#one of the best things I’ve ever read on here

[usedpidemo]

Life of the party (Loossemble Yeojin)

You regret getting yourself out on the market so soon.

To be fair, it’s been a little over six months since your last breakup, the terms of which remain hazy, even to this day. It isn’t exactly a definitive conclusion, one where you can comfortably say you’re wishing each other the best, nor is it a destructive mess either. 

The unfortunate reality is: it was never gonna last. You both had it wrong from the start. The foundations of your relationship were built primarily around sex—pure, unadulterated, raw—at its most primal form. You had this magnetic effect on each other, your bodies crashing on top of the other endlessly, creating these seemingly boundless explosions until you couldn’t take it anymore. It took your body giving out for you to learn an important lesson: that much of a good thing can be turn bad.

So you confess that you need space, the same thing other girls have told you previously. You’ve certainly learned from each relationship, right down to the textbook words that signify each phase—and this was the decline. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t take it well, and she lashes out in a fit of anger. 

You don’t see each other again. 

That should have been the end of that.

Except, you see her, six months on, hiding in the crowd of a party you have no business attending. 

—————

You recognize her right away: so distinctly small compared to everyone else that in any other situation, protecting her would be the first thing on your mind. Kids shouldn’t be allowed here, anyway; it’s only been five minutes and your senses are pervaded with the sights and smells of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and every negative vice under the sun. Except she isn’t a kid; she’s about as old as you, balancing her job and personal life like everyone else in this room. 

Surely, this has to be some kind of mistake—or an elaborate trap. 

“I’ve been trying to tell you,” you face Hyunjin, your self-proclaimed guide to this madness, expression uncertain, tone dour. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Kim Hyunjin doesn’t take no for an answer. She’s all about expanding her social circles and connections, others’ interests be damned. “Come on. Don’t be like that. You’ll find that everyone is friendly! Here, let me introduce you.”

Without hesitation or care for your concerns, she takes you by the hand and drags you to the first girl she spots with her eyes. “I’d like you to meet Hyeju.”

Hyeju stares at you with a cold, apathetic glare. On one hand is a cup, the drink barely consumed. Other than stand awkwardly, you’ve done nothing, yet you’re giving off quite a negative first impression. Jittery nerves, awkward expressions—it’s terrible body language that gets people ostracized and bullied on social media.

“Sup,” she says, casually, extending out her free arm to shake.

Initially hesitant, you acquiesce, smiling while trembling, as though you’re uncomfortable. The feeling is mutual. “Hello.”

Ever the social butterfly, Hyunjin isn’t able to read the room, oblivious to the fact that you and Hyeju are polar opposites. As a result, you’re both undeniably incompatible. At least you can find some commonality in being unable to move the chat forward; whether out of kindness or a general difficulty in making a meaningful conversation out of your circumstances is up for interpretation.

“Well, if you need me, I’ll just go to the bathroom,” Hyeju says, breaking the cold silence that has been occupying the space for minutes. It’’s so apparent, that it may as well have been hours. She walks away, much to your relief—and to Hyunjin’s disappointment.

“Typical Hyeju, so cold to everyone that isn’t a girl,” she remarks, shaking her head in disbelief in a playful manner. In reality, she should have realized at the outset it was an outlandish plan to link up with a man, much less someone new. 

Hyunjin looks around the area, scanning for potential new acquaintances and friends. She finds—no one. Everyone appears to have formed their own little groups or cliques, unintentionally singling you out. If there was any more apparent of a sign that you shouldn’t be here, this is it.

And you’ll make it known to her. Anything to get the notion through that thick skull of hers.

“See? I told you this party wasn’t meant for me,” you comment, moving your finger in every direction, pointing out the obvious. It’s certainly quite the problem—for Hyunjin that is. For you, it’s a blessing in disguise. “Look—if you want, I’ll just pick you up later. Just text me when you wanna go home.”

Annoyed, she shakes her head, vehemently denying the offer, pouting at you for even thinking about leaving her by herself. “Hey! Don’t be such an asshole, okay? You want me to make you look bad? Try it. I dare you!”

You can only sigh in defeat. That’s how these girls get you: by gaslighting or through emotional blackmail, and it works. Every single time. And even after making the same mistakes over and over, you still wonder why you’ve been through four failed relationships in two years, now on your fifth. Perhaps there’s a common denominator that you’re quite stubborn to admit or are completely unaware of—you.

Clearing your throat with a cough, you reply, “Can’t say I’ve been made to look bad before.”

You’re testing Hyunjin’s patience, and for no good reason. This party is the only thing she’s been looking forward all week long, and no amount of negativity is going to deny her. “Let’s just have fun tonight, all right? That’s all I want. Don’t piss me off. It’s been quite the week for me, and this is the only thing keeping me from going insane.”

You shrug at her demand; you’ll definitely have more fun being anywhere else but here. She doesn’t seem to care about your plight, why should you?

Still, you follow her close behind, sharpening your focus anad keeping a close watch around your surroundings. Hyunjin doesn’t know she’s here, let alone your entire history with her. What started as a dull, uneventful night has slowly turned into a high stakes game of cat and mouse. With her stature, she could be anywhere; in front of you, over your shoulder, even as your very shadow. 

So it becomes all the more troubling when Hyunjin does introduce you to more of her friends, keeping you preoccupied. She might as well have everyone form a large circle and present themselves like it’s the first day of class. You go through the motions, dropping all this information overload at the earliest opportunity in an attempt to keep some semblance of awareness around you. 

And sure enough, she’s there. She’s no hallucination. In the midst of the crowd, Yeojin stands across the room, all barely five feet of her. Her blue oversized sweater drapes half of her frame like a curtain. In one of the rare instances where her short stature works to her benefit, she effortlessly disappears when someone else walks between your line or sight, but not before smiling at you—grinning, asking, begging for trouble.

You blink twice, and before you know it, she’s gone. Your attention is suddenly called by Hyunjin, seemingly introducing you to yet another one of her friends. Still, your mind remains fixated on her—the girl you haven’t seen in six months. Her number had been removed from your contacts, every photo deleted and her social media accounts blocked. Of course, meeting her again was still plausible; you haven’t moved out from this side of the country, but the fact you’ve run into each other at the same building, at the same occasion—it seems too good to be true.

“Hey—I need to use the bathroom,” you tell Hyunjin mindlessly, your stare lingering at the open passage at the other side of the room, your escape route. The words seemingly go unnoticed, until you look at her, deep in conversation with her another one of her countless friends.

That’s your cue to escape.

So you make a beeline for the exit, trying to catch even the slightest glimpse, but to no avail. You scour every room, looking for any sign of her, only to find nothing. She could have easily left the party in the time you were distracted. Asking anyone for her whereabouts is akin to a death sentence; word spreads like wildfire, and if anyone else knew of your history with Yeojin, it would be the end of the world.

You recognize you’re tempting fate with your next decision. It’s dangerous. You should let her go; there’s a reason why you haven’t spoken to her ever since.

Going through your phone, you put in the numbers. Truth is, her number is no longer saved in your contacts, but kept deep inside your notes app. Taking a deep breath, you press the danger button, cautiously waiting for her to pick up.

She answers.

“Hey.”

Even through a single word, you can visualize that bratty, cocky grin. Her smug attitude, the triumph in her voice, it’s oh so crystal clear. As if you’ve finally come calling back like the prodigal son, having recognized the error of your ways, after swearing you’d be somebody without her, even though it’s the exact opposite: she’s the one who walked out on you.

“Yeojin.”

“Missed your babygirl?”

“Fuck you.”

She gets off on that one single word. It’s branded deep into her veins. Even when you’re no longer together, it’s become a part of her. To say you’ve left an indelible mark on her would be an understatement. You’ve changed Yeojin—for the worse.

“That word lost all its meaning when you walked out on me,” you follow, months of frustration boiling up through your voice. “So don’t come at me with that anymore.”

“Technically, I came up with the idea of calling me babygirl. So I have the final say in whether it means anything or not.”

There she goes again, not even thirty seconds in, acting as if she were the biggest, most important person, which right now, unfortunately, she is. You already knew how disastrous it would be to open Pandora’s box the moment you even thought of calling her, yet here you are, regretting that decision and its consequences. Clearly you didn’t think this through—or you simply just needed an excuse to get away from the crowd, from Hyunjin, from everything.

Likewise, she’s feeling the same way too.

“Anyway, what brings you crawling back? Let’s talk.”

“Yeah.” You carefully look over your shoulder, keeping tabs on the party happening inside. No one has thought of stepping out to catch some air, thankfully, but they’ll be coming out in droves soon enough. “Let’s talk.”

“Basement parking lot. If you dare,” she says before hanging up, challenging you, as if you weren’t planning to head there regardless.

—————

As the elevator doors open, Yeojin’s echoed laugh is the first thing that welcomes you to the otherwise empty parking lot. The second being her shameless, mocking face when she turns around and familiarizes herself with your presence. Scanning you from head to toe, her eyes glint with delight, seeing that for the most part, nothing has changed.

For the most part. You look traumatized.

“So great to see you again,” Yeojin remarks, running up to meet you in a warm, endearing embrace. “I missed you so much.”

Pushing her away, her lips can’t help but leave marks on your neck, leaving familiar pink lipstick marks on your skin. Barely a minute since you’ve reunited, and you’re already wishing Yeojin was once again gone in your life.

“C’mon, lighten up. Aren’t you happy to see me too?” She elbows your rib playfully, its impact a feathery blow but otherwise devastating to your psyche. Every little thing she does is purposefully curated and designed to piss you off. 

“You’ve left me with no other choice,” you tell her, sighing, wishing you’d be anywhere else but this building. It’s turned into your personal hell, your inescapable prison.

“Poor Hyunjin’s gonna be so heartbroken when she finds out you’ve left her for me,” she remarks, grinning, smirking, gloating. “How long have you been together? Two months?”

“Two weeks,” you immediately correct her, because in all honesty, you’re still in the talking stage. This party was a way—or a trap—for Hyunjin to get through your otherwise impenetrable shell. She doesn’t seem to have learned from others that you’re the homebody, stay at home type. Maybe she does, but she believes she can fix you. And maybe it’s for the better to end this relationship before it deepens further, because it’ll probably hurt less—for her, at least.

Yeojin makes a face—exaggerating her features, surprised that you didn’t spend the last six months isolating yourself in your apartment, ashamed after fumbling the self-proclaimed so-called cutie hottie of the city.

“That’ll do it,” she continues to comment, her tongue a weapon to fire against anything and anyone.. “I’m amazed that it took you that long to leave her. Such a talkative bitch, right? I bet she won’t let you hit that fat ass of hers.”

To her credit, she’s correct about two of three things. You’re baffled at how she still has friends, knowing how much she constantly spites them behind their backs, and how narcissistic she is. Your conversations with her prove this.

But to avoid pouring fuel to the fire, you simply let it pass without another word, until she’s forced to change the conversation.

“So—you wanna come fuck me?” Yeojin is so unabashedly straightforward that it’s refreshing, as much as you hate how direct and to the point she is. “I don’t see any reason for us to talk any further, except for slamming that big cock of yours inside me.”

Taking a step back, you’re not exactly stunned by her choice of attire tonight. If there’s anything Yeojin has taught you, it’s to be prepared for any opportunity where she’ll pounce and you’re forced to fuck her brains out. She’s always been like this: dressing the bare minimum to avoid getting arrested under public indecency, making the flimsiest excuses to get railed that she’d forgo all pretense and be candid about wanting to walk around with your cum leaking from her cunt. She loves the thrill of the chase, while you hate drawing all this unwanted attention by playing along with her dangerous antics.

It’s why you wanted out to begin with.

“How’d you know I was gonna be here?” you question her, despite recognizing that she’ll give an unreliable answer.

“Everyone knows this is the party to be at,” she comments, tone matter-of-fact, crossing her legs, her arms folded behind her back. “All our college friends are here. It’s a reunion. Didn’t Hyunjin tell you that?”

You overlooked all the fine details when she was discussing this with you on the way here. Maybe even while you were busy gaming yesterday.

“Well that explains why I saw Heejin back there, and the others, I guess.”

“Still the forgetful S.O.B even after all this time,” she remarks, unable to resist throwing whatever snide remark she can. “You know Sooyoung was there too! Your ex? And Yerim! Your other ex. And also Jinsol—”

“You know damn well I didn’t ask to be invited,” you say, crossing your arms and shooting her a frustrated glare. It’s an anger aimed toward your circumstances, not specifically at Yeojin herself, even if she was the icing on the cake of what is a rather miserable night. “Given any other choice, I’d rather not call you. Nine times out of ten.”

“Yet here you are—stuck with me. So who’s really the loser now?”

God, Yeojin makes it difficult to be patient sometimes. Often, actually.

“Let me put it to you this way,” Yeojin starts again, and you’re certain she’s about to say something dangerous.. There’s a persuasiveness in her delivery that you can’t help but listen. “You don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I just want to get fucked, but this is boring me. You’re bored as hell, too. Do you see where I’m coming from?”

In all honesty, yes you do. You could have seen the conclusion coming a mile away.

“Yeah. You’re asking me to fuck you.” 

“Exactly!” Yeojin grins at your response, elated to hear the answer straight from the source. She’s full of joy, she’s close to jumping for joy at how well you know her after all this time. It’s both a blessing and a curse. “So you can either do one of two things: you can leave me here, pretend this never happened, and go back up there. And God knows if that place is a wreck by now. Or, you can have me here. Up to you.”

You look left and right, scanning your surroundings. Ticketing is electronic, so there is little risk of getting caught by guards. But then, there are cameras scattered all over the place. And while there are dozens of rows with cars parked side by side to hide behind, there’s no telling exactly when someone is going to emerge from that elevator and peek through your secret act, even if everyone is all conveniently partying upstairs making a bigger scene.

Yeojin’s pushing the limit as to how you can come away with her completely unscathed. So really, it’s a pick your poison situation, with either choice resulting in a slow, agonizing death.

A gunshot to the head would be a better fate than this.

“You’re fucking insane if you think I’m going to fuck you in an empty parking lot, Yeojin,” you tell her, unamused at the offer. There’s a third, hidden option that doesn’t have to involve this much risk; it’s hiding somewhere beneath that playful facade of hers. 

Yeojin doesn’t flinch at all. She knows you can take it and follow through, as you have done for her countless times. In the movie theater, in a bathroom stall, in the locker room—you’ve followed her through some of the most cramped and dangerous places, leaving a scene behind, barely escaping with your lives. If anything, a parking lot is on the tamer side. So much legroom, so much space, with little in terms of opposition—you’re never gonna have this free of a runway to fuck her brains out that isn’t confined to a bedroom, which, in her words, is ‘boring.’

Yeojin faces you with a smirk. A taunting, shit-eating grin that’s insufferable to stare at for longer than five seconds. She stares back as if she’s got it all mapped out, which, judging by how composed and deliberate she has been, is more likely than you think. It wouldn’t surprise you if she had spent the past few weeks positioning everything to fall into their respective place, working around countless different outcomes, to lure you out for the occasion. 

From the pocket of her oversized sweater she pulls out a pair of keys, jingling them directly in your face. Pressing a button, a clicking sound echoes throughout the basement. It’s the alarm coming from your car.

Panic immediately sets in. “How did you—”

“Took em’ while I was hugging you,” she says, her confidence at an all-time high, flaunting the item around like it’s hers. Like she owns you.

“Give it,” you demand, extending your hand out, deliberately ignoring the obvious: she won’t yield easily.

“Nah,” is the immediate response, silent but heartily laughing at your admittedly feeble and foolish attempt to reason with her. “Gonna have to play with my terms.”

“Will you stop—God damn it.” 

You’re falling back into old ways like they’re worn out shoes. Like it’s second nature, a force of habit. She’s living in your head rent-free.

“No problem.” Taking a moment to compose yourself, you turn around and make a beeline for the lone elevator. The most effective way to kill something is right at the source: her desire for attention. “I’ll be back later for the keys when the party’s done.”

“What? You’re seriously not gonna go up there, are you?” Yeojin doesn’t buy your ruse one bit. “You wanna lose a perfectly nice car to the girl you already lost too?”

“You need a booster seat to see the road clearly, bitch,” you retort, your heated exchange turning into an impromptu screaming contest. “And besides, you still don’t have a fucking driver’s license.”

Right then and there, triggered by your remark, she snaps. 

Briskly following you in hot pursuit, you shut the elevator door on her as you’re taken up back to the party. Missing you by the slimmest of margins, the last thing you see before the panels close is her scowl, a fist hurled in the air, and the echo of a emphatic ‘fuck’ that rips through the entire basement.

Only now are you starting to truly grasp the consequences of reopening old wounds.

When you rejoin the function, the atmosphere and overall area has turned into an irredeemable mess—a far cry from when you first entered the room. The whole place reeks of smoke, alcohol, and even slick. There’s guests laid out on the floor unconscious, choking in a pool of their own saliva and vomit, while everyone else has turned up their lasciviousness and energy up to eleven. You’re searching for Hyunjin, hoping she hasn’t been corrupted by the madness of it all, and you eventually find her—deep in a passionate kiss with Heejin in the corner of the karaoke room, behind a sea of other inebriated partygoers. 

And even if you screamed from the depths of your lungs, the guy on the microphone—not even trying to hit a note—overpowers anything else. He’s singing close to the mic, filling the room with a horrible screech that fucking rings, leaving a resounding pain thumping in everyone’s ears, including yours. 

You recognize the whole situation is a complete and utter disaster. The best option being, throwing yourself out the balcony. Someone probably did.

So before someone exposes you to more doses of lethal poisoning, you quickly shuffle out of there, and bolt into the elevator. You don’t head for the basement, because a little demon is waiting for you there. Instead, you land on the ground floor, quietly walking past the front desk and security like a local tenant. They’re just standing there, idle and seemingly oblivious to the situation happening upstairs. There’s no way anyone dwelling near hasn’t called the security on them.

None of that is your business, however. 

As you make your way out the apartment lobby and into the foyer, your phone receives a text. One you shouldn’t be giving a second of your attention to. It’s Yeojin.

> Where tf are you

She’s typing as you read, while you’re waiting for her to finish her follow up before possibly replying:

> You know I can’t fucking drive

You chuckle at her self-awareness, regardless of the sincerity—or lack thereof. She’s still going:

> I know you’re not at that party. I just KNOW

> Tell me where tf are u

You think about it for a good minute or two, undecided on whether to leave her on read or to actually formulate a response. You settle on the latter.

> Keep my keys warm for me, I’ll come by for them next week

She doesn’t reply back. Instead, she decides to call you straight up, and you’re still playing with fire, answering her right away:

“Hello?” Yeojin’s already shouting through the phone, but it’s nothing compared to the absolute violation that is the guy on the karaoke.

“Hey.”

Her spunky rage echoes through the phone’s seakers, charming more than threatening. She’s barking angrily like a tiny dog. “Are you seriously gonna leave me? Without your keys? I’m going to throw them away. And then what will you do?”

“Go ahead,” you tell her, matter-of-fact, because you know she won’t follow through. She’s all bark and no bite.

Yeojin growls, so evidently frustrated, so annoyed that you’re not as flexible as you once were. “I hope she fucking cheats on you!” she yells, eliciting a gentle chuckle out of you.

“What’s so funny?” she adds, catching your half-hearted laugh through the grainy reception.

“God seems to have heard you then.”

“She did? Really? What happened now?” Yeojin sounds surprised, as if she hasn’t been secretly praying for you and your loved ones’ downfall ever since. 

“I saw her making out with Heejin. As in, deeply lip locked. Tongues out and everything.”

After pausing for a moment, letting the details sink in, she says, “Well. I shouldn’t be surprised about that. They’re joined at the hip, honestly.” 

“Really?”

“Mhm. But look—” her inflection abruptly shifts, going from relaxed to casual. “Let’s just call it a truce for tonight, yeah? I’m tired. You’re tired. I just wanna go home, and so do you. So tell me where you are exactly, and I will give back the car key.”

You find Yeojin willingly surrendering hard to believe, as if you’ve suddenly stepped into an alternate reality. That, or her attitude has changed abruptly in the span of five minutes for no good reason. “Are you being serious for once? I don’t buy it.”

“You’re so unbearable, you know?” she replies, confirming your theory that she hasn’t changed—at least completely. But after firing back, she groans, deflated. “Just tell me where you are so we can talk like adults for once.”

Your eyes happen to stumble upon a cafe across the street, open 24 hours. You’ve found it; the place where you’ll settle the score and arrange everything on your terms.

—————

As soon as you finish stirring your coffee, Yeojin comes into view. Slowly approaching you, her mannerisms are careful, deliberate, as though you’re two professionals meeting for business negotiations. You don’t welcome her with any pleasantries—no greetings, no playful taunts, only a cold, watchful glare.

Sitting down across you, she notices there’s only one cup of coffee on the table. It bothers her seeing you like this: moving on your own, without her at your side. It’s completely unnatural. “Didn’t think to order me one?”

You blink a few times. Not a single word is uttered. You carefully lift the cup and take a sip of your drink before putting it back down, much to her not so subtle chagrin. 

She takes a deep breath and exhales. Every quiet interaction, every movement of the eyes is a tense exchange. Neither of you are willing to make the first move, cautious of getting undercut or taken by surprise. It’s a quiet stalemate. 

Eventually, Yeojin relents. Leaves you for a moment to buy her own drink. The realization finally dawns on her: that you’re not going to budge or fold like you used to.

And for once, she should grow up too.

“What’s with the look?” Yeojin casually shoots at you, taking a sip of her iced coffee, pointing out your stone-faced expression. Her observation: it looks painful holding on to that face. Your muscles must be straining keeping it together. “It’s not like I’m gonna pull a gun on you and rob you, or anything like that.”

An incorrect assessment. She does have something you need: your car keys.

“Is it because of me?” she adds, jokingly pointing her index finger back at herself. Knowing very well that she’s a huge reason why. It’s in her blood not to take issues seriously whenever it concerns you. “I know. Don’t worry. Lighten up a bit.”

But you don’t, out of precaution—worried of what may happen when she sees the slimmest of openings.

She leans forward, her frame halfway over the table. Her stature means she has to make a concerted effort to reach you, which has been the story of her night so far. Even her attempt at looking angry comes off as half-hearted and unserious. It shows when she tries to grab for your shirt; she physically can’t—unless she wants to pay the cafe for a new desk.

“Yeojin, please,” is your reply, huffing in her direction before looking away, avoiding eye contact.

“Please what? Stop being annoying?” she says, offended by the implied intention, when in reality, you just want things to be resolved once and for all. That you can go your separate ways and never cross paths again. 

What a cruel thing to do in her eyes. 

“How bout you stop being a bitch so I can give you your damn car keys back?” Yeojin finally breaks from her playful facade, fiercely jingling your keys in front of you, having abandoned all sense of subtlety and teasing. The desperation is finally catching up. “Jesus. You’re just as annoying as when I left you.”

Of course, it doesn’t bother you in any shape or form. She grows more frustrated at your lack of a direct response.

Placing the keys on the table, she sits back down, averting your gaze but in the opposite direction—sighing.

You shoot her a brief glance, checking once, then again for good measure, before sneakily taking the car keys back while she hasn’t noticed. Unsurprisingly, it’s part of yet another plan of hers.

“Go. Take them. If it that’s what will make you happy,” she blurts out, evidently defeated, her tone crestfallen. “I just wanted to see you. You know—for old times sake.”

“Hey. Don’t get all nostalgic, saying you miss me when you were the one that walked out on me, remember?” You shut down all hopes of reconciliation with that one response. “I can see why you haven’t been in a relationship for longer than two weeks.”

Yeojin turns her head toward you, visibly irate. She looks as if she’s refusing to take accountability. “You know today’s my birthday right?”

“Is it?” you tell her, knowing she’s lying with a straight face—it was two weeks ago.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, leaning slightly forward on the table. “As if you haven’t been following me in secret. All those pictures I’ve been posting on Instagram—”

“Has nothing to do with me,” you interrupt, brushing her rebuttal away as if it were meaningless. “You’ve always been thirst trapping. Seriously, you should take up being a camgirl if you want all that attention.”

Yeojin narrows her eyes. Try as she might, there’s no universe where she rips your throat out at the suggestion. “No fucking way.”

“I could help you make an account if you’re having problems signing up,” you tell her, “At least you can make money that way. And you get to have a new guy to use as your personal toy every single week without looking stupid.”

“It means nothing without you,” she says, taking another sip of her drink in between. “Something about you feels—different. Like, this all feels hollow and useless when you’re not around.”

“Stop being melodramatic and embrace what you really are,” you immediately retort, not buying her feeble attempts at sentimentality. “A slut.”

“Are you being dense?” Yeojin’s voice turns a bit more raspy and sharp with each response, as if she’s being attacked on a personal level, when it’s all true. You’ve found her like this: a thirst trapping self-professed model who posts suggestive pictures of herself and in the lewdest poses. Fifty thousand followers and eight boyfriends later, not much has changed. Making herself look available despite being in said relationships, using the most suggestive captions—they might as well be nonexistent. “I’m not a slut!”

“Yeah you are,” you tell her, flashing your phone displaying her current boyfriend’s Instagram page. The last post dated barely over 24 hours ago, her side profile clearly in view, kissing him on the cheek. No lying or running around such evidence. “A slut. Does he—”

Yeojin leans back on the couch, her infidelity exposed, distraught at getting caught red handed. She doesn’t even try to keep the secret contained, belting out her demand, “Hey—don’t you fucking dare send anything!”

“I’m not going to,” you tell her, pulling back your phone, taking no pleasure from cornering her like this. More often than not, reining her in was a burden and an immense struggle that didn’t provide any relief, only uncertainty as to when she’ll break loose again. She’s never been comfortable as a caged animal; she has to run free. “I think I oughta let him know where your whereabouts are, you know? Out of concern for—”

She’s suddenly lunging for your phone, trying to snatch it off your hands. Shielding it with your body, her strikes prove to be surprisingly painful, knocking the breath from your lungs, but you hold on—for her sake and yours especially. When she relents, you take the opening to push her away, sending her back on the other side.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she says, grasping at straws to gain even a little sympathy or favor back, when all that goodwill disappeared the moment she walked out of your life. You press somewhere on your phone—and the sound rings through her ears like a gunshot. Drawing it back to your pockets, you’ve seemingly fired a weapon aimed directly at her heart.

“Too late.” 

Yeojin melts, falling further into the couch, having put her down for good.

“I hope you didn’t actually send it,” she mutters from beneath the table, away from your direct view, her final cry of defeat. “God, don’t take this from me, please—” she’s pleading, begging for her life, knowing it’ll be what ends her. 

“You’ve done this to yourself,” you tell her, sounding like a judge sending her off to her damnation. “You left me with no other choice.”

“Really, I didn’t,” she replies, still refusing to take any sort of accountability for her actions, and that’ll never truly change. “He—he didn’t wanna go with me to the party.”

“Did he ask for an invite? Or did you simply leave him behind without a second thought?”

Yeojin cannot answer that question. She goes quiet, unable to respond.

“I figured,” you tell her, feeling a little sympathy for how vulnerable and defeated she looks. “If you seriously think you can crawl your way out of this one, you’re gravely mistaken.”

It’s easy to remember why leaving Yeojin—or in this case, Yeojin leaving you—was the best thing to ever happen to your life. Cleaning up after her is often a chore, one that requires so much effort for someone of her little stature. You can’t even pick her off the couch without applying some force; she’s lying on her side, staring blankly into the darkness, her soul drained in its entirety, but her body glued to the couch. Had she been a pet, and believe her, she’d rather be an animal more than human, she’d be living her best life, getting all the attention she craves and doing whatever she wants without punishment. But in this world, actions have consequences, and she’s starting to reap what she has sown.

It’s a good thing no one else is around to see or hear your little scene. Nevertheless, you might as well keep it contained before word spreads like wildfire. 

You don’t want to be seen with her in public ever again.

Locking yourselves inside the men’s bathroom, you plop Yeojin down on the floor. Despite looking modern, it’s not the most well-maintained. Someone should really get on it, but the workers aren’t paid enough to care. She fits naturally in her new surroundings: strewn on the floor in nothing but messy clothes and passed out after a wild night of unchecked debauchery.

“I hate you,” she murmurs, getting off the ground and sitting right in front of you, within close proximity of your pants. You’re unbuckling the belt, working your way down the zipper and buttons. “If you think giving me your cock as consolation is gonna make me feel better—”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” you tell her, pulling down your trousers and whipping out your cock from its confines, stroking it to full mast in front of her face. It’s not enjoyable whatsoever; if anything, it feels like a waste of a perfectly hot load to give back to someone you hate. You’re questioning yourself if this is even the right thing to do—which it isn’t. 

Yeojin takes hold of your cock mid pump, begging softly with her eyes to allow her control. You oblige her as she jerks your tip toward her pristine features, her fingers moving like it’s second nature. “Yeah, but you didn’t have to push me like that. I mean—he’s still my boyfriend—”

“Not anymore,” you remark, grabbing a fistful of her short dark locks, eliciting a whiny yelp from her saccharine lips. “This is for ruining my night,” you rasp, breathing heavily as her grip spreads throughout your loins, struggling to keep yourself together. All that pent up frustration finally bubbling to the surface, and now with an outlet for release. 

The timing couldn’t have been any more perfect.

Soon, your muscles tense and tremble uncontrollably as Yeojin’s hot breath and lips fill themselves with your cock. Slowly but surely, her mouth takes you, inch by inch, her tongue wrapping and licking around the tip, down your length, and you can’t contain yourself any further. As pleasure builds from within your stomach, you gradually loosen up—groaning away from her in a half-assed attempt to hide your not so subtle enjoyment. 

“Maybe I do miss this mouth,” you blurt out, heaving deeply between breaths as her noises vibrate and surge through your shaft, reaching the ends of your body, shocking every nerve. From careful reluctance to reinvigorated enthusiasm, Yeojin sinks back in, having never lost a beat in the time she’s last filled her mouth full of you. With all the relationships she’s had ever since, it would have been disappointing had she forgotten how to work her magic. Fortunately, sucking cock is one department she has never let you down on.

She releases your cock from her lips with a wet, audible pop, giving your tip a kiss. Looking up, the grin on her features is reforming. “Aha—I knew you would fucking fold like a bitch—”

You force yourself back in, dissolving her words with a mouthful of cock, pulling at her locks to regain command. Digging her fingers deep into your thighs, unwilling to let go, you’re back at square one. This is how everything starts: with Yeojin on her knees, her hands gripped to your skin, sucking on your shaft while you drag her by the hair. It’s a twisted game of tug of war, where both of you end up winners.

But right now, you have the upper hand: Yeojin’s satisfied moans reverberate through your shaft, disappearing and reappearing in her mouth with a fresh coat of saliva and precum. She’s bobbing her head back and forth, her cheeks hollowing out, her lips reaching further down your length with each stroke. She’s eerily quiet too, her noises reduced to mostly incoherent sounds as she dives further down, kissing and sucking on your balls, gasping at little breaths for air. It feels so good, so heavenly, that you’re considering backtracking all those missteps from long ago.

All this ecstasy for you and you alone—your lust and greed knows no bounds.

She looks up, her eyes wide, your cock pressed halfway between her mouth, spit falling from the edges of her lips, muttering, vibrating: “You like that? You like what I’m doing to your cock?”

“Fuck—fuck yes, babygirl.” 

You finally fold, using the one word you swore to never use again, breaking your own sacred vow. It should hurt, but it doesn’t—it was never really of dire importance, anyway. So much for being the bigger person in this relationship.

“That’s right. Tell me I’m your babygirl,” she goads, going down and sucking your balls a second time, giving them a squeeze, twisting your head into a pile of mush.

Even when you pull by her hair, Yeojin uses it to her advantage, pressing her nose against your stomach, her lips reaching your base, kissing you and marking every inch of your cock with her lips. This indescribable suction that absolutely swallows you—it’s a miracle you haven’t dissolved right then and there. Your senses are beyond overwhelmed, and it’s only registering blurs of her: her eyes, her moans, her everything. It’s come to a point where you’re forced to pump into her, filling her down to the throat in a desperation attempt to keep the fire burning.

Those fucking eyes—staring back and forth between your aimless gaze and your cock. It’s unbelievable. The room begins to spin around. There’s so much happening all at once to say a single word, let alone an entire sentence. Even when she’s gagging and coughing, she’s still relentless, her efforts steady and unshakeable. Only God knows the smile hiding beneath the pain and pleasure, getting what she wants in the end.

“So—so fucking close—” you manage to sputter, your jaw going completely slack, your groans reaching up to high heaven in a thunderous echo. The tug on her hair is so tight, you’re threatening to rip them out. 

With your cock buried deep in her throat, Yeojin’s eyes are welling up from the overwhelming sensation, basking in this old, familiar feeling. She doesn’t know if she’ll get an opportunity like this again (hopefully more in the future). Her fingers clamp around your length, ensuring your load lands nowhere but her. Face, mouth, clothes—anything to cover her as a memento reminder of what things used to be. 

She effortlessly strokes away, fully sinking into the act. Your cock tenses and tenses, until the pressure becomes too suffocating. You can’t hold it in any longer; you can only hope the outcome isn’t violent enough to be made into a crime scene.

It takes only a few more fleeting moments. Between raging storms, there’s calms that give off the illusion that everything will be fine—when there’s no chance of that happening. The confined space fills your ears with echoes of lewd noises, her dampened moans, your throaty grunts, and everything else in between. Her hot breath tickles your cock, muttering a gentle whisper, a soft plea (please cum), and it sends you careening over the edge.

A slosh sound passes through deaf ears, and you’re left blind, screaming, throbbing for her. Releasing your load, shooting heavy blasts into something—someone—till your cock no longer aches. Pulling her hair is like pulling a broken lever: completely ineffective and useless. 

When you finally snap from your spiraling daze, you’re welcomed back by the most snapshot pornographic image you’ve ever seen: her mouth wide, tongue exposed, sticky white and full of cum. It’s everywhere—on her hair, dripping down her face and chin, even on her clothes. You didn’t think Yeojin could gleam any brighter, but she’s glistening so brilliantly it’s blinding. 

“Mmm,” she hums to herself, licking herself clean of all the mess, if there’s even anything to salvage, while you’re left wobbling, struggling for air. “Fuck. That tastes so good.”

She’s running her fingers along the fabric, picking off what little pieces of you remain. Lingering on the blots on her sweater, she realizes it’s beyond wear and begins to lift the garb over her head. Behind that thick piece of clothing, she’s wearing—nothing.Not even a bra. Her wooly fleece is hiding those small but taut nipples and the rest of pale, creamy skin.

But before you get a good view, you reach for her arms and bring them back down. “Shit. Shit. Stop.”

Startled at your sudden turn and lunge, Yeojin backs away. “What are you—”

You snap at her, “Quiet.” 

You hurriedly reach for the exit. Carefully opening the door and looking outside, you notice that not much has happened, if at all.  And then your eyes widen at the new sight. Two new customers have entered the store and are making their way around a table, drinks in tow.

As you lock the door behind you, Yeojin looks at you amusingly, her gaze mostly centered around your oozing cock. “Damn. I thought you were gonna run around the cafe with—that.”

You fire back with a quiet, yet resounding glare. She doesn’t react whatsoever. Here’s you again, making impulsive moves, almost threatening to get caught in public like that.

“I mean, everyone’s gonna see that—”

“Hush.” 

Placing a finger between her lips to shut her up, understandably, you’re irate. Somehow, your head wasn’t in the right place. Those last ten minutes and beyond, from the time you carried Yeojin into the men’s room till now—you didn’t think you were gonna wind up like this. Public restrooms were always how you’d get yourselves in trouble, and how she’d prefer getting fucked.

It should have been a thing of the past, a part of you buried deep in the absolute depths of your mind. Yet here you are, carrying Yeojin onto the sink, pulling on her clothes. One after another, her platforms and stockings fall to the floor, until she’s left with the thinnest piece of underwear imaginable. And then you’ve come to the realization about two things: one—she’s not wearing anything other than a skimpy thong beneath, cleverfully concealed by her oversized sweater, and two—she’s soaking wet. A careful touch of her nylons reinforces your observation.

“I hope you’re fine going home without your stockings,” you tell her, kicking the soiled garments beneath the sink. Hopefully no one gets a hint as to whoever’s left them behind. “Jesus—you’re fucking horny, you know that?”

Yeojin giggles. She wears your comment like a badge of honor. 

Wrapping her arms around your waist, she’s hoping to get the rest of your clothes off in return, but you push her away. Shaking your head in disagreement, you follow with, “Do as I say, and we’ll get through this—quickly.”

As you try to keep her in check, she’s already looking for other ways to mess you up. Case in point, her fingers are pumping your cock back into hardness, forcing that last word to come out a tone higher. She wraps you around her hands, squeezing what little cum you currently have, moaning at the slick, silky touch. Her legs are spreading wide in an effort to distract you from the primary concern, which is her.

“But what if I don’t wanna do it quickly? What if I wanted you to fuck me for hours?” she playfully asks, twisting her grip tighter to elicit a cry from you. “What if I wanted to fuck me till I pass out? Like you always have?”

“Mm—not gonna happen,” you sputter out, swiping her hand away before ultimately seizing it, relieving the pain for now. “Not if you keep being this stupid.”

“Not you calling me stupid—aah—ah fuck—”

Yeojin trembles from the waist up, her train of thought derailed by the new sensation entering her dripping pussy: your cock. Both of you form a harmonious cacophony of moans that fill the confined room as your bodies intertwine. The hot sensation of your shaft impales her in brutal slow motion, her skinny thighs clamping around your hips, the tug of her cunt near inescapable as you fill her to the hilt. 

At first, she wrestles for control. Pulling at your shirt, at your skin, threatening to rip your flesh clean, as a respite. But as the feeling overwhelms her sense, she’s losing the fight just as quickly. Your bodies are perfectly connected, fit as two pieces of a puzzle that complete the other. Her eyes flare wide open, her gaze shooting up to the ceiling as she begins to ascend. “H-holy shit—this—so—goddamn big—”

The feeling is mutual. “God, Yeoj—you’re—goddamn tight—fuck—”

Her cunt clenches, and it’s so, so intoxicatingly tight. As if she were really built to be used and fucked. Not to mention, her stature makes her easy to carry and toss around on a whim.

Little by little, you’re lifting her off the sink, giving her no choice but to cling to you for support. Might as well; no one else is able to give her the time of day and the same level of care and attention as you, both emotionally and sexually. There’s a reason why she’s come back to you like a needy, loyal pet. 

Her nails dig into your scalp and at the back of your neck. Whispering against your ear, her breath hot, she begs, “Fuck me. Please—fuck—fuck—ah!”

And you’re doing exactly that. Carefully drawing your cock back close to her slick entrance, you’re thrusting upward, your bodies uncontrollably trembling and quivering as you plunge back in, delivering a stroke that makes Yeojin scream. She’s so feathery, so airtight, that you can bear the weight of the world and then some.

She drives her fingers deep into your skin, aching, crying. “So—so fucking good—I missed this—more—more—”

And you’re doing it again. Giving her exactly what she wants: a slow, good fucking. It’s what she lives for: to be pounded and used, to be an outlet of pleasure. 

You’re hammering up and into her, gripping her lean waist pressed against the bathroom sink, your attention focused on the little details. The whispers that fill your ears, the repetitive but gratifying moans and begs she makes, asking for more, harder, faster, and the satisfaction that comes with being fucked senseless. The way her legs clamp tight with each thrust. The restroom wasn’t designed to keep secrets; it’s clear in your collective groans and grunts that bounce off the thin four walls of this confined space. You can only hope you’re not being loud enough for those two patrons to hear.

Better yet, you can only pray Yeojin’s voice cracks, because even after yapping up a storm, she’s keening. Her tone rides a delicate wave between soothing, gentle quiet and eardrum shattering, high alert whining. You’re unsure if it's a joke or if she’s really feeling each stroke. you can never tell whether Yeojin is truly serious, even during sex. Regardless, her cries are breaching through the confines of the bathroom, and you can’t contain her, even if you tried.

And she loves it. More than anything, it’s the thrill. The possibility and wanting to be caught. Consequences be damned, if she can get railed in public, she absolutely will. It’s the sort of attention she craves for, the one people will remember—for better or for worse. Someone like her can’t simply be bottled up.

With it comes a new idea. You prop Yeojin back on the sink, facing her against the mirror and bending her over the counter. 

“You wanna see yourself getting fucked? Here.” 

Grunting against her ear, you tilt up Yeojin’s head as the glass reflects your image back. Her mouth falls wide as you fill her cunt with your cock, a thunderous echo slipping from her lips, her cry reverberating through the bathroom. Taking a mental snapshot of your position, it’s here where you notice that there is, in fact, a camera hidden in the corner of the restroom. The entire time, you’ve been under surveillance, but that’s the least of your concern. It’s about how you’re gonna make a good impression, despite facing away, the mirror serving as your primary point of focus.

And damn, you look so good together, fitting like a glove.

Before you lose control over Yeojin, you’re making an even worse mess of the restroom thanks to her. With each thrust, her slick spills from her core and onto the floor, onto your pants. You have her hands pinned on the sink for good measure, foregoing any sort of pace and rhythm for quick, senseless pounding. Her face is utterly wrecked, her features constantly twisting and contorting, dropping the occasional curse and praise here and there. The echo of skin slapping skin rings like music to your ears. It’s pushing you further than her continued cries for more.

It’s already perfect as is, but then she’s wrapping a leg around yours, and you’re daring to try something new. 

So you lift her off the ground, wrapping both her legs around your hips, before continuing to hammer into her. Holding Yeojin by the waist, her back arches up, with her petite ass following along. Your cock comes into view, disappearing and reappearing behind her glistening hole, wet and coated with copious amounts of nectar. Every entry and exit feels smooth and effortless, as if you’re meant to be. 

She tries to push herself up, and it gives you another idea. Brushing a hand up her lean figure, lifting her sweater slowly, eventually reaching her chest. An emphatic cry assaults your ears as you grab one of her tits, crushing it under your grasp.

It’s unfortunate you can’t push her jumper up a little more. What’s even the point of putting on a show when they can’t see?

Still, she feels so soft and malleable, ready to be used at your command. You’re rubbing your fingers along her taut nipple, rigid to touch, and it forces out these whines out of her. Anything to keep your mind off the inevitable, and it’s close. Everywhere you look, she’s right there, overwhelming your senses. Her pussy convulsing, her ass rippling with each stroke, her half nude figure you’re dying to strip completely—it’s all too much. The knot between your stomach grows tighter and tighter, choking you till you’re close to suffocating.

Admittedly, it’s happening sooner than you hoped. This is what you wanted from the start, but as you’ve been fucking her and remembering why you’ve put up with her for so long, you’re starting to second guess every decision.

There’s only so much to regret.

“Gonna cum again, babygirl—” you hiss, shutting your eyes and pouring every effort into filling her, making sure she never asks for anything from you ever again. Rolling your hips forward and with your bodies crashing violently, you have no choice but to hold onto her for safety.

And that’s what completely ends you.

In that particular stroke, as you fill Yeojin to the absolute hilt with your cock, your bodies melt—with yours falling on top of her. Your voices intertwine and form a grand symphony of deep cries from the depths of your lungs. Gripping her waist, her pussy pulses and cums, pouring her nectar onto your shaft and to the floor. Staining your legs, keeping you glued together, the bond between you can’t get any closer. 

You feel every bit of Yeojin coming undone. Her eyes are wide shut, jaw slacked and on the sink, her voice gradually tearing itself to shreds. Even as she’s falling from that blissful high, she’s able to mutter two words, her most meaningful ones yet: “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

And then it’s your turn. 

You follow right after with your own climax, taking a deep breath as you unload every drop of cum onto her pussy. Twitching and aching inside her, your cock sticks inside, unable to pull itself out, wanting to stay in this perfect mixture of warmth and wetness forever. It just feels right. You find it difficult to stop throbbing, even if the only thing left to shoot are blanks.

Subconsciously letting her legs fall back down to earth, you can’t unglue yourself from her. The stickiness is keeping you together, and so is your tired body. Completely drained of all your strength, you press down on her, giving a back hug that also serves as a way to use her as your personal cushion. You stay like this, cuddled up and gasping for air, letting the hours pass you by peacefully undisturbed. Neither of you say a single word, both out of exhaustion and out of respect for the moment. Messy bathroom be damned, this is the most tender and intimate you’ve ever been, and you wish your relationship had taken a different direction than what ended up happening. 

It’s a glimpse into what could have been—and that’s what makes it heartbreaking.

Eventually, you lift yourself off her, severing the connection between you. Your cum pulls apart when you take a step back, surprisingly rigid and firm. Simple tissues won’t fix it. To make matters worse, Yeojin spins around, wrapping her arms around your neck before pulling you down with her for a deep, intimate kiss. It isn’t the very act that’s the issue here; it’s how effortlessly you sink in and reciprocate her feelings. 

Then your conscience reminds you. You feel dirty. You quickly pull back, disgusted—mostly at yourself.

Taking a moment, you both exchange lengthy stares at each other, unsure of what to say. Until—

“What have I done?”

“What I think you have done,” Yeojin says, gleefully, tracing a finger down your wrinkled shirt, marked in sweat and her fingerprints. That sly grin of hers will forever haunt you in your memories. “Is get your girlfriend back.”

—————

It’s too late. 

It’s already half past midnight. The streets are empty. Yeojin’s quietly sits in the passenger seat of your car while soft music plays in the background to fill in the blanks. There’s five missed calls and a dozen texts from Hyunjin asking for your whereabouts, none of which you bother to read. Consequences are the last thing on your mind. Right now, it’s about leaving the girl beside you for good, and that means driving her home.

To be clear, you’re taking her back home—to her place, not yours. Your apartment is the last thing on the list you want ruined tonight as well.

Even after everything, she’s still not satisfied. She unbuckles her seatbelt, activating the ceaseless alarm that assaults your ears. You’re still a fair distance away, and the trains have stopped operating hours ago. You really had no other choice but to drive her.

“Hey. Put your seatbelt on,” you blurt out at the sound of the harness clicking, only shooting a brief glimpse toward her before returning your focus on the road ahead. “What are you—”

She’s back to her old ways. Slithering across the center console and over the gear stick, resting her head on your lap. Feeling extra touchy-feely, her hands rub along the fabric of your jeans, admiring your growing bulge poking through. Yeojin has no regard for personal space; never has, never will.

It comes as no surprise that you struggle to breathe, let alone drive in a straight line. Fortunately, you’re driving along an empty road to crash into anything other than maybe a guardrail or a lamp post. 

“Christ—” You mutter, shifting your lap around to cramp Yeojin, but she follows your path close behind, causing you even more discomfort. “Stop it, Yeojin—”

To your annoyance, she’s unbuckling your pants, sliding them down along with your boxers. With no care or consideration, she runs her tongue across your stiff length, up to your tip. Her hand grips you, pumping you hard, building immeasurable pleasure in your loins. Cramped inside a moving vehicle, getting pleasured in near darkness with a rebellious girl thinking she’s doing you a favor—you’re once again regretting every decision that has lead you to this miserable situation. 

You feel yourself getting dizzy in real time. You can only hold back for so long before you eventually crumble, like you always have. When it comes to Yeojin, she gets what she wants, always at your expense.

“Keep driving,” she commands, licking circles around your tip, against your best wishes. She sounds like she has complete authority over you, really pushing her assertiveness at the worst moment imaginable. Tonight has given you plenty of losses, far too many to count—you won’t let her win another one. 

Your attempt at grabbing her hair comes off as a light head pat, a complement for how good she is with her mouth. Even if that was the intent, she’s still gonna blow you inside this car. Idle minds are the devil’s workshop, and she’s being puppeteered by lust every time you share a ride. No matter the distance or time taken, she’s always getting through your pants, ensuring no journey is complete without leaving the vehicle a dire mess.

If she keeps this up—and she will—she won’t be only one trying to roll on top of you.

Pulling over the side of the road, Yeojin realizes you’ve stopped driving. Opening the door, you lift yourself off the driver’s seat and step outside, leaving her to bounce her head against the warm leather. Taking all the fresh, cool air in, you finally feel relaxed. You hadn’t given yourself a moment to breathe: after your little escapde in the cafe restroom, you were sprinting back to the parking lot, maintaining a low cover, and speeding through the city. The last few hours have been a whirlwind of highs and lows, none of it really sinking in—unless you were to indulge in a few drinks. And it’s still not over—not until you finally bring Yeojin home. 

Based on how obstinate she has been, still laying down on the driver’s seat, she doesn’t want this night to end.

“Get off,” you shout at her, tone grating and sharp. You’re just about to call it quits. If you weren’t so morally conscious, you would have left her behind already.

“Get off? That’s what I was trying to do,” she remarks, sarcastic and facetious. Rolling over to her stomach, swinging her legs back and forth, she’s looking silly, not even trying to hide her smirk. getting a kick out of teasing you. 

You’re deeply caught up in your impatience and frustration to notice she’s baited you into sounding lewd. “Fuck off. After this, we’re done. So fucking done.”

“Are we? That didn’t seem like it when you were fucking me from behind—”

“Get back in the passenger seat,” you interrupt her, having walked from the middle of the highway to the car in an instant, whipping out a roll of duct tape from the glove compartment. You didn’t need to say a word for her to understand the potential threat and subsequently comply. To make sure she doesn’t wrestle control away from you, you ensure it stays of her reach for the rest of the trip.

And thankfully, she doesn’t bother harassing you even once. The idea doesn’t even come to mind. She sits still, as a good girl should.

Fortunately, you were only less than ten minutes away from her house. If the city was quiet, the suburban village where she lives is dead silent. Save for a few streetlights, it appears as though no one else resides here—or are on vacation elsewhere. Most times you’ve spent together, it’s been in the comfort of your apartment.

Hovering over Yeojin’s side, you swing the passenger door open. Even though it’s a long shot, you’re expecting her to get out. The moment she does, your foot will be right on the gas pedal, leaving her behind once and forall. Unsurprisingly, she stares at you instead, seemingly anticipating something—perhaps a kiss, an embrace, a fond farewell.

She gets none of that. You even unbuckle her seatbelt for good measure, telling a lot without saying anything at all.

Yeojin unbuckles your seatbelt, breaking the tension. Unusually, you don’t move a muscle, not slapping her hand away, not even when her finger trails down your hand, reaching for your pants once again. It’s clear she’s bothered by how you’ve left her stockings back at the cafe, leaving her in nothing but an oversized sweater. She’s moving in the opposite direction, shifting past the center console and onto your lap. You freely welcome her—all 4’11 inches of her—into your arms.

Kissing you on the lips, Yeojin slips her hand between your cheeks, her hands sinking down your body and to your pants, sliding them down along with your boxers. The entire time, you’ve left your clothes unbuttoned and readily accessible for her to reach. Gently smiling through the smooch, she rubs her nose against yours, softly giggling, as if to say she’s known about your little secret.

But what’s there to really say?

Effortlessly falling between the cracks, an airy moan departs your lips as Yeojin fills herself with your shaft. Firmly stuck in place with her body pressed all over you, your hands take lease of her clothed back, tired of feeling its wooly fabric. Lifting up her sweater over her head to be tossed aside right after, Yeojin is finally reduced to nothing. 

You gaze down at her bare figure, awestruck. In return, she unbuttons down your shirt, exposing some of your skin, pecking down to your neck and your chest. Her little kisses leave you lightheaded, caressing her short hair in appreciation.

You’re overstaying your welcome; you should be lone gone by now. You are, in fact—just not the way you anticipated.

Propping her over your lap, your relationship with Yeojin works best when your hearts are pounding wildly, screaming each other’s name like it’s the most important thing in the world. Nothing else but the sex matters, like right now. No wonder she often has to coax you into getting reckless, otherwise your conversations would only revolve around constant petty arguments with no clear resolution. It’s because of your how well your bodies complement one another that you’re still tolerating her presence in your lives. 

All it takes is one look at her, riding you like her life depends on it, her cunt effortlessly bouncing on your cock, basking in the sensation of getting impaled over and over again. She’s kissing all over your face, biting on your ear, rocking you like she wants to sweep you off your feet. And it leaves you utterly speechless every single time.

“God—please—give it all to me—fuck me like you mean it—”

And you’re right there with her, matching her pace with every upward stroke. You especially love holding Yeojin like this, cradled in your arms, forcing every inch of your cock deep into her wet pussy, drawing these little whimpers out from her puckery lips. The more she keeps talking—pleading—the greater your motivation. 

Though it overwhelms you—the tensing, the pulsing, the heat—you keep going. Her cunt feels so incredible, you only wished it was on a woman that had a better personality, one that wasn’t making you regret your existence. But you don’t care about that—not when you’re taking control, losing grip to your lust and wanting to overpower her.

It hurts all the more when she sounds perfect, especially when you spin her around and pin her against the steering wheel. Watching her back arch, her ass ripple with each stroke, seemingly trying to outyell the car horn, putting you both on neighborhood watch for noise complaint. Not that there’s anyone around to wake up and alert the authorities when looking at your surroundings, but the desire for shameless attention will always arouse Yeojin. 

You’re the only one who enables this kind of behavior, but you never realized that. That, or she’s looks too good to notice.

You can only focus on reaching that climax again, hammering away at her cunt, watching her shimmy her hips as she grips the steering column, blanketing every lewd sound and profanity with a blast of the klaxon. It’s as if you’re demanding her to scream your name, to proclaim to everyone that she’s yours and yours alone.

“Cum,” you tell her. An instruction to be met. A demand. “Cum all over this fucking cock, slut.”

The rapid change in intensity leaves her in an uncontrollable daze, setting her on fire. Throwing her head back, her body violently quivering in your grasp, she keens. She can’t take it any longer getting used so mercilessly, even when she wants more. “Gonna cum—oh God—so so fucking wet, ah—”

She continues to bounce relentlessly even as the pleasure rips her in half. Of course Yeojin doesn’t give two shits about messing up your carpets; it’s a given that she’ll make you pay for a fresh pair every time you have sex in the car. She cums—and she cums hard. Her slick juices puddle up on your lap, sticking on your skin, splattering on the edge of the leather seat, all while releasing a weak, airy moan that cracks her voice as a result of all that shouting and moaning. 

It’s enough to push you over the edge. The wetness, the smooth noise of skin slapping skin interspliced with her cries of pleasure. Nothing this pornographic should sound like music, but it does.

Yeojin whines a passionate cry when it hits—that rush of cum that fills her womb. Every little drop, you pour onto her needy, aching core. She’s knocked the wind from your sails; you can only utter a hoarse groan of relief, in contrast to the relentless earsplitting noises that have pervaded your ears for the longest time. 

You don’t get the opportunity to take one final look at your handiwork. As soon as the climax ends, the crash follows immediately after, sending your head reeling. Yeojin takes this opportunity to pick her sweater off the carpet floor and put it back on. Hobbling out the passenger door, she leaves you slumped back in the drivers’ seat.

Only now do you realize that her side of the door has been open the entire time.

“It’s been fun,” Yeojin says, evaluating herself at the side-view mirror to ensure she’s not a complete mess. Even though she looksfar beyond saving given how grimy her appearance is. Frazzled hair, soiled sweater drenched in sweat and cum—not to mention she has nothing but her platforms to make up her lower half. Her underwear is lost somewhere beneath the car seats, likely as a memento. “You know, I got a whole boyfriend to go home to and what not—”

“Surely he isn’t waiting for you inside that house, right?” you ask, puzzled by the sudden care for her actual lover. “I mean, I did send him that message—”

“I know you didn’t.” Yeojin grins widely at your response, having seen through the bluff. You never sent anything. It’s a secret worth keeping for yourself. “He’s on vacation, by the way. Thanks for giving me the best night I’ve had in forever.”

“Yeah, and thanks for ruining what was already a terrible one,” you reply, refusing to leave without delivering one last character breaking blow. 

She laughs while walking backwards toward her house, smiling wide. “No problem. Talk to you later?”

Closing the passenger door and starting the engine, you shout back, “Never. Not in a million years.”

“Of course.” Yeojin opens the front door to her house, stepping inside, hiding herself behind the panel except her pretty face. “You know where to find me. Call me anytime.”

—————

(A/N: Well this was unfortunate timing in the worst way imaginable lmao. That's what happens when you get lazy with editing.

Thank you for the commission! I would also like to thank you for giving me carte blanche; first time writing someone Loona and Yeojin has always the boldest one despite being the maknae. Also gonna give this space to link fae's Yeojin fic that she posted earlier for anyone interested in a froggy double feature. Madlad's doing Kinkvember a month after debut, that's insane. Contract news broke out right as I was in the middle of editing and the power went down lmao. Anyway, finals is approaching, so I want to get it sorted before locking in for the final few weeks of the year. Thank you for reading!)

[pedroscurls]

training partners (pt. 13)

summary: now that filming for deadpool & wolverine has finished, you and hugh go back home to new york and he asks you a very important question. pairing: hugh jackman x fem!reader warnings: smut (18+, mdni), hugh can't control himself, spooning (?) position, light choking, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, fingering, creampie, implied age gap (hugh is 55, reader is in late 20s-early 30s), no use of y/n. word count: 2.7k a/n: surprise! new chapter dropping a day early hehe. anyway, i've anticipated that this story will have a total of 19 parts (at least for what i have outlined!). we got a few chapters of some good ol' fluff and smut, so hope y'all enjoy! thank you all for reading! 💙💛 as always, this is purely fictional! i mean no disrespect to hugh jackman. prev part.

You and the rest of the cast and crew are listening to Shawn make a brief speech about the movie, about all the hard work everyone’s put into creating this. It chokes you up, tears stinging your eyes as you do your best to take more photographs. This opportunity was once in a lifetime and now that you and Hugh will be heading home, you wonder if things will change. You had been by his side for the duration of filming and you can’t imagine going back to New York and not being able to sleep next to him, or even wake up with him by your side. 

You look up at Hugh for a moment, still in his Wolverine costume but a large black coat draped around him to keep him warm. You lean against him, his eyes gazing down at you as he leans down to kiss the side of your temple. After Shawn’s speech finishes, everyone claps and celebrates the end of filming. 

You pull away from Hugh to continue to capture moments, smiling to yourself. Some are smiling, some are crying – everyone who was part of this movie had given their all and you just can’t wait to see the finished product for it. You manage to sneak away from the crowd, deciding to walk around the set. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to get to do this again and certainly not with this group of people. It’s bittersweet actually – having to go back home and face reality. 

You stop walking for a moment and hear Hugh’s voice calling your name. You turn to face him, seeing him jog slowly over to you. He gently takes your hand and pulls you into him, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “You snuck away,” he points out.

“Just wanted to get one last look,” you smile, moving your arms around him. “Can’t believe we’re gonna be home tomorrow.” 

“This project has been a dream,” Hugh admits. “And having you here made it even better.” 

You look up at him, linking your hands at his lower back. “Thank you,” you say softly. “For bringing me here with you.” 

“I’d miss you hell of a lot if you weren’t here,” Hugh chuckles. “Are you ready to be back in New York?” 

You shrug. “I’m gonna miss seeing everyone everyday. I’m gonna miss seeing you everyday.” 

Hugh smiles, bringing a hand up to tuck a few strands of hair behind your ear. “Me too, baby. I’ve gotten used to you being next to me when I sleep and wake up. Hard to think that we won’t have that when we get back home…” he continues. 

“We’ll manage,” you smile. “I believe in us.” 

Hugh grins. “You’re just perfect, aren’t you?” he teases.

“That’s something I usually say to you,” you laugh, burying your face against his chest. 

Hugh chuckles and holds you close, shutting his eyes as he holds you in his arms. He isn’t sure how things will change when you both go back to New York, but he has been thinking of asking you a question for months now. When he pulls away, Hugh looks down at you and gently leans in to peck your lips. “Will you stay the week with me when we get back home?” 

“I’d like that.” 

“Good,” Hugh says quietly. “Because I don’t think I wanna let you go yet.” 

“Hm,” you whisper. “You must really love me.”

“More than you even know, baby.” 

—

Back in New York, Hugh finds that having you in his apartment is where you should be. You’re so comfortable in his space and he enjoys the ability to wake up and sleep next to you. It’s something he had gotten used to during filming. The question he’s been wanting to ask lingers over him – even now, when you’re sitting on his couch in a pair of shorts and one of his t-shirts with a book in your lap, he wants so badly to ask you the one question that’s been on his mind. 

He wonders if maybe he’s moving too fast, if maybe you’re not quite ready to take that next step in your relationship. Hugh slowly walks over to you, seeing you look up from your book and a smile immediately lines your lips. He feels his heart race at the sight – almost like he had fallen in love all over again. He watches you set your book on the coffee table and lean back against the couch, arms spread open for him.

Hugh crawls over you and settles himself between your legs, head resting against your chest as his arms wrap around you. He shuts his eyes, feeling your fingertips run through his hair as he lets out a contented sigh. “Hi, baby.” 

“Hey,” you whisper, smiling down at him. “How was the run?”

“Would rather have done cardio with you,” he teases and nuzzles his face further into you, pressing a soft kiss on your chest. 

“You’re insatiable,” you laugh quietly.

“Not true. I’m just addicted to you,” Hugh corrects, slowly opening his eyes to look up at you. 

You roll your eyes playfully, a small smile lining your lips as you feel the heat rise in your cheeks. “What’s gonna happen when I have to go home then?” 

Hugh bites his lower lip, chin resting against your chest as your fingers continue to run through his hair. “What if…” he whispers quietly. “What if you just stay here?” 

“I’ve been here for almost a week, Hugh.”

“I know, but I mean…” Hugh crawls further up your body, hand moving to prop himself up as he stares down at you. “What if you just move in?”

Your eyes slightly widen and you slowly begin to sit up, Hugh following your movements to sit next to you instead. His arm drapes over the back of the couch, a nervous expression written across his features. “You want me to move in? That’s– That’s a big step, Hugh. Are you sure?” 

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he answers. “I want you here all the time, but if you still need time, still need space, then I understand. It’s just–” Hugh sighs. “I’ve been thinking about asking you to move in with me for months now.”

“Hugh…” 

He shakes his head, standing up from the couch. “Ah, it’s okay, baby. I don’t want to push you. We can reevaluate at another time.”

“Wait, hey,” you sigh, watching him walk towards the kitchen. You stand up and follow him, seeing him gather his cup and protein. He isn’t looking at you, focused on making his protein shake. “Hugh…” You walk around the counter and gently rest a hand over his forearm, urging him to look at you. When he does, you can see the distress in his features, the subtle embarrassment flickering in his expression. 

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he sighs. 

“Are you sure about me moving in?” you ask hesitantly. 

“Baby,” Hugh runs a hand over his face and lets out a shaky breath. “I’m sure, but if you’re not ready yet, that’s okay too.” 

“Ask me again,” you say.

“What?” 

“Ask me again,” you repeat. 

“Baby,” Hugh shakes his head. 

“Hugh, ask me again.” 

He bites his lower lip and turns to face his entire body at you. Hugh moves his hands to rest on your hips, clearing his throat anxiously. “Will you move in with me?” 

You move your hands to his cheeks, brushing your thumbs across his soft skin. “Yes, I’d love to move in with you, Hugh.” 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yeah, Hugh,” you smile. 

Slowly, a large grin lines his lips and he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you gently off your feet. “Oh, baby, I love you.” he leans in and presses his lips against yours, moving his hands under your legs to lift you onto the counter of his kitchen island. 

Pulling away, you move your hands to his shoulders as he stands between your legs. His hands move along your thighs, biting the inside of his cheek as he keeps his eyes focused on you. “So, I’m moving in.”

“Yeah, yeah you are.” 

—

The next couple of weeks were spent moving your things out of your apartment and into Hugh’s home. This last year with him doesn’t feel real – part of you feels like you’re going to wake up and realize it was all just a dream. You’ve been doing a lot better with your self-talk, with your confidence, and it helps having Hugh and your personal trainer to help you. Jack, on the other hand, hasn’t reached out to you since that night on location. You’re grateful though because you aren’t sure what would happen if he continued to be persistent. 

After all of your things have been moved to Hugh’s place, you look around and notice that your life is now blending in with Hugh’s. He had told his kids about you, even having had the chance to meet them in person. You had told your parents about Hugh, hesitant at first because of the age gap, but they were just glad to see you happy after Jack. 

Hugh comes home late one night after dinner with Shawn and Ryan, only to find you already lying in bed, back facing the door as you’re asleep on your side. The blanket doesn’t do a good job at covering your body because it’s tangled between your legs, exposing your legs and backside for him. He clears his throat at the sight of you, dressed in one of his t-shirts and a pair of black panties. Quietly, he undoes his jeans and lowers it down his legs, kicking them silently to the side. He grabs the end of his shirt and lifts it over his head, letting it fall to the floor. Now clad in a pair of boxer briefs with his manhood straining the fabric, Hugh slowly climbs into bed, snuggling you from behind. 

His hand moves to your hip, slowly brushing it down the side of your leg and back up to tease the waistband of your panties. Hugh feels you move back against him, your backside now flush with his growing erection. You let out a quiet whimper and unconsciously roll your hips back into him. Hugh leans in and presses soft and light kisses along the side of your neck, your whimpers and moans coming out quiet and breathless. 

He moves his hand lower and pushes your panties to the side, his fingertips brushing against your slit. Hugh sees your eyes flutter open, mouth slightly agape as you stare up at him with slightly sleepy eyes. 

“H– Hugh,” you moan. “You’re back.” 

“Sorry I came home late,” Hugh whispers into your ear, nibbling on your earlobe as he slowly slides one finger into your depths. He groans quietly, feeling your wetness soak his digit. “Been dreaming about me, baby? You’re already wet.”

“Always dream of you,” you whimper, tossing your head back against his shoulder. 

Hugh smirks against you and uses his free arm to wrap around your shoulders, cupping your neck as he applies slight pressure to your throat. He hears you gasp and he thrusts another digit into you, beginning to move his fingers in and out of your soaking heat. “Love coming home to you,” he whispers, teeth grazing your earlobe. 

“Hugh,” you whimper, moving your hand to wrap around his wrist that’s slowly thrusting his fingers in lazy strokes. 

“I can’t control myself when I’m around you,” Hugh admits, keeping his fingers deeply flushed into your heat as he slowly begins to curl them within your depths. You arch your back against him, the sensations of his fingers, his throbbing length against your backside, and his hand around your throat becomes overwhelming – this wasn’t what you expected to happen when he came home from dinner.

“Baby, please,” you moan. 

“Need you bad,” Hugh growls. He pulls his fingers from you and uses the same hand to push his briefs down his legs, kicking them off and away from the bed. He takes a hold of himself and uses your slickness from his fingers to lubricate himself. “Won’t last long,” he admits. 

“Just need you, please,” you whimper, feeling his tip brush against your opening. “Hugh, god, please!” 

Hugh chuckles lowly into your ear, tightening his grip around your throat just slightly as he pushes himself past your folds. He groans and moves his hand from the base of his member to grip your hip, pulling you back into him as he pushes his hips forward. “Fuck, baby,” he moans. “Always feel so good around me.”

He moves the top of your leg slightly forward, opening yourself even further to him as he slides inch by inch into your tight and wet heat. Hugh drops his hand from your throat to grasp your breast from over the shirt you’re wearing, your back flush against his chest. This position is new for the both of you – it’s intimate, slow. 

With his hand on your hip, he grips it tightly as he continues his slow and deep thrusts, eyes falling shut. Hugh’s sounds of pleasure – grunts, growls, and groans – echo in your ear and it only drives you closer to your high. You feel every inch of his throbbing manhood move in and out of you, but your eyes widen slightly when his hand moves from your hip to your front, beginning to rub your bundle of nerves over the fabric of your panties. “Hugh!” 

“Yeah, I know,” he whispers with a growl. “Gotta come for me, baby.”

You nod and push back against him, his fingers applying pressure to your clit as he rubs it in circles. His thrusts become a bit more quick, almost erratic and you know that he’s close too. 

“Feels so good,” you moan, your walls beginning to tighten with each thrust forward. You rest the back of your head against his shoulder, eyes shut tight. Suddenly, when he growls into your ear, your walls tighten around him and you push back into him, body trembling against his own. 

Hugh grins to himself, holding you close to him as he thrusts in and out of you, using your tightened walls to get him closer and closer to his own release. “Baby,” he groans. “Gonna come, oh fuck–” Hugh shuts his eyes tight as he releases into you, his hips coming to a slow stop. 

You feel his warmth fill you up and he’s panting into your ear. When he pulls back slowly, you whimper, feeling the emptiness that his girth and length has left but feeling his seed trickle out of you. 

“I’m so glad you moved in,” Hugh whispers, placing a soft kiss on the side of your neck. “Can have you whenever I want.” 

You smile and slowly move to lie on your back, readjusting your panties to cover yourself up as you stare up at him. You reach up and place a hand on his cheek as he leans into your touch, turning his head to kiss the inside of your wrist. “That was a nice thing to wake up to,” you admit.

“Yeah? You like that, huh?” Hugh winks. 

“Oh yeah,” you smile. “Guess I have to return the favor and wake you up in my own way now.” 

Hugh smirks and lies on his back, pulling you to his side. “Looking forward to it, baby.” 

“How was Ryan and Shawn?” 

“Good,” he answers. “Just planning for the press tour,” he says softly, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. “Wish you could come with me.”

“I’m all booked with shoots for the next three months, baby.”

“I know,” Hugh turns his head and presses a soft kiss on your forehead. “You’ll at least accompany me to the premiere of the movie right?”

“Like a red carpet premiere?” 

Hugh nods. “Yeah, I’d really love for you to be by my side that night.”

“It’ll be the first event since we got together…” 

“Is that okay?” 

You nod and lean up to peck his lips. “As long as I’ve got you, Hugh, that’s more than okay.”

Hugh grins. “And you’ve got me, baby. Always have, always will.”

---

taglist (if links don't work, i'm sorry!): @corvusmorte - @dragonqueen89 - @whimsiwitchy - @kellyxo1

@wolviehugh - @moonxknightx - @sullyselena - @angelofthorr - @spectorrrhgf

@needz1nk - @fandomxo00 - @godlypresley - @kythefangirl25 - @callsignyourmom

@sue8724 - @squishyfruitloop - @sylviavf - @emotrash1 - @dissentientss

@sir-thisisadndserver - @absolutepie - @millajay - @itsallyscorner - @haytchee

@wolverigrl - @its-in-the-woods - @d3ad2you - @definitely-not-chill - @khxna

@jules-and-gemss

[winchesterwild78]

An Unexpected Friendship pt 10

Master List

Characters: Jensen Ackles x Reader, Reader’s daughter, Jensen’s children

Warnings/Trigger Warnings: FLUF, Smut!

A/N: This is a short story written in collaboration with @cheekygirl2309.

This chapter is the FINAL chapter. I’ve loved creating this story with @cheekygirl2309. I’ve had so much fun and enjoyed reading all of the love and support for this story. 

No disrespect to Jensen or his family. This is a work of fiction and does not depict real life. Written and edited fast-please overlook any errors. 

Minors DNI 18+

The next few months were so amazing. Jensen was true to his word and invited Josh’s parents to every big event we had. I was grateful they came and felt like they were family. Jazzy was also so proud of her new last name. 

When we went to the school to change her name, she proudly announced she was an Ackles. The secretaries smiled and congratulated her. In public she would introduce Jensen as her daddy. Since our engagement and the adoption, social media had exploded with stories and pictures of all of us. 

Jensen and I officially went public and most of the fans were supportive. I did my best to tune out the negative and focus on the positive ones. It was hard at times, but I knew I had Jensen to help navigate me through it. 

Jensen and I talked about the wedding and we both agreed we wanted a small, intimate ceremony with just our children, close family and friends. Since Jensen officiated his wedding, Jensen reached out to Jeffery Dean Morgan to officiate ours. He was thrilled to do it. I was excited to meet him and his family. We had FaceTimed, but never met in person. 

Jensen and I also wanted to write our own vows. It took me by surprise when he mentioned it. I was nervous, because how do you really put into words how someone saved you when you thought you weren’t worth saving. I love Jensen, and I only hoped I could put it into words good enough to show him how much he means to me. 

Our wedding date was set, we were going to have a Spring wedding. Mid-April, at dusk, and hopefully under a tent. I of course told Jensen we needed a backup plan in the event of rain. “It’s Texas sweetheart, I don’t think it’s going to rain.” “Still, I’d like a backup plan.” I chuckled.

“Okay, how about we have it at The Allan House, right here in Austin? It has space inside and out. So if we have to move it inside we can still have it in the same place. The ceremony and reception can all be there.” He pulled it up on the computer and the photos were breathtaking. I smiled, “Jensen, it’s beautiful. Do you really think we can book it?”

“Absolutely, I know the owner, so I’ll give them a call.” I playfully rolled my eyes, “Of course you do.” Jensen laughed and called. When he got off the phone he smiled, “We’re all set, sweetheart. Are you ready to start planning our wedding?” 

I smiled and pulled him in my arms, “Yes, Jensen! I’m more than ready.”

*Time Jump 3 days before the Wedding*

“Jensen, I need to go with Gen and Nichole to pick up my dress. When is Jeff coming in again?” “He should be here today. His wife and the kids will be coming in tomorrow I believe. He’s going with me today to get fitted for his tux. I gave the tailor his measurements, so I hope it fits.” “Me too, Jens. Okay, I’ll be back later. I love you.” “I love you too, the kids are going with mom and dad for the afternoon, so when you get back they won’t be here.” 

I grabbed my stuff and nodded. As I got to the door I heard Jensen clear his throat. “Did you forget something, darlin’?” I turned on my heels and chuckled, “Nope.” I said, popping the “p” as I leaned in and kissed him goodbye. “How could I ever forget kissing you. It’s one of my favorite things to do.” 

Jensen chuckled, “Oh and what are some of your other favorite things to do?” I smirked, got really close to his lips again and said, “you”. Then kissed him again. He grabbed my hand as I tried to pull away, “Then what’s stopping you?” Jensen pulled me flush to his strong body and I felt his arousal straining against his jeans. 

“Baby I have an appointment at the dress shop. I don’t want to miss it, unless you want me to get married naked.” Jensen wiggled his eyebrows. I rolled my eyes and playfully hit his chest, “Jens, I’m not getting married naked. Sorry to disappoint you.” Jensen threw his head back and laughed. 

He kissed me again and we said our goodbyes. 

I arrived at the dress shop with a few minutes to spare. Gen and Nichole were waiting outside for me. They hugged me and we walked in. “Y/N! So happy to see you. Your dress is ready. Are you ready to try it on one last time?” I smiled and nodded. 

Gen and Nichole sat on the couches and waited for me. When I came around the corner both of them gasped and I saw tears in their eyes. Sally, the owner, walked behind me and fluffed the dress as I stood on the platform. “Okay, Y/N, one last touch.” She placed a veil on my head. I took a deep steady breath looking in the mirror. I looked over my shoulder at Nichole and Gen with tears in my eyes.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N. Jensen isn’t going to know what hit him.” I stood there looking in the mirror and the realization hit me. I was about to get married to Jensen and I had nobody to walk me down the aisle. 

Tears started to fall. My mother had passed away not long after Josh, and my father left us when I was two. Nichole rushed to my side and pulled me close, “Shh, it’s okay sweetie. You have me, Gen, Jared and the kids.” “I know, and I love you all so much. I just don’t know how I’m going to walk down that aisle alone. My mom walked me to Josh.” 

She pulled me tight, “I can do it if you want me to.” I smiled, “I know, but I need you standing up there with me and making sure Jensen doesn’t pass out.” We all three laughed. Gen was by my side too, “Honey, you’re one of the strongest people I know. You can do this. Jensen, all of your babies and all of us are there with you and for you. You know Jared would walk you down the aisle if you wanted him to.” 

I nodded, “Yeah, he offered, but I don’t want to take him away from Jensen. He needs his brother by his side. Okay, enough of this crying. Let’s get me out of this gorgeous dress and you two into yours.”

I changed into my regular clothes, while Gen and Nichole got into their dresses. When they came out they were absolutely breathtaking. “You two are so beautiful.” Nichole squealed when she realized the dress had pockets, “Y/N! Look! It has pockets.” We all laughed, “Yep, I made sure they did, and so does mine.” 

With our dresses in hand we headed out to get some last minute things for the wedding. Gen was keeping my dress at her house so Jensen wouldn’t see it, and I already had the kids’ outfits for the wedding. The girls were wearing matching dresses and Zeppelin was wearing a tuxedo that matched Jensen’s.

Jensen and I selected Navy blue, white, and gold as our wedding colors. The main colors being blue and gold. My dress was white, and the back opened into a beautiful navy blue that ran the length of the dress, and around the top of the bodice was blue. The girls’ dresses were navy blue, with white flowers on the skirts. Jensen and Zeppelin were wearing navy blue tuxedos, and his groomsmen were wearing grey. 

As the day approached, my nerves were starting to get the better of me. I thought about my wedding with Josh and how I was so nervous before, I actually threw up in the bridal suite. I really hoped this one would be different.

*Wedding Day*

I woke up early, stretched and reached for Jensen out of habit. My heart faltered a little when my hand hit the empty bed. He stayed with Jared last night. We decided we wouldn’t see each other until the ceremony. I was so excited to see his reaction when he turned around and saw me at the other end of the aisle.

I got out of bed, showered and went downstairs to a note on the counter and an artificial rose. I knew that handwriting from anywhere, it was Jensen. I smiled because I knew he snuck in last night after I went to bed to leave this for me. 

I opened the note and smiled as I read it.

My love,

Today is the day we promise before our family and God to be together forever. The road that led us here was bumpy, but we got through it together. I can’t wait to see how beautiful you’re going to look in your dress. I know you’re going to take my breath away, like you have since the day I met you. I love you, darlin’, until that rose I left you dies. I’ll see you later, beautiful.

Love,

J

I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. I grabbed my phone and sent him a text.

Me: Thank you for my wonderful surprise this morning. I’ll love you until the rose dies too. 

Jensen: I’m glad you liked it. I love you so much baby.

Me: I love you too, handsome. I can’t wait to see you in your tux. You know what it does to me, and wait until your fans see it. They are gonna go feral. 😘 🤤

Jensen: Ha! They go feral over everything.

Me: Of course they do, have you seen you?!

Jensen: Every single day in the shower. 😉

Me: Oh you’re so mean. Now I can’t stop thinking about you naked.

Jensen: Then mission accomplished. 😂 

Me: Okay, Mr. Ackles, you’re going to pay. 

Jensen: Ooo how?

Me: *1 image sent* this is what I’m wearing under my dress

Jensen: Damn baby. Now that’s mean. I can’t wait to take that off of you. 

Me: Patience my love. Just think the whole time I’m standing next to you, dancing, we’re walking around, that is what is under my dress. Just waiting for you.

Jensen growled and adjusted his pants when he read what I wrote. 

Jensen: You’re killing me.

Me: Oops, sorry baby. 😘 I love you, I need to get ready to leave or Gen and Nichole are going to drag me out of here. 

Jensen: Yeah, Jared is banging on the door. I love you too baby. See you soon.

Gen, Nichole and I arrived at the Allan House to get ready for the wedding. Jensen’s mom had the kids, and Josh’s parents were there to help with them too. My hair and makeup was done. I wore my hair half up and half down, with ringlets cascading over my shoulders. 

Jensen was across the property in the groom’s suite when there was a knock at the door. Jared opened it and saw Bill. “May I come in?” Jared stepped to the side. Jensen was in his tux and turned to shake Bill’s hand. “Bill, thank you for being here with us today. It means so much to Y/N and I.” 

“You’re welcome. Jensen I wonder if I could talk to you in private for a minute?” “Of course. Jared, can you give us a minute?” Jared nodded and left the room. “Bill, you wanted to speak to me? Is everything okay?” “Oh yeah, everything is perfect. Y/N is like a daughter to me, us. Even before she married Josh she was part of our family. When she married Josh and had Jazzy we felt on top of the world. After Josh died, a part of her died with him, but she kept that sweet, caring heart we all loved so much. We were so thankful when she met you and fell in love again, and even more thankful you were willing to have us in your lives. We can never repay you for that, son. Jensen, Margaret and I would like you to have this. I wore them when I married Margaret, and Josh wore them when he married Y/N. We want you to have them so when Jazzy gets old enough you can give them to her to use in her wedding.” 

Bill handed Jensen a small box, when he opened it there were beautiful gold, sapphire and diamond cufflinks. “Bill, these are beautiful, I can’t take them. They belong in your family.” Bill placed a hand on Jensen’s shoulder, “Son, you are family. They belong with you and Y/N.” “Bill, I’d be honored to wear them, thank you, sir.” Jensen and Bill exchanged a hug as he took the box. 

I was standing in the bridal suite taking deep breaths, looking at myself in the mirror when there was a knock on the door. Nichole answered it and when I looked up I saw Margaret and Bill. “Wow, sweetie, you’re stunning.” Margaret said as she pulled me into a hug. 

Bill stood to the side and just looked at me. I took a deep breath, “Do I look okay?” I asked him. He stepped forward, “Sweetheart, you’re even more beautiful than the day you married Joshua. Jensen is a lucky man.” He hugged me and I felt the tears burn the back of my eyes. 

It was a few minutes until the ceremony started and I still felt a pang of sadness about walking down the aisle alone. Jensen’s mom and Margaret got the kids in place, Gen and Nichole got in place and I took one last look in the mirror. 

Bill was standing at the door waiting for me. “You okay, kiddo?” My eyes flicked to him and he saw the tears in mine. He pulled me in a hug, “Shh, you’ve got this sweetie. That man out there is in love with you and I know you two are going to be incredibly happy.” I nodded. Then it hit me. I might not have grown up with a father, but I had a dad and he was standing right there with me. 

“Bill?” “Yes, sweetie?” “If you say no it’s okay. I completely understand, but would you do me the honor of walking me down the aisle?” “It would be my honor to do that.” I nodded, he took my arm and we walked outside. 

The sun was just starting to set, so the twinkle lights under the tent were sparkling with the orange glow from the setting sun. It was breathtaking. 

I heard the music start for the kids, Gen and Nichole. Then came my music. Bill took my arm and we walked out and around the corner. Jeff motioned for everyone to stand. 

Jensen turned around and locked eyes with me. I saw tears in his eyes. I walked down the aisle, my eyes never leaving his. Trying to steady my breath, because damn did he look amazing in his tux. 

At the end of the aisle, Bill hugged me, and gave my hand to Jensen. He shook Jensen’s hand and then hugged me again. Nichole fluffed my dress and I handed her my flowers, taking both of Jensen’s hands. 

He leaned over and whispered, “God you’re so beautiful.” I smiled. 

Jeff began the ceremony and it was time for our vows. Jensen went first. "The day I met you, I knew I had found something special. You were hurting, scared, and alone. I vowed to protect you, to love you, and to give you the happiness you deserve. I promise to always be your rock, your confidant, and your love. I'm grateful for the chance to be a part of your life. You've brought light into my world. You've shown me the meaning of unconditional love. I promise to be the best husband and father I can be. I'll always be there to support you, to encourage you, and to love you. Together, we'll build a future filled with love, laughter, and happiness. I'm so grateful for the chance to love you and our daughter. You've given me a reason to live, and a purpose. I promise to always be there for you, to provide for you, and to protect you. I'll cherish every moment we share, forever. I love you, Y/N."

My breath hitched, as the tears pricked my eyes. Then it was my turn. "When I first met you, I was lost in a storm. You were the lighthouse, steady and strong, guiding me to safety. You didn't just take me in; you welcomed me and my daughter into your heart. I promise to love you, cherish you, and honor you always. Thank you for being my hero. You saw me when I couldn't see myself. You loved me when I thought love was a distant memory. You're not just my partner, you're my protector, my provider, and my best friend. I promise to be the best wife and mother I can be, to love you unconditionally, and to build a beautiful future together. I've found in you a love that's rare and true. You've shown me what it means to be loved and cared for. I promise to be your constant, your support, and your joy. Together, we'll face whatever life throws our way, hand in hand. I love you, Jensen.”

Jeff smiled and Jensen nodded at him, “Jensen and Y/N have also written vows to their children, which they will say now. 

Jensen began, "Jazmyne, I promise to always be here for you, to love you unconditionally, and to guide you on your journey. I promise to be a loving and supportive dad, and to always be there to listen and to help. When you came into my life I had no idea what was missing. You and your mom were the missing pieces in my life. I will spend the rest of my life being the dad you deserve, and helping guide you through life’s trials, and love you until all the stars fall from the sky.” Jazzy leaped in his arms and held him tight. “I love you too, daddy.”

I took a deep breath and looked at JJ, Arrow and Zeppelin. “JJ, Arrow and Zeppy, I promise to always be a source of love, laughter, and support for you three. I'll be there for your triumphs, your setbacks, and everything in between. We will tackle it all together. I vow to honor the bond you share with your dad, and the love and bond you had with your mom. I am extremely honored to be a part of your lives, and to watch you grow. I’ve loved you three since the beginning and I’ll love you three until all the stars fall. Together the six of us will be a family and will always be there to take care of each other. I love you three so much.” They hugged me tightly, “We love you too.”

When I stood up, Jeff smiled. “Jensen, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?” 

Jensen looked at me and smiled, “I do.” Then Jeff turned to me, “Y/N, do you take Jensen to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?” I looked at Jensen and smiled, “I do.” 

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Jensen, you may kiss your bride.” Jensen pulled me flush to him, leaned me back and kissed me deeply. Cheers and applause erupted. When Jensen pulled me back up we turned to face everyone. “It is my honor to announce for the first time, Mr and Mrs Jensen and Y/N Ackles.” 

Jensen, and I took each other’s hands and walked down the aisle together. We walked into the bridal suite to wait for photos. Inside Jensen closed and locked the door. 

He walked over to me and pulled me in for another deep kiss. He pulled away and looked at me, “You are absolutely breathtaking, darlin’. Are you wearing that thing you sent me under this?” He tried to pull my dress to the side and I giggled. “Yes I am, but you’re going to have to wait to see it. If you mess up my hair before pictures, Gen and Nichole are going to kick your ass.” 

He pulled me flush to his body, “Worth it.” I giggled as he started to kiss down my neck. I moaned as his hands started running up and down my body. Jensen’s hands slid down to the bottom of my dress and lifted up my skirt, revealing the dark blue lingerie I was wearing. 

Jensen bit his lip and growled. “Damn baby, this is beautiful, but definitely in the way.” I grabbed his hand, and that’s when I felt the cufflinks. “Jens, where did you get these?” “Bill and Margaret gave them to me. They wanted me to wear them when I married you, because you’re like a daughter to them.” I nodded, “That’s so sweet, Jens. These look like the ones Josh wore.” “That’s because they are, sweetheart.” I gasped, “Oh wow.” 

There was a knock on the door. It was Gen telling us it was time to get pictures taken. After pictures, it was time to enjoy the reception. We danced, ate, drank and had so much fun. 

As the night wore on the kids were starting to get sleepy. Jensen’s parents were keeping the kids for the night so Jensen and I could be alone. We had decided instead of a honeymoon with just the two of us, we were going on a family moon and taking the kids with us. We were leaving in two days, so Jensen and I had two days alone.

It was time for Jensen and I to leave the reception. Everyone lined up with sparklers and created an arch for us to walk under. When we got to the end, I turned around and hugged all of the kids and told them good night. Jensen helped me into Baby, and then walked around and slid in the driver’s seat. 

He took my hand in his and kissed it. “Ready to go home, Mr. Ackles?” “You better believe it, Mrs. Ackles. I can’t wait to get you out of that dress.” 

I chuckled and bit my lip. My body tingled with anticipation of what was to come. 

Jensen pulled into the driveway and walked around to my door. He opened it and offered me his hand. When he pulled me out of the car he pulled me flush to his body. His lips hovered over mine. I could feel his hot breath on my lips. I swallowed hard, my heart beating wildly in my chest. 

Jensen kissed me softly and took my hand, leading me to the door. Opening the door, Jensen looked at me, scooped me up and carried me over the threshold. “Welcome home, Mrs. Ackles.” He gently put me down and closed and locked the door. 

As soon as the door was locked, Jensen’s lips and hands were back on me. He kissed down my neck and to my cleavage. I tilted my head back and let out a moan. “Jens, please.” 

Jensen took my hand and led me upstairs to our room. He moved my hair to the side and started to unzip my dress. I shivered when his fingers brushed against my skin. When my dress was unzipped I let it fall at my feet. 

Standing before my husband in the navy blue lingerie I had on under my dress. Jensen bit his lip, “God this looks better in person. I am one lucky man.” I blushed.   

Jensen started to take off his tuxedo. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching him strip. My thighs clenched together when he was down to his boxers. My hands ran up his toned chest and into his hair as I stood to kiss his lips. 

I could feel his arousal through the thin material of his boxers, and my arousal soaking my panties. 

Jensen laid me back on the bed, pulled me down to the side and threw my legs over his shoulders. He unsnapped the bottom of the lingerie, exposing my dripping core. “Damn baby, you’re soaked.” I bit my lip and nodded. He kissed up my thighs and when he got to my pussy he slid his fingers inside. I gasped at the sudden feeling of fullness. Jensen hooked his fingers up, and his mouth attached to my clit. He sucked and licked, pushing me closer to the edge. My hands gripping the sheets and then his hair. I threw my head back, moaning and begging him not to stop. 

“Oh fuck, Jensen! That feels so good. Don’t stop.” This encouraged him to go faster. I bucked my hips into his mouth. He sucked my swollen clit as his fingers continued pumping in and out of me, deeper and deeper. 

“Jens..I’m…gonna…cum..oh fuck!” I moaned and pulled his head into my pussy. I felt the sting of his beard rubbing on my sensitive skin. I came hard with a loud scream of his name. Jensen kept going, and as my legs tried to close, he held them apart. I came again without warning. My body is sensitive and overstimulated. I screamed his name again. 

Jensen finally leaned up, my release covering his face. He hovered over me and placed a kiss on my lips. I tasted my release and deepened the kiss. Jensen leaned up and removed his boxers, his cock pink and wet with precum. I leaned forward and took his cock in my hand. Guiding it to my mouth. I began to suck him down deep into my throat. Jensen hissed when I sucked him into his balls. 

“Oh fuck, baby! Just like that.” I continued to suck him. My hands gripped his thighs as I took every inch of him in my mouth. Jensen’s hands went into my hair and began to push my head onto his cock. 

“Yes, baby. Let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours. God, you feel so good.” The sounds of his moans and me sucking filled the room. Jensen’s breath ragged. Then he pulled me off of him.

“Jens, what happened? Did I hurt you?” Jensen cupped my face, “No darlin’ that was amazing, but if you kept it up I would have cum down your throat and I want to make love to my wife tonight.” 

I smiled and nodded. He laid me back and crawled up between my legs. “You ready baby?” I nodded. Jensen took his length in his hand and lined himself up. With one thrust he bottomed out. Both of us were moaning as he filled me up. He stopped and allowed my body to adjust to his size. 

He always stretched me in ways that had my head reeling. He began to move. His movements, slow and deliberate. He was making love to me, without hurrying through to get to his release. 

His lips trailed over my body, our fingers finding each other and interlocking as he held my hands down on the bed. Our bodies moved together in slow, deliberate motions. My body was filled with desire, love and bliss. 

“I love you, Jensen.” I whispered. “I love you too, Y/N. So much.” 

“I want you on top, baby. I want to see your beautiful body.” I nodded, Jensen pulled out and laid down. I climbed on top, lined him back up and took him back inside. I placed my hands on his chest to steady myself. I began to rock my hips back and forth. 

Jensen’s hands held onto my breasts as I continued to ride him. He was in so deep I could feel his cockhead hitting my cervix with each thrust. I rocked my hips and bounced faster. Something ignited in Jensen, because he lifted his legs up, held onto my hips and began to thrust up in me. His thrusts grew faster as his moans became louder. “Oh fuck, Y/N. You feel so good. I’m gonna cum, baby.” 

“Yes, Jensen! Cum in me, fill me up with your seed.” A few more thrusts and Jensen was grunting, spilling his hot seed inside me. I could feel his cock twitch inside me. When I felt him stop, I climbed off, went to the bathroom and cleaned myself up. I came back with a washcloth and started to clean Jensen. Since he was extra sensitive he took the cloth and cleaned himself. 

When he was done he threw it to the side and pulled me close to him. Jensen cupped my face and kissed me deeply. “Thank you, Y/N. Thank you for coming into our lives, loving us and becoming my wife. I love you so much baby and I promise you I will love you until the end of time.” 

I smiled softly and looked into his green eyes so full of love, “I love you too, Jensen. Thank you for loving me and Jazzy and becoming my husband. I’ll love you until the end of time.” 

Jensen pulled me close to him, grabbed the blanket and put it over us. “Good night, darlin’.” I laid my head on his chest, “Good night, baby.” The two of us drifted off to sleep thinking about how an unexpected friendship could lead to this beautiful family and incredible love we created together.

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[doumadono]

Are you going to look for a new hubby and let the past die with Dabi? I can't understand why people are so angry, he was just a fictional character after all 🤷🏻

CAUTION: A LONG RANT

I need to start by admitting something: I used to think manga was a thing for teenagers, a phase that people would grow out of eventually. For years, I dismissed it without giving it a proper chance. But almost two years ago, I let my curiosity win, and it turned out to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Upon discovering My Hero Academia, I found myself diving headfirst into a world of characters, stories, and emotions that were far more layered and meaningful than I ever expected.

At first, Bakugo caught my attention. His abrasive personality and explosive demeanor were off-putting to some, but to me, he was fascinating. Here was someone with an undeniable drive, someone who never gave up no matter how many obstacles stood in his way. His goal-oriented nature and resilience resonated with me, even if he was rough around the edges. But then… Dabi entered the spotlight, and everything changed.

Falling for Dabi felt like a natural process, something that happened without me even realizing it. I’ve always had a soft spot for villains — for as long as I can remember, they’ve been the characters I gravitated toward. There’s something about their complexity, their pain, and the choices they make that intrigues me. So, it was inevitable that I would become a fan of both Dabi and Shigaraki. But with Dabi, it was different. I never knew it was possible to care for a fictional character as much as I came to care for him.

Dabi’s story was heartbreaking yet captivating, it was so complex that you were always curious what will happen next. His resilience, the way he carried himself with an air of defiance, even as his world crumbled around him. He wasn’t just a character; he was a mirror reflecting the struggles and scars of anyone who’s ever felt broken.

During some of the hardest times in my life, reading the chapters where he and the League of Villains appeared became a source of comfort and hope. Somehow, their presence was a mood lifter, a reminder that even in the face of darkness, there’s a fire that can keep burning. For that, I’ll always be grateful.

When I read the chapter where the words “slowly heading to death” were uttered, I had a sinking feeling in my chest. Deep down, I knew this would be his fate. As much as I hoped for the best, as much as I wanted Horikoshi to surprise us with a different outcome, a part of me braced for what felt inevitable. And when the confirmation came, it hurt more than I can put into words. I cried a river of tears for him. Not just for Dabi but for everything he represented to me. It felt like losing a close friend, someone who had been there for me through so much, even if only on the pages of a story.

If Dabi’s death is reduced to something that happens off-panel, during a time skip, then I can’t express how deeply disappointing and infuriating that would be. For a character as complex and integral as Dabi, such an abrupt dismissal would be a slap in the face to fans who invested so much in his journey. I wanted — no, needed — to see the aftermath of his passing, especially within the Todoroki family. That dynamic deserved to be explored. How did Endeavor, a character I admittedly like despite acknowledging his horrific history of domestic abuse and neglect, process the loss of his firstborn son? A son he irreparably broke, whether he wants to admit it or not.

And Rei — God, Rei. She was a mother forced to endure the unimaginable pain of losing her child not once, but twice. As someone who has lost a child myself, I know the soul-deep agony of such loss. It’s a pain that never leaves you, a sharp, searing blade that carves out a permanent hollow in your heart. To see Rei’s perspective, her grief, and her struggle to reconcile that pain, would have added so much depth and emotional weight to the story.

These are the nuances that could have made the Todoroki family saga feel complete — an honest portrayal of love, regret, and reconciliation in the wake of unbearable loss. But given how Horikoshi has treated the Todoroki family so far, I have no faith that we’ll ever get that closure. His tendency to sideline emotional arcs and sweep unresolved character threads under the rug is beyond frustrating. It’s like Horikoshi’s become the Thanos of his own creation, snapping away characters and narratives he can no longer be bothered to handle.

To me, Dabi was one of the most complex characters in My Hero Academia, second only to Shigaraki. The decision to deny him a proper redemption arc felt like a betrayal, a bitter reminder that sometimes, even the best stories don’t give you the closure you hope for. Horikoshi’s handling of Dabi’s arc — giving fans glimmers of hope only to snatch them away — was, frankly, cruel. Killing him off after dangling the possibility of survival was, in my opinion, a failure to fully explore the depth of the character he had created.

But even now, I know I’ll never stop loving Dabi — or the League of Villains as a whole. They brought so much light into some of my darkest moments. They reminded me of the beauty in imperfection, the strength in perseverance, and the power of standing your ground even when the world is against you.

In my mind, Dabi is safe. He’s happy. He’s finally found the peace and love he deserved, and no one can take that from me. The same goes for Shigaraki. To me, they have the happy ending they were robbed of in canon. That’s the reality I choose to believe in, and it’s a reality I’ll continue to write for.

So no, I’m not “moving on” or “finding a new favorite.” A dedicated fan doesn’t abandon their muse, even in death. Dabi, Shigaraki, and the League will always have a place in my heart, and I’ll continue to celebrate them through my writing. In my head and in my stories, they live on — free, loved, and content. And that’s how it will always be.

[destinylaurier]

The Alchemy

a/n: thank you for choosing this to read! this is my first post on tumblr, and i'm excited to share this with you! as someone who likes to read, i just couldn't find enough stories about my man here, and i'd like to share what i had in mind if you'll let me. i really hope you enjoy reading this, because it is long af, and it's been in the drafts for several days now!!

summary : there's no such place like home. and for you, home, meant san diego. top gun has called upon the top pilots their programme has ever produced, and that includes you. but it also includes him. the one that got away. you never took it across the line, but it had always felt like more. it had always been push and pull with the two of you, and you could curse the universe for reuniting you. but would you, really?

pairing : bradley bradshaw x f!reader (callsign : karma)

warnings : alcohol use, inaccurate navy references, just some good old fluff.

word count : 3.6k words

North Island, San Diego.

Top Gun.

Home.

It held many memories. Too many. And you were sure it would weigh down on you as you walk through the doors of the Hard Deck.

There was no doubt that's where everyone would be headed the eve before the first day of training, just to cool off before they'd be stressed out by the mission parameters first thing in the goddamn morning, you were sure.

You'd taken a shower, and slipped on a figure-hugging pair of denims, a white tee, and your branded hand-me-down brown leather jacket that had those beige ruffles you liked so much.

Making sure your black Bronco was locked, you turn towards the doors of the Hard Deck in front of you. Behind you, the sun was glaring with a beautiful mix of orange and yellow, a warm contrast to the still bright blue sky.

The Hard Deck was a constant in your life, at least four years ago. Games were played, songs were sung, drinks had been drank. And there had almost been… never mind.

Okay, maybe you'd been standing outside for way too long, and it was a form of stalling.

It is.

Huffing out a quick breath, your head jerks to the side as you place your hands on the handles, pushing inwards. The bell rings, and it seems to announce your arrival to pretty much every person in the bar, most of them turning to you mid-conversation or just out of interest.

Here goes nothing.

You take not more than four steps inside, and your head turns at the booming Southern drawl from deep inside.

"Is that who I think it is?!" Jake 'Hangman' Seresin teases, with that jerky smile that was seemingly always plastered right across his face. His arms are out, one holding a pool stick, and the other a beer, as he begins walking toward you.

"Karma, my dear, how've you been?" He passes you the beer, and you take a long sip, not bothering to greet him at all, because that's just how you've been. And to deal with Hangman, you'd have to take at least a sip or two. Oh, scratch that, maybe a bottle or two.

But you know he was a good man deep inside. Very, very, very deep inside.

“Oh, you know, Bagman, worse now that I’ve seen your face.” You nod as a reassurance, giving him that sarcastic smile of yours that made his brighter, teeth shining as he chuckles, shaking his head as he looks down towards his boots.

“Well, I thought they’d sent the invitations to the best of us, Coyote, but it seems it went to anyone…” And there he is…

“Last I recalled, you’re the one who leaves your wingmen behind, Hangman.” You snark back, shrugging off your jacket and placing it over the backrest of a chair, turning your back to him as you wave at Penny behind the bar.

“Penny, it’s been a while…” The woman just smiles at you, pouring a glass of her finest Tennessee she learnt you appreciate over those years you’d come to her bar almost every night.

You raise the shot glass to her as a thank you, downing it and letting it burn down the way of your throat, a pleasant yet bitter feeling that you were fond of.

This place reeked of him.

Those deep feelings and emotions that you’d tried so very hard to toss to the very back of your mind, slowly, steadily, it was all coming back to you as you look around the bar.

The pool table, where you’d challenged one another so many times, the piano, where you’d sang your hearts out almost every night you spent together at the bar, and the stools, where sometimes, you’d spill something by out to each other, and it’s somehow just bring you closer than before. Every single time.

You catch a glimpse of Natasha by the table and sigh in relief. You were glad you didn't have to suffer Hangman alone. You grab your jacket, shooting a 'bye, Pen!' to the older woman on the other side of the bar, who replies back, and you could hear the smile on her face. Natasha also seems happy that you'd showed up, holding out her hands for a hug.

You accept the embrace with a chuckle, rubbing her back and smiling into her shoulder in happiness. Phoenix had always been the low-maintenance friend. Wherever you'd leave it off, it could build back up again, restoring itself like a puzzle, and it'd remain constant until work stepped in.

She introduces you to Bob, her cute back-seater from Lemoore, who seemed like the shy kind. The two of you started talking, and you teach him the perfect way to line up a shot and take it. When he shoots the shot, and makes three balls into the pit, you clap your hands as Bob jumps in ecstatic-ness. You offer to buy him a beer, and he agrees, but only if you'd take one with him.

As you walk back towards the bar, there’s just a tiny, tiny change in the atmosphere that you’re able to pick up as the bell rings, meaning someone’s entered. That someone, could very well be someone completely not related to whatever was going on in your life, or someone very significant.

Secretly, you hoped it was the significant.

You'd concluded, the seats by the bar were way too close to the entrance, because the way you could practically feel the breeze blocked by him, it made you feel shivers across your body.

Okay, okay, maybe you shouldn’t think about this right now. Or ever again.

You down the second shot Penny pours for you, unaware of the knowing look she gives, knowing you’d need it for the events of the night. And Hangman.

And you knew who.

Or maybe you’d just get drunk on your feelings. Who knows?

The familiar glint in the air is cleared out when you see him.

Broader shoulders, grown mustache, and he’d gotten an inch or two taller somehow. The aviators looked good on him. So did the Hawaiian shirt. But you knew that.

His lips are curled up, and you assume it’s due to the excitement of being here. Being called up was exciting, sure, but it means that you’re probably one of those Top Gun wouldn’t mind losing in a dogfight or flight.

But you’ve been doing this long enough to know how to make it out. Most of the times.

“Bradshaw! Is that you?” Phoenix calls upon him like it’s been eons since they’d seen him. He just smiles, walking over to the farthest corner of the bar Penny made sure had the largest pool table for them.

He holds a mixture of smug and sheepishness to his expression, probably because he was the most dressed, in his true fashion. Just like the pictures your father had shown you.

He nears the pool table, just as Natasha rounds the corner of it, lining up her shot, “This is how we find out you’re state-side?”

Bradley winces just a bit, sheepishness growing as he replies, looking around the bar and placing his aviators in the v of his shirt, “Thought I’d surprise you back..”

Natasha simply hums in response, before lining up her shot and shooting it, pool stick jabbing, very intentionally, in his stomach, making him groan and hunch over.

You hold back the loud laugh you were sure to let out if it hadn’t been for Bradley’s eyes meeting your own.

And it’s so familiar all of a sudden.

Those butterflies that had flutteringly rushed up and down your back, the warmth on your cheeks which were surely maroon, the twists in your gut, all of it, back, for a second of eye contact.

“Guess I surprised you back.” Natasha replies, pressing her lips into a thin line at the man still hunched over.

Her reply makes him look over at Natasha, as he stands straight after pushing his palms against his thighs to steady himself, patting her twice on the forearm.

Then, he looks at you again.

It’s almost like he’s studying you, because you thought it’d be a fluttering glance like always. But it wasn’t that.

He says your name with a tone, one that leaves those butterflies in your stomach dancing once more around, just as the chill returns.

“Bradley.” You hate that you sound so breathless.

You tell yourself that it’s just Bradley, the one you grew up with, the one you went to high school with, and then the one who you trained to be the best of the best with. He was your best friend, and even if you hadn’t talked in what felt like ages, things would never change between the two of you. Especially not for the worse.

That’s just how close you were.

But then the heart steps in. And it’s a struggle of do or don’t, because if you do, you’re probably letting go of this beautiful bond you two hold. But if you don’t, it’s just more heart break watching him take those girls home. The prettier ones.

“You definitely know how to make an entrance, don’t ya’?” That smile on your face slips on like a glove, and you watch him as he looks down, the slightest tinge of pink coating his cheeks, the slightest shift of his hair, that looked perfect even when it was messy.

Green hazel eyes meet yours, and you’re enthralled at being able to actually see him face to face. He just seemed so much more real, and pretty from up close. Those random midnight phone calls could never do him any justice.

“Well, I learnt from the best…” Okay, maybe you made a few wild entrances in school. But he was right there by your side, reluctant, but just happy.

The two of you were chaos together, always causing trouble, even when you wore pigtails and he had that awful bowl-cut your eighteen-year-old-selves would cringe at. Even when he was the man of the baseball game and you were on the bleachers, cheering him on, and probably the loudest.

One day, a normal day, you caught yourself staring. And then, came the what-if’s. Thinking about the how’s. And the why nots.

The pining was excruciating. Having to be so close to him, but yet, so far away.

You’d chicken out every time you mustered up the courage. You’d watch as he backs away to his car and heads home as the kiss on your forehead left a lingering chill.

You’d like to think you had gotten over him. But standing here felt like standing on a tightrope with no net below, like if you fell, like the first time, you’d keep plummeting to endless nothingness, hopelessly in love with someone who could never be with someone like you.

No, no.

You’re good enough. And if he couldn’t see that, even after all these years and giving up on practically everything for him, then that’s his loss.

And it's a loss that would be heavy on your heart. Because this had been here ages long. Just like that shot of tequila was making you feel.

He steps forward, his hand out at his side as he gestures questioningly for a hug with that raise of a brow and that grin you’d loved all these years.

And you fall off, beginning your descent.

You step into his warm arms, wrapping yours around the back of his neck as you close your eyes at the familiarity, ignoring the chill from when you could his arms around your back, your chin resting on his shoulder.

That was one thing about him you also liked, his warmth. His comfort. His way of converting your frown into the brightest smiles you’ve ever smiled within an instant. How his mere presence could make you giddy and happy. Just him, and you'd remember what home felt like.

This was great. This is where you wished you could stay. It was upsetting, knowing he'd never like you the way you'd want him to. But whatever this was, it was good enough. Just the pure thrill of wanting, was enough.

You step back first, smiling up at him when he grins down at you.

The riffs of 'Slow Ride' is what catches your attention first. Then, Hangman steps into the playpen.

You notice the way intimidation subtly hangs from Bradley's face, as it falls flat, the slight narrowing of his eyes.

Yes, Hangman and Rooster never got along together. Bradley tried to be the bigger man first, but Hangman would piss him off in some way that would rock him off his rails, and one day, he just snapped.

"Bradshaw. As I live and breathe." Hangman's tone is natural, as he steps forward, showing off his pearly whites with a crinkle of his lips. Bob, amidst lining up a shot in the game, stands aloof when his cue stick is snatched by the blonde. He stands up, not leaning forward anymore, looking around like a lost puppy, just as Fanboy pats him on the shoulder in reassurance.

You narrow your eyes at Jake, at just how much of an ass he could be. All the damn time. Strike one, Jake. Maybe you'd get to punch him this time after all.

"Hangman. You look," Bradley's eyes glance up and down, the corner of his lips pulled up the slightest, "good."

Jake lines up his shot in what seems like a fraction of a second, and you're sure to roll your eyes.

"Well, I am good, Rooster. I'm very good."

He makes the shot, without looking down, perfectly sinking three balls in.

"In fact, I'm too good to be true." Jake adds, and that's your cue. You roll your eyes, but not before you catch a glimpse of Bradley looking over at you with an expression that said, 'can you believe this guy?'.

"So," Payback steps in, and for that you're mighty grateful, tired of seeing Rooster and Hangman compare sizes for what seemed like the billionth time, "anybody know what this special detachment is about?"

Your attention diverts, and so does everyone else's. You were glad to have received mail, besides Bradley's usual letters and a few other financial statements, and surprised to realize the stamp was Top Gun's.

The letter was straight to the point, but not very informative, just something along the lines of, 'pack your bags and come be our bitches for the next month'.

But seriously. You remembered what your first detachment letter was like, clear as a crystal, and it held some sort of information. All you new about the current mission, was that there was a chance you'd get to be team leader. And you weren't going to pass up that opportunity.

"No, mission's a mission. They don't confront me." Jake's leaning against the pool table in front of Bradley, meaning you could get a clear whiff of Axe body spray off of him. You try to hold back your grimace. Keyword : try.

"What I wanna know," Jake's eyes meet your's with that godawful cocky smirk he'd made his signature for practically everything, "is who's gonna be team leader?"

And then he looks back at Bradley, his smirk widening even more, "And which one of y'all, has what it takes to follow me."

You let out a scoff, narrowing your eyes and raising your brows at his words.

Just how much farther up his ass was his head?

"Hangman," Bradley replies, "the only place you'll lead anyone is an early grave." That cuts it deep. Flashbacks come about and you try hard not to shudder.

Jake's off the table now, stepping further and further towards Bradley, who stood amused just as he neared, "But that's just you, ain't it, Rooster?"

"You're snug on that porch, waiting for just the right moment," Jake'd like to think so, but his eyes flicker towards you for a brief second, before going back to taunt Bradley again, "that never comes."

Bradley keeps his calm, ever the older man amongst the two of them, simply smiling in amusement. Jake leans just the tiniest bit closer to Bradley, not even a crinkle in his smile disappearing, “I love this song.”

And then he backs off, heading off to the bar, leaving everyone grimacing. Literally, everyone.

“Well, he hasn’t changed.” You speak up, watching Jake charm Penny. Back at the Academy, he was just the same. The only difference was, he was your friend. He was Bradley’s friend. At least they wouldn’t snipe at one another then, and simply tolerate each other’s presence. God knows what happened between them suddenly, making them the only rivals amongst your entire class.

“Nope. Sure hasn’t.” Bradley shakes his head just once, watching Jake too. He shakes his head once again, almost like he was slipping out of living the possibility that someday they would have one another’s backs.

Though, you were glad the tension had been cut when Jake’s stride began.

With every step he took, you felt like you could let loose now, and not be alert about Jake and Bradley getting into a cat fight, because, damn, could these both get in a tussle.

Without another word, Bradley’s hand wraps around your wrist, and he begins walking towards the table at the front, dragging you along with him. And you let him, knowing exactly where this was going to go.

If you’d have asked Penny Benjamin who made the most chaos on a coincidentally calm evening, she’d say, Rooster and Karma. Because the way the two of you would sing, it’d entrance the crowd and compel them to practically huddle around the two of you, singing just as loudly.

Yes, the songs would make people go even more crazy for drinks, but Penny was definitely over her ear drums tearing. Though, she was glad to see you both so close, knowing just how much the two of you had been through together, yet you’d stay by each other’s side.

And there was a possibility where you’d gotten drunk drunk and opened your heart out to Penny because she’d lent you her ears to disturb with your problems. She knew just how much you loved Rooster, and she knew the limits to where you’d go for him, and him, for you. It was visible. And it seemed natural.

You’d always be grateful for what you had with him because there was nothing like this.

And, there was nothing like the power of an unrequited love. Yes, okay, it would make tears fall out of your eyes, yes, it would make an agonizing knot in your throat, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Worst part is, you don’t even know how it began. It just happened. And it happened all too fast, and all too deep.

When you reach the piano, Bradley sits down, lending you a smile you swore sparkled underneath the yellow comforting light of the bar. You leant against the piano, a smile naturally covering your face as you watch him fiddle with the piano for the first few seconds. He plays a random melody, one that sends shivers down your spine because you know just how much fun you’ll have tonight, right here, beside him and everyone else.

You feel a hand on your shoulder, approaching from the back was Natasha, beer in her hand and smile on her face, followed by the other boys surrounding the piano by your side.

Natasha knew. From the very beginning. In fact, she was always the one encouraging you to make a move because she was “tired of seeing you make heart eyes at him”.

So, here you were. Right where you wanted to be. Right with whom you yearned to be.

You let the worries and tension knot out of your shoulders for the night, singing in utmost happiness and carelessness for howsoever your voice sounded for once, for howsoever you were with your friends for once.

Bradley just wishes you’d notice the way he looked at you as he sang, “You’re fine, you’re so kind! I’mma tell the world that you’re, mine, mine, mine, mine!”

Because he so wished you were.

[moonpascaltoo]

RICK GRIMES

╰┈➤ 18+ none of these stories belong to me! this is a masterlist of all rick grimes stories i’ve read and reblogged! just thought it would be nice to have them all in one spot! (if your fic is on here and you wish not to be, let me know <3)

MASTERLIST • THE WALKING DEAD • 11/30/24

@lilgoblinbitch ✰ gossip rick overhears you and some alexandrian women gossiping, and he decides to confront you.

@murdrdocs ✰ drabble

@specialagentlokitty ✰ what was supposed to be our last night

@dollfacefantasy ✰ request

@itsgrimeytime ✰ when you love him part 2 ✰ when he clarifies things ✰ feelin' flirty Being a long-lost friend of Maggie's, you wind up at the prison, a line of dead walkers behind you. You are promptly confronted with one Rick Grimes, and it's suddenly your life's goal to flirt with him as much as you can. Rick doesn't usually respond, but what if one day he does? ✰ i know i got him Ever since you showed up, you've had an effect on Rick. At least, that's what everyone said. Initially, you hadn't recognized it. But after one too many coincidences, it's starting to become a little impossible to ignore. ✰ the life we could've had Rick knows you're gone, he does. He just keeps seeing you in everything -the distant smell of coffee in the morning, or the sand beneath his toes (when he finds himself on a beach.) And as he tried to scrub what pain he felt out of his head, he wondered just when he could see you again. ✰ the nurse Before all this, you were a nurse. A nurse who had patients, one of which was a man in a coma. A sheriff, you think, it was all kinda fuzzy now. When it all went sideways, you set up what you could for the man - but had to leave. You'd always wondered where he'd ended up; until in your search of shelter, you run into a familiar face.

@cultofdixon ✰ little one had other plans Timing is never perfect when it comes to babies coming into the world. Rick just wished the group wasn’t…homeless when his baby decided to make an entrance

@myanmy ✰ time You just got to Alexandria and are settling in, however Rick seems to have forgotten he has a girlfriend.

@inthe-dark-tonight ✰ three days too long you wake up to a surprise after rick comes back from a three day long supply run

@weretheones ✰ rest Some days, it felt like the weight of the world rested on Rick’s shoulders. The night after the farm fell was no exception.

@gxtitobxby ✰ mean!rick

@grimesgirll ✰ request

@movidita ✰ request

@paradisedixon ✰ dreamy you’re tired of having to ask everyone for supplies after shane forbid you from going on runs for no reason, so you ask the next best man for permission.

@virginsexgod69 ✰ sweetheart

[darcytaylor]

My problem with the “they look so happy” comments

I want to start this off by saying that I’ve had a stressful week, and I’m feeling very annoyed with everything and everybody right now. So I probably shouldn’t be making this post, but here we are.

One thing that’s really bothering me lately is when people look at pictures or videos of someone (anybody) they don’t know (and sometimes people that they do know) and say, “She/he looks so happy!” I know it’s a seemingly harmless comment, but honestly, it drives me up the fucking wall.

Here’s the thing: nobody truly knows what’s going on in someone else’s life. A smile in a picture or a laugh caught on video doesn’t mean someone is happy. It’s a snapshot of a moment, not a full story. Nobody knows what someone might be dealing with behind the scenes. Nobody knows anything for sure.

I’ll admit, this hits a nerve with me because of my own unhealed stuff, and that’s on me. But it feels especially grating when people use “They look so happy” as if it’s some kind of undeniable truth. It’s dismissive and oversimplified, and it often gets used to push narratives.

For example, “She/he looks so happy, so they must be in a relationship,” or, “Look at that smile - they’re living their best life.” I’ve heard and have read so many comments like this, and it drives me crazy. A picture doesn’t prove anything, and it’s frustrating to see people treat it like it does.

If you’ve ever experienced a time where your outside didn’t match your inside - when you smiled through something hard - you’ll get why this bothers me. I’ve lived through situations where everything looked fine to the outside world, but it wasn’t. So when people make assumptions based on pictures or video, it feels shallow and dismissive of the complexity of real life.

I know my reaction is tied to my own experiences, but it doesn’t make these comments any less irritating. So please, if you’re trying to convince me of something - don’t give me, “They look so happy.” It’s not the convincing point you think it is.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t appreciate when people look happy. It’s great to celebrate joy when it’s there. But let’s not act like a smile or a moment in a video tells the whole story.

The next time you feel like saying, “They look so happy,” maybe take a moment to pause and think. Are you really seeing the full picture? Do you even know the full picture?

[sugarpasteltmnt]

Hi, I'm someone who's interested in making a long-fic but just been struggling to do so. Alot of it just cause I really I'm not confident in my ability to write it well or that people will read it. Even though Neon Void was your first fic (I think) you managed to not only reach so many, but tell a story so deep and personal and moving that every time I re-read a snippet I find myself wanting to read a whole chapter.....and then the entire series.

If I can be so bold to ask, how did you do it? How did you take Neon Void and make it? What kept you from giving into the voices within and without that tell you to give up? How did you make sure the story was the best it could be. If you could go back, what would you do differently? What strategies would be best for someone who also wants to do a longfic?

Sorry if it's alot.

First, thank you so so much. It makes me super happy to hear that you thought it was moving and enjoy reading it!!

and don’t be sorry!! I’m super flattered that you wanted to ask me such a cool and thought provoking question!! Gunna hide most of this answer under a read-more as I get a little autobiographical, but in short:

You must be your own biggest fan

I’ll be honest— I had NO idea so many people would read my fic. The amount of positive feedback has blown me away and I couldn’t be more thankful for how nice the TMNT fandom has been to me (and my sister!!)

And you’re right! Neon Void WAS my first fic I ever published!! But I’ve been writing every day since I was a tween. I just love to write. But even then, I was nervous to post. No one except my closest friend had EVER read my writing before. I wasn’t sure if anyone would read it, or even like it since it was kind of a wacky premise.

But also in a way, it was okay if no one else read it, because I liked it. And that’s kind of the secret sauce to it all.

I have never, ever written anything this long before. Originally, TNV was going to be like, ten chapters max. I have no idea it would evolve into a nearly 30 chapter fic. And i think there were several factors that contributed to that.

First, I was utterly and totally obsessed with my own AU. When i started daydreaming about certain scenes over and over, i knew i had to write it. Being so invested in my own story was the biggest factor in actually finishing it. Which sounds so obvious, but the thing is I have a tendency to think of new AUs constantly. (Sometimes even daily.) The fact I kept revisiting this one was a sign that if i wanted to write it, now was the time.

Second, and this is piggybacking off of that last confession of always daydreaming new AUs, i knew i was on a personal timer. If i was going to do this, I had to make sure I did it. So i gave myself a goal of trying to post on a rough schedule to keep myself accountable.

(But remember!!!! It's just fanfiction!!! you never, ever have to put that kind of expectation on yourself! You don't need a posting schedule. You don't even need to finish. I personally pushed myself so hard to see it through because for years I told myself that if i was ever going to post fanfiction, i HAD to finish. It's okay if you don't!! I would never ask a writer or an artist to slog through something that doesn't bring them joy anymore. Because at the end of the day, fanfiction is meant to be fun!!)

BUT

Here's a bit of a confession. I didn't want to give up on it because it brought me a lot of joy during a rough year. I found myself sneaking on my phone at work to write a paragraph or two whenever I had the chance. I would think about it 24/7. I was in love with the story I was making up and looking forward to writing helped get through some not so Cowabunga times. I know posting your work is super intimidating-- and you might be tempted to stop-- but remember, if it makes you happy-- even for a while-- it's worth it. TNV was making my days a bit brighter even before I started posting it.

Which leads to my next confession-- and this is probably the biggest reason I was able to actually pull it off with a posting schedule:

I had already written 50%-60% of TNV before I even posted chapter 1.

And that was on purpose for several reasons. One, I was having so much fun planning easter eggs and planning long-term foreshadowing bits. Second, it was a test to see if this AU was really rotting my brain enough that I wanted to spend a lot of time writing it. By the time I had a lot written and scenes I was super eager to get to, I knew I wanted to post it. But having a bulk of it already written was a huge reassurance in trying to maintain my posting schedule. (But again, that was just my style! You can hit the ground running if you'd like, start and then pause for a while to figure things out-- whatever works best for you!!)

But even when i was insanely obsessed with my own AU, it still took a lot of time and energy to write. There will be times you will find yourself trudging through bridging scenes to get to the scenes you actually wanna write and it's sooooooooo haaaaaaaaard. BUT!!! It's worth it!!! Getting through it and seeing how it sets up the exciting part just right is soooooooo satisfying.

As for making sure the story was the best it could be??? I'm not sure!! Because there were definitely times I went whining to my sister and best friend about certain plot points or scenes, worried it wasn't good enough. There were a LOT of times a scene or idea just didn't feel right. Heck, a lot of chapters ended up in a different order than when I originally started writing!! The lesson I learned throughout the whole thing is that the original idea doesn't have to be absolute. Sometimes rearranging the scenes is just what you need!

But when i was REALLY struggling, I'd find myself referring back to the original source. It was what inspired a fanfic after all! Sometimes taking a step back and reevaluating each character's personality helped me shape the scene into something that felt better. Other times I had to step back and remind myself about what was actually important to the story. (Example: originally, I had no idea how to get Donnie to the hidden city by himself. At first I tried to think of some lore on the mask to give Donnie a reason to go investigating Void... but it didn't feel right. The mask wasn't important. Not even Void was the most important thing to Donnie at the time. Leo was. And that helped me sort of get rid of the loosey-goosey idea of giving a complicated back story to the mask that made the story feel muddled.)

But even then, I wasn't sure if certain moves were the best they could be! I was always worried (and continue to be) that I poured too much into descriptions, or spent too much time talking about emotions with too little action. Or that I overuse phrases. But so long as each chapter made me happy, I figured readers would enjoy them too.

If I could go back and do something different... I wouldn't have goofed with Leo's kraang parasite adaptation in Mad Dog Part 2: Prom. I was trying to make his parasite enter an obvious 'stage 2 boss battle' look, but later I realized I didn't like how I described it lol.

But!!! I will confess, I'm no saint-- when i started getting lovely comments, it helped pour gas on the fire to keep going. And that's why I'm so thankful for every comment or doodle or ask sent my way. You guys are amazing and helped me get the fire under my ass to keep going, even when things were really hard.

I know it sounds so corny and like a cop-out answer, but ultimately, it's YOUR personal investment in YOUR story that is the secret sauce!!! So long as your interested in it, it won't feel so impossible to write a long fic. There will be challenges (like there is with any project) but honestly?? If you're head over heels for your own story, it will be fun and fulfilling. Even if you don't finish-- so long as it made you happy, that's what matters the most. (Again, that's so cheesy... but just like Master Leonardo tells Leo, 'cheesiness makes the best pizza pies in life'.)

Thank you again so much for this fun ask-- and I believe in you! You've got this. Have fun, enjoy writing, and have confidence in your work, because it makes YOU happy, and that's the greatest thing a story could be.

[ye4gerism]

𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 - 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

word count 1.6k

content warning SMUT. OKAY?! THE WHOLE SHABANG!! there’s a shower scene and aftercare at the end also black reader friendly

author’s note hello. so smut is not my forte and i’m practicing okay??? this is like my first full blown smut heavy oneshot. i really wanted to pick up on the engagement section of good luck, captain! and explore your wedding night with curly and also take a break from the angst😓 i’ve read this over like three thousand times - i hope it flows. requests are open as always!

synopsis takes place during good luck, captain! the only traditional part of your wedding is the after party. wink wink.

He waited patiently on the bed as you asked. It's been hours since you both went down to the courthouse for your elopement. Curly was a little apprehensive at first but after much conversation and realizing how much you both needed that privacy, he obliged.

Throughout the ceremony, he realized it did feel good - no dearest Mumsie to throw daggers at you or Jimmy frowning at the thought of you being his wife.

His wife. Mrs. Grant Curly. He liked that. Not that he was possessive but you really were his and as long as he's here, no one can or will have you.

Curly still wanted a traditional wedding night so he booked a honeymoon suite to celebrate. "Thank you for waiting." You emerge from the hotel bathroom in a two-piece lingerie set that he bought you for tonight - a lace babydoll top with a matching panty.

You get closer to him and he begins to stand. "You look great, lo-" You push him back onto the bed and his sentence ends with an "oof".

"Sit." You climb on top of him, sizing him up. "You know my favorite thing about you, Captain Grant Curly?" You cup his cheek before running your hand down to his collared shirt. "You're very very smart. How'd you know to book this room and buy me this really cute lingerie set?" You unbutton three buttons. "And you're so handsome. How did I get so lucky?" You move from his shirt to his right arm, feeling up his bicep. "I love it when you carry me and use all your strength...for all purposes."

He finishes unbuttoning the shirt for you. You open your mouth to say something else but you're caught off guard when he flips you over. Curly swings his legs over yours and hovers over your hips, unbuckling his belt and zipping his pants down. "You like my strength, huh?"

You're flushed. How many times have you done it with this guy? And how does he always know how to catch you off guard?

Curly gets off you so that he can actually get his clothes off. You sit up in bed, feeling shyer than ever, your confidence gone. He always knew how to take control and it began to settle in you that it might always be that way.

"Come here." He wraps his hands around your ankles and drags you closer to him, causing you to fall back and gasp. Curly gets on his knees and flips the skirt of your top as it's covering what he's really looking for.

You hear something ripping down there and then that gush of air finds you. You sit up immediately and push his face away with your foot. "Curly! You just bought this and you're ripping it? Are you mad?!"

He inches closer again and finishes what he started, completely ripping one side and slipping off the side that still holds. "Well," he pauses to lick your exposed bud, sending a shiver up your spine, "You know, I can always buy you more. We're doing this again, you know? We still have our wedding for the public with my Mumsie and your best friend, Jimmy."

Oh, you hated how he downplayed your conflict with both of those individuals.

"Please shut up. Don't talk about-" You let out an exhale as he starts to stroke his tongue against you. Your body falls back into the bed, arching from his actions. His hands move from your thighs to the sides of your belly, messaging it.

His last and first name become a mixed mantra and your hands find the bed sheet, soon gripping them.

The last thing you loved about Curly was his kindness (even if it was a pain in everyone's ass sometimes). He was never cruel in bed, he didn't bait and torture you for his own enjoyment and entertainment. He let you release, your back finding the comfort of the beds. Your chest rises heavily. A little bit of laughter escapes your lips.

He stands up and walks over to your unpacked suitcases. The feeling of his absence hits you. "Curly," you cry out.

"I'll be right over, my love." His promise is true; he walks over with a familiar bottle in hand. Curly applies some lube to his hands and rubs them together to warm up. He then holds himself and begins to stroke. By now you've caught your breath and sit up. You get on your knees, crawl towards him, and reach your hand out to his shaft which he swats away. "You don't want to-"

"No," he immediately answers. "Tonight's about you and besides, we have the rest of our lives together. Now, turn around."

You comply and immediately feel two of his fingers at your core. They go up and down your entrance and you whine. He takes this as a sign to slide both into you. You arch your back and look up at him with needy eyes. "I..." you try.

"You what, darling?" He picks up his pace, "You need me? Is that it?" Curly watches as you bite back a moan and ultimately fail. You allow your upper half to tumble into the bed and you huff into the sheets. Curly lowers himself again to let his tongue flicker at your nub while pumping his digits in and out of you.

You begin to say some incoherent nothings which lets him know you're ready to explode again. He pulls away cutting you off, in which you groan and lower your ass in response. Curly grabs you from under your hips and props you right up again. "Ass up, sweetheart. I'm not done with you yet."

He pokes himself against you. "Sorry for playing with you like that," he mutters, "Just don't want to hurt you...you know how this goes." A familiar stretch fills you, making you gasp. You exhale and whimper his name until it's muddled together. "I'll go slow, baby," he says quietly. He keeps his promise, really only moving the tip inside you. "I bet you're so happy we're married and living together now. You'll get used to this in no time." He slaps your ass, getting another moan out of you. "Luckiest girl in the world."

"Feeling comfortable, baby?" Curly asks after a while. He's massaging the lower half of your back. It takes you a moment to respond but after accessing the situation, you don't mind going a little faster. You muster up a "yes" and he gives you a "yes ma'am".

His hips slam into you. Your hand holds onto his arm, crying out his name, getting closer to your own climax. Curly loses his rhythm and eventually, you feel him twitching inside you. You come right after him.

You're both breathing heavily. Curly slowly pulls out of you and you lower your hips. You both take a moment and hold space for what just took place. Your husband gets in bed with you and smiles at your dazed face. You laugh in response. He cups your cheek and nuzzles against you before kissing your lips.

"That was great, Mrs. Curly," he finally says. "All thanks to you, Mr. Curly," you say back. You kiss again and again and again. Curly looks down at you and then back up. "We made quite the mess. Why don't get cleaned up and order some burgers like you wanted?" You nod. "Sounds like a plan."

"Let's get this off you then." Curly pulls at the strap of the babydoll top you have on. You sit up and he follows, soon removing the top from your torso.

"Here, I'll carry you." Curly gets off the bed and waits for you to scoot closer to him so he can lift you into his arms. He holds you bridal style, giving him a good look at your blissful face. "You're so strong," you say, "I'm so so lucky."

He carries you to the bathroom and sets you down in the tub, his hands lingering on your torso. "Can you stand?" he asks. You nod.

Curly turns on the shower and gets in with you. He closes the curtain and takes a moment to admire you and your body as if he's trying to memorize you. "My wife," he breathes. It makes you feel shy - the way he eats you up with his eyes. "I didn't think I'd ever be able to say that, especially to someone as perfect as you.”

He turns on the shower and pumps some soap in his hand and gestures for you to come closer. "I know you don't really do this but I just...I just want to be closer to you," Curly says quietly. "Turn around." His hand finds your waist and it guides you to the front of the shower. His hands sit on your wet shoulders before moving in circles to lather up. He massages your shoulders and you let your head hang back a bit.

You were grateful for this. His job with the Pony Express kept him far for a long time and you imagined all of his returns would mirror tonight. Along the line, you'd probably end up treating him, so you take advantage of this particular moment.

"I'm so happy it's you. I'd choose you every time - no matter the circumstances," he whispers in your ear.

After the shower, you’re both finally in warm clothes and settled on the sofa. Curly's dialing the number for dining.

"Babe," you whisper. He looks over at you, eyebrows raised. "Can you call the front desk after for new bed sheets and a blanket?"

He nods before turning his attention to the person on the other end of the line.

You stare at him with affection and gratitude. Gosh, you really really loved him. He wasn't perfect but he was sweet and he cared so much for you - and most importantly, he was all yours. You were ready for the perfect future ahead.

[kurishiri]

95K┊Dark If —Harrison Gray—

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— the 95k story for dark if (part 1), featuring harry. i think it is “required reading” to understand the world of this event, but they set it as the 95k bonus story, so i'm translating it. please note this does not necessarily have a happy end.

— cw: mentions of murder and death, angst.

Every story had an established plot, so to speak.

For example, in Cinderella, the prince fell in love at first sight with Cinderella, and they lived happily ever after.

Or if we took Snow White, the kiss from the prince would awaken her, and then they lived happily ever after.

‘It’s boring if everything goes as planned?’ That’s fine, since it’s the type of story most people want.

But, I wonder when this all went down...when did this fairytale world start to become so twisted?

And also, what had to have gone down for me to end up in this role of guiding the keyman to this world and through those twists?

Tonight, once again, the keyman who had wandered into this fairytale world tried to run away, returning to reality.

In other words, they were not the keyman, but rather they just happened to get caught up in all of this.

Victor: It seems this time as well, they were unable to find the missing thing.

Harrison the Lying Fox: They’ll just think of it all as a bad dream and forget about it anyway.

H: Besides...

Victor: ‘It’s best to quickly forget about this world and live in reality’?

This mysterious man named Victor, who wandered this world, had a shrewd look as he smiled, and as usual, such a look irritated me.

Just when I thought of throwing even a single insult his way, I heard the sound of footsteps.

(Ahh, here we go again...)

(Someone was ‘summoned’ by this world.)

Victor: Oh, where are you headed off to? There’s a guest here.

Harrison the Lying Fox: I’ll look from afar. There’s not much point in talking face to face anyway.

Victor: I see. Then do as you like.

——And then, the footsteps gradually grew louder, until they stopped.

Victor: Welcome to the twisted fairytale world...

V: A guest has come~~ Yippeee~~!

There stood a figure, petrified from what looked like anxiety.

Kate: Um, where... I... just now I was at the bookstore, and...

(Oh jeez... she’s so frightened.)

Kate: Uhm, I’m in the middle of my letter carrier duties. So I would like to return to Kingsley Books...

Victor: Now that may be a bit difficult.

Kate: Huh?

Victor’s explanation, something he had repeated thousands of times over, flowed smoothly.

How he selfishly wanted her to find the ‘missing thing’ in the fairytale world.

And then, the one named Kate was sent to the twisted fairytale world in order to find that very thing.

Victor: Harrison. Are you going to take a peek into the story?

Harrison the Lying Fox: You can stop with the act. I know you know as well that I’ve got no choice but to.

The lying fox was always a despised presence within a fairy tale.

And that was the role I bore. It was my fate to spend my life serving this world so that it could return to normal.

(I can freely traverse through any fairytale world.)

(But if I were to flip a coin on it, it would mean I would never be able to become a character in any fairy tale.)

Despite the fact I was bearing this troublesome fate, I myself couldn’t correct any of these stories... it was ironic.

Victor: Well then, have a good time. May you find the best happy end this time.

—— Traversing... ——

Kate: I’m... Cinderella?

Having been sent to the world of Cinderella, Kate wasted little time in starting her search for the missing thing.

She was trying so hard I couldn’t help but feel fed up.

But——

Stepmother: It’s because of children like you that my own girls don’t get chosen by the prince!

Kate: P-please stop...

Stepmother: You...someone like you...!

So that one of her own children would become the prince’s fiancée, the stepmother schemed and killed Kate.

Once again, this fairy tale reached a bad end.

And then, Kate was taken back to reality from the fairytale world.

—— In reality ——

Kate: Huh? I... what was I doing again?

K: ...I feel as though I was sleeping for a long time...

I had come to realize in the long time I had been observing that if a keyman were to die in the fairytale world and reach a bad end,

they would be forcefully returned to reality like this.

And——all of what happened in that world would be wiped clean from their memories.

But, in most cases, their bodies would still remember, and they would leave, as though to run away.

It was like they were saying they didn’t want to see a bad dream again.

(Alright now, you get out of here quickly too.)

(Go back to that peaceful everyday life filled with normalcy.)

Kate: ………

After standing up with a bit of a wobble, Kate once again reached for the fallen book.

(………Huh? What in the world are you doing?)

And then, as if trying her best to remember something precious, she furrowed her brows,

and then, once again, Kate was sucked into the book like she was being summoned by it.

Harrison the Lying Fox: Wh——you idiot.

And so, Kate — once again — found herself repeating the same exchange with Victor,

landing in the world of Alice in Wonderland.

In this world, the bell signifying the Queen of Heart’s judgment resonated.

Kate: I’m looking for the missing thing in this world.

K: That is, the thing that’s lacking in the world. If that is——a peaceful life...

Liam the Cheshire Cat: Then you wouldn’t want to approach the Queen of Hearts. Well, all is up to you, Alice.

And so, Kate once again tried so hard to find the missing thing, it was laughable.

(Why do you feel the need to go so far?)

(...Ah, jeez, if you get hurt again that’s all on you.)

This time, in this story as well, Kate was unable to find the missing thing.

And, never learning from what had happened, she would continue to choose this cycle.

Over, and over again, she would roam within these twisted fairy tales.

At one time, she was Snow White.

But, she was killed by a foreign prince named Natalia, who was aiming to conquer the country that Queen Elbert ruled, covering for him.

And at another time, she was Sleeping Beauty.

She was cursed by a fairy to ‘prick her finger on a spinning wheel ten years later, triggering the curse,’

but before that time, she had passed away from an illness.

Such events would repeat themselves, over and over again.

And, over and over again, I would watch over Kate.

Today as well, Kate was in a twisted fairytale world, continuing her search.

At this point, I couldn’t bring myself to care about what fairy tale she was in.

It was just watching over her was my job.

Today, it had been raining in this forest nonstop since the morning, and Kate’s shoulders grew more soaked.

When I saw her body trembling in the cold, I couldn’t bear it...

——And, for the first time, I approached Kate.

Without an utterance, I held an umbrella above her.

Kate: ...?

Harrison the Lying Fox: The rain won’t stop for a while. Wanna come in?

Kate: T-thank you?

Harrison the Lying Fox: Haha, why phrase it like a question?

Kate: Um... can I ask who you are?

(My name...)

Harrison the Lying Fox: That kind of thing doesn’t really matter, does it. Since we’re going to be parting ways when the rain stops anyway.

Kate: Is that so. Yes... I suppose so...

Kate looked a bit lonely, before thanking me again.

Under a single umbrella, I looked up at the sky, the rain falling non-stop.

(I hate the rain.)

(...But, just for today, I wouldn’t mind if it never stopped.)

(Because, then I can be together with you... for just a little longer.)

The ‘thanks’ from Kate made a strange warmth seep into my heart.

And then, once again, Kate was killed in the fairy tale.

While I’d seen her die countless times, for some reason, this time made me feel a pang in my heart for the first time.

—— Time skip ——

Victor: Oh my, Harrison. It’s not every day I see you here.

Harrison the Lying Fox: Could you stop this already?

Victor: ...I take it this is about Kate?

Harrison the Lying Fox: .........

Victor: That, I can’t do.

Harrison the Lying Fox: And why’s that?

Victor: Because, for some reason, Kate herself ends up choosing to come back here over and over. This is a first for me as well.

V: And I find myself thinking, about Kate...

Harrison the Lying Fox: What about her? Hurry and say it already.

Victor: Perhaps she may be the true keyman?

V: Harrison? Where are you headed?

Harrison the Lying Fox: ...To Kate.

Victor: I see... do be careful.

Kate was in the world of Cinderella, like she was the first time.

Tonight, Kate was participating in the ball, and she must introduce herself to the prince.

She had a fairy godmother alter her appearance, and I thought she looked more beautiful than any of the other participants here.

That was no lie, either, since the eyes of any who passed by would be taken by her.

But, Kate, the gentle soul she was, could not bring herself to approach the prince directly.

(Ahh... if she doesn’t speak up, he’ll get stolen by other women.)

(Jeez, always making more work for me.)

I quietly approached, and I dropped an empty glass from a table right adjacent to Kate,

causing a shattering sound to resonate through the dance hall, and everyone in the venue turned their attention on Kate.

Kate: Ah, wh—? Me? I-I’m so sorry...

(Look over there, the prince has finally noticed you.)

Prince: Um, are you hurt anywhere?

When I confirmed the prince had reached out to Kate, I left the venue.

After all, a lying fox was hardly suited for such a place.

I descended the long staircase myself.

(I don’t think that would be enough to change the course of the story.)

(Kate, go and find the missing thing. This time, for sure.)

When I wished for this, a bitter feeling bloomed in my chest, as though I had bitten on sand.

(I see, if Kate were to find a happy ending, I would no longer be needed.)

Before I knew it, I had watched over Kate for quite a while.

At some point, Kate had already become a part of my everyday.

(——What am I saying, with something so out of character like how a farewell would be lonely.)

Trying to shake off these conflicting emotions, I continued to walk, when...

Kate: Uhm...

(...Kate?)

When I turned around, I saw Kate running down, holding the hem of her dress up as she did.

(...What happened with the prince?)

(Why’s she chasing after me?)

Many words welled up in my throat, but I pushed them all down.

After all, in Kate’s memory, I was not there.

Harrison the Lying Fox: Did you need something?

Kate: Ah, um...

Harrison the Lying Fox: ...?

Kate: Have... we met somewhere before, by any chance...?

Harrison the Lying Fox: ......... (O_O)

Kate’s eyes pierced through me, like she was begging for the truth.

We stared at each other for several seconds, which felt more like an eternity.

But, the one who broke it first was me.

Harrison the Lying Fox: Who knows. It’s probably just you.

(It’s alright. I’m good at telling lies.)

Kate: I...see. Sorry about that, for saying something so strange. Please forget it.

Kate put up a forced smile before she returned from where she came.

And I, much like a fool, couldn’t take my eyes off of her back.

(Hey, Kate. Having watched over you all this time, I’ve come to realize something.)

The ‘missing thing’ that Kate had always been searching for in these fairytale worlds...

(That is——the protagonist.)

(Kate. You yourself are the missing thing in its truest form.)

Had Kate followed her own heart, choosing a path to become happy,

I was sure the twisted fairy tale would reach its end.

But, when I tried to tell Kate,

Harrison the Lying Fox: Gugh, hah... gh...

Something seemed to stop words from forming in my voice.

And, as though mocking at this eternal, twisted fate from afar, the clock struck twelve.

Harrison the Lying Fox: .........

(I can’t become your prince, nor can I become your lover.)

(And, someday, you may end up finding your happy end.)

(But... for now... even if it’s just this moment——)

Harrison the Lying Fox: Hey, you there. ...Heading that way could spell out danger, you know?

Kate: And you are?

Harrison the Lying Fox: Who knows. More importantly, where are you planning to go?

(...Let me watch over you, while holding the key of this secret in my hand.)

That night, as strange as it was, I had a dream.

In my fairy tale, one that remained without a name to call it, Kate suddenly appeared and said——

Kate: Harrison!

Harrison the Lying Fox: How do you know my name?

Kate: Of course I know. Because I’ve always been searching for you.

Harrison the Lying Fox: ......... (O_O)

Kate: ...Harrison, I like you. Would you become my happy end?

(Ahh... I see now.)

(So this is the most convenient dream for me.)

A bitter, yet unbearably sweet feeling blossomed in my heart.

(If this isn’t a reality, then I won’t have to lie anymore, right?)

I touched Kate’s wrist, and then brought her in an embrace.

(That’s right, I had always... wanted to hug you like this.)

Harrison the Lying Fox: Me too.

H: I’ve always wanted to reach the best end with you, too.

(Kate, I no longer want to see you crying.)

(I think you’re much better suited with a carefree smile.)

Harrison the Lying Fox: Kate. I like you.

I wished that time could stop, just a little bit longer,

for while this momentary dream was fleeting, I had never had seen a better one before.

Fin.

masterlist 🗝️ ┊ ko-fi ☕️ ┊ comms 🤍

[oncasette]

𝟯.𝟱𝗸 𝗥𝗘𝗖 𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

hi everyone! i recently hit 3.5k on here and wanted to do something as a major thank you! so, in honor of the occasion, here's a much overdo fic and blog rec list!

BALDUR'S GATE III

@libbybee — i live for their astarion fics! i live for astarion either way, but i adore the way they write him!! writes for both ascended! and spawn! which is nice because i love to engage with both sides of his character.

oh, you're hard to please by @ghost-proofbaby (astarion)

alleyway affairs by @ladylarynn (astarion)

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE

@strwberri-milk — i'm so obsessed with their work and the way they write the boys (especially zayne)! such a good place to start if you're starting to delve into love and deepspace but don't know what you want to read first! also my favorite blog to stop by if i have just a little bit of time to kill and want some yummy goodness

@sylusdoll — absolutely looooooveeee their fics and everything they post. helps me get a little dose of the lads boys when i've farmed just about all i can farm in game :)

rafayel proving how beautiful you are by @astridthevalkyrie (rafayel)

what's mine by @aeyumicore (zayne)

better than the devil by @syluss-littlecrow (sylus)

a rising sun by @boobearymuch (sylus)

PETER PARKER

@webslingingslasher — writes peter parker like actually no other. the emotional damage that this blog has put me through should be STUDIED. i'm not even kidding in the slightest saying that i've laughed, cried, felt tiny, aching chest pains reading their work. you have to have to have to check them out.

nerdy!peter and video games by @webslingingslasher

something in the orange by @webslingingslasher

'is that blood?' by @bcyhoods

movies with peter by @thyme-in-a-bubble

TED LASSO

@its-time-to-write — some of the best fiction i've read in my life. nothing can compare to the way i felt last summer reading everything about jamie tartt that i could get my hands on and discovering their fics! a must read for jamie readers.

i can see you by @rqgnarok (jamie tartt)

touch deprived by @its-time-to-write (jamie tartt)

bored by @its-time-to-write (jamie tartt)

it was simple, it was sweetness, it was good to know by @beybaldes (roy kent)

TOP GUN

@gretagerwigsmuse — writes for bradley bradshaw so exquisitely and deliciously, and also has some of the best recs that they reblog

start of a silver fox by @topherwrites (jake seresin)

hey, neighbour! by @sunlightmurdock (jake seresin)

MISC.

@youvebeenlivingfictional — some of my absolute favorite fics i've read on this site! so many different fandoms that i dip my toes into, but i first discovered their blog because of their harvey specter fics! either way, definitely worth a read or few!!!

@dixonsbrat — their fics evoke a really lovely sense of warmth within me! also write for a whole bunch of different characters, namely stranger things and outer banks (but also my lovely lovely astarion)

@thyme-in-a-bubble — again, writes for sooo many of my blorbos! i absolutely adore their fluffier fics, but also gets down and dirty with some of the nastiest smut i've read. love them and their blog vibes so so much!

@ohcaptains — everyone's probably SICK of hearing me talk about their blog, but i will never shut up about them actually. i will read for fandoms i've never been interested in or, honestly, ever heard of just because i love the way they write soooo much

@bruisedboys — i love love love them and the way they write for their characters!! always a blog i can go to if i know i need a good fixing of one of my pookies

@anqeliclust — one of the sweetest blogs i’ve met on my time on here!! always so lovely to talk to and i adore everything they post!

@dameronscopilot — one of the first blogs i fell in loooovvvveee with. there’s fics that they’ve posted that i read years ago when i started my blog and i still think about them to this day

@ladylannisterxo — always seems to be right on track with whatever my hyperfixation may be!! i love interacting with them and seeing them on my dash!!

warmer than a comforter by @evieelyzabethh (spike btvs)

[peterdarlingg]

HELLO?? What is this greatness that I just read?? So so good it’s unreal!

my reverie's affinity remains to be you (soulmate!au)

peter parker x reader

summary: in a world where you see ten seconds of your soulmate's life in your dreams, you already knew that spider-man was your soulmate. but what you didn't know, was that you'd be vexed to see who was beneath the mask

word count: 11, 629 (sheesh)

warnings: enemies to lovers, peter and y/n being a huge dick to each other, mentions of violence, angst, fluff, peter being a huge dork and y/n being that different kind of girl again

a/n: this was my first soulmate au and the second longest thing i've ever written. hope you all enjoy!

MASTERLIST

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ . ༻✧༺

i: when you dream of me, consider it an enormity

You thought soulmates were a myth.

Your whole life, you’ve been told you can love whoever you wanted, for as long as you wanted; you get to choose who you want to be with. Because it’s your choice – your own free will.

But fate had other plans. Fate didn’t want to give that decision to you; fate said fuck you, I choose who you love.

Because now you’re endowed with the worry of who your soulmate is, dreading you won’t love them as much as you wished to adore someone. You’re worried that when you’re in love with someone, they’re not yours to begin with.

Unfortunately, you already know you’re fucked with your soulmate.

Its fate’s rule: you begin at 11. You witness at least ten seconds of their life in your dreams. You don’t see their faces, their relatives. If so, the faces were obfuscated. The only reference you were given were their surroundings – what they liked, what they watched, what room they were in.

You know your soulmate had a mop of brown curls when you dreamt of him in the mirror. His bathroom was blue, his jumper was a darker shade of blue, and he had a weird obsession with Legos.

The first few years, you’d grown fond of the memories you’re given, satisfied with the minuscule albeit consequential fragments. Barring when you dreamt of him at a funeral, and you encounter yourself even closer to your enigmatic man.

Until you dreamt of him swinging around the buildings above the busy streets of Queens the same time Spider-Man started to appear was when you realized there was no fucking way your soulmate was the infamous masked hero.

You’re fucked, you knew it. Though you knew it gave you a better chance to actually know who your soulmate is.

You tried approaching him, calling him. But he was too far away or he pretended to not hear you, straight up ignoring you. Because why would Spider-Man stop his duties for a love-deprived girl?

Every night you dreamt of him – some were the times he swung around the city, or punching people’s faces. Though most of the time you’d dream of him in his bedroom with books and lego pieces scattered around his carpeted floor. If you looked closely, or paid attention to his surroundings, you’d spot a familiar sweater on the corner of his room.

It was enough to enthrall you, to keep you patient. But still, you feel incomplete.

“Maybe he’s closer than you think,” MJ said one time, though suspiciously eyeing the boy across from her. “Maybe you’re just too dumb to notice he’s actually right in front of you.”

You rolled your eyes at her.

But you couldn’t help but think she’s right. Albeit how many boys with a mop of brown curls that you know didn’t hate you, or vice versa?

Three. Two of those were strangers, one of those was unfortunately not.

You observe your graphite stain the paper upon you as you let your wrist cypher your most recent dream – Queen’s sunset. Spider-Man was sitting on the roof, devouring a sandwich, observing the sun vanish behind the edifices. It was a sight to see – a rare one for you because you were consistently busy, so you didn’t pass on the opportunity to sketch and revel in the masterpiece that you seldom encountered.

Peter Parker, the infuriating boy he is, watches beside you with a stare so hard it makes your hand tremble at each breath he takes. And when he continues to watch you you couldn’t help but squeeze the pencil in your hand and sharply look at him.

“Stop staring,” you hiss. Your voice startles him, almost letting out a yelp pass his thin lips.

“Why?” His observing frown turns into an amused one. Placing his elbow on the table, his torso turns so he faces you. “Do I make you nervous?”

“You make me sick.”

“Really? You think I didn’t notice your hand shaking when you realized I was still watching you?”

“It was only shaking because I had to stop myself from punching you,” you snap, leaning closer. “Don’t flatter yourself. If anything, you make me mad. Not just sick. Mad.”

“Madly in love, for sure.” He lets out a teasing scoff. And god if that wink didn’t make the frustrated ache in your chest burst into warmth, you might have stabbed him in the eye.

You snicker. “Oh yeah. Me. In love with Peter Parker. What’s not to love? Your big ears? Your prepubescent voice cracks? Your hairless legs? Your cute curls?”

You mutter the last part and for your sake, Peter pretends to miss it. “Gee. Didn’t know you loved my hairless legs. Would you like to ride my hairless thigh? Make me cry?”

“I’ll give you something to cry about when I shove my foot up your ass.”

Peter gasps quietly, placing a hand over his heart. “No need to be so morbid, Bob Ross. Stop storing your anger in that big forehead of yours.”

“Maybe I could solve my morbidity when I break your nose with my large forehead.” you mock him, the scarce, sweet forced tone contrast to your usual sharper manner.

“Please. The only thing you’ll be breaking is your bruised ego.”

You flick him on his forehead, closing your notebook shut the second the class ends. Peter’s disgruntled by your action and kicks your shin to stumble you over.

His assault taints your shoes, one you recently bought after Peter had “accidentally” spilt coffee over your white sneakers. But this time you were sure he didn’t do it by accident.

“Why, you little-” behind his eyes show no ounce of regret, but rather amusement. Yours, however, possesses its usual burning anathema towards—what you always call him—the hybrid; but this time his stain adds fuel to the fire, your hands reaching out to scorch his skin.

Peter’s hand blocks you by abruptly placing his palm on your forehead, keeping you away by arm’s length as you flimsily try to reach for his collar. His laugh, like a fork on a chalkboard, stings your ears sadistically.

“Come on, Grumpy,” he teases, “you can do better than that.”

Aggravated, your nails scratch on his exposed forearm, scouring them to his skin. Peter yells in shock, declining his hand to probe his mauled organ. You wipe your hand over your skirt as if his skin was the grungiest thing you’ve ever touched (but really, it kind of surprised you how his skin was the clearest you’ve ever seen when his mind was literally a dumpster).

“You little shit,” he seethes, looking down at you. “What was that for?!”

“You stained my new shoes!”

“Oh, I’m sorry Your Majesty. Do you want me to clean your shoes with my tears?”

“I want you to choke on my shoe and die!”

“Hey, that’s enough,” Ned tuts. “Let’s go before the pizza runs out.”

Peter shoots you one last glare before he turns around. It would have been a dramatic exit if you weren’t friends with Ned (plus MJ) and you always sat with them every day for lunch.

“Hey losers,” MJ’s presence surprises you, sitting down on the empty space next to yours. “Hey, (y/n).”

“She’s a loser too, you know,” Peter points out, mouth half full. “She sits with us. So she’s a loser.”

“Yeah but she reads and doesn’t play with Legos like a twelve-year-old.” MJ timidly defends, opening her yogurt. “Get used to it. I’ll always see you as losers.”

“Thanks, MJ,” Ned smiles. Peter gives him a pointed look. “What? I already take it as a compliment. We’ve been called losers our entire lives. It’s like…a specialty.”

“You’re not a loser, Ned,” you awkwardly give him a lopsided smile, fork poking on your plate. “You’re great. You’re fun. You dated Betty Brant!” you encourage. “You also know the entire script to A New Hope. So you’re not a loser.”

“Just a dork,” Peter says. “Take that as a compliment. Also when you’re called a himbo. Everybody loves a himbo.”

You grimace, letting out a silent whine of disagreement.

“Speaking of Betty,” Ned pulls a notebook from underneath the table, slamming it aggressively against the plastic surface. “Guess what I just found out. I dreamt of my soulmate last night, and she was wearing this skirt with like this blue daisy on the corner of the hip.”

He turns the notebook, just enough for both you and Peter to see. Ned had sloppily sketched a pencil skirt in the middle of the plain paper, next to it was a glued printed picture of Betty beside Ned, wearing the same skirt.

“That’s Betty. The same skirt from when we were in Prague. Don’t you think this is it?!” Ned places his hands on Peter’s shoulder, shaking him. “Don’t you?”

“I think it’s just a coincidence,” you murmur, slightly envious and in denial that one of you might have already found your soulmate. Or in this case, already been with their soulmate. “Any girl could have that skirt.”

“Yeah but I saw Betty’s legs in my dream. I know her legs-”

“Creepy?”

“- and she wore this yesterday!” he shoves the notebook near your face. “It’s not just a coincidence, (y/n). It’s fate.”

“Alright,” you grimace, pushing the notebook away. “Talk to her. Or text her? No, no talk to her. Ask about her dream last night. Then you can actually confirm it.”

“How are you so sure that’s Betty?” MJ retorts. “Betty has the same legs every white girl has. Also, I could have sworn I saw another girl wear that skirt yesterday.”

“Because she had that scar on her thigh from when she fell on top of Jason Ionello during gym. Not all girls have a scar on their thigh right thigh.”

“I do,” you say, raising your hand. “Remember when you were playing with that stupid Lego set that was too pointy?”

“In our defense, we told you to be careful,” Peter says, looking down on his food.

Ned nods, almost too vigorous as he sits back down. A drunken smile on his face, as if he’s stuck and mesmerized in his thoughts. “I wonder what happens when I find out that Betty’s my soulmate. Do I still get to dream about her?”

“Dunno,” you answer timidly, your bottom lip jutting out the slightest. “Wonder who my soulmate is…”

“I bet yours is probably a pervert staying in his mom’s basement living on Cheetos and old Mortal Kombat video games with a weird foot fetish.” Peter snorts.

“Oddly specific. Sure you’re not describing yourself?” You raise your eyebrow, snarling at him.

“My parents are dead, (y/n),” he says, not at all phased. “I don’t have a mom.”

“And I don’t have enough nerves left for you to fit your fucking huge ears in, Parker.” You roll your eyes. “Besides, I’m in no rush looking for my soulmate. I’m going on a date later.”

MJ stops reading at this. “A date?”

“Yeah, a date?” Peter tilts his head sideways. “Are you sure you’re not just tutoring them?”

“No. It’s a date.” You correct him. “They asked me out on a date yesterday after school ended. I’m meeting them at that new Thai restaurant.”

“The one Aunt May talked to you about?” Peter asks. MJ furrows her eyebrows, pouting at the question.

“Yeah.”

“It sucks there,” he quickly says. “Don’t go to that restaurant. Or better yet, don’t go on that date at all.”

You bite your lip, glaring at him. “Why not?”

Peter’s face drains its colors, stammering on his words. “So you could spare them the bad date. I mean, come on, who would want to go on a date with you?”

“I would,” MJ leered. “I’d go on a date with her. The person who asked her out would go on a date with her.” She turns to you. “What’s their name again?”

“Denver,” you confirmed, pushing MJ’s hair out of her face before turning back to Peter. “See, even MJ wants to go out with me.”

“Would- would you go out with me?” Peter asks MJ. “I mean, do I look like someone you’d go out with?”

“If you were the last person on earth, I would.”

“Aw!” Peter smiles, but disappears the longer he rephrased the answer. “Wait-”

“Hm.”

“But…I’m the only one left…you’re not-”

“Exactly.”

“I’d go out with you, Peter,” Ned interjects. “If I were a girl, I’d go out with you.”

“Aw, thanks,” Peter smiles, blushing. “I’d go out with you, too.”

Your eyebrows furrow at the unusual interaction, you find yourself leaning closer to MJ and whisper, “this feels like I’m watching an episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine.”

She snorts. “Their life is exactly like Boyle and Peralta.”

But Peter’s words clung to your head much to your dismay. His words invariably went in your ear and out the other – a pattern you’d picked up when his words began to bug you even more and more. But the exit was barred, and it clogged up your already worry-filled mind.

It wasn’t that you aren’t used to Peter’s assertions; however, it stung you narrowly, unlike the vitriols he’d thrown that should have hurt you more.

Because you couldn’t help but think he’s right; who would want to go out with you?

Hell you’re not even sure if Spider-Man would want you. He’s got everything he needs.

Disappointment rims the back of your head, alleviation elusive to claim; its overture still going but alas, for you, its ending remains privy.

ii: his cynical intentions cease the misery to summon

Peter’s envious.

Not because of Ned (if anything, he’s proud of him), but because of you.

It’s no secret to anyone, literally anyone, that the both of you are not very fond of each other. He hates you.

He knows it's because of how reckless you are, how you strut down places presuming like you own them; how you like to gloat about your triumphs, how you have that complacent look in your face whenever Peter gets an answer wrong that you irritatingly correct seconds later.

Adding to his list, he also doesn’t like how you purposely make him feel incompetent.

What he despises the most, however, was how incandescently captivating you look while being a fiendish terror.

Peter can’t deny it, but he admits that you’re beautiful. He thinks that you’re attractive even when you have that deviant gleam in your eyes when you know you’re about to overthrow him, or when you scowl when he gets on your nerves.

It’s the way you toss your hair back that retaliates him to his feet, sowing him down to his foundation for you to amble all over him. Your beaut respites him from your cruelty but pushes him to detest you more a moment later.

Apropos, he’s never really cared about situations that concern you. But the irony fills his boat with holes of jealousy when you pierce his barque with the mention of someone else’s name roll off your svelte tongue.

Yet again, he’s doubtful why he’s envious. But he deludes himself, tells himself repeatedly that he’s jealous because you’re out having a good time when you clearly didn’t deserve it; that you’re out there, being happy and unfortunately in love, while he’s out here sulking around.

It’s the smile on your face when you said Duncan’s name that sets him off, standing tall on his feet.

Denver. He corrects himself. Eh. Why bother?

The envy doesn’t last long. Peter thinks of his soulmate, who he’s pathetically already in love with.

He may have found you beautiful, but her beauty was foremost incomparable to yours. Sure, her face was obfuscated, denoting mystery, but it’s the things she has and does that makes his heart swell achingly with longing and desperation.

Books arranged by author, desk tidied whenever she was uneasy, a portrait on top of her bed that he watched her make in ten seconds, papers pinned against a board chronologically by the events of the short story she’s writing – it all immersed him, made him love her more just by the small details.

Peter knows she’s writing a story about a boy who lost everything for the greater good; its protagonist trying to keep his bitter secret from the person he values the most to protect them as he poises his life and responsibilities. And it’s the most captivating story he’s ever read.

He’s seen her write at least five times – two of those he’s seen her type in an unrelated sentence. It seems that she’s trying to write hello, soulmate on her computer but the dream gets cut off before she could finish the word so.

(Fate’s other rule: you’re unable to send a message through your dreams.)

Guilt pangs his chest, though; he also knows that she knows he’s Spider-Man. Those 10 seconds that both of them see could be taken at any time of their days, but when Peter saw her call out Spider-Man with expectancy in her voice, it was enough to prove him right.

The thing is, everyone calls out to Spider-Man, countless people asking for pictures or for help. So he’s not sure if he’s already seen her, or has, by chance, ignored her at every attempt.

“How’d you meet Denver?” he hears MJ ask you. It makes him look up from his plate, seeing your eyes light up from excitement.

Gross.

“We go to the same art club,” you answer. “They, uh, said I’m cute and asked me out on a date.”

Peter snorts, quick to be covered by a cough. You’re oblivious to his retort, ignoring him. But MJ eyes him disdainfully like she always does, narrowing his eyes before turning back to you.

“Wait, are they that person who walks you outside our dorm every Saturday?”

His ears burn in jealousy.

“Yeah,” it’s unnoticeable, but Peter could sense the heat rise up to your cheeks. “Yes,” you correct yourself with the clear of your throat. “Yes.”

“Oh, I like them. They left a huge tip after Sasha spilt coffee over their shirt when they came to visit the café,” MJ says, sipping on her cup.

“I saw them littering the other day,” Peter butts in, avoiding your annoyed eyes. “Yeah they were like drinking a Capri-Sun and straight up threw it on the ground.”

“Capri-Sun?” you repeat. “They told me they didn’t like Capri-Sun.”

“Well they’re a liar. You obviously shouldn’t go on that date-”

“Why are you so eager to convince me not to go?” leering, you accuse him of his persuasive persona. “Are you jealous?”

Peter’s eyes widen in embarrassment and irritation. “Me? Jealous of them?”

“Not them, doofus,” you say. “You’re jealous because I’m going on a date and you haven’t been on one since Liz and you broke up.”

“Didn’t you date Cindy?” Ned interjects.

“You haven’t been on a date since Cindy,” you’re quick to correct yourself.

“So what if I haven’t been on a date in two years? At least I’m not desperate. I’m just telling you not to go so you could spare the poor person a bad date.

MJ sucks on her teeth. “Nah. Sounds a lot like you’re jealous to me.”

“Michelle, I’m not-”

“Oh, for the love of God,” you clean up your tray, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I’m going to go. I don’t wanna sit here and watch Parker get jealous. It’s sickening.”

“Your face is sickening.”

Your face contorts into a somewhat expression of Peter, though dramatically exaggerated. “Your face is sickening.”

And then you walk away, with Peter’s eyes on you. This time, though, his eyes remain. As if he’s watching you walk away for the first time.

But the thing is, you walked away from his life more than he could count.

-

He searches desperately for his soulmate.

Peter swings from building to building, arms burning in adrenaline, senses heightened truculently. He yields close alert to her, though he doesn’t precisely know what she looks like even after dreaming of her for at least eight years.

It’s like she doesn’t even look at a mirror.

He’s embarrassed that he’s looking for her after you called him out for being jealous, even though his search for her doesn’t concern you and your date whatsoever.

Albeit it affects his mind and now he thinks he’s looking pathetic for looking for his soulmate while you go out on a date to distract himself.

Though he resents you for your truth, Peter ends up standing at a building across from yours behind the ledge, crouching carefully against the dusted pavement.

You’re by your window, smoking. You don’t tell anyone you smoke but Peter knows you do after catching you by your fire exit during his patrols; he doesn’t call you out for it in front of your friends, but keeps it as evidence for certain situations (cough, blackmail).

Your laptop’s placed on the metal base of the exit, and you’re bedecked up from what he assumes the date. Peter watches you bob your head slightly to the music on speaker, balancing the cigarette between your darkened lips.

If he looks closely, you’re speaking. But Peter realizes you’re reading out loud on your laptop when your eyes dart from left to right, a primitive frown on your face as you do so.

Then your phone rings, making you stand up to your feet, and it’s when Peter sees what you’re wearing.

It’s a simple dress, just above your knees. Its color is a dark shade of blue and it’s decorated by white small flowers everywhere, with the back covered only by two ties.

With your hair down and slightly curled, your ensemble deems you a divine spirit in juxtaposition to your typical vixen mien, hubris amplified in your wanton appearance.

Peter watches you walk to retrieve your bag – that walk that makes his knees buckle, radiating sly innuendos to anyone who watches you.

You answer your phone, holding it in your right ear. “Hey, Karen,” he calls his AI. “Can you help me hear her?”

“Sure thing.”

Your voice fills his ears, like it always does when he’s mask-less. Except this time it’s his choice to hear you rather than suffer in your obnoxiously snobby voice.

“Hey, D,” oh, great. You gave him a nickname. “Yeah. I’m on my way. Just, had to check a few emails, ‘s all. Where are you?”

“On my way,” Peter hears Denver on the receiving end of the line. “It’s a bit of a traffic so I’ll be 15 minutes late to pick you up.”

Always be on time on a date, Peter tells himself. Your fault that you’re stuck in traffic.

“Oh, it’s okay. I’ll just meet you at the restaurant,” dissatisfaction laces in your voice that makes Peter almost huff in victory if he didn’t hate you and have second thoughts on letting you go on the date.

“Just don’t go,” he whispers. “Just stay there. God, fuck, just stay there.”

He doesn’t hear what Denver says next, but your phone closes and he can hear the keys jingle between your fingers while you open your door, closing it gently behind you.

Peter sees you leave the apartment building, which spurs him on to start moving and look for Denver.

He doesn’t know why he’s looking for them. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he finds them. He should be actually looking for his soulmate, who might also be looking for him.

But here Peter is, worried, jealous about your date. And will stop at nothing to do something about it.

He stands from the foundation you tackled him to, and with bleary eyes, he searches for your beguiling hand, trying to pull you away from them.

iii: pretentious hearts make exquisite art, vol 1

They never appear.

You’ve texted and called, none were reciprocated. It renounces you standing outside the restaurant alone with shivering arms, the diluted atmosphere above you rumbling quietly yet the only tears spilt are yours.

Pitying looks is only what you get while you still shelve by the curb with your head hung low. You wait for them still, your heart impatient but understanding. You don't want to prove Peter right – you don’t want him to say ‘I told you so’ the next day after coming home from a bad date.

Or rather, from being stood up.

Ten minutes pass by, and you begin to walk away.

The smell of Thai food makes you uncomfortable now – not because it smelt bad, but because you’ve been smelling it for the past hour and a half while thinking of Denver and the things you’ve done wrong.

Now the smell of Thai makes you wallow in self-pity. And it’s not even their fault.

You walk back to your apartment with your arms around yourself to at least subside the cold you feel. The hushed avenues filled with the soft clicking of the boots you wore, the cars that pass by, and the rustling of the trees.

And you cry.

It’s uncommon for someone to cry while walking down the streets of New York, but this doesn’t diminish the moroseness your heart subjugates, Peter’s veracity angers and saddens you more.

Angry because he’s right.

Sad because he’s also right.

Maybe he’s right – who would want to go on a date with you?

The reasons you list down does nothing to cicatrize the rip in your heart and, even more so, creates a bigger wound. And when you think of Peter, you swore your heart is on the verge of falling apart.

You’re full on sobbing now, and you wonder how the people you pass by aren’t even phased – not even at the snot almost falling down your nose that you keep harshly sniffing, or the heavy heaves you emit like a child, or the hiccups every five seconds.

Your mascara smudges half of your face when you wipe your eyes with the side of your thumb, applying pressure to your red eyeballs. You could hear the faint pings on your phone but ignore it, letting yourself fall in a pit of despair.

Suddenly, a soft thump lands in front of you. The familiar red shoes stop you at your feet.

Looking up, you see New York’s infamous masked hero, looking down at you with his wide, white eyes. You stop crying, jaw slacked.

“Hi,” he says, voice deep, mending into his accent although unusual. “Are you alright?”

Your soulmate’s standing in front of you. You – who’s all snotty and messy and wet from crying – and him – who’s suited up and standing tall in front of you.

You wipe your cheeks with your palm, breathing shakily, and wincing when your voice cracks as you say, “No.”

“Figured.”

You snort.

“I was, uh, watching you walk home because I heard you crying,” He says, scratching the back of his head. “Don’t worry, it’s not that loud. It’s just that my senses are kind of maxed out because I drank like three red bulls and I was testing if it would heighten it or just…kill me.”

You say nothing. You’re waiting for that spark to happen – the spark that ignites your chest in warmth that spreads all over your body. You’re waiting for it to alleviate your spirits, but nothing comes.

“W-what…” you whisper, half at yourself from disappointment that nothing happens, and at him because he just drank three red bulls for a ridiculous theory he made up.

“Just – are you okay?”

“No,” you repeat, shaking your head. “My date stood me up.”

“Oh,” his voice is monotone; nonchalant. “’d you know why?”

You snarl. “No, of course not.” You hiss. “I just got stood up. How am I supposed to know why?”

Spider-Man steps back when you snap at him, hands raising as if you’re about to punch him, but lowers when he sees the tears building again at the corner of your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he tells you, opening his arms. “Need a hug?”

You’re hesitant. You’d just met your soulmate, and he’s offering you a hug. And you wonder if this ignites the spark; if your lit up match meets his candle and lights it all up.

So you hug him. But the match dies before it meets the candle and the spark doesn’t come, disappointing you even more.

So you cry into his spandex.

He’s unhesitant in hugging you back, wrapping his arms around your shivering body. His suit feels uncomfortable against your exposed skin, but it contrasts to the comfort you feel in your chest when he hugs you.

You feel his cheek rest on your head as you hug him in the middle of the sidewalk while you continue to cry, still sobbing. He gently sways you, rubbing your tense back soothingly and shushes your loud sobs.

“I should have stayed home,” you lament into his chest. “I should have stayed at home, should have written, should have listened. Listened to that bastard. That solipsistic bastard.”

You feel his muscles tense, loosing his grip on you slightly as he steps back to look down at you with his hands on the side of your shoulders. “Bastard?” he repeats, something in his tone signifies faux shock, but you’re too sad to notice.

“One of my friends’ friend,” you don’t call Peter your friend. You don’t know what to call him; seems childish to tell (your soulmate) Spider-Man that you’ve got an academic arch-enemy. “He said I shouldn’t go. I didn’t listen because I never do. Now I shouldn’t have gone.

“Now they’re going to ask me about the date tomorrow. I don’t know what to say,” you sniff, rubbing the top of your finger underneath your nose. “I don’t want him to tell me I told you so and prove him right. I can’t just lie, either. Because they’re going to find out either way.”

You don’t realize you’re walking until he places a gentle hand around your waist when you begin to walk sideways to the road, tilting you back to the sidewalk. Spider-Man listens carefully, nodding at each sentence you finish.

“You’re lucky, huh,” you say after you finish your rant, halfway home. “Got no love problems. Only got villains, no?”

Spider-Man chuckles, its sweet sound already marking your heart. “My life isn’t as glamorous as J.J Jameson makes it look like.”

You raise your brow. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah, I haven’t had a good day in a while. Then I realize the bad vibes I’ve been feeling recently are actually severe psychological distress.”

You could see his mask move into a smile when you laugh loudly at his comment, slapping his arm lightly. “People of New York giving you a hard time?”

“Oh, definitely,” he answers. “Never got a break, y’know. Like a proper, relaxing break, never even got the chance to look for…”

He whispers the last part, not enough for you to hear despite being beside him.

“You can take a break,” you offer, hesitant. “I mean. I think New York can survive without Spider-Man for a day. Or for a week.”

“Are you saying that so you can, I don’t know, commit crime?”

“What? No!” You scoff, pretending his accusation offends you. “What kind of crime would I be doing anyway?”

“Being too pretty.”

You can perceive him wince and suffocate at his statement as if it had also caught him off guard. The languidness in his body dissipates, stance turns inelegant and he laughs, mortified, while you stare at him.

You wonder if he knows you’re his soulmate.

“Heh,” you save him the embarrassment when you chortle, continuing to walk. “Is my beauty illegal, Spider-Man?”

He chuckles, scratching over his covered ear. “Yes. I feel like if someone were to die from seeing beauty, you’d be the person of interest.”

“’Person of interest’ is almost too flattering,” you say, kicking a small piece of debris. “Like, if the police were to pound on my door and go, ‘A man has been murdered in your building and you are a person of interest,’ I’d be like ‘Moi? Oh do go on.’”

For the first time that night, Spider-Man doesn’t laugh shyly or chuckles breathlessly, instead, he cackles at your joke that he finds questionably funny. His hand goes to his chest, leaning back, and you can’t help but laugh with him.

“That is kind of true,” he confided.

“The only thing I’ll actually kill are spiders.”

“Ouch?” he touches his heart again. “They’re kind of my cousins.” He says, nudging your shoulder. You feel his hand brush the back of yours, but he pulls away. “Treat spiders the way you want to be treated.”

You look at him, dead on his eyes, or what could possibly be his eyes. “Killed without hesitation.”

“I- n-no…” his voice falters, making you laugh again.

Much to your dismay, you’ve reached your apartment. The smile on your face disappears, and you look at him with a pout.

You nod at your apartment door. “Want to come in?”

iii:pretentious hearts make exquisite art, vol 2

He’s never imagined himself spending his entire night with you.

Peter agreed to join you up the rooftop. But you never let him inside your apartment, telling him to meet you at the fire exit stairs. So he’d only got a short glimpse in your room when you open your curtains with your clothes changed.

Soliloquies after soliloquies, Peter disbursed his hours with you looking out the city, ice cream in hand with his mask pleated underneath his nose. He listened to you – actually listened to you rather than reprimand your words like he used to do when you started to annoy him.

You’ve never conversed in a conversation that mentions his name, merely only your life back in high school, your friends MJ and Ned (he pretends it doesn’t hurt him when you hesitated on his name), why you chose your course, and why you went to MIT.

He wants to know you more, even though he’s had years to do that. He doesn’t actually know things about you when he asks you what your favorite color is, or what flower you liked, or if you enjoyed studying.

Though he feels it’s not enough when you answer his questions with ‘green, sunflowers and lilacs, I’m about to shoot myself in the head, so not entirely’

Peter felt closer to you than he’s ever had half of his life. And he realizes – idiotically realizes – that there’s more to you than he presumes. It torques his heart to you, regarding this impalpable sentiment towards you; at the ridge of your intricate affinity, he considers he became more pseud for you.

But he wants to know more; wants to know what you think about him through his other demeanor.

“He’s, god, I don’t know what he is,” you said to him, waving your hand. “He’s…infuriating. He’s so fucking aggravating but at the same time, he’s so enticing. Like, he’s made my days agonizing whenever I see him but at the same time when he’s not there, I look for him, y’know?

And it confounds me whenever that happens. Like, I hate him, but at the same time, it’s like, seeing him kind of completes my day. I think it’s because he’s always been there every day in my life since I met him. But the thing is, I don’t feel the same for Ned and MJ. So, it’s very, very confusing for me.”

He never thought you felt the same. And it makes him feel guilty for what he’s done that night.

That night, his dream vexed him more.

Peter saw her. She’s on the table, and in those ten seconds, she puts her phone down on her white desk, stands up from her chair, and turns around to her bed where he sees something he can’t fully discern after having only a millisecond glimpse of it.

But it’s the dress that leaves him baffled – aching for her, the truth.

He makes his way towards where MJ works, hopefully neither you nor Ned nowhere to be seen yet. Everything is unusually cold for him but when he touches the doorknob to the café, it burns his palm.

The bell chime is too loud, he can hear every conversation, every word, and he could literally feel the air pushing on his skin – and it hurts.

His senses are overridden.

He’s nervous.

Peter sits down on the chair in front of MJ, where she’s quietly writing. He sees the broken black dahlia hanging on her chest that he got her when he got MJ for Secret Santa last year (the one time he genuinely smiled at him).

“MJ,” he squeaks, voice cracking. She looks up from her notebook, brows furrowed.

“You’re early,” she points out. “And you’re sweaty and you’re voice is cracking. Are you finally going through puberty?”

He huffs out. “Shut up. I’m early because I need your help.”

MJ closes her notebook, placing the pencil on top of her ear. “Is this where you go to walk (y/n) home as Spider-Man and talked to her on the rooftop?”

All the color on his face drains. He feels worse. “What?”

“Oh come on. I know you’re Spider-Man,” she whispers, leaning closer to the point her breath almost fans over his face. “Don’t deny it.”

“I’m not Spider-Man.”

She snorts, leaning back. “Peter, do we really have to do this? I ask – no, tell you you’re Spider-Man, you deny it, and we’re going to keep on talking about it until they come and I won’t have any more time to help you.”

He shakes his head, trying to focus his eyes. “Fine. We’ll talk about it someday with Ned, but right now, I just like really, really need your help”

He never thought he’d give up his persuasion that easily.

“What is it?” MJ leans in again.

“I think,” he falters in his words, thinking before he speaks (something he never does). “I think (y/n)’s my soulmate…”

MJ snorts again, eyes widening as she lets out a comical laugh of relief. “Yeah, she is.”

“I’m serious – wait, what?” he narrows his eyes. “You don’t sound sarcastic.”

“Because I’m not.” Peter pulls his notebook out of his bag, though he doesn’t open it, but carefully places a pen on top of it. “I’m serious, Peter,” she says, shrugging.

“Why?”

“Because (y/n)’s been describing her soulmate to me like every day,” she retorts. “Brown curly hair, plays with legos, notebooks full of weird formulas, small, oh, and he’s Spider-Man.”

“So you knew I was her soulmate because you knew I was Spider-Man, but you never told her?”

“Because I was only 67% sure,” she smiles cheekily, pouring coffee on a cup. “And she needs to figure it out herself. Because where’s the fun in that? The dramatic irony, and all.”

Peter nods, though the frown on his face remains. “I know she knows I’m her soulmate. But she doesn’t know I’m,” he points to himself, “her soulmate. Fuck, why didn’t she say anything last night?”

“Probably because she just got stood up, or she’s wondering why there’s no spark igniting in her chest when she met you.”

“How’re you so sure?”

“I know how her mind works.”

He nods again. “I want to talk to her. Tell her everything. That I’m her soulmate, and I’m in denial about her, and that I’m the reason why she got stood up.”

This, MJ doesn’t know. It’s clear in her reaction when she drops the coffee pot to the table with a slightly agape mouth. “What?”

He blushes. “I was – I was outside her window, and I heard their conversation and, fuck, I just couldn’t sit there and let her go on that date, y’know, so I looked for Duncan.”

“Denver,” she hisses. “Peter! You just hurt her!”

“Yeah but I made her feel better afterwards. It’s the first part of my apology!” he defends himself, taking his cup to take a sip. But MJ takes it from his grasp.

“Nuh uh. You don’t deserve our mediocre coffee,” she seethes, drinking it. “Tell me what you did to them, Peter.”

He gulps, sinking into his seat from her harsh glare. “I looked for their car through Karen, my AI. And they were stuck in traffic. And thank god for Karen because I was thinking of reasons on how to make them miss the date when she told me Denver had like a lot of tickets.”

“So?”

“So I said they're under arrest for not paying,” he sheepishly says, looking anywhere but at MJ. But he can feel her fuming, and doesn’t dodge at her attempt to grab at his ear. “Ouch!”

“Fucking idiot!”

“Stop! I have sensitive ears, please.”

“I’m not helping you,” she steps back, but not without a final flick on his ear. “You solve your problems yourself. You solve this yourself. Fuck. You were like the smartest dude in Midtown. Now your dumb or nothing.”

“Hey,” he’s offended, but doesn’t take her words too deeply. “Please, MJ?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

The bell chiming stops him before he can say another please out of desperation. You slip in past the glass door, Ned behind you with a smile on his face as you laugh. His heart flutters in his chest, torso turning to face you.

What shocks him more is that your smile never leaves even after your eyes meet his for a brief moment before sitting down beside him. “Hey guys,” you greet, placing your bag down the ground.

Ned sits on the other side. “I’ve got great news,” he denotes. “Betty is my soulmate.”

A series of genuine surprise emits from yours and Peter’s lips, while MJ’s was lightheartedly sarcastic, claiming she knew it all along. Peter smiles at his best friend’s triumph, leaning closer and listens to him speak.

“I talked to Betty like you said,” he looks at you, motions his hand towards your figure. “And everything got confirmed when she pointed out that she’d dreamt of Revenge of the Sith like 150 times and when she saw my hat 20 times.”

“150,” Peter hears you whisper. “That’s an unusual amount of times you’ve seen Star Wars.”

“It’s not even close,” he winks. “But anyway. Yeah. Betty and I are soulmates, and we’re having sex tomorrow.”

“Okay! TMI, Ned. TMI,” Peter chuckles nervously.

“I met my soulmate last night, too,” You say, your chin on your palm as you pick up Peter’s pen and open his notebook, writing a small smiley face on the corner of the random page you opened. “He just…doesn’t know it yet.”

“Oh?” MJ’s ears perk up, glancing at Peter quickly before looking at you. “How so?”

Your back straightens, giving MJ a warning look as if to say not here.

Yes here. Peter bemoans on the inside.

“It’s complicated,” you wave your hand in dismissal. “I’ll tell you when we meet again.”

“Wait,” Ned pauses. “Does that mean Denver’s your soulmate?”

Your smile falls, looking down at Peter’s pen in your hand. “No,”

“Aw really?” he gives you a sympathetic pout. MJ gives you a tight lipped smile, pouring another coffee into a cup. “How come?”

Peter’s heart breaks a bit when you spare him a glance, seeing the embarrassment glint in your eyes. He softens, realizing that you’re probably thinking that he’s going to embarrass you.

“They stood me up,” you finally say when you look away from him. At this, Peter feels something burn his fingers. He winces, cradling his hand to his chest as MJ shoots him a glare, followed by an insincere apology as she wipes the hot coffee off the counter.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says.

You look at him, and so does Ned and MJ with stupefaction. He gives you a soft smile albeit it’s loaded with contrite and empathy. For a moment, you determine on giving him a rude comment. But you don’t.

“It’s alright,” you shrug. “Had a good night after, anyway.”

He knows it’s because of him, and it makes Peter smile.

“They don’t deserve you,” Ned says, holding your hand. “You’re really pretty and honestly, they’re kind of mid.”

MJ nods. “Hell, you fix yourself without a mirror and you’re already confident that you look fine. They totally don’t deserve you.”

And then they look at Peter, as if they’re waiting for his words of encouragement. But instead, he sneezes, hard – something he does when he’s really really nervous.

He sneezes and hits his nose on the counter.

“Oh shit!” you gasp, placing an arm around his shoulders, and a hand over his that covers his bleeding nose. “Peter, what the fuck?”

“Sorry!” his voice is muffled by his hand, blood seeping between his fingers. “Fuck. Fuck I sneezed too hard and hit my head on the counter. Fuck.”

MJ’s biting back a laugh, but you don’t – you laugh while holding his hand, feeling the blood stain your palm. She offers you a cold water bottle, and Ned pulls out a packet of tissues from his pocket.

You remove the hand around Peter’s shoulder, making him frown. But he’s quick to comply when you gently remove his hand from his nose and wipe the blood off his skin with the tissue, accidentally smudging your thumb over your drawing on his notebook

He takes the cold bottle from you, placing it on the bridge of his nose.

For a concise beat, he reckons it's only you and him in the café. And you’re preening to his wound, laughing at his vacuity, caressing his nose with such fervency it hurts.

And he looks into your eyes, the first time you peek at the real him without any indignation or wrath that dilates your pupils. The curtains are now open, the window to your soul is seen and he reads it like an open book, leafing through its pages with cautiousness.

And in the end, its ethics are analogous to his – you’re both yearning for the verity. The divulgence of each other.

iv: the truth’s interlude, my pain continues to exude

He’s twitchy.

Peter looks at you, the throbbing ache on his nose now too distant to exist. But you’re not looking at him – you’re laughing at something Ned had said, a radiant smile on your face. (He wishes he's the reason why you smiled like that)

After MJ’s shift, just five minutes after Peter broke his nose, all of you left as soon as she ditched her teal apron, walking home to your place.

It’s the first time he’s seen your apartment adequately. Usually, you all hung out at MJ’s work, or at Ned’s because you all adored his lola's company. But now you’d invited them, and he's hankering to take a look at your bedroom that he's glimpsed almost every day of his life.

His finger twitches and he wonders if you know. Peter wonders, as you sit there, laughing at your young mistakes and mature choices, if you know.

You’re too relaxed – you don’t know.

He’s thinking of excuses that ends himself up in your bedroom (He heard it. That’s not what he meant). Peter just wants to see your room longer than ten seconds, to carouse in the place he’s been longing to be in for a long time.

He wants to feel the pinned compositions beneath his fingertips, glorify your painting, esteem your sterile desk; uncover the pack of cigarettes taped behind your mirror, sit by your window and feel what it’s like to be with you.

But he’s still sitting on your couch, trying to laugh with you. He feels pompous; pretentious – like a liar. But he already is. He’s lying to you, to himself. But who’s he fooling? All he’s done is lie to you about what he felt, about who he is. Why is he so guilty now when he should have been back then?

“He’s like holding my hand and pulling me to his room and he says ‘let’s go to my headquarters,’ and I was like ‘what do you mean headquarters’ and he’s like, ‘oh you know, my blowjob room’”

Peter doesn’t know what’s funny about it, but when Ned laughs and so did MJ, it must have been the jealous that blocks the laughter from leaving him.

“What kind of person calls a blowjob room ‘headquarters’?”

“What kind of normal person has a blowjob room?” MJ grimaces.

Ned nods. “Fair point.”

His eyes meet MJ’s in a call of help. He doesn’t know what to do. He thinks he might be concussed, but he could stand straight and feel things enough for him to feel guilty.

She lets out a long sigh, quickly pulling her phone out, the screen illuminating her face as she types in word after word of execution.

Then she slips it back in, looking at you with feign helplessness. “(y/n),” she pouts. “Come with me to the bathroom? I need to pee.”

You nod, standing up and taking her hand towards where your bathroom is.

Ned’s phone pings, and he looks at Peter before taking a pillow and slamming it on his bandaged nose.

The discomfort outstretches his whole face now, feeling the ache on his eyes and his lips pulsate from the impact, and Peter claims he could feel the blood drip again when he puts his hand over his nose and look at Ned with wide eyes.

“What the fuck, dude?!”

“MJ said to hit you in the nose!” he reasons, putting the pillow down. But Peter picks up the pillow next to him, slamming it on Ned’s face. “Hey!” he shouts. “You asked for help, we gave you help.”

“I don’t think hurting me is helping, Ned!” Peter whines, folding, bending down to place his nose at the space between his knees to alleviate his fatigue. “Fuck…dude…” he hisses. “How is this going to get me alone with her?”

“When she sees that your nose is bleeding again, she’ll take you to her room and fix you up. Then MJ and I will make some lame excuse and leave so we’ll leave you two alone.” He explains. Peter nods in discomfort, pinching his nose. “Honestly dude, I don’t know how to help you if you don’t tell her today.”

“I’ll tell her today.” He says. “Fuck. Hit me again.”

Ned complies.

“Fuck!”

The door from the hallway opens and slams shut, a rush of panicked feet making its way forwards to where Peter sits with his nose hidden in his hands. You look at him with wide eyes, rushing to him with open hands.

“Holy shit,” you gasp, lightly cradling his face in your palms. You’re touching his face – he can discern your skin looming over his, almost abutting. But you don’t and it causes him to wish your tinge wasn’t reluctant. “What happened?”

“I saw a spider on Peter’s face,” Ned says, fast, before tucking the pillow behind him. “I didn’t want to touch it.”

“So you hit his face with a pillow?” scrunched nose, a pout on your lips, and a hint of concern in your eyes. Peter thinks you look cute. “You do know it’s only been an hour since he broke it, right? Jesus, looks swollen.”

Peter lets you grab his hand, putting it down to his lap as your fingers caress the crooked shape of his nose.

“Stay here,” you whisper, turning to your bedroom in quick and short strides. He’s no longer in pain, merely in a daze as he looks between Ned and MJ.

MJ cocks her head towards your bedroom door. He stands up, stumbling his way through the hallway to stand by the doorframe.

His eyes wander around your room.

It’s ampler than he thought – a bit bigger than his room, the walls adorned by a myriad of Vinyl and Polaroids adhered to the wall beside the window to the fire escape; your bookshelf is small averse to the bulletin beside it that’s concealed by hand-written chapters of your book, and the desk he sees are…messy.

It’s not pristine like he expected. You uncluttered when you’re tense or stressed – something he noticed even before he found out you’re his soulmate – so this presumably implied that you’re relaxed because of him.

You look up from the ground, a bottle of antiseptic and cottons in your hand. “What’re you doing here?”

“You were taking too long.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I’ve only been gone for ten seconds, you trilobite. Be patient or I’ll slam something harder on your nose.”

There she is.

“I’m in so much pain, (y/n),” he whispers. “Don’t add up to it.”

Through hooded eyes, he can see you squeeze the bag of cotton in your hand and clench your jaw. He’s hit a little nerve, and it makes him smile as you push yourself up the ground and pull him to your bed.

“Sit,” you demand. “Before I knock your head against the wall.”

“Yes, ma’am,” He slurs, smiling lightly.

“Hey guys?” MJ calls from the living room. “We gotta go. My car got towed and Ned wants to watch beastiality!”

“Ratatouille is not beastiality, Michelle-”

Peter grimaces at this. “Ratatouille is beastiality?”

You shake your head, dabbing the cotton on his nose. “I think The Bee Movie is- wait, MJ, you don’t have a car!”

The door slams shut and the ripples of the clangour buzz in Peter’s ears, taking him a moment to acknowledge that it’s just now the two of you. You notice this, too, stability stiffened from your capricious emotions.

Your hand appears spasmodic every time you’re tactile with him; he can sense why – you’re nervous. You’re always nervous around him and who is he to repudiate that he doesn’t deem the same?

Had your eyes always looked this captivating?

The curtains are sealed; earlier, he read you, like a child leafing through a storybook heretofore. But the book’s latched and he can’t thumb through the pages, afraid of tearing your susceptible tale. So he’s left to figure you out, right now, through your opaque, locked eyes.

Peter wants to know why you’re suddenly being nice, even before he’d slammed his nose against the counter, but it’s obvious:

You met him your soulmate last night, even though you were incompetent to tell him who he was to you. And you had someone to listen to you, and you felt good being listened to – he can see it. Which was why you’re being quite nice to him.

But still, he tests the suspicions in the back of his head, pushing it forward to his lips as he says:

“Why are you being nice to me?”

You stop working on his nose, your tongue hiding itself back in from losing your concentration as you scoot back, away from him. Sheepishly, you shrug, looking down at your dingers. “Dunno.” You say. “Just…”

“’s it because you met your soulmate last night?”

You nod your head, looking up. “It’s not just that.” You lean closer. “I…I realized something.”

You’re my soulmate he wants you to say. I lo-

“Yeah?”

Peter smiles as you nod again. “I realized you aren’t as horrible as I thought you were,” you begin, picking at your nails. “That- I based you off my judgements rather than allow myself to get to know you. And I realized last night that perhaps I’d judged you too harshly that I haven’t even realized that it’s doing something to me.”

I hate him, but at the same time, it’s like, seeing him kind of completes my day

He repeats your words at the back of his head like a mantra, your voice filling his every time he tries to think from how many times he’d repeated it.

His movements are slow but when his finger touches the soft skin of your chin, heat radiates off his body. Peter tilts your head upward, eyes meeting yours.

The curtains are open now.

And just when he’s about to read you, his senses knock him back to alertness, mouth ejecting a voice of disdain, irritated from interruption. His peripherals make out the disappointment in your face when he drops his hand to his lap.

Peter stands up from the bed, squeezing his eyes shut from the sudden fatigue.

“I’m sorry,” he says, guilty. “I have to go.”

And what happens? When he leaves you with terse words while you were anticipating something imminent that’s not really there; what happens when Peter refracts at the moment you’re about to obtain what you’ve always wanted due to his insolence?

v: unravel the vindication, remedy is revelation

You don’t know how long time passes – but your eyes never left the screen of your laptop an hour after you woke up. And you’re typing, not baring a single glance down your keyboard as you press letter by letter, forming sentences and metaphors from your ingenuity.

You’re halfway done from what you’re writing, on the verge of writing its denouement.

“Look at me. Open your eyes.” I beg her. “I’m right here in front of you. Notice me. Wake up and notice me.”

It’s functioning, your mind; it’s envisioning scenarios you often wished you underwent. It’s your form of coping when you’re having a hard time – you tatter ruminations, delectable dramas from the remnants of each character’s past, and you fill your book with raucous sections of angst and bond.

And then…your mind stops.

Suddenly, you find it hard to form words in your head and this irritate the living shit out of you. Writer’s block – a pain the fucking ass. They’re like a difficult bottle cap to remove and you’re stuck finding ways on how to open the bottle.

You slam your forehead repeatedly on your desk, hopefully triggering at least some simple words to add to your sentence. Skull on the verge of cracking, your phone pings.

You remember your dream.

In those ten seconds, you see him writing down formulae on his notebook, a scrawny smiley face on the corner of the paper with slightly smudged blood on it. You smile when you dream of him again.

It’s been two days since you met him, but you don’t forget the reason you met him in the first place. So earlier this morning, your eyes aimlessly scroll through the list of contacts on your phone until your eyes land on them.

You text Denver.

‘I don’t know what I did wrong, or what happened, but I would really appreciate an explanation.’ It’s followed by or not, your loss, but your thumb presses the delete button repeatedly until that’s all that’s left on the box before you hit send.

You don’t expect them to reply, but you do it nonetheless.

And then you think of Peter.

Yesterday bewilders you, and the day before, and the days before; every day you spent with Peter confuses you and yesterday was no different – because he left you perplexed, again and again, and again.

It’s beginning to irritate you because you know he has something to say. It’s in the look on his face – the same look he has when you let him too close to you. But he’s being a desirous coward and bails every single time, making you more inquisitive, aggravated, impatient.

Peter’s always underestimating you, saying something to Ned about how you can’t possibly handle what he’s about to tell you.

Your phone pings, disturbing you from the hypothetical murder of Peter Parker

Picking it up, your blurry eyes and dizzy state read the message.

It’s MJ. ‘Peter’s coming over. STAY CALM’

As if on cue, your doorbell rings. You push your chair back and make your way to the door, seeing Peter on the other side with a pint of ice cream inside a plastic bag from Delmar’s.

He’s hear, again, and you don’t know why. You’re confused. Is he here to continue your unfinished conversation, or he’s here to lead you on more before he bails once more?

You opt on snarling at him, but you want to play his game – act dumb and innocent and oblivious like he always assumes you are.

“Hey,” you smile. “How’s your nose?”

Peter lightly touches the purple and yellow bruise on the bridge of his crooked nose. “It’s alright. ‘s healing already.”

“That’s good,” you step aside, inviting him in. “What’re you doing in here?”

“We need to talk,” he places the bag on your dining table, giving you a nervous look. “You need to sit down. I need to sit down – we need to sit down for this.”

He’s quick and eager. Peter’s here to finish what he started.

He doesn’t allow you to utter a single word, tugging on your delicate wrist to lead you to your bedroom, sitting you down on the mattress at the same spot he left you hanging.

Expecting he sits down beside you, he doesn’t. Instead, he kneels between your parted legs, head leveled with yours. Peter looks down on your feet, on the fabric over your knees, on your fiddling fingers in front of him – anywhere but your eyes.

“You alright?” you softly say, tucking your hair behind your ear.

Peter nods. “Yes. No. Maybe. I-I d-don’t know…”

“What’s up?”

He lets out a quavering breath, eyes buffing. And the sunlight caroms on his glassy orbs, splitting its diaphanous mosaic. Your chest flutters with trepidation, hands opposing to stay put and stop you from running your hand over his hair and pull.

“I haven’t been…honest with you,” he ultimately looks at you, directly into your eyes, your dry sights deviating to his breaking ones. “And, I want you to know that I’m sorry for what I’m about to tell you.”

The sky outside rumbles, a mild thunder before you hear delicate pattering against the metal of the fire escape, muffled by your window. This doesn’t preoccupy you from looking away from his eyes.

Had his eyes always looked this captivating?

“I’m…” he sighs, closing his eyes, and a lone tear is threatening to spill from his eyelashes. And you wait patiently, for the first time. “I’m…you’re so…I’m the reason why Denver stood you up on your date.”

Your face falls, leaning away from him. “Oh.”

You spent hours wondering what you did wrong and what was wrong with you before you met Spider-Man. And you didn’t realize how quickly you got over the temporary heartbreak. And Peter’s truth doesn’t break your heart again, but rather fill it with disappointment instead.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” you tell him. “Why’re you sorry and why did you do it?”

“Because,” he shut his eyes with a sigh. “I couldn’t just let you go on that date knowing…knowing you’d get hurt one day. And I was…yes I was jealous so I had to do something and I’m sorry because I made you cry and I unintentionally hurt you.”

“Well…you did know I’d get hurt when they stood me up so technically it wasn’t unintentional,” you correct him. “But that’s not the point. And I wouldn’t forgive you if it didn’t hurt me anymore. I’m just upset about it, and maybe mad because you made me miss a date. But guess what? If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have met my soulmate that night.” You smile timidly at him. “Just tell me what you did to Denver.”

Peter sighs again. “I made them spend a night in jail.”

Your eyes widen, letting out a laugh of disbelief. “Peter!”

He laughs lightly with you. “What! I asked Karen for some help and she said-”

“Who’s Karen?”

“-my AI. She said Denver didn’t pay any of the parking tickets so I arrested him!” Peter defends himself. His answer leaves you confused – who’s Karen and why does he have an AI? “Honestly, it’s a good thing I saw you crying home or else-”

Your smile disappears. “What?”

He smiles at you. “What?”

“You said you saw me crying home,” you repeat his words. “Peter, were you following me?” You stand up, stepping away from him. “And you arrested Denver? Peter, you’re not a cop!”

All the color drains from his face, standing up from the ground, wiping his knees though they remained clean still. “I- I think you misheard me-”

“You said you had Karen to ‘help you’,” you point out. “You had Karen, your ‘AI’-”

“AI? Did I say AI. I think I said-”

“Peter.”

“Honestly, (y/n) I-”

You walk away from him, making your way towards your window. Your hands weakly push the exit upwards, lifting yourself up to the exit until you feel the heavy patters of the rain on your skin.

“What are you doing?” Peter shouts over the loud noise. “(y/n)-”

“I’m going up,” you say. “I’m going up the rooftops. And I’m staying there. Because I don’t – I don’t know what to do with you right now because you’re confusing me and I don’t want to be confused right now.”

Your weighty steps stride through the metal stairs, clanging at each stomp. You don’t care if it causes the platform below you to shake, or if it damages your ears. You needed to think about what to do, and what you need to say next to him; you needed to refresh your mind.

Peter follows behind you. “(y/n) get inside! You’re going to get sick!”

“Well, I’m already sick!” you turn sharply, shouting at him. “I’m already sick of you and your lies and your torments and you underestimating me. I’m already sick of your bullshit!”

Peter’s hair is wet, sticking to his forehead. Dismissing the tempest befalling upon the two of you, he steps out into the rooftop to follow you. “Bullshit!” he roars amidst the storm.

“Yeah! Bullshit. That’s what I said!”

He reached out to grab your wrist, wringing you around. You’d been crying, and he hadn’t detected because your tears were combined with the rain simultaneously descending your cheeks. Peter’s face softened, his pique dissolved into the nervous one he felt just before you stormed out.

“Hey,” he pulls you closer to him. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Peter,” you whisper, exasperated. “Just tell me the truth. Please. Please, I’m so tired.”

He nods, hand never leaving yours but the other reaches up to wipe the tears streaming down your cheeks. “I’m Spider-Man.”

You stop crying, looking up at him with wide eyes.

Maybe MJ was right – he was in front of you. You were just too blinded by hatred to notice.

It all made sense – the bloody smiley face on the corner of his paper, the lego pieces, the blue sweatshirt, the brown curls, the funeral, everything.

And you’re in denial.

“No,” you shake your head. “No. No, you’re not,” you push him away, digging your nails to his damp shirt and push him away, eyesight blinded by your hot tears and the bright rain. “Why you?”

Peter’s voice snagged in his throat. “I…I don’t know what you want me to say to that…”

“You made my life miserable,” you hiss. “You made my life miserable, and the dreams – your dreams – are the only things that makes my day better. And – fuck, I just unknowingly told you how I felt about you too! I-”

The revelation renders you speechless. The man who stood before you is your antagonist – and your love, your destined love. And you don’t know how to love him; it’s your fear, that you won’t be able to love your soulmate as much as you wish to.

And now it’s happened. And it scares you. Because now you’re supposed to love Peter Parker, after years of hating him.

“You said your days felt incomplete if I don’t show up,” he says softly, loud enough for you to hear amidst the storm. “Maybe it’s because we’re soulmates. And we complete each other.”

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “How am I going to love you like I’m supposed to?”

Peter cups your face, palm gentle against your jawline, thumbs caressing the tears from your cheekbones. And you open your eyes.

His eyes are caring – they mean what they say. And you read his eyes, his soul, like an open book. And as you flip through his pages, there’s a part there; a part that divulges his love for you. And it frightens you. So much

“You don’t have to love me. Not right now. Not immediately,” he says. “You can learn how to love me, (y/n). And I’ll wait for you.”

The words you’ve written earlier, your character’s denouement, appear in your head. “Look at me. Open your eyes.” I beg her. “I’m right here in front of you. Notice me. Wake up and notice me.”

And you look at him. You open your eyes. And Peter’s right here in front of you. But you don’t notice him – not yet.

“I fell in love with you,” you whisper. “But not you.”

He nods, and he’s crying too. “I know.”

“But you complete me,” you tell him, nudging the tip of your nose to his. “I don’t love you yet. But you complete me.”

Love forces you to do ludicrous, heedless things. Whether it was for your good, or theirs. Sometimes you’d have to be stoic to protect something you already have, transgressing the altruistic love you desired to give. Because failing something you worked hard to have will forfeit the trajectory of it all.

It’s what you feel for him – for Peter. And he understands.

“I love you,” he whispers, lips hovering above yours but never touching.

You don’t say it back. You want to, he knows you want to. But understands when you don’t.

You kiss him instead.

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ . ༻✧༺

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Screaming from the crypt (or how the past haunts the present on Midnights)

I know it's been discussed so much since Midnights came out but just.

I love how there is such a clear narrative throughout the album (and perhaps especially on the 3am/Vault tracks). About questioning and regret and choices and coming to terms with all of it. It is one long story about how we're all a mosaic of the choices we make, each one taking something from us and leaving something else in its place.

(And now a disclaimer: I'm looking at this mostly through a narrator/subject lens, and trying not to dive too deeply into real-life events or speculation except for in a general sense. For this purpose I like to look at the body of work as art, like literature, because I find it makes it easier to see the common threads in the different songs and cohesion in the narrative.)

In looking at the 3am+ tracks in particular, it's fascinating how some turns of phrases or themes repeat themselves in different songs, in different contexts. (I'm only focusing on the non-standard tracks because there are too many songs and I'd be here all day but I bet I could do a part two lol.) I know many people have pointed out the parallels throughout her discography already and I’m not saying anything groundbreaking by writing this, but I love how these parallels run through in the same album, because it makes it seem like it's one long story, or at least, one long rumination on many different stories that are coalescing into a single narrative.

Battle (let’s go)

For instance, the one that jumped out at me when I started writing this post the other week was, "Tore your banners down, took the battle underground," in The Great War and "If clarity's in death, then why won't this die? Years of tearing down our banners, you and I," in Would've, Could've Should've. It's a story about staying stuck in the same cycle of reliving trauma and coping mechanisms and bad habits over and over again and fantasizing about how taking the “antagonist” out and gaining the upper hand for good would bring closure (WCS), but the truth is that nothing ever will. All that cycle does, though, is repeat itself in other situations, and in this case pushes someone away the narrator cares for (TGW). The difference is that the imagined battle in WCS is a two-way street in her mind (that is ultimately unwinnable because it was never a fair fight), but in TGW it's one-sided -- she's the one fighting dirty, taking shots, the way she'd been doing in her imagination (or nightmares) all these years. But the person in front of her isn't fighting back the way the person in her mind in WCS would, because their intentions are honourable instead of exploitative.

And that's paralleled in another pair of lyrics from the two songs, "And maybe it's the past talking, screaming from the crypt, telling me to punish you for things you never did," (in TGW) and "The tomb won't close, I fight with you in my sleep," (in WCS). In both cases, the funeral imagery makes it seem like this past event should be dead and buried in WCS, but it keeps rising from the dead, haunting her no matter what she does and in TGW, another (or perhaps the same?) tomb that won't close keeps unleashing new ways to hurt her and in turn the new person in her life. In other words, the trauma from the past continues to bleed into the present.

(Again from a literary point of view, I'm not saying the events of the two songs are linked IRL, but they're fascinating textual parallels on the album as a string of chapters, which is why Dear Reader is so compelling, but that's a whole other essay.)

To keep the battle motif going, there’s yet another parallel, this time between TGW’s "[You were a] soldier down on that icy ground, looked up at me with honor and truth," and You’re Losing Me’s "All I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier, fighting in only your army.” In the former, the subject is laying down his armour in the war she’s projecting onto him, waving the white flag, and she realizes that she’s about to destroy something if she doesn’t put her sword down too. By the time we get to YLM, the roles are almost reversed; at the very least they’re supposed to be on the same team, but in this case she’s doing all the heavy lifting, fighting for their relationship in contrast to his apathy killing it. It’s also pretty interesting (if not outright intentional) that one of the 3am+ editions of the albums starts with The Great War, where they find themselves in conflict (even if it’s in her head) that ends in a truce, and ends with You’re Losing Me signalling the end of the relationship, evidence that the resolution in the first song wasn’t an ending but merely a ceasefire before the last battle.

Putting the rest under a cut because this is waaaaay too long now ⤵️

(There’s also another metaphor there in The Great War with its battle imagery: World War I, aka The Great War, was supposed to be the war to end all wars, because loss on its scale was never seen before and when it ended, most thought never again would the world embroil itself in such battle, the horrors and implications were so devastating. Two decades later, the world found itself in WWII, with an even larger scope and more horrific consequences, the intervening time between the two a period of festering conflicts and resentment leading to some of the worst acts the world would see. Bringing real life into it for a second, there’s something a little poetic, though sad, about The Great War the song being about a fight that could have ended the relationship that they ultimately resolved and was meant to be evidence of the strength of their love, but so too did it end up being a period of détente, the greater battle coming for them years later. But that is not the point of this post.)

If one thing had been different

Another major theme in these editions is pondering the "what ifs?" of life, but I think it takes on even more significance in the broader context of the album in the lyrics of "I'm never gonna meet what could've been, would've been, should've been you," in Bigger than the Whole Sky and the repetition of would've/could've in Would've, Could've, Should've (I would've looked away at the first glance, I would've stayed on my knees, I would've gone along with the righteous, I could've gone on as I was, would've could've should've if I'd only played it safe, etc.) In both songs, the narrator is mourning an alternate course their life could have taken* and questioning what they could have done differently, in the aftermath of trauma and loss, and the regret that comes with that loss, and with the loss of agency in the situation because ultimately it was never in their hands. In an album full of questions, wondering about the path not taken, or the forks in the road that have led to a different version of your life, it's digging deeper into the contrast of choice vs. fate, action vs. reaction, dwelling on the past vs. moving on. When you're supposed to let go of the past, what do you do when it is holding your future hostage?

(*I know there are different interpretations/speculation about BTTWS which I am not getting into on main. I'm just saying that whatever the song is about, it's grieving something that never came to be. The literal origin of the song is less important to the album than the sense of loss it portrays. Whatever the inspiration is, it's crafted to tell part of the story of Midnights of ruminating over how, to borrow from her previous work, if one thing had been different, would everything be different?)

(Also I was today years old when I realized that the words are inverted in the two songs. Apparently I've been hearing BTTWS wrong this whole time.)

There's also an interesting tangent in the role of faith in both songs: in WCS, the events of the story cause her to lose her faith (e.g. "All I used to do was pray," "you're a crisis of my faith,") and question all the things she felt had been unquestionable until that point in her life (e.g. "I could have gone along with the righteous"), whereas in BTTWS, she questions whether that very lack of faith is to blame for the loss in that song ("did some force take you because I didn't pray? [...] It's not meant to be, so I'll say words I don't believe"). It's like pinpointing the moment her life changed and upended her beliefs (WCS), but as a result then leaving her unmoored in times of crisis because ultimately there's no explanation or comfort to be taken from what she used to hold true before that (BTTWS). The words she once relied upon to guide her have long since lost their meaning, but in times of trouble it leaves her wondering if that faith she once held then lost could have prevented this pain.

(Shoutout to WCS for being Catholic guilt personified lol.)

To keep on with the vaguely faith-y notions, an obvious parallel is the line in Would’ve Could’ve Should’ve about, “I damn sure never would've danced with the devil at nineteen,” and, "When you aim at the devil, make sure you don't miss," in Dear Reader. All of WCS is about her fighting with an antagonist who haunts her, with whom she wholly regrets ever becoming involved. DR could be seen as a reflection on that fall from grace, warning the audience that if you choose to go after the person (or thing) haunting you, make sure you do so clearheaded enough to be decisive. Again, these “devils” may not be related in real life: the IRL devil in DR could be speaking about her naysayers, or Kim*ye, or Scott & Scooter B, etc., meaning not to cross your enemies until you know you can win. But taking real life out of it and looking at it textually, I am intrigued by the link between WCS and DR, so that’s what I’m going with here. And perhaps that’s even the point in a wider sense; there will be multiple “devils” in your life, or threats to your well-being. If you’re going to commit to taking them down — whether it’s an actual person, or the demons inside you that refuse to let you go — make sure you have the right ammo so that they can no longer hurt you. (Of course, one lesson from these experiences is that sometimes you can’t win, and you have to live with the fallout.)

(Sidebar: I know that “dancing with the devil” is a turn of phrase that means being led into temptation and engaging in risky behaviour, as opposed to describing the actual person. Given the religious metaphors in the song, that could very well be/is the intention, particularly when it’s preceded by, “I would have stayed on my knees” as in she would have continued to follow her faith — in whatever sense that means — had she never met this person, which could also be a more eloquent way of saying she would have continued to be live her life in a way that was righteous (even naive) and seen the world in black and white. Either way, it’s a force she wholly rejects. Like I said, multiple devils, same fight.)

Regret comes up too: in WCS, she says, "I regret you all the time," obviously directed at the person who manipulated her and led to her perceived downfall, citing him as the one impulse she wished she'd never followed, because it won't leave her no matter how hard she’s tried. In High Infidelity, she tells the person to, "put on your records and regret me," and on the surface, it’s like she’s turning the tables, painting herself as the one now causing the regret in someone else, the one inflicting the pain this time. Yet the verse preceding it and the lines following it in the chorus depict a partner who is also emotionally manipulative and vindictive like in WCS (“you said I was freeloading, I didn’t know you were keeping count,” “put on your headphones and burn my city,”). It’s not so much that she’s intentionally harming the person (the way the person in WCS does to her), but rather that the venom in the subject’s feelings towards her seeps through; she’s imagining the way he’s going to feel about her when she leaves, hating her just for by being who she is. (There could be another tangent about how in both songs she’s there to be a “token” in a game for both of the men, who play her for their own purposes.) The regret is dripping with disdain. It’s as though she’s picturing how the person is going to hate her for doing what she’s thinking of doing the way she hates the person who first hurt her.

Sadness, unsurprisingly, shows up in a few lyrics. In BTTWS, “Everything I touch becomes sick with sadness,” sets the scene of a person so overcome with grief that it permeates everything around them; they cannot see their way out of it and feel like the fog will never lift. In Hits Different, it’s, “My sadness is contagious,” the result of a breakup where the person’s grief again touches everything and everyone around them, pushing them further in their despair and loneliness. The reason behind the grief in either case may vary, but regardless of the source, the feeling is overpowering and isolating. They may be different chapters in the story, but the devastation is hauntingly familiar. (As is a recurring theme in Midnights as a whole: there are situations and feelings that present themselves at different points in her journey and colour in the lines in different ways along the road. Like revisiting an old vice and realizing the hit isn’t quite the same as it was in the past.)

Death by a thousand cuts

She also writes about wounds on this album, which isn't surprising I suppose given that the whole conceit is that these are things that have kept her up at night over the years. WCS is perhaps the driving narrative on this never ending hurt when she sings, “The wound won't close, I keep on waiting for a sign, I regret you all the time,” suggesting that no matter what she does, the pain of this experience has permeated everything she’s done afterwards. (Not unlike the overwhelming grief in BTTWS, for instance.) Elsewhere, in High Infidelity she sings, "Lock broken, slur spoken, wound open, game token," and in Hits Different, "Make it make some sense why the wound is still bleeding.” Again I'm not suggesting they're about the same events; the line in HI is about a situation where a partner crosses a boundary, hits below the belt, picks at an insecurity (or creates a new one) and treats the relationship like it's transactional, opening the floodgates in turn. In HD, the wound seems to be more self-inflicted, where she's pushed the person away. (Over a situation real or imagined she feels she needs distance from.) But again, something has picked at her like a raw nerve, and just like in the past, she's hurting, even in a different time and place and person. Almost like the wounds of the past break open over and over again to create new scars. If one were to extrapolate further, it wouldn��t be the biggest leap to wonder if the wound open in WCS, then torn apart in HI makes the one in HD hurt even more.

(I once wrote a post about how I think as time goes on, WCS is going to turn into one of those songs that will be found to drive so much of her work, because it’s just… kind of the unsaid thesis statement of so much of her songwriting.)

Another repeated theme is that of the empty home and loneliness. In High Infidelity, she sings, "At the house lonely, good money I'd pay if you just know me, seemed like the right thing at the time," painting a picture of someone who may have everything they'd want to the outside world, but in reality feels metaphorically trapped in their home (or at least alone amidst abundance), a symbol of a relationship gone sour and a failure to build connection. She just wants someone to understand her, want her for her, but as she's written earlier in the song, she's just a pawn in the game, a trophy from the hunt. Home, in this case, is lonely, isolated, an emblem of her fears. In Dear Reader, she continues this thread, then singing, "You wouldn't take my word for it if you knew who was talking, if you knew where I was walking, to a house not a home, all alone 'cause nobody's there, where I pace in my pen and my friends found friends who care, no one sees you lose when you're playing solitaire." It's the same idea, admitting to listeners that the gilded cage she lived in kept her distanced from her loved ones and real connection, keeping her struggles close to the vest but feeling desperately lonely amidst her crowning success. She's pushed people away and it may have felt like the right thing at the time, but in the end maybe felt like she was trapped. And when you push people away, eventually they take you at your word and stop pushing back; you’re a victim of your own success at isolating yourself. What starts out of self-preservation then further perpetuates the underlying problems.

(There's another interesting link about "home" also feeling unsafe with HI's "Your picket fence is sharp as knives," which further leads into the theme of marriage/domesticity feeling dangerous, which is a whole other thing I won't get into here because it's another discussion and may derail this already gargantuan word salad.)

In a slightly similar vein, we have the metaphor of bad weather for a rocky road or unstable relationship, in High Infidelity again with, "Storm coming, good husband, bad omen, dragged my feet right down the aisle" and You’re Losing Me’s "every morning I glared at you with storms in my eyes.” They aren’t speaking of the same situation or even same kind of breakdown, but it is pretty interesting how the idea of clouds/storms/floods/etc. play such a role in Taylor’s music to signal depression, apprehension, fear, uncertainty, etc. In HI, I think the “storm” coming is the looming threat of commitment to a partner who makes the narrator uneasy (if not fearful). In this case, the idea of making a life with this person is not one that incites joy or comfort, but instead makes the narrator feel that dark times are ahead if she continues down this path. Perhaps in some way, the “storms” in YLM have made good on the threat in HI in a different way; it’s a different home, a different relationship, but the clouds have settled in regardless, and some of her fears have come to fruition in ways she did not expect. The person she once trusted no longer sees her or her struggles (or worse, doesn’t care), and the resentment and pain build with each passing day.

Coming back to heartbreak, one of the obvious "full circle" moments is the beginning of a relationship in Paris, where she says that, "I'm so in love that I might stop breathing," clearly enthralled in a new love that allows her to shut the world out and grow in private, capturing the all-encompassing nature of the relationship. This infatuation has consumed her in the most wonderful way (in contrast to the sorrow of some of the previous songs), and it feels like a life-altering (or even life-sustaining?) force that is so strong she may forget what it’s like to breathe. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.) By the end of the album, though, in You're Losing Me, that heart-stopping love has become a threat: "my heart won't start anymore for you." In the former, her racing heart is full of excitement, but by the latter, her heart has given out completely under the weight of the pain she bears. (YLM is full of death/illness imagery which I already wrote about awhile ago so I won't hear, but needless to say that song deserves its own essay for so many reasons.) She's gone from the unbridled joy of the beginnings of a relationship to the unrelenting sorrow of its end, two sides of the same coin.

Love as death appears elsewhere in the music too, for instance, in High Infidelity’s, “You know there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love, the slowest way is never loving them enough" and You’re Losing Me’s “How can you say that you love someone you can't tell is dying? […] My face was gray, but you wouldn't admit that we were sick.” Though not completely analogous situations, they both tell the tale of one partner’s apathy (or at least denial) destroying the other. In the former, the partner’s actions (or inaction) are more insidious, if not sinister; in the latter, the lack of momentum (or admission of a problem) is passive. In both cases, the end result is the narrator’s demise; it’s a drawn out affair that chips away at her morale and her health and her sense of self. (Breaking my own rule about bringing in alleged actual events into the discussion, but the idea that the relationship in High Infidelity, which was obviously fraught with unease and even fear, ended in a similarly excruciatingly slow and hurtful death by a thousand cuts as the relationship in You’re Losing Me almost did at that time must have been so painful. It almost feels like YLM is wondering why what used to be a source of light in her life was mirroring a situation that caused her such pain in the past.)

From the same little breaks in your soul

I said early on that part of what is so compelling about Midnights is that it feels like an album about ruminating — on choices, on events, on people — and the two final “bonus” tracks of the album depict that as well. In Hits Different, she sings that, “they say if it’s right, you know,” an ode to the confusion of a breakup and struggling with the aftermath of calling it quits. It’s a line that has always intrigued me, because the typical use of the phrase is in the sense of, “you’ll know when you meet the one,” but here it seems to have a double meaning, a reassurance perhaps from the friends (who later on tell her that "love is a lie") that she’ll know if she’s made the right decision in calling it off, but could also be her wondering if the relationship is right, she’ll know, and want to reconcile. In the final bonus track, You’re Losing Me, she sings, “now I just sit in the dark and wonder if it’s time,” this time leaving no doubt about the dilemma she faces, though it’s no less fraught. She’s wondering, perhaps for the last time, if now is finally the moment to end the relationship for good. They say that if it’s right she’ll know, and now she’s wondering if that feeling inside her (that once told her her partner was the one, which is why it hit differently), is telling her that it’s time to go for good. Wait Alexa play “It’s Time To Go.” These are not only the things that keep her up at night, but the things that play over in her mind like a film reel in her waking hours.

Midnights as a whole is a deeply personal album, as is most of Taylor's work, but the 3am+ edition tracks seem to dig even deeper to a lot of the issues raised on the standard album. Almost like the standard tracks are the things she wonders about on sleepless nights, but the bonus tracks are the things that haunt her in the aftermath. The regret, anger, sadness, grief, relief, even joy— they’re the price she pays for the memories she keeps reliving. Midnights might be the most cohesive narrative of all her albums, and really does feel like we’re watching someone work through her journal over time, stopping short of outright naming those giant fears and intrusive thoughts (except for when she does) but making them plain as day when you connect the songs together, and perhaps never more clearly than in the expanded album. It’s incredible how the songs stand on their own to relay a specific moment in time, but that they are also self-referential to each other (whether thematically or overtly) to weave a larger web over the entire work. We’re so lucky as fans to have these stories and to keep peeling back these layers as time passes. (And my literature-analysis-loving ass loves her even more for it.)

This is obviously by no means an exhaustive list, and I know there are more parallels and probably even stronger links (particularly when you add the standard version into the mix), but these were the ones that particularly struck me and I’m just glad I’ve had a chance to sit with this and think it through. ❤️

[zorosdimples]

knowing i should take a step back from tumblr for my own wellbeing vs. being emotionally attached to this app and the people on it

[daincrediblegg]

I really wish people would stop being obtuse with their readings about things. Is it really demonizing The Thing or is it deliberately using a social perception and common tropes to frame the character in a certain light so it can deliberately subvert those things at the precise moment when it is necessary to prove that point that people are Not Like That?

[cyncerity]

listening to Epic the Musical has somehow made me want to work more on the Bet on the Crown au so maybe expect stuff for that soon?? idk college has been kicking my ass recently and it’s midterm season but i’m still goin 💪

also take this little doodle of BotC!Karl as an apology for lack of content 🫶 ✨