#irony in a man who loves so passionately yet | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jakesaverse · 7 days ago

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QUIET LIKE US | 01

Genre: angst; fluff; college au; university au

Pairings Jake x reader; mentions of ex boyfriend; some other guys from school

Synopsis: After your ex-boyfriend dies, the blame nearly drowns you. So you run-to a new town, a new school, where no one knows your name or your past. You try to disappear, keep your head down, stay alone. But then you meet Jake Sim. He's quiet too, not by choice-just the kind of person everyone avoids. As the two of you grow closer, you realize he's hiding something, just like you. And no matter how far you run, some stories follow you.

warning: mentions of death; grief; insecurities; toxic relationship

Notes: Hey! Thanks so much for reading the first chapter. Just a heads-up—some parts might feel repetitive or oddly paced, but that’s all intentional. Also, it’s a made-up story, so don’t worry too much about the details like college or trains being 100% accurate. Hope you enjoy the first chapter 🤍

intro > HERE

——

You sit in front of his tombstone, the heavy weight of two weeks pressing down on you like a stone. The coolness of the morning air does little to ease the ache in your chest. In your hands, you clutch the obituary you were supposed to read at the funeral. It’s still folded, still crumpled in places, but you can’t bring yourself to open it. Not yet.

His mother’s words from that day echo in your mind. “It should have been you.” You want to scream at the memory, but instead, you swallow hard, fighting the rising flood of tears. It hurts. It all hurts. The raw emptiness that comes with this, the brutal fact that he’s really gone, that you’ll never feel his arms around you again, never hear him laugh or feel his touch.

You finally open the obituary, feeling a sharp ache in your chest. The first words hit you like a slap to the face, and you try to steady your breathing as you read.

“Chul-soon Kim. Beloved son, partner, and friend. Forever in our hearts.”

You blink rapidly, biting the inside of your cheek, trying to push the swelling anger down. This isn’t who he was. Beloved. He didn’t deserve that label, not after everything. Not after the promises he broke.

You take a breath, feeling the sting of your words as you keep reading, your hands shaking now.

“Chul-soon was a man with big dreams, with a heart full of passion and a will to make his mark on the world. He was loved by many, a true friend to those who knew him.”

The tears come now, stinging your eyes as you choke out a bitter laugh. A heart full of passion. The irony burns in your chest. He never had that for you, not in the way you needed. You wanted his love, his unwavering devotion. You wanted him to be there, to keep his promises. But he didn’t. He never did.

“Chul-soon lives through his family, friends, and me, YN, the girl who always believed in him, who loved him more than anyone else ever could.”

The paper slips from your fingers as you crumble under the weight of those words. Who loved him more than anyone else ever could. Did he ever truly love you back? Did he? You want to scream, want to throw the paper in the air and curse his name, curse the lies, the broken promises. But instead, all you do is sit there, broken.

“How could you leave me?” Your voice breaks, the words soft and raw. You clutch your hands together, eyes fixed on the cold stone beneath you. “How could you leave me with nothing? I gave you everything, Chul-soon. Everything. I loved you. I loved you so much. And you… you couldn’t even be here for me when it counted. You promised me that you would. You promised… and now, you’re gone.”

The anger inside you flares again, but it’s mixed with the grief, the overwhelming sadness that feels like a weight you can’t shake. You scream, the sound raw and unfiltered. “I needed you, and you left. You left me here with all of this. With nothing. I waited for you. I waited for you and you—”

Your words falter, and you choke on the pain. You slump forward, resting your forehead against the cold surface of his tombstone. The tears fall, thick and fast now. You clutch the paper again, the words on it feeling foreign, wrong.

“Chul-soon loved deeply, with a spirit that could light up a room, and left an indelible mark on the hearts of those who were lucky enough to know him.”

You laugh bitterly, your hands trembling. “He didn’t love me. Not the way I needed. Not the way I gave him all of myself. How can you say he loved me? He never gave me that. He never loved me enough.”

Your voice cracks on the last words, and you break down again, sobbing into the stone. The grief and anger blend together into a suffocating mess. You clutch at the stone with your hands, your heart warring against the love you still feel for him, even after everything.

“I still love you. I still love you so much,” you whisper, your voice small and broken. The words feel like a confession, like a surrender. Even after all the hurt, all the pain, you still love him. You always will. You would always love him, even though he didn’t love you the way you needed him to. You would always be the girl who gave him everything, no matter how little he ever gave back. You loved him, and that was something that would never change.

You sit there for a long time, the paper clenched in your hand, your tears soaking into the earth beneath you. Finally, you stand, legs weak, your body exhausted from the breakdown, but you know you can’t stay here forever. You wipe your eyes, sniffle, and glance at your watch.

You have 45 minutes to get to the train station.

You bend over and kiss the cold stone, a soft, lingering touch, as if saying goodbye to a part of yourself that’s been left behind.

“Goodbye for now,” you whisper. “I’ll always love you.”

A gust of wind rises suddenly, blowing your hair around your face, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like he’s there. Like he’s kissing you back. You hold your breath, letting the wind swirl around you, and you close your eyes for just a second, feeling the soft pressure of it against your skin, almost like an embrace.

And then, slowly, you pull away.

You walk away from his tombstone, feeling the weight of your heart in every step. But somehow, you feel stronger. Like he’s still with you, just a little bit. Just enough to keep going.

You take one last look over your shoulder, whispering one last goodbye to the man you loved, and then you turn, walking away, determined to live — for both of you.

—-

The station is loud. Overwhelming. Voices echo off tiled walls and shoes scuff against the floor like static that won’t stop. Your chest tightens with every passing second as you glance from one blinking screen to the next, your eyes chasing unfamiliar words, train numbers, platforms—none of it sinking in fast enough.

You don’t know where to go.

You spin in a slow, panicked circle, backpack slung over your shoulder, weighing you down like a living thing. Each strap bites into your skin—reminders of the guilt you packed with your essentials. Regret. Shame. The bruised ache of leaving behind a ghost you’ll never stop loving. The zipper barely closes, like it knows it’s holding more than just clothes. It holds pieces of you too.

Your breath hitches as a wave of helplessness rises. You want to scream. To cry. You already did. Your cheeks are still damp from the cemetery, from whispering goodbye and kissing cold stone. You swipe your sleeve across your face again, trying to erase the evidence. Trying to feel like someone who knows what they’re doing.

But you don’t.

You wander a few more steps, scanning signs, heads darting up to boards, luggage wheels clattering beside your feet. You’re in the wrong place. You know you’re in the wrong place, but you can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t—

“Excuse me,” you manage, voice too soft. The woman walking past doesn’t hear you.

You try again. “Excuse me—sorry—do you know where platform seven is?”

The man you ask glances at you like you’re an annoying flyer that brushed his arm, then shrugs. For a second, you want to sink into the floor, to disappear. But then, with one lazy motion, he lifts his hand and points across the station—to the far side, where a narrow stairwell dips out of view beneath a blinking Departures sign.

You blink. Nod. “Thank you,” you say, quiet, but genuine.

You offer him a soft, grateful smile—your first in days—and start walking.

It’s not a long distance, but your limbs feel like stone. Like they’re still half-stuck in the cemetery. In that moment of goodbye. You feel every ache, every step dragging with the weight of what you’re leaving. Not just the place, but the people. The memories. The lies you let grow roots inside your chest. The love that never fit you quite right, but you wore it anyway.

You make it to the platform and find a bench in the corner, tucking yourself beside a pillar as if hiding will make it easier.

Your backpack thumps to the ground.

You slide down beside it, arms wrapped around your knees, and exhale slowly. The platform’s quieter here. Like the silence found you again. You press your palm to your cheek, wiping the last damp streak, and tilt your head toward the tracks.

You’re not ready.

But you have to go.

Because staying would be worse. Staying would mean drowning in the silence, in the should-haves and what-ifs and “It should’ve been yous.”

You breathe in again.

And wait.

—-

The train doors hiss open, and you step inside, holding your breath like it might keep the world from noticing you. The platform air is hot and close, but in here it’s worse — muggy, silent, and too full of strangers avoiding each other’s eyes.

You grab the nearest open seat. It’s fake leather, cracked in the corner, still warm from someone else’s body. The fluorescent lights overhead hum softly. Your knees tap together.

You blink hard. The world tilts — not enough to fall, just enough to notice.The tilt isn’t from the motion of the train, not really. It’s the hollow ache of an empty stomach, the aftershock of tears that didn’t fully fall, the quiet exhaustion of a night spent sleeping in pieces.

You steady yourself with a hand on the window’s cold edge.

Across from you, a couple leans into each other — boy and girl, probably your age. Maybe younger. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell when someone is laughing like that. Their foreheads are almost touching, his thumb drawing idle circles along the seam of her jeans. The way she looks at him makes your chest ache in a place you thought you’d locked tight.

You look away. But your gaze drifts back, like a bad habit.

You shouldn’t stare.

But something in you wants to punish yourself. Wants to press the bruise of the memory, feel how deep it goes.

The train jerks forward, the sudden movement knocking your knee against the metal seat post. You don’t react. You’re not really here anyway.

The couple from before is still across the aisle. His head is lower now. Their fingers are linked between them, loose but sure. The girl has her cheek tilted toward his shoulder, like her body knows how to trust him without thinking.

The train is still moving.

You can hear it — the rhythmic pulse of wheels over tracks, like a heartbeat too tired to stop.

And still, you can’t look away.

Maybe it’s because of how still they are. Or how close. Or because that was you, once. Not on a train, not in Seoul. But with Chul-soon. Before everything went sideways.

The fight wasn’t even about something real. Just a text message. A misread expression. A joke that stung too deep. You were both tired, both too proud, both too sure the other would come back with an apology.

And then —

No time to fix it.

You shift in your seat, the press of your back against the vinyl jerking you back to the present. The pain in your throat builds tight and hot — but you force it down.

The photo in your pocket crinkles softly when you move, the edges worn from your thumb. You don’t pull it out. You just let it be there, warm against your leg like a silent pact not to forget.

The girl across from you laughs — barely audible, private. You turn your face away.

Outside, the city blurs by in streaks of grey and brown. Inside the train, someone’s service dog pants gently beside its handler, tail wagging once when a child reaches out and gives it a soft pat. You watch the tail sway once, twice — a blink of kindness in a world that keeps turning.

And still, somehow, so much of you feels stuck.

—

The train pulled away behind you hours ago, but you can still feel the tremble in your legs.

You didn’t expect it to be so pretty here.

Old brick buildings with ivy crawling up their sides. Tree-lined streets and wide sidewalks. Cafes with chalkboard menus. Cyclists coasting by like they’ve got time to waste. It looks like the kind of place people write poems about.

But none of it moves you.

You walk aimlessly, your backpack slung over one shoulder, the strap digging deeper with every step. A folded campus map from the train station is clenched in your hand, creased in strange angles, already damp from your grip.

You stop in front of a fountain in the middle of town. A couple sits on the edge, legs tangled, laughing over something neither of them will remember in a week. You look away.

This town is beautiful.

And you feel absolutely nothing.

Did I make a mistake?

The thought crawls slowly and steadily.

New school. New city. No one I know. Nothing I understand. What was I thinking?

Your fingers tighten on the map. It flutters a little in the breeze, like even the paper is ready to leave you behind.

A shout breaks the stillness.

You look up.

Across the street, a woman in a red apron stands in front of a store, yelling at someone.

“No dogs allowed! Can you read? I said—”

The guy she’s screaming at stands still, calm, his hand resting on the head of a golden retriever in a blue service vest.

The vest is unmistakable. So is the look on his face — exhausted. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just tired in a way that says this happens a lot.

You stop walking.

For a second, you almost move toward them. Almost say something.

Instead, you just stare.

Service dogs. That’s the second one you’ve seen today.

Maybe the town is full of people who are broken in ways you can’t see.

Maybe you belong here more than you thought.

Maybe you need one too — not for your body, but for your mind.

But you stay quiet.

You stay quiet because you always do. Because you’re afraid if you speak, you’ll say the wrong thing. You’ll make it worse. You’ll mess something up.

Like you always do.

A voice you thought you buried resurfaces, sharp and close:

“You ruin everything.”

Chul-soon’s voice.

“You think you help, but you don’t. I wish I never met you.”

You remember the way his face looked when he said it — cold, like it was easy.

Then, the switch. The fake smile. The way his arms pulled you in that same night like he hadn’t gutted you.

“I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t. You’re all I have.”

The worst part?

You believed him.

You shake your head hard, like the memory will fall out if you rattle your brain enough.

When your vision clears, the guy with the dog is looking at you.

You’d been staring.

Too long.

Too obvious.

His eyes are dark, unreadable. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. Just tilts his head a little — like he’s trying to figure out who you are. Or why you look so haunted.

You drop your gaze immediately.

Your feet start moving before you can think. Away from him. Away from the woman still yelling. Away from the version of yourself that almost got involved.

You keep walking.

Because if you stop again, you might fall apart in the middle of this storybook street.

And you’re tired of crying where strangers can see.

—

You walk until your feet ache.

Until the straps of your backpack have worn themselves into your shoulder, like bruises that belong there.

Until the weight in your chest stops choking you—not because it’s eased, but because it’s settled in the way grief does when it realizes you’re not fighting it anymore.

Eventually, you find a small café tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.

The windows are fogged. A row of mismatched plants lines the sill — some thriving, others shriveled at the edges like they gave up mid-bloom.

It smells like steeped leaves, lavender, and something faintly burnt.

The bell above the door jingles when you push it open.

No one looks up. That’s a relief.

There’s a hand-scrawled sign that says Order at the counter.

You stare at it longer than you should, as if it might tell you something deeper.

When the barista asks what you want, your mouth moves before your thoughts catch up.

“Just tea.”

“What kind?” she asks, not unkindly.

You blink. “Green tea please.”

You settle into the corner booth—furthest from the windows, closest to the radiator.

The mug she hands you is chipped on one side, but still holds heat.

You wrap both hands around it like it might anchor you. You don’t drink it.

Outside the glass, life keeps moving.

A kid rides past on a scooter.

A group of girls cross the street, laughing too loudly, lanyards swinging around their necks. Their hair is brushed, their voices easy. You wonder if you’ll ever laugh like that again.

You wonder if you ever really did.

You let the steam hit your face.

You close your eyes.

And then—

You open them again when movement catches in your peripheral.

He’s here.

The guy from earlier. The one with the service dog and the too-tight smile.

He’s sitting near the front, close enough to the door that it’s like he’s still waiting to be kicked out again.

The dog lies at his feet, head resting on its paws. Its vest is still on.

He’s not looking at anyone.

He’s got earbuds in.

His shoulders are hunched like he’s trying to disappear into the small wooden chair.

And you feel it—this sharp, sudden ache in your chest that has nothing to do with him, not really.

You just… relate. More than you want to admit.

The look on his face when that woman yelled. The way he didn’t fight back.

How he let it happen.

You’re not sure what would’ve come out of you if you’d spoken up then.

Something too loud, too messy.

You blink and realize you’ve been staring again.

The guy catches you again. Just a flick of his eyes in your direction.

You look away instantly, heart thudding.

You busy yourself with your tea even though it’s gone cold.

Pretend to check your phone.

Pretend you have somewhere to be.

You don’t. Not yet.

You think about walking over. Saying That woman was wrong, or I’m sorry, or You don’t deserve that.

But the words get caught somewhere deep in your throat.

So you do what you’ve learned to do:

You disappear quietly.

You toss the rest of the tea in the sink even though it’s not self-serve.

The barista says nothing. Neither do you.

Outside, the wind’s picked up.

You tighten your jacket around yourself—not because you’re cold, but because it gives your hands something to do.

You take out the campus map again.

The paper’s soft now from all your handling, your thumb smudging the ink where it folds.

There’s a star marking the residence halls. That’s where you’re supposed to be heading.

But all you feel is the distance between here and there.

The ache of not knowing where you belong yet—if anywhere.

You fold the map and tuck it away.

And you start walking again.

Not toward anything. Just… forward.

—

You glance down at your phone.

10%.

The number glows up at you, uncaring. A quiet nudge that time’s up. That you can’t linger out here anymore, pretending the sidewalk is a destination. Pretending you don’t have a place to be.

You tuck the device back into your pocket like it’s something precious, something that’s helped you survive the last few hours—which it has. You would’ve gotten lost three times over without it. Every turn, every wrong corner, every unfamiliar street, that little blue dot kept moving forward even when you weren’t sure you could.

And now, that dot’s destination is right in front of you.

The dorms.

Your new… home.

The word hits harder than expected.

You stop walking, frozen just short of the door. There’s a weird, involuntary chill running up your spine like your body’s catching up to the reality of everything. Home. That word feels too big. Too warm. Too much pressure for a place you’ve never even stepped foot in.

You’re not sure what you’re supposed to feel—excitement? Gratitude?

But all you feel is the heavy roll of your stomach and the rising buzz of anxiety in your chest. The kind that’s too slow to scream and too strong to ignore. Your throat feels tight, and you have to swallow twice just to breathe.

You shouldn’t be this scared.

And yet, your palms are clammy, your vision slightly hazy with nerves, and you wonder—really wonder—if anyone has ever thrown up before entering a dorm room.

You wipe your hands against your jeans, force a breath in, then out. You whisper a quick, shaky “Come on,” to yourself, and let your feet carry you across the threshold.

The building hums with low voices, footsteps echoing down the hall, distant laughter. Everything feels too loud and too far away all at once.

You pull out your phone again, screen dimmer now, its light weaker than before. You click open the email for the third—or fourth—time.

Room 303.

Third floor. You tap it like you’re trying to press the number into your memory, as if forgetting it would undo this whole thing.

The stairs are a blur. The hallway even more so. It all smells like new paint and floor polish, too clean to feel lived-in.

And then, finally, it’s there.

A plain door. A silver number plate: 303.

You stand in front of it and let out a slow breath.

But the email didn’t just tell you the room number.

It also told you there’d be no roommate.

You knew that. You read it earlier. A single room. Peace. Space. You needed it. You still do.

But now, standing here with your heart in your throat and your hand hovering over the door handle, it doesn’t feel like peace. It feels like punishment.

It feels like confirmation of what you’ve always feared—that you’re just… meant to be alone.

Like somehow the world is always making room for other people to find each other and choosing to leave you with echoing space.

Your fingers twitch at your side. The hallway around you is quiet. No one’s looking. No one’s here.

You close your eyes for a second and lean your forehead gently against the door. Just to breathe. Just to keep from unraveling.

Then, after a beat, you lift your head.

And you open the door.

—

The door clicks behind you.

Not a grand arrival. No applause. No air of celebration.

Just the quiet seal of a room swallowing you whole.

You stand there for a second—maybe two—looking at what’s supposed to be home now.

It’s almost too clean. The kind of clean that feels like no one’s ever lived here. Like nothing’s ever happened in this space. No laughter, no arguments, no memories.

Just blank walls and a fresh sheet of silence.

You take a step inside. The air is stale, like it’s been holding its breath.

Your backpack slides off your shoulder and lands beside your foot with a heavy thud. You exhale like it’s the first breath you’ve taken in hours.

The room is small. A desk against the wall, its wood chipped at the edges. A built-in dresser with stiff drawers. A twin bed with a mattress wrapped in plastic that crinkles when you brush against it. A single overhead light buzzes faintly above. The window near the ceiling lets in only a narrow slice of daylight—enough to remind you that the outside world still exists, but not enough to make you feel part of it.

You walk to the bed and sit slowly, testing it like you’re not sure it’ll hold you. The mattress doesn’t give much. It’s firm and unfamiliar, and it smells like cleaner and nothing else.

You blink hard. It’s a lot of nothing.

You start walking again to your backpack, pull the small zipper and look through your supplies. A toothbrush. A sweatshirt. Two pairs of jeans. Four very worn shirts. Two protein bars. Twowater bottles. And a single notebook.

And then, near the bottom, your fingers brush against the worn corner of the picture.

You pull it out gently.

It’s old—creased from being handled too many times.

You and Chul-soon, back when smiles came easier. You’re laughing in the photo, looking away from the camera. He’s squinting at you, mid-laugh himself, like whatever you said had just caught him off guard. The way he’s looking at you—like you were the only person in the world.

You run your thumb across the glossy paper. The corners have dulled from all the times you’ve folded it, kept it close, hidden it like a secret.

It’s the only piece of him you let yourself bring.

You walk across the room, hesitating only slightly before placing it on the edge of the desk—half-visible, tucked against the wall like maybe it won’t hurt so much that way.

But it does. It still does.

You look around again. At the bed that feels too wide for one person. The desk with nothing on it. The air too still.

Your chest tightens.

You reach for your phone. The screen lights up—8% battery left.

A quiet nudge that the day is still moving, even if you’re stuck.

You sigh.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you set the phone down next to the picture.

You sit back down on the bed, both feet on the ground, hands resting in your lap.

It should feel like a beginning.

But it doesn’t.

It feels like walking into a story where your name was never written into the plot.

Still, the faint light from the high window stretches across the floor now, catching a shimmer off the photo. It paints a slanted glow across your backpack and the floor beneath your feet.

And something about it makes you pause.

A flicker. Maybe not of hope. But maybe something quieter.

The smallest breath of okay, even if you’re not yet okay.

—

You barely closed your eyes before the nightmare took hold. The weight on your chest felt like it would crush you, the darkness swallowing you whole.

Chul-soon’s voice rang in your ears, sharp and accusing, each word a dagger to your heart.

“You ruined everything. You ruined me.”

His face twisted in anger, his eyes dark with blame.

“I wish I’d never met you.”

The words echoed over and over, his voice relentless. You stood frozen, incapable of speech, incapable of running. Just absorbing.

Then came the silence—empty and bitter.

“You’ll never be enough, will you?”

It was a whisper now, colder somehow.

“Not for anyone.”

You woke with a gasp, your body flinching like it was trying to outrun something. But there was nothing there. Just the unfamiliar stillness of your new room.

For a second, you didn’t move. You just stared at the ceiling, the shadows creeping long across the walls. The heaviness still sat on your chest, not quite as sharp, but just as unbearable. You blinked a few times, breathing slowly, trying to shake the dream from your skin. But the chill wouldn’t leave.

Eventually, you stood and shuffled to the bathroom, towel and toiletries in hand. The shower water was tepid, the kind that never gets warm no matter how long you let it run, but you stayed under it anyway. Letting it rinse away the sweat, the nightmare, the thoughts you didn’t want to name.

You did your night routine quickly—if you could even call it that. Just the basics: brush your teeth, wash your face with a travel-size cleanser, pull your damp hair into a low bun.

Back in your room, you reached for your bag and dug out a clean outfit to lay out for tomorrow: a pair of ripped jeans and a soft, worn-out t-shirt. It wasn’t much, but it would do. It had to.

Your stomach growled then, deep and hollow. You hesitated, then unzipped the front pocket of your backpack and pulled out your sad excuse for dinner—two protein bars. That was all you had left. That and thirty crumpled dollars.

You sighed and shoved the bars back inside, grabbing your water bottle instead. Maybe if you drank enough, the hunger would go away. You took slow sips, ignoring the way your stomach twisted.

The silence was thicker now, heavier. You glanced at your phone, which was now charging on the nightstand.

6:35 p.m.

You were supposed to meet your “assigned guide” tomorrow—someone to show you around campus. It felt a little juvenile, like something made for kids starting kindergarten. But who were you to judge? Maybe some people needed that. Maybe you did too.

Still, the idea of meeting someone new… having to talk, to pretend like you were fine, like you were excited to be here… it made your stomach twist again.

You flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, counting the marks in the paint. One. Two. Three.

Maybe if you stayed like this, time would pass faster.

Maybe by tomorrow, you’d feel like a person again.

But for now, you just laid there—full of water, empty of anything else.

Trying to settle in.

Failing.

—

It was morning. At least, that’s what the sliver of sun filtering through the blinds insisted.

But it didn’t feel like morning.

It felt like nothing had changed.

Your eyes fluttered open to the same ceiling, the same cold air, the same ache in your chest. You hadn’t slept—not really. Not when every time your eyes closed, he was waiting for you.

Chul-soon’s voice still clung to the inside of your skull like smoke. You’d woken up three, maybe four times throughout the night, each time breathless, each time a little more broken than the last. It was like your body refused to believe he was gone—so it summoned him back in the cruelest ways possible.

His words echoed even now:

“You ruined me.”

“You’ll never be enough.”

You turned your head against the pillow, wiping at your face. Again. The skin under your eyes was raw. Puffy. You didn’t bother checking the mirror—you knew what you’d see.

You laid there a little longer, the room too quiet around you. The silence made it worse somehow, like it gave your thoughts permission to get louder.

You weren’t sure when the sun had risen. Time had collapsed into itself. Last night bled into this morning like they were the same bruise.

It was supposed to be a fresh start. A new beginning.

But all it felt like was a continuation of grief, dressed up in unfamiliar walls and stiff sheets.

Eventually, you sat up slowly, your limbs heavy like they were moving through water. You reached for the water bottle from yesterday and took a few slow sips, your stomach curling at the emptiness it had gotten used to.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. A soft reminder.

“Meet your assigned guide at 9 a.m. - Main Quad.”

You stared at the message, blinking hard. Right. That was today. You had to go. Had to get up. Had to act like you belonged here.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood, shaky but determined. You moved like someone else was in control—on autopilot. Reached for the outfit you’d laid out last night: the ripped jeans, the faded t-shirt that smelled like home and hurt. You brushed your hair. Splashed water on your face.

Still, your reflection didn’t look like someone ready to meet anyone new. You looked like someone who had just survived a war.

And in a way, you had.

Only the battlefield was your memory.

And the enemy wore the face of someone you once loved.

You closed your eyes. Took a breath.

And told yourself you could make it through the morning.

Just one more hour.

One more smile.

One more lie that you were okay.

—

You were already sweating by the time you reached the meeting spot for your assigned campus tour. Your shirt clung uncomfortably to your back, and your chest rose with uneven breaths—not just from the walk, but the nerves, the anticipation, the heaviness that hadn’t left your body since you arrived.

You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the cracked screen.

Park Sunghoon.

That was the name in the email.

You didn’t know him, not even what he looked like, but just reading his name again made your stomach knot. Not because of him—because he was a guy. Because no matter how many times you told yourself it didn’t matter, you could already feel Chul-soon’s voice slithering in from the corners of your mind.

“So you’re really gonna let some guy show you around? That’s what you call respect now?”

You swallowed hard.

You shouldn’t still hear him. He wasn’t here.

But somehow, his anger never left you.

You were so lost in the spiral of your thoughts that the sudden tap on your shoulder nearly made you jump.

You turned around sharply.

There was a guy standing behind you—tall, dark hair still damp like he’d come straight from a shower, his expression uncertain. Not in a threatening way. More like someone trying not to scare you off.

“Uh—sorry,” he said quickly, pulling his hand back. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Jake.”

You blinked up at him, confused.

“I think there was a partner switch,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Were you supposed to be with someone named Park Sunghoon?”

You nodded, slow and cautious. “Yeah… I was.”

Jake gave a small shrug. “He started the tour with someone else by accident. So they reassigned you to me.”

His voice was soft, a little unsure—but not unkind. Still, your shoulders tensed. Something about this—about being alone with a guy you didn’t know, even if it was just a tour—made your pulse skitter.

You nodded again, feeling the words get caught somewhere in your chest. “Right… okay.”

He waited like he expected more, and when you didn’t say anything, he tilted his head slightly.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, trying to recover. “I just… I saw a different name earlier. Wasn’t expecting—”

You cut yourself off before you could ramble. Your mouth felt dry.

Jake offered a small, understanding smile. “No need to apologize.”

You looked down at your shoes.

No need to apologize.

It was such a simple phrase, but it echoed. Loud and low in your chest.

It felt… foreign.

Like something you weren’t used to hearing.

You nodded again, hoping that would be enough. You didn’t trust your voice right now.

Jake shifted his weight a little, looking around like he was trying to ease the silence. “If you’d like, I can show you the popular study rooms. Just to get familiar with the spots people hang out.”

You hesitated.

His voice was gentle. He didn’t seem to be pressuring you. Still, the longer he spoke, the more you found yourself shrinking. Not because of him—but because of yourself. The constant fear of saying the wrong thing, of making it weird, of seeming ungrateful or cold.

“I-I guess…” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake smiled softly and nodded, as if he’d heard you just fine. “No rush. We’ll go slow.”

He pulled out his phone and glanced at the time. “Actually… maybe it’s better if we start with your classes first. That way you won’t get lost tomorrow.”

You nodded. Again.

Jake looked over your schedule, eyes scanning until he stopped and said, “Oh—we have one class together, actually. Psychology.”

Your stomach dropped.

Psychology.

The one class you were most nervous about. The one that felt a little too close to home. The one you hadn’t even wanted to sign up for in the first place. You hadn’t wanted to talk about minds or trauma or healing or guilt.

You took a step back, your hands twisting at the strap of your backpack.

“Actually, I just remembered… I think I left something in my dorm,” you lied, already moving away. “Sorry—I’ll just… I need to go.”

Jake blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—okay…”

You didn’t wait for the rest of his sentence. You turned, walking quickly, the guilt pressing into your ribs.

Jake didn’t follow.

But he didn’t look surprised either.

Just stood there, quietly sighing. Like maybe… he was used to people running away.

—

You didn’t even realize you were crying until the wind started drying the tears against your cheeks. The moment your feet hit the pavement, you ran—head down, fists clenched around your straps, breaths shallow and sharp in your throat.

You couldn’t catch your breath.

It wasn’t just the embarrassment. It wasn’t just Jake’s kind voice or the way your chest tightened the second he said psychology.

It was everything.

The heat rising in your face. The memory of Chul-soon’s crooked grin as he explained theories with fire in his eyes. The sound of his voice when he yelled. The last conversation you had with him. The way your name sounded like a curse on his tongue.

You turned the corner and your dorm finally came into view. Your legs burned, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t dare. You fumbled your key three times before finally unlocking the door. And the second it clicked—

You were in.

And the sobs crashed over you like a tidal wave.

You slammed the door shut behind you and collapsed against it, sliding down until you were curled up on the cold floor. Your chest convulsed with every breath you couldn’t quite take. Hands shook as you clutched at your shirt, your stomach, your throat—anywhere that ached.

Your brain kept spinning, spinning.

Chul-soon was a psych major.

Of course that’s what triggered it. That stupid word. That one stupid class.

But it wasn’t just that.

It was guilt.

It was panic.

It was the way Jake had looked at you like he was trying to understand—and you ran.

“He was just trying to help,” you muttered to yourself, the words fractured between sobs. “He didn’t even do anything wrong.”

You pressed your palms to your eyes. Tried to rub away the sting. The tears. The memory.

You’re always doing this.

Running away.

Screwing things up.

Making everything awkward.

You hated how easily the spiral came. How loud your mind got when you felt like you’d messed up something small.

But it didn’t feel small.

It felt like proof.

Proof that you didn’t belong here. That you weren’t ready for this. That you were still stuck in a relationship that ended the moment Chul-soon died, and yet somehow hadn’t left you at all.

Eventually—somehow—the sobs dulled. The shaking slowed. You didn’t know how long you sat there, blinking up at the ceiling, chest still sore from crying.

You got up eventually. Splashed cold water on your face in the tiny bathroom. Did your night routine in slow, deliberate motions. Toothbrush. Face wash. Hair tied back.

You drank from the same bottle of water you’d been nursing all day, ignoring the ache in your stomach. There were still only two protein bars in your bag, and only thirty dollars to your name. So tonight, water would have to be enough again.

You looked over at your bed. The one you barely slept in. The one that never felt quite yours.

You didn’t want to check your phone. But you did.

And there it was.

A new email.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Checking in

Hi, this is Jake Sim—your assigned orientation partner (or at least, I think I still am after today).

I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay. I’m really sorry if I overwhelmed you earlier or said anything wrong.

If you’re still open to it, I can meet you tomorrow around 7 a.m. to help you find your classes before my own at 8. No pressure, of course—totally up to you.

Jake

You stared at the message, lips parted slightly.

He was apologizing?

But he hadn’t done anything wrong. You had.

And still, your eyes welled again.

You should’ve responded. Should’ve typed back something simple—an apology, at least. A thank you. But your fingers never moved. Because even though you knew he meant well, and even though a part of you genuinely felt sorry, another part of you still twisted everything into guilt. Into shame. Into something ugly and undeserving.

So, you did what you always did.

You blamed yourself. And then you shut down.

You closed the email. You didn’t reply. You told yourself you’d respond later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Ghosting him felt easier than facing the weight in your chest, the echo of Chul-soon’s voice asking how you could move on so quickly. How you could look at another guy—even platonically—and not feel like a traitor.

Maybe if you shut your eyes—and your whole world—you wouldn’t feel like you were betraying him.

Maybe then, you could pretend you were still his.

Still enough.

You curled into your bed, pulled the blanket over your head, and forced yourself not to care.

Not about the email.

Not about Chul-soon.

Not about the fact that you had no idea where your first class was tomorrow…

…or that your assigned orientation partner might very well be in it, too.

—-

taglist: @ikonsiconic @hvseunq143 @invsomnixa1 @wwwtxao @addictedtohobi i @kristynaaah

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dereks-unrelenting-heart · 2 months ago

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SFTH Chaotic Highlights (Lost In Your Eyes)

Commentary of the 3rd longform play, I feel like I said a lot more than I anticipated about this one. So I'm sorry or you're welcome, depending how you see it

A large part of me believes Tom chose this title purely to spite the 'absolute specimen of masculinity' in the audience lmao

We're not watching these in order, but it was while watching this video that my mom asked why 'so many of their plays are about war or being lost at sea'. This was followed by watching The Leftenmost Window so.. her point definitely wasn't disproven

Amanda off to a bold start by immediately slapping her mother in the face

Also istg these guys choose either the most common or most random fucking names, and there's never any in between. Here we've already gotten the perfect examples of 'Amanda' and 'Tarquin'

"The sea is a big place" "He was only going to France" ".. Maybe he went the long way around" I can't hear this and not just think 'ah yes, just like Christopher Columbus (probably smoking crack /ref)'

The passion in the way Luke says the word SMUGGLER

"Well of course we won't find someone as freakishly tall as Tarquin" *smug eye contact with Tom offstage* Love that they chose Tom's character for him there, that's funny as hell

Luke/Amanda's mom being continuously incapable of saying 'Addis Ababa'. I added the slash because I'm not quite sure when it stopped being Luke and started being a character choice

"If the law is unjust, is it unjust to break it?" "... I don't like riddles, Amanda" Love when the boys get political-

Mother gets her revenge (slight delayed reaction to being called a bitch, but it counts)!

"They're basically an occupying army of the rich and upper class, enforcing on the working man what they can and can't do while they all gallivant around" "Oh you fucking commie, Amanda" Love when the boys get political-

It sounds like maybe Tom walked 40 minutes through a broiling heat wave because the Angel tube station was shut. And he might have skipped lunch as well. I think maybe he's bringing a lot of reality into this scene guys-

"We're here together! Doesn't that inspire you?" Oh, three men on a ship, we used to be fifty-four-" Impeccable comedic timing Luke

"I told you to tie Rogers down!" Leave Rogers alone, his only flaw is an allergy to singing.. rip Rogers.. *insert AJ's incorrect sign of the cross*

"I used to have someone.. Penelope!" Od- ... Odysseus? Ody buddy is that you?

"But she always used to like to swim, so.. I'm happy for her, you know?" She died how she lived - In the sea

"And I used to have long, flowing locks" "I wasn't-" "You looked directly at my head" You absolutely did Tom, you can't deny that

The cop date being the most obnoxious man in existence did not go unnoticed by me

"The French, they're very difficult. Here, look- Can we get a fuckin', uh, menu" *Luke shoots a look at the audience before silently walking away* "See what I fuckin' mean?"

Amanda, on the verge of tears: "If someone were to go to France and not return on time, what do you think would've- would've happened to them?" Cop, apathetically: "Dunno darlin', do you want the um-" AJ's delivery kills me here, he really couldn't give less of a fuck about this hypothetical scenario

"Your knowledge of the French is very charming" *Cop immediately pawns the question off onto Luke's character who he previously said he didn't trust*

He just really fucks up the phrasing of it too

"I didn't catch your name" "I did not give it" I know it's a basic joke but I immediately thought of the Heathers musical

"It's just as well I'm not talking to you!" Have I mentioned I love Luke's character in this scene? So few words and yet the sass is unmatched

Also the irony of AJ saying he can't understand the French guy is not lost on me

"Just west of north Africa" "Are you sure?" "Yeah- Yes actually I am. I am sure." Love when you just know it's not the character talking anymore, it's just Luke

"Do you believe in true love?" "Yes I do.." "Not me and you-" These two can't go one play without flirting with each other, whether the plot calls for it or not

Similarly, is it even a SFTH play if Sam and Luke don't kiss at least once, whether the plot calls for it or not-

"Oh I stabbed you with my gun" And so begins a great running joke

And I am genuinely disappointed Luke's French waiter died, these guys have a way of making me care about the fates of characters I've only known for a minute or so

Absolute gibberish from AJ as he searches his mind vault for the same accent

At least Tarquin didn't leave Odyss- I mean Belly-Boots hanging for that hug

Remember what I said about liking to see AJ get a chance to show off his French in OMGITAJ? Well it also applies to Luke getting to speak fluent Spanish as the random guy from the Canary Islands

Luke: *is the most friendly guy ever, welcoming them to the islands* Tarquin: "I think he's threatening us"

Seriously idk if it's just my bias, but why are Luke's minor characters so likeable in this one, this is the 3rd of his guys that I've gotten attached to in an insanely short amount of time

I've watched this play like 5 times and I still don't fully know what's going on with the languages here. I think they decided Belly-Boots was just suddenly understanding Luke, but I have no idea what the original plan was

A minute later and none of the characters know what's going on either, and they're all confusing each other

The fact even Sam was caught off guard by Tom's accent(?) for the guy on the Petit Flo

"Tarquin who?" ".. Tarquin Rockhard" I actually don't know if Sam did this on purpose or if he did forget Tarquin's exact surname and used an innuendo to cover it up. Either way seems pretty believable

Classic 'AJ inserting himself into the scene' moment, of the 'random animal' subgenre. A shame that Bobo dies moments later, only breifly walking on water before succumbing to the depths of the Non-English ocean

Pirate Dude: "It's your ship now, my lady" Definitely Sam and not Amanda: "What?"

"The heat's had an effect on me.. Should've had lunch" This man better have gotten food right after the show, he's clearly starving

Amanda: "Have you sailed in her?" Tom, a perfect 90 degree angle: "Clearly."

AJ's little "Hello?" after Tom doesn't respond to him always kills me-

Singing allergies, a horrible way to go 😔

"You already had it poured-" "I knew you would come" I have recorded evidence from less than a minute ago that you did not know he would come

"You can never go home" Fuck did he drug Tarquin? "It's- it's strong stuff, isn't it?" Oh fuck he drugged Tarquin "What have you put in this drink?" *collapses* OH FUCK HE ACTUALLY DRUGGED TARQUIN

The Canary Island guide has heavy NPC energy and I'm living for it

"He's tall, he's handsome, and he looks a little bit like Superman" At least he didn't add on 'with a wasting disease' this time

"A perfect place to find one's true love-" "You're looking for true love?" "NOT YOU" Sam you can't really blame him when you keep directly flirting with every one of his characters

"We met once at a Christmas party" That joke has no right to be this funny, but it just leads me to so many questions and gives me answers to none of them- Why was there a smuggler Christmas party like it's a fucking office job? Did everyone bring their non-smuggler partners? Does Amanda's mom know this party even happened?

AJ changing his character's lie from 'he's dead' to 'he never left' to 'he killed so many animals' in the span of like 20 seconds. Absolute cinema

"I've got a gun and I'm not afraid to stab you" "I've also got a gun, there's a man lying comatose on my floor, what the fuck is going on here?" The icon returns

"His accent never stays the same!" In-Universe callout

"How did you shoot him with your gun?" Phenomenal

Sam taking any opportunity to mime-spit on his friends, even as his character is actively dying

Amanda dying is actually crazy though, no happy endings here-

But you know what, thank god the guide survived, I don't think I could handle 3 Luke characters dying in one play

Final Thoughts: Luke plays almost every minor character in this one, half of them die, and all of them are iconic.

#gee i wonder who my favorite sfth member is #not like i made it blaringly obvious in any way #sfth #shoot from the hip #sfth luke #sfth sam #sfth tom #sfth aj #lost in your eyes

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lestappenforever · 1 year ago

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Lestappen fic - Ice cream shop owner!Charles AU

I don't typically get excited by AU ideas for Lestappen because Lestappen in canonverse is so appealing to me in and of itself. But, while AO3 was down yesterday, @thearchercore received and answered a whole bunch of asks from lovely anons about a Lestappen AU fic where Charles owns an ice cream shop (as inspired by the news that the man is actually going to open an ice cream shop in Milan.) And, well, for the first time ever, I got excited about a Lestappen AU. So, I wrote something.

This is, obviously, dedicated to the incredible @thearchercore, a true pillar of the Lestappen community, and to each and every anon who has sent in asks about this AU. And because this was entirely inspired by people on Tumblr, you can read the whole fic in this post. ❤️

---

Max realizes that he has probably let this whole thing go too far. Way too far.

What had started as a chance encounter after the Monza Grand Prix, where Max had gone on a drive and ended up in a small, lovely ice cream shop - LEC - in Milan that served the most delicious vanilla ice cream Max had ever tasted, had spiraled and developed into what was now practically a weekly occurrence. Every chance he got, when the race calendar, his PR and training schedule would allow it, Max would fly to Milan, spending ridiculous amounts of money and contributing an unnecessary amount to further pollute the environment, just to go back to that ice cream shop.

And yes, although the vanilla ice cream was divine, that's not the real reason Max kept coming back.

No, the real cause of his travels was the ridiculously beautiful shop owner, with the fluffy brown hair, the captivating green eyes Max kind of wanted to drown himself in, and dimples that Max saw every single night when he closed his eyes. And what’s more, the shop owner — Charles — didn't even seem to like Max, because the Monégasque was a die-hard Ferrari fan and he seemed to have made it his personal mission to put all the blame of Ferrari’s lack of success for the past fifteen years on Max. Even if Max hadn’t been in F1 for the entirety of those fifteen years.

Not that he was surprised, really. The passion of the Tifosi did, on more than one occasion, seem to seriously impact their sense of logic and capability of rational thinking.

And apparently, the beauty, sass and stubbornness of the shop owner did the exact same thing to Max's.

The irony of that is not lost on him.

The fact that the two of them had discovered they were on the same page about the superior ice cream flavor the first time Max had been in that ice cream shop — “vanilla is my favorite” Max had said at exactly the same time Charles had said “vanilla is the only right choice” — had not been enough to endear him to Charles. His allegiance with Ferrari and Max currently on yet another dominating winning spree with Red Bull was too strong. (Even if there had been the flicker of something in those green eyes when Charles had learned that he and Max were on the same page about vanilla ice cream.)

After yet another failed attempt at charming Charles a few weeks ago, Max had gotten so desperate that he had genuinely started considering a move to Ferrari, even starting to subtly ask around about the possibility, Red Bull’s superior car and strategies be damned. But then word had reached GP and his race engineer had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he would not be moving to Ferrari to impress ‘some ice cream guy in Milan’. Which Max had taken offense to, because Charles was not just ‘some ice cream guy in Milan’, thank you very much.

(Max really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut around GP.)

So yes, his obsession with the ice cream shop and its owner has gone way too far. And yet, on a warm August afternoon, Max finds himself walking back into that ice cream shop.

Summer break has finally arrived, and Max had genuinely considered renting an apartment in Milan for the next three weeks so he wouldn't have to fly back and forth so much. But then he had come to the conclusion that that would be excessive.

(Because flying back and forth between Monaco and Milan definitely wasn’t excessive. No, sir.)

Charles is there when Max walks in, as he is every single time Max walks in. The guy never seems to leave his beloved ice cream shop, and Max finds himself wondering if the other man gets enough sleep. Or if he even goes home to sleep, or if he has a bed set up in the back somewhere so he never has to waste time going back and forth between the ice cream shop and his home.

He may not know Charles all that well, despite seeing him regularly for the past few months, but he does know that the man must have an incredible work ethic.

The little bell above the door announces his arrival, and Charles looks up from behind the counter. For a brief second, Max is sure he sees a flash of excitement cross those gorgeous features, but the Monégasque quickly schools his expression into one of exasperation and indignation, complete with an overly dramatic eye roll.

“No Red Bull Racing team members allowed,” Charles tells him with a huff, as he puts a brand-new tub of chocolate ice cream in the display freezer.

Max snorts as he walks towards the counter. He had expected a frosty — pun intended — reception following Ferrari’s double DNF in the last race before the summer break, so Charles’ grumpy demeanor doesn’t deter him.

“Hello to you too, Charles,” the Dutchman sing-songs, ignoring the way a couple of teenage girls at a table by the window gape at him. “Let me guess, Ferrari’s double DNF in Belgium was somehow my fault?”

Charles meets his gaze and narrows his eyes. He points an ice cream scoop at him. “I am not sure how, but yes.” He waggles the scoop accusingly.

It’s Max’s turn to roll his eyes. “Right, because the two of them crashing into each other in turn two, while in P8 and P9 respectively, while I was at the very front definitely had something to do with me?”

“Obviously,” Charles confirms with a sniff.

“You’re ridiculous,” Max laughs, shaking his head in a manner that can only be described as fond. He comes to a halt in front of the cash register at the counter, and waits for Charles to ask him what he wants.

But Charles never does; instead busies himself with rearranging the different bowls of topping on top of the display freezer, wiping down the counter, and restocking the ice cream cones, all the while completely ignoring Max’s presence. Or general existence, even.

Eventually, Max runs out of patience.

“I’d like three scoops of vanilla ice cream, please.”

Charles doesn’t even stop what he’s doing. Doesn’t even look at him. “We’re all out of vanilla.”

Max stares. At Charles, then at the almost full tub of vanilla, with its little sign labeling it as vanilla sticking out of the fluffy ice cream.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Charles, I can see the vanilla ice cream. It’s right there,” Max insists, pointing at the flavor through the display glass. As if Charles isn’t completely aware of its existence, as if he’s not just being a little shit and punishing Max for something that isn’t even remotely his fault.

Charles pauses in his bustling to look at Max. Then, he follows the length of Max’s arm to where his finger is pointing directly at the vanilla. His gaze returns to Max’s eyes as he says, deadpan: “That is only a display ice cream.”

Max blinks repeatedly.

“A display ice cream?” he echoes incredulously.

“Yes,” Charles confirms, raising his chin. “It’s only for display, it is not to be served.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well, it’s like this,” the Monégasque says, lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug.

Max doesn’t know if he wants to smack him or kiss him.

(That’s a lie, he knows damn well that he wants to kiss that smug look right off of Charles’ stupidly beautiful face.)

“Fine,” the Dutchman sighs, moving his finger slightly to the right. “Then I would like three scoops of the chocolate.”

“I’m sorry, but that is also only a display ice cream,” Charles tells him with a completely straight face.

“You’re not serious.”

Charles raises one full eyebrow. “Does it look like I’m joking?” he asks.

And, well, Max has to admit that it absolutely does not.

He stands there in silence for a while, wondering why the hell this infuriating man has been the object of his deepest desires for the past few months. Wonders why Charles’ face is the only thing he sees when he closes his eyes to sleep at night, and why he is the one person that keeps appearing in the majority of his dreams. Wonders why, when his mind wanders as he has a secure grip around himself in bed, it keeps wandering to the mental images of what Charles would look like, feel like, sound like if he was there with Max, when all Charles seems to want to do is get under Max’s skin and infuriate him in ways and for reasons Max hadn’t even known he could let himself be infuriated.

Oh, who is he kidding? Those reasons, coupled with Charles’ overall appearance and being, are exactly why his mind never seems to tire of Charles whatever-the-fuck-his-middle-name-is Leclerc, and only him.

Max has always been a sucker for challenges. And Charles is definitely a challenge.

Had Charles been an F1 driver instead of the owner of an ice cream shop, Max just knows their on-track battles would have been epic. Their rivalry would have been one for the ages; their names and lives so intertwined that people could not have mentioned one without also mentioning the other. Because Max is sure that Charles’ passion, his stubbornness and his outright refusal to give in to anything or anyone would have translated into a fierce, unyielding, unapologetic driver.

Forcing himself out of his reverie, Max gives a quick shake of his head to clear is racing mind. Then, he fixes Charles with a hard stare.

“Let me guess, these are all ‘display ice creams’?” he asks, gesturing with a hand at the numerous tubs of flavors in the display freezer.

“Of course not,” Charles scoffs, as if that’s the most ridiculous statement that has been made in the ice cream shop in the past few minutes. “That would be a horrible way to run a business. We have one flavor that is not only for display.”

Max is almost afraid to ask, but he does anyway. “Which is?”

Charles doesn’t answer the question with words, just points to the bottom tub at the far left. The little sign reads ‘Mint chip’.

“Who the fuck eats mint chip ice cream?” Max asks, scrunching up his nose in disgust. “That’s like eating toothpaste.”

For the first time since Max stepped through the door, Charles smiles. A beautiful, self-satisfied, mischievous smile that does things to Max’s body, mind and soul. It makes his heart rate pick up and his skin tingle with an excitement he has no business feeling.

Pathetic. He’s absolutely pathetic.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Max. That's all I have to offer today.”

And Max, proving just how completely gone he is on this ridiculous man, lets out a long, tired sigh.

“Three scoops of mint chip, please,” he requests in a voice that is completely resigned.

Charles’ face lights up like a fucking Christmas tree, and he scurries to get one of the small glass bowls reserved for customers who want to eat their ice cream in the shop, not even needing to ask if that’s what Max is planning to do, or if he wants his ice cream in a cone. And although Charles is doing his damnedest to make Max believe that his general existence on this earth is causing Charles physical pain and emotional turmoil, the fact that Charles remembers his preference doesn’t go unnoticed by Max.

He won’t even entertain the idea that Charles might just be adamant on making Max sit in his shop and eat his mint chip ice cream so Charles can watch him suffer with every spoonful.

Charles is generous with the scoops — incredibly so — and Max is sure those three scoops he requested actually equal the size of at least six regular-sized scoops. He realizes that he probably should have asked for one scoop instead of three. He watches as Charles sticks a spoon in the ice cream and places the bowl on the counter in front of Max with the biggest grin on his face.

“It’s on the house,” Charles tells him, probably just to further add to Max’s suffering.

The Dutchman eyes the bowl of ice cream warily, quietly cursing it and himself, before picking it up with a hesitating hand. Charles watches him expectantly the entire time as Max makes his way to a small table in one corner of the shop. Behind him, a small child, probably around five or six, had entered the shop with his mother while Max was waiting for Charles to finish scooping, and Max hears the boy ask for two scoops of strawberry ice cream. And Charles — the fucking asshole — makes a point out of saying ‘coming right up’ in both Italian and English just to fuck with Max some more.

Max takes a seat with his back to the window so he can face Charles. Because if nothing else, he’s not going to let Charles win.

The first spoonful really does taste like toothpaste with a hint of chocolate, and it’s an awful combination. It takes every ounce of willpower Max has not to let the disgust he’s feeling show on his face. He lets the ice cream melt in his mouth for a long moment, before swallowing the disgusting liquidized ice cream, all the while maintaining a completely unaffected expression.

Charles watches him eat the entire bowl of ice cream, and Max never breaks eye contact. With every expressionless swallow, Max can see the thinly veiled disappointment on Charles’ face and the satisfaction he gets from that is enough to motivate him to finish every single bite. He even makes a point out of scraping the melted remains of the ice cream from the sides of the bowl, scooping it up into a mint green coloured soup in his spoon, and eating it. He even briefly considers licking the bowl clean just to get a rise out of Charles, but the Monégasque turns away from him with a huff before he can put his plan into action.

Which, thank fuck, because Max is starting to feel a bit sick from the ridiculous amount of toothpaste-flavored ice cream he has just consumed out of spite and spite alone. He pushes the bowl forward and away from himself on the table with a frown.

Charles goes back to ignoring his presence for the next fifteen minutes, and Max waits. Just because he can — just because he knows this wasn’t the outcome Charles had expected and he wants to revel in the satisfaction of finally getting under Charles’ skin for once for a little while longer.

Eventually, Charles comes to collect his empty bowl and gives Max a disapproving glare.

“Well? How was it?”

And Max, unable to resist, gives Charles his biggest, brightest smile. “It was delicious, thank you.”

If looks could kill, Max would have been dead. Then, Charles turns on his heels and walks away with Max’s empty bowl and spoon.

Taking the win, Max gets to his feet and waits for Charles to look over at him from behind the counter. When he does, he gives the other man a wave. “See you tomorrow, Charles.”

“You’re not coming back tomorrow!” Charles shoots back.

“Oh, but I am,” Max counters. It sounds like a promise, and it is.

As he walks out of the ice cream shop, feeling Charles’ gaze boring into the back of his head as he does, Max pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts looking up hotels in the area with available rooms.

***

Max stays in Milan for two weeks, and he goes to Charles’ ice cream shop every single day.

Every day, Charles tells him the only flavor he can serve him is mint chip. By day three, Max has stopped trying to argue with him. By day five, Max orders vanilla and Charles responds with ‘three scoops of mint chip coming up’. And every day, Max sits at his little table by the window to eat his ice cream while Charles stands behind the counter, watching him eat the entire time.

Every. Single. Day.

And every single day, Max can see Charles’ resolve crumbling, little by little, convincing him that his tragic efforts are not in complete vain. They might be mostly in vain, but Max is in far too deep at this point to care.

On the eighth day, Max stays until closing and Charles spends the majority of his free moments actually hanging around Max’s table and engaging him in conversation. It's a step in the right direction, even if Charles does end up kicking the Dutchman out when he has to count the register.

And on the eleventh day, as Max is about to leave after finishing yet another disgusting, massive portion of mint chip ice cream, Charles finds himself looking at the blond from behind the counter, watching as Max smiles down at his phone. Those piercing blue eyes are crinkling in delight, causing adorable smile lines to appear at their corners, his full, inviting lips stretching to expose his straight, white teeth. A wave of something — jealousy, Charles would define it as if he wasn’t a pigheaded dick when it comes to four-time F1 World Champion Max Emilian Verstappen — washes over him at the thought of whatever or whoever it is that puts that smile on Max's face.

It makes the Monégasque realize that all of his attempts over the past few months to convince himself that he doesn’t find Max attractive or charming as hell, and that he definitely doesn’t want to find out whether Max likes vanilla in bed, too, have been for naught.

And so, with an overwhelming feeling that he's losing a battle he's been fighting for months, Charles throws away the paper towel he had been using to dry his hands and resigns himself to his fate. Because sometimes, perseverence needs to be rewarded.

And he's not just referring to Max's.

“You can take me out to dinner tonight,” he tells Max, and it sounds like the statement pains him. Which it kind of does.

Max stops dead, one hand on the door handle, half-turned to face Charles. The look on his face is one of utter surprise.

“Really?” he asks, and he sounds so fucking hopeful that it should probably make Charles change his mind. But instead, it makes him want to close up the shop immediately and let Max take him out to dinner right fucking now.

Which is pathetic, really. But then again, so is the way Charles has been waking up every day hoping Max Verstappen would walk through the door of his ice cream shop for the past few months.

But, having no intention of showing his hand, Charles maintains a stoic expression as he nods.

“Pick me up here at nine.”

Max's smile is so wide that Charles wonders if it makes his cheeks hurt. He also wonders if said cheeks will feel as warm to the touch as they look.

“Okay,” Max says, still smiling. “Then I'll see you again at nine.”

And with that, Max turns, pulls the door open, and walks out of the shop.

When Charles can only just see the back of the Dutchman through the window, he sees Max stopping briefly on the sidewalk and pumping his fist in the air in the same celebratory manner Charles has seen after so many victorious races over the years.

He looks ridiculous, and Charles might just be falling a little bit in love with him.

Charles doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

***

It turns out that Max's preferences in bed are far more adventurous than his taste in ice cream.

Which turns out to be yet another thing they're on the same page about.

#Lestappen #Lestappen fic #My writing #thearchercore #Ice cream shop AU

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neurospiczzzziee · 2 months ago

Note

Are there any songs that make you think about Blitzø’s character arc in particular these days? I’d love to see some art of yours based on that! :)

You asked such a good fucking question! These are some songs that currently haunt me, I just haven't gotten to drawing them or deciding if I want to draw them. My head is filled with too many songs and head cannons.

If there are any that really stand out to you and ur like oh my goodness you need to draw this. Plz let me know. I literally get all the motivation from everyone's kindness. 💕. Also I love your art so much and it means a lot that you want to see more of mine 🥹.

Personal Growth and healing of trauma:

Eight by Sleeping at Last

Hi there is a song to listen to this is the one! It is such an inspiring song and is so powerful for Blitzø.

Some of my favorite lines of the song. Idk what I would draw for this yet but eventually I do want to make art for it.

"I'm standing guard, I'm falling apart

And all I want is to trust you

Show me how to lay my sword down

For long enough to let you through

Here I am, pry me open

What do you want to know?

I'm just a kid who grew up scared enough

To hold the door shut

And bury my innocence

But here's a map, here's a shovel

Here's my Achilles' heel

I'm all in, palms out

I'm at your mercy now and I'm ready to begin

I am strong, I am strong, I am strong enough to let you in"

Like a Child -Piano Demo by Mother Mother

Blitzø lets his heart open up and recognizes his childhood trauma. Imagine a very good dramatic Blitzø playing a piano moment.

Hello My Old Heart - The Oh Hellos

Very good personal growth song. Shows Blitzø having his heart back with Stolas and willing to take his walls down. Idk what I would draw for this yet.

In love and just wants to take care of your partner:

Irony would have it by Matt Maltese

This is so fucking perfect for Stolitz that it's amazing. 😤. Like I can imagine so many scenes of him taking care of Stolas struggling and Blitzø just looking at Stolas lovingly.

Like I love the line:

"when the TV laughs, I look at you. That's our thing, you're a passionate man and I'll always look up to you"

I can imagine Blitzø just lovingly Looking at Stolas watching TV.

Small Hands - Radical Face

AHHHHHH ITS SO WHOLESOME IM DYING. There is so much good content/ideas with this song.

Also the lyrics match perfectly:

"Well, the world might cut you down again

But you know the way back home

And your best might not be good enough

But just know you're not alone

And if you slip and lose your way again

Well, I'll know that you will be all right

You still gotta try

If you need, come build your home in me

And you know I won't complain

And I can't fix what was done to you

But I'll shield you from the rain

And if the walls they build become too high

Then step up on my back and climb

'Cause I never mind

No matter the day or time

I never mind

And all the anchors that they hid inside your chest

We will unravel all of the chains

And toss the remnants all down the drain

And all my hands are much too small to hold you up

I will be there to pick up the pieces

And keep you housed while you bend them up

And if you wind up in the dark again

Just turn and call my name

And if the fire in your chest comes out

Well, I'll hold you all the same

And if you need to take this out on me

Well, you know I won't complain"

When somebody needs you - Will wood

Will Wood as a singer just feels so inherently Blitzø coded. This song fits well with the situation.

Blitzø caring for Stolas but also a bit spicy 🔥👀

Clean by Noah Floesch

This song is literally horny care giver. Very cute song which has the duality of I want to take care of someone so badly but also damn do I want to fuck them.

This song really says:

"all I want to do is you and your dishes" 👀

Beige- Yoke Lore

THIS SONG FUCKS SO HARD. 😤.

This song is could be either Blitzø or Stolas coded to be honest.

Here are some of my favorite lines:

Tell me something I don't know

And lead me to the place where no one ever goes

Let me go under your skin

Let me find the demons that drive those heavenly limbs

You know you're beautiful

But that ain't half the gold treasure in your soul what you got 'cause I want it all

With your fingers in my mouth, I fail to see your faults

So please don't let me fall

This song didn't need to be this horny. Hello????

Also I like how in the middle of the song it's like hey we could survive in the wild together 😜. That just feels very Blitzø.

The art I would make of this would have to be spicy. Mandatory.

Wholesome:

Dancing in the Rain -Stephen Day

Very wholesome rom com. Song.

Sore feet Song- Ally Kerr

I have a headcannon that Tilla would sing this to Blitzø and Barbie as a lullaby. I think it would be so cute for Blitzø to sing it to Stolas.

I also love that in the song the person Robs a convenience store and kills a bear just to get to the person they love.

I have more song recommendations/ideas for angst Blitzø family head cannons. If ppl want to hear them but I've hit my song limit on the post. So I would have to do it later.

#blitzø #stolas #stolitz #helluva boss lives rent free in my head

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doormatty3 · 1 year ago

Text

Veiled Passions - Josh POV (Josh Lambert x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Summary:

[Josh Lambert x Female Reader] [Josh Lambert x You] I know I should stay away from her - to commit the sex we had to memory and move on with life. But my heart, stubborn and unyielding, refuses to comply, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, so it happens again and again until we decide to enter a committed relationship. Each stolen moment with her feels like a fleeting escape from reality’s constraints, and I know I’m head over heels in love with her. But when my own son, Dalton, develops feelings for her, the guilt and shame that gnaw at my conscience threaten to consume me whole. It’s as if fate has orchestrated a cruel irony, dangling love before me, only to reveal the painful consequences of my actions. Yet, despite the turmoil and self-doubt that plague my mind, I find myself unable to let her go. But there lies a flicker of hope - a belief that perhaps, against all odds, love will conquer all. OR: I show her who she belongs to.

Wordcount: 9,570

Warnings: 18+, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding, vaginal sex, smut, dirty talk, older man/ younger woman, daddy issues, face fucking, blowjob

A/N: This is the second part of the story from Josh's perspective - click here for the first part.

It’s curious how a simple spark can ignite into a consuming flame.

I had sex with her in my son’s dorm room, and while I know it was never supposed to happen in the first place - it did happen again and again. Like starved, we just fell over each other in her room at the first chance we got. After that, we decided that it seemed impossible to stay away, so we started meeting up at my house.

I should harbour guilt - after all, she’s considerably younger and not as burdened as I am. Yet, inexplicably, I find myself devoid of remorse. There’s a natural ease, an undeniable chemistry between us.

I’m drawn to her like a moth to the flame, unable to resist the magnetic pull that defies reason despite the potential consequences.

But it’s more than mere physical attraction.

I crave a deeper, more profound connection with her, a connection that encompasses everything - mind, body, and soul.

I believe she feels the same. Our relationship has evolved beyond the sexual; we eat together, share conversations, and have intimate moments that bind us in ways I never thought possible.

All that’s missing is a definitive label for what we share, a recognition of the depth of our connection and the gravity of our feelings.

And as she prepares to visit me today, I am consumed with anticipation. I can hardly wait to hold her in my arms again, to lose myself in the warmth of her embrace.

_____

The gentle rap on my door pulls me from my thoughts, and without hesitation, I stride to it and grasp the handle and pull it open to reveal her standing on the threshold.

A smile naturally spreads across my face as I take in her beauty. The soft glow of the morning light bathes her features, enhancing her radiance even further. She’s illuminated with a gentle warmth, casting a halo around her head and accentuating the soft blush that graces her cheeks.

Her presence is like a breath of fresh air, a welcome reprieve from the mundane routines of everyday life. There’s an ethereal quality to her as if she’s stepped straight out of a dream and into my reality.

“Hey,” I whisper, my voice barely above a breath, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “I’m glad you’re here.”

A soft smile graces her lips. “Me too,” she responds, her voice carrying a hint of excitement. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

With a subtle gesture, I step aside, inviting her in. As she crosses the threshold, I can’t help but let my gaze linger on her figure, appreciating the way her jeans hugs her ass.

I close the door behind her with a soft click, and without hesitation, I wrap her in a tight embrace, my arms encircling her.

Her scent washes over me, a perfect combination of something sweet and uniquely her. I inhale deeply, committing it to memory as her warmth seeps into my bones. It’s as if she was made to fit perfectly against me, her body moulding to mine with effortless ease.

As she reciprocates the hug, her arms wrapping around me, I can’t help but smile.

With a gentle tug, I pull back slightly, just enough to gaze into her beautiful face. Cupping her chin in my hand, I tilt her head upwards and capture her lips in a tender kiss. She tastes like coffee and just her.

I can feel the curve of her smile against my mouth, sending shivers down my spine and butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

Reluctantly breaking the kiss, I take her hand in mine and lead her into the living room.

We settle onto the couch, her body pressed close to mine, and I revel in the sensation of her warmth against my skin. As she lets out a contented sigh, I can’t help but feel a sense of peace wash over me, knowing that in her arms, I’ve found my sanctuary.

But when her gaze meets mine, I notice a subtle change in her expression, a hint of nervousness flickering across her features like a passing shadow.

“Josh,” she begins, her voice barely more than a whisper, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

A chill runs down my spine at the solemnity in her tone, my heart skipping a beat with apprehension. Instinctively, I reach out to gently squeeze her hand in a gesture of reassurance.

“Of course, sweetheart,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice steady despite the rising tide of fear and concern. “What’s on your mind?”

As she takes a deep breath, her eyes flutter closed, and I can sense the weight of her words before she even speaks them. “It’s about us,” she confesses, and instantly, my blood runs cold, my heart pounding in my chest as I furrow my brow in concern.

My worst fears seem to materialise as she continues, her words hanging heavy in the air. “About where we stand, what we mean to each other.”

I swallow heavily, the lump in my throat making it difficult to speak. The thought that she might be ending whatever fragile connection we’ve built fills me with paralysing dread.

“Go on,” I urge softly, my voice trembling with fear, betraying the turmoil raging within me.

“It’s just...” She pauses, her words hesitant as if treading on fragile ground. “I care about you, Josh, more than I can put into words. But there are so many obstacles in our way.”

For a moment, time seems to stand still as her words sink in, the weight of her confession settling like a heavy stone in the pit of my stomach. She’s ending it, I think - a surge of panic coursing through me like an electric shock. But before I can interject, she presses on.

“The age difference, the fact that you’re my friend’s dad... It’s all so complicated,” she continues, her voice trembling with uncertainty.

“I know,” I murmur, my voice gentle and quiet, a fragile thread holding back the torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

Desperation claws at the edges of my consciousness as I search for the right words to keep her from slipping away. “Believe me, I’ve thought about all of that too. But none of it changes how I feel about you.”

A sense of relief washes over me as the truth spills from my lips, a small confession whispered into the void. But even as the weight lifts from my shoulders, I can’t shake the gnawing fear that lingers in the back of my mind.

It would be her right to end it, I realize, the reality of our complicated situation looming over us like a dark cloud on the horizon. And yet, despite it all, I can’t help but hope that she’ll choose to stay.

“I want something permanent with you. Something real and lasting,” she finally says, her voice filled with determination and longing as it cuts through the tense silence.

My breath catches in my throat as her words sink in, a rush of emotions flooding through me like a tidal wave. She wants this, she wants us , and the realisation leaves me feeling both exhilarated and overwhelmed.

“And so do I,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper but filled with conviction. “I want us to be in a proper relationship. I want you to be my girlfriend.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with anticipation, as I wait for her response. And when her smile lights up her face, a radiant beacon of happiness, I know that I’ve found my answer.

“I’d like that,” she says, her voice soft but resolute. “I’d like to be your girlfriend.”

A surge of joy rushes through me, a euphoria I can hardly contain. It’s as if all the worries and uncertainties of the past melt away, leaving only the promise of a future filled with love and possibility.

I reach out to take her hand in mine, feeling the warmth of her touch as our fingers intertwine. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice choked with emotion. “You mean everything to me.”

Without another word, I lean in to capture her lips in a kiss. It’s passionate and tender, a promise of all the love and devotion that I have yet to express in words. And as we share this moment together, I know with certainty that I’ve finally found someone worth fighting for, someone I can see forever with.

_____

“I wish this weekend didn’t have to end,” she confesses, her words echoing the sentiment that has been lingering in my own mind as we reach the front door on Sunday evening.

With a heavy sigh, I nod in agreement, unable to tear my gaze away from her. “I know,” I reply softly, my voice tinged with regret. “But we’ll see each other again soon, I promise.”

Reaching out, I take her hand in mine and intertwine our fingers, drawing comfort from the warmth of her touch. But when she looks down at our joined hands, a quiet question lingers in her gaze.

“Do you want to meet up next week?” she asks quietly, her eyes searching mine for an answer.

My heart sinks at the thought of disappointing her, but I know that I can’t make any promises I can’t keep. The question pulls me back to the harsh reality of our complicated situation. “I’d love to,” I reply honestly, “but I have the kids next weekend. It’s going to be a bit chaotic.”

The words spill from my lips like a bitter truth, casting a shadow over the fragile hope that had blossomed between us.

It’s not that I don’t want her to meet my other kids, Foster and Cali, but the thought of broaching the subject with Dalton fills me with a sense of unease.

We haven’t discussed how we’ll tell him we’re a couple, and the mere thought of it sends a shiver down my spine. I know it will be awkward, potentially even damaging to his friendship with her, and so I’ve been putting it off, hoping for the right moment to present itself.

Besides, it feels far too early to introduce her to the rest of my family. We’ve only been seeing each other for a short time, and while our connection is undeniably strong, there are still so many uncertainties lingering in the air.

Her smile falters momentarily, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features before she masks it with forced cheerfulness.

“That’s okay,” she says, masking the disappointment in her eyes. “We’ll find a way to make it work, even if it’s just for a little while.”

I can’t bear to see her sad, and the thought of waiting another two weeks until I can hold her in my arms again is almost unbearable. “How about you come over during the week?” I suggest a glimmer of hope igniting within me. “We could grab dinner or just spend some time together.”

Her smile, though tinged with sadness, is still blinding and radiant.“ I’d like that,” she says, her voice soft but full of warmth. “I’d like that a lot.”

With a tender smile, I use my hands to gently cup her face, savouring the softness of her skin and the way she leans into my touch. Her eyes flutter closed, a contented sigh escaping her lips.

Angling her head upwards once more, I press my lips to hers in a kiss that speaks volumes of the emotions that course through my veins.

Eventually, I break the kiss, my heart heavy with the knowledge that our time together is ending. “See you next week, sweetheart,” I whisper, my voice laced with a mixture of longing and anticipation.

“Until next week,” she replies, breaking from my embrace and heading towards her car.

I watch her until she disappears from view, the sound of her car engine fading into the distance. It’s a bittersweet moment, filled with the promise of our eventual reunion but tinged with the ache of separation.

Returning to the house, I notice a sweater. She’s left it behind on accident, and it’s a tangible reminder of her presence that fills the room with the scent of her perfume even if she’s not in it. With a smile, I drape it over the couch, making a mental note to return it to her when we see each other again.

_____

On Monday, Foster, my other son, visits the house to retrieve some items he had left behind, thinking he didn’t need them. But among them are school materials he now requires, so I go to his room and grab them for him while he stays in the living room.

As I reenter the room, carrying the box of Foster’s belongings, I catch a glimpse of his furrowed brow and his gaze fixed upon the couch. Following his line of sight, I immediately understand the cause of his confusion - her sweater.

It’s a striking red, unlike anything I would wear, with a neckline too low and a size too small to be mistaken for one of my own - and, of course, it’s undeniably female.

I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest as I brace myself for the inevitable confrontation. This is definitely not how I wanted my kids to find out about my relationship, especially not Foster, who I know has a close bond with Dalton.

For a moment, I stand frozen in place, unsure of how to proceed. Should I address the elephant in the room or pretend not to notice?

If I want to avoid telling him about my girlfriend, I should definitely pretend that everything is fine, so I clear my throat to announce my presence and step back into the living room, hoping to divert Foster’s attention away from the sweater.

Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I consciously try to appear calm and collected as I approach him. With a forced nonchalance, I hand him the box, hoping to distract him from the sweater.

“Here you go, Foster,” I say, my voice betraying none of the anxiety swirling within me. “You left these in your room.”

Foster accepts the box with a nod of gratitude, but his gaze lingers on the sweater for a moment longer before he averts his eyes. I can sense his curiosity, his unspoken questions hanging in the air between us like a heavy fog.

But before either of us can broach the subject, I quickly change the topic, eager to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable truth.

“So, how’s school going?” I ask, forcing a casual tone as I attempt to shift the focus. “Need any help with your assignments?”

Foster seems to catch on to my subtle diversion, and he launches into a discussion about his classes and upcoming exams. As he speaks, I can’t help but feel a sense of relief wash over me, grateful for the temporary reprieve from the inevitable conversation that looms on the horizon.

But even as we talk, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that this encounter is just the beginning of a much larger talk that we’ll need to have, one that I’m not entirely prepared for.

After a while, I walk him to the door, bidding him farewell, thankful that the conversation didn’t take a more awkward turn and that he didn’t ask me anything about the item of clothing.

“Thanks, Dad,” Foster replies with a smile, seemingly oblivious to the tension that hangs in the air or just very good at pretending. “Are us coming over on the weekend still fine?”

Relief floods through me at his nonchalant question. “Yes, still fine. I’m looking forward to it,” I reply with a forced smile. “We could maybe go out to this good burger restaurant I found?”

Foster’s smile widens at the suggestion, and he nods eagerly in agreement.

As I watch him leave, a weight lifts from my shoulders, but I know that the inevitable conversation with my kids and, especially Dalton is still approaching.

_____

Sitting in my home office, surrounded by stacks of tests waiting to be graded, I’m interrupted by the familiar chime of my phone. With a quick swipe, I unlock the screen to find a message from her waiting for me.

Hey,

Can I come over? I really need to see you right now…

Please?

My brow furrows as I read her urgent plea to see me. It’s not uncommon for her to reach out and text me, but there’s an edge to her message that leaves me uneasy, a sense of urgency that I can’t ignore.

I quickly type out a response, my fingers tapping against the screen with worry.

Of course, you can come over. Is everything okay?

Watching the message marked as read without a response, a knot forms in my stomach, my mind racing with worry over what could have happened.

The seconds tick by agonisingly slow as I anxiously await her response that isn’t coming, my heart pounding in my chest with each passing moment.

Around 15 minutes later, a hesitant knock on the front door breaks the silence in my home. I swing the door open to reveal her standing there, her eyes filled with a haunting turmoil that sends a shiver down my spine.

Without a word, I pull her into my arms, feeling the tension in her body melt away as she clings to me. Her embrace is tight, her head buried in my chest as if she’s seeking refuge from some unseen storm, and I hold her close, offering whatever comfort I can.

After a few moments, I pull back slightly so I can see her features. She looks calmer than before, and I brush a stray hair from her face, my fingertips lingering against her skin. I press a tender kiss on her forehead in an attempt to console her even further, to take some of that weight away that seems to be crushing her.

“Come inside,” I murmur, my voice a soothing whisper as I guide her into the warmth of my home. My heart aches to hold and kiss her properly and hopefully find out what freaked her out so badly.

We settle at the dining table, facing each other in the soft glow of the evening light.

“So, what happened?” I ask, my tone gentle yet filled with concern as I study her face.

“It’s about Dalton,” she starts, her voice barely above a whisper, and I feel my heart speed up in my chest as I listen to her speak. “Today, at the coffee shop... he...”

Her words trail off, leaving a heavy silence hanging in the air. Concern gnaws at me as I lean in closer, trying to catch every nuance of her expression - I’m growing increasingly worried for her and my son. “He what?” I prompt gently, my hand instinctively moving to run through my hair in nervous anticipation.

“He told me that he... has feelings for me,” she whispers, her voice barely audible but resonating loudly in the stillness of the room. The words reverberating against the walls as if she screamed from the top of her lungs.

For a moment, time seems to stand still as her words sink in, like a sharp knife slicing through the calm. My breath catches in my throat, my hand freezing in its tracks, fingers tangled in my hair as I struggle to process the weight of her revelation.

“I see,” I manage to murmur, my voice strained with the effort to maintain composure. Leaning forward, I rest my arms on the table, attempting to anchor myself amidst the tumult of emotions swirling within me as I try to process what this means for us. My son harbours feelings for my girlfriend – his friend from college.

Her trembling voice pierces through the heavy silence once again, pulling me back to the present. “I... I didn’t know how to respond,” she confesses, her eyes pleading for understanding. “I care about him, of course, but not in the same way.”

As I meet her gaze, a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts churns within me. Rationality urges me to consider what’s best for her to acknowledge the challenges posed by our age difference. Yet, my heart rebels against reason, unwilling to contemplate a future without her by my side.

Unable to face her, I cast my gaze downward again, grappling with the weight of our reality.

“Josh, I want you to know that I only want you,” her voice filled with conviction and sincerity. I can feel her eyes on me, searching for a glimmer of understanding amidst the turmoil within me.

Her words catch me off guard, stirring a storm of conflicting emotions within my chest. I can’t shake the feeling that she deserves someone better, that she should not want me - instead, she should be happy and overjoyed that someone like Dalton wants her.

Reluctantly, I meet her gaze, my eyes locking with hers in an unspoken exchange of vulnerability and uncertainty. Her expression is a mosaic of pleading and fear, mirroring the chaos raging within me. I lean back in my chair, my fingers grazing through my hair again.

Unable to bear the weight of her unwavering affection, I avert my gaze, my thoughts spiralling into a vortex of self-doubt and apprehension.

This feels like a universal sign, a cruel twist of fate reminding me of the impossibility and all the problems of our relationship. The mere fact that my son harbours feelings for her feels like the ultimate sign.

Lost in the labyrinth of my own insecurities, my self-deprecating thoughts are loud and incessant, and they suggest that I’m bad for her.

Perhaps it’s time for me to assume the role of the adult, to sacrifice my own desires for the sake of her happiness in the long run - and let her go.

In the depths of my soul, I acknowledge the bitter truth that our connection was doomed from the start, a delicate tapestry woven from threads of problems and obstacles. Orchestrated by fate itself, designed to unravel at the slightest tug, leaving us stranded in a sea of unfulfilled longing and shattered dreams.

I ignore the persistent voice in my head - a voice that whispers insistently, reminding me that this was her choice as well. She chose me, just as I chose her.

But the words escape my lips in a barely audible whisper, reverberating in the quiet room like a solemn decree. “Maybe... maybe someone like Dalton would be better for you.”

Even as the words leave my mouth, they feel foreign and wrong, a betrayal of the emotions pulsating within me. Yet, I cling to them as a lifeline, a semblance of rationality in a sea of tumultuous emotions. Deep down, I know it’s the right thing to do despite the ache in my heart at the mere thought of losing her.

Her eyes widen in disbelief, the shock and horror etched unmistakably across her beautiful face. It pains me to witness the anguish I’ve caused her, to see the flicker of hope dimming in her eyes as the weight of my words settles upon her fragile shoulders.

My heart aches with the realisation that this may truly be the end - that I may be losing her forever and that it’s for the better.

“But Josh,” she protests, her voice laced with raw emotion, barely above a whisper. “I don’t want someone like Dalton. I want you .”

“I know,” I murmur softly, my own voice trembling with the weight of my decision. “But maybe... maybe I’m not what you need.”

The words hang heavy in the air between us, a testament to the agony of our shared dilemma. I know she wants me - I can see it in the depths of her pleading eyes, feel it in the tremor of her voice just as I want her with every fibre of my being.

The mere thought of waking up tomorrow without her by my side fills me with a profound sense of emptiness, a void that threatens to consume me whole. And yet, I know deep down that this is the right thing to do, no matter how much it tears me apart inside.

I can sense her struggle, her silent plea for me to see past my own insecurities and fears, to embrace the love that she so willingly offers.

Watching her rise from her seat with agonising slowness, I feel a sense of helplessness wash over me - a realisation that I am powerless to ease her pain, to mend the fractures in our fractured bond. “I should go,” she murmurs softly, her voice barely audible above the din of my own anguish.

Tears well in her eyes and spill over onto her cheeks, my own heart breaking with each silent sob that escapes her lips. I know she feels broken because of what I’ve done, because of the pain I’ve inflicted upon her. And yet, I cling to the faint hope that she’ll come to understand, that she’ll see the necessity of my decision in the days to come - even if I cannot bring myself to do the same.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice thick with emotion as I struggle to articulate the depth of my remorse. “I wish things could be different.”

But even as the words leave my lips, I know that wishes are merely fleeting whispers in the wind, echoes of a reality that may never come to pass.

Suddenly, she whirls around, facing me. The evening light casts long shadows across her features, accentuating the intensity in her eyes that are swimming with tears. I’m momentarily stunned and surprised by her reaction, taken aback by the ferocity of her response.

“No, Josh. I won’t accept that,” she retorts, her voice carrying an edge of anger tempered by an unwavering determination. “I won’t settle for someone else when all I want is you .”

Her words reverberate through the room, echoing off the walls and resonating deep within me. It’s a declaration that catches me off guard, shattering the fragile equilibrium I had clung to.

Her unwavering conviction leaves me speechless, my thoughts swirling in a maelstrom of uncertainty, and I am having difficulties grappling with the fact that she wants me . And that she is fighting for me - for us .

“I just don’t know if this is such a good idea,” I confess, my uncertainty palpable as I avoid meeting her gaze. The weight of my doubts presses down on me, suffocating in its intensity.

It’s as if she can sense my inner turmoil, the silent struggle playing out behind my eyes. Without hesitation, she reaches out to take my hand in hers. Her touch is a lifeline in the tempest of my emotions, grounding me in the present moment.

“Josh, look at me,” she insists, her voice unwavering in its determination. Reluctantly, I raise my gaze to meet hers, feeling like a marionette under her commanding presence. Her eyes, pools of unwavering sincerity, bore into mine with a depth that leaves me speechless.

“From the moment I met you, I knew there was something special between us,” she continues, her words resonating within the depths of my soul. “I wanted you then, and I want you now.”

Her declaration leaves me stunned, my mind struggling to process the magnitude of her confession. It’s as if the world around us fades into insignificance, leaving only the echo of her words reverberating in the silence.

“I love you, Josh,” she declares, her voice a fervent proclamation of her unwavering affection. “And I won’t let you push me away because you’re too afraid to face your own feelings.”

As her words wash over me, I feel a wave of conflicting emotions surge within me. Part of me refuses to believe that I could be deserving of such profound love, while another part swells with elation at the realisation of her devotion.

I wet my dry lips, struggling to find the words to convey the depth of my emotions. With each beat of my heart, the truth becomes clearer until I can no longer deny it.

“I... I love you too,” I finally confess, the admission a balm to my restless soul. With those three simple words, the weight of uncertainty lifts, replaced by a sense of clarity and purpose.

I swallow hard, my gaze drifting away from her piercing eyes. The weight of her love bears down on me, intertwining with my own fears and doubts. Because I wonder - will it be enough?

“But I’m scared, sweetheart,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared of what this could mean for us. Especially now that Dalton has feelings for you.”

She steps forward again, her presence a comforting anchor in the swirling sea of uncertainty. With each measured step, she closes the distance between us until we’re only mere inches apart. Her touch is gentle yet firm as she cups my cheek, her hand trembling slightly against my skin, and I feel the warmth of her touch seeping into my very being.

“We can face this together,” she says softly, her voice a soothing balm to my troubled soul, brimming with unwavering hope and determination.

At that moment, the weight of her words washes over me, stirring something deep within my heart. Maybe, just maybe, our love is enough to weather the storms that lie ahead. Perhaps we can navigate the murky waters of uncertainty together, emerging stronger on the other side.

The treacherous tendrils of hope begin to weave their way through the fabric of my doubts, igniting a flicker of optimism within my chest. Why continue to fight against the inevitable when it’s clear that she is the right choice, the beacon of light in the darkness of my doubts?

I want this, her, us. And I’m tired of denying myself happiness.

“Yes, we will,” I murmur, my voice quiet and soft, my resolve solidifying with each passing moment.

With a gentle urgency, she closes the remaining distance between us, her breath mingling with mine, and her soft lips meet mine in a tender yet desperate kiss.

In that fleeting moment of connection, time seems to stand still, the world around us fading into insignificance as we become lost in each other’s embrace. Her touch is like a lifeline, pulling me closer and anchoring me to the present moment.

With an urgency born of longing, I pull her closer, my hands tracing the contours of her back, desperate to feel her warmth against me. At that moment, she feels like the missing piece of my soul, filling the void with her presence.

As our lips part, a soft groan escapes me, my chest heaving with ragged breaths as I drink in the sight of her flushed cheeks and parted lips. The intensity of my desire for her is overwhelming, threatening to consume me entirely.

Unable to resist the magnetic pull between us, I draw her back into my embrace, capturing her lips in another searing kiss.

“I want you, Josh - only you,” she breathes, her voice filled with unwavering determination and love.

Her whispered words send shivers down my spine, the sincerity in her voice washing away any lingering doubts. At that moment, I know with absolute certainty that she is mine, and I am hers, brought together by a love that knows no bounds.

As our lips meet in another electrifying kiss, I revel in the sensation of her soft, supple lips against mine. My hands remain firmly planted on her back, pulling her closer with every passing moment, unable to get enough of her intoxicating presence.

Between kisses, I murmur against her lips, my voice heavy with emotion, “I can’t imagine wanting anyone else either, sweetheart. The way you make me feel... it’s indescribable.”

Her eyes light up with joy and adoration, reflecting the depth of her love for me as she enthusiastically returns my kisses. At that moment, I am lost in the overwhelming intensity of our connection, unable to imagine a future without her by my side.

With a deep breath, she breaks the kiss, her fingers tracing a delicate path along the contours of my jaw. I shiver at her touch, every nerve in my body electrified by her gentle caress, my cock twitching in my pants. My gaze remains locked on hers, drinking in the depth of her love and devotion.

Suddenly, she sinks to her knees before me, her movements graceful and deliberate. My heart pounds in my chest, anticipation mingling with desire as I watch her with bated breath.

At that moment, time seems to slow down as I drink in the sight of her kneeling before me, her beauty illuminated by the soft glow of the light. My heart races with excitement as I realise what she’s about to do, my body trembling with anticipation.

“Josh,” she whispers, barely above a breath, filled with reverence and longing. “I need you. I need us.”

Her words send a shiver down my spine as I gaze into her eyes, seeing the raw desire reflected in their depths. With trembling hands, she begins to trace delicate patterns over the fabric of my jeans, each touch sending a jolt of electricity coursing through my veins and straight to my cock that’s already straining against my jeans.

I bite back a groan, my breath hitching in my throat as her fingers dance along the outline of my muscles, teasing and tormenting me with every stroke. Arousal pulses through my body, my senses heightened as I struggle to maintain control, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Every touch and every caress fans the flames of desire burning within me, threatening to consume me entirely. I fight against the overwhelming urge to pull her up into my arms and lose myself in her completely, knowing that she needs this as much as I do.

Almost suddenly, she reaches for the waistband of my pants, her fingers deftly undoing the button and zipper with practised ease. With a swift motion, she pushes my trousers and boxers down to my ankles, and I step out of them, the cool air of the room now caressing my exposed skin as my hard dick springs free, finally not confined to the tightness of my underwear.

Reaching out, my hand trembles slightly as I cup her cheek, savouring the warmth of her skin beneath my touch. “You’re so beautiful,” I murmur, my voice husky with desire. “I can’t believe you’re here with me, doing this.”

She leans into my touch, her cheek pressing against the palm of my hand, and I feel a surge of affection wash over me. The intimacy of the moment is almost overwhelming, and I find myself lost in the depths of her gaze.

The sensation is electrifying when he wraps her hand around my throbbing cock. A surge of pleasure courses through my body, igniting every nerve ending and sending my senses into overdrive. My eyes automatically roll back in my head, overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure she’s unleashing upon me.

It’s crazy, really, how much she turns me on. Just the touch of her hand against my hardened dick is enough to drive me wild with desire. I can feel every inch of her soft, delicate fingers as they glide along my shaft, sending shivers of pleasure racing up my spine.

I can’t help but groan in pleasure as she swirls her tongue over the sensitive head of my cock. The sound of her quiet moans only adds to the intensity of the moment, fueling my desire and driving me wild with need.

With each flick of her tongue, I can feel myself growing harder and harder, the anticipation building to a fever pitch. I’m entirely at her will, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Finally, mercifully, she takes the tip of my throbbing cock into her mouth, sucking lightly as her hand continues to stroke my length. The sensation is indescribable, and I can’t help but moan loudly as I feel myself being engulfed in the wetness of her mouth.

My hands automatically find their way into her soft hair, fingers threading through the strands as she continues her tantalising ministrations.

“Christ, sweetheart,” I rasp, my voice rough and strained with desire. “You know how to drive me crazy. Keep doing that, please…”

As she takes me even deeper into her mouth, I can’t help but tighten my grip on her hair, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through my body. I fight to hold back the urge to buck my hips or release too soon, desperate to savour every moment.

My moans grow louder, echoing off the walls of the room as the overwhelming pleasure threatens to consume me entirely. “Sweetheart, that feels incredible,” I groan, unable to contain the sheer ecstasy of the moment.

As I feel the slight scratch of her fingernails on my balls, I can’t help but buck my hips, a guttural groan escaping my lips as I feel my cock slipping further down her throat.

The sensation of being engulfed so deeply in her mouth is almost overwhelming, and for a moment, I’m lost in the exquisite pleasure. But then I hear it - the subtle sound of her gagging - and my eyes flutter open, my concern instantly piqued. I notice the tears pooling in her eyes, and without hesitation, I pull back slightly.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to push it that far,” I murmur, my voice filled with genuine concern as I search her eyes for any sign of discomfort.

Before I can apologise further, she speaks, her voice hoarse with desire, “ Fuck, do it again,” she gasps, struggling to catch her breath.

For a moment, I wonder if I heard her correctly, but the look of pure ecstasy on her face and the way her thighs clench tell me everything I need to know. Without hesitation, I gently push my cock back into her throat, keeping a careful eye on her for any signs of distress.

As she gags around it again, I can’t help but tangle my fingers in her hair, the sensation sending shivers down my spine. Despite the initial shock, it’s clear that she’s enjoying herself, and I can’t help but feel a surge of arousal at the sight of her surrendering to me.

With each careful thrust, I feel a surge of pleasure coursing through me, the feeling of her lips stretching wide around my cock, sending waves of ecstasy rippling through my body. Her dazed expression only adds to the intensity of the moment, and I find myself unable to tear my gaze away from her.

As I continue to push my dick into her throat, I can’t help but marvel at how incredibly hot she looks, saliva glistening on her chin as she struggles to accommodate my length. The sight alone is enough to drive me wild with desire, and I find myself moaning softly with each slow thrust.

The sound of her gagging only serves to heighten my arousal, and each moan sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my cock. And when I finally manage to push my entire length down her throat, my balls resting against her chin, I can’t help but groan in satisfaction, feeling her throat spasm around my dick.

With a newfound sense of urgency, I pick up the pace, my movements becoming faster and more erratic with each passing moment. I can feel my balls tightening, the sensation of her warm mouth wrapped around my cock driving me insane.

As I fuck her mouth and throat with increasing fervour, I can see the dazed look in her eyes, a mixture of desire and love. With each thrust, I feel myself edging closer and closer to the edge, the promise of release tantalisingly close.

Feeling the urge to cum building inside me, I make a conscious decision - I don’t want to cum in her mouth or spill down her throat. I want to fill up her cunt. With that thought in mind, I gently pull my dick out of her throat, watching as it emerges coated in saliva, a thick strand connecting her mouth to the tip of my cock.

My arousal spikes at the sight, my cock throbbing with anticipation as I observe her taking a few deep breaths, her chest rising and falling with each inhalation. I can see the desire in her eyes, a hunger that mirrors my own, and it only serves to heighten my arousal even further.

I lean down and capture her lips in a passionate kiss, my tongue seeking entrance. I savour the taste of her lips; the intoxicating sweetness mingled with the faint hint of myself. With a gentle tug, I pull her up to stand, our bodies pressed together.

Breaking the kiss, I take a step back and remove my shirt, my gaze locked on her. The fabric falls to the ground with a soft thud.

I watch as she follows suit, removing her own shirt, her movements mesmerising as she reveals every inch of her flawless skin. My eyes drink in the sight of her perfect, firm tits, her taunt nipples begging for attention, and her smooth skin tantalising me with its softness.

As she takes off her pants, pulling them down along with her underwear, my eyes are drawn to her cunt.

I can see the wetness glistening between her lips, a clear sign of how much she enjoyed being on her knees and having my dick stuffed down her throat. My cock twitches at the thought of being buried deep inside her pussy, and I can hardly contain myself any longer.

I relish the feeling of her warm skin against mine as I pull her close again, my hand resting possessively on the small of her back. A guttural groan escapes my lips at the sensation, a primal sound that reverberates through the room.

“I’m going to fuck you hard, sweetheart,” I growl, my voice low and filled with raw desire. At this moment, all I crave is to claim her, to assert my dominance over her body and soul.

Guiding her to the couch, I lay her down gently, my movements deliberate and purposeful. With a firm grip, I lift her legs, placing them on my shoulders, exposing her wet cunt to my hungry gaze. My cock throbs with anticipation as I position myself at her entrance, ready to plunge into her.

Normally, I would take the time to prepare her and make her cum at least once so she can take my cock easier. But tonight is different - tonight, I crave to be inside her, to take her and make her feel every inch of me before she falls apart around me.

With a low, feral groan, I push my cock into her, feeling the slick heat of her pussy enveloping me. She moans loudly in response, her head falling back in pleasure as I fill her completely, every inch of me buried deep within her.

Her tightness grips me like a vice, pulsing and throbbing around my cock as I part the walls of her cunt, thrusting deeper until I am buried to the hilt. My eyes never leave hers, capturing every flicker of desire, every gasp of pleasure as she succumbs to me.

I feel her pussy clench and flutter around me, her slick walls pulsating in rhythm with her heartbeat. Pausing for a moment, I give her time to adjust, savouring the sensation of being buried deep within her, lost in the exquisite pleasure of our connection.

“You feel so good, Josh,” she breathes out, her voice laden with desire, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “Please, move.”

Her plea ignites a primal urge within me to give in to the raw, unbridled passion that courses through my veins. With a growl, I begin to move, setting a steady and deep rhythm. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure radiating through my body, the sensation of her tightness enveloping me is driving me to greater depths of pleasure.

My hands roam over her soft skin, trailing over the curves of her breasts and the contours of her stomach. I revel in the desperate moans that escape her lips and the way her hips meet mine with eager enthusiasm.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” I encourage, my voice thick with desire. “Take it.”

Her responsiveness to my touch only spurs me on, driving me to thrust harder and deeper into her pussy. I watch in awe as her perfect tits bounce with each thrust, her moans filling the air alongside the wet squelch of her cunt.

“God, you’re so hot,” I groan, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, as I feel her pussy flutter around me, responding to the praise.

In a frenzy of desire, I thrust harder, pulling out almost completely before plunging back in. The sound of my balls slapping against her is loud in the room. The scent of arousal hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the heady aroma of our passion as we lose ourselves in the heat of the moment.

I lower my head, overcome with the need to taste her, and take one of her nipples into my mouth, sucking hard. She arches her back in response, a throaty moan escaping her lips as I tease her with my tongue.

Her response only spurs me on, and I continue to please her with my mouth, alternating between gentle sucking and teasing flicks. I revel in the sound of her gasps and the feel of her cunt throbbing around me, a testament to her overwhelming arousal.

“You’re so damn responsive for me,” I murmur against her skin, my voice husky with desire. My hands roam freely over her body, tracing the contours of her curves with a possessive urgency.

I leave wet, open-mouthed kisses along her chest, each touch eliciting a shiver of pleasure from her. I switch my focus to her other nipple, licking and biting gently, relishing the way she responds to my touch.

“Only for you, just you,” she mewls, her voice barely a whisper as she lets me take her.

I growl in response, the possessive thrill coursing through me as I revel in the knowledge that she belongs to me and me alone. “That’s right, sweetheart,” I grunt against her skin, my voice rough with desire.

I tighten my grip on her thighs, determined to leave my mark on her, to imprint myself on every inch of her skin.

With each powerful thrust, I drive deeper into her wet pussy, my need to possess her overwhelming every other thought. I adjust the angle of my thrusts, seeking out that spot that drives her wild.

When her mouth falls open, and she lets out a whimper, I know I’ve found it. The way her cunt flutters and clenches around me tells me she’s close, her hips moving in perfect harmony with mine.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” I growl, my voice rough with desire as I urge her on.

“Nobody fucks me like you do. Nobody pleases me like you do,” she stammers, her words a desperate mixture of moans and gasps. “You feel so good, Josh.”

“You belong to me,” I assert possessively, my dominance asserting itself as I take her roughly, my hips slamming against hers with unrestrained force. The headboard of the sofa thuds against the wall with each powerful thrust, the sound echoing in the room.

I can feel myself getting closer and closer to the edge, every nerve in my body ablaze with pleasure as I fuck her with ruthless abandon, lost in the ecstasy of the moment.

“I’m so close,” she whimpers, her voice trembling with desperation.

My own breath comes in ragged gasps, my voice a deep growl of desire. “Let it all go, sweetheart. I want to feel you come apart in my arms,” I encourage, my hands gripping her hips as my hips thrust rapidly into her, my thumb finding her clit to rub rough circles.

I watch as her mouth falls slack, her eyes glazed with pleasure as my thumb works her clit relentlessly. “That’s it, sweetheart,” I groan, my voice strained with the effort of holding back my own climax. “Let me feel you.”

She cries out my name as she cums, her body convulsing with pleasure as her cunt clenches violently around my cock. I’m determined to ride out her orgasm, to prolong her ecstasy, so I hold back, feeling her quiver and shake against me.

When she finally slumps against me, spent and trembling, I thrust into her one last time, burying my cock deep inside her as I let myself go. I cum hard, filling her quivering cunt to the brim with my cum. The orgasm is so intense that for a moment, I feel like I black out, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it all.

“Oh fuck,” I breathe heavily, still buried deep inside her as her pussy continues to milk my aching dick. I hold her close, our bodies entwined, unwilling to let her go.

I hear and feel the frantic beat of her heart slowly returning to its normal rhythm. My breath comes in heavy pants, my chest rising and falling with the aftermath of our fuck. I keep my cock buried inside her, relishing the sensation of her warmth enveloping me.

“I’ve never felt anything like this before,” I pant, my voice husky with emotion as I continue to hold onto her hips, unwilling to let go. My cock twitches slightly as it begins to soften inside her. “You’re incredible, sweetheart.”

“You’re incredible, Josh,” she whispers back, her voice barely above a murmur as she nestles closer to me, her warmth enveloping me like a comforting embrace.

I tighten my hold on her, pressing a soft and gentle kiss to her temple, savouring the moment. “I love hearing that,” I whisper, my breath hot against her skin as I slowly begin to withdraw my cock from her warmth.

With a wet pop, my cock slides out of her, leaving behind a trail of our mixed juices on her thighs.I can’t tear my gaze away from her gaping cunt, still dripping with my cum. The sight of her, so thoroughly fucked and wrecked, fills me with pride.

“Damn, sweetheart,” I mutter, my voice thick with desire as I reach down to brush my fingers against her slick folds. A soft moan escapes my lips as I feel the warmth of her juices mingling with my own. The desire to claim her again, to fill her up once more, pulses through me, undeniable and fierce.

Lowering my head, I capture her lips in a soft and tender kiss, pouring all my love and passion into the gentle caress. At this moment, with her in my arms, I feel complete. I love her - with every fibre of my being. And as I hold her close, I know that I never want to let her go.

She’s so beautiful, and as she looks at me, I see nothing but love in her eyes. I kiss her again, savouring the taste of her lips against mine. Her fingers trace patterns over my torso, and I feel the familiar pull of desire again. I pull her closer, deepening the kiss, lost in the heat of the moment.

I know it’ll be a while before I can fuck her again, but I also know that she doesn’t need a pause. So, instead, I want to fuck her with my fingers, ensuring she feels every lingering trace of my cum deep inside her. As I lean in to kiss her once more, my hand hovers over her pussy.

But just as I’m about to start, I hear footsteps echoing through the house.

With a racing heart, I quickly reach for my boxers and toss her my shirt, hoping to cover ourselves before anyone sees us.

But it’s too late. The door swings open, and there stands Dalton, his expression a mixture of shock and betrayal.

“What the hell is this?” Dalton stammers, his voice trembling with disbelief as he takes in the scene before him.

I’m momentarily frozen, unsure of what to say or do. I notice his gaze flicker towards my girlfriend, who shrinks back, and I instinctively step in front of her, as if to shield her from his gaze and potential anger.

This isn’t how I wanted my son to find out about my relationship. But here we are, and it’s clear from Dalton’s expression that he’s not taking it well.

“Dalton,” I interject firmly, my voice carrying a hint of warning as I hastily pull on my boxers, keeping her shielded behind my back.

But Dalton’s eyes are filled with hurt and betrayal as he looks between us, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place in his mind. His anger is palpable, his fists clenched at his sides as he struggles to contain his emotions.

“I can’t believe this,” he says bitterly, his tone laced with raw emotion. “I confessed my feelings to you, and this is what you do? Sleeping with my father ?”

His words cut through the air like a knife, and I feel a pang of guilt and regret. It’s not as though we started our relationship when he confessed his feelings; we had been seeing each other long before that - but he doesn’t know that. But I doubt that it would make a difference now.

“Dalton, I...” I start, my voice heavy with remorse. “I never meant to hurt you. I know this is difficult to understand, but…” I trail off, struggling to find the right words to explain the complexity of the situation.

I want to tell him that this is not what it looks like, to try and defuse the situation - and yet, it is exactly what it looks like, and there is probably nothing that can calm him down right now.

But Dalton’s fury is unrelenting, his eyes blazing with a fire threatening to consume everything in its path. “Difficult to understand? You’re sleeping with my friend, Dad,” he retorts, his voice laced with bitterness. “She could be your daughter!”

His accusation cuts deep, slicing through the fragile facade of peace and happiness we had clung to just moments before. I close my eyes momentarily, feeling the weight of his words bearing down on me. The worst part is that it’s true - but I still love her and it’s more than just sex.

Dalton turns to her before anyone can say anything, his gaze filled with betrayal.

“And you,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “I thought I could trust you. I thought you cared about me.”

“Dalton, I...” she begins, her voice faltering as she searches for the right words, tears glistening in her eyes.

But Dalton shakes his head, his anger and confusion clouding his features. “I don’t want to hear it,” he says bitterly, his voice barely above a whisper.

I reach out and gently squeeze her hand, a silent reassurance that my feelings for her remain unchanged despite Dalton’s outburst and that we will face this together. Her reciprocation brings a wave of relief, a flicker of hope amidst the turmoil.

Dalton recoils at the sight, his face contorted with disgust at the intimate gesture. “I can’t believe you would do this to me, Dad. And you,” he adds, turning his gaze to her once more, “you should be ashamed of yourself.”

With that, he turns and storms out of the room, leaving us alone in the wake of his departure. The silence that follows is deafening, a stark reminder of the pain and heartache that now fills the space between us.

As I turn to her, I can see the pain etched in her features, mirrored by the regret in my own eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice heavy with emotion. “I never wanted things to escalate like this.”

Her response is a soft murmur, barely audible, yet filled with understanding and resolve. “I know. But we have to find a way to fix this. For Dalton’s sake and for ours.”

I can’t bear the thought of losing Dalton, nor can I imagine a future without her by my side.

With her words echoing in my mind, I feel a surge of determination coursing through my veins. I refuse to let this rift tear us apart. I’ll do whatever it takes to mend the fractured relationship with my son, to bridge the gap that now separates us.

“I’ll talk to him,” I declare firmly, a promise laced with determination. “I’ll make him understand.”

As I meet her gaze, I can see the flicker of hope reflected in her eyes. We may be facing an uphill battle, but together, we’re stronger than any obstacle that stands in our way.

At that moment, as our hands remain clasped together, I know that we’re in this together. No matter what challenges lie ahead, we’ll face them together. For her, for Dalton, and for the love we share, I refuse to let this be the end.

#patrick wilson #patrick wilson x reader #patrick wilson smut #the conjuring #ed warren #insidious #fanfiction #josh lambert #insidious smut #josh lambert x reader #josh lambert smut #orm marius #aquaman #insidious fanfiction #insidious the red door #aquaman the lost kingdom #aquaman and the lost kingdom

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bubbleddisasters · 11 months ago

Text

Bored SO

What Genshin Vision and Weapon I think Each TWST Character would have!

(I’m going solely off Vision Requirements/Traits (Ex: Anemo = Desire for Freedom) so some may seem different then expected)

Reminders:

Anemo= Desire for Freedom, often but not always accompanied with the loss of a loved one.

Geo = Strong and Unwavering in pursuing their ideals, beliefs and goals.

Electro : Eternal Determination/ Those who may be seen as strange, but will not change themselves for others.

Dendro: The Desire for Knowledge, (Plus Human Connections.)

Hydro: A strong sense of Justice and Protection/Care of others.

Pyro : Dedicating their life to their Passion.

Cryo : Resolution in moment of conflict.

—————

Riddle: Pyro or Anemo, Sword: I believe that as his mom wanted him to be a healer, which is usually Dendro or Hydro, and Riddles Passion for Order and/or Desire for Freedom and loosing his friends granting him the opposite, could be very good additional angst material. Also Swords are elegant, and the Original Beheading weapon.. Hehe.

Ace : Geo, Hydro or Electro, Bow: I think Ace fits both Unwavering Beliefs and Not changing themselves for others very well, but also Justice and Care extremely well in Book 1.

I think it would be also amazing for him to get his vision right as he gave his speech after punching Riddle. Hydro could also be very interesting and seeing Riddle be Jealous of it, as it Represents Justice and Care, and its what his mother wanted him to get, adding another layer of rage to it all, plus aiding in dowsing Riddles Flames.

Bow wise, I think the term an “Ace Shooter” was fun irony, as well as “Trick shot”

Deuce: Cryo, Claymore: You all should have seen this coming. Got it when he decided to better himself for his mother’s sake. Geo also works I suppose. Claymore because duh. Plus it would be a fun comparison to Ace having the most lightweight physical weapon.

(Chongyun 🤝 Deuce

Cryo Claymores with Hydro Boyfriends who like to prank them)

Cater: Anemo, Spear: I won’t go into full detail, but if you know Caters backstory, you know damn well why I chose Desire for Freedom. Spear doubles as a Selfie stick, would have atleast one attack similar to Charlotte’s.

Trey: Dendro, Cataylst: Trey mentions wanting to learn all kinds of desserts, and as the mediator, fits the human connections piece well. Catalyst either paints the enemy or throws baking materials / Bakes the Enemy/Decorates them.

Leona: Dendro, Spear: I can’t explain it, but Dendro just fits him very well, specifically the knowledge piece. Also Spear because its lighter weight and has range + if you’re especially good at it could probably be used while lying down. Lazy ass Lion.

Ruggie: Geo, Bow : When I tell you he was extremely pissed upon receiving his—Anyway, this man perfectly embodies unwavering determination for their goals.

Like pre-mentioned, was extremely pissed because he originally thought it was useless compared to Hydro or Dendro, but that changed when he realized he could make shelter for the people on his street and also get alot of high paying construction jobs easier.

Bow is lightweight, and easier to use while running away aslong as you have good aim.

Jack : Hydro, Claymore: Justice and Care is literally half or more of his Savanaclaw ark. It fits Jack so insanely well (or Geo but shhh). I think Hydro would be sweet because everyone expects him to have Geo because it’s tough and strong, but sike. He uses it to water his cactuses and to cool off / Hydrate during workouts. Claymore because the guy is a walking gunshow he can lift that thing with one hand.

Floyd : Electro, Catalyst: So far the hardest to choose, but also being considered strange yet refusing to change for others is very Floyd. Physical DMG Catalyst like Wrio or Heizou, I pray for the enemy. Like:

Floyd : “I’m as cold as a lion with no hair: If you ever see me fighting in the forest with a Mitichurl, HELP THE CHURL. Cause that b*tch gon need it-“

Jade: Dendro, Sword: Knowledge and Jade go hand in hand. Also his plant obsession makes this funnier. Sword is very elegant but deadly, that also fits Jade. Electro is also an option, but considering the OG Flotsam and Jetsam died via Electrocution—Oh the Irony if both of them were Electro

Azul : Anemo, Geo or Cryo, Catalyst: Desired freedom from bulling and torment? , Unwavering Determination to reach goals? Conflict and Resolution? Yea. I would go with Dendro cause knowledge, but didn’t feel as fitting. Catalyst because obviously.

Anemo could help him in the water to swim faster, and blow away Jade and Floyd as kids, but they kept coming back so he gave up. Cryo or Geo to make a octopus pot but they blew it open.

Kalim: Pyro, Dendro or Hydro, Catalyst or Spear: Passion suits Kalim incredibly, but so does Human Connections and the desire for knowledge to help others. Hydro fits in the care department, but not as much in justice.

Alot of his attacks would be similar to Yun Jin or Nilou, (based in Traditional dance from the Middle East obviously) and adding some jumpiness to it, but I imagine his skill or run is just running people over with the magic carpet and you get to fly without stamina issues (5 star type perks lmao)

Jamil : Anemo, Spear or Sword: Desire for Freedom?!?! Thats Jamils Ark in a nutshell. Friend loss? Kalim when they were kids. (Because his parents made him stop being friends with Kalim and focus on his duties as a servant to him). I think Jamil having a Scimitar like the ones in the original Aladdin movie or a spear similar to Jafars staff would be a fun reference.

Epel : Anemo or Dendro, Claymore: Desire for Freedom coming from his own insecurities on his appearance or Desiring the Knowledge to Change it. Literally hated his vision for a long time, thought wind/nature powers were kinda stupid, useless in a fight and girly until Vil rocked his shit with Dendro in the OB fight.

Can barely lift the Claymore but by god will he try. (Similar to Razors attacks like the guy is trying his best but the claymore literally almost sends him flying)

(A bow is also a fun option and he would definitely pull a Childe and just hit the enemy with the bow itself.

Catalyst he just throws rotten / poison apples at the enemy. )

Rook: Electro, or Pyro, Bow: Strange but would never change for someone else? Rook. Passion? Also kinda Rook. I could see him receiving his vision at his first play, and using his hat to dim the light so it didn’t affect the actors and other watchers. Bow was also an obvious choice.

Has a skill that reveals all hidden quests available and how to access them.

Vil : Dendro, Catalyst : The Desire for Knowledge to attain Beauty. Saw Epel hating on Dendro Visions and took it personally. Catalyst because he can’t bother to get his hands dirty.

Idia: Anemo, Catalyst or Claymore: Desire for Freedom and Dead person you cared for? Check. Found it on his bedside when he woke up after Orthos death and called it “a Pity Prize” for him surviving. Completely pulling a Silver Wolf with the Digital / Glitch like attacks and if he has a Claymore, a Kaveh, although his little skull thing would be his Merhak.

Ortho: Non Specific (until after book 6, then Dendro), Catalyst or Bow: Kinda Similar to the Traveler, but you’d have to get into Ignihyde and use a disc drive to change his. If after Ignihyde chaps, Dendro. Similar to Nahida, Desiring Knowledge of Humans. Shoots literal laser beams at enemies.

Malleus: Dendro, Catalyst: Like Ortho, Desiring Knowledge of Humans, and from Human (I guess in this case just emotional) Connections. Specifically one day after building up the courage to hug Lilia after he helped him find Gargoyles around a town. (Accidentally called him Father in that moment, and then the Vision Appeared)

Catalyst….duh. I can see the attacks either being fireflies or mini Dragons (like how Baizhus is snakes)

Lilia: Cryo or Anemo, Bow, Claymore, Sword or Catalyst (I don’t have a bias to Catalysts I swear) : Got his after Melanors Death (F) or Malleus Hatching, and like how its mentioned Venti was once a Catalyst user in lore, and puts his bow away like one, Lilia does pretty much the same, but puts it away like a Sword.

Catalyst wise, definitely physical, bro is bouncing off the enemy and teleporting around them, same if sword. Claymore would be fucking hilarious because this tiny man having a fast attack speed while using a weapon almost the size of him is just generally hilarious. Has an attack similar to Fischls Oz , except it is instead a Bat, and yes you can fly / teleport with him.

Also like Raiden, the game prevents you from cooking as him / all the meals you make will be suspicious ones.

Silver: Hydro, Sword: Justice and Care? Silver. Definitely. Sword also seems pretty obvious, and definitely has an ability that not only has wild animals not running from you, but will come closer to you if in the area.

Sebek: Electro or Geo , Sword or Claymore: Eternal Determination and not changing for others is very Sebek, but so is Unwavering Determination to reach goals, and I think Sword and Claymore are both Obvious.

Che’nya : Electro, Catalyst: Not Changing for Others fits this wacko so well. Catalyst because obviously. His E skill makes you invisible to the enemy and wild creatures. Enemy wise, scares the shit out of them and does 80% extra damage if you hit them from behind with it.

———-

OK BYEEEE

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mikareo · 2 years ago

Text

⌗ ROMANTICISM ₊ ˖ ་. rin itoshi x fem reader (4k)

⊹ ⠀⠀ there are so many words he wishes he could take back, and he realizes now that he loves you. he loves your colorful laugh, beauty, and passion - all he needs now, is to tell you...and say those three little words. (part two of rationalism - must must read first!!!)

contains; colorblind!rin, painter!reader, rin’s mom is reader’s art mentor, rin hates art, strangers to friends to lovers, swearing, immense fluff, , kissing, extremely inaccurate depictions of colorblindness, happy ending!!! author's note; this was originally supposed to end with reader getting into a car accident and d-wording the day of her art gallery...but i changed my mind :D

He misses you. He can’t help it, but he does.

The memories he has with you are a cassette tape on autoplay - constantly running through his mind on repeat, and always ending with the awful confrontation that you’d left each other with. Rin wishes he hadn’t raised his voice. He wishes that he would’ve been honest with you from the very beginning, but he hadn’t, and there’s no changing the past. All he has now are two empty hands that would much rather be interlaced with your paint-covered fingers.

“How much longer do you think you’re going to be moping?” Sae’s call is distant from the turning gears within Rin’s brain. He’s sure that his brother has grown tired of his constant state of melancholy - having been forced to be his support system after you walked out the door - and Rin feels awful about it. If he could, he’d rip his heart from his chest and allow you to step on it. To stomp and tear through the organs just as you’d done to those poor bystanding cherry blossoms on the sidewalk.

“As long as she’s still upset with me.” He groans as his forehead hits the marble of the island counter. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Yeah, well we already knew that.” The dim-eyed boy beside him scoffs while taking yet another drink of his apple juice - which he has unfortunately had to drink for the past hour and a half since Rin had somehow consumed his small supply of alcohol within the past few weeks that the two of you hadn’t been speaking. “I was really rooting for you, man. I thought she was the one to break your cycle.”

“Cycle?”

What the hell does he mean by ‘cycle’?

“Oh, you know,” Sae continues without even taking a breath, “The cycle of life you’ve got going on with your inability to actually attract girls.”

Rin hates him.

“You’re an asshole.” He grumbles, taking his own swig of the pint of orange juice he found in the back of his fridge. Is it expired? Likely yes. Does Rin care, at all? Definitely not. Is he even more pissed off that he doesn’t understand the irony of why it’s called orange juice? He doesn’t want to answer that question. “An unhelpful asshole who should definitely stay over and cook dinner for me since he wants to make up for being said ‘unhelpful asshole’.”

Sae scoffs, shaking his head whilst the thin, soft strands of his hair flit back and forth. His right eyebrow raises in a mocking expression, “You need to get yourself back out there, man. You’ll be old and grey if you keep waiting for the perfect girl to come knocking on your door, so just talk to her. Just fucking talk to her and put me out of my misery.”

“Are you trying to make this about you, right now?” Rin stares at his best friend in utter disbelief, but he’s not truly upset. He knows that Sae holds good wishes for him in all manners of life - this being no exception - and takes his words to heart. He’s right. Of course, he’s going to lose you if he doesn’t even try to get you back. “The sun must be falling out of the sky because I’m actually considering following your advice.”

“That’s a pretty picture to imagine,” his older brother chuckles, causing Rin to roll his eyes. What’s the sensation that everyone has with mentioning imagery every five seconds? “Just talk to her, man.” Sae continues, “Please, I’m all out of advice.”

Rin takes his brother’s pleas to heart. It is quite ridiculous that he’s spending his time depressed and lonesome when he could be reconciling with you. Perhaps it’s his fragile masculinity acting out and refusing to take blame for the situation, although he’s fully aware it’s completely his fault that you’re upset with him.

It’s difficult for the gears to begin turning in Rin’s head. They’re covered in brittle rust that’s been creeping deep into the crevices of his mind for his entire life - slithering down his spine towards his blackened heart that you had only just begun to breathe life into. He misses the feeling of spring that came when you called. The freshwater rain of your laughter and budding blossoms of your smile that washed away his loneliness and replaced the awful emotion with an overgrown garden of bliss. He still doesn’t understand how he managed to mow that garden down with one sentence. He might as well have taken a chainsaw and brutally hacked into every connection that he’d managed to make with you in your time of knowing each other.

Now he’s going to be on his knees begging for forgiveness with his hands stained by the minced grass. Does grass stain green or yellow? Hopefully not brown, dear lord. He’ll be buried deep into apologies that should definitely be rehearsed, but he knows he’s not an artist with words and he won’t bother to waste your time with crumpled-up ‘I’m sorry’ notes and improvised tears.

You deserve nothing but the best - so much more than he’s been giving you and he needs you to hear those words come straight from his mouth.

When did you begin to mean so much to him? Rin doesn’t even know.

It could’ve been when you showed up to his game unannounced, with first row seats and a booming cheer that he never knew he desired. ‘C’mon number ten! I know you can do better than that! Beat their asses, Rin!’ He nearly tripped at the sound of your voice, and falling on his face was the last thing he wanted to do in front of Isagi - but to be completely honest, he doesn’t remember much of his qualms with his rival from that day. Rin was solely focused on playing well for you. The world stopped and he was given all the time needed to impress you. You give him a reason to be better, a selfless reason to do good.

Perhaps it was when you’d shown him around your homey apartment, with maple art easels and splattered canvases lining the walls, and watched with glee as he made his best attempt at a finger painting (which may or may not have ended up looking like two worms kissing). ‘It’s abstract’, you’d say every time he found something new that was wrong with the art piece, ‘All it needs is a home. See?’ You hung his shitty little sketchbook paper on your living room wall, right next to your TV for the whole world to see. The way you stood there staring in awe still rattles his brain. You’ve always been able to find beauty in even the smallest things.

Or maybe his heart had begun to beat a little faster that Saturday night on the way out of the theater. The romance of the film the two of you just witnessed was still on Rin’s mind, provoking his alcohol-induced body to make a pathetic attempt at holding your hand - which resulted in him accidentally knocking you over into a street puddle that swallowed the heel of your shoe. ‘I needed to take a shower anyway, Rin, it’s fine!’ Your smile continued to be bright despite the low temperature and sprinkling rain, and he can recall wondering how you managed to stay so positive in such a dreary situation. As you discarded your soggy heels into a nearby trashcan and skipped barefoot on the pavement, you called, ‘Come on! Dance with me!’ The shared laughter between the two of you echoed through the seemingly empty streets that surrounded you - hands connected as you swung in circles around each other and fell over one too many times, until he carried your sleeping body home. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever been able to make him laugh as hard.

The way the corners of your eyes crinkle amidst fits of giggles is his favorite image to replay. He doesn’t need to know the color to be able to see how beautiful they are - to appreciate the blinding sparkle that overwhelms your irises when he accidentally trips over the uneven sidewalk or knocks over your painting station - or even when he unintentionally makes a sexual innuendo that you just so happen to pick up on. ‘That’s a love hotel, Rin! Why would I have stayed there before?’ It was almost as if you were conducting a symphony of glorious laughter that night. The violins played the tune of your voice in a higher octave and the cellos added a punch everytime you’d bite your lip in an attempt to calm down. He hadn’t known what a love hotel was intended for before that night, but he’d also made the mistake to say, ‘I wouldn’t mind going to my first one with you, it could be a first for both of us.’ and you still haven’t let him live it down. Rin’s honest with himself for the most part. He’s awkward, insufferable, and a bore to be around - yet, for some odd and unknown reason, those are your favorite things about him. Why?

Why is it that he can’t function like a normal person when your eyes meet his?

Why do his words rearrange themselves and become complete gibberish when he attempts to woo you with his charm?

What is it that keeps him coming back to you, despite holding such deep hatred for the things that you love most?

“I need to text her.” Rin feels his chest vibrate as he finally makes a decision, the words pouring from his mouth in a short word vomit - forcing Sae to piece together the jumbled mess and attempt to comprehend whatever it was that his big brother was trying to say, to which he jumps up from his seat at the island and aggressively pats Rin on the back.

“That’s what I’ve been saying, dumbass! Get those fingers movin’!”

His phone falls into his hands in a millisecond, with Sae eagerly awaiting to hear his poetry. He’s grateful to have such a supportive friend. Rin knows that there aren’t many people who would be willing to put up with him for so long - having been moping around and complaining day-and-night of relationship problems that were solely caused by him - and he can’t imagine not having his support. Hopefully he’ll be able to introduce you, one day. You’ll both give him so much shit for his attitude. Oh well. It’ll all be worth it having two people he loves get along.

…

Did he just…

What did—

There’s no way.

Did he really just use that word? That godforsaken word?

He’s trembling. Rin’s phone is shaking in his hands as he finally comes to the realization that he does, with his entire heart and being, love you. In an instant, his entire world scrambles together with rapid dashes and line art that he can’t even comprehend. There’s no rules to follow with these types of feelings - this insistent need to see you. Hold you. Kiss you.

Fuck, he wants to kiss you. He can’t think of anything else he’d rather be doing.

Like tapping raindrops that never cease their fall, his fingertips move against the keypad in a rhythmic motion - singing a song of love that can’t be contained into a simple lullaby. His heart pours out into the message, apology after apology being pasted in paragraphs, and hopes with his whole soul that you’ll find it in yourself to at least see him in person. There’s no way you won’t. Rin knows you well enough now that he’s certain he’ll be seeing you again. All he needed to do was take the first step towards forgiveness, and he’s finally willing to be vulnerable and own up to his inability to be honest about his feelings, because he loves you. He loves you and he wants to tell you a hundred times, a thousand times, and a million times until you beg him to shut the hell up and kiss you.

‘I’ll be at the studio tonight. I miss you, ______, and I’m sorry.’

He ends the message with a final apology, begging fate that you’ll read it in time to meet him while he still has courage - and with that, he’s on his way to the place he hates most, awaiting the person whom he loves most.

An hour has passed - well technically it’s been fifty-seven minutes, but who’s counting?

He’s counting.

The sun went into hiding ages ago and the moon now stalks him as he sits in his chair, lonely with two vacant eyes that wish they were gazing at yours. Rin can’t even tell if you’ve read the text or not - the grey speech bubbles look the same as they always have, and the delivered sign is posted at the bottom with no response. He wants to send a follow-up message, just a little ‘hey, you there?’ but he knows that’s a little bit much. If you want to see him, you’ll see him and he’ll confess his feelings once-and-for-all - though, he’s feeling much less confident than he was an hour ago. Ahem, sorry. Fifty-nine minutes ago.

Rin has a plan of what he’s going to say to you, and hopefully it makes sense when the words begin to fall from his lips. He’s said it many times before, but he’ll say it again, he’s never been good with words or feelings or anything of the sort. He wants to get better, though - to become more emotionally aware for your sake, because he knows that’s a priority for you. You have an image of your dream guy that’s been in your wishes since primary school - tall, handsome, daring, dashing, yada, yada, yada - and he’s trying to be that guy. He needs to be that guy. He’ll be anything for you.

Anything and everything…even the desperate guy who can’t get a text back.

Y’know, for a moment - a brief and fleeting moment - the world seemed a little more beautiful in his self-realization of love. The stars glistened brighter and the street lights sparkled in their reflections. Before tonight, Rin hasn’t ever been able to appreciate the natural beauty of what surrounded him. He never understood your fascination with replicating real life into paintings and sketches, but he seems to have digested the concept - at least a little bit. The only thing that could undoubtedly make his world more dazzling would be the sight of you, and holy shit there you are. There you are opening the front door - and your gorgeous, perfect reflection in the glass is looking straight at him.

He doesn’t need the ability to see color to know that you’re the most fascinating and jaw-dropping sight in the entire universe - and that the rainbow should be rearranged in the letters of your name in honor of your ability to captivate attention and inflict a multitude of emotions on him that he’s never felt before.

“Rin?” Your melodious voice is the remedy that his ears have been yearning for. “Rin, is that you? Why’re you in the dark?”

This means you haven’t read his text, right? Otherwise, why would you be confused as to why he’s here? Wait, why’re you even here?

You begin to explain yourself without him needing to ask, “I left my phone in here earlier like an idiot and I’ve been looking for it all day. Isn’t that so dumb?” You let out a little laugh, amused at your inability to keep track of your personal belongings. Why aren’t you acting like you’re upset with him? The last time you talked, you could barely look him in the eye - yet now, you’re so casual, almost as if nothing happened. “Here I am looking for my lost phone, but instead I find a lost Rin Itoshi.”

“What are you doing here? Sitting in the dark?”

The repeated question is met with a pregnant silence as Rin fails to piece together the rehearsed words he had come up with earlier, settling on a bear hug that nearly suffocates you.

He’s so overwhelmed by the feeling of touching you again that he barely notices how stiff your posture is. You’re practically a piece of rock in the midst of being carved by its maker, frozen and unable to formulate an action in response - which, in this case, means that he’s your artist. Rin relaxes his hold, urging you to reciprocate his warmth by nestling his face in your neck. Your right arm finds its place wrapped around his waist and your left around his neck, allowing him to engulf you further into his hold. You smell so nice. He notices the lavender perfume that he bought you is still rubbed into your skin, and he’s glad that you’re finally using it.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Rin’s fingers run through your hair in smooth waves, gently kneading out the small knots and helping you relax - and he can tell that your full attention is on him. For the first time in knowing you, there aren’t any distractions or excuses to avoid this conversation. It’s just you, him, and the bare truth. He just hopes he can execute this right.

“There aren’t enough words to explain how sorry I am, genuinely. I shouldn’t have ever belittled you like that, ______.” He takes a deep breath, one of many, and closes his eyes. The scene of you stomping away from him has no end in his mind. It constantly plays at every hour of the day, re-run after re-run, to torment him and remind him how horribly he screwed up with you. Please, please forgive him. “You’re not just my mom’s student. You’re not just a friend that I get coffee with. You’re so much more than that and I’ve been such a fucking chicken and haven’t been able to be honest with you.”

“You couldn’t have possibly known about my condition and it was wrong of me to take my frustration out on you.” Rin can feel himself begin to cry, his tears raining down his cheeks in cascades of pent up anger and hatred for how he made you feel that day. You didn’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve to be treated like shit by him. “Your work is important to you and I know it should be appreciated. What’s important to you is important to me, okay?”

“You love your art, and I love you.”

He says it over and over again. Those three special words rapidly become six words, nine words, eighteen, forty-two, and onwards as you look at him with an empty expression. Please, please say something. For every second of no response, he confesses his love to you. He confesses as if it’s his source of air - the only way that he’ll be able to survive this encounter is if he bares his emotions with no regrets. If this were a movie, he’d be the desperate protagonist in the climax of the story who fucked up his love life and is begging for a second chance - hell, this is real life and that’s exactly what he’s doing. Just, please, have a happy ending.

You open your mouth, yet nothing comes out. No words. No statements. No confessions. You’re simply staring at him like he’s just told you the most absurd news in the existence of the universe…

…and then a tear falls.

One tear slips from your eyes, followed by another, and another…until your face is drenched in salty rain with black mascara creasing your eyes. You look like a raccoon. Rin almost starts laughing. No. He is laughing; laughing because your false lashes have fallen into your hands as the glue refused to be waterproof - and now you’re standing before him in a puddled mess of makeup and disheveled hair. You’ve never looked more beautiful.

Rin brushes his fingers across your cheek, attempting to wipe away your tears like an artist covering up a beautiful mistake. If he were a painter, he’d paint you a million times and more - hanging every portrait on every single wall of his apartment, until there was literally no space left for a scrap of paper. You’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever laid his eyes on, and the smile that suddenly bursts from your sobs confirms it.

“What’s going on? I’m so confused, are you happy or are you sad?” He’s so concerned and his inability to read emotions correctly only makes him more helpless. “Talk to me, beautiful. C’mon.”

You lean into his touch and he instantly knows that everything is going to be okay.

“I just never thought I’d hear you say that.” Your smile is directed at him now, and he feels a warmth that is so familiar yet unfamiliar and he can’t get enough of it. It’s similar to the feeling of being showered in sunlight or snuggling beneath a comforter in the winter - an overwhelming comfort that’s a gift from you to him. “I feel like I’ve been waiting forever. Fuck you for that.”

Now you’re both laughing, giggling, and beaming at each other. His heart feels so at peace. The civil war between his divided emotions, love and loneliness, has finally ceased.

“I love you.”

Neither of you can stop the flow of confessions that slip from your tongues and in an instant your lips are on his - clashing and colliding in a furious kiss that rivals the strength of a hurricane. It’s almost as if he can physically feel your love pouring into him and warming his heart into a heated flame, stoked by the embers of your touch. God, he missed your touch. The feeling of it is addicting. It’s his personal heroin and he’ll never get enough of it.

Your lips are just as soft as he imagined them to be, perhaps they're a rosy pink color with the slightest touch of strawberry lip balm that he keeps getting a fleeting hint of taste from. Never in his wildest dreams did he think you’d love him too. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. He silently repeats over and over - grateful that he’s been so blessed to know you…feel you…and love you in the awful world that he hated living on his own - the world void of color that you’ve somehow brightened by simply breathing beside him.

His hands are everywhere. Your hips. Your waist. Your breasts. Your neck. He can’t get enough of the feeling of you. With every passing second he’s falling deeper and deeper in love. You’re utterly perfect, he would kiss you for years if that was an option—

Aw shit, he knocked over an easel.

“Goddammit,” he mumbles while briefly pulling away from you. Of course he had to interrupt the moment he’s been waiting months for with his clumsiness. He’s such a dumbass. If he could punch himself in the gut, he would - but that would be way too embarrassing in front of you - hold up, this painting is familiar!

“Well I'll be damned.” He chuckles and turns the canvas towards you, to which you burst out laughing. “I thought you’d have thrown this out.”

“No,” you gaze at the painting with love in your eyes. “I could never, that’s how we met.”

The painted streak he accidentally inflicted upon your artwork remains in the same position. It seems that you never even bothered covering it up and embraced the imperfection. While Rin cannot decipher the magnitude of colors on the canvas, he’s sure that the various strokes look gorgeous and masterful. You’ve always been so talented. He’s so lucky.

As he places the painting upon a now-standing easel, you rest your forehead against his. He loves you. He loves you so much. So much so that he can’t help but take a step closer, not just one but many, and embrace the overwhelming love and passion he holds for you. There are so many words he wants to say, confessions that can carry on for an infinite number of lines, but there’s no need for that now. You have forever - and he decides to start that forever with his favorite thing…

…a kiss.

“I love you.” You whisper.

“I love you more.” He replies.

read the final part here. THANK UUUU

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⊹₊｡ reblogs are greatly appreciated! ˚₊⊹

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