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lexalith · 3 days ago

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SOMETHING REAL || Choi Seunghyun (T.O.P)

summary: you never expected him to matter this much. at first, seunghyun is just the annoying guy from class—the one who gets under your skin without even trying. but somehow, he becomes your best friend, the one who listens when no one else does. you both have your own lives, your own relationships. it’s never supposed to be more than that. but then the way he looks at you lingers a little too long, his touch starts to feel like something you don’t want to live without. and when love starts to feel like loneliness, he’s there. what if he was the right one all along?

warnings/this story contains: (reader discretion is advised), seunghyun and the reader are both in their early twenties, slowburn, enemies to friends to enemies (?) to friends to lovers (lmao help), smut (oral sex (f receiving), p in v, dry humping, fingering, slight overstimulation, praising, lowkey rough sex), seunghyun and the reader struggle with insecurities, mentions of cheating, emotional cheating, mild angst (miscommunication, heartbreak, ghosting, lies, bickering), fluff (toward the end, seunghyun’s down BAD), a loooot of artsy talk and an insane amount of yearning.

a/n: this is an au! seunghyun’s not an idol and he was born in the early 2000’s. this is loosely based on real events (my life, lmao), some stuff has been altered for artistic reasons and to fit seunghyun’s persona. enjoy this fragment that i couldn’t resist sharing, because it’s the most bookish thing that’s ever happened to me—basically the closest i’ve ever been to feeling like the main character. help. anyway! english isn’t my first language so mistakes should be present!! lower case is intended. reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, like always, this is LOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs: i love my boyfriend — princess chelsea || delicate — taylor swift || sure thing — miguel

three minutes. that’s exactly the time you have left before your next class starts. you’re walking briskly across campus, your coffee in one hand, your backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to make sure you don’t arrive late (again…). but then, out of nowhere, someone bumps into you. it’s not even a light brush—it’s a full-on collision that sends the hot coffee sloshing out of your cup and spilling all over you. you gasp, looking down at your favorite blouse, now stained with dark coffee, and a surge of frustration rises in your chest. the guy who bumped into you stumbles back, clearly just as startled as you are, and for a moment, you just stand there, staring at him. he’s awkward, shifting on his feet, like he doesn’t know what to do. “uh… i didn’t see you,” he says, but his voice trails off. his eyes flicker down to the stain, then back to you, but he doesn’t move to offer help. “clearly,” you huff. he seems to be about to offer something—an apology, maybe—but the words never quite make it out. this is so ridiculous. it’s not like you expected him to drop to his knees asking for forgiveness, but at least do something. instead, he just looks at you, and says, “it’s just coffee.” it’s clear he didn’t mean to spill the drink, but the last thing you need right now is him trying to downplay it. you roll your eyes, your patience wearing thin. “yeah, and now it’s on me!” he raises his eyebrows, almost amused by your reaction. “it’ll probably come out in the wash.” “i can’t go to my next class like this!” you don’t have time for this. “yeah… i—i’m sorry,” he finally says.

you stare at him for a moment, and at first, you almost want to believe his apology, but then you see it. his lips twitch. it’s so subtle, like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, but it’s enough to set you off. your blood boils with frustration, and you glare at him, your patience completely gone. “great. just great,” you snap, your voice dripping with sarcasm. without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and start walking away, the coffee still soaking through your blouse, irritation simmering beneath your skin. “sorry!” you hear him call after you, but it’s distant. and just before you disappear around the corner, you catch it��the soft sound of a laugh. he’s laughing at you! what a fucking douche! you want to spin around and yell, but you don’t. you’ve got bigger things to worry about. like, for instance, the argument with your boyfriend earlier. it started as something small—just a misunderstanding, a simple disagreement about plans for the weekend—but somehow, it escalated. words were exchanged, and now you’re both giving each other the silent treatment. it doesn’t help that you haven’t had the time or energy to smooth things over. so now, you’re walking around campus, wearing a coffee stain bigger than your damn head, replaying the argument in your mind over and over. it’s like everything is spiraling today.

you’ve officially become a hater of the coffee-spiller guy. it doesn’t take long for you to realize that fate has an awful sense of humor. a couple of days later, when you walk into your ‘history of art’ class, you spot him. there he is, sitting at the back of the lecture hall. you freeze for a moment and his eyes catch yours almost immediately. you can see it—the flicker of recognition, the split second where he remembers exactly who you are. but he looks away quickly. you roll your eyes and find a seat far away from him, making a mental note to never, ever, be near him in this class.

every little thing he does in class irritates you. the way he taps his pen against the desk, that awful, self-satisfied look he gets when he answers a question correctly. then there’s his laugh. it’s loud, obnoxious. you swear you can feel the vibration of it in your chest, like it’s shaking the whole room. and god, don’t even get started on the way he taps his foot incessantly, like he’s got some sort of rhythm problem, the way he flips through his notebook with unnecessary speed, flicking each page with an irritating snap. it drives you crazy. if you could, you’d throw your notebook at him just to get him to stop. but you don’t. because, well, you’re trying to act like an adult. by the end of each lecture, you’re fuming, but the worst part is—you’re starting to remember his name. choi seunghyun.

the next week, your friend doesn’t show up to class, and empty seat where they should be. and it’s a problem, because when the professor starts assigning partners for the semester project, you don’t have one. and of course, because the universe fucking hates you, guess who also doesn’t have a partner? “choi seunghyun, you’ll be with…” the professor scans the room, and your stomach drops before she even says it. your name. you blink. “what?” “you two will be working together on the project.” “can i do it alone? i don’t need a partner,” you say, shaking your head. the professor doesn’t even look up from her notes. “it’s a paired assignment.” “okay, but my partner’s just absent today. they’re still in the class, they’ll be back.” “you’re with seunghyun,” the professor says, finally looking at you, exasperated. you turn in your seat to glare at him, and of course, the asshole looks completely unbothered. you take a deep breath, grip your notebook a little tighter, and push yourself up from your seat. if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that seunghyun isn’t about to haul his ass over to you. which means, unfortunately, you have to go to him. it shouldn’t annoy you as much as it does, but everything about this situation is already pissing you off, so what’s one more thing?

you drop your stuff on his desk and pull out a chair, not waiting for an invitation. “let’s just get this over with.” seunghyun barely glances up. “eager, aren’t you?” “i actually want to pass this class,” you snap, unfolding the project sheet. and then, as your eyes land on the topic, your irritation dims—just a little. “ancient greek sculpture,” you mutter, reading over the details. seunghyun leans back, stretching his arms over the back of his chair. “not bad, huh?” “could’ve been worse,” you admit, tapping your pen against the desk. “greek sculpture is foundational. proportions, movement, realism—this stuff shaped everything that came after it.” he smirks. “glad you won’t be completely miserable, then.” you huff, crossing your arms. “trust me, if i had a different partner, i’d actually be excited about this.” his grin widens. “so i’m the problem?” “seunghyun,” you deadpan, “that was never in question.”

seunghyun doesn’t know why it feels so strange, hearing his name come from you. but it sticks in his head. he keeps his eyes on the project sheet, pretending to read while his mind is somewhere else entirely. you sit across from him, your fingers lingering on the corners of each page before turning them, and every so often, you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re thinking. he shouldn’t be noticing these things. but he does. you’re pretty. no, beautiful. sitting this close, it’s impossible to ignore. the way the light catches your eyes, the faintest crease in your brow when you’re thinking, the soft curve of your cheeks when you huff in frustration. there’s something about it—something that makes him glance away too quickly when you look up. but when you start talking, it’s even worse. your voice changes when you talk about art. there’s a spark in it, something alive, something that makes him sit up just a little straighter. you don’t just like this stuff—you care about it. and he gets that. because he cares too. he watches the way your hands move, the way you gesture like your words aren’t enough on their own. the way your eyes light up when you explain something, like you’re seeing it in your head as you say it. and it’s… nice.

as the conversation drags on, you feel the irritation you’ve been holding onto slowly start to slip away. at first, you thought seunghyun’d be the type of guy who leaves you to do all the work. but as he starts talking, you realize something you hadn’t anticipated. there’s this calm reason to his words, like he’s thought about what he’s saying before he says it—a kind of maturity in the way he talks. it’s not just facts he’s spitting out, it’s a genuine understanding. he’s making connections between things you hadn’t considered, filling in gaps you didn’t even know were there. and damn it, it makes you think twice. it messes with your entire perception of him.

“so, who’s your favorite greek sculptor?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost like he genuinely wants to know. you pause, considering. “it’s hard to pick,” you say, tapping your pen against the desk. “but if i had to choose, i’d go with praxiteles. he was one of the first to really capture natural human beauty. his sculptures, like the ‘hermes and the infant dionysus’, they’re just… they look like they could breathe, you know? like they’re alive.” you glance up to see him nodding. “yeah,” he murmurs. he falls silent for a moment, his eyes drifting down to his notebook. “for me, it’d probably be phidias,” he says. “the one who worked on the parthenon. his sculptures, especially the statue of athena… it’s just incredible.” he looks up at you then, a small, almost hesitant smile on his face. “there’s something about the way he made the gods feel so… human. like they were both divine and reachable at the same time.” “mhm.” you nod slowly. it’s strange—how much you find yourself agreeing with him.

he shifts in his seat, looking at the paper between you two but not really focusing on it anymore. “so, uh…” he starts, trailing off for a second like he’s trying to find the right words. “what do you usually do outside of class?” you glance at him, a little surprised by the sudden change in topic. “outside of class?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “yeah,” he says, shrugging slightly. “just curious. got any weird hobbies?” you chuckle at the thought, leaning back in your chair. “weird hobbies? i don’t know about weird, but i like to read. i write a lot, too. and i sing, sometimes.” his eyes widen, and he looks at you with a kind of surprised excitement. “wait, you sing?” you nod, a little unsure of his reaction. “yeah, just for fun, though.” he’s practically leaning forward now, his voice more animated. “seriously? i like to sing too! but not like—i don’t perform or anything, but i mess around with writing songs sometimes.” you blink at him, surprised. “you write songs?” “yeah!” he says, his eyes lighting up as he talks. “mostly rap songs! just stuff i keep to myself. i don’t know, it helps me get my thoughts out.” you’re taken aback, not expecting that from him at all. “that’s… actually pretty cool! i didn’t think you’d be the type.” he chuckles a little, almost shy now, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah. i don’t know, music’s kind of a big deal for me.” “i get that. i mean, i feel the same way about writing. it’s like… the only way to really get everything out.” his smile softens, and he nods, almost like he’s relieved that you get it. “exactly. it’s the only way i know how to say what i’m feeling.” he pauses, then adds, “i guess we’re not that different, huh?” you grin, a little more comfortable with him now. “guess not.”

weeks go by, and somehow, without you really noticing when it happened, you stop dreading working with seunghyun. at first, it was just about getting the project done—tolerating his presence, keeping things academically professional. but somewhere along the way, that changes. you start meeting up outside of class—not just in the library, but in the university cafeteria, sometimes even grabbing a table outside when the weather’s nice. at first, it’s always under the excuse of we need to finish this, but little by little, the project stops being the main focus of your meetings. it starts with small things. “you drink your coffee black?” you ask one afternoon, watching as he stirs his drink. he glances up at you, raising an eyebrow. “sometimes. why?” you wrinkle your nose, shaking your head. “no sugar, no milk… nothing?” “nope. not today,” he says, taking a sip like it’s no big deal. “you think that’s weird?” “oh, definitely.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “coming from someone who drowns theirs in sugar? right.” you scoff, feigning offense. “excuse me for liking some flavor in my life.” he only smirks, taking another sip of his coffee. and you don’t know why, but you find yourself watching the way his fingers wrap around the cup, the way he always waits a second before actually drinking. “talking about coffee,” seunghyun clears his throat. “i—i’m sorry for bumping into you that day. and for your blouse.” you blink, a little thrown by the sudden apology. you hadn’t expected him to bring it up. for a second, you almost forgot about that. but the memory comes back in full color—the embarrassment, the heat of the coffee soaking into fabric, and, worst of all, the way you heard him laugh right after. you shrug, forcing a small smile. “it’s fine! stuff happens.” but it doesn’t come out as smooth as you want it to. he notices. “look, i—i wasn’t laughing at you.” you don’t say anything, just arch a brow. “i mean, yeah, i laughed. but it wasn’t, like—fuck, i just do that when i’m nervous.” he lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “it’s a stupid reflex. i wasn’t trying to be an asshole.” “nervous?” you echo, curiosity edging into your voice. he hesitates for a second. “i don’t know. you caught me off guard.” “it’s okay! really.” “it won’t happen again, i promise.” “what, spilling my coffee? or the nervous laughing?” you grin. “both. if i can help it.” he smiles back.

one afternoon, you’re both hunched over your notebooks at your usual table in the cafeteria, trying to put together a proper analysis for the project, when he suddenly groans, running a hand through his hair. “okay, i need a break.” “agreed,” you sigh, stretching your arms over your head. “i think my brain is melting.” he leans back in his chair, exhaling. “we should just drop out. open a karaoke bar instead.” you hum, pretending to consider it. “tempting. but i think we’d go bankrupt in a week.” “probably,” he admits, smirking slightly. then, a sudden gust of wind blows through the open door. a few loose sheets of paper fly off the table, and you both reach for them at the same time. your hands brush, just for a second. you freeze. he does too. but instead of pulling away immediately, he hesitates. it’s barely noticeable, but you feel it—his fingers just lingering before he finally lets go. you don’t look at him, just focus on gathering the papers, but your heart beats a little faster anyway. he clears his throat, sitting back. “we should probably staple these,” he says, voice a little quieter than before. “yeah,” you mutter, shuffling the pages together.

another day, you find yourselves in the campus library, tucked away in a quiet corner where barely anyone goes. at first, it’s about the project—like it always is—but before long, you’re talking about anything but that. “okay, real question,” you say, tapping your pen against your notebook. “if you could live in any painting, which one would it be?” seunghyun leans back, arms crossed. he barely takes a second to think. “anything by kandinsky.” “oohh! good choice!” “right? it’d be like living inside music.” you nod, smiling. “i guess that suits you.” “what about you?” he asks, gaze flicking to you. you think for a moment before saying, “‘the garden of earthly delights.’” he lets out a low laugh. “crazy choice.” “shut up.” you laugh too. “i mean, it’s chaotic, sure, but it’d never be boring. plus, i’d be surrounded by nature—which i love—and i’d also get to hang out with weird little creatures all day.” seunghyun has to stifle the loud laugh scratching his throat. “it’s an orgy,” he says. you blink. “what?” “‘the garden of earthly delights.’ you picked a medieval sex party. should i be concerned?” you burst out laughing and a student a few tables away shoots you a look over their glasses, pressing a finger to their lips. “okay, first of all, that is not the reason i picked it.” you whisper, biting back another laugh. “but it’s there,” he insists, raising a brow. “like, everyone in that painting is naked.” “but they’re just eating fruit,” you retort. “yeah, and fruit is like… the biggest metaphor for sex ever. come on now.” you shake your head, still laughing softly, trying to contain yourself. “i just like that it’s weird, okay? it looks like something out of a fever dream. plus, i feel like bosch was on something when he painted it, and honestly? i respect that.” “so what you’re saying is, you wanna live in chaos.” “no, i wanna live somewhere that would never be boring. kinda like you picking kandinsky. kandinsky is chaos too, just in a different font,” you tease, arms crossing over your chest. “dude’s entire thing is just shapes and color explosions. what does that say about you?” he grins. “it says i’m fun.” “it says you have the attention span of a goldfish.” his mouth falls open in exaggerated offense. “okay, rude.” your laughter spills out again, earning you another round of disapproving stares from a group of students at a nearby table. one of them—not even looking up from their notes—goes, “shhh!”

seunghyun leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. his eyes flicker over your face, thoughtful. “what?” you ask, raising a brow. he shrugs. “nothing. just… you’re different from what i expected.” “that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?” his lips twitch. “take it as a compliment.” he grins, but there’s something in his expression—something a little too observant, like he’s picking apart a puzzle piece by piece. “so? what did you expect?” he hesitates for just a second before saying, “i don’t know.” he does know, or at least, he has some idea. he expected someone easier to read. but you’re not easy to read, and now he’s realizing that the more he pays attention, the more there is to figure out. he just doesn’t know how to say it. but he’s also noticed the cracks, the way some days you seem a little quieter, like you’re carrying something heavier than you let on. he wonders if you even realize it, how your guard slips in the smallest ways. maybe he shouldn’t say anything. maybe it’s not his place. but the words slip before he can stop himself. “i’ve noticed some days you’re different. like… sad.” it catches you so off guard that you don’t even know what to say for a moment. you force a small scoff. “everyone has off days.” he doesn’t buy it. “yeah, but not everyone acts like they don’t.” his voice is softer now, more careful. “i just—i think you’re good at keeping people out.” “most people aren’t worth letting in,” you reply. “i get that. sorry, i’m—i mean, i notice because i do the same thing,” he admits. the way he says it, like he actually sees you, makes your chest feel tight. you press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up. “i think you like analyzing people too much.” seunghyun snorts. “only when they’re interesting.” you open your mouth to respond, but you hesitate, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is. when did he lean in like that? or were you the one who moved? “right, okay,” you clear your throat, shifting in your seat and looking down at the books in front of you. “so, back to the hellenistic period. sculptures are less perfect compared to the classical period, more real. i’ll do the analysis of venus de milo, you can work on laocoön and his sons, if that’s okay with you.” he chuckles softly. “sure. sounds good to me.”

and when you’re walking together out of campus after—the sun already starting to set outside—he asks, “wait, have you ever been to the art gallery downtown?” you blink at him. “which one?” “the modern art gallery,” he says, hands tucked into his pockets, hoodie pulled up over his head. “they’ve got an exhibit on abstract and expressionist paintings right now. thought you might be interested.” you hesitate for a second, caught off guard. “you’ve been?” he nods. “yeah. went last week.” “alone?” “yeah.” he shrugs like it’s nothing. “sometimes it’s nice to go without distractions.” “weirdo,” you joke, and he chuckles. then you hum, considering it. “maybe i’ll check it out.” “you should,” he says, then—after a pause—“i could go again. if you wanted.” you glance at him, but he’s looking straight ahead, like he didn’t just say something that makes your stomach feel weird. you don’t answer right away. but you don’t say no, either.

a few days later, you end up at a park near campus, sitting on a bench. “okay,” you say, exhaling, “this is officially the furthest we’ve strayed from our project.” he smirks. “we could talk about it now, if you want.” you groan dramatically, leaning your head back. “ugh. please, no. let me live.” he chuckles, shaking his head. then, he tugs his hoodie over his head, the fabric bunching up around his face when he pulls its strings slightly. you watch him for a second before the thought slips out. “why do you do that?” his gaze flicks to you. “do what?” “pull your hoodie up like that. you do it all the time.” he exhales a quiet laugh, looking away. “i just… i don’t know. makes me feel more… covered?” he hesitates, then adds, almost like it’s an afterthought, “and i don’t like my ears getting cold.” “your ears?” “yeah.” but you know that look on his face. and you know the feeling, too. the urge to shrink youself, to avoid giving people something to make fun of. “i like your ears.” his head lifts slightly, eyes meeting yours in surprise. “what?” you shrug. “they’re nice.” for the first time, he actually looks caught off guard. “that’s… weirdly specific,” he laughs softly. “just take the compliment, hyun,” you say, rolling your eyes with a smile. he freezes for half a second. hyun? since when do you call him that? do you even realize you said it? he clears his throat, shifting like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself. it’s just a nickname. it’s not a big deal. people shorten names all the time. but there’s this weird warmth settling in his chest, and he hates how much he notices it. “it was… it was genuine,” you add. “i used to be really insecure about them. my ears, i mean. well, actually… i used to be really insecure about a lot of things when i was younger.” “really?” “yeah. and people can be brutal. i got called all kinds of things. made me not want to talk much, not want to draw attention to myself.” your brows pull together as you listen. he’s opening up, letting you see a part of him that he probably doesn’t show most people. and you don’t take that lightly. “i’m talking too much again, aren’t i? i’m sorry—“ “you can talk about it,” you reassure him. “i’m listening.” you care? he wasn’t expecting that at all. “i just… never really felt comfortable in my own skin.” “i get that. i… i feel the same way.” “seriously?” “yeah. when i was younger most people thought i was weird. and i’ve never been the prettiest either. no one really looked at me.” “that’s crazy to me.” “why?” you ask, frowning. “why? are you kidding me? look at you!” his eyes flick away, like he just realized what he said. “i mean—” he clears his throat. “i don’t think you’re weird at all. you’re—you’re kind, and sweet, and funny, and smart as hell, and understanding…” he pauses. “and i think you’re very pretty, too.” you feel heat rise to your cheeks. “thanks, seunghyun,” you smile at him. “but—“ “ah, ah.” he shakes his head, pointing at you with his index finger. and in the same tone you used earlier, he says, “just take the compliment.” and you both laugh. the conversation drifts after that. you talk about books, music, childhood stories. and at some point, you glance at him and realize—he’s not as bad as you once thought. you could even consider him your friend at this point. and before you know it, you’re kind of looking forward to these moments.

saturday morning. it’s supposed to be a normal day. just you and your boyfriend, going from store to store, him carrying the bags while you browse through clothes, debating whether you really need another sweater. you don’t expect to see him. but then, as you’re exiting a store, laughing at something your boyfriend says, you hear a familiar voice. “oh. hey.” you stop mid-step, looking up. seunghyun is standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised. and he’s not alone. next to him, holding onto his arm, is a girl. she’s pretty. really pretty. she has that effortless kind of elegance, the type of girl you’d expect to see in an old film, with delicate jewelry and a perfect smile. you weren’t expecting this. you weren’t expecting him at all, let alone with someone. for a second, no one speaks. then, because you have to, you clear your throat. “uh—hey.” he nods, glancing at your boyfriend, then back at you. oh. right. introductions. that’s what people do, right? introduce their significant others? “so uhm… this is my boyfriend,” you say, nudging him slightly. your boyfriend extends a hand. “nice to meet you, man.” seunghyun hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—before shaking it. “yeah. you too.” then, as if remembering his own situation, he shifts slightly. “and… this is my girlfriend.” girlfriend…? she smiles, polite. “hi.” you don’t know why it feels weird. you force a small smile back. “nice to meet you.”

there’s a beat of silence, awkward and heavy, before your boyfriend gestures to the shopping bags in his hand. “someone got a little carried away,” he chuckles. “hey!” you nudge him, feigning offense. “i needed all of this.” seunghyun huffs a quiet laugh, barely noticeable, but you catch it. “are you guys shopping too?” you ask, because the silence is unbearable. “not really,” his girlfriend answers before he can. “just walking around, grabbing coffee.” “oh, nice,” you say, nodding, even though that doesn’t really keep the conversation going. you glance at him, searching for something else to say. “so no shopping spree for you?” he shakes his head. “no, not today. i don’t shop that much.” “right. you’re more of a ‘spend hours in an art gallery alone’ kind of guy.” you were trying to bring some humor into the conversation but oh my god. why did you say that? was that even a joke? (literally no one laughed…) his lips twitch slightly, like he wants to smile but doesn’t. “yeah.” another silence. his girlfriend tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking between the two of you. “so… how do you guys know each other?” “we’re working on a project together,” you say quickly. “for our ‘history of art’ class,” seunghyun adds, voice quieter than yours. she hums, nodding. “that’s nice.” you don’t miss the way she squeezes his arm slightly, like a subconscious claim.

your boyfriend, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice the awkward tension, but you do. seunghyun does. maybe it’s because, for weeks now, it’s just been you and him, meeting up, talking, working together. and somehow, in all that time, neither of you ever mentioned the people waiting for you outside of those moments. “we should—” you start, at the same time he says, “well, we—” you both stop. you let out a small, breathy laugh, and he exhales, shaking his head. “see you in class,” he says eventually. “yeah,” you nod. “see you.” and then you’re both walking in opposite directions, like that wasn’t weird at all.

it shouldn’t feel weird. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but your mind keeps circling back to it a day after. to him. to her. you don’t know why it caught you so off guard. or why it lingers now. maybe it’s the fact that you spent all these weeks talking to seunghyun, learning little pieces of him in a way that felt… too personal. and neither of you ever mentioned having a significant other. why? because he never asked? because you never did? because it never felt necessary? or because, deep down, some part of you didn’t want to say it? you swallow, shaking off the thought, forcing yourself to focus on something else. you’re just overthinking the situation. you have a boyfriend and seunghyun and you are just… classmates? friends? whatever.

class feels different on monday. not in a way anyone else would notice, but you feel it. in the way you and seunghyun settle into your usual seats, in the way neither of you says anything at first. usually, by now, one of you would’ve made some kind of comment, but today, there’s just silence. you busy yourself by flipping through your notes, pretending to be more focused than you actually are. he clears his throat. “did you finish the research on the kouros statues?” you nod. “yeah. i wrote some notes about the stylistic differences over time.” “good,” he says. “we can work on the structure later.” and that’s it. just straight to business. what a great way to start the day…! it annoys you. so, before you can stop yourself, you blurt it out. “you never told me you had a girlfriend.” you try to say it in a playful tone but you fail terribly at it. he looks at you. “you never told me you had a boyfriend,” he replies in the same awkward way. there’s a beat of silence after that, just enough for the words to hang between you two. then, unexpectedly, he chuckles—soft, like he’s trying to shake off the awkwardness. “guess we’re both bad at this,” he says, half-smiling. you snort, rolling your eyes. “yeah, apparently.” he leans back in his seat a little, fingers tapping lightly on his notebook. “so, how long?” you raise an eyebrow. “how long what?” “how long have you been with him? if you don’t mind me asking.” you bite your lip for a second, debating how much to share. “like… a little under two years,” you say finally. “we met online.” seunghyun raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “online?” “yeah, on instagram. i posted a picture, and he texted me after that. i know, it sounds kinda pathetic, but that’s how it happened.” you can’t help but feel a little embarrassed admitting it, but you shrug it off. “we’ve been together ever since… he’s my first love.” “not judging,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. you’re grateful he doesn’t make you feel weird about it. “what about you two?” “we’ve been together for a while too. a year and a few months. she’s also my first love. i met her through a mutual friend,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “we were hanging out at one of his parties, we started talking, and… here we are.” “that sounds more normal than my story.” he shrugs, a small grin tugging at his lips. “hey, it worked out, right?” “yeah, it did,” you agree, smiling slightly.

but oh, if only he knew. the last couple of months have been… hard. a constant string of arguments, over the smallest things. it’s like every time you talk, it turns into a fight. you thought it was just a rough patch, but it doesn’t feel like a patch anymore. it started small at first—just him being a little distant. but it kept growing. he used to say “i love you” all the time, like it was the easiest thing in the world. but now? it’s like those words are stuck in his throat, like he’s forgotten how to say them, or worse—like he doesn’t want to say them anymore. you’ve noticed how he’s been putting others before you too, choosing to hang out with his friends or canceling plans with you last minute without a real reason. it hurts, and you don’t know how to fix it. but you can’t tell seunghyun that.

but to your surprise, after a beat of silence, seunghyun says, “it’s funny.” voice quieter than usual, almost like he’s not sure whether he should admit this. “things have been a little… rough with my girlfriend lately.” you blink. there’s something about hearing him say that, something about knowing you’re not the only one struggling, that makes you feel a little lighter. not because you want him to be going through something hard too, but because it makes you feel like it’s normal. like maybe every relationship has its bumps.“what do you mean?” you ask, leaning forward slightly. “i don’t know. we’re just… not clicking like we used to. it feels like we can’t talk without it turning into an argument, and i hate it.” he pauses. “like—when you made that joke the other day, about me going to art galleries alone, she got mad at me for even telling you about it. she said it ‘put her in a bad light’ because she doesn’t do those things with me… but she’s the one who doesn’t want to come, even when i ask.” you feel a pang of guilt, like your joke somehow made things worse. "sorry," you say, glancing at him. "i didn't mean to stir anything up." seunghyun shakes his head, like it's not a big deal at all. "oh, no. it was just an example. it's not your fault," he says. then, he shifts in his seat, suddenly looking more uncomfortable than before, like he’s regretting saying anything at all. “look, i didn’t mean to dump that on you,” he says quickly, his voice awkward now. “i… i love my girlfriend, you know? i’m just frustrated. it’s not… it’s not that bad or anything.” you can see the nervousness in his eyes, the way he avoids your gaze, trying to brush off what he said. it’s clear he wasn’t expecting to let that out. but you can also see how much he’s trying to act like everything is fine, even though it’s obvious he’s not. just like you. “hey,” you say softly, reaching across the table just a little, enough for him to hear the sincerity in your voice. “it’s okay. i get it. relationships aren’t always easy.” you take a breath, then decide to be honest. “i’ve been feeling the same way with my boyfriend. we’ve been fighting a lot lately, and it’s… tough. we’re just… constantly butting heads.”

he goes quiet after that. like, really quiet. there’s something in his dark eyes—hesitation, maybe. or relief. like he needed to hear that he wasn’t alone in this, that someone else out there was struggling with the same messy, frustrating parts of love. and then, almost abruptly, he suggests it. skipping the rest of the day. just ditching everything and going to that same art gallery. it catches you off guard, but you don’t even hesitate before nodding.

the gallery is damn near empty at that hour, just the two of you wandering through halls lined with color and shadow, bathed in soft overhead lights that make everything feel a little more intimate. there’s something about being here, surrounded by all this art, that makes it easier to breathe. you both stop at the first painting that catches your eye—a massive canvas of deep blues, layered thick like it’s been slathered on with a palette knife, with jagged streaks of gold cutting through the darkness like lightning. you let out a quiet ‘fuck’, barely above a whisper. seunghyun huffs a small laugh. “looks like someone was trying to do rothko but got pissed off halfway through.” you smirk, tilting your head. “nah, this is too aggressive for rothko. feels more like franz kline, but with, like… a caravaggio-level obsession with drama.” his lips twitch. “yeah, i see that. but notice how the gold isn’t just random—it’s balanced. it pulls your eye across the whole thing, cutting through the shades of blue.” you’re quiet for a moment, taking it in. “dependency,” you say. “the gold wouldn’t mean anything without the darkness of the blue.” he looks at you, eyes glinting under the gallery lights. “exactly.” and that’s how it goes. you move through the gallery slowly, stopping at every piece, actually talking about the art, finding beauty in all of it. even the weird, messy, seemingly meaningless ones. it’s easy, because you both get it. you see the details, the choices, the way every piece has something to say. you pause in front of a sculpture—a chaotic mess of rusted metal, welded together at impossible angles. “brutalist, but trying to be constructivist,” you murmur, circling it. “like… it wants to have structure, but it’s resisting.” seunghyun chuckles. “or maybe it’s collapsing. like tatlin’s tower, if they’d actually built it and just let it rot.” “okay, points for that reference.” he grins. “i know my stuff.”

somewhere along the way, the conversation shifts. you start talking about relationships, about the ways they fall apart. but it doesn’t feel heavy. because you’re realizing how fucking similar your relationships are, and in a way, how similar you and seunghyun are too. it makes you feel less lonely. “it’s always the same thing,” you say, shaking your head. “getting angry when i ask what’s wrong, giving me the silent treatment, then blaming me about every bad-fucking-thing that’s ever happened to him—calling me a crazy bitch just to come back a day after, acting like everything’s fine.” “yeah, fucks with your head, makes you question if you’re actually the problem when really, he’s just deflecting.” he shifts his weight, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “guys like that, they don’t know how to handle their own shit, so they make it yours.” he glances at you, voice softer now. “but you know that, right? that it’s not you?” you let out a bitter laugh, rubbing a hand over your face. “i mean, i tell myself that. but after a while, it’s like… how many times can someone treat you like shit before you start wondering if maybe you deserve it?” “you don’t,” he reassures. seunghyun’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking away for a second. “i know that feeling too.” he hesitates, like he’s debating whether to say it. “with my girlfriend, it’s different, but also not. it’s like—she just won’t fucking talk to me. she gets mad at me for not knowing what’s wrong, but then when i ask, she shuts down. and she treats me like shit when that happens too. she yells at me, calls me names, ignores my texts… makes me feel like an idiot for even trying.” “like she expects you to read her mind.” he nods, huffing a short laugh. “exactly. and then when i give her space, it’s ‘you don’t care.’ when i push to talk, it’s ‘you don’t respect boundaries.’ i can’t—i don’t know, everything i do is fucking wrong in her eyes.” you scoff. “god, it’s the same thing. like, just say what you want! say what you mean! don’t make me guess.” seunghyun lets out a sharp exhale, like he’s been holding that in for too long. “right?! i hate that shit. like, i’m here. i want to fix it. but how the fuck am i supposed to do that if she won’t even let me in?” there’s a pause, the weight of both your words settling in the quiet gallery. “makes you wonder if it’s even worth it,” you murmur. seunghyun’s lips press into a thin line, his fingers tightening in his pockets. “yeah.” he exhales, looking up at the ceiling like it might have the answer. “but then they apologize, and suddenly it’s like none of it ever happened. and you want to believe it, because for those few hours or days, it feels good again.” you nod, because you know exactly what he means. “and then it starts all over.” he looks at you then, eyes meeting yours like he’s searching for something. “yeah.”

silence settles between you and your gaze drifts to the painting in front of you. but your eyes don’t stay on it for long. without really meaning to, you glance at seunghyun. he’s standing there, just a little in front of you, his gaze fixed on the painting, like he’s seeing something no one else can. the soft lighting catches the sharp angles of his jaw, the high planes of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, his dark hair falling just a little out of place—it’s almost unfair how effortlessly attractive he is. you should look away. but you don’t. and then, like he can feel your gaze, he shifts. his eyes flicker toward you, catching you in the act. your breath stumbles. but he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze for a second too long, a knowing smile tugging at his lips before he looks back at the painting. and you swear the air feels warmer after that. what the hell is happening to you?

months pass, and you’re closer than ever. one day, he’s just some guy you had a class with, and then, somehow, he’s your best friend. the project you worked on together? you absolutely crushed it—high marks, glowing feedback from your professor, the kind of result that makes all the half-serious arguments about formatting feel worth it. now you hang out all the time. and not just around campus—you start meeting up outside, too. going to the cinema together, picking dumb movies just to make fun of them. letting him come over to your place, where he inevitably kicks your ass at whatever game you decide to play—but then grumbles when you start getting better and actually put up a fight. some days, you just drive around aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing, stopping for food at sketchy places that somehow have the best food you’ve ever tried. you also help him with his relationship problems, and he helps with yours. well, help is a strong word—mostly, you just sit around, venting, analyzing every little thing your significant others do, trying to make sense of it all. sometimes, you’ll lie on his couch, scrolling through texts, trying to decode what a delayed response or a vague message really means. other times, he’s the one ranting, pacing the room, running a frustrated hand through his hair. neither of you have any real answers, but somehow, just saying it out loud makes it easier to carry.

the texting never stops either. even after spending the whole day together, even when you know you’ll see each other tomorrow. memes, whatever pops into your head at midnight, reminders about class or inside jokes from earlier in the day, thoughts about love and life. messages that start lighthearted but end up lingering in your mind long after the conversation ends. he’s the person you call when something good happens. he’s also the person you call when everything sucks. he becomes part of your life in a way that feels permanent. like even if everything else changes, he’ll still be there.

well, surprise! you are very wrong! it happens slowly at first, so slowly that you almost don’t notice it. a missed call here, a delayed text there. seunghyun stops responding as quickly, but you tell yourself it’s nothing—maybe he’s just busy. but then, suddenly, there’s no texting at all. he stops reaching out, and when you text first, the replies are short, distant, like he’s talking to a stranger instead of you. at first, you brush it off. maybe he’s just going through something. you give him space, waiting for him to come back on his own. but then he starts avoiding you in person, too. in class, he stops sitting next to you. when you try to talk to him, he keeps it brief, like the past few months never even happened. so you try. you crack jokes, hoping to lighten the mood. he barely reacts. you ask if he wants to grab coffee after class, and there’s always an excuse. but you’re stubborn. you keep trying, keep telling yourself that maybe he just needs time. maybe if you push a little harder, he’ll tell you what’s wrong. maybe he’ll go back to being the seunghyun you know. but he doesn’t. so eventually, you stop. because there’s only so many times you can knock on a closed door before you realize no one’s going to open it.

but fuck, you miss him. you miss seunghyun so much… in all the small, stupid ways that sneak up on you. you miss the way he used to walk you home after class, even when it was completely out of his way. how he’d always offer you his jacket without making a big deal out of it, just drape it over your shoulders. you miss how he’d send you voice notes instead of texts when he was tired, his voice soft and half-laughing as he complained about his day. like how he accidentally bought decaf coffee and didn’t realize until he’d already had two cups. or when he got locked out and had to convince the neighbor to let him climb across their balcony to reach his window—commentary and all, like he was narrating his own survival special. you miss sitting next to him during boring lectures, passing notes like you were in high school again—little doodles, sarcastic comments, the occasional ‘want to skip and get tteokbokki?’ scrawled in messy handwriting. how he’d always save you a seat beside him, even when he didn’t need to. you miss sharing your music with him, like that rainy afternoon you spent at the bus stop together, both of you soaked and laughing, sharing one headphone while waiting for a bus that never came. you miss how he’d always remember the little things—your favorite candy, the name of that song you liked for two weeks straight, the way you hated talking on the phone but would answer when it was him.

you love your boyfriend. you do. you’ve fought for this relationship, worked through the rough patches, stayed when it would’ve been easier to walk away. so why does your heart feel so heavy when you think about seunghyun? why do these stupid little memories of him make your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with losing a friend? and then it hits you. you were starting to fall for seunghyun. the realization slams into you like a truck, knocking the air right out of your lungs. your stomach twists, guilt rising up so fast it makes you dizzy. you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head as if that’ll get rid of the thoughts. it’s nothing. just stupid feelings messing with you because you miss seunghyun as a friend. that’s all. it has to be. but deep down, you know. you don’t want to deal with this. any of it. it makes you sick. you try to shove it down, bury it deep where it can’t touch you. but the more you try to push it away, the worse it gets. anger starts to creep in, and you start resenting seunghyun. resentment is easier. that’s what you tell yourself. it’s easier than facing the awful, sinking truth—that you like him. that, somewhere along the way, he started meaning too much. so you turn that feeling into something bitter. it’s easier to hate him for pushing you away without an explanation.

you don’t say hi when you pass each other on campus. he doesn’t either. you just walk by like two people who never meant a damn thing to each other. in class, is where it’s the worst. you’re stuck two rows apart, forced to exist in the same space, forced to hear his voice, and it pisses you off. everything about him pisses you off again now. so when the discussion turns to a painting you know he’s wrong about, you jump at the chance. “that’s not what it means,” you say. seunghyun pauses mid-sentence. his jaw tightens slightly. “i wasn’t talking to you.” “yeah, well, you’re still wrong.” you lean back in your seat, arms crossed, glare locked onto him. “the artist literally said in an interview that the painting was about grief, not isolation.” “and what, you suddenly know more than everyone now?” “i know how to read.” he exhales through his nose. “interpretation exists for a reason. it doesn’t have to mean just one thing.” “so your interpretation is just better than the artist’s own words? that makes total sense.” someone snickers a few seats over. the professor looks unimpressed but doesn’t step in. “are you done?” he asks. “no, i’m not,” you reply before stating your opinion and interpretation of the painting. seunghyun shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.

the bickering continues for months. that class turns into a battlefield, every discussion an excuse to dig into each other. it doesn’t even matter what the topic is anymore—if seunghyun says one thing, you find a way to contradict it. if you make a point, he challenges it. he acts like he doesn’t care, but he does. you see it in the way his jaw tightens when you cut him off. in the way his fingers drum against the desk when your words hit a little too hard. in the way his voice gets sharper, more clipped, when he finally bites back. good! you want him to feel as frustrated as you do, as angry as you do. but one day, when the class ends and you’re gathering your things ready to leave, you feel fingers wrap around your wrist. firm, but not rough. seunghyun. your breath catches. he’s barely touched you before, but now, he’s pulling you aside, out of the classroom, into the quieter hallway. “why are you doing this?” he asks, frustrated. you snatch your wrist out of his grasp. “doing what?” he lets out a slow breath. “you know what.” you do. of course you do. “you should know.” his eyes search yours before his shoulders drop slightly, and he steps back. “okay.” you scoff. “okay? that’s all you have to say?” “what else do you want me to say?” “i want an explanation.” the words snap out before you can stop them. “you just—you just left, seunghyun.” his jaw clenches. “that’s not—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “nothing happened.” “what?” “nothing happened.” he repeats, like that somehow makes it better. “there’s no explanation. i just—” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “it’s nothing.” “don’t lie.” “i’m not lying.” “yes, you are!” you snap. “you don’t just wake up one day and decide to cut someone out of your life for nothing.” he doesn’t say anything. you narrow your eyes. “was it because of her?” his brows furrow slightly. “what?” “your girlfriend.” you say, sharper this time. “is that why? she didn’t like me or something?” his whole posture stiffens. “no. that’s not—” he shakes his head. “this has nothing to do with her.” “then why?” “i don’t know what you want me to say.” “i want the truth.” “there’s no—” “you always complained about her not telling you what was wrong, even when you asked. now i’m asking you, hyun,” your voice sounds almost pleading. “i’m asking you to be fucking honest with me. did i do something wrong? i just—please. please, tell me.” for a split second, something flickers across his face. something real. but then it’s gone, buried under that frustrating, detached calm of his. seunghyun swallows, his gaze dropping to the floor. “i already told you. there’s nothing to explain.” and that’s when it really sinks in. he’s not going to tell you. he’s not going to give you answers. you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your throat tightens. “okay,” you say quietly, almost in a whisper. “have a good day, seunghyun.”

when the academic year ends, you feel like you can finally breathe. the weight of seeing seunghyun every day finally lifts, and you don’t realize how much it was draining you until it’s gone. summer feels like a breath of fresh air. no classes to deal with, no more running into him on campus. you actually start to feel better. the long days blend into each other, and the heat is almost a relief, as if the sun can melt away the last remnants of all the mess that’s been building up inside you. you spend time with friends, with your boyfriend, with family, dive into your hobbies—things that make you feel again, instead of being stuck in that heavy, frustrating place you were in just a few months ago.

the day feels like any other. it’s one of those lazy summer days, the kind that stretches on, with no obligations in sight. you’re in the kitchen, a soft hum of music filling the space as you chop vegetables for your lunch. it’s a soothing task, one that lets you lose yourself in the rhythm while the world spins on without much thought. then, your phone rings. the sound slices through the calm, pulling your attention to the screen. the moment you see the name, your heart skips a beat. seunghyun. you freeze, knife halfway through slicing a carrot. the world feels like it slows down for a moment. it’s been months since you last heard from him, since that final conversation you thought would be the last. you can feel your breath catch in your chest as your mind races. why is he calling now? what could he possibly want? you stare at his name, watching the screen flash. your fingers hover over the phone, torn. there’s a part of you that wants to ignore it, to send him straight to voicemail. it would be easier, right? just let him stay in the past where he belongs. but another part of you wants to know why he’s calling. you’ll regret it if you don’t pick up.

with a sharp exhale, you swipe your finger across the screen. “hello?” your voice sounds smaller than you expected. there’s a long silence on the other end. you can hear faint sounds—shuffling, soft breaths, maybe a sniffle—and then, his voice cracks through, shaky and broken. “hey…” your stomach drops. there’s something wrong. something off in his tone. “seunghyun?” you whisper, suddenly feeling the weight of his name. he doesn’t respond right away, and you can hear him sniffle again. “i—” his voice cracks. “are you okay?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, panic creeping up your spine. there’s a long pause. you wait, heart pounding in your ears. and then, his voice comes, quieter this time. “no. i’m not okay.” you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the tension in his voice seeping into your bones. “what’s going on?” you ask, your words coming out urgent, concerned. “hyun, talk to me.” there’s a shaky breath on the other end before he finally speaks. “she cheated on me.” it’s the last thing you expected to hear. you swallow. “what? your girlfriend?” “i found out a couple days ago,” he continues, his words slow, like he’s choosing each one carefully. “she… she left her phone unlocked. and i didn’t mean to snoop i swear, but i saw messages—pictures, stuff i shouldn’t have seen. i knew something was off before, but seeing it…” you wince, not sure what to say. you can’t imagine what he must’ve been going through. “i’m sorry,” you say quietly, the words feeling too small. he lets out a shaky sigh, and you hear him breathe in like he’s trying to pull himself together. “yeah, well… it’s done now. we argued for days, but today, i… i ended it. it’s over.” “oh. i’m sorry, hyun, i… i don’t know what to say.” there’s a long pause, and when he speaks again, it’s with an almost defeated tone. “i… i didn’t mean to call you. i just—i don’t know,” he says, his words stumbling over each other. “i didn’t want to bother you. i-i shouldn’t have called. i don’t know why i did.” he’s almost apologizing, and the guilt in his voice makes you frown. “don’t hang up,” you say quickly, before you even think about it. “please don’t hang up.” “i’m sorry for calling you out of nowhere.” you feel a pang of sadness at his words. “it’s okay,” you reply. “you don’t have to apologize for calling. i’m here, okay? you can talk to me.”

seunghyun sits there, phone pressed to his ear, wondering how you can still be here for him after everything, after he pushed you away. the guilt eats at him, every part of him screaming that he doesn’t deserve to have someone like you by his side. “i thought you’d be done with me by now,” he says, almost in a whisper. you shake your head even though he can’t see you, your hand gripping the phone a little tighter. “we were friends, seunghyun,” you remind him, your voice gentle. “i know things got messed up, but… we were friends. best friends. and i told you i’d always be there for you.” you pause, chewing on your lower lip for a moment, before you finally say what you’ve been thinking. “if you want, i can come over. we can talk… or not talk. whatever you need.” you hold your breath, waiting for his response. there’s a long, stunned silence on the other end. “you want to see me?” he asks, like he can’t believe it. “yeah, of course.” “i don’t deserve your help.” “you do. please, let me.” there’s a slight hesitation before he speaks again. “okay. i won’t keep you long. i don’t want to be a burden.” “you’re not,” you assure him. “give me an hour and i’ll be there.”

as soon as you reach his place, you knock lightly, your heart hammering in your chest. the door creaks open a few seconds later. he looks awful. his eyes are red and swollen, his hair messy. he’s in a hoodie that hangs loosely on his frame, and the exhaustion in his face makes him look smaller. for a moment, neither of you move. no words are exchanged. then, without overanalyzing, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. he tenses at first, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he just… melts. his arms tighten around you, his face burying into your shoulder as his body shakes. and then, quietly, he starts crying. you feel his tears soak into your shirt but you don’t pull away. you just hold him, one hand running soothingly over his back.

you spend the entire summer trying to pull seunghyun out of the darkness he’s buried himself in. he barely leaves his house, barely eats unless you remind him, barely sleeps. and you can’t stand it. you can’t stand seeing him like this—so broken. so you do what you can. you show up. every single day. some days, it’s just sitting with him in comfortable silence, letting him exist without forcing him to talk. other days, you try to drag him outside, finding little excuses to get him moving. “come on,” you tell him one afternoon, standing in his living room with your hands on your hips. “let’s go get ice cream.” he’s curled up on the couch, hood pulled over his head, despite the unbearable heat outside. you’re not surprised—he once told you he likes to be covered up. “i’m good,” he mumbles, not even looking at you. you roll your eyes and walk over, grabbing the hood and yanking it off. “no, you’re not, liar. you haven’t left this room in days. come on, seunghyun. you love ice cream.” he sighs, rubbing his face. “i’m not in the mood.” “that’s exactly why we’re going.” you grab his arm, pulling until he finally gets up.

one day you even made him dance with you. it was late, music playing softly from your speakers. you were already swaying to the beat, grinning at him from across the room. “come on, dance with me.” he scoffed, arms crossed. “yeah, no.” “why not?” “because i don’t dance.” you rolled your eyes. “don’t lie. you literally have like five videos on instagram of you dancing in front of your mirror.” “that’s different,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. “is it?” you raised an eyebrow. “what about that time you started dancing in the middle of the crosswalk because that one guy’s car stereo was blasting usher?” he tried to suppress a smile, but failed. “okay, that doesn’t count either. i was just being silly.” “be silly with me now, then. everyone dances, hyun.” you stepped closer and grabbed his wrists, trying to tug him away from the wall. he resisted at first, feet planted like a grumpy little kid, but you didn’t let up. until finally, with a dramatic sigh, he let you pull him toward the center of the room. “this is dumb,” he grumbled. “you’re dumb,” you shot back. “just move.” at first he was stiff, awkward, his shoulders tense and eyes focused anywhere but on you. but you didn’t care. you kept swaying, guiding him with a light grip and a grin, your voice humming along with the music. and slowly he loosened up. just a little. “see? not so bad.” he let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, his eyes flicking down to you, soft around the edges. like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have it in him. not when it was you.

eventually, he started coming back to himself. making jokes like he used to. but the first time you heard his real laugh again, after months, it nearly made you jump out of your seat. it happened at his house. you were sprawled out on his couch, flipping through a magazine, when you made an offhand comment about his wardrobe. “you literally have like three hoodies. and you wear them every day.” “rude,” he said flatly. “i have five.” you snorted. “right. and they all look exactly the same.” “it’s called having a brand.” “your brand is sad boy chic.” he tried to hold it in, pressing his lips together like that would stop it—but the laugh still slipped out. your eyes widened. “oh my god.” you sat up, staring at him. “are you laughing?” he shook his head, even as his mouth twitched up. “i’m not.” and then another chuckle escaped. your grin stretched wide. “you are!” he groaned, running a hand down his face. “shut up.”

one evening, you’re both out on his balcony, the sun just having dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of deep orange and purple in the sky. the air is warm but cooling down, the distant hum of the city below mixing with the occasional rustling of leaves. seunghyun leans against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. he takes a slow drag, exhaling the smoke into the evening air before wordlessly handing it to you. you hesitate for half a second before taking it, bringing it to your lips and inhaling just enough for the burn to settle in your lungs. you pass it back, watching as he taps the ash over the edge of the railing, gaze distant. he hasn’t said much in the past few minutes, which isn’t unusual, but there’s something about his silence that feels different. after a while, he sighs. “i need to tell you something.” you straighten a little, looking at him. “what is it?” “i think… i think i owe you an explanation,” he says. your stomach tightens. you know exactly what he means. “you don’t have to,” you reply, even though you’ve spent months dying to know. “i wasn’t honest with you back then. and… i want to be.” he pauses, rolling the cigarette between his fingers, gaze fixed on the darkened skyline. “the reason i… the reason i stopped talking to you is because—” he hesitates, jaw clenching. “because i liked you,” he finally says. your breath catches. “what?” he turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you. “i liked you. as more than a friend.” but even now, standing here with the truth hanging between you, he knows he’s still holding back. liked—he said it like it was past tense, like it was something he’d moved on from. but that’s a lie. he still does. you don’t know what to say. don’t even know what to feel. “seunghyun…” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i had a girlfriend. you had a boyfriend… well, you still do.” his voice drops at that last part. he clears his throat, looking away again. “i loved her. and it was wrong. so i told myself that those feelings for you would go away if i put enough space between us.” your fingers tighten around the railing. your voice is barely above a whisper when you ask, “did it work?” “no.”

silence settles between you. you want to admit it, too. that you felt the same thing. but where would that even get you? you’re still in a relationship. and you love your boyfriend (at least that’s what you tell yourself…) you know better. you can’t complicate things again now. so instead, you force yourself to ask, “why are you telling me this, hyun?” he frowns. “i don’t know, i just—i thought you should know.” he pauses. “i’m sorry for disappearing like that.” “it’s okay—” “no, it’s not.” he sighs. “i shouldn’t have… i shouldn’t have cut you off. i hurt you and you didn’t deserve that.” the guilt has been sitting in his chest for so long, pressing down on him every time he thought about you—which was always. you know you should be angrier, that you should make him sit with the weight of what he did a little longer. but the truth is, you missed him. you missed him so much it ached. “yeah,” you say quietly, “you did hurt me. but i get it, hyun.” he frowns slightly. “you were confused. and scared.” and you know that, because that’s exactly how you felt too. “but that doesn’t justify—” “seunghyun.” you cut off, shaking your head. “no it doesn’t justify it, but you apologized. i forgive you. it’s okay. don’t be—don’t be hard on yourself.” oh man. he wonders what he did in another life to deserve you being so good to him in this one. “i’m sorry too,” you continue with a smile tugging at your lips. “for snapping at you all the time in class.” he lets out a small laugh. “it’s okay,” he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “i thought it was kinda cute.” “cute?” you snort. “yeah. but don’t worry,” he says, forcing a smirk, like he’s trying to play it off. “it’s in the past. we’re good friends.” and for some reason, that stings.

summer ends before you even realize it. the warmth starts to fade, the days growing shorter, the air losing its heaviness. you’re back on campus, slipping into the routine of lectures and assignments. but everything shifts—just a few days into the new academic year, it all comes crashing down. the fight with your boyfriend starts like any other argument. but then, somewhere in the middle of it, he snaps. says something he can’t take back. something that makes your stomach drop. he’s slept with multiple girls behind your back. you don’t remember what you said after that. don’t remember how the argument ended. all you know is that it’s over. and now, somehow, the tables have turned. it’s seunghyun showing up at your door this time, no hesitation in his eyes when he pulls you into a hug the second he sees your face. it’s him dragging you out of your house when you don’t want to move, sitting with you in coffee shops and parks and anywhere that isn’t your room, distracting you with dumb jokes and conversations about nothing. it’s him texting you at random hours, u good? or let’s go get food or just a simple i’m outside when you need it the most. he doesn’t push you to talk. doesn’t force you to open up. he just stays—sits beside you when you don’t feel like speaking, lets you cry when you need to. and slowly, piece by piece, he starts pulling you back together.

by the time october rolls around, you’re a new person. the heartbreak doesn’t sting anymore, the anger has dulled, and you’re genuinely happy after what feels like a lifetime. seunghyun has a lot to do with that. and maybe that’s why, when the invitation for a halloween party from some classmates rolls in, it doesn’t feel so strange that you and seunghyun are each other’s default plus-one. the house is packed, every room overflowing with people. music booms from the speakers, the bass so heavy it vibrates through the floor, making the half-empty bottles on the kitchen counter tremble. laughter and shouting fill the space, blending with the music, with the sound of ice clinking in cups, with the occasional crash of something breaking followed by a drunken chorus of “ooohhh!” you and seunghyun arrive together, dressed in matching costumes—him as an astronaut, you as the moon. your dress is a soft, silvery white, made of a flowing fabric that shimmers with every step, catching the dim party lights. the bodice is scattered with tiny embroidered stars, and the skirt has a subtle iridescence, shifting between silver and pale blue as you move. your jewelry is just as delicate—dangling earrings shaped like crescent moons. atop your hair sits a headband, adorned with silver moons and twinkling stars. seunghyun had grinned when he saw you, adjusting the nasa patch on his astronaut suit before reaching out to spin you in place.

you don’t separate when you step inside. instead, his hand stays on the small of your back. someone shoves drinks into your hands the second you reach the kitchen—something bright and sugary, probably way too strong—but neither of you mind. a group is playing beer pong in the living room, another is huddled around a tiny table, laughing over some drinking game with cards. in the corner, someone’s passed out in a vampire cape, an empty bowl of candy resting on their lap. the night moves in a blur. you and seunghyun barely leave each other’s side, moving together through the party, dancing till his hair starts sticking to his forehead from sweat. between songs, you weave through the party together, stopping to talk to friends, laughing at half-drunken conversations, clinking cups and playing games. someone compliments your matching costumes, and seunghyun just grins, tugging playfully at the fabric of your dress. “told you we’d have the best costumes. i mean, what’s an astronaut without his moon?”

eventually, the heat and the crowd become too much, and seunghyun leans in close, voice just loud enough over the music. “let’s go outside for a bit.” you follow him through the packed room and out the back door, the chilly night air biting at your skin. the backyard is quiet compared to the chaos inside, just the faint murmur of distant conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. seunghyun pulls a cigarette from his pocket, then offers you one without a word. you take it, watching as he lights his first, the glow flickering against his face before he leans in to light yours. you take a slow drag before exhaling. “having fun?” he asks. you smirk. “define fun.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “you took more shots than me earlier. you’re definitely drunk.” “tipsy,” you correct, nudging him with your elbow. “big difference.” he hums in response, taking a drag of his own. for a moment, there’s only silence, the two of you standing side by side, watching the way the smoke curls into the cold air. “the party is actually good,” he says. “way better than i expected. i was killing it at beer pong.” “you lost.” “okay, but it was a close game.” you shake your head, laughing. “so this is a ten out of ten night for you?” “pretty much,” he grins. “good music, free booze, and…” he hesitates for a second before saying, “you. what more could i want?” you feel warmth creep up your neck, but you keep your expression neutral, taking a slow drag of your cigarette. “drunk flirty hyun… that’s new.” he scoffs, shaking his head. “that wasn’t—” he starts, but then he stops, like he realizes mid-sentence that there’s no point in denying it. instead, he exhales, flicking ash off his cigarette. “i was just being honest.” he takes another drag, exhaling slowly after, watching the way the smoke drifts into the cold air before his gaze drifts back to you. he’s so screwed. because you’re smiling, the glow of the party lights casting this ridiculous golden halo around you. your lips are glossy, your smile lifting your cheeks, making you look even cuter, and your hair—god, your hair—looks so soft he has to physically stop himself from reaching out and running his fingers through it. you’re beautiful. and he’s so stupidly in love. you turn to look at him, brows raising slightly. “what?” you ask, amusement flickering in your eyes. seunghyun blinks, realizing too late that he’s been staring. “nothing,” he says, a little too quickly, taking another drag of his cigarette like that’ll somehow make him look less obvious. you tilt your head, the corner of your lips quirking up. “you sure?” you press, watching him. seunghyun hesitates for half a second, then just smiles, soft and a little shy. “yeah. just… spaced out for a second.” “mhmm,” you hum, clearly unconvinced, but you don’t push. instead, you take another slow drag of your cigarette. after a moment, you flick the end of it away, stretching slightly. “wanna go back in?” he nods. “yeah.” “only if you take another shot with me.” seunghyun huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “figured there was a catch.” “come on, hyun,” you grin, tugging at his sleeve. “just one more.” and he’s already moving, already following you back inside, because he’s so far gone for you it’s pathetic.

after a couple of hours, when the party starts to lose its spark and exhaustion settles in, he leans in, voice low near your ear. “you wanna head out?” you nod, stretching your arms with a yawn. “yeah, just need to grab my coat. left it in one of the rooms.” he doesn’t say anything, just follows when you turn to go. the house is still loud, music pulsing from the main room, but out here in the hallway, it’s quieter, the chatter more distant. you push open the door to a small room, stepping inside. your coat is draped over the back of a chair, right where you left it. seunghyun’s inside too, standing just a few steps away. you shake out your coat, ready to slip it on, but before you can, he steps closer. “here,” he offers, voice quieter now, more careful. “let me.”

you hesitate for half a second before nodding, handing it over. he takes it gently, holding it open as you slide your arms through the sleeves. his hands brush against your shoulders as he settles it into place, a touch so light it barely lingers, but it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine. neither of you move right away. you can feel him behind you, his warmth, the way he still hasn’t stepped back. slowly, you turn to face him. his gaze flickers over you, taking you in like he’s memorizing every detail. then, so quietly it almost disappears into the space between you, he says, “do you wanna know what i was thinking before? when we were outside?” you hum in response, nodding slightly. “i was thinking… you’re beautiful. you’re so, so beautiful.” “you’re drunk,” you say, but it comes out quieter than you intended. he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “i know what i’m saying.” you hold his gaze, fingers curling inside your sleeves. “you sure?” you laugh softly. his voice is quieter when he speaks again. “yeah. it’s not a bad thing. thinking you’re beautiful… calling you beautiful.” his gaze flickers, dropping briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. “you shouldn’t look at me like that,” you say. he steps just the slightest bit closer, gaze never leaving yours. “like what?” “like that,” you mutter, looking away. he’s quiet for a moment, then—“maybe you should stop looking at me like that, too.” your eyes snap back to his, heart pounding in your chest. “i’m not,” you argue, but it’s unconvincing. he smiles. “yes, you are.” you blink, heat spreading through your cheeks. “hyun…” you start, but the words catch in your throat. his smile lingers. “what?” “don’t do that.” “do what?” “act like you know what’s going on in my head.” his expression softens just slightly, but there’s something careful in the way he tilts his head, watching you. “don’t i?” of course he does. it’s infuriating, really, the way he can pick apart your thoughts without you saying a word. his eyes search yours, and then, he studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide if he should even say what he’s about to say at all. but the words escape his lips before he can stop them. “i still have feelings for you.” “hyun—” “they never went away,” he cuts in. “you never noticed?” “i don’t—i don’t know.” “i thought you did,” he murmurs. “sometimes, it felt like you did. but maybe i was just seeing what i wanted to see.” he pauses. “sorry, i don’t want to make things weird, i know the breakup is recent for you, i just—i needed to say it,” his voice is quieter now, like he’s already made peace with whatever answer he thinks is coming. you glance up at him and he looks like he’s already preparing himself for the worst. and that’s what does it. that’s what makes the words slip past your lips before you can overthink them. “i… i do too.” “what?” “i have feelings for you too,” you say. “for a while now.” his expression softens, something flickering in his gaze—relief. “really?” “mhm.” you nod with a shy smile.

he exhales, like he’s been holding in the breath this whole time. and then, before you can process it, he takes a step closer, hand reaching up to brush against your cheek, gentle. your breath stutters as his face inches closer, his eyes flickering to your lips, giving you time to pull away if you want to. but you don’t. except, just as his lips nearly graze yours, panic flares in your chest, and you instinctively turn your head. “wait—” he freezes immediately, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “oh. sorry. too fast?” “no, no.” “what’s wrong?” you press your lips together. “i just… i haven’t kissed anyone other than my ex before.” your voice is small, embarrassed. “i don’t know—i don’t know how to do this. i’m nervous.” his brows lift slightly before a small smile tugs at his lips, understanding. “you think i have?” “what?” “you’re the only person i’ve liked other than my ex. i haven’t kissed anyone either.” the confession eases some of the nerves coiled in your stomach. “it’s okay to be nervous,” he says softly. “we don’t have to rush anything.”

you chew on your bottom lip. the way he’s looking at you makes you feel a little braver. seunghyun hesitates, then asks, “do you want to try?” he’s waiting—patient, not pushing, just letting you decide. and that just makes you want it more. “yes.” your voice is quiet. “i want to try.” his lips twitch up in a small smile, and he nods once. his gaze dips to your lips for just a second before meeting your eyes again, waiting for you to make the first move. you take a shaky breath before you lean in. it’s barely a kiss, just the softest press of your lips against his. you pull back almost immediately, nerves sparking in your chest. he stays close, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at each other. “you okay?” he murmurs. you nod quickly, cheeks burning. “yeah.” a small, shy smile on your lips. his own smile widens just a little. “can we—can we try again?” you whisper. this time, when you lean in, he meets you halfway. the second kiss is different. his lips fit against yours like they were always meant to. you feel his hand slide to the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing your skin so delicately that it makes your stomach flip. your fingers find the fabric of his costume, curling slightly as you let yourself lean into him, let yourself fall into the moment. the kiss deepens naturally, neither of you rushing, just learning each other in quiet, stolen seconds. he tilts his head slightly, and the shift makes it even better—your lips molding together, the warmth of him surrounding you. his nose brushes against yours as you part. your lashes flutter open, meeting his gaze. “was that okay?” he murmurs. you let out a breathless laugh, nodding. “more than okay.” “good.” he laughs too.

you spend more time with each other after that night, if that’s even possible. it becomes routine. you wake up expecting to see him at some point in the day. if you don’t, it feels off, like something’s missing. sometimes, you’ll spend hours together without saying much, just existing in the same space. other times you’ll talk for hours, trading secrets you’ve never told anyone, laughing until your stomachs hurt. seunghyun is so in love. oh, so in love… sometimes, when he’s lying awake at night, staring at his ceiling, he feels almost angry at himself—for waiting so long, for not realizing sooner. he thinks about the time he wasted, stuck in something that was never meant to last, convincing himself that love was supposed to be hard, that it was supposed to be painful and exhausting. but with you, it’s so fucking easy. he’s starting to believe what people say. first love is beautiful, sure. but second love? second love is real. second love is unforgettable. seunghyun is down bad. your presence alone is enough to set every nerve in his body on fire. and when you laugh—god, when you laugh—he thinks he could live off that sound alone. and maybe it’s crazy, but sometimes, he finds himself thinking—this is it, isn’t it? this is the kind of love people write about. he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that no one—not his first love, not anyone—has ever made him feel like this. he’s never felt love like this before. but he never wants to go another day without it. without you.

the way you kiss him it’s intoxicating. seunghyun has kissed before, obviously. with you, it’s different. because when you do, slow, like you’re savoring every second, it makes his head spin more than anything else ever has. because the way you pull back just to look at him, eyes flickering between his—your hands on him, like you need to be touching him—makes his chest ache in the best way. makes him feel like the most important person in the world. sometimes, it starts soft, just a lingering press of lips. other times, it’s urgent. but you don’t push for more, and neither does he. not because you don’t want to, but because that’s already enough.

that’s why he doesn’t expect that, one day, while you’re making out on his couch, you straddle him—your knees pressing into the couch on either side of him, your hands settling on his shoulders. and seunghyun? he forgets how to breathe. his brain short-circuits. like, completely shuts down. his hands hover awkwardly at your waist, fingers twitching, unsure if he should actually touch you or just die right then and there. because holy shit. you don’t seem to notice his internal crisis, too caught up in the moment, too focused on the way his lips and tongue move against yours. but he notices—notices the way your body presses flush against his, the way your weight settles onto his lap, the way your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly. his self-control? hanging by a thread. your breath is uneven when you pull back to meet his gaze, your lips a little swollen. “is this okay?” you ask, voice soft. he exhales, hands smoothing over your waist. “yeah,” he breathes. “is it okay for you?” “mhm,” you nod.

you kiss him again, and this time, it’s different. it’s charged. seunghyun feels it in the way your hands slide from his shoulders to the nape of his neck. he feels it in the way your lips move against his. but most of all, he feels it when you shift in his lap, pressing down. just the slightest movement. he inhales sharply, his grip on your waist tightening as his body tenses beneath you. it’s not even really a movement, more of a hesitant roll of your hips against his, but fuck, it sends heat straight to the bulge in his pants. his brain barely has time to process what’s happening before you do it again. this time, he can’t stop the quiet groan that slips past his lips, low and almost pained, his hands digging into your hips on instinct.

he lets you. lets you move against him however you want, lets himself feel you. your movements start slow, almost experimental, like you’re figuring this out as you go, like you’re getting used to the feel of him beneath you. but when you find a rhythm—when you finally press against him fully, rolling your hips down just right—oh boy. his head tips back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, a shaky breath slipping past his lips. he’s done for. you lean in, pressing a kiss just under his jaw, and he groans, low in his throat, his hands sliding down to squeeze your ass like he’s trying to keep himself together. “fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you. “you’re gonna kill me.” you smile against his skin, and it’s unfair, so unfair, because you know what you’re doing to him. you know, and you keep going. the friction is perfect—every movement sending a pulse of heat through his body, enough to drive him crazy, enough to have his dick twitching in his pants.

his breathing comes out in short, uneven gasps as he grits his teeth, trying to hold on, trying to stay in control. but he can’t. because the way you sound—soft, breathy little moans escaping your lips—paired with the friction of you against him? it’s too fucking much. he’s already so close, already on the edge before he even realizes it. and when you press down just right, his stomach tightens. “shit—!” his whole body tenses as the pleasure hits him, crashing over him before he can stop it. his breath catches in his throat, a choked moan slipping past his lips, his fingers gripping your ass hard. he stills completely, chest rising and falling against yours, and it takes a second before he realizes what just happened. he ruined his pants. fuck. his face burns as the reality sets in. you blink at him, confused at first, before realization dawns in your expression. “oh.” seunghyun groans, tilting his head back, dragging his hands down his face, mortified. “don’t.” his voice is muffled against his palms. “don’t say anything.” but it’s too late. you giggle, and that just makes his ears go even redder. you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and whisper, “cute.” “i’m sorry,” he says, embarrassed. “it’s okay, baby,” you giggle again. after a moment, he laughs too.

the physical side of your relationship isn’t something either of you are shying away from anymore. the kisses get longer. deeper. and there’s more touching now. it starts happening more often, too. you’re figuring each other out, taking your time. memorizing the way each other moves, the way each other reacts. you’re learning him, and he’s learning you.

it’s natural that you start wanting more. that’s why, one night, late in his room, you find yourself lying beneath him, bodies tangled in his sheets. hands are everywhere. his lips leave yours only to trail down your jaw, down your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. he loves this—loves the way you shiver, loves the way your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly when he nips at the sensitive spot just below your ear. “seunghyun,” you breathe, and he swears he could die happy right now. his hands slide lower, fingers on your right thigh. you shift beneath him, pressing closer, sighing when his hand finally trails higher. his fingers move along the fabric between your legs. his touch featherlight, barely-there, but still enough to make you squirm. oh lord jesus, he nearly loses it right there. “you’re so fucking pretty,” he mutters against your skin. “my pretty, pretty girl.” you’re warm and soft, reacting to every little touch, every slow drag of his fingers. he can feel your heartbeat beneath his mouth as he kisses along your throat, your chest rising and falling a little too fast. his own breathing is just as uneven as yours now. he’s so hard it’s almost embarrassing. “tell me what you want, baby,” he murmurs. “i’ll give you anything, just—” “touch me, seunghyun,” you say softly. oh, you don’t need to tell him twice! he unbuttons your pants, sliding them down slowly. his fingers hook into the waistband, knuckles brushing against your hips as he tugs the fabric down, past your thighs, past your knees, until they’re bunched at your ankles. he takes his time pulling them off completely. his fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of your underwear next, dragging them down until they’re gone.

his hand goes right back where you want it. two of his fingers slide against you, teasing. feeling exactly how wet you are for him. the way your juices coat his fingertips, makes him groan, the sound vibrating low in his throat. his thumb drags over your clit, rubbing slow circles, and the reaction is immediate—your breath catches, your thighs twitch and your hips jerk slightly, a soft moan escaping your lips. oh that sound… his cock throbs in his jeans. “tell me if it’s too much. or if you want more.” your response comes fast—a shaky, desperate whisper. “more.” you beg, voice trembling. “more, seunghyun.” “more what, baby?” he teases, his thumb still working your clit. you whimper. “y-your fingers.” he chuckles softly, one of his fingers gently parting your folds before he pushes it in, sinking into your pussy with no resistance. “like this?” you nod, biting your lip. he begins pumping his finger slowly in and out and your breath comes faster, mingling with the wet sounds of his finger fucking you. when he adds another finger, your hands grip his arms, trying to hold onto something. he watches you, completely transfixed by how beautiful you look right now—lips parted, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “that feel good, hm?” he asks as he curls his fingers inside you, pressing against that one spot “y-yes! o-oh my—!” so he gives you more. his fingers thrust deeper and faster, curling just right, and your moans turn into whimpers. your thighs tremble and seunghyun can feel how close you are, how your body is tensing, your gummy walls squeezing his fingers. “hyun, i-i’m—i’m gonna—!” “i know, baby… give it to me.” one more thrust of his fingers, one more firm stroke of his thumb against your clit and your back arches—a sharp, desperate moan spilling from your lips—your body shuddering, clenching down around his fingers. he gives you a moment to catch your breath before he leans in. he presses a kiss to your forehead. “next time,” he murmurs against your skin, pressing another kiss, “i’m using my mouth.”

and he keeps his promise! it happens on a lazy sunday morning, right before your scheduled museum date. he shows up at your place a few minutes early, too excited to see you, too impatient to wait. maybe he had good intentions, but the second he sees you in that dress… he almost wishes to be a father. because what the fuck—you just look so good. soft and pretty, hair still slightly messy from getting ready in a rush, your perfume fresh in the air… his hands are on you before he even realizes it, pulling you in by the waist. you blink up at him, confused at first, lips parted, breath hitching slightly at the way he’s looking at you. that man is hungry. and he shows it with his kisses. “we—” you try to speak in between them. “we’re gonna be late—” “don’t care, i wanna taste you,” he mutters against your lips, hands sliding beneath the hem of your dress. “can i?”

and not even three minutes later, his head is buried between your thighs, his grip firm as he holds you in place. the first taste of you nearly ruins him—his low groan vibrating against your skin as his tongue works with a hunger that borders on desperate. your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging when he flattens his tongue against you. “s-seunghyun!” you moan loudly. music to his ears. he loves the way you whimper, the way your body shudders when he flicks your clit with his tongue, then sucking it just enough to make your thighs tremble. his grip on them is borderline bruising, but you don’t care—not when he’s got his mouth on you like this. “fuck, you taste so good,” he mutters against you, breath hot, voice thick with need. “so fuckin’ sweet.” “y-you always this needy?” you manage to tease, but your voice is shaky. he chuckles. “says the one trying to suffocate me with her thighs.” you open your mouth to fire back, but he circles your clit with his tongue, and whatever you were about to say turns into a sharp gasp. he grins against you, pleased with himself. and god, you’re already so close. he can feel it in the way your body tenses, the way your legs try to close around his head, the way your breath stutters into these soft, broken little moans. but he’s not done. he slides one hand up, fingers teasing at your entrance before slowly sliding inside. “fuck! f-fuck, hyun!” you cry from pleasure. “yes—ngh!—y-yes, baby, just like that! just like that!” your whole body jerks as his fingers move in perfect rhythm, tongue working you over even faster. “c’mon, baby,” he coaxes, pulling away just for a moment. “be good for me.” and that’s it. you choke on a moan, back arching as pleasure crashes through you. you cum on his tongue and he works you through it. licking and sucking even when your thighs shake. and when you try to pull away from the overstimulation, he doesn’t let up—not until he’s sure he’s gotten every last drop of it. finally, he pulls back, lips slick, eyes dark as he looks up at you, taking in the mess he’s made of you. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking before crawling up to press soft kisses to your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your lips—gentle, like he’s trying to bring you back down. “you okay?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “mhm,” you nod, still breathless. “yeah… just feel like jello.” he chuckles. “you’re so cute.” there’s something soft in the way he’s looking at you. your heart stutters, warmth blooming in your chest. “you’re such a sap,” you tease. he just grins, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. “only for you.”

when valentine’s day rolls around, seunghyun makes sure you have the best one yet. he remembers—of course, he does—how you once mentioned that your ex never really cared about it, brushing off the day like it meant nothing. seunghyun, though, he isn’t like that. so when you walk through the door after a long day at university, you almost miss it at first. your brain is too tired to register the burst of color sitting on the living room table. but then, your eyes land on it, and for a second, you think you’ve walked into the wrong place. a massive bouquet of flowers sits right in the center, petals soft and vibrant like they belong in a fairytale. two—no, three—boxes of chocolate are stacked neatly beside it, ribbons tied in perfect bows. you blink, then blink again. “what the…” you murmur, stepping closer, fingertips grazing the velvety petals. there’s a small note tucked between the stems, and when you pull it out, your lips part into a slow, disbelieving smile. ‘because you deserve to be spoiled. i’ll pick you up for dinner (make sure to wear that beautiful smile of yours). happy valentine’s day, baby. — your hyun.’ you don’t even realize you’re smiling so hard until your cheeks start to hurt. warmth spreads through your chest, making you feel a little ridiculous, a little too giddy, but you don’t care. grabbing your phone, you call him immediately. “hi, baby—” “you’re insane,” you cut in, still staring at the bouquet. “this is—seunghyun, what the fuck?” his soft chuckle comes through the speaker, warm and just a little shy. “so, you liked it?” “liked it?” you echo, shaking your head. “i love it. i—how did you even—when did you—ugh. you didn’t have to, baby.” “i wanted to. your parents helped me set it up.” his voice is so sure, so simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. and maybe it is—to him, at least. “thank you.” your fingers play with the edge of the little note, eyes flicking over the words again. “did you read the note?” he asks. “yeah,” you nod, even though he can’t see you. “i read it. where are you taking me?” “surprise.” “hyun—” “you’ll see later.” “i need to know so that i can—” “huh? wait—hold on, i think you’re cutting out.” his voice suddenly sounds distant, like he’s holding the phone away from his mouth. “hello? can you hear me?” you narrow your eyes. “don’t even start.” “ah, damn. i think my signal’s bad.” he makes a few static noises with his mouth, so ridiculously fake you almost drop your phone from laughing. “you’re a dork, you know that?” more static—or at least his sad attempt at it. “what? i—i can’t—losing connection—” “seunghyun, you’re literally at home.” he clears his throat. “gotta go, baby, see you at seven!” the call ends before you can say another word. you stare at your screen, completely unimpressed, but also grinning like an idiot. he’s gonna be the end of you.

he takes you to one of the fanciest restaurants you’ve ever been in, which makes you wonder how the hell he managed to afford all this. but knowing him, he’s probably been saving up for weeks, quietly planning everything down to the last detail. dinner feels like time slowing down in the best way. seunghyun watches you more than he eats, eyes crinkling whenever you ramble about something or get too caught up in telling a story. and when the check comes, you barely get the chance to reach for your purse before seunghyun is already handing over his card, like every time you go out. stepping outside, the cool air wraps around you, crisp and refreshing after the warmth of the restaurant. seunghyun is close beside you, his hand brushing against yours before he finally just takes it, fingers slotting together. you squeeze his hand lightly, glancing up at him, but he’s already looking at you, eyes soft under the glow of the city lights.

as you settle into the car, seunghyun doesn’t start the engine right away. instead, he reaches into the pocket of his coat. you stare at him, curious, but before you can ask, he pulls out a small, velvet box and holds it out to you. “i got you something,” he smiles, voice a little quieter than usual. “what—? hyun—” “shh, let me spoil you,” he chuckles. your fingers hesitate for a second before you take it, the soft material cool against your palm. your chest tightens slightly as you flip it open, revealing a delicate necklace inside. the pendant is small, understated, but beautiful—exactly the kind of thing you’d pick for yourself. you exhale, running your thumb over the tiny charm. “oh my—i love it!” “i saw it and thought of you.” “it’s perfect, baby. thank you.” his lips twitch into a small smile. “let me put it on you.” you turn slightly, gathering your hair to one side as he takes the necklace from the box. he fastens it behind your neck, his fingers brushing lightly along the back of your shoulder. he lingers, adjusting the clasp, making sure it sits just right before letting his hands drop. you glance down, fingertips brushing over the pendant as a soft smile tugs at your lips. seunghyun leans back slightly, eyes flickering over you before settling on your face. “my pretty, pretty, pretty girl.” you shake your head with a small laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. “okay, your turn.” his brows furrow slightly. “my turn?” you reach into your bag, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped package before placing it in his hands. “yeah. you didn’t think you were the only one with surprises tonight, did you?” “you got me something?” he’s not used to being on the receiving end of surprises. “of course, i did,” you say, handing it to him. “now, open it.”

as soon as the paper wrapper falls away, his expression shifts. a hardcover book with a deep, star-speckled cover. his fingers graze over the title—the art of the cosmos—a collection of celestial-inspired artwork, paintings, sculptures, and photography, all centered around space. he flips through the pages slowly, carefully, eyes taking in the images of galaxies captured in oil paint, nebulas carved into stone, planets sculpted from glass. “i know how much you love space,” you say, watching his reaction closely. “and art, of course. so… i wanted you to have something that combined the two things you love the most, something that feels like you. it’s not—it’s not as fancy as… everything that you’ve prepared but—” before you can finish, seunghyun leans in, pressing his lips to yours. when he finally pulls away, he stays close, forehead barely an inch from yours. “don’t ever say that again.” “say what?” “that it’s not—” he exhales, shaking his head. “you could’ve given me a damn rock, and i’d still love it because it’s from you.” your heart stumbles a little, and you let out a soft laugh. “this is perfect, baby,” he says, flipping through the pages again. “you’re really the best.” you smile, watching the way his eyes soften as he takes in every detail. “i’m just glad you like it.” he sets the book down carefully on the dashboard before turning fully toward you.

he smiles, but there’s something behind it—something hesitant, like he’s trying to work up the courage to say something else. his knee bounces slightly, and his fingers tap against his thigh, a sign that there’s more on his mind. you tilt your head. “what?” he exhales sharply, shaking his head before letting out a soft laugh. “nothing, just…” he looks down at your hand resting between you, then, as if on instinct, reaches for it. he rubs his thumb over your knuckles, staring at your joined hands for a second before finally speaking. “let me be your boyfriend,” he says. “i know we haven’t really put a name on what this is, but i want to. i want you. i don’t want there to be any doubt about where we stand.” you must’ve started smiling like an absolute idiot because the second he sees it, he starts smiling too. “seunghyun, you’ve been my boyfriend in my head for months now,” you laugh, shaking you head. “so… that’s a yes?” “of course it’s a yes!” without giving him time to react, you press a quick, fleeting kiss to his lips. but before you can even pull away, seunghyun tugs you back in, kissing you with a much deeper intensity. your lips part instinctively, letting him in, his tongue gliding against yours. your fingers find his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, thumb brushing gently over his cheek as you do everything in your power to keep from moaning into his mouth. he’s such a good kisser… his lips hot and soft against yours, tilting his head so that you fit just right… his lips leave yours only to trail along the corner of your mouth, before sliding down to your jaw. he takes his time, lingering there, and then he makes his way down. his face buries into the crook of your neck for a moment, and you can feel his smile against your skin. you run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck before pulling back just enough to look at him. “i love you,” he says. your lips part slightly, something swelling in your chest so big it almost hurts, and then you’re smiling. “i love you too, hyun.”

you can’t lie—loving seunghyun is kind of terrifying. not in a bad way, not in the he’s going to hurt me kind of way, but in the this is real and i don’t want to mess it up way. you’ve both been through it. cheated on, strung along, left to piece together whatever crumbs of affection your exes were willing to throw your way. it’s hard to unlearn that, hard to trust that someone wants you without expecting you to beg for it. and even though this is different—he’s different—it’s hard to shake the nerves, the fear that if you let yourself have this, really have it, something will go wrong. maybe that’s why, even now, after a long, perfect night, when you’re curled up with him on the couch, a movie playing but barely holding your attention, you still feel jittery. and when things start heating up (like they usually do) you feel embarrassingly new to it all. like you’re back at square one. like you’re a virgin all over again. “you’re shaking,” says seunghyun quietly, breath shuddering when his condom-wrapped tip presses slightly against your entrance. “we don’t have to do this—“ “i want to,” you reassure him. “i really do. i’m just… nervous.” intimacy can be scary, especially when it’s with someone new. “i know, baby. me too,” he admits. “i’ll go slow. just hold onto me.” so you do. your hands find his arms, gripping them lightly as he hovers over you, his eyes locked onto yours. “kiss me,” you whisper. he smiles before he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. then, as he moves, as he pushes into you, a sharp gasp escapes your lips, breaking the kiss. your fingers tighten around his arms, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you adjust to the stretch, the way he fills you so completely. he’s holding himself back, he’s trying to let you set the pace. his lips brush against your jaw pressing soft kisses on your skin before he kisses the side of your neck. “hyun… you—” your words falter as he presses in deeper, your back arching instinctively. “shit! you feel so good.” “tell me what you need, baby,” he says. your body already knows the answer before your lips do. you move your hips slightly, urging him deeper, making him exhale. “deeper,” you reply. “and faster. please.”

the room turns into a mess—moans, heavy breathing, the sharp slap of skin against skin. seunghyun’s fucking into you like he’ll never get another chance, and all you can do is take it, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails dragging down his back as he fills you over and over again. he leans in, mouth hot against your neck. “you like that, baby?” his teeth graze your skin before he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss just beneath your jaw. “y-yes!” he’s deep, so deep, hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back, your mouth falling open, too lost in the way he’s ruining you to say anything coherent. “can f-feel you squeezing me—a-ah! fuck, baby!” he moans. and the desperate sound you make back only seem to push him further, make him rougher. your body responds instinctively, meeting his thrusts, rolling your hips slightly against him. oh, fuck. oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. he’s barely holding it together as it is hearing you moan under him like that, but that thing you just did? it almost sends seunghyun to an early grave. his hips snap into you harder, completely abandoning whatever self-control he thought he had, grip tightening on your hips so hard he’s pretty sure he’s leaving marks. “shit!—h-hyun! ah, fuck! f-fuck, y-yeah! baby, mmph!” you sound so fucking good, all needy and breathless, and he wants to loop it in his brain forever, build a shrine to the way you just moaned his name like that. he knew sex with you would be good, but this? this is some life-altering, religious experience type shit.

the pleasure is intense, rolling through you in waves so strong it’s almost embarrassing how quickly you start feeling your orgasm build up in your lower stomach. seunghyun’s entire body is tight. muscles straining, his thrusts turning more desperate, more frantic, because he can feel how close you are, the way your thighs are shaking, the way your moans are turning higher, almost pleading. and fuck, he’s so close… but he needs to take you with him. his grip shifts, one hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. the second he rubs tight, messy circles over it, your whole body jerks beneath him, a gasp breaking from your lips. “that’s it, baby,” he breathes, “cum… cum with me.” your walls flutter around him, clenching so tight it nearly sends him into another dimension. and when you finally snap, it hits hard—your back arches, your thighs shake, and your moans are loud enough to make your neighbors hate you. thank god your parents aren’t home. seunghyun groans, slamming into you a few more times before he loses it, burying himself deep as he follows right after, cursing under his breath. for a second, all you can hear is the sound of your ragged breathing and the rapid thud of your heartbeat. his forehead drops against your shoulder, both of you still panting, his hands lazily running over your skin. his body feels wrecked in the best way, his mind still floating somewhere between reality and the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s ever had. his lips press against your temple as your breathing slows. “come on, baby,” he murmurs. “let’s shower.” you groan in protest, making him chuckle. so fucking cute. he kisses your lips. “you wanna sleep like this?” he teases. you sigh dramatically, blinking up at him with that hazy, fucked-out look that makes his stomach clench. “fine, let’s go shower,” you laugh softly.

the bed is soft, the sheets cool against your skin as you sink into them, your body still warm from the shower. you barely have time to settle before seunghyun climbs in beside you, immediately pulling you against him. his arms wrap around your waist, tugging you close until your back is flush against his chest. his body is warm, solid, and when he exhales, you feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your spine. one of his hands slips beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt, really—his fingertips tracing patterns along your stomach. his lips press against the back of your neck, soft, before he nuzzles into you, his nose brushing against your hair. you smile, closing your eyes. nothing else has ever felt this right. your fingers move against his hand, barely tracing over his skin, and he hums in response, shifting slightly to bury his face further into your hair. “comfy?” he murmurs, voice lower now, sleepier. “mmhm.” you squeeze his hand, barely awake. “you?” he presses another kiss to the back of your neck. “always. i love you.” “i love you too,” you whisper. “sleep, baby.” and right before you drift off, you feel it—his lips pressing one last kiss to the back of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

two years have passed. but it doesn’t feel like two years. it feels like forever. like there was never a version of your life before him, only with him. when you sleep together, mornings always start the same: seunghyun wakes up first, but he never gets out of bed before you. instead, he buries his face into your neck, pressing lazy kisses against your skin until you finally stir. you’ve built a life together in these little rituals—the way he always holds your hand when you walk anywhere, the way you sit between his legs on the couch when you watch movies, your back pressed against his chest, his arms locked around your waist. the way he’ll randomly pull you onto his lap while he’s studying at his desk, murmuring “i concentrate better like this.” knowing damn well he doesn’t. and talking about studies… you two can barely focus, study sessions always turn into giggling messes where he pretends to be paying attention to his notes but spends half the time sneaking glances at you instead. cramming for exams together is another challenge, he makes flashcards and tries to quiz you, only for you to distract him by climbing onto his lap, trailing kisses down his neck until he groans and tosses the cards aside. you’re both exhausted half the time, pulling all-nighters with caffeine and takeout, but he’s there, and that makes it bearable.

you travel together, not often but enough—weekend getaways, road trips that always start with him in control of the music and end with you fighting over who gets to dj. there was the time you went to a cabin in the mountains, curled up by the fireplace with wine, the two of you getting way too competitive over board games. or that one chaotic trip where you completely missed your bus, got lost trying to find your hotel, and ended up walking for miles in the rain. you were so close to breaking down, but seunghyun just pulled you into a convenience store, bought you a hot drink, and said, “we’ll figure it out, baby. we’re together, that’s what matters.” and somehow, it turned into one of your favorite memories.

his mom adores you. always sends you food, always texts you on random days asking how you’re doing. one time, she pulled out his baby pictures, and now you will never let him live them down. his dad always cracks jokes about how he’s never seen seunghyun this soft before. your family adores him too, inevitably hyping him up for any polite gesture, since they’re not used to you having someone so nice by your side (your last boyfriend was a questionable human being…) they always gush about how sweet seunghyun is, how he takes such good care of you.

two years of love slipping into every part of your life—small, everyday things turning into your things. you have a shared playlist called ‘let me spill your coffee’. it’s a mix of songs you love, songs that remind him of you, and stupid meme songs he adds just to annoy you. the bookshelf in the corner of your room is overflowing, pictures of the two of you and a few stuffed animals he’s gifted you shoved in between. a small framed picture sits on the very top shelf, one from a winter night when the world outside was covered in snow. you’re bundled up in his scarf while he stands behind you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. there are tiny snowflakes caught in his hair, and even through the blur of the picture, you can tell he’s smiling. there’s a strip of photo booth pictures tucked behind a stuffed bear he won for you at a carnival. in the first frame, you’re both grinning wide; in the second, he’s caught off guard as you surprise him with a kiss on the cheek. by the third, he’s laughing, and in the last one, he’s holding your face between his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. another picture taken on your second new year’s eve together. you’re curled up next to him on the couch, confetti still in your hair. he’s looking at you instead of the camera, a small, stupidly in-love smile on his face. you hadn’t noticed it at first, but when you did, it made your chest ache in the best way. and then, tucked behind a row of books, there’s the oldest one of all. the very first picture you ever took together, when you were only friends. it’s a little blurry, the lighting terrible, but you remember everything about that day. how he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. how you didn’t know then what you know now—that this would be the first of many.

above your bed, there’s a painting. one he made for you on your first anniversary. deep blues and purples, swirling together like a galaxy, with tiny flecks of gold scattered like stars. in the bottom corner, barely noticeable unless you look closely, he wrote ‘us’. you didn’t see it at first, but when you did, you nearly cried. the record player he bought you for your birthday sits by the window, a vinyl still on it from the last time he was over. and your toothbrush sits next to his in the cup by the sink. there’s also an extra charger on your nightstand—his, since he spends so much time at your house. there’s a worn-out polaroid tucked into the frame of your mirror, slightly bent at the edges from how many times you’ve taken it out to look at it. it’s your favorite picture of the two of you—summer night at the beach, your hair messy from the wind, his arm slung over your shoulders, both of you grinning like you have the entire world in your hands. because it felt like you did. and it still feels like you do. because somehow, even after all this time, nothing has faded. two years of love wrapped around your life, yet every touch, every glance, still feels like the first. and every single day, in a million different ways, you keep choosing each other.

i hope you enjoyed! thank you for reading <3

tag list: @kaerasti49

#choi seunghyun #seunghyun x reader #top bigbang #big bang #big bang top #top x reader #smut #kpop #t.o.p #t.o.p x reader #t.o.p fanfic #t.o.p bigbang #bigbang x reader

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beansprean · 3 hours ago

Text

This is a redraw of one of my first arts for this fandom (almost 3 years ago!!) Oh, how things change and how they stay the same.... thanks to @g0sts for coming up with the Monster's 'compliment' lmao.

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(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Wide shot of the fancy room from the hall. Nadja and Laszlo are sitting on the sofa on the right, the Guide peeking in from her seat at the desk behind them, Nandor and Colin are sitting in the armchairs on the left, and Guillermo is standing center in front of the fireplace. Guillermo holds up both pointer fingers toward either side, casting a suspicious glance around the room as he announces, "If I do this for you...you need to do something for me." Nandor looks up at him nervously, hands twisting in his lap. Colin continues reading his newspaper. Laszlo stares at Guillermo thoughtfully, puffing on his unlit pipe. Nadja rolls her eyes at flaps her hand at Guillermo, snapping, "Yes, yes, what do you want, Guillermo?" 1b. Zoom in to shoulders up of Guillermo with a smug grin as he continues, "I want each of you...to give me a genuine compliment." Offscreen, the three vampires complain, "Fucking guy!" "Absolutely not." "Are you fucking kidding me?"

2a. Wide shot of the room from the right side as Guillermo turns to walk out of the side door, half his face visible in the foreground as he shrugs and says "Alright, figure it out on your own then." Behind him, Colin looks up from his newspaper and Nandor stands up in a fluster, making a sound of affront that never turns into words. The monster appears stoically beside him, wearing a frilly maid apron and cap over his loud shirt and trousers and holding up a feather duster upside down. Nadja and Laszlo turn around in their seats to scowl after Guillermo, Nadja calling after him "Hold on, you needy little malako!" The Guide turns around in her seat at the desk with an indulgent smile and says, "You are very kind and strong!" 2b. Zoom in to the desk behind the couch as Guillermo plants his hand on the back of the couch to lean in towards the Guide. He says, with not a little smugness, "Thank you, the Guide." Nadja, visible between them from her place on the couch, glares at him with an unimpressed frown. From offscreen, Nandor mumbles, "I was gonna say that..." 2c. Repeat. The Guide blushes and presses a hand gratefully to her chest, replying, "Thank you for always including me in th-" Guillermo interrupts her with a prompting, "Nadja?" and turns his head toward her with an encouraging grin. Nadja scowls and rolls her eyes, sticking her tongue out between her fangs with a disgusted retching noise. "...Fine." 2d. Chest up of Nadja on a purple background, arms spread out charitably as she announces, "You are a capable bodyguard." From offscreen, Nandor snaps, "Nadja, I was going to say that!" Laszlo: "Good one, my dark darling!" Guillermo: "Thank you. Laszlo?" 2e. Chest up of Laszlo on a blue background, chewing on the stem of his pipe as he takes a moment to think. 2f. Zoom out to a shot of the couch from the front, Guillermo standing by Laszlo at the arm. Laszlo raises his pipe and triumphantly says, "You have a plush and bounceable backside that has invaded my mind more than once while musing in my woodshed." The Guide and Nadja both lean into frame to give him a thumbs up, Nadja's smile much more strained. Guillermo glares into the middle distance, one hand on his hip and the other pressed against his burning red face. He says, "I'll...I'll take it." A shout bubble from Nandor appears from offscreen that contains no words, just his flushed face looking like a startled angry cat.

3a. Waist up of Nandor inside a large thought bubble of his own making as Guillermo calls from offscreen, "Master, you're up." Nandor fidgets nervously, eyes on the ground and fingers tugging at each other as he makes various strained thinking noises. Inside his thought bubble are multiple red-tinged sketches of memories of Guillermo: bloodstained and leaping into action with a sword and crucifix, smiling gently in his best man suit, happily tugging on a PIUNY hoodie, stepping out self-consciously in his Cowboy Kid costume, grinning authoritatively during the Djinn negotiations, smiling hopefully upward in the finale, as a vampire looking unsure and sick in his fake ceremony robes, looking concerned in his pajamas, mind-wiped and smiling in his sleep on a chaise, and grasping hands with Nandor as they pledge to stay together. Words swim around with the images and repeat: capable, strong, a good bodyguard, plush, bounceable, invaded my mind in my woodshed, kind, my Guillermo, good, kind and strong. So many things Guillermo is, always on his mind. Nandor continues waffling, "Umm...euuurrghhh...youuuuu..." 3b. His speech bubbles trail out of the previous frame down to the next, a wide shot of the fancy room from the right side again. Nandor is standing between his and Colin's chairs, arms open like Nadja's were, grimacing with an empty-headed expression. He continues, "Seem very..." The word 'relentless' pops into his head, but instead he says "Persistent." Laszlo looks up at him from his spot on the couch with an interested, "Oh??" Nadja, now standing beside Nandor, pushes at one of his hands and complains, "That's the best you've got? You were supposed to be our star player!" The Guide rests her chin on a fist as she watches them, looking apprehensive. Colin, still holding his newspaper, pipes up, "Isn't anyone interested in hearing my compliment? It's really good." In the foreground, Guillermo has turned his back on the room to stomp out of the side door with an embarrassed pout, mumbling, "I don't know what I expected from you guys."

4. Small frame of the Monster approaching Guillermo, smiling awkwardly and holding out his detached and heavily pixelated penis. Text points at him and reads 'giving a compliment.' Guillermo grimaces at the offer, not sure how to respond. /end ID

#wwdits #nandermo #mlm #guillermo de la cruz #nandor the relentless #nadja of antipaxos #laszlo cravensworth #colin robinson #the guide wwdits #cravensworth's monster #robinson's monster #shadowsart #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #my art #fanart #fan comic #image described

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yeyinde · 1 day ago

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Alright, time to send an ask for once after anxiously sitting in the back like a weirdo.

What music do you think Price would listen to? The kind that maybe he’d have playing in the background with you sat on his lap whilst he finishes paperwork. Can’t really come up with anything smutty, it’s not my thing. But you get what I’m trying to say.

I’ve seen many variations of Prices’ music taste, including the playlist Barry Sloane made himself. Just curious about your view on it.

Love your work.

Sincerely, Six.

small nod respect and admiration.

His music taste (to me) gives off "Selleck Moustache + denim jacket and jeans + dark black aviators and one arm suntanned darker than the other because its always hanging out of the window of his 1972 Plymouth Fury" Dad Vibes lmao and I answered something similar for the 141, but I still think Price is an OG Alt Kid at heart. Maybe a mix of blues and rock (garage, blues, alt, psychedelic), bluegrass. Folk. Divorced Dad Rock. 70s Roadtrip. Swamp Rock & Cajun Blues.

The Cure. CCR. Lead Belly. Koko Taylor. Agent Orange. Howlin' Wolf. Bobby Bland. Siouxsie and the Banshees. The London Souls. Jimi Hendrix. Muddy Waters. The Psychedelic Furs. Grateful Dead. The Electric Flag. Johnny Cash. Cream. Snooky Pryor. The Rolling Stones. The Doors. Donovan. Sonny Boy Williamson. John the Conqueror. Fleetwood Mac. Pixies. Santana. Derek & the Dominoes. T. Rex. Wilbert Harrison. The Velvet Underground. Cheap Trick. Liverpool Five. The Rivieras. Redbone. Marlena Shaw. Mama's and Papa's. Allman Brothers Band. The Animals. Bauhaus. Cocteau Twins. Foghat. Rory Gallagher.

But for relaxing, he'd probably throw on a Live from Woodstock ('69) or 60s-70s psychedelic/blues rock playlist. Probably would get a stupid kick out of "introducing" you to the anti-war music of the late 60s.

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madamechrissy · 50 minutes ago

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Jealousy, Jealousy

This was inspired by the Caleb art in the banner by @baobei-bu please love on ALL their art!! Their JJK/LADS art is PEAK

Pairings- Yandere! Caleb x F!reader

Warnings- PWP pretty much, a smut oneshot- HEAVY yandere Caleb, mating press, cum play, oral (f recieiving) tummy bulges, cervix hitting, panty stealing, fingering, overstim, he calls you pip squeak LMAO, JEALOUS obsessed Caleb

My first time for Caleb hehe, rbs/comments appreciated if you enjoyy

"Who is that, Pip squeak?" Caleb murmurs that question with a little smile, as you tense just a bit, feeling your cheeks heating up under his scrutiny, sipping on the straw of your milkshake, letting the sweetness hit your tongue. The two of you have been gaming the day away, taking just a little break in the kitchen now

"It's a... friend." That's what Xavier was really, your sweet friend, who is currently sending you heart emojis.

"Oh, a friend huh? Why so secretive then?" He teases, tapping your nose and just being far... far too close. You shouldn't think so many things about him like this, should you? But you can't help but like his cologne a little too much, like just how his brown locks were falling over his forehead just so, how you can see so much of his muscles flexing in what he wore.

"Just a friend." Your little smile drives him insane, he outwardly laughs, but he can't stop thinking of who's been with you while he's been away, has anyone touched you? When you're meant to be his.

"Let me see then." He yanks your phone high, dark violet eyes flashing for a moment, turning as you sputter and he scrolls through your last messages. "And who is Sylus... Rafael and... Dr. Zayne, I know him, and-"

"Give me my phone back, jerk!" You jump for it, but Caleb is stupid tall, holding it up and feigning a smile he really doesn't feel like giving right now, thoughts racing.

Were you with somebody?

That would never do.

Perhaps he's been gone too long, and you've found someone, but that wouldn't last long when you'd be his. Caleb hands you it finally, laughing a bit as he pats your head. "Relax, Pip Squeak, I was just messing with ya. So cute when you're angry."

"Oh, whatever. Back to the game?" He nods, watching as your bouncy ass sways in whatever excuse for a shorts those were, furious if anyone has ever gotten to see you like this.

You're sitting up on the couch now, legs spread so he sees just a hint of your perfect pussy that lace was hugging, his throat goes dry when you hand him the controller. He smiles with ease, sitting on the floor, hoisting your thighs around his shoulders then, and you pause, faltering just a bit, breath caught in your throat. It should be casual. You two have gamed close forever, but he's so close to your heat, your thighs brushing against his hot skin. Just a white tank top and your shorts separating you both.

"You blushed really hard when I mentioned Sylus huh?" He asks now, as he moves the controllers, and you gulp just a bit, fidgeting some.

"No... imagining things."

"You think he's hot."

You roll your eyes at him, shifting forward as you tilt the controller, slashing your sword and concentrating, the tips of your toes touching his lap. Just that is enough to make Caleb ache and throb, hard cock pulsing, he bites back a moan, you seem too entrapped in the game to notice what your foot is brushing on.

"He's hot, sure. Why, do you... find anyone hot?" Caleb glares down at the controller now.

"Just one girl." You bite your lip, concentrated fully, as he rests a head on your thigh. Hot breath against it making your leg twitch, cunt already soaking. You can't feel this way, you two are just too close... right? How can you be jealous?

"Oh?" Your weak voice just makes Caleb's cock leak precum, he can feel how hot you are behind his neck, he turns his head then, to catch you looking down at him.

"Do you care if I like someone Pip Squeak?"

"N-no..."

"Hmm... hah! Got you!" Caleb's killed your character, making you huff. Laying back some on the couch, you gasp when he turns around, face at level with your cunt, where he sees your damp spot right on your shorts. "Oh no, honey... did you spill something?"

"Huh?" You feel your body react, nipples pressing against your thin top at his proximity, vivid thoughts of far, far too many things working through your heated mind.

"Right here..." he brushes his thumb against the damp sticky arousal, eliciting a cry that makes him goddamn feral. "Can't answer me honey?"

"Caleb I'm... so sorry I..."

"This from me. Or from one of them?" His casual question is laced with something dark, pressing on the spot again, wondering just how many men he'd have to take out, so his sweet girl is all his. "Should I get these off you? Since you're making them so messy?"

"I.... y-you-" Caleb has slipped your shorts off your thighs, your tummy clenches when he clicks his tongue. Now he kisses your inner thigh, fingers running along your swollen lips, breath ghosting too close to your cunt.

"These are ruined too, tsk. Something wrong, pip squeak?" You shake your head, watching as Caleb peels those panties off you, and he has to tuck them in his pocket, thankful your eyes are shut, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks. He needs a fresh pair anyway, you're too meticulous about your laundry and he doesn't get many.

The amount of times he's cum inhaling your panties, drunk off them is insane, even before he left you, when he'd visit on breaks he'd take them, licking any of you up. Sometimes he would jerk off inside them, imagining putting them on you. Making you wear them full of his load as punishment for making him so insane. But nothing prepared him for seeing your glistening cunt, clear trails breaking off, you're so wet you were stuck to those lacy panties clearly.

"Caleb-ah!" He laps you up now, just a stripe up your slit, making your hands entangle in sof thrown hair, as those deep violet eyes look up at you. Dilated, insane, a smirk on his lips.

"Tell me none of them tasted you. Had you."

"What do you mean-"

"Tell me no one touched what's mine."

"You've been gone a long time... you think I just what, wait here, touch myself?" You're shaking as you speak.

"Do you?" You hesitate. "Answer me. Maybe I'll let you cum."

"Let me?" He presses a kiss on your clit now parting your folds and groaning as arousal pools out of your little hole. "Mnh. Fuck... what are we..."

"Am I competing? I'm very competitive you know, pip squeak. I will have to make you forget anything but me then." That's when he spreads your pretty pussy, moaning, he's seen you of course before here and there, glimpses of you naked, but now your perfect cunt is right in his face. He's burying his face against you, nose hitting that clit as his tongue swipes in.

"Oh my god." You shouldn't be like this, you shouldn't be spreading your thighs wider, letting him fuck his tongue in and out of your slick, gummy walls, the noises of his soft whines and slurps echoing in your apartment. His taste buds explore every each that long tongue can reach, you're losing it every moment, those eyes so dark with lust they look black.

He'll make you forget anything.

"That's it, you wanna cum f'me, huh? Pretty girl, all mine." You're struggling to compute his words, to even function, eyes rolling back when he flicks the tip of his tongue on that clit, smile not hitting his insane yes. "Are you?"

"This is crazy, what are we doing... you... I... ngh!" Two fingers slip right inside your hole now, which flutters around the thick, long digits, making your whines even louder as he leans up, his other hand gripping you by your throat, lips so close.

How have you not kissed but he's devoured your pussy?

"You belong to me, only me, can you not see? All this time..." He's desperately scissoring fingers in and out, lashes low over his eyes as he breathes against your bitten lips. "Oh listen, she can talk for you I guess, so slutty for me. Just me, huh?"

You're just arching your hips, a sweet cry from your lips, ones he can imagine wrapped around his cock, while he squeezes your delicate neck harder, hand overtaking your throat. You can merely whimper in response, nodding just a bit, as you're closer and closer, only for him to yank his fingers out, making you whine, aching to be filled by them again.

"Caleb, please." You're crying now, tears running down your cheeks, making you look so fucking pretty to him, igniting something that snaps as he watches them fall glistening down your face.

"Please what, ya need something?" He's squeezing harder, fingers brushing around your soaking entrance, just barely pressing the tip of his finger inside, while you're pressed back against the couch, breasts heaving. "Tell me what you need, don't you know I'll take care of you?"

"In me. Please- ah!" You're getting fuzzy when he slips those long fingers back in your cunt, exhaling as he watches you, curling them just so with filthy squelching noises echoing. "Mnh!"

"This all f'me, huh? All me?" His demanding question barely resonates when you're cumming all over his fingers now, pulsing and gushing, while your own hand grips his thin white tank, pulling him closer. Your eyes roll back, he watches you avidly, every fucking expression while he feels you pulsing on his digits. "You didn't answer me, pretty, that won't do."

He pouts when he pulls his fingers out again, releasing your throat right before you nearly faint, cunt still pulsing. You try to gather yourself, when he's slipping those fingers in his mouth, moaning while he sucks all your arousal off them. He's ripped your top off, moaning as he sees your tits gently bounce out, his own dog tags dangling right between the two of them.

"Look who's right by your heart, hmm?" He presses the cool metal to your lips now, prompting you to kiss them, as he smiles so sweetly, like he hadn't just fucked your head up and tripped you. "Do you wear this every day?"

"Yes."

"Every night?"

"Yes." Your answer ends him, when he picks you up like you're nothing, dragging you right to the plush, soft rug beneath you both, hovering over you, his new tags dangling, as your fingers slip up over his strong chest, his eyes glinting with something you can't quite describe, the situation overwhelming your senses.

"I need to take better care of you, if you feel you need all these 'friends' then I'm not doing my job. I should be more than enough for you." He's leaned up, pulling up his shirt just a bit, revealing rippling abs that you've looked at far too often. "Is that it, I didn't take care of you good enough?"

"No, Caleb you always take care of me. I just... we..." Your thoughts trail off when he's slipped down his sweats, and you see his cock, so long and thick you're unsure you could take it, already oozing precum out of his reddened tip.

"Cat got your tongue, pip squeak? Keep talking, I'm listening, I always listen don't I?" He's leaned over you with one strong arm, yanking your thighs apart further, when you feel his length against your inner thigh, hot and heavy, precum sticking to you, as he cups your face so gently. "I'll listen to every moan, every whisper, so I learn everything your pretty, perfect body likes."

"Oh my god." He's brushing his tip against your engorged clit now, smiling down at you, at how pretty you are on this rug beneath him, your lashes fluttering.

"You work too hard, you need to be massaged everywhere. How could I not see this?" He's shoved his cock so deep inside you then you scream out, and he moans, feeling the stretch, of so many fucking inches. "Look how greedy, she's trying to take him all. Ahh, did you miss me this much?"

You're unable to respond to anything when he's shoved his cock so deep you're stuffed full, whimpering out as your walls struggle to stretch for him, and he's just a breath over you, lips drinking up yours then, finally kissing you after so long, before he is pulling back and shoving so deep he hits your cervix. You're sobbing it feels so fucking good, all while he can't rip his eyes off your face, the dark violet depths swirling.

"Waited so long for this, god don't you know?" He's mumbling now, lost in you, pulling back and smirking as he watches it, his lengthy cock getting sucked inside your too small hole, and the bulge in your tummy. "Look, I hit so fucking deep, don't I?" He grips your chin, shoving your head down so you see it, blushing furious.

"I... that's... s-so big I..." He's moaning as he watches it, his cock making that bulge as he goes achingly slow.

"Look at me fill you, fuck I should keep filling you too, until you can't even think. I need your brain shut off, and focused on me, yeah?" You're already fucked out and stupid, you can only stare at the bulge and blush, when he thrusts his hips with a snap, having you drooling all over his cock. "Can't think of other men now, can you?"

You can't think of a fucking thing, including what's happening, as Caleb begins fucking you harder, faster, delicately kissing your lips like he's making love, as his heavy balls slap your ass with every single filthy fucking thrust. He's whispering your name, until he's got you firm in a mating press, spitting down right on your clit and moaning at the sight.

Folded in half, god you feel so small under him, while his babbling hits your incoherent brain, the lewd slapping of his skin and how wet you are filling the living room. "Only me, I need it to only be me, me inside you, me everywhere."

"Caleb- you... f-fuck!" He's cupping your face as he folds you in that mating press, grinning feral, something unleashed that's damn near scary, but you just want more, nails pressing crescent moons against his biceps.

"Only me. Only me. Mine. Mine. Mine." He's huffing those words as you cum all around his cock, pausing him briefly, feeling your aftershocks grip him, your cunt so messy she's dripping down his balls, down to the rug, making the sounds even louder, the squishing and clicking. "I know, honey, I know, you want me to cum inside, huh?"

"Please. Please." He's smiling, you're being so good for him, and who is he to ever deny his pretty girl anything.

"I'll give you anythign you ask for, don't worry. I'll fill you so good, so, so good, yeah- ha fuck you- ah..." He's stuttering now, faster and harder, his eyes flashing then. "Only me, say it."

"Only y-you... ah- ngh!" You're screaming when he's fucking you so hard it hurts, leaned up to press the backs of your thighs.

"That's it, gonna forget them all, aren't you? Anyone."

"F-forget." Your weak response lets him lose his mind, big hands bruising, his dog tags swinging against your face when he pounds your cunt so hard, cumming so much, with his head thrown back, groaning so loud until it turns into a weak cry, as his hot gooey load coats your pussy everywhere.

"That's it, fuckin perfect pussy, God my good girl, aren't you? Taking me so well." He's murmuring, easing as you're cumming just from him coating your walls, he lets your thighs fall, moaning and kissing you, desperate and hungry. "You alright, pip squeak? Was it too much?"

"It was a lot I..." He's laughing now, softly, pulling back and out, watching the mess of creamy cum pouring down all over, groaning at the sight, you flush as you look down, seeing it all.

"You could have told me you needed more, don't you know how long I've waited for this? I wanted to be your first though, honey, tsk..." He's fingering the cum, making you jerk, so sensitive now, his lips quirking up. "Know how many times I've stroked it? Picturing just this, filling you up?"

"Y-you did?" He's shoving that cum deep, you grip his wrist, gasping now. "Caleb!"

"You're wasting it, that just won't do, I need you to be a good girl." His husky whisper along with those rough fingers makes you cry out.

"Sensitive!"

"You can take more, can't you?" He's shoving cum back in your eager whole, moaning at the sight, his cock already standing back at attention. "I think I know what I need to do, so you never call any of these 'friends' again."

"What?" Your eyes roll back when he's curling his fingers again, hovering over you and grinning, his toned body glistening with a sheen of sweat.

"I'll keep filling you, until you're dripping me constantly." Caleb's got you in your bed next, lapping his own cum right out of your cunt, taste buds dragging in every flavor of the two of you, having you cum over and over, until you're stupid. "Look, so fucked out, aww. You're drooling pip squeak, lemme get that."

He's swiping at your chin, before he's sucking your clit in his mouth again, and you're losing sense of everything, he's fucking you again, bent over, then again, on your stomach, so many loads inside you you're bloated and full, too full. You pass out on him soon, he sighs as he looks at you, so pretty as always in your sleep.

"Ah, pip squeak, we'll have to work on that stamina." He's cleaned you all up, putting your favorite pajamas on you, while you're lightly snoring, clearly he'd been a little too much.

Caleb had waited for years and years after all, for just this moment.

"Sweet dreams, my love. Future wife." He's laughing softly, you don't know just all his plans yet. He goes towards the kitchen to down some water, still naked in your apartment, cock gently swaying when he grabs his sweats, your panties still tucked in his pocket. He slips them on, frowning as he sees your phone light up, texts from Zayne and Sylus.

That just won't do.

He unlocks your phone with ease, it's his birthday of course, you love him even if you don't know how much yet. No worries. Caleb deletes every contact and message, keeping only him, because that's all you'll need now! You won't even be in this apartment soon, he can already picture you at his place, constantly having his babies.

He smiles as he holds you against him that night, but even after fucking you so deep, so much, just seeing you sleeping makes him hard again, and he has to stroke his aching cock just looking at you, waiting for you to wake up.

lmk if you want more Caleb and his freaky ass lol <3

tags- @ember-stars @luvleixo @sickleddreamer @ravenbc @honeymoonfleur @mcdepressed290 @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @valleydoli perm- @alt--er--love @indiewritesxoxo @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty

#caleb smut #caleb x you #caleb x reader #yandere caleb #lads smut #lads x reader #lads caleb #divider by omi-resources #lads x you #caleb x y/n #caleb x fem reader #love and deepspace caleb #lnds caleb #yandere lads

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aquaholicsanonymousworld · 3 hours ago

Text

Proposal Headcanons for Task Force 141 + Graves

Soap

Soap cannot play it cool. The man tries, but the moment he realizes he wants to marry you, it takes approximately 36 hours before he blurts it out mid-date, mid-bite, mid-everything.

“I love you. You love me. Let’s just do it, yeah? Marry me. Right now. I’ll steal a ring if I have to.”

You think he’s joking—until he pulls out an actual ring box from his cargo pocket. It’s dented. A little dirty. But the ring inside? Stunning. Soap actually planned ahead but couldn’t contain himself long enough for the ‘perfect moment.’

He kisses you before you even say yes, whispering, “You’re gonna be the death of me… but what a way to go.”

He doesn’t even make it to the bedroom.

The moment you say yes, he tackles you onto the couch, hands everywhere, breathless laughter between frantic kisses. His mouth is on your neck, mumbling, “You said yes—you said yes, I’m gonna ruin you for the next three days.”

He gets downright feral. Clothes ripped off, ring glinting as he grips your hips and mutters filthy praise in your ear. “Say it again. C’mon, sweetheart, say you’re gonna be my wife—while I’m deep inside you.”

You’re so sore the next morning you can barely stand. He carries you to the shower, grinning the entire time.

Gaz

Gaz puts in work. He’s low-key about it, but he plans the proposal down to the smallest detail: your favorite place, the perfect playlist, the exact time the light hits just right.

He gives a small speech about all the things he loves about you—your laugh, your stubbornness, how you make coffee wrong but he drinks it anyway—and then casually drops to one knee like he’s done it in his head a thousand times.

“You don’t make sense with anyone else. You make sense with me. And I want that for the rest of my life.”

You’re a mess. He’s a mess. Even the waiter cries.

He starts slow. Intense eye contact. Whispering thank you against your lips as he slips the ring on your finger and lays you down like you’re sacred.

But once his lips are on your skin? He loses control.

Gaz eats you out like he’s starved, murmuring, “My fiancée tastes so fuckin’ sweet,” between strokes of his tongue. You’re trembling before he even gets his pants off.

And when he finally pushes inside? It’s deep. Slow. A claim.

“I’m gonna make you feel me for days,” he breathes, forehead to yours, hips rolling with purpose. “This is how your husband loves you.”

Ghost

Ghost doesn’t plan to propose. Not because he doesn’t want to—it’s because he’s terrified. Of losing you. Of not being enough. Of messing it up.

But then one night, he wakes up after a nightmare and sees you asleep, soft and peaceful beside him… and it hits him. He needs to make sure you never leave.

Next morning? He slips a ring onto your finger while you’re still sleeping. Sits beside the bed, just watching.

You wake up to him staring at your hand, expression unreadable.

“Hope that’s alright,” he says softly. “Didn’t think I could get through asking without losin’ my nerve.”

It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him—and the most sure he’s ever been.

You see a side of Ghost no one else ever has.

Once you say yes, the mask comes off—literally and figuratively. He holds your face, kisses you like he’s drowning, and when he lays you down, it’s pure worship.

But when he’s inside you? All that control breaks.

Rough thrusts. Low growls. Hands gripping your thighs like he needs you to anchor him.

“You’re mine now,” he rasps, voice cracking. “Gonna fuck you until that ring rattles on your finger.”

After? He buries his face in your neck and whispers, “My wife. Mine. Mine.” Over and over like a prayer.

Price

Price goes traditional—old-school, respectful, completely heart-melting. He asks your parents (imagine his old ass asking your parents LMAO (he's only 37)), he wears a suit, he brings you somewhere meaningful.

He drops to one knee with total conviction. Eyes steady. Hands only slightly shaking.

“You’ve stood by me through everything. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything I’ve got left.”

It’s not flashy. It’s intimate. He looks you in the eye like a man who already sees your whole life together—and you say yes before he even opens the box.

Bonus: He tears up. Silently. And tries to hide it with a “Might be dusty out here.”

He pours a glass of champagne, gives a toast to Mrs. Price-to-be, and then takes you to bed like a gentleman…

…until he’s got you pinned under him, writhing, one hand wrapped around your throat just enough to make you whimper.

“This is what forever looks like,” he growls, sliding in with maddening control. “You wanna be mine? You better be ready to take every fuckin’ inch of me.”

He makes love like a man with something to prove—and he proves it again. And again. And again.

After? He smokes a cigar with your head on his chest, murmuring, “Next time, I’m bending you over the vows.”

Phillip Graves

Graves turns the proposal into a production. Champagne, string quartet, five-star dinner, and probably a drone flying a banner overhead.

He gives a speech in front of everyone. A loud one. “This woman right here? She’s the best thing I ever got my hands on—and I’m damn sure not letting her go.”

He definitely drops to one knee in slow motion. Probably has a photographer hiding in a bush. Maybe two.

The ring? Custom-made. Probably with your initials engraved inside. He flashes that smug grin and says, “You didn’t think I was gonna do this halfway, did you?”

After you say yes, he yells “She said YES!” like it’s a victory and kisses you like he just won a Super Bowl.

Graves worships you that night like a man obsessed. Pours champagne over your chest just so he can lick it off. Tells you exactly what he’s gonna do with his wife in every room of the house.

“Gonna fuck you in silk sheets and marble floors, darlin’,” he purrs. “You think the ring’s nice? Wait till you see what I do with this body.”

Takes his time ruining you. Bent over the bed. Face down on the counter. On your knees in the living room.

Every time he makes you come, he taps the ring and says, “Mine now. And I’m never lettin’ go.”

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shehungers · 4 hours ago

Text

PESTIS

plague doctor monster x reader | 18+ | 3.7k

after the doctors in your town burn the bodies of plague victims, a mysterious cortège of black wagons begins visiting once a month. the one who leads them, great death, asks you what your deceased husband's soul is worth to you, and the result of it begins a convoluted spiral.

story warnings; dead dove do not eat, sexual content, major dubcon, kinda implied size kink?, size difference, his ejaculate is not sexily described lmao, extreme body horror + grotesque details, graphic depiction of gore (at the end), kinda-sorta cannibalism?, mc is pretty shitty in this, murder, disturbing details all around, bodies are burned, frightening imagery, prose + detail heavy, this is a bit of an exploration of greed + touches on some relevant events if you can figure out the parallels, plays with the idea of humans having actual souls, roughly proofread, don't look too much into inconsistencies lmao just have fun.

muted divider by @/anlian-aishang

a/n; originally, this was supposed to be >1k as part of a personal challenge where ppl could vote on a poll for what genre i'd write a piece for. horror won.

thanks to @shouyuus for shoving this prompt from @/deepwaterwritingprompts in my face. this piece followed the prompt very loosely, but still!!

pls share your thoughts + reblog this! it really means a lot to support writers, guys 💙

All anyone knew was that he was called Great Death, and he led a cortège of black wagons with black lace across the windows into town square for one night, once a month.

The procession’s arrival was announced by clopping hooves from skinless, skeletal steeds and enormous wheels jolting across the cobblestone terrain, of which the very foundation of the town had been built on top of. Even though they moved slowly, precisely, in a single line of synchrony, their sound was one of continuous rolling thunder; the roaring fireplaces where all of the bodies were incinerated.

Your husband had been reduced to human soot in one of them, but you weren't allowed to know which one.

No one was.

The doctors had argued it was to prevent grieving families and grave robbers from clawing through the ash in search of bones, scraps of clothing, or valuables discarded with the bodies of nobles. But, none of that made any difference as there was greed and loss, far too much of it to keep people out of the fireplaces and from digging and stealing and reclaiming.

You hadn't been so driven to search for your husband’s things because you still possessed more wealth than he had been burned with. He had been blistered with black and purple pustules of infection and plague before he died, so you feared that breathing him in (breathing anyone in) would fill your lungs with them (with him) and kill you, too.

My love, this is your color!

But, that did not mean that you did not grieve, because you missed the beauty that he brought to your life. You missed his gentle wit and loving mind, how he always sent you exquisite clothing from wherever in the world he had gotten to now.

Every color was your color, in his eyes. And, every piece he had delivered to you became a part of your collection of things. An opulent display of his devotion and good status to show to your friends, anyone sitting with you for quaint tea and distantly sourced food untouched by the town.

- Samuel

Meeting Great Death had come long after the burning of plague bodies, now hushedly called The Incineration, and months since the cortège had first appeared during each waning crescent.

The wagons had filed into town with their thunder, pulled by dead horses that made the ground shiver under your feet. Many townsfolk, including yourself, had been roused by the commotion and hurriedly made themselves decent to check outside. It became a spectacle of groaning complaints, white nightdresses, and bright orange lantern light floating midair in bloodless fists.

All light was to the wagons, which had formed a tight, silent ring around the poisoned fountain spouting brown plague water, and the disoriented chatter had ebbed into anticipatory shushing.

Then, the townsfolk jumped, as the windows with their blackout lace fell forward as though forced from the other side, landing flat like a countertop. The darkness beyond the windows was as dark and dense as it was infinite, smothering pulsing glows from the lanterns as some fearless men awkwardly inched closer to the wagons.

“O’ woe! Tragedy! Tragedy has befallen your home! It has taken your friends and family. It has crushed your souls and stolen theirs. But, have no fear, for we have come to return what once was yours!” said Great Death from somewhere within the throng of wagons and wet skeleton horses.

“What are they worth to you? The souls of your dearly departed. What are they worth to you? To be reunited with those that you loved so dearly and so terribly lost. Wouldn't you do everything you could to have them back? Pay any price? Come! Come! Come all! Let us speak!”

And then, bone-white beaks and hollow eyes emerged from the darkness within the wagons. Each window filled with these spectre merchants; frightening monstrosities in black cloaks and wide-brimmed hats and long fingers pushed into leather gloves.

One townsfolk had communicated what you, what everyone else had thought seeing them, “What are the doctors doing? Haven't we suffered enough because of them? They've burned everyone we loved, and now they're trying to sell them back to us as souls? This is madness!”

“They are not our doctors! Look! Look!” wailed another; a paranoid man, “those are not masks. Those beaks are bone and skin. They are demons coming for the rest of us! Run! Run for your lives! Seal your doors! Hide!”

You were pulled along with the scattering crowd, the dispersing lantern light and slamming doors, but you did not flee inside as everyone else had. Instead, you were coaxed back towards the wagons by a leathery hand and nodding beak gesturing for you to come close.

The wagon was larger than the rest, as was the creature leaning out of the window. There was fleshiness to his long beak, waxen with green veins that throbbed in the swaying light.

Great Death looked at you with nothing eyes, and nearly bent his head sideways onto his shoulder as if his true stature were cramped inside of the wagon. When he spoke, he did so clearly, even without his beak splitting into halves like separate jaws.

“How joyous! You didn't run away. Your grief must be immeasurable. Please, come even closer to me. Come here. Yes, yes, what a lovely thing you are.” Great Death giggled in delight of your obedience, or your foolishness. “You do not wear rags. You are well groomed. You possess no healthy amount of suspicion, yet I suspect you are still mourning someone. Who might it be? You can tell me. Who? Who?”

You sensed he was mocking you with that jaunty voice of his. He asked you like someone who already knew a secret, but who'd wanted to hear the great revelation straight from the source.

“My husband.” You told him. “He was a wealthy merchant who owned many ships. He sailed for more months out of the year than he was home. He could've found someone else far more beautiful, more handsome than I, but he kept me. He always came home.”

Great Death stayed at his sickly angle with his head as he leaned out the window further, both hands grasping the edge of the window-countertop. “Ah, I see. And I assume that this wonderful, merchant husband of yours succumbed to the plague? Yes. Yes, he burned with the rest, didn't he?”

“He burned with the rest,” you said.

“A hideous shame! You do have my condolences. I must ask, have there been any other cases of plague since The Incineration?” His gloves scuffed as he fluttered his fingers outward, away from you and towards the lightless houses and barricaded doors. “I won't hear an answer from anyone else, as you know.”

You couldn't hold his empty gaze, those sockets of penetrating black and looked over his shoulder, hoping to see inside at something.

Somewhere far, somewhere deep, you noticed a faint glow. Tiny hums of light blinking in and out of existence like fireflies. Little sentient creatures with will and action of their own. But, these were colors: mostly bright white, some were yellow and orange, and a few were searing white-blue.

“No,” you said, at last, remembering the question, “there haven't been any more cases since the burnings. Since—”

“The ships stopped sailing.”

“Yes.” you said.

Great Death then withdrew into the darkness of the wagon with his crooked neck and leathery hands. You considered leaving for your home, padlocking the doors and pushing furniture up against them because it was clear that this creature—all of these creatures—harbored no good intentions.

They were not your doctors who had incinerated hundreds of bodies, claiming it as necessity; saying that there was no other way to protect the rest of the town. At the time, houses quarantining the sick had been forcibly broken into by the doctors and other men in masks and gowns. They offered no apologies, no desire for absolution, no mercy.

The plagued were dragged from their deathbeds, their salt baths, their favorite chairs and out onto the streets with no dignity, in whatever way they'd been found. They were taken to the fireplaces, thrown inside those great, lashing lion flames and died screaming as they became smoke and ash. Outrage only came after as it had all happened so quickly, no one had expected it.

The doctors had said nothing. Offered few sympathies, yet promised that this sacrifice, this purge, had saved the rest of the town. That there would be no more plague.

Sometimes, the fireplaces still wailed, but not how they'd had then.

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” asked Great Death, now back in his window with his sideways head and hands clasped on the countertop.

He'd been there for a while, it seemed. And you were still standing in front of his wagon, instead of being tucked away behind the safety of locks and walls.

“You—do you have him in there with you?”

“Oh, possibly,” he said, calm and unrevealing. His hands lightly thudded on the window-countertop, rattling the glass that it was made from. “I have a little bit of everyone in here, I suppose you could say. What is your husband's soul worth to you?”

You said nothing because how could you measure the worth of a soul? Did a soul cost as much as your vast wardrobe? Did it cost as much as your house? Was it worth the same one of your legs, or a cluster of pubic hairs cut with a razor?

“Do you think his soul is worth your fortune?” Great Death saw your stricken expression just then and let out a breathy laugh. A satisfied laugh. “Is he worth you giving up your clothes? Your house? Your comfortability? Do you love your husband enough to live in rags for the rest of your life?”

You rushed up to his countertop and grabbed his hands with yours. For once, your heart was beating something awful, foul with hot-cold dread that felt wet under your skin. “I—what else is there? What else would you be willing to take? Anything else?”

Great Death was terrible up close, freezing to the touch. Pale. Dead. Not of this realm. The air around him was dense, stagnant, like it had a breath to hold. It simply did not move in his presence. The feeling of his fingers wrapping yours then, pinning them to the countertop, suffusing you with his cold and his darkness made your neck hairs stand upright.

He was enjoying this.

“I will consider it a fair exchange. Everything material that you hold precious in exchange for the man you love. Wouldn't you say that sacrificing your wealth would be worth it if it meant reuniting with him?”

“I've earned everything that I have after a lifetime of scraping around the slums. I will not return to that,” you said, low in your throat, borderline vicious. “Anything else?”

He let out a windy sound, perhaps a breath, or hum that meant he knew too much. His thumbs, much larger than your own, caressed the peaks of your knuckles, stroked the backs of your hands and pressed down on your veins while he contemplated.

“Come inside, then. Just around the corner.” Great Death moved his slanted head slightly right, indicating a black door at the rear of the wagon, which had been camouflaged by the inky dark. “I'll open it for you. Come along. Come. Come.”

The interior became familiar to you each month thereafter. But, you would always remember how disoriented you'd been first stepping inside of the commodious space filled with all manner of things vile, fascinating, and mystifying.

Great Death was able to fix his neck when he wasn't hunkered by the window that reached only waist-height on him. He and the rest of the soul vendors were like afterimages of each other, seemingly indistinct, grayer, when you stared at one long enough and then looked to another. Great Death, however, came with a heavier beak that curved more sharply; a carrion face capable of tearing through your viscera.

He was one with the semi-darkness, his shapeless silhouette a seamless mesh with air and shadows, of which the yellow tallow candlelight did not fully reach. When he moved, it was swift, inescapable; he glided rather than walked, and you could only follow his pallid features appearing to float midair.

“Forgive me for the mess, it is so rare that I have guests come inside to visit me. Transactions are better done outside, after all,” explained Great Death, already unfastening, untying, disrobing you, and laying you out on a wooden slab of a table. “My, you are lovely, aren't you? I wonder if what I see is what your husband saw in you as well? Ah, that is unlikely.”

You bled on his cock that night as he savagely fucked you into the table. His nothingness had been moved away, parted in halves to reveal gray and blackened purple hardness. An emaciated belly of similar tones was eye-catching and harsh and familiar, but a view which became unimportant as he impaled you, yanked your head back by hair closest to your scalp, and forced your gaze to the ceiling.

There, you watched the serpentine emptiness coil across the ceiling of the wagon, watched the formations in the wood grain come alive with writhing, yawning faces that never lasted long enough to know if they were speaking to you, because Great Death thrusted too hard, made you cry, bleed more, but you didn't tell him to stop.

This was the price you were willing to pay. So, you laid beneath him motionless, sore, regretting your own stubbornness for just a moment until he let out a shuddering breath of release, rutting you with his cock still twisted with your insides. He flooded your walls with cum that felt wrong, gluey, membranous. It oozed out slowly once he removed himself, the pain of him having been there was worse now that there was nothing left.

“Even I experience lust and crave a human’s touch, their soft flesh. Humans are an indulgence we are rarely afforded. Souls, well, as you can imagine, cannot do much,” said Great Death once cloaked in his darkness again. He redressed you, starting with the sleeves, and helped you off of the table with encouraging pats to your lower back. “I greatly enjoyed myself. Thank you for this exchange.”

“My husband's soul, I want it.” Now, as he ushered you towards the end of the wagon, towards the black door concealed in staticy shadows, you ached in countable pulses. “Give it to me.”

Great Death giggled, pressed his hands down onto your shoulders, and nuzzled his lethal beak against your neck.

“Come back to me next month.”

And, that's how it went on from there on out. Each month during the waning crescent, a persistent bright and sharp sickle in the sky, he led the cortège into town square and allowed you through the threshold into his sacred place. He serviced no others in town, but had expressed certain morbid appreciation to you, saying that because of your brazenness, more of the vendors were being skittishly approached by those deluged in grief and delusion.

“Oh, oh, oh, how joyous, my lovely.” He fucked you on the floor as he spoke, ramming you cruelly, until you whimpered and moaned. You wondered if he was trying to make you scream. “What a boon you've become to us all. They're all so happy. Your people. Mine. The souls. None are so happy as me, though.”

Before he'd penetrated you again, before he'd let you through the door, he met you at his window-countertop and asked, “What is your husband's soul worth to you? Have you considered letting go of your fortune? My lovely, you know that you cannot possibly take it with you once you perish and rot, yes?”

Always frightened by the thought and obstinate, you let him have you in whatever way he pleased. The pain eventually washed over with numbness. At times, his long strokes against your walls felt good, and occasionally you would come on his gray and purple cock. Focusing on how thick he felt inside of you, and the white streaks of lightning crackling behind your eyes.

Without fail, he flooded you and made it stay for a short while as if relishing your prolonged discomfort and disgust that he was still there. It would leak slowly, abnormally, as he redraped himself. Concealed his sallow body with protruding ribs, jagged angles, and dark slits spread throughout.

He was corpselike; he looked like rot. His rot inched out you for days after he was long gone, and then the sickness would set in. Red hot fevers and bone cold shivers kept you bedridden for weeks, tended to by cautious maids unsure what to make of your recurrent episodes.

Nothing showed, but you felt festering beneath your skin. Unexplainable in that you saw no such lesions, no lumps lurking in the layers of your anatomy. But, you soothed and scratched yourself like something was there. The maids were worried that your grief had made you spiral into hysterics, and they considered calling one of the doctors to your bedside.

“I will ruin all of you if you bring one of those—those murderers into my house!”

At these times, you could not be reasoned with. There was too much itch, too much sensation, too much boiling under flesh and bone, too much crawling, too much pain, too much hunger, too much vomiting, too much too much too much too much too much…

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” Great Death had returned during the waning crescent, said you looked unwell. “Will we continue our exchange as we usually do? I am not opposed, you know that. I am very fond of you, my lovely. Come inside.”

You were fragile and fatigued from fighting illness, so it didn't much matter how hard he fucked you into the floor. Skin slapped and moistened with fluids and sweat, and Great Death’s moans broke the stillness in the air.

“Oh, my lovely, I look forward to coming to this town because I know that you're waiting for me.” He said it dreamily, like in reminiscence of a bleary, beautiful memory. A faded photograph lost between pages of a book of someone once loved. “Perhaps I see a little of what your husband saw in you. No. No, I see deeper than he ever could. I see through you into your core. I see your soul. Oh, how hideous it is.”

His body was revealed to you. The dark slits which covered him twitched and opened wide into tens of dozens of pupiless black eyes, and lipless mouths with needle teeth. Purple-red tongues lashed out of the mouths at you, making you scream and struggle beneath his weight.

“This wasn't part of the exchange! I just want my husband’s soul!” you pleaded, searing with panic through every ounce of your being. “I'll give you it. I'll give you everything. My clothes. My house. My fortune! It's all yours!”

His fucking had slowed, stopped entirely as a bullous, flickering light had drifted out from some hidden places in the depths of the wagon. It was gently orange at its center, emanating a pale aura outward, which pulsed like a heartbeat and buzzed with familiar warmth.

You thought to reach for the doomed little thing destined to be smothered by the dark. All light eventually was.

“He's waited for you all along, my lovely,” said Great Death softly. He followed the floating marvel with his nothing eyes as it circled your joined bodies. Eventually, it came close enough to snatch out of the air and snuff out in his leathery fist. “Yes, such a beautiful soul he was. I no longer want it.”

Your breath snatched in your throat, mouth agape. Shock had invited in a swell of watery cold that made you unable to truly acknowledge what had just happened. That you'd lost your husband for a second time; this time forever.

There was no telling smear of blood or glittering orange residue in his open palm when he showed it to you. It was as if it had been a brilliant trick of extinguishing candlelight without a trace.

“Your soul is most foul, but it will be my prize. My lovely, for as long as I find you beautiful and repulsive, you will live on. Yes. Yes, I'll keep you here with me so that I may always be able to admire you.”

Before you could've launched yet another scream into the immense void of the wagon, he thrust his carrion beak into your chest. He wedged it deep through your muscle and blood, piercing cartilage and bone to reach your heart.

Great Death used his hand to rip out the throbbing, glistening organ from the rest of you. He observed blood filling the cavernous well he'd left inside you, saying nothing as it backed up your throat and spilled profusely from your mouth. Once you died, the bright red that had stained your teeth darkened to exquisite purplish-red.

He tore your heart apart into consumable pieces and fed them to his mouths. The piranha teeth and long, licking tongues chewed eagerly; meanwhile, the eyelids on his body closed knowing that the mouths would soon be sated by the decadent meal.

Thereafter, he waited.

He waited for a long time, because souls were oftentimes more timid than their human husks. There was nothing left to protect them from vendors on the prowl, vendors who had built collections across millennia.

But, eventually, your soul did appear before him in stuttering pink light. He caught you easily, let you rest in his hand while he decided on which jar he owned could possibly be enough to house your beauty.

You would turn sinfully red as you matured, became strong, forgot who you used to be.

All you would know is the Great Death and the inside of his vast wagon littered with strange things. He would be kind to you by letting you out of your jar sometimes, but for now, he'd keep you on the middle shelf where he could best see you.

a/n: I have this habit of killing husbands or doing awful things to them and I am very unapologetic about it.

anyway. this wasn't executed quite as well as I'd hoped. but, I wasn't writing to perfection, it was just a little personal challenge for myself. overall, I'm not unhappy with it.

I'd like to bring great death back again in another piece sometime, if y'all are interested.

this was also the first time where I think I've actually, deadass killed my reader-character and it felt so good lmao. I've implied in several of my stories without making it explicitly so.

anyway!!! I'd still love to hear your feedback and would absolutely adore you if you reblogged!!

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satocidal · 9 hours ago

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Hi Rome! New follower here, and I love the way you write Geto ❤️ He doesn't get the love he deserves!!

Saw your requests were open, and I had an idea for headcanons: what kind of music do you think the JJK guys would be into (Nanami, Suguru, Satoru and Toji in particular) ?

𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ *.What Sort of Music They Listen to...?

a/n: firstly, hi baby<333 🙈thank you for saying that and secondly, sorry for taking so long with this - school stuff just had my head</3 and lastly, this is purely based on MY music taste (unfortunately) so i mean, if you don't know some of this artists or expected different ones then<///3(i also shift a lot from hindi to english music so japanese music was anyways a no-go lol)

also majot sorry for no Toji (he just stumped me so bad)

warnings: not proof-read, just rambling

Satoru Gojo:

Satoru i think, does a little bit of everything - nor is he shy to try new music. He's the kind of guy who recognises every song that plays - wherever it be, radio, malls, restaurants, he een knows the elevator music so...yes. At the same time, i think he'd also just...put everything in his 'liked' playlist💀and call it a day. In particular i feel Satoru is Kendrick guy? and also Doechii? but when in feels, i think he also pulls out some Sufjan Stevens and Finneas as well lmao (i think teen! Satoru would also have Cavetown and Arctic Monkeys in his playlists) although i don't think he'd play their songs on his head but unironically knows every lyric and bobs his head to all hot girl music (nikki and britney and megan, the entire bunch lol) Definitely an ABBA guy<3

Suguru Geto:

As i've stated many times on my blog lmao, Suguru would probably be a Hozier and Lord Huron guy - it's the arsonist vibe that makes me say this? and the slight rebellion but that's just me. A huge 70s-90s sucker actually, and Nirvana - he is the guy who won't ask you to name 5 songs but looks at you and judges you with the assumption that you don't. Teen Suguru would get down to fight you if you said you were a bigger MCR fan. I think he also is a vibe to Florence and the machine or Mitski (just again, his vibe - idk if he'd listen or whatever) I think Suguru would fw indie bands too - GROUPLOVE and Peach pit being major artists there, maybe some drifting Yot Club or Cleffy too Also again, a Kendrick guy - i just think Suguru is the kind who enjoys the lyricism that goes in the art yk? be it whatever genre. Unironically began to listen to Mother Mother after leaving and just...never...stopped. He is the kind to have 50+ playlists (listen to the same 5 on repeat though) i also think he majorly judges lana listeners

Kento Nanami:

Hmmmmmmm, i feel like - i don't want to stereotype - but he stays away from the new music? idk how to explain (hates ice spice if you catch my drift), he definitely doesn't mind rap music but again, wouldn't play it on his own. As it is a fanon thing anyways that Kento was emo so i mean, you've got MCR (you know he never refused to jam to Teen Spirits with Suguru<3) - fall out boy, maybe paramore? on his playlist. but i do believe older him would have shifted to elvis maybe? not a major jazz guy but enough to prove a point lol. Teen Kento would in fact ask you to name 5 name songs and would be proud of listening to under-rated artists (and roll his eyes when Satoru would do the same but, for some overly-hyped artist of the time). I think Nanami isn't huge on music anyways though - i do see Satoru listening to music 24/7 (don't ask why but smn to do with his infinity) and Suguru too plays it a decent amount but for Nanami, his music app opens 2 times a week lmao <3

All of this work is entirely original and my own—please refrain from copying or reposting.

Likes and Reblogs highly appreciated!

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #geto suguru #geto x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #suguru geto #jjk geto x reader #geto x you #geto x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #nanami jjk #jjk x reader #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami x you #geto imagines #gojo imagine

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eldritch-spouse · 1 day ago

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okay wow i just went through the current parts of hudd’s little series and my emotions... i went from “aw this guy is kinda cute i’ll check him out” -> “huh he’s a little off-putting but still cute” -> “mm he’s a little fucked up actually” -> “holy shit what are we doing around him still” -> “throwing him in a crocodile death roll and saving that angel it’s gonna be the last thing i do i swear on morell’s fat tits”

pins you are an INCREDIBLE writer like. wow. hudd when i catch you. when i catch you hudd… 💣💣💥💥💥

Thenk! Rsrsrsrs I'm glad you thinks so, anon.

Technically, the masses (lmao) have already voted to keep torturing that poor little guardian. For a greater cause, of course!

I definitely want to do the next parts, but I have to plan things carefully, because they'll involve bigger concepts, and burnout gets to me at times. Given how much I like this story, I don't want to work on it while uninspired, so that's why it's been taking longer between each part nowadays. The finale should be interesting.

#Hudd oc

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whimsicalpolitical · 1 day ago

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hear me out…

matty or ross idm wakes you up bcs hes needy and horny but youre not in the mood because you just woke up (im not a morning person lmao) so you let him fuck your thighs but then you get turned on anyways lololol

18+mdni

the room is dark, curtains drawn against the harsh morning light. it’s too early, you can feel it in your bones. you’re swaddled in the warmth of the duvet, tucked perfectly in that blissful state of half-sleep, half-consciousness.

except something’s pulling you away from it.

soft lips graze over your neck, hot breaths brushing your skin. you shift a little, groaning at the interruption, but his mouth only trails lower, teeth nipping gently before smoothing over the sting with his tongue.

“darling,” matty murmurs. his nose nudges at your jaw, trying to coax you from the depths of sleep.

you grumble, trying to sink deeper into the pillow, but he’s persistent. fingers stroke along your waist, grazing skin where your t-shirt’s ridden up.

“need you,” he says, a little desperate, and when you crack open one eye to peer at him, he’s already looking at you like he’s starving. hair a wild mess of curls, eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

“matty, it’s—” you turn your head to glance at the clock but give up halfway, eyelids drooping shut again. “it’s too early.”

“can’t help it,” he breathes, mouthing at your shoulder now, hands wandering. “been awake for ages just... thinking about you.”

you sigh, torn between irritation and something warmer, something that pools low in your belly despite your reluctance to properly wake up. “thinking or plotting?”

“both,” he admits, chuckling softly, though it turns into a groan as his hips roll forward, pressing against the back of your thigh. “fuck, just... let me, yeah? don’t even have to do anything.”

you huff, but you don’t pull away. “if it’ll shut you up.”

“god, you’re a saint,” he whispers, voice thick with gratitude and something deeper.

he shuffles closer, the heat of him pressed firmly along your back. you feel his cock, hard and insistent against the plush of your thighs, and you can’t help but squirm a little at the sensation.

“alright, let me just-“ matty groans and he manages to quickly get rid of his boxers.

matty scoots downwards on the bed a little and moves his hips until his cock rests on your thigh. you smile, though matty won’t see it. you lower your leg, squeezing matty’s cock with your thighs, flexing them a little to make sure he’s nice and tight.

“y’sure, love? i-“

“go on,” you say, “take what you need.”

matty doesn’t waste any more time, one of his hands slipping down to guide himself between your thighs, the slick head of him dragging against your skin. his breathing stutters, and it’s kind of endearing how desperate he sounds.

“just- just like that,” he pants, hips finding a slow, needy rhythm. his mouth never leaves you, pressing kisses along your neck, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach. “feels so fucking good, darling.”

you try to keep your breathing steady, eyes shut, torn between dozing off again and the feeling of him rutting between your thighs like he’s half out of his mind. his hands grip your hips, holding you in place as his thrusts grow sharper, more frantic.

“shit, you feel so perfect,” he gasps, voice cracking on the words. “could do this forever. never get enough of you.”

you hum in response, lips twitching up in the slightest smile. “you’re such a fucking mess, healy.”

“only for you,” he whines, practically shaking now, his movements growing erratic. his forehead drops to your shoulder, hair tickling your skin as his mouth falls open with a ragged moan. “fuck.”

“oh, fuck,” matty repeats.

“yeah?” you giggle.

matty doesn’t reply. he just fucks your thighs with a nice, even rhythm, pleased with this alternative method.

“feel good for you?” you ask him.

“not as good as being inside you, but I like it,” he says. “s’ so tight.”

you hum in pleasure.

matty grunts and presses open mouth kisses against your neck, each kiss a loud smooch on your skin, each kiss sending tingling desire running down your spine and straight to your core.

matty’s thrusting speeds up and his groans are getting louder.

“oh, christ, darlin’” he moans out, “been thinking about you all morning. how good you feel. how good you make me feel.”

you try not to let his voice get to you, but it’s hard when he sounds like this. wrecked and wanting and completely undone. his desperation seeps into you, coaxing you awake bit by bit.

“god, darling... it’s- it’s perfect. you’re perfect.” his words tumble out, shaky and raw, as his hips keep up their steady, almost frantic thrusts.

you can feel him growing more desperate, the way his rhythm stutters and breaks when your thighs squeeze around him just right. his breathing’s ragged, each gasp and groan filling the quiet room.

“so good, just... fuck,” he chokes out, his voice tight and wrecked. “wish i could stay like this forever. just you and me. feels so fucking perfect.”

you shift a little, pressing your thighs together more, and he practically sobs against your neck. his hands tremble where they grip your hips, fingers pressing hard enough to leave faint marks.

“oh god, darling, just... keep doing that,” he pleads, “please. feels so good, i- i’m not gonna last if you keep squeezing me like that.”

“then don’t,” you murmur, still mostly half-asleep but finding it hard not to get caught up in how desperate he sounds, how every rough drag of his cock against your skin pulls another shaky groan from his lips.

he’s practically trembling against you now, his body wound tight and strung out. every thrust is messy and uncoordinated, pure need taking over his movements.

“fuck, i’m close,” he gasps, his hips stuttering as he tries to keep his pace. “you feel so good. so fucking perfect. you always do.”

you let him use you, let him fall apart against you, his body shaking as he chases his release. you can feel the heat of him, the way he’s practically dripping with need, each drag of his cock between your thighs making him groan and whine in a way that goes straight to your head.

“matty,” you mumble, “just let go.”

“christ, i- ” he’s nearly sobbing now, hips jerking as he grinds against your thighs one last time before he falls apart completely. the heat of him spills over your skin, his body trembling as he buries his face against your shoulder, moaning softly into your skin.

for a moment, the room is nothing but the sound of his harsh breathing, the soft press of his lips against your shoulder in the aftermath.

“fuckin’ hell,” he whispers.

you both look down on where he coated your skin.

you grab his hand, the one resting possessively on your hip, and slide it down to where you’re aching, needier than you’d realized until now. you press his fingers against the dampness between your thighs, your voice a low, sleepy murmur. “you owe me. make me fall asleep again.”

matty’s breath hitches, a rough, needy sound that goes straight to your core again. “fuck,” he groans, his fingers twitching against you, feeling how wet you are. “christ, darling. you’ve been like this the whole time?”

“something like that,” you admit, a smirk pulling at your lips.

“should’ve told me,” he whispers, his voice wrecked and raspy. his fingers press against your panties, dragging over the slick fabric, barely enough friction but still making your hips jerk. “god, you’re drenched, love.”

“because of you,” you mutter, almost accusing, but it only makes him grin. you can feel it against your skin.

“always because of me,” he says, and there’s that cocky edge in his voice again, like he can’t help himself, “let’s make you feel good then. get you back to sleep.”

#matty healy #matty healy smut #matty healy x reader #matty healy blurb #matty healy oneshot #matty healy fic #matty healy imagine #matty healy fluff #the 1975 #ross macdonald #george daniel #adam hann #the 1975 fic #matty healy x you

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chevelleneech · 1 day ago

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Just watched my sister watch the episode, and I sort of unseriously asked the question, “What is he gonna do when Eddie decides to come back?”

She immediately said, “Live together and be in love.”

Y’all, because of that, I had no choice but to tell her about the subsection of fans who believe Tommy is his real true love, and when I tell y’all she rolled her eyes so fast and hard, lmao! I then said, “They really think it’s been Tommy all along. What show are they watching?” She goes, “Not 9-1-1, I can tell you that.”

Seriously, you guys do not understand how funny this all is! My sister was not a Buddie shipper in any capacity prior to now, and I never talked to her about Buddie in depth, because she isn’t into scripted dramas for real. She and her husband are much more reality show people, but they have about a handful of scripted shows they tune into. 9-1-1 is one of the only ones my sister watches weekly, and again, it wasn’t until the 8x09 when she definitively decided the writing is telling her Buck must be in love with Eddie, as that’s what makes the most sense.

I’ve mentioned before that the topic came up, because she was confused during 7x04 at Buck kissing Tommy, since she thought the whole episode was about him being jealous and wanting Eddie’s attention, but she ultimately assumed they were just trying to find a way to make Buck bi.

Now? These past three episodes she’s just been, “Buck is in love with Eddie and they’re going to end up together.”

Which is killing me, because I don’t have as much faith in the network and writers even though I do agree it’s pretty basic television storytelling. And I have been a Buddie fan for years even though I wasn’t always deeply involved in the fandom. But what I can’t get over, is my sister being a longtime viewer who is not involved the fandom at all, who genuinely believed Buck to be straight until told he isn’t, and who does not dwell on ships, coming to the conclusion in THREE EPISODES, that Buck’s crash out over Eddie moving is crystal clear storytelling that the show is obviously setting Buddie up to go canon.

She is the general audience, and every episode of 8b thus far has her grinning like a fool when Buck discusses Eddie, lol. She’s so ready for them to go canon it’s not even funny, and she literally rolled her eyes when told people think Tommy is the true endgame. Again, she has zero stakes in this shipwar and knows nothing of fandom opinions outside of what I’ve told her. But she has watched the entire series thus far, so she has all the same facts the general audience has. She doesn’t watch or listen to interviews, and only knows Tommy as Tommy and BuckTommy as what’s been shown of their relationship ON SCREEN, yet still… she’s like, “Buck is in love with Eddie.”

As such, I am so thoroughly enjoying watching her experience becoming a Buddie shipper, because I honestly did not expect it. Years and years of watching the show and she never mentioned them in this context, only to now be “Buddie or bust”. Therefore the remainder of the season is going to be entertaining for me no matter what, because while I have my wants, seeing her experience the epic highs and lows of what Buddie may or may not become, will be great.

#911 abc #9 1 1 on abc #buddie

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proceduralpassion · 17 hours ago

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Lol buckle up bc this is a lot lmao.

First off, Dwayne ATE that entrance.

And so glad that Roman seems to be allowing Jacob the space to prove that he’s trustworthy bc we know it’s going to be a long road to Roman not being skeptical of everyone in his vicinity, family or not. In the mean time, Roman being annoyed at how ferocious Jacob is was so funny to me, I don’t know why. Dude probably shouts/grunt loudly when he’s beating people and I just know Roman be rolling his eyes like “this nigga…” SN: Jacob being in the ambulance SENT me

No Solana in this chapter, but man her presence was FELT. I just KNOW it had to hurt for Roman to say that she was killed and wheww I was scared that he was gonna keep up the ruse that Sol was dead with Jimmy and Naomi.

Speaking of, I definitely get both Jimmy and Roman’s side. Roman did what was best for Solana and himself and Jimmy has the right to be upset that he thought his cousin and cousin-in-law were dead ON TOP of mourning his father, brother, and sister-in-law. Like that’s family and I feel like it’s very valid for a family member to be angry at having thought the man you consider a brother to be dead and having that not actually be the case. Like he’s too heartbroken to admit it out loud, but you know how deep the love Roman has for Jimmy/Jey has to run given that he didn’t tell him about how Rikishi was responsible for his parents’/siblings’ death?? Technically, we kinda know that they somehow make their way back to each other given Dreamland, but I have no preconceived notions that it’ll be an easy road…

And WOW, I never really considered how Roman might feel insecure about Jimmy and Jey’s relationship bc I’ve always seen the three as brothers fr. But given that Roman is technically a cousin and has lost all his siblings, it makes perfect sense..

I was an exile truther from the START, but I’m actually so happy that Jey survived bc I was getting scared. I know that Roman and maybe even Solana will hate him forever, but at least he’s alive for his kid’s sake and also for Jimmy’s. I know Jimmy x Jey won’t ever have the same relationship ever again but there’s gotta at least be some comfort that he didn’t die by his own stupidity (his ass betta not ever take a step back in gotham bc me and solana can’t save him after this 😭)

This might be an unpopular opinion, but Dulce should’ve gone with Roman!! 😭 Logically, it makes the most sense for her to be with Solana and I know it would’ve been Roman’s preference too, so I get it, but I was so sad when he came home to an empty house. And then having nightmares and panic attacks?! There’s no one he misses more than Solana, but I know he was missing his girl too 😟 I’m sure she would’ve made things at least a little better for him (or maybe worse bc she’d be a constant reminder of solana).

MATTEO AND AFIA ARE MOVING TO GOTHAM YEAAAAAAA BUDDYY (pebble-man too, can’t leave melon head out)

WAIT don’t kill Alicia off, these ninjas be having her so stressed and she don’t be doing nothing 😭

that ending?? BROOOOOOOOOO????

looking through your eyes + thirty eight | part one

authors note: see at end of chapter.

warnings: angst and graphic depictions of violence. gore. torture. not for the faint of heart.

story song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

***gif credit goes to @romanreigns ***

cast+ masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 12k

"We need Tribal Combat!"

"There's no time for that! We need a leader now!"

"We need to follow the order of command!"

"What command? Roman is dead! There is no order anymore!"

"This is why he should have been dethroned a lot sooner! He left us no heir!"

"The child wouldn't be old enough to rule anyway!"

Aleki runs a hand over his haggard face. In a matter of weeks, he feels like he's aged another ten years.

He's getting too old to be dealing with this shit, and that's exactly what all of this is. A bunch of shit.

"Tribal Combat is the way our ancestors would handle a situation like this," he finally speaks. The situation being the fact that for the first time in his lifetime, the Bloodline is without a leader.

Roman is dead.

Solo is dead.

Roman left no heir, thus there is no clear path moving forward for what should occur. The past two weeks since the former Tribal Cheif's murder has been nothing but chaotic to say the least. Aleki is far too prideful to admit it, but a part of him blames himself. He should have known better than to trust Rikishi to get the job done. Should have known that just like he did years prior with Jey, he'd fall short.

Should have known his plan was not without holes. Holes that have left them in the mess they're in now. Allies demanding to know who is in charge, threatening to sever partnerships with a syndicate that boasts no formal, official leader.

A mess.

"And just how do we determine who is eligible for combat?"

Someone, another annoying voice, inserts their question among the mumbled conversations.

Another Elder handles the answer, offering, "it could be open to anyone."

Sione sighs, saying more to himself than anyone in particular. "Nakoa's bloodline has ruled for generations."

"And now his bloodline is all dead," Aleki counters. Cold. His voice and expression are as cold as the ice in his veins. "His son in his stubbornness has damned us to this mess." He gestures around the room, anger growing as he mulls over the situation. "We should have never allowed him to rule for so—"

His pending rant is cut short by the arrival of another attendee, which instantly has him scowling for two reasons.

One, all attendees who were allowed for this audience are present and accounted for.

Two, the identify of said attendee has him pissed.

"Dwayne." His voice is clipped. "This is a closed—"

"I don't give a fuck," comes the dismissive response of the man nearly insufferable as his late, younger cousin. Dwayne saunters over to an occupied seat, easily grabbing the seat by the back, yanking it out and knocking the person to the ground. A smug smirk sits on his face as he plops down and props his big ass feet on the table. Dwayne lifts the sunglasses from the bridge of his nose to the top of his bald head. "Oh, don't stop on my account."

"This doesn't concern you," Sione dismisses.

"Come on." The 'n' drags on as he props his hands behind his head. "I'm still Bloodline, aren't I?"

"You were apart of Roman's Bloodline, and he's dead now, so you have no place here anymore." Someone, an attendee whose name Aleki would never bother to know, counters with a huff. "Plus, where the hell have you been the past few weeks?"

Dwayne shrugs. "Around."

"Around." Someone else mocks. "Our empire in on the brink of collapse, and you've just been around."

"It's like candy ass small dick over here said." Dwayne gestures with his thumb. "I'm unemployed."

The insulted man slams his fist on the table, shooting up, "you smug son of—"

Dwayne quickly silences him by pulling out his Glock G-19 and shooting him directly in the temple, his lifeless body instantly dropping to the floor. Gasps sound around the table, Aleki angrily calling for security.

"You need to leave now!" He hisses. Aleki glances toward the door, wondering why the hell security didn't come barging in at the sound of a literal gunshot.

"See, I would, but I don't answer to you anymore." Dwayne replies in a significantly more serious voice. Gone is the nonchalant "devil may care" attitude. His big body shifts as he moves both elbows onto the table, gun still in hand. "I only answer to the Tribal Chief."

Aleki hisses. "Roman is dead. There is no Tribal Chief."

Dwayne's growing smile can only be described as sinister and predatory. Knowing. "You sure about that?"

Seconds later, not even a full minute, the sound of grunts and thuds from outside the conference room. The Elders and other attendees looking around in confusion.

Except for Dwayne.

He just keeps smiling.

And an almost thunderous sound is accompanied by two more unexpected arrivals. One significantly more unexpected than the other.

Jacob Fatu's unhinged, crazed look of insanity is accompanied by his big body throwing down two dead guards, their heads awkwardly and sickly hanging from their lifeless bodies. Snapped. Their necks have been snapped.

But, that grotesque sight is severely outmatched and borderline underwhelming compared to the inconceivable sight of a dead man walking.

Roman's hair is down and wild, his murderous gaze steady and focused forward. Brass knuckles attached to a chain are secured to his right fist. The table of men are suddenly in shambles, falling over and working to put as much distance between themselves and the man everyone has believed dead.

Again, everyone except Dwayne.

Aleki can barely compute what's happening before him. So much so that there's no time to react, no time to think, just a tremendous of pain that courses through his aged body. Because one minute, he's in his chair at the head of the table, and the next he's on the floor, an enraged Roman having slapped the heavy metal chain against his body.

The old man cries out in agony as the chain is whipped once more, cutting into his skin and laying heavy onto his already brittle bones.

"Please!" He begs, allotted a brief respite as Roman redirects his focus onto Sione and the other Elders, each being mercilessly whipped with the chains.

Punishment.

He's punishing them.

"You wanna take me out!" Roman's infuriated voice slams against the walls the same way he starts to slam his fists against the broken, bloodied men who sought to see him six feet under. "It ain't ever fucking happening!" Roman lands a bone breaking kick to the neck of one of the elders, killing him instantly. The next is killed not directly by Roman but by proxy, as he screams for Jacob.

Jacob, who grabs his gun and shoots out a window, marches over, snatching the man up, dragging him to the window and not wasting a second of a minute to toss him out of said window.

Onlookers watch in horror as one by one, Roman kills them all in various brutal ways. Suffocation. Slit throats. Snapped necks. A brutal beating with the brass knuckles. Various, violent methods and manners in which each meet an untimely, grisly demise. But, the best is saved for last. Aleki. A thorn in Roman's fucking side since he was a boy.

The older man is barely clinging onto life when Roman easily snatches that life away with each slap of the heavy chain, the brass knuckles slammed onto his face until it's disfigured beyond recognition. And finally, the severing of life is achieved via the slicing of the large hunting knife across his throat.

Heaving, splattered with blood, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, nothing but adrenaline and unbounded rage soar through Roman. His lethal gaze falls on the room of people who've been forced to watch the gory bloodbath.

The faintest hint of a smirk on his face.

Good.

Dwayne whistles. "Well, if it isn't obvious, he's not dead."

Roman shoots his older cousin a glare. Dwayne simply shrugs while Roman tips the chair back over, kicking Aleki's body to the side, rolling the chair and sitting down.

And silence. A piece of lint could fall off the wrinkled shirt of the man sitting a few seats down from Roman, and it could still be heard.

Fear.

Fear fills the room and dances off the walls, surrounds the men who just witnessed a bloodbath unlike any.

And then, finally, a brave—or stupid—soul decides to take a risk. Take a chance. "You're….you're alive."

Roman's gaze easily flickers to the man whose wide, horrified gaze is focused on him, trembling finger pointing in his direction. "We—we thought—"

One nod toward Jacob, and the man is barely able to stammer out an "I'm" before his head is violently forced to the side, the sound of his neck snapping followed up with the loud thud sound of it dropping onto the table.

The men around him back and cower away, eager and desperate to escape the death that's already claimed their pathetic lives.

"I was betrayed." Is the first thing to leave his mouth, the word 'betrayal' leaving a bitter, disgusting aftertaste that has him craving more blood. Craving vengeance. "They tried to overthrow me. Tried to kill me, and they should have." Roman stabs the large knife into the table, almost certain he heard someone whimper, as if about to cry. As if they were already crying. "They should have because they killed my wife, and now there's no fucking place on this earth anyone can hide or escape my rage." Saying it aloud is more difficult than Roman anticipated. Playing along with this storyline where Solana is no longer among the living. The discomfort is only quelled by the constant reminder that she is okay. That she's safe and simply waiting for him to return to her after handling business.

And, that's exactly what he's going to do.

Roman digs the knife deeper into the wood. "When I'm done with everyone involved in this shit, the only thing anyone will be able to see is red, and that's the fucking blood I'm going to paint this whole fucking town with." Sitting back in the chair, Roman leaves the knife protruding from the table. "But, until then, I need you all to send them a message."

Another foolish, ignorant, naive soul decides to ask what will be the final thing to leave his mouth before he leaves this room. "Wh—what m-m-message, s-s-sir?"

And for the first time since his entrance, Roman offers something other than a menacing glare. He smiles, but there's nothing humorous about it. If anything, it's predatory.

"That I'm coming."

Similar to the onslaught Roman bestowed upon the now deceased Elders, it's quick and violent. Jacob and Dwayne work almost simultaneously, not killing, but maiming the men. Severed, bloodied pieces cut from bodies. Fingers, noses, ears. Nothing fatal. Just warning enough.

And, it's only when each men has been left with a mark, a sign of Roman's pending revenge, they're ushered and forced out the room. Jacob landing a particularly painful looking blow into the back of the last disfigured, partially dismembered man.

Rolling his shoulders, Roman doesn't even need to instruct them on what to do next. Dwayne is reaching for the laptop, ripping a shirt off one of the dead elders to use it to clean it of the blood. "Fucking disgusting," he hisses, throwing it down once its completed the job.

Roman's eyes cut to the clock on the wall. Right on time.

He's uncaring of his appearance, focused on one thing and only.

Blood.

Roman is out for blood.

As Dwayne works to get everything set up and synced to the large TV screen anchored onto the wall, Jacob stands off to the side, waiting, observing, protecting almost.

Roman would be lying if he said he wasn't skeptical when Solana first told him about Jacob.

Told him how he allegedly protected her and vowed his loyalty to Roman and Roman only, as he recognized Roman as the Tribal Chief.

The only Tribal Chief.

Told her how not everyone in the Bloodline was involved in the coup, and many were waiting for Roman to show up.

Truth be told, Roman is still trying to test that. Test Jacob. So far, he's proven useful, offering Dwayne and Matteo intel and information on those allegedly involved and those not involved.

He's a a hell of a body to have around, capable of the most violent desecration of people. Useful. He's useful, but only time will tell to what extent Roman can trust him.

Can trust anyone, really.

"It's ready," Dwayne announces. Roman breaks from his thoughts, rolling his shoulders once more, ignoring the throb. Solana would have his ass for all the physical exertion. But, it needs to be done.

The sooner Roman handles this, the sooner he can have her back home with him.

Right where she belongs.

Dwayne and Jacob move to take seats, both on opposite sides of the table but in view of the TV that also serves as a casting source. The television screen is then filled with the exact person Roman wants to see next.

"This is a fucking waste of time." Luca's irritated voice is heard, his irksome ass face focused on something beside him. It looks like he's signing something. "Without someone of Italian blood at the head of your table, we have no alli—"

He stops, finally turning to look at the screen, and if there was ever someone to be as pale as Casper the fucking ghost, it's Luca.

"Roman." He all but whispers.

The Tribal Chief remains stone face. "Luca." He tilts his head. "You look surprised."

The younger man stammers, eyes darting around, hardening slightly when he lands on Dwayne who offers a small, mocking wave.

He then narrows his focus back on Roman. Clearing his throat, trying to play off indifference, he straightens his tie. "We were told you were dead."

"Were you?" Luca makes a sound. "I suppose that would have made things a lot more easier for you, now wouldn't it?"

Luca glares. "Just what—"

"Don't fucking play with me," Roman growls. "Do you think I'm stupid? I know you've been trying usurp me. That you were behind that missing shipment. The hit that killed our men. That you sent my brother to spy on me. That you were working with them to kill me."

Roman refuses to name them. Refuses to have their names on his lips. They're not fucking worth it.

Luca, to the best of his limited abilities, tries to remain unbothered. "I don't know what you're talking about."

At that, Roman chuckles, smiling, looking down and nodding. "That's….that's good." Roman can give credit where it's due. Albeit a paltry amount. But, just as quickly as he was smiling, he's glaring. "But, here's the fucking problem, I'm better. I'm better than you. Better than anyone else in this fucking family. I've always been better, and I always will be better." Always. "And you know what else?" A beat. "I'm always three steps ahead."

Luca opens his mouth to respond, fire and fury dancing in his irises when commotion can be heard through the TV.

Roman smirks.

Luca looks to the side, once angered, now confused, and then disturbed.

Gunshots. It's the sound of gunshots.

He curses in Italian, barking orders at what's probably security.

Roman says nothing.

It makes no difference.

None whatsoever.

He just sits back in his chair, enjoying the sound of men crying out in pain, bodies dropping, bullets being emptied into now lifeless corpses.

Luca's clearly shitting bricks, perspiring, gun in his shaky hand. He calls out another order that's cut short by what sounds like the door being kicked open.

Gunshots ring once more, back to back, strategic and aimed.

Luca curses loudly, holding onto his shoulder where he's been shot.

And seconds later, the base of his neck is exposed as another figure stands behind him, forcing his head back, gun pressed to his temple.

Matteo

True to his character, Luca uses his dying words to curse at not only Roman but Matteo who stands with a smug expression, giving Roman only a simple nod of acknowledgment.

Roman smirks.

He sits back in his chair, voice calm and collected. A contrast to the mayhem just unleashed. "Luca." The man in question struggles and works to move out of Matteo's unrelenting grasp. "Take this free advice. If you're gonna go for the devil, you should go always go for the head, because if you miss." A quiet chuckle. "He sure won't."

A loud bang followed by blood and brain matter splattering the screen, partially obscuring the view of Luca's lifeless body slumped over.

Like a bug, Matteo shoves him away, taking the seat, seemingly unbothered by the blood that stains his clothes, hair, and skin.

"It's done."

"Good." Sitting forward, Roman's mind travels to the mental list curated. "Get on the first flight back here."

Matteo nods. "Will do." The connection ends, and Roman closes the laptop.

Looking around the room, he readies to order Dwayne to start seeing about replacements for the Elders council but ultimately decides against it.

It can wait.

He has bigger, important things to worry and focus on, like making his way down his infinite kill list.

The OTC is coming.

---------

There are many, many things on Roman's to-do list once he arrives back home. Many bloody, violent things. Lives to take, primarily.

But, while that remains near the top, there are other things that also require his attention. Things he'd moderately prefer to not have to do but things he needs to do.

It's what leads him a few days later standing outside of Jimmy and Naomi's house. One of his first of many stops during his "revival" tour of sorts.

But, the minute the door is ripped open, and Roman is standing face to face, directly across from Jimmy, a new influx of confusing emotions fill him. The same way they paint the face of his wide eyed cousin.

Roman can see the way Jimmy continues to grip the door so tightly that his knuckles whiten. "It's….it's true." Roman's jaw twitches as he briefly looks away. "You're…you're alive?"

"We need to talk," is Roman's response. He looks at Jimmy. "Can I come in?"

A delayed response is followed up with an almost distracted head nod as Roman makes his way inside of his cousin's home, a place he's been in countless times over his almost 40 years on this earth. But, this…..this has to be the first time where it's felt different. Felt off. Felt wrong.

"Where the hell have you been?" Jimmy breathes. Roman turns around to face him, seeing the shock and confusion melt away into a bowl of anger. "We thought you were dead, Roman. Almost everyone thinks you and Solana—" He stops himself, pausing, eyes widening slightly. "Wait, is she—"

A pause. Hesitation. The moment Roman wrecked his brain over and over again trying to navigate the best way to handle such a tricky, complicated, complex situation. Ultimately, Solana's words and recommended or requested approach taking front seat. "She's safe."

Once the words leave his mouth, there's a semblance of regret. Like, he wishes he had gone a different route. Almost like he wishes he'd continued to maintain the story being spread about the fate of his pregnant wife.

Jimmy places both hands behind his head, walking away just enough to blow out a big breath. "What the fuck, Roman?" He growls, walking back over and pointing upstairs. "You got any fucking idea how gutted Naomi and I been?" He scowls, the anger and relief clearly at odds. "Thinking you and Sol were—"

"I know what you thought," he interrupts, hating his own emotions being at war. "You thought what we needed everyone to think."

Jimmy swallows. "Even me?" Silence. He once again motions upstairs. "Even Naomi?"

Silence

He runs a hand over his face, and in that moment, Roman can see for the first time the toll all of this has taken on him. He looks drained. "Roman….I know….I know what happened was fucked up. I'm not denying that. But, to treat Naomi and I like this when we ain't even do nothing?" He shakes his head. "When I'm already having to mourn my brother and father—"

"The same people who tried to kill me?" Roman interrupts, his voice sharp and even. "The people who kidnapped and were going to kill my wife?"

"I know that, Uce—"

"Do you?" A pointed question, as anger starts to overpower everything else. "Cause you're acting like I did something fucking wrong—"

"You did!" Jimmy snaps. "You kept us in the fucking dark when we deserved to know the truth!"

"The same way you kept me in the dark?" Is Roman's almost quiet response. He sees the way Jimmy's anger twitches, how it's briefly interrupted by what Roman considers to be a valid point. "For years, your father was trying to get ya'll to challenge me, trying to turn you against me, and you never said anything. Never told me shit!"

"I told you, I didn't realize—"

"I don't give a fuck what you did or didn't realize. I had a right to know!" He needed to know. Roman needed to know that the same people he considered family, the closest thing he had left to a father figure, even with them never necessarily being super close, was plotting against him the entire time. "If you had just told me—"

"Then what? It would have changed something?" Jimmy shouts, also unwilling to back down like the man across from him. "Would have stopped all this from happening? Would change what happened—"

"I don't know!" A forced, short, angry response as the Tribal Chief turns away, running his hand over his face. This conversation is equally heavy as it is challenging. He wasn't stupid enough to expect anything about it to be easy, but Roman can't deny a small part of him hoped it would go….different. In what way, he's not entirely sure. Just something….not this.

"Uce, we can figure this out—"

Roman briefly turns to him. "Can we?"

And, when Jimmy doesn't respond immediately, doesn't respond at all, Roman realizes in one area of all of this shit, they're on the same page. They're both confused as to how to untangle this massive mess of betrayal, lies, and hurt. Because for Roman, it's not even the coup organized by the people he once considered family, it's the fact that he also has to come to grips with that same "family" was a part of the plan that cost Roman his entire immediate family.

Left him essentially alone.

In many ways, that's what hurts the most.

But, it's also something Roman has opted to not tell Jimmy. As much hatred the Tribal Chief holds toward Solo and Rikishi, he can still acknowledge that was Jimmy's brother and father. He won't complicate his cousin's grief.

Because Roman doesn't hate him.

Doesn't hate him at all.

He just can't trust him anymore, and he's not sure if and when that will change.

Which is why he settled on the decision he did. The decision he's ready to finally share.

"When Solana comes home, and she will come home, I don't want to see you."

Gaze focused on the wall art in Jimmy's living room, Roman doesn't need to be looking at his cousin to know he's floored. "W-what?"

He swallows, recalling the specific wording he decided on. "You're out of my inner circle. I'll have Dwayne find a position for you in the Bloodline when things settle—"

"Roman—"

"Solana can decide for herself what she wants her relationship with Naomi to be, but I don't want either of you at my house."

"You can't—"

"I can do whatever the fuck I want." Even if he's not entirely sure it's exactly what he wants. It's the best Roman can do under these circumstances.

All he can do.

That doesn't mean there's not the reappearance of that damn weight that's been on his chest ever since he had to leave Solana. Even before that, if he's being completely honest with himself.

"My decision is final, Jimmy." Because maybe sticking to the facts, or rather the stipulations Roman has decided to put in place until he can navigate a better solution might be helpful. Emotions are getting in the way of business.

Jimmy just looks at him, stares at him, unwilling or maybe even uncaring of how visible his many emotions are. "So, that's it?" Roman's jaw clenches. "After everything we been through, the good, the bad, the everything in between. Almost 40 years of friendship, of being family….." He swallows, emotion and vulnerability on full display. "You're like my brother, Roman—"

"But not a brother, right?" Silence. "That's why you didn't say anything."

It's a deeply rooted point of insecurity. One that Roman hasn't really allowed himself to think too much about since he was a kid. That feeling of being "not like them." Of feeling like he didn't necessarily "belong."

An outsider among his own blood.

"This isn't fair, and you know it," Jimmy finally responds. "You're punishing me, punishing Naomi, for something that we didn't even do."

Perhaps. The Tribal Chief won't entirely deny that. He knows he can be vindictive, and maybe some part of him does want to punish them in a way he can't the deceased. But, the vast majority of him only seeks to have a temporary solution in place to relieve him of all the other very many tasks on his plate.

And, the deep fucking truth of the matter is also something he won't allow himself to admit aloud but feels fully.

He needs Solana.

Roman needs his wife to help him sort through all of this. He needs her support. Her safety. Her sage wisdom and soft way of helping him navigate these things. So, until that can happen, this is what needs to happen.

Roman takes a deep breath. For as nice and big a home Jimmy and Naomi have, it's suddenly feels a lot more stuffy than he recalls. A lot less welcoming. His presence more…intruding than anything.

"I have to go." Both a truth and a lie. The day is practically just getting started, but time waits for the Tribal Chief. He could stay longer, could maybe talk things through with his cousin.

Problem is he doesn't want to.

Not right now.

Not for a while, most likely.

Roman is a bit unsure why he's some level of bothered by Jimmy not protesting his leave. It's what's best….

Right?

"You're going to do it, aren't you?" Roman's hand is halfway to touching the doorknob when he's hit with the question. The one he knew was coming but hoping wouldn't. The one that makes sense. "You're going to kill him."

His eyes shut.

Debated. Roman debated the hell out of and with himself to try to figure out how he would tackle that one. Of course, Jimmy would want to know that. Would want to know if another person will be added to the list of lost loved ones. Especially his brother.

Jey.

Roman also considered how to respond to this, how much he wanted to share, if he wanted to grant Jimmy some sense of peace with knowing the answer or grief with also knowing the answer.

Roman swallows once more.

And, he walks out the door.

-----------

The only way for Roman to decompress from his heavy conversation with Jimmy and all that will come from the decisions that have been made is to cope the best way he knows how.

Murder.

Roman needs to cross off another name from his hit list.

Two, precisely.

"Where the fuck are they?" Dwayne complains and swats away a pesky fly that seems to prefer to fly around and in his personal bubble. "Fucking hate the outdoors."

Matteo snickers. "So, you wouldn't accompany Afia, the kids and I on a camping trip?"

Dwayne just stares at him. "Do I look poor to you?"

Roman manages a chuckle and a thought of something else. About the sacrifice Matteo is also making by being here with him. Standing with him. He's also separated from his wife. From his children. Agreeing to no contact to help keep Solana being alive a secret.

Roman swallows.

He didn't really realize until just now how massive an ask that was.

And how Matteo never once hesitated to agree to join him.

The sound of a truck engine revving is a welcomed distraction and something that allows Roman to reorient his focus to the task at hand. Jaw clenched, he watches the ambulance come to an abrupt stop followed by the drivers door being flung open.

Jacob's large body drops down, his boots leaving imprints in the slightly muddy ground as he stomps to the back of the truck and snatches the door open.

Hate fills the Tribal Chief as he watches Jacob angrily and almost erratically yank the two hospital beds out the back, both participants crying out in pain as they tumble onto the ground.

But, the cries of pain from one ease into a sick, twisted, laugh.

Roman's stomp onto his neck effectively silences that laugh. Seth's brown eyes peer up into him, that deranged smile on his face causing Roman to lift his foot and stomp once more. Seth almost instantly coughs up blood.

However, it's wheezing from the rotund man on the ground a few feet away from the lunatic under him that snatches Roman's focus.

Carefully, slowly, he walks over, anger accompanying each step until he kicks Paul over, a loud howl leaving his former advisor's mouth.

Tears stream down his face that has a large bandage on the right cheek and other unhealed cuts around various areas. "Pl—please."

Roman growls. That damn word has easily become one of his least favorites.

Similar to Seth, Roman lands his boot down on the top of Paul's fat neck. As the man screams out in pain, Dwayne chuckles.

"I know that hurt."

It all must hurt, Roman realizes. Hurt tremendously. Good.

For the first time, he takes in the sight and state of the two men before him still in hospital gowns. Their legs and arms covered with bandages, peaks of red, burned skin peaking out, the lesser of their injuries minimal compared to the latter end of severe.

Severe…

Nothing will ever be severe enough for them.

Roman barks for a knife, and the minute he's handed one, he crouches down and begins cutting. Not just the bandage. The fresh, still healing skin graft underneath the bandages as well. The screams of pain are ear piercing and music to Roman's fucking ears.

Methodically, like a butcher mastering his craft, he cuts away, ignoring the blood and body matter that splatters and splashes his clothes, tossing the mangled, ruined patches of fleshto the side like trash to the can.

Around him, no one interferes, no one stops him, and no one damn sure responds to Paul's blubbering as he transitions between screaming, apologizing, and eventually begging for Roman to just kill him.

That last is definitely on the agenda. Just not yet.

Because, one he's done butchering victim one, he transitions to victim two. Seth. Seth's torture is the eerily the same, the maniacal laughing eventually melting into sobs of agony. But, he doesn't beg for death, doesn't beseech the Tribal Chief for mercy.

No, that doesn't come until Roman is handed the electric chainsaw.

It comes then. Screams and shouts of unimaginable pain as Roman saws off arms and legs, one by one, blood shooting and spurting out. Again, the man intent on making their last minutes on earth nothing but horrific, forever uncaring. It's satisfying in a demented sort of way, but Roman doesn't care.

They're getting exactly what they deserve.

Heaving and sweating from the exertion expended through the torture, Roman only stops when all that remains is exposed bone from where he cut off their arms below the elbows and their knees slightly above the knees.

He would have continued too, if not for the fact both men are starting to lose consciousness, and that won't do.

He wants them awake for as long as humanly fucking possible.

Especially for the grand finale.

Roman snaps, speaking to Jacob. "Douse em'."

An order that doesn't need to be repeated. As Roman lifts off his shirt that's caked in blood, pieces of bone, and human flesh, tossing it to the ground, Dwayne hands him a towel to dry off and remove some of the other unmentionables.

Jacob moves quickly and efficiently, pouring the gasoline all over what remains of Paul and Seth's carved up bodies. Drenches them.

And with a wicked smirk on his face, Matteo tops it off, tops them off with the cherry on top.

An accelerant.

He forces their mouths open, the sound of them gurgling and choking sounded out with a kick to the side of the head. It's effective, allowing him to empty the bottle that he tosses to the side.

"Done," he says, voice ice cold as he goes to stand beside Dwayne and Jacob. None of them showing even the slightest hint of disturbance. If anything, there's more of a pleased, satisfied aura.

Recognizing they've reached the end of the road, that the men are mere minutes away from unconsciousness—and death—Roman stalks over to them. Slowly. A predator enjoying the final moments of his prey's existence. Moments that must consist of pain beyond human comprehension.

He looks down, the sight grotesque and enough to evoke vomiting from anyone without a seasoned stomach, but Roman is anything but. The sight makes him smile. The putrid smell of exposed bone, organs, and extensive blood pleasing to him in every sense of the word.

A dark, quiet chuckle leaves his mouth. "So much for that spoiler."

Stepping back, his eyes dart between the both of them, studying and committing the grisly image to memory.

Gratifying, indeed.

And without much thought, he pulls out the matchbox, lighting two matches, each thrown onto the men.

Turning on his heel, Roman walks away, tuning out their screams of misery and suffering.

"Let's go." It's spoken to the three men with him as they head out of the forest and to their SUV's. Extracting his revenge on the two men grants Roman with a sense of relief. He's relieved to know those two fuckers no longer breathe, or will breathe, the same air as him.

But, as gory and sadistically satisfying as Paul and Seth's deaths are, it still doesn't dull or ease the mixed emotions that fill the Tribal Chief at the thought of his next task.

Arguably, one of the hardest he has to complete.

----------

There's one reason and one reason alone why Roman asks Matteo and Dwayne to be present for this.

One very valid, important reason that can't be ignored or pushed aside. It's not his preference though.

Not really.

This is so personal that it feels almost wrong to have other parties present, but Roman also knows himself. Knows that when he fully succumbs to that uncontrollable rage that dwells within him, he can't see or think beyond it. It totally and wholly consumes him. Controls him.

Thus….his need for a contingency plan.

Roman has his back toward the door that's flung open, the intensity causing nearby photos on the wall to shake. Roman sighs. As effective as Jacob can be, he's…..a lot.

The Tribal Chief turns around just in time to see one cousin throw down the man Roman also once considered cousin.

Considered family.

Considered to be a brother.

As prideful as he can be, Roman would never deny the fact that he could have done a better job with being less hard on the twins. Less…..him. But, the truth of the matter is that despite the frosty disposition and irritation that marred a lot of their interactions, no one but the three of them know what they've been through. The countless times they've had each other's back out in the field. Protecting and looking out for each other.

The times Roman looked out for Jey.

All those moments that have boiled down to and left them right where they are now.

Jey, on the floor before him, hands on the ground, his fiery gaze on the man he also once considered family.

And seeing it, seeing Jey be upset with him?

It pisses Roman the fuck off.

He walks toward his table and grabs the brass knuckles. Both pair.

"Get out." A command directed only toward Jacob who offers no protest, walking out the same way he came in, standing watch outside the door.

"Roman…"

Roman has completely tuned out the voice of either Dwayne or Matteo. He doesn't know nor does he care.

Roman lifts his foot, kicking Jey right in the face with so much force that his body jerks back violently.

"You son of a bitch," he growls, not wasting a second to pounce on top of him, aiming for his ribs first. Jey's' howl of pain drives his determination—and fury—and distracts the Capo from his own lingering pain. The injuries that have not yet fully healed, marginally due to the fact that Roman has done nothing but exert himself from the moment he landed back home.

He'd kept his promise and continued rehab, continued to follow the doctor's orders, but that was all in between carrying out violent, bloody, brutal punishments for every fucker who turned on him.

Including the one underneath him.

And thinking of Solana, thinking of how she's not here, not with him, it only deepens the color of red he sees.

It's all he sees.

The sound of Jey's ribs cracking and his fruitless efforts to push the enraged man off him only drive Roman to lift the man up and slam him against the nearest wall. Another brutal kick to his ribs. Roman doesn't care if every single one is broken.

He grabs Jey by the chin, squeezing, enjoying the way his face remains scrunched up in pain. "You broke up my Bloodline." Not the massive crime syndicate that Roman has spent the better half of his life improving and making it into the billion dollar empire that it is now. He's referring to the family component, the familial bond and connection they shared.

That Bloodline.

"My wife isn't here because of you, Jey. You understand?" Roman continues. A part of him wonders if anything, especially that, means anything to Jey. He's unsure if Jey knows that Solana is actually alive or if he even cares, because his wife is most certainly not.

And, it's that, Roman is sure, that fuels Jey's hatred. Has him, despite the brutal beating he's receiving, refusing to cower, to show any sign of fear. Just impenetrable defiance.

"I looked out for you, I spared your fucking life, saved your ass time and time again, and what do you do?" Another fresh wave of rage, as Roman slams Jey's head back against the wall, shouting, "you break up my fucking family!"

Again, double, maybe even multiple meanings, all with one heartbreaking conclusion.

It creates a brief fracture in Roman's anger, paves the way for a small glimpse of what lies underneath all of that fury that courses through his big body. "I would have never done this shit to you, Jey."

Because, he wouldn't. Because for all the bad things Roman is, how awful he could be, he would have never stooped so low. Would have never allowed whatever prideful feelings he was struggling with to lead him down a path that could only end in heartbreak. But, Jey did. His insecurities got the best of him, and it's cost him.

It's cost him dearly.

Because as far as Roman is concerned, Nicki's death is on him.

"So just…." Jey coughs up blood as Roman realizes at some point in his inner dialogue, he'd moved back to pounding Jey into the floor. "Just…do it." Roman stops and stares at him, his own chest heaving. "You wanna kill me…..fucking do it then, Uce. It's…it's what you want, ain't it?"

Bullshit.

Roman can see right through it, right through the paltry front he's trying to put up in the face of a true life or death situation. Stubborn as all outdoors, very much like himself, Roman knows that Jey loves his kids more than anything. He would never want to "leave" them.

Especially after what's happened.

He's calling Roman's bluff, and that pisses him to fuck off.

For more reasons than the man under him and the two before him can realize.

Roman closes his eyes.

"Please." It's the pleading nature of her voice as well as the borderline desperation in her eyes that has Roman struggling. Struggling with it all. "I know….I know what he did was wrong."

"It wasn't just wrong, Solana," he calmly counters. Roman is working hard to be mindful of his tone with her. The anger that dances and burning within is 100% not aimed or geared towards her. Whatsoever. "It was unforgivable."

She swallows. "I know." He shuts his eyes once more as she continues to gently massage his scalp with one hand, the other tracing his inked arm, carefully maneuvering the ridges of disfigured skin from his burn scars. "But, I'm not….I'm not asking you to forgive him, Ro."

"No," he murmurs, jaw flexing. "But, what you're asking is a lot fucking harder."

Solana moves closer, her hand traveling to his face. "Roman….his kids lost their mother." She licks her lips and shakes her head. "We both grew up without our mothers, and I know that your relationship with yours was…..complicated, but….mine wasn't and not having her…." Her eyes watering is something he can't avoid. Can't ignore. "No child deserves that, Roman, and you know it." His silence is all that she needs to continue. "Baby, I know I'm asking a lot from you, but….please don't kill him."

He's always said and "joked" about never being able to say no to her. But, this….this might be a first. "Solana…."

"Please, Roman." Her voice cracks as she leans up, her forehead against his, breathing. "For me."

Roman is returned to the scene before him, to the decision he'd made just this morning. A decision he's not sure how he'll handle moving forward, but it's one he's accepted as his final answer.

"I'm not going to kill you," he announces. Jey can't hide his surprise, and Roman would bet his cousin and brother mimic similar expressions.

He hadn't shared his decision with anyone until this very moment.

"And, the only fucking reason I'm not is because of the woman you almost got killed," he hisses. Jey continues to look dumbfounded. "But, you are fucking dead to me in every other sense of the word. You've got a fucking week for you and your kids out of the city. Your security access is revoked, your position with the Bloodline done. You are done."

Jey continues to look around, obviously struggling to process what's being said. Like, he hadn't expected Roman to actually kill him and yet still expected Roman to kill him.

"I never want to fucking hear or speak to you ever again, you understand me?" It's a watered down warning. It's all watered down, truly. Even the fact that Jey lays before him, potentially half dead, in need of medical assistance. It's not enough. Nothing will ever be enough, even if he took his cousin's life with his bare hands. And, Roman knows this.

Still, this has to be one of the hardest decisions he's ever made.

"But, if you ever fucking step foot in this town again, I don't care what Solana says, I'll fucking kill you. I swear it on Fetu's grave." A vow to carry out the act of vengeance, love, in all the irony, prevents him from completing.

It's solely Roman's love for Solana that stops him from killing Jey.

Nothing else.

Literally nothing else.

Roman's final declaration is accompanied by another stomp, this time to Jey's face, effectively knocking him out cold. Standing up and rolling his neck, Roman grimaces and grabs at his shoulder.

Way too much exertion. Not that it makes a difference.

Jey is just one of many he plans to visit today.

He looks over his shoulder, uncaring and unwilling to discuss what transpired. What's done is done.

Roman so casually, and coldly, walks over Jey's slumped, unconscious body and snatches his jacket off the hook behind the door. "Let's go."

Footsteps of the other two men follow him swinging the door open, Jacob standing at attention.

"Make sure he's gone by the time I'm back," Roman commands. What's done has been done, and while there's a tremendous amount of unspoken, unresolved issues between himself and the man he's just effectively banished indefinitely, it's not a task he's up for.

Not now.

Not ever.

Roman meant what he said.

Should Jey ever try to return to the city, Roman will absolutely kill him.

But, until then, he might as well already be dead.

Because he is to Roman.

---------

Following Roman's dramatic, bloody return from his supposed demise, he places the city on lock down.

No one enters, and no one leaves.

Armed guards, a mixture of verified Bloodline loyalists as well as soldiers from the Legado Del Fantasma, remain stationed at every entrance into the city, whether it be by land or harbor, to ensure that this order remains non-violated.

Roman intends for not a single fucker to escape his bloody vengeance.

And bloody, it most certainly is.

Nothing but unbridled rage courses through Roman's body as he spends the weeks making his way down his list eliminating target after target. Traitor after traitor. Life after life, taken.

Doors are kicked down, pieces of shit dragged out. Some granted quick death. Simple head shots that leave blood and brain matter splattered in the nearest vicinity. Some are tossed off of buildings, leaving their splattered remains for all to see. Some are used as examples. Their tortured, mangled remains tied up on display in the middle of the streets as both a reminder and a warning. A reminder of what happens to all who dare to cross Roman fucking Reigns, and a message to those who played in any role in the coup that he's coming, and he's coming for blood.

Roman has the city in a state of terror and fear. Families keeping their children in the house. Picking them up and dropping them off to school to avoid being caught in the cross hairs. A bit unnecessary, as despite Roman slipping back into that dark space that consumed him before Solana, his few morals remain the same. Women and children are off limits.

Neither of those groups are included in his hit list.

Everyone else though…..tough.

But, while the adrenaline that races through him fuels his revenge tour, that fuel of sorts easily melts away when he arrives home later in the evening. Arrives to an empty home. No sweet, delicious aroma of Solana's cooking to greet him. Or the pitter-patter of Dulce's feet as she races to the front door, eager to jump at and try to lick him but mostly just wanting to be petted and to have her belly rubbed. Being able to come up behind his wife, holding her, kissing her temple, taking in the feel of her body up against his.

Things he'd gotten used to.

Things he misses.

He misses a lot.

He misses her.

He thinks about her, about what she could be doing, about whatever pregnancy symptoms she could be experiencing, as he follows along via the app she'd installed on his phone. He checks daily, each time wondering about the swell of her stomach, imagining the excitement she must feel. Or, the sadness.

Because there is something undeniably sad about them not being able to experience this together. Something that was so important to her.

Important to him.

Being there with her to support her as she carries his children, their children, is important to him.

But….but, her safety comes first.

Their safety comes first.

Her absence is with him every fucking second of the day, though on the back-burner when the sun sits comfortably in the sky, and he has the distraction of his murderous rampage. But, when the sun is replaced with the moon, and he lays in that same bed where they've made love countless times, where she's laid on his chest, talking about her day. Where he's held and slept with her, rubbing her belly, allowing himself to feel genuinely happy for a long fucking time.

All of that is soured and dampened by the cruel reality. Solana is not there. Dulce is not there.

She's not with him. They're not with him, because of them.

And then the rages builds up all over again.

It's a vicious, cruel cycle. One that he can't escape. One that leads him to the place he wasn't expecting or planning to visit anytime soon.

Too difficult.

But, necessary.

"Not gonna lie…." Lita trails off, shifting in her seat. It's one of the few times he's noticed she's not almost casually lounged, legs tucked under her. She's sitting with both feet planted on the ground, a small frown on her face. "Believing you to be dead only for you to show up with quite the return….and now having you in front of me, I'm not quite sure where to start except to tell you that I'm so sorry about Solan—"

"She's not dead."

Silence.

Lita, for all her expertise and experience, can't hide her shocked expression. "What?"

Roman looks away. Just as he battled with whether or not to tell Jimmy the truth about Solana, he experienced the same battle regarding just how honest he wanted to be with Lita.

That's not to say he doesn't have a host of other issues he could probably, definitely, benefit from talking and working through with her.

Like the two panic attacks he's had since returning home.

Or, the several nightmares that have awoken him from the little sleep he has received. The nightmares that started when he was in the hospital in Mexico. The reason Solana refused to go home and leave him alone, staying and sleeping with him. Comforting him.

She's his comfort, and not having her has him six different shades of fucked up. On top of the pre-existing level of fucked up-ness he is on any given day.

If there was any doubt in his mind before just how codependent Roman is with his wife, this whole experience has successfully zapped it all away.

Still, that doesn't take away from the fact that Solana isn't here, and he's not okay, so he needs to find a way to get his shit together.

And, the woman before him is his best bet.

It didn't take much research and digging to realize Lita had no connection or involvement with the coup, thus eliminating her from the hit list. But, there's still this overwhelming importance of only keeping Solana's true status a secret from anyone who doesn't need to know.

And, while Roman wouldn't consider Lita someone who needs to know the truth, it would help him a hell of a lot considering the whole reason he's sitting before her.

Plus….while Roman isn't sure just what trust means to him anymore, he trusts that if she didn't know before, the bodies dumped in the streets, should be all the reminder of what happens to anyone who crosses Roman fucking Reigns.

"She's….she's in hiding. Safe." He clarifies, not willing to offer much more than that. "I'm not bringing her back home until I'm sure it's safe to do so."

"I see…." Lita trails off once more, slipping into her usual sitting position, legs tucked under her. For some reason, it makes Roman feel slightly more relaxed. "It all makes sense, then."

He eyes her. Skeptical. Cautious. "What do you mean?"

She takes a deep breath. "Roman, I don't….I don't fully understand how all the crime shit works, but I know and have heard enough to know that you were betrayed, Solana was kidnapped, and my guess would be that they tried to kill you both." He says and offers neither agreement or disagreement. "I can understand why you're so angry and why you've been on a murder spree, making the town look like something out of a horror movie, but it's….it's deeper than that." She tilts her head, assessing in a low voice. "It's even more personal, because she's not here….you don't have her with you, and that's….difficult, I'd gather."

He looks away once more, fist forming at his side. Roman's voice is also low and quiet, as he admits aloud for the first time, "I'm not….I'm not used to it." He swallows, pushing back the pride, knowing he needs to talk about this. To unload at least one thing on his plate. "I'm not used to….to being without her."

He doesn't really know how to function properly and normally without her. Just knows how to channel all of that frustration in his killing and torturing.

"I'm sure," Lita murmurs.

"I—" He struggles, the word a tremendous weight that weighs him down to the point of needing release. "I miss her."

Lita presses her lips together, voice sympathetic. "Are you….are you able to spe—"

"No," he interrupts, voice gruff. "We're no contact to ensure her location can't be tracked."

"I see." She's quiet for a few minutes, eventually and gingerly approaching all of the other shit Roman now has added to his collection of baggage. "I've also heard that….that you were betrayed from the inside. That it was….some of your family members."

"They were never my fucking family," he growls. Roman has shifted from that place of vulnerability to that stainless steel wall of defense. "And don't fucking call them that."

"My apologies." She nods, recognizing that the extent of his regression might be more than she realized. Understandable though. Completely understandable. "Can I ask you something?"

His hesitation is noticeable. "What?"

"With Solana gone for the time being, who do you have?"

It's a delayed response. The question requires contemplation.

"My cousins, Dwayne and Ava," he finally answers, and for the first time, in a long time, Roman allows himself to be honest about the very thing he's avoided for years. Tried to pretend wasn't a thing. But, it is. And, it's been more than proven in the past few weeks. "And Matteo….my brother."

This time, Lita expertly shields her surprise at yet another shocking confession. "Your brother?" He says nothing. Expected. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had a sibling still living."

Tense and partially uncomfortable, Roman nods. "It's….complicated."

"I bet," she murmurs. "Do you…do you want to talk about it?"

No. He doesn't want to talk about anything. What Roman wants to do is be with his pregnant wife. He wants to not have to deal with any of this shit. Wishes it never fucking happened in the first place, but it did, and now he's here trying to use a dollar store mop for a rainfall of issues.

But….

But, in this midst of this storm of epic proportions, there have been some glimpses of….something.

Like the fact that Roman can't and won't continue to deny something he's spent his whole life avoiding. Trying to avoid.

That he has a brother.

That despite all off the bitter feelings of resentment and jealousy toward the man that got the same short end of the stick that he did, Matteo has more than proven himself to be someone Roman can….can trust.

Such a difficult, virtually impossible thing considering what happened, the depth of the betrayal, but the truth of the matter is that Matteo and so many others showed up when Roman needed help the most.

Needed his brother.

It's why he's decided to stop denying the truth and maybe, just maybe, himself.

Roman shifts in his seat. "I've…I've realized that….I should…probably try to form some kind of relationship with him." Because, it's time. "It's what Solana thinks I should do, and….one of my aunt's dying wish that I….make things right with him."

"Sure." A pause. "But, what about you, Roman? What do you want?"

A lot of things. The biggest thing? His wife back home with him, so he could have her by his side as he works through all this shit. But, that's not an option. It's not an option, and he has to learn how to be without her for the time being.

Has to learn how to navigate the waters closest to him.

No matter how much he hates it.

"I—I—" He also hates this fucking stuttering and stammering. It's so unlike him. "I don't know how….how to go about that."

An almost embarrassing admission but a truth, nonetheless. Solana is good with these sorts of things. Not him.

Lita keeps a contained smile. Regression has certainly occurred but not, perhaps, as much as she initially believed. There's something there she intends to grab and hone in on as much as she can while still acknowledging his already complex treatment plan just got significantly more complicated.

"Well….." She starts, standing up and walking over to grab the infamous box of Giant Uno off her bookshelf. "Murder and mayhem, I don't know, but that…." Trailing off, she takes a seat, offering another small, patient smile. One step at a time. "—That I can certainly help you with."

----------

"Ya know," Ava starts, lifting her beer from her mouth after taking and swallowing a decent ass amount. "I'm a little offended none of you fuckers have invited me along for the kill tour."

Dwayne chuckles, the beer in his hand looking significantly smaller than it actually is due to his big ass overall size. "Didn't realize that was your thing, cuz."

"Psshhh." She makes a sound, leaning back in the chair, lifting her middle finger to the sky. "They came after our family. Of course, I want my pound of flesh."

Matteo's smile is small as he traces the mouth of his bottle. "Well, there still remains a few outliers we haven't caught."

Being reminded of that makes Roman scowl as he tightly squeezes the bottle in his hand.

Despite his shutting down the city, a few bitches were perhaps smart enough to get the hell out of dodge when they realized Solo was also dead. When they realized that while Roman had been "eliminated," not having the protection of the men who led the charge meant their fates were left up in the air.

So, they ran.

Not that it's made a difference. Roman has accompanied Dwayne on various trips to other states where the Bloodline has locations, where tips from traitors who were dumb enough to stick around and ended up singing like canaries from a little bit of torture. Or, if Roman doesn't accompany Dwayne for said trips, Matteo does.

They're smart enough to know it's not wise for all three to leave the city at once. Not when they're working to restore order and balance.

A process that's…..going, which is good, but it's still going, which is the problem.

It's been two weeks, and they're still not there. At that point where Roman can bring his wife home, and that….that's been rough, to say the least.

It helps to have the people around him, but even them combined together don't equate even half of the comfort and relief his wife provides him.

"Good," Ava replies, smiling craftily. "Save some for me, then." She then gasps, looking around the room. "Has big ears told you what we came up with for you know what?"

At that, Roman rolls his eyes, but he can't ignore the skip and leap of hope that dances within at the shift in topic and conversation.

"Hopefully, you did most of the thinking, cause Lord knows this man ain't got a romantic bone in his body," Dwayne scoffs, gesturing to Roman who only scowls in response.

"I'd argue there's maybe one there." Matteo shrugs. "Or, half of one."

Ava snorts. "More like a quarter." Roman flips her off, something she entirely ignores. "Anyway, so here's what we came up with…."

As Ava moves into specifics, excitement painting her face and accompanying her hand gestures as she almost illustrates what they, what Roman primarily, intends to do for his wife upon her return. A plan months in the making, marked and interrupted by several setbacks but something he's ultimately decided to follow through with.

Roman tunes them out to a certain extent, focused less on the conversation at hand and more the people.

In under a year, his life has taken such a turn. Many unexpected turns. He's gained and lost, lost and gained, gained some more, lost some more, and started all over. Overwhelming in a lot of regards, especially considering the latest chapter has easily been the most traumatic.

But, there's also something else he can't deny. Something he's been working on in therapy with Lita, that he'd love to be able to talk with Solana about, but something he can't really deny, nonetheless. Even if he wanted to.

He's gained such a loyal, strong inner circle. People who, if he continues upon the path of honesty, have always been there for him. It's just been him, Roman, who's kept that wall up.

The wall that, according to Lita, kept the "bad" people out but also kept the "good" people from getting in.

She wasn't wrong.

Roman has spent so many years pushing people away, only letting a select few close to him, and while a few of those select few have caused him an insurmountable of pain, hurt and trauma, there still remains the fact that he still has people he can trust.

He still has family.

Even more, Solana's several statements regarding as such return to the forefront of his mind.

"The girls deserve to have a big family who love and support them, Ro."

Solana was also right.

His family might look slightly different now, but they're still family.

"I—" He cuts in, interrupting the conversation among the three regarding that. Equally important but not as germane as what he wants to say. Needs to say, really. "I want to thank all of you."

"Hell hath fucking frozen over." Ava scoffs. "Did you just…..thank someone?" She smirks, crossing her arms, head tilted. "I didn't think you were capable of that shit. Not unless it's Solana."

Roman scowls, but he doesn't disagree. "Are you done?" She rolls her eyes and lifts her hands in a defensive manner, signifying her silence. Roman shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable with the three sets of eyes on him. "I know I….I'm not the fucking best with this shit, but I….I do appreciate the three of you. What you've done…..for me." He primarily looks between Dwayne and Matteo. "Especially you two….you saved my life." He swallowed. "I don't….I don't take that lightly."

"You better fucking not," Dwayne shakes his head, sipping some of his beer. "I don't risk my life for just anyone."

"And, you're not just anyone, Roman," Matteo adds, his tone more on the serious side. Sincere. "You're family."

"We're family," Ava corrects, looking among the men. "A dysfunctional ass family of killers and shit ton of trauma but family nonetheless."

Roman chuckles. "Yeah…." He clears his throat, carefully trying to balance vulnerability with some element of business. "Matteo…." His brother looks his way, eyebrow raised. "You said you trust Vinci, right?"

Vinci. The man who assisted Matteo in making his way back to Italy without the Administration finding out, allowing him the element of surprise needed to carry out his hits. A man who, according to Matteo, has worked hard for and with him for over a decade.

He offers no hesitation, just a nod of confirmation. "With my life." Skepticism is raised. "Why?"

A bit of a delayed response, because that damn trust thing. Roman isn't sure how he's supposed to trust anyone outside of the group of people who helped him ever again, and while this Vinci fucker isn't anyone he knows, Matteo does. Matteo is vouching for him, so that has to be enough.

For now.

"We'll need someone we know we can trust to handle business over there." At that, he and Dwayne share questioning expressions. "Because I need you two stateside with me."

Matteo is the first to respond, that skepticism still looming. "Yeah?"

Roman rolls his neck, explaining. "I….I need people around me I know I can trust." A survey of the gatherers. "And outside of Solana, I don't know anyone I trust more than the people in this room."

Ava sits forward, seeing her cousin's gaze on her. "Wait…." She lowers her beer, small smile growing on her face. "You're inviting me into your inner circle?"

Roman nods. "You may be a pain in the fucking ass majority of the time, but you're smart. Loyal. I know I can trust you, and I know you'd be a valuable asset."

"Hell yeah, I would." She agrees. "Some estrogen to tamper down all that testosterone would probably do you all some good."

Roman doesn't entirely disagree. He just continues to share the tentative plans he's been mentally mulling over since returning home. "I'm also….I'm considering including Escobar."

"Escobar?" Dwayne's look of skepticism sure. "Brotha, you sure you didn't hit that big ass head of yours at some point?" A sarcastic question, of course, but there's also a hint of truth. "You hate Escobar."

"Dumbo hates everyone. What else is new?"

Roman ignores Ava. Her being on his council will be….an adjustment, for sure. "I did, or I do, but….I can't deny what he did, and Lopez wants him to be the liaison between us and the Cartel, so it only makes sense to include him. In some things. Not all."

"Isn't he technically your in-law as well?"

"Don't remind me," Roman mutters, trying to wipe his brother's valid but irritating reminder from his mind.

"I hate to break it to you, Roman, but it seems Solana's maternal side of the family is….large." Matteo's comment doesn't help, but it's not meant to. Meant to remind The Tribal Chief that his future is most likely filled with forced interactions with….people. "It might benefit you to get used to….large family functions."

"Make sure that Stephanie girl is there."

Matteo frowns. "Did she not tell you, not so eloquently, might I add, to fuck off?"

"Sure did." Dwayne answers. Proudly, almost. "I'll wear her down."

"Oh my God." Ava rolls her eyes, standing up and heading to the kitchen. "I need another beer."

"I'll join you," Dwayne announces.

"Please don't," she objects. Not that it makes a difference as he says something about warming up a slice of pizza.

Their departure leaves Roman and Matteo alone. A blanket of silence befalls them. One that has Roman moving around in his seat, eager to down the rest of his beer. In the madness and chaos that's thrived and consumed his life in the wake of fixing everything, this evening of just….calm, of normalcy, is appreciated.

Needed, even.

"So…." Matteo starts, placing his beer down on the coffee table. "Your inner circle…"

The younger man nods, stroking his beard. "Well, there are openings now."

While Roman is dead serious, Matteo laughs quietly, shaking his head. "I bet there are."

For the Elder council as well, but that's also being taken care of. Another task Roman is overseeing with the help of his cousin and the man before him.

"Thank you, Roman." Matteo's voice has shifted to a serious, solemn tone. "I don't take the honor lightly. Especially after what's happened…."

Roman says nothing initially. Just nods as something unfamiliar and indescribable fills him. Emotion, maybe? Some form of it, perhaps. He just knows it's partially settled by the conversation he had with Lita about this.

One step at a time.

"You've earned it." Is the response he settles on. The latter portion of his response a bit difficult for him to share but a truth, nonetheless. "Besides, it might be kind of hard for us to work on this….brother shit, if you're on the other side of the world."

While it's not the first time Roman has referred to Matteo as his brother, it's certainly the first time he's verbalized it in an accepting manner.

Especially in front of Matteo whose small smile can only be described as one of relief.

And joy.

Happiness.

"I suppose you're right, fratello," he hums. "I suppose you're right…"

Fratello

Brother.

And for the first time, Matteo's use of the word doesn't anger Roman. Doesn't pick at a long-term, never healing, always open, fresh would.

It feels relieving.

Healing.

---------

Despite an evening of relaxation and camaraderie, the next day brings about more work. More shit to work through.

"So…." Matteo starts as the two walk into Bloodline Headquarters, Dwayne planning to meet them later in the day, tasked with carrying out a side quest for Roman. "Who are we killing today, fratellino?"

Little brother.

Again, no irritation. No vexation. Just….the calm.

"Depends on who pisses me the fuck off," Roman mutters, and the two brothers share a small laugh and chuckle that's almost instantly washed away from both the minute they walk into Roman's office to see someone already waiting, sitting in Roman's seat.

Roman's fist forms at his side. Alicia's days are fucking numbered.

"You got a minute to tell me who the fuck you are, and maybe I won't blow your brains out just yet."

The man smiles. Older. Very old. His face reveals that he's seen decades of this world past him by, his eyes filled with countless stories of mischief and mayhem. A smirk on his face accompanies him standing, revealing a height rivaling Roman and Matteo's. He comes to stand in front of Roman's desk, leaning back with his arms crossed over his slim build.

"Well, I'll be damned." His voice is thickly accented. Familiar. Italian. "Can't say I ever saw this shit coming."

Roman is ready to kill the old man and be done with it, but Matteo grabbing his arms stops him from adding to his never-ending kill count. Roman looks over to see Matteo's head turned slightly, studying, observing, but something else. Something unfamiliar. Alarmed. He looks alarmed.

Roman frowns. "What?"

But, Matteo says nothing. Not to his brother, at least.

"Nonno?"

And, at that, Roman's gaze shifts back and forth, quickly, between the two men.

His chest tightens, asking again, but for a completely different reason. "What?"

Gaze on the old man, Roman sees how he simply raises his chin, offering a nonverbal response. And confirmation.

Only then does Roman see it. The slight but now visible similarities between not only Matteo and this man, but himself and the man.

In all of them.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Matteo speaks in Italian, his voice even, the former shock and confusion easing into a coldness that Roman often feels and see in himself.

"Well." The older man makes a sound, rolling his shoulders, face turned up in a brief grimace. "Given all that's happened the past few weeks, we realized it was time—"

"We?" Roman cuts in. It's the first thing he's said to the man he now recognizes the same way Matteo does.

His nonno.

Their grandfather.

This is their maternal grandfather.

"Hi, boys..."

Another voice speaks, but this time, this time there is no word to describe just what courses through either of the brothers as they turn around in almost perfect synchronization. Initially guarded and partially alarmed, that's punted away the minute their sight confirms what the auditory already knew.

Roman doesn't get disturbed often. If ever. It's not in his character. Matteo's neither.

But, it's a miracle that neither man stumbles back at the sight before them.

She stands in the doorway, an expensive, beautiful, intricately designed scarf over her head, tied under her chin. A wrap that slender fingers with disfigured looking skin slowly moves to undo, allowing it to crumple in her hands. She swallows, the lines on her face prominent as she frowns, her familiar light brown eyes bouncing between the two stunned men.

The weight on Roman's chest has grown to an unbearable amount, so much so that it prevents him from speaking. From thinking. From breathing, it feels like.

No, Matteo is the one that finds the wherewithal to speak the word Roman can't find in him to verbalize.

"Mom?"

------

welp. do ya'll agree with roman's decisions regarding jey and jimmy?

also, yes.....matteo and roman's mother is still alive.

reminder: next chapter is the last one.

#fic recs

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