#look at me remembering how to use these tags

[siriuslylantsov]

afterglow

pairing: joel miller x reader

description: in which, you spend an evening with joel on valentines day.

tags: MDNI! smut and fluff, established relationship, jackson!joel, fem!reader, sickeningly cute, so so much kissing, soft!joel (but hes also kinda dirty, i can't help myself), age gap (it was thought about when writing but it's not explicitly stated so imagine whatever), oral (f receiving, munch joel!! everyone cheered), fingering, unprotected piv (he pulls out), soft!dom joel kinda, aftercare, r and j's relationship is new but its implied that she already has a close relationship with ellie.

a/n: happy valentines day cuties!!! my gift to you. this started off super cute and soft and then two thirds of it became smut, idk where that came from. anywho, happy reading!!

wc: 3k

“hi darlin’,” joel says as you open the door. 

the early evening sun casts a soft orange glow over the side of face, complementing his complexion perfectly. a shy, crooked smile tugs at his lips, the dimple on his right cheek deepening. one arm is folded behind him, holding something from your view and the other is planted against the frame of your door.

“hi baby,” you reply, giggling as you step forward to kiss him.

he accepts your lips eagerly, using the hidden arm to curl around your waist. you hear the faint crinkle of paper against your back. you hum sweetly into the kiss, pulling away to see what he’s got for you. a small bouquet appears between your bodies–a humble bunch of white and purple flowers that could handle growing in the cold weather, along with some that you suspect the gardeners had a role in providing. 

“maria went on patrol with me today and helped me pick some o’ these out,” he explains, watching you toy with a lilac petal of a flower he can't be damned to remember the name of. “d’ya like em?”

your fingers rake softly through his beard, coaxing his gaze upward until his eyes meet yours. tears gather at your waterline, and joel should probably be alarmed—but he’s grown used to it, having been there for so many of your firsts. apparently, getting flowers was one of them too.

“i’ve never got flowers before,” you admit in a hushed whisper, sickening adoration pooling into your body, making you feel warm all over despite the cold air that sneaks its way into your house.

joel takes note of the wind picking up and guides you inside, a solid hand at the small of your back. he takes your dazed figure all the way to the kitchen, grinning amusedly at how you continue to admire the bouquet. he looks through your cabinets for something tall enough, settling when he finds a mason jar that would be perfect. 

“i really like these, joel.” you smile up at him when he's in front of you again. he's holding his hand out expectantly and the jar filled with water in the opposite one. you give him the flowers with a reluctant pout, following him to the counter where he begins to set them up.

“‘m glad,” he expresses warmly, untying the ribbon that held the stems together. “damn shame i couldn't get you roses, the garden ran out pretty quick.”

you can’t help the fond smile that spreads across your face as you watch him try to organise the flowers nicely, carefully moving them around so he doesn't accidentally pull off a petal. when he's happy with his arrangement he turns back to you, neatly folding up the brown paper that wrapped the bouquet and placing it in your palm. “ellie made me promise to tell you that she helped with that so keep it in mind, i guess,” he says, nodding to the doodles of leaves that were peppered along the edges.

“noted,” you laugh, picturing her fiery, insisting nature with ease. you gotta fuckin’, i don’t know, make it pretty for her, joel. just ugh- give it to me. 

suddenly, you remember the muffins that were kept warm in the oven. you scurry over there wordlessly, causing joel to twitch confusedly. you take the tray out with quick fingers, holding a muffin out for joel. 

“it's a new recipe, cinnamon and pear,” you explain excitedly as he walks over to you. when he looks down at it, he sees you’ve managed to orchestrate two small slices of fruit to sit in a heart shape and it's awfully cute.

your eyes are trained intently on him as he takes a bite. it's instantly the best thing he's ever tasted but he chews thoughtfully for a few more seconds so it doesn't look like he's making his mind up on a whim. admittedly, he is but it's also just that good. the texture of the warm cooked pear complimenting the firm but soft spiced crumb of the muffin. he hums in approval when he swallows, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“sweetheart, this is really fuckin’ good,” he murmurs, his voice rough in appreciation as he dusts off muffin remnants that have stuck to his bottom lip. 

you beam, extremely pleased. you wait as he finishes eating. not that long, apparently, as two big bites later, it’s gone. he reaches up with his free hand and tucks a strand of loose hair behind your ear, twirling it before letting it fall.

“so about today,” he starts and you hum attentively. “thought we’d take a walk around that part of town that you like and then go feed the horses. maybe go back to mine if there's time.”

-

the walk is perfect. you swing your joined hands between your bodies, smiling to yourself while joel complains about his brother. the air is solemn, the overwhelming scent and sound of love seeping out of every house you walk by. you never thought life could be this good again or that you’d feel this good again. you owe it all to the mumblin’ grumblin’ man beside you, the one softly caressing your thumb with his own, bringing it up to his mouth so he can kiss the back of your hand. 

when you reach the stables, joel pulls out the carrots he had tucked away in his large jacket pocket. (you’d made a detour at the greenhouse before coming here.) you divide the carrots into equal pieces for the animals, setting aside an extra chunk for a horse you remember ellie being particularly fond of–shimmer, if you recall correctly. 

joel takes in the sight, endearing eyes unable to part from you. your hand reaching out calmly, vegetable centred in your palm, you bring it to the horse's mouths, giggling when their tongues peek out and tickle you. he crowds in behind you, his arms wrapping around your middle. you squirm a little when he tilts to press a kiss to your neck, claiming his lips are cold. 

“well, let me warm ‘em up, sweetheart.”

-

you make it to joel's front door well after sundown, stars shining like diamonds spilled across the night sky. you make a mental note to go stargazing with him and ellie, if she wants, when the weather gets warmer. for now, you just want to be inside. 

“she’s with her friend dina tonight,” joel answers your unasked, looming question. you bite back the smile that the words ‘friend’ and ‘dina’ prompt, knowing a lot more than joel about his kids’ relationship status. she's just waiting for the right time.

you turn around to him, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “so what you’re saying,” you muse lightly. “is that we have the place to ourselves.”

“mhm,” he smirks.

you twist the door open, often left unlocked, and let yourself through. “well then. come on in, mr. miller.”

he trails behind you up the steps, fingers lacing with yours. you walk into his room with a quiet sigh, taking off your shoes and watching as he follows suit. you love his room, a cultivation of who he is within four walls. you switch on the lamp on his bedside table, refraining from turning the main light so a faint glow encompasses the room, just enough to see the softness in his beautiful brown eyes.

“kiss me?”

he clicks his teeth before lowering his lips to yours, “don’t have to ask.”

his moustache tickles your upper lip and the coarse hair of his beard grazes your chin lightly, but it's not irritating. you welcome the sensation, it being a feature of his that you adore so dearly. proving this, your nails scratch the patch of grey at his jaw. 

his tongue slips out, tracing the seam of your lips. a low sound escapes you when you grant him entrance, licking into your mouth languidly. there's no rush, there never is. it's a luxury that three months ago you would’ve laughed at, disbelief evident.

his hands find your waist, pulling your hips flush together. he slips off your jacket and greedily tugs at the hem of your shirt. you appease by lifting your arms. he reaches behind you when he gets your shirt off, deftly unclasping your bra. he does this all while kissing you, but when he finally gets your top half bare, he pulls away. to look.

“beautiful,” he exhales a quick, amazed breath that whooshes past his lips. he admires you unabashedly, trailing his hands up your sides and down your front. he nudges you gently, guiding you onto the bed, his frame looming over yours as you sit down. 

you look up at him with dopey, half-lidded eyes, sneaking eager hands under his flannel and undershirt. your fingers trace over his skin, pressing into the soft warmth of his stomach, his body heat sinking into your palms. “back at ya, cowboy."

he takes this as a sign to peel off his layers, pulling them off with ease and adding them to the pile of discarded clothes. you spend a moment gaping at his torso before he lowers himself on top of you, dragging his lips up your neck as he does so. you whine when he begins sucking at your pulse point, teeth scraping your skin every so often. his kisses go lower and lower as he toys with the button of your jeans. 

he kisses at your belly, lips catching on the exposed skin of your hips, then upper thighs as he slowly pulls your jeans and underwear down, purposefully avoiding where you need him most. he strips off his pants and boxers and nudges for you to scoot up the bed. you sink into the pile of pillows, joel not far behind as he sits bracketed by your thighs. he runs his hands up and down them, calloused fingertips caressing your skin, squeezing in intervals and leaning down to kiss them, kiss your knees and your calves.

“joel, please,” you whisper, growing a little antsy, his hands all over your body aren't helping. 

“impatient,” he tuts, but there's no real reprimand in his voice. “jus’ let me take my time with you.”

“will you at least come up here and kiss me while you're at it?” 

he smiles, “what’d i tell ya?”

“don't have to-” your poor impression of his southern drawl gets cut off by his lips on yours. you sigh dreamily into the kiss; you'll never get used to that feeling. his hand cradles your jaw, tilting it to deepen this kiss. you pull his bottom lip between your teeth, sucking it into your mouth. 

a needy sound rumbles in the back of his throat, and with a reluctant pull, he breaks away, shifting back to the space between your legs. he's lying on his stomach, cheek pressed against your inner thigh as he waits for your approval. when you nod, he dives in, no time to waste.

he licks a fat stripe between your folds, causing you to cry out. he hooks an arm over your hips to cease your writhing. you could say joel miller eats you out like a man starved, but right now, it's more like a savoured meal, slow and leisurely in its pace. he takes his time, measured strokes of tongue that are assuredly making you feel all the right kinds of ways. you thread your fingers through his hair, so soft, tugging lightly and he hums. 

you dare to spare a glance down. it's deadly–him with his mouth attached to you like a vice and eyes staring up at you, decidedly looking like he belongs there. you want to look away but the sight is so enticing. 

“baby, more,” you ask breathlessly. “please.”

“yeah?” he sounds equally out of breath, tracing a middle and ring finger around your entrance. “this what you want?”

you nod pathetically with a meek “yes.”

he pushes in slowly, met with no resistance. he finds that spot fast, pressing his curled fingers up. his fingers are longer and thicker than yours, reaching places you’d never been able to. he persistently rubs up, pulling out a little only to go back fast, just the way you like. all the while, he does this thing with his tongue–god, that tongue–where he flicks it from side to side over your clit, flattening it when needed, and it is earth-shattering. 

that well-known feeling starts to build and you repeatedly tug at joel's hair, mewling softly, trying to signal him. he’d already figured you were close, but still, he nods. he lifts his head to see you, his thumb replacing his tongue. 

“c’mon, sweetheart. give it to me,” he urges you on, kissing your hip bone with slick wet lips and his fingers working fervently like it's the most important thing in the world. joel would argue that right now, it is. “know you want to.”

“joel, yes, oh fuck-” you keen, shuddering violently as you finish. he keeps going, working you through it, lapping up the mess when his fingers slip out. he can't get enough of you. you weakly push at his head, “baby, enough. s’too much.”

suddenly, he's on top of you again, rubbing a clean hand over your hair. “okay, okay,” he coos, his voice low and lulling. he presses gentle pecks to your neck, making his way back up to your lips. you kiss him again, more sluggish than previously, whimpering when you taste yourself on him. fuck, you need him. 

you carefully drift a hand between your bodies, curling your fingers around his length. he hisses, inhaling a sharp breath. “shit, are you sure-”

you press him against you, guiding his tip to your slit. “fuck me, joel,” you whisper, using your other hand to hold his face.

that's all he needs to hear before he starts sinking into you, simultaneously groaning as he does. he curses low, though it sounds and looks more like a whine when you see the way his face has twisted up in pleasure when his hips are flush with yours. you feel addictively full, so you hug your arms around his shoulders to prolong the moment. he buries his head in your neck, breathing shallowly as you flutter around him.

“gotta move angel, i gotta-” he gets cut off when you squeeze, nodding against his shoulder. 

he thrusts greedily, pulling out almost fully until he somehow goes in deeper. it’s not fast but it’s not slow either, just enough that it leaves you reeling when he draws his hips back. the stretch of him is something you feel you won't get used to, it only just borders on pain that makes it feel deliriously good. all you can offer him are broken gasps as you find purchase on his back with your nails, digging into the flesh. 

“fuck you feel good, so so good,” he croons, his voice is soft, breathy, as he presses a lingering kiss to your neck, the words barely a whisper between your bodies. “can't believe you’re mine, this perfect fuckin’ body, perfect fuckin' girl.”

maybe it's the wrecked rasp to his voice or the way the base of his dick rubs against you just right but the high builds fast, record time even. you squeeze around him frantically, mouthing sloppily at his shoulder. 

“yeah?” he pants, lifting his head so he can look at you again, you’ve got the sense that he likes to watch. you like him watching you. “gonna give me another one? gonna cum for me?”

“mhm,” you hum, teetering on a sob as he starts fucking you harder, a determined look in his eyes. your face falls sideways into the arm that joel had pressed beside your head “oh god, ohgod-”

“there you go. good girl,” he gushes warmly as you finish. he speeds up urgently, letting your climax be the catalyst of his own, chasing something just out of reach. you pull his face to yours with desperate hands, clinging to him, needing to kiss him. his lips brush over yours messily, not quite kissing you and it drives you crazy. he cums with one more strong thrust, groaning loudly into your open mouth as he pulls out and spills over your stomach.

he slumps on you, heavy, as he comes to, smearing stickiness all over but you find that you don’t care much. you cradle the back of his head with gentle hands, murmuring sweet things. you can feel his soft exhales on your collarbone, sighing as you weave your fingers between his strands. his heart races against your own, almost in sync. 

the two of you stay like that for a moment longer as everything slows down. nothing else matters apart from the silvery glow of moonlight filtering through his sheer curtains, spilling in revered ribbons across the floor, or the soft, grounding weight of his body on top of yours. his fingers trace the skin within reach, absentminded circles over your hip bones, lines beneath the curve of your breast. 

eventually, he rolls off you, getting the sense that some of your limbs might be going numb. in the midst of your post-orgasmic haze, you don’t realise that he leaves, returning with a damp towel to clean you up. he wipes you up swiftly, murmuring a hushed sorry when you squirm away and joins you under the covers.

he pulls you into his side, letting you tuck yourself under his arm. he presses a kiss to your temple. everything is so serene you want to cry. your body has other plans for you when the dregs of sleep start to claw at your worn-down edges. joel feels the slow flutter of your eyelashes on his chest and he begins to rub a gentle hand over your back, attempting to coax you further. sleep offers its solace, and joel’s steady presence pulls you under, silently promising to keep you warm. 

before you drift off though, you hear him–unbearably soft, whispering against your forehead.

“happy valentine's day, angel girl.”

reblogs and replies are appreciated :) | m.list

[orthodera]

Okay so. I wasn't sure what to share at first but this hit me just now while I was trying to sleep. Also I'm putting this here instead of the tags because I anticipate it being a fair amount of text and I want to be able to use commas.

When I was a kid, at some point, I must've been about 9. I can't remember why, but I became obsessed with rolling. Like, I'd be standing in the grass, and I'd suddenly launch myself at the ground, and use the momentum to roll over and stand back up. Here's an illustration.

I have no idea why! I was an autistic child. But I practiced this for hours, usually to entertain myself while attending my sister's weekend soccer games, and became very good at it. I only ever did this on grass because I didn't hate myself. I was also mildly afraid of breaking my neck but I just. Kept doing it anyway?

Anyway. I eventually stopped doing this and kinda forgot how to do it at all. Then one day when I was 11, I was walking across the court at school with two of my friends, and I tripped. SLAM down onto the concrete. Except... Not really. Instead what happened was this:

I landed with momentum, minimising the impact, executed a perfect roll, and was back on my feet before I could even process what happened.

My friends stared at me in shock and horror. I stood there, amazed, still trying to understand what just happened. It felt exactly as sudden as it appears in my shitty diagram. I was standing, then I was down, and then I was standing again.

I landed on my shoulder, on concrete. It should've hurt. It didn't hurt at all. Muscle memory had kicked in and I had rolled like a fucking ball.

For the entire two years I was at that school, I brought it up over and over again, probably annoying everyone around me. Just looking at that patch of concrete made me laugh. It thought it could defeat me, but I had been training for that battle since before I met it. I survived with maybe a scuff mark on my shoe, a bit of dirt on my white uniform t-shirt, but completely unharmed. All because I was an autistic 9 year old. Hell yeah.

it's so weird to me that everyone on this website is a human person outside of their weird internet niche so rb this with a random bit of your lore

[jincapableoflove]

A Jar Full of Us | one-shot

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: best friend! jungkook, best friend! reader, college! au, unrequited love (?), idiots to lovers, best friends to ??? to lovers, angst, fluff, implied smut.

Summary: You never meant for him to find them. Hundred little confessions, folded away, never meant to be read. But now, they’re in his hands. And Jungkook—your best friend—knows everything. But he doesn’t say a word. He just watches you, with that same unreadable expression, like he’s waiting for something. And this Valentine’s Day, you might just have to find out what.

Inspired by: To All the Boys I've Loved Before

Word count: 10.2K+

Warnings: arguments, jungkook is a jerk, misunderstandings (a lottt of it), angstttt, reader and jk are huge idiots, mutual pining, implied smut (its not too detailed so that the story maintains the emotional connectivity), romantic intimacy, tooth-rotting fluff.

MOODBOARD

A/N: HERE IT ISSS! this is the longest fic ive written! tysm for all the support yall have given me in the teaser of this fic. i put out a taglist thinking no one would actually want to be a part of it but so many of yall asked to be tagged 😭 im so grateful! tysm i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writng it. lmk ur thoughts abt it after u read too <3 ALSO HAPPY VALENTINES DAYYY (someone date me pls)

The door clicks shut behind you as you step into the dorm, kicking off your shoes with a tired sigh. The evening air still clings to your skin, carrying traces of laughter and the lingering warmth of Jungkook’s presence.

It had been another perfect night—one filled with inside jokes, stolen bites of each other’s food, and his usual exasperated attempts to get you to study.

Joy, your roommate, is nowhere in sight, giving you the solitude you need. You don’t hesitate. Your steps are purposeful as you cross the room, crouching down beside your bed. With practiced ease, you reach under the frame, fingers brushing against the familiar surface of a small pink, heart-shaped box. You pull it out carefully, as if it were a fragile secret, and place it on your lap.

A soft breath escapes you as you grab a nearby pen and a book, neatly tearing out a tiny slip of paper. The motion is second nature now. Without even thinking, you let your emotions spill onto the paper, crafting a fleeting moment into something permanent.

Tonight’s memory is simple, but it still tugs at your heart. Jungkook had sent you another blurry picture of the moon, captioned with a casual, “Looks kinda pretty, right?” He knew how much you loved the moon—how it fascinated you in a way you could never quite put into words. And he had remembered. Of course, he had remembered.

A fond smile tugs at your lips as you write:

Jungkook remembers the little things.

Once the ink dries, you fold the note with care and add it to the collection. The box is almost full now, brimming with countless tiny confessions—whispers of feelings you’ve never had the courage to say aloud. A hundred little moments, a hundred little thoughts, all dedicated to the boy who had unknowingly stolen your heart.

Jungkook.

Jungkook, your best friend, who always saves you the last bite of his food, even when it’s his favorite. Jungkook, who sends you blurry pictures of the moon just because he knows you love them. Jungkook, who insists on studying with you, despite his major being entirely different from yours, just so he can make sure you actually open a book instead of procrastinating.

This little tradition of yours had started as a joke. One night, after an especially soft moment where Jungkook had wordlessly placed his hoodie over your head because you were shivering, you had scribbled on a piece of paper: Jungkook is warmer than the sun.

You had smiled to yourself as you rolled up the paper and dropped it into the box. It had felt oddly nice—preserving that moment, capturing the feeling of it in something tangible. So you did it again. And again. And again.

Until, one day, you realized you had written over a hundred of them.

You hadn’t meant to fall in love. And you certainly hadn’t planned to confess.

But each tiny slip of paper holds a truth your heart refuses to say aloud.

And you're going to keep it a secret forever.

You met Jungkook almost three years ago, during freshman year. The first time you met him, he had been infuriatingly kind.

You had been struggling under the weight of a precariously tall stack of books, barely able to see over them, when suddenly, a few disappeared from the top. Startled, you looked up to see Jungkook grinning at you, effortlessly holding the books you had nearly dropped.

"You looked like you were about to tip over," he teased, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement.

With a playful huff, you had responded, "Maybe I wanted it to tip over."

Jungkook had only laughed, shaking his head. "I'll catch you next time," he had promised.

That night, you had written a tiny note and slipped it into your box: He wants to catch me when I fall, even without me asking.

From that moment on, your friendship grew in ways you hadn’t even noticed at first. Midnight walks and late-night study sessions became routine, pulling you closer together with every shared moment. What had started as swapping notes for the one class you had together turned into sharing secrets. Somewhere along the way, before you even realized it, Jungkook had become your favorite person.

The box was almost full now.

You had written so many things over the years, each note capturing a small piece of him, a fragment of your feelings. Some were simple observations:

Jungkook frowns when he eats something delicious.

His hair is always a mess in the mornings. He hates it, but I love it.

His eyes smile before his lips do.

But one night, you had written something different. Something deeper. Something that felt like the truest thing you had ever put to paper.

I love him.

The moment the ink dried, panic had set in. You had almost torn it up, almost removed it from the box as if keeping it there would somehow make it real. But in the end, you had left it. Because the box was safe. No one was going to see it.

Especially not Jungkook.

One afternoon, you came back from your classes, ready to relax and unwind before the stress of exams fully set in. You had been looking forward to a quiet evening, maybe even a movie marathon with Jungkook to take your mind off things for a while.

But the moment you stepped into your dorm, you felt something was off.

Joy was sitting on the couch, sipping her coffee, her expression smug—too smug. A knowing smirk curled at the corners of her lips as she watched you walk in, and instantly, your stomach twisted with unease.

You narrowed your eyes. "What did you do?"

"I did you a favor," she said casually, taking another slow sip of her coffee.

A cold shiver ran down your spine. "What favor?" you asked, dread creeping into your voice.

Joy grinned. "I found that little cute box of yours."

Your heart stopped. "What?"

"Don't look at me like that," she waved a hand dismissively, as if what she was about to say wasn’t about to shatter your entire world. "It was just sitting there collecting dust, and I thought—what a perfect Valentine's Day gift for Jungkook. So…I wrapped it up and dropped it off at his place."

Silence.

A deafening, all-consuming silence as her words echoed in your head.

"You WHAT?!"

Your entire body froze in place, your breath catching in your throat as horror washed over you in waves. Your chest felt tight, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Joy merely raised an eyebrow, seemingly unbothered by the sheer panic on your face. "You're welcome," she said cheekily—before promptly sprinting out of the room for her life.

But you couldn’t chase after her. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the ringing in your ears.

No. No. No.

This couldn't be happening.

Still desperate to deny the possibility, you dropped to your knees and scrambled to check under your bed, your hands shaking as you reached into the familiar space where you had hidden the box for years.

Empty.

It was gone.

The tiny wooden box that held a hundred little moments, a hundred little secrets—your secrets—was gone.

And now it was in Jungkook's hands.

Of all people…Jungkook.

Jungkook lived in an apartment a little further away from your dorm. The second the realization hit, you bolted out the door without a second thought, heart pounding so hard it nearly drowned out the sound of your footsteps against the pavement.

Your plan was simple—get to his apartment before he did. You knew his habits well enough to guess that he was probably grabbing a late lunch at that fast-food place near campus. If luck was on your side, you still had time.

He hadn’t seen it yet.

He couldn’t have seen it yet.

As you ran, your mind spiraled into chaos, bombarding you with every possible scenario—each one worse than the last.

What if he had already opened it?

What if he read through every single note?

What if he found the one that said I love him?

Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought.

Jungkook was your best friend.

He was your person.

And now, he might know that you wanted to be more than just friends.

The mere thought made your chest tighten as memories of the two of you flashed through your mind. The times you spent together at the arcade, the countless movie nights, the time you and Jungkook had crashed Jimin’s birthday party with a ridiculous amount of booze.

And then…there was that moment.

The moment you almost confessed.

"I wish I could find someone who truly understood me," he had said one night, his voice softer than usual, lost in thought.

And you had almost said it. The words had been on the tip of your tongue, so painfully close—"I do."

But you swallowed them down.

Because what if he didn’t feel the same way? What if saying those words ruined everything?

And now, thanks to Joy, you didn’t have a choice anymore. The truth was out there, sitting in a neatly wrapped box in Jungkook’s apartment.

The thought of his reaction sent your mind into overdrive.

Would he laugh?

Would he think it was weird?

Would he—

Would he reject you?

No. No. No.

You shook your head violently as you rounded the corner, lungs burning from the sprint. You’re going to get there before he does. You’re going to take the box back, and he’s never going to know about it.

That was the plan.

It had to work.

As soon as you reached Jungkook’s apartment building, you barely paused to catch your breath. Your legs ached from running, but panic kept you moving. You made a beeline for the mailbox section in the lobby, frantically scanning the names, searching for his.

Box 109.

You yanked it open.

Empty.

Your stomach sank.

Maybe his roommate took it upstairs? Yeah. That had to be it. Maybe it was sitting untouched on the kitchen counter, still wrapped, still safe, still unseen.

You latched onto that sliver of hope as you rushed up the stairs two at a time, unwilling to wait for the elevator. By the time you reached his floor, your hands were shaking. You raised a fist and knocked on the door, urgency making your knuckles sting.

No response.

You knocked again, harder this time.

Then—finally—you heard shuffling from inside. A few footsteps. The creak of the floorboards. A pause.

The door swung open.

And there he was.

Jungkook.

Standing right in front of you, framed in the dim light of his apartment, wearing an oversized grey hoodie that draped over his frame in a way that shouldn't have been so unfairly attractive. His dark hair was slightly damp, messy from a shower, strands falling into his eyes. His lips were parted in surprise, his brows slightly furrowed, and the expression on his face—confused yet soft, dangerously soft—made your already erratic heartbeat lurch violently.

But then, your gaze dropped to his hands.

And the world stopped.

The box.

The open box.

Your box.

Your secret, sacred collection of unsent confessions, of words meant only for the safety of your own solitude. The pieces of your heart you had never dared to show him.

You felt like you were going to be sick.

No, no, no, no—

"You—" You gasped, barely able to form words, chest rising and falling rapidly as you fought for air. "You opened it?"

Jungkook blinked, holding the box loosely in one hand, fingers curled around the edges as if he had been going through its contents just moments ago. He tilted his head, his expression unreadable.

"Yeah," he said simply, as if the weight of the universe hadn’t just come crashing down on you.

Oh. Oh no.

Your legs wobbled. You had to physically stop yourself from collapsing right there in front of him.

His gaze flickered downward, and you followed it instinctively. In his other hand, he held one of the notes. One of your notes. The handwriting was unmistakably yours, a little smudged, a little rushed, but still legible.

He cleared his throat, then read aloud.

"I don’t know when it happened. But one day, he became my favorite person."

Silence.

It stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

You thought you might actually pass out.

"Jungkook, I—" Your voice cracked, but before you could even attempt to explain, he looked up and met your eyes.

And then, to your absolute horror—

He smiled.

Not a teasing smirk, not an awkward grimace, but a real, genuine, knowing smile. A little shy, a little amused, as if the weight of what he had just discovered didn’t terrify him nearly as much as it did you.

And then—oh god—he spoke again.

"So… do you still think my hair looks best when it’s messy?"

Your breath hitched.

Your brain went blank.

You wanted to scream.

The change was almost instant.

In the days that followed, Jungkook became… different.

Not in the way you had imagined, though.

You had been bracing yourself for a talk—a conversation where he’d tell you gently, maybe even apologetically, that he didn’t feel the same way. Or, at the very least, a moment of awkwardness before things slowly went back to normal.

But instead, Jungkook just… pulled away.

It started subtly at first. He stopped texting as much. The late-night calls that once lasted for hours dwindled into one-word replies and seen messages. The casual lunch meetups, the spontaneous arcade runs, the easy, natural way he used to gravitate towards you in a crowded room—all of it changed.

And yet, despite the distance, he never fully let you go.

Instead, he turned it into a joke.

Like today, when he leaned in—far too close for comfort—during your shared class. His voice was low, teasing, the warmth of his breath fanning against your ear.

"So, I’m warmer than the sun, huh?"

You stiffened instantly, your hands tightening around your pen. He pulled back with a smirk, his dark eyes glittering with mischief as he watched your reaction unfold in real-time.

It was unbearable.

He kept doing it.

Whenever you tried to talk to him—really talk to him—he would either dodge the conversation entirely or turn it into something lighthearted, something unserious.

Like the time you finally found him alone, determined to just get it over with, to ask what had changed between you two. Before you could even get the words out, he cut you off with another one of those smirks, his voice laced with amusement.

"So I look best in black? Good to know."

And then he walked away.

That was when you finally got the message.

Jungkook had taken it as a joke.

He didn’t care about your feelings.

It was like the caring, affectionate boy you had known for years had vanished the moment your heart had been laid bare. Like now that the truth was out in the open, he didn’t know how to handle it—so he chose to mock it instead.

And worst of all?

He was pulling away from you completely.

The time you used to spend together? Gone. He was hanging out with other people now, filling his days with anyone but you. And when you did manage to cross paths, he only acknowledged you through those insufferable little comments, those cruel reminders of the things you had never meant for him to see.

It hurt. More than you wanted to admit.

Because maybe—just maybe—you had hoped that if he knew how you felt…

He wouldn’t push you away like this.

The next week brought the on-campus career fair—an event mandatory for all students. You weren’t particularly excited about it, but at least it was a distraction, something to keep your mind occupied.

Or so you thought.

Because that’s when you saw him.

And he wasn’t alone.

He was walking around with Hana, a junior from your college. They moved easily through the crowd, side by side, completely immersed in conversation. And then, to make things even worse—he laughed.

A real laugh. The kind that made his nose scrunch up and his eyes crinkle, the kind you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever.

Your stomach twisted.

You weren’t expecting him to make it this obvious.

If he wanted to reject you, fine. If he didn’t feel the same way, you could live with that. But did he really have to parade it around like this?

Maybe this was his way of sending a message. Maybe he wanted you to know, without actually having to say it out loud.

A silent rejection.

What a jerk.

These days, you barely have the motivation to attend classes. You go through the motions—waking up, dragging yourself to campus, sitting through lectures—but your mind isn’t really there.

Because no matter how hard you try to distract yourself, the brutal reality of rejection lingers like a shadow, following you everywhere you go.

Jungkook threw away your feelings like they meant nothing.

You should have expected it, right? You should have known this was how it would turn out.

Maybe you were never meant to be anything more than a friend to him. Maybe, the moment he realized you held deeper feelings for him, he got scared. Or worse—maybe he just didn’t care at all.

The thought makes your chest ache.

Jungkook has always been a romantic at heart. You’ve seen it in the way he talks about love, in the way he watches romance movies with a dreamy look in his eyes. But clearly, you were never part of that dream.

And now, because of your stupid feelings, you’ve ruined everything.

You used to be his best friend. The one he joked around with, the one he trusted, the one he leaned on.

But now?

Now he barely looks at you.

And if he does, it's only to throw some teasing remark your way—like your feelings were some kind of joke.

The person you were most angry at was Joy.

Not Jungkook. Not yourself.

Joy.

Because none of this would have happened if she had just left that damn box alone.

That day after the box incident, the moment you stepped back into your dorm, she was there, lounging on the couch like nothing had happened. She glanced up as you walked in, a smirk already forming on her lips.

“I didn’t expect you to come back so early. I thought you guys would—” she wiggled her eyebrows—“get freaky after the whole confession, you know?”

She laughed, expecting you to groan or throw a pillow at her like usual.

But then she saw your face.

Her laughter faded. “Wait… what happened?”

You didn’t answer. You just walked past her and sank into the couch, staring at nothing, your mind still replaying every moment from earlier—Jungkook’s teasing, his smirk, his distance.

You heard Joy shuffle closer, her voice softer now. “I… I’m sorry. Did I send the gift too early? Did Jungkook not like it?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, no, he loved it.” You turned to her, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thank you so much for your help, Joy.”

Her expression faltered. “Wait… what do you mean?”

You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Jungkook probably thinks I’m pathetic now.”

Joy winced. She sat beside you on the couch, guilt written all over her face. “I— I really thought—” she hesitated, chewing on her lip. “I was so sure, though. That boy always had heart eyes for you.”

You let out a bitter chuckle. “Well, now you know he didn’t.”

Silence settled between you both.

And for the first time, Joy didn’t have anything to say.

The next time you see Jungkook, he’s with Hana again.

They’re standing by one of the campus notice boards, deep in conversation. You don’t mean to eavesdrop—you’re not even sure why you stop—but the moment you hear them talking, something in your gut tells you to listen.

Hana tilts her head, her voice low but clear. “Are you sure she won't find out?”

Jungkook sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know… Maybe it's better this way”

Your breath catches in your throat.

Your first instinct is denial—maybe they’re not talking about you. Maybe it’s about someone else entirely. But deep down, you know.

As far as you’re aware, there isn’t another she in Jungkook’s life. Not before. Not when you were still close.

You’ve already been replaced.

Your chest aches as you piece it together. He doesn't want you to find out—because he's probably in a relationship with Hana now. Because he doesn’t want to hurt you with a direct rejection, he thinks hiding his relationship with her is the kinder option.

It isn’t.

You swallow the lump in your throat and force yourself to step back, turning away from the scene before you can hear any more.

You decide then—no matter how much it hurts, no matter how pathetic it makes you feel—you can’t bear being apart from Jungkook.

Even if he doesn’t love you back.

Even if he only sees you as a friend.

Losing him completely? That’s not something you’re ready for. Maybe you never will be.

So, you do the only thing you can think of.

You wait for him after class.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you watch the door, your hands clammy with nerves. When Jungkook finally steps out, your breath catches. He looks the same—same hoodie, same soft brown eyes—but everything feels different now.

Taking a deep breath, you step forward.

"I get it, okay?" you say, voice firm despite the way your throat tightens. "You don’t like me. And that’s fine. I hope she makes you happy."

Jungkook halts mid-step.

His jaw clenches. His fists curl at his sides.

"You don’t understand," he mutters.

"Then make me understand, Jungkook," you plead. You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to keep going, even as your last shred of dignity slips through your fingers. "Can we still be friends, at least?"

Silence.

Jungkook doesn’t reply.

And somehow, that hurts more than rejection ever could.

There's a party happening, hosted by one of the biggest party animals on campus. Everyone is invited, and Joy insists that you go.

After much convincing, you finally give in. You've mended things with her—finally forgiven her. Maybe it wasn’t entirely her fault. Maybe you just needed someone to blame.

You decide to go, hoping for a distraction. Maybe the music, the drinks, and the endless chatter will help you forget, even if just for a night.

But you already know Jungkook will be there.

Probably Hana too.

And that's fine.

You'll just stay out of their way.

The party is in full swing when you arrive—loud music, flashing lights, bodies moving wildly on the dance floor, and the unmistakable smell of booze in the air. Bottles are being passed around, and the energy is electric.

A few friends from your classes spot you and pull you in, offering drinks. You take them all without hesitation, reaching for the strongest ones, letting the alcohol burn away the ache in your chest.

Jungkook is nowhere in sight.

Good. Maybe he didn’t come. Maybe you can actually enjoy yourself tonight.

With the alcohol settling in, your limbs feel lighter, your mind a little hazy. You dance to the outdated playlist blaring through the speakers, laugh with strangers, and let yourself let go—just for a while.

But after some time, it all feels like too much. The heat, the noise, the overwhelming buzz in your veins. You slip away from the crowd and make your way to the rooftop, breathing in the crisp night air, letting it cool your flushed skin.

And then you sense it—someone else's presence.

You turn, your head spinning slightly, and there he is.

Jungkook.

You blink, wondering if you're imagining him, but his gaze is fixed on you, a slight furrow between his brows. There's something like concern in his expression as he watches you, taking in your drunken state.

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

The alcohol makes everything feel lighter—your body, your thoughts, your inhibitions. So when you see Jungkook standing there, looking at you with that unreadable expression, the words just spill out before you can stop them.

“I liked you, you know,” you mumble, swaying slightly. “But now I realize… I was just wasting my time.”

Jungkook doesn’t react. No apology, no denial, not even a flicker of emotion across his face.

He just exhales softly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’ll be fine,” he says simply, then turns on his heel and walks away.

Just like that.

The cool night air suddenly feels suffocating, the weight in your chest heavier than ever. You watch his retreating figure, your heart shattering all over again.

The next morning, you wake up with the nastiest headache ever. Your head throbs, your mouth is dry, and your body feels like it’s been wrung out. You groan, forcing yourself to sit up as the hazy memories from last night slowly piece themselves together.

Jungkook. The rooftop. The way he just… walked away like he didn’t care.

You shake the thought from your mind, dragging yourself out of bed. There’s no point dwelling on it. Your exams are approaching, and you need to focus.

Deciding to get some studying done, you head to the library. The quiet atmosphere should help clear your head—or at least distract you from the mess that is your life.

But the moment you step inside, your breath catches.

Jungkook is sitting at the table you both used to frequent, completely absorbed in scribbling something into a notebook. For a second, you consider turning around, but then something catches your eye.

He rips out a small piece of paper, folds it neatly, and—without hesitation—slips it into a glass jar sitting beside him.

Your heart clenches.

Is it for Hana?

You don’t stick around to find out. Before Jungkook can notice you, you turn on your heel and walk away.

February 10th. Your birthday.

You wake up with a small flicker of hope. Maybe today would be different. Maybe Jungkook had been ignoring you all this time because he was planning something—some kind of surprise. That had to be it, right?

Surely.

So you wait.

By 3 PM, your phone is filled with messages—friends, family, even distant relatives reaching out to wish you. Everyone but Jungkook.

Not even a single text.

The hope that had carried you through the day starts to crumble, replaced by a hollow ache in your chest. You don’t go to class. What’s the point? This might just be the worst birthday ever.

That’s when Joy bursts into your room with a grin.

"You got a package!" she announces, holding out a neatly wrapped box.

Your heart leaps.

Jungkook?

You rush over, fingers fumbling as you tear open the wrapping—only for your stomach to drop.

It’s from your parents.

Disappointment washes over you, but you push it aside. They went through the trouble of sending you something, and you should be grateful. You take a deep breath, forcing a smile as you pick up your phone and call them.

"Thank you," you say, voice steady. Because at least someone remembered.

There was still time.

It was only evening—plenty of hours left before midnight. Jungkook would surely text before then. He had to.

Joy, noticing your gloomy mood, tries to lift your spirits. "Come on, let’s go out drinking. Have some fun, at least for your birthday."

But you shake your head. "I’m not in the mood."

She sighs, clearly frustrated but doesn’t push you. Instead, she flops onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. "I hate this," she mutters. "I hate seeing you like this. And I hate him for treating you this way."

Her voice is laced with anger, but there’s something else there too—guilt.

Because deep down, Joy still blames herself.

If she hadn’t sent that gift early, if she hadn’t tried to play cupid, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out this way. Maybe you wouldn’t be spending your birthday like this—waiting for a boy who might never come around.

Jungkook didn’t text that day.

He forgot your birthday.

You waited all day, checking your phone every few minutes, hoping for a message that never came. Midnight passed, and still—nothing.

The realization settles deep in your chest, heavier than you expected. You feel pathetic.

Pathetic for hoping. Pathetic for waiting. Pathetic for still caring.

It’s the day before Valentine’s Day.

You can’t afford to miss any more classes. You haven’t stepped foot on campus since your birthday, but today, you decide to go.

You have no motivation to see or talk to anyone. You tell yourself that you’ll just quietly attend your classes and head straight back home. No distractions. No unnecessary interactions.

But as soon as you reach campus, you notice a crowd gathering. There’s some kind of matchmaking event happening for Valentine’s Day tomorrow.

Great. Just great.

Everything about it feels like the universe is mocking you, rubbing salt on an already raw wound. Heart-shaped decorations, pink confetti floating in the air, and couples laughing—completely oblivious to how suffocating it feels for you.

You try to move past the crowd, but suddenly, someone pushes forward, and you get caught in the chaos. You stumble, losing your balance—bracing for impact—

But you don’t hit the ground.

Because Jungkook catches you.

His hands grip your arms, steadying you out of instinct. His touch is firm and warm, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

For the first time in days, you look up at him. And for the first time in days, he looks right back at you.

He doesn’t let go of you immediately.

His grip stays firm, his fingers pressing into your arms like he’s grounding himself, like he’s hesitating. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his lips parting slightly—like he’s about to say something.

The music playing in the background fades into a distant hum. Everything around you slows. The laughter, the chatter, the festival lights—it all blurs.

All that’s left is him.

Still holding you.

Your voice barely comes out, a whisper against the space between you.

“Do you even care, Jungkook?”

His hands tighten for a fraction of a second. His jaw clenches. And for a brief, fleeting moment, you think you see something—something raw and unspoken flash through his eyes.

But then, like a switch flipping, he lets go.

So fast that you nearly stumble again.

"No, Y/N. I don’t."

His words cut through the air, sharp and merciless.

Then he turns. Walks away.

And you’re left standing there, alone in the middle of a festival meant for love.

This is it.

This is your answer.

Jungkook has made his choice.

And now, it’s time for you to make yours.

You have to move on.

That night, you decide—Jungkook was never meant to be yours.

It’s a painful truth, one you’ve been avoiding, but tonight, you accept it.

Needing a distraction, you start clearing out your closet, pulling out old clothes, forgotten trinkets, anything to keep your hands busy. That’s when you see it.

The pink heart-shaped box.

Your breath hitches.

You had snatched it from his hands that day, barely able to meet his gaze before bolting out of his apartment and driving straight back to your dorm. You had shoved it deep into your closet, hoping that if you buried it away, you could bury your feelings too.

For a moment, you consider throwing it away. What’s the point of holding onto it now? Jungkook knows. He read the notes, saw every piece of your heart laid bare. And in the end, it changed nothing.

Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid.

One by one, you pull out the little folded papers, unfolding memories you once held so close.

"I don’t know when it happened, but one day, he became my favourite person."

"His laugh is my favorite sound."

"I wish he knew how much he means to me."

Tears blur your vision.

You never wanted him to know.

Because you never wanted to lose him.

And now, you have.

The weight of it crashes over you all at once, and before you can stop it, the tears spill over, hot and relentless.

You clutch the notes to your chest as silent sobs wrack your body.

You’ve been holding the pain in for too long.

So tonight, you let the dams break.

And you cry yourself to sleep.

It’s Valentine’s Day.

You feel miserable.

Forget having a Valentine this year—you don’t even have a best friend anymore.

So you stay in bed all day, buried under the covers, refusing to acknowledge the world outside.

Your mind drifts, unbidden, to last year’s Valentine’s Day.

You and Jungkook had gone out for dinner—not as lovers, not as anything more than friends, just two people who didn’t have dates. You remember how he laughed at the terrible restaurant music, how he stole fries from your plate like they were his.

You miss it.

No—wait. You shouldn’t be thinking about him.

Shaking off the thought, you grab your Nintendo Switch and start playing, trying to distract yourself.

Then the doorbell rings.

You ignore it. Joy is probably home—she’ll get it.

But it rings again.

What is Joy doing?

Then it hits you—she probably stayed over at her boyfriend’s place last night.

With a groan, you push off the covers and make your way to the door. You swing it open, ready to shoo away whoever it is—

But there’s no one there.

Your gaze drops to the ground.

And then you see it.

A singular jar, placed carefully on the doormat.

You stare at the jar, a strange sense of familiarity creeping in, but you can’t quite place it.

Where have you seen something like this before?

Your mind scrambles for an answer, flipping through memories like pages in a book, but nothing surfaces.

With hesitant fingers, you reach down and pick it up, feeling the cool glass against your palm. It’s heavier than you expected.

That’s when you notice the writing on the lid, scrawled in red marker.

"To Y/N."

Your heart stutters.

You blink, trying to steady your breath, but the moment feels unreal—like you’ve stepped into a dream.

It’s only then that you notice the jar is filled with tiny rolled-up notes, crammed inside like secrets waiting to be unraveled.

Your mind starts spiraling.

What is this? Who left it? Why does it have your name?

Your hands tremble as you twist the lid open, the slight pop of the seal echoing in the silence.

You reach inside, fingers brushing against the countless little slips of paper.

With bated breath, you pull one out.

You carefully unroll it, eyes scanning the words scribbled in rushed, familiar handwriting.

"I lied."

That’s all it says.

Two words.

Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes trace the messy yet unmistakable handwriting.

Jungkook.

Your fingers tighten around the note as your pulse quickens.

It’s his.

The realization slams into you with a force that leaves you momentarily stunned.

Your breath turns shallow as the memory crashes into you—

Yesterday.

The crowd. The music. The overwhelming blur of people around you.

You had stumbled, nearly falling, only for Jungkook to catch you. For a fleeting moment, he held you close. His grip was firm, his expression unreadable.

You had searched his face, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Do you even care, Jungkook?"

You had wanted him to say yes. Even a little. Anything to make the ache in your chest feel less unbearable.

But instead—

"No, Y/N. I don’t."

His words had cut deeper than you ever thought possible.

And then he had let go. So fast, like touching you had burned him. Like you meant nothing at all.

You remember the way your heart had cracked, the way he had disappeared into the sea of people, leaving you stranded in the middle of a festival meant for love.

But now—

Now you stand here, gripping a jar full of his words.

"I lied."

Your hands fumble as you reach into the jar again, pulling out another note.

Unrolling it with shaky fingers, you read:

"I thought if I pushed you away, it’d be easier for you to move on. But the truth is, I don’t want you to."

A sharp pang strikes your chest.

Your mind reels, and suddenly, you're back at the rooftop party—drunk, vulnerable, spilling your heart out in slurred words.

“I liked you, you know? But now I realize I was just wasting my time.”

Jungkook had stood there, silent, unreadable, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

No apology. No denial. Nothing.

And then, just as effortlessly, he had turned away.

"You'll be fine," he'd said before walking off, leaving you alone in the cold night.

The memory burns like an open wound, and yet, here you are, standing in your doorway, holding the truth he should have told you that night in the palm of your hands.

Your fingers tremble as you pull out the next note.

"I missed your birthday on purpose because I wanted to give you something that lasts longer than a text."

Your breath hitches.

He didn’t forget?

He chose not to text?

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips, but it fades just as quickly as the weight of his words settles in.

You reach into the jar again, pulling out another note, heart pounding against your ribs.

What you didn’t know was—

Jungkook had spent hours writing your birthday note.

He had sat at his desk that night, a dozen crumpled papers around him, rewriting the same message over and over, never satisfied. His hands had been shaky when he finally folded the note and slipped it into the jar.

Because words were permanent.

Because he was afraid.

Because deep down, he knew—if he told you how much you really meant to him, he wouldn’t be able to push you away anymore.

And that terrified him.

Your grip on the jar tightens as you pull out the next note.

"I was scared you’d see me in the library that day. And you did. I almost stopped writing. But I wanted to finish this for you."

Your breath catches in your throat as a memory rushes back—

The library.

That afternoon, when you had finally dragged yourself back to campus to study for your exams, you had seen him sitting at your usual table, scribbling something into his notebook.

At the time, you thought nothing of it—until you watched him tear out a tiny slip of paper and slip it into a jar.

A jar.

The very same one you now hold in your trembling hands.

Back then, you had turned away, assuming it was for Hana.

But it wasn’t.

It was for you.

Every note in this jar was for you.

Your vision blurs as you stare down at the tiny rolled-up messages still waiting to be read.

He had been writing to you all along.

By the time you reach the last few notes, your hands are trembling. Maybe you can’t even read them through the tears clouding your vision. The weight of all those misunderstandings—every ignored confession, every painful silence, every moment you thought he didn’t care—crashes down on you all at once.

Your breath is uneven as you unroll another slip of paper.

"You thought I didn’t care. But I did. I always did."

A sob escapes your lips, the ache in your chest unbearable.

You clutch the jar against you like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever held—because it is. Because it’s him.

Every unspoken word. Every hidden feeling. Every truth he was too afraid to say aloud.

And now, you finally know.

Your breath catches as you reach the bottom of the jar, realizing the significance—there are exactly 100 notes, just like the box you once gave him.

With shaky hands, you pull out the 99th note.

“I was always bad at saying things out loud. So I wrote them instead. I just hope it’s not too late for you to read them.”

Your chest tightens.

You take a deep breath and reach for the last note, your fingers trembling. Slowly, you unroll it, heart pounding in your ears.

“Y/N, will you be my Valentine?”

The paper almost slips from your fingers as your vision blurs with fresh tears. A shaky laugh escapes your lips, somewhere between disbelief and overwhelming emotion.

After everything, after all the silence, the pain, the misunderstandings—he’s finally saying it.

And suddenly, all that matters is what you’ll do next.

The moment the words register, you don’t think.

The jar nearly slips from your grasp as you scramble to your feet, your heartbeat hammering louder than the thoughts racing through your mind. Jungkook. He couldn’t have gone far—he must have just dropped it off.

You fling the door open, barefoot, barely even stopping to grab your keys. The cold air bites at your skin, but you don’t care. You sprint down the stairs, nearly stumbling in your rush to get outside.

Your eyes dart wildly around the street, your breath coming out in frantic puffs. Where is he?

Then, you see him.

A few feet away, Jungkook is walking slowly, hands in his pockets, head low like he’s already bracing for disappointment. Like he’s already convinced you won’t come after him.

But you do.

“Jungkook!”

He freezes.

You don’t stop running until you’re right in front of him, breathless, clutching the jar close to your chest like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment.

His eyes widen when he sees you—messy hair, no shoes, trembling hands still gripping his gift like it’s the most important thing in the world.

You swallow hard, voice shaking. “Did you mean it?”

Jungkook looks at you for a long moment, the night stretching between you like a fragile thread.

Then, barely above a whisper—“Yeah.”

Your chest heaves, breath uneven, voice shaking as you clutch the jar tighter.

"You absolute—jerk." Your voice wavers, but the anger, the hurt, the sheer weight of everything he’s put you through spills out in every word. "You sat there, letting me think I meant nothing to you. And the whole time, you were—" You shake the jar, almost laughing in disbelief. "—writing these?"

Jungkook doesn’t answer. He just stands there, hands stuffed in his pockets, jaw tight, like he’s bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say next.

"You could’ve just told me, Jungkook. You could’ve just—" You pause, gripping the jar like it’s the only thing holding you together. "Why? Why lie to me?"

He exhales sharply, his voice rough, like he’s been holding it in for too long.

"Because I was a coward."

You blink. You weren’t expecting him to admit it so easily.

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, looking away. "I thought pushing you away was the right thing to do. If I let you think I didn’t care, maybe you’d move on. Maybe you’d find someone who wouldn’t hurt you like I did."

Your throat tightens. Your fingers dig into the glass of the jar. "You were the one hurting me, Jungkook."

His eyes finally meet yours, and the weight of them almost knocks the air from your lungs. He looks wrecked.

"I know." His voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why?" Your voice trembles, frustration bubbling over. "Why did you let me think I was chasing something that wasn’t even there?"

His jaw clenches, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. But then, his voice comes, low and raw.

"Because I was afraid you’d realize you deserved better."

Silence settles between you. A silence so thick it presses against your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You stare at him, your vision blurring. You should walk away. You should scream, cry—anything. But instead, you do the only thing you can think of.

You reach into the jar, grab a note at random, and shove it into his hand. "Read it."

Jungkook hesitates. Then, slowly, he unfolds the paper. His fingers tremble as he reads the words he once wrote.

"If I had been braver, I would’ve told you every single day how much you meant to me."

He sucks in a sharp breath, gripping the paper like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes flick back up to yours, burning with something you can’t quite name.

"Say it now," you whisper.

Jungkook's breath catches. His grip on the note tightens like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

You wait. Trembling, heart pounding, eyes locked onto his. Daring him to finally, finally say it.

He exhales shakily. His voice is low, rough—like it hurts to speak, but he does anyway.

"Y/N…"

You don’t look away. Don’t let him run from this.

His throat bobs. His hand curls into a fist at his side, then slowly unclenches.

"I love you."

A sharp inhale cuts through you. Even though you were waiting for it, the words hit like a tidal wave.

Jungkook shakes his head, almost laughing, but there’s no humor in it—just raw, aching regret.

"I loved you then. I love you now. And I don’t think there’s a single version of me that won’t love you."

Your vision blurs, the weight of everything pressing down on you all at once.

"Then why—" your voice cracks, "—why did you let me think you didn’t?"

Jungkook exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. His face twists with something close to pain.

"Because I was scared." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Scared that if I let myself have you, I’d ruin you. Scared that you’d wake up one day and realize I wasn’t worth it."

Your hands clench at your sides. "You don’t get to decide that for me."

He nods. Swallows hard. Takes a step closer.

"I know." His voice is softer now. "And if I could go back, I’d do it all differently. But I can’t. All I can do is stand here and tell you—"

Your lips crash into his, years of longing and heartbreak unraveling in a single, desperate moment. Your fingers fist into his jacket, pulling him closer, closing the distance like you’ve been waiting forever. Because you have.

Jungkook catches you. His arms wind tight around your waist, grounding you, anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. His grip is firm, unyielding, as if holding you is the only thing that makes sense anymore.

The kiss isn’t soft—it’s frantic, raw, filled with all the words you never got to say. It’s a confession, an apology, a plea. His lips move against yours with urgency, pouring everything into it, like he’s trying to make up for every second he spent pushing you away.

Jungkook tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and a shiver runs through you as his fingers tangle into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand spreads against your back, pressing you impossibly closer, like even this isn’t enough, like he’d fuse you together if he could.

You melt. Every wall you built, every ounce of anger, every misunderstanding—crumbling, dissolving into the heat of him. The way he kisses you feels like an answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking. Like a promise.

When you finally pull apart, neither of you lets go.

Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours, still uneven, still shaken. His hands remain on your waist like he’s afraid that the second he lets go, this will all disappear.

Your fingers stay curled in his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

His voice is raw when he finally speaks, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t deserve you.”

You exhale, shaking your head, the weight of everything still pressing against your chest. Your voice is quiet, but steady. “Then spend every day proving that you do.”

Jungkook lets out a soft laugh—one that sounds broken and real, like he can’t believe he’s still allowed to have this moment with you.

“Deal,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you again.

The door barely clicks shut before Jungkook is on you again, his hands framing your face as his lips crash into yours. There’s no hesitation now, no careful restraint—only heat, only the raw, aching need that’s been simmering between you for far too long.

His body presses against yours, pushing you back into the door, and you gasp against his lips. He swallows the sound, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping over yours with slow, deliberate intent. He tastes like something addictive—like want, like longing, like the kind of hunger that makes your stomach tighten and your knees go weak.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer. His hands roam down, slipping under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skimming along your bare skin. His touch is scorching, leaving a trail of fire wherever he moves. He pauses, his breath ragged, lips barely brushing yours.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice rough, uneven.

You shake your head, tilting your chin up until your lips ghost over his again. "I don’t want you to stop."

The words break something inside him.

His mouth crashes onto yours again, hungrier this time, more desperate. His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the hard lines of his body, the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily against yours. One hand grips your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you shudder, while the other slides lower, gripping your thigh and hitching it up against his hip.

A quiet moan escapes you at the feeling, and he groans in response, pressing harder into you. His lips leave yours, trailing a path down your jaw, to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, where he lingers. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he soothes it with his tongue, sucking gently, enough to make you arch into him, enough to make your breath hitch.

"Jungkook—" His name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper, and he exhales sharply against your skin, like the sound is enough to undo him.

His grip tightens as he lifts you effortlessly, hands settling under your thighs. Instinct takes over, and your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you across the room. He lays you down on the bed with care, but there’s nothing careful about the way he follows you down, covering your body with his own.

He hovers above you, his breath warm against your lips, his dark eyes searching yours. His thumb brushes over your cheek, then lower, tracing the curve of your bottom lip, his touch unbearably light.

"You’re sure?" he whispers, voice thick with something heady.

Your only answer is a whispered "Yes," breathless, certain.

Something shifts in him at your words. His lips find yours again, but this time, he takes his time—exploring, savoring, as if he wants to memorize every inch of you. His kisses trail downward, along the curve of your neck, across your collarbone, his mouth mapping out a path of heat and sensation. His hands move with just as much purpose, slipping under fabric, pushing it aside, fingers tracing bare skin with an intimacy that makes your pulse stutter.

Every brush of his lips, every slow, deliberate touch sends waves of electricity through you, igniting something deep and primal. Clothes are discarded in slow, teasing movements, the heat between you building with every layer that falls away.

His lips ghost over your shoulder, down your arm, over the curve of your breasts, his breath hot and uneven. He watches you, eyes dark with something intense, something almost reverent, as his fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along your bare skin.

"You’re so beautiful," he murmurs, voice filled with something deeper than desire.

You reach for him, pulling him back up, needing his mouth on yours again, needing more. He obliges, kissing you fiercely, like he never wants to stop, like this moment has been waiting to happen for far too long.

His hands explore moving towards your heat, his touch reverent yet possessive, like he’s memorizing every inch of you, like he’s making up for all the lost time. You arch into him, breath hitching, hands gripping onto his shoulders as heat coils low in your stomach.

"Jungkook," you whisper, his name falling from your lips like a plea.

His breath catches, and he exhales shakily. "I’ve got you," he murmurs against your skin, voice barely above a whisper. "I’m right here."

And then there’s no more talking—only movement, only passion, only the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where you both belong.

The air is thick with warmth, bodies tangled beneath the sheets, hearts pounding in tandem as the last echoes of your shared breaths settle between you. The world outside might still be turning, but in this moment, it doesn’t exist. It’s just you and him, skin against skin, the weight of what just happened pressing down like the softest, heaviest thing in the world.

Your body is spent, muscles trembling faintly from the aftershocks, but you don’t move. You can’t.

Jungkook is still holding you. One arm draped lazily around your waist, the other tracing absentminded patterns against your back. His touch is slow, soothing, like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real. Like if he lets go, you might slip away.

You stay like that for a while, chests rising and falling in sync, your head resting just above his heart. The rhythm of it is steady now, no longer racing like it had been just moments ago. Still, there’s a softness to it, an unspoken question lingering in the quiet space between you.

It’s you who finally breaks it.

“So…” You shift slightly, fingers trailing absentmindedly along his chest. “Hana knew about the jar?”

His hand stills for the briefest moment before he exhales a small, breathy laugh. His voice is thick with exhaustion, but there’s amusement in it too.

“She didn’t just know about it.” His fingers resume their slow, idle circles against your bare skin. “It was her idea.”

You blink. “…What?”

Jungkook hums in confirmation, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Yeah. She was the one who told me to do it—to fill a jar with everything I wanted to say but couldn’t.” He pauses, then adds, “She also threatened to expose me if I didn’t.”

You scoff, though you can’t help the warmth blooming in your chest. “So let me get this straight… You couldn’t tell me how you felt, but you told Hana?”

Jungkook turns his head slightly to look at you, eyes still heavy with sleep, but the amusement in them is undeniable. “I didn’t tell her. She just… figured it out.”

Of course, she did.

You huff, feigning annoyance, but your fingers betray you, tracing soft, aimless patterns along his collarbone. “Still. She knew before I did.”

Jungkook grins, rolling onto his side to face you fully. One hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. His voice is low when he asks, “Are you jealous?”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

His laughter vibrates against your skin, rich and warm, before he dips down to kiss you—slow and lingering, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into it. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet.

Then, softer now, more serious, he murmurs, “Are you gonna answer me?”

Your brow furrows slightly. “Answer what?”

Jungkook leans over, reaching toward the nightstand where the jar still sits, its notes untouched—except for the last one.

“The question,” he says, retrieving the single unfolded slip of paper. He holds it between you, and even though you already know what it says, your heart still stutters when your eyes skim over the words again.

Y/N, will you be my Valentine?

Earlier, you had left it unanswered, too overwhelmed by everything that had come before it. But now, after everything—after confessions, after heartbreak, after finally finding each other again—there’s no hesitation.

You reach out, plucking the note from his fingers. Slowly, carefully, you fold it again, tucking it beneath your pillow like something precious, something worth keeping. Then, meeting his gaze, you whisper, “You never needed to ask.”

Jungkook exhales, slow and shaky, like something inside him has finally settled. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “Because I wasn’t planning on taking no for an answer.”

Your breath catches. Not because of his confidence—but because, deep down, you realize you’d never wanted to say no in the first place. Maybe you had tried to fight it. Maybe you had convinced yourself that the past had built too many walls between you. But now, lying here in the warmth of his arms, the truth settles into your bones like something that had been waiting for you to accept it all along.

It had always been him.

Your fingers tighten in the sheets as you search his gaze, looking for hesitation, for doubt—for something to make this feel less like a dream. But there’s nothing. Just him. Just you. Just this moment you both fought so hard to reach.

Jungkook watches you, waiting, always waiting, his hand still resting against your cheek as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

So you close the distance.

You kiss him slowly this time, letting it sink in. The warmth of his lips, the taste of him still lingering, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same air, hearts beating in time.

And then, with a quiet, knowing smile, you whisper, “Then don’t.”

Jungkook’s lips part slightly, his expression shifting—softening, melting—as if those two words had knocked down every last barrier between you. And maybe they had. Because before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you against him again, tucking you close, his hand slipping into yours beneath the sheets.

Neither of you speak for a long time after that. You don’t need to.

Outside, the world keeps turning, time moving forward just as it always does. But here, in the hush of your dorm room, wrapped up in him, it feels like the universe has paused just for you.

Not to make up for lost time.

But to remind you that some things—some people—were never really lost at all.

And maybe, just maybe, they never would be.

EPILOGUE : Years Later – Valentine’s Day

The door clicks shut behind you as you step into the apartment, kicking off your shoes with a tired sigh. The evening air still clings to your skin, carrying traces of laughter and the lingering warmth of Jungkook’s presence.

It had been another perfect night—one filled with inside jokes, stolen bites of each other’s food, and his usual exasperated attempts to get you to pick a restaurant instead of saying, “Anything’s fine.”

Jungkook is nowhere in sight, giving you the solitude you need. You don’t hesitate. Your steps are purposeful as you cross the room, crouching down beside the bed. With practiced ease, you reach under the frame, fingers brushing against the familiar surface of a small pink, heart-shaped box.

But this time, there’s something else.

Your fingers find the jar—the one that started it all.

You pull them both out carefully, as if they were a fragile secret, and place them on your lap.

Soft footsteps approach. Then, a familiar weight sinks onto the mattress beside you.

Jungkook’s voice is quieter now, fond. “Didn’t think I’d see those again.”

You smile, running a thumb over the worn edges of the box before glancing at him. “I don’t know what made me reach for them.”

He hums, gaze flickering between the objects in your hands. “Habit, maybe. Or fate.” Then, smirking, “You always did have a thing for digging up answers.”

Rolling your eyes, you pop the lid off the jar, fingers fishing out an old note. The paper is creased, the ink slightly faded, but you already know what it says.

"Y/N, will you be my Valentine?"

Jungkook watches you, expectant. “You never actually answered me, you know.”

You exhale a laugh, shaking your head. “Jungkook, we’re literally married.”

“And?” He leans in, teasing. “I’m just saying, a verbal confirmation wouldn’t hurt.”

You scoff but humor him anyway, fingers curling into his sweater as you whisper against his lips—

"Yes, Jungkook. I’ll be your Valentine."

His arms wrap around you, pulling you in. The jar sits forgotten on the floor, the pink box nestled beside it.

Once upon a time, you had pulled it out, searching for clarity. Looking for a sign.

You didn’t realize then—you never needed the answers inside.

Because you’d already found them.

Because you’d found him.

And maybe that was the answer all along.

taglist: @iamstilljk @hirochan112 @withluvjm @amarawayne @jeon-has-left-you-on-seen @blueofocean @tattzjeon @tsick @stuti2904 @gukkiebabysblog @taekritimin123 @whisperingonyx @sadgirlroo @nerdycheol @hoshiskimchi @blueberriesm @kooksrqcer @minimoninini @dreamersparacosm @yok00k @whothefuckisthishoe @prxdajeon @darkangelfei @sunainasworld @kia091106 @khadeeeeej @welcometomyworld13 @noshametempo @bakuhoethotski @ohyeah35sworld

thank you so much for reading! let me know what u think about it <3

[flowersforbucky]

lacy

bucky barnes x reader

i don't usually write short drabbles for bucky but i miss him and thought i'd put this little thought into words to get out of a bit of a writing slump that i've been in ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ happy valentine's day, babies

summary: bucky doesn't remember undergarments having so much fucking lace in the forties. but he thinks he can get used to it.

warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, adult themes, sensuality and implied smut, language, reader is afab, sweet teasing and banter, tfatws era

word count: 770+

bucky barnes masterlist

“What? Was lingerie not a thing back in the forties?”

Bucky watches from his position on the bed as you unzip your cocktail dress, the fabric falling from your shoulders and to the floor around your feet. He lays back against the headboard, his hands crossed behind his head. His eyes roam from the strappy heels that you have yet to shed and up your legs until his eyes settle on the black lace thigh holster that connects to a garter belt and matching panties.

You remove the small pistol from the holster, placing it on the dresser beside you before stepping away from the pool of burgundy colored satin at your feet. You crawl onto the bed, the peaks of your breasts threatening to spill out of your bra. You look up at him with a raised brow, still awaiting an answer to your question.

“It was,” he hums. “Can’t say I ever saw anything quite like this, though.”

He’s never seen anything quite like you is what he’s really thinking, but he bites his tongue. His feelings for you are far from being a secret, but he sometimes worries that if he truly spoke his mind every time he thought about how attractive he finds you, he’d never shut up.

His words are still true, though. He’d seen plenty of silk nightgowns and camisoles, but this – the intricate floral embroidery, the lace-lined edges of the cups of your bra, and the way the tight material accentuates every one of your curves just right – this is new territory for him.

“Never?” you quip. You crawl over him, positioning yourself across his lap. His hands come to rest on either side of your hips, the contrasting warmth of flesh and iciness of vibranium eliciting goosebumps across your exposed skin. “Not even online?”

He digs the tips of his fingers into the meat of your hips with the faintest amount of pressure. He doesn’t miss the way it makes you squirm, your clothed center nudging against the growing bulge concealed by his jeans.

“Online?” He huffs a laugh. “I think you’re forgetting that I have a flip phone.”

“Would it convince you to finally get a smartphone if I said I’d send you pictures of me wearing shit like this?”

He laughs, confident that you’d do just that. Considering the fact that you had been teasing him during a mission just a few hours prior, he doesn’t doubt for a second that you’d be more than happy to utilize technology to make him flustered.

“Tempting,” he admits. He dips a metal finger under the waistband of your panties, toying with it before lightly popping it against your skin. “But I have a hard time believing that pictures could do the real thing justice.”

You roll your eyes, playfully poking him in a spot between his ribs that you know to be ticklish. “You’re no fun.”

As swiftly as he can, he flips you so that you’re now pinned between him and the mattress. You look up at him with wide eyes, taken off guard by the sudden change in positions. Still, you automatically spread your legs enough for him to lay between them. He hovers above you, his gaze trailing from the mounds of your breast that peak out from the confines of the lacy bra and up to your lips.

He sits back on his knees, pulling your thigh back so he can grab one of your feet in his hands. He slowly slips the high heel off, not taking his eyes off of you as he tosses it behind him on the bed. He repeats the motion with your other foot, and presses a chaste kiss to the inside of your ankle.

“I'm no fun, huh? Does that mean you don’t want to sit on my face?”

Teasing you a little won’t hurt, he supposes. You’re normally the one dishing it out, and he’s normally the one blushing like a school girl – but he’s got to admit, he likes the way you’re looking at him right now. His heightened senses pick up on the familiar scent of your arousal and your quickened heart rate. He doesn’t need you to vocalize how you’re feeling or what you want; your body gives you away.

“Are you gonna take all of this off of me, or am I gonna have to?”

Your voice is teasing, but Bucky doesn’t miss the edge of impatience that slips through. He chuckles, taking one last, long look at the frilly undergarments. He likes them a lot, he can’t deny it – but he likes you without them even more.

recent bucky fics

all's well that ends well to end up with you - bucky isn't going to let an extended mission, a severe thunderstorm, and a delayed flight ruin your first valentine's day together

starry eyed - reader gets a gift from her secret santa

[bbrainr0t]

For when you flower I

Masterlist

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla x Greek!woman/reader x Emperor Geta

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, mentions of violence, blood, death, and slavery, hints of PTSD/bad mental health - there will be an imbalance between the owned and the owner (sexism, oppression, etc.), toxic relationship at some point

Tags: Enemies to lovers (?), triangle drama/love (but no incest, I swear), unhealthy/toxic dynamics, slave x masters basically (for now), no use of y/n, 1st person narrative

Summary: A greek woman has been stolen from her lands, Hellas, and in the midst of questioning her faith and destiny, she ends up before the feet of the emperors.

Word count: 1.9K

A/N: In this story there will appear a few words that's either ancient greek or latin (I study the languages, I know, super cool :ppp) - so I will make sure to add a little note once in a while when a new word pops up that I feel like is important for you to know. Though bare with me as I will not include some of the words... because not even the main character knows the meaning of the words sometimes.

In the worst cases: trust your gut. Believe me, when I say english isn't that far from latin.

This is the first story on my page, so please, if you like this chapter, show support by liking, reblogging and commenting. It'll really motivate me!! Thank you in advance <333 And now, I present chapter 1 of the story "For when you flower."

Dictionary for this chapter:

Hellas = the actual name of ancient greece Hellenes = the people of ancient greece (shoutout to that one ask for calling me out <333) Aphrike = the ancient greek name for Afrika Nemesis = both a god of justice, but mostly a term for revenge when greek had committed hybris - broken the rules given by the gods, which were made to keep the world in order

I was taken from my home.

Not too long ago I was in Hellas, the land of the gods. I was surrounded by my people, by our culture. A people who remained in pain of the filth stowed upon them day after day. A culture robbed of its riches. We were oppressed in our own home – but it was still ours. Ours to appreciate in the shadows, hidden from those not worthy of the glory. It was like one people of the other claimed our land as theirs. There was no peace other than in the dark hidden from the Persians and from the Romans.

It was in the shadows we allowed ourselves to continue our faith, to pray for mercy from the almighty gods. There was no justice outside in the light. Oh, how they dragged our names in the dirt.

It was in the shadows where the statues of the great remained, statues of the house gods to whom I owed my life. There was so much they could deprive us from but not hope. Not then in our land, Hellas.

I remember the day I received my prophecy. It did not speak of the agony I now find myself drowning in, no, it spoke of a resurrection of the people, of the belief.

I was to be an oracle. A hope. It had said: “A holy war in sight, only you can conquer with might. What’s been small and fragile in the past, will then flower from your hands.”

I was never the person to question the Gods intention – on the contrary I was honored to be given such kind words from those who we were taught to fear. I was looking forward to the day the prophecy would be fulfilled, the day were I was to serve the God of all good, sun and light, truth and prophecy, Apollo.

His name has lost all worth for I was brought out of the dark – not by will. And I cried. I cried a river but none of my prayers were heard.

It all changed the day the Romans came back.

I knew of the cruel nature of the Romans – of how they kidnapped and abused our land, but I was yet still too naive to think that they never would dare to touch the sacred, the ever so respected priests and priestess of the divine. They crushed the blest spirit, the day where light was shone on the serene shadows.

In truth I was only starting to understand the practices that were expected of me to perform. Rituals. I was yet to be the oracle, humble servant of Apollo. However, I still had a title to which previous Roman soldiers had respected and truly endeared.

I still remember the roman soldier that had asked for my guidance. Oh, how his eyes lit up as truth and prosperity embraced his whole. I showed him the way into the arms of Hera, Mother of Gods. Maybe he was lying – another mockery.

Hera, Apollo, where are you?

The event of my abduction is merely a night terror in my head by now, consuming my every thought; Every nerve jolting at the irreversible pain that had been caused by the filthy, the Romans. Every second has been a battle to actively try to suppress the memory of that day, that night, that month, that year. The only memory left by now was the change of weather from Hellas to Aphrike to Rome. The grief, the wicked and the filth. And that one man.

Hellenes is now barely a wrinkle in the dent of my cheek. An echo in the weariest of nights where sleep caresses me at last with promises of new hope, a new life. Something no God seemed to care to give to us anymore.

The Gods barely matter. That’s the truth. Today, as I sit with my hands tied, I believe that they were erased together with the rest of torment. Burnt, broken and beaten. I still pray, yes, but no longer with fear as they intended, no, it was disbelief and grief – and that was no righteous way of praying to the Gods I once knew, but it doesn’t matter. What horrid thing had I done that the Gods placed me in the hands of predators to obey? A feel of surrender not only towards Nemesis but also those I now call my masters, domini.

What a horrid word.

Today I sit behind bars with hardly anything to cover up the shame of my position. I have spent maybe a hundred days in this forsaken land, learning their dirty tongue in hopes of finding my eventual master. One, who I hope would have mercy. And perhaps today was the day the Gods finally hear my prayer, or maybe I’m still naive to hope.

I’m being transferred to a place, I have yet to understand the meaning of: Palatium. The name itself placed a heavy weight on my heart like a blanket of steel. I will not give up.

The slave trader waved our carriage away. By my side are other women as well as men, men of honor. All sit mute as If our tongues had been cut off, deaf as if our ears were burnt. In silence we agree that everything has seemed a blur since that day the free became the forced.

Around us men and women dressed in silk and tunics of pride bore at the sight of us. Those who would show interest were collectors which could be seen clear as day by their make-believe costumes of the people of Hellas, Hellenes. Us. They want us, not because of our personal value, the virtue which was supposedly given to us by the supposedly righteously gods, but because of our skin, our blood. They had that in common with the men, scouting gladiators in between our honest men, the heroes of Hellenes.

The injustice floods my already burning chest. My heart is beating but for what? Beating against the steel and iron like the drums of war. I bite my cheek as I feel the phantom sensation of tears flocking my arid eyes. Damn you, Gods. Despite the growing distrust I urge myself to mummer a prayer in our mother tongue with eyes squinted close: “I ask for your justice, righteous Dike, for your mercy on my soul and for whatever deed lead me here, Nemesis. Ares, I summon your war to these wasteful souls that do not honor your name. Oh, Zeus-“

“Quiet down.” The woman to the right mummer. “The Gods intended this. We will meet the ends of our suffering soon enough.” I could feel how I was quick to anger over how she sounded so reassuring – but mostly also how she was right. Peeking a look at her I meet not a woman, but the ghost of life displayed and laying across her pale face. She’s an old woman, probably not intended to see the light of day. Other than her wrinkles, there is no identity to be seen or studied. Her appearance no longer mirrors whatever woman she had been as her clothes are merely a used bag, her hair thin and shed, dead on her shoulder. She will likely be bought for nothing but labor. A prime example of a worthless slave in the eyes of the filthy.

My anger now replaced by pity. Sadness.

“Apologies.”  I slightly nod and purse my lips. I feel my eye twitch. I ponder of her name, but I choke on the words. Embarrassed, I lower my head.

The next thing I hear is a rustle. Perhaps she had read my thoughts, maybe not. A short moment of quiet follows as her hand caresses mine. Comforting. Motherly.

Maybe Hera is here after all.

Suddenly the world begins the spin as the carriage suddenly stops and puncturing whatever hope, the woman had planted and sown. Dizziness takes a hold of my consciousness. The world seems to blur once more. I feel my body become weak and heavy. Her hand on my cheek. Her shoulder next. She saves me from the floor. She holds up me upright.

Our movements become flashes. The world so dark. The next thing I know, I’m on marble floor.

The air here seems heavy and loaded with scents of war. It strikes and pokes my insides like spikes. Carefully I tip my head up to look around at the surroundings – only to meet the toes and the feet of a man, sandals of a noble.

“You brought a weakling into the house of gods?” The sandals huffed. “Surely, you must be pulling some kind of cruel joke.”

It’s like his voice barely made it through his gritted teeth but I cannot see. The muscles in my neck ache. But I feel her hand. The woman is still holding me. It calms my nerves, and I seem to forget the pain.

“And an old woman.” I watch the right foot tap and as it jingles with all its riches. “I cannot believe this… this… insult! This is an insult – towards the gods, let alone the emperors! What will they think?”

“I reassure you; she was fine a moment ago! One of our finest samples!” I recognize this voice to be the dealer, the man who bought me off the coast of Aphrike.

“How am I supposed to make any of these women presentable?” The sandals raised his voice slightly but were quickly to draw a breath. “Out.”

It sounds as if the words were venom, shooting from the teeth of a python. No doubt that this man has power.

“But-“

“No! I said out. Before the emperors see these-“

“See what?”

The atmosphere changes.

A new pair of sandals makes their way across the floor, scraping whatever dirt there is up. A pair of feet who seem too weak to bear the heavy burden of its body or its mind, erratic in its every move. And yet so weary and tired.

And then there were quiet.

It feels as if a minute passes by before any other word is being spilt. The burdened speaks again, marginally more distressed: “Speak up for I wish not to be left out.” The voice takes on a child-like attitude, one which knows no laughter, only squabble and snappiness of the upmost impatient kind. A part of me wishes to look and console this unfortunate soul.

The fancy sandals jerk. “Sorry, my emperor, I was just telling this joke of a seller off because of this abomination of a delivery. I assure you; I am picking only the upmost desirable for you. Ones in the best of health.”

A wish now broken.

“And what do you know about health?!” The voice snaps as if the sandals words truly had offended its entire bloodline – its apparent noble bloodline. Filth.

“That was not-“

“OUT!” It screeched. The sound of a blade rings in the room, making me lower my head by instinct. Blinking, I feel a pain ache in my heart flashing, not of physical pain but of pure agony within my soul. Memories, nightmares flash before me. The thick scent becomes recognizable. My dearest friend as of the last year. The smell of iron. Of blood. The only proof of life and of worth.

Once more it blurs. My soul cannot take this torture any further.

“Caracalla! Calm down!” Is the second to last thing I hear.

“Geta! He is-“ Is the last thing I hear.

I remember them faintly. Their names. The fear that infiltrated my home, my people.

The twin emperors; Geta and Caracalla.

Oh, how I resent them

Next chapter

[lananiscorner]

Reblogging this version and stealing the tags as well:

#i realized this when I was following#gen padalecki#she was talking about the garden#and livestock#and book clubs#and doing so many things with the boys#and i realized that if she had to work#like i have to work#and didn't have the money to hire people to do shit#she couldn't do all of that either#and then i unfollowed her#because it wasn't relevant to me#and was just making me feel bad about myself#even though i knew we were not on the same boat#she's in a yacht#and i'm in a rowboat#and you can't compare the two

This is so important, especially when it comes to body image.

If you ever find yourself looking at someone and thinking "damn, I wish I was as slim and toned as that insta model" or "damn, I wish I was built like that Navy Seal dude"... remember that this is literally PART OF THEIR JOB. You can't be an insta model without being slim and you can't be a spec ops soldier without being in excellent, buff shape. And as a result, people like that spend A LOT of hours in the gym. Like, a lot A LOT. And no, not off hours, after already working for 8+ hours a day like you with your desk job. If you are trying to emulate people like that while not being in that job, you are essentially trying to do two jobs at once. And that ain't a sustainable way to live (you can make it work, but good grief, at what cost...)

And any time you look at someone rich enough to afford somebody else to do their cooking and cleaning and child care? Dial your own expectations way the hell down, because those are freaking time sinks. There's a reason rich people hire other people to do that shit for them (because it's work--and unless you are rich it's work you HAVE TO do for free, because cooking is kind of important for eating and cleaning is kind of important for being healthy and if you don't take care of your kids they have a high risk of ending up dead).

I would also add to this that sometimes it really is too late/impossible to strive for something that you would like to be your top priority. I have asthma and I'm nearing 40. Even if I started working out right now, with the same diet and exercise regimen as a soldier, I would not be able to get that level of fitness, because 1) my lungs aren't build for that and 2) aging is a thing and my body's prime days are over.

And that sucks. Realizing that there are legit, unchangeable roadblocks to things you would like to make your priority SUCKS. And it's okay to be angry and frustrated about that for a while, and to grieve the opportunities you wish you had but never will. It's perfectly fine and normal and healthy. So long as you remember that grief is not a place to be forever. Life goes on. There's more beauty to find in the world and so much more to live for rather than wallowing in sadness forever.

So, if you find yourself with something that you want to make your priority, but cannot, for circumstances outside of your control, ask yourself "okay, but how much do I have to dial back the intensity to make it work and still have it be a top goal?"

One of my goals for this year is to go swimming again. I used to do that competitively. I would love to get back to that same level of intensity again, but 1) I am getting old, 2) I have a full-time job, and 3) it's not something I can just do at home anytime I want--I have to take a bus to the city swimming pool to get there and they ain't open 24/7. So no, I will not be swimming again with the same regularity and intensity as before, but I will try to find a time window that will work with my job and the commute and the opening hours and I will take as much swimming as I can get, because good grief, I miss the water.

One thing that has made me a much more well-adjusted person is a clip I once saw of Hank Green saying that anyone can be in amazing shape as long as being in amazing shape is one of their top three priorities.

(This is obviously a generalization that isn't true for everyone. But it is true for most people and I'm proceeding from there.)

This "top three priorities" framing has genuinely reduced my tendency toward jealousy and self-comparison a lot. Now when I feel envious of someone’s spotless, aesthetic home, I think to myself, “Having a spotless, aesthetic home is probably one of their top three priorities. It’s definitely not one of mine, so I shouldn’t expect my home to look like that.”

Or when I see an influencer with a body that takes a ton of work to maintain: “Maintaining that body is obviously one of her top three priorities, because it’s her livelihood. My livelihood is my brain, so I’m never going to prioritize my body like that.”

It also helps me to identify areas that I actually DO want to prioritize more. I realized in recent years that my envy for my friends who prioritized writing more than I did was NOT going away, so I started to prioritize writing more. (Not top three, but higher priority than it has been in the past.)

[sincerelyneo]

so high school | l.hc

“no one’s ever had me. not like you…”

📀now playing: so high school by taylor swift

❯ summary: Hyuck doesn’t care that high school was years ago; after learning his girlfriend’s experience was shitty, he’s determined to rewrite it for you. After all, he’s nothing if not smitten.

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, fluff, eventual smut

❯ words: 6.4k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni, swearing, fingering, dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), face fucking, exhibitionism, reader uses she/her pronouns, lots of gendered female terms, slight begging, brief possessiveness and jealousy bc it’s me, a brief cheating accusation but it’s stupid, hyuck being a cute boyfriend for 6k words.

an: did someone say haechan lover boy smut for valentine’s day? (they didn’t, lol. i wrote this for me, i love men in love)

“I fucking loved high school,” Hyuck says, placing down his yearbook on the coffee table.

It had to be a few years old by now, stuffed at the back of one of your bookshelves. You’d found it while doing an annual declutter and handed it to him on a whim. Knowing your boyfriend, you figured he’d find it nostalgic, or funny, or both.

You glance at him from your spot on the couch, eyebrow arched. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shifts, sitting up straighter.

“You were on the football team, babe. Voted prom king, had good grades, and probably never had to eat lunch alone,” you list off, counting on your fingers for dramatic effect. “I’d be shocked if you did hate high school.”

He laughs with a shake of his head, sinking back further into the sofa. “Okay, fine, maybe I was a little... popular.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh slips out before you can help it. “A little? I bet you walked through the hallways like you were the lead in a drama or something stupid like that.”

He nods. “Damn right. I was the shit.”

You scoff, tossing a pillow in his direction. He’s such a cocky bastard—but you love that about him.

“Jealous?” he shoots back, smirking.

You try to playfully roll your eyes, but instead, a small frown pulls at your lips. You know he’s just teasing, messing around, but memories of junior and senior year creep into your mind uninvited. You’d never been outright bullied, but high school wasn’t exactly a highlight reel for you. 

It was a blur of sitting in the back row, trying to make yourself small enough to avoid attention. Lunches alone in the library. No group of friends. No teenage dream. Dances you skipped, pretending you didn’t care when your chest ached from watching your classmates gush over photos the Monday after.

So yeah, you were a little jealous.

“Yes, actually,” you say finally, voice quieter. “High school sucked for me.”

His grin falters, posture straightening. “What?”

“I mean, it wasn’t all bad,” you rush to explain, suddenly self-conscious. “I got through it, you know? I just wasn’t... you.”

Hyuck leans back, studying you with a look you don’t see often on him—concern, worry. “What do you mean you weren’t me?”

“I wasn’t popular or cool or good at sports. I didn’t have a big friend group, and I definitely didn’t win prom queen…not that I even went.”

Hyuck doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally glance up, you find him staring at you with an expression you can’t quite place. There’s no teasing glint in his eyes, no cocky smile playing at his lips. He just looks... sad.

“Wait,” he says, his voice softer now. “You didn’t go to prom?”

You shrug. “Didn’t really have anyone to go with.”

He blinks at you like you just told him you spent your teenage years stranded on a deserted island, which for the likes of Hyuck, not attending prom was the justified equivalent. 

“Are you serious?”

“Hyuck, it’s not a big deal,” you say quickly, waving him off. “High school just wasn’t my thing.”

“Not a big deal?” he repeats. “Babe, prom is like... the peak of high school. It’s the one night everyone remembers forever. How did no one ask you? I can’t wrap my head around that.”

You can’t help but laugh, despite the tightness in your chest. “Not everyone peaked in high school, Hyuck. Some of us just... took it for what it was: school.”

His expression softens even more, guilt creeping into his features as he scoots closer, his thigh brushing yours. “You know you deserved better than that, right?”

“Hyuck—”

“I mean it,” he says firmly, cupping your face in his hands. “If I’d been there, you would’ve been my prom queen. Hell, I’d have skipped the whole damn thing just to hang out with you if you didn’t wanna go.”

The honeyed warmth in his voice makes your throat tighten, and you hate how easily he can do this—take the ache of old memories and replace it with something softer, lighter. Something you almost want to believe.

“Too bad we didn’t meet until after high school,” you say, forcing a smile.

Hyuck falters—but only for a moment. His gaze lingers on you as if a thought is forming behind his dark eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against your forehead. “Too bad.”

You don’t think anything of it when he pulls you into his chest, resting his chin on your head as the conversation drifts elsewhere. But later, when he’s holding you close and you’re half-asleep, Hyuck is still thinking. Planning.

Because Lee Donghyuck might not be able to rewrite your past, but he’s damn sure going to be the best part of your future—trust. 

Hyuck just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The coolest person he’d ever met—his girlfriend, his soulmate—hadn’t gotten to live the high school teenage dream. No prom, no stupid corsages, no dancing barefoot at the end of the night because the heels were too much. Nothing.

It didn’t make sense. You were too fucking beautiful to be treated as background noise by those losers. Hyuck remembers the day he met you—a fully grown man—and you made him a stuttering mess. He’s never asked Mark for flirting advice ever in his life, but fuck, he wasn’t about to miss his chance with you. 

How could they just disregard you?

He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. How did no one ask you out? Were they blind? Or just stupid? What kind of idiot couldn’t see what he saw every day?

The thought of you sitting at home on prom night, like it didn’t matter, made his chest ache. He couldn’t picture it—because you were you, the type of person every cheesy teen movie was written about: beautiful, funny, and so damn perfect. And yet... those assholes in high school had somehow missed it.

And even though the sick, selfish, possessive side of him is so fucking grateful that he’s the only one that’s ever had you, and those assholes missed out, he still can’t help but obsess over it. He couldn’t change the past, no matter how much he wanted to, and that realization burned. 

Hyuck groans, tipping his head back. “I’m losing it,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

But he couldn’t let it go. And because he was Lee fucking Donghyuck, when something got under his skin, he acted on it. Which is why, two days later, he finds himself standing in the middle of a small-town gymnasium, arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the scene in front of him.

“Is this the best you can do?” he asks, unimpressed.

Mark, balancing precariously on a ladder while stringing up fairy lights, glares down at him. “Dude, shut the fuck up,” he snaps. “You gave us two days to put this together. Do you even know how hard it was to convince the principal? I had to name-drop you!” 

Hyuck ignores him, his eyes sweeping over the room again. Mark wasn’t wrong—he had given his friends next to no time to work with. But that didn’t stop him from wanting it to be perfect. You deserved perfect.

A cheap speaker sits on the ground, currently blasting some old prom playlist Mark had found online. The string lights slowly started taking shape, casting a soft glow across the gym. There is a table in the corner with a bowl of something pink and suspicious-looking, and a few chairs scattered around. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either.

Mark climbs down from the ladder, dusting his hands on his jeans. “I think it looks fine.”

“Fine?” Hyuck repeats, scoffing. “Mark, this is a high school prom. It’s supposed to be magical or whatever. This just looks like... a school event.”

“Because it is a school event,” Mark shoots back, rolling his eyes. “Look, man, if you wanted a five-star gala, maybe you shouldn’t have sprung this on me last minute.”

Hyuck sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t trying to be an ass, but he wanted, needed, to do this for you. You’d brushed off your high school experience like it was no big deal, but he could tell it meant something to you. Maybe not in a way you wanted to admit, but it was there.

And now it was his job—no, his mission—to fix it.

“Just... add more lights,” Hyuck says finally. “And maybe some balloons? Chenle, do we have balloons?”

Chenle, who was sweeping the floors, looked back with a shake of his head, scurrying off before he got caught in the crossfire. 

Mark groans. “Hyuck, if we add any more lights, the entire gym’s gonna blow a fuse. And no, we don’t have balloons. You’re lucky I even managed to get lights.”

Hyuck sighs again, running a hand through his hair. He had money, sure—that was the only reason he’d managed to rent out the gym on such short notice—but even he couldn’t buy time.

Still, as he looked around the gym, he felt a flicker of pride. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. He’d move mountains for you if he had to. And if this half-assed prom was the closest he could get, then so be it.

Mark claps a hand on his shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Hey,” he says, softer now. “She’s gonna love it, dude. Stop stressing out.”

Hyuck nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

Your boyfriend’s acting weird. Well, weirder than usual.

Hyuck’s always been a little odd—but that’s one of the things you love about him. The endless hobbies he picks up and abandons in a week like juggling, the random facts he collects from late-night YouTube rabbit holes, and his never-ending need to one-up his friends in bets and challenges. But this? This feels different. Like it’s more than some dumb dare or fleeting obsession.

For the past two days, he’s been unusually secretive. You’ve caught him whispering with Mark on the phone more than once, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush whenever you’d walk into the room. And then there was yesterday—when you brought coffee to his rehearsal. You barely stepped inside before the entire group went awkwardly silent, and Hyuck practically herded you back out the door. Hyuck, who usually couldn’t keep his hands off you in public and loved showing you off, suddenly turning shy…suspicious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

And let’s not forget the disappearing act last night. He came home late, shrugging off your questions with a grin and the vague excuse of “guy stuff.” Guy stuff. That was the moment you knew something was up.

And so, you’ve been sitting on the couch, stewing, waiting for him to get home from rehearsal. The seconds drag, and with each passing minute, your frustration builds. By the time you hear the jingle of his keys in the door, you’re ready to burst.

Hyuck stumbles in, his hair slightly mussed, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. He looks exhausted but excited, strange. He barely gets a foot inside before you’re on him.

“Are you cheating on me?”

His jaw drops, the grin on his face disappearing instantly, eyes blinking at you like you’ve just accused him of arson. You’d honestly prefer it if he had. “What?! No! Why would you even—what the fuck?”

“You’ve been acting so weird!” you snap, crossing your arms. “The sneaky phone calls, the late nights, the whispering, the weird excuses—guy stuff? Do you think I was born yesterday?”

That makes him laugh and you swear you see red. He thinks this is funny? You’ll show him funny. 

“If you wanted to break up with me, Hyuck, don’t insult me by sneaking around! Just—just tell me to my face!” Your voice wavers, hurt bubbling in your throat as you glare at him.

Hyuck’s expression softens instantly, his eyebrows furrowing. “Hey, hey, wait—babe, no. That’s not what’s happening here, I swear.”

You narrow your eyes, pointing at the garment bag. “Oh yeah? What’s that, then? Some outfit for your other girlfriend?”

His mouth drops open, and then he barks out a laugh, though he quickly smothers it when he sees your glare. “No! Oh my God, no. Look, just… this isn’t how I wanted to do this,” he pinches his temples “Could you just go upstairs and put this on, okay?” He holds the bag out to you, practically shoving it into your hands.

“Excuse me?” you quirk an eyebrow.

“Just—trust me, babe. Please. Go upstairs, put this on, and come back down when you’re ready.”

You stand there, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. Because he must have. “Hyuck, I am not—”

“Please,” he interrupts, his voice softer now. “Just this once. Do this for me. It’ll all make sense.”

His eyes meet yours, and for all the frustration boiling under your skin, you can’t ignore the quiet sincerity in his voice. Because even though his recent actions have been enough to make your paranoia spike, he’s still your Hyuck—and you trust your Hyuck.

With a sharp huff, you snatch the garment bag from his hands and stomp upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind you before he can say another word. Your pulse is racing, irritation curling hot in your chest as you yank the zipper down and pull the dress out with more force than necessary.

It’s beautiful. And that pisses you off even more.

Who does he think he is? Sneaking around all week, ignoring you for days, then showing up with a pretty dress and expecting you to put it on without question?

Annoying. He’s so annoying.

Still scowling, you step into the dress, the silky fabric gliding over your skin like it was made for you, and knowing Hyuck he’d probably ask someone to do that for him. It fits perfectly, hugging every curve, and when you catch your reflection in the mirror, your anger stutters—just for a second. It’s beautiful. You look beautiful.

Damn it.

You swipe at your eyes before anything ridiculous like tears can form and square your shoulders. Fine. You’ll wear the dress. But you’re not going to let him off the hook so easily. Throwing the door open, you march downstairs, irritation simmering beneath the surface of your foundation. “Lee Donghyuck, you better—”

But you freeze.

Because he’s standing at the bottom of the steps in an equally beautiful suit, rocking on his heels, with a small, nervous smile playing on his lips. He’s holding a corsage in his hands—delicate flowers wrapped in silk, matching your dress perfectly.

And then, all at once, it clicks.

That fucking yearbook you found. The conversation that came after it. The sneaking around. The secrecy. 

Your breath catches in your throat, warmth creeping up your neck as a blush dusts his skin. He chews his lip, eyes flickering up to meet yours, and if you didn’t know him any better, you’d swear he was nervous.

Hyuck never gets nervous.

“Do you wanna rewrite prom with me?”

And just like that, you break.

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them, and Hyuck’s smile falters just slightly as he steps forward, hand reaching out to you, as if he’s ready to catch you, to hold you close, if you were to fall. But you don’t fall. You just nod, because it feels impossible to do anything else.

How could you say no to him? How could you possibly deny the one person in the world who would do something like this for you—not because he had to, but because he wanted to, because he loves you to a point you never thought possible because he needs you to be happy.

“I love you,” you choke out through your happy tears, the words tumbling from your lips before you can stop them.

Hyuck’s worry shifts into something warmer, something softer. He steps closer, brushing his thumb gently against your cheek to wipe away the tear.

“Does that mean we’re not breaking up, then?” His voice is teasing, but there’s a tenderness underneath, a soft hope in his eyes that mirrors the love you just confessed.

Your heart skips a beat, and you nod through blurry eyes, a small smile breaking through. “Not even close.”

His face splits into the brightest grin you’ve ever seen, and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you into his arms, rocking you side to side like he’s never going to let go. It’s overwhelming—the warmth of him, the scent of his cologne, the steady beat of his heart against your ear. And for once, you let yourself lean into it, let yourself feel just how much he loves you, because God, does he know how to show it.

“I love you too, you know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, meant just for you. “Like, stupidly. Like, I’m gonna remind you every day until you’re sick of me, because I never want you to think I’m cheating on you ever again.”

You huff a laugh, sniffling. “I don’t think I could ever be sick of you.”

“Mm, we’ll see about that.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, taking in the glassiness in your eyes, the heat in your cheeks. Then, with a smirk, he presses the corsage into your hands. “Your favourite colour.”

“Now,” he says, stepping back and offering his arm, “if we don’t leave soon, Mark might actually rip my balls off.”

It takes you a second to register what he means, and when you glance past him, you see Mark leaning against his car, arms crossed, exuding pure suffering. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, but you know your Hyuck can be very convincing. 

“Are you two done?” Mark calls, exasperated. “Because I have better things to do than play chauffeur for your little rom-com tonight.”

“Liar!” Hyuck yells, dragging you toward the car. “If you weren’t here, you’d be playing video games with Chenle or something. Your life is boring and bitchless!”

Mark groans but doesn’t deny it.

“Wait! One more thing,” Hyuck gasps, stopping you just as you’re about to step into the car. Before you can question it, he’s already sprinting back inside. A few seconds later, he bursts through the door, holding up a letterman jacket that doesn’t match your old school’s colours, but his. 

And when he drapes it over your shoulders, his fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary, his gaze catches on his surname stitched across your back. His cheeks flush that familiar shade of pink, and for once, he’s the one left speechless.

You clutch your hands to the jacket, making sure it doesn’t fall off and you can’t stop smiling. Because even though he was just being a fouled-mouthed menace to his friend. He’s clearly only ever sweet and soft with you. Hyuck opens the car door for you and he slides in beside you, lacing his fingers through yours like it’s second nature, like they belong. You look down at your joined hands, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin, and warmth blooms in your chest.

The corsage, the letterman, the chauffeur to prom. It’s silly. It’s cheesy. It’s the kind of thing you used to roll your eyes at in movies as a teenager. But right now, with him, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. Because he’s rewriting how you feel about the cheesy stuff, giving you the giddy, reckless kind of love you never got to have. 

Letting his hand rest on your thigh, making you stifle your sighs as it slowly crept up your flesh. His touch is heedless and uncaring as if Mark wasn’t inches away in the front seat. It’s compulsive, carless, and so ridiculously juvenile—it’s so high school.

Which feels very on-brand as you pull up to an old brick building. Mark cuts the engine, allowing Hyuck to round the car and open your car door before holding your hand tight and walking you towards the football field.

So many memories flooded back to you as soon as he opened the gate that led to the field. Heels on the grass, on the sacred sanctuary you never had the chance to belong on. Suddenly you’re sixteen again and Hyuck leds you over to the bleachers, climbing up several rows before taking a seat and pulling you down next to him. 

"Are we trespassing right now?" you ask, slipping your arms into his letterman to ward off the winter chill. "I know you love me, but you don’t have to commit a crime for me."

Hyuck scoffs, a playful smirk on his lips. "Please, you know I wouldn’t think twice about committing a crime for you if you asked me to." He pauses, then adds, "But no, we’re not trespassing. This is my old high school, and since I'm such an outstanding alumni, I had some strings pulled. They left me the key for tonight."

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile. "So they did all this just for you, huh?"

“Don’t look at me like that, this is for us.”

"Uh-huh," you tease. "I must say, knowing how to ball in high school seems to have its perks. I was in the wrong clubs clearly. You’re basically the only person I know who managed to continue peaking after high school."

Hyuck’s smile falters, a flicker of something sad crossing his face. His eyes drift downward, and you catch that same troubled look he had when you found his yearbook—when he learned how different your high school experiences were. You don’t want him to feel like that, not when he’s trying so hard to fix it. But you don’t want him to fix it either, because as messed up as your teenage years were, they led you to him. No one’s ever had you. Not like him anyway. 

You slide your hand over his, squeezing gently as you move closer. “You didn’t have to do all this for me, you know?”

Hyuck chuckles, that flicker of sadness vanishing as quickly as it came. “Don’t say that. You haven’t even seen what I’ve got planned inside yet. I had all the boys stressed over fairy lights and balloons all week.”

Knowing how much effort he’s put in makes you smile, your fingers drifting up to trace the curve of his cheek. He’s so beautiful. So in love. So undeniably yours.

“I’m excited to see it,” you say. “But right now, I just want to be here. Is that okay? I never really got to hang out on the bleachers.”

“Will you yell at me if I say that a sick part of me loves that you never cheered for other guys playing football?”

You shake your head with a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, undeterred. “Yeah, I wanna kill those assholes for never inviting you to a game, for not taking you to prom. But I also love that I get to be the one to do it with you. Even if we’re adults.”

You bite your lip, feigning hesitation. “Well, I have some information I think you might like.”

Hyuck raises a brow. “Oh?”

“I always wanted to make out under the bleachers,” you admit, heat creeping up your neck. “Call me cliché, but when I was a freshman, I imagined having my first kiss with Lee Felix under there.”

His nose crinkles instantly. “I don’t know who that is, but I hate him.” Hyuck scoffs, but his hands are already sliding around your waist, pulling you closer. “Still… this night is about me making your fantasies come true. So fuck that guy and let me kiss you, baby.”

And you do—let his lips capture yours, kissing you until they’re swollen and puffy, until they mould perfectly to his, like they were always meant to. Until there’s no doubt that they, and you, belong to him.

Hyuck wastes no time, scooping you into his arms with ease, carrying you into the shadows beneath the rickety metal frame. And then his lips are on yours again—hungry, unrelenting. It’s everything you ever imagined. No—better. Because it’s him and you. 

His hand trails up your body as he presses you against one of the cold metal pillars, calloused fingers graze your thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Years of football have roughened his touch, but it’s the way he holds you—like he can’t get enough, like he never will—that really makes your breath hitch. And you almost want to laugh, because you’re pretty sure most people fuck after prom, not before it. But this is you and Hyuck. You’ve never played by the rules, never followed the scripted path. You never wanted to.

And that’s exactly why a soft, desperate “Please,” slips from your lips as his fingers venture higher, until they’re brushing against the hem of your panties.

“Cute,” he smiles and murmurs against your lips, grinning as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, his cool touch grazing your clit. You shiver, and it only makes him that more pleased—more proud. His other hand glides up your stomach, sneaking beneath your dress until he’s palming your breast, his thumb teasing over your nipple.

“You know…” he muses, voice dripping with amusement, “I paid good money for this dress. It’d be a shame to ruin it.”

“Please. You’d never buy me a dress you didn’t plan on ruining.”

Hyuck giggles, shaking his head, but before you can run that smart mouth of yours again, his finger slips so easily into your pussy, and you gasp, clinging to his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your ear, voice thick with need. “I love that you know me so well.”

His fingers keep working you, desperate and wild—because if you know Hyuck so well, he knows you even better. Knows your body like it’s his to worship. And when he adds a second finger, stretching you open, pleasure floods through you so intensely your eyes flutter shut, your head tipping back as a moan catches in your throat.

But that won’t do.

Hyuck likes to watch you. Likes to see the way your lips part, the way your brows knit together, the way your pupils blow wide with nothing but him. He wants you to know—no, needs you to know—that he’s the one making you feel this good. That it’s his touch unravelling you, his name you should be thinking about, whimpering, crying out.

So the second your lashes flicker, his fingers slow, teasing, withholding. You whimper, forced to open your eyes again, hazy and weak—just the way he likes them—just the way he needs them to be before he picks up his pace.

He’s meticulous, careful—determined to make you cum right here, right now. If your fantasy was just to make out under the bleachers, Hyuck is going to take it further, push it past anything you ever imagined. He’s going to make you cum here, again and again, until this moment is burned into your memory. Until you can never think about high school, about this field, about these bleachers, without thinking about him. About the way he touched you. About the way he made it perfect. He always makes everything perfect. 

“Need you to cum all over my fingers, pretty girl. Come on,” he murmurs, pinching your clit as he tries to coax an orgasm out of you. And it doesn’t take long. The honeyed rasp of his voice, the relentless rhythm of his fingers, the way his eyes stay locked on yours—it’s all too much. You shatter around him with a high-pitched moan.

“Atta girl,” he breathes, watching you with nothing but admiration. “So fucking pretty when you cum for me.”

Your mind is fuzzy, his words melting into white noise as you come down from your high on shaky legs. If it weren’t for the pillar at your back, you’re certain you’d be a puddle on the floor. Hyuck holds you close, his hand stroking your hair as he murmurs soft praises against your ear—something about being so pretty, so good, so his. But all you can focus on is the growing bulge in his pants, the evidence of just how much he wants you. A bulge you put there. One you’re aching to take care of.

You start to drop to your knees, and he sucks in a breath, his eyes locked on yours.

“Stop,” he commands harshly, stepping back as if something’s shifted. It forces you to stand up straight again, confusion crossing your face.

“Don’t you want me to—”

“Oh, I fucking want you to, and you’re going to,” he growls. Then, he peels off his suit jacket and drapes it on the concrete floor between you two. “Now, you can get on your knees for me, Y/N,” he orders, his voice rough and commanding, but then it cracks, desperately. “Please.”

You lower yourself onto his suit jacket, kneeling before him, palms pressing firmly against his thighs. His erection is hard, straining through his suit pants, but he’s waited—waited until he knew you’d be most comfortable because that’s just who he is. 

“Look at you,” he says, running his thumb over your mouth. “Puffy lips parted and ready for me. Big fucking eyes, so innocent, so needy.”

“Only for you, Hyuck,” you breathe softly as you start undoing his belt and his jaw visibly ticks.

You’ve sucked his cock before—of course you have, and you love it. And still, he looks at you like it’s the first time, nostrils flaring, pupils dilated, as he drinks in every detail of your eagerness. He’s so hungry to feel you, to get lost in you—so feral.

Using his forefinger, he lifts your chin, forcing your chin and attention on him. “I know, baby. Only me. Always me.”

You run your tongue over your lower lip, and he tracks the entire thing, looking like some kind of predator.

“Take it out.”

You comply, dropping his pants to his ankles and tugging his boxer briefs down with them. His cock springs free, angry veins visible and the tip glistening. The sight of his straining cock right in front of you pulls this desperate sound from deep in his throat. He traces every inch of your face as if he plans to paint it soon, and you’d let him.

His palm glides over your head again, fingers weaving through your hair, cupping the back of your skull to keep you anchored in place. Rough and dominant—just how he likes it, and just how you crave it.

“I need to fuck your mouth, baby. Seeing you cum in my letterman has got me so damn hard. I need this pretty mouth,” he whimpers as his palm rests on your scalp. “You’re gonna let me do that aren’t you? Because you’re such a good fucking girl.”

You nod and squirm in anticipation, using the tip of your tongue to lick a path over his slit, savouring the salty taste from the bead of precum. His eyes instantly roll back and you grip his shaft with one hand and lick a path from root to tip.

“Mmm,” he hums. “Just like that,” he hisses between his teeth as his entire body vibrates.

You look up at him, fluttering your lashes over heavy eyes. Because the only thing Hyuck craves more than his own pleasure is the sight of yours. You round your lips, sucking him in slowly. Your head bobs as you work your tongue in sync with your lips, but he’s so big, a fact you’ll never get used to. He hits the back of your throat and you hold him there, swallowing around his tip, tears welling at the corners of your eyes as your throat tightens with a gentle choke.

"Fuck—" He lurches forward, one hand gripping the pillar for support while the other tugs at your hair, pulling you off him just long enough to catch your breath—because he's nothing if not considerate.

Hyuck runs his thumb by the corner of your eye, gathering the moisture that pooled there.

“I’m ruining your makeup,” he muses, lips curling into a smirk. “I had prom pictures planned.”

A blush creeps on your cheeks, “We don’t have to take them.”

“We’re taking them.” There’s no question in his tone. It’s simply a statement. A demand. “Then I’m keeping a copy in my wallet, so next time I’m on tour, fisting my cock, I can think about you. About this."

You nod, breath hitching. "O-okay."

"Okay." His thumb drags over your lip again, teasing until you part for him, wrapping around it. He presses down, tugging lightly. "So agreeable. So obedient. Aren’t you?"

"Yes," you breathe.

His smirk deepens. "Good. So you'll keep sucking my cock, won't you?"

You don’t even bother with words—too eager to please, too determined to finish what you started. Your fingers wrap around him, stroking once before you take him back into your mouth, sucking deep before pulling off with a lewd pop. Then you do it again, following his cues, giving him exactly what you know he loves. A slow flick of your tongue along the underside of his head, a firm squeeze as you cup his balls, and then you’re taking him to the back of your throat. His entire abdomen tenses. His breathing turns ragged.

"Fuck." His curse is sharp as he pulls back, just enough to look at you. "I’m gonna cum. You gonna let me cum in your mouth, baby?"

You nod eagerly, mascara streaking your cheeks, spit glistening at the corner of your lips. "Please, Hyuck."

His smirk is wicked. "Are you gonna be a good little girlfriend and swallow it all for me?"

You nod—far too enthusiastically.

"Good. Now, take a deep breath, baby—'cause it’s the last one you’re getting for a while."

He runs a gentle thumb over your cheekbone before guiding your head forward. Your lips part instinctively, wrapping around him as he sets the pace, fucking your mouth with a steady rhythm. His palms cover your ears, his hips roll with precision—nothing but pure pleasure as he chases his high. And you let him. You take it, let him use you because he’s done all of this for you tonight. Because he deserves his reward.

Truthfully, watching Hyuck unravel beneath you—knowing you’re the one making him this needy, this desperate to cum—is your own reward. Because seeing him lost in pure bliss is the hottest thing you’ve ever witnessed.

Your fingernails dig into his skin, leaving faint crescents as he keeps his pace—steady, deliberate—but always mindful, always making sure you can breathe. He checks in with his eyes, just like you said—considerate.

You moan around his length, hips shifting instinctively, searching for friction. And of course, Hyuck notices. He always notices.

"Are you getting turned on from sucking me off, Y/N?" he taunts, through a tight restraint breath. "So wet, even after I already made you cum." He pulls out of your mouth, gaze dark. "Show me. Show me how wet sucking my cock has made you.”

Heat prickles your skin as you reach under your dress, the one he bought, and gather your arousal on two fingers. You bring them up, letting him see the proof, the evidence of just how much you want him.

“Fuck,” he growls, as deep brown eyes turn black as they lock on your fingers. “So fucking obedient.” 

Hyuck leans in, grasping your wrist before guiding your fingers into his mouth. His tongue flicks over the tips, slow and careful, savouring the taste—the proof of how badly he’s wrecked you. Of how much you like him, love him. 

He nods toward his cock, covered in your saliva, hard and twitching, ready to cum. "Make me cum, baby. Please."

You hold his eye contact, grip his cock, and bring your mouth back to cover him. He moans, head falling back, and you work his length with your mouth and hand, doing your best to take what you can’t handle. It doesn’t take long until his hips jerk in short, sloppy movements. His breath comes out in ragged gasps, moans soft but pitched, the sound of him unravelling.

“Y/N,” he cries out your name in a whimper of desperation. One hand finds yours, holding it tenderly, while the other braces on the pillar behind you. Then, he cums—hard.

He tries to keep his eyes locked on yours, because that’s his favourite part, but the sensation overwhelms him, and he has to shut them. Every muscle in his body tightens as hot, forceful pulses hit the back of your throat.

“So pretty like this,” he pants breathlessly. “Mouth full of my cum.” The pad of his thumb traces down the line of your throat. “You’re gonna swallow it, aren’t you?”

It’s not a question, and you don’t hesitate. You swallow all of him, but it’s not enough. You need more—need him inside of you.

“Fuck me, please, Hyuck.”

He shakes his head, a teasing smile tugging at his lips and then he laughs. He uses the hand he’s had entangled with yours to pull you up to your feet, steadying you gently. “I can’t. Not here.”

You pout, disappointed, your body aching for him. “Why not?”

His smile widens as he adjusts your dress, pulling the fabric down to cover you properly, the moment feeling suddenly too sweet considering he was just fucking your throat.

“Because,” he draws out playfully, “I planned a prom, and like all cheesy teenagers, I don’t plan to fuck you here.”

You quirk a brow, crossing your arms across your body. But before you can say anything, Hyuck fumbles with his suit jacket, dropping to the floor to search the pockets. His hands hover for a second before he pulls out a room key, holding it up like some kind of trophy.

You scoff with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Very cliché.”

He grins at you. “I think we have pictures to take.”

[apricotbuncakes]

[ID: Screenshot of Tumblr tags that read "#sigh this is the universe sending me a message (I'm on day 8 of binding for like 13 hours every day) #and i wonder why it hurts to breath #aaaaaaa #gender shit" End ID]

Ooooookaaaaaaah, big brother time.

So. Here are some things that I have learned to help me not bind as much. Note how I didn't claim this will make you less dysphoric. These won't work for everyone, but they did work for me.

1) Use neutral language about your breasts. Not like gender neutral language (though that may help too). What I mean is don't use negative language like "I hate my chest" or "my chest is bad". Yes I know those phrases are basic. But framing your chest in a neutral way may help you to not see it as a chore that needs maintained constantly and may help you feel less guilty about not binding or 'preforming' your gender (aka: presenting in a way that others expect).

2) Remember that you don't owe anyone a certain look or level of effort from your body. Not binding because it hurts and or you can't/don't want to doesn't mean you 'aren't trying hard enough' or 'aren't really trans'. If anyone tells you otherwise, they're a fucking dick who doesn't care about your health and you shouldn't care about them or their opinion. Your health and safety is more important than the approval of some dick whose allyship is conditional to you being the perfect tranny for them. And I mean that with all the love I'm my heart: If someone thinks you performing their ideal version of you is more important than you being safe and healthy, They 👏 Don't 👏 Deserve 👏 Your 👏 Love 👏 Or 👏 Attention! 👏 👏 👏

3) Don't bind at home in your room. Get used to being topless in your room. Literally, I've been topless in my room since my second year of highschool. I actually get a sense of euphoria from not having to wear a shirt in an environment where it's completely legal to do so. It's part of how I reframed how I look at my chest. I no longer hate myself for having a large chest, though I know I'll still feel so much happier when I have top surgery next month.

4) Have a 'lazy' binder. For me, that's a 'binder' that is loose and comfortable. It doesn't necessarily 'bind' me, but it's not a bra either. Ideally you have a nice binder and a lazy binder, but if you can only afford one, a loose tank top can also substitute as a lazy binder for you to wear under your shirts. This lazy binder is for you to put on when you can't bind 'properly' but you still need your brain to accept that you've 'put in the effort'. It's a lot less restrictive, but still provides enough support that your chest doesn't feel completely exposed.

5) Convince yourself that other people are just unobservant. Make a list of qualities that you consider gender affirming, and if someone misgenders you, think of that list and tell yourself "Pssh! That person is so dumb for not noticing [list of gender affirming qualities] that clearly signal I'm [gender identity here]." Don't remind yourself that you aren't binding or punish yourself for not 'doing better'. Just pretend that other people are ignoring the very obvious signs of you being your gender. (Literally, this has prevented me from crying at work).

6) If you can't take off your binder (because you're at work or school or wherever), try putting it on later in the day instead of trying to take it off before your event is scheduled to end. Wear extra layers when you go to wherever it is and then slip off the the bathroom to put it on. That way you don't use some of your binding time during the commute to the event.

Or if you're like me, get really good at putting on your binder under your clothes. You probably shouldn't be able to do that, but some people are also broke like me and can't afford to get a new binder every time the old one gets a little stretched out. I get it.

Final reminder that your health and safety is just as important as your joy and euphoria. Binders are a tool to help us achieve euphoria, but like any other tool they can hurt you when used incorrectly. Take care of yourself. Listen to your body.

This is coming from someone who learned too little too late that binding incorrectly will seriously hurt you. I can barely bind for more than a couple hours now without feeling some kind of discomfort, and some days I can't bind at all because it just hurts that bad to wear a binder. Do not follow in my footsteps. Please take better care of yourself than I did.

Fact #1047: The advice to not bind your chest for more than 8 hours at the time is not some transphobic conspiracy to foce you to experience dysphoria. It is advice given to you for your own safety. As mentally uncomfortable it might be to be without a binder, physically you need to give your ribcage a break.

[livelaughlou]

little Louliver fic while I procrastinate on working on schoolwork? @cjlouwho and @louvemeanyway encouraged this and they probably don't even remember. Inspired by Lou's latest Instagram dancing post. Which I HAVE NOT watched like 50 times.

louliver (rpf) - words: 600-ish - Rating: mature (probably bordering on explicit) - complete

cw: edging

Once Shanna kicks him out of her house, he heads home and hops in the shower. When he gets out, the text is waiting for him.

It's a link to the Instagram post and under it, Oliver has put wtf is wrong with you.

Lou can't help it, he snorts a laugh at his phone and types just having fun. we're not all British snobs.

The response is an immediate rude. come open the door.

He frowns, before he can respond, Oliver sends him a picture of his front door.

He grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist, rushing out to the front door and pulling it open to see Oliver leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. His curls are in full force and he's still wearing a pair of sunglasses, which he pulls down his nose to give Lou a once over.

Lou raises an amused eyebrow, but holds the front door open. "Can I help you?"

Oliver pushes past him, swiping a hand across the knot of the towel. "I'm bored."

"That's my problem, how?"

Oliver snorts. "Oh, come on, you love entertaining me."

"Seems like I wasn't the only one who was entertained," Lou teases as he moves back up the stairs to get dressed.

Oliver follows him just like he knew he would. "You were twerking to Kendrick Lamar!"

Lou laughs. "Actually, it was not Kendrick Lamar at the time, Shanna added that to the video after."

"Oh," Oliver says as they get to his bedroom. "What was it?"

Lou drops the towel. "Not telling."

Oliver's grin turns sassy and bratty and Lou has yet to tell him this, but he especially loves him this way, when Lou knows he's going to be a little shit.

He moves toward him, runs a finger down his chest. "Bet I could make you."

Lou grabs his hips, pulls him in until their lips are just about to touch, then he says in a low voice that he knows drives Oliver insane, "Try me."

Oh, yep, there's that little shiver, but Lou doesn't have time to gloat when Oliver kisses him, all teeth and tongue, but it's over too quickly.

At first anyway. Instead, Oliver moves kisses down along his jaw, down his neck, their stubble scraping together as neither of them bothers shaving if they're not working that day and it feels fucking amazing.

Oliver moves further down, licks a nipple, then stops to look at him. "How about now?"

Lou exhales, tries to keep his composure but he knows it's a losing battle. They've been doing this long enough that they know what each other's tells are, how to drive each other crazy. It's honestly the most fun in a relationship he's ever had.

"Sorry," Lou breathes. "Not good enough."

Oliver snorts, licks the other nipple. "You're a yapper, love. I'll get you to talk."

Lou knows he will, but why make it easy on him?

He's soon pushed onto the bed and Oliver is settling contentedly between his spread thighs, looking for all the world like he's exactly where he wants to be.

He wraps a hand around Lou's cock, strokes it just once and it's fucking torture.

Oliver just looks at him with a raised eyebrow of his own. There's a curl falling on his forehead and Lou reaches forward to push it away.

"You're super cute," Lou says, voice still far too breathy for his liking. "But nope."

Oliver bends down and puts his mouth to use, over and over, starting and stopping and goddamnit, Lou didn't see himself getting edged today over an Instagram post, but if he was gonna die, this would be the way to do it.

He tells Oliver the damn song.

rpf tag list (go here if you would like to be added or removed):

@mmso-notlikethat, @bisexualbrainrots, @just-barrow, @gaybonesforivy, @superlock-in-the-tardis

@loulou-land, @mehhhhhhhhhhgggg, @deansmilo, @evansbuck-ley, @changmin-lord-of-chaos

@hevans89, @aaronntviet, @sirnikolas, @casismybestfriend, @sad-girl-hours23

@thetommykinard, @hehasacleft, @fuselsstuff, @gaytommykinard, @louvemeanyway

@cjlouwho, @louisjude

[celuere]

Hello! Celuere, you don't know how long I've wanted to see some OC x Arle fanfiction (since the first ship chart, >:), so now that you have given us permission to ignore your closed request status regarding them, I feel obligated to share how desperately I want this scenario between them.

I'd like to request a fluffy but suggestive oneshot where it's the morning and Arlecchino pretends to be asleep with her head on Juno-Celia's (is just Juno fine, or no?) breasts because she loves hearing her heartbeat and being close to her (physical touch love language, yeah I actually read and remember that ship chart). I think Juno-Celia would immediately, figure it out, and half-heartedly "try to go to work" but on the inside she's going absolutely feral about how clingy Arlecchino is. From just vibes off the chart and art, I feel like she'd try to embarass Arle for trying such childish tricks on her by teasing her or something, and Arle would be 100% unaffected because T I T T I E S and she's a simp for her wife.

Btw, please correct me if i read the vibes way wrong. I'd love to know more about your OC, but you also have like 5 posts on her total, so not a ton to know her (this is my plea for more Juno-Celia content please, if you don't mind ;)

no you actually read the vibes 100% right kekenwoekownw arle is a PROUD wife simper actually😭 and just juno is totally fine i rarely call her celia etc. BUT OKAY LESS TALKING MORE WRITING, I‘M MORE THAN HAPPY TO INDULGE IN YOUR REQUEST

pairing: arlecchino x fem!oc

cw: none other than arle being a pathetic lesbian and some oc lore

you‘re welcome to self insert here btw! also if you‘re not interested in this content, you‘re free to mute my arlexoc stuff under the arlejuno tag!

implied nsft at the end!

the sun in snezhnaya had risen long ago, yet not a lot of its shine broke through the coat of the everlasting winter, therefore drowning the bedroom in a cold light.

her eyes darted away from her research report to the clock that’s been softly ticking away on the wall.

8 am.

„you know, just because it‘s your free day doesn’t mean you can occupy me for the whole morning…“, raising the sheets of papers to have a proper look at the white-black mix of hair resting on her chest, juno adjusted the position of the glasses resting on her nose.

no answer.

the fingers fidgeting with her purple locks gave it away.

„peru, i know you're awake.", it only earned her a rather annoyed hum.

„ten more minutes", arlecchino's voice came out muffled against her skin, face only sinking deeper into her cleavage. it was pointless.

„honey, i have to get to my lab... sandrone still needs me to calculate through a whole pile of data regarding her research and there is a whole shelf of potions waiting to be tested.“, juno nodded her head to the empty side of the bed. specifically arlecchino's side, „and you've been clinging to me for the whole night."

but she loved the view of her wife clinging to her like a second skin. always did. if she had the choice she'd just stay here in bed with her all day, watching her back fall and rise with each breath, the usual stern look replaced by a face of pure calmness and relaxation… juno would always choose to stay with her.

„i‘m failing to see the point you are trying to make.“

„i need to go to work, peruere.“

„you don’t…“, she pressed another tender kiss to the skin that she exposed earlier by shoving the fabric of juno‘s silken robe aside, clearly not caring about her wife‘s urgency. why does she have to work anyways on her free day? it almost feels like an insult to the harbinger. but knowing her since the ripe age of six years old… juno has always been caught up in researches and other experiments. back to their days under mother‘s care, she would occasionally slip a selfmade contraceptive into crucabena‘s drink when they wanted to have a free afternoon. and now she is the one teaching the children to make their own poisons. how times change, huh?

„what would the subordinates think of the knave if they were to find out about how she clings to her wife every morning… that would make a truly embarrassing headline in the newspaper…“, unable to bite that remark down, a nail poked arlecchino right into her cheek.

but at least she finally lifted her head up to properly look at her wife and the smug look plastered on her face, „let them find out… what else are they supposed to discover? i have no reason to hide the obvious feelings i shelter for my wife.“, when did she start getting so close?! hands coming back up again to shove the sheets of paper between their faces again, juno became incredibly flustered at the sudden confession, but arlecchino only removed the reports completely from her grip, placing them on the nightstand.

„you‘re flustered.“

„i-i‘m not…“

„you‘re avoiding my eyes, there is a visible blush tainting your cheeks and…“, black fingers shoved a bunch of purple strands back, „your ears are sinking downwards with each word leaving my lips. i‘d say you are pretty flustered.“, the slightest hint of a smile grazed her lips at the obvious victory as a pair of blue eyes found her own.

„j-just let me get ready for work, peru…“

„i‘m certain you don‘t actually want to spend the next seven hours calculating out equation over equation…“, arlecchino suppressed the urge to stroke over her wife‘s sensitive ears. the lecture she earned herself the last time still rung in her head. she might not fear a lot of things but juno when she is angry… she‘d rather not provoke it.

and she‘d rather not get exiled to the sofa again.

„…fine, ten more minutes.“

„make it fifteen.“

„ten.“

„thirteen.“

„…ten with your head between my legs. take it or leave it.“

her only answer being the rustling of the sheets as arlecchino disappeared underneath the covers, skilled fingers already working down her slip.

works everytime.

[cwpiqwon]

loser in tin foil- kim minjeong

summary: princess minjeong gets saved by her loser in tin foil.

warnings: fluff, minjeong is mean, yn is a flirt, nicknames, mention of blood, yn kills a dragon,etc.

author's note: this is both a valentine's special and the fic I promised you all after the poll.

wc: 2k+

tags: @wintersgff

the last thing yn remembers was eating salty chips in her peppa pig pj set while watching some random romcom at 3 a.m. in the morning.

she doesn't remember finishing the movie or going to sleep and she certainly doesn't remember sleepwalking to what looks like a burnt down village and yet here she stood in her pj set with what seemed to be about a hundred people surrounding her.

she looked around nervously at the crowd of people who were bowing down to her, all while she stood there dumbfounded with crumbs of chips still sticking to her face.

“uhh…you may rise now?”

as soon as the words left her mouth the villagers were on their feet, looking

at her with their teary yet hopeful eyes.

still as confused as ever, yn tried finding reasons for whatever weird dream she was experiencing right now.

she wasn't sure what led to her dreaming such a weird scenario as usually her dreams were filled with talking bunnies dancing in tutus and cats in suits trying to dictate the world.

she was quickly brought back to her present reality when a hand reached out to touch her. she snapped her head to look at the man who seemed to be wearing funky clothes and a headpiece which looked like it was made of cardboard.

her confusion only increased when he touched her head and flinched before falling backwards. yn couldn't help but take offence due to his actions as a frown made it's way to her face.

she knew she hadn't washed her hair in a while but it couldn't be that greasy to make a grown man who looked like he was well over 60s flich so hard.

seeing her frown, the villagers crowding her fell to their knees again with their heads bowed and hands raised as if asking for apology.

getting irritated by the silence, yn decided to speak again but was cut off when the same old man who touched her head began wailing.

she stared at him with a disturbed look on her face as he screamed something about ‘the return of their savior’.

she continued staring at him wordlessly as he went on about how ‘the chosen one is here’ and ‘she'll bring the treasure back’.

at this point, yn was freaking out because everyone and their mom's were staring at her as if she just promised them to pay all their kids’ tuition fees.

her weariness only increased when all of a sudden the villagers started cheering and crying loudly.

a scream left her mouth as she was suddenly picked up by multiple people and was raised like simba in the lion king.

her heart kept pounding loudly as they carried her to what looked like a destroyed castle where even more people joined in and suddenly everyone was giving her hugs and kissing her knuckles.

as she was about to start crying out of fear an older woman who looked like a total milf approached her. unlike the others, this milf, sorry woman, was dressed in shiny clothes and had an actual tiara sitting on her head.

the woman cleared her throat to catch the crowd's attention and they immediately shut up and moved back to give the woman and yn some space.

“come, follow me. I'll provide you with all the answers you need”

her voice was velvety and yn could feel herself melting under her intense gaze.

“yes mommy, SORRY I MEANT MA’AM”

the lady just laughed before taking her hand and leading her to what seemed to be her personal chamber.

“yn, that's your name, am I right?”

all she could do was nod as the lady smiled softly with a hint of sympathy in her eyes.

“you don't know us, I'm aware, but you are our only hope. I'm taeyeon, the queen of kwangya. it used to be a beautiful nation but not long ago we were attacked and everything we valued was looted.”

the lady, taeyeon, sighed before she stood up and walked towards the large window overlooking her once beautiful nation which was now burnt to the ground.

“all our warriors died defending the nation and yet we couldn't win. tears were shed and countless prayers were made before the main priest of our nation suggested we pray together to our protector as a last shot.”

by now taeyeon was tearing up and yn had a terrible feeling about where this conversation was going but she let her continue.

“we all gathered at the centre of the only village in kwangya that wasn't completely destroyed in the attack and prayed together. we prayed to mother naevis for a miracle, we prayed for help, we prayed for a savior. the next thing we know, a figure was falling out of the sky, our savior. it's you yn. you're the chosen one”

yn sat there twiddling her thumbs awkwardly as taeyeon looked at her in desperation.

“only you can help us, please help us.”

“I don't know…listen, I understand where you're coming from and I sympathize with you, I really do but I simply am not made for this shit. I can't even kill mosquitoes! how will I be able to protect a whole nation?”

at this point taeyeon had tears running down her cheeks and yn could barely meet her eyes.

“yn please, i understand what I ask of you is very dangerous but you're our only chance at getting our nation back. you're my only chance at getting my daughter back. please yn, save us, save the princess. she's all I have”

“did you just say princess?? how old is she?”

“she's around your age, why?”

taeyeons's confusion turned into happiness as yn instantly agreed to help them.

“well that's splendid! but I must ask, what made you change your mind so abruptly?”

“I'm gay- wait no! I mean yeah but- uhh…I suddenly got a…calling? you know like a divine intervention or something? yeah!”

taeyeon narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the girl who was still busy stuttering some excuse out but brushed it off, not wanting to question the chosen one.

“well then, I'm glad that this divine intervention you speak of reached you. we are all counting on you, chosen one. you may take rest in my chambers for the night as I will be busy supervising some important matters. sleep well, chosen one, for you have a quest to conquer tomorrow”

with a slight bow, taeyeon swiftly left yn alone in her chamber all alone to get some rest before she leaves for her so called quest.

before long, the sun had appeared and the birds had started chirping. yn had no time to even wash her face before an armor was pulled over her peppa pig pjs and a sword was handed to her.

the armor made her feel anything but safe as it looked like it had been made out of tin foil. the breastplate was too tight and the boots were too loose.

time seemed to pass in a blur as one moment she was being dressed in her tin suit or armor as they called it, and the next, she was standing at the edge of the village, waving a goodbye to taeyeon and the other side characters.

a boy no older than 15, led the way to the heart of the forest where the princess was supposedly trapped.

yn simply followed the boy, humming and making jokes to lift the mood, which didn't really work as the boy still looked like he was about to piss his pants at any given moment.

it took the two almost an hour to reach their destination and before yn could even get a word out, they boy had already started running back towards the village.

she sighed as she glanced at the tower that stood bold in front of her. it looked like the typical villain’s hideout you'd read about in books.

not thinking much, yn simply stalked forward and entered the tower, just to be met with stacks of gold and no princess in sight.

she looked around for a bit and found a staircase which led to a room. not thinking of any consequences, she simply went up and tried prying the door open.

after multiple failed attempts, she finally got the door to unlock using a hairpin she somehow managed to find in her pocket.

“honey, I'm home!”

yn entered the room with no hesitation and just like she was told by taeyeon, there the beautiful princess was, sitting on a pile of gold. but there was someone or something else sitting beside her too.

“uhh…I think taeyeon forgot to mention there was a beast with the beauty too. no hard feelings, princess but I think it's my time to take a leave. you're pretty though, hit me up once you're out of this mess, yeah?”

before she could exit the same way she came through, a gold biscuit was thrown her way which she dodged.

“I'm not against being showered with gold AT ALL but there's a time and place bro! bad dragon!”

she rolled out of the way just fast enough to miss the fire which the dragon breathed out.

“dude it's wayy to hot, can't you spit out ice instead??”

instead of an answer, yn received a blow by the dragon's tail which ended up knocking her out.

minjeong sighed as she glanced at the knocked out girl lying by her feet. she could feel her frustration bubble up as she looked at the girl who was snoring away.

a solid slap on the head from minjeong is all it took for yn to shoot up. her eyes widened as the first thing she saw was her pretty face which looked red with anger.

“heyy senorita, wanna go on a date with me?”

instead of an answer yn got another whack on the head making her sit up, holding her now throbbing head.

“bratty much? well you're in luck today cuz that's just my type.”

“were you sent here to save me or flirt with me, you loser!”

yn whistled lowly as she heard the pretty girl’s voice for the first time.

“uhh both? can't a girl do both?”

minjeong just groaned in distaste before slumping back into the pile of gold she was sitting on.

“all the people in this world and yet my mom chose a loser in tin foil to save me. I must've been born with the worst luck on this planet”

“hey! I'm not a loser, I'm the chosen one! taeyeon told me your God maevin or whatever her name was, dropped me here to save you”

“HER NAME IS NAEVIS YOU IDIOT!”

“right, naevis. ohh Where's the dragon guy? haven't seen that bloke in a while.”

“shouldn't you be happy that he's not here? you would've died if he hadn't left”

“well I'm supposed to be killing him so can you like…call him or something?”

minjeong looked at the girl genuinely worried that she might have injured her brain while hitting her.

“are you…alright in the head?”

“yeah?”

her tone provided minjeong no conviction as she continued to ask the girl all sorts of questions to check the state of her brain till they both heard the sound of wings flapping outside the tower.

minjeong froze as she saw yn move to hide just beside the window. they made eye contact and yn signaled for her to keep looking at the dragon.

following her supposed savior’s instructions, minjeong turned to look at the dragon again just to see him looking around as if searching for someone.

out of the corner of her eyes minjeong could see yn motioning towards the other side of the room.

she quickly picked up the plan and ran to the other side, which led to the dragon following her but just before he reached her, yn jumped onto his neck with a war cry that sounded more like a squeal.

the dragon thrashed around as yn’s sword dug into his neck from behind and with a final cry he fell, taking the girl down with him.

yn, shaking from the adrenaline rush and soaked in blood, laid on the floor as minjeong ran towards her to check on her.

her breathing was unstable and yet the second minjeong touched her face, she brought one of her own hand up, covering the girl's pale hand with her bloody one.

“so do I get a kiss for saving you. princess?”

all minjeong could do was scoff as tears filled her eyes and spilled over her cheeks.

“you're such an idiot, why would you do that?”

even though her words sounded cruel, the tears in her eyes and her worried expression conveyed her true feelings.

yn gentry brushed her tears away, tainting her pale skin with her bloody hands in the process.

“shh you're alright now, princess. you're safe now. I'm here”

hearing those words leave her savior’s mouth, the dam finally broke for minjeong as she sobbed in yn's arms.

yn held her and rocked her gently till she fell asleep before falling asleep beside her.

they both woke up together the next morning, snuggled up to each other. minjeong being the first to get away from her.

she tried looking angrily at the girl but the redness of her cheeks betrayed her. yn simply smirked at the girl as she stretched.

“ready to head back home, princess?”

minjeong sighed before looking up at the girl, her eyes were filled with questions but all she did was nod her head.

“don't look at me that way, senorita, just say what's bothering you”

“not that I'm ungrateful or anything but I need to ask you something. I literally degraded you and you still took care of me and saved me, why?”

this made the armored girl go red. she tried to stutter out a response but all that came out were incoherent words.

“wait…don't tell me you're into getting degraded!”

“s-shut upp omg, I'm not! I'm just…a really good person!”

“weirdo! you're a weirdo”

“i literally saved your ass!”

the pair kept quarreling while making their way into the forest to reach the kingdom.

neither of them really knew the way but refused to admit it, secretly hoping the other knew so they wouldn't have to embarrass themselves.

after about 15 minutes of going back and forth, the two finally gave up and just kept walking silently before yn broke the silence again.

“hey isn't this like a classic tale where the knight in shining armour saves the princess and gets a kiss? well I haven't had my kiss yet so when are you planning to give me my reward?”

yn muttered cheekily, earning a glare and another whack from the blushing princess.

“you want a kiss? well, close your eyes.”

yn quickly closed her eyes, waiting eagerly for a kiss from the beauty whom she had just saved.

she could feel the princess coming closer until she felt a hot breath near her lips and a gasp left her mouth.

minjeong leaned in further till her lips were almost touching hers before she moved her head a bit towards her ear before whispering.

“in you dreams, my dear loser in tin foil”

[legalmente-loca]

They Were Real

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Summary: You sacrificed your life for humanity twice. Days later you find yourself in an unknown room and with your memory lost. You must not overlook any details since it could be a lie. The most important thing that occupies the center of your head is to discover who he is... Who is that man named Dean Winchester.

They Were Real Masterlist

Word Count: 3,074

Tags/Warnings: fainting, memory or not?

Part 1: Memories Created

“This is too much information for me.” You commented as you stretched in the chair.

“I'm sorry, it must be hard not to remember anything.” Said the one named Sammy.

“Well, if no one reminds you it's not so bad.”

“Let me check you?” Castiel uttered as he stood up and walked towards you.

He tried to touch your forehead with two fingers, but as a reflex you moved away. The room fell into an awkward silence.

“I just... I want to see how much you've healed.”

You looked at Charlie for confirmation and she nodded her head. You sighed and sat back in the seat. Castiel's hands were cold, like a dead man's. You had felt the skin of a dead man before.

“You're healing well.” He said as he focused his gaze on you, his eyes half-closed and shining blue under the light.

“How could it be that I died and then resurrected to... Die again?” You asked in a confused tone.

According to what they had told you, you had died a while ago while stopping the apocalypse and then, as if by magic, you revived. And now, having died fighting Lucifer and managing to kill him, you had met death again, only to be revived once more. Castiel swore that wasn't heaven's work, so you supposed you should believe him.

“That's something no one can find the answer to yet.” Bobby said. “I'm sorry, kid.”

“I don't even understand how that happened. I mean… Why sacrifice myself twice?”

“‘Cause you’re human.” Sam replied. “Therefore, you have a heart.”

“I have it to live, but I don't remember using it to feel.” You sighed.

That was the truth. After your father died, your life had become one of pure survival, always thinking about yourself, never about those around you. That is until you met Charlie, just a girl like you.

Dean, meanwhile, watched you from the other side of the table, his jaw tense hearing you talk that way and his gaze penetrating.

Castiel walked away and you returned your attention to the projection of images. You continued looking at the photos. It was strange to see you there and not remember anything from those days. But you think the strangest thing was seeing you happy.

You moved on to the next photo where you were with Dean. You were laughing while he looked at you in a way... Unknown to you.

“Can you remember anything from that day?” Bobby asked when he noticed that you had left that photograph.

“No.” You denied.

You glanced at Dean and he looked away. There was something this photograph was hiding.

“Yes, of course.” Crowley said with amusement. If it were up to you you would have already stabbed him, but it seemed like he was friendly. According to what they told you.

You shook your head and moved on to the next one. You looked at a blonde man, blue eyes. It was not one of those who was there.

“Who is he?” You asked as you pointed to the photograph projected on the wall.

They exchanged glances with each other, emptiness in them.

“You want me to remember everything, but you hide things from me?” You asked with annoyance.

“He's…” Bobby sighed. “It's your…”

“He's my what?”

“He is your ex-husband.”

You were perplexed by that revelation. That was what it radiated.

Love... Or at least that's what you thought.

You looked at Charlie and she confirmed it with her look. You ran a hand over your face, realizing that too much had happened in all these years. Things you never thought you would have.

The bunker door was heard.

“Sister, we called someone.” Charlie said, standing up.

“¿Whom?”

“To your ex-husband.”

Dean's fist clenched.

“Did you warn him?”

“I told John that she was recovered.”

“Who’s John?” You asked.

“John Smith, little sister. She pointed to the photograph. “Your man of steel. Come.”

Charlie held your hand and pulled you along. Bobby was already in charge of opening the door.

“What are you hiding from me?”

"What are you taking about? I don’t hide anything.” Shee laughed nervously.

“Charlie, I know you.”

She sighed and stopped.

“Okay, but don't be mad at me for hiding it from you until now.” He took a deep breath. “You have two daughters, little sister.”

She kept walking, and if she wasn't holding your hand, you wouldn't have followed her. Everything was happening too fast. The information about your life that had been developing for years… You were discovering it in less than a day.

“It's them.” Bobby said as he opened the door, surprise in his voice.

“Them?” You looked at Charlie and she pointed to a man and two girls of different ages who were covered by Bobby's body. “Easy, girl.” She rested a hand on your shoulder. “You know you have Hermione Granger with you.”

You rolled your eyes and nodded your head. Bobby stepped aside and those unknown people entered, going down the stairs. You approached them.

“John?” You asked doubtfully.

He smiled at you. He had a nice smile, white teeth and his eyes became small with the action.

“Mommy!” One of the girls exclaimed.

"You’re fine!"

John let go of both girls' hands when he noticed that they wanted to get closer to you. They hugged your legs and you looked at Charlie. She smiled at you and walked over to John. You kneel so you can hug them better.

“I'm glad you're okay again, mommy.”

“Yeah. Things haven’t been the same without you.”

“But I feel better now… Girls.”

It felt awkward and humiliating not to remember their names. You had forgotten the names of your own daughters...

“How are you feeling, Chloe?” Sam asked as he stroked a little girl's head.

“Very well, uncle Sam. Better now that mommy recovered.”

“And you, Alex?” She asked the other girl.

“Fine, uncle Sam.”

You looked at Sam and thanked him with your eyes, having noticed what he had done. He rested a hand on your shoulder before approaching John.

Dean walked past you and Chloe walked up to him.

“Uncle Dean!”

“Hey, little one.” He picked her up and gave her a few spins in the air. “I haven't seen you here in a long time.”

Dean put her down and held her hand as he approached Alex.

“Don't even think that I have forgotten about you, sweetheart.” He extended his fist, which Alex collided with his own. “I have to go, would you take care of your mommy for me?”

Both girls nodded and Dean gave you a quick glance before placing him between Charlie and Sam. Even though they were whispering, you could see anger in all three of them.

“I called you because I thought you would come alone.” Charlie reproached him.

“You didn't tell me to do it.”

“Oh, sure, the little boy needs to be told everything.” Dean scoffed.

“She needs to rest.” Sam contributed. “She doesn’t need to know she have two daughters so quickly. We don't know what their reaction may be.”

“I didn't know, okay?”

Dean snorted as a smirk spread across his face.

“You never know anything. You didn’t even bother to come right away.”

“Charlie told me several minutes later and I had to pick up our daughters from school.” John defended himself.

“No, no, don't blame Charlie for your ineptitude.” Dean took a step forward. “If you had been here, maybe she wouldn't have attacked anyone.

“They just told me that she doesn't remember me either.” John took another step forward. “What would have been the difference between Sam and me?”

“In that, if we had to choose… You would be the least important.”

You noticed that things were going to get worse, so you apologized to the girls and approached them.

“What's going on?” You asked, crossing your arms.

“Everything is fine, little sister.”

“Really? Since when does ‘everything’s fine’ mean about to kill someone?” You pointed between John and Dean. “You should calm down, both of you.”

Dean shook his head and walked away, bumping his shoulder into yours. Your attention fell on John, who had been watching you this entire time.

“Hey, darlin’.” He smiled.

“Hi…”

“You look well. Healthy.”

“Thank you.”

You didn't know how to make a conversation with a man you knew, but with whom you had no memory.

“We will leave you two alone.” Sam commented before tugging on Charlie's arm.

“They told me you have memories from years ago.”

“The only ones.”

“I guess that doesn’t involve me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It’s alright.” He shrugged, dismissing it. “It's not your fault.”

You took a deep breath and lowered your head. Suddenly, the room seemed to have gone completely silent. You looked up again to speak to John, but he couldn't be there anymore.

You looked everywhere, but there was not a single person and the entire room was dark. It didn't seem to be the same place. There were no walls and the floor seemed to have suffered a small flood.

You walked slowly, perhaps waiting for something to happen. It didn't seem like the case, until you noticed a light behind you. You turned your head and saw... You.

You curiously approached your other self and noticed that she was cleaning a gun.

“I know that that weapon has never gotten dirty.”

You turned around as you heard Dean's voice behind you.

Damn… This is a memory…

You didn't respond and continued with your work.

“Alright...”

He sat next to you and you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. He had a machete in his hands.

“I was going to give you the reward for that work we did, but I see that you don't feel like chatting.”

You sighed and stretched to put your gun on the table.

“A deal is a deal.” You said.

“And here is your part.”

He extended the machete to you and you grabbed it. You looked it up and down, examining it.

“May I ask why you wanted my machete of all things?”

“Only if I can ask you why you wanted my knife.”

“Touché.”

You remained silent, each one in its own world. Sometimes you watched him out of the corner of your eye. You had to admit that you were starting to like that man.

In one of those glances, he saw you watching him and smiled at you. You smiled back, knowing that if it had been anyone else, you would have looked away immediately.

Why was it different with him?

You opened your eyes, feeling dizzy. You were in a different room than the one at the beginning. It felt more… Yours.

You looked to your right and saw Dean reading a book. His concentrated gaze being slightly covered by his eyelashes.

His expressions seemed a little strange to you while he was reading it. He smiled for something fun, but sometimes he did it in a nostalgic way... But he always smiled. You looked at the cover: 'What you should know about psychics'.

You tried to sit up, making a few moans at the pain in your head. He then noticed that you had woken up and quickly placed the book on the dresser next to him.

“Charlie sent me to take care of you. I’ll let her know you woke up.”

He was about to head out when you got out of bed.

“It would be best if you stayed there.”

You ignored him and walked around the place, looking for the machete you saw in your… Memory?

“What are you doing?” He asked.

You knelt down to look under the bed.

“But what the hell are you looking for?”

“A machete.” You responded, still searching.

“A machete?” He repeated with confusion.

“Yeah.”

You stood up when you noticed it wasn't there. You started searching through the other furniture drawers.

“Will you rummage the entire room?”

“If necessary, yes.”

Suddenly, you stopped, remembering that the same person who handed you that machete is the same person who was behind you. You turned your head and looked at him.

“You know what I'm talking about. Where is it?”

He frowned in confusion.

“The machete.” You repeated as you approached him. “You gave it to me.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” He crossed his arms, muscles contracting beneath his shirt.

“It's a lie.”

“Look,” He said patiently. “Really, I don't know which machete you're referring to.”

“It was your machete. You gave it to me because of the deal we made.”

He stayed in place, his face surprised.

“Did you have a memory?”

“So it did happen…” You murmured, your tone hopeful.

He paced the room with his eyes on the floor while he seemed to think.

“No, it didn't happen.”

"What are you taking about?"

“I have never given you a machete.”

You stayed in place, going over his words.

'I have never given you a machete.'

You didn't understand. So, what did you see?

You felt yourself lose your balance, but he caught you before you fell.

“Here.”

He carried you over to the bed and helped you sit on it. He sat next to you, holding your hand and stroking your back.

“What exactly did you see?” He asked slowly.

You hesitated to tell him. What would he gain from that if it is a false memory?

“I saw…” You didn’t know where to start. “I saw myself on a sofa. And you…” You sorted the words before saying them. “You approached me.”

Dean listened to every word carefully.

“You gave me a machete.” You looked at him. “You said it was the reward for a deal we had made.”

He looked into your eyes without blinking. You think neither of them did.

“That happened… Right?”

He sighed and looked down.

“No.” He denied.

He let go of your hand and stood up.

“I’ll let Charlie know you’re awake.” He muttered, changing the subject as he left the room.

His attitude took you by surprise. Now he was distant with you.

You remembered the book that was on the dresser and turned your gaze to it. You stood closer and looked at it carefully, going over the title again.

'What you should know about psychics.'

Why would Dean be reading it? He wasn't someone who needed to know more about psychics. His work was already done by an expert in them.

You reached your hand towards the book, and as you were about to grab it, you heard Dean speak to you, causing you to jump.

“I almost forgot.”

He landed in front of you and grabbed the book. He was very close to you. He looked at you and you watched him curiously. His breathing became heavier and you could hear his heart beating faster. You brought your hand towards his chest carefully. You felt hypnotized.

What was… All this?

Suddenly he shook his head and looked away. You moved your hand away from him, returning to reality. He didn't say anything and you watched him leave.

This was all very confusing for you. Had the vision you had been a memory or had your mind played tricks on you? It felt too real to be fake. But then… Why did he deny it?

You walked barefoot to the door, ready to find your memories. You heard voices coming from the room and you looked out.

“What happened?” Sam asked.

“John says she seemed to freeze for a couple of seconds. After that, she fell, without any explanation.” Bobby clarified.

“Would that be a bad thing?” Crowley asked.

“I doubt a faint ever means anything good.”

“Good no…” Castiel commented. “Normal, maybe. She felt overwhelmed by so much information received.”

“What do we have to do?” Bobby asked.

“It would be best to let the memories come alone.”

“What if they never come?”

“She has temporary amnesia. They will come.”

“What if they don't come?” Sam repeated.

Castiel sighed, not knowing how to respond.

“Hey, why all those faces?” Crowley spoke. “We are talking about a hunter who almost managed to kill me on several occasions.” He adjusted his tie. “No one and nothing stops that woman, sadly. You of all people should know.” He pointed to Charlie.

“I guess.” The pointed one whispered.

“Dean,” Sam caught his attention. “Did she say something to you when she woke up?”

He snorted and looked at each person present before answering.

“Shee told me he had a vision before she fainted.”

Everyone straightened up at that confession.

“Why didn't you tell us before?”

“Didn't think it was important.”

“She could have recovered her first memory and you don't think it's important?”

“You can calm down about that, Hulk. It’s not a memory.” He whispered.

“What?”

“It's not a memory.” He repeated louder.

“What did she see?”

Dean sighed and readjusted himself in his seat, uncomfortable with so much insistence.

“She talked about a machete I gave her.”

"That's all?"

"That's how it is."

“And are you sure that never happened?”

“Oh, well, who knows, maybe I have amnesia too and don't remember my own memories.” He said sarcastically.

The room fell silent.

“Is that something bad?” Charlie asked Castiel.

“Maybe…”

“Oh, please.” Dean exclaimed. “Guys, it was nothing.”

“She fainted.”

“I thought we said it was because of stupid John.”

“Dean is right.” Castiel pointed out. “It doesn't have to mean something bad.”

“See it?”

“But we have to watch her.”

“Why?”

“Because maybe she is unintentionally creating false memories. She may feel confused by this and it could make her condition worse.”

“She's perfectly fine!” Dean yelled as he slammed the table and jumped up.

Everyone in the room was extremely surprised by that action. Dean looked at them all, realizing what he had done.

He cleared his throat.

“I'm sorry.”

He almost jogged towards the exit.

“It seems that ‘green eyes’ is a little anxious.” Crowley commented.

“We are all shocked by everything that is happening, Crowley.”

“But no one is like that.”

“It seems to affect him more than all of us, including John.”

“He'll get over it.” Charlie brushed it off as he approached your room.

You closed the door and took a few steps back.

You just wanted it all to end. You wanted your memories back. You wanted to understand everything that was happening...

Loca's notes: It seems like your own mind is playing with you. Or is it someone else? Tell me what you think.

Dean Winchester Series/Mini Series

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Masterlist

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[knnichs]

you were mine (but you were awful everytime.)

with kinich’s busy schedule, he somehow can’t find the time to even send you short letters on how he was doing.  or: watching your childhood friend disappear from your hands.

c. kinich & gn!reader ( platonic or romantic, not explicitly stated )

t. character(s) are childhood friends with reader, can be read as platonic or romantic, word vomit, NO BETA WE DIE LIKE .... LIKE WHO???, angst, hurt/no comfort wow i can finally use this tag, little to no dialogue, wc: 1.4k

taglist. @honeyney @pneumosia @tragedy-of-commons @gl4di0lus @ariadnehelx @azuresaqua @mikashisus -> join the taglist here!

A REQUEST FROM @ MIKASHISUS: i’m here for the valentine’s event >:3 may i req iris + evanesce + kalopsia + lacuna for kinich? 🤍 GARDENERS NOTE: RAY IM GOING TO STRANGLE YOU. THIS WAS LITERALLY SO INSANE TO WRITE heres me self projecting AGAIN!

more author notes at the end !

“You don’t think that one day we’ll be separated, right?” 

You played with the grass underneath you, plucking out one after the other and attempting to braid them together to create a makeshift crown. It doesn’t work, it unravels itself on your palm and the blades of green straighten itself back to its original shape. The sun was just setting, this was yet another boring day in the fields of Natlan. The boy beside you scoffs at your question, almost offended if you listen in real hard. 

“No. And I’ll make sure of it.” 

Kinich never liked to talk of the future. When you ask him of what he sees himself doing a few years from now–he would redirect the conversation and ask you to help him with some chores the tribe chief assigned him to do instead. He buries himself in work, even as a child, just to stop his mind from drifting to those kinds of philosophical questions. Who has the time for it anyway?

You, ever so displeased by his straightforward answer, pressed him even more. You wanted to hear more–what he thought of you, what he would do if you were ever to drift away from him, so you asked him: How?

He fell silent for a moment, looking down to his feet. Kinich fiddled with something in his hand before he turned to you, giving you a weak smile. The boy hands you a flower, white and pure, and sits right in front of you. 

“I’ll make a promise,” He raises his pinkie, tilting his head as he did–his bright eyes sure to be forever ingrained in your memory. “That I’ll promise to stand by you until we both die. Is that enough?” 

“But how will you make sure that you’ll keep that promise? Swear it.”

He reaches for your hand, trying to set up the pinkie promise ceremony to get this over with. 

“Then… I swear on my heart, I will be with you.”

You hook your finger around his tightly, as if trying not to let go of the moment. Kinich blocked the sun–but the orange glow reached the tufts of his hair and seeped through the black strands. He used his other hand to cover where the two of you linked, sealing the promise, and he let go.

“You better make sure of it–or else I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life.” You say, pointing a finger at him accusingly. He raises his hands up, surrendering to your wishes. 

Kinich has always been popular in the Scions. You remember the people who once made fun of him as a kid were now fawning over his looks now that he was older, you were really only the real person who stuck by him through the years. You were there when the other kids picked on him, and you were there even after he had gotten his vision.

But now? You could only wish to be a part of his itinerary. 

You don’t blame him, life as a saurian hunter is difficult. Yes, not many would go into that kind of profession, it’s cruel, but someone has to do it. Kinich had no issue choosing to go to that rabbit hole even when you explained to him multiple times that you were concerned about him going through all of that just for some pouches of mora. Well–the amount of mora you get per commission is indeed quite a lot, but there must’ve been some better way to earn it, right?

Day by day, you never fail to return to the same tree where the two of you had made that promise. An emptiness would fill your chest–one so painful you’re sure nothing or no one else could help fix it but him. You hold Kinich so dear to your heart that it’s difficult to imagine a world without him. What if you had never met? Would things have been different then?

The same sun would sink below the grass, the same gust of wind that greets you–brushing past your hair with the gentlest touch. The same tree would shed its leaves seasonally, and the occasional smell of nostalgia hits you hard. How you had missed lounging around here, under the leaves, with your friend. How you missed when days were boring, and your biggest worry was how you’d get home before it got dark and your parents would scold you for being out too long.

Kinich held your hand when you walked through the streets of Natlan once the moon rose, he held your hand when talking to the vendors in the market and you had no clue how to talk to them–they were intimidating, he couldn’t blame you. It’s a shame he was forced to grow up so young. He protected you as a way to heal his inner child–to give the love he never got. 

You just had to ruin it. 

You just had to be so selfish–to ask him for more time, just a few minutes more or seconds, even. Just a little more time to spend with him, just enough to watch the sun rise or fall, just enough to have one more conversation about nothing and everything. When he does give in to your requests–the two of you end up saying nothing, the silence speaks volumes, you’ve drifted apart. There’s nothing to talk about but the past. You know almost nothing of his life now that he seems so far. 

Those were the same eyes that looked at you with such fondness it was hard to express it in words. You remember the sound of his footsteps when he’d creep up behind you to greet you, you remember the messy handwriting he had when he was just learning–the random letters he’d give you throughout the day just to show you how appreciative he was of your presence. Because you were there when others weren’t, you made him feel loved when the others didn’t think of him as someone equal simply because of his childhood.

His name has always been on the tip of your tongue, a silent prayer of wanting to see him for just a second, swinging through the trees with the boxes in hand for his delivery. The bright yellow of his saurian companion, the brightness of his eyes, the sound of his voice. You had never imagined it would end like this, with him frustrated–your tears close to spilling, under the same tree you had spent time with the most, he would tell you how much you bugged him asking for time out of his very busy life. You couldn’t say anything but recall the times of your youth. 

“No one has the right to dictate my time,” He’d glare at you, his voice laced with something unfamiliar–for the very first time he was angry. “Even you.”

“You promised… you promised you’d stick with me until death. Does that mean nothing to you, at all?”

“We were kids, I don’t believe that counts–you know what? Give me a break. I already have so much to my plate that I don’t think I have the energy to do this.”

The situation was helpless. You didn’t trust your voice enough that you would retort with some witty remark like you used to as a child–you couldn’t shout back at him for being rude to you when all you’ve ever done to him was treat him with the kindness he didn’t know existed. Each word shared between the two of you were etched deep within your mind, he was a part of your soul. You couldn’t believe he would leave you this easily.

So you whisper–because you can’t shout, you can’t speak. 

“Don’t be a stranger,”

Your vision was blurry when he finally turned his back on you. You’re not sure if that was still him, stopping in his tracks, or if it was the tree swaying from the wind– almost mocking you of what just happened, giving the illusion that he was still here, that he’d be willing to salvage whatever the two of you had.

When you call out for his name, no one appears. He wasn’t there to lend you his bandana to dry your tear stained cheeks, stop you from roughly rubbing your eyes so it wouldn’t get itchy later. 

He was truly the only person that felt like home, and on the day of love–you had never expected for him to leave so easily. 

@ knnichs 2023 ﹑ do not repost, republish, translate, feed to ai or modify any of my works. doing so can and will result into me blocking you.

reblogs with comments are INCREDIBLY appreciated! go scream go feral idc i will eat all of them up and run away with a familiarly shaped reblog in my mouth, thank you.

DAWG THE WAY THIS WAS SO SELF INDULGENT UM the prompts reminded me of something that happened way back THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING ABOUT IT SO I HOPE IT WAS SO BAD UMMMM i literally dont know how to put my feelings into words if u can tell LOL! anyway probably my first time ?? writing hurt no comfort or pure angst ... this is new TO ME !!!! i hope its ok !!

[forevamark]

4. the unbearable truth | time lapse l.mk

Pairing: mark lee x fem!reader

Tags: pre idol debut to idol au, christmas and new years time line, slice of life moments, college student reader, substantial plot leading to smut, very dialogue heavy, angsty moments, slow burn, relationship struggle, lovers to exes to lovers

Intended for 18+ readers, minors do not interact.

masterlist for time lapse

previous ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ next

Word Count : 5.5k+

Summary: Mark has always had the dream of becoming a big music star, meanwhile your aspirations lied with academics and coexisting with Mark. Mark struggles with telling reader that he will be leaving for Korea to pursue his music career very soon, in fear of losing what they have.

warnings are under the tab for chapters that apply.

A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long! I'm trying to graduate rn just like y/n :( but enjoy the angst train!!

December 14, 2023

The creak of the old wooden floors under Mark’s socks was a sound he hadn’t realized he missed until now. The familiar scent of his mom’s cooking wafted through the house, mingling with the faint lavender detergent she always used for the curtains. He leaned against the kitchen counter, watching his dad flip through a worn photo album at the dining table.

“This one’s from the camping trip back in 2015,” his dad said, tilting the album for Mark to see. The photo showed a group huddled around a campfire, their faces lit by the warm glow. Mark was in the middle, arms slung around someone who was laughing—someone who wasn’t supposed to still make his heart twist like this.

His mom glanced over his dad’s shoulder and immediately caught her slip-up. “Oh, Mark, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Y/N was in this one,” she said, her voice tinged with regret.

Mark forced a small smile, waving it off. “It’s fine, Mom. Really.”

But it wasn’t. Not entirely.

They moved on to the next page, yet the conversation seemed to circle back to you, no matter how much they tried not to.

“Oh! Remember that Thanksgiving when Y/N helped me bake those carrot cookies?” his mom said before catching herself. She winced. “I mean—uh, anyway, you used to love that carrot cookie recipe.”

Mark exhaled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I remember.”

His dad chuckled, oblivious. “She was always such a great sport about all your mom’s baking experiments. You two used to make a good team in the kitchen.”

“Dad.”

His father finally looked up, realizing his mistake, and his face softened. “Sorry, son. I know it’s... a touchy subject.”

Mark shrugged, swallowing the lump in his throat. “It’s fine. Let’s just... talk about something else.”

The room fell into a brief, awkward silence, broken only by the clatter of dishes as his mom set the table. After a moment, she sat down across from Mark, her expression unusually serious.

“Mark,” she began, her voice gentle but firm, “I know we keep slipping up, but... maybe it’s because we can’t help but associate so many happy memories with her. She was such a big part of your life. And I think—maybe—you miss her, too.”

Mark stiffened, his gaze dropping to the table. “Mom...”

“And not just her,” she pressed. “I think you miss a lot of things. Home, maybe. The simpler times. The you who didn’t have so much pressure on his shoulders.”

His jaw tightened, and he let out a slow breath. “I’m fine. I chose this path, remember? I wanted to go to Korea, to chase my dreams. And I’m doing okay.”

“You are,” she agreed, her eyes softening. “But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. And it doesn’t mean you don’t feel lonely sometimes.”

He looked up at her, his defenses cracking under the warmth of her gaze. “I... yeah. I miss her. And I miss home sometimes. But leaving was something I had to do, Mom. I couldn’t stay here and wonder ‘what if’ my whole life.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But it’s okay to miss what you had, even while you’re building something new. It doesn’t make you any less brave or successful.”

Mark leaned back in his chair, the weight of her words settling over him. “I guess... I’ve just been trying not to think about it. About her. Or what I left behind.”

“You don’t have to bury it, honey,” she said. “Feel it. Remember it. And then let it be part of what drives you forward, not what holds you back.”

Mark nodded slowly, his chest feeling a little lighter, though the ache remained. Maybe it always would. 

The table was quiet for a long moment, the hum of the old fridge filling the space. Mark sat there, his fingers gripping the edge of his chair as his mom’s words echoed in his mind.

He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but instead, a choked sound escaped. He quickly looked away, blinking rapidly as the pressure in his chest grew unbearable.

“Mark?” his mom asked softly, leaning forward.

“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely, shaking his head. But his voice cracked, betraying him.

Before he could stop himself, his head fell into his hands, and the tears came.

“I miss her, Mom,” he said, his voice muffled but thick with emotion. “I miss her so much.”

His mom was at his side in an instant, her arms wrapping around him. She didn’t say anything, just held him as he let everything out.

“I miss everything,” he continued, his words spilling out like a dam had burst. “I miss sneaking into her house at night, trying not to wake her parents. I miss the way she’d laugh at my stupid jokes, even when they weren’t funny. I miss how she’d make me feel like I could do anything, like I was invincible. And I miss home—your cooking, Dad’s dumb stories, the way things used to be before I left.”

His shoulders shook as he let out a shaky breath, his hands clenching into fists. “I thought I could just leave and be okay, but I’m not. I’m not okay, Mom.”

She rubbed his back soothingly, her heart breaking for him. “Oh, Mark... it’s okay to feel this way. You’ve been holding all of this in for so long, haven’t you?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I thought I could just keep moving forward, you know? Like if I focused on my career, it wouldn’t hurt so much. But every time I think about her, it feels like... like I can’t breathe.”

His dad, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “You know, son, sometimes the things we try to leave behind have a way of sticking with us. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. It just means it mattered.”

Mark wiped his face with the back of his hand, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “I still love her, Dad. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.”

His dad nodded, a small, understanding smile on his face. “Love like that doesn’t just go away. But the question is—what are you going to do about it?”

Mark looked up, his eyes red and glassy. “I don’t even know if she’d want to hear from me. It’s been so long. What if she’s moved on?”

“Maybe she has,” his mom said gently. “But you’ll never know unless you try. And even if she has, at least you’ll have said what’s in your heart. You deserve that closure, Mark, whether it’s a new beginning or a final goodbye.”

He let those words sink in, the weight of them settling alongside the ache in his chest. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to think about the possibility of reaching out—not just to her, but to all the parts of himself he’d tried so hard to leave behind.

“I’ll think about it,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

His mom squeezed his shoulder, her smile warm and reassuring. “That’s all I ask.”

“You’ll always be tethered together you two,” she starts with a warm smile, “you two spent so much of your lives together, it’s not good to keep them buried. It’s good that you still care about her. I know it may not look like it, but deep down she’s still tethered to you.”

And as Mark sat there, the smell of his mom’s cooking filling the room and his parents’ presence grounding him, he realized that maybe it was time to stop running—from his past, from his feelings, and most of all, from her.

“I need to get her back,” he said straightening out his posture and composing himself, “this isn’t right without her.”

“There we go Mark!” his dad said while getting up to hug him, “you don’t give up.”

Mark was going to your graduation, and you were going to fall back in love with him.

December 15, 2023

The morning light streamed through the curtains, illuminating your small apartment with a soft, golden glow. You stood in front of the full-length mirror in your bedroom, your graduation gown draped over your shoulders. Your fingers smoothed the fabric absently, your heart caught somewhere between excitement and an ache you couldn’t quite ignore.

Your gaze shifted to the black cap resting on your desk, its surface decorated with tiny, carefully arranged rhinestones and a bold quote in gold lettering: hello, future!

Mark had insisted on helping you with it, staying up late one night despite his own schedule being packed. He’d teased you for picking a simple quote but still carefully glued each gem, making sure it was perfect. You remembered the way his face lit up when you two finished, his arm slung around your shoulders as you admired your work.

You bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry.

You turned back to the mirror, adjusting the cap over your styled hair. Your eyes caught the delicate heels on the floor, pristine and elegant, a stark contrast to how you felt inside. Mark had worked overtime to save up for them, presenting them with a goofy grin and a note that read, For my rockstar, who shines brighter than any stage light.

Your chest tightened as you slipped them on. You hadn’t worn them since your breakup.

Walking into the living room, you froze at the sight of the couch. It was still the same soft, slightly worn piece of furniture where you two had spent countless nights. The memories flooded in uninvited: Mark sprawled out with his guitar, humming softly while you reviewed her notes; the way he’d throw a blanket over you two as you drifted off during late-night study sessions; the quiet comfort of his presence as you dreamed of your futures.

Your throat closed up, and you sank onto the couch, your fingers tracing the armrest. A small brown stain reminding you of your favorite take out, and the small things that only Mark would know at the perfect time. 

The weight of the moment hit you all at once. 

You were about to graduate, something you had both worked so hard for, but he wasn’t here to celebrate with you.

As you rested your head against the cushions, your cap slipping slightly to the side. Tears welled in your eyes, and this time, you didn’t fight them.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this without you,” you whispered into the empty room.

Your voice wavered, breaking under the weight of emotions you’d kept buried for months. 

You missed him—more than you wanted to admit. Mark had been there for everything: your late-night breakdowns, your victories, your dreams. And now, as you stood on the brink of achieving one of their shared milestones, the absence of him felt unbearable.

Taking a deep breath, you straightened up, brushing away your tears. You reached for your phone and opened the private photo gallery, scrolling through old pictures of you two. There you two were, smiling brightly, you in his hoodie and him grinning as he held your favorite drink in one hand and peace signs in the other.

Your thumb hovered over his contact, the familiar name staring back at you like a ghost of the past. You wondered if he was thinking about you today—or if he even remembered the cap, the shoes, the promises you made on this very couch.

Your phone buzzed suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts. It was your photographer, letting you know they were ready to start.

As you stood, taking one last look around the apartment, the memories lingered, but so did your determination. You adjusted your cap, forcing a small smile in the mirror.

“Here’s to moving forward,” you murmured, even as your heart whispered, 

But I still miss you.

With that, you grabbed your bag and stepped out the door, leaving behind the echoes of a love she wasn’t sure she’d ever fully let go of.

–

The sun was unforgiving as it bore down on the packed university auditorium, the air abuzz with excitement and the murmur of proud families gathered to celebrate their graduates. Seungcheol sat near the top of the auditorium, nervously adjusting the collar of his white button-up for the hundredth time. It was already perfectly straight, but he couldn’t stop fidgeting. He glanced down at the bouquet of flowers in his hand—roses, lilies, and baby’s breath, a group of flowers he bought from Winn Dixie.

“She’s going to love these,” he muttered under his breath, though his voice lacked conviction.

Nearby, your family huddled in a tight circle, their expressions a mix of anticipation and mild irritation as they avoided looking his way. He had made his presence more than known since arriving—offering to carry their things, insisting on getting the best seats, and loudly recounting stories of how Y/N had stayed up late preparing for her exams, as if they didn’t already know.

“Is he ever going to stop talking?” your older brother whispered to your mom, who responded with a barely concealed sigh.

“Doubt it,” your dad grumbled, crossing his arms. His sharp glare cut across the distance between them, and Seungcheol froze mid-step as if the weight of their collective disdain had finally hit him.

Still, he wasn’t the type to give up. He tightened his grip on the bouquet and plastered on a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just want to make today special for her,” he murmured to himself, more determined than ever.

“Oh we know, Seungcheol,” your mom sighed while patting his shoulder and sitting next to him, “I think they’re about to walk out now.”

–

You straightened your cap one more time, as Pomp and Circumstance played in the background. 

It’s time! All of this hard work, it’s time!

The crowd erupted into congratulatory cheers as your graduating class walked out. The journey to your seat felt like a blur. Your leg tapped incessantly waiting through all of the fluff and pleasantries from your esteemed professors. And soon enough, it was your time to walk.

Your row stood together heading towards the stage, and you wince as you hear Seungcheol calling out to you, clearly disregarding the current students’ names being called. You look over to him, your family trying yet failing to get him to pipe down. 

His grin was infectious, but you were burning red in embarrassment. The large gaudy balloons behind him stared back at you. As you awaited your turn, your eyes scanned the crowd full of familiar faces from the library and just soaking in the moment.

And as the universe would have it, your eyes meet a single hooded and masked figure in a light blue button up. His phone was up clearly pointed at you.

Mark.

Wow, he really came! You couldn’t believe it and the confidence soared through you fleetingly as you felt yourself being pushed forward to hand your name card to the staff member reading out names.

“Y/n, Y/LN!”

You felt a rush of anxiety roll off you as you shakily walked across the stage to shake the dean’s hand. 

“Breath, y/n, you’re finally done!” 

You follow their advice and plaster a giant smile towards the camera.

Your friends and family’s cheers were loud but Seungcheol’s was embarrassingly aggressive.

Your ears pick up another voice from the other side of the auditorium. 

Mark stood jumping up and down, holding his phone tightly and just about fell over through the row in front of him.

He chanted your name and for some reason, it all felt right.

This is the moment you always wanted.

You smile all the way back to your seat.

As Seungcheol didn’t relent on his own parade of accolades and cat calling, Mark sat down and watched you in awe.

“I’m so proud of you, Y/N,” he whispered.

–

“Congratulations!” Seungcheol said as he held out the bouquet and obnoxious balloons, his grin impossibly wide. “You were amazing up there! You looked so good, and I mean wow this dress—”

“Thank you,” you cut him off gently, taking the flowers and squeezing his hand to calm his nerves. Or was it your nerves… what was Mark doing here? I mean yeah your heart is soaring at the fact he came- WHAT? NO!

He smiles at you wildly, pulling his hand away to engulf you in a giant rocking hug. You embrace him back, letting out the sigh you have been holding in for hours now.

This is fine. 

Yup. 

Your father cleared his throat loudly, a not-so-subtle reminder that they were watching. 

“Alright, family picture time!” Seungcheol announced, clapping his hands together. “I’ll take it for you. Everyone line up!”

Your mom raised an eyebrow, her tone as sharp as ever. “We were just about to do that, actually.”

“Perfect timing, then!” he replied, oblivious to the sarcasm.

As your family reluctantly shuffled into position, Y/N placed a hand on Seungcheol’s arm. “Maybe... let them lead this one,” you whispered.

Seungcheol blinked, his enthusiasm deflating ever so slightly. “Right. Of course. Family moment.” He stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

Seungcheol backed away slowly, trying to make himself busy by staring at the nearby tree… which of course Mark just so happened to be standing by, watching the entire interaction, his body in mid turn, awaiting to retreat into the crowd. He was embarrassed to even show up… you’re happy right?

Their eyes met with quick anger and jealousy.

Mark’s arms filled with white and pink tulips- your favorite, and the build-a-bear box tucked in his palm.

Seungcheol was about to storm towards him but was quickly whisked away to take a picture with you. 

You sported a tight lipped smile as his arm found it’s way to your waist. 

 As Mark watched you hug Seungcheol, he felt the familiar tug at his heart of seeing you and and him at Izaiah’s party the other week. Angst, hurt, and jealousy flowed through him, but most of all envy and cowardness.

Mark’s shoulders hung low, and he turned around trying to find the quickest and quietest exit. 

“Mark, right?” he heard a small voice say from next to him.

He turned to see the build a bear employee from the mall.

“I could tell from the box, have you found her yet?” she asked excitingly.

“Yeah, I did,” he responds sadly.

“Well, why do you still have everything in your arms? I don’t know… give it to her, maybe?” she laughs.

Mark sighs meeting her gaze. Oh? She’s in a full graduation cap and gown, how rude of him! 

“Oh! Uhm…ha, Congrats to you! My apologies for having you stop me while I burden you with my …problems,”

“Thank you,” she smiles with hands on her hips, “My name is Camille by the way.”

“Mark,” he says with a small smile.

“Like we didn’t already know that haha…” she pushes him lightly.

As Camille tried to convince Mark to approach you, he was so in his head that he didn’t notice the longing eyes from you just yards away. 

So this is how he moves on, huh? And to think he cared! All this time, it was for his new girl…

The girl pushes him lightly causing him to chuckle and it feels like someone stabbed you in the stomach. She looks over at his bouquet and take it out of his hands, smelling the fresh tulips. It feels like someone is twisting a knife around in your stomach.

And the cherry on top of killing you slowly was watching him hug her tightly with his eyes closed.

Your aura was palpable to your friends and family, almost as they can envision the slow bleeding out of your heart as you watched the interaction.

“How about we head to dinner now, y/n,” Kathy says to you softly from your right.

“Who even is she anyways?” Izaiah says from your left.

“The new graduate is riding with me of course!” Seuncheol announces while slinging an arm around you, “just let me take care of something first.” 

You nod lightly and walk over to your mom explaining the plans to meet up for the gathering. Seungcheol kept his smile plastered until you were lost in the crowd. His eyes narrowed as he pushed his way over to meet Mark.

“So what did you graduate with?” Mark smiles lightly before taking the flowers back from Camille’s arms.

“Got a lot of nerve showing up here, Big Shot,” Seungcheol hisses out while bumping into him.

“It was psychology…” Camille says with a questioning glare between the both of them.

“Thank god you moved on,” Seungcheol laughs before looking at Camille, “Careful with this one!”

“I think I see what’s going on here…” she says with a tight lip, “Mark, this will be an easy win for you don’t worry.” 

Mark laughs lightly while taking in a deep breath, “Thanks Camille. Enjoy your day, congratulations again.” Camille walks off while shaking her head, but not without a hard shoulder check towards Seungcheol.

“Of course I would be here for her big day, I’ve been there every step of the way.”

“You were, now you’re not. Just give it up, bro,” Seungcheol says while moving closer to Mark, his own frame towering over him, “Look at her, yeah,” he turns Mark to align with you smiling with the balloons around you, “That’s the face a girl makes when she’s happy. That’s the face a girl makes when you treat her right,” if that wasn’t enough he whispers into Mark’s ear, “That’s the face a girl makes when she moves on from a little bitch.” 

Mark shakes in pain. 

You look so happy.

“Can’t you just let her go? For her.” 

Mark’s hands loosen on the bouquet of tulips in his hands. 

You look so much more happy.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take these off your hands,” Seungcheol says with a smirk, “Thanks man, didn’t think she was a tulip girl,” he grips Mark’s arm as he seeths out a final, “Stay the fuck away from her. It would be a shame if you can’t perform due to…say a broken leg?”

Mark stands still as tears well in his eyes. 

“Cheol!” he can hear you calling out for him.

“I’m coming babe!” he yells out and let’s go of Mark while walking over to meet you.

“There you are, time to go now,” you smile, not evening noticing Mark’s sulking in the background.

“Just had to surprise you one last time,” he grins and engulfing you in a hug, turning just slightly to wink at Mark.

“Tulips! How did you know they’re my favorite?”

Because of me. Mark tries to say, but his voice fails him. 

Seungcheol sneaks a cheeky kiss on your temple, “Wait I think I dropped my keys one sec! You keep walking I know you walk slow in those heels.”

You roll your eyes and walk away, Seungcheol running up to Mark one last time, “Almost forgot!” He snatches the build a bear box right out of his hands, “Thanks Mark, you always did know what to get her!”

His eyes never leave you as you trot along in your heels towards the parking lot. Amidst the throbbing pain in his chest, a realization hit him.

He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. So much so he bent over and leaned against the tree to hold him up. Maniacal, he sounded. 

If you didn’t love him anymore, why did you wear those heels?

—-

The cool December air hums with laughter and the flickering glow of fairy lights were strung across the backyard. The scent of barbecue and freshly cut grass lingers in the air, mixing with the distant sound of chatter and music. It’s your graduation party—your moment. After the past year, after all the pain, the doubt, the nights where you thought you’d never make it through, you finally have something to celebrate.

So why does it still feel so… unreal?

“Hey,” Kathy nudges you, pulling you from your thoughts. “You should actually enjoy this, you know? This is everything you worked for.” She gives you a pointed look before taking a sip from her cup. “You deserve to be happy.”

You exhale, trying to let the words sink in, but there’s a part of you that still hesitates. You glance around at the people who have come to celebrate—your family, your friends, even the neighbors who barely know you but showed up for the free food. It’s all so perfect. Too perfect.

“It just doesn’t feel real yet,” you admit, voice quieter than you intended.

Kathy smiles, but there’s a knowing glint in her eyes. “Well, it is. And if you don’t start acting like it, I will personally make you.”

Before you can respond, another voice cuts through the air.

“Oh, come on, are we really just gonna ignore the elephant in the room?”

You turn to see Izaiah, standing with his arms crossed, shaking his head in clear disapproval. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice as he jerks his chin toward the other side of the yard, where Seungcheol is deep in conversation with your uncle.

“Because that guy? He’s the worst.”

Your stomach tightens. “Izaiah, not now.”

“Nah, now is the perfect time,” he presses, stepping closer. “We’re all thinking it, Y/N. I literally just talked to your brother about him. He sucks! You’ve been pretending to be happy, but you don’t have to force it. Yes, you have been out more, but it doesn’t feel like you. You’ve had a rough year, sure, but that doesn’t mean you have to settle for some guy who acts like a dick every time he speaks.”

Kathy chokes on a laugh, trying to play it off when you glare at her.

“Hey he’s funny!” Kathy chuckles, “He pulled our girl out of her funk.”

“Are dumb or are you stupid? She’s still in the funk! Girl open you’re eyes!” Izaiah exclaims.

“Zai, I’m fine,” you say, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

“Are you?” He doesn’t budge. “Because you don’t look like someone who just got their life back on track. You look like someone trying really, really hard to convince themselves they’re okay.”

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, your mom’s voice rings out from the deck.

“Alright, everyone! Let’s head on inside, it’s getting pretty cold. It’s time for presents!”

The conversation halts, tension still thick in the air. You force a smile and step away, feeling Izaiah’s gaze linger on you, filled with something dangerously close to concern.

“Everything is fine. This is what I have always wanted.”

“We’re not done talking about this.” Zai rolls his eyes and looks at Kathy, “Can’t believe you support dating this child of a man.”

“We’re not dating, yet.” you whisper.

“He’s hot!” Kathy shouts at him as she watches Zai pull a middle finger at her from behind his retreating frame.

Seungcheol was at the door girating his hips while beckoning everyone inside with some silly shouting. 

Zai turns around one last time to shoot you both a disappointed glare.

“Well, he can be hot at times…” Kathy takes back.

As you make your way to the stack of neatly wrapped gifts, you push down the words you don’t want to admit are true. Maybe Izaiah isn’t wrong. Maybe you are pretending. Maybe you aren’t as happy as you want to be.

But tonight isn’t the time to think about that.

Tonight, you’re supposed to celebrate.

Even if you don’t quite know how.

-

You sit on the cushioned patio chair, a pile of torn wrapping paper and envelopes gathering at your feet as the night continues with your loved ones around you. Your dad stands nearby, his phone raised, recording every moment while your friends and family watch with warm smiles.

“Alright, last one,” you say, reaching for the final gift on the table.

The moment your fingers brush against the box, a flicker of recognition sparks in your chest. It’s a Build-A-Bear box—white with blue stars, the signature handle looped through the top. A few people chuckle knowingly, but you can’t bring yourself to look up just yet. 

And then you see it.

“Whose this one from?” You raise an eyebrow at the only left suspect.

“Guess who!” he laughs uncomfortably.

You barely notice as you get up to sit next to him, “So which one did you get me?”

“It’s a surprise!” he says with a smirk.

Your hands feel a little too steady as you carefully lift the lid, peeling back the tissue paper inside. A plush bunny, soft brown fur, wearing a tiny graduation cap and gown. Your stomach clenches as you pull it out, holding it in your lap. There’s a faint weight to it, heavier than a normal stuffed animal. 

“This is so cute!” Kathy gleams from the side holding her camera up, “look over here for a pic!”

Izaiah rolls his eyes again as you two get scooched together for a picture. 

You turn the bunny to look at you, and you couldn’t help but have a wide grin.

“You like it?” Seungcheol asks oddly smug.

“Of course, I love it,” you say with a small peck to his cheek, “wait I didn’t know you put a voice recording in it!”

“Oh!” Seungcheol exclaims while grabbing the bunny out of your arms and holding it out of your reach, “Forgot about that sorry!”

“Well, let me hear it!” you say confused.

“Let’s hear it, lover boy!” your dad playfully yells from the side with his camera out.

“Uh… it’s a little personal don’t worry guys just a bit embarrassed…” he sweats.

“Just play the fucking bunny, y/n!” Zai shouts grabbing the stuffed animal out of his hands and throwing it at you. 

The audience in front of you cheering for you to press it.

“Y/n, don’t-”

You press the little button on it’s hand.

The audio begins with an undeniable stutter.

A stutter that makes everyone go silent, you gasp.

“Is it on? Okay. U-uh hi Y/n, congrats. You finally did it. I can’t believe you’re already done. Just know that I have never stopped thinking about you. Every time I’m at the studio, practice – fuck I just wish I would have known that chasing my dreams meant losing you. I wouldn’t have picked this. It was supposed to be us, everything I sing, it’s about you. It’s so hard without you. But. This is the life we live in. I’m happy that you’re happy. This bunny represents your dreams and all starting. Y/n. I can’t wait to read your book one day. Just know I’ll always love y–.”

The audio cuts right before he finished. A silent sob overflows. 

“y/n,” Seungcheol says while reaching out for you.

“Go home.” Zai says cutting him off, using his body as a barrier.

“I just-” 

“Go home,” Kathy sighs while ushering him away.

“Alright party’s over everyone!” Your mom calls out solemnly gesturing for everyone to leave.

--------------------------------

Seungcheol... i'm bout to beat you up!!!

hehe anyways, sorry this took so long :(

as always, lmk your thoughts, questions, predictions... lowk the more the better it makes me feel motivated to post these bc it reminds me that there are people who will actually read my works and it's not just a little hobby to satisfy my delulu <3

xoxo eva

[bullet-prooflove]

Valentine's Day Bingo 2025: Two Hours - Russell Shaw x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @claymoresofinfamy23 @mckinleysbones @dayhsdreaming @lou-bubbles

Companion piece to:

The War Correspondent - A mysterious phone call from a retired War Correspondent leads Russell on a journey he doesn't expect.

Seattle - Things change between you and Russ in Seattle.

Two hours.

That’s how long Russell has with you on his way through town. Two hours of bliss as the sun begins to set in the distance, the final rays of dying light playing across your skin as you lie tangled up together on the beach.

You look beautiful underneath him, wild, flushed, untamed. Your fingertips dig into his back as he stays perfectly still, the tip of his cock barely inside you, his hand runs up and down the shaft.

“Such a good girl, letting me use you like this.” Russ whispers as your head tips back onto the blanket, your body arching. “Like my own little fuck toy.”

“Please.” You whisper and he smiles because that sound, it’s part of his game. Keep you on edge until you’re delirious with the pleasure, until your only thought is of him and only him.

This is what he wants you to remember when he’s away, the ecstasy that comes with being with him, the contentment, the love because he does love you, he will always love you, no matter how many miles there are between the two of you.

“Alright baby girl.” He mumbles against your lips, sliding home. “You want all of me, you got it.”

Love Russ? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[deezy1478]

happy valentine's day! here's some husbands shooting the shit on their honeymoon:

“Was this the dumbest idea ever?” said Jim, wheeling his suitcase to one side as he looked round the room. It was the cheapest, most bare bones one they had – the kind they used to stay in when they traveled for a show, stretching the leftover money as far as it would go on booze and takeout and maybe a new video game when they got back home.

“The motel or marrying me?” said Dustin, closing the door behind them. Jim elbowed him in the stomach and Dustin took it in his stride, swinging his overnight bag against the wall and passing Jim with a hand on the small of his back. “Money changed you, man. Look at this – a microwave? A whole bed to ourselves?” he said, sitting down on it and giving an experimental bounce. The springs squeaked unpleasantly. “Aw, fuck yeah. That takes me back.”

He lay back against the pillows and held a hand out for Jim, and there was just barely enough space for him to wriggle against Dustin’s side until he found a position that didn’t make his back start to seize up. When he was settled they chatted a little about the more memorable motels they’d stayed in – the one with rats as big as Walter, the one that smelled mysteriously of cheese, the one where Jim had gotten bitten to shit by bedbugs the night before a match – and then they leaned back to find shapes in the water stains on the ceiling like they used to.

“Don’t ask me how I know this, but… that one kinda looks like Dan Barry’s dick,” said Dustin, pointing at a fat, blobby one near the window.

“Don’t ask me how I know this, but… yeah, you’re kinda right.” Dustin turned his head so fast his neck twinged and Jim’s mouth went all tight, letting him stew for a good few seconds. “He sent me a picture once. By accident. Meant to go to Jess but he hit Jim.”

“Uh huh,” said Dustin. “Mm hm. That right.”

“What, you think he was shooting his shot?” said Jim, turning and grinning at him. “You’re saying I missed the Dan Barry train?”

“I think you did, dude. Could’ve ridden that thing into the sunset.” He gestured to the ceiling blob. “Could’ve ridden that thing into the sunset.”

Jim shuddered and elbowed him again.

They ordered takeout and Dustin collected it from the front desk – a couple of Taco Bell value boxes and a Red Bull each from the vending machine in the hall, really leaning into the bit – maybe a little too hard, Dustin thought as they both lay back on the bed when they’d finished and the lumpy mattress dug in between his shoulders, but whatever. They’d both been feeling a little nostalgic in the run-up to the wedding, driving off-route a bit on the way to the motel from the courthouse so they could pass by the old Legion Hall in Hellertown where they’d both been booked on the same card for the first time.

“Hey,” he nudged Jim. “Do you actually remember that day? The Chikara Young Lions tag thing?”

“Sure,” said Jim, because of course he did. Dustin had been sifting through his memories since they’d pulled up outside it, trying to pick out those specific couple matches from all the others he’d had in there over the years and hoping he’d remember a flash of bright blonde hair or a weird, honking laugh from across the changing room, but nope. At this point it all felt like it had all happened at least three lifetimes ago.

“Do you remember me there?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Jim, because of course he did. “I watched one of your matches from behind the curtain. Some guy in the crowd was trying to start shit the whole way through, shouting at you – and you climbed up to the top turnbuckle, looked right at him and yelled tug my balls, asshole. Then you did a moonsault and got the pin.”

Dustin smiled over at him. “And you saw all that and thought, I’m gonna marry that guy some day.”

Jim smiled back “Pretty much,” he said, and Dustin had to look away, back up at the ceiling – thinking about all the years stretching between that moment and their first kiss.

“Jesus. I was a dumbass for so fuckin’ long.”

“Nah,” said Jim, quietly. “Wouldn’t change any of it.” He knocked the back of his hand against Dustin’s. “But sometimes I think, like… what if we could’ve – y’know. If… never mind.”

“No, go on.”

Jim was quiet for a moment. “Do you ever wish…” he said eventually, “or do you ever think about, like – what would you do now with a twenty-two year old me?”

“Uh,” said Dustin, “probably give him a juice box. Y’know… ask what his favourite dinosaur is.” Jim snort-laughed. “Had your balls even dropped by then?”

“One of them had, for sure.” Dustin turned his head, grinning, about to ask which ball but Jim had a funny little look on his face that made him stall. “You really wouldn’t…?” he asked, trailing off.

“What, you think I wanna throw my back out trying to keep up with li’l baby Cipps?” said Dustin. Just thinking about it made him want to slam a bottle of Aleve. “Li’l flippy baby Cipps? Cartwheeling round the bed?”

Jim huffed through his nose. “I just thought… I dunno.” He looked back up at the ceiling. “I was like… bendier, back then. And stuff.”

Dustin reached over and gave Jim’s chest a slap like it was the hood of an old car. “Still bendy enough for me.”

“Yeah?” said Jim, and he tried to smile but something wasn’t quite right – something still lingering at the edges of it.

Dustin rolled onto his side and looked down at him – at the thin lines across his forehead and at the corner of his eyes; the creases that ran from either side of his nose to his mouth that he’d catch Jim pulling at in the bathroom mirror.

“Hey,” he said, cupping Jim’s jaw and tilting it gently towards him. “Gonna be after you in the nursing home, Cipps. Chasing you down with my zimmer frame.”

Jim laughed then, bright and goofy and wrinkly as fuck, and even after ten years it still hit Dustin like a mack truck that Jim had kissed him back on purpose, moved in with him on purpose, said yes on purpose, said I do on purpose.

And now he was lying next to him in a shitty motel bed on their honeymoon on purpose and looking up at him, waiting for whatever came next, and Dustin had no idea where they’d be in ten, fifteen, twenty years – God knows he could only hope they had that long – but he knew about the next few hours. He knew about the next five minutes. He knew about the next few seconds as he leaned in and kissed Jim, wrapping an arm around his warm, narrow hips.