coffee with Emilie two weeks ago and felt fine in it. Pretty, even.

Now, it wouldn’t zip.

Belle stood in the center of the bedroom, barefoot on the rug, hair still damp from the shower, the zipper stuck halfway up her back as she twisted and strained and tried not to cry.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a flood of hormones and tears and shouting. It was quiet.

A soft, sharp ache of realization.

Her body had changed overnight.

She turned slowly toward the mirror. Pressed a hand to her stomach. What had once been the faintest suggestion now had shape. Curve. Weight. Not enough to scream pregnant to the world, but more than enough to make her clothes sit wrong. To make her feel like a stranger in her own skin.

The zipper finally gave up entirely, and Belle stepped out of the dress with more frustration than grace.

She tried another — a black cotton shift. Still no. Then a flowy skirt — fine at the hips, but suddenly too snug at the waist. A button-down she’d always liked? The buttons across her chest strained so badly it looked like they were preparing for launch.

One by one, the pieces fell to the floor around her.

When she finally dropped into the edge of the bed, she was surrounded by the soft wreckage of what used to fit. A fabric battlefield. Her hands rested on her knees, her breath shallow, her chest tight.

She hadn’t expected to feel sad.

This was supposed to be beautiful — the beginning of something. The miracle. The glow.

But all she could think was: Nothing fits anymore.

And Max wasn’t there.

He’d left for the race two days ago — a back-to-back weekend with media, meetings, track walks. He’d kissed her forehead before leaving, pressed a palm gently over her belly, whispered something about texting her after every session.

But he wasn’t here.

Not now, when her body had changed without warning and she didn’t know how to dress it. Not now, when she just wanted someone to look at her and say, you’re still you.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it without hope — then saw his name.

Max: Morning, Schatje. I just got out of briefing. I miss you. How’s our co-pilot today?

Belle’s throat tightened. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second before she typed back.

Belle: I miss you too. Co-Pilot seems to be growing faster than expected. Nothing fits. At all. It’s ridiculous. I feel like a puffed pastry with a heart rate.

The reply came almost instantly.

Max: That is the most adorable description of pregnancy I’ve ever heard. And also: please stop being mean to my wife. You’re beautiful. You’re growing our baby. I’m buying you stretchy things. All the stretchy things.

Belle let out a quiet, helpless laugh — one that cracked right through the tightness in her chest.

Another message came in:

Max: Also I demand a photo. Even if you’re in my hoodie with no pants. Especially then, actually.

Belle shook her head, smiling through the sting in her eyes.

She stood, padded over to the wardrobe again, and pulled out one of Max’s hoodies. It swallowed her whole, but it didn’t pinch. It didn’t judge. It just fit — in the way that mattered.

She took the photo. Hair damp. No makeup. Hoodie halfway down her thighs. The bump was there. Soft. Round. Theirs.

She sent it to him with one line:

Belle: This is what “nothing fits” looks like.

A minute passed.

Then Max replied:

Max: That’s my favorite person with my favorite future inside her. Perfect. P.S. I’m coming home the second this race is over.

And somehow, in that moment, even with her body unfamiliar and her closet defeated…

Belle didn’t feel alone anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Belle: Slightly odd question. Do you remember what you wore when you were trying to hide your pregnancies?

Victoria: Hahaha Has the bump arrived?

Belle: It ambushed me. Overnight. I woke up and suddenly nothing zips and my jeans are threatening to report me to the authorities.

Victoria: God, I remember that phase. I once cried in a Zara changing room because a wrap dress betrayed me. So yes. I remember it well.

Victoria: Okay. Hiding-the-bump tips from a three-time pro:

Flowy dresses

Button-downs + high-waisted trousers unbuttoned and safety pinned

Distracting accessories (big earrings = nobody’s looking at your belly)

Never underestimate a good scarf

Belle: You’re terrifyingly prepared. I love you.

Victoria: We all cope in our own ways. Mine is emotional support designer handbag. Also. You’re glowing.

Belle: I’m sweating and panicked.

Victoria: That’s pregnancy, darling. And when in doubt, steal Max’s clothes, throw on lipstick, and pretend you’re doing it on purpose.

Belle: I’m texting you before every outfit now.

Victoria: I expect nothing less.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Everything I own has turned against me. I just tried on five dresses. None of them fit. One popped a button and hit me in the face.

Emilie: i’m sorry but this is the funniest tragedy i’ve ever read

Belle: I’m going to have to start wearing Max’s hoodies exclusively. Like some sort of tiny, emotionally unstable Formula 1 driver.

Emilie: you say that like it’s not THE aesthetic of the season also: pls send a pic immediately

Belle: No makeup. Wet hair. Hoodie down to my knees. I look like if depression bought a scented candle.

Emilie: okay that’s going in your baby book "week 16: mother described herself as a sad candle in sportswear" you’re glowing, aren't you?

Belle: No. I’m sweating and mildly offended by cotton. But thank you.

Emilie: you are perfect and your body is doing literal magic and i will be there tomorrow with snacks, tissues, and an emergency haul of ethically-sourced maternity leggings

Belle: I don’t deserve you.

Emilie: no but you’re stuck with me anyway

***

The house was glowing.

Not literally — though the late afternoon sun poured golden light through the open shutters like a blessing — but in the way old homes do when they’ve been cared for. When someone’s loved them back into themselves.

Belle stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pencil tucked behind one ear, as Daniel and Jules stepped inside.

“Mon Dieu,” Daniel breathed. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Jules let out a soft, stunned sound and turned in a slow circle, eyes catching every detail — the reclaimed beams overhead, the soft plaster walls in a mineral-washed hue, the original tile floor gently cleaned and sealed instead of replaced.

“I can’t believe this is the same house,” Jules said.

“I can,” Daniel murmured. “Because she did it.”

Belle smiled, cheeks warm. “It’s almost done. A few details left — hardware, window treatments, the stone for the kitchen counters is coming Tuesday.”

“Don’t rush,” Jules said. “We’d sleep on the floor if we had to.”

“No need,” Belle said, leading them deeper into the space. “The guest room is fully dressed. Just in case.”

They passed through the arch into the main living room. The old fireplace had been restored, the stone gently cleaned but still mottled with history. Belle had designed built-in shelves on either side — painted in a soft green-grey that picked up the light without swallowing it — and filled them with old books and ceramics she’d sourced from local artisans.

“Belle,” Daniel said softly. “This is… art.”

She smiled at that. Not flustered. Just pleased.

They moved into the kitchen, where Belle had reimagined the space entirely without losing a single antique tile. A large farmhouse sink had been inset into a custom cabinet she’d designed herself, and the walls were finished in limewash — textured, tactile, alive.

The wide French doors at the back opened onto the courtyard. Once crumbling, it was now a soft, green heart of the home. The old fig tree remained, but Belle had added lavender, herbs, and climbing jasmine that was already threatening to devour the wall.

Jules stepped outside. “You saved the soul of this place.”

“I didn’t want to change it,” Belle said. “Just… listen to it.”

Daniel glanced over at her, smiling. “It’s rare. What you do. Most people walk into old houses and want to erase the past. You made it feel like time had layered into the house instead of over it.”

Belle blinked. Something caught behind her ribs — not pride, exactly, but something deeper. Recognition.

“It’s the first full project I did under my name,” she said quietly. “No firm. No partners. Just me.”

“And it shows,” Daniel said. “There’s nothing generic here. Every choice feels personal. Considered.”

“There are still a few finishing touches. Light fixtures in the guest room, and one of the shutters needs repair. But everything else is… as planned,” Belle explained.

Jules looked around again — eyes slightly glassy now. “It’s more than we imagined.”

Daniel stepped beside Belle and nudged her gently. “You didn’t just design this. You gave it a soul.”

Belle swallowed around the sudden ache in her throat.

“I just listened,” she said. “To what the house wanted to be. And to what you needed it to hold.”

“You do realize this is what great designers say when they’re being modest,” Daniel said dryly.

But Jules only smiled and took Belle’s hands in his. “You made us a home.”

And somehow, that landed more than any award ever could.

As they sat down at the table with lemonade and cheese and fresh bread Jules had insisted on bringing from their favorite bakery, Belle let herself relax into the moment.

The laughter was easy. The compliments genuine. There was no shadow of someone else’s name over her work, no sense of borrowed validation.

Just sunlight, and two clients-turned-friends, and a house that now breathed.

And for the first time in her career, Belle didn’t feel like she was working to prove anything.

She had already done it.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: wanna tell me what the actual FUCK that was between max and lando????

Belle: Define “that.”

Emilie: THE AGGRESSIVE WHEEL-TO-WHEEL “ARE WE ENEMIES NOW” SLAP FIGHT THE DEATH STARES THE POST-RACE NON-HANDSHAKE I’M SORRY, IS THE BRO MANCE DEAD??

Belle: Ah. That.

Emilie: YES. THAT. YOUR HUSBAND WENT FULL FINAL BOSS MODE AND LANDO LOOKED LIKE HE WAS ABOUT TO BITE HIM

Belle: They’ll talk. Eventually.

Emilie: ARE THEY BREAKING UP DO I NEED TO GET THE DIVORCE LAWYERS DO I GET YOU IN THE CUSTODY BATTLE DOES LANDO GET VISITATION WITH THE BABY

Belle: 😂 You are so dramatic. And yes, obviously. 

Emilie: you joke but i’m FUMING i just spent six months convincing myself they were soft-launch brothers-in-arms and now max overtakes like that and lando’s giving “you were supposed to love me” after the race

Belle: It’s called racing, Em.

Emilie: it’s called betrayal he made him crash he gave him a puncture he RUINED HIM i’ve read enemies-to-lovers with less sexual tension than that post-race stare

Belle: Do you want me to ask Max for his side?

Emilie: no

Belle:For the record: Max says he “defended hard” And Lando “should’ve backed out sooner.” He also muttered something about “this is why I don’t have friends.”

Emilie: tell him that’s the most dramatic thing he’s said since “I’m not here to make friends” in 2015

Belle: He is the drama

Emilie: and you married him god i’m proud of you

Belle: Would you and Lando like to come for dinner tomorrow?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME??

Belle: Max is sulking. Lando is brooding. You’re screaming in all caps. I’m fixing it.

Emilie: YOU THINK A CHICKEN PARM IS GONNA FIX A BROKEN BROMANCE

Belle: Yes. That and a homemade lemon tart. Also, you’re bringing wine.

Emilie: oh my god you’re staging a peace summit this is monaco-based diplomacy you’re literally brokering a ceasefire

Belle: We’ve avoided a Red Bull–McLaren cold war so far. I’d like to keep it that way. Also Max gets weird when Lando’s mad at him.

Emilie: i’m bringing rosé and a truce playlist

Belle: Perfect. Tomorrow. 7 PM. We’re serving forgiveness with a side of grilled vegetables.

Emilie: you’re a queen a legend a domestic diplomat

Belle: Good. See you tomorrow. Also, if they refuse to make eye contact, we’re putting on a two-player Mario Kart match and leaving the room.

Emilie: excellent. passive-aggressive gaming therapy. you’re a genius

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Belle: Congratulations on the podium 🧡 You were phenomenal today. Clean, calm, clinical. (And you looked very smug on the podium. It suited you.)

Oscar: Thank you 😊 It’s always nice when Max and Lando are too busy crashing into each other to notice I exist.

Belle: Speaking of which... Care to tell me what that was?

Oscar: Which part? The wheel-to-wheel drama? The parc ferme tension? The complete emotional collapse of an F1 friendship?

Belle: All of it. I’m trying to prep for tomorrow’s “spaghetti and feelings” dinner.

Oscar: I’d recommend garlic bread. And helmets.

Belle: Are they talking?

Oscar: Define “talking.” Max said “he’ll get over it.” Lando said “he can bite me.” So, no.

Belle: Excellent. Nothing like emotional maturity from two men who drive at 300km/h for a living.

Oscar: Incredible athletes. Emotionally 14.

Belle: We’ve having dinner tomorrow. I’m staging a ceasefire over lemon tart.

Oscar: Bold of you Godspeed Let me know if I need to be on standby for emotional support 

Belle: You might. If they refuse to speak, they’re playing Mario Kart until one of them cries.

Oscar: So, normal Verstappen conflict resolution. Got it 👍

Belle: Exactly.

***

Belle pulled the lemon tart out of the fridge at exactly 6:58 PM.

It was perfect. Glazed, golden, topped with thin slices of candied lemon and just enough powdered sugar to look effortless without trying too hard. Not unlike her strategy for this entire dinner.

She heard Max pacing somewhere near the front hallway again. That made lap four. Five, if she counted the loop past the cat bowls.

“Max,” she called gently. “It’s dinner. Not an FIA hearing.”

“They’re late,” he muttered, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

“They’re two minutes late.”

Max crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “Maybe we should cancel.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Because Lando didn’t arrive early to apologize like a teenager with flowers and a mixtape?”

Max looked away. Belle handed him the salad tongs.

“Go toss the greens and remember you’re a grown man with three world championship titles and a mortgage,” she said sweetly.

He muttered something in Dutch and obeyed.

The buzzer rang at 7:03.

Belle opened the door to find Emilie in her best peacekeeping sundress, holding a bottle of rosé in one hand and a smug smile on her face. Lando trailed behind her, suspiciously quiet, clutching a bakery box like it was a bomb.

“We brought peach galette,” Emilie announced. “And emotional tension.”

Belle stepped aside. “We already have both.”

Dinner began civilly enough.

The pasta was well-timed. The wine poured freely. The cats were temporarily bribed into not launching themselves onto the table.

Max and Lando, however, exchanged exactly four words in the first twenty minutes:

“Hi.” “Hi.” “Water?” “Sure.”

The eye contact was brief. The fork clinking was aggressive.

Belle and Emilie carried the conversation like diplomats on a sinking cruise ship. They talked about weather, Monaco construction permits, the absurdity of a $400 baby monitor Belle had returned on principle. They laughed. They smiled.

The boys sulked.

At one point, Max stabbed a roasted carrot like it had insulted his ancestors. Lando sighed in a way that could've shattered glass.

Belle met Emilie’s gaze across the table.

Time for the nuclear option.

“Okay,” Belle said, standing up. “Dessert in a bit. But first—living room.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” Belle said, already walking, “I’m not hosting a three-course cold war.”

Emilie followed with the wine glasses. “We’re resolving this like adults.”

“In Mario Kart,” Belle added.

Max groaned. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m married to you. I’ve never been more serious.”

Lando slumped onto the couch. “This is ridiculous.”

Belle handed him a controller. “And yet you’re already holding the remote.”

Max hesitated—just long enough for Belle to raise an eyebrow. “Afraid to lose?”

He sat down next to Lando like she’d physically shoved him. “I’ve beaten him in real life. I’ll survive Rainbow Road.”

“Your funeral,” Lando muttered.

By the second race, Max had stopped muttering under his breath.

By the fourth, he and Lando were arguing about blue shell etiquette.

By the sixth, Belle and Emilie had abandoned the couch entirely and were watching from the kitchen doorway, with Emilie sipping rosé and Belle snacking on lemon tart, like it was theatre.

“I give it ten more minutes before they forget they were mad,” Emilie whispered.

“Seven,” Belle said, just as Lando shouted, “That’s what you get for punting me off in Austria!”

Max howled. “YOU STARTED IT.”

Belle smiled. “And… there it is.”

By the time dessert hit the table, Lando was retelling the story of Max drunk in a night club and accidentally running into a wall while sneezing. Max was defending himself with increasing indignation. Emilie was crying with laughter. And Belle?

Belle sat back in her chair, hand resting gently over her stomach, watching her husband finally laugh again.

And she thought — this is what peacekeeping looks like.

A lemon tart. A glass of wine. A video game and a well-timed eye roll.

And love.

Always, love.

***

Max hadn’t meant to wake up early.

The apartment was still hushed in the pale-blue light of morning, curtains shifting faintly with the breeze from the balcony doors. Monaco always felt quieter before eight — like even the yachts were still asleep.

He stretched, one arm blindly reaching for Belle’s side of the bed.

Empty.

The faint sound of running water met his ears, and then the rustle of a drawer, a closet door sliding open.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his hand over his face, and padded barefoot into the hallway.

What he saw stopped him completely.

Belle stood in front of the mirror in the closet, turned slightly sideways, her back to the door. She was barefoot, her hair in a loose braid, wearing nothing but a pair of soft cotton shorts and one of his white tank tops — the thin kind she always stole from his drawer without asking.

And her bump — their bump — was there. Real. Rounded. Glowing in the soft morning light.

Max felt something in his chest shift.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her. Watched the way she ran her fingers over her stomach, gently, reverently, like she still couldn’t quite believe it.

Like it had finally hit her, too.

Belle caught his reflection in the mirror and startled. “God, Max—say something before you scare me to death.”

But she didn’t move to hide.

Didn’t reach for a robe or yank down the hem of the tank top.

And Max… Max couldn’t look away.

“I didn’t know it was like this already,” he said quietly.

Belle turned toward him, one hand resting low on her belly. “It kind of… popped overnight.”

He crossed the room slowly, his eyes never leaving her. When he stopped in front of her, his hands came up automatically — one to her cheek, the other hovering just above her bump.

“May I?” he asked softly.

Belle nodded, her eyes warm.

He placed his hand against her skin. Warm. Soft. Alive.

A small intake of breath escaped him — almost a laugh, but softer. “You’re really in there,” he murmured.

Belle smiled, tired and radiant all at once. “Surprise.”

He kissed her, slow and steady, his hand never leaving her stomach.

When he pulled back, his voice was a little rougher. “How long until you can’t hide it anymore?”

She exhaled. “A few weeks, maybe. Less if they keeps growing like this.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Do you want to keep hiding it?”

Belle leaned into his chest, resting her forehead there. “I don’t know. Part of me likes having it just for us. But… part of me wants to stop hiding. Stop pretending nothing’s changed when everything has.”

Max nodded slowly. “We don’t have to post anything. Not unless you want to.”

She looked up at him. “Would you be okay with the media knowing? With the fans knowing?”

“I’m okay with them knowing we’re building a life together,” he said simply. “They’ll say things. They always do. But they don’t get to have this. Only see it. And only what we give them.”

Belle’s throat tightened. “What if they say I’m just—what if they think this is why we got married? That it wasn’t about us?”

“They can think whatever they want,” Max said firmly. “But I know. You know. And this baby—” he pressed his hand gently to her stomach again, “—will grow up knowing they were born from love. Not gossip.”

Belle nodded, slow and quiet. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I think…” She paused. “I think when it feels right, I want to share it. I just want to do it our way. Not through a headline. Not through some PR leak. Just… something honest. Something small.”

Max smiled. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

She leaned into him again, and he held her there — the two of them wrapped in early morning quiet, one heartbeat becoming three.

***

He didn’t mean to play for hours.

But his hands moved without thought, without permission — soft notes tumbling out one after another, half-finished melodies bleeding into each other, no structure, no rhythm. Just the ache in his chest, transposed into minor keys.

Charles stared at the keys without really seeing them.

Everything since the Spanish Grand Prix had felt like that. Blurred. Half-lit. Shame washing over him in waves until it was hard to tell what day it was.

Fred’s voice still rang in his head.

"He’s not just beating you on track. He’s beating you in every other way that matters."

It should’ve made him angry. Months ago, maybe it would have. But now?

Now it just made him tired.

The front door clicked open quietly.

Charles didn’t stop playing.

Alexandra stepped into the room, keys in hand, sunglasses pushed into her hair. She paused just beyond the piano, watching him. Listening.

He shifted into something sadder without realizing it.

She said nothing for a long time. Just let him play.

Finally: “That’s new.”

Charles nodded, fingers barely brushing the keys. “I didn’t write it down. I won’t remember it.”

Alexandra sat on the armrest of the couch across from him. “That bad, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

Alexandra watched him a beat longer. Then: “You haven’t said anything since Fred tore into you.”

“He was right.”

That surprised her.

Charles didn’t look up. “He was right about everything. About Belle. About Max. About me.”

Alexandra folded her arms, softening slightly. “Charles—”

“I forgot her birthday,” he said, voice flat. “I forgot where she lived. I didn’t know she moved. I didn’t know she quit her job. And I found out she was married with the rest of the world.”

A pause.

“I used to be the person she told everything to.”

His voice cracked on used to.

Alexandra shifted closer. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.” His hands stilled. “And I don’t blame her.”

“She’s your sister.”

“I forgot how to act like her brother.”

It wasn’t said for sympathy. It was just… fact.

He pressed a key. Dissonant. Hollow.

Alexandra exhaled. “You know what I think?”

Charles didn’t answer, but his silence invited it.

“I think you’re not upset she married Max,” she said gently. “You’re upset she didn’t tell you. Because it forced you to realize how far away you let her drift.”

That landed deep.

Charles looked at the keys like they might offer him absolution.

“She stopped waiting for me,” he said, barely a whisper.

“She had to stop,” Alexandra replied. “You never showed up.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Charles admitted.

“You can’t,” Alexandra said, standing. “Not completely. But you can start by owning that it’s not about you. Not her silence. Not her love. Not Max. You don’t get to demand a place in her life just because you regret not earning it before.”

That hurt more than Fred’s words.

Because it was the truth.

Alexandra stepped forward and kissed the top of his head, just briefly.

“Let her choose if you belong,” she said softly. “But maybe, for once, don’t try to race your way back in.”

She walked out without waiting for a reply.

Charles sat at the piano, still and quiet, and let the silence press in around him like a tide.

He looked down at his hands.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure they knew how to fix anything anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Arthur Leclerc

Arthur: hey just wanted to check in how are you?

Belle: Hi That’s a surprise A nice one

Arthur: yeah well i figured it was my turn to show up you always did that for me even when i didn’t deserve it

Arthur: so you okay?

Belle: I’m good. Quiet days. Work. Sleep. Max. He’s home this week, which helps. I’ve been reading again.

Arthur: you always read when you feel safe i remember that

Belle: I do. Books are still better than people sometimes.

Arthur: not going to argue there i just wanted you to know i think about you a lot even when i don’t say anything

Belle: I know. I think about you too.

Arthur: and I’m sorry for forgetting the little things for thinking you’d always be there whether I showed up or not I hate that it took losing you to notice how much I missed

Belle: You didn’t lose me. You just stopped looking. But you’re here now. That counts for something.

Arthur: thanks for giving me the chance to do better i won’t waste it

Belle: I hope you don’t. Because I missed my little brother.

Arthur: still here still annoying just a bit slower to grow up

Belle: You’re getting there One awkward text at a time

Arthur: baby steps

Belle: 😉

***

They were sitting at the dining table, Belle with her laptop open and a very stubborn government website loading at glacial speed. The overhead lights were low, the cats were asleep on the windowsill, and the apple tart from dinner was reduced to a pair of crumbs and a fork that Max kept stealing bites with.

“I need to go to the town hall next week,” Belle said, frowning at her screen. “It’s ridiculous how many steps it takes to change a last name. I have to book an appointment just to show them I’m legally married.”

Max looked up from where he was balancing a spoon on his finger. “Want me to come with you?”

She smiled. “I think I can survive bureaucracy alone.”

“I don’t know,” he said, mock-serious. “You’re pregnant and emotionally allergic to slow websites.”

“Barely showing and mildly inconvenienced is not the same thing,” Belle replied, nudging his foot under the table.

He grinned, then leaned back in his chair. “We should change your credit card too. It still says Leclerc.”

She groaned. “One paperwork nightmare at a time.”

Max tilted his head, thoughtful now. “And we should probably set up a meeting with our lawyers.”

Belle paused mid-keystroke. “Why?”

He shrugged, casual. “Just to go over everything.”

“Max,” she said gently. “What kind of everything?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His fingers were still playing with the fork, but his gaze had drifted — focused, serious in that quiet way he got when he was thinking too far ahead.

“I want to make sure things are in place,” he said eventually. “For you. For the baby. If something happens to me.”

Belle’s heart pulled.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” she said softly.

“If something happens to me — if I crash or something stupid happens off-track — I want everything set up. No grey areas. No questions.”

Belle set the mug she was holding down carefully on the table and turned fully toward him.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m not planning on dying,” Max said, managing a half-smile. “But I also know how this works. I’ve seen it happen to other drivers. One second, you’re invincible. The next…” He trailed off. “I don’t want you or the baby in limbo if the worst happens.”

She reached out slowly, threading her fingers through his. “You think about that?”

“Every time I get in the car now,” he admitted. “Not in a panicked way. But it’s there. You changed the way I calculate risk.”

“I’m not planning to die,” he added, a wry smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. “I’m just planning in case. I want to make sure you’re protected. That the house is in your name too. That there’s no confusion. That if I can’t speak for myself, you can. Not my father. Not my mother. You.”

Belle sat very still.

Not because she was scared. But because it hit her, suddenly and all at once, how much he was already carrying — not just the weight of fame and expectation and fatherhood, but this fierce, unspoken drive to shield her from the storm.

“I married you because I love you,” Max said. “But I also married you because you’re my person. And I want to make sure you’re not left sorting through a legal mess if the worst ever happens.”

Belle nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “Let’s make the appointment.”

Max exhaled — a little like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

And Belle, looking at the man who had been so many things to the world — champion, rival, myth — realized that this version of him, the one quietly planning a will while stealing bites of lemon tart, was the one she loved most.

The one who knew the risks. And stayed anyway.

The one who chose her. And kept choosing her.

Even in the fine print.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Lorenzo: We need to get ahead of this before she cuts us out completely. We’ve let it go on too long.

Charles: What do you want me to do, Lorenzo? I said I wanted to talk to her. She doesn’t answer.

Arthur: Because she’s not ready. You don’t get to demand a timeline for forgiveness.

Pascale: I sent her a long message last week. I said I missed her. She didn’t even react to it.

Arthur: Because she’s hurt. Because for years, we made her feel like she didn’t matter until she disappeared.

Charles: I’m trying to make it right.

Arthur: You’re trying to make it comfortable for you. Not better for her.

Lorenzo: Okay, enough. We need to approach this like adults. Arthur, you said she talked to you?

Arthur: Yeah. Because I apologized without making excuses. Because I didn’t act like she owed me anything.

Charles: So what, we just do nothing? Sit around and hope she decides to forgive us?

Arthur: Or we ask her what she needs instead of assuming we know best. Maybe try that.

Pascale: If she’d just sit down with us—if we could talk properly—I know we could fix it.

Charles: She won’t even look at me in the paddock.

Arthur: You yelled about her being married like the whole grid personally betrayed you.

Charles: Well it felt like that.

Pascale: Can we not assign blame? We all made mistakes. I sent a message. She didn’t respond.

Lorenzo: Because your message said, “I meant to text you, but I sent it to Charles instead.” Which we all know is a lie.

Pascale: It was a white lie. I didn’t want her to feel worse.

Lorenzo: She didn’t need you to protect her feelings, Maman. She needed you to show up. That’s what none of us did.

Charles: I’m trying. But every time I think about texting her, I hear Fred’s voice telling me I don’t deserve to.

Arthur: That’s because he’s right.

Pascale: So what do we do? Invite her to dinner? Send another letter?

Charles: I could try calling again.

Lorenzo: No. No more performing care. She’s not stupid. She sees through all of it.

Pascale: We have to fix this. She’s our family.

Isabelle:  You could start by remembering I’m in this group chat.

Isabelle:  I’ve seen every message. Every strategy. Every “how do we make her forgive us” as if forgiveness is a button to push, not something earned.

Isabelle: Arthur apologized. He listened. He didn’t make excuses. That’s why I’m speaking to him. Not because he said the right thing. Because he meant it.

Isabelle: The rest of you? You keep asking how to fix me. You never once asked what I need.

Isabelle: So here it is: If you want a relationship with me again, we start with family therapy. With a neutral third party. No justifications. No guilt-tripping. No “but we’re your family.” Just honesty. Hard conversations. Boundaries.

Isabelle: You want me back? You come sit in a room and prove it. Not with flowers or dinners. With work.

Isabelle: I am not your emotional support sibling. I’m not your afterthought. And I’m not going to pretend this didn’t hurt just because it’s inconvenient for you.

Isabelle: Therapy. Or nothing.

Arthur: …I told you.

Lorenzo: Family therapy it is.

***

[mycroftrh]

People do always love to be like “oh Anakin was so stupid, keeping secrets for no reason, he should’ve just told the Jedi about Padme and everything would’ve been fine, doesn't he know Ki-Adi-Mundi was given an exception for survival of the species to have wives in Legends”

And when rewatching RotS I was forcibly reminded: he wanted to. He wasn’t actually the problem there. It was Padme.

Padme: Wait, not here. Anakin: Yes, here. I’m tired of all this deception. I don’t care if they know we’re married. Padme: Anakin, don’t say things like that.

A few scenes later, it’s Padme, again, not Anakin, who says:

Padme: If the Council discovers you’re the father, you’ll be expelled.

And Anakin who’s like “don’t freak out about that now, just enjoy that we’re about to have a baby”.

Back in Attack of the Clones, it was technically Anakin who offered the idea of a secret relationship first, but it was in response to Padme being insistent that he would be expelled from the Order:

Padme: You listen. We live in the real world. You come back to it. You’re a Jedi Knight…. Jedi aren’t allowed to marry. You swore an oath, remember? You’d be expelled from the Order. I will not let you give up your responsibilities, your future, for me. … Anakin: It wouldn’t have to be that way. We could keep it a secret. Padme: …Could you live like that? Anakin: No.

And then it was Padme who first introduced the idea of lying to Obi-Wan:

Padme: Ani, I told you I wouldn’t let you give up your future for me… Anakin: What about Master Obi-Wan? Padme: I guess we won’t tell him, will we?

And also Anakin, rather importantly, as you may have noted in the conversation a bit above, actually believed that a secret relationship was a bad idea in the first place, to the point that he stopped making advances on Padme because of it, until suddenly she started making advances on him:

Anakin: You love me?! I thought we decided not to fall in love. That we would be forced to live a lie.

And the thing is. Like. Anakin’s number one source of stress in Revenge of the Sith is that he does not want to be keeping secrets, and everyone around him is trying to force him to. From Obi-Wan to Palpatine to Mace and Yoda to, yes, very much Padme, as we saw in the very first quote above.

The Jedi are trying to make him keep secrets from Palpatine, which he very openly hates; Palpatine’s trying to make him keep secrets from the Jedi, which he also expresses extensive upset about and eventually refuses to do any longer; Padme’s making him keep their relationship secret when he explicitly doesn’t want to.

And he actually takes every possible opportunity to tell someone the truth about something, for the first three quarters of the movie!

He’s considering keeping the dreams secret from Padme for about three seconds before she’s like “Be honest with me” and he immediately tells her, honestly, without minimization or deflection. And then the very next scene, probably less than five minutes of screentime after the vision itself, is him telling Yoda, in as much detail as Padme’s rules will let him.

He doesn’t tell Palpatine about the Jedi Council’s plans because he’s trying so hard to be good and obedient towards everyone at the same time, but he’s so visibly upset about it that Palpatine deduces. (I firmly believe Palpatine had him put on the Council specifically so they would tell him to spy on Palpatine and thus break his trust in them, but that’s a side point.) Anakin dutifully ferries all information he’s given back to the Jedi Council without, as far as I can see, filtering it at all.

And the big one, of course - he learns Palpatine’s the Sith and immediately runs to tell Mace Windu.

(And Mace proceeds to only half-believe him, which, frankly, doesn’t make sense? He says “If what you told me is true, you will have gained my trust” but like. Mace’s primary concern about Anakin’s loyalties seems to be that he thinks Anakin’s loyal to Palpatine over the Jedi, in which case… what kind of next-level Machiavellian reverse-psychology triple-agent plan did he think Anakin had, that involved lying to Mace about Palpatine being MORE of a threat than they had believed and suggesting Mace go arrest and/or execute him, advising maximum force? It turns out Anakin is, in some ways, playing into Palpatine’s plans by doing this, but like… that’s because Anakin is telling the truth, and the truth is the problem here, and if he had been lying, things would’ve been fine for the Jedi. But that’s somewhat beside the point.)

Like. It’s been established since Phantom Menace that Mace and Yoda both tend to not be… friendly, let alone understanding, towards Anakin, and that continues to be the case in Revenge of the Sith, and yet still his first response is to run to them with any big truth he has, because they’re the Proper Authorities, and he hates secrecy, and he’s reaching out for any life-raft he can find.

Anakin is, in the end, the one who killed the younglings, yeah. But the secrecy? That was never his problem.

In conclusion - behold, Anakin’s synthesis:

[notsorryiml8]

Thoughts that pop into my mind before bed. And a possible hot take. 🤷🏽‍♀️

So, a lot of people say that Kakashi was this brainwashed little lap dog of Konoha because of his unrelenting loyalty. And that’s why they don’t like him. Fair enough - you don’t have to like him.

But was he a lap dog, tho? I’m sure someone has mentioned it before, and I’m not the first, but his passive aggressive white-haired behind protested the establishment from the day Obito died.

I know it’s like, huh?!

From a cultural perspective, Kishimoto is from Japan. A country which is known for its structure and adherence to norms, especially punctuality. He created Kakashi, who from the day Obito met The Rock, said I’m going to be late for EVERYTHING! Not just minutes late, but HOURS late. He intentionally created him to be outside the norm.

Meh, I know, ok, ok, so Konoha isn’t necessarily Japan and they may do things differently. Let’s let that slide. People are born with pink, white, and blue hair there and they’re currently fighting aliens and cyborgs. So really can’t compare. Cool. But even in this fictional world his lateness was an outlier and considered rude.

Okay, but hello, Kakashi is also in the military. Ain’t no military in the world, fictional or real, gonna put up with blatant disrespect for time. I’m from a military family and there’s an old military saying that goes, “early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable.” You just don’t.

Kakashi really doesn’t care. Hello? He was late to the Third, who happened to be his commanding officer, elder, and village leader’s, funeral. The ultimate disrespect. Why was he late? Because he was paying homage to his friends and father who were all dead in the name of the village who couldn’t care less about them. Kakashi blatantly disrespects and disregards everything the village stands for ALL THE TIME and that scene was the epitome. And he does it not so subtly. From being late to everything to reading erotica in public (*faints and clutches pearls*) to failing all previous kids in the academy that were sent to him, which is him saying he plays by his own rules not Konoha’s.

I think people forget how high ranking Kakashi is (literally only the jonin commander, the elders, and Hokage outrank him). In the war, he’d be the equivalent of a general. Put his actions into the perspective of his rank and you really will see how he spat in their faces.

They could have demoted him, stripped him of his rank. Kicked him out of the forces. Reprimanded him in other ways. Etc…but the reality was they couldn’t. He was their cash cow. With the Sannin gone, he was bringing in the most money for the village, so they had no choice but to let him do as he pleased and he knew that. So for as many people who say he was Konoha’s lap dog, Konoha was his.

But, wait, he could have left. Right?? Nope. Why’d the little punk stay and be loyal to a village that destroyed his life? Why? Because. He was anchored to that forsaken village by guilt. If he can’t leave those graves to show up on time for a funeral or to train his squad or go on a mission, then lawd knows he’s not leaving those graves permanently to go rogue. Even if they’re dead, his family and friends are there. As are his living ones. Even at his lowest, he wouldn’t/couldn’t leave them behind. Something…something… blah blah blah about being scum. So, he internally, as in within the confines of the village, and subtly went rogue on a daily with passive aggression, resistance, and defiance.

[pankowcrumbs]

Overprotective X Lewis Hamilton (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: Lewis Hamilton x Reader: Reader is friends with the whole grid and during a party Lewis gets overprotective over the reader when a drunk guy approaches her.

The music pulsed through the walls, bass thrumming in my chest as I navigated the packed house. Someone had turned Max’s Monaco flat into a full-blown nightclub. Lights flashed in blues and reds, bodies swayed in time with the beat, and the smell of overpriced cologne and champagne floated through the air like smoke.

“Y/N!” Lando shouted, waving from across the room with a glass of something in hand. “Come here, you’ve got to hear this story George is telling it’s mental!”

I laughed, weaving through familiar faces Carlos laughing with Charles in the corner, Oscar and Pierre mid dance battle, Alex spinning Lily on the marble floor like they were in a rom-com. Everyone was here. The whole grid. My boys.

And somewhere among them, Lewis.

I spotted him leaning against the kitchen island, glass of wine in hand, talking with Seb, the two of them deep in conversation. He looked good too good, really. All dark curls and quiet confidence, dressed in black, that soft smile tugging at his lips. He hadn't noticed me yet.

Typical. The moment I needed him to, he didn’t. And the moments I wished he wouldn't, he saw right through me.

Not that anything was happening between us. I mean… not officially. We were close, sure. Close enough that he'd know when I was overwhelmed and find an excuse to pull me away. Close enough that I’d memorised the way he smiled when he was tipsy, or how he always touched the small of my back when he thought no one was looking.

But nothing had ever crossed the line. Yet.

“Y/N!” George’s voice snapped me back. “You’re missing it Lando’s trying to convince us that he once beat Max at chess.”

I laughed and let myself get pulled into the chaos, accepting the drink someone handed me. For a while, it was easy to lose myself in the noise and the laughter. These boys this mad, fast-paced, adrenaline-soaked family they always made me feel safe.

Until he showed up.

Not Lewis.

Him.

I didn’t know his name. He wasn’t one of the drivers. Maybe a friend of a friend. All I knew was that he’d been watching me from across the room for the last half hour.

And now, he was walking over.

He was tall, too tall, with a cocky smirk and a half-empty beer bottle. Already I could tell he’d had too much to drink. His steps were unsteady, and his eyes were unfocused, but that didn’t stop him from approaching.

“Hey,” he slurred, leaning far too close. “You’re the girl all the drivers are obsessed with, right?”

I stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” he continued, gesturing vaguely around the room. “All of them, always talking about you. Figured I’d come see what all the fuss is about.”

I took a half-step back, heart rate rising. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”

“Oh, come on,” he grinned, inching closer. “Don’t be like that. I bet you like the attention. Bit of adrenaline from having all the boys wrapped around your little finger, yeah?”

“I said no.” My voice was firmer now, but he didn’t seem to care.

And then I felt it.

A hand on my waist.

But not his.

Lewis.

He stepped between us so smoothly it was like a scene from a film his body shielding mine, his eyes fixed coldly on the stranger.

“She said no,” Lewis said, voice low and steady. There was no anger in it just finality. Command.

The guy blinked, surprised. “Mate, I was just talking...”

“You were harassing her,” Lewis interrupted, tone sharp as steel. “And now you’re going to walk away.”

The guy looked around, probably realising for the first time that half the room had gone quiet. That several drivers George, Charles, even Max were watching closely, ready to step in.

Lewis didn’t move.

Eventually, the guy scoffed and held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Jesus. Touchy bunch.”

He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Only when he was out of sight did Lewis exhale, his shoulders relaxing.

“You okay?” he asked, turning to face me fully, his eyes searching mine.

I nodded, though my hands were trembling slightly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“I saw him watching you. Didn’t like it.”

“You always this protective?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

His jaw clenched slightly. “When it comes to you? Yeah.”

My breath caught.

We stood there for a moment, the world moving in a blur around us. For the first time that night, the music didn’t matter. The laughter, the noise, the lights it all faded.

Just me. Just him.

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” I said quietly, staring at the hem of his shirt.

“You didn’t,” he replied, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I would’ve. If it meant getting him away from you.”

I swallowed hard. “Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand lingered near my face, and when I looked up, he was already looking at me like I was made of something rare. Fragile. Precious.

“Because I care about you, Y/N,” he said, finally. “Probably more than I should.”

I blinked. “Then why haven’t you...”

“Because it’s not just a crush,” he cut in, voice low. “It’s not just some fling for me. If I crossed that line… I wouldn’t be able to go back. I’d want everything.”

My heart pounded in my chest.

“And you deserve everything,” he added, softer now. “Not rushed. Not messy. Not something hidden in the corners of parties.”

I didn’t realise I was crying until he reached up and brushed my cheek with his thumb.

“I don’t need perfect,” I whispered. “I just need you.”

That broke him.

He leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Our lips met like we’d been holding back forever. It wasn’t hurried. It was slow and full of everything we hadn’t said months of tension and friendship and longing all poured into that one kiss.

When we finally pulled apart, I could hear the grin in his voice.

“Roscoe’s going to love you even more now.”

I laughed, still breathless. “He already thinks I’m his mum.”

Lewis chuckled and wrapped his arm around my waist, keeping me close as we walked back through the party. No one said anything, but I caught the knowing glances Lando’s satisfied smirk, Charles giving a subtle thumbs up, George mouthing finally behind his glass.

But none of it mattered.

Because for the first time, I wasn’t just part of the chaos I was exactly where I was meant to be.

With him.

[digitaldaydreamm]

unspoken claim

rafe x childhood friend!reader

| summary | he has a way of making you forgive him without even saying he's sorry

warnings: manipulation, gaslighting, jealousy, toxic rafe is back for this one

a/n: here's the highly (sort of) requested part 2!! it's kind of short bc i don't really like writing second parts :') there was a few ways i was thinking of taking this little scenario but i ended up going for toxic rafe because at the end of the day, he's rafe. i love to give you guys the best of both worlds with unspoken claim and show you how soft he can be but also remind you how much of an asshole he is sometimes lol... anyway i hope you like it, feedback is appreciated <3

part 1 | masterlist | taglist

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

You haven’t seen him in days.

Not really, anyway. Just a few texts here and there—one-word answers, dry replies, the kind of stuff Rafe only ever sends when he’s pissed but trying to act like he isn’t. No FaceTime calls. No random pop-ins. Not even a passive-aggressive “where are you?” like he usually sends when you’re gone too long without checking in.

You told yourself it was fine. That you needed space too.

That you wanted space.

But when your phone buzzes and you see a message from the same guy who dropped you off that night—hey, you still up?—you don’t reply. He'd been texting you every now and then, but you didn't really care. So you just stare at it. Let the screen go dark again.

And then your front door opens.

Not a knock. Not a heads-up. Just the jingle of keys and the creak of hinges and the low, familiar sound of heavy footsteps on your floor.

Your stomach knots instantly.

Rafe steps into the living room like he’s lived there his whole life, dressed in black, his buzzed head fresh from a recent cut. He’s got that calm but angry look again—blank face, tight jaw, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s holding something in.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

He barely looks at you before dropping onto the couch.

You hesitate, then join him, legs tucked under you, trying not to fidget. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think you missed me.”

You blink. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you—just leans back against the cushions like this is all routine. “You been busy, right? Hanging out. Talking. Distracted.”

“Rafe…” you sigh, “I’ve barely texted him.”

“I never said who,” he cuts in, smooth and sharp.

You flinch.

There’s silence. Tense and stretched thin between you. He finally turns his head, and his eyes meet yours—cool, unreadable.

“I give you space,” he says lowly, “and you fill it with him?”

You open your mouth to respond but your phone buzzes again on the coffee table—same name, second message. You both see it light up.

Rafe’s gaze drops to it, then flicks back to you. He doesn’t look mad.

Worse—he looks disappointed.

“Wow,” he mutters, like he’s talking to himself.

“Rafe, I wasn’t even gonna reply—”

He cuts you off again. “You think I’m mad?” he asks with a dry laugh. “Nah, kid. I’m not mad. I’m just… realizing you really don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

He leans in a little, voice lowering. “You think he gives a shit about why you don’t text back? Think he notices that you’re upset? Think he’d show up if you were having a bad day, no invite, no reason—just because?”

You blink fast.

“No, because he doesn’t see you,” Rafe says. “Not the way I do.”

Your throat tightens. “Then why’ve you been ignoring me?”

He tilts his head. “You were pulling away first.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Every time I came around, you were nose deep in your phone,” he says smoothly. “You laughed less when I was around. Got quieter. Didn’t even look me in the eye.”

“I was just—”

“Just what?” he interrupts gently, like he’s coaxing a child. “Trying something new? Seeing what it’s like with someone who doesn’t even know your middle name?”

The words sting more than you want to admit.

You cross your arms, turning away, but he leans closer, warm breath brushing your ear.

“I’ve been here,” he murmurs. “Always been here. You think that’s an accident?”

Your chest tightens. He’s too close. He smells like his cologne and the ocean and that stupid expensive soap he pretends not to use. And you hate how much you missed it.

“How many times do I have to prove it, huh?” he asks, voice soft now. “How many more people are you gonna test me with?”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

He notices. Smirks faintly.

And just like that—snap—the tension breaks. He stands, grabs the remote, and flops back onto the couch like everything’s fine.

“You hungry?” he asks, casual. “You barely eat when you’re sad.”

You glance at him. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me, baby.”

Your breath catches at the nickname—rare, but not unheard of. Always drops when he knows you’re too vulnerable to fight it.

“I’ll make something,” he says, already headed to your kitchen like it’s his kitchen.

And just like that… the conversation’s over.

No apology. No “I’m sorry I made you cry,” or “I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t care.” Just Rafe sliding back into your world like he never left—making you grilled cheese, asking if you want a movie, throwing you a hoodie when you shiver.

And you let him.

Because he’s always been here.

Because you don’t know how to say no.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

taglist!!

@drewsdirtyslut @rafestoothbrush @vanessa-rafesgirl @dookeyfartt @doublejeon @memoirofasparklemuff1n @sunsetmade @xummer01 @justoxyo22 @maybankslover @jkrafe @meetmeintheemeraldpool @actcvntwhennoonesaround

please lmk if i missed someone or if you weren't meant to be tagged for this series!

[leriexoxo]

Pretty Boy, Asshole 2

Husband! Leeknow x Reader (arranged marriage au)

Tags: Arranged marriage AU, Strangers to Lovers, Slowburn, Enemies(ish) to Lovers, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Domestic Feels, Emotional whiplash. Mean Minho, Language.

Word count: 4.6k

Summary: But the thing about sharing a house with a man like Minho? Hate starts to unravel. Fights get personal. Distance gets intimate. And soon, the walls between you start crumbling one argument, one sleepless night, one accidental kiss at a time. You didn’t ask for this marriage. But now that you’re in it, you’ll be damned if you let him walk away before knowing exactly what he’d almost thrown away.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

prev

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rang.

Minho answered it quickly, stepping into the hallway.

“Yeah?”

“Boss, it’s me,” his assistant said on the other end. “Everything’s confirmed for tonight. Do you still want the rooftop? The chef just needs a final headcount.”

Minho rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flicking back to the closed bathroom door behind him.

“…Just two,” he murmured.

“You got it. Wine pairing?”

He hesitated. “No wine. Just tea. She prefers tea.”

The assistant hummed. “Noted. I’ll text you the room code and timeline. You should be there by seven.”

Minho hung up with a soft “thanks,” and stood there for a long second.

What the hell was he doing?

He didn’t even know what this was.

Not exactly.

Only that something had changed. In the car. In the bathroom. In the silence that followed. The way her eyes softened, even while her mouth held stubborn fire.

He wanted to get this right. For once.

—

You were already trying to put the morning behind you, curled up on the couch in a robe, scrolling half-heartedly through a book you weren’t even reading. There was something in your chest today—something new. Something almost… unsteady.

And then Minho appeared in the doorway.

Wearing a black button-up and slacks. His sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his forearms. His hair styled but still soft around the edges. Eyes on you.

“I need you to get dressed,” he said plainly.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. “I want to take you out. Dinner.”

Your heart stuttered. “Is that an apology?”

“It’s a… start.”

You looked him over, unsure if this was a joke. “Do I get a dress code?”

He smirked slightly. “Wear something you’d want to be stared at in.”

And then he left.

Just like that.

You stood there for a long moment, brain short-circuiting.

Because this wasn’t the Minho who slammed doors.

This wasn’t the man who flinched when you got too close.

This was someone else.

Someone trying.

And you didn’t know how to feel about it.

—

The rooftop was glowing.

You blinked when he guided you out of the elevator, hand resting lightly at your lower back. The sun was just beginning to set—casting golden light across a candlelit table set for two, with soft music humming from somewhere invisible. The chef bowed once in greeting before disappearing inside.

Your breath caught.

There were flower petals on the ground.

Steam rising from a white porcelain teapot at the center of the table.

And the view? Endless city, kissed with orange and gold.

“…Minho,” you whispered. “What is all this?”

He looked straight ahead. “You’ve done nothing but compromise since this marriage began. This is just me… catching up.”

You stared at him, stunned silent.

He pulled the chair out for you.

You sat automatically, watching as he took the seat across from you, reaching forward to pour your tea first before his own. His hands were steady. Eyes unreadable.

The food was beautiful—small portions of rich flavor, carefully selected. The tea, your favorite blend. Every single detail chosen with care.

“You remembered I like jasmine tea?” you said softly.

He nodded, not looking up. “I notice more than you think.”

Something twisted in your stomach. You were so used to the fights, the coldness, the passive-aggressive silence. You didn’t know what to do with this version of him—this thoughtful, almost-gentle Minho.

“This doesn’t mean we’re suddenly in love,” you said quickly, trying to protect your heart.

He finally looked up.

“I know,” he said, voice steady. “But it means I want to try.”

And something in you cracked.

He didn’t reach for your hand. Didn’t make a move. But the way he was looking at you? Like he was finally seeing you, not just the obligation—you weren’t ready for it.

But god, you wanted more of it.

The dinner passed in a daze. Laughter slipped out where you didn’t expect it. Your feet bumped beneath the table and neither of you moved away. When dessert came, it was the kind of sweet you’d once mentioned liking in passing—and he’d remembered.

And by the time you returned home… the silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was something else entirely.

He paused in the doorway to his room.

You lingered in the hall.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

“…Goodnight,” he said finally, voice low.

You nodded. “Goodnight.”

He waited a beat longer. Like he wanted to say something else.

Then shut the door softly behind him.

And you?

You stood there in the dark, heartbeat wild.

Because for the first time…

You didn’t want the night to end.

—

You couldn’t sleep.

Maybe it was the tea. Maybe it was the soft music still echoing in your head.

Maybe it was the way Minho looked at you all through dinner—like you were something to be remembered, not endured.

Your body was humming. Stretched tight like a bowstring.

Restless.

So you slid out of bed and padded into the hall, bare feet brushing cool wood floors.

The baby doll you wore was one of the few things you had brought from your old life—a silly little purchase from a night of wine and impulse. You’d worn it tonight just to feel soft again, for no one but yourself.

It was sheer, barely-there. Lacy. Dangerous.

You didn’t expect to run into your husband.

But of course—of course—you did.

He was already in the kitchen, leaning over the sink with a glass of water in his hand, head tilted down, neck on full display.

Shirtless.

Sweatpants.

Hung so low on his hips you genuinely forgot how to walk for a moment.

He didn’t hear you at first, but when the fridge door creaked open—he turned.

And everything in the air shifted.

He stared.

You froze.

The glass in his hand tightened ever so slightly. His jaw ticked.

His gaze dragged down your body, slow, shameless, and seething.

“What the fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

You blinked. “What?”

Minho took a step closer. One. Measured. Step

“That,” he said, eyes burning, “is what you wear to sleep?”

You straightened, suddenly on edge. “It’s mine. I can wear whatever I want.”

“Are you expecting someone in your bed tonight?”

You scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“Because if you’re not,” he said, stepping closer again, “that’s even worse.”

Your heart was pounding. Your hands were cold but your skin was flushed. “Why would it be worse?”

He stopped just in front of you now—dangerously close.

“Because if there’s no one there to see it, then why the hell isn’t it me?”

The words cracked through the silence like a whip.

Your mouth parted but no sound came out.

Minho was breathing hard, his eyes flicking from your mouth to your thighs, rage and desire locked in a vice.

“You walked out of that room,” he continued, voice low, “looking like this—like a goddamn fantasy—and you didn’t think I’d lose my mind?”

You swallowed.

“It’s just sleepwear,” you whispered.

“Not to me.”

There was nothing but breathing now. The soft hum of the fridge. The near-silent war erupting between you.

And still—you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Minho reached past you suddenly, slow but sharp, and grabbed the water bottle from the counter behind. His hand brushed your hip. Bare skin on bare skin.

You flinched. He didn’t.

Instead, he leaned down, whispered in your ear.

“That thing you’re wearing?” His voice dripped molten heat. “Take it off before I do.”

And then he walked past you, brushing so close you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

You turned slowly, heart in your throat, breath caught, heat pooling between your legs.

Because for the first time…

Minho didn’t just look at you like a wife.

He looked at you like he wanted you.

Really wanted you.

And you didn’t know how long you stood there after—but sleep never came.

—

You came back from your spa day practically boneless—hours of oils, massages, and hot towels had washed the whole week off your skin.

You stepped inside the house humming, keys jangling, the familiar scent of your perfume still lingering in the air. Something was different, though. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it at first. Maybe it was just the calm…

Then you walked into your bedroom.

Correction: your former bedroom.

Because the room was empty.

As in completely empty.

No bed. No dresser. No pillows.

Not even the sad little candle on the window sill you forgot to blow out the last time you stormed out.

“What the hell—” you whispered, spinning around in confusion.

Your bags were gone. The cozy hoodie you’d tossed over the desk chair was missing. The room was hollow, like you’d never even lived there.

And then you heard it.

A glass clink. A soft exhale. The faint sound of ice swirling in something strong.

You stalked toward the living room, your plush spa slippers slapping the floor with murderous intent.

There he was.

Minho. Lounged across the couch like it was his personal throne. Glass in one hand, half-buttoned silk shirt in the other, looking annoyingly content.

He didn’t even look up at first. Just took a sip.

“Oh hey,” he said smoothly. “You’re back.”

You blinked.

“Where’s my room?”

He raised a brow. “Gone.”

Your jaw dropped. “Gone?”

He finally turned toward you, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “I moved you into the master. Wifey.”

You just stared at him.

He said it so casually—like he hadn’t just erased your entire goddamn living arrangement.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I—What—You can’t just—”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Minho stood, walking toward you with his drink, slow and unbothered. He stopped just in front of you, tilted his head slightly, and murmured:

“You’re my wife. You should be in my bed.”

Your mouth snapped shut.

Your brain rebooted.

Your knees wobbled slightly.

He was still looking at you like this wasn’t even a discussion.

“Unless…” he added softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face, “you’re planning to move out entirely?”

You scowled.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.”

And before you could say another goddamn word, Minho turned, finished his drink in one smooth gulp, and walked away—toward the master bedroom.

Where your things now lived.

Where he lived.

Where you would apparently sleep now.

Together. Every night.

And all you could do was stand there.

Stunned. Confused.

A little turned on.

Okay, Maybe more than a little.

—

The room was dim, lit only by the faint city glow filtering through sheer curtains.

You stood there for longer than necessary, staring at the perfectly made bed—his bed. Your bed, now.

Minho was already under the covers, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily scrolling through his phone like this was any other night. Like your entire world hadn’t just been moved, rearranged, commandeered.

You padded over to the opposite side and slipped under the sheets, trying not to let them rustle. You kept your back to him, careful not to even graze his side. The silence was heavy. Not tense—just loud.

You exhaled softly, trying to relax.

It was fine. You were adults. You could sleep beside each other. He hadn’t made any advances. Maybe he just wanted to play house to appease the parents or the board or the whole damn world.

You closed your eyes.

Thirty seconds passed.

Then sixty.

Then—you felt it.

A shift.

The sheets tugged slightly.

Minho moved behind you, inching closer.

You froze.

Another moment of stillness. Then—

A hand. His hand. Curling around your waist.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You weren’t touching before. You definitely were now.

His body was warm, bare-chested against your back, and his grip wasn’t firm, but it wasn’t tentative either. It was intentional.

“Minho,” you whispered, barely able to get the name out.

“Hm?”

Your heart thudded.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” he murmured.

“Like that?”

He let out a slow, amused breath, the sound ghosting across your neck. “You’re my wife. I thought I should start acting like it.”

Your fingers gripped the sheet. “By spooning me?”

Another small chuckle, deeper this time. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

You could feel him now—all of him. His warmth pressing into you. The way his thumb had started to trace a small, infuriating circle just below your ribs.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his jaw in the dark.

“Minho,” you said again, more breath than sound.

“What?” he whispered, voice husky and tired and devastatingly close.

“You’re touching me.”

His lips were so close to your ear now. “I know.”

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Because somehow, without even trying, he’d pulled you into a moment neither of you could take back.

Your breath hitched when he exhaled slow and low against your skin.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured, like a tease. “Or don’t.”

And he didn’t move his hand. He didn’t even loosen his hold.

He just stayed wrapped around you like he belonged there.

And maybe, just maybe, for the first time since this whole thing started—

You didn’t hate how it felt.

—

The morning after your first night sharing a bed was quiet. Almost suspiciously so.

Minho had slipped out early, but not without a glance back—one you didn’t see, but would’ve felt if you’d been half-awake. You stirred a little when the blankets shifted, only to realize with sleepy confusion that his warmth had been there all night. Still ghosted along your back. Still lingering on your skin.

When you finally got up, there was coffee waiting on the counter.

No note. No text.

But there was coffee.

It became a rhythm after that.

Shared space. Shared silences.

Shared bed.

You never talked about it. He just… reached for you now. Without hesitation. Every night. Arm around your waist, your back to his chest, your breath syncing with his. Sometimes you felt his hand drift up to settle under your ribs. Sometimes it stayed firmly at your waist. But he never crossed the line. Never demanded more.

Not with words, anyway.

Days passed. Tension softened into comfort. Walls began to crack. Just a little.

But that night—that night—

Something changed.

You had both just turned in. The city’s glow lit the room again, and Minho’s arm, like usual, found its place around you. You exhaled, feeling yourself fall into that familiar lull, that strange cocoon of heat and muscle and unsaid things—

But then, without thinking, without planning it—

You turned.

In his arms.

Slowly. Intentionally. Until you were face-to-face, your hand resting on his chest, your knees brushing his.

Minho froze.

His eyes locked on yours like he was trying to decipher what the hell you were doing—but more than that, why you were doing it.

The air pulsed with something new. Something electric.

You looked at him, voice barely above a whisper.

“Why are you doing this?”

His brows drew together, ever so slightly. “Doing what?”

“This.” You nodded to the space—what little was left—between you. “The holding. The moving in. The everything.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just stared at you.

Or more specifically… your mouth.

You noticed the exact second his resolve wavered.

“Minho,” you said again, softly. “Tell me.”

And just like that, he lost whatever quiet battle he was fighting in his head.

He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek.

And then— He kissed you.

Not like that night at the bar. Not angry, not territorial.

This time it was slow. Careful. Warm.

So soft it hurt.

And you kissed him back.

Mouths moving like they’d been waiting to. Like they’d been practicing in their dreams.

Your hand found the side of his neck, pulling him closer. His fingers curled around your waist again, only this time there was no more space to close. None at all.

The kiss deepened.

Still gentle, but longer now. More open. More honest.

Breathless pauses. Whispered exhales. The soft rustle of sheets as your bodies pulled together, instinctively.

You didn’t speak again.

Didn’t have to.

Because for the first time since all this chaos began, you both understood one thing—

This was real.

And you weren’t running from it anymore.

His lips were still on yours. Still soft, still slow.

But something shifted.

Somewhere between the way your fingers curled tighter around the back of his neck and the way he exhaled through his nose—like he was starving for this, for you—the tenderness began to burn.

Minho kissed you deeper.

Hungrier.

Your breath hitched as his hand slid from your waist to your back, pressing you flush against him. There was no more hesitation. No more space. Just months of tension unraveling between your mouths, in the shaky sound you made when his tongue swept over yours, in the grip of his hand as it traced the curve of your spine.

He groaned softly into the kiss. “Fuck…”

It was like something in him finally broke loose.

You gasped when he rolled you beneath him, not forceful but urgent, his body settling between your legs as his lips never left yours. His hand found your jaw, tilting your face to deepen the kiss even more, his thumb brushing your cheekbone so delicately it made you ache.

Your hands moved without thought—up his bare arms, over his shoulders, into his hair. You’d never felt him like this. Not in pieces. Not in stolen glances or lingering touches. This was all of him.

All heat and desperation.

He kissed down your jaw, your neck, nipping the skin there until you whimpered.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, lips hot against your collarbone, his voice shaking.

You didn’t. You didn’t even hesitate.

Instead, you reached for the hem of your sleep shirt and tugged it up and off.

Minho stilled.

His eyes darkened as they swept over your bare chest, chest rising and falling faster now.

“Shit,” he breathed, like he was already undone.

And then he was on you again, kissing everywhere—lips on your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach, everywhere his hands had imagined but never dared to touch until now. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t chaotic. It was worship.

Every brush of his mouth was laced with intent.

Every groan was a confession.

He whispered your name like it was something holy.

You tugged at his shirt until he finally sat up just enough to pull it over his head, and God—Minho. The way his body looked in the moonlight, toned and golden and yours. You traced your fingers over the line of his abs and he hissed, grabbing your wrist gently.

“You’ll drive me insane.”

“You already are,” you whispered.

He laughed—breathless and stunned—but it faded fast as he leaned back in to kiss you again. This time it was slower. Deeper. His hand slid between your legs, and when he found how wet you were, he cursed under his breath.

“You want this,” he said, eyes locked with yours. “You want me.”

You nodded. That was all it took.

He kissed you again, hard this time, and soon, his sweatpants were gone, and your panties followed. Every nerve was raw. Every inch of you trembling, burning, needing.

He settled above you again, chest to chest, foreheads nearly touching as he lined himself up.

He paused.

One hand cradled your jaw. The other curled around your hip.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You did.

He pushed in slowly.

You gasped, hands gripping his shoulders, and his head dropped to your neck with a shudder.

“Fuck—baby—” he moaned, voice cracking. “You feel like—God.”

He moved with care at first, deep and slow, every thrust deliberate, like he was memorizing the way you wrapped around him. You held on like he was anchoring you—like you might float away without his weight on you.

Your name left his lips again and again, low and reverent, while you whispered his in return between breathless moans.

It was messy and perfect.

A long-awaited breaking point.

And when he finally came, it was with his mouth on yours, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

Like he finally understood.

And maybe you did too.

—

The scent of eggs and butter hung warm in the air.

Sunlight spilled softly through the kitchen windows, casting sleepy gold over the countertops and floor. You stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing nothing but his oversized black T-shirt—your thighs peeking out with every shift of your hips as you stirred the pan.

It was early, earlier than you ever woke up, but after last night… you needed to move. To process. You needed space to feel what happened between you and Minho in that bed, on those sheets—space to understand why it changed something so deep, so permanent, you were scared to even breathe wrong in case the dream slipped away.

But it wasn’t a dream.

It was real.

He was real.

And unbeknownst to you, he was standing right behind you—leaned against the wall shirtless, loose gray sweats hanging from his hips, his dark eyes locked on your figure.

You, in his shirt.

You, in his kitchen.

You, cooking breakfast like you belonged here.

It short-circuited something in him.

Minho didn’t move at first. He just watched, the tight coil in his chest winding tighter with every second. But then your hips swayed slightly, humming to yourself under your breath—and he was gone.

Possessed.

In a flash, he crossed the room and wrapped an arm around your waist from behind, pressing his chest against your back. You gasped, startled.

“Minho—!” you laughed, elbowing his ribs gently. “You scared me.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say anything.

Instead, he reached forward silently and turned off the stove. You blinked in confusion—until you felt it.

Him.

Thick and hard, already pressing into your ass through his sweats. You shivered.

“Last night…” his voice was rough, low, lips grazing your ear, “was slow. Sweet.”

He pulled your hips firmly back into him. You inhaled sharply.

“This won’t be.”

He pushed your hair aside and kissed the curve of your neck, wet and open-mouthed, and your knees buckled. His grip tightened.

“No running now, baby,” he growled. “You woke this up—now you take it.”

You exhaled shakily, head lolling back against his shoulder. “Minho…”

He kissed down your shoulder, then knelt suddenly, dragging your panties—his shirt riding up your thighs—to your ankles.

And then his hands parted your legs from behind, mouth hot and dangerous against the back of your thigh.

“Oh my—” you gasped, fingers clutching the counter.

You barely had time to register what was happening before he leaned you forward, cheek pressed to the cool marble, and dove between your thighs—tongue licking a long, slow stripe up your soaked slit.

You screamed.

Minho groaned.

“Fuck—you taste like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

He gripped your hips and buried his face in you, eating you like a man starved. His tongue flicked and curled, lips suctioning over your clit, and when you started trembling, he moaned—loudly—grinding his hips against your leg like he couldn’t take it either.

“Oh my God—Minho—” you sobbed, legs shaking.

He growled, arms wrapping around your thighs to steady you as he devoured you harder, wetter, like he couldn’t breathe without it. You came so fast and so hard, you nearly collapsed, but he caught you—his mouth glistening, eyes wild.

Before you could recover, he stood, grabbed your waist, and slammed into you from behind with a single, brutal thrust.

You wailed.

“Yeah,” he hissed, “that’s my good fucking girl.”

The stretch, the pressure, the way his hands gripped your hips—it was everything. He pounded into you over the stove, sweat dripping from his temple, teeth gritted, his pace merciless and unrelenting.

You couldn’t speak.

You couldn’t even think.

The only sounds were the slap of skin, your cries, and his growled praises—so tight, so fucking good, my wife, mine.

Your legs gave out around the second orgasm—he caught you again, wrapped an arm around your waist, and pulled you upright into his chest as he continued fucking up into you with ruthless precision.

“Minho—!” you sobbed, tears leaking down your cheeks.

He kissed your temple and whispered, “I know, baby. I know.”

He chased your release with everything in him, and when he came, it was with a strangled moan of your name, spilling inside you and holding you tight like you were something he couldn’t believe was real.

You didn’t finish breakfast.

You didn’t leave the kitchen.

And when he carried you to bed afterwards, you knew—whatever this was, it wasn’t fake anymore.

—

The bedroom was still dim when you woke again.

Your cheek was pressed against a warm chest, a steady heartbeat beneath your ear. Minho’s arm was draped over your waist, holding you close like he hadn’t let go once during the night—and judging by the way your legs were tangled together, he hadn’t.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

There was no need.

The silence was calm now. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only came after storms, when everything inside had been screamed out, cried out, touched and loved into stillness.

You let your hand trace slow patterns on his skin. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense like he used to. In fact, he tugged you even closer, nuzzling into your hair with a groggy little hum.

“You didn’t run,” he whispered.

You smiled against his chest. “You didn’t push me away.”

That made him pause.

And then, softly: “I never wanted to.”

You tilted your head to look at him. He looked tired, but in the best way—raw and open and stripped of the hard walls he once wore like armor. His fingers were still tracing lazy lines up and down your back. The morning light kissed his face gently, and you realized it all at once.

This was your husband.

Not just the man your parents married you off to. Not just the cold stranger who once hated your presence in his home.

This was your husband.

He saw the thought in your eyes. His own softened.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Minho said, voice hoarse.

You reached up and touched his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“I’m not,” you whispered. “Because now it’s real. Every single piece of it.”

He leaned forward and kissed you—sweetly, slowly. No hunger this time. No urgency.

Just warmth.

And something so terrifyingly close to love, you felt it all the way in your bones.

Later, you stayed curled in bed together, ordering breakfast in and eating it right off the tray, half-naked and laughing at the mess you made of the sheets and yourselves.

He kissed your shoulder mid-bite.

You wiped syrup from his lip with a giggle.

And when he finally pulled you into his lap with a content sigh, burying his face in your neck like he never wanted to be anywhere else again—you knew.

You were exactly where you were meant to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Final part is up!!!! Ahhhhhhhh ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ so so so i’m gonna start a whole ass taglist, if you want out just let me know yeah?

Please like, comment, reblog! I look out for those, and thanks for following, we’re almost at 700!!!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @sagestarlight @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr

[baigepueckers]

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Out of Frame

It’s not a flashy job, not in the way people outside of pro sports might think. But it matters. You handle content planning, player interviews, behind the scenes footage, postgame edits and those little viral moments that somehow make fans feel like they’re part of something bigger. You know when to post, how to frame a win, how to soften a loss. You’re always watching, always chasing that perfect 30 seconds that tells the story better than stats ever could.

You’re used to being needed. Not in the loud, dramatic sense, but in the way a team needs structure. Someone to tell the story right. Someone to catch the best moments as they happen and spin them into something fans can feel. You don’t need the spotlight…you just make sure it shines in the right direction.

Which is probably why you don’t notice the way Caitlin looks at you. Not really.

You see her, of course. You’re always seeing her. Behind your lens. In your peripheral. In the center of every thumbnail. But the way she sees you? That’s something different entirely.

To Caitlin, you’re not just a camera or a job title. You’re gravity.

She’s quiet about it, at first. Respectful. You’re staff. Professional. Probably out of reach. She tells herself it’s a harmless crush…something that will fade once the season gets hectic.

But it doesn’t.

It gets worse.

It starts in the gym. A week into the season, she catches sight of you perched on a stool near the wall, camera poised, headphones in. You’re laughing quietly at something Kelsey said…shoulders shaking, head tipped back…and the sound is muffled but real. You’re not looking at Caitlin. You’re not looking at anyone.

And she can’t look away.

Later, she can’t even remember if her shot went in. She only remembers the angle of your smile and the flutter of her stomach that followed.

You become a constant in her world. The season blurs…practice, travel, games, media obligations. She barely remembers what city she’s in most days. But then you walk into the room with your laptop and your clipboard and your hoodie sleeves baggy at your wrists, and suddenly she’s grounded again.

There’s a moment…three games in, when you adjust her mic for a postgame interview. Your fingers graze her collarbone. Barely a touch. She doesn’t breathe for five seconds.

She replays it in her head that night like it meant something. Like you felt it too.

She doesn’t sleep.

She finds excuses to talk to you. Always small. Always careful.

“Hey, that edit was sick, what song was that?”

“Mind if I tag you in this repost?”

“Do I look weird in that warmup shot, or is it just me?”

You always answer patiently, kindly, like you’re just doing your job. Which you are. But every time you speak to her…Caitlin feels like she’s winning something.

Every time you smile at her, it burns.

She starts to memorize things..your go to drink, the song you hum under your breath while editing, the way you chew the inside of your cheek when something’s not syncing right. She notices that you wear the same vintage Fever hoodie on road trips and that your phone screen is cracked in the corner and that your laugh gets softer when it’s late and you’re tired.

She knows it’s dangerous, how much she notices. How much she wants to notice.

How much she wants you.

One night in June, she walks past the media room at 11:42 PM. Lights off, but you’re still inside…just the glow of your laptop on your face, headphones around your neck. She shouldn’t knock. She should go to bed.

Instead, she lingers. Watching you work, jaw clenched in focus, hair pulled up in a way that drives her insane. She presses her fingers into the edge of the doorframe until they ache.

You look up.

She nearly turns around.

But then you smile.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice quiet in the dark.

She shrugs. “Something like that.”

You tilt your head. “Wanna sit?”

She does.

You don’t notice it, but she looks at you like she’s memorizing. Like she’s cataloguing every part of you for the nights she’ll be alone. She watches the way your fingers fly across the keyboard. The way your lips press together when you’re deep in concentration. The way your leg bounces softly under the table, probably to whatever beat you’re hearing in your headphones.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmurs after a while.

You glance at her. “At editing?”

“At… all of it. Telling stories. Capturing people. Making us look like more than stats.”

Your lips tug into a smile. “Thanks.”

She wants to say, You make it hard not to notice you.

She wants to say, I think about you when I should be thinking about basketball.

She wants to say, I’m falling for you and you don’t even see it, do you?

Instead, she says, “You ever film yourself?”

You blink, confused. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is low. Careful. “Just think it’s a shame. You’re always behind the scenes. Someone should show your side.”

You shake your head, smiling softly. “I’m better off out of frame.”

She swallows. Doesn’t argue.

But the thought claws at her the rest of the night.

Because you don’t know it, but you’re the whole picture to her.

A week later, Caitlin gets fouled hard mid game. She hits the court. Slides. The arena gasps. You gasp.

She doesn’t get up right away.

She hears her name shouted, hears her teammates’ voices, but the first one she really hears is yours. From the baseline. Soft, strained. Desperate.

“Caitlin.”

You’re not supposed to be that close. Not supposed to sound that shaken.

Later, after the trainers clear her, after she’s checked and iced and fine, she catches you watching her. From behind your camera, lips pressed tight, brow furrowed.

She waves a small “I’m okay” toward you.

And you…you smile. It’s brief. But it means everything.

She clings to it like a lifeline.

She starts drafting texts she’ll never send.

“You made me feel seen today. I don’t think I’ve ever had that before.”

“I keep trying to be normal around you and failing spectacularly.”

“Tell me to stop and I will. But God, I hope you don’t.”

She deletes them all.

She can’t risk it. Not yet. You’re too important. Too good. Too… unreachable.

But the yearning? The wanting?

It’s constant.

It’s everything.

[tobesolnelyx]

I NEED MORR FRATBOY LOTTIE!!! maybe reader is super sensitive and one of lottie’s dick friends says a mean joke that makes her cry? lottie stands up for reader and then they go back home to cuddle and watch a movie

— sweet nothings || fratboy!lottie matthews x fem!reader ☁️

a/n: starting to think that writing is bad for me. smoked so much while writing this lmao.

summary: your protective girlfriend <3. modern college au. fluff.

warnings: none! pure fluff

word count: around 1.4k

Being extremely sensitive and dating someone like Lottie could be... quite a burden. Not because she was abusive, or screamed at you, or went out of her way to hurt you. It wasn't that. Lottie was just naturally mean. To everyone. Some she prodded just to get a reaction, to see them squirm—because she could.

With you, it felt like some twisted love language. The teasing. The offhand jabs. Lottie simply wasn't very good at keeping her mouth shut

But she was trying. She never said it aloud, but you knew how terrible she felt every time she made you cry. Not that it was on purpose. And it wasn't even the worst thing someone could say—but you were sensitive. And for once in her life, Lottie decided to take that seriously. To not make a joke every time you didn't react the way she expected.

You didn't always want to talk about it. You didn't want to make yourself out to be a victim. After all, you didn't have any real reason to cry! Lottie was a good girlfriend—at least she was trying to be. She respected you deeply. She just... went too far sometimes. And there were days when one sharp remark was enough to ignite something in you like a live wire.

Lottie wasn't great at verbal apologies, but if she noticed you were upset, she'd curl up in your lap like a guilty pup, pressing gentle kisses to your fingers and knuckles. The next day she'd show up with flowers or something pretty in hand. You told her she didn't have to do that. You knew she wasn't trying to hurt you.

But Lottie was stubborn. And after a few months of being a couple, she'd become an expert at spotting the exact moment you started to feel off—when something someone said or did twisted in your chest like a dull blade. She learned your tells: how you stiffened first, then fidgeted; how your hands would compulsively tuck your hair behind your ears, then worry at your fingers; how you sometimes chewed the inside of your cheek when the feelings were too much.

She noticed. And she was always just in time—to stop the tears, or at least soften the explosion that was already cracking through you.

Tonight was no different.

Lottie had dragged you to a bonfire organized by some of her frat friends. "Friends," because in truth, Lottie didn't like many of them. She loved gossiping about them with you. You didn't know them all that well—you were new to the group, and most of them saw you only as "Lottie's girlfriend."

And though no one ever said it aloud, they all thought you were temporary. Just another phase. Another sweet, naive girl who'd be replaced in a few months. If only they knew how Lottie was when you were alone. How obsessively she cares on you. On you in general.

Lottie told you not to worry about it. And you believed her. You had no reason not to. Sure, she'd had plenty of partners before—but that didn't matter anymore. What mattered was that Lottie wasn't the cheating type. Not when she had something she was terrified of losing.

She left you by the fire for a bit to kick a ball around with some of the others. Not that she went far. Not before wrapping you tightly in her lap and asking—ten times—if you were really okay with it. She didn't need your permission, but she wanted you to feel safe. She made sure you had your favorite beer and weren't cold (even stuffed her hoodie into your arms, despite the warm July night and the fire right in front of you), and only then stepped a few paces away.

You watched her laugh, doing ridiculous tricks with the ball. When one finally landed the way she wanted—on the hundredth try—she turned to you with a triumphant grin, checking to see that you were watching.

It could've been a nice night. The fire crackled softly. The scent of her perfume still lingered on your sleeves. You half-listened to whatever nonsense her friends were rambling about.

But they'd started drinking. Heavily. And drunk, they lost all sense of filter.

One of them—the group's resident idiot —was especially talented at spouting drunk garbage. You couldn't even remember his name. Something insanely white and basic, like Chris? Or Jack? He was the poster child for stunted boyhood, a horned-up man-child. If Lottie was occasionally insufferable, this guy was insufferable squared.

That night, you were his target. The early comments about Lottie spending too much on you, you brushed off. They sounded more like half-baked jokes than accusations.

Then it got worse.

"She tell you yet that you're just her cumdump?"

He laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd ever said. Face flushed from alcohol, voice raspy from yelling. The guy didn't seem capable of speaking at a normal volume.

You stared at him. You'd never once felt like Lottie saw you as some kind of toy—but the insult hit like a slap.

You bit your lip. That horrible tightness rose in your throat.

Unluckily for him, Lottie heard.

"Say that again, you little shit."

She was at your side in seconds, muscles taut like she was ready to throw hands. Her fists were clenched so hard her knuckles turned white. She towered over him, eyes gleaming with fury.

"Jesus, chill out, Matthews," he muttered, rolling his eyes—clearly not taking her seriously. You thought for a moment she might rip the beer bottle out of his hand and smash it over his face. But something held her back. Maybe the knowledge that you were watching. “It was a joke!”

"Oh yeah?" she snapped. Now the whole circle was watching. No one wanted to get on Lottie Matthews' bad side. Not when her father owned half the damn college. "Real fucking hilarious."

You watched, stomach in knots. His words were still echoing in your head, coiling deep inside you like rot. You shouldn't have let him get under your skin. But he had.

His smirk faded. You could almost see the moment his booze-soaked brain realized he'd royally screwed up.

"Okay, look, I'm sorry—"

Before he could finish, Lottie grabbed his collar and shoved him toward you.

He looked at you, bewildered. Lottie's glare was venomous.

"You're apologizing to me, you fucking idiot?" She shook him, hard. You didn't want a scene, not in front of everyone, but Lottie didn't care. No one got to talk to her girl like that.

He swallowed hard, then mumbled a pathetic excuse for an apology in your direction.

Lottie gave him one final shove, pushing him well away from you. Then her fingers wrapped gently around your wrist.

"Come on," she murmured. Still trembling with rage, but careful—deliberate in her gentleness. "We're going home, love."

You followed, fingers laced with hers—longer than yours, and so much warmer. Your shoes crunched over gravel as you reached the car. She opened the door, and once you were inside, insisted on buckling your seatbelt herself.

Something inside you cracked.

You tried to hold the tears back, staring fixedly at a point on the dashboard. You clenched your jaw, but Lottie noticed. She knelt beside you and kissed each of your knuckles, one by one.

"Don't let him get to you," she said softly, using the voice reserved for quiet moments between you—like when the two of you lay curled in bed at night.

At home, she had one mission: to comfort you. She practically carried you into the living room like some ridiculous knight rescuing a damsel in the distress, just to make you laugh. It didn't matter if it was at her stupidity, or because her jokes were dumb. What mattered was that you were laughing.

A fort of blankets and pillows appeared on the couch, dragged meticulously from your bedroom. She wrapped you in one like a burrito.

"Lot—" you began, smiling through your tears.

She cut you off with a kiss.

"I'm not done yet."

"You don't have t—"

"I can't hear you!"

She darted into the kitchen and returned with a mug of steaming hot chocolate, placing it triumphantly on the coffee table before burrowing into the blanket fortress with you. She tugged the blanket over your head, and you snorted softly.

"Scoot over," she grumbled, wedging herself next to you under the pile.

"You're taking up all the space," you mumbled, pretending to be annoyed, then melting into her arms.

"Sorry. It's these muscles," she sighed dramatically, reaching for the remote. "And my big—"

"Don't finish that sentence," you said with a small smile.

"Hey...!"

[shan-yee]

𝙿𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

𖦹𝘧𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𖦹𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 = Mention of sex, mostly fluff.

𖦹𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 = 725

𖦹𝘈/𝘕 = English is not my first language, please let me know if you see any mistakes ! Enjoy ✨

——— 𝐒 𝗨 𝗠 𝗠 𝗔 𝗥 𝗬 • • •

𝐈 :: 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗚𝗿𝗮𝘆𝘀𝗼𝗻

𝐈𝐈 :: 𝗡𝗼𝗹𝗮𝗻 𝗚𝗿𝗮𝘆𝘀𝗼𝗻

𝐈𝐈𝐈 :: 𝗥𝗲𝘅 𝗦𝗽𝗹𝗼𝗱𝗲

« ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ »

╰─► 𝐈 ･ ｡ﾟ☆ 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗚𝗿𝗮𝘆𝘀𝗼𝗻

⇰ Mark has no problem initiating physical contact in the street or in front of other people. His mother raised him to understand that there's no shame in loving someone and wanting to show it to the world.

⇰ Remarks from teenagers his age or outraged older people doesn’t affect him, and he tends to try to annoy them even more to make them understand that he doesn't care about their opinions.

⇰ Forehead kisses are his love language, for him, they're even more intimate than a kiss on the mouth, especially when he gets up in the morning, or on the contrary, before going to bed, or just before he has to rush off to save the planet.

⇰ Before he had his powers, his hands were quite soft and almost always clean, even under his nails. But after he started training and rescues of all kinds, they became slightly rough, sometimes calloused. He still tries to take care of them as much as possible, and he’ll gladly accept a little massage with essential oils.

⇰ Mark particularly likes having hands run through his hair, a distant memory of the evenings he spent with his head on his mother’s thighs, her nails gently scratching his scalp.

⇰ He likes to spend evenings in bed, a movie—which he isn't really watching—in the background while he delicately runs his fingers over his girlfriend's body, everywhere ; her back, her neck, her arms, her thighs, he wants to touch and feel everything.

╰─► 𝐈𝐈 ･ ｡ﾟ☆ 𝗡𝗼𝗹𝗮𝗻 𝗚𝗿𝗮𝘆𝘀𝗼𝗻

⇰ His comfort with touching his partner in public depends on when they gets together. If he has never had a relationship with a human, and therefore struggles with Earth social codes, he will be quite distant at first.

⇰ Viltrumites are definitely not used to hugging each other early in the morning or kissing before parting. He will therefore not understand the concept of holding hands while walking down the street or kissing languidly while watching the sunset.

⇰ It'll take time for him to get used to it, and especially a good lesson on « how to act when you're in love ».

⇰ If he's already had some experience—Debbie, for example—he'll understand the principle but won't want to overdo it in public. He'll happily accept light, loving kisses and holding hands or arms. Declarations of love in front of spectators aren't really his thing, compared to his son.

⇰ Nolan has a firm body, as is his expression most of the time, but he can still be very gentle, and his love language consists of little things here and there.

⇰ He's often saving lives on the other side of the world, so he'll leave little clues like notes or objects for a romantic dinner date, accessories with a meaning only he and his partner understand, or simply things she likes.

╰─► 𝐈𝐈𝐈 ･ ｡ﾟ☆ 𝗥𝗲𝘅 𝗦𝗽𝗹𝗼𝗱𝗲

⇰ Rex is the type to pretend he's a big boy and isn't afraid of anything or anyone, but I think that if he really falls in love, like he did with Rae, he'll be quite « shy », or rather embarrassed, to show the side of himself that craves attention.

⇰ Kisses and cuddles are special and precious moments for him, a way to be close to his partner without sex.

⇰ Rex has no shame in kissing or holding his girlfriend close in public, but it's true that he prefers to do it privately because he can enjoy it more, and, with him, it often ends up under the covers.

⇰ His hands are calloused and damaged, he doesn't take particular care of them, but if one day his partner made a remark, hand hygiene would suddenly become a priority.

⇰ He would buy creams and cuticle treatments, he would learn how to care for his nails and avoid grime—in short, everything. For him, it's important that the reader enjoys the feel of his hands on her, and He never realized how much his hands had been damaged by time and effort.

⇰ Rex likes to spend his mornings and days, if he can, with his girlfriend, under the warm sheets. No need for sex, just the two of them cuddling and touching without a hint of sexuality, which is rare for him. And like Nolan, he's often saving lives, so to make up for it, he'll plan romantic dinners and leave notes and little drawings lying around.

[aceecee]

Insatiable - Extra #8

The original idea I had for Insatiable, actually I didn't have a title for it back then. It was meant to be a Sylus fic, I have no idea how it turned out to what it's become.

I might write this in the future.

Masterlist

The man is silent as he enters your apartment. 

The air is heavy with regret…guilt.

You know why he’s here. You can feel your heart breaking at the realisation but you hide it all. Nothing on you gives away any feeling. It’s not fair to the man, he’d been honest to you from the start that nothing real would ever form between you two. He told you all about the woman he truly loved, the one he was waiting for. You don’t feel any malice for her, from the way he had described her, she was an astonishing person, someone who deserved a man like him by her side.

“I’m guessing you found her,” your smile is soft because even though it hurts, his happiness wins over your desires. 

“Yes.”

“Okay,” you know what’s coming. The two of you had discussed this. “I guess that's it,” you follow up. 

“This is goodbye then, Sylus.”

“Goodbye.”

Sylus doesn’t know what to feel as he walks away from you.

He shouldn’t be this conflicted. It was never meant to be difficult. 

He was never meant to get attached.

Whatever the two of you had was always transactional. He had sought you out - a hacker with excellent capabilities - you had a reputation around the N109 zone. At first the both of you kept a clear distance, your help made his operations a lot easier. As time progressed so did whatever it was between the both of you. He made sure to keep his intentions clear, it wouldn’t be fair otherwise.

It was just sex, he told himself as he held you in his arms.

It was just sex, he told himself as he kissed you.

It was just sex, he told himself as he caressed you.

He repeats those same words now as he walks away.

Six months pass and not a day goes by when he doesn’t think of you.

Things with Miss Hunter never take off. Her heart now belongs with someone else and Sylus doesn’t even care. He’s the only one who remembers their past together, there’s no need to burden her with the memories. Instead, the two become fast friends. 

One night, he finds himself telling her about you. She offers no kind words as she berates him for leaving you. 

“You idiot! You’re clearly in love with her. What are you still doing here?”

He’s back at your apartment. He found himself here a lot these last months, simply standing outside but never knocking. For he had left you, what right does he have to come back in your life?

He knocks this time.

No response.

“[Name]?”

Nothing. 

Sylus has been in the game for a long time, one thing he’s learnt is to never avoid his instincts. They had helped him with never making deals with the wrong people, and helped him with finding the right person to trust.

And right now, those instincts were screaming that something was wrong.

He easily bypasses the electric lock on your door. What greets him inside is nothing. All the walls are devoid of any decorations, the photos you had up of your deceased family and current friends are gone. There’s no furniture anywhere. The entire place has been swept clean, not a speck of dirt left behind.

If someone figured out how to leave the N109 zone, it would be you.

Five years and six more months have gone by. Not a single trace of you has been found, you haven’t made it easy with your capabilities. None of your friends know where you are. You’ve left everyone behind.

He still hasn’t given up, no matter how long it takes, he will find you. Mephisto misses you. The twins miss you. 

Sylus misses you.

The little girl stares back at him.

“Are you Stylus? Mummy said to give this to you,” she pronounces his name wrong. With red eyes and white hair, it doesn’t take a genius to know who this kid is. She hands him a letter. 

“It’s Sylus,” he explains. The kid blinks at him, clearly not expecting such a deep voice. As he rips the letter open, the kid repeats his name over and over again.

Sylus,

If it is you reading this letter then I suppose you’ve met Ruby.

He looks back into those red eyes that mirror his. His daughter’s name is Ruby…how fitting.

“What is your favourite gem?” he asked as the both of you perused the collection.

He watches as you pick you out a gem and hold it next to his eye. “Perfect match,” you grin at him. 

“Right now it’s rubies.”

He brings the kid inside, get’s her situated while he reads the rest.

I would have told you but I only figured out I was pregnant when I had already left. I tried to get in touch but the number you gave me no longer worked and I was not going into that area while pregnant or with a child in my arms.

I’ll admit a part of me didn’t want to, I was afraid you wouldn’t accept our child. That I would ruin your future with your hunter.

I know deep down that you’re not that kind of man but even I get insecure sometimes.

I don’t know how but some shady organisation discovered she’s your child. I have a theory that one of them must have met you and if you’ve seen Ruby, then it’s obvious. I did some digging on this organisation and it’s not good. At first I thought they were some small fry but I’ve discovered transactions that go deep, they have a lot of rich people in their pockets which means they’re very powerful. What they have against you, I have no idea. They’re good at covering their tracks.

It’s why I sent Ruby to you, you’ll be able to protect her. 

I made them think that I was running away with her while I sent her alone to you. I led them away so she could get to you.

Don’t come looking for me. If I’m successful in tricking them then I’ll come to you and we can finally have the conversation we should have had years ago. If I don’t come back, then I’m dead. I offer no leverage to these people so they’ll kill me.

I’ve attached a hard drive containing all the information I have on them, with your resources it should be easy to end them.

Take care of Ruby for me, okay? She’s all I have. Tell her I love her so much.

P.S. she’s allergic to nuts, her bag has epipens but make sure to keep many around the house! She also needs a story every night or she’s not going to sleep. She has a lot of energy (I blame you for that) so make sure to burn it out of her every day. She has a sweet tooth but don’t give in! She’ll flash you puppy eyes but you have to stay strong, she’s a menace and she knows it.

You don’t sign it with your name but you don’t have to. It’s clear the letter is from you.

The familiar sensation of regret wraps its arms around him. You had been pregnant when he left you. All this time, you had dealt with it all on your own. You might die on your own too.

He can’t have that happen.

A small hand tugs at his pants. 

“Are you my dad? You look like me,” Ruby asks.

He leans down and pokes her cheek. “You look like me, I’m older,” he says softly. 

It’s the confirmation the girl needs, her walls crumble around her father. Tears gather in her eyes. “Will mummy be okay? I want her back.”

Without thinking, he cradles the girl into his arms. His shirt becomes wet with her tears. 

He’s already failed you twice. There won’t be a third time.

“I’ll bring her back.”

Tag list: Tag List: @serenity-loves-red @crimsonmarabou @reni502 @r0ckb1n @queenkymmie @plzdonutpercieveme @perqbeth @mephisto-with-a-knife @tumblingdevils @angelwhizpers

[fafodill]

The exact wording of the ask I got was: 'what if someone was asking deprived!Snape (read my whole essay about him) to "break them off a piece of that KitKat bar?" How would they go about it?'

So today we're going to discuss this. Buckle up people.✨

SO his reaction will largely depend on the context and their current relationship but one thing that will happen FOR SURE every time before anything else is that he's going to think they're messing with him.

What else could it be? This man had been so heavily bullied as a teen his self-esteem is buried and has its own tombstone.

"Here lies Snape's self-image. Spit to pay your respect."

We don't have any canon proof of it happening but many people headcanon that some of the bullying might have been people being dared to come up to him and fake attraction or compliment him (so funny omg) only for him to realize they were just messing with him. It's totally the kind of immature stupid shit kids will come up with (speaking from personal experience here). Not funny but deeply scarring for one's self-image. So being told he's attractive would trigger him in his adult life. Any potential suitor asking him out would be welcomed with him immediately closing up and getting angry at them. They'd need to find a way for him to believe them first.

If you're thinking "this already sounds like a pain", yes it is. Welcome to deprived!Snape. Welcome to Snape, basically. If they want a piece of him, they have to brace themselves for the long run.

He will get angry and leave a lot. Fleeing the situation - since it's a very vulnerable subject for him - will be his go-to move. The whole ordeal will require patience. So what should this person do?

Friend or Stranger?

If it comes from a DE he'll think it's an angle. If it's from a member of the Order, he'll think it's a joke. If it's from a colleague at Hogwarts, he maaaay be a tad less suspicious? In any case, it will depend on how close they are. The more time they have spent together, the closer he'll be to not flip out... too much.

I'm a bit torn about his reaction if it was coming from a stranger. Either it's easier because he can lean into the idea that maybe they're lying about their attraction and he doesn't care (and if he's horny then why the fuck not, it won't affect him as much since they both now they're here for physical release) OR he might not be into it at all because he actually needs a real connection (and I think this is more realistic). Severus is a feral cat, he needs time to trust people.

What else? He could also maybe open up faster with someone not from his usual inner circles (a foreigner or a muggle) as the interactions wouldn't be charged with the same deep-rooted habits and expectations.

I also believe he'd unconsciously feel way more at ease with someone coming from a modest background. A pureblood aristocrat hitting on him would have little chance of getting past his natural distrust of them (unless he knows them very well).

So what should they do?

Build trust

The quality of their interactions and conversations will have a huge impact. Do they have an interesting personality? He needs someone capable of taking him on and keeping up intellectually. Can they keep up with him and challenge him?

Severus has a temper. Can they deal with his bullshit and not give up on him at the first scowl? Argue with him? It doesn't mean they can't be nice, but I don't see him get worked up over someone cowering under his gaze.

They need to be stubborn. He's a Capricorn and he's got the horns. He's hard-headed. They need to not back down when he bites or dismisses their attempts at flirting. One of Severus's classic tactic is to hurt people so they leave him alone, so they need to be able to dodge the attack, make fun of him or retaliate.

If they manage to deal with his temper, they will start to see what's on the other side of the snarky exterior. Then, they'll be able to start kneading the dough (Severus is the dough).

Convince him the attraction is real

That person could go the gentle/honest way, assuring him they're not kidding and explaining what they find attractive about him (he'd be super wary and need days to digest it - if he can). Genuine compliments could work quite well as he's good at reading people but it would be a process and it shouldn't be too much at once. He's NOT USED to compliments so if the person goes too hard, he's going to get overwhelmed, distance himself and reject it. A good trick would be to compliment his intelligence and magical skills alongside physical traits. A 2/3-1/3 ratio would be a good start. He would trust compliments about his big brain way more than anything regarding his cute butt.

Complimenting his presence, aura, voice might be good too as it's not directly related to physical traits. Else, physical starters could include hands and eyes. But I also love the idea of taking him by surprise and complimenting his nose. Might weird him out in a good way.

Or they could go the blunt way (or what I now refer to in my mind as the @maxdibert way) and be like "dude, I really think you're hot, deal with it" and leave him to sort his feelings out like a big boy.

The two strategies can be mixed of course. But at the end of the day, the real problem is that Severus as approximately a thousand confirmation bias in his mind telling him this is not happening. So what could they do to help ease this process?

Make him horny

Less overthinking = more chances to get this piece of ass.

Severus Snape needs to be warmed up. And as stated in my previous essay, he's plagued with the core beliefs that he's ugly, ridicule and undeserving. These beliefs need to be kneaded and challenged enough (not healed, this would take decades and it's not their job), so that he can relax and open up to the idea of intimacy.

Here are a few strategies to do so.

First, de-dramatize the subject. Making the topic less taboo by talking about it in a lighthearted way (no flaunting! certainly not!). A good move would be to joke about it. Deprived!Snape isn't comfortable with the subject but it's because it's evaded him and then he convinced himself he wasn't concerned or interested.

-> Here are some of the things he could benefit from hearing: that sex is not a big deal at all and we can laugh about it. It should be fun, a shared moment, trials and errors are part of it and there should no be judgment about experiences and preferences. People with a high 'body count' aren't necessarily good lovers, it's all about presence and intent etc.

His potential partner could share funny mishaps that happened to them and - when there's an opening - ask him what he would expect from a pleasant intimate moment (that's a very advanced move, don't forget he's bad with words)(it would only work in my opinion if they're both drunk and have been going at it for a while).

Also sharing experiences is a great way to build trust and intimacy (and arousal). He thrives on knowledge so learning more about his potential partner might ease his mind in some way (and give him some free intrusive thoughts). See it as added ingredients to make him simmer.

Though they shouldn't talk too much about the number of partners they had and said partner's skills. This might make him retreat. Again: low self-esteem and always on the lookout for an excuse to sabotage it.

Wait what about drunk!Snape you say? That's a trope we enjoy around here. Although I headcanon him as not being a heavy drinker (if a drinker at all because of his father) it would be a great way to lower a bit his inhibition. A DE would have a hard time sharing a drink with him, same for an Order member (he never stays after meetings but could be coerced), but a colleague could maybe drag him to the Three Broomsticks with other members of the staff and then leave early with him. wink wink Come on, rub his foot under the table and look at him choke on his ale. He'll skin you alive with his eyes and you can just raise a suggestive eyebrow back.

Persistence, persistence.

Of course a bit of physical baiting could help with his dusty libido. After all, they'd kinda be dealing with an teenager, experience-wise. Nothing too bold (though I headcanon that his sooty Cokeworth self would get way more worked up over unabashed desire than delicate courting but he's buried a bit too deep at the moment) but a nice cleavage, some leg showing, a fitting pair of pants or robes might not be a bad move. Since he might be uncomfortable with words, they could flaunt the goods in his face! The man has eyes, let him look and scold himself for looking. Also a few heavy looks, biting a lip and lingering fingers could go a long way for such a deprived man, especially if it's directed at him.

At the end of the day, the trick is to make him able to put his worry aside (or snap, if you find the word sexier).

They could go the provocative way, being insufferable and making him want to shut them up.

They could try some endless teasing until he's a lost hot mess, unable to express what he wants except by going 'fuck it' and going for it.

They could go slower and create a safe space with a weekly ritual (every Friday night meeting for a drink/to grade essays/to hang out) which can lead to a late night snog (floating candles optional).

They could be blunt and go 'I want to kiss you so bad right now' as they leave Hogsmeade together and are walking on the dirt path towards the castle. A gust of wind will prevent him from hiding himself behind his hair and they'll see the flush creeping on his face.

They could hammer the compliments and validation, because Severus craves recognition (is there a praise kink in there? yes). So first it could be his mind, his work, his skills... then the way his cape suits his frame so well, his silky voice... and then bam, hitting the nail on the head with complimenting his mouth. Blabbering mess guaranteed. Might flee but blush deliciously. Or might stop dead in his track and then it's time for them to claim these lips.

Kissing

Clumsy. Tentative. Awkward.

But earnest.

He might freeze at first. Wait, these lips knew how to do that once upon a time... how does it go again? He'll need a bit of time to remember but the best way to (re)learn is practice.

It will be a lot for him. As he's extremely touch-deprived he'd be literally rediscovering human contact. So much to feel, the supple of the lips, their shape, the softness, the wetness.

Honestly, deprived!Snape could get really worked up just from kissing.

(They could honestly make him cum just from this and some grinding. Amen. If he does he'd need reassurance after and still might flee and hide and snarl for a few days because male performance blahblahblah. Hopefully they'd be able to skip this step at this point in the relation.)

But I believe he'd enjoy it greatly and this might be a step he'd want to stay at for some time before going further.

Undressing

I headcanon deprived!Snape as being very self-conscious about revealing his body so it might only be possible with someone he really trusts. It might be painfully difficult for him (might require dimmed light if not obscurity but I mean come on, they're here to look at him and it'd be better for him to rip the bandaid... but giving him the option might help).

Either he'll be too aroused to care (or act as if he doesn't) or he'll feel very self-conscious and look for cues to confirm his belief that his partner will find him disgusting. It's the right moment for them to express their desire.

If for some reason he gets too triggered and leave, they wouldn't be back to square one but again, patience is key. He needs time. Or maybe they could convince him to stay and try to resolve the situation by stopping the intimacy and just talk about something else. It could be good practice to show him this isn't a big deal and that everything is fine.

But at this stage, complimenting him sincerely (no coddling) whilst not hiding their arousal could work nicely. Sprinkling some of the fantasies they had about him as well. ('I've been dreaming about these hands on me', 'You have no idea how much I've been wanting to kiss these lips to make you shut up', 'I laid awake at night thinking about touching this part of you'). Showing appreciation with touch could convince him more though and it has the advantage of preventing him to think too much.

But really, he won't like to focus on his appearance as it's something he has no control over so they should -unfortunately- bite their tongue and keep the flood of horny compliments to themselves at first. A new one might be fed to him once every two weeks to slowly build his confidence.

In Bed

Deprived!Snape is: prideful, yearning for control and very sensitive.

Now honestly I could make a whole other post with the different scenarios where he'd be more top or bottom. Instead, I will focus more on what would happen either way.

He'll want to learn. Because Severus is nothing if not a scholar. He's got a very curious nature regarding topics that interest him so if his partner is showing him how they like something, he'll get super serious about it. He will try to touch them in the exact same way at first and he's a fast learner so once it's mastered, he'll experiment. And he's going to be good at it.

That man got dexterity and an inventive mind. And that's canon.

But his focus on his partner might also be a way to keep control during this highly new situation. Depending on how self-conscious he is about his inexperience, shifting the focus on him might be a challenge. Maybe letting him take the lead could be a good idea. But maybe shoving him against the mattress and seizing control is the way to go here.

Now, he will be very sensitive, won't he?

Yes, he might. He might be a whimpering mess in no time. His partner should be cautious and gentle with him. Severus letting his guard down and letting them touch him is a very big effort coming from him so they should savor it and be sure to make it feel safe if they want this to happen again. Help him relax, let him breathe, don't hesitate to pause if he gets nervous. The walls will be destroyed, moan after moan.

But what if he isn't sensitive?

That's a possibility as well. He's been by himself for years and his wariness of intimacy and people is wired in his cells at this point. He's disconnected from his own body and never pays attention to it. He might also tense heavily once in bed with his partner, the vulnerability of it accentuating the disconnection. He might not feel pleasure, might get frustrated and feel angry or inadequate.

This situation - which I find very interesting and seems like a realistic follow-up to him wanting to kiss for a long time and struggling with undressing - is tricky and will require diplomacy and more patience.

But maybe this could be a dealbreaker for him. If the payoff isn't worth the discomfort, he could easily take it as a confirmation bias that intimacy isn't for the likes of him. The best course of action could be to focus on non-sexual aspect of intimacy.

But this essay is way too long already so I'm going to stop here.

What should I write about next? Is there something you wish I had addressed here? Is there something you'd like me to discuss next?

UPDATE: so a few people seem to be mad at me, demanding I keep on elaborating SO. Let's say I'm done here for the 'how to bed him' part (which was the premise of this essay) and I'll do another one following thoughts and possibly... focusing on the different roles in bed (top/bottom/switch) for our dear Severus. See you there.

TLDR: He's gonna be a pain, his partner needs to have calming draught for their nerves but in the end it will be very rewarding because he's starved and inventive.

[dameronspector]

Getaway Car (Part 3)

Pairing: Manny Alvarez x GN!Reader, Joel Miller x Platonic!Reader, Ellie Williams x Platonic!Reader

Summary: Manny stayed back, you saved Joel and safely returned to Jackson. He’d beg on his knees for forgiveness, but would you forgive him?

Warnings: Cursing, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort from Joel, Joel is a father to Reader, Reader misses Manny so much, Mentions of Depression and Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, Death, Blood, Gore, Joel Miller Is Saved, Reader hates Abby and the group, Manny begs for forgiveness, reunions, domestic Manny, that’s all I think!

AN: mwah I love these two I love manny I love joel I love Tommy I love Ellie just..yeah 🩷 enjoy! This is the final part!

PS: I don't know anything about the game, my characterisation is based off the wiki information, the show and my own imagination. Plus, I headcanoned the QZ where they first met as Miami because that's Danny's hometown.

The more he thought of it, the more he knew that he wanted to stay back with you. He’d do what he had promised himself 5 years ago- beg on his knees for your forgiveness.

He raised his tear-filled eyes and looked at you, doting on Joel and Ellie. You had called her your sister. You had a family. And he’d be lying if he didn’t want to be a part of your family. He wanted you to love on him and care for him. Nora took one look at him and patted his shoulder, him turning around to hug her and Mel for the last time. “Take care of Abby. And…please, keep her away from (Name)”, Manny whispered in a pained voice. Nora offered him a terse nod and departed from him, leaving him to stare at you with longing in his eyes.

You didn’t notice the others leave. You didn’t notice Manny being the only one who didn’t leave. Your entire body was dialed onto Joel-all you could think of, was how to help him. You carefully straightened his body, making him lay on his back and he let out pained whimpers, hands tightening around Ellie’s.

“It’s okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I need to check your injuries, Joel”, you soothed him. Ellie was staring at him with her cheeks damp and face red due to her crying. “El, can you check if there’s a stick or something for his leg? We gotta-”

“Here.” You snapped your eyes up to look at-

“Manny?”, you whispered in disbelief. You noticed the way he swallowed and simply extended a broken table leg to tie around Joel’s injured knee. “Wrap this below his knee and straighten his leg, I’ll tie it up”, he mumbled to Ellie and got to work.

You stared at the scene in shock, Ellie’s face mirroring yours. He had stayed back.

“This is gonna hurt”, he warned you and you immediately went to ground Joel. You looked down at his bloody face, one of his eyes swollen shut.

“Hey, Joel? This is gonna hurt but we gotta do it to help you, okay?”, you gently cooed to him and held his hand tightly in yours, him responding in painful grunts.

Manny slowly straightened Joel’s leg and Joel screamed in agony, causing you to shut your eyes tightly and look away, Ellie doing the same and letting out a cry. Your body shook with sobs, Manny watching you closely, his heart hurting at that state of you. Directly or indirectly, he was the cause of your pain.

Finally, Joel stopped screaming and Manny announced that he was done. You brought your tearful eyes back to Joel and beckoned Ellie to come closer, her snuggling up to you and laying a hand on Joel’s chest- which was thankfully moving.

You brushed Joel’s damp hair away from his forehead and looked at Manny. “Thank you”, you managed to croak out, your eyes expressing your genuine gratitude for his help. Manny simply nodded his head and looked away towards Dina. “I’ll-I’ll help her. Do you wanna try calling someone for help?”, he offered in a careful tone.

You gave him a terse nod and he brought over the comm to you, his fingers brushing against yours. Your stomach flipped in excitement at feeling his touch after 5 long years.

-

After trying to radio Jesse for 20 minutes straight, the door to the room burst open and Jesse arrived on the scene. By now, Joel was just resting his eyes, exhausted from the blood loss and everything. You and Ellie kept a vigilant eye on him. Manny stayed by Dina, trying to keep her warm by shifting her near the fire while occasionally darting his eyes to you.

His chest hurt at how heartbreakingly beautiful you looked. He missed seeing you in front of him.

Your head snapped towards the sound, body deflating in relief at Jesse’s arrival. “Jesse-”, your voice broke off by another wave of tears. Jesse looked horrified but he masked it, not wanting to freak you or Ellie out.

“It’s okay, we’re going home now. Come on”, he soothed you and helped you and Ellie up, you held onto his arms tightly.

Manny’s stomach twisted in jealousy.

“Where’s Dina-”, Jesse questioned and turned to look around the room before his eyes fell on Manny and Dina. “Who are you?”, he asked Manny sharply, eyes assessing him.

You grabbed Jesse’s arm, “I know him, it’s alright. You two, help Joel. We need to find something that will make it easier for him and us to travel. Ellie and I will help Dina, go”, you reassured him before making your way to Dina. Manny looked at you and nodded his head in understanding, making his way over to help Joel and Jesse.

-

After finding a sledge somewhere deep inside a closet and strapping Joel in, the five of you made your way back to Jackson. The blizzard was over now, thankfully, and your horses could walk properly again, which helped you reach Jackson earlier.

Because Manny didn’t have a horse, he had to sit behind you and you were trying your best not to lean against his body heat, his hands twitching to hold your waist and bring you closer to his chest. The whole ride back to Jackson had your body tense and stiff, trying to maintain a safe distance from Manny.

You reached Jackson and almost fell off the horse. The town looked like it had endured a massacre.

The gate was broken down, a pile of infected bodies lying on top of each other in front of it, the wall was completely destroyed, smoke and ash curling in the air, a few living fires making the snow melt and the roads slippery. The insides were just as bad-- houses and shops were broken down, bodies of your fellow townspeople lying around, some of them being executed because they were bitten and in between all of that was Tommy, trying to help the fallen. He had a cut on his face, eyebrows deeply furrowed, face contorted in stress and eyes shining with tears.

Your chest twisted in pain at the sight of your home being torn apart like this. You hurriedly got off Max and ran towards Tommy—Jesse and Manny staying back to help Ellie, Dina and Joel.

"Tommy!", you cried out and ran towards him. Tommy snapped his head up and his face contorted in relief at seeing all of you return, though he couldn't help but notice Joel's absence, his heart skipping a beat.

"Oh, thank Christ, you're all okay", he breathed out and brought you in a bone crushing hug. You hugged him just as tight, your face smushed against his shoulder and eyes shut tightly.

Tommy broke the hug and held you at arms length, eyes searching behind you, "Where's Joel, Kid?", he asked breathlessly.

Your eyes filled up with tears and you managed to choke out, "Later, we need to treat him first. What happened here, Tom?"

Tommy inhaled sharply and shook his head, "Horde attack. Broke down the wall so we had to flame 'em- hence the fires. Destroyed all the buildings and shit." Your eyes widened at that.

"Get Joel to the clinic. I'll meet you there soon", Tommy instructed you and you departed with a terse nod. You made your way back to where Jesse and Manny stood and helped them pull Joel towards the clinic meanwhile Ellie helped escort Dina.

They took in Joel immediately after looking at the state he was in. You let out an exhausted sigh and crumpled down on the corridor floor, burying your head in your hands. You were running on pure adrenaline for the past few hours, not getting a chance to properly come to terms with what had happened and now that you closed your eyes, all you could see was Joel's bloody face and the way he screamed in pain.

You felt your breath hitch, chest constricting painfully and you groaned weakly, hands clawing at your chest to get rid of the feeling. In your panic, you didn't notice someone crouch down in front of you, their hands grabbing yours and putting them on their chest, near their heart.

"Breathe with me, c'mon", a voice called out to you, your brain fuzzily registering it. You felt their chest go up and down as they took big breaths to encourage you to do so. You managed to inhale shakily, letting the oxygen inflate your chest before letting it out. After doing this for 5 more times, the weight on your chest slowly disappeared and that's when you realised who helped you- Manny.

His brown eyes were looking at you in concern, a frown pulling at his lips and hands still holding yours against his chest. You stared at him blankly before snatching your hands away from his, getting up in the process. He followed behind closely, trying to get you to talk to him, "(Name)-", but you cut him off, not in the headspace to talk to him yet.

You still had to wrap your head around the fact that he was alive and breathing, and the fact that he had betrayed you even after you gave him a choice to not to.

"Don't. Not now", you stopped him from coming near with a hand extended towards him, swallowing thickly while your eyes focused on your shoes. Manny paused and squeezed his hands in a fist before reluctantly nodding his head and giving you space, his heart breaking apart in a million pieces at the distance between the two of you.

-

You've lost track of time by now. Spending your entire time helping the fallen and keeping track of Joel's health, your mind and body working like a machine. You were thankful for the distraction because it made you forgot about the fact that Manny was here, breathing the same air as you.

It's been almost 3 hours since they took Joel in. Tommy, Maria and Ellie joining you outside the room that he was being operated on. You hugged Maria as soon as you saw her, asking her if Benji was okay and she reassured you that he was. You breathed out in relief, glad that your family was alive, even though today will leave long lasting effects on their psyche and marks on their body as a reminder.

Maria left to check on the others and Tommy addressed you and Ellie in a serious tone, "What the hell happened out there?", you exchanged a nervous look with Ellie, who hadn't spoken much since you got here, choosing to stick by your side and observe everything silently.

"Tommy, they were Fireflies. Wanted to kill Joel for Salt Lake", you confessed quietly, Tommy's eyes widening in realization.

"Fuck", he whispered and ran a hand across his face. "They hurt you?", he asked curiously.

Joel had discussed about your past with Tommy in confidence before, not wanting to hide anything from his brother and so that a trustworthy person would be aware to keep you safe. Tommy took it better than you expected, with him being an Ex-Firefly himself, he understood your helplessness. Though, you still hadn't told Ellie, scared of her reaction and scared that it'll strain her and Joel's relationship further.

You shook your head no and Tommy asked you the dreaded question, "Who's the new guy?". You froze, unsure of how to explain to him about your situation with Manny.

You cleared your throat before confessing, "He uh-he was in the group. With me. And the others. We were...together before I came to Jackson", your voice shy and low. Tommy's face flashed with realization and he let out a sigh, understanding that this was a conversation to be had later.

"Alright, you guys get some rest. You're barely standin' straight", you opened your mouth to protest but Tommy stopped you, "I'll personally come to inform you if he wakes. Don't be so damn stubborn, go rest", he chided you, his southern drawl suddenly sounding stronger than before. You let out a huff of frustration and punched his arm lightly, walking away with Ellie bundled up in your arms. Tommy watched you go with a sad smile on his face.

-

You took Ellie home, putting her on strict bedrest and she went down with no protest, too tired to even argue with you. You decided to wash up, the events of the day taking a toll on you-your joints cracked and muscles spasmed with the smallest of movements.

After putting on fresh clothes, you decided to get yourself a glass of water, your throat parched and you heard a knock on the door. You let out a sigh and carried the glass of water with you to open the door. You almost dropped the glass.

"Hey", Manny greeted you hesitantly, his hands nervously stuffed inside his jacket's pockets. You gulped the water harshly before mumbling out a 'Hey' in response.

Nails tapping against the glass, you spoke up after a moment of awkward silence, "How'd you find my house?", your eyebrow quirked up in question.

"Uh-I asked around...they said the house with the cherry blossom trees belongs to Joel, so, thought I'd find you here", Manny responded quietly and shrugged.

"Okay, did you need something?"

Manny looked at you in disbelief, "Need something? Angel, I haven't seen you in 5 years. I'm here for you", his voice cracking towards the end, eyebrows furrowed in distress.

You stiffened up before going back to put the glass on the coffee table and ushered Manny out of the house, closing the door behind you. Gesturing him to follow you towards the back of the house, you stood in front of him with your arms across your chest. You licked your lips and shook your head in frustration.

"Manny, why are you doing this now?", you asked him in an exhausted voice.

"I-I want to be with you, (Nickname). You have no idea how miserable I was-"

"No idea? No idea-", you scoffed in sarcasm and spread your arms out in exasperation, "I was the one who travelled alone to Jackson while feeling severely depressed because my boyfriend betrayed me for his- insane friends, and even after I found myself a family here, I still wanted to die because my mind wouldn't stop imagining said boyfriend here with me, and I'm the one who has no idea?", you rambled furiously, your eyes staring daggers at Manny.

He flinched at your outburst and turned his head to the side in shame, his neck shaded with a red tinge and veins popping out in strain.

"What do you know, huh? You had a whole group of people around you, catching you if you fall. I had no one. Even when I was with you, I was alone. You heard her, didn't you? That I was the odd one out?", you questioned him, leaning closer to make him look you in the eye.

Manny shot his head up at that, "No- don't say that, please. You weren't alone. I loved you then and I love you now. I just-", he broke off abruptly to swallow in guilt.

You grimaced, "You just what? You couldn't let go of your ego? Your desperation for vengeance and to prove that all of you are a strong unit? Even if you knew that Abby and her father were wrong?", you accused him, jabbing a finger into his chest. He stumbled back, his face crumpled in emotion, your harsh words hitting him straight into his heart.

"Yes, Yes! I was wrong, I know. I'm sorry, I'm sorry-I-I knew you were right from the moment you told you me, I knew we were wrong. I just- i was so blinded by the fact that someone had caused pain to one of my closest friends, I wanted to see him and Ellie suffer in the same way", he admitted shamefully, his face damp with tears and eyes bloodshot, hands clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles turned white.

You stared at him in disgust, "Manny, are you hearing yourself? What happened to you? She was a little girl-a fucking child. Joel was saving his daughter and that's what made you guys lose your minds? Not the fact that your friend and her father were committing the murder of a child?!", you glowered, your voice hoarse, face heated in anger and your breathing laboured.

You were hyperventilating, years of pent up frustration and sadness pouring out of you.

Manny sensed this and tried to soothe you, "Baby, you're panicking, please-", he came closer to hold your elbows and you shrugged him off.

"Don't touch me! I'm-you broke my heart. It's like I never knew you. How can you be so...heartless? You even participated in- in the sick torture that Abby was inflicting on my---on my dad. How could you, Manny?", you cried out, your voice strained with sorrow and heartbreak.

Manny felt like someone had stabbed him 10 times into the chest. Hell, he'd prefer being stabbed over being the reason for your tears and pain, wishing he had died instead.

His face twisted in pain and he got down on his knees, his hands holding yours and pressing his forehead against them, "I didn't, I swear I didn't agree to that. None of us did. I'm sorry for all the pain I've caused you, angel. But, I'm here now. I've left all that for good. I can't take anymore sleepless nights without you next to me. I want a home with you--a family, and I promise that I'll get better. If I don't, I'll happily die from your hands. Just-please. Give me one chance, please. I'll do anything you ask me to", he begged into your hands, pressing desperate kisses to them and his tears dampening them.

You were too tired to react to that, choosing to limply hold his hands and stare into the distance, thinking of what to do next.

Just as you were going to speak up, Tommy came rushing into the backyard and paused to stare at the scene. He schooled his face into a neutral expression and called out to you, "Kid, Joel's awake", he announced in a breathless voice.

You snapped out of your trance and looked at Tommy in surprise. He nodded at you and you dropped Manny's hands to run all the way to the clinic. Tommy stared Manny down, observing his kneeling form closely and went over to stand by him.

From the corner of his eyes, Manny caught sight of a hand extended in front of him and he hesitantly grabbed it before the man pulled him up.

He came face to face with a tall man, who looked like he could've been his brother in another life- they had the same features and the same hair. The man ran his gaze over Manny in judgement before speaking up, "Let's get you some food. Then, we have lots to discuss", he instructed in his heavy southern twang and patted Manny on the shoulder, firmly.

-

"Joel?", you called out softly, walking over to stand next to his bed. One of his eyes was still swollen shut, the cuts on his face stitched up and the blood cleaned from his face. His knee was wrapped and elevated to keep the pressure off from it and you knew Joel would complain about it.

But he was breathing, his good eye fluttering behind the lid and his fingers twitching. He let out a groan and licked his lips to get ride of the dry feeling on them, his good eye slowly opening to focus on you. "Hey, kiddo", he mumbled in a scratchy voice.

You smiled sadly and offered, "You want some water, Pops?". Joel grunted in annoyance before whispering a 'yes'. You cradled his head in your hands and helped him sip the water before he asked you to lay him back down.

"You scared us to death, Joel", you confessed in a wavering voice and pinched your nose between your fingers. Joel looked at you with a sad expression on his face and lifted a weak hand for you to hold. You looked at him with tears in your eyes and grasped his hand carefully in both of yours.

"Sorry", he murmured guiltily, his face twisting in pain and from the efforts to control his tears from falling. "Thank you for saving me", he shot you a small smile.

You chuckled lowly and patted his hand, your chin wobbling from the tears lodged in your throat. You sniffled and wiped your eyes before clearing your throat. "Did Ellie come to see you?", you asked him curiously and he nodded lightly.

"Yeah. Didn't say much but... held my hand", his voice cracked with emotion and he smiled tearfully.

Your eyes welled up with tears of happiness for Joel and you brushed his hair back. "That's good. Baby steps, yeah?", you encouraged him and he nodded in agreement.

The room was quiet for a moment before he spoke up, "The one who wrapped my leg...that your man?", he teased lightly.

You paused, eyes widened and you felt your cheeks warm up, "How the hell did you see him?!", you sputtered out in disbelief.

Joel let out a huffed laugh, "So, he is. Easy on the eyes, I'll give ya that."

You groaned in embarrassment, your hands covering your face, "You're so annoying, Miller."

He chuckled softly before wincing and you scolded him to shut up. "Ya'll talked it out?", he asked you, referring to your situation with Manny.

Your face turned glum, eyes focusing on a loose thread on your jacket, "He asked me to forgive him...on his knees and everything", you mumbled.

Joel's face expressed shock as best as it could with all the cuts and one less eye. "Damn...and what'd you say?"

"Blasted off on him. I was so frustrated and hurt and angry...I just...took it out on him."

"That's a good thing. Now that the anger is out of your system, ya'll can finally have a mature conversation", Joel comforted you in that fatherly manner that he always does.

You furrowed your brows, "I don't know what to do, Joel. I-I'm so hurt. But-"

"But you love him a lot and wanna stay with him."

You let out a big sigh, "Yeah. I waited so long...he deserves to live in peace, too", you confessed, your lips set in a frown.

"Then listen to your heart. We've all done bad things, Kid. Can't pick and choose who's the better one, not in this world, at least. If you're gettin' a chance at happiness...grab it and hold it close", Joel suggested, his voice coated with longing.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat sniffled, "Thank you", squeezing his hand in gratitude. Joel gave you a half smile and squeezed your hand back.

-

Ellie took over your place next to Joel and your stomach cramped in hunger, realising you haven't eaten anything since morning. As you made your way to the eating hall, your mind kept replaying the conversation you had with Manny.

His tearful face and desperate kisses against your hand almost broke you. You thought about what Joel said, that nobody in this world was good anymore. You've all done bad things to survive, Manny just happened to go a little more extreme. But, did he not deserve to live peacefully with you? Did you really want to see him suffer? Could you live without hearing his voice or feeling his touch again? The answer was a plain and simple No.

He was the one who saved you, he was the one who taught you how to survive in this fucked up world, and he was the one who protected you from the evil around you. Maybe, now was the time to allow him to slow down, to let him have some peace, to let him enjoy a hot cup of coffee on the porch of your own house, to let him have a good night's sleep, to give him another chance. Because you were always sure of one thing, you would forever hold a special place for Manny Alvarez in your heart.

You found him in the eating hall, holed up into a corner table with a plate of food in front of him but he wasn't eating. He was cradling his head in his hands, pulling at his hair and staring at the table. You know he was feeling overwhelmed, not used to so much commotion around him. After all, you had been like this too, on your first day in Jackson.

Tommy spotted you across the hall and gestured you over, leaning against the bar counter. He was looking at Manny the whole time.

"He's not eaten a single thing since I brought him here. Been starin' at the table for the past half hour", Tommy informed you lowly.

You sighed and looked at Manny with pitiful eyes. "I know. He's probably overstimulated."

Tommy looked at the yearning look on your face and chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. You looked at him in confusion.

"A damn apocalypse out there and we still got fools in love over'ere", Tommy teased you.

You groaned loudly and slapped his shoulder, "You and your brother think that you're comedians or something."

Tommy's chuckles receded and he nudged you, "Go talk to him." You looked at him and frowned, nodding weakly before making your way over to where Manny sat.

You silently slid in the seat in front of him and scooped up some soup in the spoon, holding it up before clearing your throat. Manny snapped his head up and froze. His curls were sticking in all directions, eyes and face red from all the crying he did and mouth agape, as if he was not expecting you to sit in front of him. He truly looked at you then, how you looked so stunning even after being so exhausted.

You shifted uncomfortably, "My arm is hurting, are you gonna eat or not?", you murmured and shifted the spoon closer to his mouth.

He finally moved then, leaning closer to the spoon and closing his mouth around it before gulping, his eyes still fixated on your face.

"I-" "No. Eat first, then we can talk for as long as you want to. Do you wanna eat somewhere else?"

Manny blinked in surprise at your offer and how you sounded much more calm now. He simply nodded his head and you got up to pack his food into containers, him following you around like a lost puppy.

-

You settled down on the outdoor seating in Joel's backyard and let Manny finish his serving. You missed seeing him like this- alive and whole- in front of you. After he was done, he finished the glass of water you had set down for him and awkwardly shifted in his seat, not sure what to expect.

"You sure you wanna stay here?", you asked him suddenly. He tilted his head like a puppy and his brown eyes widened. "Yes...I-I want to."

"I'm not forcing you, you're still free to walk away and go back to Seattle. I don't want you to be here just for the sake of me."

"No! No, (Name), I came here for you. I told you that before, and I mean it. Please, give me a chance. I wanna- I wanna live with you", he sputtered out.

You assessed him closely, "If you try anything while you're here, I wont hesitate to kill you, you know that right?", you threatened him casually. He nodded his head vehemently.

"And you'll make up for your mistakes? Be kind to my family?", he nodded his head yet again, "Yes, I swear", he conceded in a sincere voice.

"And-..if I give you a chance, you won't betray me again?", your voice broke and your eyes welled up.

Manny froze when he realised what you said, "Wait. You- Yes. Yes, a thousand times, yes. I promise, I'll make it up to you our whole life", his voice shook with emotion, hands itching to hold you in his arms.

"Okay", you sniffled and nodded in agreement. Manny let out a content sigh and whispered an 'okay'. He'd do everything and anything you'd ask him to win you back in his life.

-

Jackson, 2031

You woke up to the sound of muffled chatter from the street and the chirps of little birds. Warm sunlight was pouring through the curtains, bathing your bedroom in a shade of yellow. You then registered the heavy arm around your middle, the sunlight making it look like it was painted in gold, the skin smooth and soft.

The breaths hitting your neck tickled you slightly and you turned around to face him- your Manny- still sleeping soundly with his mouth slightly open, giving you a view of his crooked lower teeth that you adored. His clean shaven face was glowing, the tiny moles scattered across his face like constellations and his cropped curls appearing soft to the touch—making him look boyish.

It’s been a year since Manny won you back. He’s been working so hard on proving himself to you by helping around the community, making amends with Joel and Ellie, trying to leave behind his past and harmful tendencies behind. He was much more calmer now, less brash, slowing down and enjoying mundane domesticity with you.

Truthfully, he didn’t need to do much. All he had to do was be himself. You never fell out of love with him, just upset with how far he’d let himself stray. But, Manny was home now, sleeping in later and waking up by loving on you—his day starting and ending with worshipping you. He was still the same Manny when you were both 20 year olds- overprotective and fiercely loyal. Except now, he let you do patrols only with him, Joel, Ellie or Tommy as your partners.

Tommy and Joel had surprisingly taken him under their wings, teaching him construction work, encouraging him to help around in the community and utilising his shooting skills to protect Jackson Hole. They were impressed with how agile and what a graceful fighter he was.

They never missed a chance to tease you whenever you admired him working around the town. You’d act annoyed but deep down, your heart would be soaring with happiness to see your family accept Manny with open arms.

Although, Maria and Ellie were the last ones to come around. Maria got used to Manny a little earlier, as Benji was so enraptured with him that she came around quickly. Manny had taken it upon himself to teach Benji football and they would hang out day and night, the adorable sight making you cry always.

Ellie, on the other hand, she still held a slight grudge against him (rightfully so) so she maintained a safe distance from him. Manny confessed to you that she lowkey scared him and you had laughed at that, telling him that he should be scared of her.

Another person that held grudge against Manny was Jesse, for the way he handled Dina and you excused that too, but Manny and Jesse seemed to have a silly testosterone fight going on and you steered clear of it, not interested in it in any way. Dina kept Manny on his toes, annoying him like a younger sibling and it was so entertaining for you to watch him be grumpy around her.

The elder townsfolk absolutely adored Manny and you- the abuelas cooing over him while pinching his cheeks everytime he charmed them and spoke to them in Spanish, and taking you by your hands to their houses to feed you their homemade dishes. Manny always had a goofy smile by the time you returned home, enjoying the attention. And you laughed in adoration, loving the fact that you got to see that shy and bashful blush across his cheeks more and more often.

A shocking thing that happened to Manny— in the entirety of you knowing him, you’ve never seen him unsure, shy or hesitant about anything. That changed as soon as he stepped foot in Jackson and you saw it in the dining hall, with him sitting in the corner, away from everyone. In the beginning, he’d enter any room without turning on the light, forgetting that Jackson had electricity. You’d lightly come up behind him and turn it on, his body tensing and his face flushing with red when he realised it was you.

He’d jump around the loud noises, as Jackson would get rowdy during meal times or events, he even refused to sleep with his back to the door, wanting to stay vigilant and alert at all times. After spending your whole life looking over your shoulder, this was bound to happen and your heart broke for him, wanting to reassure and comfort him every time he felt like that. Watching him look at everything in child-like wonder made your chest hurt with love and the feeling of wanting to protect him forever.

“You’re thinking so loud”, he mumbled sleepily, arms tugging you closer to him. You blinked, smiling gently and cradled his cheek into your hand, caressing it with your thumb. “Good morning, Em”, you replied softly and pinched his cheek.

He flashed you his half-smile and slipped a hand under your shirt, pressing a kiss into your palm, “Mornin’, angel”, he finally opened his eyes and they shone like earthen pools in the sunlight. The urge to go back to sleep was strong, the bed sheets warm and comfy with your shared body heat, Manny’s body soft and sturdy against yours and his hand under your shirt gently rubbing your bare back. But you had to get up and start work or else Maria would be upset for the whole day.

“C’mon, we gotta get up, baby. You’ve got to help Joel with the restoration today.”

Manny grumbled and slid down to bury his head in your chest, legs trapping you against him. “No. 5 minutes more, please.”

“Manny…you know how Joel gets. He’ll do everything on his own even if his joints lock up. C’mon, let’s get to work”, you cooed at him and rubbed his back gently.

Joel was fully recovered now, but the doctors told you that his knee injury would give him chronic knee pain, which made sitting or standing for longer hours difficult for his aging body. Manny, Tommy and Jesse tried their best to take off the burden but Joel Miller was nothing if not stubborn. “You’ve to teach the kids as well, let’s go.”

Manny groaned, the sound vibrating against your chest, “Swear to god, you Millers stress me out on purpose”, and he squeezed your waist.

You giggled and slapped his back lightly before he propped himself up on an arm and admired you with doe eyes.

You shifted in unease, “Stop looking at me like that”, you mumbled and tried to close his eyes with your hand. He grabbed it and rested it on his chest.

“Hey, I’ve gotta make up for lost time. I missed seeing your beautiful face next to me for five years”, he replied in a quiet voice. You exchanged bashful smiles and he leaned in to press a loving kiss on your lips and murmured, “I love you”, against them.

You looked at him with your eyes shining in tears and jutted your bottom lip out. “I love you more, Em”, Manny giggled and squished your cheeks in between his fingers, your combined joyful laughter echoing in the still room of your own house— the house that you shared with Manny and would be sharing until you were both greying and wrinkly.

Fin.

-

AN: AAAA im so happy for them pls…I love domestic Manny so much. Hope y’all liked this mini series 🥹🩷 please like and reblog!

taglist: @taylorsroxy @parkersjoy @aomi-recs @serendipity-29 @lucycarlisleswife @laurenjbb @onmyknees4kai @groovycass @spideybrie @yvonne-dump @monselxo @this-girl-is-tired

[werezmastarbucks]

three hugs

idol!yoongi x f!reader oneshot

oneshot

oneshot!!!!

You will do well to remember that Yoongi is in love with his job first; he is married to his music and is merely cheating with you. There's no space or capacity in his life for commitment to a human; only, the way he cares for you betrays his inconvenient feelings.

warnings/tags: FWB, unreciprocated feelings, jealousy, emotionally cold lovers, dual pov, aerophobia, lovers to exes to ???, drunk sex, cursing, emotionally unavailable Yoongi, hiking in Japan, smut kind of hits you in the face a little, but it's not super graphic?

word count: 12652

music: on the low by justin park, i like it by skz, spring attitude by sunwoojunga

author's note: guys i am stuck in dramatic present. break me out pls

"Shit".

"What?"

You slide the chapstick over your lips.

"It's mint".

Yoongi makes the curious cat-face, raising his eyebrows and pressing his lips together.

"Let me try?"

He found you on the balcony at one of the corporate parties. Those same parties where there was always one particular asshole recording things from under the elbow, in secret, for "reassurance". Thankfully, that evening didn't leak. Yoongi found you on the balcony when you were standing with your hand outstretched, catching rain, and he thought, thank fuck. A normal person. Some piano music was playing, reminding him of Mount Tate. It made him think of low Japanese pines and the fresh morning up above the ground. The droplets were gathering in your palm. You recognized his silhouette although you hadn't spoken before that. You were in too deep from the very beginning.

Now he is kissing you in the corridor of your Hannam-dong apartment, tasting the chapstick and making a face.

"It's freezing".

He's leaving first. You leave fifteen minutes later after his car is half way out of the neighbourhood. You aren't seen together in the street or establishments, unless it's an idol-approved restaurant where mobile phone use is banned altogether, and all the staff is on a massive pile of various NDAs. You do not get to hold hands or speak sweetly to each other, but he gets to watch his dick slide in and out of you, your lips wrap around it, gets to squeeze your breast and twist it, slap your thigh as you bounce on his lap, gets to mess your hair in his fist, yanking your head back, and you get to hear him produce god-fearing moans as he is orgasming under you. You do not date, you are four times removed colleagues and fuck buddies, and for the longest time it works well and boosts productivity tenfold. Stressed? Fuck. Depressed? Fuck. Yoongi can growl at his soundboard, then fall backwards onto his chair and keep falling until he lands head first on your lap. You are careful not to linger with your hand in his hair for too long lest he gives you that look that you don't like. When the tint of pleasure and casuallness slips off his pupil and he starts looking inside of you.

The reason is has been working so well was because you were both too busy and aloof to think about it. Two consenting adults, surviving on coffee shots and IVs, just trying to cum once in a while, and have someone around, who doesn't piss you off. Who doesn't know the people you talk shit about, so they don't side with them.

The fallout happened for you when you noticed him wrinkle his whole face as he squeezed a silicone slime, anatomically correct heart, in a futile attempt to "release the stress". Producer laughed at his snoot. You thought, oh, he's cute.

Oh, shit, he's cute.

Then the whole wagon of romance bullshit started filling your head and it felt like from then on you had about twice as much work. The load that feelings put on you cannot be overestimated. It's the constant thinking, even when you need to be concentrated. It drains the fun out of the sexual arrangement because now, instead of laughing at his jokes, you feel the fire at your ears and awkwardly giggle.

As he brushes his open palm across your hip in a mindless gesture, all of a suden, your whole body jerks, reacts, like a car starting all over again, like you've been zipped.

"Whoa. Haven't had enough?" he asks in the deep, rumbling voice that always gives you one promise. If you want, he can fuck for hours. Ten minutes in between rounds, glass of water, and he's good to go again. Yoongi is never stingy with compliments about your body; he always lets you know when you look breathtaking, and how the angle is to die for, and how nice your curves are, and how he appreciates you.

What he isn't generous with, is the actual connection.

On the day when you simply hang out in the same space, you, with your laptop, getting the documents ready, you decide to annoy him under the guise of being mad at everybody else. You're glad you have established earlier that you're an easily irritable person, because now Yoongi isn't suspicious when you seek his company.

But when you step to him from behind, completely misreading the atmosphere, and put your hands around his shoulders, he flinches. Yoongi never yells, god forbid, or even grunts at you, but instead, he turns around quite coldly, and says,

"Don't make it weird, okay? There was no need for that".

He shows you your place. You are, to each other, instruments. Friends almost, he enjoys your sense of humour when you're cool, and, preferably, naked. He respects your space and expects you to do the same with him. You know he is somebody who needs a lot of alone time. You are the same. The elite type of people who know how to be alone. But you have miscalculated that, after all the sixty-nines, maybe, a hug wouldn't be too out of the line. It is though.

It hurts you because you had already lost. The day when he found you on the balcony catching the rain and made an adorably cautious conversation, you had recognized his frame before he stepped into the pool of light, and you should have known that the cup will overflow and you will fall in love with him.

Like, it's ridiculous, who wouldn't? He constantly makes these funny faces, shaking his oval head, and crunches his nose, and is so quiet that it draws you in. When he comes over for the first time, the fucking doesn't start for thirty minutes because he is fixing a closet door that caught his eye. He is this... an effortlessly lovable, rare person. Emotionally shut, which you interpret as manipulation instead of a fact. His gaze tells you, yes, it only takes two screws. What's the big deal?

You are deeply hurt by his rejection, then a little concerned when he doesn't text for a whole week; it's getting dangerous because you don't know where the line is, that you shouldn't cross. You practice with his brothers: Namjoon seems to like you, and you tend to work with him a lot, sampling his voice and sending him variants. You learn this about yourself: casual touch isn't a norm at all, so it's fair that Yoongi got alarmed at it. You avoid touching people even when you are very drunk: no matter how soft, attractive, squishy they look, you tend to keep your hands to yourself. His suspicion in quenched after a bit, he starts looking you in the eye again as you play annoyance. Yoongi is the type to quietly retreat from an argument, to give up if it takes too much effort to battle; to pretend not to notice rather than confront. When there's a quarrel breaking out, which happens relatively often considering how many different people he is surrounded with, and him, having his authentic, strong opinions; when there's a fight, he visibly shuts off, covers his stomach with his arms and slightly turns around, checks out. Especially when it doesn't concern him or his band. Especially with people he doesn't love.

And he doesn't love you. He likes you, respects you, finds you very attractive for some reason. But he shows love in a completely obvious, unmistakeable way. You know he loves Jimin because he never flinches when Jimin assaults him with hugs. He loves music because he spends all of his waking time with her; he speaks about music; he sees the world through her. He loves mountains, and it's simply easily readable in the way he looks around sometimes. He opens up rarely, and when it's about something that he wants to do, it's usually going to the mountains.

He doesn't love you because it's inconvenient, stressful and isn't booked in his schedule. In his daily life, almost every minute is dedicated to doing something. Even sleep is rationed; he knows what time he eats and what time he showers. There's very little space for improvisation, and at first you felt sorry for him. Because, even though you work in the same place, you are simply an office rat. You walk around the building teaching language models and giving them idol voices. You have days off, evenings off, lunch time and a circle outside work. You can walk the street without covering your head with a hood, a hat, glasses and a mask. You used to feel sorry for him because you thought Yoongi and his other boys were kind of victims to their jobs, but soon learnt that his insane schedule is his own doing. He made it. Training, gym, English, Japanese, guitar, vocals, piano, doctors, meetings, shooting, repeat. Asking him why he lives like that would be stupid. It's because he loves it.

You close up. Losers are left with feeling the sorrow and like the third wheel. That's what you get for catching feelings when you never wanted them in the first place. You're not star-struck: you see him in his least glamourous, in the mornings when he is so groggy that he looks like an old man, dragging his feet around the room, struggling to find his own pants. His hair is all but dead, dry, burnt, occasionally it gets softer when his hairdresser undertakes emergency treatments. You stop thinking of Yoongi as an idol three months into fucking him. That part of his life is constantly present, of course; you even get to see him in his public persona from time to time, but he feels like a different person then. Yoongi is just - surrounded by limits, often a physically unreachable lover, that you happened to get a crush on. You keep on living, having this affair, thinking that the feelings, undeveloped, tend to die sooner or later.

The only thing you can't forget is the look he has given you when he refused your hug. You're not enough to have the right to distract him from work. You aren't loved enough to nag on him or call him without a purpose. You should remember your place. He does good in not invading your space, so what's your excuse?

Otherwise, he's a good guy. Yoongi is generally kind and patient with everybody. If there's a choice, he chooses to do good.

─────────────────────────────────────

Like now.

You click your tongue and swipe the web page closed.

"Hm?"

Your favourite band is touring across Europe without thinking of dropping by your place, or at least somewhere in Asia.

"I can even get the tickets, but flights are too expensive because it's the season".

"Berlin?"

"Yeah", you reply absent-mindedly.

"I can take you. I can go there earlier".

"Don't you have the show in May?"

"They've asked me to choose the date, and I haven't decided yet", Yoongi stretches his arms, then falls on the side like a cat, pressing the top of his head to your ribs as his hand tickles them under your other arm. You shift. He knows you don't like tickling too much and does it when he wants a reaction. You clutch his hand shortly to tell him to stop, and his palm settles.

"But we have to go for three days then".

"I can't get time off work. On Monday I need to be back".

"Tell them you're sick".

You brush it off. It's not a big deal anyway. Yeah you haven't been to concerts in years, but you're not seventeen anymore. Life doesn't make it easy to constantly give in to all you desire. You don't have the power to move events like he does. Your hand instinctively touches his hair, and you manage to swipe through it once, before you catch yourself and let go. Yoongi isn't prickly at all, but that one time was more than enough. You don't need to be told twice.

"You know I can't just clear my schedule like that. They need me".

Even though your brain starts working immediately, weighing options, creating loopholes. Maybe you can say you have an emergency, or even leverage Yoongi himself telling them that since he is taking you out of the kindness of his heart, the management should give you a Friday and Monday off. He sighs without making it too sincere.

"You got time to think until tomorrow afternoon".

"Don't adapt for me".

"It's not a problem".

He leaves as usual, quickly and tidy, and you're thinking about the band. You haven't seen them in such a long time. If you get a free shot at going, you should probably take it. You shove all the other reasons deeper and out of the way because you know when Yoongi is working, he is all but absent.

By midnight, you send him a message saying you have dealt with it. He texts back a thumbs up. Asks if you need a ticket, too. Offers to go with you, and you don't take it as anything because when Yoongi is with you, he is actually nice. He is the kind of person who will offer help and then won't pout when it's accepted. You respond to him that you will go to the pit to thrash your head and slam people around, and he retracts the offer.

Then next time you meet, it's already on the private jet. You're taken to the plane fifteen minutes earlier by a security guy wearing flip-flops, while the airport is buzzing and waiting for Yoongi. You slither right through the crowd and to the gate, leaving them behind expecting the real star.

The star climbs up into the plane clutching his knitted hat in his hand and with a cup of iced coffee. Yoongi's eyes dart to the double seats on the other side where Mr Lee makes himself comfortable. You've chosen a single seat at the window, facing forward, so he crashes across the table from you, recalling vaguely that you are maybe afraid of flying. His memory is proven right when the take off begins, and he sees your face stuck to the window, hands clutching the armrests, mouth a lopsided smile like you're judging the gravity. He is sure there's something very loud going on in the airpods in your ears. He keeps observing, notifying with displeasure, that you're afraid for the most part of the flight, uneasy the whole way as the plane soars up, gaining speed and altitude, and then only mildly bothered for the other thirteen hours, only to get panicked again at the beginning of landing. As the runway approaches, he can see your chest freezing, like you are expecting to crash right into the ground, and he can't take it anymore: nudges your foot with his, pushing lightly, then leans over the table. You are too stressed to take an airpod out, so you just grab the hand that he puts out over the table, without taking your eyes off the land. The hold is so strong that Yoongi unwillingly imagines what it will be like at, say, childbirth. You will probably break his wrist.

"Why don't you drink before flight?" he asks, when the plane is firmly on the rest, as he stands up to get his bag from a nearby seat. Mr Lee leaves the plane with the manager and the stylists, to check if everything is ready.

"I get sick if there's turbulence. Once vomited all over a tiny Ryanair plane, it was horrible", you mumble. You feel positively exhausted after an excrutiatingly long flight. Yoongi had motioned towards the bed in the front segment of the plane, but you can never sleep while in the air: it's like the only thing keeping this thing going without nose diving is your pure terror.

"Jimin is coming, too. He wants to show up at the second performance", he remembers, "so you better fly back with us, too".

"Oh. The two us in one plane?"

He shrugs with a smile. Yoongi likes to note how you are a little similar to Jimin. He never clarifies in what ways; you don't work with his youngster a lot, so you have vague image of the guy. But you hear nice things about him, and like him by extention.

He hums instead of a goodbye, then leaves the plane as per Mr Lee's permission. You leave fifteen minutes later, when the arrivals hall is already clear, and the big SUV circles the terminal to pick you up on the corner. You feel happy after having survived yet another flight.

You attend your show and Yoongi attends his; only, while you're thrashing the life out of yourself in the pit to the favourite music, he is sitting like a good boy in the first row of a game, looking pretty. The next day, you would have left on your own to give everybody a surprise at work by showing up on time, but you weigh everything and realize that, if you were so terrified on a private flight, fifteen hours in commercial will be absolutely unbearable and result in some sticky mess. So you linger around Berlin, wander the city for the day after sleeping in, get cold in April weather, get caught up in the rain, eat some curry wurst and in the evening, go to see Yoongi's private performance for the lack of better things to do.

You hang around the dressing rooms before the performance, watching the stylists doll him up: it's always a pleasant sight. Brushes poking his button nose, he squeezes his eyes shut, moving the phone glued to his palm around. You know people are generally curious what the fuck he is constantly doing on his phone. Watches videos or plays mobile games. At the age of thirty-two, he already has several striking features of an old man, and the forecast doesn't look optimistic. Soon, he will start grumbling about the weather, too. His eyes dart to you as you start fidgeting with the coffee machine.

"Can I have one, too?"

"I am putting star anise in".

His stylist, a short quirky girl, turns around to give you a face full of disgust.

"Why?" Yoongo hoots. Like it's a crime.

"Experiment".

"You shouldn't have coffee now", his manager says.

"It tastes okay".

He is sent off to the tiny stage where he is going to entertain selected European fans and show off his average English. You wander around the place, expecting to see Jimin, who can't go on a week without his genius hyung's company. You heard he has a very packed month, promotions and too many rehearsals, all that while his knee injury isn't healed yet, but Jimin is always in a state of panic so he never wants to pedal back. Now he clawed three days out and darted from Seoul to Berlin to show support because he knows Yoongi doesn't feel too comfortable in Europe on his own. Even though he will never say. It's new information for you, and you have to constantly remind yourself you aren't entitled to it at all.

You find him in the smaller dressing room with monitors, observing Yoongi from a distance. There's a whole crew with the light and cameras swarming around him, while Jimin is hunched up on a chair, not even looking at the screens. His head is down, the lid of the cap hiding his face, hands in his pockets, one knee jerking up and down. You feel something like short-fused anger rise in you and don't think much before stepping in and getting into a shot.

"Hey", you look into the camera, then at the man trying to swerve around you, but you outpace him, making your way towards Jimin in little steps. You've seen this tiny guy at work often. Always running somewhere, his strong legs working. Always a smile on his face. You know much more about him from Yoongi who likes talking about his brothers. You know enough to want to protect him, which means, Yoongi always wants to protect him.

"Do you have to record him when he is like this?"

You can only see the tip of his chin, but then Jimin looks up at you, his eyes timid and glistening.

"He is upset. Is this content, too?"

You tilt your head, meeting their eyes. The crew starts grunting something quietly, cameras rolling.

"I am already in it, so I guess you'll have to delete it".

You sit down in front of him like he's a kid. Frankly, a lot of them look like kids. Most of them are only grown on paper, the age in their passports often doesn't respond to how they are. Many boys, stuck in the tender ages they have been traumatised in, by the company. Yoongi often acts like he is a mature twenty-year old which aligns with his debut age.

You put your hands on his knees and lower your voice.

"Who did this, Jiminie?"

The tone makes him chuckle immediately. He sighs like it's a relief. You're glad you have that sense of humour, coupled with your small size, that makes guys smile.

"I'm alright".

"Yeah? You just tell me who upset you, and I'll beat them up".

The recording crew retreats dissatisfied because you refuse to leave his side. Jimin throws them one cautious look and his face lights up just a little.

"Beat them up?"

"Yeah, I go to gym, bro, I punch the bag all the time".

His left knee shakes with his laughter. He adjusts the cap and takes the second hand out of the pocket of his hoodie.

"Thank you".

"No problem. I am a very angry person, I am always ready to protect pretty boys like you".

Yoongi returns to the dressing room a little sweaty, just a little agitated, his nervous system alarmed but satisfied with yet another linguistic adventure overcome without a catastrophe, and sees Jimin snicker at your words as your hands clutch his knees like he is the little princess and you're his suitor. He sees it from the door the handle of which he clutches, and he notices things instantly. How you smile, bowing to see his eyes, how Jimin's hand flies up to his neck, how his voice rumbles deeply to make him sound more manly. Yoongi also notices the tremor in his injured knee and walks over to join you.

As you see him, you stand up and give space.

Yoongi's hand caresses Jimin's head.

"Don't be upset about it".

"I let you down, hyung".

"You didn't. You're here, aren't you? I am happy you're here".

You step away quietly as Yoongi keeps comforting him, glowing in his white outfit, hair slicked back and with highlighter on his cheeks. Looks too much like a groom.

Back at the hotel, Yoongi keeps waddling in and out of the bathroom with a brush in his mouth, one hand in his hair.

"How was the concert?"

"You asked me yesterday and I told you everything", you reply, without taking your eyes off the phone.

"Right. You caught any confetti?"

"No".

"Why not? People gather them and stuff them in jars, you know. We always try to invent new shapes for confetti so that ours will have different jars with different confetti".

You look up at him. He looks like a guy you could spend the rest of your life with, and it hurts quite frankly. So cosy, handsome with his hair undone, plain white tee, one hand sawing something in his mouth with the toothbrush.

"You had coffee, didn't you?"

He shrugs.

"Why don't you ever babygirl me like you did with Jimin?"

A chuckle rumbles in your chest.

"You never show any weakness".

You see that makes him think, actually. Yoongi is probably too caught up in his life to notice such things, to pay attention to himself. He produces a short pondering hm and disappears back into bathroom. This chitchat pisses you off. He is usually way less talkative. Polite, friendly, but not very open. You don't like it when he acts like you have hope. The old grudge you have festers in you for too long, growing from a little childish sore into a sort of trauma. You avoid touching him for too long, talking to him about personal stuff. He usually doesn't respond anything, at best. Establishing limits in the beginning was kind of humiliating; he would take your hand off his shoulder softly, saying he will vacate you at once if you find someone serious. The same goes for him.

Now he gets into bed and his hand is on the top of your head, patting. His arm wraps around your waist as he pushes himself closer. These two days were too tiring and busy so you didn't have any sex, thus, it's even more intimate when he does this. You don't flinch, but instead tense your body up, bitterness a juice in your brain.

"Don't make it weird", you ask. Yoongi lifts himself up on an elbow to look you in the face.

"Huh?"

"I am uncomfortable when you hug me like this".

In the bluish darkness of the room, you can see his bewildered, surprised expression.

"Are you serious right now?"

And you know, you know his mind wanders back to that one time he flinched. Because you know he remembers.

You nod.

"I can't fall asleep with your arm on me anyway", you lie, "it's too heavy".

With a sigh in between his teeth, he removes his hand but doesn't turn away yet.

"What's gotten into you?" then pause, "is it because I told you to back off once?"

It's spectacular how for both of you, that one occasion is a sharp rock shining painful white of awkwardness and unspoken spite.

"Hey, I don't need you to repeat. But you have to respect the limits, too", you say calmly. You understand his shock, because nothing this evening indicated there were any problems. But the outburst is inevitable from time to time, simply because you react to his touch the way you wish you didn't. When it's not during sex, when it's not possessive, you have to ask yourself what's the reason for touching you at all. Yoongi sniffs through his nose.

"Isn't it a little too dramatic? You're really sore about that?"

"I am not".

"Then what's the problem? We sleep like this all the time".

"After we fuck".

"So let's fuck".

You fall back on your pillow and brush through your hair.

"Fine, Jesus", he closes up, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Yoongi does this very well, removes himself, it's not worth it. It's not worth being straightforward, and because he doesn't push, doesn't try to speak to you, you understand his touch, in fact, didn't mean anything. You're one of those soft, warm breathing pillows that help the sleeping. He simply turns around on the other side and purrs like he always does when relaxing his whole body. He doesn't snore and is quite proud of it.

In the morning things are back to normal. It was a slight glitch; in the dark, you can both bury it and pretend nothing happened. Yoongi is allergic to being direct with you, it's all subtle. You see he avoids brushing hands by accident as he takes your bag and pushes it in the trunk; then by the time you make it to the airport, and you go first, he is casual and light again, happy to go home. He gives you one concerned look then says nothing, pushing the mask up his face even though he stays in the car. You go fifteen minutes before him and pass through the waiting crowd, invisible, efficient, led by the security guy in flip-flops.

Mr Lee enters the plane first, and he motions to you, looking you in the eye with a kind smile:

"Take that seat, by the window".

Yoongi follows him and nods at the double seats as well and you understand he wants to make the flight a little better for you. So you plunge in the wide seat at the window, looking outside at the greyish Berlin sky, unassuming white keeping your night trick hidden away. Yoongi sits down next to you, quite ready to fence if you start acting up again, but you don't. The fear of death is much stronger now. Jimin arrives unexpectedly because you have completely forgotten he flies back with you: he lights up the space, happier than yesterday, ruffles his raspberry-lilac hair and eases the tension. Yoongi's gaze clicks onto him and you are grateful for that. You can suffer in silence and alone. Jimin notices how wide your eyes are, and how you clutch onto Yoongi's hand that reaches out as the plane starts moving. The rain makes it worse: you look at the trees bending in the distance, thinking about how a wind like this can knock a vehicle off the course easily.

"You're scared of flying?"

He also asks this because seeing Yoongi hold someone's hand - a girl's hand - is remarkably unusual for him. He studies this clutch of interlocked fingers with curiousity, like it's an animal he thought was extinct.

"That's to put it lightly", you coo back. The plane gains speed, and you are pressed against the back of your seat. Primal horror snatches your breath.

"You know planes crash very rarely? This one definitely isn't going to. Carrying South Korea's most important producer".

His rambling doesn't help. On the opposite, it exposes how naive Jimin's thinking is. You apprecite the movement of his plump, smiling lips, trying to distract you, but he only makes it worse. The plane doesn't care who it carries; if it crashes, it crashes, killing everyone.

"The only dangerous times of the flight are the take off and the landing", he continues, thinking he is setting your mind at peace. You are well aware of that. And for now, you just so happen to be in the middle of a take off.

"Jimin", Yoongi hoots, "you're not helping".

"Sorry", he smiles sweetly, like a little shit. You chuckle at that nasty grin and look away at the window again. Luckily Yoongi's hand actually helps. If you die, you die holding the person you love. The plane dips slightly as the gear kisses the ground goodbye, and you squeeze it, begging silently. For some reason, he thinks of child labour again, wondering why he gets this specific association. The grip is so strong it hurts his hand, and he gives in to the pain, takes it, without realizing what it means.

─────────────────────────────────────

The sex changes slightly, and it's a sign you're doing worse. You can't help it when he is close to you, with the body you have come to know well and love a lot, you start shoving your face close to his to catch his breathing, and Yoongi seems to enjoy that, feeding into your delusion. He is a needy, universal lover, always down for some tenderness, who likes to be handled with care. Always a giver, a helper in everyday life, he replenishes the affection from you by being caressed and held tightly, without asking. Only, it hurts you when he does this - allows you to pull him closer, share a kiss that's too gentle as you come undone, because for several seconds it feels like you love each other. But it's a position that he comes to like a lot: you on his lap, faces pressed together as he hunches his back a little to be on the same eye level, to then fall on the side like in water, clutching to each other.

"We okay?" he asks out of nowhere. You look at his soft profile. His upper lip trembling a little, the lower part of his stomach contracting. You push his thigh with your knee.

"Yes? Why wouldn't we be?"

He nods like he is getting ready to jump into a well full of sharks, or go on stage. Closing his eyes for a second, then heaves himself off the bed, like he usually does. He doesn't like to linger, sensory overload of your sweaty body pressed against his. He takes a quick shower and then leaves tidying after himself, ready to work. He never has you at his place like it's too sacred, or like he has some secrets there. It's always hotels or your apartment, a car, a locked office with no windows. He says something about his home being too far away, and how inconvenient it is. He knows it's bullshit, and you know it too. You live in the same neighbourhood.

─────────────────────────────────────

Jimin keeps smiling and it suddenly pisses him off. Yoongi folds a napkin and attempts to make a swan out of it, but all that comes out is a plane. He taps Jimin on the shoulder and hands him his little present.

Jungkook's eyes widen at the sight of it.

"And for me? Me, hyung?"

Yoongi rolls his eyes, catching a stare from Taehyung, too.

"Is it his birthday?" the second youngest demands.

"It's not Jimin's birthday", Jungkook confirms.

"What's that for?" Jimin asks, quite pleased.

He wants to jab him playfully, so naturally, it's a bribe: stop staring at my girl. It baffles him. His guts drop. Like when he realizes two meetings clash on his schedule. In that case, after a second of panic, he takes a deep breath and calls his manager. Now, he can't call his manager and say, hey, there's an inconvenience. I don't like the way Jimin can't seem to shut up about Y/N after she touched his leg and smiled at him in Berlin. This glitch is all his. And he closes up. Feelings, undeveloped, tend to die on their own. Whether he needs them is out of question: he doesn't. He's been doing that naturally; of course he'd developed an innocent crush on someone he has sex regularly with. Without it, he wouldn't be able to do that properly. He's a feeling, inspired human, artistic: he can't do it without trust. That's how his head works at least. This kind of light infatuation adds to the sex, it makes it truly relaxing and non-stressful without needing to act on it. Of course he feels something. It's a kind of a driving force in his work, as well.

The real problem arises when there's someone else in the equation.

─────────────────────────────────────

Namjoon is focused like a hawk as you fight for your life. You hate losing; perhaps something from childhood when your cousin constantly beat you and then gloated about it; there was a saying in your family, as a game was over, if you can't work your brains, work your hands. The loser shuffled the deck back in order. You hated being the loser. But against Namjoon it is impossible. He beats you every time, although thankfully, he isn't an asshole about it. But allowing himself to throw hands in the air victoriously. You smile about it, press your jaws together, crunch your nose to laugh it off.

You rarely play cards at all, maybe only in the breaks like these, while the laptop is working and you have to wait; and the foyer is realtively empty, and the disposition is relaxed. You have a coffee at your side on the low table, and the faint music creates a comfortable bubble to lose to your friends at a game of cards. You strike the table with the rest of yours, and Namjoon smiles with dimples, pacifying you.

Yoongi takes his place.

"Rematch".

He is surprisingly bad at it. To the point where his friend is at his side, pushing him with his thigh, so that Yoongi has to scoot over on the small couch to let the giant sit next to him.

"Yoongi hyung, but there's a..."

"Shh. I have a strategy".

You observe his eyes above the cards as he glances at you. The feral looks you give to each other are fun. Namjoon hums something when Yoongi has to scoop the cards and take them to himself, losing more and more.

"The strategy sucks", he muses.

"I know what I'm doing".

It makes you concerned but you beat him in the end with a little bit of wit, and at least it's not too humiliating. Namjoon gives him a look, then turns away, and there are dimples again. The banana palm on your side throws a shade on the table as the sun moves across the sky outside. You look at them both as your nostrils grow in size.

"Oh you let me win, didn't you?"

You lean over the table to get to him and see the cards, but Yoongi moves away, then takes the deck and starts mixing.

"I wish. Maybe I'm just bad at it".

Namjoon stands up with a swing, still with that shit-eating grin on his transparent face. Thing about him, he's not good at three things: acting, keeping secrets and lying. His eyebrows give him away every time.

─────────────────────────────────────

For you, it's like living. The feeling of love is a familiar thing to you, especially with him. He is a warm, unique human and as long as you meet from time to time, it's only half-way bad. You have things to distract you from it, and you postpone doing something about it, like breaking this arrangement. Maybe next month. Maybe next month again.

For Yoongi, it's like falling. Like his house of cards crashing down. Carefully curated existence spinning out of control. Control is very important to him: he likes to have control over his personal affairs. He likes to know what he is doing every minute of the day. He doesn't have obsessions; doesn't have urges that control him instead. Even though he is a feeling human, he isn't a victim to his desires. Now all of a sudden the peace is tilted, and he snaps. It's like a foot catching air instead of a step. He simply doesn't have time for this, it makes no sense. Feeling in love seems to him like someone demanding giving up his work and his freedom, and he will never do that. It actually makes him aggressive, feels like invasion of his space, and he doesn't like that. How dare you clutch the shirt on his chest in your fist, making those eyes he knows he isn't able to resist, saying "let's ruin it?" Will you buy him a new one? How dare you groan at your computer in a way that makes him so hard that he hits his dick on the desk, trying to stand up? How dare you have that laugh that sounds like gripping his hand, giving birht to his babies?

Love is a thing idols cannot afford. It's nonsense for others. He, he has a goal. A point to his existence, he has something to say and something to prove. It's below him to settle like the peak of his life has been reached, and all his ambition satisfied. Far from it. He gets angry with himself when he lets you beat him in a card game because he doesn't understand himself where the impulse came from. It's not that deep.

He breaks it off. Says he doesn't have time anymore. He memorizes your eyes when you size him up and say,

"I figured".

Although there was no indication before, because you were "okay". He lets it slide, the way you let go of him too easily, without questioning it, almost with a sense of relief. He tells himself it's not his burden anymore, and it should clear his head and lighten the load. After all, the affairs like these are often doomed from the start. One of you might fall in love, or meet someone else, or just grow tired. It's not supposed to be for life. He goes back inside his mind and assesses things left after you: memory of your elbow, twice smaller than his; hairs on his hoodie; the feeling of mountains; a new type of coffee: milk, cinnamon and star anise. He's sure there's more, but the feeling of frustration, like he was about to sneeze and never did, floods him and blocks his brains from thinking.

There's also mint. He remembers it when Jimin comes in one day smelling like it. Yoongi gives him a long look as his shoulders go cold.

"Hm?"

He shakes his head nothing.

─────────────────────────────────────

He also gets dreams. They aren't exactly dreams - rather, the lingering visions in his eyelids when on the brink of falling asleep. Pleasant pictures of something he regrets losing; if only there was a way to keep his emotions out of it, he'd watch your stomach contract under his hand forever. Gentle, careful knot of your belly button. The muscles in your sides flexing, soft birthmarks scattered on the skin, the tasty curve of your hip. He dreams again about that one evening when he paid a visit, but was in such a good mood that you ended up cuddling; he couldn't get enough of the sight of your ass in the underwear, squeezing, while you watched funny videos on his phone, and you laughed, thunderously, into his poor ear, snorted with laughter, your body shaking, until he suddenly started noticing the scent of your hair, too.

That's the adult way out: everybody has feelings. The choice is whether to act on them or not; you think, your feelings are only your business and nobody else's. If Yoongi asked, and you feel that at some point he was close to that, you'd tell him to fuck off and mind his affairs. You get to keep what you have inside your head.

Now, as he enters the studio with the hood on, you feel perfectly balanced and calm. Love hasn't hurt you as much as this man; he takes off the hood and you nod to the booth, and he casually follows your instructions. You step after him and hand him a sheet of paper. He's been to a facial recently, you can tell. His nose pores are clear and he's glowing, giving him a slightly pouty look. Smells like star anise. Imagining hugging him in his car as it's raining outside, hiding your face in his clean hoodie, his hair obedient under your palm, is so simple you could draw a picture if you had any talent for it.

"Read from here when you see the green light".

"I know how recording works", he chuckles, a little shy. You smile back and brush him off. He picks on the skin on his thumb and you shake his hands apart out of the habit you haven't smothered yet. However, he complies and puts them in the pockets, looking at the paper. You leave the booth and go to the laptop where you get ready.

"In Japan, women are considered superior divers", he begins reading, his voice unfiltered by his acting. Yoongi has many voices, you've heard most of them you think. The favourite of yours is the purring request he used to send straight into your ear canal, pressing his lips against the side of your head: turn to me, I want to see your face. His speaking voice betrays his origin, and you specifically asked that he drops the Seoul accent when recording. So it's authentic Min Suga, hands in pockets, hair on his eyes, head slightly moving with his own rhythm he weaves easily.

"...due to distribution of fat in their bodies and ability to hold their breaths underwater. Pearl fetching was a dangerous business and required light, swift, nimble women who could at the same time withstand the harsh underwater conditions. Very often they would swim up all blue, but pearls tucked neatly in the pouches on their waists. Gifts of the sea have never been easy to retrieve".

He is done in fifteen minutes, reading overall two pages of text. You can see he's not worried and stressed. Probably sleeps well; he unzips his hoodie and takes it off because it's a bit hot in the studio - you get cold sooner and easier than other people. As he pulls it off himself, the shoulder tugs on the hem of his T-shirt and exposes a bit of his skin, and you see a dark-blue bruise.

"Tsk".

He leaves the booth, turning his head like a mill, a little distracted.

"What?"

"That's such an asshole move".

When there's nothing to lose, as you've lost him already, you actually feel more liberated to speak your mind exactly as it feels. Yoongi is a bit lost, looking at you.

"Huh?"

"So big, as well. You told me you have no time for that business anymore?"

You actually pout, feeling shockingly indifferent. Your feelings have been, so to say, stomped upon, dull under all the cruelty.

His hand reaches for his shoulder as fingers send the impulse back into the brain, and he stretches,

"That- I'm a big boy, alright?"

You cock your eyebrow shortly.

"Could've just said you don't like me personally", you download the file containing his voice and begin renaming it according to the protocol.

"That's not it", he even puts the hoodie back on. "On the opposite, it was getting too personal".

"I agree. I am just surprised you found someone else so soon, that's all", you mutter, your eyes on your work. He hums. Retreats, it's what he does best. Slithers quietly through the door after making sure he is done here.

You tell him he is, hissing the words with a stretch, giving them double meaning.

Yoongi leaves, hands pulling on the sides of his zip-up hoodie, up and down, up and down, thinking about the idiocy of it. He's finished filming a Run BTS episode yesterday, where punishment was cupping. He's lucky he only lost once. Taehyung was roaring with pleasure as he vaccumed the fuck out of his shoulder. What would you say if you saw the back of Namjoon, who lost five times?

─────────────────────────────────────

Yoongi believes in karma and all that shit. Especially when he's drunk; he keeps thinking about that little misunderstanding and how your cheeks pouted as you stared into the laptop, accusing him of getting hickeys a week after he ended the arrangement. He's not feeling guilty or anything, but it's unnatural for him to not keep things straight. Although with you, he thinks, there's already so much shit tangled that he could as well just leave it be. First of all, never talked out that weird rejected hug incident; then again the breakup itself, like walking on the straight road and sudeenly falling into a manhole. He's not in the habit of leaving things piled up, but he just can't seem to learn to be direct with you. It's bad enough you make him horny like he is going through puberty again, you also tie his tongue down. He preferred to keep it deep inside of you to avoid talking at all. After all, that was the deal.

When he starts getting drunk at the Another Billion party, this awkwardness returns to him and he gathers all his might and good will to search you out and tell you what the bruise was about. He is ready to drag the other members with him so that they vouch for it; he finds he doesn't need to do so, because Namjoon and Jimin, of course, are already glued to you. Next to an ugly black-glass sculpture supposed to represent an idol throwing their arms up. Namjoon is swaying, he can't take his alcohol. Jimin is sturdier than him, but is also red in the neck; both listening to you with their mouths slightly ajar. When you talk, people around always listen, and Yoongi hates that, too. That this ability of yours, together with your body, your deafening screeching laughter, your iron grip, your moans, your fears, the mint of your lips, don't belong to him. He doesn't want any of it - but it sucks that other people get to experience it, too. He almost goes blind for a second, slapping his glasses back to his face, as the idea of Jimin knowing what the chapstick tastes like, crosses his mind.

"...that I was a huge black dragon. This is the best dream I've ever had in my life", you enunciate, making sure they are listening to you. Both Joon and Jiminie are so out of it, it makes you shake with the laughter you push down for the sake of the story.

"I was big, I felt big, I remember the feeling of absolute freedom" (Namjoon has exactly one hiccup) "as I was flying above the Aegean sea during black storm. Black dragon, black storm, the waves were gigantic".

"How did you know it was Aegean sea?" Jimin asks.

"I had this dream when I was staying in Greece. It's also my favourite sea".

"Yoongi really likes mountains", Namjoon mutters. You stare at him for a second.

"Okay?"

"Continue".

"And I was flying around, laughing out of happiness, I was so elated I actually laughed, and I was throwing these black pearls into the sea..."

"Sea and mountains", Namjoon continues, funnily, "nuah?"

"Are you sure it wasn't Black sea?" Jimin tries to ignore his hyung, putting his hand on Namjoon's chest as the leader starts to tilt forward.

"I mean you were black, storm was black, the pearls were black..."

You purse your lips because he makes a good point. In between their heads, you see Yoongi adjust his glasses and glaring at you three like you are dismembering a freshly caught deer with your bare hands.

"What's up with the nerd slut?" you nod at him, and the two turn around. The blood rushes back from Jimin's neck as his face lights up in a smile. His imperfect teeth make his smile infectious.

"Yoongi-ah", he coos softly as the cloud approaches.

"I need to talk to you", you can hear he's had a two or six, or sixteen. Yoongi is way too good at drinking, he can take a lot of it and then be drunk for a lot of time, hiding it, and only burst if someone really pushes him. His eyes are glossy behind the lenses of his glasses.

"You tired?" Namjoon becomes perceptive when he drinks. Yoongi nods and extends his hand on the waist level. You do not take it but follow him as he nods in the direction of a quieter corridor. Big hall is booming with music and it irritates you both; everybody reacts differently to alcohol: Taehyung is throwing his ass around on the dancefloor for example. It's his celebration and he is allowed. You, you get more yourself you'd say. All your impulses become sharper. Your loudness becomes louder and quieteness, quieter. Your insecurities shine, but so does your wit. Your laughter becomes irresistible, Yoongi would say, but you never asked him to know about it. His laughter is always irresistible to you, just like his word. So, even though you are sore, hate him a little, feel like aching next to him, insanely jealous, when he calls, you walk with him out of the room, plunging into the lukewarm shade of the corridor.

You sneak away like two schoolchildren trying to act tough. We need to talk. Sounds like giggling to you, and you do. His thick neck turns to you. He's been working out again lately. Of course.

"I need to make something very clear", he begins, harder than you expected him to, and your spine shivers, at the same time with your knees wobbling. You don't know if you're intimidated or upset. You must unintentionally give him a rabbit look, because he stops abruptly, looking you in the face.

"The... that? I was cranky, okay? It was one time".

You struggle to catch what he means exactly, having a moment of complete lack of clarity. All you see is his full lips letting a breath out.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what, why have you been punishing me for that this whole time?"

Your brows go up, brain struggling, because you just keep thinking about that hickey on his shoulder. And it makes you angry that he's irritated, and agitated after drinking. You can bet you have way more beef with him than he with you.

"Big deal, I brushed you off once, you need to get over your pride some time. Like it's cracking me that that's what you've been hung up on. Becasue I told you to back off, you've been refusing to hug me for six months?"

You bang the back of your head on the window glass as you throw it up. The last thing you need right now is lectures and complaints, but it's refreshing that Yoongi would speak in such long sentences.

"You replaced me already", you hum, like it's an unbeatable argument that is made of gold.

You hope he shuts up and decides to douse the tension in one last hookup. You're down for it. Arguments are tiresome and feel unnatural with him, the guy who prefers to tuck everything in and walk away before it spills out. You realize he isn't actually talking anymore, but his eyes are studying the window behind you as if he's considering breaking it.

"And you replaced me?"

It sounds like a half question, like he's not sure. The intonation going up. Suddenly you think of whales and their gentle, lonely calls, but also, about the wind, whistling in between the crooked branches. The 'fuck it' is announced without being uttered, as your hands reach in the half-dark for his pants. He isn't wearing a belt so your fingers crush into the hem of the jeans and go straight to the button. Yoongi's palm covers them, squeezes your fingers almost with rage, stopping you roughly, but he steps closer, and the last thing you see is the frame of his glasses. He kisses you, at the same time as you kiss him, mumbling something about the last time, just to be sure, your mouth opens simultaneously with your legs. Yoongi's hand slides off yours and grabs your side aggressively, hungrily; a month was the longest you'd gone on without jumping each other's bones, so it's not the withdrawal. It's something else. You tug on his jeans, unsure to unbutton them because you've read his gesture clearly. There's people behind the door. He lifts you up with one arm and sits you on the window sill and your arm snakes around him, touching the back, fingers clinging to every inch of his thick, white, moving body. Kisses slurp in bites, his tongue makes you dizzy. He has never kissed you like that before; not when he was needy, not when he was very horny, not when he was vulnerable which didn't happen often. Guess it's one of the bright colours of making out with a human; they surprise you. The love rises from the depths of your guts, making its painful way up, and you bend and lean against him, trying to feel his body pressed to yours. Yoongi's hand clutches on the top you're wearing like he's trying to tear it off you.

"Do they know it was once covered all over in my cum?" he grunts against your cheek, and your spine shakes like he's done a spell on it. Tiny shivers under his fingers. You grab his neck.

"I don't casually go around telling that to people".

His warm, hard hand sneaks under the fabric, fingers count the ribs, then pinch them, and his mouth slides lower, across your cheek and to your throat. You wish you could stay there forever. The blue and green in your inner mind, darkness around, and Yoongi clinging on you like he's turning during the full moon. You hear his glasses click against the plastic as he takes them off, then his hand returns to the small of your back and presses. He smells so familiar already that it feels like it's going to be your doom; you know all his scents, you're afraid. Eros by Versace, white vanilla detergent on his clothes, blueberry chewing gum, the leather of his car, cloudberry conditioner in his hair, and the skin smell, the clean smell that he has, the perfume no one can replicate and you can't explain. Unfortunately you love all of them, really love in the most genuine way, and it makes you sob all of a sudden, but you mask it as a moan. Yoongi hisses, letting go of your neck, and his hand makes its way up to cover your mouth. In the dark you see his eyes as he kisses the back of his palm. Can he even love you the way you have come to love him. Is he capable of that, with his fixation on his work. Constantly caught up in thinking about how to round up the beat, and how a bridge will come out, his head poking out above the chair, is he even capable of loving someone. He pulls you, your legs made of wool, deeper, looking for an empty room with a lock, and, preferably, optionally, without a cctv hidden somewhere in the foot of a desk.

You barely pay attention to the room; the dark eats away at it. You two, connected at the mouths, hands on each other's ribs, in each other's hair, stumble backwards, like a limping monster, trying to find a place to land. The space around spins; there's nothing but Yoongi, and if he pulled you after himself into a chasm, you'd only clutch his hand tightly. He kicks something behind you, and your calves feel the soft of a couch, and it's the signal to turn. Yoongi crashes onto it, making the vision you've had a fraction of a second ago, reality: you fall, fall into the darkness, guided by his well-studied hands, tracing the veins on the backs of his big palms, a little dry. The shape of them holding you tightly is something you want your mind, drunk or sober, to never forget. You might not have him after this, tomorrow, but now you land on his lap, knees spread, his hand on your back under the crop top, scratching lightly with his short-cut nails. His fingertips are the best - slightly rough from guitar, but sensitive; Yoongi has memorized all the spots on your body, dividing it into "yes-no-maybe" zones for scratching. He knows the "yes-yes" zone just around your spine, it makes you arch your back as you grind your hips against him. You like him for not being too chatty during moments like these; his breathing lets you know. The hardening of his cock is obvious through two pairs of jeans. Falling apart, you think about the mess of it all: you don't have any spare clothes, no extra underwear, and this one is already no good, soaked through. Your hands grab the back of his head again and hold on for dear life as Yoongi guides your hips against his, forehead pressed to your collarbone, your gentle mid-sized giant with dry, soft hair and prominent neck muscles. His shoulders, lean, strong, work under your hands, wet mouth grabbing at your breast through the top. He can't see shit without his glasses or lenses, and especially so in the relative dark, where the only light comes through the windows from the nearby buildings; so sensory study is all that's left to him. When Yoongi is ready to undress, he usually produces a sort of a tired sigh-groan, and then his fingers start pinching at your flesh. But now he doesn't. The alcohol is spinning your head, the heat in your core pooling, and you sort of forget where what is. The only thing that matters is to find his puffy lips again, bearing the taste of mint and whiskey. You raise yourself to deepen the kiss, and Yoongi pushes you back hard, lifting his own hips to connect. The breath is caught somewhere in the ribs, shiver crunching the body, but his hand steadies you in comforting strokes. You are trying to breathe, you really do, but it comes out in gushes, sometimes audibly, as your fingers trace his beautiful face. Yoongi is so good at making you come undone; you barely control your own body, he becomes the puppeteer at the thunderous wave of your feeling. The arousal at this point is animalistic, coming up to your throat, making you mumble. Not talk - talking is banned in between you, but the unconnected shreds of words dripping off your lips, that he catches with his teeth, are okay.

"I want you".

"No, I want you more".

You feel his shoulder flex as he lifts your hips, depriving you of the pressure of his groin, and you immediately whine.

"Oh no, I spoiled you", he whispers, Daegu words blurring with each other, his voice a soft purr. He turns you, pushing on the stomach, and you lie down, and his hands start working immediately, mouth at its favourite activitiy: tracing the lines of your shuddering stomach. Yoongi undoes the jeans and pulls them down together with the underwear. His fingers plunge immediately into you, without a warning, and you produce a silent shriek. Hands searching for him, nails digging into the massive of his shoulders. Yoongi likes the way his own words sounded: I spoiled you. Likes the absolute mess that you are, squirming at his touch, he feels appreciated, wanted, needed. He never managed to make anyone like this before; he has made a quiet unspoken promise long time ago to never tell anyone about it. About how you seem to lose your sentience when his lips are below the solar plexus. He is in love with this sensation. He wants to keep it going, but can't; he can't think; he pulls down his jeans because he wants to fuck you senseless, fuck you into amnesia, and himself; so that tomorrow the things are easier and clearer; you're a blurry silhouette for him, moving against the sea of darkness, the buoy he's swimming towards, and the tighter you cling onto him, the better. He feels cradled, he feels loved. It feels hot inside of you, incredibly tight, you always wrap your legs around his waist like a monkey, trying to push him deeper even when it starts hurting the hips. The best thing - you both cannot come easily because you're drunk, so it just goes on and on, the swimming, the touching, your sounds blooming like flowers on fruit trees. He thinks of sampling them, putting them within the underbeat, masking them, but using them; he has been trying to figure out the beat that would describe the way he feels with you: sharp hip bone in his hand, the heel of your foot on his leg, the tasty chemical of your peach fragrance that he licked clean off your throat. It's the frustration of never finding the right melody, because making music requires love, and he is too busy to allow it to himself, so he just fucks like there's no tomorrow, apologizing through his embrace, dripping feelings off the tips of his hair.

─────────────────────────────────────

A whole month away is good. For Yoongi. He gets to travel across all Asia and do some hiking, turn his phone off and just be completely alone. Not to think, he doesn't want to think, he wants to have his brains blank and just see pines, and the slope of the mountain, the birds soaring above, and the flowers fluttering in the wind. But the thoughts come by themselves; he realizes it's a trap that he had set for himself. Because mountains remind him of you, and he finally starts understanding what exactly makes the connection. It's the feeling of freedom, good loneliness and realness that they provide.

Relationships are promises, ruined plans, unplanned arguments, ridiculous commitments and distractions. Yoongi knows himself very well: he is not a multitasking person, and when he is in love, which thankfully doesn't happen often, he is beside himself with the feeling, and it affects work. Sometimes positively, sometimes negatively. It's been so comfortable, so well-organized - living in his independence bubble - that he is pushing the ghost away, because the ghost is whispering scary things to him. Coffee dates; he imagines sitting with you in a place in Yongsan-gu and watching your face and your beaded necklace not matching your band tee. He imagines you in his hoodies; you have stolen none of them, you always abstained from going through his things, touching him too much, and now he realizes it was because he had pushed you away that one time. He imagines you'll be trouble, headache, high maintenance. If you had been sore, had held on that grudge for almost a year, over a thing he had almost forgotten. He imagines these fights will make him feel so alive. You riding in his car, on your phone; cooking; lying in bed with one knee across his belly - all those things have already happened, but from sensual they are now turning warm. Yoongi understands he is losing, he is already taking this weight upon himself, little by little, because in the mountains he refuses to wear his earbuds and listen to music, and the silence is the ghost that follows him around, hammering the truth he's been avoiding into his brain. He imagines your hand gripping his palm, so hard that he yelps in pain, as you turn your face away, and the line of your jaw exposes the little birthmark you have on your neck. He's been kissing that birthmark in secret for months, pleased that you will never guess why he's choosing that very spot specifically.

You brew a coffee. Every time you're bored, the recipes become more and more complex, you keep adding ingredients until the coffee either sends you to heaven or is undrinkable. By now, there's cinnamon, star anise, almond syrup, and now... you're eyeing mint like it's about to jump you. Yolo, you think, and add a little mint, and it's still a success. You're becoming a coffee extraordinaire, you think; even if no one else appreciates your inventive mixing skills.

Jimin is there, of course; cruising around you like an albatross, appreciating every little thing about you. But his presence is breezy, light: he is a natural flirt and it doesn't set off any of your alarms. It seems he simply likes being around you. You see glasses case that he puts in another hand as he takes the coffee from you.

"Never seen you wearing glasses for real?" you're surprised.

"These are not for me, I picked them up from the store for hyung. He doesn't leave his little evil studio these days, got back to the 7AM schedule".

He shrugs. 7AM schedule with Yoongi means he works all night and goes to sleep at 7AM for about three hours, then gets up and goes back to working.

"He never found his glasses?"

"No".

"Somebody must have stolen them", you muse, recalling how they were left lying on the window sill.

"It's weird, normally he only loses things if they cost more than a thousand bucks", he snickers. You're expecting a feedback. Jimin's tastebuds have proven to be professionally sensitive: he is picky with food and always gives an honest opinion of the coffee. He frowns first, his huge eyes focused on the cup, full lips moving like he's chewing. Jimin is charismatic while doing nothing, and he definitely wouldn't have a problem with you, so you wonder why you can't just unlove Yoongi and fall for him instead. Or better, for nobody at all. Even in his brother's face, you're searching for his familiar features, but there aren't any. Jimin looks like a genie who will grant your wishes in the most perverted way so that you'll feel sorry after.

"It's... good?" he is, himself, shocked. "It makes me want to go to Morocco".

"That's an unorthodox review".

"You should get a patent. Name it Faux Morocco Latte and you'll be rich".

"I already have a rich inner world".

He chuckles ironically at that, keeping the cup close to his lips. His phone rings.

"Oh, there he is. I think he needs his glasses", Jimin ignores the call from Yoongi, putting his phone on the desk. "Let him wait a little, right?"

He pats you lightly on the shoulder, like he is siding with you on something. Like that one friend who is ready to smother your ex with her bare hands without needing to know the details. You are slightly bothered by it.

Yoongi lifts his arm and puts his hand into his hair, his eyes fixated on a spot on the desk. The underside of his shoulder is tense, he freezes in this position, thinking, and you can't avoid looking at him even though your eyes move. Your spot is never next to him, it's always a little away, in the back, not at the table. You do not see it as derogatory: without your work, they can't do it, and the hierarchy is there for a reason. When idols are present during the meetings with usual staff like you, everybody feels sorry for them. There go the scapegoats, the puppets, the clowns. Everybody is nice to them because they all have two features: beauty and lack of autono-

"I don't give a shit", Yoongi says calmly.

You doodle in your pad; these meetings are a must, and most often not a word is spoken about your area of work, so you just kill your time looking at Yoongi; at least something. Now everybody is looking at him.

The manager raises his eyebrows. He looks tired all the time.

"Sorry?"

Yoongi leaves his hair alone and places his hand on the desk, wrist caught in a hair tie.

"I said I don't give a shit about the deadline".

Namjoon purses his lips producing dimples. His silence indicates that he agrees with Yoongi. One by one, Bangtan Boys usually stand behind each other, but it always takes a first brave mouth to say something outrageous. Taehyung is rubbing his lower lip absent-mindedly. Yoongi's eyes are puffy, he gives the manager an unaffected shark-like stare that masters openness and simultaneously, stubbornness of a rock.

"It's there for a reason".

"We had discussed the update, and Taehyung hasn't slept in three days".

Taehyung doesn't even hear him.

"What about you?" manager asks softly, trying to lead Yoongi away from his deadly determination.

"I'm working. I'm fine".

His eyes start searching the room, landing everywhere except you. You cross your legs and go back to your pad.

"A week is fine", Namjoon adds, to defuse the tension. After a little back and forth the manager gives up. He always does; he's not the real boss here. Everybody gets up, the important people first: manager leaves the room pacing, hurrying to implement the schedule corrections, J-Hope leaves darker than a storm cloud, which is unusual for him; you gather your things from the floor: you're in a habit of just putting your bag and phone next to the chair since you're sitting at the glass wall. The line at the door gradually disperses and you walk to exit the meeting room but Yoongi turns his head, still sitting, and looks straight at you with a completely different stare. He doesn't say anything, so you just look at him and move on, but Taehyung closes the door in front of you like he didn't notice, and walks away. You see his back through the grey-transparent glass.

"Y/N", Yoongi sounds tired, more tired than he did a minute ago. His back hunched, he is softer, more undone.

"Huh, CEO?"

In spite of himself, he gives out a smile, and his teeth scrape over his lower lip, which makes you wince.

"What do you want?" you say quickly, colder, trying to wrap yourself up, zip up, close up. His hand reaches out but you're too far away, ready at the door, wondering what kind of games he is playing. The fatigue is obvious on his face but thankfully it's not your burden anymore. It does pull on your strings though, so in an attempt to keep up the strength, you frown.

"You win", he says. His words are round, it's the best shape. "I lose".

He stands up, and you want to roll your eyes, not with annoyance, but with an overwhelming feeling of unwillingness. The labour of trying to get over him is draining you like there's a huge gash somewhere that's dripping blood. Every time he is in close vicinity of you, the stream becomes only bigger, it's mentally tiring. Fighting feelings is exhausting. Yoongi is reaching for you, his face an impression of quiet need, and you try to avert his arm, a crusty cut on his elbow, gently. He goes for a timid hug with one hand and you grow stiff, putting up your shoulder. You end up straining your neck, chin up while Yoongi performs the softest forced hug. He needs to press his forehead into you, because he hasn't eaten in twelve hours, and he is so frustrated and a little terrified, and you are the smell of home.

The man of few words. His actions speak much louder.

What's even louder is the music that's on the USB he shoves into your hand. You listen to it at home, sitting away from the laptop like it can see your embarrassed face going through motions. The beats are clean, the rawest you've heard. Yoongi has his own way of polishing music that always makes it crisp like the air in January. They have no words, because it's Yoongi. But the beats, the melodies, talk to you. They sound like the night you met, when you caught rain on your hand to soothe it. Sound like his voice filling the space of his car, and like the hiss of the coffee machine, like the shuffling of your sheets, and like the streets, muffled by the windows, hooting outside. His melodies sound like the wind and the voices of pine trees, their ancient blood singing inside the hard bark. Sound like the sea. The music he has written and named after you sounds like he is diving for pearls and swimming up, panting, like he has given up to something. It's the crack of your hip getting back into place, and the click of his phone, the purr he produces when falling asleep. It's his flowers. The dark circles under his eyes mean he has gotten over the block, and two days after giving the USB to you he calls, and there's an audible strain in his voice, because he is learning to speak:

"I can't give you all those things that are normal, you know".

"Like what?" you are spiteful, although you understand his regret. He doesn't even go grocery shopping. All food is delivered to his house. Last time he got to walk around the city, he got ecstatic and wouldn't stop talking about it for weeks. He was like a child, describing the feeling of the asphalt in Gangseo-gu next to the botanic garden under his foot; you felt deeply sorry for him. Right until the point he mentioned having to borrow the jet again, because he wants to go visit a friend in America.

"Like walking home from a bar at night together, like, holding hands".

"Sounds like it's your fantasies".

"That's all I have".

You tell him you don't want to be the glaring vortex hole in his schedule, sucking in meetings, messing up sleep, putting a strain on the well-spinning parts of the mechanism. He replies it's too late for that. And for once, he actually sounds happy.

─────────────────────────────────────

He points his finger:

"The line where the red roofs end? That's the Osaka Bay".

"If I get a really good start", you muse, "and have like a very big umbrella, can I jump and glide all the way there?"

He thinks about it seriously. Squirms his face in the sun like a sleepy cat. His black eyes blink.

"You'll fly for around seven seconds".

His hand touches the side of your head and then slides down to your shoulder, then moving your closer, pressing you into his side. The air is so fresh that it's putting you to sleep, and the tears in your eyes, provoked by the wind, make everything around seem blurry. Like you're in a cartoon. Like it's a dream. The sea far in the distance shines in separate flashes of sunlight.

"There was no need for that", you mutter, cosying up next to him, clutching on his big arm. His neck smells like aftershave and raspberries. The curse hisses in between his teeth, fingers pinch your cheek lightly. Then go back to your shoulder and start drumming a rhythm; writing music off the closeness of you. You leave the slope of the mountain together, at the same time.

[goldbloomsworld]

You Know, I Think I Can Understand Why Michi Didn't Care About Mai

P.S: This post is meant to explain bad parenting, not excuse it. And this analysis will be focused on the show, not the comics.

Inspired by @zuko-always-lies and a Twitter thread I made earlier in the month(https://tinyurl.com/5epfmkvp)

The relationship between Mai, Michi(her mother), and Ukano(Mai's father) is not one that is given vast amounts of exploration. In fact, it's only explored in two episodes. But it still provides fascinating insight into the FN upperclass, and how imperialism can warp human relationships, even for the victors.

This is the first piece of dialogue we get when we first meet Mai and Michi:

It may not seem like much, but there's a lot to unpack here:

The conversation starts with Mai voicing her intense displeasure with the move to Omashu. Michi responds by bringing up Ukano's new appointment and their families' rise in status, and she states that Mai should be happy and enjoy the perks of their new position. Mai then responds by saying she has nothing to do and nothing ever happens, which Michi responds to by scowling.

Now, Mai isn't someone who's shy about expressing discontent (we see that throughout the show). But Michi's response (or lack thereof) to her discontent is very telling about their relationship. Firstly, Mai felt comfortable enough with her mother to openly express her dislike of their current situation, which indicates that Michi is probably the more active and approachable parent (Mai was angry about the way Ukano handled the pentapox situation, but all she did was offer him fireflakes).

Secondly, she didn't expect anything more than for her complaints to be dismissed and ignored. When she voices how bleak Omashu is, she doesn't expect a response, nor does she react to Michi's disdainful frown.

On Michi's end, while she's definitely not passionate about her daughters' continued misery, and would like to see her happy, she also doesn't really care. She never once asks about possible solutions to her daughter's boredom or isolation, nor does she ask Mai about what exactly is missing from her current life in Omashu that's causing her misery. She has no response to Mai's second comment, and is content to just side-eye her and move on.

I think we can all agree that this isn't stellar parenting, but if we go back and look at things from Michi's perspective, it makes sense:

I think there's enough in the text to conclude that Michi had fertility issues (Having 2 children 13 years apart doesn't seem like something someone in Michi's position would have done by choice. )

(Plus, if you believe Mai is Izumi's mother, this may be why Izumi is an only child).

So imagine this: you've spent a significant amount of time trying unsuccessfully to produce a male heir because men are the only ones that get high-ranking positions in your nation(remember guys, Azula was the only female in the war meeting and she was the Crown Princess who was specifically invited by the Firelord). While you're going through that, you and your husband have been working to advance his political career in order to protect and elevate your family. Then, finally, after 13 long years, you have a son, and soon after that, your husband is elevated to the position of governor of an entire colony. You've hit the jackpot, and all your efforts and ambitions have finally paid off. Under those circumstances, how perceptive would you be to the needs of the least necessary member of your family?

That scowl is foul, but I understand

In an imperial system, someone's intrinsic value is based on how much of an asset they are to the system. Mai is neither her family's future nor is she it's present. Her greatest task is to marry well, and her biggest prospect was burned and sent on an impossible scavenger hunt. Every time we see Michi care deeply for something, there's a logical reason(she cares about the fate of the city because her husband could potentially lose his governorship if it's mishandled; she cares about her son because he's the future of the family), but Michi doesn't have a logical reason to care about Mai, so she doesn't. And that makes Mai feel like her feelings don't matter, which causes her to repress herself.

Azula, the world's least qualified psychotherapist

I do think Mai cares about her family, and she wants their approval. But she much prefers that the company of the Fire Siblings and Ty Lee to theirs. That's why she was ready to go the moment she had the first opportunity. I'm not a big fan of the way the comics reset the familial relationships, because it didn't feel earned, and it felt like Yang missed the point of the original dynamic.

PS: I don't know why so many Zutara shippers insist on denying Mai's trauma. It doesn't actually make sense from a shipping standpoint because Mai's trauma doesn't somehow make her more suitable for Zuko (you could even argue that it makes her less suitable if you want to take it that far). Honestly, sometimes it feels like character spite drives certain segments of this fandom more than anything else.

[lemonyinks]

I still have a lot of love in my heart for the adaptations of MDZS, but the book is just...undeniably better.

Especially when it comes to the depiction of the main couple. Of course, this can largely be attributed to censorship, but even still, I feel like the adaptations have a great misunderstanding of Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji in general. Or at least CQL does. I have not watched the animation in years, meanwhile I recently binged both the live action and the book.

Lan Wangji is...deeply in love and deeply devoted to Wei Wuxian. I often see him depicted in the fandom as a stickler for the rules, someone who tries to force them onto Wei Wuxian at every turn. This might have been who he was when he was a teenager, but adult Lan Wangji - who knows what sticking to those rules so strictly leads to - is not like that. Like. At all.

For all he pretends to stick to the rules - telling Wei Wuxian not to speak while eating, no alcohol, no excessive noise, etc - he doesn't actually give two shits if Wei Wuxian sticks to them or not. It is more force of habit than anything.

He doesn't even care too much about following them himself anymore. In fact, he happily breaks them time and time again. The only thing that Lan Wangji cares about after he finally has the love of his life back is that that same love is happy.

I think this excerpt from the Chapter 116 Banquet Extra perfectly exhibits Lan Wangji's stance on the Lan rules.

(side note; it is unbearably sweet that he went out of his way to make sure his husband didn't have to eat food he didn't like, and also went out and got him something that would satisfy his hunger. He loves him so much).

He would do anything to make him happy. Anything.

I feel like the CQL really fails to express that. Changing the events of the Nightless City and taking away the first Burial Mound Siege causes a lot of problems in the MDZS story telling (maybe more on that in another post because it pisses me off) but I think maybe one of the biggest things it impacts is showing to us Lan Wangji's devotion.

While it is true that he was conflicted, emotionally constipated, and still tied down by the rules he was taught to obey for his entire life during the events pre 13 year time skip, he was still deeply in love with him and he has pretty much always stood by his side.

He spoke up for him, defended him where he could when no one else but Mianmian would (also maybe more on her). And when push came to shove, when it was him against the entire world, he made the active and violent (not said in a negative way) decision to defend him with everything he had.

He hid him away from pursuers for days, desperately trying to nurse him back to health even while he himself was also injured and exhausted. He even chose to hurt his own people in defense of him when it came down to it.

chapter 99

I think the Nightless City, while not his turning point, was what truly cemented it for him. It doesn't matter who it is, it doesn't matter what rules, Lan Wangji will always, always go against them for Wei Wuxian.

[gdinthehouseee]

Born To Die (CHAPTER 3): KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: a deeper look into the origins of your love, and his power... and ji-yong's first unexpected ally.

word count: 7614

tags: slow burn, angst, sickness, injury, death, religious themes

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The village, nestled between craggy hills and dense woods, always held a kind of solitude, as if the world beyond didn’t quite reach it. A perfect place for whispered secrets and hidden smiles—especially for you and Ji-yong.

It was late afternoon when he would find you at the edge of the field, the sun casting a soft glow on your hair as you knelt by the wildflowers, your fingers careful but gentle as you worked. You were always helping someone. It was just how you were. Most days, it was the children—the ones whose mothers couldn’t spare the time to tend to them, or the ones whose fathers were always too busy with farm work. You made small bouquets for them, often trailing fresh herbs between your fingers so they could smell the earth’s sweetness. Sometimes, you would teach them how to care for the plants themselves, patiently explaining how a flower bloomed, how a leaf caught the morning dew.

You would give them your small hand-sewn pouches filled with herbs, remedies for their coughs or aches. The children adored you, and though the parents of the village often whispered, “she’s cursed,” their little ones only saw you as the woman who always knew how to make the pain go away, who listened when no one else would.

"Don’t they think you’re too kind for a witch?" Ji-yong had asked once, watching you from a distance, his gaze soft with admiration.

You had laughed—a sound so sweet that it made the trees almost hold their breath. “They think I’m cursed because of the disease. But they don't see how I care for them.”

"But, I do." He said, stepping closer, eyes dark with something deeper than just affection. He had always known the truth—that your kindness was a balm for the village, even if they couldn’t see it. He loved you for it. Loved you for your quiet strength, for your belief in helping others, even when it seemed like the world had turned its back on you.

You caught sight of him then, standing at the edge of the field, his brow furrowed with concern. Without a word, you stood, dusting off your dress and walking toward him, the children’s laughter fading behind you as they went off to play.

"Ji-yong," you whispered softly, smiling as you reached out to him, fingers grazing his hand. It was a small touch, almost innocent, but for him, it felt like the first spark of something he couldn’t ignore. "What are you doing here?"

He grinned, that familiar impish grin that made your heart flutter even though you tried to keep your composure. "I came to see if you were still alive after your little adventures with those children. You’ve been gone for hours."

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your smile told him everything he needed to know. You were always so full of life, despite the illness that seemed to be creeping over you with each passing day.

"It’s just a cough.” 

But there was a faint tremor in your voice. He didn’t miss it. He didn’t miss how pale you looked either, how your smile was thinner than it used to be, how your eyes had lost that spark of hope they once held so brightly.

"You know you don’t have to do this," Ji-yong said, the joking tone falling away as his hand found yours. "The village can manage without you for once."

"I can't stop. They need me, Ji-yong."

It wasn’t long after that when the news came. It spread through the village like wildfire, carried by gossip and fear. The man your parents had promised you to—the wealthy merchant—had found out about your sickness. The engagement was called off. No more promises of safety, no more assurances of a comfortable life. Truly a strange sort of freedom, but a painful one. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want to be free of him, not like this. Not because your body had failed you. And still, the weight of the village’s gaze pressed down on you, their whispers sharper now, louder than before. They couldn’t look at you without seeing the disease.

"They think I’m cursed," you had said that evening when Ji-yong came to find you in your small house, your voice hollow as you gazed out the window.

"Don’t let them fill your mind with that. You are not what they say."

But you were silent, too tired to argue, and Ji-yong, though full of youthful optimism, could feel something dark in the air—something that made him afraid. You had always been the light of the village. Even those who whispered behind your back couldn’t deny the kindness you offered, the way you cared for the children, the way you spent hours after the sun had set, stitching garments for the poor, or weaving small blankets for the elderly. But now, the light was fading, and he could see it in your eyes.

"Let me help you.” He said, his hand resting on the small of your back.

You had smiled, weak but genuine. "I know you will. But what can you do, Ji-yong? You’re just one person."

"I’m not just anyone," he replied, and for the first time, there was something darker in his eyes—a flash of determination. "I will fix this. No matter what it takes."

But there was no fixing this. There was only the knowledge that you were slipping away from him, and no matter how hard he tried to fight, he couldn’t stop it.

It was late afternoon when Ji-yong first heard the news. He had been walking back from the edge of the village, arms full of firewood, when he passed by the bakery. A small cluster of townsfolk were gathered outside, their voices low but not nearly low enough.

"Did you hear? Lord Victor backed out of the engagement."

"Aye. Said she’s too sick to bear him a child. Not fit for a lord’s home."

"She’s cursed, I tell you. Witches run in her family. Folk have long whispered that her mother and grandmother carry a strange sort of presence—sets the whole village on edge, it does.

"And now she lies up in that house, draining her parents dry. It’s punishment, that’s what it is—God's punishment."

Ji-yong stopped walking. The firewood in his arms creaked as his grip tightened. Something in his chest snapped—a brittle thread stretched too tight for too long. “Say that again.”

The women startled, turning to see him standing in the middle of the road, eyes dark, jaw clenched. One of them, older and bold with years, narrowed her eyes. “I said she’s cursed. If she weren’t, she wouldn’t be wasting away like this.”

He dropped the wood at his feet.

“You don’t know her,” he said, the edge of his voice sharp enough to cut. “You don’t know anything about her.”

“She bewitched you, boy.” Another one muttered, trying to turn away.

He stepped forward. “She took care of your children when you were too drunk to feed them. She gave away half her blankets last winter to the poor, and you call her a witch?”

The old woman flinched. Ji-yong’s voice had risen—he hadn’t meant for it to—but his hands were shaking, his chest tight with rage.

“She’s dying,” he hissed, “and you sit here and speak of her like she’s nothing. Like she deserves it.”

“She does—”

“Don’t you dare,” he growled, his voice suddenly lower, dangerous; so unlike anything the village has ever heard before. The words thick with a venom even he didn’t realise he could produce. “Don’t you ever speak of her like that again.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He left the firewood behind and stormed off down the lane, breath fogging in the cold air, his boots hitting the ground like drumbeats of fury. The village was rotting from the inside, and they couldn’t see they were the ones poisoning it.

He didn’t even think as he approached your gate. His body just moved—some part of him needing to do something before he came apart entirely.

Your father answered the door, surprised by the suddenness of his arrival. “Ji-yong—?”

“I heard what happened,” he said breathlessly. “About the nobleman. About the engagement. I—I need to speak with you.”

Your father, noting the fire in his eyes, stepped aside wordlessly. Your mother looked up from the hearth, a little startled, but didn’t speak.

“I know I’m not a rich man,” Ji-yong began, breath still uneven, “but I’ve loved her since we were children. Since we ran in the fields and she taught me how to make wreaths from clover. I know her heart. I know her soul. And it’s worth more than any coin or title.”

He swallowed hard, voice cracking slightly.

“I heard what they’re saying about her. Out there. And I can’t—I can’t just stand by anymore.”

Your mother looked away, jaw tightening. Your father studied him closely.

“But I’m not asking for their blessing,” Ji-yong said. “I’m asking for yours. Let me take care of her. I’ll work harder than I ever have. I’ll find something. Anything.”

Your father sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “You don’t understand, son. She doesn’t just need food and shelter. She needs medicine. A future. What you feel for her—God knows it’s true—but it may not be enough.”

Your mother spoke then, quiet and honest. “We’re grateful for you. Truly. You’ve been kinder to her than anyone in this place.”

Ji-yong bowed his head. “That’s not kindness. That’s what she deserves.”

Without another word, your father nodded toward the stairs.

“Go see her. She’ll want to know you came.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He ascended the narrow staircase, the familiar creak of the steps sounding louder than ever. Your door was half-open. He pushed it gently. You lay curled beneath your quilt, a flicker of candlelight brushing your paler skin. You looked even smaller than he remembered. His chest ached as he walked over slowly, sitting at the edge of your bed, brushing your hand with his fingertips. You stirred. When your eyes opened and met his, something bloomed briefly in them—something soft, and warm, and impossibly tender.

“Ji,” you whispered.

“I’m here,” he said. “I went to your parents. Told them I wanted to take care of you.”

You blinked slowly, like it took effort to stay present. “They don’t think you can.”

“I don’t blame them.” He smiled sadly. “I don’t have a mansion or gold. Just… my word. And this unbearable need to keep you alive.”

You let out a shaky breath, barely a laugh. “You always were dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” he said, leaning closer, brushing your hair from your face. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted. If there’s a way to save you, I’ll find it. Even if I have to go to the edge of the world.”

“Ji…”

“I swear it,” he said. “I’ll come back with something. I will.”

“What if you don’t come back at all?”

He kissed your forehead, soft and reverent.

“Then I’ll haunt the stars for eternity until I do.”

And with that, he rose.

By the time the moon hung above the trees and the wind sang low through the valley, Ji-yong was already gone—following a path that had no map, no end, and no promise of light. Only love and desperation.

He traveled for twelve days before the cold finally found his bones. The sun never lingered anymore—just a pale disk swallowed quickly by gray skies and long shadows. Ji-yong moved from village to village, boots caked in mud, asking the same quiet question in every healer’s home, every chapel, every apothecary tucked between frost-bitten trees:

"Is there anything that can heal a dying girl?"

Most didn’t even look up when they said no. Some chuckled, shook their heads. One old priest pressed a hand to Ji-yong’s shoulder and told him to prepare for the girl’s soul to meet God.

But God wasn’t listening. And Ji-yong wasn’t praying.

He sold his horse in the fifth town. His coat in the seventh. He slept in barns and beneath trees, his skin chapped from wind, his eyes sunken from lack of sleep. Still, he walked. Still, he asked. The nights were the worst—when the silence pressed in so thick he could almost hear your voice in the wind.

“Ji, come inside. You’ll catch a chill out there.” 

“Ji, don’t look at me like that. I’m not gone yet.” 

“Ji… stay with me a little longer. Please.”

But he couldn’t stay. Not if there was a chance—any chance at all—that something in the world could keep you alive.

It wasn’t until the twelfth night, shivering beneath a crumbling statue in a ghost town chapel, that he heard the name whispered for the first time. The witch. A child said it, speaking to no one. Dirty, wild-eyed, murmuring under their breath as they counted candle stubs in the dark.

Ji-yong looked up sharply. “What did you say?”

The child blinked. Then they smiled—wide, crooked, too many teeth. “She takes things,” they whispered. “Takes what matters and gives what doesn’t. She lives where the trees don’t grow.”

And then they were gone.

Ji-yong followed the rumor east. No map guided him. Just a thousand stories in a hundred tongues, none of them kind. A woman who drank blood. A crone with silver eyes. A forest that devoured men whole and spat out bones.

By the time he found the woods, he had nothing left but a dagger and a half-eaten loaf of bread.

No moon guided him. The trees were black columns clawing at the sky, and the ground was slick with rot. He moved carefully, as if the forest itself might change behind him—and it did. He could feel it, paths curling like smoke, leading him somewhere dark and deliberate. And there, nestled in the clearing like a wound, stood a crooked shack of stone and bone, lit by a single green flame. He stepped toward it. 

His breath caught in his throat.

The door creaked open before he could knock. She was already waiting. The witch stood barefoot in the doorway, long white hair falling like river water around her shoulders. Her skin was pale as wax. Her eyes were… wrong. Shifting. Deep. Like staring into a reflection that wasn’t your own.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I didn’t know I was expected.”

She turned her back and walked inside. “No one does. Not until they are.”

Ji-yong hesitated only a moment before following her. The door closed behind him on its own. The inside of her home smelled of herbs and rust. Bones hung from the rafters, some carved with strange sigils. A pot simmered in the hearth, thick and dark. No windows, no mirrors. Time bent differently here. She sat across from him and poured tea into a cup made of stone.

“You want to save someone,” she stated matter-of-factly. 

He nodded. “She’s dying. She’s all I have.”

The witch studied him in silence. The fire cast long shadows across her face, shifting it into something almost inhuman—both ageless and ancient. Her eyes gleamed like wet stone.

“There are sicknesses,” she said softly, “and there are bindings.”

“I don’t care what it is,” Ji-yong said, leaning forward. “Just tell me what to give. I’ll pay it. Whatever you want.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

“You already have,” she murmured, standing with a fluid grace that made the room feel colder.

She moved through her crooked home, fingers dancing over dusty shelves and bowls filled with things he didn’t recognize. Ash, nightshade, a shard of something sharp and gleaming. A single strand of what looked like hair. Ji-yong didn’t ask. He couldn’t afford to question it now. She placed the ingredients into a black stone bowl, muttering words he didn’t understand; words from a language that came long before his time. The air thickened, a strange pulse pressing against his skin.

“What will it cost?” He asked, throat dry.

The witch didn’t look at him. “You won’t sleep. You won’t age. The sun will no longer love you. And your hunger will change.”

He blinked, confusion twisting inside him. “What are you doing to me?”

“Giving you what you asked for,” she said.

“Will it work?” Desperation clear as a summer’s day in his voice.

She stepped closer. Her palm pressed against his chest, right over his heart.

“Drink when the hunger comes. Stay in the dark. And don’t waste what I’ve given you.” Then, softer—almost a whisper, “she’ll need you to stay strong.”

Hope bloomed in his chest like a fragile flower, trembling under frost. He opened his mouth to speak—but then the air shifted, and everything pulled inside him like a scream locked behind his ribs. He didn’t feel his knees hit the ground. Only the fire dimming. His body convulsing. 

The sound of his own heartbeat disappearing.

Returning, the village looked the same. That was the first thing that struck him. Everything was the same. The thatched rooftops glistened faintly with dew. The dirt paths still curved like veins through the square. The sun hadn’t quite risen, but he could see as if it had. Every crack in the wood. Every thread in a curtain shifting behind a window. He could hear a kettle whistling in the far-off baker’s home, a dog stirring in a barn on the other side of town. It was all normal.

But he was not.

Ji-yong moved too quickly down the road—so fast the wind stung his skin, though he barely felt it. His heartbeat was absent, replaced by something else pulsing through his veins. Energy. Hunger. He ignored it. He didn’t knock on your door. He pushed it open, not realizing how hard until the wood creaked under his hand. The scent of your home overwhelmed him instantly.

Lavender. A hint of dried herbs. The faintest trace of you—your skin, your breath. But it was off. Stale. Like air that hadn’t moved in too long. 

He staggered.

Your mother appeared from the back room. Her hand rose to her chest, and the second her eyes met his, something in them cracked.

“Ji-yong,” she whispered. There was sorrow in her voice. He blinked. Her pulse—he could hear it. The quiver in her chest. The way her breath hitched.

“Where is she?”

She didn’t answer. Just stepped aside.

He ran up the stairs.

The moment he reached your doorway, he stopped. Everything inside him screamed. The air was too still. The scent was wrong. No warmth. No sound. Not even your soft wheeze, the one you always tried to hide from him when your lungs ached. Just quiet. Still. Your room was tidy. Candle nearly out. Bowl beside your bed clean. A folded cloth on the edge of the dresser.

And you.

You lay beneath the blanket like you had the day he left—almost. Your hands rested together, your hair curled neatly over your shoulder. Your lips were slightly parted. But there was no breath. His body moved before his brain could catch up.

“Y/N?”

He was beside you in a flash, trembling fingers reaching to touch your cheek.

Cold.

Not cool from sleep. 

Cold.

“No,” he whispered.

His ears rang. His mind reeled.

“You were waiting for me,” he said. “I—I went to find help. I found it. I have it. I can fix this.”

You didn’t stir.

He pressed his ear to your chest; one last vulnerable attempt to tell himself this was just a living nightmare. No heartbeat. No sound. The silence hit like a thunderclap. Everything exploded. The light was too bright. The shadows in the corner of the room moved. The scent of death hung thick in the air now that he recognized it. He could hear the scrape of the floorboards as your mother slowly stepped upstairs. He could hear the wind brushing against the headstones in the graveyard a mile away. It was too much.

His hands shook. His vision blurred—not with tears, but with rage and pain and panic clawing at his chest.

“She’s not—” His voice broke. “She can’t be—she was waiting for me—”

He clutched your hand to his chest. It felt wrong. Too light. Too still. The warmth had left, and something else had left with it. Something he didn’t understand until now.

Your soul was gone.

No. No, that couldn't be right.

“I paid,” he said hoarsely. “She said it would work. I paid whatever she wanted—I felt it—I died. Isn’t that enough?”

He gripped your fingers tighter. “I did it for you.”

The silence didn’t answer. 

And he screamed. Not like a man. A sound that tore from his chest and cracked the air, raw and ragged and monstrous.

Your mother rushed into the doorway, gasping at the sight of him. She fell to her knees beside him, her tears wetting your blanket. “She waited,” she whispered. “She asked for you. She—she kept whispering your name. She said… if anyone could fix this, it was you.”

Ji-yong didn’t hear her. He was somewhere else. Somewhere far below the surface of himself, choking on the weight of what had been taken. What he had tried to save, and lost anyway. The witch’s words echoed faintly in his mind. Words he hadn’t thought mattered. A price must be paid. He thought he had been the price, but something else had been taken instead.

You.

Ji-yong didn’t move. He stayed kneeling at your bedside, his fingers curled tightly around your still hand, as if sheer force could bring you back. His shoulders rose and fell in short, shallow breaths, but he didn’t notice he no longer needed to breathe. His body was working on memory, not need.

He barely registered your mother standing up, leaving him to grieve alone, likely seeking out the comfort of your father.

The world had gone muffled, like he was trapped beneath a thick sheet of ice. Everything he saw, everything he heard—it all came through distorted and slow, like a dream bleeding into a nightmare. He thought he would feel rage. Fury enough to shake the skies. But all he felt was hollow. Empty. He bowed his head until his forehead pressed against the back of your hand. The touch of your cold skin against his still-burning forehead was like a blade sliding between his ribs.

“I was supposed to save you,” he whispered, the words barely audible. His voice cracked, thinner than a child's.

He stayed there.

Minutes dragged past, or maybe hours. Time didn’t seem to function right anymore. His mind wandered desperately, replaying every memory, every smile, every stolen moment like a man clawing through sand trying to hold onto water.

The last time you laughed—truly laughed—he had said something stupid, tripping over his own words, and you had pressed a hand to your mouth to try to stifle it. You always laughed like you were trying not to. The last time you touched him, your hand had brushed his sleeve by accident, and you blushed so hard you refused to look at him the rest of the day. The last time he saw you awake, you had been trying to sit upright to reassure him, stubborn as ever, even when you were too weak to stand. He had missed it; everything. He had missed your last breath. Your last words. Your last heartbeat. He could have been here. He could have held you. He could have said goodbye. Instead, he had been chasing miracles. He had left you alone.

A raw sound tore from his throat as he pulled you closer to him, cradling your body to his chest. The bed creaked under the sudden movement.

“Please,” he whispered into your hair. His voice broke apart in his mouth, ugly and desperate. “Please, just wake up. I’m here now. I’m here. I can fix it. I promised.”

Your head lolled against him.

The finality of it hit him like a hammer.

He clutched you tighter, his entire body trembling now, wracked with grief so consuming it hollowed him out from the inside.

He couldn’t even cry properly—his body, his blood, everything about him was wrong now. His pain didn’t know how to escape. It thrashed inside of him, building pressure until his teeth ached, his vision blurred at the edges, and the hunger—the wrong hunger—stirred in the pit of his stomach. He could smell death now. He could taste it in the air. And it was your scent.

A sob finally broke free, strangled and raw.

“I was supposed to be enough,” he gasped. “I would have done anything. I did—”

He choked.

You didn’t answer.

Slowly, Ji-yong lifted his head, his eyes unfocused, wild.

The room, once filled with the soft comforts of your life—your books stacked neatly, your worn quilt folded at the foot of the bed, your little wooden comb lying forgotten on the dresser—all of it seemed to mock him now. All of it alive when you were not.

Somewhere outside, a rooster crowed. Morning light began to creep through the cracks in the curtains. The world was moving on. Without you. It wasn’t fair. Life itself wasn’t fair, but had it ever been in the first place?

He rocked you gently in his arms, like he could keep you warm if he just tried hard enough. His mind refused to accept it. If he just waited long enough, maybe you’d blink. Maybe you’d scold him for worrying too much. Maybe he’d wake up from this living nightmare—this hellscape—in a world that you’re not alive and well, how could he keep going?

But deep down, he knew this was the harsh reality.

The sunlight crept in slowly, indifferent to the way the world had ended inside the little room. Ji-yong barely noticed at first. He was lost, adrift, swaying slightly where he sat on the edge of your bed with you cradled in his arms. His head was bowed so low that his hair curtained around his face, hiding the wreckage of his expression from the empty room.

Your skin was cooling against his. Your scent—once so warm, so full of life—was already fading.

He shifted slightly, meaning to tuck a loose lock of hair behind your ear, as he had done so many times before when you were too weak to do it yourself. But as he lifted his hand, a beam of light sliced through the half-open curtains—and it touched his skin. For a moment, there was only a sharp sting, like the bite of a nettle. 

But, then, it burned.

He jerked back with a hoarse gasp, clutching his hand to his chest. The skin where the light had touched was already angry and red, blistering at the edges. Smoke curled faintly from it.

“What—” he rasped, staring at his hand in horror.

The pain tore through the fog of grief, dragging him brutally into his new reality. This was not a dream. This was not a second chance. He wasn’t human anymore. The witch's spell, the fangs he barely remembered feeling split through his gums in a rush of blood and agony, the strength humming under his skin—it had all been real. It had worked. But it hadn't been enough to save you.

A low, wounded sound broke from his throat.

The sunlight spilled further across the floor, stretching toward him like grasping hands. It reflected cruelly off the wooden floorboards, catching the edge of your abandoned comb, glinting on the battered brass latch of the window.

Ji-yong stumbled to his feet and staggered back, shielding himself instinctively from the light. His breath hitched, and for the first time since he had burst into this house, fear began to trickle into the pit of his stomach.

What had he become?

Hunger stirred again—angrier now. It clawed up his throat, an awful, gnawing emptiness that no food or water could ever soothe. He clamped his jaw shut until his teeth ached, refusing to let that thing inside him take over. Not here. Not with you.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words a cracked whisper. “I’m so sorry…”

He fell to his knees again, heedless of the sunlight inching closer, and pressed his forehead to your hair. In the distance, faint voices stirred. The village was waking up. Ji-yong didn’t move. Let them come. Let them see what he had become. Let them call him monster, demon, witch. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered to him was already gone.

The house creaked as footsteps approached, slow and heavy with grief. Ji-yong refused to move. He barely breathed. He sat there, hunched protectively around your body, locked in a purgatory of agony and disbelief.

The door to your room swung open with a long, aching groan. A beat of silence, and then a sharp intake of breath. Your father stood there, his face pale and slack with grief, his hands trembling at his sides.

Ji-yong forced himself to look up—and instantly regretted it. The older man’s eyes filled with tears the moment he saw the two of you. He stumbled forward, then stopped halfway across the room, his gaze catching on Ji-yong’s face.

For a moment, Ji-yong froze, too broken to care, too ruined to hide what he’d become.

Your father squinted slightly, confused. He took a hesitant step closer. There, in the dim morning light slanting through the curtains, Ji-yong’s eyes gleamed an unnatural red. A frown pulled at your father’s mouth. For a second, he thought your father might realize the truth. That he might recoil. That he might finally see Ji-yong for the monster he was becoming.

But after a heartbeat, your father shook his head—as if blaming the tricks of a sleepless night, of mourning-clouded vision.

"You’re exhausted," he rasped, voice cracking. "Your eyes… they’re bloodshot. You’ve been crying for her all night, haven’t you?"

The lie was easier than the truth, so Ji-yong remained quiet.

Your father’s expression softened. He reached for the window, pushing the heavy curtains closed with a tired sigh — plunging the room into a shadowed hush.

Ji-yong flinched backward at the sudden loss of sunlight, startled—not by the darkness, but by the way relief cooled the burning on his skin. 

The burning he hadn’t even realized had started.

Before your father had entered, Ji-yong hadn’t moved, hadn’t shielded himself. He’d felt the bite of the sun but had embraced it numbly, welcoming whatever punishment it would bring. He hadn’t cared. He had planned to stay there, to let it eat through him inch by inch until nothing was left but ash and regret.

But your father—still thinking Ji-yong just a heartbroken boy—had closed the curtains without a second thought, saving his life without even knowing it. The gesture broke something deeper inside Ji-yong. He clamped a hand over his mouth to keep a sob from ripping free, his shoulders shaking.

Your father moved carefully closer, kneeling down beside him with a groan of tired bones. He placed a warm, steady hand on Ji-yong’s hunched back.

"You stayed with her," he murmured thickly. "You didn’t leave her alone."

Ji-yong choked on a sound that wasn’t quite a cry, wasn’t quite a breath.

"At sundown," your father continued, looking toward the shuttered window where the last edge of morning light had been snuffed out, "we'll bury her. Up on the hill, under the willow tree. The one she loved."

Ji-yong’s vision blurred again, though now it was impossible to tell if it was from tears or the relentless pressure building behind his temples, thick and violent, his new senses screaming at the edges of his mind.

Your father gave his shoulder a squeeze before pulling back.

"Rest if you can," he said quietly. "We’ll do right by her, I promise."

He stood slowly, his movements heavy with sorrow, and left the room—the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Ji-yong stayed curled there in the dark, still cradling your body, feeling the pulse of grief coil tighter and tighter around him until it became something else; something wild and ravenous and wrong. He bowed his head over you, his whole body trembling.

"I'll fix it." He vowed again, lower, almost a growl. "No matter what it takes, like I promised I would..."

The hunger inside him coiled tighter in response, as if sensing a bargain had been made. As if sealing a new kind of fate.

The house was steeped in a suffocating silence when Ji-yong finally moved.

Each step down the narrow staircase was a battle. The air felt thick, clinging to his skin like damp cloth. His senses caught every detail, every whisper of movement in the old wood, every flutter of the thin curtains in the weak evening breeze. It was like walking underwater. Slow. Heavy. Halfway down, he froze.

A voice—deep, unfamiliar—drifted up from the living room. Measured. Steady. Smooth in a way that immediately set Ji-yong’s nerves alight.

"I can help you," the man was saying, tone low and respectful. "You have enough to grieve. Allow me to take this burden from you."

Ji-yong’s hand clenched the bannister. He didn’t recognise the voice, and he didn’t trust it.

He edged lower, keeping his footsteps light, heart hammering unevenly in his chest. As he crept lower, the room came into view. The man stood tall and composed near the hearth, his traveling cloak still draped over one arm. His hair was dark and neat, his clothes plain yet finely made, the stitching along his sleeves and the cut of his boots spoke of money. Real money. Not the kind that came from a living from the dirt and rain like the rest of them; not like you or your parents. Not like Ji-yong. He didn’t belong here, yet he stood as if he owned the space already.

"I don't understand," your father said, voice rough and disbelieving. "Why would you—?"

"Because," the man interrupted gently, "I know what it means to lose someone you thought you could save."

A strange note laced his voice—a sadness too sharp, too perfectly placed to be entirely genuine. But your parents, raw with grief, didn’t seem to notice. However, it did seem convincing. Something about it told Ji-yong there was some truth in there.

"I have the means," the man continued, "and the hands to see it done properly. She deserves at least that much dignity."

Your mother let out a soft sob, pressing a hand to her mouth. Your father bowed his head, nodding stiffly.

Ji-yong stood frozen on the last step, teeth grinding together. Something about the stranger—the effortless calm, the way he filled the room without seeming to—scraped across Ji-yong’s already fraying nerves.

He didn't trust it.

He didn't trust him.

Still, he stepped forward into full view, the floor groaning beneath his weight.

The stranger’s eyes snapped to him immediately. For a brief, flickering moment, the polite facade slipped—a narrowing of the gaze, a slight tilt of the mouth—before smoothing over into a mild smile.

"I didn’t realise there was anyone else here," he said.

Liar.

Ji-yong could feel it. This man had known he was here the whole time. 

The stranger looked him over briefly, then—in a voice almost too casual—asked, "and you? Who were you to her?"

Ji-yong’s breath caught painfully in his throat. He opened his mouth but before he could speak, your mother answered for him.

"He’s been her friend," she said quickly, her voice shaking. "A kind boy. Always helping, always visiting. We’re grateful to him."

Your father nodded, managing a small, broken smile in Ji-yong’s direction. "A good soul," he said hoarsely. "We couldn't have asked for more."

“I see… well, I’m glad to hear that.” 

Ji-yong’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his skin prickling.

The man turned back to your parents, his voice dropping low and respectful once more. "I will see to the preparations myself. By sundown, she’ll have the rest she deserves. You have my word."

Your mother wept again, shoulders shaking, while your father—ever the quieter one—clasped the man's forearm in a rare, rough show of thanks. The stranger inclined his head gravely, then gathered his cloak over his shoulder and stepped toward the door. Ji-yong’s entire body coiled tight, muscles locking up as he watched him go. The heavy door swung open, letting in a thin shaft of failing sunlight, and for the briefest moment, as the man crossed the threshold, Ji-yong swore the stranger’s eyes flickered back to him. Not a full look. Just the faintest twitch of a glance.

Then he was gone.

The grave was shallow.

The cold soil clung to the hems of your father’s trousers, but he didn’t seem to notice. He hadn’t said much since sundown, hadn’t let anyone else take the shovel from his hands. He refused even when they ached. He wanted to dig it himself.

Ji-yong stood off to the side, still as a monument, his black coat draped heavily around his shoulders. It had started to rain earlier, just enough to dampen the edges of his sleeves, the scent of wet earth and candle wax mixing with something he couldn’t name — something his new senses seized on, even as he tried to ignore them.

He hadn’t spoken a word.

The shroud wrapped around your body was linen. White. Folded with care by your mother, stitched in slow silence by lantern-light the night before. Her hands trembled as she tied the final ribbon. Her lips moved in prayer. No voice came out.

The grave was not blessed. No priest had agreed to come. The villagers had already turned away long before your breath had left you. And so it was just the three of them — your parents and Ji-yong — standing beneath the darkening sky while the dirt was prepared. 

And one more man; the taller man from earlier. He stood a little too far back. Not far enough to be absent, but not close enough to grieve. His coat was darker than the others’, a charcoal velvet lined in storm-grey silk. He held his gloves in one hand, eyes half-lidded beneath an expression too serene for the moment.

Ji-yong didn’t know his name.

He hadn’t introduced himself when he showed up at your door. He had only offered quiet words to your parents — something about helping, something about loss. A lone man extending sympathy, and nothing more. But Ji-yong had felt it the moment he stepped inside: the cold pressure in the air. The faint sharpness that clung to him like wine left out too long.

He hadn’t looked at Ji-yong once when he arrived. But Ji-yong had felt it—known it—that the man was there for him.

The burial was nearly complete. You had been lowered down by your father, trembling but determined. Your mother had set one hand over your shroud and whispered something no one else could hear. Ji-yong had stayed frozen, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to look down into the earth where you now lay. He’d promised he’d come back in time. He swore it. His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling. The wind caught his hair as his head slowly bowed. He hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

"You’re quieter than I expected."

The voice was low. Polished. Close now.

Ji-yong turned slightly.

The man was beside him. Not quite shoulder to shoulder, but close enough to hear the shift of fabric. He hadn't heard his approach.

"Didn’t mean to startle you," the man added, eyes flicking over to the grave. "Though I imagine your nerves are… sharp lately."

Ji-yong didn’t answer. His jaw tightened.

"Still getting used to the senses? The cravings?"

Ji-yong turned fully toward him now, voice low and rough. "What do you want?"

"To see what you are," the man said simply. "What you’ve become. And why. I thought perhaps it was desperation. Or… ambition."

"What are you implying?"

"That you made a deal," the man said, watching him. "And those don’t come without a cost.”

"I didn’t ask for this," Ji-yong ground out. "I only wanted to save her."

"Did you?" The man tilted his head. 

Ji-yong’s hands trembled at his sides. "Who are you?"

"I didn’t think it would matter," the man replied. "I assumed you knew what you were doing when you went to her. Those who ask for eternal life usually have their reasons."

“That’s not what I asked for—"

"You didn’t specify," the man cut in gently. "And the old ones are quite… literal."

Ji-yong’s breath caught. His heart didn’t beat the same way anymore, but he swore it clenched in his chest. "You think I wanted this? To lose her? To be like this?"

"I think," the man said softly, "you were foolish. I think you didn’t understand the rules. And I think… you’re suffering now for that mistake."

Ji-yong's throat burned. His skin felt too tight. His eyes flickered with red and something feral pushed at the edges of his vision. He stepped forward but the man didn’t flinch. Instead, he looked past Ji-yong—toward your mother, who was laying the last bundle of flowers over your grave.

"It’s a shame," the man said, quieter now. "She looked like she loved you. Even if no one else in this village would."

Ji-yong couldn’t speak.

"You should tell her parents who you were to her," the man added after a beat. "Before the hunger starts to make you forget."

And then, like he hadn’t just flayed him open, the man stepped away — heading back toward your parents, offering them a low, kind-spoken condolence in the voice of a man who had never raised it.

The wind had quieted.

The last few clumps of soil had been laid, and your father’s hands now rested on the wooden cross he’d carved himself, shoulders bowed in silence. Your mother, too, stood with her hands pressed together, lips moving through a whispered prayer — the same one she’d murmured over your cradle when you were a child.

Ji-yong watched from a short distance away. He had wandered, or perhaps fled, back toward the tree line where the shadows couldn’t touch him. Where the burning in his palm from earlier still echoed like a ghost.

He had almost let it take him.

He would have let it take him.

Until your father unknowingly saved him.

And now he watched, shame threading through his sorrow as the man in the fine coat reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a leather pouch, heavy enough to clink.

"Please take this," the man said gently to your parents. "There’s no reason to stay here now. It won’t be safe for long."

Your father hesitated. "We can’t accept—"

"Yes, you can." The man’s voice was steady. "I’ve already arranged lodging for you in a neighboring village. One where… things are quieter. Kinder."

Ji-yong stiffened. He hadn’t been offered anything. Not even a sliver of that generosity.

"We wouldn’t know how to repay—" your mother started, voice tight.

"Think of it as a kindness in her name," the man interrupted softly. "She deserved more kindness than she got in this place."

Ji-yong’s jaw locked. Something sour curled behind his teeth. And then your parents nodded. They left together in silence, heading back toward the house, arms tucked around each other like they might shatter otherwise. Ji-yong stayed behind. The grave was all that was left of you now. He stepped closer, feet sinking into the soft earth. His fingers brushed the edge of the wooden cross—your name carved into it with such careful strokes. He lowered himself to his knees beside it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The words tasted like blood in his mouth.

“I tried. I really tried.”

The dirt was still fresh. Still warm. He pressed his palm to it like he might still feel you beneath. Like if he listened hard enough, maybe—

But there was nothing. No warmth. No breath.

No time left.

“I thought I could save you,” he murmured. “I thought—”

His voice broke. He squeezed his eyes shut, a tear slipping down his cheek and onto the grave. He didn’t know how long he sat there. Minutes. Hours. He didn’t hear the other man return until his voice broke the silence behind him.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

Ji-yong flinched — his red-rimmed eyes snapping upward.

The man stood just a few feet behind him now, arms crossed. Less polished than before. His tone was different — not pitying. Not cold. Just quiet.

Ji-yong slowly stood, wiping his sleeve over his cheek.

“What do you want from me?” He rasped.

The man tilted his head. “You never asked who I was.”

“I don’t care who you are.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been where you are.”

The man took a step closer. His gaze didn’t waver.

“A long time ago. I lost someone too.”

Ji-yong’s expression flickered. Conflicted. Still full of rage.

“I didn’t ask for your sympathy.”

“You didn’t need to.”

The man stopped at the foot of the grave, glancing down at your name. His voice lowered. “There’s no fixing what’s already gone. You know that now.”

Ji-yong swallowed hard.

“But what you do next,” the man said, eyes cutting back up to him, “will decide whether or not her memory rots with you.”

Silence stretched between them. Ji-yong could feel the edges of hunger pressing in again. The grief. The rage. The hollowness in his chest that even eternity couldn’t fill.

“…Who are you?” He asked at last.

The man’s expression didn’t shift. Not exactly. But something behind his eyes eased.

“You can call me Seung-hyun.”

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