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pitlanepeach · 2 days ago

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Three Of Us | Chapter One (1/3)

Lando Norris x Original Female Character x Oscar Piastri

Summary — Margot has single-handedly run Marjorie’s Bakeshop, a Monaco institution, ever since her grandmother’s passing. It’s by chance that a tiny blue Fiat Jolly breaks down on the curb right in-front of her door.

Warnings — Established!Landoscar, polyamory negotiations, eventual throuple, slow(ish) burn, vandalism, OFC has atypical OCD.

Notes — This is going to be a short little series with only 3 chapters! I hope you fall in love with Margot the same way that Lando and Oscar do.

Marjorie’s Bakehouse opened at seven. Always had. Even before it was hers.

Margot unlocked the side door with the same key she’d used since she was eleven — a brass one, worn soft at the edges, ribboned to a piece of faded blue grosgrain. She let herself in without turning on the lights. The early streaks of sunlight were enough. Monaco mornings were reliable like that, and Margot liked the quiet before the streets came to life.

The café smelled like cinnamon and dust. Not bad dust. The kind that settled overnight and never felt dirty — just familiar. She set her bag down on the back counter, slid her phone into the little nook carved into the cabinet (her grandmother had once hidden a cigarette tin there, full of francs and peppermint chews), and pulled her apron from the hook. Tied it twice. Always twice.

There were rituals.

Wipe the bar. Polish the steam wand. Cups, handles right, aligned to the edge. A cloth for her hands and a cloth for everything else.

She checked the display fridge though she already knew what was in it. Three tarts left from yesterday, a row of bottled citron presse, the clinking loneliness of too much space. She noted it. Tomorrow, she’d bake more. Just two. Two sold best.

At 6:49, she started up the espresso machine. It hummed to life like it always did — steady, reliable, expensive as hell — and she wiped it down once.

Then again.

And then, again.

Not because it was dirty. Not even because it needed it.

Because she hadn’t not done that in six years.

The world settled after that.

She refilled the sugar jars. They were still full, barely touched yesterday, but she did it anyway. The scoop nestled into glass like a soft exhale, and she let her mind go quiet while her hands worked.

Outside, the street was starting to stir. A Vespa zipped past. The old man who walked his spaniel at the same time every morning paused outside Marjorie’s, like he always did. He didn’t drink coffee, not anymore. But he liked to check that she was still here. Still hers. Still open.

She offered him a little wave through the window. He lifted his cap.

There was peace in this. Structure.

But also… that feeling. The one she never spoke aloud, not even to herself. Like the days kept turning but she wasn’t quite in them. Like she was waiting for something but didn’t know what it was. Or where it would come from.

Sometimes she wondered if her grandmother ever felt that too.

At 6:59, she unlocked the front doors.

At 7:00, exactly, she flipped the sign.

And Marjorie’s was open for business.

—

It was after the morning rush but before the tourists rolled in, the sweet spot of the day. The clink of cups had settled into a rhythm. The door opened less often. The music had shifted from jazz to something soft and French and barely there.

Margot stood behind the bar, wiping down the counter she’d already wiped twice since nine. She wasn’t thinking about it. It just happened. Like breathing.

She glanced at the clock, then at the door.

Right on time.

It swung open with a chime, and Charles Leclerc stepped inside, sunglasses perched too high on his nose, a black hoodie pulled over hair that probably cost more to style than her rent. Alex followed, her linen jumpsuit cinched just-so, gold hoops, no makeup but still glowing. Both looked like they’d stepped out of a Vogue spread.

“Bonjour,” Margot greeted, already turning toward the machine. “Flat white?”

“For both,” Alex answered, leaning over the counter. “You read my mind.”

“You come at the same time every Wednesday that you are in town. It’s really not that impressive.”

Charles grinned faintly. He never said much in here. Not rudely — just quiet. He’d nod, take his drink, sit in the window. Sometimes he scrolled his phone. Sometimes he just stared out at the street. Margot never asked what he thought about. She figured he liked that he could be anonymous here. People recognized him, of course. But nobody made a fuss. Marjorie’s wasn’t the place for that.

Alex, though — Alex talked.

“You’ll love this new lip stain that I found,” she said now, digging her phone from her bag. “It’s the exact red that doesn’t make you look like you’re trying too hard to pull off an actual red lip, you know?”

Margot did know. She wasn’t wearing lipstick today, but she had an impressive vintage vanity in her apartment with an entire compartment dedicated to her lipstick collection.

“What brand?” she asked, tipping milk into the steaming jug.

Alex turned her screen. “Rhode. Look. This one. You’d wear this.”

It was a muted terracotta red. Not too blue, not too orange. A Margot color, but warmer than she usually reached for.

“I might try it,” Margot said, quietly, which in her language meant I like it a lot.

Charles chuckled under his breath. “My Alex has converted another one.”

“She has good taste,” Margot said simply, and handed him his flat white. He took it with a nod, slipped toward the window seat.

Alex lingered.

“You doing anything for the gala this weekend?” She asked, chin propped on one palm, voice conspiratorial.

“No,” Margot answered, because she wasn’t. She never did. That wasn’t the kind of crowd that Marjorie’s catered, therefore Margot had no business being there either.

“You should come. I’m serious. You’d look amazing in something vintage. I know a girl — she could loan you something perfect.”

Margot smiled, soft and small. “I just don’t think that galas are my thing.”

Alex opened her mouth to argue, but then just sipped her coffee instead. “Okay,” she said finally. “But if you change your mind…”

Margot didn’t say she wouldn’t. She didn’t say she would either.

The couple left twenty minutes later, the way they always did — Alex with a paper bag of financiers she swore were the only things she could bare to eat after cardio barre, Charles with a half-finished coffee and a little nod as he passed the counter.

And just like that, the café was still again.

Margot glanced at the sugar jars. Still full.

Still.

She refilled them anyway.

—

The front lights were off. The chairs were stacked. The espresso machine had already been cleaned — once properly, twice out of habit. The door was locked, the sign turned. Closed.

Margot was in the back, perched on a stool with a clipboard balanced on her knee and her pen half-dried from being uncapped too long. Inventory was the only part of the job she didn’t mind doing twice. Numbers made sense. Items matched lists. There was no guesswork.

Cinnamon, low.

Vanilla syrup, full.

Oat milk, not enough.

She’d have to call Julien in the morning.

She scratched notes, glanced at the shelf again, then froze when she heard it: a knock.

Then another. Quick, insistent.

She blinked. Looked at the clock on the wall. 8:41.

Another knock. This one louder.

Margot set the clipboard down, tucked the pen behind her ear, and wiped her hands on her apron out of habit. She didn’t like being interrupted when she was in this mode. Alone, sorting, focused. She didn’t like knocks on the glass when the lights were clearly off. When the sign — the sign — said closed.

Still, she walked to the front.

Unhooked the door to the café floor.

Stepped out into the dim.

Another knock — and then the chime of her own voice in her head, already annoyed: People are so—

But she stopped.

And stared.

Outside, in the rain that had crept in while she’d been counting brown sugar packets, stood Lando Norris.

Not smiling. Not posing. Not the version she’d seen online or in those massive race-weekend ads along the port.

Just a guy.

Drenched.

Hair flat to his forehead, jacket clinging to him, a phone in one hand and a miserable expression on his face. And behind him — parked half on the curb, half off — was a bright blue Fiat Jolly, one of those absurd little things people with too much charm and not enough practicality seemed to love around here.

The engine was steaming. Not subtly. Like a teapot left on the stove for too long.

She didn’t unlock the door right away.

He gestured toward the café, mouthing something. She raised her eyebrows. He tried again. Then gave up and just… stood there. Looking wet and quite pathetic.

With a sigh, Margot turned the bolt and cracked the door.

“We’re closed.”

“I know.” He blinked rain out of his lashes. “Sorry. I wouldn’t— I just— my car kind of exploded and I—”

She looked past him. Smoke puffed again from under the hood.

She looked back.

“I don’t know anything about cars, so you’ll probably need to call a mechanic.” She sighed. “But I can make coffee.”

He exhaled, his eyes lighting up. “Really? Thank you. Thank you so much — I’m freezing my balls— I mean—“

She almost smiled. Almost. But instead, she huffed, opened the door a little wider, and stepped back.

“You have to stand on the mat. You’re dripping.”

He stepped in without hesitation, brushing his shoes off before crossing the threshold like it mattered. Which, in here — it did.

Margot locked the door behind him. Adjusted the sign, just in case.

Then flicked the light on behind the coffee bar and moved like she hadn’t just let someone uniquely famous into her tiny, quiet, sacred space.

“Sit there,” she said, pointing to the stool closest to the heater. “I’ll make you something warm to drink.”

He sat. No questions. No sass. Just wet and tired and quiet as he stared down at his phone and his eyebrows drew together miserably.

Margot reached across the counter and turned on the espresso machine.

—

The café hummed low with the sound of steam and the pitter of rain against the windows. Margot moved with clean lines, practiced hands, a rhythm no one saw but her.

Lando stayed where she told him to sit, elbows on his knees, watching her with something half-curious.

She slid a cup across the table.

It was wide, heavy, with one of the good saucers — the kind she didn’t usually pull out after hours. But she hadn’t thought about it until just now, and now it was too late to change it.

He didn’t move.

She frowned. “Try it, then.”

He blinked up at her like she’d pulled him from some far-off thought. His thumb was still hovering over his phone screen. “Oh. What is it?”

“An oat milk latte with honey and orange bitters.”

He made a face. “That sounds like something a teenage girl would order from Starbucks.”

She stared at him. And then she turned and walked away.

Back through the swinging door, into the stockroom, where the air was dry and shelves were labeled and she could pretend the last ten minutes hadn’t happened.

She should’ve just stayed in the back. She should’ve ignored the knock.

Of course it was him. Of course he said something like that. Of course she was the idiot who gave him shelter, a stool, her good cup.

She was halfway through a passive-aggressive restack of the lid shelf when she heard it — the door creaking, the footsteps.

She turned fast, eyes narrowing. “You can’t be in here. You’re dirty.”

He paused in the doorway, soaked t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, sheepish expression doing nothing for her patience.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, lifting his hands like that made him harmless. “For the—what I said. I wasn’t trying to be an ass. I’ve just had a really, really shit night, and that car—”

“You love it. Yeah. Got it.” She turned back to the shelf. Slammed a lid container a little harder than she meant to. “I love that coffee I gave you,” she snapped. “You don’t see me insulting that.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant.”

Silence. Except for the drip-drip of his hair.

“It’s good,” he said, quietly. “The coffee. It’s really good. I’ve never had anything like it.”

She didn’t turn around.

“I just—sometimes I don’t think before I say stuff. And people usually… laugh. Or don’t care. Or whatever. But I can tell you do, so I’m sorry.”

She still didn’t turn, but her shoulders stopped tightening.

He stepped in. Not too close. Just enough to fill the space with his presence — half-tall and wet and awkward.

“I was being a miserable git. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “You should be.”

That startled a laugh out of him.

Soft. A little tired. Not smug.

Just real.

“I’ll go,” he said, finally. “Didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

She turned then. Just enough to see him leaning in the doorframe, damp and apologetic.

She crossed her arms. “You didn’t finish the coffee.”

He blinked. “I thought you wanted me to—”

She cut him off with a small shrug. “It’s good coffee. You don’t waste good things just because you’re in a bad mood.”

He smiled.

Not a full smile — not the big-crowd grin. Just a slow tug at the corner of his mouth, like he’d just been told off by someone who meant it.

He stepped backward out of the stockroom. “I’ll drink it before I leave.”

“Stand on the mat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And then he was gone again, and Margot let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She adjusted the lids. Wiped her hands. Counted them. Twice.

And when she came out five minutes later, his cup was empty, placed neatly in the center of the saucer.

Handle turned to the right.

Exactly how she’d served it to him.

—

Margot didn’t do screens in bed. That was a hard boundary. No phones, no tablets, no blue light stealing precious sleep hormones. Her grandmother had sworn it rotted the mind — “Rest is for letting the day settle, darling, not for poking at other people’s nonsense.”

But the armchair by the window didn’t count.

The blanket over her legs was thick and a little scratchy. Her tea had gone cold two sips ago. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the nighttime air, warm and salt-slicked from the coast. The phone sat in her lap, screen glowing faintly against her fingertips, open to the bakery’s Instagram.

She never posted selfies. Never showed her face. She didn’t do reels or “get ready with me” voiceovers or flash sale countdowns.

Marjorie’s wasn’t that kind of page.

It was latte art in her best antique cups. Floral menus on handwritten cardstock. Crumbs on marble. Cake under soft morning light. A photo of the fig tart from that morning — sliced, missing a piece.

She was halfway through writing the caption when she saw the notifications pinned to the top of the screen.

@charles_leclerc liked your post.

@landonorris liked your post.

@alexandrasaintmleux tagged you in their story.

She blinked.

The first didn’t surprise her. Charles always liked her posts. Alex always posted on her story. They were regulars. Plus, Alex had a particular talent for styling her flat whites beside her sunglasses and pastry plate like it was an editorial spread.

But Lando?

Her eyes lingered on his name. She exhaled slowly, jaw tight. Bit the inside of her cheek.

Maybe he’d liked it while sitting in the shop last night. Waiting for whoever had come to pick him up. Killing time. Scrolling without thought.

He hadn’t said goodbye before he left. Not that he should have.

Not that she cared.

Still. She tapped on the post. The fig tart.

The comments on the post weren’t wild. Nothing out of the ordinary. But they were picking up — steadily, quietly. Like the murmur of a room just starting to fill.

The girls who worked in the boutiques along Rue Caroline, typing in all caps about the cinnamon rolls.

The older women who came in on Thursdays for tea and lemon slices, tagging their daughters.

A couple of yacht crew, arguing about what was the best sandwich on the menu.

It wasn’t fame. It was just buzz. Familiar names in unfamiliar places. Little hearts blinking from people who didn’t normally look twice.

She let the smile come, quiet and unbothered.

Then she reached for her lip balm — the one Alex had insisted she try, the one with the faint citrus scent — and uncapped it absentmindedly as she read through one last comment.

Someone said the honey oat latte changed their life. It was me. I said that.

Margot snorted into the quiet.

She leaned forward, thumb poised over the screen, and edited the caption of a new post. A photo of the front window display.

Tarte à la figue. Just one left. First come, first serve. See you tomorrow morning x

She posted it.

Set the phone face down on the table beside her.

Didn’t look again.

And when she turned out the light and crawled into bed — sheets crisp, lavender spray still clinging to the air — she lay still for longer than usual.

Her thoughts didn’t spiral. Didn’t loop.

They just… lingered.

—

The bell above the door gave its usual high-pitched jingle, a little too cheery for the hour. Margot didn’t look up. She was elbow-deep in a pastry box tower that refused to fold right, the flaky scent of butter and sugar curling in the warm morning air.

“Tell me you have an almond croissant,” Alex’s voice floated over, smooth and thick with sleep, like satin tangled in silk sheets.

Margot smirked, eyes still on the stubborn box. “Good morning to you, too.”

Alex dropped her oversized sunglasses onto the nearest table with a soft clatter, yawned in technicolor—a slow stretch of jaw and breath that filled the small space between them—and made her way behind the counter as if she owned the place. Margot tolerated exactly two people crossing that line. Alex was one of them.

She hoisted herself up onto the worn counter beside the till, one heel off, legs tucked under her like a cat settling in for a long afternoon nap. The faint scent of her floral perfume mixed with the rich aroma of fresh coffee and pastry, creating a quiet cocoon.

“Charles is in Maranello,” she announced, pulling an almond croissant off the tray with the tongs like it was her divine right, biting into it with deliberate satisfaction. “Sim training, video stuff, some sponsor dinner. I think.”

Margot finally looked up, arching an eyebrow. “You’re a very supportive girlfriend.”

Alex’s mouth was full, but she managed a cheeky grin. “I’m supportive of me needing a big cup of coffee.”

“Your usual?” Margot asked, turning toward the espresso machine, hands sliding into their familiar dance — grind, tamp, steam, pour. The hiss of milk frothing was oddly soothing, a static hum beneath their easy conversation.

“You know it,” Alex said, stretching lazily against the counter, eyes half-closed. “I needed to get away from my own thoughts this morning.”

Margot slid the finished cup across the counter. The warmth of the porcelain radiated through the quiet, and Alex caught it with both hands, groaning softly in appreciation. “God, I love you.”

“Flatterer,” Margot teased, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

—

The afternoon rush had long thinned, and the last of the lemon tarts sat under the glass dome like forgotten treasure. Margot had just turned the chairs up on the tables, the soft clatter echoing off the tiled walls, when the bell over the door jingled again.

She paused, brow furrowing. The Closed sign was already up.

He stepped inside like he was halfway to leaving already — tall-ish, hoodie unzipped, hands tucked in his pockets like he was prepared for this to go badly. His face was calm in the way that made you look twice: just handsome at first, then suddenly familiar.

She knew that face.

Oscar Piastri.

She’d seen it on screens. Posters. On Instagram.

And now he was in Marjorie’s, standing in the scent of cinnamon and lemony mop bucket steam, with the late sun slanting over his shoulder.

“I know you’re closed,” he said quickly. “Sorry. I’m not here for coffee or food.”

Margot straightened, letting the cloth drop to the counter. She didn’t say anything yet — just waited.

Oscar shifted. “I just came to check if anything was… messed up. Last night. Lando told me what happened. Sort of. And I offered to come by in case he—left something. Or, you know, broke anything. Or offended you. He does that sometimes. By accident, you know? He doesn’t mean to.”

Margot blinked, then leaned her hip into the counter. “You’re here… doing damage control?”

Oscar gave her a dry, self-deprecating smile. “Basically. Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but not unkindly. “You’re Lando’s… teammate?”

He nodded. Cringed visibly . “Right. This is probably weird, isn’t it?”

“I mean,” she made a face, “a bit, yeah.”

Oscar looked faintly uncomfortable. “Right. That’s fair.” He glanced around — the pastry case already cleaned, chairs up on tables, soft jazz playing low over the speakers. It wasn’t exactly neutral territory. “I didn’t bring flowers,” he said finally. “Thought that might be too much.”

Margot raised an eyebrow. “You considered flowers?”

A faint flush touched his ears. “It came up.”

She squinted. “Right.”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway. Just wanted to say thanks. For not turning him away. He can be…” He trailed off. Then gave a half-smile. “A lot, sometimes.”

Margot exhaled, slow. “Well. I’ve weathered worse.”

“I believe that,” he said, sincere. He shifted again. “He didn’t leave anything behind, did he?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

Oscar nodded and turned to open the door, but paused. “He liked the coffee, by the way. He hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

Margot smiled, soft and brief. “He has terrible manners.”

Oscar chuckled, already stepping out. “Yeah. He’s working on it.”

And then he was gone — leaving only the fading jingle of the doorbell, and Margot staring at the closed door.

—

Marjorie’s was dark, the chairs still up on tables, the light through the front windows soft and forgiving. Margot’s trainers squeaked faintly against the tile as she crossed to the door, double-checked the lock even though she knew she’d turned it, then turned away again.

Closed Mondays. Always had been.

Her grandmother used to call them “reclamation days.”

“You can’t pour from an empty pot, darling. Even porcelain cracks if it’s left full for too long.”

Margot tied her hair back with the soft green scrunchie Alex had given her, then pressed play on the voicemail Alex had sent an hour ago.

“Bring your long mat. We’re doing core work today and I’m not suffering alone.”

—

Rue du Portier Pilates Studio

Alex was already barefoot and stretching when Margot arrived, her tank top barely hanging onto one shoulder. The room smelled like citrus cleaner and eucalyptus oil, sunlight spilling in through the big paneled windows.

“You’re late,” Alex said cheerfully, not looking up from her hamstring stretch. “Which means you get the reformer next to Madame Death Core.”

Margot groaned, slipping off her shoes. “I hate her. She never even breaks a sweat.”

“She doesn’t blink,” Alex muttered. “She has got to be a robot. A cyborg carved out of Lululemon and Alo.”

Still, the class was good — breath and burn, the kind that distracted Margot just enough from her own thoughts. She didn’t think about Lando. Or Oscar. Just breathed in, curled up, pressed her heels down.

After class, Alex handed her a bottle of water and a protein bar. “Don’t pretend you’re not the kind of person who forgets to eat when you’re not working,” she said. “You got therapy later?”

Margot sighed. “Yeah.”

Alex pulled her into a one-armed hug, warm and brief. “You’re doing amazing.”

Margot didn’t say anything. But her throat tightened just a little.

—

Margot sat on the couch in the small room with its dusty pink walls and woven throw pillows. She liked this space. It wasn’t warm, exactly, but it was contained. Symmetrical. Safe.

Her therapist, Camille, sat across from her with that patient stillness Margot sometimes found both comforting and unbearable.

“Do you want to start today,” Camille asked, “or shall I?”

Margot took a moment. Picked at a loose thread on the hem of her sleeve. “I’ve had a weird week.”

Camille nodded. Waited.

“Someone broke down outside the shop. In the rain. I let him in.” A beat.

Camille tilted her head. “And how did that feel?”

Margot stared at her hands. “I don’t know. Weird. It put me off schedule. Made me uncomfortable but… didn’t, at the same time.” She hesitated. “And now I don’t know if I’m… just thinking too much about it.”

Camille made a small note. “What part of your interaction made you felt weird?”

Margot exhaled slowly, trying to pick through the threads. “He was rained on. He was dirty. He left the coffee cup exactly how I handed it to him.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I don’t know.”

—

After the hour was done, Margot didn’t go straight home.

She walked the harbor instead, shoes quiet on the stones, the wind teasing strands of hair from her bun. The yachts bobbed like white ghosts in the late light. Someone laughed nearby — rich, unbothered.

She clutched her phone in her hand and let herself breathe.

Because sometimes, rest wasn’t about understanding.

Sometimes, it was just about letting the day settle.

Like Grandma Marjorie used to say.

—

Marjorie’s was back in rhythm twelve hours later.

It was the kind of morning Margot liked best — cool sun through the windows, music low and old-fashioned, the smell of fresh bread still clinging to the walls. She moved on autopilot, fingers deft and quick: almond croissants arranged in a crescent, cherry clafoutis set to cool behind the case.

Then the bell above the door gave a too-familiar jingle.

She didn’t look up right away — pulled the espresso shot, steamed the milk, breathed in cinnamon and control. But then she heard it. Him.

“Margot!”

Charles. Always cheerful. Always smooth. Always kind.

And behind him— “This is the girl that Lando and Oscar will not shut up about?”

Margot looked up. Paused.

Max Verstappen was leaning one elbow on the counter, sunglasses still on. He was squinting at the pastry display.

Charles looked pained. “Mon dieu, Max, shut up.”

Max just smirked.

Margot, to her credit, didn’t flinch. She calmly placed two plates on the counter, each with a slice of quiche, and slid them forward.

“Charles, hi,” she said. “And… friend.”

Max pushed up his sunglasses. “Max. Sorry. I’m not usually rude.”

“Don’t lie,” Charles muttered.

“I mean I’m not usually rude in front of the people who are in charge of my food.” Max looked back at her. “So you’re the Margot.” He smiled.

She blinked. “I didn’t realize there were so many others.”

That made Charles huff a laugh, and Max grin.

“Lando said you made him a fancy coffee and then kicked him out.”

Margot didn’t even blink. “I let him in, actually. He kicked himself out.”

Max looked delighted. “That’s great. Did Oscar really come here the next day and start grovelling for him?”

Charles groaned. “Please stop talking.”

Margot just folded a napkin and set it beside the plates. “You’re both sitting outside.”

“But it’s windy,” Max protested.

She smiled — the kind that didn’t budge. “That wasn’t a question. You smell like a sweaty gym.”

Charles looked like he was holding back a laugh as he grabbed the plates. “Merci, Margot.”

She gave him a nod, then turned her back on both of them, sliding another tray into the oven with a little more force than necessary.

As the bell jingled again behind them, she exhaled. Long. Slow.

She didn’t want to think about what it meant that Lando and Oscar were talking about her — enough for Max Verstappen to have noticed.

She didn’t want to know what they said. Whether it was flattering or funny. Whether it was a passing mention or something stickier, something that lived in the back of their minds the way they were starting to live in the back of hers.

Margot turned back to the counter, wiped at a perfectly clean surface. The cloth moved in smooth, practiced motions — circles, not swipes. Right hand, then left. Repeat. Order in chaos. Familiar ground.

She didn’t want to think about the fact that her name — quiet, ordinary, not meant to echo — was being passed around in rooms she would never walk into. In conversations between people whose lives had nothing to do with hers.

She didn’t want to think about the fact that Oscar had come by. That Lando had told him. That someone, somewhere, had bothered to mention the baker who ran a sleepy little café with flaky pastry and too many rules about where dirty shoes could and couldn’t go.

She didn’t want to think about any of it.

So she folded the cloth, lined it up with the edge of the sink. Took a breath. Held it.

Then she turned back to the espresso machine, and let herself be busy again.

—

It happened just after midnight.

Margot had stayed late, not because she needed to — inventory was already done, the espresso machine already cleaned — but because the shop was the only place that made sense when her mind wouldn’t slow down. The playlist was low, jazz humming through the speakers. The air smelled like sugar and lemon zest.

She was sitting on the floor behind the counter, back against the cupboards, checking invoices on her tablet — when the glass shattered.

A single, sharp sound — crack — followed by a scatter of tiny splinters and the solid thud of something hitting the far wall.

Margot froze.

Heart in her throat, eyes wide, lungs too slow to remember how to breathe.

Another crash — smaller this time. A smear of paint across the lower half of the window. Black. Ugly. Letters scrawled too quickly to read.

She didn’t move. Didn’t think. Just felt — that sharp, paralyzing flood of panic that came when her mind was no longer following the rules she’d made for it.

And then, somehow, she was moving. Legs stiff, breath shallow, voice robotic as she called the police. Gave her name. The address. Told them no, she wasn’t hurt, but someone had thrown something through her storefront window.

They said someone would be there soon.

She said thank you. Then hung up.

And that’s when her hands started to shake.

⸻

She didn’t want to call Alex. She almost didn’t.

But the silence was worse. The shattered glass staring at her like a dare. The paint running like blood down the clean, beloved window.

So she pressed the button. One ring. Two.

Alex answered on the third, voice sleep-slurred and worried. “Margot?”

“I’m sorry,” Margot whispered. “I just— I didn’t know who else—”

“Whoa, hey,” Alex said immediately, awake now. “What’s going on?”

Margot swallowed. “Someone threw something through the window. At the shop. I— I don’t know why.”

“Jesus Christ. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No. Just nervous. I—” Her voice cracked. She hated that it cracked.

“Okay,” Alex said gently. “Breathe. You called the police?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Okay. I’m not in Monaco — I’m in Barcelona with Charles. I would come straight there, but—”

Margot closed her eyes. “I didn’t mean to bother you, I just— I’m fine, Alex, I swear—”

“Stop.” Alex’s voice was firm now. “You are not going to apologise for not wanting to be alone right now.”

Margot bit her lip.

“I’ll text Lando and Oscar,” Alex said. “Charles says they’re staying only five minutes away.”

Margot felt her eyes get big. “No, Alex, really, you don’t have to—”

“I’m not asking,” she said, with the same tone she used when demanding extra whipped cream on her mocha. “They’ll just come and check on you. And you’ll let them, okay?”

Margot didn’t answer.

Alex softened. “Mar, it’s okay to be freaked out about this.”

The lump in Margot’s throat made it impossible to speak. She just nodded, even though Alex couldn’t see it.

And then she sat on the floor, staring at the spray-painted window.

And waited.

—

The police hadn’t arrived yet.

The paint on the glass had dried in uneven drips. The rock that had shattered the window — round, heavy, maybe pulled from a garden — sat where it had landed, beside the fridge. Margot hadn’t moved it.

She sat on the bench behind the counter, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. Trying not to let her eyes dart back to the window every few seconds. Trying not to flinch every time a car passed outside.

The bell jingled.

And for the first time in her life, the sound made her flinch.

“Sorry,” someone said quickly — low, urgent. “Sorry, it’s just us.”

Margot looked up.

Lando came in first. Hoodie, damp curls, jaw tense. Oscar behind him, equally casual, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes sweeping the shop like he didn’t quite know where to land.

“Oh,” Margot said. It was the only thing her mouth remembered how to do.

Lando gave her a nervous smile — or tried to. “Hey. You okay?”

She nodded. Or at least moved her head.

Oscar stepped further in, slower. “The door was unlocked. We figured…”

“Alex told me,” she said. “I mean— she said you were coming.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to the window, then the paint, then the rock. He winced. “Jesus.”

Oscar said nothing. His jaw clenched once, then released.

“Police haven’t come yet,” she said. “I didn’t want to touch anything.”

“Smart,” Oscar said quietly.

The three of them stood in silence, the kind that buzzed just under the skin. Margot could feel her heartbeat in her teeth. Lando kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Oscar didn’t move at all.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said, even though she didn’t really want them to leave. “It’s fine now. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Lando said, too quickly. Then winced. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

“No,” she said, voice hollow. “It’s okay. You’re right.”

Oscar finally stepped closer, glanced behind the counter. “Do you want us to sit with you?”

The way he asked — soft, no pressure, like he was offering a blanket and not a presence — made something in her chest go warm and sore at the same time.

“I guess,” she said.

And that was how it happened.

The three of them — strangers, almost — sitting behind the counter on the floor, backs against cupboards and knees nearly touching, surrounded by the fading scent of sugar and smoke and cold adrenaline.

Lando kept talking, quietly. Dumb stuff. The weather. A story about his apartment’s broken heater. He didn’t seem to care that she barely responded.

Oscar didn’t say much at all. Just sat beside her, steady and quiet, like a fixed point in the storm.

—

Margot stood in the middle of the café.

She didn’t know where to put her hands.

The floor was still dusted with glass, despite Lando’s efforts to sweep. The scent of spray paint lingered sharp and chemical beneath the usual vanilla and espresso. The front window was a gaping wound now, covered in plywood Oscar had somehow found in the alley next to the shops — uneven, roughly nailed in, too temporary. Wrong.

The light felt different.

Everything did.

She stared at the smudged corner of the glass case where the scones usually went and felt a slow, crawling sensation under her skin.

“It’s just for the night,” Oscar said gently from behind her.

She didn’t answer. Her fingers twisted the hem of her sleeve, tugging. Tight, then tighter.

“Margot?”

“I need—” Her voice came out small, clipped. “It’s all wrong.”

Lando looked up from where he was stacking chairs onto tables. “The window, yeah?”

“Everything.”

They both watched her carefully now.

She hated that.

“I just— I need to clean,” she said, moving suddenly, almost too fast. “I can’t— I can’t leave it like this.”

Oscar stepped toward her, slow. “We cleaned up most of it.”

“Not the right way,” she snapped — not at him, not exactly, but at the air, at the mess, at the fact that her entire world felt untouched by her usual rituals. “Not how I do it.”

Lando looked like he wanted to say something funny. Light. But thought better of it. Stayed quiet instead.

Margot moved behind the counter like her body wasn’t fully connected to her brain — automatic, disconnected. She reached for the cleaning bucket, pulled it from the shelf under the sink, then crouched down and grabbed the scrubbing brush with too-tight fingers.

Then she dropped to her knees. Hard. Didn’t wince. Didn’t blink.

She started scrubbing at the floor where the paint had bled into the grout — short, frantic strokes, her jaw locked so tight her temples ached.

Her whole body hummed like a live wire.

The sponge squeaked, caught on the uneven tile, left a cloudy smear behind.

It wasn’t lifting. It should lift. The chemical smell wasn’t strong enough, the water was too warm now, the brush too soft. Everything was wrong.

Oscar crouched nearby, close enough to be present but not so close he’d crowd her. His voice was quiet. Careful.

“You don’t have to do it all tonight. It won’t get any worse overnight, and you can call someone to help you—”

Her hands didn’t stop moving as she cut him off. “I won’t be able to sleep,” she said, too fast. Her voice cracked on right.

A silence stretched, awkward and full of breath that didn’t know where to settle.

Lando was pacing in slow, uneven loops near the door — sneakers squeaking faintly against the floor she hadn’t mopped yet. He kept running a hand through his hair, shifting weight from foot to foot like the room was too tight on his skin.

“Okay…” he said, then paused, scratched the back of his neck. “I mean—what do we do? To help, I mean.”

Margot stopped scrubbing.

Just for a second.

She looked up. The brush dangled loosely in her hand, dripping pinkish water onto the tiles.

Oscar knelt across from her, patient and calm in a way that didn’t feel fake. Lando looked like a man accidentally locked in a porcelain shop with a bull—desperate to help, no idea how.

“I have a system,” she said, quietly. Not looking at them. Just the floor.

Lando blinked. “Okay.”

She swallowed. It was hard, like her throat wasn’t built for words tonight.

“It’s stupid, but—”

“Not stupid,” Oscar said, voice low and sure. Like it wasn’t even up for debate.

She blinked fast. Bit the inside of her cheek.

“I clean the display case first. Always.” Her fingers moved to tuck a loose piece of hair behind her ear, even though it wasn’t in her face. “Windex first, then polish. I do the floor under it after. Then the espresso machine handles — there’s a toothbrush in the drawer for those. Then the tables. Clockwise. I—” She shook her head. “I have to go clockwise. I’ve tried the other way. It… doesn’t work.”

She didn’t say how sometimes she had to start over completely if she broke the order. Or how her hands would itch for hours if she didn’t.

“Last is the fridge,” she finished, voice quieter now. “I always finish with the fridge.”

Lando scratched his head again. “Right. Okay. Case first.”

He looked around like the case might tell him what to do.

Oscar was already moving toward the cupboard beneath the sink. “Do you want the glass cleaner with the blue label or the green one?”

Margot’s eyes darted up. “Blue. The green one streaks.”

Oscar nodded and handed it to Lando.

“Which cloth?” Lando asked.

She pointed to the pile folded neatly in a drawer. “Top one. They’ve all been steam-hygeined.”

He didn’t ask why that mattered.

Didn’t joke.

Just took it.

Oscar knelt back beside her, a different brush in hand. “This one okay?”

She nodded.

And the three of them got to work.

Lando grumbled when he accidentally sprayed himself in the eye with the white vinegar solution. Oscar silently switched to a fresh cloth halfway through without being asked. And Margot — scrubbed and rinsed and wiped until her arms ached, but her mind slowed.

They cleaned until the only thing left to fix was the window. And as much as she wished they could tackle that too — she’d have to wait for the window repair company to come in the morning.

Margot had never been in the passenger seat of a McLaren.

To be fair, she still hadn’t — Lando’s road car was a slick, low-slung Land Rover with leather that still smelled new. It felt too nice for someone with glass dust on her shoes. Too warm, too enclosed, too personal.

Still, she didn’t argue when they insisted on driving her home.

Didn’t push when Oscar took the wheel like it was routine. Didn’t ask why Lando slid into the passenger seat of his own car instead of the drivers.

She just sat. Buckled in. Stared out the window while the soft hum of Monaco’s late-night lull passed by in quiet blurs.

It was only ten minutes, maybe less. But it was enough.

Enough to see it.

The way Oscar drove like he knew the car and the roads like the back of his hand. The way Lando rested his palm across the back of Oscar’s seat like it lived there. He probably didn’t even notice he was doing it. It wasn’t performative. It was just… there.

They didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to.

At a stop light, Oscar reached forward to adjust the music — and Lando’s hand caught his wrist, gently, like it wasn’t the first time he’d done that exact thing.

“No Coldplay,” Lando muttered, more yawn than protest.

Oscar didn’t roll his eyes, but Margot felt the eye roll somehow. The corners of his mouth twitched and he didn’t change the song.

It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t loud. But it was intimate in the way that quiet things often are.

They didn’t even notice they were doing it.

And maybe that’s what made it hit her all at once — not the touch, or the glances, or the silence filled with ease — but the unconsciousness of it. Like their closeness had muscle memory.

She’d known, kind of. Alex had mentioned it.

The way Oscar showed up to grovel on Lando’s behalf, the way they’d shown up tonight without even hesitating — together.

But now she knew.

And not in a gossip way. Not in a tabloid headline way.

In the way that made her feel like she’d stumbled into a room that didn’t quite have a door for her yet.

She wrapped her arms around herself tighter.

Outside, the roads got narrower. Her building loomed.

Oscar pulled up to the curb, headlights casting a pale arc across the stone facade.

“Do you want us to walk you up?” Lando asked from the back, voice soft.

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

Oscar didn’t argue.

But his eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. Just a second. Steady.

“Lock the door behind you,” he said.

She gave a small nod.

“Text me when you’re in,” Lando added. Then, after a beat, “I mean, text Alex. She’ll text us.”

Us.

Margot smiled, faint and tired. “Got it.”

She opened the door. Paused with one foot on the pavement.

“Thanks,” she said. It wasn’t just about the ride home.

“Anytime,” Oscar said.

Lando gave a small grin, head tilted against the window.

She shut the door gently. Didn’t look back.

But as she climbed the stairs to her flat, fingers still trembling slightly, she found herself thinking not about the window, not about the plywood or the paint or the wrongness of her floors—

—but about the way Oscar had let Lando change the song.

And the way Lando had reached for him like he didn’t need to think about it.

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xichilie · 3 days ago

Text

Phainon x (fem)reader

The One Forgotten (2)

Might contain spoilers

After Penacony, the Astral Express drifted through space with a strange silence in its wake. The world of dreams had ended, but what it left behind clung like dew to the skin — illusions that had tasted too much like truth. Fatigue haunted the corridors, unspoken but present in every breath.

And when the subject of fuel came up again, it felt less like logistics and more like a final thread wearing thin.

That was when Black Swan offered her insight.

"Amphoreus," she said, voice velvet-wrapped in mystery.

"A planet abandoned by time. Not part of the Star Rail. But if you lay track there, you will never need to seek fuel again. Trailblaze energy will be... infinite."

It should’ve sounded like salvation.

But to Y/N, it sounded like a curse.

The others didn’t notice the way she stiffened at the name. Not even Welt. Not even Himeko. To them, it was just another mysterious world — just another answer to a problem.

But Y/N knew better.

Amphoreus was not a forgotten planet.

It was the birthplace of her sin.

She didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.

She wandered the Express like a ghost no one could see, her steps silent, her eyes lost in corridors that weren’t there.

When she stood by the window, the others assumed she was simply thinking.

But she was drowning.

Khaslana.

She whispered his name into the stars sometimes — when no one could hear, when the ache became unbearable.

Did he hate her?

Did he survive the Black Tide?

Had he managed to save anyone?

She remembered the look in his eyes the day she left.

A look that didn't beg her to stay — it simply broke.

He had held her so tightly in that final moment, like he knew something neither of them could say. And she had kissed him like it would stop time. Like it would rewrite fate.

But it didn’t.

She vanished anyway.

Because she had to.

Because if she stayed... Amphoreus would burn faster than the stars could scream.

And still, every night since, she wondered if she’d made the right choice.

No one aboard the Express knew what she was.

Not even the Archives held her name.

A Lord Ravager. An Emanator of Destruction. Chosen — not by will, but by a glance.

She was still just a child when Nanook looked her way. And from that day on, every breath she took burned something into ash.

Zephyro had taken her under his wing — cloaked in white, a whisper of annihilation dressed as guidance. He said he’d teach her control.

But she had seen what control looked like in his hands: whole worlds shattered with elegance.

She fled before she became like him.

But running did not mean escaping.

And now the wheel turned again.

Black Swan’s voice returned in her mind:

"Amphoreus. A forge of possibility."

She bit her lip until it bled.

They had no idea.

That planet wasn’t salvation.

It was a cradle for a Lord Ravager.

And she — simply by setting foot on it again — risked awakening the very destruction she had bled her soul dry trying to avoid.

The Express moved steadily toward the coordinates.

Y/N stood alone by the glass.

Her hands trembled at her sides.

Her reflection looked hollow — a stranger made of guilt, of longing, of buried fire. She didn’t know what would happen when she arrived. Only that he might still be there.

And if Khaslana saw her again — after everything...

She didn’t know if she'd fall apart...

Or burn the world down all over again.

She told herself she was over it.

That the cycles were broken, that the past was ashes — unreachable, unchangeable.

But Amphoreus was calling again.

And this time, it wasn’t just a whisper in her dreams. It was real.

They were going back.

The Astral Express, that strange little miracle of iron and light, was heading toward the one place in the galaxy she had sworn never to see again.

The thought alone made her chest ache.

Or maybe it had never stopped aching — maybe she had just learned how to smile through it.

In the soft hum of the train’s engine, she sat alone in the storage car, knees pulled to her chest, head bowed over trembling hands.

Khaslana.

His name was a wound stitched into the lining of her soul.

They hadn’t spoken in years — not since she disappeared from his arms in the Vortex of Genesis. Not since Lygus’s voice had split the air like a cruel omen. Not since she had chosen to protect Amphoreus by leaving the one person she had ever truly loved.

She never got to say goodbye the way she wanted.

And now...

“Would he still be there?” she whispered.

Would he hate her?

Would he look at her with that empty, frozen stare he sometimes wore when grief dulled him into silence?

Did he think she abandoned him?

Or... did he move on?

She laughed bitterly at herself.

She was a Lord Ravager — an emanator of Destruction. She shouldn’t be asking questions like this. Love wasn’t made for people like her.

But no matter how many times she tried to bury it, it clawed its way back up.

She missed him.

God, she missed him.

Every version of his voice. His crooked smile. His anger at the world, his quiet moments of hope. The way he looked at her like she was more than what the Aeons made her to be.

She missed who she was when she was with him.

And then it happened.

March fell sick.

Not just a cold — something deeper, they couldn’t identify. A resonance that bled from her very soul.

Welt stayed behind. So did Himeko. They couldn’t risk taking March further.

Only Dan Heng and Trailblazer prepared to descend to Amphoreus — the two who had no idea what awaited them. What Amphoreus really was.

Y/N stood at the back of the room, invisible in her silence, her pulse racing.

They don’t know.

They don’t know the kind of madness buried beneath that planet’s broken crust. They don’t know about the Twelve Coreflames, or the Black Tide that gnawed at the simulation’s edge like a predator with no face.

They don’t know it’s a world built to birth a monster.

And they certainly don’t know about him.

Her decision felt like a scream inside her chest.

She grabbed her coat. Her bag. Her breath.

She didn’t tell anyone what she was doing.

She just moved.

She caught up with Dan Heng and Trailblazer at the platform.

Trailblazer blinked in surprise. “You’re joining us?”

Y/N nodded stiffly, trying to suppress the tremble in her fingers. “You’ll need someone who understands the terrain.”

Dan Heng gave her a quiet look, sharp and unreadable. But he said nothing.

It was enough.

As the shuttle docked and the light of Amphoreus began to spill into the cabin, Y/N pressed her forehead to the cool metal wall.

A single thought echoed louder than anything else.

Please still be there.

Please still remember me.

Please don’t hate me.

The descent onto Amphoreus did not go as planned.

Y/N, Dan Heng, and the Trailblazer boarded the cart to scout ahead, separate from the main Express. But as they breached the upper atmosphere, a lance of Strife—a weapon unmistakably born from the Titans—pierced through the sky and struck their cart. The vehicle spiraled violently before crashing into the outskirts of Janusopolis, the once-sacred city now reduced to fractured marble and whispering dust.

Dazed, bruised, and disoriented, the three crawled from the wreckage.

Y/N’s hand throbbed—warm, slick. She looked down.

Golden blood.

Her heart clenched. Here, on Amphoreus, golden blood was a revered sign of divine lineage—one of the Chrysos Heirs. But Y/N knew the truth. It wasn’t divinity—it was Destruction. A mark left by Nanook’s gaze long ago.

She tore a strip of her clothing and wrapped the wound hastily. Dan Heng hadn’t noticed. Neither had the Trailblazer. She was safe—for now.

Their surroundings groaned under the weight of silence. Then came the sound of movement—fast, light, deliberate.

A figure appeared from the haze—Tribbie, the Holy Maiden of Janusopolis, her red hair like fire in the dim light, her voice playful yet ancient. And beside her…

Phainon.

He stood tall, cyan eyes alert, white hair tousled by the wind. A choker around his neck hid the mark she once knew by heart.

He didn’t recognize her. Not truly.

But when his eyes landed on her, something lingered—curiosity… or something deeper. A familiarity he couldn’t name. He smiled, said something lighthearted. She barely heard him.

Y/N’s world was already collapsing again.

This was another cycle.

The city, the people, the ruin—all playing out again.

And Phainon… he was still him, just with a different name. A new mask. The warmth in his gaze cut her open more than she expected.

As Dan Heng and the Trailblazer were led to Lady Aglaea, the demi-god ruler of Okhema, Y/N faltered—claimed she wasn’t feeling well.

Phainon didn’t question it. He simply nodded, almost too quickly. “I’ll arrange a room,” he said, quietly. “You should rest.”

She could feel his gaze linger a little too long as she turned to leave.

He didn’t know her.

But he was already falling.

And she was already breaking.

Months passed.

The Flame-Chase journey had taken shape, and with it, the tides of struggle against the Strife Titan and Black Tide deepened. The Astral Express crew supported the people of Amphoreus with all they could offer, strategy, strength—but it was Y/N who found herself drawn back into the heart of the world she had once left behind.

And in the center of it all, Phainon.

Despite his easy grin and sharp tongue in battle, he was quiet in his intentions, subtle in his affections. Yet there was no denying it—he always found her.

A shared meal after exhausting missions. A quiet walk through Okhema’s gardens. Even moments between battles, when everyone else scattered to rest, he would drift toward her with a boyish charm and a spark in his eyes.

"Want to come with me to the terrace? There's a beautiful view and fresh brise."

Sometimes it was an excuse—any excuse—to be near her. Other times, it felt like instinct. Like he couldn’t help it.

He laughed more when she was around. He smiled differently. There were moments when his cheeks would color ever so faintly, a soft pink blooming beneath the dusk of war and worry.

The others noticed.

Tribbie would giggle behind her sleeve, making vague teasing remarks no one understood. Aglaea’s golden threads hovered a little too long when Y/N and Phainon stood too close. Even Dan Heng raised an eyebrow once, when Phainon casually handed Y/N a packet of roasted meat with an almost reverent care.

And Y/N…

She tried to keep her heart steady. She tried to remind herself—this isn’t the same man.

But it was his laugh. His warmth. That familiar brightness that always shone even when the world around them dimmed. The way he spoke to her like she was the only thing tethering him to something real.

He didn’t remember the lives they shared before. He didn’t know how tightly she once clung to him when she left. How he held her like the world was ending.

But even without memory, he was still drawn to her.

And she—despite everything—still loved him.

She tried to bury it.

Tried to remind herself this was another cycle. Another khaslana. Another eventual end.

But the ache in her chest only grew deeper each time he smiled like that.

Like he was falling in love for the first time.

And she… was losing him all over again.

Okhema’s eternal daylight bathed the city in a soft golden hue, painting every stone and petal in warmth. The marble streets glistened as if the sun itself had kissed them, and the distant bells of the Marmoreal Palace chimed gently in the breeze. In the Garden, where flowers that never wilted bloomed beside fountains that never ran dry, Y/N waited — half lost in the way sunlight filtered through the leaf-laced arches above her.

Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, mind adrift. She hadn’t expected to feel like this — a nervous flutter in her chest, like something familiar and far away was drawing closer.

Then she heard the footsteps.

She turned, and there he was — Phainon, walking quickly and trying not to look like he was. His usual confidence, his light-hearted grin… it was all there, but softened, almost faltering.

He skidded slightly as he stopped in front of her, catching his balance with a sheepish laugh. “Sorry. Did I keep you waiting?”

Y/N tilted her head, smiling gently. “Only a little. Everything alright?”

“Yeah! Of course. I just… uh…” He hesitated. Then, clearing his throat, he reached into his coat and fumbled with something. “I’ve got something for you.”

Her brows lifted. “Oh?”

“I saw it the other day, while Tribbie and I were at the market.” His voice was quick and a little high-pitched. “It just… it made me think of you. I figured, you know, maybe you’d like it. You don’t have to wear it, of course. I just—well—here.”

He held out a small velvet box, his hands just slightly trembling. His cheeks were definitely pink now, and he was trying so hard to keep eye contact, but he kept glancing away like he might combust if she looked too long. Cute she thought to herself.

Y/N took the box slowly, heart thudding.

She opened it—and the breath caught in her throat.

Inside, resting on a cushion of soft blue silk, was a necklace.

A silver sun pendant, radiant and detailed, etched with patterns that danced like rays across its surface. It shimmered faintly in the Okhemian light, warm and bright.

She knew this pendant.

Down to every groove. Every imperfect curve.

It was the same necklace Khaslana had given her all those cycles ago—before destruction, before the unraveling. The one she had clutched under her clothes every night, even after she left him behind.

Her hand trembled slightly as her fingers brushed it, and suddenly she couldn’t stop the tears that welled in her eyes and slipped free.

Phainon’s face shifted instantly—his earlier excitement giving way to panic. “Wait—oh, did I mess up? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you—I can take it back, I really just—”

Y/N shook her head, wiping her cheek quickly. “No—no. It’s not that.” Her voice cracked. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just… it’s beautiful.”

He looked unconvinced, still visibly rattled, still standing stiff like a boy who feared he’d broken something precious.

She laughed gently through her tears, the sound a little watery, a little raw. “You’re adorable when you panic, you know.”

That flustered him even more. “I’m not panicking. I was just—concerned.”

Y/N closed the box slowly, holding it close to her chest for a moment. “You said it reminded you of me?”

“Yeah…” he mumbled, eyes dropping again. “I saw the sun pattern, and I thought… you’re kind of like that. Always warm. Always… bright. Even if you don’t see it yourself.”

Her heart cracked open a little more at that.

He didn’t know.

He couldn’t possibly know what that necklace meant — what it symbolized, what it once stood for. He didn’t know the boy who’d placed it in her hand all those lifetimes ago… not truly. Not yet.

And yet, somehow, he had chosen the same gift. As if some echo deep within his soul remembered.

She stepped forward before she could stop herself and wrapped her arms around him.

Phainon went completely still — stunned. Then, slowly, his arms came around her too, strong but hesitant, like he didn’t want to let go too soon.

The light above them shimmered a little softer. The breeze slowed, the bells paused.

And for a moment, time felt like it folded in on itself — a present that brushed hands with the past.

He didn’t ask what the tears were for. She didn’t explain.

But when she stepped back, he smiled a little more gently. “So… I’m forgiven for the surprise gift?”

She laughed. “Completely.”

And tucked beneath her cloak, close to her heart again, was the sun-shaped pendant — the same one, in a new cycle, given by the same soul who didn’t yet remember just how much he once meant to her.

#x reader #x y/n #x you #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai x reader #oc x character #hsr art #phainon x you #phainon honkai star rail #phainon hsr #phainon x reader #phainon #honkai

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barnesonly · 2 days ago

Text

Peach

steve kemp x reader

summary: you shouldn’t want this. shouldn’t crave his hands, his mouth, the way he worships you like you’re something holy. he’s dangerous. wrong. but he makes you feel things—in his own twisted, obsessive way.

word count: 3k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! steve kemp is literally a warning himself, pure smut, stockholm syndrome, praising, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, PiV, unprotected sex, breeding.

A/N: okay, this is my first time writing a fic that isn’t about Bucky Barnes, so… let me know what you think and if you’d like to see part 2 in the future…!

You should be disgusted. You should be screaming. Scratching at the walls. Clawing at his eyes. Trying to escape this house, this man, this madness.

But instead, you’re here. Breathing hard, fingers tangled in the sheets, hips trembling—giving in to him. Again.

You don’t know when it changed. When your fear shifted into something murky and warm, something that spreads through your veins like honeyed poison. It started with his voice. The way he talked to you—so calm, so sure. Then his hands. His touch. His promises. The way he made you feel like the only thing in the world he craved.

And now?

Now, that man is between your thighs, making you feel a kind of pleasure you never thought you’d survive.

His mouth is obsessive. His tongue glides through your folds like he’s savoring something delicate, something divine, like you’re the finest cut he’s ever had. And God help you, your body responds to it. Back arching. Toes curling. Lips parting to moan his name like a prayer.

You’re not tied up. Not this time. You don’t have to stay. But you’re not going anywhere.

Because Steve is devouring you like he’s starving, and you’re the only thing that’s ever truly fed him.

And maybe… you want to be consumed.

You moan as his tongue flicks against your clit—slow, wet circles that make your thighs quiver around his head. His hands are gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you open, holding you still, like you’re a meal he refuses to let slip away.

“Easy, Peach,” Steve murmurs against you, voice thick with hunger, lips brushing your soaked skin. “Let me enjoy you.”

And God, he does. Every lick, every kiss feels like worship. He’s not rushing it. No, Steve Kemp eats pussy the way he carves into a rare steak—focused, reverent, starving. His tongue dips down, savoring everything you give him, then drags back up, slow and sinful, until he finds that swollen spot again and stays there, flicking, sucking, pulling sounds from your throat you didn’t know you could make.

“You know how long I’ve waited for this?” he groans. “How long I’ve thought about the way you’d taste? How many times I’ve had to settle for something else before I found you? Something less… sweet?”

He moans into your cunt like he’s the one being pleasured, like the taste of you is addictive—euphoric. His eyes flick up, catching yours through the mess of your thighs and his hair, and the look in them makes your breath hitch.

Like he’s in love.

“You’re my favorite, Peach,” he says, voice all low heat and ruined devotion. “My girl. Always so good for me, aren’t you?”

Your hips jerk up, needy, desperate. And he smiles against you—fucking smiles—and tightens his grip.

“Yeah,” he breathes, tongue pressing flat and firm, sliding slow and delicious across your clit again and again. “Be good. Let me eat, baby. Let me take every drop.”

And you do.

You sob his name as your orgasm crashes through you, back arching off the bed, legs shaking uncontrollably. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. He just moans like he’s tasted something divine and licks you through it, deeper, messier, more possessive.

You try to pull away, overstimulated, dizzy—but he holds you there.

“You’re not done,” Steve whispers, kissing your swollen pussy like an apology and a threat all at once. “You’re never done ‘til I say, Peach. And I’m still hungry.”

You’re trembling—your thighs shaking from the orgasm, your lips parted in a soft, broken moan—but he’s already back between your legs, licking into you like it’s the first taste all over again.

His tongue is ruthless.

He starts slow—broad strokes from your entrance to your clit, licking up everything he made you spill. But it doesn’t take long before the rhythm changes. Becomes needy. Desperate. He latches onto your clit with a filthy groan, sucking it into his mouth, flicking the tip of his tongue back and forth until your hips buck off the bed.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice muffled between your legs, “Give it to me, baby. Let me have it.”

Your hands shoot down to his hair, gripping tight as your body jolts beneath him, overstimulated nerves screaming—but he doesn’t let up. His hands are holding you down, fingers digging into your thighs, and his mouth works you like he’s possessed.

“Fuck, Steve—I can’t—” You sob, voice cracking.

“Yes, you can,” he pants, breath hot and messy against your drenched cunt. “You’re my good girl, remember? My sweet little Peach. You give me everything.”

And you do.

You fall apart on his mouth again—harder this time. Hips jerking, back arching, a strangled cry breaking from your lips as your orgasm crashes over you, wetter and rougher than before.

And Steve? He fucking moans. Loud and wrecked, like he’s the one coming, like he’s in heaven with your slick soaking his face.

“Oh, fuck yes—look at that,” he groans, pulling back just enough to see the mess you’ve made of him. His chin is dripping. His lips are shiny. His tongue flicks out to taste the corner of his mouth and he hums like he just had the best meal of his life.

“You made such a mess, Peach. Soaked me. God, you taste like something I’d kill to keep.”

And you know damn well he means it. He would do that.

He leans in and licks you one more time—slow, tender, obscene.

You flinch, overstimulated and dizzy—but he only grins, eyes full of worship and madness, before kissing the inside of your thigh, your mound, your still-twitching clit.

Your body’s still shaking, chest rising and falling in erratic little gasps, but Steve finally pulls back from between your thighs—only to hover over you, mouth glistening with your slick, cheeks flushed, pupils blown.

He looks completely wrecked.

Like you wrecked him.

And he’s not done. Now he wants to fuck you full.

“God, look at you,” he breathes, cupping your face, thumb dragging softly across your cheek. “So fucked-out. So pretty. You have any idea what you do to me, Peach?”

You can’t even answer. Your lips part, but all that comes out is a shaky breath—and then he’s kissing you. Full and wet, tongue sliding into your mouth, making you taste yourself on him. He whimpers when you kiss him back. Whimpers. Like he’s starved for this too.

“You’re gonna take me now,” he whispers against your mouth. “Gonna let me inside this perfect little pussy, baby. Gonna let me fuck you nice and slow, just like you deserve.”

Your hips twitch beneath him—already aching, already clenching around nothing. You nod, dazed, desperate. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please… Steve, I need—”

“Oh, I know what you need, Peach,” he cuts in, voice like velvet soaked in sin. “You need to be filled. Fucked nice and full. Used by the only man who knows how to love you like this.”

He pulls his boxers down and slides his cock against your slick folds, groaning at how wet you are—how ready. Your body welcomes him like it was made for this, for him, and when he finally pushes inside, it’s slow, deep, deliberate.

You both gasp.

“Jesus—fuck, look at that,” he groans, hips pressing flush against yours. “So tight, baby. Still twitching from coming all over my mouth, and now you’re squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go.”

You don’t. You wrap your legs around his waist, anchoring him inside you, desperate for more. He starts to move—slow thrusts, long and thick, dragging his cock through your soaked, swollen walls like he’s imprinting himself in your body.

And in a way… he is.

“That’s it,” he growls, pressing kisses to your jaw, your ear, your throat—everywhere. “Let me fuck you just like this. Let me take care of you, baby.”

You’re babbling now, fingers digging into his shoulders, overwhelmed by how deep he is, how full you feel, how every thrust makes you melt all over again.

“So good, Steve, please—oh my god—”

“I know, baby,” he breathes, voice breaking with need. “I know. You’re so good for me. My perfect little girl.”

He fucks you through the overstimulation, through the dizzy, sticky bliss that’s still pulsing in your core, and he’s not stopping. His body presses into yours, one hand slipping between you to rub tight circles on your clit again, lips curling when your back arches off the bed.

“One more,” he whispers darkly. “One more, Peach. I want to feel you come on my cock this time. Be a good girl and give it to me.”

You can barely keep your eyes open. Everything feels warm, heavy—your limbs like liquid, your thoughts blurred into static. All you can feel is him. Inside you. Around you. Everywhere.

Steve notices. Of course he does.

“Hey… hey, baby,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts just enough to make your body twitch at the loss of rhythm. His voice is soft. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek, tender and reverent.

“You with me, sweetheart?”

You whimper, blinking up at him, your lips parted, trembling. “I—yeah, I just… I can’t—”

And then he’s moving.

He pulls out, just for a moment, and before you can whine from the loss, he’s wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you. Strong, practiced, like you weigh nothing to him. He sits back on the bed, pulls you into his lap, and guides you down onto his cock—slowly, gently, burying himself deep as you sink onto him.

You gasp, legs trembling around his hips, your arms clinging to his shoulders as you try to breathe through the feeling. He’s so deep like this. Too deep. You feel stretched, soaked, broken open—and he’s holding you like you’re precious.

“There we go,” Steve murmurs, mouth brushing your ear. “Got you. Just breathe, baby. I’ve got you now.”

His hands are firm on your waist, supporting your weight, rocking you on his cock with slow, controlled rolls of his hips. It’s almost too much. Your pussy’s raw and sensitive, fluttering around him with every messy, wet glide. But he’s whispering to you. Talking you through it. And it’s ruining you.

“So good for me,” he says softly, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears at your temple. “My perfect girl. You’re doing so well.”

You sob, helpless, completely overwhelmed—but you don’t want him to stop. You need him. The slow grind of his cock, the wet sound of your slick coating his skin, the praise filling your ears like a lullaby.

“Just let go,” he whispers, rocking you a little faster, a little deeper. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me fuck you, baby. Let me take care of you.”

You nod, burying your face in his neck, mouth falling open as another orgasm coils deep in your belly. The drag of him inside you is perfect. The stretch. The pressure. His cock pushing against that sensitive spot over and over while your clit grinds against the rough hair at the base of him—it’s too much. It’s not enough.

You can’t think. You can’t speak. All you can do is feel.

“Come for me,” Steve breathes, voice strained now, fucked-out and tender. “Soak my cock, Peach. Wanna feel you drip all over me. Be good and give it to me.”

And you do.

Your body locks up, trembling in his arms as you come again, walls pulsing around him in tight, messy waves. You cry out into his neck, and he groans at the feeling—deep and broken—clutching you tighter as he fucks you through it, never letting you go.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. Fuck—fuck, you’re perfect.”

You’re dripping down his cock now, your slick soaking both of you, and he keeps rocking you gently, whispering praises between kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, your throat.

“My sweet, sweet girl. My beautiful fucking mess. You were made for this, you know that? Made to be mine.”

Your body is limp in his lap now—soaked, shaking, pliant in his hands.

But Steve’s still inside you.

Still hard. Still rocking into you with slow, deep thrusts that punch soft whimpers out of your throat every time he drags against your overstimulated walls. Your thighs are twitching, your breath broken, and your cunt’s still fluttering around him—gripping him like it doesn’t want to let him go.

That makes him lose it.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps, voice cracking as his hips stutter, grinding up into you like he can’t stop. “Oh, baby—fuck, you feel too good. Too fucking good.”

You moan when you feel him twitch inside you, and he lets out a desperate sound—his hands clawing at your waist, holding you down as he starts to thrust harder, chasing his own ruin now.

“I’m gonna come,” he groans, nose buried in your neck, teeth grazing your skin like he’s barely holding himself back from biting. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna fucking breed you.”

Your breath hitches, cunt clenching down tight around him at those filthy words, and he growls.

“Oh, you like that,” he pants. “You want it. Want me to come inside this perfect little pussy. Fuck, Peach—gonna make you mine. Make sure no one else ever gets a taste.”

You can’t answer—you’re too far gone, too fucked-out to do anything but moan for him, nails dragging across his back as he fucks you with messy, frantic thrusts. You’re both soaked—his cock sliding in and out of you with loud, sticky sounds, your slick dripping down over his thighs—and it’s perfect.

It’s his.

You are his.

“Mine,” Steve groans, arms locking around your back, crushing you to his chest as he finally breaks. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

He spills deep inside you with a guttural moan, hips jerking, cock pulsing as thick heat floods your cunt. You feel every throb. Every drop. His breath is ragged against your neck, arms shaking from how tightly he’s holding you.

But even as he comes down, he doesn’t let go.

He stays buried deep inside you, wrapping himself around your body like he’s trying to keep you in place forever. His cock softening slowly, leaking into your overstimulated pussy, mixing with your own mess as he presses soft, almost innocent kisses to your cheek.

“You did so good, baby,” he whispers, voice barely audible now, soft and dazed. “So sweet for me. So perfect. My precious girl.”

You can feel his cum dripping out around him, sliding between your thighs—but he just hums, kisses your temple, and pulls you tighter into his chest like it’s his right.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers, lips pressed to your ear, breath warm. “You’re mine now, Peach. Always.”

And somehow—through the haze, through the wreckage of your own body—you find yourself nodding.

Because you already are his.

You’ve been his since the first taste.

You don’t know how long you stay there—collapsed in his lap, his cock still buried deep inside you, your skin flushed and damp, your thighs sticky with a mixture of sweat, spit, and cum.

His arms are wrapped around you. Tight. Possessive. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even an inch.

“You did so good for me, Peach,” he repeats, whispering against your hair, breath still heavy. “So fucking good. I knew you would. I knew you were mine.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest—but not from fear. Not from anything that makes sense.

It should be fear.

Because this man… this thing… has killed. Taken. Kept. He stole you. Locked you in this house. Fed you lies and soft kisses and dinners you don’t ask questions about.

He should make your skin crawl.

But all you can feel is warmth. His voice in your ear, his cum still inside you, his hands petting down your spine like he’s comforting you after something holy.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he says softly. “No more bad days. No more pain. Just this. Just me. You don’t need anything else.”

Your stomach twists.

This is wrong.

He’s wrong.

You should hate him.

But your body—wrecked and trembling in his lap—wants to melt into him all over again. Wants more of his voice, his touch, the safety of being wanted this much. Even if it’s sick.

Even if it’s a lie.

“You’re gonna stay with me, Peach,” he murmurs, still stroking your hair, as if you have any choice. “Gonna build you a room right next to mine. Maybe not even that—maybe I’ll just keep you in my bed. So I can taste you every night.”

Your breath hitches. You’re too sore to move, too overstimulated to think, but the words sink in. So does the truth of them. He means it. Every word.

He’s not going to let you go.

And what’s worse—what makes shame coil hot and low in your belly—is that some part of you wants that.

You don’t want the outside world. You want him. His mouth, his voice, the way he holds you like you’re breakable and holy and his.

“You’re not scared of me anymore, are you?” he asks softly.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He smiles.

“Good.”

Then he lifts your chin with two fingers, eyes locked on yours, pupils still blown wide.

“I’m never letting you go,” he says, soft as silk, sharp as a blade. “I’d kill for you. I’d die for you. And if you ever try to leave me…”

He kisses your cheek, slow and gentle.

“…I’ll make sure no one ever finds the pieces.”

Your heart stutters.

Fuck.

You should be running. Screaming. Scratching at the walls.

But instead, your body leans into the kiss. Into his touch. Into the lie you’re too tired to fight anymore.

Because you’re not just his prisoner.

You’re his favorite.

tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125 @peanutbutt3rcup @avengemepercy

#barnesonly #writing #peach #steve kemp #steve kemp fanfic #steve kemp fanfiction #steve kemp x reader #steve kemp x you #steve kemp x y/n #fresh #fresh fanfic #fresh fanfiction #sebastian stan #smut #smut fanfiction #smut fanfic #steve kemp smut

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loomingspector · 3 hours ago

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The kids affirming that Bruce is indeed very pretty, is very precious to me.

Cause if we're going the Battinson route, Bruce can like barely comprehend that anyone wants to be near him, let alone actually think he's anything besides his parents money.

The Bale Batman (heh), very clearly knows that he's a good looking guy, but also know that the people that are around him, except a select few, are extremely shallow when it comes to him, and he most likely assumes that everyone that gets close to him too quickly is solely after his money if nothing else.

The Affleck Batman is also very certain in his idea of what people expect of him, and in the movie he (imo) acts like he needs to be a god, nothing less. And a completely broken man in most other aspects.

(I'm also pretty sure they're even hinting in the movie, that Bruce was the one that set up the Robin display case, even though it was Alfred, and the placement is so fucking insane, he can't miss it even if he wanted to, unlike in the comics where it's just somewhere in the cave, but in that one, he legit has to see it when he goes in and out of the cave every time, fuck you Alfred)

Bruce paced in tight, precise circles, the hem of his coat trailing behind him like a shadow with a mission. The League's latest decision (something about alien diplomacy and a naive PR campaign) had sent him straight into a controlled rage, his hands were clenched, his voice low and sharp, slicing through the air like a thrown batarang.

Clark watched from the couch, half reclined, arms folded across his chest as he tracked Bruce's movements with a look that was far too serene for the tension in the room, smile tugged at his mouth. A soft, fond, dangerous smile.

"You're not listening" Bruce snapped, cutting his words off mid rant as he turned to face him, his eyes narrowed.

"I am" Clark replied calmly "i'm listening to every word. I'm also watching the way you walk when you're angry. It's very… purposeful.”

Bruce blinked "What does that have to do with—"

"You're really pretty when you're angry" Clark said simply, like it was an unshakable truth, like Bruce had just declared the sky was blue.

Bruce stared at him, he opened his mouth, then closed it. His ears turned faintly pink.

"That is not a productive comment" he said tightly.

Clark tilted his head "It's very productive for me"

From behind the Batcomputer, Tim coughed to cover a laugh "He's got a point” he muttered.

Jason, passing through with a sandwich, didn't even pause "Scary and hot. Own it, B. You already know you're attractive"

Bruce didn't speak again for a full minute. He only turned back toward the monitors, his shoulders stiff and his jaw tight, but Clark noticed the faint blush that covered Bruce's neck and face.

#prev tags #batman #bruce wayne #superbat #superman #clark kent #dc #superman x batman #clark kent x bruce wayne #tim drake #jason todd

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sbcdh · 2 days ago

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Professor Imanaga was scared. I don’t think he really understood what he saw.

Was he prone to visions?

No, not at all. I mean, not that I know of. I worked with him back in the 90s, when he was still writing The Final Republic. I did hypnoregulatory work for like half my professors, but I didn’t become friends with them. Professor Imanaga was different. He was always such a friendly, level-headed guy. You know, I don’t think he really understood what his book would do.

What it would do?

You know, all of it. Intellectuals don’t get attention like that. You might publish something that gets cited in congress. If you’re lucky, you might get interviewed on the news, but you don’t stick around. I don’t think Professor Imanaga was expecting to be –I dunno– elected? As the representative for Equilibralism.

Public attention can be stressful. How did he handle it?

I think he liked it, in his own way. He was used to talking in front of people, and he could handle an interview. Even back in the 90s he was the type of guy to answer “I don’t know” or “let me think about it.” He would start every conversation with “well, let us define our terms-” that sorta thing. He’s always had that whole thoughtful grandpa vibe. I think that’s part of why he handled the success of Final Republic so well.

I imagine the professor has a complicated relationship to his work.

Eh. I think he stands by the thesis. You gotta remember, he wrote Final Republic back in 94. The wall just fell. Everyone was liberalizing. Liberalizing and hypnoeconomizing. Before that, damn near every intellectual was saying that some system would eventually show up to eclipse liberal democracy. It really did seem like the future was gonna be liberal democracy hooked up to a hypnoeconomy. I don’t think he was wrong. The world is still mostly equilibral systems. Most people seemed to agree.

It must have been a strange time for him, getting so much attention as a professor.

Maybe? It was kinda sweet. He would call me every weekend, to tell me stories of all the talk shows and panels and dinners he was asked to be on. Half the time I already saw them on TV, but it was nice to hear him talk. He was so excited! Sometimes he would even invite me as a plus-one when he needed a hypnoregulatory specialist. He was always more interested in the sociological side of things. He left the nitty-gritty of hypnoregulation to the doctorate students.

Dinners?

Oh yeah. People were always inviting him to stuff. You know one time, we were in Cambridge, just wandering around looking for a bite to eat. So we walked into some restaurant. Waiter asks if we have a reservation. We say no we don’t have a reservation. Hes about to turn us away when –get this– Henry fucking Kissinger walks up to professor Imanaga, shakes his hand, and invites him to come sit down for dinner with the owner of the restaurant! The whole time we just kept looking at each other like we just got a free ticket to Disneyland. Food was great too. Thats where he met Krauthammer.

That is journalist Charles Krauthammer?

Yeah. Pretty soon he was hanging out with all those guys. Kept inviting the professor to state dinners. Lotta country clubs. All that stuff. Every friday I’d get weekend updates about the people he met and who he was talking to. It was like getting a whole second education in American politics. He’d tell me how many politicians loved his book, how popular it was.

If I recall correctly, professor Imanaga has attempted to distance himself from Equilibralism as an ideology.

Oh he hates the term. He never used it himself. It was some columnist from the New Left Review who actually came up with it. The principle is more or less the same; liberal democracy hooked up to a hypnoregulated economy. Actually…no. Now that I think about it, he wouldn’t use the word hate. He would always say he “strongly disliked” stuff. He’d say equilibralism is imprecise. It implies a see-saw relationship rather than symbiotic relationship.

I see. What would you say turned the professor away from contemporary Equilibralism?

Iraq.

You sound very sure.

Iraq. He called me up one night. I think it was 2004. I think he had been crying. Like, he wasn’t crying on the phone, but he had been crying earlier. I’d never heard him like that before. Not until, well, you know. He told me about this dinner. He told me “They were all cheering.” you know, cheering for the war, for the whole new “unipolar” world. He said it was all one big blunder. He hasn’t talked to Wolfowitz or Cheney or any of those guys since.

I see.

I think it was, I dunno, sudden for him. It was a surprise. He sounded like he just learned an old friend had fallen off the wagon. Or like- Nah I dunno. I dunno. I can’t tell you what was in his mind. But he felt confused and betrayed. He said he was gonna head out to- Oh my god. Oh my god he said he was gonna go to his house in Reno.

Reno?

Yeah. He had a little desert ranch way out in Reno. He’d go out there in winter when he needed to relax. You know, I think- yeah. Yeah he invited me out for Christmas that year. I remember he didn’t seem 100%, but having people around seemed to help his mood. I remember it was late and we’d been drinking wine. Once the sun had set he asked me about religion.

Was he religious?

Well, thats the thing. He didn’t really go to church but his father was a minister. I was just surprised because he never talked about it. He never seemed remotely interested in religion. He never brought it up again I just- I think thats when he had his vision. He didn’t tell me until years later but I think thats when it happened. Oh my god, that’s when he must’ve wrecked his car too. It has to be. He told me he wrecked his car on the way to Reno.

Slow down. Start at the beginning.

Okay. Okay. I think, in February of 2004, Professor Imanaga goes to this dinner. It upsets him, and he wants to go out to his house in Reno to calm down. He totals his car and has a near-death experience. He sees something, but he keeps it quiet. Later he invites me to Christmas, and he tries to tell me but hes nervous about –I dunno– being seen as crazy? Then a few days ago, he left me a voicemail where he tells me the story. So I come to you people.

He didn’t tell his children? His wife?

No. I think…I think he was worried he would come off as crazy. And you know, I was his touchstone for hypnoeconomic matters. Its kinda intimate, doing someones taxes, its kinda like being in their brain.

Do you have the voicemail with you?

Yes, here give me a moment. Here.

“-eant to tell you a long time ago. It was early in the morning. The sun hadn’t come up yet. I was driving in from Tahoe and there was something in my headlights. It was some sort of reptile, a big fat iguana or something like that. I swerved to avoid it, and rolled the car bad.

I think I was thrown. The next thing I know, I was lying facedown in the dirt. I couldn’t feel a thing. To- to tell you the truth I thought I might’ve died. I could’ve sworn I wore my seatbelt. That was my first thought, honest. I could’ve sworn I wore my seatbelt. I never drive without it, but I was thrown clear. I think I was in shock. I couldn’t move, or speak, or call for help. All I could do was lay there and watch the car burn. But then-

I wasn’t thinking straight. I couldn’t have. But I remember it so clearly. Sitting there on the burning undercarriage. It was a lamb. It had a little golden bell around its neck like they have in cartoons, and it- I swear on my life it was smoking a cigarette. Just…balanced there in its little hoof. I remember it so clearly, like it’s still right there in front of me. Everything else is so hazy and the lamb just, isn’t.

It talked to me. It said –and I remember this clearly– It said “A storm is blowing from Las Vegas, Thomas. It’s blowing so hard the planes can only fly one way.” And it kept looking over its shoulder. I could see over its shoulder. There was nothing there! So I asked it. I asked “What are you looking at? What is back there?” And the lamb looked at me. I think it was crying. It looked at me and took a long drag on the cigarette and it said “Everything, Thomas.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Good god, its like I’m back there again. I’ve never told anyone about this. Not one. But I have to tell someone. The next thing I remember is the ambulance. The lamb was there. One of the paramedics was holding it like a child. It said “Don’t worry Thomas. You’ve done nothing wrong.” I- I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong. Have I done something wrong? I just don’t understand.

I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I thought this sort of thing would fade with age. But it hasn’t. It just hasn’t. I swear on my life this was the first and only time. That morning in the ambulance. That was the last time I ever dreamed like this.”

That’s where it ends.

Have you spoken with Professor Imanaga about this?

That’s part of why I came to you. Probably hasn’t hit the news yet. I went over to Thomas’s house just this morning. He passed last night. Peacefully, in his sleep.

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cheol-e-kat · 2 days ago

Text

𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐟𝐭 𝐤.𝐦𝐠

pairing: kim mingyu x f!reader

semi-side-pairing: reader and seungcheol have an on-and-off friends with benefits relationship that has ended

summary: you’ve known mingyu since college, and after he stood you up in second year, you’ve never gotten along - good thing you’re stuck sharing a room at a destination wedding party.

And when you do try to get away from one another - too bad that you both decide to go on a long hike, get rained on, and stuck in yet another room with only one bed.

genre: only one bed, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, mentioned fake dating, second chance, slow burn, yes - everyone is an attorney - sorry

word count: 11.5k

if you want to read this broken into chapters, here it is on ao3

warnings: explicit language, mentioned smut (not described in detail), foreplay, mentioned drinking , mentioned therapy

[ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐲 ]

“Seriously, why did they decide this was a destination-level thing,” you complained to Seungcheol from the passenger’s seat.

You were driving to a B&B like seven hours from the city because your friends were hosting a weekend for the wedding party. It was meant to be nothing but rest and relaxation. And like two very normal people with very normal schedules that didn’t at all prevent a social life, you’d agreed to be Seungcheol’s fake date for the weekend and probably for the wedding too.

“Because they think it’s cute and a nice way to thank their friends for showing up to all this wedding shit,” he mumbled.

You laughed, knowing he would rather be in his apartment rewatching some sad movie and texting a certain someone than driving to the mountains for the one weekend he’d requested off in four months.

And you - you would be happier doing literally anything. Because for you, there was one major problem with the weekend. The wedding party included one person you had carefully cut out of your life since college and law school. And this weekend meant you couldn’t avoid him.

You chewed your lip lightly, staring out the window. “You know we have that filing deadline, right?”

“I’m not working this weekend,” he said it like he was manifesting the end times, “I’m playing golf with people who couldn’t care less about what firm I’m at, and I’m drinking whatever I want, and I don’t care that we’re sharing a room because we’ve both seen each other naked enough times that to be honest you’re like the furniture to me, so I have no impediments, just me and golf and liquor that isn’t clear,” he said it so seriously.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “So, come next week, I should expect to see you looking very hung over and miserable during mediation?”

He nodded. “Fuck yes, you should,” he said with a grin.

You hummed in response. “Definitely on that partner track, aren’t you?”

“Shut up - at least I’m not trying to hide behind work because I can’t get along with others,” he shot back.

You stared with wide eyes, “Oh, don’t even start that!” You snapped.

He was still grinning. “You know it’s true - you can’t play nice with Mingyu, and”—

You cut him off. “No, no, excuse me - I can’t get along, me? no - he can’t get the fuck over some shit from like Freshman year, that’s not my problem,” you said adamantly.

Seungcheol nodded. “Umhm, right, we both know it was sophomore year, and you’ve never escalated whatever it is in any way, like I don’t know, throwing a drink in his face?” He asked, still grinning like a fucking idiot.

“You’re such a bitch - don’t bring that up,” you said, swatting his arm. “The whole point of us coming together is no one asks either of us about our personal lives, you know - as in you don’t have to explain that clerk for the district court you keep happening to see every Saturday…” you trailed off suggestively.

He pursed his lips. “Fine, I won’t say anything about Mingyu, and you don’t mention him.”

You laughed. “You should have just marked plus one, I don’t think anyone cares,” you said, genuinely meaning it.

Like all of his friends, you just wanted Seungcheol to be happy. Besides, Jeonghan was the only person you’d ever seen Seungcheol truly lose his mind over. They were insanely cute together.

And you hadn’t spent any amount of time helping Seungcheol with his texting game - he literally ran almost every message by you for a month. If he were anyone else, you would have pushed him out a window. But he wasn’t, so you had helped.

He sighed. “Are you really going to work?”

You shrugged. “It’s a good, plausible excuse. Besides, the only thing I’m really into are the massages anyway. So, that leaves what, 70 hours of free time that could be billable?” You asked with a snort.

“Fuck, you actually are thinking about the partnership shit, aren’t you?” He asked, glancing over.

You gave a shrug. You hadn’t been, but then you won a few pitches, and the cases had blown up. Now all the talks felt a lot more serious. “Maybe,” you said with a groan.

You were quiet for a moment. “So is Mingyu bringing someone?”

Seungcheol snorted. “Seriously, why couldn’t you wait until after we were there to ask?”

You stared at him. “What? Why?”

“Because now I owe Jeonghan dinner and the satisfaction of knowing he maybe knows my friend better than I do, apparently.”

You laughed. “Oh my god, you should just start planning where you two are registering now.”

Seungcheol shook his head. “If I say stuff like that - I can’t say stuff like that, we’ve barely dated,” he mumbled.

You shook your head. “So silly, just buy him flowers and an insane ring and ask him to be Kkuma’s other dad,” you said with a smile.

You did actually mean it. Even if you had a history with Seungcheol, something you’d made him promise to tell his new beau about in full.

You’d been friends with benefits at various times and were even fairly intense about one another a few times.

But now, you were just friends.

You had known that just by the way Seungcheol looked at Jeonghan, anyone with eyes would know that literally no one else could mean as much to Seungcheol. No one else stood a chance.

He shook his head. “Just, please don’t throw drinks or make a scene,” he mumbled.

You sighed. “I promise to avoid him, okay, just like I have been for like two years,” you said with a roll of your eyes as you stared out the window.

Seungcheol made a humming sound from the driver’s seat like he didn’t exactly believe you.

No matter, it was the only plan you had. And even if it meant skipping things that weekend, you really didn’t care. Because things between you and Mingyu had a tendency to escalate really quickly. You couldn’t even play beer pong with him.

That was what Cheol was on about - the fact that what should have been a totally friendly match where you and Mingyu had been paired together had become so acrimonious that you had, in fact, thrown a pitcher of beer in his face before it ended.

Seungcheol was being nice by implying it was semi-normal and only a cup - it wasn’t a cup. It was an entire pitcher. And unlike Mingyu, you had great aim, even when you were drunk as fuck. And you could still remember the absolutely shocked look on his face, too.

There were very real reasons you had avoided him for so long.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

“Is she really coming?” He’d asked Seungcheol when they met for lunch the week before.

Seungcheol had rolled his eyes. “Does it matter?”

Mingyu had poked his salad and sighed. “Does she still hate me?” He tried again, thinking about how you had seemed, maybe, a bit softer around him lately.

Mingyu was very aware of the fact that his friends were also your friends. He knew that whenever there was some Saturday when they were all busy, they were busy hanging out, he just wasn’t invited, and hadn’t been in a long time.

But on the flip side, there were all the times they hung out with him and not with you. That was cold comfort, though, because he kind of hated the way you’d managed to cut him out of your life so easily.

Seungcheol let out a long sigh. “Dude, are you seriously asking me about y/n? We aren’t in college anymore - if you want to talk to her, then just do it,” Seungcheol said as he stabbed pasta onto his fork.

Mingyu swallowed hard. “I’m only asking if I should even bother, like you two are close,” he mumbled. He fully knew just how close you and Seungcheol were, too. He’d always been jealous because everything seemed so easy between you two - so easy for Seungcheol to be close to you.

But with Mingyu, you always seemed to be on your guard. Ready to go on the defensive at the drop of a fucking feather.

Seungcheol sighed. “It’s our friends’ wedding thing - dude, what about that says ‘let me try to work out my personal issues with someone who knows exactly how to set me off’?” He was staring hard at Mingyu.

“I’m not - it’s”—

Seungcheol cut him off. “Look, you know she avoids you, so maybe just respect that - to her, it solves whatever issues there are between you two, okay, and I don’t have some special insight. She doesn’t talk about you, not with me, not with anyone else we know, just drop it,” he finished.

And Mingyu didn’t press the subject. Because after that, Seungcheol’s voice just replayed in his head, ‘she doesn’t talk about you.’ He’d said it so matter-of-factly, too - his voice pointed and sharp.

Mingyu definitely wasn’t still thinking about it that Saturday morning. He’d decided to do what Seungcheol had said: he would stay away from you.

He was answering emails in the car on the way. Joshua and Seokmin kept telling him that he needed to unplug.

“Seriously, Seungcheol said y/n is basically working the whole time - there can’t be two of you being completely dull,” Joshua declared.

Mingyu sighed, “I’m trying to answer them all now, so I can shut down for the weekend,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Good! Now, if Seungcheol can just work his magic on y/n, we can actually have a good weekend.” Seokmin added.

Joshua laughed. “Only if a ‘good weekend’ includes seeing Mingyu and Y/n get into a bitch fight,” he said with a smirk as he glanced in the rearview window, catching Mingyu’s eye.

Mingyu just shook his head, trying to focus. He didn’t want to think about the “beer incident,” and he definitely didn’t want to think about what magic Seungcheol could possibly work on you. He would never admit how much it annoyed him that you always came to events as a couple.

Because it wasn’t just events with friends, it was work functions, too. Your firms worked together on a lot of cases, so it was three holiday parties at the very least where he got reminded of you and Seungcheol together.

He hated that he couldn’t just be happy for either of you. But he couldn’t. To him, you should at least be with someone who was serious about you. And that had never been the case with Seungcheol. Not in Mingyu’s mind anyway.

He chewed his lip and kept responding to emails and chats. He just needed to keep himself distracted. Or at least that was what he thought.

But apparently, nothing was in his favor that day.

The B&B had some issues with booking. That was thing number one. Somehow, Mingyu didn’t have a room. And there were no extra rooms because the entire place was booked fully.

He was trying to figure out who would maybe share with him, which was not really working since most people had a roommate already, and the majority were couples, looking to do ‘couple’ things.

He was still texting desperately when he saw you arrive with Seungcheol. He watched as you got out, and he saw Seungcheol help with your stuff, and then he watched Seungcheol leave, which was weird.

Mingyu just stared. But then it popped in the group chat - Seungcheol was seeing someone, and whoever it was, was sick - he was headed back home. Mingyu stared at his phone for a full minute because, since when had Seungcheol started seeing someone who wasn’t you that seriously, he wondered.

He saw you check in, get your room keys, give your bags to the bellhop, and head for the elevator. You barely glanced at him.

But he was just desperate enough to do something really stupid.

“Y/n,” he called out.

You turned, looking shocked to see that it was just him there.

He waved. “Uh, can we talk?”

He watched your brows shoot together questioningly - no, it was worse, you looked like you’d just stepped in something gross, at best.

You started to give him the brush off - he knew that’s what was coming.

“Please,” he tried to put as much pleading and begging into his voice as he could manage.

You ran a hand through your hair and sighed. “Fine, but can we at least go to the cafe?”

He nodded.

You let the bellhop take your bags to drop off in your room and followed Mingyu into the cafe. He sat at a table while you ordered coffee or whatever. He drummed his fingers lightly on the table, feeling nervous, more than nervous - it was like all of his anxiety dreams rolled into one. Because this wasn’t supposed to be happening. It might be an improvement if he were suddenly somehow naked. He sighed, hating his stress dreams and this moment.

He wasn’t supposed to be talking to you, much less asking what he was about to ask.

You sat down across from him with a sigh. “What’s wrong?” You asked, straight to the point.

He was taken aback for a split second but recovered quickly. “I, uhh, I need to ask a favor,” he said with a sigh.

You shrugged. “Okay, what?”

He chewed his lip lightly. “Um,” he stared at the table, knowing this was insane, “uh, the booking system is, I don’t know - look, could I stay in your room?” He was speaking too fast. Even he could hear the way he fumbled certain words.

You were quiet, though. He glanced up to see you watching him like you were considering what he’d asked. “Let me guess, no one else has a couch or a floor they’re willing to give up?” You asked, voice frosty.

He swallowed. “Do you think I would be asking otherwise?”

You rolled your eyes. “Right, sorry, of course, I’m the last person you would ever want to ask, what was I thinking,” you said it as though you hadn’t spent time purposefully ignoring his existence.

He sighed. “You avoid me, so let’s not pretend I’ve set the tone.”

You scoffed. “Right. Sure, it’s nothing to do with you or anything you did.” You shook your head in annoyance, glancing away from him.

You were both silent for a few awkward moments. But that wasn’t new. He wondered how he could have possibly thought anything had changed between you in the lst few months of working on the same nightmare case.

And then you went on. “Um, you know what, fine, you can share, but don’t bother me this weekend - don’t wake me up, don’t touch my stuff, don’t even look at me,” you said with a forced smile and got up. You tossed a key card to him and left.

He stayed where he was. It was the least auspicious start to any weekend ever. He swallowed tightly, shaking his head.

At least he had a room.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

You walked into your room, staring around. For once really hating Seungcheol and his new ‘I’m in love’ whatever bullshit.

You flopped on the bed with a groan. That wasn’t really true. You were glad for Seungcheol. You were glad he’d found someone he would drop everything for and rush off to take care of because they were sick. It was stupidly cute.

You were just frustrated that somehow it left you as the only person with enough room to share with Mingyu. And you had to, didn’t you? Because if you didn’t, you’d be the asshole.

You tried to think of all the stupid things advertised as local attractions. There was some really long hike. You could do that - be off the grid, out of the hotel, and away from Mingyu. Just a pleasant 28-mile hike that had weirdly caught your eye as maybe an option for how to spend the trip.

You closed your eyes and tried to focus on your breathing because you had planned for worse than this - you had all the shit to go on this dumb hike. You let out a deep breath and turned onto your side.

You stayed that way until you heard a soft knock on the door. You’d no idea how much time had passed.

You didn’t answer it. He had a fucking key card. And maybe if you just pretended to be dead or something, he would work around you.

You closed your eyes tightly and tried to look asleep. You couldn’t care less if it were believable or not. You promised not to make any scenes. And this was the best you could think of given the circumstances.

You heard the door open and what you assumed were Mingyu’s footsteps. There was the sound of a bag dropping. A jacket being removed.

You didn’t move. You tried not to breathe even.

He walked around quietly. You could guess he was looking for some option besides the bed. But you’d already looked.

The sofa was too small for you, much less him. The floors were hardwood. You almost laughed when he opened the balcony door and a gust of cool wind gusted in.

You sighed. “I called down for more pillows,” you didn’t see him jump at the sound of your voice. “We can just make a barrier down the middle.”

He stared at you. And shook his head. “I can sleep on the couch.” It was a massive fucking lie, but he wasn’t in the mood to negotiate the amount of bed space he needed with you.

You groaned and sat up. “Really?” You asked.

He nodded. You looked like you were ready to laugh in his face. “Okay, just for fun, let’s pretend you aren’t as tall as you are, please, demonstrate,” you said, tossing him a pillow.

He stared at you in disbelief. “Look, I’m just trying to do what you asked,” he said, squeezing the pillow lightly, trying to not be flustered.

You rolled your eyes in exasperation. “And we both know I was being massively unreasonable and kind of a twat downstairs, right?”

He kept his face neutral. Even if he agreed with everything you’d just said.

You shrugged and continued, assuming he agreed. “So, given that, yeah, there aren’t any amazing options. But at least be realistic. You can’t fit on that sofa, I can’t fit on that sofa, therefore, we’re left with the option I initially outlined, so just agree and make this easy.”

He just nodded. “Okay, if you say so.”

You rolled your eyes. “Just, look - if neither of us makes it weird, then it’s fine. There’s activities or whatever, and I have work, so we’ll barely see one another,” you said and flopped back onto the bed.

He chewed his lip lightly. “Right,” he agreed. You’d barely see him, and you’d be happier for it.

There wasn’t anything official planned on the first night, and he still had work to finish. So he sat on one side of the bed while you sat on the other. You briefly talked with him to place an order with room service.

When the extra pillows showed up, you made a very serious divider down the center of the bed.

And everything about it annoyed him much more than he expected. He’d never really gotten how things had gotten to the point they had between you and him. You’d actually been friends to begin with.

Good friends even. At least he thought so. And he liked you, still. Nothing seemed to quite extinguish that flame for some reason. No matter how shitty things seemed between you.

But then something changed between you and him in a way he’d never been able to fix, exactly. And it was like you couldn’t stand him overnight. And the worst part was that you knew exactly how to make him irrationally angry in the span of maybe ten seconds. You knew just what to say to get under his skin, and you did, often. It wasn’t good for either of you. Because he knew what to say to you, too. And it only got worse from there.

Your mutual friends had gone from thinking it was some crush thing to rarely inviting you both to things. You even stopped hanging out with them altogether for a few semesters. And he knew it was his fault, something he had done.

He got ready for bed before food even arrived. He put in his headphones and started watching something on his phone. He glanced up once to see you still typing away.

Dinner came and went. He was under the covers early. The bed was at least comfortable, and he was very clearly on his side of the pillow barrier when he passed out.

The problem was when he woke up.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

[rewind : fourth year in college - soccer team vs. cross country beer pong games]

Mingyu couldn’t believe he’d been partnered with you. It was all down to the bracket system they used - you were the best from the girl’s soccer team and he was the best from the guy’s team.

It didn’t change the fact that he didn’t even want to stand next to you. You’d hated him for no good reason since second year. Because he had wanted to apologize, but you ignored him.

That wasn’t his fault.

And no one ever seemed to know why, except maybe Seungcheol. He seemed to know absolutely everything about you. And he’d never say anything.

Even if he just treated your relationship like some hookup bullshit. You were always up each other’s asses.

You walked over with a pitcher of beer to set up cups for the side. You glanced at him. “You okay?” You asked.

“Yeah, fine,” he mumbled. He knew you didn’t actually care how he was.

You set the cups up and left to get your own drink. You never played while drinking beer. You always had a mixed drink. But you had insane aim no matter what you were drinking. He tried to think about the fact that, playing with you, you two would definitely win. The other side was shit.

But he couldn’t stay positive about it. You bothered him. You had bothered him for a long time now. The way you always seemed to duck past him or swerve around him. You dodged texts and invites. You treated him like he was invisible.

And to him, it was totally unwarranted. Like one fucked up text chain, and you acted like he vanished off the face of the planet. You went scorched earth over what was basically a mistake on his part.

You were so calm about it, too - one thing happened, and suddenly you just removed him from your life like he’d never mattered.

That was the part he hated and rarely admitted. That was the part that hurt.

He’d never even gotten to apologize.

Instead, it just went from bad to worse to very ugly between you two.

The game opened, and you went first, sinking a shot in one of the opposing side’s back cups. He watched you grin, not at him, not at your fucking teammate, but you immediately looked to Seungcheol who was next to you.

“Nice, babe,” Seungcheol said as you grinned at him, barely out of his grasp for even a moment.

Mingyu rolled his eyes and took his turn when it came. He took out some of their closer cups. The cross-country team was behind even in the first round.

And every time he glanced over to see you waiting around by sitting in Seungcheol’s lap on the side, he couldn’t help the gross feeling in his gut. The two of you together were disgusting. You couldn’t keep your hands off one another. And it wasn’t just him who thought it was too much.

Besides, who didn’t just ask someone out. He asked people out.

But he was also normal.

You were next to him, getting ready to throw when he said it. “He’ll never fucking date you, you know? You’re not his type,” he whispered.

You glanced at him and shook your head as you threw the ping pong ball. “Yeah, well, I don’t think what he and I do is any of your fucking business, so just shut up and play through.” You left him standing alone for his turn.

He pursed his lips and missed for the first time that night.

It kept going like that, you making every shot while he missed almost every one of his. He wasn’t focused on the game.

It’s when he called you something like “easy” and a “bitch” that you snapped. He didn’t even see it coming; he just felt the sudden rush of cold beer flowing down his face, into his eyes, soaking his hair, rushing down the collar of his shirt and back, soaking through the fabric.

And then you threw your actual drink in his face. “You’ve always been a whiny bitch, and I thought we could get passed that for a moment, but yeah, stay the fuck away from me,” you’d said it with this crystal clear rage that cut through every other noise in the room.

Everyone had looked at him. And then they’d started to whisper. He’d shaken his head and shrugged. “We forfeit, I guess.”

He glanced at Seungcheol just to realize he looked as surprised as Mingyu felt. But unlike Mingyu, Seungcheol could actually go after you.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

[ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐲 ]

Mingyu woke up completely wrapped around you. Apparently, pillow barriers meant absolutely nothing to either of you because you were just as tangled with him as he was with you.

He had no idea what to do.

He could feel your breath against his skin. You were flush against him - your legs twined with his. If he knew you didn’t virtually hate him, he would have been happy to wake up with you like this. Instead of waking up feeling nothing but guilty, like he was stealing something.

He moved, not a lot, just enough for you to turn in your sleep. He was careful when he rolled back to his side and when he put the pillows mostly back into place. He felt like you wouldn’t want to know that it had even happened.

Besides, he needed to get up anyway.

The only thing he really wanted to try at this point was the hiking trail that led to this little lodge place. The lodge was the head of a huge trail that took like months to do. He just wanted to do the lead-up trail, plus if he stayed at the lodge, then he wouldn’t be killing your mood.

He had no idea that you’d definitely woken up before him in a similar panic at the way you and he had demolished the pillow barrier during sleep. Not to mention the embarrassing way you were pressed against him.

He also had no idea that you sat up to get dressed for the exact same hike the moment he closed the door.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

[rewind : second year in college - being stood up]

You and Mingyu were definitely friends, even if he caused some issues on the girl’s soccer team.

You were the team captain. And it did annoy you that he had dated like half the team by your second year. Especially since he had a habit of deciding to dump one girl by being caught with another girl.

You’d gotten a split lip breaking up one particularly nasty fight.

You’d complained to Seungcheol about it, and he’d shrugged. “What do I do? I’m not his parent or something,” he said.

“You could talk to him, tell him to stop being such an asshole,” you suggested.

He sighed. “Look, I did kind of say something, and he’s, I don’t know, he wants attention,” he said cryptically with a glance at you.

You groaned. “For fucks sake, I just need him to stop fucking girls on my team - move on to a sorority or something - they’re probably equipped for that anyway,” you sighed and glanced at Seungcheol. He was still staring at you like there was some deeper meaning to something he’d said.

You shrugged, feeling defeated. “Thanks for trying, I guess.” You rolled your eyes and left, giving up. If Seungcheol couldn’t talk some sense into him, you really had no hope. It was way too awkward for you to bring up.

Friends or not, there wasn’t a good way to ask him to keep his dick to himself.

You’d left the caf and headed for the library. But on your way you’d gotten a text that was questionable at best.

You were still staring at it when you walked to the third-floor quiet area to study.

[mingyu]

heyyy […]

want to go out friday?

Since when did Mingyu say ‘hey’ with extra letters, you wondered. Or ask you to hang out for that matter. You didn’t ask one another to hang out - you just saw each other at things that led to hanging out.

And you didn’t really text exactly either. You chatted through Discord because you both gamed. That was almost always how you talked to one another.

You stared at the message. It was weird.

[y/n]

u ok

[mingyu]

yea ofc […]

just yk was thinking about you […]

maybe we could hang out more officially

You rolled your eyes and left him on read. It was too weird. You cracked your textbook and decided that if he messaged again, you might respond. But you also might just screenshot it and pop it into your normal chat because maybe someone had his phone.

You made it through most of your calc problem set before checking back.

[mingyu]

srsly tho jel […]

hang out with me friday […]

pls

‘Jel’ was your gaming name, your gaming nickname to be more precise. The one only he used, especially when he was beating you at something and being a dick about it. Cute and dickish - that’s when he would call you ‘Jel’.

He never called you ‘jealousmallow94’. Just like you never called him ‘gummygyu’, even if it was kind of cute.

[y/n]

ur srsly asking

[mingyu]

yea using the actual messages app and everything

[y/n]

who else is going

[mingyu]

no one […]

just us

You stared harder, looking for the catch. Last you checked, Friday night, generally, was a standing party night. Plus, you felt like it was someone’s birthday weekend, too, aka, a weekend not to be missed.

You chewed your lip lightly. You’d literally just been asking Seungcheol to help rein Mingyu in, and now Mingyu was asking you out - this was too weird. You snapped screenshots and sent them to Seungcheol, asking what the texts were about, and went back to your problem set.

[cheol]

told u […]

he wants attention

[y/n]

this isn’t attention seeking […]

it’s totally weird

[cheol]

that he has a crush on you ??

[y/n]

waHt?? […]

no he doesn’t

[cheol]

yea he does […]

i didn’t want to tell you bcz not my place yk

[y/n]

fuck off

[cheol]

he does […]

he has since like idk since he met u […]

or idk whenever u used to run wth him on the weekends […]

down bad since then ig

[y/n]

sounds fake

[cheol]

so tell him to fuck off […]

maybe he’ll get over the girl’s team then

[y/n]

wtf about fucking around with half the team would make me think anything good about him

[cheol]

and i quote “word of mouth” […]

said by two dumbasses […]

apparently taken to heart by a third dumb ass

[y/n]

srsly having a dick lowers your iq or smth

[cheol]

thanks […]

btw not proper use of iq […]

wait srry don’t u steal my notes :3

[y/n]

yeah bby ur typing is immaculate […]

even monkeys can type tho

You flicked back to the messages from Mingyu, staring at them and wondering if they were real. If he was being real.

You didn’t answer until later that night. You said ‘yes.’ And you agreed on a time and a movie to see.

But something about it felt off - you couldn’t ever put a finger on it, though. It just didn’t sit right with you. Maybe if it had been last year, but to ask now was strange.

So when Friday night rolled around, you spent some time getting ready, but not too much time. You picked baggy jeans and a cardigan. You were still going to see a movie with a friend, basically. You weren’t going all out.

You didn’t exactly think of it as a date. More like a pre-date. It was a chance to test the waters. But for some reason, you still half expected that he wouldn’t show.

You sat in your dorm’s living room, playing a game on your phone. You wanted to be distracted from looking at the clock, from the weird nervous tension in your stomach, everything really.

You didn’t really like Mingyu, you told yourself repeatedly.

You thought he was cute, but that was it.

It wasn’t serious.

And you weren’t going on a date with him.

None of that was real, you reassured yourself.

What was very real was the suck ass team you’d gotten dropped into a mobile game of call of duty with and the way they were all so bad. Your score in the ranked match results was ridiculously high.

You locked in for another match. You were focused now. You hopped from match to match.

You hadn’t forgotten the time. Not really.

And you hadn’t forgotten that Mingyu was supposed to come by.

Or that you were supposed to go together.

You hadn’t forgotten a single thing.

It was more that every minute past the time you were supposed to meet was annoying and then just sad in a way that made you switch to only playing in ‘free for all’ matches where you kept winning by killing every other player half a dozen times.

When you finally logged out well after midnight - you didn’t cry. You didn’t message Seungcheol.

You just changed your gaming name and blocked Mingyu’s accounts on every platform, including his contact information from your phone.

He was dead to you.

And then you took a quick shower and went to bed with a show playing on your laptop.

And you didn’t talk to him after that unless you absolutely had to. It helped that he avoided you for a few days. You had no clue if he messaged you, or called, or anything.

And whatever, because he did move on to sorority girls.

Apparently, he didn’t have a crush on you - he just wanted to make you feel like shit. Just like he’d made every other girl on your team feel.

And the next semester, you and Seungcheol become a much more regular thing. Until you took a break because you met someone else.

And then you took a break from the whole friend group. You needed it. Things were feeling too complicated. And someone new was a breath of fresh air.

Besides, dance majors really knew how to fuck.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

Mingyu didn’t realize how much he fucked up until the next day when he saw that he made a date with you, and he slightly imploded.

He read through the messages he’d sent while drunk. He regretted them completely, not because he didn’t mean what he’d said, but because it was you that he’d asked in such a stupid way.

He’d been just confident enough to ask you out, though. And you’d literally asked if he was ‘okay’ - he should have stopped there and then.

But he hadn’t, even though this was exactly the reason he never even tried approaching you the way he really wanted to. How could he when he knew you didn’t take him seriously - not in that way, at least.

He was just someone to game with. And he knew it.

But somehow it was real.

He’d asked you, and after some convincing, you’d said ‘yes.’ He didn’t know what to do with that. He tried to think of how to make it feel like something remotely special and not just another night hanging out with him. He thought about what to wear and how he would pay for things. And then he thought about screaming into his pillow because what the fuck had he been thinking to ask you out?

He sighed, knowing he would fuck it up. He’d say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing.

You always brought out his nervous side. The only time he was normal with you was when you gamed together. Somehow, talking to you through a headset was completely fine, but in person, he was not great beyond joking around at parties. He wished he knew how to talk to you.

Because, really, even gaming with you had been a fluke. You’d been looking bored at a party, and he happened to see that you were just hanging out gaming on your phone while everything happened around you.

He’d asked what you played and for your username. You’d given it and told him that it was “the same for mobile and systems.” He’d thought it was maybe the hottest thing a girl had ever said to him.

And it became like a ritual to play with you.

He knew your class schedule because you almost always pinged him to play when you were finished for the day. He knew roughly when you studied, and practiced, and everything, really. You pinged him during parties, even.

And if the party was at the house, the house that most of the soccer players shared, and you were early, you would usually pregame and play on console with him in his room, your knee bumping against his while you both tried to squeeze into his tiny ass room.

He was insanely glad for his PlayStation and Xbox. He was less glad for the various comments he got from his friends, like when was he finally going to ask you out. That was the biggest question. The times that you had fallen asleep in his room didn’t help.

Or when you started meeting him for early morning runs - the way you’d sometimes come back to his room and pass out with him before class, all your sweaty limbs finding their way to his - it was always then that he thought about kissing you, soft then hard, and how good it would feel to undress one another and how good the sweat would be then and the cool spray of the shower after.

You were pure fantasy to him, warm and sweet next to him, sleeping soundly because apparently you never really slept well.

He groaned because he knew he would fuck it up. He liked how things were, and he probably couldn’t exactly say that either without it sounding shitty. Telling you he wanted to cancel because ‘things are good’ - he rolled his eyes at himself. He’d fallen back on his bed, unhappiness setting in.

And then he had fucked it up - beyond anything even he expected.

He’d thought playing beer pong would calm him down the day of. They were playing with shots, though, not beer. He’d passed out before you were even supposed to meet.

By the time he came to the next day, you were gone from everything. He couldn’t even find your username to send a request in-game. And talking to you was already not something he was great at.

It didn’t stop the way he felt or how much he wanted you. It just felt like a bruise that he kept hitting against things. Every time he saw you and Seungcheol, it ached somewhere deep inside him because it was like you’d just replaced him with someone else.

And whenever you did talk to him, it somehow always got really out of hand. He didn’t just say the wrong things - he said things that made everything so much worse. It was like his brain had short-circuited to the point that he could only say things that made you hate him.

Seungcheol had once told him to stop being so “obtuse” - that a phone wasn’t the way to talk to you at this point. And something about Mingyu getting his head out of his ass if he ever wanted another shot with you.

It had been obnoxious to hear that from Seungcheol - him telling Mingyu how he should approach you was so fucking absurd, given whatever you had with Seungcheol was going on, and neither of you were especially private about it.

But then came graduation, and even in law school, when things could have calmed down, they hadn’t.

Instead, you and he were just painfully competitive, fighting it out for every grade as 1Ls. You’d accepted an internship with a different firm for the fall. But that didn’t stop anything because there was still the law review and who would be published first (you - he knew without looking that your topic was more interesting), and who would be editor (him - fuck you for getting Seungcheol to co-author an article with you), and mock trial, and everything ever.

He was always around you, in your orbit, but never allowed to get close.

It was the most hopeless situation.

He hated the way he never saw you. Never a message. Nothing. He didn’t even randomly get to see you around. He hated it, but the longer it went on, the more he felt like he’d lost any chance.

At least until he decided to go hiking.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

[ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐲 ]

You weren’t fully sure what compelled you to bring your hiking gear other than planning for the worst-case scenario, but you had.

And now you were glad for it because if you hiked to the trail head, it was a solid 14 miles away from Kim Mingyu and whatever the fuck he was doing. And another 14 miles back.

You rushed to get ready because you needed to get out of the room before you suffocated. You needed to forget how warm he felt - how good he felt and how you’d missed that feeling, apparently - and all the memories it caused to come flooding back.

You cleaned your teeth, threw your hair in a ponytail, and slapped on sunscreen. You were on a huge mission to force all those messy college memories back into their little compartments in your brain.

You did not have time to sort through them.

Mingyu had stood you up and never even apologized. So fuck him.

The end. Fin. Roll fucking credits.

You grabbed a quick breakfast sandwich, several waters, and a ‘trail’ lunch - whatever the fuck that was - and you were off.

You barely listened when the person at the counter mentioned that another person from your group had left maybe an hour earlier. In your mind, they had to have meant another guest because there wasn’t anyone in your group you could imagine heading out at like 6:00 AM to start a hike.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

Mingyu was maybe at the halfway point when he paused for a break. He wasn’t gasping or anything, but he wanted to enjoy the feeling of the trail and the forest surrounding him.

He wasn’t just in the woods. He was genuinely alone, the trees swaying gently with a soft breeze. When he looked up, he could barely see the sky for the treetops.

He sat on a rock just off the edge of the trail and sipped his water, trying to think about just the moment he was in. He didn’t want his mind to wander to work or you. He just wanted to breathe and soak in the surroundings.

He’d passed by another hiker in the last mile. So he assumed the sounds he heard were that person catching up with him.

Instead, he saw you coming along, taking massive strides and staring around at the flora and fauna.

He panicked because fuck - fuck - why - why couldn’t you be back in the hotel room sleeping or working or anything but heading directly for him.

He slid off the rock and tried to move farther off the trail. Actually, he tried to hide behind the rock, wondering to himself if he was maybe cursed.

“Mingyu?” You called in a voice that was questioning the situation, and also maybe his sanity, too, since he was hunkered down behind a rock like an idiot.

He grimaced, wondering why he hadn’t just committed to lying on the ground and covering himself in leaves to hide.

“Hey,” he called out with a sigh. He’d been caught, and there was nothing to do.

He waited for you to get closer.

He sighed, wondering if he could run, maybe. It would have been totally blind and really dumb, but in the moment, the potential of sliding off the edge of the trail and down the mountainside seemed almost preferable.

You paused, hands on your hips, to look around - probably the same way that he had been marvelling in the quiet. He watched you for a moment before glancing away.

“It’s amazing, right?” You asked, voice soft with reverence.

He nodded. “Yeah,” he mumbled, sounding dispondent. It certainly wasn’t the question he expected from you.

You glanced at him with a skeptical look. “‘Yeah’? That’s it?” You asked with a small laugh.

He shrugged. “I was trying to focus on it - you know, not think about my problems…” he trailed off.

“Oh, is that your oblique way of referring to me - I’m one of your ‘problems’?” You asked teasingly.

He couldn’t remember the last time you’d talked to him that way - the last time you had been actively joking with him. Instead of the toneless responses he’d become used to.

He shrugged. “Maybe,” he answered, feeling a warmth in his cheeks as he admitted it.

You sighed and kicked at the ground. “Want me to walk ahead then? Leave you to not think and all that?” You asked, voice gentle.

He was on the verge of saying ‘yes’, but then he saw a couple of younger guys passing. They were moving at a faster pace, but it didn’t stop either of them from glancing a beat too long at you.

Mingyu had the urge to grab your arm and pull you closer. His mom would be pissed to know he let anyone he knew go walking off alone on a mountain top. Especially a girl alone in the woods, where literally no one would hear anything happen to her.

Between his mom’s voice and every scene from a horror movie that flicked through his head, he couldn’t not hike with you. He had no doubt you would be a final girl if you had to be, but still.

He shook his head. “No, just hang back - it’s really nice to just sit here for a moment,” he said, still watching to make sure that the guys kept walking.

You came to stand next to him. “I do have mace, you know?” You asked, seeming to have read his mind.

He glanced at you. “Of course you do,” he said with a shake of his head.

“I like being prepared.” You mumbled with a smile.

He shook his head. “Yeah, but there are two of them, and one of you, and this isn’t a marked trail, so maybe we should stick together?” He suggested, stealing a quick glance at you.

You nodded, though. “Probably smart,” you murmured.

You sat on the rock with him for a while, taking photos of the trees and basking in the soft sounds of the forest. You and he were both fairly quiet, which seemed right for the moment, at least to Mingyu.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

You sat staring up into the trees, wondering if this was just the universe’s fucked in the head plan to put you and Mingyu together until you snapped or fucked. Some twisted cosmic gameshow, you thought.

Glancing at him, you almost hoped it was the latter option.

But you could always settle for snapping, especially when you felt the first drop of rain hit your cheek. You blinked slowly as you wiped it away.

And then the drops started to come more consistently. You glanced at Mingyu. “Seriously?” You asked.

“It’s not like I did it,” he whispered, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

You shook your head, hearing the snapiness in his voice that you had become accustomed to - it hadn’t always been like that between you and him. But maybe he was so used to you sounding exasperated with him that it didn’t leave room for much else. Maybe he was just as tired of your attitude as you were.

You sighed. “I know - I didn’t mean it that way,” you mumbled, pulling a jacket from your pack. You had prepared for this hike more than you wanted to admit - it had been your exit strategy once you knew Mingyu was on the guest list.

Seungcheol had been a bit too into reconciliations lately, dropping little, not-so-subtle hints. You assumed it was just him being in his lovey-dovey, heart-eyed state because of Jeonghan.

So you had planned this as your getaway because he wouldn’t be paying attention while he was golfing, and if your best friend got a little too annoying, you could just wander off into the wilderness.

You glanced at Mingyu questioningly as you pulled on your jacket. “Where’s yours?” You asked, actually concerned.

He shrugged. “This wasn’t exactly on my dance card,” he said plainly.

You pursed your lips, digging through your bag for the spare poncho you had because ‘just in case’ was basically your motto. You tossed it to him.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, almost looking surprised at the kindness. But it was exactly the first time you had done something lately that suggested maybe things between you and him were finally thawing.

Like during the last set of depositions, when you knew he couldn’t leave to get lunch, you’d brought him something. And maybe it was something you knew he liked too - it wasn’t a big deal that you knew what he liked to eat when he was stressed.

Or when it was obvious he was dealing with the asshole partner from his firm and all that came with that, you’d passed him some questions you’d been saving for your cross - he looked too rattled and sleep deprived to come up with his own. He’d been surprised by the gesture, but you’d shrugged and chalked it up to ‘we’re on the same side.’

In all fairness, the poncho was utilitarian, not cute, and definitely not stylish. Therefore, distinctly not ‘Mingyu.’ You had to help adjust it.

“Stop moving,” you whined, trying to fix it in the back so it fit under his bag the right way.

“I’m not moving,” he complained.

The result was him looking sort of cute despite the nature of the poncho.

The rest of the hike was an absolute slog.

You were both wearing shorts - your legs, at least, were freezing. And your toes were starting to feel a bit chilled from walking through so many puddles. Even if your boots were waterproof, the water was still cold and wasn’t drying.

You didn’t even ask Mingyu if he was miserable. All you had to do was glance back at him. He looked like he regretted his entire life. Even when you were only a mile out from the little camp-whatever-thing, there was no smile from him when you announced how close you both were to shelter.

You were stuck with the grim edition of Kim Mingyu. It was the rarest edition, though, and that was something. It took a lot to see misery take over his naturally optimistic disposition.

You sighed quietly and stopped to wait for him - you didn’t want to get too far ahead. “Are you like dying?” You asked and grabbed his sleeve, tugging him along, tired of the distance.

“Yes,” he whined, “this is fucking miserable,” he grumbled.

You groaned. “Yeah, well, what did they tell us fifty thousand times? ‘Get comfortable being uncomfortable.’” You said it in an obnoxious sing-song way that made even you hate you.

Luckily, you had booked a room large enough for two people because you always did. You always picked the rooms with more space because who wouldn’t - it was so obvious, at least to you.

You checked in and got your key. When you glanced back at Mingyu off to the side, soaked and pathetic, he really did look like the saddest puppy - he could almost be in an ASPCA commercial.

You couldn’t help yourself and quickly snapped a photo of him before he could notice.

You told yourself it was to send to Seungcheol later. Even as you hit the little ‘heart’ on the photo, so it would be easier to find in your camera roll.

“Come on,” you said with a sigh, grabbing his sleeve again and leading him along towards yet another room with only one bed.

The irony was not lost on you.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

Mingyu was exhausted and wet and cold.

And you would not let him rest.

He barely made it in the room before you were handing him a towel and gently shoving him back down the hall towards the showers. He was surprised when you walked into the same one as him, but he realized it was a unisex space.

Still, you being naked one stall over from him, passing him soap and shampoo and conditioner like it was just any other day, was just the cherry on this fever dream sundae.

Worse was getting back to the room with you just wrapped in a towel that was just big enough, and you telling him to close his eyes so you could change.

He fell back onto the bed, assuming he was allowed to do that now. He could have fallen asleep, but you tossed clothes at him.

He sat up, knowing they were his. “Did you go through my bag?” He looked at you questioningly.

You just shrugged. “You’re like passed out, so I was trying to help,” you said it nonchalantly, like it was a pure fact. You had unquestionably dug through his bag.

But he was tired. He didn’t care.

And he didn’t immediately move. You said something about going to get food, so he just waited until he heard the door open and close to finally get dressed.

He put his towel over the back of one of the chairs in the room and grabbed yours off the floor, doing the same.

He glanced around, deciding that it wasn’t the worst room. There was a bed, a small table, heater, aircon, mini-fridge, and a sink with a mirror. It was decent for a room that was sort of at the top of a mountain.

He would have passed out, but you came back just in time with food and drinks. You had sandwiches and ramen somehow. No, he thought, it wasn’t ‘somehow’, it was probably that you’d brought it along because you planned for shit like this. He knew you - you always had a plan.

And he was very grateful that you were sharing with him - again.

“Where’s your phone?” You asked before you sat down.

He shrugged and pointed vaguely. You sighed, not your truly annoyed sigh, though. “I know you have movies and stuff downloaded,” you mumbled, already up and searching.

You found it quickly and pulled over one of the chairs. You flashed the phone quickly in front of his face to unlock it. He didn’t even flinch. Why would he? It was just you and your need for some level of entertainment while you ate.

He was even more grateful when all the food was gone, and you were both lying on the bed, no pillow barrier this time. Instead, there wasn’t even the pretence of extra space - there was literally just enough room for both of you on the bed.

You were lying next to him, your back pressed flush against his chest and stomach, your head on his arm, while he had the pillow. The blanket was shared, although he imagined it would end up with you.

He still didn’t care.

He could finally fall asleep listening to your breathing - the thing he hadn’t been able to do in years. He didn’t like thinking of all the random naps you had taken with him during first year. How perfectly you fit next to him after morning practices - that was buried deep somewhere in his psyche. Not even his therapist could touch those memories.

Neither of you said anything as you fell asleep together.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

You woke up slowly, feeling warm first, and then noticing a familiar arm around your waist. You blinked a few times, remembering that Seungcheol had gone home.

You also never slept this well with Seungcheol. Or anyone, actually, just Mingyu.

That was one of those thoughts you really tried to stamp out in a million different ways. It was part of why you’d started seeing Seungcheol on and off.

Cheol was nice to sleep with, and kept some of your worst intrusive thoughts at bay. But he got annoyed with you when you just could not settle, when your foot kept wiggling under the blankets. You’d forgotten about that - those times when he would huff at you, and you would remember it wasn’t that serious and leave to go home.

And you would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, counting little dots. You hated admitting that there was something about Mingyu. Something about falling asleep next to him, even if it was a nap on the team bus, that had just felt natural - you weren’t sure what to call it.

Even now, when you were especially desperate to sleep, you would scroll through all the blocked numbers you accumulated from telemarketers and political campaigns to the number you knew by heart. The one you knew you couldn’t dial.

The scroll was just a sanity check because did you really want to be the one to message him after all this time and all the shitty things you had both said and done - and you would stare at the number and decide that another coffee the next day would solve your problems.

But now, here you were, lying there, letting yourself pay attention to the details. His breathing, warm and soft against your skin - his arm around your waist, holding you close - his leg tangled with yours. He was always so warm, too.

You nuzzled closer, closing your eyes and hearing the same harsh patter of rain on the roof you’d heard the night before. There was no point in making a fuss about the situation - you were stuck here until the rain cleared. The day before had been too miserable. You couldn’t imagine the trail conditions were any more favorable.

Plus, you’d been so cold the day before. That feeling of numb toes and cold skin was one you hated and didn’t miss from your time as a striker.

You sighed and pressed closer to him, wanting all the warmth he was willing to share. You felt the way he squeezed you closer. More, you felt the way his fingers barely stretched to cover more of your stomach, gently reassuring you.

You listened to the soft sounds he made as he woke up - the way he naturally pressed closer to you, like he wanted you to be the first thing he breathed in that morning. That hadn’t changed somehow - that almost natural need that you both seemed to have to be close.

That thing that neither of you had ever mentioned to one another because, thinking back, maybe you both knew what a tenuous thing it was, fragile and ephemeral.

You waited for him to realize it was you and recoil.

You hadn’t really contemplated what it would mean if he just held you closer. Much less the gentle feeling of his fingers tracing softly against the small spot of exposed skin just above your hip.

You were quiet, letting your old memories run riot.

“It’s still raining,” you murmured, not moving - you didn’t want to break whatever this was.

He hummed softly. “So we’re stuck then,” he replied, his fingers still moving in little circles against your skin.

You nodded, glancing back. “Did you tell any of them where you were going?” you asked, the thought just dawning on you.

“No,” he said, sounding surprised by the question.

“Mmh, me either,” you whispered.

“So they think we’re dead then?” he mused.

You laughed. “Knowing Joshua, probably, unless he checked with the hotel and knows that we both went hiking,” you paused, thinking, “oh, he definitely thinks we’re dead then,” you scoffed.

Mingyu nodded. “It’s the most ‘Joshua’ conclusion,” he said, reaching out for his phone, leaving you to feel the chill seep in without the protection of his arm.

You shivered. He reached for the blanket, pulling it closer to you as he turned onto his back to check his notifications. He scrolled for a few moments before sighing. “You move closer - I know you’re cold,” he offered gently.

You were still for a moment, trying to think through the pros and cons, but you really were cold. You turned over and curled against him, feeling his arm loop around your waist while he scrolled.

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

Mingyu didn’t mind the way you seemed to practically work your way under his shirt after he said you could be closer. It was rare for you to be anything but cold and searching for a hoodie. Even in courtrooms, you always had some kind of wrap or scarf that was virtually a small blanket.

There weren’t any messages from anyone that he was in a rush to respond to, so he hadn’t. Instead, he found a show that he’d downloaded too many seasons of when he was flying back and forth for a client at the beginning of the year. He was fairly certain that he’d lost at least the beginning of the year and probably all of spring to sitting around in the airport.

He was lost in thought and almost didn’t hear you when you asked if he was okay. He shrugged. “Just remembering why I have 13 seasons of a show downloaded,” he muttered.

You hummed, seeming to understand. “What client?”

“One in L.A.,” he grumbled. He avoided explaining ‘the one I hate and imagine killing,’ though, so according to his therapist, that was progress.

“That flight is such a bitch,” you said, your voice so soft. You sat up, though, and he immediately wondered what he had done to make you move. But you were just reaching for your phone, opening apps, and, from what he could see, checking to see what you had downloaded.

You sighed. “So murder shows, murder movies, murder documentaries that the movies are based on,” you listed them off with a raise of your brows. He wondered if you realized how close you were to him, the way you were practically sprawled across him - your face inches from his.

“Murder shows…” He shrugged because why not - he really hated his L.A. client, and the office, and the partner there, why not see what other people did to dispatch people they couldn’t stand, he wondered.

You glanced up at him, staring at him for a moment, your fingers tracing absently just beneath his collarbone. “So you were miserable before this case?”

He shrugged. “Am I supposed to be happy?”

You sighed, reaching out to smooth a piece of hair from his forehead. “At least some of the time,” you said gently.

“Hmm, I think my firm is better known for burnout and high turnover,” he grumbled as he held your gaze.

You were quiet again, watching him - it reminded him of a cat observing something it wasn’t sure about.

And suddenly you leaned in, your lips connecting softly with his.

He would have thought it was a mistake, but it didn’t stop - neither of you pulled away. Until you both did, breathing a bit harder, lips redder, pupils blown.

He felt your fingers trace along his jaw as you leaned forward, your forehead touching his, your lips a breath away from his. He watched you, his breath catching at how close you were.

He felt the pad of your finger brush the corner of his mouth and move slowly to the center of his lips, teasing him. Your gaze was too soft as your finger just barely pressed against his lips - he moaned softly, and kissed your finger.

You smiled, removing your finger and leaning in again, your fingers shifting to gently hold his jaw, and your lips barely brushed his. He whined - he didn’t want to be teased - he wanted you.

“Baby,” you murmured against his lips - your voice like honey as your lips pressed fully against his. He groaned as he squeezed your waist, realizing that he wanted you more than he had ever let himself admit.

Your lips worked slowly against his, barely parting at first, inviting him in gently. His memories of you and his imagined scenarios seemed to meld with the present. The things that had scared him were long gone.

Instead, he kissed you back, licking into you, tasting you, not caring if he was needy.

When you pulled away from him, though, the way you looked at him, the way your eyes seemed to brighten. “I want you,” you whispered, your fingers still playing against his skin.

He nodded, swallowing hard, smoothing hair from your face. “I want you too,” he murmured.

The next kiss came from him. And when he swapped your positions for the first time, he paused for a moment, grounding himself in where he was and who he was with - the way you felt. He wanted to linger there in that moment, even as he deepened the kiss, even as your thighs squeezed around his waist - he wanted to hang onto every part of it and you.

So he was purposefully slow. Slow to undress you - his hands trailing along your skin and limbs in a way that he could only hope you would understand. Slow to undress himself, even, but that was when you returned all his hesitant touches - the way you kissed him and touched him, gently holding his gaze as you did, like you had understood exactly how he had longed to have this with you.

Nothing was rushed, and when it ended, when everything slowed, when it was just you lying there beneath him, glowing, watching him and pulling his hand gently because you wanted him close, it was everything he always wanted with you. And something he could never have given you before.

Lying next to you, holding you close, breathing you in, he was almost asleep when he felt you shift to look at him. You kissed him.

“Missed you so much,” you whispered as you broke the kiss.

He nodded. “Missed you, too.”

. ݁₊⊹ . ݁⟡݁ . ⊹₊݁.

[ 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 ]

The rain cleared overnight, and bright, early morning sun had dried up some of the mess.

You were both quiet on the hike back, neither of you was precisely certain what the day before meant for the future.

But at least you were back in the hotel room. And the shower seemed to have endless hot water because you both took long showers.

Mingyu had nudged you to go first, and when you were out, you made him tell you what he wanted from room service before you let him close the bathroom door.

You ordered champagne too, since you had accomplished something, after all, you’d hiked the entire 28 miles.

You ate, and drank, and watched a random movie about a serial killer. All while snuggled in bed with him. Somehow, you were both suddenly shameless about how much you wanted to touch one another.

The pillow barrier didn’t return.

And even though you saw him every day the next week for the new round of depositions, there was an actual, official date planned for the following weekend. Very low key, according to Mingyu, just dinner at his place and watching movies, and the option to stay the night.

So basically kind of a perfect plan, even if you’d spent the night with him almost every night since you’d gotten back.

You told yourself that it was because the sleep was too good to pass up, not because you were making up for lost time.

a/n: eee fr hope you enjoyed it ^^ long fic yayyy...not in parts yayyyyy

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♡ [ 𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘰𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 ] ★ [ 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ]

𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬: ( 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 ) #kat_drabbles

[ 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ]

[ mingyu tag list ]

☁︎ @syluslittlecrows [e] ☁︎ @gyuguys [e] ☁︎ @tinyelfperson [e] ☁︎ @unlikelysublimekryptonite [e] ☁︎ @livelaughloveseventeen [e] ☁︎ @codeinebelle [e] ☁︎ @ateez-atiny380 [e] ☁︎ @mingcouper [e] ☁︎ @hanniebub [e] ☁︎ @perfectiondazesworld [e] ☁︎ @scoupshawty [e] ☁︎ @peachytokki [e] ☁︎ @coupsbestleader [e] ☁︎ @fleurloovin [e] ☁︎ @babybae-shisui [e] ☁︎ @asyre [e] ☁︎ @dcrlingyou [e] ☁︎ @yeosayang [e] ☁︎ @nanabananananabatman ☁︎ @yoongznme [e] ☁︎ @gyuhao365 [e] ☁︎ @jeonghnie [e] ☁︎ @armycarat2612 [e] ☁︎ @shuas-winnie30 [e] ☁︎ @famouspoetrydinosaur [e] ☁︎ @ateezaddict24 [e] ☁︎

☁︎ @aaronwarners69thwife [e + wips] ☁︎ @daisymbin [e + wips] ☁︎ @babilou-pov [e + wips] ☁︎ @sseungcheols [ e + wips ] ☁︎ @keyrecsfics [ e + one/multi & wips] ☁︎

☁︎ @haik-chu [e - one/multi] ☁︎ @gigglensnort [e - one/multi/priv] ☁︎ @stupendouschildnerd [e - one/multi] ☁︎ @tokitosun [e - one/multi ] ☁︎ @lilydaisylily [e - one/multi] ☁︎

☁︎ @ninigyuuu [k.mg - e, b.f. priv] ☁︎ @starlit-rin [k.mg - one/multi, b.f.non] ☁︎ @sapphireserpens [k.mg - multi/priv] ☁︎

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tizzydew · 2 days ago

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Red Parent Hood

I love the AU's where Red Hood adopts a (for some reason or the other) de-aged Danny and slowly starts to get his shit together with the help of a baby Danny calming his pit rage so I wager you this.

Tonight something was off in Lady Gotham- shadows stretched out abnormally longer and seemed to sway along to the sharp whistle of the wind, lights would flicker while alleyways seemed to distort and stretch on forever, despite the sound of wind the air was stagnant and the biting cold sent a shiver down the spine of even the most seasoned of gothamites.

It was one of those nights where even the cruelest of the rogue gallery; those who had managed to escape Arkham ofcourse, had seemed to think better of causing trouble. Henchmen and salary workers alike too had taken the hint that Lady Gotham was not in the mood and they surely were not trying to press what little luck they had in this god forsaken city.

The GIW however had not gotten the memo, their tires screeching against the asphalt as they drove down the narrows. They had finally done it. Phantom- Amity Park's greatest menace, was just within their grasp. He had gone down hard with their newest ecto-destabilizer; courtesy of Doctors Maddie and Jack Fenton.

The Menace in question was rapidly de-aging as he fled, managing all the way from Illinois only to be cornered in Gotham, New Jersey. The two day chase called for a code black, all major hands on deck and finally their victory was in sight. Sam Manson, Tucker Foley and Jazz Fenton, all in custody and questioning for harbouring this fiend are no longer able to delay the inevitable.

Danny for the life of him couldn't remember why he was running yet every time he started to slow down something pushed him forward, whispering 'not yet', telling him 'it was not the right time'. But.. He was tired, he wanted to curl up in his dad's arms and sleep. His dad's arms were always safe right? Surely they were less scary than whatever this.. was.

Rounding another corner he finally stopped, not knowing when he had gone from flying to sprinting. Vision blurred with tears he couldn't remember crying but that was not important to him at the moment as he had more pressing worries. Why couldn't he remember his Dad's face?

He knew.. He knew that his Dad was big and strong. His dad was the coolest and had black hair like his- but his hair was white? No no, focus Danny.. Big, strong, black hair and.. Kind. His dad was kind. But where was his dad? He wanted his dad!

"Kid? You good?" A heavy jerseyed accent cut through his panicked thoughts, the now toddler having not noticed his own sobbing and unstable breathing as he desperately wished for his dad. His dad who.. black hair, big, strong looking and kind, was right here. It couldn't be helped when the child barrelled into his father, hiding his face as he sobbed into his dad's leg in utter distraught. He wanted to go home now.

Jason for the life of him had no clue how to react when he had landed down in one of the many concrete back alleys of Crime Alley only to be met with some meta child sobbing their eyes out, scared out of his mind. It was his first night back in Gotham, his plans ready to come to fruition with minimal work left to be done before they could be put into action and clearly this shit was not what he was expecting tonight.

It wasn't that he didn't have the time to react when the kid ran over to clutch onto him but rather it was that he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to when the child looked so relieved to see him… not when the child was gripping onto him like he was their last life line.

Jason didn't even really think about it before propping the tiny toddler up in his arms and gently patting their head and soothing him as if a wounded animal he was trying to not scare away. Although evidently it wasn't needed when the child immediately hid their teary face in his shoulder, sobs slowly starting to quiet down.

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see the shadows flicker as darkness converged for a moment yet as soon as he turned his attention to it- it was gone. Nothing but a quiet 'thank you' in the breeze letting him know he hadn't imagined it.

Tonight, Mother Gotham had some cleansing to do on her streets, after-all it had been so long since she had heard from her dearest, Clockwork. May the Infinite have mercy on those who drove him and his ward to such a desperate state, since she surely wouldn't.

#danny fenton #jason todd #dcxdp #dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #dp x dc #dpxdc #Todd is a parent now #What do you mean Bruce he always had a kid

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littledes1re · 2 days ago

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How to Disappear | Chapter: Four

Summary: Joel is feeling restless, sick. He doesn‘t want to let you go. Maybe there is room for an explanation. For doing things better. Maybe there is an apology tucked behind his sorrow. And maybe you are ready to hear him out.

Warnings: 18+, Smut, MDNI, unprotected sex (uh oh), Fluff, Angst, dealing with grief, guilt, alcohol problems, crying, age gap! (23 and 61)

A/N: this took FOREVER😭 I‘m finally done. Buckle up, because things are getting messy😗

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that lingered, expanding through the room until every corner swam in stillness. A quiet so deep, it amplified the noise inside your head, until your own thoughts became deafening, too loud—almost too much to bear. And then there was that smell. Cinnamon and vanilla. Warm, sweet, familiar. Turning into a ghost of a memory, soft and fleeting. It used to mean comfort. Now, it was just what was left behind—a trace of something once cherished, now buried in the cold and wet ground.

The cabin hadn’t changed. The same worn blankets and pillows lay scattered across the old couch, just as you had left them. The kitchen echoed afternoons spent baking cookies with your mother. The wooden walls, aged and weathered, creaked with the weight of time. You still wondered how they had survived this long. Even the dust, caught in the slivers of morning light, floated with a kind of reverence—as if the place remembered you too.

Yet, it felt unfamiliar, uncomfortable, cold—like a heartache. Your heart ached as you walked through your mother’s cabin. How many years, days, minutes, seconds had you spent there, your life cupped by your mother’s hands, her voice leading you, her feelings shaping you? How many times had you sat on her lap, listening to her sweet voice, reading through your favourite book? How many times had you lain in her bed, her fingers running through your hair?

Tears slipped one by one as you walked through the old cabin. Taking it in, trying to feel her. Trying to find a way to make everything less painful.

You sank onto your mother’s bed, fingers trembling as you grasped at the blanket. The fabric still held her scent, and the moment you breathed it in, a sob tore through you. It came raw and breathless, like grief had taken up residence in your lungs. The pain was overwhelming, as if someone were driving nails straight through your heart.

Shock still wrapped around you like fog, numbing your mind. You didn’t know how to be in a world where she no longer was.

As the sun nearly disappeared behind the trees, you looked toward the window. Cracked and threaded with cobwebs, it framed the falling dusk like a forgotten painting. And then—you heard her. Her voice, soft and clear, blooming inside the silence. Speaking to you the way she always had: gently, lovingly, as though her arms were still around you, rocking you into dreams.

„What the hell do you think you two are doing in here?“

Your eyes snapped open. First, you saw the white ceiling. Then you noticed that you were clung to someone—Joel. He was lying next to you, sleeping while your leg was wrapped around his torso. And as your eyes drifted away from him, it landed on your fathers angry ones. He was standing in front of the bed, seemingly fuming and in disbelief—still wearing his the clothes from evening but messier. Your head couldn’t even register of what was happening. Why Joel was besides you, why your dad was already home.

And then it hit you.

The awful, gut sinking realization of being caught with your father's buddy settled like ice beneath your skin. Goosebumps rose along your arms as you stared at him, stunned and speechless, your mouth hanging open like a gaping fish.

„Joel. Joel—wake up!“

Joel groaned, hand cupping his forehead, rubbing his eyes. He probably had a big headache after how much he drank yesterday, but that didn‘t matter. What mattered is Joel‘s expression when he saw you, looking as worried as ever. Then your father. You could see him swallow, slowly sitting up on the bed and opening his mouth, trying to say something, but just like you—he was too shocked to react.

„I‘m asking again—what the fuck, are you doing with my daughter in her bed?!“

„This isn‘t what it looks like dad!“ You quickly rise to face your father, and for a brief moment, the intensity in his eyes unnerves you. He’s never been aggressive—just distant. The only times you’ve seen him visibly frustrated or aggressive were, when his favorite soccer team lost. But this was different. The tips of his ears were flushed red; if cartoons mirrored reality, steam would be pouring from them. And while you stood there, holding his gaze, shame washed over you—shame that you slept with his best friend, that you had a relationship with him, behind your father's back. It didn’t matter how things were between you and Joel now. What mattered was that your father had caught you both, asleep in the same bed. And he would never understand that you and Joel had been something long before this.

„Unbelievable. Is this who you are now? Just hopping into bed with anyone who gives you attention?“ He scoffs, shaking his head. You flinch at his words, but at the same time—your eyes get wide. You never expected him to say things like that. „You’ve thrown away every ounce of respect I had for you. Acting like you’re some… desperate little thing.“

Before you can speak, Joel rises to stand beside you.

„Okey, that’s enough.“ Joel’s voice is calm but sharp, like the edge of a blade. It makes your heart drop for a second, scared of what he has to say. „You don’t get to talk to her like that. Not after everything she’s been through. Not after how you’ve treated her.“

Your father’s eyes lock with his, a silent storm brewing. You can see his fists clenched, anger running through his veins. But Joel doesn’t stop, he doesn‘t back down. „You’re angry? Fine. Be angry. But don’t take it out on her because you can’t handle the truth.“

Your father doesn’t respond. Not with another insult. Not even a glare. He just stands there, fists still clenched, jaw twitching. The air in the room feels thick, like you can’t breathe—you are scared that this escalates.

Then Joel steps forward.

„You want the truth?“ his voice is calm, too calm. The kind that carries more danger than a yell.

„You don’t get to be outraged now—not after years of neglecting her as a father. She didn’t do this to hurt you. You did this. With your silence. With your distance. You weren’t there.“

You stiffen.

It feels like Joel is saying something, that he has been bottling up for long now.

And his voice doesn’t waver.

„She needed someone—when things got hard, when she was slipping. You weren’t around. But I was.“

You suck in a breath that feels like it barely makes it to your lungs. The embarrassment runs through you. This situation makes you feel like a helpless little girl, needing saving from all mightily Joel. But why does that hit so hard? You want to scream at him to stop—to stop making it sound like you’re fragile, like you’re broken. But the worst part is… it’s true. Every word of it.

Your father shifts, eyes flicking from Joel to you. There's something behind them now—something shaken. And for once, he doesn’t say a word.

He just leaves.

And you don’t move. Not right away. You’re frozen between all the things you’ve never said and the ones you’re too scared to admit you feel. You can‘t grasp at what happened, can‘t believe that your father found you, and now knows about you and Joel.

The silence is sickening until he turns to you.

„Are you okay?“

His tone is gentle, too gentle. It makes the ache in your chest worse. It makes you feel worse that he acts like nothing happened, that he can just be there with you as if he didn‘t do all of that to you, maybe even worse.

You swallow the storm inside you and say, „I don’t need your help, Joel.“ And continue with, „You say ‚you were there, instead of him‘ but then you left me too. Like i‘m nothing.“

His face falters—just for a second. But you look away.

You grab your hoodie, your phone, whatever's nearby, and you walk out. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to keep from unraveling. And as the hallway swallows you, all you can think is about making sure to never let yourself crumble in front of him again.

„Hey, dad. Can you come pick me up? I was gonna go with my other friends but they are going somewhere else. I’m waiting at Hayley’s house.“

Whenever Joels mind is a quiet storm, brewing and eating him up from inside, her voice is looped like an endless path, echoing from the darkest pits of hell. Nothing to shut it up, other than drowning himself into that same almost awful tasting liquor, just to not feel and hear anything. And these thoughts were accompanied by you. Your face, your voice, your body, your laugh, your feelings and your heart. At one point there were bitter sweet moments of the two of you sneaking away from your father, and holding hands at the back of his truck, while star gazing. The other times it‘s you—crying—crumbling in front of him, trying to understand why he wants to end things, why he doesn‘t like you anymore.

And oh, how much he wanted to take you into his arms, protect you from the angry eyes of your father. When he saw your lip trembling, your hands silently shaking, your chest going up and down, quickly, like it was hard for you to breathe.

Joel knew, you could defend yourself from him, that you didn‘t need any saving. All the things he threw on your father’s head were the things he longed to say—ever since meeting your family…ever since meeting you. The way you turned your head back when you realised that your father is not listening, the way you asked Joel to help you with the broken light switch in your room. He could see that your feelings were never meant to be for your father, instead for your mother. And maybe his feelings started right then and there. Maybe, he can remember feeling like a creep, like a pervert of thinking of you any other way than he should. Yet, he couldn‘t help himself. Your voice led his path, your eyes blurred his mind and your soft touches made him feel like human again.

„Ain‘t drinkin‘, I see.“

The glass of scotch smiled to him, as it sat on the table. His hands got sweaty, trying his best not to pick it up and throw it down his throat.

„Nah. Tryin’ to sober up.“ Joel lowered his head, avoiding his brother’s first reaction at that information. Tommy had been the first to recommend and push him towards rehab—Joel declined every time.

„Wow. That’s great, brother.“

Joel lift his head up, caught his smile, then cringed, shaking his own.

„No, no. It’s really great.“ Tommy’s smile widened as he nodded his head.

It was you seeing him like that, that changed his mind. When he knocked on your door yesterday, with wobbly legs and a dizzy head. Your eyes scanning his face, worry filling your eyes. He couldn’t bear looking at you, not like this. He excepted you, shutting the door on his face, being angry—something. Instead you took him in. That’s when Joel realised he needs to get better, he needs to be better for you. He knows there is no room for an apology. There is no room for explanation. But there is room for doing better and being there for you again.

„Don’t look at me like that.“ Joel shook his head.

„No, I swear. S‘great. Just…“

„Just what?“ he questioned, his gaze going from his younger brothers furrowed eyebrows to his question filled eyes.

„Been trying to get you to do that for ages now, you know. What made you do it?“

One part of Joel feels relieved that his brother asked this question. Because he didn‘t know how to start talking about you. Joel came here with one goal: to confess, ask for advice, and maybe find some reassurance. But the other side of him is flooded with worry. Worry of how his younger brother will accept the news, that he got together with his best friends daughter, and then dumped her, like she was nothing.

„You…you remember dave from the construction site?“ Joel asked, beginning slowly. Unsure.

Tommy‘s eyes scanned to room for a moment, before he remembered him. A quick nod of his head and Joel continued.

„Well, he has a daughter and— I don‘t know how to tell you this.“

„Joel.“ you murmured, your eyes opening again, softly landing on his worried ones. What was supposed to be a cinema evening under the stars, turned into his fingers tangled into your hair, you sitting on his lap and making out with him.

„S‘this okay?“ he asks, breathless. And when you nod your head, yes, he crashes his lips into you once again. His beard scratching your face, your hands running through his curls. And you can feel that Joel is holding himself back—like he hasn‘t made out with someone forever and he is testing waters. But it still feels like love. Like tension that’s been coiled for months—finally released. And Joel can remember it to be the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Your lips pretty and plump as you catch your breath, hair messy and clothes all over the place. He wants you all for himself, even if that seemed selfish. He wanted to say something then. Something about how he shouldn’t feel this way. About how unfair it was to want this moment to last forever when he had no right to you. But all he could do was hold you closer. And in that brief, stolen slice of time, Joel allowed himself to be selfish. To imagine what it would be like if this wasn’t a mistake. If it was the beginning of something better.

„Brother, please tell me you‘re joking“

Joel‘s gazes down, too ashamed to look at him. He knew this reaction would come, yet, he doesn‘t blame him. Every body would react this way, maybe even worse.

„How old is she?“ Tommy asks, but there is more than worry in his voice—there is judgement. And he can‘t help himself, to judge his big brother in this very moment.

„Twenty-three.“ his voice barely above a whisper.

Sixty-one and twenty-three. These numbers sat between them like something spilled. Unclean, confusing.

„I didn’t plan it. I swear. After her mom passed, she unraveled. And something in me recognized it—like a mirror. I saw the same kind of quiet collapse I went through when…“ and Joel couldn‘t say her name. The air in the room thickened, like it was trying to suffocate Joel. Only thing that made him breathe again, was his brothers eyes. Suddenly, turning understanding.

„Is it real, Joel?“ Tommy breaks the silence.

Joel met his eyes. „It is. That‘s why I left her.“

„You left her?“

Joel exhaled shakily. „I couldn’t stay. I was terrified. Every time she laughed, or leaned into me, I felt it—this panic. Like history was going to repeat itself and I’d be holding someone I couldn’t protect.“

Joel could feel his heart aching, at the thought of his daughter. He swallowed, coughing a little, looking around the room.

„You were scared you’d lose her like Sarah.“

Joel closed his eyes. He didn’t need to confirm it.

Tommy watched his brother—watched the way Joel’s face crumpled under the weight of love and fear intertwined. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t escapism. It was grief-shaped affection, forged from a connection deeper than their years and their wounds.

„It‘s…it‘s not me trying to fill the space sarah has left—“ but Tommy interrupted him. „No, No.“

„I dont think that way.“ Gentle. Reassuring.

The age gap still lingered in the back of Tommy’s mind—like something socially inconvenient, something he knew the world would question. But in Joel’s face, he didn’t see a man chasing youth. He saw a man who had finally let himself feel again. Who had chosen someone not because she was young, but because she had met him in the dark and stayed anyway.

Tommy leaned back and took a long breath. „You love her, brother.“ he said.

Joel nodded, voice trembling. „I do.“

For a long moment, they said nothing. Then Tommy stood, walked slowly across the room, and placed a hand on Joel’s shoulder—not in blessing, not in approval, just in something resembling grace.

„Then stop punishing yourself,“ he said. „Love doesn’t always make sense. But if it’s real, it’s worth the risk.“

You come here without telling anyone. Not Joel, not your father.

Especially not your father.

The gravel beneath your boots crunched with each step on the porch, but it wasn’t the weight of your body—no. It was the weight of everything you were trying not to feel. Shame, mostly. And a grief that didn’t seem to have a name anymore.

The fight with your father still echoed in your ears. The look on his face when he stood there and found Joel beside you in the bed. They hadn’t even been touching, not really. You knew that it was something innocent—resting, trying to understand the connection that is still present between the two of you. But your father saw something impossible. Something dirty, something that he can‘t forgive and forget.

He threw things. Not at you exactly, but at the idea of you—at the version of you he thought he knew, the one you had now shattered.

And Joel had stood in front of you. Shielding you. Protecting you from the cruel words of your father. You remembered the moment like a twist in your stomach. Not just because he defended you—but because you actually needed it. And you could never admit it, but Joel made you feel safe in this moment.

Sighing you walked in your mothers room for a moment, grabbing an old book from the bookshelf and blowing the dust off.

You sit down on your mother’s old rocking chair near the window, staring out into the brittle trees. The wind hadn’t picked up yet, but the branches swayed like they remembered storms past. There was a folded note tucked between the pages as you opened the book. Your mother’s handwriting. Just a recipe for soup. But the smallness of it—the ordinary domesticity—made your throat tighten. Your mother would’ve known what to say. She would‘ve told your father off, she would‘ve protected you.

But now all you had was this chair. This cabin. And memories that felt less like comfort and more like ghosts.

Joel hadn’t tried to reach out. Not yet.

And maybe, part of you wanted him to. Wanted him to walk through the door and explain it all—why he did what he did, why he looked at you like he saw something sacred, why he couldn’t hold onto it.

And the other part?

The other part hoped he never did. Because you wasn’t sure you could look at him without needing him again. And you hated that feeling. Of needing someone in your life.

Especially someone who could walk away so easily.

You gently pulled the sleeves of your sweater down over your hands and rocked slowly in the chair, letting the wooden floor creak beneath you. Outside, a bird called into the trees, unanswered. Maybe after you wake up, you feel differently.

But now, you just sat still. Listening. Remembering.

And hating him. And loving him. And not knowing the difference.

After a while a loud knock pulled you out of your sleep.

You sat up from the chair, slowly. The cabin was cold, wrapped up in evening fog and silence. You couldn‘t remember when you fell asleep, but you felt your back being tense, from sleeping on the chair for too long.

No one knew you were here.

You were unsure as you walked to the wooden door, heart thudding against your ribs with each step.

And there he was. Standing there, holding a paper bag in one hand. Steam curled lazily from the folded top, hitting you instantly. Asian noodles—your favourite. His eyes found yours instantly—wide, red rimmed and apologetic.

You didn‘t say anything.

He didn‘t either.

„How did you know I was here?“ you decided to break the silence.

Joel‘s voice was low, rough. „I just knew.“

You blinked at him, dumbfounded. The last time you talked about this cabin was one year ago, in a small sentence. He remembered that. You stepped aside before your brain even had time to agree. Joel walked in slowly, unsure, like he didn‘t belong in this kind of quiet. The cabin felt somehow smaller with him inside, like the air hung thick and heavy between you two.

He set he bag down on the small coffee table and then sank down on the couch, a big sigh leaving him, as if it emptied him.

Awkwardly and slowly, you sat down the opposite, your arms folding protectively in front of your chest. And as Joel clears his throat to start speaking, you cut him off.

„What do you want from me, Joel?“

And Joel notices that your voice is calm, too calm for his liking. It terrifies him more than a yell could. He looks around the room, not daring to look into your eyes. Your tone carried months of weight—questions layered with betrayal, confusion and grief.

„You left me.“ you continued, your voice still calm. „And now you‘re here. With food. What are you trying to do? What are you hoping for?“

He flinched, looking down at his knees. And then, finally, he dared to look at you.

„When Sarah died,“ he began slowly, „It felt like I died with her, too. Like everything crumbled upon me, the light of the world dimmed and stayed that way.“

You took a sharp breath, your heart throbbing.

„But you,“ Joel went on, „you bought it back. You made me feel like maybe…maybe life wasn‘t done with me. Like I could laugh again without any guilt. Like I could talk to someone and be psychically there.“

As Joel spoke these words, something inside of you rippled and quaked, like someone had tapped a nerve you thought you buried beneath the floorboards of this cabin. You also felt a jolt of recognition. Because somewhere in your own mourning, your own unraveling, you knew what it was like to be numb—too well. And a small part of you wants to let out a cry, letting it all go, once again in front of him. But this time you would not let it happen.

„You did the same to me,“ you snapped. Your voice cracks as you continue. „And then you ripped it out. So tell me—why the hell did you leave me Joel?“

He pressed his palms into his face, rubbing as if he could erase himself. The air felt even heavier now, the cabin like a pressure chamber.

„Because I love you.“ he whispered. „And I was scared. Scared of making your life hell. Of dragging you into all my messes—into drinking, the grief, the years I wasted being broken. I thought you‘d be better off without me.“

The words shouldn’t have hit as hard as they did. But they did.

They landed in your lungs like fog, settling into every breath, curling around every corner of your ribcage. And for a second, it felt like your heart forgot what it was doing—like the rhythm inside stalled, rewound, tried to make sense of something that had already broken.

You stared at him.

And he looked at you back.

You hated that you suddenly felt warmth rush up your spine when he looked at you like that. You hated that part of you, that wanted to run to him, wrap your arms around him, pull him down into the couch and beg him not to disappear again.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to hold him and shove him out the door all in the same breath.

„Then let it be!“ you shouted out of all sudden, standing up. „If i‘m so fragile and can‘t handle you, then walk out!“

Joel stood up too. Tears clung his lashes but they didn‘t fall. He was trying and failing, holding himself together.

„And, let me not remind you of your girlfriend. How would she feel about all of this, hm?“ you asked, folding your arms in front of your chest, once again.

Joel looked like he was slapped with those words alone. Miserable. The tears finally flowing down his cheek. And he was embarrassed at what he is going to confess next.

„That was…it was staged.“ he said. „I thought, if you saw me with someone else—you‘d stop waiting. That you wouldn‘t cry for me anymore.“

Those words didn‘t hit like a slap. They hit like a bruise. Painful, slow and spreading. All over your body and insides. You folded your arms tighter, pressing warmth into yourself. And your heart felt heavy and confused—like it wasn’t sure if it belonged to you anymore. He looked at you now like he regretted it. Like he wished he’d never said it. But you couldn’t speak. Your mouth was dry with disappointment.

The silence stretched. Joel shifted in place, face pale, eyes glossed over with something close to shame.

And suddenly, you walked to him. Your hand flew before your thoughts could catch up—a sharp slap to his cheek.

Joel blinked, stunned. But he knew he deserved this. He didn‘t move, he didn‘t protest.

Another slap. But this time harder.

And then, as if you lost your mind, you surged forward and pressed your lips against his.

At first, Joel froze. His hand slid down your back, holding you unsure. Your mouth warm and frantic against his. And for a second he didn‘t understand. He thought you hated him, hated him to guts.

But something in this kiss hit harder than confusion. It felt like oxygen. It felt like finally letting go of something he had been holding on to for so long. So, he couldn‘t stop, he pulled you in, closer, opened his mouth and let you explore his. And you took that opportunity to grip his hair, kiss him harder. Your body moved with months of loneliness, questions, rage, silence and longing.

Your fingers gripped his shoulders, making him release a groan into your mouth. His hands find the fabric of your shirt, going under and squeezing your skin. You two stumbled together onto the couch as you straddled Joels hips. The food long forgotten, moonlight slanting through the windows.

It was clumsy. The way your mouths kept crashing with urgency, your hands unsure what to do and where to stay. A needy whimper left your lips, and that‘s when something shifted. Joel‘s kiss grew deeper, his hand finding the hem of your shirt, disconnecting your lips for a moment and pulling it over your head. The couch cracked beneath you two, but you didn‘t care. Joel‘s hands explored your back, finding your bra and unclasping it, leaving your chest bare beneath his trembling touch. He thumbs at your nipples, pinching pulling, making you moan out—breaking the kiss.

He doesn‘t waste any time and latches into your neck—biting, kissing suckling. Harsh, demanding and desperate. You felt the ache beneath your skin as he moved to your chest, feeling the way his lips trembled. There were still tears slipping past his eyes.

As the breathing grew louder, you started to grind down on him. Whines and moans escaping your lips as you felt his tongue swirl against your nipple, his hand squeezing your body like he is afraid of letting you go.

„Baby.“ he whispers, as he sees you desperately grind on him, trying to find that pleasure that you haven‘t had for such a long time. Joel pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. Without another word, he eased his arms around your back and guided you gently to the left, lifting just enough to shift you off his lap. Your spine curved into the cushions, your breath catching.

Joel settled above you, not heavy but wholly present, lips hovering near your cheek. As you two look at each other, his hand finds your pants, hooking his fingers under the waistband with delicate intent. „Can I?“ he then asks, gentle and low. You nod your head quickly, waiting for him to pull down your pants, and everything feels familiar. It feels good, feeling his weight on top of you, his hands on your skin and the softness of it all. You pulse, ache in need, it‘s been long and you never realised how much you missed him inside.

Joel starts pulling your pants down, signalising for you to lift your bum. And when you do, you realise not only did he pull your pants down, but your panties with. There is suddenly this embarrassment running through you, as if this is the first time ever he sees you bare. It feels like it tho, after all of what happened, it feels like you and Joel are connecting like the first time ever.

He doesn‘t waste any time, spreads your legs, lowering his head and giving you a small, gentle kiss on top of your pussy before swiftly thrusting two fingers into your dipping heat. And he coos at the face you make, eyebrows softened, your mouth gaping open as he fucks you open with two fingers.

He can‘t believe he has you like this again, he can‘t believe you are letting him feel you and take care of you, like he didn‘t for the past months. There is a throbbing in his pants, and he also never realised how much that part of him missed you too. How much he missed kissing your plump lips, how much he missed that cunt clenching down on him, how much he missed those sweet noises you make, letting him know that he is making you feel good.

His lips find yours again, breathlessly making out. And while all surroundings around you disappear, you suddenly feel him filling you. Not with his fingers but his cock.

You break the kiss with a loud whine.

„I got you, baby. I know.“ his lips press against your temple, his hips gently thrusting into you; one by one, filling you with his full length.

To say you missed this, would be an understatement. You felt like on cloud nine, all the things that happened forgotten, all the tears, questions, all the silences. It made you feel whole again, it made you feel taken care of again. And it‘s not just lust—it‘s intimacy. It‘s feeling each others skin, once again. It‘s making sure the other one feels good.

And when Joel whispered your name again—like he hadn't let himself say it aloud in weeks—you felt it in your bones. You wanted to cry. You wanted to hold him still. You wanted to never forget this moment, where everything that hurt was quiet and everything that needed healing had found his hands.

You weren’t just making love.

You were remembering each other. Slowly. Like a promise.

„Joel.“ you arch your back against the couch, your hands landing on his back, gripping him steadily. His hips move in a fast rhythm, like he can‘t hold himself back anymore. You feel one hand on your clit, and with one rub you come around him, pulsing, clenching. So fast, like it’s been ages, since you felt something. Your breaths shuddering and whines leaving your throat. He groans into the loud cabin, and he needs no more than three thrusts, as he comes in you, burying his head into your neck.

You lay there together, bodies tangled and breath still unsteady. The couch creaked quietly beneath you two, the cushions sunken under the weight of everything you two just shared. The air was still thick with heat and the faint scent of pinewood and soup gone cold.

You could still feel the tremble in his body.

His face still buried inside your neck, as if he was afraid to look at you. Only when you say his name, he looks at you and you realise what he is hiding. His tears. One by one, going down his cheek. Your heart throbs as you cup his cheek.

His lips tremble as he lets out a breath, murmuring imsorryimsorryimsorry over and over again.

You feel your tears prickling in your eyes too, hushing him, kissing away the tears and stroking his hair. Your thumb brushing across his damp cheek.

And you can see it in his eyes—it wasn’t lust anymore. It wasn’t even pain.

It was the kind of quiet that only comes after a storm. When both people are soaked and spent but still holding each other, still choosing each other in the rubble.

You didn’t ask ‚what happens now.‘

He didn’t make promises.

You just breathed together.

You guys don‘t even know how often I changed this😭 I hope you guys like this <3

How to Disappear Masterlist

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