#it's one of those books that just stay with you

[fortunxa]

THESIS: DEVOTION . . . (nsfw)

I Think, Therefore I Beg

# cw. sub-top!reader, power bottom!Jinx, oral (Jinx!receiving), thigh riding/humping (r!receiving), loser!reader, degradation, taunting/teasing, dumbification, worshipping, r!passes out, fwb(?), smut with plot, college au, “aftercare”/soft Jinx moments. mdni .ᐟ.ᐟ

# wc. 2.4k + short bonus

Jinx has a type. not the loud ones, not the cool ones. no—she has a soft spot for the shy, brainy girls. the ones who can’t quite meet her eyes when she smirks at them, who flinch when her knee brushes theirs under the table, then apologize like it wasn’t the best part of their day. those are her favorites.

they’re easy to spot—blushing behind thick glasses, nervously fiddling with pens or sleeves, trying so hard not to look when she stretches just a little too far or speaks just a little too slowly, hearts already halfway in her hands before she even smiles.

she likes the way they react to her. one offhand comment laced with innuendo, and they short-circuit—eyes wide, throat tight, cheeks burning. it’s addictive. she likes watching them come undone and likes the way they try so hard to keep it together when she leans across the table, fingers brushing theirs. her voice is low and syrupy sweet as she asks them to “just explain that one little part again.”

she doesn’t need the help, of course. she’s smarter than most people on campus, probably smarter than some of the teachers, but that’s not the point. the point is watching those sweet girls fumble over their words, cheeks flushed, thighs pressed tight under the desk while she twirls a strand of their hair and hums like she’s thinking of something much more interesting than equations.

it fascinates her, watching how far they go to keep her attention, how easily they fold when she says please in that low, honeyed tone that turns yes into a reflex. she never has to lift a finger—unless it’s to trace lazy little circles on a thigh while they work, just to see how long they can keep their hands steady. sometimes, she murmurs praises into their neck, low and slow, and watches them squirm like she’s lighting them up from the inside out.

and the best part? those girls are givers, desperate to please. Jinx will bat her lashes, pout a little, and suddenly her assignments are done, her projects are perfect, and her inbox is full of carefully written notes with highlighted sections and color-coded tabs. all because they want to impress her. all because they want her to stay. chasing her approval like it’s the only grade that matters.

she likes what they can do for her—in every sense. those shy little things, trying so hard to be good, will do anything to keep her attention. and Jinx? she makes damn sure they never know if she actually means the things she says, or if she’s just playing with her food.

because when she crooks a finger or tilts her head with that wicked little smile, her nerdy girl of the month will come running—books in hand, heart pounding, already apologizing for being two minutes late. it’s adorable, really. the way she scrambles to impress, how she lights up when she so much as acknowledges her.

Jinx loves making smart girls stupid, and this time? you’re her victim.

it’s routine at this point—one that you follow like a well-oiled machine. she’d stretch out across her bed, headphones in, humming to some glitchy beat while you fumble with her laptop, trying to perfect her assignment or fix her code. she’d barely glance at the screen, just stroke your hair and murmur lazy praise when you get her formatting right.

and that praise? it’s currency. one “good girl”, and you’re glowing. one moan, soft and breathy, and you’re working harder, always hoping to be rewarded.

and she does reward you—when she feels like it. sometimes, she lets you put your mouth on her while she scrolls on her phone, legs thrown over your shoulders, only glancing down when you make a particularly pretty noise. other times, she makes you wait, just to watch your frustration bloom.

Jinx doesn’t care if you break. in fact, she wants you to. she wants you to shake and sweat and whimper from the effort of pleasing her. she expects nothing short of full devotion—and she always gets it. she only has to say, “be useful,” and you will do anything—begging, shaking, soaked through your cute little panties—just to hear her moan.

that was her favorite thing. how girls that smart can still fall apart for her. how all those degrees and good grades don’t mean shit when she has her legs spread and a hand in your hair, lazily pulling as she reads through the essay you wrote for her like it's a bedtime story.

and you love it. you love being used, love the challenge of keeping her satisfied. she edges you for hours while you beg into her thighs, and then she just grins, purring, “c’mon, baby. smart as you are, you still haven’t figured out how to make me come?”

you love every second of her ignoring you in public but curling into your lap in private. you love being ordered to type while she straddles your thigh, grinding slow and lazy while you try to keep your hands off. try to stay focused. try to be good.

so when your phone lights up with a succession of messages, you don’t hesitate to snatch it up.

jinx [9:47 PM]

hey brainiac

you’ve been so good lately, thought you deserved a treat

(it’s me. i’m the treat)

you’ve got like 10 mins before i start faking it with a pillow

that’s it. not even an emoji to soften the blow.

and it still hits you like a fucking spell.

your stomach drops, heat pooling between your legs so fast it makes you dizzy. your hand is shaking as you grab your keys, leaving your laptop open, the essay you’ve been outlining still blinking at the top of a google doc titled ‘DRAFT 3 - FINAL (for real this time).’

it’s ridiculous how fast your body responds to Jinx’s voice—even when it comes through a screen. your mouth is dry, your thighs already slick. every erratic step closer to her dorm feels like your brain is shutting down and your cunt is taking over, like your body knows exactly what it’s going there for.

you barely knock. just the softest brush of knuckles—more habit than necessity—before you push the door open with trembling fingers. and there’s Jinx, lit by nothing but her purple LED lights, sprawled out across the bed like temptation itself, waiting in a hoodie and thigh-high socks. she’s grinning like a spoiled dream, legs parted to display the lack of underwear, eyes half-lidded with the kind of smug boredom only someone worshipped too often can wear.

“there she is. my favorite little honor roll slut,” she greets, voice low and ruined like she’d been waiting with fingers between her folds for longer than she’d admit. “you look like you ran.”

you stand there in the doorway, chest rising too fast, sleeves bunched in your fists like you’re trying to hold yourself together.

you’re not doing a very good job.

Jinx tilts her head slightly, that slow, lazy grin tugging wider at her lips. “well?” she drawls, voice a husky thing wrapped in smoke and heat. “you gonna keep panting in the doorway, or are you gonna get on your knees and make the walk worth it?”

that does it.

you stumble forward like you’ve been yanked by a leash, the door clicking shut behind you. each step is half-mindless, guided more by want than will. she watches you crawl across the bed, eyes wide behind your glasses, lips already parted, trembling with the kind of reverence most people save for altars. because that’s what she is to you—something holy. something sharp and shining and above you.

Jinx doesn’t just fuck. she gets worshipped.

and now, there you are—her favorite little overachiever. so good. so smart. so utterly fucking wrecked already.

no words. no breath. just mouth on cunt—moaning as soon as your tongue meets slick, licking like you’ll die if you don’t get every drop. you lick up, then down, then in, sucking her clit into your mouth like you’re trying to memorize the shape of it, earning a groan as she throws her head back.

“god, you’re such a fucking sucker for this pussy,” she gasps. “i could probably get you to drop out if i let you live down there.”

she spreads her legs further and leans back like a goddess, licking the inside of her cheek while you work. your mouth is open, your jaw is shaking, and your cheeks are wet from something you can’t even name anymore by the time she comes for the third time. sweat, slick, tears, spit—it doesn’t matter.

“good girl. now do it again,” she simply whispers after coming back down from another high. “and maybe i’ll let you rub that filthy little cunt on my thigh.”

that’s all the motivation you need. glasses fogged and askew, fingers curled into her thighs like you need something to ground you while your mouth moves with the kind of desperation that doesn’t come from hunger—it comes from need, from obsession.

because that’s what you are. Jinx’s obsessed, overstimulated little genius, so smart on paper and so fucking dumb for her. the kind of girl who begs to be useful, who gets off on obedience, who’s already grinding her soaked little cunt against the bedsheets while sucking Jinx’s clit like her life depends on it.

she lets you struggle. lets you sob into her skin and tongue-fuck her like you’re starving. you’ve been there a while—maybe too long—trying so hard to make her come, again and again, needing to hear that low, lazy purr of approval. she doesn’t rush you. she doesn’t help you, either.

she just watches, calm and pretty, hips shifting just enough to guide the rhythm when you start losing it, jaw locking. Jinx knows just how long to keep you down there—long enough for your thighs to ache, long enough for your brain to fog over, long enough to make you forget yourself.

you lick her like you mean it—flat, deliberate strokes of your tongue from base to clit, slow enough to make her hips twitch, hard enough to make her throb.

and when she finally shatters again—soft and slow, spine arching, breath caught on a quiet gasp—you whimper like you’ve been blessed, collapsing after, face buried in her thigh, body twitching from the effort. she doesn’t say thank you. she just glances at you like you’re something cute and wipes a thumb across your soaked lips.

and you get lucky tonight—you worked for it, after all.

“c’mere,” she says softly, still coming down from it as she pats her thigh. “you’ve been so good. go ahead. rub that soaked little pussy on me.”

and you obey fast, clumsy, nearly falling off the bed in the rush to kick your panties off, knees red and sore as you straddle her, already apologizing under your breath for how wet you are before you even start moving. your hands grip Jinx’s shoulders for balance as you drag your swollen clit on muscle and skin and nothing else, grinding down in slow, stuttering rolls, making obscene little wet sounds.

and you must’ve done something really right, because she doesn’t push you off after you come for the first time that night. she doesn’t push you off after the second or third, either.

“uh—fuck—please—” you’ve been at it for what feels like hours, your rhythm messy and sloppy now, like you’re chasing something you can barely hold onto. you’re sweating, sobbing, leaving claw marks as you rut down, again and again, slick smearing across skin like you’re trying to fuse with her. all that intelligence and you’re just humping her thigh like a bitch in heat.

you’re dumb for it now. absolutely, irreparably stupid—babbling nonsense, half-words, desperate little gasps. you used to correct people’s grammar, now you can’t even form a sentence unless it starts with please and ends with Jinx, body jerking every few seconds like it can’t decide whether it wants more or less. it stopped being about pleasure a long time ago. you don’t even feel your cunt anymore—just heat, pressure, friction.

“you’re so fucking gone. riding me like the whole semester depends on it,” she taunts, voice low and full of delight. “what happened to all those big words, baby? what happened to my honors student?” a sound tears out of you—something between a sob and a moan—but you don’t answer.

your brain is fucked.

“you don’t know how to stop, do you?” she whispers. “so smart, and now you’re just… stuck. dumb little thing fucked herself into a loop.”

no answer.

and then—between one gasp and the next, between the frantic roll of your hips and the whimper that follows—it slips out:

“i love you—fuck—Jinx, i—”

soft. shattered. mindless.

Jinx hears it, but doesn’t say a thing. doesn’t stop you, doesn’t react. just sits back against the headboard, half-lidded, one hand on your waist as you keep fucking yourself into oblivion.

it’s not the first time someone says it, but this? this is different, because you don’t even know you said it. and somehow, that makes it worse. she’s not thinking about it, not really. just replaying the sound in her head—those three words, cracked and filthy, pulled from a mouth too wrecked to lie.

“c’mon, baby,” she finally whispers. “be my little dropout and come for me.”

your body jerks once, violently—hips slamming forward, clit catching just right—and you shatter, a silent scream falling from your mouth as your pussy pulses in waves you can’t ride anymore.

and then you collapse, right there in Jinx’s lap. she catches you before you can slump backward, arms looping around you just as your head drops to her shoulder, breath stuttering. she pulls back just enough to see your face—peaceful, lips parted, out cold.

out. cold.

she blinks—once, twice—then laughs, low and slow, rubbing a hand down your back as your soaked cunt still flutters against her thigh.

“holy shit,” she whispers breathlessly, grinning into your damp hair. “passed the fuck out on my thigh,” she murmurs, voice soft with something dangerously close to fondness. “guess we found your limit, huh?”

she doesn’t move for a while, simply watching you. blank-faced at first, expression unreadable. then, slowly and carefully, she reaches for the edge of the blanket and pulls it over your bare shoulders. not tucked in, not coddled. just… covered, like a quiet little claim.

she sits back against the wall, hoodie half-zipped, her thigh still damp, her breath finally starting to level out. normally, this is the part where she gets bored, where the affection fades, the attention drifts, and she starts thinking about who she’ll get her mouth on next month.

but then she looks at you again, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with a surprisingly soft touch. “might keep you around.” a pause. “might not even fuck it up.”

── .✦ BONUS (for the lover girls) ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

you’re curled up in Jinx’s bed, both of you warm and clean and full of leftover vending machine snacks. you’re drowning in her hoodie, hood up, sleeves over your hands, a granola bar only halfway eaten resting on your chest like you’ve been too exhausted to finish chewing while your thighs are still twitching every now and then like your body hadn’t figured out how to stop remembering the orgasms.

she reaches for a bag of chips, opening it with her teeth. “okay,” she says, shoving one in her mouth, “serious question.”

you groan, half-asleep. “if it’s about sex, i’m gonna cry.”

she grins around a crunch. “it’s always about sex.” she grabs her phone from the nightstand, opens notes, and starts typing. “you’re lucky,” she says. “you’ve been selected for an exclusive, post-orgasm academic assessment.”

“no,” you mumble, immediately dragging the covers over your face.

“too late. i’m the professor now. pop quiz, bitch.” Jinx peels them right back, uncovering you. “i call it—‘Am I Allowed to Fuck You Again Yet?’”

you can’t help but groan once more. she just pulls you a little closer, then clears her throat dramatically. “question one: can you walk?”

“no.”

“honest. good. bonus point.” she keeps typing. “question two: is your pussy still thinking about me?”

you cover your face with both hands. “Jinx—”

“is that a yes?”

a whimper. “unfortunately.”

she kisses your forehead as a reward. another chip, another line. “question three: are you emotionally prepared to be fucked into oblivion again right now if i promise to kiss your thighs after?”

“Jinx.”

“that’s not a no.”

“that’s a crime.”

“still not a no,” she whispers, grinning. “god, you’re acing this.”

you bury your face in her shoulder, half-laughing, half-mortified.

“question four,” Jinx says softly, suddenly quieter. “do you feel safe?”

the answer comes fast. certain. “yes.”

she looks at you for a long second. no teasing. just… that look. then she drops her phone, pulling you tighter, and whispers into your hair: “cool. then i’ll wait.”

she reaches back and grabs a half-empty water bottle off the nightstand, passing it to you gently. “bonus question: are you emotionally prepared to feed me a granola bar while i grind on your thigh for ten minutes like a perv?”

a deep, slow sigh. “…i will if you stop asking questions.”

Jinx’s eyes light up. “consent confirmed.”

the inspo (durrrrr):

[harbours-lighthouse]

continuation of 'jason todd loves loudly'

Jason Todd learns to love slowly.

He's never known exactly what to do, when to do it. He's awkward and stiff because no one taught him how to treat a woman properly before he died. He knew that the way his father treated his mother wasn't right, and he knew that the way Bruce loved Selina never truly struck him as pure, unconditional love. There was always something sly lingering behind their eyes, and sometimes Jason got the sick feeling that there wasn't any love at all, but simply lust.

And when he came back, it was hard not to notice that there were women who noticed him, who took an interest. Sometimes, he tried to take their attention to his advantage, but it always ended in some sort of hushed apology and a slam of a door, vomit along the bathroom floor and Jason being alone again. At some point, he didn't bother trying.

Of course, there were a few relationships that stuck around for a little while, ones where he didn't actively pursue it, but it just...happened. And he did learn from them, but with each lesson it felt that there was alway some sort of horrible situation to accompany them. He'd learn that he has to put effort into the relationship—a date here and there, maybe flowers, loving words, consistency, etc—but the newly acquired knowledge would be followed with a shouting match or the silent treatment. More often than not, those days left him hiding away, feeling ashamed that he's not better—angry that he's seeing a diluted reflection of the very men he punches enough times to bring them lingering on death's doorstep.

To avoid that creeping feeling of despair, the hot burning shame in his stomach and the awkwardness that wraps around his throat, he doesn't search for anyone. He occasionally reads a novel and he might think that something like what's written in the books would be magical, but the thought is quickly dropped and he's picking up a different book like crime and punishment.

And yet, on a day that felt too long and too short at the same time, he met you. To say you were 'different' from all the other girls wouldn't be accurate because all of the others were unique in their own way—but there is something about you that screams 'I'm the one! I'm the one that might really love you!'.

Getting to know you was easy, though Jason stumbled over his words half the time (he'll deny it). He tried hiding the tense line of his shoulders and the crack in his voice by driving you around the city on his bike. Can't exactly notice much about the driver when you're zipping through a city and the wind is snapping at you, right?

You lit up his world, to say the least. Made all the shadows shrink away, brought a sense of hope even on his worst days. But Jason knew that you were the one he loved because you loved him in a way that was slow, patient. Unhurried.

There'd been an initial fear that he'd do something wrong, that you'd shout or storm away, and he'd be left alone again. But the first time the two of you had an argument, there wasn't a door slammed in his face, a finger jabbed into his pec, or an insult or curse thrown his way.

You didn't baby him—no, definitely not—but your voice never raised, and you insisted on talking things out. There wasn't a single chance that you were willing to take when it came down to Jason Todd, so you stayed and you made sure that the both of you spoke to each other—taught each other.

So Jason learned how to love slowly. You gently guided him when his actions or his words made you feel neglected or lost, and he guided you through his thought process and why some days it's too hard to look at you for so long, and that memory and fear are closely intertwined and they rule over him often.

He wasn't perfect in the least. He often forgot anniversaries, special appointments, etc. Flowers were rare because he simply didn't see the point but sometimes he put in the effort—he tried to make it more meaningful by getting your birth flowers. But more significantly, there were times where his mouth simply sealed shut and he struggled to tell you what was on his heart and mind. He couldn't bring himself to open himself up entirely, but again, you taught him slowly. He learnt slowly.

You taught him what it's like to say something soft, even if it's a little awkward and he stumbles a bit. The intent is there—that's what matters. You taught him that taking care of himself was in of itself an act of love within your relationship, and there was nothing corrupt about him. You taught him about the small habits he did that annoyed you, and subsequently he taught you about the things you did that annoyed him. You taught him that you need him to talk when something is wrong, and he taught you to always listen when he spoke.

Though you were one or two paces ahead of Jason, you never let go of his hand. Jason learned slowly that that was what real love is.

© harbours-lighthouse tags: @kitkatlover015

[chrissssssmut]

can I request a continuation of yujin classroom 3-B?

CLASSROOM 3-B PART 2

Ahn Yujin x Male OC

AN: Here's Part 2 of the Vampire Ahn Yujin story! Hope yall like this one as much as the first!♥️

PART 1

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

The town forgot Y/N quickly.

At first, there was a flurry of police reports, late-night news segments, and concerned PTA meetings. The school held a memorial in his honor—framed photo on a desk, candles flickering in the gymnasium. Some students cried. Most didn’t. They were too used to it by then.

Another disappearance. Another name whispered, then erased.

But not for me.

I was Kang Doyun. And Y/N was my best friend.

He was the one who laughed at my awful jokes, stayed up late grinding ranked matches with me, and shared every stupid conspiracy theory he uncovered like it was gospel. He was also the one who called me three hours before he vanished.

“Doyun… if I disappear—no. When I disappear—it’s because of her.”

“Who? What are you talking about—”

“Ahn Yujin.”

His voice had trembled. Not with fear—but conviction.

“She’s not human.”

And then the line went dead.

I tried calling back. Dozens of times. Nothing. I messaged him all night. No response.

Two days later, his parents filed a report. His seat was empty. And just like that, Y/N became another one of those names no one dared speak too loudly.

But I wasn’t about to let that be the end of it.

So I did what he would’ve done.

I transferred.

The school hadn’t changed much.

The gates still creaked. The hallways still echoed. The walls still smelled faintly of bleach and dust, like someone always cleaning up a mess they couldn’t quite erase.

I walked into Class 3-B, bag slung over my shoulder, heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

I spotted the empty desk first.

Second row, by the window. Still untouched. Still his.

The teacher barely looked up as she introduced me.

“This is Kang Doyun. He’ll be joining us for the rest of the term. Please be kind.”

Polite clapping. A few glances. Then silence.

I took the seat behind his.

And that’s when I felt it—eyes on me.

I looked up.

There she was.

Ahn Yujin.

Beautiful. Polished. Poised. Like a perfectly carved doll with just a hint of movement.

Her gaze met mine, unblinking.

She smiled.

“Hi,” she said, voice soft and sweet. “Welcome to the class.”

I smiled back. “Thanks.”

I held her gaze a little longer than I should have, just to see what would happen.

She didn’t look away.

The first few days, I played dumb.

I took notes. Asked boring questions. Ate lunch alone on the rooftop like some anime protagonist. But underneath it all, I was watching.

Yujin was... magnetic. The way students made space for her in the halls. The way teachers praised her like she was a gift. The way she always knew the answer, but never raised her hand unless called on. Perfect attendance. Perfect scores. But no one ever saw her eat. No one ever saw her leave the building, either.

And every time I asked about Y/N, people froze.

Even the ones who used to be his friends.

It was like a spell—his name didn’t just make people uncomfortable.

It made them afraid.

And Yujin… she started getting closer.

Little things. Passing by my desk, fingers brushing my shoulder like it was an accident. Offering to help with notes I didn’t need. Complimenting my handwriting.

It was subtle. Almost sweet.

Almost.

One evening, I lingered behind after school.

Pretended I forgot a book. Waited until the halls were empty, then followed her.

She didn’t take the main gate.

She slipped through a side exit, across the track field, and into the woods behind the school.

I stayed low, boots crunching softly through fallen leaves.

She didn’t look back once.

Eventually, she stopped in front of a house.

Normal. Modest. Two stories, pale walls, and a flickering porch light.

She opened the door.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t use a key.

Just walked in like she was the only one who mattered.

I waited ten minutes.

Then I followed.

Her house was wrong.

Not messy. Not haunted. Just... wrong.

Too clean. Too quiet. Like no one had ever lived there.

I crept through the front hallway, stepping over the shoes that weren’t hers, past a photo of a family that looked too faded to be real. I moved toward the back, toward the door that stood slightly ajar.

I pushed it open—

And my breath caught.

Lockers. Just like Y/N described. Real, metal lockers. Labeled with initials.

I saw his jacket first.

Hanging neatly on a hook, like he might return to claim it.

His name tag. His scent. His broken phone.

And something else.

A notebook.

His notebook.

I picked it up, hands trembling. Pages filled with scribbles, notes, theories. Everything he’d learned before he vanished. Diagrams. Maps. Drawings of red eyes.

My name was on the last page.

“If anyone finds this… Doyun, run. Or burn this place to the ground.”

Too late.

Behind me, the door creaked.

I turned slowly.

Yujin stood in the doorway.

Her eyes were glowing.

“Curious,” she whispered, stepping forward. “Just like him.”

My pulse spiked.

“I knew it was you,” I said, backing away. “I know what you did to him.”

“Do you?” she asked, tilting her head. “Because I don’t think you really understand what he was to me.”

Her expression darkened. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“He was special.”

“He was dead,” I growled.

She blinked. Slowly. “Not at first.”

I bolted.

Past her. Down the hall. Toward the door—

She was there.

I didn’t even see her move.

One second she was behind me, the next, in front.

“You can’t outrun me,” she said calmly. “But you can survive. If you stop digging.”

I raised the knife I’d hidden in my sleeve.

“Then kill me,” I spat. “Like you killed him.”

Something flickered in her expression.

Sadness?

No. Hunger.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she whispered. “I want you to chase me.”

And that’s how the game began.

She let me leave that night.

Let me run.

But every time I turned a corner, she was there. Smiling. Watching. Waiting.

In the shadows.

In my dreams.

In the reflection of a train window.

At first, I thought I was imagining it.

Until I found her handwriting on my desk.

“Getting warmer.”

Until I found red petals in my locker.

Until I woke up one night to find her sitting on my windowsill, legs crossed, eyes glowing softly in the dark.

She didn’t move.

Just smiled.

Then she was gone.

It’s been three weeks.

I haven’t stopped running.

I haven’t stopped planning.

She thinks I’m breaking.

She’s wrong.

Because this time, I’m not just some curious kid looking for answers.

I’m the storm she invited.

And I don’t care what she is.

Monster. Demon. Vampire.

I’m going to find her.

And I’m going to make her bleed.

Doyun called it unfinished business.

The forest was silent.

Only the wind stirred the leaves, brushing them against each other like the whispers of ghosts. The moon hovered low, pale and heavy in the sky, casting long shadows across the clearing.

Doyun crouched low behind a fallen tree, hands trembling as he tightened the final wire.

Every inch of this place had been prepared. Every snare, every line of salt, every sigil carved with obsessive precision. He’d read every book he could find, hunted through cursed forums, contacted whispering voices online that asked for payment in things he could never repay.

And all of it led to this.

“She’s not invincible,” he muttered under his breath, sweat beading on his temple. “She can bleed.”

At the center of the clearing stood an old wooden chair, its legs soaked in consecrated oil, bolted to a rusted iron plate. Chains hung loose beside it, blessed and etched with runes that bit into the metal like teeth. The ground beneath was a trap circle—a fusion of shamanic binding, Catholic warding, and arcane magic no priest would approve of.

And bait.

A worn photo of Y/N, folded and pinned to the seat.

He waited.

And waited.

The air turned cold.

Leaves rustled—but not from wind.

Then she appeared.

Effortless. Silent.

Ahn Yujin stepped out from the trees, barefoot, her school uniform perfectly neat, like she'd stepped out of class five minutes ago. Her eyes scanned the clearing, pausing when they landed on the photo.

“…Y/N,” she said softly, walking toward the chair.

Doyun didn’t breathe.

Her hand reached out—fingers brushing the picture.

That was the trigger.

The trap exploded around her.

A burst of white fire surged up the circle, and the blessed chains lashed around her limbs like snakes, pinning her to the chair. A high-pitched shriek erupted from her throat, raw and animalistic, as smoke curled off her skin where the runes burned.

Doyun rose from the shadows, stepping into the light with a knife in his hand—curved, silver, glowing faintly with holy symbols carved into its hilt.

Yujin thrashed, veins bulging, red eyes burning bright with fury and pain.

“You,” she hissed. “You planned this.”

“I told you,” Doyun said coldly, walking toward her, “I’m not like him. I came to end this.”

She bared her fangs, snarling—but she couldn’t move. The chains held. The runes flared brighter the closer he got.

Doyun raised the knife, aiming for her heart.

“Goodbye, Yujin.”

And then—

“Wait…”

Her voice cracked.

Different.

Soft.

Like a frightened girl’s.

Doyun froze.

“I didn’t want to kill him,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears. “I—I loved him. I didn’t mean to… it was a mistake. Please.”

His grip on the knife wavered.

It wasn’t the monster speaking now.

It was her.

The girl everyone thought they knew. The girl who sat in class with a gentle smile. The girl Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about.

“I don’t want to die,” she whimpered. “I’m scared…”

The blade trembled in his hand.

“What… what are you doing?” he muttered, throat tight.

“Please…” she begged, tears sliding down her cheeks, mixing with the blood from her burning skin. “Don’t hurt me…”

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

Just one second too long.

Her eyes snapped open—cold and gleaming.

And then she moved.

With a screech of metal and an unnatural jerk, she lunged forward—chains still burning her skin—but her claws reached him first.

They tore through his side, white-hot pain flooding his nerves.

“Gah—!”

Doyun stumbled back, blood gushing from the gash across his ribs. He dropped to the ground, crawling away, vision blurring. The forest spun around him as his body screamed for rest, for escape.

Behind him, Yujin dragged herself free.

The runes weakened. The chains cracked.

She was burned. Bleeding. Limbs twitching. But she didn’t stop.

She crawled after him—gritting her teeth, eyes blazing with hunger and rage.

“You… almost fooled me,” Doyun gasped, inching backward, one arm pressed to his wound.

Yujin was right behind him now. Her breath hit his skin. Her body pressed against his back, teeth grazing his neck.

“I should’ve killed you sooner,” she hissed.

And then—

He twisted.

In his shaking hand, the silver knife flared one last time, the holy blessing activated by her proximity.

He plunged it backward into her chest.

Straight through her heart.

Her scream tore through the forest like a shockwave.

Not just pain.

But betrayal.

Yujin clawed at his shoulder, fangs gnashing—but her strength was already failing. Her body convulsed, dark veins spreading from the wound. Smoke hissed from her mouth. Her eyes—those hypnotic red eyes—flickered.

“…Doyun,” she breathed, brokenly. “I… I could’ve loved you.”

“I’m not here for love,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I’m here for justice.”

She collapsed.

Her body twitched once.

Then fell still.

The light in her eyes faded.

Her skin cracked like porcelain, crumbling at the edges.

And then, Ahn Yujin was no more.

Only ashes remained—scattered by the wind.

Doyun lay there for a long time, blood pooling beneath him, stars spinning overhead.

He closed his eyes.

And for a moment, he swore he could still hear her voice in the breeze.

“You’re mine now.”

But it was only the wind.

Only the silence left behind after a monster dies.

Only the price of vengeance.

[tacobacoyeet]

crack in the door | patrick zweig x reader

a/n: i have maternal instincts for patrick zweig in the sense that i want to bear his children. had an idea and had to get it out literally tonight

warnings: SMUT 18+, pregnancy mention, not proofread

There’s a knock at the door that doesn't belong to Sunday.

You know the rhythm of your mailman’s hands, the two quick taps of the UPS guy, the heavy slap of your neighbor’s fist when he’s locked himself out again. But this—this knock is soft. Hesitant. Like it doesn’t want to be heard.

You set Levi’s plate down—half-eaten grilled cheese, blueberries arranged in a smiley face—and pad over barefoot. You glance through the peephole.

And your heart stutters.

Patrick.

You haven’t seen him in four years, and yet, there he is, standing in the yellow hallway light like a memory that refused to stay dead. The light buzzes above him, casting long shadows across the floor, washing him in a hue too warm for how cold it feels. Your stomach flips. Your knees lock. Seeing him again is like stepping into a dream with teeth—familiar and sharp all at once. He looks older—leaner, scruffier, more hollow around the eyes. A duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His hands twitch at his sides, curling and uncurling, like he's not sure whether to knock again or bolt down the hall and disappear.

You open the door slowly. The air between you is thick and sour with things unsaid.

He speaks your name like a confession. Soft. Sacred.

Your voice doesn’t come. Your stomach tightens. Your throat burns.

And then, behind you—

“Mama?” Levi’s voice, high and curious, drifts out from the kitchen. “Mama, where’d you go?”

Patrick’s entire face changes. He stiffens, like someone just knocked the wind out of him. His eyes—those same eyes that used to kiss every inch of your skin—dart past you.

And then he sees him.

Tiny feet padding across hardwood. A flash of soft brown curls and wide, blinking eyes. Your son. His son.

“Is that—?” Patrick breathes, but the question dies on his lips.

You step halfway in front of Levi, like instinct, like muscle memory. Like heartbreak.

“His name is Levi,” you say. “He’s four. He likes dinosaurs and peanut butter and books with flaps. He’s shy at first but never stops talking once he starts. And he thinks thunder is just the sky saying 'I love you' too loud.”

Patrick’s mouth parts. Closes. Opens again.

“I—” He’s not crying, but his voice sounds like it wants to be. “I didn’t know how to come back.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Silence.

“Mama,” Levi whispers, wrapping his arms around your leg, looking up at Patrick with open, trusting eyes. “Who’s that?”

Your heart breaks cleanly in two.

You look at Patrick. Let him drown in it.

“That’s no one, baby,” you lie. “Just someone I used to know.”

---

Patrick always used to knock on your window, never your door.

The first time he did it, you thought it was a rock or a branch. The second time, you nearly screamed. The third time, he was already halfway in your room, grinning, breathless, tasting like cigarettes and strawberry gum.

“You should really lock your window,” he said, pulling you in by the waist.

“You should really stop breaking in,” you answered, but your smile gave you away.

Those were the good days. The days when he was still fire and promise and you believed you were the only one who saw the man behind the racket. When he played like he had something to prove and kissed you like he had something to lose.

When the world hadn’t taken his shine yet.

You lay together in your tiny bed, limbs tangled, the night soft around you. He whispered dreams into your collarbone. You traced his jaw with your fingertips like a prayer. He said he’d win for you. Said you made everything feel less heavy.

And you believed him.

Even as the losses came. Even as the press called him a burnout. Even as he lashed out, shut down, pulled away.

Until one night, you held up a stick with two pink lines, and he couldn’t even look you in the eye.

“I can’t be this,” he said. “I can’t be someone’s dad when I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore.”

You begged him to stay. You told him love would be enough.

He left anyway.

The door slammed so hard the windows rattled. You stood there, frozen, stick in hand, the silence ringing louder than any scream.

It wasn’t just the leaving. It was what he took when he left. The belief that things could still be okay. The sound of his laugh echoing through your walls. The security of two toothbrushes in the cup by the sink.

He didn't say goodbye. He didn't say I love you. He just looked at you like you were the one hurting him, and walked out like he had somewhere better to be.

You didn't sleep that night. You laid in the bed where he used to lie, and wondered what was so unlovable about needing him.

In the weeks after, you didn’t tell anyone. You couldn’t say it out loud, not yet. Not until you had something to show for all the ache.

You kept your hand over your belly every night, like a promise. Like maybe, if you held it long enough, the ache would shift into something softer. You whispered into the darkness what you never said aloud: that you hoped the baby wouldn’t inherit the hollow. That you prayed they would never learn the weight of being left. You imagined holding them for the first time, imagined the sound they might make—laughter, a cry, a breath taken for the first time and given to you. Some nights, your palm rose and fell with the gentle flutter of movement beneath your skin, and you let yourself believe that maybe you weren’t completely alone. That maybe something was listening.

If he wouldn't stay, you would.

The pregnancy was not kind. Morning sickness that didn’t stop in the morning, aches in places you didn’t know could ache, and a hollow, gnawing loneliness that settled behind your ribs like mold. There was no one to rub your back when the cramps came. No one to hold your hand at appointments. You learned to read ultrasound screens like maps to a place you were terrified to reach alone.

You taped the first photo to the fridge and stared at it through tears. A blurry, black-and-white smudge. Proof. Anchor. Punishment.

You bought a secondhand crib off Facebook Marketplace and put it together yourself, swearing softly when the screws wouldn’t line up. Painted the walls a soft sage green, not because you liked it, but because it felt like the kind of color people chose when they still believed in peace.

At night, you whispered to your belly. Told him stories about heroes. About bravery. About love that stayed.

You never said Patrick’s name aloud, but some nights, when the air was too still and the weight of it all was too much, you dreamed of him walking through the door. You dreamed of forgiveness. Of soft apologies and strong arms and maybe’s that could still be real.

And then you’d wake up alone. And cry in the shower where no one could hear.

You didn’t get flowers when Levi was born. There was no one pacing outside the delivery room, no hands gripping yours through contractions, no voice telling you it was going to be okay.

But you did it. You screamed him into the world, heart breaking open and filling all at once.

And when they placed him on your chest, tiny and warm and blinking up at you like you were the only thing he knew—

That was the first time in months you remembered what it felt like to be loved without conditions.

Motherhood came at you like a tidal wave: no warning, no mercy. The nights were the worst. Not just because of the crying, but because of the silence in between. When the world went still and you were left alone with your thoughts, your fears, your memories. You held Levi in your arms like he was both shield and sword.

You learned the patterns of his breathing, the way his body curled into yours like he’d been there before, in another life. You learned to eat with one hand, sleep with one eye open, cry without making a sound.

The first time he smiled, it was crooked—just like Patrick’s. It hit you so hard you had to sit down. You laughed and sobbed into his blanket and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just muscle memory. A coincidence. Nothing more.

But everything reminded you of him. The curve of Levi’s jaw. The way he furrowed his brow in sleep. The quiet intensity in his gaze when he was focused on something—like building blocks or pulling the cat’s tail. He was made of you, yes. But he was stitched together with pieces of a man who had vanished.

You tried to be enough. Every bath time became a ritual. Every bedtime story a litany. Every scraped knee a prayer.

You never let Levi see you cry. You waited until he was asleep, until his breaths came soft and steady, until the lights were out and the apartment felt like a stranger’s house. Then you let the grief in. Let it climb into bed beside you like an old friend.

There were days you hated Patrick. Hated him for leaving. For making you strong when all you wanted was to lean. For making you lie when Levi asked why he didn’t have a daddy like the other kids at the park.

You always said the same thing: "Some people take a little longer to find their way."

And then you held him tighter. Because you knew—when Levi looked at you like you hung the stars, when he clapped after you made pancakes, when he said, “Mama, I love you more than dinosaurs”—you knew you’d do it all again.

Even the heartbreak. Even the waiting.

Even the door that never knocked—until today.

---

He comes back on a Tuesday. You’re still in your work-from-home clothes—soft pants, yesterday’s sweatshirt, hair twisted into something barely holding. Levi is at school, and the silence in the apartment feels like a held breath.

When you open the door, Patrick’s hands are stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His eyes flick up, then down, like he’s not sure where to look. He’s shaved. Mostly. Still looks like he hasn’t slept.

“I didn’t want to do this in front of him,” he says.

You nod once. Then step aside.

He walks in slowly, like the space might bite. You close the door behind him and lean against it, arms folded. He turns in the center of your living room, gaze moving across the walls like they might tell him what he missed. There’s a drawing Levi made of a green scribbled dinosaur taped beside the thermostat. A tiny sock abandoned near the coffee table. A photograph on the bookshelf—your smile tight, Levi’s toothy and bright.

Patrick presses his lips together. Doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches between you like a string pulled too tight, fragile and humming with things that might snap if touched. He stares at the walls, the crumbs on the floor, the drawing of a green dinosaur taped beside the thermostat like it’s a museum relic of a life he wasn’t invited to. Every breath he takes feels like it costs him something.

You don’t either.

He turns to you, finally. "I don’t know where to start."

"Start with why you’re here."

His jaw flexes. He looks down, then up again. "Because I never stopped thinking about you. Because I thought leaving would protect you. Because I hated the version of me I was becoming, and I didn’t want him to ever know that man."

"You don’t get to talk about him like you know him."

The words come fast. Sharp. You weren’t planning to say them, but they’re out before you can stop them. Patrick flinches like they cut deep.

You swallow. Try again. Quieter.

"You left. And we stayed. That’s the only truth that matters."

Patrick nods. Doesn’t argue.

"I want to be in his life," he says. "If you'll let me. I—I know I have no right to ask. But I’m asking. Anyway."

You look at him for a long time. Long enough for your throat to ache. For your eyes to blur.

You think about Levi’s face when he colors in the sun yellow every time. The way he runs down the hall with his shoes on the wrong feet. The way he says, mama, mama, look, like you’re the only one in the world who ever truly sees him.

You nod, once. Slowly.

Patrick’s breath catches.

"You’ll start as a stranger," you say. "You’ll earn your way back in. Brick by brick. Word by word. I won’t let you hurt him."

"I won’t," he promises. And you almost believe him.

You point to the couch. "Sit. I’ll make coffee."

And he does. And you do. And for the first time in four years, the apartment doesn’t feel quite so haunted.

---

The change is slow. Measured. Like the seasons shifting before the trees notice.

Patrick starts showing up more often. Not just when he says he will, but earlier. With snacks. With books for Levi. With hands that fold laundry without asking. Sometimes you find your dishes already washed. Sometimes he takes the trash out without a word.

You don’t trust it. Not at first. Not really.

But Levi laughs more. Sleeps easier. Starts drawing pictures of three people instead of two.

Patrick never pushes. Never raises his voice. Never tries to reclaim what he left. He plays the long game—quiet, consistent, present. And that consistency starts to chip away at your defenses in places you didn’t know were still cracked.

You catch yourself watching him. The way he kneels to tie Levi’s shoes. The way he listens—really listens—when your son talks about dinosaurs or clouds or how loud the sky can get when it’s excited. You hear the soft laugh in Patrick’s chest when Levi calls thunder a love letter. You feel it in your bones.

You try not to let it in.

One afternoon, while Levi is still at school, Patrick asks if you want to take a walk. Just around the block. Clear your head.

You almost say no. Almost slam the door of your heart before it even creaks open. But you grab your coat anyway.

You walk in silence. Leaves crunching underfoot. He stays a step behind, like he doesn’t want to crowd your space. The wind cuts sharp through the collar of your jacket.

Out of nowhere, he says, “I should’ve stayed.”

You stop walking.

He keeps going for a few steps before he notices, then turns around.

“I know that’s not enough. I know it changes nothing. But I did love you. I still—” He stops himself. Looks away.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you taste salt.

You press the sleeve of your jacket to your eyes, angry at the weakness, angry at the memory of who you were before. Angry that some part of you wants to believe him.

“I can’t do this again,” you whisper. “I can’t survive loving you twice.”

He takes a step closer. Doesn’t touch you.

“You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll love you from a distance if I have to. I’ll show up. I’ll keep showing up. I just—needed you to know.”

You shake your head, stumbling backward. The tears come harder now. Not the gentle kind. The ragged, breathless, body-buckling kind.

You don’t even remember falling to your knees, but suddenly you’re on the ground, sobbing into your hands. All of it—years of holding it together, of being strong, of never letting anyone see the mess—it all spills out.

And then he’s there.

He doesn’t touch you. Not right away. He kneels beside you, his hands palm-up on his thighs, waiting. Quiet. Steady. And somehow, that’s worse. That he’s learned how to wait. That he’s here.

You want to scream at him. You want to collapse into him. You want to run.

But mostly, you want to be held.

And after a long moment, you let him.

You wake up the next morning expecting silence.

It’s muscle memory now—waking before the sun, padding into the kitchen with half-lidded eyes and heavy limbs, bracing for another day of doing it all on your own.

But the apartment doesn’t greet you with emptiness.

There’s the soft clatter of dishes in the sink. The low hum of someone speaking—gentle, amused.

You freeze in the hallway, bare feet pressed to cold tile, heartbeat thudding in your throat.

And then you hear it.

Patrick’s voice. "Okay, buddy, but the cereal goes in first. Not the milk. Trust me on this one."

Levi’s giggle echoes like sunlight in a room too small to harbor his birghtness.

You move forward slowly, quietly, until you’re standing just beyond the edge of the kitchen. Patrick is crouched beside Levi at the counter, helping him pour cereal into a chipped blue bowl. He’s still in yesterday’s hoodie, hair a mess, barefoot like he belongs there.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too focused on Levi, steadying the carton as milk splashes too close to the rim. There’s something soft in his posture. Something heartbreakingly domestic.

Levi notices you first. "Mama!"

Patrick straightens immediately. His eyes meet yours. There’s a flicker of panic there, quickly masked.

"Morning," he says, voice quiet.

You nod, swallowing down whatever this feeling is—this lump of disbelief and longing and something dangerously close to hope.

"I didn’t want to wake you," he adds. "Levi asked for cereal and… I thought I could help."

You look at your son, cheeks full of sugar and joy.

You look at Patrick, standing in your kitchen like it’s sacred ground.

And for the first time, you don’t feel like running.

---

The days start to stack.

Patrick picks Levi up from school on Fridays. He folds the laundry you forget in the dryer. He learns how you take your coffee without asking and starts leaving it on the counter—right side of the mug facing out, handle turned the way you like it. He hums sometimes when he cleans up, soft and aimless. It makes your chest ache.

You fall into rhythms again. Not like before. Slower. Cautious. But real.

One evening, he stays later than usual. Levi’s fallen asleep on the couch mid-cartoon, a stuffed dinosaur clutched in one arm. You’re washing dishes. Patrick dries.

Your hands brush once.

Twice.

By the third time, neither of you pulls away.

You look up. His eyes are already on you.

Something lingers there—warm and pained and dangerous.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he speaks first.

“I miss you.”

The plate slips from your hand into the sink. It doesn’t break, but the splash feels final.

“I can’t,” you say quickly, too quickly.

“I know,” he says. “But I do.”

You dry your hands and turn away, pressing your palms flat to the counter to steady yourself, trying to remember how to breathe like you used to—before he walked back in.

“You don’t get to say that to me like it means nothing,” you whisper. “Like you didn’t leave. Like I didn’t have to scrape my life back together alone.”

“I know I don’t deserve it.”

“Then stop acting like you do.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “You think I haven’t punished myself every day since?”

You spin around, suddenly angry. “And what, I’m supposed to forgive you because you feel bad? Because you missed a few birthdays and now you want back in?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re not supposed to do anything. But I’m here. I’m not running this time.”

“You broke me, Patrick.” Your voice cracks. “And now you want to build something new on the ruins like it’s nothing.”

He’s in front of you now. Too close. The space between you charged, buzzing.

“I don’t think it’s nothing,” he says. “I think it’s everything.”

Your breath catches. The air shifts.

His hand lifts—hesitates—then cups your jaw.

And you let him.

Because the truth is, you’ve wanted this. Wanted him. Even if it terrifies you.

His lips brush yours, tentative, like a question. When you don’t pull away, it deepens. He kisses you like he remembers. Like he regrets. Like he’s starving.

You back into the counter. His hands find your waist. Yours find his hair. You pull him closer.

It’s messy. It’s breathless. It’s years of anger and ache colliding in one impossible kiss.

When you finally break apart, his forehead presses to yours.

“I still love you,” he breathes.

And you close your eyes.

Because maybe, just maybe, you still do too.

---

He kisses you again, harder this time.

But it’s different now. Slower. Like mourning. Like worship. He takes your hand, and you follow, barefoot through the dark.

The two of you stumble back toward the bedroom, the one you once shared, where his cologne used to cling to the pillows and laughter used to live in the walls. Now it smells like lavender detergent and your son’s shampoo. Now it holds the weight of everything that’s happened since.

He kicks the door shut behind you with a soft thud, and the silence that follows is thick with ghosts.

You lie down first. He joins you like he’s afraid the bed might refuse him.

Your mouths find each other again, and it’s like no time has passed, and also like every second is a wound reopening. His kiss is deep, aching, soaked in apology. You pull at his hoodie, and he helps you out of your clothes with hands that remember everything—every freckle, every scar, every place you used to let him in.

He touches you like you might slip through his fingers again. Fingers grazing your ribs like a benediction, lips following like he's asking forgiveness with every breath. The inside of your knee, the curve of your belly, the dip of your collarbone—he maps them all like he’s afraid you’ve changed, and desperate to prove you haven’t.

When he finally sinks into you, it feels like grief.

He gasps like he’s never breathed without you.

You wrap your limbs around him like armor. Like prayer. You hold on because if you let go, you might disappear.

He moves like he remembers. Slow. Deep. Devotional. Not trying to make you come—trying to make you stay.

Your eyes lock. His forehead rests against yours. And it’s not lust anymore. It’s penance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice threadbare. “For everything I lost. For everything I made you carry alone.”

Your fingers press to his jaw, tremble against his cheek. “You don’t get to be sorry now,” you breathe. “But don’t stop. Please… don’t stop pretending this could still be real. Don’t stop making me feel like I’m not the only one who kept the light on.”

You fall together like a storm collapsing. No crescendo, no clean ending. Just trembling limbs and bitten lips and all the years that weren’t spoken finally breaking open between you.

After, he doesn’t move. You’re tangled up, forehead to collarbone, his thumb brushing soft circles into your spine like he’s trying to say everything he can’t.

You don’t speak. Words feel too small.

You fall asleep in the bed where he first kissed your shoulder, in the bed where you cried alone, in the bed where you dreamed he’d come back.

And this time, when you wake up, he’s still there.

His eyes already on you.

Like he never stopped looking.

---

The morning light is soft, gray around the edges. You blink slowly, still tucked against him, your body sore in ways that feel almost sacred. There’s a pause before reality settles, before memory floods back in. His chest rises beneath your palm. He’s warm. Solid. Still here.

You sit up gently, careful not to disturb the quiet. But Patrick stirs anyway, eyes still on you like he was never asleep.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, voice low, gravelly.

You nod. Swallow. You don’t trust your voice yet.

There’s a beat. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask what last night meant. Just watches you, eyes soft, full of something he doesn’t dare taking the risk of naming. Something close to hope.

You slip out of bed and grab your robe, tying it loosely as you move through the morning light. You half-expect him to vanish while your back is turned, but when you glance over your shoulder, he’s still sitting there, eyes trailing after you like they never stopped.

You make coffee with shaking hands. The kitchen smells like warmth and cinnamon, the candle you forgot to blow out last night still flickering quietly on the counter. You pour two mugs, unsure if the gesture means too much or too little.

When you return to the bedroom, Patrick is sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt tugged over his head, hair wild from sleep. He looks up like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

Instead, you hand him the mug.

He takes it like it’s sacred, fingers brushing yours with a hesitation that feels reverent, his gaze catching on yours with something close to disbelief. Like he’s afraid the mug might vanish if he holds it too tightly.

And then, footsteps.

Tiny ones.

The soft shuffle of socks against hardwood. A bedroom door creaking open. Levi’s voice drifting down the hallway: “Mama?”

Your breath hitches.

Patrick stands quickly, not panicked but present, like he knows this is delicate. You move toward the hallway just as Levi turns the corner, hair a mess of curls, pajama shirt twisted from sleep. He rubs one eye and stares at you, then at Patrick behind you.

He blinks once. Steps forward.

And then, small and serious:

“Are you gonna be my daddy again?”

You exhale like someone just punched the air out of your lungs.

Patrick lowers to a knee, eyes level with Levi’s. “Hey, buddy,” he says, voice soft, unsure.

Levi looks at him like he’s made of starlight and storybooks. Like he’s a wish come true.

Patrick’s throat works. “I… I’d really like to be. If you want me to.”

Levi nods, serious, like it’s a very important decision. Then he climbs onto the bed and curls himself into your side, tiny fingers finding Patrick’s hand.

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

But when Patrick squeezes Levi’s hand, and Levi doesn’t let go, something in you cracks open.

And for the first time, the pieces don’t scatter.

They start to fall into place.

---

Later, after breakfast is made and half-eaten, after Levi has gone back to coloring at the kitchen table—his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration—Patrick lingers by the sink, coffee mug long since empty.

You wash dishes beside him, quiet.

“I used to lie,” he says suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “To everyone. About why I left. About what I was doing. About you.”

You pause, fingers wet and soapy in the sink.

He keeps going, eyes fixed on a spot just above the faucet. “I told people I wasn’t ready. That I needed time. That I didn’t want to hold you back. But the truth is… I was scared. Not of being a father. Not really. I was scared of what you’d see when everything in me started to rot.”

Your chest tightens.

“I thought if I stayed, I’d make you miserable. That you’d look at me one day and see someone you pitied. Someone who used to be something. And I couldn’t—I couldn’t take that.”

The silence blooms, wide and brittle, as Levi hums softly in the background, his small voice painting innocence across the sharp edges of the truth hanging in the air.

“I would sit outside playgrounds,” Patrick says, his voice thinner now. “I’d watch kids run around and wonder if any of them were mine. I used to see this one boy who had curls just like Levi’s. And I’d imagine what it would feel like if he looked up and called me Dad.”

You stare at the bubbles in the sink. They pop, one by one.

“I thought I was punishing myself by staying away,” he says. “But it was cowardice. It was me choosing the version of pain that didn’t involve looking you in the eye.”

You set the dish down. Turn off the water. And you say nothing, because there’s nothing to say. Because guilt is not a gift, and grief is not a currency. But hearing it—letting him say it—somehow makes it heavier.

And still.

You don’t ask him to leave.

But you do walk outside.

The morning has shifted. Clouded over. You sit on the steps, arms wrapped around yourself, the chill crawling into your sleeves. You hear the door creak behind you and then close softly. He doesn’t follow. He knows better.

There’s a lump in your throat the size of a fist.

You think about all the versions of yourself he never met. The woman in the hospital bed, sweat-soaked and screaming, holding Levi against her chest with shaking arms and blood beneath her nails. The woman who sat awake at three a.m. night after night, bouncing a colicky baby in the quiet because there was no one else to pass him to. The woman who pawned her violin, sold the gold bracelet her grandmother gave her, whispered I’m sorry to her own reflection just to keep the lights on. The woman who smiled at Levi even when her eyes were raw from crying. The woman who learned how to fold pain into lullabies and grief into grocery lists. You became a mosaic in his absence—sharp-edged and shining. You held yourself together with coffee spoons and lullabies, with baby monitors and the ache of resilience. You wore your grief like a second skin, stretched tight and stitched through with hope you never admitted aloud.. And now he wants to stay. The one in the hospital bed. The one who learned how to swaddle with trembling fingers. The one who sold her violin to pay for rent. The one who laughed, even when it hurt, because Levi was watching.

You think about what it cost to become someone whole without him.

He didn’t get to see the becoming.

And now he wants to stay.

You close your eyes. Rest your forehead on your knees. Breathe.

Footsteps approach. Small ones.

Levi climbs into your lap without a word. He curls into you like he did when he was smaller, like he’s always known how to find your center.

“Do you still love him?” he asks.

You press your lips to his hair. “I don’t know what to do with it,” you whisper.

Levi’s voice is soft. “Maybe we can love him different now. Like a new story.”

And something inside you breaks.

Not the way it used to.

Not shattering.

Cracking open.

You look toward the door, and through the window, you see Patrick still standing there—his forehead resting against the frame, like he’s praying to the quiet.

You don’t run to him. You don’t forgive him.

But you do stand.

And this time, when you open the door, you leave it open behind you.

Just enough to tell him… ‘try again.’

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

[tamlinweek]

A special Tamlin Week surprise: Tamlin reads your fics!

The mods here at Tamlin Week are SO delighted and honored to present Henry Kramer, Tamlin's voice actor of the ACOTAR graphic audio books, reading Tamlin fanfiction lines in character.

None of this would be possible without @laziestkiwi, who messaged us and got us in touch with Henry. We crowdsourced some of your favorite fanfic lines, and sent them to Henry to peruse. He picked a few of those lines to read and recorded them FOR FREE!

If you enjoy Henry's work as much as we do, be sure to follow him on Twitch, Instagram, or Facebook. You can also get in touch with him on his website here to commission him for voice acting work.

As a side note: We sent Henry almost 60 lines of fanfiction, with no expectation that he would read every single one. The lines read were chosen by Henry, who is not involved in fandom in any way. The chosen lines and authors do not represent any favoritism by the mods here, they were simple the quotes that spoke most to Henry.

And now, on to the main event! Tamlin bringing your fanfiction to life!

Bravery Is In Spite Of Fear by @achaotichuman

“You never lost me.” He murmured, pressing another kiss, this one to her brow, “You have never lost me.”

Am I making you feel sick? by @yaralulu

Be angry. Show me how angry you are.

When Lucien opened his mouth to say another irritable thing, Tamlin shut him up the only way he knew how. He kissed him.

Eternal Equinox by @sonics-atelier

Spring and Autumn, now as one,   A union blessed beneath the sun.   Through seasons’ turn, their love shall bloom,            Eternal life through earth’s perfume.

carry that weight by @fourteentrout

"I need to protect my people in the ways I know how. I'm needed out there more than I am in here." He answered anyway, nodding towards the forest beyond the grounds.

“Does that unmake me? Am I a new being with every form I take?” The High Lord asked without bite. “I am who I am.”

borrowed time by @ipona

"I meant what I said." He looks at Rhys, catching his gaze, holding it for a moment longer than Rhys expects him to. "And who of us isn't a brute, really?"

Songs of Spring by @themildestofwriters

“It’s a song about hope,” Tamlin said, finally, slouching forward and meeting Tarquin’s eyes. “About how, even after the darkest times, I could still find happiness — joy, even. It might take years, decades, centuries, even, but it will pass as surely as night turns to day.”

Tarquin nodded, understanding, and smiled. “Or as winter turns to summer. A true song of Spring, then.”

cosmogeny by @highlordofkrypton

It takes Tamlin a moment to find the words he’d like to gift to Nyx. No matter what they are, Nyx will cherish them, as he has with any other moment in the presence of his light. When Tamlin speaks, it’s with a wistful smile on his handsome face.

“Because I’ve just met you, and it’s always a shame to lose someone, especially someone you’re fond of.”

How Nesta Archeron Learned to Trap A Beast by @achaotichuman

“Ready?” Tamlin asked. Nesta didn’t answer him, just walked into the forests before them. Tamlin let her get far enough into the tree lines that he couldn’t see her before he shouted, “Wrong way!” “Fuck you!”

“I’m here. I’m here Nesta.” He said. “Stay with me.” She whispered, “Please.” There was a moment of pure silence, one that bore into her heavy soul. “I would never leave.” He promised her, “Never.”

The Gown by @goforth-ladymidnight

"I love you, thorns and all, and I always will."

dividers made by @olenvasynyt

[allfearstofallto]

Writing for my OC, cause he's the only thing that cures my writes block!!

Yandere! Butler x Fem! Reader

There's nothing Yuri loves more than picking out your outfits for the day. Well, that's a lie. He loves your smile and your laugh and he loves the face you make when you're reading a particularly interesting part of a book. But picking your outfits is also a treat for him. The way you twirl in the dresses and long skirts to show him just how cute you are is like a touch of heaven on this mortal earth. He loves picking jewelry that compliments your skin, or scents that match the color of your dress for the day. Yet, today is the only day of his life, where he's displeased as he rummages through your closet.

A letter from the crown Prince himself? Yuri scoffed at the sight. He intended to throw it into the flames of the fireplace, as he'd done with almost all your other marriage requests, but you got to it first. Your eyes widened at the sight of the imperial stamp, your fingers gripping the letter so tightly it nearly crumbled.

“Yuri! Can you believe it?” You spoke excitedly, shaking him the letter, “The crown Prince has requested to see me! Me personally!”

It took a lot out of him to not roll his eyes, that familiar pit was forming in his stomach. The crown Prince? He was a man he knew all too well. When Yuri served, he was even tasked with protecting his carriage while the prince was traveling across cities. He was a pompous ass. That's all Yuri could remember about him. Spoiled rotten and disgustingly annoying, he wasn't suitable for you.

“What an achievement,” he strained himself to say, but bile was rising in his throat as he spoke. He swallowed it down, clenching his fist to not say what he really wanted to. Not when you would ask how he knew the crown Prince. He’d rather his secrets stay that way, especially from you who he adores so much. But the joy in your eyes was hurting him.

“Are you picking gold?” You questioned while peaking over Yuri's shoulders, in his hands a yellow dress with golden embroidery. A color you seldom wore, but one that Yuri adored against your skin. Mentally he was cursing himself, even though he wanted the crown prince to want absolutely nothing to do with you, he could deny himself the ability of making you beautiful. A treat for his own eyes, even though he wished to gouge out the eyes of others who dared look.

“A lovely gown,” he said, holding the dress up to you, letting the fabric drape over your shoulders so that you may see how it fares against your body in the mirror, “You rarely have the chance to wear it.” The words were spoken through gritted teeth, it pained him to doll you up, to make you beautiful for another man.

“What if it's a marriage proposal?” You gleamed. Had you've been looking at Yuri, you would've seen his blue eyes darken, seen him clench his hands into a fist like he was preparing to attack an imaginary assailant.

“Nonsense,” he replied with a click of his tongue and a causal shake of his head. Yuri knew the crown prince well, knew that he was weak, and spoiled. And knew that anything, he feared the man who was delicately applying a hint of blush to your cheeks.

Yuri has scared him once, back when he was still a knight. But that was a sorry for another day. A story from before you'd claimed his heart. And a story you would never know, if all went well. If the crown prince, that disgustingly pampered brat ever asked for your hand, he'd see Yuri again. With the same smile, the same bright blue eyes, and the same hand that'd held a sword to his throat, all those years ago.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 3

author’s note: VERY suggestive (we’ll get there properly someday), but mostly sad again (everybody act surprised). i just wanted to drop some of their lore and make you understand viktor’s perspective. reader is NOT in a good place. you’re going to hate for that one. sorry in advance. also, there’s some context for you to look up at the end of this chapter (mostly music and czech shehanigans).

word count: 6,1k

—

Viktor’s first performance in London converged with the Velvet Divorce. It was an honest accident, a random calamity pulling ahead of his usual luck. His flight has been delayed, then cunningly cancelled altogether. Perfect timing, too. The thirty-first of December. Seven in the evening. 

He remembered staying at his closed gate, bitterly grinning at alliterative murmurs of the English—fellow victims to irresponsible airlines, furious in their mutual misery. He watched the commotion fray around him into flurries of ‘bollocks’ and ‘bloody hells’, greige trench coats billowing behind vamping legs like angry Victorian frocks (They weren’t seriously planning on landing in Prague in this? Do they even know it snows farther east?) 

He called the hotel and tried to get his room back. Everything was fully booked. He called, and called, and called, occasionally pivoting to assault the nearest trash bin with his cane. It achieved nothing but a huge dent in the shiny thing, and there it stood, distorted and guilty of failing to relieve his hardship. His back wept inside his sweater, sorely foretasting a long, tiring night in the waiting area: the flight he was transferred to wasn’t leaving until noon. Fitfully, he slept in his seat, stirring awake whenever a hoarse bullhorn made an eerie announcement, and Viktor swore to avoid holiday tours at all costs henceforth, no matter how seductive the pay might be. 

In the morning, he called home. Your drowsy sigh tickled the receiver, then thawed into a happy squeal when you’d recognised the brunt of his ‘good morning’, each weary consonant thick with nasal anger. 

“Happy New Year,” you chirped. “You’re divorced now.”

He cracked a staticky laugh. 

“Are you that mad at me for missing a holiday? I assure you, it was the least pleasant night of my life—“

“Oh. No, it’s not that. Slovakia divorced us. Amicably. Or, rather, we did? Anyway, we’re a republic now. Isn’t that crazy?”

And crazy it was, in a way. Because later that day, as he lay crammed chest to chest with you in the confines of white linen, the hum of planes and buses still stiffening his thoughts into incoherent lumps of consciousness, not the faintest inkling of forthcoming misery could languish the treacle of those reveries—the mundane all stupefied by your hair in his wincing face. For now, they were beyond his reach, those years preceding a separation of his own, albeit not nearly as amicable and definitely not velvet. Stuck in London once again, this time in September and by reluctant choice, Viktor contemplated splitting into republics. Oh, the conniving history and its stupid recurrence. Or maybe he just ought to stop performing in England. He always seems to run out of luck in that country. 

He’d rather be in Brno—more faultlessly, in that dreamy version of it from the portentous year of Orwellian dystopia, back where taking what’s his is a nascent notion of a shy, thin-lipped thing crumbling agape on another’s wet, welcoming mouth; where the first, firm twine of shaky fingers is its polite predecessor. I hope I’m not overstepping—I really hope you are. I can’t do anything to you until I receive a ʼyesʼ—Does ʼpleaseʼ suffice? You’re spoiling me—I’m merely treating myself. Oh to fall in love in Brno again. A yearning half-coherent. 

He’d met it as a first-year at JAMU, in Music Theory. It was a cloying, magnolia-scented nape in the row beneath him—always benumbing his wits ad nauseum and keeping his scattered alerts off the triads and chord progressions. That absconder was maddening him once a week—a tauntful whiff embellished with unkempt hairs, always peeking out of your starched collars or, on one blissful occasion, concertedly unconfined. And, with it, a splendour of pretty shoulders—the darling curse of Indian summer indulged in a flimsy dress. That did it for him. He’d lasted—no, toiled—through three redolent Wednesdays (ironically enough), but the medley of skin and perfume hindered even his composure. 

When the class was dismissed, he’d chased you down through the rustling of briefcases and hurrying musicians, reached an adroit hand and tapped-yanked on your back, pliant skin recoiling under his polite grip. You turned around—petulant and audacious, an accusation already germinant in your throat. He remembered it graphically: your brisk scrutiny of his face, the defensive pout, his hold of you gaping open and scurrying away. He used to keep his hair neatly cut back then. Yours was always in updos, teasing sweet swivels of skin. His speech was more opaque, frankly—a tad pretentious. Yours was expressive, excited with aspirations. He dressed smartly on an everyday whim. You did so too, albeit more effortlessly. He savored them—those last quizzical seconds spent as ambitious strangers, and wondered what you saw in him just then: a day short of nineteen, obstinate and so very lofty. Must’ve been a brisk affair. A sincere friendship. A sexually frustrating challenge of tainting a precocious pianist. Or, maybe, precisely what had evolved from it all: the beginning of a twelve-year-long journey yet to be over with.

You spoke first. “Do I know you?” He faltered with his answer, clumsily tripping over his cane: someone had struck him in the shoulder running out of the lecture hall, and he pivoted just in time to restore his wavering balance, glaring after their rushed apology. You glared with him, and the grievance became mutual—a strange, fleeting comfort. He smiled. 

“Watch your step, asshole!” You yelled and hoped that it reached the intruder. And reach it did: more distant sorries were thrown your way, ceasing in the doorway at last. 

“Oh, there’s no need for profanities,” Viktor was laughing now—a creaky, throaty sound. Your attention was all his again—ruminative, foolhardy, daring eyes scoping him from tie to forehead. “There’s nothing a little violence can’t fix. I’ll return the blow next time.” 

“Of course. Nip it in the bud. Make sure you aim for the throat.” 

“Certainly.” 

“Right. Sorry, did you want something?” 

“Actually, yes. What perfume are you wearing?”

“Why, is this for your girlfriend?”

“No, I would never subject a significant other to that scent. My babča, on the other hand…” He bit his tongue, tiresomely late. The conduit from clever to insulting has been crossed, and the damage was staring at him askance, irretrievably furious, white-cuffed wrists pressed tightly to the plaid decollete as if aching to do him in right there, in the now-empty classroom. “Excuse you?”

“Oh, I came with a qualm. I’m terribly sorry”— he wasn’t; well, not terribly—“but that scent is nauseating. Terribly floral. I could barely concentrate on the augmented chords sitting behind you.“

“Then find a different seat.”

“That’s impossible, I’m afraid. By the time I get here, it’s the only vacant spot. Well, except for the one right next to you, but I prefer to stick to the lesser evil.”

You snuck your partiture under an armpit and swung hard on squeaky heels; thrifted vintages tapping out a languid drollery. Not rejecting, but not quite beckoning either. But his cane consorted, and into the hall they clicked—the first one of many pieces you’ll play together. 

“Who do you think you are?” A mean susurration. But your pace was bereft of hurry. Thorough, wide, anything but hasty: you made sure that he could keep up. 

That posed a meddling. Viktor smiled again. “Nobody. Just a mere mortal begging you to take it down a notch.”

“Why would I care for a mere mortal’s request?”

“That’s fair, I suppose. I shouldn’t have articulated it so crudely. You smell lovely, just a tad… excessive. What I’m trying to say is—“ he chewed on his cheek, a sweet, bashful thing, “I’d like to keep looking at you without having to feel like I’m in a funeral home.” 

His severe case of smartassness was peeking through every syllable—the kind of speech you want to dissect into minutiae, preferably by taping it for future reveries. You turned around and stared past him into the hall, an upright competition of who blinks first. Fellow aspiring musicians kept shuffling around, jubilant, ever so busy, each one scurrying to their classes or band practices. You, too, should’ve been headed upstairs to set up for Elgar with the orchestra. But you craved a revanche. Some quaint, reversed jab. All the while simply revelling with him not-quite-tête-à-tête in the humming not-quite-silence. 

Both backs clung to the wall and straightened against it, let the mildewy cool creep under your smart clothes. Both chests heaved post-cigarette-break-like (both pairs of lungs have dabbled before, you were sure of that), and there you stood—shivering, canine-flashing, heads thrown back in your first shared laughter. 

“I’m so sorry,” Viktor stumbled over a guilty smile, pretty fingers shaking against his forehead. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I should’ve complimented you first. Oh, this is a disaster…”

“You’re funny,” you managed through a faulty rasp, and he emulated with a finishing chuckle of his own. “Funeral home, huh?” You drew a breath. “That’s a first.”

“Truly?” He turned to you in a clumsy half-lean, and another staring contest followed—less dispute, more incredulous. “Does your cohort lack the sense of smell, or are they just being polite?” 

“Neither. My ‘cohort’ consists of me and an inanimate object.”

“Inanimate?”

“Yes. It’s just me and my cello.” 

“Interesting. Would it care for a playdate with my piano?”

“It depends. What’s your repertoire?”

“Oh, let’s see. Schumann. Some Fauré, but I haven’t practiced that Élégie in a while. Chopin, of course. Some Debussy, if we’re feeling sensual.” 

“Hm. Versatile. And your name is?”

“Viktor. Viktor Knirsch.” 

“Right. Fine, Mr. Knirsch. Pick me up after orchestra practice in about three hours, and I’ll see what I can do for you.” 

And so it began. The invariance of ardent rehearsal rapidly progressing into circumspect touches atop the partiture; their labile austerity—a swing from subtle to intentional, fingers delving into lower backs innocuously at first, then steadily inching southward. More shared laughs interspersed with each mishap—dissolving defensiveness, unraveling the innermost. Reserving an evening for duets in both tight schedules. Then another one. And another. Until they’d become extracurricular and branched out into dorms, streets, his parents’ house, every desolate room of the Academy, and, of course, the movies (albeit often illegally—sneaking in was too adventurously frugal to pass up on). All of it commonly threaded by a game of who manages to confine a confession longest. 

But of one, Viktor is certain: his favorite version of you is forever the prodigious first cello with a penchant for Saint-Säens and an opinion on just about any repertoire—the stern girl unfurling her audience’s ribcages to steal shaky heartbeats (or souls, for all he knows). She reads ambiguous fiction and plays Lacrimosa to bed, eating apricot Hamé with a silver spoon he’d nicked for her from the flea market. “Sleep is a trial of death,” she says, licking the stolen trinket, “If I absolutely must adhere to it, I’d rather it be sweet and with a decent accompaniment.” She always loses against him in checkers and renders adorably testy, wraps him in her arms like a headlock, and promises to ‘get you next time’, but when the next time comes, she blunders a triple jump within a couple of moves. She likes everything crescendo: her voice, her step, but, more importantly, her music. She throws her head back performing The Swan with him and becomes swan-like herself: her neck—arched and elongated, her shirt—crumpled white with jam speckles. She aces every subject and teases him for having aced his with a two-point lead, and there she is, just beneath him in the list—not yet Knirsch, but already half-his and willing.

She has her moments, of course. Such as concerningly long rehearsals resulting in open wounds on her fingertips. A strange, self-inflicted treaty of banning herself from going to bed until she’d studied her two hours of music theory. An even stranger aim to please every examinee, which, when not met, resulted in a sobbing stunt. But we all have our vices. For her, it is, evidently, the cello. Surely, there’s nothing wrong with being a tad overzealous? She just really loves what she does. 

That was a summary of year one, both as music students and bashful eye-fuckers. But also, eye-kissers. And eye-I-want-to-know-you-body-and-soul’s, too. That one was omnipresent. And evident. 

Which led Viktor to be braver in year two, after an entire summer break spent in your absence. Being in Brno without you didn’t feel right anymore: playing Debussy on his own was now daunting, practically inconceivable. So was longing to challenge you, when the Music Theory professor would inevitably drift into irrelevance, to a discreet game of checkers. He missed classes, annual solemn concerts, exams, and performances. But, more importantly, he missed your drunken attempts at kisses and hushed secrets spilled alongside cheap cherry wine onto your favorite comforter. From I can’t stand baroque to I feel safe around you. He’d call you every night, rambling on about his July boredom, his side-kick at a local jazz-bar—anything and everything you were missing out on by spending the summer break in your hometown, and you hummed along, an excited, darling reciprocation, always so very forward to tell him about your days, nights, and reminiscences.

“I’m so glad you used to smother yourself in that mortuary-esque perfume.”

“Are you, now?”

“Yes. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have met the most fascinating person in that entire Academy.”

“Do I not possess other distinguishing features? Only that tart smell?”

“Of course you do! I was trying to be romantic—“ 

“You could start by giving me a proper compliment for a change.”

“I compliment you all the time.”

“Really? Jog my memory.” 

“You’re the most talented cellist of our generation. Everybody is besotted with you, and I might just be the most lost cause of them all. Your dedication is precious.”

“Just my dedication?”

“…You’re also incorrigible, but I keep enduring it for your sharp wit and beauty.” 

“See! There. Beauty. That’s what I’d like you to elaborate on.” 

“I’m not talking dirty to you on my parents’ phone. Good night.” 

In August, he cracked and asked you to come to Brno. His greed was biblical, endearingly so: he wanted to spend those last weeks of scorching boredom with you all to himself. So what if the dorms were closed for summer? You’d reside in his room. His parents didn’t deem that an inconvenience: if anything, they were thrilled to witness him finally fall for something that wasn't eight dozen piano keys. Money wouldn’t be an issue either: you’d do fun improv at his smokey jazz bar as a duo. Everything could be taken care of if only you pretty please came to indulge him. 

He had to beg into the receiver for precisely five minutes. You had your answer by the time he’d uttered his first please, yet couldn’t resist a tease. Cruel? Perhaps, but did it really matter when you bid farewell to your family after putting the phone down, and fled to the train station like the lovesick fool you were, having packed just your cello and some clean clothes? In a few hours, you were throwing your arms around his neck in a deliberate, finally sober kiss, and your life outside him and Brno mattered no longer. You were a voluntary victim of young, all-consuming love, its onslaught nothing but wispy, drunkenly overbearing. And you liked being a goner. There’s nothing like falling casualty to obsession, both musical and romantic. You took the jazz bar job. His parents were happy to see you. Everything foretasted three weeks' worth of bliss, tiring rehearsals, timid walks, and first, loutish attempts at sex. 

That last part used to be a tad tricky. Later that night, he engrossed himself in big, gentle handfuls—a tad shaky at the fingertips, somewhat jumpy at mutual clenches of teeth, but the imagery was impeccable: you, in your naked glory at his disposal, stuffing his face full of breast, skin, and open legs. Feline-like grins growing loose around plush earlobes, aureoles, and thumbs. Moans—raspy, titillating, and hushed (at times not so much, more so paired with the bed’s squeaking). Going steady, coming hard, gasping sweet. Concealing plum evidence with insufferable wool turtlenecks (a true summer torture) and cheap makeup much too warm-toned (eighties be damned). 

“Would you look at that,” you’d pant afterwards, draped in sweat and bedsheets, all tangled legs and not-so-bashful flush. “You never frown upon debauching me at your parents’ house, but talking dirty on their phone is where you draw the line?” 

He’d smile into his nuzzle against your neck, teeth just shy of a reproaching bite. “It’s a continuum. You, coming here—“

“Coming for you.” 

“Precisely that, yes. You, coming here—coming for me, always weakens my restraint.”

“Was it ever there to begin with?”

Or, sometimes, he could be a vulnerable thing. His arms around you like a trembling headlock, his face a pained scowl hidden against the pillow. You’d tend to him, then. Prying his mouth open to push in a bitter painkiller, sitting nose-to-nose as he’d stumbled over a cramp. Listening to his copious sorries while wishing to hear none, rubbing his sore limbs, tracing his vertebrae, kissing his damp temples. 

“This is torturous,” he’d hiss, leaning against you. “I’m sorry,” (you’d roll your eyes here, passing him a glass of water), “all this… must be such a mood-killer.” 

“It’s not. You, apologising for it, is.” 

“I’m sor— Eh.” 

“Viktor—“ you’d cup his face, matching his frown. “Quit it. The only unfortunate thing about this is your pain. I’ve seen your episodes before. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Of course, but during… sex?”

“Oh please. I had an ex burst into villainous laughter when he came. Nothing can beat that one.”

“Mmm. Maniacal laughter, you say? Is that why you left?”

“That, and his penchant for being whipped with my bow. I got tired of having to buy new ones. Those things are expensive.” 

“Really? Now that’s inapt. I was just about to suggest a similar endeavour.”

“Calm down, Casanova. Let’s deal with your flare-up first.” 

After that, Viktor was insatiable. Not physically, but rather emotionally, as if fuelled by closure. He wasn’t giving up deciphering your soul. He merely intended to pay even more attention to the body to better prove his devotion. 

Your return to the dorms in September didn’t dilute that debauchery. Sex became solipsistic. There existed no one but you two—perpetually tangled up, beautifully wretched. A tad voyeuristic at times. Between rehearsals, performances, and classes, he’d look for darling opportunities to confess his love in ways involving hands, tongues, and other appendages (although verbal confirmations and dates were omnipresent, too). The entirety of your second year as music students was spent on all kinds of surfaces. The stage, of course: talented students became concert musicians and started making money. And then, a more ambiguous list: beds, floors, desks, kitchenettes. A grand piano once. Wherever Viktor could manage. Wherever the audience receded. Although the risky grand piano incident remained a favorite. 

He remembered taking you apart on the keyboard, the weight of your limbs hazy with thrill. His only witness was the piano lord himself: Beethoven’s strict eyes were staring down at you from the wall, his portrait a stern, judgmental thing. 

You sprawled across the lid and stretched your arms out—let the hot, naked swivels spill out of your bralette, tense calf a hearty quiver over Viktor’s scrawny shoulder. He put his lips to your thigh and licked his way up, sleazy tongue inclining towards obscenity. You peeled your eyes and smiled at Beethoven, head cocked back in a filthy moan. The incipient jab was tickling at the back of your throat, then forced its way out with a chuckle. 

“You scandalous little prick!” You chimed, grabbing Viktor by the nape. He pulled away, slick-mouthed and reluctant. “Pardon?” 

You laughed—a full-blown, silly spurt. “You told me we’d be alone here. Look up.” 

Viktor obliged. He tilted his chin—peevishly, with an eye roll. “Ah.” He grinned. “But he’s too high up to get a good view.”

“Yes, but we’re both rather vocal.”

“Respectfully, milackú, the man is deceased. Not to mention deaf. I don’t think he cares either way.”

Those were his dear interludes. They lingered, flimsily, throughout your entire long-cycle Master’s program, and became concrete as more years went by. You quit spending summer breaks at home. Viktor had had enough of lonesome hot months. He fancied that loop no more. After graduation, he found the Veveři apartment and offered to merge solitudes for the humble price of five hundred korunas split in half—the bed in his childhood room had become much too squeaky from four years of discreet debauchery. The only remaining question was one of marriage. Breathlessly, it was posed a year into your doctorates, amid a long Chopin rehearsal. Breezily, it was accepted right that instant. 

After five years of overgrown puppy love, on the fifth of June, 1989, you were privately wed in the helpful presence of random witnesses—some big-eyed first-years plucked from the orchestra practice. A romance consummated. Happily ever after coming through.

Unless. An ever-inconvenient conjunction. 

Viktor didn’t like peeping at your coarseness through the cracks in his rose-lensed glasses. Frankly, he didn’t want to admit there were any cracks to begin with. Even franklier—he’d hoped you’d be just as rouge to his naked eye. 

But rejection is merciless. It flaunts one’s rage as it is—unabashed and belligerent; all smeared angry makeup and puffy lids sizzling with damp salt. 

He’s seen your tears before. He’d kissed them off and let him pinprick his fingers; he’d held you through it like a man who mourns along—faithfully, as he should, with but a sparse sigh. You’ve shown him raw before. You’ve even shown him angry. You’ve shown him every madness in the book—but not quite like that. That one was truculent. Sibilant. It didn’t just add a crack to his lovesick glasses. It had shattered them right on his nose bridge and plunged tiny shards into hollow tissue. And, for the first time ever, you weren’t there to clean the wounds.

It happened three years into your doctorates. The dissertations weren’t due for another few months, but the household’s ambience had already shifted stonewall. Both of you spent your days elbows-deep in research: you—examining styles of the cello repertoire over the current century and rehearsing to teeth-grinding frenzy, Viktor—inventing efficient piano-teaching strategies for undergraduates. Except he genuinely enjoyed the research bit. The disheveled scholar-pianist looked and acted the part. And you? Well. You were slowly losing your mind.

Your supervisor despised the paper. Every single time you’d retrieve your submitted draft, an infinitude of evil, red-ink corrections were staring back at you like a torturous eye-sore. Chapter four had to be rewritten yet again. You bought a pack of cigarettes for the first time in a decade and bled academic word-vomit onto the typewriter. A bow-harakiri never seemed quite so seductive. 

And Viktor? Barely any edits whatsoever. Just praise, and brown-nosing, and friendly brunches with his professors—like he’s already in on the joke. Like he’s already a peer. 

At first, there was shrinking. Away from him, his touch, and his pale, fellowly eyes loving you across the room. An execration. Of kind smiles sent back as bitter sulks; of a cruel accretion of your side of the bed towards the very edge. A jealous pit permeating throughout. No, you didn’t want him to fail. You merely wanted to be seen the way he is. Yes, he is skillful. Yes, he is passionate. Indeed, his research is tremendous. But so is yours. Arguably, even more so. You had to suffer for it while he sat there, soaking in his knowledge so naturally. Surely, that counts for something?

Viktor was patient with you. And you detested it. You’d bury yourself in papers, trying not to think of his big, confused eyes in the bedroom—so lonely in their morning drowsiness every time they’d find your side of the sheets already cold and dentless. He’d get in and out of bed to the static of your typewriter in the kitchen. It didn’t bother him. He’d simply hoped you could complete your work in time. He craved your touch in confused silence, and brought you warm meals amid fervent writing sessions. He’d attend your every concert, and ask to assist you every time you rehearsed at home, abandoning his own dissertation to become your accompanist, even if only for a flimsy hour. It reminded him of your early JAMU days, of the summer jazz-bar job and the timid walks following suit. He’d throw sheepish glances from his stool, envying the cello for the sheer way your hand curls around the fingerboard. He never probbed. He assumed you might be much too on the rack to aid his predicament.

It was the day of your final appointment with a supervisor. With a croak, he emerged from the piano as his wristwatch ticked a quarter to five; his world a black-white smear of keys, letters, and iron-deficient whatnots from sedentary days of editing his paper and learning a capricious Chopin piece. And yet, he limped to the kitchen, popping a quick supplement into his mouth—his tread a timid struggle of clumsy feet tangled in his pajama pants. 

Your keys jingled in the lock precisely when he’d poured the milk into your tea—a wobbly, light meniscus, just the way you like it. It drew a smile, one praising his adept timing. It didn’t linger. Your footsteps shook the liquid, startling him half-turned over his shoulder. 

Shambles. That’s what he gasped at. Of coal-like tears rolling into open mouth as you choked on a sniff and wiped wet, greyish hands to a paisley shirt. The briefcase wept yellow papers on the parquet. Viktor dropped the stolen silver spoon into a cup.

“Milovaná—“

“She hates it!” 

He felt an eardrum contract—the nasty ricochet of your scream had bounced off the wall straight into his head. Then came a jumpy sequence: groping the air for his cane, finding the loop of your elbow, dragging you down into the squeaky chair over a wreck of hoarse sobbing. “What do you—“

“She hated it. All of it. She’s never had so many issues with my fucking dissertation before—“ You mumbled through a napkin stuffed against your nose, folding it in your hand like a crumpling onslaught. Viktor pried a fresh one into your grip and watched it face the same fate, rubbing his nape to redness in a nervous lean forward. 

“Please, slow down. How do you mean, hated? Wasn’t she notorious for her grievances as is?”

“Oh, thanks for reminding me I can’t do a fucking thing right!”

Viktor sulked. His fingers slipped off your wrist and retreated to his lap, twitching into a meek fist. 

“Please, don’t insult me. I’m not your supervisor. Just tell me what happened.”

“Basically, my work holds no value—it’s not innovative, painfully dull, and devoid of relevance. It reads more like an essay on a niche favorite subject. She doesn’t get what on earth I want my PhD for.”

“The audacity of that woman!”

“Oh, there’s more!” You scoffed. “She said that I’m a hopeless scholar. If I’m that interested in cello repertoire, I should just stick to being a concert cellist—apparently, there’s nothing else to me.”

“Sakra, we should report her. That’s unacceptable. I’ve proofread your dissertation many times—it’s brilliant. Beautifully put together—“

“You’re my husband, Viktor. Of course you would say that.”

“I’m not biased in the slightest. Don’t you think I’d tell you if it was unsatisfactory?”

“I don’t know, would you? Wouldn’t it feel great, being the first, and, possibly, only one of the two of us to get a doctorate?”

At that, he recoiled. The next napkin didn’t make it to your hand. It stayed in his fist, disintegrating into curly flakes, and there he sat—frowning, in disbelief, hollow cheeks sucked in as if scathed with horror. The silence thickened. A passing tram screeched somewhere nearby. 

“What are these accusations.” He found his voice, strained in the statmentish travesty of a question. Like his limp got his vocal cords, too, and he had to relearn using them all of a sudden. 

Unfortunately, you were well-versed with yours. Perhaps, even a tad too much. 

“Oh, please.” So sybillic. So nefarious. You threw the tear-soaked napkin into the bin and dropped your weary head into your palms, taking a stance so sorrowful that Viktor gulped in quizzical impatience. “You’re a brilliant musician.”

“So are you.” 

“Perhaps, but your dissertation is flawless. Flaw-less, Viktor. And you haven’t even lost your mind over it.” 

It was his turn to scoff. “Since when is one required to go mad over a doctorate?” 

“Since forever. But not you. You’re a natural.” 

Another tram screamed on the rails—plangent, like an alarm. The draft plunged through the window, billowing Viktor’s hair into angry stakes. You still sat Socrates-like, weeping into your fist. 

“Are you implying that I’m not working hard enough?” He whispered, dry-throated, and hoped that you didn’t mean it with all his might.

“Of course not! I’m not implying that. I’m just saying— Oh, fuck!” You groaned, peering at him through spread fingers. “You’re a great concert pianist. You have that contract in Europe. You’ll be playing Schubert in the fucking London Conservatory later this year. And, on top of that, you’re a great researcher who’s definitely becoming a Doctor anytime soon. And I’m happy for you—because of course I am—but it’s not easy. Working yourself to sleep deprivation, nervous tics, and utter exhaustion while your husband just gets to enjoy the process!”

“Are you… jealous of me? Is that it?”

“No! I’m happy for you!”

“Are you trying to fool me or yourself?”

“Viktor, I just want some recognition. I deserve a doctorate, too.”

“And you will get it. Your supervisor does not represent the committee’s opinion. As for recognition—“ He cleared his throat—you could tell it was getting harder for him to breathe. His speech was getting opaque—a sign of utter helplessness. “You already have it. A mere mortal who can’t tell a cello from a double bass knows your name. Your private lessons are any first-year’s wet dream. You are going to Europe next year. You are well-known, you make good money, you are talented. Where is all this coming from?”

You hitched a breath and plowed a gnawed-off nail over your cuticle, watching the scab unravel into a glistening bloody stripe. “I just want to be good enough. Is that too much to ask?”

Viktor averted to the ajar window. The city finally stopped screaming. 

“No,” he whispered, as if addressing the sky, “you want to be a natural.”

“Oh, I didn't mean it like that! Am I to be reminded of that heat-of-the-moment thing forever?”

“Yes!” He snapped, and so did his neck-joint, pivoting in a stare so dagger-like that your knees buckled in. “My wife just admitted to a plethora of concerning circumstances, how do you think that makes me feel? I thought I knew you, milackú. And this suggests anything but!”

You lurched for him, but your sleeve got caught in the crack on the lacquered table, pulling you backward and tearing the cuff in half. By the time you’d spewed another profanity and sprang up, the thumps of his cane had already merged with a door-slam. The flea-market spoon loudly clanked against the cup, and a splash of milky tea spilled onto the countertop. You drank it anyway. It tasted of lukewarm tears. 

Later, there would be apologies. Heartfelt, whiny things pressed to pulsing temples alongside bashful kisses—a convalescence building up on word and touch. Semantics were powerless on their own. The matter demanded physical backup. Unfilthy, sincere, adroit. A tagline of every good redemption. And more tea, of course. This time, without salt. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered into his hair, tickling a quivery breath into his scalp. “What was I even thinking?” He curled into you like a missing piece, tucking himself somewhere between chin and sternum, and the blow was returned lower—sheepishly, to your neck, in a tender kiss implying repentance. His sweater shuffled along. 

“You need help, milackú,” he croaked. “Promise me you’ll get help.” 

“I promise,” you swore—the first one of many lies. He might’ve believed it back then, but both of you will lose count soon enough.

Because Viktor had finally solved you. Your rehearsals at four in the morning. All the choking on bitter tears every time you mildly mess up an audition. Your scary fixation on precision. The intentional sleep deprivation to ‘catch up’—such an obvious self-torment! All these years built on a lie he’d spoon-feed himself oh so eagerly. All long, it wasn’t dedication. It was an obsession. An entirely different beast.

In a few months, the committee ended up loving your research on the cello repertoire of the 20th century. The obnoxious supervisor has never been so wrong. You got your doctorate. 

Only Viktor already knew that it wasn’t a matter of another academic milestone. In fact, it could only get worse. You needed help. Not a PhD. And you were only ever keen on seizing the latter. 

After a year of empty promises, Viktor stopped believing them. There was a minor improvement around the time you first found out about your narcolepsy. He’d refrained from ‘told-you-so’s. He was just happy you were finally getting it all checked out—who knows what else might slumber in that exhausted body of yours, so mercilessly stained with years of negligence in favor of becoming a new du Pré? You got a few prescriptions from a sleep specialist. You even found a therapist, but that one didn’t stick around. Counseling demands consistency. But so do concerts. It wasn’t hard to guess which one you’d pick. 

Another year went by. Then another. A loop of accepting and ditching help had uroborosed into insanity, developing new cross-currents. A hobbling marriage was but a pebble. That Viktor could get by. What turmoiled him the most was not the expulsion from your passions. You can’t negotiate with an obsessed artist. 

He became tired. Of ‘Love, it’s three in the morning. Go to bed.’ Of ‘Have you taken your pills today? Should I set you an alarm?’ Of ‘Please, spend an evening with me. You haven’t been outside in days.’ Of saving someone who, to his utmost horror, didn’t want to be saved. 

Viktor had endured enough. One can only handle so many years of being but an unseen husband. His patience was wearing thin. 

His separation request was calm. He didn’t raise his voice once—merely packed a suitcase and promised to be back sometime in a month. He was about to go to Europe anyway. Having one more week to himself wouldn’t make a difference. 

You didn’t beg or cry. That bit was reserved for after he’s out the door. There was no point trying to dissuade him. The ‘you had it coming’ mindset had already clouded your thoughts.

You sat on the bed, gently rocking back and forth, and stared at him as he struggled to tie his tie with trembling fingers. You’ve never seen him shake like that—fervent, unpianist-like. It made you bite your lip in that nasty, blood-drawing way, so much canine that you almost split it in half. 

“Can I help you?” you offered, a resigned half-whisper. Strangely enough, the tremor hasn't gotten to your hands yet. Viktor accepted. 

You knelt and picked up what he had started—wrapped the top part around the bottom one and pulled it through, working the loop tighter. He hunched in his piano stool, looking down at you with dry, bloodshot eyes. He didn’t sleep last night. He hoped you wouldn’t notice. 

When you finished and returned the stare, his dry eyes became glassy. For a second, he felt like he had his darling back—courteous, tender, with a kind, pallid smile. Here you are, looking up at him just like you used to twelve years ago in Music Theory. Livelier, less obsessed, not as hollow. And here you go again—slipping through his stretched out fingers and becoming your disparate, new self. But he still reached out to touch you and mourned the warmth of your skin, shaky hand struggling to cup a twitching cheek. You leaned into it, sneaking a cowardly kiss to his wrist. The confabulation ended when you dared to blink, trading your first-year eyes for weary twelve-year ones. 

“Promise you’ll come back to me,” you mouthed into his palm. “Please.” 

And Viktor’s hand tumbled away, reaching for his cane instead. 

“Promise you’ll come back to me, too.”

—

1. The Velvet Divorce — The split of Czechoslovakia in 1992, 31 of December.

2. JAMU — The Janáček Academy of Performing Arts

3. Hamé — a Czech jam brand

4. Jacqueline du Pré — a famous English cellist

[lanaroff]

House of Broken Hearts- Last Chapter

Paring: Wanda Maximoff and Reader

Warnings: Fluff (finally)

a/n: the last chapter is finally here. hope you enjoy it!

The mornings in the cabin are quiet. Gentle. Golden light spills in through gauzy curtains, brushing your face as you blink awake. For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no panic in your chest when you open your eyes. There’s no scream trapped in your throat. Only warmth—and Wanda.

She’s curled into you, breath soft against your collarbone, one leg tangled over yours like she’s anchoring herself to you even in sleep. You wonder if she knows how much that grounds you. How every morning with her is like coming up for air after being underwater too long.

You don’t sleep on the floor anymore.

That’s new.

You didn’t realize how significant it was until it wasn’t. You still wake up sometimes in a cold sweat, your body tight with memories you can’t control. But now, you have Wanda’s voice calling you back. Her hands, gently coaxing yours to loosen. Her love, constant, patient, never fading.

This cabin—this life—it was a gift. Tony bought the land and surprised you with the paperwork, insisting it was the least he could do. At first, you didn’t want it. You didn’t think you deserved something that good. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and Wanda just smiled at you like she already saw your future blooming here.

You didn’t want to believe her. But then she started making it a home.

The walls were painted in warm colors. Soft rugs and shelves lined with books and candles filled the rooms. Wanda filled the space with comfort and magic—her magic. And you? You built her a greenhouse. Every seed planted was a promise: that you were staying. That you were healing. That this was yours. Together.

She cried the first time you brought her inside and showed her the tomatoes, the rosemary, the rows of basil you carefully tended just because she liked the way it made her pasta taste.

“You did all of this for me?” she asked, wiping a tear off her cheek.

And you told her, “Everything I do now is for you.”

She kissed you like it was the only answer she needed.

And she’s the one who gently encouraged you to try therapy.

You were terrified. You didn’t want to open those doors. Didn’t want to name the things you buried. But she held your hand and said, “You don’t have to do it for anyone else. Just do it for you. You deserve to heal.”

So you did. And it’s helped.

You’re not the person Hydra tried to break. You’re becoming someone new—stronger, softer. Someone who lets themself be held. Someone who wakes up next to the woman they love, every morning, in a house that feels like a forever.

And now it’s your birthday.

The house is buzzing with laughter and warmth. Tony and Steve are already bickering in the kitchen about who’s better at poker. Sam is spinning little Nathaniel around in the backyard while Clint tries to keep a cake from falling over. Natasha is leaning against the counter, smirking as she sips wine and throws you a wink when she sees how happy you are.

Wanda is glowing.

She made all your favorite dishes, insisting on doing it herself. She refuses to let you lift a finger. And you let her, mostly because she looks beautiful when she’s focused, her sleeves rolled up and her hair in a bun, humming to herself.

You’re holding a drink in your hand, but you’re not drinking it. You’re too busy looking at her.

She catches you staring and smiles. “What?”

You shrug, cheeks warm. “Nothing. Just… how did I get this lucky?”

She walks over and kisses your cheek. “You survived. That’s how.”

You’re just about to tell her how much she means to you when the sound hits. A deep, thunderous whump shakes the ground.

A S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier descends from the clouds, hovering low enough to send ripples through the pond behind your house. Everyone goes still. The warmth of the afternoon fades as fear claws at your spine. You stand frozen in the doorway, heart hammering, staring at the monstrous machine settling on your peaceful porch like a nightmare come to life.

But Wanda steps behind you, one hand on your back, grounding you.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m here. No matter what.”

You nod, but your throat is tight.

You walk out alone.

You don’t run anymore.

You meet Fury halfway across the lawn. He’s standing tall, coat whipping in the breeze, expression unreadable as always.

You stop a few feet away, spine straight, heart thundering.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a file. “I owe you this.”

You take it slowly. The paper feels too heavy in your hands. You open it—and your breath catches.

It’s an official pardon.

Everything cleared.

All of it.

Your name.

Your record.

Your life.

You look up at him, lips parted, unable to speak.

“Take it as a birthday present,” he says gruffly.

He turns to leave, but pauses on the ramp. “One more thing.”

And then—

Sharon.

You blink, heart slamming in your chest as she steps out of the helicarrier, wind blowing through her hair. She looks real. She is real. She’s smiling.

And your feet move before your brain catches up.

You run.

You slam into her arms, both of you laughing and crying, and the words spill out, breathless:

“How? How are you here?”

“Fury cleared my name too,” she says, eyes shining. “I’m free.”

You look back at Fury, stunned. “Thank you.”

He nods once, then disappears into the carrier. You turn back to Sharon and take her hand, pulling her toward the house.

Inside, everyone is already cheering.

She’s wrapped in hugs and warmth and laughter. Clint hands her a plate. Tony salutes her with a drink. Natasha pulls her into a rare embrace.

And then she turns to Wanda.

“I’m glad you made it,” Wanda says softly.

They hug. And something clicks.

You watch them for a moment, your brow furrowed.

“…Wait,” you say, stepping between them. “You knew?”

Wanda just smiles. And Sharon leans in with a grin. “She’s the reason I’m here.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you don’t.

You kiss Wanda instead.

Hard. Fierce. Full of everything.

And when you pull back, forehead pressed to hers, you whisper:

“I love you.”

“I know,” she breathes. “I love you too.”

And then the night goes on—with laughter, with music, with dancing. You sit beside Wanda, fingers laced, her head on your shoulder as the stars come out. There’s a bonfire crackling, stories being told, and you just keep thinking:

This is it.

This is what it means to live again.

To have a second chance.

To be loved.

To be home.

⸻

The porch glows golden in the warm afternoon light, the air tinged with the soft scent of lemon balm and sun-warmed wood. You’re nestled between Natasha and Sharon on the old rocking bench, all of you barefoot, lounging in mismatched chairs, nursing mugs of coffee—or what started as coffee and may or may not have had something “extra” slipped into it by Natasha when no one was looking.

Sharon raises an eyebrow at you over the rim of her cup. “Okay, so tell me again—how many times has Clint caught you two making out in his kitchen?”

You scoff, laughing, cheeks instantly burning. “That was one time.”

“Two,” Natasha corrects, grinning into her drink. “And one was definitely on the counter. I remember because Laura nearly dropped a plate.”

You groan, dropping your head back against the chair. “You two are the worst.”

“We’re the best,” Sharon counters, nudging your leg with hers. “Admit it. Who else gets to remind you how disgustingly in love you are every day?”

You grin despite yourself, eyes rolling. “Okay, but to be fair, I’ve earned it. I’ve been through hell. I deserve some disgustingly in love moments.”

“That you do,” Natasha murmurs, a touch more serious. She bumps her shoulder lightly into yours. “You really do.”

You’re all quiet for a moment, and it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that only comes with people who’ve seen you at your worst and never left. Then Sharon says, “I’ve missed this. The three of us. It feels like—like we got something back.”

“We did,” you say softly. “We really did.”

Sharon glances sideways, playful again. “Still doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. I want the full update. How’s life as a woodland wife?”

You snort. “Peaceful. Domestic. Wanda’s taken over the entire house. I barely got to choose the doormat.”

Natasha laughs. “Sounds about right. Let me guess—flowers on every surface?”

“Candles too. And color-coded blankets. I don’t even know how you color-code blankets.”

Sharon grins. “She’s nesting. She’s marking her territory.”

“She doesn’t need to,” you say, and it’s meant to be sarcastic, light. But then you hear it.

Wanda’s laugh. Light and full and carefree. Floating through the screen door with the sound of Clint’s kids yelling something about marshmallows. You don’t even mean to react to it—but your chest tightens, and your throat goes soft. Your smile falters as you look toward the house, watching her with Laura near the fireplace, gently brushing hair from Lila’s face like she’s been doing it forever.

You blink once, then again.

Then, barely a whisper: “I want to marry her.”

Natasha and Sharon both still. The teasing dies instantly—not because they’re shocked, not exactly. But because they hear the shift in your voice. The way it comes from somewhere deep inside, like it’s been sitting there for a long time, just waiting for you to notice.

Natasha turns first, eyes softening. “You serious?”

You nod slowly, watching Wanda press a kiss to Nathaniel’s head as she lifts him into her lap. “I didn’t know until just now. I mean, I’ve felt it. But… hearing her laugh like that. Seeing her with the kids. I just—God, I want that. I want her. I want to build everything with her.”

Sharon’s lips part, her eyes watering. She sets her cup down gently and leans in, nudging your knee with hers again. “You’re gonna make me cry, and I’m not even drunk yet.”

You laugh through your own tears. “I’m not fixed. I’m still scared half the time. But for the first time, it doesn’t feel like I need to be perfect. I just want to start the rest of my life with her.”

Natasha reaches out, squeezing your hand. “Then you should. You both deserve that happiness. And if you need someone to help plan a lowkey, top-secret proposal, you know where to find us.”

“You’ll help me pick a ring, right?” you ask, glancing between them.

Sharon smirks. “Only if you let me make an obnoxious toast at the wedding.”

“Deal,” you whisper.

From inside, Wanda’s voice lifts again—something gentle and sing-song, telling Cooper not to jump on the couch. And you think, that’s my future right there. Chaos and comfort and soft hands cleaning fingerprints off glass and kissing away every bad dream.

And she has no idea what’s coming.

But she will. Soon.

And it’s going to be everything.

⸻

The next few days pass in a blur of quiet plotting.

You try to act normal—which, in hindsight, might’ve been your first mistake. Because if there’s one thing Wanda Maximoff is painfully good at, it’s sensing when something’s off.

It starts the day after the porch confession. You sneak off with Sharon and Natasha under the pretense of “getting supplies” from town—your first lie in months, and it burns a little as you tell it. Wanda just blinks at you with a smile, handing you a list of things she needs for dinner, and says, “Drive safe.”

The second you’re in the car, Sharon throws her legs up on the dash and grins. “Okay, so tell us—do you want classic elegance or dramatic sapphic meltdown?”

“I mean,” Natasha muses, eyes flicking to you in the rearview mirror, “those are basically the same thing.”

You groan. “Can we please just focus on the ring? I’m already losing my mind.”

Sharon looks over her shoulder at you, playful and soft. “You’re nervous.”

“Of course I’m nervous!” you hiss. “This is Wanda. This is Wanda. What if it’s too soon? What if I do it wrong? What if—”

“What if she cries because she’s so happy, says yes in .02 seconds, and kisses you until you forget how to breathe?” Natasha cuts in flatly.

You stare at her.

She shrugs. “Just being realistic.”

You spend hours at the tiny jewelry shop tucked into the corner of town. Natasha quietly negotiates a discount behind your back. Sharon talks you out of three rings (“Too big.” “Too flashy.” “That looks like something Tony would wear to a gala.”) until you find the one. A delicate gold band with two tiny garnets on either side of a perfectly cut emerald—deep green like Wanda’s eyes when she’s calm, glowing, full of love.

You hold it like it might break.

And then you say, “She’s gonna be my wife,” and your voice cracks.

⸻

Back at the cabin, Wanda narrows her eyes.

“I know you’re hiding something,” she says one night while brushing her teeth, pointing her toothbrush at you like a weapon.

You look up from your seat on the edge of the tub and blink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She squints. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

She leans forward, foam in the corner of her mouth. “Suspiciously weird.”

You laugh, and it’s just enough to distract her—just enough to kiss her shoulder and dodge the questions. But her eyes linger on you when you slip into bed, curious and soft and a little too knowing.

⸻

The days pass like golden hours strung together by thread. Wanda’s decorating the house with the kind of obsessive precision that makes you grin. Every curtain, every throw pillow, every framed photo—it’s home because of her. And every time she looks at you like you hung the stars, your chest aches with the sheer weight of how much you love her.

One morning, you find her dancing barefoot in the kitchen with Nathaniel in her arms, the sunlight painting them both in gold. She’s singing softly under her breath, twirling him like he’s the most important thing in the world.

You freeze in the doorway.

You already bought the ring. It’s hidden in the bookshelf behind a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit. You haven’t picked the exact moment yet.

But watching her like this—this might be it.

Then she looks over and catches you staring, and you see it—that slight tilt of her head, the knowing smile.

“You’re up early,” she says gently, still rocking.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

She walks over, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Me either.”

Your arms wrap around both her and Nathaniel without thinking, pulling them close. The boy giggles, Wanda smiles into your neck, and suddenly the moment is too perfect to interrupt.

You don’t do it yet.

But soon.

⸻

Meanwhile, Natasha and Sharon are living for the drama.

They whisper behind closed doors, try not to smirk when Wanda walks in, and somehow rope Steve into keeping you “busy” while they set up the backyard just in case you go for a surprise proposal under the stars.

Tony sends you a text that just says:

“If you’re proposing, do it right. Fireworks. Champagne. I expect tears.”

You send him back a middle finger emoji and a heart.

⸻

One night, Wanda stands at the sink washing dishes while you dry beside her. The house smells like lemon and basil. You brush your shoulder against hers.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she says.

You glance at her. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You look at her profile—how the porch light softens her freckles, how her lips press together when she’s trying not to smile. You shake your head gently and whisper, “About forever.”

She turns her head, eyes shining like she knows.

You dry the last plate. You kiss her temple.

And in your heart, the words are already forming.

Soon.

She’s going to say yes.

⸻

You’ve never been good at planning things. Not in the way Wanda is—organized lists, hand-drawn room sketches, color-coded grocery runs. But this? This had to be yours. Not perfect. Just honest.

The farm is quiet when the sun begins to set, the kind of quiet that comes after long days and full hearts. You hear the faint sound of Clint’s tractor rumbling down the path in the distance, a lullaby of rural life. There’s a breeze in the air, warm and clean, stirring the wheat fields and brushing through the leaves of the apple tree by the fence.

You’ve chosen the small clearing near the back pasture—close enough to the house, but far enough that it feels like your own little world. You spent the whole afternoon setting it up. A picnic blanket. Pillows. A basket filled with all Wanda’s favorites—homemade bread, fresh berries, soft cheese, honeycomb from the neighbor’s hive. Her favorite wine, chilled just right. A candle in the middle flickering against the coming dusk. You even snuck some flowers from Laura’s garden—clumsy in your hands, but perfect in their simplicity.

Wanda’s been gone most of the day, running errands with Laura in town. You told her you were staying back to fix up the greenhouse. A half-truth. The greenhouse could wait.

Now you sit on the edge of the blanket, fidgeting with the ring box in your palm. Small. Velvet. It’s been in your pocket for weeks. You were waiting for the right time, and somehow, tonight whispered now.

Then, you hear her voice.

“Hey,” Wanda calls softly from behind, stepping through the gate in her soft sundress, sandals in her hand, her hair down and wild from the breeze. Her eyes land on the picnic, the lanterns, the table set for two. She stops in her tracks.

“Did you… do all this?”

You swallow, suddenly shy. “Surprise?”

Her laugh is stunned, breathy. “You made me dinner?”

“I made you a picnic,” you correct, standing up to greet her. “Which is, in my opinion, far more romantic.”

She walks closer, eyes flicking across every detail—the candlelight, the wine, the blanket, the pillows, the field behind you catching the last light of golden hour.

“You’re full of surprises lately,” she murmurs as she takes your hand.

You press a kiss to her knuckles. “I just wanted tonight to be about us. No team. No missions. No ghosts.”

Her smile falters, just for a moment, and she nods.

The two of you sit. Share food. Laugh over the way you slightly burned the bread. You talk about nothing and everything—the garden, the stubborn rooster Clint gave you, the way Nathaniel keeps sneaking cookies from the pantry. And it feels… whole. Real. Like something you never thought you’d get to have.

At some point, Wanda leans back, propping herself on her elbows, eyes tracing the stars above.

“Do you ever think about how lucky we are?” she whispers.

You turn to her, heart catching in your throat. “All the time.”

She looks at you then. Her expression softens, vulnerable and open. “I used to dream about a life like this. Waking up next to you. Cooking together. Laughing about grocery lists. I thought… maybe I’d never get it. Not after everything.”

You reach for her hand. “I used to think I didn’t deserve it.”

Wanda shifts closer, her forehead gently pressing to yours. “But here we are.”

You kiss her then. Soft. Certain. Just enough to make her sigh into your mouth like she’s been waiting for it all night.

And when you pull back, your heart starts to race.

You slip your hand into your pocket.

“I have something to ask you,” you whisper.

Wanda’s smile is immediate. Playful. “Oh?”

You nod, opening your palm to reveal the small velvet box.

And just like that—she freezes.

Her eyes widen. Her breath hitches.

You kneel on the blanket, the stars above like a thousand silent witnesses, and your breath trembles as you take the small velvet box out of your pocket. Wanda’s laughter fades into stillness. She freezes, her hand half-raised to her mouth, her eyes wide with a kind of awe that makes your heart ache.

You don’t open the box right away. You just hold it in your palm and look up at her, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.

“I didn’t know I was going to make it out.”

Your voice is rough, honest, broken open.

“There were nights in that cell where I was sure I was going to die. And I was… okay with it, almost. Because I didn’t think I deserved to live. Not after everything I’d done. Not after what they turned me into.”

Wanda’s eyes are already glassy, her hands trembling where they rest in her lap.

“But then,” you say, your voice cracking, “I would think of you. And I’d remember your laugh. I’d remember the way you smelled after a shower, or how your nose scrunches when you concentrate. I’d remember how you held me like I wasn’t broken, even before I really believed it.”

You open the box. The ring is simple. A quiet kind of beautiful—just like her.

“I didn’t survive because I was strong,” you whisper. “I survived because I wanted to come home to you. Because some part of me believed—needed to believe—that you’d still be there. And you were.”

She covers her mouth again, her shoulders shaking.

“I know I don’t say all this often,” you continue. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to get the words out. I get caught in my own head. I shut down. I disappear. But please know… everything I do—every breath I take now—is because you stayed. Because you waited. Because you loved me, even when I was impossible to love.”

A tear falls from your cheek, unashamed.

“I want you to know how grateful I am. For every second you didn’t give up. For every time you held me through the nightmares. For every look that told me I was still worth something.”

You reach for her hand and gently slide the ring onto her finger. Your hands shake. Hers are warm and damp with tears.

“I love you, Wanda Maximoff. More than I’ll ever be able to explain. And I want to spend my life trying.”

Your voice drops, soft and sure.

“Will you marry me?”

She doesn’t say yes.

She launches herself into your arms, sobbing into your shoulder, her whole body shaking with the force of it.

You hold her like she’s the very air you breathe.

Then you feel her nod against your neck, again and again, her voice muffled and cracked.

“Yes. Yes. Yes, please.”

You laugh through your own tears, wrapping her tighter in your arms. When you finally pull back, you see her looking at the ring like it’s been forged from stardust, like it holds the whole universe in a single, fragile promise.

You wipe a tear from her cheek and kiss her. Deep and slow. The kind of kiss that says we made it.

And as the night settles around you, soft and sacred, Wanda lies back on the blanket and pulls you down beside her.

You lie beside her under the stars, her fingers tracing lazy shapes over your stomach, your ring sparkling with every flicker of moonlight. The night feels suspended in time—like nothing outside this blanket and her heartbeat exists. Her breath is steady now, calm, and every now and then she glances at her hand like she still doesn’t believe it’s real.

You watch her in silence for a while, memorizing the softness in her expression, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles.

Wanda shifts closer, head tucked beneath your chin, lips brushing your collarbone.

“This is what you’ve been up to?” she murmurs, half-laughing, her voice rich with affection. “Sneaking around. Planning romantic ambushes. I should’ve known.”

You smirk, brushing your fingers through her hair. “I’ll do anything to get you to say yes to me.”

She laughs again, soft and genuine, that sound that used to feel like a dream when you were deep in the dark. “You didn’t need a picnic. I would’ve said yes if you’d asked me with a blade of grass.”

You hum. “I didn’t want ‘yes’ with a blade of grass. I wanted this. Just us. Away from everything. You deserve magic, Wanda.”

“You are magic,” she whispers, looking up at you, tears in her eyes again—but these ones are soft, overflowing, not with pain but with wonder.

You lie like that for a while—no more words, just your fingers tracing the back of her hand, the crickets chirping somewhere in the distance, and her breath against your skin.

At one point, she reaches for a strawberry from the basket, pops it into your mouth and laughs when juice runs down your chin.

You pretend to be offended. “Rude. I’m supposed to be the seductive one here.”

Wanda grins. “Babe, you cried during your proposal.”

You roll over and pin her gently, grinning. “And you loved every second.”

She pulls you down into another kiss that tastes like strawberries and laughter and promises kept. Her hand finds the ring again as if to remind herself it’s really there, that you’re really hers.

Eventually, the blanket gets a little cold and the wind brushes soft over your shoulders. You sit up, brushing the crumbs off your hands, and Wanda leans her head against your shoulder.

“Do you think…” she begins quietly, “you’ll ever want to have kids? With me?”

You glance sideways, surprised by the question—but not scared. Not anymore.

You think of how she is with Clint’s kids. The warmth in her eyes. The quiet patience. The way she makes the world safer just by holding your hand.

You nod slowly. “Honey, I would love to have mini versions of you running around our house.”

She smiles so brightly it steals the breath from your lungs.

“But until then,” you say, tilting your head to kiss her forehead, “it’s just us. And this. And our greenhouse.”

She laughs. “And the chickens.”

“Don’t forget the chickens.”

You both laugh so hard you nearly knock over the wine glasses, and Wanda catches them with a flick of red. You both pause, then collapse into each other again.

It feels like life has finally begun. Not the life you ran from. Not the one built out of ashes and scars. But the one you chose.

Together.

And tonight, under the stars and the glow of forever, you allow yourself to believe:

You deserve it.

She deserves it.

You deserve each other.

Always.

Tag list: @seventeen-x @womenarehotsstuff @redhoodte @ayrtonwilbury @justyourwritter69 @casquinhaa @womenarehotsstuff @justarandomreaderxoxo @yelldontwhisper @raven-ss @chickenlittlsblog @username23345 @justyourwritter69 @ayrtonwilbury

[sixth-light]

A few more musings on The Thing, the nature of fandom, and the future of the show

I'm not here to tell anybody what they're feeling or why they're feeling it, but for me, one of the reasons I feel very sad about Siuan is that, yeah, her book arc post-the Coup is...pretty grim taken in whole, and part of a pattern in the later series of powerful women being humiliated and forced into heteronormative boxes. But it is also an arc that had immense never-quite-realised potential - the potential for someone to be thrown from most powerful person in the world to rock bottom and come back from it in an empowering way. Even the Gareth Bryne romance had that potential buried in there, two middle-aged people who'd lost everything they'd spent their lives doing finding a joint cause and also each other. Extreme emphasis on potential, because that's not how it played out.

The show killing Siuan this way, setting aside what R2J2 has said about a plan for Siuan appearing again later in some way, is the end of any chance for the show to realise that potential - and I'm probably as sad about that as I am about Siuan's death in itself. The grief of lost possibilities is a very real thing.

The thing is also...as we get into the real meat and eventually endgame of this story, this is going to keep happening. At the start the show had a thousand places it could go with this story, once it demonstrated (in 1x04) that it was prepared to make some very radical changes in order to tell a coherent story overall. As we go on that list of possibilities is going to get whittled down faster and faster.

As fans, it's normal for us to get really attached to those possibilities - for example I was really hoping for Tuon to appear in Tanchico taking Egeanin's story, I would have loved that - and yet, lots of them will not happen. The show is one particular set of choices on how to tell the story of the Wheel of Time and it's not our choices.

I guess, in the end, what I'm saying is that over a couple of decades in fandom I've seen people really burn themselves out on fandoms because they talked themselves into believing the path they'd plotted was the only right or good way to tell the story. This is not in any way to suggest the show or this particular decision is exempt from criticism! It's more like, if you want to keep enjoying it, the only way that's going to happen is if you hold some futures lightly (unless you either have predictive powers or an incredible ability to figure out the show's plans and all the possible Doylistic roadblocks that might constrain them).

Is that compatible with fandom? Holding the future of the show lightly? Maybe not, maybe that's just the price of entry. But for me I think it's the only way the show stays fun long-term.

[losers-clvb]

Do you think sam ever lets someone sit on his lap while he reads? And like… slowly gets distracted? 👀

Asking for academic research.

i know you probably meant fully clothed, innocent sitting on the lap, however, i just have to proclaim my affinity for cockwarming while reading. it just seems so intimate, and you can't tell me sam wouldn't be all about that! c'mon, he wants to crawl inside his girl's skin he loves her so much.

so yes, i do think he lets someone sit on his lap while he reads, and yes, he does get distracted. especially if you're getting all shifty when on him.

now, we can imagine this a few ways.

one, you're both feeling it immediately. it starts innocent. you're tired, or maybe you just wanna be close to him. he's reading up on some lore for that week's case. it's mindless, the way his arm lifts to let you crawl onto his lap.

"love you." you whisper to him, head resting on his shoulder. your arms are draped around him. he repositions himself, holding his book with one hand so he can wrap his free arm around you.

"love you more." he mumbles back. it's this little game he tries to play, usually leading the two of you to go back and forth. you never know who wins. it's a tie, you suppose. tonight, you only respond with a kiss on his neck, stubble scratching your lips.

sam continues to read while you lounge on him. you focus on his breathing, the sound of the pages flipping as he finishes reading them. at some point, you become increasingly aware of the position you're sitting in. even soft, sam's dick presses against you in just the right way.

you try to stay still, you really, really do. the muscle of your cheek twitches with the effort of slowly shifting your hips enough to give you any sense of relief.

sam notices immediately. he always notices everything you do, though the added heat seeping through your jeans helps the realization of what you're doing come to him faster.

"mmm, babe, tryin' to read," he hums. he wouldn't mind putting the book down to touch you, but he wants to let you ask for it first. with the knowledge that he's noticed your movements, you roll your hips down deeper.

"can't help it," you sigh into his ear, "you're just so hot." you can feel him hardening beneath you. you let out a whimper with another grind against him.

"say it." he orders. he's already shoving his book across the table, hands flying to your hips. you moan theatrically for him, getting a rise out of how he twitches in his jeans.

"want you to fuck me, sammy." you let out breathily, nibbling on the skin just under his earlobe. you didn't want to play games tonight. you needed him in you.

sam slides his arm down your back and under your ass, lifting you just enough to free himself. he shuffles your shorts and underwear down your legs. you ease onto him with a gasped sigh, sinking down with no resistance.

you two work in sync, you lifting your hips, sam thrusting into you when your pace stuttered. in no time, he's got you whining out with your orgasm. it's not until he's sure you're fully satisfied that he lets himself go.

you two stay like that for a while. sam is still inside you, your arms are back to draping over his shoulders. he's gone straight into his book, humming small words of love to you when he feels it's right.

two, you're forced to sit on his lap for whatever reason. for example, let's say it's at a hunter reunion! it got a bit out of hand, so read it here!

three, stanford era! sam letting his lab partner sit on his lap to look at samples. you wouldn't say you were close friends with sam. you're just lab partners, of course. sure, he's cute and nerdy and kind and kind of smoking hot, but he's also super shy and seems to not be into you.

wrong.

sam has never been into someone more than he's into you. in his eyes, you're an angel. everything about you. he thinks you're absolutely gorgeous, insanely smart, you're nice to him, and your fucking legs in those little skirts you like to flounce around in has had him stumbling to the bathroom to "relieve" himself more than once.

he's ashamed to say it, but you are the only thing he thinks about when he's jerking off.

unfortunately, he doesn't see how a girl like you could be interested in a boy like him. and add on the extra threat of the supernatural coming after you? he's never touching you.

that's why you have to make the first move.

the instructor had brought out microscopes for the day's lesson. it was middle school shit, just seek out the differences in the samples to determine which one was the odd man out. you didn't mind. it gave you the perfect opportunity to get all over sam.

you would use this as a sign of him really being into you or not. he would either let you sit in his lap while you looked (signaling into you status), or he would decline and move from the stool (signaling never gonna happen status).

"sam, can i look at the samples?" you ask, fluttering your lashes. sam nods, maybe too quickly, and swallow before moving to stand. you lay a hand on his chest, making his eyes widen and his movements to falter. "can i use your lap for an extra boost?"

sam balks at you. he can't believe this. you, his angel sent from heaven, wants to sit on him, the boy who can't even go home for christmas break. his mind -- and eyes -- fly to your skirt. it's short, like usual, and he can see the slightest bit of your midriff peeking out at him where your shirt wrinkled upwards.

"sam?" you ask when he still doesn't answer. his gaze shoots back to you and he nods, more than technically necessary. you smile sweetly at him and perch on his thighs. his hands instinctively go to your waist to steady you. this time sam smiles sweetly when you don't swat him away.

you're acutely aware of your lace panties pressing into the denim of his jeans when you bend forward to look in the microscope. so is sam, it appears, because soon you feel something hard pressing against the fabric covering you.

you bite back a smirk and glance behind you to see a nervous sam. he opens his mouth to apologize, but you cut him off before he can speak.

"you wanna show me how the cowboys from kansas do things?" you purr to him, low enough so the rest of your classmates can't hear. sam's eyes darken with something that has you clenching around nothing.

that night, you see the shy side of sam drop away with every orgasm he pulls out of you.

and four, some good ol' fashioned cockwarming. it's night, just before sleep. sam has a book cradled in his hands. you're laying on him, sleep shirt (his shirt) bunched up around your waist to account for your positioning. the positioning being you warming his cock while he reads to you. it's some book from his childhood, one of his favorites.

you did this often. the reading and the cockwarming. you two preferred it. it made you feel... closer. like there was something binding you together. it wasn't inherently sexual. yes, there were times it would lead to sex, but most times, it ended with you passed out on his chest.

it's the beginning of this book. the night before, he'd finished reading one of your favorites. it was how it worked. one book was your choice, the next sam's, and so on and so forth. of course, by the end of each book, you both claimed it as your favorite, even if it had been the other's pick. you were slowly building a little library of your shared-love books.

you let out a deep breath as sam speaks. his chest rumbles under where your cheek is pressed against his shirt. you've never been happier, or fuller.

eventually, you fall asleep. that fact slips past sam for a few pages. he's gonna have to go back and read them again the next night, but he doesn't mind. he just loves you with everything he's worth.

sam dog-ears the page -- something you'll scold him for when you see it ("use the pretty bookmarks i bought!") -- and sets it on the bedside table. he flicks the lamp off and settles into his own sleep, still inside of you.

alright! maybe more than you asked for, anon, but it was what popped into my mind as i typed.

oh, my favorite cockwarming fics? i'm so happy you asked!! here's a few that pretty much center around it from some moots:

"letting you" by @chxrrywines

"gotta earn it" by @angelicjackles

untitled sam drabble by @littlesoulshine

"says i'm his favorite (yeah, i better be)" by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth (okay, it doesn't center around cockwarming, but it's there, and is one of my favorite fics. BOY KING SAM SUPREMACY!)

if anyone else has any cockwarming fics, send them my way. i'mma eat that shit up!!!

[whatifitis]

♡ pit in my gut, in the shape of you - CL 16

♡

Summary: After a disastrous breakup, you manage to pick yourself up again and reach goals you always thought were out of reach. But what do you do when you run into your ex who does everything in his power to tear you down? Could you ever love again? And do you see your friend the way he sees you?

Author's Note: Omg another one of my old fics 😍 This one is very reworked though. Also, this fic is very much focused on y/n HOWEVER if it is wanted, part 2 has a lot more Charles with a lovely connection :D

WC: 5999

CW: angst, breakup, mentions of depression and its symptoms, Calum Hood portrayed in a bad light (IM A 5SOS FAN PLS DONT HATE ME), a stupid man being mean as fuck, fluff if you squint

You two were best friends. Everyday, you were stuck to each other's side. Whether you were out on adventures, or just at home watching the worst rom-coms ever made. You never got sick of eachother. Forever stuck to each other by glue. 

You always feared that those who loved you would eventually grow to hate you and get annoyed by you. That even the little things you did would result in them leaving, because they have before. But he never left. He stayed by your side for 3 summers. 

But then something changed. He stopped asking you about things; your interests, your days, your work. He stopped kissing you goodnight. He stopped bringing you lilies, your favorite flower. And one day, he just seemed to stop loving you. He left without a word. All he left in your two bedroom apartment was a note saying “I can’t do this anymore”. 

You had noticed the change in his behavior, but you thought, hoped, it was just a rough patch that most couples go through. You thought everything would go back to normal. You thought that if you tried enough, he would stay. You stopped going on tangents about anything and everything. You took on less hours at work to try and cook for him everyday and be present. You tried to make plans with him. But he still wouldn’t give you the time of day. You began to wonder what you did wrong. Where did it go wrong?. Did youtalk too much? Did he start to think your obsession with things was weird or childish? Or did he simply just fall out of love with you? What could you do to change and bring him back? 

The day he left was the day your whole world fell apart. You quit your job, stopped taking care of yourself, and stopped seeing your friends and family. Those around you grew worried, but there was nothing they could do. They couldn’t get you to eat, bathe, or even open the door to your shared apartment. 

2 years have passed and you have managed to move on. Now you have a new amazing job that you love and some new friends that you care for and know that they care for you as well. You moved out of the two bedroom apartment you once shared with your past lover, and moved into a one bedroom apartment that you absolutely adore. You decorated it to be somewhat like your dream apartment. You’ve got bookshelves lining a whole wall, the bookshelves filled with all of your favorite books and some memorabilia you’ve gathered from traveling and from sharing memories with friends and family. The rest of your walls are filled with posters and pictures of things from your interests to friends and family. 

After all this time, you still fear that if you put yourself out there, that people will start leaving you again. You truly don't think you can go through the heart break again. You’ve closed yourself off in some ways. You stopped sharing your interests with people. When asked about your day, you keep it to a minimum. If you saw a rat on the subway on your way to work, you would say so. But you would refrain from talking about how it was the size of your arm and that it was carrying 2 slices of pizza on its back. Something else that you had started doing that you hadn’t noticed was that you started dressing in more bland colors. No more rainbows, sparkles, odd patterns, but more basics in black, white and beige. All the colors and patterns can come off too strongly to some people, better to keep the brightness to a minimum. But you’re happier now. Happier than you were 2 years ago at least.

You now work at the biggest music production company in the country, hoping that one day, you will be able to touch people's hearts with your music and inspire others to follow their dreams, just like you had. One day, as you were on the way to a coffee shop during your break, you saw him. You saw his brown curly hair and his favorite jacket, the one you used to wrap yourself in on cold nights spent with him, walking along the riverside and just talking. He was waiting in line to order his favorite, an iced latte and a slice of banana bread. 

As you stood and stared in the doorway, you saw someone walk up to him and wrap an arm around his waist. She’s blonde and absolutely gorgeous. Probably the most beautiful woman that you’ve ever seen. Whilst you examine the woman, you notice something on the woman's finger. A ring. An engagement ring. Simple, but elegant. 

You debated whether you should leave or stay and pretend you didn’t see anything, as if the scene before you isn’t killing you on the inside. Before you could make your decision, he turned and spotted you. He stared at you from across the room, almost as if he was trying to place where he knew you from. The woman whispers something into his ear and he looks down at his fiance and laughs. 

You stood there, motionless, wondering did he forget me? Is it that easy to forget me? What we had? Or did he just not want to acknowledge me? How could he move on so easily? So quickly?

It was now your turn to order, so you stepped up to the cashier and ordered your usual,  an iced coffee and a cheese danish for yourself, as well as an americano and blueberry muffin for a friend of yours. Once you’d paid, you stepped to the side and waited for them to call your name, indicating that your order was ready. As you waited, you tried your best to not acknowledge him. You didn’t look in his direction and didn’t stand near them. But he kept taking small glances at you. You didn’t understand why he was doing this. Was it to see if you were jealous? If you were still heartbroken? Maybe he was trying to get a rise out of you. 

After some time, your name was called by one of the barista’s so you made your way to the counter and picked up your order, walking out the door as fast as you could. As soon as you stepped out the door, it felt like you could finally take the breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. Taking the first steps back to work, you looked back at him, but he wasn’t looking. Instead, he was pulling the woman, his fiance, close and kissing her, as if he knew you were watching, wanting to make you feel some way. 

As soon as you got back to work, you dropped off the muffin and coffee at your friend's desk. As you were making your way back to your desk, one of your company's clients and a close friend of yours, the one she had bought a muffin for, walked up to you and told you that her boss wished to speak to her. Charles gave her a shy smile as he walked away. You raced to your boss’ office where you were told that you had to write a song for one of your favorite artists. You were told to write a ballad about heartbreak, a song that would make people's hearts sink when they listen to the song. You told her boss that it was no problem, not wanting to be a disappointment. 

Immediately, you got to writing. You sat in one of the small studios in the building and began writing. You wrote down various lyrics as you played various chords on the piano. You worked for hours on end until the sun began to rise again. You hadn’t eaten or slept, but you believed you had written one of her favorite songs yet. It was something you held close to your heart and you prayed it was good enough. 

Once you had finished writing the song, you noticed it was 5 am. You decided to race home quickly to refresh and then come back to the studio to show your boss the song you had just written, to get their input. To say you were nervous was an understatement. As much as you loved your job, you hated having to share your work, for fear it would not be well received. You were afraid that the songs you worked on wouldn't be enough. But you pushed through your doubts, because at the end of the day, if you don't believe in yourself, then no one will. 

You played the song for your boss, and they loved it. They told you to immediately record a demo of it and send it to the client. With that, you got to work. Stepping into one of the studios, you found Charles, the blueberry muffin lover. You immediately raced to him with excitement, telling him about how your boss had loved the song you had written and wanted you to record a demo for it and send it to the client, who just so happened to be your favorite artist.

“That’s amazing, ma cherie! I’m not surprised honestly, you’re an amazing songwriter and musician. It was only a matter of time before your talent was recognized.” he smiled softly at you. 

With the help of a producer, you recorded the demo and had it sent to the client, who absolutely loved it and wanted it to be the first single off their new album. You were ecstatic because not only did you love it, but so did your boss and your favorite artist. Soon after, the client came to the recording studio in the building and started recording the song with your help  and a few producers' help. 

Once you had finished recording the song, the client stood there in silence. You felt like you were melting in that studio, full of people you respect and admire. What if it turned out that the client didn’t like the song anymore? That they didn’t want it anymore? What if they wanted someone else to write a song for them? What if you really weren’t good enough? 

Finally, the client spoke, looking right at you “You know,  I don’t think I’m doing this song justice. I think you should record it, properly, and release it under your name. You’ve got an amazing voice and incredible song writing skills. I don’t think it’s fair of me to take this song from you.” 

You thought you were being messed with but after a few moments, realized that the client was being serious. It took a bit of convincing, but you agreed to release this song under your own name, totally not due to peer pressure. Of course you were shitting bricks at the thought of putting yourself out there as a singer, but it was something you were excited for? For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were on the right path. 

Leading up to the release of your first single, there were countless meetings and dinners with important people. People who had power and influence in the music industry. People that she had only dreamed of working with, never thinking it could be real. So many contracts that had to be signed. You began to doubt whether it was something you were worthy of. All these people were taking a big risk in working with you. What if you turned out to be a waste of time, money, and effort. 

One specific day, while you worked with lawyers and managers on getting your new career started, you stepped out of your office building to take a breather and gather your thoughts. But, as you did, you saw him, Calum Hood. The man who broke with silence all those years ago. He’s standing there with his big brown eyes looking directly at you. The two of you stood there staring at each other, 8 feet apart, not saying a word. 

After what seemed like hours, he walked to you, not breaking eye contact. Your heart started racing, wondering why he’s here, why is he walking towards you. As soon as you were in arm's reach of each other, he handed you an envelope. You reluctantly took it from his hand and saw your name written on the front, in beautiful cursive. 

“It’s an invitation… to my wedding. It’s in a few months and I want you there. I know I kinda left abruptly and you’re probably pissed at me, but I hope between now and the wedding, we can reconnect and be happy for eachother. I mean I’m engaged now and you’re obviously seeing someone.”

You were taken back by this comment, why does he think I’m seeing someone? 

He sees the confusion on your face “At the coffee shop, you ordered two drinks and two pastries. I assumed that you were getting it for your partner.” 

When he said this, you thought shit but you also thought, since he’s moved on, you should pretend that you have too. 

You looked back up at him and said “Yeah, I’m seeing someone. I met him here at work a couple years ago.” 

“Great, I’m glad we could both move on and be happy for eachother. I was wondering if you wanted to grab a bite to eat or a coffee sometime. We can catch up and reconnect?” 

You agreed. You were curious as to why he left that day. It has been in the back of your mind for the past 2 years. Why not take this chance to find out? Setting a time and date to meet, you said your goodbyes to each other. 

For the next week, you worked and worked, trying to get your new life in order. PLacing everything where you wanted it to be or where it needed to be. All of this was so new to you and now your ex has been thrown back into the mix. You were actively trying not to drown, clawing at the waves to survive. 

You made your way to the coffee shop you and Calum had agreed to meet at. As soon as You walked in, you saw him sitting at a table in the corner. He smiled and waved you over. You walked over and sat down, noticing that he had already ordered for the both of you. In front of you, on the table, sat your favorite drink, but it was hot. You hated hot drinks. Even when it was freezing outside, you always ordered cold drinks. A pastry sat next to the drink, it was a pastry that you’d never tried. 

“I remember these were your favorites. I’m not sure if they still are but hopefully you still like them.” 

“Yeah, thanks” you said, plastering on a smile. You hated that you still loved him, after all this time. Even after he got your coffee order wrong and claimed it was your favorite. 

The two fo you sat there in silence wondering where to start. 

“So uh, how have you been since… you know” Calum says, giving you a toothy smile. 

“Since you left me out of the blue? Yeah I’m doing pretty good” you said with a laugh, almost masking the pain that still pierces your being. 

He lets out a chuckle

“I’ve got a new job, new apartment, new partner. I guess you could say I’m doing great. How about you?” you asked the man before you. 

“Yeah, I’ve been good. I got a big promotion, new house, and I’m getting married to an amazing woman.” 

When he said this, you felt your heart sink into your stomach. 

“Tell me about her.” you said

“Well, she is a nurse. During her free time, she volunteers at an animal shelter. She’s constantly bringing home stray animals as well, hoping she can find them new homes. One of the things I love about her. She uh, she also loves painting. She’s constantly painting something new. We have about 20 of her paintings around the house.” he says with a smile on his face. “She’s literally the perfect woman. I love everything about her. But enough about me. Tell me about your guy. What’s he like?” 

You panicked when he said this. You don’t have a guy. So you thought of someone you could describe, Charles. 

As you begin speaking, you unconsciously smile “Um, well, he’s a driver, like he drives in Formula 1. We met at work when he was looking for a company that could help him bring his compositions to life. We sort of hit it off from there. He plays the piano like it's no one's business. He can also play the guitar and he’s an amazing musician overall. He’s like a chess genius and one day he ran into the studio and told me about a great idea he had. He wanted to use the sounds of chess pieces hitting the board in a song. I mean it’s not a crazy idea. Billie Eilish used an Australian crosswalk sound for a song. Why can’t we use chess piece sounds?” You laugh when you say this, thinking about how absurd it is that Charles comes up with these ideas just out of the blue. 

You continued “He loves getting up early in the morning and going to watch the sunrise. And he loves cooking. He makes the best pesto dishes. Any dish with pesto, he can make into something you can only dream of eating. You should come over one day and try it.” 

“I’d love to. We should all get together one day and have dinner. My fiance and I and you and your mate.” 

“Yeah, just let me know when you two are free. Charles and I are usually only busy during the day.”

“I’ll check with my fiance but yeah, I’ll let you know. What else have you been up to? Any gossip going around that you can share? I’m sure there’s a ton with the amount of celebrities you work with.”

You hate that he’s asking this. You used to tell him everyday that you did not feel comfortable sharing anything you ever heard at work, as it was not any of your business and you wouldn’t want your business being aired out either. 

“Not so much gossip that I can share but, I am currently in the process of releasing a song.” “Really?” he asks in a doubtful tone. “That’s… amazing! I know how much you wanted to be a big song writer, and now you’re gonna be a big star.”

“I’m not so sure about being a big star.”

“Oh no, believe me, you are gonna go on to play in stadiums and sell out tours, and win awards. Trust me, I know you, and I know how talented and hard working you are. You’re gonna be the biggest star anyones ever seen." His tone makes him seem like he’s being sarcastic. 

You feel your cheeks turn red, not from flattery, but from anger? Embarrassment? He never once said he believed in you when the two of you were together. Never once stated that you were talented. Always changing conversation topics when you would bring up your work. 

“Thank you. I’m really excited for this next step in my life.”

“Yeah, no problem. I’m glad we saw each other that day, and that we can talk now. And again, I’m sorry for leaving abruptly all those years ago. I’m not sure what exactly happened but, I’m sorry. I really am” he says. But, you’re finding it hard to believe him. You don’t think he’s actually sorry for his actions. 

“It’s okay. Things happen. People change and there’s nothing we can do about it. Listen, it’s getting late and I should get going, but let me know when we can all sit down and have dinner.” 

“Yeah of course, take care.”

The two of you  stand up and hug before leaving. As soon as you touch, you remembered what it felt like to be with him. Unconsciously, you sank into his arms immediately, not wanting to let go. For a second, you hoped that time would freeze. That you could be his for even another minute. Maybe there’s a chance he could love you again, like you weren’t hopeless. Maybe you could be enough this time. But eventually, you did part. You two walked out of the shop together and then went different directions. 

As soon as you got home, she panicked thinking I gotta talk to “my guy”. You pick up your phone and text Charles, asking him to meet you in front of her apartment building in an hour. He fortunately agrees without questioning it. 

An hour later, you meet Charles at the front of your apartment building. “Hey, What’s up? Are you okay? Why’d you need to meet so soon?” he says while walking up to you, worry sketched into his face. 

“Well you see, I may or may not have bumped into my ex who is now engaged and then talked to him and now he thinks that I’m also seeing someone when I’m not because I need him to think that I have moved on because he moved on and he invited me to his wedding and he needs to think I’ve moved on and that I’m happy.” “I-. Seems like you’ve gotten yourself in quite the predicament.” he lets out a small laugh. “But why do you need me, specifically?”

“I need you to pretend that we’ve been dating for like a year and maybe, possibly, pretty please, be my date to their wedding.” “Oh.” he laughs “I mean, sure. I’m down to help you out. Let me know what our story is so that I can get into character” he jokes. 

“Really? Are you sure? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I know this is a weird request and stuff.” you explain, beginning to regret your decisions and panicking a bit. 

“Yeah. I’m totally down. It actually sounds kind of fun, almost like I’m crashing a wedding but I'm not. I also sort of owe you for all the help at work. I wouldn’t have been able to get some of those projects done so quickly without you.” 

“Oh, yeah that was no problem. But are you really sure you’re okay with helping me with this?”

“Most definitely. Text me the details when you can. We can begin scheming.” he tells you as he begins to walk away.

Before he disappears from view, you shout back a reply “Alright. Thanks Charles, I really appreciate it.” 

As he turned around, you swore you saw his eyes twinkle. 

Once he’d turned a corner, you went back up to your apartment and took a breath and wondered what the hell did I get myself into. 

A month has passed and it’s time for all four of you to have dinner together. You all met at your apartment. Since you've been working every hour of every day, your “partner” arrived at your apartment ahead of time so that he could prepare dinner for everyone. 

Calum and his fiance, Kayla, arrive and you all gather around the table and begin to eat. You all make small talk with each other, starting with whatever is on the news. As time went on, you all began to feel comfortable enough around each other to talk about what’s happening in your lives and how everyone knows each other. As far as Kayla knows, you and Calum were friends a few years back til work got in the way and you just lost touch.

Throughout the whole dinner, Calum tries to steal glances at you, but you don't give in. He tries grazing your leg with his foot but you ignore it. You don't understand why he’s doing this. He’s happily engaged with a new job and new house. 

Charles soon notices how uncomfortable you are and tries his best to subtly comfort and reassure you. Charles pulls your chair a little closer to himself, not realizing that he’s just saved you from having that man touch your leg again. He asks you if you’re okay and you tell him that you’re fine, giving him a smile that he can see right through. 

You all talk and laugh all night until it’s time for Calum and Kayla to go home. The couple say their goodbyes and leave, thanking you and Charles for hosting and cooking. 

Charles stays back and helps you clean for a bit, even after you’d reassured him that you could do it yourself. 

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks you. 

“Yeah, I just- It was just weird, the whole dinner thing.” you try to brush him off. But he doesn’t let up. 

“Don’t lie to me. I could see how visibly uncomfortable you were. Was he doing something to make you uncomfortable?”

“No, he didn’t do anything. Please just drop it. It’s been a long night.” you say, feeling exhausted. 

“Fine. But this conversation isn’t over yet.” he says as he begins to walk out. 

“Thanks.” you call out to him before he can walk out the door. “For helping me and for cooking dinner tonight. I really appreciate it. The pesto was really good. And thanks for checking up on me, you didn’t need to.” you try to put on a smile for him. But he can’t help but see right through it, and knows right now isn’t the time to push you to talk yet. 

He simply nods and tells you “It was no problem. I’m always here if you need anything.” He smiles at you as he walks out the door. 

A few hours later, you're in your apartment, getting ready for bed when all of a sudden, there’s a knock at your door. You walked to the door to see who could possibly be knocking at your door so late at night. You look through the peephole of the door to see Calum. You weren't sure what to do. Not only did you feel exhausted, but you also wanted to know what was going through his head, why was he here? 

Opening the door, you tell him to come in and ask him why he’s back here at your apartment, especially so late at night. 

He looks at you and just says “I love you. I never stopped loving you. I’ve loved you since the first night I met you. I never stopped loving you.” You’re confused and angry. He left you, out of the blue, and immediately got into another relationship. He made you feel small and foolish. He made you feel unlovable. Unworthy. He made you question your worth for so long. You had to fight claws and chains to come back from the depths of darkness that he threw you in. 

You look him in the eyes and ask “Then why did you leave?”

He holds your stare and says “Because I was an idiot. I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“You didn’t know what you wanted? Really? That’s your answer?”

“Well it’s not like it’s entirely my fault that our relationship ended the way it did. I mean, you had as much of a role in our demise as I did.”

“Excuse me?” You can’t believe him and his audacity “Tell me, what the fuck did I do that made our relationship end? Please, tell me. Go on then.”

“Well I mean, for starters, you were always talking about yourself. You know what, no, you just were always talking. Nonstop. It’s like you couldn’t stand the fucking silence or letting someone else talk. Like who cares if you saw a rat on the subway. It’s New York City for fucks sake. That shit happens everyday.”

“What else?” you asked, trying to keep the tears from falling. 

“You are always so full of yourself. You really think you’re talented? You really think you can amount to something? You write songs. Woo fucking hoo, congratulations. Millions of people can do that, it doesn’t make you special. Just because you got given this new career, doesn’t mean shit. Talentless people make and release music all the time. It doesn’t mean shit. When are you gonna realize that you don’t matter. That people aren’t going to love you like I do.”

“Stop spewing that shit at me. You have no right to say that.”

“No, I have every right considering I wasted so many years on you.”

Eventually, you lost it. Tears were streaming down your face and you stopped holding back.

“I was a fool for loving you and thinking you loved me too. I did everything for you. Everything I did was all for you. But it didn’t mean shit to you. You kept me waiting for your love for years. And I acted like it was fine, like I was fine. I thought maybe someday you’d come around and that it would be something we laughed about when we were older. But I finally learned my lesson. I was naive and foolish to think you could ever love anyone but yourself.”

“Stop with the theatrics for god's sake. All you needed to do when we were together was give me space and be chill and hold your fucking tongue. I’m trying to give you a chance with me again. Just take me back and we can pretend this never happened. You can have a purpose in life again.”

You stare at him not knowing what to say or do, feeling trapped. You can’t believe this man, coming into your home and saying that shit. You can’t believe that at one point in time, you loved him. 

“Go.” you tell him. 

“What the fuck are you saying.”

“Go, get out. Get out of my fucking apartment, I never want to see you again.” You yelled as you pointed towards the door. He looked at you in disbelief “I walk out that door, then this is over for good.” He gestured between you two, “You won’t get another chance.”

“Leave. I don’t need you or your stupid ego.”

“Fine, just remember that you did this to yourself. Have fun spending the rest of your life alone and unsuccessful. No one in hell will be stupid enough to love you, at least not like I did.” 

He walked out of the apartment as you slammed the door shut. 

You had a lot of regrets in your life. But your biggest regret was him. You regretted putting him on such a pedestal. For treating him like he was the sun. For years, you watched him as he tolerated you. You were such a fool for him. You waited patiently, but you were never enough for him. You don’t think anyone will ever be enough for him. 

The whole time he spoke and bashed you, you thought that maybe he’ll never be satisfied. He could have the perfect life with a perfect house and perfect wife and perfect family. But at the end of the day, he will always want more. 

After years of doubting yourself, putting yourself down and believing every word he ever said to you about you, you’re finally at a place where you can confidently say that someday, you will be everything to somebody else. This person will think you’re so exciting. This person will never cease to amaze you. This person will always love hearing you talk, hearing you laugh, wanting to bottle up the sound so that he can listen to it whenever he wants. 

Your first single made it to the top 10 on the charts. YOur schedule was booked full with interviews from various magazines and entertainment channels. Everyone kept asking you “When’s the album coming out?” “Who's the song about?” “Is there a potential love interest in your life right now?” “This man claims the song was written about him, is it true?”. Millions of questions, some that you refused to answer. 

Your first few months of fame were chaotic to say the least. The only time you felt at peace and like you could be yourself was when you were in the studio where you first wrote the song. Oftentimes, you would sit in that studio and just sit in silence, savoring the calm. As you were about to close your eyes and take a little nap, you heard a knock on the door. You call out to the person behind the door stating that they could come in. The door opened and you saw that it was your “partner”. You smiled as Charles walked in, taking a seat next to you. 

“So, how’s fame treating you?”

“It’s pretty tiring if I’m honest.” you laughed.

“It looks tiring.” he laughs with you, “Why are you here alone? Shouldn’t you be mingling with the big names right now? You know, out partying and stuff.”

“Not my kind of thing. How are things with you? What have you been up to?”

“Just the same old stuff. The only difference is that my projects are getting out slower now that my writing partner is big and famous.” he says jokingly. 

“Writing partner? Really? Since when did I get promoted to your “writing partner”?”

“I’m only joking. But yeah, it’s not the same around here without you, cherie.” he smiles softly at you “I never got to check up on you after that dinner. Are you okay?”

“Well I mean, I’m as okay as I can be. No one really teaches you what to do when a “good man” hurts you, so.”

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that. He seems like an ass. ”

“You only met him once.” you stated, letting out a small laugh. You continue “Yeah, you know what’s crazy? He came back to my apartment a few hours after dinner.” “Why? What did he want?” 

“He just asked for me to take him back, and when I said no, he told me it wasn’t just his fault that we ended the way we did. He said it was also my fault. He also said some other fucked up shit but, it doesn’t matter. He was right.”

“Whatever he said, that night, don’t believe him. You guys ended because he’s a dick, not because of anything you did.”

“You don’t know what happened.”

“No, I don’t. But I do know you. I know you, ma belle. You are a talented songwriter. You are a hardworking person with so much fire and passion. You are someone who never gives up. Someone who will put others before herself. Someone who is unstoppable. Someone who loves unconditionally and is also unconditionally loved. Someone who remembers everyone's favorite order at the coffee shop so that no one feels left out. Someone that people look up to and admire. You are worthy of all the good in the world. I know who you are. ” You look at him, wondering if you really are worth it. 

But you simply replied “Thank you.”

When you’re left with your own thoughts, you start to wonder, would you be able to sail through the changing ocean tides? Maybe. Would she be able to handle the seasons of your life? Maybe. 

All you know is that you’ll always believe in yourself. Believe that there are people who love you. That supports you. That appreciate you. That see you, for who you truly are. For as long as you live, there will always be people in your corner, even when you don’t think they should be. So, maybe one day you’ll find your person. Maybe one day you’ll build a life with this person. Maybe one day, you will believe it when someone says they love you. 

Maybe one day.

[writesvani]

say you remember | 02

idol!minyoongi x writer!reader

SUMMARY: You don’t expect much when your eyes meet his across the café-bar—just a fleeting glance, a moment that should mean nothing. But then there’s another look. And another. Before you know it, you’re tangled up in something that isn’t love, isn’t commitment—just an escape wrapped in late-night encounters and whispered goodbyes.

It’s fine. Until it isn’t.

When feelings start creeping in, you both decide to walk away before things get too complicated. It should have ended there. But fate has other plans. When your friend starts dating Jungkook—his best friend, his bandmate—you find yourself face to face with Yoongi once again.

The past lingers between you, heavy and unresolved. The question is—was it ever really over?

strangers-to-fwb-to-strangers-to-lovers

TRIGGER WARNINGS: jealousy, unresolved past relationships, awkward social interactions, emotional tension, flirtation, suppressed feelings, anxiety, unspoken love, betrayal, unrequited feelings, uncomfortable confrontation, smoking, drinking

comment here for to Say You Remember taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 7k // date: 15th of April 2025

CHAPTER TWO — Drowning in the Silence Between Us; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hii guys. im so excited for this chapter, i LOVE it. it's so funny. like, i'm over here cackling like a mad person. it's honestly kinda self projecting but oh well, i'm embracing it. who needs boundaries when you're writing, right?

also, just to clear things up, y/n's book dear me is in no way connected with my jungkook fic dear me (imagine the drama if it was). it's just that i couldn’t think of a name for her book, so i just borrowed the name from one of my own fics. i promise i'm not secretly inserting my own universe into this. but yeah, dear me in this fic is y/n's book and it's all original with her own characters. okay, enjoy the chaos.

also, goal for this chapter is 250 notes. i am not lowering it this time. i fed you well with this one, 7k words after all, so if you want a new meal, y'all will have to work for it. get those notes in!

"Remind me again why we still don't know his name?" Chul asks, flatly, as he sets down three steaming mugs with the precision of a tired barista.

"Because it's still new," Aecha says, wrapping her hands around her cup. "And I want it to stay good before I jinx it by saying too much. You know how it goes—tell people, suddenly the whole thing collapses like a cheap tent."

You narrow your eyes, flicking ash off your cigarette with a pointed look. "People? Are we people to you now? Damn. And here I thought we made it past that stage."

Aecha just shrugs, a mischievous smile playing at the corner of her lips.

"It’s not just that, though," you go on, leaning forward. "It’s like you're actively enjoying this whole mystery-man act. Like you want us to suffer trying to figure out who he is."

"Maybe I do," she says, taking another sip. "You two make great detectives when you're desperate."

Chul groans, flopping onto the couch. "Great. So now we’re just part of your little game."

"You’ve always been part of my little game," she says with a wink.

"You see how little she thinks of us?" you say, shooting Chul a look of betrayal.

Chul nods with theatrical disappointment, letting out a long, dramatic sigh as he leans back in his chair. "Our own goddamn roommate. Best friend, even. And we’re apparently not worthy of a name."

"Ugh, it’s not like that," Aecha groans, setting her mug down with a soft clink. "It’s just… complicated, okay? You’ll understand when you meet him."

You raise an eyebrow. "Yeah? If we ever get to meet him. At this rate, you’ll be married with two kids before we even know his star sign."

"It would be nice to know who we’re meeting at least," Chul adds, more gently now. "Y’know, in case he’s a serial killer or a tax evader or something."

Aecha snorts. "He’s not a serial killer. Or a tax evader."

"That’s exactly what someone dating a serial killer would say," you deadpan, taking a slow drag of your cigarette.

"Oh, oh—wait. I have a theory," you say, tapping your fingers against the edge of the small wooden table. It’s sticky. "Ugh. Chul, seriously? Did you skip cleaning duty again?"

"Creative minds don't clean," Chul mumbles, unbothered.

You roll your eyes. "Anyway. Theory time. What if he's, like, a dealer? Or—wait—a vampire baby? Be honest, Aecha. Is your man an immortal bloodsucker with a side hustle in illegal substances? Because if so, I support you, I just need to emotionally prepare."

Aecha snorts into her coffee. "He is not a dealer. Or a vampire. God, what even is a vampire baby?"

"You know… baby-faced. Pale. Broody. Hangs out in corners. Likes antique furniture." You gesture vaguely, like you're describing a wine.

"Still no," Aecha says, but her smile slips just a little. "But I will say... he’s not exactly someone I can just go around telling people I’m dating."

You and Chul exchange glances.

"Jesus, who is he then?" Chul says, leaning forward with his chin on his hand. "C’mon, babe. All this secrecy is exhausting. You’re wearing us down like some kind of psychological warfare expert."

Aecha just shrugs again, lips curving into that maddening, knowing smile. "Good things come to those who wait.”

"Aaand, c’mon, guys," Aecha sighs, blowing on her coffee before taking a small sip. "It’s not like I’m keeping you waiting forever. For fuck’s sake, you’ll be meeting him—and his closest friends—tonight."

Chul’s eyes narrow, a slow, wicked grin forming. Then, in a low, ominous whisper, he leans in toward you. "Imagine they’re a group of human traffickers... and Aecha’s just their charming recruiter."

You snort. "Okay, that’s a little too specific, Chul."

"I’m just saying," he continues, eyes wide with mock horror, "if I end up stuffed in a trunk or smuggled across borders, I want it on record that she brought me to this dinner."

"No, but seriously?" you add, more dramatic than necessary. "I’m telling my mother where I’m going. If I disappear, she will avenge me."

"God, you’re both insane," Aecha mutters, laughing into her cup.

"Insane but prepared," Chul says. "That’s how survivors think.”

The fact that Aecha won’t even tell you her boyfriend’s name is… mildly weird. Actually, scratch that—it’s very weird. She’s never been the secretive type. If anything, she’s the kind of person who gives you the full name, zodiac sign, and three red flags of any guy she’s crushing on—whether it's someone she matched with for five minutes or actually dated for five weeks.

So the silence now? The mystery? It’s not just out of character—it’s loud.

Whoever this guy is, he must matter. Like, really matter. Either that, or something about him makes things complicated. And that? That makes you uneasy.

The idea of Aecha dating an idol has crossed your mind more than once. And honestly, that would be a solid reason to keep things secret. It makes sense. It fits.

But you try not to go there. Because you know. You know how messy it gets when people get tangled up in that world—the kind of dynamic that drains you, strips your privacy, and leaves you more alone than you were to begin with. The pressure, the lies, the heartbreak that's practically guaranteed.

So you don’t think about it. Or at least you try not to. It's easier to joke about vampire boyfriends or underground crime syndicates than to face a possibility that actually makes sense. A possibility that could genuinely hurt her.

Especially with her job—working in the digital marketing team at SM Entertainment—she’s in it. Right there, in the orbit of fame and its gravitational mess. And the odds of her meeting someone who lives in that spotlight? High. Too high.

And that’s what makes it worse.

"Aight, I gotta bounce. My shift starts in 45 minutes and I actually wanna keep this job," Chul groans, tossing back the last sip of lukewarm coffee like it’s tequila.

He gets up, drags himself to the sink, and starts washing his cup with the enthusiasm of a man being held at gunpoint.

"Wow," you say, raising an eyebrow. "Look who finally discovered the kitchen sink."

"I’m only doing this so you don’t go full FBI on me about it later," he mutters.

"That’s called growth, baby."

"Okay, don’t forget dinner!" Aecha calls out as he wrestles with his shoelaces like they personally offended him. "8PM sharp. LaRoy’s. If you're late, I’m telling them you died."

"Relax," he grunts, halfway into his hoodie. "I’ll be there. But just so we’re clear—if this turns out to be some cult initiation dinner, I’m eating first, then running."

"That’s fair," you nod. "Die with a full stomach. Iconic."

"Also, if I get kidnapped, I’m haunting you both. And I’m not gonna be a chill ghost. I’ll whisper embarrassing shit during your Zoom calls."

"Joke’s on you, I already embarrass myself daily," you shrug. "You’d be background noise."

"Love the support, really. Bye, losers."

And with that, he’s gone—probably already mentally composing his resignation letter.

When Chul leaves, it’s just you and Aecha again.

She’s immediately back on her phone, nails tapping out soft clicks against the screen—the kind of ASMR sound that weirdly soothes your brain. She’s smiling. Small, but there. The kind of smile reserved for someone. Mystery Man.

You don’t poke at her this time. Instead, you open your laptop, skimming through the last chapter you wrote, wincing at some of your word choices like they personally betrayed you.

"What are you doing today?" Aecha asks without looking up, but you can tell she’s peeled her eyes away from the screen just enough to look at you.

You sigh. "Writing. Or dying. Depends how dramatic I feel in an hour. I have to finish at least one chapter today or else both my editor and publisher are going to show up at my funeral just to make sure I’m really dead."

"Damn," she laughs, "at least you're being emotionally tortured by something you love."

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter. "I do love it. I just hate the part where I have to prove I'm not a lazy roach every three days. But don’t worry, I’ll be there for dinner. There’s no way I’m missing the grand reveal of Mr. No-Name."

"Good," Aecha says, biting back a grin. "I’ll be with him today. He’s got the day off—those are basically unicorn sightings. I’ll get ready at his place."

You gape. "Wait, so I’m stuck getting ready with Chul? Girl, you know he’s gonna stand in the doorway and trash all my outfit options like he’s a one-man 'Project Runway' judge panel."

"Oh absolutely," Aecha says, nodding. "You should prepare a backup outfit he picks. Just for the chaos."

"He’d probably put me in Crocs and a poncho just to see me suffer."

"And you’d still serve."

You glance up from your laptop. "I would, wouldn’t I?”

"Of course you would," Aecha grins, all smug and mysterious.

And then? Silence. The kind where you’re both in your little bubbles—her giggling at her phone like it’s whispering sweet nothings, and you glaring at your laptop like it just slapped your mom.

You’re trying to write. You really are. But this one scene is being stubborn. No matter how many times you rewrite it, it still reads like garbage written by a sleep-deprived raccoon with WiFi.

Your eye twitches.

Then—RING RING.

"Shit, he’s here?!" Aecha yelps, launching off the couch like she just sat on a ghost. She’s grabbing her purse, her wallet, a random sock, possibly someone’s toothbrush—you’re not even sure anymore.

"Wait, where is here?" you ask, blinking through the chaos.

"Here-here! Like, downstairs-here! Picking-me-up-here!" she hisses, as she smacks on lipstick with the grace of someone who's clearly done this in moving vehicles before.

"Damn, thank god you’re chill about it," you say, watching the storm unfold.

"Shut up," she breathes, checking herself in the mirror like she’s about to accept an Oscar.

She turns to you, one shoe on, purse hanging half open, still looking criminally good. "Okay, I’m leaving. See you tonight, babe!"

"Byeeeeee," you sing, and wait exactly 2.4 seconds after the door shuts before sprinting to the window like you’re in a Netflix thriller.

Full. Detective. Mode.

If she won’t tell you who this guy is, you’re gonna Nancy Drew your way into the answer.

You peek through the blinds—subtle, of course. Very stealth. But all you see is a car.

A very nice car.

A sexy, blacked-out, borderline Batman-looking Mercedes G 63 S.

You whistle under your breath. “Sir, what do you do for a living? And can I do it too?”

The windows are tinted darker than your search history. There’s no way to see inside. Just Aecha getting in, flipping her hair like this is her life now and the rest of you peasants can stay pressed.

The car glides away like it’s floating on money.

You stand there, blinking, brain already spiraling. Rich? Idol? CEO? Cult leader with good branding?

You sigh and flop back down on the couch.

“Good for her,” you mumble. “Eat the rich. Or at least… ride in their cars and moisturize with their money.”

You spend the rest of your day in the most unproductive, soul-crushing spiral imaginable. The kind of spiral where you stare at your laptop for so long, the blinking cursor starts to feel like it’s mocking you. Blink. Blink. You suck. Blink.

You write half a sentence. Delete it. Write a new one. Delete that too. Open Instagram. Hate everyone. Go back to the doc. Stare at the same three words for twenty minutes.

Your brain is soup. Not even good soup. Like watery instant ramen you forgot to flavor.

At one point, you dramatically flop face-down onto the couch and heavily consider committing one of two crimes:

One: Emailing your editor a resignation letter that just says "goodbye forever."

Two: Getting blackout drunk and letting the creative spirits possess you.

Option two is dangerously tempting. Tequila does make you poetic. But… you’re going to a dinner tonight. With Aecha’s mystery man and his friends. The man who drives a car that probably costs more than your organs combined.

You want to be sober. Observant. Ready to judge.

Because listen—if the man owns a Mercedes G 63 S, you know he’s dropping at least a couple hundred on wine tonight. You refuse to let his overpriced bottle taste like grape vinegar just because you had a solo pity party before dinner.

So you wait. Like a sad wife staring out the window for her husband at war. Except the war is Chul’s corporate shift and the husband is your emotional stability.

“Where the hell is he…” you mutter, tapping your pen against your notebook.

You have no idea what you’re wearing tonight. You have no mental energy to figure it out. You need Chul. You need his critiques, his sighs of disappointment, his dramatic gasp when you suggest wearing sneakers.

God help you if he comes home late. Or worse—if he says he’s too tired to help.

You might genuinely cry.

When the door finally creaks open, you let out a sigh of dramatic relief, like a damsel rescued from a burning building.

“I’m baaack!” Chul calls, dragging out the vowels. You hear the familiar thud of shoes being kicked off and keys clattering into the bowl by the door before he saunters into the living room like he owns the place—which, okay, partially, he does.

He takes one look at you, curled up on the couch like a cryptid, laptop half-slid down your lap, face twisted in literary despair.

“You writing?” he asks, already suspicious.

“Trying to,” you mumble, eyes still glued to the cursed blinking cursor.

He squints at you. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Not at all.”

He flops down beside you with a grunt, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it like it personally owes him money.

“Is it like… ‘I can’t write because I’m empty inside’ trying? Or ‘I can’t write because I accidentally stalked Aecha’s mystery man via car model and now my brain is fried’ trying?”

You blink at him.

“Both.”

“Knew it. You’re a menace.”

You groan, sinking deeper into the couch. “He drives a G 63 S, Chul. What kind of man does that? What kind of bank account does that?”

Chul gasps. “A dangerous one. Probably moisturizes with La Mer and screams at assistants named Greg.”

You both sit in silence for a moment, processing the sheer luxury of the situation.

“…We have to look hot tonight.” you mutter.

Chul tosses the pillow aside like it’s a grenade. “I’ll get the steamer.”

The next two hours turn into a full-blown getting ready montage, complete with outfit changes, near-death experiences with the eyelash curler, and Chul nearly setting the apartment on fire trying to steam his shirt.

By the time you’re done, you look like a Pinterest board brought to life. Your makeup is peak clean girl aesthetic—dewy skin, fluffy brows, and just the right amount of highlighter to make it look like you're always basking in golden hour. Your hair is curled to soft, effortless perfection (even though it took 45 minutes and one minor burn), and your white, off-shoulder dress hugs your body like it was custom-made for night.

Chul, on the other hand, looks like he walked straight out of a K-drama. He’s wearing these dangerously good khaki dress pants that somehow make his legs look ten feet long, and a white button-up that he very intentionally left two buttons undone. It’s giving “CEO with a tragic past”, and honestly? If he wasn’t so aggressively gay, you'd have jumped him in the hallway by now.

“Do I look hot?” he asks, spinning slowly.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Tragic,” he sighs, spritzing himself with cologne like he’s about to go on a date with destiny.

The ride to the restaurant is weirdly silent. You and Chul keep exchanging glances like you’re in a horror movie where the monster is definitely hiding in plain sight. Both of you are too nervous to say anything out loud, like the car itself might snitch to Aecha.

When you finally step inside LaRoy’s, the first thing that hits you is how insanely gorgeous the place is. It’s giving Michelin star meets royalty on vacation. Golden chandeliers, velvet chairs, waiters with actual white gloves. You’re about to comment on it when—

“Wait... where is everyone?” Chul whispers.

And yeah. That’s when it hits you. The place is completely empty. Not a single other customer in sight. Just you, Chul, and an unsettling level of ambiance.

Chul and you exchange the we’re-definitely-about-to-die look.

Then, a pristine-looking hostess materializes out of nowhere like she was programmed to show up at maximum tension.

“Chul and Y/N?”

You both answer in unison, way too synchronized for comfort:

“Yes.”

“Right this way.”

You follow her through the overly quiet restaurant like you’re walking toward your own funeral. You glance at Chul, who is now casually patting down his hair and silently mouthing, ‘We’re so screwed’.

And then—you see her.

Aecha. Sitting at a massive round table like she owns the damn place. She’s already mid-laugh when she spots you two, and her smile somehow manages to get bigger. Like she's been waiting for this exact moment of dramatic entrance.

You don’t know if you should wave or run. Probably both.

And then you see the hand.

That hand—casually draped over Aecha’s shoulder, a silent claim.

You already know where this is going, but it doesn’t stop the twist in your stomach when you finally see who’s sitting next to her.

Jeon Jungkook.

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you freeze. You don’t even care about the fact that he’s ridiculously good-looking, or how the room feels like it’s just a bit too bright. No. What hits you like a freight train is that if he’s here...

Yoongi is, too.

Fuck.

You don’t even need to look around the table to know. The feeling crawls up your spine like a warning signal, one that you’ve tried to ignore for years, but here it is, loud and unavoidable. The tightness in your chest. The pulse of nausea that makes you want to choke on your own breath.

You can’t look at Jungkook. You can’t.

Because if you do, the truth slaps you right across the face, and it’s one you’ve been running from. Jungkook is just a mess of questions you don’t care to have answered. But Yoongi? Yoongi’s the reason your heart beats too fast, why you’re still tangled in memories you should have let go of.

And then you see him.

Jesus.

The way his eyes land on you is like it’s been years since you last saw each other—and honestly, that's the truth. Two years. Two years passed. The ache that pulls at your ribs, the rawness that floods you, is something you thought had faded into oblivion. You thought you were over it.

But it’s never that easy, is it?

Chul notices immediately, the shift in your expression, the way your posture changes, rigid as though you’ve been frozen by some invisible force. His hand rests on your arm gently, a silent question. But what can you say? What can you explain without laying it all bare in front of people who have no idea about your history with him?

And you know it’s not just the fact that Yoongi is here—it’s that feeling. That damn ache that never really goes away. The past flooding back to suffocate you in this room full of people who have no clue what’s going on in your head.

You can’t breathe.

You’re not ready for this. You weren’t ready to see him again. Not like this. Not with Chul looking at you like he’s wondering if you’re okay.

But Yoongi? Yoongi’s eyes stay locked on yours. No words. No movement. Just that look. The one that says everything, even though it says nothing at all.

It’s like he’s still inside you. Like nothing has changed. You’re right back there, a thousand moments too many.

And it hits you—the final realization that this dinner isn’t just awkward. It’s a damn reminder of all the unfinished business you wish you could bury.

You’ve never felt so out of control.

“Oh my God, hi guys,” Aecha stands up with that familiar sparkle in her eye, wrapping you in a hug that feels tighter than usual. You hug her back, but your hands are clammy, your heart heavy in your chest. The warmth in her smile is real—but you can’t match it right now. Not with everything pressing down on you.

You force a breath as your gaze flickers over the table. You skip him. You skip Yoongi. On purpose.

Your hand finds the hem of your dress, discreetly wiping off the sweat as you steel yourself to be polite. Presentable. Normal.

Jungkook stands to greet you, that signature sweetness etched into every corner of his face. “Hey, I’m Jungkook,” he says, extending his hand. He doesn’t know. You see it immediately. There’s no recognition of your history—only curiosity, maybe a spark of interest, but nothing more.

You shake his hand, offering a small smile. “Nice to meet you.” Chul introduces himself too, and Jungkook lights up, immediately vibing with him, which helps, a little. The rest of the guys are friendly, laid-back. They smile, say their names, nod politely. It should feel normal.

But then.

He stands.

And everything slows.

“Min Yoongi,” he says evenly, his tone smooth and familiar in the worst way. He extends his hand, and for a moment you freeze. You think about ignoring it. About pretending. But that would draw too much attention—especially with Aecha watching so closely.

So you take it.

Your name slips from your mouth like it doesn’t belong to you. Like it’s a line from a script you’ve forgotten how to feel.

His skin is warm. You wish it wasn’t.

It lasts no more than a second. But when you sit down, your whole body feels altered.

Chul’s next, his handshake with Yoongi stiffer, his eyes avoiding yours. You don’t need to ask to know—he’s silently panicking. He knows everything. And you’re both trying to act like nothing happened, like Yoongi and you didn’t ruin each other once and then vanish from each other's worlds.

Namjoon watches. Quietly. Sharp eyes missing nothing.

You wonder if Yoongi gave him the full truth. Or just enough to keep him quiet.

Either way—this dinner is going to suck.

You settle into your chairs, side by side like you're bracing for impact. On your right sits Kim Taehyung, draped in luxury like it's a second skin, sipping water like it's champagne. On Chul’s left, Yoongi is already sprawled in his chair, legs stretched out like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

Honestly? Mood.

You flick your eyes at Chul. He looks like he’s debating whether to throw up or chug the complimentary sparkling water. No in-between.

“Sooo,” Chul finally speaks, voice artificially light. “Give us the story of how you two met. Like okay, you’re dating him,” he points a thumb at Jungkook, “but you work for SM, not HYBE.”

Aecha beams, clearly ready for this part. “It was during a promotional event the guys were at. I was there handling digital strategy for EXO, and Jungkook was invited as a guest and—”

“She was holding an iPad like it was a weapon,” Jungkook cuts in with a laugh, eyes crinkling. “I was just trying to ask where the restrooms were, and she looked at me like I was trying to hack the mainframe.”

“I did,” Aecha says dramatically. “He walked up all shy like, ‘Excuse me—’ and I was like, ‘Do not distract me, I’m in the middle of an algorithmic miracle.’”

“Which turned out to be a TikTok schedule,” Jungkook deadpans.

“Hey. That TikTok trended for three days. I saved Baekhyun’s brand.”

They’re laughing. Everyone at the table joins in. Except you.

And Yoongi.

Taehyung leans a little closer, eyes twinkling. “So what about you two?” he asks innocently, gesturing between you and Chul.

“We’re not together,” you and Chul say in perfect sync, too quickly, like soldiers trained for battle.

“Oh,” Taehyung blinks. “I mean—okay.”

“Yeah,” Chul coughs, “I’m very gay and she’s very… emotionally unavailable.”

“Thanks for that,” you mutter, shooting him a glare.

“What? You are.”

“Okay but you once cried because the guy you liked didn’t like The 1975.”

“Because he had no taste,” Chul hisses back.

Namjoon snorts into his glass. Yoongi remains silent. You can feel him, though—his presence heavier than anything on the menu. He hasn’t looked at you once. Not since the handshake. But you know he’s listening. You know.

Aecha smiles brightly. “Isn’t this nice? Everyone vibing already!”

You glance at her, then at Yoongi’s shoulder half a meter away from yours. You're practically inhaling the same air and pretending he’s a stranger.

Yeah.

Nice.

Totally vibing.

“So,” Aecha starts, swirling her wine like she didn’t just drop a social grenade, “What’s everyone getting? The truffle risotto is apparently divine.”

You reach for the menu like it might shield you from the tension building beside you. Yoongi still hasn’t spoken. Still hasn’t looked at you. It’s like sitting next to a ghost you used to let touch you.

Chul nudges your knee under the table. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s silently asking if you’re okay. You’re not. But you nod anyway.

“I’ll probably get the steak,” Jungkook says. “Haven’t eaten properly all day.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Taehyung mutters. “You only drink iced americanos and chew gum like it’s a food group.”

“I’m a busy man.”

“You’re chronically late.”

“Still busy.”

Yoongi finally speaks. “Get the steak rare,” he mutters without looking up, “They overcook everything past medium.”

His voice. It slashes through the air like a knife dipped in nostalgia and regret. You freeze for half a second. Just half. But Chul notices.

“Ohhh, steak boy speaks,” Taehyung says dramatically.

Yoongi doesn’t respond. Just drinks his water.

“So, Yoongi,” Aecha smiles, “still working on that solo album?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“How’s it going?” she asks sweetly.

“Like a root canal. But with synths.”

The table laughs. You don’t. You remember what he sounds like at 3am talking about chord progressions and bridges like they’re living things. You remember that look in his eyes when he finished a song and asked you to listen first. You remember a version of him that smiled at you across a messy bed, not across a dinner table full of other people.

You sip your wine. You need something stronger.

Namjoon clears his throat. “So, Y/N,” he says, forcing a new topic, “Aecha said you’re a writer?”

You blink. “Uh, yeah. I write romance.”

“Like… smut?”

Taehyung leans in, curious. Too curious.

Chul coughs loudly. “Not just smut.”

“I mean… a little smut,” you admit, shrugging, because what else are you gonna do? Lie?

“That’s dope,” Jungkook grins, nodding. “That takes guts.”

Yoongi still doesn’t say anything.

“I read one of her books once,” Chul announces, like he’s proud. “Couldn’t look her in the eye for a week.”

“Because you read the scene,” you mutter.

“Oh, you know I read the scene.”

“Wait,” Taehyung interrupts, eyes wide. “Do you base your characters on real people?”

You open your mouth to answer, but before anything leaves your lips, Yoongi suddenly stands.

“I’m gonna smoke,” he mutters, already walking away before anyone can respond.

Silence follows in his wake. Chul clears his throat.

“I’d say he’s always like that but… he’s not.” Jimin sighs into his wine.

You stab at your salad like it insulted your lineage.

And Aecha, bless her clueless soul, just smiles and says, “Maybe I will get that risotto.”

When Yoongi comes back, the conversation is already flowing. The wine’s been poured (maybe a little too generously), the bread basket is on its second refill, and you’re three laughs deep into a story with Jin and Taehyung.

You didn’t dare follow him outside. Nope. Not a chance. You weren’t about to chase a ghost into the night like it’s some 2014 Tumblr breakup playlist.

So you stayed, committed to the bit, committed to pretending your past isn’t three chairs away and brooding in black. Well he was smoking outside. But you get the point.

And now? You’re vibing.

“Wait, you’re telling me you were the one who wrote Dear Me?” Taehyung says, eyes wide like you just told him you invented bread.

You nod, sipping your wine like it’s a mic drop.

“That would be me.”

“NO.” His jaw is dropped. “No no no. That book ruined my entire week. I didn't leave my room. I didn't eat.”

Jin leans forward dramatically. “I read that one. I didn’t come out of my room for three days after that. Why is it so fucking sad?”

You grin. “It’s called talent. Look it up.”

Jin places a hand over his heart like you stabbed him. “Do you thrive on making your readers cry?”

“I mean…” You shrug. “A little. It’s character development. For you, not the characters.”

“Twisted,” Taehyung mumbles. “You need therapy.”

“And yet here you are, emotionally wrecked and asking for more.”

“You’re dangerous,” Jin points at you. “You’re like one of those hot witches in fantasy novels who curse people with heartbreak and then look hot doing it.”

You raise your glass. “Cheers.”

That’s when you feel it—him.

Yoongi slides back into his chair, and even though you don’t look at him, you know. You know from the slight shift in the table. The way the energy dips by ten degrees. The way Chul subtly straightens up like he might have to go full bodyguard in two seconds.

“So,” Namjoon says, like he’s stepping between a lit fuse and a barrel of gunpowder, “Yoongi, did you smoke the entire pack or just half?”

“Depends,” Yoongi replies flatly. “Did the conversation get better while I was gone?”

“Oh,” Jin grins, “way better. She wrote Dear Me.”

Yoongi stills. You don’t look at him. But you hear it in the pause. The inhale. The weight of a book title that he knows isn’t fiction.

“That book,” Jin continues, oblivious, “is basically emotional waterboarding.”

Yoongi takes a slow sip of his drink. “Sounds familiar.”

Your hand tightens around your glass. So we’re doing this. We’re being subtle.

“It’s fiction,” you say brightly. “Totally made up. Not a single shred of truth in it.”

Yoongi finally glances at you, eyes sharp. “Right. Fiction.”

Taehyung, bless his heart, frowns. “Wait. Is this about that scene with the voicemail? ‘Cause that—”

Chul loudly coughs and drops his fork.

“Anyway,” he says, “Jungkook, how’s your dog?”

Jungkook blinks. “Uhh… he’s good?”

“Great. Cool. Let’s talk more about that.”

The table dissolves into messy conversation again, everyone just a little too loud, a little too animated. You finally risk a glance at Yoongi. He’s looking at you, of course.

And beneath the casual disinterest, his eyes say it loud and clear:

You really thought I wouldn’t recognize myself in your pages?

You take another sip of wine and look away.

You were the one who told me to write what I know.

“Sooo,” Taehyung sings, one eyebrow cocked and eyes glittering as they dart to you. His voice alone is dangerous—smooth and teasing, the kind that could talk you into trouble without breaking a sweat. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

You pause mid-sip, arching a brow. “Umm, I’m pretty sure Chul already mentioned my emotional unavailability.”

Across the table, Chul snorts. “That’s an understatement.”

“Maybe,” Taehyung leans in a little, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm, “we can work on that one.”

You blink. “What, my issues?”

“No,” he grins, wolfish and playful. “Your availability.”

Hoseok doesn’t look up from cutting his steak, but his fork slows. “Taehyung.”

“What?” Taehyung says innocently, eyes still trained on you. “We’re just talking. I’m curious. I like to connect with people.”

“Yeah, well maybe let her breathe before you start undressing her with your eyes,” Jimin mutters, sipping his wine.

“Oh please,” you roll your eyes, “let him. I put effort into this dress.”

“Exactly,” Taehyung points at you. “You wore it for a reason, don’t lie.”

You lean back, smirking. “I wore it for the free wine, actually.”

Yoongi mutters under his breath, “Still desperate for the buzz, huh?”

You don’t even look at him. “Still pretending like you’re too good for anything fun, huh?”

There’s a pause. A weird pause.

And then Jungkook narrows his eyes between the two of you. “Wait. Hold on. You two know each other?”

Namjoon’s knife slips and scrapes against his plate with a loud screech. Chul straight up drops his fork.

You blink slowly, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Define know.”

“I knew it,” Taehyung leans forward, eyes wide with delight.

“No, no, no, it’s not like that,” Chul jumps in, hands raised like he’s waving off a scandal. “They… uh, they were in a workshop together.”

You shoot him a look. A “really?” kind of look.

Namjoon nods way too fast. “Yeah. Yeah! Like two years ago. They had a, uh… poetry workshop?”

“Poetry?” Jin asks, clearly unconvinced. “Yoongi?”

Yoongi just stares blankly at the table like he’s counting down the seconds till he can leave.

“Yep,” Namjoon barrels forward. “Modern poetry. Tuesdays and Thursdays, 8 a.m. Real intense syllabus.”

“Exactly,” Chul laughs awkwardly. “Like, Emily Dickinson, Rupi Kaur… very deep.”

“I dropped out after three weeks,” Yoongi says flatly.

“Oh,” Jungkook says, squinting at him, then at you. “And you stayed in?”

You nod, cheeks warm. “Loved every second of it.”

Taehyung’s trying not to laugh. “Okay, sure. What was your favorite poem?”

You deadpan, “The one about heartbreak and regret.”

Yoongi mutters under his breath, “Original.”

You snap back, “At least I read something.”

Chul loudly clears his throat. “So, um, wine! Should we order another bottle?”

Namjoon nearly slams his glass down. “Yes. Definitely. Someone flag a waiter.”

Taehyung hums, still eyeing you like he’s crafting a sonnet in his head. “Tell you what—if we survive this night, I’m taking you out. No emotional unavailability allowed.”

You raise a brow. “And what if I ghost you after?”

He smirks. “Then I’ll write a sad poem and hope it gets published. Sound familiar?”

Jimin jumps in, glancing at Chul. “So what is going on with you two, huh?”

“We’re roommates,” Chul replies, deadpan.

“Roommates who get ready together for dinner like it’s prom night?” Yoongi mutters, not even looking up from his glass.

“Dude. I already said—I’m into men. I like penises. Hope this helps.”

The entire table erupts.

Taehyung nearly falls out of his chair laughing. Jin bangs the table. Namjoon mutters, “I needed that level of honesty today.”

Jungkook wheezes, “I’m framing that quote.”

Meanwhile, you're crying from laughter and embarrassment, hiding your face in your hands. “God, Chul, you’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic, I’m just tired of being confused for your boyfriend when I’m actively fantasizing about Park Seojoon,” Chul fires back.

Jimin, without even looking up from his plate, goes, “Honestly, mood.”

Jin wipes a tear from his eye. “Okay, fair. Penises. Got it.”

Taehyung raises his glass toward Chul. “To penises.”

Everyone clinks their glasses—except you, still dying inside.

“So,” Namjoon says, pointing his chopsticks at you like they’re a lie detector, “are you working on something new?”

You freeze mid-sip of your wine. “Uhh… kinda yeah.”

“Okay, so that’s a yes, but it’s going terribly,” Jin interprets, nodding sagely.

You sigh, dramatically collapsing back in your chair. “It’s like… my brain is a hamster wheel. Except the hamster died. And now the wheel is just creaking ominously in the wind.”

Taehyung gasps. “That’s so dark. I love it. Can I be the dead hamster?”

“Please,” you deadpan, “be my guest.”

Namjoon chuckles. “So it’s writer’s block?”

“Big time. Like, I’ve stared at a blank document for so long, I think it’s starting to stare back.”

Chul chimes in, “I found her today whispering ‘just one sentence’ to her laptop like it owed her money.”

“It does owe me money,” you say, poking at your food. “And dignity.”

Aecha grins. “Have you tried turning it off and crying?”

Yoongi mutters, “That’s my approach to life, honestly.”

“Oh my god, same,” you say, raising your glass toward him.

Taehyung, ever the opportunist, leans in with a flirty glint in his eye. “Maybe you just need some fresh inspiration.”

You raise a brow. “Are you volunteering?”

“I mean…” he shrugs, smirking. “I do look good in tragic love stories.”

“Tragic is right,” Yoongi mumbles under his breath.

Namjoon laughs. “Okay, okay—can we please get a live reading if she ever finishes it?”

You scoff. “Only if you promise not to cry.”

“I make no such promises,” Namjoon says, holding up his hands. “According to Tae and Jin, you write pain too well.”

Taehyung leans in again, this time resting his chin on his hand, eyes twinkling. “I’m serious. Write something hopeful. Like a tortured writer meets a charming stranger in a too-fancy restaurant. Sparks fly. Banter ensues. Maybe a little—” he pauses, eyes flickering to your lips, “—tension.”

You chuckle, but you feel the heat creep up your neck. “What are you trying to do, cast yourself as the love interest?”

Jin jumps in, laughing. “Please, the man’s been auditioning since the appetizers.”

“Can you blame me?” Taehyung says dramatically. “She’s hot, she’s funny, and she writes angst that emotionally ruins people. I’m practically in love already.”

Yoongi’s fork clinks a little too hard against his plate.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, sensing the shift. “You okay, hyung?”

Yoongi shrugs, not looking up. “Just didn’t realize we were casting for a romcom tonight.”

“You wanna audition too?” Jin grins. “Could be a love triangle.”

“I don’t do love triangles,” Yoongi mutters, swirling his drink. “Too messy.”

Chul snorts. “Says the guy who practically invented emotional mess but ‘make it music’.”

You glance at him, curious, but Yoongi doesn’t take the bait. Instead, his eyes flicker up and lock with yours for a split second—just long enough for your breath to catch.

Taehyung doesn’t miss it, and he grins wider, leaning closer to you. “Well, if it were a love triangle, I’d fight dirty.”

“Oh my god,” Chul groans. “This is officially a Wattpad fic now.”

“Shut up,” you say, biting your lip to hold back a smile.

Taehyung winks. “I’ll be waiting for my cameo in chapter five.”

Aecha leans forward, swirling her wine lazily. “Yoongi, didn’t you say you’ve been dealing with a block too?”

Yoongi gives a slow nod, jaw ticking slightly. “Yeah. It’s been rough. But, you know… it comes with the territory. It’s part of the process, unfortunately.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raising slightly as he continues.

“I’m not really in a rush, though. The next album isn’t coming out until next year anyway. D-Day’s still pretty fresh. Still got some breathing room.”

Aecha perks up instantly. “Oh my God, D-Day! We were obsessed. The three of us actually had a whole listening party when it dropped. Like, wine, snacks, full breakdowns of lyrics... tears.”

“Mostly Chul’s tears,” you chime in, smirking.

“I stand by them,” Chul says dramatically. “'Amygdala' had me pacing the hallway like a divorced man in a drama.”

Yoongi chuckles, soft and genuine. “Happy to hear D-Day landed.”

“And by ‘landed,’ he means it sucker-punched us in the gut and left us on the floor,” you mutter.

“Good,” Yoongi says, a tiny smirk playing at his lips. “That’s the goal.”

For a second, his eyes flick to yours. And something lingers there—quiet, unspoken, and just slightly bruised.

You don’t look away. Not yet.

“We actually went to the concert too,” Aecha says, casually lifting her wine glass.

Jungkook gasps, clutching his chest like she just betrayed him. “You didn’t tell me about this? You attended my hyung’s concert without me?”

“You didn’t even know me back then, Kook,” Aecha laughs, nudging his shoulder. “It was, like, peak fangirl era.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You were there?” he asks, looking at all three of you—but his gaze lands and lingers on you.

Your stomach flips. “Yeah, we were,” you say, carefully meeting his eyes. “It was… incredible.”

His expression softens, just a little. “Huh. Didn’t expect that.”

“We cried,” Chul announces dramatically, raising a hand. “Like, real tears. Especially her.” He jerks his thumb toward you.

You shoot him a look. “Chul, please.”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, grinning. “Some of us may or may not have said ‘he’s a genius’ in the middle of the second chorus.”

Yoongi’s lips twitch, that almost-smile threatening to show itself again. “Good to know I had such a poetic impact.”

You smile faintly, and something about the way he looks at you—like he's trying to read a secret you never meant to share—makes your throat tighten just a little.

Yoongi takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes still on you, like he’s trying to decide if he should say something or let the silence speak instead. He goes with the second option—until Taehyung interrupts.

“So, Y/N,” Taehyung leans in, smirking, “did you fall in love with him before or after People Pt.2?”

You snort. “Definitely after. Before that, he was still hiding behind metaphors.”

Yoongi’s mouth quirks. “You think I hide behind metaphors?”

You glance at him, heartbeat hitching just slightly. “You live behind metaphors.”

A beat of silence passes. His eyes don’t leave yours. “And yet you still showed up.”

You want to roll your eyes, but it’s too sincere to dismiss. “Yeah, well… good lyrics deserve to be heard. Doesn’t mean I know the man behind them.”

Yoongi leans back in his chair, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Maybe you did.”

taglist: @park-littlecrane @gyozajoon @knjs95s @jajabro @peacenpigeons @supertopsecretleebit @glossyfanfic @mar-lo-pap @kittyyyminnn @jennierubyjem @ot72025 @yohoosoju @diame93 @ryryvna @taekritimin123 @baechugff @enfppuff @amarawayne @134340-kr @mikrokookiex @futuristicenemychaos @shesscorpio7 @kam9404 @teaaaaaan @blubird592 @rpwprpwprpwprw @ktownshizzle @tea4sykes @jennierubyjem @butterfly-lover @jellihueni @xtracy-xd7 @annyeongbitch7 @rkivved-girl @mygtangerine @busanbby-jk @jennierubyjem @kiki-zb @marissariveraaaa

[oopsiedaisydeer]

ᴘɪᴄᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ɪɴ ꜰʀᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴋɪꜱꜱᴇꜱ ᴏɴ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋꜱ

…𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘴

It’s an off day. One of those soft, aimless afternoons that smells like sunscreen and strawberries and pollen. Matt’s recently gotten into film photography… he says he likes that you don’t get to see the picture right away. That it makes him pay attention.

He brings the camera everywhere now. Not in an influencer way. In a boy way. Slung around his neck, smudged viewfinder, thumbprints on the lens kind of way. He doesn’t know what he’s doing yet, but he doesn’t really care.

She’s sitting on the grass beside him, flipping through a used book she found at the flea market that morning. He’s barely reading the one he picked. Keeps glancing over at her instead.

“Stay there,” he says suddenly, lifting the camera. “Don’t move.”

Rose looks up, startled. “What?”

He doesn’t answer. Just squints into the viewfinder, bites his lip, adjusts the focus. Click.

“You’re gonna waste your film,” she murmurs, face half turned away, pretending she’s not flustered.

“I don’t think it’s a waste,” he says.

He takes pictures of her chipped nail polish. Her sunglasses abandoned in the grass. The band-aid on her ankle from the sandal that failed her. Her reflection in a window. The shadow of her hand reaching for his. He won’t say it, but it’s all love notes.

She catches him taking one when she’s not paying attention, just staring out at the street. “You can’t keep doing that,” Rose tells him, kind of laughing.

“Doing what?”

“Catching me off guard. That’s not fair.”

He shrugs, lowering the camera. “That’s when you’re prettiest.”

She freezes, suddenly very aware of the fact that her tank top’s slipping off one shoulder. That her lips are dry. That Matt is still looking at her, camera hanging loose from his neck, lens cap in his palm.

He doesn’t look away.

Rose teases him, “You’re such an artist now.”

“Shut up,” he laughs, cheeks pink.

Later, when he drops off the roll to get developed, he’s fidgety. She asks why.

He says, “I just want them to come out right. Like, I hope it didn’t mess up the ones I really cared about.”

Heat crawls up her neck as she asks, “Which ones?”

Matt doesn’t look at her. 

Maybe he’ll forget everything else in a few months, but not this: her knee nudging against his, how the taste of lemonade would have tasted on her tongue, the way the light pooled around her like a secret he hadn’t yet figured out.

creds to rose for the dividers!! @bernardsbendystraws

a/n: i hope we like this,, i promise there will be some time jumps soon:>>

compromise!au taglist: @throatgoat4u @courta13 @snoopychris @sweetshuga @st7rnioioss @lovesturni0l0s @chrisbratt333 @joanakaulitz @bernardsbendystraws @zenithsturniolo @chrisslut04 @mi-co-uk @shortnsweetsturnz 

till next time <3

[dearstvckyx]

I keep thinkin' bout you and I - Bucky Barnes

Every Friday, you and Bucky Barnes share dinner as neighbors—comfort, laughter, and quiet moments. You call him Jamie, unaware of his past as the Winter Soldier, and he never corrects you. When you get stood up on a date, you call Bucky, and he comes running—because even if you don’t know it yet, he’s been yours for a while. Soft angst, gentle pining, and finally, quiet confessions. - The Neighbourhood , U&I

TFATWS!Bucky Barnes X Neighbor!Reader

Warnings: None.

The Neighbourhood Lyrics Masterlist - ⌂

Bucky Barnes had never thought much of Friday nights.

Until you.

You moved in six months ago—bright-eyed, hopelessly chatty, and completely unaware of who he was. Or maybe you were just pretending, but Bucky didn’t think so. You called him Jamie the first time you met, misheard his mumbled “James, but everyone calls me Bucky” and the name stuck. He didn’t correct you. He couldn’t. It felt… soft. Safer. Lighter. And it reminded him is his mom.

So, when you showed up at his door with two plates of leftover Thai food and a wide grin, it became a routine. Friday nights turned into something warm—full of garlic bread, laughter, and the clatter of mismatched dishes. You’d dance around his tiny kitchen like it was a stage, humming pop songs while Bucky leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching like a man in a dream he never wanted to wake from.

This Friday felt no different—until you said those words.

“Jamie, guess what?” you chirped, bouncing into his apartment like sunlight in human form.

He glanced up from where he was drying a dish. “What?”

“I got asked out!”

The words hit him like a punch to the ribs.

“Oh,” he said—simple, flat, and emotionless. The way he used to respond to mission reports.

You didn’t notice the change in his voice, too caught up in your own excitement.

“At that café near the bookstore,” you went on, placing silverware on the table. “He just came up and asked, totally out of nowhere! Isn’t that wild?”

He forced a smile. “Yeah. Wild.”

You were glowing, spinning around his kitchen with a kind of happy energy he’d only ever seen from a distance. “He’s picking me up at seven. Fancy place. I hope I don’t spill wine all over myself like last time.”

Bucky tried to laugh. It came out dry.

You didn’t notice that either.

Later, when dinner was done and you said goodnight, he sat alone at the table, staring at the empty chair across from him.

I keep thinking about you and I…

He didn’t sleep that night.

⸻

Saturday evening, the clock ticked past seven.

He imagined you laughing at some stranger’s jokes, dressed up, eyes sparkling—eyes that used to look at him that way, even if you didn’t know it.

At 8:12 PM, the apartment hallway door clicked open.

Soft footsteps.

Your voice on the phone, soft and quiet but loud to him with his super hearing,

“Yeah, no—it’s fine. I just… I didn’t think he wouldn’t show up.”

Bucky was on his feet before he realized it. He crossed the hallway in three strides and used the spare key you gave him on week two of knowing each other—“in case I get locked out or set something on fire,” you had joked.

The door creaked open slowly.

You were on the couch in your dress, makeup slightly smudged, clutching a takeout menu you weren’t reading.

You didn’t even look surprised to see him.

“I figured you’d come,” you whispered, voice tired. “No one else ever does.”

He walked over quietly, sitting beside you without a word.

“I know I’m… ditzy. I talk too much. I don’t get what half your books mean,” you murmured, eyes still forward. “But I really thought maybe this time—”

“He’s a fool,” Bucky said, voice low.

You swallowed hard. “It’s embarrassing, you know? You—you’re Bucky Barnes. I’ve seen you fix things with your hands, cook better than I ever could, stay calm in a blackout like it’s nothing.”

You finally looked at him. “And then there’s me. Crying over some guy who didn’t even bother.”

He wanted to scream. To tell you the truth. That he would’ve shown up early. That he looked forward to Fridays more than anything in this godforsaken life. That he had never let himself want anything since the war—until you.

“You know what sucks the most?” you whispered. “You can do what I can do. But I can’t do what you do. I’m not strong like you.”

“I don’t want you to be like me,” he said, voice firm.

“I don’t understand you half the time, Jamie. But I know you listen. You care. You show up. I… I don’t even know why you let me in every week.”

He finally turned to face you. “Because you make me feel like I’m someone else. Someone better.”

Your lips trembled, but you nodded.

He reached forward gently and cupped your cheek, thumb brushing a smudge of mascara beneath your eye. His gloved metal hand stayed by his side—careful, restrained, always afraid to break something so delicate.

“You’re not an afterthought,” he said, voice quiet. “Not to me.”

You leaned into his hand. Closed your eyes. Breathed.

“I keep thinking about you and I,” he whispered.

And you whispered back, barely audible:

“Me too.”

Neither of you moved to kiss.

You just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, the air between you finally filled with truths that had been dancing between dinner plates and laughter for far too long.

[anzioraa0]

A Harry Potter Series. A Black Severus Snape – and How Human Hypocrisy Saddens Me

I just need to say a few words about this, because some people can be especially annoying.

(I don’t speak English, so if the text sounds awkward, I apologize in advance. 🤲)

Usually, when people talk about racism in the Harry Potter universe, they say there *isn’t* any. That’s how it’s always been — as long as we’ve been in the fandom, the topic just never comes up. Not in everyday conversation, not in the books. And it’s never been a problem. No one minds a Black Harry or Hermione. That’s totally fine.

But now — *now* — when a character who’s been harassed, insulted, humiliated, and discredited throughout the *entire damn saga* for the way he looks is suddenly reimagined as Black, suddenly everyone’s like, “uhhh…” And that “uhhh” really gets to me.

So — classism? Lookism? That's all fine, right? No one cares? But *racism*? Oh no. That’s an issue! “It completely changes the dynamics of the story!”

...But why would it? If there’s no racism in the wizarding world — which, as I recall, even Rowling has said — then what changes?

Assuming nothing changes about Severus except his appearance, that means his personality, his backstory, and how others treat him would all stay the same. So what’s the problem? Why is it so hard to believe that someone who acts like a bitter, adolescent jerk might not be loved by everyone? Why shouldn’t he be disliked, regardless of his race?

Does race grant someone a pass for behaving a certain way? No. It doesn’t.

And if we all supposedly don’t care about appearances, and the issue is with “the story’s dynamics” — what exactly is supposed to change?

He’d still be unbearable. He’d still be obsessed with the same things. He’d still hate everyone, just as before.

Harry hates *him*, Severus, because he’s a kid and this adult treats him like garbage.

“But Harry blames him for everything!”

Okay — and when Severus is white, that’s just... normal? But if he’s Black, suddenly it’s problematic?

I don’t get it. Again — *if* there’s no racism in the wizarding world, like Rowling said, then the dynamics of the relationships stay exactly the same.

So what, really, is the issue?

The thing is, this kind of setup makes almost everyone uncomfortable.

As the saying goes: if you want to see the solution to a problem, look at it from a different angle. And as it turns out, it works the other way around too.

A lot of what Severus represents — his story, his personality — often gets downplayed or viewed through a biased lens, usually through Harry’s or the Marauders’ perspective. Issues like bullying, the prejudice he faced because of his interests or appearance — those things became so normalized that people stopped seeing them as real problems.

And now, suddenly, those who used to enjoy mocking him are being forcefully dunked into cold reality. They’re being asked to accept a new version of the story — one that makes them uncomfortable. Suddenly, everything that happened to Severus becomes a nightmare, an embarrassment for those who used to justify how he was treated.

What changed? Why is this behavior now considered “unacceptable”?

Oh. He’s Black now.

Not because of some big story twist. Just his appearance.

And suddenly — bam — racism, a real and very loud issue in our world, completely recolors the narrative.

Now the loudest voices — the ones who used to shout things like:

“He deserved it for calling others ‘Mudbloods’!”

“He deserved the bullying because he wanted to be a Death Eater!”

“It was mutual hatred, not bullying!”

— have all suddenly fallen silent.

And instead, we get the same whining in both the Russian and English fandoms:

“This changes the dynamics of the story! The Marauders, Harry, Ron, Dumbledore — everyone! They all suddenly look racist! Harry constantly blames him and suspects him — this is a disaster!”

Different words, same excuses.

But has anything about Severus’s actions changed?

What’s different between white Severus and Black Severus?

Nothing — except now we, the audience, more used to seeing racism in the real world, notice the injustice. It becomes clearer. Easier to see.

And sadly, only under these circumstances do some people finally start to pay attention to the issue. It’s unfortunate, but what can you do?

Even a large portion of Snape’s own fanbase dislikes this casting choice. And — oh, the irony — I sometimes hear the same nonsense from them about how it “changes the dynamics” and all that.

But in 99 out of 100 cases, it’s just sadness. Sadness that they didn’t get to see the familiar image of their favorite character.

Massive respect to those who just come out and say, “I just wanted my greasy-haired bastard back” — without piling on all the nonsense about a rewritten plot, changed relationships, racial discrimination, and so on. Because that simply doesn’t reflect reality.

One more important point…

It really doesn’t reflect reality. For the simple reason that the show hasn’t even come out yet. We don’t know the rest of the cast.

What if Harry is cast as Black? Or Lily? Or James? Lupin? Peter?

What are those people — the ones currently screaming louder than a fire alarm about “wrong casting” — going to say then?

“Oh… well in that case, sure, it’s totally fine for them to insult and humiliate Snape like before. Because, uhh… he wanted to be a Death Eater! And he was mean to kids!”

I can already picture it.

We don’t know what the casting will be like, how the story will shift, whether the project will be well-made or an absolute disaster, whether it’ll succeed or flop completely — we just don’t know. So judging it all based on one actor is simply impossible.

But, like I said — this series is being made for a new audience. And whether we like it or not, it will bring something new to the saga. Whether that’s a good thing… we’ll see.

Those who want the canon, or Alan Rickman, know exactly where to go. And I’m one of those people. I was genuinely disappointed that Snape wouldn’t look canon — because I adore the books, and after being let down by the movies, I was hoping for someone who looked and felt more like book Severus — in appearance, in character, the full picture.

But this series isn’t being made for me. It’s looking for something different, and I’ll be happy if the directors really try and end up creating something genuinely good. Even if it’s not a copy of the books — the books already exist.

Rowling, despite all my personal negative feelings toward her, is involved in the production. And while that’s not a plus for me, for those who are especially worried about “violating canon,” maybe her involvement brings some peace of mind.

Considering the state of modern cinema… well.

We’ll see how it all turns out.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

each separate dying ember

Fandom: Sunrise on the Reaping Rating: T Word Count: 1524

Summary: Haymitch goes for a walk before sunrise, reflecting on a conversation he heard between Katniss and Peeta the night before.

This town hasn’t made a sound for Haymitch since the morning he returned on the train. The scenes in his head have stayed quiet all these years: no thunk when the coffins hit the platform, no crackle to the fire he couldn’t tear his eyes from while Burdock’s weight pressed him flat in the road. No pleas for Burdock to press harder, snap his ribs, stop his lungs from inflating, let him die.

But Haymitch guesses those last ones were just in his head.

It’s not a regular deafness, like you get blowing the tank in Sub-A or triggering a plate-mine boobytrap to eradicate a heap of enemy supplies. This is a deafness that lets sound in but strips the meaning, the way he saw Asterid do with herbs in the apothecary shop when they were young, leaves sheared from stalks, clean away. Haymitch has worked at this deafness, worked at it as hard as his pa worked in the mines. While he still feels like a newcomer to the rest of his life, he’s made a career of this.

So the undoing is unnatural. He doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want to be in the world where coffins crack when they’re slung like sacks and the walls of your house crush in on themselves like dry bones. Those sounds seemed so long gone that getting them back, reacquainting himself with the part of his mind that selfishly remembered how to hear, is the freshest pain Haymitch has felt in….

He hasn’t been able to tell how acutely Katniss and Peeta notice this special skill of his. Then, he’s never particularly cared to try. Here in 12, he’s had his house and, more importantly, his reliable supply of white liquor. Hasn’t given a hang what anybody notices or ignores about him in a good long time. Now that he’s letting the sound have meaning again, the softest sigh of Lenore Dove deafening in his memory, can the pair of them tell? When he tells them details for the book, is there a sign in his face that indicates he can hear the sound of four hands working the pump to fill the cistern? Does the swish and scrub of laundry show in his grey eyes when the light hits them right?

Maybe not. Maybe the pair of them are too caught up in each other, and Haymitch knows how that goes—now with sound. Maybe the three of them are too close to mind talking about each other’s faults and peculiarities out in the open. Fuck knows they’ve got a mountain between them. Whether or not they knew or cared that he could hear them doesn’t bother Haymitch, but he did hear them, talking the night before, wondering about him in the kitchen while he lay half-asleep on the couch, too close to something he’s decided to call peace to recall whether they were in his house or he in one of theirs.

“Do you believe him?” His voice.

“Which part?” Hers, not angry, but an edge of defensiveness on Haymitch’s behalf.

“It was all so awful for him. When he got back. Relentless.”

“I don’t know if he ever did get back. Did we?”

“If you don’t know, I sure don’t.”

There was self-deprecating humour in the words, a goodness Haymitch would still die to protect, if he had to. He’ll never stop feeling that he should have been shoulder-to-shoulder with Wyatt, defending the most vulnerable of their allies.

Peeta continued, “I only mean that maybe he misremembers how fast it all was, how close together their deaths were. Snow—”

“Snow was capable,” Katniss said with finality.

“No question.”

A sound like chair legs on the floor, and Haymitch wondered if they’d shifted closer to touch. Katniss was skittish as hell—more right to be than any person alive, probably—but Haymitch had seen the two of them holding hands. She let Peeta, in the garden, when he’d been working the soil. It made Haymitch burn for the woods, and he usually sent a scalding scoff of white liquor down his throat after the feeling, trying to temper his own expectations with a brutal hand.

“I knew he had someone,” Katniss was saying now, and Haymitch knew he’d missed something, trailed off in his own thoughts, still relearning to hear. “I wish I could picture her.”

“I left space for a drawing, when he’s ready to describe her to me,” Peeta replied, so gentle it makes Haymitch want to force himself out of his own consciousness.

“Lenore Dove Baird. Can you picture Haymitch with a girl named Lenore Dove?”

The former meadow is a gulf of ugliness and misery, but the only thing worse than confronting it is ignoring it, so Haymitch heads that way, out across the grey world before the dawn. He likes the quiet. The quiet has been his ally since he was sixteen years old. His roommate, in the house that would never shelter his family. His companion, after he firmly turned his friends away.

Under the ragged fence, over the bomb-turned earth, avoiding the graves. Grave. Graves.

Far enough and Haymitch knows the ground is green, though the light doesn’t show it yet, the sun not high enough to strike the earth like mining emeralds. For now, the blades are blueberry-black, deep and dark like the night sky Sid loved so much has been poured all over the ground. Like Haymitch walks on water, the world beneath his feet just a reflection of one people have never managed to hurt. Just like Lenore Dove always wished for this old place.

At the horizon, the sky becomes violet, as though someone’s on the other side, scraping at the grey so the colours can get through. The grass gets taller, wetting Haymitch’s pantlegs.

“I can picture a lot for him,” Peeta said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, before we knew him, Haymitch was a sort of caricature, wasn’t he? Up on that stage every year, drunk enough for people to smell the fumes from the crowd.”

“He wasn’t weak,” Katniss said tightly, making Haymitch wonder idly whether that had been her own preconception or just the general one.

“I still don’t know everything he was,” Peeta added, cautious but kind, “but when he talks about his people, I think I start to believe.”

“Believe what?”

There was a long pause as, presumably, Peeta collected his thoughts. Haymitch found himself surprised by his own anxiousness to hear what the boy would say.

“I believe that he could love people—a lot of people. I believe that he would have died for any of those Tributes if he could’ve. I believe he had someone…”

The words got wet, turned to mush, and Haymitch heard a chair again.

“You have me,” Katniss promised.

“Real,” Peeta said, answering the question Haymitch has heard him ask his girl many times.

After a moment, he found his place and went on.

“I believe Haymitch had someone, and that he was loved, and that she would have died for him. She left this glow on him. She’s on every side he turns towards the sun.”

That made Haymitch turn towards the back of the couch. He didn’t know what to do other than press his face into the seam and pull a cushion against his head until he couldn’t hear them talking anymore.

It’s far. He hardly remembers, and probably wouldn’t if it weren’t something he could never forget. Eventually, Haymitch claps eyes on the shape of the stones in the dark and peers to see the tender weathering of time.

He might talk to her, in a while. At first, he just sits in the damp grass across from her headstone, his gaze moving over the poem that adorns it without exactly reading the words night still obscures, not needing to, each one engraved with equal depth and care into the monument he carries to her in his heart. The anguish is no longer a deep well but a flat lake—present, vast, but something he can wade into without the fear of drowning. Haymitch sits with his eyes closed and thinks of different words, then how they sounded in his girl’s mouth.

The ground is still wet when the change comes. The air is still cool, and the birds she was not named after coo to wake the day. Slowly, his forehead warms and the world on the other side of his eyelids burns as bright as a flame. Haymitch opens his eyes and squints into the sun.

But the sun is not his love, its rising not guaranteed. For him, forever, there has always been a force more constant, a gravitational pull more compelling, a heat like all-fire that never dips below any horizon.

Like rabbit fur, like feathers, pink and purple turn grey this mysterious mix of warm and cool. The stone glitters as though with sparks, and Haymitch sits forward to cover with his hand the place where he buried the flint striker long ago. He lays his cheek against Lenore Dove’s headstone, so the sun can strike them both together.