#if you were expecting something else just say so!)

[rizzanon]

Robin and the Stray

a damian wayne and batsis! reader oneshot ft. alfred | m.list

Summary: your brother asks (forced) you to help him hide another stray he took in from Alfred and Bruce

The Batcave was too quiet. That was never a good sign.

You had come here straight after patrol, expecting to give your usual report to Bruce. It was part of the routine—come back, debrief, go over anything of note, then finally get some rest. Tonight hadn’t been particularly eventful, just a few scattered crimes and a break-in attempt that was over before it even began, but Bruce liked to be updated.

Except Bruce wasn’t here.

Neither was Alfred. Or Tim. Or literally anyone else.

The only person in the entire cave was Damian.

And that was your first red flag.

Your younger brother, Damian Wayne, was standing near the Batcomputer, arms crossed, shoulders squared, his back to you. On the surface, he looked as put-together as ever—collected, self-assured, carrying that same air of superiority that he always did.

But you knew him too well.

There was something off about him.

You saw the way his fingers tapped against his arm—not absentmindedly, but rhythmically. Too slow to be impatience, too deliberate to be nothing. You saw the way he was shifting his weight just enough to make it look like he was standing naturally, except it wasn’t natural. It was controlled. Forced.

Most importantly?

He hadn’t acknowledged you yet.

Damian always acknowledged when someone entered a room. If it were Bruce or Tim, he would’ve already started spouting some dry remark about how long it took them to return. If it were you, he usually had something equally annoying to say about your form, your “tardiness”, your ability to complete patrols at an acceptable speed.

But now? He was deliberately ignoring you.

And that meant one thing.

He was hiding something.

You narrowed your eyes. Suspicious.

“Alright,” you said, setting your hands on your hips. “What did you do?”

Damian barely moved. If it weren’t for the slow exhale through his nose, you would’ve thought he hadn’t heard you. Then, finally, he turned to face you, arms still crossed. His expression was unreadable.

“I have done nothing.”

You blinked at him. “Yeah, see, that’s exactly what guilty people say.”

He scowled. “Your paranoia is unbecoming.”

“And your lying is terrible.” you said, stepping closer.

Damian scoffed again, like you were the most annoying person in existence. “I am not lying.”

“You are lying.”

“Tt. This is a waste of time.”

“It’s my time, and I’ll waste it however I want.”

Damian rolled his eyes and turned away, facing the Batcomputer again like the conversation was over. But the fact that he wanted it to be over so quickly just confirmed your suspicions.

You squinted at him, scrutinizing every little movement. The way his shoulders were still slightly tense, the way his ears twitched just a little too much at every tiny sound—he was nervous about something.

Damian lets out an exasperated sigh and finally turned to you once more, looking—if nothing else—annoyed. “I have done nothing.”

“You say that, but you’re acting weird.”

“Perhaps I am merely tired.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t get tired.”

Damian’s nose wrinkled slightly, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. “Is there a reason you are pestering me?”

“Yeah, because you’re acting weird.”

“I am acting normal.”

“No, you’re acting like you’re hiding something.”

“That is absurd—”

And then, you heard it.

A noise.

Soft. Barely there.

A tiny, high-pitched whimper.

You froze.

The sound bounced off the cavernous walls of the Batcave, subtle but unmistakable. A normal person wouldn’t have caught it. But in a space this empty, with only the two of you standing there, of course you heard it.

Your eyes snapped toward the sound.

Damian went completely still.

It lasted only a second before he forced himself to move again, rolling his shoulders back, fixing his posture, trying to act unbothered.

You weren’t buying it.

Your gaze flickered between him and the direction of the noise—somewhere behind some supply crates.

Your eyes narrowed instantly. “Damian.”

He went rigid. It lasted half a second before he forced himself to relax, rolling his shoulders back with an exaggerated huff.

You took a slow step toward him. “What was that?”

“…What was what?”

You leveled him with a look.

Damian scoffed. “Perhaps your hearing is deteriorating. I heard nothing.”

Damian exhaled sharply, crossing his arms tighter. “Perhaps your hearing is deteriorating. I heard nothing.”

You almost laughed at the blatant lie. “Damian.”

He didn’t move.

“Oh my god.” You rubbed a hand down your face, exasperated. “You suck at lying, you know that?”

“I do not lie.”

“Then tell me what that noise was.”

“…You imagined it.”

Another tiny whimper.

Your eyes darted toward the crates again.

Oh, you had him now.

“Move,” you ordered.

“No.”

“Damian.”

“I do not see why you are making a fuss over nothing.”

“Argh.” You dragged a hand down your face. “You know I’m not gonna drop this, right?”

“Tt.”

You folded your arms. “Damian.”

“I am growing weary of hearing my name.”

“Then stop making me say it.”

Damian scowled, and for a moment, you thought he’d keep up the act. But then he sighed, long and very put-upon, like you were the one being difficult, and turned on his heel.

Without another word, he stepped around the crates, crouched down, and reached into the shadows.

When he straightened, he was holding…

A kitten.

A very small kitten.

A tiny, scrappy-looking thing with light fur and big black eyes, staring up at you like it had no idea how it got here.

You stared at it. Then at Damian. Then back at the kitten.

“…Are you kidding me?”

Damian ignored you, adjusting his hold on the kitten, making sure its tiny paws were tucked close to his chest.

That was what stunned you the most—not the fact that he had smuggled a stray into the Batcave, not the fact that he had tried so hard to act like nothing was going on, but this.

The way he was holding it.

So careful. So gentle.

You had seen Damian handle swords, daggers, throwing knives, weapons of every kind, but you had never seen him hold something with this much care. Like he was afraid it might break if he wasn’t careful. Like it was fragile.

Your heart melted instantly.

“…Oh my God,” you muttered. “This is so unfair.”

Damian smirked, smug. “I knew you would understand.”

“No, I don’t understand! Damian, you cannot keep doing this—”

“They would have left her to die,” he interrupted sharply, his fingers curling slightly around the kitten, almost protective.

That shut you up fast.

Because you knew what he meant by they. Whoever had abandoned the kitten. The people who had tossed it aside, left it to fend for itself. The people who hadn’t cared.

Damian cared.

He would never admit it, but he cared.

But of course he cared. It was one of the few things he actually cared about openly. The amount of pets you already had was proof enough—Ace, Alfred (the cat, not the butler, though it was still funny every time Alfred called for the cat and it confused everyone), and worst of all, Goliath, the actual dragon-bat creature Damian had somehow acquired.

That was already a lot.

And now?

Now there was this.

You let out a slow breath. “Damian.”

“Yes?”

“You realize Alfred is going to strangle both of us, right?”

Damian’s face remained infuriatingly neutral. “I fail to see how this is my problem.”

You gawked at him. “You are the one who brought a stray into the Batcave!”

“You are the one assuming I will fail to hide it.”

“You will fail to hide it! This cave is huge, but Alfred sees everything!”

Damian scoffed. “Perhaps you are simply incompetent at hiding things.”

“Oh my god, Damian—” You gestured at the tiny kitten in his arms. “Where did you even find it?”

“…That is irrelevant.”

“It is very relevant.”

Damian huffed, adjusting his hold on the kitten as it curled into his chest. You hated how cute it was. It wasn’t fair. “Are you going to assist me or not?”

“Assist you?” You narrowed your eyes. “What exactly do you think I’m gonna do here?”

He met your gaze, steady and unwavering. “Help me hide it.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

Because what exactly could you say? You certainly couldn’t chase this kitten out. Not when it was this cute.

You exhaled, already knowing you were going to regret this. “Fine,” you muttered. “We’ll figure something out.”

Damian smirked, just a little. It was an obnoxious little smirk, one that screamed I win, and you hated it.

“I knew you would see reason.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You groaned, reaching out to scratch the kitten’s head. It blinked up at you, tiny and warm and absolutely helpless.

“This is going to be a disaster,” you grumbled.

Damian hummed, nonchalant. “Not if we do it right.”

You sighed.

The kitten mewled.

It really was adorable.

“…It’s cuter than Alfred.”

Damian’s smirk vanished in an instant. His expression immediately flattened. “Do not compare the two.”

You huffed. “I’m just saying. This one is smaller, it’s got those huge boba-like eyes—”

“Alfred is perfectly proportioned.”

“This one is cuter.”

“You’re a fool to compare the two.”

“I have eyes, Damian—”

“Perhaps they are defective.”

You groaned. “Seriously?”

And the kitten mewled again, nestling further into Damian’s arms.

You were so, so doomed.

Damian’s room was dark, save for the moonlight filtering in through the window. The walls were lined with shelves—books, weapons, a few trophies from missions. Everything in here was organized precisely the way he wanted it. No room for clutter, no misplaced items, no sign of disorganization.

And now?

Now there was a tiny kitten sitting on his bed.

You stood next to Damian, arms crossed, staring at the small bundle of fur that was currently curled up in the middle of his sheets. The kitten, utterly unconcerned, merely yawned, its tiny pink tongue flicking out before tucking its paws beneath itself, nestling deeper into the sheets like it owned the place.

“…Okay,” you said slowly. “So, how exactly do you plan on hiding it?”

Damian huffed, crossing his arms. “That is what we are currently determining.”

“Right. And by we, you mean me, because I know you don’t have a plan.”

“I do have a plan.”

“You don’t.”

Damian scoffed, lifting his chin. “Tt. I would not have brought her here if I did not have a plan.”

You arched a brow. “Oh really? Enlighten me then.”

There was a beat of silence.

Damian opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it.

And then crossed his arms tighter.

You grinned. “Exactly.”

He shot you a glare. “I was in the process of formulating one before you interrupted.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

The kitten let out a tiny noise—somewhere between a sigh and a sleepy meow. You hated how insanely cute it was. It made this entire situation so much worse.

Damian, ever the stoic one, didn’t react outwardly, but you caught the minute twitch of his fingers, like he had wanted to reach out but stopped himself.

Yeah. You knew he was already attached.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Okay. First things first. We need to make sure she doesn’t leave this room.”

Damian scoffed. “You believe I would be careless enough to allow that?”

“I dunno, Damian. I did catch you trying to act like nothing was going on when she was literally making noise.”

His eye twitched. “You are infuriating.”

“And you’re the one who dragged me into this.”

Damian rolled his eyes and turned away, crouching down near the foot of his bed. He pulled out a small folded blanket, shaking it out before placing it neatly in the corner of his room.

You lifted a brow. “You’re making her a bed?”

“Of course. She requires proper rest.”

You gave him a look. “Damian.”

He didn’t meet your eyes, instead adjusting the blanket with too much precision. “What?”

“You realize you’re already attached, right?”

Damian didn’t look up. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“You are.”

“I am merely ensuring her comfort.”

“Uh-huh.” You smirked. “Sounds like attachment to me.”

He finally looked up just to glare at you. “Shut up.”

“Can’t. It’s too much fun annoying you.”

He muttered something under his breath—probably an insult no doubt.

You grinned, stepping over to the kitten. She blinked up at you, sleepy, tiny, warm. You lifted a hand, scratching behind her ears.

“…We’re so screwed,” you muttered.

Damian scoffed. “Only if we are incompetent.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s your brilliant plan for when Alfred inevitably finds out?”

“We will ensure that does not happen.”

You deadpanned. “Oh wow, what a genius plan. Amazing.”

Damian huffed, flicking your forehead.

“Ow! What the hell?”

“Perhaps you will learn to hold your tongue.”

“You flicked my forehead! That was so unnecessary!”

“You are being dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic!”

“You are being obnoxious.”

“Damian Wayne—”

Knock knock.

You both froze.

Your heads snapped toward the door at the same time.

A pause.

Your heart jumped into your throat. You had seconds to react.

And instinct took over.

You lunged for the kitten, scooping it up in your hands and rushing toward the closet. Damian was already moving, stepping toward the door like nothing was wrong, keeping his expression schooled into its usual unreadable mask.

You flung the door open, eyes darting around. Shoes, weapons, neatly arranged training gear—nowhere soft enough.

Your hands scrambled for something. Anything.

Your fingers found a spare pillow tucked against the corner.

You gently placed the kitten on it, adjusting her tiny body so she was curled into the fabric. You barely breathed, watching her eyes flutter open—just for a second—before slowly closing again.

She didn’t move.

Good.

Very good.

You shut the closet door with slow, precise movements, then turned on your heel and strode back to Damian’s side just as the door swung open.

Alfred.

Your stomach dropped.

The butler stood at the doorway, eyes sweeping the room. His gaze landed on you, and for a fraction of a second, you saw something—surprise. His expression barely changed, but his eyes flickered, his brows shifting ever so slightly before he schooled his features again.

“I was not expecting to see you in Master Damian’s room, Miss (Name).”

Shit.

It hit you in that moment.

Damian was always the one barging into your room.

Not the other way around.

This—this—was weird.

Suspicious.

Damian, the little menace, barely hesitated. He huffed, tilting his chin up with exaggerated irritation. “Oh, please. You say that as if I would willingly allow her to linger in my space.”

Your eye twitched.

Oh. Oh, you little—

You turned to glare at him.

Damian shot you a look.

A look that very clearly said, Play along.

You gritted your teeth, but you played along.

Forcibly.

Scoffing, you crossed your arms, rolling your eyes with the most dramatic exasperation you could muster. “Excuse me?”

Alfred’s lips twitched in amusement.

Damian, ever the actor, sighed heavily, as if merely existing in your presence was a burden. “You are incredibly difficult to remove.”

You let out a scoff of mock offense. “Wow. Rude.”

“Merely a fact.”

Alfred, clearly unimpressed by the sibling bickering, simply cleared his throat. “Dinner is ready. You two should head down soon.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left, shutting the door behind him.

Silence.

Stillness.

Neither of you moved.

You waited.

Counted the seconds.

Listened.

The moment you were sure Alfred was gone, you exhaled hard.

You turned to Damian, who looked just as tense as you had felt. His shoulders, usually squared and stiff with perfect posture, were slightly looser now.

You huffed. “That was way too close.”

Damian smirked, though there was the barest flicker of relief in his eyes. “You are dramatic.”

“You were nervous.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“Prove it.”

You squinted at him. “Your shoulders were stiff.”

“My shoulders are always stiff.” He grumbles, folding his arms.

“Yeah, but you were extra stiff.”

“Tt.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “We are so screwed.”

“Not if we are careful.”

“You mean if I’m careful.”

Damian just smirked at you. “Precisely.”

You glared.

He then turned on his heel and strode toward the door, pausing only to glance at you over his shoulder.

“Come,” he said simply. “Dinner awaits.”

You sighed, sending one last look toward the closet.

The kitten was still inside.

Still quiet.

Still hidden.

For now.

You exhaled and followed Damian out, already knowing that this was only the beginning of the chaos to come.

A whole week.

A whole week, and somehow—somehow—you and Damian had managed to keep this kitten hidden from everyone in the manor.

It honestly shouldn’t have been possible. Not in a house with Bruce Wayne.

Your father had built a career out of noticing things no one else did. The World’s Greatest Detective, capable of finding patterns in chaos, deducing secrets from the tiniest details, catching liars with a single glance. There was no way this should have worked.

And yet, you had made it seven days.

A good part of that was due to the kitten itself. She was surprisingly low-maintenance for something so small and needy, sleeping most of the day while you and Damian were out, only getting active when one of you was around. Between the two of you, you made sure there was always someone in the manor at all times, switching shifts like it was some sort of top-secret mission.

And if you thought too hard about that—how ridiculous it was, how much effort you were putting into this—you might start laughing. So you didn’t.

Still, it wasn’t perfect.

You had almost been caught more times than you cared to count.

The closest call?

It had been late, far past patrol, and you’d been in Damian’s room feeding the kitten. You weren’t expecting anyone to come looking for you—not when your father had been knee-deep in a case, locked in his own world, barely acknowledging anyone outside of mission briefings.

But then, suddenly, you heard his voice.

Calling your name.

You had exchanged one panicked look with Damian before immediately bolting into action. You shoved the kitten into her makeshift hiding spot—inside Damian’s closet, curled comfortably inside a box lined with one of his old hoodies, wiped away the tiny bits of fur clinging to your shirt, and sat on the bed, trying to act as casual as possible.

Damian, still crouched beside the closet, had no time to react beyond freezing completely in place.

Then Bruce opened the door.

He took one glance at you—legs crossed, arms folded—and then looked at Damian, who was stiff as a statue on the floor, looking vaguely like he’d been caught committing a crime.

Bruce frowned. “…What are you two doing?”

You didn’t even blink. “Talking.”

“On the floor?”

Damian, without missing a beat, answered, “Yes.”

It had been a long night. Bruce had been running on fumes. He had stared at both of you for a long, agonizing moment before letting out a quiet exhale.

“Get some sleep,” he said simply, then left.

And just like that, you two somehow got away. Again.

It had taken all of your self-control not to start laughing hysterically the second the door clicked shut. Damian had just scowled, muttering something about how absurd the situation was, but the way his shoulders had relaxed said everything.

Bruce had no idea.

You had won.

But Bruce wasn’t the only problem.

Alfred was just as dangerous—if not worse.

If your father’s detective skills were legendary, Alfred’s were terrifying. He had this way of knowing things. Sometimes before you even did them. He was like some omniscient force that no one could escape.

And yet, for some reason, he hadn’t found out about this.

…At least, that’s what you thought.

Because there had been moments. Little ones.

Like the time you caught Alfred looking at the extra cat fur on Damian’s hoodie. He didn’t say anything—just ran a lint roller over it before handing it back without a word—but you knew. He had noted that. Especially when he hadn’t seen Damian interact with Alfred—the cat, that day.

Or the time when he had asked if you’d been eating in Damian’s room, because he had noticed “traces of food” in there. You had almost choked on your own spit at that one.

Or, the worst moment, when Damian had almost slipped up.

You’d been in the kitchen late at night, grabbing a snack before heading back to Damian’s room. Alfred had been there, doing something by the stove, when Damian had come in and automatically reached for the fridge.

And you knew what he was doing.

You had watched, frozen in horror, as he pulled out the small carton of milk—one that was not for human consumption, but rather stolen from Alfred’s personal stash of pet food supplies—and nearly poured some into a tiny bowl.

For a cat.

You knew Alfred had already fed the only other cat in the household.

So when you saw Alfred turning, just slightly, as if noticing something, you had never moved faster in your life.

Before he could say anything, you had shot to your feet, grabbed the bowl, and downed the milk. In one go.

Alfred and Damian had just stared at you.

You had coughed violently, wiped your mouth, and said, “Calcium.”

Alfred hadn’t even questioned it.

But you swore you saw the tiniest glint in his eyes, like he knew.

That really unsettled you.

But now—now you were back in Damian’s room, sitting on the floor as the kitten munched on her food, still somehow undiscovered.

You sat cross-legged, propping your chin up in your hand as you eyed the kitten lazily. “I still don’t know how we pulled this off.”

Damian, who was currently sitting on his bed with one leg propped up, scoffed. “Speak for yourself. I never had any doubt.

You shot him a look. “We were almost caught, like, five times.”

“That was due to your carelessness.”

“Oh, really? Was I the one who had to cover for you when Alfred almost walked in while you were literally petting her?”

Damian huffed. “Alfred does not simply ‘walk in.’ I accounted for that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Right. That’s why you nearly dropped her when the door opened.”

“Tt.” Damian turned his attention to the kitten instead, watching as she licked her tiny paws. He said nothing, but the way his fingers twitched against his knee betrayed his irritation.

Your gaze flickered to the bowl. Actual cat food.

You frowned.

“Where did you get that?”

Damian didn’t even look up. “Alfred’s stash.”

Your eyes snapped to him. “You stole from Alfred?”

“Borrowed.”

“Oh my God.” You dragged a hand down your face. “Damian, he probably keeps track of that.”

Damian scoffed, unconcerned. “I ensured that I only took minuscule amounts each time to avoid suspicion.”

“That doesn’t mean he won’t notice.”

Damian finally looked at you, unimpressed. “You severely underestimate my ability to remain discreet.”

“That’s what you said about the milk.”

“That was your failure, not mine.”

“I saved your ass.”

“You embarrassed yourself in the process.”

“I survived in the process.”

Damian let out an exasperated sigh, looking to the kitten instead of dignifying that with a response.

You huffed. “Have you named it yet?”

A pause.

“No.”

You raised a brow. “Wow. You’re really creative.”

Damian shot you a look. “Would you prefer I call her something ridiculous?”

“I don’t know. I was expecting something dramatic, at least.”

Another scoff. “I am not you.”

“I mean, you named a literal dragon-bat thing in, like, two seconds. But a kitten is where you draw the line?”

Damian scowled. “Naming something is a responsibility. I do not take it lightly.”

“Oh my God.” You snorted. “It’s a cat, Damian.”

“Your point?”

The kitten meowed loudly, stopping you both in your tracks.

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “Okay. Whatever.”

A beat.

“…Should we tell the others?”

Damian barely blinked. “Who?”

You rolled your eyes. “Y’know, Tim, Cass, Dick, Jason—”

“No.”

You blinked. That was immediate. “Why not?”

“Drake would let it slip the second he became sleep-deprived, Cassandra would tell Father immediately, Grayson lives in Bludhaven, and Todd—” Damian’s expression darkened. “Todd is irrelevant.”

You blinked. “Rude.”

“He would use this against us.”

Okay, fair.

You exhaled, letting yourself fall back onto the bed. “…So, either way, I was going to be the one you’d ask for help, wasn’t I?”

Damian huffed. “No. If I had it my way, you wouldn’t even be here.”

You gasped dramatically. “The audacity! If you had hidden this cutie from me, I wouldn’t have forgiven you.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “How tragic.” But there was the faintest pink on his cheeks.

Because of course.

Of course it was you.

Who else would he trust with something this important?

You smirked, propping yourself up on your elbows, watching as Damian busied himself with the kitten again. His fingers idly scratched behind her ears, his scowl softening just the tiniest bit when she let out a contented purr.

“Oh, come on,” you teased. “I know for a fact you would’ve asked me for help first, even if I didn’t catch you.”

Damian scoffed. “Your arrogance is astounding.”

“Am I wrong?”

“You are always wrong.”

“So that’s a yes?”

Damian exhaled sharply through his nose, turning his attention fully on the kitten as if he could physically ignore your presence. You watched him for a moment, scrutinizing the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers stilled ever so slightly before he resumed petting the kitten, and then—there it was.

A flicker of hesitation.

And then, begrudgingly, he muttered, “Why wouldn’t I?”

You blinked.

Not the sarcastic retort you had been expecting. Not a denial, not an insult. Just that.

Simple. Direct. Honest.

Your heart did something strange in your chest, something warm and stupid, and you had to fight the grin threatening to take over your face.

“…Wow,” you said, blinking exaggeratedly. “Damian Wayne, admitting he trusts me. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Damian shot you a glare. “I take it back.”

Too late. You were already ruffling his hair, grinning like an idiot.

“Hey—” He immediately tried to swat your hand away, scowling.

You just laughed, dodging his weak attempt to shove you away. “Aw, you do care.”

“I will kill you.”

“Sure, sure. Say whatever makes you feel better.”

“You are insufferable.”

“You love me.”

“I tolerate you at best.”

You grinned, flopping back down onto the bed. “That’s basically love in your words.”

Damian rolled his eyes so hard you thought they might actually get stuck, but the corner of his mouth twitched. A small, reluctant thing, barely there, but noticeable if you were paying close enough attention.

Which, of course, you were.

Unfortunately, neither of you noticed the door, which had been slightly ajar for the entirety of that conversation.

And you definitely didn’t notice the way it closed softly.

Because Alfred had been standing there the whole time.

He had known from day one.

Of course he had.

It had taken one look at Damian’s hoodie, one glance at the way you had both started lingering around the manor more than usual, one single second of analysis, and he had known.

But he had let it be.

Because—perhaps foolishly—he had enjoyed watching the two of you fumble your way through this ridiculous charade, watching the way you and Damian bonded over it.

Now, though, he was simply waiting.

Because he knew—without a doubt—that the two of you would out yourselves in approximately three days.

And that’s when he would finally step in, cross his arms, give you both a very long lecture about the dangers of bringing strays into the household without prior approval.

For now, though…

He merely sighed, shaking his head as he walked away.

Time to inform Master Bruce that the household had yet another animal resident.

lol this was so overdue but here it is!! hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶

taglist (open): @k1arar3 @kingshitonly @rainnyydaysworld @ceridwyn3 @darkfaethedestroyer @blueiones @strwberryglass @lithiumval @thephantomdanny @eli-mayhaveatencats @rockyeatrock @dreaming-of-the-reality | ask to be added <3

[vifilms]

❝ FWB!ABBY HEADCANONS ❞

word count: 2k+

content warning. eighteen+, minors dni, strap!sex, scissorcity, just a lot of p*rn written out, but omgee i'm writing foir abby again? am i returning home? me saying that when all my long fics are about a certain pink-haired butch.

masterlist.

fwb!abby who is a star-athlete, potentially a hockey player because c’mon, look at her. it starts right before the end of last season. there used to be a trio, three girls who grew up together, forever inseparable. but with a nasty fall out of abby’s break up with your best friend — you picked a side. not that anyone would believe you, but it was innocent. purely innocent.

fwb!abby who keeps you close throughout the breakup, she leans on you when she emotionally breaks, when she doesn’t want to be alone; you’re right there for her. ready to help her in whatever way you can. maybe it was naive of you to expect it to be nothing more and it’s exactly how you end up here — abby’s hand shoves down your skirt as she presses you against the locker room right after the most important game of the season. it could be how good your ass looked in the soft fabric, she couldn’t help herself. 

“mhm, how long have you been thinking about this?” gently, abby asks. “pretty girl, wanna have your fill so bad, huh?” 

all she does is tease. it’s all abby wants to do, pull those god-given moans from your lips and your whines are nothing but a symphony to her ears. but all of this is very wrong. in your bones, with every pint of blood pumping to your veins, it feels like something forbidden. even if you aren’t friends anymore, even if she hates you for siding with abby, you can’t help but love the way she strokes your puffy lips with a flick of her wrist. 

you groan as she slips a single finger inside you, whining at the welcomed intrusion. abby knows this is a slippery slope as much as you, maybe even more. it’s not lost on her what would happen if anyone were to find out, but especially your ex-best friend were to find out you loved getting fucked by her ex. 

“shut up and fuck me, yeah? you don't need to know any of that—” you shriek as she slips another inside you, effectively stretching you out as she pumps your slick, back into you as it drips over her fingers like fresh honey. 

“what was that, princess?” abby tilts her head to the side as she presses on your clit with the pad of her thumb. 

“nothing, i—” 

“hm, right. i guess the rumors are true.” 

“what rumors?” 

abby doesn’t provide any response as she fucks you into the stars, each thrust of her fingers effectively shutting you up from saying anything else. as you cry out for a release, she places deliberate kisses along your neck, her hot breath swarms goosebumps along your skin as your hips buck into her body. 

“heard a few…one from your roommate in particular.” 

oh fuck. 

the little shit knows. 

“what did you, f-fuck, hear?” abby chuckles when you can’t keep your thoughts straight. you’re close and she knows it as well when she presses her lip to your ear, it’s intentional, the cocky little shit knows just what you like. 

the first time she’s touched you and you’re already melting in her warm and needy hands. 

the sultry tone in her voice will haunt you whenever you sleep, you’ll see her in your dreams, those taunting pair of blues, the scarred cheek you love but she hates. when she says the words you fear, for some reason it sends you over the edge. 

“i heard you like moaning my name when you get yourself off, so why don’t you put on a show for me, princess?” 

fwb!abby who thinks about you, slumped against the lockers trying to catch your breath. the mantras of her name don’t leave her mind, how pathetic did it make her she couldn’t stop thinking of you. how you couldn’t escape her mind, even during practice, those stupid whimpers wouldn’t leave her. her mind can’t escape that night, the endorphins pounding her skull as she fucked you into oblivion. the secret you held close to your heart raw and exposed as you released over her pumping fingers — it all felt a little too real. a little too perfect. 

fwb!abby who tries to play it cool whenever you’re around. abby knows it’s her best shot of forgetting what happened, slipping back into normalcy. but what she doesn’t expect? how jealous she feels when she sees you chatting up one of her teammates. she suspects you might be doing the same, trying to find a distraction, anything and anyone to stop your mind from thinking of it. it’s the secret she holds close to her as she deciphers on why her blood couldn’t seem to stop boiling. she hadn’t been this possessed, the need for her sweet salvations to be found on each roll of her tongue. it’s agony as she watches you leave with them, but she just sips on her beer, calling it night at the same time as you. but her sheets will be ice while yours will be kept especially warm. 

the first thought entering your mind, this isn’t as good. she doesn’t touch you the way abby did, fuck, this girl’s mouth is eager to devour you, every drop not being wasted but you just pretend it’s abby. even if you feel slimy, a bit dirty, but it gets you where you need to be. 

when you ride the plastic cock, invisioning abby holding your hips, guiding them as you slide down and fuck yourself, chasing the high she gave you just a few weeks ago but you see golden-waves flowing on your navy-blue cotton sheets. your mind drifts to how the blue in the sheets would bring out abby’s eyes, how she might look up at you while you fuck her like it’s your right to. 

as if she belongs to you. 

the more you think of her, the easier it becomes to find your release, it comes to you quickly as you moan; you chase the high. but it still doesn’t feel as good as last time — not when you don’t have her whispering in your ear. telling you just how much you need it, whispering your dirty secrets like an oath. a string for her to pull, only one tug needed until you come apart for her like it’s the only purpose you have in life; you’re just here to please abby anderson. 

fwb!abby who doesn’t see you for a week straight. you’re avoiding her with all of you might. even going as far as missing one of her games which you never do. it pisses her off to no end and the final straw is her teammate talking about how much the two of you can’t stop fucking. yeah, god, she’s so perfect. sweetest i've ever tasted. it’s said in passing, quietly to one of her friends, not meant for abby. slamming the locker form, she sets her sights on you. she’s ending whatever the fuck this is. 

the knock on your door is harsh, spinning you out of your thoughts as you open the door to find her completely outraged. abby might as well be a bull with her nostrils flared, puffing out smoke as she only sees through a tunnel vision of red. you know why she’s upset, and you’re sure she’s heard about just who you have been spending your time with, making this all the more messy. 

“ashton? fucking ashton?” abby burls straight past the entrance, shoulder checking you in the process. 

“why does it matter if it’s her? or anyone? why do you care all of a sudden?” you go back to cleaning, as if you don’t have a very enraged woman standing in front of you. you try not to think of her sweet vanilla scent mixed with mahogany. the way she filled you up perfectly. 

“i don’t care.” abby nods as she showcases a bitter smirk. 

fwb!abby who has you pinned against the wall with her strong frame, pelvis pressed against hers, still sweaty from practice as she has you pinned against the wall. you’re not sure who kissed first, who grabbed the other closer, but she has you turned around, fingers plunging knuckle deep as she reminds you of that night. writhing against her as she whispers in her ear, “next time you crawl in her bed, remember this, when she’s failing to make you come apart. remember how easy it is for me.” 

fwb!abby who brings you back to her apartment. her lips pull the air from your lungs, suffocating you but lighting you ablaze. like a lioness when she paws at you, nearly ripping your closes to shreds with the claws she has buried in you so deep. abby is cocky about it as you pull off her clothes just the same, desperate, needy — with a angelic glint in your eyes she’ll have nightmares about. 

“princess, it will stay between us. alright?” abby groans as her baby blue dildo slips inside you. watching her defined abdomen clenched as she pushes, fully tilted inside you. “promise.”  

another secret to holster, keeping close enough to keep but not close enough where it would seep into your skin, surely to infect whatever she so craved to do. you expect everything to be a little rough, a means to an end — just a way for the both of you to fuck this out of your system — but abby’s delicate. doing her best not to completely lose it. 

you feel full as she hesitates to move, watching your face contort in divine pleasure, the way you try to move your hips, but her hands keep you in place for a moment longer. 

“baby, please, shit i need your—” a groan leaves your mouth as abby moves, thrusting her cock inside you. 

“yeah, you need it, princess?” 

it feels condescending, the stupid pet name is being thrown at you as a way to incite raw need, to instill such a primal emotion, and you feel it stirring the pits of your stomach. with each heartbeat, your chest flutters. 

your mind shuts off, all the worries that infect your mind like a disease, every reason that tells you this is a god-awful, terrifyingly horrible idea. there’s too many webs, you’re bound to be trapped up in her, with no way to come out of it. it’s the only truth settled within your soul but then she’s fucking you. it’s hard but slow. 

she’s taking her time, building you up so she has you right towards the edge. all you do is wrap your legs around her, bringing her close to you, her temple kissing yours as she loses herself inside you. it’s all more than you expected, quiet whimpers echo in her bedroom, her sanctuary she’s coaxed you into. 

“you look so hot taking my cock, pretty girl. fuck, it’s like it was made just for you but i have an appetite for something else.” 

you whimper as abby removes herself and the harness secured on her hips, until you feel her blonde bush and aching lips slide over yours. the woman above you can’t help but chuckle as your eyes roll back into your skull, a leg thrown over her toned shoulder as she slides perfectly against you. 

“you—” you gasp as she pushes her hips faster, you have no choice but to buck against her. “a-abs, oh shit, oh my fucking god.” 

quickly, you’re losing it as abby is being loud. “right in front of me all this time, fuck!” 

almost comes across as animalistic as she grunts, fucking your faster than anyone ever has, you’re so close when she grips your chin, demanding you to open. sliding her fingers inside of your mouth as you suck off your cum. effectively shutting you up in the process. 

“yeah, it’s too much, huh? are you sure you can take it, princess?” you nod your head as one thrust sends you over the end, your body twitching as you come. she soothes you through it, whispering your name over and over in your ear and it goes straight to your cunt. it’s too much but she eventually stops but you still feel her against you. everything becomes sticky and warm. 

the blunt of her nails begin to scrape lightly over the skin of your abdomen, enjoying how much your body twitches. you’re sensitive and abby chuckles.

“whenever you wanna fuck princess, just give me a call.” and after, she whispers so quietly you almost miss it, “i’ll gladly make this pussy mine any day of the week.”

[thebestsetter]

Rin likes black.

Call him emo or depressed or cringe or whatever works best for you. He uses ONLY black things.

His shirts are all black. He shows up to practice wearing the team's black kit. His car is black. He answered a interview saying that his favorite color was black (although he disliked the question and thought it was unecessary - he's here to talk about football, goddammit!) Hell, even the Keychain on his black backpack is a black and white sad face.

He likes black. Actually, scratch that. He loves it.

So, his team can't help but feel confused when he suddenly comes to practice with the team's pink kit, which he swore ("cross my heart and hope to die" kind of thing) that he'd NEVER wear. He even said it was because you accidentally washed it during laundry day it was still not dry. (Ha. As if. He had like 10 of those).

And then he came with that same kit the other day. And the day after that. And the day after that day too.

And, suddenly, things weren't so black anymore.

His backpack, which now was adorned with pink hello kitty stickers, had a smiley pink and white Keychain attached next to the black and white one. His car had pink details on the leather seats, and his shoes were black and pink.

It was strange, to say the least. That was until they couldn't really take it anymore. Seeing a pink hair tie around his wrist hut the final nail in the coffin.

"So... uhm... Rin." Isagi started, Bachira and Nagi curiously watching behind him "If I remember correctly, you said before your favorite color is black, right?"

"It is" Rin deadpanned.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them while Rin waited for Isagi to answer and Isagi waited for him to say something else. It was quickly interrupted by Bachira's excited "Ask already!"

"But... uhm... I see you took a liking to... pink things. Why's that?"

"Oh" Rin clearly wasn't expecting this question. He stared into Isagi's eyes and then looked down to tie his shoelaces "I don't like pink"

"Huh?" Nagi made a noise behind them, and just then did Rin notice those two

"But you have lots of pink things now!" Bachira said, getting behind Itoshi and shaking his shoulders, obtaining an eyeroll from him

"I dislike pink" he shook Bachira's hands off and sighed "I wear it only because my girlfriend loves it"

"Fair enough!"

"Oh."

"Okay, well, that actually makes sense

"Owwnnn, is Rinnie so in love with his girlfriend that he wear pink just for her?" Seriously, who called Shidou here anyways?

But what made Rin hate him even more was the fact that he was right. He did wear pink only for you.

He was getting tired of you nagging at him for only having black shirts (and he also loved your smiling face when you saw him dressed like a Barbie doll, but that's on second thought or at least he likes to pretend it is.)

Don't get me wrong, black is still his favorite color. But you're his favorite thing in the whole world, so take a guess on who wins this one.

Black: 0

You: 1

Quick note: Rin loves when these two things are together. So imagine his reaction to you on a black dress on your 1 year anniversary. Bro almost fainted.

I hate school somebody HELP ME

Not proofread cause I'm sleepy and lazy. Deal with it.

[inkscape-official]

so yeah I just saw this and (as a chemist) I'd like to give my 2 cents real quick. The original screen shot is bullshit.

First issue, the inside of your stomach (and to a lesser extent intestines) is more acidic than pure lemon juice (stomach acidity is around pH 2 pure lemon juice is around pH 3 (lower pH numbers are more acidic and react more strongly with bases)) (please note both of these are only acidic due to water that is present in the mixtures pure H-Cl (stomach acid acidity) and citric acid (lemon juice acidity) are not acidic due to the lack of [H+])

Second issue, how "basic" a pure compound is is complete nonsense, you can discuss the pKa of a pure substance to get an idea of how basic a saturated solution of it could get but a medication is almost certainly not dissolved to the point of saturation so you also have to account for how concentrated it is (I can't get exact pKa values for the most common ADHD meds but they're all organic amines with benzene rings involved and the most basic those can get is around the same as a carboxylate (to get an idea of how basic that is sodium acetate is a good example and it doesn't get any warnings related to how basic it is)) (to note here organic amines of this type can't reach a pH of 11 even when at saturation, I would expect them peak at a pH of 8-9 and probably stay basically on 7 (neutral pH) in actual prescribed concentrations)

Third issue, (and this one is honestly kinda embarrassing) ammonium salts (what forms when an amine base reacts with an acid) are ALWAYS soluble in water it is quite literally one of the only rules in chemistry that actually holds past a few years of study and doesn't really have exceptions, so even ignoring everything else wrong here the explanation is simply impossible.

Now all this is NOT to say that citric acid might not interact with common ADHD meds in some way that isn't explained by the original post (it would not be the strangest medication/food interaction (that might go to grapefruits and blood pressure medication)) but if the original source is simply wrong about the most basic chemistry they're attempting to use to justify their claim I would be skeptic of any of the claims (shown here or those not included in the screenshot) honestly this reeks of "high pH" pseudoscience diets and I'd really hate for anyone to modify their diet or routine out of fear they were messing up their medication.

Please do lookup medication interactions but only pay attention to reliable sources and if something unreliable is telling you to stop doing what you love feel free to give it a middle finger from me.

i know vitamin c basically neutralizes adhd meds but lemonade good

[wendichester]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ not ready yet²,

summary. you’ve been keeping your pregnancy from dean and he doesn’t take it well.

pairing. dean winchester x reader ; angsty but fluff

wordcount. 793

notes. @fullbelieverheart wrote: "I would love a second part where the protagonist decides to take her things and leave and when Dean returns to the motel room with an apology and a stupid teddy bear from some gas station to tell her that he is on board and that he is sorry, he no longer sees her , and then Dean have to look for Her. He goes crazy because he doesn't find her until a few weeks later."

⋆˚࿔ read part 1

The motel room is empty when Dean gets back.

His heart stutters in his chest, his breath catching as he glances around, expecting to see you curled up on the bed, maybe still pissed, maybe still crying, but there.

But you’re not.

Instead, the room looks eerily untouched, like you were never there to begin with. The duffel you always kept in the corner is gone. Your flannel—the one you always stole from him—is missing from the chair. Even your toothbrush isn’t in the bathroom anymore.

Panic rises in his throat, clawing its way up like bile. He just needed a minute. Some air. Some time to get his head on straight. And when he did—when he finally stopped being such a goddamn coward—he had stopped at some shitty gas station, grabbed the dumbest-looking teddy bear he could find, and practiced over and over how he was going to say he was sorry.

But he’s too late.

You’re gone.

“Shit,” Dean breathes, his hands shaking as he pulls out his phone. He dials your number, pacing as the line rings once. Twice. Then—

“The number you have dialed is unavailable.”

“Come on,” he mutters, redialing.

Nothing.

His stomach drops.

His keys are in his hand before he even thinks about it, the motel door slamming behind him as he peels out of the parking lot in the Impala.

You couldn’t have gotten far. You had no car, no real plan—right?

Right?

But days pass. Then weeks.

And he can’t find you.

You’re off the grid, completely vanished. No one’s seen you. No credit card charges, no motel check-ins. You’re just gone.

Dean doesn’t sleep. He barely eats. He checks every place he can think of—old hunting buddies, friends from past cases, even Bobby’s old contacts. But no one has a damn clue where you are.

And that kills him.

Because he knows this is his fault. He did this. He made you feel like you had no choice but to leave.

And the worst part?

You’re out there alone.

When he finally finds you, it’s been forty-two days.

A tiny roadside diner, middle of nowhere, off some highway he wouldn’t have even checked if he hadn’t been running on pure desperation.

And there you are. Sitting at the counter, a cup of tea in front of you, staring down at the table like you’re lost in thought.

Dean barely breathes as he pushes open the door, the bell above it jingling. The place is quiet, just a few truckers scattered around, but Dean doesn’t see anyone else. He only sees you.

You glance up when he steps forward, and the second your eyes meet, something inside Dean cracks open so hard it nearly knocks the wind out of him.

Because you look different. Tired. Worn out. Maybe a little paler. And he knows why.

Because you’ve been doing this alone.

And you never should’ve had to.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, stepping closer, his hands shaking at his sides.

You tense, your fingers curling around your mug. “What are you doing here, Dean?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says, voice thick. “For weeks.”

You don’t say anything. Just watch him, eyes unreadable.

Dean swallows hard. “I screwed up,” he says, his voice raw. “I got scared and I lashed out, and you didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve that.”

You shift slightly in your seat, your jaw tightening, but you still don’t say a word.

So, Dean digs into his jacket pocket, pulling out something small and slightly crushed. A stupid, beat-up teddy bear from a gas station, worn from weeks of being shoved in and out of his pocket, carried around like some goddamn lifeline.

He sets it on the counter in front of you.

Your breath catches.

“I was supposed to give this to you that night,” he admits. “Along with an apology. And a promise.”

You blink, looking at the bear, then back at him. “A promise?”

“That I’m in this,” Dean says, voice shaking now. “That I want to be in this. With you.” He exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve another chance, but, sweetheart, I swear to you—if you let me come home with you, I will spend every damn day proving to you that I’m in this for real.”

For a long moment, you don’t speak. Just stare at him, searching his face, like you’re waiting for him to crack or take it back.

But he won’t. He can’t.

And when your lip finally trembles and you let out a shaky breath, he knows he’s got you.

Because you want to believe him.

And God help him, but he’s never going to let you down again.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @KayleighWinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @lmg14 ⋆ @onelonelybitch

[solxamber]

Deuce, Romantic, "Again/I wanna be your lover, I don't wanna be your friend" by Noah Cyrus.

"I wanna be your lover" || Deuce Spade

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: Again by Noah Cyrus

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 730

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Mutual Pining, Friends to lovers

Deuce is your best friend. He always has been. Through thick and thin, through the chaos of life, through every scuffle, every test, every late-night cram session—he’s been there. Steadfast, reliable, a comforting constant in your life.

And maybe that’s what terrifies you the most.

Because if he’s always been there, what happens if you break this? If you take a step too far, cross that fragile boundary, and realize you were better off as friends? What if you ruin the best thing you have?

But Deuce—Deuce loves you. He doesn’t just like you, doesn’t just think you’re fun to be around. No, he loves you in that stupidly obvious way that makes Ace roll his eyes, in that devoted, borderline puppy-eyed way that makes Riddle sigh in exasperation.

He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to.

It’s in the way he always walks on the outer side of the sidewalk, subtly shielding you from passing vehicles.

It’s in the way he keeps extra snacks in his bag, always offering them to you first, even if it means going hungry himself. It’s in the way he watches you—like you’re something too precious for this world, something he’s terrified of losing.

But you’re scared. So you pretend you don’t see it.

One evening, you’re sitting outside, eating snacks on the dorm steps. The sun is dipping beneath the horizon, the sky painted in streaks of orange and lilac. It’s peaceful, the kind of quiet that settles between two people who have known each other forever.

Deuce is sitting close, his knee bumping against yours. He’s laughing at something you said, eyes crinkled, dimples showing, and it’s so easy. This has always been easy.

You think about how much you love him—about how warm he makes you feel, about how you never feel lonely when he’s around. And that terrifies you more than anything.

So you look away.

And then, as if he’s been holding it back for years, Deuce speaks. His voice is quiet, hesitant, but firm.

"I wanna be your lover. I don’t wanna be just your friend."

Your breath catches.

You turn to him, wide-eyed, unsure if you heard correctly. But the way he looks at you—raw, vulnerable, so painfully honest—leaves no room for misinterpretation.

"Deuce—"

"I mean it." His hands curl into fists, his heart beating out of his chest. "I—I don’t want to just be the guy you call when you need help, or the guy who’s always there, waiting in the background. I love being your friend, but I want more than that. I need more than that."

You’re frozen.

Because you do love him. You love him so much it scares you. But what if you mess this up? What if you say yes, and it ruins everything? What if—

"Please," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Just tell me if there’s a chance. I don’t need anything else—just tell me if there’s a chance."

You stare at him.

And suddenly, all the fear, all the uncertainty, all the worries screaming in your head—none of them matter.

Because this is Deuce.

Your Deuce.

The boy who has been by your side since day one. The boy who holds his heart in his hands, offering it to you without hesitation, without expectation—just hoping you’ll take it.

You don’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, you reach forward, cupping his face with trembling hands, and pull him in.

His breath hitches, but he doesn’t hesitate. The moment your lips meet, he melts—like he’s been waiting for this, dreaming of this, for so long.

And maybe you have been, too.

His hands find yours , pulling you closer, holding you like you might disappear. You feel his heart pounding against yours, fast and desperate, and you realize—he’s just as scared as you are.

But he still took the leap.

So maybe you can, too.

When you finally pull away, he looks at you like you just handed him the world.

"You—" He swallows, breathless. "You mean it?"

You smile, cheeks burning. "I wanna hear you say it again."

His eyes widen—then he grins, so purely happy that it makes your chest ache.

"I love you."

And you know—this is it.

This is home.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll be hearing him say it again, and again, and again, for the rest of your life.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[princesseilish]

REAL PRIZE

Billie Eilish x Fem!Reader

Warnings: crying, little angsty, fluff

synopsis: Billie comes home after the grammys empty handed, feeling as if she let her daughter down

The door creaked open quietly, far quieter than usual, as Billie stepped inside their home, the familiar warmth doing little to thaw the disappointment clinging to her like a second skin. She let the heavy Grammy night cloak fall from her shoulders, her hands empty—seven nominations, zero wins. The weight of it sat in her chest, heavier than any trophy could’ve been.

She didn’t expect to feel this crushed. She’d been here before—losses, wins, the whole rollercoaster. But tonight? Tonight stung in a way she couldn’t shake.

“Mama’s home,” Y/N’s soft voice called from the living room, gentle like she knew Billie’s heart was bruised.

Rosie’s little feet pattered against the hardwood before Billie could even take a step further. “Mama!” Rosie squealed, her curly hair bouncing as she sprinted toward her.

Billie’s heart clenched. She crouched down just in time to scoop Rosie into her arms, burying her face in her daughter’s neck. The sweet smell of strawberry shampoo filled her senses, grounding her in a way the loud, glittering Grammy stage never could.

“Hey, my baby,” Billie whispered, her voice cracking despite herself.

“I made you something!” Rosie announced proudly, wriggling out of Billie’s arms and tugging her hand toward the living room.

Billie followed, her legs heavier than usual, as if each step home was a reminder of the night’s empty-handed return. But when she entered the living room, the sight waiting for her made her breath hitch.

There, on the coffee table, was a crayon drawing—stick figures with wild green and blue scribbles for hair, a lopsided gold star above the smallest figure’s head. “That’s you, Mama,” Rosie explained, pointing to the stick figure with the star. “You’re the winner.”

Billie felt something hot prick at the corners of her eyes. She sank onto the couch, pulling Rosie into her lap, staring at the simple, beautiful chaos of the drawing.

“You didn’t win any trophies,” Rosie said matter-of-factly, like her tiny five-year-old brain was just stating facts. “But that’s okay. You win at being my mama.”

That was it.

Billie buried her face in Rosie’s curls again, the tears spilling freely now, hot and unchecked. She felt Y/N’s presence before she even saw her, the familiar weight of her wife settling beside them, arms wrapping around both of them in a protective cocoon.

“Hey,” Y/N whispered, pressing a kiss to Billie’s temple. “It’s okay, baby.”

Billie shook her head against Rosie’s hair, her voice muffled. “It’s not even about the stupid trophies. I just… I worked so hard, you know? And it feels like… like none of it mattered.”

Y/N tightened her hold, one hand threading through Billie’s hair, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles on her back. “It mattered to us,” Y/N murmured. “It always mattered to us.”

Rosie pulled back, her tiny hands cupping Billie’s tear-streaked face. “Don’t cry, Mama,” she said earnestly, her brows furrowed in concern. “You’re still the best singer in the whole world.”

Billie let out a watery laugh, the kind that shook her shoulders but eased some of the heaviness in her chest. “Thanks, baby,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to Rosie’s forehead.

Y/N leaned in, her lips brushing against Billie’s ear. “You’re the best everything in our world,” she whispered. “Grammy or no Grammy.”

Billie let out a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering shut as she soaked in their warmth, their love. This—they—were the real prize. No award could ever compare to the feeling of Rosie’s tiny hands in hers, or Y/N’s arms around her, anchoring her when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

“I love you,” Billie whispered, her voice barely audible but full of everything she couldn’t say on that big, glittering stage.

“We love you more,” Y/N and Rosie said in unison, and for the first time that night, Billie believed it.

[meiozis]

after having read this no less than 3 times. well, 4 now. i am finally here so let's get into it :o)

Were you sad about her death? Of course you were. Death was always sad, in some deeply philosophical and uniquely human way. The ending of all things–life moving onwards to something better (or worse). Leaving everyone else behind to deal with the sorrow and suffering and debt. You could feel her death around you everywhere you went. The last breath of her life sighing over you on windy streets, the final whisper of her words in the chattering of birds in the morning dew. She was omnipresent. Oppressive. Somehow even more than she had been when she was alive. A heavy shroud over your every move.

this whole passage is so beautiful and so dear to me, and i love to see the nuance of losing a loved one. the whole beginning is so beautifully written, the storm outside and the emptiness within, how there’s a certain type of guilt when something awful happens to you, and yet you don’t have the reaction that would be expected, and how the whole story stems from loss. and the entire time i’m reading it i feel like i’m sitting in the last row and watching y/n both from afar and right through a magnifying glass and i’m also her… and it seems so obvious that things are multifaceted, but it takes such skill to make it feel so real and so seamless, and to convey these complex emotions so well and in a relatively short scene too… i am witnessing something so great

You watch a rivulet of rain carve a line through the reflection of your face, splitting you in two as you stare out through the window in your living room and into the neon darkness of the city surrounding you. Who were the heavens sad for tonight?

absolutely gorgeous imagery, and i loooove how the rain connects the past and the present, and how that empty sadness follows through. this continuing imagery of negative emotions like sadness and anger coming to reality via rains and storms is so effective and delicious, and it also gives everything this grey gloomy aura and also this very specific scent of when it rains in the city…

The melon stares up at you in askance and you set it back on the stand with its brethren before you can give the temptation a second thought.

it’s probably not, but to me… i want it to be a watermelon. and i want it to be red inside and i want it to mean the contained rage that she’s keeping locked inside, and i want her to get a melon and cut it in half and the juices to spill out

She had a husband. A man with kind eyes and a kind smile. You weren’t sure if it made you feel better or worse to know that you weren’t alone in your suffering, that someone else was tied to the other end of this red string that entangled the four of you in its noose-tight vice.

and

Not one of the scenarios you envision ends with you triumphant, in each one your husband’s arms reach forth to comfort her and leave you standing alone, consumed with the red hot fires of rage and seething hate.

it might just be how expressions work, but still, i very much enjoy the parallels of fate and rage both being red – along with the mistress’ lipstick, but that just ties it all together even more, when everything is cloaked in grey it stands out so beautifully

“I think she and your husband know each other, actually. My wife,” he says, and you freeze again, stuck now staring at him from the hallway. He waves goodbye as the doors slide closed and you’re left standing statuesque in the hallways alone. Ears ringing with the echoes of his words.

i don’t even have anything to add, i just truly felt the specific type of white hot anxious rage this sentence would unleash on me

Was his smile as soft and kind when turned upon the face of the woman who, with every breath she took, dared to remind him of the sadness that lurked beneath the surface of their life? Was the love he still held for her enough to erode all of her transgressions, even as she continued to transgress? Did he still hold her in his arms at night like no one else had ever touched her? Like he was the only one for her? Why, if he could so easily absolve her of her crimes, could you not do the same for the man you had promised yourself to?

constantly being haunted and hounded by a promised love for people who don’t return it, and you learn to take it early on from childhood because of your mother, and you transfer that empty longing into a marriage… the ever delicious concept of grieving each moment as it passes, and if something goes wrong? it’s always on you. MAN im literally floored like genuinely. when the love that goes into creating something is so clear and evident!! 

Silence. One brief, fleeting moment of hesitation. A slight lift of the eyebrow. You watch his Adam’s apple bob at the base of his throat, just above the knot of his tie.

that tie is a noose to me, that’s all

well, actually. the shift in tone now that she Knows… and he finally has to face that he’s a stranger in his own home, and it’s not his playground anymore… i need him to be knocked over like a chess piece

He would entertain these fantasies–feeding into them, one morsel at a time, filling you with the hope of your aligned future. Filling you to the point that when the proposal inevitably came you couldn’t see the hunger still gnawing inside of you.  Your husband was a good son, and his family paid for the wedding. It took little effort for you to resign yourself to ceremony and cast aside your dreams for love. The story of every fool in the world.

gnawing on concrete. this ever looming motherly inheritance of “you should’ve known better” is absolutely destroying me

You could only blame yourself. Even your mother tried to warn you, in her own way. Her own misery bearing down on you throughout your life–her inevitable cracking under the weight of everyone else’s dreams bearing down on her until she simply couldn’t take it anymore. If you had been smart you would have seen it for what it was when you were 12.

OOOOOOOH……… oooooooh i need to. something something about i am my mother i am my child i am myself but i don’t know who that actually is. audible crack where my heart breaks in two… you know when you’re reading something so good that you’re trying to read so fast to get to the end faster… yeah

You let the pain sing you to sleep–weeping and burning for what once was and what might never be again as you let the darkness consume you in the dim blue of your bedroom.

this is an ode to blue, the mood of all time

Your own dress–emerald green, accented with black florals–suited you well enough.

close enough, welcome back keira knightley’s green dress from atonement

The disinterest showed plain on his face even as he scribbled down your order (the usual, hot and sour soup and tea) and delivered it to his father in the kitchen.

hot and sour soup enjoyers rise up!!!!!

You glance at the clock on the wall, nearly 8:00pm, then down at your phone screen. No messages, no notifications.

No one had ever asked you that before. It’s your turn to be taken off guard now as you step up to the dual elevators. Joshua presses the ‘up’ button and you consider how to reply.

she is me and i am her, and i am sitting in another corner silently and hoping that she knows she’s not alone. oh y/n we're really in it now

no specific comment i just felt the weight of this moment and wanted it here

“She’s similarly occupied,” he responds, voice softening. You meet his gaze in the reflection of the doors. A spark of understanding reverberates through you and you wonder if he feels it as well. Swelling like a bloom of light bursting in your chest. He holds your gaze steady, unwavering but silent. He knows. He must.

HE MUST…….. gripping my phone. 

i cannot believe it took me this long as an avid divorce enjoyer to finally get around to leaving proper comments on this..... this was such a joy to read, which i understand is a weird thing to say about something like this, but it was! it's so delightful to read complex emotions described in such careful detail without being overbearing, and the whole thing has this perfect pendulum of weird glimmers of hope and all encompassing all-is-lost mentality

i love the way you write prose so so much, and like i said before it's so clear how much time and energy and craft and love went into all this!!! every detail feels so natural but so important at the same time, it's just so evident when someone's well read and just like. understands what makes something good and worth reading. like the way you create atmosphere and include so many details and yet they all feel so natural and like they're exactly where they're supposed to be. the entire story feels so organic and picturesque. it's also Crazy to me how you've got the range to write light-hearted romcom-esque fics and also the most grotesquely beautiful love letter to this genre. to be fair in the mood for live is one of my all time fav movies so im like literally thee target audience for this, but still!!!

this was all so beautiful and i just keep repeating myself, but i've read this 4 times now and each time i notice new things and it's just soooo... we get this for free? on tumbler dot com? insane!!! i feel like i should have this on my bookshelf and leaving annotations on every single margin, truly an obligatory read for everyone who enjoys when things are blue <333 thank you mads for blessing us with your writing

THE MIRROR-BLUE NIGHT; ACT I

―PAIRING: joshua hong x fem!reader ―GENRE: SLOW burn, affair au, suggestive, angst, romance ―CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 11.2k ―CHAPTER WARNINGS: mild language, very minimal josh in this chapter (sorry), death mentions, cheating, lots of introspection ―STATUS: ongoing

―AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is act i to my entry for svthub's world tour collab. it's heavily inspired by wong kar wai's film 'in the mood for love', and it's been fun to play around with a totally different atmosphere and setting, and i hope everyone that reads this enjoys it! if you do, please consider reblogging with your thoughts and comments i would love to hear them. hopefully before long i will have the following two acts out for you to continue <3

ACT I

. . .

It’s raining. You hear the patter of droplets as they fall against your windows, a symphony of sorrows cascading from gray skies. When you were a child your mother used to tell you that the rain meant the heavens were crying. That some angel high above was weeping for the sorrow of those below–for the tragedy of humankind. She made up a lot of lies when you were young, stories to either make you feel better or to just force you to stop asking her questions while she was trying to watch her favourite shows. 

It never worked, and you never believed her. 

It was raining, too,  on the day that you cremated her. A near torrential downpour that had washed out the roads on your way to the funeral home and caused a four car pile up on the on ramp. You made it, breathless and haggard, just in time to drip your way through the procession to the front of the church pews where you sat, cloaked in the black of mourning, to watch a small line of people espouse pretty stories and prettier lies about the woman who raised you. 

Were you sad about her death? Of course you were. Death was always sad, in some deeply philosophical and uniquely human way. The ending of all things–life moving onwards to something better (or worse). Leaving everyone else behind to deal with the sorrow and suffering and debt. You could feel her death around you everywhere you went. The last breath of her life sighing over you on windy streets, the final whisper of her words in the chattering of birds in the morning dew. She was omnipresent. Oppressive. Somehow even more than she had been when she was alive. A heavy shroud over your every move. 

You were sad about her death, but you did not feel the pang of it in your heart as you might have if she had been anyone else. Instead it was abstract–elusive. A fleeting thought that followed you throughout the day. A thought that you were sure would dissipate over time. Molecule by molecule as her soul moved on from this world it would dissolve and you would finally be left standing in a life of your own making, no longer bent to the will of the woman who molded you to fit neatly into her own life. Her death was sad but it also finally opened you up the hope for freedom. 

When it was your turn to speak, after the mass had ended and the few other speakers had said their peace with your mother overseeing from inside her casket, you hesitated. Standing in front of the crowd of people that had managed to crawl their way through traffic for the promise of a free lunch and a voyeuristic look at the poor, bereft daughter left to deal with this whole mess. The only remaining relative of this woman that had made everyone’s life around her a living hell. You stared out at their faces, blank with waiting, and expected the words you had prepared to come out as you had rehearsed. None ever did. You stood silent under the scrutiny of a hundred eyes and seconds ticked by into minutes as the blank expressions morphed into confusion or pity. Even your husband’s carefully neutral expression devolved into one of concern as he stared up at you from his seat. 

Thunder clapped outside the church, the rain picked up speed, buffeting the stained glass windows in its fury, and you thought that maybe your mother hadn’t been lying to you when you were a child. Maybe it was her fury that was clinging to your clothing–soaking you to the bone. 

You left the altar without a word–just one apologetic glance cast over the audience of mourners–and sat back down next to your husband. Head held high against the brewing storm. You realised finally that you had nothing to say. 

For your husband’s part, he played it well at the time. His silent hand found yours and gripped it tight as you both kept your gazes focused on the priest as he tried his best to stitch the proceedings back together after the abandoned eulogy. He kept your hand in his throughout the rest of the funeral–from the end of the mass, through the reception, and all the way to the committal he was there with you. The anchor at your side. 

When had he stopped? 

When had he stopped being there–holding your hand, playing his part as your partner through it all on this grand stage of life. When had he decided he no longer wanted to be that? 

You watch a rivulet of rain carve a line through the reflection of your face, splitting you in two as you stare out through the window in your living room and into the neon darkness of the city surrounding you. Who were the heavens sad for tonight? 

For your own part, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel much sadness. Only a hollow aching at the pit of your stomach, like a hunger long ignored. Gnawing at your insides as you stare out into some unfixed point on the horizon and wait for your husband to return home. Late, again. Always late these days. Always some excuse or another. Traffic, work, friends wanting to grab drinks, errands to run. Tonight though, perhaps, the excuse would be the rain. 

With a sigh you abandon your post at the window, floating through the apartment by the dim light of the city pouring inside. No reason to turn the lights on inside–you knew your way around. The remnants of your dinner sit undisturbed on the kitchen counter, steam long since evaporated, as they wait for a mouth to enter, a stomach to fill. You had lost your appetite when you received the text message. 

You knew it was coming, had known for months. At first it was easy to trick yourself into believing that nothing had changed at all. Everything was normal. These excuses were all truths and you were in fact in the wrong for not believing your husband when he told you. After a time this denial stopped working, however, and you moved on to believing that the changes were only superficial–temporary–that the fissure that had opened up in your marriage was not a yawning pit preparing to engulf you but an easily repairable crack in the foundation. Before long he would return to you as a ship to the shore. He would pour out his feelings and you would mend them easily, with tears of your own. Your relationship would grow in strength for enduring this storm and all would be well again. 

As the days and months dragged on, though, it grew harder to ignore the signs. You had seen them so many times before–on television, in film, in friends’ relationships, in your own parents’ marriage before it fell apart when you were 9. 

A whiff of an unfamiliar perfume in the air, breezing behind your husband as he enters the apartment after work–orange blossom, ginger, patchouli and jasmine. Cloying and heady. A scent of seduction and sex in the wake of a man that hadn’t touched you in days. He waited to kiss you hello now, waited until he had changed out of his clothes, maybe until after he had a shower. You would sit, perched on the arm of the couch, and stare out the window of your living room while he scrubbed the scent of another woman off of his skin. 

More evidence collected over the next few months. Pastel purple and blue splotches dotting the nape of his neck–just above the birthmark you used to trace over with a loving fingertip in the early days of your marriage. Lipstick stains faded on the white collar of a shirt–brick red, a shade that never painted your own lips. He was getting careless–bold. And you continued to observe without a word. Maintaining the calm on the surface of your life, letting the stains and perfume to sink deep underneath. 

Maybe you should have confronted him early on, when the days were still young and you still had lingering affection for this man that was becoming a stranger to you. You should have yelled, screamed, fought, let your tears flow freely in a torrent of anger and betrayal. Every rational thought in your mind was screaming out for you to face him down and do something. You would work yourself into a fury of anger and anxiety waiting for him to come home but the second he stepped across the threshold of your apartment, all of it dissolved. Melted away into nothingness and left only that old, hollow ache until that was all you had left inside.

You remember how your mother had reacted when she found out about your dad’s affair. The consequences were swift and brutal–a storm of emotions and rage bursting out and swallowing everyone in its vicinity. If rain was sadness, surely her rage had been a tsunami. Your dad left and you retreated–into your room, into yourself. Left alone to rebuild in the wake of this natural disaster. 

When you got married your mother warned you–warned you of your duties as a wife. To keep him happy, keep him home, and remember that marriage is work. Life was so hard after your father abandoned us, she would say, don’t let the same happen to you. She would sermonize his weakness and cruelty, and you would listen. But you loved your father, in spite of all his flaws and humanity. He was kind and soft-hearted and you never blamed him for what happened, how could it all have been his fault? This one man that bought you ice cream and tanghulu and took you shopping for school uniforms up until he died? No. You blamed your mother.

What would she say to you now, sitting alone in the dark staring at a photo of your husband with his arm slung casually over the shoulders of another woman, her head resting against him with a soft smile on her face. Pathetic, spineless child. 

You shrug off the ghost of your mother and focus back on the picture. They were in a restaurant, tucked into a corner booth. The low lighting cast soft shadows over their faces, obscuring the details of their features, but there was no doubt in your mind that  it was him.  It was the same slope of brow and cheek that you have run your fingers over so many times before. The same slight upturn in the corners of the mouth that you fell in love with. The glimmer of mischief and daring that so easily drew you in when you first started dating, now turned towards someone else. A stranger? You were sure you didn’t know her but there was something familiar about her in the photo, something about her profile that tugged at the recesses of your recollection. 

Your imagination has been running frantic circles in your mind since you opened the message. Where had he met her? Work? He wasn’t a part of any clubs, didn’t play mahjong on the weekends with friends, hadn’t been selected for any work trips where he might have brushed elbows with her in a conference. Might have snuck into each other's hotel rooms, followed each other onto the plane. She could have been a stewardess–as alluring as they are professional. An untouchable creature bending to your every whim and all you can do is look and hope and wish. Slip her your number as you disembark, pray she deems you worthy enough to contact. 

But he hadn’t been out of the city in at least a year. So that couldn’t be it. 

Maybe she had a more humble occupation. She worked at the hot pot restaurant his company frequented after work. That was how you had met so is it so out of the realm of possibilities that lightning might strike twice? 

Maybe he had always known her. Maybe you were the other woman–some twist of fate had led him to marrying you instead of his highschool sweetheart. A girl that had occupied his mind for longer than you had known him. Maybe she had traveled after graduation–moved to the US and taken his heart with her while he pined away and finally, losing all hope, he settled for the strange girl with the zealot of a mother. Turned you into a project to fill his loneliness and occupy his thoughts until she returned and he was reminded of all the things that she had been for him that you never could. 

Maybe. 

Or maybe she was just a whore. 

Your thoughts flitter back and forth; all possibilities confronting you at once, neon red  in alarm. You watch taxis and motorbikes speed through traffic on the rain soaked street 15 stories below your apartment–each one weaving a new thread of anxiety in your mind as you wait for one to stop in front of your building. Wait for your husband to emerge, shielding himself from the rain and rushing to get inside before his white-collared shirt is soaked through with the sins of his flesh. 

He arrives shortly after you give up waiting and prepare for bed. The rain has begun to let up and with it he steps through the front door of your apartment while you sit perched on the edge of your bed, running a hand over the embroidered silk duvet coverlet you had received as a wedding present. You listen as he drops his keys, briefcase, coat onto the kitchen counter. Focus on the sound of his footfall as he  walks through the short hallway to the bathroom. He doesn’t see you sitting in the dark, doesn’t seek you out to greet you. You watch as he flicks the light on to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the shower running follows a few moments afterwards. 

You brace yourself when he enters the dark bedroom after washing himself free of the day. Body tense as he slips under the blanket beside you. The anticipation of something, anything, stiffens in your muscles and you wait for him to say something, to give you some explanation for his whereabouts. Nothing comes. He, believing you to be asleep, slips too into the arms of the night and you’re left alone–staring blankly into the dark of the room before you give into the heaviness of your eyes. 

Morning dawns, grey and overcast. You’re alone again, your husband having left for work with the tin of leftovers you had pre-packed for him, and the day stretches out in front of you–long and lonely–as you shove all thoughts of last night to the back of your mind and turn your attention to the household tasks that require it. 

The fluorescent lights of the supermarket buzz overhead as you make your way through the aisles with a basket hanging on your arm. You know what you’re getting–you’ve rotated through the same small selection of meals since you were 11 years old and started cooking for yourself–but you take your time anyway. Wandering through the rows of produce, fish, and imported goods. Enjoying the distant company of strangers, their idle chatter and routine conversations are a welcome reprieve from the oppressive silence that has dominated your apartment over the past few months. 

You drift to the fruits, letting their bright colours draw you in, and reach for a melon. It’s heavy in the hand, weighed down with the density of the flesh inside. It would be delicious–perfectly ripe, bursting with flavour and juice–you could almost salivate at the thought of slicing into it, bringing a cube of its sweetness to the tip of your tongue. You haven’t had it in ages. Your husband was not fond of fruits–he never had been. Always preferred spice and heat over sweetness, and you were more than happy to accommodate–to oblige his tastes and sacrifice your own for the sake of love. But now? 

The melon stares up at you in askance and you set it back on the stand with its brethren before you can give the temptation a second thought. As soon as you do, a hand reaches out to grab it, neatly manicured fingers wrapping around the fruit still warm from your touch. You smell her perfume before you see her face–that aroma of orange blossom, patchouli,  and jasmine (with a hint of ginger) cutting through the air of the supermarket like a knife through fruit. It’s even more overwhelming first hand. You turn your head, catching a glimpse of her face, her bright red lips, before she turns away and clacks towards the green wall of vegetables. 

You follow transfixed behind her as she weaves her way through the market, picking up an array of items as she goes. Mindlessly you fill your basket behind her, hands reaching out for whatever as you try to disguise your objective. You had only seen one blurry photo of her, clandestinely snapped with her head buried in the crook of your husband’s arm, but you would know her anywhere. In fact you did know her. Not by name, you had never been introduced, but you recognize her instantly now in the bright noonday lights of the shop. 

She lives in your building, a few floors up, you were sure of it. You had run into her in the elevator a few times, never exchanging a word, but always evaluating each other with that cold calculation of strangers destined to become rivals. Not that you knew that at the time. She had a husband. A man with kind eyes and a kind smile. You weren’t sure if it made you feel better or worse to know that you weren't alone in your suffering, that someone else was tied to the other end of this red string that entangled the four of you in its noose-tight vice. 

Does she recognize me? you wonder as you get in line a few people behind her at the register. Your eyes remain fixed on the back of her head while she pays and you tap your foot in anxious impatience as her form disappears through the doors and you’re left waiting for the elderly woman in front of you to deal out her entire coin purse to the cashier for spring onions and flour.

Finally you step out into the streets, bag of assorted groceries clutched tight in your fist, and you whip your head around to try to locate her. It doesn’t take long–she’s a flash of red in a sea of black–and you hasten your stride to catch up with her as she rounds the corner towards your apartment building, taking care to maintain a neutral expression. You trail her over the few blocks it takes to get back home, pulse quickening whenever her step halts–paralysed with the fear that she may turn around and realise what you’re doing. 

Does she  know who you are? Aa a neighbour, maybe, but as the wife of the man she’s having an affair with? Has he told her about you, have they shared jokes in confidence at your expense? Or are you some shameful secret he has kept hidden in his coat pocket. Maybe he slips his wedding band off before each meeting, spinning it around his finger thrice before tucking it out of sight, alongside his conscience. Does he know about her husband? Does her husband know about him the way you know about her? Were the same thoughts turning over in his mind as he sat at his desk at work, staring idly at their wedding photo? 

You follow her, a few paces behind, through the lobby of your shared building. Part of you–a bold, reckless part–wants to slip into the elevator with her, just before the doors can slide closed. Meet her face to face. Confront her and lay bare your knowledge of her discretion. Maybe she would cry, maybe she would yell, maybe she would laugh. Not one of the scenarios you envision ends with you triumphant, in each one your husband’s arms reach forth to comfort her and leave you standing alone, consumed with the red hot fires of rage and seething hate. 

You push that part of you away, back into the shadows, and watch as  she gets into the elevator. The numbers on the display above the doors climb higher and higher as she ascends and you hold your breath, waiting for them to halt. 22. Higher up than your own, more expensive. So it wasn’t money that had drawn her to your husband. You jam your finger against the button, calling the lift back down and wrestling between going home with this new knowledge or feeding into your curiosity and following her up to her door. Would you know the right one if you saw it? 

You press both floor numbers when you finally climb into the elevator, staring at the illuminated buttons as you slowly ascend. You stand still, staring at number 22, and wait as you move up and up–torn between the two options you’ve given to yourself. The doors finally slide open to reveal your floor, 15, and you stare out into the empty hallway, waiting for some unseen force to push you out of the lift. To make up your mind for you. Nothing does, and you just stand silent and still, frozen in time until they slide closed once more and you’re left looking blankly at your own twisted expression in the stainless steel. You keep eye contact with the twisted version of yourself reflected back at you and wait as the elevator continues its ascent. 

What were you hoping to gain from following this woman? Confirmation that she is, indeed, real? As if the brush of her arm against yours as she stretched out for your relinquished fruit hadn’t been enough to convince you. Her head bobbing through the crowds of people on the street as you kept pace behind her was just a figment of your imagination. Did you think you would find him there? Waiting for her? Eating slices of fruit from her outstretched hands in an act of worship? Your reflection purses her lips, eyebrows knit in thought, and you shake your head at her in askance, a silent plea, before the elevator finally stops at floor 22. 

The door slides open for the second time and you brace yourself to alight, but your path is blocked. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, stepping aside to give you space to pass, “are you getting off here?” 

You freeze on the spot, standing on the threshold of a million converging thoughts as they crash through your mind. His smile is the same as you remember it, soft and kind. The smile of someone for whom life was easy, someone who hadn’t seen much strife. Or perhaps the opposite . Someone who had seen all the horrors life had to offer him and chose to remain soft despite them. You’re distantly aware that you look like a fool, standing there in the elevator with your mouth hanging slightly agape as you stare into the eyes of your husband’s mistress’ husband, but you can’t make yourself move. Paralyzed by a strange twist of fate that had, unbeknownst to him, entangled you in a web of deceit and betrayal.

Surely he didn’t know. 

“Is this your floor,” he asks again, prompting you to move or speak or do something more than just stand still as the elevator beeps its final warning. It wasn’t going to wait much longer. 

“N-no,” you stammer, trying to right your thoughts. “I was going down, actually.” In a panic you jam your finger against the button for floor 15. If he notices the obvious lie, he doesn’t say anything–instead politely skirting around you as he steps into the lift and presses the button for the ground floor.

The lift jerks as it starts to descend, and you hold your breath. Afraid that any movement might somehow reveal every thought you’re holding tight within. He keeps a polite distance, checking his phone as he stands in the opposite corner of the narrow, enclosed space. The elevator inches closer to your floor and your muscles tense in preparation to bolt through the door as soon as it slides open at floor 15. You stare up at the numbers as they transform–20, 19, 18. Eyes transfixed on the digital display as your brain whirrs with static noise. 

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” You jerk your attention towards him as soon as he speaks, head spinning too fast to pass off your expression as casual and you’re sure that you look as panicked as you feel. “When we first moved into the building, I mean. It’s been a while but I recognize you.” 

You nod and take a second to clear your throat of the built up nerves before replying, voice trembling with a light quiver. “Yes, I uh–it’s been over a year now I think. I’m sorry but I don’t remember your name.”

He smiles–that same soft, kind smile as earlier–and shakes his head reassuringly. “It’s Joshua. Hong.” 

“Joshua?” your voice betrays a hint of curiosity–it’s not a common name here. 

“I moved here from LA years ago with my wife,” he supplies the answer to your unspoken question. Unwittingly adding a layer of intrigue to his personage that you hadn’t expected. At the mention of his wife, however, you feel the hairs on your arms rise to attention. A cold chill ripples through your body. The elevator dings, startling you out of your daze as it arrives at your floor. You turn to face the hallway as it appears between the doors, lingering astride the threshold between him and the emptiness ahead of you. Something inside of you hesitates, hanging back to remain in his presence despite the anxiety still flooding through your body. Something about the way he spoke had drawn you in, a strange curiosity taking root in your mind. You shake it loose; it’s not your place to say anything, and it’s not your place to further entangle yourself in this web. His life is his own. You take a step forward, finally clearing the door just before it beeps its insistence at you. 

You turn to say a farewell to Joshua–it wouldn’t bode well to appear impolite after he was so courteous to you a moment before–but before you can open your mouth to speak, he beats you to it. 

 “I think she and your husband know each other, actually. My wife,” he says, and you freeze again, stuck now staring at him from the hallway. He waves goodbye as the doors slide closed and you’re left standing statuesque in the hallways alone. Ears ringing with the echoes of his words. 

Does he know? 

Nothing in the way he held himself, in the casual expression gracing his handsome, well composed features would have led you to believe so but…why else would he have said that? 

You stand still, staring at the scuffed stainless steel doors of the elevator as if they might reopen and he might still be there. That he might dull the sharpness of your anxieties with some clarity . Instead you’re alone, bag of groceries cutting the circulation in your fingertips off as they hang forgotten in your hand.

You try to search the memory of his face as it lingers in your mind’s eye for any clue–any miniscule hint–as to what thought had been hiding beneath his calm facade. His face twists and contorts in your mind, swirling and transforming as you try to keep hold of the static image. Joshua, your husband, his wife, your own warped expression in the polished metal of the door. Many parts of an ever colliding whole. 

When you finally manage to get your legs moving and step away from the elevator the hallway seems to stretch out in front of you endlessly. You walk as if to the gallows, imagining all the horrors waiting for you when you open the door to your apartment. Your husband, Joshua’s wife. Limbs entangled in carnal desire. The heat of their bodies steaming the windows and fogging your vision as you stumble through the darkness. The thought overwhelms you, slows your already stuttering pace, though you know in your logical mind that no one’s there. She’s in her own apartment, and your husband is at work, and you’re alone. A state you’ve become numbly accustomed to. 

The familiar silence of your apartment is all that greets you when you finally enter, in spite of the baseless worries of your frazzled mind. It soothes the storm of worries clouding your mind as you stow away your meager haul of groceries and set out the ingredients needed for dinner. Joshua’s face fades to darkness as you slip back into routine–letting your hands take over and your mind to narrow to a single thought. 

So what if he did know. Would that change anything about your present circumstances? If he wanted a scene he had the chance to cause one and let it go. He could have held you in that elevator and interrogated you for all your husband’s many sins; pouring his hurt and betrayal out at your feet as you bear witness to your own anguish reflected in another person. But he didn’t. Instead he was polite, almost kind, and you parted without the cosmic clash the worst parts of you might have anticipated.  

The water for the noodles starts to boil and you quickly finish chopping your small array of vegetables before turning the heat down to simmer and tossing them in. Leftover shrimp lay on the side of your cutting board, ready to add in at the end. It was a lazy meal–one you never would have made early on in your marriage–but who cared about that now? You knew it would be the same routine tonight. Eating without tasting, alone in the kitchen, lit only by the light filtering in through the windows, while you stare at the clock on the wall. He’ll show up after you’re finished–maybe 15 minutes later, maybe an hour–and eat the portion set aside for him while you disappear into the bedroom and will the day to come to an end. 

Would Joshua’s night end the same or were he and his wife better at maintaining the charade of marriage? Were their hearts as distant when they lay in bed next to each other, barely touching? 

You had a hard time imagining it. You try, between mouthfuls of noodles and broth, to capture the image of them. Joshua sidestepping his wife in the kitchen, carefully avoiding her touch–her skin stained by the kiss of another man. Was his smile as soft and kind when turned upon the face of the woman who, with every breath she took, dared to remind him of the sadness that lurked beneath the surface of their life? Was the love he still held for her enough to erode all of her transgressions, even as she continued to transgress? Did he still hold her in his arms at night like no one else had ever touched her? Like he was the only one for her? Why, if he could so easily absolve her of her crimes, could you not do the same for the man you had promised yourself to? 

You shake your head, ridding yourself of the scene that was playing out. You knew nothing about this man–about his life or his thoughts. This scene you had conjured up, fleshed out with his feelings and emotions, was just a projection of some possible life dwelling within you.

But still, you couldn’t help but wonder. How different would things be if you tried?

The night drags on as all the previous ones have. You sit in front of the window, letting the TV drone on in the background, and stare down at the street below. Watching as people come and go–each with their own thoughts, their own lives, their own worries and desires. None more or less important than your own. It was comforting, in some odd way, to imagine the lives and futures of others. It took the distinct sting out of imagining our own. 

The front door opens, earlier than expected, and you glance over your shoulder to see him enter. He nods in greeting and you return the gesture before acting on an impulse you haven’t followed through on in months. You move towards him. You don’t even realise you’re doing it until his form comes into focus only a few feet in front of you. He doesn’t notice you right away, too busy reheating the noodles; you wait and you watch as he moves through the task with a slight droop to his shoulders. He’s tired. 

“How was work today?” you ask. The question spills unbidden from your mouth but you don’t rush to stop it. 

“Long,” he sighs, stirring the food as it begins to steam in the pot. There’s no hint of surprise or shock in his voice at your sudden interest in his day. He accepts it–whether from sheer exhaustion or ignorance of the deafening silence that has defined your life for the past few months. Maybe he never noticed how distant you were. How could he when he still held someone so close? “How was your day?”

“Fine,” you reply, intending to leave it at that before a thought flashes through your mind. “I ran into one of our neighbours earlier, in the elevator. Joshua Hong. We met them once or twice when he and his wife moved in just over a year ago, do you remember them?” 

“I can’t say that I do,” he shakes his head, flicking the heat off on the stove. His back is still turned, so you focus on his tone, on the micromovements of his muscles under his shirt. Searching for anything other than the polite disinterest he was feigning. Anything that might betray some feeling brewing below the surface. Fear, love, guilt. Anything at all. 

“Hmm, yeah I couldn’t remember him well either at first,” you agree, pausing to allow him the space to settle in, to pour his dinner into a bowl and sit down at the counter. He leans forward, blowing the steam away as he prepares to take a bite. “He mentioned you though,” you say finally, watching his face as he glances up at you with his chopsticks suspended above his bowl. “He mentioned you know his wife.” 

Silence. One brief, fleeting moment of hesitation. A slight lift of the eyebrow. You watch his Adam’s apple bob at the base of his throat, just above the knot of his tie. 

“That’s odd,” he replies, voice carefully neutral, he drops his gaze from yours and brings his chopsticks the rest of the way to his mouth to slurp up the hanging noodles. You stay silent, watching–waiting–as he finishes his bite before he continues. “He must be mistaken.” 

“Must be,” you nod, trailing a finger lazily over the countertop. You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. You let the silence settle in between you–an observer of its own, interrogating him with the absence of speech. You’ve had months to become accustomed to it, to make friends of the stillness of the air in your apartment, but you can see as your husband carefully avoids your lingering gaze that he hasn’t. He’s been too preoccupied to even notice it as it slowly moved in, taking over his place at your side. 

After a few moments you shrug, straightening your posture and smoothing down the front of your dress–releasing him of the heaviness of your gaze. The atmosphere settles back into one of easy stalemate and your husband resumes eating in silence. Nothing more is said. You slip back into blue.

 You never wanted a traditional wedding. 

With your father long buried and your mother under the spell of religious fervor, you never saw any appeal in the tradition or ceremony. You felt estranged from your scattered family–disconnected from the broader world. You floated in blissful independence, living life on your own terms and only reigning it in to pay fealty to your mother when required. Then you met him. 

He was handsome–dark hair and dark airs and expertly sculpted features. The sort of handsome that was easy to overlook at first but unraveled more and more as soon as you tugged at a loose thread of it. You looked at him across the lecture hall and took your time, dissecting his profile as the lectern’s voice melted out into the distance. It didn’t take long for your introduction to follow these looks. College is like that. Friends of friends of friends, dorm rooms, study hangouts in the library. Before you could even notice, your blissful independence had given way to comfortable partnership. 

After college, still in the early days of your courtship, you had grand ideas of elopement. The last lingering strands of your individuality. Traveling to a foreign country, marrying on a beach under the stars, and not telling your families until you either came back or decided you were going to live out your wedded bliss and future marriage in the streets of Rio de Janeiro or Sydney. 

He would entertain these fantasies–feeding into them, one morsel at a time, filling you with the hope of your aligned future. Filling you to the point that when the proposal inevitably came you couldn’t see the hunger still gnawing inside of you. 

Your husband was a good son, and his family paid for the wedding. It took little effort for you to resign yourself to ceremony and cast aside your dreams for love. The story of every fool in the world. 

That should have been the moment you knew that this would not last. Or at least that the happiness and contentment that shrouded your relationship was just that–mere illusory material. If you could turn back time, redo the last years of your life, you would have taken your meager inheritance from your father and booked a one way flight to the US. Used what little connections you had from distant family to build a life and chase your dreams. Live for yourself instead of the external expectations that you had been raised to abide by. You could have sent your mother back what little extra income you had–supported her from a distance as she ruined her own life where you did not have to bear witness. 

Instead, like the perfect picture of a good daughter, you went along with your husband and his family’s wishes. You let them arrange the entire thing and you–a mere passenger in your own life–silently went through the motions. Assured by word and by every soft kiss that all your dreams would be realised once it was all over. Your hands would reach the farthest destinations of your imagination, your feet would touch the sands of your desire. You let yourself be carried forward into this future with a smile, unaware that the only sand your feet would see would be the foundations of your own life as it crumbled and fell around you. 

You could only blame yourself. Even your mother tried to warn you, in her own way. Her own misery bearing down on your throughout your life–her inevitable cracking under the weight of everyone else's dreams bearing down on her until she simply couldn’t take it anymore. If you had been smart you would have seen it for what it was when you were 12. 

But you didn’t. You continued to simply go with it, smile waning as the years began to drag on and none of those golden promises spoken to you at night ever materialised. Business was good, now was not the time to take a break away it would only spell financial ruin for yourself and your entire family. Fine, you could wait. Were happy to wait, in fact. Dutiful and loyal and ever patient as you filled your days with the duties you had accepted in spite of yourself. Homemaking, cleaning, cooking. You had longed to work yourself, use your degree for something other than simply occupying space on your wall, then in a drawer–but no, your obligation was to the home, to your husband. Business was good. It was the right time to start trying for children. Did you want children? Did it matter? 

The flames of passion burned bright in your union early on. Your skin was on fire in the moonlight, bathed in sweat and dappled by the heated kisses of your new husband. Your body felt like a temple of worship, and he was there to pay his respects. He was the first man you had ever been with and you felt like you had won the jackpot each night as he brought you to new heights with his devotion. 

Maybe it’s true what people say about newlyweds. That passion is fleeting. The newness and excitement of having each other at the tips of your fingers would inevitably dull down until even sex simply became a part of your daily routine. A task to be completed, to stave off the questions of family and friends speculating on the growth of your family. Yours wasn’t meant to grow, though, it seemed. No matter how often you came together in pursuit of it, your monthly courses came as consistent as the full moon. Month after month until you stopped trying.

But there was love there, in the beginning. You think about it still, lying silent in the vast wilderness of your marital bed next to your sleeping husband. When you think to yourself  ‘how could I have let this happen’ your mind drifts back to those moments–wrapped up tightly in his embrace as he peppered your face, neck, shoulders, with kisses and promised you the world. How could you have known that it was built on such faulty foundations? That it would all drift away over time? 

You run a slow finger over your thigh, tracing the paths that he would take each night before. Remembering the love that you had shared. Wondering if the woman he shares it with now feels it as deeply as you had. Did he think of you when he was with her or had she eclipsed you completely in his memory? Was her back the only one that arched as he was deep inside her, spilling his love into her? 

The thought digs its barbed wires into your chest–ripping and tearing at what little tenderness you still held for the man. You let the pain sing you to sleep–weeping and burning for what once was and what might never be again as you let the darkness consume you in the dim blue of your bedroom. 

Dawn comes, as it always does, sunlight taking the place of the filtered neon of the city–streaming its way into your windows and nudging you awake long after your husband left for work. You’re alone again, and the thoughts don’t cease for the daytime. 

The flickering bulbs of the supermarket welcome you as you hunt around for a decent bunch of spring onions for dinner. Your hands find them and you add them to your basket, moving on to the next item on your list while your mind is half-occupied by the thought of the woman from yesterday. 

You wonder if she’ll make an appearance again. Standing behind you in line, perhaps, or waiting for you in the cold section–eyes scanning tanks of crabs for the perfect one. You wonder if she’ll be wearing red again. The contrast of the colour against her milky white skin as it hugs her body just so, conveying the image of someone with the world at her fingertips. 

Your own dress–emerald green, accented with black florals–suited you well enough. It was clean, well made, and fit you well even after all these years of wear, but it was just that. A dress. Function over form. It was the dress of someone who didn’t want to stand out, who wanted to blend into her surroundings and remain unnoticed as she moved throughout her day. It was the green in the shade of the bright red orchard as it shimmered in the sun.

As if summoned, a flash of red lights up your periphery–calling your attention away from the pear you had been inspecting. You lift your gaze to see her, a few stands down from you, a beacon of red just as you had envisioned her. You blink a few times to solidify her existence–not entirely convinced that you hadn’t just conjured her up out of smoke and mirrors. She remains, gathering a small selection of tomatoes before striding out of the produce section. 

The shock of her appearance from yesterday has long since faded. You’ve had time to reckon with the weight of her existence in your proximity. What was once a desperate, aching curiosity has since dulled to a cold, calculated interest. Instead of abandoning your grocery haul you stick to your list–taking the time to pick out the right ingredients–and achieve your own goals all while keeping her in your sights. You time your actions to match hers, moving on as she adds items to her basket, lingering by the teas as she stalls at the opposite end of the aisle from you. You make your way to the till, trailing her casually, and choose the cashier adjacent to her so you can pay at the same time. 

You leave the market assured with the knowledge of your mutual destination. No need to hurry, no need to chase, no need to match her pace. You let yourself fall into easy step a few feet behind her–content with enjoying the temperate weather that the day has brought. She arrives at the apartment a minute before you but you meet her in the lobby, standing silent beside her as you both wait for the elevator to descend. 

The anxieties of your trip yesterday melt away as you evaluate her through the steel mirror of the door–letting your gaze drift over her distorted figure. How long until she starts to notice your presence as more than mere coincidence? Would you be able to maintain this routine–living alongside her and watching from the peripherals as she goes about her daily tasks without so much as a second thought? 

As if in answer her eyes meet yours in the reflection. You politely avert your gaze, unwilling to be bested in this dance before it had even begun. Whether she was aware of who you are or not, you didn’t need to relinquish the satisfaction of knowing to her. 

The doors open at your floor and you alight into the hallway, leaving her to ascend the rest of the way to her own apartment where she would maintain her own charade. Your heart lurches at the thought, an odd disruption to the calm satisfaction you had been feeling up until now. You remember Joshua’s face from yesterday–the soft curve of his lips as he spoke to you. Polite, kind. You could blame yourself easily for your own husband’s infidelity but what had Joshua done to deserve this? 

Was he plagued with the same self loathing thoughts that haunted your every step? Or was his kindness, too, an illusion? Hiding some deeper malice that lurked at the heart of everyone wrapped up in this love affair.

You shake your head free of him as you enter your apartment and set your groceries down on your kitchen counter, but he returns as swiftly as he leaves. A thought circling round and round–unable or unwilling to give you a moment's peace as you unpack your bags. 

Somewhere in life you had adopted this sense of pessimism about life and the people that walked through it. It was easy to imagine cruelty at the hearts of everyone–to picture the worst case scenario, the worst intentions. But something inside of you revolted as you tried to apply it to Joshua. 

How silly, you think. I don’t even know him. 

And yet it remains, this tiny revolution inside of you. A hope for a kinder heart amidst the sea of troubles that you had been cast adrift on. Some lifeboat in the blue-black of it all. If you just reached out, maybe you could save yourself from drowning. 

Foolish, you think, casting the thought aside. No one is coming to save you. Not from your misery, not from your life, not from yourself. You had gotten married under the guise that your life would forever be tied to another person–that you would carry each other through everything–and now that that has dissolved to nothing, you know. You are alone. You have always been alone. 

The fog of winter rolls in shortly, blanketing the city in gray. For a few weeks in the beginning of December, your husband’s mistress disappears. He comes home on time, eats dinner with you, and you spend your days together like any married couple might. You’re lulled into a false sense of security and for a moment you think you could simply float back into the life you had expected to have and forget everything that has been. But only for a moment. Before long she reappears, her hair cropped shorter and  a spring in her step as she bounds through the aisles of the market. Your temporary marital utopia dissolves into the mist and you resume your post as observer. 

The weather starts to warm again, sunlight finding its way through cloud and smog to dapple the sides of buildings, and you take up a nightly ritual of walking through the streets in your neighbourhood. You never stay out too late, or stray too far, but you were starting to feel like a caged animal as you paced through your home and your thoughts night after night. 

On the nights your husband stayed out–either still at work or somewhere with her–you would forgo cooking all together, instead heading to a nearby restaurant as the sun starts to set over the city skyline. You eat slowly, relishing in each flavour and texture, and watch the rest of the patrons as they would do the same. It makes you feel less alone–or at least, less alone in your loneliness–as you would sit and watch the strangers around you bury their own miseries in the warmth of the broth steamed over countless hours. Their minds filled with thoughts and worries of their own. 

Tonight is much the same. You linger at home, straightening cushions and wiping down already clean surfaces to keep your hands occupied while you watch the clock tick down the time. Your phone lights up with a message–your husband informing you that he will be home late, telling you not to wait up. You slip on a light jacket and head out the door. Your feet know the way by now, they carry you almost mindlessly forward–down the elevator, out through the lobby, down the street, two left turns, one right turn, a few blocks ahead. You pass by some familiar faces–vendors and other denizens of the evening that you’ve become accustomed to during your walks–and you acknowledge them as a friend in your mind. Kindred spirits. 

You enter the small restaurant, blinking away the temporary fluorescent lights induced blindness, and take up your usual seat in the corner. Time ceases to exist in this place. If it weren’t for the last vestiges of sunlight forcing their way through the small, foggy window at the front, you wouldn’t be able to tell if it was day or night. 

Over the month or so you’ve started becoming a regular fixture of the place, you’ve grown familiar with a number of the other restaurant denizens. The cook and his wife–presumably the owners of the establishment–are ever silent unless yelling instructions about orders back and forth at each other. The wife, a small woman of indeterminate age, would move with efficiency between the five tables dotting the small space–taking orders, handing them to her husband in the kitchen, taking payments, refilling tea. She never appeared to be rushing, and no one was ever left for too long waiting for anything.

Occasionally a young man would take her place–likely their son or another relation roped in to help with the family business for a night. He was young–university aged maybe–and clearly disinterested in spending what little free time he had serving customers and bussing tables. The disinterest showed plain on his face even as he scribbled down your order (the usual, hot and sour soup and tea) and delivered it to his father in the kitchen. 

Tonight it was the woman, she didn’t even bother to ask you what you wanted as you had ordered the same thing every night over the past week. After a few moments she walks over with a teapot and cup in hand, setting them down with a silent nod, before turning to greet the next customer as they enter through the front door. 

You take a sip of tea, not too hot, before leaning back in the chair to settle in for another evening of people watching. The window in the front of the restaurant is clouded slightly with steam built up from the inside, and a light dusting of grime from the outside, but your eyes have adjusted to the distortion over the past month. You sit and watch as people pass by on the street outside, a few salarymen will stop in throughout for silent meals alone before returning to the streets, but often you’re the sole patron during the few hours you spend there each night. 

You watch as the new patron takes a seat at the table nearest the entrance–you haven’t seen him here before, but he looks the same as the rest. The same white button down, creased with a long day's work; the same black trousers; the same black tie and blazer thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. They were a dime a dozen in the city, these salarymen. Your husband had been one of them, once upon a time. Even with his many promotions over the years he still dressed much the same. You wonder briefly what made him stand out from the crowd to his mistress. 

The woman returns to your table a few minutes later, bearing your soup in her work worn hands. Steam billows from the top and you thank her before straightening in your seat and picking up your spoon. 

The food is not remarkable–truly nothing about this place is. Much like the salarymen that dip in and out through its front door, it’s no different than any of the other random hole-in-the-wall establishments that populate this city. The menu varies little from the usual, and the dingy white tiled walls do little to visually differentiate it. Everything about the place appears to be almost designed to blend into its surroundings. To serve its purpose without disturbing the status quo. It was solid and reliable and it's this very reliability that keeps drawing you back. 

It could be any restaurant. You could be any woman. 

You sink into the anonymity, slowly savouring the warm comfort of your food, and watch the slightly obscured figures of people as they pass by outside under the darkening sky. The man at the table by the door finishes his food quickly–in all of 15 minutes he orders, eats, and pays–with the chiming of the front door you’re left alone again as the only customer inside and the wife returns to rifling through a stack of papers spread out across the small table next to the kitchen. 

An hour passes as you sit in your chair, draining your soup and sitting silently as the scene repeats itself twice over. You glance at the clock on the wall, nearly 8:00pm, then down at your phone screen. No messages, no notifications. The light of the evening sun has all but disappeared by now, only a faint yellow clinging still to the corners of blue that construct the city at night. You push your bowl to the side and sigh–both ready and not ready to head back out into the street and begin your short walk home. As has become the routine, the woman sets her papers aside and presses a few buttons on the old till. You linger a moment longer at the table, watching a pair of women stroll by outside, before getting up and pulling out your wallet. No word is exchanged as you set down a few paper bills on the counter in front of her. 

The night air still bites with the remnants of the winter air and you tug your jacket tighter around to your chest as you step onto the sidewalk. It’s a quieter part of your neighbourhood, but still the streets are abuzz with people even aa the sky deepens with the threat of twilight. You fall in line behind a trio of women, walking a few paces behind them and letting your mind focus in on their conversation as they talk and laugh with each other.

Their conversation is nothing interesting–daily gossip about people you know nothing about, feel nothing for–but it reminds you of when you would wander around at night with your friends in University. Aimless and carefree, talking about nothing and everything that came to mind. When was the last time you had seen any of them? Not for months, surely. Maybe you should reach out.  

The women make a left turn a few blocks later, disappearing in the opposite direction that you’re headed and you let your thoughts drift off as their voices do. Would your husband be home already? Would he be upset with the lack of prepared dinner? He hasn’t mentioned anything about it up until now, but you do wonder how long that might last. You know you should summon up some excuse for why you’ve taken up these walks, why you’re sometimes not home when he gets back, but you can’t bring yourself to care enough to lie. What does it matter anyway? 

You round the final corner towards home. The building looms ahead at the end of the street, lobby lights casting yellow highlights onto the pavement out front. 

“Mrs. _____.” You don’t hear the voice at first. Your attention is far away, lurking in the recesses of your thoughts, and it takes a minute and a repeated call for you to register that acknowledgement. With a quizzical look, you turn towards the source of the voice and see Joshua Hong striding towards you from the opposite side of the street, pace quick to avoid an encroaching motorbike. 

“Mr. Hong?” you ask, wavering with confusion. Still unsure if he’s a real person or a spectre come to warn you of some impending doom awaiting you as you approach your apartment. 

“I thought that might be you,” he smiles, coming to a stop under a streetlight a few feet away. “How are you?” 

You blink him into reality, righting your attention back to alertness after it’s time away. He’s sporting a cream coloured corduroy jacket over a plain white t-shirt. Blue jeans. He looks the same as the last time you met him in the elevator–the same dark brown hair carving waves over his forehead, the same easy smile. You return the smile, sense reasserting itself enough for you to remember your manners. “I'm well, thank you. How are you?”

“Also well,” he replies, gesturing for the pair of you to resume walking towards your shared building. “We were away for a while, my wife and I. Visiting my family in LA.” 

You know this–the kiss of sun on her skin and your previous knowledge of Joshua was enough to clue you into where they had disappeared to those few months ago. Though you weren’t about to tell him this. “Ah, that sounds lovely. How long have you been back?” Polite conversation demands the question, though the answer to it is already blaring red in your mind. 

“About two months ago or so,” he replies. “It was a nice  trip, thank you.” You arrive at the entrance to the apartment complex, Joshua reaches for the door before you have the chance and you nod a thank you as he holds it open for you. “Have you ever been?” 

“To LA?” you ask, though the question is rhetorical and serves mainly to fill the empty spaces in between. He nods, affirming. “No, I haven’t.” You fall into step beside him, low heels clacking across the well worn black and white tiles of the lobby floor. You think to leave your answer succinct but reconsider it as you approach the elevator for fear of the silence that might ensue if you do. “Though, I did once have a dream to move there and become an actress,” you laugh. 

“Oh?” He looks surprised at the sudden confession and you worry you might have said too much about yourself. “Why didn’t you?” 

No one had ever asked you that before. It’s your turn to be taken off guard now as you step up to the dual elevators. Joshua presses the ‘up’ button and you consider how to reply. 

Why didn’t you? 

“I–well,” you start, fumbling through your thoughts. “It wasn’t a very serious dream, and it wasn’t like anything would have come of it. My mother preferred that I stay here and do something more practical.” 

He nods, thoughtful, appearing to seriously consider your response as you watch the numbers descend on the display above the right side elevator. “That’s understandable,” he says after a minute, “I think most parents just want security for their kids. Acting isn’t the most stable or assured career.” 

The elevator arrives, its buffed stainless steel doors sliding open to grant you access to the lift. Joshua gestures for you to step in first, so you do, lighting up the button for your floor as he steps in behind you. 

“Which floor?” you ask. Another question you know the answer to but he humours you anyway and you press the button for him as well. 

Silence steps into the elevator with you just as the doors shut. You realise you’re twisting your fingers together in front of you–a nervous habit you thought you had gotten rid of years ago–and you shake them lightly before dropping your arms back to your sides. 

“What about your father?” Joshua breaks the silence after a moment and again you take a second to register his question, too focused on the audible sound of your breathing. 

“I’m sorry?” You glance at him, not trusting that you had heard him correctly. 

“Your father,” he repeats, soft smile still lightly dusted over his lips. “What did he think of this acting dream of yours?”

“Oh, I don’t–” you pause, clearing your throat. Truthfully, you had never even told your mother about it, you just knew what she would have said if you had. “I’m not sure, he passed away when I was 14.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, expression sombering. 

You revert to silent passengers as the lift continues to rise towards your floor. A part of you aches to say something, to break the silence again and continue polite conversation. Something about his demeanour was easy–easy to talk to, easy to be with. But you flounder for questions, comments, topics to mention. The weight of your partner’s affair presses at the front of your mind and you wonder how long you’ll be able to keep it at bay before it spills free from behind the dam of your resolve. 

“What were you doing?” he asks suddenly. Breaking the silence just as you think you might not be able to withstand it any longer. The question confuses you and it must show on your face because he clarifies, “when I ran into you outside. It was getting pretty late.” 

“Oh, right of course,” you say, “I was just out for a walk.”

He nods, understanding. “I was as well. Do you walk often?” 

“Most nights, these days,” you reply. 

“Does your husband not mind?” 

You want to laugh. “He’s not home often, these days,” you answer after a moment, casting your gaze to the floor. Dancing around the implications as the weight presses heavier in your mind. “Your wife?” you ask, flirting with the edges of truth unspoken nestled between you. 

“She’s similarly occupied,” he responds, voice softening. You meet his gaze in the reflection of the doors. A spark of understanding reverberates through you and you wonder if he feels it as well. Swelling like a bloom of light bursting in your chest. He holds your gaze steady, unwavering but silent. He knows. He must. 

The elevator dings, warning you of your arrival, and you clear your throat, tearing your eyes off his and smothering the warmth that had blossomed in your heart. “Thank you,” you say, unsure exactly what you felt compelled to thank him for but giving sound to the sentiment anyway. “For um, the chat. It was nice to see you.” 

“You as well,” he smiles as the doors slide open to let you out. You nod and step into the hallway, torn between the eagerness to be alone once more and a strange resistance at departing from his company so soon. The doors begin to slide closed behind you but you hear him call your name once and spin to see his hand blocking their attempt. “Maybe we’ll see each other again soon, on one of our walks.” 

You nod again and watch as he lets his hand fall, body swallowed back into the elevator as the doors shut and it continues its climb upwards. You stand for a minute, stock still in the hallway once more staring at the space where he was. 

It's amazing how little time it takes for your whole world to shift. It’s a fact you’ve been presented with again and again throughout life–the deaths of your parents, accepting your husband's proposal all those years ago, the photo of him sent to you by an old friend with his arms around another woman. Mere seconds of time that seemed to move entire planets–rearranging your life without your consent at a subatomic level. 

Standing in the hallway now, with the sound of Joshua’s voice lingering in your mind, you get the uncanny feeling that you’ve just lived through another of these moments. You turn away from the elevator and walk the final steps to your apartment accompanied with this knowledge, and the hope that his final statement proves true. 

© 2024, neoneun-au. all rights reserved.

please consider reblogging, i would love to know your thoughts on the story so far !

[pacofprunes]

my mom always told me,

warnings. — noncon, namgyus pov, incel namgyu, namgyu calls women females, baby trapping, mentions of gangbang and 3some, reader is called a slut and a whore, choking, victim blaming

by clicking read more, you consent to reading 18+ content

my mom always told me not to stare. but it’s hard not to when you got a bitch so hot sitting across from you. it’s even harder when your pupils almost cover your entire eye color from how big they were from the drugs. as a kid i listened, but now? psh, i’m starting to forget about that silly lesson. still staring right at you from across the bar.

my mom always told me not to point. but my mom didn’t understand. how am i supposed to show someone something without pointing? how could i show my friend the girl that i wanted by just speaking? nah. and maybe just maybe, i’ll point my finger lower, and lower, and then my friend will point as well, his finger also going lower and lower, tracing your pretty little ass. god i wish i could actually feel it.

my mom always told me to walk a lady home at night or to stay with her until someone else could arrive to pick her up. keep her safe from the people that may try to hurt her, weather i knew her or not. she said it was the right thing to do, and that’s what i’m doing! i was the one keeping you, my pretty slut, safe. i just have my own way of doing things. if it wasn’t me it’d be someone else, don’t kid yourself. thanos would jump at the chance to get between your legs. he’s probably going to do the same thing as me. i might let him or he might just help himself too.

my mom always told me to be kind to others. well, clearly your mom didn’t teach you that. over here pounding on my chest and kicking at me. that shit wasn’t very fucking kind. i’m just helping a women out. sex is normal, it’s healthy, it’s important. so when you think about it, i’m just trying to help you. i’m being kind. just like my mom told me to. couldn’t you show some gratitude? my mom always told me to say please and thank you, did yours? she clearly didn’t teach you to be kind, i don’t expect a thank you, but i sure as hell deserve one.

my mom always told me that women like a strong man. so why when my hands are squeezing your tiny throat and i flex my arms to show every muscle, you still don’t find me attractive? why when i move you so effortlessly, easily holding you down with one hand while you try to struggle, why don’t you find me attractive? shit, i could probably hold you down with one finger, i’m clearly strong, so could you quit your fucking whining bitch? i have the best dick you’ll ever get in your life.

my mom always told me that you females like when a man takes control of a situation. likes when a man takes care of all the problems, the bills, everything. so why when i take control of your pleasure, your pain, the breaths you take with my hand wrapped around your throat, why are you acting like you don’t like it? are you trying to be different from the average female? you’re all the same. you ask for a man to take care of you, to take control, but when he does it, when i do it, you act like a whiny fucking bitch and complain like you don’t want it. don’t bullshit me. i can see right through you.

my mom always told me that she wanted me to have grandkids, that she wanted me to start my own family. and she always told me that most women want a family too. so why when you feel my dick tense in you and start to twitch and feel my cum leaking down your legs, all the way to your toes, why are you screaming at me? why are you crying? quit fucking yelling at me bitch! i know you wanted a kid, i know you wanted a family, i just fucking gave it to you, so how about you quit being ungrateful and just fucking suck my cum back in you. don’t waste a single drop.

my mom always told me not to hit a women. she said, “namgyu, you should never hit a lady, okay? it’s wrong. you should protect the lady you love, not hurt her.” but mom, this wasn’t a lady. she, you, are a slut. a filthy fucking whore. you were begging for it so quit shaking your head no. the outfit you were wearing, the alcohol you were taking to make yourself more compliable for me so that you couldn’t back out or get away, you wanted me to do this. you wanted me to fuck you, wanted me to fuck a baby in you. there’s no need to act so indifferent now. mom. she’s not a lady, she’s a slut, okay? so don’t be mad at me. you said women like when you give them what they want so i gave her what she wanted and i gave you what you wanted mom! you wanted a grandchild? well i just got you one.

my mom always told me a lot of things. the only one i didn’t listen to was “namgyu, don’t get involved with those drugs that you see the other kids around you take. i don’t want you to go down that path.” but what did she know? she clearly knew nothing. you reacted like nothing how she told me. but then again, she told me women, like this that blah blah blah. she told me ladys like this that and the third. you weren’t a lady. you weren’t a women. you aren’t any of those things. you’re a slut, a whore, a cum dump. my slut.

my mom always told me to share. she said sharing is caring. so how about you open your legs for me instead of me having to pry them open, and share that dirty little cunt with me and then i’ll call thanos and i’ll share with him! maybe he’ll fuck a baby in you too. maybe he’ll call up a friend as well, did thanos mom teach him manors as well? did she tell him sharing is caring? your mom clearly did you wrong. how could you spread your legs open for a man you didn’t even know? come on, have some more dignity…i’ll teach you something.

i, namgyu, says that sharing is caring, okay? there’s a lesson for you. one your mom should’ve taught you. so how about you share your body with me, not that you already haven’t, but i took that from you. you didn’t share. i had to take it myself. so listen to me slut, spread your legs, lay still, and share with me, kay? be a good slut and i’ll ask thanos to share some pills with you when he gets down here. and you better not say no. don’t you know that if you’re offered something you should say yes and then thank you? so, do you want my dick in you? careful, there’s only one right answer. yes? now say thank you namgyu and shut your fucking whiny mouth.

[lila-lou]

✨Different✨

Summary: Loving Soldier Boy was never easy—but tonight, he’s just Ben. Stripped of bravado, weighed down by the world, he lets you see the cracks. In quiet touches and unspoken confessions, he leans into you, searching for something he’s not sure he deserves. And for once, he lets himself rest—just with you.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: FLUFF

Word Count: 3245

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

You didn’t think tonight would turn out like this. Not that dating Soldier Boy ever came with a sense of predictability, but this… this was something you hadn’t expected.

When he walked into your apartment, it was the same as usual—kicking the door shut with his boot, leaving streaks of dirt on the rug you’d told him a dozen times not to ruin. His shield, that ever-present symbol of his ego, clattered against the wall where he left it leaning. He looked exhausted, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat, his movements slower, heavier than you were used to.

“Rough day?”, you asked, already heading to grab him a beer from the fridge. It was part of the routine now. He’d come in, drop some snarky comment about how the world sucked, down half the beer in one go, and grumble until he either passed out or decided he wanted you in bed.

But today, he didn’t answer. When you turned around, beer in hand, he was just standing there, watching you.

There was something in his eyes—something you hadn’t seen before. He looked… unsure. And Soldier Boy wasn’t someone who did “unsure”. He was all swagger and bravado, always walking into a room like he owned it. But now? He looked smaller somehow, like the weight of the day—or maybe the weight of being him—was too much to carry.

“You good?”, you asked, your voice softer this time. Setting the beer on the counter, you stepped closer, unsure of what to say. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he let out a long, heavy sigh and dropped onto the couch, his head falling back against the cushion.

“Yeah”, he muttered, though it didn’t sound convincing. “Just… tired”.

That was new. He never admitted to being tired. Not the Soldier Boy you knew. He was supposed to be bulletproof, invincible—at least, that’s how he saw himself. But tonight, it felt like all that armor he wore—literal and figurative—was starting to crack.

You sat down beside him cautiously, unsure if he’d push you away. He didn’t even glance at you, just stared at the ceiling like it might offer him some kind of answer. When his hand brushed against yours, it wasn’t the cocky, teasing touch you were used to. It was hesitant. Tentative.

“Ben?”, you asked quietly. “What’s going on?”.

His jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes, like he was fighting something inside himself. “I just—”. He stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Forget it”.

You didn’t let him off the hook that easily. “Talk to me”, you urged, resting your hand gently on his arm. “What do you need?”.

His eyes opened, and when they met yours, they weren’t the arrogant, confident eyes you were used to. There was something raw there, something that made your chest tighten. For a second, you thought he’d get up and leave, maybe throw out some asshole comment to deflect like he always did when things got too real. But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His voice was so quiet you almost didn’t catch it when he said, “I just need… you. Okay?”.

It wasn’t a demand, like you’d come to expect from him. It wasn’t gruff or commanding. It was soft. Almost pleading.

You blinked, caught off guard. This wasn’t the Soldier Boy you knew—the man who had to be in control of everything, who couldn’t let anyone else take charge. But tonight, something was different. He was different. And even if he’d never say the words out loud, you could see it in the way his hand reached for yours again, the way he clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He didn’t want to be the unbreakable superhero right now. He didn’t want to fight, argue, or take the lead. Tonight, he just wanted to let go.

He wanted you.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You weren’t sure how to react—this wasn’t the man you’d grown used to, the one who always walked through life with an unshakable ego. But as you looked at him now, slumped forward, waiting for your response like he didn’t know what to expect, you realized how fragile he seemed beneath it all.

“Okay”, you murmured, your voice steady despite the odd knot forming in your chest.

His shoulders eased, just slightly, like that single word was enough to let him breathe again. You reached out, resting your hand gently against his back. He didn’t flinch or shrug you off, and you could feel the tension knotted there, his muscles taut beneath your fingers.

For a moment, the two of you stayed like that—his head bowed, your hand resting on his back, a quiet stillness settling over the room. You could feel the weight of the day on him, not sadness exactly, but something heavier. He wasn’t broken, but he was worn, like he was just… done. Done with all of it.

“Wanna take a shower?”, you murmured, your lips brushing against his bicep. It was a small gesture, but one you knew he wouldn’t resist. The tension in his shoulders shifted at your words, and though he didn’t respond right away, you could tell he was considering it.

Finally, he let out a low hum, more a grunt than an answer. “Yeah”, he said, his voice rough but softer than you expected.

You stood first, tugging lightly at his arm until he followed. He didn’t protest, letting you lead him through the familiar path to the bathroom. It wasn’t like him to give up control so easily—normally, he’d be making some quip about how lucky you were to get him out of his clothes, or joking about how he didn’t need to wash off because “dirt doesn’t stick to perfection”. But tonight, there was none of that. Just quiet compliance, a rare and fragile thing.

The bathroom light was soft, warm, and it reflected in his tired eyes as you turned the shower on. Steam began to rise, curling in the air, and you glanced over at him as he leaned against the sink, his arms crossed, watching you. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t putting on a show. He was just… waiting.

“You need help, big guy?”, you teased gently, trying to lighten the mood.

He huffed, the faintest flicker of his usual smirk appearing for just a second. “I’m not that far gone”, he muttered, but there was no edge to his voice.

Still, you stepped closer, your fingers reaching for the heavy buckle of his supe suit. It was scratched and battered, the once-pristine metal dulled by years of wear and tear. As you started to undo it, you could feel his eyes on you—not in the usual cocky, flirtatious way, but softer, more curious, like he was trying to understand why you were doing this for him.

The belt clicked open, and you carefully slid it free, letting it drop to the floor with a dull thud. Your hands moved to the fastening of his suit, your fingers deft as you worked it loose. The fabric was thick, stiff with grime and the scent of smoke and sweat lingering in the material. It was a stark reminder of what his life was—a never-ending cycle of fights, missions, and expectations.

“You’re quiet”, you murmured as you worked, glancing up at him.

“Just… tired”, he admitted, his voice low, barely above a whisper. His gaze softened, and for a moment, he almost looked like he might say something more. But then he fell silent again, letting you continue without interruption.

As the top of his suit came loose, you slid it down his arms, revealing his broad chest and the scars that marked his skin. They told the story of a man who had been through hell and back—a story he rarely let anyone see. Your eyes lingered on a particularly deep scar over his ribs, one you’d traced with your fingers before in quieter moments.

You didn’t say anything about it now. You knew better.

“You’re a mess”, you teased gently, trying to bring some levity to the moment. Your hand brushed over his chest briefly, more out of instinct than anything else, and you felt the way he leaned into the touch—subtle, but there.

“Yeah, well”, he muttered, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “You knew what you were signing up for”.

That was more like him, and the familiar quip made you smile. “Sure did”, you said, pulling the rest of his suit down until it pooled at his feet. He stepped out of it without a word, standing before you naked now, the steam from the shower curling around his frame.

For a moment, you just looked at him. Right now, he was just Ben, tired and worn, standing in your bathroom like he didn’t know what to do next.

“Come on”, you said softly, taking his hand and guiding him toward the shower.

The water hit him first, soaking his hair and trailing down his body, washing away the grime and tension he’d carried in with him. He tilted his head back under the spray, his eyes closing as he let out a low, contented sigh.

You stepped in with him, the warmth of the water cascading over both of you. His hands found your waist instinctively, steadying himself more than anything else, and you stayed close, your fingers running gently along his arms, his chest, wherever you felt he needed the comfort.

The water poured over both of you, the steady rhythm of the droplets filling the silence. He wasn’t saying much—wasn’t saying anything, really—but his hands lingered at your waist, not gripping, just holding. Like he needed to know you were there, solid and steady.

Eventually, as the steam enveloped you both, you felt him shift slightly. His shoulders sagged, and then, slowly, his head dipped forward until it came to rest against your collarbone. The unexpected weight of it was grounding, and you instinctively raised your hand, threading your fingers through his damp hair.

You let him stay there.

You didn’t say anything—didn’t tease him about the rare vulnerability or push him to talk. You just let him be, standing in the warmth of the shower, your hand gently stroking through his hair, the other tracing soft patterns along his back.

His breathing slowed against you, the rise and fall of his chest evening out. The tension he carried, the tight coil of pressure always wound so deeply inside him, seemed to ease just a little. He wasn’t completely relaxed—he never could be—but this was close enough.

After a while, he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin, “You’re… too good at this”.

You smiled faintly, letting out a soft chuckle. “At what?”.

“Letting me… I don’t know”. He paused, shifting slightly but not pulling away. “Letting me stop. Even just for a second”.

Your hand stilled in his hair for a moment before continuing. “You don’t always have to keep moving, Ben”, you said softly. “You don’t always have to be… that guy. You can just be you with me”.

He didn’t respond right away, but you felt the way his arms tightened slightly around your waist. It wasn’t a thank you, not in words. Soldier Boy didn’t do thank yous. But it was enough.

“I don’t know who the hell ‘me’ even is anymore”, he said after a long pause, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple, your lips lingering there. “Then let’s figure it out together”.

For the first time that night, you felt him exhale fully, the kind of breath that carried the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. His head stayed resting against you, the water continuing to wash over both of you as the world outside faded further and further away.

And for now, that was enough.

After the shower, the two of you moved quietly through the motions of getting ready for bed. Ben didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. The air between you was calm, steady, the kind of quiet that spoke more than words could.

When he finally slid into bed beside you, you expected him to turn back into the Soldier Boy you knew, trying to get you tangled up beneath him. But tonight was different.

He simply lay back, his body sinking into the mattress like he was letting himself rest for the first time in years. He turned onto his side, his back to you, and for a moment, you just stared at him, unsure of what to do. It wasn’t like him to pull away, and yet here he was, retreating in a way that didn’t feel like rejection, but something else entirely.

You scooted closer, the mattress shifting under your weight as you moved toward him. Your hand reached out tentatively at first, brushing over his back lightly, testing the waters. His body was warm under your touch, his muscles taut but not as tense as they’d been earlier.

When he didn’t pull away, you let your hand settle more firmly, wrapping your arm around his torso. He let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh at the contact, his shoulders relaxing just a little more.

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of his back, just between his shoulder blades. The faint salt of his skin mingled with the lingering scent of soap from the shower, grounding you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

His hand moved, covering yours where it rested against his chest. The warmth of his palm settled over your fingers, holding them in place like he needed the reassurance of your touch. Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt heavy with meaning, with emotions too raw to voice.

After a while, though, you felt him shift. Slowly, he turned in your arms, rolling onto his back and then to his side, facing you. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, like he was gathering the courage for something.

Your breath hitched slightly as his gaze locked onto yours. Those green eyes, usually sharp and full of mischief or arrogance, were softer now, vulnerable in a way that made your chest tighten. You bit your lip instinctively, unsure of what he was searching for as his eyes traced your face.

Your hand, still resting on his chest, moved on its own accord, brushing upward to the scruff of his beard. Your fingertips traced the coarse texture, lingering along his jawline, and you couldn’t help but let a small, almost shy smile tug at your lips.

“What?”, you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze shifted, moving from your eyes to your lips and back again, like he was debating something in his head. His hand lifted, resting lightly against your side, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt.

“You”, he finally murmured, the word low and rough. “You’re just… different”.

“Different how?”, you asked, your fingers still absently stroking along his beard.

His lips twitched faintly, like he was fighting a smile. “Not like anyone else”, he said. “You don’t… expect anything from me. You don’t need me to be anything I’m not”.

You tilted your head slightly, your smile softening. “Maybe because I like who you are. Not who the world thinks you have to be”.

For a moment, he just stared at you like he didn’t know how to respond. Then, unexpectedly, his hand moved, brushing over yours where it still rested against his beard. He caught your fingers lightly, holding them for a moment before pressing them to his lips in a gesture so tender it made your heart ache.

“You make it sound so fucking simple”, he said, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.

“Maybe it is”, you whispered back.

He didn’t say anything else, but the way his hand lingered against yours, the way his gaze stayed locked on yours as if he was afraid to look away, spoke volumes.

For a man who had always carried the world on his shoulders, tonight he let himself lean on you.

His gaze softened even more as you whispered the words, “I love you, Ben”, against his lips, the confession slipping out like it had been waiting there all along. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t even breathe.

Then you kissed him, gentle and unhurried, your lips brushing against his like you were sealing the words between you. He didn’t respond at first, almost frozen, but then his hand tightened against your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. The kiss wasn’t demanding or hungry; it was tender, the kind of intimacy that came with trust.

When you pulled back, you kept your eyes on his, watching for his reaction. For once, he wasn’t guarded. He wasn’t hiding behind his usual cocky smirk or sarcastic quip. Instead, he just stared at you, something unreadable flickering in his green eyes.

“You don’t have to say it back”, you whispered, sensing the hesitation in him. “I just wanted you to know”.

He let out a exhale, his free hand coming up to rest on your cheek. His thumb brushed along your skin, and you could feel the tension in him, the struggle between the man he was and the man he wanted to be with you.

“I don’t deserve you”, he muttered, his voice barely audible.

“Maybe not”, you teased softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “But I love you anyway”.

That drew a quiet laugh from him, and you felt his chest shake slightly beneath your hand. He didn’t say anything else, but the way he held you, his arms tightening around you as you shifted to rest your head against his chest, told you everything you needed to know.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear was calming, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a quiet peace. His hand stayed at your waist, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against your skin, grounding you both in the moment.

As sleep began to tug at the edges of your mind, you heard him murmur something, so low you almost missed it.

“Love you too, doll”.

Your lips curved into a sleepy smile, but you didn’t respond, letting his words settle in the quiet between you. The world outside didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was the man holding you, the man who, for the first time, was letting himself be held.

And in his arms, you drifted off, the soft sound of his breathing the last thing you heard before sleep claimed you.

———————————

A/N: Well, this was something else. Please let me know what you think.🥰

-

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[just-wrting]

Think I Like You

Title: Think I Like You

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x Half Mink!Reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Master List

Summary: You try to figure out why Zoro won’t take you seriously even if the answer isn’t what you expect.

A/N: I’m not dead! I’m just all over the place with a lot of stuff. I sleep a lot which I can’t tell if it’s a sleep issue or a depression issue, but I’m always tired. I still work full time but also do school part time now. Plus I’ve still got a boyfriend! But he wanted to end this weekend on 1062 which means Zoro brainrot for me.

You stretch and roll over, burying your face into your pillow. Ever since you changed where you nap, you've started sleeping so much better. Something about being more comfortable or something like that. The actual reason doesn't really matter. You're just happy you're sleeping better.

"You owe me for this."

"I don't owe you shit. Not my fault you nap in my spot." You reach up and pat his cheek. "What do I need to do for you to be quiet?"

"I already told you, you owe me."

You open your eyes just a little. "What could I possibly owe you? I don't like to drink, I don't keep money, not to mention I can't even tell if you're the type of man to be swayed by physical charms. What could I possibly offer you, Roronoa?"

"For starters, you can start referring to me by my name like everyone else does." He looks pissed. "You should fight me."

"You didn't take me seriously last time, Moss Head. Why would I bother trying again?"

He pulls on your ear. "I said like everyone else, not like how that idiot says my name."

You ignore him and bury your nose in his stomach. Dinner has been started, and if you don't ignore it you'll end up going to the kitchen early. It's less that Sanji minds seeing you, it's more of the fact that you struggle to suppress the urge to knock shit off the counter and dip your fingers in the sauces. Such is the life of someone like you.

You let yourself doze a little. You can still hear what's going on, but just like every common house cat, you ignore it. What you can't ignore is the gentle scratching behind your ears. As far as you remember, no one has done this since you were a kid. You don't hate the feeling, but you start to feel flustered over it. Ever since you left home, you've made sure affection comes at your own terms so you haven't had this in years.

There's no point in asking him to stop. You're clearly fond enough of him to nap on him, what's the big deal about getting ear scratches? Besides, he's the type to get embarrassed and loud if you point out you're awake. That's not something you feel like dealing with right now. You're too touch starved to complain.

Despite the comfortable conditions, you don't actually fall asleep. You spend the next forty-ish minutes pretending to sleep, waiting for dinner to be done. The time passes by relatively quickly, though you're sore afterwards. You couldn't bring yourself to even twitch, worried that he'd stop.

The dinner call goes off, and you pretend to wake up. You have no clue why you're acting, but it was too late to stop twenty minutes ago. Standing up, you stretch halfheartedly. At first, he doesn't say anything. It's only once he catches up to you that he starts asking questions.

"What's the deal with the noise you make?"

Raising an eyebrow, you look at him. "I don't snore, so I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm not stupid, I can tell you aren't snoring. The other noise, the one that's relaxing. I can usually feel it when you're laying directly on me."

"What do you mean? The other noise?" You pause to think it over before it clicks. "We aren't talking about that."

You know what he's referring to. It's not like it's something you can control, but it's still embarrassing. Of all people to be you around, it's been Zoro. No one on the crew has judged you for being what you are, it's just embarrassing to be a mix. Your mother's human, and your dad's a mink. You look decently human, just with a few quirks.

"What do you mean, we aren't talking about it? We're talking about it right now."

Your face starts to heat up. "I mean I don't want to tell you."

His eyes narrow in suspicion. "Why not? Is it supposed to be embarrassing or something?"

"If I say yes, will you drop it?"

"Yeah, sure."

His face instantly relaxes. If you could smack him, you would. The last time you tried, it hurt. So you put your hand on his shoulder and give him a push. The only thing it does is cause his other shoulder to hit the doorframe, but you use it to march past him.

You take your seat, leaning back against the armrest of the booth seat. Kicking your feet up on the space next to you, you watch the crew carefully. Everyone is smiling and in a good mood, so you don't have anything to worry about. You don't ever admit it, but you care about them even if it's difficult to show.

Zoro picks up your legs and lays them in his lap. Since it doesn't seem to bother him, you're tempted to just sit normally. You have no idea what's going on in that head of his, and you doubt he does either. However, you actually do enjoy touching him, so you'll stay like this for now.

There's more commotion as Sanji brings out the plates. The one you're most interested in is a large tuna fillet that gets set in the middle of the table. You can't stop staring at it, the tender flesh a beautiful golden color. It's hard to tell if it smells better than it looks or looks better than it smells. Sanji has never failed to impress you with his dishes, so you can't wait to sink your teeth in.

Before you can even start to load your plate, Sanji sets a small plate in front it you. It contains a disk of packed rice, some avocado slices, and chunks of fish. You're assuming it's more of the tuna. Whatever it is, it was made specifically for you.

You don't mind the special dishes. You'll try almost everything, and unlike Luffy, you'll eat it slow enough to give a review. Everything tastes good so you don't get the point, but it probably makes Sanji feel better to have honest reviews and not just someone who loves food fawning over his cooking. Though if you're not careful, you worry that he'll start having write an essay about it.

"And for you, a special tune tartare! If you like it, I'll make it again for everyone some time."

You nod. "Yeah, I'll let you know. I always do. Not that you've ever made a bad dish."

You can't stop the tip of your tail from flicking back and forth in mild annoyance. By the time you get halfway through the tartare, all of the fillet is gone. It's not like it's the biggest deal, you just wish you could've had some of that too. It's not fair that since you got a special tuna dish, that you don't get the other one.

"If you tell me what that noise was, I'll share," Zoro teases while pointing at you with a bite of tuna. "I bet you can't resist answering now."

"I'm a cat. I was making a normal noise that cats make. Consider it a compliment."

You lean forward and take the bite of tuna. It's flakey and melts on your tongue with a slightly sticky glaze that has hints of honey and garlic. You lick your lips savoring the balance of flavors. None of them are overwhelming, but it's hard to gauge in just one bite what you think about it.

"You can't just," Zoro stutters. "You can't just take the food off of my chopsticks. Get your own!"

You grab his wrist and lick the glaze off of the chopsticks. It feels like there's another flavor there that you can't quite tell what it is. It's some sort of herby flavor, that while you enjoy, you can't pin down.

"Here!" Zoro doesn't look at you as he shoves his plate towards you. "Just take it since I don't want your germs."

You want to tease him, but you'll leave him alone. It's better to leave it in front of other people since Robin's insinuations are becoming too much. For now you'll just eat the food. Later, you'll tease him.

—-

"You're still not taking me seriously, Roronoa. Why did you want to fight if you won't take me seriously?"

You lunge, hand reaching for his throat. He blocks it with his arm, causing your claws to dig into his skin. Using his arm as leverage, you pull yourself closer to him, swinging your sword at his side. His parry is effortless, and he looks bored. It's so aggravating that he won't take you seriously in a simple sparring match. Perhaps he'd take you more seriously if you actually tried to kill him.

You disengage before leaping over him. This time, you swing your sword at his neck as he turn around. It's once more blocked, and he smirks. You're just barely faster than him as he takes a halfhearted swing at your sword arm with his other arm. You catch the flat of the blade with your knuckles, steeling your arm against the shock wave of the blow.

Kicking your leg out in front of you, you aim for his knees, intending to bring him down. Despite the grip on his sword, he catches your ankle in his hand and pulls your leg to the side. You let your body pivot with the movement, twisting until your leg is behind you. You yank your foot forward as hard as you can, pulling him into your back.

He's quick to let your ankle go and grab your shoulder to steady himself. In a fluid motion, you swing your arm and grab your dagger. You flick it in your fingers and thrust towards his ribs. His hand trails down your arm to your wrist and pins it behind your back. He gives it a squeeze trying to get you to drop the dagger.

"Are you actually trying to kill him?" Nami tells from the side. "Are you stupid?"

You roll your eyes, sweeping your leg behind you and hooking Zoro's. Despite your efforts, you can't get him off balance, only causing him to take a step back. By now you're getting pissed off. You aren't a bad swordsman, it's just that this jerk is ridiculously smart in battle. This is probably the only time he'll use his brain all day.

You jerk your head back, hitting his jaw. The sound of the impact makes you regret it, knowing you'll feel like shit later. You manage to free yourself as he loosens his grip, and you elbow him as you twist back around. The only reason you're still going is because he won't take it seriously. It's like he finds it funny that he's able to fend you off so easily.

You rush towards him, tossing your weapons to the ground. Digging your claws into his shoulders, you use your momentum to knock him over. It only works because he's too busy rubbing his jaw to notice you in time. The two of you tumble to the deck, and you lean in as close as you can.

"Why won't you take me seriously? Is this just a game?"

Faster than you can blink, he's able to flip and pin you under him. He's even more smug than the last time you sparred, and you can't tell if you want to smack him or if you should kiss him. Not that you could smack him, he's got your hands above your head. While kissing him would let you win, you're not willing to fight that dirty in a friendly match.

"You're a brute, Zoro. You can't just manhandle the other crewmates just because you feel like it." Sanji pulls him off you. "If you were in the mood to fight I would've taken the offer."

You tune out their fight as Chopper checks your head and shoulder. You're a bit sore now, but you'll be fine in a few hours. Nothing keeps you down for long, even if it's usually just you going against the doctor's orders. The only thing actually bothering you is the fact that for a moment you thought he was going to answer your question. Though the fact you thought about kissing him is also an issue.

It's not difficult to figure out why you thought that way. Your parents made sure that you knew to find someone strong enough to protect you in case of something happening, even if you knew how to take care of yourself. That, and he's easy on the eyes. Even if he's an idiot half of the time, that doesn't matter. Your parents never said to find a smart man, just a strong one. Everything else was your choice.

Chopper hands you a damp towel, and you use to clean under your claws. Tiny spots of blood rest under them, probably from when you grabbed Zoro. If the pinprick wounds bothered him, he doesn't show it. He's too busy trying to shove Sanji off the boat. As long as you stay dry, it doesn't matter if they end up overboard. They can both swim.

After a few minutes, Nami separates them. You watch her glare at the men before you stalk off to take another nap. The sun is just starting to dip below the water, so finding a nice patch of sun to lick your figurative wounds isn't possible. You'll have to settle for sulking in some weird spot. Perhaps it's time to torment the fish in the tank once more.

Lounging on the sofa is probably the second best place to nap. The sound of the tank constantly humming while you watch the fish swim in tempting circles puts you at ease. You stretch out fully, let your arm and tail hang off the edge. The tip of your tails twitches slightly as you trace the movement of a particularly large bass. That should be tomorrow's lunch, perhaps in a stew. Even though it hasn't been long since you had food, your mouth starts to water at the idea of seafood stew.

"He really doesn't take you seriously, does he?"

You recognize Robin before she even speaks. Her stride is longer than Nami's with her steps being lighter than everyone else's. Not to mention she smells floral. It's never overpowering, but it allows you to pick her out from the crew.

"I guess not. Maybe I should've gone for his other eye."

She laughs, sitting down next to you. You aren't opposed to the company, especially if it's Robin. There something about her that puts you at ease.

"I don't think he'd like that," she muses. "What did he say to you?"

You scoff. "He didn't say anything. Bet he's too proud to take me seriously, like the jerk he is."

Robin smiles knowingly. "I'm sure he has his reasons. Maybe you should talk to him, just the two of you. I'm sure he'd tell you when no one else is around."

You frown. "What is he? A shy school boy? There's only one reason for not taking me seriously in a fight, and it would be him not thinking I'm even worth it. No point in having him tell me that in private, he can just keep it to himself."

She reaches out her hand, gently brushing your hair from your eyes. "Then what do you think about him?"

"I think he's an idiot who swapped out his brain for more muscles."

"Let me rephrase that. What feelings do you have about him?" There's a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "At least figure that out."

You shift so you can place your head in her lap. "I guess he's fine most of the time. I don't know why I enjoy his company, I just do. He's never really pushed me on anything, just sort of letting me do my own thing. Not to mention he's comfortable. As much as I hate admitting it, I suppose I like being around him."

She continues to brush your hair with her fingers silently. It's one of those tactics of hers. She'll stay quiet until you keep talking.

"What do you want me to say? He's nice enough to me, I can respect him as vice-captain, and he's decent looking. Everything else I think about him is my little secret." You're starting to get irritated talking about him. "Actually, I think I'll go talk to him now. I'll drag that answer out of him if I have to."

Robin looks at you with worry as you sit up. "Perhaps this is just a misunderstanding. What are you going to do if his answer isn't what you expect?"

"I'll deal with it when it happens," you say with a shrug. "It's not like it'll be anything surprising."

You take your time wandering around the ship. It's not hard to tell where he is, you'd rather put it off for a little bit longer. This weird feeling in your chest has been bothering you a lot lately. It can't be ignored anymore, but that doesn't mean you're one hundred percent ready to admit it.

Thankfully, he's exactly where you knew he was. You won't tell him that you enjoy finding him when he's working out. Something about him being shirtless is nice. Not that he usually bothers with wearing a shirt, so you can usually just stare whenever you want. Maybe he just likes the attention, and you'll gladly give it to him.

As soon as he leans back on the bench, you sit on his lap and stretch out over his torso. You rest your chin on your hand, pressing your palm on his chest. Watching as he sets the barbell back on the stand, you wait for him to start talking. It would be fine with you if he kept working out, but he seems opposed to the idea.

"Is bothering me amusing to you?"

You tilt your head slightly. "You're not cute when you're mad, so no. I was just hoping we could talk."

"You don't have to sit on me to talk."

"That's just personal preference. Besides, you tend to avoid talking about certain things and this keeps you from leaving." you say with a Cheshire grin. "I enjoy your touch, so this is ideal for me."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Zoro looks away from you. “You keep saying weird stuff.”

You don’t even blink as you respond, “I enjoy your touch. That’s what that means. I’ll even be nice and tell you the answer to your question from earlier. As a cat, I sometimes purr when I feel comfortable and content. Though some cats purr when scared.”

“So you’re scared of me? Is that what that means?”

“No. The only thing particularly scary about you is the fact that you’re an idiot.” Your ears twitch. “But since I answered your questions, you can answer mine. Why don’t you fight me seriously?”

He looks at you for just a moment, before looking at the ceiling. It’s like he’s embarrassed by the answer and is hoping you’ll forget about it. However, you’ve already made up your mind about what you want. You’re just waiting to see what he’ll do.

“I-,” Zoro cuts himself off to hide behind his hand. “I could hurt you really bad. That would be bad.”

Your tail swishes on the ground in mild irritation. “So you think I’m incapable of defending myself. That would explain the times you’ve interrupted my fights.”

“It’s not that!” He sits up, wrapping an arm around your waist to make sure you don’t tumble to the ground. “I don’t want you to get hurt if I’m around. It’s my job to make sure you’re safe.”

You’re nose to nose with him now. Even at this distance, he can’t seem to make eye contact. You can smell the liquor from dinner on his breath. It would be so easy to close the gap and kiss him, but for some reason the thought makes you nervous. You’re usually close to him, so why is this time different?

“Why should you keep me safe?” you mumble. “Do you save me out of obligation for the crew? If so, aren’t there better people on the crew to swoop in and save?”

“Does it matter why?” The way that his lips almost touch yours as he speaks makes you flustered.

You close your eyes. “Yes. I don’t want to get my hopes up if you think of me as nothing more than a burden of a crew-mate. Just be honest with me for once, Zoro.”

You don’t regret the soft begging tone as you say his name. You regret not saying his name in that almost pathetic tone sooner. The way that he kisses you makes your head spin. Even though he’s holding you close, you have to wrap your arms around his neck to make yourself feel more steady.

Zoro kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months. His hold on your waist makes it impossible to move, and the way that his hand grips yours hair makes you moan. You can barely breathe as his tongue explores your mouth, your grip on reality slipping as his fingers dig into thigh.

Even when he pulls away to let you breathe, you find yourself lost in the way he touches you. Sloppy kisses trail down your jaw and neck, coming to an end with his teeth on your collarbone. The way that his fingernails scrape gently against your scalp as he tugs lightly on your hair causes you to expose more of your chest to him as you lean into his palm.

You’ve never felt like this before. Hot, heavy, and breathless all while being lightheaded. You wouldn’t have it in you to resist him if he wanted more. In fact, the pathetic words of begging him to ravish you weigh heavy on your tongue. Yet he just continues to press kisses along every inch of skin exposed to him, ignoring how hard you’re panting as little moans escape you. He’s oblivious to everything but the act of kissing you.

Zoro only pauses after you tug his hair harshly. You didn’t mean to, you couldn’t help the reaction to him biting down on the side of your neck. You couldn’t even help the strangled groan that leaves you as he leaves a mark. For some reason, your body is shaking like you have some sort of withdrawal.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough and low.

You kiss him again, desperate to get as close as you can. Desperation courses through your body as you realize just how badly you’ve waited for this. You’ve spent months being almost attached to him so it makes sense, you just can’t figure out how you missed it. The long nights spent curled up in his lap, face buried in his neck has left you craving him so much.

You whine as he pulls away, unwilling to let this stop. It doesn’t even matter anymore how prideful you’ve been up until this. It’s so obvious how much you want him. Nothing could hide it anymore.

“Zoro.” You don’t even open your eyes. “Please.”

He gives your thigh a tight squeeze as you whimper. You can tell that what little restraint he has is fading with each whine of his name. Yet he’s able to pause and hold you close, breathing heavily into your ear. Eventually, he covers your mouth with his hand, stifling your words.

“Not like this,” Zoro says, his tone meaning he’s serious. “If you really want it, I want to make it special.”

“S-special?” You don’t know what that means. When was the last time someone told you that you were special? “How?”

“Just better than in the exercise room on the Sunny. You deserve to be treated better than that.”

You nod, and he lets his grip loosen. Despite the fact that nothing much happened, you feel drained. Maybe it’s because you really enjoy naps, but the exhaustion is hitting you hard. You don’t hide it, letting yourself go limp as Zoro picks you up.

“You can sleep in my bunk tonight. Not that it matters if I say you can as you usually show up anyway.”

You caress him jaw before giving his cheek a kiss. “Thank you, Zoro.”

The flush on his cheeks goes unnoticed by all beside you. Not that it matters, you don’t want to hide your feelings for him any longer. If he agrees to it, you’ll parade your feelings for the world to see.

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: More Than Enough

Marshall had been deep in album mode for weeks now, and you understood. You always understood. When he was in that space, nothing else existed—not time, not sleep, not food unless you physically put it in front of him.

But what you hadn’t expected was how his team would start leaning on you.

At first, it was small things—grabbing coffee, handling small errands, answering calls when Marshall was too busy. You didn’t mind helping. But then it became more.

"Hey, can you run out and grab lunch for everyone?"

"Mind handling the studio schedule? Paul’s swamped."

"Can you make sure the deliveries get sorted? We’re behind on inventory."

And it wasn’t just errands—it was the dismissive way they spoke to you, like you were supposed to do these things. Like you were just there to help them.

Like you weren’t his wife.

The first few times, you brushed it off. It wasn’t a big deal, right? Marshall was in his creative zone. You didn’t want to bother him with stupid complaints when he was making something brilliant.

But after a while, it started to weigh on you.

You weren’t just being helpful—you were being used.

And the worst part? Marshall didn’t notice.

He barely even looked at you most days, too caught up in the music, scribbling in notebooks, pacing the room while he worked through lyrics. You were just there, silent and waiting.

So you stopped going.

You didn’t make a big deal out of it—you just found excuses. Told him you had things to do at home, or that you didn’t want to get in the way. And at first, he didn’t seem to notice.

Until today.

Marshall came home earlier than usual, his hoodie slung low over his face, his hands in his pockets. He found you curled up on the couch, watching some random show you weren’t even paying attention to.

"You mad at me?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

He sat down on the armrest, facing you. "You’re mad," he repeated. "You haven’t been at the studio all week."

You shrugged, looking away. "Just needed a break."

His eyes narrowed. "Bullshit."

You sighed, your fingers tightening around the blanket in your lap. "It’s nothing, Marshall."

"Obviously, it’s something." His voice was sharp now, frustration creeping in. "Talk to me."

You hesitated. "It’s just… your team. They—" You swallowed, feeling stupid for even bringing it up. "They kind of use me for shit."

His brows furrowed. "What?"

"Like, I get it, you’re busy, but they just assume I’ll do things. Errands, scheduling, handling stupid crap they don’t want to deal with. And I didn’t say anything because you were working, and I didn’t want to bother you with—"

Marshall stood up so fast the armrest shook.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

You flinched. "Marshall—"

"Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?" His voice was low and dangerous now, his fists clenching at his sides. "They’ve been using you?"

You bit your lip. "I didn’t want to be a distraction."

His head snapped toward you, eyes flashing. "You think you’re a distraction?"

You looked down. "I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it."

Marshall let out a sharp breath, running a hand over his face before crouching in front of you. He reached for your hands, prying them away from the blanket.

"You’re my wife," he said firmly. "Not their assistant. Not their goddamn secretary. Mine."

Your chest tightened. "I know, but—"

"No." His grip on your hands tightened. "No buts. You don’t hide shit like this from me, you hear me?" His voice softened, but the fire in his eyes didn’t dim. "You don’t just deal with it alone."

You swallowed, guilt creeping in. "I didn’t know how to bring it up."

He exhaled, shaking his head. "Baby, you don’t gotta know how. You just gotta say it."

You nodded slowly, and Marshall stood, pulling you up with him before wrapping his arms around you.

His chin rested on your head, and his voice rumbled against your hair.

"They’re gonna learn real fucking quick who they’re dealing with."

You smiled into his chest, feeling the weight of the past few weeks lift off your shoulders.

Marshall wasn’t just listening now—he was handling it.

[madthetruemad]

stubborn heart ch. 12

yan!capitano x wife!reader

summary | or in which capitano is told he needs a wife. and he begrudgingly agrees.

Capitano held you close as he entered your shared home, his arms were tight around you as many of the maids and servants bowed. None of them daring to look up or even ask what happened to the others as the bloodstains on Capitano’s coat.

“Lord-“

With a single look, the servant had zipped his mouth shut. His form bowing impossibly lower as he didn’t dare to lift his gaze again. With that settled, Capitano went up the marbled steps.

“Do you wish for a bath?”

“Later,” you said quietly, “mmm just cold.”

“Then you should take one now.”

He didn’t have to look at you to know that you were close to pouting, but you didn’t argue as he finally brought you to your shared room. Then he walked to the joined bathroom and easily kicked the door open before walking you over to the sink and settling you upon it.

“Are you able to undress yourself?”

You nodded as he turned towards the bath to turn it on and get it ready for you. Taking that as a cue to get undressed, you got off the sink and shrugged your coat off first, and with careful practice you managed to unlace your dress and drop each article of clothing to the floor one by one before you were completely nude. Truthfully, you could still feel the embarrassment course through you, however, he has seen you naked before…

When he had turned to look at you, you saw how his head immediately snapped to the side.

“Husband?”

“You… need to give a man some warning next time.”

Wait- was he expecting you to undress when he left the bathroom?!

You wanted to hide your face, but before you could you felt his hands gently cradle your face. So you swallowed the embarrassment now as the bath behind him started to get hotter.

“Why did you… come save me?”

“Because you are my wife.”

“But I caused you trouble.”

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

He was firm as he got out of the way for you and dropped his hands from your face so one of his hands could grab your arm and help you into the tub. You tried not to splash any water, but some still got on the edges of his coat when you sunk into the tub.

You had more questions for him, but you doubted he would tell you. So instead, before he could leave, you called out to him.

“I know you told me not to expect anything but… you could join me… if you want.”

You could hear his footsteps stop in the doorway, and when you looked over your shoulder you could almost see how the wheels turned in his head, but…

“Maybe next time.”

You watched as he closed the bathroom door behind him which caused you to sigh. You don’t know if it was relief or something else, but you were glad either way. Truthfully, you didn’t know how you would react if he got in the tub with you. However, you do know how you feel since he didn’t… you raised a hand and pressed it against your chest. It hurt. He did say not to expect anything after all.

That same night, Capitano didn’t come to bed. Nor was he present in the morning or afternoon.

His absence would be a constant for the next two weeks which would leave you wondering… maybe you were too much trouble after all.

Atri was folding your laundry when she noticed your troubled expression. No matter how many books you tried to nose into, nothing would cure your sadness and she noticed.

“Did he not tell you where he was going?”

“No. Did he tell you?”

When you looked over at Atri, her face was everything you needed to know so you turned to her expectantly.

“He’s just on a mission, he’ll be back soon.”

You sighed and turned back to your book until you heard a bustle downstairs. Servants all running around as you turned to Atri and she smiled at you and motioned towards your bedroom door.

Almost excitedly you had tossed your book to your side of the bed and hurried to the front entrance as fast as you could. Capitano left so unexpectantly, so seeing him again was surely to put you in a better mood, right?

Though, the moment you got to the front door you had skidded to a stop. Your eyes were trying to figure out exactly what you were seeing.

Why was some random woman hanging off of Capitano’s arm?!

@littlekohai77 @lvtuss @kreishin @floffytofu @nastylilcvnt @nas-ha @simp-simp-no-mi @emmathecouchpotato4583 @sendria @riotakire @mikoslightnovels @feral-childs-word @barbatoss-bitch @venicecherryblossom @squirrelboxer @temperamentupgrade @avalordream @immahuman @xavlyzn @greensunflowerjuna @sarah22447 @naviabestgiirl @nevermoresworld @depressedbearblogs @ppancakesforu @0vendettaself @lilyalone @mochiivqi @pbjts @chewwyaaa @c4xcocoa @ren-ren23 @tazuduck @atrebiusr @simpingbigtime @aryuunachigiri @judithregulus @crowleysthings @yns-sister @satori-runa @meowmeow999999 @beeskn3es @tamikahoshiko @shoyosdoll @ngadasblog @sugacor3 @xiana21 @melancholyae @jjkysnk @s1mppp @that1weirdshipper @himikoquack @sugaryesplease12 @gallantys @wiltedpoison @vamqyx @butratherbutrather @squishameow @reivelmin @eirly-morning-tea @vortexbloom

[jeonscatalyst]

I'm basic and like Woosan and Minsung lol. Like, I'm a sucker and click on the YouTube shorts / tiktoks about their chemistry or how they're whipped for each other.

That said, I think if anything, the presence of fan service is a pretty clear indicator that the relationship is platonic lol. Like, if two members were actually dating, flirting, etc. then they'd keep it hidden from the public and probably other idols/industry folks, too.

i saw this on my timeline from a stan of another group. but aren't they telling the truth ? will a real couple be that public with their gay relationship with their bandmate ? Its very unlikely 2 men who have a secret relationship behind the scenes will flaunt it for public to see in their homophobic country, especially knowing its harmful for them their group their company their families etc. Going on trips, filming and releasing it, saying you got bitten, allowing staff to film it, having numerous skinship moments on screen and on stage - especially when one is extra private and professional to the point he even hides his iphone airpods which he shares with his supposed bf because they have a contract with samsung and the one who is stalked every 2 days by his y/n saesangs who apparanlty doesnt know about his sexuality or relationship with bandmate, huh?. This all sums up to them being genuine platonic friends who are playing up for their fans and doesnt mind being called a couple. None of heavily shipped duos in other groups doesnt shy away from pda, even teasing fans in their live streams because at the end of the day they are close friends who have nothing hidden going on or to fear.

Its naive to think jikook are a real couple who should be protected in their homophobic country(or world in general) and from crazy fandom when its Jikook themselves who are exhibiting their friendship in homoromantic way for public to see. Make it make sense ?

Hi anon,

So what I’m reading is that you and others see it too? You see exactly what we see…you recognize that the way Jimin and Jungkook behave with each other could easily lead anyone to believe their relationship isn’t purely platonic. Yet, rather than acknowledge that possibility, you attempt to rationalize it by arguing that a real couple, especially in a homophobic country, wouldn’t behave so openly but would instead go to great lengths to hide their relationship. Noted.

But that raises an important question: who set the rules on how people in such circumstances are supposed to behave? Sure, there are common expectations for how individuals might act in certain situations, but the truth is, we can’t possibly know the full extent of their reality. Unlike them, we don’t have firsthand insight into their experiences, nor can we accurately gauge the risks involved the way they can.

Every time I see arguments like yours, I can’t help but roll my eyes. It’s painfully clear that many people don’t understand the first thing about queer history or the ways in which queer individuals have learned to navigate a world that hasn’t always accepted them. Queer people have mastered the art of hiding in plain sight. For most, that’s second nature because, at some point in their lives, they’ve had to conceal at least parts of who they are. But let’s not forget that humans are, well, human….we aren’t always calculated. There are times when emotions override logic, and in those moments, people who are forced to hide often end up revealing more than they intend. Those are the moments where we catch glimpses of something real.

Idols, of course, are expected to engage in fanservice…it’s practically built into their job. They understand that many of their actions, especially on stage, will automatically be dismissed as just fanservice. So tell me, Anon, if you were a queer person who had spent years perfecting the art of blending in, what better way would there be to take advantage of moments where people are already primed to excuse your actions as something else?

Also, I have to wonder, do you honestly believe that most Jikookers ship Jimin and Jungkook purely because of what they do on stage or because of this “fanservice”? Because if so, that only proves how little you actually understand. There’s far more to why we believe they could be in a romantic relationship than just their stage interactions.

You brought up examples like: “Would a closeted couple go on a private trip, take videos, and post them?” And to that, I have to ask: Do you realize what you just admitted? The fact that you even question whether a closeted couple would do something like that means that, on some level, you also perceive those actions as non-platonic. So instead of asking whether a couple in a homophobic country would behave a certain way, why not ask yourself: Why would two “just friends” do these things in the first place?

Regardless of whether Jungkook filmed and posted GCF, the fact remains that he took Jimin to Tokyo…during a short break, at a time when both were going through a lot. Regardless of whether Hickeygate ever saw the light of day, the fact remains that it happened. Jungkook still carried a tipsy Jimin bridal-style, spun him around, and when Jimin wanted to be let down, he bit Jungkook’s neck…an erogenous zone. These things all happened whether we got to know about them or not. And since you’re citing these examples as things a queer couple in a homophobic country wouldn’t do, that means you also recognize that these actions don’t exactly scream platonic friendship. Unless, of course, you’re seriously trying to argue that traveling to Japan together, carrying each other in their arms, and biting each other’s necks in private were all just for the sake of fanservice?

“Its naive to think jikook are a real couple who should be protected in their homophobic country(or world in general) and from crazy fandom when its Jikook themselves who are exhibiting their friendship in homoromantic way for public to see. Make it make sense ? "

No, Anon. I don’t think Jikook are deliberately presenting their friendship in a homoerotic way. I think they’re simply existing and interacting with each other in a way that comes naturally to them. You’re the one perceiving something more…..and that says a lot more about your own instincts than whatever you think Jimin and Jungkook are intentionally doing.

And once again, don’t assume for a second that I, or most Jikookers, believe in Jikook just because of what you call “fanservice.” That’s where non-shippers and rival shippers (honestly, I can’t tell which you are) always get it wrong. You miss the details that people who genuinely pay attention to Jimin and Jungkook as a duo pick up on. The little things….the ones that make all the difference.

Go back and carefully comb through Jimin and Jungkook’s history if you care to. Look at all the little TMI’s we’ve gathered over the years, from staff members, Jikook themselves, from the members and from their friends and acquaintances. Then come back and tell me, honestly, if you still believe that people think there is more going on with Jikook because of “fanservice.”

[lazysoulwriter]

Again. - Lewis Hamilton.

The dim glow of ambient lighting flickered over the elegant living room, casting a warm haze over the intimate gathering. Conversations hummed around the space, glasses clinking, low laughter drifting between groups of people. It was one of those nights—exclusive, understated, filled with familiar faces, but not enough to make it overwhelming.

And then there was him.

Lewis.

You had barely set foot inside before your eyes landed on him, just as he turned toward you, as if he could sense your presence before even seeing you. For a fleeting second, something unreadable flickered in his gaze—recognition, warmth, hesitation—before he smiled.

"Hey, bunny."

His voice was warm, a little softer than you expected. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, the scent of his cologne stirring something deep in your chest. For a moment, you almost forgot how long it had been.

"Hi, Lew."

It was simple. Casual. Pretending that nothing had changed, even though everything had.

And then, just as quickly, the moment passed. He stepped back, let his hand linger on your arm for a beat too long before walking away, joining a group of his friends.

The night went on like that. Lingering glances. Almost interactions. The strange push and pull of two people who had once shared everything but now lived in separate orbits.

You were doing fine. Or at least, you thought you were—until someone approached you.

He was attractive, confident, clearly interested. He struck up a conversation with ease, his charm effortless. And why not entertain it? You were single. You owed Lewis nothing.

But before things could go anywhere, before the man could even brush his hand against yours, Lewis was there.

Right there.

The shift in the atmosphere was instant.

Lewis didn’t push or shove, didn’t raise his voice. He simply stepped into the space between you and the other man, placing a hand on his shoulder in a way that was both firm and dismissive. His expression was neutral, but his eyes burned.

"You’re done here."

It was polite. Technically. But there was no mistaking the command in his tone.

"Relax, man. She can—"

"I said, you’re done."

The other man hesitated. He looked at you as if to gauge your reaction, but before you could say anything, he scoffed, shaking his head before backing away.

And then, silence.

You exhaled, the tension still heavy between you and Lewis.

"You can’t just do that," you murmured, crossing your arms.

"I can do whatever I want," he shot back, his voice low, rough.

And damn it if that didn’t send a shiver down your spine.

"You don’t get to decide who talks to me."

"Maybe not." He took a step closer, eyes locked on yours. "But I’ll be damned if I stand there and watch someone else touch what’s mine."

Your breath caught.

"Lewis—"

"Come with me."

It wasn’t a question.

And maybe you should have said no. Maybe you should have walked away.

But you didn’t.

The ride to his place was quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy with words unspoken. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

By the time you stepped into his apartment, the weight of the night settled around you.

"We always do this," you sighed, leaning against the counter.

"Do what?"

"This." You gestured between you. "Get pulled back into each other like this."

He didn’t argue. He just watched you, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"Because it’s never really over," he finally said, voice softer now. "Not for us."

Your chest ached.

"We tried, Lew."

"We didn’t try hard enough."

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head.

"You travel. I work. We barely saw each other. It wasn’t working."

"So? I’ll take you with me."

You blinked, stunned into silence.

"What?"

He stepped forward, hands resting on your hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress.

"Wherever I go, you go. I don’t give a damn anymore. You think I care what anyone says? About schedules, logistics?"

You scoffed, looking up at him. "And my job? You’re out of your mind."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "You know money’s not an issue here."

Your heart skipped a beat, but before you could say anything else, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"You’re mine. And no one—no one—touches what’s mine."

And then, just like that, his lips were on yours.

And you were gone.

[strwberri-milk]

Hello, I hope you’re having a wonderful day/night! request a Diluc and Tartaglia with a S/O that finds the engagement ring before he could proposal, which results in him him finding out that they were going to propose to him as well?

I just think this idea is so adorable! Makes me swoon every time I think about it!!! 🥰

Diluc would walk in on you after you found the ring. He was going to ask you what you wanted for dinner that evening, eyes going from the small box in your hands to the shocked look on your face. He happens to just look at you owlishly, eyes wide as his mouth falls open in hopes of figuring out what he can say to recover this moment.

You just stare at him as you're trying to figure out if his reaction is the confirmation you need. You offer him the ring wordlessly, Diluc taking it and putting it in his pocket as he sighs. He doesn't usually pout but you don't know what else to call the disappointed expression on his face.

His eyes meet yours again as he softly asks you to ignore the fact that you found the ring and the surprise is ruined. You knew that this was coming one day since the two of you have discussed marriage before - just not at this moment in time. You nod, shakily agreeing as you go about your day, grinning to yourself as you mull over what your wedding might look like.

Tartaglia just laughs at you sheepishly when you confront him about the ring. He doesn't confirm nor deny the fact that he's going to propose, acting too nonchalant as you start to interrogate him. Unfortunately for you, he won't crack as he simply plays dumb, swiping the box out of your hands.

You can kick and scream as much as you want but he won't admit to the very obvious plans, simply smiling at you and telling you not to worry too much about what he was hiding. He can't help but laugh at your pathetic attempts, kissing your cheek and telling you to focus your energy on something else.

He is a little upset that his plans are ruined but he doesn't mind too much. Just because you're going to expect him to pop the question doesn't mean you know how he's going to do it. He'll make sure the proposal is something you remember forever, and definitely something that overshadows the fact that you spoiled the surprise.