#in little ways that mean the world to her | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hiiikiko · 1 day ago

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𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖘𝖔 𝖌𝖔𝖔𝖉, 𝖘𝖍𝖊 𝖆 𝖍𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖑

[popular!reader x loser/nerd!ellie]

tlou m.list

tw: dom!reader to sub!reader, bullying, drunk reader and drunk ellie, name calling, degradation, mentions of alcohol and cigarettes, reader receiving head, fingering, pet play (????), and praise

ིྀ 𓎟ᛝ𓎟𓎟　†　𓎟𓎟ᛝ𓎟 ྀི

It’s not that you hated Ellie, you really didn’t care about her one way or the other. The only time that you really interacted with her was in chem, after all the two of you were in two completely worlds. You were the ‘queen bee,’ everyone adored you. You’re pretty, cute, and popular well Ellie on the other hand… like, sure she’s pretty but she’s a nerd, a dweeb, a loser, a geek. She preferred to stay at home and study while you liked to cruise the town with whichever girl you were hooking up with that week. Ellie enjoyed playing dumb video games while you liked to hang out at that diner down town with your friends. She was in AV club, you were a cheerleader. She was an honour roll student and you were voted ‘most popular’ in every yearbook.

Actually, you liked picking on her, picking on the nerd was one of the only cliche ‘mean girl stereotypes’ you’d allow yourself. It’s not like she couldn’t handle it. You can’t count how many times you pushed her up against the lockers just to tease her for watching you change, how many times you ‘accidentally’ spilled your drink on her, etc, etc. I mean, you couldn’t help it! She was fun to mess with. Why? Maybe it was the way she’d always have a snarky comeback or the way her cheeks would flush a bit whenever you got a little too close.

You think you like her if because she’s all too reminiscent of a dog, with her messy hair, that goofy smile she’d wear whenever a girl approached her, her disheveled clothing that made it look like she’d raided Kurt Cobain’s closet, how she’d whine whenever you slammed her into a locker like a kicked puppy and the way you could practically see the outline of a tail wagging behind her when you did so.

It was like she was your cute little mutt.

Actually, you were surprised she was even talking to you, maybe it was because it’s the end of the year, a week away from graduation that she decided to man up and talk to you or maybe it was the loud music and the large amount of liquid courage flooding her system.

“You know, you really aren’t all that,” she drunkenly slurred at you, waving her half full solo cup in your face as you leaned against your desk. Ellie had shown up to your party, surprisingly, had gotten a few beers into her system and followed you up the stairs into your room because she had a ‘bone to pick’ with you. She was a complete mess, her eyes a little glassy, that stupid mullet disheveled from her drunken antics, and her cheeks either flushed pink from the alcohol in her system or the face that you had leaned into her face, your lips a few centimetres from hers.

“Is that so Williams?” you narrowed your eyes at her and furrowed your eyebrows, “If I’m ‘not all that,’ then why are you here right now, huh? At my house, at my party, in my room?”

“Pfft, you think I’m here for you?” She scoffed and took another swig of her beer, a stray drop of beer dripping past her lips onto her chin, she quickly wiped it off onto her wrinkled flannel.

“They why are you here, hm? You haven’t shown up to a single party in the four years I’ve known you and all of a sudden, you just decide to show up to a party at the end of the school year? At my party?” You laugh sarcastically and cross your arms.

“So, you payed enough attention to me to note that I haven’t been to a single party all year?” Her lips curled into a smirk and she leaned against your bed, “I’m flattered.”

‘God, she’s even more annoying when she’s drunk.’

Your cheeks flushed pink a bit at her observation. Of course you had noticed but it wasn’t because you wanted to notice, it just had been something that you noticed over the past four years. You couldn’t help it or at least that’s what you keep telling yourself.

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes and shake your head, there’s no use arguing with a drunk person.

“But seriously, what the hell is your problem, huh? You’re just like… you’re such a mean person, what did I ever do to you, huh?!” She averts her gaze to the grown and her cheeks flushed red. She’s a little clumsy, most likely from not being able to hold her drink.

Frankly, you were a little surprised. This little nerd that you had bullied relentlessly for years was now drunkenly chewing you out, albeit with a blush over her cheeks and nose.

You roll your eyes again and take a sip of your drink.

She stumbles a bit as she takes another step towards you, obviously very drunk which is very unlike her, “God, you just, ugh, you suck,” a small hiccup escaping her lips.

You roll your eyes, “Come on, I wasnt that bad.”

Ellie lets out a snort, rolling her eyes as she wobbled forward, “Not that bad? You were awful to me,” she slurred and jabbed a finger into your chest.

“What did I do that was so awful then?” you narrowed your eyes and took a step closer, her finger still on your chest.

She took a step back, hitting the bed behind her and hiccuped softly as her eyes lingered on the smirk on your lips, “Where should I start? No, you know what? I-I don’t have to tell you shit! You’re just a godawful person.”

A bit of drool dripped down her chin, you couldn’t help but reach out and rub it away with your thumb, “Is that so?”

She flinches slightly as you reach out, her cheeks turning even more red. She swallows hard, trying to hold herself upright but her legs are as shaky as a newborn deer’s, “Yes, i-it is so,” she manages to grumble out, her voice a bit shaky and her eyes half-lidded. She tries to glare down at you but it’s getting harder for her to keep eye contact.

“Then, I suppose you also think you didn’t deserve it?”

“I definitely didn’t deserve it!” she drunkenly hiccups out, “I was just trying to make it through school and you just had to make it ten times harder!”

She stumbles forward, ending up right in front of you, her hands clumsily grabbing onto your shirt to keep herself balanced, your arms instinctively grabbing onto her arms to steady her, you can smell the alcohol on her breath, “You made my life a living hell.”

Your cheeks flush a light pink as she balls the fabric of your shirt into her hands, you had never really noticed how strong she was or how her green eyes looked even brighter in this lighting, or—.

“Then how come you never fought back, huh? You could easily pummel me into the ground or you could’ve told a teacher,” you scowl at her.

“B-because, I’m not like that,” she grumbles, her cheeks. glowing in the dim lighting, it’s obvious there’s more to her reasoning.

“You sure that’s the only reason?”

She swallowed hard, her gaze softening for a moment, “I also… I,” she hiccuped again, unable to find the right words to say, she leans forward and places her forehead against your shoulder, “I just.. couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

She thanks the gods that you can’t see how deeply red her cheeks are, “Wouldn’t..”

You’re at a lost for words, finally you manage to choke out, “W-Why?”

She hiccuped into the crook of your neck, the grip on your shirt tightening almost like she was trying to ground herself, “I just… ugh, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.. sure, you’re a complete bitch but like, also you’re really fucking hot,” she mumbles against you, her soft lips brushing against the senstive skin of your neck.

Your eyes go wide as she admits that, “So what.. y-you have a crush on me?”

She dryly chuckles into your neck before pulling away, “You’re stuttering.”

“You’re imagining things,” you huff and pull her hands off me, “Stop that, you’re going to wrinkle my shirt,” you grumble.

Ellie giggles softly, a mixture of drunkenness and teasing in her voice, “Come on, you’re no fun,” her hands rest on your waist this time, “I was just teasing.. you can dish it out but can’t handle it?”

She buries her face back into the crook of your neck, her breath is warm against your skin, “You smell good,” she mutters before gently laying a kiss onto you.

A chill runs down your spine as her lips meets your neck, the feeling of her soft, warn mouth against your sensitive skin causes your breath to hitch.

“Get off of me, you freak,” you stammer but make no effort to push her off of you.

She doesn’t move, instead continuing to kiss you, her kisses getting hungrier, her body now pressed up against yours, “You’re such a dick,” she murmurs and nips at your neck.

You let out a small gasp as she bites at your neck, her bites harsh but not harsh enough to break skin, “I’m not a dick.”

You weren’t about to let Ellie get the upper hand, you scoff and push her off of you and onto the bed, she falls on her back. Her bangs falling in front of your face and her legs spread a bit as you crawl on top. She props herself up on her elbows as you pull her hips closer to yours by lacing your finger under her belt loop, “You are such a fucking dog.”

Ellie’s eyes widen a bit when you crawl on top of her, her body tingles at your touch but she’s still too stubborn to let you see how much you’re affecting her, “Stop calling me that,” she mutters, bringing her hands up to rest on your hips, “You’re just an asshole,” she mutters, her eyes trained on that familiar cruel smirk plastered on your lips.

She hiccups again, struggling to keep up the defiant facade she usually puts up against you. In this inebriated state, she feels all too vulnerable and at your mercy.

“Say it, say you’re a pathetic dog,” you whisper against her ear, eventually brining your lips down to kiss her neck, your left hand tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and the other tracing her belt buckle.

Ellie lets out a pathetic whimper and a shaky gasp, “F-fuck off.”

Unlike Ellie’s soft bites, you bite down harshly on her neck, “Say it.”

Ellie lets out a small cry, “F-Fuck, fine! I-I’m a pathetic dog,” she whines out.

You giggle against the crook of her neck, “Now, was that so hard?”

She lets out a soft scoff as your giggles fill the room.

“Keep being a good mutt and maybe I’ll reward you,” your lips trail down from her neck to her collar bones.

Ellie’s heart races in her chest, her breathing coming out in soft gasps as your words send a flutter of both humiliation and desire through her veins, “I-I’ll be good, promise.”

You smile against her skin, your hand moving up from her belt buckle to the hem of her shirt and yanking it up above her chest, revealing her lack of bra.

“Aw, no bra?” you laugh, “You really are a fuckin’ perv, huh?”

Ellie hides her face behind her hands, “Shut up, I woulda worn one if I’d known we’d y’know…”

You giggle softly and bring your lips down to her chest, biting and kissing the sensitive skin, “You’re cute when you’re not acting so fuckin’ bratty.”

Ellie’s breath hitches and she lets out soft whimpers as you nip at her chest, her hips bucking against your knee that’s pressed against her aching cunt.

It’s clear as day that she’s a virgin, from the way her cheeks flush to the way her hips are bucking erratically.. it’s so fucking cute.

You pull back from her chest and swing your leg out from between her knees and to the side of her hips so that you’re straddling her.

“W-What are you doing?” she says, her voice laced with desperation and the desperation made even more obvious by the way she sits up and her hands grip your hips tighter.

“Aw, you wan’t more? Is that what you want?” you bring your hand up to her face and gently caress her freckled face.

“P-please?” she leans into your touch.

“Then beg, mutt,” you giggle cruelly as her face contorts to one of embarrassment, her brows furrowed, eyes wide, and lips slightly parted.

“Come on, t-that’s embarrassing,” she whines.

“Unless you want me to leave you here a forever virgin, I suggest you start begging,” your hand slides down to her neck and you give it a gentle squeeze.

Ellie looks down and you can almost see the phantom puppy ears on her head flatten with shame, “P-please, c-can you f-fuck me?” she whines out and buries her head into your chest, her grip on your hips tightening, sure to leave bruises.

You push her down onto the bed, “Good puppy.”

Ellie lets out another whimper at your praise, she tries to move her hips against yours but you hold her down firmly.

“If you want to feel good, you have to do something deserving of a reward,” you growl out against her skin.

She looks up at you with pleading eyes, “I-I’ll do anything, j-just say it and I-I’ll do it,” she’s practically trembling under your touch.

You climb off her, “Get on the floor and on your knees.”

Ellie does so a little too quickly, getting on her knees in between your legs.

You stand up and slide off your lacy panties off from under your skirt, “You ever done this before?”

Ellie watches your every move, another small hiccup slipping past her lips as she shakes her head.

“Yeah, I thought so,” you sit back down and part your legs.

Her pride bubbles up as she looks up at you, that defiant look in her eyes once again, “I could still be good at it even if I’m a virgin,” she mutters, trying her best to sound confident.

“I’ll see about that,” your fingers interlock with the short locks of auburn hair atop her head and you use your free hand to pull off her glasses before bringing her mouth closer to your soaked pussy.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” she whimpers out, “I knew you got off on bullying me,” she chuckles, earning an eye roll from you.

After a moment of hesitation, she tentatively sticks out her tongue and licks your pussy, earning a sharp gasp from you. Her face is now buried in you as she can’t help but latch onto you, her tongue moving in circles. Ellie was trying her best to mimic what she had seen in porn but her experience shone through from the way she drooled all over you, her licks a little sloppy.

“Y-you taste so good,” she whines against your clit and her hands grip onto your thighs harshly.

After a few minutes, her movements become more fluid and precise as she gets the hang of it, sucking on your clit and using her fingers to tease your entrance. She can’t believe the noises you’re letting out, the cute little whimpers and mewls escaping your lips only fuel her hunger for you, the way your hand holds her head in place is driving her wild.

You can’t believe how good she is at this, you can’t believe how well she’s doing, especially for a first timer.

“I’m pretty good at this, huh?” She pulls away and licks her lips while looking up at you, her tone cocky and a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Shut up,” you groan and pull her back, your hips rocking against her mouth slightly.

Ellie moans against you, putting in more effort to make you finish, trying her best to prove that she is deserving of a reward. She moves her hand over your thighs, giving them a slight squeeze as she flicks her tongue over your clit, causing your eyes to roll back and your hips to move on their own.

Despite her inexperience, Ellie can tell you’re on the verge of cumming and moves her to your hip to help control them, her voice comes out in a rasp, “You gonna cum?” she mumbles against your aching clit.

You feverishly nod your head, “F-fuck, yes, god you’re such a good girl.”

Ellie lets out a moan at the praise as she pushes two fingers inside you and latches her lips around your clit.

Her long fingers curl upwards and brush against that sweet spot inside you, earning another moan from you, “Cum f’me, please? Fuck, please I need you to cum on my face,” she pathetically whines out.

She’s now so consumed with your pleasure that it’s almost like she doesn’t even want a reward anymore, all she wants to do is make you feel good.

You lock eyes with her, her eyes glazed over from both the alcohol and the overall lust flooding though her.

Finally, Ellie hears you cry out in ecstasy. Watching your hips move against her fingers and tongue, watching your eyes roll back, makes Ellie moan quietly and brings a smile of satisfaction to her lips.

Even after your orgasm, Ellie’s mouth remains latched onto you.

“E-Ellie, fuck, stop, I’m too sensitive,” you say between whines, your hand tugging at her hair as you try to pull her off your painfully sensitive cunt.

“But I want more,” she holds your hips in place and keeps going, ignoring your broken please, “Wanna make you come again.”

Her eyes flicker up to your face, loving how absolutely wrecked you looked under her mouth. You were always so stuck up, acting like you were above her and here you are, your usually perfectly fixed hair now out of place, your makeup running down your flushed cheeks, and your eyes rolled so far back into your head, it was hard for you to focus on anything but the sensation of Ellie. She pushes the two fingers back inside you and over her tongue down your tough. You twitch around her fingers as she thrusts them in and out in a scissoring motion.

Ellie smirks against your thigh as she bites down onto it. You gasp at the feeling, a mix of pain and pleasure overwhelming your senses.

Ellie watches your every move, a small smile on her lips, it’s as if she’s in her own form of heaven. She doesn’t think she can ever go back to watching porn now that she has you, your reactions ten times better than any pornstar she’d ever seen before.

She’s enjoying this way too much, your scent, your taste, your body, just everything about you is so intoxicating. Her fingers work faster now, curled up towards your g-spot.

“Damn, if I’d known you were like this sooner, maybe you wouldn’t have been such a fuckin’ bitch,” she dryly chuckles against your thigh.

Her thoughts become mushy, her brain high off the feeling of being dominant over you for a change and her body shaking with pride at the fact that she has the school’s reigning mean girl whining pathetically under her.

This whole time, she thought you were the dominant one based off all the times you had pushed her to the ground and spit on her, how you used to corner her in the locker room and yet here you are right now, begging for another finger to be added to your greedy cunt.

Ellie grins mischievously and adds another finger, “Begging is a good look for you,” she laughs.

You’re too fucked out to even come up with a snarky response, your pussy just sucking her long fingers into you.

“What, cat got your tongue?” she laughs, “It’s about time you shut the fuck up.”

She pushes your thighs even further apart, pressing on your lower stomach as her fingers curl up once again, causing your thighs to shake around her.

“Fuck, you gonna cum again?” she giggles and presses wet kisses against your stomach, all you can do is nod in response, “Yeah, then cum, cum for me.”

She keeps ramming her fingers into you, her pace is fast and relentless, “Fuck, come on, cum for me, make a mess all over my fingers,” she whines, she’s as desperate for you to cum again as you are.

She lets out a satisfactory moan as you cum around her fingers. She pushes her fingers in and out quickly, making you squirt around them. She leans back down and laos up your mess before licking her fingers clean.

Ellie moves to sit on the bed next to you.

After a few minutes, your brain is fully recovered and you prop yourself up on your elbows and glance over at her, your words breathless, “That was…”

She looks at you with a cock smile, “Awesome? Amazing? Fuckin’ mind-blowing?”

“Could’ve been better,” you lie.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, “Are you kidding me? You’re serious right now? I totally rocked your world,” she scoffs, “Hell, you couldn’t even talk straight.”

Ellie continues teasing you for your lie as you recover from the two insanely powerful orgasms you just had.

It’s till hard for you to wrap your head around what just happened. You had never expected her to be so good at something like this, given how much of a loser she is… her head was so insanely good that it’s no wonder why she’s always on the honour roll.

ིྀ 𓎟ᛝ𓎟𓎟　†　𓎟𓎟ᛝ𓎟 ྀི

[a/n:] wrote this with one hand >:3 (jk) also that kanye song stuck in my head </3

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taliabhattwrites · 3 days ago

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Here's a mini-version so I can go back to Sifu.

A lot of people have voiced confusion at the backlash against characters like Bridget being depicted as textually transfem, or the general drive to refuse to name the transfeminine body as a woman's body in erotic media. While my transhet friends have talked to me at length about how cis queer men's transmisogyny does manifest in this kind of degendering--and how they rationalize it by considering transition a sort of 'betrayal' of their community, as though trans women were simply trying to transition to greener pastures--I hope it's obvious to everyone that gay men alone cannot sustain this kind of pervasive cultural attitude. Especially when homophobia and transmisogyny are coterminous in patriarchal societies.

So why do men, in general, and even people of genders beyond 'man', insist on third-sexing the transfeminine body? Wouldn't it be preferable, more stable for a straight man and his identity to consume the eroticized transfem as a woman?

Well, if you don't have time to read the 10,000-word article I just linked--though you should, I worked quite hard on it--the shortest version possible I can give you is that the sexual consumption of third-sexed populations by men doesn't destabilize their gender or sexuality as much as you might think. Patriarchy has always had "fail-states", the faggotized, degendered, un-manned subject that cannot be allowed to consider itself a Woman, but is definitely something Lesser than a full-fledged Man.

Given that modern sexual mores are no less centered around penetration than they were in Roman times, men can freely engage in that form of intercourse with the third-sexed, transfeminized woman without having to name her as a woman, and without that being disruptive to his place in the gender heirarchy.

Once you understand that, you realize what the value of the transfeminized sexual object is to a man that wishes to use her as such. The un-womaned transfem is abject, highly precarious, vulnerable, disposable, a dehumanized creature whose entire purpose has been reduced to taking it, whether we mean "sex" or "violence" (and oftentimes, both). She has value in her utter devaluation, in her reduction to a place below the respectable, marriageable Woman that can be taken home, introduced to the parents, and exploited for reproductive labor. The third-sexed, degendered transfem is the Platonic ideal of a fuckable object that can be discarded.

And while some of you might be tempted to kinkpost about that, when we're not horny and are trying to navigate through the world as people, being seen in that way constantly is a very, very bad thing. It's what gets us hurled out of society and locked out of the formal economy, left to subsist or perish on the margins as we are able.

So people are very attached to the idea that their favorite porn category is just that--a 'shemale', a 'futa', a 'dickgirl', an 'otokonoko', a 'ladyboy'--any dehumanizing, degendering term that renders her neither man nor woman, but purely a sexual fantasy. The idea that this sex toy they wish to use could actually be considered a person, a woman, or even a trans woman, that horrid, 'woke', 'political' individual with multicolored hair and multivariate pronouns, feels existentially threatening.

"What do you mean, I've been fantasizing about exploiting a person this entire time? Fuck you!"

Anyway, this little piece has focused exclusively on men's relationship to transfemininity. Do people of other genders have similarly exploitative relationships to us, and a consequent desire to third-sex us?

In a word, yes, but you might have to wait for me to write more essays before I go into it. So look out for those in the future. Quick disclaimers: I've focused this writing on why transfeminine abjection is attractive to those who wish to consume us, but please do not misconstrue this me as saying that cis women are always considered 'people' or 'respectable' under patriarchy--this is very much not the case. I'm simply discussing this as a matter of degrees, where the transfem is more easily and utterly dehumanized due to her being constructed as both failed man, unable to sire, and failed woman, unable to gestate.

Furthermore, entire classes of cis women are also often reduced to this kind of degendered, exploitable state. Degendering is a broader force that is core to transmisogyny, but is not the entirety of transmisogyny, and more women than merely trans women are degendered.

Okay, NOW back to Sifu.

trap hentai now blatantly shows their "boys" with obvious hrt titties but still calls them boys whats up with that. back in my day they they were flat chested but now its "draw a trans woman and misgender her"

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mead-iocre · 8 hours ago

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Lover Girl | Leah Williamson x Spolied!Reader

synopsis: you might be spending valentines day alone

warnings: a veryyyyy spoiled girl <///3

word count: 3.5k

♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

Picking at your nails, perfectly filed into almond-shaped, and painted in your favourite sheer blush pink colour, you frown. You hate the sight of your cuticles growing in. Looks like you are due for an appointment soon. You mentally remind yourself to give your favourite salon a call.

Your girlfriend sighs over the phone. The screen blurs for a moment before you hear shuffling, sheets rustling. She was probably making herself comfortable in bed. The sight annoys you. Your girlfriend should be getting ready for bed beside you, in your shared bed, slipping into sheets made for two.

Soon her face pops back up on the screen. Her back was propped up against the headboard, and she’s turned on the lamp beside the bed letting you see her face a little clearer.

The sight also annoys you.

Her stupid face should be right beside you. Not in some hotel room, not a whole plane ride away.

“Quit frowning, baby” Leah breaks the brief silence. You don’t say anything, the frown on your face deepening, your eyebrows furrowing. “You’ll get wrinkles”

You relax your face immediately.

“But you promised, Lee” You whine, thumping at the empty space on the bed beside you. “You said we’ll be spending Valentines Day together”

“I know, princess” She chides, her voice gentle. “but it’s a bit mental out here— almost all the flights at the airport are delayed”

You don’t relent. “So rent a private charter then”

Your girlfriend chuckles, low and throaty, even though you don’t find anything funny right now. She rubs a hand over her face. “Baby, private jets have to follow the no-fly rules too”

You roll your eyes, audibly huffing at the absurdity of the situation. Did Mother Nature seriously expect you— YOU— the epitome of a lover girl, to spend Valentines day alone?!

Valentines Day was one of your favourite holidays. Top 3, actually. For a a girl whose heart beats in soft, rhythmic thumps; your world is bathed soft candlelights, scattered rose petals, and heart-shaped everything— you were the embodiment of romance. You believe in love like others believe in the stars.

And, oh, the way you give love—it’s like generosity flows from an endless river of affection. You love hosting intimate dinners with Leah’s teammates, and cosy brunches with close friends, complete with your Ginori 1735 Oriente Italiano pink porcelain tableware imported from Italy. You love writing handwritten notes, sealed with a pearly pink wax and kissed with a custom wax seal stamp with your signature.

When you love, you love deeply.

And that’s why it pains Leah to not be with you on one of your favourite days of the year.

“I’m sorry, baby” Your girlfriend croons over the phone, the shitty signal of the hotel room only making the distance between you more obvious. “I’ll make it up to you next year, okay?”

She continues, “We’ll take a week-long trip so we can spend Valentines Day on a beach somewhere…."

You hum in response, nodding—albeit reluctantly. You heard what she was saying but you were still sad. It wasn’t your girlfriend’s fault that the weather was so bad that it made for unfavourable flying conditions. It wasn’t your girlfriend’s fault that she was currently stuck in a hotel room, instead of at home with you.

But that didn’t mean you had to like it.

She tries to lighten the mood. “You still didn’t tell me how your day went. Did you—“

You cut her off. “Actually, Lee, I’m a bit tired. I think I might head to bed”

Now it was her turn to frown, her brow furrowing as she absorbed your dismissal. The screen flickered slightly, casting a soft glow on her face, but her expression was anything but relaxed. Her lips tightened, eyes narrowed in thought. Her fingers absently ran through her hair, her posture stiff. She bit her lip, clearly processing, before she cleared her throat.

“Oh. okay, baby” She looked like she wanted to say something else, her mouth opening once before she closes it abruptly. “Yeah, yeah I’m sure you must be tired”

You rarely ended your FaceTime calls together early. If anything, you could probably count the number of times you had ended your calls early before the usual, drawn-out goodbyes on one hand. Tonight was getting added to that tally. The usual warmth in the conversation had faded, replaced by a quiet tension. You found yourself glancing at the clock, then back at her face on the screen, unsure of how to fill the growing silence.

You hated doing this to her, so you gave her this one thing. With a tight-lipped smile that barely reaches your eyes, you mumble a quiet “Night. I love you”

She mirrors your expression, although you can see the regret swimming in her eyes. Her gaze drops briefly, as if she’s trying to avoid the weight of what’s unsaid. “Goodnight. I love you. Call me tomorrow, ‘kay?”

“We’ll see. Maybe the storm will ruin that too”

Her mouth drops open at your unexpected sass. You were rarely mouthy, always so pliant and have to go along with the flow of things. “Oi, enough with the storm—“

End call.

Throwing your phone to the empty space beside you, you huff audibly as you turn to fluff your 25 momme mulberry silk pillow.

Ping.

You ignore your phone, the glaring, physical reminder that your girlfriend is thousands of miles away. Burying your head under one of your pillows, you will yourself to sleep. Maybe it would hurt less if you stopped thinking about how you will be spending tomorrow lover-less and alone.

♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

You awoke slowly, the rays of morning sun filtering through the sheer curtains. Shifting beneath the covers, your body was still wrapped in warmth, but a strange heaviness settled on your chest. Blinking your eyes open, you let them adjust to the morning light.

Reaching for your phone on the nightstand, you hope for a message, a call, something—a sweet "Happy Valentine’s" from her.

But the screen is dark.

Your heart sinks just a little, and you slide it closer, hoping it will come to life, but it doesn’t.

She was probably still asleep. London was five hours ahead anyway.

The bed beside you is empty, untouched. The space where she should be feels painfully cold. You sit up slowly, the soft sheets slipping away from your body as you swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your feet touch the cool marble floor until you slip your feet into your favourite shearling slippers. Standing, you moving across the room with graceful steps, but slightly sluggish in movement. The softness of your pale pink lace nightgown, vintage Dior piece, swirl around your legs as you walk. There was no rush, no excitement.

You walk toward the window, parting the curtains with delicate fingers, letting the morning light fill the room. You glance out at the London streets below, alive with the usual bustle. The city may be awake, but you feel like you’re in another world entirely—one that’s quieter, lonelier.

Your gaze drifts to the gifts on the coffee table— her favourite Lindt chocolates, a beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers, a new watch gift wrapped in the familiar red and gold signature packaging, and a handwritten card filled with love. None of it feels as special without her. The love you’d hoped would fill the day feels miles away, even though she’s only a flight away.

You turn away from the window, and sit back on the bed. The silk sheets cool against your skin as you sink into them. You had spent weeks preparing for today—perfectly arranging the flowers that filled the flat with the soft scent of roses, every corner was filled with heart-shaped balloons and seasonal candles made special for the occasion. You had even bought a new dress for the holiday: a velvet dress in the deepest shade of rose, paired with diamond earrings that costed a pretty penny.

Leah’s pennies, of course.

Your mind wandered back to the night when you had last seen her off at the private airport lounge, waving goodbye as your girlfriend boarded the plane. "I’ll be back soon, baby," she'd promised, her voice soft and sincere.

Clearly that was not the case, you thought bitterly as you moved to start your day.

You went through the motions of the day, trying to fill the empty spaces with something—anything—that will take your mind off the feeling that lingers. Luckily, you were able book a last minute slot with your personal pilates instructor, so you slip into your workout clothes, a soft pink set that hugs your body. The fabric feels cool against your skin as you pull your hair into a neat ponytail, eyes still tired from a restless night. You’ve done this a thousand times before, but today it feels different. It’s like you’re moving through a haze, your body here but your mind somewhere else.

The Pilates studio is bright, the floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflecting the sleek décor. The instructor’s voice, calm and steady, fills the room as she guides everyone into position, but it doesn’t quite reach you. Your movements are precise, but they’re mechanical, lacking the usual grace. You can’t focus, can’t clear your mind the way you usually do.

Instead, you think of her.

You push through the hour, sweating through each movement, but it’s more about distracting yourself than anything else. The deep stretches and controlled movements don’t offer the release they usually do, and by the time the session ends, you’re not sure if you’ve achieved anything. You gather your things—your expensive water bottle, the soft towel—and head out, the cool air hitting your skin as you walk back to your car.

The day drags on, the clock ticking slowly. You scroll through your phone, checking it periodically in hopes of some update from Leah, but the hours pass with no word. You think about calling her, about filling the silence with her voice, but you resist. You don’t want to seem needy, don’t want to burden her with how much you’re missing her today.

At home, you head straight for the bathroom. The day has already stretched on too long, and the silence is starting to feel suffocating. You run the water, the steam filling the air. The hot water cascade over you. It feels nice, but it doesn’t wash away the ache in your chest. When you step out, you slide into the plush bathrobe that’s always waiting for you—lavender-scented and soft as a cloud.

You settle in front of your vanity and slip into your facial routine. First, the cleansing balm, then a serum, and a moisturiser after. The jade roller comes next, the cool stone soothing your tired face as you massage it in gentle upward strokes. The mask you apply next is made with organic, rare ingredients that promise to lift and brighten.You need some of that desperately right now. Allowing it to sit on your face for the recommended fifteen minutes, you flip through a copy of Vogue to pass the time, but the words blur in front of you.

Reaching for your phone again, you stare at it as if willing it to light up, but there’s still nothing.

When you wash the mask off, your skin feels fresher but your mood remains unchanged. You slip into a soft cashmere robe next, pale pink and muted. You stand in front of your closet, looking at the endless rows of pieces, each one precisely selected to be part of your personal collection.

Then, your eyes catch it: the dress.

The one you had received weeks ago, the one you’d been imagining yourself in all day. A stunning Valentino piece in a deep, rich red. The kind of red that demands attention. The silk catches the light in a way that makes it shimmer like liquid.

It’s a dress made for a night to remember, and for the person wearing it to be remembered.

But today, it feels out of place. Today, it feels like a contradiction. You stand there, staring at it for a long moment, your fingers hovering just inches from the fabric.

Pierpaolo Piccioli. Valentino SS25. A one-of-a-kind piece.

You wonder if it’s just a waste to just leave it on a hanger. There’s no dinner reservation with your love tonight, no laughter shared over wine, no promises whispered under the dim glow of candlelight. It feels absurd to even consider wearing something so special when the one person who deserves to see you in this dress is not here.

However, you had paid a lot for this dress, to have it tailored for you and the occasion, and it feels like a travesty to not put it on at least.

You can’t help but reach for the dress.

Forget it. You put it on.

Your fingers trail over the lace again as you slip it on, the silk gliding against your skin. When you saw the model strut the runway in it, immediately you turned and whispered to your personal show consultant to schedule a meeting with the designer. It was a couture piece tailored to your measurements, every single curve, ensuring a perfect fit.

Pausing, you take a long look at yourself—and the dress—and think, Why waste such a pretty dress?

The dress clings to your body like it was meant for another life, another version of today—a version where she’s by your side, laughing, holding you close, making everything feel right. Instead, the silk and lace feel like an echo of something that could have been. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, twisting, watching how the fabric flows. You run your hands over, smoothing the fabric, appreciating the way it glimmers and glows in the mirror.

With an affirmative nod at yourself, you decide to leave it on for the rest of the day. Maybe it’ll help you feel better, maybe it won’t. But you owe it to the dress—and to yourself—not to let the day slip by without at least trying to make the best of it.

♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

The clock ticks, loud and constant, each second passing like the breeze in the mind. The city continues to hum with life—couples holding hands, flowers being delivered, the world celebrating love. But here you are, dressed up and alone, gazing at the lone bouquet of flowers sitting on your vanity table.

The silence in the room is almost too loud.

And then, you hear it.

A soft sound. A familiar sound. A key turning in the door.

Dashing out of the closet, you run like you never ran before. You can’t breathe. Impossible.

You fly down the stairs, barely able to stop yourself as you skid to a halt by the hallway, the door swinging open just in time.

You step toward the door, your pulse racing. Your fingers tremble as you grip the back of the sofa next to you, barely able to believe what you’re seeing.

She’s standing there, suitcase in hand, eyes wide with disbelief—and then, when she sees you, her expression softens.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Leah's home. She’s here.

“I thought I’d missed it,” she says softly, stepping inside, her voice full of apology, but also relief. “I... I didn’t think I’d be back in time.”

Your eyes fill with sudden tears, the emotions that have been swirling inside you all day finally spilling over. “You’re here,” you whisper, voice trembling. You take a step closer to her, the floor cold against your bare feet but you did not care.

Leah smiles, her eyes softening as she sets her suitcase down and reaches for you. The moment her arms wrap around you, pulling you close, you felt like you could breathe again. Her warmth envelopes you, and you close your eyes, breathing in the scent of fresh pears and mimosas. You cling to her, feeling the familiar rhythm of her heartbeat against your chest.

“I couldn’t let my girl celebrate Valentine’s Day alone,” she murmurs, her breath warm against your ear. She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like nothing could have kept her from being here with you.

You draw in a shaky breath, your heart pounding in your chest, your fingers trembling as you reach to touch her, as if to confirm that this moment is real, that she’s really here. You look up into her eyes, still in disbelief that your girl was home.

She brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, her fingers soft against your skin, and with a smile so radiant, so genuine, it lights up her whole face. She whispers, “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”

And in that moment, you realise that this—the two of you, together—is what makes this day perfect. The dress, the plans, the expectations—they all fade into the background. All that matters is that she’s here, holding you.

“You made it…”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes never leaving yours, the intensity of her gaze making your heart race.

“Of course I did,” she says, voice thick with emotion. “I couldn’t let my girl spend Valentine’s Day alone”

Her words, so simple, but so full of meaning, fill the spaces inside you. You reach up, brushing your fingers gently across her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin under your touch. She’s here, in your arms, and nothing else matters anymore.

You reach up on your tiptoes to kiss her, slowly at first, tentatively, as if testing the waters. The kiss deepens, slow and intimate. Her hands slide to your waist, pulling you even closer, her body pressing against yours as if she’s afraid you’ll slip away. Your fingers slide through her hair, the feel of it familiar, grounding, as you kiss her deeper.

You pull back slightly, just enough to breathe, but your forehead rests against hers. Her breath is warm against your skin, and for the first time today, you feel the peace you’ve been longing for.

She smiles softly, brushing her thumb across your bottom lip. “You look incredible,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

You smile, your fingers still tangled in her hair, your heart swelling with a love so deep, it fills every part of you. “Y’like it?”

“You know I do, baby” She smiles, her hands gently cupping your face as she presses a soft kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering for just a moment. And in that quiet, tender moment, you realise: this is what you’ve been waiting for. Not the day, or the dress, but her.

Leah leans back just enough to study your face, her eyes tracing every line as if committing it all to memory, as if she’s been waiting for this reunion just as much as you have.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Leah murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers brush over the side of your face, so gentle, so tender, like you were the most precious gold to her.

“I’ve missed you too,” you reply, your voice trembling just slightly. You can’t remember the last time you felt so full of love. You don't know why you ever doubted that your girlfriend would ever leave you alone on Valentine's Day. “I didn’t think I’d make it through today without you.”

Leah chuckles softly, the sound like music to your ears. “Well, I couldn’t let you,” she teases, her hands running down your arms, sending a thrill through your body. “You’re stuck with me now.”

Her lips curl into a smile, and you can’t help but return it. You bury your face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the warmth of her skin, the familiar scent that has always made you feel like you’re home.

You pull back slightly, enough to look her in the eyes. There’s something raw in her gaze, something that mirrors your own feelings.

“You’re all I’ve wanted today. All I needed was you,” you whisper, your words thick with emotion.

Your girlfriend tilts her head, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Whatever you want, baby. Y'know that.”

Her words settle into your heart, and in that instant, you realize how right she is. It’s not the grand gestures, the fancy plans, or the expectations of the day that make it special. It’s this—her—standing in front of you, her love wrapping around you like a blanket, making everything else fade into the background.

You kiss her again, but this time it’s different. It’s desperate, it’s hungry, and it’s everything that’s been building between you for the past week. Her lips are warm against yours, her touch possessive and tender all at once.

Leah pulls back just slightly, her forehead resting against yours, both of you gasping for air.

“I love you,” she whispers, her voice thick with raw emotion.

Your chest tightens at the words, but you smile through the tears that threaten to spill once more. “I love you, too.”

In that moment, all the pain, the distance, and the time apart melt away. It’s just the two of you now, and that’s enough.

She smiles softly, her hand resting against your cheek as she gazes into your eyes, her expression more tender than you ever thought possible. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.”

happy (late) valentines day, my lovers (you). tell me if you hate it and I'll rewrite it

・❥・- kisses, butter

*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission first. Thanks for respecting that!

#leah williamson #woso #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso blurbs #woso community #leah williamson imagine #my fics #woso one shot #leah williamson fanfic #leah williamson x you #spoiled!reader #spoiled!reader stories #leah williamson x reader

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yois2aki · 1 day ago

Text

you watched from across the room as caleb laughed, CALEB's eyes sparkling with amusement as he spoke to a girl from his class. her voice was high-pitched and bubbly, and she was leaning in just a little too close, making you feel an odd tightness in your chest. you didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it was hard to ignore the way they interacted—so carefree, so… effortless.

you found yourself shrinking back, feeling small and uncertain in the corner of the room. you had always known caleb was popular, had always been the center of attention wherever he went, but something about the way he was so engaged with her made you feel… invisible.

maybe it was the way she touched his arm when she laughed or the way she smiled at him, a look that made your heart twist. you’d never seen that expression directed at you, not in that way. you couldn’t help but wonder if it was something that would eventually lead to more.

“maybe i’m just overthinking it,” you whispered to yourself, but the thoughts kept creeping back in. what if he liked her? what if he was just being nice to you because he felt obligated? your insecurities bubbled to the surface, a wave of doubt flooding your mind.

you tried to distract yourself, but your gaze kept flicking back to them. caleb was laughing again—genuinely, without a care in the world—and your heart sank lower.

you hadn’t noticed how much time had passed until you heard the door to the classroom swing open. caleb appeared at the threshold, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. he spotted you almost immediately, his purple eyes narrowing in amusement as he strolled over to your desk.

“what's up?” he asked, leaning down to rest his elbows on your desk. “you’re lookin' a little… off today. somethin' on your mind?” his voice was light, teasing, as if he could read your thoughts.

you avoided his gaze, your fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of your notebook. “no, i’m fine.”

“really?” he leaned closer, and you could feel the heat of his presence as he playfully poked at your arm. “because you’ve been starin' at me all class like i’m about to jump off a cliff or something.”

your face flushed, but you didn’t say anything. should you tell him? you weren’t sure how to put your feelings into words, especially when the doubts swirling in your mind felt so silly.

caleb raised an eyebrow, sensing your hesitation. “you know, i’m pretty good at readin' people. and you,” he grinned mischievously, “you’ve got a whole storm brewing in that head of yours.”

you tried to force a smile, but it came out shaky. “it’s nothing.”

caleb straightened up, studying you with that intense look he always had when he was being serious. “come on, don’t do this to me. talk to me.” he was so persistent, but there was an edge to his voice, one that made your heart beat faster.

“it’s just…” you hesitated, unsure of how to phrase it. “i saw you with her, that new blonde girl from whatever class. and, i don’t know, i just… got a little worried.”

his brows furrowed, he paused for a moment only to let out a loud chuckle right after. “worried about what?”

“i don’t know, maybe that… you just looked so… comfortable with her.” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

a moment of silence made its way between you two, and when you looked up at his eyes, he had the boyish grin plastered on his face. “why are you looking at me like— you did that on purpose, didn't you?!”

you looked at him with a frustrated expression, like you had his scheme all figured out.

caleb blinked, stunned for a second, before his expression softened, and he spoke up with the most annoying voice he could. “what, are you… jealous?”

you shifted uncomfortably in your seat. “no.” you mumbled, back to avoiding his gaze. embarrassment filled your being due to falling for such an obvious plan.

you knew, deep down, that he would never willingly flirt with another girl. it wasn't his nature. yet, it felt as though he had purposely noticed your gaze lingering on him, and in that moment, allowed the attention of a girl with clear intentions draw near.

the realization settled in your chest like a weight, and you wished, with all your heart, that you could just disappear into the ground and hide the embarrassing turmoil churning inside.

caleb let out another soft laugh, but it wasn’t mocking this time around. it was warm, affectionate, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “jealous? of her?” he asked, leaning down to look you in the eyes. “i was initially just messing with you, but you really think i’d choose someone else over my pipsqueak?”

you shrugged weakly, too afraid to look up at him.

“are you out of your mind?” he teased, shaking his head with a playful smirk. “do you really think i’m that dumb? you’re the one who has my attention, you know that, right?”

you finally dared to look up at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. he paused for a moment before adding, “i get that you’re insecure sometimes, but you have to know that no one can make me feel the way you do. i don’t even like her like that. she’s just a classmate. and if i’m being honest, i didn’t even realize i was making you feel like this.”

you felt your heart skip a beat at his words, his voice lowering into something much softer. “i told you i'm not getting a girlfriend anytime soon. and i keep my promises. always.”

the weight on your chest began to lift, your heartbeat slowing as you let out a shaky laugh. “you’re sure?”

caleb grinned, his usual confidence radiating in his posture as he stood up straight, running a hand through his hair. “pipsqueak, if you can’t tell by now, then i don’t know what to tell you.”

he chuckled and winked, his tone full of playful teasing. “now stop worrying about some random girl. you’re the only one i want. always have been. always will be.”

you couldn’t help but smile, feeling a rush of warmth fill your chest as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “there’s no need to compete with anyone. it’s always been you.”

“i guess i needed to hear that,” you admitted, letting out a sigh of relief. “thanks, caleb.”

“anytime,” he said, his smile softening. “now, how about we get out of here and grab some food? i think you owe me for doubtin' me.”

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00valentina-writes00 · 2 days ago

Note

please please put the self harm fic back up, it was really good, and as someone who’s struggled before, it brought me some comfort. i really wish people just didn’t interact with things they don’t like, it’s appropriately tagged, and it’s not hurting anyone. i genuinely didn’t see anything wrong with it

You know what. Yeah I will. Here you go mamas <3

♡♥︎Grayson and Sevika catching you in a self harm relapse♥︎♡ (reuploaded)

Warnings: self-harm, mental health struggles, depression, angst, cutting, blood, sensitive topics

Disclaimer: This post isn’t meant to offend anyone (I already deleted it once), and I don’t recommend reading it if you’re not in a good place/can’t handle it. I wrote this because some people find comfort in reading things like this, and just because you don’t want to read it doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for everyone. Please just don’t interact/read the post if you don’t like it. For those who do read it and find comfort in it, I hope things get better for you. It sucks being in a place where you mind is your worst enemy, and my heart goes out to all of you.

♡Grayson♡

The weight of the silence in the house feels like a tangible thing—thick and suffocating. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, not really seeing anything. The quiet hum of the air purifier and the faint creaking of the old floorboards are the only sounds breaking the stillness.

It’s hard to pinpoint when the darkness started creeping back in, but it’s here, and it feels heavier than ever. There’s a weight on your chest, as if something is sitting there, pressing you down until you can’t breathe.

You feel it—how the world looks like it’s slipping through your fingers, how you can’t keep your head above water. The struggle is so exhausting. You can feel the tears building, the tightness in your throat as they fight to spill over, but you swallow them down. You can’t burden her with it.

Not now. Not when she’s already dealing with so much.

Grayson’s voice echoes in your mind, the soft yet firm way she always tells you, “If you need anything, you just ask. Don’t shut me out.” But asking for help feels impossible when it feels like you’re crumbling from the inside out. You know she means it when she says it, and you know that deep down, she’ll always be there for you. She has been.

But she’s been working late recently. You know the weight of her job—how demanding it is. How much responsibility she carries on her shoulders, always so composed, so calm. She’s always the one who carries others, the one who stays steady when everything else feels like it’s about to fall apart.

And yet, here you are, falling apart in the silence of your own mind.

You press your hand to your arm, feeling the familiar pull of that dark urge. It’s like a quiet whisper, promising you release, promising relief. You know it won’t fix anything—it never does. But for just a moment, the thought of it feels comforting. Control, a semblance of control, over a mind that is spiraling.

The sharp sting of a blade against skin is an old friend, one that promises to quiet the storm in your head, if only for a little while.

You grab the razor blade from the drawer by the bedside table, your hand shaking as you press the cool metal against your skin.

The moment it cuts into you, it’s like the world finally exhales. The pain is sharp, but it’s also grounding. It’s familiar. The blood wells up beneath the surface, the warmth of it seeping through your fingers as you press harder. The relief is fleeting but enough to keep you from drowning, at least for a little while.

You exhale shakily, closing your eyes as the tears finally come, hot and uncontrollable.

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself you’re better than this. It doesn’t matter how many promises you’ve made to Grayson that you’re okay. You’re not. You never are, and right now, the world is too loud, too chaotic, and all you want is for it to stop.

When you hear the door creak open, your heart skips a beat. Grayson’s home.

You panic for a moment, suddenly aware of the blood on your fingers, the rawness of your own skin. You want to hide it, to pull away from her, to bury it and pretend that everything is fine.

But it’s too late. She’s already stepped into the room.

Her gaze locks onto you immediately, and you see the shift in her expression—a flicker of concern, followed by something else, something darker. Her eyes move to your hand, still clutched around the razor, then slowly trail up to your face, where the tears are still streaming down.

“Baby…” Her voice is low, filled with a quiet kind of devastation. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. The words are trapped somewhere deep inside, stuck behind the lump in your throat. Grayson is across the room in an instant, her long strides making quick work of the distance.

She kneels down in front of you, gently taking your hand with the blade in it, pulling it away from your skin, and tossing it onto the bedside table. She holds you, and it feels like the weight of the world has shifted, the tension in your chest finally starting to ease. Her arms wrap around you, pulling you to her, as she presses her face into your hair, murmuring soft words of comfort that you can barely hear over the rush of blood in your ears.

You close your eyes and let yourself sink into her, the warmth of her body and the scent of her cologne grounding you in a way nothing else does. Her arms tighten around you as she pulls you closer, as if trying to protect you from the storm inside your own mind.

“You don’t have to hide this from me,” Grayson says, her voice a mixture of pain and resolve. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.”

You can hear the underlying frustration in her tone, the helplessness that has started to creep in. She’s used to being in control, used to being the one who takes care of everyone else. But right now, she can’t fix this. She can’t make it go away. And that hurts her, you can see it in the way her brow furrows, in the way her hand gently caresses your arm as she inspects the damage.

Her fingertips brush against the cuts on your skin, and you flinch, not from pain, but from the guilt that rises in your chest. You can see it in her eyes—she’s not angry. She’s not disappointed. But she’s scared, and that’s almost worse than anything else.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “I just… I didn’t want to bother you with this. You have enough on your plate.”

Grayson’s grip tightens around you, pulling you closer, her voice soft but unwavering. “You’re never a bother. You’re my wife, and I love you. You’re never a burden.”

You bury your face into her shoulder, the tears coming faster now, as everything you’ve been holding inside comes crashing to the surface. The guilt, the shame, the weight of it all—everything that you’ve kept hidden from her, from yourself, spills out in a flood of emotion that feels impossible to stop.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I can’t stop. I can’t stop it. It’s too much, Grayson.”

“I know,” she murmurs, her hands gently smoothing over your back, offering comfort in the only way she knows how. “I know, baby. I’m here. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Her words are like a balm to the rawness inside you, but the emptiness lingers. You feel lost, adrift in the dark waters of your own mind, and nothing seems to anchor you. Not even Grayson, though you know she’d do anything to keep you safe.

But you don’t know how to be safe anymore. You don’t know how to feel okay when everything inside you feels broken.

Grayson doesn’t say anything for a while, just holding you tightly, letting you cry, letting the storm rage inside you until there’s nothing left to say.

You eventually feel her fingers gently tracing over your arms, inspecting the cuts more carefully now. The gentle touch sends a shiver through your body, and you can’t help but wince, both from the pain of your wounds and the fear that she’ll look at you with disgust.

But when you look up, her face is soft, her eyes filled with nothing but love and concern. There’s no judgment in her gaze, only a quiet understanding that cuts through the fog in your mind.

“You’re not broken,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re not broken. You’re just hurting. And I’m here. We’re going to get through this together.”

Her words sink in, the weight of them settling on your heart like a gentle, steadying force.

You don’t have to fix yourself. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

Grayson will help you piece yourself back together, just as she always has.

♡Sevika♡

The quiet hum of the city’s underbelly surrounds you, but all you can hear is the pulse of your own heartbeat, the rhythmic rush of blood beneath your skin. Your breathing is shallow, erratic, barely keeping pace with the thoughts that whirl through your head, drowning everything in a familiar numbness. Every inch of you feels heavy—like the weight of the world is bearing down on your chest, leaving you gasping for air.

You’ve been here before. Staring down at your own hands, watching them tremble as they hold a blade. The same blade you’ve used countless times to try to carve out the pain, to silence the screams in your head. You think you’re past this—think that maybe you’ve come far enough, healed enough, but the reality is… you never really can outrun the shadows that lurk behind you.

Sevika’s voice still lingers in your mind, distant yet comforting. The low, gravelly tone that usually manages to settle your nerves is nowhere to be found. She’s been busy, off with Silco’s business. There’s always something. Something that pulls her away from you, and each time, the void in your chest grows a little larger. The silence between you two stretches thinner, and you start to wonder if you’re just another weight—something she has to carry, but doesn’t truly need. Maybe you were just a brief moment of comfort for her, something to fill the empty space in her own broken heart.

It’s pathetic, you think.

Your gaze flickers to the blade in your hand—sharp, gleaming, a perfect reflection of everything you’ve been trying to avoid. With a shaky breath, you press it to the skin of your arm, not sure what to expect, but desperate for release.

The first slice is almost too easy, like the blade already knows where to go, knows exactly how to break you. You hiss, biting back a gasp. The rush of blood that spills out is both soothing and terrifying, pooling around your wrist and dripping onto the floor. It feels like you’ve just cracked open a dam, and there’s no stopping the flood.

But you can’t stop. You need to feel it. The rush. The pain. The way it takes everything away, leaves you empty but somehow full at the same time. It’s familiar, comforting, like a twisted lover.

But this time, it’s different.

The bleeding doesn’t stop.

Your breath catches, the room beginning to spin as the crimson liquid flows freely, quicker than you can manage. Your vision blurs as the pulse of panic rushes through you. You try to hold pressure, but it doesn’t work. You try to stop it, but it’s like the blood has a mind of its own, pouring faster than you can keep up.

Why won’t it stop?

The panic sets in, clawing at your chest, a grip of cold fear tightening around your ribs. You try to move, to find something to hold against the wound, but your hands are trembling too violently, your fingers slick with blood. The room feels smaller, darker, and all at once, you feel the walls closing in. Every breath is a struggle, and every thought feels like a weight you can’t bear.

And then—footsteps.

Sevika.

Her voice, low and dangerous, cuts through the haze of panic. “What the hell is going on here?”

You don’t have time to answer before she’s in front of you, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the sight of you, the blood dripping from your arm, the panic in your eyes. You want to say something, to apologize, but the words are tangled in your throat, a mass of guilt and shame. Her presence, usually so reassuring, now feels like an inescapable force, suffocating you with its intensity.

She doesn’t need to speak, her gaze enough to make you shrink back. But she doesn’t leave. She’s here. And that alone is enough to send a wave of emotion crashing over you—relief mixed with guilt, pain, and that overwhelming, gnawing feeling of needing something you can’t quite define.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but it’s like your body betrays you, unable to form a coherent thought.

Sevika’s gaze shifts to the blade in your hand, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence between you two. Her jaw tightens, and her lips press into a thin line. But then her hands move, strong and steady, like the storm in her eyes isn’t enough to tear her apart. She takes your wrist with a force that makes you flinch, her fingers like iron bands around your arm, yet there’s no malice in her touch. Only a quiet fury—one that’s familiar to her, but so unlike you.

She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t ask you why. Instead, she moves quickly, her voice calm but filled with that hard edge of discipline. “Give me the fucking blade.”

You hesitate, feeling the cold, sharp steel pressing against your skin. For a moment, you wonder if this is it—if she’s finally tired of you. If this is where the weight of your brokenness makes her snap.

But instead of anger, you see something different in her eyes. Something sharp and raw. Something that looks like pain.

You don’t argue as she pries the blade from your trembling fingers. Her gaze never leaves you as she takes it, her lips pressed into a hard line. You can’t tell if she’s angry or worried, but you feel like you’re drowning in her gaze. In the silence between you two, the blood that still flows from your arm, the tightness in your chest, the burning shame—you feel it all. The weight of your struggle is too much for one person to bear, even if that person is Sevika.

She’s too quiet, too still, for too long. And you can’t take it.

“I—I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice cracked and fragile. “I didn’t mean to… to make you worry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Sevika doesn’t respond right away, her face unreadable as she carefully presses a cloth against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. The way her fingers move so methodically, the precision of her touch—it makes you feel like you’re falling apart even more.

“You didn’t want to make me worry?” she says, her voice quieter than usual, a soft growl of frustration in her words. “Then why the hell are you doing this to yourself?”

You shake your head, biting back the tears that threaten to spill over. You don’t have an answer. You never really did. It’s always been a struggle, hasn’t it? One that you fight alone, because nobody could possibly understand. Not her. Not anyone.

But Sevika doesn’t need answers. She doesn’t need you to explain yourself, not right now. All she needs is to fix this. To stop you from bleeding out.

When she’s sure the bleeding has slowed, Sevika pulls you close, her strong arms wrapping around you. It’s the first time in what feels like forever that she’s not pushing you away. She holds you tightly, her breath steady against your ear, and for a moment, you forget about the cuts on your skin, the mess you’ve made of yourself, the guilt that weighs you down.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Her grip tightens around you, the warmth of her body seeping into yours. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she speaks, her voice low and rough.

“Don’t do this again.”

You nod, feeling a sob rise in your chest. You want to tell her you’ll be okay, that you won’t fall back into the darkness. But you don’t know if you can promise that. And for the first time in a long while, you let the tears fall, not because you’re weak, but because you don’t have to hide from her anymore.

Sevika’s not going anywhere. She never has been, not really. Even if she can’t fix everything, even if she doesn’t have all the answers—she’s here.

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neuronary · 2 days ago

Note

#The Chase is them chasing him all over the Earth Kingdom#Azula meanwhile keeps getting thoughts about being the best and Earth Rumbles. only one of these is abnormal.#I'm sure that'll be fine#atla#avatar the last airbender#platonic brain polycule let's goooo#Zuko#Sokka#Aang#the gaang

I haven't touched a:tla in years but if there's one thing MuffinLance can do it's inspire me.

---

Azula keeps dreaming that she is blind.

It's strange, not least because when she dreams it it does not seem strange in the slightest, but it has alerted her to a weakness, and she cannot abide weaknesses.

The servants never question her (they are too afraid of her, which is meant to feel good but mostly feels twisty in the very depths of her stomach like if she thinks of Mai and Ty Lee for too long) so she is almost always left to her own devices. She knows they watch her, think her strange, as she wanders the palace halls, a blindfold over her face, tracing the walls until she has mapped every corner.

She'll know it better than the face in the mirror when she's finished. Better than her hands, which are her father's, and her hair, which is her mother's. This will be her's.

---

"Okay, what the fuck," Toph says, upon sitting up.

"Language," The Boulder says tiredly. "C'mon, I told you guys to watch it around her."

"Are you, alright, Bandit?" Headhunter asks. "This is the third time this week."

"I'm fine," Toph grumbles, because she is fine, she just keeps randomly falling asleep when she usually stays up way later and it's annoying more than anything.

"Maybe you should--" the Gecko begins. He is cut off by Toph hurling rocks at him.

---

It's good. Mai and Ty Lee are with her again and it's good. They're hers and she's finally got them back and that's good.

Azula ignores the little voice in her head that thinks that's sort of fucked up. That is decidedly not hers and therefore none of her concern.

---

Toph is pretty sure you can't own people. Or at least, if you do, it's very bad. That's not how having friends works. Except she finally has friends, for the first time in her whole life, and she's not totally sure it counts.

There's something... off. It's like she's always standing on the outside of their little circle. Like there's always something they're not telling her. Like the feeling of someone else shifting the earth beneath her feet before she wrenches it back from them.

She doesn't like it.

Maybe they're not her friends, because they're clearly not hers.

She throws more rocks at the Avatar and doesn't think about it.

---

When Azula dreams of her brother's faceless voice, it is not unusual; she doesn't know what he looks like anymore, although she can guess. When she dreams of him laughing, easily, surrounded by friends, it is unusual.

Mai and Ty Lee are there when she sleeps, sometimes uncontrollably. They both seem to understand that the world has changed for her, with the shifting of the ground and the sounds of the air singing far more than the visual cues she used to rely upon.

She can't trust anyone, she knows that. But if she could, she would trust them. Them, and the little voice in the back of her head that is definitely not hers.

---

Toph cannot see when she is awake and she cannot see when she dreams. That is what it means to be blind.

"What troubles you, young earthbender?" Uncle asks. Everyone just calls him 'Uncle' even though he's only Zuko's and nobody bothered telling her his name. Well. She's not going to ask.

Toph cannot see when she dreams her own dreams but sometimes. Sometimes she dreams of calligraphy brushes and play scrolls and classrooms and somehow she recognises them.

(Sometimes, she dreams of a long platform and two figures and flames and sometimes she is frozen and sometimes she screams and screams until everything is blue.) (She shouldn't even know what blue is.)

"Nothing," Toph says, flicking her foot and sending a rock the size of Uncle's stomach flying.

"What the hell, Toph?" the others all demand in perfect unison.

"Nothing," she repeats, soundless underneath their shared laughter.

Uncle's heartbeat thumps worried.

Toph ignores him.

---

"You can go home," Azula says after waking, feeling sick at herself and shaky. She cannot abide weakness. "You can go home, if you want. I'm not keeping you here."

"Why would I want to do that?" Mai drawls, picking underneath her nails with one of her knives.

Ty Lee smiles sympathetically. "Are you having nightmares?" The 'again' is silent.

"No," Azula lies, because one truth is one too many and she cannot abide weakness.

"We're not going home," Ty Lee agrees after a moment. "Where would be the fun in that?"

Azula should simply nod, accepting their loyalty, act as though it was a test. She feels sand in her throat at the thought. "Good," she says, half her voice, half another.

"Go back to sleep, you two," Mai grumbles, "or do you want to take my watch?"

When Azula dreams, she dreams of their days at the Royal Academy, before things were complicated and the worst part of her life was her mother's complaints. She dreams of Mai and Ty Lee and a girl in green who smiles as wide as Ty Lee and laughs twice as loud.

---

These people are nothing to you, it occurs to Toph as Aang shouts at her, like it's her fault they all left her to guard everything, like they didn't all leave her outside the library just like they leave her on the outside of everything else. Her hands are almost shaking with the rage that builds up in her, half hers, half another's, but all there, tight in her chest.

"How could you abandon him?" Aang cries.

The snap is more mental than audible.

"How could I do anything else?" Toph screams back. "How am I supposed to know what to do when none of you tell me anything?! Would you rather I let all of the rest of you get buried in that stupid library? Would that have just been a convenient way to get rid of me? Don't think I can't tell that you all hide things from me! What, is it some kind of signal the stupid little blind girl can't see? Well, this little blind girl saved all of your lives, so maybe you should be a little grateful! Maybe I shouldn't even bother with any of you!"

She hates them, all of them, with their stupid inside jokes, and their stupid expectations, and their stupid secret language she can't see.

They're all idiots, clearly. They hang around with Zuzu.

They apologise, after a while, because she's right, and they promise they didn't mean to exclude her.

"It's just that we've all got this spooky spirit psychic link," Sokka explains, a few days later. "We can kind of hear each others' thoughts and see each others' dreams. It's weird."

They can see each others' dreams. Huh.

"Huh," Toph says.

---

Azula dreams of the Fire Lord condemning her failure. She dreams of flames. She dreams of watching Zuko burn and being Zuko burning and of screaming. It's a familiar scene, up until it isn't.

Suddenly, as she dreams of being Zuko, burning because she failed, she dreams instead of the earth bursting forth to crush the Fire Lord. She dreams of him vanishing down, deep underground. She dreams of walls of earth and mud and stone rising between them, of flames bouncing helplessly off rocks.

She dreams of great beasts that make the earth rumble and feel more like home than the palace ever did.

When she wakes up, Mai and Ty Lee are watching her with a frown.

No matter how strange her dreams become, Azula knows reality. She has no choice.

"We're going to get into Ba Sing Se," she says, "and we're going to kill the Avatar."

---

Ba Sing Se is awful, just like Toph thought it would be. Everybody is still keeping things from her, and it hurts regardless of whether or not they mean it.

She's been having nightmares, too. Or, rather, the girl whos dreams she's seeing is having nightmares, and Toph can't seem to help all that much. She wishes she could do more, could save the girl's brother, but the fear paralyses her almost as badly as it paralyses her dreammate. It's all she can do to protect this girl, this firebender who is deathly afraid of the Fire Lord.

"Toph?" says Sokka. "We're going out to put up the Appa posters. Don't forget to bring a snack."

Toph grabs at the fruit bowl and comes away with an orange. She scowls and shoves it in her pocket; she's never been able to peel oranges properly. It's still in her pocket when she is captured.

---

They won't bother to rescue me, comes the thought, bitter and resigned and very much not her's.

They'll take too long to even notice that I'm gone.

Azula pauses her planning. It's taken some time to understand, but she's fairly certain that the voice in her head, the girl in green from her dreams, and the earthbender guarding her nightmares are one and the same. This is just the last piece of the puzzle.

"Mai," she says quietly, considering. "Ty Lee. Would you leave me for a moment? I need to meditate."

They share a look, concerned, that makes her fond in a way she wouldn't have been before this, but they leave.

---

These people are nothing, the other girl in Toph's head reassures her through her panic. What people say is impossible is nothing for people like us.

She breathes. In, and out, like the badgermoles taught her (like her father taught her).

Toph stands up and feels for the earth, for the parts of it that remain, no matter what is done to it.

Toph breathes, and stands up, and bends metal.

Anything is possible.

---

Azula watches the earthbender listen to the Avatar's sky bison leave, the beating of its limbs through the air above them roaring like a great flame.

Uncle Iroh twists to look at her, already trapped by the Dai Li. "Toph," he says, warningly, and the tone reminds Azula of every time he scolded her for retaliating against Zuko, every time he sided with her mother, every time he told her that's not a lady's way. In any case, the earthbender ignores him and turns to trudge towards them, shoving a hand into her pocket as she goes.

When she stops in front of Azula, she's holding out an orange.

"I think this is for you," the earthbender says.

You're mine, she thinks. You're mine to protect, like I'm yours, aren't I?

Azula takes the orange. "Yes," she says. "Yes, I think you're right."

Some spirit manages to get the gaang and zuko a link that connects their minds. They can share thoughts and their past with each other.

Tweaking this to “and they share dreams” because that’s how I started writing it.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, wrapping his sleeping bag around himself, and grabbing a comfort Momo, too. “Who’s dream was that?”

No one ‘fesses up. But it was kind of a rude question, and also a little rhetorical, anyway.

They all have nightmares with fire.

Having the Fire Lord himself looming over them, while they were on their knees? Not exactly a stretch.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, “how does Prince Jerkface keep finding us?”

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, “how did he know that seal jerky seasoned just right with honey—not too much, just enough to add a sparkle of sweetness to the depths of savoriness, a perfect balance for the distinguished tongue to relish—was the perfect bait for his Sokka and Sokka-affliated-parties trap?”

“Maybe if you stop dreaming about it, Sokka,” Katara snaps.

...And they all stop.

---

“I’m going to think really really hard about being friends,” Aang says.

“I’m going to think really really hard about that time my boomerang hit him,” says Sokka.

---

Snatching the boomerang out of midair? Impressive.

Ignoring the Avatar to go hit Sokka with it? Repeatedly? Uncalled for.

---

“Sokka. The city is under attack. Right now.”

“Okay,” Sokka says. “But this is a strategic nap, Katara. We need to know what evil things our Evil Other is up to.”

It’s not like the evil fleet part was a surprise, at least. They’ve been dreaming of it for weeks.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, looking down. “So the ship-blowing-up-thing. Not a nightmare?”

“No,” says Zuko, glaring up with his glare-face all glare-ful but his thoughts mostly full of bruises so deep they’re making Sokka’s ribs ache, and also his legs are going numb.

“Going to get out of the turtle-seal tunnel now?” Sokka asks, still standing over the opening. With his boomerang.

“...No,” the Prince of the Fire Nation says, as he clings onto the edge of the hole, his legs still very much in freezing water.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, when they have a Fire Prince all tied up in Blankets of Imprisonment. “So. What actually was your plan here? Do not,” he interrupts, before the teenage-shaped bloodhound-leech can do more than open his mouth, “say ‘capture the Avatar.’”

The prince closes his mouth. Glares. And kind of fuzzes at the edges, in the way all of them do when they’re about to fall asleep.

BOOMERANG, Sokka thinks, and Prince Largely Ineffective As An Enemy jerks back upright. His Momo hat chitters a complaint.

“Since we both know your answer is ‘I had no plan, Sokka, ‘plan’ starts with ‘p’ and there’s no ‘p’ in ‘Avatar’’, we’re going to play a game instead. It’s called ‘sleepy prince free association interrogation time.’”

“...What?”

“Battle plans,” Sokka says. “Attack. Fire Navy fleet. Ship numbers.”

Alas, “Fire Nation intelligence” is not something with which the prince’s brain is overly burdened.

“...Are you insulting me?”

“Are you proving my point?”

Elsewhere, Yue laughs in all their heads. Zuko flinches. The prince has a very marked reaction to the laughter of princesses.

---

“Okay,” says Sokka. “So that just happened.”

Commander Mutton Chops is groaning. Kind of flopping. Much like the bag he tried to fireball. Yue picks it up, and gently wrangles a fish back into water. Sokka is still not clear on what the fish-napping was about.

“It’s the Moon,” Aang says. “Or maybe the Ocean?”

Aang’s thoughts are full of a FACE STEALING EVIL CENTIPEDE MONSTER THAT IS JUST ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE THIN VEIL OF REALITY and that is NOT helping Sokka think.

“Okay,” he says again. “So. At least we can all agree on one thing.”

This is a very diplomatic way of saying they all wanted to dropkick Zhao. But some of them wanted to do it more than others.

The prince of the Fire Nation is even paler than normal, and staring across the clearing at his uncle.

“I can explain,” the prince says, while he’s thinking, oh shit treason oh crap uncle wouldn’t hurt me thought that about father too

Sokka wordlessly plucks Momo from the edge of the pond, where he’s been swiping at the spirit-fish, and drops him on the prince’s head.

Everyone needs a comfort Momo, now and again.

---

“A raft, Zuko?” Sokka says. Outloud. Because it makes things louder when you say it and think it. “A raft?”

Aang is bouncing on his toes. “We should go get him.”

The Avatar is grinning. And thinking, really hard and deliberately, as behind them the Water Tribe ship finishes packing, We should capture the Fire Prince,

“Okay,” Sokka says, with a grin.

#and then toph gets a life changing field trip to the fire nation with her new brain buddy #and this ends about as well as you'd expect #the fire lord is no match for the melon lord

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uniquexusposts · 2 days ago

Text

A false music degree | L. Hamilton

Summary: Lewis, Y/n and friends were having a game night. Lewis and Y/n didn't know they are in love, but their friends knew.

The living room was alive with noise, half-empty snack bowls scattered across the table, and a pile of game cards thrown haphazardly to the side. It was the kind of chaos that made the evening feel like a scene straight out of a sitcom, everyone laughing, chatting, and trying to beat each other at a game of Hitster. There were six of them in total, and once again, Lewis and Y/n found themselves ‘accidentally’ teamed up.

“This is a terrible idea,” one of their friends muttered as they shuffled the cards, clearly not impressed by the duo’s earlier antics.

“Why? We make an excellent team,” Lewis said confidently, nudging Y/n’s knee with his own under the table, a casual gesture that had somehow become their default.

Y/n rolled her eyes, pretending to be annoyed but secretly enjoying the camaraderie. “We lost the last two rounds,” she reminded him, trying to focus on the game rather than the persistent, annoying warmth she felt from his touch.

“Yeah, but we lost with style,” he shot back, his grin so wide and easy that it was almost impossible to resist.

Their friends exchanged knowing glances but remained quiet. Everyone in the room had witnessed it; the constant, subtle way Lewis and Y/n acted as if they weren’t fully aware of the chemistry between them. Like they did for the past two years. It was impossible to ignore how they seemed to end up next to each other in every game, every conversation, and how they always exchanged those little looks that spoke volumes.

“Alright, next song,” their friend finally announced, pulling a card from the deck. The music immediately started, an old-school R&B hit that no one could resist grooving to.

Lewis snapped his fingers, instantly recognising the tune. “Oh, oh, I know this one!” He turned to Y/n, as if this was the moment they’d been waiting for. “C’mon, tell me you know this.”

Y/n squinted at the phone playing the song, her brow furrowed. “I do, but… oh my god, I have no clue when it came out.” She wasn’t even sure what year this song belonged to, but there was no way she was admitting that. “I mean, was I even born? And how old would I be then?”

“You’re killing me, Y/n,” Lewis groaned dramatically, throwing himself back in his chair with exaggerated frustration.

“Hey, I thought you were the music expert!” she retorted, giving him a playful shove.

“I am, but I need teamwork, woman,” Lewis said, laughing.

The whole room seemed to stop as they leaned in closer to one another. Heads bent together, whispering possible years back and forth, exchanging guesses like they were solving a world-class mystery. It was a moment of absolute focus. Their knees, pressed against each other, a shared space that neither of them seemed inclined to move away from. Lewis’s hand rested on Y/n’s arm, his fingers absentmindedly tapping on her skin as they tried to figure out the song.

The rest of the group exchanged another round of looks, eyes widening at the pair’s unspoken connection. It wasn’t lost on anyone that their friends were now sitting at a front-row seat to what felt like the most painfully obvious romantic chemistry.

“You two done flirting or?” one of them finally muttered under their breath, the teasing tone clear, but neither Lewis nor Y/n heard it.

“2004,” Y/n blurted out, proud of herself for making a guess. “I think.”

Lewis gasped dramatically. “That’s so wrong.” He shook his head as though it was the most absurd guess possible.

“Well, what’s your guess, genius?” she challenged, already preparing for him to overestimate his own musical prowess.

“2002,” he said confidently.

Their friend flipped the card over. 2003.

The entire group erupted into laughter as Lewis and Y/n stared at each other in horror.

“I hate us,” Y/n groaned, slumping into the couch, her face burning from the embarrassment.

“I love us,” Lewis corrected, his arm casually draping over her shoulders without a second thought.

The room went eerily quiet at that, the playful atmosphere evaporating like water under the sun. The words were out there, hanging in the air like an unexpected confession. It was the kind of thing that people noticed, and yet Lewis and Y/n just stared at each other, unable to break the sudden weight that filled the space.

It took Y/n exactly three seconds to notice the heavy weight of Lewis’s arm around her. It wasn’t like it was the first time, but this time felt different. Her throat went dry, and she cleared it, eyes darting to the others in the room as she tried to find her voice.

“Uh,” she said, fidgeting awkwardly, suddenly too aware of how close they were.

Lewis blinked, glancing at his hand like he had no idea how it ended up there. His eyes flickered back to hers, his lips twitching as if he were about to say something, but nothing came out. He was equally speechless.

And then, like the complete idiots they were, they just… moved on. Pretended nothing happened. The awkward silence was quickly covered by a forced chuckle, and they picked up the next card as if nothing had shifted between them.

The game continued, but the atmosphere had undeniably changed. It wasn’t just about the playful banter anymore; it was about the unspoken tension that hung in the air, thick and undeniable. Every word between them felt charged, every glance seemed heavier, and every touch lingered just a little too long.

“So, uh, next round?” one of their friends said, clearly trying to steer the group back to normalcy.

Y/n forced a grin, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had suddenly settled over her. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s do this.”

But even as she reached for the next card, she couldn’t help but notice the small thrill that ran through her when Lewis’s knee bumped hers under the table. It was a casual gesture, something he’d done a hundred times without thinking, but this time, it felt like electricity. She quickly looked up at him from the corner of her eye. His expression was unreadable, but there was something about it that made her heart beat faster.

Another song played, and this time, their friend shot them a pointed look. “You two better get this one right. If not, I’m kicking you off the team.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me,” their friend teased, clearly not taking them seriously.

Y/n couldn’t help but laugh, the sound escaping before she could stop it. “Alright, alright. No pressure.”

The familiar energy of the game took over again, but this time, something was different. They both leaned in closer than they probably should have. Every instinct told them they were being ridiculous, but the way they were so easily in sync, even when they were wrong, kept pulling them closer.

“I got this,” Lewis muttered, tapping his fingers on the table, clearly pleased with his guess.

Y/n smirked. “Are you sure? You were so confident last time.”

His grin widened. “Trust me. 2010.”

Y/n paused for a moment. “2010?” She shook her head. “No way. It’s older than that.”

Lewis leaned back in his chair, watching her with that same knowing look he always had. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” Y/n insisted, voice laced with mock seriousness. “I’m saying 2009.”

Their friend flipped the card over. “2008.”

“You are sacked,” Y/n emotionlessly said. “Contract not extended.”

A collective groan echoed around the room, and the laughter that followed was inevitable. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t just about the game anymore. It was about them; about the way they were constantly in sync, even when they didn’t want to be.

“I’m starting to think we’re just here for the comedy,” Y/n muttered, burying her face in her hands.

Lewis, on the other hand, looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Well, we’re a great team, whether we win or lose.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? The way they worked so well together, how they were constantly in sync without even trying. They had always joked about it, pretending it didn’t matter, pretending they weren’t the slightest bit affected by it. But now, in the quiet aftermath of their last game, it felt like they were lying to themselves.

Their friends, of course, weren’t fooled for a second.

“You know, we’re not blind,” one of them finally said, breaking the silence with a teasing tone. “You two are, like, a walking rom-com at this point.”

Y/n’s face turned bright red, and she quickly glanced over at Lewis, who suddenly found the table to be incredibly interesting.

“Shut up,” she mumbled, trying to hide her embarrassment behind a laugh.

Lewis shrugged innocently, his grin widening. “Hey, we’ve got chemistry. That’s all that matters, right?”

And as much as Y/n wanted to protest, as much as she wanted to deny that anything was happening, she couldn’t help but feel a flutter in her chest at the way he said it. Maybe they were just two idiots playing a game. Maybe they were just a couple of people who liked each other in their own messed-up way.

But deep down, she knew it was more than that.

And so did he.

The problem was, neither of them was brave enough to admit it yet.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris

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belu-4 · 2 days ago

Text

Vacations

Couple: Mapi leon x Putellas!Reader

Au!Omegaverse. Alpha x Alpha

Words count: 2.2k

Warning: a little suggestive

Alondra´s pov.

June 17th, 5pm and finally the last training session before the holidays (which really meant preparation for the Olympics). Jona blew the whistle that signaled the end of training.

I quickly started walking towards the locker room, while I was talking to Keira, who was telling me where the traditional dinner before the international breaks could be, when I felt a blow to the back of my head. I quickly turned around with a frown to see who had hit me.

“I hope he didn't tell you to make dinner at McDonald's” said Alexia with her mocking tone that she normally used to make fun of me.

“Alexia! You know I don’t like that place… I think we should do it on the beach.”

Alexia’s hand, which was previously on the back of my neck, moved to my head, where she patted it lightly before ignoring me. Irene, who had heard our conversation, continued talking.

“Alondra is right, we could do it near the beach.”

Alexia gave me that dirty look, with that “you have zero common sense” face she used so often with me.

“She means literally eating on the beach, not in a restaurant” she explained to Irene with feigned tiredness.

“Since we live in Barcelona, we should go to dinner on the beach… very romantically with Burger King food and the richest spice in the world: sand” I said, with my best tone of sarcasm.

I didn’t have time to react before a stronger blow landed on my head.

“Ouch! Stop hitting my head! Do you know how many neurons die when you get hit?”

I gave Alexia a serious look as I rubbed my head.

“There must be a lot, because you don’t have that many left.”

I gasped, gasping dramatically as I brought a hand to my chest.

“I’ll tell Olga that you just called me stupid.”

I turned around in the most exaggerated way possible, walking with theatrical steps towards Pina and Cata. They were both laughing heartily at my reaction.

“God, it’s like watching a live soap opera,” Pina commented between laughs.

“You haven’t gotten the Oscar nomination yet?” Cata mocked.

I snorted, crossing my arms.

“Someday they’ll appreciate my acting talent.”

Pina nudged Cata, smiling in amusement.

“Nah, what we appreciate is that Alexia hasn’t killed you yet.”

I put a hand on my chest, offended again.

“What if one day I mysteriously disappear? Who will they blame?”

Cata and Pina looked at each other for a second before answering in unison:

“Alexia.”

Alexia, who was still a few feet away, didn’t even bother to deny the accusation.

“Don’t dismiss it so quickly.”

I gasped again, this time more indignant.

“Family violence live and in person!”

“Shut up, Alondra.

I turned back to Cata and Pina, sighing dramatically.

"Do you see why I deserve better sisters?

They just laughed, while the rest of the team started to move towards the locker room, we were last planning an outing to the bar where we usually went to party. Jana approached us and Pina almost automatically said "No, they are too young to go out drinking" automatically Cata and I started laughing "I am a year younger than you Piña" Jana gave her a dirty look and gave her a slight push.

"I am not going to take care of puppies, I already said. Just because I am a Slutty doesn't mean that I am going to take care of them, that is Alexia's job." Jana and Bruna looked at Cata with pleading puppy eyes, so Cata used the best counterattack weapon. She ran off followed by Jana and Bruna.

"I have some ideas of what we could do on this vacation" Mapi's scent enveloped me in a matter of seconds "Do you want to finally go on vacation?" Maria approached me, taking my hand with her right hand and wrapping her left arm around me while a slight smile graced her face. “We can take my baby girl, right? Because I don’t plan on leaving Bagheera home alone.”

Pina looked at us strangely. “I can’t believe you refer to your cat as if she were your daughter.” Her comment earned her a look of total disapproval from Mapi and me. “Did you just say that Bagheera isn’t my daughter by blood? I didn’t have that girl in my womb for 9 months for an ignorant person to say that she isn’t my daughter.” I hid in Maria’s neck, crying falsely while she comforted me.

“Don’t worry, love, our girl knows the truth,” she whispered in my ear, caressing my back.

Pina looked at us, exasperated.

“You two are really wrong.”

We entered the locker room where many of the girls were already getting out of the shower and putting away their things to go home. I went straight in to tidy up my locker, putting away the pairs of shoes that I had arranged in my own way (according to Alexia, that was the order of a 5-year-old child). I finished putting away the shoes and when I turned to look at the showers I noticed that they were still full so I sat down to wait for them to be emptied.

They have always said that waiting is not my thing.

Waiting is not my thing

For one simple reason.

I always ended up falling asleep.

“Alondra… Honey, wake up” I complained as I felt someone moving and shaking me “I’m going to get up, Alba, don’t bother me” I turned around trying to adjust myself a little and leaned forward a little until I felt a strong blow on my forehead, waking up instantly.

I heard a sigh which I knew was Mapi’s.

“It’s not my fault that you didn’t tell me that I had fallen asleep sitting there” I pouted slightly as I began to get up. “Alexia didn’t even want to wake you up claiming that you were too hard to wake up” Maria sat next to me, waiting for me to finish getting ready to leave “Bad memories, when I was little and she tried to get me up I would hit her while she was asleep… Have they all left yet? “Why is it weird not hearing Cata and Patri’s music?”

“They left almost 10 minutes ago, honey. I couldn’t wake you up earlier because I was taking a shower. Are you going to shower here or at home?” I gave her a confused look and then let out a sigh. “Could you wait for me a few minutes? I prefer to take a shower here so that when we get there I can spend more time with Bagheera.”

Mapi grabbed her cell phone as she settled on the bench. “It’s okay, don’t worry, I’ll wait for you here, honey.” I leaned down enough to kiss her on the lips. Then I grabbed a towel and my toiletries and headed towards the showers.

I placed my phone near the shower so I could shower with music. As I sang, quite distracted from what was going on around me, I felt hands on my waist. “Maripi, let me shower, don’t be selfish.” I felt her lips on my neck along with her breathing, which made me gasp. “Don’t you want company in your shower?” I felt Maria's hands go to my abdomen and caress that area.

My breathing became heavier as Mapi's hands ran over my abdomen "My girl is already hard from feeling her alpha?" she whispered in my ear and then went to lick my mark "Maria... God" I moaned without being able to avoid it when I felt her licks. I lowered my hands to where hers were so I could push them further down.

She laughed seeing what I was trying to achieve "Do you know you can use words darling? You can ask me and I will give it to you... just say it" I tightened my grip on her hands while trying to regulate my breathing. "Please Maria, I want it" my dick began to ache from the excitement.

Those words were enough for her.

She made me face her to push me against the wall, starting to kiss me.

——————————————————————

“Thanks for offering to take care of Bagheera, Javi. You’re the best.”

We had gone to drop Bagheera off at Javier’s house, Maria’s brother. A few days ago, Maria had bought the tickets to go to Lisbon and take advantage of our days off, as well as celebrate her birthday together.

“Don’t worry, Maria. Enjoy your vacation,” Javi replied with a warm smile, while his wife petted Bagheera tenderly.

After saying a quick goodbye, we drove to the airport, since our flight was leaving soon and we still had to check in. I connected my phone to the car speaker and put on a playlist with a new artist I had recently discovered. Maria and I sang along the whole way, enjoying the light and excited energy that floated between us.

Upon arriving at the airport, we took down our bags and headed to the check-in area. After about twenty minutes of waiting, we were finally allowed to board.

“Are you sure it was through this gate, Maria? You said the same thing last time and we almost got on the wrong flight,” I said suspiciously, remembering that anecdote in which we realized our mistake just a few minutes before the doors closed.

“Don’t worry, honey. I’m sure this time. I asked a guard and he confirmed that we’re okay,” she replied, patting my hand before interlacing her fingers with mine.

I gently squeezed her hand as I tried to read the screen with the flight information. This time, everything was in order. I sighed in relief and we continued moving forward until we were inside the plane.

The flight went smoothly. We spent most of the time watching a movie on the seat screen and sharing headphones. Maria, as usual, ended up falling asleep on my shoulder. As soon as we landed in Lisbon, she woke up and smiled at me with that sleepy, adorable expression that made me melt.

We picked up our bags and took a taxi to our hotel, located near the historic center. Upon arrival, we barely dropped our bags in the room and fell into bed with a sigh of tiredness and relief.

“Okay, now we are officially on vacation,” Maria murmurs, stretching like a cat.

The next morning, we woke up early to make the most of the day. We had breakfast at a small cafe and then went out to explore. We walked along the cobblestone streets, climbed and descended hills, tried pastries, and tried a lot of other dishes.

We sat on the sofa and enjoyed the fresh ocean breeze.

At one point, as we strolled through Mirador de Santa Catarina, the sunlight created a perfect effect on Maria. She had her back turned, her hair disheveled by the wind and her jacket hanging casually over her shoulders. I quickly pulled out my phone and snapped a photo.

“What are you doing?” she asked, turning to me curiously.

“Nothing, just capturing art at its finest,” I replied with a mischievous smile.

We continued to enjoy our day as we continued to wander around the city taking photos and continuing to enjoy the scenery and food.

At dinner time we went to a very nice restaurant that we had seen in the morning when we went for a walk.

Upon arriving at the restaurant, the atmosphere was cozy, with soft lights illuminating the tables and a lovely view of the sea. We sat near a window, enjoying the fresh breeze and the tranquility of the place. Maria looked at me with a smile, her eyes shining in the dim candlelight.

“This place is perfect,” she said, taking my hand across the table. “But what really makes me feel perfect is you, here with me.”

I smiled, squeezing her hand tenderly. “You are such a sweetheart, Maria. You make me feel like the whole world disappears when I am by your side.”

The waiter arrived with the menu, but as soon as we looked at it, we already knew what we were going to order. We opted to share a selection of typical Portuguese dishes, each one more delicious than the last. Between laughs and chatter, time flew by, and when we finally got to dessert, a delicious chocolate cake, our hands were already intertwined, as if there was no other way to be together.

Maria stared at me, her expression soft, almost whispering. “There is nothing I want more than to spend the rest of my life with you. Every moment by your side is unique.”

I felt the warmth in my chest, and without thinking twice, I leaned in to kiss her. It was a soft kiss, full of affection, of everything that cannot be expressed in words. When we separated, we stood looking at each other, as if the world was ours for a moment.

The night continued, and as we left the restaurant, we headed to the nearby lookout point. The starry sky enveloped us, and as we sat on the bench, Maria snuggled up next to me, resting her head on my shoulder. The soft sound of the city faded away as all I could hear was the beating of our hearts, synchronized as always.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” she whispered, hugging me tighter.

“The same as I do without you,” I replied, stroking her hair. “I love you, more than words can say.”

And there, under the stars of Lisbon, in silence, we only needed each other, knowing that every day, every moment together, was more valuable than anything this world could offer.

marialeonn16

Liked by alexiaputellas, Alondraputellas, maatiu_7, dani.elle and 101,000 others

marialeonn16 Aquí la secuencia de felicidad 🥐☕️

(📷alondraputellas)

comments:

alexiaputellas Nice holidays… for some 😒

alondraputellas enjoying Lisbon (I think I'm going to start melting 🥵)

marialeonn16 Don't be so dramatic cariño 🙄🙄🙄

elialexiaalbaalo linda 🥰🩵

marialeonn16 🥰🥰🥰🥰

albaps9: Give me my sister back

marialeonn16 Can i still return it to you?

random_user my mothers

random.user: beautiful maría

Once again, sorry if there are any mistakes.

#woso x reader #mapi leon x reader #alexia putellas x reader #woso #mapi leon #barca femeni

151 notes · View notes

joelsrose · 3 days ago

Text

First Date? Part 7

Hey guys! 💛 First off, I just want to say how much I appreciate all of you—the love and excitement you show for this story means so much to me! I know some of you were hoping for a longer chapter last time, and I totally get it. I love that you’re so invested but it did make me a tiny bit sad seeing those comments eeek but thats me being very sensitive and i just want to please all of you. I truly appreciate all the feedback and love, and I can’t wait to share more with you soon. Thank you for being here and for caring so much—it really means the world. ✨

previous chapters

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the dining hall, mingling with the quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional scrape of a chair against the wooden floor.

Morning light filtered in through the high windows, casting long, golden streaks across the worn tables. Maria sat across from you, her fingers curled around a chipped ceramic mug, steam rising in soft, twisting tendrils.

She looked as composed as ever, her expression carefully measured, but you caught the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened just slightly around the mug before she lifted it to her lips.

“How are you feeling?” you asked gently, leaning forward, your elbows resting on the table. “You know… about Tommy leaving?”

She shrugged—a small, deliberate movement—but her eyes wavered for just a fraction of a second before she blinked, masking whatever had surfaced. “It has to be done,” she said, her voice even, too even.

You realized then that you hadn’t even asked Joel what the patrol was for. The thought surfaced abruptly, pulling your focus. “What’s going on out there?” you asked, your voice quieter now, like saying it too loud would make it worse.

Maria exhaled, glancing down at her coffee before meeting your gaze again. “More infected near the highway,” she said, tone clipped, as if keeping it simple would make it easier. “Tommy’s gotta check it out, see if it’s manageable. If not… we’ll have to call off scavenging runs in that area.”

You nodded absently, but your mind had already unraveled, drifting to where Joel was—wherever that was. Was he safe? Was he warm? Was he hungry? Was he breathing? The thought curled at the edges, dark and treacherous, threatening to bloom into something unbearable.

Despite the anger and the hurt, despite every reason you had to turn away, there was no denying the way he had settled into you, deep and unshakable, woven into the marrow of your bones. No matter how much you tried to push it down, tried to bury it beneath layers of resentment and frustration, the truth remained—your heart was not capable of existing in a world where he did not. You couldn’t bring yourself to imagine it, couldn’t let the thought fester in the corners of your mind, because if you did, if you let it take shape, it would consume you whole.

You refused to picture him as anything but alive—breathing, walking, existing in the same world as you. You would not allow yourself to envision him otherwise, would not let the image of him broken and cold, lost to the same cruel world that had never once granted him kindness, take root in your mind.

The very idea of it sent something sharp and unbearable through you, something that made your chest tighten and your throat close, something that felt too much like grief. So you rejected it, pushed it down and locked it away, clung to the certainty that wherever he was, he was still out there. He had to be.

Maria tilted her head at your silence, a knowing smile tugging at her lips as she studied you. “What’s up with you?” she asked, her tone light, teasing. “I’ve never seen you this quiet. What, Joel finally manage to shut you up?”

The words were meant to be playful, but they landed heavier than she intended, lodging somewhere deep in your chest. The air around you felt denser, each breath a little harder to pull in. You sighed, dragging a hand over your face, fingers pressing into your temple as if you could knead away the ache building there.

“Look, Maria,” you said, straightening, forcing steadiness into your voice. “I need to switch patrol partners.”

Her smile faltered, the amusement slipping from her face as her brows drew together. “Huh?” She blinked, the sharpness in her eyes softening into confusion. “What do you mean? Did… did something happen?”

“No.” The lie was too quick, too easy, tumbling past your lips before you had the chance to stop it. You shook your head, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the tension in your jaw betrayed you.

“Nothing happened. I just—I can’t—” The words caught, snagged on something you couldn’t name. You exhaled sharply, leaning back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest as if the posture alone could make you feel less exposed. “I just need to swap, okay? I’ll take anyone else.”

Maria didn’t respond right away. Instead, she sat there, watching you, eyes narrowed in quiet scrutiny. Then, slowly, she leaned forward, mirroring your earlier posture, elbows resting against the worn wooden table. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, quieter, but it carried a weight that pressed down on you like a held breath.

"Tell me the truth," Maria said, her voice steady, unrelenting, her gaze locking onto yours with the kind of weight that left no room for evasion. "What happened with Joel?"

You shook your head, fingers curling and uncurling around the fabric of your shirt, a nervous habit you couldn’t shake, something to anchor you when the ground felt unsteady beneath your feet. "Maria," you said, her name slipping from your lips like a warning, sharp and edged, slicing through the thick, suffocating silence that had settled between you.

It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be—there was a weight to it, something final, something immovable, like a door being shut and locked from the inside. A line drawn in the sand, not in anger, but in quiet desperation, a plea wrapped in steel—don’t push me, don’t make me say it, don’t make me open that wound when I’ve spent every waking moment trying to sew it shut.

Her lips parted, poised to argue, to press in the way she always did when she sensed something unraveling just beneath the surface, when she caught the quiet tremble in your resolve and sought to pry it open with careful hands. But whatever she saw in your expression—the silent plea, the raw, unspoken desperation you weren’t even sure you meant to show—stopped her cold. You weren’t in the mood to explain, and for once, she seemed to understand that.

The scrape of wood against wood rang out sharp in the quiet room as you pushed back your chair, the sound too loud, too abrupt, splitting the moment in two.

You stood, movements mechanical, reaching for your coat draped over the back of the chair, fingers tightening around the worn fabric as if grounding yourself in something tangible, something solid, while Maria’s gaze burned into you. You felt it, felt the weight of her questions, her concern pressing against your back like a force you weren’t ready to meet head-on.

“Just… please,” you murmured, the words slipping free before you could swallow them back down, quieter now, the sharp edge in your voice dulling but never fully breaking. It wasn’t a demand, not really, but something close to it—something that held the weight of exhaustion, of quiet surrender. “Do this for me.”

A long beat of silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, before she finally exhaled, a slow, measured breath that felt like reluctant acceptance. Her shoulders dropped, the tension easing just enough, her gaze still searching, still waiting for something you weren’t willing to give. “Okay,” she murmured at last, her voice quiet, careful, as if she were handling something fragile, something that might shatter if she held it too tightly.

You gave her a small nod, barely more than a movement, before turning on your heel and slipping out of the dining hall, the cool air swallowing you whole as you walked away.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The decrepit cabin groaned with every passing breeze, little more than a skeleton of rotting wood and splintered beams barely holding together. The air inside was thick, damp with the scent of earth and blood—some theirs, some not. Shadows danced across the peeling walls as the flame of a single lantern flickered precariously on a broken crate.

Joel and Tommy sat cross-legged on the warped floor, a battered tin of something unappetizing between them.

Neither spoke. Neither looked at the other.

The silence hung heavy, broken only by the occasional scrape of a fork against metal, the sound grating in the stillness.

Joel’s hand hovered near his thigh, his fingers curling and uncurling like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. His knuckles were split and bloodied, the dried crimson cracked against his skin, and his wrist bore the faint tremor of adrenaline not yet spent.

In the uneven light of the lantern, his face looked carved from stone—hard and unyielding, his jaw locked tight, the muscle ticking in a relentless rhythm. His chest rose and fell in steady breaths, but everything about him was taut, coiled, like a spring ready to snap.

Tommy watched him out of the corner of his eye, his own shoulders stiff and squared, every line of his body radiating tension. The silence between them was louder than words, a pressure building with every passing second.

It had been less than an hour since it happened.

Less than an hour since Joel had fucked up—big time.

They had been tracking through the woods, moving through the underbrush in a silence that should have been second nature by now, but Joel was off.

Sluggish, unsteady, tripping over roots he should’ve seen, his footing clumsy in a way that made Tommy shoot him sharp looks out of the corner of his eye. He had muttered something under his breath—something half-frustrated, half-worried—but hadn’t pushed. Not yet.

Because Tommy could tell.

Joel had been off his game all damn day, his mind caught in the snare of something he couldn’t shake, something that had curled around his ribs and hollowed him out from the inside. You.

It was always you.

The way you had looked at him that night was destroying him.

It chased him through sleep, through dreams that twisted into something unbearable the second he reached for you. It haunted the corners of his mind in the quiet hours before dawn, when exhaustion should’ve claimed him, but never did. You were there—always there—eyes wide, raw, unshielded, just before you had let those words slip past your lips, quiet, reverent, terrifying.

"I love-"

Said into the hush, carried on the breath of a moment too fragile to last. And he—fool, coward, goddamn wreck of a man—had shattered it in his hands before he even let himself hold it. Had told you it wasn’t real. Had let you tuck it away, no—forced you to pretend it had never happened at all.

And now, the weight of it was drowning him.

His head wasn’t where it should have been. It was on you—always on you.

Too busy wondering if you had eaten, if you'd remembered to stoke the fire before the cold set in, if your hands had been warm when you woke up or if the chill had crept beneath your blankets, making you shiver.

If you'd had enough coffee at home or if you'd been forced to drink the one from the dining hall—the one you never liked, too bitter, too weak. He imagined you grimacing at the first sip, pressing your lips together the way you always did when something disappointed you, curling your hands around the mug anyway just for the warmth.

He wondered if you’d taken your time getting ready that morning or if you'd rushed, still half-asleep, fumbling for your boots with that little furrow in your brow you always got when you were running late.

If you'd worn that sweater—the one he knew was soft because he’d brushed past you once, and the feeling had lingered on his skin longer than it should have.

But worst of all—the cruelest, most selfish thing—was that he wondered if you ever thought about him. And he had no right to. Not after everything, not after the way he had left. He had forfeited that privilege the second he walked away, the second he let his fear speak louder than the truth, the second he chose silence over you.

And yet, he still found himself lingering in the possibility. Still found himself wondering if his absence clung to you the way yours clung to him, curling around his ribs like a phantom limb, something lost but never forgotten. If you missed him the way he missed you—with an ache so deep it felt carved into his bones, a hollow, gnawing thing that lived beneath his skin, a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

And then—reckless, aching—his mind wandered into dangerous, delicate imaginings of you.

Soft. Small. Intimate.

He let himself imagine it. If you wore your hair to bed in that loose braid like you sometimes did on patrol, strands slipping free, curling at your cheek, at the delicate slope of your neck, swaying with each breath, soft and effortless. Or if, in the privacy of your room, you let it fall completely—untamed, unbound, spilling over your shoulders, cascading across your pillow in quiet disarray. A sight untouched by the world. Untouched by him.

And God—God, how he wanted to touch.

Not just to see, not just to admire, but to feel. His fingers threading through it, slow and reverent, tugging gently just to hear the quiet hitch of your breath.

And then—before he could stop it, before he could drag himself back from the edge—his mind wandered deeper, sinking into something unspoken, something desperate, something reverent in its ruin.

What did you wear to bed?

Something soft, something thin, worn-down cotton stretched over your skin, clinging to the curve of your body, whispering against your thighs when you moved beneath the blankets. Did it slip higher in the night, baring the plush swell of your hips, the gentle dip of your waist? Did it ride up just enough that if he were there, if his hands were on you, he could push it further with the barest brush of his fingertips?

Did the cold make you shiver? Did it pull your nipples into soft, aching peaks, pressing against the fabric, sensitive and untouched, a secret only the night knew? Did you tuck your hands beneath the blankets, pressing your palms over your arms for warmth, sighing softly as you curled into yourself? Or did you stretch out, limbs long and languid, sheets tangled around your legs, the air against your skin cool, your body flushed with heat?

Had you ever—just once—rolled onto your side in the hush of sleep and whispered his name? Had it ever slipped past your lips without you realizing, soft and absent, breathed into the pillow, lost to the quiet? Did you ever wake up gasping, heart hammering, fingers curled against the sheets as if searching for something that wasn’t there?

Had you ever dreamed of him the way he dreamed of you?

Did your hands ever drift, slow and uncertain, down the length of your stomach, lower still, seeking relief from a longing that refused to be named? Did you ever press your thighs together, sigh against the emptiness, the want curling deep inside you, leaving you restless, burning? And if you did—if you had—what did you do about it?

These selfish, cowardly preoccupations had nearly been the death of him today. Had nearly been the death of them both.

The raiders had come out of nowhere. Just three of them. It should have been easy, routine—Joel and Tommy had been through worse, had fought side by side too many times to falter. They moved like a well-worn machine, an unspoken rhythm, a brotherhood forged in blood and war. But today, for the first time in thirty years, Joel had been off.

His timing. His aim. His goddamn instincts.

He had hesitated when he shouldn’t have. Missed when he couldn’t afford to. And the price had been blood—his and Tommy’s both. They had almost died because of him. Tommy had managed, somehow, had stepped in where Joel should have, had been sharp and quick and ruthless, had been himself. But Joel—Joel had been slow. Unsteady. Somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere with you.

Now, the cabin bore witness to their silence, thick with tension and the raw weight of two men aching, bruised, barely holding together. The fight had been ugly. Joel could still feel the imprint of a rifle stock against his ribs, the deep-set ache that pulsed with every breath, a reminder of where one of them had caught him hard in the side.

His knuckles were split and bloodied, dried crimson cracked against his skin, and beneath the sleeve of his jacket, his shoulder burned where a knife had grazed too close. Tommy didn’t look much better—a cut above his brow still sluggishly weeping, his jaw darkening with the promise of a bruise, his breathing tight, measured, like he was favoring something in his ribs. They hadn’t left that fight unscathed.

Joel stared hard at the floorboards, fingers twitching against his thigh, a storm roiling just beneath the surface, something barely restrained, barely holding together.

Finally, it snapped.

The sound of the fork clattering onto the tin was jarring, slicing clean through the stagnant air, cutting through the silence like a blade to the throat. Tommy leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, his voice low and sharp, rough with frustration, with disbelief, with something dangerously close to fear.

"The fuck is wrong with you, Joel?"

Joel exhaled slowly, the breath dragging out of him like it took effort, like it hurt. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the tension locked deep in the muscle, the ache of exhaustion woven through his bones. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet but firm, edged with warning. "Tommy. Drop it."

"No." The word came quick, firm, crackling with barely restrained anger. Tommy’s hands curled into fists against his knees, his whole body tight, shoulders squared, voice raw. "No, I ain’t droppin’ it. We almost fucking died out there. Died, Joel. Because your head ain’t screwed on right."

His breath was coming faster now, anger bleeding into something else—something deeper, something heavier. His voice cracked as he said it, just slightly, just enough for Joel to hear the truth beneath it.

"I gotta get back for Maria, Joel. You know that, right?"

Joel shut his eyes for a long moment, pressing his lips into a thin, unyielding line. He let the words settle in his chest, let them sink in, let them land square in the hollowed-out space where guilt already sat like something rotting. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just took it. Because Tommy was right.

They could be dead. And it was his fucking fault.

But Tommy wasn’t done. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping, no longer sharp with anger but something colder, something edged with realization, with disbelief, like he was piecing it together in real time, like he was staring at his brother and seeing something wrong for the first time in a long time.

"Joel." Tommy's voice was quieter now, but no less sharp, no less cutting. "When was the last time you shot at somethin’ and missed?"

The words landed like a bullet to bone, precise and unforgiving, and Joel felt the weight of them settle deep, heavy in his chest, pressing against something raw.

Finally, Joel exhaled, a slow, fractured thing, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse, rough like gravel ground beneath a boot. "Not sure what the hell’s wrong with me." The words came low, almost like they weren’t meant to be heard, almost like they weren’t meant to exist outside of his own head.

Tommy stilled, something shifting in his expression—less anger now, less frustration, something steadier, something careful. He leaned forward slightly, voice quiet, deliberate, like he was stepping around the jagged edges of something fragile, something that might splinter if he pressed too hard.

"Jesus, Joel," he murmured, shaking his head. "What the hell’s goin’ on with you?"

Joel exhaled sharply, dragging a rough, calloused hand down his face. "I fucked up." His voice was low, uneven, barely more than a breath, like the words hurt coming out, like they had splintered inside of him before ever reaching the air. "With her."

Tommy froze, his eyes widening just a fraction as he processed the weight of his brother’s words. Joel—tough, unyielding, always carrying his burdens in silence—was admitting something. Something raw, something broken, something that didn’t sit right in the space between them.

Tomym exhaled through his nose, a soundless oh, the pieces clicking into place like a blade sliding into its sheath. His voice, when it came, was steady but careful, the kind of calm meant to keep something from breaking apart. "Alright." He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, his words measured, deliberate, like he was talking to someone standing too close to the edge. "What happened?"

Joel’s hands twitched, fingers flexing, "After dinner at yours." The words were gravel, scraped raw and unwilling. "I walked her home."

Tommy gave a slow nod, his expression patient but expectant, waiting, urging. "Yeah? And?"

Joel swallowed, shaking his head like he could shake off the memory, like it wasn’t stitched into every breath, every thought, every restless hour he spent staring at the ceiling, replaying it over and over. "She was drunk." His voice dropped lower, tighter, like the words themselves hurt.

Tommy’s nod was slower this time, his brow furrowing, his voice softer now, careful. "Okay. Then what?"

Joel swallowed hard. "She..." His throat tightened, voice catching, breaking on the edges. He forced the words out anyway, unraveling, fraying, something inside him splitting at the seams. "She said some things."

Tommy didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even breathe, just watched him with that quiet, patient scrutiny that made Joel feel like his insides were being pried open, like there was no hiding from what came next.

"Things she shouldn’t have said."

Tommy tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady, cautious. “Like what?” he asked, his voice low, careful—like he wasn’t sure if pushing would make Joel shut down or finally crack open.

Joel exhaled sharply, the breath jagged, uneven, more pain than air. He let out something that might’ve been a laugh in another life, but here, now, in this moment, it was empty, bitter, something worn and threadbare. He shook his head, lips twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a grimace—just something hollow, something caught between regret and disbelief.

"She told me—"

The words caught. Lodged in his throat like a fist, like they weren’t meant to leave his mouth, like speaking them aloud would make them real in a way he wasn’t sure he could handle. His chest rose and fell, breath slow, heavy, every muscle in his body tensed like he could brace himself against the weight of it. The pause stretched long, unbearable.

Then—finally, quietly, wrecked—he let them slip free.

"She told me she wanted me to kiss her."

Tommy blinked, his brows lifting, the disbelief settling in his features before the words had even fully landed. “What?”

Joel’s voice was quieter now, rough around the edges, worn. Like saying it aloud stripped him raw, made it worse—made it real. “She asked why I didn’t kiss her at your birthday.” A bitter scoff, a shake of his head, like the memory itself was something that gnawed at him from the inside out. “During that stupid goddamn spin-the-bottle game.”

Tommy exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face, the movement heavy—weighted not just with exasperation, but with something that looked an awful lot like disbelief. He leaned back slightly, shaking his head. “Jesus, Joel.” It wasn’t scathing, wasn’t reprimanding. Just tired. “What the hell did you say?”

Joel tipped his head back against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut for half a second, like he could will himself away from this conversation, from the weight pressing against his ribs, from the ache winding its way through every breath. But it didn’t work. It never worked.

"That’s not even the worst part." His voice cracked—just slightly, just enough for Tommy to notice. Just enough for him to feel it, for his chest to tighten, for the words to stick in his throat like something barbed, something clawing its way out. His breath turned uneven, his fingers twitching at his sides as his mind betrayed him, dragging him back there.

Back to you.

To the way you had looked at him that night—drunk, vulnerable, so damn pretty, eyes glazed over, lips kiss-bitten from too much whiskey, voice soft, slurred, sweet. Sitting there, knees drawn up beneath you, the dim glow of the lantern casting golden light across your skin, bathing you in something holy.

You had ached for him. Had looked at him with wide, pleading eyes, like you were offering yourself up to him completely, giving him something raw and reckless and real, something fragile and too big to be taken back. You had already laid it bare at his feet, already given him everything, and God help him, he had stood there and done nothing.

No—worse.

He had left.

"She..." Joel hesitated, his jaw tightening, his throat working around the words like they physically hurt to say. His breath came short, uneven, as if he was choking on the weight of it, drowning in something too big, too heavy to carry. And then, finally—finally—he said it, the confession tearing from his lips like something jagged.

"She was gonna tell me she loved me."

Tommy stilled. His breath caught, his eyes snapping to Joel’s face like he hadn’t heard him right. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, coiling around them like a vice.

"What?" Tommy’s voice was softer now, quieter—disbelieving, like the word had slipped out before he could stop it. He blinked, shook his head once, twice, his brow furrowing as if he could physically force himself to understand. "She—what?"

Joel swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his breath unsteady as he finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were raw, burning with something unspoken, something heavy and unrelenting, something he hadn’t let himself name.

"I stopped her." The words barely carried in the stillness, rough and uneven, like they scraped against the inside of his throat, like saying them hurt. "Told her she didn’t mean it."

Tommy just stared, his mouth parting slightly, something flickering behind his eyes—disbelief, frustration, something softer, something Joel refused to look at. When Tommy finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm, sharp but not unkind. "Why?"

Joel’s fingers curled into fists against his thighs, his jaw locking so tightly it looked like it might snap. He could feel the muscles in his neck pull taut, the ache spreading down his spine, winding around his ribs like something trying to crush him.

"Because she was drunk, Tommy."

Joel’s voice dropped, rough and unsteady, something raw curling at the edges of his words. "I couldn’t let her say it. Not like that. Not when she’d wake up and regret it."

He shook his head, almost to himself now, voice dropping even lower, "She was drunk." The words weren’t for Tommy anymore. They weren’t even for you. They were for himself, for the part of him that needed to believe it, that needed to hold onto the idea that pushing you away had been the right thing.

Tommy didn’t speak right away. He just looked at him, long and hard, like he was waiting for Joel to catch up, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered beneath the surface—frustration, maybe, but not anger. Something quieter. Something tired. Then, slowly, he shook his head, exhaling like he didn’t know whether to laugh or curse or just sit there and let Joel drown in his own damn misery. He dragged a hand down his face, let it linger for a second, like the weight of this was just as exhausting for him as it was for Joel.

"Christ, Joel." Tommy tilted his head slightly, studying him, his gaze unreadable, searching Joel’s face like he was looking for something—some sign that he understood, that he knew.

"You really don’t see it, do you?"

Joel said nothing. Just sat there, jaw locked, breath unsteady, staring down at the floor like if he looked anywhere else, this might not matter so damn much.

Tommy huffed a quiet, almost bitter laugh, shaking his head again. He leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees, voice softer now, measured, but dragging something heavier into the space between them.

"That girl," he started, his words slow, deliberate, like he needed them to land just right, like he needed Joel to feel them. "She looks at you like you’re the only thing in this whole goddamn world that makes sense to her. Like you’re the one thing she knows won’t let her down. Like you’re safe, Joel."

"She was drunk," Joel muttered, his voice brittle, strained, breaking in the middle like if he said it enough times, he might finally believe it. "She didn’t mean it."

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head, exhaling slow and sharp, like he was losing patience, like he was done watching Joel twist himself into knots just to avoid the inevitable.

"Doesn’t mean it wasn’t true," he shot back, his voice cutting through Joel’s flimsy excuse like a blade, clean and unforgiving. He leaned in slightly, his stare unwavering, piercing, seeing right through him, through all of it. "And you know it."

Joel’s fingers twitched against his knee, his jaw tight, his pulse hammering somewhere deep in his throat. "Doesn’t matter anyway," he muttered, quieter now, dull with something closer to resignation than he wanted to admit. "I talked to her the other day. She said she didn’t remember."

Tommy blinked, then scoffed again, sharper this time, full of disbelief. "And you believe her?" His voice wasn’t just cutting—it was aching, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "Jesus, Joel. Could you be any denser? You rejected the poor girl—of course she’s gonna pretend she don’t remember. What the hell else is she supposed to say?"

Joel’s jaw locked. "I didn’t reject her," he bit out, but there was a crack in his voice, something unsteady, something that settled between them like a wound laid bare.

Tommy arched a brow, unconvinced. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, voice quieter now but no less sharp. "No? Then what’d you do, huh? Did you stay? Did you tell her it was gonna be alright? Did you—"

Joel shook his head, quick, sharp, like he could shove the words away before Tommy could finish them. "No." It was barely more than a whisper, but it landed between them like a punch to the ribs.

Tommy’s brows furrowed, his voice dipping low, wary. "Joel—"

"No," Joel said again, the word scraping out of him, his breath unsteady, his hands gripping his knees like he needed to brace himself, like the weight of it all might finally crush him.

His fingers flexed once, twice, then curled in again. His voice cracked, raw and splintering apart. "I… fuck." He let out a sharp breath, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple, his shoulders curling inward like he could fold in on himself, like if he made himself small enough, maybe the guilt wouldn’t sink its claws so deep.

"I left."

"You left?" tommy repeated, slower this time, like he needed to say it aloud to believe it. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Joel?"

Tommy let out a slow sigh, long and weary, the weight of it settling between them like dust in the dim cabin light. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, gentler, but no less resolute. “Joel.” He said his name like it was something fragile, something worth handling with care. “I know you’ve been through hell. I know you think you don’t got room for anything else in your life. But you’re wrong.”

He hesitated, lips pressing into a firm line, as if he was trying to find the right words, as if they mattered more now than they ever had before. His voice dipped lower when he finally continued, steady and sure, leaving no space for argument.

“You deserve better than this. Better than sittin’ in a goddamn cabin, beatin’ yourself up ‘cause you’re too scared to believe someone could actually give a damn about you.”

Joel stiffened, his hands flexing against his knees, his shoulders tightening like he could brace himself against words alone. He still wouldn’t look up.

Tommy exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “She cares about you, Joel. And you know it.” He leaned in, his tone firm, but not unkind, pressing into the silence, forcing Joel to sit with it. “And if you’re too damn stubborn to let her in, you’re gonna regret it. Hell, you already do.”

The words landed like a blow, cutting deeper than anything else Tommy had thrown at him tonight. And Joel—Joel just sat there, staring at the ground like if he looked hard enough, he might find the answer to a question he hadn’t been ready to ask. His breath was uneven, his body wound so tight he felt like he might snap.

Tommy watched him for a long moment, expression unreadable, then sat back, his voice dipping even lower, quiet enough to be mistaken for something close to mercy.

“It’s alright to let someone care about you, Joel.” He paused, then softer, like a final offering. “It’s alright to let someone stay.”

Joel flinched, so subtle most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Tommy did.

Because he knew exactly what was running through Joel’s head now.

Sarah’s laughter—bright, unrestrained, filling every space it touched like it belonged there. The weight of her in his arms, her small hands clutching at his shirt, trusting him to keep her safe. Gone in an instant.

Tess—sharp-tongued, unshakable Tess, standing beside him, never asking for more than what he could give. A life spent fighting, surviving, and in the end, a fate she had chosen, one he couldn’t stop. Gone.

Ellie—her jokes, her sharp humor, the way she wore it like armor. The way she filled the hollowed-out space in Joel’s heart without even meaning to. Still here. Still his. But for how long?

Every person he had ever loved, slipping through his fingers like water, like dust, like something that had never belonged to him in the first place.

His breath hitched, barely audible, but enough. The ache in his chest twisted, raw and unrelenting, pressing up into his throat, threatening to consume him whole.

"I don’t—" His voice broke, rough and heavy, barely there. He shook his head sharply, like he could shake this loose, shake the ache out of his bones, shake himself free of the past clawing at his heels.

He swallowed hard, tried again. “Everyone I love ends up—” The words got caught, sticking in his throat like something jagged, something that would tear him apart if he forced it out. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, trembling slightly.

Tommy leaned forward, his voice cutting through the wall Joel had thrown up around himself, slicing through the silence like a blade. “I know you love her.” The words weren’t a question, weren’t a guess—they were fact, spoken with the kind of certainty that left no room for denial. His tone was firm, steady but insistent, forcing Joel to hear him. “Don’t tell me you don’t, ‘cause I’ve seen it. I see it every damn time you look at her. You’re scared—I get it. But, Joel…”

His voice softened, the edge giving way to something warmer, something quieter, something laced with an urgency that settled deep into Joel’s bones. “You gotta stop punishin’ yourself for things that weren’t your fault.”

Joel’s head dropped lower, his fists slowly unclenching, his fingers splaying against his thighs. They trembled, faintly, betraying the storm raging inside of him, the war he had been losing long before he had even realized he was fighting it. His voice was barely there when he finally spoke, the words dragging out of him like they were made of stone, heavy with doubt, thick with regret.

“She won’t wanna talk to me.” The words came rough, dragged from somewhere deep, like saying them out loud gave them weight, made them real in a way he wasn’t ready for. His throat tightened, breath hitching as his hands pressed harder against his legs, bracing, steadying—holding himself together by force of will alone. “Something’s off. She’s—fuck—she won’t wanna hear me out.” The thought sat heavy in his chest, suffocating, a truth he could feel in his bones even if he wasn’t ready to accept it.

Tommy exhaled, slow and even, sitting back, arms crossing over his chest. He studied Joel for a long moment, that quiet, knowing look settling on his face—the one Joel had seen a thousand times, the one that always came when he needed it least but maybe most.

"Then don’t talk."

Joel’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face, breaking through the thick haze of guilt and self-loathing. He glanced up, guarded, skeptical, his voice rough with exhaustion. "What the hell’s that supposed to mean?"

Tommy leaned in again, his tone deliberate, unwavering. “Write.”

Joel blinked. “Write?” The word felt strange in his mouth, foreign, like it didn’t belong to him.

Tommy nodded, his gaze locked on Joel, refusing to let him look away. "Put it all in a letter—every damn thing you’ve ever wanted to say to her but couldn’t. Everything you’re too scared to say out loud. Everything you regret. Everything you feel. And then give it to her."

Joel shook his head slightly, his hands tightening on his thighs, his breath unsteady. “Tommy—”

"Just let her hear you, Joel."

The words settled between them, pressing down on him, pressing into him.

He could see it now—you, sitting somewhere in the soft glow of lamplight, brow furrowed, fingers ghosting over the edge of the page as you read. He imagined your lips parting slightly, your breath catching, imagined the way your expression would shift as you took in every unspoken thing, every piece of him he had never known how to give you. He imagined your hands shaking, just a little, the way his were now.

And for the first time in a long time, Joel felt something close to hope—raw and terrifying and fragile, but there.

Joel shook his head, lips pressing into a thin line, his eyes dropping again, fingers curling into fists like he needed something to hold on to, something to anchor himself before the weight of this conversation swallowed him whole.

His breath came slow, measured, but it did nothing to steady the ache building beneath his ribs. "And what if she don’t wanna read it?" The words left him quieter than he meant, rawer, catching at the end like they had splintered in his throat before escaping.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, his expression softening, something quieter settling in his features as he leaned back, arms still crossed, gaze unwavering. “Then that’s on her.” His voice was calm, even, but there was something resolute beneath it, something steady, something Joel could feel pressing against the fragile edges of his doubt. “But at least you’ll know you tried. At least she’ll know how you feel. And maybe that’s all she needs to hear right now.”

Joel swallowed hard, his throat working around something thick, something impossible to name. He turned his face away, jaw tightening as his chest rose and fell in uneven waves, as he wrestled with the weight of Tommy’s words, with the war raging inside of him.

Because he knew what Tommy was saying made sense. He knew the truth of it. But knowing and acting—those were two different things. The thought of putting it all down, of laying himself bare, of giving you every feeling he had spent so long shoving into the darkest corners of himself—it terrified him.

Because vulnerability had always been a weakness. Something to be buried, something to be stitched shut, something to be survived. But this—this wasn’t just fear. It was something worse. Something quieter, something fragile.

Something infinitely more dangerous.

Hope.

And Joel—he knew better than to hope.

Because hope was a slow-acting poison. Hope meant risk, meant loss, meant opening himself up to something he might not get to keep. And God, he couldn’t lose you. He couldn’t stand the thought of reaching for something just to watch it slip through his fingers, of wanting something so much it destroyed him.

"I don’t know if I can do that."

The admission barely broke the silence, barely existed outside of his own head, but it was there. It was real. And it cut him open just to say it.

Tommy didn’t hesitate.

He leaned forward, pressing a firm hand to Joel’s shoulder—grounding, solid, steady, the way only a brother could be. “You can.” His voice didn’t waver, didn’t leave room for doubt. “And you should.”

Joel’s fingers twitched against his thighs, his body coiled so tight it felt like he might snap. His breath stuttered as he dragged a hand down his face, his pulse a heavy, uneven thing against his ribs, everything in him screaming to pull back, to close the door before it was too late.

But then—so did the thought of doing nothing.

The thought of letting you slip away, of knowing he had the chance to fix it and chose not to take it—that was worse. That was unbearable. That was the kind of mistake that lived in your bones, the kind you carried for the rest of your life, the kind that haunted every quiet moment, every sleepless night.

And Joel had enough ghosts already.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Patrol had been nothing short of torture.

Toby filled every silence like he was afraid of letting the quiet settle, his words tumbling over each other, meaningless stories and half-hearted jokes spilling from his mouth in a way that made your skin itch. He spoke just to speak, just to be heard, just to push back against the weight of the stillness that had never once unsettled you—not when it had been Joel by your side.

His proximity set your teeth on edge. The way his hand brushed against yours too often, his fingers grazing your arm as he stepped ahead of you on the path. He touched without thinking, without asking, without knowing—not in the way Joel had. Not with quiet certainty, not with careful restraint, not with the kind of gravity that turned the smallest touch into something felt days later.

Your mind betrayed you, pulling you back, dragging you under. Joel’s hands, big, warm, calloused, threading through yours in the hush of the forest, steady, solid, a quiet promise in the way his fingers had pressed between yours, anchoring you, holding you. The contrast of it, of him—this unyielding, gruff man, carved out of war and grief, tempered by loss—offering you something so soft without ever speaking a word. You had felt it, down to your bones.

You missed it.

He didn’t notice the way your shoulders tensed beneath the weight of his presence, how your steps edged just slightly faster, carving out whatever distance you could without making it obvious. Or maybe he did notice, and he just didn’t care. Maybe he mistook it for something else, something that suited him. The thought made your stomach twist.

You hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t asked for Toby to be your new patrol partner. And yet, here you were, suffering through every over-familiar glance, every unnecessary touch, every empty word meant to fill the silence that had never once unsettled you—not when it had been Joel by your side. Maybe this was karmic retribution, the universe righting itself after you had been foolish enough to think Joel might be yours.

By the time patrol ended, relief rushed through you like a breath you’d been holding too long, your lungs aching with the effort. But it didn’t last. Toby, oblivious or persistent��or maybe both—stuck close as you made your way back into town, his voice still filling spaces that didn’t need filling, his presence still too much.

"I’ll walk you home," he said, like it was a kindness, like it was something you should be grateful for, like he was doing you some grand favor.

Your stomach twisted. The irritation in your chest sharpened into something colder, something heavier. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want him.

"You don’t have to." The words left you firm, clipped, sharper than they needed to be—sharp enough that anyone with even a shred of awareness would have picked up on it, would have known to take the out you were handing them.

But Toby just smiled, unfazed, enthusiasm unwavering. "I want to." He shrugged, like your words hadn’t mattered, like he hadn’t heard them at all. His voice was bright, easy, brushing off the steel in your tone like it was nothing, like he was entitled to this, to you.

The streets were quiet as you walked, the echo of your boots against the cobblestones the only sound besides Toby’s chatter. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, hoping even he could read the signal, but still, he stayed too close. His presence was suffocating, clinging like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

When you finally reached your door, you stopped abruptly, your hand hovering over the doorknob as you prayed he’d take the hint. But Toby lingered, his boots scuffing against the ground, his posture awkward as if he were working up to something.

“Hey,” he started, his voice softening in a way that made unease coil in your stomach. “I know the last time we hung out was a bit… weird.”

Your chest tightened, dread pooling in your stomach as the memory surfaced—the movie night that had gone sideways. You’d bolted right after, mumbling something about needing fresh air, and you hadn’t looked back.

Toby chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s no big deal, right? We’re good. I just thought—”

"Toby." Your voice cut through the cold night air, sharper than you meant it to be, the frayed edges of your patience bleeding through. "Thanks for walking me home, but I’m really tired." You tried to make it final, tried to press an ending into the space between you, hoping he’d take it for what it was—a dismissal.

But he didn’t. Didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even hesitate.

"Fuck it," he muttered, barely audible, barely there. But you heard it. And before the words could even register, before you could react, before your body could so much as move—he leaned in. Warm. Insistent. Wrong.

His lips pressed against yours, stealing a moment that was never his to take. Your body locked, your breath stalled, something sharp and sick curling in the pit of your stomach as your mind scrambled to catch up, to process, to understand. His hands settled on your arms, gripping too firmly, his presence suffocating, closing in, closing around you. The weight of it, the sheer audacity, the way he just assumed—

You didn’t kiss him back.

You couldn’t.

Your limbs felt heavy, pinned beneath a moment you hadn’t chosen, trapped in something you wanted no part of. And yet, there you stood, caught in it, drowning in it, the wrongness of it spreading through your veins like a sickness.

And then, it was over. He pulled away, looking pleased, looking satisfied, like he hadn’t just taken something from you.

"See you soon."

His voice was light, casual, like this had been inevitable, like you had wanted it. His footsteps faded into the quiet before you could even find the words to respond, before you could scrape together the breath to tell him how wrong he was.

You stood frozen on the doorstep, the cold biting against your skin, against the places he had touched, against the places you wished he hadn’t. Your fingers lifted to your mouth, trembling, hating that the sensation was still there, that it lingered, clinging to you like something spoiled, something rotten.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, hot and unwelcome, threatening to spill over as the weight of it all settled deep into your bones. This was wrong—all wrong. Every part of you recoiled, your body rejecting the memory of Toby’s lips, the unwanted heat of his breath, the foreign press of his touch. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to be like this. You didn’t want him, didn’t want this moment, didn’t want the shape of someone else’s hands lingering where they had no right to be. The disgust curled in your stomach like something spoiled, like something taken from you before you could even flinch away.

Because it wasn’t his kiss you had spent countless nights longing for, pressed beneath the blankets, fingers ghosting over your lips as if you could summon the phantom of something that had never been given to you. It wasn’t his hands you wanted to feel, warm and sure, threading through your hair, gripping your jaw, tilting your face toward his like he needed to breathe you in. It wasn’t him you ached for, wasn’t him who had haunted every soft and aching part of you, lingering in the quiet moments where your heart whispered his name into the silence like a prayer.

No.

It was Joel.

Joel, with his impossibly soft lips, so achingly pink, so at odds with the rest of him, always pressed into that thin, unreadable line, always bitten raw when he thought too hard, when he let himself feel too much. Joel, whose touch you had memorized without ever having the privilege of knowing it fully, whose warmth had brushed against your skin in the moments between longing and restraint, in the spaces where your hands had lingered just a second too long. Joel, whose stubble you had dreamed of feeling against your own tender skin, scratching against the delicate line of your jaw, leaving a burn in its wake as he kissed you like he had been starving for you, like the moment had been inevitable since the first time his eyes met yours.

You wanted him—God, you wanted him—wanted to lose yourself in the slow, agonizing press of his mouth, to whimper into him as he took what was his, what had always been his, what you would have given freely if only he had asked. Wanted to feel the way his hands—large, calloused, steady—would cradle your face, holding you there, keeping you close, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers, like he needed to know you were real.

And standing there on the doorstep, the cold biting into your skin, your stomach twisting with the weight of a moment that had never belonged to you, never belonged to him, all you could do was press your fingertips to your lips, eyes burning, chest hollowed out and aching with a grief you didn’t know how to carry.

Because no matter how much you wished otherwise, no matter how desperately you tried to push the thought away, you knew the truth of it.

You only wanted Joel.

And Joel wasn’t here.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Joel and Tommy had made it back from patrol hours ago, boots heavy with dust, the cold still clinging to their skin. But his thoughts weren’t on the ride home or the sharp bite of the wind. They were on you. He wondered if you’d heard—if someone had told you he was back. If you’d been relieved to know he was safe, that he’d made it home in one piece. He liked to think you would be. That maybe, just maybe, you’d been waiting to see him.

He had spent the entire day drowning in the dim, suffocating quiet of his bedroom, the curtains drawn tight, shutting out the world like it might lessen the ache inside his chest. But nothing did. Not the silence, not the solitude, not the weak glow of the half-burned candle flickering against the walls, casting unsteady shadows over the wreckage of his own making.

He missed your face—missed the curve of your smile, the way your cheeks rounded just enough to make you look younger, softer, like something untouched by the weight of this world. He missed the way you looked at him, the way it made him feel something he hadn’t let himself have in too long. And now, sitting here in the thick, suffocating quiet, all he could do was hope—hope that maybe you missed him, too.

Crumpled scraps of paper littered the floor around him, a graveyard of failed attempts, of words that had never made it past the ink, of confessions that had died in his hands before they had ever been given the chance to live. His breath was heavy, uneven, dragging through his lungs as he sat hunched over, elbows braced against his knees, his face buried in his hands. His fingers curled tight into his hair, gripping at the strands like he could reach inside himself, pull the chaos from his skull, drag the words out of his traitorous, treacherous heart by force.

That goddamn heart. The old, battered, useless thing. Beaten down by time, by loss, by grief that had settled too deep into his bones, a part of him now, woven into the fabric of who he was. A heart that should have hardened by now, should have shut down, sealed itself off, stopped making a fool of him. But it hadn’t. That weak, worn-out thing had kept on beating, kept on loving, despite every reason not to, despite the past, despite the certainty that love only ever ended in ruin.

Despite you.

He felt fucking stupid.

Stupid for thinking this would be easy, for believing even for a second that he could lay his heart bare on paper when he had never been able to say it out loud. Not when it mattered. Not when you had stood in front of him, eyes wide and pleading, offering him something rare, something reckless, something he had wanted with every aching part of himself and still—still—he had let it slip through his fingers.

Every letter started the same—I’m sorry—because it was the only truth he knew, the only thing that had burned in his chest since the second he let you walk away. And every letter ended the same—ruined, ripped apart beneath the weight of his own cowardice, of his hands shaking as he scratched through the words until the ink bled so thick the paper tore beneath it.

His gaze dropped to the latest attempt—his last, failed attempt—the ink smudged and uneven, the words unraveling somewhere in the middle, buckling under the pressure of too much feeling, too much of you lodged between the lines. He had started with I’m sorry—because it was all he could offer, because it was all that he was—but the rest had turned into a tangled mess of hesitation, of crossed-out confessions and thoughts too raw to see the light of day.

It wasn’t enough.

Not for you. Not when you deserved more—deserved everything—the world, if he could rip it apart and carve something softer from its wreckage. But no matter how many times he started over, no matter how many times he picked up the pen with shaking fingers and a chest too full of things he didn’t know how to say, it always ended the same way.

He wanted to tell you.

Wanted to lay it all bare, to strip himself down to the rawest parts, to put words to the impossible and make you understand what you did to him—how you had wormed your way into the deepest, most guarded corners of his soul, how you had become something he could no longer separate himself from. But how could he? How could he possibly articulate something so foreign, so unnerving, so terrifyingly real? How could he explain the way you had upended his entire goddamn existence, cracked something open inside him that had been locked away for decades—something he hadn’t even realized was still there, something he never thought he would need?

How could he tell you—his sweet girl, his undoing—that in fifty-six years of being a man, of surviving, of standing on this wretched, merciless earth, he had never felt anything like this? That you had touched something in him that had never been touched before, something that had never even stirred, never even dreamed of waking up? That he had lived his whole life thinking he was past feeling this way, past the kind of hunger that keeps a man restless in his own skin, past the kind of longing that hollows him out from the inside?

And how could he ever admit that every night—without meaning to, without deciding to—the last remnants of his waking mind always belonged to you? That it had become a quiet, unspoken ritual, a habit carved so deeply into him that he barely noticed it anymore, like muscle memory, like instinct, like breathing. That as sleep pulled at him, as exhaustion weighed down on his bones, it was always you who filled the spaces between consciousness and dreaming. You, always you.

How could he tell you that in those stolen moments, when the world had gone quiet and there was nothing left but his own thoughts, he let himself have you in the only way he could? That his mind was greedy, starved, painting images of you in devastating detail—the soft sighs and sweet little whimpers, the warmth of your skin beneath his palms, the way your lips would part beneath his, trembling, pliant, waiting for more?

That in the darkness, in the safety of solitude, he allowed himself to sink into the fantasy, let himself imagine you tangled up in him, pressed beneath him, fingers twisting in the sheets, whispering his name like a prayer, needing him in the way he so desperately, so helplessly needed you? That he could see it, feel it—his hands tracing reverent paths over your body as though trying to commit you to memory, his lips worshipping you in slow, unhurried devotion, trailing from your temple to your cheek, your jaw, your nose, your throat, drinking you in, tasting, savoring, claiming? That he could hear the way you’d gasp his name, the way you’d shudder under the weight of his touch, the way you’d look at him—eyes wide, lips swollen, undone—like he was something worth wanting, worth keeping, worth loving?

And God help him—how could he ever admit that, for all his restraint, for all his goddamn willpower, more often than not, he was just a man? Just a weak, desperate man who unraveled at the mere thought of you, who came undone in the dark where no one could see, where there was no one to witness the ruin you made of him. That he could fight it all he wanted, could curse himself for it, could try to bury it beneath guilt and self-loathing, but it didn’t change a damn thing—because it was you. It had always been you.

How could he tell you that some nights, the ache of you was unbearable, a hollow, gnawing thing lodged deep in his chest? That he would lay there, eyes shut tight, fists clenched, jaw locked, trying so fucking hard to will it away, to pretend he didn’t feel this way, to pretend he hadn’t already lost the battle the moment you looked at him like he was something soft, something safe, something good? That no matter how many times he told himself it was wrong—how many times he reminded himself that you weren’t his to think of like this, to want like this—it didn’t fucking matter.

Because he did.

Because he always would.

And that was the cruelest thing of all—that no matter what he did, no matter how much he tried to be better, to be stronger, to be the man he was supposed to be, he would always belong to you in ways he had no right to.

Joel swallowed, the weight of everything pressing down on him, settling deep in his chest like something immovable, something that had been there for years—decades, maybe—buried beneath grief and regret and every goddamn thing he had ever lost. But beneath the wreckage, something flickered, fought—a spark of determination catching at the edges of all the things he had ruined, all the things he had walked away from, all the things he still had a chance to fix.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached forward, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the scattered pages at his feet. He hesitated for only a second, barely long enough to exhale, then wrapped his hand around the pen, lifting it with a quiet, steady resolve.

And this time, he wouldn’t stop.

This time, he wouldn’t let the fear win. Wouldn’t let himself be ruled by the ghosts of the past, by the ugly, vicious voice in his head telling him it was too late, that he had already lost you.

This time, he would give you everything. Every unspoken thought, every aching confession, every piece of himself he had spent years keeping locked away. Because he owed you that. Because you deserved that. Because if there was even the smallest chance that you would read it, that you would understand, that you wouldn’t turn away—God help him, he would take it.

Because no matter how much it terrified him, no matter how much it threatened to unravel him from the inside out, the thought of losing you—of never getting the chance to make this right—scared him more.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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sunseed-fandump · 1 day ago

Note

I need more backstory on bad batch wizard!! What do you mean my baby boy was almost devoured 😭

(Also totally not cus he's my fav and im biased to want more content of him no wayyyy 👀💧)

(An old picture sits in Vampire Cookie’s desk drawer. A reminder of a happier time, back when he and his sister used to live in a place very far away…)

Tell me, what are you willing to do for the sake of survival?

When Wizard was first baked, he was lucky he got away when he did. The life powder in his body had kicked in very late. When he awoke, it wasn’t to crackling flames, burnt cookies, and oven walls; he woke up on a plate, the only cookie in his batch to have come alive at all, stuck under the weight of inanimate dough. He didn’t even fully comprehend what was going on until the entire pile had shifted from the Witch taking one of the cookies from the top, offering him a wonderful view of her biting off its head.

He panicked, kicking and flailing in an attempt to free himself and run. The hard porcelain beneath him, the crushing weight above him, and the looming threat beyond that was all too much. He didn’t even know his own name yet and he was already afraid of losing what little life he had.

His struggles had caused the pile to shift slightly, gaining the Witch’s attention. Before she could discover him, the sound of glass shattering and the cat screeching heralded the arrival of a blessing in disguise. With the Witch preoccupied, Wizard was able to wiggle his way out from under the pile and flee to safety.

Like I said, he got lucky.

He wandered the Castle alone for a time, piecing together an identity for himself as he went. However, he didn’t discover his love for knowledge until he stumbled across the Witch’s library. With every book he read, (and he taught himself how to read very very quickly) he understood things a little bit better. The world around him suddenly seemed less scary. Those stringy things in the tunnels? Just cobwebs. Strange-looking shadows? Just a trick of the light. The thunder that crashed beyond the castle walls? A by-product of lightning from the expansion of rapidly heated air. Simple!

Then he found the magic books and Wizard discovered a whole new thing about himself.

He loved magic. He loved the very concept of it. He loved the idea of being able to use it. He wanted to shoo away the cobwebs by conjuring a gust of wind. He wanted to illuminate the shadows by creating light from nothing. He wanted to call the lightning from the heavens and have the thunder clap at his command.

(He wanted - needed - a shred of control over his own fate, lest the Witch find him.)

So he studied, and he practiced, day in and day out, using twigs and common quartz as foci. They weren’t strong, and would break if he tried anything too advanced, but he managed.

Then he met Alchemist Cookie.

At first they didn’t think much of each other. Wizard preferred the Arcane Arts while Alchemist stuck with her potions and elixirs, both considered their chosen path to be superior to the other. Yet, after a few encounters, the two found companionship in one another. It was refreshing finally being able to meet someone just as passionate about magic. It was thrilling to engage in academic discussion and not have to be met with blank confused stares. They became friends.

She introduced him to other castle residents who were just as passionate about magic. She was willing to share her lab with him so he could practice in a safer environment. She showed him the safest paths through the castle walls and all the settlements to find the best reagents. He was very lucky to have met her.

And then came the day his luck ran out.

If you were to ask the two of them whose idea it was to sneak into the Witch’s Lab that day, Wizard would blame Alchemist, while Alchemist would blame Wizard. The truth is, neither of them remember, and by this point it doesn’t matter.

The rarest reagents and best supplies in the castle could be found in that lab, but while Alchemist had plundered the cabinets, Wizard had found something of interest in a display case. A staff, relatively simple in design, with dragon wings carved from amethyst, and a small flickering azure ember hovering above it. Despite his better judgement, despite knowing the Witch would notice such a thing going missing, despite the red flag of repressing runes surrounding the artifact, Wizard Cookie took the staff.

The minute his little hand lifted it from its display, the tiny ember burst into a strong flame and a bright blazing eye slid open. Wizard had been scared at first, almost putting the staff back, but then it spoke to him. It thanked him, it told him it had been trapped for so long, its last master had been killed and it had been waiting for a new wielder worthy of its powerful secrets ever since.

It asked if Wizard would like to know those secrets…

But before the boy could give the staff his answer, Alchemist Cookie had returned from the cabinets. She scolded him for being so reckless and told him to return the staff where he had found it, but Wizard refused. After all, if this staff was as powerful as it boasted, perhaps it could be used for the good of the cookies back home? Besides, the other scholars would probably love to study it. It was such a good find!

Alchemist eventually relented, and the pair left the lab, reagents and staff in hand.

They didn’t know that they were being followed.

When they had returned to the settlement nestled in a crawlspace, the two were wholly unaware of what else they had brought back with them until it was too late.

The Reaper, one of the Witch’s faithful servants created from a hollowed out pumpkin and vines, had followed them back home. She, like the other familiars, had been tasked with capturing the sweetest creatures they could find, especially Cookies. She descended on the town with ruthlessness, spreading seeds that grew into brambles and swinging her scythe with deadly grace.

The town was in complete chaos. The militia scrambled for control, spells did nothing as The Reaper grew back whatever damage was done to her plant-composed body too quickly, nobody could escape because the town had been sealed in by the thorns. That did not stop Wizard and Alchemist from trying to find a way out or helping the other desserts hide while searching for Alchemist’s brother, Vampire Cookie, to make sure he was safe.

Unfortunately, the Reaper found them first.

Two of the many vines that made up her body had caught them, plucking them up like a fresh harvest.

“Oh goody, more cookies!” The Reaper had said with a cackle, but then paused and raised them higher for closer inspection. “Wait... Oh, I know you two! You’re the little thieves I followed! I’m sure The Witch will reward me handsomely when she finds you on her plate tonight!”

Now, as a plant, the Reaper had no need for real food. All of her sustenance came from planting her roots into soil and absorbing whatever sunlight filtered in through the castle’s windows. Because of this, her large empty head was used as a prison for whatever creatures she caught. It was a perfectly harmless holding space. Wizard knew this, of course, because he had done extensive research into as many of the Witch’s minions as he could. (Unlike the cobwebs, shadows, and thunder, the more he learned, the scarier they became.) Despite this knowledge, however, when the Reaper had raised him to her mouth in order to stash him away inside her head, Wizard felt a terribly violent spike of fear for his own life.

His first memory had returned to him, unbidden. The vision of the Witch biting the head off of a cookie flashed in his mind, and that combined with his fear, caused the irrational thought of “I am going to die. She is going to eat me.”

And then the staff, still clutched tightly in his hands, spoke to him once again.

It told him it could save him. It told him it knew a spell that could stop the Reaper once and for all. He needed only to ask, and it would happily whisper the words into his ear. After all, it would hate to see Wizard wind up on a plate like its last master.

All Wizard had to do was listen closely…

The words of the spell felt vile on his tongue, but the Azure Flame Staff assured him that he would get used to it. He was mere inches from the Reaper’s face when the blue flame at the top of the staff burst.

A massive inferno consumed the Reaper and soon the flames spread to the brambles. The force of the explosion had shook the foundation and support beams, causing the old castle stones to collapse which resulted in a cave-in that buried some of the town.

It was complete and utter devastation.

Wizard and Alchemist had been flung from the Reaper’s grasp when she flailed around in a desperate attempt to put the fires out. The azure flames ate away at both her plant-like body and the magic that fueled her life-essence. It was a weirdly beautiful sight, though Wizard didn’t have a chance to see what became of her as he and Alchemist crashed into a fountain, the water just barely broke their fall.

They hauled themselves out of the fountain, soaking wet and trembling, but alive. They were alive. Wizard had done it. He finally had the power to change his fate however he wished. He’d done it!

Laughter had bubbled out of his chest at the revelation, the hand that wasn’t clutching the staff had flown up to his hair. (He had lost his hat in the fall. Pity.) All the stress and fear melted into an emotion he couldn’t quite describe, but it gave him butterflies in his stomach and a lightheaded feeling that just made everything suddenly seem so funny. He could barely contain himself as he leaned back against the edge of the fountain and released all that pent up emotion through cackling laughter that could only just barely be heard over the sounds of crackling blue fire.

“I did it!” He had said with joy in his heart. “We’re safe, Alchemist, we’re–!” But his joy melted into concern when he looked over to his friend. Where he had been expecting her to be just as relieved and happy as he was, he saw fear.

It took him a moment to realize that it was directed at him.

“Alchemist?” His brow furrowed.

“Wizard…” Alchemist began slowly. “Put the staff down.”

The staff almost seemed to hiss at her suggestion, and Wizard found himself clutching it tighter. “Why?”

“Please, I just need you to trust me, okay?” She slowly got to her feet, approaching him like one would a scared animal.

With the Reaper no longer an immediate threat, the townscookies had begun leaving their hiding places in favor of getting the inferno under control. The square was suddenly full of noise, cookies shouting orders and rallying others to shift through the rubble. Wizard didn’t hear any of it as he stared at Alchemist with confusion.

“But, Alchemist, it’s fine. See?” He held it up and she cringed away, as if expecting him to cast that same explosive spell at her. Why did she think he would hurt her? They were friends!

“Th-That’s great, now put down the staff.” Her insistence made annoyance flare up in Wizard’s gut. They had just escaped certain death and this was what she was focusing on?! He wasn’t a threat, so why was she acting so weird? She knew he’d been looking for a strong foci for a while now, so why was she trying to take the staff away from him?

Wizard narrowed his eyes. “... No.”

“What?”

“We finally have a means of defending ourselves against the Witch and her minions and you want me to just let it go?” The boy rose to his full height, taking a step forward (and ignoring her taking a step back).

“Wizard, that thing is dangerous!” She flung her arms out to the side, gesturing at the burning town all around them. Wizard scoffed.

“I have it under control!” He didn’t, but that wasn’t important right now.

“You call everything that just happened control?! You just killed one of the Witch’s familiars and buried half the town!” Alchemist was getting visibly hysterical, but Wizard was too angry to notice. She was treating him like a child! He knew what he was doing!

“I just saved your life! A ‘thank you’ would be nice!” He put a hand on his hip, offended at the lack of gratitude.

“Thank you? You want a thank you?! There are cookies buried under there, some of them might have even crumbled, and you want me to THANK YOU?! My brother is over there and–!” She stopped short, as if surprised by the words that had come from her own mouth. The color drained from her face as realization set in, her eyes were wide and she spoke with a soft trembling voice, “Vampire Cookie….”

She had spun on her heel, anger towards Wizard forgotten in favor of fear for her brother. “VAMPIRE COOKIE!”

“I’ll help!” Wizard’s own anger simmering into concern over the lax cookie’s well-being. Yet he was stopped by a spear impacting the ground in front of him.

“I believe we’ve all had enough of your ‘help’,” spat the militia-cookie who had gotten in his way before he extended a hand toward the boy. “You’re under arrest for use of dark magic. Come quietly.”

“Wha–?!” Wizard jumped back, looking from the armored cookie to Alchemist Cookie’s back. “You-You can’t be serious! You’re joking, right? It was just the one spell, how does that make me a criminal?! Alchemist, tell him he’s wrong! Alchemist!”

The girl said nothing for a long moment, refusing to look at him. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. When she finally spoke it was a whisper, “Leave…”

Wizard cringed as if he had been struck. “B-But–”

“I said LEAVE!” She whirled around on him, tears and fire in her eyes. “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”

Wizard Cookie felt numb. This couldn’t really be happening could it? He had just defeated the monster attacking the town, and now they were treating HIM like the monster! All he did was cast a spell! A spell that saved them from the Witch’s dinner table!

“HAS EVERYONE GONE CRAZY?!” Wizard snapped. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU–AH!”

A stone had gotten thrown at his head, and it was only now he realized the scene had amassed quite an audience.

“The only crazy one here is you!” shouted one of the cookies in the crowd.

“What were you thinking?!” cried another.

“This is so much worse than what the Reaper would have done!”

“Get out!” Another stone was thrown, which Wizard was able to avoid this time.

The boy began to feel overwhelmed. Despair settled in his gut and made it feel like heavy stones had been tied to his feet as he looked around at all the cookies who were angry at him. He gave one last pleading look to Alchemist, who stared at him with a cold look.

Without another word, she turned her back to him and left.

Wizard scrambled back when a few more militia-cookies began advancing on him. Outnumbered and heartbroken, he fled. The militia probably would have caught him if the staff hadn’t whispered a teleportation spell into his ear, which he used without a second thought.

And the minute he left town, the azure flames blew out.

Wizard was on his own for a while after that. The experience made him bitter, especially when word spread throughout the castle of a cookie of his description practicing the forbidden arcane. A menace, a mad wizard, a twisted child who could destroy a whole town and laugh about it. He hated those rumors. He despised the vile things everyone said about him, especially since most of it wasn’t even true! But nobody asked for his side of the story. They only ever pointed and called him a monster!

And after everything he’d done for them…

Did they expect him to have just let himself be taken and eaten by the Witch? Did they want him to just rely on luck like everyone else? Did they want him to just accept whatever fate the Witches designed for him?! No, he refused. He wanted to live. He wanted to learn. He wanted to paint his own destiny and leave a mark on the world that no one would ever be able to erase.

Wizard Cookie did not want to be lucky, he wanted to live.

So, I ask again.

What are you willing to do for the sake of survival?

#ask #sophszzz #bad batch #my art #wizard cookie #alchemist cookie #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #crk au #crk fanfic #fanfic #fic #this got very out of hand LMAO #but i had fun writing it regardless :)#au

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gyu-tori · 2 days ago

Text

To Fly or To Fall | L.HS

Pairing: highschooler!heeseung x fem!reader Genre: ANGST !! tiniest fluff if you squint Warnings: verbal!abuse, physical!abuse, domestic!violence, familial trauma, unrealistic expectations, familial and academic pressure, main character!death (im sorry), if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, then please don’t continue. (let me know if i missed anything)

Summary: You were the perfect student, always silent and disciplined, blending into the background where no one can see the weight of your father's expectations or the silence of your mother.

When you're paired with Heeseung, a carefree troublemaker who seems to notice everything about you, your world begins to unravel. He sees past your mask, offering you an escape from the suffocating cage you've been living in. But when your defiance leads to consequences you never expected, you must face a choice: stay in the cage, or take a chance on freedom, even if it means risking everything.

Word Count: 16.4k

You have perfected the art of silence.

You sit in the front row, back straight, hands folded neatly on your desk, eyes fixed on the board. Your pen moves smoothly across the page, transcribing every word your professor says with precise, practiced strokes. You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not laugh in public. You do not break the rules.

Because breaking the rules is dangerous.

The classroom is alive with movement and murmurs—the scraping of chairs, the hushed whispers of classmates passing notes, the occasional sigh from the teacher when someone isn’t paying attention. None of it touches you. You are a ghost among the living, a shadow in the corner of their vision. Present, yet unnoticed.

There is a skill in blending into the background, in being so quiet that no one notices how little you exist outside of the expectations placed on you. You are Y/N, a shadow in the classroom, a quiet force that functions with precision, always meeting deadlines, always turning in homework on time, always sitting in the front row with your eyes on the lesson. You don’t speak much, and when you do, it’s always in a manner that is polite but detached. It’s easier this way—easier not to draw attention to yourself, easier not to stand out in a crowd of people who seem so sure of themselves, so confident. You don’t understand how they do it.

You’ve learned from a young age that perfection is what earns you value. Anything less, and you are nothing. Your grades are impeccable, and your quiet demeanor keeps people at arm’s length. You keep a smile on your face—small, controlled, but never too big. It’s a smile you’ve worn for so long that it’s become a part of you, even if it never quite reaches your eyes. People call you smart, efficient, reliable—but no one truly knows you. Not the way you want them to.

At home, it’s no different. The weight of expectations is even heavier. Your father’s voice rings through the house like a constant reminder of the standards you can never afford to slip from. His words cut deeper than any physical punishment. His criticism is never loud but always precise, always calculated, always there.

“Y/N,” he’ll say in that tone of his, sharp and demanding, “you can do better than this. I didn’t raise you to be mediocre.”

The sound of his voice has become so familiar to you that it feels like an eternal echo in your mind. It’s never angry, not in the way you hear other parents shout at their children. No, his anger is cold, reserved, and often cutting. There’s always something under his words—disappointment, frustration, something that weighs on your chest like a boulder. As if you were Sisyphus and his words were the boulder you had to roll for eternity. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. The way he looks at you, the way he expects nothing short of perfection, says everything.

Your mother doesn’t speak much. You’ve learned early on that silence is her way of dealing with things. You’ll be in the kitchen, preparing dinner, and she’ll be sitting at the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her gaze always downward. When you talk to her, she nods quietly, but her eyes never meet yours. You wonder if she even notices the way the pressure affects you, or if she’s too tired to see. You’ve long since stopped looking for comfort in her.

There’s a strange stillness in your home, a heaviness that hangs over everything, leaving you to carry the weight alone. And so you do, in silence, in isolation. The only thing that matters is meeting your father’s expectations, keeping up the perfect image. Anything less would be unacceptable.

And then there’s Heeseung. The first time you notice him, he’s laughing. Loudly, obnoxiously, with no care for who’s listening. He’s everything you’re not—effortless, carefree, and always surrounded by a group of friends who hang on his every word. You watch him from a distance, fascinated by the ease with which he exists. He has a presence that commands attention, even when he’s not trying.

He’s the kind of person who challenges authority with a smirk, who has a way of making teachers laugh even when they’re scolding him. And somehow, despite all his rebelliousness, he gets away with it. It’s infuriating, really. But also… strange. You don’t understand him.

So, you just observe from afar, intrigued by the mystery surrounding him. Heeseung is the kind of person who seems to have a solution for everything, who always knows the right thing to say, who never hesitates to jump into any situation with enthusiasm and confidence. When he talks, everyone listens. When he moves, everyone follows. It’s the way he carries himself, as if nothing could faze him. There’s something magnetic about him, but also distant, as if he’s always just a little out of reach.

But while people are drawn to him, they also fear him. His recklessness has earned him a reputation. Heeseung isn’t the type to abide by the rules. He’ll skip class without a second thought, and when the teacher calls him out for it, he’ll flash that devil-may-care grin and smooth-talk his way out of any consequence. He’s practically untouchable.

Heeseung doesn’t care about grades, about rules, about anything really. He’s one of those people who just does what he wants, when he wants. You can’t help but admire how free he is, how easily he lets go of the things that bind you so tightly. You wish, just for a moment, you could be like him—unburdened, carefree.

But that’s not you. You can’t afford to be careless. You don’t have the luxury of being like Heeseung. You have responsibilities, expectations. You have to be perfect. You can’t let go, even if a part of you wishes you could.

There are rumors about him, of course—some of them true, some exaggerated. He’s been seen sneaking out of parties at odd hours, showing up at school with a disheveled look that tells you he didn’t get much sleep. Some people say he’s reckless, that he doesn’t think ahead, that he’s a risk to those who get too close. Others say he’s simply misunderstood, that he’s more than what people give him credit for. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s just speculation.

But you can’t deny that there’s something about him. He’s everything you’re not: confident, free-spirited, and unafraid to take risks. You feel your envy simmer under the surface, though you quickly push it away. It’s a strange feeling, one that makes your chest tighten in an unfamiliar way. How can someone so reckless be so captivating?

You can’t help but compare yourself to him, even though you don’t want to. Heeseung seems to float through life, unaffected by the weight of expectations, while you feel every ounce of pressure bearing down on you.

He’s like a butterfly—light and free, flying wherever the wind takes him. You, on the other hand, are a moth, tied to the bright light that is responsibilities and the need to meet every expectation.

You’ve spent years crafting the perfect image of yourself, and yet Heeseung is the one everyone talks about. He’s the one everyone seems to want to be around. You wonder what it would feel like to be so sure of yourself, to move through the world with such ease. You wonder if he even realizes how different he is from the rest of you.

You watch him during class, and when he glances over at you, you quickly look away, feeling an unfamiliar heat rise to your cheeks. There’s something about the way he holds your gaze that makes your insides twist in knots. It’s not a challenge, not in the way you’re used to seeing people look at you—it’s something else. You can’t explain it, but you feel it every time he looks at you. It’s as if he sees straight through your carefully constructed walls, and for a moment, you wonder if he knows exactly who you are.

It’s frustrating, really.

The announcement comes as a shock. You’re sitting in the classroom, waiting for the professor to assign partners for the group project, when you hear your name paired with Heeseung’s. Your heart stops. You freeze. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve heard the professor wrong, but when you look up, you see Heeseung already grinning over at you, that same confident, devil-may-care grin that makes your stomach twist into knots.

You feel a sudden wave of panic, your mind racing. This can’t be happening. You need to do this project alone. You’re sure of it. You approach the teacher after he finishes, quietly asking if it’s possible to work solo. You don’t want to deal with Heeseung’s casual attitude, his distractions, his carelessness.

Before the teacher can even respond, Heeseung’s voice cuts through the air, an arm draped around your shoulders.

“C’mon, Professor, I’m a great helper. Right, Butterfly?”

His words are teasing, playful. You feel your stomach twist. That nickname—it feels wrong coming from him, like an invasion of your space. You don’t want to be anyone’s ‘butterfly.’ You’re not fragile, you’re not delicate. You’re strong, you tell yourself. Strong, and capable.

The teacher chuckles, clearly amused by Heeseung’s antics. “No, Y/N. You’re working with him. Make it work.”

You don’t protest. There’s no use. Instead, you turn to sit back at your desk, trying to keep your emotions in check. Heeseung sits next to you and leans back in his chair, arms crossed, flashing you that cocky grin. You can’t decide if you want to strangle him or… walk away.

“Don’t worry, Butterfly. I’ll help you get that perfect grade,”

His words make you feel small, almost as if you’re nothing compared to him. You don’t want to admit it, but they sting. You’ve spent so long making sure you’re always in control of your life, always prepared, always following the rules, and here he is—throwing everything off balance with a single sentence. You don’t know how to handle it.

You don’t want to admit how much his teasing bothers you. How his confidence makes you feel like you’re not enough.

But despite all of that, there’s a part of you that’s curious. A part of you that’s drawn to him, despite everything you’ve told yourself. You’ve always been the responsible one, the one who keeps her distance from people like him. But now, you’re stuck with him. For the next few weeks, you’re going to have to work with Heeseung, and something tells you that it won’t be as simple as you’d like it to be.

Heeseung leans over to you, his hand brushing yours as he collects his things from the desk. It’s a light touch, barely there, but it sends a jolt through you that you can’t ignore. You turn your head quickly, your face flushed, and Heeseung notices.

“Ready to get to work, Y/N?” he asks, his voice a little too casual, like he’s trying to be playful but there’s a deeper intent behind it. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite.”

But you’re not sure if you believe him. You don’t know what to expect, and the way his eyes linger on you just a little too long makes you feel like there’s something more to this than just a simple project.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “Let’s just get this done,” you say, voice almost trembling, but you don’t want him to notice.

Heeseung gives a small laugh, clearly amused by your reaction. “Relax, I’m not going to drag you into anything crazy, Y/N. I promise.” He says it with such ease, like he’s been in this position a thousand times before—like he’s used to making promises he doesn’t have to keep.

The days leading up to your first project meeting are filled with a strange sense of unease. You try your best to focus on your studies, to immerse yourself in your textbooks and assignments. You tell yourself that this project with Heeseung won’t be any different from the countless others you’ve worked on over the years, but the idea of being paired with him still makes your stomach churn.

It's not that Heeseung is particularly unpleasant, it's just that he's... well, Heeseung. He’s always been the person who stands out, effortlessly. The loudest in the room, always quick with a joke or a sarcastic remark. The kind of person who can get away with anything, and yet somehow, no one seems to care. You’ve always kept your distance from people like him. Your world has been quieter, more controlled, more predictable. And now, Heeseung is a part of it—whether you like it or not.

You can feel his presence in class even before he says a word. The way he slouches in his chair, his feet on the desk, his easy smile that makes everyone around him chuckle. And then there’s you, sitting in the front row, quiet, trying to blend in with the background, not wanting to draw any attention. You like it that way. You’ve always liked it that way.

It’s not that you have anything against him—he’s just... the opposite of everything you’ve built for yourself.

You can already feel the weight of the project bearing down on you as you gather your things at the end of class. The thought of having to work with Heeseung, of having to be in close proximity to him for hours on end, fills you with a sense of dread you can’t quite explain. You push your way through the crowded hallway, trying to avoid his eyes, trying to make yourself invisible.

You reach the door to your next class and just as you're about to step out, you hear his voice behind you.

“Hey, Butterfly.”

The nickname catches you off guard. You pause, half-turning to face him. He’s leaning against the wall, looking casual, almost amused by your reaction.

“Uh, excuse me?” you reply, a little too sharply. You roll your eyes. "Don't call me that," you murmur, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks despite yourself.

His grin widens. “Whatever you say, Butterfly. So, we’re meeting tomorrow to start the project, yeah?”

You nod curtly, not sure how to respond. “I’ll meet you at the library after school.”

Heeseung raises an eyebrow. “Library? How boring.”

You bite back a sigh, not knowing how to react. "It's a quiet place to work," you say, keeping your voice even.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs again, not seeming bothered by your lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll see you then, Butterfly.”

You quickly make your exit, your heart still racing. “You can do this,” you tell yourself, but it’s hard to believe. You’ve never had to deal with someone like him before. He’s too unpredictable, too casual. And you—well, you’re not exactly good at dealing with people like that.

As the evening passes and you prepare for the meeting, your mind races. You know you’ll have to keep things strictly business—no personal conversations, no distractions. It’s just a project. A project you have to get done. That’s all.

But even as you reassure yourself, there’s a small part of you that wonders why Heeseung insisted on working with you in the first place. Why would someone like him want to work with someone like you, someone who’s so invisible? Maybe it’s just the project. Maybe it’s just that you’re the only person left for him to work with. Whatever the reason, you can’t afford to think too much about it.

The next day, you arrive at the library early, setting up your things in one of the study rooms. You try to focus on the notes you’ve gathered for the project, but your mind keeps drifting back to Heeseung. You tell yourself to stop, but it’s impossible to push the thought of him out of your head.

The door opens with a creak, and you turn to see Heeseung standing there, holding a coffee cup in one hand, looking as relaxed as ever. He gives you a lazy wave before walking in and setting the cup down on the table.

“Here’s to a fun project,” he says, grinning.

You raise an eyebrow, unsure of how to respond. “We’re here to work, not to have fun.”

Heeseung shrugs, not the least bit bothered. “It’s all the same thing to me. Might as well enjoy it.” He pulls out a chair and sits across from you, leaning back in it, his feet resting on the floor as if he’s lounging in a café rather than at a study table. “So, what’s the plan?”

You stare at the pile of notes and books in front of you, taking a deep breath before speaking. “We need to go through the research, divide the work, and decide who will present.”

Heeseung raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’ve already planned everything. You’re no fun, Y/N.”

You don’t reply, focusing on your notes, determined to stay on task.

But Heeseung doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. “You never let yourself have any fun, do you?”

You force a smile, keeping your voice calm. “I’m here to do my part. That’s it.”

“Right,” he mutters. “Because that’s so much better than actually enjoying what you’re doing.”

You remain silent, unwilling to engage in a conversation that could sidetrack you. You try to focus, but his presence is like a constant distraction—his casual demeanor, the way he seems completely at ease, the way he doesn’t care about the rules or the expectations. You envy that in a way.

But that’s not your life.

You keep your attention on the work, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. You can’t afford to let Heeseung’s easy confidence derail your plans.

The longer you spend time with Heeseung, the more you realize that he’s not as carefree as he lets on. He’s sharp in a way that makes you uncomfortable, picking up on things you don’t even realize you’re giving away. It starts with small things, moments that might seem insignificant to anyone else, but Heeseung notices. You wish he didn’t.

There’s something unsettling about the way he watches you, the way his eyes seem to linger just a bit too long, as if he’s searching for something in you. You tell yourself it’s just his natural curiosity—he’s always poking fun, always teasing, always getting into people’s personal spaces. But there’s an intensity to his observations, a certain weight to them, that you can’t shake off. Heeseung’s gaze is like a spotlight, and you’re the only one standing in it.

It happens during another project session, when he’s distracted as usual, tapping his pen against the table. You’re trying to focus on your notes, but the tension between the two of you feels like it’s thickening, turning everything into an uncomfortable weight. The silence is oppressive, and Heeseung’s gaze feels like it’s burning through your skin. You glance up once, meeting his eyes, and quickly look away.

“Why do you always look like you’re hiding something?” he asks, his voice light, but there’s a question behind it.

“Huh?” You freeze for a second. “I’m not hiding anything.” The words come out clipped, defensive, but you can’t help it.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, his smirk never faltering. “You sure? You always seem like you’re trying to disappear into the background. You’re like a ghost.”

You tense up at the comment, your heart thumping louder in your chest. He’s wrong, isn’t he? You’re not hiding anything. You’ve been good at staying invisible, blending into the crowd, and it’s worked for you. So why does it feel like he’s peeling back your layers, even though you don’t want him to?

You force yourself to smile, even though it feels like your face is made of stone. “I’m just not like you, Heeseung. I don’t need attention.”

Heeseung looks at you for a moment longer, then shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Fair enough, Butterfly. But you’re too interesting to stay in the shadows for long.”

His words linger in the air, leaving you with a bitter aftertaste, and you push them away, returning to your notes. But the weight of his gaze never leaves you.

It’s a warm humid day when Heeseung first notices the way you frequently wear long sleeves, even in the heat. The weather is hitting the highs, and yet, here you are, sitting in the library in your thick sweater, sleeves pulled down past your wrists. Heeseung notices because it’s unusual. You’ve been sitting next to him for hours now, working through the project, and he can’t help but wonder why you’re not sweating or uncomfortable.

You reach for your water bottle, and the sleeves of your sweater bunch up slightly, revealing just a hint of your wrist. Heeseung's eyes flicker to it, then back to your face, trying to read the strange choice of clothing.

“What, you cold in 80-degree weather?” he asks, his tone teasing but with an edge of curiosity.

You stiffen, not expecting the question. You immediately pull your sleeves further down, hiding your hands, and offer a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “I just like it,” you murmur, trying to brush off the discomfort.

Heeseung looks at you, his smirk fading slightly as he studies your reaction. There’s something about your defensiveness, the way you’re trying to hide the motion, that makes him pause. He’s seen you in class, seen you move with such careful precision, always in control, always composed. But right now, in the middle of this warm afternoon, you seem a little... off.

He could push, ask why you’re wearing long sleeves in this heat, but he doesn’t. He lets it slide, but not without storing the image away in the back of his mind. He wonders if you’re just one of those people who don’t like the sun, or if there’s something else behind it. Something he doesn’t know.

But Heeseung is patient. He knows that everyone has their secrets, their little things they try to hide. And for now, he’s willing to let it go.

Another incident happens during a group discussion in class, a moment so small that no one else notices. You’re standing at the front of the room, talking to the group about your section of the project, when Jay, being the playful guy he is, nudges you in the arm, just a little too hard.

It’s the lightest touch, and you don’t even flinch in the usual sense of the word—there’s no startled gasp, no visible wince—but it’s there. The way your body goes stiff, the way your eyes flicker to the side, the way your hand tightens into a fist at your side. It’s all too fast to notice for anyone but Heeseung. He sees it, though, and something about the way you react makes a knot tighten in his stomach.

He doesn’t say anything at first, but he watches you. You regain your composure quickly, forcing a smile that’s almost convincing. The discussion continues, and you go back to talking like nothing happened, but Heeseung can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to that brief, subtle movement than you’re letting on.

Later, when the group disperses and you return to your seat, Heeseung is quiet. You don’t look at him, but you can feel his eyes on you. Heeseung doesn’t ask about it. He never does. But he keeps it in the back of his mind, another piece of the puzzle that he’s not sure he wants to put together.

It’s late when you’re studying together again. The library is nearly empty, the only light coming from the overhead fluorescents and the glow of your laptop screen. You’re working through the final section of the project, but something feels off. Your hands are trembling slightly, the tips of your fingers tapping nervously against the table. You keep glancing at your phone, the screen lighting up every few seconds as if you’re expecting a message.

Heeseung notices it almost immediately. You’re usually so focused, so controlled. But tonight, you seem restless, like you can’t sit still. Your eyes dart from the screen to your phone and back again, a sense of urgency growing in your movements.

“What’s going on?” Heeseung asks, his voice low, but there’s a hint of concern beneath the teasing.

You flinch at his words, the sharpness of your anxiety hitting you in a rush. You barely hear his voice as you scramble to pack your things.

It’s like a whirlwind. One moment, you’re standing at the table, trying to gather yourself, and the next, the library’s warmth feels suffocating. Your hands tremble as you close your laptop, trying to focus on the task at hand, but your mind is spiraling. Every second seems to stretch longer than the last, your heart pounding with an urgency you can’t explain. The weight of the moment bears down on you, and the only thing that matters now is leaving. You need to go. Now.

You feel it—a quiet panic spreading through your chest, and it’s all you can do to push it down, to keep it contained. You try to tell yourself that everything will be fine, but there’s a gnawing fear deep inside that you can’t shake. You gather your things and stand up, walking quickly toward the exit, not daring to look back.

Heeseung’s voice cuts through the air, laced with confusion. “Hey, slow down. What’s the rush?”

You don’t answer, your footsteps quickening as you move through the doors and into the open space. Your breath hitches, and you try to keep your pace steady, but something about the way Heeseung’s voice follows you makes you feel even more exposed. Your heart beats faster as he continues to follow, his shadow falling across your path.

“Y/N.” His tone is softer now, but there’s an edge of concern beneath the teasing, something that wasn’t there before.

You glance down at your phone, and the instant the screen lights up, your hand trembles. The message—just a glimpse—is enough to send a wave of terror crashing through you. You can feel the panic rising in your throat, threatening to spill over. Your fingers shake as you type out a response, each word feeling like a burden. The anxiety gnaws at you with every passing second, and you fight the overwhelming urge to break into a run.

You don’t even hear Heeseung until he’s right in front of you, stepping into your path, blocking your way.

“Y/N,” he says again, his voice firmer now, cutting through the haze in your mind. “What’s going on? You’re acting weird.”

For a split second, you freeze. Your mind flashes to your parents, to the mess you’re about to walk back into. You can’t think, not with the growing panic suffocating you. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, and you feel like you might collapse right there. You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself, but the tears start to well up, despite your best efforts.

You force yourself to look up at Heeseung. His eyes are searching yours, and there’s a strange softness there, a genuine concern that catches you off guard. And that’s when you feel it—the tears, rising, unbidden. You bite your lip hard, trying to hold it in, but they come anyway, slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Heeseung’s eyes widen in shock as he steps closer. “What’s happening, Y/N?” His voice is quieter now, more vulnerable, like he’s afraid of what he might hear.

You can’t answer. You can’t explain this. The panic, the terror—it all feels too big to say aloud.

“Move, Heeseung,” you whisper, your voice shaking uncontrollably. “I have to go. I’m late.”

Heeseung doesn’t move, though. He stays in front of you, his expression softening even more as he takes in your trembling form. “Why are you crying?”

The question is gentle, but it cuts through you. It feels like the weight of everything pressing down on your chest, the truth hanging just out of reach. You try to hold yourself together, to make him understand without saying it, but your voice cracks.

“I’m late. I need to be home. Please.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Instead, he watches you, his brow furrowing as he processes what you’ve just said. You expect him to push you away, to back off, but instead, you feel him stepping closer, his presence steadying you in the chaos of your emotions.

“What happens if you’re late?” he asks softly, his voice unusually calm.

Your heart races even harder. The words are harder to say now. You could lie, but the truth has already begun to slip from your lips. You take a deep, shaky breath, and then, you whisper it—barely audible, but it’s enough for Heeseung to hear.

“I’ll be punished.”

Heeseung’s jaw clenches, and his eyes flash with something you can’t quite read. For a moment, he says nothing, his expression a mix of disbelief and anger. You don’t know if it’s because of the words or because of the rawness in your voice, but you feel his presence shift. It’s like a spark has been lit, something igniting within him, and he’s not going to back down.

“By who?” His voice is low, measured, but you can hear the edge of something dark in it.

You hesitate, caught between the instinct to protect yourself and the strange, magnetic pull of his concern. For the first time, you tell someone. Not even your friends know the full truth, not like this. The impossible standards. The punishments. The bruises.

“My parents,” you whisper, the words tasting like poison on your tongue. “They expect me to be perfect. To never fail. I don’t want to be a failure, they won’t let me go if I do.”

Heeseung’s eyes harden, his expression shifting into something cold and furious. “That’s not a family,” he mutters, barely under his breath. “That’s a goddamn prison.”

You wipe your eyes, trying to regain control, but you can’t. The tears keep coming, and they’re so much heavier than you expected. You don’t want this, not like this, but the weight of everything—of your family’s expectations, of the fear, of the years spent trying to hold it all in—feels like too much to carry anymore.

“I have no choice,” you say, your voice barely audible.

Heeseung’s gaze softens, but there’s a determination in it that makes your chest tighten. “You always have a choice, Butterfly,” he says quietly. “You just need to take it.”

You don’t know why, but the words hit you harder than you expected. For the first time, you want to believe him. You want to believe that there’s something else, something beyond the cage your parents have built around you. You want to be free, even if it scares you.

“I’ll take you home,” he says firmly, “You’ll get there faster.”

You hesitate, but the thought of being anywhere but here, of escaping this moment, feels like it might be your only chance. You look up at him, and for the first time, you let yourself trust him. Heeseung doesn’t hesitate—he steps to the side, giving you a choice.

“What, scared?” he teases, trying to lighten the mood.

You nod, climbing onto his motorcycle, feeling a knot in your stomach loosen slightly. You try to calm yourself as Heeseung revs the engine, the roar of the bike vibrating beneath you. The second the bike speeds forward, you cling to him tightly, your body pressed against his, the wind whipping through your hair.

Heeseung smirks over his shoulder, teasing you once more. “Didn’t know you liked hugging me this much, Butterfly.”

You try to ignore the warmth blooming in your chest, focusing on the ride, on the freedom of it all. The idea that you might finally be able to escape it all, even if just for a moment, is intoxicating.

Heeseung drops you off a block away from your house. You can’t let them see you with him—not yet. Your heart sinks as you pull away from him, your gaze lingering on him for a second too long.

Heeseung watches you disappear down the street, his eyes filled with something you can’t decipher. He stands there for a moment longer, before turning back toward the bike, the sound of the engine fading into the night.

The moment you step into the house, you can feel the air grow thick with tension. Your father is waiting just inside the front door, his posture rigid, his arms crossed. The chill of his presence strikes you like a cold gust of wind. You don’t even have to see his face to know the storm is brewing.

“You’re late.” His voice is eerily calm, but it cuts through you like a blade. It’s the kind of calm that never bodes well. It sends a shiver down your spine, but you don’t flinch, don’t let yourself show any sign of fear.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, stepping inside and trying to ease the tension. Your words feel hollow, like they’re floating in the air, barely reaching his ears. You’re used to the routine, used to the cold responses, the indifference. But tonight feels different. Every word feels heavier.

He steps forward, and without warning, grabs your wrist, his fingers digging into your skin with a force that makes you wince. "Do you think you can just come and go as you please? Do you think I won’t notice?!"

Your mother remains silent, standing in the corner of the room, her eyes focused on the floor, as though she’s not even there. The room feels smaller with each passing second, as if the walls are closing in around you. You force yourself to breathe slowly, to push down the panic rising in your chest. But you can’t stop your heart from racing.

Your father’s grip tightens, and you feel the sting of it, but you don’t make a sound. There’s no point in screaming or pleading. He won’t listen. Not when it comes to you. You’re just a thing, something that needs to be controlled, kept in line.

“Do you understand how serious this is?” he growls, his breath warm against your ear. You nod, though you’re not sure you do. Everything feels foggy, like you’re watching yourself from a distance. It’s all become so familiar, this cycle of anger and control, but it still catches you off guard every time.

Your mother says nothing, her gaze still averted, her silence a constant reminder of everything you aren’t. Everything you’ve never been able to live up to.

“Your mother—” Your father spits the word as though it’s venom on his tongue. “Your mother and I expect nothing less than perfection from you, and this—” He pulls your wrist, making you stumble toward him. “This is not perfection.”

He shoves you back, and you don’t even try to stop yourself from falling against the wall. Your shoulder collides with the plaster with a sickening thud. You don’t cry out, don’t even flinch this time. You’re numb. You’re so used to this.

Your father steps back, glaring at you with a mix of disgust and anger. “You think you’re special? You think you’re better than this? Do you think anyone cares about your pathetic little life?”

The words sink into your skin like daggers. You stand there, unmoving, your mind empty but for the cold, sharp pain in your chest. It’s too familiar. Too suffocating. You want to scream, to tell him to stop, but you can’t. Not anymore.

Your father sneers, his words cutting deeper than the slap. “You have one job—be perfect.”

You flinch at his words. The ache in your chest is familiar by now, but it’s still unbearable.

“You don’t get to be weak.”

He steps closer, his breath hot on your skin, and the next words fall like a heavy weight.

“Don’t make me regret having you.”

The slap comes next, fast and brutal. It lands across your cheek, knocking your head to the side, the sting spreading through your skin like fire. You stare at the ground, feeling the hot rush of humiliation flood your face, but you don’t cry. Not anymore. You haven’t cried in years.

Your father’s words ring in your ears. “You don’t get to be weak.” They echo in the silence between you, louder than anything he’s ever said. His words are poison, and you’ve been swallowing them for so long that they’re part of you now.

Your mother finally speaks, her voice barely audible. “Stop. Don’t go too far.”

You can’t help but look up. You expect to see your mother’s eyes full of concern, or at least some semblance of empathy. But instead, all you see is the same vacant expression you’ve grown so used to. Your mother doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even acknowledge the bruises that are already starting to form on your skin. The woman who gave birth to you remains silent, a passive participant in the abuse.

Your chest tightens. You want to scream at your mother. You want to beg her to fight for you, to protect you from the world that seems determined to break you. But you know better than to expect that. It’s always been just you. Alone. With nothing but the weight of expectations pressing down on you.

Your father steps closer, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re nothing. You’ll never be anything.” The words strike like lightning, but you don’t flinch.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, though you don’t know what you’re apologizing for anymore. It’s just a reflex. A way to make the silence stretch between you.

Your father eyes you for a moment, then turns his back to you. “Go to your room. We’ll talk about this later. You’re lucky I’m letting you off this time.”

You nod, your legs barely able to carry you as you walk past him and toward the stairs. Every step feels like a weight, dragging you down, pulling you deeper into the dark space inside you that’s been growing for years. You’ve been living in this cage, waiting for the moment when you can finally escape. But you know it’s never coming. Not as long as you’re here. Not as long as they’re watching your every move.

Your heart is heavy, but you don’t cry. You haven’t in years. Not since you realized that no one would ever save you. Not even yourself.

You spend the night in your room, staring at the ceiling, your body still aching from the physical and emotional blows. The bruise on your cheek is already forming, but it’s not the pain that hurts the most. It’s the emptiness. The way everything inside you feels hollow and drained.

Your father’s words replay in your mind. You’ve heard them a thousand times, but tonight, they cut deeper. You’re tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of being the person they want you to be. But you don’t know how to stop. You don’t know how to escape.

You lie in bed, your body aching from the force of the slap, but it’s not the physical pain that keeps you up—it’s Heeseung’s words. The ones he whispered when he saw you trembling, “You always have a choice.”

For a moment, you let yourself wonder: What if he’s right? What if you could actually make a choice for once? But the thought is quickly drowned out by the fear of the consequences. The thought of leaving behind everything you’ve ever known, even if it meant freedom, is terrifying. But you hold onto those words. Just for a little while longer, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you can find a way out.

The silence in your room is deafening, broken only by the sound of your own ragged breathing. Your hands are trembling, but you don’t reach for the phone on your nightstand. You know it’s pointless. There’s no one who can help you. You’re too far gone, too deep in this cycle to escape.

The tears come then, but not for yourself. You’ve long stopped crying for yourself. Instead, they fall for the person you could have been, the person you’ll never be. For the girl who never stood a chance.

The final bell of the day rang through the school, signaling the end of another monotonous day. Y/N felt the weight of the hours dragging on her as she watched the other students file out of the classroom, their voices blending into the background. Her eyes found Heeseung at the back of the room, packing his bag with his usual nonchalance, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside her.

Today, she couldn’t stay silent any longer.

The pressure of her parents’ expectations had been building up for so long—her life dictated by their demands, their goals for her future, their vision of who she should be. She had lived in their shadow, following the rules, pretending to be what they wanted her to be. But something inside her had shifted. The walls she’d built around her heart were beginning to crack, and she couldn’t pretend anymore.

Her legs moved before she could think, the words tumbling out before she even realized what she was about to say.

"Heeseung," she called out, her voice shaky but firm.

Heeseung paused mid-step, his hand still gripping the strap of his bag. He turned toward her, his expression softening as he noticed the look in her eyes. "What’s wrong?"

Y/N swallowed hard, her chest tight with the weight of her decision. "I’m ready," she said quietly, barely above a whisper. "I’m ready to make a choice."

Heeseung raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. "A choice about what?"

Y/N took a deep breath, feeling her heart race as she finally put her feelings into words. "A choice about... about not living for them anymore." She paused, her gaze steady. "I can’t keep being what they want me to be. I can’t keep pretending to be the person they’ve decided I am." Her voice wavered, but she didn’t look away. "I need to stop trying to meet their expectations. I need to learn how to let go of what they want and figure out who I really am."

Heeseung stood frozen for a moment, processing her words, as though trying to understand the weight of them. His eyes softened as he took a step toward her, his usual teasing demeanor replaced with something quieter, more serious.

"Y/N," he said, his voice low, "are you saying... you want to walk away from everything? From your parents? From what they’ve planned for you?"

Y/N shook her head, the tension in her chest growing. "No. I’m not leaving them. But I need to stop living for them. I need to stop letting their expectations control everything I do." Her voice cracked slightly, but she held firm. "I can’t keep being the person they think I should be. I’ve spent so long trying to live up to what they want, and I’ve forgotten who I am in the process. I don’t want to be trapped anymore."

Heeseung’s expression softened further as he took in her words, his gaze shifting from her face to the ground as if he was considering what to say next. For a moment, there was a heavy silence, the weight of her confession hanging in the air between them.

"You know," he began quietly, looking up to meet her gaze, "it’s not going to be easy. Letting go of their expectations... it’s not something that happens overnight. But I get it. You don’t have to live for them. You don’t have to keep pretending to be who they want you to be." His voice was gentle now, sincere. "You deserve to live for yourself, not for them."

Y/N felt a warmth spread through her chest at his words, something she hadn’t realized she needed to hear. "I don’t know if I can do it," she admitted, her voice shaky. "I’ve been living this way for so long. What if I fail? What if they never accept it?"

Heeseung gave her a small, encouraging smile. "You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to do it alone."

Her heart fluttered at his words, a mix of gratitude and something deeper. Heeseung had always been there for her in his own way, but this was different. This was real.

Y/N took a deep breath, the decision feeling heavier now but also strangely freeing. "I don’t know where to start. I don’t even know what it means to live for myself."

Heeseung’s eyes softened with understanding. "It means taking the time to figure out what you want, not what they want for you. It means choosing yourself, even when it’s hard. It means being brave enough to make mistakes and learn from them." He took a step closer, his voice low but steady. "And it’s okay if it’s not all figured out at once. Just... take it one step at a time."

Y/N felt the knot in her chest loosen, the fear and uncertainty starting to ebb away. Heeseung didn’t have all the answers, but his words were a lifeline, pulling her toward something new. Something real.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice gaining strength with each passing second. "Okay, I’m ready to let go. Not of them... but of their expectations. I’m ready to start living for me."

Heeseung smiled, a soft, knowing smile that made something inside her flutter. "Good. And you’re not alone. I’m here."

Y/N nodded, a small but genuine smile tugging at her lips. The path ahead wasn’t clear, and she wasn’t sure what it would look like, but she felt the first stirrings of freedom—freedom to be herself, to figure out who she really was beyond the role they had forced on her.

As Heeseung turned to leave, Y/N stayed behind for a moment, her eyes following his retreating figure. She was still afraid, still uncertain about what lay ahead, but for the first time, she felt like she could breathe. And that was enough for now.

It’s a rare moment of defiance. The classroom door slams behind you as Heeseung leads you out of the school building, the sound of the bell ringing in the distance. Your heart skips, half exhilarated, half terrified. It’s not that you’re the perfect student—it’s just that breaking the rules with Heeseung feels like stepping into a whole new world.

Without a word, he pulls you toward the staircase that leads to the roof. You can feel the weight of every footstep, the tension building with each step you take. You’ve never been up here before, and the thought of being caught sets your nerves on edge. Still, the pull of freedom is too strong. You follow him, breathless.

Heeseung pushes the door open, and a cool gust of wind hits your face. The city sprawls out beneath you, distant buildings touching the sky, the world buzzing on, unaware of your small rebellion. Heeseung turns to you, his usual smirk softened into something warmer.

“Breathe,” he tells you, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “For once, just breathe.”

You stand there, your back pressed against the cold metal railing, and close your eyes. The rush of adrenaline fades, replaced by a strange sense of peace. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting everything in a soft, golden light. You inhale deeply, and for the first time in ages, you let go of the constant pressure—your family, your grades, your responsibilities. It all feels so far away here, with Heeseung.

You open your eyes, and there he is, standing just a few feet away, his gaze fixed on you. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite read. Is it admiration? Something deeper? You don’t ask. Instead, you smile, feeling a warmth spreading through your chest.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, alone on this rooftop, free from everything. You take another deep breath, and when Heeseung glances at you again, the smile he gives you feels like an unspoken promise.

The bike hums beneath you, and the wind whips through your hair as you cling to Heeseung’s back. The first time, you were stiff, a bundle of nerves pressed against his shoulders, too afraid to trust him completely. But this time is different. This time, you don’t hesitate. The world blurs around you as he revs the engine, taking off down the street with a fluidity that feels natural to him, as if he were born to ride.

“You’re getting used to this,” Heeseung grins over his shoulder, his voice barely audible above the roar of the engine.

You can feel your hands loosening their grip on his waist, just a little. It’s a small shift, but it’s progress. Heeseung’s voice, light and teasing, calls back to you, his confidence contagious. You relax against him, your body starting to move with the rhythm of the bike. You can’t help but smile, the feeling of freedom sweeping over you.

“Are you sure you’re not scared?” you ask, leaning closer to him, your voice just a whisper now.

Heeseung’s laughter fills the space between you. “Scared? Nah. I trust you.”

You glance up at the sky, the clouds racing by, and for the first time, you let go of your fears. The world doesn’t seem so heavy anymore. With Heeseung, it feels like you can be anyone—free and untethered, like you’re meant to be.

You settle into the ride, letting the wind carry away all your worries. When Heeseung pulls over, the engine dies, and the world falls quiet again. You’re still holding onto him, your chest rising and falling with the aftershock of the ride. He doesn’t let go, his hand resting on yours, a gentle anchor.

“You’re not so bad at this,” he murmurs, and you smile, the words a small victory in your chest.

The street is alive with lights, the sounds of vendors calling out, people laughing, the smell of food filling the air. Heeseung takes your hand, pulling you toward a stall lined with colorful bowls and sizzling pans. You can’t help but feel a little overwhelmed by the chaos, but Heeseung looks completely at home in it.

“This is where the real food is,” he grins, passing you a bowl of tteokbokki. You hesitate, the red, steaming sauce looking much spicier than you expected.

“Try it,” he encourages, his gaze soft as he watches you. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

You take a tentative bite, and the heat explodes in your mouth. Instantly, your face turns red, and you gasp for air. The spice is unlike anything you’ve ever felt, and your throat burns as you reach for your drink.

Heeseung laughs, a deep, rich sound, his hand sliding across the table to hand you his drink. “You’ll get used to it, Butterfly.”

You take a sip, the cool liquid a sharp contrast to the fiery tteokbokki, and the relief is instant. Heeseung’s laugh is infectious, and despite the spice still tingling on your tongue, you find yourself laughing with him.

“Just wait until I bring you the next level,” Heeseung teases. “Then you’ll really regret asking for food here.”

You shake your head, still trying to get the spice under control, but the laughter in the air feels comforting. There’s something about sharing this moment with him—no masks, no expectations—that makes the world feel a little less heavy.

The carnival is a blur of lights and sounds, everything spinning around you in a kaleidoscope of color. Heeseung leads you through the crowd, his hand warm in yours. It’s easy to get lost in the excitement, but there’s something even more electrifying in the air tonight, something between the two of you that you can’t quite name.

Heeseung stops at a game booth, grinning as he wins you a stuffed bear. You take it from him, still smiling, but the weight of the moment shifts as your fingers brush against his.

The contact is electric.

You freeze, and Heeseung’s eyes flicker to yours, the intensity in them making your breath hitch. There’s a moment of stillness, like the world has paused just for the two of you. The carnival lights seem to fade as he leans in, his lips just a breath away from yours. You can feel the heat of his breath, the tension hanging in the air, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ll let him kiss you. You want to. You really do.

But then, the fear—old and familiar—rises in your chest, and you pull away, the moment slipping through your fingers like sand. Heeseung doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, his gaze a mixture of understanding and something deeper, something that makes your heart race.

“Maybe next time,” he says softly, his smile tinged with sadness.

You nod, the space between you now filled with words unsaid. The carnival lights flicker around you, but in that moment, everything feels heavy with the unspoken truth between you both.

You’ve been wondering about it for days, and finally, the words spill from your lips.

“Why do you call me that?” you ask, your voice quiet, almost uncertain. You’ve heard the nickname before, but tonight it feels different. The weight of it is heavier now, and you can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it than just a cute term of endearment.

Heeseung looks at you, his smile playful, but there’s something deeper behind it. “Because you’re delicate. Fragile,” he says, his voice soft and thoughtful. You can’t help but notice the sincerity in his tone, the way his eyes soften as he looks at you.

You frown slightly, unsure how to respond. “But I’m not fragile.”

Heeseung’s expression shifts, his eyes growing serious for a moment. “But you are. You’ve been caged in your whole life, Y/N.” He takes a step closer to you, his voice low. “But you don’t belong in a cage.”

The words hit you harder than expected. For the first time, you feel like someone sees you—not just the perfect daughter your parents want, but you, as you really are. Someone who’s been trapped, fighting to break free. And Heeseung, in his own way, has always understood that.

You swallow, the weight of his words settling deep inside you. “Then maybe I’m ready to fly,” you whisper.

Heeseung’s grin returns, but this time, it’s gentler. “I think you already are, Butterfly.”

The house feels suffocating as soon as you step inside, a weight pressing on your chest. Heeseung had dropped you off with a quiet promise to be there if you needed him, but you didn't tell him what you were walking into. You could never find the words to express how much you feared your father’s anger. Tonight, though, you sense something is different. Something feels off in the air—too tense, too heavy, like the calm before a storm.

The front door clicks shut behind you, and you already hear the heavy footsteps from the hallway. You don’t have to look to know it’s him. Your heart races as your father emerges from the shadows of the hallway, his gaze sharp, already calculating.

“Where have you been?” His voice, usually controlled and cold, is tight with something more dangerous tonight. You’ve never heard him like this before. His eyes search you with an intensity that’s almost too much to bear. “Out with him again, huh?”

You freeze. For a split second, your mind is blank. How did he find out? You hadn’t told him, hadn’t given him a reason to think anything was wrong. Had he been watching you? The idea is enough to send a chill down your spine. But you force yourself to stand your ground, even though your insides are twisting in panic. You’ve dealt with his anger before, but this feels different.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your breath. “Heeseung is my friend. I—”

“Friend?” He spits the word out like it’s venom. His lips curl into a cruel smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That boy is nothing but trouble. You’re wasting your time with him.”

You feel a pang in your chest, a mix of anger and hurt. How can he say that? Heeseung is the one person who’s ever made you feel like you’re more than just a tool in your father’s games. He’s the only one who’s ever treated you like you matter.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” you say, your voice shaking but strong. “You don’t know him. You don’t know anything about him.”

Your father’s eyes narrow, and you can see the darkness brewing in them. For a second, it’s like he’s calculating how far he can push you before you break. “You’re nothing but a child,” he sneers, taking a step toward you. “You think I don’t know what’s going on behind my back? I saw you two. I saw you with him today.”

Your stomach drops as you try to make sense of his words. “What do you mean? How did you—”

The realization hits you like a slap in the face. Your heart starts pounding as the pieces fall together. He’s been watching you. Somehow, he’s figured it out, and you have no idea how long he’s been doing this. How long he’s been waiting for you to slip up.

“Don’t look so surprised,” your father growls, his voice low and dangerous. “I know everything that happens under my roof.” He steps closer, his breath hot against your face. “And you think you can get away with seeing that boy? With disrespecting me like this?”

Before you can respond, he raises his hand, the sharp sting of the slap hitting you so fast you barely register it. The force of it throws you off balance, and you stumble backward, your cheek burning. It’s not the first time he’s hit you, but this time it feels different—harder, more violent. There’s no restraint in his movements, no attempt to mask his anger.

“You’re nothing,” he spits. “You think you’re special because of that boy? You’re just a child who doesn’t know what’s best for her. I gave you everything, and this is how you repay me?”

The sting of the slap is still raw, but something inside you snaps. You’ve been living under his thumb for too long, and you’re finally done with it. You’re tired of being controlled, tired of being used as a pawn in his game. Your heart races as you take a step back, your voice trembling with fury.

“You don’t get to control me anymore,” you say, the words forced out through clenched teeth. “You’re not my world anymore.”

His eyes widen in shock for a split second, and for the briefest moment, you think you might have gotten through to him. But then, the anger in his face deepens. “You think you’re leaving me? You think you’re just going to run off with that boy and everything will be fine?”

He steps forward, slamming you against the wall with surprising force. The wind is knocked out of you, but you refuse to let him see your pain. He leans down so his face is inches from yours, and his voice is low, almost a hiss. “I’ll make sure you never see him again. You won’t run away from me. Not while you live under my roof.”

You struggle to breathe, but your voice is steady. “You can’t keep me here. You can’t control me forever.”

For a moment, you think he might strike again, but then his expression hardens. “You’re nothing without me,” he snarls, before shoving you aside roughly.

You stumble, catching yourself before you fall. Your heart is pounding so hard in your chest, you can barely hear anything except the blood rushing in your ears. The anger and fear mix into a cocktail of adrenaline, for the first time in your life, you feel like you’re not bound by his rules anymore.

And then, you do the only thing you can think of: you get up and run. You bolt for the door, your hands shaking as you open it, and you’re out in the night air before you even realize it.

The cool night wind hits your face like a slap, but it’s not painful. It’s a relief. For the first time in your life, you feel like you can breathe. You don’t look back, not even once. You know your father is behind you, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except getting away from him, getting away from the cage he’s built for you.

And then, you see him—Heeseung, on his motorcycle, just about to drive off.

He sees you before you see him, and the moment you meet his gaze, something inside you shifts. The fight, the anger, the fear—all of it fades into the background, replaced with something softer, something more freeing. Heeseung doesn’t say a word as you run toward him, but you can feel the weight of his presence, his arms opening to you like a lifeline.

“Let’s go,” he says, his voice steady and comforting. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t hesitate.

You don’t need to say anything either. Heeseung reaches out and pulls you onto the motorcycle, his hands warm against your skin. And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’ve made the right choice.

“Where are we going?” you ask, your voice breathless, but there’s a hint of hope in it now.

“Anywhere but here,” Heeseung replies, revving the engine.

And as the motorcycle roars to life, you realize that for the first time in your life, you’re free.

The wind rushes through your hair, wild and free, like the feeling that blooms in your chest as you cling to Heeseung’s torso. The motorcycle hums beneath you, a low, steady rhythm that mirrors the quickening beat of your heart. You had never felt more alive than this—riding through the streets with Heeseung, feeling his warmth seep through the fabric of your clothes, his presence anchoring you to the moment.

Heeseung’s grip tightens on the handlebars as you weave through the traffic, but there’s a tenderness to it, like he’s holding onto more than just the bike. He’s holding onto you, your smile, your laughter, the promise of something better beyond the confines of your sheltered life. The city streets blur around you, but you don’t care. You’re not worried about what’s ahead. In this moment, it’s just you and Heeseung—two souls, drifting free, away from the expectations, away from everything.

“You look like you’re enjoying this too much,” Heeseung teases, glancing over his shoulder at you with that half-smirk of his. His eyes sparkle with a mischievous glint, and you feel a flutter in her stomach, a heat spreading through your cheeks.

You grin back, letting the wind whip your face. “It’s perfect,” you breathe, the words carried away by the wind, but he hears them. You can tell by the way his shoulders relax, how his grip loosens slightly. The tension that had always hung between you is fading, replaced by something new, something tender.

Heeseung leans into the turn, expertly guiding the motorcycle down the winding road, and you can’t help but laugh. It’s carefree, light, a laugh that rings with happiness. You hadn’t known you were capable of this kind of joy, the kind that comes with complete abandon, no thought of tomorrow, no fear, no judgment. Only the present. Only Heeseung.

As you ride along the road, the city falls away. The skyline recedes into the distance, replaced by the open road and endless possibilities. Heeseung’s face is alight with the same feeling you’re starting to recognize—the feeling of freedom. The feeling of no longer being bound by the past, of letting go of the weight that’s always pressed on your chest. For once, you’re not weighed down by expectations. You’re not a daughter, a prize to be controlled. You’re just yourself.

You lean your head against his back, your heart light, breath shallow from the exhilaration. "This is amazing," you whisper, half to yourself, half to him. You don’t need to say more. He feels it too.

Heeseung’s laughter bubbles up, rich and full. "Glad you think so," he says, his voice warm in your ear. "I told you I’d show you the world outside that cage."

The words make you pause, a small pang of something—maybe guilt, maybe fear—lurching inside of you. But it’s fleeting, gone before it can take root. This moment is too perfect to ruin with worries about what comes next. You push the thought aside, clinging to him tighter, as if holding on could stop time itself.

And for a moment, it does. Time slows to a crawl. The world around you blurs, fading away. There’s just you, Heeseung, and the road.

But then, the moment shatters.

A bright light flashes in the distance, too bright, too sudden. It cuts through the night like a knife, an unexpected surge of blinding brilliance that makes you freeze, makes your stomach drop in terror. You don’t have time to react, don’t have time to scream before everything changes. The world tilts, the motorcycle jerks violently, and you’re thrown from it, your body flying through the air as if it’s weightless, detached from the reality you know. Heeseung’s scream echoes in your ears, but it’s distant, muffled by the rush of air and the sharp sting of panic.

Then, nothing. Silence. Blackness. Cold.

It’s as if the world has swallowed you whole, and you disappear into its depths, the darkness taking over.

The sharp beeping of the machines pulls Heeseung from the blackness, pulling him back to reality, to the pain. His eyes flutter open, his head heavy, his body aching in places he didn’t know could hurt. His hands are bound to the bed with medical wires, IVs running through his arm, and for a moment, he’s disoriented, unsure of where he is. His mind feels foggy, and his thoughts scatter like smoke, each one slipping away before he can grasp it.

But then, it hits him.

You.

His heart lurches painfully in his chest, the panic setting in like a cold wave crashing over him. He jerks in bed, ripping the wires from his arm, his breath quickening, every movement frantic as he struggles to sit up. His eyes dart around the sterile hospital room, searching, begging for an answer. He sees nothing but white walls, the dull hum of medical equipment, the sound of the air conditioning kicking on.

"Where is she?" he gasps, his voice raw, desperate.

His mind races, but the silence in the room is deafening. There’s no one here, no one to tell him what happened, no one to answer his questions. His fingers tremble as they reach for the button to call the nurse, but his hand falters. His thoughts are racing so fast now that he can barely breathe.

Suddenly, the door opens, and a nurse walks in, her expression neutral, professional. Heeseung barely registers her presence, his focus solely on the question burning in his chest.

"She’s here, right?" he asks, his voice shaky, his eyes wide with fear.

The nurse’s face hardens, and she looks away. She doesn’t speak for a moment, but her silence is enough.

Heeseung’s stomach drops.

"Where is she?" he demands again, louder this time, his hands shaking with anxiety.

"I’m sorry, but you need to calm down," the nurse says softly, but the words feel like a punch to the gut. "I’ll get the doctor."

And then she leaves, disappearing as quickly as she came, leaving Heeseung alone in his confusion, in his pain.

He doesn’t have time to wait. He needs to see you. Needs to know you’re okay.

Heeseung struggles to stand, his body fighting against him, but the only thought in his head is you. You. You.

He bursts into the hallway, ignoring the startled glances of the hospital staff. His breath comes in shallow gasps as he looks around frantically, searching for any sign of you. But all he sees are doctors, nurses, patients—none of them are you.

He doesn’t stop. He can’t. His legs carry him forward with a mind of their own, driven by the fear that tightens in his chest with every step.

Then, as if fate had a cruel sense of timing, Heeseung rounds the corner and comes face to face with your parents.

Your father is pacing, his face twisted in frustration and worry. Your mother is standing by the door, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her expression unreadable but tight, as if she’s holding something in. When they see Heeseung, their eyes narrow, and there’s an immediate shift in the air, an undeniable tension that hangs between them.

Heeseung feels the blood drain from his face. He stops in his tracks, but his heart races faster. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. His voice is caught somewhere deep in his chest, lodged there by the suffocating weight of their gaze.

Your father is the first to speak, his voice hard and accusatory. "What are you doing here?" he demands, his tone like a slap in the face. "You’re the reason she’s in there in the first place. If you hadn’t been so reckless—"

Heeseung flinches, as if the words are physical blows. But the pain is nothing compared to the guilt that surges through him. He wants to scream, to deny it, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that he never meant for this to happen. But the words are stuck in his throat, choked by the weight of everything.

"She got hurt," your mother says, her voice quiet but sharp, laced with anger and fear. "This is your fault."

Heeseung’s eyes burn with unshed tears. His heart feels like it’s being ripped out of his chest. They’re blaming him. They’re blaming him for everything. And maybe they’re right. Maybe it is his fault. If he hadn’t taken you on that ride, if he hadn’t been so careless, if he hadn’t been so—

"Enough," Heeseung finally forces out, his voice raw, cracking under the pressure. "Enough."

He takes a step toward them, his chest heaving, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He’s shaking, his legs unsteady, but his anger fuels him. He feels like he’s on the edge of something, about to shatter.

"None of this would have happened if you had treated her like your daughter instead of your personal trophy!" he snaps, his voice rising with every word. "She’s not some prize you can mold and control. She’s a person. You never saw her. You never saw what she was going through, what she needed. All you ever saw was your image, your status—"

Your father steps forward, his face red with rage, but Heeseung doesn’t back down. He doesn’t care anymore. He’s past caring.

"You don’t know anything!" your father yells, his voice booming in the hallway. "You’re just some boy who thought he could save her. You don’t even know what she was really like. What we had to do to make her who she is—"

"You made her a prisoner!" Heeseung screams, the words coming out in a flood of emotion. "You trapped her. And now she’s like this because all she wanted was to escape the pain and torture you had her endure for all her life!!"

There’s a long, heavy silence between them. Heeseung’s chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, his body trembling with the aftermath of the outburst. He feels exposed, as if every fragile part of him has been laid bare for them to see.

He takes a step toward them, his fists clenched at his sides. "This isn’t helping. Blaming me won’t change anything."

Your father scoffs, his expression twisted in disdain. "It won’t bring her back, will it? Nothing will fix what you’ve done."

"I never meant for any of this to happen," Heeseung’s voice breaks as his eyes glaze over with the sting of unshed tears. "You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not hating myself for what happened? But she’s still there. I’m not going to give up on her, not like you did."

Your father flinches as if the words cut deeper than any physical wound. Your mother finally looks up, but her gaze is colder than Heeseung has ever seen it. It’s the same expression she’s always had—detached, cold, distant. Heeseung feels like he’s being suffocated by the weight of her disapproval.

"I don’t know what kind of person you are, but I know one thing," your mother says, her voice low but sharp. "You should have just stayed away from her."

Heeseung feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. The words cut deep, deeper than any of the harsh words your father has thrown at him. His body trembles as he fights the tears that burn in his eyes. He wants to scream, to tell them they’re wrong, to say that if anyone is to blame, it’s him. He’s the one who drove you into this situation. He’s the one who—

"I’m sorry," Heeseung whispers, his voice barely audible, but it’s enough to stop the conversation. "I’m sorry. I wish it had been me."

Your parents stand in silence, their expressions unreadable. It’s like they’ve turned to stone, frozen in time, unable to comprehend what’s happening.

And then, from the corner of the room, a voice breaks the silence.

"Her condition has not improved."

Heeseung turns to see the doctor approach, his face filled with the same grim expression as the others. The words he’s about to speak feel like a physical punch to Heeseung’s gut, and it’s as if the floor has dropped out from under him. His breath catches in his throat, and his heart thunders in his chest.

"She’s on life support," the doctor continues, his voice heavy with sorrow. "We’ve done everything we can, but her brain activity remains minimal. We’re not seeing any signs of recovery. It’s too soon to say anything for certain, but..." The doctor falters, searching for the right words. "We’re looking at a very difficult decision in the coming days."

Heeseung doesn’t hear the rest of the doctor’s words. They’re muffled, distorted, like he’s underwater. All he can focus on is the heaviness in his chest, the fact that you might never wake up. He might never see your smile again, never hear your laugh, never hold you close.

His hands shake, his body numb with disbelief. "No... no, there has to be something more you can do," he mutters, his voice raw with emotion. His heart cracks as reality begins to settle in, each word breaking him more. He can’t lose you. Not like this. Not after everything you’ve been through.

Your father’s voice breaks through the fog, harsh and accusatory. "It’s your fault."

Heeseung recoils as if struck, the sting of his words worse than any slap. The anger surges in him again, but it’s swallowed by a deeper, more suffocating grief. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. All he can see is the cold, sterile hallway, the sound of working machines, and your parents standing there, as if waiting for him to give up and leave.

But he can’t. He won’t.

"I’m not giving up on her," Heeseung says through gritted teeth, his voice shaking but filled with determination. "Not now. Not ever."

The words echo in the cold silence that follows, heavy and final. His heart aches, but he knows one thing for certain—he’s not walking away. He’ll stay here, by your side, until the end.

Your parents don’t say anything more. They just stand there, their faces twisted with grief, with regret, and with an anger that Heeseung can feel but doesn’t fully understand. He feels like he’s sinking, drowning in his own guilt and helplessness.

But he refuses to give up. He can’t. He won’t leave your side, not now. Not when there’s still a chance, no matter how small.

The soft hum of machines, the steady beeping of the monitors—these sounds are the background music to the bleak reality he faces every day. He doesn’t mind it though. In fact, he’s grown to find a strange sense of peace in the routine. It’s something familiar, something that keeps him tethered to you, even though you were not here in the way he needs you to be.

Heeseung’s routine starts the same way every day: he wakes up early, dragging his exhausted body out of bed with no real motivation other than the thought of seeing you, even if you can’t respond. He’s been doing it for a week now, visiting you every day without fail, even though every visit feels like a painful reminder of how fragile and fleeting your time together was.

But he needs this. He needs you.

Each day, he brings something new, something small to keep the connection alive between the two of you. Something that makes him feel like you were still there with him.

The first thing Heeseung does when he walks into the room is place a bouquet of fresh flowers on the table beside your bed. A familiar bouquet of wildflowers, just like the ones you two used to pick together by the riverbank. It’s a gesture that feels almost foolish, but it’s one that gives him a sense of normalcy, like you two were still living in a world where everything isn’t falling apart.

“Hey, Butterfly,” he whispers as he arranges the flowers carefully, his fingers brushing the soft petals. His voice cracks slightly, but he pushes through it. “You always liked these, didn’t you? I almost had to fight the florist to get you freshly cut ones.”

He stands there for a moment, his hand lingering on the edge of the vase. His gaze moves slowly over you, tracing the lines of your face. You look so peaceful, so still. But it’s not the kind of peace he wants for you. It’s the kind of peace that only exists in a place between life and death, in a space where there’s no room for movement, no room for growth. No room for him.

Heeseung can’t help but let his fingers gently caress the edge of your hand, still warm, but lifeless in its stillness. He wants to believe you’re still there, somewhere deep down, that the girl he loves is just waiting for the right moment to wake up.

But he’s learned not to get his hopes up too much. Every day feels like the last time. Every conversation, every touch, feels like a goodbye.

“I think you’d have laughed at how hard I had to work for something so simple,” Heeseung continues, his voice tinged with an emotion you can’t quite name. “You always had to have the best of everything, right? But I swear, I’m doing okay without you...”

His words trail off, leaving the space between you thick with the weight of all the things he can’t say, all the things he doesn’t need to say. You know. You always knew.

He’s been bringing you food, too. Anything he can think of to keep some semblance of your life together intact. Today, it’s tteokbokki, a dish you used to eat on late nights when you would run to the corner shop for some snacks. You would sit together on the curb, laughing and sharing the spicy, chewy rice cakes. Heeseung smiles as he places the container of warm tteokbokki beside you, just like he’s done a hundred times before.

“I bet you’d complain about the spice so I made sure to get the mild one today,” Heeseung says, his voice soft, the familiar teasing tone in his words bringing a small ache to his chest. “You know how you’d always whine about how I get the tteokbokki way too spicy for you. Well, this time I actually listened. See? I’m improving,” he forces a chuckle out.

His smile fades as he watches your face, hoping, praying, for some flicker of recognition. He’s not sure why he keeps doing this—bringing food, talking to you, pretending that everything is normal when nothing is. But that's all he can do. It’s all he has left.

He chuckles softly to himself, a bitter sound that mixes with the tears threatening to spill. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to eat all of this myself. Don’t tell anyone though, okay? I know how you are about sharing. If you wake up now, you might still be able to stop me.”

He picks up one of the rice cakes and takes a bite, savoring the familiar flavor that used to bring him comfort. He wonders if you can hear him. He wonders if you’re even aware of his presence, if you could even feel that he’s here. But the thought is fleeting, drowned out by the weight of everything that’s happened. The weight of what’s not happening.

The most difficult part about these visits was the talking. Heeseung doesn’t know what to say most of the time. He can’t bring himself to speak about the things he’s feeling, the overwhelming grief that sits heavy on his chest. Instead, he talks about the little things. The stupid things. Anything to fill the silence. He wishes he could take your hand and tell you how much he loves you, how sorry he is, how much he needs you back.

But instead, he shares his day with you.

“Jake did something stupid today. You would’ve laughed,” he says, his voice coming out with a soft chuckle despite himself. “He got stuck in the vending machine trying to grab a bag of chips. Can you believe that? He tried to push it and got his hand stuck, and I had to help him out. I swear, sometimes I think he’s a walking disaster.”

Heeseung chuckles to himself, remembering the ridiculousness of the situation. His heart aches as the sound of his own laugh echoes in the empty room. It feels so hollow, so lonely without you responding.

“I got it on video,” he continues, his smile faltering as the thought crosses his mind. “Remind me to show it to you when you wake up, okay? I’m sure you’ll love it. You always used to say how much you loved it when I filmed any of the stupid moments the guys do. You’d laugh so hard at him.”

He sets the phone down on the table beside you, showing you the video. It’s ridiculous, really—showing you a video of Jake being an idiot when you were just lying there, unresponsive. But it’s the only thing he can do to keep the illusion alive, to make it feel like everything is normal. Like everything was still the same.

The video plays in silence, the laughter in the background a stark contrast to the stillness of the room. Heeseung’s eyes drift back to your face, to the steady rhythm of your breath as you remain unmoving. Oh, the things he would do to hear your laugh once more. His heart breaks again, but he swallows it down, shoving his feelings aside to keep going.

“Please wake up,” he whispers softly, voice breaking as his eyes well up, leaning down to press a kiss against your forehead. “Please.”

But nothing changes. You don’t move. It makes him look down, holding your hand as he tries to stop the tears. The machines beep steadily, like a cruel reminder of the things he’s lost.

The days drag on like this—each one heavier than the last. But Heeseung keeps coming back. He keeps bringing the flowers, the food, the small moments of humor and normalcy that keep him grounded. He tells you about his day, about the boys’ latest antics, about how much he misses your smile. Every time, hoping against hope that one day, you’ll hear him, that one day, you’ll open your eyes and smile again.

But he’s not sure if he’s waiting for you to wake up or if he’s waiting for himself to wake up from this nightmare.

Either way, he’s here. He won’t leave. He can’t leave.

Not yet. Not when there’s still a chance.

Was there still a chance? The room feels colder today. The sterile scent of antiseptic lingers in the air, but there’s something else—something heavier, like the weight of the decision that looms over you both. Heeseung walks into the room, carrying the familiar bouquet of flowers. The ones that smell of freshly cut stems, a small comfort in this place that’s so full of emptiness.

He doesn’t smile anymore. There was a time, not so long ago, when his visits were full of laughter, of teasing remarks, of warmth. Now, it’s all silence between the two of you, the kind of silence that presses in from all sides, suffocating and hollow. The only sound is the soft beeping of the heart monitor, marking the time that continues to pass without you.

Heeseung places the flowers gently on the table beside your bed. His hands tremble, a subtle shake that betrays the strength he tries so hard to show. He stands there for a moment, just staring at you—at your still form, your unmoving chest. His eyes are red-rimmed from exhaustion, from the constant worry that clings to him like a shadow.

“Hey, Butterfly,” he whispers, his voice strained, cracking at the edges. “It’s been a month now. Please come back. Please wake up. I can’t do this without you.”

His words are desperate, but they hold a raw honesty that cuts through the silence. He’s said these words a hundred times before, each one heavier than the last, but they never seem to make a difference. You still lie there, unresponsive, unable to hear him, unable to answer.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I just want you back, Y/N. I need you. Please…”

There’s a small pause, a quiet stillness that stretches on. Heeseung doesn’t move. He simply stands there, his hand gripping the edge of the bed as though holding on for dear life. His tears fall, one by one, dripping onto the floor like raindrops on a quiet afternoon.

And then the door opens.

Your parents enter, their faces expressionless. They’ve been distant ever since the accident, as though they’ve been trapped in a state of disbelief, unable to accept what’s happened. But now, as they walked into the room, he could feel the tension between them. There’s something fragile in their gaze, something that has begun to crack under the pressure of their grief.

The doctor follows them into the room, his steps hesitant, his presence heavy. He speaks gently, but his words still manage to cut through the air.

“It’s been a month now,” he says softly, looking at the machines keeping you alive. “And there have been no improvements. The signs are clear. The brain activity… it’s just not there.”

Heeseung’s breath catches in his throat, and he looks up at the doctor, his expression raw with fear. “What does that mean?” His voice shakes, but he forces the words out. “What… what are you saying?”

The doctor hesitates for a moment before continuing, as though unsure of how to phrase it, unsure of how to say something so final. “I’m sorry, but it means that Y/N isn’t waking up. The chances of recovery are practically nonexistent. The machines you see around her are the only things keeping her body alive.”

Your parents exchange glances, and he can see the conflict in their eyes. They don’t want to let go. They can’t. They’ve spent years expecting their daughter to be their perfect little trophy, a reflection of their success. Letting you go would mean acknowledging that everything they’ve built their lives around is falling apart.

“We can’t make this decision,” your mother says quietly, her voice trembling. “We can’t just let her go. Maybe we should wait longer. There’s still a chance, isn’t there?”

Your father nods, his expression a mixture of frustration and sorrow. “We’ve waited this long. We can’t give up now.”

Heeseung watches them, his heart breaking as he listens to them speak. The words feel so distant, so detached from the reality of what you’re going through. He knows what needs to be done, but how does he say it? How does he tell them that holding on any longer would only prolong your suffering?

He steps forward slowly, his feet heavy as though every step is another burden he has to bear. He stands beside your bed, looking down at your motionless form. His hands shake as he reaches for yours, taking it gently in his own. His thumb brushes over your fingers, a small comfort in this moment of anguish.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore,” he says quietly, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I can’t watch her suffer like this. We’ve been waiting, but we’re not helping her. We’re just keeping her trapped here.”

He turns to face your parents, his eyes meeting theirs with a quiet intensity that makes them flinch. “Have you ever thought about how she felt? What she wanted?”

Her parents open their mouths to speak, but Heeseung doesn’t let them. His voice rises, sharper now, filled with a mixture of pain and frustration.

“She wasn’t happy,” he says, his eyes never leaving theirs. “She was hurting. Every day. She hated what you made her become, hated how you treated her like some… trophy. And now she’s like this, unable to escape, unable to speak for herself. Do you really think this is what she would’ve wanted?”

Your mother’s face crumbles, tears streaming down her cheeks as the reality of Heeseung’s words sinks in. Your father looks away, his expression haunted with guilt and regret.

“She didn’t deserve this,” Heeseung continues, his voice breaking. “She didn’t deserve any of it. But we have a chance to give her something—freedom. If we don’t let her go, she’ll stay like this forever. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? This isn’t living. It’s just surviving.”

Heeseung’s grip on your hand tightens, his knuckles turning white. “She deserves more than this. We owe it to her to set her free.”

Your parents stare at each other, their faces crumpling under the weight of their decision. They wanted to keep you with them, to hold on to the idea of their perfect daughter, but they see now that they’ve been selfish. They were blinded by their own need for control, and now they’re faced with the truth that it’s too late.

They begin to cry, their sobs filling the room with the heavy sound of regret. It’s too late for apologies. Too late for redemption. They failed you, and they know it.

Heeseung doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. His silence speaks louder than any words could. He moves to the side, his back stiff, as the doctor begins to adjust the machines.

The moment is unbearable. The quiet beeping of the monitors becomes a countdown, a reminder of how much time has passed, and how much of it you’ve already lost. Heeseung leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, as if trying to share a final moment with you, even if you can’t feel it.

The machines click, the rhythm of life slowing as the doctor presses a button, and then…

Silence.

Heeseung grips your hand tighter, his body shaking as he leans in closer. Tears fall from his eyes as he whispers, “You’re finally free, Butterfly,” he kisses your forehead for the last time.

The room is still, the weight of the moment sinking in. The hardest thing he’s ever had to do, the last thing he could give you, was to let you go.

And so, you fly free.

It’s been weeks since the funeral. The day is gray and overcast, the kind of day that mirrors the heaviness in Heeseung’s chest. The pain still lingers, a quiet ache that never seems to fade, no matter how much time passes. He doesn’t know if it ever will.

Today, like every other day, he finds himself at the cemetery. The place feels different now—distant, foreign, and yet, somehow familiar. It's where you rest, where the world keeps turning, but without you. Without the one person who had made him feel alive, the one person who had brought him comfort when the world felt too overwhelming.

He kneels in front of your grave, the earth freshly disturbed, a constant reminder of the hole that’s been left in his life. A bouquet of white lilies rests in his hands, their soft petals a stark contrast to the sorrow he feels. He places them gently on the grave, his fingers brushing the cold stone.

“Hey, Butterfly,” he says quietly, his voice shaky as he talks to you, though he knows you can’t hear him. "I’m here again. I know it’s been a while since I last came, but I still think about you. Every single day."

His words catch in his throat, and for a moment, he can’t speak. He forces himself to take a deep breath, wiping the tears that have begun to fall.

“I don’t know how to do this without you,” he confesses softly, his voice breaking. “I thought I could keep going. I thought I could keep pretending like everything was fine, like I was okay... but I’m not, Y/N. I’m really not.”

He stares at the gravestone, his hand trembling as it rests beside the flowers. His eyes drift to the small inscription etched into the stone—your name, your birthdate, and the date you were taken from him. He wishes it could all be a dream, a nightmare he could wake up from. But this is real. You’re gone, and no amount of wishing will bring you back.

“I keep thinking about all the things I never told you, all the moments we never got to share,” he continues, his voice thick with emotion. “We were supposed to be together. You were supposed to be here with me, laughing, living… everything we talked about. I keep replaying it all in my head—the way you smiled when we were together, the way you’d look at me like I was the only person in the world that mattered.”

A sob catches in his throat, and he covers his face with one hand, trying to hold it all in. His chest aches as the realization sets in—he’ll never get to see you again. Never get to hear your voice or feel your touch.

"I wish it had been me instead," he whispers, his voice so soft it’s barely a breath. "I wish I could’ve taken your place. I wish I could’ve protected you. I should have… I should’ve been there. But I wasn’t. And now you’re gone."

The words hang in the air, an apology he’ll never be able to deliver to you, no matter how many times he says them. Heeseung can’t help but feel like he failed you. He should’ve done more. He should’ve protected you better.

But the truth is, he never thought he’d lose you. You were supposed to be his forever.

“You finally spread your wings, huh?” he says with a small, broken smile, his eyes looking upward to the gray sky. "You always wanted freedom. You wanted to fly away from everything that held you back. I didn’t understand it then, but now... I get it. I understand why you needed to go, why you couldn’t stay here anymore. I just wish I could’ve been the one to give that to you."

The wind picks up, rustling the leaves around him. It’s almost as if it’s answering him, a soft breeze that wraps around his shoulders, offering him a fleeting moment of comfort. He closes his eyes, breathing in the air, letting the gentle breeze brush across his face.

A tear slips down his cheek, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. He doesn’t try to hide it anymore. The grief is raw and overwhelming, but there’s something cathartic about letting it out—letting it all go in this moment, with you.

Heeseung stands, his knees protesting as he slowly pushes himself up. He takes one last look at your grave, the bouquet of white lilies resting in front of it, a symbol of the purity and fragility of the love you shared. His heart aches, but there’s a faint sense of peace that settles over him, something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“I’ll never forget you,” he whispers, his voice a soft promise. “I’ll carry you with me every day, in everything I do. You’ll always be my Butterfly.”

With that, he turns and walks away, his footsteps heavy but determined. The wind continues to blow, and for a brief moment, it feels like you’re still there, watching over him. The world keeps turning, and though he knows it will never be the same without you, Heeseung holds onto the love you gave him, a love that will never fade, a love that will stay with him for as long as he lives.

And as he walks away, the wind seems to carry one last whisper. It’s quiet but unmistakable, like your voice on the breeze.

“Fly high, my Butterfly.”

And in that moment, Heeseung smiles through his tears. He knows you're free now. And maybe, just maybe, you'll be waiting for him on the other side when his time comes.

Taglist: @yunverie @dawngyu @hueningstar @hhoneyhan @immelissaaa @lovingbeomgyudayone @xylatox @i-like-to-read-at-4am @imlonelydontsendhelp @ode2soob @laylasbunbunny If you want to be tagged in all of my fics or change what groups to be tagged in, go here to be added to my permanent taglist.

Rei's Notes ✎: Another enhypen fic mweehehe, the angst agenda is back once again. This might be one of my faves so far, I hope it makes your eyes sweat like it did for me. It's been a while since I wrote this long again (other than red poppies cuz that was prepped for a while already) and this is the longest one i've written so far!! I might’ve projected a bit from real life experiences so it kinda hits home 😔🤚 As always I'd love to hear your thoughts and how this made you feel so leave a reblog or reply!! <33

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oopsiedaisydeer · 2 days ago

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ʜᴏᴛ ᴄʜᴏᴄᴏʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴄᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴀʟʟ

𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨… 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵

Her morning starts off… decent. She wakes up just the right amount of time before her alarm, her coffee isn’t burnt, she detangles her earphones in one go, and for once, the bus isn’t too packed.

But as soon as she steps into the office, the air becomes charged. Stiff. Heavy. Phones are ringing, voices are tense, and her inbox is already flooded with emails marked urgent.

“Did you get the schedule update?” someone asks before she even sits down.

“Can you call the supplier? Again?”

“Tell them we need it today. I don’t care what they said yesterday.”

She barely manages to put her bag down before the phone rings. Then another. And another. She answers, types, forwards messages, all while people come and go, barely acknowledging her except to dump more work on her desk. She’s used to it. Being the receptionist means being everyone’s go-between, but today, it feels like too much.

By mid-morning, her head aches, her stomach twists with frustration, and every clipped tone or impatient sigh directed at her makes her fingers tighten around her pen. At one point, she opens her mouth to complain.

“I swear, if one more person-” she stops herself mid-sentence, forcing a smile as someone passes by. She exhales sharply, resting her chin in her palm. “Never mind.”

By noon, the steady barrage of demands and stress has worn her down. She rubs at her temples, exhaling slowly. Her phone buzzes… a message from her fiancé. She glances at it, expecting something sweet, but it’s just a reminder that he won’t be home for dinner. Out with his friends. No question about her day. No ‘hope work’s not too crazy.’ Nothing.

Matt watches her from his desk. He might consider himself pretty above it all, but the tension in the office is getting to him too.

He’s been here long enough to know when people are on edge, but he’s also been here long enough to notice when she’s having a bad day. And right now, she looks like she needs a break.

He exhales sharply through his nose, logs out of his computer, and stands. Making his way over, he leans against her desk. “You busy?”

She gives him a look.

“Right. Dumb question.” Smiling, he taps the desk lightly, voice casual. “Want to get out of here for a bit?”

She hesitates. But when the phone rings again, she makes up her mind. An early lunch break might not be the worst thing in the world.

Five minutes later, they’re outside, hands wrapped around hot chocolate cups, the cold air sharp against their skin.

Matt can’t help but notice the flush on her cheeks from the wind, her hair a little messy in that way that makes her look even more like herself. It’s a small thing, but he finds it kind of… endearing. He takes a sip of his drink, leaning back against the brick wall outside the office building, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.

She sighs into her cup, the steam rising in front of her face, and it feels like the kind of relief she’s been needing. “Thanks for this,” she says, her voice lighter, almost like a weight's been lifted just by stepping outside.

He shrugs, looking at her over the rim of his cup. “What are friends for, right?”

She smirks, glancing at him with that look, half amused, half tired. “You’re the one who’s always telling me to ‘take a break.’ Funny how you always seem to be right.”

“Hey, I’m not always right,” Matt replies, though his grin gives him away. “But I’ve been around long enough to know when you’re about to snap.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Lucky me.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, giving her a wink. “I don’t just give out these rescue missions to anyone.”

She snorts, and for a second, it feels like the air between them has lightened, like the whole day is a little less heavy. Her shoulders relax, the tension slipping away.

“Seriously, though,” she says, setting her cup down on the low wall beside them, “you didn’t have to. I would’ve survived.”

“I know. But you looked like you could use a break. And I’ve got your back.” He pauses for a beat, then adds, “Besides, hot chocolate is a proven cure-all.”

She looks at him for a moment, the smile that was lingering earlier turning into something softer. “Yeah, well, maybe I should start asking you for more of these breaks. You’re good at picking the right moments.”

“You’re very welcome.” he says, tone teasing but warm. Genuine.

She hums in acknowledgement, looking around the quiet street for a moment before glancing back at him. “I guess I should head back before the chaos picks up again.” She pauses, and there's something almost reluctant in her tone. “But… thanks, really. I didn’t even know I needed this.”

He shrugs, not even pretending it’s a big deal. “Anytime. You know where to find me when you need a break from the madness.”

She offers him a final appreciative smile before heading back to the office, the door swinging shut behind her. Matt stays there for a second longer, watching her go, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She doesn't look back, but something in the way she walks, more at ease than when she left, tells him he did something right. Not just with the hot chocolate, but with this.

As he swings the door open and steps inside, he notices her at her desk again, fingers tapping absently on her keyboard. He doesn’t say anything, just watches her for a second longer than he probably should.

She looks up at him, catching his gaze for a beat longer than he expected. It’s subtle… almost like a silent recognition. He’s not sure if she’s aware of it, but the moment stretches between them, just long enough to make him feel like maybe, just maybe, there’s something more to these moments.

And maybe, just maybe, Matt had made her feel better. Not just with the hot chocolate, but with the moment itself.

thank u rose for the dividers! @bernardsbendystraws <3

a/n: would very much apperciate a hot chocolate with matthew rn tbh. tysm for all the love on this au !! means the world :>

taglist: @sturnshood @blushsturns @mattsstarlet @throatgoat4u @sturnsrecord @applecidersturniolo @certainfestivalnerdshepherd @sosasturns @ifwdominicfike @cheriiboo @sturns-mermaid @solarsturniolo @sturnberries @jellychs @mattscherries @mattsturnsgirlie @snoopychris @hjvi @loverboysturn @backwardshatnick @kriissy4gov @priscillaog @ribbonlovergirl @irmantez @corspebridedelrey @and-a-monochrome-vision @pretty-random-writer @ilovebirds17 @snoopymatt @princesspeach0-0 @blahbel668 @marysongohmy @sturnl0ve comment to be added/removed to this au's taglist!

cya soon <3

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formula-ghost · 2 days ago

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Wildflower (OP81 x fem!reader x LN4)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Even though you agreed to forgive Oscar, you realize quickly that nothing can go back to how it was before, and some old flames never die.

WORD COUNT: 10.1k

WARNINGS: Lando is very mean to reader behind her back, also reader is lowkey so dumb and frustrating but that's intentional.

TAGLIST: @at-a-rax-ia @henna006 @linnygirl09 @cassielikereading @judelina @supertrashbread @fastandcurious16 @widow-cevans @czennieszn @irisesinthegarden @wierdflowerpower @sweetwh0re @reginalaufeyson-holmes @honethatty12 @suns3treading @obxstiles @mimiastroos @mrs-reeves-17 @milkysoop @amalialeclerc @starksztony @llando4norris @ginsengi @angxlzinthesky @makanirock05 @htpssgavi @lilypat @1-queenofpotatoes-1 @ameliaalvarez06

A/N: A few things: (1) This one is for Billie. The Grammys did her DIRTY. (2) I realized I have horrifically messed up the pacing since real F1 races are so close together so we’re gonna pretend like there are a few weeks in between Imola and Monaco because this is my fanfic and I make the rules. (3) If this is bad I’m sorry, my life is a mess right now and I’m so sorry it took me so long to get this out to you guys! (4) I went back and found a few people that accidently got left out of the taglist, my bad! I’ve linked the previous chapters below so you can catch up (5) As always, I hope you all enjoy :)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

From your balcony, you sighed in contentment as you heard the gentle lapping of waves from the endless expanse of water that stretched out before you. There were yachts teeming with giggling models, the chattering of French spoken on the streets below, the buzz of such a city of opulence. It was music to your ears.

The view of Monaco was one you never thought you’d get tired of. The place, though so new, also felt so much like home to you. The streets were paved with hope and memory, the water brimming with joy yet to be.

All of it was yours. Because of Oscar.

Yet again, his name came to your mind to taunt you.

Maybe taunt was too strong of a word. You weren’t quite sure. You weren’t sure of much of anything, anymore.

Your interactions with your friend had been…awkward, to say the least. You had made a vow to yourself to forgive him, but he seemed…a little too excited to be forgiven, if that made any sense. He wanted to go back to the way that things had been before all of this, but how was that possible?

You had explored every inch of each other’s bodies. You had held each other in the heat of passion. How are you supposed to act as if none of that ever happened?

His words echoed in your brain. I can’t be the boyfriend you deserve. Not right now, at least.

You had never even asked Oscar to be official. The thought was too far-fetched. I just want my friend back in my life. Like all of that never happened.

Well, at least one of you got what you wanted.

But then again, you truly didn’t know what you wanted from him anymore. To Oscar’s credit, you weren’t exactly making it easy to get back in your good graces.

The one thing you had been sure you wanted was more independence. No more living in an apartment that Oscar owned, or letting him jetset you across the world to his races and paying for all your expensive dinners.

No, it was time to be your own woman. That meant leaving Monaco.

So you took advantage of every morning you still had in this city that you’d grown to love, knowing that soon, you’d have to leave.

“You don’t have to go.”

Oscar’s voice floated into your ears. He had practically moved in; he was trying to sell his larger apartment, and the place was constantly swarming with real estate agents and potential buyers. Even if it wasn’t so hectic, he hated being there alone, and you refused to go back there with him. Not after the confrontation with Lily back in Imola.

“You don’t have to leave,” he repeated. “I know you’re thinking about it.”

Sometimes it felt like Oscar could read your mind.

“Yes I do,” you responded, sipping your tea, not shifting your gaze from the water.

“I can just give you the apartment, if you’re worried about it being in your name. I can pay the gift tax too.”

“No,” you whispered.

“I have more money that I’d ever know what to do with, YN—”

“I don’t,” you said, keeping your voice steady. “So I can’t stay here.”

Oscar knew his arguments were all in vain. You were nothing if not stubborn.

“I need you here,” he said.

“I’ll be just across the border.” It was more than likely; you could probably get a decent apartment in Nice within your budget.

“And what about at my races?”

“I’ll always come to Monaco.” You were also contemplating quitting your job; you hadn’t said it aloud yet, but Oscar knew. You were just waiting until you found something stable to quit. It was only a matter of time.

He was already pushing his luck. You walked past him back into the apartment and the Aussie sighed.

He didn’t have long to fix all that he had fucked up.

Especially considering your newfound friendship with Lando, although you had done your best to keep that hidden. Something about it felt…wrong. Like a betrayal.

Morning pretty girl, read the message from the Brit on your phone. You smiled but rolled your eyes. Lando’s playful flirting and banter was comical to you. Of course, it meant nothing. Lando wasn’t your type, and you weren’t his.

You shot him back a good morning text of your own, before setting your phone down in the living room to clean up your breakfast. Your phone buzzed again, and Oscar grabbed it.

“You got a message from…Lando?”

“Put my phone down, Oscar.”

“Why are you texting Lando?”

“Am I not allowed to have friends?”

You walked back into the living room, where Oscar handed you your phone. You plopped down on the couch, opening the device to see what he had texted you.

You up for a coffee later today? There’s a new cafe I’ve been wanting to try.

You texted back quickly, affirming that you’d be there.

“What did he want?”

“Oscar, seriously? I’m grown.”

“I’m just curious.”

“He just wanted to get coffee later today.”

“He asked you on a date?” His face was red with impending anger.

“It’s not a date. It’s coffee. Amongst friends and coworkers, which we are. You weren’t this worried when you all left me with him in Italy,” you said, staring into the stitches on the decorative pillows on your couch.

“Things were different then.”

His words were dripping with some unrecognizable emotion—regret, maybe, or sadness. You couldn’t be sure. But it startled you.

So you ignored it, instead grabbing your laptop and headphones before sitting at your kitchen table. “I have to get this stuff done,” you said, and Oscar just nodded.

He had his own work to take care of.

Later that afternoon, as you wrapped up your work and got ready to meet Lando at the cafe, you were already feeling Oscar’s absence throughout your small apartment.

It was like being stuck between a rock and a hard place; you wanted to stay in Monaco, to stay by Oscar’s side, for everything to stay the way that they had always been. But you knew that you just couldn’t.

“Why?” Lando asked, sipping on some fancy tea ordered from the admittedly adorable cafe in a hidden corner of Monte Carlo. Despite your better judgements, you had confided in him about your anxieties regarding the future. “Why would you need to leave so badly? I don’t get it. Just let him pay for all your shit. It’s the least he can do.”

“No, I’ve relied on him for too long,” you answered. “I just need to be more of myself. We’ve always been so…intertwined.”

“I know you two are close.”

“No, it’s more than that. It’s like…our lives are just, I don’t know, connected? Like I didn’t know where my story ended and his began. It’s hard to explain.”

“You must be heartbroken.”

You raised a brow. That wasn’t quite the word you’d use. “What do you mean?” you asked.

“Well, to have all of this happen. You must miss him a lot.”

“Oh, well, he practically lives with me,” you laughed. “This all started because we got into it before Miami, but we’ve made up now. It’s just hard having to navigate all the logistics.”

“Oh,” he replied, his voice tinged with a snark that you weren’t quite sure what to make of. He raised his eyebrows and took another sip of his tea.

“What?” you asked.

“Well, it’s just…I mean, that was quick.” He wouldn’t meet your gaze. “Back in Imola, you seemed pretty pissed at him.”

“I was. But,” you paused, swirling a small spoon around your own drink, “That crash was bad. Things like it just put everything in perspective, you know?”

“So everything’s fine between the two of you now, because he hit a wall?” Lando chuckled, sarcasm dripping from every word.

You looked up, your brows furrowed in confusion. “Really?”

“I just think you deserve better. You shouldn’t have to beg someone to love you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek before replying, “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but that’s not what’s happening at all.”

“It isn’t?”

“Who told you any of this?” you asked.

You didn’t know that Oscar had told him everything, that drunken night after Miami. And what you didn’t know, Lando decided, couldn’t hurt you. He liked having the upper hand, dropping little hints that his knowledge was far beyond what anyone thought. “Why does that matter? It’s obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes.”

“Just like it was so obvious that Oscar was cheating on me with Lily?” You looked back down to the now cold contents of your cup.

Lando was silent for a minute. “Things don’t have to be like this, YN.”

“It’s funny, cause that’s exactly what Oscar told me.”

“Why do you let him get away with all this shit?”

“Do you really think I just welcomed him back into my life like nothing happened? Forgiveness isn’t that simple. Just because we’re not screaming at each other doesn’t mean that everything is fine. It’s… complicated.”

“I’m sure it is. But can I ask you a question?”

You just tilted your head in response, mentally preparing for whatever curveball he’d throw you next. You liked the banter with Lando; it was challenging, like a back and forth dance, or a chess game.

Lando leaned in close, lowering his voice. “You said Oscar practically moved in with you. Where does he sleep at night?”

You laughed at the implication. “I’m not sleeping with him anymore.”

“Anymore?” he asked.

You paused, your smile fading. Lando’s smile spread ear to ear.

You had lost the game, finally revealing the truth without even intending to.

“You’re good, Norris,” you said, swirling your spoon around the cup just to give your hands something to do. “Too good. You know, Oscar’s not too fond of me being here.”

“I’m sure he’s not,” Lando replied. “I’m sure he tells you all sorts of horrible things about me.”

“Are they true?” you asked, though Oscar had told you nothing of the sort. His hesitations came off more as paranoid ramblings rather than juicy gossip or evidence-based skepticism.

Lando leaned in and smirked at you. “Why don’t you roll over in bed tonight and ask him?”

Your phone buzzed as you fumbled in your bag for your keys outside your front door. You spotted the lanyard, and held your phone in one hand as you closed your bag in the other.

It was really nice to see you today. I’d like to do it again.

You let out a half laugh, half exhale. Lando was… fun. Dangerous, in a way. He had a mysterious air about him that surprised you, and it was intoxicating.

You knew you needed to be more careful about what you let slip. He seemed to know every detail, all coming from some phantom source you couldn’t trace. Being a social media manager, you were acutely aware of how easily words could get misconstrued and livelihoods could be destroyed.

But so was Lando, and after all, it wasn’t like he was a stranger to controversy.

You unlocked the door to your apartment and locked your phone. You’d get to that text later. For now, you had a seemingly endless mountain of work—domestic and professional—to tackle.

But as you set down your bag, you heard the familiar sound of your kitchen sink running.

Oscar was…doing dishes?

You made your way into the kitchen and stood in the entryway. “You didn’t have to do that,” you said. “I was just about to take care of it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“You should be, like, training or something, not doing my dishes.” You smiled. He didn’t.

“How’d your afternoon with Lando go?” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the sink, facing you. His expression was unreadable.

Truthfully? Odd. Exhilarating. Anxiety-inducing. But you couldn’t say that to Oscar now.

And as you saw his imposing form, even sloped away from you, the words that the Brit had planted in your head echoed.

The more time you spent with Lando, the more tense you were with Oscar. You recognized that.

“It was fine,” you said. You guessed that was the right word to use, at least.

Oscar hung his head low, studying the floor. He was nervous. “Can I tell you something, friend to friend?”

“What?”

“I don’t really like you spending time with Lando.”

You just looked at him, stopped in your tracks by his audacity. “Are you serious?”

“You know he’s up to nothing good, right? Conveniently hitting you up when we’re fighting for the championship, and then he ran brake checked me into the fucking wall in Imola—”

“Oh my God, you are serious.”

“I don’t know what he’s told you, but you can’t trust him.”

“Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds coming from you?”

“YN, just hear me out—”

“Now now, Oscar,” you said, grabbing your headphones and laptop and walking out onto your balcony.

You took a deep breath before slipping your headphones on and trudging through the work.

You closed the laptop as the sun began to set over Monaco. Oscar walked out onto the patio and sat next to you.

“I’m going to say this once,” he said. “Please just listen to me, YN. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“I know,” he said. “But I know a liar when I see one. He doesn’t love you, YN. He’s just using you.”

You were digging your nails into your palm.

“I don't know what his game is, but we’re all just pawns in it,” he said, his tone more frantic.

“I need to go to bed,” you said. ‘I have to be up early,” you walked past him into the apartment, but he grabbed you by the sleeve.

“YN, listen to me!”

You turned around to face him, your anger now fully unleashed. “Has it ever occurred to you that someone might just like me for me? Can you even imagine a man loving me for more than my body? He’s never even tried to get in my pants.”

“I see the way he looks at you.”

“And so what if he does?”

“He’s trying to drive a wedge between us.”

“You’re the only one driving a wedge between us, Oscar.”

“YN, I’m just saying this because I’m worried about you! You shouldn’t trust him.”

“And I should trust you instead?”

Oscar paused. “YN, I love you and—”

“Stop. Just…stop. I actually do have to go to bed.” You wiped your eyes, swatting away the faintest trace of tears that had come up. “I have to go look at an apartment tomorrow.”

Oscar bit his lip and huffed. “I thought you had forgiven me, YN.”

“I have.”

No. At the hospital, in Imola. I asked you to forgive me so we could be friends again and you said yes. Then you go and start flirting with my teammate and saying you're going to leave Monaco. I don't understand why you’re still so mad at me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Oscar, none of this is about you!” you exclaimed. “I mean, it is, but this isn’t some petty act of revenge. This is about the fact that I need my own life.”

“I used to be part of your life.”

“You used to be my entire life,” you said, and laughed. “Shit, you still are. You don’t get it.”

“I guess I don’t.”

You both paused, soaking in the tension of the scene.

“And you didn’t ask for my forgiveness,” you said. “You asked to act like none of this ever happened. I can’t do that. We…crossed a line. Things are different now.”

The tiniest part of you wanted to hop back on the other side of that line and drag Oscar into your bedroom right now. You craved the feeling of him stretching you, your hands clawing up his back or burying themselves in his hair as he buried his tongue—

“You said never again,” he whispered. “But we both still feel the same, don’t we?”

“I really need to go to bed.”

That night, Oscar took the couch. It didn’t matter. You couldn’t sleep.

As you tossed and turned, you considered Oscar’s word against Lando’s, Lando’s against Oscar’s.

Lando had said you shouldn’t forgive Oscar. And to his credit, Oscar was making that very difficult. But had you not given your best friend your word?

And what Oscar had said about Lando; he wasn’t trustworthy, he was just using you as a pawn. You hated to admit it, but it was probably true. Hell, Lando would never go for a girl like you. But the back and forth of your banter brought you a thrill you hadn’t felt in months.

Shit, you had never texted him back. Did you really want to see him again?

You didn’t know how long this charade could go on, until Lando got whatever it is that he really wanted. But Oscar’s words still burned you with fury.

I’d love to.

You rode the train to Nice like a zombie, traversing the shitty apartment with lead feet, yawning the entire time. You weren’t missing much.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Oscar, and you read it on the train ride back.

I’m sorry for last night.

It’s fine, you replied.

Almost instantly, another message. No, it’s not. I should have just minded my own business.

You were too exhausted to think of a reply, needing all your energy to make it from the train station back to your apartment in Monaco unscathed and collapse on the bed.

“How was the apartment?” Oscar asked from the bathroom, preoccupied with his shaving.

“Shitty,” you mumbled, face into the pillow.

Oscar looked over. “Sleep badly last night?”

“You don’t even know,” you huffed. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Buyer,” he said simply, sparing your exhausted brain the boring details of real estate management.

You made some unintelligible noise in response. “Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll wake you up when I’m back, yeah?”

You handed him a thumbs up as you pulled the covers over you and fell asleep within minutes.

Oscar would have given anything to be back in that bed, curled up next to you. Instead, he was inside his old, empty apartment, with Lily.

It had been in her name too, after all. She had to be there for the sale, though neither were too happy to see each other. They looked over documents wordlessly, shuffling the papers back and forth between them, just anxious to get it over with.

As the lawyers and real estate agents packed up their belongings, Lily sighed, clearly unamused. “It's a bit ridiculous that I had to fly all the way to Monaco for that, no?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Oscar said, doing his best to make idle conversation. “So, how are things at work?”

“Fine,” she replied, her lips pursed. “How’s the season going?”

“You haven’t been watching?” he asked.

“I’m busy on Sundays.”

“Ah.” The tension was thick. “It’s been okay.”

Lily bit the inside of her cheek, determining how far she wanted to take her next move. “How’s YN?”

“Fine,” he replied, too quick and sharp to be genuine.

“That’s not what I heard,” she said. “I heard you made a move on her days after we broke up, and she dumped you because she felt so bad about it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oscar said, a reflex more than a conscious choice to lie.

“Yes you do,” she replied. “And honestly, you all deserve each other.” Her words dripped with venom.

“Why do you care?” Oscar replied, his polite exterior broken by the confrontation. “Isn’t that exactly why you left? But now you’re mad because I actually did it.”

“I thought you were better than that. I wish you could have proven me wrong,” she said. “Oh my God, I was so stupid. Lando was right,” she said, bringing her palm to her forehead and fixing her gaze on the floor.

“Wh— Lando?”

“Why do you think I finally got the nerve to tell you how I felt? Lando knew you were cheating. And I don’t care what you or her say, I don’t believe you anymore. There’s no way you just…crawled into her bed 4 days after I left you. You had to have been cheating.”

“Lily, I never cheated on you. Why would Lando tell you that?”

“Because it was happening right in front of my eyes! And for so long I just ignored it and pushed it all down.” Her eyes were prickling up with tears, the effect of the emotion being so fresh in the presence of her now ex-lover. “I just told myself that you all were friends. It was normal for your boyfriend to look at his best friend like that. Oh, yes, it’s so normal for your boyfriend to bring his girl best friend on every vacation, every night out, every trip home! I can’t believe that your fucking teammate had to be the one to open my eyes.”

“Lily,” Oscar repeated, “I never, never, cheated on you. Yes, I was a horrible boyfriend. And yes,” he paused and sighed before continuing, ‘YN and I… it’s complicated. But never before you left. I don’t know what the hell Lando is telling you but it’s a lie.”

“You’re the only liar. You and YN. She acts like she’s so honest, but I know. You had to have been cheating. You all wanted each other for years.”

“Lily—”

“Don’t, Oscar,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It doesn’t really matter anymore. What’s done is done. I just hope you two are happy.” Lily grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter and swiftly left the apartment, leaving behind only the soft clicking of her heels against the tile of the hallway, and the echo of what once was, reverberating around the apartment before slowly fading into the quiet of the afternoon.

Back at your place, Oscar entered quietly, careful not to wake you. All he wanted was to sleep.

He slowly took off his shoes and jacket, sinking into the bed next to you. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep; his mind was racing, his nervous system wired. But he wanted to rest, to feel the warmth and weight of your sleeping body next to his own. For just a moment, the world could stop, and he would feel okay again.

But it couldn’t be. You had always been a light sleeper. The mere sound of his opening and closing the front door had caused you to stir. The feeling of his weight down on the bed led you to rise, stretching your arms about your head before rubbing your eyes.

Oscar couldn’t help it; his eyes glanced to the exposed skin of your stomach from where your shirt rode up when he stretched. You had said no more sex, and he respected that. But it didn’t mean that he wanted you any less.

“What time is it?” you mumbled.

“Almost five,” he answered.

“Oh, shit,” you said. You hadn’t expected to sleep this long. You looked over to Oscar, who was hiding his face in his hands. “You can have the bed, I’ll go make food.”

You swung your legs over the bed, but Oscar reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Stay,” he said. “Please.”

That woke you up quick. Oscar could feel the blood pulse through your veins as he held your wrist, a whispered plea for comfort.

“Osc…”

“Lily was there. At the apartment.”

“I don’t think—”

“She said…God, YN, I feel like I’m going fucking crazy.”

“Let go of my arm, please.”

Oscar awkwardly let you go, not realizing that he had essentially kept you pinned to the spot. You wordless rose and left the room for the kitchen.

As you stirred the pot of food to a simmer, you watched the little bubbles rise to the top, like the little kernels of emotion that ran through you. If it were up to you, you’d close the lid on them and leave them forever. But then the house could burn down.

What an apt metaphor.

But truly, you knew you were trying to outrun something, a force so strong you couldn’t ignore it.

Love, lust, desire? It couldn’t be named. Unfortunately, it followed you around the apartment.

“How are we friends if we can’t even talk?” Oscar said, having followed you to the kitchen, now standing in the doorway. What he was doing was a bit unfair, cornering you here when you couldn’t really leave. But what else could he do?

“You can talk to me,” you said. “Just not in my bed.”

You refused to look at the Aussie, instead putting all your focus into chopping the vegetables, drowning out his words in the sharp sounds of the knife tearing through the onion and shallots.

“Lily was there. She told me that Lando told her that I cheated on her with you.”

You snorted. “What are we, back in middle school? He said, she said?”

“Well, considering she left me over it, I don’t find it very funny.”

“Oscar, you never cheated. Everyone knows that.”

“Lando is—”

“Who cares what Lando says?” You used the flat blade of the knife to swipe the chopped vegetables off the cutting board and into the pot.

“I care!”

“Do you blame him for thinking we were hooking up?”

“I blame him for putting thoughts in my girlfriend’s head that weren’t true.”

You put the knife on the counter with a thud. “Ex-girlfriend.”

Oscar paused, mentally cursing himself for the slip of words. “I’m just saying, he’s going around saying things without any regard to what damage they may cause.”

“You sound paranoid,” you said, grinding salt and pepper into the mixture.

“I just…” Oscar grasped for the right words, careful to not let his frustration take over, “I would just really appreciate it if you don’t tell him anything. Because he already took her from me.”

You put the lid back on the pot and turned the heat down. “The male audacity never ceases to amaze me.”

“What?”

“Oscar, she didn’t leave you because Lando was poisoning her thoughts, or whatever. She left because she was unhappy.”

“She left because she felt threatened by you. Because of what Lando said.”

You finally turned around to face him, your cheeks now red with frustration. “It only took you four days to prove her right! This isn’t about Lando. This is about the fact that you still can’t accept what you did. With her or with me.”

“You wanted it, too,” he responded, his voice now low and husky. “And you still want it. Deep down, you know it.”

You swallowed, suddenly noticing how his arms filled out the sleeves of his shirt just right, and how the blood rushed to his cheeks while he was angry, painting his face a delightful shade of blush.

“That’s irrelevant.”

“If I’m guilty, then so are you. Because you imagined every second of it.”

“Not like this,” you whispered. “And you did too.”

He stepped forward, closing the gap between you two. “Stop talking to Lando.”

Your voice rose to a normal level, relieved by the changed tension. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

God, how badly you wanted him to push you up against the wall and take you right then and there. No, you couldn’t. But he was right.

You had wanted this. You were guilty.

It was eating you alive.

The Monaco Grand Prix. The epitome of glitz and glamor, wealth and class, speed and history. It was everything that you and Oscar loved about the sport of Formula 1, right from the comfort of your backyard.

Well, not for much longer. But that was a thought you were trying to avoid.

You had looked at a couple more apartments in your budget, only to be disappointed by all of them. Of course, nothing could beat the picturesque view you had right outside your living room every morning.

If it were up to you, you would have watched the race from your balcony, but duty called. You put on your best face of professionalism for the weekend.

It turns out, going back to being “just friends” was a paradox. You couldn’t; not after the unhealed wounds, the ghost of phantom touches and unforgettable nights that still haunted both of you.

But even when you pretended, you couldn’t deny the sexual tension that underlied every interaction.

You had almost forgotten that feeling; it lingered after your first encounter with Oscar, where you had taken each other’s virginity, but it had been different then. Only a few days and a handful of awkward texts before things just went back to normal. He went back to the UK, you went back to school, he met Lily, and the rest was history.

But now, it was inescapable, breaking into every crack and crevice of the apartment, in every breath between you two that held a second too long of eye contact.

It was torture. At least professionalism was somewhat of a reprieve.

You raised your camera up to take a shot of Oscar walking out of the McLaren garage, thankful to be able to hide behind your lens. Through it, you could see the strained outline of his muscles underneath his fireproof shirt. His hair was glistening with sweat, and his chest heaved, letting out a frustrated sigh at the results of quali.

“Care to get a picture of the pole sitter, YN?” you heard behind you, and turned to see Lando’s cheeky grin as he shook his hair. His discarded balaclava was in one hand, and he ran his other through his loose curls, balancing his helmet on his hip.

You let out a small huff of a laugh and snapped a quick picture.

“Let me see,” he said, walking next to you. You held up the small screen for him to see.

“Wow, you make me look good,” he teased.

“Oh no,” you bantered back, “that’s the magic of editing.”

“No way. The only Oscar can look that good on Instagram is because you’re behind the camera.”

You laughed out of reflex at the crude joke. “Actually,” you said, “most pics I take don’t make it to social media.” Lando raised an eyebrow. You continued, “Yeah, most of what we post is from the actual photographers. Leave the beautification to the professionals.”

“Really?” he asked.

“Well, I just like to take pictures, but I’m not very good at it. Most of my actual work is all the boring stuff with the merch.”

Lando’s grin returned. “So all those pictures you took of me at Imola, was that just because you wanted to look at my face, huh?”

“I’d need more than just photoshop to make you look pretty, Norris.” You both knew the joke was false. Lando was perfect—tanned skin, chiseled body, brown coils catching the sunlight and caused golden highlights to cascade through his locks. You couldn’t deny that Lando Norris was fucking hot.

“Ouch! And here I thought you liked me,” he joked. “Considering I’m taking you out to dinner, and all.”

You looked over your shoulder, checking for any other McLaren drivers who may be listening. But Oscar was far out of sight.

“Just a little friendly meal between colleagues,” you said, a tense smile coming to your face.

“Keep telling yourself that, love,” he said, before being called over to the media tent.

You gave him another smile as he walked off, but truthfully, you weren’t exactly excited. You weren’t quite sure what to make of Lando, especially given Oscar’s reservations. Getting this close to him, especially in public, was…dangerous.

You felt that familiar knot of anxiety in your stomach. Maybe Oscar was right.

But Lando turned around and flashed you his award winning smile and a wink, and you giggled out of reflex. Maybe Oscar’s paranoia was wearing off on you.

It didn’t matter now. You had a job to do.

Which was very hard to do, considering that no one could find Oscar after he left the media pen.

Unbeknownst to you, Oscar was back in his driver’s room, doing anything he could to avoid losing his mind.

Quali had gone horribly. At a track like Monaco, where overtaking was so scarce, he had essentially sighed away potential points. And to make it all worse, Lando had gotten pole, and to celebrate, he had stood in front of Oscar’s own garage, chatting you up without a care in the world.

Oscar couldn’t even bear to see it. He had trudged off to the media pen, quickly gave his statement, then booked it to the room to be alone for a while.

But it felt like he was going crazy. He couldn’t relax, his leg bouncing up and down at a fervent pace, his breaths strained. Was he having a panic attack? This must be close to it.

But no, it wasn’t panic. It was anger. He felt like a cringy teenager, wanting to punch a wall, ro drive a car way too fast (as if he didn’t already do that for a living), or… no. He couldn’t go there. He couldn’t indulge his most unhealthy coping mechanism. Not now.

But he felt all the blood rush down south at even the mere thought of the last time he had you in his driver’s room.

No. No, no, he said to himself again and again. You had said no sex. He didn’t want you to feel used. But just the memory of your mouth on him, the curves of your body underneath his own, was enough to rile him up.

There were too many people outside. He could hear their voices outside the door. The whole damn country of Monaco was too small; there was nowhere to hide from his urges, or from you, for that matter.

Not that he usually wanted to. But he had a little problem to take care of.

His phone buzzed. A text from you.

Where are you?

What was he supposed to say? Hiding from you, because I’m so stupidly aggravated and horny that I can’t even be around you for fear of ruining our friendship?

He let out an angry groan into a pillow to muffle his frustrations. It wasn’t just the physical aspect that he missed; he missed your warmth, the comforting weight of you beside him in the bed, the tentative way you were always just an arm length’s close, never more, never less.

He should have held you. He should have made you feel loved and not used. It haunted him every day. And yes, he was paying the price for it.

“Congrats on pole, man!” he heard, the voice clear enough to indicate that someone was outside his door.

“Thanks,” Lando’s voice replied, before he heard the familiar sound of the door around the corner opening and closing.

Yeah, he was definitely paying the price.

Oscar contemplated not going back to your place tonight.

He still had a few days where he could sleep in his old apartment before the sale fully went through. On one hand, the place was empty and quiet, devoid of life and love. He’d be alone with his thoughts—for better or worse.

On the other hand, he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep anywhere except your bed or couch. He had gotten too used to the familiarity of your apartment. And he wanted to savor every second of you living in Monaco, before your inevitable departure.

He finally decided against a night of solitude. By the time he finally left the circuit, you were nearly ready to go to bed.

“Jesus, Osc, where have you been?” you asked, and you tried to ignore how his eyes traced the bare skin of your thighs in your sleep shorts.

“At the track,” he said.

“Well, no shit,” you said, “but no one could find you. I texted you and you never responded.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Quali was just…shit.”

He seemed reluctant to answer where he had actually been, so you didn’t press the issue, but you couldn’t ignore the elephant in the room much longer.

“I’m sorry,” you said. You sat on your couch next to him, where Oscar had his head buried in his hands. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just a headache.”

“I can get you—”

“I’m fine,” he said again, this time quicker and more dismissive.

“Osc…”

“I just wanna go to bed,” he whispered.

“Okay,” you said. “You can take the bed tonight.”

It broke your heart to see him so down. Things were nearly as bad as when Lily had first left him. It scared you—there was only one way that you were able to really help him in that scenario, and you couldn’t go there.

“Just let me grab my phone charger,” you said, getting up to go to the room. He followed you, walking like a zombie. When you turned to leave, he moved to let you walk past, then sat on the bed, hunched over.

You stopped in the doorway, looking him up and down.

He looked up at you, locking eyes, and it took everything in you not to scoop him up in your arms and kiss him. He looked so…pathetic, sad, something you couldn’t quite name.

You really needed to find a new apartment soon. Or kick him out.

You couldn’t do either.

Amongst the many things you could not do was sleep. It was 3 in the morning. Against your better judgement, you slipped into your room, praying that Oscar was still asleep.

You just wanted to see him. To gaze upon his face, smoothed with rest, imbued with the peace of sleep despite the stress of the day. Maybe when he was asleep, you could really pretend that none of this had ever happened.

As you softly slipped next to him under the covers, his eyelids fluttered open and met yours.

“You can’t sleep either?” he softly whispered, to which you shook your head. You adjusted, rolling over to your side to face him, curling up into the blankets as cozy as you could get. His eyes never left your form.

Neither of you knew what to do. You felt like strangers.

You had been avoiding any real discussions like the plague. But seeing him now, so vulnerable, you finally broke. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?” you whispered.

“I don’t want to argue,” he replied.

“We won’t. I’ll listen, I promise.”

His eyes drafted down to your lips, then back up to your eyes to meet your gaze. You both knew what was going unsaid. But still he spoke, saying, “I’m lonely. I miss Lily and I miss you. I know that I did this, and that’s why it hurts even more. And I’m so scared of losing you forever.”

His eyes welled up with tears as he continued. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Feeling so far from you, feeling like strangers. I wish I could have shown you how I felt earlier. I wish I didn’t hurt you and drive you away. And I know it’s all my fault. But it hurts.”

“Oscar…” you began, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. But the words didn’t find you.

“The championship is all I have left, and I can’t even focus because of fucking Lando. And I’m scared that he’s up to something and that he’s going to hurt you too, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

“There is something…odd about him,” you said. “I get what you mean.”

“Can I ask you something?” Oscar said, and you nodded. “Does he make you happy?”

“It’s not like that,” you replied. “It’s… I don’t know, like a back and forth. I don’t know what his aim is. It feels like a game. But it kind of scares me.”

“Then why do you keep talking to him?”

“I don’t know.” That was a lie. You did know. “I guess because I feel like I can’t talk to you.”

Oscar bit the inside of his cheek. He understood what you meant. That didn’t mean that it wasn’t like a knife to the chest.

“It’s not…like this. I know we can talk like this. But it’s…” you stopped, swallowing hard. You had to say it. Somebody had to say it.

Maybe you’d regret it in the morning. But you couldn’t stop now.

“It’s like…” you began, choosing your words carefully, “I wanted you for so long. And then I had you, but it…it wasn’t right.” Your eyes drifted downward, tracing the soft sliver of light that rested on Oscar’s exposed arms. “I don’t know how not to want. But I can’t want you anymore. Because now I can have you too easily.”

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Yes, you do,” you responded. “You said it the other day. We both want it. But we can’t do it right.”

You spoke around the issue, carefully tiptoeing around the discussion of…desire? Lust? Wanting, you had called it. Every word you had said was true. He had felt it earlier in the day. You were feeling it too.

He could change everything. He could just reach out his hand and touch you. But he was frozen, and so were you.

“What’s so wrong about it?” he asked.

“You didn’t touch me like you loved me. You hurt me. And I loved the way it hurt. But…”

“I’ll make love to you right now if you’ll let me. I’d do it right, show you how I really feel.”

The air around you was electric with intensity, like the very first night that he touched you. In the same darkness, you had finally gotten what you so desperately wanted. And you could have it now, if not for one thing.

“I know you would,” you whispered, “and you don’t even know how badly I want it. But… what about her?”

“Her?” he asked, confused.

“Lily.”

The silence that filled the room was heavy, and it threatened to suffocate both of you.

“Lily left you. Because of me,” you said.

“Because Lando was putting thoughts in her head.”

“Thoughts that weren’t far off the truth.”

“So, what? You’re going to deny yourself what you always wanted, for years, because she was here first? Because I fucked up?”

Oscar’s wording made it sound so trivial. And truthfully, you had been there first.

“How did you feel when you first saw Lando talk to me?” you asked.

“Pissed. Like I wanted to run him off the track.”

“That’s how Lily felt for years. And she didn’t say anything, and we lied to her and to ourselves until the very end.”

“It’s not the same, though. You know that.”

“The details don’t matter. What matters is that the guilt is eating me alive. I feel like I’m drowning. Even if things between us were better…I don’t want to do that to her.”

“What if she never forgives us? Are you just going to let that ruin our friendship?”

You looked away from him, unable to handle the intensity of his gaze. You couldn’t answer his question.

“I feel like,” you said, “whatever Lando is up to, I know it’s not good, but I deserve it. I deserve him.”

“That’s the most stupid logic I’ve ever heard.” Oscar replied. You laughed. Oscar didn’t.

He reached out and touched your cheek, causing your eyes to dart back to his. No matter how badly you wanted to avoid him, you couldn’t look away from his gaze that pierced right through you. He saw something deeper. He saw you, in a way no one else could or would. And it was terrifying.

“YN,” he whispered. “Forget what everyone else said, forget all the messy feelings. What do you want?”

I want you.

That’s what you would have said, if you were not a coward, if you could truly let him in and even try to imagine a world in which your emotions and desires didn’t feel like an ocean that you were close to drowning in.

“I don’t know,” you replied. That was a lie. You knew it. He knew it. He knew that you knew that he knew it. He just looked at you, biting the inside of his cheek. You wouldn’t admit it. Not after everything that had happened.

In that way, things had gone back to normal.

You turned over to stretch, seeing the first rays of sunlight tinge your window the slightest shade of pink.

“We should get some sleep. Goodnight, Oscar,” you said, pulling the blanket higher and closing your eyes for a brief sleep.

Come the next morning—really, only a few hours later—Oscar’s anger from the previous day had faded to a depression. All he wanted was for you to hold him, or for him to hold you, but your words still hung heavy in the air.

This was your punishment, for both of you.

But by the time he finally dragged himself out of the warm comfort of your bed, you were already nearly ready to head out the door.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” you joked, reaching your hand up to tousle his already messy hair, and he melted into the touch. “Are you ready to show them all the Piastri overtake masterclass?”

“I feel dead,” he mumbled, and you sighed.

“I’m sorry for keeping you up.”

“It’s okay,” he said, as he yawned into a cup of coffee. “I’m glad we talked.”

Oscar’s reference brought forth an awkward silence that didn’t dissipate until you eventually left for the track, ready again to dawn your thin veneer of professionalism.

Unfortunately it was raining, and the race had to be delayed. That meant hunkering down in the McLaren garage with Oscar—and Lando.

If looks could kill, Lando would have died ten times over as the two drivers waited for the rain to pass.

You hovered near Oscar’s side of the garage for the sake of appearances. At least, that’s what you told yourself. You were his social media manager, it made sense for you to hover around him, always ready to capture the next candid shot.

But truthfully, you couldn’t shake the pit in the feeling of your stomach every time you caught Lando looking at you from the corner of your eye. And while you pretended to be oblivious, Oscar didn’t.

“Okay guys, clear out the garage,” you heard from across the room, as the booming voice of Zak Brown trudged his way inside. “FIA decided that right now was the perfect time for a surprise inspection!”

His voice dripped with sarcastic annoyance, even more than his clothes dripped with rainwater. All non essential personnel—including drivers—needed to leave the garage at once.

You walked along, on your way to find a random spot in the paddock to hunker down. That was, until you felt a hand on your shoulder.

“YN!” Lando called, smiling when you turned to greet him. His cheeky grin brought butterflies and nausea to your stomach. “You can warm up in my driver’s room if you want.”

You looked over Lando’s shoulder and locked eyes with Oscar, who was close enough to hear every word. If he had been in his car at the time, Lando would have been roadkill.

“Oh, thanks, but I’ve got to get to the paddock and make sure the new guy hasn’t drowned our camera,” you said, a polite and professional smile across your face.

“No wor—” He was cut off by Oscar’s shoulder bumping into the Brit as he passed. “Oh, hi Oscar, my bad.”

“I should go,” you said, swiftly continuing in the path towards the paddock. You didn’t want to be around for what you knew was happening next.

But if Lando also knew, it didn’t dissuade him from following Oscar back to his driver’s room.

“Go away, Lando,” the Aussie warned as he stomped down the hallway.

“No, I don’t think I will. I think you’ve got something to say to me.”

“I think you should shut your fucking mouth and leave YN and I alone.”

Lando ran ahead of him, blocking the door to Oscar’s driver room. “Why? Why should I leave her alone when she keeps telling me yes, hm?”

“What?”

“I’m just saying, if she really wanted me to leave her alone, she wouldn’t have agreed to go to dinner with me tonight, would she?”

Oscar was dumbfounded by Lando’s claim, and his first instinct was to refute it. But after the conversation last night, he couldn’t put it past you to have accepted his offer of a date. Why you did this, he didn’t know. He couldn’t understand how you let your guilt lead you to such self-sabotaging decisions.

Actually, he could. It wasn’t like he was any better.

“You’re taking advantage of her,” Oscar said, his voice stern. “You don’t love her.”

Lando laughed. “Of course I don’t. She knows it, though. Do you really think she’s that stupid? Well, I guess she kind of is, ‘cause she’s playing right into my hands even though I know she doesn’t trust me. ”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I know it fucks with your head and drives you insane. No matter what you tell her, she won't listen to you. That’s the funniest part. She knows you’re right and she’s going to do the worst possible thing anyway, because she thinks she’s so self-righteous. It’s hilarious. You can tell her every word I say and that won’t stop her from being right where I want her. So you'll just get to watch me use her until she's got nothing else to give me.”

Oscar crossed the short distance between them and grabbed Lando by the shirt. “I swear to God, if you hurt her, I will run you off the track until you're nothing but a spare car part.”

Lando laughed again at his teammate’s warning. “Why are you so mad? I'm not doing anything worse than what you did.”

Oscar released him. “That is not what happened between us,” he sneered.

Lando continued, "You’re right. I guess I'm actually better than you, because I'm not fucking her. Well, not yet at least. I get it, though. I mean, she's not really good enough to bring home to mum, no? But I bet she's a good lay. Guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

“Get the fuck away from me, Lando. And leave her the fuck alone.”

“Oh don't worry, I'm leaving,” the Brit said, putting his hands in the air in mock surrender. “Just tell YN to wear something nice tonight for me, will you?”

Lando finally turned to leave, but couldn’t resist one last quip at Oscar. “You know, last season, Max taught me something really smart. To win, you can't just outdrive someone. You have to get in their head. Works pretty well, don't you think?”

“Get the fuck out, Lando, before I hurt you,” Oscar threatened, truly at the end of his rope.

Lando just laughed as he finally walked away, turning the corner and going into his own driver’s room.

Oscar did the same, taking a deep breath when he finally closed the door. He needed to punch something. He needed to scream. He could do neither.

But that wasn’t the worst problem at hand. He knew Lando was right, about everything. And it terrified him.

He had to find some way to prevent you from going on that date. But how? Was there anything he could say that could prevent what his own failures had set in motion so long ago?

There was a knock at his door. It was a McLaren engineer, telling him it was time to come back to the garage. He had wasted so much time bickering with Lando that he couldn't get his headspace right for the race.

God, he was good at this.

Oscar made his way back to the garage and locked eyes with you. You had looked over your shoulder, still preoccupied with the new guy and his inability to work a camera. You held Oscar’s gaze for a second too long.

He made his way over to you. “Hey, YN,” he said, “why don’t you get some rain shots before we have to go back out?”

Oscar was never the type to tell you how to do your job, unlike his teammate, who often jokingly ordered you around like his personal photographer. You recognized his attempt to get you away from the new guy.

You stepped away and brought your camera back up to your eye, taking a gorgeous picture of Oscar’s side profile looking at the rain outside. His hair was perfectly tousled, his jawline perfectly sharp, his cheeks shaded a perfect pink, still flustered from the conversation you knew nothing of. Even after being his friend for so many years, and admiring him for so long, it was moments like this when you were truly reminded how much you loved him.

Because just as Oscar saw you, you saw him. You saw through his carefully crafted exterior; truthfully, as his best friend and social media manager, you had been instrumental in making it. When others saw him as unemotional, you saw the small nuances in how he moved and spoke, the subtle changes in expression. You two had your own language in that way, and your devotion showed itself in moments like these, where you could capture the most beautiful photographs of your friend, letting the world have just a brief glimpse into the complex soul that you had become so enraptured by.

Yeah, you were fucked.

Oscar finally put on his helmet and began to get ready to roll the car out to the grid.

“Good luck,” you whispered. You reached out your hand and intertwined it with his, squeezing it as an act of comfort. Even through the rough material of his gloves, you hoped to send him a real message of love.

Maybe that was too strong a word. You couldn’t tell anymore.

Though you followed both cars out to the now dry grid, you kept your distance, knowing that now the focus was on the monumental race ahead of them. You let the camera be your shield against emotion, though you couldn’t help how it focused in on Oscar so easily. Even from afar, his eyes quickly glancing at your lens could tell you depths of information.

At the front of the grid, Lando occasionally looked back on you. He was ready to go, determined to win this race; Oscar was no longer a threat, in the back of the grid and distracted beyond measure.

But the Brit couldn’t help being distracted a bit himself. You weren’t looking at him. You were pulling away a bit too much for comfort.

It doesn’t matter now, he thought to himself. He knew you. Not in the deep way that Oscar did, but still enough to know exactly what buttons to push, when to give and when to pressure. It was a skill that he’d come to refine in the past few years, fighting not only against world-class athletes, but also against master manipulators, for the Formula 1 World Driver’s Championship title.

He never thought he’d have to play this dirty to eliminate a teammate. But so far, it was working like a charm, and at this point, there wasn’t much he was above doing to get that title.

Unfortunately, Lando’s ambitions couldn’t keep up with his abilities. He bottled pole at the start and wasn’t able to recover.

Oscar had a few overtakes, but not anything spectacular. Monaco would not be a race to remember for McLaren that year.

After getting all your shots of Oscar in the garage after the race, you made your way back to your apartment. You had to get ready for your date with Lando that night.

You had never been the type to have a very strong intuition. You could never distinguish it from anxiety or paranoia. But you couldn’t ignore that pit in the bottom of your stomach that just grew and grew, devouring all your thoughts as you fixed your hair and applied your makeup.

In the middle of your beauty routine, Oscar came home, exhausted from the race.

“You did great out there today,” you said, giving him a small smile as he flopped down on the bed.”

“I barely got points,” he said.

“Yeah, but it’s a track that’s awful for overtaking and you were going on, what, 2 or 3 hours of sleep? Take the small wins where you can.”

“How are you not exhausted?” he questioned, sitting up to watch you apply your skincare at your vanity.

I feel like my heart is going to beat out of my chest, that’s why, you thought. But for some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to confide your anxieties to Oscar right now.

You knew why. Because you knew that he could change it. He could convince you to give in to your desires, to drown in him. And you couldn’t. You were too goddamned stubborn.

You didn’t answer Oscar’s question, and that familiar heavy feeling dawned in your room.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked. Neither of you really had the energy for talking, but you knew it was more a statement than a request. “I talked to Lando today.”

Ah, so he knew what you were doing.

“He said some…really messed up stuff about you, YN. He doesn't care about you.”

“I know he doesn’t,” you said, your voice flat and quiet.

“It’s more than that. YN, the things he said disgusted me, and he laughed about it like it was the funniest thing. Please don’t do this.”

“Don’t, Oscar.”

“YN—”

You got up and walked into your closet to get dressed for the night, cutting him off.

You heard him sigh, and the sound of ruffling clothing filled the room as you both changed out of eye shot of each other. The thought of Oscar undressed in your bed again made your head spin.

You snaked the fabric of the dress over your skin, smoothing it out. You put on your shoes and grabbed your purse before taking a deep breath and stepping out.

“How do I look?” you asked. But you were distracted by a shirtless Oscar sitting on your bed, muscles still taunt from the race hours before.

“Beautiful,” he said. “You’re perfect.”

His voice was too tender, his words too strong. You couldn’t bear it for much longer. You shuffled around your room, organizing your makeup and applying your perfume, trying to distract yourself from the elephant—or rather, shirtless F1 driver that you were in love with—in the room.

“I’m not sure what time I’ll be—”

“YN,” Oscar said, standing up to place himself in front of you, between you and the door. “Don’t do this.”

“Oscar…” you began.

“You don’t have to do this. Stay here with me.” he advanced towards you, closing the gap by placing his hands on your waist.

Your heart skipped a beat. The thin line that had so carefully been drawn after his apology was gone now with his sensual touch.

You looked away from him. He reached up and grabbed your chin, forcing your eyes to look up at his.

“You don’t have to go to him. You don’t have to leave Monaco or find another job. You don’t have to do any of this. YN, let me take care of you.”

Instinctively, you reached your hand out to rest against his bare chest, and you felt his breath hitch. You were going to give in, right here and now.

And God, you wanted to. You missed the warmth of Oscar’s body against yours, the liminal space he occupied in your bed after a night of collision and pleasure. And in that moment, with his soft heart beat and the steady rhythm of his breaths right under your fingertips, you felt…safe. At home. Seen.

Your phone buzzed in your purse.

“I’m going to be late,” you muttered, stepping back and walking around him. He let you go easily.

“Get some rest, Oscar,” you told him, a final goodbye, or at least that’s how it felt, as you closed the door behind you and left to go meet Lando.

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