#it's been a while since I thought of these two

[alchemistc]

Inspired by Lou mentioning that we're getting B**** f*********

"Tell me about your old captain," Bobby says. It's not a question. It's not a suggestion - or if it is, Tommy doesn't have the ability to view it as anything but a demand.

Bobby's eyes catch the bob of his throat as he swallows.

They're in Bobby's office. Tommy's pretty sure he's been in this office twice since Bobby took over - he doesn't do things in any sort of official capacity, seems to hate the four walls and the door like a man with experience stuck in tight spaces.

"Off the record, of course."

Tommy's a grown ass man who's been through more Captains and Sergeants and other miscellaneous authority figures than Bobby can count on fingers and toes.

There's just something about Bobby that makes him feel wrong-footed. Like he's simultaneously the most comfortable he's ever been and the most terrified he'll ever be. Like he has to get this right.

"Sir?"

Bobby tosses a balled up piece of paper at Tommy's forehead. That's fair. That's absolutely fair. Tommy blinks, and the nerves sort of just... fall away.

"He was a homophobic, racist, misogynist prick and I still hate that I followed along like a little duckling."

Bobby purses his lips. Widens his eyes with brows raised.

The silence and the eye contact stretches.

Eventually, Bobby steeples his fingers, leans his chin on them. Stares. "We can circle back to the second part in a moment. I'm asking because I sent in your transfer papers last week."

There's that fear crawling right back in. He'd never even fucking tried it, under Gerrard. Too afraid to watch him crush that dream, too afraid to make a move for himself.

He'd mentioned flying offhand, a month and a half ago, a second serving of roast melting on his tongue while Howie stole potatoes off his plate.

Two days later Bobby'd pulled him aside and told Tommy he'd reached out to Harbor - that Harbor had an opening in air ops and he'd asked them to hold the position internally for an extra day or two. In case Tommy wanted it.

("I saw the way you look when you're talking about flying, kid. If I overstepped, tell me to shove it, but the 217 could use a man like you."

Tommy's had the words 'man like you' running on a loop in his head ever since.)

"Did they fill the spot?"

He hasn't let himself get excited about it. Hasn't told a soul other than Bobby that he's even thinking about it. He never would have done it without that push, and he's already gearing up to make himself not resent Bobby for even putting the thought in his head.

Bobby smiles. "They did."

Tommy would love it if the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

"Their newest pilot is going to be Thomas Kinard. Pending my approval, of course."

His heart does something strange in his chest. A squeeze, a jump, a flurry. He's gonna be in the air again. Going to have to use whatever's left of his mind to learn new birds, to teach someone else, one day. That's not as daunting a task as it would have been, a year ago.

Tommy squints, because Bobby looks entirely too pleased with himself for nearly giving Tommy a fucking heart attack. "What does that have to do with Gerrard?"

Bobby tips his head side to side, fidgets with a pen. Tommy never knows if that's a nervous habit or if he's so committed to the "fucking with you" bit that he's adopted a bunch of other people's tics.

"He tried to block it," Bobby tells him, a little solemn, finally. Tommy can feel his teeth clenching. His body tightening. His arms are crossed over his chest and he doesn't remember the act of raising them from the armrests. "I told him, respectfully, where he could stick it."

Bobby has this insane ability to ease a thousand worries with just a turn of phrase, a tone of voice. Tommy can feel the ire melting right off. "You already did it?"

Bobby huffs a soft laugh. "Professional disagreement. We don't see eye to eye on your talents. Harbor was fairly easily convinced, once I started listing them."

The lump in his throat makes it a little difficult to forge ahead. "Why'd you ask about him, then?"

Bobby's soft grin turns to a full on smirk. "Because I thought, given that this is your last week here, you might want to get it off your chest, Firefighter Pilot Kinard."

[norrisradio]

SMALL TALK

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “one night he wakes / strange look on his face / pauses, then says / “you’re my best friend” / and you knew what it was / he is in love” + “Morning, his place / burnt toast, Sunday / you keep his shirt / he keeps his word” - Taylor Swift, You Are In Love

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.7K ᝰ GENRE: strangers-to-friends-to-????, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and other disasters, oscar piastri is a man on a mission ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: my first time dabbling in some mixed media (feat. texts, voice notes, and facetimes)! not entirely happy with it but hopefully it makes sense // sorry for disappearing i am back now i swear ꨄ requested by @princesspiastri007 !

send me an ask for my line by line event .ᐟ

Oscar Piastri ruins your life in a bakery line on a Tuesday.

You’re clutching your paper cup like a lifeline, half-hypnotized by the scent of cardamom buns and the threadbare sweater slung over your frame — navy, elbow-patched, fraying at the seams. It was your dad’s. Maybe even his dad’s. Handed down like a secret. You only wear it on soft days. The kinds that ask for warmth and not much else.

Then someone knocks into you from behind, and the tea goes flying.

A sharp breath. The hiss of liquid on wool.

You freeze. He freezes.

“Shit — God, I’m so sorry.”

The voice is breathless and kind of pretty. You look up, prepared to launch into an eloquent string of swears, but the apology is already in his face. He looks young. Startled. Dimples carved into his cheeks like a question mark.  A lanky frame, messy hair, and a voice that sounds like Sunday morning. And behind him, some tall blonde girl in sunglasses (who you’ll later learn is Hattie, his sister) gives a wince-laugh and says, “Nice one, Oz.”

You look down. The sweater is ruined.

“That’s not just a sweater,” you whisper, throat tight. And somehow, that matters more than yelling.

The stranger — Oscar, apparently — blinks. “Wait — wait, is it special? Oh God. Please let me fix it.”

That’s how it starts: a burnt-sugar Tuesday and a ruined heirloom.

He buys you another tea. Apologizes twenty-seven times. Offers you his hoodie while you shiver on the bakery bench. It smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy, like a life that doesn’t belong to you. When you say he doesn’t need to do anything else, he frowns like you’ve insulted him.

“No. I swear — I’ll find a way to replace it.”

You scoff. “What, are you gonna time travel to the '80s?”

He grins. “Not quite. But I travel a lot. I’ll find one like it. You’ll see.”

It’s a joke. You think it’s a joke.

Until he’s in Spain two weeks later, and you get a photo of a sweater from a vintage shop in Barcelona:

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image] from: +61 *** *** *** Closer? Still hunting.

Then he’s in Canada. Silverstone. Budapest. Portugal.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image - a blurry photo of a sweater, tagged €35 ] from: +61 *** *** *** Found a jumper in Lisbon. Not quite the right navy, but it has the elbow patches.

to: +61 *** *** *** you don’t have to keep doing this, yk 

from: +61 *** *** *** I know. I want to.

Each time, a picture. A patch. A different shade of blue. An “Almost.” 

You hadn’t expected it to become a thing.

You hadn’t expected him to become a thing.

But there’s a moment, three weeks later, when you're eating leftover curry on the floor of your apartment and your phone lights up with a voice memo. You hesitate. Press play.

Hey. I know it’s probably stupid but I found one in Tokyo today that kinda reminded me of the shape of yours. Didn’t get it though. The color was off. But I thought about you.

There’s a pause. You can hear wind. Traffic. And then:

Anyway. Just wanted to say hi.

You play it twice. Then a third time.

You don’t respond for an hour because you don’t know how to say, you’ve been living in my head since Tuesday.

The voice memos turn into calls. Almost by accident at first. One missed message becomes a call back, and before you know it, you’re dialing his number like muscle memory.

You start calling him after work, when the sky is the color of chamomile tea and the streets hum with the soft ache of winding down. He answers from hotel rooms, his voice low and warm, surrounded by the soft rustle of sheets or the faint murmur of unfamiliar cities outside his window. Sometimes you hear the buzz of neon. The clatter of luggage. The echo of a TV in the next room.

It becomes routine. Sacred, even. A ritual made of static and silence and shared space.

He listens when you talk about your family, about the sweater, about how you’ve always had trouble letting go of things that feel like home. Your voice goes soft when you tell him how your dad used to wear it on cold Sunday mornings, how it always smelled faintly of espresso and cedar. How you kept it on the back of your chair even after he passed.

There’s a pause.

And then: “That makes sense,” Oscar says, quiet enough that you almost miss it. “You feel... anchored. Even when everything else isn’t.”

You blink.

No one’s ever put it like that before.

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or tell him that he’s the first person in months who hasn’t made you feel like you’re too much. Too sentimental. Too attached to the past.

Instead, you murmur, “I like the sound of that.”

“Of what?”

“Being anchored.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his smile through the phone. That small, secret one you’ve learned to hear in the silence between words.

And when you hang up, well past midnight, your chest is full of something unfamiliar.

Melbourne - 00:42 / Sao Paulo - 11:42

Oscar’s face is sideways on your screen. He’s lying on a hotel bed, hair a mess, thumb under his cheek like he fell asleep on his own hand.

“I’ve seen twenty sweaters today,” he mumbles. “All of them were wrong.”

You smile, half-asleep yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m determined.”

“Obsessed, maybe.”

He grins. “That too.”

There’s a long silence. Not awkward. Just full.

You whisper, “Why does it matter so much?”

He looks at you like he’s trying to read something written in a language only you speak.

“I think,” he says slowly, “because it mattered to you.”

Melbourne - 10:48 / Monza - 02:48

I found a vendor near the paddock today who hand-knits sweaters. Said she doesn’t repeat patterns but she can make something inspired by yours. I asked her how long it’d take. She said six months. I told her I’d wait.

There’s a long pause.

I don’t think this is about the sweater anymore. 

The FaceTimes start to stretch longer.  Past midnight. Into morning. Sometimes you wake up to a dead phone, his face still ghosting your dreams. He tells you what the gravel in Bahrain smells like. You tell him about your mother’s lasagna recipe. He starts sending you pictures of things that have nothing to do with sweaters.

The sea. His breakfast. A dog in the crowd with a bandana that says Team Oscar. His knees pressed up against the seat in a too-small plane.

You start recognizing hotel ceilings. The texture of his voice when he’s tired. The sound of his toothbrush.

You don’t talk about what it is. But you know.

You fall asleep with your phone tipped sideways, face half offscreen, mouth slack. Oscar snaps a screenshot once (you find it later in a photo dump he sends, sandwiched between two blurry shots of the Monza pitlane and one of a knitwear rack in Milan).

You’re in bed, face crinkled into your pillow.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 4 Images] from: +61 *** *** *** I like this one best. 

Melbourne - 03:23 / Abu Dhabi 21:23

from: +61 *** *** *** You awake?

You blink at the screen, the dim glow of your phone painting soft light across your face.

You shouldn’t be awake. You weren’t. Not really.

to: +61 *** *** *** only if you need me to be 

from: +61 *** *** *** always. 

You stare at it for a beat too long. Something in your chest tightens.

No FaceTime this time. Just voice. Just the warmth of him spilling through the speaker like something secret.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless. Like he’d been pacing. Like he still is.

“You okay?” you ask, voice scratchy with sleep.

A silence. Not heavy. Just full.

Then: “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

Another pause, this one longer. Then he sighs, and it sounds like the beginning of a confession.

“I was at dinner. Team stuff. Everyone talking, laughing, and it was fine. It was good. But then I thought of something you said — about how your dad used to cut his toast diagonally, like it made it taste better.”

You laugh, soft. “Because it does.”

He smiles. You can hear it. But then his voice shifts. Warmer. Quieter.

“And I wanted to tell you. Just that. Just... share that moment with you. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to call. Even though it was nothing. Even though it was everything.”

Your fingers twist in the hem of your blanket. “Oscar-”

He exhales, quiet static against your cheek. “It just– it made me realize something.” 

You hear him shift again, maybe run a hand through his hair. When he speaks next, his voice is quieter. Barely above a whisper.

“I think you’re my best friend.”

And the way he says it — it’s not casual. Not flippant. It lands somewhere low in your chest, blooming slow and steady.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth is, you already knew. You’d known for a while now, tucked in the space between time zones and half-laughed voicemails. In the way your day doesn’t feel finished until you’ve heard his voice.

Still, you make a soft sound into the receiver. “I know,” you say, because anything more might break it.

He breathes out a laugh. You can hear him relax, like he was bracing for something bigger.

“I should let you sleep.”

“You should.”

But neither of you hang up.

You don’t say anything else that night. Just let the silence stretch between you like soft thread, pulled taut. Your hand stays curled around the phone long after the call ends, thumb brushing the screen like it might still be warm from his voice. 

And later, when you’re making toast in his kitchen for the first time and burn it so badly the alarm goes off, you both laugh like idiots, wheezing and barefoot. 

You keep his hoodie. He lets you. You wear it when he’s gone. You send him a photo of it hanging beside the ruined sweater, like they’re twin relics of something that matters now. 

He keeps his word. 

He never finds the same sweater. 

But somehow, you stop minding.

Oscar can’t look at a knit sweater without thinking of you, and maybe that’s the best kind of curse—a soft one, stitched with love, pulling him home.

[hollow-prior]

[Image Description: A screenshot of a Reddit post in r/FanFiction. It is flared as venting and titled "a reader has been putting all my writing into ChatGPT..." The post reads: "got an ask on tumblr about my longfic (~300k words) expressing how much they love it. how they’ve been following it since the beginning (JULY 2023) and every chapter inputting it into ChatGPT to WRITE A NEW CHAPTER while they wait. telling me how my whole fic is stored in its memory, too. it hurt my chest. honestly flabbergasted that anyone thought this was flattering, and it hurts because I can tell how much they love my story and how excited they are, and I adore how long they’ve been following and invested in my story, but the AI feels so insulting and violating. btw… I’ve legit updated the fic every two weeks for the past almost 2 years. 5-15k words every two weeks. yeah." End ID.]

This is the worst timeline. (x)

[wonderjanga]

How about something like, once billy share mary his powers, but due to mary being new superheroe she hasn't come with a name yet so she use captain marvel for a while plus they are twins and kinda look alike... villains and heroes were confused

Mary: *minding her business*

Flash: *zooms over* “Cap! Ca— whoa when’d you grow your hair out.”

Mary: “Huh?”

Flash: “Also why’re you wearing a skirt?”

Mary: “I always have?”

Flash: “Since when?”

Mary: “Since the very first time I became a hero…?”

Flash: “Nuh uh.”

Mary: “Uh… Yuh huh.”

Flash: “Nuh uh cause look.” *shows her a pic of him and Cap, chilling*

Mary: *wondering how long her brother’s known these guys* “Wow, when was this taken?”

Flash: “Like two years ago. Anyways, so why are you wearing a skirt?”

Mary: “I already told you I always have.”

Flash: “Dude, I literally just showed you proof— also, why you younger? You look 16. Did you de-age yourself?”

Mary: “No?”

Flash: “Again, I literally have proof in my han—”

Marvel: “Hey, Flash!” *lands next to him* “I see you’ve met Captain Marvel?”

Flash: *short-circuits and looks between them both* “Aren’t… You Captain Marvel?”

Marvel: “Yeah?”

Flash: “And somehow she’s Captain Marvel?”

Marvel: “Yeah?”

Flash: “I’m just gonna go now.”

Marvel: “But I thought you were coming over because you wanted to play that new game you bought? It was that, right?”

Flash: “It was, yeah. I wanted to play Mortal Kombat with you and thrash you cause you suck, but…” *looking between them* “I’d rather not deal with whatever this is. Is she an evil clone?”

Marvel: “No?”

Flash: “A normal clone?”

Mary: “No??”

Flash: “A doppelgänger perhaps that’s been aged down?”

Mary: “No?!”

Flash: “Are you sure? Cause this is reminding me a lot of the Superboy situation.”

Mary: “What Superboy situation??”

Flash and Marvel: “Don’t worry about it.”

Marvel: “Anyways, it’s not like that. She’s my sister.”

*silence*

Flash: *doesn’t believe him* “…Sister?”

Marvel: “Yeah? Why do you seem surprised?”

Flash: “Well…” *looks between them* “…I mean, I can see that she’s way younger than you and that you guys look really, really alike. If you guys weren’t so far apart in age, I’d say you were twins.”

Marvel: *shrug* “We get it from our dad. He had strong genes.”

Flash: “Are you sure you’re not the dad?”

*silence*

Marvel; “Pardon?”

Flash: “Well, I’m looking at her, and I’m looking at you and you’re definitely old enough to be her dad.”

Marvel: “So…?”

Flash: “So are you actually her dad and are just lying to me? Are you the one with the strong genes?”

Marvel: “Wha— No!”

Flash: “You sure? Cause I’m pretty sure you’re late 30s and she looks 14 to 15.”

Marvel: “Yes, I’m sure. I’d know if she came out of me.” *crosses arms, sounds so sure of himself*

Flash: “Why would she come out of you…?”

Marvel: “Isn’t that where babies come from?”

Flash: “Yes, but why would she come out of you? …and not her mom?”

Bonus:

Black Adam: “Why… are you a little girl?”

Mary: “Oh come on!”

[nahoney22]

Perfectly Plucked

🫧 Pairings: Tech X Female!Reader

🫧 word count: 3.2k

Plot: Omega mentions to Tech that you love flowers, and luckily enough for him, you love him also.

Warnings: Fluff, safe for work, female reader (she/her), idiots in love, first kiss, nervous Tech.

A/N: it’s been a while since I wrote something cute with my darling, Tech 🩵

“So, what’s the plan?”

Omega’s voice is filled with mischief as she sways from side to side in the co-pilot’s seat, her eyes locked on Tech.

Tech doesn’t immediately respond. His fingers tapped lightly over the datapad, scanning through the incoming reports. But when Omega’s voice cut through the steady hum of the Marauder, his eyes lifted briefly, landing on her as she swayed back and forth in the co-pilot's seat. “Meaning?”

Omega leans forward, her grin widening as she tilts her head toward the viewport, pointing with her chin toward the object of their conversation. “You know... her,” she says in a teasing tone, her eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement. “Are you going to ask her out?”

Tech’s expression faltered for a split second—his eyes widened, just enough to give him away—before he quickly averted his gaze, pretending to focus on the datapad once more. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, you definitely do. We’ve alll seen how you look at her. It’s pretty obvious.” Omega replies, rolling her eyes dramatically before jumping to her feet.

“I do not ‘look’ at her.” Tech mutters, his tone defensive. “I simply observe. That is all.”

Omega arches an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Sure, ‘observe.’”

She pauses, tapping her chin thoughtfully as she begins to pace the cockpit.. “You could always make her something. You know, something nice and romantic! A gadget of some kind.” Then she frowns. “Although that doesn’t scream romantic.”

Tech looks up with a sigh. “Of course they are not. They are tools for beneficial use. And I do not believe she requires anything like that.”

Omega halts, then leans against the control panel, “Okay, maybe not gadgets,” she says, “But flowers might work. People give flowers all the time as romantic gestures.”

Tech blinks, his mind racing as he processes the suggestion. “Flowers?” His voice carries a hint of skepticism. “Why would she need flowers? They have no functional use. I would know if she had an interest in... what was it she said, ‘botanical remedies’?” He gives a small, self-assured smirk, as though this topic was already discussed between the two of them. “She tends to consult me on those matters.”

Omega rolls her eyes once but grins, “It’s not about the practical use, Tech. It’s about the gesture. Besides, she loves flowers.”

Tech’s brow furrows in thought. He glances over at you through the viewport, seeing you sitting outside the Marauder and methodically cleaning and refurbishing your armour.

His mind memorises Omega’s point, you were interested in flowers or any fauna.

Omega watches his expression change, a gleam of victory in her eyes. “You should really pay attention when she watches those holo-romcoms. You’d see how much she likes the idea of flowers.”

Tech’s fingers tap thoughtfully against his datapad, but his attention has clearly shifted. “I suppose that is true,” he murmurs, as though the idea of flowers suddenly isn’t so far-fetched after all.

Omega, sensing her triumph, beams. “So you’ll do it then? You’ll get her flowers?”

“No,” Tech answers quickly, looking back at his datapad with feigned disinterest. “I do not appreciate your attempts to manipulate me into admitting feelings. Again.”

She chuckles, remembering the long conversation she had chewed his ear off about flying being a ‘feeling’.

“So you do admit it?”

Tech shoots her a pointed look, his tone sharpening just a little. “Omega.”

She raises her hands in mock surrender, backing away with exaggerated slowness. “Alright, alright,” she sings. “But I know she would appreciate it. You just have to admit it.”

Tech huffs, his lips pressing into a thin line. He watches you for a moment longer, his mind still running through the possibility, before he mutters under his breath, “I’ll consider it.”

Omega’s eyes twinkle, her work clearly done. “Perfect.”

The warm, refreshing breeze threaded through your hair as you leaned back against the crate, letting yourself savor the simple pleasure of open air. Sure, it wasn’t exactly a luxurious beach chair on a pristine coast like you had been craving, instead it was a beat-up crate on an overgrown forest floor. Though after days cooped up inside the Marauder, it felt like paradise. Even if the company inside was great. More than great, really.

Your mind wandered, inevitably drawn to a certain member of the squad. You caught yourself smiling, and immediately cringed, pressing a hand over your face.

"Why do feelings suck?" you muttered under your breath, shaking your head at yourself.

After a few minutes, you sat up and surveyed your armour with a satisfied smile. You had to admit, you were really good at keeping it looking brand new. Gathering the pieces in your arms, you headed back toward the ship, still riding the lazy warmth of the afternoon.

You were halfway up the gangplank, not paying attention, when you collided with something - someone - solid. You grunted, stumbling back as a few pieces of your armour clattered to the floor.

“Oh stars, sorry, Tech!” you blurted out as you realised what happened, rubbing your forehead where you'd bumped it against him.

"Not to worry, I was not looking where I was going either," he said smoothly, though there was a softness to his voice that made your cheeks warm. Stars, he really got to you.

You quickly crouch to gather up the pieces of your armour, and Tech mirrors your movements without hesitation. His gloves brush against your fingers as you both reach for the same piece, and for a heartbeat, neither of you move. The slightest spark shoots up your arm, and judging by the way Tech’s hand stiffens just a fraction, you pondered wishfully if he felt it too.

True to form however, neither of you say anything about it. You clear your throat and pull your hand back, allowing him to pick up the last piece.

Once everything’s collected, Tech takes it and puts your armour in the Marauder. You move to step around him, but Tech moves at the same time. You both shuffle right. Then both to the left. You stifle a laugh, glancing up at him helplessly as you try again — and again — failing miserably to find your way past.

“We look ridiculous,” you mutter, half-laughing as you impulsively reach out and grab his shoulders to steady him and yourself.

His body goes stiff beneath your touch, as though uncertain what to do, and his adorable wide eyes blink down at you behind his goggles.

“Hold still,” you say through a grin, guiding him gently aside. He lets you manoeuvre him into place without a word, though you hear him clear his throat a little.

You finally step through the doorway into the ship, peeking back at him. “What were you up to, anyway?” you ask casually, hands on your hips

Normally, Tech would answer any question with straightforward precision, but today... today he falters. “I, ah... was merely seeking... additional reference material. For research purposes.” His voice, usually so confident and clipped, wavers strangely. It’s so unlike him that you tilt your head in suspicion, narrowing your eyes in a playful squint.

“Oh?” you say slowly, intrigued. “What kind of research?”

His mouth opens — and then promptly shuts again. He adjusts his goggles unnecessarily, his hands fidgeting at the edges of his belt. Definitely suspicious.

Your curiosity only grows. “Well, if you need help,” you offer lightly, “I’d be happy to join you. I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs.” But then you realise, “Actually, I don’t want to leave Omega on her own-”

You barely finish speaking when a voice pipes up right behind you, startling you.

“I can look after myself, you know,” Omega says, clearly having been eavesdropping the entire time. She crosses her arms proudly. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”

You and Tech both turn toward her. “Not going to start the ship up and fly away without us, right?” You tease.

“Well I can’t promise that” Omega teases, looking between the two of you. “But I’ll do my best to resist.”

“Alright then,” You nod, allowing her to stay behind but then look to Tech to get his verdict.

“I suppose we will not be long.”

“Great!” Omega chimes, “You two can enjoy your date - uh, I mean…”

You stare at her, wide-eyed and mortified at her slip (if it even was) of her tongue.

Tech’s ears burn under his goggles, shooting her a look that you don’t see. He straightens his posture, clearing his throat.

Soon after giving Omega one last warning not to do anything disastrous on your outing, you fall into step beside Tech as he leads the way off the ship.

He doesn't say much at first and you don't push about why he was oddly quiet. You’re quite content for a moment to simply walk through the warm, open air and the forest ahead looks inviting. And being with Tech was such an added bonus.

“So, what exactly are we doing?” you ask after a short while, glancing over at him. “You never did tell me what kind of research this was.”

He pushes his goggles up his nose, fingers twitching on a small device in his hand. “It is a standard environmental survey,” he says quickly, “Nothing particularly noteworthy.”

You squint at him, reading him like a book. “You’re a terrible liar, Tech.”

“I am not lying,” he says, his tone stiff. “I am merely withholding certain specifics for operational efficiency.”

You bite back a smirk but let it go, following him deeper into the trees.

The forest itself hums with quiet life around you. The soft chirping from unseen creatures and the faint trickle of a nearby stream was tranquil. The trees tower overhead, their bark a deep reddish-brown, had wide canopies of green and gold leaves that flutter gently in the breeze.

If Pabu didn’t exist, you would actually consider having a home here.

After a few more minutes of walking, you watch as Tech slows and veers off the beaten path. He stopped at the edge of a rocky clearing and looked over a bed of wildflowers that had tiny blossoms in vivid colours that sway.

He activates the device in his grasp with a quiet beep and starts scanning the flowers.

You lean against a large boulder nearby, resting your chin on your arms as you watch him work. His brows are knitted in focused concentration, a tiny crease forming above his nose.

Honestly? Adorable.

“You’re really invested in this ‘environmental survey,’ huh?” you tease lightly, smiling.

He doesn’t glance up. Instead, he carefully kneels and inspects a cluster of bright yellow blooms. He selects one, pulls a small pair of pliers from his utility belt, and snips the stem.

“What’s that one?” you ask whilst he holds the flower delicately between his gloved fingers.

He looks up at you, and there's something almost shy in the way he offers the information. “It is a part of the aurelia family, a plant known for its versatile healing properties," he explains. "It is particularly effective in creating salves for minor abrasions, something you once mentioned a preference for, if I recall correctly.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the thoughtfulness that he remembered a conversation you had with him quite a while ago now.

Before you can find the right words, he steps closer and offers the flower to you. “I would like you to look after it,” he says simply, placing it carefully into your hand quite quickly and looking away.

You cradle the delicate bloom as if it were made of glass. “I’ll guard it with my life,” you say with a mock-seriousness, but your heart thumps a little faster all the same.

Tech merely nods, satisfied, and turns to continue walking. You follow behind, hand still clutching the bright flower like it was something far more precious than just a plant. Well, to you it was anyway. You loved flowers.

You walk in easy silence for a while, the forest thickening around you as the path narrows.

You're still cradling the yellow flower carefully in your hand when you notice Tech slow again, his scanner flickering softly. He kneels by another patch of blooms — this time a cluster of small, delicate flowers in a soft shade of your favorite colour. You watch as Tech examines them, but instead of scanning them like before, he hesitates. His hand hovers for a moment before he plucks one gently between his fingers, standing up and turning toward you.

Without a word, he steps close, the flower dangling loosely in his grasp. His expression is unreadable behind his goggles, but there’s something almost... tentative about his posture.

You tilt your head, curious. “What’s that one?” you ask, smiling.

Tech visibly stiffens. His mouth opens, but whatever explanation he had seems to falter halfway through forming. “It does not possess any notable medicinal properties,” he admits, adjusting his grip on the flower. “It is... actually scientifically insignificant.”

You blink at him, confused. “Then why did you want me to hold it?”

For a second you swear you see Tech’s composure crack. He shifts awkwardly, looking anywhere but at you. “I considered it might be useful for... cross-referencing petal structure... for research purposes,” he says, far too quickly and far too technically to the point it sounded weird.

You narrow your eyes in mock suspicion, catching on that there’s definitely more he’s not saying. “Uh-huh. Sure,” you say, voice light but you can’t ignore that your heart beats a little faster. Did he want to give it to you… because he wanted to?

He seems to be silently warring with himself. His fingers twitch like he’s about to hand you the flower after all but at the last second, he stops.

Without another word, Tech then turns and — in a move so uncharacteristically flustered it makes you bite back a laugh — he tosses the little flower into the underbrush as he walks away.

You stare after him, baffled and amused in equal measur. Definitely suspicious.

Tech continues gathering flowers as you both wander through the forest, stopping here and there to snip a stem or examine a petal with meticulous care. You gave up asking about each one after the third or fourth as it became obvious he was just handing them to you without much explanation.

Instead, you quietly let him do it, your arms gradually filling with an array of blossoms: soft yellows, rich blues, gentle lilacs, vivid reds. The bundle was chaotic and beautiful.

After a while, Tech finally straightens and looks around the clearing with a satisfied nod. “This will suffice,” he announces.

You stop beside him, brushing your fingertips over the petals lightly, inhaling the gentle, sweet scent. “You picked a really pretty bunch for your research,” you admit softly, smiling over the bouquet at him.

Tech adjusts his goggles with a slight nervous twitch to the motion. “Yes, well...” he starts, voice a little stiffer than usual. “In truth, I would prefer you to keep them.”

You blink, surprised, lowering the flowers slightly to peer at him more clearly. “Keep them?”

He shifts on his feet, clearly uncomfortable but forcing himself to explain. “Omega mentioned that you appreciated flowers. She also suggested that they were considered a... romantic gesture. More appropriate than, say, a customised multitool.” He clears his throat, rapidly gaining momentum as he continues rambling.

“You wanted to get me flowers?” you interrupt softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Tech freezes mid-sentence of his tangent. His mouth opens and closes once — then he nods, sharply, as if resigning himself to it. “Yes. That was the intended outcome.”

Your cheeks burn so hot you swear Tech could probably feel it. You hug the messy bouquet a little tighter to your chest, heart thudding so hard it drowns out the hum of the forest around you.

Tech, seemingly unaware of just how much he’s affecting you, blunders on, still trying to justify himself as if he really needed to. “Initially, Omega suggested a handcrafted gadget. However, after observing flora within the holo-romcoms you frequently view, I concluded that a floral gift might have a statistically higher probability of being well-received, despite its lack of practicality—”

You’re barely listening anymore. You’re too busy staring at the ridiculous, wonderful bouquet in your hands, and the man who meticulously gathered every single stem just to give them to you.

“So... there was no research,” you say, your voice catching slightly.

Tech hesitates, then tilts his head slightly, almost sheepish. “No, not exactly,” he admits.

You bite your lip, trying and failing to hide the grin spreading across your face.

Thinking for a split second, you pull a small flower from the messy bundle — a delicate little thing with soft pink petals — and step toward him. Tech watches you with a sort of curious stillness, almost like he’s bracing for whatever strange human interaction he’s about to experience for the first time. A soft tenderness he yearned for you.

Carefully, you tuck the flower into the side of his goggle band, the bright bloom resting just above his ear. You step back to admire your handiwork, smiling. “There,” you say lightly, “now you look even cuter.”

Tech blinks, his hand automatically coming up to touch the flower like he’s not sure it’s really there. He tilts his head, studying you as a small, almost hesitant smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

“That would suggest that you found me ‘cute’ beforehand.” He exhales through a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding.

You meet his gaze, feeling daring. “Maybe,” you say coyly with a shrug, the word slipping out in a playful lilt.

Something shifts between you. Tech’s smile lingers, but it’s gentler now. His hand drops back to his side, but he takes a small step closer, close enough that you can smell the faint, clean scent of him — old leather, warm metal and tools, and something sharper underneath, something just him.

Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs.

Neither of you speaks. The forest seems to go quiet, the golden leaves above stilling like even the world around you doesn’t want to interrupt.

Slowly, carefully, Tech raises his hand, fingertips brushing against your arm like a silent question. You don’t pull away. If anything, you lean closer, your bouquet pressed tight to your chest like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored.

“Would it... be acceptable,” he says, voice almost a whisper now, “if I—?”

You don’t even let him finish. You nod, once, fast and certain.

The distance closes naturally. His gloved hand slides up, cupping your cheek with a reverence that makes your breath hitch. You tilt into him instinctively, and when he finally, finally leans in, his kiss is as careful and deliberate as everything else he does. A featherlight brush of lips at first, testing the waters, before deepening ever so slightly as he feels you melt against him.

It’s sweet, and a little clumsy, and absolutely perfect.

When you finally pull away, you’re both smiling genuine smiles that don’t need words to explain.

The flower you tucked behind his goggles is a little crooked now, and somehow, that just makes it even better.

🫧 Masterlist

Tags: @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @thesith @raevulsix @cw80831 @knightprincess @crosshairlovebot t @littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz z @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 7 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @tentakelspektakel l @stellarbit @imalovernotahater @sithstrings @whore4rex @imperialclaw801 @temple-elder @the-bad-batch-baroness @mysticalgalaxysalad @yunggoblin @photogirl894 @lulalovez

[billysgirllol]

“yeah, in a way that’s true, but we also can’t focus on all the time we’ve lost.” pointer finger gently still twisting a dark lock of his around. then she goes silent momentarily, basking in what billy has to say to her, doe eyes becoming like melted chocolate bars in the summer heat. glowing like a fourth of july sun. it tenderizes her heart and then she sighs, “you make it impossible not to love, billy bonney.” lucy gray states, a good way to express she loves him too without having to make any commitment. “well, maybe he’s scared. did he have a hard life growin’ up? saw two parents who were married but didn’t love each other? sometimes it works on people that way. long as he’s committed to her though, that’s all right.” she rambles on while he’s wanting to show her something… when the phone faces back her way though, lucy gray doesn’t expect to register tickets to gatsby. “what’s this darlin’?” eyes go stunned, “for me?” brows lifting, taking a second look. “awww! billy you did this for me?! got us tickets to see one of my favorites?! you’re the sweetest billy bean in the world, thank you baby! you shouldn’t done that!” arms immediately lock around his neck, squeezing him tight. “i can’t believe you.” what a thoughtful precious man. “we’re really goin’ to see it when i thought we wouldn’t-” NOW she remembers and can’t help but grin and clap her hands excitedly. “well you got lucky, you didn’t want to come get me— so another man almost took that spot, hum? would’ve had to been angry your whole life and so would i.” sneaking in the part where she’d be upset and devastated seeing him be a dad to another woman’s child. all that time together of playing house and loving each other since they were babies, just to end with others. it doesn’t sound right and would’ve been straight cruel for them both. “yeah, we did.” confirming honestly, laughing at his grumbling about it— because that’s his own fault. “you’ll show me, huh?” playfully giving him a skeptical look. “well alright. i’ll BELIEVE it when i see it. for now, i don’t.” saying things just to try and challenge him just because she likes this side of him, the one who fights for her affections. puts a devious little smile on her face.

“well i have no choice but to forgive you now, but it really hurt back then.” little lucy gray would have been so happy to know future billy would one day apologize for the hurt she was feeling. “alright, i’m countin’ on you.” to tell her whatever he feels like is bothering him instead of repeating history. “well how darlin’ of you, baby boy,” hand rubs his cheek, “only us though.” a soft laugh emits, only they as children would want marriage that soon— but didn’t that prove they really were written in the stars all the more? “yeah, maybe i do.” she values marriage and daydreams about it, “but it has to be with you and if it doesn’t end up bein’ with you, i won’t want it.” lucy gray admits, deciding to completely honest about it since her mind is made all up on her stance about marriage anyway after experiencing what relationships are like when they’re not with her soulmate; the one meant for her. hearing his answers to her question, brows gently lift as she stares at him, “oh, alright.” saying casually, despite a little skepticism hidden deep down. “just left so easily like that?” sounds like a rebound, then. “abused…? never. you’re a drama king,” she giggles softly, watching the movie. “that’s what it means, billy b.” a smirk. a long pause in between them before she finally speaks again, “we’re insane.” that’s what she decides on, dropping these kisses and love confessions, but not officially being together… it’s insane.

[lunarxcity]

Why Pretend? (Part X to Why Me?)

Azriel x rhys sister! reader!

angst/eventual comfort (A little bit of fluff a little bit of angst because nothing in life is free)

Summary: When you walk in on Azriel and Elain the mating bond snaps leading you to flee to Autumn with Eris so you can be free of Azriel. Your absence causes Azriel to come to some drastic realisations, but is it already too late and has your time in Autumn led to you moving on?

Parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, and IX if you missed them!

-

Azriel has a shadow and while he is accustomed to having many shadows the shadow he is referring to is not his. It follows him around constantly, not offering him even a second's respite. He shadow is on his heels at all time and unlike the elusive nature of his shadows this one was corporal.

The shadow he is referring to is the pet fox you had recieved from Eris of course. Whenever you were busy or not home the fox would follow Azriel around like a lost puppy which in some sense it was. It was fun at first but it was starting to get on his nerves, the fox followed him everywhere. He means everywhere.

At one point he was doing his paperwork and had looked away for a second and when he looked back the fox was gnawing on his pen. The pen was still in his hand. Another time they had came inside the bathroom and had just stared at him while he took a bath which was uncomfortable at the least and creepy at the most.

But it wasn't permanent; whenever you would come home the fox would run excitedly to you, it's owner and you would excitedly sweep him up in your arms littering his head in kisses. Azriel cannot believe that he is jealous of a cauldrons-damned fox and he believed that the fox knew it too, always staring at him with his sly foxy smile as you held him and gave him all your attention.

Azriel sulked over his bitterness towards the fox for a few days until he redeemed himself by hissing at Eris and trying to bite his hand. Azriel had snuck him some of the steak from the previous night's dinner as a reward ad he considered that truce enough.

Azriel hadn't properly spoken to you since the fateful night in your room, where in his sleepy jealousy-addled mind he had thought boisterously flirting with you the way that Eris or Cassian would could be the way that he could sway your affections. He was so jealous that he thought he could out-Eris Eris at his own game and it backfired, horribly.

He not only made a fool of himself, but had actually worried you. Instead of swooning over his flirty words, you had instead became worried thinking he had been going mad. He didn't know whether to apologise to you or to pretend like it had never happened, but it didn't matter because he had barely seen you this past week.

You had constantly been with Nesta and the rest your book club or with Madja working or showing Eris and Lucien around Velaris. He's also pretty sure he saw Rhys and Feyre sneaking out to breakfast with you. At this point you were regularly hanging out with everyone except for him, he even saw you having tea and biscuits with Elain, Mor, and Amren. You were spending more time with Amren than him.

Whenever he would catch you he would ask to properly make plans and talk, but you had brushed him off every day this week with a different excuse. First, it was busy, then it was you already had plans, by the time you hit the seventh excuse and said that your fox was attention depraved and needed one-on-one bonding time it was getting ridiculous.

Everything should have been fine between the two of you, so why were you ignoring him. He doesn't think it's the remarks he made because your sleep-addled brain was likely not processing anything as much as he had been. He knows you get cranky when you're woken up, and you're so focused on complaining that you're tired that you can't fully process anything going on around you. He found it adorable, actually.

So Azriel sat on one of the living room sofas and continued to interrogate the fox.

"Okay so blink twice if she's upset with me again and sneeze if she isn't."

The fox looked at him deadpan. At this point he was judging Azriel too and who could blame him.

Time passed and the fox continued to blink, unaffected by the words of the shadowsinger.

"AHA! I KNEW IT-"

Azriel stood up so quickly that he had lost his balance and toppled over the couch.

"Introducing the most feared warrior in all of prythian. Asking animals for love advice and toppling over couches, be afraid."

Cassian was cackling and Azriel was looking up at him deadpan from his position on the floor. This only made Cassian laugh more which led to him spilling his drink all over the floor.

Nesta walked in holding a rag like she was already anticipating this was going to happen. "Why are you acting like this is a new thing you haven't heard Azriel talk to him yet?" She points to the fox.

Cassian's face goes straight and then he erupts in laughter clutching his stomach and bending over unable to catch his breath.

"Mother help me." She throws the rag over his face and went over to help Azriel up.

-

Lately, you've felt like you're being followed. You can't escape the feeling of being watched, you swear there are phantom eyes peering over your shoulder anytime you leave the house of wind.

If you had known any better, you would say that you're being followed, but you have a feeling you already know who the perpetrator is, and you would rather accept ignorance's comfort than deal with the burden of truth.

Truth would be a blow taken to the walls you have built up; one that could be strong enough to tumble them completely. Your defenses have been lowered since your emotionally charged discussion with Azriel, but he wasn't deserving of your unyielding attention anymore.

You didn't even want to give him half of it. The idea that he would only now start becoming drawn to you because of this bond that he knows nothing about is a bitter poison, just like the one you are currently infecting the plant on your desk with.

The plant sits on one of Madja's dark oak working desks in the back of her office adjacent to the vials of mysterious glowing neon liquids boiling on burners with different colored flames. The liquid you're working with is a dark purple boiling on a flame of pink.

You need to infect the plant with a mercurial disease, one that slowly drains its life force, only showing external signs of danger when it's teetering on the brink.

You will then try to heal it back to health with one of the various bubbling potions and elixirs you have been working on. Open books were strewn everywhere accompanied by the quills scattered from your note taking.

Black ink spilled on empty pages eerily reminding you of the spies lurking in all the corners of the room, likely reporting your movements back to your alleged stalker.

You knew that they were spying on you from the difference in how the shadow he gave you behaves and the shadows he sent. Although they are scattered in the room, you could recognise where the shadows hide. You look at the potted tree that sits in front of one the bookshelves and see that the shadows are a bit darker than usual and that they are a bit sharper. The movements are calculated and rigid and you know those shadows are on duty.

You try and go back to your work. You've been ignoring the owner of the shadows lately your confrontation took a toll on you and you just didn't want to deal with him.

You've been getting to work early and staying late, Madja doesn't know whether to be impressed or concerned. Every time you try to evade him the Mother always has another plan.

It started when you misplaced a vial that you had been brewing all day of a possible healing potion. Exhaustion and frustration had taken a toll on you and tears began brimming in your eyes when you saw the vial rolling towards you on the ground.

Since then random things have began appearing, always in your aid. Random baked goods you've been known to like, caffeinated beverages during your afternoon slump, misplaced items being mysteriously found, and even a bowl of steaming soup one day when you forgot to eat.

Confronting who is behind this would lead to a lot more confrontations that you just weren't ready to face and let's face it you were so tired that it was a huge help.

You mentally reprimanded yourself for looking forward to the ministrations of your little helpers and you told yourself that if you told him you would be giving him the satisfaction, so you would continue to pretend like you don't notice.

At this point you were fighting a ghost; the push and pull of your feelings towards the shadowsinger were something that had been brewing inside of you and while you had partially aired it out there was a lot more brewing under the surface.

You looked back at the plant, the vivid green colour had begun to slowly fade, and you knew that the toxin had begun to take effect. Just a few more minutes and then you could start experimenting with your various potions.

You had been there since the morning and had lost track of how many hours it had been since sunset. Madja and her apprentices had all left hours ago, leaving you muttering to yourself in her study. You looked more mad scientist than healer, and you knew that if anyone saw your current state, they would be very alarmed and slightly terrified.

When you focused on something, it consumes you; the mere thought of it takes over your mind until you can only focus on that one thing, and right now it was your research. You've heard rumours of a disease spreading throughout Prythian, one that is immune to healing magic due to its degenerative nature.

Your head began to spin. How long had it been since you've eaten? It must have been a little while, but it must have been longer since the last time you had felt the fresh air on your skin.

You sat down on one of the chairs and put your head in your hands, hoping that it would offer you some respite from the sudden onslaught of dizziness.

A knock on the door interrupted your thoughts. Did one of the apprentices leave something behind?

"Come in." You try to say as normal as possible, but even that comes out weary like the exhaustion has even worn down your vocal cords.

You feel him before you see him, cobalt siphons glowing under the darkness of night. Wings tucked in and hazel eyes twinkling with the reflection of the stars that shimmered on the hilt of the weapons he bore. A warrior in a place of healing. A destructor in a place meant to fix and heal.

The glow of the candlelight made him look softer; the lines of his face were much less harsh in this light and even his shadows looked less sharp. He almost looked at place in the warm golden golden light surrounded by life and knowledge, you swore the shadows cast by the plants and books had almost turned towards him beckoned by his call.

Right now, he wasn't the terrifying shadow of a warrior's blade, perfectly honed for destruction and so sharp you could barely see it. He was the sun's shadow at dawn, the respite after a long, cold night, lazily stretching out over the horizon. He was the shadow that children play with, the one you find comfort in when your truly alone.

He approached you carefully, like you would run away from him screaming if he got too close. He placed a bag on the table next to you and knelt in front of you.

Picking up your head from your hands, he looks you in your eyes, scanning your face to see what's wrong. His cold gloves are a relief on your warm skin and you begin to close your eyes exhuastion taking over.

"Hey hey. Stay with me now." The words quickly leave his lips and you look up remembering where you are and who your with.

He pulls out something from his bag and hands it to you. Bringing it to your lips you drink what appears to be some sort of enchanted water meant to enhance hydration. Madja must have put him up to this.

He leaves you for a moment to collect yourself, you can't even form words at the point of exhaustion you have reached. When was the last time you had an actual conversation with another individual?

He walks around, taking in the state of your workspace, the various books, potions and piles and piles of notes. You know he's been trying to catch you, trying to spend time with you, but anytime you haven't been here in your little lab you've been with different members of your family to try and make up for lost time.

The back and forth between self-isolation and completely locking yourself up has caused you to burn yourself out. He knew it, and you knew it. Ignoring him was a bit selfish and petty on your part, but you don't have it in you to pretend to care at the moment.

You can't help people if you don't find a cure, and you can't find a cure without working.

You feel your temperature start to lessen and your head is growing less hazy, whatever liquid Azriel had given you had worked wonders.

"So are you going to lecture me now and drag me outside my lab because I will give you the same answer I gave Rhys-"

He cuts you off with a sigh.

"I would never tell you what to do, I only wish you would take care of yourself more." He looks at you, his eyes carrying the weight of secrets that he knew he could never spill. The feelings that he lost the right to divulge.

He would never command your attention directly and after his attempt at trying to emulate Eris had greatly embarrassed him he decided to follow his own approach. Azriel's love was a silent whisper in the dark, it was not meant to be loud or seen for that would defeat the purpose.

If he could make your life only a little bit easier that would be enough for him, he didn't need your care or your devotion the promise of your wellness was enough for him. He was told to back off, but he just couldn't watch you slip away into your work so he sent his shadows to be your silent assistants.

The honesty that shone in his eyes was enough to have your resolve crumbling because this was the Azriel that had admired greatly for so long. The loyal Azriel who would put other's first and cared more than he would ever let on.

He pulls out a sandwich from the mysterious bag he had brought and hands it to you, grabs a chair, and plops himself down directly next to you.

"If you're not going to slow down, then at least let me help you. Whatever you wish me to do, name it and it will be done."

He speaks each word like it's a promise and you look at him wide-eyed, "Do you not have spymaster duties to attend to?"

Without missing a beat, he says, "This is my priority at the moment, any other task is secondary."

You look up at the Mother, she really isn't offering you any sort of respite. Oh well an extra pair of hands is an extra pair of hands and you needed the help considering just a moment ago you were teetering on the brink of collapse.

You begin to eat your sandwich, feeling your energy levels slowly rise. "Alright, but this is only for tonight."

He nods, a look of surprise written across his features like he couldn't believe you didn't shoo him away and that you were actually letting him help. His shadows even perked up and began excitedly swirling around. Is this how your mother felt when she told little you and Rhys that you guys could help her in the kitchen?

You immediately realise that you have never had anyone directly assist you in your lab. You were very particular about each and every thing, which led to you declining help because having someone else in your space was unpredictable and could lead to events out of your control, like how you and Rhys accidentally burned the dinner you were helping with and then were banned from the kitchen by your Mother.

You began giving him instructions on what herbs to grind up, and for each one, he would ask what it was and what it did, asking questions and even looking surprised at the potency of a mere plant. You were actually very excited to tell him about everything; you couldn't talk about it with the healers since they were already so knowledgeable and you didn't want to bore your family to death with idle talk about plants.

He would ask what would happen if you combined various plants and why certain mixtures had to be prepared the way they did. You excitedly divulged on how the properties of certain plants could be enhanced or completely change when mixed with others or exposed to heat.

He stayed out of your way and followed your directions to a tee. When your plant had began to show external bruising you cut it up and began to apply the different elixirs on the different pieces of decaying plant.

Azriel just sat back and watched you work in awe and had his shadows transcribe notes for you in scathing detail, looking it over just to make sure they didn't miss anything. He knew you always complained about how time-consuming the write-ups can be post experiment.

You were on your last elixir, a lilac liquid that was about the same thickness as mud and had smelled like rock dust. The midnight sky was beginning to lighten into a similar color as the potion and you feel your eyes becoming bleary from staying up all night.

Azriel moved your hand to spill a few drops on the final plant stem fragment and you watched the graying decay stop in it's track. You smiled to yourself.

It's not a cure, but it's progress. The first big sign of progress you had made. You look over to Azriel, and he was already looking at you and smiling. His arms were out and next thing you knew, you were buried in his arms, both of you happily laughing.

He picked you up and spun you around. You don't know why the last few times you've seen him have always when you've been so sleep deprived that your inhibitions are borderline non-existent.

He looks away for a moment and nods towards his shadows. They wash over your workspace, like a tidal wave of night, and when they return to him you notice that everything on your desk is in order.

They swirl around his shoulders and he looks proud that he could help you in any matter he could.

"Come on, let's go home." You tell him, scared of the direction this was going in.

He packs up the bag that he brought and holds out his hand.

"If that is what you like, then so be it." You thought he was going to winnow you, but instead, he leads you out the door and down the hall towards a golden spiraling staircase.

You follow him until your senses are assaulted by the elements. Wind on your face and the light that flirts with the horizon. You may have been doomed but your sleep schedule was obliterated.

You walk over to the edge and take a deep breath. You had spent so long cooped up indoors that you had forgotten how nice it felt to feel fresh air on your skin. You go up to the railing of the roof, and Azriel follows, standing right next to you.

He was silent, and you were glad for it. The lack of words somehow made this moment even more intimate, and you cursed your treacherous heart for the way it beat perfectly in tune with the shadowsinger, as if you were playing a duet.

"I don't know if I ever told you this, but you truly are a genius. You are truly in your element. I could spend eternity watching you work and wish for an eternity more only to see it again."

His voice is shadows and whispers and everything you have to fight yourself to get lost in.

Light breaks over the horizon, and a sliver of sun catches the gold in his eyes. You can't even tell which is brighter, and you think it may be the smile he wears. He's looking at you as if you were the first light of day after a hundred years of night, you see awe, admiration, and something else you don't want to read too much into because it would be your ruin if it were true and your destruction if it were false.

That you could immortalise this moment and never let it go. That you could pretend that all the history and pain had never happened and you could just be existing like you were right now.

"I used to think the same way when I first saw you fight with your shadows. Before, it seemed like they controlled you, but those times when they become an extension of you, you become night incarnate, and it never fails to leave me in awe."

Your voice is soft, your words a silent admission, for his shadows are an extension of himself, and while many look away in fear, you admire them and by extension him. Azriel has fought in wars, he has won valor and admiration from his time on the battlefield.

He has medals and a title that only a few warriors can claim and in the face of all he has achieved this single compliment from you may be the single greatest accomplishment that he has achieved in his long fae life. He wishes he could imprint your words on his skin and wear it for the rest of his days.

His cheeks redden, you notice. The almighty shadowsinger doesn't blush. Have you embarrassed him? Did you say something wrong? Oh gods maybe you shouldn't have said anything about the shadows.

You open your mouth to apologise when he swiftly scoops you and shoots towards the sky.

"Azriel!" You yell at him, the surprise of the moment catching you off guard, and then he is laughing. You guys soar through the skies, taking in the beauty of the sunrise. Lilac, gold, pink and orange blending together in perfect harmony.

You are so entranced you didn't even realise you made it home until Azriel plops you on your feet and you almost sink to the floor tiredness hitting you all at once making your legs feel like jelly.

He smirks and then picks you up bridal style and triumphantly carries you into the house, with the stealth that one only obtains from years of being a spymaster. You felt like you were teenagers sneaking around after you'd been forbidden to see one another.

It's a feeling you're cherishing a lot more than you would care to admit. It's not until you make it to your room and his shadows close the door behind you that he begins to grin before throwing you on your bed.

You land with an "Oof."

You give him a look of betrayal.

"I had to make up for being softer on the landing than usual somehow."

You both look at each other and burst into laughter.

The mask of the spymaster left broken in tatters somewhere on the floor of your lab hours ago, and he didn't even care to look for it.

"Who knew you had a had sense of humour Az. Where have you been hiding it all these years?"

You had called him Az. At this rate he would turn into Cassian, stupid jokes flying from his mouth in rapid succession just to hear you call him Az.

"Is that what you want for me to turn into another Cassian?" He asks jokingly, well at least half joking.

You looked at him and then doubled down on the fit of laughter you were having, tears streaming from your eyes.

"As much as I would love to see that, I think Cassian would throw a temper tantrum at you taking his spot. I like you as you are, you are my calm in the everlasting storm, becoming a clown doesn't suit you."

You say as you begin to catch your breath from all the laughter and wipe your tears from your eyes.

He doesn't understand how you could just make these world-breaking statements and just look completely fine while his stomach was in knots and his heart was in a twist from your words alone.

He gives you a small smile, one reserved for only you, and he begins to depart. You needed your rest and so did he.

"I would tell you goodnight, but I'm afraid we are way past that at this point. So until next time, I will bid you farewell."

He looks to you to see you already strewn out on your bed fast asleep. He leaves his shadows to change you into your nightclothes and make sure you are comfortable in bed and he smiles to himself as he closes your door and heads to his room where sleep welcomes him instead of drags him under for the first time since he had fallen asleep in your room.

-

Your words to Azriel about his assistance being a one time thing had turned into a lie. He would show up at odd hours whenever he had down time, sometimes before a mission sometimes directly after.

You guys had fallen into a routine of sorts, and it was actually helping your productivity and you got to get out of writing those treacherous reports.

You had preferred him to come at night though, since an Illyrian warrior did tend to draw a lot of attention during the day and all the apprentices and even Madja herself give you a knowing look whenever Azriel enters the building.

You had been getting a lot closer with your final result with Azriel's help and while you haven't fully figured out a way to reverse the cell degradation you had managed to stop it and in combination with other potions you, with the help of Azriel, had developed you could at least stabalize a patient enough that their life could be saved.

Huge progress. Groundbreaking progress. The night you had made that discovery you let out a scream so loud that Madja came rushing in from her dwelling on the floor above. Her worry had quickly turned to elation as you guys stayed there excitedly reviewing your work while Azriel just silently lingered in the background.

She then brought both of you into a bone-crushing hug with a strength that no one her age should possess, and made you present your findings to all the healers at her monthly briefings and then again to the inner circle.

They were all eyeing you and Azriel curiously, you weren't surprised by this since they knew that he was your mate and everything that had gone down since that discovery.

Right now you were still tinkering with the potion, seeing if there was a way to make it more effective when Madja had walked in with a smirk.

"Your shadowsinger is here to see you." Mother above you swear she could be worse than the adolescent apprentices at times.

"He's not my anything, you don't have to say it like that." You give her a retort and feel like your back in school pretending you don't have a crush.

"If you say so." She says shit-eating grin plastered on her face. The lines around her eyes reflect all the years and experience she has on you, and while her words were lighthearted, there is wisdom behind them.

Azriel strides in looking frantic, his shadows were rapidly swirling around him, and he was obviously in a rush. He rushes to you and grabs your arms in his hands.

"I have a mission, it's urgent, and I don't know how long I'll be gone."

Your heart fell, you're going to miss his company, but he is never this way when he goes on a mission. You then realise why he's here. He doesn't know if he's going to make it or not.

You've only seen him this way on a handful of missions, and each time he returned from one, he had come back on the brink of death. His line of work asks for payment in the form of risk and for once you wanted to ask him to stay. You had a bad feeling.

"You have my shadow if you need it. If anything happens, you can tell him." Azriel tells you like he is briefing his soldiers for war or his spies for a mission.

You nod your head scared your voice would betray you. You hide your face in his chest and he wraps his arms around you. Half the reason was you wanting to be closer before your separated and the other half is to hide the tears threatening to spill over your waterline.

You stayed there for a minute until you felt the pulse of his shadows. He's being called somewhere. He has to go.

You pull away and his hand goes from your head to caressing your cheek wiping away the stray tear that begins to fall.

"Come back to me in one piece. I mean it Azriel." You whisper to him like commanding him to be safe would protect his life. You gave him a lifeline, but even that wasn't enough to soothe the worry beginning to bloom in your chest.

"I would fight the Mother herself if she stood between us. I mean it." The words are a vow and you knew he spoke the truth.

Before you could say anything else he disappeared in a wave of shadow, leaving only a small silver bag in his wake. You can't bring yourself to open it not right now.

You knew in your chest that Azriel was not going to be back for a little while if at all. You fall to the ground and cry as Madja holds you together.

-

The next 2 weeks had felt like an eternity. No word from Azriel, Rhys refused to divulge what kind of mission he was on, and Cassian missed his training buddy. Even your pet fox seemed down in Azriel's absence.

You opened the silver bag a week later, and it had been a little plush bed for your fox with a note that read:

"For your new apprentice, may he keep you good company in my absence. - Az"

You missed him. You weren't even going to pretend like the questioning eyes of the healer's apprentices silently asking you where your Illyrian went and if everything was alright didn't get to you.

That the occasional stabbing of fear and worry down the bond didn't cause sleepless nights and that you woke up from countless nightmares, clutching your chest to make sure the bond was intact and he was still alive.

14 days it had been.

The longest 14 days of your life.

You were in Madja's, well basically your, office when you felt him. He was near. He had to be. You felt the bond light up and then start screaming and then he emerged from the shadows.

Your excitement had quickly turned to horror as you saw that the leathers on his chest had been singed, almost disintegrated off and his skin was a darker color than the shadows.

"Azriel!" You screamed physically and mentally for Rhys, for Madja, for anyone who could hear.

Rhys was there in a second, and Madja right after, running through the doors. Feyre, Cassian, and Feyre winnowed in mere moments later.

A jolt of pain like you never knew burned in your chest and you felt the bond flicker.

Madja rushed to her shelves, quickly beginning her work, no time to spare to even process what's happening.

Rhys looks at you with a look of complete panic on his face, "What's happening? You can feel him."

"He's slipping away Rhys. I can't-"

Madja yells your name, a reminder that the longer you spend panicking over Azriel's, the less time he has to live.

You rush to Madja, the bond act like a physical hourglass making you feel Azriel's time slowly run out, and race against it to save your Mate.

-

Somewhere which also happens to be nowhere the Mother is about to make her next move when she sees Azriel's piece, which is ironically white and not black like the colour of his shadows, has a gray spot. It's the gray of ash and destruction not the gray of swords and stones.

She looks at face, confusion written in her features to meet an identical expression.

"This is not my doing. Not even when time ceases to exist and we are all that's left in this plane of existence would I resort to this kind of cheating."

The gray begins to burn through the piece, a visible plague infecting it from within.

The Mother and Fate pause.

He stills. "You don't think?"

He couldn't even get the words out, scared that the dark reality would come true if he even spoke of it.

The Mother's features become grave. "There is a dark magic in Prythian, I fear it's now up to them to stop it."

-

Note: Hey guys, long time no see. This is actually the longest chapter of why me? that I have written. I wanted to make up for the little break that I took. I felt like I had lost my footing in the story and now I really know where I want it to go. This chapter did take a turn or two or three, but at the heart of this chapter is their relationship and those good moments that we haven't seen that many of. It's the first chapter that I can wholeheartedly say they are being their true selves and it felt really good to get to the point of writing this. I'm sorry I had to leave it on a cliff hanger, I can't be too generous, I have to keep you guys on your toes. Gasp** a dark magic? I guess you'll have to stay tuned to find out what it is. Until next time my darlings!

note note: At this point you all know I have a problem with editing, it just takes so long to write you can't ask me to sit down and basically rewrite it again what am i a professional? (in truth i am just lazy). So thank you to my typo police that catch anything that makes the story slightly illegible I appreciate y'all and all my readers for following along with me <3

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[bloatedandalone04]

Bad Idea, Right?

Summary: You and Jake are broken up, so he has no business sending you dirty texts while you’re out with your friends, yet that doesn’t stop you from giving in every single time.

Word Count: 4.1k | THANK YOU FOR 5.8K FOLLOWERS

Warnings: smut, fluff, unprotected sex, rough sex, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, swearing, just overall filthiness, exes hooking up, exes to lovers if you want to know what happens in their future, possessive jake, mentions of a bad break up.

“You’re going? Seriously?” your best friend since high school, Steph, asked once she saw you trying to discreetly slide your credit card and keys into your purse a few minutes after you checked a text on your phone and scoffed. 

You looked over at her with a soft glare, because her question had made your other friend give you a look of disbelief as well, when all you wanted to do was make your great and quiet escape. “What? I’m…tired,”

Steph scoffed this time and leaned back in her chair at the small table you managed to score in the back corner of a rather rowdy bar. “Yeah right. You’re such a liar. We just got here, like, half an hour ago,” she muttered and crossed her arms. “You’re not tired. You’re fucking horny.”

You gasped, but you couldn’t deny the truth her words held. “I am not,”

“Then where are you going?” Kayce, your other friend, asked as she too clued in to what was really going on with you, and she didn’t look too happy either. 

Too bad for them, you were allowed to do whatever you wanted. “Why does it matter?”

“Y/n, if you’re even thinking about going over to his place, I swear, I’ll rip my hair out,” Steph groaned and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Jake fucking Seresin. Or, you know, fucking Jake Seresin,” she reiterated and you felt your face heat up a bit. 

Damn, you thought you were being a little more discreet than that, but clearly not. “So what if I am?” you sighed, giving up on the whole act entirely as you hadn’t been nearly as careful as you should’ve been. They both knew where you were going now, there’s no point in trying to hide it. 

“So what? He’s your ex, Y/n,” Kayce stated, but her tone was much softer than Steph’s was. 

“And he’s a fucking ass,” Steph added, “I don’t know what you saw in him before, and I still don’t know what you see in him now. He’s so full of himself, he’s cocky, arrogant and he fucking smirks at everything. Oh, and he treats you horribly.”

“Okay, that’s not true,” you defended your ex as you sat up straight. And it really wasn’t. Yeah, Jake was all those things she listed, she just missed him being overly confident, but he didn’t treat you badly at all. In fact, he was the best boyfriend you’d ever had, it was just the explosive fight you’d gotten in that ended it all. “He was good to me.”

“He’s trying to get you to come over so he can fuck you,” Steph said, a little too loudly for your liking since a few of the bars patrons had glanced over at the three of you. “He wants to fuck you then he’ll kick you out.”

“He won’t kick me out,” you scoffed, standing up and sliding your purse onto your shoulder. “Jake likes when I sleep in his arms.”

Steph looked like she was about to explode, but you didn’t care. You felt attacked by your friends, and you felt like they were trying to make you feel dumb and like a kid, when you are a grown woman who is capable of making your own decisions. 

You knew what you were getting yourself into. “And maybe we’re friends now. Have you ever thought of that? Exes can be friends,”

Steph raised a brow. “Not exes like you and Jake. You two can never be friends, not after they way you were together,”

She was right about that, but she also didn’t need to know that. 

Kayce looked up at you with a small frown on her lips, and you hated the pity in her eyes. You didn’t need it, and it wasn’t justified at all. “He texts you a lot, Y/n,” she said quietly, “Doesn’t it make you feel cheap?”

You looked down at her for a few seconds before shaking your head. “Cheap? With Jake?” you laughed, “Never.”

-

Jake was sipping on a beer and watching the highlights of the latest game when he heard a knock at his front door. He smirked, because he knew exactly who it was.

It was you, of course, and he knew exactly why you were here. 

Only a mere twenty minutes ago, Jake had sent you two texts, one reading, 

‘I wanna see you, baby. Come over,’

And the other, 

‘I miss your sweet pussy and your pretty mouth,’

Yeah, he was aware of what he was doing, because he knew you’d read them, and he knew you’d come over. Albeit, you’d take your time getting here, but still, you were definitely coming. 

And, you know, hopefully soon Jake would be too.

He set down his beer and abandoned the football game he’d been watching on the TV in the living room, and he wandered out to the front door wearing nothing but his grey sweatpants - the ones he knew drove you crazy, because they showed off the length of his cock through the fabric.

When he swung the door open and saw you in a tight skirt and a crop top, he knew he’d interrupted your girls’ night. That meant you ditched your friends in order to come to his place, and that made Jake’s smirk grow even more. 

“Hey, sweet girl,” he greeted, leaning against the door frame as he looked at your gorgeous face. “I think we’re way past the point of you needing to knock, don’t you?” he teased, and the eye roll you gave him had him grinning. You were so perfect and so fucking stunning, Jake felt like the luckiest fucker in San Diego, because you’re here. And you’re still his. 

A scoff left your lips as you crossed your arms, but the dramatic act wasn’t justified. You’d been out at the bar, attempting to have a decent night with your friends when you got his texts, and like always, any and all rational thoughts left your mind. 

“Not really,” you muttered, shifting on your feet as the cool evening air made chills run through your body. “Why do you insist on texting me filthy things in order to get me over here? Why can’t you just find another girl to fuck and forget about?”

Jake’s eyes were all over your body, the green a shade or two darker as he bit down on his lip. Your skirt was short and hugged your curves in all the right places, showcasing every inch he knew off by heart, and he wanted to pull you into his arms and warm you up properly. “Forget about you? Baby, you know that’s not possible. There isn’t another girl in the world who could ever compare to you,” he said, his voice low as he reached one hand out and rested it on your hip, pulling you closer. “And you’re here, aren’t you? Besides, I don’t want to fuck anyone who’s not you.”

You rolled your eyes again, making Jake grin. 

“Come on, you know I can’t help myself around you,” he mumbled, his deep voice right next to your ear as he brushed a kiss to your cheek. “I hate being away from you, and not knowing what you’re doing out there without me…”

You hummed, moving closer to him. “What do you think I’m doing?” you asked, raising a teasing brow as you slide your fingers up his bare chest before settling your hands on his shoulders. “Are you scared that I’m flirting with other guys? That I’m letting random strangers fuck me in the same bed you used to fuck me in? Are you scared I’ll finally move on from you?”

Your tone was teasing now as well as you leaned up and brushed your lips along his jaw. Jake felt a surge of possessiveness run through him, and a jolt of lust went straight to his cock, which he was sure you could feel against you right now. 

“I don’t scare easily, Y/n,” he muttered, grabbing your hips and pulling you closer as he leaned down to nip at your ear. “Though, the thought of another guy putting his fucking hands on you…touching what’s mine…makes me think I need to leave my mark on you so they don’t even bother trying.”

His big hands slid down to grab your ass, and he squeezed it through the fabric of your leather skirt, making you whine softly.

“You’re not going anywhere, baby. Not when I can feel you trembling for me…not when I know you’re already getting wet for me,” he added, and you moaned loudly at his words. 

“Relax, baby,” you cooed, “No guy has even come close, because I know I’ll just be disappointed. They’re not you. You’re the only one who can make me cum.”

A deep groan left Jake’s lips as you practically melted against him, your words laced with seduction and promise. He had you wrapped around his finger, and he was wrapped around yours as well. 

“That’s right, sweet girl,” he murmured, shamelessly letting his gaze trail up and down your body. “These pretty tits, that sweet pussy…your stunning fucking body. All mine. Always has been, and always will be.” 

His hands slid further down until he was gripping the backs of your thighs, then he was lifting you up into his arms and kicking the door shut behind him as he carried you towards his bedroom. 

He’d made this exact route countless times now, always with you, and only with you since the night you met. It felt familiar, normal, and natural, like he would always only be carrying you to his room so he could fuck the living shit out of you. 

“I think it’s about time I remind you of that fact, don’t you?” Jake asked, but it didn’t really sound like a genuine question. He tossed you onto his bed, the sight of you being nearly swallowed by the king-sized mattress one he fantasises about every time he goes to sleep. “You think you can tease me by talking about other guys, hm? When we both know that you’re never gonna let anyone else touch you like this.” 

Jake’s hands slid up and down your calves before tugging off your boots and letting them hit the floor with a soft thud. Next were your stockings, which he just flat out ripped off you instead of trying to pull them all the way down, and the glare you gave him had a smug smirk forming on his lips as he tossed the destroyed fabric aside. 

“Think I need to ruin you for everyone else. Fuck you so hard, you won’t bring up another guy ever again,” he hummed, crawling up your body. It wasn’t necessary, because Jake knew you hadn’t been with anyone else since him, like he hadn’t been with anyone else since you, but it was part of the game you and he had been playing recently. Riling each other up until the other breaks, then doing it all over again within a few days. 

Jake knew he still wanted you, he wanted to fucking marry you, for fucks sake, but your break up had been an explosive one, and if you still needed a little more time to yourself before getting back on track with him, that was fine. He could do that one hundred percent, as long as it meant he got you back in the end. 

You were leaning back on his pillow, your legs parting as he settled between them, and you already looked so fucked out and needy for him. It was such a pretty sight. Jake’s eyes were dark as he gazed down at your dishevelled form, his arms at either side of your head as he held himself up above you. 

“Jake,” you groaned, sliding your hands along his abs before you reached up and grabbed his shoulders, pulling his body down onto yours as you buried your face in his neck. You placed soft kisses along his skin, breathing him in as if you were as gone for him as he is for you. “God, you’re so fucking hot…I love getting you all riled up like this.” 

Jake was so hard for you, and your touches only made him harder, almost painfully so. “You love it, huh? You just love pushing me until I fuck you so hard, you can barely walk the next day,” he muttered, leaning in and kissing all along your neck and jaw as he ground his hips against yours over and over again until he couldn’t hold back any longer. He sat back on his knees, tugging your shirt over your head as he did so, and tossing it aside. His gaze immediately went to your chest, his cock twitching with need as he bit down on his lip. “Fuck, these tits…”

You laughed quietly, and Jake knew how he looked, drooling over you as if he hadn’t been with you for nearly three years before the break up. “You love them, don’t you?” you teased, reaching for his wrists and guiding his big hands to your chest. “Touch me, Jake…”

Jake groaned, squeezing your soft mounds as he looked down at you. “Oh, I more than love them, baby. I’m fucking obsessed with them,” he said as his thumbs circled your hardened nipples before he leaned down and took one between his lips, sucking greedily as he continued to tease your other one. “They’re mine. This whole fucking body is mine.”

“Mmm, for now,” you purred, giving him an innocent look as you writhed under him and he glared at you. But he didn’t let himself get too worked up at your words, since there was no for now with you, there was only forever. 

After he worshipped your chest with his mouth for a bit, Jake pulled back and admired the red peaks that were straining against the cool air of his bedroom. You were whimpering for him and looking up at him with needy eyes, Jake had never seen a hotter sight in his life. 

He gripped your hips and flipped you over, pulling your skirt down and off your body, leaving you in just your soaked panites. “Look at how perfect you are,” he murmured under his breath, his hand smoothing along the curve of your ass before he delivered a sharp smack to one side of it. “You’re such a good girl, presenting yourself so nicely for me.”

You whined as Jake hooked his fingers in the thin fabric of your panties and dragged them down your legs impossibly slow, exposing your wet core to the cool air. “Jake,” you mumbled as you propped yourself up on your knees and elbows, your fingers bunching up his sheets as you wiggled back against him and left a damp spot on the front of his sweats. 

Jake reached down and palmed himself through the fabric, his cock begging for attention as he looked down at the pink handprint that was forming on your skin. “Fuck, look at you. So desperate for my cock already. Bet this needy little pussy is clenching around nothing, isn’t it?” he mocked, gripping your hips as he ground his clothed erection against your slick folds, not caring at all about the mess he was making on the grey fabric. You were moaning loudly now, his dirty mouth never failing to turn you on, and he knew that. 

He rolled his hips a few more times before delivering another swift slap to your opposite cheek before he soothed the sting with his palm, his cock twitching more at the desperate sounds you were making for him. 

His fingers delved between your thighs and collected your arousal, the wetness making his head spin in the best way, before bringing it to your lips. “Taste yourself, baby,”

You obliged quickly, turning your head and capturing his fingers between your lips. “Mm,” you moaned, licking and sucking at his fingers until they were clean of you and left coated in your spit. “So good…” you hummed as you pushed yourself back against him again, the dark spot on his sweats only growing in size the longer he kept them on. 

“You’re so fucking dirty,” Jake grunted, pulling his fingers free from your mouth. “Getting off on your own taste.”

Then he licked his fingers, keeping eye contact with you as his free hand palmed your reddening ass. “You love it,” you mumbled, and Jake grinned as he pulled his fingers out of his mouth. 

“Yeah, I do,” he agreed, grabbing your thighs as he pulled you back onto his lap, your slickness dragging along his damn near painful erection. His sweatpants were messy now as he gently bounced you on his lap, leaning over you to place kisses all along your shoulders, and then he was guiding you to lay down on your back once more as he pushed down and kicked off his sweats. “Spread those legs for me, Y/n. Let me see that pretty pussy.”

When you did as you were told, Jake settled between your thighs once more, his cock rubbing along your soaked folds. “Jake,” you whined. “I need you. Fuck me already. Please?” 

“I will, sweet girl,” he laughed deeply, reaching down to circle your clit with his fingers. Then he was pushing forward and sinking inside your core, the wet warmth making him groan as he braced himself above you. “Fuck, you’re so tight. Missed this perfect pussy so much, baby.” he grunted, leaning down to kiss you as he began to fuck you with long, deep thrusts. 

You moaned loudly, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist as you kissed him back. Your hands ran up and down his arms before pushing against his lower back, encouraging him to absolutely wreck you as your mouths pressed messily together. “God, yes. Fuck me, Jake,” 

Jake groaned into the kiss, one hand tangling in your hair and pulling your head back a bit while his other gripped your hip tightly. “You were made for me, baby,” he murmured against your lips as picked up the pace a bit, breaking the kiss as he looked down at where you were connected. The sight of his glistening cock disappearing inside you had him thrusting a bit harder, his grip on you tightening even more. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

He hooked his elbows under your knees, shifting your position on the bed and giving him a better angle to your sweet spot, and the way you practically squealed had him fucking into you a bit faster. “Jake, oh fuck,” you moaned as you ran your hands along his abs, feeling the way he flexed under your touch. “Harder…harder…” 

Jake grunted as he complied, hitting every spot deep inside you until he felt your tight walls start to flutter and clench around him. “Not yet, baby,” he rasped, not wanting this to end too soon. He was desperate for you now more than ever, because every second with you was next to precious at the moment. “Hold on just a little longer, sweet girl.”

But you were whining in protest, shaking your head as you buried your face in his neck. “Jake,” you whimpered, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist. Then you pulled back and looked up at him, and your gaze softened a bit as you nodded. “Okay…okay, just go slower then, okay?” you asked so sweetly, your bratty persona from earlier gone as you leaned up and pressed kisses along his jaw. 

Jake’s hands loosened their grip on you, and instead he wrapped his arms around you and cradled you against him, slowing his thrusts significantly. “Mm, there’s my good girl,” he praised, peppering gentle kisses along your neck and collarbone. “I wanna take my time with you…love you in the way you deserve.”

He knew his words were perhaps a little more intimate than they should be during a hookup, but Jake would never consider you that. Just a quick, easy fuck. He’d never think so low of you when he was so in love with you still. 

His big hands caressed your body, touching all the places he knew off by heart, and he reveled in the soft moans you let out when he gently pinched and rolled your nipples between his fingers. 

Jake leaned down and kissed you as you tangled your fingers in his hair, his hips slowly rolling against yours in unhurried thrusts. His own hands slid around you and down your body until they reached your ass, and he gripped you tightly as he lifted you up a bit to meet his deep strokes. “You feel so good, baby,” he mumbled against your mouth before fully breaking the kiss to look down at you. 

You tugged on his hair, hiking your legs up higher around his waist as you arched your back. “So do you,” you replied, tipping your head back on his pillow as he increased the pace again by just a little. “So fucking good, Jake.”

He groaned, burying his face in your neck as he fucked into you, his sounds muffled against your skin. “Fucking hell, Y/n,” he moaned, “You drive me crazy, sweet girl. I’ve missed this so much…missed you so much.” 

Jake leaned down and captured one of your nipples in his mouth, grazing it gently with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. 

You tugged a little harder on his hair before pushing on his shoulders, and for a fleeting moment Jake thought he might have gone too far with his words (not that he had much control over them anyway), but then you settled on his lap when he sat back on his knees, and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. 

“Oh, my God,” you gasped, your breasts brushing against his chest as you began to ride him. “Fuck…fuck.”

Jake’s hands grabbed your hips, holding onto you tightly as he helped guide you into a steady rhythm. “That’s it, baby. Ride me just like that,” he praised, dipping his head down to press kisses along the tops of your breasts. 

Your moans were becoming a little more desperate now as you bounced on his lap, your knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hips, and the look in your eyes told Jake all he needed to know. 

Maybe you didn’t mean for it to be there, but he could see the love, adoration and longing in your gaze, but he didn’t say anything about it. Just seeing it was all he needed to know that he’d be with you again properly someday. 

“Jake,” you whispered, running your hands along his slightly sweaty shoulders as you moved on top of him, squeezing him so good, Jake had to bury his face against the side of your neck. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Me too. Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum so hard,” he groaned, thrusting up into you as he gripped your hip tightly and pulled your chest right up against his, using his free hand to apply pressure to your stomach. “C’mon, baby, give it to me.”

You whimpered and bucked your hips a few more times before you were shaking on his lap, your hands pulling at his hair as you came with a soft cry, and it was still the prettiest sound Jake had ever heard. 

He grunted, and a few seconds later, he came too, filling you up as you became limp in his arms. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears, his chest heaving as he pressed a kiss to your forehead and moved to lay down so you were cuddled against his chest. “I love you,” he mumbled, the words all too familiar as he usually said them every single time you and he had sex, as well as every day before the breakup. 

You groaned, shaking your head as you leaned up to press a firm kiss to his lips, then a few more after that. “Shh, don’t,” you murmured before rolling off him, making his cock slip free from your warmth as you rolled onto your stomach. “Just…come here. Come hold me.” you said, burying your face in his pillow as you closed your eyes. 

Jake laughed under his breath as he pulled the covers up over your body before wrapping his arms around you from behind, holding you like you were his entire world. “Okay,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head as he let himself relax against you.

This was where he belonged, he knew that, and he knew that you belonged here too, it would just take you a little longer to get back there. Which was fine, because Jake would always wait for you. And as he listened to your quiet breathing and inhaled your familiar scent, he let his mind wander to the image of you finally wearing the ring he’d bought for you that was safely tucked away in his closet.

[wendichester]

Could you maybe write an older!sister reader please ?

⋆.˚ not on my watch,

summary. your boys are always looking for trouble and you always come to the rescue.

pairing. sam + dean winchester x older sis!reader genre. fluffy angst

wordcount. 675

notes / warnings. mentions of blood, typical older sister overprotective behavior, taking care of those two idiots.

You don’t knock. You don’t wait. You storm into the motel room with blood on your jeans and hell in your eyes.

Dean’s on the bed, holding a dish towel to a gash in his side, and Sam’s trying to get the first aid kit open with trembling hands. They both freeze when they see you.

“You didn’t answer your damn phones.”

Dean winces. “Battery died.”

“Mine too,” Sam mumbles.

You slam the door behind you. “I thought you were dead.”

Dean grins — the cocky, busted-up kind that means “please don’t yell at me while I’m actively bleeding out.”

“We’ve been worse,” he says, voice tight.

You ignore him.

You cross the room in two strides, shoving Sam out of the way so you can kneel in front of Dean. You grab the bloody towel without asking.

He hisses. “Ow—ow, shit.”

“Good.”

“You gonna kiss it better too, or just beat me senseless?”

“Depends if you shut up.”

He does shut up.

You work in silence for a beat. Wipe the blood. Clean the gash. It’s not deep, but it’s angry. Red and raw and exactly the kind of thing Dean likes to walk off like it won’t get infected if someone doesn’t step in and care.

“I told you not to take that job without me.”

Dean shrugs. “It was routine. Salt and burn.”

“Then why did I get a call from Bobby saying a banshee tore through town like a goddamn blender?”

Dean tries to look guilty. Fails. “...The bones were buried under an old bar. Complicated.”

You exhale through your nose. Hands shaking slightly now. You press the gauze in too hard and he winces again, but doesn’t complain.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond. Sam, still standing awkwardly nearby, clears his throat.

“I told him we should wait.”

“Thanks, Sammy.” You glance up at him. His cheek’s bruised. His lip’s split. “You okay?”

He nods. “I’m fine.”

“You’re limping.”

“I’m fine.”

You press a hand to his arm, then return to Dean.

“God, you’re idiots.”

Dean chuckles. “That’s the family motto.”

You tape the gauze in place and finally sit back on your heels. Stare at them both. Filthy. Bruised. Alive.

Barely.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Dean sighs. “We’ve been hunting since—”

“I know how long we’ve been hunting.” Your voice wavers. “But I was supposed to keep you safe. And every time I get a call like that, I think—this is it. This is when I lose one of you.”

Sam’s already crying. Quiet, like he always does. He sniffles, brushing a hand under his nose.

Dean swallows hard, eyes glassy.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re my boys. I don’t care how grown you are. You’re still mine. And if I have to chain you to the Impala just to keep you from getting yourselves killed, I will.”

Dean smirks, voice hoarse. “Kinky.”

You smack his shoulder — gently. He flinches anyway.

You sigh, standing.

“Okay,” you say. “Shirts off.”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“You’re both cut up. I’m cleaning it.”

“I can do mine,” he mutters.

You raise a brow.

He groans and starts peeling off his flannel.

Dean lays back with a grunt. You pull up a chair and get to work on them both. Stitch here. Bandage there. You work like you always have — careful but fast, like you were born to mend boys built for war.

They stay quiet.

Until Dean says, “Y’know, we never really said it.”

You pause. “Said what?”

“That we wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Sam looks over at him, then nods. “We wouldn’t.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Shut up and let me save your dumb lives again.”

But your throat’s tight. Your hands tremble just a little more.

And when they’re finally patched and passed out on opposite beds, snoring like lumberjacks, you sit between them and watch. Just to make sure they’re still breathing.

Just to be sure they made it back.

Just to remind yourself: they’re still yours.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[georgeclarkeys]

rude boy - wroetoshaw

summary: drunk harry is horrifically rude to everyone except for you - 900 words

everyone always talks about harry being a nasty drunk so i thought this was appropriate lol

hope y'all don't hate it!

~

Harry Lewis was a nice guy. He might be a bit awkward sometimes, and he tended to throw sarcastic comments around, but in his heart he was a good person. There did happen to be a slight exception to your boyfriend's kind heart, and it always seemed to be brought out under the influence of alcohol. Drunk Harry could be very mean, and you had seen it in action. 

Several years ago, the two of you had joined your friends on a ski trip. You were a few days late because Harry had some Sidemen business to attend to, but you made it nevertheless. Harry, deciding he had reason to celebrate, got incredibly wasted that night. You could only watch on in horror as he looked Chris’s poor girlfriend in the eyes and told her that no one would notice if she died. Obviously you jumped in, apologized profusely, and asked Will to help you remove Harry from the scene of the crime and get him up to bed. 

Every time Harry found himself under the influence of alcohol, it was always the same exact order of events. He would get drunk, he would say something shockingly rude, and then you would apologize for him until he could sober up and do it himself.  

Harry was less of a partier these days, and it had been a while since you had to apologize for him, but everyone still laughed about the memories of your horrible drunk boyfriend. 

Today, the two of you were at a Sidemen event. It was a little bit more lowkey, and definitely more exclusive than a big party, but the drinks were flowing and the music was bumping. Everyone else was stood around mingling, while you found yourself on the couch in the corner of the room. You were tucked into Harry’s side with a drink in your hand, feeling a little buzzed. Harry had one arm slung lazily over your shoulder, and the way that his eyes were slightly lidded told you that he was also feeling the liquor. Faith made her way over and joined you on the couch, excitedly suggesting that you join her and Sabina for lunch next week. Ethan trailed slowly behind her, wrapped up in a conversation with Freezy. By the time they made it over to the three of you, it took Ethan exactly three seconds to notice that Harry was tipsy. 

His eyes widened and he laughed, grabbing Faith’s arm, “Oh my God, babe, if Harry is as drunk as I think he is, I need you to get away from him right now.”

It was hard to understand Ethan through his booming laugh and the alcohol clouding your mind, but Harry’s response told you exactly what Ethan was talking about.

“I’m not drunk, you fat bastard,” he argued back, letting his hand drop from your shoulder to your waist as he pulled you closer to him. 

Faith looked as confused as ever, head swiveling between Ethan and Harry as they laughed with each other, “What are you on about?”

You jumped in to explain to your friend as the boys continued to trade insults, “In the past, Harry has had a tendency to be horribly rude while drinking. I can’t believe you haven't heard any stories.”

Faith’s response was cut short by your boyfriend shouting at her husband, “No one loves you, mate!”

Your eyes snapped up towards his and you slapped your hand over his mouth before he said anything else, “Harry!”

You turn your gaze to Ethan, who is red in the face from laughing so hard, “You know he doesn’t mean that.”

Faith is also laughing at this point, “Well that seemed a bit uncalled for,” she breathed out.

You turned back to Harry, who was laughing sheepishly, and sighed, “See what I mean?”

Ethan piped up, “Hold on a minute, (Y/N) you’ve been around drunk Harry so much, how has he not said anything to make you break up with him?”

“Harry is never mean to me while drinking. He might actually be nicer to me than normal,” you replied, causing Ethan to scrunch up his face. 

Harry gripped your hip tighter and pulled you into his lap, “Unfortunately for the rest of you, (Y/N) is perfect. I couldn't say something mean about her if I tried.” You turned your eyes toward his, and he met your gaze with a soft smile before pressing a kiss to your forehead. In classic Harry fashion, it took him about 30 seconds to ruin the moment. “Actually I thought of something. She takes all the fucking covers when we sleep. Ruins my evening sometimes.”

This sends Ethan into another fit of raucous laughter. You rolled your eyes at Harry, “You’re so annoying.”

~

Later that evening, the two of you were back at home getting ready for bed. Your boyfriend was already in your shared bed, leaned back against the headboard and waiting for you to join him. You finished up the last step of your nighttime routine before sliding into bed next to him. He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you into his chest.

“Not giving you any opportunity to steal the covers tonight, you’re staying right here,” he mumbled into your ear.

“Go to sleep, you absolute dork,” you muttered back, before drifting off in the comfort of his arms.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ - the next morning

yourusername posted a story!

[stargirlrchive]

i think the only way i can get this priceghost threesome fic out is if i post half first! so enjoy (don’t hate me for blue-balling yall 😔 the smut is coming! i promise)

one — two — three

“Invited the Captain over for dinner.”

Your skin prickled as Simon’s gaze pinned you to your spot. He was watching your reaction and no doubt did not miss the way you chopped a bit harder into the vegetables you were cutting.

You just hummed, hoping he would miss the way your thighs gently clenched together at the thought of having both of them in your home.

Your last encounter, if you could call it that, was Price encouraging Simon to fuck you harder over the phone and you had not stopped thinking about it since.

Guilt had webbed its way into your chest as night after night your underwear soaked at the thought of both of them taking you.

Simon deep down your throat while his Captain devoured you.

You missed the way Simon’s eyes glossed over at your reaction. Already chubbing painfully as he watched you bite down onto your plump lip, and squeeze your thighs.

He knew the nasty little thoughts that ran through your mind. Had caught onto how you listened intently whenever his captains name was mentioned in conversation.

He didn’t blame you, gods he had been thinking about it too. The way your eyes would grow low and desperate as Price fucked you. Begging Simon to touch as you moaned and writhed beneath his captain.

The only reason he had let weeks go by to make a move is because he needed to be sure you’d be okay with it. He didn’t want to force something onto you that had happened accidentally.

But it was obvious. You were never well at hiding when your interest was piqued.

You had been so lost in your filthy little daydream you missed the sound of Simon’s footsteps approaching. You jumped lightly when his thick hands laid flat on your belly.

His nose dragging down the side of your neck as he pressed his hardening cock into you. He was so big it rested comfortably on the small of your back, right above the swell of your ass.

“Is it a problem that I invited him over?”

His breath was fresh against your heated skin and it caused a shiver to zip down your spine. One of his hands trailing lower before it slipped into the waist band of your shorts.

“No, not a problem. Just wish I would’ve known so I could’ve fixed myself up a bit. It’s not every day we host your team.”

You could hardly focus on not nipping your fingers with the knife as Simon’s finger dipped between your underwear. You wondered if he’d know that reason of your slick was also due to the older man.

Your head resting against his shoulder as he pushed the pad of his fingers against your wet clit. “You get this horny from chopping up vegetables?”

He laughed at his own joke, and you couldn’t help the huff of laughter that left your mouth. “Yeah, something about the chop really gets me going.”

He nipped at your throat lightly, his fingers barley hovering over your clit before he was dipping his fingers between your folds.

“And here I was thinkin’ it was because of me and John.”

Your body stilled against his, had you really been that obvious? Was…was he mad?

“I’m sorry-”

Simon kept your pressed against him as you tried to turn around to face him. His fingers still dipped into your slick pussy.

“What for, hm? For being a greedy little thing and wanting two cocks?”

You whimpered softly, thighs tightening around his hand as you nodded, you didn’t know what to do. On one hand you were worried Simon was upset, and on the other you were so fucking horny that your brain turned to mush.

“S’alright, baby. Cap’n and I arranged this all for you to get your little fix.”

You couldn’t wrap your mind around what he was saying, the tip of his finger dipping into your entrance. Your body felt like it was burning hot, clit pulsing with need as he slowly fucked you with his fingers.

“What is it that you want him to do?”

Simon’s free hand enveloped your breast, teasing your hardened nipples as he rolled his thumb against them. His other palm flat against your clit as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

“Want him to use your mouth? We can show him how good I’ve trained you.”

Your gasps and soft cries filled the kitchen, “Or do you want him to use his mouth on this pretty pussy. Get you all nice and wet before I stuff you full of my cock?”

Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, fucking yourself against his thick fingers as you cried and whined.

You were so close, just a few more swipes to your clit and you’d come all over his hand.

But the soft knock at your front door caused a warbled gasp to leave your mouth. Rutting against Simon’s hand before your release vanished. But he delivered a soft pinch to your nipple before his hand moved to your hips.

Gripping tight enough to still your movements as his fingers slipped out of you.

“That’s the Captain. Can’t keep ‘em waiting.”

You hoped your thoughts and desires weren’t written clearly on your face, but the subtle smirks thrown your way from Simon, and gentle smiles from Price told you otherwise.

You had to refrain from choking on each bite as John held your gaze as you spoke. He was so attentive, something that no doubt came from years of his job.

He was intense, but despite it all his eyes were warm, and it caused your cunt to pulse. All you could think about was how his hands would feel tugging on your hair, or biting into your skin. Or if he preferred to memorize your skin with soft, lingering touches.

You wondered if he preferred a gentler approach to having sex or not. You couldn’t tell.

And it was driving you crazy.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours, doll?” John’s voice dripped like warm honey, warmth blooming in your belly as you refrained from melting into a puddle right at his feet.

You had to bite back the whimper that threatened to leave your mouth as Simon laughed as he saw the coy look on your face at the pet name.

Simon’s hands patting your thighs as he mumbled out,“Spacey little thing.”

You knew Simon was teasing you, and you huffed, letting your head rest on his shoulder as you let them talk.

You wouldn’t have added much to the conversation. Not when Simon’s hand was dangerously close to where you desperately wanted him.

You were so familiar with his touch, so used to the way the callouses of his fingers made your body burn with desire.

He was familiar, and safe, and home.

He teasingly rubbed and gripped at your thigh, throwing knowing glances your way each time your legs pried open a little more.

John excused himself to use the restroom, and Simon smiled down at you teasingly, “How are you feeling, love?”

You huffed, because he knew exactly what was going through your mind, the way your eyes drooped with desire.

“Need you, Si’.”

“Is that so?”

You nodded, pawing gently at his cock as you pressed soft kisses to his neck. You were met with a soft grunt, his fingers tightening around your thigh.

He gently gripped your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his and his eyes scanned over your face, a small smidge of concern evident in his eyes as his words quietly filter through the room, “Jus’ wanna make sure, you okay with Cap joinin’ tonight?”

The flutter of your lashes was answer enough but he wanted to hear you say it verbally. You gave him a nod, trying to bite back a smile, “Yeah-I’m okay with it.”

He sent you a lazy smile, pressing his lips to yours as he pulled you up, moving the two of you to the couch and perching you on his lap.

John met you both in the living room, his eyes locked onto Simon’s in silent communication. With a subtle nod from Simon, Price’s eyes dropped down to you. Shamelessly drinking in your form and the way Simon’s fingers teased at your shirt, “You’re gonna make me jealous, Lt.”

Your eyes flickered to John’s, eyes fixated on the tent in his pants as he licked his lips, “Haven’t been able to stop thinkin’ about all those pretty noises you made.”

You forced yourself not to squirm under his gaze, Simon’s deep voice rumbling against you as he spoke, “Took ‘em right there on that couch you’re sittin’ on.”

You bit your lip, recalling the way Simon handle you, pressing your face into the cushion to keep you quiet, fucking you relentlessly with the encouragement of his boss.

“Go on, baby. Think it’s time we show ‘em how good you are.”

[grapejuice32]

True Form Benefits

True Form Sukuna x reader

warnings: MDNI, its Sukuna, he eats her out with his second mouth, calls her a whore a couple of times

word count: 828 a/n: was looking through fan art earlier and I had a vision, MIMA DONT READ

Since you’d been with Sukuna, there was always one thing you’d wanted to do that you hadn’t had the opportunity to do with him yet. His true form had a lot positive side to it, and this was one you’d always been infatuated by to say the least. You’d spent a while contemplating how to go about asking him to let you do this before realising, he’d probably be just as excited by the idea as you were, maybe even more. You sauntered over to where he sat, his legs spread as he leant back into his throne, two of his four arms resting on the arm rests, the other two tucked behind his head. “What is it?” He said flatly, able to sense your presence despite his eyes being closed, his bare chest peaking through his robes had you biting your lip. 

“ ‘Kuna,” you dragged out the ‘a’ at the end of his name as you grew closer to him. Only to be answered with a simple ‘hm?’ amusement lining his tone despite his apparent indifference. You stopped in front of him, your hands reaching out in front of you to toy with the edges of his robes. “I’ve been thinking…” you started, still dragging out your words as you spoke. 

“Spit it out, woman.” He said, opening one of his eyes to watch you, his lower left arm leaving the arm rest to grip your wait, pulling you to stand in between his legs. 

You cleared your throat, “You know how um, you like when I sit on your face…”

He scoffed, “No, you like that.”

Your face flushed red as if you weren’t about to ask him to eat you out, “Shut up.” He raised his eyebrows at that, looking at you properly now, all his eyes open. His lower right arm also moving to grip onto your waist. “Well, just thought that we could do that but, you know.” You mumbled, flickering your gaze down to his toned stomach where a second mouth resided. 

“I see,” he acknowledged, noting the way your breathing had picked up, your chest rising and falling in time with the heavy breaths that came through your parted lips.

☆ x ☆ x ☆ x ☆ x ☆ x ☆ x ☆ x ☆ x ☆ x ☆ x ☆ x ☆ x ☆ x ☆

Later that night, you found him fulfilling exactly what you’d wished. Your legs were placed either side of his midsection, your shins resting on the silk sheets of his lavish bed. His lower arms were gripping onto your thighs, his upper two hands were tight around your hips, rocking you back and forth as you road his stomach. Your head was thrown back, your palms placed on his chest as tears pricked your eyes, loud moans spilling from your lips at every movement, the concept alone of what the two of you were doing had you reader to cum. The tip of his long tongue dipped in and out of you, your cunt a dripping mess, your swollen clit rubbing against his abs just right every time he rolled your hips forward. “ ‘Kuna, ‘m so close.” 

“I bet you are.” His voice was gruff, hands gripping you tighter, his fingers digging into your plush skin as he watched you. “Dirty fucking thing aren’t you, riding my stomach like a whore.” 

“Please please please please,” you muttered under your breath, strands of your hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, your cheeks red and hot. 

He chuckled, “So pathetic, don’t know what you’re saying please for, I’m giving you what you wanted aren’t I?” You nodded mindlessly, wanton moans falling from your lips as the pit of pleasure in your stomach increased. 

“So close, ‘m so close,” you whined breathily, your head falling forwards causing your eyes to meet his that held a glint of satisfaction in them as he took in your state. 

“Go on, cum on my stomach like the whore you are,” it was an order, not a request, the sound of his voice, low and full of lust shot straight to your core. You mumbled and nodded, stringing together words senselessly as your thighs shook. You screamed out his name as you came, your nail digging into his chest and breaking through the skin, a pleased groan leaving him. You fell forward as you began to come down from the intense climax, your head leant against his chest. He let you have a moment to recover before his tongue began to move again, your breath hitched and you looked up at him, your eyebrows pulled together.

“You’re gonna give me another one.” You tilted your head to the side tiredly, your eyebrows pulled together as a small moan escaped you. He smirked and reached a hand around you, slipping two of his fingers inside of your warm opening, his tongue focusing on your throbbing clit, “And after that you’re gonna give me another one. Aren’t you?” You nodded, a long string of moans escaping you as you thought about the long night you were in for. 

jjk masterlist here

a/n: requests are open

[pomegranatelifethis]

Ding dong

You hugged the rabbit in your lap tighter as you blinked. You were soaked from the rain, but you held back so as not to show anyone that you were crying. As you stood in front of the door, the sound of the car driving away behind you continued to echo in your ears.

The person who left you left without even stopping to check if the door was open.

You held the folder tighter in your hand. It said "To Bruce Wayne - Personal" in capital letters.

The door opened.

"God…" said the old man in a gentle voice. He bent down and came down to your eye level.

"Little lady, what are you doing here?"

You couldn't say anything. You couldn't speak. You just handed over the folder. Your lips trembled, but your tears held back. You pulled your rabbit up a little more. It made you feel safe.

That evening

You were under a soft blanket in the living room. Accompanied by the crackling of the fire, there were people around you that you didn't know but somehow felt warm.

A cheerful person who makes you hot chocolate.

A tough-looking but sweet person who smiles at you without you noticing.

A girl who sits silently and watches you.

And another one who straightens his rabbit, tough but gentle.

They were all looking at you from afar. And in one corner of the room... there was the man reading the folder. His black hair, thoughtful facial expression, and that strange warmth in his eyes when he looks at you.

He left the folder on the table. He took a deep breath. Then he approached you. He sat next to her.

You made eye contact. Something inside him made him feel different.

"I… I'm your father."

When he heard these words, everything inside him became complicated. You tried to understand.

Then you just shook your head. “Okay…” you said in a whisper.

You held your rabbit tightly. He gently caressed her hair.

"You're home now."

Next Days

Life slowly began to take shape around you in the mansion.

Patrul times were now after you fell asleep. Weapons, costumes—all kept out of sight.

You lived in a world of just hot breakfasts, cartoons, coloring books and lots of laughter.

When night came, someone was always with you.

Someone was telling a fairy tale,

Someone was braiding her hair,

Someone was sitting quietly with you, painting.

And every night, a whisper reached his ear:

“Sweet dreams, my little star.”

Every night, while you were in deep sleep, they were out to protect the city. They were wearing costumes, wearing masks, blending into the shadows of Gotham.

But when they returned in the morning, one of them always stopped by your room. They were looking at you with pieces of armor still on them, tiredness in their eyes, but love in their hearts.

And when morning comes…

You just woke up with a new breakfast, a new sketchbook, and lots of hugs.

Because to protect you from the darkness, you had not one but five heroes.

And for you… it was all normal.

Because you were their most precious secret.

It had been about two weeks since you arrived at the Wayne Manor.

Every morning at breakfast, a different face greeted you. Sometimes, it was the smiling boy — the one with slightly messy hair, who always managed to make you laugh. Other times, it was the quiet one, always sitting next to you with black hair. Sometimes, it was the one who would come into the kitchen and ask, "What do you want to eat, little one?" — the one with a slightly furrowed brow, but secretly caring for you a lot.

But they all had one thing in common: They cared about you.

And you had started to get used to them. You were forming bonds with each of them, individually. But it was hard to remember their names, so you had come up with your own nicknames for them in your head:

Funny brother (Dick)

Serious but sweet brother (Damian)

The one who falls asleep but brings chocolate (Tim)

The one who gets angry but secretly makes you laugh (Jason)

That morning, everyone was in the kitchen. The sun had rarely risen over Gotham. As you wrapped yourself in a blanket and climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs, you looked up and glanced around.

"Good morning, everyone," you said shyly.

Dick turned to you: "Good morning, little lady! I’m taking you to school today, are you ready?"

You smiled. "Okay... Funny brother."

Everyone paused for a moment. Tim almost dropped his cup. Damian raised an eyebrow. Jason chuckled.

"Did she just say 'brother'?" Jason said, grinning.

You blushed and lowered your head. But as Bruce walked in through the kitchen door, your eyes locked on him.

He was the quieter, more serious one. But he never missed checking on you at night. And every morning, he would face you with a tired but peaceful expression.

Today, you felt a bit braver.

When he leaned down towards you, you reached out and tried to climb into his lap, blanket and all. He easily lifted you up and wrapped his arms around you.

And you rested your head on his shoulder and whispered:

“Dad…”

There was a silence. It was as if the air in the room had stopped.

In that moment, Bruce’s eyes softened a little more. His embrace tightened a little more.

And he responded with just one word:

“My love…”

Dick wiped his eyes, pretending, as if saying, “I’m not crying, you are!”

Tim was staring at his coffee, though his nose was red.

Jason turned his back, but his shoulders were shaking.

Damian, however, kept looking at you without averting his eyes. For the first time, it seemed like he was proud.

In that moment, maybe for the first time, you truly felt "belonging."

A father.

And four brothers.

You were no longer alone.

[letterlitter]

Let go (nsfw)

Lando Norris x reader

•Lando needs to relief stress after a bad weekend

•tags: smut, semi public, handjob (male recieving), Lando is a sad baby, moaning

•word cound: 1.6

(I haven't proofread this yet and it's 2:30 a.m sorry in advance)

It had been a rough few weeks. You had been away on business and Lando was racing but things weren't going as well as you both hoped.

All had gone downhill after the first race of the season which Lando had won. MCL39 was fast and everybody knew that, yet Lando had been struggling to get it right and use the car's potential to its fullest. He had been updating you through video or phone calls and he repeatedly told you how much he could use a kiss; to which you would reply with a giggle and a "very soon baby" and when you finally made it to the Saudi gp, it was a nice surprise for Lando and the press.

The qualifying had gone terribly for Lando and he wasn't happy about the results at all. You could see him pouting and rolling his eyes from behind his helmet as he got off the car.

You tried to find him in every crowd and be in his sight even when he was busy to let him know you were there, watching and supporting him in real time but eventhough he always smiled back and tanked you several times for it, it wasn't enough to keep him out of his own head.

Sunday, race day

Lando was starting in the middle, closer to the back of the lineup than the front. You and the team sat in the garage hoping for the best and while you had your eyes on Oscar dominating the race, you were worried about Lando. He was doing pretty well with the overtakes and the overall pace but everyone was now more focused on the screen showing how Oscar was going to take the win.

You liked Oscar, he was very talented, hardworking and well deserving of the achievements he had; but your heart broke for Lando, since no matter how had he pushed and how hard he was on himself, he didn't seem to always get it right. You loved him despite every obstacle the media or both of your lives' circumstances were putting in front of you but it hurt your heart to see him try and not see results. You knew how it felt like, to run as fast as you can and be the smartest version of yourself but see someone else doing it better with less effort.it was a tiny part of how brutal life could be. Lando had talked about it to you as well. You knew his struggles and the roller coaster his mental state would go on every single race after his first win last year in Miami.

Before, he would just settle for a podium or some points; but after expanding his capabilities and achievement's limits, he couldn't stop himself from being hungry for the best all the time even when it wasn't realistic. He was hard on himself and the pressure had gotten to him these past few weeks.

Lando ended up 4th on the Saudi gp and while he had done an amazing job, everyone's focus had been on Oscar getting the win for the team.

Lando came in after one or two interviews, helmet in hand, sweat dripping from his forehead. He gave the team in the garage a nod and went straight to the dressing room. He didn't talk to anyone or say much. "Just straight to privacy and silence where he could overthink his brains out" you thought as you stood up, held your hand to stop his engineer, Will, who had taken a step to go after him.

"Let me" you mouthed to him and slowed your steps towards the room to let Lando have his few moments of silence.

"Hello, anyone here?" You tapped your fingers on the door as you pushed it open to find Lando sitting in the farthest corner of the couch in the dressing room. Race suit still on and hanging from his hips. He lifted his head from his hands when he heard your voice and managed a "it is what it is right?" Smile at you.

You sat next to him, "very nice job today. Honestly. And not because you're sad"

Lando scoffed. That was a good sign.

"What's the point when I have done shit for the third week in a row."

"Says who?"

"Me. It's like I waited for Oscar to catch up. I just can't believe I'm this bad...actually I kind of do"

"Don't say that about yourself baby" you rubbed your hand on his back. His fireproof cold from the dried sweat, "I know you beat yourself up because you have high expectations of yourself" you slided to the floor to make Lando's held down head face you, "but with almost every standard you're still doing really really good. And you still have plenty of time to make up for it all. You will only have less chances to mess up and that's it."

Lando exhaled.

"I just think you need to let loose a little bit." you cupped his cheek with a hand and lifted his face, "Stop blaming yourself"Lando looked into your eyes for the first time with a faint smile on his lips.

"Hello there" you whispered

"Hey" his smile widened

"You want a kiss?"

"Please" he sounded desperate

You kissed him long and deep.

You kept wanting to pull away but Lando was following you, even as you tried to stand up.

The kiss seemed to get more passionate and more than just a kiss as moments passed on. Lando's hand started messaging your back, trying to find a way under your vest.

"Slow down mister, this isn't your race track" and you kissed your way down his face to his neck, tracing the helmet marks on his soft skin; Feeling his body heat with your lips, tasting his sweat. Your hands pushed his race suit's zipper lower before he pulled back a second, "the door"

You stood back to let him go and turn the lock. You usually didn't care but the last thing both of you needed right now was getting caught while everybody in the world were behind those doors.

But as soon as he came back two second later, you didn't hesitate to push him to a wall and put your hands on him, pushing his suit lower, getting to his hardening bulge after you had grinded your hips on him before.

"I see you miss me huh?"

"Is that even a question?"

"No not really"

You slightly rubbed and squeezed his balls over his underwear. Making him moan subconsciously. Lando's eyes popped from the unexpected volume of his own moaning.

"Turn it down pretty boy, people might hear us" and you rubbed your hands more firmly, making him visibly suffer. There was something about Lando after a race that made you want him so badly. Maybe it was his wet hair or the red marks on his face. Or maybe it was his wet eyes from the tears he tried to hold back earlier. It all made you...want him.

You slided down Lando's underwear, releasing his long, hard dick. First you were thinking of getting down on your knees, but you couldn't possibly miss the scenery up there. Lando's forehead was filled with wrinkles as your hand touched the skin of his penis. You could feel the slight vibrations of his neck under your lips while he moaned in his throat and tried not to be loud.

"Oh fuck y/n" he let out when you started teasing his tip with your thumb, "are you trying to...fuck..trying to kill me?"

"Shhhhh" you kissed his lips to shut him up. This was going to be slow and relieving. All of his attention and focus had to be on you and trying not to moan instead of the race results; even if it was for a few minutes.

Lando's moans were getting more frequent by the second. At one point his patience was so lost that he hit the back of his head to the wall behind him, with his fingers digging into the skin of your back. "You wanna come?"

Lando answerd with an impatient moan.

"I need those words baby" you looked up at him and smiled at his squeezed shut eyes and tilted back head.

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Oh fuck off y/n"

In a regular day, your would've listened and stopped whatever you were doing to tease him even more. But you felt he had been through enough for today so you took up the pace and moved your hand faster on the pre-cum covered surface you were working on.

"Come for me baby. Come"

You reached for a towel on the sofa in time to clean everything up before Lando got cum on both of you.

He let out a final exhale of comfort and finally opened his eyes.

"Come here" he pulled you in a tight hug as he came down from the high.

"Feel better?"

"I thought I was seeing stars are you crazy?"

You chuckled, "yes I may be"

Lando kissed your forehead a few times before he let you go.

"I have to get back out there. Also take this with you" he took the gray towel by the clean part, "and destroy it."

"Okay"

"I mean it y/n." He shouted as he was walking out the door. Making you laugh with relief seeing the difference between the way he came into this room and the way he was getting out of it.

[lexalith]

HIDDEN pt.2 || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)

summary: this is part 2 of my original fic HIDDEN. you should read that one first or you’re gonna be very confused!

warnings/this story contains: female reader, age gap (reader is 24 now, seunghyun’s 37) unresolved tension, mutual pining and emotional damage, reader’s life being absolute trash (?), seunghyun and the reader being very anxious people. angst (jealousy, heartbreak, guilt, shame, regret, self loathing, not being able to let go but also not being able to stay. timing never being right and love not being enough like alwayssss, i’m sorry) personal growth, forgiveness, closure, and a tiny little bitty bit of fluff if you squint your eyes very, very hard (lmao).

a/n: i never planned on writing a part two, but here we are! thank you so much for the endless support and for looking forward to this <3 as always, english isn’t my first language! seunghyun’s texts are in blue, reader’s texts are in orange. reader’s dialogue is in bold.

songs: champagne coast — blood orange (yes, again, because this is their song. i’m making it canon) ll all i wanted — paramore || lovers — anna of the north || all too well (10 minute version) — taylor swift

it’s been nine months since the breakup, and your life couldn’t be more different than it was—if someone took a polaroid of you now and held it next to the girl who packed her bags for seoul with stars in her eyes, you’re not sure you’d even recognize her. you’re back in brownsville, no longer coordinating payload systems at starbase—because, well, turns out when your year-long secret relationship becomes very suddenly not so secret, someone decided having you around was more trouble than it was worth. after they cut you off—citing professionalism and image and propriety—you didn’t really have a plan.

you spent a month unemployed, half-heartedly scrolling through job listings you didn’t want while lying facedown on the couch, alternating between waves of quiet panic and nausea that came every time you accidentally thought about seunghyun for more than five seconds. it was still raw then—the kind of heartbreak that didn’t just ache but physically made you feel sick, like your body was rejecting the entire experience. everything reminded you of him, and you hated it—how you could go from brushing your teeth to fully sobbing in the span of a minute because some memory had snuck in through the cracks, as if your own mind was determined to torture you for ever letting someone get that close.

and eventually, when your savings account started looking like a damn joke, you took the first job you could find—bartending at a small spot downtown. it’s not what you studied for. it’s not even remotely what you imagined doing when you walked across that graduation stage in your too-tight heels and got your aerospace degree handed to you… but it’s steady. you’ve memorized the orders of the regulars, learned how to hold your tongue when men call you sweetheart like it’s your god-given name or snap their fingers and whistle like you’re a fucking dog, and you’ve gotten really good at pretending you’re okay—smiling through it. your shoes are always sticky by the end of the night, your clothes reek of grease and cheap vodka no matter how many times you wash them, and there’s a tiny scar on your wrist from a shattered pint glass that slipped mid-shift during a friday rush. but hey… at least the tips are decent.

you’ve also been… seeing someone. the guy your friends had been annoyingly pushing for months (back when you were still secretly dating seunghyun and pretending to consider it just to shut them up). he’s your age, works in construction and is very nice, which sounds like a shitty compliment, but it’s not. you’ve been seeing him for about two months now—hanging out and hooking up. you like him. really, you do… a little bit. but every now and then you catch yourself comparing the way he holds your face to the way someone else used to, and you have to blink it away before it sinks too deep. he doesn’t know about seunghyun, of course. not the real version of it, anyway. just that there was someone before, someone who hurt you. and you appreciate his patience—he gives you space when you need it and doesn’t ask too many questions. and, well, he eats your pussy good, so. there’s that too. sometimes that’s enough to shut your brain up for a bit, enough to make you forget the ache that still sits in your chest like a bruise that never really healed. even though you know it’s not fair. and you wonder, sometimes, if this guy’s waiting for you to fall in love with him and has no idea that you’re still scraping someone else’s fingerprints off your skin.

but the most significant thing—the one that still sits in your stomach like a rock you can’t digest—is that you found out. you finally know. it was her. your mother. you didn’t even get it from her directly. you found it by accident—buried in an old email. you weren’t snooping—just printing a return label for something, waiting for the slow-ass printer to wake up—when your eyes caught the subject line: re: media contact – confidential inquiry. and you clicked it. you scrolled through every line with a growing sense of horror. you confronted her that same night. you didn’t plan it, didn’t rehearse what you were going to say—you just walked into the kitchen, heart pounding, and said, “how long were you planning on hiding the fact that you’re the one who leaked it?” she didn’t even deny it. just looked at you, quiet for a second, then said, “i did what i had to do.” “you had to?!” your voice broke, equal parts disbelief and fury. “you had to sabotage my entire fucking relationship?!” “he was taking advantage of you,” she said flatly. “what the fuck? what the—what the fuck is wrong with you?! you had no right to interfere like that! none!” “you think i didn’t see what he was doing? he was grooming you—” “don’t you dare use that word,” you spat, stepping forward. “don’t you fucking dare put it like that just because you needed a reason to feel better about what you did! i was twenty-two, not sixteen!” “i don’t care! he’s thirteen years older than you, and you—” “he wasn’t using me! i knew what i was doing—” “no!” she pointed at you, jabbing the air, furious and breathless, “you were just following him around like some starstruck idiot, lying to me, running away from your job, from your family—” “oh my god, shut the fuck up!” you snapped, tears hot in your eyes. “shut the fuck up! i was in love! and you fucking ruined it!”

you don’t remember much after that—just fragments. you remember your mother shouting something about protection, about how she couldn’t stand by and watch you throw your future away over a man who was never going to give you anything real. you remember knocking over a stack of books, slamming a drawer so hard it bounced back open, dragging your suitcase out of the closet with shaking hands and yanking things off hangers without looking. she cried, kept repeating that she didn’t mean to hurt you, that she was scared, that she thought she was doing what was best. but you didn’t care. you were too angry and too fucking tired of being treated like you didn’t know your own mind. you haven’t spoken to her since. you don’t know if you ever will. because it turns out there’s heartbreak that comes from losing a lover, and then there’s heartbreak that comes from realizing the person who raised you is the reason you lost them. and now it’s too late to take any of it back.

you’ve been crashing with one of your friends for the past three weeks—sleeping on a futon that creaks every time you turn over and makes your back ache by morning. you didn’t really know where else to go. your job barely covers groceries—forget rent, forget deposits, forget the fantasy of having a space that’s actually yours. so now you’re here, trying not to be a burden, trying not to cry into your friend’s couch cushions at night because she’s doing you a favor, and you already feel like a walking pity case. sometimes you lie there and think about how you used to fall asleep in a king-sized bed with high thread count sheets and a man who kissed your shoulders before falling asleep with his hand in yours, and now you’re in someone else’s place, listening to the hum of a fridge that never stops running—feeling lonelier than you ever have in your entire life.

you thought life would’ve gotten better by now, but you spend the nights crying instead—staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. you cry because nothing feels right, because everything feels too hard, because you lost your job, your relationship, your home, your sense of direction—and even though you keep telling yourself you’re only twenty-four, that there’s time to figure it out, some nights it just feels like you’re stuck in and endless pain loop. no one warned you adulthood would feel like this.

you’re alone that night. your friend’s covering a night shift, the apartment is quiet, and your body feels like it’s made of wet tissue—fragile and bloated and cursed with every symptom imaginable, because the universe decided you needed your period on top of everything else. the cramps are brutal, your back hurts, your tits ache, and the fucking futon now has a suspicious little stain that you know you’ll have to scrub later. you’ve been crying (again!) and your throat is raw from it, your eyes puffy, your nose sore from wiping it too hard with paper towels. you feel pathetic. like genuinely, award-winning levels of pathetic. and maybe that’s what finally does it. you reach for your phone with hands that are slightly shaky, not because you’re nervous, but because you’re just so damn tired. of yourself, mostly. and maybe the universe too. your fingers open his old messages. you used to do this sometimes—type things you needed to get off your chest. but you never sent them because seeing your words in that annoying green bubble would be worse than anything else. it would remind you that yes, he blocked you. yes, he’s still gone. yes, this is over, and it’s been over. move the fuck on already, girl. so, following your little tradition, you type:

it was my fucking mom this whole time. she’s the one who leaked everything. i found out like three weeks ago, and i still haven’t processed it. i wish you knew. i wish i could make you know so you wouldn’t go on living your life thinking i betrayed you or whatever tf you decided to believe instead of trusting me. but anyway. talk about trust issues now, bc honestly, idk how i’m ever supposed to trust anyone again!🥰 love this for meeeee omg!😍😍 i shouldn’t have told her i was moving to seoul. i should’ve just disappeared from her fucking life and been happy with you and what we had. but no. because life can’t be that easy for me, right? no. life has to be a fucking bitch in every possible way. i’m so fucking tired.

your fingers hover over the delete button as you cry profusely after typing that paragraph—eyes blurry, throat tight, the screen glowing too bright in the dark room. and maybe it’s the hormones, or the sleep deprivation, but something inside you hits send. because why the fuck does it matter? he’s not gonna read it, he’s got you blocked. but the second you see the message go blue—you freeze. your stomach drops and you stare at your phone like it’s just slapped you across the face. he unblocked you. wait—what? since when? you shoot up like you’ve just been electrocuted, eyes wide as the full horror of what just happened sinks in. “what the fuck! what the fuck! shit, shit, shit—” you whisper to no one, pacing the tiny apartment. so much for crying in your period-stained pajamas—turns out all it takes to yank you out of a full-blown breakdown is the absolute fucking horror of realizing you just sent a long-ass vent session straight to the one person on this planet you were least fucking ready to talk to. congrats, girl! you keep outdoing yourself! “oh my—fuck! fuck, fuck, fuck! oh, god. oh my god,” you keep mumbling. when the fuck did he unblock you?! and why the hell didn’t you check?! your heart is in your throat, pulse hammering so fast it makes your vision blur for a second. you swipe back to the chat like maybe you hallucinated the whole thing. maybe the app glitched. but no. and before you can delete it, there it is—read. “huh?!” you stop in your tracks, frozen in the middle of the room. your mouth falls open. your lungs forget how to work. your entire body goes cold and then hot, and then cold again. “no. no no no no no no—fuck!”

you groan into your hands and sink down onto the futon. your palms are damp with sweat and your brain’s screaming. the message is sent. he’s seen it. and no matter how much you want to crawl inside your phone and delete it—there’s nothing left to do but sit in the aftermath. so you do. you sit, legs curled beneath you, staring at your phone screen. you check the time—3:41 a.m. in texas. in seoul, it’s late afternoon. you decide to leave your phone face up on the floor next to you and try to pretend you’re not watching it from the corner of your eye like it’s about to perform a fucking magic trick. every time it lights up, your heart jumps—once it’s duolingo, passive-aggressively reminding you for the hundredth time that you haven’t finished your korean lessons (well… thank you for the reminder, motherfucker!). and another time it’s your period tracker app asking if you’re feeling moody lately. no shit! you lurch forward every time, breath catching in your throat, only to get sucker-punched by disappointment again and again. and still, no reply. you try to sleep, not because you think it’ll work, but because it’s the only other option. but lying down just makes it worse—your thoughts are louder. you flip your pillow, then flip it again. the sheets are damp with sweat, your legs restless, your hands twitching toward your phone like it’s calling to you. you wait for hours… he never replies.

and by the time the sun comes up, you’ve barely slept at all. your eyes sting, your mouth is dry, and you’ve gone full zombie-mode by the time your shift rolls around. you survive your shift at the bar by sheer muscle memory, making drinks, taking orders and smiling through clenched teeth. and when it ends, your body aches like it’s been rolled through the pavement. you go home—your friend’s home—after midnight, feet aching, back sore, and stomach hollow from skipping dinner because the thought of eating made you feel sick. the place is dark when you walk in. she’s probably already asleep, and you tiptoe into the kitchen to grab a glass of water before collapsing on the futon. you check your phone—still nothing. and that’s it. that’s the end of the story. why would it end any other way? of course he’s not going to reply. you should’ve never sent that fucking text. you should’ve stuck to your sad little ritual of typing and deleting and pretending you had closure. because this? this is embarrassing.

you toss your phone onto the floor like maybe breaking it will break the shame too, and flop onto your side dramatically… and then it buzzes. you’ve never gotten up so fast—hands scrambling for the phone. you swipe, thumbs clumsy with nerves because holy shit, there’s a notification from him. but somehow you manage to open the message.

Can I call you?

you stare at the screen. your pulse is pounding loud in your ears, and for a second you’re genuinely not sure if you’re going to throw up or pass out. your entire body is shaking and your blood has drained out of your face. you can feel it. you’re cold and clammy all over, heart thudding like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest. you try to breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth—before typing:

yeah, okay

your phone starts ringing a second later—like he’d been waiting. and the sound of it, his name lighting up your screen again after all these months, knocks something loose in your chest. the apartment is quiet—just the creak of the floor beneath your feet as you cross over to the sliding door that leads to the balcony. you slide it open as quietly as you can, since you don’t want to wake your friend, and step outside. it’s darker than you expected, the only light coming from the streetlamps below and the faint orange glow of someone’s window across the way. the balcony chair creaks under your weight as you sink into it, the metal cold against your bare thighs. your breathing’s all uneven now—short little gasps like you just finished running, though you haven’t moved more than ten feet—and you can’t stop staring at the screen. you swipe to answer. for a few seconds, there’s nothing. only silence. then, finally, a voice. “hi.” you grip the phone tighter, trying to stop your hands from shaking. “hi,” you say back. and then silence again. you can’t tell if it’s awkward or loaded or both.

you shift in the chair, curling one leg up underneath you. “how are you?” he asks. oh lord. he was literally fucking you raw less than a year ago… and now he’s making small talk. stop this madness. “i—i’m good,” you say, lying through your teeth, obviously. you clear your throat. “you?” “fine,” he says after a beat, but he sounds anything but—tired, like something in his chest’s been weighing him down. and then another pause, before he finally says, “i read your message.” “yeah… i know. i mean—i saw.” you chew the inside of your cheek, fingers picking at the hem of your sleeve. “was it really her?” you nod before realizing he can’t see you. “yeah. it was.” he doesn’t say anything, so you keep going, just to fill the space. “i saw… an email she sent. and we—we fought. bad. i left the same day and i… i haven’t been back since.” “you—where are you staying?” he asks, and you hear something in his voice, concern. “friend’s house.” you try to make it sound casual. he goes quiet again, and for a second, all you can hear is the low static hum of the call. you bite your bottom lip before blurting, “i didn’t know you’d unblocked me.” “yeah. i did like a month ago, i think.” you hum. you want to ask why, but you don’t. because the call already feels like a glass balancing on the edge of a table, and you don’t want to make it more awkward than it already is. and besides, you know you wouldn’t get the answer you want. if he wanted to talk, he would’ve. if he missed you, if he regretted it, if any part of him wanted to reach out… he would’ve. and he didn’t. so you swallow that sharp little ache, ignore the part of you that still wants to believe in something softer, and you say, “i’m sorry for sending that, by the way. i was… i don’t know. not in a great headspace yesterday.” “don’t apologize,” he says. “i’m glad you told me.” “you deserved to know.” “mmh.” the silence stretches for another second before he says, “thank you.”

the quiet that follows is soft, almost gentle. for a second you think that’s it—you can almost feel one of you hovering over the red button, and you know you should probably let it happen, let it end on something simple and clean. but you don’t want to hang up yet. so, instead, you do what you always do when your nerves start to buzz—you talk. “i’ve typed stuff before. like—messages. to you.” oh my god… shut up! shut up! why the fuck are you saying this? you want to swallow the words back down immediately but nope—your mouth keeps going. “i never sent them but… i don’t know. i wasn’t even supposed to send you that one last night—i don’t know why i did.” you press a hand to your forehead, silently screaming. “anyway i—yeah. sorry. i should just… shut up.” there’s a pause on the other end, heavy enough to make your fingers twitch against your leg. you expect him to change the subject or maybe just hang up altogether, and for a second you even brace yourself for the sound of the line going dead. but then he says, “what kind of stuff?” you blink, eyes still fixed on the quiet street below, unsure you heard him right. “what?” “the messages,” he answers, and his voice is a little quieter now, like he’s not sure if he should be asking. “what were they about?” you’re caught so off guard that you let out this small, breathless laugh that doesn’t hold any humor at all. “seriously?” you ask, more to yourself than to him. you rub a hand over your face. “i don’t know, just… random things about my life. like my day, what i was doing… sometimes just things i wish i could say to you but knew i couldn’t. i don’t know.” you trail off, embarrassed, already regretting every word spilling out of your mouth. “you can tell me now,” he says. you blink, heart stumbling a little in your chest, because you don’t know what you were expecting him to say—but it definitely wasn’t that. your fingers tighten around the phone again. “you… want me to tell you?” “i do.” you hesitate. not because you don’t have things to say—god, you’ve got too many—but because you don’t know what version of your life he’s expecting. probably not the one you’re living. “i didn’t think you’d care,” you admit quietly. “i care—of course i care.” oh… you close your eyes, press your palm to your chest and you can feel how fast your heart is beating. you force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “i’m bartending now.” you immediately want to cringe, because wow, what an opener. “they fired me from starbase. so… yeah. but it’s okay, this job isn’t so bad… i mean—it’s not good either, but it pays.” he hums, a soft sound of acknowledgement, like he’s listening. “and, like i told you, i’m living with a friend. after—after everything that happened with my mom… i couldn’t stay. so, yeah.”

something about saying all of that out loud—narrating your life to someone who once knew it better than anyone else—makes your bottom lip tremble before you can stop it. this tiny traitorous movement that you feel more than see, like the last thread of control slipping quietly from your hands. you swallow hard. try to hold it together and sound normal. “but i’m, um… i’m looking for a place,” you add, voice higher now, too fast. “something small for myself.” you don’t mention that your bank account laughs at you every time you open the app, or that you fall asleep on a futon in the corner of your friend’s tiny apartment, feeling like a burden. you don’t say any of that, because it’s pathetic. but the tears come anyway, completely against your will. not just because of your mom or your job or your life crumbling in pieces so small you can’t even name them—but because you’re talking to him. and everything about this feels so impossibly far from what you used to be. the way you speak to each other now, like strangers, it’s breaking you open in places you didn’t know were still sore. you try to sniff it away, wipe your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, but it’s useless. “are you…” his voice cuts through the line. “are you crying?” “no.” you suck in a breath. “i mean—yes. yes, i am. it’s just—i don’t know.” the tears are falling faster now, and your throat is thick with everything you’ve been trying so hard not to feel for the last nine months. you sniff, drag the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your nose, and bite out, “why’d you even call me, seunghyun? seriously. what was the point?” “i wanted to apologize.” he pauses. “i—i’m sorry. i should’ve trusted you, i should’ve listened. i was just… angry. and scared.” you exhale through your nose, trying to steady the shaking in your chest. “it’s okay,” you say quietly, even though part of you wants to tell him it’s not.

he doesn’t reply right away, and for a second you think the call might be really ending this time—that this was all he needed to say, a final stitch to close the wound and move on. but then—“i missed your voice.” your breath catches, and you don’t know what to say to that. because it hurts. it hurts so fucking much to hear it. “you hurt me, seunghyun,” you whisper. “i know,” he says, voice breaking. “i know i did, baby—shit. sorry. fuck, i—i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to call you that.” you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your knuckles to your lips like it’ll stop the sting. “don’t. don’t do that.” “i didn’t mean to—” “no, you don’t get to do that,” you cut in, sharper this time, words tumbling out fast. “this isn’t fair,” you say, and now your voice really starts to shake. “you’re not—you’re not being fair, seunghyun.” “listen—“ “no, i don’t wanna fucking listen!” you raise your voice, frustration spilling out faster than you can rein it in. “sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry. i—i didn’t mean to speak to you like that.” “i know,” he whispers. “but i understand. i deserve it.” “no, you—i just… it’s a lot. and hearing your voice like this again—fuck, i don’t know.” he doesn’t say anything, and you’re not even sure if that’s a good or bad thing, so you keep going before you lose your nerve. “you shouldn’t have unblocked me. you should’ve just left it the way it was,” you continue, sobbing between words. “what—” “i was doing okay,” you lie, even though you both know you weren’t. “or at least, i was trying. and then you—you do this, and now i feel like—i feel like i’m right back where i started.” he’s silent again, and it drives you fucking insane—how he always does this, lets the silence do the work for him, like it’s your job to fill in the blanks. “you can’t just show up in my life when you feel like it. that’s not how this works. you don’t get to block me, forget about me, go on with your life, and then crawl back into mine just because you’re curious or lonely or whatever the fuck this is.” your breath is shallow now, chest rising and falling fast. “i can’t do this, seunghyun. i can’t—” you cry. “so do it again. block me. because if you don’t… i will.”

you wait a second—two, maybe three—before you hang up. you stare at the screen for a beat too long after the line goes dead, your own reflection faint in the glass. your limbs feel shaky as you drag yourself up from the chair with the kind of stiffness that makes you wonder if heartbreak settles in your bones like lead. the apartment is quiet when you slip back inside. you don’t even bother changing. and when you fall onto the futon, you collapse. your chest hurts, in the literal, physical way—like there’s something pressing down on it, making it harder to breathe with every passing second. you’re still crying, face crumpling into the crook of your elbow. and even though you try to keep it quiet because your friend is asleep in the next room, your body has other plans. the sobs come in waves, ugly and loud and gasping, and there’s no one to stop them, no one to shush you or hold you or say it’s going to be okay. you press your face into the pillow and scream once, like it might help get it out, but it doesn’t. you cry until you’re too tired to cry anymore, until your body feels wrung out and empty. until your eyelids are heavy, your head pounds and the ache in your chest starts to dull—because, yes, even pain has its limits. and when sleep finally takes you, it feels like relief.

you don’t even hear her come in. it takes a few tries before your friend gets through to you, nudging your foot, then your shoulder, then finally your name, said a little too loudly for how early it is. “hey! you’ve gotta get up. don’t you have work?” you jolt upright like you’re coming up for air, groggy and disoriented, face crusted with dried tears. you mutter something like “shit, what time is it?” before fumbling for your phone. and that’s when you see it. seunghyun texted you while you were asleep.

Hi. I just booked a flight to Texas.

I’ll be in Brownsville for a few days, and I really, really want to see you.

I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me.

But if you do, I’ll be here next Sunday at 4 P.M.

he had sent a location.

We have a lot to talk about.

I didn’t want our call to end like that.

You don’t have to reply, just know I’ll be there, waiting.

And if you don’t show up, that’s okay too.

I hope you have a good day. 🫰🏼

your first thought is no. not even a soft, hesitant kind of no—just a loud, stubborn one that echoes straight through your head. NO. you don’t want to see him. you don’t want to talk. you don’t want to sit across from him pretending like the last nine months haven’t been eating you alive. you lock your phone, toss it somewhere near the futon, and move through your morning like you’re not actively dissociating—getting dressed and slapping on mascara with a shaky hand. you go to work, surprisingly making it on time. and when your shift ends, you go home. you eat leftovers straight from the container, ignore the ache behind your eyes, and tell yourself you’ve made a decision. you’re not going. simple as that.

but as the days creep forward and that sunday inches closer, your initial no—the one that came so fast and full of conviction it practically shouted over your entire body—starts to feel less like a boundary and more like a bluff you’re trying to convince yourself to believe. you find yourself rereading his texts on the bus ride home, or glancing at the clock and thinking about time zones again, something you swore you’d broken the habit of months ago. it’s not that you want to see him (girl… you do, you aren’t fooling anyone) it’s just that you’re curious. and a little bit stupid, apparently. and then, like your brain didn’t already have enough to chew on, instagram decides to kick you while you’re down. you get the notification late at night: TOP 최승현🌙 posted for the first time in a while. you stare at the alert, blinking. no way. how fucking convenient. you open the app before you can stop yourself, and there it is—proof that he unblocked you on your private insta, because you’re staring right at his profile. oh my… you’re a slut in mourning. it’s a selfie. he’s staring straight at the camera, head tilted slightly to the side to flex that stupid jawline, jesus christ... he’s wearing a black hoodie—the same one you used to borrow when you were together. more specifically, the one you were wearing the first time you let him fuck you raw. is he doing it on purpose? is this his way of getting your attention? trying to say he misses you? that he’s thinking about you too? or maybe you’re just being delusional and he’s literally just wearing his fucking hoodie like any normal person would… not everything is about you. right? you zoom in without shame, you stare, you squint and you hate yourself a little. you flip your phone face down and mutter, “fuck off,” like that’s going to do anything—like you’re not already replaying every time you tugged his hair while he was between your thighs, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue circled your clit.

sunday. 3 p.m. comes and you’re still telling yourself no, still convincing yourself with weak half-arguments and imaginary moral high ground, still walking around the room like you’re above it, like you’ve evolved past the the version of yourself who would show up for him no matter what. you’re not going. you’ve already made that decision—made it days ago. in fact, you’ve been repeating it like a fucking mantra: i’m not going, i’m not going, i’m not going. it’s the one thing you’ve been stubbornly sure of. and yet, by 3:07, you’re in front the drawer your friend let you use. you’re not sure when you stood up or how you ended up yanking it open, but suddenly you’re staring at your clothes like any of them will know what the fuck you’re doing. and you tell yourself: what harm could there be in just… seeing? just showing up, looking hot, and reminding him what he lost? right? what could go wrong? you drag yourself into the shower, rinse off the sweat and anxiety, and talk yourself out of having a panic attack while shaving your legs. you towel off, throw on something decent and slap on a bit of makeup as you wonder why the fuck are you wasting your free day on this, when you could’ve been watching reruns of some trashy dating show or doom-scrolling in peace. and before you can rethink your decision again, you’re on the bus, heart pounding harder with every stop.

you show up an hour late—closer to five-thirty than four—but you don’t feel bad about it. if anything, it makes you feel a little less like you’re crawling back and a little more like you’re arriving on your own terms. the place he chose to meet you is a rooftop wine bar in downtown brownsville with thick wooden beams stretched overhead to break the light. string lights hang loosely between them and the tables are spaced out, some close to the railing with a quiet view of the city below. he’s already there, of course, seated near the far edge of the terrace, next to the railing, with a half-finished glass of wine in front of him. you spot him instantly. he’s in a long-sleeved maroon sweater, and you don’t know why the fuck he’s wearing sleeves in this heat. his trousers are loose and slouchy, and his boots—yes, boots, in thirty-degree texas weather—are polished to hell, the soles thick and clunky. his cap sits on the table beside his wineglass, and he’s wearing his glasses—the ones that make him look so gentle. you used to love it when he wore them around you. he doesn’t see you right away—he’s looking out over the terrace, lips pursed like he’s deep in thought—but your stomach still drops like it’s the first time all over again.

you take a slow breath, then start walking. the heels of your shoes click against the tile, and the closer you get, the more surreal it feels—seeing him again. and then he looks up. you don’t know what you expected, but the way his whole face shifts when his eyes land on you catches you off guard. his brows lift just a little, like he’s not sure he’s seeing you right, and then there’s this soft pull at the corners of his mouth, the kind of expression people only ever give to people they’ve missed. he moves quickly after that, chair scraping back as he stands up too fast, brushing his palms down the sides of his pants like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. your heart thuds a little too hard as you close the last few steps between you, nerves spiking even though there’s no reason to be this tense—you’ve seen him like this before, touched him, kissed him, loved him. but now it feels like starting from scratch. “hey,” you say first, because someone has to break the tension. your voice comes out quiet, breathier than you meant. he clears his throat, shifting his weight. “hi.”

he stands there, hovering beside the table, and for a second it’s like neither of you knows how to move—do you shake hands? do you hug? his gaze flickers down to your hands, like he’s expecting you to offer one to shake, and then back up to your face. it’s clear he doesn’t know what to do, and god, neither do you. a hug feels too intimate, but standing here in this weird, polite standoff feels worse. so you do it—you step forward, close the space, and wrap your arms around him quickly, not giving yourself enough time to regret it. he’s surprised, you can tell by the way his arms come around you just a second too late. you pull away before it can get weird, and he lets you, hands immediately dropping to his sides like he’s scared to overstep. you glance at the wine glass, then back at him. “sorry i’m late.” seunghyun shakes his head, quick. “no, it’s fine. i—” he exhales. “i didn’t think you were coming.” you nod, slow and awkward, arms crossed tight over your chest for a second before you remember how that looks and force yourself to let them fall to your sides. “yeah. me neither.” he huffs a tiny laugh, almost embarrassed, and gestures toward the seat across from his. “do you wanna sit?” you nod, murmuring a soft “yeah,” as you move toward the chair. you sit, legs crossed, back too straight, and he mirrors you, settling across from you. the table feels huge between you. ridiculous, really—after everything you’ve done together, everything you’ve been to each other, now you’re playing pretend like two people on a first date who forgot how to talk.

he reaches for his wine glass, turns it slowly between his fingers without drinking. “you look good,” he says, eventually. “i mean… really good.” you meet his eyes, and then, because you can’t help it, “so do you.” he smiles at that, soft, almost sheepish, and then glances down at the wine list sitting neatly on the table between you. “you want anything?” he asks, tapping the edge of the menu lightly. “they’ve got a good selection.” you shake your head, giving a small, polite smile. “just water’s fine.” “water, then,” he says, and signals to the server passing by to order you a glass. there’s a beat of silence after the server leaves, just the soft clink of his glass when he shifts it on the table. he doesn’t look at you—just studies the red swirl of wine for a second like it’s got the right words floating in it somewhere—then finally says, “i’m glad you came.” you nod once, unsure what to say to that, fingers twitching in your lap. “and… i’m sorry,” he adds quietly. “about the phone call. the way it ended… that wasn’t how i wanted it to go.” “i know.” “i didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he says. “or backed into a corner. i just—my head was a mess, and i handled it wrong. i’m sorry.” “it’s fine. thank you—thanks for the apology.” and you mean it. he leans back slightly in his chair, exhales through his nose. his fingers trace the rim of his wine glass like he’s trying to occupy them. “i didn’t know if you’d ever want to see me again. after everything.” “i didn’t know either. up until like… three o’clock.” his mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smile. “last-minute decision?” “very,” you say. “bad one, maybe. not sure yet.” “i get it. i wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t shown up.” “i almost didn’t,” you admit. “but then i thought—i don’t know. if i didn’t come, i’d just keep wondering what you wanted to say.” he nods, finally meeting your eyes again. “i wanted to say a lot of things.” “like what?” he hesitates, jaw tightening slightly, like the words are caught somewhere behind his teeth. he exhales, slow and heavy, and leans forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table. “i wanted to apologize,” he says. “for how things ended. for—for what i said. for not listening.” “seunghyun—” you start, but he shakes his head. “i didn’t believe you,” he goes on. “and i should have. i should’ve known better—i did know better. but it was easier to be angry than to be scared, and i was so, so fucking scared. scared of being exposed again, of people dragging my name through the mud all over, of losing everything i’d tried to build back up—” “i know. i know, hyun. i understand you. it’s… it’s okay.” it isn’t, though. “and instead of trusting you,” he says, like he didn’t hear you at all, “i panicked. i pushed you away. and i hate myself for it.” you shift in your seat, hands gripping the sides of the chair, aching with the weight of all the things you wish could make this easier. “hyun,” you murmur again, softer now, like saying his name might take the edge off his pain or yours. “you don’t have to—” “i do,” he says. “i haven’t stopped thinking about it… about how fast i let it all go. how fast i let you go. and the worst part is…” he stops, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “the worst part is that i made you think you didn’t matter to me. like it was easy for me to—to cut you off. and it wasn’t. it’s never been easy. it still fucking haunts me.” he pauses. “i just needed you to know that. i needed—i needed to say it to your face.” he exhales shakily, like just getting the words out took something out of him. his eyes stay fixed somewhere past your shoulder, like he’s afraid that meeting yours will make it harder. “and i missed you,” he says quietly. “fuck, i missed you so much.”

the words land somewhere low in your gut, like they’ve been thrown instead of spoken. and for a second, it stings in a sweet way, that traitorous part of your chest aching at the sound of his voice wrapped around something soft again, something that once made you feel safe. but the sweetness evaporates almost instantly, replaced by a sharp kind of heat under your skin, the kind that flares when something touches a bruise you thought had already faded. because you don’t get to miss someone and do nothing about it. not when you’re the one who made it clear, so fucking clear, that it was over. your jaw tightens. because no. no, he doesn’t get to say that. your eyes start to sting, the burn rising fast and sudden behind your lashes. and then, without warning, a single tear slips down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly with the back of your hand. “why didn’t you reach out, then?” he blinks, startled, like he hadn’t expected the question. you sniff once, wipe at your cheek again even though the tear’s already gone. “i waited, you know. for so fucking long. every day, i thought maybe today you’d say something.” you scoff. “but you didn’t. not a word—not until i told you the one thing that finally cleared me.” his lips part like he wants to speak, but you don’t let him. “and now you’re here,” you go on, voice shaking. “saying all the things i used to fantasize about hearing. and don’t get me wrong—it’s nice. it’s—it’s really fucking nice, i needed to hear it. but if i hadn’t sent that message, if i hadn’t broken down and hit send for once instead of just typing and deleting like i always did… would we even be here right now?” you’re not sure what answer you’re hoping for. but you needed to let him know how much it sucked to feel like the only one who kept looking back.

he exhales slowly, eyes falling from yours to the table, like he can’t bear the weight of them. because what you’re saying isn’t just true, but something he’s thought about too, something he’s afraid to admit out loud. “you’re right,” he says, voice low and tight. “you’re right. but i—i wanted to. so many times. but when i thought about saying something, i’d convince myself it would only make it worse. that you didn’t want to hear from me. that you were happier without me.” you stare at him. “you thought i was happy?” “i hoped. because the alternative fucking hurt.” “but you still let me think it was my fault,” you say, voice sharp with disbelief. “you let me sit in that, seunghyun. for months. do you even understand what that did to me?” he doesn’t speak right away—just drags a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to rub the shame off his face. “i know. i know i fucked up.” “you didn’t just fuck up,” you snap. “you abandoned me. you—you went on with your life while i… i lost everything. and all because you couldn’t bring yourself to believe me.” “i wanted to believe you,” he says, a little too desperate now. “i swear to god, i did.” “then why didn’t you?” he looks at you like that question physically hurts him. “you already know. i told you—i told you about han seohee. i’ve been betrayed before, and i just—it felt safer to assume the worst than risk getting hurt again.” “yeah?” you say, and your voice comes out rough, almost trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been trying to swallow. “well guess what, seunghyun—i wasn’t han fucking seohee. i wasn’t anyone but me. your… your girlfriend. and you didn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt. not even for a fucking second.” his jaw tenses, lips pressing into a thin line like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to speak. “i didn’t ask you to be perfect,” you continue, voice softer now. “i never did. all i wanted was for you to believe me—and you couldn’t do that.” he shakes his head, pained. “it wasn’t about you,” he mutters. “it was about me. my past. my shit. it twisted everything.” you shake your head, the frustration rising even though you don’t want it to. “yeah! and you let it win!” you lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly through your nose, trying to collect yourself.

this wasn’t what you intended when you showed up. you really don’t want to raise your voice at him—shit, you weren’t even supposed to get this upset. the last thing you want to do is hurt him. “i moved across the world for you, seunghyun,” you continue, calmer. “i put everything on the line. and the second things got hard, you chose to believe the version of me that fit your fears.” his face falls. “i know,” he whispers. “i know. i thought i was protecting myself—but i should’ve protected you too. i should’ve protected us. all i ever wanted was to keep this thing—what we had—safe.” he sighs. “i’m really, really sorry. for everything.” the interruption comes at just the right time—the server appears, setting down the glass of water with a soft clink. you thank him with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and seunghyun gives a nod before the server leaves, the space around you settling into silence again.

you take a sip, the cold water almost jarring against the heat crawling up your throat. the moment stretches, and you know there’s more to say. the conversation isn’t finished—not even close—but your chest already feels too full. it’s too much all at once, and you feel the weight of it pressing down behind your eyes. so, you set the glass back down and glance up at him, forcing your voice to steady and offering the smallest smile you can manage. “i watched squid game,” you say. “you were amazing in it.” his face softens and he lets out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “yeah?” you nod. “yeah. like… really good. i wanted to text you when it dropped but… you know.” yeah, he knows… he had you fucking blocked. seunghyun nods once. “i appreciate that,” he says, voice a little quieter now, like he’s not sure what to do with the softness in your tone. “wasn’t expecting it to do that well, to be honest.” you hum, tracing the rim of your glass with the pad of your finger. “well, people love a villain. especially when he’s funny… and hot.” that pulls a small, surprised laugh out of him, and his cheeks turn red. “well, thank you.” you smile, gaze softening. “i read the interview you made back in january too, by the way.” “oh. did you?” you nod. “yeah.” “you know, i kept wondering what you’d think if you read it. part of me hoped you wouldn’t. the other part hoped you would.” “i did. twice, actually.” you smile faintly. “once when it came out, and again when i was mad at you. to remind myself you were still in there somewhere.” that seems to knock the wind out of him a little. you continue, “i think… i didn’t expect you to be that honest.” “i wasn’t planning to do it, you know,” he says after a pause. “the interview. for years, i thought if i just stayed silent, eventually everyone would forget. but i didn’t forget. i couldn’t.” you study him. “it read like someone who’s been carrying a lot. for a long time.” and you know that better than anyone—because you were there, in the thick of it, helping him through his worst days. his mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. “yeah.” you let the silence sit for a beat before speaking. “i thought… i thought it was brave. i actually—i felt proud,” you confess. and there it is. the thing you’ve been meaning to tell him ever since everything ended, but couldn’t bring yourself to say until now. “i’m proud of you, hyun.” he feels it—that familiar, overwhelming tightness in his throat. he swallows hard, eyes watering slightly. he nods once. then, he opens his mouth, tries to speak, to say thank you, but his lower lip trembles before the words can form… so he closes it again. and hopes the nod is enough.

his family never said that to him. at least not after his mistakes were exposed. so this—this thing you just gave him, so casually and so fucking sincerely—it hits like a punch to the ribs. and it comes from you. you, who he’d hurt more than anyone else. it comes from someone who knows. someone who was there when he was a shell of himself, someone who saw the worst parts of him and stayed, until he made it impossible for you to do so. his eyes hurt and his throat burns and there’s a tremble in his jaw he can’t quite stop, and still he says nothing, because there’s nothing that would be enough to meet the weight of what you just gave him. “that part you said about the group,” you murmur after a moment, voice a little hesitant now, “how seeing them felt like looking at a photo of a family you’d been separated from…” “that’s exactly what it feels like.” “i know,” you nod, gently. “i’m sure they miss you too. i don’t know if you’ve been in touch with them or—” “i haven’t.” he cuts in quickly, and there’s a finality to it. you don’t push, but you notice the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his jaw tenses. there’s even a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his face. “sorry. i didn’t mean to bring up something that—i mean, i wasn’t trying to pry. i just thought… maybe after everything, after all these months, it might’ve felt possible. or… i don’t know.” you trail off, suddenly unsure of what you’re even trying to say. maybe part of you just wanted to believe he wasn’t as alone as he used to be. he hums. then, after a moment: “you were the one thing that made that time bearable. everything else was a mess, but with you, it was—” he stops himself, mouth twitching, like the rest of the sentence is too fragile to say out loud. “you didn’t fix it. but you made it hurt less. and i’ve never—i’ve never thanked you for that.” “you didn’t need to. i knew you were thankful.” you pause. “and… i’m not saying the article fixed anything, but it made sense. why you pulled away. i get it more now.” “that doesn’t make it okay.” “no,” you agree, “it doesn’t. but it helps.”

after that, things start to loosen—the conversation shifts slowly, and the air between you starts to feel less dense, less charged with the tension that had been building since the moment you sat down. the heaviness doesn’t vanish, it’s still there but easier to ignore when you’re focused on something else, like the way seunghyun starts tapping his fingers against his glass, or how your knee keeps bouncing under the table because your body hasn’t quite figured out what to do with the weird, awkward comfort of being near him again. it’s not like either of you suddenly forget the months of silence, or the way things ended, or all the shit that never really got said… but eventually, the edge softens, and your mouths start moving for other reasons—comments that aren’t weighed down by anger or guilt, memories that aren’t necessarily painful, and a rhythm that, while still tentative, starts to resemble the way things used to be between you, back before everything got ruined. because at first, you’re both careful—testing the boundaries of what’s okay to say, what’s still too raw to touch—but as time passes and the conversation wanders into safer ground, you find yourself laughing. which then makes him start laughing too, and it feels bizarre and comforting all at once—like your body forgot how easy it used to be to laugh with him, how that sound had once been a constant part of your days. and when he leans back in his chair, a little more at ease, you realize it’s been a long time since you’ve seen seunghyun look like that. it’s still weird. you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t. it’s weird to be sitting across from him, in real life, hearing his voice without a screen in between, seeing the way he moves and talks and exists like a real fucking person again. there are still moments where it catches you off guard—how familiar this all is, and also how far away it feels from who you were the last time you looked at him like this.

and when he asks, “do you want to go for a walk? brownsville’s botanical garden isn’t far from here. and it’s still open for another hour and a half,” you don’t even pretend to think about it. you just nod, and the look on his face, that flicker of relief, tells you he didn’t expect a yes. his driver’s already waiting outside, like always, and neither of you says much on the way. the ride is short, ten minutes, maybe fifteen. you watch the town pass through the tinted window, and beside you, he’s silent, but not in the closed-off way he used to be when things were bad. it’s a softer kind of silence now, where he’s letting himself be here, in this moment, with you. the botanical garden is smaller than you remember, and it’s mostly empty by the time you get there. as you walk, side by side but not too close—under a pink sky that’s starting to fade into something darker—there’s still a nervous flutter in your stomach, still that ridiculous awareness of where his hand is, of how close it would be if you reached out, but you don’t. because you remember—you remember how fucking much it hurt to lose him, how badly it ended and how long you waited for an apology that never came, until today. and as you both slow near a bench surrounded by wildflowers and a few trees that creak lazily in the warm breeze, he gestures toward it with a quiet nod, and you both sink down into the wooden slats. there’s a few inches between you, enough space to feel the gap and remind you both that no matter how easy the conversation’s been, there’s still a line neither of you has crossed yet. for a moment, you both just sit there, watching the wind tug lazily at the branches, listening to the low hum of cicadas starting up somewhere in the distance. and then, very casually, he asks, “so… is there someone in your life these days?” god—he hates how obvious it probably sounded the second it left his mouth. he doesn’t look at you when he asks, just keeps his gaze forward, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you, like the question is just curiosity and not the thing he’s been thinking about since the second he saw you again. you glance at him. “yeah,” you say softly, honest because there’s no point in pretending. “i’ve been seeing someone.” oh… it hits him harder than he wants it to. not because he thought you’d been waiting around for him. of course not. he knows better than that. knows he doesn’t have that right. but something about hearing it out loud, from your mouth, in that voice he used to fall asleep to—it makes his stomach twist. you can see it in the way his jaw tightens slightly, and in the way his hands suddenly find his lap, like his body doesn’t quite believe the version of calm he’s trying to sell.

a long silence settles in, and he tells himself not to ask the next question, the one that’s pushing at his throat, but it slips out anyway, “does he know you’re here?” you shake your head. “no.” he turns slightly toward you, brows pulling in just a little. “i never told him,” you add. “about us.” and that fucking stings. “i just said there was someone once. but not who. i wanted to respect your choice, you know… you didn’t want it out there, you wanted to keep it private. and i… i guess i got used to it, too. so… i kept that, even after it ended.” he swallows hard, but doesn’t speak. because what is there to say, really? he sits there, listening to your words settle into the space between you, feeling it again—the shame. seunghyun stares out into the garden with a tight jaw, wondering when exactly he stopped deserving that kind of grace from you—and why you’re still giving it anyway. he stays quiet longer than he should, but he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack under the weight of everything he isn’t saying. and maybe he should let it go—but he can’t. “is he good to you?” he asks. he hates how much he wants to know. hates how pathetic it makes him feel to sit here, asking about a man who has what he used to. what he walked away from. “yeah,” you reply, and your voice is careful. “he’s… he’s kind. he works in construction with his dad—they run their own small company, mostly residential stuff. but we don’t see each other a lot… he’s the kind of guy who’s in bed by ten and up by five, and my schedule’s kind of all over the place too, so… yeah. but it works. things with him are—they’re simple… easy.” you don’t mean it as an insult, but fuck, it lands like one. “that’s good,” he says, and the words feel like gravel in his mouth. he forces them out anyway, and forces himself to nod, like that makes it more believable. “you deserve that.”

seunghyun wonders if this guy knows how you like your coffee, if he knows how you get when you’re overwhelmed—how you play with the hem of your shirt, how your voice gets sharp when you’re scared and how underneath that, you’re just trying not to break into a million pieces. he wonders if this new guy has ever seen you cry, and if he did, whether he knew what the fuck to do with it. if he sat with you in it, or tried to fix it, or made it worse by telling you everything would be okay when he didn’t know shit about what was actually going on inside your head. he wonders if this guy knows how you ramble when you’re tired. if he’s heard the stories you only tell when you’ve had one glass of wine too many, the ones that make you laugh even as you wipe your eyes. if he knows the things you’re afraid of. he wonders if this guy’s ever traced the line of your spine with his fingers just to feel you shiver under him, if he knows how your breath catches before you ever make a sound, how your thighs tense when you’re trying not to beg. does he know how to touch you the way you like? and fuck—does he get to hear you like that? whispering his name, nails in his back, legs shaking, voice breaking around the kind of moan that used to make seunghyun lose his goddamn mind? and then, in the middle of all that wondering, he hates himself a little—for being so fucking jealous.

you must feel the shift in the air too, the way his silence has gone from thoughtful to tense, like he’s holding something back. so you add, “we’re not… dating.” his head turns a little at that, eyes flicking over to you for the first time in minutes. “no?” you shake your head. “i’m not ready for that. not again. it’s been—i’ve been figuring shit out. still am.” he nods slowly. you glance at him, like maybe you’re trying to gauge his reaction, but he gives you nothing. “what about you?” you ask after a moment. “you seeing anyone?” “no.” it comes out fast and flat, like the idea pisses him off. you wait, maybe expecting him to explain, but he doesn’t. so you press, “not even casually?” seunghyun lets out a short, humorless laugh. “what would be the point?” your brows pull together, but you don’t answer. “i’m not exactly great company,” he adds, almost bitter. “and i’m not trying to let anyone close just so they can realize it for themselves.” “you are great company, hyun. don’t say that.” he just scoffs under his breath and shifts on the bench like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. “yeah, well,” he mutters, “guess that’s not enough anymore.” you turn to look at him. “what?” “nothing.” “no—say it.” you’re watching him now, fully turned toward him, and he can feel it—the weight of your stare, the tension in your voice. he shakes his head. “you’re here, telling me you’ve got someone, and—i don’t know, it’s just… i don’t know.” “you asked, seunghyun.” “i know. i just—i wasn’t expecting that answer.” you blink at him. “so what? you ask me if i’m seeing someone, and now you’re pissed that i answered you honestly?” “i’m not pissed,” he lies, and you both know it. “don’t lie to me. i know you better than anyone—” “do you love him?” he asks, and the question comes out so suddenly, so bluntly, it knocks the air out of your lungs. “no,” you say, after a beat. “i don’t love him. if i did, i wouldn’t be here.” he nods, like that’s what he wanted to hear, but the tightness in his mouth doesn’t ease. “okay.” “what do you want me to say, seunghyun?” you ask, keeping your voice even, though it’s getting harder. “that i waited around? that i haven’t touched anyone since you left? is that what you were hoping for?” “i wasn’t hoping for anything,” he snaps. you raise an eyebrow. “sure.”

he exhales, a short, frustrated breath, and leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the dirt path between his shoes. because the truth is—he was hoping for that. he was hoping you’d tell him that, even after all this time, you were still a little bit his. and hearing otherwise—he doesn’t know what to do with that. doesn’t know how to sit across from you like it doesn’t matter when it feels like it’s fucking tearing him apart—sitting here, stewing in his own mess, wanting things he let go of, wishing you’d stayed stuck when all you ever did was survive the damage he left behind. every twisted part of him that wants you to be okay, also wants you to still need him. he’s so, so fucking selfish. and you’re right, of course. every word. his hands curl into fists. his vision blurs. he doesn’t mean to start crying, but it happens anyway. fuck. he takes his glasses off and drags a hand over his face, hoping you won’t say anything, hoping maybe you’ll look away long enough for him to get it under control. but he can’t. “i’m sorry,” he chokes out. “i’m sorry i’m acting like this. i just—i didn’t think it would feel like this. seeing you. i thought i could handle it, and i can’t.” his throat aches. he wipes at his face again, furious at himself for crying, for falling apart in front of you, for being nine months too late. “seunghyun—“

his name barely leaves your mouth before he’s crumbling again, shoulders shaking. you slide across the bench, closing the space between you, and wrap your arms around him, firmly. he tenses at first, like he doesn’t know what to do with the comfort, and then he just folds into you. his face buries into the crook of your neck, warm and damp with tears, breath shuddering against your skin, and your hand comes up to cradle the back of his head instinctively. “i’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over again. “fuck, i’m so sorry. i fucked everything up.” you close your eyes, heart aching with the weight of it. “i ruined it,” he says again, voice cracking. “i ruined us.” “it’s not your fault.” “it is.” “no—you were just scared. my mom’s the one who put us in this situation. and yeah, you hurt me but i—i forgive you, hyun. you’re forgiven, okay?” you hold him tighter, your chin resting lightly on his shoulder, breathing slow and steady because maybe if you stay calm, he’ll remember how to do the same. and for a while, he just cries. you haven’t seen him like this in a long time—haven’t seen him break this hard, this openly, not since the first time he told you he didn’t know how to live with himself. or the nights he’d curl into you, silent and shaking, too proud to sob until his body gave him no other choice.

when the worst of it passes—when the sobs begin to slow and his breathing evens out—he leans back and sniffles, avoiding your eyes as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black cloth—one of those soft ones he always carried for his glasses, or for sweat when he was anxious. he dabs at his face, wiping away the tears first, then pressing it against his temples and the back of his neck. he’s sweating like hell, his hair damp, the collar of his sweater sticking slightly to his skin. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse. “i’m a mess.” you reach for the cloth gently, fingers brushing his as you take it from him, and he doesn’t resist. “let me.” you wipe the tears from under his eyes first, careful and slow, then run the cloth lightly across his forehead, down to his cheeks, around the curve of his jaw. your other hand rests on his shoulder, grounding him. “you’re okay,” you murmur. “just breathe.” he nods, throat moving as he swallows hard. and then, after a long pause, with a voice that’s barely there he says, “i… i still love you.” you freeze, the cloth limp in your hand, your breath catching mid-air. did you hear that right? and then, quieter, he adds, “i don’t think i’ve ever loved someone as much.” yeah, you heard that right. your heart stumbles in your chest and you sit there, watching him. he won’t meet your eyes now, like saying it took the last of whatever strength he had left. his shoulders are hunched, jaw tight like he’s bracing for rejection even before it comes. he looks younger like this, and older too, worn down by months of pretending he was okay, of convincing himself he didn’t still ache for you every fucking day. and you love him. oh, you love this man so fucking much… you wish you didn’t sometimes, wish it didn’t still hurt. you place the cloth down carefully in your lap and reach out without thinking, your hand brushing the side of his face, fingers sliding into his hair like muscle memory. and he leans into it. you let your hand fall to his jaw, thumb gently swiping along the damp edge of it. “i love you too, hyun,” you say. “i never stopped.”

his shoulders shake, and you can tell he’s holding back again, trying not to fall apart a second time. you take his hand in yours. “you said… you said that you missed me. earlier. and the truth is… i missed you too,” you whisper, voice low and breaking now. “i missed everything—us. i tried to forget all of it and i couldn’t. i didn’t want to.” his fingers twitch under yours and he grips your hand tighter. you can feel how warm his skin is, how clammy his palm’s gone from the crying and the heat and all the fucking emotion, but you don’t let go. you just hold on, because this is the first time in months you’ve both said the truth out loud, and if it’s going to hurt, you’d rather it hurt with him right there beside you. his eyes are glassy, and you can tell he’s struggling to find the words. “i used to wake up in the middle of the night thinking you were still next to me,” he says. “and every single time it hit me that you weren’t, it felt—” he stops himself, rubbing a hand over his chest to stop it from aching. “i missed you so much it made me sick sometimes.” and you believe him. because you know that feeling. you remember what it felt like to lie awake with your back to the wall, trying to sleep in a bed that felt too big and too cold, your hand unconsciously reaching for a body that wasn’t there anymore. you remember the mornings you’d open your eyes and forget, just for a second, that he was gone—and how that second was always worse than the rest of the day combined. but sitting here now, his hand still trembling slightly in yours, all you can think is: we can’t go back. “i love you,” you say. “and i want to be with you, seunghyun. i want—hell, i’d spend the rest of my life with you.” your voice cracks on the last word, and your chest pulls tight as the tears finally spill over. “and i mean it. but… what would change?”

he’s silent. not because he doesn’t know what to say—but because he knows exactly what he’d like to say, and none of it would be true. “i can’t go back to hiding,” you continue before he can speak. “i can’t—i don’t want to be that girl again.” he closes his eyes for a second, then nods. “i know.” “but i also know…” you exhale, voice shaking, “i know that’s all you can offer me right now.” he shifts slightly, like he wants to argue. “that’s not—” “there’s no point in lying, seunghyun.” he runs a hand over his mouth, pained. “i could—maybe, in a few months, if things calm down—” “you and i both know that’s not how it works,” you say, cutting him off gently. “a few months won’t change the industry. or the people watching you. it won’t suddenly make us easy. and you know, seunghyun… you know a few months is unrealistic. and i don’t wanna—i don’t wanna wait in the shadows anymore. i won’t do it. i promised that to myself.” he sighs, long and defeated. “yeah. i know—i’m sorry. i just… i didn’t think i’d be getting this much attention again. after everything. the interviews, the show… it’s all been more than i expected. and it could get to you too, for the wrong reasons—” “i know,” you nod. “i know. and i get it, i really do. i’ve already deleted half my socials because of the harassment i got when it was just a rumor, and that wasn’t even real to them.” his face falls, shame coloring every line of it. “i’m sorry about that, too.” “yeah,” you murmur. “it’s fine. or—it’s not, but… it happened. those months were awful. but they’re behind me now.” he watches you for a long second, then says, “if we’d been closer in age, maybe it wouldn’t have been so complicated.” you smile, even though your lower lip is trembling slightly. “yeah. maybe it would’ve been easier.” the world outside won’t stop pressing in, and the timing keeps pulling you apart before you even get the chance to hold each other properly. “i hate this,” he whispers. “i hate that we finally said everything and it still isn’t enough.” “me too,” you say, sniffing. “but love isn’t the problem. it never was.” he nods slowly, and you know he’s holding back more tears.

you look at him—his swollen eyes, the slight tremble in his mouth that mirrors your own—and for a moment, you wish you could be selfish. you wish you could say fuck it, go back with him, crawl into the warmth of what could’ve been, and pretend that love alone is enough. but you can’t. “maybe you were right,” you say, trying to laugh through the tears, your voice catching halfway through. “maybe breaking up was the right thing to do. for both of us.” oh… the way his heart drops when he hears that—how much he wishes he could take those words back. how much he regrets ever saying them in the first place. how much he’s begged time, in every quiet moment since, to let him go back and rewrite your story. but it’s useless. it didn’t feel right then, and it sure as hell doesn’t now. you’re all he ever wanted. you’re all he wants. and deep down, he knows—you always will be. and it fucking kills him. it kills him to know that loving you isn’t the question—he does. with everything. the question is what to do with that love, now that it can’t go anywhere. because if you tried again… if you gave in to the ache and the want and the desperation—nothing would really change. you’d end up right back here. except next time, you’d be even more broken. “if i were braver,” he starts, “if i was different—” “don’t,” you cut in. “don’t do that. you don’t need to be a different person, hyun,” you say softly. “you just need a different life. and you don’t have that right now—and maybe you never will. but it’s okay.” “how can it be?” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice that makes your chest tighten. “how the fuck is it okay to want something this badly and still have to let it go?” you let out a shaky breath and look down at your lap. “we can’t change it. this. it’s… it’s not okay—fuck, i know it’s not. but it’s what we have.”

he goes quiet again, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand, tears still hanging in his lashes. you both sit in it. the sadness. the weight of every missed chance, every wrong timing, every choice that brought you to this bench. “if there’s another life,” you murmur, “maybe we find our way back to each other there.” he nods. “maybe,” he says, and you know he’s picturing it too. the could-have-beens. the should-haves. the soft life you never got to live. but not this one. he’s quiet for a while after that, like he’s still standing in that other life you just painted with your words—still walking through it in his mind, holding your hand in a version of the world where things were easier. and then his voice cuts through the silence, “but i don’t want to lose you in this life, either.” and before you can say anything, he adds, “do you think we could… i don’t know—be friends?” you turn to look at him, and he’s watching you carefully, not with expectation but with something closer to fear. he’s afraid you’ll say no, afraid you’ll cut the thread that still tethers you to him, even if it’s frayed and worn and barely holding. but you smile a little. it’s small and sad, but a smile after all. “yeah. i think we could.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “maybe not right now,” you add gently. “maybe we give it some time. let it stop hurting so much. but yeah… eventually, i’d like that.” he nods again, eyes flicking toward you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact light, with this exact expression—still full of love. “i just don’t want to lose you completely.” “you won’t,” you say. and it’s the one thing you can promise. “you’re too much a part of me now, hyun, you always will be. we’ll figure it out.”

the gravel crunches quietly under your shoes. the path back through the garden is dim now, the sun completely dipped behind the horizon, leaving the sky painted in that deep, rich blue, settling into dusk. every now and then, you glance at seunghyun in your periphery—his hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed, like he’s trying to hold on to every last moment of this without showing it. you walk without touching, without speaking, but everything between you is loud. and then, just before the path curves toward the iron gate that separates the quiet of this place from the rest of the world, you stop. “seunghyun,” you say, his name barely above a whisper. he turns to you slowly, like he already knows what’s coming, like he’s been waiting for it without letting himself hope. you reach up with both hands and cradle his face—thumbs brushing over the curve of his cheekbones, your fingers slipping into the soft, familiar edges of his hair. his breath catches, his eyes flicker, and then they fall shut just as your mouth finds his. his hands are on you within seconds—your waist, your back, the side of your neck, fucking everywhere. he kisses you back hard, full of need and every word he didn’t know how to say earlier. you make a soft sound against his mouth, one he swallows greedily, pulling you closer, gripping the fabric at your back like he doesn’t trust the world not to rip you away. your fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan, and when he groans against your mouth, his tongue slips past your lips, deepening the kiss. he kisses you hungrily. because he knows this is the last moment he’ll get to remember what it feels like to be wanted by you. his hands slide up your sides, and then one of them cups your face, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, catching a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. your heart stutters in your chest at how tender it is—how fucking unfair it is that someone can love you this gently and still not be yours. you kiss him deeper, your tongue meeting his, your mouth opening wider like maybe if you just give enough of yourself, it’ll keep him for a little longer. but eventually, it has to stop. your hands loosen in his hair, and his grip on you falters. you pull away first, even though it feels like tearing something out of your own chest. you’re both panting, and your lips are swollen. “sorry,” you whisper. “i just… i needed to do that one last time.” you close your eyes and let your hand rest over his chest, right where his heart is pounding beneath your palm—fast and uneven, like yours. “i needed it too,” he says quietly. you both feel it settle deep in your bones—that quiet, devastating truth: the kiss was goodbye. to everything you were and everything you’ll never be again.

by the time you make it back to your friend’s apartment, the sky has already folded into itself, navy and thick. you step inside, the house dim and quiet, the hallway lit only by the warm spill of light coming from the kitchen where your friend’s probably left a candle burning. you move through the space like you’re not really there. your shoes come off, your jacket lands somewhere near a chair you don’t look at, and you’re halfway down the hall toward the living room with that hollow, buzzing emptiness ringing in your ears—when your phone vibrates once. and you think, for a stupid second, that maybe it’s him. but no. instead, it’s your banking app, and there on your screen, as casual as if someone had just venmoed you for last week’s pizza, is a deposit—an absurd amount of money, like… frankly ridiculous amount—and next to it, the name. choi seunghyun. you stare at it for a second, not really processing it, your brain taking its sweet time catching up, and when it finally does, you quickly message him.

seunghyun

WHAT THE FUCK

what

why

wtf

what the actual fuck

You told me you were staying with your friend while looking for a place.

I thought it might help.

are you crazy?

wtf

this is insane, hyun

It’s nothing🙂

it’s NOT nothing wtf

you wired me enough to pay rent for a year

maybe more

no, no, definitely more

way more

what part of that feels normal to you

this is so much money, what were you thinking

I was thinking you deserved it.

i don’t need you to take care of me like that

i’m not your responsibility

You’re not.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you however I can.

it’s too much, hyun

So is everything I feel for you.

i don’t know if i can accept it

Please do.

Friends help each other, don’t they?

i’m being so frl rn old man

Me too, princess.

are u trying to make me cry?💔 be honest

We’ve cried enough today.

I want you to be happy, so please let me do this for you.

thank you seunhyun, really

Of course🫰🏼

i love you

I love you too.

Take care❤️

you too :)

you press the phone to your chest, close your eyes, and sigh. and maybe it’s dramatic to cry over a money transfer, but here you are. not because you need the money, but because you know, this is the only way he knows how to take care of you now—by giving you something tangible and useful in his absence. and that hurts.

it’s been two years since that last conversation with seunghyun—two whole years since that kiss in the garden, since the deposit, since his last message sat in your phone. life didn’t stop after him. it moved forward the way time always does—slow. and eventually, you did too. you moved out of your friend’s place not long after meeting seunghyun—gave yourself permission to look at listings just slightly outside your price range, to stop filtering by ‘cheapest first,’ to imagine something more. and when you found it—a corner apartment on the top floor of a building, all warm wood and tall windows and soft morning light—you said yes. it’s not huge, but it’s beautiful. clean lines, a little balcony that overlooks the street, a kitchen that makes you want to cook even when all you know how to make is pasta… it’s the first place you’ve ever lived that feels like it was meant for you. and yeah, sometimes you think about seunghyun—you think about how he gave this to you. but mostly, you think about how you made it into something your own.

you also dropped the guy you’d been seeing back then and focused on yourself. let yourself learn how to be alone. you got a new job too—something better, something steadier. it pays well, and you don’t come home every night feeling like you’ve been scraped raw, which is more than you used to ask for. things with your mom are better now, or at least better than they used to be. she calls every week, asks about work (because that’s her favorite topic), sometimes even about your mood, and it’s clear she’s trying. but the thing that still sticks in your throat, the thing you can’t seem to move past, is that she’s never actually said she was sorry. she speaks like it was a necessary evil, like leaking your relationship to the press was some calculated decision made for your protection, not a betrayal that burned through your entire life. and maybe if she showed even a flicker of regret—real regret—you’d be able to meet her halfway. but without that, there’s only so far you can go.

you’re not healed. but you’re okay. you wake up most mornings without feeling like you’re drowning, you go to work, make dinner, fold laundry while music plays in the background. you laugh with friends and sleep through the night more often than not. and your screen time is down 12% this week—so, progress. that has to count for something. but some nights, when it’s quiet in your apartment and the city hums softly outside your window, you think of seunghyun. you wonder where he is, if he’s okay, if he ever sees something and thinks of you. you wonder if he’s happy, if he’s sleeping well, if his hands still tremble when he’s anxious or if someone else has learned how to hold them steady. and sometimes, you stare at the ceiling too long, or catch yourself holding your breath when a memory slips through—and it still surprises you, how much he lives in the smallest, stupidest things. because no matter how much distance time gives you, there are people who never really leave. and seunghyun, no matter how far away he is now—he’s one of them.

so when his name lights up your phone one random thursday evening two years later—you almost fall off your bed.

Hi.

Sorry if this is weird.

I was looking through my gallery and I found this.

it’s a photo taken from above—his arm stretched out enough to fit both of you into the frame, the angle slightly off-center. you’re completely out, fast asleep on top of him, arms loosely wrapped around his waist like you were trying to merge with him in your sleep. your cheek is smushed against the ridiculous pajama top—the one he bought for himself first, then ordered a second one for you when he realized how cute you’d look matching. yes, the infamous pajama set that everyone and their mother saw after your mom leaked everything. his hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, but his face is soft—eyes shining even in the low light of the room, a sleepy grin on his face.

Turns out, the picture those fans took of us wasn’t the only one we had.

I hope life’s treating you nicely🫰🏼

and something about it—about him still having that photo, still thinking of you enough to send it—makes you smile. you write back faster than you thought you would.

omg seunhyun!!! hii!!

when did you take that photo? and why didn’t u tell me about it?😭

I took it when you came to Seoul for my birthday.

I forgot I took it.

You woke up right after hahah😴😄

it’s sooo sooo cute🥹

It is😊

How are you?

i’m good :)) but a bit tired because i’ve been helping my friend paint her house and it’s been a lot of work

my arms are so sore😭

what about you?

you doing okay?

Yes! I’m good.

I missed talking to you.

me too :)) and i’m glad to know you’re doing well!

I also wanted to know if you’d like to go for a coffee next week?

I wanted to fly to Texas to see you.

We could catch up.

If you want to, of course🙂

yesss ofc, i’d love to :)🩷

i’m really happy you reached out

been thinking about you a lot, honestly

You have?

more than i’d like to admit hahah

i was wondering how you were doing :)

I’ve thought about you too.

And I’m really looking forward to seeing you😊

me too🙂‍↕️

I’ll send you the details once everything’s booked, is that okay?

yeah, sure, that sounds perfect :)

See you soon🫰🏼

when the day finally comes, there’s a quiet nervousness in your chest—not the kind that makes your hands shake, but the kind that hums beneath your skin. you don’t know what to expect. it’s been two years. whole seasons, whole versions of yourself have passed since you last stood in front of him. you’ve changed. you’ve grown. but some things stay. he’s waiting outside the café when you arrive—hands in his coat pockets, hair a little longer. and the second your eyes meet, he smiles. and you smile back, like no time has passed at all. the conversation flows without effort. you don’t even notice your coffee going cold—you’re too busy talking and laughing like it hasn’t been two years. and you don’t try to stop the feeling that rushes in, that warm, aching knowing in your chest that says, yeah. it’s still him. even after everything. it’s still seunghyun. you don’t know what’s going to happen next, and for once, that doesn’t scare you. you just let the moment be what it is, suspended in something that feels a lot like peace. because maybe this is it. maybe you don’t need another life to find your way back to each other—you already do in this one.

i hope this lived up to your expectations for part 2 :) i genuinely did the best i could. i’ve spent so much time on this fic and gotten so attached to everything about it that it doesn’t even feel like something i made up anymore?? like someone out there is living through it and suffering bc of seunghyun fr… my brain fully believes it atp😭

thank you so much for all the support you’ve shown to this fic, and for all the kind messages i’ve been getting because of it—i seriously wasn’t expecting it at all 🥹💗

regular taglist: @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @infinetlyforgotten @bettelaboure @scream-queen-25 @flwerangii

hidden pt.2 taglist: @ulquiorraswife @rubyylovestoread @youlikeex @liv2cool

[kumkaniudaku]

If I Want To

Summary: Happy Birthday, Patrice!

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC (Patrice Ellis)

Word Count: 1,672

Warnings: Mature Content, Smut

It was Patrice's party, and she could cry if she wanted to. 

That'd been her refrain since April 23, 1992, in Wilmington, NC, when Patrice Nicole Ellis came into the world crying as if someone had stolen something from her. According to her mother, she screamed and hollered for so long that the other babies in the nursery couldn't help but join, filling the entire floor with inescapable wailing for an entire night. Rosalyn was then under strict orders not to bring her little ray of sunshine back until her crying situation had been sorted.

When she was ten, Patrice cried when her father misunderstood the assignment and purchased a generic Black doll instead of the Madison My Scene doll she placed two stars on her wishlist. Even though her mama promised to rectify the situation the second they left her birthday party, Patrice cried until her uncle slipped a few extra dollars into the front pocket of her pretty pink overalls. 

At 21, after a years-long crying hiatus, Patrice found herself drunk and crying with her friends inside the grungy bathroom of some out-of-code party warehouse a short distance from her college campus. There was nothing wrong, really. Nothing except one too many shots of bottom shelf vodka reminding her that she'd be graduating soon and there were dwindling opportunities for The Trio to spend their nights together from miles apart. The thought of entering adulthood without her best girls was enough to turn her into a sobbing mess while holding up the bathroom line. 

The last time she cried was the birthday she spent swollen and pregnant, fighting with an onslaught of emotions that had no rhyme or reason. The culprit was an insatiable desire for hot chips in the middle of the night and the crippling realization that she couldn't have the smallest nibble of a snack she'd given up years ago. Terry tried his best to appease her with his dinner leftovers and a foot rub, but neither offering was enough. She was inconsolable until she eventually drifted off to sleep with tears staining her face and a visibly confused husband cuddling her close. 

But this time, years after she thought she had kicked her crying habit and ushered in a new era of grown-woman sensibilities and a great handle on her emotions, Patrice was crying again as the seconds ticked away on her 35th birthday. With her head pressed firmly against a wall covered in satin-finish Chantilly Lace paint, Patrice let tears of pleasure stream from the corner of her eyes and down her elegant neck as a return to form.

"Oh my…God." She'd repeated the phrase no less than 30 times over the course of the day, each instance a response to yet another stop Terry had pulled out to celebrate his favorite girl. 

But this one? This one was the finest and cost nothing but a little time spent kneeling at Patrice's feet in worship. 

All the energy he'd put into remaining proper in public, keeping his hands and lips to himself while they enjoyed dinner with friends and family at Patrice's favorite restaurant, had depleted into an insatiable desire to quench a thirst only his wife could satisfy. 

Terry didn't mean to stop in the foyer. He had every intention to make it to the couch and take her down on a proper surface before they headed to the bedroom for the main event. Then he caught a whiff of that sweet vanilla coating her skin and instantly became inundated with flashbacks of what happened the last time she chose Eilish #1 as her fragrance for the night. Flashbacks morphed into a yearning, and yearning couldn't be contained once their bodies collided by accident beside the front door. Hands wandered beneath little black dresses, and thick denim became restrictive below the waist. He didn't even bother removing the lace fabric covering her pussy. He'd taste that, too.

Patrice's foot hung lazily over Terry's right shoulder, the point of her heel scratching between his shoulder blades while strong hands held her body in place against the wall to combat the circular roll of her hips searching for more pressure. 

A short gasp escaped from Patrice's throat as she listened to the soft lapping of a skilled tongue executing perfect figure eights on her clit. "Right there, baby. Stay right there." Rounded almond nails gently scaped across freshly cut hair to scratch at the back of Terry's head. "Oh my God." 

Thirty-one. If her mama could hear her calling the Lord's name in vain, she'd make the back of her hand a quick acquaintance of her daughter's lips. Fortunately, this was some shit Mama couldn't see. This was grown married folks business. The kind of shenanigans she always dreamed of once the ink dried on the marriage certificate. 

Spurred by Patrice's praise and stimulation at his favorite spot, Terry groaned against his favorite place on Earth. His tongue didn't stop writing love letters against her clit, nor did his full lips deprive her of the light suction she loved so much. He was too proud a man to leave a woman unsatisfied. Especially on her birthday. That'd be cruel. 

"Yes, yes!" No one had asked a question or requested her confirmation. She'd simply run out of ability to say anything else. Simple syllables and short words were all she had to communicate unfathomable bliss. 

A trickle of saliva and sweet essence slid down the leg keeping Patrice upright, adding yet another sensation to the tingling and pulsing reminding her that she was not only alive but experiencing the best birthday a girl could ask for. Terry chased his reward without skipping a beat. Patrice wished she could see his long tongue cleaning up a mess of his own creation. She tried to imagine his eyes peering up at her, looking like a man possessed and not her sweet man known for forehead kisses and silly love poems at sunrise. Eventually that Terry would come back and soothe her quivering body back to baseline once insatiable, incredibly turned on Terry had his fill underneath the moonlight streaming in through glass panels on the front door.

"You better not hold that shit." Rough words from a typically patient man. Terry meant no disrespect. He just wanted what he wanted. 

A firm tap to one ass cheek made Patrice squeal in response as Terry went back to his feast with increased intensity. Her body seized has she squealed out, "Oh…my God!" 

More tears came in place of praises and curses uttered from the same tongue. A habit Patrice thought she'd kicked was back in a new iteration she could get used to. If she could cry from head on her birthday every year, she'd fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool with her contribution. 

Coiling in her abdomen nearly sent Patrice folding over Terry's head in search of stability. She fought every inclination to crumple to the floor, instead shouting to the ceiling to release pent up tension. "Fuck! Oh my…" She dared not finish that sentence, but Terry knew what she was thinking. 

The hand stroking her extended leg took a meandering path up Patrice's abdomen to search for her breast to grope what he wished he could see. It was dark underneath her dress. No matter. He planned to make up for it later in the night when their marital bed became a stage. 

Trembling from her inner thighs became a split second warning light for a woman primed to explode at any moment. Patrice tried to warn Terry – tried to call out his name or repeat the only phrase available – but words turned into unintelligible babble as two hands held Terry's face steady for the ride of his life. 

"Yesyesyesyes!" Anyone walking a step too close to their home's front lawn would've been treated to a sweet chorus of guttural praise and deep moans. They'd both remember these out-of-body experiences well into old age.

Patrice could've sworn she felt Terry smiling against her center, but she was too caught up in a messy release to register anything other than a wobbling ankle and a wet spot on the hardwood she'd need a clean up before daybreak. 

Terry's strong hands kept Patrice steady while she quaked against him, expending all the energy her muscles had left. Euphoria. She hadn't felt such pure euphoria since her body delivered a baby to the finish line, and the realization that pregnancy was finally over hit her like a ton of bricks. 

"Mmmm. You taste so good, baby." Patrice had almost forgotten Terry existed until he pulled away from her to pepper kisses along the thigh resting on his shoulder. "My sweet girl." 

Labored breathing slowly evened into a steady pace. "Fuck," Patrice laughed through a rush of air. "What got into you, TJ?" Another deep breathed pushed her shoulders away from her ears, allowing her head to lull back against the wall. 

As Terry stood to his full height and ignored the aching in his aging bones, he left wet kisses wherever naked skin lived until he was covering Patrice's lips in the same attention he'd given her other set. 

He chuckled against her mouth. "Same thing I'm 'bout to put into you." 

"I don't think that sounded how you meant it to sound." 

"Just go with it." Terry's quip sent them into a fit of giggles, briefly interrupted by Terry discovering the trail of tears that had etched themselves into Patrice's foundation. He touched the spot with concern furrowing his brow. "What's wrong, baby? Did I hurt you?" 

Patrice shook her head, smiling. "No. I do this every year." 

"You need anything from me?" 

"Yeah," she answered, inching closer to his lips to speak as if there was a secret to hide from others in the room. "Make me do it again." 

It was still her party, and Patrice planned to cry all night because she wanted to. Some traditions were worth maintaining.

------

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